And then one . . . A single, huge rat sitting on its torn haunches in the middle of the floor, blood dripping from a wound in his side, and the still-twitching tail of his neighbour vanishing down his gullet.
Even then it was not quite done. For now this last rat was seized with the most terrible madness of all, and, gasping, the onlookers saw it begin, slowly and relentlessly, t o eat itself.
Madame Olympia waited till the dripping jaws hung in the air. Then she flicked her whip, the jaws vanished – and she turned to the judges and bowed.
‘The Symphony of Death is completed,’ said Madame Olympia.
And laughed . . .
Fourteen
Madame Olympia got nine out of ten for her ‘Symphony of Death’, as near full marks as could be. The ghoul loved her trick and though Mr Chatterjee’s teeth went on chattering for a long time inside his bottle, he too thought she was very, very clever. Not even the nastiest Caliph in the Arabian Nights had done anything more horrible.
‘Why did I only give her nine out of ten?’ Arriman asked himself that evening. ‘Why not full marks?’ Because it was he who held back. The other two had been willing to go the whole hog and give her that last mark also.
What had prevented him, he wondered? For certainly no witch could touch her for darkness. And the style, the flair! Those strobe lights and that single rat left in the middle of the floor eating its own flesh! Standing there in his dressing-gown, Arriman remembered her low and evil laughter – very attractive it was, really – and that proud toss of the head. No, no one would beat her, that was for sure. There was only one witch to go, and from what he’d heard she was just a little slip of a thing, not to be taken seriously. No, Witch Number Six would be Mrs Canker, all right. She’d known it herself.
‘That was a very fine show today, don’t you think, Lester?’ he called to the ogre, who was running his bath.
Lester came out of the bathroom looking steamy and rather tired.
‘Very fine, sir,’ he said, his voice expressionless.
‘Those flickering lights and the skeletons and those giant fleas. I really liked them, didn’t you?’
‘Very much, sir.’
‘Of course, some people would have thought it wasn’t necessary to make the rats actually . . . eat each other up like that. I mean, I myself have never gone in much for that sort of thing.’
‘No, sir.’
‘But you couldn’t have anything blacker. And she was quite good-looking I think? I didn’t see any warts, did you? Or . . . er, whiskers? And I’m almost sure she wasn’t wearing wellies.’
‘No, she wasn’t wearing wellies, sir.’
‘So I’m very glad she’s won. Well, she’s sure to have. Very glad indeed. I think she’ll make me an excellent wife. I shouldn’t think she’ll get things to eat each other very much once we’re married. There’ll be just straightforward blighting and smiting, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Yes, sir. Your bath is ready, sir.’
‘You’re not very forthcoming tonight, Lester. What’s the matter with you?’
‘I’m a little tired, sir.’
‘Are you? Well, I’ll tell you what, fetch Leadbetter’s nephew, Terence. He can scrub my back for me. A nice boy. I’m fond of him.’
‘I’m afraid he isn’t here, sir,’ said Lester after a short pause. ‘He’s gone to visit . . . his mother.’
‘Has he? Dear me. That’ll be Leadbetter’s sister, I suppose. Pity. He’d have enjoyed today, I think,’ said the magician, untying his dressing-gown cord. ‘Er . . . those were human teeth she was wearing round her neck?’
‘Undoubtedly, sir.’
‘Yes. I thought so. It’s a new fashion, I suppose. I mean, one must keep up with the times.’
Arriman took off his trousers, his socks and his shoes and was just about to start on his underpants when the usual plashing sound was heard behind the wainscot.
‘Oh my Gawd,’ said Lester, who was in no mood for Sir Simon.
But before he could make his getaway, the wicked spook came waveringly through the panelling and thrust his pallid, guilty face at Arriman.
‘Hello, hello!’ said the magician, cheering up as always at the sight of his friend. ‘I’ve great news for you. I’ve found a truly black witch. Looks like a certain winner.’
The spectre stood in silence, his eye sockets dark and inscrutable.
‘I know you aren’t into marriage much, but you’ll like her. Great style. She did this amazing trick where all these rats . . . ate each other up. Of course, it’s not for people with weak stomachs.’
Still silent, the spectre stood and plashed.
