old man on the shoulder, “but I think it’s time Catriona learned to stand on her own two feet. Stop worrying about her. She’ll be fine.”
Whoever she is, Zac added silently. Phillip spoke about people like Catriona all the time. People who snuck into his head at all hours of the day and night and told him their problems. People who, as far as Zac could tell, didn’t actually exist.
“Where have you been all night?” Phillip asked.
“Work, Granddad. I told you, remember?”
“Is that a bruise?” Phillip said, peering at his grandson. Zac pulled back before the old man could get a closer look at his face.
“Oh, yeah, I walked into a door,” Zac said. “Nothing serious. Anyway... I’m going to head to bed. Will you be OK?”
“I’ll be fine,” said Phillip, putting his glass in the sink. “If I can’t sleep I might do some reading. Or listen to music. Or I might even watch some television.”
“We don’t have a TV, Granddad.”
“Oh, don’t we? Well, bang goes that idea. Maybe I’ll just feed the goldfish, if I can get it to stay still for long enough. Anyway, I’ll be fine. You go. You go. You need your beauty sleep.”
Phillip shooed Zac out into the hallway, where an orange shape was zipping around inside a glass bowl. They both watched it for a few moments, moving so fast it was almost a blur of speed. Phillip had owned the same goldfish for as long as Zac could remember. In all that time, Zac had never once seen it stop moving.
Zac tore his eyes away from the darting fish and made for the stairs. He stopped to check the front door was locked, then turned to his granddad. “Listen, if anyone comes looking for me... I mean, if anyone calls round...”
Phillip frowned. “Expecting someone? At this time of night?”
“No. Maybe. Probably. If anyone comes to the door, tell them I’m not in.”
“Are you heading out?”
“No, I’m going to sleep, so tell them I’m not in.”
“You’re not in. Got it,” said Phillip. “Where is it you’re going?”
“I’m not going anywhere, Granddad. Just sleeping, remember?”
“Sleeping. Right.” The old man tapped a finger against the side of his nose. “Say no more.”
“You be OK?”
“I’ll be fine, Zac,” said Phillip. “Which is more than I can say for poor Bill.”
Zac made an admirable attempt to contain a sigh. “Bill?”
“Lost his job, apparently. In a lot of financial trouble. He doesn’t know what to do.” Phillip shook his head sadly. “Keeps asking me to sort it out for him, as if I can do anything about that kind of thing.”
For a moment, Phillip seemed to drift away. He gazed into space, a fog descending behind his eyes. Eventually, he gave himself a shake and looked over to his grandson.
“Now, where were you going again?”
“Nowhere, Granddad,” said Zac. He smiled weakly. “I’m just going to go bed.”
“Right you are!” said Phillip, and he turned back to the goldfish bowl as Zac bounded up the stairs.
The door to Zac’s bedroom was old and heavy. He closed it firmly and pushed his bookcase in front of it, just to make sure he wasn’t disturbed. He needed time to think, to figure out who the Monk was, and why he was trying to kill him.
He sat on the end of his bed, facing the window. The adrenaline that had been pumping through him for the past few hours was wearing off, and he could now feel all the cuts and bruises he’d earned on his way through Geneva’s front door.
A car. With a single punch, the Monk had flipped a moving car. It had to be a trick of some kind. It had to be. Like the birthmark on his hand, which had vanished again by the time he’d got home. Those things weren’t possible.
He looked through the window, along the leafy suburban street lit up orange by the glow of the streetlights. For a moment he thought he saw something glint on a roof at the other end of the street – a reflection of moonlight off a lens, maybe. He jumped up and quickly drew the curtains, suddenly unable to shake the feeling that he was being watched.
He was agitated. That was new. He never got agitated. Whatever the situation, he was a master at keeping his cool.
But a car. The Monk had flipped a car.
“Get a grip,” he told himself. “You’re being paranoid.”
He turned from the window. A figure in brown stood against the wall near the corner of the room.
“See, kid?” said the Monk. “Told ya I was stealthy.”
The roar of a gunshot echoed through the house.
The last thing he remembered before the world went dark was the Monk’s voice, soft in his ear: “Don’t worry, kid, I’ll stick your body in the cupboard.”
And now...
And now...
Nothing. There was no pain. No blood. He hadn’t yet sat up, but he could tell he wasn’t in his bedroom, and he wasn’t in the cupboard, either. He was... somewhere else, lying on his back with something soft and fluffy below him.
“It’s awake,” said a gruff voice.
“He’s awake, Michael, please,” said another. It sounded friendlier than the first, but with the sort of upper-class lilt that Zac had never been keen on.
The smiling face of a youngish-looking man leaned over him. “Why, hello there,” the face said. “You must be Zac.”
Zac tried to leap to his feet, but the ground was squishy, like plumped-up pillows, and it took him longer than he would have liked. He stared, first at his surroundings – bright blue sky, fluffy white ground, with an imposing gate standing off to one side – and then at the two men he had heard talking.
They looked similar, and yet different, like twins whose lives had taken them down very different paths.
The one who’d spoken to him – the smiling one – was still smiling. He had long blond hair, hanging in curls down to his shoulders, and eyes that sparkled a brilliant shade of electric blue. He wore a long white... Zac hesitated to use
