by Tony Lewis
“Well look at that,” said Stitches, squatting down. “It's gone straight through.”
When he landed, Mandrakes left leg had shattered a stone slab and buried itself up to the hip in the earth.
“I didn't think the ground in these parts was so soft,” said Ollie joining the zombie.
“It isn't,” said Ronnie from behind them. “That's why people round here don't have gardens. Not ones they can plant anything in anyway. It's easier to work an allotment in Siberia than it is here.”
“You could grow frozen peas, I suppose,” said Stitches helpfully.
They both prodded and poked the area where Mandrake's leg had disappeared. Clods of earth fell away from the edge along with small chunks of concrete. After a few moments they both heard the fragments clatter onto a surface below, where they echoed quietly. They both realised the same thing at the same time, but it was Ollie that voiced it first.
“There's a void down there,” he said, manoeuvring Mandrake's flaccid leg out of the hole and resting it gently on the surface next to his other one. The hole it left was roughly a foot square, but other than that it was far too dark to give up any of its secrets.
“Ollie, use this,” said Ethan who had borrowed Gullett's torch.
“Who'd have thought I'd be looking into two mysterious holes in the same night?” the half vampire said as he flicked on the torch and guided the beam into the darkness. The light was instantly swallowed by the turgid gloom which was so profound that only a small area was illuminated, but it was just enough to show a certain amount of detail, the most interesting of which was a flight of steps leading down into the unknown.
“Another staircase,” said Ollie, sweeping the torch back and forth. “I don't know how far they go but they must be there for a reason.”
Ethan held out a hand and helped Ollie and Stitches to their feet.
As Ollie wiped the dust from his clothes (Stitches didn't bother. He couldn't distinguish the difference between his own dust and that which he had picked up off the floor. It's the same logic that dictates why a smoker shouldn't try and get rid of a lungful on a foggy day), Constable Gullett rejoined them.
“Seems like Mandrake tried to kill himself by leaping from the top of the fountain,” he said, whilst helpfully pointing to the top of the fountain just in case anyone was unclear where the top of the fountain was. It was at the top. Of the fountain. The top of the fountain, got it. “But in true Mandrake style he made a total arse of it, resulting in this nonsense. One witness said as soon as he hit the deck the stone buckled and gave way.”
“The witness hit the deck?” asked Stitches.
“Buffoon,” said Ollie.
“Hang on a sec,” said Stitches and walked away.
A short time later he returned carrying a pickaxe and a shovel.
“Where did you find them?” asked Ronnie.
“Mrs. Strudel's kitchen. You've seen some of the vast joints that she cooks. She needs utensils like these. And let's face it, any dirt and grime that they pick up won't be half as bad as some of the ingredients she uses. You could find most of the contents of her spice rack in a hospital. Or an undertaker's for that matter.”
With a gentle shake, a kind word and a hefty smack in the chops, Constable Gullett finally managed to rouse Mandrake, and in good old fashioned copper tradition sent him off with a flea in his ear, and a size fourteen boot up the backside (obviously Gullett's style of policing was particular to Skullenia and couldn't be practised anywhere else of course. Nowadays if an officer of the law so much at looks at someone in a funny way, it's enough to secure a complaint coming in. The next thing the poor Bobby knows he's having to justify why he called a ten year old that he'd caught throwing stones at trains a `naughty boy' to outraged parents, a Home Office Select Committee, and a phalanx of terrified senior officers soiling themselves because a member of the great unwashed is ever so slightly miffed, and reckons that the police should engage themselves in far more useful pursuits like `catchin' a murdrer or sumfink').
A solid hour's work later the hole had been expanded to the point that someone of a reasonable size could fit through it and gain access to the steps. Or to be more precise, Flug. He had been lured away from his game of staring into the middle distance whilst drooling with the promise of an industrial sized bag of sweets if he would go into the dark hole.
“Wot down dere, Boss?” he asked.
“I really don't know,” said Ollie handing him the torch. “That's why we need to have a look.”
