The Deadly 7

by Garth Jennings

  In order to meet the ever-increasing demands for huge wigs (extremely popular at the time), Wren was developing a tonic that when rubbed on pigs would cause them to grow masses of luscious, wavy hair in just a few days.

  Caged birds were all the rage, but Wren had been working on a special kind of birdseed that when fed to a budgie would make it glow in the dark at night.

  “We’ve always known Wren was up to far more than just building a cathedral,” said Doody. “The central staircase here was originally constructed to house a telescope that would have been as tall as the cathedral itself. I mean, this was a man who liked to think outside the box! But what we’ve found here, well, we’ve never seen anything like this stuff before. I mean look at this…”

  Doody turned and the camera followed him to the sheet-covered table Nelson had stood on to reach the pipe last night. Nelson winced—his memory of falling back onto it was still fresh in his mind.

  “This is an absolutely amazing piece,” said Doody as he reached for a tray of items neatly displayed on green velvet, as if already in a museum. Among the ancient objects were the seven copper vials. “Yer see, Christopher Wren had all these ideas he was trying out.” Doody chuckled as he held up two of the copper vials. One of them had the word GREED etched into the copper; the other had the word ENVY.

  “There are seven of these, one for each of the so-called seven deadly sins,” explained Doody as he peeled back a sheet to reveal the table, but instead of revealing a piece of flat wood, the table was covered in hundreds and hundreds of tiny needles—all pointing upward and arranged in spirals and intricate twisting patterns. Nelson’s eyes widened. He clearly remembered falling onto that table last night. He’d slipped back and slammed right down on it when the pipe had burst. How on earth had he not realized it was covered in nasty-looking spikes?

  “So the idea was, you’d lay yourself down on here on this lovely bed of needles—not exactly comfy, I’d imagine—and somehow these things would draw the seven deadly sins out of your soul and collect them in these copper vials, for safekeeping, like. Luckily they seem to be empty.” He chuckled, and the picture cut back to the newsroom to where the anchorman was enjoying a polite chuckle too. “Professor John Doodson there, on today’s incredible discovery of Sir Christopher Wren’s secret test chamber at St. Paul’s Cathedral. And in other news today…” continued the anchorman, but Nelson’s mind was off racing all over the place.

  Why hadn’t it hurt him to fall on those spikes? In fact, how come he remembered it feeling so soft? Surely it would have left him covered in cuts or puncture wounds? Nelson’s mind departed from the news report and turned instead to his own body. He pushed back the sleeve of his hoodie until it reached his elbow and turned his arm around. Nothing. His skin looked normal—not a scratch in sight on either arm. While Nelson’s mind was replaying the moment his body had fallen onto all those needles, the news program was drawing to a close.

  “And now the weather. It’ll be another rainy day for most of the southeast, with showers expected around noon and spreading…”

  Nelson suddenly remembered the plastic poncho he had been wearing. Maybe it had protected him from the needles? It was still hanging on the banister rail, and when Nelson lifted it up for close inspection he noticed there were tiny pinpricks all over the poncho, making it utterly useless for the next time it rained. “That’s so weird,” said Nelson to himself, and he was right, it was weird. Just to be sure the spikes hadn’t gone all the way through his clothes and stuck into his back, Nelson pulled his hoodie over his head and yanked up the sleeves of his T-shirt.

  “… Scattered showers for most of the north, although tomorrow should be clearer with the promise of some sun…” continued the happy weatherman.

  Twisting his neck as far as it would go, Nelson strained to get a good look at the back of his shoulders, and just under the T-shirt he caught a glimpse of a patch of little red dots on his skin. Not a random scattering of dots, but a pattern. His neck protested—it didn’t like being twisted like this—so Nelson gave his head a good shake before twisting it the other way. There was exactly the same pattern on the other shoulder too. All Nelson needed was a mirror to get a good look at his own back, but it seemed a mirror was the one object his uncle didn’t possess.

