Midnight Hour Page 6

  ‘Hoggins, this is just . . . too much. What am I supposed to do?’

  The Hog put his head on one side.

  ‘I mean, Mum’s missing, Dad’s magic or something, and we’re stuck in a bad horror movie. I am about to have a proper wobbly.’ She fought down the tears, as she was not crying until she got out of here, no way. The Hog opened and closed his little mouth, then did it again, and nudged her with his nose. He might have been yawning but . . .

  ‘Eat something? Good call.’

  Emily rummaged in her bag and pulled out a flattened sandwich. She bit into it, ignoring the nibble marks on the ham.

  ‘Hoggins, you’ve got to stop eating my food. You’ll turn into a porky-pine.’

  The sandwich, as always, made things better. She leant back in the doorway, as the wall of legs, hooves, and tentacles went by, and held the Hog up to reconvene their meeting.

  ‘Okay, we’re stuck here, and we just need to get on with it, right? Whatever’s going on with Mum, and Dad being . . . whatever he is . . . is way too much to think about right now. Let’s just find them.’

  The Hog nodded, or maybe just twitched. It was difficult to tell. She fed him a leftover sliver of ham as she talked.

  ‘But where are we supposed to go? Library? What flippin’ libra—’

  That rang a bell. The ridiculous idea of her mum being in a library at all and . . .

  ‘The card!’

  She rummaged in the pouch and pulled out the library card. It read:

  British Museum Library

  Maeve Connolly

  Assistant Librarian to Keeper of Printed Books

  And then a lot of funny words in what she guessed was Latin, with a very troubling date. So, a library card from 1859, and . . . nope, just going to think about it later. Or maybe never. The idea of her mum being an Assistant Librarian was even more ridiculous than her dad being a magic postman but . . . the British Museum! She knew where that was; somewhere in Bloomsbury. That must be it.

  ‘Hoggins, good chat, thanks. We totally have a plan.’

  The Hog had already fallen asleep on her lap, but she was sure he was on board. She slid him back into her pocket with tender care. For now, she just needed to get her bearings. If St Paul’s was there, then the river was down there, and so Bloomsbury must be . . . there! Got it. It was a pretty long walk though. Did the Victorians have the Tube? Or buses? She’d still got some of the colourful old bank notes, as she was pretty sure Oyster hadn’t been a thing in the eighteenth century. Wait, that wasn’t right, was it? She always got that mixed up. Zero century was the first, so you always had to add one. So, eighteen-something was actually the nineteenth century. The eighteenth century had bigger wigs and awesome dresses, and, she guessed as something huge in a cloak stumped past her, fewer fangs.

  Okay, head down, find a Tube or a bus stop, don’t look like a tourist. Or lunch. She braced herself then ducked back into the swell of people.

  So, the Tube hadn’t happened yet. Also, buses were pulled by horses. Who knew? Great big tin-can things with stairs and conductors and everything, but a set of horses (with worrying fangs) at the front, plodding away. They were crammed full of Night Folk, and even had people sitting on the roof. All the eyes and teeth were a bit much, she decided. The walk would do her good. It wasn’t that far.

  She’d got the rhythm of the streets more now. It was still a horrible press, but as long as you pressed back, and knew where you wanted to go, you made progress. The crowd kind of carried you along, but if you wavered, you just got swept away. It was going okay until she reached the first big road junction and had to stop. It was impossible to cross. The road was a solid mass of killer carriages, and full of the foulest dung. She watched how the Night Folk did it. People bunched up at the kerb, then when there were more of them than the traffic, they would force their way out, with some poor waif dressed in rags sent out first with a big broom to brush at least some of the horrid poo out of the way. It was well sketchy, and not on Emily’s list of ideal weekend jobs.

  She was just building up the courage to join the next suicide mission, when she stopped dead in her tracks. Who was that? A tousle-haired boy, her age, and from her time too, as she was pretty sure the Victorians hadn’t got jimjams with robots on. He stood swaying in his pyjamas on the very edge of the kerb, his eyes wide as he gazed all around. The crowd ignored him but, busy as it was, still left a distinct space around him. Emily forced her way over.

  ‘Hey, are you all right?’

  He didn’t say a word, just stared in wonder at all the goings-on.

