The Chaos Code (2 page)

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.

Matt got himself a drink of water, rinsing the mug well first. His hand was shaking, and the more he tried to control it, the more it shook. He had been putting it
off, he realised, but he should really check the rest of the house. Maybe Dad was asleep in bed. Maybe he'd taken a sleeping pill or been up all the previous night working, or… Matt wanted to believe it, wanted to open the bedroom door and see his father staring blearily back at him and asking what time it was. What
day
it was, even. But he was terribly afraid that if he found Dad at all, it would be lying on the floor – attacked by the same person who had grabbed Matt.

The house was empty. Every room was a mess, almost every floor covered with papers and books and journals. Even the bathroom. But there was no one – no Dad, and no intruder. Matt was sure of that. He was alone in the house now.

Without really thinking about it, he went back to Dad's study. He rubbed at his face, where it was sore – from the rough hand that had grabbed him? Or from where he had hit the floor?

He checked his watch and was astonished to see that several hours had passed since he arrived at the house. It must have been some bump on the head. He should check the answerphone, he decided. Look to see if there was a scrawled note by the phone, telling him Dad was out and not to worry and he'd be back soon. And if not … What? Should he call the police? It seemed sensible, except – what would they say? What would
he
say?

He mentally went through the conversation he might have. Was there any sign of a break-in? Well, no, not
really. Had Matt's father ever just gone off before without leaving any message or any indication of where he might be? Actually yes, all the time. Did Matt see who attacked him? No. Was he sure he had actually been attacked? Any signs of the intruder? No, Matt thought. They'd say it was all in his imagination. He was sure it wasn't, but there was no way he could convince anyone else of that. No real evidence at all. Except …

There were
footprints
. Matt saw them as he turned to go. A trail of pale, sandy marks led past the desk to the French windows. He had not noticed them before. But then, he had not been looking, and his vision had still been blurred and speckled from the blow. Curious, Matt followed them, opened the windows, and stepped out onto the patio outside.

The moon had struggled through the clouds and combined with the light from inside the study, Matt could see that the footprints continued across the paving slabs and to the lawn.

He stood at the edge of the patio, trying to make out if there were marks on the grass – indented foot marks, or more sand … Where had the sand come from? Where did it lead? He shuddered as he wondered why anyone would walk out across the back garden, where there were just fields and the river, rather than round to the front of the house and the lane. Unless it was Dad …

Matt stared into the night, out over the garden. For a moment, he thought he saw a dark shadowy figure
standing at the fence, in front of the field. A cloud covered the moon for an instant and the wind picked up, whipping the trees into a frenzy of thrashing branches. Matt stepped back, out of the light, afraid he might be seen – that someone might be watching him.

When the moon returned, a moment later, the figure was gone. The sandy footprints had also disappeared, blown away by the breeze and scattered across the garden. Matt stepped back inside. He shivered, and not just from the cold of the night.

It was late and his head was throbbing again. There was no message on the phone or scribbled near it. Matt walked once more round the house.

Everywhere was a mess, but nothing seemed to be missing. Except his dad. He thought again about calling the police, but having to explain why he was alone in the house and then that he had no idea if there had even been a break-in still didn't really appeal. There was no sign of anyone forcing their way in. He couldn't be sure anyone would believe that the mess in the kitchen – and everywhere else – wasn't business as usual for Dad. And whether he convinced them there was something wrong or not, it would be hours before he would get to bed. Assuming they let him stay in the house alone. Would they put him in a hotel? Or a police cell? Could they do that? He didn't want to find out.

So he rang Mum instead. Her mobile was switched off and offered to take a message. The flat number connected
at once to an answering machine that told him she was away and to try her mobile. He hung up while he thought about what he could tell her. But he really couldn't think of anything. Maybe she was on her plane. There was nothing she could do, and no point in bothering her. She'd just tell him Dad had wandered off somewhere and would be back soon and not to worry.

The only room that seemed reasonably tidy was the spare room where Matt stayed when he was visiting. Even Dad's bedroom had several large chunks of stone piled up by the bed – they were carved, ornate, like bits from ancient columns or salvaged from an old cathedral. So with some relief, Matt dragged his bags into the spare room and slumped on the bed.

Still feeling dazed and woozy, Matt got undressed. He climbed into bed with a mouth tasting of toothpaste and wearing his pyjamas. Just as he pulled the covers back up, Matt suddenly realised there was an easy way to tell if Dad was away or had disappeared – whatever that meant. He all but ran down stairs.

There was a door from the kitchen into the garage. It was locked, but the key was in the door. Matt opened the door and felt for the light. He breathed a sigh of relief as the fluorescent tube flickered to life. The garage was empty. Dad's car was gone.

Feeling much better, Matt went back to bed. Dad had driven off somewhere – that was all there was to it.
He'd forgotten that Matt was coming, or mistaken the date, or never got Mum's message. Everything was fine, Matt tried to convince himself as he yawned. A mess, but fine. Apart from the bump on the back of Matt's head, but he ignored that. The pain was almost gone now anyway, just a dull ache. He'd fallen. Got scared and fainted. Whatever.

Matt hesitated in the hallway, sure that something had changed – something was different from when he had arrived. His luggage was gone, but that wasn't it … Must be his imagination he decided as he went back upstairs. He slipped off to sleep, sure that by the time he woke in the morning Dad would be back and the events and worry of the evening would seem like a bad dream.

The sound of whistling and the slam of a car door woke Matt. It was the early morning of another grey day. He recognised the whistling – it wasn't Dad. It was the postman.

The post.

That was what was different in the hall. There had been a pile of post under the letter box – he'd assumed that Dad simply hadn't bothered to pick it up. And then, when he checked the garage, the post was gone. He remembered the muddy footprints across the hall floor, and the similar, sandy marks in the study. Had someone
broken in just to steal the letters? What was the point of that? Did they somehow know Dad was expecting something valuable in the mail? But that would mean someone knew an awful lot about Dad. Like they'd been watching him, examining his life. Matt felt cold at the thought. Somehow that was even more of an intrusion than a break-in.

He ran to check Dad's room – empty. He stumbled downstairs, almost tripping on one of the books at the side of the stairs. He kicked it aside with annoyance and it tumbled down into the hall. A bunch of letters was appearing through the letter box and fell to the floor. The book skidded into them.