The Devil's Apprentice Page 18

  ‘Back what?’ said One-Ear.

  ‘I ain’t backt yet,’ retorted Cherub. ‘Not in any area.’

  ‘We must wash,’ said Ghost, groping for memories long gone astray. ‘Face and hands. We must wash them off. And get rid of that rat. It’s killing us all.’

  ‘He’s my friend,’ responded One-Ear, stroking Edwin’s throat. The rat made a sniffing, whickering noise, flicking Ghost a glance which was almost like a challenge.

  Ghost rarely lost control, but stress and suffering had made him brittle. The knife flashed out, plunging into the animal’s stomach, wrenched back in a gush of blood. Then he seized it by the tail and hurled it out of a window-hole, splashing Weasel’s face in passing with a red spray. One-Ear started to his feet with a cry of fury which stopped at the sight of the knife.

  Ghost had never used it against his own gang, never even threatened them with it. Now, he cleaned it slowly, folded it away, slowly. One-Ear stared at him in bitterness and hurt.

  ‘He was my friend. He was one of us. You killed one of us. You’re no different from Mr Sheen.’

  Ghost was trembling, though he never trembled after a killing. ‘Don’t ever say that again,’ he said, but his tone had lost its usual edge.

  Weasel died next.

  ‘And then there were three,’ Ghost said to himself.

  Ten little Indians... He was remembering a verse from long ago and far away. A big rat swallowed one And then there were three...

  He would do anything – anything – to save Cherub and One-Ear. He would steal a boat and row them downriver, into the country where the air was clean – he would make them come, whatever they said – they were two but he was one, and strong, stronger than them both, and though they feared and hated him for it he would drag them away somewhere they could be safe, far from the leering rats and the crawling bacteria and the poisonous city stench. As in a dream he heard the bell of the dead cart and he knew it was calling for them, though they still lived and breathed and reached out to him. Then their faces blurred and the loft turned upside-down and his last thought, his very last, was that he had made a mistake, and it was him the cart was coming for – it was him...

  Ring-a-ring-a-roses

  Run through the town

  Ding-a-ling the dead cart

  We all fall down.

  Ghost fell into a fever, and knew nothing more.

  London, twenty-first century

  GAVIN’S ARM WAS bandaged and the Teeth were imprisoned in a glass with an atlas on the top and the slightly dubious prospect of being let out early for good behaviour, if they were capable of it.

  ‘Familiars,’ said Jinx, knowledgeably. ‘Witches often have them, a cat or a toad or something, though no one in my family ever bothered much. Of course, it isn’t usual for a lawyer to have a familiar, but times change. You could start a trend.’

  ‘I’ve read about familiars,’ said Pen, who had googled almost everything at some stage. ‘You’re supposed to suckle them with a third teat. I don’t have a third teat, and even if I did there is absolutely no way–’

  ‘Let’s not go there,’ Gavin said hastily. ‘Forget the bloody teeth. What about Bartlemy Goodman? If you came here to find him–’ he was addressing Jinx ‘– then shouldn’t you be looking? By... by magic, or whatever. If you know any.’

  ‘Mr Pyewackett didn’t hold with magic,’ Quorum reminded them. ‘He wouldn’t want witchcraft going on in this house.’

  ‘He’s dead,’ Jinx pointed out unnecessarily. ‘Anyway, I wasn’t going to do any.’ She had no intention of exhibiting her inadequate skills to the two younger ones. ‘What I need is to see the house next door.’

  ‘You’ve seen it,’ said Gavin. ‘It’s right there.’

  ‘Inside.’

  None of them were enthusiastic about that. Quorum said it was dangerous, Pen said it was private. Gavin simply looked mulish. Secretly, Pen didn’t want anyone taking over her adventure – that is, responsibility – and they were all unsure about this newcomer with her body-piercings and her attitude and her offhand manner towards too many things they considered very on-hand. However, she clearly did know Bartlemy Goodman, and she might be of some help finding him, and she wouldn’t be able to help – assuming she could – unless they gave her a chance. Or so Pen reasoned. Gavin, rather reluctantly, went along with her reasoning, and Quorum simply reiterated his warnings about danger.

  ‘I know about danger,’ said Jinx – offhandly. ‘Witches do. Been there, done that.’

