by Heide Goody
***
36
Once he’d found the pull-on light switch above the hatch, Dave saw the attic space was enormous. There were some partition walls at the sides, with a tiny crawl space which Dave felt no inclination whatsoever to explore, but the main body of the loft would have accommodated a barn dance, if it hadn’t been quite so full of accumulated junk.
“Should we look for weapons?” asked Newton.
“Fine idea,” said Dave. He wasn’t sure there would be anything useable in terms of weapons, but it was good to keep busy. They stood and surveyed the boxes, cupboards and dust covers. Where to start?
Newton opened the nearest box and peered inside, Dave turned to a heavy wooden trunk with brass fittings and lifted the heavy lid. It was filled with children’s toys from another era.
“How are you doing?” he asked, as he sifted through.
“Me? Completely fine. Really. Don’t worry.”
Their gazes met for an instant. “We have a bit of breathing space, I reckon, so we’ll rest for a moment and then figure out a way to get downstairs.”
Dave picked out a tin car from the trunk.
“Not much of a weapon,” said Newton, who was holding an ancient wooden tennis racquet, clamped in a storage press.
Dave contemplated the tin car. “Dangerous for a child. Sharp edges like these and they’d need a tetanus shot.”
Newton pulled the dust cover off an old-fashioned mangle. He gave the handle an experimental rotation and grunted in satisfaction when the rollers turned. “Once we’re tooled up, we need to find mum. And Guin, of course.”
“They can look after themselves,” said Dave. “Your mum will get Guin out, and I’ll do the same for you. Your mum knows that.”
He moved on to another box. He pulled out an electric iron and set it aside in case he needed a blunt weapon at some point. Underneath was a selection of vinyl records.
“Carole King,” he said, surprised. “I used to own this album.”
“You’re not going to rescue them then?” said Newton.
Dave put the record down. “Who says they need rescuing, Newton? No good will come of running around looking for them. Get away from the danger. Never return to a burning building.”
“The building’s not burning.”
“Okay. Never return to a building full of savages elves. We don’t fix things by putting ourselves in more danger. Let the dog drown.”
“Let the … what?” Newton looked horrified. “What dog?”
Dave shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. It’s just something Guin and I say. Family motto.”
“About drowning dogs?”
Dave paused in his search of the boxes. “You hear certain news stories. A dog jumps in a river and the owner jumps after it. What happens? Half the time, it seems, the dog swims ashore, safe and fine, and the owner gets pulled under by a current and … yeah.” He sniffed. “We instinctively leap into a situation, thinking we must do something, anything. But it’s rarely the right thing. Basic personal safety rule.”
“But the dog—”
“If it lives or dies isn’t going to be changed by a fully-clothed idiot jumping in after it, dude. Hence the phrase.”
“Let the dog drown. And that’s your family motto?”
“Yup. If we had a coat of arms, that’s what we’d put on it.”
Newton shook his head. “That’s cold…”
“Sorry,” said Dave. “I just didn’t want you to worry about your mum.”
“Well, that worked because all I can think about now is dogs drowning—” He went silent for a moment. “Um, Dave?”
“Yes, mate?”
“Can you see something hanging from the rafters?”
Dave looked where Newton was pointing. Something ragged and dirty hung from the apex of the roof. Folds of cobwebbed grey dangled in the shadows, as if the contents of a vacuum bag had spilled through a hole in the roof. Was it a filthy puppet, hanging up so that its strings didn’t tangle? A desiccated bat?
As they both peered at the thing, an eye popped open and it grinned at them, upside down. Another eye opened and another mouth grinned.
“Elves!”
Three of the creatures dropped to the floor, tittering maniacally.
Dave automatically threw the iron. Two of them dodged it easily but the third, pulling cobwebs from its hat bell, looked up too late. The iron slammed into it, knocking it through the plasterboard floor. From below, something smashed. As Dave looked for another heavy item to throw, Newton began to hurl records at the creatures.
“Not the Carol King!” Dave heard himself say.