  ‘Hey, are you okay? How did you get here?’ She waved a hand in front of his eyes with no reaction, other than his growing grin.

  ‘You’re wasting your time, lad,’ said a voice of gravel from behind her. The voice came from behind a clanking contraption: a tall iron oven in a wheelbarrow, that had ‘Taters ‘n’ Toads for a penny’ scratched out on it in chalk.

  ‘He ain’t proper here, is he? Blinkin’ dreamlings. Gives ghosts a bad name they do.’

  The boy wasn’t proper here. He was transparent; a glimpse of the mayhem behind him visible through the robots fighting on his pyjamas. He yawned, caught her eye and there was a sudden thrill of connection. He saw her. He tipped his head to one side, pointed a finger at her and opened his mouth to speak, but then slipped sideways through a fat unicorn, and vanished like a soap bubble popping.

  ‘Whoa!’

  ‘Best ignore ’em. Only encourages ’em.’

  ‘What are—’

  His full-volume shout interrupted her: ‘TATERS! TATERS ’N’ TOADS!’ before he continued, ‘Y’what, son?’

  She still hadn’t seen his face, just the top of his hat moving behind the oven.

  ‘What are they?’

  ‘Dreamlings, int they. Dreamwalking over here. Blinkin’ liberty if you ask me. They wanted clearing out with the rest of that daysie rubbish.’

  ‘But how—?’

  ‘TATERS! ’Ere, you’re a bird, int ya? Why you got strides on then? You ain’t one of them daysies are ya?’

  ‘Certainly not!’ said Emily in a deep voice. ‘I have to go now. Thank you, my good man.’ And with that she scooted, plunging along with the next road-crossing party. Behind her, the hat continued to yell from behind the oven.

  ‘That’s a liberty an’ all! What’s the world coming to?’

  The crossings weren’t getting any easier, but she was managing. She fumbled one of the old banknotes into the outstretched hand of the crossing sweeper as she got across the most recent one. From his wide eyes, abandoned broom, and immediate whooping departure up the road, she suspected she might have got the exchange rate a bit confused, but never mind. She broke off from the madness of the main road and headed up a quieter side street. The lack of noise was a relief, and she was pretty sure she was going the right way too. For the first time since she’d got here, things were okay. She was doing it all by herself, and she wasn’t that far away. Perhaps it was going to be all right after all?

  ‘Ah hah! The wrong trousers!’

  A firm hand took her by the shoulder and turned her around. Behind her was a tall and thin young man with glowing yellow eyes and pointy ears. He had clear brown skin and an ill-judged attempt at a moustache that wasn’t doing him any favours. He wore a smart navy-blue uniform with silver buttons, a shoulder cape and peaked cap, and had a truncheon hung from his black leather belt. He’d have been an imposing figure if he hadn’t been so young. As it was, he might have been playing dress-up. He kept a hand on her shoulder and held his other hand right up to her face. In it was a mirror in a silver case.

  ‘You match the Postmaster’s description exactly. I’ll have to ask you to look directly into this, please.’

  She didn’t have much choice. The mirror moved and her reflection shifted and started to swirl. Her gaze was dragged into the whirlpool, and her head started to swim.

  ‘Now, you are under my command, and will do exactly as I say. I
am Constable-in-Training Postlewhite of the Night Watch and you are under arrest for the crime of invading the sovereign borders of the Midnight Hour.’

  The mirror glass whirled and roiled, then returned to her reflection. Emily started back.

  ‘Oh!’

  ‘Right, come along then, miss, let’s get you off to the lock-up.’

  The young man took his hand off her shoulder and gestured for her to walk ahead of him.

  ‘Lock-up? No, I can’t I’ve got to get to the li—’

  He spoke over her, slow and clear.

  ‘Come with me. That is an order. You are under arrest.’

  ‘I’m trying to tell you, I can’t. I’ve got to find my mum and dad.’

  His smooth brown brow wrinkled, and he looked at the compact silver mirror, now snapped closed in his hand.

  ‘Wait, are you not feeling compelled to do what I say?’

  ‘What? No. I’m feeling you’re not listening though.’

  He tapped the mirror and held it up to his ear.

  ‘How strange.’ He glared at her. ‘You must not have done it properly. Here, look at this again.’

