Johannes Cabal the Necromancer

you do.”

Simpkins laughed, a suppressed sniffing noise. “You’re quite right, of course. Always the detective? No, I was still intending to kill you, but, you know, I don’t think I shall now.” He held out his hand with two fingers extended in a “V”-for-victory salute. “Two reasons. Firstly, having saved your life for admittedly selfish grounds — I was determined that if anybody was going to kill you, it was going to be me — it seems almost churlish to then go ahead and take it. But secondly, and for me far more pressingly, you remembered me. I don’t know if you recall, but as soon as you could talk you said, ‘Hello, Mr. Simpkins,’ which was touchingly polite in this day and age. Very civil. You remembered me, and I have no doubt you will always remember my little part in your rescue here.”

“You can rest assured on that count,” said Barrow. Rescued from a synthetic succubus by one of the world’s most notorious serial killers — no, he wasn’t likely to forget that in a hurry.

“You’re precisely the sort of person — indeed, the only example to date of the sort of person — that I want to preserve. I would as soon kill myself as kill you. I’m not the suicidal sort, by the by.”

“You were hiding in the Hall of Murderers, weren’t you?”

“Yes, that was me. With the card pinned to my jacket calling me Albert Simmonds, among many other inaccuracies.”

“So Cabal’s sheltering the Laidstone escapees, is he?”

“Oh gosh, yes. We outnumber the waxworks.”

“Why?”

“Why, for the price of our souls. I’m an atheist, so it was no great loss to me.” He looked at Layla’s corpse, which was slowly deflating and puddling into oddly regular forms. “At least, I was an atheist. Besides, we were all Hell-bound long before we signed his forms, so it’s still six of one and a half-dozen of the other.”

“Forms?” asked Barrow. “He had forms?”

“Oh, yes. I read mine before I signed. The others didn’t, a mixture of illiteracy and relief to be out in the open, I think. Rather nicely drafted, although peppered with archaic terms. Still legally binding, though. The bearer has all rights to the signatory’s soul on the occasion of his or her death. Probably quite standard if you happen to be working for Satan, I would think.”

“Look, Mr. Simpkins …”

“You even remember to pronounce the ‘p’! Bless you, ex-Detective Inspector Barrow!”

“I need to find those forms and destroy them. Will you help me?”

“Me? Oh, I’m sorry, I’m no action man.”

“But, and I hope you’ll forgive me for bringing this up, you can go unnoticed where I would be spotted.”

Simpkins shook his head with clear regret. “Not here, I’m afraid. That’s how I first gathered that there was something amiss in this carnival. Lots of the staff notice me, although, if this young lady is anything to go by, they notice me precisely because they’re not people at all. In fact, the less like people they appear, the more likely they are to spot me. No, I’m afraid I can’t offer any direct help. If you would value my opinion, though, you might do a lot worse than examine the desk of Mr. Johannes Cabal. It’s in the office car of the train.” He looked at the knife. “I don’t suppose I’ll be needing this anymore.” He dropped it to the floor and watched it clatter into silence. He smiled. “That was easier than giving up smoking. Good evening, ex-Detective Inspector Barrow.”

“Good evening, Mr. Simpkins,” said Barrow, and watched him leave via the rear door. He gave him two minutes and then followed, stepping over an odd collection of rubber knick-knacks and yellowed magazine clippings, and picking up the discarded breadknife en route. The rear door had been unlocked with the key. Nearby was a bone wrapped in rag and hair and liberally smeared with fat and beefcake. Barrow guessed that Simpkins had caught the sideshow bodyguard unawares. This was an odd place, but he was finally beginning to understand its rules. He checked his watch. Twenty past eleven. He set off for the train.

CHAPTER 15 in which midnight strikes and dawn breaks

Cabal stood at the top of the Helter-Skelter with a pair of opera glasses and directed operations. He was in the way of the late-evening revellers but, characteristically, really couldn’t give a tinker’s cuss. “Hey, daddio,” said a hip young dude, demonstrating that everything old is new again. Cabal slowly lowered the glasses and gave the offending youth a look that would have chilled dry ice. The youth, lacking experience but possessing chutzpah in excess, didn’t notice. “You’re cramping my style, man. Yo dissin’ mah main squeeze.”

His main squeeze simpered, curtseyed, and said, “Good evening, sir.”

“Let me see if I understand your outlandish melange of argot, young man,” said Cabal, who was fewer than ten years older but who already regarded “young” as a synonym for “stupid.” “You’re suggesting that by standing at the top of my own Helter-Skelter I am in some way imposing upon your” — he looked at the girl, who simpered some more — “young lady.”

“Get hip to the jive, mah man,” said the youth, jiggling on the spot, crossing and recrossing his arms while making horned hands. Cabal wondered about his sanity. “Ah’m a-saying this, fool, you’d — ”

“Hold hard. I think I caught the word ‘fool’ there. Are you calling me a fool?”

“Sure, yo a fool, fool! Yo a — Oh, I say! Yaroo! Get off, you oik!”

For Cabal had grasped him firmly by the scruff of the neck and thrown him head-first down the chute.

“I trust you can make your own way down?” he said to the girl as he put the glasses back to his eyes.

“Oh, rather. Sorry about Rupert. He’s a bit of a nitwit, but frightfully good-looking Well, ta-ta.” She smiled sweetly and swept down the chute and out of sight.

“Ta-ta, lady,” said Mr. Bones, who had just arrived at the top of the stairs. “Mr. Bones reportin’ in, general. There ain’t a sign of the guy. He’s so gone” — Bones paused while a suitable simile came to mind — “that he’s comin back. Kind of.” Cabal looked at him oddly. Bones tried again. “What I’m sayin’ is, we can’t find the man. He’s vanished, boss.”

“The perimeter is secure?”

“Oh, yeah. Ain’t a blue-eyed weasel gonna get out of this place we don’t know about. Can’t figure it, myself.”

A good-natured clattering up the steps presaged the appearance of Bobbins. He seemed upset in a bright way. “Sir! Oh, sir! Look!” He held out a brown paper bag.

Cabal looked into it and then slowly reached in to remove an eraser dripping with goo. He dipped in again to find an old advertisement for ladies’ arch supports, also soaked in the stuff. “Layla?”

“Somebody killed her, sir! Who would do such a thing?”

Cabal thought Bobbins was far too nice to be an expression of Satanic influence. “What about her bodyguard?”

“Dead, too! And one of the chaps from Laidstone is missing.”

Barrow’s work, it had to be. Now that he knew he wasn’t fighting humans, he clearly didn’t feel morally bound to take prisoners. The gloves were really off now. Cabal bit a knuckle and thought hard. It was half past eleven now; he had half an hour left in which to neutralise Barrow and locate one last soul. Time was too pressing to juggle both without Horst’s help — where was Horst, anyway? — so Barrow would just have to be the lucky donor. Cabal concentrated; if he were Barrow, where would he be heading for? He can’t get out of the carnival, he knows and violently disapproves of its function, nowhere is safe, so he’s gone on the offensive. What would he target?

“Sche?le! The contracts! Barrow’s going to destroy the contracts!”

Bones nodded thoughtfully. “That’s bad.”

“We have to get to the train before he does! Come on!” He made a move towards the steps, decided urgency outweighed dignity, and jumped onto the chute.

* * *

The train was unguarded and unoccupied behind the main body of the carnival grounds, although still within the fences that ran across the track fore and aft. After the trouble with Billy Butler, Cabal had become quite paranoid about the train’s security. Barrow spent a couple of minutes locating a crowbar from one of the flatcars