Tales From The Wyrd Museum 1: The Woven Path (24 page)

At once, Edie sprang across to him. Shaking the airman by the clothes and pummelling his face, she desperately tried to wake him—but it was no use.

Overhead, the noise of the berserking bomber steadily drew closer.

If only Arnold Porter had been wrong, if only the demon did not hunt by scent. Perhaps, if they cowered out of sight quieter than mice, it would pass over them.

Taking hold of the American's shoulders, she vainly tried to drag him out of the dim light that filtered through the ruptured ceiling. When she realised that she wasn't strong enough, Edie cast around for something to cover him with. Then she found it, a battered door had followed them into the abyss and she quickly scurried over to it.

Sharp splinters drove into the girl's palms as she trawled the door towards the American and propped it gently against his body, shielding him from any curious eyes that might stare hungrily into the cellar.

When she was satisfied that Frank was completely obscured by her deception, she darted into the furthest corner and huddled into a small, terrified ball.

In the world above, the horrendous uproar of the demonic B-17 was painfully loud and a winged darkness came sweeping over the ruined cellar, plunging it into absolute night.

Edie shivered and covered her pounding ears as the blaring engines screamed directly overhead and the basement shuddered beneath its awful weight. Walls buckled and the plaster crashed down in ragged sheets, then the concrete floor cracked as the foundations shook and, trapped in the middle of the calamitous tumult, the small girl screamed.

*

It had turned eight o'clock when Angelo awakened. Stretching his arms, he gave a yodelling yawn and blinked. Then he blinked again.

‘Jeez,’ he mumbled, ‘I'm seem’ double.’ Sitting on the other armchair, there were now two teddy bears, identical in every detail except that one of them was noticeably shabbier than the other.

Then he saw the scraps of sheepskin littering the floor, leading off to the dining table where...

‘What the..!’

Leaping from the chair, the American rushed to the table where his beloved flying jacket was lying leather side down. Aghast and dumbfounded, he stared at the awful holes that had been snipped out of the fleecy lining.

‘Ah,’ Jean said, standing in the doorway, ‘I see you're awake. I'm so sorry. I really don't know what came over me. It was so weird, one minute I was covering you with the eiderdown, the next thing I knew I was putting the sewing basket away.’

Angelo gawped at her, and lifted the jacket in his hands, only then realising that a tiny circle had been cut out of the leather as well.

‘I think I must've used that bit for the nose,’ she admitted sheepishly, ‘but to be honest, I really can't remember, I must've been half asleep or something. Maybe it was worry about Dad—I just don't know.’

Passing a critical eye over her handiwork, she had to confess that the new teddy bear was rather good.

‘Isn't it a fabulous match?’ she asked. They're like two peas in a pod—even the eyes are the same! I must've got really carried away ‘cos I even used some of the stuffing from the eiderdown as there's a big hole in it.’

Angelo looked from the new teddy bear, back to his mutilated jacket, then repeated the movement.

‘You, you hacked up my number-one lucky piece,’ he stammered in a careful voice, ‘the thing that's kept me alive through thirteen missions, to make ... to make a doll!’

'Teddy bear!’

‘Yeah, a teddy bear.’

The airman was so shocked by what she had done that he didn't know how to react and then, to his complete amazement, he laughed. Sitting beside his new twin, Ted watched as the woman became infected by Angelo's laughter and tutted to himself as they collapsed in a fit of hysterics.

‘Being a gooseberry sure ain't no fun,’ he muttered, ‘Wish these two would vamoose.’

Presently the mirth subsided and to the bear's relief, Jean led the American into the hall. ‘Sometimes you gotta laugh before you cry,’ Angelo sighed, pulling the breezy jacket on.

Jean put her hand to her mouth shamefully. ‘I'm so sorry about that,’ she declared. ‘God knows what possessed me.’

The really weird part,’ Angelo said, ‘is that I ain't sore at all.’

‘Does that mean you'd forgive me anything?’

‘Don't get carried away.’

