The Creeps: A Samuel Johnson Tale (7 page)

“All right, boys,” said Jolly, “the song’s had enough. Time to put it out of its misery.”

The BoyStarz stopped wailing.

“Has you got work for us?” asked Gemini.

“Is we going to be stars again?” asked Twinkle. As he said the word
stars,
he tossed fairy dust in the air.

“Where do they get that fairy dust from?” asked Angry. “They never seem to run out, do they?”

“I’ve searched their cell—I mean, their
room
—and I can’t find a trace of it,” said Dan. “I think they just produce it from their pores, like sweat.”

“What are you feeding them?” asked Dozy.

“Mostly cheese.”

“Well, that doesn’t explain it. Whatever you get from eating lots of cheese isn’t going to look like fairy dust, or smell like it either.”

“When is we going to sing again?” asked Starlight.

“What does he mean, ‘again’?” asked Jolly. “And why can’t they tell singular from plural?”

“I think they’re becoming a single entity,” said Dan. “Except for Phil, of course.”

“Ah.”

They all looked at Phil, who bore the same relationship to the other three as an emu might to three ducks. Every boy band had to have someone who looked like Phil in it. It was a rule.

“What are we going to do with them?” said Angry. “We can’t keep them down here forever. Eventually somebody is going to come looking for them.”

“Really?” asked Jolly.

Angry thought about it.

“Possibly not,” he said. “Still, we have to find something for them to do or else we’ll just end up with four old people living in our basement who can’t sing, smell of cheese, and appear to be made partly of fairy dust.”

There was a soft thud from above them as a copy of the
Biddlecombe Evening Crier
dropped through the letter box.

“Maybe there’ll be a job for them in the newspaper,” said Dozy.

“Unky,” said Mumbles.

“You’re right,” said Dozy, “it is highly unlikely, but you never know. Sometimes good things happen to good people.”

“And what about us?” said Angry.

“Sometimes good things happen to us, too,” said Dozy, “although only by mistake. Or through theft.”

They closed the door on the BoyStarz.

“Good-bye, little men,” said a voice. It might have been Starlight’s. Nobody knew for certain. They all looked the same.

Except for Phil.

And through the door came the sound of four voices singing loudly, if not terribly well, about how love was like a little man.

• • •

The dwarfs sat in Dan’s office and thought about their future. It looked bleak.

“This is terrible,” said Jolly. “We’re broke, and we have a talent-free talent agency.”

“Maybe we could sell the BoyStarz into slavery,” said Angry.

“They wouldn’t make very good slaves,” said Jolly. “They’re too delicate. Except for Phil.”

He looked at Dan.

“So?” he said. “Is there by any chance a job for the BoyStarz in the newspaper?”

Dan beamed at him. At last, a bit of good luck.

“No,” he replied, “but there’s a job for all four of you!”

21
. This is how parliaments work.

In Which the Forces of Law and Order Encounter the Forces of Lawlessness and Disorder

S
ERGEANT
R
OWAN AND
C
ONSTABLE
Peel were enjoying a nice pot of tea and a couple of pea-and-pork pies at Pete’s Pies. The sun was shining, the pies were good, and all was well with the world.

“Hello, Sergeant,” said a passerby, walking his dog. “Criminals taking a day off today, are they?”

Sergeant Rowan smiled. When he chose to use it, he had a smile like a fatal gunshot.

“Do you have a license for that dog?” he said, and the man hurried quickly along.

Constable Peel sipped his tea.

“Do you think criminals actually take days off, Sarge?” said Constable Peel. “I mean, if they’re on holiday and someone leaves a car unlocked or a wallet unattended, do criminals think, ‘No, I’m not stealing that, I’m on my holidays’?”

Since he’d been dragged to Hell, and then escaped, Constable Peel had begun to take a different view of life. His belief was that any day that didn’t involve demons, the undead, or being hauled off to Hell was a good day as far as he was concerned.

“I don’t know, Constable, but here comes a criminal. Let’s ask him.”

Sergeant Rowan stretched out a hand and gripped a passing dwarf by the collar.

“Bless my soul,” he said. “If it isn’t Mr. Jolly Smallpants, off to find something that isn’t nailed down.”

