The Red Judge (17 page)

I entered the hotel, closing both outer and inner porch doors behind me, as if afraid that the mist would follow me in. The reception area was empty, much to my relief. Only moments ago it had been full, but now nobody lounged in its sinking sofas or basked around its huge fire. Even the main desk was empty, and the only voices that I heard came from the inner office.

I had chosen the right moment. I hurried past the reception desk before anyone returned, and slipped into the interior corridors of the hotel. I was looking for a door to lock behind me – somewhere deep and dark where I could hide until the mist had gone. But every door I came to either had voices behind it or was locked already. It was the same upstairs too. I hurried up to the first floor landing, but couldn't even find an unlocked cupboard.

Only when I climbed another set of stairs, and ended up on the second floor, did I find a door that opened. It led into a guest bedroom that had obviously been taken for the night, but I didn't mind
because its occupants were elsewhere. I locked it behind me, crept into their bathroom, locked that door as well and prayed that they wouldn't return. Then – seasoned veteran of horror movies that I was – I blocked the plugholes in the bath and hand basin, put down the toilet seat, shut the ventilation grille and even lay a wet towel under the door so that nothing, especially fingers of white mist, could get in.

I felt pretty stupid doing it, but not so stupid that I didn't bother. I got into the shower, pulled the curtain round me and stood shaking all over. I was safe, I told myself, but I couldn't stop. In fact, I was still doing it when the occupants of the room returned.

I heard their key turn in the lock, then they came hurrying in, passing the bathroom and going on at each other about being late. Lights went on, metal hangers clanged in the wardrobe and I caught snatches of conversation about dresses and cufflinks and clip-on bow ties.

Any minute now, I thought, and they're going to want the bathroom.

I waited for it, braced for trouble but, after a while, everything fell quiet. Deciding that the couple must have left again, I opened the bathroom door to check. This was a mistake as they hadn't gone anywhere but stood before the window, staring at the forest as if they'd forgotten they were late.

And who could blame them? Beyond the window, the sky was lit up by a huge moon, but the forest floor was full of mist. It wove intricate patterns between the trees, creating shapes that kept on shifting and regrouping. I'd never seen mist do that before – never seen it move so fast. The moon shone down on it,
making the forest glow like those aerial shots of nighttime cities where the movement has been speeded up. But its light was cold. There was no warmth to it. For all its movement, it had no life.

I turned back to the bathroom, but the couple heard me. They spun round and saw what must have looked to them like a murderous thug, bent on stealing their belongings. They cried out in alarm, and I tore off, knowing that if they caught me I was done for. I raced along the landing with them in pursuit, down the stairs, through a set of fire doors and down yet more stairs, finally reaching the ground floor.

Here I pushed my way past waiters who were gliding in and out of the dining room, beneath a massive WELCOME banner, serving dinner to their gala guests. Most of them got out of my way, but one crashed into me and, in the general commotion of cursing hotel staff and irate guests, I shot off down another set of stairs, which led into the basement.

Here I shut the first door that I reached behind me, and took the precaution of turning the key. Immediately I felt as if I'd stepped into another world. The air was cold and still and musty, but it was wonderfully quiet and I knew no one would find me.

This is more like it, I thought, creeping through the darkness looking for a place to hide. But, every step I took, the basement seemed to get colder. It was as if it had been refrigerated. I began to wonder if I'd got myself into more trouble than if I'd stayed upstairs. But then I came to a door with a light shining under it, and I pushed it open – and found myself in another dining room.

Like the one upstairs, it had been prepared as if for
a grand gala occasion, tables laid with cloths and candlesticks and crystal glasses. In fact, I almost thought it
was
the dining room upstairs, and that I'd somehow worked my way back to it. But the tables were all empty, and the banner hanging up didn't just say WELCOME, like the one upstairs.

It said WELCOME
ZED
!

As soon as I saw it, I knew that I was in trouble. I froze where I stood and couldn't move a muscle. I was in danger – but there was nothing I could do.