Smiling, Jean led him to the hall. ‘I’ll come with you to Kath's,’ she said, ‘but I mustn't stay long, Daniel and Neil are still in the Anderson.’

And so, together, they left the house.

Alone with his duplicate, Ted gave it a cautious prod in the tummy.

‘Jus’ makin’ sure which one of us is me,’ he explained, ‘You know, I think it's true what they say, you do get better lookin’ as time goes by. You ain't got that loveable, sat-on look yet. Now, if you'll pardon me leavin’ you so soon, I got a little sunshine to bring to a kid's face.’

Bouncing off the chair, Ted scurried through the house and ran into the garden.

Neil had spent a miserable night in the Anderson shelter. It had been perishingly cold and his bunk was the most uncomfortable bed he had ever slept on.

‘Hey, kid!’ a voice called in his miserable dreams. ‘You up there, it's reveille!’

Standing small in the entrance, Ted tried to wake the boy, but it was Daniel who heard him.

In the bottom bunk, the two-year-old squirmed round to discover that his favourite teddy bear had magically come to life.

‘More!’ he cried, clapping his hands together excitedly.

‘Oh, brother,’ Ted grumbled. ‘I done woke up the king of the slobberers. Hi there, Danny boy—how you keepin’?’

Daniel gave a squawk of joy—the shrill sound waking the occupant of the top bunk more effectively than a bucket of iced water ever could have.

‘What... who?’ he cried, sitting upright and banging his head on the corrugated roof.

‘Up an’ at ‘em!’ Ted called, jumping aside as Daniel reached down and made a grab for him.

“Where've you been!’ Neil cried, hastily climbing out of the bunk. ‘I thought I was stuck here for ever!’

‘That could still happen,’ the bear told him, ‘you an’ me got our work cut out for us.’

‘Quiet, Daniel,’ Neil told the infant, who was still swiping the air with his hands in his unsuccessful attempts to snatch Ted and yelling with the full force of his lungs.

It's today, isn't it?’ Neil asked. ‘I'm fed up with you not telling me what's going on.’

The bear nodded. ‘Yep—tonight Joshy’ll be comin’ through the gateway.’

‘I can hardly believe it,’ Neil cried, ‘tonight I'll be going home!’

‘Hold on, kid,’ Ted interrupted, ‘didn't I just say we had work to do?’

‘I’m not going to like this, am I?’ Neil groaned. ‘What is it, then?’

The bear patted his furry stomach thoughtfully. ‘It was all gonna be so sweet an’ easy,’ he murmured. ‘Not any more. You see, kid, the original deal went like this—I jus’ wanted to come back an’ save the lives of three people—well four, counting slobberpuss there.’

Sitting down with a gentle bump, Ted leaned back and let the sunlight play on his face before continuing.

‘Frank, Jean and Angelo Signorelli,’ he said quietly, ‘that's all I wanted. Save them an’ I would be the happiest piece of merchandise since the wooden kid with the big nose. Now the whole darned ball game is loused up.’

“What's the matter?’ Neil asked. Won't you be able to save them? I'll do whatever I can to help her.’

The bear smiled and hugged his fluffy knees. ‘Oh, I could save them all right,’ he muttered, ‘if that was all I had to do.’

“What else is there?’

‘First let me tell you the original plan. At exactly thirty-seven minutes to ten this very night, one mighty mother of a parachute mine is gonna come floating outta the great blue yonder—right on top of this shelter.’

‘Jean and Danny will be inside it by then,’ Neil spluttered in horror.

Ted nodded significantly. ‘No one ever found enough pieces to identify them, the mine made a crater forty feet wide, bringing half the terrace down.’

That's horrible, we've got to warn her.’

‘Sure, she'll have to go to the underground station with the old witch, if you can convince her, that is.’

‘I'll make sure I do.’

That's not all,’ the bear said, signalling for Neil to remain where he was. ‘I ain't finished. While all this is goin’ on, there's another ticklish problem we gotta solve.’

‘What's that?’

‘Angelo and Frank.’

‘Are they back here?’

‘Ain't no such thing as a homing bear, kid, I hadda hitch a ride off someone.’

