Shiverton Hall, the Creeper (15 page)

‘So,’ he said, ‘you want to play?’

‘No . . . no, thank you,’ Imogen whispered.

Husband laughed. ‘I’m afraid you have to play – you woke me up, you see.’ He spread out his hands, as though it couldn’t be helped. Wife clicked excitedly.

‘Let me explain the rules,’ Husband said, spinning his cane around in his hands like a baton. ‘It’s very simple really. You shake the dice. If the black die shows a sun, you are free to go . . . I will disappear, and all will be well.’

‘And if it shows a moon?’ Imogen said faintly.

Husband smiled wickedly. ‘Well, if it shows a moon, then I am afraid the news is not so good.’

‘What does the moon mean?’ Imogen asked, sweat at her temples.

‘Death,’ Husband said glibly, as though he were explaining the rules to backgammon.

Imogen thought she might pass out.

‘But I am nothing if not fair,’ Husband said. ‘It is unlikely to be
you
who dies.’

‘Unlikely?’ Imogen whispered hoarsely.

Husband nodded. ‘The red die has many options. The chance of rolling your own death is a mere one in six!’

‘Great,’ Imogen muttered.

‘Six faces, six symbols, six chances,’ Husband said gaily, warming to his theme.

‘The top hat,’ he said, giving another swooping bow, ‘is me. The heart: you. The clasped hands: a friend. The dagger: an enemy. The closed eye: a stranger. And the dove –’ he paused distastefully – ‘the dove means that no one is to be harmed.’

‘So I’d better not roll a moon then,’ Imogen murmured nervously.

‘I knew you’d be a worthy opponent,’ Husband said, his yellow eyes glinting. Wife scratched at his legs affectionately.

‘And if I refuse to play?’ Imogen said, with a boldness she didn’t feel.

Husband’s smile disappeared. ‘Then I roll for you,’ he sneered.

‘All right,’ Imogen said, desperately hoping this was all just a nightmare, that she had gone into the steamy café and nodded off.

‘All you need do,’ Husband said, passing her the cane ceremoniously, ‘is roll the dice.’

‘I don’t want to,’ Imogen whispered.

Suddenly, Husband was inches from her, his foul breath on her face. ‘Don’t toy with me,’ he hissed. ‘If I want you to play, you play.’

He drew back, all smiles once more. ‘Continue,’ he said with a greasy smile.

Imogen closed her eyes. She could hear Wife clicking and scrabbling. She shook the cane.

The dice seemed to roll for minutes, tumbling over each other, as though each were struggling for a different outcome. Every time they looked as though they might settle, they began to clatter around again.

‘The battle of good and evil,’ Husband said coyly. ‘It always takes time.’

After a few more moments, the dice settled. Imogen dared not look down.

Wife began to screech with excitement, scuttling up the lamppost and down again.

‘Come on, then, girl!’ Husband said impatiently, grey spit gathering at the corners of his mouth. ‘We haven’t played in a long time. Wife is hungry.’

Imogen glanced down at the dice. The black die had settled on top of the red.

‘What is it? What is it?’ Husband demanded.

‘A moon,’ Imogen said hoarsely.

Husband grinned. ‘And the red?’ he said.

Imogen tilted the cane so that she could see the red die beneath. The relief that flooded through her was quickly replaced by a rush of bitter guilt.

‘The closed eye,’ she whispered.

Husband pouted. ‘A stranger,’ he sighed. ‘Not as much fun as a friend, but beggars cannot be choosers.’

‘Who will it be?’ Imogen asked, her mouth dry.

Husband thought for a moment. ‘Lady’s choice!’ he said.

‘What?’ Imogen asked.

‘You choose!’

Husband indicated the street behind them, where the Christmas shoppers were hurrying along under their woolly hats and scarves.

‘I can’t!’ Imogen said.

‘You can, and you will,’ Husband said silkily. ‘Or you forfeit.’

Imogen looked at the people’s faces, red from the cold and wet with sleet. She thought about their families, their homes, what they might have for dinner, what they did for a living. Every time she thought she might have a candidate, an old woman muttering to herself or a man with a shaved head aggressively shouldering his way through the crowds, a thought would come into her mind: What if he has a dog? What if she has a sister who depends on her? What if he is going to write the greatest book of the century?

