Mammon Read online

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any person or entity, including internet search engines or retailers, in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including printing, photocopying (except under the statutory exceptions provisions of the Australian Copyright Act 1968), recording, scanning or by any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written permission of Random House Australia. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  Mammon

  ePub ISBN 9781742750750

  A Random House book

  Published by Random House Australia Pty Ltd

  Level 3, 100 Pacific Highway, North Sydney NSW 2060

  www.randomhouse.com.au

  First published by Random House Australia in 2011

  Copyright © J.B. Thomas 2011

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any person or entity, including internet search engines or retailers, in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying (except under the statutory exceptions provisions of the Australian Copyright Act 1968), recording, scanning or by any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written permission of Random House Australia.

  Addresses for companies within the Random House Group can be found at www.randomhouse.com.au/offices.

  National Library of Australia

  Cataloguing-in-Publication Entry

  Author: Thomas, J.B., 1971–

  Title: Mammon / J.B. Thomas

  ISBN 978 1 74275 074 3 (pbk)

  Target Audience: For secondary school age

  Dewey Number: A823.4

  Cover design by Mathematics, www.xy-1.com

  Cover images by iStockphoto

  Internal design by Midland Typesetters

  Author photo by Lloyd on Admiral

  Typeset and eBook production by Midland Typesetters, Australia

  For Fred and Ann

  Contents

  Prologue

  Part One

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Part Two

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Part Three

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Thirty-Nine

  Forty

  Forty-One

  Acknowledgements

  Author Biography

  IT WAS NEARLY DAWN. The sun seemed to hang behind the earth, teasing a fine gold line along the horizon. Soon it would burst through and punish the city with another day of wracking heat.

  But in a darkened alley, an unnatural frost was on the move, creeping up grimy walls, chasing flies away from rubbish bins, sweeping over rats hiding in gutters.

  And finally, touching the lips of a sleeping boy.

  He snored; his chin dipping with each breath, nudging his collarbone. A blond fringe hung over one eye. He wore a dusky blue t-shirt. A rip had ruined the elite logo and a clump of sweaty chest hair poked through. One hand rested on his filthy jeans, in the other lay a worn snapshot of a little girl perched on a swing.

  His grey canvas backpack lay on its side, surrounded by an unopened pack of chilli noodles, loose banknotes and three empty cans of pre-mix bourbon.

  The frost was now a cloud around his lips, staining his breath. He coughed; icy flecks floated into the air. As he opened his eyes lazily, he noticed the snapshot and sighed. Too much to think about. He jumped, startled by noise from above. Shadows flitted along those walls beyond which bakers yelled sharp, foreign words and cinnamon scents lingered.

  With a groan, the boy bent his head. Bittersweet pain hit him with the stretching. A rumbling in his gut made the boy smile in the direction of the shouting as he pictured himself climbing up those stone stairs one more time into an oak-lined room, where the air was drenched with vanilla; imagined sliding into a soft red booth, could almost feel his tongue tingle with coffee and hot, sugary bread.

  He kicked the empty cans away, his stomach turning at the morning-after stench.

  He glanced sideways tiredly. With a jolt, he jumped up. ‘You found me!’

  Leaning casually against a wall, with curled fingers pressed thoughtfully against his lips, the visitor watched. His dark, neatly trimmed hair sat evenly above a fresh linen collar. He tapped his foot lightly; the dark leather of his shoe seemed to repel the dust.

  At first the boy was shocked and then silently admiring. He shook his head in wonder. Amazing. Not a drip of sweat. So composed. So calm. In this heat.

  He shook his head a second time – as if to banish a clouding in his mind.

  No. He wouldn’t be blindsided now. There was something very wrong here.

  The man radiated frost.

  ‘Sleep well?’ The man watched his own fingers stretching; absorbed by the interchanging of muscle, bone and flesh; his dark eyes glittered with a fascination that was intense, yet fleeting.

  ‘Yeah.’ He tried to pass off a casual shrug. Run. Now.

  ‘Why did you leave?’

  The boy fought a swelling in his throat. Nervous sparks raced along his spine, his neck hairs stood rigid. A month ago he’d seen the violence that now simmered beneath those harsh eyes, that latent anger. He felt its potential. The axeman pacing in the shadows, the shark waiting to strike. ‘It’s in my nature to move around.’

  Why aren’t you running?

  ‘To live like this?’ The man eased off the wall, pausing to smooth his tie with elegant strokes. ‘You look miserable, Jeremy. All you had to do was try. Really try – and you’d have succeeded.’

  Don’t be fooled. Run! The swelling worsened, trapping air in his throat. Claustrophobia hit. Rooftops conspired to close him in.

  He closed his eyes. But I can’t run forever.

