Creed (44 page)

Bliss was leading someone by the hand.

She was in pink, but pretty by no means. The ballgown’s skirt was hooped and foamy with lace, and white gloves rose over her elbows. Her shoulders were covered, but the neckline plunged obscenely for one of her age and condition; her chest was rutted and liver-spotted. The skin of her neck and upper arms hung in loose folds from the bones as if meat inside had wasted away.

Helped by her thin escort, she tottered out to the top of the stairs and looked around in a jerky parody of regality. Creed heard the masqueraders behind him gasp in awe.

Her descent was precarious and twice she lurched, only the swift attention of Bliss (
Bliss?
) preventing her from falling.

The one attractive thing about Lily Neverless was the wig she wore, the same outdated but shiny trademark bob she’d used in most of her movies and for public appearances.

Clasped in her free hand – the other was held grimly by her hunchbacked aid – was a cigarette in a long black holder, another trademark of Lily’s, and several times during her unsteady descent she attempted to place the end between her heavily rouged lips. Unfortunately she seemed incapable of coordinating her actions and all she achieved was a continual poking of her cheek and chin.

Oddly (an understatement if ever there was one) a vividly blue eye, along with her other natural brown one, was staring fixedly at Creed.

He cringed, he shuddered. He guessed where that alien blue eye had come from. Again his body sagged and this time it was nausea as well as fright that weakened him.

Lily, or the thing that once had been Lily, leered crookedly as she drew near.

She uttered something, cleared her scraggy throat and tried again.

‘He . . . ooks . . .’

A dry tongue flicked across her glossy lips. ‘He . . . looks . . .’

She passed by Mallik on the stairs and his eyes were hooded, thoughtful. She reached the bottom, wobbled a little, then extended the cigarette holder towards Creed.

‘He . . . looks . . . ike . . . Mi . . . ickey . . . Rourke,’ she said.

Creed was too shocked to speak, too petrifled to move.

Lily Neverless – the
dead
Lily Neverless – was standing before him, swaying a little, a nerve twitching in one cheek, but standing there, impossibly breathing and smiling and watching him with one rheumy brown eye and one dazzlingly blue eye, the blue eye not hers at all but winkled out of Antony Blythe’s lifeless skull (
had
he been lifeless when they stole it from him?) and stitched into this . . . this zombie’s. And there was no doubt in his mind that this was her, this
was
Lily Neverless, for he’d been this close to her on other occasions, on
normal
occasions, when he’d reeled off shots as she’d arrived at theatres or left restaurants, and she’d either smiled or scowled, depending on her mood, so he knew, he was sure, that it was her, that Lily Neverless had returned from the grave . . .

He
believed
.

He suddenly
believed
everything he had been told about these people, about Nicholas Mallik defying the noose, about demons and monsters and power over life and death. He
believed
. . .

Lily lurched a step nearer.

Oh God,
this
was her
coming-out
ball.

Her other hand worked loose from her macabre escort’s grasp and reached to touch Creed’s face.

She made a burbling noise, a word of some kind that had no sense. Pale yellow liquid ran from one nostril.

Creed’s chest expanded, gathering strength for his scream.

But before he could, all hell broke loose.

The catalyst was white lightning, brilliant, instant flashes that filled the ballroom and blinded vision. But there was no following thunder, only continuous and silent fulgurations that were so swift they were almost one long outburst of light.

The masqueraders searched around and blinked, and blinked again, bewildered for the moment and totally hushed. Creed, who was used to the glare of flashbulbs, automatically shielded his eyes.

Nicholas Mallik was frozen on the steps, those dark eyes uncomprehending. Lily Neverless moved in this strobe effect in the manner of her earliest silent movies. Bliss wheeled this way and that, a giant white-headed spider ensnared in a net of fluctuating luminance.

This only lasted seconds. Then somebody screamed, and it wasn’t Creed.

There was pandemonium when others took up the scream, everyone in the ballroom suddenly galvanized by the sound. There were shouts, confusion and a lot of rushing about.

Only Creed knew exactly what was happening. He turned towards the tall french windows that graced one side of the long room and from where the camera flashes were emanating. He thanked God, he very nearly went down on his knees and raised his hands to the Lord right there and then. The boys were all here.

One of the window-doors burst inwards under the combined weight of the excited paparazzi outside. The breeze fluttered the heavy drapes on either side as the cameramen tumbled through, more following, stepping over their colleagues, camera motors whirring, lenses pointed at the old shrivelled actress who danced an ungainly solitary waltz, smiling for the crowds, a star again, her blue eye twinkling in the light, the brown one curiously dull and flat. Although mystified, amazed and perplexed, the photographers never ceased their busy work, the veterans among them realizing they were getting the shots of a lifetime, the younger paps, who perhaps didn’t quite appreciate the legend they were shooting, nevertheless carried away by the news value of the subject. This once-great star had fooled the world into believing she was dead.

