Читать книгу Mister Monday - Гарт Никс - Страница 11

Arthur stared at the last words for a few seconds: im afraid.

He shivered, folded the print-out and put it back in his pocket. He felt his breathing catch again and concentrated on a steady, slow rhythm. Breathe in slowly, hold it, breathe out slowly. But all the time his mind was racing. This was even worse than he thought.

All the fears he had managed to keep under control were threatening to break free and send him into total panic. The old fear of a new outbreak. And a new fear, of the dog-faces and Mister Monday, and even of the Key itself.

Breathe, thought Arthur. Think it through.

Why had he been given the Key… and the Atlas? Who… or what… were Mister Monday and the dog-faces? Were they really connected to this sudden outbreak of drug-resistant influenza? Was it an outbreak? Maybe only Ed and Leaf’s family was affected…

Arthur looked out the window at the dog-faces again and accidentally touched the Key and the Atlas on the desk. As he did so, he felt a sharp electric shock and the Atlas flipped open with a bang, making him jump like a startled cat. As it had done before, the Atlas grew in size till it filled nearly all the desk space in between his rampart of books.

This time, the Atlas didn’t display a drawing of the House. Instead it rapidly sketched one of the dog-faces, though without the bowler hat, dirty shirt and black, old-fashioned suit. This one was wearing something like a sack, but there was no mistaking the face.

Words appeared next to the picture, written by some unseen hand. The words were in a strange alphabet that Arthur didn’t recognise, let alone have a chance of reading, but as the boy watched he saw that the earlier letters were changing into the normal alphabet and the words were rearranging themselves into English, though the type was still weird and old-fashioned. Every now and then a blot of ink would appear partway through a word, to be hastily wiped away. Then words stopped appearing, and Arthur started to read what was there.

The House was built from Nothing, and its foundations rest upon Nothing. Yet as Nothing is for ever and the House is but eternal, these foundations slowly sink into the Nothing from which the House was wrought, and Nothing so impinges upon the House. In the very deepest cellars, sinks and oubliettes of the House, it is possible to draw upon Nothing and shape it with one’s thought, should such thought be strong enough. Forbidden in custom, if not in law, it is too often essayed by those who should know better, though it is not the high treason of treating with the Nithlings, those self-willed things that occasionally emerge from Nothing, with scant regard for Time or reason.

A typical shaping of Nothing is the Fetcher, as illustrated. A Fetcher is a creature of very low degree, usually fashioned for a particular purpose. Though it is contrary to the Original Law, these creatures are now often employed in menial tasks beyond the House itself, in the Secondary Realms, for they are extremely durable and are less inimical to mortal life than most creatures of Nothing (or indeed those of higher orders from within the House). However, they are constrained by certain strictures, such as an inability to cross thresholds uninvited, and may be easily dispelled by salt or numerous other petty magics.

Perhaps one in a million Fetchers may find or be granted enlightenment beyond its station, and so gain employment in the House. For the most part, when their task is done, they are returned to the primordial Nothing from whence they came.

Fetchers should never be issued with wings or weapons, and must at all times be given clear direction.

Arthur thought again of that hideous face at the window, pressed against the glass, its wings fluttering furiously behind it. Somebody had ignored the advice about not giving Fetchers wings. Arthur would not be surprised if the ones waiting outside had weapons as well, though he didn’t want to think about what kind of weapons they might be given.

Arthur tried to turn the page of the Atlas to see if there was any more information, but the page wouldn’t turn. There were lots of other pages in the book, but they might as well have all been glued into a single mass. Arthur couldn’t even get his fingernail between the leaves of paper.

He gave up and looked out the window again and was surprised to see that the Fetchers had moved in the short space of time he’d been looking at the Atlas. They had formed into a ring on the road and were all looking up. A couple of cars had stopped because of them, but it was obvious the drivers couldn’t really see what was in their way. Arthur could distantly hear one of them shouting, the angry words faint through the double glazing, “Get that heap of junk outta here! I haven’t got all day!”

The Fetchers gazed up at the sky. Arthur looked too but didn’t see anything. Part of him didn’t want to see, because the fear was rising in him.

Don’t look, part of his mind said. If you don’t see trouble, it doesn’t exist.

But it does, thought Arthur, fighting down the fear. Keep breathing slowly. You have to confront your fears. Deal with them.

He kept looking, until an intense white light flashed just above the ring. Arthur shut his eyes and shielded his face. When he looked again, black spots danced everywhere in his vision and it took a few seconds for them to clear.

