After almost seven hundred years, Bishop Bernard the Bad had woken up.
XXII
In Which the Forces of Law and Order Take an Interest in Nurd
NURD WAS ALTERNATING BETWEEN jubilation and absolute terror. He had discovered a crucial detail about fast cars: they can go fast. When he touched a foot to the accelerator the Porsche shot off like a speeding bullet, and Nurd’s braking technique, like his driving, left a lot to be desired. The first time Nurd hit the brake, he bashed his face against the windshield since he had neglected to fasten his seat belt. Now his already injured nose had swollen painfully, and there was blood on his hands where he had tried to wipe it. He had thus confirmed an interesting, if alarming, fact about this world: while he was an immortal being, theoretically incapable of being killed, he could experience pain here. Pain and, if he wasn’t careful, something a bit like death, except without the nice long rest afterward. Still, he was having the time of his very long life, and the Wasteland and Wormwood seemed to belong to another, far-off era.
Not for the first time, a pair of red lights whizzed by on either side of the road. Sometimes, those lights were green, or even amber, but Nurd liked the red ones best. They reminded him of the fires of Hell, fires that he might never have to see again if he could terrify this world, or even a little part of it, into submission. But before that there was more driving to be done.
A pair of flashing blue lights appeared in Nurd’s rearview mirror, accompanied by a howling noise. Despite his speed, they appeared to be drawing closer and closer. Hmmm, thought Nurd, I wonder what they are. Then the blue lights came near enough for him to see that they were stuck on the top of another car. Nurd wondered if the lights came in red. If they did, he might try to find some and stick them on the top of his car as well. They would look splendid.
The car with the flashing blue lights pulled alongside Nurd. It was white, with writing on the side, and wasn’t even half as pretty as Nurd’s car. There were two men in uniform in the car, one of whom was waving at Nurd. Not wishing to seem impolite, even if he was a demon, Nurd waved back. The men in the other car looked quite annoyed at this. Nurd suspected that perhaps he had given them the wrong wave, but he didn’t know enough about the habits of this world to be sure of what might be the correct variety.
The white car pulled ahead of him, and then braked, forcing Nurd to slam his foot down hard on his own brake pedal. If his seat belt hadn’t been fastened this time, Nurd would probably have gone through the windshield. Instead the belt pulled him up short, winding him.
Now Nurd didn’t know a lot about driving, but he could tell that the men in the white car had just performed a distinctly dangerous maneuver, and he had half a mind to tell them what he thought of them and their little blue lights. Then the two men got out of the car and put hats on, and a little warning signal went off in Nurd’s brain. He knew Authority when he saw it. His lips moved as he tried to read the word on the back of the car.
PO-LICE.
One of the police tapped on Nurd’s window while the other walked round the car, holding a notebook and still looking annoyed. Nurd found the button that rolled the window down.
“Evening, sir,” said the man at the window, wrinkling his nose at the unpleasant odor emerging from the vicinity of Nurd. Nurd saw that the man had three little stripes on his shoulder. Nurd thought they looked very fetching.
“Hello,” said Nurd. “Are you a police?”
“I prefer policeman, sir,” came the reply. “That’s quite the outfit. Off to a costume party, are we?”
Nurd didn’t know what a costume party was, but the policeman’s tone of voice suggested that “yes” might be a good answer.
“Yes,” said Nurd. “A costume party.”
“Any idea how fast you were going back there, sir?”
Oh, Nurd knew the answer to this one. He could tell from the little red numbers on the dashboard.
“One hundred and twelve miles per hour,” he said proudly. “Very fast.”
“Oh yes, very fast, sir. Too fast, one might say.”
Nurd thought about this. In his current mood, it didn’t seem possible that one could go “too fast.” There was just “slow” and “very fast.”
“No,” said Nurd. “I don’t think so.”
One of the policeman’s eyebrows shot up like a startled crow.
“Can I see your license, please, sir?”
“License?”
