Bloody Horowitz by Anthony Horowitz Page A

swallowed his own tongue. There were tears coursing down the sides of his face. He screamed for help, but only the tiniest of whispers came out.
    Charles was lying on his back with his legs slightly apart. He was wearing pajama bottoms but no top, and he could feel the sweat sliding over his stomach. The music had begun again, so close now that the piper could have been sitting right next to the bed with the pipe beside his ear. Desperately, he looked down. He could just make out the bulge beneath the duvet as the cobra slithered first one way, then the other. It was climbing up between his legs, and he realized exactly where it was going to bite him.
    Oh, God! He could imagine its fangs, perhaps as much as half an inch long. They were like hypodermic needles. He remembered that from the Discovery Channel too. When the cobra struck, it would inject him with a venom that would paralyze his nervous system. His muscles would dissolve. He would die slowly, unable to breathe, and when his parents came in the next morning, they would hardly recognize him. He would be a shriveled mummy, wrapped in pain.
    The music stopped again. And in this second silence everything happened. The cobra struck. Charles felt its bite and screamed—and this time his voice came out loud and hopeless. At the same moment, his hands grasped the duvet and he threw it one way even as he threw himself the other, rolling off the bed and crashing onto the cold tiled floor. In the distance he heard voices, raised in alarm. Footsteps echoed across the courtyard. And then the door flew open, the lights went on and there were Rupert and Noreen, his father in pajamas, his mother in a nightgown with moisturizer all over her face.
    â€œCharlie, darling? What is it?” she squealed.
    â€œThe s-s-s . . .” Charles was lying on the floor, trembling violently. He was almost hissing like a snake himself, but he couldn’t get the word out.
    â€œThe what? What is it?”
    â€œThere’s a snake!” The tears flowed more heavily. Charles knew that his parents had come too late. He had already been bitten. The agony would start soon.
    â€œI don’t see a snake,” Noreen said.
    â€œYou’ve wet the bed,” his father observed.
    Charles looked down between his legs. Sure enough, there was a large damp patch on his pajamas, but there was no sign of any bite mark, no cut or tear in the fabric. As he began to recover, he had to admit that he wasn’t feeling any pain after all. Meanwhile, his parents had moved into the room. His mother was picking up the duvet. His father was vaguely searching around the bed. Both of them looked embarrassed.
    â€œThere’s nothing here,” Rupert said.
    â€œCome on, darling. Let me help you change out of those pajamas.” Noreen took a fresh pair out of the cupboard and went over to her son. She was talking to him as if he were six years old.
    â€œI heard music,” Charles insisted. “It was the man from the square. He was outside the room.”
    â€œI didn’t hear anything,” Rupert muttered.
    Noreen nodded. “You know what a light sleeper your father is,” she said. “If there had been someone playing music, he’d have heard it.” She sighed. “You must have had a bad dream.”
    â€œHe was outside!” Charles insisted. “I heard him. And there was a snake. I saw it!”
    â€œI’m going back to bed,” Rupert growled.
    He turned and walked out of the room, leaving Charles alone with his mother. By now Charles was beginning to accept that his parents must be right. The music had stopped. There was no sign of any snake. He hadn’t, after all, been bitten. Now his face was bright red with embarrassment. He just wanted the night to be over so that he could forget all about it.
    â€œDo you want me to run a bath?” his mother asked.
    â€œNo. I’ll do it,” Charles replied sulkily.
    â€œWell, I’ll