The Most Frightening Story Ever Told

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The Most Frightening Story Ever Told Page 19

by Philip Kerr


  I’m just a guy who likes to scare the kids.

  Wake up, hush, d’you hear that moan?

  And what is this coming up the stair?

  Did you see it move, the tombstone?

  D’you think there’s something here that isn’t there?

  Now the message of this little song,

  Is that there’s nothing really wrong

  With inflicting harmless terror.

  Yet some think it an error

  And want to wrap their kids in cashmere wool

  They just don’t get the fact it’s cool

  To have fun scaring the kids.

  There are some kids who like to say

  That nothing scares us anyway,

  It’s all a yawn, a waste of time,

  Stories really are not worth a dime,

  There are no mysteries anymore,

  This modern world is such a bore.

  It’s no fun scaring those kids.

  There are no ghosts, there are no ghouls,

  This is what we’re told in schools.

  It’s sad to say but education

  Shows a failure of imagination.

  If the world is just a scientific place

  We take the magic from the human race.

  There’s more to us than meets the eye.

  And if I’m forced to specify

  My argument’s hypothesis,

  It’s the wisdom of scaring the kids.

  Yes, and if I’m forced to specify

  My argument’s hypothesis,

  It’s the wisdom of scaring the kids.

  It was a dark and stormy night. Again. For which Mr. Rapscallion was very grateful to whoever was in charge of Hitchcock’s weather. Scary weather is useful stuff for making a story seem a lot more scary than it is. Thunder makes children jump. And lightning makes even a kind face seem frightful. Wind can moan like a ghost. And rain on a windowpane can sound like the fingers of a skeleton. All in all, it was a fine night for fear.

  It was almost midnight. The evening of the reading had arrived. Mr. Rapscallion had forbidden all the reporters and television cameras entry to his shop so as to try to make sure there was what he called a proper “atmosfear” inside. Which would have been impossible with lots of people milling around, not to mention camera lights. In Mr. Rapscallion’s expert opinion, light created the polar opposite of an “atmosfear.” So the world’s press were camped on the sidewalk outside the Haunted House of Books to see what would happen. Some of the regular customers were there, too: Father Merrin, Mr. Stoker, Miss Maupassant, Miss Danvers. Each of them was giving an interview about what kind of man Rexford Rapscallion really was. Even Redford had turned up to wait on the sidewalk and wish her dad and Billy good luck.

  Apart from the five contestants and their families, the only people Mr. Rapscallion was planning to allow in the shop were Mercedes and Elizabeth, and a local doctor called John Henry Holliday, just in case there was some sort of frightful accident during the actual reading.

  Dr. Holliday was a tall man, with blond hair, a mustache as big as a roll of wallpaper and a large black bag that was full of all sorts of medical equipment.

  “Holliday,” said Elizabeth. “That’s an interesting name. For a doctor.”

  “Yep,” said Dr. Holliday.

  “Do people ever call you Doc?” she asked. “Like the famous gunfighting doctor of dental surgery from the O.K. Corral.”

  “Some,” admitted Dr. Holliday, who was a man of very few words.

  “I didn’t mean to be rude or anything,” said Elizabeth.

  “Nope. T’weren’t rude.” Dr. Holliday smiled. “As a matter of fact, Doc Holliday was my great-great-granddaddy,” said Doc Holliday. “My family have always been doctors to make up for all the people he shot. Now if you don’t mind, ma’am, I’d like to get set up.”

  “Of course,” said Elizabeth.

  Mr. Rapscallion had set a little table beside the piano for the doctor, and without further ado, Doc Holliday took off his coat, rolled up his sleeves and donned a leather apron. Then he opened his bag and laid out some surgical equipment on the piano lid: a couple of large saws, several scalpels and curettes, a largish hypodermic and a drill. Last of all he poured lots of sawdust onto the floor around the table.

  “What’s that for?” asked Mercedes.

  “It’s to mop up the blood,” explained Doc Holliday.

  “Don’t worry,” said Mr. Rapscallion. “It’s just a little bit of ‘atmosfear,’ a joke to help unsettle our contestants. I don’t want these little thugs thinking this contest is going to be a piece of cake. Especially now that I can’t rely on the actual story to be as scary as I’d originally hoped.”

  There was a knock at the front door.

