by Ian Richards
Martell was grateful that the room was so dark. He could see little of the creatures lying within. He could only sense their non-existence—an awful, tingling nothingness that smelt of corpses and needed to be turned away from as quickly as possible.
Back upstairs, Firefox seemed pleased to have shaken his prisoner so badly. He marched gleefully on to the next wing of the house, this one peopled by scuttling servants and full of doors that opened onto all manner of strange, crooked rooms. By now Firefox’s clothes had changed color from dazzling green to midnight plum. Whether this alteration was unconscious or deliberate, Martell couldn’t be sure. He was far more concerned by the army of the undead rotting in the basement beneath them.
‘As you can see, the doors in this part of the house actually open. These are our living quarters. Yours will be the last on the left.’
He was shown into a series of dilapidated rooms, each one somehow more ramshackle than the last. There was a narrow library that had rainwater trickling down the walls, a dining room decorated with cobwebbed candelabras and rusting silver cutlery, a grand drawing room with bay windows overlooking the gardens, a smoking room that smelt sweetly of marijuana and opiates, a silky bedroom in which red-haired women in black nightdresses lolled passively on a king-sized bed. Firefox introduced them as his concubines, and from their dull expressions Martell imagined that they had about as much idea what was happening here as he did.
Next Firefox took him through to the servant’s quarters, where a procession of cooks, gardeners, maids and handymen were made to stand to attention in front of him. Each servant had the same distinctive red hair as Firefox, though their bodies were less angular and their eyes lacked the same sparkle.
‘These creatures are yours to command as you wish,’ Firefox explained. ‘If you want something to eat or someone to fetch you a book, just ask. They’ll do as they’re told.’ He turned to the servant closest to him, the assistant Martell had met earlier. ‘Silvertongue,’ he snapped. ‘Introduce the rest of the servants at once.’
‘Very good, sir.’ The maudlin man affected a bow. ‘Good morning, Black Magician. Welcome to Marshwood.’
As the assistant went along the line, introducing servant after servant, Martell wondered who these people were and how they had come to find themselves here. He had heard stories of fairies tricking others into enslavement, and the dour looks on each servant’s face certainly suggested misery and torment rather than any kind of willingness to be there. Once the introductions were complete—had he ever met a more charmless bunch? —Firefox concluded the tour by showing Martell to his room. The fairy’s clothes were peacock blue now, their color contrasting horribly with the browns and greys of their surroundings. The room, such as it was, had all the hospitality of a closed-down hotel on the bad side of town. The ceiling was low, the lighting poor, and save for a single bed there was no furniture in it at all.
Firefox stood proudly with his hands on his hips. ‘This will be your quarters. There is a bell by your bed—ring it once if you wish to summon one of the servants or twice if you wish to speak to me.’
‘Once it is then,’ Martell muttered.
‘Oh, come, come, Black Magician, have I not made ample provisions for your stay? Have I not instructed my servants to obey you as they would obey me? I should dare say that you’re verging on the cusp of being ungrateful.’ There was a sharpness to Firefox’s tone that Martell didn’t much care for. He backed off accordingly. ‘Better,’ Firefox nodded, sensing the climb-down. ‘From now on, Black Magician, you are free to roam the house as you wish. Investigate the library. Browse the catacombs. But remember, you are here for a reason and time is a-ticking.’
The riddle. How could he forget? Martell removed the box from his pocket and examined its carvings again. As his fingers ran across the letters he felt an icy tingle: a premonition. Whatever was inside was bad news. It had been sealed up for a reason.
He glanced up. ‘And if I can’t solve it?’
‘Then you stay here indefinitely. And that nephew of yours must hope that he can survive the continued attentions of Mr. Krook and Mr. Kepler without you.’
Thinking of Tony at the mercy of those murderers imbued Martell with a newfound sense of dread. The boy could evade them for a day or two—maybe even a couple of weeks. But he couldn’t run forever.
He had to get out of here. He had to find a way back to London.
‘Please,’ he said. ‘I don’t know the answer. Let me go. There must be some way out of here. The boy needs me.’
Firefox stuck out his bottom lip. ‘And I don’t?’
