Tales From The Wyrd Museum 3: The Fatal Strand Page 11

  Into the ever-shifting vapour the hooded figure melted and, as the banking mist flowed steadily out of the alleyway, his final, doom-laden words floated to the raven upon the wind.

  'Consider my warning well. It is the time of deciding—beware and choose with wisdom.'

  Into the sable streets the grey vapour vanished and a petrified Quoth was left to weep at his plight.

  'Squire Neil!' he cried in a purling whine. 'This miching mallecho is beset with doubt and qualm. Spare me this evil judging—what may a labbering juggins do in such a trial?'

  It was a hideous decision to make, but the outcome was assured: abandon Neil—or perish.

  ***

  'Neil!' a small voice urged. 'Neil!'

  Josh's brother mumbled in his sleep and turned over. 'Go back to sleep,' he groaned.

  Joshua Chapman lay on his back, the blankets pulled up to his nose, holding Groofles, his polar bear, tightly to his chest.

  'Neil!' he whispered again. This time, the four-year-old gave his brother a frantic kick and Neil rolled over crossly.

  'Look,' he growled, 'if you want to go, you're old enough to do it on your own. If you don't, shut—'

  The older boy lapsed into silence as the infant clung to him and he realised that Josh was terrified.

  'What's the matter?' he said, adopting a kinder tone. 'Bad dream? Do you want the light on?'

  The youngster's head shook against Neil's shoulder. 'No!' his smothered voice cried. 'They'll come and get us.'

  'Who will?' Neil asked, putting his arms around him.

  'Out there—the bad men.'

  Neil cuddled his brother a little tighter, then he too heard what had frightened Josh. From the living room there suddenly came the sound of rough, ugly voices raised in dirty laughter and Neil sat up in surprise.

  Under the door a slice of light glimmered and the boy immediately knew that something was dreadfully wrong. As he listened, he counted at least three voices, but not one of them belonged to his father. Sitting there, in the dark, with his brother trembling beside him, Neil could sense the air growing stale and the reek of tobacco smoke gradually permeated the children's bedroom.

  'Spill us some gin in there!' a wheedling male voice spat. 'I'll drink to him what's gone.'

  'More than he would for us,' retorted another. 'And that's the last you'll be having of my bottle, Harry Naggers.'

  'Josiah Rokeby wuz a villain right enough,' agreed a third in a hoarse, rattling rasp. 'Too handy wiv his knuckles, wuz Old Joe. All us warders've been boxed by 'em more'n the once.'

  A horrible understanding washed over Neil as the voices continued. Josiah Rokeby was the man Mary-Anne Brindle had claimed to have killed; the phantom shapes he had seen charging after her were now in the living room.

  'Just lie still,' he hissed to Josh, desperately wondering where their father was. 'They'll go away.'

  But the voices on the other side of the door showed no sign of ceasing and a forbidding thought crept into Neil's mind. What if, like the corridor before, the caretaker's living room had slipped back into the past?

  A chair leg scraped against bare boards and Neil's suspicion was confirmed, for the entire floor of that room was normally covered in worn, swirly carpet.

  'Gasper's not wrong there,' weasel-voiced Harry agreed. 'All the same, I'd rather have Joe's fists a-whacking me and deckin' me out, than be whipped by Mr Timms.'

  There followed an uncouth babble of fellowship at this sentiment, broken only by a parched interjection from Gasper. "Course, be all the worserer fer us now,' he complained huskily. 'Wiv Cauliflower Joe gone, it's us who'll cop it more oftener from him.'

  ‘I ain't afeared of Jack Timms.'

  Neil heard someone slap a table and Harry Naggers snorted with nasal laughter. 'You say that when Tick-Tock's standing here, Mr Mawdle,' he goaded. 'Then we'll believe you. You don't know him as we does. Need to be 'ere longer than you've been.'

  'What's he doing, anyways? Why ain't he 'ere?'

  'Tuckin' his favourites up for the night,' Gasper cackled. 'Ever so considerating is Mr Timms, makes sure they drop off a-thinkin' on him and how hard he'll whack 'em in the mornin'. Loves to taunt 'em, he does, and keep 'em jitterin'.'

  'Nearly did for that loony what filleted Joe Rokeby. Would've finished her off if we hadn't pulled him clear.'

