Bloody Horowitz

by Anthony Horowitz

  Finally, he was examined. Dr. McAllister asked him if he was sleeping. Yes, certainly. Jeremy had no trouble getting to sleep. It was waking up that was the problem. Was he eating properly? His mother assured the doctor that Jeremy ate three proper meals, including breakfast, and that he always had plenty of fruits and vegetables, five portions a day, just as the government recommended. The doctor took a blood sample. It did seem possible that Jeremy was anemic. Or maybe there was something wrong with his thyroid gland. It was all very strange, but she was sure there was nothing serious to worry about. Generally speaking, Jeremy was in very good shape. This could all be down to a bout of flu. She told the Brownes to come back in two weeks if there was no change.

  Jeremy thanked her and slipped his earbuds back in. Robbie Williams took him out of the clinic and back onto the street.

  His situation did get worse . . . much worse. Over the next few days, Jeremy became more and more listless. He took several days off school. Physically, he seemed to be shriveling up. His cheeks, once so healthy and full of color, were now sunken and pale. His eyes had lost their focus. Both his parents had stopped work to be with him, but he barely talked to them. Sometimes it was as if he was far away. He lay in his room for hours at a time, listening to the MP3 player, staring at the ceiling while he got thinner and thinner. He was still eating, but the food had no effect. His lips had begun to shrivel. His hair was turning gray.

  More doctors and specialists began to appear. Blood and urine samples were taken. It was thought he might have a serious viral infection. The Brownes were asked if he had been offered drugs. Jeremy was taken to the hospital, where he was scanned from head to foot. Various illnesses—diabetes, thyrotoxicosis, tuberculosis and brucellosis—were all suggested. Jeremy was tested for all of them. He was found to have none. For the first time, the dreadful word progeria was uttered. Progeria, a genetic disorder, was also known as the aging disease. It was very rare. There was no known cure. But Jeremy didn’t hear any of it. He had gone rather deaf and he didn’t care anyway. Long after his parents had gone, he lay in his bed in the children’s ward, only partly aware of his surroundings, listening to his MP3 player, which lay on the pillow beside him, the thick white wires snaking up to earbuds that seemed to be burrowing farther and farther into his head. Tish-tata-tish-tata-tish-tata-tish . . . the soft beat of the percussion whispered across the ward as the duty nurse walked quietly by.

  Briefly, he was sent back home again. There was nothing the hospital could do for him, and so it had been decided to send him to a special neurological clinic on the South Coast. Scampi the dog had already been taken away to live with relatives in Yorkshire. On Jeremy’s last night on Elmsworth Avenue, Mr. Demszky came to visit, bringing with him a box of Hungarian chocolates with pictures of folk dancers on the lid. It was only October and not yet cold, but he was wearing a black cashmere overcoat that reached all the way to the ground. His face was partially hidden by an old-fashioned floppy hat.

  “How is Jeremy?” he asked, still standing on the doorstep. For once, Mrs. Browne had not invited him in.

  “He’s not well,” she said. The worry of the last weeks had changed her. She was short-tempered. She didn’t want to see her neighbor and she didn’t care if he knew it.

  “There is no improvement?”

  “No, Mr. Demszky—and if you don’t mind, I’d like to get back to him. We’re leaving for Brighton tomorrow.”

  “I brought these . . .” He lifted the box.

  “Jeremy isn’t eating chocolates, thank you very much. We’ll let you know if there’s any news.”

  She closed the door in his face.

  Mothers can be irrational sometimes. It was only then that Mrs. Browne remembered that Jeremy had fallen ill shortly after he had met Mr. Demszky. And at the same moment, she found herself thinking about the MP3 player. Jeremy had always liked music, but since he had been given that machine, he had become obsessed with it, listening to it twenty hours a day—at school, doing his homework, in the bath. Once, she’d actually torn it away to stop him from listening to it during meals. Jeremy had screamed at her. She had never seen him like that before. She thought of the ugly slab of glass and plastic that was probably playing even now. It was almost as if . . .

  It was almost as if it was sucking the life out of him.