“All right, Sergeant Rowan. Always nice to see you,” lied Jolly, his toes almost touching the ground.

“My colleague here was wondering if criminals ever take holidays,” said Sergeant Rowan. “I thought you might be able to help him with an answer.”

Jolly thought about the question.

“I once stole a yacht. Does that count?”

Sergeant Rowan reminded himself never to shake hands with Jolly Smallpants, or, if he did, to count his fingers afterward just to make sure that they were all still there.

“When I said ‘taking’ a holiday, I did not mean stealing one,” he said. “I meant spending time not engaged in criminal behavior, if you could imagine such a thing.”

“Oh, no, Sergeant,” said Jolly. “If you have a gift, you ought to take it seriously. We’re like the law: we never rest. Well, except for you and Constable Peel. You like a rest. And
arrests
.” He chuckled. “See what I did there?”

“I did,” said Sergeant Rowan, “and if you do it again I shall drop you on your head. So where were you off to in such a hurry before I felt your collar? Somebody leave a bank vault open? Is there a cow standing in a field with bricks where its legs used to be?”

“No, Sergeant,” said Jolly. “I’m off to get a job.”

Sergeant Rowan was so shocked that he let Jolly go, and Constable Peel began choking on a piece of pie until Jolly helped him by slapping him a bit too enthusiastically on the back.

“Thank you,” said Constable Peel, once he could feel his spine again.

“Give him back his whistle, Mr. Smallpants,” said Sergeant Rowan sternly.

“Sorry,” said Jolly. “Force of habit.”

He handed Constable Peel his whistle and, as he was feeling generous, also returned his notebook, his pencil, and his hat.

“You mentioned a job,” said Sergeant Rowan while Constable Peel tried to store away his belongings until he realized that Jolly had stolen one of his pockets.

“Yes,” said Jolly.

“An honest, paying job?”

Jolly looked slightly ashamed. “It’s only temporary. Desperate times, and all that.”

“And what would this job involve?”

“Christmas elf at Wreckit’s,” said Jolly. “A chance to make children happy, and to lighten the hearts of their parents.”

“Lighten their pockets by stealing their wallets, more like,” said Sergeant Rowan.

“Speaking of pockets . . .” said Constable Peel.

Jolly handed over a scrap of dark blue material.

“Sorry again,” said Jolly. “Sometimes I don’t even know what my own hands are doing.”

At that moment he was joined by Angry, Dozy, Mumbles, and Dan, who greeted the two policemen with cheery smiles and the theft of the remains of their pies.

“Don’t you lot have a new van?” asked Sergeant Rowan. “I seem to recall seeing it being delivered yesterday.”

He frowned and tapped a finger to his lips.

“Now, what did it say on the side? Was it ‘Dan’s Twits,’ or ‘Dan’s Thieving Little Gits’? No, wait a minute, don’t tell me, it’ll come. Ah, I’ve got it now. ‘Dan’s Sods’! At least you can’t be accused of false advertising.”

“Very funny,” said Dozy. “Cost us a fortune, that van did, and we can’t afford new paintwork. How are we supposed to get around now? We only have little legs.”

“It’ll just make it harder for you to run away when we come looking for you,” said Sergeant Rowan.

“Why would you be looking for us, Sergeant?” asked Angry.

“Because the last time you lot worked as Christmas elves, there were some very nasty incidents, and don’t think that I’ve forgotten about them. That reindeer probably hasn’t forgotten about them either.”

“We were just feeding it a carrot,” said Dozy.

“Carrots go in the other end, the mouth end.”

“It was dark in that stable,” said Jolly. “It wasn’t our fault.”

“And then there was the poor bloke playing Father Christmas.”

“We were sure that beard wasn’t real,” said Angry. “I mean, ninety-nine percent sure. I’d have put money on it.”

“But you didn’t put money on it, did you?” said Sergeant Rowan. “You put
glue
on it. You glued it when he wasn’t looking and then asked a child to give it a tug. You thought you’d end up with a small boy with a beard stuck to his hand, but instead you got a Father Chrismas with a small boy stuck to him. Father Christmas had to have his beard cut off, and the kid ended up with hands that looked like the paws of an elderly werewolf.”

“It won’t happen again, Sergeant,” said Dan. “They’re changed men.”

