Gallows at Twilight (9 page)

Razor led the way down a long corridor, his bare feet padding through the thick, crimson carpet. The candles burning in sconces on the walls were placed so far apart that Jake and Rachel often had to grope their way forward; a spectacle that provoked a sneering ‘
Humans!’
from Razor.

‘That’s right—
humans
,’ Rachel called. ‘Same species that invented the light bulb. When are you guys gonna catch up, eh?’

‘Are you so sure your lot invented the electric light?’ Razor grunted. ‘I’ve got an old alchemist friend who says different. Anyway, our clients are romantic souls. They prefer the flicker of candlelight. Plus, some of ’em don’t like being looked at too closely, so we keep it nice and dark.’

They had passed several doors, each with shiny brass plates—
Tepes Bar & Grill; Library; Reading Room; Breakfast Room; Games Room
. It was as they reached the last of these that a blood-curdling scream rang out. Quick as a flash, Razor threw open the door. A snarl rippled along his thick black lips.

‘IT AIN’T THAT KIND OF GAMES ROOM, MORTIMER!’ he bellowed. ‘You know the rules! Put the waitress down or I’ll come in there and rip
your
throat out, there’s a good bloodsucker.’

Before Jake could see inside, Razor slammed the door.

‘Surprised he’s still up.’ The doorman shrugged, and they moved on.

Several corridors later they found themselves outside a door marked
General Manager—No Timewasters.
Razor puffed out his massive chest and knocked.

‘Enter!’

‘Here’s a heads up, Pandora—the boss is in a
bad
mood,’ Razor warned.

‘What’s new?’

‘You’ll see.’

Razor opened the door into Thaddeus Murdles’s office. It was a large room, beautifully decorated with dozens of marble sculptures and bronze figurines standing on column plinths. Scary-looking tribal masks shaped out of dark wood adorned the windowless walls.

Dominating the room was a long marble-topped desk overflowing with papers. Jake noticed that most of these were bills with the words ‘FINAL DEMAND’ stamped upon them in red letters.

‘Come in, Pandora,’ a voice fluttered. ‘And you, Razor, get out—you know I can’t abide the smell of
dog
polluting my inner sanctum.’

‘What’s it matter to you?’ Razor grumbled, loping back through the door. ‘You don’t even have a nose.’

‘I heard that!’ the voice shrieked. ‘Any more backchat and I’ll keep you on a leash! Filthy brute! Please, Pandora, you and your friends take a seat.’

Jake sat down in one of the three luxurious leather armchairs that faced Murdles’s desk. Sinking into the creaky leather, he looked around for the manager. Murdles’s shrill voice had seemed to come from the other side of the desk, but there was no sign of the man.

‘I’m sorry to see you this way, Thaddeus,’ Pandora said.

What way?
Jake thought.

‘Your friends are confused,’ came the disembodied voice. ‘Give me a moment and I’ll be with you.’

The chair behind the desk rolled back on its castors. Unseen feet pressed into the thick carpet and moved over to an antique wardrobe in the corner. The wardrobe door opened and a pale grey suit was plucked from its hanger. Jake watched in amazement as the suit began to fill out.

‘Tight fit. I must speak to my tailor.’

It was clearly no ordinary garment: threads began to spool out from the cuffs and collar. They wound their way down and formed the impression of feet and hands. From the collar the threads spiralled round and round, weaving together a neck, a chin, mouth, nose, ears and brow. A few strands were left over to give the woven man a wisp or two of fine, grey hair.

‘Mr Murdles is one of the dear departed,’ Pandora explained. ‘A phantom. A spectre.’

‘A ghost,’ Jake said. ‘And the suit must be made of ectoplasm.’

‘Ecto-what?’ Rachel asked, eyes wide.

‘Plasm. According to psychics and mediums, ectoplasm is the stuff that ghosts are made out of. It takes the form of a thin, grey material, like—well, like that suit.’

A smile creased the manager’s clumsy cloth mouth. Murdles part-walked, part-floated back to his seat.

‘The boy knows much. Razor told me that he was aware of the Cynocephali. That’s
old
knowledge.’

‘I picked it up from books,’ Jake said.

‘Just books? I wonder … ’ Ectoplasmic fingers tapped against the arms of Murdles’s chair. ‘But you are right, this is an ecto-suit. I have worn such garments ever since the day I died—January 8th 1607. A Monday, I remember. Always hated Mondays.’

