The Creeps: A Samuel Johnson Tale (28 page)

“Oh, Lor’,” he said as he took in the view. “I don’t feel at all well.”

For a moment, he appeared to want to turn back and take his chances with the vanishing stairs, but Samuel reassured him.

“It’s okay,” he told Constable Peel. “There’s still a floor under us. You can see it if you look hard enough.”

Constable Peel didn’t want to look. Looking meant seeing infinity, or as good as, waiting right beneath his feet. He stretched out a hand to balance himself, and Angry gripped it.

“It’s all right, Constable,” he said. “I have you.”

“If I fall,” said Constable Peel, “I’m taking you with me. At least I’ll die happy.”

With Angry’s help, Constable Peel came to grips with the concept of a floor that both was and wasn’t there. They repeated the process as the rest of the group joined them, until at last they were all standing together, alternating between fear and awe at the terror and majesty of the Multiverse, and at the one construction that really didn’t seem to belong in it, for standing before them was Santa’s Grotto.

Samuel couldn’t understand why they hadn’t noticed it before. Maybe they’d been too concerned with not falling, and with taking in the view, but it was hard to ignore a little stone house with smoke pouring from its chimney and snow on its roof—real snow, because it had now begun to descend on them as well, tickling their faces before melting on their skin. The light flickering through its walls turned from white to orange as they watched, as though a great fire were raging inside.

The door opened, and Mr. St. John-Cholmondeley appeared.

“Look,” said Jolly, “it’s Mr. Smokey-Chimney.”

“So it is,” said Dozy. “Oi, we want a word with you about this job, Slimy-Chopsticks. We’re starting to think that we might not want it after all; that, or you need to pay us more.”

Now it was Mr. St. John-Cholmondeley’s turn to glow red.

“It’s Sinjin-Chumley!” he screamed. “How many times do I have to tell you?
Sinjin-Chumley!
It’s just two words. How hard can it be?”

Even amid the chaos of the Multiverse, the dwarfs could see
that he was annoyed. The dwarfs prided themselves on their sensitivity to the feelings of others.

“Sorry,” said Angry.

“Yes, sorry,” said Jolly and Dozy.

“Applidlespopop,” said Mumbles.

“He says he’s sorry, too,” said Angry.

“Sorry, Mr. . . . ?” said Mr. St. John-Cholmondeley.

He cocked his head, and waited for a reply.

The dwarfs looked at one another. Somebody had to give it a try. Angry, who had decided that he’d had enough of taking the lead for one day, gave Jolly a nudge.

“Sorry,” said Jolly, “Mr. Slimjim . . .”

He ran out of steam. Dozy gave it a try.

“Sorry, Mr. Soapy-Chandling.”

“Mr. Slightly-Chafing.”

“Mr. Singing-Chutney.”

“Mr. Stinky-Cheesecake.”

There is a phrase sometimes used about people who are very angry: “he was incandescent with rage.” An incandescent light, as I’m sure you know, is one with a filament that glows white hot when heated. It does not, of course, mean that someone really glows white hot when annoyed, or it didn’t until Mr. St. John-Cholmondeley came along. As they watched, Mr. St. John-Cholmondeley’s eyes turned bright red, and then changed from red to burning white before bursting into flames. He opened his mouth, and smoke and fire jetted from between his lips. His whole body shook as smoke poured from his sleeves, and the ends of his trousers, and the neck of his shirt.

“It’s—” he roared, but he got no further. His suit ignited and his body exploded, but there was no blood or flesh, only bits of plastic. Mr. St. John-Cholmondeley was simply a showroom dummy in a cheap suit brought to life, and now that existence was at an end. His head, which had soared high into the air with the force of the blast, landed with a thud and rolled across the nearly unseen floor, where Angry stopped it with his foot.

The white light was fading from Mr. St. John-Cholmondeley’s eyes, and his skin was assuming the hardness of plastic. The dark force that had animated him was leaving, but there was a little wretched life left in him yet.

“It’s—” he began again, but Mumbles interrupted him.

“Sinjin-Chumley,” Mumbles said, pronouncing it perfectly.

“We knew all along,” said Angry. “Serves you right for being unpleasant.”

