Midnight Hour

by Benjamin Read

  Nothing about her life made sense. Her parents were strangers, and she . . . she wasn’t human. She collapsed on the table, hands fisted either side of her head. Everything was awful, and she was locked out of the Midnight Hour, unable to do anything to help.

  She stayed that way for a long time, wracked with sobs. Eventually her towel fell off, and she sat up. Her toast was miserably soggy, and some of it had stuck to her face. She wiped herself clean with the towel, then blew her nose with it too. After all, there’s only so long you can sit and flap for, and then you just have to get on with it. This was another one of her mum’s sayings. In fact, she had to admit a lot of the bits of advice she told herself came from her mum. ‘Never be knowingly under-snacked. Big boots are best. Biscuits make everything better.’ All of the good ones. So, instead of continuing to have a massive meltdown, she grabbed some biscuits and a pad and a pen, and sat down on the one remaining sofa cushion to try her mum’s other little gem – ‘When in doubt, make a list.’

  First, she made a list of problems:

  Mum and Dad prisoners

  Terrifying magical musical lady

  Foolishly traded coins that could end a world

  Possible end of world

  Locked out of Midnight Hour due to lost key

  (and eejit uncle)

  A very angry friend (or whatever he is), Tarquin

  Then she made another column and listed her assets. She had to chew the end of her pen over this one, and it was still a much shorter list. It included:

  The Hog (obvs)

  A friend in the post office

  An ally(?) in the Library

  Being a magical Pooka person (but not in this world)

  That one still gave her the collywobbles, but it needed to go on the list.

  This was all taking so long, and the panic started to pinch again. She ran her pen down all the items on the list. Yup, that was it. How was any of this going to help? There had to be something in there somewhere. There just had to be. She considered making one of those big work-it-all-out things, with pins and different coloured string and photos, that you see on the wall in TV shows but, as she didn’t have any string or photos, it was a bit of a waste of time.

  It was useless, she’d lost all the things from the Midnight Hour with her bag. The all-important key, the Library card, the Night Post badge— Hang on, that wasn’t everything, was it? There was something else, but she just hadn’t known what they were before. Eejit!

  She winced at the destruction in her dad’s tiny office. The desk had been ransacked but, under a pile of Composters’ Weekly, there they were. The big envelope full of stamps, most of them black and beautiful, but two of them huge, blood-red and shiny. Bloody Marys; extra-special delivery stamps. All you needed was a true name and they’d be delivered immediately anywhere, in either world, Tarkus had said. She bit her knuckle to help her think. Maybe, just maybe, she had a plan. Having added the stamps to her list of assets, she wrote ideas down, drawing lines between the two columns. Many of those lines sprang from the word ‘stamps’. It started to look like a work-it-all-out wall on the TV after all.

  ‘Ha!’ she said. ‘I’m a genius.’

  The Hog cracked one eye open, then shook his head and went back to sleep.

  After that the day passed in a whirl of activity. She got her dad’s battered old computer going and looked some things up to confirm her suspicions. She started with the invention of the gramophone, then moved on to music websites, muttering to herself as she did.

  ‘Oh, you sneaky cow.’

  Then she researched diagrams of clockwork, relating to one big clock in particular, and found out something very interesting about how the timing was fine-tuned. Once again, she had cause to mutter about sneaky cows.

  Curiosity satisfied, she dug out two massive cardboard boxes that were folded flat in her mum’s crowded studio and reassembled them, wrapping all the joins and corners in thick silver gaffer tape from her mum’s toolbox. When they were sturdy enough, she moved them into the hall then went upstairs.

  She took a long hard look at her many shelves and piles of books, shrugged, and started to grab random armfuls, cart them downstairs, and drop them into one of the boxes. It was slow going, as she kept flicking through the books she was meant to be packing into the box. She just couldn’t help it. After losing ten whole minutes in A Wrinkle In Time she had to be strict with herself. Picking them up upside down helped.

