The Book of Doom

The Book of Doom - By Barry Hutchison


“ES, GABRIEL. WHAT is it?”

“I bring news, sir.”

“News? Of the book?”

“Of the book. We have tracked it down.”

“You have? Excellent. Where is it?”

“It’s... well, it’s down below, sir.”

“What? On Earth?”

“Somewhat further down below than that, sir.”

“Oh. Right. Yes. Of course. The blighters. No surprise, I suppose.”

“Not entirely unexpected, sir, no.”

“Right. Well, now we’ve found it, what’s happening? They going to send it back?”

“No, sir.”

“No? What do you mean, ‘no’? They’re not playing silly sods again, are they?”

“They have requested that we send someone down to collect it in person.”

“You must be joking! One of us? Down there? You must be joking!”

“Alas, no, sir. They’re quite adamant about it. If we want the book back, we have to send someone to pick it up. They assure us it isn’t a trap.”

“It sounds like a trap.”

“They assure us it isn’t.”

“If I recall, Gabriel, they’re rather fond of lying. Rather adept at it too.”

“Quite, sir. But if they refuse to send it back, I don’t see that we have much of a choice in the matter. They have us over something of a barrel on this one. We need that book. What with the... current situation.”

“Yes, yes. You’re right, of course. Bless it all, we’re going to have to send someone. But who?”

“I anticipated you might ask that, sir. If I may be permitted to make a suggestion...?”

“Speak freely, Gabriel.”

“What if we didn’t send one of us, sir?”

“What do you mean?”

“They didn’t specify whom we should send. They just said we should send ‘someone’.”

“I don’t follow.”

“If it is, as we suspect, a trap, then it would seem unwise to send one of our own marching in. Better, surely, to send someone from down below?”

“A demon? How would that work?”

“Somewhat less far below than that, sir.”

“A human. Hmm. He wouldn’t like that.”

“He isn’t around to make the decision, sir. You are. With all due respect.”

“True words, Gabriel. True words. But whom would we choose?”

“I have taken the liberty of choosing for you, sir, so that you may distance yourself from any subsequent... unpleasantness.”

“Good thinking. Good thinking. Excellent. Off the record, though, who did you pick? No names, just the basics.”

“Someone disposable, sir.”

“Yes. Yes. Well, aren’t they all? But capable, I trust?”

“Oh, my word, yes, sir. He’s capable. He’s most capable indeed.”





ULLETS. HE HATED bullets.

He especially hated bullets that were travelling towards him at high speed, like the one that had just missed his head.

He kept low, zigzagging across the rooftop, his black outfit all but blending him with the night. There was a gap coming up, a space between this roof and the next. Three metres, he estimated. Three and a half at most. Not easy, but doable.

He sped up, straightened, threw himself over the opening. His shoulder hit and he rolled quickly, letting his momentum carry him back to his feet, and then he was up and running again.

He was halfway across the roof when he heard the shooter clear the gap. Private security. It had to be. Police couldn’t make that jump. Police would’ve given up long before now. Besides, the cops didn’t have guns, and if they did, they probably wouldn’t be aiming for his head.

The next roof was closer, but higher. He scrambled up the wall, caught the top ledge and pulled himself over. A chunk of stone pinged from the wall where his legs had been. He threw himself on to the rooftop, face-first, and a third bullet whistled by above him.

He raced forward, a dark shape against a dark background. The edge of the roof came up more quickly than he’d been expecting. He stumbled, tripped, then fell three metres on to the next roof.

The landing hurt, but there was no time to dwell on it. As he scrambled to his feet, something slipped from his pocket and landed with a clatter on the slates. He glanced up at the ledge he’d just fallen from, saw no one there, so wasted a second bending to retrieve the ornate gold cross he had dropped. When he stood up, a gun was in his face.

“You’re fast. I’ll give you that,” puffed the man with the gun. “You almost lost me back there. But that cross doesn’t belong to you. It belongs to my boss, Mr Hanlon.”

Behind his hood and mask, the figure in black remained silent. The gunman was in his early thirties, well built, with hair that was shaved almost to the bone. Ex-military, no doubt. Well trained and in good shape.

“Do you know what Mr Hanlon does to people who break into his home and take his property?” asked the man. “Or, let me put it another way, do you know what Mr Hanlon lets me do to people who break into his home and take his—”

The dark-clad figure leaned left and brought his hand sharply up, fingers together like the blade of a spear. The blow connected just above the gunman’s right armpit. The man’s finger tried to tighten on the trigger of the gun, but there was no strength left in his arm.

The right side of his face went slack. His right leg wobbled as his arm – and the gun – began to drop.

“What... what’ve you done to me?” he slurred as he folded down on to the rooftop.

“Don’t worry, the paralysis is only temporary,” the figure in black said. “But I’d consider a safer line of work in future. Tell your boss thanks for the cross.”

The fallen gunman blinked. There was a rustle of fabric, and he was suddenly alone on the roof.