“The only thing that will change that lot is Death,” said Sergeant Rowan. “Even then, they’ll probably try to steal his scythe.”

Dan began to hustle the dwarfs along.

“Well, we must be off,” he said. “We’re running late as it is. Good to see you again. Maybe we’ll all meet up at the Grand Opening!”

“I can hardly wait,” said Sergeant Rowan.

He turned his chair to face Constable Peel.

“We need to watch them, Constable. We need to watch them like hawks. No, not just like hawks, but like hawks . . .
with binoculars
. We—”

He paused.

“Where’s the rest of my pie gone?” he said.

“Sergeant—” began Constable Peel as an engine started up.

“And my tea. And the teapot!”

The engine was followed by a burst of sirens, but they were quickly silenced.

“Sarge—”

“They’ve even taken the cups!”

“Sarge!” said Constable Peel with some force.

“What is it?”

“I think they’ve stolen our car.”

In Which Clever Disguises Are Adopted

N
URD TRUDGED BACK TO
Mrs. Johnson’s house, his head low. Wormwood had chosen to stay late at the car-testing center. There had been some spectacular crashes that day, and Wormwood liked nothing better than rebuilding crashed cars.

Nurd was wearing a bulky jacket, and a hood covered his head. His hands were plunged deep into his pockets. It looked like rain, but he had decided not to take the bus because taking the bus meant being near people. Even though Nurd’s appearance had changed a great deal in his time on Earth, he was still strange enough to attract startled glances from passersby and fellow passengers. Small children sometimes cried at the sight of him, and he had lost count of the number of elderly ladies whom he had caused to faint with fright. It was easier just to walk home, even if it did take him an hour.

Home.
Nurd grimaced at the word. Mrs. Johnson’s house
wasn’t home. Oh, it was comfortable, and Samuel and his mother did all that they could to make Nurd and Wormwood feel like part of the family, but as time went on, Nurd just became more and more aware of how different he was. Earth was better than Hell, but Nurd still didn’t belong there, and he didn’t think that he ever would.

A bird sang from a nearby tree. Nurd stopped to listen. The bird took one look at him, let out a startled squawk, and suddenly decided to fly south for the winter, even though it wasn’t a migratory bird.

Nurd adjusted his hood until only a tiny circle of his face was visible, and walked on.

• • •

Once they had retrieved their car—following a long lecture from Sergeant Rowan to Jolly about the difference between “borrowing” and “stealing,” which Sergeant Rowan suspected went in one ear and out the other, but not before being relieved of any valuables—the two policemen decided to drive over to Mr. Pennyfarthinge’s to see what the scientists were up to in their Secret Laboratory That Everybody Knew About. It was part of the Biddlecombe constabulary’s weekly routine: pop in, say hello, pretend that the scientists were simply sweet manufacturers working night and day to perfect new types of sherbet, and make sure that they hadn’t opened any portals between worlds.

“We should have arrested them for stealing our car,” said Constable Peel as they neared Mr. Pennyfarthinge’s.

“Some things aren’t worth the time or the trouble,” said Sergeant Rowan. “At least we got it back before they sold it.”

“You’re very tolerant of them.”

“Spending time in Hell with people will do that to you.”

“Spending time with them is Hell anyway,” said Constable Peel. “Spending time with them
in
Hell was just Hell squared.”

“You know, I think they like you,” said Sergeant Rowan.

Constable Peel couldn’t help but feel pleased despite himself.

“What makes you say that, Sarge?”

“Have they burgled you yet?”

“Not that I know of.”

“There you have it. Stands to reason, doesn’t it, that they must like you if they haven’t burgled your house?”

“I don’t think they know where I live.”

“Really? Well, be sure not to tell them, then. You wouldn’t want to put temptation in their way.”

They pulled into the yard of Mr. Pennyfarthinge’s. The factorye—sorry, factory
²²
—occupied a big gloomy Victorian monstrosity designed by Hilary Mould. All of Hilary Mould’s buildings were gloomy, thought Sergeant Rowan. They might not have started out that way on the plans, but that’s how they ended up. Hilary Mould could have designed a playhouse and made it look like a mortuary. His buildings were the kind of places that were probably advertised in newspapers in the Afterlife: