The Infernals aka Hell's Bells Read online

  Similarly, Nurd had abandoned any ideas of ruling another world or becoming a serious demon; not that he’d ever been very keen on that to begin with, but he had now dispensed with his self-invented title “Scourge of Five Deities” and had decided not to go looking for any other demon’s job 24 as he was much happier not bothering anyone at all.

  But, crucially, Nurd had also brought back with him a deep psychic and emotional connection to Samuel Johnson, the first person who had ever been kind to Nurd, and the first friend that Nurd had ever made. Had they lived in the same world, they would have been inseparable. Instead they were divided by time, and space, and the difficulties of crossing between worlds and dimensions. Despite all of those obstacles, each had held the memory of the other in his heart, and there were times as they slept when it seemed to them that they spoke to each other in their dreams. Not a day went by when one did not think of the other, and such feelings have a way of transcending the barriers that life may put in the way of people. An invisible energy linked these two beings, the boy and the demon, just as it connects all those who feel deeply for another, and the nature of that link had suddenly been altered for Nurd. He felt it more intensely than ever before, and he knew at once that Samuel was near. He was in this world, in this foul place where all things were said to reach the end of hope. But that was no longer true, for Nurd now had hope of better times, of a better way of existing, and it was Samuel who had given it to him.

  Yet if Samuel was here, then it could not be of his own will. Nothing came to Hell willingly. Even the entities trapped there wished to be elsewhere, or to cease to exist at all, for that would be infinitely preferable to an eternity spent in the abyss.

  Mrs. Abernathy had been hunting, unknowingly, for Nurd, the mysterious driver of the car that had brought an end to her master’s hope of escape, but Nurd knew that Samuel was the greater prize she sought. Somehow she had found a way to bring him here. For all Nurd knew, Samuel might already be her prisoner, and he had a terrifying vision of his friend, chained and bound, being brought before the Great Malevolence himself, there to be punished for his part in all that had occurred. But even if Samuel were not yet in Mrs. Abernathy’s clutches, there were plenty of other foul beings in Hell who would relish the chance to taste a human child. Someone would have to save Samuel, and that someone was Nurd.

  Except Nurd didn’t have much experience of saving anyone, apart from Nurd himself, and he was having enough difficulty keeping himself from becoming Mrs. Abernathy’s prisoner without trying to prevent the capture of someone else. He also didn’t consider himself particularly bright, or brave, or cunning. But like most people who think that way, Nurd was a lot smarter, and braver, and cleverer than he realized. He simply hadn’t been given much opportunity to prove it to himself, or to others.

  “Master?” asked Wormwood, for the third time, and on this occasion he received an answer.

  “Samuel is here,” said Nurd. “We have to find him.”

  Wormwood didn’t look surprised. If his master said that Samuel, whom Wormwood had never met but about whom he’d heard a great deal, was somewhere in Hell, then Wormwood was happy to believe him. On the other hand Wormwood did look a bit startled when Nurd turned the car a hundred and eighty degrees so that it was facing in the direction from which they had just come.

  “Er, Master,” he said. “You told me that way lay misery, torture, poor food, and certain dismemberment at the hands of Mrs. Abernathy.”

  “I did indeed, Wormwood, but only Mrs. Abernathy could have brought Samuel here, so wherever she is, that’s where he will be too.” He put his foot down and gunned the engine. The car lifted slightly, like a horse yearning for the start of a big race. Then Nurd released the brake, and they were off.

  Wormwood looked at his master in awe. The old Nurd had been cowardly, self-serving, and determined to avoid personal injury at all costs. This new Nurd was courageous, selfless, and apparently keen to have his limbs separated from his body as soon as possible.

  On reflection, thought Wormwood as they sped toward their destiny, I think I preferred the old one.

  XII

  In Which Dozy Is the Bearer of Bad News

  JOLLY WAS JUST WAKING up when Dozy got back to the van.

  “’S’matter,” said Jolly, rubbing his forehead in a pained manner. “What did we hit?”

  From the back of the van Dozy heard assorted mutters, yawns, and unpleasant bodily noises as Angry and Mumbles emerged from the land of Nod.

  “Listen to me carefully,” said Dozy. “Precisely which exit did you take from the motorway?”

  “Huh? The Biddlecombe exit. I mean, we agreed.”

