The Book of Doom (2 page)

“
OME IN, CHUCK.”

Zac edged open the door and stepped into a cluttered office. It looked like the back store at a pawnshop, with clocks and books and ornaments and other clutter stacked crookedly on shelves, on tables, or just piled up on the floor.

And in the middle of it all, like a spider in her web, sat Geneva Jones. She lounged behind a desk, her grey hair scraped back, a hand-rolled cigarette stuck to her bottom lip. It was two in the morning, but there she was, wide awake. Of course, Zac only ever visited at night, but the rumour was Geneva never slept.

“Zac.” She smiled, revealing a smudge of red lipstick across her teeth. “Knew you wouldn’t let me down.”

Without a word, Zac reached into his pocket and pulled out the cross. It landed with a
thud
on her desk. Geneva’s eyes gleamed as she picked it up.

“The Cross of Saint Alberic,” she said in a half-whisper. “Isn’t it flippin’ gorgeous?”

“Bit bling for my liking,” Zac told her. “But if you pay me, I’ll leave you two alone together.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Geneva said, setting the cross back down. “What did we say again? Two hundred, wasn’t it?”

Outwardly, Zac didn’t react. He’d been here too many times before.

“Two thousand.”

Geneva’s eyes widened in surprise. She took the cigarette from her mouth and stubbed it into an overflowing ashtray. “Two
thousand
? I don’t remember offering that. That’s a lot of money.”

“The cross is worth ten times that, easy,” Zac said.

Geneva held the artefact out to him. “Then maybe you should try selling it yourself. If you’re so up on the market rates.”

Zac didn’t move to take the cross.

“Two hundred,” Geneva said.

“Eight hundred.”

“Three.”

“Five.”

“Deal!” the woman said. She spat on her hand, then held it out. Zac shook it, then covertly wiped his palm on his jacket.

Geneva slid open a desk drawer and pulled out a rolled-up bundle of notes. She unfolded the pile, counted five notes from the top, then put the rest back in the drawer.

“A pleasure doing business with you, as always,” she said, grinning as she handed Zac the money. Her face took on a wounded expression as Zac held each note up to the light and checked it. “What’s the matter? Don’t you trust me? After all these years?”

“I don’t trust anyone,” Zac said, folding the money into his wallet.

“Very wise. That’ll keep you alive, that will,” Geneva told him. “Ta-ra then, chuck. For now.”

Zac nodded, then reached for the door handle.

“Oh, I almost clean forgot,” said Geneva. “There was someone in ’ere asking about you earlier.”

“Asking about me? Who?”

“A monk, would you believe? Robe and everything. Proper Friar Tuck, he was.”

“What? When?”

Geneva lit another cigarette, then drew deeply on it. “Not long. Few minutes before you got here.”

Zac tensed. “Did you tell him anything?”

“No, no, of course not. What do you take me for?”

Relaxing a little, Zac pulled open the door.

“I told him he could ask you hisself.”

A bald man in a brown robe stood in the hallway, blocking the exit. He stared out at Zac from behind his mirrored sunglasses.

“Hey, kid,” said the Monk. “Surprise!”

“I told you, I’m not interested.”

“Figured you might say that,” the Monk said with a shrug. His hand rose at his side, until it was level with his waist. An old-fashioned revolver, like something from a Western, pointed at Zac’s chest. “So you ain’t leaving me no choice.”

Zac swung his leg with the speed of a striking cobra. His foot caught the Monk’s wrist and slammed it against the wall. There was a
bang
, deafening in the narrow space, and an antique clock in Geneva’s office exploded into matchsticks.

“Hell’s teeth! Watch what you’re doing, chuck!”

Zac stepped in close to the Monk, using his body weight to keep the gun arm against the wall. The heel of his hand crunched against the bald man’s chin, snapping his head back. Folding his fingers into the shape of a blade, Zac struck the Monk just above his right armpit. He stayed in close as he waited for the Monk to fall.

But the Monk had other ideas.

“Nice try, kid,” he said. “My turn.”

Zac could move fast, but the Monk could move faster. There was a blur of hands. Zac caught a glimpse of his reflection in the Monk’s sunglasses, and then there was a strange sensation of weightlessness and motion, and Zac realised what was going to happen next.

The door shattered beneath his weight and Zac found himself outside, lying on his back on the road, pain stabbing the whole length of his spine. A moonlit shadow passed across him. He rolled left just as a sandalled foot slammed down.

