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Synopsis
Everybody needs a holiday, and demons are no exception. There may be an important election going on in the hellish city of Mortropolis, but most minds are on forthcoming breaksmaybe possession of a teenage nymphomaniac for a fortnight, or canoeing down the Styx with a packed lunch.
Release date: August 1, 1995
Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group
Print pages: 320
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Fahrenheit 666
Andrew Harman
He opened his eyes, stared in the mirror and decided he was going to enjoy being a woman. Especially whilst clad in such interesting lingerie. Three weeks of total nymphomaniac pleasure awaited him and he was damned sure he would make the most of every debauched minute. But first there were just a few essential things to get the hang of. At least, that’s what the holiday brochure had told him. First, seduction.
Experimentally, he flicked his waist-length flask-blonde hair, fluttered his three-inch raven-feather lashes and attempted to affect the perfect pout. He failed. Five hundred years toiling with a pick-axe in the steaming mines of Helian had somehow never provided him with a chance to practise. Well, not with teeth anyway. And learning to pout seductively with a mouthful of yellowing fangs and a chin the colour of a well-used leather armchair was not a simple task. The demon decided to give the pout a miss for a while and concentrate his devilish efforts on generating the consummate coquettish giggle.
Nervously he inhaled deeply, intoxicated with the feel of gently tightening whalebone-reinforced undergarments and a whole host of interestingly positioned straps. Mentally he formed a picture of the sound he wanted to issue from his beautifully feminine lips; a soft, becoming squeak, rising an octave effortlessly and ending in a sharp intake of breath. Alarming yet appealing (in an irresistibly charming way), guaranteed to have droves of eager suitors smashing down the door.
To anyone but the demon, it was way off key. In fact, a herd of donkeys at the slaughter would have been a symphony in comparison. But, remarkably, it worked.
With a grin of anticipation, he thrilled at the sound of feet storming down the corridor outside. Nonchalantly the demon licked a tiny finger, traced his deliciously plucked eyebrow and smoothed the front of his basque.
Seconds later the door was kicked off its hinges and a host of eager men burst in. The demon raised a curious eyebrow as he noticed that they were all wearing cassocks. He knew they went in for odd things in Southern Hedon, but cassocks? Ah, well, in for a groat …
‘Hello, darlings!’ he shouted appealingly. The floor vibrated with the hellish racket, but still they came.
General Sinnohd, bedecked in full crimson robes of office sprinted into the room laying down a suppressing fountain of 100 proof Holy Water. Three monks fanned out from behind him, snatched the grotesquely pouting woman and hurled her on to the bed kicking and screaming. The men from the monastery knew they had another victim red-handed.
The demon from Helian fluttered his eyelids as he was overwhelmed, he hadn’t expected his coquettish giggle to be so effective. Well, not without a little practice, anyway.
It was only as the straps tightened against his wrists and ankles, the candles were lit and the incense burner was set up on the portable field altar that he realised maybe – just maybe – they weren’t all here for an evening’s seduction.
General Sinnohd cracked his knuckles, grinned the grin of a fanatic and issued the words that every holidaying demon dreads. ‘Okay everybody, are we ready to exorcise?’
For Alhf the Demon, the next hour and a half was sheer hell.
Squatting on the far side of the Talpa Mountains’ pristine snow-covered peaks, like something a thousand-foot-long incontinent dragon had passed, lurked the seething mass that called itself Cranachan.
And deep within Cranachan’s labyrinthine intestines could just be heard a heavy sigh laced with the decorations of despondency and alcohol.
Miserably the Really Reverend Unctuous III tugged the cork out of a second flagon of communion wine, which was way past its bless-by date, poured himself yet another vast gobletful and sat glumly in the rat-smelling chaos of the vestry. A twitching set of whiskers poked out of the gloom, squeaked and awaited a chunk of the bluest of cheeses.
Unctuous sighed again as the cheese arced into the darkness, was snatched and voraciously nibbled at. Held in that single chunk of mouldering dairy produce were the entire hopes of him ever having a congregation to which he could preach – hopes which would be back to haunt him in a few hours’ time, masquerading as tiny black pellets of rat droppings.
Nobody ever came to the Public Chapel of St Absent the Regularly Forgotten to worship. Fifty years and not a pair of psalms to rub together.
The Really Reverend Unctuous III had been a hysterical optimist way back then, but he had quickly discovered the Cranachanians’ attitude to religion. And almost equally as quickly made up a reasonable approximation of the truth to explain why nobody ever came out to pray. It wasn’t really that Cranachanians didn’t believe in things they couldn’t see or touch or talk to. Oh no. It was simply that they didn’t have enough belief spare to spend on religion, he told himself, and then illustrated it with a convenient example of simple Cranachanian life. Take, he had insisted to himself over and over again, a typical Cranachanian housewife. After believing for the first few minutes of the day that the northeasterly drizzle wasn’t any worse than yesterday’s constant downpour; then spending the next few hours insisting vehemently that she wouldn’t get mugged on the way to market; then traipsing round said market struggling in the firm faith that there would be enough money in her wallet to buy a sufficiency of turnips to feed the kids; and then passing the rest of the evening convincing herself and the rest of the family that the turnip gruel was a) the finest meal they had eaten in their lives and, after a brief examination of the purse, b) would be an ongoing feast that would last for the rest of the week, well, there wasn’t really enough faith left for luxuries like gods and things.
And this was reflected perfectly in the size of the congregation habitually attending the Public Chapel of St Absent the Regularly Forgotten.
Each week the number of the faithfully devoted attending for worship could be counted on the fingers of a convicted thief’s right wrist-stump.
It had been like this for the last half-century and had the Really Reverend Unctuous III not been baptised in the Sea of Tranquillity and shunned for ever the use or knowledge of the word ‘tantrum’, he would now have been spitting fury and hurling candlesticks in month-long fits of rage.
Why he felt so particularly gloomy tonight he wasn’t sure. Could be the wine, could be the weather, or it could just be that he was bored. After five decades with yourself, a dozen candlesticks and a couple of rodents for company, the conversation does tend towards repetition.
Now, if he had a decent novel to read … But he’d cancelled his membership of the Scroll Club years ago after they insisted on sending him that nonsense about … oh, what was it?
