by Ian Richards
He heard Vanessa speak from somewhere behind him. ‘I don’t want you to think I’m here because I had a change of heart. I didn’t. I still think coming here was a ridiculously stupid thing to do.’
He turned round, frowning. ‘Then why did you—?’
‘Honestly, chimney sweep.’ She slammed her book onto the table with such force that he flinched. ‘You have to be the most infuriating creature I’ve ever met.’ She flicked back an overhang of hair. ‘I came back because someone has to look after you. I called Mr. Snout last night to check on you and he agreed that you need to leave this part of the city far behind. You’re obviously far too dense to do this on your own, so here I am, bailing you out again for goodness knows what reason. Some misplaced sympathy, I suppose. But we’re serious, Tony. You can’t stay here while Krook and Kepler are prowling round. They’ll kill you.’
‘But Martell—’
‘What about him?’ Her voice was angrier now. Some of the hostility from yesterday was beginning to break through again. ‘Chimney sweep, what exactly are you going to do? Storm into Marshwood and break him out? Defeat this Firefox character with a shimmer?! I’ve spent all morning reading up on his kind, and do you want to know what I’ve discovered? Fairies are ruthless. They’re spiteful, vain, angry creatures who only think about themselves. Why do you think he called in the Thalaki instead of sending Krook and Kepler to get Martell in the first place? Go on. Take a guess.’
He didn’t have an answer.
‘Because he wanted to show off. Because it amused him.’
‘But—’
A grumble of thunder sounded in the distance. Low and ominous. The sky appeared to be darkening by the second.
‘Tony,’ she said pleadingly. ‘Look, call it intuition if you like, but I’ve got a bad feeling about this. A very bad feeling. We need to get away.’
He nodded, though the idea of running away hurt him more than he let on. This was how he was going to repay his uncle for everything he had done for him? By abandoning him? No. The determination came back to him then, the anger, the refusal to step down. He didn’t care about Mr. Kepler or Mr. Krook. They were just thugs who needed a taste of their own medicine. So what if they wanted to kill him, so what? He was glad he had humiliated them at the auction. He loved that he had done that.
Vanessa hit him on the shoulder. ‘Don’t,’ she said. ‘Don’t even think it.’
And the look on her face—so much hurt and concern—she looked so worried for him—stopped that line of thought dead.
She was right. Ebenezer and Trina were right. Martell was right. He had to get out of there. He could take his antiques with him, his suitcase full of clothes, his photograph of his mum, maybe even a couple of Ebenezer’s books. But he had to leave Dover Street.
‘We’ll still look for him, won’t we, Vanessa?’
‘Yes,’ she said, hugging him tightly. The contact felt strange. It was the first time he had ever embraced a girl. ‘Yes, we’ll never stop looking for him, Tony. But not here. Not while there are men out to hurt you.’
So it was settled. After he had brushed his teeth and packed his belongings away in his suitcase, he met Vanessa in the kitchen. She was assessing the rain from the window. The storm had grown worse in the time it had taken him to get ready. A thin layer of water covered the courtyard floor, hissing and bubbling under the force of the downpour.
To leave immediately would be to guarantee a soaking. Whether this would be the best way to start what could prove to be a very long journey, Vanessa wasn’t sure. The last thing they needed was to catch a cold and find themselves held up even further. After some discussion it was agreed that they would wait until a break in the weather and then leave. Neither could imagine Mr. Kepler and Mr. Krook skulking round Dover Street in these conditions. And so the Wand was agreed to be safe.
For now.
They spent the remainder of the morning reading books and keeping a watchful eye on the weather. There appeared to be no let-up to the storm. The rain threw itself down, hammering against the windows and reducing the world outside to an eerie, watery blur. Ebenezer and Trina checked in on them regularly. The downpour had driven away any potential customers, and but for Pushkin, who occupied a prime position on top of one of the bookshelves, there was nobody else in the shop.