  She was sweating by the time she was done but, with careful stacking, she had filled the one box, and taped it shut. She lined the other box with her quilt and padded it with cushions. She punched a number of holes in the sides with a screwdriver, then stood back to survey her work. She frowned, then grabbed a marker pen and wrote, ‘This way up!’ with a series of arrows, on each side of the box. Satisfied, she headed to the kitchen and made a packed lunch from what was left in the cupboards. She’d always been partial to a crisp sarnie anyway.

  It was dark now. Glancing at the clock, Emily wrote out two letters in her best handwriting and put them both in their own envelopes. She wrote a name she partly shared on one, then folded it in half and tucked it inside the other, along with one of the vast red stamps. She sealed the envelope, put a black stamp on it, then addressed it to a friend in a building in St Martin’s Le Grand that no longer existed. That done, she wrote an address in Bloomsbury that was also a name on to the box of books. She plastered it with all the remaining black stamps, and gagged at the taste of the glue. What did they make that out of? To finish off, she wrote a single true name on to the other box, the one with all the padding in, and slapped the remaining red stamp on top.

  She slipped her mum’s bomber jacket back on and grabbed the packed lunch, some water, the gaffer tape, and a torch. She popped the Hog back in her pocket, clambered into the padded box, and pulled the lid shut. She sat there for a minute, cursed, and got back out. Every time! She ran to the downstairs loo for an emergency wee, popped the front door on the latch, then jumped back in. She turned her torch on and put one final strip of the tape across the inside of the lid.

  ‘Well, Hoggins, here goes nothing.’

  After that she sat in her box and waited for midnight.

  She started awake to the sound of the first chimes drifting across the Thames. There were some difficult seconds as the fourth quarter chimes rang out and nothing happened, but then, with the first bong, came the squeak of ill-oiled brakes, and the click of the gate. Of course, it wasn’t midnight until the big bell sang.

  ‘Now then, whatever’s all this?’ The front door squeaked open as the gruff voice spoke. ‘Oh gawd, would you look at that lot! Where’s blinkin’ Alan when you need him, eh?’

  Somebody came in the house, and there was a rustle as the letter was picked up. ‘Easy one. Goin’ to see her at the depot.’

  Her box lurched as somebody picked one end up. She had to brace herself against the sides to stop from sliding.

  ‘Strike a bloomin’ light, that’s heavy.’ More shuffling then a groan of outrage as the weight of the book box was tested. ‘Won’t no one think of poor old Jonesy’s back? Gawd, I’ll need a truss after this.’

  There were more footsteps, then some rattling and dinging as the man searched for something on his bike. The midnight bongs were ringing out their count across the river. Emily felt sick. How long was this going to take? If the bongs finished, midnight would be over and surely that meant they’d be stuck outside?

  ‘Where’s that bloomin’ brolly?’

  There was the click of an umbrella opening, and then all the hair on her arms stood up and her torch made a fizzing noise as the bulb inside it popped. The final bongs that had been ringing outside slowed to a long persistent note. She was inside the little shadow of magic cast by a Night Shade and time had stopped.

  ‘That’s better,’ said Jonesy’s voice, but it was even gruffer and deeper now, and when he gripped the box, he lifted it with a smooth strength, without a moan or a groan.
She wondered what Jonesy was, then remembered it was rude to ask.

  ‘Alley-oop and in the bag.’

  And then Emily was sideways and tumbling, a going-through-a-vacuum-cleaner suction tugged at her brain, and it all went spinny and stomach-churny, and she was . . . posted.

  Emily blinked back into reality as the box was clunked down on a hard surface. It hurt her bum, despite the layers of quilt and pillow, but she managed not to squeak. She was all bundled up and a bit upside down in one corner of the box, and had sat on her crisp sarnies.

  ‘Here love, express delivery for ya to take.’

  That was Jonesy again. His heavy footsteps echoed, and he sounded very large indeed. Did that mean she was in the Midnight Hour? She tried to shift herself without making a noise, and pressed her eye to one of the air holes. She couldn’t see a thing.

  ‘Another? Whoooo-ever is sending these? None in a decade, and twoooo this week!’

  That voice.

  ‘S’like omnibuses, innit? See ya later, feathers.’

