Anthony Horowitz - Necropolis

And there was something else he remembered. If he went past Graham’s house, turned the corner and walked past the old scout hut, he would come to a small, terraced house in a leafy street where all the houses were small and terraced. Number 32. It would have a green door and – unless they’d finally mended it – a cracked front step. It was his home. That was where he had once lived.

“How much further?” Richard asked.

The driver glanced at his sat nav. “We’re a minute away,” he said.

They went through a traffic light at a busy junction, then drove up towards North Dulwich station, turning into Half Moon Lane which was just opposite. Matt felt dazed. It was extraordinary to think that for half their lives, he and Scarlett had almost been neighbours. They might have passed each other a dozen times without even knowing it. She lived in Ardbeg Road, which was the next on the left, and just for a moment the way ahead was clear. The driver accelerated, glad finally to be able to use the Jaguar’s power.

“Look out!” Richard shouted out the warning too late.

A car shot out from a private drive and smashed right into them.

Matt saw everything. He heard the roar of an engine and that made him turn his head. The car was coming straight at them. The driver was staring at them, his hands clenched on the wheel, not even trying to avoid them. He was middle-aged, clean-shaven – and there was no emotion in his face. He should have been scared. He should have been showing some sort of reaction, knowing what was about to happen. But there was nothing at all.

Half a second later, there was a huge crash of metal against metal as he smashed into them.

The other car was a four-by-four, a BMW, and it was like being hit by a tank. The Jaguar was swept off the road, the world tilting away as it was hurled towards a wide, modern house with a short driveway sloping steeply down to the front door. There was a second collision as it hit the door, more crumpling metal. The house alarms went off. Jamie cried out as he was thrown sideways, his head hitting Matt’s shoulder. Matt tasted blood and realized that he had bitten his tongue. The Jaguar was lying at an angle, almost underneath the front wheels of the BMW which was still on the road above them. Both the windows on the driver’s side had shattered. The engine had cut out.

For a moment, nobody moved. Then Richard swore – which at least meant he was alive. He twisted round in the front seat. “Are you two all right?” he asked.

“What happened?” Jamie groaned.

“An accident…” Richard said. “Idiot… wasn’t looking where he was going.”

He was wrong. Matt knew that already. He had seen what had happened. The BMW driver had been waiting for them, knowing they would come this way. Why else would he have shot out like that, slamming straight into them? Matt had seen him, gripping the wheel. He had known exactly what he was doing.

Richard was already out of the car.

“Wait…” Matt said.

But Richard hadn’t heard. He staggered up onto the road, only now becoming aware that he was in pain. There were no cuts or bruises but, like all of them, he had suffered from whiplash. “What the hell do you think you were doing?” he demanded.

The driver of the BMW had got out and was standing in the road. He was a middle-aged man, well-built, wearing a long, black coat and leather gloves. His mouth was soft and flabby, with small teeth, like a child. His skin was very pink. He had curly hair. His head was almost perfectly round, like a football.

“I’m so terribly sorry,” he said. “I didn’t see you. I was in a hurry. I hope none of you are hurt.”

Richard was still angry but he suddenly knew something was wrong. “You did it on purpose,” he said. His voice had faltered. “You tried to kill us.”

“Not at all. I just pulled out without looking. I can’t tell you how sorry I am. Thank goodness you don’t seem to be seriously hurt.”

By now, Matt and Jamie had joined him. There was nothing they could do for their driver and they left him, unconscious in the front seat. Jamie stared at the man and the colour drained out of his face. He knew at once what he was looking at. It was the last thing he had expected to find here.

“Matt…” he whispered. “He’s a shape-changer.”

Matt didn’t doubt him. Jamie had met shape-changers when he had gone back in time. Shape-changers were able to take on human form but it didn’t suit them. It didn’t quite fit. One of them, an old man who had suddenly become a giant scorpion, had almost killed him at the fortress at Scathack Hill. He knew what he was talking about. And Matt could see it for himself. Everything about the BMW driver was fake, even the way he stood there, stiff and unnatural, like a dummy in a shop window. The words he was saying could have been written out for him, on a script.

“I’m insured,” he continued. “There’s absolutely nothing to worry about. It was my fault. No doubt about it.”

Richard stared. None of them knew quite what to do. Barely a minute had passed since the collision but already other people were arriving on the scene. A bus, on its way to Brixton, had pulled up and the driver was climbing out of his cabin, coming over to help. Two more cars had stopped further up the road. Matt had seen a taxi pull out of Ardbeg Road and thought it might be coming their way, but it had already turned off and driven away.

They couldn’t risk a fight. They were in the middle of a suburban, South London street. If they challenged the shape-changer, if he decided to drop his human form, all hell would break loose. And already the police had arrived. A squad car turned the corner and pulled over. Two officers got out.

“Good afternoon, officers.” The BMW driver was pretending that he was pleased to see them. “Glad you’re here. We’re in a bit of a pickle.”

His language was as fake as the rest of him and for just a few seconds, Matt was tempted to take him on, to show the entire crowd what was really happening here. He could use his own power. Without so much as moving, he could tear a strip of metal off the shattered car and send it flying into him. There were a dozen witnesses on the scene. How would they react when the blushing, curly-haired BMW driver turned into a half-snake or a half-crocodile and bled green blood? Maybe it was time to show the world the war that was about to engulf it.

It was Richard who stopped him.

“No, Matt.”

He must have seen what Matt was thinking because he muttered the two words under his breath, never taking his eyes off the man who was standing in front of them. Matt understood. For some reason, the shape-changer was playing with them. It was pretending that this was just an ordinary accident. If he took it on, if he began a fight here in the street, innocent people might get hurt. And he was in England with a fake passport and a false name. This was the wrong time to be answering questions. Right now he had everything to lose.

“I’m so very sorry,” the shape-changer said.

“I saw what happened!” the bus driver exclaimed. He nodded at the BMW driver, his face filled with outrage. “He pulled out at fifty miles an hour. He didn’t look. He didn’t signal. It was all his fault.”

“Is anyone hurt?” one of the policeman asked.

“Our driver,” Richard said.

The right-hand side of the Jaguar had taken the full force of the impact and it looked as if the driver had suffered a broken arm. He was only semi-conscious and in pain. One of the policemen helped him out and laid him on the pavement and they waited about fifteen minutes for an ambulance to arrive. Meanwhile the other officer began questioning the BMW driver – “Mr Smith”. He had no ID.