‘Oh, blast you!’ said Arriman, suddenly furious. ‘Why don’t you say something?’
The wizard was in his bath, and Lester, who’d finished scrubbing his back, was out in the corridor talking to Mr Leadbetter, when a cry of anguish rent the air.
‘Lester! Come back! It’s trying to get in with me. Take it away!’
Lester did not move.
‘Aren’t you going to go to him?’ asked Mr Leadbetter.
‘Not likely. ’
‘But it’s the Kraken. It’s trying to get in the bath with him.’
‘I know it’s the Kraken. It always tries to get in the bath with him.’
‘But—’ began Mr Leadbetter, as another despairing cry came from Arriman.
‘Look,’ said the ogre, rubbing his eyepatch. ‘Last night that bloke sent seven princesses back to seven different countries, and three of them blinking budgies, lame ducks and penguins before he got to them. A month ago he brought down a ton of toads on the tax inspector’s Mini. What’s to stop him sending the Kraken back into the sea or turning him into an umbrella stand or something?’
‘You mean he likes being followed about and so on?’
‘Likes it?’ said the ogre. ‘He loves it. Laps it up. Can’t get enough. You mark my words, if he marries and has a kid he’ll be the biggest sucker in the world. Anyone calling that bloke ‘‘Daddy’’ and he’s a goner, devilry and wizardry or no.’
They both fell silent. The thought of Arriman’s marriage lay like a stone on their chests. For Terence hadn’t yet returned and even if he managed to hire an actor, was there really any hope that they’d manage to deceive Arriman?
‘Will you stay on if he marries . . . Madame Olympia?’ said Mr Leadbetter, who could hardly bring himself to say the enchantress’s name.
Lester shook his craggy head. ‘Don’t think I could,’ he said. ‘Goodness knows it goes against the grain to leave the poor bloke, but she really gives me the creeps. I wouldn’t put it past her to turn me into a bloomin’ baboon and get me to nosh meself into the bargain.’
‘It’s the boy I’m worried about,’ said Mr Leadbetter. ‘If anything happens to Terence, Belladonna’ll never get over it.’
‘It won’t,’ said the ogre. ‘He may be gnat-sized, but he’s got a head on his shoulders, that boy. Even now, I wouldn’t put it past him to bring home the bacon.’
‘I do hope you’re right, Lester,’ said the secretary, rubbing his aching tail. ‘I do very much hope so.’
Lester was right. No harm had befallen Terence, and midday had found him ringing the doorbell of Amelia Leadbetter’s terrace house on the outskirts of Todcaster.
At first when he’d seen again the dreary houses and mean streets of the town he’d been so unhappy in, Terence had felt uneasy and afraid. Miss Leadbetter’s Boarding House was not far from the Sunnydene Home, and when Terence thought of Matron and her bullying it was as though the last exciting days at Darkington had never been. But then he remembered that he was there to help Belladonna and not to worry about himself, and it was with renewed courage that he rang the bell.
Miss Leadbetter might not have a tail but she was a brisk and sensible woman, and when she’d read the note her brother had written, and given Terence a cup of tea and a bloater paste sandwich, she got down to business.
‘Now it says here you
want an actor to take part in a show up at the Hall? Someone tall and used to costume work, is that right?’
Terence nodded. ‘If he could be used to talking in that old-fashioned way, you know, with “haths” and “quothees” and things in it?’
‘Shakespearean.’ Amelia Leadbetter nodded. ‘Well, there’s plenty of unemployed actors around. It’s not a comic you want, then? It’s straight lead?’
‘Oh, yes. He plays a knight in armour. It’s a very good part. Sort of a star part.’
‘And it’s got to be someone who can keep a secret. Now, let’s see . . .’ She leant across and filled Terence’s mug once more with scalding tea. ‘There’s Bert Danby, but he’s a boozer and you can never trust a boozer. Then there’s Dave Lullingworth – he’s down to doing cat food adverts on the telly – but Dave would tell his life story to a brick wall. Wait a minute! I’ve got it. Yes, Monty Moon. He’s a bit long in the tooth now, but with the right make-up he’ll pass. Monty hasn’t worked for years, but he was at Stratford once. In fact I’m not sure he didn’t play the ghost in Hamlet.’
