Black Tattoo, The Page 25

"Cool." Charlie grinned again and reached out a hand. There was a sensation of huge black wings closing around them. Then Jack and Charlie were standing in the open night air.

  Jack looked around himself. They had reappeared on some kind of rooftop: a high one too — he could tell because of the breeze.

  "Where are we?" he asked.

  "We're on the roof of Centre Point Tower," said Charlie.

  Jack walked to the edge. Of course Charlie was right.

  Built in the 1960s out of ribbed concrete and glass, Centre Point Tower used to be one of the tallest buildings in London. It's still one of the ugliest. Nonetheless, Jack had to admit, thee was a pretty good view from the roof. London's streets were spread out all around him like the glittering threads of a spiderweb, the Thames cutting through them like a slash of darkness.

  "Well?" Jack prompted, still in no mood to mess around.

  "Well what?" asked Charlie, who was now sitting cross-legged on the concrete.

  "You want to tell me what this is all about?" asked Jack. "I thought you were staying in Hell with the Scourge." It was difficult to keep the bitterness out of his voice — and to be honest, he wasn't trying very hard.

  "I'm just... visiting," was Charlie's faint reply.

  "Really!" said Jack, with heavy sarcasm. "Staying long?"

  "Just tonight," said Charlie, attempting to make it sound casual and once again failing pathetically. "Just tonight," he repeated, and he let out a single hollow laugh. "Huh."

  Jack looked at him. "What?" he asked.

  At last, Charlie looked up. His eyes glinted.

  "This is it, Jack," he said. "This is my last visit. After tonight, if I go back to Hell, I can't ever come back here again."

  Jack blinked.

  "How come?" he asked.

  Charlie sighed. "I'm just too important," he replied, "apparently."

  Jack rolled his eyes in disbelief.

  "I guess it's kind of like with the prime minister or the queen or something." Charlie explained blithely. "Every move I make'll be planned in advance, and they simply can't put the arrangements in place to guarantee my safety with the way things are over here. You know how it is."

  "Oh, sure," said Jack. "Sure, I know how it is." But the sarcasm flew over Charlie's head — again, Jack sighed. "So?"

  Charlie looked surprised. "So what?"

  "So, are you going to do it?" asked Jack, losing patience. "Are you seriously telling me you're going to stay in Hell for good?" He paused. "Or — or what?"

  Charlie looked down at his lap again before answering, and his hair swung forward over his eyes.

  "I dunno," he said distantly.

  "Maybe," he added.

  "Yeah," he finished. Then he flicked his hair back, shrugged at Jack, and smiled.

  For another long moment, Jack stared at Charlie, getting what he wanted to say in the right order. It was difficult.

  "Do you know?" he began finally. "There's something I've been thinking about you for a while now. I think it's time I told you, because you really ought to know."

  "What's that?" asked Charlie.

  "You're a complete and utter git," said Jack.

  Charlie stared at him.

  "What do you want me to tell you?" asked Jack. "Am I supposed to beg you not to go? 'Don't go, mate — I'll miss you.' Would you like that?"

  Charlie shook his head. "Jack—"

  "No, really," said Jack, hitting his stride now. "I want to know. Would it make any difference if I told you again how stupid you're being? I mean," he asked, "what about your parents?"

  "It'll be dealt with," said Charlie. "I've got a plan."

  "Ooh, a plan," echoed Jack, with utter contempt. "Well, hooray for that."

  He sighed. His anger was cooling now. Truth be told, Jack wasn't very good at being angry, even when he had a right to be. Being angry was too much bother: he could never manage it for long.

  "So what's the deal here?" he asked wearily. "What exactly has the Scourge promised you?"

  Charlie perked up visibly.

  "Well, it's like this," he said. "I can't tell you very much, it's kind of a secret, but me and Khentimentu are going to perform this ceremony."

  "What ceremony?"

  "There's this old temple kind of thing, in the deepest part of the palace. No one's even been down there for thousands of years."

  "Uh-huh," said Jack, already not liking the sound of this at all.

