Bloody Horowitz by Anthony Horowitz Page B

stay until you’re tucked up again.” Noreen had already taken off the bottom sheet. She was examining the mattress in dismay. “We’ll have to turn this over,” she said. “Maybe I’d better call room service.”
    â€œJust leave me alone.”
    â€œAre you sure, dear?”
    â€œGo away.”
    She did. Charles went into the bathroom, showered and changed into clean pajamas. Then he went back to bed, laying himself down on the very edge and covering himself with a spare blanket that he had found in a cupboard. He still wasn’t sure what had happened. A dream? It had been too real. He was old enough to know the difference between being awake and being asleep. And yet . . .
    Somehow he nodded off once again. And the next time he opened his eyes, he was relieved to see daylight on the other side of the windows. Another day had begun.
    He was a little sheepish when he joined his parents for breakfast on the roof, but for once they seemed to be behaving sensibly, for neither of them mentioned the events of the night before. Like everything at the Riad El Fenn, breakfast was an elaborate affair with croissants and coffee, pancakes dipped in honey, yogurt and fruit and delicious omelets for those who still had enough room. There were at least a dozen guests still at the table and Charles ignored them all as he plumped himself down on a cushion between Noreen and Rupert.
    â€œWe thought we’d visit the El-Badi Palace,” his father said. He already had his guidebook open at the right place.
    â€œAnd there’s a wonderful garden,” his mother added.
    â€œI’m not staying here one minute longer,” Charles replied. “I want to go home.”
    He had made the decision as he got dressed. All he wanted was to get out of Marrakesh. And his parents couldn’t keep him here. He would scream if he had to. He would run away, grab a taxi and force them to put him on a plane. He should never have come here in the first place, and from now on he wasn’t going to let anyone tell him what to do. If they wanted to go on vacation in the future, they could go without him. Otherwise it would be Disneyland and no argument! He had made up his mind.
    â€œWell, I don’t know . . . ,” his father began.
    Outside on the street, a pipe began to play.
    It was the same music that they had heard in the main square—and this time there could be no doubt that it really existed. The other guests heard it and began to smile. Somehow the sound captured everything that was ancient and mysterious about a city that had been there for almost a thousand years.
    Charles jerked upright in his seat.
    â€œCharlie . . . ?” His mother quavered.
    He was sweating. His eyes were distant and unfocused.
    â€œWhat is it?” his father asked.
    Charles got to his feet. He didn’t want to but he couldn’t stop himself. The music continued, louder, more insistent. “No . . .” He whispered the word and nobody heard it except him. His teeth were locked together. The other guests were watching. The music played.
    And slowly, helplessly, Charles Atchley began to dance.

ROBO-NANNY
    Later on, they would blame each other. It didn’t matter which one of them you asked. They would both say that it had never been their idea to buy Robo-Nanny.
    But it had seemed sensible enough at the time. After all, they were busy people—Sanjiv Mahal, international director of the world’s second largest Internet bank, and his wife, Nicole, designer and photographer, in constant demand both on Earth and on the moon. Their days were crammed full of clients, meetings and reports. They were invited to dinner parties five times a week. They spent their entire lives traveling thousands of miles for meetings in Beijing, Tokyo, Moscow and Antarctica and seldom seemed to be on one continent—or even one planet—at the same time.
    The Mahals had been married for fifteen years and