The empty space in the middle of the ring was no longer empty. A man had appeared there. Or not really a man, since he had huge feathery wings spreading from his shoulders. Arthur kept blinking, trying to focus. The wings were sort of white, but dappled with something dark and unpleasant-looking. Then they folded up behind the apparition’s back and in an instant were gone, leaving only a very handsome, tall man of about thirty. He was dressed in a white shirt with chin-scraping collar points, a red necktie, a gold waistcoat under a bottle-green coat, and tan pantaloons over glossy brown boots – an ensemble that had not been in fashion for more than a hundred and fifty years.

“Oh, my!” exclaimed someone from behind Arthur. “The very spit of how I’ve always imagined Mister Darcy. He must be an actor! I wonder why he’s dressed up like that.”

It was the librarian. Mrs Banber. She’d crept up on Arthur while he wasn’t paying attention.

“And who are those strange men in the black suits?” continued Mrs Banber. “Those faces can’t be real! Are they making a film?”

“You can see the dog-faces?!” exclaimed Arthur. “I mean the Fetchers?”

“Yes…” replied the librarian absently, still staring out the window. “Though now that you mention it, I must be overdue for an eye checkup. My contact lenses don’t seem to be quite right. Those people are rather blurry.”

She turned around and for the first time looked properly at Arthur and his battlements of books.

“Though I can see you all right, young man! What are you doing with all those books? And what is that?”

She pointed at the Atlas.

“Nothing!” exclaimed Arthur. He slammed the Atlas shut and let go of the Key, which was a mistake. The Atlas shrank immediately into its pocketbook size.

“How did it do that?” asked Mrs Banber.

“I can’t explain,” said Arthur rapidly. He didn’t have time for this! The handsome man was walking towards the library, with the Fetchers following. He looked a bit like Mister Monday, though much more energetic, and Arthur wasn’t at all sure that the same strictures that kept the Fetchers from crossing thresholds would apply to him.

“Have you got any salt?” he asked urgently.

“What?” replied Mrs Banber. She was looking out the window again and smoothing her hair. Her eyes had gone unfocused and dreamy. “He’s coming into the library!”

Arthur grabbed the Atlas and the Key and stuffed them into his backpack. They glowed as he put them away, shedding a soft yellow light that momentarily fell on Mrs Banber’s face.

“Don’t tell him I’m here!” he said urgently. “You mustn’t tell him I’m here.”

Either the fear in his voice or that brief light from the Atlas and the Key recaptured Mrs Banber’s attention. She suddenly looked less dreamy.

“I don’t know what’s going on, but I don’t like it,” she snapped. “No one is coming into my library without permission! Go and hide behind the zoology books, Arthur. I’ll deal with this person!”

Arthur needed no invitation. He hurried away from the window, into the maze of library shelves, walking as fast as he dared. He could feel his lungs tightening, losing their flexibility. Stress and fear were already feeding his asthma.

He stopped behind the zoology shelves and crouched down so that he could see through two rows of shelves to the front door, where Mrs Banber stood guard at the front desk. She had a scanner in her hand and was angrily checking in books, the scanner beeping every few seconds as its infrared eye picked up a bar code.

Arthur tried to breathe slowly. Perhaps the handsome man couldn’t come in. If he was waiting out the front, Arthur could escape through the staff entrance he’d seen at the back.

A shadow fell across the door. Arthur’s breath stopped halfway in. For an instant he thought he couldn’t breathe, but it was only a moment of panic. As he got the rest of his breath, the handsome man stopped in front of the door.

He reached out with one white-gloved hand and pushed the door open. For a hopeful moment Arthur thought he couldn’t cross that threshold. Then the man stepped into the library. As he passed the door, the antitheft scanners gave a plaintive beep and the green lights on top went out.

Mrs Banber was out from behind her desk in a flash.

“This is a school library,” she said frostily. “Visitors must report to the front office first.”

“My name is Noon,” said the man. His voice was deep and musical, and he sounded like a famous British actor. Any famous British actor. “I am Private Secretary and Cupbearer to Mister Monday. I am looking for a boy. Ar-tor.”

He had a silver tongue, Arthur saw. Literally silver, shining in his mouth. His words were smooth and shining too. Arthur felt like coming out and saying, “Here I am.”

Mrs Banber obviously felt the same way. Arthur could see her trembling and her hand rose, almost as if it was going to point to where he was hiding. But somehow she forced it back down.

“I… I don’t care,” said Mrs Banber. She seemed smaller and her voice was suddenly weak. “You have… you have to report…”

“Really?” asked Noon. “You can’t allow a few words…”

“No, no,” whispered Mrs Banber.

