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Authors: Anthony Horowitz
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ripping at the material, practising what it was going to do to his face.
Matt looked around. There was a poker next to the fire; a heavy antique thing. He thought of snatching it up but wasn’t sure he could bring himself to use it. The cat’s tail whipped briefly. Its eyes had never left him. He had dared to abuse Mrs Deverill’s hospitality and now he was going to pay. The cat hissed a second time and leapt.
Matt was ready for it. There was a large basket beside the poker. Normally it would contain logs but for once it was empty. Matt grabbed it and threw it down over the cat even as it left the chair. He heard a terrible screaming and yowling, felt the claws battering desperately at the straw cage. Matt slammed the basket down on to the chair, imprisoning the cat inside. Holding the basket with one hand, he reached out with the other. Mrs Deverill had an old-fashioned sewing machine which was on the floor beside the chair. Using all his strength, Matt picked it up and dropped it on top of the basket. The straw creaked. The cat hurled itself against the side. But the basket held. Asmodeus wasn’t going anywhere.
Matt straightened up. He was trembling from the shock of what had just happened. And he was suddenly aware of something else. There was no sound coming from the wood. The whispering had stopped. So far he had found nothing and he was running out of time.
There was just one room left.
He went back upstairs and into Mrs Deverill’s bedroom. Surely he would find money here. He opened the wardrobe. Mrs Deverill’s clothes hovered in the darkness, suspended from wire hangers with her shoes underneath. Matt was about to close the door when he noticed a cardboard box in the back corner. He leant down and opened it. There was something inside. Not money. Photographs.
He took one of them out and found himself looking at a cemetery. The photograph was black and white, taken with a telephoto lens. There was a crowd of people, dressed in the usual sombre clothes, and in the middle of them, a boy who was eight years old. Matt recognized him instantly and felt a surge of horror and sickness. He was looking at a picture of himself.
This was his parents’ funeral.
Six years ago.
But it was impossible. Nobody had taken any photographs. And even if they had, even if a journalist or someone had been there, what was this picture doing here? How had Mrs Deverill got hold of it?
There were two sheets of paper attached to the photograph by a clip. Matt slipped them loose, then turned them round so he could read them. An official police report. Each page was marked CONFIDENTIAL in red letters. In the half-light Matt tried to concentrate on the words:
AND THE WITNESS STATEMENT OF MRS ROSEMARY GREEN IN RELATION TO THIS CASE IS NOT TO BE RELEASED AND WE RECOMMEND A COMPLETE MEDIA BLACKOUT. THE CHILD, MATTHEW FREEMAN, IS ONLY EIGHT YEARS OLD AND HAS DEMONSTRATED PRECOGNITIVE ABILITIES WHICH WOULD SEEM TO BE BEYOND…
Precognitive abilities
. Matt didn’t want to put the words into simple English. Nor did he want to read any more of the report. In that second, he made his decision. He thrust the box back into the corner, closed the wardrobe doors and left. In the living room, the portrait watched silently. Asmodeus slammed itself again and again against the sides of the basket, trying to escape. Matt didn’t notice either of them. He threw open the door and ran across the yard.
He hadn’t found any money but he would just have to do without it.
It was definitely time to leave.
It took Matt just a few minutes to cycle up to the crossroads. The night had grown colder and his breath frosted as he paused by the broken sign, taking his bearings. He had a choice of five country lanes, each one cutting through the wood in a different direction. He had just taken one from the farm, and he knew that one of them led to Lesser Malling. That left only three. He chose the middle path and set off, grateful for the moon showing him the
Matt looked around. There was a poker next to the fire; a heavy antique thing. He thought of snatching it up but wasn’t sure he could bring himself to use it. The cat’s tail whipped briefly. Its eyes had never left him. He had dared to abuse Mrs Deverill’s hospitality and now he was going to pay. The cat hissed a second time and leapt.
Matt was ready for it. There was a large basket beside the poker. Normally it would contain logs but for once it was empty. Matt grabbed it and threw it down over the cat even as it left the chair. He heard a terrible screaming and yowling, felt the claws battering desperately at the straw cage. Matt slammed the basket down on to the chair, imprisoning the cat inside. Holding the basket with one hand, he reached out with the other. Mrs Deverill had an old-fashioned sewing machine which was on the floor beside the chair. Using all his strength, Matt picked it up and dropped it on top of the basket. The straw creaked. The cat hurled itself against the side. But the basket held. Asmodeus wasn’t going anywhere.
Matt straightened up. He was trembling from the shock of what had just happened. And he was suddenly aware of something else. There was no sound coming from the wood. The whispering had stopped. So far he had found nothing and he was running out of time.
There was just one room left.
He went back upstairs and into Mrs Deverill’s bedroom. Surely he would find money here. He opened the wardrobe. Mrs Deverill’s clothes hovered in the darkness, suspended from wire hangers with her shoes underneath. Matt was about to close the door when he noticed a cardboard box in the back corner. He leant down and opened it. There was something inside. Not money. Photographs.
He took one of them out and found himself looking at a cemetery. The photograph was black and white, taken with a telephoto lens. There was a crowd of people, dressed in the usual sombre clothes, and in the middle of them, a boy who was eight years old. Matt recognized him instantly and felt a surge of horror and sickness. He was looking at a picture of himself.
This was his parents’ funeral.
Six years ago.
But it was impossible. Nobody had taken any photographs. And even if they had, even if a journalist or someone had been there, what was this picture doing here? How had Mrs Deverill got hold of it?
There were two sheets of paper attached to the photograph by a clip. Matt slipped them loose, then turned them round so he could read them. An official police report. Each page was marked CONFIDENTIAL in red letters. In the half-light Matt tried to concentrate on the words:
AND THE WITNESS STATEMENT OF MRS ROSEMARY GREEN IN RELATION TO THIS CASE IS NOT TO BE RELEASED AND WE RECOMMEND A COMPLETE MEDIA BLACKOUT. THE CHILD, MATTHEW FREEMAN, IS ONLY EIGHT YEARS OLD AND HAS DEMONSTRATED PRECOGNITIVE ABILITIES WHICH WOULD SEEM TO BE BEYOND…
Precognitive abilities
. Matt didn’t want to put the words into simple English. Nor did he want to read any more of the report. In that second, he made his decision. He thrust the box back into the corner, closed the wardrobe doors and left. In the living room, the portrait watched silently. Asmodeus slammed itself again and again against the sides of the basket, trying to escape. Matt didn’t notice either of them. He threw open the door and ran across the yard.
He hadn’t found any money but he would just have to do without it.
It was definitely time to leave.
It took Matt just a few minutes to cycle up to the crossroads. The night had grown colder and his breath frosted as he paused by the broken sign, taking his bearings. He had a choice of five country lanes, each one cutting through the wood in a different direction. He had just taken one from the farm, and he knew that one of them led to Lesser Malling. That left only three. He chose the middle path and set off, grateful for the moon showing him the
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