  “And that’s what the sign said? Biddlecombe?”

  “Yes, Biddlecombe.”

  “It didn’t say, like, ‘Hell,’ by any chance, did it?”

  Jolly looked at him suspiciously, and sniffed Dozy’s breath. “Have you been drinking already? You know, it’s all very well having one or ten to help you sleep, but at least wait until you’ve had your cornflakes before you start knocking them back in the morning. You’ll have a liver like the sole of a shoe, mark my words.”

  “I haven’t been drinking,” said Dozy. “Something is very, very wrong.” And he pointed through the front windscreen at the great expanse of pale dunes that stretched before them.

  Jolly stared at the vista for a moment before climbing from the van, Dozy, Angry, and Mumbles close behind. Jolly pursed his lips and did a full circuit of the van, looking hopefully for some sign of a church spire, or a pub.

  “Nah, that can’t be right,” said Jolly. “We must have taken a wrong turning somewhere.”

  “Where, Purgatory?” said Dozy. “We’re in Hell.”

  “It’s not that bad,” said Angry. “It’s a trifle toasty, I’ll admit, but don’t let’s get carried away here.” He knelt, picked up a handful of fine sand, and watched it slip through his fingers. Mumbles did the same.

  “Look, we must be near the sea,” said Angry. “It’s sand.”

  “No, it’s not,” said Dozy.

  “’Course it is. What else would it be?”

  “Smesand,” said Mumbles, lifting a handful of grains to his nose and sniffing them warily.

  “That’s right,” said Dozy. “It doesn’t smell like sand. That’s because it’s not sand.”

  “What is it, then?” asked Jolly.

  Dozy crooked a finger at them in a follow-me gesture, and they did.

  The four dwarfs lay on the side of one of the dunes, their heads peeping over the top, and watched as the imps fed bones into the sides of their workbenches.

  “They’re bones,” said Angry. “We’re lying on bits of bone. Quite comfortable, actually. Who’d have thought it?”

  “Whose bones are they?” said Jolly.

  “Dunno,” said Dozy. “That bloke over there seems to be in charge, but I don’t think he knows either.”

  They regarded A. Bodkin curiously. He was talking on an old black rotary dial telephone.

  “He’s a nutjob,” said Jolly. “That phone doesn’t have a wire attached to it.”

  “I don’t think that matters,” said Dozy. “I get the feeling that normal rules don’t apply here.”

  They continued to watch A. Bodkin, who was becoming quite animated. Although they couldn’t hear clearly all of what he was saying, it was apparent that he was troubled by Dozy’s unexpected appearance beside his desk, and the fact that Dozy did not appear to be dead.

  “So he’s a demon,” said Angry.

  “Yes,” said Dozy.

  “And all that lot are demons too.”

  “Imps, apparently, but I think it amounts to the same thing.”

  “Then this is Hell.”

  “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.”

  “How did we end up in Hell? What have we ever done to anyone?”

  There was silence as the other three dwarfs gave Angry’s brain a chance to catch up with his mouth.
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br />   “Ohhhhhh,” said Angry as all the reasons why they might justifiably be in Hell came flooding back like rubbish at high tide. He shrugged his shoulders. “Fair enough, I suppose. I don’t remember dying, though. I thought that was supposed to be part of the deal.”

  “Maybe it’s like Jolly said,” offered Dozy. “We might have hit something and died in the crash.”

  “But I don’t think we did hit anything,” said Jolly. “The van seemed fine. More to the point, I feel fine. If I was dead, I’m sure I’d be feeling poorly. And I’d probably smell a bit. Well, a bit more.”

  “So we’re not dead, then,” said Angry. “And if we’re not dead, this can’t be Hell.”

  “I don’t know,” said Dozy. “A. Bodkin over there seemed very sure.”

  “He was probably just pulling your leg,” said Angry. “He looks like the kind of bloke who’d think something like that was funny.”

  Suddenly, a great pillar of pale fire appeared beside A. Bodkin’s desk, stretching from the sands right up to the black clouds above. Its appearance was so unexpected that even the little demons at their desks briefly stopped converting bones to dust in order to watch what was happening.

  A woman’s face appeared in the flames, her eyes twin orbs of the brightest blue.

  “She looks familiar,” said Jolly. “I’ve seen her somewhere before.”