Still, something was different about that day. They all felt it. An eerie sense of anticipation made the mood tense—a doctor’s waiting room in the moments before a diagnosis.
After lunch, when they were alone once more, Tony tried again to apologize to Vanessa for abandoning her the night before. It came out badly, burbled and poorly articulated, but she accepted his words with a gracious nod. ‘For what it’s worth,’ she added, ‘I’m sorry, too.’ He caught the flash of a grin in the corner of her mouth. A look that said yeah, right. For the first time all day he smiled.
‘Can I make it up to you?’
Her eyebrows knitted together. Her smile lost its sharpness now, becoming softer and more curious. ‘How?’ she said.
‘I’ll show you. There’s someone I’d like you to meet.’
*
They filed into the bedroom one by one, Tony leading the way and Vanessa following cautiously behind. Despite the narrowness of the room and the dismal lighting both felt excited about what lay ahead.
The lamp was waiting for them on the bedside table. With the rain still pattering against the window Tony picked it up and carefully rubbed its side. At once peacock-blue smoke began pouring from its spout, filling the room with the delicious smell of sea-salt and kelp. In seconds their surroundings had transformed from modest bedroom to oceanic grotto. Tiny sparkles flared in the depths of the smoke like twinkling stars.
‘Master Tony. You have summoned me. Can this mean you have decided upon your second wish?’
Tony shook his head. ‘Hello genie. No, I don’t want to make another wish. I just thought you might like a bit of air, that’s all. It can’t be very nice being cooped up in that lamp all the time. Besides, there’s someone I’d like you to meet.’
Vanessa stepped forward, her eyes round with wonder. ‘Hello. Oh my word, you’re wonderful, aren’t you? What beautiful colors.’ She passed her hand through one of the tendrils of smoke then held it up to her nose. ‘That smell—it’s like being back on the island. It smells just like the ocean on a hot day—like sunlight sparkling on seawater.’
The genie puffed with pride. ‘You are master Tony’s friend—the one he feared he had lost. It is a pleasure to meet you, most beautiful lady. And already I can see that your return has lifted my master’s spirits immeasurably.’
‘I have to thank you for the other day,’ Vanessa said. ‘You saved our lives.’
‘Oh, my lady,’ the genie smiled, bowing lowly. ‘I live to serve.’
Tony felt a pang of guilt. ‘No,’ he said. ‘You don’t. At least not for much longer anyway.’ He turned to Vanessa. ‘I told him that my last wish is going to be for him to go free. It’s not right that he should be made to do what other people tell him for his whole life, is it? Letting him go is only fair.’
At this the genie’s smile trembled ever so slightly. And did that deep, salty aroma momentarily lose its richness? Vanessa snaked her hand into the crook of Tony’s arm and led him aside. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ she whispered. ‘You can’t promise him something like that. It’s cruel.’
‘Cruel? No, it’s not.’
‘Yes, it is. You’re not really going to set him free, you know. You’ll use up your second wish and then something else will come along that will make you use up your third. It happens all the time. Genies are never released, Tony. They don’t expect to be either.’
Tony shook his head. ‘I am going to let him go, though. I gave him my word.’
He turned back to the genie, who had been floating quietly and pretending not to hear any of this. ‘Genie,’ he said. ‘Listen carefully. I promise right now that as my final wish I’m going to set y
ou free.’
‘Yes, master. You have said.’
Despite the polite reply it was clear the creature didn’t believe him. At this point Vanessa stepped in and changed the subject completely, no doubt eager to move on to lighter matters. ‘Genie, maybe you can help us,’ she said. ‘We’re stuck in this miserable little shop until the rain stops and the truth is there’s nothing for us to do. You must have some good ideas for passing the time.’
Tony read between the lines. Do you know how we can take our minds off things? It wasn’t a bad suggestion. Anything to silence the nagging voices in his head, the ones that whispered about Martell and Marshwood and would not be silent for all the world.
‘There are stories,’ the genie said eventually.
‘Stories?’