Newton skimmed records like Frisbees. The sharp edge of one caught an elf on its arm. Dave joined in; trying to save any records was ridiculous . He threw them by the handful. They weren’t particularly effective weapons, and the elves dodged and wove their way closer.
“Tennis racquet!” yelled Dave. Newton picked up the racquet and prepared to meet the elves.
“Knees bent!” said Dave. “Handshake grip. Eyes straight. And swing!”
Newton howled with rage and caught an elf in a powerful forehand. The elf flew back and hit the toy trunk’s raised lid. The elf fell inside, stunned. The hinged lid wobbled.
The other elf came at Dave. He grabbed for the nearest item, an ugly pottery lamp with a fabric shade, and smashed it over the creature’s head. He pushed the lampshade over the elf, pinning one arm to its sides. Not its knife arm unfortunately. Dave tripped over a carved hat stand as he tried to get out of knife-range. The elf advanced, abruptly stopping just short.
Newton had hold of the lamp’s flex and was hauling it back!
For a tiny creature, it had surprising strength. As Newton fought to reel it back, Dave had to wriggle on the floor to stop the damned thing stabbing him. The tassels on the lampshade cascaded dust as the elf struggled for purchase.
Newton was hauling with both hands, his feet digging in against the floor timbers. He was thoroughly occupied and Dave knew he hadn’t seen the elf in the toy trunk pull itself up. It raised its knife to attack.
Dave kicked the at the hat stand. By luck as much as anything, it fell onto the trunk. The lid tipped forward. The elf, halfway out, looked up, but it had no time to dodge. The brass-bound lid slammed shut and an elf head bounced onto the floor.
“He’ll need a bit more than a tetanus shot for that,” grunted Dave.
The lampshaded elf was startled enough by the sight of his decapitated companion that Newton managed to haul in a vital foot or two of lamp flex.
Dave grinned.
The elf saw the grin and looked round.
Newton started to turn the mangle, gaining momentum. The light flex was squeezed between the rollers, shortly followed by the elf. There was the snap of bones breaking and the crackle of the heavy mangle grinding them to dust.
“I think it’s dead now,” said Dave.
Newton gave the mangle crank a final heave. The elf’s head popped in a shower of bloody pulp. “Is now,” he panted.
They turned at a noise. The iron-struck elf was hauling itself back up through the hole in the floor.
“Hit it with something! Anything!” yelled Dave, grabbing at boxes and flinging them blindly. Newton scrabbled inside the nearest box. He pulled out an accordion. The bellows fell open with a tuneless honk. Newton grabbed the strap as the elf dived to attack. Newton squeezed the bellows. The noise that followed was horrendous as the accordion sound was joined by the elf’s squealing: like a herd of cows in a car crusher. In the following silence, Dave and Newton stared at each other. The elf hung limply from the accordion’s insides.
“I think what you meant to say,” said Newton, standing, “was he was an elf hazard.”
***
37
Guin and Esther sat on top of the gong, so any elves who tried to escape could be dealt with. They could hear a muted grumbling beneath them, but they’d stopped trying to get out. Guin had spent some time reading
the book and listening to snatches of elves’ conversation.
“I really don’t know what they’re saying,” she said. “But none of it sounds nice.”
“No,” Esther agreed.
“I think we’re going to have to fight our way out of here.”
Esther nodded. She jumped down off the gong and hauled a sack of potatoes on top to keep up the weight. “How about the bottles of spirits? We can make Molotov cocktails.”
Guin stared at her suspiciously. “Are you an alcoholic too?”
“No, a Molotov cocktail is a primitive bomb where you set fire to some flammable liquid in a bottle and throw it.”
“Oh, that,” said Guin, making out she already knew. “Yes, definitely those. There are quite a few knives in here,” she added, rootling through a cutlery drawer.
Esther tore up a tea towel to stuff into the ends of bottles.
“We should find the heaviest thing we think we could swing in anger as well,” called Guin, banging pots around in a cupboard. “Try that frying pan.” She nodded at a cast iron pan hanging from a hook over the cooker.
