35
The catalyst was white lightning, brilliant, instant flashes that filled the ballroom and blinded vision. But there was no following thunder, only continuous and silent fulgurations that were so swift they were almost one long outburst of light.
The masqueraders searched around and blinked, and blinked again, bewildered for the moment and totally hushed. Creed, who was used to the glare of flashbulbs, automatically shielded his eyes.
Nicholas Mallik was frozen on the steps, those dark eyes uncomprehending. Lily Neverless moved in this strobe effect in the manner of her earliest silent movies. Bliss wheeled this way and that, a giant white-headed spider ensnared in a net of fluctuating luminance.
This only lasted seconds. Then somebody screamed, and it wasn’t Creed.
There was pandemonium when others took up the scream, everyone in the ballroom suddenly galvanized by the sound. There were shouts, confusion and a lot of rushing about.
Only Creed knew exactly what was happening. He turned towards the tall french windows that graced one side of the long room and from where the camera flashes were emanating. He thanked God, he very nearly went down on his knees and raised his hands to the Lord right there and then. The boys were all here.
One of the window-doors burst inwards under the combined weight of the excited paparazzi outside. The breeze fluttered the heavy drapes on either side as the cameramen tumbled through, more following, stepping over their colleagues, camera motors whirring, lenses pointed at the old shrivelled actress who danced an ungainly solitary waltz, smiling for the crowds, a star again, her blue eye twinkling in the light, the brown one curiously dull and flat. Although mystified, amazed and perplexed, the photographers never ceased their busy work, the veterans among them realizing they were getting the shots of a lifetime, the younger paps, who perhaps didn’t quite appreciate the legend they were shooting, nevertheless carried away by the news value of the subject. This once-great star had fooled the world into believing she was dead.
Creed could have kissed every ugly one of them – he could have French-kissed every one of them – including Bluto who, as usual, was well to the fore, shuffling around on his knees like some stunted troll, trying to steady his Leica whilst being nudged and elbowed by his equally enthusiastic chums. Unembarrassed by conscience, not giving a toss about invasion of privacy, trespass, or hooliganism, they advanced on Lily Neverless, calling her name and pleading for her to stand still for a moment!
‘Is she the real Lily?’ one of them shouted to Creed.
He nodded and couldn’t stop nodding as he backed away from them all, his blue-uniformed minders rushing past him to get at the paparazzi pack. He bumped into masqueraders who seemed at a loss to know what to do with themselves. Several held their masks in place with their hands as if to secure their identities.
A roar carried over the general babble and everyone in the vicinity looked towards the staircase where Nicholas Mallik stood rooted, his shoulders hunched, a quivering finger pointed at the intruders. His face, thunderous at the best of times, was dark – literally blackened – with rage. To Creed’s astonishment (further astonishment, given everything that had gone on before) the man seemed to be breathing steam (it had to be cold air coming through from the open window misting the warmer draughts of wrath from Mallik’s nostrils, had to be).
‘How dare you!’ he screeched, his usual sombre tones not much in evidence now. ‘How dare you enter these premises!’
The photographers gawped.
Someone took a snap.
‘Get out!’
They looked at each other, eyebrows raised. One of them shrugged and took another picture.
Mallik’s chest and shoulders began to heave. The vaporous air from his nose blew in a steady stream. His image began to falter.
Creed saw the gradual, wavering transformation and almost sank to the floor in an overload of terror. He watched and thought of storybooks and horror-movie devils, although this was more subtle, far less extreme than those man-conceived visions, yet all the more horrific – and real – for that. The manifestation wasn’t clear, for it quivered, throbbed, became a kind of shifting hologram, ebbing but returning with added force, growing bolder until it was firm and unmoving. Those around Creed sunk low, whether in fear or homage he had no idea.
‘Who is that guy?’ one of the paparazzi asked.
‘Nobody,’ another replied.
They turned back to Lily Neverless, who was by now staggering around like a grotesque marionette, most of whose strings had been cut.
‘Over here, Lil.’
‘This way.’
‘How ’bout a smile?’
‘Why’d you pretend to be dead, Lil?’
