The throne was a massive construct of bones that twisted and tangled like pale branches and yellowed vines. There was no comfort to the throne, but that was as the Great Malevolence preferred: it never wanted to grow used to its banishment in Hell, and never wished to find a moment’s peace there. It had come into existence milliseconds after the birth of the Multiverse, a force for destruction born out of the creation of worlds. It could, it supposed, have become an agent for good, but it was a jealous being, an angry being, and it had fought against all that was fine and noble in the Multiverse until at last a force greater than itself had grown tired of its evil. The Great Malevolence was cast down to Hell for eternity, and it had conspired to free itself ever since. It had almost succeeded, too, but its plans had been ruined by the boy named Samuel Johnson and his dog, Boswell.
The Great Malevolence had also lost its lieutenant, the demon Ba’al. It was Ba’al who had led the invasion of Earth, occupying the body of a woman named Mrs. Abernathy and then, for reasons unclear, deciding that being a woman was altogether nicer than being a demon. When the invasion failed, the Great Malevolence chose to blame Mrs. Abernathy, and she was banished from its presence. When she had tried to get back in its good graces by opening another portal to Earth, Samuel Johnson had intervened again, and that was when all of the atoms in Mrs. Abernathy’s body had been separated from their neighbors and scattered throughout the Multiverse.
The Great Malevolence was a being filled with self-pity. It now regretted banishing Mrs. Abernathy, not because of any hurt that it might have caused her, but because she had been useful and loyal, and the Great Malevolence’s strength was reduced without her.24 This was why it had ordered the creature named Crudford to find all of the pieces of her and bring them back to Hell so that she might be reassembled. Crudford wasn’t much to look at, but like many creatures that appear humble and insignificant, Crudford had turned out to be far more important and gifted that he had first appeared.
Now Crudford oozed into the Great Malevolence’s presence and added the eyeball in the jar to the other body parts that were currently lined up on a stone platform in the throne room. Crudford had been summoned to the Great Malevolence’s presence to detail his progress in tracking down the billions of atoms of Mrs. Abernathy’s being. Crudford was feeling nervous about this. He thought he’d done well in finding as many bits as he had so far. It was no easy business oozing between universes looking for tiny blue atoms. You needed a steady hand, and a good eye, and a lot of luck. On the other hand, the Great Malevolence wasn’t very keen on listening to excuses, and it had a habit of tossing those who displeased it into bottomless pits, or leaving them to freeze in the great Lake of Cocytus.
“Afternoon, Your Virulence,” said Crudford, lifting his hat in greeting. “Nice day out there. Not too chilly.”
The Great Malevolence’s voice boomed through the chamber. It made dust and pebbles and the occasional napping demon fall from the walls. Its voice really had a rumble to it.
“Show me what you have found,” it said.
It towered above Crudford, and the little gelatinous being felt himself grow cold in the Great Malevolence’s shadow.
“Well,” said Crudford, “we’ve made some progress, Your Unpleasantness.”
He began to move down the line of jars, pointing a gloopy finger at each one in turn.
“This here’s an eye, as you can see—and, I suppose, as it can see, too, ho ho. This one’s half a pancreas. That looks like a bit of an ear. That one—”
Crudford paused and squinted. He tapped the jar, as if hoping that the atoms might rearrange themselves and give him a clue. They didn’t.
“To be honest, I’m not sure what that is, so we’ll just leave it for now and ooze along,” he said. “That’s a finger. This is three-quarters of a lung. In there we have part of a lip, and most of a lower jaw. This one here—actually, you don’t even want to know what that is. Seriously, you don’t. Over here we have . . .”
This went on for some time. When Crudford was finished, the Great Malevolence didn’t exactly seem pleased, but the fact that Crudford was still in one piece meant that the Great Malevolence wasn’t displeased either.
“How much longer before you find the rest of her?” it asked. “I want my lieutenant restored to me.”
“Hard to say,” said Crudford.
“It will be harder to say if I freeze you, or feed you to the imps,” said the Great Malevolence.