  “I expect that will be one of them now,” he said excitedly, because, despite his pessimism as to the scariness of the story, Mr. Rapscallion was in a good mood. Mostly this was due to the effect of singing his song, which Elizabeth and Mercedes had appreciated very much.

  Mr. Rapscallion opened the door to reveal his daughter on the sidewalk outside. He motioned for her to come inside but she shook her head.

  “Good luck, Dad,” she said.

  “Thanks, Redford.”

  “Altaira,” she said. “Call me Altaira.” She looked rueful. “I’m cool about my real name again, Dad. Honest.”

  “What changed your mind, Altaira?”

  “Billy. Who else?” And she gave her father a warm hug, which was the first time she’d hugged him in a while. “Looks like the first contestant is here,” she said, and pointed along the street.

  The first contestant was Wilson Dirtbag and he was accompanied by his mother, Fedora.

  “Wilson,” said Mr. Rapscallion. “Welcome back to the Haunted House of Books. Come in, come in. Let us hope it is a happier experience for all than the last time you were here.”

  “I had nothing to do with that pink mummy,” insisted Wilson.

  “No matter. Water under the bridge, eh? Now then. This delightful lady must be your mother, Fedora. What a beautiful name. Tell me, do you spell it like the hat?”

  “Hat?” Fedora Dirtbag looked at Mr. Rapscallion, uncertain as to what on earth he was talking about. “What hat?” she said, and looked around uncertainly as if she expected to see a sequined Stetson spinning through the air toward her. “Don’t tell me I should have worn a hat.”

  It was clear she’d never heard of a fedora hat.

  “Never mind, never mind,” said Mr. Rapscallion. “A hat is not necessary, even for a woman with a head as small as yours. The main thing is, you’re here. And what a pleasure to meet you. I trust you’ve brought all the appropriate consent forms for young Wilson here.”

  Wilson was busy inspecting the shiny-looking scalpels. Instead of them unsettling or scaring the boy, they appeared to fascinate him.

  “Don’t touch, sonny,” said Doc Holliday. “If you know what’s good for you.”

  “Forms?” Mrs. Dirtbag looked blank, which was quite normal for a woman with her modest intellectual gifts.

  Mr. Rapscallion’s heart gave a leap. Was it possible, he wondered, that he might be able to immediately disqualify Wilson—a boy he considered to be a troublemaker, and with good reason—on the grounds that he had forgotten to complete his consent forms?

  “Forms. Yes, the forms. Pieces of paper with writing on them. Like the ones you use to claim Social Security. The boy can’t take part without all the appropriate forms. Says it quite clearly in the terms and conditions of the contest.”

  “You mean these papers?” Mrs. Dirtbag handed several sheets of paper to Mr. Rapscallion, who inspected them quickly and then nodded, trying to conceal his disappointment.

  “Well, everything seems to be in order,” he said, ushering the woman to the door. “We’ll see you later, Mrs. Dirtbag. Wilson? You’re the first. Mercedes will show you to your seat. Won’t you, Mercedes?”

  Wilson sneered an ugly sneer. “Mercedes? What kind
of a name is that? I guess your daddy must have liked cars, huh?”

  Mercedes bit her lip and considered making a similar remark about tennis rackets until she decided that Wilson did not look like the kind of boy who even knew how to spell “tennis racket.” And instead she smiled sweetly and took Wilson to the Reading Room, where the reading was scheduled to take place.

  As Mr. Rapscallion ushered Mrs. Dirtbag out of the shop, Hugh Bicep and his father came in, two abreast. For a moment they almost got stuck in the door, they were so large and in such a hurry.

  “Hugh! You’re here!” said Mr. Rapscallion. “And your father. You’re here, too. Hard to miss either of you, really. I expect they can see you both from space. But excellent. An honor to see you both in such obviously muscular good health. Which reminds me. You did bring the forms, Mr. Bicep. No entry to the contest is possible without those all-important consent forms.”

  “Of course,” said Mr. Bicep. “Do you take me for an idiot?”

  “Well, now you come to mention it…” Mr. Rapscallion paused. “No, I don’t.”

  Mr. Bicep delved into his pocket, removed a protein shake and a banana and, finally, found the forms.

