The Elsewhere Emporium, page 10
“You sure about this, Mrs Hennypeck?” Mr Ivy stared up at the unfinished building, a tower of bare grey concrete. Many of the floors looked to have been completed, but around the halfway point it seemed that construction had ceased, and above there was only the skeleton of a building, steel beams and unfinished rooms open to the night.
“Just follow me,” said Mrs Hennypeck.
The entranceway was open – there was no door – and they walked through to a dark, silent lobby. The floor was half-tiled, and there were still plastic sheets on the ground and tins of paint scattered around. The lift shafts were open and empty, and the wind whistled down them into the lobby.
“This way.”
Through a door they went to a narrow stairwell, and began to climb the naked concrete stairs. The air was thick with dust and dampness. A cold night breeze swept down from the openings high above, and the quiet was punctuated by the rasping breathing of Flintwitch, who writhed and twitched in Kenworth’s arms.
Up and up they climbed, floor after floor.
“The everyday folk started building this block in the early sixties,” said Mrs Hennypeck. “But from day one the job seemed to be cursed. Builders were injured. Tools were lost. There were reports of entire floors rearranging themselves and swapping places. It got worse and worse, until the owners eventually put construction on hold.”
Mr Ivy listened with great interest. “Magicians?”
Mrs Hennypeck nodded.
“Sir,” said Kenworth, “Master Flintwitch… I think he’s running out of time.”
Darkness was creeping out from the wound in Flintwitch’s belly, spreading all over his body. It had reached his throat, and his eyes rolled back, and he moaned and shivered. He was becoming a shadow.
“Hang on, Flintwitch,” said Mr Ivy. “How much further, Mrs Hennypeck?”
“Almost there. In fact… yes, this is it.”
They had come to a stop at the entrance to what Mr Ivy estimated to be the seventh or eighth floor; the door here had been fitted, and he opened it, staring down the dark, lifeless corridor.
“Shut the door!” cried Mrs Hennypeck. “You know better than that!”
He did as she said, and Mrs Hennypeck reached out a cold, dead hand and touched the tip of her finger to the door. She traced a series of shapes, then nodded. “Now you may open it.”
This time, when Mr Ivy opened the door, he was no longer met by a dark, lifeless corridor, but by a hallway lit by gas lamps, alive with the sounds of laughter and chatter, and of people living in the flats beyond.
Mrs Hennypeck led the way through a corridor thick with the stench of bubbling potions. Mr Ivy recognised the scents of liquid starlight and firedrops and moon nettle, all dangerous and illegal potion ingredients.
“Why don’t I know about this place?” He gave Mrs Hennypeck a sideways glance.
“Not many of us do,” she said. “A word of advice: don’t show your badge here – it’ll probably get you killed.”
“Killed? I’m Chief of the Bureau! If there’s illegal activity going on I should—”
Mrs Hennypeck stopped, and looked at him. “Some secrets are worth keeping. You’ll see.”
Flintwitch suddenly let out a gurgling cry and became very still. Black, viscous liquid began dripping from his nose and running from the corners of his eyes.
“Hurry! This way!”
Along the corridor, past an open door where they could see into a flat bursting with cauldrons, all belching coloured smoke into the air. A woman tossed something wet and wriggling into one of the cauldrons, and a huge explosion filled the flat, sending a rancid plume of smoke out into the passageway.
They came to the last door, and Mrs Hennypeck banged hard on it with her fist.
Footsteps from the other side.
The sound of locks and chains.
The door opened a crack, and a pair of large brown eyes stared out.
“Mr Pepper. It’s me. Mrs Hennypeck.”
Mr Pepper opened the door wider, sent a probing glance up the hallway. He was tall and rumpled; if someone decided to get dressed while hanging upside down in the dark in the middle of a hurricane, the results would be similar.
“Mrs Hennypeck,” he took her hand and kissed it, “you’re looking well.”
Mrs Hennypeck did not look impressed. “I’m dead.”
