The Truth is Dead (12 page)

– Maybe.

– Let’s play.

– Too tired.

– Too scared.

– Of you?

– I defeated Neza.

– He didn’t want to win.

– Everyone wants to win.

– Not this game.

–
Especially
this game.

– Wait. You mean they haven’t told you? You don’t know what happens after the Final?

– Nothing. I told you: that’s why it’s called the Final. It’s the final thing before the end of the world.

– The winner is the best player in the empire, right? Best person. So the winner—

– Will be me.

– The winner, they’ll rip her heart out and offer it to the gods. To Tekutizcatetal or whatever, to see if they can change his mind.

– You’re lying. Lying ghostdirt.

– Ghostdirt?

– How could you change a god’s mind?

– By giving him your nice juicy heart to eat, apparently.

– It doesn’t scare me. It’s the Final. Everyone will die. If I die first, that’s an honour. If Tekutizcatetal takes my heart, that is the greatest honour. Anyone would be proud.

– Not Neza, apparently, or else why did he throw the match?

– He did not throw the match; I defeated him. I scored. I won. I hate you.

– And I asked you to run away with me. And you didnae come.

She walked away but he followed. He grabbed her blouse and untucked it; then, taking the hem of his cloak, he knotted the blouse and the cloak together, just like the groom does to the bride when the Real People marry. They had played weddings sometimes when they were younger, but only when she wanted to. This was the first time he had started it. She laughed.

And then he said – We could still run away.

– No, we couldn’t. I’m famous now.

– We could go in disguise. To the Dreamcountry. Say yes.

– Maybe I will.

They walked towards the great arch, where they found the Interpretation waiting for them.

– We are so glad to find you here, they said. – We have made our decision about tomorrow.

They were not threatening. They had no soldiers with them. But all the same, it was impossible to argue with them. It was as though the whole world, the way things worked, was talking through them.

– We thought about what you said, that the more unlikely something is, the more clearly it is a message from the gods.

– Did I say that?

– Yes. So we have decided that your opponent tomorrow will be this boy.

They pointed to Mungo.

They entered through opposite arches. He seemed unbelievably far away and unbelievably pale against the red surface. They had played one-on-one since they were five, so often that it was more like a dance than a game. They never kept track of who won. Today the winner would die and the loser would live. Today they were playing the same old game, but this time to the death.

She looked at him standing on the centre spot, and the sound of the crowd and the colours of the stadium seemed to vanish. Everything was as ghostly as his pale skin.

– We’ll never see each other again after this.

– Good. You’ve bloody killed me. We should have run away.

– Let me win.

– Why would I do that?

– So I get killed and you don’t. It’s no great thing for me to die. I believe; you don’t.

– I believe in doing the right thing. I’m going to win; you’re going to live.

– Let me win. When the world ends, I’ll be waiting for you at the door of the Good Place.

–
I’m
going to win. I’m not going to let them kill you. I’d rather be dead than see them kill you here.

– It doesn’t make any sense. Let me win.

– You’ll never beat me, because I won’t let you. I’m playing for your life. Nothing will beat me.

The ball was in play. She missed it completely and realized she was watching him and not the ball, trying to remember him, a picture to take with her. The ball bounced high. Very high. She tried to wake up. She had to beat him. To save him. He was already running into position. The muscles in his legs coiled, ready to spring.

But then they both stopped. He was staring into the sky. She was staring into the sky. The crowd was staring into the sky. But not at the ball.

She was staring at the … what was it? A thing like a cross, like the wooden thing that Mungo’s weak god was nailed to. It was moving across the sky and making a noise, a coughing, choking noise. Like a weak thing. And it was coming nearer, falling out of the sky. In the stands people were screaming and scrambling out of their seats. But Mungo kept staring up. He made a sign like a cross on himself.

Then it was clear that the thing was going to land on the court itself. She dragged him out of the way as it struck the red surface. There was something on the front that whirled like an angry club, and smoke poured from the back. There was a thing like a single eye on the top; at least, she thought it was an eye, but then it opened and a figure stepped out. A male figure the same size as an Aztec man. Black like a man of Sheba, only blacker still. And his hair woolly and white. He stood on the wing of the thing and he waved! Just the way a man might wave. Everyone stood still and then waved back, imitating the god’s wave. He waved again. They waved again.

This was it. The end of the world. Not a flood. But … what? Waving?

The god began to speak, and everyone leaned forward to listen. The acoustics of the court were designed to amplify the dramatic thump of the rubber ball hitting the stone, so everyone heard everything he said but no one could understand a word. They shuffled a little, embarrassed that this was their god, come to talk to them, but they couldn’t understand what he was saying.

Then slowly they began to enjoy the music of his talking and the fact that he seemed pleased to see them, and it dawned on them slowly that anyone who spoke with his relaxed, sing-song voice was very possibly not going to destroy the world after all. And as he waved again and they waved back again, they began to recognize certain words, because he said them a lot. Kuri, for instance, was his name. And Wollongong was where he was from. And aeroplane seemed to be the thing that took him into the air. He kept slapping it proudly.

While Kuri was talking, Mungo worked it out. This was not their god. This was not Tekutizcatetal, the destroyer of worlds. This was obviously
his
God. Obviously. He was even riding on a cross. Knowing that God was good, Mungo grabbed Monkey8 by the hand and dragged her over to the plane.

