Candleman

by Glenn Dakin

  Skun sighed. Maybe he would just let them slay the girl anyway, to keep things bright. Suddenly Frub stood in front of Skun – a clear insult – and turned to address the smog rabble.

  ‘I say we start killing now!’ he hissed. ‘And I’m not fussy who!’ Frub looked meaningfully at Skun. Then something else caught his eye, and he glanced upwards. It was the last thing he did. A dark shape dropped out of the sky and crushed him to death.

  ‘Garghoul!’ screeched Skun. The terrible creature had landed in their midst, its dark horns lowered, its eyes flashing blue fire. ‘Kill it!’ Skun cried.

  The smogs leapt on their attacker. In an old smog manoeuvre, they tried to wrap all their stretchy bodies around him at once, in a big ball, suffocating and crushing their foe. But this garghoul was tough. He was already breaking out of the smog-ball, ripping his foes to shreds with claw and fang. Skun backed away, down the roof.

  ‘I am Skun, chief tracker of the Ilk tribe,’ he called out, trying to maintain his authority. ‘We are here on human business – which you are forbidden to interfere in!’

  The garghoul ignored him. For a moment, the sheet terror of its physical presence almost overwhelmed him. There had been rumours among the smoglodytes of a shadow following them as they searched the city for Theo. Skun realised now he should have paid those rumours more attention.

  Now a terrible battle ensued, as one by one the garghoul tore the smoglodytes apart. Soon their shredded bodies were strewn all over the rooftop. In the thick fog, the battle went unnoticed by human eyes, and completely unsuspected by Theo below.

  Skun had to forget about the mission now. He had to preserve the most valuable tribe member – himself. His smog team were managing to scratch and bruise the garghoul – even poison him with their toxic claws – but it was obvious there would be only one victor. And there was something familiar about this proud, ferocious enemy.

  ‘It’s Tristus!’ Skun realised as he began to slink away. ‘One of the most feared garghoul of all.’ There were dark legends about Tristus. Skun knew he had to take off fast.

  ‘Help me!’ squealed Flin, the little spy, crushed under one garghoul claw and about to have his throat torn out by the other. Skun didn’t. With a lame smile – and a cheeky bow – he sprang off the roof and lost himself in the filthy night. Even Tristus was unable to stop him.

  Unaware of events on the rooftop above, Theo followed Foley into the dingy premises on the ground floor. The engraving shop had been neglected for years. Piles of yellowing prints lay discarded on tables, awaiting a restorer’s hand that would now probably never come. Whole folios, jammed with maps, diagrams, depictions of long-forgotten sea battles and portraits of families long gone, were stacked in toppling piles. The once-prized engravings in frames on the walls were mottled with damp now, uncared for.

  ‘Worthless rubbish,’ Foley muttered, gesturing at the mouldy artworks. ‘I used to keep the old family business running, when my brother was alive,’ he said. ‘Can’t ever find the time now.’

  Theo was almost trembling with excitement. Many of the prints were from the era when his ancestor Lord Wickland had been alive. The lost secrets are getting nearer, he thought, his heart racing. The truth is getting close enough to touch.

  The old man groaned as he bent down to open a corner cupboard. It was crammed with crumpled card. He dragged an old biscuit tin out from under the pile and put it on a workbench.

  ‘Grandad gave me this before he died. Wanted me to look after it, because he knew my dad had no time for the old Dodo stories.’ With shaking hands, the old man opened the tin. As well as a roll of paper, there were a couple of military medals, a dog collar and a little toy soldier.

  ‘Sentimental rubbish,’ Foley said quietly, tipping the keepsakes to one side. The old burglar seemed to have recovered his composure now that he was about to unburden himself. ‘Don’t know if this is any use to you after all this time. But I want it out. Finally. All this mystery stuff has been nothing but bad luck for me ever since I first heard about it.’

  Foley spread out the top sheet. ‘Plans for a job.’ He grinned. ‘It’s a bit late to stop this caper now – it happened over a hundred years ago! Grandad was asked to transport some weird animals out of a certain house and leave them in a tunnel somewhere. There was a pick-up point for some pistols marked. Nothing special.’

  ‘You don’t say,’ yawned Chloe.

  ‘It was a crazy idea. I used to laugh about it as a kid. It was the animals – not the pistols – that was being used to kill the other gang.’

