House of Many Doors

by Ian Richards

  In the end she said that she would stay in London for the time being, but only after stressing that this wasn’t because she had any real affection for Tony or Martell, but rather because she believed they were in need of protection against Firefox, Mr. Kepler and Mr. Krook, and anybody else they might have recently annoyed.

  Martell took this as a success, and from the smile on Tony’s face, he guessed that the boy did, too.

  So it was agreed.

  Vanessa would be their new lodger.

  ‘I don’t have any money for rent,’ she said. ‘But I am a highly accomplished pickpocket, so if you would like me to contribute to the bills or the weekly shopping—?’

  Martell said that it would be fine.

  ‘All right then,’ Vanessa answered. ‘Then thank you. For the moment, this will be my new home.’

  *

  Martell began making preparations for defending the shop immediately after breakfast. Believing that their enemies wouldn’t strike just yet—if Firefox had shown himself to be one thing so far, it was meticulous in his planning—he gave Tony fifty pounds in used notes and told him to buy Vanessa some new clothes. After last night’s storm and a few uncomfortable hours of trying to sleep, her dress had become grubby and crumpled, closer to a dull grey in color than its original white. She reacted to this instruction in silence, but her lack of snide comments spoke volumes. This, he thought sadly, was not a girl used to people thinking of her.

  Leaving Martell alone in the kitchen—he was already scribbling on a pad of paper and consulting his address book—Tony decided to introduce Vanessa to life on Dover Street by giving her a guided tour of the neighborhood. To begin with he walked her through the shop floor of Martell’s Antiques, which seemed strangely unimpressive after the grandeur of the midnight auction. For the most part Vanessa remained indifferent to the various figurines and pieces of furniture that comprised the main body of the shop. It was the upper floors that interested her more. This was where Tony’s room was situated, and she wasted no time in picking through his possessions and firing off questions about anything that caught her attention. ‘Why do you have this old thing under your bed? What are those books like? Is that telescope real? Is that a diary? Since when have you kept a diary? What could you possibly have to write about?’

  Tony followed her around, putting his things back in place and trying his hardest to maintain his dignity. When Pushkin appeared in the doorway, presumably curious to see the cause of all this commotion, he was soon swept up into Vanessa’s arms, a reluctant baby being petted and fussed over and told how beautiful he was.

  ‘Put him down,’ Tony laughed. ‘Pushkin’s an old man. You’re embarrassing him.’

  ‘I am not,’ Vanessa snapped. ‘I’m giving the poor thing some attention. Imagine, having to live with you all the time. He’s probably starved for conversation, aren’t you, darling?’

  When she set him down again he immediately bolted out of the room. This produced a scowl of annoyance.

  ‘Typical,’ she sniffed. ‘Even the cats here are miserable.’

  The tour of Martell’s Antiques took perhaps twenty minutes in total. Throughout most of it Vanessa walked about glumly, seeming to regret her decision to stay with every passing moment. Tony tried his best to sell her on the benefits of living there—‘I don’t have to go to school. Martell says you learn more from reading books than you do from sitting in rows and copying things down from a board’—but she remained unimpressed, preferring instead to trump any point he made with one of her own. (‘Learn from reading books? Well, that’s very quaint, chimney sweep, but personally I find that you learn even more from writing them. I finished my first volume of poetry a few months ago. I’d let you read it but I imagine most of the allusions would soar over your head.’)

  Presently they moved out onto Dover Street, where the ting-a-ling of the shop’s bell signaled their entrance onto the sun-bright cobbles. It was a beautiful morning. A sweet autumnal breeze ruffled the awning above their heads and each of the puddles along the street held the sunshine like pools of molten gold. They walked side by side, neither really sure of what to say to the other. The dirty shops and battered pubs that made up Dover Street offered a certain level of intrigue for Vanessa, who had never encountered anywhere quite so ramshackle before, but for Tony they represented the heartbeat of the community. This was home, a place where people knew each other, where you could buy anything you wanted provided you were willing to search for it. He pointed out a music store, its window full of second-hand guitars and gleaming horns. The pet shop, the pawn shop, the ‘Foods From Around The World’ shop, the newsagent’s, the off-license, the Indian restaurant, the electrical repairs shop.