‘So what happens to them?’

Ted wrinkled up his nose and rubbed one of his ears with his paw.

“Well,’ he began, taking a deep breath, ‘forty-five minutes before the mine falls, Farmboy Frank gets stabbed.’

‘By the one who killed Mrs Meacham?’

‘Not exactly, though I never did work out who.’

‘And Frank dies?’

The bear gazed up at the boy's face, a strange light glinting in his glass eyes. ‘Yeah, but he ain't alone. You see, that Signorelli guy comes wadin’ in like the born fool he is and, while he's grievin’, his back gets perforated by a whole lot o’ lead.’

Neil sat down on the bunk beside Daniel. ‘How can we stop that?’ he muttered softly.

Ted shifted on his bottom, feeling the phial of sacred water budge within his stuffing, but even as he opened his mouth to tell the boy about Belial he clapped it shut again. Why should he help the Webster sisters? They didn't play straight with him—their motives were never his own. His main priority was saving the people he cared about. No, this time he wasn't going to be anyone's patsy.

Neil shook his head. ‘You didn't tell me where,’ he said at last.

‘Where what?’

‘Where is Josh going to appear?’

Ted slouched wearily and murmured something under his breath. He knew the boy wasn't going to like it and after all he'd been through, he felt wretched and ashamed to have to tell him.

‘I didn't hear that,’ the boy said firmly.

‘All right, all right,’ the bear admitted guiltily. ‘OK, Joshy is gonna come poppin’ outta that gateway right over our heads.’

‘Here?’ Neil cried. ‘At what time exactly?’

‘Oh, round about when the parachute mine hits,’ came the subdued reply.

Angelo and Jean returned from the Meacham house with no news of Frank—Kathleen Hewett had not seen or heard from him.

‘I was sure he'd have gone straight round there,’ the American muttered, ‘the only thing that pulled him through that last raid was the thought of that airhead dame. I just don't understand it, where is he?’

Jean looked at him thoughtfully, her green eyes gleaming as she considered this strange man who had wisecracked his way into her life.

‘You're a funny one,’ she said, You spend all your time pretending not to care about anything and spin lines left and centre—but you're not like that at all, are you? Under that cheek and bluster you might even be quite nice.’

Angelo returned her gaze and smiled. All he wanted to do was hold her and he knew she felt the same.

Unexpectedly, the back door was flung open and Neil came storming inside. ‘Jean!’ he cried urgently behind her. There's something I've got to tell you.’

The moment was gone. Jean whisked about and ran into the garden, leaving Angelo to kick his heels.

‘Don't sleep in the Anderson tonight!’ Neil called after her. ‘It's too dangerous!’

‘Nice goin’, kid!’ Angelo said tersely.

‘I've got to warn her,’ Neil mumbled, ‘she's got to listen.’

‘Yeah, sure, hey, how's about me givin’ you a stick of gum and you get lost?’

‘Er... no thanks,’ the boy returned.

The American groaned at the ceiling. Trust me to get the only kid in this whole darned country who don't like gum!’

A look of blank astonishment flooded Neil's face as he recognized something familiar about Angelo's voice and he stared at Ted incredulously.

Making certain that Angelo's eyes were off them, a cheesy grin stole over the bear's face and his fleecy brows jiggled in mild amusement at the boy's sudden realisation.

'Took you long enough, kid,’ he mouthed.

Neil wrenched his eyes away from the softly chuckling toy and made his excuses to Angelo.

‘Excuse me,’ he muttered, ‘I've got to go and explain to Jean. She mustn't stay there tonight. I've got to make her listen.’

As the boy nipped into the garden, Angelo sauntered into the living room. Well, Signorelli,’ he sighed, ‘I think the girl's weakenin’.’

Waddling like a carrion crow on stilts, Old Mother Stokes entered Barker's Row. She had spent a most agreeable night in the tube station at Bethnal Green. All her subterranean acquaintances had been most sympathetic with regard to the disappearance of Peter, her son, and she had wallowed in their compassionate concern.

With her beaky nose pecking at the brisk morning air and the feathers of her great hat springing insanely over her head, she trundled along, her mind seething with the plans she had been hatching.

Bearing in mind the murder of her despised neighbour, Ma Stokes doubted if her son would ever be seen alive again and though that prospect had given her a momentary pang of sorrow and remorse, she could not be expected to grieve forever.

Without his ridiculously generous nature getting in the way and thwarting her more malicious schemes, Mrs Stokes anticipated a far sunnier future ahead for herself.

First of all, she would have to get rid of that idiot boy her son had brought into their lives and perhaps Jean could be persuaded to move out with Daniel.

Envisioning the whole house to herself, the harridan cackled gleefully.

In this most gratifying of humours, she continued past her home and veered instead towards the abode of the late, and in no way lamented, Doris Meacham.

Raising a bony fist, Mrs Stokes rapped on the front door.

‘Frank?’ Kath called from inside as she pattered down the hall. That you?’

As soon as the entrance was opened, Ma Stokes barged her way inside and made a beeline for the parlour.

“Ere!’ Kath cried, as the old woman bustled past her. ‘What you doing? You can't go in there—I was just on me way to the factory.’

‘You'd better get off then!’ the intruder advised. ‘Now, where did she keep that cream jug with the picture of the cat on it?’

Leaving the front door open, Kath trotted after the unwanted visitor and found her opening the deceased Mrs Meacham's china cabinets.

Years of stored up resentment and jealousy were now released as Jean's grandmother poked and pried her way through the cupboards, sneering at most of the pieces on display.

‘Never did know quality from tat,’ the geriatric thief proclaimed, turning from the cupboards and shambling out into the hall, where she began to climb the stairs.

Stupefied by this outrageous behaviour, Kath chased her to the main bedroom where the old woman was already ransacking the drawers and flinging sensible unmentionables behind her with disdain.

‘You stop that!’ Kath warned. ‘You got no right to come nickin’ poor Mrs Meacham's lovely things.’

Ma Stokes stared at her in surprise, her magnified eyes blinking in confusion.

‘I'm only takin’ what's mine by right,’ she declared with brazen indignation.

‘How do you make that out?’

‘It's what Doris would have wanted,’ the old woman replied, spurning the contents of the drawers and gravitating towards the wardrobe, ‘always promised I could have whatever I fancied. A dear friend she was, said she wouldn't like her bits an’ pieces to go to no stranger. These frocks aren't up to much, are they? Not as much as I thought there would be,’ she griped, ‘what's in the other bedroom?’

‘Just my stuff!’ Kath told her.

Mrs Stokes regarded the girl suspiciously. ‘Bet you've been through all this already,’ she accused. ‘I know your type—out for all they can get. Had the best of the pickin's, have you? You shouldn't even be livin’ here no more. Well, I'll just go and see what you've pinched.’

Kath leaped to the door of her bedroom and barricaded it with her body.

‘Get out!’ she yelled, her face suddenly disfigured with a desperate anger.

‘Something to ‘ide, ‘ave we? I knew it, I knew it—you're a filchin’ little guttersnipe, when all's said and done, aren't you? Let me by, I won't let you get away with it.’

Using her overflowing bag as a battering ram, she tried to push the girl out of the way but Kath's temper was flaring now. Wrenching the bag away from her, she flung it down the stairs, then caught hold of the crone's arms and twisted them behind her back.

‘Listen, you old hag!’ she shrieked, frogmarching the caterwauling woman up to the bannister and forcing her head over the edge. ‘If you don't get down those stairs right now—I'll throw you over this and say it were an accident!’

Mrs Stokes jabbered and squawked. The spectacles fell from her nose and went clattering down the stairs as the girl hitched her scrawny arms painfully behind her.

‘Aaargh!’ she squealed. ‘You're hurtin’ me! I'll have the law on you, I will.’

Kath lowered her face to the old woman's ear.

