The Book of Doom

by Barry Hutchison

  HE ORNATE FRONT door opened without a whisper and Zac stepped on to a marble floor.

  “Gabriel?” he called, and his voice echoed around the cavernous hall. “Gabriel, you there?”

  Almost immediately there came the sound of hard footsteps clopping across the polished floor. Gabriel entered through one of the many arched doorways at the back of the room. He appeared surprised to see Zac there, but his politician smile didn’t waiver once.

  “Ah, there you are,” he said, spreading his arms wide. “We lost track of you and rather feared the worst. It is good to see you are in one piece.” He stopped in front of Zac and the smile grew larger. “I trust you were able to retrieve the book?”

  “I’ve got it. But they’ve kept Angelo.”

  Gabriel’s smile slipped smoothly into a frown. “Have they? Have they indeed?” He gave a solemn nod, then the smile returned. “May I see it?”

  “See what?”

  “The book. May I see it?”

  “Didn’t you hear what I said? They’ve got Angelo. We have to do something.”

  Gabriel’s eyes twitched. “All in good time. The book, please, Zac.”

  The force of the sudden realisation made Zac take a step back. “Wait... you knew. You knew they were going to keep him,” he mumbled. “You made him wait outside the door. You knew I’d choose him over Michael. You knew I’d take him with me.”

  “The book,” said Gabriel, his smile falling away completely. “Give me the book.”

  “So... what? You swapped him?”

  “We made a deal,” the archangel replied. “The boy for the book. His life for the lives of countless billion others. It was the right thing to do. It was the good thing to do.”

  “The good thing? You’ve sent him to Hell, and who knows what they’re going to do to him? That’s not good, that’s evil! I thought you lot were supposed to know the difference.”

  Gabriel held out a hand. “The book, Zacharias. Give me the book.”

  “No,” Zac said. “I want to see the Metatron.”

  The archangel’s eyebrows arched, but he said nothing.

  “The voice of God. He’s in charge now, right? Angelo told me all about it. I want to see him.”

  Gabriel chuckled. “What a strange thing to say. You don’t see voices, Zac. You hear them.”

  “Well, I want to hear him, then. I want to talk to him.”

  “I’m afraid that’s not possible,” Gabriel said. “Now, while I appreciate your concern for Angelo, I am going to say this one final time. Give me the book.”

  Zac shook his head. “No,” he said. He turned back towards the door. He barely caught a glimpse of Michael standing there before the fiery blade of the archangel’s sword was across his throat. Michael’s flawless features fixed into an ugly snarl.

  “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t cut you down,” Michael growled.

  Zac felt his strength leave him. His shoulders sagged and his spirit sagged with them. “I promised him,” he said quietly. “I promised him I’d get help.”

  Gabriel fished inside the backpack. He pulled out a small cloth bag filled with thirty or more little round balls. “Been playing marbles?” he asked, and Zac could hear the smirk on his face. Gabriel returned the bag to the backpack. A moment later, he took out the book.

  There was a long moment of silence, broken eventually by Gabriel’s clipped tones.

  “Is this some sort of joke?” he demanded, catching Zac by the shoulder and spinning the boy round to face him. Gabriel’s blue eyes were dark, his chiselled nostrils flared wide. “What is this?” he asked, holding up the leather-bound volume.

  “The book,” Zac replied.

  “No, it isn’t! This isn’t the book. Look!”

  He broke the clasp and padlock without any effort and the book fell open. Zac watched as the archangel flipped through the pages.

  “See? Blank. There’s nothing there. This isn’t the Book of Everything it’s a book of nothing.” He turned and hurled the book across the room. It struck a pillar and sprayed plain white paper in all directions. Gabriel stepped in closer to Zac, visibly shaking with rage. “Where is it? Where is the real book?”

  Zac shrugged. “That’s the one they gave me.”

  “And you accepted it?” Gabriel snorted. “You’re a bigger idiot than I thought.”

  “Send me back down,” Zac suggested. “I’ll get the real book and get Angelo at the same time.”

  “Oh, Angelo, Angelo, Angelo,” Gabriel cried. “Stop talking about Angelo. Nobody cares about Angelo! Least of all you, if I remember correctly. The book is all that matters. Besides, for all we know they don’t even have it. We’re back to square one. This whole thing may have been a trick right from the start.”

