Andrew Lane - Death Cloud

Dedicated to the memory of the Young Adult writers whose work I used to devour when I was young: Capt. W. E. Johns, Hugh Walters, Andre Norton, Malcolm Saville, Alan E. Norse and John Christopher; and also to the friendship and support of those members of the latest generation that Im fortunate enough to know: Ben Jeapes, Stephen Cole, Justin Richards, Gus Smith and the incomparable Charlie Higson.

And with grateful acknowledgements to:

Rebecca McNally and Robert Kirby, for having faith; Jon Lellenberg, Charles Foley and Andrea Plunkett, for giving permission; Gareth Pugh, for telling me all about bees; and Nigel McCreary, for keeping me sane on the journey.

The first time Matthew Arnatt saw the cloud of death, it was floating out of the first-floor window of a house near where he was living.

He was scurrying along the High Street in the market town of Farnham, looking for any fruit or crusts of bread that a careless passer-by might have dropped. His eyes should have been scanning the ground, but he kept looking up at the houses and the shops and at the thronging people all around him. He was only fourteen, and as far as he could remember hed never been in a town this large before. In this, the prosperous part of Farnham, the older wood-beamed buildings leaned over into the street, with their upper rooms looming like solid clouds above anybody underneath.

The road was cobbled with smooth, fist-sized stones for part of its length, but some distance ahead the cobbles gave way to packed earth from which clouds of dust rose up as the horses and the carts clattered past. Every few yards sat a pile of horse manure: some fresh and steaming, surrounded by flies; some dry and old, like strands of hay or grass that had been clumped together and somehow stuck.

Matthew could smell the steamy, putrid dung, but he could also smell baking bread and what might have been a pig that had been roasted on a spit above a roaring fire. He could almost see the fat dripping off and sizzling in the flames. Hunger made his stomach clench, and he nearly doubled over with the sudden pain. It had been a few days since hed had any proper food. He wasnt sure how much longer he could go on.

One of the passers-by, a fat man in a brown bowler hat and a dark suit that was showing its age, stopped and extended a hand to Matthew as if to help him. Matthew backed away. He didnt want charity. Charity led to the workhouse or the church for a child with no family, and he didnt want to start out on the path towards either of those destinations. He was doing fine by himself. All he had to do was to find some food. Once he had some food inside him he would be fine.

He slipped away down an alley before the man could take his shoulder, then doubled back round a corner into a street that was so narrow that the upper storeys of the houses were almost touching. A person could climb straight from one bedroom to another on the other side of the street, if they had a mind to.

That was when he saw the cloud of death. Not that he knew what it was, then. That would come later. No, all he saw was a dark stain the size of a large dog that seemed to drift from an open window like smoke, but smoke that moved with a mind of its own, pausing for a moment and then flowing sideways to a drainpipe where it turned and slid up towards the roof. Hunger forgotten, Matthew watched open-mouthed as the cloud drifted over the sharp edge of the roof tiles and vanished out of sight.

A scream split the silence a scream from the open window and Matthew turned and pelted back down the street as quickly as his malnourished legs would carry him. People didnt scream like that when theyd had a surprise. They didnt even scream like that if theyd had a shock. No, in Matthews experience people only screamed like that if they were in mortal fear of their life, and whatever had provoked that scream was not something he wanted to see.

You there! Come here!"

Sherlock Holmes turned to see who was being called and who was doing the calling. There were hundreds of pupils standing in the bright sunlight outside Deepdene School for Boys that morning, each dressed in immaculate school uniform and each with a leather-strapped wooden chest or an over-stuffed pile of luggage sitting in front of him like a loyal dog. Any one of them might have been the target. The Masters at Deepdene made a habit of never referring to the pupils by name it was always You!" or Boy!" or Child!" It made life difficult and kept the boys on their toes, which was probably the reason why they did it. Either that or the Masters had given up trying to remember the names of their pupils long ago; Sherlock wasnt sure which explanation was the most likely. Perhaps both.

None of the other pupils were paying attention. They were either gossiping with the family members who had turned up to collect them or they were eagerly watching the school gates for first sight of the carriage that was going to take them home. Reluctantly, Sherlock swung round to see if the malign finger of fate was pointing his way.

It was. The finger in question belonged in this instance to Mr Tulley, the Latin Master. He had just come round the corner of the school, where Sherlock was standing apart from the other boys. His suit, which was usually covered in chalk dust, had been specially cleaned for the end of term and the inevitable meetings with the fathers who were paying for their boys to be educated, and his mortar board sat straight on his head as if glued there by the Headmaster.

Me, sir?

Yes, sir. You, sir, Mr Tulley snapped. Get yourself to the Headmasters study quam celerrime. Do you remember enough of your Latin to know what that means?

It means straight away, sir.

Then move yourself.

Sherlock cast a glance at the school gate. But sir Im waiting for my father to pick me up.

Im sure he wont leave without you, boy.

Sherlock made one last, defiant attempt. My luggage...

Mr Tulley glanced disparagingly at Sherlocks battered wooden trunk a hand-me-down from his fathers military travels, stained with old dirt and scuffed by the passing years. I cant see anyone wanting to steal it, he said, except perhaps for its historical value. Ill get a prefect to watch it for you. Now cut along.

Reluctantly, Sherlock abandoned his belongings the spare shirts and underclothes, the books of poetry and the notebooks in which he had taken to jotting down ideas, thoughts, speculations and the occasional tune that came into his head and walked off towards the columned portico at the front of the school building, pushing through the crowd of pupils, parents and siblings while still keeping an eye on the gateway, where a scrum of horses and carriages were all trying to get in and out of the narrow gate at the same time.

The main entrance hall was lined with oak panelling and encircled by marble busts of previous headmasters and patrons, each on its own separate plinth. Shafts of sunlight crossed diagonally from the high windows to the black and white tiled floor, picked out by swirling motes of chalk dust. It smelt of the carbolic that the maids used to clean the tiles every morning. The press of bodies in the hall made it likely that at least one of the busts would be toppled over before long. Some of them already had large cracks marring their pure marble, suggesting that every term saw at least one of them smashed on the floor and subsequently repaired.

He wove in and out of the people, ignored by everyone, and eventually found himself exiting the throng and entering a corridor that led off the entrance hall. The Headmasters study was a few yards down. He paused on the threshold, drew a breath, dusted down his lapels and knocked on the door.