The Book of Doom (5 page)

E WAS STILL
in the dark, even after the world stopped lurching. He was lying on an uneven surface, his legs twisted at awkward angles. Somewhere above him, he could hear breathing, and he realised he was still holding Angelo’s hand.

“Are we there?” he asked quietly. “Are we in Hell?”

“Um, no, not yet,” Angelo replied. “Not unless I’ve really messed up. I’ve just jumped your soul back into your body.”

Zac pulled his hand free and felt around on the floor beneath him. Shoes. He was sitting on shoes.

“The cupboard,” he said. “We’re in my cupboard.”

He untwisted his legs and kicked open the door, revealing his bedroom. The curtains were still closed and the bookcase was still in front of the door, but there was no sign of the Monk anywhere.

Zac stood and looked down at his stomach. A round hole had been torn through his T-shirt. He reached round and felt his back. There was another hole there, slightly larger than the one on the front.

The material round both holes was slick with blood, but his body itself was gunshot-wound free.

“So... what? I’m alive?”

“Sort of. I mean, no, not properly,” Angelo said. “Your soul’s just temporarily back in your body. So you’re not alive, but you’re not dead, either. I suppose you’re sort of like a zombie.” He held his arms out in front of him and groaned. “Uuuuh. Braaaains!”

“Stop that.”

“
Braaaaaaains!
”

“Cut it out!”

Angelo lowered his arms. “Anyway, you can still be hurt, and your body can still be destroyed, so be careful.” He stepped past Zac and stood in the middle of the room, turning slowly on the spot as he looked around. “Is this your bedroom?”

“What? Yeah,” replied Zac absent-mindedly. He was looking at a rectangle of card that had been pinned to his T-shirt. The card was black with white writing that read:

Y
OU WERE KILLED BY THE
M
ONK.
T
HANK YOU FOR YOUR BUSINESS.

Beneath that was a phone number. Zac ripped the card in half before dropping it into his wastepaper bin.

“Where are your posters?” asked Angelo.

“I don’t have posters,” Zac answered.

“Why don’t you have any posters?”

“I just don’t.”

Zac pulled off the long-sleeved T-shirt and tossed it into the corner of the room. Then he crossed to his chest of drawers, pulled out another identical piece of clothing, and slipped it on.

“Posters help cheer up a room,” Angelo continued. “Your room doesn’t look very cheerful. It’s gloomy. It’s a gloomy roomy.” He laughed. “
Gloomy roomy
. I bet it’s not easy to say that five times fast.”

“What are—?”

“Gloomyroomy gloomyroomy gloomyroomy gloomyroomy gloomyroomy,” Angelo blurted. “Oh no, it is quite easy, actually.” He looked around the room. “Anyway, you should definitely get some posters.”

“Will you stop going on about the posters?” Zac sighed. “I don’t like them, OK? They’re childish.”

“Gee whizz, OK. I was only saying,” Angelo mumbled. His eyes fell on the bookcase, which Zac was now shoving out of the way of the door. “Got any Hulk comics? Or are
they
childish as well?”

“No, I don’t, and yes, they are,” Zac said. “I’m going to make sure my granddad’s OK. Wait here.”

“Why do I have to—?”

“Just... just wait here, OK?”

Angelo opened his mouth, closed it again, then sat down on the bed. “I’ll wait here,” he said. “But don’t be long. I get panic attacks.”

“Surprise, surprise,” muttered Zac, as he left the bedroom and pulled the door closed behind him.

He met his grandfather halfway down the stairs. Phillip was walking up slowly, an iron poker held in his withered hands.

“Oh, you’re all right,” the old man said, visibly relieved. He lowered the poker to his side. “I heard a bang; what was that bang?”

“When?” asked Zac.

“A few seconds ago. Loud, it was.
BANG!
Like a gunshot.”

A few seconds?
Zac thought. So, he must’ve come back just moments after the Monk had shot him.

