The Chaos Code Read Free Page B

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 someonebroken 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.
    Matt ran to the door and yanked it open. The postman was already on his way to the next house. He’d left the van’s engine running and it was puffing white exhaust into the cold morning as it stuttered and chugged.
    â€˜Hi there,’ Matt shouted.
    The postman turned. ‘Morning. You staying again?’
    â€˜Just for a bit. You haven’t seen my dad have you?’
    â€˜Not for a day or two,’ the postman admitted. ‘Probably off on one of his expeditions.’
    â€˜Yeah. probably. Thanks.’
    â€˜Does he know you’re here?’ the postman wondered. ‘Not on your own, are you?’
    â€˜He knows,’ Matt said. ‘And Mum’s …’He shrugged, not wanting to lie.
    The postman pushed a bundle of post through next door’s letterbox. ‘You get your letter?’ he asked Matt as he went back to the van.
    â€˜My letter?’
    â€˜The one at number three. Bit odd that.’
    Matt checked the latch wasn’t down and hurried over to the postman, conscious that he was still in his pyjamas. ‘Sorry, what do you mean? What letter?’
    â€˜Old Mrs Dorridge has it if you’ve not picked it up.’ He pointed to the house opposite – number three. ‘It was addressed to you but care of her. Came yesterday. I nearly stuck it in with your dad’s post, but it said on the envelope care of Mrs Dorridge at number three and it was underlined. So I thought …’ He shrugged. ‘Well, I dunno. Not my business to think, is it? But that’s where it is if you’ve not got it.’ He climbed into the van and banged the door shut. ‘Cheerio then.’ He waved out of the open window, and the van pulled away.
    Matt went back inside and got dressed, then hurried across to number three. He didn’t really know Mrs Dorridge. She was old with a face so weathered and lined that it looked like the side of a cliff. Her eyes were pale and watery and she peered round the