Mr. St. John-Cholmondeley found the strength to make his eyes glow an angry orange one last time before the light vanished from them and all that remained was a plastic head. Two thin streams of pure darkness poured from his ears and flowed beneath the walls of Santa’s Grotto, and that darkness seemed to be mirrored above their heads. More stars were snuffed out, swallowed by swirling clouds like thick black ink. Eyeless faces appeared in the void, but their very blindness made them more threatening. Long grasping fingers stretched out toward the Earth, and black tongues licked at lipless mouths, as though already tasting the planet’s light and life before consuming it. But the barrier between the Shadows and the universe held, for now. The Shadows flattened themselves against it, but they
could not penetrate. It would not hold for much longer, though. Already cracks were visible, shining red like streams of lava.

Nurd appeared at Samuel’s right hand.

“All of this because of us,” said Nurd, and he sounded both amazed and terribly, terribly sad. “She will sacrifice whole universes to the Shadows in order to avenge herself.”

“What if we just offered ourselves to her?” said Samuel softly, and if Nurd had been astonished by the lengths to which Mrs. Abernathy was prepared to go to have her revenge, he was more astonished still at the boy’s words, and he felt honored that he could call such a person his friend. Billions of years in age separated them. One was human, the other demon. Yet in all his long life, Nurd had never felt closer to another being than he did to Samuel. The Multiverse had brought them together, and they had both been changed utterly by the meeting. Samuel had crossed dimensions, and now understood something of the true nature of existence. He had confronted the greatest of evils, but he had also been saved by a demon.

And that demon had himself been saved by Samuel: had they not met, then Nurd would still have been living in exile in the bleakest, dullest part of Hell with only Wormwood for company, devising plots that would never come to pass. Nurd would just have been another failed demon, an entity not weak enough to be truly evil, but not strong enough to be good either.

Now this boy was suggesting that they try to lay down their lives not just for their friends but for humanity and for every other life-form, known and unknown, that swam or flew or crawled in the Multiverse. As Nurd watched, Boswell, who had
been standing just behind Samuel and peering through his master’s legs at all that was happening, shifted position, and moved to Samuel’s side, where he sat down with his weight leaning against the boy’s right leg.

He hears Samuel, thought Nurd, who had long ago learned not to underestimate the little dog. He senses what the boy is thinking of doing, and he will not leave him. This dog will die with its master rather than abandon him. If a small dog is willing to stand beside the boy at the cost of its life, then what choice have I but to do the same?

“We can try,” said Nurd, “but I fear that Mrs. Abernathy is so insane by now that it won’t be enough for her to see only us suffer, and she has made her bargain with the Shadows. They will not let her break it easily. Perhaps, though, we can appeal to her vanity. Even the cruelest of beings must sometimes show mercy. If there is a power in taking lives, there is a greater power in sparing them. If we can make her believe that letting humanity survive would better demonstrate her might than allowing the Shadows to consume everything, then we could have a chance.”

Samuel picked up something in Nurd’s tone.

“But not a big chance,” said Samuel, and he managed a smile.

“Not really,” said Nurd, “but that’s better than no chance at all.”

Maria joined them.

“What are you two whispering about?” she said, but even as she spoke Lucy bustled forward and plonked herself between Maria and Samuel. Lucy might have been a little shallow, and very self-obsessed, but she was nobody’s fool. She might not
have liked Samuel as much as she once thought she did, and she certainly didn’t understand him, but there was no way that she was going to let anyone else take him from her.

“He’s
my
boyfriend!” she said.

“Er, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that,” said Samuel, although it struck him that this probably wasn’t the ideal time to bring it up. Then again, if the universe did come to an end, he didn’t want to spend his final moments stuck in a doomed relationship with Lucy Highmore.

“
Excuse
me?” said Lucy.

Nurd took a discreet step back. It is said that Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. Nurd had spent a long time in Hell, and he knew just how furious it was. If scorning Lucy Highmore was going to be worse than Hell, then Nurd didn’t want to be stuck in the middle of whatever happened next. He managed to put Constable Peel and two dwarfs between him and the argument.

“Hey, wait a minute—” said Constable Peel, who might have been dim at times but could see where this was going.

“You’re a policeman,” said Nurd. “You have a duty to protect.”

He kept a tight hold of Constable Peel’s shoulders, just in case the policeman got any ideas about seeking cover for himself.

“Look, it’s just not working out between us,” said Samuel. “It’s not you, it’s me.”
⁶³

“How dare you!” said Lucy. “You’re saying that it is me!”