‘No,’ Martell shouted. ‘You need someone who knows about magic, not antiques. I can’t help you. This isn’t my field of expertise.’
‘But you were so highly recommended, Black Magician.’
‘By who, Krook and Kepler? Just because the riddle is engraved on an antique doesn’t mean I know how to solve it. There must be other people who could help you. What about linguists? Or poets? Surely they’re better suited to untangling word puzzles than me?’
This amused Firefox greatly. His ambivalence gave way to a great roar of delight. ‘Haroo, haroo! My dear man, do you really think that you’re the first person I’ve turned to for assistance? How incredibly vain. There have been countless others before you. You’ve met most of them already.’
Martell’s blood ran cold.
‘Those dumb-faced servants—the dumpy gardener, the vacuous maid—once they were some of the finest minds your world had ever seen. Geniuses. Scientists. That’s the thing about Marshwood, you see. Tarry here too long and the magic in the air will transform you just as it transformed them. Your mind will rot. Your humanity will decay. Don’t worry, though. Should you fail in your task then I’m sure I’ll find some other role for you here. A carpet beater perhaps. A nettle picker.’ He laughed again. ‘Haroo, haroo. Of course, you could be like some of my other guests and try my patience. You could try to outsmart me, or cheat me, or—haroo—escape from me. As if Marshwood can be shaken off like a pair of rusty handcuffs. You’ve met those fine fellows, too. Musty, rotten, ever so slightly deceased? Ring any bells?’
More laughter bounced off the walls. Martell felt the room spinning. He had to get out of here. He had to get back to Tony. To think that he was just the latest in a long line of people plucked from their lives and made to serve a madman’s whims. He wondered how far back this insanity went. Years? Centuries? And yet nobody had been able to solve the riddle before him. Not a single person. Out of the goodness knows how many who had tried.
A terrifying thought came to him then: What if it there was no answer? What if the whole point of the riddle was to torment those trapped in the house to the point of madness?
Firefox howled with glee—there were tears in his eyes now; he wiped them away on his sleeve. ‘Oh, this is wonderful,’ he cried. ‘I love it when they realize just how hopeless it all is. It’s a hell of an incentive to solve the riddle though, isn’t it, Black Magician? Fail in your task and not only does you nephew die, but you lose the one thing you value more than anything else, too—your mind.’
Martell looked at his hands. How long did he have before the transformation took place? There was magic everywhere in this damned house. It would be constantly working on him. He could feel it even now, a prickle on the skin, a heaviness in the air. What if it had started already? What if his hair was already beginning to redden? His eyes turning from brown to green?
‘I’ll leave you now,’ Firefox smiled. ‘There are books on fairy history in the library and food available from the kitchens should you get hungry. Feel free to wander the house as you wish. Just don’t waste too much time. After all, who knows how much you have left?’
And with that he giggled, bowed and bade his prisoner adieu.
22 - The Black Jack Club
The old man and the old woman slipped onto Dover Street in silence. A crescent moon hung high above them, casting silver light across the cobbles
tones. For a moment they paused, motionless save for the breath rising from their mouths. It was a cold night, and frost was beginning to form on the pavement. Its soft twinkling mirrored the skies above.
All was still. All was silent. A few bedrooms shone with muted light—reading lamps, the blue glow of late-night television—but these were weak, ghostly things, muffled by closed curtains and drawn blinds. Further down the street the restaurants were in the process of closing up for the night. The neon sign outside The Bengal Tiger had been switched off moments before, yet still retained some of its luminescence, a fading imprint of blue letters that looked as if they had been clawed into the darkness by some monstrous beast. A young waiter in a starch-white shirt brought out bags of rubbish and deposited them in the alleyway that ran alongside the restaurant. He wiped his hands on the back of his trousers and headed inside again.
The old man and the old woman exchanged glances.
Ready?
Ready.
