The End (23 page)

‘Like what?’

‘Don’t know. A sign. To Matt anything can be a sign. A leaf falling a certain way. A dead pigeon. Someone farting.’

Shadowman laughed.

‘You sound like he’s – like he’s not really your friend,’ he said.

‘He hasn’t got any friends,’ said Archie. ‘He’s above all that, on a different wavelength. You can’t really get through to him. I don’t think I’ve had a single normal conversation with him since we left the chapel at Rowhurst.’

‘That’s gotta be hard work – for both of you.’

‘He’s his own guy,’ said Archie. ‘You can’t ever get to know what’s inside a boy like Matt. You look in his eyes and, man, it’s like there’s nothing in there. Or like he’s talking to someone else. Inside his head. Talking to God. Just not talking to you. It’s freaky.’

‘Some of the kids at the museum have a theory that the sickos talk to each other with some kind of ultrasound
thing,’ said Shadowman. ‘Almost like telepathy. A different wavelength to the rest of us. A different frequency.’

‘Maybe that’s what prayer has always been,’ said Archie. ‘How we talk to God.’

‘You really believe in God?’

‘Doesn’t make any difference really. I believe in Matt.’

Yo-Yo came over, her eyes wide and dark in the low light.

‘Can I stay the night?’ she
asked, like Shadowman was her dad.

‘Course you can, darling,’ he said. ‘I assumed you wanted a sleepover.’

Yo-Yo giggled. ‘Sleepovers are something from history.’

‘Well, that’s what it is,’ said Shadowman. ‘No other word for it.’

‘I can find you both some sleeping stuff,’ said Archie.

‘Is all right.’ Shadowman stretched out his arms and cricked his back. ‘I always
travel with my own gear. You never know how things are gonna pan out. But maybe you can find something for Yo-Yo.’

‘Sure … And you’ll be able to hear Matt’s sermon.’

‘Well, that’s a bonus,’ said Shadowman, and he smiled.

32

‘It was all written, scratched into our skin, the words are on us and the words are in us. I am the word. I watched as the Lamb wrote the book with fire. He had a dream and I was in the dream. I saw the fall of the Nephilim. There was a great earthquake. The sun turned black like sackcloth made of goat hair. The whole moon turned blood-red, and the stars in the sky fell
to earth. It has fallen: Wormwood, the poison star. And the Nephilim are among us. I have seen it all. It is the truth. It will come to be.’

Shadowman had to admit he was quite enjoying this. It was like a mad play. Made more so by the musicians in the choir stalls keeping up their moody soundtrack. He wasn’t alone in his enjoyment. All the green kids were sitting, hypnotised,
on the pews, staring up at Matt with wide, shining eyes. Did they understand any of it? Did any of it make sense? What did Matt mean when he said the words were scratched into their skin?

Shadowman studied Matt. His body movement, his eyes as they darted about, now staring up to the heavens, now fixed on his followers. Shadowman was good at reading people and one thing was clear
about Matt – he had a secret.

‘The kings of the earth, the princes, the generals, the
mighty, they will be saved by the blood of the Lamb. It is coming. The End. There are signs in the sky. An enormous red beast with seven heads and ten horns and seven crowns on his heads, breathing fire across the moon. And there is a war in heaven. The great dragon has been hurled down – that
ancient serpent called the devil, or Satan, who leads the whole world astray. He was hurled to the earth, and his angels with him. Some say he is the dragon, and some say he is the dragon slayer …’

This hit home with Shadowman. The dragon slayer. St George. He smiled to himself. Matt was clever. If you threw out enough random images you could let people make their own stories
out of the parts. Your words could mean anything. Matt began reading from his book now. Archie had told Shadowman all about it. It was made up of scraps of burnt Bible and Matt’s own additions.

‘Then I heard a loud voice from the temple saying to the seven angels, “Go, pour out the seven bowls of God’s wrath on the earth.” The first angel went and poured out his bowl on the land,
and ugly and painful sores broke out on the people who had
the mark of the beast and worshipped his image.’

Shadowman had watched Matt earlier as he changed into his robes for the sermon. His body was pale and skinny, the ribs poking through the skin. And he was slightly stiff. He moved in a twisted sort of way, like he was in pain. His shaved head was small and bony, his eyes
deep in dark sockets, the veins showing blue against the stark white of his skin. In the middle of his forehead was a nasty scab. Shadowman had seen several other kids with similar scabs.

‘What is that thing?’ he’d asked Archie.

‘The mark of the Lamb.’

As if Shadowman should know what that meant.

‘His blood will save us! Our enemies will drink his blood and it will destroy
them. He has a name written on him that no one knows but he himself. He will save us all. His eyes are like blazing fire, and on his head are many crowns. Never again will we hunger. Never again will we thirst. He has the power to turn the waters into blood and to strike the earth with every kind of plague as often as he wants. He has the power of fire, and his blood is our blood
and it drowns the heavens!’

A gasp went up from the kids and Shadowman felt the hairs on his skin stand up all over his body. The windows all around the abbey were turning red, or rather the sky outside was, as if the sky was bleeding. That was a hell of a special effect. A hell of a show. A hell of a trick.

A hell of a lucky coincidence?

Matt was trying to carry
on, shouting out his nonsense, but he realized he was losing the kids’ attention. They were starting to get up, muttering and pointing, staring at the windows. Even the musicians had stopped playing.

Shadowman wanted to see how Matt was going to handle this. He was flustered, his words stumbling. He kept clutching his backside as if he was in pain. He suddenly raised both hands.