  He popped the mirror open and held it up in front of her face. It started to whirl, and Emily’s furious reflection slid off into pattern and colour before she batted his hand aside.

  ‘Stop that! I’m trying to tell you something!’

  He gnawed his lower lip. ‘Perhaps it’s broken? Sarge will be furious.’ He took a step back, and started to pat his belt for something else, muttering under his breath. ‘Handbook says that in case of primary enchantment failure proceed to . . .’

  He was an idiot. Why her? All of a sudden, there was a distinct whiff of something floral; the waft of perfume out of place in this stinking city.

  ‘Just listen to me. You’re a policeman, right?’

  He looked up and straightened his hat, which had gone skew-whiff.

  ‘I am an officer in good standing of the Night Watch, yes. As I said, you are under—’

  ‘Arrest,’ Emily finished for him. ‘I know. But I haven’t done anything, and I totally need a policeman to help me.’

  Constable-in-Training Postlewhite drew himself up and squared his shoulders.

  ‘That’s for me to decide and I’m afraid, miss, that you have broken a host of border agreements, not to mention your violations against public decency.’ He nodded at her trousers. ‘Hence, I am arresting you and taking you to the station to be processed with due, erm, process. Now . . .’ and with this he drew his truncheon, which was banded with silver and had a pointy end. ‘. . . I must insist you come with me.’

  ‘Fine, fine. Whatever.’ She put her hands up. ‘Is there someone I can speak to there who’s not an idiot?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ he said, eyes alight with eagerness. ‘The Sarge, I mean, my sergeant is . . . wait.’ He pursed his lips like he’d tasted something sour. ‘There’s no need to be like that. I’m just doing my job.’

  ‘Is your job to aid helpless people whose parents are missing and who’ve been chased by a giant bear?’

  ‘Absolutely!’ He raised his truncheon to what was doubtless the approved bear-defence posture. ‘Why, do you know someone?’

  ‘YES! Me!’

  ‘Oh. Are you sure?’

  ‘Oh goodness, you’re right, I’m all confused about my parents BEING GONE, AND ALSO THE BEAR!’ She was now shouting at the policeman with the pointy stick. Great. Good job, gob. The pointy stick and the young man had both taken a step back in the face of her wrath.

  ‘Right, fair enough. Erm. Can you think where you last saw them?’

  Emily ground her teeth before answering.

  ‘I haven’t lost them down the settee. They’ve gone missing. In here.’

  She might as well have chucked a bucket of cold water on him. There was another gust of fragrance, this time more robust and herby. Sage?

  ‘You mean there are more in your party?’ The truncheon snapped back up to guard position. ‘How many? What are you planning?’ His other hand groped for something inside his jacket.

  Emily groaned with despair.

  ‘For the love of . . . no. My dad works here, at the Night Post. He’s on the, do you call it the Night Shift?’

  The scrabbling hand pulled out a big silver whistle on a cord. It was halfway to his mouth when the mention of the Night Post sent him scrabbling back inside his jacket for a black leather-bound pad. He fumbled his truncheon and whistle between both hands as he opened the pad while trying not to take his gaze off Emily, going cross-eyed in the process.

  ‘Night Post? Oh ho, this is the “Day Folk post-deserter” you’re on about, isn’t it? The Postmaster has told me all about your lot.’ He stuck his chin out. ‘You don’t fool me with your sob story!’

  The triumphant accusation was interrupted by his dropping first pad then truncheon and having to struggle to pick them up. Emily let out a long and weary sigh.

  ‘It’s not a sob story, and my dad is not a deserter.’ She had no idea what her dad actually was anymore, but figured she’d work that out after she’d found him.

  ‘You can tell it to the judge,’ said the young policeman in what he doubtless imagined were tough tones. He’d stowed all his things now and was advancing on her with a pair of silver manacles he’d produced from some inner pocket. ‘No more stories, you’re coming with me.’

  ‘No, is not,’ said a horrible yet familiar growl of a voice. ‘Told her already, girl is mine.’

  From a darkened alley behind the policeman, stepped the Bear.