  They bought her new clothes from the boutique next to the Chinese take-away. She picked herself out two new dresses (one blue, one black), a pair of striped socks, some underwear, and a range of accessories that included necklaces and bangles. Back on the street, bags in hand, she appeared content for the first time all morning.

  Tony found her to be an unusual companion. He wasn’t used to interacting with people his own age. He didn’t share any of the same cultural reference points. But with Vanessa, who came from a world so different to his, he found that this didn’t matter. They were both outsiders, both more used to being on their own more than was healthy. This gave them something in common, and despite her propensity for saving his life, he realized that it was this he found most appealing about her. She understood what it was like to not have parents, to feel like an outcast, to be young and lonely at the same time.

  And yet just as he would be about to convince himself of how much he liked her, some barbed comment would inevitably turn this opinion on its head and make him want to volunteer to help pack her bags.

  ‘It’s not a bad place to live,’ he kept saying in an attempt to deflect her criticisms. ‘The people are nice.’

  ‘They look like criminals. I’ve never seen so many shifty expressions and sloping brows.’

  And so it went on, an endless back and forth that he got the impression she was quite enjoying. In a way, he was, too. It was only as they strolled back down the other side of the street, passing the bookies, the barbershop and the tailor’s, that he remembered about the night before and his happiness drained away. He had forgotten about the auction. Mr. Kepler, Mr. Krook, the strange Firefox man who had tried to kidnap Martell. It seemed so unreal now. As if the rainy drama of last night couldn’t possibly coexist with the peaceful sunshine of such a beautiful morning.

  Suddenly Vanessa held her arm across his chest. ‘Ah,’ she said. ‘Now this is interesting.’

  They had stopped in front of The Gnarled Wand. In the glare of the sun the shop’s green paintwork looked like the scales of a snake.

  ‘You never told me this was here, chimney sweep. Occult books. Do you happen to know if they sell tarot cards in there?’

  Tarot cards. He shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I think so.’

  ‘Good. I left my deck back in Crete and I need a replacement. In we go.’

  She pushed open the door and stepped inside. At once the smell of books and old leather hit them. Trina was sitting behind the counter, idly flicking through the latest issue of Magic Monthly. Upon seeing Tony she held up her hand in a wave.

  ‘Hello Tony. Who’s your friend?’

  ‘This is Vanessa. She’s moved in with me and Martell for a bit. She’s a friend of ours.’

  ‘Hello love,’ Trina smiled. ‘Interested in magic, are we?’

  Vanessa smiled the falsest of smiles and retreated to a nearby bookshelf. Tony offered a burbled apology and chased after her. When he caught up with her she was flicking through Crowley’s Book Of The Law with such aggression that he thought she might rip the pages out.

  ‘Interested in magic,’ she hissed. ‘My grandmother was one of the finest witches Europe has ever seen. As if reading Magic Monthly puts her anywhere near my level. I ought to turn the silly woman into a toad right n
ow.’

  ‘Trina’s all right,’ Tony snapped back. ‘You need to stop being so confrontational with people.’

  She slammed the book closed. ‘Can you blame me? This time last week I had a home, a life, friends, a job. I had a room of my own overlooking the sea. I had cafes and beaches and shops and sailboats. And now I’m stuck in Dickensian London with a soon-to-be dead chimney sweep, an old man, and the most bad-tempered cat I’ve ever had the misfortune to meet.’

  He let her storm off to inspect the tarot decks, and slumped into a nearby armchair. Thoughts of Mr. Krook and Mr. Kepler still lingered in his mind, nightmares he couldn’t shake. He didn’t regret what he had done—he would have done the same thing a hundred times over if it meant rescuing Martell. But still, there was a part of him that feared what might happen next. He had avoided Mr. Krook’s knife once. To do so a second time seemed unthinkable.

