Milrose Munce and the Den of Professional Help (7 page)

Without thinking to pause or question, Milrose passed the jungerberries.

“May I introduce myself?” said the finely tailored man. The question did not seem to permit a response: he was going to introduce himself whether it were desired or not. Which it was not. “My name is Massimo Natica. A pleasure.”

It was not.

Massimo—or was it Mr. Natica?—did not partake of the jungerberries he had been passed. He simply held the bowl, cradled in one hand, as he smiled toothfully. Milrose noted that his pupils were unnaturally large, and not precisely circular. He was so closely shaven as to look almost plastic.

“I’m, uh, Milrose.”

Arabella did not smile. Her eyes went opaque and inscrutable, as they had when Milrose had first encountered her. “I do not give out my name.”

“That’s okay, Arabella. I understand.”

Arabella was incensed. “You do not know my name. Therefore I forbid you to use it.”

“Of course, Arabella. These things are fully understandable.”

“With all due respect, Mr. Massimo Natica, I do not think I wish to share our jungerberries with you.”

“Understood.” And yet he did not pass the berries back to them.

“Who are you? And why are you lounging beside us, uninvited?” inquired Arabella.

“I am Massimo Natica.”

“Yes. And?”

“I understand your suspicion.”

“Not suspicion. Antipathy.”

“Such a perfect day,” said Massimo Natica, admiring the weather. “It is a perfect day to commence.”

Milrose and Arabella were now silent. This was ominous. They had no desire to commence anything, much less with this slick and vexatious man.

“Do not be concerned. I am not here to hinder you. I am here to Help.”

Milrose stood, prepared to run. He felt the urge to sprint, athletically, in a direction away from this Massimo Natica. Since almost every direction pointed that way, he froze, briefly, trying to decide which one. But this brief freeze could not be unfrozen, and he simply stood there.

“Do sit down, Milrose. You and Arabella are enjoying your jungerberries, and you do not wish to interrupt the exquisite perfection of this moment.”

“Uh, Natica? You’re still holding the jungerberries, so it’s kind of hard to enjoy them, isn’t it.”

“Sit down.”

This was not a command; it was not uttered in a
different tone from what Massimo Natica had been employing all along; and yet it somehow caused Milrose to sit down on the grass.

“We shall repose here and luxuriate in this moment, for a moment, and then we shall repair to my office.”

“Where you intend to repair us, no doubt,” said Arabella, not without a hint of fear in her voice.

“And now that we’ve enjoyed our introductory moment, I think it is time to remove ourselves from nature and transplant ourselves into the comfort of my little den.”

Why did it hardly surprise Milrose Munce that the Den of Professional Help was situated on the first floor? The repugnant first floor, friendless and ghost-bereft?

Massimo Natica led them, somehow—for it was against their will—down the hallway of the first floor.

When they arrived at the library, they turned left.

This would not seem such a momentous act, except that it was impossible to turn left at the library. Milrose had never attempted this, for the simple reason that there was a solid wall to the left, and turning would involve, at the very least, a broken nose.

And yet they turned left. It was amazingly easy to do. The hallway itself turned that way, and all they
had to do was follow it. Milrose did not like this at all. He glanced at Arabella, and she too was displeased: the hallway really ought not to go in this direction.

“My little den is a comfortable place. You’ll like it very much. We’ll spend a great deal of enjoyable time together, in my cozy den. This should make you happy.”

The door to this den did not promise as much. It was painted a glossy white, and seemed—simply by its aura—to be heavy and metallic. Set into this ominous door was an unusually small window, which was also unusually high: certainly no ordinary human being was of a height sufficient to put nose to that glass. And set into the glass was a screen of thick wire. The sea-green glass was of a colour to indicate great thickness, as if this glass were made to withstand not simply bullets but shoulder-launched rockets and perhaps even heat-seeking missiles. Milrose sensed, however, that there was not much heat to seek behind this daunting door.

That this was the door to the den was indicated by Massimo Natica’s proud stance before it. He turned to Milrose and Arabella, and his expression was one of profound appreciation; an expression that beckoned them to join in his exaltation of this lovely door.

They did not.

