The Chaos Code Read online

  THE CHAOS CODE

  JUSTIN RICHARDS

  For my father,

  who enjoyed treasure hunts

  and all things historical

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Books by Justin Richards

  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.

  ‘There’s nothing here,’ he told it, undoing the latch. ‘You 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 – 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.

  Chapter 1

  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 …

  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. ‘Nine 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. ‘Chocolate,’ she accused as he brushed her hand away, embarrassed. ‘And have you been using that spot cream I got for you?’

  ‘Yes Mum. I can’t wait to get home,’ Matt said. ‘Thanks for meeting me.’ Usually she was working and he got a taxi.

  ‘Let’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 ‘Matthew,’ 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 – 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: ‘I 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 – why not ‘quarter of an hour,’ or ‘soon.’ 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 ‘computer 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.

  ‘Why the rush?’ he asked. ‘Where are we going?’ He stressed the ‘we’ 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.

  ‘I’m not going to Dad’s,’ he said.

  She took her hand away. ‘It won’t be for long,’ she promised.

  ‘That’s what you said at Christmas.’

  ‘It wasn’t for long then.’

  ‘Two weeks. That’s long enough. I’m staying with you.’

  ‘You can’t,’ she said flatly. ‘I’m sorry. I shan’t be here. I’ve got a job.’

  ‘I can look after myself during the day. I’ve done it before.’

  ‘The job isn’t in London, Matt. It’s not even in this country. It’s a marvellous opportunity, and the money’s good.’

  ‘Great.’ At least he was ‘Matt’ again. He tried to sound interested: ‘So who’s it for?’

  ‘I … I can’t tell you,’ she said, looking round as if she expected someone she knew to be sitting nearby. ‘Client confidentiality.’ She turned back, and laughed to show it was all so silly. ‘I’m sorry but he – er, they – insist.’

  ‘Mum – you’re my mum. What if I need to talk to you?’

  ‘My mobile will work.’ She frowned as she said it. ‘At least, I think it will. Anyway, I know where you will be.’

  ‘So do I,’ Matt muttered. ‘Either 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. ‘That sounds about right,’ she admitted. She checked her watch. ‘I do know what it’s like to live with your father,’ she said gently.

  ‘Yeah,’ Matt told her. ‘And you gave up doing it.’

  She ignored this. ‘I’ve got you a ticket. You’ll have to get a taxi from Branscombe, I’m afraid. But your father can pay for that.’

  ‘Give me some money anyway,’ Matt said. ‘He won’t have been to the bank.’

  ‘He 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. ‘He doesn’t know I’m coming,’ he corrected
her. ‘He 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: ‘Can’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 …’

  ‘You hate museums,’ she told him. ‘And shops. And I have to be going if I’m going to make my flight. And your train leaves in seventeen minutes.’

  ‘Not going to stay and see me off, then?’

  ‘I 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. ‘You’ll manage. You’re a big boy now.’

  He watched her hurry out of the station, checking her watch on the way. ‘So 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.

  ‘Be about ten minutes,’ the lady at the taxi company told him.

  Matt hung up the phone. ‘No 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.

  ‘Don’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. ‘Not even a pub.’

  ‘There’s a shop,’ Matt said. But he had no real enthusiasm for defending the place. The driver was right – 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.

  ‘So dark, too.’ The driver wiped at his misty windscreen with the back of his hand.

  ‘No street lights,’ Matt pointed out.

  ‘And the wind’s kicking up something rotten.’

  Matt wasn’t sure you could really blame the village for that, but he said nothing.

  ‘So where shall I drop you?’ He made it sound as if right here would be best for him.

  ‘Just 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 – 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.

  He fumbled in his pocket and finally managed to extricate his set of keys – school locker, suitcase, Mum’s flat and Dad’s house. It was difficult to see where the hole in the lock was, so Matt pushed the key at the rough area and moved it round, waiting for it to slide into the keyhole.

  But instead the door moved. It wasn’t locked. It wasn’t even shut properly. The hall was in darkness. Matt pushed the door fully open and hefted his luggage inside.

  ‘Dad – it’s me!’ he called.

  No answer. He found the light switch and the hall was bathed in sudden white light. It was a mess. Muddy footprints criss-crossed the bare wooden floor. Unopened post lay beneath the letter box, and there was a pile of papers by the study door. It had toppled over, sending pages scattering across the doorway.

  Matt dragged his case into the living room and dumped it by the sofa. Not that you could see much of the sofa under the books and papers that were strewn across it.

  ‘He’s getting worse,’ Matt muttered. ‘Dad!’ he shouted again. ‘I’ll put the kettle on. If I can find it.’ Dad lived on coffee, and Matt held out little hope that he’d find Coke or lemonade in the fridge. There was a door from the living room through a tiny dining room to the kitchen. The dining table, and most of the chairs round it, were also piled with papers and journals. So, no surprise there.

