The Infernals (18 page)

The Blacksmith grinned. “So you are the boy. Even I, in this dreadful place, have heard tell of you.” He fumbled beneath his apron, and brought out a piece of newspaper, which he handed to Samuel. It was a cutting from an old edition of
The Infernal Times
, and it showed a picture of Samuel beneath two words:

THE ENEMY!

The article that followed, written by the editor, Mr. P. Bodkin, detailed the attempt to escape from Hell through the portal, and the failure of the invasion because of the intervention of Samuel and an unknown other who had driven a car the wrong way through the portal. Samuel thought that the article was a little unfair, and only told one side of the story, but then he supposed that the editor of
The Infernal Times
might have found himself in a spot of trouble had he suggested that sending hordes of demons to invade the Earth wasn’t a very nice thing to do in the first place.

“I expect she’ll be looking for you,” said the Blacksmith.

“I expect so,” said Samuel.

“Well, if she comes this way, I won’t tell her anything. You can rely on me.”

“Thank you,” said Samuel. “But I want to get home, and I don’t know how.”

The last words caught in his throat. His eyes grew warm, but he fought away the tears. The Blacksmith discreetly looked away for a moment and then, once he was sure that Samuel was in control of his emotions, turned his attention back to the boy.

“It seems to me that if Mrs. Abernathy brought you here, then she may have the means of returning you as well.”

“But she won’t do that,” said Samuel. “She wants to kill me.”

“Nevertheless, whatever power she used to drag you here can surely be used to get you back.”

“So I have to face her?”

“You have to find her, or be found by her. After that, you’ll have to use your own cleverness to help you.”

“But I’m just a kid. And she’s a demon.”

“A demon that you’ve defeated once before, and can defeat again.”

“But I had help that time,” said Samuel. “I had help from—”

He almost said Nurd’s name, but he bit his tongue at the last minute. It was one thing to trust the Blacksmith with his secrets, but another thing entirely to trust him with Nurd’s.

“You had help from Nurd,” said the Blacksmith, and Samuel could not conceal his shock.

“How did you know that?”

“Because I’ve helped him too. I’ve seen his vehicle. It broke down, and I helped him and his servant, Wormwood, to repair it. Then they insisted upon disguising the car, so I aided them with that as well. Mind you, they seemed intent upon disguising it as a rock, for reasons I still don’t fully understand, but he’s a strange one, that Nurd. I rather liked him.”

“He’s my friend,” said Samuel. “If he knew I was here, he’d help me.”

“Oh, he knows you’re here,” said the Blacksmith.

“How?”

“He can feel you.” The Blacksmith patted his chest, just where his heart once beat when he lived and perhaps still did, in some strange way. “Can’t you feel him too?”

Samuel closed his eyes, and thought hard. He pictured Nurd in his head, and remembered what they had spoken of in Samuel’s bedroom when Nurd had first appeared to him. He recalled
Nurd’s joy at the taste of a jelly bean, and his own surprise that Nurd had never before had anyone whom he could call a friend. He opened his heart to Nurd, and suddenly he had an image of him, an odd, ferretlike creature beside him that could only have been Wormwood, Nurd’s hands gripping the wheel of the Aston Martin that had, until recently, been the proudest possession of Samuel’s dad.

Then the image changed, and he saw Nurd and Wormwood standing beside—

Hang on, was that an ice-cream van?

Samuel called out to Nurd. He called out with his voice, and his heart. He called out with all the hope that he had left, and all his faith in the automobile-loving demon who was his friend.

He called out, and Nurd answered.

N
URD, THE FORMER
S
COURGE
of Five Deities, now reformed, wondered how much bad luck a demon could have. First of all, he’d been banished to the Wasteland with Wormwood, where they had spent a very, very long time getting to know each other and wishing that they hadn’t. It had been aeons of utter monotony, broken only by the capacity of Wormwood’s body to produce the most extraordinary odors, and Nurd amusing himself by hitting Wormwood hard on the head with a scepter in return. Then, in the manner of a great many buses arriving together after you’ve been standing in the rain for hours waiting for just one, Nurd had found himself sent back and forth through a hole in space and time on no fewer than four occasions, causing his body to be stretched and then
compressed in a most uncomfortable manner, as well as being crushed by a vacuum cleaner, hit by a truck, dropped down a sewer, and then forced to face the wrath of the armies of Hell by undoing the Great Malevolence’s plan to invade Earth. What was more, he had managed to annoy two policemen, the very same policemen who were now staring at him balefully while surrounded by four hostile-looking dwarfs and a shortsighted ice-cream salesman.

