Читать книгу Afterworlds: The Book of Doom - Barry Hutchison - Страница 8

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.