“I’m a bit uncomfortable with violence for its own sake,” said Esther. “Perhaps we could find some strong bin bags and concentrate on immobilising them?”
Guin gave her a withering look.
***
38
Dave knelt on the attic floor, bent over as if in prayer.
“What are you doing?” asked Newton.
“I’m seeing what we can see,” said Dave.
Newton approached the splintered laths and torn insulation around the holes they’d punched in their fight.
“If we stand on the joists then we should be safe from going through,” said Dave. “Watch where you put your feet.”
Newton tried to look down, but the hole offered only a ragged view of some dusty pink carpet, deep in shadows. “I can’t see. Perhaps if I get down and put my head through?”
“I think it ought to be me,” said Dave. “Don’t want to put you in harm’s way.”
Dave knelt on the joist and lowered himself carefully forward, his hand on another joist for balance. Behind them, the fatally damaged accordion gave a discordant squonk. Dave turned in alarm. Newton stepped back.
A timber splintered, the plaster and lath gave way beneath them both. They fell through the ceiling, scrabbling at thin air, into the bedroom below. Dave bounced on a spongy mattress and rolled noisily onto the floor.
The plaster dust made it hard to see for some time. It made it hard to breathe as well. Dave was relieved to hear Newton coughing. At least it meant that the boy was still in the land of the living.
A light came on, a bedside lamp. Through the dust he could see Newton on a double bed, covered by a pink bedspread and a cascade of plaster. Next to him was the very surprised Duncan Catheter.
“Would you care to—” Duncan broke down in a fit of coughing. He gulped at a glass of water on the nightstand to clear his throat, immediately spitting it out again, along with a lump of plaster. “Would you care to explain what the heck is going on?”
Dave nodded tersely. “Yeah, there’s a dangerous problem in this house.”
“I can see that much.”
“A real problem. We can explain but I need to check for immediate danger first.”
Dave’s training kicked in. He could assess any potential injuries just as soon as he’d made sure that the area was safe. He stood, chunks of ceiling crunching under his feet. He switched on the main light and checked under the bed. Then he checked behind all of the furniture in the room.
“Wouldn’t have happened in one of my houses,” said Duncan, inspecting the hole in the ceiling. He turned to Newton. “Young squire. I’d appreciate it if you got off my bed.”
“Sorry,” Newton coughed.
Dave turned his attention back to the teenager. “You hurt, dude?”
Newton shook his head.
“What about me?” demanded Duncan. He swung out of bed and pulled on a dressing gown. Not one of the towelling bathrobes which came with the room, but a thick thing covered by a paisley pattern in red and gold. It even had gold knotted tassels on its belt. “A man does not expect to be assaulted in his sleep by attic-creeping idiots. I have a good mind to complain to the management.”
“Get in line, there’s a queue,” said Dave darkly. “Are you hurt, Duncan?”
“Apart from my pride?”
Dave gave him a look.
“I am shaken,” said Duncan. “I don’t mind telling you that.”
Dave leaned against the wardrobe. “There’s something strange going on.”
“Somewhat of an understatement, squire.”
“Elves,” said Newton.
Duncan gave Dave a look to indicate he thought the boy was quite mad. It was understandable, given the situation and the fact that Newton’s hair was still full of chunks of plaster.
“Tell me, Duncan, have you noticed anything strange at all during your time here?” asked Dave.
Duncan puffed out his cheeks. “Stranger than this?”
“In the town. Odd people. Peculiar behaviour. Any unsettling encounters, for example?”
Duncan considered for a moment. “Someone mentioned something about a Buy Nothing Day. I find that more than a little worrying.”
“The baby Jesus opened his eyes!” said Newton.
“Oh dear me. Clearly, the boy needs help,” said Duncan. “I think you need to pop back off to bed now. I wish I could do the same, but I think I’d better see if I can get hold of Mrs Scruple. She’ll need to find me another room.”