His mind lurched drunkenly back thirty-odd years through the musty archives of his memory. His vision shimmered as he looked back, back, back …
He’d been cleaning candlesticks, again, and at first he hadn’t recognised the sound. Two swift sharp knuckle collisions on the oak panel of his door and then silence again. He’d looked up from the wax-splattered brass he’d been polishing and checked for rats. Nothing. He shrugged, started back at the candle and then leapt out of his skin as he realised that knocks meant knuckles and knuckles meant people! In a second he’d vaulted over half a dozen pews and was sprinting to the door, grinning widely with expectation … ahhh, those were the days. He could still sprint then … He recalled snatching the handles, tugging hard and sweeping the floor with a long bow of greeting, the complex pattern of gold braiding on his skullcap glinting in the light from his candle.
It was only after a minute and a half of extreme lumbar discomfort and a total lack of entering worshippers that he had stood creakily and tutted.
Imagination playing tricks, must be!, he had thought all those decades ago.
But then his eyes had fallen on the tiny rectangular hessian parcel leaning against the edge of the doorpost. Incredibly it had been addressed to him. Scratching the side of his pale, round head in acute bafflement he’d squinted up and down the corridor, then snatched the parcel, slammed the door shut and vanished into the cluttered, rat-smelling chaos of his vestry.
He grinned wistfully and took another swig of wine as he recalled how his hands had trembled as he feverishly began to unwrap the parcel, his eyes filling with tears of eager hope as he tore at the hessian.
The recommended title from the Scroll Club … It had to be! The latest highbrow modern literary classic from the quill of Jh’leek Hooper. He quivered expectantly. It had been months since he had ticked the order form, strapped it eagerly to the last of his pre-paid Scroll Club homing-pigeons and waited for delivery of Nubile Nymphs Ride Bareback Polo Ponies and now it was here. Happy, happy, joy, oh joy!
He tore off the final wrapping, flung it into a far corner and stared at the back of the tiny, dull manual before him. Strange choice of cover, he had thought. Then he’d turned it over and screamed as he read the title:
TEACH YOURSELF TELEPUSHY
Suggestive Mental Assertion in Twenty-Four Easy Lessons
The wrong one! He hadn’t ordered that. Nobody in their right mind would want to read anything so dull and boring as that. He wanted Nubile Nymphs or nothing. In a fit of youthful pique he had flung the manual away and forgotten about it.
Until now … Decades later and he had read absolutely everything else he could lay his hands on in this tiny chapel. And he was far from being in his right mind. He was desperate for something, anything new to read. He leapt to his feet, swayed a bit and dived into a heap of large boxes that hadn’t been moved for … oooh, thirty years or so. Spiders fled, woodlice trembled and several single-parent rat families were suddenly plunged into homelessness as the aging containers were hurled aloft in Unctuous’s desperate search. And miraculously, after five minutes of scrabbling, there it was.
He could hardly control his quivering hands long enough to open the first page and begin to read.
Congratulations on your choice of scroll and welcome to the future of almost limitless possibilities! You are standing on the brink of a learning experience which will transport you to the World of Your Choices; A World where YOU are no longer the passenger; Where YOU have the controls! Come with us on an easy-to-follow twenty-four step journey into the realms of Telepushy.
Yes! Stick with us and you will no longer have to wait to be served at the bar of life. Learn our lessons and the Champagne of Success will overflow your cup. Follow us and golden opportunities will dog your every footstep.
Yes! It’s true! With Suggestive Mental Assertion you can have that devoted congregation you’ve always dreamed of.
Focus your mind the S.M.A. Way and Telepush life’s problems away!
… and there were three hundred and six more pages just like that. Oh joy!
Razor-sharp talons gleamed redly, drumming irritably on the document-strewn table, counting off the last interminable seconds of the day. Then they stopped abruptly, pushed a few sheaves of scorched Nognite Parchment around the obsidian table, snatched listlessly at a boil-point pen and tapped that for a change.
Nabob narrowed his crimson eyes, scowled at the mound of immigration documents and tutted miserably. All the corners of the latest batch were scorched. Every single one of the damned things. Pathetic! He knew he really ought to send them back – Nognite Parchment was supposedly guaranteed ‘Scorch-Free at ambient temperatures. Will not wrinkle, char or calcine. Honest’. He really should send them back, he just couldn’t be bothered. He had far more important things to consider. If everything went to plan, he’d be out of here very soon. Fast track to the top.
Flicking ash off several of the sootier corners he tutted, snorted a blast of sulphurous breath and cursed apathetically. It was typical of the way things were going. Just another example of the state of the underworld today.
Suddenly a flash of ultra-violent crimson blasted through the micro-thin plate-quartz windows. For a split second he was silhouetted at the desk; a nine-foot black-scaled creature in a corona of vermilion. The flash was followed moments later by a screaming crash of thunder. And then the weather really began. Sheeting torrents of flame flashed down from above, bouncing on the teeming pavement, dancing on the countless roofs and gurgling down the woefully inadequate guttering.
Nabob cursed again as he watched the meteorological pyrotechnics outside. He should have known it would turn nasty. The day he’d left his flame-cloak at the dry-cleaners it starts flashing down. And all he had was a tired old cinderella that had an irritating habit of turning inside out in high winds.
‘Who’d work for the Sinful Service?’ he thought miserably, and stared out of the office window. His slitted pupils misted over as he thought back to when he had first joined.
Ah, such enthusiasm! He was going to work his way up through the infernal ranks, skip gaily through ‘Occult Accounts’, leapfrog ‘Torture Timetabling’ and keep going onward and upward towards the real power. But, somehow things had gone wrong; somewhere along the line he’d ended up in ‘Immigrations’ filing records on the latest entrants to Mortropolis, capital of the Underworld Kingdom of Helian. He’d been at it for centuries, trapped in a boring no-promotions backwater. Stamping entry visas and checking passmorts was no career for a demon with drive.
With a sly grin he stared at the notice pinned to the board. Things were about to change. Ha! After the elections, everything would be different …
Suddenly a plume of superheated steam erupted from a long tube outside the window. In seconds it was joined by a stream of others, each bellowing in a discordant cacophony.
Nabob squealed with delight as he heard the shift-change whistle echo across Mortropolis. In one leap he snatched his cinderella off the peg and clattered away down the spiral stairs, his cloven hooves striking sparks off each one as he skittered along.
Years of experience had taught him that if he didn’t get out before the crush he’d be stuck there for hours, trapped in the seemingly endless queue backed up the stairs. And tonight it would be worse. It always was if it was flaming. The idiots from accounts took ages fiddling about with their cloaks and ‘cindies’.
