Authors: Justin Richards
The Chaos Code
JUSTIN RICHARDS
For my father,
who enjoyed treasure hunts
and all things historical
Prologue
He was sitting in his study when the monster came. It tapped on the glass of the French windows to be let in. Like he had a choice. It would smash its way through, or blow in under the door if it needed to.
âThere's nothing here,' he told it, undoing the latch. âYou have it all. I've given you everything already. I just want to be left alone.'
But it didn't listen. Maybe it couldn't hear him. It went from room to room, pulling papers from drawers, emptying cupboards, searching everywhere. Like a whirlwind. It
was
a whirlwind. He held his hands in front of his face and he struggled to stay on his feet as the storm swept through the house.
Finally, the creature finished. It had already found the one thing it really wanted â the man it had been sent for.
What it did not know, was that the man had written a letter⦠But when its master found out, he would send another creature to collect the mail.
As Matt watched the rain through the window, the rain watched him back.
He wasn't looking for a face, but it was there. If he had run his finger over the grimy window of the train, tracing the paths of the drips and rivulets and pausing where the water hung in bubbles, then he might have made out the rough features. Mouth, nose, eyes â¦
But he was more interested in watching the way that the tiny drops joined into streams that became unpredictable rivers that ran down the other side of the glass.
When the train got to London, Matt was the first at the door, with his rucksack over one shoulder and his suitcase tilted back on its little wheels. A fifteen-year-old boy eager to get home from boarding school, dark hair in need of a wash, a cut, and a brush. Coat grubby and creased where he'd been sitting on it.
As the train passed under a final bridge, Matt's reflection stared back at him, broken by the spattering
rain. Then back into the grey cloudy daylight, and the reflection was gone. The train shuddered to a halt, jolting Matt sideways. The doors slid open and he joined the unpredictable stream of passengers hurrying to the exit barriers, tickets clutched, jostling and pushing.
Mum was waiting the other side of the barrier, checking her watch. âNine minutes late,' she announced. Then she smiled, as if suddenly remembering this was pleasure rather than business. She pulled an immaculate, small, white handkerchief from the pocket of her immaculate jacket, licked the corner of it and dabbed at Matt's face. âChocolate,' she accused as he brushed her hand away, embarrassed. âAnd have you been using that spot cream I got for you?'
âYes Mum. I can't wait to get home,' Matt said. âThanks for meeting me.' Usually she was working and he got a taxi.
âLet's just grab a coffee while we're here, Matthew,' Mrs Stribling said.
From the fact she said it, and the way she called him âMatthew,' Matt knew he wasn't going home.
There was a Starbucks in the station, and Matt had orange juice. His mouth was dry after the long journey from his school in Havensham. He was quiet, sulking â he'd been looking forward to spending the holidays at Mum's flat in London. It didn't look like that was going to happen now, and he could guess what the alternative was.
Mum had a latte, and Matt thought she'd probably only got that because she thought it wouldn't be so hot and she could drink it quicker. Sure enough, as soon as they were seated: âI have to go in thirteen minutes,' Mum told him.
That was typical of her. So precise. Matt liked to be precise too. He preferred his digital watch that told the exact right time to the second rather than one with a face and hands that you had to look at and work out where everything was to tell the time. But Mum took it to extremes. Thirteen minutes â why not âquarter of an hour,' or âsoon.' She had to be so exact. Probably because of her job.
She used to work for a large computer company, but now she had her own company, though the only employee was herself. She did âcomputer consultancy.' She was into network balancing, and requirements prioritisation, and systems analysis. Matt didn't really understand the business terms or that side of it. But he knew all about computers and how they worked.
That was one of the attractions of coming home. Mum's flat was full of computer hardware and the latest digital kit. Cameras and digital recorders and webcams and DVD-rippers and PCs and Macs and mainframes and even games machines.
âWhy the rush?' he asked. âWhere are we going?' He stressed the âwe' to let her know he wasn't just going to accept it.
Mum sighed and put down her coffee. There was a faint pale line along her top lip from the milk, but Matt didn't tell her. She reached across the table to take his hand. He let her.
âI'm not going to Dad's,' he said.
She took her hand away. âIt won't be for long,' she promised.
âThat's what you said at Christmas.'
âIt wasn't for long then.'
âTwo weeks. That's long enough. I'm staying with you.'
âYou can't,' she said flatly. âI'm sorry. I shan't be here. I've got a job.'
âI can look after myself during the day. I've done it before.'
âThe job isn't in London, Matt. It's not even in this country. It's a marvellous opportunity, and the money's good.'
âGreat.' At least he was âMatt' again. He tried to sound interested: âSo who's it for?'
âI ⦠I can't tell you,' she said, looking round as if she expected someone she knew to be sitting nearby. âClient confidentiality.' She turned back, and laughed to show it was all so silly. âI'm sorry but he â er, they â insist.'
