Midnight Hour Read online

  ‘Good door, good door,’ she muttered, then, as the Bear hurled himself at it again, she squealed and legged it down the corridor behind her, into the darkness.

  Emily ran, bouncing pell-mell off walls and corners, zigzagging into the heart of the building. The storm of the Bear’s terrible anger faded behind her, although it might have been the sound of her pounding heart drowning it out. A faint light shone ahead and she slowed to a halt. She clawed down the zip of the bomber jacket and stood there panting, soaked with fear-sweat and reeking nearly as bad as the Bear had. She was not a fan of sudden unprovoked exercise at the best of times, and this had been two Olympic sprints in short succession. She slumped against the wall and gulped in air. Was a giant murderous bear-thing stalking her in the dark? She’d have heard the door crash in, wouldn’t she? But there had been a lot of running just now. Was he in here? WHAT THE HECK WAS HE?

  She pulled herself to her feet and staggered on. She was as sick as a . . . what was always being sick? Dogs? They did throw up a lot. But so did cats. Sick as a . . . wait. Was this what being in shock felt like?

  She reached into her bag and opened and chugged a whole can of fizzy pop as she walked. She burped long and loud afterwards and the wobbles cleared. She checked on the Hog but he had slept through the whole marathon of terror. What had just happened? Something properly not explainable, something deeply weird. What had that thing been, a were-bear or something? His words rang in her ears, ‘Come with me, can see your mother’, and she bit her lip, hard. Whatever he/it was, it had something to do with her mum being missing.

  At least she’d managed to find the Night Post. On her own too. She’d find her dad next, and everything would be fine.

  The light in the corridor was creeping out from under a door marked ‘Staff Only’. Behind it there was a locker room of sorts, with long oak benches, and tall wooden cabinets. They had little tags with extraordinary names on; Moves-silently-by-night, Fortescue Bloodfang, Vermillion Eve . . . And there! Her own name, Featherhaugh. Her name was a total pain because of having to explain every time how to spell or say it (Fevver-oh) but here it made her smile. Her dad must be here somewhere. At the far end of the locker room was a double door, and a hum of activity and voices became louder as she walked towards it. She ran a finger under the neck of her T-shirt and touched the body-warmed edges of the bad pennies for luck, then inched the door open and slipped through.

  It led into a huge, high-ceilinged space filled with a whirl of activity and noise. It was some kind of mail sorting room but it wasn’t a modern one; there were no conveyor belts, machines, or bright lights. Instead there were stack upon stack of wooden pigeonholes, and teetering shelves, and ladders balanced between them. It was lit from above with brass-fitted gas lamps, shining down on sorting desks with pneumatic tubes at the back of them, rattling and hissing and thumping as they pumped out more and more letters and parcels on to desks already mounded high with them.

  The post, oh the post. Rivers of it flowed past her and as she stood there, more post poured in; from the tubes, dumb waiter hatches, and on trolleys from some hidden back-room. The letters were in the same sort of envelopes that had been delivered to her house, with wax seals on brown paper, and coloured inks galore. They were everywhere, incalculable numbers of them, outweighed only by the parcels. Packages of every shape and size were stacked in piles, wrapped in silk, or carpet, or paper, tied up with string, ribbon, rope, and . . . snakes? A lot of them moved; rocking, hopping, gyrating, and in some cases, making a determined bid for escape. She was pretty sure one of them was a live crocodile, gift-wrapped in shiny paper with a fancy bow. That wasn’t right, was it?

  Her head was spinning. The hypnotic flow of mail was one thing, but the people who were handling it all were just as strange. The postal workers were all dressed in stiff grey long-tailed jackets and striped trousers, or high-necked dresses, and the men (well, mainly the men) had immense moustaches. It was all a bit period-drama. They were in constant motion, rolling on wheeled chairs, climbing up shelves, staggering under the weight of letters, and chasing parcels with butterfly nets. One lunatic was using steam-powered roller skates to move quicker. They whirled round the floor in a complicated ballet of movement, sometimes crashing into each other and sending a plume of letters up into the air.

  The letters sometimes didn’t come back down because, above the sorting room floor, the air was thronged with bats and crows swooping back and forth with letters gripped in claws or beaks. Were some of those letters flying on their own? They were. Oh good. Perfectly normal. Perhaps it might be time for a sit-down somewhere quiet? Magic post office, shape-changing bear . . . was she losing the plot? Below the desks came a flickering movement, then two rats in tiny hats ran past her dragging a parcel on a little sledge. Right, that was quite enough, thank you. They were all mad, and it was impossible. She must have banged her head.

