Brian did as he was told. He made a large pot of tea, put some mugs and a plate of Jammie Dodgers beside it on the tray, added a jug of milk and a bowl of sugar, and looked at his handiwork. It was all very neat and tidy. He picked up the tray, and instantly his hands began shaking so much that the Jammie Dodgers were awash with tea and milk before he even managed to get halfway to the door.
“Oh dear,” said Brian.
He turned round to return to the kitchen counter, and stopped dead.
There was a not-ghost in the room with him.
XVI
In Which a Scientist Tries to Be Cleverer than Maria, and Fails
THE BELL ABOVE THE sweetshop door jangled. It was Professor Hilbert’s turn to sell sweets for a couple of hours, but then it always seemed to be Professor Hilbert’s turn. Professor Stefan didn’t like dealing with children and, on the two occasions Dorothy had been left in charge, she had eaten so many caramel chews that her jaw had swollen on one side, making her look as though she was concealing a golf ball in her mouth. As for Brian, his hands continued to tremble so much that he inevitably poured more sweets on the floor than he managed to put into bags. If Brian and Dorothy had been left in charge, Mr. Pennyfarthinge’s would have gone out of business in a week.
Professor Hilbert was engaged in mapping reported sightings of strange phenomena in and around Biddlecombe, which was no simple task, as everything about Biddlecombe seemed strange, even the stuff that people had begun to regard as comparatively normal. For example, it was widely accepted that something unusual was living at the bottom of Miggin’s Pond, but attempts to discover precisely what it was had been hampered by the ducks, which were very protective of their new resident and tended to attack anyone who attempted anything more threatening than throwing bread at them. The long-dead, and very unpleasant, Bishop Bernard the Bad, who had popped back to life for a while with the sole intention of sticking hot pokers up people’s bottoms, had been reduced to bits of broken bone and mummified flesh, but on quiet evenings his remains could still be heard rattling angrily in the crypt beneath the church. It had been suggested that someone should go down and examine them, but since the person who had made the suggestion was Professor Stefan, and the someone he had in mind was anyone but himself, that suggestion had been put on hold.
Nevertheless, Professor Hilbert had still managed to pinpoint at least five areas of Biddlecombe in which unusual numbers of residents had recently complained of seeing spectral figures. Professor Hilbert shared Professor Stefan’s view that these were glimpses of parallel universes, although he also believed that there were other dimensions as yet unknown existing alongside these universes. From his interviews with the boy named Samuel Johnson, Professor Hilbert had come to some understanding of how beings from these other dimensions had entered our own, and had even managed to abduct humans from our world to theirs. Professor Hilbert suspected that Samuel Johnson wasn’t telling the scientists everything he knew, but Professor Hilbert didn’t mind. Like many adults, he believed that he was cleverer than any child and, quite possibly, most other adults. In this, of course, he was wrong. Being clever is not just about how much you know, but about knowing that you really don’t know very much at all.
Professor Hilbert’s model of the Multiverse looked something like Professor Stefan’s, except that the bubbles30 weren’t all pressed quite so tightly together. There were little gaps between them, and there was life in those gaps. Creatures, intelligent creatures, existed in those spaces—and, yes, they were dangerous and evil and wanted to consume humanity, but that didn’t make them any less interesting. Somehow, the little town of Biddlecombe had become a focal point for these creatures. Professor Hilbert was very curious to find out why.
But now he was about to be distracted from his important thoughts by a small child’s need for a bag of bull’s-eyes31 or a quarter pound of acid drops.32 Putting in place his false beard, which itched something awful, Professor Hilbert walked from his desk to the sweetshop. A young girl, who looked slightly familiar, was waiting at the counter. Professor Hilbert tried to recall where he had seen her before. He thought that she might be a friend of Samuel Johnson’s.
“Can I help you?” he asked.
“My name is Maria Mayer and I’d like to talk to whoever is in charge, please,” said the girl.
“Of the sweet factory?”
“No, of the scientists.”
Professor Hilbert coughed and straightened his false beard.
“No scientists here, young lady, not unless you count the science of making great sweeties!”
Maria stared hard at him.
“Seriously?” she said.
“Seriously what?”