It’s just not fair, thought Nurd. All I wanted was a quiet life, and maybe some candy and an ice cream.

Constable Peel removed his notebook in an officious manner, licked the tip of his pencil, and prepared to write.

“Ready, Sarge,” he said.

“List of charges,” began Sergeant Rowan. “Evading arrest. Leaving the scene of a crime, namely an attack on a house of worship by assorted dead people. Soiling a police vehicle.”

“I never did,” said Nurd.

“You made it smell,” said Sergeant Rowan.

“I fell down a sewer.”

“Nevertheless, our car has never smelled right since. Causes Constable Peel here to feel nauseous on a regular basis.”

“And it makes my uniform pong,” said Constable Peel. “It undermines my authority, having a smelly uniform.”

Nurd was tempted to suggest that the main factor undermining Constable Peel’s authority was Constable Peel himself, but decided against it. He was in enough trouble already.

“What else do we have, Constable?” asked Sergeant Rowan.

“Immigration offenses?” suggested Constable Peel.

“Right you are. Improper entry. Entering Britain without a proper visa. Entering Britain without a passport. Illegal alien, you are.”

“I’m not an alien,” Nurd corrected. “I’m a demon.”

“Don’t nitpick. You were an illegal immigrant.”

“I didn’t immigrate,” said Nurd. “I was sent against my will.”

“You can explain it to the judge,” said Sergeant Rowan. “Now we get on to the really interesting stuff. Damage to private property. Theft of a privately owned vehicle. Driving without a proper license. Driving without insurance. Speeding. Theft of a police vehicle. They’re going to throw away the key for you, Sonny Jim. They’ll put you away for so long that by the time you get out we’ll all be living on other planets.”

Nurd folded his arms. He whistled, scratched his pointy chin, then tapped his fingers against it, all of which served to communicate the following message:
Hmm, I’m thinking here, and I seem to have spotted a fatal flaw in all that you’ve just told me.

“Forgive me for pointing this out, officers, but I wasn’t aware that you had jurisdiction in Hell. Biddlecombe: yes. Hell: I think not.”

“Got you there, Sergeant,” said Jolly, sticking his oar in and splashing it about merrily. “Old Moonface is a bit of a jailhouse lawyer.”

“You keep quiet,” said Constable Peel. “You lot are in enough trouble of your own.”

“Oooh,” said Dozy. “Make sure you add ‘stealing ice cream’ to our list of charges. We’ll get life for that.”

“Listen, you,” said Sergeant Rowan, wagging his finger at
Nurd and doing his best to ignore the Greek chorus
31
of dwarfs, “you have a lot to answer for. You need to come down to the station and explain yourself.”

“You know, I’d actually be happy to do that,” said Nurd. “Unfortunately, I, like you, am stuck here in Hell, and there are more pressing problems to consider.”

“Such as?”

“You’re not the only humans in Hell.”

“What do you mean? Who else is here?”

“Samuel Johnson and his dog.”

Sergeant Rowan frowned. Nurd could almost hear the cogs turning in his brain. Sergeant Rowan had been one of the first on the scene after the portal closed, but he’d never managed to find out the full story. He only knew that Samuel had effectively saved the Earth, aided by an unknown person in a stolen Aston Martin who—

Who had bravely driven it into the portal, causing it to collapse.

Sergeant Rowan took a few steps forward and examined the moving rock. More particularly, he examined the wheels of the rock, and then peered into the interior of the disguised car.

“Constable Peel, do you still have your notebook open?” he said.

“Yes, Sarge.”

“You know that page you’ve just filled with all of the charges against Mr. Nurd here?”

“Yes, Sarge. I’ve written them all down very neatly, in case the judge wants to read them for himself.”

“Tear it out and throw it away, there’s a good lad.”

“But—”

“No buts. Just do as I say.”

With considerable reluctance, Constable Peel did as he was told. He tore the page into little pieces and dropped them on the ground.

“Littering,” said a small, cheery voice from somewhere around his belly button. “That’s a fifty-quid fine.”

“Shut up,” said Constable Peel.

