The Devil's Apprentice Read online

  ‘I won’t have no part of it.’ That was Wily Jake.

  Then something he couldn’t hear.

  ‘I don’t do vilence. I’m a businessman, I am, as honest a fence as any in the city. The coves what come looking for me, they need to know they’ll be safe here. Some of my buyers are important people, see? They want dis-cretion, I give it them. I don’t have no constables coming round poking their noses into my affairs. When you get vilence, you get the constables. Besides, he’s a smart boy. Brings me good stuff, real quality. I don’t want no harm to come to ’im. You tell Big Bel–’

  ‘We won’t hurt him, Mr Beddoes. We just want a word with him, quiet-like. A matter of dis-cretion, like you said.’

  ‘What makes you so sure he’d ’a followed you?’

  ‘Not him. Him you don’t see. He’s as soft and sneaky as your own shadow. But the other boys, they ain’t that good. One of ’em come after me, and Cullen here come after ’im. Our little phantom’ll be turning up soon for sure. He wants to get Big Bel on her own, don’t he? He won’t let slip a chance like this. He’ll turn up, and we’ll talk to him – quiet-like – and see he lets her alone from now on. That’s all.’

  ‘Right. That’s all.’ The echo was Cullen.

  There was a short silence. A trap, thought Ghost. Anyone can wear a dress. He could see the hat and curls on a chair beyond the half open door. Mullen and Cullen were in the room, waiting for him. Well, let them wait. He started to retreat back upstairs.

  ‘I don’t like it,’ said Wily Jake’s voice from the parlour. ‘They say he’s pretty quick wi’ that chive of his. Stuck poor old Sheen like a pig. I won’t have no chives in here.’

  ‘Don’t you worry, Mr Beddoes.’ Mullen again. ‘I reckon I’m faster’n any brat. I’ll have that chive off ’im afore he can do any harm with it.’

  ‘I don’t hold with vilence, I told you. I won’t have no blood spilled here.’

  ‘There won’t be any spilling o’ blood. We’ll do what we have to do, nice and quiet–’

  ‘You said you were just going to talk to him.’ Wily Jake evidently wasn’t convinced.

  Nor was Ghost.

  ‘That’s right. Just talk.’ Footsteps approached the door. ‘I’m going to take a look out the back – see if the other boy’s still there...’

  He stepped into the hallway. Ghost didn’t have time to get out of sight. There was an instant when they faced each other – Mullen was still wearing the dress – he gave a shout, pulled a knife from his bodice, threw it. Ghost dodged, vaulted the banister – the blade stuck quivering in the stair. Cullen burst out of the parlour, Wily Jake hanging ineffectually from his arm. The hall was too small for a fight, particularly one involving Big Belinda’s dress and the padding necessary for Mullen to fill it. He grabbed at Ghost, who bit him. Cullen had another knife out. ‘No blood!’ Wily Jake was begging. ‘You promised me – no blood!’ His clutch hampered Cullen – the dress hampered Mullen – in the confusion only Ghost moved fast. He tried to twist himself free but the man’s grip was too strong, and the switchblade flicked out, slicing through cloth and skin, blurring the stripes into a single patch of red. Mullen grunted and swore, relaxing his hold on Ghost. Wily Jake cried: ‘No blood!’ until Cullen hit him. And Ghost was gone through the back door and across the yard, disappearing into the labyrinth of the city.

  The knife blade was small but its bite was deep. Mullen died later that night, thrown into the street by Wily Jake, who had found a moment to pick up the ancient blunderbuss he kept in a closet for special occasions.

  Some people attract good luck, or bad. But Ghost attracted death. It accompanied him like a touch of darkness that followed where no shadows could be seen, seeping into his aura, slowly becoming a part of him. Every time he drew his knife, death entered a little deeper into his spirit.

  There was an old woman in Farthing Alley who had the name of a witch. The church had let her be, saying she was harmless, and made a physic that could cure worms, and gallstones, and alleviate the pangs of gout, and if she did any foretelling it was after dark, to a clientele too foolish or too furtive to complain of her. The girls went to see her for charms against pregnancy and the pox, which might or might not work, but when she saw Ghost her vague stare would grow a little vaguer, and she would curse him with gipsy words, and make the sign to ward off evil, which frightened him as the Mohocks could not.