  (Well, of course she knew about danger. It was in the dictionary, she could look it up.)

  ‘As long as you don’t touch any of the doors,’ Pen said.

  ‘If you go through,’ said Gavin, ‘and get lost, or eaten, or absorbed, we aren’t coming to look for you.’

  With as much solemnity as you can infuse into sliding a rack of coats aside and inserting a key into a lock, they went through into Number 7.

  ‘What are those scratches?’ Jinx inquired, scanning the door panels.

  ‘That was the velociraptor,’ Gavin said, and, though she didn’t betray any reaction, for the first time Jinx was genuinely spooked. It is one thing to hear about a dinosaur in the broom cupboard; it’s quite another to see the physical evidence. She found herself looking over her shoulder as they entered the hall, listening with witch-senses to the quiet that seemed to swallow all sound, feeling the looming not-quite-menace of the doors. This was a place so magical that no spell could enter here: it would be distorted out of shape, warped into some mutant form by the sheer pressure of overlapping space/time. Here, if you waved a wand, it might sprout a snake’s head and bite you; if you kissed a prince, you might sleep for a hundred years and wake to find yourself turning into a toad. Not that Jinx had ever had anything to do with wands or princes. Her charms had always been of the most basic variety.

  ‘Well,’ said Gavin, softly – they always spoke softly there – but with scepticism, ‘are you picking up any sinister vibes?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Jinx. ‘Have you dropped some?’

  ‘That’s the broom cupboard,’ said Pen, hurriedly. ‘And that’s the door into the study or library or something – where I saw the monk and Rembrandt sketched me. Here’s the sketch: I’d forgotten it.’

  ‘It’s quite like you,’ Jinx said critically, ‘in an old-fashioned sort of way. Very... sixteenth-century.’

  ‘Seventeenth,’ said Pen.

  She would know, thought Jinx, who had picked a century at random. Smug.

  She said, looking at the vase of twigs: ‘So who does the cleaning and arranges the flowers and everything? Your butler?’

  ‘No,’ said Pen. ‘We don’t know. I’ve been meaning to find out. Could a magical house – a space/time prism – clean itself?’

  ‘Of course not,’ said Jinx, who hadn’t a clue.

  They went upstairs. By now, Jinx was becoming blasé, at least on the surface.

  ‘More doors,’ she said. ‘Are they all portals, or do any of them open on ordinary rooms?’

  ‘We haven’t checked yet,’ said Gavin.

  Jinx touched one door-handle – she really wanted to open it, just to prove that she could, just to show she wasn’t overawed – but the knob gave her pins-and-needles, and she drew her hand back sharply. She walked along the corridor, stopping in front of the alcove with the china dog, studying it with folded arms and a slight frown tugging at her pierced eyebrows. For a couple of minutes she didn’t say anything at all.

  ‘Like that, do you?’ said Gavin. ‘My nan would. She bought a blue cat in a junk shop in Brixton. She has a thing for china animals.’ His tone suggested that while such foibles could be tolerated in a nan, they wouldn’t do in someone his own age.

  ‘I don’t like it at all,’ said Jinx. ‘Things shouldn’t try to look like what they aren’t; it isn’t healthy. And a china dog really mings.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Can’t you see?’

&nb
sp; Gavin and Pen stared at the object in question, but although deeply unattractive, it conveyed no hint of camouflage, no underlying mystery. It was just a china dog.

  Jinx sighed, made a curious gesture with her index and little finger, and mumbled: ‘Uvalé! Fia!’ with a nonchalance which hid her lack of certainty.

  The china dog seemed to shrink in upon itself and turned yellow as if with a form of occult embarrassment. Its pointed ears grew a little pointier; its eyes elongated into narrow slits of umber, squinting sidelong at its audience. Paws lengthened into hands and feet, multi-fingered and multi-toed. It was more or less naked but Pen noted with relief that it wore what appeared to be a leather loincloth or boxer shorts, she couldn’t tell which and didn’t like to stare. (Possibly leather boxers were de rigueur for goblins this year.) Once its disguise had completely disseminated he – it was presumably a he – slid his gaze over the three of them, settling finally on Jinx.

  ‘You’re a witch,’ he said. His speech was less archaic than that of most goblins, with no brogue or lilt but instead a trace of the Ridings in his accent.