‘
So, Zed, we meet again
,' a voice said.

I couldn't see anyone at first. As far as I could tell, I was alone. But then the shadows shifted at the far end of the room, and a man stepped into view. He was hard to make out, because he was dressed in black and looked like a waiter. But then he stepped out of the shadows, and I saw his face.

He was Dr Katterfelto
.

I must have cried his name, because he took a bow. I'd thought I'd got away from him, but I'd been mistaken. Down the long miles of river valleys and hidden gorges he had followed me, waiting for this moment. Every time I'd caught a hint of something in the wind, he'd been there. And he was here too, waiting in the shadows, biding his time.

And now that time had come. All around me, other shadows started shifting, and I felt myself begin to shake all over. ‘Pull yourself together, boy,' said Dr Katterfelto. ‘Have a bit of dignity. Stop quivering, and stand up straight. The time has come to answer for your life of crime. And to answer properly
– no escape this time!
'

He sounded like a policeman making an arrest.

Sounded like a judge, in a court of law. I remembered my mother's words about getting into real trouble one day. And now that day was here!

Dr Katterfelto crossed the room and climbed on to a long, low dais, taking up a position centre-stage. He clapped his white-gloved hands, and men and women emerged from the shadows dressed in cocktail frocks and bow ties, just like the guests upstairs – except that these guests all wore masks. They filled the tables until none was empty. Then Dr Katterfelto clapped again and, as if he was the undisputed master of this place, as well as of all those village halls and palaces, the guests sat down.

I was left alone in the middle of the floor, standing before them all, not knowing who they were behind their masks. It was the strangest feeling being there like that. It was as if the world upstairs no longer existed. And it wasn't because I'd been hypnotised, this time. No, this was
real
. As real as anything could ever be.

Suddenly I felt angry. Despite what I'd to Gilda, I knew this wasn't fair. It wasn't justice. It didn't feel right. Dr Katterfelto had no warrant to detain me. No warrant to lure me here, and play games with me – and certainly no warrant to finish me off.

For that was exactly what he intended to do!
There were no two ways about it – Dr Katterfelto was planning something terrible. And he had the means to do it, too! After all, he was a Doctor of Conjuring. He could stuff me into a cabinet and make me vanish, bit by bit. Or saw me in half. Or say a magic word and make me go up in a puff of smoke. And I wouldn't come back like Gilda had done when he'd wrapped
his cloak around her. I'd be lost for ever.

‘Who d'you think you are?' I burst out in a panic. ‘Just because of what I did to Gilda, you can't do what you like! You've got no right. We're not in court. You're not my judge. You're just some trumped-up showman, full of tricks. I'm out of here –
and you can't stop me!
'

I was wrong. I started across the floor, heading for the door but, before I could take more than a couple of steps, I found my way blocked. A circle of dogs stepped out of the shadows and positioned themselves around me as if this
was
a court, no matter what I said, and they were its lieutenants.

I recognised them immediately – recognised the
C
ŵ
n y Wbir
. And every time I'd looked behind me on the journey, feeling as if I was being followed, I'd been right. I turned back to the dais. The doctor looked at me with eyes as cold as curses. Eyes that I had seen before – and
then I knew
.

‘No!' I whispered. ‘
You can't be
.'

The doctor smiled. And I had seen that smile as well. Had bowed before its power, and promised anything to save my sister. Anything at all – even my own life.

And deals were deals. There was no getting out of them.

‘
You're the red judge
,' I said.

He didn't move a muscle. Didn't as much as blink. But I was right. Everything about him shouted it – and how I'd ever thought he was a common conjuror, known by the stage name Dr Katterfelto, I couldn't imagine. I should have realised from the start. Should have known from the first trick that there was more to him than met the eye.