The Monk stamped again and again, forcing Zac to keep rolling. At last, he managed to scramble to his feet and threw himself forward into a sprint. His sudden dash had given him a head start, but the Monk was already right at his heels.

Zac dug deep and forced his legs to move faster. There was no way the Monk should be able to keep up with him. He had to be three or four times heavier than Zac, at least, and yet his footsteps were drawing closer.

A hand grabbed him roughly by the shoulder. Zac ducked and pulled free, stumbling as he made it to the junction.

A horn blared as a taxi swooshed narrowly by him, its headlights dazzling in the darkness. From behind Zac there came a screeching of brakes. Another cab bore down on him, the driver’s face a mask of terror as she stomped the brake pedal down to the floor.

Before Zac could move, the Monk was in front of him. The man in the robe raised a fist above his head, then brought it down sharply on the bonnet of the car. There was a scream from inside the vehicle as the back end flipped up into the air.

Zac watched, frozen, as the car somersaulted above his head. It landed, right way up, with an almighty
crash
behind him. He watched, dumbstruck, as all four wheels rolled off in different directions.

When he turned back, the Monk was looking at him, arms folded, a self-satisfied smirk on his face.

“What the Hell are you?”

“Trust me, Hell ain’t got nothin’ to do with it,” the Monk replied.

“What you did... the car... it’s not possible.”

“Not possible for
you
, maybe,” the Monk said, shrugging. They began to circle each other, Zac tense, the Monk a picture of tranquillity. “Me? I can do lots of things.”

“Oh, really?” Zac said. “Well, you’re not the only one.”

He had seen the night bus approaching from the corner of his eye. He darted across in front of it as it sped by, narrowly avoiding being hit. The Monk hung back, waiting for the bus to pass before he gave chase.

It swept by in a gust of wind and a whiff of diesel. Behind his mirrored lenses, the Monk’s eyes scanned for any sign of the boy, but Zac was nowhere to be seen – not on the road, not on the pavement...

The bus. The Monk turned his head, following the vehicle as it spluttered away from him. A black-clad figure stood at the back windscreen. Zac smiled and waved. The Monk pulled the gun from within his robe, but by the time he took aim, the bus was round a corner and out of range.

“H-help!” came a shaky voice from inside the wreckage of the taxi. “Help, I... I need help!”

The Monk didn’t look round. “Yeah, yeah. You know what, sweetheart?” he said quietly. “You an’ me both.”

AC GLANCED OVER
his shoulder to make sure he hadn’t been followed, then slipped into his house through the back door. He closed the door and turned the key without a sound, then jumped as the kitchen light clicked on.

“Zac?”

“Granddad, it’s you,” Zac breathed. He looked at the old man standing in the doorway in his striped pyjamas. He held a green and blue stress ball in one hand, squeezing it gently between his fingers. “What are you doing up?” Zac asked.

His grandfather, Phillip, passed the stress ball from one hand to the other and back again. “I was hungry,” he said. “Or... thirsty? I forget which. Where have you been?”

Zac crossed to the window and drew the blinds. “Working, Granddad, remember?”

“Until three in the morning?” Phillip asked. “Who eats hamburgers at three in the morning? I hope they paid you overtime.”

“Yeah, well...”

“I mean, eating hamburgers at three in the morning. They need their heads examined.”

“It takes all sorts, Granddad,” said Zac, not meeting the old man’s eye. He took a glass from the draining board and filled it with water. “Here, have this.”

Phillip frowned. “What for?”

“You’re thirsty.”

“Am I?” He took the glass and gulped down some of the water. “Oh, yes, so I was.” He licked his cracked lips. “Catriona’s very worried.
Very
worried.”

“Is she?” Zac asked. He glanced past his granddad into the darkened hallway, checking for any sign of movement. “What’s she worried about?”

“Oh, everything. You know what Catriona’s like!”

Zac filled himself a glass from the tap and sipped on it. The coppery tang of blood swirled around inside his mouth. “Well, no, not really,” he said. “Who’s Catriona?”

Phillip paused, his own glass halfway to his lips. “Catriona? She’s...” His eyes seemed to dim as he struggled to remember. He squeezed hard on his stress ball. “You know. Catriona.”