  “Right,” said Zac. “Which would make you the idiot.”

  Gabriel glared down at him. His jaw moved from side to side, as if chewing over his next few words. At last, he glanced at Michael. “Dispose of him,” he said.

  Michael’s face cracked into a smile. “Now you’re talking.”

  “Do whatever you feel necessary,” said Gabriel. He turned and walked back towards the archway. “Just be sure to have someone clean up afterwards.”

  “By the time I’m finished there won’t be anything left to clean up,” Michael said.

  Gabriel paused, but didn’t look back. “I don’t want to know,” he said, then he continued walking. He was almost at the archway when a voice made him stop for a second time.

  “Problems, Gabriel?”

  Zac looked for the owner of the voice, but found no one. Then he remembered. You didn’t see the Metatron, you only heard him.

  Gabriel cleared his throat. Zac heard the silken rustle of Michael’s sword sliding back into its sheath.

  “Uh, no, sir,” Gabriel said. “Or rather, yes, sir. We retrieved the book, but it was a fake.”

  “Bless it all,” said the disembodied voice. It sounded to Zac like an old British military general. It was the type of voice that had a moustache and drank brandy and knew a lot about horses and cricket and impaling foreigners on bayonets. “So, what do we do now, then?” it asked.

  Gabriel hesitated. “I... do not know, sir. We begin the search anew. Try to determine where the book is, then formulate a plan for getting it back.”

  Zac stepped away from Michael and looked into the centre of the room, as if that was where the voice was emanating from. “They’re leaving someone down there in Hell,” he said. “The boy, Angelo. Hell has him and they won’t do anything about it.”

  Silence followed. Zac got the feeling he was being scrutinised. He stood his ground, waiting for a reply.

  “Really?” said the Metatron at last. “Gabriel, is this true?”

  “Yes, sir,” Gabriel said.

  “Was that your intention all along? Why wasn’t I informed?”

  “We, uh, thought it best to leave that part out, sir,” Gabriel oozed. “In order to protect you from any fall-out. They wanted Angelo. We wanted the book. It seemed like a minor sacrifice to make.”

  “Ah, a sacrifice, eh? Haven’t had a sacrifice in a long time. Ah well. Shame for the poor chap, of course, but these things have to be done, what?”

  Gabriel’s politician grin crept across his face. “My sentiments exactly, sir.”

  Zac shook his head in disgust. “You’re just as bad as they are.”

  “Come on now, lad,” spoke the Metatron. “The needs of the many and whatnot. Can’t make an omelette without breaking some eggs.” The voice addressed Gabriel. “What about him? What do you plan on doing with him?”

  Gabriel glanced sideways at Michael. “We... weren’t sure, sir. We had yet to decide.”

  “Send him back home.”

  “Sir?”

  “You heard. Send him back home. Wasn’t his fault the book was a fake. You know what they’re like down there. Shower of wrong ’uns, the lot of them. Always up to no good. Not the lad’s fault.”

  “But,
sir, our concern was that—”

  “I believe I gave an instruction, Gabriel,” said the Metatron, and Zac felt the temperature in the room drop several degrees. “The boy completed his part of the deal, so he shall be returned home just as he was. Is that clear?”

  Gabriel nodded. “Crystal, sir.”

  “Good. And you, lad. I believe the arrangement was that your sins would be wiped clean. Is that correct?”

  “Yes,” said Zac. “But I don’t want it.”

  The Metatron snorted. “Pardon?”

  “If being sin-free means coming here when I die, I want to keep them.” He glared at Michael and Gabriel. “At least in Hell they don’t pretend to be something they’re not.”

  “Well... as you wish,” conceded the Metatron. “Gabriel?”

  Gabriel gestured to his fellow archangel. “Michael.”

  Zac recoiled as Michael’s hand grabbed him roughly by the shoulder. He heard the man in the golden armour mutter, and then a burst of white exploded behind his eyes.

  And then he was in his bedroom, sitting on the end of his bed, looking out through the open curtains at the bright summer’s day just beyond the glass. He blinked. There had been a thought right there in his head, but it was gone, floating just out of reach.