‘Yes, mistress. I can tell you stories that will make your blood tingle with excitement. I can tell you stories that will fill your minds with wonders.’
‘That sounds perfect,’ Vanessa smiled. ‘I’d much rather spend an afternoon listening to you than watching it rain. No offence, chimney sweep, but when it comes to entertaining you’ve got a lot to learn.’
Puffy with pride, the genie looked to Tony for confirmation—he nodded: go on, mate—then began to speak.
Later that evening, long after the afternoon had changed from grey to black and the lampposts along Dover Street had kicked into life like a line of showgirls, Tony would look back on this time spent with the Vanessa and the genie and wonder if he would ever know such happiness ever again. The genie’s stories had been wonderful. They had soared like eagles. They had exploded in blurs of colored feathers, a riot of parquets fluttering in every direction. In the depths of the genie’s twinkling blue smoke he had seen brave heroes battle terrible monsters. He had seen fools fish for the moon with lines of silver string, teenage lovers defy their families and elope to far-off kingdoms peopled by bandits and beasts. As the deep, sonorous voice of the genie echoed throughout the room the rest of the world had seemed to melt away. There was no bedroom. There was no fear, no doubt, no loneliness. There was only a whirl of stories, the scent of sunlight sparkling on deep, slow-moving oceans, the pleasing softness of Vanessa’s hand pressed into his.
Later he would look back on that afternoon and wish with all his heart that life could be like that again. Stories, smoke, companionship.
But by that point it would be far too late.
Though neither of them knew it then, the dominos had already started to fall …
*
By evening the rain still showed no signs of easing. Much of Dover Street had started to flood. Enormous puddles had formed around the overworked drains. It had reached the point where if they wanted to leave The Gnarled Wand tonight, they would have to do it now, regardless of the weather. Having already delayed for far too long, Vanessa was of the opinion that they should go now. Mr. Krook and Mr. Kepler were frightening enough in the daytime. At night, in the darkness, they were a different proposition altogether.
A plan for getting away was quickly agreed. They would use glamours to disguise themselves as a married couple in their mid-twenties. At the same time, Ebenezer would check that the coast was clear. If there was no sign of their pursuers, then they would go: heads down, hidden beneath umbrellas, down the alleyway on the other side of the street and straight onto the first passing bus. From there they would make their way into central London where Trina had rung ahead to book them a room in a cheap hotel. That would take care of their first night. What happened after that was still to be determined.
Downstairs, Ebenezer and Trina were helping Vanessa to map out the quickest route to the hotel. Tony remained in the bedroom, looking out along the street that had been his home for as long as he could remember. Now that the time to leave it behind was almost here, he felt a great sadness upon him. This was his home—his life—and who knew when he would see it again? Who knew if he would ever get to come back here? Touching his forehead to the glass, he stared over at the shop and sighed. He thought back to his childhood and found himself surprised by the vividness of the memories. Playing with Pushkin on the rug while Martell cooked up dinner. The thrill of exploring the shop on his own for the first time, each cabinet holding marvels gathered from around the world. Clockwork figurines. Wooden statues. He remembered the smell of polished wood—the sleekness of the rocking horse in the corner—the way he used to imagine that the dust motes sparkling in the gloom were magical, the remnants of some fairy spell that had been cast seconds before he had entered the room.
A sad smile crossed his lips. How funny that only a month ago he had been an unremarkable boy leading an unremarkable life in his uncle’s antiques shop. There had been no talk of midnight auctions and genies back then. He had inhabited a world of books and antiques and history—a world he had loved—a world where the only things that had mattered were making sales and learning about the past. Looking back, it seemed quaint—innocent almost. He found himself wishing for that old world with all his heart.
More thoughts, more memories. Eating fish and chips in the kitchen while listening to old BBC radio comedies on Martell’s record player. Making his first sale—a rosewood finger guillotine, sold to a retired conjurer for forty pounds. Martell patting him on the back afterwards. The glow of pride that had followed.