“Oh, you mean
Catriona
. Of course. Now I remember,” lied Zac. “Yeah, she’s a worrier, that one.”

A relieved smile lit up Phillip’s face. “Catriona,” he laughed. “Fancy not remembering Catriona. She’s asked me to help her out, but, I mean, what can I do?”

“You can do lots of things, Granddad,” Zac said, patting the old man on the shoulder, “but I think it’s time Catriona learned to stand on her own two feet. Stop worrying about her. She’ll be fine.”

Whoever she is
, Zac added silently. Phillip spoke about people like Catriona all the time. People who snuck into his head at all hours of the day and night and told him their problems. People who, as far as Zac could tell, didn’t actually exist.

“Where have you been all night?” Phillip asked.

“Work, Granddad. I told you, remember?”

“Is that a bruise?” Phillip said, peering at his grandson. Zac pulled back before the old man could get a closer look at his face.

“Oh, yeah, I walked into a door,” Zac said. “Nothing serious. Anyway... I’m going to head to bed. Will you be OK?”

“I’ll be fine,” said Phillip, putting his glass in the sink. “If I can’t sleep I might do some reading. Or listen to music. Or I might even watch some television.”

“We don’t have a TV, Granddad.”

“Oh, don’t we? Well, bang goes that idea. Maybe I’ll just feed the goldfish, if I can get it to stay still for long enough. Anyway, I’ll be fine. You go. You go. You need your beauty sleep.”

Phillip shooed Zac out into the hallway, where an orange shape was zipping around inside a glass bowl. They both watched it for a few moments, moving so fast it was almost a blur of speed. Phillip had owned the same goldfish for as long as Zac could remember. In all that time, Zac had never once seen it stop moving.

Zac tore his eyes away from the darting fish and made for the stairs. He stopped to check the front door was locked, then turned to his granddad. “Listen, if anyone comes looking for me... I mean, if anyone calls round...”

Phillip frowned. “Expecting someone? At this time of night?”

“No. Maybe. Probably. If anyone comes to the door, tell them I’m not in.”

“Are you heading out?”

“No, I’m going to sleep, so tell them I’m not in.”

“You’re not in. Got it,” said Phillip. “Where is it you’re going?”

“I’m not going anywhere, Granddad. Just sleeping, remember?”

“Sleeping. Right.” The old man tapped a finger against the side of his nose. “Say no more.”

“You be OK?”

“I’ll be fine, Zac,” said Phillip. “Which is more than I can say for poor Bill.”

Zac made an admirable attempt to contain a sigh. “Bill?”

“Lost his job, apparently. In a lot of financial trouble. He doesn’t know what to do.” Phillip shook his head sadly. “Keeps asking me to sort it out for him, as if I can do anything about that kind of thing.”

For a moment, Phillip seemed to drift away. He gazed into space, a fog descending behind his eyes. Eventually, he gave himself a shake and looked over to his grandson.

“Now, where were you going again?”

“Nowhere, Granddad,” said Zac. He smiled weakly. “I’m just going to go bed.”

“Right you are!” said Phillip, and he turned back to the goldfish bowl as Zac bounded up the stairs.

The door to Zac’s bedroom was old and heavy. He closed it firmly and pushed his bookcase in front of it, just to make sure he wasn’t disturbed. He needed time to think, to figure out who the Monk was, and why he was trying to kill him.

He sat on the end of his bed, facing the window. The adrenaline that had been pumping through him for the past few hours was wearing off, and he could now feel all the cuts and bruises he’d earned on his way through Geneva’s front door.

A car. With a single punch, the Monk had flipped a moving car. It had to be a trick of some kind. It had to be. Like the birthmark on his hand, which had vanished again by the time he’d got home. Those things weren’t possible.

He looked through the window, along the leafy suburban street lit up orange by the glow of the streetlights. For a moment he thought he saw something glint on a roof at the other end of the street – a reflection of moonlight off a lens, maybe. He jumped up and quickly drew the curtains, suddenly unable to shake the feeling that he was being watched.

He was agitated. That was new. He never got agitated. Whatever the situation, he was a master at keeping his cool.

But a car. The Monk had flipped a car.

“Get a grip,” he told himself. “You’re being paranoid.”

He turned from the window. A figure in brown stood against the wall near the corner of the room.

“See, kid?” said the Monk. “Told ya I was stealthy.”

The roar of a gunshot echoed through the house.