The Infernals

  “Quite right, Nigel,” said Gertrude just as the ice-cream van emerged from the mist. “Look! There’s another one. I say, it’s full of little fellows. How sweet!”

  The dwarfs crowded to the serving hatch of the van, joined by Constable Peel.

  “You don’t see one of those every day,” said Jolly.

  “No,” said Angry. “You usually see two of them. Oi, darling, keeping an eye on us, are you? See what I did there, eh: keeping ‘an eye’?”

  “Mind you don’t drop it, love,” said Dozy. “You won’t have anything to look for it with.”

  Gertrude, wisely, began to reconsider her opinion of the dwarfs. “What dreadful little men,” she said just as her husband’s eyeball appeared beside her, and various hands brandishing sticks, clubs, and, oddly, a stick of rhubarb.

  “Come away from them, dear,” said Nigel. “They’re common, vulgar types. You never know what you might catch.”

  “Common?” said Angry. “We may be common, but we’ve earned the right to be unpleasant.”

  “Sweat of our brows,” said Jolly. “You’ve just inherited rudeness. We’ve had to work at it.”

  “You’re peasants!” shouted Nigel. “Vandals! Get off my land!”

  “Nyah!” shouted Angry, sticking his tongue out and wiggling his hands behind his ears in that timeless gesture of disrespect beloved in school yards everywhere. “Get a proper job!”

  They emerged onto firmer ground, leaving the swamp behind. The dwarfs looked very pleased with themselves, and even Constable Peel and Sergeant Rowan seemed to have enjoyed the exchange.

  “I love a good shout,” said Jolly.

  “We should visit them on the way back,” said Dozy. “I liked them. Eh, Jolly?”

  But Jolly wasn’t listening. Instead, he was sniffing the air.

  “Can you smell that?” he said.

  “It’s the swamp,” said Angry.

  “No, it’s different.”

  “That was me,” said Dozy. “It’s all the ice cream. Sorry.”

  “No, not that,” said Jolly. “That.”

  They all sniffed.

  “Nah,” said Angry, “it can’t be.”

  “We’re dreaming,” said Dozy.

  “It’s—” said Jolly, so overcome with emotion that he could barely speak. “It’s—”

  “It’s a brewery,” said Mumbles.

  Everybody in the van looked at him, even Dan, who could barely see at the best of times.

  “You spoke clearly,” said Jolly.

  “I know,” said Mumbles. “But this is important.”

  And, to be fair, it was.

  XXVI

  In Which We Learn of the Difficulties in Re-creating the Taste of Something Truly Horrible

  WE HAVE ALREADY SEEN how exposure to life on Earth had changed Mrs. Abernathy, and not necessarily for the better, depending upon how one might feel about net curtains and potpourri. It had also changed Nurd, who had discovered that if he was any kind of demon at all, then he was a speed demon.

  But the brief expedition to the world of men had also changed other denizens of Hell in a variety of ways. A shiver of burrowing sharks36 had become quite fascinated by the game of rugby, even if they weren’t very good at it because they kept eating the ball; a group of ghouls, having locked themselves in a Biddlecombe sweetshop to escape from some rather aggressive young people, had become very adept at making chocolate, and were now distinctly tubbier than they had been, and therefore a lot less frightening; and a party of imps that had briefly glimpsed a Jane Austen costume drama on some televisions in a store had taken to wearing bonnets and trying to find one another suitable husbands.

  In the great clamor and disturbance that had followed the failure of the invasion, nobody noticed that two warthog demons, Shan and Gath, had disappeared, and there were now two fewer pairs of arms to shovel coals into the deep fires of Hell. Still, since it wasn’t as if anyone was being paid a wage, and the fires of Hell showed no sign of going out anytime soon, it was decided that Shan and Gath had merely found more suitable employment elsewhere, and they were quickly forgotten.

  Prior to the opening of the portal, Shan and Gath had led uninteresting, fruitless lives. They had never really experienced hunger or thirst, so they didn’t need to eat or drink. Occasionally they would gnaw on a particularly interesting rock, just to test its consistency, and they had been known to nibble on smaller demons, if only to see how quickly their limbs grew back. You had to make your own amusement in Hell.