  ‘Hilarious,’ Chloe said.

  ‘This first sheet is just the map Grandad was given so he wouldn’t muck up the job,’ Foley explained. ‘Now here’s the interesting bit!’ He lifted up the chart and there was another, very thin sheet under it. At first glance it appeared to be a series of geometric drawings, lines and shapes, laid over each other to make a baffling pattern.

  ‘This was found with the map. Grandad reckoned it wasn’t supposed to be there. It must have been included by accident, rolled up in a careless moment by one of the bosses. Grandad said it held a great secret – never told me what.’

  Foley looked up, hoping for some sign of interest. He was disappointed. His mysterious visitors just stared blankly.

  ‘Is this all you’ve got?’ Theo asked, somewhat crestfallen. ‘I thought you might have pictures of the Candle Man. And I really want to read Slaughter of the Gargoyles!’

  Chloe just sighed and carelessly stuffed all the papers back in the box.

  ‘Might be useful to wrap our chips in,’ she remarked. ‘Come on, Theo, we’ve wasted enough time here. All we’ve got is hearsay and the plans to a hundred-year-old mugging. Might as well have spent the afternoon painting my toenails.’

  ‘Say what you like,’ Foley said sulkily. ‘Those was great secrets in their day. Meant a lot to me as a kid, being trusted with that stuff. Here, hold on!’

  He rushed back across the room and stopped Theo in the doorway. Theo was amazed to be loaded up with camera equipment and a laptop computer, which the burglar pulled from under a smelly rug in a long-disused dog basket.

  ‘Here’s your stuff back, Weirdy.’ Foley gave a cracked grin. ‘I passed your test, didn’t I?’ he said. ‘You was waiting to see if I’d give this lot back! No need to punish me now, is there?’

  ‘No,’ said Theo simply. ‘You, err – you did the right thing.’

  Suddenly they were back on the streets, with Chloe hurriedly waving for a cab. Theo looked up excitedly.

  ‘Are we really going to have chips?’ he asked.

  ‘If you like,’ grinned Chloe. They bundled into a taxi and sank into the deep red seats gratefully. It had been a long, tense day.

  ‘We learned a lot,’ Theo remarked eagerly.

  Chloe ignored him, peering at the pile of Foley’s goodies balanced on her lap.

  ‘Shame that lot turned out to be pretty useless,’ Theo said.

  Chloe looked up, her eyes alight with excitement.

  ‘Theo Wickland, my dear boy –’ she grinned at him – ‘we have just hit gold dust!’

  As they pulled away, neither noticed a dark, winged shape swooping from the rooftop above.

  Chapter Sixteen

  A Visitation

  The monstrous silhouette loomed in the study doorway, a hunchbacked giant of a man. A long, antiquated cape swamped his body, and a deep hood concealed his face.

  ‘Who – who are you?’ stuttered Dr Saint, his eyes bulging behind his circular spectacles. He whirled round to call for assistance. ‘Mr Nicely! Come here at once! Explain this intrusion!’ he barked.

  No one answered his summons. A moment before, all had seemed in order at Empire Hall. The master of the house had been sitting in his shirtsleeves, nibbling a bowl of celery, studying reams of readouts from the Mercy Tube Archive. Now suddenly he faced the unknown.

  ‘Where is he?’ the extraordinary stranger demanded in a thick, deliberate voice, as if his tong
ue were too big for his mouth.

  Dr Saint blinked, horrified.

  ‘His scent is all over this place!’ growled the stranger.

  Dr Saint pulled on his grey jacket and donned his bow tie smartly, pulling himself together. He would not be taken at a disadvantage, right here in Empire Hall.

  ‘I don’t believe the Society of Good Works has granted you an audience,’ he replied haughtily.

  ‘I don’t believe I requested one!’ shouted back the intruder, stepping closer.

  Dr Saint started to back away.

  ‘I want him!’ screeched the stranger with sudden rage. ‘I know he has been here!’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Master Luke Anderson,’ the figure said.

  ‘I don’t know anyone of that name,’ Dr Saint said innocently, his glance flitting from the garden windows to the outside corridor for any sign of his own staff.

  The stranger drew closer. Dr Saint was starting to get a glimpse of the face concealed in the hood, and it was not a welcome sight.

