OH, DAMN, he said. And walked into the fire.
‘Um. It’s me, Librarian,’ said Windle, trying to shout through the keyhole.‘Windle Poons.’
He tried hammering some more.
‘Why won’t he answer?’
‘Don’t know, ‘ said a voice behind him.
‘Schleppel?’
‘Yes, Mr Poons.’
‘Why are you behind me?’
‘I’ve got to be behind something, Mr Poons. That’s what being a bogeyman is all about.’
‘Librarian?’ said Windle, hammering some more.
‘Oook.’
‘Why won’t you let me in?’
‘Oook.’
‘But I need to look something up.’
‘Oook oook!’
‘Well, yes. I am. What’s that got to do with it?’
‘Oook!’
‘That’s – that’s unfair!’
‘What’s he saying, Mr Poons?’
‘He won’t let me in because I’m dead!’
‘That’s typical. That’s the sort of thing Reg Shoe is always going on about, you know.’
‘Is there anyone else that knows about life force?’
‘There’s always Mrs Cake, I suppose. But she’s a bit weird.’
‘Who’s Mrs Cake?’ Then Windle realised what Schleppel had just said. ‘Anyway, you’re a bogeyman.’
‘You never heard of Mrs Cake?’
‘No.’
‘I don’t suppose she’s interested in magic … Anyway, Mr Shoe says we shouldn’t talk to her. She exploits dead people, he says.’
‘How?’
‘She’s a medium. Well, more a small.’
‘Really? All right, let’s go and see her. And … Schleppel?’
‘Yes?’
‘It’s creepy, feeling you standing behind me the whole time.’
‘I get very upset if I’m not behind something, Mr Poons.’
‘Can’t you lurk behind something else?’
‘What do you suggest, Mr Poons?’
Windle thought about it.‘Yes, it might work,’ he said quietly, ‘if I can find a screwdriver.’
Modo the gardener was on his knees mulching the dahlias when he heard a rhythmic scraping and thumping behind him, such as might be made by someone trying to move a heavy object.
He turned his head.
‘ ‘Evening, Mr Poons. Still dead, I see.’
“Evening, Modo. You’ve got the place looking very nice.’
‘There’s someone moving a door along behind you,’ Mr Poons.’
‘Yes, I know.’
The door edged cautiously along the path. As it passed Modo it pivoted awkwardly, as if whoever was carrying it was trying to keep as much behind it as possible.
‘It’s a kind of security door, ‘ said Windle.
He paused. There was something wrong. He
couldn’t quite be certain what it was, but there was suddenly a lot of wrongness about, like hearing one note out of tune in an orchestra. He audited the view in front of him.
‘What’s that you’re putting the weeds into?’ he said.
Modo glanced at the thing beside him.
‘Good, isn’t it?’ he said.‘I found it by the compost heaps. My wheelbarrow’d broke, and I looked up, and there -‘
‘I’ve never seen anything like it before,’ said Windle.‘Who’d want to make a big basket out of wire? And those wheels don’t look big enough.’
‘But it pushes along well by the handle, ‘ said Modo. ‘I’m amazed that anyone would want to throw it away. Why would anyone want to throw away something like this, Mr Poons?’
Windle stared at the trolley. He couldn’t escape the feeling that it was watching him.
He heard himself say, ‘Maybe it got there by itself.’
‘That’s right, Mr Poons! It wanted a bit of peace, I expect!’ said Modo.‘You are a one!’
‘Yes,’ said Windle, unhappily.‘It rather looks that way.’
He stepped out into the city, aware of the scraping and thumping of the door behind him.
If someone had told me a month ago, he thought, that a few days after I died I’d be walking along the road followed by a bashful bogeyman hiding behind a door … why, I’d have laughed at them.
No, I wouldn’t. I’d have said ‘eh?’ and ‘what?’ and ‘speak up!’ and wouldn’t have understood anyway.
Beside him, someone barked.
A dog was watching him. It was a very large dog. In fact, the only reason it could be called a dog and not a wolf was that everyone knew you didn’t get wolves in cities.
It winked. Windle thought: no full moon last night.
‘Lupine?’ he ventured.
The dog nodded.
‘Can you talk?’
The dog shook its head.
‘So what do you do now?’
Lupine shrugged.
‘Want to come with me?’
There was another shrug that almost vocalised the thought: why not? What else have I got to do?
