Anthony Horowitz - Nightrise

Marcie was lying on the floor and it was obvious – even without the pool of blood – that she was dead. Her arms and legs were spread-eagled almost comically and her cheek was pressed against the linoleum as if she was trying to listen to something in the cellar below. In life, she had been a short, stocky woman. Death had somehow compressed her even more so that she didn’t look quite human. A fat, stuffed doll. But somebody had shot her twice and let the stuffing out.

Jamie tried to say something but the words wouldn’t come. He heard the front door open on the other side of the living room and realized that the police were already in the house. They hadn’t bothered to ring the bell. Somebody muttered something but it was impossible to make out the words against the noise of the TV. Meanwhile, Alicia was looking around. A pair of French windows led into the back garden but she didn’t know if they were locked or not and she didn’t have time to find out. There was another door right next to her. Grabbing Jamie, she pulled him out of the kitchen and into a narrow utility room. There was a washing machine, a drier, a couple of shelves of canned food. She stopped and held up a hand, warning Jamie not to move. At the same moment, the police entered the kitchen.

“Oh, Jesus!” Jamie heard one of the policeman gagging.

“That sure is a beauty.” A second voice.

“Looks like the kids came home last night.”

There was a way out of the utility room. Another door at the far end. Alicia signalled and she and Jamie tiptoed over to it. There had to be at least three policemen in the kitchen, separated from them only by a thin partition wall. The door was locked but the key was there. She reached out and turned it…

Just as a policeman walked into the room behind them. He stood, staring at them, like something straight out of a Hollywood film, with his black, short-sleeved shirt and black shades that completely hid his eyes. He was young and white and he worked out. The ugly tools of his trade dangled from his belt: gun, CS gas canister, handcuffs and baton. For a moment he didn’t say anything. Then his hand dropped down to the gun.

Jamie had been standing behind Alicia. Suddenly he stepped forward so that he stood directly opposite the policeman. She saw him look up and there was something in the boy’s face that she couldn’t recognize, a sort of intensity that seemed almost unworldly.

“There’s nobody here,” he said quietly. “The room’s empty.”

The policeman stared at him, as if puzzled by what he had just been told. Alicia waited for him to say something. But he didn’t. His eyes were vacant. He nodded slowly and walked out again.

Jamie and Alicia heard voices in the kitchen as the officer rejoined the other men.

“Anything?”

“No. There’s nobody there. It’s just an empty room.”

“Hey – Josh. Why don’t you tell the paramedics to get in here? They can start clearing up.”

Jamie glanced at Alicia, as if challenging her to ask questions. But this wasn’t the time. Alicia opened the back door and the two of them passed through into the garage. It was empty apart from a rusty lawnmower and a deep-freeze cabinet. Don had taken his car to the Reno Playhouse and, of course, it had never been driven back. The two doors were closed but there was a window at the back. Jamie opened it and they climbed out. Now the garage was between them and any police officers who might be standing guard at the front. Jamie made sure there was nobody around, then slipped behind the neighbouring house, making his way through the garden where the two girls had played. Only when he was on the other side of the house did he cut back to the street. Alicia’s car was parked right in front of him.

He took one last look at the house where he had lived for the past six months. The entrance was already taped off. There were police officers everywhere: in the porch, on the front lawn, carrying equipment in and out. Three police cars were parked in the street. Distant sirens announced that more were on the way.

Nobody noticed as Jamie and Alicia crossed the pavement and got into the car. And if anyone had turned round, they would assume that the two of them were neighbours. It was only when they were inside the car – and before she had started the engine – that Alicia turned to him.

“What was that?” she demanded. “What did you do to that policeman? How did you make him…?” Her voice trailed away.

“I can’t tell you,” Jamie replied. “I don’t know what I did. And it doesn’t matter. Because I’m never going to do it again.”

Alicia nodded and turned the ignition. One of the policemen glanced in their direction but did nothing to stop them.

Alicia put the car into gear and the two of them drove away.

It was later that afternoon. Alicia had managed to book adjoining rooms at the Bluebird Inn and had opened the connecting doors. Jamie was sitting at the table in his half, staring at a selection of food that she had spread out on paper plates: lunch or dinner or something in between. But he wasn’t hungry. He wasn’t even sure how much time had passed since he and Alicia had left Sparks. He felt hollowed out. Somewhere inside him, a voice was telling him that by now he should have been on his way to the theatre, preparing for the first evening performance. But there was going to be no performance. That was all over, and nothing was ever going to be the same again.

The television was still on. A commercial break ended and yet another news bulletin began. They were reporting two murders now. Don White, shot at the theatre, and his partner, Marcie Kelsey, killed with the same weapon at her rented home. Kelsey. The name barely registered with Jamie. He had always known her as Marcie or Mars. And now she was dead and he was wanted for her murder. Jamie Tyler, twin brother of Scott Tyler. Both boys missing. Delinquents. High on drugs.

“That’s enough!” Alicia picked up the remote control and turned the television off. “It’s none of it true, so what’s the point of listening to it?”

Jamie said nothing.

“And you’re not just going to sit there. You’ve got to eat something.” She pushed a plastic tub of salad towards him. Jamie glanced at the label. AUNT MARY’S LO-CALORIE CAESAR SALAD. There was a picture of an old lady in an apron. She wasn’t real, of course. The meal would have been prepared in a factory, chilled and trucked in. The lettuce leaves looked fake too.

“I’m not hungry,” Jamie said.

“Of course you’re hungry. You haven’t eaten all day.” Alicia sighed. “We have to get our heads together, Jamie,” she said. “You’ve got the police looking for you. Your brother’s gone. Two people are dead. Do you really think you can help anyone just sitting here like this? Have some food and let’s talk about what we’re going to do.”

She was right. Jamie pronged some of the lettuce with a plastic fork, then took a slice of ham. There were no cooking facilities at the motel and Alicia had chosen food they could eat straight out of the packet. There were also cookies, fruit, cheese and bread rolls. She’d taken a beer out of the motel minibar. Jamie had a Sprite. He opened the ring pull and the hiss of escaping gas seemed to unlock something in him. He was hungry, after all. And thirsty too. He drank most of the Sprite, then began to eat.

“We need to talk,” Alicia continued. Despite what she’d said, she herself wasn’t eating. “That trick you pulled back at your aunt’s place. That was quite something. Are you going to tell me how you did it?”

Jamie shook his head. “I don’t want to talk about that.”

“Well, let me suggest something to you. The act that you and your brother were doing on the stage. It was no act. You could really do it