“It seems I may owe you an apology, sir,” said Sergeant Rowan.

“No, not really,” said Nurd. “I did all of the things that you said, or most of them anyway.”

“Well, I think you may have made up for them. Now, what’s this about Samuel Johnson?”

And Nurd did his best to explain how he had felt Samuel’s presence, and how he believed that it was Mrs. Abernathy who had been responsible for dragging Samuel and by extension the policemen, the dwarfs, and Dan, Dan the Ice-Cream Man to Hell.

“And what do you suggest we do about that?” asked Sergeant Rowan.

“We find Samuel, and then we try to discover the location of the gateway so we can get you all home,” said Nurd.

“You seem very sure that there is a gateway.”

“There has to be. Even here, certain laws apply. Wherever it is, it has to be close to Mrs. Abernathy. I do have one question for you, though.”

“And what’s that?” said Sergeant Rowan.

“What is that
terrible
music?”

“It’s ‘(How Much Is) That Doggie in the Window?’” said Constable Peel glumly.

“Woof-woof,” said Angry, mainly out of force of habit. (He was Pavlov’s Dwarf.
32
)

“I told you,” said Dan. “I can’t turn it off if the engine is on, and I’m a bit worried about turning the engine off and leaving us stuck here.”

As he spoke Wormwood opened the door of the van, peered beneath the dashboard, and fiddled about a bit. Instantly, the music stopped.

“Thank you,” said Constable Peel. “Thank you, thank you, thank you. If you didn’t look like a rodent, smell funny, and have what I suspect may be a number of easily communicable diseases, I might even hug you.”

“Nicest thing anyone has ever said to me,” Wormwood replied. He sniffled, and wiped away a little tear.

“That is a relief,” said Sergeant Rowan. “Now, where’s Samuel?”

Nurd pointed to his left. “I think he’s over there somewhere.”

“Then over there somewhere is where we’re going. Lead on, sir.”

Nurd and Wormwood returned to their car while the policemen and the dwarfs climbed back into the ice-cream van with Dan.

“Hey, what was that song again?” said Dozy, followed quickly by the words “Ow!” and “Never mind” as Constable Peel made his disapproval of such questions felt.

Nurd started the ignition on the Aston Martin and pulled ahead of the van, which was soon rumbling along behind them.

Wormwood tapped Nurd on the arm.

“Look what I found in the van,” he said.

In his hand he held a bag of jelly beans.

“If you ever tell anyone I said this, I shall deny it,” said Nurd, “but, Wormwood, you’re a marvel…”

S
AMUEL’S FACE WORE A
smile for the first time since he had arrived in that desolate place. He turned to the Blacksmith and said: “You were right! Nurd heard me. I know he heard me!”

But instead of congratulating him, the Blacksmith grabbed Samuel and Boswell and threw them behind a Russian T–34 tank that was lying on its side nearby, its tracks shredded and its innards exposed by a hole that had been ripped in its armor. For a moment Samuel thought that he had misjudged the Blacksmith and, like Old Ram, he was about to betray them, until the Blacksmith whispered to him to be quiet and stay still. Samuel saw shapes moving across the sky, their tattered wings beating, their keen eyes scouring the land below. Then the ground began to tremble, and Samuel heard the beating of hooves, and a voice said, “Greetings, Blacksmith.”

Samuel peered around the side of the tank, his hand around Boswell’s muzzle to prevent him from barking. Above the Blacksmith loomed a black horse, five times taller than the Blacksmith himself, with the wings of a bat and yellow eyes that glowed like molten gold set into its skull. Black blood dripped from its mouth where it was biting on its bridle, and its hooves struck sparks upon the stony ground. In its saddle sat a demon with two pale horns protruding from his skull, the horns, like those of some great bull, so long and heavy it seemed almost impossible that he should be able to hold his head upright upon his shoulders. His hair was dark and long, his skin very pale, and his eyes bright with a wit and intelligence that made the cruelty writ upon his features seem somehow more terrible. He wore armor of red and gold, and a red cloak that was clasped at his neck with a tusk of bone. The cloak billowed behind him even though there was no wind to carry it, so that it seemed to have a life of its own, to be a weapon in its own right, a shroud that could suffocate and consume. The rider’s saddle was heavy with weapons: a saber, a spiked mace, and an array of knives with ornate, twisted blades.