Together they hobbled across the street and stepped beneath the awning of Martell’s Antiques. In the window, beneath the odious new sign, an array of antiques were still set out on display—figurines, jewelry boxes, a gramophone, an old violin, a collection of Arsenal football programs from the 1950s, Second World War ration books, a box-like camera, two solemn candlestick holders. The old man and the old woman stood arm in arm outside the shop, squinting in through the window. Behind them a stranger walked past—a middle-aged man in a suit eating noodles from a foil tray.
They remained still until the sound of his footsteps had faded away.
Though neither of them realized it, both had been holding their breath.
Once the silence returned the old woman allowed herself the hint of a smile. She was a thin, wrinkled creature. Her hair was grey and she wore a pair of moon-like spectacles that hung around her neck on a chain. Despite her age she appeared bright and alert—the kind of fiercely intelligent old woman who enjoyed crossword puzzles, classic novels, and listening to Radio 4.
Her partner made for a far more miserable proposition. His face had the drooping quality of a melted candle. His nose was fat, his ears enormous, and the big, bushy moustache curled across his top lip looked like a hairy caterpillar that had taken residence there. From his glum expression he seemed aware of how pathetic he looked. He stood in front of the darkened glass of Martell’s Antiques and stared at his reflection despairingly.
‘Bloody hell, Vanessa. You’ve turned me into a monster.’
‘You look perfectly fine. You’re supposed to be an old man, not a movie star.’
‘But the moustache—’
‘Well, that serves you right for fidgeting. Besides, we’re meant to be in disguise, aren’t we? I had to change us completely or we’d give ourselves away.’
Tony said nothing, though he remained suspicious that the glamour Vanessa had conjured up for herself looked nowhere near as frightful as his. Still, he couldn’t deny that the spell’s quality impressed him. Their new identities complemented the task ahead of them perfectly. After all, what was suspicious about a couple of old-timers looking in the window of an antiques shop?
It didn’t take long to see that the insides of the shop appeared mostly unchanged. Some of the furniture had been moved, and Tony noticed a number of ornaments that were no longer in their proper position, but otherwise Martell’s Antiques seemed unharmed. He felt relieved. He had imagined peering in on a scene of carnage. Wrecked antiques strewn across the floor, cabinets stripped bare, everything of value stolen. To see that Krook and Kepler had left things virtually unchanged felt like the first bit of good news he had had in weeks.
But the question remained: if they weren’t there to smash Martell’s Antiques to pieces, why were they there at all? They didn’t honestly think they could draw him out into the open with their names on the door, did they? When they had made no secret of the fact they had moved in?
But they have drawn you out, he thought. You’re here, aren’t you?
Vanessa nudged him with her elbow. ‘Do we go in? I can break the locks if you want me to.’
Tony was about to reply when something moved inside the shop. A figure.
He froze.
Kepler. He was still inside.
‘He must be working late,’ Vanessa said. ‘Come on, we don’t want him to see us.’
Tony held on for a few moments longer, then joined her in crossing over to the other side of the street. They stood in front of The Gnarled Wand, pretending to look at a display of spell-books, but secretly watching the front of Martell’s Antiques in the reflection of the glass. Presently Kepler exited the shop, locked the door behind him, and took off down Dover Street. He walked with brisk strides, his body tense and taut—the angry march of someone in the foulest of moods.
After a moment’s pause—enough time to let him build up a healthy lead—they looked at each other, nodded, and started to follow.
*
The streets of East London wore the moonlight well that night. The sparkly silver of newly formed frost glistened on pavements and turned parked cars into haunting metallic glaciers—each one silent and somber as Tony and Vanessa hurried past. Kepler remained ahead of them, his lead seeming to grow greater by the minute. Several times they thought they had lost him completely, only to then snatch a glimpse of him in the distance, his progress halted by a stream of late-night buses or the pestering presence of East End drug dealers (who apparently thought that in his cape and boots he looked like the kind of man who regularly partook in the consumption of illicit substances).
The same dealers paid no attention to Tony and Vanessa. They kept their hands in their pockets and their heads turned the other way, a gesture that spoke of either respect for the elderly or hard-nosed pragmatism, Tony couldn’t decide which.
