Creed (47 page)

He wrenched back the door (which ran more smoothly than the one below) and they stepped out into further mayhem.

The hallway was filled with agitated masqueraders, milling around, jabbering excitedly, all of them trying to make for the Retreat’s main doors. Creed was surprised at how many there were, for surely the majority of them should have been well away by this time; then he saw that their numbers had been swollen by others clad in nightwear. It seemed that everyone in the home, geriatrics as well as lunatics, was on the loose.

He and Sammy joined the throng, Creed leading with the boy close behind, shoving their way through the crowd, not caring who they nudged aside, be it male, female, young or old. Some of the guests’ masks had gone, no doubt knocked off in the jostle, and he mentally whistled when he recognized a few faces here and there. Wasn’t that the silly old bishop who was forever upsetting his Synod with his stubborn repudiation of all things miraculous? And that definitely was a member of the Shadow Cabinet, a man they said was on the shortlist of those in line for premiership should the current government lose the next election. Christ! And that woman over there looked like the wife of the American tycoon whose multinational companies virtually dominated world trade. There were other, lesser mortals that he recognized or half-recognized and he couldn’t help but wonder what the Devil’s going rate was for souls. Had he known where to apply he might have struck a deal himself some years ago when young and even more desperate for wealth and fame.

He kept moving, elbowing aside a frail old lady in a dressing gown who wouldn’t hobble out of his way fast enough. She wished him joy in catching cancer, but he was too busy with escape to respond. A silver-haired gentleman in a deep-green quilted smoking jacket turned to admonish him for shoving (he was an old theatre queen Creed had thought long dead) but somebody else pushed by with such ferocity that they both nearly went down.

This is getting ridiculous, Creed told himself, dragging Sammy on. What the hell was the hold-up? By now they were almost in the reception area near the front doors and the crowd had grown too thick for anyone to move. He stood on tiptoe to see what was causing the blockage, using his son’s shoulder to steady himself. He caught sight of several blue-uniformed attendants by the doors and it was they who were holding back the crowd; he couldn’t see her but he could hear the familiar voice of the fat receptionist, squealing at the people to remain calm and to move away, to return to the ballroom until it was safe to leave. Creed guessed that the paparazzi had been thrown out of the side entrance and had gathered out front with freshly loaded cameras, waiting for the guests to make their hasty departures.

He realized that he and Sammy would never get out this way. Okay, find another exit.

‘No problem, Sam,’ he told his son. ‘We’ll use the back way.’

But right then there erupted a scream so shrill that everyone was stunned for a second or two. It was followed by a word that was equally piercing:

‘
Fire!
’

This time everyone screamed.

Creed was just able to lift Sammy before they were swept forward in a tidal wave of bodies, the surge heading directly for the big double-doors. Nothing – certainly not the obese woman and her burly cohorts – could stem that tide. The guests and residents, newly joined by the basement lunatics, who had found their way upstairs bringing bits of the fire with them, burst out into the cold night air, trampling those who wouldn’t go with the flow (like the fat lady) underfoot, smoke already beginning to pour through with them.

Creed and Sammy were spun around, bumped this way and that, flashlights blinding them, yells and screams of panic almost deafening them. But they were
free
, and Creed shut his eyes and whooped with delight. He kissed his startled son and rumpled his hair, then from sheer elation he whipped off the mask of the nearest person to him, turning swiftly to do the same to the fleeing masquerader on his other side.

‘
Get ’em, boys!
’ he shouted to the busy paparazzi, laughing as he was carried along. ‘
Get the fuckers!
’

The crowds thinned as people headed for their cars, others among them sprinting across the lawns and into the darkness.

‘
Joe! Joe!
’

Creed paused at the sound of his name. He looked around, steadying himself against the knocks and shoves. Someone was running across the drive towards him and he held up a hand against the popping lights, squinting to see who it was.

‘
Joe, what’s happening here?
’

Prunella threw herself at him, knocking him back a step or two. Sammy, who had been watching the house and the lovely orange glow that was spreading along its lower windows, twisted in his father’s arms to see what had hit them. He returned his attention to the house when he realized it was only a girl.

‘
You did it!
’ Creed shouted at Prunella, holding her tight and making a sandwich of the boy.

‘But I still don’t understand what’s going on here, Joe. You didn’t explain when you rang this afternoon, so tell me now. What kind of party was this and who are the big names you said would be here? One of the paps told me Lily Neverless was inside, but that’s impossible, isn’t it, Joe?’

‘Yeah, it’s impossible. But they got the shots.’

‘I don’t understand. Why did you want me to spread the word that something big was happening here tonight? Didn’t you want it just for yourself? I don’t get it, Joe, I don’t
understand
! Tell me
why
!’

‘Insurance,’ he said, still grinning from ear to ear. He kissed her and Sammy said, ‘
Yuk
.’

‘Insurance,’ Creed repeated.

That’s it, more or less.

Creed, our not-so-lovable hero, has come through. He’s saved his son from a fate as bad as death and, as he’s soon to find out, discouraged a great evil from rearing its ugly head once more – for the time being, anyway. He has managed this without much mettle, with very few scruples (if any at all), and a great deal of self-interest. That might be a lesson to us all.

