The Hangman's Lair (11 page)

‘I’ll take the risk,’ I said flatly

Uncle Raphael led me on a weaving route around the tables. I glanced back at Izzy and she gave me a quick thumbs-up.

‘By the way,’ I said. ‘Don’t tell Mr Frye who I am.’

‘Oh?’ said Uncle Raphael. ‘Why’s that?’

Well, er, he might get a psychic shock, you know, if he realises I’m the one he’s predicted all that doom and gloom for. It might send his perceptive aura out of whack or something. I’ll break it to him gently who I am.’

‘Of course, I see,’ said Uncle Raphael. ‘Yes, that’s very considerate of you. He’s a sensitive man. He’s in tune with the cosmic mysteries, the balance of his delicate inner peace can be upset by the smallest movement in the space-time continuum. He was telling me about it over a pie and a pint the other night.’

We went through a small lobby area and down a dimly lit corridor. At the end of it was a door marked
Private. Artistes Only.
Uncle Raphael knocked gently

‘Mr Frye?’ he said softly. ‘Enormous apologies for interrupting your meditations, but I have a youngster here who’s dying to meet you. A fan. Might he be permitted a few moments of your time?’

There was a long silence. Not the slightest sound came from inside the room.

‘Naturally, we could return at another time if the spirits are currently occupying your attention,’ said Uncle Raphael, with just a trace of a tremor in his voice.

There was another long silence. And then, like the sound of a slowly creaking hinge in the dead of night, there came a voice. It was rasping and scratched, a quivering, horror movie voice that turned my spine to ice.

‘You may enter.’

Uncle Raphael bustled the two of us into the room. At first, I couldn’t see Godfrey Frye. The only light came from a small, heavily shaded table lamp, which threw a hazy circular glow up on to the ceiling. Half the room seemed to be filled with an acrid mist, which it took me a few seconds to realise was cigarette smoke.

At last, Godfrey Frye emerged from the smoke. He stood up from a sofa on the other side of the room and advanced towards me, like a sailing ship gliding out of a midnight fog.

Izzy had been right. I’d never seen anyone so instantly frightening in all my life. He was short, and so unnervingly thin that he looked like he was walking out of a distorting mirror. His jet black hair was greased back over his bumpy head and his cheeks were sunken and lined. His skin was like the wrappings on an Egyptian mummy, making his red, slit-like mouth and his piercing green eyes stand out all the more.

If I’d been a cartoon character, I’d have done a loud g-g-gulp at that moment. As it was, I felt my every last gram of confidence suddenly drain away through my wobbly legs.

‘You wish to see me?’ said Godfrey Frye in his slow, grating whisper. He took a long drag from the cigarette that was held delicately between his elongated, bony fingers.

‘Umm . . . yes . . . hello,’ I said weakly.

Uncle Raphael bounced over to Godrey Frye, who didn’t take his gaze off me for a single second. ‘Glad I could see you before the show, old man,’ said Uncle Raphael. ‘I was wondering if I might have a word with you later on?’

‘Unless it is concerning my overdue wages, Mr Moustique,’ said Godrey Frye slowly, ‘then I fear I may not be available.’

‘Ah,’ said Uncle Raphael. ‘Well, it is about a very important financial matter. Very important. Won’t take more than a moment of your valuable time . . .’

There was another long silence. Godfrey Frye didn’t move a muscle. ‘Very well,’ he said at last.

‘Excellent!’ cried Uncle Raphael. ‘Top notch! Well, break a leg ‘n’ all that. Toodle-oo!’

He scooted off. A drifting trail of pungent smoke gradually escaped Godfrey Frye’s mouth and he returned to his sofa.

‘Who are you, boy?’ he said.

And in that moment, I knew he was a phoney. Whatever hold he had over his audiences, or over the staff of The Pig and Fiddle, I was clear in my own mind that everything he did was down to careful trickery

Have you spotted why?

He didn’t know who I was. He had, so he’d told Izzy the night before, seen my face and my future. And yet now he didn’t recognise me? All of a sudden, I wasn’t the slightest bit afraid of him any more.

‘Hi,’ I said. ‘My name is, er . . . Lovecraft. Harry Lovecraft. I’m, umm, here on holiday with, umm, my three big brothers. Back home, miles away, I’m involved with my school newspaper. The teachers always encourage us to find interesting things to write about and I thought perhaps I could write about you.’

His sharp green eyes scanned my face like laser beams. He was obviously trying to work out all he could about me.

‘I’m sorry, Mr Lovecraft,’ he said. ‘I do not give interviews.’

‘It’d be great publicity,’ I said. ‘When all my friends read about what a great magician you are —’

He leaned forward suddenly, glaring. A shivering feeling ran up my back.

I’ am not a magician, boy,’ he snarled. T am gifted with second sight. I am a means by which the departed may communicate with the living.’

‘But you do a stage act,’ I said. ‘Surely that means —’

‘My public performances are the only way I can make my way in this world, boy. You do not understand.’ He sat back on his sofa, his face wreathed in shadows and smoke. ‘The dead speak to me, at all hours they whisper in my mind. I am locked in eternal struggle with the spirit realm. My soul is held in the chill fingers of the grave. I cannot lead a normal life, I exist only for the voices. I am compelled to use my gifts in their service, to bring their words to the living. My appearances upon the stage are no act. They are my only means of fulfilling my destiny.’

‘I see,’ I said, hoping that my voice was shuddering less than the rest of me. ‘Well, why not put the record straight? Let me write an article about you and everyone will know that you’re a real, genuine, honest psychic.’

Mr Frye became still and silent once more. ‘I do not give interviews. I require a period of quiet contemplation before a performance. You will leave me now.’

