House of Many Doors

by Ian Richards

  Anything else …?

  No.

  No, everything that had happened after that was a blur.

  He was dimly aware of the door splintering into pieces, and—and something coming in— something large and dark, a storm of advancing footsteps, a smell—oh God, a smell that reached down his throat and threatened to choke him with its foulness.

  Death. Decay.

  He remembered yellow eyes. He remembered seeing a solid steel bar in the grip of a pale, diseased hand. The bar being raised up to the ceiling, raised high above him—

  Crying out. ‘No, please don’t.’

  And then—then—

  He remembered nothing.

  18 - Grave Matters

  They sat in the graveyard, the boy and the girl, and struggled for something to say. Eventually, after several minutes, Vanessa puffed out her cheeks and broke the silence.

  ‘I have to admit it, you certainly know how to show a girl a good time, Tony Lott. East London Cemetery. Of all the places. You couldn’t have taken me to the cinema instead?’

  She had hoped that the line might provoke a smile, but it fell flat. Tony was in no mood for jokes. Ever since Martell had disappeared he had been distant and preoccupied. She could understand that. The boy obviously loved his uncle very much. To return home and find the old man vanished, that was a lot to take in. Then there was the matter of the blood. Not only had Martell been taken, but the evidence suggested he had been hurt, too. Badly hurt. She suspected Tony blamed himself for what had happened. If only we had been there, Vanessa. If only we hadn’t been out learning magic. But that line of thought lead nowhere and she hoped he would snap out of it soon. There was a danger that they would lose sight of the bigger picture. Wallowing was dangerous, especially with Krook and Kepler at large. Several times already that week she had tried to convince Tony that they had to move out of Martell’s Antiques and put distance between themselves and their pursuers, but each time the boy had reacted with a determined shake of his head. No, this is my home. I’m not leaving it. Grief and despair were an unhealthy combination at the best of times, but when rational decisions had to be made, their presence could be utterly toxic.

  The graveyard was still and silent that morning. They sat together on an old bench and watched the sun burn away the last of the morning mist. Why he had brought them here, Vanessa didn’t know. It felt morbid. Martell wasn’t dead, he was missing. And yet she couldn’t help but feel there was something appropriate about the peacefulness of the scene. The ancient headstones, the dew-slicked grass. There was a freshness here that felt restorative after an entire week spent confined to Martell’s shop. She savored the sting of the fresh air. It felt as if she were breathing properly for the first time in weeks.

  Tony remained quiet and contemplative, wrapped up in a whirl of conflicting thoughts. He had never liked visiting the cemetery. Somewhere out in front of them was his mother’s grave—‘Emily Lott, Never Forgotten.’ He could pinpoint the spot only roughly from where they were sitting. It was a little way down the hill, a few rows in from the path. Were they to go closer he would be able to find it in an instant.

  But he didn’t want to visit her. Not today. Not when the only news he could bring was bad.

  He looked at his feet. Every year, for as long as he could remember, Martell had brought him here on the anniversary of Emily’s death. She had died in January— January 16th, 2.40pm, it was for the best, my boy, she was in so much pain. The weather at that time of year was usually awful: often the rain fell so heavily it made walking amongst the headstones difficult. Tony understood the purpose of this sad pilgrimage well enough— to lay flowers, to pay his respects. But he rarely felt comfortable doing so. Between the bad weather and the awful feelings of sadness, it was as if he were being made to relive the same nightmare year after year. He had far too many memories of damp mornings spent standing alongside Martell as the rain rattled their umbrellas and the rich smell of freshly dug earth filled his lungs.

  No, cemeteries were not for him. Especially this one, with its plantation of distant relatives and its terrible memories of childhood loss. It was an eerie, melancholy place. It spoke of death and absence. He didn’t like it. He didn’t like the way being there made him feel: small and powerless and ever so slightly afraid. There was a horror here that cut deeper than any knife. What was a graveyard, after all, other than a patch of greenery planted with skeletons?