  ‘You’re a goblin,’ said Jinx.

  Pen and Gavin, for the first time, were seriously impressed with their newfound ally, though Gavin wasn’t showing it because he was determined to look cool and Pen wasn’t showing it because this was her patch and she was too taken aback at finding it invaded.

  ‘Are you the one who does the cleaning?’ she demanded.

  The goblin nodded. ‘I like tidy,’ he volunteered. ‘I always kept workshop tidy. That’s what gaffer taught me. Happen life isn’t always in order, but keep job neat and house clean and your mind stays fresh. Didn’t hold for him, sithee, but principle was good.’

  ‘Who’s your... gaffer?’ Jinx asked.

  ‘That was betimes,’ said the goblin. ‘He’ll be long agone. I don’t reckon much to the years or the days, here. We’re on edge of too many ages to keep count.’

  ‘How did you get in?’ said Gavin. ‘Through one of the doors?’

  ‘Aye. The owd man opened it, just a crack – a crack for peeking – and I skittered through. He jumped near out of his skin, and banged door shut, and came squinnying for me round every corner, but he didn’t see me again. Never a one saw me, till now.’

  ‘Was that Andrew Pyewackett?’ Pen said.

  ‘I didn’t know his name, but he was owd a long time, and he wore an owd reeky coat all sweat and mothballs, and when he was gone there was another, with a different coat that reeked the same. But they both had good shoes, the leather stitched small, though never so small or so fine as those I made for gaffer long ago.’ He jerked his head at Pen’s trainers. ‘Your shoes now, that’s quality and comfort, but they’re no shoes for a lady. I could make you shoes to dance in, with leather soft as spidersilk and dewdrops for diamonds. ’Tis a gurt shame to put such dainty feet in those clumping things.’ Startled and rather gratified, Pen was unable to respond.

  The goblin added, with a glance at Jinx: ‘Them boots are rubbish.’

  ‘What is this?’ said Gavin. ‘A fashion show?’

  ‘Never mind my boots,’ Jinx interrupted, secretly annoyed. ‘Why did you stay here? Are you a house goblin?’

  ‘Nay. I have skills no house-carl could be framing. Time was, I was best in all the kingdom, happen in all the world. I doubt there’s any now can make shoes like gaffer and I, not if those boots o’ yourn are owt to go by. But I had to answer to a higher Master, one we don’t name.’ His voice dropped, and his yellow skin grew green at the memory. ‘He was my first Master, first and last, and He is one you don’t betray, but I betrayed him, werefolk though I am, and now I must hide here for evermore. He waits behind every door, and beyond, in the Time Outside, but he can’t see within these walls. There’s too much magic for spellsight and mindsight to pierce the roke.’

  ‘He?’ said Jinx. ‘Which... He?’ And something in her tone made the others think that she already knew the answer.

  ‘We don’t name Him,’ said the goblin. ‘You’re a witch. You should know.’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ said Jinx.

  ‘Who are we talking about?’ asked Gavin, trying to sustain a scornful attitude. ‘The Devil?’

  ‘Well,’ said Jinx, ‘he uses the title. Some of the time.’ And he’s retiring, which is confidential information, and I know it, and he knows I know, and he may be after me...

  There was no point in worrying, but she did.

  ‘The Devil,’ she went on. ‘Azmordis. The Lord of the Dark. He has lots of names.’

  ‘You’re saying,’ Gavin persisted, ‘there really is some kind of super-bad-guy out there, responsible for all the evil in the world?’

  ‘Oh no,’ said Jinx. ‘People manage plenty of evil without his help; we’re good at that. But I suppose he is a super-bad-guy, or one of them. The one at the top.’

  ‘Then there should be a super-good-guy,’ Pen said. ‘Like... you know... God. You have to have balance.’

  ‘It depends which God,’ said Jinx. ‘And what weapon He’s holding.’

  There was a short, depressed silence.

  ‘This is getting silly,’ Pen declared – ‘You’re telling me,’ Gavin said – and, to the goblin: ‘If you do the cleaning, why didn’t you fix the broken window?’

  ‘It was on the Outside.’ The goblin almost shivered. ‘He might have looked through – might have seen me. I can’t go near Outside.’