  The kitchen looked like the scene of a major disaster. Matt switched on the light to be greeted by the sight of dirty dishes and cooking utensils. Pots and pans were everywhere – even on the floor. There were dirty mugs on every available surface. Bits of broken plates lay scattered across the worktops and on the floor, and the fridge door was open. Matt didn’t dare look inside, just pushed the door shut. The fridge was humming loudly in protest as it tried to keep cool.

  ‘Keep cool,’ Matt said out loud. ‘What’s happened here?’ This was worse than usual – worse than it should be. Even without the broken plates, he was beginning to sense that something was wrong. ‘Dad?’ he called again, but he wasn’t calling so loudly now – a plea more than a shout for attention. What was going on?

  More anxious with every passing moment, Matt went back to the hall. He hesitated outside the study. Should he knock on the door? But what if there was a problem. What if Dad was ill, or … Or what? Only one way to find out.

  He pushed open the door.

  It was difficult to tell if the study was in more of a mess than usual. The light was on and the curtains over the side window were drawn. But the French windows behind Dad’s desk were standing open. The wind was blowing papers off the desk and across the floor. The desk light was on, but angled upwards, towards the ceiling where shadows danced and fought frantically.

  The floor was a mess – as if someone had emptied the desk drawers and every filing cabinet across it. Books had been pulled from the shelves and lay bent and twisted. Matt looked round in open-mouthed amazement, his heart thumping in his chest.

  And a hand clamped over his open mouth, cutting off his cry of surprise. Rough, sharp, like sandpaper, he felt the palm of the hand biting into his face as he was dragged backwards. Someone had been standing behind the door, waiting for him. Matt struggled to break free, his only view of his attacker a huge shapeless shadow entwined with his own across the floor. But now the hand was over his nose as well – cutting off the air. He was gasping and wheezing, desperately trying to breath.

  The room turned and swam. Papers blew off the desk and spiralled down. The shadows darkened and the carpet seemed to be hurtling towards Matt’s face.

  Then everything was dark.

  The wind had dropped, though the French windows were still open. It was completely dark outside now. Matt’s head was
throbbing, and he had to blink to get rid of the spots of light in front of his eyes.

  He picked himself up from the floor and stumbled over to close the French windows. What had happened? It all seemed hazy now, like a bad dream. Matt turned quickly – suddenly afraid there was someone behind him, ready to attack again. But the room was empty. There was no one there. Had they gone? How long had he been lying on the floor? He walked quickly and cautiously to the windows and pulled them shut. Then he locked them. A burglary? But then, where was Dad?

  Maybe, Matt thought, Dad had gone to the station and missed him. Maybe he was there, waiting for Matt to arrive on the next train. Still wary and disorientated, he wandered back to the living room, his heart racing with every shadow he passed. He almost expected them to solidify and reach out at him with grey, shapeless hands. He took a deep breath and told himself not to be so stupid. Whoever had been there was gone now. Probably. The only sound was Matt’s own anxious breathing.

  Clearing a space on the sofa, Matt flopped down. He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands and began to feel a bit better. Someone had been here, he was sure of it. OK, the place was always a mess. But it seemed worse than ever – the stuff strewn across the study floor; the broken crockery in the kitchen. A rough hand across Matt’s mouth … Looking up he saw the telly and DVD player were still sitting in the corner of the room. In fact, there didn’t seem to be anything missing – it was just untidy. So maybe not a burglary. But why break in and take nothing?

  In the kitchen there was an old, brown teapot on a shelf above the worktop. The spout was chipped on the side facing away, so you couldn’t see. Inside, Dad kept spare cash – odd notes to pay the milkman and provide funds when he’d forgotten to go to the bank. If the teapot was empty …

  Well, actually that wouldn’t prove anything, Matt realised as he went back to the kitchen. Except maybe Dad had not been to the bank for a while and the milk and papers needed paying for.

  But the teapot was lying broken on the counter top. The spout had been knocked off, and the handle cracked. The lid was lying close by, and several ten pound notes were sticking out of the debris. So, not a robbery. Not for money at any rate. Had he really been attacked – grabbed and thrown to the floor? Or had he fallen somehow? The more he thought about it now, the less certain he was of what he really remembered. It had all happened so quickly. Could he have fallen, or fainted? It had been a long day. Long, and stressful, and he was hot and bothered and probably dehydrated after the journey. But he had been so sure. He could almost feel the sandpaper texture of the rough hand on his face. He could remember the pressure, the blackness closing in, and he shuddered at the memory.