Mister Monday. Гарт Никс

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      Forbidden to do anything useful, the weekend dragged for Arthur. His two elder siblings were busy with their usual mysterious activities, Bob was still composing, and Emily was called back to work to check out some strange admissions at the local hospitals. She was regularly called whenever there was a rise in patients exhibiting unusual symptoms. Arthur always felt tremendous relief when she came home and said it wasn’t serious. Losing his birth parents as he had, Arthur was acutely aware of the potential tragedy in every report of a new flu strain or potential virus outbreak.

      By Sunday morning, Arthur couldn’t resist the temptation to get the Atlas and the Key back out of the Komodo dragon. Once again he held the Key and the Atlas open to the same double-page spread with the picture of the House. Though there were no details and no other writing besides the note about Monday’s Postern, Arthur spent hours looking at it, trying to work out how it was all put together and what it must look like inside.

      Finally it was Sunday night. Arthur restored the Key and the Atlas to the lizard’s innards and went to bed early, in the hope that sleep would come and make the time go quickly. But of course it didn’t. Arthur tossed and turned and couldn’t fall asleep. He read most of a book and then simply lay there, thinking.

      When he did fall asleep, it wasn’t for long. Something made him wake up. He didn’t know what it was for a second. He turned his head and saw the digital clock, red in the darkness. 12:01.

      One minute after midnight, on Monday morning.

      There was a noise at his window. A scratching noise, like a tree branch scraping. But there was no tree in the garden tall enough or close enough to reach Arthur’s bedroom window.

      Arthur sat up and snapped on the light, his heart suddenly pounding. His breathing began to get more difficult, his breaths shorter.

      Control, thought Arthur desperately. Calm. Breathe slowly.

       Look at the window.

      He looked and jumped back, falling down behind his bed. There was a winged man hanging in the air a few feet from the window and easily fifty feet above the ground. An ugly, squat man with a jowled face like a bloodhound. A dog-faced man. Even his rapidly beating wings, though feathery, looked ugly and unkempt, dirty grey in the light that spilled out from Arthur’s room.

      He was wearing a very old-fashioned dark suit and carried a bowler hat in his hand. He was using the crown of the hat to tap on the window.

      “Let me in.”

      The voice was distorted through the glass, but it was low and husky and full of menace.

      “Let me in.”

      “No,” whispered Arthur, thoughts of every vampire film he had ever seen flashing through his head. This was no vampire, but it was asking to be let in, so maybe the same principle applied. It couldn’t get in unless it was invited. Though in the films, they normally hypnotised someone to let them in—

      The bedroom door opened.

      Arthur felt as if his heart had stopped cold in his chest. Someone had been hypnotised already! They would let the dog-faced thing in…

      A long forked tongue flickered around the door, tasting the air. Arthur picked up the dictionary, which he’d left by the bed, and raised it above his head.

      A scaly head followed the tongue, and a clawed foot. Arthur half lowered the dictionary. It was the ceramic Komodo dragon from the balcony. No longer ceramic, or maybe it still was, but alive and moving swiftly.

      Slowly, Arthur climbed back on to the bed and pressed himself against the wall, keeping the dictionary ready to throw. Whose side was the Komodo on?

      “Let me in.”

      The big lizard hissed and ran forward, shockingly fast, to rear up in front of the window. It opened its mouth and brilliant white light shot out, powerful as a searchlight. The dog-faced man screamed and threw up his arms, his bowler hat flying through the air. Still screaming, he hurtled backwards, wings thrashing, and disappeared in a coiling puff of coal-black smoke.

      The lizard shut its mouth with a snap and the intense light disappeared with it. Then the reptile slowly stepped back from the window and ponderously trod to the end of Arthur’s bed, where it stopped and settled into its usual stance. Its skin rippled as if every muscle was suddenly galvanised, then it was still. Totally ceramic once more.

      Arthur dropped the dictionary, picked up his inhaler and took several puffs. As he went over to shut his door, he was surprised to find that his legs were trembling and could barely support him. On the way back, he patted the Komodo dragon on the head and briefly considered putting his hand in to check that the Key and the Atlas were still there. But that seemed like something that could best wait for morning.

      Back in bed, Arthur looked at the clock again as he pulled up the covers. Surely it was no accident that this had happened first thing on Monday.

      It’s going to be an interesting day, he thought. Deliberately he turned away from the window, so he wouldn’t be tempted to look at it, and closed his eyes.

      He left the light on.

CHAPTER FOUR

      Arthur was not looking forward to school that Monday morning, to a much greater degree than usual. After the events of the early morning he had enjoyed only brief moments of sleep. He’d woken up every hour or so in incipient panic, his breathing ragged, only to find that his light was still on, the night was quiet and there was no trouble. The Komodo dragon stayed immobile at the foot of his bed, and with sunshine filling the room it was hard to believe that the lizard had come alive and beaten back the horrid thing that had flown up to his window.

      Arthur wished he could dismiss it as a nightmare, but he knew it had been all too real. The Key and the Atlas were proof of that. He thought about leaving them behind, inside the ceramic lizard, but after breakfast he took them out and put them in his school backpack. Then he checked the garden carefully through the window before running out to join his mother in her car.

      In their previous town, Arthur had walked to school. Here, he would eventually ride his bike. But his parents insisted it was too soon for him to exert himself and his mother said she would drive him to school before going to the lab.

      Normally Arthur would have made some show of independence, particularly in front of his brother Eric, who he looked up to. Eric was both a basketball and a track star. He’d had no trouble adapting to the new school. He was already on his way to being a stand-out player for the school’s top basketball team. He had his own car, bought with the proceeds of a weekend job as a waiter, but it was assumed that he wouldn’t take Arthur to school in it unless there was a real emergency. Being seen with his much younger brother was bad for his image. Despite saying this, he had intervened at various important stages in Arthur’s life in their old city, putting bullies to flight in the mall or rescuing him after bicycle mishaps.

      Arthur was glad to go with his mother that morning. He had a strong suspicion that the bowler-hatted dog-faced men – or manlike creatures – would be waiting at the school. He’d spent quite a few wakeful hours earlier worrying about how he could protect himself against them. It would be particularly difficult if adults couldn’t see them, which seemed possible from what Ed had told him.

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