He produced from his pocket a gruesome modern key—the sort that would drive any would-be burglar to despair—and fitted it into what must have been, internally, a gruesome modern lock. The sound this lock made as it opened was itself complex: a series of clicks and whirs, punctuated by what seemed—could this be?—the cry of distressed rodents.

The light that shone from the opened door did not. Which is to say, there was certainly light behind the door, but it did not shine. The light simply sat there, heavily, like the smell in the basement. Massimo Natica stepped graciously aside and issued his two wards into the den beyond.

The words
comfortable
and
cozy
seemed to vie with each other for status as the bigger whopping lie with respect to Massimo Natica’s den. Even the word
den
was a ridiculous misnomer, if meant in the sense of a place you might put your feet up to read a good book. On the other hand, thought Milrose, aren’t dens also where innocent people get thrown to the lions?

Displayed in various places around the den were singular objects, some propped against walls, others in glass vitrines—possessions that were clearly dear to the den’s proprietor. The cattle prod was perhaps the most unnerving, even though it was clearly an antique, with prominent wiring and an old-fashioned
battery. The pitchfork too was old-fashioned, although it looked as if it could still do a good job in those areas where pitchforks come in useful. The prod occupied its own special glass case, but the pitchfork was propped lazily against the wall. The most elaborate display was a line of framed strait-jackets, stretching all the way across the wall: they had been arranged in historical order, to illustrate the evolution of that garment over time.

And in the centre of the room was a group of plump chairs and a sofa.

Massimo indicated these, expansively. “Why don’t you make yourselves comfortable.”

There were numerous equally appropriate responses to that question.

“I can see that my antiques have you a little apprehensive. Understand that I collect these objects simply to remind us of how far we have come in the Help-giving process. How much more civilized we are!” He nodded in satisfaction, evidently agreeing with himself. “Well now. Time to sit down and get to work. Try this comfy chair.”

Massimo patted one of the comfy leather chairs, and indicated to Arabella that it was hers. He then patted the comfy leather sofa, and indicated to Milrose that this was his.

Arabella sat on the chair, rigidly, as if it were a bed of nails. Milrose, on the other hand, expressed his
contempt by stretching out on the sofa, with his feet up on the armrest.

“There we are,” said Massimo Natica. “All comfy.”

If he uses that word one more time, thought Milrose, I will fetch the cattle prod.

“Now then. Time to get fully acquainted. We’re going to be good, good friends. And we’re going to get to know each other very well. What we are about to engage in is called Intensive Help. It is by far the best kind. You will be Helped during the day, and while you sleep here, you will be Helped during your dreams.”

“Hang on!” said Milrose Munce. “We have to
sleep
here?”

The sleeping quarters were approximately as winning as the den itself. A low doorway led off one wall of the huge room—so low as to require even Arabella, who was not all that statuesque, to bow her head. Milrose insisted that they have a good look at this bedroom before they commenced with any further Help, and Massimo Natica—with a smiling hint of impatience—agreed.

The room was without windows. Come to think of it, Milrose came to think, the entire den was windowless, with the exception of the fortified glass set into the entry door. The bedroom was, however, unusually tall, perhaps three or four stories. The
ceiling could barely be seen in the gloom. For the moment the only light was what poured in (slowly, like molasses) through the open door.

Apparently, Arabella and Milrose were to sleep in a bunk bed. It was not an ordinary bunk bed. It had mattresses, one on top of the other, connected by a ladder, but it had about twenty of these, arrayed in a tower.

“Feel free to choose!” said Massimo Natica. “I shall in fact come to some conclusions, based upon which bed you each decide to occupy.”

Milrose thought it might be nice to sleep at the top of a tower of beds. On the other hand, rolling out of bed by mistake would be a dramatic and serious affair. Sleeping had never struck him as an adventurous activity, but then much of what he was now experiencing was new.

“I shall take the third bunk,” said Arabella.

“Ah,” said Massimo Natica. “For any particular reason?”

“Yes,” said Arabella.

Milrose pondered his choice.

“I shall wait until you are far from this room before making my decision,” said Milrose. “Feel free to come to a conclusion based on that.”