  “… By Tuesday much of Scotland can expect snow…”

  There was a kettle in the kitchen. It was reflective but tarnished and his uncle had covered it in those tiny stickers you get on bananas and apples. Nelson peeled off as many as he could, gave it a wipe, and lifted the back of his T-shirt.

  “And finally our top stories once again,” said the newsreader, turning to a different camera that swooped toward him like a bird as the wall behind him lit up with images to accompany each story he recounted.

  At first Nelson didn’t understand what he was looking at because the kettle’s distorted reflection made his body look like a long pink tube, but one thing was very clear: the bright red pattern that covered his entire back.

  Pinpricks. Thousands of them. An intricate red tattoo that spread from his neck all the way to his lower back. And yet he didn’t feel a thing, not even an itch. How on earth can you fall heavily onto a bed of needles that puncture your skin and not feel it? In fact, quite the opposite—Nelson clearly remembered feeling fantastic. How weird.

  “… As the search continues for British schoolgirl Celeste Green, Spanish police say they fear the worst…” Nelson’s attention was pulled away from the image of his back, as the news story seemed to grab him by the throat and smack him around the face.

  He ran back into the front room, and there was Celeste’s image. Her big smiling face in a photo taken in their backyard last year. Nelson could only manage a tiny gasp in response. His body froze, and time with it. As suddenly as her face had appeared on the screen it was gone, replaced by Doody talking about St. Paul’s again, but Nelson didn’t hear a word he said. His sister’s face was burned onto his brain with the word “Missing” in large red letters below. He knew what “fear the worst” meant. They thought Celeste was dead. The news was so awful that it sent a sharp stab of pain into Nelson’s chest, right where his heart lived. He opened his mouth to cry out, and a bloodcurdling scream filled the entire house. This wouldn’t have been so awful if Nelson had been the one screaming, but the horrible noise wasn’t coming from him—it was coming from outside the house.

  UNINVITED GUESTS

  The howling coming from outside sounded as if an entire pack of starving wolves had just found where the three little pigs lived. Nelson spun around on the spot, eyes suddenly wide open and staring at the front door. It seemed too soon for Uncle Pogo to be back. Nelson hoped it was just foxes—he’d often heard them squealing and shrieking in the middle of the night—but this idea was instantly shattered by the sight of several strange little figures leaping over the junk in the front yard. The doorbell started ringing over and over again and somebody knocked, but rather than a normal knock, it was a knock at the speed of a woodpecker. The dog went absolutely nuts, but even its incessant barking was no match for whatever was wailing on the other side of the front door.

  Nelson backed away, tripped over a foot spa filled with empty pistachio shells, and landed on the TV remote control. The TV switched off, a lamp stand toppled and fell as he backed into it while the horrible cacophony outside grew louder still as more voices began to howl and screech and hiss and knock and ring and … suddenly it stopped.

  Everything just stopped.

  Except the dog, who barked like crazy.

  Nelson desperately tried to reassure himself that whoever or whatever it was couldn’t get in and that Uncle Pogo should be back soon, but this brief glimpse of hope was quickly extinguished by a loud crunch from outside. The dog stopped barking.

  The silence that followed was terrifying. Nelson didn’t know if he was being watched or about to be attacked. The security light was out, the television was off, and he could hear his heart pumping blood aroun
d his body as if he had just run the Olympic 100-meter sprint.

  Suddenly a jet of flames fired upward from outside the kitchen window. The flame burned with the intensity of a rocket engine for a moment before dying out just as suddenly.

  Again there was silence.

  And then a burp.

  Yes, a great, big, gut-rumbling belch came from whatever was outside the kitchen, followed by a plume of black smoke that rose up and drifted through the … open window! Nelson knew there was no way he could close that window now. The best he could do was retreat and hope he wasn’t noticed. He crawled backward across the floor, his eyes glued to the smoke drifting into the kitchen, until he hit the wall. No, it wasn’t the wall, it was Uncle Pogo’s red telephone booth. Nelson reached behind him and found the edge of the phone-booth door. As he gingerly pulled the creaking door open, Nelson heard a whistle outside, the kind of loopy whistle you would do if you wanted someone’s attention. Looking up, Nelson saw a tiny pink hand reach up from outside and grab hold of the windowsill.