  His eyes came to rest upon the bookshelf next to him. Curiously, almost idly, he began tracing his finger along the spines of some of the nearest books. A History Of Modern Magic by Lucius Browne. Spell-casting For Beginners by Mary Maloney. Dark Arts by Christian Woode. Evil Intentions by Siegfried Van Helger. If he had a chance, perhaps it was here, amongst the thousands of books in The Gnarled Wand? It seemed a long shot, but if there was a spell that could keep them safe from harm, or a set of memoirs that mentioned the name Firefox …

  He sensed Vanessa at his shoulder.

  ‘You’re wasting your time,’ she said. ‘Firefox was able to carry out a raid on a midnight auction. I think his power goes a little bit beyond So You Want To Summon A Spook?’

  ‘I thought we might be able to find a book that could help us.’

  ‘This one might,’ Vanessa said, touching her hand to an enormous tome. ‘If I throw it at your head hard enough it might knock some sense into you. Chimney sweep, no book is going to be able to protect you. You’re being ridiculous. Now come on, I’ve had enough amateurism for one morning. Let’s go and get something to eat. It’s almost lunchtime.’

  For lunch they ate in a cafe on the other side of the street. The Copper Pot was a dingy establishment that looked like a cross between a hipster coffee shop and a cloakroom. Over mugs of hot tea, cheese sandwiches, and scones, Vanessa outlined her plan for dealing with the threat posed by Firefox and his associates.

  ‘Firstly,’ she began, ‘we need to find out who these people are and what they want with your uncle. Secondly, we need to make sure the two of you are safe.’

  ‘And how are we going to do that?’

  Vanessa sighed. Reaching into her pocket she removed a green handkerchief and very deliberately stuffed it into her closed palm. Tony watched on in confusion.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Making a point.’

  She opened her hand. The handkerchief had disappeared. In its place was a tiny green lizard. It scuttled across her palm and onto the table where it looked around nervously and then hid under a napkin.

  ‘It’s time,’ Vanessa said, ‘that someone taught you some magic.’

  13 - Awakenings

  It began with a lurch. A sudden movement, an arm snatching at darkness. Then stillness. Silence. The breathing started slowly. Soft, whispered breaths. The sound of rotten lungs inflating and deflating, weak and watery, smothered in sickly layers of phlegm. Gradually this awful wheezing built to a crescendo. There were more now. More gasps of air, more mouths opening and closing like guppies as they tried to suck oxygen down into dry, dusty throats. The ventilation in the room was terrible. The air tasted like the insides of a mausoleum. Like locked doors, stone surfaces, death and decay.

  It took time for them to learn to breathe again. A rising tide of wheezing breaths that eventually evolved into gentle groans, cries of pain, murmurs of discontent. From somewhere within this seething mass an eye opened. Yellow in color, diseased with age. It stared out at nothingness. Blinked. Another groan rang out, louder this time, a moan of such distress that others immediately echoed it, as if this pain were shared by all. More sounds followed—cracking bones—joints snapping away from muscle. From within this confusion an arm was slowly forcing itself out from a thin, malnourished body. Stretching. Another howl. More moaning. Lungs struggling for breath. Limbs sprouting. The sound of bodies breaking. Cracked ribcages. Defunct larynxes straining to be heard.

  The first to stand was the oldest. He wobbled unsteadily and had to lean against the wall for support. Cold flesh pressed against cold stone. He moaned lowly, sadly, as if remembering now, remembering who he was and what he had become. Almost at once he began to attack himself. He dragged his nails down his cheeks and scratched at his eyes and pulled out enormous clumps of rotting, straw-like hair.

  But there was no pain. Even though he could see a sticky layer of blood and hair stuck to his hands he felt nothing. He turned again to his eyes. Pushed a single bloody nail against the cornea, felt the gentle pressure of its swell, then stuck the finger in as far as it would go. There was the sound of rotten fruit being squashed. A hot jet of blood spurted out. But even blind he still felt nothing. He howled again. Bashed his head against the wall until chunks of flesh began to fly off and the front of his skull caved in. This was enough to buckle his legs and make him collapse back down to the floor, but there was no permanent damage. Already he could feel the broken eggshell of his forehead begin to piece itself back together. The slow swelling of an eyeball refilling in its socket.