  Mr. Rapscallion held the forms up to his keen nostrils and sniffed. “Hmm,” he said. “I smell eggs, Canadian bacon, sausage, tomatoes and mushrooms, wheat toast. Delicious. Do I take it that these forms were signed on this morning’s breakfast table?”

  Mr. Bicep smiled sheepishly. “Must have been.” Handing his son the banana, a packet of sandwiches and the protein shake, he said, “There you go, son. To keep your strength up.”

  “This is an in-store event, Mr. Bicep,” said Mr. Rapscallion. “A reading of an important and historical story. Not a Sunday school picnic.”

  Mr. Bicep shook his head. “Best let him have it,” he said. Lowering his voice, he added, “You wouldn’t want to see my little boy when he’s hungry, Mr. Rapscallion. You wouldn’t like him at all when he’s hungry.”

  “I find that only too easy to believe,” said Mr. Rapscallion. “Elizabeth, take our young friend to the Reading Room, while I see his father OUT.”

  At the shop door, which opened and closed with its customary hollow, wicked laugh and a blast of cold air, they were met by Lenore Gas and her parents. Mr. Rapscallion ushered the big man out, and the Gas family in.

  Mr. and Mrs. Gas were an odd-looking couple: Mr. Gas was at least seven feet tall and had to duck as he came through the door, which was when Mr. Rapscallion saw that his hair was an even more livid shade of red than his daughter’s. Mrs. Gas was exactly half as tall as her husband, even in the diamanté heels she was wearing on her doll’s feet. But the thing Mr. Rapscallion noticed most about her was her fingernails. These were six inches long, like those of a Chinese emperor, and painted gold.

  “Greetings, greetings,” said Mr. Rapscallion. “Welcome, Lenore, welcome to our humble in-store event. That’s what we booksellers call a reading. Unless I’m very much mistaken, these two delightful people with you must be your parents.”

  Mr. Gas loomed over Mr. Rapscallion like a giant sequoia tree. “Consent,” he said.

  “Oh, I do, I do,” said Mr. Rapscallion. “Whatever you say is fine with me, Mr. Gas.”

  “I mean, these here forms,” said the tall man, handing over Lenore’s consent forms. “Unless the game done changed.”

  “The game’s the same, Mr. Gas,” said Mr. Rapscallion. “Same as it always was, Mr. Gas.”

  Mr. Gas raised a heavily ringed fist in the air, and for a moment Mr. Rapscallion thought he was going to find himself on the receiving end of a punch. Instead, Lenore raised her own fist and pressed it against her father’s in a gesture that appeared to Mr. Rapscallion to be a substitute handshake.

  “I’m gonna win this, Daddy,” she said.

  “No doubt,” said her father sternly. Then he turned on his heel and walked out of the shop, followed closely by his small but perfectly formed wife.

  Mercedes had returned from the Reading Room and Mr. Rapscallion asked her to take Lenore there, even as the door opened again to reveal Mr. Capone and his son Vito. The two were dressed in sharp suits with dark shirts and loud ties. And they were accompanied by several nervous-looking bodyguards who kept their hands inside their coats and their eyes on the rooftop of the building opposite.

  “Vito,” said Mr. Rapscallion. “We’ve been expecting you, of course. And how’s the rest of the mob? I mean the family.”

  “This doesn’t apply to my family,” said Mr. Capone. “Just Vito.”

  “We’re here for the sit-down, bookseller,” said Vito. “Capisce?”

  “With the greatest respect, I know why you’re here, Vito,” said Mr. Rapscallion.

  “I certainly hope so, old man,” said Vito. “I certainly hope so.”

  The young Vito had a curiously rasping voice. It was like the sound of charcoal coming out of a paper bag. Mr. Rapscallion wondered if the boy had a heavy cold and, for a moment, he considered offering to fetch him some cough syrup. But time was getting on, he told himself. And besides, he had no wish to be accused of favoritism. Not that Vito Capone would ever have been Mr. Rapscallion’s idea of a favorite outside a dog race. Mr. Rapscallion already disliked the boy intensely, especially after the “old man” remark.

  “I trust you have brought young Vito’s consent forms, Mr. Capone. Because I’m afraid our intimidating little friend here can’t take part without them.”

  “You speak of friends,” said young Vito. “And you speak of respect. But if you really came to me with your friendship, your loyalty, your respect, then your enemies would become my enemies and then, believe me, Mr. Rapscallion, they would fear you. Not some stupid scary story.”

