Anthony Horowitz: Necropolis

But right now, the two monks were watching her too closely. They led her out with one standing next to her and the other directly behind, so close that she could actually smell them. Neither man had washed, not for a long time. As they reached the corridor, Scarlett hesitated and felt a hand pushing her roughly forward. She turned left. The three of them set off together.

Where was she? The place had the feel of an old palace or a monastery, but one thing was certain – it had been abandoned long ago. Everything about it was broken down and neglected, from the peeling walls to the paved floor, which was slanting and uneven with some sort of mould growing through the cracks. Naked light bulbs hung on single wires (so at least there was electricity) but they were dull and flickering, barely able to light the way. The air was damp and there was a faint smell of sewage.

Scarlett noticed an oil painting in a gilt frame. It showed a crucifixion scene, but the colours were faded, the canvas torn. An antique cabinet with two iron candlesticks stood beneath it, one door open and papers scattered on the floor. The three of them turned a corner and for the first time she was able to see outside. A series of arches led onto a terrace with a garden beyond. Scarlett stopped dead. Her worst fears had been realized. She knew now that she definitely wasn’t in England.

The garden was covered in snow. There were trees with no leaves, their branches heavy with the stuff. The ground was also buried and, in the distance, barely visible in the darkness, she could see white-topped mountains. There were no other buildings, no lights showing anywhere. The monastery was in some sort of wilderness – but how had she got here? Had she been knocked out and put on a plane? Scarlett searched back in her memory but there was nothing there… nothing to indicate a journey, leaving England or arriving anywhere else. Then one of the monks jabbed her in the back and she was forced to start moving again.

They came to a hallway, lit by a huge chandelier, not electric but jammed with rows of candles, at least a hundred of them, the wax dripping slowly down and congealing into a series of growths that reminded Scarlett of the sort of shapes she had once seen in a cave. Some of it had splattered onto a round table beneath. An empty bottle lay on its side along with dirty plates and glasses, mouldering pieces of bread. There had been a dinner here – days, maybe weeks before. There were no rats or cockroaches. It was too cold.

Several doors led out of the hallway. The two monks led her to the nearest of them. One of them opened it. The other pushed her inside. He had hurt her and Scarlett spun round and swore at him. The monk just smiled and backed away. The other man went with him. The door closed.

She turned back and examined her new surroundings. This was the only half-way comfortable room she had seen so far. It was furnished with a rug on the floor, two armchairs, bookshelves and a desk. It was warmer too. A coal fire was burning in a grate and although the flames were low she could feel the heat it was giving out and smell it in the air. More paintings hung on the walls, also with religious subjects. There was a window, but it had become too dark to see outside.

A man was sitting behind the desk. He also wore a habit, but his was black. So far he had said nothing but his eyes were fixed on Scarlett and, with an uneasy feeling, she walked over to him. He was the oldest man she had seen – at least twenty years older than the others, with the same bald head and sunken eyes. There were tufts of white hair around his ears and he had thick white eyebrows that could have been glued in place. His nose was long and too thin for his face. His fingers, spread out across the surface of the desk, were the same. He was watching Scarlett intensely, and as she drew closer she saw that there was a growth – a sty – sitting on one of his eyes. The whole socket was red and dripping. It was as if, like the rest of the building, he was rotting away. Scarlett shuddered and felt sick.

The man still hadn’t spoken. Scarlett drew level with him so that the desk was between them. Despite everything, she had decided that she wasn’t going to let him intimidate her. “Who are you?” she demanded. “Where am I? Why have you brought me here?”

His eyes widened in surprise. At least, one of them did. The diseased eye had long since lost any movement. “You are English?” he said.

Scarlett was taken by surprise. She hadn’t expected him to speak her language. “Yes,” she said.

“Please. Sit down…” He gestured at one of the chairs. “Would you like a hot drink? Some tea should be arriving soon.”

Scarlett shook her head. “I don’t want any tea,” she snapped. “I want to go back where I came from. Why are you keeping me here?”

“I asked you to sit down,” the monk said. “I would suggest that you do as you are told.”

He hadn’t raised his voice. He didn’t even sound threatening. But somehow Scarlett knew it would be a mistake to disobey him. She could see it in his eyes. The pupils were black and dead and slightly unfocused. They were the sort of eyes that might belong to someone who was mad.

She sat down.

“That’s better,” he said. “Now, let’s introduce ourselves. What is your name?”

“I’m Scarlett Adams.”

“Scarlett Adams.” He repeated it with a sort of satisfaction, as if that was what he had expected to hear. “Where are you from?”

“I live in Dulwich. In London. Please, will you tell me where I am?”

He lifted a single finger. The nail was yellow and bent out of shape. “I will tell you everything you wish to know,” he said. His English was perfect although it was obvious that it wasn’t his first language. He had an accent that Scarlett couldn’t place and he strung his words together very carefully, like a craftsman making a necklace. “But first tell me this,” he went on. “You really have no idea how you came here?”

“No.” Scarlett shook her head. “I was in a church.”

“In London?”

“Yes. I went through a door. One of the people here grabbed hold of me. That’s all I can remember.”

He nodded slowly. His eyes had never left her and Scarlett felt a terrible urge to look away, as if somehow he was going to swallow her up.

“You are in Ukraine,” the man said, suddenly.

“Ukraine?” Everything seemed to spin for a minute. “But that’s…”

It was somewhere in Russia. It was on the other side of the world.

“This is the Monastery of the Cry for Mercy. I am Father Gregory.” He looked at his guest a little sadly, as if he was disappointed that she didn’t understand. “Your coming here is a great miracle,” he said. “We have been waiting for you for almost twenty years.”

“That’s not possible. What do you mean? I haven’t been alive for twenty years.” Scarlett was getting tired of this. She was feeling sick with exhaustion, with confusion. “How come you speak English?” she asked. She knew it was a stupid question but she needed a simple answer. She wanted to hear something that actually made sense.

“I have travelled all over the world,” Father Gregory replied. “I spent six years in your country, in a seminary near the city of Bath.”

“Why did you say you’ve been waiting for me? What do you mean?”

The door suddenly opened and one of the monks came in, carrying a bronze tray with two glasses of tea. Scarlett guessed that Father Gregory must have ordered it before she was brought in because there was no obvious method of communication in the office, no telephone or computer, nothing modern apart from a desk lamp throwing out a pool of yellow light. The monk set down the tray and left.

“Help yourself,” Father Gregory said.