  ‘Goodbye, Mr Jones. Give my best to the goats.’

  Jonesy clumped away, and a soft, almost soundless step came close to the box.

  ‘How very unusual.’

  There was a whisper of movement, then a huge eye was pressed to the same hole Emily’s was, and she had to jam a hand in her mouth not to scream.

  ‘Oh-hoo! I see.’ The eye moved away. ‘Of course, the post must never be used for transporting people. A good job it isn’t, I think.’

  The softest of touches on the top of the box, as feathered fingers ran over it, then a smooth sensation of movement, and the box was lifted without any tipping, tilting or groaning.

  ‘Hold tight once more then, featherling.’

  Then came the vacuum-cleaner effect again and Emily was plunged back into the postbag.

  She came back to herself this time, as a bell jangled and a door rattled shut.

  ‘Night Post, express delivery!’

  ‘What’s all that?’ snarled a deep voice. ‘We’re shutting this station in the hemergency. You’ll have to come back.’

  Emily was sliding around as the parcel moved with the owl-lady who flowed on dancer’s feet.

  ‘I seek a Tarkus Poswa.’

  ‘Ain’t nobody called that here.’

  ‘Of course there is, or the stamp wouldn’t have brought us here.’

  A chair screeched back, and heavy feet hit the floor.

  ‘I said there ain’t no Possum here. Now get out, we’re in a state of hemergency!’

  Emily’s heart sank but then . . .

  ‘Uhmm, Sarge?’

  ‘What is it, Postlewhite? You’re supposed to be getting them drains unblocked, ain’t you?’

  ‘Working on it, Sarge. It’s just, I think that’s for me.’

  ‘WHAT?’ the Sarge roared. Emily decided she didn’t like him very much at all.

  ‘It’s an . . . erm . . . common misspelling of my name.’ Even Tarkus didn’t sound convinced by this.

  ‘Reeeeally?’ said the Sarge.

  ‘Erm, yes,’ said Tarkus.

  ‘And that,’ shouted the Sarge, ‘is why I don’t hold with all that readin’ and writin’! You can’t trust it. Now get it out of my sight, Possum.’

  ‘Let me help you with that, young man,’ said the owl-lady. ‘It’s very heavy indeed.’

  ‘Oi,’ muttered Emily.

  There was the sound of another door opening, then the package settled on to a hard surface.

  ‘Here, a very important package. I’d open it privately if I were you.’ There was a flutter of feathers. ‘Oh, and young man – your real name is beau-ooh-tiful. It suits you.’

  There was nothing but a shuffling of shoes in response from Tarkus.

  ‘Good luck, featherlings.’

  A swish and a swoosh and the sound of the door closing. There was silence, then Emily was pitched and rolled as Tarkus shook the box.

  ‘Hey, careful!’ she said.

  There was a muffled squeak of surprise, then a scrabbling, a scratching, and she had to duck away as something sharp and pointy sliced along the tape. She squinted against the sudden radiance, the gas lamps were bright after the dark of the box. The brightness was blotted out by the face of a very, very, angry ghûl.

  ‘YOU!’

  She unfolded herself from the pretzel shape she was in and creaked to her feet, her back aching. They were in a small side-office, with little more than a desk, a chair, and a lot of big folders on shelves. There was a harsh peppery scent in the air, abrasive to the nose. That was a first in her rage-inducing career. She’d never made anybody smell angry before.

  ‘Look—’

  ‘What were you thinking? That’s not my name here! ’ His yellow eyes glowed brighter than the gas lamps.

  ‘I’m sorry! I didn’t know if the stamp would work otherwise, and it doesn’t matter.’ His face grew ever more thunderous but she pressed on. ‘There’s some serious police stuff you need to know about. We’ve got to get help.’

  ‘No. No more of your nonsense. You are under arrest.’

  He was patting his pockets as he talked.

  ‘For what?’

  ‘Assaulting an officer! Aha!’ He brandished bright silver handcuffs.

  ‘You fell down a hole!’

  His eyes glowed even brighter. Hopefully he wouldn’t set his eyebrows on fire.

