Printer's Devil (9780316167826) (28 page)

I sat in the hole in the bricks, with my legs dangling through, watching Nick as he moved. Quickly and acrobatically, he dropped
to the floor below, with a barely audible thud. There was a sudden scrabbling and rustling as the floor around him cleared
of rats. Then, for a few moments, he was gone into the shadows, and I couldn’t see him; until the lamplight picked up his
movement again, over by the opposite wall. He’d done this a thousand times before: sizing up an unfamiliar house in the dark,
looking for possible escape routes. I could see him looking out through a filthy old window onto the garden.

“Can you see anything?” I whispered down to him.

“Not really. It’s too dark. But they’ll see your lamp, Mog. Put it out, and come down.”

“I can’t climb down there,” I whispered.

“Yes you can. I’ll catch you. But leave the lamp.”

“What about Lash?”

“He’ll stay where he is, won’t he? Tell him to stay.”

I couldn’t think of any more excuses. Resignedly, I leaned back into the hole and reached out for Lash, waiting patiently
on the other side of the wall. His muzzle met my fingers in no time and started licking them.

“Stay,” I told him, “I won’t be long, old boy. Stay there. Lie down. Good dog.”

As I stood up, I clutched one of the bricks to steady myself, and it came away in my hand with a sharp
scraping sound, making me teeter and flail in thin air for a few seconds before I stuck out a foot to stop myself falling.
By a miracle, my foot made contact with the beam; but the brick plummeted ten feet to the floor, landing with a clatter near
Nick’s feet; and as I tried to steady myself, I also lost my grip on the lamp. I think I screamed as it fell with a loud smash,
missing Nick by inches; and then I screamed again, much more loudly, as it immediately burst into flames, sending a sheet
of bright fire licking up the walls, lighting up the entire cavernous interior of the house.

Things happened too quickly now for me to remember them very clearly. I remember being terrified, gripping the beam, trying
to lower myself toward Nick’s outstretched hands without getting burnt. I remember looking down into his grim face as he grabbed
my ankles, and a jarring pain in my knee as we both collapsed awkwardly to the floor.

And I remember a sudden burst of activity at the back door, as whoever was out there heard the noise, and saw the light of
the fire, and started trying to break the door down to get inside. Any moment now it was going to give way, and we’d be caught.
I was too frightened to say or do anything.

Nick’s face was frightened and black with filth, his eyes darting around for a means of escape. There was another door, leading
out onto the street; but to get
there we’d have to run through the rising flames. Some of the dry timbers and bundles of old paper which littered the floor
had begun to catch fire, and the house was filling with smoke. For long, agonizing seconds, we both stood looking at one another’s
black serious eyes, not moving a muscle.

“Chimney,” whispered Nick suddenly, and ducked past me to investigate the huge dark fireplace, which I hadn’t even noticed.

“Nick, we’ve got to get
out
,” I said, panic-stricken, as I watched him leaning into the grate to peer up the chimney. “We’ll be suffocated — burnt up.
Can’t we make it to the front door?”

“We haven’t’ got time,” he shouted. “Over here! Quick!”

I scrambled over the uneven floor, away from the rising flames, to join him by the fireplace. The hearth was broken, and the
stone surround burnt and disfigured, but as he stuck his head up into the cavity Nick could see it was easily broad enough
for a child to climb into.

“Follow me,” he said. “I think there’s room up here. We’ll have to stay still.”

“Don’t worry,” I muttered, pushing him from below as he heaved himself up the chimney. I knew the flimsy wooden door wasn’t
going to prove to be an obstacle for long.

And it didn’t. I’d only just scrabbled my way up into
the pitch black hole, grazing my elbow on the sooty bricks as Nick pulled me up by the forearm, when I heard the door fly
open and determined footsteps enter the house. I didn’t have a very good foothold, and my feet were sending quiet showers
of soot cascading down into the fireplace. Looking up, I could see nothing — not even Nick. The chimney was narrow, and seemed
to get narrower as it got higher. I could feel years of filth filling my hair and trickling in a gritty stream down my neck.

