Read Online Necropolis by Anthony Horowitz - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Anthony Horowitz
Tags: Fiction, General, Action & Adventure, Juvenile Fiction, Fantasy & Magic, supernatural, Young Adult Fiction, Horror & Ghost Stories, Hong Kong (China)
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hours."
"Her name is Scarlett."
"Scar." Richard nodded again.
Matt thought for a moment, still clutching the article. He had spent the past four months searching for Scarlett in the only way that he could — through his dreams. Night after night he had visited the strange dreamworld that had become so familiar to him. It had helped him in the past. He was certain that she had to be there somewhere. Perhaps it would lead him to her, helping him again.
And now, quite unexpectedly, she had turned up in the real world. There could be no doubt that this was her, the fifth of the Five. And she was in England, in London! A student at an expensive private school.
"We have to go to her," Matt said. "We must leave at once."
"I'm checking out tickets now."
Matt turned the photograph round in the light, tilting it toward himself. "Scar," he muttered. "Now we know where she is."
"That's right," Richard said. He looked grave. "But the Old Ones will know it too."
SIX
Matt's Diary [1]
I never asked for any of this. I never wanted to be part of it. And even now, I don't understand exactly what is happening or why it had to be me.
I hoped that writing this diary might help. It was Richard's idea, to put it all down on paper. But it hasn't worked out the way I hoped. The more I think about my life, the more I write about it, the more confused it all becomes.
Sometimes I try to go back to where it all began, but I'm not sure anymore where that was. Was it the day my parents died? Or did it start in Ipswich, the evening I decided to break into a warehouse with my best friend…who was actually anything but? Maybe the decision had already been made the day I was born. Matthew Freeman, you will not go to school like other kids. You won't play football and take your A-levels and have a career. You are here for another reason. You can argue if you like, but that's just the way it's got to be.
I think a lot about my parents even though sometimes it's hard to see their faces, and their voices have long since faded out. My dad was a doctor, a GP with a practice round the corner from the house. I can just about remember a man with a beard and gold-rimmed glasses. He was very political. We were recycling stuff long before it was fashionable, and he used to get annoyed about the National Health Service — too many managers, too much red tape. At the same time, he used to laugh a lot. He read to me at night…Roald Dahl…
The Twits was one of his favorites. And there was a comedy show on TV that he never missed. It was on Sunday night, but I've forgotten its name.
My mum was a lot smaller than him. She was always on a diet, although I don't think she really needed to lose weight. I suppose it didn't help that she was a great cook. She used to make her own bread and cakes, and around September she'd set up a production line for Christmas puddings, which she'd sell off for charity. Sometimes she talked about going back to work, but she liked to be there when I got back from school. That was one of her rules. She wouldn't let me come home to an empty house.
I was only eight years old when they died, and there's so much about them I never knew. I guess they were happy together. Whenever I think back, the sun always seems to be shining, which must mean something. I can still see our house and our garden with a big rosebush sprawling over the lawn.
Sometimes I can even smell the flowers.
Mark and Kate Freeman. Those were their names. They died in a car accident on their way to a wedding, and the thing is, I knew it was going to happen. I dreamed that their car was going to drive off a bridge and into a river, and I woke up knowing that they were both going to die. But I didn't tell them. I knew my dad would never have believed me. So I pretended I was sick. I cried and kicked my heels. I let them go, but I made them leave me behind.
I could have saved them. I tell myself that over and over again. Maybe my dad wouldn't have believed me.
"Her name is Scarlett."
"Scar." Richard nodded again.
Matt thought for a moment, still clutching the article. He had spent the past four months searching for Scarlett in the only way that he could — through his dreams. Night after night he had visited the strange dreamworld that had become so familiar to him. It had helped him in the past. He was certain that she had to be there somewhere. Perhaps it would lead him to her, helping him again.
And now, quite unexpectedly, she had turned up in the real world. There could be no doubt that this was her, the fifth of the Five. And she was in England, in London! A student at an expensive private school.
"We have to go to her," Matt said. "We must leave at once."
"I'm checking out tickets now."
Matt turned the photograph round in the light, tilting it toward himself. "Scar," he muttered. "Now we know where she is."
"That's right," Richard said. He looked grave. "But the Old Ones will know it too."
SIX
Matt's Diary [1]
I never asked for any of this. I never wanted to be part of it. And even now, I don't understand exactly what is happening or why it had to be me.
I hoped that writing this diary might help. It was Richard's idea, to put it all down on paper. But it hasn't worked out the way I hoped. The more I think about my life, the more I write about it, the more confused it all becomes.
Sometimes I try to go back to where it all began, but I'm not sure anymore where that was. Was it the day my parents died? Or did it start in Ipswich, the evening I decided to break into a warehouse with my best friend…who was actually anything but? Maybe the decision had already been made the day I was born. Matthew Freeman, you will not go to school like other kids. You won't play football and take your A-levels and have a career. You are here for another reason. You can argue if you like, but that's just the way it's got to be.
I think a lot about my parents even though sometimes it's hard to see their faces, and their voices have long since faded out. My dad was a doctor, a GP with a practice round the corner from the house. I can just about remember a man with a beard and gold-rimmed glasses. He was very political. We were recycling stuff long before it was fashionable, and he used to get annoyed about the National Health Service — too many managers, too much red tape. At the same time, he used to laugh a lot. He read to me at night…Roald Dahl…
The Twits was one of his favorites. And there was a comedy show on TV that he never missed. It was on Sunday night, but I've forgotten its name.
My mum was a lot smaller than him. She was always on a diet, although I don't think she really needed to lose weight. I suppose it didn't help that she was a great cook. She used to make her own bread and cakes, and around September she'd set up a production line for Christmas puddings, which she'd sell off for charity. Sometimes she talked about going back to work, but she liked to be there when I got back from school. That was one of her rules. She wouldn't let me come home to an empty house.
I was only eight years old when they died, and there's so much about them I never knew. I guess they were happy together. Whenever I think back, the sun always seems to be shining, which must mean something. I can still see our house and our garden with a big rosebush sprawling over the lawn.
Sometimes I can even smell the flowers.
Mark and Kate Freeman. Those were their names. They died in a car accident on their way to a wedding, and the thing is, I knew it was going to happen. I dreamed that their car was going to drive off a bridge and into a river, and I woke up knowing that they were both going to die. But I didn't tell them. I knew my dad would never have believed me. So I pretended I was sick. I cried and kicked my heels. I let them go, but I made them leave me behind.
I could have saved them. I tell myself that over and over again. Maybe my dad wouldn't have believed me.
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