Anthony Horowitz - Evil Star

As ever, Pedro was already moving. Matt followed him as he plunged into a maze of narrow streets and passageways, none of them paved, all of them covered in rubbish and other debris. Only now that he was in the middle of it all did Matt see that less than half the houses were built of brick. Most of them had been made of cardboard, corrugated iron, straw mats, plastic sheeting or a mixture of all four.

They came to a sort of square where a group of old women in bright shawls and bowler hats squatted beside a rusty oil drum that had been turned into a makeshift oven. They were cooking some sort of stew, in evaporated milk cans that they had beaten flat and made into pans. A few scrawny chickens pecked hopelessly at the rubble, and a dog – it was hard to be sure if it was alive or dead – lay stretched out in the sun. There was a terrible smell of sewage. Matt covered his nose and mouth with his hand. He was amazed that anyone could live here, yet Pedro barely seemed to notice it.

Matt was aware of the women looking at him curiously. He wondered what they must think. He was grubby and dishevelled, but even so, his clothes were new and expensive… certainly compared to what they were wearing. In their eyes, he would be a rich, European kid and he doubted that many of those showed up around here. He nodded at them and hurried on after Pedro.

They were climbing further up the hillside. The effort was hurting Matt’s chest – he could feel his ribs aching – and he was beginning to wonder how long he could keep going when they arrived at a small, brick building, with two windows covered from the inside with some sort of sacking. Pedro cupped a hand, gesturing him to come in.

Was this where he lived? Suddenly apprehensive, Matt followed him through the doorway. There was no door. He found himself in a square, box-like space and as his eyes got used to the lack of light, he made out a wooden table, two chairs, a Primus stove – the sort of thing he’d use to go camping – a few tins and a low, narrow bed. Then he saw that there was a man lying on the bed. Pedro was squatting beside him, talking excitedly. Slowly, the man sat up.

He was about sixty years old, wearing a suit that looked about the same age. He had slept in it and the material was terribly crumpled. Nearly all the buttons were missing and his shirt hung outside his trousers. He was unshaven, with grey stubble spreading around a mouth that was thin and rather cruel. The man’s eyes were bloodshot and sly. For a long minute he said nothing at all, looking at Matt as if he was weighing him up, trying to work out what he might be worth. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and swallowed. Then, at last, he spoke.

“Welcome,” he said.

It was the first friendly word of English Matt had heard since he had been separated from Richard and he felt a flood of relief. But at the same time, examining the man, he began to wonder if his troubles were yet over. Certainly this wasn’t the saviour he had been hoping for.

“Pedro tells me that you are American,” the man said. His English accent was unattractive. Or maybe it was the suspicious tone of his voice, the way he drawled the words.

“No. I’m English,” Matt said.

“From England!” The man was amused. “From London?”

“I flew from London. But I live in a place called York.”

“York.” He repeated the word but had obviously never heard of it. “Pedro says that you are alone. That you were beaten by the police. That they were going to arrest you.”

“Yes. Can you thank him for helping me?”

“He does not need your gratitude. What makes you think he wants anything from you?”

The man reached down beside the bed and produced a bottle, half filled with some transparent liquid. He drank and as he lowered it, Matt caught the whiff of alcohol. Next he took out half a cigar from his jacket pocket and lit it. All the time, his eyes never left the new arrival.

“Pedro says you have money,” he said.

Matt hesitated – but once again he knew he had no choice.

He took out the ten-pound note and gave it to the man.

The man turned the note in his hands, then slid it into his jacket pocket with a twitch of the lips that might have been a smile. A moment later, he snapped something at Pedro. Pedro scowled. The man waited. Pedro slipped Matt’s watch off his wrist and handed it over.

“What is your name?” the man asked.

Once again, Matt hesitated. What name should he use? But there was no point trying to pretend he was someone he wasn’t. The fake passport had already proved itself to be useless. “I’m Matt,” he said.

“And I am Sebastian.” The man blew out smoke. It hung in the air, silvery grey. “It seems that you need help, my friend.”

“I haven’t got any more money to give you,” Matt muttered angrily.

“Your money and your watch will buy me food. But right now, I think, they are of no use to you. If you want them, take them and go. You will probably be dead, or in jail, before the sun comes down. But if you want my help, be polite to me. You are in my house. Remember that.”

Matt bit his lip. Sebastian was right. The money was irrelevant. “Who are you?” he asked. “What is this place?”

“This community has a name,” Sebastian replied. “The local people call it Ciudad del Veneno. In English, you would say… Poison Town. They call it that because of the amount of disease that there is here. Cholera. Bronchitis. Pleurisy. Diphtheria. None of us has any right to live in this place. We have stolen this land and built our homes. But the authorities never come here. They are too scared.”

Matt looked around, almost afraid to breathe.

“Don’t worry, Matt.” Sebastian smiled, showing two gold-capped teeth. “There is no illness in this house or in this street. And nobody understands why. Nine of us live here. And there are seven more next door. We have nothing… but we have our health.”

“Does Pedro live here?”

Pedro glanced up, hearing his name. Until now, he had been examining Matt with a look of mistrust. But he had shown no interest in what was being said.

“He sleeps on the floor, right where you are standing now. He works for me. He and the other children. But why are we wasting time, talking about him? There are a million kids like him in Lima. They live. They die. They are of no use at all. But an English boy in Poison Town, that is another matter. How do you come to be here, Matt? Why are the police looking for you? You must tell me everything and then we will see how we can help. If we can help. If we want to…”

Everything?

Matt didn’t know where to start. His story was so huge. It had swallowed up his life. And where did he begin? With the death of his parents six years ago, or his involvement with Raven’s Gate and the Nexus? It was hopeless. Matt knew that. He could talk all day and this man wouldn’t believe a word of it.

“I can’t explain it all to you,” he said. “I came to Peru because something bad is about to happen and there are people who thought I could stop it. There were two of us. Me and a friend. His name is Richard Cole and he’s older than me… twenty-five. Neither of us wanted to come here but we were sent.”

“To stop this thing from happening.”

“Yes. I have no passport. The passport I was given is a fake. It was meant to protect me. But the moment I arrived, I was attacked. Richard was kidnapped and the police tried to arrest me. There was a police captain. He said he was working for someone called Diego Salamanda.”

Sebastian had been listening to all this with a look of puzzlement and disbelief. The mention of Salamanda was the first thing to provoke any real reaction. His eyes narrowed and he allowed a trickle of cigar smoke to escape from the corner of his mouth. “Salamanda!” he exclaimed. “Do you know who he is?”