With a final skittering of hooves he spun off the last stairs, raced across the foyer, swerved through the rotating doors and plunged into the seething streets. In seconds he was up to his armpits in the crowds, the black scales of his skin and the curling pair of horns marking him out as one of the ruling class. Snarling angrily, he shoved through the masses of bodies, and headed for downtown Tumor.
‘Out of my way!’ he snorted with barely contained fury. ‘Move!’ He snatched angrily at one of the countless pairs of shoulders before him and hurled their owner sideways. Unclenching his fists, he pawed his way through the jam of bodies with all the efficiency of a leper in the January sales. There were far too many of them. And they still came over the River Phlegethon. A decent war or famine and the ferrymen would be carrying hundreds a day.
Choosing a sluggishly moving pedestrian at random he wound himself up and delivered a hefty crack across the back of its head. The head turned, stared up at the snarling devil in the perfectly tailored skin of black leather, received a swift uppercut to his jaw, ricocheted sideways and arced into oblivion. Nabob sneered and waded on through the heaving streets.
It took him an hour and a half before he finally got into the middle of downtown Tumor and, as usual, he instantly regretted it. Nobody in their right mind visited the district if they could help it. His ears pounded with the sound of the infernal machines of the Phlegethon Ship Yards, the heat was unbearable – way up in the high six-eighties – and there were even more bodies down here. He had been assured that the reason the Transcendental Travel Company Ltd had their office in downtown Tumor was based on shrewd finance. Rent was cheap.
Angrily Nabob hurled three ex-sailors out of the way, dashed down a narrow back alley and burst through a pair of heat-purpled steel doors, anticipation rising inside him as his cloven hooves powered him up the seemingly endless flights of steep stairs. His thighs were throbbing as he reached the top floor of the strata-scraper, shoved open the door of the Transcendental Travel Company Ltd and stepped into the middle of a raging argument.
‘I booked three weeks!’ yelled a huge demon leaning over the manager’s desk. ‘Three weeks. And what do I get? An hour and a half!’
‘I’m sorry, sir. It’s a risk you have to take with this type of vacation. Were you insured?’ whimpered the scaly figure behind the desk.
‘Yes!’ screamed the angry customer, slamming a sheet of pristine Nognite Parchment on to the obsidian desk.
‘Ah,’ grunted the manager as he licked his talon, flicked through the document and tried to calculate the degree of protection the desk could offer.
‘Well?’ growled Alhf the demon, his forked tail flicking angry red.
‘This is the Standard Cover,’ answered Flagit nervously and began to realise why he had been the only volunteer to step into the manager’s recently vacated shoes.* This twelve-foot axe-wielding demon was his fifteenth complaint that day and he had a horrible feeling that he knew exactly what it was about. ‘This covers you for cancellations, double-bookings and any third-party criminal proceedings arising from your period of possession.’
‘And?’
‘It does not cover acts of war, gods or … er …’ He wasn’t going to say it.
The demon went several shades of vermilion darker, telegraphing its feelings of extreme displeasure very succinctly. ‘Look, when I booked a three-week possession of a teenage nymphomaniac in Southern Hedon I expected to have some interesting experiences which I could share with my mates down the bar. I did not expect to open her raven-lashed eyes …’
Here it comes, thought Flagit, beginning to tremble.
‘… then find myself tied to a bed, staring into the face of a priest,’ ranted the demon.
Definitely. Number fifteen. Flagit cringed.
A thin line of saliva dribbled unchecked from the edge of the demon’s fuming mouth. ‘And spend an hour and a half being exorcised senseless! D’you call that a holiday? I want my money back!’
Inside, Flagit screamed. Another exorcism. It seemed that the recently promoted General Sinnohd was settling well into his role of Exorcist General. A little too well.
Flagit crawled sheepishly behind the defensive screens of the insurance document, shrugged and said as inoffensively as possible, ‘I’m sorry, sir, but without the Extended Anti-Exorcism Warranty I am unable to …’
The demon made a horrible growling sound and leaned even further forward, its claws flexing wildly, dithering between snatching at his axe or Flagit’s throat.
‘B … but, er, under the circumstances,’ whimpered Flagit with a cheesy grin, ‘I can offer an alternative. We’ve just had a cancellation. How would you like three weeks narrow-boating on the Phlegethon, hmmm?’
Three of the lower office minions scrambled through a far door. A wisp of steam trickled angrily out of the demon’s nostril as one claw stroked the handle of his pick-axe.
‘I take it that’s a “no”? Er, how about a long weekend lava surfing in the Arrhenius basin?’
The demon leapt forward and snatched Flagit firmly around his scaly throat. The erstwhile clerk threw up his arms in defeat, waving them frantically, ‘Okay, okay. Let go!’
The demon dropped him back into his swivelly stone chair with a crash.
‘Look,’ croaked Flagit conspiratorially, ‘how about if I say you were double-booked. I mean, it happens sometimes, especially with the nymphomaniacs, they’re very popular at this time of year. You can claim on your insurance then. See?’ Flagit massaged his crushed larynx and, not for the first time, wondered if his promotion had been a good thing. Okay the money was better, but the idea of spending the rest of eternity with a crushed windpipe was less than totally appealing. He’d never sing another aria.
‘That mean I can have another holiday?’ growled the demon suspiciously.
‘Of course, anything from this brochure. Anything,’ whimpered Flagit handing over a thick glossy. ‘Er, please, take your pick.’
Still grumbling, the demon grabbed the brochure.
‘And if you’re not entirely satisfied with the selection available we can arrange to refund your hard-earned money, minus a small handling fee, of course.’
The demon grunted and, temporarily satisfied, lurched off into a corner to begin squinting through the brochure.
Flagit wiped steaming sweat off his scaly brow and breathed a sigh of relief. It was short lived.
Out of the corner of his slitted eye he saw Nabob stalking towards him.
Flagit’s infernal heart leapt a beat. He knew just by looking that Nabob had come to collect.
‘Hello, Flagit,’ he growled. ‘Got anything for me?’
‘Er, what did you have in mind?’ Flagit answered, still rubbing his leathery throat.
‘You tell me. You should know what I can get for fifteen thousand obuls these days.’
Flagit swallowed apprehensively, reached behind him and nervously fingered a small sack. He knew better than most that fifteen thousand obuls was a good few truckloads of sold souls. But you try buying state of the art equipment at black market prices. It was hell down here. Nervously he patted his sack and hoped it would be enough. Nabob was expecting something pretty spectacular, and the price for winning elections was very high. ‘Delivery time,’ growled Nabob eyeing the sack. ‘I’ve had enough waiting. Three months of your feeble excuses does little for my patience. It’s time for results. And you’d better make them good!’