There was more than one man in the house now. I could hear clattering sounds and voices from below, though I couldn’t really
make out what they were saying. I was convinced we were going to suffocate up here; if the fire took hold beneath us we were
completely trapped, because the only way out was up. As though he’d read my mind, Nick began moving his feet, looking for
footholds so he could wriggle further up into the chimney. He was standing on my fingers.
What are you doing, you idiot
, I wanted to scream … but I didn’t dare make a sound.

Below us there were several sets of footsteps clomping on the echoing floor; trying to stamp out the fire, maybe. But there
were also shouts, and now there came gasps of what sounded like pain. It came like a rhythm: a thud, immediately below me,
no more than a few feet away from the fireplace — followed by a
groan of anguish. Another thud — another groan. Someone was being beaten up.

Soot was still trickling down on top of me, dislodged by Nick’s movements, and it was filling my mouth now, too, coating my
tongue like foul sand. I was feeling so dizzy I was sure I couldn’t hold on much longer.

The thuds seemed to stop. Nick had stopped moving and we hung there, in the airless darkness, clinging on for dear life. Had
the men gone? I was no longer really aware of anything except my own discomfort and inability to breathe. I was going to die.
We were both going to suffocate. I reached up in a panic for Nick’s ankle.

But I couldn’t find it, and my fingers couldn’t find their handhold again, and anyway I no longer had the strength to hold
on. I slid painfully down the filthy bricks, falling rapidly, plunging out into the fireplace amid a rainstorm of black dirt.

I had to hold my fists against my eyes because they were hurting, grit-filled, impossible to open without pain. After a few
seconds I realized I could feel something soft and wet around my face; and as I reached up to investigate I found the unmistakable
shape of Lash’s head and the cold dampness of his nose. He was whimpering slightly with pleasure and relief at having found
me.

“Lash!” I whispered, thrilled. “How did you get down here?”

I could hardly believe it, but there seemed to be no one else there to greet me; no gleeful villains closing in to wring my
neck. And there was, I realized, no fire. The men must have put it out before it took proper hold.

In a second Nick had slithered down too, and was whispering into my ear in the darkness. “Are you all right? What happened?”

I coughed, as quietly as I could.

“Don’t worry,” I said, wiping my eyes, “I don’t think I’m hurt.”

“I thought someone had pulled you from underneath,” said Nick. Then, with sudden surprise, as he felt a damp muzzle in his
palm: “Lash?”

“He was here waiting for us,” I said. “He must have escaped. Did you chase the nasty men away, Lash old boy? Good dog!”

Nick stood up. There was silence in the house. Dust and soot were billowing around us. It was pitch dark now, the crazy shadows
and leaping yellow light of the oil-fire killed.

“They’ve gone.”

We stood, listening, for a long time, just to be sure. As our eyes got used to the darkness we could make out the back door,
wide open; moonlight coming in between the
thick foliage of the trees outside and through the panes of the grimy windows.

“It sounded as though they were killing each other,” I whispered, still blinking to clear the soot from my eyes.

Nick crouched down to examine something by his feet. He reached out a hand and dabbed it on the ground.

“Look,” he said.

His hand had come up wet. He showed it to me, doing his best to keep it away from Lash’s sniffing nose; but there really wasn’t
enough light to see, and it was only by the smell that I, too, could identify what he’d found.

“Blood,” I said, scared.

Nick said nothing.

“Do you think they got him?” I asked. “They’ve killed somebody, haven’t they, Nick? Do you think it was Damyata?”

He was still silent. At first I thought he hadn’t heard me.

“I said do you think — “

“Did you say Damyata?” he interrupted me, in a quiet voice.

“Yes. Do you think it — “

He leaned forward and took me by the shoulders. “What do you mean,
Damyata?
Where did you get that
from?” He was still speaking very quietly, but there was an urgency in his voice which was almost anger, as though I’d said
something to hurt him. His breath was in my face. I was confused. I’d obviously never mentioned the name to Nick before, but
I couldn’t understand why it made him so upset.

“The man from Calcutta,” I said.

“What makes you say
Damyata?”
He was insistent, barely restraining himself. I could feel his hands trembling as they held me by the tops of my arms. Something
I had said had shocked him, and I didn’t know why.

“Because that’s his name, I think,” I said.