  ‘Let’s try another name,’ said the visitor quietly. ‘Wickland!’ he suddenly roared, making Dr Saint jump, despite his best efforts to remain composed. ‘Now you know what I mean, don’t you, you craven two-faced hypocrite! I’m looking for Wickland, son of Wickland, son of Wickland, son of Wickland!’ he bellowed. ‘I think I’ve got that right,’ he added, finally calm again.

  ‘Who – who are you?’ Dr Saint asked.

  The stranger threw back his hood. Dr Saint struggled to regain his composure as he saw the hideously deformed head, the immense, crooked nose, the dark, sunken eyes.

  ‘I am known to you people as the Dodo,’ the stranger breathed. Dr Saint stepped back. The dreadful face combined with an unearthly body odour almost caused him to faint.

  ‘You – you can’t be him!’ Dr Saint said finally.

  The intruder’s face was disfigured by a bitter smile. ‘Unfortunately for me, the Dodo is the only person I can be,’ he said darkly.

  ‘This is impossible!’ blurted Dr Saint, dashing behind his desk in a sudden panic. ‘Mr Nicely! Foundlings! In here at once!’ He began to scrabble in a drawer for a revolver he kept hidden there, but the Dodo smashed him to the ground with a vicious claw.

  Dr Saint tried to rise, but he was trodden to the floor by an enormous boot. A gnarled, twisted hand appeared from the folds of the Dodo’s great cloak, snatched Dr Saint’s gun from the drawer and clung on to it with talon-like fingers.

  ‘Your associates will not be coming to help you,’ the Dodo said. Then he barked out a single, guttural command and looked towards the door. From his position, still lying on the floor, Dr Saint followed the gaze and saw a human skull come rolling through the study door, bright white bone glistening.

  It was being rolled along playfully by an outlandish beast the size of a Rottweiler yet more like a beaver in appearance. The skull still had patches of flesh and hair on it here and there. The beaver looked up quizzically at Dr Saint, grooming its bloodied fur contentedly.

  ‘M-Mr Nicely?’ stammered Dr Saint, staring in horror at the skull which seemed to grin back up at him.

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ said Mr Nicely, walking into the room with his hands on his head. He was followed by Lord Dove, Lady Blessing, the skinny new maid Veracity, and two huge – but scared-looking – men in blue overalls. They were being shepherded by two more Ante-Diluvian beavers and a pair of big black rats.

  ‘That – that should have been me,’ Mr Nicely said, nodding towards the skull on the floor, which was being given a fresh lick by a beaver. ‘It was Masters – Lord Dove’s man. I’m afraid he got to the front door first. The – err, rest of him’s still in the hall.’

  ‘Perhaps the next time I come to call I will receive a kinder welcome,’ growled the Dodo. He motioned for Dr Saint to get up and peered closely at his face.

  ‘You’re obviously not the real Philanthropist,’ he remarked, as if disappointed. ‘He had a much more cosmopolitan air.’ Dr Saint said nothing. ‘You’re just the current incumbent of the position, I expect,’ the Dodo mused.

  ‘I am Doctor Emmanuel Saint, head of the Society of Good Works,’ the Master of Empire Hall said. ‘But you can’t be the Dodo!’

  ‘He does have all the err … animals,’ said Lady Blessing, white as a sheet.

  ‘Animals!’ snorted the Dodo. ‘A word invented by humans to make themselves feel superior to their fellow … beings. Well, you vile specimens of homo sapiens are certainly no better than my charming Trogontheriums.’ He bent to pat one of the beaver-like creatures.

  ‘But you – I mean he – must have been dead for years!’ protested Dr Saint. ‘The Dodo was last seen in 1901!’

  ‘Would that I had died in 1901, as the world believed. But it was not … allowed.’

  ‘Not allowed?’ echoed Dr Saint, with a sudden eager interest. ‘Not allowed by whom?’

  ‘By someone you know and I know,’ replied the Dodo. ‘Oh yes, he shut down my operations – most of them – and allowed me to hide in shameful obscurity. There, away from the eyes of the world – and the underworld – I even managed to cure myself of my grotesque affliction for a while.’

  There was a sudden crunch as one of the Trogontheriums began to chew some of the gristle around the skull’s jaw.

  ‘But then yesterday afternoon, he returned – or at least his latest descendant did. He walked into my home and he did this to me!’ The Dodo gestured at his extraordinary face with his talonlike hand.