“No, I’m not,” said Samuel. “At least, I don’t think that I am. Hang on, I might be.”

“But nobody has ever broken up with me before,” said Lucy. “I do the breaking up. I even have a speech about how we can still be friends, and how you must be brave, and all that nonsense.”

“Right,” said Samuel, and his mouth began working before his brain could catch up. “Well, we can still be friends, and I suppose you have to be brave—”

Any further musings he might have had on the future of his dealings with Lucy Highmore were brought to a sudden end by the impact of her right shoe against Samuel’s left knee.

“Oooooooh!” said Lucy. “Well, I’m glad I’m not going out with you anymore! You’re strange, you’re too short, and your shoes sometimes don’t match. And by the way, this has been the worst date of my life!”

She turned to face Maria.

“You Jezebel!” 
⁶⁴
she said. “If you like him that much then you can just have him, and I hope he makes you as happy as he made me.”

She stomped away, then stomped back again.

“Just in case you didn’t understand what I meant,” she told Maria, “I was implying that he didn’t make me happy at all, and I hope you’re just as unhappy with him as I was.”

“I knew that,” said Maria. “And I do like him. I think I may love him, actually.”

“Bully for you,” said Lucy. “I don’t want an invitation to the wedding.”

She stomped away for the second time, and stood beside Nurd and Constable Peel with her arms folded, simmering like a pot on a warm stove.

“What are you two looking at?” she said.

“Nothing,” said Nurd.

“Me neither,” said Constable Peel. “I’m just minding my own business.”

“Just keep it that way,” said Lucy. “Oh, men!”

Samuel, meanwhile, was staring at Maria with the confused expression of a man who has just learned that day is, in fact, night, and the moon is made of cheese after all.

“What?” he said, as he couldn’t think of anything else to say.

“It doesn’t matter,” said Maria, then added: “You’re an idiot.”

“What?” said Samuel—again.

“For a smart boy,” said Angry to Jolly, who had been watching the entertainment and enjoying it immensely, “he really is surprisingly stupid sometimes.”

“Look, I like you,” said Maria. “A lot. I’ve always liked you. A lot. Do you understand?”

“What?” said Samuel, for a third time.

Maria kissed Samuel gently on the lips.

“There,” she said.

“Ah,” said Samuel.

“The light dawns,” said Angry.

“It’s like watching a caveman discover fire,” said Jolly.

“Now,” said Maria, “to return to the original question: what were you and Nurd whispering about?”

Samuel could taste Maria on his lips. His head was swimming. It was such a shame that he was either going to be killed or the Multiverse was about to come to an end, because he realized he had always loved Maria. He definitely didn’t want to die now, and he rather hoped that the Multiverse might be saved without his death being part of the bargain, but then he also understood that there really is no sacrifice, and no bravery, unless there is something to be lost.

He put his hand against Maria’s cheek.

“Nurd and I are going to offer ourselves to Mrs. Abernathy in order to save the Multiverse,” he said.

“Over my dead body,” said Maria.

“That,” said a voice lubricated by poisons, “can probably be arranged. Oh, and ho-ho-ho.”

62
. The word
vertigo
is frequently used, incorrectly, to describe the fear of heights, but vertigo is a spinning sensation felt when someone is actually standing still. The correct term for a fear of heights is
acrophobia
. Good grief, I sound like that grammarian bloke Dominique Bouhours, and he was really annoying. Sorry.

63
. Please see footnote 16 in Chapter Five, and then substitute “me” for “you,” and “you” for “me” in the sentence above.

64
. This is quite an insult, but only really works on a girl who has tried to steal another girl’s boyfriend. If you’re a bloke and you call someone a Jezebel, you’ll just be looked at oddly.

In Which We End on a Cliffhanger

S
AMUEL AND
M
ARIA HAD
seen photographs of Hilary Mould, but had obviously never imagined meeting him in the flesh, not that they had lost a lot of sleep over it. Even in life Hilary Mould had not been a very handsome man. He had fish eyes, a misshapen nose, and a chin so weak that a small child could have taken it in a fight. What little hair he had stuck up at odd angles from his head like clumps of bristles on an old, worn paintbrush, and his ears stood out at right angles from his head like car doors that had been jammed open. He was also so pale and sickly that he resembled a corpse that had recently been dug up and then forgotten about.