  There were six of them in all. Each one reacted to its return with anger and frustration. They tore themselves apart, bellowed until their newly-formed throats couldn’t take the strain anymore and popped—ferocious howls turned to watery gargles in an instant. At least one of them succeeded in gnawing off its own arm. Another smashed his face against the floor again and again until all that remained was a swollen, bloody mask. Two eyes staring out in horror. A mouthful of broken yellow teeth.

  After several hours the anger had finally subsided, as had the frenzy of self-mutilation that always accompanied a rebirth. They stood silently in the dark, an assembly of the undead, stinking of rotting flesh and dried blood. Their faces were grey and haunted, pale and sickly, their eyes as vacant as empty windows. They stood, awaiting further instructions.

  The Rag-and-Bone men were ready to hunt.

  *

  And Firefox could not have been more delighted.

  He danced down the corridors of Marshwood, singing at the top of his voice and sweeping up the female servants in delirious, dizzy waltzes. He could not remember the last time he had felt so gloriously happy. Everything about the house that had oppressed him for so long—the dust, the gloom, the mist, the smell of old furniture, the dank, the dark, the familiarity, the sheer bloody sameness of it all—suddenly seemed quaint and amusing. He found himself falling into fits of giggles when he thought of all the years he had spent there and all the times he had foolishly believed that his imprisonment would last forever.

  It was happening now.

  It was all coming together, just like he had told them it would.

  Pulling open the dungeon door provoked a groan of distress from within. The creatures cowered instinctively from the light, a golden blade that cut through the darkness like an executioner’s axe.

  ‘Haroo, haroo.’ His screeching laughter bounced off the walls. ‘Hello, my lovelies. Welcome back. I trust your regeneration wasn’t too painful for you? It was? Oh no. What a shame. Still, that’s life.’ He laughed again. ‘That’s life, oh my.’

  A click of his fingers saw the Rag-and-Bone men adorned in clothes. They wore shabby black suits and tall top hats. Grey ties and white lilies in their buttonholes. An army of undertakers.

  ‘Now, my dearie-dears, you’ll be wondering who I want found this time. Well, I’ll tell you. His name is Joseph Martell, also known as the Black Magician of Dover Street. He lives in London—the human world. You remember that, don’t you? He’s an old thing so he shouldn’t give you too much trouble. Is that understoo
d?’

  He took the dumb silence that followed to mean ‘yes.’

  ‘Excellent. Then all I need to do is give you the scent.’ His eyes twinkled. Reaching into a shadow on the wall he pulled out a small creature in a white dress. Anastasia’s doll. One of the few items Mr. Krook and Mr. Kepler had been able to retrieve from the auction house.

  ‘This pretty missy,’ he said, ‘belonged to the Black Magician until very recently. His psychic residue should be all over it. Enjoy.’

  Once he had left, slamming the door loudly behind him, the creatures stood in a circle around the doll. Slowly, cautiously, they approached. Cold, pale hands touched her face, and her arms, and her legs, and her chest. Caressing her. Drinking her in. Absorbing her.

  Hours later, when this foul process had concluded, the Rag-and-Bone men had identified two distinctive scents from the doll. Both were human, and both belonged to a world of dusty glories and faded relics.

  Which was the Black Magician, however, was impossible to determine.

  Thusly there was only one solution.

  Find them both.

  They set to work.

  14 - Preparations

  In the days that followed, Tony and Vanessa saw very little of Martell. He remained quiet and preoccupied, spending most of his time either locked away in his office or else scuttling off on unspecified business for hours at a time. He had taken preliminary steps to make the shop secure by hiring a locksmith who affixed padlocks to both the front and back entrances, as well as a large metal bolt that slid across the door to his office and prevented anyone from getting in. Both Tony and Vanessa saw little point in taking such steps, given that any magician worth his salt would be able to bypass locked doors with ease, but saved their reservations for when Martell was out and they had the shop to themselves.

  ‘Firefox facilitated an attack on a midnight auction,’ Vanessa sighed. ‘I hardly think he’s going to be put off by a deadbolt and a couple of padlocks.’