The Book of Doom - By Barry Hutchison Page 0,13
untidily into the white shorts that Zac was relieved to see he was wearing beneath it. Then he held out a hand. Zac peered at it.
“You have to hold my hand,” Angelo said. “Or it won’t work.”
Zac sighed, rolled his eyes, then locked his fingers with Angelo’s. Gabriel gave a single nod.
“Peace be with you,” he said.
“Peace be with you,” replied Angelo automatically.
“Oh, and rest assured, Zac, I shall ensure your grandfather is well looked after in your absence.”
Zac felt his muscles tense. His grip on Angelo’s hand tightened, making the boy gasp.
“Right. Whatever,” he growled. “Can we just—”
There was a blip of light, like the flash of a camera. Zac’s stomach heaved, as if he were looping the loop on a roller coaster, and then everything was plunged into sudden darkness.
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:
YOU WERE KILLED BY THE MONK.
THANK 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