  "When everything's all set up, we're going to do this, like, ritual. It's called 'waking the Dragon.' And after that, every demon in Hell will do whatever I say."

  "But his ritual," said Jack. "What does it involve? What happens?"

  Charlie shrugged and grinned. "What do I care? I mean, it's just some public-relations thing, right? Me and the Scourge do a bit of hocus-pocus, some bogus religious ceremony, then all the demons'll follow me forever!"

  "That's it?" asked Jack. "You're sure that's all it is? I mean, how do you know?"

  "I know," said Charlie heavily, "because the Scourge told me."

  "The Scourge told you," echoed Jack. "It actually said to you, 'This dragon business means nothing'."

  "Yes!"

  "Those exact words."

  "Yes!"

  Jack waited.

  "Well," said Charlie, "no. But I promise you, Jack, it's no big deal."

  The two boys looked at each other.

  "All right?" prompted Charlie.

  "Not really," said Jack. "There's obviously more to it than that. Something's happening, and you don't know what. And," he added, seeing Charlie shaking his head again, "I don't trust the Scourge."

  "Well, I do," said Charlie. "I do trust the Scourge!"

  The boys looked at each other. There was a pause.

  "Look," said Charlie, shuffling himself a little closer toward Jack across the gritty concrete. "You don't know what it's like. I've tried to tell you, but you just won't believe me."

  Jack looked at him.

  "Meeting the Scourge is the best thing that ever happened to me," said Charlie. "Do you understand? Since that day I took the test, it's like every part of my life — every step, every breath — is magical and important and real. Now, I'm asking you, man, what is there here that could possibly be better than that? Go on," he prompted, when Jack didn't answer straightaway. "Tell me."

  Jack still didn't answer. Charlie smiled.

  "When's term start again?" he asked. "A couple of weeks' time? So are you seriously telling me I should come back to school, on top of everything else, when I could be, like, ruling the universe?"

  Still Jack said nothing.

  "That's the choice," said Charlie. "I can rule in Hell — or come back here and be... ordinary." He snorted. "As for my parents..." He smiled bitterly. "Well, like I said, I've got a plan. The whole thing's going to blow over. Pretty soon, no one'll even remember I've gone. So there's nothing for me here," said Charlie, edging closer to Jack. "You see? Nothing. Except you."

  There was another long pause.

  "You know," said Charlie, "you could always come and visit me. I'll always make time for you, mate. You know that, right?"

  "Come on, man," he added when Jack still didn't reply. "Say something!"

  For another long, slow moment, there was a silence between them. Then Jack did say something.

  "You're an idiot, Charlie."

  Charlie blinked.

  "I can't believe you can't see how stupid you're being," said Jack. "And it just makes me sad, because whatever I say, whatever I do, you're just going to go ahead and do this stupid, stupid thing, and there's nothing I can do to stop you."

  He looked at Charlie.

  "That's right, isn't it?" he asked. "There's nothing I can do?"

  "No," said Charlie thickly. 'There isn't."

  "Then," said Jack, standing up with an effort, because he was fed up and sad and sick and his feet had gone to sleep, "you might as well take me back to the theater."

  Charlie sniffed.


  "You go," he said, still sitting, his face obscured by his hair. "I've got stuff to do."

  'You're going to make me walk?" asked Jack.

  "No. You don't understand. You're going back. You'll be there in less than a second. Don’t worry about it."

  "Oh," said Jack, doing his best not to. "Okay."

  "Goodbye, Jack," said Charlie. "I'm sorry it has to be like this."

  "Bye, Charlie," said Jack. "I'm sor—"

  He felt a rush of blackness, then he was back in the locked room.

  "—ry too," he said to the empty air. And that was when it occurred to him that he could have asked Charlie to put him wherever he liked. Typical.

  On the roof of Centre Point Tower, Charlie sat cross-legged for perhaps another minute and a half. On his shoulders, two ink-black shapes suddenly hunched outward, then Ashmon and Heshmim ran down his arms and nibbled at his fingers with their sharp little teeth. Charlie stroked their shiny black bodies absently for a while.