“Seriously, is that the best you can do? I know you’re scientists. The whole town knows that you’re scientists. I have a pet rabbit named Mr. Fluffytail. Even Mr. Fluffytail knows that you’re scientists, and Mr. Fluffytail eats his own poo.”
Professor Hilbert wasn’t sure what poo had to do with anything, although he vaguely recalled that Mr. Pennyfarthinge’s basement had contained a number of boxes of Uncle Dabney’s “Rabbit Droppings.” They appeared to be pieces of chocolate-covered fondant but they’d smelled a bit funny and nobody had been in any hurry to try them out. They’d simply thrown them away, but now Professor Hilbert was wondering if they hadn’t missed a trick by not selling them as Christmas treats to the Mr. Fluffytails of the world.
“If there were scientists here, which there aren’t, what would you want to ask them?” said Professor Hilbert.
“I wouldn’t want to ‘ask’ them anything,” said Maria. “I’d want to tell them something.”
“And what would that be?” said Professor Hilbert, only just resisting the urge to add “little girl” to the end of the question. Even though he managed not to say it aloud, he did speak it in his head, and he got the impression that Maria had somehow heard him say it.
Maria’s eyes narrowed. Her scowl deepened.
“Actually, now it’s two things. The first thing I’d tell them is that at least one of them needs a lesson in not being a smarty-pants.”
“Yes, and the second?”
Maria placed a map of Biddlecombe on the desk, a map marked with an inverted pentagram.
“That he’s a smarty-pants in a whole lot of trouble.”
• • •
Brian was watching the not-ghost carefully. Its back was to him, but he could tell that it was a woman. She wore a red robe that reminded Brian uncomfortably of a fountain of blood, its sleeves so wide that they concealed her hands, and her long black hair trailed down her back. It was moving slightly, as though buffeted by an unseen breeze, but as Brian continued to stare, it began to fan out from her head, and her robes started to billow. Brian realized that, rather than glimpsing someone standing in a breeze, he was looking at a woman somehow suspended underwater, an impression strengthened by the fact that the end of her robe was not touching the ground.
Brian’s hands, which now tended to tremble at the best of times, began to shake harder. The mugs clinked together. The spoons jangled. The tea slopped. Together, they made what sounded to Brian’s ears like the most awful racket.
The not-ghost’s head twisted slightly. She seemed to be listening to the sounds coming from the tray, but that couldn’t be right. Professor Stefan had said that it was all one-way traffic. We could see them, but they couldn’t see us. On the other hand, Professor Stefan had said nothing about hearing, but when Brian had seen his first not-ghost he’d dropped his tray in fright, and on that occasion the not-ghost hadn’t reacted at all. Perhaps, Brian thought, the not-ghost was listening to something in her own universe. Yes, that was it. She wasn’t listening to the noises coming from the tea tray. She couldn’t be. Everything was fine. Happy thoughts, Brian, happy thoughts.
Still, just to reassure himself Brian decided to put the tray down on the small table in the kitchen. It was probably for the best. If he didn’t he’d end up covered in tea and m
ilk.
Carefully, Brian set the tray on the table to his right. He tried to do it as quietly as possible, but it still made a noticeable sound as it touched the wood.
The not-ghost’s head inclined slightly to the right. This time, though, the rest of her body began to follow in the same direction.
Oops, thought Brian. Oops, oops, oops.
The not-ghost slowly turned 180 degrees in the air until she was facing Brian, except that facing was probably not the word Brian would have used. To face someone, the first thing you need is a face, and the not-ghost had no face at all. There was only darkness, and now Brian saw that what he had believed was hair was not hair at all but tendrils of shadow extending from the blackness where her face should have been.
Brian did what any sensible person would do.
Brian fled.
30. Or twigs. Or police stations.
31. Formerly Uncle Dabney’s Special Brand Bull’s-Eyes, until it was discovered that the chewy centers were, in fact, actual bulls’ eyes.