After this small and depressing episode, the two found themselves once again occupying their respective chair and sofa, in preparation for whatever might
be inflicted upon them. Massimo Natica had a glowing smile upon his absurdly shaven face, as if he had already accomplished great things in the way of Helping his two patients.

Is that what we are? wondered Milrose Munce. Patients? He lay on his sofa, doing his best to reduce the voice of this man to an undifferentiated drone in his ears. Milrose was pretty good at not listening. He had practised this rigorously in the classes of Mr. Borborygmus, so that he could sit through an entire lesson without having to take in any of that teacher’s useless information.

As Milrose was in the process of not listening, he examined the ceiling above him. It was certainly not an exceptional ceiling—with one exception. It had a door. Now, the occasional ceiling does have a door—a trap door, which leads in general to an attic. This, however, was not a trap door. It was a door door. It had a doorknob. It opened out, apparently, into mid-air. In that sense it was a dangerous sort of door: Milrose could imagine someone on the other side opening it and falling, bellywards, onto the floor. Then again, it was unlikely that anyone opening that door would be unaware of the fact that they were horizontal while doing so.

Massimo Natica droned on, and Milrose spent the entire drone daydreaming, but Arabella was taking a morbid interest in what the man was saying.

Later, when they were lying in their respective beds, Arabella explained to Milrose what it was that Massimo Natica had said.

“It seems,” said Arabella, “that we are to be fully erased.”

She had to say this very loudly, as Milrose had decided that he did indeed wish to sleep on the topmost bunk.

“We are to be rubbed out, like a bad essay written in pencil. And then I guess we get recomposed, like a better essay written in ink.”

This was not the kind of thing that Milrose wanted to hear, but it was not unexpected.

“He went into a very long explanation, trying to justify this. I was not convinced. Are you convinced, Milrose?”

“What do you think?”

“I thought so.”

“Think again.”

She thought again. “Yes, I think I know your thoughts.”

“Who do you think he is?” said Milrose.

“I don’t know. I haven’t yet figured out
what
he is.”

“Well, a Professional, clearly.”

“Did you see a diploma on his wall?”

“No.”

“Professionals almost always have diplomas on their wall. It’s a point of pride.”

“Right. I say we search for the diploma tomorrow. If he doesn’t have one, then he’s a fraud.”

“Wouldn’t it be nice if he were a fraud?”

“Yeah. I’d like that. We could torture him with that little fact. Until he broke down and ceased to Help us.”

They paused to enjoy this possibility.

“You know,” said Milrose, “there’s a door in the ceiling.”

“Really?”

“Yup. An ordinary door. Except it opens downwards. Or perhaps upwards.”

“Into the second floor?” asked Arabella.

Milrose considered this, with growing excitement. “Yes! That’s exactly where it would open into. Or out of. Man, I never thought I’d welcome the thought of seeing Poisoned Percy, but it would be great to have him here.”

“He’s not so bad, Percival.”

“He’s a pompous, self-obsessed, mediocre bore.”

“I do believe you are jealous, Milrose Munce.”

Milrose snorted. And then he realized that he was indeed jealous. He was not sure why. It shouldn’t really bother him, should it, that this ghost was friends with Arabella? He changed the topic. “It’s funny, isn’t it, that there are no ghosts on the first floor. Ever thought about that?”

“There are rumours,” said Arabella.

“Oh yes?”

“Yes. On the second floor, they talk about this a lot. It’s not certain what happened, but there are very distinct rumours.”

“Do tell.”

“Well, it’s a bit weird. And disconcerting.”

“Yeah, well, that seems to be a theme today.”

“What Percival says”—and once again, Milrose felt that utterly inappropriate twang of jealousy—“is that there was an exorcism.”

“Wow.”

“Yes. It was once a favourite haunt. So the story goes. But the staff banded together and petitioned the mayor to put up funds for a good exorcist, who came and cleaned it out.”

“This gives me the creeps.”

“They’re not too happy about it on the second floor, either. I mean, it’s nothing more than superstition these days, but nobody dead dares set foot on the first floor, for fear of … well, nobody knows what they’re in fear of. But it’s definitely very frightening.”