  Mr. Capone nodded gravely, as if he approved of his son’s speech.

  Mr. Rapscallion bent down to speak to Vito at his level. “Well, that’s right handsome of you, Vito,” he said. “You know I bet you could talk my ear off, sonny, given the chance. But right now I’m not interested in you being my friend. Or your daddy. All I’m interested in is that he has the correct paperwork.”

  Mr. Capone put his hand in his breast pocket and Mr. Rapscallion hoped there would only be some papers in it and not a gun when the hand emerged again.

  To the bookseller’s relief, the gangster handed him the consent forms, and Mr. Rapscallion had Elizabeth take Vito to the Reading Room to wait with the other kids.

  Then he looked at his watch. “Where’s Billy?” he said when Mercedes returned to his side. “I thought he’d be the first. Not the last. It’s not like him at all.”

  “Oh dear,” said Mercedes. “He said something about having to persuade his dad to sign the forms and put in an appearance.”

  “What?” Mr. Rapscallion frowned. “You mean he didn’t ask him before he put his name in the box?”

  “He never expected his name to be selected,” explained Mercedes. “Not with so many other names in that box.”

  “Maybe you have a point.” Mr. Rapscallion looked anxiously at his watch again. “I really should have taken the precaution of drawing a sixth name as a backup. Just in case there was a no-show.”

  “I’m sure he’ll come if he can,” insisted Mercedes. “Billy will be so disappointed if his father refuses to allow him to take part.”

  “Is that likely, do you think?”

  “I don’t know,” admitted Mercedes. “But surely you’ve met Mr. Shivers.”

  “Ah, no,” admitted Mr. Rapscallion. “He wrote to me once to give his permission for Billy to accompany me to Kansas City. Odd sort of letter, really.”

  “In what way?” asked Mercedes.

  “The handwriting. It was very faint. As if the pen was running out of ink. The letter couldn’t have been harder to read if it had been written in lemon juice.”

  “From what Billy’s told me,” said Mercedes, “his family has had a pretty tough time of it. There’s not much money in that house.”

  Mr. Rapscallion looked at h
is watch for a third time in as many minutes. “It’s almost midnight. Look, if he’s not here in two minutes, we’ll have to start without him.”

  Two minutes passed. The town clock started to strike the midnight hour.

  Mr. Rapscallion shook his head and did his best to contain his disappointment. He had been counting on Billy.

  “Too late, we’ll have to start without him. Mercedes? If you could lock the door, please? We don’t want anyone coming in and spoiling the ‘atmosfear’ after I get started. It’s going to be hard enough to scare these four brats as it is.”

  Mercedes knew there was no point in arguing with Mr. Rapscallion. She went to the door and was actually reaching for the large brass key that was sticking out of the lock when, hearing a knock on the other side, she opened the door to reveal Billy and a man she assumed must be his father.

  “Hey,” said Billy. “Dad, this is Mercedes. Didn’t I tell you how nice she was?”

  “How do you do?” said Mr. Shivers. “Mercedes. That’s a lovely name.”

  Mercedes hurried them inside the Haunted House of Books and called out after Mr. Rapscallion.

  “Thank goodness you’re here,” Mercedes told Billy. “For a moment there I thought we were going to have to start without you.”

  “Glad you could make it, Billy,” said Mr. Rapscallion. He cocked an ear at the town clock, which had almost finished striking midnight. “Only just, by the sound of things.”

  “I’m sorry we’re late,” said Billy. “I saw Redford outside and stopped to say hello. I’m so glad she’s here.”

  “Me too, Billy,” said Mr. Rapscallion.

  “She’s calling herself Altaira again. Isn’t that good news?”

  “It sure is, Billy, and thanks.”

  Mr. Rapscallion smiled at the man behind Billy. “I guess you must be Billy’s father.”

  Mr. Shivers was a tall, thin man with not much hair. There were shadows under his eyes and his clothes were old and threadbare. He wore a rather unfashionable pair of widely flared jeans, and a Windbreaker that wouldn’t have broken the breeze from a fan-assisted oven. On his feet were a pair of work boots and in his hand was a lunch pail, as if he had just come straight from physical work of some kind. But he had a lovely, kind smile, as if he didn’t have a care in the world.

 

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