âMum â you're my mum. What if I need to talk to you?'
âMy mobile will work.' She frowned as she said it. âAt least, I think it will. Anyway, I know where you will be.'
âSo do I,' Matt muttered. âEither in the spare bedroom or up to my knees in mud. It's just awful, Mum. I mean, Dad's all right, when you can make him listen to anything you say. But at Christmas my bed was covered in books and papers, there was no food. I mean, at
Christmas
. The village shop was shut for a week and the freezer was full of ice samples from some Antarctic survey.'
Mum smiled. âThat sounds about right,' she admitted. She checked her watch. âI do know what it's like to live with your father,' she said gently.
âYeah,' Matt told her. âAnd you gave up doing it.'
She ignored this. âI've got you a ticket. You'll have to get a taxi from Branscombe, I'm afraid. But your father can pay for that.'
âGive me some money anyway,' Matt said. âHe won't have been to the bank.'
âHe knows you're coming,' she said. But she sorted out a couple of notes from her purse anyway. More than enough.
Matt took the money and the ticket, realising that at some point he had just accepted that he was going. âHe doesn't know I'm coming,' he corrected her. âHe won't remember. He'll be planning some dig, or going through some ancient papers, or writing some lecture about pre-whatever pottery fragments found in an old cellar in Nottingham. Or something.'
Mum drained the last of her coffee, and Matt realise
he had hardly touched his juice. He made one last appeal: âCan't I at least stay with you till you have to leave? Even if it's only a day I can get some shopping done, go to the museums â¦'
âYou hate museums,' she told him. âAnd shops. And I have to be going if I'm going to make my flight. And your train leaves in seventeen minutes.'
âNot going to stay and see me off, then?'
âI have to pack and then catch a plane.' She stood up, expecting him to do the same. Matt stood awkwardly in front of her, knowing what was coming next. Mum gave him a quick hug and pecked him on the cheek. âYou'll manage. You're a big boy now.'
He watched her hurry out of the station, checking her watch on the way. âSo treat me like one,' he said.
Struggling with his luggage, Matt went to look for a book in the newsagents.
There was nothing really that he fancied reading. But he chose a book anyway. He paid for it out of the money Mum had given him. There was still more than enough for a taxi.
As it was, he dozed off almost as soon as the train pulled out of the station. Sure enough, when the train finally drew into the little station at Branscombe Underhill, there was no sign of Dad.
In the waiting room there was a phone that connected directly to a local taxi firm. Matt knew from experience
that he'd probably have to wait half an hour for them to bother to send a car.
âBe about ten minutes,' the lady at the taxi company told him.
Matt hung up the phone. âNo it won't,' he said. And sure enough, it wasn't.
Half an hour later, when the taxi finally arrived, the summer afternoon was clouding over into an autumnal twilight.
âDon't know why anyone wants to live out here,' the driver said as he turned into the narrow lane that was the only road through Woldham. âNot even a pub.'
âThere's a shop,' Matt said. But he had no real enthusiasm for defending the place. The driver was right â it was tiny, it was in the middle of nowhere, there wasn't a pub, and the library came to call once a month in a van. If it remembered.
âSo dark, too.' The driver wiped at his misty windscreen with the back of his hand.
âNo street lights,' Matt pointed out.
âAnd the wind's kicking up something rotten.'
Matt wasn't sure you could really blame the village for that, but he said nothing.
âSo where shall I drop you?' He made it sound as if right here would be best for him.
âJust up on the left, before the war memorial. There's a turning.'
The turning was into an even narrower lane that ran
past just four houses. They were all the same, though built at slightly different angles. Modern, boxy, and boring. Not the sort of house where Matt would ever have expected his Dad to live. There were fields behind, leading down to a river. Maybe he'd chosen the place for the view rather than its character.
Matt paid the driver, and tipped him just enough to avoid getting glared at. He watched the lights of the taxi cutting through the gloomy evening as the car turned in the little close and then drove back down the lane. The car's headlights were somehow too bright and clear and clean for the village. The whole place seemed happier once the taxi was gone and the gathering darkness began to close in once more.
The driver had been right, it was windy. Leaves were swirling like water going down a plughole. Skeletal trees dripped and swung. Clouds skidded across the darkening grey sky and somewhere an owl hooted forlornly. But there was a light on in the house, shining softly through and around the drawn curtains of a side window. Dad's study. Dad was working â probably hadn't noticed the time.
But at least he was here. Matt gathered up his bags and for the first time since he met Mum he felt as if things were not so bad after all.
The feeling did not last. He rang the bell, and waited. And then he waited some more, before sighing heavily
and putting down his holdall. Dad was probably too engrossed in some old, dusty text to hear the bell. Fortunately, Matt had a key. Somewhere.