  He looked down at his clothes. They were filthy, stained with dust and soot and something dark and treacle-like. He was wearing a backpack he didn’t recognise. He slipped it off and let it fall on to his bed, then he stood up, opened his bedroom door and went downstairs.

  “Ah, Zac, you’re back!” said Phillip as Zac shuffled into the kitchen. The old man smiled and gave his grandson a hug. “How was the trip?”

  “Trip?”

  “Yes, you know,” said his granddad. “Your trip. You... you went on a trip.”

  Zac shook his head. “No, I didn’t.”

  Phillip hesitated. His fingers pressed his stress ball against the palm of his hand. “Oh,” he mumbled, his eyes glazing over, “didn’t you? I’m... I’m sure you said something about a trip.”

  “No,” replied Zac. “I don’t think so.”

  His head felt full of fog, as if he’d just been woken from a deep sleep. His memory of the last few days was sketchy, but he’d have remembered going away. Wouldn’t he?

  “Sit down, Granddad, and I’ll make you a cup of tea,” he said, crossing to the kettle.

  “Coffee would be nice,” Phillip replied. “I was up half the night. I thought you’d come back. I was sure I heard that Albert’s voice.”

  Zac flicked the kettle’s switch. “Albert?”

  “That is his name, isn’t it?” Phillip said. “I forget sometimes.”

  A spoon of instant coffee went into a mug. “I don’t know any Albert.”

  “Oh, maybe not Albert, then,” fretted Phillip. “Angus? Adam?”

  “Not ringing any bells.”

  Phillip squeezed his stress ball. “No, but... Oh, I wish I could remember. Kept hearing him all night. Sounded in a right panic. Scared too, very scared.”

  Zac smiled. “Don’t worry about it, Granddad. It was just a dream or something, I wouldn’t—”

  “Angelo!”

  Zac felt his legs turn to lead, but he didn’t know why.

  “Angelo, that was it,” Phillip beamed. “I knew I’d remember.”

  “I... I don’t know any Angelo,” Zac said. A breeze blew around inside his head, swirling the fog that filled it.

  His granddad tutted. “Course you do. Angelo. You had him here last night. Or was it the night before?”

  Zac poured hot water into his grandfather’s mug, and gave it a stir. “I’m telling you, I don’t know anyone called Angelo.”

  “You do!”

  “I don’t,” Zac insisted, picking up the mug.

  “Don’t be silly, Zac,” Phillip sighed. “Stop trying to confuse me, I’m bad enough as it is. You remember. Angelo. Your friend.”

  Zac’s lips moved instinctively. “He’s not my friend, he’s my colleague,” he said.

  The mug slipped from his hand and smashed on the kitchen floor. The fog in his head thinned, offering glimpses of the memories that lay beyond.

  He charged out of the kitchen and took the stairs two at a time. He tore at the zip of the backpack, then thrust his hand inside until he found the velvet bag. Cupping a hand, he tipped a few of the marble-sized balls out into his palm. He stared down at them, and they all stared right back.

  “Eyes,” he whispered. “Argus.”

  He looked down at the carpet and saw an inky black stain. He searched his bookcase until he spotted a slim, battered volume on the fourth shelf down. The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll & Mr Hyde, by Robert Louis Stevenson.

  He remembered.

  He remembered Heaven and Hell and everything else in between.

  He remembered Angelo.

  And he remembered leaving him down there, all alone with the demons and the monsters and who knew what else? He had told him he’d go back. He had promised.

  He poured the eyes back in the bag, put the bag back in the backpack, pulled the backpack over his shoulders.

  He’s not my friend, he’s my colleague.

  Yeah, right. Who was he trying to kid?

  Zac rummaged in his wastepaper bin and pulled out two small torn pieces of card. Then, with a final look around the room, he left, pulling the door firmly closed behind him.

  AC HURRIED DOWN the stairs, along the hallway, where the goldfish was still splashing furiously in its bowl, and into the kitchen once more. His grandfather was mopping up the spilled coffee and looked up as Zac entered.

  “Listen, Granddad, I have to go away again.”