‘Outside,’ he yelled, almost a scream. ‘You will see the truth of my words written in the sky.’

There was a mad scramble for the doors, Shadowman following.

The sky above London was glowing red.

‘The moon,’ someone shouted. ‘Look at the moon!’

Shadowman looked.

A hell of a show.

‘What did I tell you,’ said Matt. ‘
The whole moon will be turned blood-red
. It
is the blood moon. The End is near. The Nephilim are coming.’

Shadowman shook his head. This was some mucked-up shit. He needed to know more. What was Matt’s secret?

He needed to get closer.

It was time to go to work.

33

Matt was kneeling on the cold tiled floor. Half naked, his pale back scarred and scabbed, the backbone pressing through like a buried fossil emerging from the earth. He was alternately clutching his hands in prayer, a leather belt held between them, and beating himself with the belt, which left nasty red welts across his skin.

THWACK.

Shadowman winced. Matt
really took this whole God thing seriously.

This was Henry the Seventh’s chapel, a separate, more private area up a short flight of steps and through some brass gates at the opposite end of the abbey to the altar and the big rose window. There were candles lit, and Matt was alone, muttering to himself, looking like some medieval martyr in his grey leggings. Shadowman had waited
until it was quiet and had crept back here. He stepped softly. He could move unseen and unheard. He’d spent his whole life learning the art. He hung back in the shadows, listening to Matt and wincing each time the leather belt thwacked across his back. Was this why Matt had looked uncomfortable? Like he was hurting? Shadowman waited for his eyes and ears to adjust, until he was able
to pick out some of what Matt was saying.

‘I have drunk the blood and the blood has drunk me … You cannot harm me … You are the Nephilim and I will destroy you all … Be quiet … The Lamb will cleanse me … I am stronger than you. I have the blood in me. The blood of the Lamb and the blood of the dragon. The Lamb’s blood is stronger. The Lamb’s blood is pure. I have seen your
moon. You are bleeding. You will all die.’

THWACK.

Shadowman crept closer still. The grey leggings were all that Matt was wearing. The soles of his feet were black and calloused. He scrunched up his toes every time the belt hit his flesh. His whole body was twitching and jerking, and occasionally he would break from prayer and massage his backside. And then he’d whack
himself again.

‘This pain will drive out your pain. You cannot hurt me. I take the pain and forget your wounds. You try to eat us … Not me. Not me …’

THWACK.

Eventually Shadowman was right behind Matt who still hadn’t heard him. He was too caught up in his own world of pain and madness.

‘He has written the word on me. I have his mark on my forehead. He will protect
me. You have tried to eat me. But I am strong because I love the Lamb. Speak to me. Drown out their voices. Let me hear your voice, strong and clear. Tell me what to do. Speak to me. Make them shut up.’

‘You were bitten,’ said Shadowman, and Matt jumped – as if God really had spoken to him. He threw himself face down and writhed on the cold floor. And then he realized it wasn’t
God, it was Shadowman, and he got his act together. The whole mad-monk persona was gone, and in its place was one severely hacked-off boy.

‘What are you doing here?’ he hissed, fixing his dark, glassy eyes on Shadowman.

‘I came to pray with you, brother.’

‘No, you didn’t. I pray alone.’

‘We can all pray. He’s not
your
God. He belongs to all of us. I was going to
pray to him to give me answers, just like you.’

‘You’re a liar.’

‘Am I? I got my answers.’

‘Liar.’

‘You were bitten,’ said Shadowman. ‘Only explanation. You’re not communicating with God, you’re hearing sickos in your head. You’ve got some of their bugs in you. I’ve seen it in others.’

‘You’ve seen nothing. You’re not a believer. You will never see or hear.’

‘Not
like you, no,’ said Shadowman. ‘I’m not hearing the white noise of parasitic ultrasound. Flies calling to flies. But, you know, seeing and hearing are what I do best.’

Matt got up, stood hunched over, his eyes disappearing into black sockets made deeper by the candlelight, his muscles knotting and unknotting. Shadowman had faced stronger enemies. If Matt wanted a fight, he was
ready.

‘You’ve been bitten in the arse by one of them,’ he said, and watched as Matt instinctively put a hand to his backside before he could stop himself.

‘When did it happen?’ Shadowman pressed on. ‘A while back, I expect. Right at the beginning. You’ve got over it and you’ve learnt to live with it.’

‘I am the word of the Lamb. I will order you punished for this.’

‘No, you won’t. Right now this is a secret between you and me,’ said Shadowman. ‘I can keep it that way. I don’t need to tell anyone. But if you kick up a fuss then I start talking and your secret is out. You’re not a holy man – you’re just sick. Or maybe that’s the same thing. Whatever – I’m guessing you want to keep your secret for a while longer.’

‘I can order you silenced
before you say anything,’ said Matt.

‘You can try. But I don’t see anyone here’s gonna pull it off. I’m the Shadowman. I’m a killer.’

Shadowman moved in on Matt who shrank away from him, looking around for some help. His followers were all up the other end of the abbey. He could cry out, but that might seem a little undignified for this poor man’s pope.

‘I was not bitten,’
said Matt, almost pleading now.

‘I can prove it,’ said Shadowman. ‘One simple way.’

‘Keep your hands off me!’ Matt had a hint of desperation in his voice, but Shadowman moved in quickly, twisted Matt round and yanked his leggings down just far enough to expose ugly, puckered scarring in the unmistakable shape of teeth marks on one pale buttock.

‘That must have hurt,’ he
said and pulled the leggings back up before shoving Matt away. Matt skittered across the floor and glared at Shadowman, like a trapped animal.