If someone had told me a month ago, Windle thought, that a few days after I died I’d be walking along the road followed by a bashful bogeyman hiding
behind a door and accompanied by a kind of negative version of a werewolf … why, I probably would have laughed at them. After they’d repeated themselves a few times, of course. In a loud voice.
The Death of Rats ?rabhnded? up the last of his clients, many of whom had been in the thatch, and led the way through the flames towards wherever it was that good rats went.
He was surprised to pass a burning figure forcing its way through the incandescent mess of collapsed beams and crumbling floorboards. As it mounted the blazing stairs it removed something from the disintegrating remains of its clothing and held it carefully in its teeth.
The Death of Rats did not wait to see what happened next. While it was, in some respects, as ancient as the first proto-rat, it was also less than a day old and still feeling its way as a Death, and it was possibly aware that a deep, thumping noise that was making the building shake was the sound of brandy starting to boil in its barrels.
The thing about boiling brandy is that it doesn’t boil for long.
The fireball dropped bits of the inn half a mile away. White-hot flames erupted from the holes where the doors and windows had been. The walls exploded. Burning rafters
whirred overhead. Some buried themselves in neighbouring roofs, starting more fires.
What was left was just an eye-watering glow.
And then little pools of shadow. within the glow.
They moved and ran together and formed the shape of a tall figure striding forward, carrying something in front of it.
It passed through the blistered crowd and trudged up the cool dark road towards the farm. The people picked themselves up and followed it, moving through the dusk like the tail of a dark comet.
Bill Door climbed the stairs to Miss Flitworth’s bedroom and laid the child on the bed.
SHE SAID THERE WAS AN APOTHECARY SOMEWHERE NEAR HERE.
Miss FIitworth pushed her way through the crowd at the top of the stairs.
‘There’s one in Chambly,’ she said.‘But there’s a witch over Lancrew~.’
NO WITCHES. NO MAGIC. SEND FOR HIM. AND EVERYONE ELSE, GO AWAY.
It wasn’t a suggestion. It wasn’t even a command. It was simply an irrefutable statement.
Miss Flitworth waved her skinny arms at the people.
‘Come on, it’s all over! Shoo! You’re all in my bedroom! Go on, get out!’
‘How’d he do it?’ said someone at the back of the crowd. ‘No-one could have got out of there alive! We saw it all blow up!’
Bill Door turned around slowly.
WE HID. he said, IN THE CELLAR.
‘There! See?’ said Miss Flitworth. ‘In the cellar. Makes sense.’
‘But the inn hasn’t got -‘ the doubter began, and stopped. Bill Door was glaring at him.
‘In the cellar,’ he corrected himself. ‘Yeah. Right. Clever.’
‘Very clever,’ said Miss Flitworth. ‘Now get along with the lot of you.’
He heard her shoo them down the stairs and back into the night. The door slammed. He didn’t hear her come back up the stairs with a bowl of cold water and a flannel.
Miss Flitworth could walk lightly, too, when she had a mind to.
She came in and shut the door behind her.
‘Her parents’ll want to see her,’ she said.‘Her mum’s in a faint and Big Henry from the mill knocked her dad out when he tried to run into the flames, but they’ll be here directly.’
She bent down and ran the flannel over the girl’s forehead.
‘Where was she?’
SHE WAS HIDING IN A CUPBOARD.
‘From a fire?’
Bill Door shrugged.
‘I’m amazed you could find anyone in all that heat and smoke,’ she said.
I SUPPOSE YOU WOULD CALL IT A KNACK.
‘And not a mark on her.’
Bill Door ignored the question in her voice.
DID YOU SEND SOMEONE FOR THE APOTHECARY?
‘Yes.’
HE MUST NOT TAKE ANYTHING AWAY.
‘What do you mean?’
STAY HERE WHEN HE COMES. YOU MUST NOT TAKE ANYTHING OUT OF THIS ROOM.
‘That’s silly. Why should he take anything? What would he want to take?’
IT’S VERY IMPORTANT. AND NOW I MUST LEAVE YOU.
‘Where are you going?’
TO THE BARN. THERE ARE THINGS I MUST DO. THERE MAY NOT BE MUCH TIME NOW.
Miss Flitworth stared at the small figure on the bed. She felt far out of her depth, and all she could do was tread water.
‘She just looks as if she’s sleeping,’ she said helplessly. ‘What’s wrong with her?’