  A private ambulance came for Jeremy the next morning. He was able to walk out to it—but only just. His parents had to support him, one on each side. He was mumbling to himself, his eyes barely focused. He had lost a lot of his hair and his skin was gray and wrinkled. Some of his teeth had come loose. If any of the other residents of Elmsworth Avenue had been watching, they would have been shocked. He looked like a very old man.

  He did not have the MP3 player with him. At the last moment, acting on a whim, Mrs. Browne had pried it out of his hand and she had left it in his room, on the table beside his bed. Jeremy had tried to complain, but the words barely came. He allowed himself to be led downstairs. Minutes later they were on their way to the North Circular Road, which would take them around London on their way to the south.

  Half an hour later, Jákob Demszky entered the house.

  By now he knew that the Brownes kept a spare key in the pot beside the front door, but even if it hadn’t been there, he would have found it simple to break in. He opened the door and went straight over to the stairs. He had only been in the house a few times but he had no trouble finding his way to Jeremy’s room, as if he was being guided there by something inside. And indeed there it was, sitting where Mrs. Browne had left it. Mr. Demszky chuckled to himself, a strangely unpleasant sound. He reached out with a trembling hand and for a moment his fingers hovered over the MP3 player like a large bird about to land. Then he snatched it up and left.

  He walked back to number 66 and went straight to his study, one of the rooms that Jeremy had never visited. Had the boy gone in there, he might have been surprised by some of the ornaments on display: the human skull on its pedestal; the black candles, squat and half melted; the golden cross that stood upside down on the mantelpiece. It might then have occurred to him to go onto the Internet and look up the English for boszorkánys—or indeed for tépõfarkas or gonoszul. But alas, it was far too late. Jeremy’s eyesight had gone. It had failed him long ago.

  Mr. Demszky set down the MP3 player and put on a pair of spectacles that were actually inch-thick magnifying glasses. They would have turned even a period at the end of a sentence into the size of a button. Squinting through them with his round, watery eyes, he produced a tiny screwdriver and ran it over the MP3 player until he found four equally tiny screws in the base. Taking enormous care, he unscrewed them and the secret panel that Jeremy had never noticed fell off in his hands. The inside of the MP3 player was exposed. There were no batteries . . . just a mass of circuits and a single switch turned to the left. Using the screwdriver, Mr. Demszky slid the switch over to the right, into reverse, then screwed the panel back into place.

  With a contented smile, he picked up the earbuds and pressed them in. It gave him extra pleasure knowing that, until very recently, they had been in Jeremy’s ears. Somehow it helped to connect the two of them. Mr. Demszky did not like modern music. He turned on the MP3 player, rested his white hair against the back of his chair and began to listen to a symphonic poem by the Austrian composer Antonin Dvořák. The music was dark and majestic. It flowed into him like a moonlit river and gratefully he absorbed it.

  Maybe it was a trick of the light. Perhaps not. A few minutes later, his skin had regained some of its color and his hair was a little less white.

  POWER

  Arthur and Elizabeth Reed had never expected to have children. It was something they had decided, almost from the moment they had gotten married, and thirty years later they had no regrets. It wasn’t that they disliked children. It was just that they preferred a quiet life, spending what little money they had on themselves or their friends.

  When they met, Arthur was running the vil
lage post office, which also sold sweets, stationery and other useful items to the inhabitants of Instow in Devonshire. He was a small, round-faced man who always seemed to be smiling and who knew all of his customers by name. He lived in a very ordinary house at the end of a terrace, but with wonderful views of the sand dunes that rose up and down in yellow waves with a flat blue sea on the other side.

  One of his customers was Elizabeth Williams, a cheerful, attractive woman who worked in the local bakery just a few yards down the road. Nobody was really surprised when the two of them announced their engagement. It seemed that the whole of Instow turned out for their wedding. The bakers gave them a cake with pink and white icing, three tiers high. They took a week off for their honeymoon, which they spent in Greece, and when they came back, Mrs. Reed, as she was now, sold her apartment and moved into her husband’s house.