With a flick of his wrist Flagit beckoned the demon and left the room, heading quickly for a small storeroom in the far corner of the top floor of the strata-scraper.
Flagit swung his sack carefully on to the heat-stained desk and wiped his brow. It was hot up here, even for him. That was the problem with top floors of strata-scrapers. They were always too hot. Life in the Underworld Kingdom of Helian was always hot but here, jammed against the enormous canopy of the rock ceiling (affectionately known as the stratasphere) it was very hot indeed. There were times when it could get into the six-nineties. But that would be remedied soon. His first decision as the new manager had been to get air-conditioning fitted quick smart. Why be a manager and sweat?
‘What do you wish to know,’ croaked Flagit, his throat still smarting and a rivulet of sweat dribbling down the scales of his back.
‘You know damn well! Fifteen thousand obuls!’ shouted Nabob slamming one scaly fist into another. ‘Fifteen k you’ve had. Show me the goods!’
Flagit fidgeted and wiped his brow. ‘Research and development is a bit pricey. Especially if you want it to win the elect …’
‘Did I ask for excuses? Did I? Just shut up and show me why you’ve been avoiding me for the last three months,’ snarled Nabob leaning far too close to Flagit’s ear.
Flagit swallowed hoping that his latest results hadn’t melted. ‘Why meet here?’ growled Nabob. ‘It’s too hot. And I hate Tumor!’
‘I gotta business to run and besides, your place is too hot. Seirizzim’s devils are everywhere. If he gets a whiff of this … phew, it doesn’t bear thinking about. Seirizzim for Undertaker-in-Chief, uuuurgh! Do you want what I’ve got, or not?’ snapped Flagit. He swallowed once more as Nabob sneered, then nodded and wiped his furrowed brow with the back of his scaly hand. Flagit grinned and pulled a small rectangular obsidian base, six gleaming steel balls, a tiny wire frame and several bits of No-Glow string out of his sack.
‘Hurry up!’ snapped Nabob as he watched Flagit attach the frame to the base then thread string through each of the balls and hang them on the frame in a perfect line.
‘Voilà!’ proclaimed Flagit.
‘And what is that supposed to be?’ growled Nabob, the tip of his pointed tail flicking irritably. ‘Or more pertinently, how is that heap of scrap meant to make His Infernality, the Dark Lord d’Abaloh eternally indebted to me and therefore crown me Undertaker-in-Chief of Mortropolis over all other candidates, hmmmm?’
‘Watch,’ said Flagit, wishing fervently that he could control his endocrine system and ooze confidence from every pore. There was no guarantee he would walk out of his meeting on both hooves if Nabob was displeased.
With his talons shaking only very slightly, Flagit grasped the suspended ball nearest to him, pulled it gently away from the other five and let it drop. As if by magic, the sixth ball shot away from the pack, arched and slammed back into the remaining five, catapulting the first away and starting the entire cycle again.
Nabob began to seethe as the clicking of the balls grated on the shreds of his already inflamed temper. Flagit forced a grin, stopped the cradle, grasped a pair of balls and repeated the exercise. ‘You can do it with three as well,’ he added, hoping that it helped his case.
‘What is it?’ bellowed Nabob, steam flaring out of his broad nostrils.
‘Er, the perfect relaxation aid for stressed-out rulers of the Underworld. You see, the principle of conservation of momentum is harnessed to offer a soothing repetitive cycle of collisions and …’
‘Shut up!’
‘… so aid restful sleep.’
‘Shut up!’ screamed Nabob turning a very crimson shade of stygian black. ‘I gave you fifteen thousand obuls three months ago and that’s the best you could come up with?’
‘Oh no. How about this?’ declared Flagit, producing a foot-long transparent tank filled with an orange and a crimson liquid. In a flash he settled it on a longer base and released a small switch. The clockwork mechanism whirred in the base and the tank rocked gently back and forth, the denser crimson granite lava surging in slow-motion miniature tidal waves beneath the layer of immiscible orange. ‘I’ve been working on putting a tiny surfer in there but it always flips over and melts. I think it’s more relaxing this way, though. Don’t you? … oh.’ Flagit caught a face-full of seething hot breath as he turned and looked up. ‘Well, I’ve got an idea for a little steel ball on the end of a string that you can use to knock down little cubes of rock … No? Ha! Silly idea. Of course, er, what was I thinking of …’
‘Thinking? Thinking?’ yelled Nabob. ‘Cognitive mental reasoning had nothing to do with it. When I suggested that d’Abaloh might perhaps like something to help him relax after a hard day’s deviltry, I had in mind something a little more punitive. A new torment to add to the Malebolge, perhaps, or …’
‘What about a new set of gleaming pitchfork sharpeners,’ interrupted Flagit. ‘Or this?’ he grinned, tugging a picture of a beaming bearded face out of his sack. ‘Top of the range deity dartboard?’
‘No, no!’ squealed Nabob, his voice edged with acute barbs of victimisation. ‘I’m ruined! My entire career in tatters. Seirizzim’ll walk into the Undertakership unchallenged and I’ll be counting blasphemers by the end of his first week in office. I’m ruined. Ruined! And it’s all your fault!’ Suddenly self-pity switched to anger and revenge. Nabob’s face contorted from wide-eyed fear to the snarling calculating sneer of malevolent evil. ‘Ye-eeesss,’ he purred and, snatching Flagit by the throat, pinned him to the wall. ‘Your fault. You let me down with your pathetic feeblemindedness!’ Nabob’s threatening leer slithered into the realms of ultimatum. ‘Let me ask you a simple question, Flagit. What do you think will happen to you if, due to some unforeseen circumstance, I happen not to manage to secure the post of Undertaker-in-Chief of Mortropolis, hmmm?’
Flagit’s mouth worked as he tried to follow the thread of the threat. ‘Er …’ was as far as he got.
‘Think about it, idiot!’ screamed Nabob. ‘But not too hard. I want results. And you’ve got a week to find them!’ he squealed tyrannically, flinging Flagit across the storeroom, storming out of the door and down the hundred feet of stairs, slamming into a knot of trudging pedestrians. He wheeled around, sprinted back up the stairs, poked his head back through the door and bellowed. ‘And do something about all these … these creatures! The place is crawling with ’em!’
She hitched up her bright red nightdress, tucking it expertly in the straps of her panties, checked the rope and swung. Air rushed through the scruffy bunches of her hair as she arced between the rafters, wooden dagger clenched firmly between her nine-year-old teeth. This time she would get to the treasure. Nobody could stop her.