Husband rattled his cane threateningly. ‘Tick tock,’ he sang.

A girl turned the corner, talking to a friend. Imogen saw a flash of golden hair, and a white throat as the girl threw back her head and laughed. Imogen dared not look at her face.

‘Her,’ Imogen said, her voice flat.

Husband’s eyes slid over to the girl.

Before Imogen could cry out a warning, Wife had darted out of Cecil Court and disappeared into the crowd. No one appeared to notice her; the mass of people carried on, utterly oblivious to the creature at their feet.

They seemed oblivious, too, to the girl, as Wife grabbed her by her blonde hair and dragged her screaming towards Husband. Imogen shrank into the doorway of a shop, as Wife clambered back into the hat, yanking the girl in after her.

Everything was still. Imogen thought she could hear the echo of a scream from deep, deep below the ground, but she couldn’t be certain.

Husband picked his top hat up from the floor and swept it back on to his head.

‘What a pleasure to meet you, my dear,’ he said and, with a final bow, he disappeared back into the fog.

Cecil Court came back to life. Tills rang, Christmas carols resumed and the jolly owner of the antiques shop was back in his leather armchair. No one paid any attention to Imogen, leaning against the lamppost, pale and shivering, or to the stolen girl’s baffled friend, who shouted her name into the cold night, wondering where she could have got to.

Arthur shut Mrs Todd’s front door quietly. She had fallen asleep after finishing her story and he hadn’t wanted to wake her. It meant leaving a little early, but he was sure she wouldn’t mind.

It was a bitterly cold evening, and after the story of Husband and Wife the woods seemed even more hostile than before. Once again, Arthur tried not to remember the missing children and the long fingernail in the tree trunk. He kept his eyes on the path ahead, not wanting to look at the forest. It was getting dark and the birds had stopped singing. There was only the sound of the ground under his feet and the branches whispering.

A noise made Arthur look up. There was someone standing on the path ahead of him. Arthur very nearly turned to run, but then he realised who it was.

‘Professor Long-Pitt!’ he said. ‘You nearly gave me a heart attack.’

‘The brave Arthur Bannister? Surely not,’ she smirked.

‘What are you doing here?’ he blurted out.

‘Not that it is any of your concern,’ she replied thinly, ‘but I often walk in these woods in the evening. I could ask the same thing of you.’

‘I’ve just been visiting Mrs Todd,’ he said.

‘You’re leaving a little early, aren’t you?’ Long-Pitt said. ‘Wednesday Afternoon Activities don’t finish until five.’

‘She fell asleep – I didn’t want to disturb her,’ Arthur said, a little tersely.

‘I see. This is a perfect excuse to get on with your
Dorian Gray
essay, then.’

Arthur nodded. He had completely forgotten about that essay.

‘Well, don’t let me keep you,’ Long-Pitt said.

Arthur stood aside awkwardly, and Long-Pitt passed him, walking into the darkness of the woods. He watched her go for a moment, puzzled, and then carried on his way to Grimstone.

Chapter Twelve

Xanthe stifled a yawn. Mrs Farkin of Farkin’s Joke Shop seemed to be the unlikeliest person in the world to own a shop, the sole purpose of which was to amuse. Dour, grey-haired and with a high, whining voice that would make a mosquito sound husky, Mrs Farkin had all the charisma of an egg with a face painted on it.

Xanthe and Penny had been interviewing her for half an hour, and hadn’t received a single sound bite worth printing. Even though the shop itself was a cornucopia of blood capsules, masks, feather boas and magic top hats, Mrs Farkin sat in it with the stubborn grimness of a nun at a nudist colony.

‘So, what’s your favourite joke?’ Penny asked desperately.

Mrs Farkin thought for a moment. ‘I don’t know any jokes,’ she said finally.

Penny was just wondering whether she should make a point of stabbing herself with one of Mrs Farkin’s fake swords when the doorbell tinkled and Arthur stepped in.

‘Arthur!’ Xanthe said, coquettishly twirling the plastic pearls she was trying on.