“Yes, but oh how it suits you.”
“We have an emergency, Mr Pepper. Our young friend needs help. Quickly.”
Mr Pepper’s large brown eyes drifted down towards the boy in Kenworth’s arms. “Oh dear,” he said, without even a trace of concern. “The poor lad’s almost ready to join you.”
“We need to see her,” said Mrs Hennypeck. “Now.”
Mr Pepper held out a hand, palm upwards, expectant.
Mrs Hennypeck rummaged in her coat, brought out a small glass vial with a cork stopper, and handed it over. Mr Pepper took the vial, and held it up close to his face so that he might examine the contents. Inside was what at first glance appeared to be a glowing blue liquid. But if you looked close enough, you could see that it was not liquid at all; it was a soup of tiny letters and words, each glowing like a miniature star.
Mr Pepper tucked the vial away in his pocket. “The doctor will see you now.”
CHAPTER 25
THE GHOST DOCTOR
London, 1967
In light of Mr Pepper’s dishevelled appearance, you might assume that his flat would be an untidy, ramshackle place. This assumption would be incorrect.
The place was spotlessly clean, filled with fine furniture and a smell of varnish. An antique grandfather clock stood in the hallway like a sentry. There were shelves and display cabinets, proudly displaying hundreds of glass vials of various shapes and sizes, containing glowing words of many colours.
Mr Ivy peered closer. “Are those…”
“Dreams,” said Mrs Hennypeck. “Possibly the purest form of imagination. He deals in them…”
“Bring the boy in here,” said Mr Pepper.
The room was small and bare, save for a flat table in the centre with many drawers and compartments. A hook-nosed woman with piercing green eyes stared out from an oil painting on the wall.
“Lay him down. That’s it.”
Kenworth put Flintwitch on the table. He was still, and his breathing was shallow. The shadow had almost completely taken him.
“He’s slipping away,” said Mr Ivy.
“Yes, yes. Give me a moment. Leave it to the experts…”
Mr Pepper crouched down, opened up one of the drawers in the table, and brought out a black candle with a black wick. There was an ornate silver candlestick on a sideboard beneath the oil painting, and Mr Pepper placed the black candle on the candlestick, and lit it.
The flame was black, as was the smoke, and as it drifted upwards towards the painting, something amazing happened. Some of the smoke was drawn into the painting, into the woman’s mouth and nose, as if she was breathing it in. And then she started to move, to breathe and blink and look around. Her gaze rested on poor Flintwitch on the table. Then she turned her head towards Mrs Hennypeck.
“Bronwyn? Bronwyn Hennypeck?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Mrs Hennypeck’s reply caused Mr Ivy and Kenworth to raise their eyebrows and exchange a look of some amazement, for Mrs Hennypeck had never before, as far as they could recollect, referred to anyone as ‘ma’am’. “We’ve brought you a boy, ma’am. Injured in the line of duty. His injuries are, I think, beyond the reach of anyone but you. Can you help him, ma’am?”
“Very well,” replied the woman. “I’ll need a closer look.”
From the painting, into the room, came a coil of glowing silver smoke. The smoke drifted over the table, over Flintwitch’s body, and then into the wound. A few moments later the coil of smoke reappeared, and swirled and tumbled, and took the shape of the woman in the painting, until she was there with them in the room, a ghost made of soft silvery light.
“Incredible.” Mr Ivy’s tone was hushed and reverent. “I have read, of course, about the possibility of storing one’s soul in a painting, but I have never seen it in action—”
“Quiet,” instructed the ghostly woman. She began to examine Flintwitch. More and more of him had been overtaken by shadow; the effect was rather like looking at a picture on an old television set. Flintwitch flickered and was, it seemed, substantial one moment and made from shadows the next. “You were right to bring him here. No medicine from the world of the living could fix this…” She reached an ethereal hand into the wound and felt around. Flintwitch moaned. “I’m sorry,” said the ghostly woman. “It’ll be over soon… there… got it!”