‘Oh well,’ I said cheerily. ‘Just let Uncle, er, Mr Moustique know if you change your mind. See ya!’

I headed for the door. On the way, I couldn’t help noticing a pile of local newspapers that sat in a teetering heap beside Godfrey Frye’s sofa. That’s odd, I thought, he’s only been in town for a matter of days. He must have got every local paper for miles around there. I wonder why

I
RETURNED TO
I
ZZY
.H
ER
mum was returning from the bar, zigzagging her way around the tables. The weirdly dressed man had gone.

‘I think the show will be starting in a minute,’ said Izzy’s mum.

‘Mum,’ said Izzy. ‘You’ve forgotten our drinks.’

She looked down, as if she was suddenly surprised to find herself not carrying a tray. ‘Oh, yes . . . orange juice . . . sorry, I must have got distracted for a moment.’

She turned and zigzagged back to the bar again.

‘And some crisps too, please!’ called Izzy after her. Her mum waved a hand in acknowledgement.

‘Cheese and onion!’ Izzy turned to me. ‘How did it go?’

‘Like a car with no wheels. It didn’t go anywhere,’ I said. ‘You were right, though, he’d scare the socks off a blood-drinking monster from outer space. At least I’ve managed to prove to myself that he’s no more in touch with the dead than I am.’ I told her about him not recognising me.

‘That’s a relief,’ said Izzy. ‘The research I’ve been doing today has been rather comforting, too. There was a lot of info about the history of fake mediums. It makes me see what a fool I was to start wondering if Godfrey Frye was genuine or not!’

‘Once I’ve seen his act and we know how it’s done, we can prove to your uncle that because Frye is a fake, this get-rich-quick scheme – whatever it turns out to be – is going to be a waste of time.’

A spotlight pointing at the stage curtains suddenly flashed into life. The point where the curtains met in the middle flapped apart and Izzy’s uncle appeared to a round of applause from the audience.

He raised a microphone to his beaming smile. ‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, and welcome to The Pig and Fiddle. In a short while, we will once again be presenting the master of mysticism, Mr Godfrey Frye. But first, back again by popular demand, the local legends who are . . . The Fat Dads!’

An almighty cheer rose up, as Izzy’s uncle scuttled out of the way and the curtains parted. Taking up superstar-shaped poses on the stage was a four-piece band: a drummer, two guitarists and that weirdly-dressed man who’d been at the bar on lead vocals. The rest of the band were dressed even more weirdly than he was, with spiked, multi-coloured hairdos and leather collars around their necks.

The crowd cheered themselves hoarse. I looked around in total bewilderment. I spotted Izzy’s mum, back by the bar, jumping up and down and whooping at the top of her voice.

‘What on
earth
is this?’ I shouted to Izzy above the din of the crowd.

‘The Fat Dads. They’re a punk-rock tribute band,’ shouted Izzy above the sudden clashing of electric guitars. ‘They’re a local group – they play here quite regularly. The lead singer there is called Jimmy. He and Uncle Raphael go way back.’

The band was bashing out a song which appeared to be called ‘Zurp Yar Dweebo Deeba’. Izzy and I were obviously the only ones who weren’t loving every second of it. Izzy’s mum was now leaping from side to side and clapping along with the beat.

‘Your mum’s quite keen on them, then?’ I yelled.

‘I’m afraid so,’ yelled Izzy.

‘She knows Jimmy too, does she? Since she was chatting to him?’

‘Everyone knows Jimmy,’ howled Izzy. ‘And Jimmy knows everyone. He’s the nosiest person I’ve ever met, always gossiping. Even so, he’s best buddies with half the town. Don’t like him, personally. Rather full of himself.’

The band played for about half an hour. I could see why they’d called themselves The Fat Dads. They were all in their forties and they all had bellies hanging over the tops of their trousers like froth overflowing from a coffee cup.

‘He’s Mrs McEwan’s brother, you know,’ shouted Izzy.

What, Mrs McEwan our school secretary?’ I bellowed.

‘Yup. She tells him all about the cases you solve at school. Every time he sees me he wants to hear more stories about you. Nosy, like I said.’

The band finished their set with a five-minute series of chords and wails. The audience clapped and cheered as the four of them took half a dozen bows and bounded off backstage.

As the crowd settled down again, Izzy’s mum came back and plonked herself down between Izzy and me.

‘They’re such fun, aren’t they?’ she gasped, out of breath from all that leaping about. I was seeing an entirely new side of Izzy’s mother tonight!

‘You’ve forgotten the orange juices again,’ said Izzy. ‘And the crisps.’

‘What?’ asked her mum. ‘Oh, yes, right. Must have got distracted. Back in a mo.’

‘Cheese and onion,’ said Izzy

Off went Izzy’s mum again. Uncle Raphael reappeared at the curtains.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he said, in a deep, serious tone, ‘I am now proud to present to you a man whose ability to see beyond this ordinary world of ours is as unmatched as it is mysterious. A man who has a gift which the rest of us can only dream of. A man who can speak . . . directly! . . . to those who have passed on and to whom the spirits speak in turn. Ladies and gentlemen, Mr Godfrey Frye.’

There was a steady ripple of applause, then the crowd became hushed and nervous.

Suddenly, I realised something. I had to move! At once!

‘I’ll be over on the other side of the room,’ I whispered to Izzy. ‘I can’t let Frye see me sitting here.’

‘Why?’ whispered Izzy.

Can you see what I was trying to avoid?

If Godfrey Frye saw me sitting next to Izzy (who he’d already met the night before, remember), he’d know that Izzy and I were connected. And if he found that out, he might well realise that I wasn’t who I’d said I was.
Then
he might suspect that I was in the process of investigating him. And
then
he might twig that I was this Saxby Smart person he’d obviously heard about.