Jake frowned. ‘I don’t understand. Why haven’t you passed on through the Veil?’

‘Only spirits without bodies are sucked through the Veil, young man. The ecto-suit gives me substance, keeps me in the land of the living. But they come at a price. Ah, in the early days, when I first established the Grimoire Club, I could buy dozens of suits at a time, but business has been bad these last hundred years or so. There are other clubs on the borderlands now. And, as you can imagine, the ecto-tailors can charge whatever they want for their wares.’

‘You weren’t wearing a suit when we came in,’ Jake observed.

‘They wear out gradually. I may have appeared invisible to you, but there was a little substance left in the old suit. Just enough to open the wardrobe and take out a fresh garment.’

‘But you’ve had a long life, Mr Murdles,’ Rachel said. ‘Or maybe I should say a long “death”. Aren’t you ready to— well—move on?’

‘Sometimes I think about it, my dear. To pull up the anchor that moors me to this world and set sail for horizons new. But who knows what waits beyond the Veil? And I have done some terrible things in my time.’ The cloth eyes crumpled into a haunted expression. ‘Terrible … But to business.’ The ectoplasm rustled as Murdles turned to Pandora. ‘A little birdie has told me that you have come to my club seeking sanctuary. I’m afraid that will be impossible.’

‘Come on, Thaddeus,’ Pandora cajoled. ‘How long have we known each other? You owe me.’

Murdles hesitated. ‘It’s true, you’ve sent a lot of business my way over the years. The dark creatures respect you … But no. From what I hear, you and your friends here have been toying with some very dark powers. If you bring trouble to my door I run the risk of losing my business, and you know what that would mean.’ The manager lifted his chin and swept a wispy finger across his throat. ‘No more ectosuits for poor Mr Murdles.’

‘But no one need ever know we’re here,’ Pandora assured him. ‘Look, I don’t ask for myself, Murdles, it was Adam Harker who thought you would help us.’

‘Dr Harker has saved many of my clients, but
I
owe him nothing.’

Pandora tried another tack. ‘I have friends on the Ecto-Tailors’ Guild, you know. A word from me and your supply of suits might suddenly dry up.’

‘Only money talks with those people,’ Murdles snapped. ‘As long as I pay they’ll continue to do business with me.’

Defeated, Pandora dropped back into her chair. While she had been arguing with the manager, Jake had been examining the hundreds of paintings and photographs that adorned the office walls. Housed in expensive frames, there was a golden plaque beneath each. Jake read:
Mullgrew the Magnificent, arch-wizard to the Kings of the Borderlands, 1723
;
Savage Bones—world heavyweight werewolf boxing champion, 1864
;
Letty Scrivener, bestselling author of The Grace of the Seelie Court, 1975
. The pictures had been posed for in the square just outside the Grimoire Club, although it was difficult to make out the square itself. Thousands of dark creatures filled each scene.

Jake stood up.

‘I wonder, Mr Murdles, do you know who I am?’

‘I neither know nor care.’

‘Oh, I think you might. Interesting pictures you have here. These people seemed to have brought in the crowds.’

‘That was all a long time ago,’ Murdles sniffed. ‘Then the Grimoire Club was famous throughout the borderlands. We could draw celebrities here like vampires to a blood bank, and the money they brought in! These days, the well-todo go to places like the Lizardman Lounge and the Gore Gardens. The sheep follow them there.’

‘They’ll come back when they know I’m here.’

‘Really? And who, may I ask, are you?’

‘My name is Jacob Harker. I’m a clone of Josiah Hobarron, the Witchfinder. And I’m one of the last practitioners of pure, powerful Oldcraft.’

Murdles’s cloth mouth gaped open.

Jake explained his plan. Murdles would let them stay at the Grimoire Club. They would keep themselves to themselves and not attract any unwanted attention. In return for Murdles’s hospitality, on the day they left, Jake would put on a show of his magic in the square.

‘Thousands would pay good money to see that!’ Murdles crowed. ‘The living clone of Josiah Hobarron working his magic outside my door! Mr Harker … ’ the manager rose and extended his ghostly hand, ‘we have a deal!’

Razor and Pandora went back to Yaga Passage to fetch Simon and Adam from the car. Meanwhile, Murdles showed Jake and Rachel to their quarters.

‘I’m giving you my own apartment,’ he piped. ‘No need to thank me.’

Having heard Jake’s plan, the ghost had become much more friendly. Now he led them to a red-cushioned door right at the back of the Grimoire Club.