The hand made of light gently retracted from the wound, and between her fingers the woman held a long, black creature, a writhing ribbon of shadow. It curled and spat and thrashed. “The bottom drawer on that side,” said the woman. “Get me a jar!”
Mr Ivy hurriedly did as she asked, and unscrewed the heavy lid. The ghost dropped the creature into the jar, and Mr Ivy screwed the lid shut.
“Now the next drawer up. That’s it. Fetch me a bottle from there. No, not that one… one of the slender green ones. That’s it. Now pour a few drops into his mouth, and a splash or two into the wound.”
Again Mr Ivy followed her instructions. First he tipped some of the liquid into Flintwitch’s mouth. Next he poured a few drops into the wound. It steamed and hissed and closed up, and almost at once the shadow began to recede, until Flintwitch looked whole once more.
“I think I got it all,” said the ghost. “When he wakes he should be fine. You were fortunate to get here when you did. A few more minutes and he would have been beyond even my help.”
“How long will he sleep?” asked Mrs Hennypeck.
“Perhaps a few hours. Perhaps a few minutes. Everyone is different.” She looked down at the candle. “Almost burned away already. I don’t have much time left, but I am curious. What caused his injury?”
They explained everything, about the attacks and the shadows and the strange creature that was prowling London, attacking former Bureau investigators.
“Tell me those names again,” said the ghost, “the ones who have been attacked.”
Mr Ivy repeated the names.
The ghost listened intently, seeming to roll the names around in her head. Then her eyes stretched wide.
“The Needle Incident!”
Mr Ivy looked around the room. Nobody said anything. “What does that mean?” he whispered to Mrs Hennypeck, who looked blankly back at him.
“Don’t you remember, Bronwyn?” asked the ghost. “It happened just before I retired from the Bureau.”
“Hold on,” said Mr Ivy. “You mean to say you were in the Bureau?”
The ghost stared at him. ‘Bronwyn, who is this… person?”
“Mr Ivy, ma’am. The current Chief.”
The ghost looked Mr Ivy up and down. “We have let our standards slip, haven’t we?”
Mr Ivy looked scandalised. “I beg your pardon, madam!” But he stopped, because a realisation had struck him like a hammer. “Those green eyes. I knew I’d seen them before. There’s a portrait of you in my office at Number 120 Park Street. Only, in that painting you are very much…”
“Alive?”
“Yes! But if you have a portrait in Park Street, that would mean you’re a former Chief.”
“Well done, boy. You got there in the end. Agatha Wimple’s the name. And yes – your office once belonged to me.”
Mr Ivy gave a small bow. “Incredible.”
“Ma’am,” said Mrs Hennypeck, “since I died, I’ve found that my memory is not what it was. The Needle Incident… remind me.”
“There was a creature loose in London,” said Agatha Wimple. “Not your run-of-the-mill ghast or vampire, but a Shade Walker – a magician who had become so immensely powerful with dark magic that shadow had swallowed him up, and he had transformed into something else: a creature able to flit between worlds, to shapeshift, to drink the magic and life force of other magicians. I sent seven of my best investigators after the Shade Walker. And one of them is in this room.”
Everyone looked at Mrs Hennypeck, but she did not see them. She was staring far off into the past.
“I remember. We tracked it down, cornered it. Fighting it was like fighting all the darkness in the world. It made us see visions… terrible things. Bob Needle – an investigator – got too close. The dark wrapped around him, turned him to shadow, and then he was gone, vanished away to nothing. We destroyed the Shade Walker. When it was over we searched for Bob, but we couldn’t find any trace of him.”
“So,” said Mr Ivy, “we have another Shade Walker on the loose?”
Mrs Hennypeck’s dead little eyes alighted on Mr Ivy. “I knew I was missing something. Six of us fought the Shade Walker and came back alive, Mr Ivy. The attacks we’ve been investigating these past days, the magicians who’ve been turned to shadow – they are the survivors of that night.”
“But you destroyed the Shade Walker,” said Mr Ivy.