  “Hide” was the only word that came to Nelson’s mind (which is quite a good word to think of in a situation like this—certainly better than “sausages” or “rhinoceros”)—so he scrambled backward into the phone booth and the door slowly closed by itself. He still had the poncho gripped in his fists and, as the door shut, Nelson pulled his knees up to his face and curled up as small as he could.

  There was an urgent scraping sound, followed by a thud, and then somebody (or something) spoke.

  “Well, don’t just stand there! Lift me up, yer great lump.” The voice sounded angry, and as if its owner had the most terrible sore throat.

  “Ow! You are currently standing upon my nose!” hissed another. A struggle ensued and then a great honking noise, like a faulty bicycle horn, began blasting away.

  “Oh, don’t start honking again,” said a different voice, this one more like a sad and desperate moan.

  Thud.

  Another thud.

  The sound of wings flapping filled the air and something obviously made of glass and belonging to Uncle Pogo was knocked to the floor and broken.

  “Oops-a-daisy!” said a rather plummy voice.

  A slithering rattle, like a snake, was followed by three more thuds to the floor. Whatever had been outside was now inside.

  Nelson screwed his eyes up tight and wished that Uncle Pogo would fling that front door open and chase away whatever was there.

  There was a thump, then an “Oi! Watch where yer putting them spikes!”

  “Shh! Look. See? I told you this was the right house. He’s over there.”

  The sound of the voices approaching the telephone booth completely terrified Nelson. He could hear things pressing against the booth and the sound of breathing against the glass, quick and shallow like dogs panting after retrieving a ball. The strange voices spoke again.

  “What’s ’e doin’ in there?”

  “How should I know?”

  “Ask ’im what ’e’s doin’ in there.”

  “You ask!”

  “Honk!”

  “Shhh!”

  Then there was a knock on the glass. Not a scary thump, but a very polite one-two-three knock, followed by someone clearing their throat to speak.

  “Um, hello there,” said the plummy voice, the kind you would expect from the Queen’s butler. “Are you all right in there, old bean?”

  Though his eyes were still screwed up tight, the surprise of hearing such a polite voice chipped away at the great slab of fear in Nelson’s belly.

  “I know just how he feels,” moaned a hollow-sounding voice as if about to cry.

  “Big deal. We all know ’ow ’e feels,” growled another, with a derisive snort to emphasize its point, which was met with murmurs of agreement.

  “Oh, please come out,” urged the hollow voice. “We need you, Nelson.”

  They knew his name.

  How on earth could they know who he was when he had absolutely no idea who or what they were? Also, hadn’t they just used the word “need”? They hadn’t said, “We want to eat you, Nelson,” or, “We’d very much like to turn you inside out and wear you as a hat, Nelson”—no, they’d clearly said, “We need you, Nelson.”

  For the first time since this terrifying episode began, Nelson experienced a feeling other than gut-wrenching fear, and it was curiosity.

  With absolutely no idea what he was going to find, Nelson slowly opened his eyes and peeped over the tops of his knees.

  At first it was hard to see anything, as the phone-booth windows were steamed up from the breath of whatever was panting on the other side, but as Nelson’s eyes scanned left and right he began to see little faces moving beyond the foggy glass. For a moment he didn’t know if he was looking at little people or animals. They spoke like people, but they certainly moved like animals. In fact their enthusiastic snorting and snuffling and shuffling reminded him of the piglets he’d seen clambering over each other to feed from their mother on a primary school trip to a farm.

  “Shh! You’re scaring ’im,” growled one of the creatures, and the group fell silent.

  “Allow me to do the honors,” said the plummy voice, and the phone-booth door began to open.

  Nelson’s eyes widened, even his eyebrows started to rise, and blinking was completely out of the question as the door gradually opened to reveal a truly extraordinary sight. A birdlike creature stood before him, approximately half Nelson’s height and covered in dazzling gold feathers. Its chest was puffed up proudly, its eyes were large and heavy-lidded, and beneath them protruded a magnificent beak of what looked like solid silver. How any bird could move around let alone fly with a solid metal beak was anyone’s guess, but there it was, standing there looking like a gilded dodo with the voice and demeanor of a waiter from a very expensive restaurant.