Creed could have kissed every ugly one of them – he could have
French
-kissed every one of them – including Bluto who, as usual, was well to the fore, shuffling around on his knees like some stunted troll, trying to steady his Leica whilst being nudged and elbowed by his equally enthusiastic chums. Unembarrassed by conscience, not giving a toss about invasion of privacy, trespass, or hooliganism, they advanced on Lily Neverless, calling her name and pleading for her to
stand still for a moment
!

‘Is she the real Lily?’ one of them shouted to Creed.

He nodded and couldn’t stop nodding as he backed away from them all, his blue-uniformed minders rushing past him to get at the paparazzi pack. He bumped into masqueraders who seemed at a loss to know what to do with themselves. Several held their masks in place with their hands as if to secure their identities.

A roar carried over the general babble and everyone in the vicinity looked towards the staircase where Nicholas Mallik stood rooted, his shoulders hunched, a quivering finger pointed at the intruders. His face, thunderous at the best of times, was dark – literally
blackened
– with rage. To Creed’s astonishment (further astonishment, given everything that had gone on before) the man seemed to be breathing steam (it
had
to be cold air coming through from the open window misting the warmer draughts of wrath from Mallik’s nostrils,
had
to be).

‘
How dare you!
’ he screeched, his usual sombre tones not much in evidence now. ‘
How dare you enter these premises!
’

The photographers gawped.

Someone took a snap.

‘
Get out!
’

They looked at each other, eyebrows raised. One of them shrugged and took another picture.

Mallik’s chest and shoulders began to heave. The vaporous air from his nose blew in a steady stream. His image began to falter.

Creed saw the gradual, wavering transformation and almost sank to the floor in an overload of terror. He watched and thought of storybooks and horror-movie devils, although this was more subtle, far less extreme than those man-conceived visions, yet all the more horrific – and
real
– for that. The manifestation wasn’t clear, for it quivered, throbbed, became a kind of shifting hologram, ebbing but returning with added force, growing bolder until it was firm and unmoving. Those around Creed sunk low, whether in fear or homage he had no idea.

‘Who is that guy?’ one of the paparazzi asked.

‘Nobody,’ another replied.

They turned back to Lily Neverless, who was by now staggering around like a grotesque marionette, most of whose strings had been cut.

‘Over here, Lil.’

‘This way.’

‘How ’bout a smile?’

‘Why’d you pretend to be dead, Lil?’

Creed wiped his palms over his face. He looked incredulously from the glowering demon to the ratpack. They didn’t see what he and others in the ballroom did. The hideous metamorphosis had had no effect on them whatsoever,
they saw nothing unusual at all
.

He went back to the demon again and saw only a tired and stooped old man on the stairway, someone who contemplated the pack of photographers with weary despair. Mallik’s body seemed to shrink into itself with the defeat.

Pandemonium started up all over again.

‘Dad!’

Creed whirled around. Sammy evidently was no longer so sleepy; he was twisting in the arms of the man wearing the jackal mask, trying to get away. Creed pushed his way through costumed figures to get to them.

Grabbing hold of the boy’s arm, he tugged hard, but the masked man pulled from the other side. Someone ran past in panic, bumping the photographer and almost knocking him over; but he kept his hold on Sammy, refusing to give him up. He tugged again, but the other man clung on grimly. In desperation Creed finally let go of the boy and went for the man, grabbing the mask’s long snout and jerking it aside so that he could smash a fist into the exposed face. The jackal head fell to the floor.

‘Lidcrap!’

The grimace of pure hatred Lidtrap wore was infinitely more ugly than the fancy dress mask. He tossed his dampened blond curls from his eyes and hurled himself at Creed.

The photographer had dodged people as angry as this one many times in the past though, and was, in fact, master of the cunning duck. Lidtrap went sailing past and Creed used a sharp elbow in the back to help him on his way. The expensive Armani jacket ripped nicely as Lidtrap slid along the ballroom floor.

Creed grasped the boy’s hand and glanced around wildly, not sure of which way to run. He wasn’t the only one in this dilemma, for figures dashed here and there in total disorder, colliding with each other, shoving, pushing. It appeared that nobody wanted to be photographed.

The open french window was the best bet, Creed decided. Get among the paps and worm through to the outside. Taking Sammy with him, he made his way in their direction. A few of them were arguing with the two attendants who were jumping up and down in front of the pack, waving their arms to spoil the shots. One of them made the mistake of trying to snatch Bluto’s Leica. Now Bluto got upset very easily when anybody touched his camera – even Sean Penn had learned never to get too obstreperous with this particular paparazzo – and he smacked the offending hand; then, to show how serious he was, he smacked the attendant’s cheek. All three, both attendants and Bluto himself, went down in a struggling heap after that, which left the other paparazzi happily free to get on with the job in hand.