Anthony Horowitz - Necropolis

“We’ve got company,” Richard said.

A man had appeared, climbing down from the cabin, his feet – in wellington boots – clanging against the metal rungs. As he stepped into the light, it became clear that he wasn’t Chinese. He was a European, a big man with a beard, dark eyes and curly, black hair. His whole face looked beaten about – cracked lips, broken nose, veins showing through the skin. Either the weather had done it, too many years at sea, or he had once been a boxer… and an unsuccessful one. He was wearing jeans, a thick knitted jersey and a donkey jacket, dark blue, with the rain sparkling on his shoulders. His hands were huge and covered in oil.

“Good evening, my friends,” the man said. “You are welcome to Moon Moth.” He had introduced his ship but not himself. He had a deep voice and a Spanish accent. The words came from somewhere in his chest. “Mr Shan-tung has asked me to look after you. Are you ready to come on board?”

“How long will the journey take us?” Richard asked. He sounded doubtful.

“Three hours… maybe longer. We don’t have the power of a jet-foil and the weather’s strange. All this rain! It may hold us up, so the sooner we get started, the better.” The man took out a pipe and tapped it against his teeth as if checking them for cavities. “I often make the journey at night, if that’s what’s worrying you,” he went on. “Nobody’s going to take any notice of us. So let’s get out of this weather and be on our way.”

He turned and climbed back onto the boat. Richard glanced at Matt. Matt shrugged. The captain hadn’t been exactly friendly, but why should they have expected otherwise? These people were criminals. They were only obeying orders. They had no interest in the Gatekeepers or anybody else, so it was pointless to expect first class comfort and smiles.

Richard had brought his backpack with them – it was their only luggage. He picked it up and they followed the man on board. They reached the ladder and Matt was grateful that this one had ordinary rungs instead of swords. As he began to climb, he noticed a Chinese man in filthy jeans and an oil-skin jacket, drawing a tarpaulin over the crates. For a moment their eyes met and Matt found himself being studied with undisguised hostility. The man spat, then went back to work. He seemed to be the only crew.

There wasn’t much room in the cabin which looked even older than the ship, with equipment that wouldn’t have been out of place in a Second World War film. The captain was sitting on a stool in front of a steering wheel, surrounded by switches and gauges with markings that had largely faded away. The rain had picked up. It was streaming down the windows and the world outside was almost invisible, broken up into beads of water that clung in place, reflecting everything but showing very little. The engines were throbbing sullenly below. The whole cabin was vibrating. It smelled of salt water, diesel fuel and stale tobacco.

There was a low sofa and a couple of chairs for the three passengers. All the furniture was sagging and stained. Richard, Matt and Jamie took their places. The captain sat at the wheel, flicking on a pair of ancient windscreen wipers which began to swing from left to right, clearing the way in front of them. The Chinese crewman cast off and the boat slipped away, unseen, into the night.

A single row of lights shone ahead. There was a road bridge, at least half a mile long, snaking across the entire length of the harbour. But once they had passed underneath it there was nothing. Moon Moth had its own spotlights mounted on the bow and the cabin roof, but they barely penetrated the driving rain and showed nothing more than a circle of black water a few metres ahead.

The captain switched on the screens and the cabin glowed green with a soft beeping sound that divided up the silence like commas in a sentence. For about ten minutes nobody said anything but then the crewman appeared, carrying a battered tray with four tin mugs of hot chocolate which he had brought up from a galley somewhere below.

“You haven’t told me your names,” the captain said. He lit his pipe and blew smoke into the air, making the cabin feel closer and snugger than ever. It was very warm inside, presumably from the heat of the engines below.

Richard introduced them. “I’m Richard. This is Matt and Jamie.” They were being smuggled into Hong Kong illegally, and anyway Han Shan-tung already knew who they were. There was no need for false names.

“And I am Hector Machado. But you can call me Captain. That is what everyone calls me – even when I am not on the ship.”

“Are you Spanish?” Richard asked.

“Portuguese. I was born in Lisbon. Have you been there?”

Richard shook his head.

“I’m told that it’s a beautiful city. I left there when I was three. My father came to Hong Kong to fight against the communists. This was his boat.” Machado sucked on his pipe which glowed red. He blew out smoke. “He was shot dead in the very seat where I am sitting now. And the boat is mine.”

“How many crew do you have?” Matt was thinking of the man he had seen. Why had he appeared so unfriendly?

“Just Billy. No need for anyone else.”

“What’s in the crates?”

Machado hesitated, as if afraid of giving too much away. Then he shrugged. “Fireworks. A lot of fireworks. Mr Shantung has a business selling them to mainland Hong Kong.”

“And what do you carry when you’re not delivering fireworks?” Richard asked. His voice was hostile. It clearly bothered him, being with these people.

“I’ve carried all sorts of things, Richard. Stuff that maybe it would be better you didn’t know about. I’ve smuggled people in, if that’s what you want to know. And maybe you should be grateful. I know the ins and outs. Moon Moth may not be much to look at but she’ll outrun the Hong Kong harbour patrols any time… not that they’ll bother themselves about us. Everyone knows me in these parts. And they leave me alone.”

“So how long have you worked for the Triads?”

“You think this is an interview? You want to write about me?” Machado gestured with the pipe. “I’d get some rest if I were you. It could be a long night.” He slipped the pipe between his teeth and said no more.

They cruised on into the darkness, guided by the strange, green light of the radar system. The night was so huge that it swallowed them completely. There was no moon or stars. It was impossible to tell if it was still raining as the windows were being lashed by sea spray. Machado sat where he was, smoking in silence. Richard, Matt and Jamie sat at the back of the cabin, out of his way. All three of them were tense and nervous. They hadn’t discussed what they might find in Hong Kong, but now that they were finally on the way, they could imagine what they might be up against. A whole city, millions of people… and the Old Ones infesting everything. They had to be mad to be going in there. But there seemed to be no other way to get Scar out.

Jamie finished his hot chocolate and dozed off. Richard opened his backpack and began to go through his things: he had brought maps, money, a change of clothes. The precious diary – written by Joseph of Cordoba – was also there, sealed in plastic to keep it protected. Matt noticed a glimmer of gold and realized that he was carrying the tumi – the Inca knife.

Richard glanced up. “You never know when it may come in handy,” he said. “Anyway, I didn’t like leaving it behind with that bunch of crooks.” He zipped the backpack shut, then lowered his voice. “What do you think?” he asked.

He was referring to Hector Machado, although he didn’t need to whisper as the captain would never had heard him above the noise of the engines.