Terence was very excited. ‘He sounds just right!’ he said. An actor who was actually used to playing ghosts was more than he had hoped for.
So Amelia rang up Mr Moon, who by great good luck was at home and agreed to come around immediately.
Monty Moon turned out to be tall and pale and stooped, with a large balding head and a way of tucking in his chin so that it didn’t show any sags or wrinkles. When he saw Terence he looked surprised and a little stuffy, but when he saw the wallet which Terence had laid casually open on the table he got a lot less stuffy at once.
Five minutes later, they were deep in conversation.
‘Now, I understand I’m to play a wicked, wife-slaying spectre who suddenly finds himself brought back to life – is that correct?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Now, fill me in, dear boy, fill me in. I must get right inside this part. How many wives have I slain? What sort of armour do I wear? Am I bloodstained?’
So Terence told him everything he could think of about Sir Simon, and Mr Moon wrote it all down in his little notebook.
‘And he doesn’t wear his helmet or anything,’ finished Terence. ‘The top of him is clear and so are his hands so that he can beat his forehead with a plashing sound.’
‘Like this?’ asked Mr Moon, bringing his arm round in a sweep and striking dramatically at his forehead.
‘Well, yes, but it makes a softer noise. Sort of sloshier.’
‘Don’t worry, dear boy. I’ll get it right on the night. Now what about the sound effects? Anything special you want when I appear? Howling dogs? Tempests? Crowing cockerels? Just say the word.’
They went on discussing things for another hour and deciding what Terence should get ready in the way of skulls, necromancy incense and so on, for while it had been all right for Belladonna to write ‘Nothing’ on her list when they had Rover to rely on, now that her trick was to be faked, the more props there were, the better. When Mr Moon heard that he was to get five hundred pounds now and another five hundred if he succeeded in convincing everybody that he was really Sir Simon brought back to life, he promised of his own accord to bring an electrician and a stage manager who had their own van and would help him set the thing up.
‘You’ll see, dear boy, it’ll be a first-rate show. I always did my best work in costume parts. Now just draw a little map for me to show me how we can get into the Hall the night before and rig up one or two effects. A trap door would have been nice, but one can’t have everything.’
When they had finished, Terence went to thank Miss Leadbetter. Returning to say good-bye to Mr Moon, he found the actor still standing in the middle of the room, bringing his arm in a sweep round to his forehead, practising and practising his plashing sound. And knowing that he had found somebody who took his work seriously, Terence went contentedly away.
Fifteen
Arriman woke on the Sunday before Hallowe’en with a headache. Like Terence, he had had a dream and a dream with teeth in it. He’d seen this necklace floating in the air with five brand-new molars on it: cusps, fillings and all. Arriman had known at once that they were his teeth and he’d started making teeth-calling noises like the noises you call cows in to be milked with, or chickens to be fed. But the teeth wouldn’t come to him, they sort of sneered and floated away – and then Arriman woke and had been almost glad to hear, from under the lid of the soup tureen, the muffled cries of ‘Daddy! Daddy!’ with which the Kraken greeted the dawn.
Mr Chatterjee was already breakfasting inside his bottle, looking cheerful and relaxed. The climate of the North of England didn’t really suit him and as soon as Witch Number Seven had done her trick he was going to fly home to Calcutta.
‘Well, we’ve got the day free,’ said Arriman, who was always jolly at breakfast. ‘Witch Number Seven’s not going to do her trick till tomorrow night. Myself, I think I’ll do a little smiting and blighting today; I’m getting short of exercise. What about you, Sniveller?’
But the ghoul, sitting hunched and exhausted over his kidneys, didn’t answer. He almost never did.
So Arriman went off and blighted some fir trees and cleft some boulders in twain and called in a thunderstorm from the west – clean, old-fashioned magic which he enjoyed – and thought how nice it had been when the Wizard Watcher had sat peacefully at the gate and his oak trees had not been filled with sleeping grocers and lost witches had not bubbled about in bottomless holes on his East Lawn.
‘Well, tomorrow it’ll all be over,’ he thought. ‘Tomorrow I’ll know for certain who my wife is going to be. No, I’m being silly. I know now.’
After which he went to find Mr Leadbetter to ask him for some milk of magnesia tablets. Magician or no, Arriman had a stomach ache.