  Phillip stopped mopping. He leaned on the handle and gave his grandson a withering look. “Again? I thought you said you hadn’t been anywhere?”

  “I know that’s what I said,” Zac admitted. “But I... forgot that I had.”

  The old man thought about this, then nodded. “Happens to the best of us,” he said. “Will you be long?”

  Zac nodded, and as he did he felt tears pricking the back of his eyes.

  Phillip straightened up. “But... you’re coming back.”

  It took all Zac’s strength to shake his head.

  “Oh,” said his granddad. He rested the mop handle against the table. “What, never?”

  “I... I don’t know. I’m not sure, but there’s a good chance I won’t be.”

  Phillip nodded, as if not entirely surprised. “It’s something to do with this Angelo,” he said. “Isn’t it?”

  Zac nodded again. He knew if he spoke now his voice would betray him and tears would surely follow.

  “You’re going to help him,” Phillip said. “Aren’t you?”

  “I’m the only one who can,” said Zac croakily.

  Phillip reached over and rested a hand on his grandson’s shoulder. “You know, Zac, wherever they are, your parents would be very proud,” he said. He smiled away tears of his own. “But not as proud as I am.”

  Zac put his arms round the old man and buried his face against his shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I shouldn’t be leaving you.”

  Phillip stepped back. “We all have to do what we have to do, Zac,” he said, smiling again for his grandson’s sake. “I’ll be just fine. Right now Angelo needs you more. He’s scared, Zac. He’s so very, very scared.”

  Zac looked into his granddad’s eyes. “How do you know?”

  Phillip frowned. “I... I don’t know. I hear him sometimes. Crying out. So very afraid. Help him, Zac. You have to help him.”

  “I’m going to. I will.”

  “But... but he seems so far away. How will you get to him?”

  Zac’s jaw clenched. “That bit I’ve got covered. I just have to make a couple of stops before I go.”

  Zac sat on a wall, his feet dangling over the edge. He tried not to think of his granddad. If he thought of his granddad there was a chance he’d turn back, and how could he turn back knowing e
verything he knew? How could he live with himself if he did?

  The backpack was heavier now. He could feel it pulling him, holding him back. It had been a struggle to fit everything inside, and even more difficult getting the zip closed afterwards. But the man from the toyshop had been very helpful, and between them they’d got the job done.

  The people in the church hadn’t been quite so eager to assist. They’d been annoyed. Furious, even. But then religious people seemed to get furious at most things he did, and he’d long since decided not to care.

  It was windy up there on the wall. He’d expected that. It was often windy up on the rooftops. The higher you went, the less cover there was from other buildings, and so the more the wind blew. Right now the wind was blowing very hard indeed.

  He wished he could just jump. It would be easy if he could just jump. But he knew he never could. His instinct for survival would never allow him. That was why he’d had to make other arrangements.

  “Hey, kid,” said a voice behind him. Right on time.

  Zac swung himself back up on to the roof and saw his reflection in the Monk’s mirrored sunglasses. “You came.”

  “You called. I gotta be honest, kid, I’ve offed a lot of folks in my time. Not one of them ever phoned me up afterwards. That really takes the cake.”

  The Monk reached into his robe. A moment later, the gun came out. “You sure you wanna do this? You know what you’re giving up, right?”

  Zac clipped the straps of the backpack together across his chest. “I have to,” he said. “I can’t leave him alone down there. And he’d do it for me. He’s... he’s a good kid.”

  The Monk nodded. “That he is. Better than you an’ me, anyhow.”

  “Better than you and me,” agreed Zac. He straightened his back and held his head high. “Do it.”

  The Monk raised the pistol. “You got balls, kid, I’ll give you that.” He hesitated, his finger on the trigger. “Might not be any use to you, but you ever meet Gabriel again, you ask him about the Right of Enosh.”

  “The Right of Enosh?”

  “The Right of Enosh,” confirmed the Monk, and then his finger tightened and the pistol roared.

  The force of the shot sent Zac staggering backwards over the roof edge. Clutching his bleeding stomach, he tried to scream. There was a faintly jarring bump as his body hit the concrete. His physical form stayed behind as a messy splat on the ground, but the rest of him just carried on falling.