  Fixated on their own work, no one paid the slightest bit of attention to Emily, even when they walked right by her. They were all piled up with stacks of letters, or wrestling with squirming parcels. She turned round and round, eyes wide with shock. What was this place? Where did her quiet and boring dad fit into all this madness?

  Everyone, including Emily, jumped as a steam whistle blew an ear-rattlingly loud and shrill note. After it, an amplified voice, dry and brittle as fallen leaves but still loud enough to part hair and chill bone, yelled, ‘Two-minute warning. Two-minute warning, until the Night Post rides out!’

  The mayhem intensified. People threw parcels with total abandon, fountains of mail gushed into the air, and stacks of letters toppled from baskets as their handlers ran for it.

  Perhaps there was some method to the madness after all? The post was moving towards the far end of the room, where, in front of huge sliding warehouse doors, a row of mismatched vehicles stood in a loading bay. There was a steamroller with a huge seat, a massive white horse loaded with saddlebags, a small sledge harnessed to . . . were those wolves? Then at the end was a row of big black bicycles with panniers, the same as her dad’s. The same as her dad’s! Was he still here?

  Next to the fleet of post vehicles were the posties themselves. They wore a different uniform to the rest; all black with glinting silver bits, and a jaunty peaked cap. Some were human, if a bit pale, but further down the line was a wolfish chap, another with tentacles, and towards the far end, a glimpse of a graceful creature, face covered in soft white feathers. At the end of the line, a slim figure, facing away from her. Her dad! She was almost sure. Why was he still here at work days later? In this absolute madhouse too. Her mum was missing, she’d come close to being bear snacks, and he was here bagging post with a bunch of Halloween rejects? Not cool. She started to shoulder through the crowd to get to him, but it was difficult to get closer in the whirling bedlam.

  She pushed and shoved, catching glimpses of the posties loading their vehicles. They were all taking the letters, packages, and wriggling parcels that were being handed to them, and jamming them into the panniers, baskets and shoulder bags as fast as they could. She saw something the size of a hatstand go into a carpetbag the size of a briefcase. Every single person on the floor now kept glancing up at an iron balcony that ran the length of one wall and overlooked the loading bay. Sticking over the edge was the end of an enormous brass megaphone, from which came another shriek in that nasty voice: ‘ONE MINUTE WARNING!’

  The movements below became more frantic, and eruptions, accidents and droppages became more pronounced. As the seconds ticked away, the frenzy on the floor reached a climax. The whole line of posties sat astride their different steeds now, and every one of them was staring at the huge doors of the loading bay, jockeys waiting for the off.

  She was so close to them now, so close to the figure that just had to be her dad. She yelled to him but as she did the awful whistle blew again. The wolfy postie clutched his ears with big hairy hands and howled, and she was drowned out. With a great creak, the doors slid open, moonlight silvere
d in, and the dry voice screeched over the mayhem.

  ‘NOW! THE NIGHT POST RIDES OUT!’

  The fleet of posties, large and small, winged and wheeled, furred and feathered, surged for the doors in a wave of black and silver. Emily yelled as loud as the megaphone.

  ‘Dad!’

  The slim figure she’d been so close to turned around. It wasn’t her dad, not unless he’d grown scales and big eyes, chameleon-style. A forked tongue flickered out of its mouth, and then the green-faced lizard postie turned back and began to pedal with all the rest. In a bedlam of bells ringing, crows squawking, and steam whistles blowing, they pedalled and galloped and whooped and swooped, and hurtled out of the doors and into the night.

  She stood there as they arced up into the sky. Flying bikes. Yeah, sure, why not? She sagged, empty. The whole place had gone quiet. The dreadful voice came again from above.

  ‘Start the tidy-up immediately. Prepare the next shift! And who is that in the middle of the loading bay? SEIZE THE TRESPASSER!’

  The whole room went quiet, and all eyes turned to Emily.

  ‘Ah,’ she said.

  ‘Are those TROUSERS?’

  Emily had surrendered. A tall, regal black woman, dressed in an old-fashioned grey dress, led her upstairs. She had, at least, smiled before pointing the way. That hadn’t been particularly comforting, as her teeth were pointy, and her eyes were blood red, but it was the thought that counted. The reception on the balcony was less friendly.