  ‘You don’t want to listen to her,’ Mags said. ‘Like as not she’s been drinking her own potions, and they’ve addled her brain.’

  But when the old woman heard what had happened to Mullen she said to Clarrie, the girl who had brought the news: ‘You tell Big Belinda to let him be. You tell her. He’s got a bit o’ the night in him, the old night from way back, before the days o’ bishop and bible. He’s not one to cross, you tell her.’

  ‘He threatened her,’ Clarrie said, ‘wi’ that wicked little knife o’ his. Big Bel don’t take kindly to being threatened.’

  ‘He’s got the night in him,’ the old woman repeated. ‘His sort don’t threaten. You’ll see. Oh yes, you’ll see.’

  Infernale

  THEY HAD BEEN watching the house for a long, long time. For years, centuries, perhaps millennia. Before there was a house, when there was only an empty doorway, they watched, eyes under a stone, or in the gloom of a tree-hollow. As the ages passed they became the stone, the hollow, the tree. When the old century turned they were still there, the carving on a gatepost, the pit of shadow where the sun never reached. They may be seen as the phantoms of fever, the little darknesses that remain when a nightmare has fled. They have eyes and mouths, but no speech. They are the eavesdroppers under the eaves, the listeners behind the silence, the unseen gaze that lifts the hair on your neck.

  They report to no one; that is not their way. They just watch. When he needs to see, and hear, he will look through the holes of their eyes, and listen through the pits of their ears, and what they know, he knows. That is what they are for. They have no other being, no other awareness, but through him.

  They move through Time like jellyfish through water, spectral transparencies that float between Then and Now, between Here and There. They are here and they are beyond the doors, in the bubbles of history where the trapped ones circulate in an endless race to nowhere. They are the spies who see everything, yet their cold curiosity has no mind, no purpose, only his.

  Even now, they are watching YOU...

  London, twenty-first century

  MATTY FEATHERSTONE HAD held the position of Pen’s best friend ever since Year Seven, when living close by meant Matty’s mother shared the school run with Mrs Harkness and the two girls collaborated on homework and related issues. But they had widely divergent tastes and ideas: Matty thought all that law stuff really boring, though staying in a house with a butler must be wicked, and was it really, like, her house – until the new owner turned up – and did that mean Pen could have parties, with champagne, and no adults spoiling the fun? Pen said she wasn’t too keen on parties, or champagne, and her grandmother was living there too – and anyway, she was just looking after the house, it wasn’t really hers. Matty thought that sounded rather dull after all, and Pen, who had always tended to keep her own counsel, said nothing about dinosaurs, or multiple dimensions – or Gavin.

  She spent some time on the computer trying to sort out what she knew (not much), and what she didn’t know (a lot), opening new files and making lists in an attempt to clarify the situation. Somewhere in the chaos of whirling worlds and interlocking realities there had to be a pattern. For instance, if the remote past was in the broom cupboard, could the future be in the attic? And would there be something completely primordial in the cellar? Also, she wanted to find out who did the cleaning. Then there was the thief who had broken in and disappeared, and the third key, and the problem of entering the past without losing touch with the present... It all looked fairly hopeless, but Pen felt better for tidying up her thoughts – it made everything seem le
ss random, somehow more manageable, even if it wasn’t.

  Perhaps she could write all her personal details on a piece of paper and sew it inside her clothes when venturing into the past – but her clothes might get torn or lost, and she had a sneaking suspicion that history didn’t allow for cheating, and the paper would go astray, or get smudged in the wash. It couldn’t be that easy or someone would have done it before...

  She emerged from reflection to find Quorum standing before her announcing supper. Mrs Harkness had texted that she was working late that evening and Pen decided it was time to grasp the nettle of opportunity.

  ‘Could we have supper together?’ she asked. ‘If you don’t mind? Gran said she wouldn’t be back till eight or nine. Besides, I’d like to talk to you.’

  ‘I am always available for conversation, Miss Pen,’ Quorum said, but he agreed to join her for supper anyway.

