Anthony Horowitz - Necropolis

There was no way down. The bars were too close together and even if she had managed to slip through, she was at least twenty metres above the ground. Try to jump from this height and she would break both her legs.

She was still in the cell two hours later when the door opened and they finally brought her something to eat.

Breakfast was a bowl of cold porridge and a tin mug of water, carried in by a monk she hadn’t yet met – for his face certainly wasn’t one that she would have forgotten. It was horribly burned. One whole side of it was dead and disfigured as if he had fallen asleep with his head resting on an oven. Scarlett turned her eyes away from him. Was there anyone at Cry for Mercy who hadn’t rotted over the past twenty years? A second monk stood with him, guarding the door.

“You… eat… little… girl.” Burnt Face was proud of his English but his accent was so thick she could barely make out the words.

He set the tray down, and Scarlett moved towards him. Her hands were clasped behind her back and she was clearly on the edge of tears. “Please,” she said. “Please let me out…” Her voice was trembling.

The sight of the girl, pale and bleary-eyed after the long night, seemed to amuse him. “Out?” He sneered at her. “No out…”

“But you don’t understand…” She was closer to him now and as he straightened up she brought her hands round and lashed out.

She was holding an icicle.

She had broken it off the guttering and she was holding it like a knife. The point was needle sharp. Using all her strength, she drove it into the flesh between his shoulder and his neck. The monk screamed. Blood gushed out. He fell to his knees, as if in prayer.

Scarlett was already moving. She knew that she had to take advantage of the surprise, that speed was all she had on her side. The second monk had frozen, completely shocked by what had just happened. Before he could react, she threw herself at him, head and shoulders down, like a bull. She hit him hard in the stomach and heard the breath explode out of him. His hands grabbed for her but then he was down, writhing on the floor. She pulled away and began to run.

According to Father Gregory, there were just seven monks in the Monastery of the Cry for Mercy and she had just taken out two of them. How long would it be before the ones that remained set off after her? Scarlett had to find the door that had brought her here. She knew where it was – a short way down the corridor, only a minute from the cell. With a bit of luck, she would be gone before they knew what had happened.

It was only when she had taken twenty paces that she knew she had gone wrong. Somehow she had managed to get lost. She was in another long corridor and it was one that she didn’t recognize. There was a picture of some holy person hanging crookedly on the wall. An ornate wooden chest. Another passageway with a flight of stone steps leading down. For a moment they looked tempting. They might lead her out of the monastery. But at the same time, she knew they would take her further away from the door. The door was the fast way back to St Meredith’s. She had to find it.

In the distance, a bell began to ring. Not a call to prayers. An alarm. She heard shouting. The second of the two monks – the one she had hit – must have recovered. Forcing herself not to panic, she continued forward even though she knew she was heading in the wrong direction and that the further she went, the more lost she would become. She heard flapping ahead of her, the sound of sandals hitting the stone floor and a moment later another monk appeared. He saw her and cried out. There was an opening to one side. She took it, passing between wood-panelled walls and a great tapestry, hanging in shreds, the fabric mouldering away.

The passage emerged in a second corridor and with a surge or relief she realized that she knew where she was. Somehow she had found her way back. There was the table with the candlesticks, the painting of the crucifixion. The door was just beyond. There was nobody in the way.

The noise of the sandals. If the monk had been barefooted, Scarlett might not have heard him. But even without looking round, she knew that someone had caught up with her, that he was running towards her even now. In a single movement she reached out, grabbed a heavy, iron candlestick and swung it round. She’d timed it exactly right. The end of the candlestick smashed into the side of the monk’s bald head, knocking him out. Scarlett hit him a second time, just to be sure, then dropped the candlestick and made for the door.

Someone appeared at the far end of the corridor.

It was Father Gregory. He saw Scarlett and screamed something – maybe in English, maybe in his own language. The words were trapped in his throat. The door was now between the two of them, exactly half-way. Scarlett wondered if she could reach it. Father Gregory was dancing on his feet as if he had just been electrocuted. His good eye was wide and staring, making the other one look all the more diseased. Scarlett was about thirty metres away, panting, gathering all her strength for one last effort.

The two of them set off at the same moment.

In a way it was weird. Scarlett wasn’t running away. She was actually hurtling towards the one man she most wanted to avoid. But she had to reach the door before he did. She had made her decision. It was the only way home.

Father Gregory was surprisingly fast. His limp had disappeared and he moved with incredible speed, his fury propelling him forward. Scarlett didn’t dare look at him. She was aware of him getting closer and closer but her eyes were fixed on the door. There it was in front of her. She lunged forward and grabbed hold of the handle, but at the same moment his hands fell on her, seizing hold of the top of her coat, his fingers against her neck. She heard him cry out in triumph. His breath was against her skin.

She didn’t let go of the door. She wasn’t going to let him drag her back. Instead, she dropped down, twisting her shoulders so that the coat was pulled over her head. She had already undone the buttons and she felt it come loose, falling away. Father Gregory lost his balance and, still holding the coat, fell backwards. Scarlett was free. She jerked the door open and threw herself forward. For a few seconds her vision was blurred. The doorway seemed to rush past. She heard Gregory screaming at her, suddenly a long way away.

The door slammed shut behind her.

She was lying, sobbing and shaking on the floor of St Meredith’s. And there was a man standing in front of her, a young policeman, dressed in blue, staring at her with a look of complete bewilderment.

“Who are you?” he demanded.

“I’m… Scarlett Adams.” She could barely get the words out.

“Where have you been? What have you been doing?” The policeman shook his head in disbelief. “You’d better come with me!”

Scarlett had only been missing for eighteen hours but she was a fifteen-year-old student on a school trip in the middle of London, and her disappearance had been enough to trigger a major panic with newspaper headlines, TV bulletins and a nationwide search. Both her parents had been informed at once and Paul Adams was already on a plane, on his way back from Hong Kong. He was actually in mid-air when Scarlett was found.

Scarlett had begun to realize that she was in trouble almost from the moment she found herself back in St Meredith’s, sitting opposite the policeman who had immediately launched into a series of questions.

“Where have you been?” he began.

Scarlett was still in shock, thinking about her narrow escape from Father Gregory. She pointed at the door with a trembling finger. “There…”

“What do you mean?” The policeman was young and out of his depth. He had already radioed for backup and an ambulance was on the way. Even so, he was the first on the scene. There might even be a promotion in this. He took out a notebook and prepared to write down anything Scarlett said.