“Piece of paper with a photograph of you on it without your Halloween mask, says you can drive a car, although in your case it might have a picture of a rocket ship on it as well.”
“I don’t have a license,” said Nurd. He frowned. He liked the sound of a piece of paper that said he could drive, although he couldn’t imagine to whom he might show it, policemen aside. Wormwood might have been impressed by it, but Wormwood wasn’t here.
“Oh dear, sir,” said the policeman, who had just been joined by his colleague. “That’s not good, is it?”
“No,” said Nurd. “I’d like a license.” He composed his monstrous features into something resembling a smile. “You wouldn’t have one that you could give me, would you? Even if it doesn’t have my picture, it would still be lovely to own.”
The policeman’s face went very still.
“What’s your name, sir?”
“Nurd,” said Nurd, then added, “the Scourge of Five Deities.”
“Scourge of Five Motorways, more like,” said the second policeman.
“Very witty, Constable Peel,” said the first policeman. “Very witty indeed.” He returned his attention to Nurd. “A foreign gentleman, are we, sir?” he said. “Visiting, perhaps?”
“Yes,” said Nurd. “Visiting.”
“From where, sir?”
“The Great Wasteland,” said Nurd.
“He’s from the Midlands, then, Sarge,” said Constable Peel.
The one called Sarge hid a smile. “That’s enough, Constable. Don’t want to offend anyone, do we?”
“Not only does he not have a license, Sarge, he doesn’t appear to have any license plates,” said Peel.
Sarge frowned. “Is this a new car, sir?”
“I think so,” said Nurd. “It smells new.”
“Is it your car, sir?”
“It is now,” Nurd said.
Sarge took a step back. “Right you are, sir. Step out of the car, please.”
Nurd did as he was told. He towered at least a foot above the two policemen.
“He’s a big lad, Sarge,” said Peel. “Don’t know how he managed to fit in there in the first place. Mind you, he smells funny.”
Nurd had to admit that it had been a bit of a squeeze getting into the Porsche, but he was quite a squishy demon. Some demons were all hard bone, or thick shells. Nurd was softer, mainly because he hadn’t taken any exercise in centuries.
“That’s quite a costume you have there, sir,” said Sarge. “What exactly are you supposed to be, then?”
“Nurd,” said Nurd. “The Scourge of—”
“We got all that the first time,” said Sarge. “Do you have any form of identification?”
Nurd concentrated. On his forehead, a mark began to glow a deep, fiery red. It looked like a capital B that had been drawn by a very drunk person. Its appearance on his skin was accompanied by a faint smell of burning flesh.
“You don’t see that very often, Sarge,” said Constable Peel. He looked quite impressed.
“No, you don’t,” said Sarge. “What exactly is that supposed to be, sir?”
“It is the mark of Nurd,” said Nurd.
“He’s a nutter, Sarge,” said Constable Peel. “Nurd the Nutter.”
Sarge sighed. “We’d like you to come along with us, sir, if you don’t mind.”
“Can I bring my car?” said Nurd.
“We’ll leave, er, your car here for the moment, sir. You can come along with us in ours.”
“It’s got pretty lights on the top,” expl
ained Constable Peel helpfully. “And it makes a noise.”
Nurd looked at the policemen’s car. It still wasn’t as nice as his, not by a long shot, but it was different, and Nurd felt that he should be open to new experiences, especially having spent so long in the Wasteland with no new experiences at all, some curious noises from Wormwood apart.
“All right,” he said. “I will travel in your car.”
“There’s a good Nurd,” said Constable Peel, opening one of the rear doors. Nurd got the uncomfortable feeling that Constable Peel was making fun of him. Constable Peel also made sure to keep the windows rolled down in order to let the smell out of the car.
“When I assume my throne,” said Nurd, “and I rule this world, you shall be my slave, and your life will be one of pain and misery until I choose to end it by turning you to a small mass of red jelly that I will crush beneath my heel.”
Constable Peel looked hurt as he closed the door behind Nurd. “That’s not very nice,” he said. “Sarge, Mr. Nurd here is threatening to turn me to jelly.”