Five minutes later and several streets away, the shadowy figure clambered down a drainpipe into a narrow alleyway. Just beyond the alley mouth he could hear the hustle and bustle of the city. It was midnight, but the city, like him, rarely slept.

He took off the mask. The night air was cool against his skin. He let himself enjoy it for a moment, taking it in through his nose in big gulps, refilling his aching lungs.

“Zac Corgan?”

The voice came from behind him. The accent was New York – Brooklyn, maybe – but Zac didn’t recognise the voice. He spun, already crouching into a fighting stance.

An overweight man in a brown robe stood in the alleyway. Moonlight gleamed off his balding head. Despite the hour, he wore a pair of designer sunglasses. Zac’s reflection stared back from both lenses.

“Zac Corgan?” the man asked again.

“Sorry,” said Zac, backing away. “I don’t know who that is.”

“Don’t jerk me around, kid. You’re Zac Corgan.”

“No, I’m not.”

“You’re Zac Corgan, fifteen years old. Parents disappeared when you was eighteen months, so you live with your grandfather.”

Zac hesitated. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The man in the robe gave an impatient sigh. “You wear size nine shoes. You eat mostly eggs and pasta, for the protein and carbohydrate. You’re home educated. You got no friends. And you have a birthmark the shape of a smiley face on the back of your hand.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Yes, you do,” the Monk insisted.

“I haven’t got a birthmark. You’ve got the wrong person.”

“See for yourself, kid.”

Hesitantly, Zac pulled off his gloves. A brown splodge he’d never seen before grinned up at him. He tried to rub it away, but the smiley-faced mark wasn’t going anywhere.

“All right,” Zac said, pulling his gloves back on. “You’ve got my attention. Who are you?”

“They call me the Monk.”

Zac glanced from the man’s bald head to his long brown cloak. He could just see a pair of sandalled feet poking out at the bottom.

“Why do they call you that, then?”

“Funny, kid. Real funny.” The Monk took a step forward. Zac took a step back. “My... employer wants to talk to you. He’s impressed with your work, see? Thinks maybe you can help us with a little problem we got.”

“I don’t do requests,” Zac said.

The Monk’s voice became cold. “We wasn’t making one.”

“I’d advise against threatening me,” Zac warned. “Tell your employer I’m not interested.”

The Monk smiled thinly. “I don’t think that’s so good an idea. You don’t know it, kid, but you’re in a whole heap of trouble. And that trouble’s gonna come find you real soon.”

“I can handle myself.”

“What, you think just because you can sneak around all dressed in black that you’re going to be able to avoid it? You think being stealthy is going to keep you safe? I got news for you – we can all do stealthy. Stealthy ain’t nothin’ special. Check this out: now you see me –” he stepped sideways into the shadows – “now you don’t.”

“Yes, I do,” said Zac. He pointed to a shape in the darkness. “There you are.”

There was a soft scuffing of sandals on concrete.

“OK. Well, how about now, Mr Smart Guy? Bet you can’t see me now.”

“You haven’t moved.”

There was more scuffing, louder this time.

“All right, big shot... how about now?”

Silence.

“Ha! I knew it. You ain’t got the first damn clue where I am, do ya? C’mon, take a guess.”

More silence. From the shadows, there came a sigh.

“You’re gone, ain’t ya, kid?” the Monk said.

And he was right.





“OME IN, CHUCK.”

Zac edged open the door and stepped into a cluttered office. It looked like the back store at a pawnshop, with clocks and books and ornaments and other clutter stacked crookedly on shelves, on tables, or just piled up on the floor.

And in the middle of it all, like a spider in her web, sat Geneva Jones. She lounged behind a desk, her grey hair scraped back, a hand-rolled cigarette stuck to her bottom lip. It was two in the morning, but there she was, wide awake. Of course, Zac only ever visited at night, but the rumour was Geneva never slept.

“Zac.” She smiled, revealing a smudge of red lipstick across her teeth. “Knew you wouldn’t let me down.”

Without a word, Zac reached into his pocket and pulled out the cross. It landed with a thud on her desk. Geneva’s eyes gleamed as she picked it up.

“The Cross of Saint Alberic,” she said in a half-whisper. “Isn’t it flippin’ gorgeous?”

“Bit bling for my liking,” Zac told her. “But if you pay me, I’ll leave you two alone together.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Geneva said, setting the cross back down. “What did we say again? Two hundred, wasn’t it?”

Outwardly, Zac didn’t react. He’d been here too many times before.

“Two thousand.”

Geneva’s eyes widened in surprise. She took the cigarette from her mouth and stubbed it into an overflowing ashtray. “Two thousand? I don’t remember offering that. That’s a lot of money.”

“The cross is worth ten times that, easy,” Zac said.

Geneva held the artefact out to him. “Then maybe you should try selling it yourself. If you’re so up on the market rates.”

Zac didn’t move to take the cross.

“Two hundred,” Geneva said.

“Eight hundred.”

“Three.”

“Five.”

“Deal!” the woman said. She spat on her hand, then held it out. Zac shook it, then covertly wiped his palm on his jacket.