  Over a plateful of macaroni cheese, Pen took the plunge. She would have to confide in Quorum; she needed his support. ‘I’ve been inside Number 7,’ she volunteered.

  ‘Miss... Pen!’

  ‘I know it’s dangerous. I was very careful.’ Well, she had been careful. Best not to discuss the incident of the broom cupboard. ‘The thing is, it’s my responsibility, and... and it was my decision, and there are things that have to be done, which I can’t do without exploring the house. So you see...’

  ‘Exploring! Miss Pen, this is not some children’s adventure story–’

  ‘Good, because I’m not a child.’ Having jumped the first hurdle, Pen was regaining her self-possession. ‘I need your help. Will you–’

  ‘I promised your grandmother–’

  ‘Someone’s broken in there,’ Pen interrupted.

  ‘Broken in? To Number 7?’

  ‘Yes. There’s a pane of glass cut out upstairs. I don’t know when it happened but the floor there looks as if the rain’s been coming in for ages.’

  ‘Oh dear.’ Quorum looked anxious but resigned. ‘Oh dear. I suppose I could replace it... if we go in together. You wouldn’t want me to do it alone, would you? I’ve never been inside, you know.’

  ‘Never mind that,’ said Pen. ‘The point is, somebody went in, and I don’t think they came out.’

  ‘No. Well, they wouldn’t, would they? Lost in the past... It’s what Mr Pyewackett was always afraid of. Nothing to be done now.’

  ‘Yes, there is,’ said Pen. ‘There’s always something to be done. I don’t know if we could find out when they went in, or who it was, but we could look for them, and try to bring them back.’

  Quorum stared at her without speaking for what felt like a full minute.

  ‘He said you were resourceful,’ he commented eventually. ‘Even so, I don’t think he realised quite how... Miss Pen, you aren’t supposed to do this. You’re supposed to just... be on guard. That’s all the Pyewacketts ever did. Guard the house, keep it safe, keep people out...’

  ‘They didn’t keep people out,’ Pen said brutally, ‘because somebody got in. Presumably Mr Pyewackett would’ve noticed the broken window, if he went upstairs, so... Do you know the last time he was in Number 7?’

  ‘Oh dear.’ Quorum’s brain appeared to have got stuck, like a scratched disc which keeps repeating the same phrases. ‘Very resourceful... I’m afraid I... you see, I’d only been with Mr Pyewackett for thirty-one years. Not very long at all. Yes, I came here in 1975. I recall he went in some time after that. Maybe ’75 or ’6. He was telling me how clean it was. “I’ve never found anyone doing the housework,” he said, “but there’s not a speck of dirt. Not a speck!” I think he’d have seen – said something – if there was a window broken. I’ll have to fix it, won’t I? Of course, it may mend itself... eventually. I’m told the house changes every two or three centuries. Keeping up with the times. Blending in. No one notices, though. No one ever notices a thing.’

  ‘Are you... are you an ordinary butler?’ Pen said, suddenly conscious that all this was rather outside the range of normal butlerdom. And then, afraid she sounded rude: ‘I mean – like – is your name really Quorum? That sort of thing.’

  ‘I was christened Ronald Snibs,’ he said, ‘but Mr Pyewackett preferred Quorum. I don’t know why. As for ordinary... The trouble is, when you work for someone like that, in this sort of set-up, things rub off. Yes, that’s it. Over time, you know. Look at you. It’s happening already. You were just a girl who wanted to be a lawyer, and now you’re planning to go into the past and find someone who’s lost. And you’ve only been here five minutes. Things rub off...’

  ‘Am I... different?’ Pen asked.

  ‘Not exactly,’ Quorum said. ‘It’s as if you’re... more yourself. The person inside you – the person you really are – is expanding outwards. Nowadays, people are always talking about finding themselves, but they do it the wrong way. They look inward. You have to look out. That’s what you’ve been doing, since you got here. I can see it now. You’re looking out more. Seeing things... Oh dear.’

  ‘But... isn’t that a good thing?’ Pen said. ‘Expanding your outlook – or your inlook – or whatever...’