  “She was on the front page of his newspaper,” said Dozy. “Something about being in trouble.”

  “But I didn’t see his newspaper,” said Jolly.

  “Shhh,” said Angry. “I want to hear.”

  As it turned out, hearing what the woman had to say wasn’t going to be a problem. Her voice, when it emerged, sounded like thunder. It was so loud that it hurt the dwarfs’ ears.

  “BODKIN,” said the woman. “WHAT HAVE YOU FOUND?”

  “Here, turn it down, love,” said Jolly. “The chap’s only standing next to you.”

  A. Bodkin looked confused. “Mrs. Abernathy,” he said. “I wasn’t expecting to hear from you.”

  “I’M SURE THAT YOU WEREN’T,” said Mrs. Abernathy. “NEVERTHELESS, HEARING FROM ME YOU ARE. YOU REPORTED AN INTERLOPER. WAS IT A BOY? TELL ME.”

  “To be honest, much as I’d love to help you, I’m not sure that I can answer your question. This really needs to go through official channels.”

  Mrs. Abernathy’s face darkened. Her lips peeled back, exposing teeth that began to grow longer and sharper as the dwarfs watched. Her face swelled, and she was at once both a woman and a monster, although it was still the woman that appeared the more terrifying of the two.

  “Oops, said the wrong thing there, mate,” said Jolly. “He’ll be telling her it’s men’s business next, and that she shouldn’t worry her pretty little head about it.”

  “Nah, he couldn’t be that stupid,” said Angry.

  “Mrs. Abernathy,” said A. Bodkin. “I really must insist: this is a matter for the Senior Council of Demons. Er, that is, the council of demons that are, um, entirely fixed in their concept of, um, demonality in the nonfemale sense.”

  “I take it back,” said Angry. “He is that stupid.”

  But A. Bodkin, having decided to put his foot in his mouth, was now determined to eat it, possibly with an order of socks on the side. “You must understand that since your, ahem, transformation and subsequent, ah, fall from favor, senior management has informed us that you are no longer to be included in the decision-making process.” A. Bodkin smiled his most patronizing smile, which was very patronizing indeed. “I’m sure that you have far more important matters to attend to,” he continued, “such as-”

  “And he’s going for broke,” said Angry.

  “Oh dear,” said Jolly, shielding his eyes with his hands. “I can hardly bear to watch.”

  “-beautifying yourself, for example,” continued A. Bodkin, “or making something pretty for-”

  The precise purpose of the something pretty in question was lost in a torrent of white-hot fire that shot from Mrs. Abernathy’s mouth and engulfed the unfortunate A. Bodkin, consuming him entirely and leaving only a pair of smoking black boots in his place.

  The pillar of fire moved, turning to face the ranks of seated demons.

  “NOW, WOULD ANYBODY ELSE LIKE TO SUGGEST THAT I MIND MY OWN BUSINESS?” said Mrs. Abernathy.

  Thousands of heads shook simultaneously.

  “WOULD SOMEONE PREFER TO TELL ME IF A BOY WAS SEEN HERE, A BOY WITH A DOG?”

  Two rows from the front, one of the imps raised a hand.

  “YES?”

  “Please, miss, it was the size of a boy, miss, but it wasn’t a boy, miss,” said the demon.

  “Ooh, tattle tale,” said Dozy. “If he didn’t have all his pals behind him, I’d deck him for that.”

  “WHAT DO YOU MEAN?”

  “It was a little man, miss. Mr. Bodkin didn’t think he was dead, miss, so he reported him, miss.”

  “AND THIS LITTLE MAN WAS ALONE?”

  “Yes, miss. Far as Mr. Bodkin could tell, miss.”

  “VERY GOOD. WHAT’S YOUR NAME?”

  “I don’t have a name, miss. I’m just a demon imp, third class, miss.”

  “WELL, CONSIDER YOURSELF PROMOTED. FROM NOW ON, YOU MAY CALL YOURSELF B. BODKIN. THE DESK IS YOURS.”

  “Oh, thank you very much, miss. I’ll be a very good B. Bodkin, miss, mark my words.”