“Is it safe down dere den?” said Flug.
“I should think so,” said Ollie, switching on the torch and returning it to Flug's giant hand. “If it wasn't and there was something evil or dangerous down there, then logic dictates that it would have tried to escape by now and wreak havoc, wouldn't you say?”
“Dis light pretty,” said a mesmerised Flug.
“Well, quite. But don't worry yourself about it; the rest of us will be coming as well. If anything happens we'll be right behind you. Which it won't. But if it does, we will.”
“Make way please, make way. Press coming through.”
“Oh no,” said Ethan putting a hand on Ollie's arm and turning him to face the new arrivals. “Look who's here.”
The huffing, puffing shambles that was Excalibur Cross, lead reporter for the Skullenia Times, forced his way through the crowd. He was short, round and so florid of face that his cheeks actually radiated heat and light. He looked like he had gotten dressed for a bet and already had a notebook and pen in his pudgy little hands. He was closely followed by Ramekin Deadhouse, a tall, gaunt and distinguished looking creature who had a rather large camera round his stick like neck.
“I was wondering when you two would show up,” said Gullett, the hint of disdain in his voice evident for all to hear. “Still, I should have known, shouldn't I? We lift up a few rocks and out you come.”
“Now now, officer,” said Cross, “no need to be hostile. We all have a job to do, don't we? Some may see mine as less than savoury but, if you think about it, it's not that much different than yours.”
“And just how did you arrive at that outlandish conclusion?” said Gullett, already starting to bristle.
“Isn't it obvious?” said the reporter, already jotting something down. “We both strive to gather evidence and get to the truth of whatever we're investigating.”
Gullett scratched his chin and eyed Cross.
“There is a slight difference though,” he said. “I gather evidence and facts about incidents that have actually happened, not what I think has happened, or what might have happened or, even though I do actually know what happened it's not juicy enough to sell so I'll make up what happened.” Gullett closed the short distance between them and thrust a meaty finger at Cross's rotund chest. “We're oceans apart, Cross, and don't you forget it.”
The reporter swallowed audibly and took an involuntary step back. He tried to smile but failed miserably, and there was no mistaking the fear in his eyes. Gullett may have had the outward appearance of an overweight, plodding and sometimes bumbling simpleton, but he possessed the heart of a lion. It didn't pay to take him lightly.
“Shall-l-l-l I take a few pics-s-s-s?” Deadhouse asked, taking the camera from around his neck and removing the lens cap. “We've got-t-t-t a deadline to meet you know-w-w-w.”
Colin Deadhouse's strange way of speaking was due to the fact that he suffered from a rare form of speech impediment that caused him to stutter at the end of words rather than at the beginning. Still, it could have been worse. His father had been afflicted with paralysis of the sense of humour, which meant that he looked as if he were constantly miserable and possessing about as much personality as a rhododendron bush. Needless to say that he didn't live to a ripe old age. He was killed in a fight after being told a joke by an ogre, and what with ogre's not being very good at comedy in general, but thinking that they are and being overly sensitive if criticised, said ogre had cleaved off the hea
d of his audience.
“I think that's going to depend on the good Constable here,” said Cross, oozing newly found charm that he hoped would make Gullett see him in a new light. There was of course more chance of Count Jocular becoming a monk, but he was nothing if not an optimist. (Cross, that is. Not Jocular. Jocular wasn't Cross. He was a monk. No, a monk would get Cross. No no, a monk was Cross at Jocular. Hang on, Cross was a monk and was cross at Jocular. Nope, that's not it. Stand by, I think I've got it now, Jocular was cross at Cross because Cross had gotten cross with a monk who had made Jocular cross, which had made…I'm going to stop there. I've just had a call from the editor. He's extremely cross.)
“Fine,” said the policeman. “But I don't want either of you getting in the way. Are we clear?”
“Crystal,” said Cross and Deadhouse in unison. Well, it was almost in unison. Deadhouse added a few more L's.