Creed wiped his palms over his face. He looked incredulously from the glowering demon to the ratpack. They didn’t see what he and others in the ballroom did. The hideous metamorphosis had had no effect on them whatsoever, they saw nothing unusual at all.
He went back to the demon again and saw only a tired and stooped old man on the stairway, someone who contemplated the pack of photographers with weary despair. Mallik’s body seemed to shrink into itself with the defeat.
Pandemonium started up all over again.
‘Dad!’
Creed whirled around. Sammy evidently was no longer so sleepy; he was twisting in the arms of the man wearing the jackal mask, trying to get away. Creed pushed his way through costumed figures to get to them.
Grabbing hold of the boy’s arm, he tugged hard, but the masked man pulled from the other side. Someone ran past in panic, bumping the photographer and almost knocking him over; but he kept his hold on Sammy, refusing to give him up. He tugged again, but the other man clung on grimly. In desperation Creed finally let go of the boy and went for the man, grabbing the mask’s long snout and jerking it aside so that he could smash a fist into the exposed face. The jackal head fell to the floor.
‘Lidcrap!’
The grimace of pure hatred Lidtrap wore was infinitely more ugly than the fancy dress mask. He tossed his dampened blond curls from his eyes and hurled himself at Creed.
The photographer had dodged people as angry as this one many times in the past though, and was, in fact, master of the cunning duck. Lidtrap went sailing past and Creed used a sharp elbow in the back to help him on his way. The expensive Armani jacket ripped nicely as Lidtrap slid along the ballroom floor.
Creed grasped the boy’s hand and glanced around wildly, not sure of which way to run. He wasn’t the only one in this dilemma, for figures dashed here and there in total disorder, colliding with each other, shoving, pushing. It appeared that nobody wanted to be photographed.
The open french window was the best bet, Creed decided. Get among the paps and worm through to the outside. Taking Sammy with him, he made his way in their direction. A few of them were arguing with the two attendants who were jumping up and down in front of the pack, waving their arms to spoil the shots. One of them made the mistake of trying to snatch Bluto’s Leica. Now Bluto got upset very easily when anybody touched his camera – even Sean Penn had learned never to get too obstreperous with this particular paparazzo – and he smacked the offending hand; then, to show how serious he was, he smacked the attendant’s cheek. All three, both attendants and Bluto himself, went down in a struggling heap after that, which left the other paparazzi happily free to get on with the job in hand.
‘Come on, Sam,’ Creed urged, moving swiftly, ‘we’re getting out.’
But something snagged his collar, spinning him round. The man made up as a pug-nosed wolf uttered a low growling sound that Creed would have thought ridiculous had he not seen and heard too much that defied reason that evening. He turned his head aside from the awful breath as canine teeth snapped at his throat.
‘Don’t be bloody stupid!’ he said, grabbing at the shaggy mane to push the head and its slavering jaw away from him. He quickly realised that this was no mask he was holding on to, for there was warm flesh beneath the hair. Sharp claws rak
ed his clothes, tearing through his coat and shirt, and the beast snarled and growled and gave a very decent impression of being a blood-crazed werewolf and Creed, whose disbelief had, by now, been suspended totally, kicked and screamed to get away. It was all insane and it was all very real.
The only weapon he had, the only hard object at hand, was his trusty Nikon, and it was with some regret, but without second thoughts, that he lifted it from his chest and jammed it into the great slobbering mouth before him. His assailant yowled when three jagged teeth broke off and he leapt away to twirl around on the dance floor in agony, scattering guests in all directions. Unfortunately, Lily Neverless happened to wander by at that moment, a hand imperiously stretched out before her, the long cigarette holder at last in its proper place between her rouged (and now smeared) lips. She was unsteady, but she smiled a benign if crooked smile, and as she passed the agonised wolfman she patted his head. That particular condescension enraged it even more; it leapt upon her and tore at her throat, drawing blood that was too oozingly thick to be natural (or healthy).
Lily squawked and gurgled blood and the paparazzi stopped what they were doing in shocked horror, their cameras dropping away from their faces. The horror may have lingered, but the shock didn’t: viewfinders returned to eyes and shutters clicked and motors whirred with renewed frenzy at this fresh spectacle. ‘Help her!’ one of them cried, but no one wanted to miss this unique photo opportunity, least of all the photographer who had shouted.