A rustle ran round the room, as if this
was
a court after all, and everyone was waiting. Then, at last, the red judge made his move. He took off the Dr Katterfelto costume and donned a judge's wig and red cloak of office, then stood before us all, utterly transformed. Every eye was on him, and you could see he relished the attention. A devil of a smile played around his lips, arrogant and pitying, as if he and I had struck a deal and it was time for me to pay the price.

I wa
s
the biggest fool alive. I'd thought that I could get away from him – could trick him and run rings round him – but I was wrong. The game was up.

The red judge sat down and spread his cloak around him. He called the first witness to take the stand and immediately three little giggling Barbie-girls leapt to their feet as if they simply couldn't wait, and tried to speak all at once. Even before they pulled off their masks, I knew they were my Fitztalbot cousins. I stared at them in astonishment, thinking that I might have spent a lifetime winding them up, but I hadn't done anything bad enough to warrant a court of law.

But that's not how they saw it.

‘He tied me to a tree and shot arrows at me.'

‘He did that to me too, and they covered me in bruises, even though they were only rubber.'

‘He shut me in a cupboard and locked the door.' ‘He did that to me too – and he put sellotape over my mouth.'

‘He took my favourite doll and set it on fire, then he said it wasn't him but nobody believed him. He made me give him sweets, or else he'd pull out my hair.'

‘He did that to me too – and he took my
Tammy-Girl
annual and threw it in the pond.'

‘He tried to push me in the pond. And he made me walk across the weir, or else he said he'd tell my mother what my real grades were in school.'

‘He bought us rubbish presents every Christmas.'

‘He was always bullying us.'

‘He was always teasing, but it wasn't in fun.'

‘We hated him.'

‘He was stupid.'

‘He was in the way.'

‘Nobody wanted him. Nobody in the family.'

‘He made all our lives a misery.'

Finally they ran out of things to say – three little cousins full of highly exaggerated memories, as far as I was concerned, getting back at me at long last. Most of their complaints went back years, and I wanted to laugh at them for still remembering. But no one else was laughing. I also wanted to point out that there were two sides to every story, and that they hadn't been so terrific themselves.

But perhaps they had a case. Perhaps having me for a cousin was worse than I'd realised. In any case, I never got the chance to speak up. The girls returned to their seats and my father's younger brother and sister, Uncle George and Aunt Decima, rose to their feet and plunged into some ghastly story, pulling off their masks to tell the court about trust funds and family money, and plots to seize the family assets and cuckoos in nests.

I didn't get the half of it, but they ended with the phrase
something of the night about him
, and it stuck in my mind, partly because I'd heard it before, but I couldn't remember where – on the telly, or somewhere like that – and partly because, by the time the trial was over, it had turned into something of a theme.

I was a dark character, apparently. My deeds weren't those of any ordinary boy. One by one, my Fitztalbot relatives stood to say the same things. The masks came off, and the tongues were loosened and they couldn't stop. All of them were there, right down to the second cousins twice removed who I hardly ever saw, and whose names I could never remember.

It was as if the entire family had decided to gang up on me. They were full of nasty things I'd done, many
of which I couldn't even remember, and most of which weren't that bad really – or so it seemed to me. The list went on and on until only my Fitztalbot grandmother seemed to be left. She took off her mask and stood before the court, ramrod-straight, every inch the proud matriarch, her cheeks drawn in as if she was sucking lemon drops, her eyes fixed on me with visible contempt. I could tell that she'd been waiting a long time for this.

‘In your own time,' the red judge said, as if she needed special consideration because she was an old woman.

But my Fitztalbot grandmother had never needed anyone's consideration – and neither did she need permission. She was the mother of the family. The one in charge. The one whose words were law.

‘My son gave that ungrateful child a home,' she boomed forth, making sure that everyone could hear. ‘He gave him everything a fatherless child, living in some back-of-beyond village with nothing but a primitive education to look forward to, could ever want. He gave him a whole life – and what did he get in return? He got insolence, that's what! He got trouble and strife, and everything thrown back in his face.