‘Will you do the honours, my boy? I have to conserve my strength.’

Jake opened the door and they stepped into a luxurious, ultra-modern apartment. A circular lounge with squashy sofas and a huge flat-screen TV took up most of the living space. To one side of the lounge stood a spiral staircase which disappeared into the ceiling. Unlike the gloomy, candle-lit corridors they had left behind, the apartment was bathed in electric light.

‘I may be over four hundred years old but I’m very partial to modern conveniences. The bedrooms.’ Murdles swept his hand around the six doors that faced the lounge. ‘Please feel free to order as much room service as you like. And now, I will leave you. Sleep well, Mr Harker, Miss Saxby.’

The ghost glided towards the door.

‘Ah, one last thing before I go: if you wish to leave the club for any reason, please call for Razor or one of the other doormen to see you out. Walking the corridors unescorted would not be a wise thing to do. There are many dangerous creatures within these walls.’

Jake closed the door behind Murdles and turned to Rachel. She looked both exhausted and bewildered. He went to her, held her close, felt her breath warm against his neck. That determination to concentrate only on his father’s cure wavered for a moment.

‘Rach, I … ’

A tap at the door. Murdles’s voice came through the woodwork:

‘Oh, and Mr Harker? Perhaps tomorrow you could show me some magic? Adieu for now.’

Jake groaned. He didn’t think he had the energy to muster even the tiniest magical flame. He’d have to bluff his way out of it. In any case, tomorrow there would be more important matters to attend to: his father’s cure and the secrets locked inside Simon Lydgate’s head. He turned back to Rachel.

The girl mumbled, sighed. She had fallen asleep in his arms.

Chapter 8

Hypnosis Horror

Fractured images from a fevered dream—

A silver fountain. The howling mouth of a banshee. A dying Navajo’s question—
What are you?

His father—
You
are
the Witchfinder …

Here is the Orb and here is
…

A girl with cornflower blue eyes cries for her lost love. A face from long, long ago, hidden in that unexplored corridor of his soul. The face is the same, but the name is different. He yearns for her, and in his yearning the name of the girl comes to him. A name that once gave hope to Josiah Hobarron, his other self—

‘Eleanor!’

Jake woke with the silk bed sheets knotted around his body. He tried to hold on to the fragments of the dream but they crumbled in the hard fist of reality. He could remember nothing. Frustrated, he pulled on the dressing gown that had been laid out at the foot of the bed and went to see if anyone else was up.

The lounge was empty. He switched on the TV. One of the twenty-four-hour news channels was showing a press conference from 10 Downing Street. The new Prime Minister was taking questions on the health service. If he had been old enough to vote in the last election, Jake would have cast his vote for Miss Cynthia Croft. She seemed professional, competent, sympathetic. The press pack burst into spontaneous laughter as Chequers, the Downing Street cat, jumped up onto the Prime Minister’s podium.

‘That you, Jake?’

His father’s voice echoed down the spiral staircase. Jake climbed up to a hatchway in the ceiling that led onto a large roof terrace decked out with expensive garden furniture. Blinded by the giant sun of the borderlands, Jake could only just make out the three figures standing at the balcony rail.

‘Mornin’,’ Pandora called, lifting her coffee cup in greeting.

‘Good to see you, matey!’ Brag Badderson slapped Jake’s shoulder in a friendly, bone-shattering sort of way.

The third figure smiled weakly. ‘Good morning, son.’

A little colour had crept back into Adam’s cheeks but he still looked dreadfully pale.

‘You OK, Dad?’

‘I’m OK, son.’

The old worried expression crossed Pandora’s face. To hide it, she turned to Brag.

‘How’d you get here so quick, troll boy?’

‘Took the London road through Yaga Passage. Nearly got dropped in the pit twice. Bloody vines!’

‘Why
are
you here, Brag?’ Jake asked.

‘Ain’t you pleased to see me?’ The troll looked hurt.

‘Course I am, it’s just—’

‘I asked Brag to come,’ Adam said. ‘I’ve already spoken to Simon—’

‘He’s awake?’

‘Yes, and he’s been asking to see you.’

‘Does he remember much?’

Adam shook his head. ‘’fraid not, but he’s anxious to find out what’s been happening to him. The Demon Father appears to have placed strong magical blocks in his mind. But it’s not just the immediate past Simon’s interested in: he finally wants to know what happened to his mother and whether … well … ’