  ‘They are trousers! On a girl! Are you one of those ghastly progressives?’

  The horrible creaking shout came from the dark at the end of the balcony. In the shadows was a desk, and behind it sat what must once have been a man. Both desk and man were covered in a century of cobwebs, dust, and in the case of the desk, mound upon mound of paperwork. The man himself was grey, withered and so dried-up, that Emily would have thought he was dead if it hadn’t been for the awful shouting. His skin was shrivelled and worn, his hair and beard so long and tangled they wrapped all around the chair he was sat in and into the shelves of post behind him. She’d have bet money he’d been there at least a hundred years, if not more. The enormous brass megaphone he had been yelling the countdown through was attached to the desk in front of him, and was now swivelled to point straight at Emily.

  ‘No, I’m—’ started Emily, but didn’t get far.

  ‘I thought all that nonsense had left the world when the DREADFUL DAYLIGHT did.’ Dust shot out the end of the megaphone, and the sheer volume made Emily’s cheeks quiver. He didn’t move an inch despite the ranting, which was totally creepy. Wait, was that a twitch, or . . . was that something else? A mouse emerged from under the hair, sniffed the air and went back in. There was another movement under his shirt, and in his hair, and . . . he was rippling with them. Were they going in and out of his clothes, or in and out of . . . him? Urgh.

  ‘Well,’ said the scarlet-eyed woman in a surprisingly posh accent, ‘We don’t all think it was dreadfu—’

  ‘SILENCE!’ The megaphone screech made Emily flinch. ‘I’ll have no pro-daysie sedition here or you’ll be out on your ear, Miss Rhowse!’

  Miss Rhowse folded her arms and looked straight down her nose at the ranting corpse. Her eyes flared red.

  ‘Is that so, Postmaster? Good luck finding anything in the files ever again, if you do.’

  Emily liked Miss Rhowse, scary eyes or not. She tried again.

  ‘Look, Mr Postmaster, sir, I’m just trying to find—’

  ‘How did you get into MY POST OFFICE?’

  ‘I’m trying to tell YOU!’ Emily shouted, not as loud as the megaphone but enough to stir his cobwebs. ‘I’m looking for my dad, who came here to find my mum. I thought he worked here but I . . . I must have made a mistake.’

  She ferreted in her bag and slapped the wallet and badge down on the desk. The Postmaster didn’t move, although one of his eyes bulged (but it might have been a mouse moving behind it). Miss Rhowse picked the badge up. She turned it over in her hands, then held it up for the Postmaster to see. She turned back to Emily, scarlet eyes wide open with interest.

  ‘Where ever did you get this, miss?’

  ‘It’s my dad’s. I came in with his key and—’

  Before she could say anything else there was a hissing sound and a plume of dust shuddered out of the Postmaster.

  ‘She’s a DAYSIE! An illegal daysie in my post office! Worse, she’s an associate of a SEDITIOUS DAYSIE WHO DESERTED HIS POST!’

  Emily coughed as the cloud of dust enveloped her. Miss Rhowse waved a hand in front of her.

  ‘Alan’s not a deserter. He must have had a good reas—’

  ‘Alan? You know my dad?’ Emily blurted.

  Miss Rhowse turned to her with a sympathetic, if pointy, smile.

  ‘Yes, dear, he—’

  ‘SAY NOTHING, MISS RHOWSE. It’s a conspiracy! I shall telegraph to the Night Watch forthwith and have this ILLEGAL dealt with.’

  His withered hand detached itself from his wrist and crept spider-like across the desk. Emily came close to screaming, but settled for staring, bug-eyed, instead. The spider-hand unearthed a battered contraption of brass and steel from underneath the dusty letters, then mounted it and started to tap out a message in a series of clacks and clatters.

  ‘But, sir?’ said Miss Rhowse.

  ‘NOTHING!’ Emily and Miss Rhowse both winced in the blast. ‘Now, escort her to a holding cell, and set a guard!’

  Miss Rhowse gave him a stare that would have been withering if he hadn’t already been a prune.

  ‘We’re a post office, sir. We don’t have holding cells.’

  ‘Then tie her up!’

  Miss Rhowse sighed.

  ‘As you say, Postmaster.’