With the lightest of slaps she landed in a squat on the dusty rafter of the cluttered printer’s shop and poised as she calculated the distance to the ‘skyland’.
If we were to view the ‘skyland’ through the critical lenses of adult logic we would see a dust-covered wooden shelf raised or lowered from the print shop ceiling
Experimentally, he flicked his waist-length flask-blonde hair, fluttered his three-inch raven-feather lashes and attempted to affect the perfect pout. He failed. Five hundred years toiling with a pick-axe in the steaming mines of Helian had somehow never provided him with a chance to practise. Well, not with teeth anyway. And learning to pout seductively with a mouthful of yellowing fangs and a chin the colour of a well-used leather armchair was not a simple task. The demon decided to give the pout a miss for a while and concentrate his devilish efforts on generating the consummate coquettish giggle.
Nervously he inhaled deeply, intoxicated with the feel of gently tightening whalebone-reinforced undergarments and a whole host of interestingly positioned straps. Mentally he formed a picture of the sound he wanted to issue from his beautifully feminine lips; a soft, becoming squeak, rising an octave effortlessly and ending in a sharp intake of breath. Alarming yet appealing (in an irresistibly charming way), guaranteed to have droves of eager suitors smashing down the door.
To anyone but the demon, it was way off key. In fact, a herd of donkeys at the slaughter would have been a symphony in comparison. But, remarkably, it worked.
With a grin of anticipation, he thrilled at the sound of feet storming down the corridor outside. Nonchalantly the demon licked a tiny finger, traced his deliciously plucked eyebrow and smoothed the front of his basque.
Seconds later the door was kicked off its hinges and a host of eager men burst in. The demon raised a curious eyebrow as he noticed that they were all wearing cassocks. He knew they went in for odd things in Southern Hedon, but cassocks? Ah, well, in for a groat …
‘Hello, darlings!’ he shouted appealingly. The floor vibrated with the hellish racket, but still they came.
General Sinnohd, bedecked in full crimson robes of office sprinted into the room laying down a suppressing fountain of 100 proof Holy Water. Three monks fanned out from behind him, snatched the grotesquely pouting woman and hurled her on to the bed kicking and screaming. The men from the monastery knew they had another victim red-handed.
The demon from Helian fluttered his eyelids as he was overwhelmed, he hadn’t expected his coquettish giggle to be so effective. Well, not without a little practice, anyway.
It was only as the straps tightened against his wrists and ankles, the candles were lit and the incense burner was set up on the portable field altar that he realised maybe – just maybe – they weren’t all here for an evening’s seduction.
General Sinnohd cracked his knuckles, grinned the grin of a fanatic and issued the words that every holidaying demon dreads. ‘Okay everybody, are we ready to exorcise?’
For Alhf the Demon, the next hour and a half was sheer hell.
Squatting on the far side of the Talpa Mountains’ pristine snow-covered peaks, like something a thousand-foot-long incontinent dragon had passed, lurked the seething mass that called itself Cranachan.
And deep within Cranachan’s labyrinthine intestines could just be heard a heavy sigh laced with the decorations of despondency and alcohol.
Miserably the Really Reverend Unctuous III tugged the cork out of a second flagon of communion wine, which was way past its bless-by date, poured himself yet another vast gobletful and sat glumly in the rat-smelling chaos of the vestry. A twitching set of whiskers poked out of the gloom, squeaked and awaited a chunk of the bluest of cheeses.
Unctuous sighed again as the cheese arced into the darkness, was snatched and voraciously nibbled at. Held in that single chunk of mouldering dairy produce were the entire hopes of him ever having a congregation to which he could preach – hopes which would be back to haunt him in a few hours’ time, masquerading as tiny black pellets of rat droppings.
Nobody ever came to the Public Chapel of St Absent the Regularly Forgotten to worship. Fifty years and not a pair of psalms to rub together.
The Really Reverend Unctuous III had been a hysterical optimist way back then, but he had quickly discovered the Cranachanians’ attitude to religion. And almost equally as quickly made up a reasonable approximation of the truth to explain why nobody ever came out to pray. It wasn’t really that Cranachanians didn’t believe in things they couldn’t see or touch or talk to. Oh no. It was simply that they didn’t have enough belief spare to spend on religion, he told himself, and then illustrated it with a convenient example of simple Cranachanian life. Take, he had insisted to himself over and over again, a typical Cranachanian housewife. After believing for the first few minutes of the day that the northeasterly drizzle wasn’t any worse than yesterday’s constant downpour; then spending the next few hours insisting vehemently that she wouldn’t get mugged on the way to market; then traipsing round said market struggling in the firm faith that there would be enough money in her wallet to buy a sufficiency of turnips to feed the kids; and then passing the rest of the evening convincing herself and the rest of the family that the turnip gruel was a) the finest meal they had eaten in their lives and, after a brief examination of the purse, b) would be an ongoing feast that would last for the rest of the week, well, there wasn’t really enough faith left for luxuries like gods and things.
And this was reflected perfectly in the size of the congregation habitually attending the Public Chapel of St Absent the Regularly Forgotten.
Each week the number of the faithfully devoted attending for worship could be counted on the fingers of a convicted thief’s right wrist-stump.
It had been like this for the last half-century and had the Really Reverend Unctuous III not been baptised in the Sea of Tranquillity and shunned for ever the use or knowledge of the word ‘tantrum’, he would now have been spitting fury and hurling candlesticks in month-long fits of rage.
Why he felt so particularly gloomy tonight he wasn’t sure. Could be the wine, could be the weather, or it could just be that he was bored. After five decades with yourself, a dozen candlesticks and a couple of rodents for company, the conversation does tend towards repetition.
Now, if he had a decent novel to read … But he’d cancelled his membership of the Scroll Club years ago after they insisted on sending him that nonsense about … oh, what was it?
His mind lurched drunkenly back thirty-odd years through the musty archives of his memory. His vision shimmered as he looked back, back, back …
He’d been cleaning candlesticks, again, and at first he hadn’t recognised the sound. Two swift sharp knuckle collisions on the oak panel of his door and then silence again. He’d looked up from the wax-splattered brass he’d been polishing and checked for rats. Nothing. He shrugged, started back at the candle and then leapt out of his skin as he realised that knocks meant knuckles and knuckles meant people! In a second he’d vaulted over half a dozen pews and was sprinting to the door, grinning widely with expectation … ahhh, those were the days. He could still sprint then … He recalled snatching the handles, tugging hard and sweeping the floor with a long bow of greeting, the complex pattern of gold braiding on his skullcap glinting in the light from his candle.