  He’d abandoned the ridiculous umbrella and still looked more bear than human. The remnants of the tweed trousers hung in rags, and he was standing upright, but the huge furry torso and massive, clawed paws were all bear. His face was the worst thing of all, still with a glimpse of the man, but with a fanged snout sticking out of the black fur, and a great lolling pink tongue that flapped as his teeth mangled his words. The same paralysing wave of cold fear from before pinned Emily to the floor again. Her hand crept to the Hog, but he had rolled up tight into a prickly ball. She wished she could do the same.

  ‘Knew I smelt daysie flesh.’ The Bear was talking to someone behind him, and a small gang of horrors trooped out of the dark. There were five of them, all smaller than the Bear but bigger than Emily. They had identical banged-up, stony-skinned faces, pointy ears and jutting tusks, and they each wore a coarse brown three-piece suit and flat cap. They fanned out either side of the Bear to fill the alley. With them was a tall, handsome man, a butterfly amongst drab moths. He was bone pale, with knife-edge cheekbones and slicked back hair. He was wearing a red silk-lined opera cape over a well-cut black velvet suit, and sharp teeth poked out from beneath his top lip. He might as well have been carrying a sign that said, ‘Ask me anything about vampires’.

  ‘I don’t know how you can smell anything over the reek of this riff-raff,’ said the vampire, gesturing languidly at the goblin henchmen. ‘I shall take over now, of course.’

  The Bear ignored him, and grinned at Emily.

  ‘Good running, little rabbit. Nearly lost Bear outside. Lucky other door near.’ He sniffed, and licked his big teeth. ‘But running is over now. Easy to smell ill-luck and paint. Easy to smell you.’ He sniffed once more and wrinkled his nose up in confusion. ‘Also smell flowers. Strange.’

  Constable-in-Training Postlewhite had been staring, mouth agape, at the new arrivals. At the Bear’s last words, he flushed, then shook himself and stood as tall as he could before them.

  ‘Gentlemen, I am an officer of the Night Watch, and you are interrupting an arrest. I shall have to ask you to disperse before I am forced to take measures.’

  There was a silence that dragged on as the Bear’s gang stared at him and nudged each other, grinning. Emily had a surge of sympathetic embarrassment for the young policeman that overwhelmed her utter terror. Although not for long. An awful sound shattered the silence, like broken glass being rolled down the stairs in an iron bar
rel. It was the laughter of the Bear.

  ‘A HUR A HURH HURHG HURHGH!’

  His whole chest shook, and he slammed a paw against the wall to hold himself up. The wall cracked and brick dust trickled out where he had hit it. Around him, his tusked henchmen all cracked up too. Even the vampire deigned to give a sardonic, toothy smile. Constable-in-Training Postlewhite’s shoulders slumped. As the laughter continued he shrank down into himself, and stared at the floor.

  ‘Ahurgh.’ The Bear quietened and wiped his streaming eyes with a massive paw. ‘Agh, is good. Best joke Bear hear in last two century.’

  The Bear drew himself up, all humour gone from his voice. ‘So, you go now. Leave girl for us, and I not eat you today.’

  Behind the Bear, the hideous goblin quintuplets reached into their pockets and produced various sharp and heavy objects. The vampire slid away, lip curled from pointy teeth in distaste. The policeman trembled and took a step back. The street had emptied of other people, the wind of the Bear’s laughter blowing them all away.

  ‘GO!’ roared the Bear at top volume, and the young man turned, his scared eyes locking on Emily’s. He looked away, face crumpling, and Emily waited for him to sprint past her into the night. Instead, he turned back around, positioned himself in front of her, and raised his truncheon. A distinct scent of honeysuckle filled the air.

  ‘No,’ he said.

  There was a ripple of surprise from the gang, and the Bear’s grin grew wide.

  ‘No. Absolutely not,’ Constable-in-Training Postlewhite continued. ‘This is my prisoner and I have a sacred duty.’ As he spoke he was fumbling inside his jacket and produced the great big silver whistle. ‘Now, I suggest you run before my colleagues arrive.’

  He finished his sentence and jammed the whistle in his mouth, and was just about to blow it when a huge paw swung in out of nowhere, smashed him in the shoulder and knocked him all the way across the alley into the wall, with a horrid crunch. The Bear crossed the space between himself and Emily before the policeman had even slid down the wall, and now stood right over her. There was a stench of sour fat and rotting meat. Across from her, Constable-in-Training Postlewhite fell to the floor without a sound and lay still.