“How do you know?”

“I don’t — I don’t, really, it’s just a guess. I heard — I heard somebody say it.”

“I fear,” Nick said, after a long sigh, “it will not be possible to reach Damyata now.”

Now it was my turn to freeze. Where had I heard that before?

“I can say no more, and I am feeling weak,” said Nick. “Please God this letter reaches you.”

At first I thought he must have hit his head as he came down the chimney. It was as though someone else were speaking, but
using Nick’s voice. He was still holding my shoulders, but he’d relaxed his grip; he seemed to have gone into a kind of trance.
The hairs stood up on
the back of my neck as he continued to talk. I didn’t like this. I clutched Lash’s neck tighter. “Nick,” I pleaded.

“And that you do not think too ill of me to grant some mercy to the gentle, perfect creatures who accompany it,” Nick was
saying, refusing to be interrupted. He seemed to be talking complete nonsense, and yet there was something familiar about
the words. “My dear, Good-bye, and with all the remaining life in my body, I thank you. Your undeserving Imogen.”

“Nick!” I said, in a panic, “Stop it! What are you talking about?” I was really frightened now, and the mention of my own
name sent a shiver through my entire soul. It was this
house
. He was possessed by the man from Calcutta’s magic.

“Nick!” I said again.

There was what seemed an interminable silence before he lifted his head to peer into my face. “You don’t know what that is,
do you?” he said.

“I — I’ve heard it before,” I stammered. I was trembling. I wanted him to tell me what was happening.

“That’s my
mother’s letter,”
he said. “The only thing I’ve got from her. My mother’s letter, Mog. I’ve had it my whole life, and I know pretty much every
word of it, but I’ve never heard anybody else say the word Damyata before.”

“What does it mean?” I asked.

“I’ve never known,” he said. “And I still don’t. Why
did you call the man from Calcutta Damyata?”

My head was swimming. I didn’t know. I’d seen the name, heard the name … “It will serve Damyata right,” I said, dredging my
memory. “Coben said it — at the inn the other night. And I’ve read it. And I’ve read the words you just said.” Many of the
things which had happened in the last few days had seemed unreal, but none of them quite as unreal as this. Somehow, this
was the strangest, most inexplicable, most awful moment of all.

But now I felt Lash stiffen, and sure enough there came the low sound of voices from the garden again. Nick sprang to his
feet. “Mog!” he said in a clenched whisper, “my Pa!”

I joined him at the window, holding tight to Lash to stop him from growling and giving us away. Dark figures were running
through the back garden and out into the lane. The branches of the willow flailed as two men wrestled with one another beneath
it.

Another fight — or the same one, still going on. We stood transfixed as they rolled into a shaft of moonlight lancing between
the neighboring houses. On the grass, the bosun knelt over his opponent and delivered a short series of powerful blows with
his fist. There was no more sound from the house or the garden; and after a few seconds the bosun stood up, a silhouette,
a purposeful and terrifying bulk.

“We’ve got to get out of here,” I whispered, pulling Nick away from the window. “Let’s try the door at the front, come on.”

In the darkness we half-fell over the loose bricks and fallen, blackened timbers in our desperation to be out. The front door
was heavy, and hard to open because there was so much rubble piled up against it. After we’d kicked the trash out of the way
we managed to pull it open just far enough to launch ourselves through: me first, Nick behind.

“Come on!” I remember saying, before hurling myself down the steps and tumbling onto the dirty cobbles below, Lash’s grubby
shaggy limbs getting mixed up with mine as we sprawled on the ground.

Out here in the street, everything seemed strangely quiet, and completely still, as though oblivious of the violent activity
at the back of the mysterious house. My blood was pounding in my ears, and I felt around for Nick’s hand to drag him off up
the street to safety.

My arms flailed around in thin air. “Nick!” I whispered.

There was only myself and Lash in the street.

I stood up. Above me, at the top of the steps, the door of the house slowly creaked shut. A dreadful silence was coming from
inside: a silence of death and shock which seemed to infect the night air all around. Nick hadn’t come out. I stared up at
the huge dark
door and knew I had to go back inside. I began to feel my legs giving way, and I clutched at the railing in front of the house.