  ‘You wouldn’t like to come next door, for tea or something? You must have been awfully lonely here, all these years.’

  ‘I can’t leave this place,’ the goblin reiterated. ‘Not even to go Next Door. But ’tis good to see humanfolk again, especially childer, bless your bonnie face.’

  Pen went slightly pink.

  Jinx, aware that she was not being labelled bonnie, and her footwear was substandard, said rather sharply: ‘I suppose you have a name, while we’re chatting?’

  ‘Aye. But it’s not for the likes o’ you. Names have power, as you well know, and I’ll not be telling mine to any hagling who’s passing through.’

  ‘Rumpelstiltskin,’ said Gavin.

  ‘He was in silk trade,’ said the goblin. ‘I’m a cobbler.’

  ‘Rumpelstiltskin will do,’ said Jinx, ‘until we learn different.’

  ‘Can you tell us what you did,’ Pen intervened, ‘when you betrayed the – the – Him?’

  ‘Criticised his hoofwear, probably,’ muttered Gavin. Jinx was surprised into swapping a grin.

  ‘It’s a long story,’ said the goblin.

  ‘We can sit on the floor.’

  THEY WENT BACK to 7A without opening any of the doors.

  ‘That was a pretty fairytale,’ said Gavin.

  ‘He’s werefolk,’ said Jinx. ‘What did you expect?’

  ‘You don’t mean you believe it?’

  ‘I’m not sure. It doesn’t matter. What bothers me is the part about Him – Azmordis. He’s involved in all this: I can feel it. He’s–’

  ‘We’ve got time travel, magic and monsters,’ said Gavin. ‘We don’t want the Devil as well.’

  Pen was silent, thinking about something the goblin had said. He waits behind every door... Perhaps just a turn of phrase. Perhaps – a piece of the jigsaw, a thread in the weave, the key to the cipher.

  ‘Whatever,’ Jinx was saying. ‘Look, it’s time I was off. Thanks for... well, thanks.’ Not that there was anything to thank them for.

  ‘We ought to ask her back,’ Gavin said in an undervoice, as she ran down the steps. ‘She is useful. She spotted Grumbleshoestring, and she knows Goodman. We need her.’

  ‘I suppose so.’ Pen was sure her grandmother wouldn’t approve of all that body-piercing. She still had to vet Gavin, and the addition of a sixteen-year-old Goth who claimed to be a witch wouldn’t go down well at all.

  Pen and Gavin were still hesitating when Jinx went out.

  She waved carelessly, glanced right and left, and stepped into the road.

&n
bsp; The car was parked, and there was no one in the driving seat – afterwards, Pen was certain about that. An empty car, engine off, waiting a little too far from the curb. It leaped forward without warning in a killer swerve, the engine roaring into sudden life – there were hands on the wheel, a dim shape behind the windscreen – the long white bonnet hurtled straight for Jinx. Gavin cried: ‘Look out!’ – clearing the steps in a single jump and racing towards her. Pen, rigid with horror, didn’t move for what seemed like an age, though actually it was only a second or two. She saw Jinx check her stride, starting to turn, saw the left wing catching her a blow which flung her against another stationary car – saw Gavin make a grab for her and drag her onto the pavement. Then somehow she was there too, dropping to her knees to cradle Jinx’s head on her lap, and there was blood – blood on the pavement, on Jinx’s temple, on her own hands. Quorum rushed out of the house, telephone in hand, and the white car was gone, and Gavin said: ‘I didn’t get the number. I didn’t get the bloody number,’ and swore without reserve. Jinx’s stiff eyelashes tried to flutter; she murmured: ‘Shit’ very quietly, and then went still.

  For a moment Pen thought she was dead.

  THE AMBULANCE WAS there in fifteen minutes, by which time Quorum had found a pulse, Pen had staunched the bleeding with towels, and Jinx had begun to recover consciousness.

  ‘We’re really racking up the injuries,’ Gavin said. The rapid action had aggravated his own half-healed wounds. ‘That car drove at her deliberately. We both saw it. D’you think it has something to do with... everything else?’

  ‘It must do,’ said Pen. ‘But...’

  At least the monsters and mirages could be shut behind the doors of Number 7. This was the real world turning against them, and there was no way to shut it out. This was Fear coming home.