Another figure, this time a woman in pale gold, her powdered hair coiffured high, barged into Creed, the knock bringing him to his senses. He ceased watching the old actress dying all over again and turned to grab hold of his son.
But the boy was gone.
He wheeled this way and that in panic. By this time, most of the masqueraders were making their way towards the main doors at the far end of the room, their intention obviously to get out, find their transport and flee the Mountjoy Retreat as swiftly as possible, no doubt grateful that it had been a masked ball and their identities would be safe from tomorrow’s newspapers. He was halfway down the ballroom before he realised Sammy wasn’t among them. He caught a glimpse of the two-tone hag, and that’s all it was, merely a glimpse, for she was fading fast like a movie-dissolve, becoming nothing, an empty space. Then another blur, this one closer to him, a quick impression of the beak-nosed blubber-belly before he, too, vanished. The thing with the donkey face and peacock tail was standing alone, glaring resentfully until it popped out like a spent lightbulb, leaving behind a small cluster of drab feathers which drifted lazily to the floor before they, too, disappeared.
Creed’s search became even more frantic. Maybe Sammy was lost somewhere in the crush around the main doors, too small to be seen among the tightly packed throng. Or maybe he wasn’t down that end at all. He turned back to where Mallik was standing – had been standing, for he was gone also – and was just in time to see the spidery figure of Bliss (what a misnomer) slipping through the narrow gap of the partially opened doors at the top of the short staircase. He had his back to Creed, but it was obvious that he had something clutched to his bent body. Creed caught sight of a small shoe and a grey sock protruding from beneath Bliss’ elbow.
‘Sammy!’
Creed chased after them, skirting round the hairy beast that was hunched over the dead rag that had once been Lily Neverless, and had been Lily Neverless again for a short time, worrying the limp form, tearing off slivers of stale meat and swallowing. With the flashing lights, running figures and other fallen bodies, it was almost like crossing a war zone. Creed mounted the stairs two at a time and burst through the door.
Beyond was a wide corridor brightened by a central chandelier, with several doors leading off it. Gilt-framed portraits decorated the walls, faces from history judging by the style and their garb; some of them he vaguely recognized, although he took no time to make a study. At one end was a staircase, its balustrade elegantly curving to the floor above. He heard footsteps and made towards the sound. He paused at the staircase. He could still hear the hurrying footsteps, but they were going down, not up.
Creed went past the stairs and discovered there was another set behind them, these descending to the Retreat’s cellars. It was dark and uninviting down there, but when a door slammed below he knew that that was where the creature had taken his son.
He took a little time to think it over. He really didn’t want to go down there, he didn’t want to follow that wretched thing into the sinister depths of the Mountjoy Retreat. But Sammy was there and who knew what malicious intent Mallik and his creepy henchman had in mind? He remembered the crime for which Nicholas Mallik had been hanged; would he do the same to Sammy, would he dismember the boy out of spite, revenge, maybe even for old times’ sake? He had to go after them.
He hesitated on the top step and thought, on the other hand . . .
The arched curtained doors further along the hall crashed open and the big man with the broken neck lurched through to smash into the wall opposite. He staggered back a step or two and stood there breathing heavily, his loose, scarred head surveying the floor. His right eye moved round to regard Creed, then he used one of his huge hands to tilt his head for a better view. A low grunt that might have been satisfaction came from him and he swivelled his whole body towards the mesmerized photographer. He lumbered forward, arms waving, head lolling.
Creed descended rapidly and the unhealthy smell of dinginess and dementia welcomed his return. Whether or not he would have entered this dark catacombed sanctum without the added incentive of this maddened monster coming after him he would never truly know, and right then wasn’t the time to contemplate the question. He jumped the last couple of steps and fell against a door at the bottom.
He felt for the handle and prayed that the door wouldn’t be locked. It wasn’t, but once on the other side he looked for a key. There wasn’t one, but there was a centre bolt (strange that one should be fitted on that side – to keep people out, perhaps?) and he quickly shot it, then leaned back against the wood to catch his breath. A heavy, rolling clatter came from the other side as his pursuer fell down most of the stairs, and Creed smiled with grim satisfaction in the silence that followed.