  Well, he thought, that hadn't exactly gone as well as he'd hoped.

  Them or us. One or the other. Forever.

  Frankly, the choice didn't seem like such a big deal. At any rate, if the world was going to persuade him to stay, it would have to work pretty hard to impress him now.

  Charlie stood up. His familiars vanished into a cloak of darkness, and as the cloak spread billowing about him, he walked to the edge of the roof. For a moment, he looked out over the city. Then he stepped off, plunging into the night.

  THE LAST NIGHT

  Number 27 was thinking of pastries. Specifically, he was thinking of mille-feuille, his favorite pastry, and just how delicious it was. He was beginning to doze off, when a single red light on his control panel suddenly started to wink.

  Instantly he was awake, reaching for the radio on his desk with one hand even as the other was punching the relevant display up onto his monitors.

  "Two here," said the radio.

  "Sir," said Number 27, "we have a problem."

  At that moment, every one of the newly installed speakers dotted all over the top floors of the building let out a dreadful rising shriek. The intruder alarms had kicked in.

  "Monitors?" barked the radio.

  "Sorry sir?" said Number 27.

  "Anything on the monitors? " repeated Number 2.

  "Nothing sir," said Number 27. "Except — wait."

  "Yes?"

  "There's something coming up the stairs. No... No, not coming up the stairs."

  There was a pause.

  "What?" asked Number 2.

  Number 27 just sat back and rubbed his eyes. But when he looked again, he could see that what was happening was, unfortunately, still happening.

  "Twenty-seven, I'm waiting."

  "It's going through them, sir," said Number 27. "Whatever it is, it's coming through the walls!"

  "Put the whole team on full alert."

  Number 27 didn't need telling twice.

  On the landing outside the butterfly room, Charlie paused, frowning. He'd set off the intruder alarm almost a minute ago now, and still no one had appeared to try and stop him. What sort of response time did they call this? Tutting exaggeratedly, he set off for Esme's room. Rather than have to bother with all the stairs and corners, he went straight through the walls.

  Charlie had been doing this a lot lately, back in the palace in Hell. The novelty of the sensation — the sudden damp feeling of the cold, old stone as it passed through him even as he passed through it — had worn off quite quickly. Scaring the pants off the people in the rooms beyond, though: that, he found, was the fun bit.

  There had to be about twenty of these goons camped out in each room, packed like sardines in their little rows of sleeping bags. The effect of his appearance on them as he rose up through the floor, letting his cloak ripple about him and fill the room with a flood of crackling darkness, was, Charlie found, very satisfactory indeed. Grinning to himself, he slid through the ceiling, leaving chaos and screams in his wake. Once inside Esme's room, however, he stopped and frowned again.

  He looked around the room, pointlessly checking all its cushion-covered surfaces. It was dark in there, but that wasn't a problem for him. The problem was, the room was empty.

  Hmm.

  He opened the door and stepped out onto the landing outside, just as some five or six Sons of the Scorpion Flail finally got there to intercept him. He was greeted by a chorus of ratcheting safety catches, orders for him to freeze, and so forth. It was so like something off the telly, it was really very funny.

  "You," said Charlie to the one standing nearest him, who hadn't even managed to get his gas mask on properly yet. "Where is she?"

  "Er, wh-who?" stammered Number 16.

  "The girl, stupid," said Charlie, reaching into the man's mind when he didn't answer straightaway. "Thank you," he added, when he'd got what he wanted, and with (though he said it to himself) a pretty credible burst of manic baddie cackling, he whirled his cloak about himself and vanished, reappearing at Esme's bedside.

  He looked down at her.

  She looked awful.

  It wasn't just that she was tied to the bed with a frankly bewildering array of straps, buckles, and (now) chains holding her in place. It wasn't even that she was attached to an intravenous drip full of (Charlie noted with a superhuman glance) enough tranquilizers to stun a whale. Her eyes were scrunched up like she was in pain. Her arms were covered in long clawed scratches that she'd obviously done herself. Her hands, strapped down to either side of her, were bunched into small fists. She was pale and sick looking and desperately, desperately sad.