“Didn’t hear anything,” Zac said. “Maybe it was something outside. Come on, let’s go downstairs.”

“Are you sure you didn’t hear anything?” Phillip asked, allowing himself to be led back down into the hall. “Because it sounded like a gunshot...”

“Car backfiring, probably,” Zac said with a practised shrug. “Nothing to worry about.”

They reached the bottom of the stairs and Zac ushered his granddad through into the sitting room. It was a mess of mismatched furniture that had been accumulated over decades, with no attempt made to tie any of it together.

“Sit down, Granddad, I need to talk to you,” Zac said. He took a seat on a red-and-green floral patterned sofa, while Phillip creaked down into a beige armchair.

“What is it, Zac? Is... is something wrong?”

Another voice spoke before Zac could. “Sorry. I had to come down.”

Zac and his grandfather looked over at the door. Angelo stood there, chewing on a fingernail and bouncing uncomfortably from foot to foot.

“I told you to wait,” Zac said.

“I know, but, well... I think I need the toilet.”

“You
think
you need the toilet?”

Angelo nodded. “Yes. But I’m not sure. I’ve never needed the toilet before. It must be to do with being on Earth.” His hopping became more frantic. “Yep, I’m almost sure I need the toilet.”

“Well go, then!”

There was a pause. Angelo stopped hopping. Zac watched in slowly dawning horror as Angelo’s white shorts turned slightly yellow at the crotch.

“Wow. That helped
a lot
,” Angelo said. “That’s much more comfortable. Thanks!”

Zac got to his feet. “I didn’t mean go right there! I meant go to...” He saw only puzzlement on Angelo’s face. “I meant
go to the bathroom
, not
wet yourself
.”

“Oh.”

Zac sighed. “Jesus.”

“Where?” asked Angelo, his eyes widening with excitement.

“No, not... not...” Zac pinched the bridge of his nose. “Look, never mind, just go back upstairs and we’ll find you more clothes.”

“OK,” said Angelo brightly. He moved to leave, then hesitated. “Oh, by the way, your goldfish is going crazy.”

“Yes. It does that.”

“Hello,” said Phillip, who had been trying to follow the conversation that had just taken place, but failing miserably. “Are you Penelope?”

“No. I’m Angelo.”

Phillip looked disappointed. “Oh. I thought you were Penelope. She’s been banging on at me all night, telling me her cat’s sick, but what’s that got to do with me? What do I know about cats? Nothing. Hear that, Penelope?” he said, raising his voice. “I don’t know the first thing about cats.”

“OK, then!” said Angelo, shooting Zac a glance. “I’ll just go and get changed. Nice meeting you, sir.”

“Nice meeting you too, Angelo,” Phillip replied. He waited until the boy had left the room, before adding: “He seems nice. Who is he?”

“No one,” said Zac hurriedly. “He’s just... a friend.”

“I heard that,” came a voice from the hallway. They listened to Angelo beatboxing happily all the way back upstairs.

“A friend, eh? That’s good. I always thought you should have more friends,” said Phillip. “Or, you know, one, at least.”

“Yeah, well. He’s more a colleague, actually,” Zac corrected. “But listen, Granddad, I need to talk to you.”

“You’re going away, aren’t you.”

“How did you...?” Zac began, then he nodded. “Just for a little while.”

“Is it dangerous?”

“What?” He forced a laugh. “No, why would it be—”

“Come on, Zacharias. I’m an old man, not an idiot. I know you didn’t pay for this house working in a hamburger shop. You think I don’t hear you sneak in and out every night? You think I don’t notice your cuts? Your bruises?”

Zac stayed silent. He was used to seeing a fog behind his grandfather’s eyes, but that fog had lifted now. He’d never noticed how blue the old man’s irises were before.

“I don’t know what you do out there, and I don’t ask. You’re young, but you’re a man now, Zac. You make your own decisions, and I don’t pry. I don’t pry, I let you make your own choices, don’t I?”