Torch in hand Flug led the way down the steps, followed by everybody else. The walls either side of the steps and passageway were dripping with blood from the fountain above. They glistened with a riot of moss and algae that displayed what seemed to be every colour you could think of. The ground, however, apart from a little moisture here and there, was relatively clear, which was surprising because the heavy air indicated that the subterranean void had been hidden for many a year. Clearly no one had used it for an extremely long time.
The clatter and subsequent echo from their footsteps resounded off the walls and took so long to dissipate that it sounded like a Roman legion was marching behind them.
As Flug forged on he swept the torch from side to side and up and down. He wasn't doing it to gauge their surroundings or to make sure that the way forward was safe of course; he was just enjoying the pretty patterns that the light made on the stone. On one sweep though, the beam flashed across something that at first appeared to be the end of the passage. It seemed to be about four feet from the floor, round and made of a silver metal that had glistened when the beam had passed over it. It looked just like a door knob.
“That looks just like a door knob,” said Stitches.
“Indeed it does,” said Ollie. “Flug, point that thing forward.”
The monster did as he was told, revealing that not only was the shiny object definitely a door knob, but that it was attached to, of all things, a door.
“This is weird,” said Cross as the pace of the group slowed perceptibly. “Why on earth would anyone construct something like this down here? Seems a bit pointless to me.”
“It may very well seem pointless to us,” said Ethan, “But there has to be a reason for it. Nobody would go to all this trouble for nothing, surely.”
Eventually they reached the door. Ollie squeezed his way past Flug who was doing a reasonable job of blocking the passageway with his immense girth, and geared himself up to face whatever was on the other side. Logic dictated that the biggest and strongest should go first in case things turned nasty, but putting Flug up front would have been about as much use as claiming that having Parkinson's disease was handy for cleaning your teeth. It was well known throughout Skullenia that Flug was the biggest scaredy cat in the world. He had once been reduced to a quivering blob after finding a spider the size of a proton in the bathroom. It wasn't his bathroom of course, and the fact that he had wandered into Cedric the Decapitator's house had passed him by completely.
“Be careful-l-l-l,” warned Deadhouse as Ollie reached out with his hand. “There could-d-d-d be something-g-g-g in there.”
“I'll be gobsmacked if there's anything in there at all,” said Gullett. “But if there is, I doubt there'll be much of it left.”
“Could be a deranged troll gone mad after being locked up for decades.” said Cross.
“Or a psychopathic demon just waiting to be released so that he can possess a body and wreak bloody havoc,” said Ronnie.
“Or maybe a constipated vampire bat who hasn't realised that he can't poo upside down,” said Stitches.
“Will you lot please shut up,” said Ollie, getting annoyed.
“I've done a little bit of wee,” said Flug.
Ollie put his hands on his hips and addressed his colleagues.
“See what you've done now with your silly talk. Don't worry Flug. We'll get you cleaned up later once we get back…”
“Shh,” said Stitches, putting a finger to his lips. “Did anyone else hear that?”
There was a scraping coming from the other side of the door. It wasn't particularly loud, and it wasn't particularly insistent, and it almost seemed as if whatever was there was just going through the motions because it had done the same thing a thousand times before. It sounded like fingernails being dragged down wood.
“Maybe there is someone or something in there after all,” said Cross, making yet more notes in his dog eared note book.
Ollie reached for the doorknob, blatantly ignoring the staggeringly obvious comment, and desperately trying to rid his mind of mad trolls, loopy demons, and bats with skid marks. He closed his trembling fingers around the chunk of metal and was immediately taken aback by how cold it felt, even for him. Not withstanding the fact that his blood was half human, both he and vampires in general had an excellent tolerance for freezing temperatures, so much so that on one famous occasion a vampire spent a whole two week summer holiday in West Wales without feeling the need to wear a duffel coat and gloves. Yes indeed, vampires are that tough, but then again you have to be if you're visiting a country where you're liable to sustain a dislocated larynx simply by asking the way to the shops.