  ‘It’s good,’ said Quorum, ‘or so they say, but it can be dangerous. And what you want to do is far too dangerous for a thirteen-year-old girl. I promised your grandmother I would look after you.’

  ‘Then help me,’ Pen said. ‘After all, I’ve got the keys to Number 7, and – I don’t want to be difficult, exactly – but you can’t stop me from using them... can you? So...’

  ‘He said you were stubborn,’ sighed Quorum. ‘Stubborn, and resourceful... What about that boy who was here the other day? Is he involved?’

  ‘He might be,’ Pen said guardedly.

  ‘You’ll need more help than mine, Miss Pen. You’ll need a strong young man to protect you. If you’re going exploring, take him with you.’

  ‘That’s very sexist,’ Pen said with disapprobation.

  ‘Mr Pyewackett was a little old-fashioned at times,’ said Quorum. ‘It... rubs off.’

  ‘I get that part. Let’s go back to the point. First, we have to find out much more about the house. Mr Pyewackett was right: it’s absolutely spotless. I want to know who the mystery cleaner is. There can’t be someone shut in there who’s done nothing but dust and vacuum for the past thirty years or more.’

  ‘You never know,’ said Quorum.

  Somewhere in northern England, somewhere in the past

  ONCE UPON A time there were two cobblers. They lived in the same town, on the same street, and they competed for the same customers, and, inevitably, they were in love with the same girl. One was older, handsome, with the steady gaze and firm handshake of a natural conman. The other was young and hungry, with a face cadaverous even in youth, and an eager light in his eyes, which frequently discouraged customers who didn’t want to buy their shoes from so much blatant eagerness. The younger was the better cobbler, but the older was more popular, on account of the firmness of his handshake, even though the shoes he sold were often ill-fitting and ill-made. The older hated the younger with the weary hatred of age, but the younger hated the older with the passionate hatred of youth – a feeling intensified by the attitude of the girl, who preferred the mature charm of her older suitor to the charmless ardour of the younger.

  The older was called Nicholas Cleeve and the younger was Thomas Cutforth, and their feud was the talk of the town, for in those days of few books and no television people had more time for talking if rather less to talk about. The doings of government were faint and faraway, and the only soap operas they had were on their doorstep, so they followed the saga of Cleeve versus Cutforth with an enthusiasm which embittered the younger man still further.

  In the end, Nicholas Cleeve announced his engagement to the lady, and Cutforth, overcome with despair, decided there was only one thing to be done.

  He sold his soul to the Devil.

  The Devil is, as we know, a rather crude Christian image of the ultimate bad guy, horned, hoofed, loud-mou
thed and vulgar, but behind the fairytale façade is a far darker and more subtle spirit, both deity and demon, old as Time and keeping his kingdom not in Hell but on Earth, feeding his ancient enmity for Men on their weakness and their ignorance, their subjugation and their fear. He has no use for souls, any more than a dragon has for gold; he collects them and gnaws on them, so that when death releases them there will be little left to pass beyond his reach.

  Young Thom had no precise information about Hell, but he believed it was very warm, which, in the chill of his winter workshop, made it seem quite an attractive prospect. He did, however, have a wishing stone which his mother had made him swear never to touch, so of course he rubbed it, and wished, and when the Devil appeared, dressed for the part in black and looking rather suave in a demonic way, he knew he had got more than he bargained for. But his hatred was too much for him, and so he signed the usual contract, in his own blood, and in return the Devil promised he should be the most successful cobbler in the country, and triumph over his rival, and marry the girl he adored, and so on and so on.

  The next morning, of course, he thought he had dreamed it. (He had been rather drunk at the time, owing to the depression following unrequited love.) Then he saw the goblin in his workshop.

  It was about three feet high, with yellowy green skin, yellowy brown eyes, small stunted horns and large pointy ears. It had seven digits on each hand, though which were fingers and which thumbs Thom couldn’t tell, and assorted toes in several different lengths. It was stitching at a piece of leather with incredible speed, tiny exquisite stitches rippling through its hands. Already several pairs of shoes were finished on the bench. The shoes Thom made were beautiful, but these were shoes Cinderella would never have mislaid and Imelda Marcos would have killed to wear. These shoes were perfect.