Zac nodded.

“So, I’m going to ask you again, and I want you to tell me the truth. Wherever you’re going, whatever you’re doing – is it dangerous?”

A pause... a brief one... then, “Yes.”

Phillip gave a single nod, like the answer had confirmed what he already knew. “And do you have to go?”

“Yes.”

The old man leaned back in his chair and looked towards the corner of the room, as if seeing some Autocue there telling him what to say next. “I’d rather you didn’t,” he said at last. “But you know me, I’m a big believer in free will, and I won’t try to stop you if you think it’s something you have to do.”

“It is,” Zac said, realising that he hadn’t given his grandfather anything like the credit he’d deserved over the years. “But I’ll be back, I promise.”

Phillip tore his gaze from the corner and looked back at Zac. Tears swam in those piercing blue eyes. “I hope so.”

“Will you be OK?”

“I’ve lived a long time, Zac,” Phillip replied. He stood up and motioned for Zac to do the same. “I think I can cope on my own for a little while. When do you leave?”

“Um, well...”

“Now?”

“Pretty much.”

Phillip stepped forward and wrapped his arms round his grandson. Zac returned the hug and tried to control the shake he could feel taking hold of his limbs.

“Be careful,” Phillip said. “And if you ever need me, just shout.”

Zac smiled and hugged a little bit harder. “I will, Granddad. I will.”

“I think your grandfather might be a total nutjob,” said Angelo as Zac returned to the bedroom. “No offence.”

“Watch your mouth,” Zac snapped, shooting the boy a glare. “He isn’t a nutjob. He just... hears voices sometimes.”

“I wasn’t talking about that,” said Angelo. “I read his aura and it was all jumbled up. All different colours, swirling together. I’ve never seen one like that.”

“I don’t believe in auras,” Zac said. He pulled open his wardrobe and began rummaging inside. “I don’t believe in tarot cards or healing crystals or the power of prayer, or any of that stuff. And my granddad is
not
a nutjob.”

“You don’t believe in crystals?” scoffed Angelo. “Next you’ll be telling me you don’t believe in star signs.” He watched Zac’s face. “
You don’t believe in star signs
?” he gasped. “You’re so cynical. I bet you’re a Scorpio, aren’t you?”

“I have no idea.”

“When’s your birthday?”

“Look, here.” Zac tossed a bundle of black fabric to Angelo, who fumbled clumsily, then dropped the pile on the floor.

“What’s this?” Angelo asked, bending to retrieve the garments.

“Clothes. Put them on.”

“But I’ve got clothes,” Angelo said. He pointed to his lifeguard T-shirt. “See? Exhibit A.”

“OK: one – you look ridiculous,” Zac told him. “And two – you’ve wet yourself. Either one of those would be reason enough to change. Pick your favourite.”

Zac turned his back as Angelo reluctantly changed into the black outfit.

“No looking.”

“Just hurry up,” Zac said. He listened to the sound of zips being undone and the clothes being pulled on. “So, you can just teleport us into Hell, right?”

There was a momentary pause. “Yeah. Course. No problemo. I’m ready now – you can turn around.”

“Right, so we should get going and—” began Zac as he turned back to Angelo. He stopped when he saw the clothes. “What... what have you done to them?”

“It’s not my fault,” Angelo said defensively. “I’m part angel. Angels can’t wear black.”

The clothes, which had been the very definition of black, were now a faint grey. As Zac watched, even the grey began to disappear. It sank in a swirling vortex pattern towards the bottom of the trousers, like murky water trickling down a drain.

Zac looked down and saw black dye dripping on to his bedroom carpet. When he looked up again, the clothes were a shade of white usually reserved for washing-powder adverts.

“I can do white or yellow,” explained Angelo sheepishly. “Light blue at a push.” He glanced at his feet. “Sorry about your carpet. If you get me a cloth, I’ll clean it up.”