  But their brief visit to Earth had opened their eyes, and their taste buds, to a new world of possibilities, for Shan and Gath’s sole contribution to the invasion had been to spend the night in the Fig & Parrot pub in Biddlecombe sampling free pints of what was then merely the experimental version of Spiggit’s Old Peculiar. And while Spiggit’s was, as we have established, a bit strong, and somewhat harsh on the palate, even for those who had previously dipped rocks in Hell’s lava before sampling them, just to add a little taste, Shan and Gath still agreed that drinking it had been a life-altering experience, as well as briefly altering their sight and the proper working of their digestive systems. They had returned to Hell with only one purpose in mind: to find a way to replicate this wonderful brew and then do nothing else but drink it for eternity. They had therefore retired to a cave and set about their work, having absorbed a certain amount of brewing lore from some of the regulars at the Fig & Parrot, who had drunk so much beer in their time that their bodies were essentially kegs on legs.

  Unfortunately, as Shan and Gath soon discovered, replicating the unique taste of Spiggit’s Old Peculiar was considerably more difficult than they had hoped: successive tastings of their early efforts had played havoc with their insides, and it usually took a while for their tongues and sinuses to recover from more than three glasses. They had therefore decided to recruit a taster to test their various brews. The taster’s name was Brock, a small, spherical, blue being with a good nature and two legs, two arms, one mouth, three eyes, and the useful ability to instantly reconstruct himself in the event of any unfortunate accidents.

  As it happened, this latter quality had turned out to be particularly useful.

  Inside Shan and Gath’s cave were tubes, bottles, vats of water, and stocks of weeds that closely resembled wheat, oats, and barley. In an effort to imitate as closely as possible Spiggit’s distinctive taste, Shan and Gath had also been forced to acquire a number of different acids; three types of mud; assorted dyes and corrosives; grit; oil; rancid fats; and various forms of wee.37 Each variation was duly fed to Brock by Shan and Gath, who, having encountered a couple of people dressed as mad scientists while drinking in the Fig & Parrot on that fateful Halloween night, had made themselves some white lab coats, and carried stone clipboards on which they carefully made notes of their experiments, as follows:

  BREW 1: Subject hiccup, then vanish in puff of smoke.

  BREW 2: Subject fall off chair. Appear to die.

  BREW 3: One of subject’s eyes fall out.

  BREW 4: Two of subject’s eyes fall out.

  BREW 5: Subject claim that he can fly. Subject try. Subject wrong.

  BREW 6: Subject claim that he can fly again. Subject try. Subject succeed. Gath remove subject from ceiling with broom.

  BREW 7: Subject beg for mercy. Threaten to sue. Fall asleep.

  BREW 8: Subject turn green. Become violently ill. Appear to die again.

  BREW 9: Subject say worst version yet. Subject say it wish it really was dead. Subject plead for mercy.

  BREW 10: Subject claim tongue on fire. Gath examine. Subject’s tongue actually on fire.

  And so on. Beside each unsuccessful attempt to make a drinkable version of Spiggit’s Old Peculiar, Shan and Gath had glumly added a big X. But they now had high hopes for Brew 19. This one looked like ale. It had a nice frothy head, and its color was a deep, rich red. It even smelled like something that one might drink without a gun being held to one’s head.

&n
bsp; They handed the stone cup to Brock, who examined it carefully. He was becoming quite the expert. He sniffed it, and nodded approvingly.

  “That doesn’t smell bad at all,” he said.

  Shan and Gath nodded encouragingly. Brock took a sip, held it in his mouth for a time, then swallowed.

  “Well, I have to tell you, that’s really very—”

  Brock exploded, scattering pieces of himself over the walls, the brewing equipment, and Shan and Gath. They wiped Brock off themselves, and watched as the various bits slimed and scuttled across the floor to reconstitute themselves once again. When he was complete, and apparently recovered, Brock looked warily at the liquid that was now smoking on the stones by his feet.

  “Needs a bit of work, that,” he said.

  Shan sank to the floor and put his head in his hands. Gath groaned. All of that effort, and they still had not managed to create a drinkable beer, let alone a satisfactory imitation of the wonder that was Spiggit’s Old Peculiar. They would never succeed, never. A second cup of Brew 19 stood beneath the stone tap. Gath was about to pour it down a hole in the floor when a dwarf entered the cave, followed by three more individuals of similarly diminished stature.

  “All right, lads?” said Jolly, rubbing his hands together. “I’ll have a pint of your finest, and a packet of peanuts.”

  “That’ll be two,” said Angry.

  “Three,” said Dozy.

  “Unk,” said Mumbles, who had reverted to type now that the beer had been found.

  Shan and Gath looked confused. Not only were there unexpected dwarfs in their cave, but they were unexpected dwarfs with a death wish if they were actually prepared to sample the local brew.

  “I wouldn’t if I were you,” said Brock. “It’s got a bit of a kick.”

  Jolly saw that Gath was poised to throw away the cup of Brew 19.

  “Hey, hey! Don’t waste that,” he said. “Give it here.”

  He ambled over to Gath and took the cup. Gath was too shocked to do anything more than gape. He had wondered if the dwarfs really existed at all, and had speculated that he had possibly been exposed to too many toxic brewing fumes. Nevertheless, this dwarf did seem to be speaking to him, and Gath no longer had a cup in his hand, so either the dwarfs were real or Gath needed to have a long lie-down.

  “You’ll never make any money that way,” said Jolly. “You should pour it back in the barrel if it’s bad. Nobody will notice.”

  He sniffed at the cup.

  “I’ll tell you what,” he said to his comrades. “It’s Spiggit’s, but not as we know it.”

  He took a long draft, swirled it round his mouth, and swallowed. Shan and Gath immediately curled up and covered their heads, not terribly anxious to be covered in bits of dwarf, while Brock hid behind a rock.

  Nothing happened. Jolly just burped softly, and said: “Bit weak, and it’s lacking a certain … unpleasantness.”

  He handed the cup to the others, who each took a sip.

  “I’m getting a hint of dead fish,” said Angry.

  “Oh, definitely your dead fish,” said Jolly. “No complaints on that front.”

  “Is that petrol?” said Dozy.

  “Diesel,” said Jolly. “Subtle, but it’s there.”

  “Trusap,” said Mumbles.

  The other three dwarfs stared at him.

  “He’s right, you know,” said Angry.

  “Brilliant,” said Jolly. “He has the tongue of a god, that boy.”

  “I might be able to help,” said Dozy. He rummaged in his pockets and pulled out the core of an apple that was so old it practically qualified as an antique. He dropped it into the cup and swirled it around with his finger.

  “Try it now,” he said, noticing that his finger was starting to burn, always a good sign when it came to Spiggit’s.

  Jolly did. For a moment he couldn’t see anything at all, and his head felt as though a piano had been dropped on it from a great height. He teetered on his heels so that only the shelf of brewing equipment stopped him from falling over. Slowly his vision returned, and he found some stability.

  “Wonderful,” he croaked. “Just wonderful.”

  Shan and Gath appeared at his shoulder.

  “Just needed some rotten fruit,” explained Jolly. “Apples are usually best, although I say that you can’t beat a hint of strawberry. More rancid the better, mind, but it’s all a matter of personal taste.”

  He handed the cup to Shan, who tried it and then passed it to Gath. They both winced, and reached out to support each other, then recovered.

  “Hurh-hurh,” said Gath.

  “Hurh-hurh,” said Shan.

  And they held each other and laughed while the dwarfs looked on indulgently.

  “It’s that Spiggit’s moment,” said Angry.

  “That special moment,” said Dozy.