  Why here, then? Why had he brought Vanessa here on such a bitter morning? He could see that she was cold. She had her arms wrapped around her body and kept tapping her feet on the ground to stay warm. He was cold, too. Freezing, in fact. He had lost all feeling in his fingers several minutes ago.

  So then why?

  Guilt? Penance?

  No. It was because this was a place where people came to express their grief, and he needed to do the same. There was no acknowledgement of what had happened to Martell back at the shop (not unless he counted the large blood stain that he had scrubbed and scrubbed until his hands were raw). The rest of Martell’s Antiques was the same as it had always been. Antiques, bookshelves, the clutter of the basement, the cramped innards of the kitchen. A series of box-like bedrooms overlooking the rest of the neighborhood. To be there was to deny what had happened. It was to pretend life went on as usual, to still believe that each time the bell rang it could be Martell returning from an antique fair in Deptford or a boot sale in Mile End. That at night he might open his uncle’s bedroom door and find him sitting upright in bed, spectacles balanced on the tip of his nose, smiling his way through one of those obscure detective novels from the forties that he loved so much.

  No, he had to get away from that. He had to get some perspective.

  Nearby, an elderly couple were paying their respects at one of the more recent graves. They stood with their heads bowed and their arms wrapped around each other for support.

  ‘What do we do, Vanessa?’ He was shaking again. It had been happening a lot recently. He felt her arm slide around him. The gentle weight of her head on his shoulder.

  ‘I feel so useless,’ he continued. His voice was quiet and emotionless. But still, the shaking. The knee-rattling fear. ‘Martell is gone and we can’t do anything about it.’ Because in truth it was the sense of inertia that bothered him the most. The feeling of paralysis.

  ‘The first thing we have to do,’ Vanessa answered, ‘is get as far away from that shop as possible.’

  ‘But Martell’s Antiques is—’

  ‘— the first place Krook and Kepler will look for you.’

  He shook his head. ‘I don’t care.’

  ‘Well, I do. And so did Martell. You read the note he left you, Tony. He said you have to run. We should have gone the same night they took him.’

  The note. Tony removed it from his pocket and read through it again. It had been waiting for him in Martell’s bedroom when they had returned to the shop that evening, propped up next to the photograph of his mother. He had seen his name written on the envelope and instantly felt his blood turn to ice. Rereading it now, the same creeping unease returned to him.

  ‘Tony,

  If you are reading this then my worst fears have been realized and I am no longer with you. I have suspected since the night of the auction that Firefox, whomever he may be, would make another play against me. I have taken steps to defend myself against him, but his kind are cunning, dangerous sorts. By virtue of the fact you are reading this, we can conclude that my efforts at self-defense have been unsuccessful.

  I know you, my boy, and I know what you are thinking, but please, whatever you do, don’t try to find me. If I am alive, I will be further away than you can ever hope to travel. You must think of yourself and Vanessa. Mr. Krook and Mr. Kepler will come for you, Tony. They vowed revenge and they are men of their word. Take no chances. They are tough, cruel, and violent. Do not try to fight them. Do not let Vanessa try to fight them, because as strong as she is, they are stronger.

&nb
sp; Just run. Run and keep on running.

  I fear it is your only hope.

  All my love,

  Martell’

  ‘It’s good advice,’ Vanessa said softly. ‘It really is.’

  Tony nodded. ‘It is,’ he agreed. ‘But I’ll be damned if I’m going to listen to it.’

  *

  They returned to Dover Street as the sky began to darken. After locking all the doors, Tony led the way to his bedroom, where Pushkin lay curled up on his bed. Vanessa lifted the cat into her arms and began stroking him softly. From her expression Tony could tell that he had upset her. He hadn’t meant to. He knew they should leave the shop, he did. But there was something keeping him here. It was hard to explain. It was as if there were secrets hidden in the shop—secrets that Martell didn’t want him to know about. The order to leave in the note was a little too insistent. And were Kepler and Krook really that much of a threat? He hadn’t heard from either of them since the night of the auction. Martell’s note suggested they would strike immediately, that every minute he remained in the shop risked his life a little more. But it had been a full week since he had received the letter, and nothing. Not a single trace. Not a single suggestion that they remembered who he was, let alone were plotting to kill him.