  Grinding his teeth together, the boy glanced up and gave the man a firm stare. ‘Look, this thing you want me to do. Why do you want it so badly? I’m not so sure I want to do it at all –’

  ‘Jeremy, if you can open the gateway for me, you’ll know unimaginable power.’ The man stressed the last word. With clenched fists he began a slow, rehearsed walk, his eyes always on the boy’s face, eyes that narrowed now, searching, analysing, probing for a key.

  ‘Hmm. You think you’re just like everyone else, don’t you?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘No. You have the gift, my son.’ He was whispering now, reverently. ‘To bend space and time . . . to your will.’ His dark eyes flashed.


  ‘Secrets of the universe.’

  The man nodded at the photograph and raised his eyebrows. ‘You might be able to change your own history.’

  Tightness hit Jeremy’s throat again, but from tears not terror. Could he really have them back? Lulu, safely curled up in his palm was, in truth, alone in the dark with a ton of earth trapping her. He remembered Dad, demolished by guilt, his head blown apart by the thunder. The rank stench of blood spilling onto carpet. Mum, mad-eyed, feverishly cleaning the wound, pleading with him not to give up; not to leave her alone.

  Her shattering descent into madness.

  Two junked-up years, stumbling around from one cesspit to another until rough voices would come; meaty fists yanking his hair and thrashing him against walls.

  Jeremy looked up at his mentor – the unlikely friend who’d brought him to a new, privileged life. Cars, women, clothes. Toys that had distracted him from the questions he should have asked: What do you really want, and why, oh why, do you sweat icicles?

  ‘Try again for me.’ The man’s voice soothed him, encouraging.

  No! You can’t do it! Run! Now!

  But his eyes flickered to his sister’s face. Sighing, he slid the picture into his pocket. In his peripheral vision he saw the man’s head nod sharply. ‘Yes. Son, you can do this.’

  His palms sweated with fearful anticipation. He’d been here before.

  The man licked his lips, as if tasting a triumph to come.

  Hovering near Jeremy’s face, a white dot quickly grew into a small sphere.

  ‘That’s it!’ The man stepped excitedly towards the boy. But his smile soon fell. The rift was not growing. The man lunged forward. ‘Give it everything you have! Everything!’

  The rift shook – a volcano on the verge of eruption – restrained power needing a final spark; an elusive catalyst by which it would explode into life.

  But Jeremy slumped, pressing his hands against tired knees. ‘Can’t.’

  ‘No,’ the man said, slowly. ‘You can’t, can you.’

  Then, the air fell silent. Jeremy could hear the man’s teeth grind together.

  Panting, he looked into the man’s face. He’d seen this look before, from men who would sell their own children to win the game. ‘I just can’t do it.’ The statement was reckless, Jeremy knew that – but it was courageous, nonetheless. It was the type of courage that comes when there’s nothing to lose. It was a relief, at last, to tell the truth. Time to throw the cards on the table. Coughing, Jeremy glanced up. ‘Anyway, there’s something very wrong . . . about you.’ He curled his lip with distaste. ‘Screw you.’

  A loud crack and Jeremy was airborne, only realising he’d been thrown after crashing on a stack of pallets. Trying to move, he gasped and gave a sharp cry of pain; he’d been impaled by a wooden stake – from which now trickled a stream of blood.

  ‘Screw me? Screw you! You know what your problem is, boy? You’re afraid!

  ‘And now, useless to me.’

  The man’s face froze, lifeless. No spark in those dark eyes.

  Jeremy felt his limbs sag. All his energy seemed to seep out.

  A black cloud began to rise from the back of the man’s head. A horde of rats ran from their gutter.

  A smashing sound and then bricks tumbled, dust puffed into the air. Coughing, Jeremy saw the slash marks of claws on the damaged wall. The dark shape moved forward.

  A warm stickiness streamed down his leg.

  Wincing, he hugged his side. A primal rumbling filled the air and the stickiness streamed some more. Overhead, windows shook. Rhythmic jolts of pain hit as the beast came closer; the alley trembled. A series of low snaps sounded; each slab cracked as though under a great weight. Even in the midst of the fury, Jeremy shook his head in awe. ‘How . . .’ he gasped. ‘What are you?’

  The Shadow Wolf roared, shattering the air, leaving Jeremy’s eyes burning, watering. His hands flew to his ears. Surely they must be bleeding. Frost numbed his cheeks. He squeezed his eyes shut, willing his body to fly away as the thundering pounded his face again.

  ‘Coward! Do you know how long I’ve waited?’

  Something clamped his ankles, cutting in, and then he was hanging. The walls spun, closing in on him. He flew against one – in a surreal instant he saw the dent left behind and the glistening of blood.

  Then, no more.

  The Shadow Wolf raged on, smashing the boy from wall to wall. Its roaring was low and terrible.

  But soon, it tired. Jeremy’s body flew one last time – landing with a squelching sound on a bed of splintered glass and brick dust. A contemptuous growl – for every time this being was freed from its human host, it rejoiced in the unrestrained power – then the cloud began barrelling into the back of the man’s head.