“A pity,” said Noon. His voice grew colder, authoritarian and threatening. He smiled, but the smile was cruel and did not extend beyond his thin lips. He ran one gloved finger along the top of a display stand and held it up in front of Mrs Banber’s face. The tip of the glove was stained with grey dust.

The librarian stared at the finger as if it were her eye doctor’s flashlight.

“Spring cleaning must be done,” said Noon. He blew on the dust and a little cloud of it fell on Mrs Banber’s face. She blinked once, sneezed twice and fell to the ground.

Arthur stared, horrified, as Noon carefully stepped over the librarian’s body and stalked past the front desk. For a second he thought Mrs Banber was dead, till he saw her trying to get up again.

“Ar-tor,” called Noon softly, his silver tongue flickering. He had stopped just past the desk and was eyeing the shelves with obvious suspicion. “Come out, Ar-tor. I merely want to talk to you.”

“Ar-tor!”

The voice was commanding, and once again Arthur felt the urge to reveal himself, to run out. But he felt a countervailing force from the Key and the Atlas in his backpack. A soothing vibration, like a kitten purring, that reduced the force of Noon’s words. Arthur undid the bag, took the Key in his hand, and slipped the Atlas into his shirt pocket. Both were immensely comforting and Arthur found that he could even breathe more easily.

Noon frowned, a momentary ugliness on that handsome face. Then he reached out with his white-gloved hand and opened a small cupboard that materialised in midair the instant he reached for it. There was a telephone inside. A very old telephone, with a separate earpiece on a cord and a bell-mouth to speak into.

“Mister Monday,” said Noon into the mouthpiece.

Arthur could hear someone muttering on the other end.

“This is official business, you fool,” snapped Noon. “What is your name and number?”

There was more muttering at the other end. Noon frowned again, then slowly and deliberately hung up the earpiece, let it sit for a moment, then took it up again.

“Operator? Mister Monday. Yes, at once. Yes, I know where I’m calling from! This is Monday’s Noon. Thank you.” There was a pause as Mister Monday was connected. “Sir? I have the boy trapped.”

Arthur clearly heard Mister Monday yawn before he replied. His voice not only came out of the earpiece, it echoed around the whole library.

“Have you the Minute Key? It must be brought back to me at once!”

“Not yet, sir,” replied Noon. “The boy is hiding in a… library.”

“I don’t care where he’s hiding!” screamed Monday. “Get the Key!”

“A library, sir,” said Noon patiently. “There is a lot of type. The Will could be here too—”

“The Will! The Will! I am so bored with this talk! Do whatever you have to! You have plenipotentiary powers! Use them!”

“I need that in writing, sir,” said Noon calmly. “The Morrow Days—”

There was a sound that was a cross between a yawn and a snarl, and a tightly bound scroll flew out of the earpiece. Moving so fast that Arthur didn’t see it happen, Noon ducked aside, and as the scroll shot past, he snatched it from the air with his free hand.

“Thank you, sir,” he said, and paused. There was no answer from the other end. Just a long snore.

Noon hung up the phone and carefully closed the cupboard. As the door shut, the phone cupboard dissolved into thin air.

Noon unrolled the scroll and read it. This time, a real smile fleetingly moved across his face and a red light flashed briefly in his eyes.

“This is your last chance to come out,” Noon said conversationally. “I can bring the Fetchers in now. They’ll soon root you out, Ar-tor.”

Arthur didn’t respond. Noon stood there, tapping the scroll against his thigh. Behind him, Mrs Banber pulled herself up on to the desk and picked up the phone handset. Arthur watched them both, panicked, not knowing what he should do. Should he help Mrs Banber? Should he give himself up? Maybe if he gave Noon the Key then they would leave him alone?

Mrs Banber, her hand shaking so much she could hardly hold the phone, started to punch in a number. The keypad beeped and Noon whirled. His wings exploded out behind and above him. Huge, feathery wings that had once been white and lustrous but now were stained with patches of something dark and horrid, something that might even be dried blood.

Noon’s wings cast a dreadful shadow over the librarian as he thrust out his hand and flexed his fingers. A fiery sword appeared in his fist and he struck down at the phone, the flaming blade melting it in an instant, the papers on the desk exploding into flame. Mrs Banber staggered away and collapsed near the front door as smoke billowed to the ceiling.

“Enough!” said Noon. He stalked to the front door, his wings still arched up behind him, and opened it.

“Come in, my Fetchers! Come and find the boy! Come and find Ar-tor!”