Blood (20 page)

It was early evening on the Heston Estate. Sadly, despite borrowing one of the names of the local aristocracy, this was no country park. The Heston Estate was a sprawling mass of some eight hundred houses on the eastern edge of the city.

The houses were run-down; stray dogs roamed the area, gangs of boys could often be seen loitering on street corners, looking for any kind of trouble that might alleviate the boredom.

On this particular evening though, the streets were empty because they were being lashed by a hard, cold rain coming in from the east. So no one was there to witness the large black Mercedes limousine that crawled slowly around the estate, the wet roads hissing gently beneath its tires.

The driver was having trouble finding the house he was looking for, partly because of the weather, partly because all the houses looked exactly the same in the darkness and few of the street signs were intact. His passenger, hidden behind tinted windows in the back, was not concerned.

Meanwhile, in 26 Mandela Crescent, Jane Jenkins was watching a soap on television and wondering if she should do something about Mark. Mark Jenkins was her son, fifteen years old, in trouble for about ten of those fifteen years and the only other permanent resident of this house.

He was up in his room at the moment, and the problem wasn't the kind she was used to tackling. For the last week or so, he hadn't wanted to go out; he'd been polite, a lot quieter than usual, and lost in thought a lot of the time. But he'd also done whatever she'd asked him to do around the house, which wasn't like him at all.

In short, in the last week, Mark had become the perfect kid, and that was worrying Jane, so much so that she almost wanted the old Mark back, even with all the headaches he caused, all the problems with the school, the police calling, hanging around with Taz and the rest of that gang. What really scared her was the possibility that he was doing some weird new drug.

The doorbell rang, and for good measure, a knock followed immediately after. With some difficulty, she forced herself up off the sofa and went to the door, taking a quick look in the hall mirror before opening it—she didn't look bad for thirty-three, though she guessed she could do with losing a pound or twenty.

She opened the door and immediately took a step back. Two men in suits stood there—one younger, quite tasty, holding an umbrella for an older guy with short gray hair and pale skin and amazingly blue eyes. She guessed the older guy was about sixty, but he'd probably been a catch twenty years earlier.

“Mrs. Jenkins?” His voice was friendly and moneyed, a luxurious drawl to it, definitely too classy for him to be a policeman or a truant officer—that was a relief.

“Miss, actually. Or Jane.”

He smiled warmly and said, “How do you do, Miss Jenkins. My name is Phillip Wyndham and I'm here as a representative of the Breakstorm Trust. May I come in?”

Immediately suspicious, she said, “What's it about? If you're selling stuff, you're wasting your time.”

“I can assure you, Miss Jenkins, I'm not selling anything. It's about Marcus.”

She nodded and said to herself, “Thought it was too good to be true.” She stepped aside to let Mr. Wyndham and his driver into the house before saying, “It's Mark, by the way. Marcus was just me going stupid when he was born, and he hates it.”

“As you wish,” said Mr. Wyndham, and looked around the small sitting room, which was well looked after, if a little boldly decorated for his tastes. It was also dominated by a very large television on which the volume was deafening.

As if sensing his discomfort, Jane found the remote and turned off the sound before saying, “Sit down. I'll get him.” She walked to the bottom of the stairs and let out an ear-splitting scream, “Mark!”

She walked over and sat down opposite Mr. Wyndham, and without prompting, she said, “I knew there was something wrong. I think that Taz is no good. I've said he's not a good influence, but Mark hasn't even wanted to see him this last week, and that's weird.”

Mr. Wyndham smiled, though he had little idea what she was talking about, and said, “I think you misunderstand, Miss Jenkins. Marcus … Mark isn't in trouble. I'm here as a representative of the Breakstorm Trust to offer Mark an amazing opportunity. You see, the trust is an educational charity, and through our contacts in schools and the community, we select people of exceptional abilities who haven't had the opportunity to shine, and we … well, we give them that opportunity.”

As Mr. Wyndham had been speaking, the boy himself had emerged from the hall and stood looking at the older man. He wasn't particularly striking to look at, little different to most of the other boys on the estate. The only distinguishing feature was the ghost of a scar on his left cheek.

Mr. Wyndham turned and saw him standing there. He smiled and said, “Ah, I'm guessing this is the young man in question. Hello, Mark.”

“Marcus,” said the boy, correcting him.

Mr. Wyndham smiled, as much at Jane Jenkins's expression as at the boy's response.

“Hello, Marcus.”

“Hello,” said the boy and, stepping forwards, shook hands with both Mr. Wyndham and the driver. This was exactly the kind of weirdness that had been so troubling Jane, first with the “Marcus” and then with the handshaking—normal boys of his age didn't shake hands and say hello to men in suits. “What's the amazing opportunity you were talking about?” His voice was surprisingly relaxed and unfazed.

“Well, if you and your mother approve, you'll go on a weeklong course to help acclimatize you, then you'll get to go to a leading private school and finish your education there. All the fees will be paid by the Breakstorm Trust, which will also provide an annual bursary to cover more general expenses.”

Neither the boy nor his mother fully understood what Mr. Wyndham had just said, but they both got the gist of it. At least, Marcus had.

Jane said, “Is it a TV series? You know, like
Boot Camp
or whatever they call it.”

Mr. Wyndham smiled politely and said, “No, Miss Jenkins, this is very much real life. If you agree—and we'll continue to consult you and support Marcus at every step along the way—his life could be completely transformed.”

Jane shrugged and said, “He's done what he wanted since he was born—I'm not gonna interfere now. Whatever Mark wants, I'm cool with that.”

Mr. Wyndham turned once more to the boy and said, “How about it, Marcus? How would you like to complete your education at Marland Abbey School?”

“Is it a boarding school?”

“Yes, you'll be boarding.” He turned to Jane and explained. “We feel it's best for him to make a complete break, at least to begin with.”

Jane nodded. She imagined she'd probably miss having him around the place, but she couldn't see him going off to some expensive school and coming back to Heston every night in a weird uniform.

“Okay, I'll go.”

“Excellent,” said Mr. Wyndham, looking thoroughly delighted. “You know, Marcus, I think you're exactly the kind of young man the Trust has been looking for. I just know you'll achieve everything we want you to achieve in your time at Marland Abbey.”

Marcus didn't respond, but idly traced his finger along the faint white scar on his cheek—sometimes the scar bothered him, and this was one of those times. He knew why, too. He'd known something was coming, he'd sensed it for days, and he guessed this was finally it.

As for Mr. Wyndham, he knew exactly what potential Marcus Jenkins possessed and was convinced that he'd make a trusty foot soldier in the struggles to come. He was also certain of another thing—that the time of those struggles was undoubtedly at hand.

He'd waited patiently for two hundred years, but the prophecies were finally being fulfilled. Evil was at large in the world, and it was his duty to seek it out and destroy it wherever it was to be found. The forces of good had to triumph, and above all, he would not rest until he had destroyed the devil-child himself, that thing of darkness, seat of evil, William of Mercia.