There was a gasp from the crowd. Was this it? Was the little ghost lad going to sacrifice her?

– All right, mate. Need a lift? said God.

Mungo did not understand the words, but he could see by looking into his eyes that this God really was good. And Kuri could see by looking into Mungo’s eyes that Mungo was good. And the girl – she was digging her nails into the boy’s hand and looking back at the crowd. They wanted to be together, that was clear too. The crowd. They were scared of the crowd. For some reason these kids had to get out of there.

– No worries, Kuri said. – Jump aboard. I’ll sort you out.

He pushed back the glass bubble and pointed inside. They climbed in. It was cramped but Kuri pulled out some bags to make room for them.

– Don’t worry. I’ll dump this stuff. I’ll miss it, but it’s not the end of the world.

At first the crowd too somehow felt it wasn’t the end of the world, as they watched their god – or some god, anyway – chugging up into the air on a tail of oily smoke, taking the two players with them. They waved and waved, but the more they waved the more they had the feeling that something really had ended; that they were saying goodbye not just to the players and the plane and the god, but to a world; that maybe they were saying goodbye to an old world and waving hello to a new one.

THE AUTHORS

Philip Ardagh

Roald Dahl Funny Prize winner Philip Ardagh has written over 100 books, both fiction and non-fiction, including
Grubtown Tales
,
Henry’s House
and the Eddie Dickens adventures, which have been translated into over 30 languages. He collaborated with Sir Paul McCartney on the ex-Beatle’s first children’s book,
High in the Clouds
, and writes for radio and TV, as well as being a regular reviewer of children’s books for the
Guardian
.

Frank Cottrell Boyce

Frank Cottrell Boyce won the 2004 Carnegie Medal for his first children’s book,
Millions
. His screenplay of the same name was made into a film by Oscar-winning director Danny Boyle in the same year. He has since written three novels for children, including
Framed
, which was shortlisted for the 2005 Carnegie Medal and the Whitbread Children’s Book of the Year Award.

Anthony McGowan

Anthony McGowan’s novels for young adults include
Hellbent
,
Henry Tumour
, which won the 2006 Booktrust Teenage Prize and the 2007 Catalyst Award, and
The Knife That Killed Me
, which was shortlisted for the 2008 Booktrust Teenage Prize and longlisted for the 2008 Guardian Children’s Fiction Prize. His latest book is
Einstein’s Underpants – And How They Saved the World
. Anthony was born in Manchester, brought up in Leeds and lives in London.

Linda Newbery

Linda Newbery has published more than thirty titles, ranging from a picture book,
Posy
, to young adult novels, including
The Shell House
and
Sisterland
. She has twice been shortlisted for the Carnegie Medal, and won the 2006 Costa Children’s Book Prize for her novel
Set in Stone
.
The Sandfather
was UK IBBY’s nomination to the international Honour List for 2010.

Mal Peet

Mal Peet is the author of the critically acclaimed young adult novels
Tamar
, which won the 2005 Carnegie Medal,
Keeper
, winner of the 2003 Branford Boase Award, and
The Penalty
. His latest novel,
Exposure
, won the 2009 Guardian Children’s Fiction Prize. He lives in Devon with his wife and fellow-writer Elspeth Graham.

Marcus Sedgwick

Marcus Sedgwick has written numerous award-winning books, including
Floodland
, winner of the 2000 Branford Boase Award,
My Swordhand is Singing
, which won the 2007 Booktrust Teenage Prize, and
Revolver
, which was nominated for the Guardian Children’s Fiction Prize. His latest young adult novel,
White Crow
, was published in July 2010. He lives near Cambridge and has a teenage daughter, Alice.

Eleanor Updale

Having worked as a BBC TV and radio producer for many years, Eleanor Updale now writes fiction for all the family. Her
Montmorency
series has won international prizes, including the Blue Peter Award for “The Book I Couldn’t Put Down”. Her most recent book,
Johnny Swanson,
is a tale of murder and deception, set in 1929. She lives in London.

Matt Whyman

Bestselling author Matt Whyman is also well-known for his work as an advice columnist for numerous teenage magazines. His young adult novels include
Boy Kills Man
, which was shortlisted for the 2004 Booktrust Teenage Prize, as well as
Inside the Cage
and
Goldstrike
.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the authors’ imagination or, if real, are used fictitiously.

This collection first published 2010 by Walker Books Ltd
87 Vauxhall Walk, London, SE11 5HJ

Anthology © 2010 Marcus Sedgwick
Introduction © 2010 Marcus Sedgwick
“Jesus Wept” © 2010 Anthony McGowan
“The Burning Glass” © 2010 Marcus Sedgwick
“Vienna, 1912” © 2010 Mal Peet
“The Blue-Eyed Boy” © 2010 Linda Newbery
“Eclipsed” © 2010 Matt Whyman
“One Giant Leap” © 2010 Philip Ardagh
“The Y2K Bug” © 2010 Eleanor Updale
“At the Ball Game” © 2010 Frank Cottrell Boyce

The moral rights of the contributors has been asserted

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted or stored in an information retrieval system in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, taping and recording, without prior written permission from the publisher.

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data:
a catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

ISBN 978-1-4063-3944-4 (ePub)

www.walker.co.uk