  For a long while Tony stood by the window, watching the rainclouds gather over the neighborhood rooftops. In the reflection of the glass he could see Vanessa sitting on his bed with Pushkin. She ran her fingers through the cat’s fur and smiled sadly at whatever fleeting thought passed through her head.

  ‘I’m sorry, Vanessa’ he said eventually.

  She didn’t look up. ‘For what?’

  ‘For involving you in this mess. If it wasn’t for me you’d be back in Crete now.’

  Vanessa snorted. ‘Yes, with Carlos. As hard as it may be for you to believe, chimney sweep, I’d much rather be here with you than there with him.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Of course. Don’t you think if I wanted to go I would have gone by now?’ She set Pushkin aside and joined him by the window. The weather outside was grey and gloomy. The promise of rain lurked overhead, as if all the downpour needed to begin was for one of the rainclouds to snag its belly on a stray church spire and tear itself open. Vanessa pressed her hands against the cold wood of the windowsill.

  ‘I mean, sometimes I miss it,’ she said. ‘Home, I mean. Crete is such a beautiful island. The weather is warm, the sea is fresh. In the summer I used to go down to the seafront and spend hours diving off the rocks. The town where I lived is beautiful. The restaurants serve the nicest food and at night the air smells so delicious, like scrubland and seawater and moonlight and rock. I can’t even describe it properly it’s so wonderful.’

  They were both silent for a long time.

  ‘So why stay?’ Tony said eventually.

  She stared out of the window: the greying London sky, the receding rooftops.

  ‘That’s a very good question,’ she murmured. ‘I suppose because this place has something Crete never did. Friends.’

  ‘Friends?’

  ‘Yes, friends,’ she continued, her tone sharpening. ‘Don’t get me wrong, I’m not some dreadful stand-in-the-corner outcast. Perish the thought. But in Crete I only really had Carlos and he was about as much fun as a mop and bucket. Here in London I feel like there are more people who appreciate me for who I am. Who actually like me. I mean, I’ve got you, the cat … Martell …’

  She was silent for a long time. Her eyes remained locked on the wasteland of rooftops in front of them. Pimpled by satellite dishes, worn with decades of rain and smoke. Specks of rain began to dot the glass in front of them.

  ‘You’re really not going to do what the note said, are you?’ she said eventually. ‘Even though he warns you not to look for him, you’re going to.’

  There was a pause.

  ‘Yes,’ Tony said. ‘I am.’

  Vanessa nodded. ‘Good,’ she said. ‘Me, too.’

  There was nothing more to discuss. For the next fifteen minutes they stood together in silence, watching as the rain fell across the city. Tony had allowed himself a week to grieve. That was long enough. In the morning the search would begin in earnest.

  He would find his uncle and he would bring him home.

  *

  By eleven o’clock that night it was still raining. What had started as a soft sprinkling of raindrops had become a heavy storm. Now all of Dover Street was lost beneath a veil of cold, chattering rain. Drainpipes spewed torrents of gushing rainwater into the street. The rubbish bags left out for collection provided a steady percussion as the rain drummed against their taut, bulging skins. But for the light in the windows of the Cross Keys—which seemed small and faraway, a ship passing by far out at sea—darkness swallowed everything.

  The car had been parked at the end of the street for over an hour. With its headlights off and its engine still it blended seamlessly into its surroundings. It was as dark, silent and lifeless as the rest of the neighborhood. Inside its shell the pungent taste of old leather and old skin festered. It smelt like the insides of a mausoleum—as if it were not a car at all, but rather a crypt. A tomb designed to keep the rain out and the dead in.

  Mr. Kepler sat in the front seat, watching the rain run down the windscreen in a blurry wash of water. Mr. Krook occupied the seat beside him. He had been sharpening his knife since they had parked up and the throaty, scratchy sound of stone against blade added a dreadful accompaniment to the pounding rain. Schlick. Schlick. Schlick. He smiled—and catching this grotesque grin in the reflection of the glass, Kepler did, too.

  Through the curtains of rain, Martell’s Antiques stood in front of them, dark and silent and dreadful.