‘Don't think I won't do this!’ she snarled menacingly. ‘You're a fine one to talk, aren't you? You're nothing but a vicious old shrew—a poisonous witch who no one likes. What loss do you think you'd be to anyone? The day you die, the street'll throw a party and I'll come to dance on your grave. You know what I had to do to poor Mrs Meacham's dog? I'd do that again and worse to put an end to your nasty, small-minded existence. You just provoke me one bit further and it'll start the day off lovely.’

‘No!’ Mrs Stokes blubbered, frightened by the callous savagery in the girl's voice. ‘Let me go, I'm seventy-five!’

‘Aged bones snap more easily than young ones, don't they?’ Kath ranted. ‘Shall we see how true that is? Do you think knackered old boots like you bounce when they fall?’

‘Leave me be!’ the old woman screeched.

Kath held her over the bannister a moment longer, then snorted in disgust and shoved her away.

Mrs Stokes squeaked and whimpered like a timid mouse. For the first time in her life, her belligerent and spiteful spirit was utterly cowed and she pulled away from the girl, frightened and alarmed, fumbling blindly over the landing.

‘I'll fetch a bobby,’ she cried, retreating to the safety of the stairs, “you see if I don't!’

‘Go ahead!’ Kath bawled back. ‘I’ll tell him what you were doing here in the first place. You know what they do to looters, don't you?’

Mrs Stokes’ shrivelled mouth opened but she thought better of whatever she had been about to say. Kathleen Hewett had scared her, for one awful moment she really did think the girl was going to hurl her downstairs.

Muttering impotent threats in an inaudible monotone, she descended the stairs in defeat, retrieved her spectacles, and slammed the front door behind her.

Leaning against her bedroom door, flushed and trembling, the woman masquerading as Kathleen Hewett battled to regain her composure. Never before had she come so close to jeopardising her position. An uncontrollable urge to lash out and kill had overwhelmed her. She was beginning to lose control, succumbing to the tantalising waves of violence that now pervaded the atmosphere and she shivered as she struggled to master her base, cruel nature once more.

At the edge of the bomb site, a shaft of light streamed into the ruined cellar, glittering with the dust and tiny stones that rattled through the slanting rays, as a pair of small feet came dangling down.

Edie Dorkins dropped on to the basement floor and scarpered over to her airman.

Frank Jeffries was still unconscious. An ugly, bruised lump had risen on his forehead and his short fringe was matted with a clot of blood that had oozed from the broken skin.

Edie had tried to make him as comfortable as possible. Crawling out of their hiding place at dawn, she had gone scavenging and brought back a filthy cushion and a blanket stolen from someone's washing line.

Dragging the battered door off him, she lay the American's head on the grimy pillow, brushed the dust from his face then covered him with the blanket.

It had been a terrifying night. For nearly two hours Belial had raged around the wasteland wearing the shape of the Flying Fortress—revelling in its might and destructive potential. But eventually the bomb site had grown quiet and Edie sensed that, for the time being at least, the demon had stopped searching for them.

Now, Frank's face was grey with a ghastly, deathly pallor and, apprehensively, the girl reached out to touch him.

Edie uttered a cry of dismay—the airman's skin was horribly cold and clammy.

Fearing that it was too late, she took out a cracked bottle that she had found and put it to his parched lips.

The water Edie had taken from the drinking fountain of the Wyrd Museum spilled from the bottle's neck, and flooded into his mouth.

When all the liquid had gone, the girl rocked back on her knees and held out her hands, drawing a curious, branching symbol in the air above Frank's head.

Very slowly, the American's corpse-like appearance faded as the faintest bloom of colour returned to his flesh.

‘Kath,’ he croaked, stirring in his stupor, ‘I don't want to die... Kath... help me... the bomber... she's burning. . .’

Heartened by the results of her nursing, but realising the patient needed more help than she could give, Edie glanced up at the broken ceiling. Frank ought to be taken from the bomb site, to be cared for and made well in a proper hospital. Yet what could she do? If she went for help the tin hats would catch her. In the confused tangle of her fey mind, the girl did not know what to do and, huddling next to the stricken airman, she prepared to sit out the rest of the day, watching and waiting.