“Good point,” said Crudford. “I’ll work doubly fast.”
Crudford was about to say something more, but decided against it. The Great Malevolence made a few more threats, and warned of the harm that would come to Crudford if he didn’t find the rest of Mrs. Abernathy soon. Crudford wasn’t offended. The Great Malevolence was just letting off steam. Anyway, Crudford was the only one who could find Mrs. Abernathy’s atoms. The Great Malevolence couldn’t do him any harm: if it did, then it would never get its lieutenant back.
But the search was harder than Crudford had anticipated, and each time he found some of Mrs. Abernathy’s atoms he detected hatred in them. It was almost as if Mrs. Abernathy didn’t want to be found. That was what he had almost told the Great Malevolence before good sense made him stay silent. The Great Malevolence didn’t need to hear that, just as it didn’t want to hear about the beating, somewhere in the Multiverse, of what Crudford was certain was Mrs. Abernathy’s heart.
Because Mrs. Abernathy wasn’t supposed to have a heart.
* * *
23. In the first chapter of The Infernals, Edgefast was torn limb from limb for daring to question the right of Mrs. Abernathy to enter the Mountain of Despair. Once again, if you’d read that book then you’d know all of this already. Look, why don’t we just arrange for me to give you a telephone call and I can read the book to you, or perhaps I can act it out in your back garden for you and your friends? Or maybe, just maybe, you could go and read The Infernals, and maybe The Gates as well, and then when I mention a name like Edgefast you’ll be able to say, “Aha, that’s the bloke who got torn apart by Mrs. Abernathy in the last book!” and be very pleased with yourself, instead of forcing me to pause in the important task of telling the new story just so you don’t feel left out. You’ve just kept everyone else waiting, you know. I hope you’re happy. And I bet you didn’t even buy this book: you probably received it as a gift, or stole it. Frankly, I don’t know why I bother.
24. This is the curse of kings. While you or I might get annoyed with our friends on occasion, we tend not to order their execution simply because they’ve trodden on our toes or, if we do, people ignore us, which is usually for the best. The trouble with being a king is that, when you lose your temper with someone and order his head to be lopped off, a chap appears with an ax and promptly does the deed, or someone drops a noose around his neck and—well, you get the picture. Then later, when the king announces that he misses old What’s-His-Name and wonders where on Earth he’s got to because he was always good for a laugh, a courtier has to go through the awkward business of explaining that old What’s-His-Name is unlikely to be cracking jokes anytime in the near, or distant, future owing to his definite deadness. Henry VIII, for example, who was king of England from 1509 to 1547, ended his days surrounded by a great many young people for the simple reason that he’d had most of his old courtiers exiled or executed. Between the years 1532 and 1540 alone, Henry ordered 330 political executions, probably more than any other ruler in British history. If you worked for Henry VIII, then you really didn’t need to worry about putting money into your pension fund as you probably wouldn’t live long enough to spend it.
XI
In Which We Learn Why People Should Just Call Their Children Simple Names Like Jane or John—Especially John, Which Is a Very Good Name. Manly. Heroic, Even.
THE INTERIOR OF WRECKIT & Sons was still in the process of being redesigned, but Dan and the dwarfs could see that it was going to be pretty spectacular when it was finished. Already so
me of the displays had been set up: there was a giant teddy bear at least twenty feet high that dominated the cuddly toy section, and a train set that followed a circular track suspended from the ceiling of the second floor. There were dolls piled in corners, and toy soldiers, and cars and trucks and spaceships. There were board games, and a sports section, and books. What there didn’t seem to be, Jolly noticed, were any computer games. Walking into Wreckit & Sons was like stepping back in time.
“It’s not going to last a week, never mind until Christmas,” said Angry. “Where are all the PlayStations and things?”
“Somebody should tell them that electricity has been invented,” said Dozy. “It might come as a shock, but they’ll be glad to know.”
In addition to the missing games consoles, Dan and the dwarfs could see no sign of any workers.
“I have a funny feeling that I’m being watched,” said Jolly. “I was thinking of nicking something, just to keep my hand in, but I don’t think I will after all.”