  'Ah now, that wuz an unclever thing to make us do,' Gasper moaned. 'Should've let him have his jolly. She'll dangle anyways—or worserer. Doesn't like to be disturbed when he's havin' a jamboree doesn't our Jack.'

  Harry snickered callously. 'Tick-Tock's not doing his rounds,' he corrected the others. 'Paying his last respects to Fisticuff Joe while he's laid out on the slab, that's what he's doing.'

  'Goin' through his pockets, more like,' Gasper chuckled.

  'Or givin' him one last beating,' Harry guffawed. 'Likes it when they don't fight back, does Mr Timms.'

  The warders' disgusting talk stopped suddenly and Neil heard a new sound echoing from somewhere deep within the museum. A slow, almost mechanical tapping was moving through the galleries and the men grew agitated as the noise drew closer.

  'You'd best've saved him a drop or two, Mr Mawdle,' Gasper croaked. 'The pot-boy's not been and he'll be wanting a tipple after all his sweat.'

  The rhythmic knocking was now very near and, in the bedroom, Josh was on the verge of bursting into loud, inconsolable tears. Soaked in the cold perspiration of panic, Neil pushed Groofles against his brother's mouth and pleaded with him to keep quiet.

  'Take out the cards, Naggers,' Mr Mawdle said rapidly. 'He might fancy a hand or two and soften that temper of his.'

  'Pull that stool out!' Gasper prompted. 'Likes to rest his heels, he does. Helps him ease out the gut gas, sittin' that way'

  The tapping was almost in the room with them and the men's feverish preparations halted when, abruptly, the regular pulse stopped.

  Neil heard the door from the passage creak open and the others greeted their fellow warder with a fawning welcome.

  'Mr Timms!' Harry Naggers hailed, mealy-mouthed. 'How's about joinin' us in a game of braggers?'

  'Your seat's all waiting,' Gasper coughed nervously. 'We wuz jus' a-sayin' as how poor Joe'll be missed.'

  'Let me fill your tankard,' Mr Mawdle toadied.

  Their anxious reception was met with a surly grunt and Neil held Josh a little closer as heavy boots clumped into the room. A shrill squeal vibrated through the floor as a chair was dragged roughly aside, before squeaking in protest as the newcomer sat down heavily.

  'Would you like me to put your stick over here, Mr Timms?' Mr Mawdle offered. A resounding crash, which caused the bedroom door to shiver in its frame, thundered within the room.

  'You lay your thievin' hands on my cane and you'll be pickin' your fingers up with your teeth!' bawled a ferocious, malice-swilling roar.

  Neil's stomach convulsed inside him and the nausea he had felt in the corridor burned at the back of his throat again. That was the man who had so terrified Mary-Anne Brindle, the one who had sworn he would 'learn' her.

  'No one touches Mr Timms' cane, 'ceptin' hisself,' Gasper scolded Mr Mawdle.

  'You should know that by now,' Jack Timms snarled and the menacing tap-tap-tap commenced once more. 'The shepherd has his crook, the bishop his crosier—Tick-Tock his Tormentor.'

  'Have you been puttin' the abdabs on anyone special tonight, Mr Timms?' Gasper continued, trying to appease him.

  'On my way back from attending to our dearest chum Rokeby,' he began with mock piety. 'Him who didn't have so much as a shilling nor a watch on him when that vixen pricked him, by the way, I acquainted myself with that bedlamite clerk what came in yesterday.'

  'You must be awful tired by now, Mr Timms,' condoled Mr Mawdle.

  'Aw, you're not at that, are you?' Gasper scoffed at the suggestion. 'Mr Timms don't start the fun straight away. It's his Tormentor what gets 'em going first.'

  Jack Timms gargled his amusement. 'Tick-Tock, said
I as my cane went drumming along the walls. Tick-Tock, Tick-Tock.'

  'He likes to let 'em know he's getting near,' Gasper explained.

  'They've got to learn,' the repugnant voice declared. 'They've got to know that I'm here, measurin' out their time with the Tormentor, lettin' them know how long and drawn out the days are in this place.'

  'Most obliging of you it is, Mr Timms,' Gasper put in.

  'Gives the barmies something to look forward to,' Harry Naggers added. 'Should see their faces when they hear the rod a-knocking in the wards. Seen it put paid to many a screamin' fit, I have.'

  There was a pause as Jack Timms guzzled his gin, then he smashed the pint pot down upon the table and emitted a loud, rippling belch.