  ‘Speak!’ roared the Dodo suddenly, spinning round to face the assembled representatives of the Society of Good Works. ‘My servants know he has been here. Where is he?’

  ‘He’s escaped!’ blurted out Lady Blessing. ‘We had him here – for a while,’ she said evasively. ‘But he was taken. By the Society of Unrelenting Vigilance!’

  The Dodo looked thoughtful. He sat in Dr Saint’s best leather chair and surveyed the room. A dark cloud seemed to settle on his brow.

  ‘The Candle Man was destroyed,’ the Dodo said. ‘But his arch-enemies took his bloodline. The Society of Good Works took steps to provide for Wickland’s only heir. Oh yes, I’ve kept my eye on you, in my own way, for years. Years in which I had no power to confront you. For decades, for three generations, you manipulated events, watched over the Wickland descendants, waiting to see if the genetic line would produce another Candle Man. You finally, and very charitably, became the guardians of the house of Wickland. But why?’

  ‘We simply don’t want him to use his powers against us,’ said Dr Saint smoothly.

  The Dodo scowled. The giant rats squealed and started to circle Dr Saint slowly.

  ‘You don’t like this one, do you?’ said the Dodo to his creatures.

  Dr Saint blenched.

  ‘No,’ sighed the Dodo, turning away from his captives. ‘There’s more to it than that.’ He strode towards the door, and his creatures fell in line behind him. He stopped in the doorway, crushed the barrel of Dr Saint’s gun with his claw and let it fall to the ground.

  ‘The Dodo is the greatest enemy of the Candle Man,’ he said. ‘Wickland is mine. If you recapture him, hand him over to me – alive. Or you will all be thrown into my pits to die screaming!’

  ‘Yes, sir!’ squeaked Lord Dove.

  But the Dodo was already disappearing down the bloody hallway.

  The dead servant, Masters, had been put, bit by bit, into a body bag.

  ‘Now get those idiots out of here,’ snapped Dr Saint to Mr Nicely, nodding towards Lord Dove and Lady Blessing. ‘And get this place cleaned up!’

  ‘I’ll call those Good-As-New Carpets people again,’ offered Mr Nicely.

  ‘No, you won’t, you moron – this is human blood!’ screamed Dr Saint. Mr Nicely stepped back. He noticed that his employer’s hands were trembling slightly.

  ‘I’ll do it,’ piped up Veracity, the new maid. She smiled, revealing braces on her teeth. ‘I’m good with blood.’ She darted off towards the kitchens.
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br />   ‘And fumigate my study!’ Dr Saint yelled after her.

  Still shaking with emotion, he strode straight into Theo’s old room. Mr Nicely was astonished to see that there were now wires and machinery everywhere. The bottom section of the Mercy Tube had been opened right up, revealing all its innards – a tangle of leads, sockets and circuits.

  ‘Nice cup of camomile, sir?’ suggested the butler.

  Dr Saint smiled a ghostly smile.

  ‘I’m afraid we’ve reached a point in our affairs where a cup of camomile tea can no longer solve our problems,’ he said. He sat on a swivel chair in front of the Mercy Tube and buried his face in his hands. Then he looked up, and there was a wild look in his eyes.

  ‘It is not appropriate,’ Dr Saint said quietly, through gritted teeth, ‘for the Master of Empire Hall to be hurled around like a rag doll!’ Mr Nicely had never seen his employer so consumed with rage.

  ‘And it is not appropriate for a man who holds so much power, to be so … utterly powerless!’ he shouted. Mr Nicely searched his brain to recall where the special medicines were.

  ‘The Liberation is nearly upon us!’ Dr Saint raved, striding back and forth. ‘The Candle Man is out there eluding every attempt to catch him! Now the Dodo, the most terrible fiend of the Victorian age, has been reborn! And guess what? He doesn’t like us!’

  Dr Saint stood still, gave Mr Nicely a strange, sad look and pointed at the door. ‘Get out, please!’ he said. ‘Get out and don’t let anyone in!’

  Mr Nicely fled.

  Dr Saint read and re-read the years of data from the archive. By the time he was finished, the floor was a sea of paper and wires. He reversed connections, unplugged and plugged leads, reset dials and activated the second generator.

  When at last he was ready he programmed the controls and pressed the switch to full power with a five-second delay.

  Then he stepped into the Mercy Tube.