  “Sorry for that rather messy entrance,” said the creature, as it swept one wing forward and bowed before Nelson. “We did knock, but it appears your servant is away at this time.” Nelson heard one of the other creatures hidden behind the phone booth respond with a loud “Honk!”

  “I go by the name of Hoot,” said the golden bird. “And I can tell by your stunned expression you have never met a creature as handsome as me. Please, do not feel embarrassed. I am well aware that my looks are, quite literally, stunning. However, my cohorts aren’t quite as—” His sentence was cut off by one of the other creatures rolling into view and knocking him right out of the way. This one looked like a great pink sack of potatoes with tiny eyes, large hairy nostrils, coarse skin, useless sticklike arms, hands, and legs, and a mouth as wide as an oven door.

  “’Allo, Nelly-son,” roared the pink blob, and there was loud cackling from behind the booth.

  “My name Nosh! You, Nelly-son!” said the blobby thing with a big grin, stretching out one of his funny little hands to shake Nelson’s.

  Nelson’s fear was shrinking fast and an overwhelming sense of “blimey!” was taking its place. He held tight to the door frame with one hand and slowly stood up to shake Nosh’s hand with the other. What a strange little hand it was. Tiny and hot, like a plastic doll that had been left in the sun all day, except this hand was very much alive, had a firm grip, and belonged to a body that was as big and round as a butcher’s belly.

  “Nice to meet you, Nosh,” said Nelson, which wasn’t exactly true. “It is totally mind-blowing to meet you, Nosh,” might have been nearer the mark, but the fact that Nelson even managed to speak right now was pretty good going.

  “Look! Look! It’s Nelly-son,” roared Nosh, and like a group of excited children about to meet Santa Claus, the other creatures hidden behind the steamed-up glass quickly assembled in front of the phone booth to greet Nelson.

  It is very rare to see something you do not recognize at all, but apart from photos Nelson had seen of some bizarre luminous fish that dwell in the deepest, darkest parts of the ocean, he could not remember laying his eyes on anything so completely strange in al
l his life. In fact, it is time to stop referring to the things now gathered in front of Nelson as creatures because that would imply they were something Mother Nature had had a hand in creating, but there was absolutely nothing natural about them. They were not creatures. They were monsters.

  And though they were all roughly half the size of Nelson, their height was the only thing they had in common. “Dat one is Miser,” said Nosh, gesturing toward a blue egg-shaped monster that shuffled forward on feet that flopped like wet socks. Miser had long tentacles for arms, rough callused skin like the barnacle-encrusted rocks you find by the sea, and a nose that started at the top of his head and ran all the way down to a small, pinched mouth, on either side of which bulged two very shifty eyeballs.

  “Master Nelson, ’tis an honor to make your acquaintance,” hissed Miser, gripping Nelson’s hand with his sticky fingers.

  “Give it back, Miser,” said what appeared to be a very sad-looking cactus. Its bright green waxy flesh was covered in hundreds of spikes and its arms were long, thin, and trailed on the floor like spindly branches.

  “I have nothing to give back,” hissed Miser, and Nelson looked down to see another of Miser’s tentacles had crept into the back pocket of his jeans and had lifted the money left over from the cab ride last night. Miser dropped the money back into Nelson’s pocket and retracted the tentacle with whip-crack speed.

  “Watch out for Miser,” said the cactus monster. “Greedy rotter’ll steal anything.”

  “All property is theft,” grumbled Miser as he released his other hand from Nelson’s, leaving a sluglike slime trail behind.

  Nelson said, “Hello,” and offered his hand, but the sad cactus merely sniffed and looked back at him with two sad eyes rattling around in dark, hollow sockets. “Oh, you wouldn’t want to shake hands with me. Look,” it said, and flapped its feeble twiggy arms as if to prove its point. “Lucky you. You’ve got proper arms. Not like these stupid things.”