32. Again, formerly Uncle Dabney’s Unusually Fiery Acid Drops, until, well, you can work it out for yourself . . .
XVII
In Which BoyStarz Return to the Limelight, Thus Making a Bad Situation Worse
A LARGE CROWD HAD GATHERED outside Wreckit & Sons to witness the grand reopening of the new store. There were lots of small children doing the things that small children do: talking, crying, complaining they wanted to go to the bathroom, and, in the case of one little girl, asking Jolly where he thought he was going with her mother’s purse. They were being entertained, if that was the right word, which it probably wasn’t under the circumstances, by BoyStarz.
Dan had convinced Mr. St. John-Cholmondeley to allow BoyStarz to perform some songs at the grand opening. Mr. St. John-Cholmondeley had never heard of BoyStarz. More importantly, he had never heard them sing, which was why he had agreed to allow them near the store, and had also promised Dan some money, even if Dan was never going to live to collect it. Mr. St. John-Cholmondeley started to regret his decision as soon as he heard the opening lines of “Love Is Like a Toy Shop,” but by then it was too late.
Dan and the dwarfs walked to the rear of the store, where Mr. St. John-Cholmondeley was waiting impatiently at the service entrance. He tapped his watch as the dwarfs approached.
“Is your watch broken?” asked Jolly.
“No, it is not. You’re late.”
Jolly looked at his own watch. At least, it was his own watch now, but about five minutes earlier it had belonged to someone else.
“I don’t think so. I have us bang on time.”
“I’m telling you—” insisted Mr. St. John-Cholmondeley, but Angry interrupted him.
“Here, give me a look at that. I’m good with watches.”
Before Mr. St. John-Cholmondeley could object, the watch was off his wrist and in Angry’s hand.
“Ah yes, I see what’s wrong here,” said Angry. “I’ll have that fixed in no time.”
The watch vanished into Angry’s pocket, never to be seen by Mr. St. John-Cholmondeley again.
“Now,” said Angry, steering the bewildered Mr. St. John-Cholmondeley into the store, “best be getting along. Don’t want to keep the little ’uns waiting, do we?”
“Er, no, of course not,” said Mr. St. John-Cholmondeley. “By the way, do you think you could make BoyStarz stop singing?”
“What?” said Dan. “Make them stop? But they’ve only just started. Listen to them. They’re like nightingales, they are.”
“They’re more like seagulls,” said Mr. St. John-Cholmondeley. “And you can’t hear them properly because your ears are stuffed with cotton wool. All of your ears are stuffed with cotton wool.”
“Ear infection,” said Dan.
“Very contagious,” confirmed Angry.
Outside the store, BoyStarz finished their first song. There was some applause, but only because people were relieved that they’d stopped.
“Quick, let’s get inside before they start up again,” said Jolly, and Mr. St. John-Cholmondeley didn’t try to argue.
He led the dwarfs down the back stairs of the store. They passed no one else along the way, and Wreckit & Sons seemed very quiet.
“Where are all the staff?” asked Dan.
“They’re getting a last-minute pep talk from Mr. Grimly,” said Mr. St. John-Cholmondeley.
“Will we get to meet Mr. Grimly?” asked Jolly.
“Oh yes,” said Mr. St. John-Cholmondeley as they reached the dressing room. “You’ll be meeting him very soon, and he’s very anxious to meet you, too. Dying to meet you, you might even say.”
He smiled at the dwarfs the way an anteater might smile at a line of ants, but the dwarfs were too distracted by their elf outfits to notice. In the past they’d worn suits that were either so loose that a bookmark was needed to find the wearer, or so tight around the neck and waist that the wearer resembled a Christmas cracker. Those same suits were often made of the kind of material capable of conducting near-fatal levels of static electricity. Angry had stuck to a carpet on one job and had to be removed from it with wooden spoons; on another, Jolly had amused himself by building up a static charge and then poking Mumbles in the arm. Mumbles had received such a shock that his eyeballs had lit up.
These suits, on the other hand, were made of what felt like velvet. They were red with green trim, and while they might have had too many bells on for Jolly’s liking, they were still more than a step above normal.
“I’ll leave you to get dressed,” said Mr. St. John-Cholmondeley. “Please wait here when you’re done, and I’ll come and get you in—”
He tried to check his watch, then realized that it was no longer on his wrist.
“Excuse me, about the watch,” he said to Angry.
“What watch?”
“My watch.”
“Oh, that watch. I haven’t had a chance to look at it yet.”