They all shared his uneasy sense of being under surveillance, although they could see no sign of cameras or security guards. There was no sign of anyone at all. They had arrived at the side entrance, just as a message had instructed them to do after Dan had called the number at the bottom of the advertisement. There they found the door unlocked and a handwritten note instructing them to proceed to the top floor via the main stairs.
It was Mumbles who caught a flash of movement in a corner as they neared the final flight of steps.
“Oberare!” he said.
He walked warily to the corner. There was a small hole at the base of the wall. He knelt and peered into it. He had the uncomfortable sensation that, from the darkness behind the wall, something was peering back at him.
“What is it?” said Angry.
“Umsall,” said Mumbles.
“Small?” said Angry. “It was probably a rat. These old buildings are full of rats.”
But Mumbles didn’t think it was a rat. He had only caught the slightest glimpse of it as it fled, but it had looked like a very small person.
If he hadn’t known better, Mumbles might even have said it was an elf.
• • •
The dwarfs were stunned into silence when they reached the top floor. The entire space was in the process of being transformed into the most spectacular of Christmas grottoes. Frost glittered on the trunks and branches of the immense silver trees supporting the ceiling, and a pathway that felt like marble wound over the floor while snow fell from above.
“It melts,” whispered Dozy. “When it touches your skin, it melts!”
And it did.
Somehow, the entire area had been lit so that it looked bigger than it was. It was like being in some great northern forest in the depths of winter. It even felt cold. As they progressed through it, the dwarfs saw the shapes of reindeer passing by. They appeared so real that the dwarfs could almost have reached out and touched them, running their fingers through the deers’ fur.
At the heart of the forest was a cabin made not of logs but of old stones. Smoke poured from its chimney and was lost in the darkness above, which glimmered with stars. Looking up, Jolly had the sense of being just one small person on one small planet in a vast, icy universe. It made him vaguely depressed, so he went back to looking at the cabin instead.
Angry was testing the stones with his hand.
“This cabin must weigh a ton,” he said. “What’s underneath it?”
Dozy tried to remember the floor plan of the store.
“I think it was more soft toys. I could go and check.”
“Well, I wouldn’t hang about down there if I were you,” said Angry. “If this thing falls through the floor it won’t be just the toys that are soft. It’ll reduce little kids to jelly.”
A man appeared from a doorway to their right. He wore a black three-piece suit with a gray tie and a slightly soiled white shirt. His face was blankly pleasant, like a greeting card without a personal message inside.
“Gentlemen,” he said. “Can I help you?”
Jolly looked at the note in his hand.
“We’re here to see Mr. Cholmondeley,” said Jolly.
“Chumley,” said the gentleman, his expression unchanged.
Jolly examined the note again.
“No, it’s definitely Cholmondeley.”
He handed it to Angry to check.
“That’s it,” said Angry. “Cholmondeley. It’s here in black and white.”
“It’s Chumley,” said the man. A small frown line had appeared on his forehead.
“Listen, mate,” said Angry, “are you saying we can’t read?”
“Not at all. The name is simply pronounced ‘Chumley.’ ”
“Then why is it spelled ‘Cholmondeley’?” asked Jolly.
“It just is,” said the man.
“Well, that’s nonsense,” said Angry. “That’s like spelling a name S-M-I-T-H and calling yourself Jones.”
“No,” said the man, with some force, “it isn’t.”
“Yes,” said Angry, with equal force, “it is.”
It was left to Dan to intervene.
“It’s a posh thing,” he explained to the dwarfs.
“Oooooh,” they said in unison, nodding in understanding. Posh people did things differently. Everybody knew that. Jolly had heard that posh people were born with silver spoons in their mouths, which probably explained why they all talked funny.
“Right you are then, guv,” said Jolly. “We’re here to see Mr. Chumley. Mr. St. John-Chumley.”
“Sinjin,” said the man.
“Bless you,” said Jolly.
“No, I didn’t sneeze,” said the man. “It’s Sinjin.”