  Thirty years is a very long time to describe in a few sentences, but for the Reeds, time seemed to slip past without even being noticed. They had been in their late twenties when they met, but suddenly they were in their late fifties. Arthur’s black hair had turned gray. He had to wear glasses to read. He found that he was forgetting where he had put things. And Elizabeth, after a series of minor illnesses, had become rather frail. When she went out walking, she carried a stick and could be seen waving it vengefully, as if determined that the miles would not defeat her.

  In a strange way, age suited them. In fact, newcomers to the village could hardly imagine that they had ever been young. And they were still completely happy in each other’s company, laughing at each other’s jokes or enjoying long silences. They had just about enough money. Their house was cozy and just the right size. All in all, they had no complaints about the cards that life had dealt them. They were looking forward to a long and comfortable retirement.

  But, as it happened, Elizabeth Reed had a younger sister named Janice. The two of them hadn’t seen each other for many years, mainly because Janice lived in Manchester, which was a long way away, and since her marriage they had become increasingly uncommunicative. From a note scribbled in a Christmas card, Elizabeth learned that Janice had a son. Another brief letter informed her that Janice had divorced. After that . . . nothing. Elizabeth wrote several times but got no reply. She even wondered if her sister was still alive.

  So she was very surprised to receive, one day, a telephone call from a man called Mr. Norris who explained that he was an attorney representing Janice. He wondered if the two of them could possibly meet. Elizabeth didn’t want to travel up to Manchester, but Mr. Norris assured her that he could easily come to Instow, and so it was arranged.

  The attorney came down the following Wednesday afternoon. He was a thin, tired-looking man in a suit that seemed to have gotten quite badly crumpled on the train—or perhaps it had been like that when he put it on. He carried a battered leather briefcase that hung open to reveal a handful of legal documents, a newspaper and a half-eaten Kit Kat.

  “It’s very kind of you to see me, Mrs. Reed,” he began. He spoke slowly and without very much emotion. “You too, Mr. Reed.”

  Arthur Reed had of course stayed in with his wife. The two of them were sitting side by side on the sofa, holding hands.

  “May I begin by offering my condolences with regard to your sister.”

  Elizabeth had been fearing the worst, but even so, the statement took her by surprise. “I didn’t even know she was dead,” she said.

  “Then I must apologize for breaking the news to you in this manner. Yes. I’m afraid to say that Janice Carter passed away two weeks ago.”

  “Carter?”

  “Her husband’s name. She married a man named Kevin Carter in 1995. You never met him?” Elizabeth said nothing, so he went on. “They were married for ten years, but I’m afraid after that he left her.”

  “How did she die?” Elizabeth asked.

  “She had a nervous breakdown.” The attorney took a breath. “She hadn’t been well for a long time. And I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but in the end she took her own life. She jumped off a bridge into the River Irwell.”

  “Why would she do a thing like that?”

  “She didn’t leave a note.”

  Both Arthur and Elizabeth blinked in surprise.

  “It’s clear that you had little connection with your sister,” Mr. Norris went on. “Were you aware of her situation? I mean . . . her state of mind?”

  Elizabeth shook her head, dumbfounded. “I feel very bad about it now,” she said. “But Janice led her own life. She didn’t even give me her telephone number and she hardly ever wrote.”

  “We have been trying to contact her ex-husband,” Mr. Norris went on. “But so far there’s been no trace of him. We believe he emigrated to New Zealand after the divorce. It’s possible he changed his name—”

  “Why would he do that?”Arthur asked.

  “I can’t imagine.”

  “He didn’t keep in contact with his son?”

  “No. And I’m glad you asked that, Mr. Reed, as that’s very much the point of this visit. Craig is thirteen years old. He’d just started middle school in Manchester when his mother did what she did. Right now he is being looked after by the local authorities. There are no relatives on his father’s side of the family. And the only relatives we’ve managed to find on his mother’s side . . .”

  “Are Arthur and me.” Elizabeth completed the sentence.

  “So what will happen to him?” Arthur Reed asked. He could see the way this was going and there was a certain dread in his voice.