The smile was wiped away when something slammed against the panel close to his head. The door rattled in its frame and the wood bowed outwards. He leapt away from it as though propelled.
An inadequate naked lightbulb lit the way to another inadequate naked lightbulb along the low ceiling and Creed followed them, having no desire to linger by the increasingly swelling door. He was obviously in the more slummy part of the basement area again, probably close to the rear of the house and perhaps somewhere near where he and Cally (was she really Laura, was she another one of these degenerate fuck-ups pretending to be human?) had entered originally. There were stone steps now, a short flight, and another passage. He thought he could hear voices in the distance, but had no idea of where they were coming from. He sniffed, catching the faint odour of smoke.
From behind there came the splintering of wood, then a rending and finally a crashing, this followed by the clomp clomp of heavy boots.
Creed quickened his pace, breaking into a run when he reached a wider area. The place looked familiar with its various openings and corridors, and he knew he’d been here before when he spotted the big vault-like door set in the opposite wall.
The iron door was open this time. And it was at its entrance that Bliss and Sammy were waiting for him.
36
The spindly creature’s wickedly-pointed fingernails were digging into the boy’s throat.
‘Take it easy,’ Creed appealed, holding up a restraining hand, but keeping his distance.
Bliss bared his outrageously long and jagged teeth and hissed.
Creed shivered. ‘Tell you what,’ he said, doing his utmost to remain calm and reasonable, ‘you let the boy go and I’ll give you a head start. You could be long gone before the police get here. The place is
finished, you know that, but you don’t need to take the rap. Cut out now while you’ve got the chance . . .’
Voices drifted from one of the corridors and Bliss’ bugeyes shot left and right, searching for the source. Creed was delighted to note the confusion in them.
‘Come on, give it up,’ he said, taking a pace forward.
Bliss lifted Sammy and dipped his bony head to the boy’s angled neck, those sharp teeth poised.
‘Daaadd . . .’ Sammy wailed.
‘Don’t be stupid!’ Creed snapped. ‘You’re not a fucking vampire, you’re just a skinny guy with a diet deficiency. But if you really want to suck blood, here, have some of mine.’ Humour the bastard, he thought as he pulled up a sleeve and offered his bare arm. ‘Come on, forget the virgin stuff – his’d be too sweet for you, anyway. This has been around awhile, matured in the cask you might say, like fine old Scotch.’ When you’re dealing with a crazy, you gotta think like a crazy, he told himself, moving closer all the time. And this crazy is interested, he might just go for it . . .
‘No!’ Creed screamed.
Bliss had jerked back his head to plunge.
Creed held out the camera as if it were a crucifix on a chain. He pressed the shutter release, hoping to use the Hitchcockian trick as before in the park. If he could momentarily blind him with the flash he might be able to snatch Sammy back. But nothing happened this time. He tried again. Still nothing. He moaned aloud, realising he must have broken the mechanism when he’d smashed the camera into the wolfman’s jaw earlier.
Was that malicious glee in those horrible staring eyes, Bliss at last betraying some human emotion? Creed attempted to speak, to protest at least, but couldn’t. Bliss’s mouth opened wider, the fangs glistened wetly.
Two things happened at once.
The broken-necked monster who had been clomping the corridors arrived on the scene and threw a clumsy arm over the photographer’s shoulder, while on the other side of the chamber a horde of hooting, yelling banshees poured through (at least to Creed they looked like banshees, not that he’d ever seen or even heard banshees in his life before, but if he had he was sure they would look exactly like this motley crew). Many were naked, others wearing tattered rags that might have been bedsheets; all were painfully emaciated, resembling refugees from Belsen, and there were women among them, their hair bedraggled and long, breasts like envelope flaps, bodies caked with filth; some of the men, those who wore sheets like robes, could have been auditioning for the part of ‘ranting ancient prophet of doom’ in a Greek tragedy. Henry Pink, his grimy and stained bedsheet wrapped around his lower body like a huge nappy, feebly waved the keys that had been left in his unlocked cell door. Les gleeful Miserables crowded into the chamber and stopped dead when they spotted the other occupants. All parties were transfixed, staring in surprise at each other.