“Really?” said Sarge. “What flavor?”
Then, with Nurd squashed in the back, they began the drive back to the station.
XXIII
In Which We Learn That One Should Be Careful About Accepting Anything That Is Offered for Nothing
THE FIG AND PARROT pub was well known in the village for its Halloween celebrations. The owners, Meg and Billy, decorated it with cobwebs, skeletons, and other ghoulish oddities. The grass square outside the pub’s main doors was dotted with polystyrene tombstones, and a noose dangled from the thickest branch of the old oak tree at its center, the rope tight round the neck of a scarecrow.
Inside the festivities were in full swing, as Meg and Billy had arranged for the local brewery, Spiggit’s, to offer free pints to those who arrived in costume, and there was nothing that the regulars at the Fig and Parrot appreciated more than free pints. Hence, everyone had made an effort at dressing up, even if, in the case of Mangy Old Bob (as he was known to most people except Mangy Old Bob himself), it consisted of nothing more than sticking a sprig of holly on his hat and claiming to be the Spirit of Christmas. For the most part, the villagers in attendance favored the old reliables, and had come dressed as vampires, ghosts, mummies wrapped in bandages and toilet paper, and the odd French maid. The French maids were not, it must be said, terribly frightening, except for Mrs. Minsky, who was a very large lady, and who had not been constructed to occupy anything as small and frilly as a French maid’s outfit.
The two demons who approached the Fig and Parrot that night were not intellectually gifted. This was true of most of the demons that had so far poured through the interdimensional doorway into the village. They were foot soldiers, nothing more. The real horrors had yet to come. This was not to say that the demons who were already in place were not terrifying. Seen in the right light, and at an unexpected moment, they might have proved bed-wettingly frightening. Unfortunately, they had arrived on the one evening of the year when lots of people were doing their utmost to look as frightening as possible, and therefore many of the demons were simply blending in.
The two demons in question were called Shan and Gath. Facially, they resembled warthogs, although their bodies were those of men, albeit rather overweight ones whose leather clothing was a couple of sizes too small for them. Their eyes, like those of a great number of the other minor hellish entities currently exploring the village and its environs, glowed a deep red from exposure to the fiery pits of Hades. Large tusks jutted over their snouts from their bottom jaws, and their heads and faces were covered in short, rough hair. They had two thick fingers on each hand, but no thumbs. They were clumsy, vicious creatures, intent only on doing harm to whoever happened to come their way.
The girl employed by Spiggit’s to hand out the free-beer vouchers, a young lady named Melody Prossett, was dressed as a pink fairy, and wearing a short dress, a disguise that did little to hide the fact that Melody was jolly lovely. Melody was studying the history of art at the local university, which made few demands upon her time or, it must be said, her intelligence, which was probably just as well. Melody was as sweet and beautiful as—oh, all right then—a melody, but she was by no means the brightest bulb in the box. In fact, even a box of very dark bulbs buried in a windowless coal shed might have given Melody some competition in the brightness stakes.
When Shan and Gath entered the Fig and Parrot, the first person they encountered was Melody Prossett.
“Guys, what great outfits!” Melody shouted. Shan and Gath looked as confused as only a pair of destruction-bent demons can look when faced by a leggy fairy with a cardboard wand. Admittedly, thought Melody, the new arrivals smelled a bit odd (even worse than Mangy Old Bob, who could kill flies with his breath and had mold in his armpits) but perhaps it had something to do with whatever they had used to make their costumes. Then again, those hog heads were very realistic. Melody wondered if they had somehow managed to hollow out real hog heads and fit them over their own. If so, she admired their efforts, although it wasn’t something that she would have been inclined to do, not for all the beer in Spiggit’s brewery.
Somewhat awkwardly, she managed to fit six vouchers into the demons’ cloven hands.
“I’m only supposed to give you one each,” she whispered conspiratorially, “but you’ve gone to such trouble …”
Shan raised the vouchers to his snout and sniffed them warily.
