Bloody Horowitz by Anthony Horowitz

was sure the old man would understand. Sure enough, the snake charmer recoiled as if he had been slapped across the face. Then he composed himself and nodded slowly, twice. Once again, his jet-black eyes settled on the boy, and despite the heat of the evening, Charles couldn’t avoid a small shiver of cold. But then his father called out to him. “Come on, Charles. It’s this way.” And a moment later they were out of the main square and making their way back through the souq.
    By dinnertime, the whole incident had been forgotten.
    The meal was served once again on the roof, and this time there were belly dancers performing to the wail and beat of a small band of musicians all dressed in brilliant white. The guests loved it and—to Charles’s embarrassment—his parents insisted on joining in. His father was a large, well-built man, and the sight of him waving his arms in the air while shaking his stomach around was something that Charles felt would damage him for life. In the end he crept away and went to bed.
    It was about eleven o’clock when he turned out the light. His parents were still upstairs, probably telling rude jokes by now—which is what they always did when they’d had too much to drink. Charles was fed up. The heat of Marrakesh wore him out and he was in dire need of a large plate of French fries. As far as he was concerned, the vacation couldn’t end a day too soon. Five minutes later, he was asleep. His last, comforting thought was that at least when he woke up there would only be another three days to go.
    But in fact, he was woken suddenly in the middle of the night. The room was not quite dark. Four windows looked out onto the courtyard and the moon was slanting in, washing everything a pale white. He turned his head and saw his watch, propped up against a lamp. It showed half past three. What was it that had disturbed him?
    The sound came again, sliding underneath the door or through the window, and although Charles didn’t understand why, it sent a shiver all the way down his spine. Music. The shimmering wail of a pipe. It was the snake charmer . . . it had to be. Charles recognized the sound from the main square. The old man must be somewhere outside the riad—although surely that wasn’t possible, as he was fairly sure that his room didn’t back onto the street. And yet he sounded so close! It was almost as if he were right inside the room.
    Something moved.
    Charles didn’t see it, but he knew it was there. As the hairs stood up, one after another, along the back of his neck, he heard its body, heavy and soft, sliding across the tiled floor. It was heading for the bed—but how had it gotten into the room? The door wasn’t open. The windows were barred. His first thought was that it must be some sort of huge insect that had somehow slipped through a crack in the plasterwork, but he knew that wasn’t true. The music told him exactly what it was, and sure enough, a moment later it rose up at the foot of the bed—inches from his feet—silhouetted dark green against the moonlight, its little eyes blinking malevolently, its tongue flickering, its hood stretched wide. Charles could imagine its body curled up beneath it.
    The cobra.
    It was there, with him, in the room.
    For a few seconds it swayed from side to side as if unsure what to do. Then the music stopped. There was a sudden silence. It was the signal the snake had been waiting for. At once, it lunged toward him.
    All the beds at the riad had duvets rather than sheets and blankets, and the snake had aimed for the gap between the soft material above and the mattress below. Charles knew at once that it had entered the bed with him and he tried to pull his legs back, tried to roll out of bed and hurl himself onto the floor. But his body wouldn’t obey him. It was doing things it had never done before. His heart was heaving. His eyes were bulging. He seemed to have