It was only after a minute and a half of extreme lumbar discomfort and a total lack of entering worshippers that he had stood creakily and tutted.
Imagination playing tricks, must be!, he had thought all those decades ago.
But then his eyes had fallen on the tiny rectangular hessian parcel leaning against the edge of the doorpost. Incredibly it had been addressed to him. Scratching the side of his pale, round head in acute bafflement he’d squinted up and down the corridor, then snatched the parcel, slammed the door shut and vanished into the cluttered, rat-smelling chaos of his vestry.
He grinned wistfully and took another swig of wine as he recalled how his hands had trembled as he feverishly began to unwrap the parcel, his eyes filling with tears of eager hope as he tore at the hessian.
The recommended title from the Scroll Club … It had to be! The latest highbrow modern literary classic from the quill of Jh’leek Hooper. He quivered expectantly. It had been months since he had ticked the order form, strapped it eagerly to the last of his pre-paid Scroll Club homing-pigeons and waited for delivery of Nubile Nymphs Ride Bareback Polo Ponies and now it was here. Happy, happy, joy, oh joy!
He tore off the final wrapping, flung it into a far corner and stared at the back of the tiny, dull manual before him. Strange choice of cover, he had thought. Then he’d turned it over and screamed as he read the title:
TEACH YOURSELF TELEPUSHY
Suggestive Mental Assertion in Twenty-Four Easy Lessons
The wrong one! He hadn’t ordered that. Nobody in their right mind would want to read anything so dull and boring as that. He wanted Nubile Nymphs or nothing. In a fit of youthful pique he had flung the manual away and forgotten about it.
Until now … Decades later and he had read absolutely everything else he could lay his hands on in this tiny chapel. And he was far from being in his right mind. He was desperate for something, anything new to read. He leapt to his feet, swayed a bit and dived into a heap of large boxes that hadn’t been moved for … oooh, thirty years or so. Spiders fled, woodlice trembled and several single-parent rat families were suddenly plunged into homelessness as the aging containers were hurled aloft in Unctuous’s desperate search. And miraculously, after five minutes of scrabbling, there it was.
He could hardly control his quivering hands long enough to open the first page and begin to read.
Congratulations on your choice of scroll and welcome to the future of almost limitless possibilities! You are standing on the brink of a learning experience which will transport you to the World of Your Choices; A World where YOU are no longer the passenger; Where YOU have the controls! Come with us on an easy-to-follow twenty-four step journey into the realms of Telepushy.
Yes! Stick with us and you will no longer have to wait to be served at the bar of life. Learn our lessons and the Champagne of Success will overflow your cup. Follow us and golden opportunities will dog your every footstep.
Yes! It’s true! With Suggestive Mental Assertion you can have that devoted congregation you’ve always dreamed of.
Focus your mind the S.M.A. Way and Telepush life’s problems away!
… and there were three hundred and six more pages just like that. Oh joy!
Razor-sharp talons gleamed redly, drumming irritably on the document-strewn table, counting off the last interminable seconds of the day. Then they stopped abruptly, pushed a few sheaves of scorched Nognite Parchment around the obsidian table, snatched listlessly at a boil-point pen and tapped that for a change.
Nabob narrowed his crimson eyes, scowled at the mound of immigration documents and tutted miserably. All the corners of the latest batch were scorched. Every single one of the damned things. Pathetic! He knew he really ought to send them back – Nognite Parchment was supposedly guaranteed ‘Scorch-Free at ambient temperatures. Will not wrinkle, char or calcine. Honest’. He really should send them back, he just couldn’t be bothered. He had far more important things to consider. If everything went to plan, he’d be out of here very soon. Fast track to the top.
Flicking ash off several of the sootier corners he tutted, snorted a blast of sulphurous breath and cursed apathetically. It was typical of the way things were going. Just another example of the state of the underworld today.
Suddenly a flash of ultra-violent crimson blasted through the micro-thin plate-quartz windows. For a split second he was silhouetted at the desk; a nine-foot black-scaled creature in a corona of vermilion. The flash was followed moments later by a screaming crash of thunder. And then the weather really began. Sheeting torrents of flame flashed down from above, bouncing on the teeming pavement, dancing on the countless roofs and gurgling down the woefully inadequate guttering.
Nabob cursed again as he watched the meteorological pyrotechnics outside. He should have known it would turn nasty. The day he’d left his flame-cloak at the dry-cleaners it starts flashing down. And all he had was a tired old cinderella that had an irritating habit of turning inside out in high winds.
‘Who’d work for the Sinful Service?’ he thought miserably, and stared out of the office window. His slitted pupils misted over as he thought back to when he had first joined.
Ah, such enthusiasm! He was going to work his way up through the infernal ranks, skip gaily through ‘Occult Accounts’, leapfrog ‘Torture Timetabling’ and keep going onward and upward towards the real power. But, somehow things had gone wrong; somewhere along the line he’d ended up in ‘Immigrations’ filing records on the latest entrants to Mortropolis, capital of the Underworld Kingdom of Helian. He’d been at it for centuries, trapped in a boring no-promotions backwater. Stamping entry visas and checking passmorts was no career for a demon with drive.
With a sly grin he stared at the notice pinned to the board. Things were about to change. Ha! After the elections, everything would be different …
Suddenly a plume of superheated steam erupted from a long tube outside the window. In seconds it was joined by a stream of others, each bellowing in a discordant cacophony.
Nabob squealed with delight as he heard the shift-change whistle echo across Mortropolis. In one leap he snatched his cinderella off the peg and clattered away down the spiral stairs, his cloven hooves striking sparks off each one as he skittered along.
Years of experience had taught him that if he didn’t get out before the crush he’d be stuck there for hours, trapped in the seemingly endless queue backed up the stairs. And tonight it would be worse. It always was if it was flaming. The idiots from accounts took ages fiddling about with their cloaks and ‘cindies’.
With a final skittering of hooves he spun off the last stairs, raced across the foyer, swerved through the rotating doors and plunged into the seething streets. In seconds he was up to his armpits in the crowds, the black scales of his skin and the curling pair of horns marking him out as one of the ruling class. Snarling angrily, he shoved through the masses of bodies, and headed for downtown Tumor.