“She’s not going to find you another room,” said Dave. “There’s something going on. Something weird.”
“Elves,” said Newton again, which really wasn’t helping.
Duncan shook his head but, for a moment, Dave saw his eyes linger on pieces of paper on the dust-covered bedside table. Dave took a step towards the table but Duncan was swiftly in front of him, blocking the way.
“What have you seen?” said Dave.
“Nothing,” insisted Duncan, too quickly. “Nothing. Wild imaginings brought on by too much of Mrs Scruples’ sherry trifle.”
“It’s not the trifle, it’s elves,” said Newton.
Duncan scoffed.
Dave sighed, exasperated. The thick plaster dust in the air caught in his throat and made him cough. When he’d recovered, Duncan had three pieces of paper in his hand. One looked like folded architect’s plans. Another was a creased letter. The third— Dave realised it was one of the Christmas cracker jokes from dinner.
“Well I’m sure it won’t be long before you see what the problem is,” said Dave, “but right now, you need to believe in elves, because that’s what we’re dealing with here.”
Duncan snorted, although he never looked up from the papers.
“Listen to me,” said Dave. “The danger here is very real. If we split up, there’s a good chance it will prove fatal. I need you to trust me for a few minutes.”
“I’d say your track record has hardly lent itself to gaining trust, sirrah. I’m more inclined to report you to the police for endangering my health.”
“Oh, I’d welcome police involvement right now!” growled Dave. “The phone lines have been down all evening. Seriously, don’t you think I might—?”
There was a knock at the door.
“Well, really!” declared Duncan, peeved. “It’s like Piccadilly Station in here! All I ask is a little peace and quiet to get some rest. I don’t think any of you realise how hard I work on behalf of the local community. I refuse to continue with this absurd pantomime!” He crossed to the door.
“Don’t!” yelled Dave, but Duncan, a man of considerable bulk and filled with the power of his own importance, pushed him aside. He opened the door.
On the landing stood a mass of elves, a dozen at least. They looked up at Duncan with hungry little smiles. Duncan made a strangled noise that was half-annoyance and half-disbelief. He looked at t
he letter in his hand. “Would any of you gentlemen happen to be Mr – er – Bacraut? Bacraut, is it?”
One of the elves shouldered its way to the front. From behind Duncan, Dave saw it was the one with the wispy white beard who had jumped him on the stairs.
The elf thumped its chest. “Bacraut,” it growled.
“Very good,” said Duncan. “I believe you and I have a meeting scheduled.”
He waved the letter at the elves as evidence. They craned forward. The written word appeared to have a mystical hold over them. There were numerous mutters.
“Perhaps,” Duncan beamed, warming to the sound of his own voice, “we could have that meeting now. If you’d care to join me in my office? Um…” He gestured to the room off to the left on the landing.
Newton looked at Dave. “Are we actually going to have a meeting with murderous elves?” he whispered.
Dave was lost for words but, if nothing else, Duncan had the elves’ attention. They hadn’t attacked yet.
“Mr Catheter believes he is,” he whispered back. “I think I’m inclined to let him do that on his own.”
But as Duncan moved into the next door room, numerous pixie faces turned to look at them. Dave was suddenly aware of their sharp knives and shining eyes.
“Yes, yes, we’re just coming,” he said.
The room had once been an upstairs dining room. Perhaps it had been called the ‘banqueting suite’ or something equally pretentious. There was a decrepit oval dining table in the centre of, several equally decrepit chairs around it and a dumbwaiter hatch in the corner. However, the room had clearly become a storage space over the years. There were heaps of towels on a side table, a wonky hostess trolley under a pile of sheets, and a trouser press next to the door.
Duncan sat himself at the head of the table, tugging at his dressing gown and stripy pyjamas as though he was wearing the finest business suit.
“We have a situation, I can see that,” he said, nervousness barely showing through his glib businessman attitude. “So, let’s get around the table and see what needs to be done here. Never yet found a scenario that couldn’t be resolved by talking it out.”