ASH MISTRY AND THE CITY OF DEATH (30 page)

am going to prison. That or the loony bin.

Shining frost covered the grave. The flowers and tributes round the headstone sparkled as if made from jewels. Ash took hold of his shovel.

His breath came in big white clouds as he dug into the frozen earth. It was early December and painfully cold. A single dark cloud covered the sky like a shroud, and flakes of snow descended lightly, drifting down in the still night.

On to Gemma’s grave.

He thought of her smiling at him in the dining hall, of how her hair shone, of the kind way she treated him. She was his friend and always would be.

Ash threw great black showers of dirt, digging down and down. He worked steadily, stopping only for a drink of water and a quick look around the graveyard to make sure he was alone.

This is insane, but what else can I do?

The shovel edge cracked against wood. The sharp, abrupt sound shocked Ash to a halt. He’d broken the coffin lid.

Moonlight shone upon golden hair.

Ash chucked the shovel out and dug the rest of the dirt off the lid. He got out a screwdriver, but soon gave up trying to open the lid that way. Instead, he dug his fingernails into the side of the lid and tore it off.

Gemma lay upon the silk lining, clumps of soil on her white, lifeless skin. She held a bunch of withered flowers in her fingers.

“I’m sorry, Gemma,” he said. There should be more. He should tell her how much he hated himself, how he’d failed everyone because he’d thought he was better than they were. How he’d trusted Savage. How he missed her.

Ash bent down and took her hand, noticing its coldness and the papery skin that wrinkled round her slim fingers. He cleared a few strands of hair out of her face. The brittle threads cracked.

Gemma didn’t feel like a person, someone who’d once breathed and laughed. She felt utterly alien, as cold as the earth. Whatever had made her human – her life, her soul – had gone.

But in spite of the scent of decay, he could still smell her perfume. It lingered on her skin, the delicate aura of flowers and the soft hint of summer rain on the grass.

“Rishi told me we always come back,” he said to her. “I believe him, but that doesn’t make this any easier. It hurts, Gemma, and that’s good. It means you took a part of me when you died. I wish I could give you more, but I hope you’ll be happy with this.”

Ash took out the Koh-i-noor. He put it softly among the dried rose petals that covered her chest. The diamond glinted and a faint silver hue spread over Gemma, and for a second, a mad desperate second, Ash thought she might awake. But she was dead, and the colour was just the moonlight coming out from behind a cloud.

“Goodbye, Gemma. Rest well.”

Ash closed the lid, pushing it firmly back in place.

It didn’t take him long to fill the grave. He worked steadily, sweating hard, but did not draw on his powers. Gemma deserved more, his human effort. He was the Kali-aastra, but he was more than that. Ashoka had gone from warrior to man of peace.
Be what you want to be; be better than you are
. That was Ashoka’s message. The Kali-aastra didn’t have to define Ash.

His arms ached and his back was a single mass of agony as he finally patted down the last of the soil. The snow was falling heavily now and would cover the grave soon enough, and there’d be no sign that it had been disturbed. He arranged the flowers round the headstone, and climbed over the high iron railings that surrounded West Norwood Cemetery.

sh brushed the dirt off his tracksuit as best he could and checked the time. Just gone half six. Mum and Dad would be up now. He’d sneak in, get changed, and be off to school.

He dug his hands into his pockets and lifted his hood over his head. The snow smothered the high street and a lorry was off-loading fresh bread to the local supermarket. The shops had their Christmas decorations up and there was a ten-metres-tall Christmas tree in front of the church, lights sparkling within its green needles.

Ash took a deep breath as he glanced back at the graveyard. He could barely see past the railings as the snowfall began to increase, fat flakes drifting in the still, freezing air. He couldn’t see Gemma’s grave.

A new start. That’s what he needed. Enough saving the world; he just needed to get back to being a fourteen-year-old. That was hard enough.

SAVING THE WORLD
.

The words were on a billboard, huge and epic, spanning the entire roof of the supermarket. Ash grinned.
Yeah, let someone else do it for once
. He adjusted his hood and—

Stopped and stared at the billboard.

The left side showed a small African child, malnourished and crying and face covered in flies, lying in her mother’s arms as a doctor gave her an injection. The right side was the same girl, smiling and healthy and standing in a field of wheat. Her eyes were bright and she wore a beautiful printed dress.
SAVING THE WORLD. ONE CHILD AT A TIME
ran over the whole image.

