Afterworlds: The Book of Doom. Barry Hutchison

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      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 СКАЧАТЬ