Geneva slid open a desk drawer and pulled out a rolled-up bundle of notes. She unfolded the pile, counted five notes from the top, then put the rest back in the drawer.

“A pleasure doing business with you, as always,” she said, grinning as she handed Zac the money. Her face took on a wounded expression as Zac held each note up to the light and checked it. “What’s the matter? Don’t you trust me? After all these years?”

“I don’t trust anyone,” Zac said, folding the money into his wallet.

“Very wise. That’ll keep you alive, that will,” Geneva told him. “Ta-ra then, chuck. For now.”

Zac nodded, then reached for the door handle.

“Oh, I almost clean forgot,” said Geneva. “There was someone in ’ere asking about you earlier.”

“Asking about me? Who?”

“A monk, would you believe? Robe and everything. Proper Friar Tuck, he was.”

“What? When?”

Geneva lit another cigarette, then drew deeply on it. “Not long. Few minutes before you got here.”

Zac tensed. “Did you tell him anything?”

“No, no, of course not. What do you take me for?”

Relaxing a little, Zac pulled open the door.

“I told him he could ask you hisself.”

A bald man in a brown robe stood in the hallway, blocking the exit. He stared out at Zac from behind his mirrored sunglasses.

“Hey, kid,” said the Monk. “Surprise!”

“I told you, I’m not interested.”

“Figured you might say that,” the Monk said with a shrug. His hand rose at his side, until it was level with his waist. An old-fashioned revolver, like something from a Western, pointed at Zac’s chest. “So you ain’t leaving me no choice.”

Zac swung his leg with the speed of a striking cobra. His foot caught the Monk’s wrist and slammed it against the wall. There was a bang, deafening in the narrow space, and an antique clock in Geneva’s office exploded into matchsticks.

“Hell’s teeth! Watch what you’re doing, chuck!”

Zac stepped in close to the Monk, using his body weight to keep the gun arm against the wall. The heel of his hand crunched against the bald man’s chin, snapping his head back. Folding his fingers into the shape of a blade, Zac struck the Monk just above his right armpit. He stayed in close as he waited for the Monk to fall.

But the Monk had other ideas.

“Nice try, kid,” he said. “My turn.”

Zac could move fast, but the Monk could move faster. There was a blur of hands. Zac caught a glimpse of his reflection in the Monk’s sunglasses, and then there was a strange sensation of weightlessness and motion, and Zac realised what was going to happen next.

The door shattered beneath his weight and Zac found himself outside, lying on his back on the road, pain stabbing the whole length of his spine. A moonlit shadow passed across him. He rolled left just as a sandalled foot slammed down.

The Monk stamped again and again, forcing Zac to keep rolling. At last, he managed to scramble to his feet and threw himself forward into a sprint. His sudden dash had given him a head start, but the Monk was already right at his heels.

Zac dug deep and forced his legs to move faster. There was no way the Monk should be able to keep up with him. He had to be three or four times heavier than Zac, at least, and yet his footsteps were drawing closer.

A hand grabbed him roughly by the shoulder. Zac ducked and pulled free, stumbling as he made it to the junction.

A horn blared as a taxi swooshed narrowly by him, its headlights dazzling in the darkness. From behind Zac there came a screeching of brakes. Another cab bore down on him, the driver’s face a mask of terror as she stomped the brake pedal down to the floor.

Before Zac could move, the Monk was in front of him. The man in the robe raised a fist above his head, then brought it down sharply on the bonnet of the car. There was a scream from inside the vehicle as the back end flipped up into the air.

Zac watched, frozen, as the car somersaulted above his head. It landed, right way up, with an almighty crash behind him. He watched, dumbstruck, as all four wheels rolled off in different directions.

When he turned back, the Monk was looking at him, arms folded, a self-satisfied smirk on his face.

“What the Hell are you?”

“Trust me, Hell ain’t got nothin’ to do with it,” the Monk replied.

“What you did... the car... it’s not possible.”

“Not possible for you, maybe,” the Monk said, shrugging. They began to circle each other, Zac tense, the Monk a picture of tranquillity. “Me? I can do lots of things.”

“Oh, really?” Zac said. “Well, you’re not the only one.”

He had seen the night bus approaching from the corner of his eye. He darted across in front of it as it sped by, narrowly avoiding being hit. The Monk hung back, waiting for the bus to pass before he gave chase.

It swept by in a gust of wind and a whiff of diesel. Behind his mirrored lenses, the Monk’s eyes scanned for any sign of the boy, but Zac was nowhere to be seen – not on the road, not on the pavement...

The bus. The Monk turned his head, following the vehicle as it spluttered away from him. A black-clad figure stood at the back windscreen. Zac smiled and waved. The Monk pulled the gun from within his robe, but by the time he took aim, the bus was round a corner and out of range.

“H-help!” came a shaky voice from inside the wreckage of the taxi. “Help, I... I need help!”

The Monk didn’t look round. “Yeah, yeah. You know what, sweetheart?” he said quietly. “You an’ me both.”