But what made Ash’s blood freeze was the logo at the bottom corner. Poppies with a pair of crossed swords.

Savage’s coat of arms.

It was nothing to worry about, surely. The Savage Foundation was a big multi-national business; sooner or later, Ash would come across it. It employed thousands around the world, people who had nothing to do with Lord Alexander Savage.

But as Ash continued home, he couldn’t shake a creeping unease. Why hadn’t he ever noticed the poster before? It must have been up there for days. He would have walked past it on his way to school.

Five minutes later, he turned the corner to his house. He pushed open the gate and saw a brand-new Range Rover parked in the drive.

He closed the gate. The snow was confusing him and he’d gone to his neighbour’s house. His dad drove a ten-year-old Ford C-Max.

Weird. This was his gate. This was his drive.

But whose car was that? His gaze fell on the licence plate.

M1STRY 1.

Something caught in his throat. His dad had always wanted a personalised number plate, but Mum had always vetoed the expense. And the Range Rover was brand new. No way could they afford something like that. Some new company car scheme his dad hadn’t told him about? Yes, that had to be it. Or maybe he’d been promoted. The directors all had flashy cars.

Ash unlocked the door. The kettle whistled and the radio murmured in the kitchen as his parents chatted and got breakfast ready. He kicked off his All-Stars and rushed to his room. It was already seven.

He threw his clothes on the bathroom floor and showered, then dried off.

“Ashoka! Breakfast!” shouted Mum.

Damn. She only called him that when she was angry with him. He must have left muddy tracks on the carpet.

Ash opened up his cupboard and grabbed a shirt. He shook the water off his head as he buttoned it up, only to discover the shirt didn’t fit. He pulled it off. It was one of his old ones, back when he’d been big and blubbery, before his Kali-inspired diet and fitness regime. Mum must have got it mixed up. He looked for another. That was the big size too. He picked up a T-shirt, but it was his old Nike baggy shirt that he’d sent to the charity shop three months ago.

What was going on?

Ash put the T-shirt on and a spare pair of jogging bottoms, then went downstairs.

Breakfast lay on the table as usual. The newspapers and a few magazines were neatly piled in the centre. Mum had a coffee in one hand while adjusting her earrings with the other. “Wasn’t sure if you were still here.”

“I went out for a run.” He looked at her. “When did you get the new haircut?”

Mum laughed. “You’ve only noticed it now? Ashoka, I’ve had this style for months.”

Dad came in. “Has anyone seen my watch?” He ruffled Ash’s hair without really looking at him. “Morning, son.”

“Look on top of the fridge,” said Mum.

Dad did. “Ah. Here we go.” It was big, gold and shiny.

Ash’s eyes narrowed. “And since when have you had a Rolex, Dad?”

Dad clipped it round his wrist and gave it a quick polish. “You know how long. And no, you cannot have one until you’re eighteen. We discussed it, remember?”

Lucky came in and looked around the kitchen. “Mum, I can’t find my hat anywhere.”

Mum waved back towards the hall. “It’s where you left it after your last lesson, with your riding boots.”

“So when did you start riding lessons?” Ash asked. “Last couple of weeks?”

“Since we came back from India, dur-brain.”

This wasn’t right. None of it. Ash stared at his family. There was something different, but what, exactly?

Then he noticed the wall behind Lucky. “Where’s the photo?”

Mum poured out some tea. “Hmm?”

“The photo of Uncle Vik and Aunt Anita. It used to be right there.” Instead of their old wedding photo, which had hung in that space since their deaths, there was a picture of Lucky sitting on a black and white pony, looking very pleased with herself. Ash stood up, heart racing. How could they take down the photo?

“Are you all right, Ash?”

“This isn’t funny,” he said. “Where is the photo?”

Dad looked at Ash, frowning. He shook his head. “You look different, Ashoka.”

“Why are you calling me ‘Ashoka’, Dad?”

Dad looked at Mum and she shrugged. He picked up a piece of toast, though he still watched Ash with an odd expression. “We thought that’s what you wanted. When you came back from India, you said you wanted us to use your proper, Indian name.”

“No. No, I didn’t.”

Lucky rolled her eyes. “He’s gone mental. I knew it would happen sooner or later.”

“Where is the photo?” Ash insisted.

Dad smiled. “We’ve plenty of you and your uncle and aunt. We could put one of them up. You know, from your holiday.”