  “Well, under normal circumstances, Craig would have to go into an orphanage,” the attorney replied. “But you are his uncle and his aunt. So we wondered if you might be interested in taking him in.”

  There was a long silence. Both the Reeds were thinking of many things, but mainly they were thinking of each other. They had lived together for a very long time and they had become used to being alone.

  “Do you have a picture of Craig?” Elizabeth asked at last.

  “As a matter of fact I do,” Mr. Norris replied.

  He opened his briefcase and took out a color photograph about the size of a postcard. It showed a dark-haired boy in a school uniform with a round face. He was rather plump and he had a crooked tie. Craig Carter wasn’t smiling. In fact, he wasn’t even looking at the camera. Something seemed to have caught his attention at the edge of the frame and he seemed almost annoyed to be having his photograph taken.

  “I won’t pretend that Craig is an easy boy,” Mr. Norris said. “He hasn’t done very well at school and his report cards don’t make entirely pleasant reading. But that said, he is only a boy. He has lost his mother in the most terrible circumstances and I feel certain that a complete change of scene is exactly what he needs. I’m sure you’d agree that anything would be better than an orphanage. On the other hand, the decision is entirely up to you. You’ve obviously never met him and he doesn’t know you exist. Everybody would understand if you chose to walk away.”

  But the truth was that Elizabeth and Arthur already knew what they had to do. How could they possibly walk away? It didn’t matter that they knew nothing about this boy. He was family. He needed their help. There was really nothing more to be said.

  That evening they discussed the entire business over a supper of cheese on toast and hot chocolate, which Elizabeth Reed carried in on a tray. Arthur noticed that she sat down a little more heavily than usual, resting her walking stick against her chair. He could see that she was unhappy and guessed what she was going to say.

  “Arthur,” she said. “You and I have been together for many years and we never had children of our own. I suppose we didn’t really want any. We were happy the way things were. And now, suddenly, this boy—this teenager—is being offered to us. If you don’t want to take him in, I’ll quite understand. . . .”

  “Of course we must take him in, old girl,” Arthur replied. He had called her “old girl” even when Elizabeth had been young. “Flesh
and blood and all that.”

  Elizabeth sighed. “He may not find it easy to adapt to our way of life,” she said. “We’re very quiet down here. This house is very small. You’re too old to kick a soccer ball around and I’m too tired. He’ll probably think we’re a couple of old fossils.”

  “Still better than an orphanage,” Arthur said. “And Instow is a lovely place. Maybe he’ll enjoy it. Make friends. A new start.”

  “Poor Janice.” Elizabeth shook her head. “What a terrible thing.”

  She telephoned Mr. Norris the next day, and a week later the postman brought a stack of documents that they had to sign and return to the council offices. The next three weeks were spent preparing the house. Fortunately, there was a spare bedroom on the second floor, and Arthur Reed got a local man in to redecorate. He had no real idea what a teenager would like but guessed that it wouldn’t be floral wallpaper and antique furniture. The room was painted white. A high sleeper bed was brought in with a desk underneath. The curtains were replaced by blinds. At the end of it, the room looked very modern and new.

  Craig Carter arrived a week later with a scowling social worker who introduced herself as Ms. Naseby. Apparently, she hadn’t enjoyed the train journey down from Manchester and needed two Anadin tablets with her cup of tea. Craig himself sat there with a blank expression on his face. Elizabeth and Arthur hadn’t had a chance to say anything to each other, but their first impressions were not entirely favorable. It seemed unfair to judge the new arrival too quickly, and yet . . .

  Craig wasn’t fat, exactly, but he was certainly out of shape. It was obvious that he had never taken much exercise and had eaten all the wrong food. He had poor skin and his hair, unbrushed, looked dank and lifeless. There was a triangular scar under one of his eyes, and Ms. Naseby explained that one of the other boys at his school had hit him with a brick. Craig shrugged when he heard this but didn’t speak. He was wearing jeans and a T-shirt, both of which needed either washing or (Elizabeth thought) burning, as they were dirty and full of holes. He didn’t seem to have much interest in his new home or the people in it. His eyes, a muddy shade of brown, were utterly lifeless.