Having fought the great fight (fought it by running away mostly) and won, Creed has shown that it’s not only the bold, the brave, and the noble, who can achieve a result; sometimes a little rottenness can too.

The future for Joe Creed? Well the present isn’t quite over for him just yet. The finale is still to come . . .

Another day, another dollar, he thought as he wearily turned the front-door key.

A rooftop bird trilled in the dawn and Creed peered up at the sky, grateful for the creeping greyness. He’d had enough of the night.

He stepped over the threshold and closed the door behind him, then sat on the bottom step, giving himself a moment of quiet contemplation, a catching up of his thoughts.

Sammy was back home with his mother and Creed expected the phone to start ringing at any second. Evelyn had probably been phoning since their son’s return, and he pictured her at that moment, fast asleep, receiver still in hand, exhausted by her own persistence. Well, she’d have to wait for the full story.

It had taken over two hours to get Sammy back to his mother’s house, and the boy had slept all the way, his eyes closing as soon as Creed had laid him in the Suzuki’s passenger seat and wrapped him in a rug. Creed had stopped the jeep just around the corner from home and had woken him, anxious to find out what the boy understood of his big adventure. Thankfully it turned out to be not too much. Sammy remembered sort of waking up in a big house, then sleeping again, then seeing all the funny dressed-up people, then being chased by a lot of other funny people, and that was about it, and was it tea-time, because he was starving and thirsty too and could we go home now, Dad?

Relieved, Creed had started up the jeep again and driven round to Evelyn’s house. The boy might remember more later when the effects of the drugs they’d kept him on wore off, but half of it would still seem like a dream, and thank Christ for that. The worst Evelyn would hear of was a short-term kidnapping.

He parked the jeep, then carried Sammy up the short garden path to stand him on the doorstep. After ringing the bell, Creed bent down and kissed his son on the forehead. Sammy didn’t respond, he didn’t throw his arms around his father and tell him he was the best dad in the world and he wanted to be just like him when he grew up and when could he visit again? Sammy yawned.

The hall light came on and Creed was back down the garden path and climbing into the Suzuki even as his ex-wife’s voice came complaining through the letterbox. He heard Sammy reply and waited only for the sound of the door being unlocked before gunning the engine and burning rubber. No way could he face Evelyn tonight.

Besides, there was still too much to do.

When he got back to London the word had spread for, although the Fleet Street ghetto was no longer in existence, the telepathy between newspapers still flourished. The buzz was on about the great fire at the country mansion and the paps were busy selling shots to the various journals and syndicates of a dancing woman who bore a remarkable resemblance to the recently departed actress, Lily Neverless. Some of them even had snaps of the woman being savaged by what appeared to be a very large dog in fancy dress, but none of these had turned out very well. Unfortunately the whole place – it was later discovered to be some kind of upmarket old folks’ home – had gone up in smoke, apparently taking the old girl and many others with it. To make matters worse, there had been a grand masked ball that night and the guests had been involved in the fire too; just how many had been burned alive had not yet been ascertained. Still, there were good pictures of masqueraders – with some well-known faces among them – fleeing in wonderful costumes. Great stuff for the breakfast table.

When Creed arrived at the
Dispatch
, he refused to make any comment until he had developed the film from his damaged camera himself. The shots taken at the Mountjoy Retreat were okay, not a frame lost. In fact, the shots were terrific. He had evidence on film of the awful things going on at the so-called rest home: the dungeons, poor Henry Pink, the operating theatre with Antony Blythe’s mutilated body lying on the metal slab, the storeroom full of spare body parts. It was sensational and Creed knew he had finally made the big one.

But of course when he went to the night editor with the story he kept the unbelievable bits – the ones about demons and resurrections and monsters and shape-changers – to himself. No way was he going to kill his story (and its value) with such supernatural nonsense. No way.

Kidnap, murder, illegal transplants, cruelty, arson and lunatics taking over the asylum – plus the suggestion that a notorious child-murderer had escaped the hangman’s noose before the last World War with full knowledge of the authorities concerned – was good enough. Who could want anything more? Not he, oh no.

He insisted, being in the bargaining seat for the first time in his life, that Prunella, who had been waiting for him at the
Dispatch
, write the whole story (so, not such a bad guy after all and besides, he’d enjoyed the afternoon romp with her and hoped to repeat it in the near future).

It took time to tell and to answer the thousand-and-one questions afterwards, which was why it was dawn when Creed finally reached home.

He might well have fallen asleep right there on the stairs had not a sound from above (oh God, how he’d grown used to that over the past few days) roused him.

He was aware of who it was with him in the house and he didn’t bolt for the door. No, he was too tired for that and besides, most of his fear had been drained by now. Perhaps instinctively he knew the worst was over; perhaps the atmosphere itself held no hint of danger. Or it could simply have been that there had to be a conclusion to this whole bizarre affair and he knew it was waiting for him up there somewhere.

The slightest aroma of musk on the stairs had already hinted at her presence.

With heavy legs, Creed climbed the stairs. He found Cally in the bedroom.