They followed Kepler for almost twenty minutes in all. There was something surreal about seeing such an imposing figure advancing through the grit and grime of East London, Tony thought. With his flowing hair and gothic cloak he looked almost vampiric—as if he belonged in a castle rather than this worn-down world of fried chicken take-aways, off-licenses and bookmakers. Several times he glanced back suddenly, as if expecting to find someone following him, but on each occasion Tony and Vanessa clung to the shadows and avoided his attentions. Kepler’s level of paranoia told Tony they might be onto something. Wherever he was going, he didn’t want anyone else to know about it. Was he leading them to Martell? Could finding his uncle really be as simple as this?
The reality turned out to be far more prosaic than he had hoped. Kepler’s eventual destination was a small pub called The Green Man. It was a grim, dirty building, with stained walls and posters in the window. Tony and Vanessa watched Kepler slip inside, but lingered on the other side of the street, unsure whether to follow any further.
‘Do we go in?’
‘Give it a minute. We don’t want to be too obvious. But yes, we do. I want to know what he’s up to.’
The insides of the pub were busier than they had expected. A Champions League game had been on and clusters of football supporters remained hunched around their tables, discussing the match in forensic detail. Tony and Vanessa maneuvered their way through the crowd to the bar. Here they ordered soft drinks from the barmaid—who frowned, unused to such a request—then retreated to a table in the corner.
There was no sign of Kepler.
‘We lost him,’ Tony whispered. ‘Where did he go?’
‘He must be here somewhere. Let’s wait and see if he resurfaces.’
But he didn’t, and as the minutes ticked past, Tony became increasingly anxious. ‘Maybe we should go back to the shop,’ he whispered. ‘We might not get a better chance to see what they’re doing in there.’
‘Agreed,’ Vanessa nodded. ‘I can’t hold these glamours for much longer anyway. One is simple enough, but two is—’
The sound of a door banging open cut her off. Mr. Krook stormed in and made his way through a door at t
he back of the room that read ‘NO ENTRY: MEMBERS ONLY.’ Before Vanessa could stop him, Tony was on his feet, following him.
‘Tony, come back—’
But it was too late, he wasn’t prepared to let their best shot at finding Martell pass him by again. He followed Mr. Krook into a long, saloon-like bar occupied by old men sipping brandy and talking loudly about any number of different topics. He overheard conversations touching on horse racing, holiday homes in Spain, classic cars.
Some sort of gentleman’s club, he reasoned. Just play it cool and sink into the background. No-one will notice you if you keep your head down.
To play along with the illusion he ordered himself a brandy from the girl behind the bar. The taste was foul, as he had expected, but it made for a useful prop.
Mr. Krook had joined Kepler by a wall covered in framed newspaper front pages. They were deep in conversation, and as Tony drifted ever closer to them he felt a sickly fear grip him. These men had vowed to kill him. And yet here he was, barely a few feet away from them, pretending to read the newspapers on the wall, trying to control the trembling that had already begun to affect his legs.
Two minutes, he told himself. I’ll give it two minutes and then I have to go. I can’t stay here any longer than that.
Fortunately Kepler and Krook seemed too caught up in their conversation to notice the odd-looking old man standing nearby. From Kepler’s tone it was clear he was angry about something. Krook was, too. They spoke in snarls, too quiet to be heard by anyone else, but just about audible to Tony.
Breathing deeply, he inched closer.
‘Nothing,’ Kepler hissed. ‘I went through every part of that blasted shop again this evening and I couldn’t find any magical antiques anywhere.’
‘I reckon we’ve only got a few more days,’ Mr. Krook replied. ‘The locals are getting suspicious. That bookseller across the street gave me a funny look earlier, I’m sure of it. And as soon as word gets out that we’re not legit we can kiss goodbye to these long, drawn-out searches. We’ll have to make do with poking around after midnight and hoping that no-one sees us.’ He paused. Though he didn’t dare to move his eyes from the framed newspaper pages, Tony had the horrible sensation that Krook was looking at him. Staring at him with an expression of cruel dislike. He held his breath. Already it felt as if he had been there too long. It was only a matter of time until someone came over and tapped him on the shoulder. Excuse me, sir, but are you quite sure you’re in the right place? I think it would be best if you leave …