  The imp rose from its workbench and trotted up to the main desk as the pillar of fire narrowed and then disappeared entirely. It slipped its feet into A. Bodkin’s smoking boots. Slowly it began to increase in height, and its appearance started to change. Within seconds, it bore a startling resemblance to the original A. Bodkin, right down to the nasty little beard and the superior manner.

  “Right, back to work, you lot,” said B. Bodkin. “The show is over.”

  He settled himself into his new seat, put his feet on the desk, and picked up the newspaper. With a collective shrug of resignation, the rest of the imps returned to the grinding, carrying, and recording of bits of bone.

  “Did you see that?” said Angry. “What this place needs is a good workers’ revolution.”

  “You can organize the masses another time,” said Jolly as the dwarfs slid down the dune and headed for their van. “We need to find a way to get home. I remember now where I saw that woman. It was back in Biddlecombe. She appeared on my windscreen, and then there was a blue flash, and next thing I knew we were here.” He paused, and scratched his chin. “And there was a boy with a dachshund.”

  He looked back in the direction from which they had come, as though expecting to see that pillar of flame rising high above them and that dreadful woman’s voice asking about a boy and his dog. Slowly, Jolly began shuffling pieces of the puzzle around in his brain.

  “I wonder,” he said. “I wonder, I wonder, I wonder…”

  XIII

  In Which We Meet a Ram, and Some Old Friends Are Reunited

  SAMUEL HAD OVERCOME HIS fear and, Boswell’s leash in hand, had decided to seek cover. As the nearest shelter was the forest of crooked, leafless trees, that was where he and Boswell aimed for. Boswell shivered as they drew near to the forest, and plonked his bottom down firmly on the ground. As far as Boswell was concerned, nothing in this land smelled good, sounded good, or looked good, but this forest felt particularly unpleasant.

  “Come along, Boswell,” said Samuel. “I don’t like this place much either, but it really isn’t a good idea for us to be out in the open where anyone can see us. And not just anyone, if you know what I mean.”

  Boswell twitched his ears and lowered his head. His life had once been so normal: wake up, go outside for a sniff and a wee, have a bite to eat, play for a while, have a nap, wake up, and repeat. Had he heard the phrase a dog’s life used in the sense of one’s existence being a bit harsh, he would have been slightly worried. As far as Boswell was concerned, a dog’s life was absolutely fine. It was humans who made things complicated; humans, and those nasty creat
ures with horns, and big teeth, and a stink of burning about them. His senses were flooded with the scent of those creatures now. This was their place, and Boswell loathed it.

  Samuel tugged on the leash and, reluctantly, Boswell trotted along beside his master. The branches of the trees met above their heads, as though they were reaching out to one another for consolation, their extremities tangling. Their bark was pitted with hollows that looked like eyes and mouths, faces contorted in expressions of agony. He heard the leaves whispering as though a breeze had briefly blown through them.

  But there was no breeze, and there were no leaves.

  “Boy,” said a soft voice. “Boy, help me.”

  “Boy,” said another, this time the voice of a woman. “Free me.”

  “Boy…”

  “Boy…”

  “… help me…”

  “No, me, help me…”

  “Boy, I’ve been here for so long, for so very long…”

  The mouths in the trees stretched and opened, and the eyes twisted in their wooden sockets. The branches moved, stretching for him. One snagged his jacket. Another tried to pull the leash from his hand.

  “Boy, don’t leave us…”

  “Boy, listen to us…”

  Behind him the forest closed, the trees forming an impenetrable wall through which he could not retreat. Samuel picked Boswell up, shielding him beneath his jacket, and started to run, even as branches cut his face, and tore his trousers, and tried to trip him as he passed. They should not have come here. He had made a mistake, but they could not go back. Samuel kept his head down, barely able to see where he was going, and all the time the voices kept calling him: pleading, threatening, promising. Anything at all, he could have anything he desired, if only he would make the pain stop.

  A presence appeared in front of him, and a voice said, “Back!”

  The trees instantly grew silent and were still. Samuel looked up to see a hunched animal with a distorted mouth, blunt teeth, and ancient, twisted horns protruding from its head, which was bearded with shaggy white fur. It took Samuel a moment or two to see that it was a ram of sorts, but one that had learned to walk on two legs. Its upper hooves had mutated, lengthening to form two pairs of bony fingers, one of which held a long staff. Its coat was matted and filthy, and smelled of damp and smoke.