‘Out of my way!’ he snorted with barely contained fury. ‘Move!’ He snatched angrily at one of the countless pairs of shoulders before him and hurled their owner sideways. Unclenching his fists, he pawed his way through the jam of bodies with all the efficiency of a leper in the January sales. There were far too many of them. And they still came over the River Phlegethon. A decent war or famine and the ferrymen would be carrying hundreds a day.
Choosing a sluggishly moving pedestrian at random he wound himself up and delivered a hefty crack across the back of its head. The head turned, stared up at the snarling devil in the perfectly tailored skin of black leather, received a swift uppercut to his jaw, ricocheted sideways and arced into oblivion. Nabob sneered and waded on through the heaving streets.
It took him an hour and a half before he finally got into the middle of downtown Tumor and, as usual, he instantly regretted it. Nobody in their right mind visited the district if they could help it. His ears pounded with the sound of the infernal machines of the Phlegethon Ship Yards, the heat was unbearable – way up in the high six-eighties – and there were even more bodies down here. He had been assured that the reason the Transcendental Travel Company Ltd had their office in downtown Tumor was based on shrewd finance. Rent was cheap.
Angrily Nabob hurled three ex-sailors out of the way, dashed down a narrow back alley and burst through a pair of heat-purpled steel doors, anticipation rising inside him as his cloven hooves powered him up the seemingly endless flights of steep stairs. His thighs were throbbing as he reached the top floor of the strata-scraper, shoved open the door of the Transcendental Travel Company Ltd and stepped into the middle of a raging argument.
‘I booked three weeks!’ yelled a huge demon leaning over the manager’s desk. ‘Three weeks. And what do I get? An hour and a half!’
‘I’m sorry, sir. It’s a risk you have to take with this type of vacation. Were you insured?’ whimpered the scaly figure behind the desk.
‘Yes!’ screamed the angry customer, slamming a sheet of pristine Nognite Parchment on to the obsidian desk.
‘Ah,’ grunted the manager as he licked his talon, flicked through the document and tried to calculate the degree of protection the desk could offer.
‘Well?’ growled Alhf the demon, his forked tail flicking angry red.
‘This is the Standard Cover,’ answered Flagit nervously and began to realise why he had been the only volunteer to step into the manager’s recently vacated shoes.* This twelve-foot axe-wielding demon was his fifteenth complaint that day and he had a horrible feeling that he knew exactly what it was about. ‘This covers you for cancellations, double-bookings and any third-party criminal proceedings arising from your period of possession.’
‘And?’
‘It does not cover acts of war, gods or … er …’ He wasn’t going to say it.
The demon went several shades of vermilion darker, telegraphing its feelings of extreme displeasure very succinctly. ‘Look, when I booked a three-week possession of a teenage nymphomaniac in Southern Hedon I expected to have some interesting experiences which I could share with my mates down the bar. I did not expect to open her raven-lashed eyes …’
Here it comes, thought Flagit, beginning to tremble.
‘… then find myself tied to a bed, staring into the face of a priest,’ ranted the demon.
Definitely. Number fifteen. Flagit cringed.
A thin line of saliva dribbled unchecked from the edge of the demon’s fuming mouth. ‘And spend an hour and a half being exorcised senseless! D’you call that a holiday? I want my money back!’
Inside, Flagit screamed. Another exorcism. It seemed that the recently promoted General Sinnohd was settling well into his role of Exorcist General. A little too well.
Flagit crawled sheepishly behind the defensive screens of the insurance document, shrugged and said as inoffensively as possible, ‘I’m sorry, sir, but without the Extended Anti-Exorcism Warranty I am unable to …’
The demon made a horrible growling sound and leaned even further forward, its claws flexing wildly, dithering between snatching at his axe or Flagit’s throat.
‘B … but, er, under the circumstances,’ whimpered Flagit with a cheesy grin, ‘I can offer an alternative. We’ve just had a cancellation. How would you like three weeks narrow-boating on the Phlegethon, hmmm?’
Three of the lower office minions scrambled through a far door. A wisp of steam trickled angrily out of the demon’s nostril as one claw stroked the handle of his pick-axe.
‘I take it that’s a “no”? Er, how about a long weekend lava surfing in the Arrhenius basin?’
The demon leapt forward and snatched Flagit firmly around his scaly throat. The erstwhile clerk threw up his arms in defeat, waving them frantically, ‘Okay, okay. Let go!’
The demon dropped him back into his swivelly stone chair with a crash.
‘Look,’ croaked Flagit conspiratorially, ‘how about if I say you were double-booked. I mean, it happens sometimes, especially with the nymphomaniacs, they’re very popular at this time of year. You can claim on your insurance then. See?’ Flagit massaged his crushed larynx and, not for the first time, wondered if his promotion had been a good thing. Okay the money was better, but the idea of spending the rest of eternity with a crushed windpipe was less than totally appealing. He’d never sing another aria.
‘That mean I can have another holiday?’ growled the demon suspiciously.
‘Of course, anything from this brochure. Anything,’ whimpered Flagit handing over a thick glossy. ‘Er, please, take your pick.’
Still grumbling, the demon grabbed the brochure.
‘And if you’re not entirely satisfied with the selection available we can arrange to refund your hard-earned money, minus a small handling fee, of course.’
The demon grunted and, temporarily satisfied, lurched off into a corner to begin squinting through the brochure.
Flagit wiped steaming sweat off his scaly brow and breathed a sigh of relief. It was short lived.
Out of the corner of his slitted eye he saw Nabob stalking towards him.
Flagit’s infernal heart leapt a beat. He knew just by looking that Nabob had come to collect.
‘Hello, Flagit,’ he growled. ‘Got anything for me?’
‘Er, what did you have in mind?’ Flagit answered, still rubbing his leathery throat.
‘You tell me. You should know what I can get for fifteen thousand obuls these days.’
Flagit swallowed apprehensively, reached behind him and nervously fingered a small sack. He knew better than most that fifteen thousand obuls was a good few truckloads of sold souls. But you try buying state of the art equipment at black market prices. It was hell down here. Nervously he patted his sack and hoped it would be enough. Nabob was expecting something pretty spectacular, and the price for winning elections was very high. ‘Delivery time,’ growled Nabob eyeing the sack. ‘I’ve had enough waiting. Three months of your feeble excuses does little for my patience. It’s time for results. And you’d better make them good!’
With a flick of his wrist Flagit beckoned the demon and left the room, heading quickly for a small storeroom in the far corner of the top floor of the strata-scraper.