“We certainly thought so…but this has to be the same one. It’s back, and it’s going after all the investigators who fought it that night. Five of the six are dead. And that can mean only one thing: I’m next.”
The candle flickered again, began to fizz.
“My time’s up,” said the ghost of Agatha Wimple. “Retrace your steps, Bronwyn. Use the past to help you…” She flickered and faded, disappearing for a moment before blinking back into sight. “Filigree & Son. The old department store. Where you fought him the first time…”
She faded and blinked out again, and this time she did not come back.
Mr Ivy and Mrs Hennypeck stared at the portrait on the wall where Agatha Wimple was now still and peaceful.
Then there was a rustle from the table.
Flintwitch sat up, and yawned, and looked about.
“Have I missed anything?
***
Shortly thereafter, as the investigators prepared to once more head into the night, Mr Ivy slipped into an empty room, closed the door, and pulled a piece of paper and a pen from his coat. He wrote a hurried message on the paper, and when he was done he read and reread it several times, wondering if he was doing the right thing. But the situation was dire, was it not? Lives were on the line. Desperate times and all that…
He walked over to the window, took a deep breath and recited a spell, his lips curling around every syllable. While he spoke, the piece of paper in his hands burst into flame. As the paper burned, the letters on the page began to glow, and while the paper turned to ash, the letters of the message remained, floating, white hot, in the air. When all the paper was gone, Mr Ivy stared at the words he’d written. Then he opened the window and, with a flick of his hand, the letters swirled around the room then flew out into the dark.
“It’s done now,” said Mr Ivy to himself. “No going back.”
As the message flew, it passed through the world we know, through the borders of time and space, through the door between everything and nothing. The message itself was simple, but its journey was not. Because it was looking for an address that was ever-changing and for a man who did not wish to be found:
Mr Lucien Silver
The Nowhere Emporium
CHAPTER 26
FACING THE PAST
London, Present Day
“G’night, Mr Ivy! Come again soon. Here, let me get that door for you.”
“No, it’s fine, Bill, it’s fine. I’m not so old I can’t manage just yet. Goodnight.”
Mr Ivy left the warmth of the pub and stopped in the doorway, glaring at the battering raindrops. He tossed the old crimson silk scarf around his neck, and as he began to hobble up the street, leaning heavily with his free hand on a wooden walking stick, the raindrops bent around him, leaving him dry.
When Mr Ivy went out to drink, which was not very often these days, he liked to leave the magic district. If he went to a pub on Salem Road, someone would recognise him from his days in the Bureau, and he’d be expected to tell stories of his great adventures. Out in the everyday world, nobody bothered him.
On the walk home to Seven Dials he decided to take a slightly longer route, cutting along Park Street. He stopped across the road from Number 120, and he stared at the front door.
If I walk up and knock on that door, he thought, I will find the inside just as I left it the day I retired. Kenworth will still be there, of course. It would be good to catch up. And I should like to see my portrait hanging in the Chief ’s office. He almost stepped off the pavement, but he stopped himself. I’m tired, and I’ve had too much to drink. Nobody from the Bureau wants an old fool like me chapping on the door at this hour. I should get home to bed.
The magic district was almost deserted when he got there; it was the middle of the night, though a select few pubs and shops stayed open right through until morning – namely those in which black market dealings took place. Twenty years ago, before he retired from the Bureau, Mr Ivy would have been very interested in that sort of thing, keen to shut it all down. But the world was a different place now. Magic wasn’t what it once was, and neither, unfortunately, was Mr Ivy.
He turned the corner and stopped in the doorway of his home. He rummaged in his pocket for his keys, unlocked the door with stiff old fingers and let himself in. He shook the water from his umbrella, took off his coat, and hung it up on the coat stand by the door. Shivering, he turned to close the front door to the driving rain.
“Hello.”
A girl stood out on the street a few paces back from the doorway. She was tall, and she wore thick glasses, the rain sliding down the smudged lenses.