Being told the truth about his father.
The blood-chill that had followed.
Suddenly, to his surprise, a light switched on across the street.
Instinctively he drew back into the shadows. Krook or Kepler. It had to be. They were back, no doubt looking to see if he had returned to the shop yet. His jaw tightened. How stupid did they think he was? He wouldn’t have gone back to Martell’s Antiques again, no matter how much they—
He stopped dead, too shocked to move.
There, framed by the bright light of the bedroom window, shambling around the room with a confused expression on his face.
‘Martell …?’ The word came out of his mouth as a whisper. Already he had begun to tremble. He said the name again, louder this time, daring to make it a statement rather than a question. ‘Martell …’
He pressed his hands onto the glass, squinting through the curtains of rain.
‘You made it …’ At once a great happiness roared through him—a rush of pure excitement. ‘You escaped.’
In the brightly lit window across the street—a rectangle of light—he could see the familiar shape of his uncle picking through the mess on the floor and scratching his head with bemusement.
Tony laughed aloud, punched his fist in the air, and took off.
*
He was out of the shop in seconds. He tore through the rain, sloshed through the puddles, and hit the front door of Martell’s Antiques hard. As he fumbled for his key, he had to fight to contain his excitement. To see Martell alive, to see him well, to see him home—it was the greatest feeling in the world. He had so many questions, so many things he wanted to ask. But the first priority was a hug. Holding that old skeleton of a man in his arms and breathing in the smell of his clothes, feeling the weight of his body pressed against him.
The insides of the shop were dark and dank. The air smelt of old things and forgotten worlds. Grand pianos and polished candelabras. Yellowing books and black and white photographs.
‘Martell! Martell, it’s me!’
He galloped up the staircase as quickly as he could, heart pounding with joy as he approached the door to Martell’s bedroom.
Inside, the old man was in the process of picking up some of the clothes that had been scattered across the floor. Upon seeing Tony he stopped what he was doing and looked at him in astonishment. The jacket in his hands fell to the floor.
‘Tony …?’
‘You’re alive.’ He threw himself into Martell’s arms, savoring the embrace, the love, his happiness. ‘Oh, Martell, you’re alive, thank goodness.’
‘Of course I am,’ he laughed. ‘Oh, my boy, of course I am.’
‘I was so worried. I thought I’d never see you again.’
‘Really?’ The old man smiled. ‘You should know by now, Tony, never give up hope.’ He tightened his grip. ‘Although in this instance doing so would be entirely apt.’
The blow caught Tony off-guard—a punch to the guts that dropped him in seconds. As he struggled for breath he looked up in horror and saw Martell’s face melt away into a crueler, nastier visage.
‘What’s the matter, boy?’ Kepler sneered. ‘Think you’re the only one who can use a glamour?’
Then, shouting, he called out: ‘He took the bait, Mr. Krook. He came right to us.’
‘Martell …’ His voice offered little more than a wheeze. He couldn’t breathe. Tears jeweled in his eyes. Raindrops dripped from his hair.
‘This,’ Kepler sneered, standing over him now, ‘is for interfering at the auction.’ He landed a kick in Tony’s ribs. ‘And this’—another kick, harder this time—‘is for hiding from us.’
Grabbing Tony by the hair, he lifted him up and pressed his face to the window. Down on the pavement a frightful sight awaited him. Rag-and-Bone men. Dozens of them. They stood in the middle of Dover Street with their heads bowed and their suits soaked through. Tony stifled a cry. The way the rain ran down their faces made it look as if they were decomposing right in front of him. He had never seen anything more terrifying.
Lightning flashed. Their faces turned moon-white for the briefest of seconds, every rotten feature illuminated in sickening detail.
‘Don’t worry,’ Kepler hissed. ‘They aren’t here for you. We’ve got someone else lined up for that honor.’
He dragged Tony to the door and forced him down the stairs. Mr. Krook was waiting for them. He greeted Tony with a forceful slap to the face.