“Urk?” he said.
“Oh, I expect you’re having trouble seeing through your mask,” said Melody. “The bar’s over here. Let me give you a hand.”
She took each demon by an arm and began to steer them toward the bar. Along the way, Shan and Gath passed an assortment of beings—vampires, ghouls, and the like—that looked vaguely familiar from the depths of Hell. Somewhere in their tiny minds they began to wonder if they might, possibly, have been better employed elsewhere, given that this place seemed to have plenty of foul creatures to be getting along with. Unfortunately they were now firmly in the grip of Melody Prossett, who was determined to be as helpful as possible, because that was the kind of girl she was. Melody Prossett was so helpful that people, even quite elderly people, often ran fast in the opposite direction when they saw her coming, just to avoid Melody’s particular form of helpfulness.
“Now, each voucher entitles you to a free pint of Spiggit’s Old Peculiar,” Melody explained. “It’s new! I’ve tasted it, and it’s wonderful.”
This was not entirely true. Spiggit’s Old Peculiar was indeed very new, but Melody had not, in fact, tasted it. She had put it close to her nose, and decided that it smelled like something a cat might have done; a cat, furthermore, that wasn’t feeling at all well. It had also scorched her nasal hairs, and when a drop fell on her hand it had turned her skin a funny color.24
Spiggit’s Old Peculiar was an aptly named beer. Even those at the brewery who rather liked it took the view that something needed to be done about its nose (the technical term for its smell) and, while the brewers were about it, perhaps its taste, which veered somewhere between “not very nice” and “pretty nasty,” and the fact that, if left too long on the skin, it tended to burn. It was, though, quite amazingly strong, and after the first sip issues of flavor tended to be forgotten, since Spiggit’s Old Peculiar managed temporarily to deaden the drinker’s taste buds, leaving only the sensation that he had just accidentally consumed a naked flame. Fortunately that sensation was quickly replaced by one of complete intoxication and a sense of goodwill toward anyone within hugging distance until, after a second pint, he fell over and went to sleep.
Shan and Gath had never tasted alcohol of any kind. Given that they were demons, and therefore not troubled by normal appetites, they had never eaten anything other than the odd chunk of coal or grit, and occasionally other, smaller demons, although mostly they just preferred to chew them before spitting them out. So, when Meg handed them their first two free pints, carefully removing a pair of
vouchers from their misshapen fists along the way, they just stared at them suspiciously to begin with. Gath was about to shatter the glasses and start being properly demonic when Shan noticed a vampire take a long drink from a similar glass. For a moment, the vampire looked as though he had just been hit through the heart with a large stake, as the unusual taste of Spiggitt’s Old Peculiar seared his mouth and erased a few memories. Then a strange, happy smile appeared on his face, and he hugged the nearest mummy.
Shan lifted the glass to his snout and sniffed it. Shan was used to the stench of Hell itself, but whatever was in the glass smelled a bit odd, even to him. He took a tentative sip.
Something exploded in Shan’s head, and he looked around to see who had hit him and then poked him in the eyes. As his vision began to return, and he found there was nobody nearby, Shan realized that it was the stuff in the glass that had somehow managed to hit him. He was considering throwing it at the wall and laying waste to all around him when he began to feel very mellow. He took another sip, longer this time. Now Gath raised his glass and drank. He staggered a bit when the beer started knocking out brain cells, and almost fell over.
“Hurh, hurh,” said Shan. It was a sound that he had never made before, and it took him a while to recognize it as laughter.
“Hurh, hurh,” said Gath as he too began to recover.
They drank a little more. Someone began playing the piano. Meg and Billy dispensed free French fries, and Shan and Gath got their first taste of greasy, deep-fried potato. Gath put an arm round Shan. Shan was his best mate. He loved Shan. No, he really loved Shan.
They moved on to their second pints of Spigget’s Old Peculiar, and all thoughts of world domination faded away.
The Gates Page 14