Darren Shan - Demon Thief

The light passes through the bars at the rear of the park. I clamber over them, almost spearing myself on the spikes at the top, ripping the back of my T-shirt. I start to follow it across the road behind the park, but the driver of an approaching car blows his horn, warning me back. I wait impatiently for him to pass, then hurry after the light. Luckily, it’s not moving very fast, so I soon catch up.

I walk along beside the patch until it passes through the wall of a building. I stare at the wall for a moment, lost, then look backwards, judging the path of the light. It’s come at an angled line from the park. If it continues in that direction, it should come out again at some point to my right on the other side of the building.

I race round the building to the back. Advance to the point where I think the light will emerge, then stand, clenching my hands into fists, waiting, counting the seconds off inside my head. Five… eight… ten… fifteen… twenty-one…

The light reappears on the count of twenty-three, further to my right than I’d calculated. Grinning, I jog over, catch up with it, walk with it to the wall of another building, then quickly make my way to the rear, to wait for it again.

I eventually lose the light at a collection of warehouses. There’s no way for me to get to the rear before the light re-emerges. But that’s not a worry. Because I’ve spotted other lights, floating through the air from different directions, all angling towards the same spot several hundred yards ahead of me. I can’t see where they meet because of the buildings, but I have a good sense of where it is, so I weave through the streets. There’s no need to bother with the lights anymore, just head for the point of intersection.

Ten minutes later I round a corner and see a handful of lights penetrating the walls and roof of a large building in the middle of a row of restaurants, pubs and shops. There are people in front of the building, waiting to get in. As I edge closer I see that they’re mostly teenagers dressed in leather jackets, ripped jeans, fishnet stockings. Many have spiky, coloured hair and chains dangling from their ears, noses and lips. They look quite frightening. Not as frightening as demons, but pretty scary as humans go.

I hear music coming from inside the building and realise this is a concert. It’s harsh, ugly music, loud and unpleasant, very fast. It sets my ears ringing, even from this far outside.

I stop close to the crowd. There are a couple of men at the front door, dressed differently. They’re the ones in charge, taking money from the people who want to go to the concert, letting in a few at a time. As I watch, the doormen turn away a girl and three boys. A row develops. I hear the girl shouting that they’re over eighteen. One of the doormen laughs and tells them to produce ID or leave.

This isn’t going to be easy. If they won’t let those four in, they certainly won’t let in someone like me. I’ll have to try a bluff, say that my dad—maybe an older brother would be better—is in there. It probably won’t work, but I’ve got to give it a go.

I listen to the teenagers chatting about the concert, gathering as much info as I can. They call it a punk concert. There are several bands on the bill. Names like the Clamps, Thunderballs, the Damnable. When I’m ready, I walk boldly to the front of the line and smile at the doormen. “Excuse me,” I say politely. “Is this where the Clamps are playing?”

The doormen squint at me. One grunts, “Yeah. But it’s over-eighteens.”

“I know,” I reply. “But my brother’s in there. I need to find him. Mum and Dad have gone out for the night. He was supposed to leave the key to the back door for me, but he must have taken it with him. I can’t get in without it. Can I pop in and get the key off him? I’d leave again immediately.”

The doormen look at each other, then one of them says, “What’s his name?”

I’m about to say Art, but that’s not a common name. So I say “John” instead.

“John what?” the doorman asks.

Again, Fleck isn’t common, so I say the first name that comes to me. “Smith.”

“John Smith.” The doormen laugh.

“You’ve got to admire his nerve,” one of them says.

“Yeah, but not enough to let him in,” the other chuckles, then jerks his thumb at me. “Nice try. Now clear off.”

“You don’t understand,” I gasp. “I can’t get in without the key. I have to—”

“I can look for him if he really exists,” the first doorman cuts in. “But if I go in there and call for a John Smith and don’t find one—or find a few who aren’t your brother—I’m going to be very angry. So have a good long think about it, then tell me—do I stay or do I go?”

“You don’t have to do that. I’ll look for him. He’s a bit… he’s slightly deaf. He wouldn’t hear you calling. I need to go in myself, to look for…”

The doorman takes a step forward, crouches and in a low, foul curse tells me to go away. Then he returns to his post and waves forward the next few punks in line.

I’ve blown it. Defeated, I slink away, ignoring the catcalls of the punks, and find a quiet spot where I can think up my next approach.

More lights are floating into the building, faster now. I could wait until the concert’s over, then break in, but I don’t think I have much time. So I go looking for another entrance, figuring there must be a fire door at the rear.

A narrow, dirty alley runs behind the shops and pubs. Rubbish bags all over the place, empty cardboard boxes, bottles and cans. Dried blood, vomit and dog crap. I wade through the mess, trying to find the building where the concert’s taking place. The noise guides me and a minute later, I’m standing outside a pair of large doors, which are rattling from the vibrations of the music.

I try opening the doors, but they’re locked from the other side. I push and pull, kick and punch, to no effect. I look for windows to sneak through, but there are only a couple and they’re both bricked over.

Back to the doors. They can’t remain shut all night. People will have to come through eventually. I’m sure they’ll be opened at the end of the concert, but that might be too late—the lights may have stopped by then. I just have to hope that someone comes through before that, for fresh air or to be sick.

There are a few rubbish bins to the right of the doors. I crouch behind them and wait, planning on sneaking in if the doors open. Not a great plan, but in the absence of anything better, it’s my only hope.

Ten minutes pass. Fifteen. Twenty. Thirty. I’m truly cold now. I don’t think the sun has ever shone directly on this horrible hole of an alley. My nose is running. I wipe the back of my hand across it, but that doesn’t do much good.

The lights are moving very quickly, in greater numbers, powering through the walls and roof. I think a window is going to open soon. Maybe there’s a witch like Mrs. Egin inside, or perhaps the music is summoning the demons—this is the sort of din I imagine the Demonata would love.

Maybe some of them are coming to check out the concert.

I grin as I picture Cadaver and the vulture-headed demon slipping through a window between the two universes to dance with the punks. As I’m grinning, the doors open and two men step out into the alley, a wave of metallic music bursting through with them. I’m immediately alert, praying for them to turn left so I can duck in without them seeing.

But they stand where they are, looking around. One is a punk, with jeans, a leather jacket, no T-shirt, a thin black scarf knotted around his throat, spiky purple hair, a ring through his nose. Scrawny. Not much older than me. The other is wearing an army-type uniform, boots and a beret. A bit older than the punk and much bigger. There are letters tattooed on his knuckles, but I can’t read them from here.