Flagit swung his sack carefully on to the heat-stained desk and wiped his brow. It was hot up here, even for him. That was the problem with top floors of strata-scrapers. They were always too hot. Life in the Underworld Kingdom of Helian was always hot but here, jammed against the enormous canopy of the rock ceiling (affectionately known as the stratasphere) it was very hot indeed. There were times when it could get into the six-nineties. But that would be remedied soon. His first decision as the new manager had been to get air-conditioning fitted quick smart. Why be a manager and sweat?
‘What do you wish to know,’ croaked Flagit, his throat still smarting and a rivulet of sweat dribbling down the scales of his back.
‘You know damn well! Fifteen thousand obuls!’ shouted Nabob slamming one scaly fist into another. ‘Fifteen k you’ve had. Show me the goods!’
Flagit fidgeted and wiped his brow. ‘Research and development is a bit pricey. Especially if you want it to win the elect …’
‘Did I ask for excuses? Did I? Just shut up and show me why you’ve been avoiding me for the last three months,’ snarled Nabob leaning far too close to Flagit’s ear.
Flagit swallowed hoping that his latest results hadn’t melted. ‘Why meet here?’ growled Nabob. ‘It’s too hot. And I hate Tumor!’
‘I gotta business to run and besides, your place is too hot. Seirizzim’s devils are everywhere. If he gets a whiff of this … phew, it doesn’t bear thinking about. Seirizzim for Undertaker-in-Chief, uuuurgh! Do you want what I’ve got, or not?’ snapped Flagit. He swallowed once more as Nabob sneered, then nodded and wiped his furrowed brow with the back of his scaly hand. Flagit grinned and pulled a small rectangular obsidian base, six gleaming steel balls, a tiny wire frame and several bits of No-Glow string out of his sack.
‘Hurry up!’ snapped Nabob as he watched Flagit attach the frame to the base then thread string through each of the balls and hang them on the frame in a perfect line.
‘Voilà!’ proclaimed Flagit.
‘And what is that supposed to be?’ growled Nabob, the tip of his pointed tail flicking irritably. ‘Or more pertinently, how is that heap of scrap meant to make His Infernality, the Dark Lord d’Abaloh eternally indebted to me and therefore crown me Undertaker-in-Chief of Mortropolis over all other candidates, hmmmm?’
‘Watch,’ said Flagit, wishing fervently that he could control his endocrine system and ooze confidence from every pore. There was no guarantee he would walk out of his meeting on both hooves if Nabob was displeased.
With his talons shaking only very slightly, Flagit grasped the suspended ball nearest to him, pulled it gently away from the other five and let it drop. As if by magic, the sixth ball shot away from the pack, arched and slammed back into the remaining five, catapulting the first away and starting the entire cycle again.
Nabob began to seethe as the clicking of the balls grated on the shreds of his already inflamed temper. Flagit forced a grin, stopped the cradle, grasped a pair of balls and repeated the exercise. ‘You can do it with three as well,’ he added, hoping that it helped his case.
‘What is it?’ bellowed Nabob, steam flaring out of his broad nostrils.
‘Er, the perfect relaxation aid for stressed-out rulers of the Underworld. You see, the principle of conservation of momentum is harnessed to offer a soothing repetitive cycle of collisions and …’
‘Shut up!’
‘… so aid restful sleep.’
‘Shut up!’ screamed Nabob turning a very crimson shade of stygian black. ‘I gave you fifteen thousand obuls three months ago and that’s the best you could come up with?’
‘Oh no. How about this?’ declared Flagit, producing a foot-long transparent tank filled with an orange and a crimson liquid. In a flash he settled it on a longer base and released a small switch. The clockwork mechanism whirred in the base and the tank rocked gently back and forth, the denser crimson granite lava surging in slow-motion miniature tidal waves beneath the layer of immiscible orange. ‘I’ve been working on putting a tiny surfer in there but it always flips over and melts. I think it’s more relaxing this way, though. Don’t you? … oh.’ Flagit caught a face-full of seething hot breath as he turned and looked up. ‘Well, I’ve got an idea for a little steel ball on the end of a string that you can use to knock down little cubes of rock … No? Ha! Silly idea. Of course, er, what was I thinking of …’
‘Thinking? Thinking?’ yelled Nabob. ‘Cognitive mental reasoning had nothing to do with it. When I suggested that d’Abaloh might perhaps like something to help him relax after a hard day’s deviltry, I had in mind something a little more punitive. A new torment to add to the Malebolge, perhaps, or …’
‘What about a new set of gleaming pitchfork sharpeners,’ interrupted Flagit. ‘Or this?’ he grinned, tugging a picture of a beaming bearded face out of his sack. ‘Top of the range deity dartboard?’
‘No, no!’ squealed Nabob, his voice edged with acute barbs of victimisation. ‘I’m ruined! My entire career in tatters. Seirizzim’ll walk into the Undertakership unchallenged and I’ll be counting blasphemers by the end of his first week in office. I’m ruined. Ruined! And it’s all your fault!’ Suddenly self-pity switched to anger and revenge. Nabob’s face contorted from wide-eyed fear to the snarling calculating sneer of malevolent evil. ‘Ye-eeesss,’ he purred and, snatching Flagit by the throat, pinned him to the wall. ‘Your fault. You let me down with your pathetic feeblemindedness!’ Nabob’s threatening leer slithered into the realms of ultimatum. ‘Let me ask you a simple question, Flagit. What do you think will happen to you if, due to some unforeseen circumstance, I happen not to manage to secure the post of Undertaker-in-Chief of Mortropolis, hmmm?’
Flagit’s mouth worked as he tried to follow the thread of the threat. ‘Er …’ was as far as he got.
‘Think about it, idiot!’ screamed Nabob. ‘But not too hard. I want results. And you’ve got a week to find them!’ he squealed tyrannically, flinging Flagit across the storeroom, storming out of the door and down the hundred feet of stairs, slamming into a knot of trudging pedestrians. He wheeled around, sprinted back up the stairs, poked his head back through the door and bellowed. ‘And do something about all these … these creatures! The place is crawling with ’em!’
She hitched up her bright red nightdress, tucking it expertly in the straps of her panties, checked the rope and swung. Air rushed through the scruffy bunches of her hair as she arced between the rafters, wooden dagger clenched firmly between her nine-year-old teeth. This time she would get to the treasure. Nobody could stop her.
With the lightest of slaps she landed in a squat on the dusty rafter of the cluttered printer’s shop and poised as she calculated the distance to the ‘skyland’.
If we were to view the ‘skyland’ through the critical lenses of adult logic we would see a dust-covered wooden shelf raised or lowered from the print shop ceiling
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