  She turned around and, with her back to the Postmaster, winked at Emily.

  ‘Come along, miss. We need to get you tied up.’

  ‘TIGHTLY!’ yelled the Postmaster after them.

  She held a hand out and Emily, with no choice, took it. It was cold as winter but gave hers an encouraging squeeze.

  ‘Drink up; you’ve had a nasty shock.’

  Emily took a long slurp of the tea she’d been handed and grabbed a biscuit from the box. She leant back in the comfy tartan armchair by the small tiled stove in Miss Rhowse’s cosy little office.

  ‘Ta. So, he was horrible.’

  ‘Ah, he has a good heart.’ Miss Rhowse was perched on the corner of her desk, cup and saucer in hand.

  ‘Yeah?’ Emily narrowed her eyes.

  ‘Oh yes, he keeps it in a jar on his desk.’ Miss Rhowse frowned. ‘But he’s a blinkered bigot when it comes to the Day Folk, I’m afraid, as are so many here . . .’

  ‘Look, Miss Rhowse.’

  ‘Please, call me Japonica.’

  ‘Okay, Japonica. Wow, cool name. I’m Emily. I . . . I have SO many questions, but I need to find my dad first.’ She grabbed another biscuit to see her through this difficult time. ‘Is he here?’

  Miss Rhowse, Japonica, frowned again. It was a worrying sight, as her thick eyebrows hovered over her bright-red eyes, and a small fang jutted out of the bottom of her mouth.

  ‘He was. He’d missed a number of shifts then ran in one night and raced straight out of here on his delivery bike instead of doing his round. It’s quite the scandal. The Postmaster is furious.’

  ‘My dad caused a scandal?’ She’d have bet she was past being surprised, but apparently not.

  ‘Yes, it’s known as “deserting your post”, and very bad form. Now his dangerous parcels are piling up, eating the other mail, and causing chaos. It’s most out of character for Alan.’

  People in this crazy place knew her dad on a first-name basis. Just so weird.

  ‘Okay, that’s, that’s too much right now.’ She pinched the brow of her nose and squinted as she tried to wrangle her tattered thoughts into shape. ‘But he’s been here. I’ll phone him again,’ said Emily.

  She pulled her battered ph
one out of her pocket and shrieked as it burnt red-hot against her fingers. She juggled it then dropped it on the rug. The screen was black and charred and the whole phone was fizzing.

  ‘Oh, is that one of your galvanic devices? How interesting.’ Miss Rhowse leant in, fascinated. ‘I’m afraid they don’t work in here. Something to do with the level of ambient magic.’

  Emily took a deep breath, leant back to contemplate the ceiling, then leant forward again.

  ‘Okay, I give up. Magic. Monsters. Everyone being all . . . spooky?’

  Miss Rhowse nodded gravely for her to continue.

  ‘If you don’t explain all this, I’m afraid I’m going to have to jump up and down and scream for ever.’

  Before Japonica could reply, a blast of noise erupted somewhere far off in the post office. It was difficult to make any sense of it, but it might have been an angry withered man shrieking ‘Miss Rhowse’ into a brass megaphone, again and again. Japonica’s frown deepened, and she stood up, motioning Emily to her feet.

  ‘Well, it’s easier if I show you anyway.’ Japonica already had the door open and was glancing down the corridor.

  ‘What’s going on?’ said Emily.

  ‘Oh, it’s just the Night Watch come to arrest you for being an illegal immigrant. Chop chop, do come along.’

  As Japonica slipped out, Emily grabbed a handful of biscuits and shoved them in her pocket. Better safe than sorry. As she hurried after Japonica there was a tiny munching noise.

  ‘Damn it, Hog, those are mine.’

  Miss Japonica Rhowse led her out of the office, down a gas-lit corridor and up flight after flight of steps. At the top they ducked out of a small, square door and on to the vast, flat roof of the building, which was dotted with skylights and finished in lead. Above them, the biggest and fullest moon she had ever seen. It was a hole carved out of the night and filled with mercury, and she was sure it hadn’t been there when she left home earlier. She was used to living under the sour orange dome of London’s reflected light and thought that was just how the sky was, but oh, how wrong she had been. The real night sky was black as a sea of ink and rippling with stars. Just so many stars, spread out in whirls of stark light, and deepening further and further, with colour blooming in the darkness. Was this what people meant when they talked about the Milky Way?