“But they’re dead, Dad.” Savage had killed them. They knew that!

Dad frowned. “Who’s dead?”

“Vik and Anita? No, you know they’re fine,” replied his mum, confused. “Are you sure you’re all right? You do look a bit pale.”

The world had gone mad.

Mum smiled. “Wait, I’ve got something to show you. You know how you’re always going on about Lord Savage?” She flicked through the newspapers and took out
Time
magazine. “Here. It’s their annual ‘Man of the Year’ issue.”

Lord Alexander Savage.

He stared at Ash from the photo – young, beautiful, smiling benevolently. They’d given the cover a metallic sheen so he looked less like a human and more like a golden god. His skin was inhumanly smooth and perfect, unmarked by wrinkle or blemish. His eyes were hidden behind his shades, but the smile chilled Ash to his soul. That was a smile of a man who’d won everything.

Dad clicked his tongue. “They’ll be making him Prime Minister next.”

No. No. NO.
Ash gripped the magazine. “This isn’t right.”

Dad put his hand on Ash’s arm, but Ash shoved him off. He backed up against the door, staring at them. “Who are you?”

Mum looked worried. “Ashoka...”

“Stop calling me that!” Ash grabbed Lucky’s arm. “What happened in India? You
know
what happened.”

“Ow, Ashoka, you’re hurting me!”

“I said stop calling me that!”

Lucky stared at him, pale and eyes wide. Tears dripped down her cheeks and Ash’s fingers sprang open. He wouldn’t hurt his sister, not ever.

But was this Lucky?

“Son, you look sick,” said Dad. He reached out, but Ash pushed back through the door, away from them. He stumbled into the hall and, just wearing his socks, out the door.

He had to get away.

Heart racing, he ran along the road, with no idea where he was going. He bumped into a man coming out of the newsagent, knocking the paper out of his hands.

Ash reached down instinctively to get it. “Sorry, I didn’t see you...”

Prince William was on the front page of the
Independent
. Then Ash read the headline.

KING WILLIAM CELEBRATES A YEAR ON THE THRONE.

Knees in the snow, Ash stared at the newspaper, hoping against hope this was some joke. He checked the date. Today. It was today.

“My paper, please?” said the man.

Dumbly Ash handed it back and stood up. It was all different. Everything. Something had changed. Not with a bang or a thunderbolt or with storms. But something had changed, and it was all different.

Ash couldn’t breathe. His chest felt like a massive weight was pressing down on it. Kids walked past him on their way to school. A dog yapped at him, but Ash, eyes blurred with tears, just stood there, utterly lost.

What had happened? Last night, he’d left home after talking with Lucky,
his
Lucky. He’d gone to the graveyard and everything had been the same until he got home. His parents, his sister, were different people.

It had to be Savage. Savage had changed the past. He had mastered Time and done it, just like he said he would.

Because Savage changed the past, Ash’s family had developed in different ways, their lives taking other paths. Things had happened, and hadn’t happened. He blinked. His uncle and aunt were alive. They’d never had the car crash. That was a good thing, wasn’t it? But what else was different that he didn’t know about?

“Ash!”

He wiped his face. Who was that?

“Ash!”

A group of Dulwich High students were on the opposite side of the road. He peered through the curtain of snow, just able to make out someone waving at him. He stepped towards the person, raising his hand instinctively.

It was Josh, wrapped up for an Arctic expedition, his eyes and nose just visible between the collar of his coat and his low-drawn hat. He raised his gloved hand. “Ash!”

A boy bumped Ash’s shoulder as he passed him from behind. “Sorry,” said the boy, waving back to Josh. “Hey!”

The ground tilted and Ash grabbed a lamppost, his legs suddenly jelly. This boy was the same height and build as Ash, just a bit plumper, with the same hairstyle, maybe a little bit shorter. He wore a pair of Converse All-Stars and carried a backpack just like the one Ash owned. He was wearing Ash’s greatcoat, his Sherlock Special. He crossed the road and joined Josh.

Ash stood in the middle of the road, looking at them. A car beeped its horn, but he didn’t move. He couldn’t. He was frozen in time and space.

The boy slapped Josh’s well-padded shoulder. “I thought I told you, Josh. I’m not Ash Mistry...”

The boy smiled. He smiled just like Ash did. He had his smile. He had his eyes, his nose, his face.

“...I’m Ashoka.”