  At midnight they made their move. Opening the car door, Mr. Kepler flared his umbrella and stepped out into the downpour. Mr. Krook followed, knife in hand. It caught the raindrops on its tip. Water ran down the blade and over his knuckles.

  The door was locked. Kepler noted the haphazard repair job that had been done on the hinges. The work of some local tradesman, no doubt. Cheap and cheerless. The Rag-and-Bone men must have done a real number on the Black Magician, he thought, smiling cruelly. He imagined their powerful fists clubbing down the door—the terror that must have seized the old man as the creatures lumbered towards him—as their meaty hands tightened around his neck and threw him to the floor. Had he screamed? Oh, he certainly hoped so. He hoped that he had screamed and screamed right up to the moment when the steel pipe had split his skull in two.

  Mr. Krook had built a career out of breaking into all manner of places he wasn’t supposed to. He bypassed the cheap deadbolt on the door in a matter of seconds.

  Calmly, quietly, they stepped into the dark of the shop.

  Kepler closed the door behind them.

  ‘Upstairs,’ he whispered, pointing towards the staircase.

  Mr. Krook nodded.

  With his knife leading the way, they made their way up the stairs and towards Tony’s bedroom.

  19 - Marshwood

  When Martell finally woke, he did so slowly, his head pounding from where the Rag-and-Bone man had clubbed him. The pain was excruciating. He remembered little of the assault, nor how he had come to find himself here, imprisoned in a dark room with no furniture save for the bed he lay on. A lantern on the floor offered a halo of greasy light, but not enough to illuminate anything other than its immediate surroundings. The rest of the room swam with shadows.

  For several moments Martell lay still, his eyes adjusting to the darkness. The smell of burning fuel flavored the air, but beyond its oily warmth he detected other smells, too: damp wood—tree roots—soil. Where was he? Was this a bedroom or a burrow?

  ‘You’re awake.’

  The unexpectedness of the voice made him start. There was someone else in here with him. He hadn’t realized. He tried to sit up, but the pain was too intense. The fist-sized lump on the top of his head throbbed. Touching his fingers to the swell
ing, he found a still-soft scar and the crustiness of dried blood. He guessed that his skull had been fractured at the very least.

  ‘My poor man, you appear to be in some distress.’

  The stranger stood in the corner of the room, sunk deep in the darkness. All Martell could make out was a vague shape—an outline that appeared human yet spoke in a voice that was somehow not. The tone and timbre were unnatural in a way that he couldn’t quite comprehend.

  ‘I apologize for injuring you so. The Rag-and-Bone men aren’t the gentlest of souls. Sometimes their frustration gets the better of them. Does it hurt terribly?’

  ‘I’ll live,’ Martell croaked—though in the circumstances he wondered if this was entirely true.

  ‘No, no, this won’t do at all.’ The stranger was closer now. He stood next to the bed, radiating a faint scent of woodlands and thunderstorms. Martell sensed ozone—a tingle of energy in the stale burrow air. In his mind he saw lightning-licked skies, fields of wildflowers, curtains of rain falling on deep, dark forests.

  ‘This is terrible,’ the stranger continued. ‘I can’t have a guest kept in such discomfort. It goes against everything I stand for. Please Mr. Martell, allow me.’

  Martell felt a cool hand press against his forehead. He moved to push it away, but the sensation spreading through him overpowered his resistance. At once the pain began to recede. Waves of ice-cold energy passed into his body, cleansing him, restoring him. It felt divine. As if he were being reborn. In that moment he would have done anything the stranger asked of him. He had never known such release. Not only was the wound on his head disappearing—he could feel the swelling subsiding, the skin knitting itself back together—but so were all his ailments, even the aches of old age, the ones he had grown accustomed to over the years. The arthritis in his hands seeped away. The stiffness in his knees disintegrated.

  As he fluttered on the edge of consciousness a single word flashed into his mind: Tony! But no, it was lost, drowned amidst the waves of endorphins swishing around the inside of his skull. Soon there was nothing but opiated darkness. From far away the stranger’s voice carried.