  For the first time in a while, Charlie felt a pang of something a little like regret.

  But it was okay, he told himself, because that was why he'd come.

  He'd been in the room perhaps three seconds at most. The ceiling and the walls rang with the impact of boots as the Sons ran down to catch up with him: it was time to do what he'd come to do. He reached up and took off the pigeon sword, sliding the strap from his shoulders. Gently, carefully, he laid it by Esme's right side and closed her fingers around the hilt. Her hand was warm, and he held it for a fraction of a second longer than he needed to.

  "There you go," he said quietly.

  Instantly, Esme stirred. Her eyelids fluttered — and Charlie stood back, watching her uncertainly. Suddenly, he realized, she was holding the sword for herself, clasping it to her chest in both hands now, until her knuckles bulged white against the dark wood of its scabbard.

  The Sons were battering at the door. Great heavy blows threatened to knock it off its hinges — yet the small and uncontrollable shiver that Charlie gave as he watched Esme begin to wake was nothing to do with them.

  The door bust open—

  —but Charlie was gone.

  * * * * *

  For a long, delicious moment, Charlie soared through the orange-tinged sky over the West End. His cloak of liquid darkness rippled about him, and he laughed with delight as the wind of his passing grew hot on his face.

  He vanished again and reappeared standing in his room.

  It was his bedroom, in the house in Stoke Newington — the place where he'd grown up. All his stuff — his games, his comics, his film collection — was all exactly as he'd left it. After everything that had happened, Charlie found this inexplicably annoying.

  How lame and paltry it all looked now, especially with the thin layer of dust that had already started to form over all of it. When he'd thought about this moment before, he'd imagined he'd be tempted to take something as a keepsake, despite the risk that it might be noticed. Now he was here, he wasn't tempted in the least. There was nothing worth coming back for, noting compared to what was waiting for him in Hell. Sneering, he sank through the floor.

  He appeared in his parents' room, by their big four-poster bed. Like Esme's room had been, it was empty. Charlie frowned and sank through another floor, ending up in the passage that led to the sitting room. Now, at last, he could see l
ight, escaping round the gaps at the edges of the door. He stood outside in the passage for a moment. Then he took a deep breath, held it, and slid through.

  The wood of the door was old and hard and had what must have been about forty different layers of paint on it. The way his eyes were now, he could even see the little lines that his parents had marked off on the doorway over the years, to show how much he'd grown.

  He'd found her. His mum was asleep on the sofa. Charlie just stood there and looked at her.

  She didn't look good either. She was pale, her lipstick was smeared, her mouth was open, and her head was lying at an angle that would obviously give her a very sore neck in the morning. The floor surrounding the sofa was covered in scrunched-up tissues; there was an empty glass and a half-drunk bottle of white wine on the table in front of her, and the TV had been left switched on, though very quietly. Across the floor stretched a long cord that led to the telephone, which lay at her side on the cushions, under her hand.

  She'd fallen asleep waiting for it to ring: waiting for him, Charlie, to call.

  Charlie felt bad then. For a long second the bad feeling ran all the way through him like a slow electric charge, and all he could do was stand there.

  But then, after a moment, another urge too hold of him, the urge to get out. He had a way to fix everything, quickly and — he reckoned — cleanly. He was going to leave the whole mess, everything, behind him. He could do that. He was going to do that. He had to do that.

  "Bye, Mum," he said quietly. Then he vanished again.

  * * * * *

  This time, he reappeared outside Blackhorse Road Underground Station.

  His father had moved into a flat near here with his new... "girlfriend," as Charlie supposed he had to call her (he grimaced). This was where his dad had been living since leaving Charlie's mum. Charlie could remember this address all right: the problem was that since he'd never been there before, he didn't know how to find his way there. Tutting slightly, because it was annoying that even a superhuman like himself still had to stop for directions, Charlie looked closely at the local map that was outside the station. There. That was where it was. Moments later, he was outside the building.