Meanwhile, down at the campsite, Belladonna sat wretchedly by the campfire, facing the fact that Arriman the Awful was lost to her for ever. Even before the enchantress did her trick, Belladonna had not really hoped to win, though when Terence was with her she’d sometimes felt confident and strong. Now, all hope was gone.
She reached for the magic mirror. Arriman was gulping down small white pills. He looked tired and anxious, but what was that to do with her? It would be Madame Olympia now who’d comfort him and smooth the curse curl from his furrowed brow.
Her sad thoughts were interrupted by a fierce rocking noise behind her, followed by a scrabble and a swoosh, and Mother Bloodwort crawled out of Belladonna’s tent, her flies sticking like a doormat round her head. The old witch had been a coffee table far too long and as she collapsed on to the camp stool that Belladonna pulled out for her she looked very battered and confused.
‘What happened?’ she asked, blinking. ‘Was the last one a swan?’
‘I’m afraid not,’ said Belladonna gently. ‘It was a budgerigar. A very intelligent one. It asked for a biscuit.’
‘Not the same, though, is it?’ the old witch remarked. ‘Don’t know what went wrong. Didn’t get a very high mark, I suppose?’
‘Well . . . three out of ten. Not bad, really. More than I’ll get, anyway.’
Mother Bloodwort kicked off her slippers so that the fire could get at her bunions and stared sadly into the flames.
‘It wouldn’t have made any difference if you’d managed the swan bit,’ said Belladonna, trying to comfort the old woman. ‘Because Madame Olympia would have won, anyway. She did this absolutely terrifying thing with rats. The “Symphony of Death”, it was called. She got nine out of ten: no one can possibly beat her.’
‘The “Symphony of Death”, eh?’ said Mother Bloodwort thoughtfully, ‘I’ve heard of that. Very black, that is, very nasty. There’s not too many witches could do that even in my day. I should think she’d gobble up poor Arriman as soon as look at him. Good job he’s got nice teeth.’
‘Oh, no, no! Don’t say that!’ cried Belladonna. ‘Arriman’s the mightiest wizard in the world! She couldn’t hurt him,
she couldn’t!’
‘Oh, well, maybe not,’ said Mother Bloodwort. She sighed. ‘I suppose marriage wouldn’t really have suited me. I’ve lost the habit, I reckon, and that turning-myself-young-again spell doesn’t seem to be up to much.’
She got up creakingly, went to fetch her tin with the Coronation on the lid, and began to shake her head into it, blowing on the flies as they fell to change them into maggots. ‘Best be getting ready for lunch, I suppose.’
But before Mother Bloodwort could move, Ethel Feedbag and Mabel Wrack came lurching up to them, both heaving with rage.
‘Look!’ said Mabel, putting down the bucket in which she was taking Doris for her mid-day stroll and pointing with a shaking arm at the enchantress’s caravan.
‘Stuck up, snooty cow!’ raged Ethel Feedbag.
Belladonna looked up, frowning.
‘How strange,’ she said.
Madame Olympia’s caravan was the kind with a little stove and a chimney. And of course as she was a witch, the smoke from her chimney was blowing against the wind. But that wasn’t what had made Ethel and Mabel so mad. Madame Olympia had magicked the smoke so that it came out in letters: the letter O followed by the letter C again and again, standing out as clear as could be against the deep blue sky of autumn.
‘What does it mean?’ asked Belladonna, puzzled.
‘What do you think it means?’ snarled Mabel Wrack. ‘Those are her new initials, of course. Olympia Canker. She’s letting us all know she’s won.’
‘But she hasn’t won! She hasn’t!’
The voice was a new one, and Belladonna, hearing it, sprang to her feet.
‘Terence! Oh, I’m so glad you’re back! You’ve no idea how much I’ve missed you.’
But though he hugged her as lovingly as always, Terence’s mud-coloured eyes were fixed on the enchantress’s chimney and his jaw was set.
‘You’re going to beat her, Belladonna. You’re going to get ten out of ten tomorrow. You’ll see!’
Sixteen
In the Great Hall at Darkington, the clock struck eleven. An hour till the true beginning of Hallowe’en, the Feast of the Dead, when the Shades of the Departed draw closer, for a few dread hours, to those they have left behind.