  'Where's my game of brag, Harry Naggers? Dole us three cards and if I catch you sharping me, I'll slice that pinched mouth of yours a bit wider.'

  In the unlit bedroom, Josh could contain his fear no longer. Pulling Groofles away from his lips, he let out a juddering howl. At once, the commotion behind the door was stilled.

  'Quiet, Josh!' Neil wept fearfully.

  'There's someone in the blanket store,' Gasper muttered.

  Four chairs scuffed across the floor as the brutal warders jumped to their feet.

  'One of the lunatics?' Mr Mawdle asked.

  'Have to be completely mad to think they could get out that way,' Harry told him. 'Next to the warders' common room—cracked as they come.'

  Then Jack Timms spoke. 'Stand back, lads,' he ordered in a low, intimidating hiss. 'If there's one thing

  I doesn't like, it's being vexed when I've got good cards. Tick-Tock doesn't like being made unhappy. Looks like he's going to have to have himself a jamboree to buck his spirits up.'

  To Neil's horror, the tapping noise began and with deliberate, unnerving slowness, it started to pound its way towards their bedroom. Josh was wailing now and Neil saw the narrow chink of light under the door waver as shadowy figures moved before it.

  Tap-tap-tap drummed the Tormentor.

  'Can you hear that?' Jack Timms teased. 'Tick-Tock's counting out the time you got left. Not long now, it isn't. Have to send all them clean blankets back to the laundress when I've done for you in there. Have to burn 'em, most likely. Blood and brains don't come out too good.'

  Tap-tap-tap.

  'Don't let him in!' Josh screamed.

  Revolting laughter burst from the other side and, to the boys' horror, the brass handle of the bedroom door began to turn.

  'Tick-Tock!' the appalling voice spoke through the keyhole. 'I've got you now.'

  'No!' Neil yelled. Wrenching himself free of his brother, he cleared the space from the bed to the doorway in one single, frantic leap. The handle twisted sharply and Neil hurled all his weight against the entrance as it gave a jerk inwards.

  'Get out!' he shrieked. 'Go back—go back!'

  An angry shout erupted behind the shuddering barrier as the brass door knob rattled furiously. Clenching his teeth, Neil rammed his shoulder against the wood and reached out to seize control of the wildly swivelling handle. Desperately, his ringers closed about the brass and, immediately, the boy howled in shock.

  Snatching his hand away, he tumbled backwards whilst, upon the bed, Josh continued to scream.

  The door was thrust open.

  'Blood and sand!' Brian Chapman snapped, flicking on the light and staring at his eldest son who lay sprawled on the floor.

  'For God's sake, Neil!' he stormed. 'What the hell do you think you're doing? It sounded like... well, I don't know what it sounded like. Blue murder mostly!'

  His eyes still round with terror, Neil stared apprehensively past his father's lanky figure and into the living room beyond. It was just the same as he had always known it. Not a sign that Jack Timms and the others had ever been there.

  'Nasty men, Dad!' Josh piped up from the bed.

  'What?' Brian demanded.

  Not moving, Neil tried to explain. 'We heard voices coming from in there,' he said shakily. 'Only it was different. Four blokes, they were murderers. I—we thought they were going to burst in.'

  'I told you!' his father fumed, smacking the door jamb. 'Didn't I warn you this would happen? All this rubbish from that Pickering nutcase—given you nightmares. I can understand Josh, but Neil—I'm surprised at you.'

  The boy shook his head fervently. 'I didn't dream it,' he asserted. 'They were there. Why didn't you hear them?'

  'All I heard was you two screaming to wake the dead.'

  'That's not funny, Dad.'

  'Well, you woke me and that's all I'm bothered about,' Brian told him. 'I don't want to hear another word tonight, is that understood?'

  Neil closed his eyes—what was the use?

  'Perfectly,' he answered.

  'Right!' his father cried. 'And before you do anything tomorrow, you can clean that mess off!'

  Not understanding what he was talking about, Neil turned to follow his father's angry glare. 'I didn't do that,' the boy uttered faintly.

  'I don't care who did it—just make sure you get rid of it.' With that, Brian returned to the living room, slamming the door behind him.

  Alone with Josh once more, Neil picked himself up from the floor and stared at the wall, just inches above his pillow. There, written in a clumsy, crayoned scrawl, were the words:

  Neil sat on the bed and stared blankly at the graffiti, confused and afraid. 'Did you do this?' he asked Josh. ‘I won't be cross if you did.'