“Beg pardon?” said Jolly.
By now the man had started to look decidedly irritated.
“It’s my name!” he said. “It’s Sinjin-Chumley. How hard can it be?”
The dwarfs crowded around Jolly, and all four of them examined the name on the note, running their fingers beneath it, pronouncing the syllables and occasionally glancing up at the gentleman standing before them as though trying to equate his name with the peculiar jumble of letters before them.
“Actually, pretty hard,” said Angry at last. “You might need to have a think about that one. Don’t take this the wrong way, mate, but you’ll never get anywhere in life if you have a made-up name that doesn’t sound the way it’s spelled. You’d better hang on to this job. If you lose it, you’ll never get another. It’s always easier to hire someone whose name you can say without hurting your tongue.”
Mr. St. John-Cholmondeley gave Angry a hard stare.
“I take it that you’re here about the job,” he said, in the tone of a man who is hoping that he might be mistaken.
“We were ‘invited to attend for an interview,’ ” said Jolly.
“Indeed. Well, do come in. It shouldn’t take long.”
Mr. St. John-Cholmondeley stepped aside to admit the dwarfs into his office. It was small, and contained only a desk and a chair. The shelves were entirely bare, and there was nothing on the desk except for a single sheet of white paper, a pen, and a small, sad-looking artificial Christmas tree with a red button on its base. Angry, who couldn’t resist a red button when he saw one, pressed it. Immediately the tree began to bob from side to side and “Jingle Bells” emerged from a hidden speaker.
“What language is that?” asked Angry.
“I’m not sure,” said Mr. St. John-Cholmondeley. “I think it might be Urdu, or possibly Serbo-Croat. It’s difficult to tell. We found a box of them in storage when we began fixing up the shop.”
“Do you think they’re going to be big sellers?” asked Dozy doubtfully.
“Possibly, if the shop was situated in a country that spoke Urdu or Serbo-Croat,” said Mr. St. John-Cholmondeley. “Otherwise, probably not. I do wish you hadn’t turned it on, though. It takes a while for it to finish the song.”
They all tried to ignore
the tree as the interview began.
“Now, which job might you be applying for?” said Mr. St. John-Cholmondeley.
The dwarfs exchanged looks. They were in a toy shop. It was coming up to Christmas. The shop had a Christmas grotto. They were hardly there to audition for roles as Easter bunnies.
“Elves,” said Jolly. “We’re here to be elves.”
“Not Father Christmas?” said Mr. St. John-Cholmondeley.
“No.”
“You’re sure?”
“Are you trying to be clever?” asked Jolly.
“Not at all,” said Mr. St. John-Cholmondeley. “I can’t just assume that because you’re gentlemen of, er, reduced stature you’re only here to be elves. That would be wrong. It’s all equal opportunities now, you know. I could get into terrible trouble for saying to you, ‘Oh, you must be here about the elf job, then.’ I could end up in court.”
“But we are here about the elf job,” said Angry.
“Wouldn’t you at least like to think about being Father Christmas?” said Mr. St. John-Cholmondeley.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because we want to be elves. We’re the right size for elves. It’s not, if you’ll forgive the pun, much of a stretch for us.”
“Well, I have to offer you the chance to apply for the job of Father Christmas. It’s the rules.”
“We don’t want to be Father Christmas.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
“Wouldn’t you like to try one little ‘Ho-Ho-Ho!,’ just a teeny one?”
“No!” said Jolly. “We want to be elves.”
Mr. St. John-Cholmondeley scowled at him.
“What’s wrong with being Father Christmas? Don’t you like fat people?”
“What?” said Jolly.
He was confused. Beside him, the singing Christmas tree continued to sing. It seemed to know a lot more verses to “Jingle Bells” than Jolly did.
“Are you saying you don’t want to be Father Christmas because he’s fat?” Mr. St. John-Cholmondeley persisted. “Are you fattist? You know, we can’t have people working here who are fattist. We won’t put up with that kind of thing, do you hear? We won’t put up with it at all. How dare you come into this store and say unpleasant things about fat people!”