  “That moment when you realize you’re going to survive,” said Jolly. “Probably. Magic, just magic …”

  XXVII

  In Which We Hear a Surprising Confession

  SAMUEL, NURD, AND WORMWOOD, with Boswell dozing beside them, sat at the mouth of the cave and watched the acid rain fall. It really was acid, too: it had corroded a coin that one of the dwarfs had dropped, and it left a faint smell of burning in the air after it splashed on the ground. They had managed to get the Aston Martin and the ice-cream van into shelter, and Nurd had assured them all that they were safe for now. Nothing hunted or flew during the acid storms. Even demons didn’t care much for unnecessary pain, or at least not self-inflicted unnecessary pain.

  “What do we do when it stops?” asked Samuel. “We can’t hide forever.”

  “We know that there has to be a portal, and somehow Mrs. Abernathy is in control of it,” said Nurd. “If we find it, then we can send you all back.”

  A look of what might almost have been grief passed across Nurd’s face, and was mirrored by Samuel. They were both thinking the same thing: after being separated and now, against all the odds, reunited, it just didn’t seem right that they should be forced to part again so soon. Even though Samuel desperately wanted to return home, and Nurd wanted him to be in a place of safety, their fondness for each other meant that the ending for which they both wished was destined to cause them great unhappiness. All of this remained unspoken yet understood between them.

  Strangely, Wormwood knew it too, for as his master and Samuel silently considered the fact that the best-case scenario would see them divided again by time and space and various dimensions, he coughed softly and said:

  “I don’t mean to be rude, but I’ll be glad to see the backs of those dwarfs. They have the potential to be quite, um, troublesome.”

  Samuel and Nurd understood what Wormwood was trying to do, and were grateful to him.

  “I don’t think it’s potential, Wormwood,” said Nurd. “They are actively troublesome. They haven’t been potential trouble since before they were born.”

  At that moment the dwarfs were happily sharing Shan and Gath’s new variation on Brew 19, helped by some frozen fruit salvaged from Dan’s van. Dan, who was resigned to the fact that his ice-cream business was unlikely to recover in the current circumstances owing to the consumption of all his ice cream and most of his chocolate, had joined in the tasting, and was now a little tipsy. Even Constable Peel had consented to a “small one,” with Sergeant Rowan’s permission, and the sergeant had found some unexpected common ground with Jolly, who had explained to him that the dwarfs’ criminal behavior was all society’s fault. Sergeant Rowan also believed this was true, mainly because society hadn’t found a way to lock them up and throw away the key.

  Angry, meanwhile, was demonstrating to Constable Peel the intricacies of pickpocketing, although this was less out of a desire to share hidden knowledge with the policeman than because Constable Peel had caught Angry trying to steal his handcuffs.

  “I can’t help it,” Angry was explaining in what might almost have been a sincere manner. “I was just born this wa
y. My mum says she brought me home from the hospital and found a stethoscope and two thermometers in my diaper. I can find a way to steal anything, me. It’s a gift. Sort of.”

  “I stole something once,” said Constable Peel suddenly.

  Angry, along with Dozy and Mumbles, who had been listening to the conversation, looked taken aback.

  “Really?” said Dozy.

  Constable Peel nodded slowly. His cheeks burned with shame, and a little Brew 19 that had splashed on his skin had begun to irritate it.

  “I was four,” he said. “I was sitting next to Briony Andrews in kindergarten. We always got two cookies at break, and I’d finished mine, but she had one left. So—”

  Constable Peel covered his eyes with one hand and choked back a sob. Angry patted him on the back and tried not to laugh.

  “Let it out,” he said. “Confession is good for the soul.”

  Somehow, Constable Peel found the strength to go on.

  “So—”

  “I can see where this is going,” said Dozy.

  “Ungbit,” said Mumbles.

  “Absolutely,” said Dozy. “Briony Andrews is about to be one hundred percent down in the cookie department.”

  “So—”

  “Very tense, this,” said Angry.

  “I stole her cookie!” concluded Constable Peel.

  “No!” said Dozy, almost managing to sound surprised.

  “Go on with you,” said Angry, not managing to sound surprised at all.

  “Hardened criminal, you were,” said Jolly, joining in the fun. “Stealing a little girl’s cookie? That’s low, that is.”

  “Devious,” said Dozy.

  “Underhanded,” said Angry.

  “Sneaky,” said Jolly.