  His brother shook his head dumbly and Neil knew that he was telling the truth. Shivering, he wrested his eyes away from the jagged writing and stared down at his hand.

  'Does it hurt?' Josh asked.

  Neil blew upon the fingers that had touched the door handle. They were numb with cold and bitten by frost.

  Raising his eyes, he looked at the doorway and, in a determined voice, told his brother, 'We'll keep the light on in here tonight.'

  Chapter 10 - White and Black Pieces

  Only five minutes remained before the dusty collection of timepieces, which ticked and whirred in The Horology Room up on the second floor, commenced chiming the strokes of midnight.

  Down the stairs Edie Dorkins sprinted. She had now searched all the upper floors of the museum for Miss Ursula, but had not found her. As she descended to the main hallway, the girl could hear Austen Pickering's voice drifting through the galleries as he continued to read aloud to the darkness.

  The entrance hall quivered in the tremulous glow of the candles, the frail flames mirrored in the glass of the frames which obliterated the walls, so that the space resembled the interior of a vast, grubby jewel. Even the suit of armour, which stood silently on guard by the tall weeping fig, was glinting in the rare patches where the rust had not reached.

  Crossly, Edie jumped the few remaining stairs and ran across the parquet floor where rivers of molten wax had formed snaking ridges that ended in ever-widening pools. Over these the child hurried, to the wall where the entrance to the deep caverns beneath the museum was concealed amidst the panelling.

  Down in the Chamber of Nirinel, Edie was sure she would find Miss Ursula. The girl stretched up on her tiptoes to find the place where the old woman had knocked upon the wood that set the secret mechanism in motion.

  'Open up!' she ordered, banging her small fists against the wall. 'Let me in. I want to see Ursula.'

  But the panel remained obstinately closed and no amount of pushing or pulling would even budge it.

  'Ursula!' the child shouted. 'Tell it to open.' Impatiently, Edie hopped back and gave the wood a sharp kick. Still the hidden entrance did not reveal itself and, feeling more perplexed and crotchety than ever, the girl dragged herself away.

  Suddenly, she paused and pushed a flap of her pixie hood away from one ear. From the umber shadows which lay beyond the doorway of the first collection there came a peculiar, snuffling sound—a faint, grunting snort, accompanied by the clattering of claws.

  An exulting grin flashed across
the child's grubby face as she spun around, seeking for somewhere to hide.

  The pig-like gabbling grew closer and Edie scooted back to the stairs, only to realise that they were useless as a place to conceal herself if she wanted to spy upon the unknown creature which was pattering towards the hallway.

  Hurrying to the tarnished suit of armour, she wondered if she could squeeze herself behind it and remain undetected. But one glance at that rickety assortment of pauldrons, jambes, vambraces and cuisses warned her not to do anything which might upset their fragile equilibrium.

  Hastening to the grand entrance, Edie thought that if she could curl herself up in the corner of the doorway, then perhaps the creature would not notice. It was a futile hope, but there was nowhere else to go, for the gurgling chatter was almost inside the hallway with her.

  At the last moment, even as she squashed herself against the oaken door, Edie caught sight of the perfect hiding place.

  Above her, cut into the panels, was an arch-shaped hole, over which peeling, golden letters announced: TICKETS FOR ADMITTANCE.

  In a trice, Edie sprang up and hauled herself through the opening, dropping head first into the cramped, cupboard-sized space beyond. Swiftly, she righted herself and, with her nose resting upon a narrow counter, peeped out at the glimmering hallway—just in time to see a small, squat shape come swaggering inside.

  Edie almost cried out in excitement at the sight of the astounding creature. She had never seen anything like it in her young life and she sank her teeth into the wooden ledge to stop herself squealing with pleasure.

  Into the hallway the outlandish figure scampered, its short, bowed legs waddling with a comical, straddling stride. Three hooked claws at the end of each arm dragged across the floor as it scurried along in a hunching gait. Lashing behind, slapping against the door frame, was a powerful, prehensile tail.

  Edie bit the counter a little harder, struggling to contain the exhilaration which volcanoed inside her when the strange beast finally emerged into the candlelight.

  The head, which sat upon round, sloping shoulders, was too large and unwieldy for the deformed, stunted body. A thicket of spiky tongues bristled between the waggling, pointed ears. But it was the face which Edie marvelled at most.