  ‘Abandoning an officer then! Handing over vital evidence.’ He advanced on her, handcuffs dangling. She edged round the side of the desk, away from him.

  ‘The coins were mine, and you nearly strangled me with them!’

  He paused at that. She spoke fast, keeping the desk in the way, just in case.

  ‘Look, I didn’t come here to argue. I came here to . . . well.’ She looked at her feet. ‘I came here to say sorry to start with.’

  ‘Oh,’ he said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well, that’s a surprise.’ His face was unreadable. ‘I didn’t think you were a sorry type of person.’

  ‘What’s that meant to . . .?’ She stopped herself. ‘I suppose I’m not, normally. But I shouldn’t have left you down the hole. Sorry.’

  ‘And,’ she said, before he could start. ‘I shouldn’t have gone off with the coins, but you totally shouldn’t have tried to snatch them either.’

  He nodded, a tight little gesture.

  ‘I, also, am sorry for that.’

  ‘Well, me too.’

  There was a brief silence between them. The background scent changed to something sweet and herbal, a leaf her mum might have cooked with once.

  ‘You’re still under arrest, of course.’

  ‘WHAT?’

  ‘Ha! Your face!’

  She hadn’t heard him laugh before. It was dry, and high, and kind.

  ‘Oh, very funny, Violet.’

  ‘Why are you here? What happened with the Nocturne?’ He put the handcuffs away in his pocket and sagged back on the desk. ‘I tried to tell the Sarge about it, but he won’t listen because the city’s in chaos right now.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The Angry Dead have rioted. They’re demanding to leave the Hour. Idiots.’ His face was gaunt with tiredness. ‘There’s been mayhem everywhere. We’re run ragged, every officer is out on the streets, and they’ve called in the reserves.’

  ‘Then why are you still here?’ she said.

  The flame of his eyes glowed from under heavy brows as he glared at her.

  ‘Because I am restricted to desk duties after losing both my official truncheon and an important prisoner, then being found in a sewer.’

  ‘Ah. Look, I apologize, okay.’

  ‘Yes, you said. I’m still considering whether to accept it or not.’

  ‘I’m sure you’ll see the funny side. In the meantime, there’s some VERY important things you need to know.’

  He let out a long-suffering sigh.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘You’re a what?’


  ‘I know. It’s all a shock to me too. I mean, does that make me part-rabbit or what?’ She twitched her nose. ‘I don’t even eat vegetables, let alone grass.’

  ‘Hare.’

  ‘I’m not eating that either,’ she said.

  ‘No, hare. Pooka can be hares, hounds and horses.’ He shook his head with disapproval. ‘Why do you not know this? Heritage is important.’

  ‘I didn’t know I had a flippin’ heritage until I grew massive ears and legged it. It was . . .’ She paused, unsure. ‘. . . it was weird and kinda cool, I suppose. But mainly weird. I mean like where did my pants go?’

  ‘So you’re a beast of ill-omen? Well, that explains why you can hold the pennies . . .’ Tarkus leant back in his seat with a scowl and folded his arms. ‘. . . and a great deal about my week so far.’

  ‘Enough moaning. Mistakes happened, we’ve all learnt something.’ She flinched as Pat and his sad smile filled her head. ‘We need to do something. It’s all a big plan. I’ve figured it out, I think.’ She tried not to gabble as she explained something that would have sounded like total nonsense to her a few days ago.

  ‘She’s bringing in new music from my world to power herself up. That’s why she’s not gone as wobbly as the Library.’ She slammed the desk with her hand. ‘I know why she needs my mum too! She’s going to get her to put the bad pennies on to the pendulum inside Big Ben.’

  ‘What? Why?’ Tarkus rocked forwards again, his hands slapping the desk as the chair shifted under him.

  ‘Because the timing is set by – guess what – old coins!’ She was proud of figuring this out. ‘I looked it up on the interne— a big library we have on my side. They use pennies on the pendulum to make tiny adjustments to keep it accurate. It sounds mad but it’s true.’

  Tarquin’s eyes went wide.