Ollie gave it a twist clockwise and then counter-clockwise, then jiggled it a bit to the left, then jiggled it a bit to the right, then pushed it in and pulled it out. He finally came to the conclusion that not only had he possibly invented a new dance craze (the Undead Lurch, perhaps) but that the door was locked. He pre-empted Cross's obvious observation by announcing the fact himself.
“Well-l-l-l that's-s-s-s a bit of a bugger,” said Deadhouse as he twiddled with his lens cap. “I was kind of hoping-g-g-g that this would turn into an interesting story-y-y-y.”
“Me too,” said Cross, jotting down who knew what. “The last decent bit of copy that we had was when we had that tip off that Ivan the Quite Nasty was planning to invade.”
Gullett stifled a chortle as he recalled the incident in question.
Ivan the Quite Nasty, or Derek Crankpipe as he would have been known to his friends if he'd had any, was a full time logistics supervisor in a cleaning products supply warehouse in neighbouring Berevia, who fancied himself as a bit of a tyrannical dictator on the weekends. That was providing that his manager didn't need him to work overtime, of course. “Those pesky containers of `Shift It' won't move themselves, you know,” was his favourite quip. Due to his work commitments Ivan/Derek usually confined his despotic activities to ranting at passersby in the High Street, and producing and distributing highly inflammatory leaflets such as `Fight Capitalism. Send donations now' and `Bleach. Why does it always smell like poo?'
One weekend after finishing early on Friday night with a feigned headache, he decided to put into action a plan that he had been formulating for at least a fortnight. The invasion of Skullenia. He had everything planned down to the last detail. He knew exactly where and when to strike, where best to deploy his military forces, and what constitutional changes he would implement when he seized power, such as the compulsory issuing of tartan booty slippers to every citizen, and the removal of those horrible cherries from tins of fruit salad to name but two.
All was going well until an unfortunate incident scuppered his plans. Just as he was about to sally forth and blitzkrieg his way across the border, he had a puncture and fell off his tricycle, badly grazing his knee and denting his bell. After careful contemplation he decided that he couldn't very well implement his fiendish plan with a bit of a limp and a muffled dinger. Still, it was probably for the best. He had already been extremely disappointed that fifty percent of his invasion force, Br
ian from the canteen, hadn't set his alarm and overslept, so he reluctantly decided to postpone the expansion of his empire (currently Flat B, Hemmy Royd Towers, Back Passage Alley, Berevia) until he was feeling a bit better. Besides, he had a backlog of a hundred gross of mops that needed sorting out, so he went home.
“I guess we'll have to break it down,” said Ronnie, leaning forward and giving the door an experimental shove with one hand. “Could take a while though. It's a solid chunk of tree.”
“Boss,” said Flug, tapping Ollie on the shoulder with a finger that could have split a wind sock. “Maybe dere a key under da mat.”
“Of course there is,” said Stitches. “And look, there's a little holder for milk, and doilies for cakes, and…”
The zombie's less than gracious observation was cut off as Flug shone the torchlight at the foot of the door.
“Dere,” Flug repeated whilst pointing furiously for emphasis.
Astonishingly, there on the floor was a wicker welcome mat. They could tell that it was a wicker welcome mat because it was made of wicker and had welcome written on it. It was also a mat.
“Quite welcoming really, for a hidden underground labyrinth,” said Stitches.
The supernova that was Deadhouse's flash bulb ignited at that moment, making all of them temporarily blind.
“Bloody hell, mate”, said Ollie rubbing his eyes. “Try not to do that too often, if you don't mind. I've got a bit of a problem with direct sunlight.”
“Sorry gents-s-s-s,” said Deadhouse apologetically. “But I'm sort-t-t-t of used to it.”
“I'm sure you are,” said Gullett. “But can't you save it for something other than domestic knick knacks?”
By this time Flug had lifted the mat and was now proudly holding a small golden key in his giant hand.