‘Arthur,’ Penny cried. ‘Thank goodness! Can you think of any questions for Mrs Farkin here?’

‘Er . . .’ Arthur said. ‘Yep. What’s behind that curtain?’

He nodded at a turquoise, sequinned curtain that sealed off a section of the shop.

‘Oh, that,’ Mrs Farkin droned. ‘That’s for the cartomancer.’

‘The what?’ Penny asked.

‘The cartomancer. He’s going to read cards here once a week. Or he’ll give you a crystal-ball reading. A tenner a go.’

‘Could you give us a free trial?’ Penny asked. ‘So we could write about it in the paper?’

Mrs Farkin sighed. ‘I suppose so,’ she said. ‘It’ll give him something to do. No one’s been in to see him yet.’

‘It might be an idea to tell people he’s in there,’ Penny said.

‘I didn’t ask you, did I?’ Mrs Farkin snapped.

She parted the curtain. ‘ALAN,’ she yelled. ‘CUSTOMER!’

There was a loud snort, as though someone had just woken up, followed by a flurry of movement, and then a man poked his head out of the curtain. He was the colour of a carrot, with an elaborate moustache that looked as though it had been very recently stuck on.

‘The name is
Xanadu!
’ he hissed at Mrs Farkin.

‘All right, Alan. Don’t get your knickers in a twist,’ Mrs Farkin replied mildly.

Alan gave Mrs Farkin a look of pure hatred, and then flashed Xanthe a dazzling white smile. ‘Who would like their future told?’ he said in a low, warbling voice. ‘Is it you, my dear?’

‘No, not for me,’ Xanthe said. ‘Don’t believe in it.’

‘All right, then, what about you?’ he asked Penny.

‘Sure.’ Penny shrugged.

‘Wonderful!’ Alan cried. ‘Come in, child, and I will show you the wonders of the universe.’

He ushered Penny inside. Xanthe and Arthur tried to follow, but he held up his orange palm. ‘I’m afraid the wonders of the universe can only be revealed one at a time,’ he said, and snatched the curtain closed.

Arthur and Xanthe looked around the shop while they waited.

‘So, do you like Grimstone?’ Arthur asked Mrs Farkin, once the silence became too awkward.

‘Not really,’ Mrs Farkin yawned.

‘Don’t bother,’ Xanthe whispered to Arthur.

After ten minutes, Penny appeared looking completely baffled.

‘How did that go?’ Xanthe asked hopefully.

‘Absolute nonsense,’ Penny whispered. ‘He didn’t even know the names of the cards, and I think his crystal ball is a paperweight.’

Alan whipped his sequinned cape back in a mysterious manner, and got it caught on a chair.

‘I fear the young lady is too enigmatic to do an adequate reading,’ he murmured, pointing at Penny. ‘A great fog of mystery hangs around you, my dear!’

‘A great fog of farts, more like,’ Xanthe scoffed.

‘What about the young gentleman? Perhaps you would like your future told, sir?’

Arthur shook his head.

‘Oh, come on, Arthur. Please,’ Penny begged. ‘We’ve got to write
something
for this article.’

‘OK, fine.’ Arthur shrugged.

‘Marvellous,’ Alan said, clapping his hands, which were bedecked with colourful rings that looked as though they had come straight from Mrs Farkin’s cabinet of plastic jewellery.

Alan ushered Arthur into his tiny room. It had been decorated with black, velvet drapes and a few rather unconvincing papier-mâché skulls. A small round table sat in the middle, covered with a purple satin sheet.

‘What will you choose?’ Alan said. ‘The mystical cards? Or the glimmering crystal?’

‘Um . . . the cards.’ Arthur shrugged again.

‘Right,’ Alan said, his act slipping somewhat as he inexpertly tried to shuffle the cards and gave himself a paper cut.

Alan laid down five cards and looked at them blankly. Arthur leaned forward.

‘Right,’ Alan said. ‘So your first card is the River. Ever lived near a river?’

‘Nope,’ Arthur answered.

‘Right, well, sometimes the cards are a bit vague, so the next one is . . . a skull. Oh dear. A bad omen there. Probably. Er . . . and then we have . . . a fire.’