  Cold eyes opened. Only the small streak of light gave hint to the life force once again animating the flesh.

  Reaching into the smooth coolness of his suit pocket, the man slowly drew out a handkerchief, working the silky fabric into a neat triangle and patting the frost from his face.

  With the barest flick of his wrist, he tossed the handkerchief and watched it flutter away, intrigued by the white folds struggling in the warm wind like a dying dove. It went on to tumble past the remains of the runaway boy – but by then the man was walking into the new day.

  ‘Master.’ The elderly servant smiled and bowed. His Lord had just done the impossible: assumed his real form. Sustained it in Earth’s atmosphere. Incredible.

  The man slid into the car, smoothed his tie and slid on a pair of mirrored shades. He tapped his clean, neat fingernails against his knee.

  The old man limped to the driver’s door. Groaning, he slid onto the seat.

  ‘Halphas.’

  ‘My Lord?’

  ‘I am disappointed. Take me home.’

  ‘Yes, Master.’ Halphas pressed the ignition button. The engine roared, startling a group of pigeons that hopped away from the kerb.

  Still, the voice called from the back seat. ‘Halphas.’

  The old man felt a burning at the back of his neck. ‘My Lord?’

  ‘Tonight I will name my new apprentices. They will help us find the next Ferryman.’

  ‘Who have you chosen, Master?’

  Halphas glanced in the rear vision mirror, but Master was staring out of the window now, observing the City’s early morning activity with insatiable interest.

  His City.

  In the alley, a pale-faced man, speckled with flour and sweat, slowly sank onto a stone step, wondering how a boy could have been beaten to death by nothing more than air.

  AT THE EDGE of a lonely continent, between a broad desert and stormy sea, lay Border City.

  To the west, seabirds congregated on top of rocky towers that had prised their way up from the ocean floor. Barrelling waves tore against cliff faces.

  To the south, mist-drenched forests spread for miles.

  To the east, a row of stony-faced mountains guarded the City from the desert’s brutal sands.

  To the north: the Wasteland. Plundered, abandoned, ignored.

  And there, in the middle of it all, stood the great mirrored towers, where the sophisticated few met for coffee on the waterfront or strolled through glass-lined colonnades. In Cold River’s tranquil bays, white hulls bobbed and noise was restricted to refined laughter, or the swoop of a pelican’s wing.

  But when the sun pulled away, the City showed another face. The River: grey, choppy and barren. Soft, respectable tones – sunset against polished glass and steel – gave way to vulgar neon, flesh and fear.

  It was here that the next Ferryman was born.

  * * *

  ‘OKAY, YEAR ELEVENS. Let’s break down the question: how does Plato use the Allegory of the Cave to illustrate how man ca
n believe in a false reality?’ The teacher glanced around the room and laughed. ‘Come on, you guys! It’s not that bad!’

  A groan rumbled through the class. ‘Oh, miss! You must be joking! It’s so hot!’

  The teacher smiled. ‘I know.’ She leaned back on her desk, tapping her fingers against the wood. ‘But just imagine how the prisoners felt next to the fires in Plato’s Cave.’

  Outside, parched leaves hung from weary branches. Birds stalked the ground for puddles, their angry caws cutting the stagnant air. Clouds bulged, threatening rain.

  Students slumped across desks, throwing woeful stares in her direction.

  ‘Come on, people! We’ve been through this!’ She sighed. ‘Just try. That’s all I ask. Start by highlighting the keywords.’

  Grace’s head felt heavy – like the monsoonal grey that passed as the sky. Absently, she coloured in the words that she hoped were key to the question. Her stomach clenched and churned. She’d felt uneasy for days.

  Tomorrow, she might feel better. It was just the heat.

  She drew a hairtie from her pocket and scooped up her long, dark curls into a messy bun. She could feel the leering stares of two boys in the next row. Grace didn’t want to look at them. But of course, she did. One of them, a tall, blond guy, made an obscene gesture with his tongue and two fingers. His friend laughed.

  Grace scowled. ‘Get lost, you pig.’

  Her cheeks burned as she reached for her water bottle. It tipped. Lazily, she watched it fall to the floor. Everything seemed to be in slow motion today. As she leaned down and grabbed the bottle, a small crack in the nearby window glinted, catching her eye.

  It glowed strangely in the afternoon’s grey light. But more – it was moving. Spreading like humid breath on cold glass, swallowing up her reflection.

  Frost.

  Her eyes narrowed. She touched her finger against the pane. It was cold, even though it was a 38-degree day.

  A shadow fell across the window. It was the Tyler boy, Jesse. Trudging; his hands in the pockets of his black sweatshirt, hooded.

  Moisture in her mouth: a telltale watering. She was going to be sick. Nerves twisted her stomach. Her fingers tightened around the bottle.