“Would there be—? I mean, perhaps I should—?”
“Out with it, man, out with it,” said Angry. “We have elf work to do.”
“Well, I was wondering if I might perhaps have a receipt for it?”
When the dwarfs had finished laughing, which took a while, and Angry’s sides had stopped hurting, which took even longer, he finally managed to speak.
“Friends don’t need receipts,” said Angry.
“Are we friends?” asked Mr. St. John-Cholmondeley.
He sounded like he didn’t believe that this was the case and, if it was, he was wondering if it might be a good idea to put as much distance as possible between himself and his new “friend.”
“No, but we won’t ever be if we start looking for receipts from each other, will we?” asked Angry reasonably. “Friendship is about trust. Without trust, what do we have? Nothing.”
Angry put his left hand on his heart. There were tears in his eyes, although they might have been left over from his laughing fit. He put his other hand over Mr. St. John-Cholmondeley’s heart, and discreetly stole his pocket handkerchief.
“Well, since you put it like that,” said Mr. St. John-Cholmondeley as he was hustled from the room by the rest of the dwarfs.
“I’d still quite like a receipt, though,” he said as the door closed on him. “You can even sign it ‘Your Friend,’ ” he shouted through the keyhole.
Eventually, they heard his footsteps move away, but by then they were already changing into their outfits. They fitted almost perfectly, although Dozy’s was a little more snug in certain places than he might have liked.
“I think something’s being crushed down there,” he said. “I’ll do myself an injury.”
“You’ll do someone else an injury if that button pops on your trousers,” said Angry. “You could take an eye out with it.”
“I must have put on a pound or two since—”
Dozy stopped talking and began thinking.33 “Hang on a minute, how did they know our sizes? I mean, these suits are very nicely
cut. Very good quality, these suits. Not like the usual ones we’re given.”
It was a good question. How did the suits fit so well?
“Nipsomash?” suggested Mumbles.
“Yeah, maybe Mr. Singing-Chimney has a good eye for fashion,” agreed Jolly.
“If he does, then it’s the only good thing about him,” said Angry. “I wouldn’t trust him an inch, and this is me speaking. I don’t even trust me, but I trust me more than I’d trust him.”34
“It’s the mustache,” said Jolly. “You have to look out for blokes with mustaches. A bad lot, your mustache-growers.”35
“I wonder how they’ll dress Father Christmas?” said Dan. “If you’ve got those threads, his suit must be fit for a king.”
“By the way, where is Father Christmas?” said Jolly. “We should meet him before all this starts. We don’t want any misunderstandings later.”
By “misunderstandings,” Jolly meant that he didn’t want Father Christmas complaining when the dwarfs sneaked off for a nap, or took the occasional sip of Spiggit’s Old Peculiar to keep their spirits up, or gave the odd annoying kid a slap on the ear.
“We should go and find him,” said Angry. “Introduce ourselves. Let him know we’re on his side, as long as he’s on ours.”
“Hang on,” said Dan. “Mr. Snippy-Chinstrap told us to wait here. He seemed very keen that we didn’t go wandering off.”
“Well, Mr. Saggy-ChapStick isn’t around, is he?” said Angry. “And it’s important that we say hello to Father Christmas: we’re his elves. Without us he’s nothing, and without him we’re just small men with no excuse for going round a toy shop where there’s lots of stuff that someone could steal if we don’t get to it first.”
And so, with Dan in tow, the dwarfs set off to find Father Christmas and set him straight on the difference between “stealing” and “borrowing with no real intention of giving back.”
• • •
The stone house that served as Santa’s Grotto sat silent and dark on the top floor of Wreckit & Sons. The trees of the forest seemed to stretch out their branches like arms toward the house. Ivy decorated their trunks, and frost sparkled on the bark. From a distance, it looked almost real. Up close, it became apparent that it was real. The trees had rooted themselves in the floor, breaking through the boards and anchoring themselves on the metal supports. A peculiar-smelling sap oozed from the bark, forming sticky yellow clumps that glowed with an inner light. The ivy was growing at a remarkable rate, twisting and coiling as it wound around the trunks of the trees, and extending itself across the floor to form a carpet of green.
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