The Creeps: A Samuel Johnson Tale

“All right, Sergeant Rowan. Always nice to see you,” lied Jolly, his toes almost touching the ground.

“My colleague here was wondering if criminals ever take holidays,” said Sergeant Rowan. “I thought you might be able to help him with an answer.”

Jolly thought about the question.

“I once stole a yacht. Does that count?”

Sergeant Rowan reminded himself never to shake hands with Jolly Smallpants, or, if he did, to count his fingers afterward just to make sure that they were all still there.

“When I said ‘taking’ a holiday, I did not mean stealing one,” he said. “I meant spending time not engaged in criminal behavior, if you could imagine such a thing.”

“Oh, no, Sergeant,” said Jolly. “If you have a gift, you ought to take it seriously. We’re like the law: we never rest. Well, except for you and Constable Peel. You like a rest. And arrests.” He chuckled. “See what I did there?”

“I did,” said Sergeant Rowan, “and if you do it again I shall drop you on your head. So where were you off to in such a hurry before I felt your collar? Somebody leave a bank vault open? Is there a cow standing in a field with bricks where its legs used to be?”

“No, Sergeant,” said Jolly. “I’m off to get a job.”

Sergeant Rowan was so shocked that he let Jolly go, and Constable Peel began choking on a piece of pie until Jolly helped him by slapping him a bit too enthusiastically on the back.

“Thank you,” said Constable Peel, once he could feel his spine again.

“Give him back his whistle, Mr. Smallpants,” said Sergeant Rowan sternly.

“Sorry,” said Jolly. “Force of habit.”

He handed Constable Peel his whistle and, as he was feeling generous, also returned his notebook, his pencil, and his hat.

“You mentioned a job,” said Sergeant Rowan while Constable Peel tried to store away his belongings until he realized that Jolly had stolen one of his pockets.

“Yes,” said Jolly.

“An honest, paying job?”

Jolly looked slightly ashamed. “It’s only temporary. Desperate times, and all that.”

“And what would this job involve?”

“Christmas elf at Wreckit’s,” said Jolly. “A chance to make children happy, and to lighten the hearts of their parents.”

“Lighten their pockets by stealing their wallets, more like,” said Sergeant Rowan.

“Speaking of pockets . . .” said Constable Peel.

Jolly handed over a scrap of dark blue material.

“Sorry again,” said Jolly. “Sometimes I don’t even know what my own hands are doing.”

At that moment he was joined by Angry, Dozy, Mumbles, and Dan, who greeted the two policemen with cheery smiles and the theft of the remains of their pies.

“Don’t you lot have a new van?” asked Sergeant Rowan. “I seem to recall seeing it being delivered yesterday.”

He frowned and tapped a finger to his lips.

“Now, what did it say on the side? Was it ‘Dan’s Twits,’ or ‘Dan’s Thieving Little Gits’? No, wait a minute, don’t tell me, it’ll come. Ah, I’ve got it now. ‘Dan’s Sods’! At least you can’t be accused of false advertising.”

“Very funny,” said Dozy. “Cost us a fortune, that van did, and we can’t afford new paintwork. How are we supposed to get around now? We only have little legs.”

“It’ll just make it harder for you to run away when we come looking for you,” said Sergeant Rowan.

“Why would you be looking for us, Sergeant?” asked Angry.

“Because the last time you lot worked as Christmas elves, there were some very nasty incidents, and don’t think that I’ve forgotten about them. That reindeer probably hasn’t forgotten about them either.”

“We were just feeding it a carrot,” said Dozy.

“Carrots go in the other end, the mouth end.”

“It was dark in that stable,” said Jolly. “It wasn’t our fault.”

“And then there was the poor bloke playing Father Christmas.”

“We were sure that beard wasn’t real,” said Angry. “I mean, ninety-nine percent sure. I’d have put money on it.”

“But you didn’t put money on it, did you?” said Sergeant Rowan. “You put glue on it. You glued it when he wasn’t looking and then asked a child to give it a tug. You thought you’d end up with a small boy with a beard stuck to his hand, but instead you got a Father Chrismas with a small boy stuck to him. Father Christmas had to have his beard cut off, and the kid ended up with hands that looked like the paws of an elderly werewolf.”

“It won’t happen again, Sergeant,” said Dan. “They’re changed men.”

“The only thing that will change that lot is Death,” said Sergeant Rowan. “Even then, they’ll probably try to steal his scythe.”

Dan began to hustle the dwarfs along.

“Well, we must be off,” he said. “We’re running late as it is. Good to see you again. Maybe we’ll all meet up at the Grand Opening!”

“I can hardly wait,” said Sergeant Rowan.

He turned his chair to face Constable Peel.

“We need to watch them, Constable. We need to watch them like hawks. No, not just like hawks, but like hawks . . . with binoculars. We—”

He paused.

“Where’s the rest of my pie gone?” he said.

“Sergeant—” began Constable Peel as an engine started up.

“And my tea. And the teapot!”

The engine was followed by a burst of sirens, but they were quickly silenced.

“Sarge—”

“They’ve even taken the cups!”

“Sarge!” said Constable Peel with some force.

“What is it?”

“I think they’ve stolen our car.”

IX

In Which Clever Disguises Are Adopted

NURD TRUDGED BACK TO Mrs. Johnson’s house, his head low. Wormwood had chosen to stay late at the car-testing center. There had been some spectacular crashes that day, and Wormwood liked nothing better than rebuilding crashed cars.

Nurd was wearing a bulky jacket, and a hood covered his head. His hands were plunged deep into his pockets. It looked like rain, but he had decided not to take the bus because taking the bus meant being near people. Even though Nurd’s appearance had changed a great deal in his time on Earth, he was still strange enough to attract startled glances from passersby and fellow passengers. Small children sometimes cried at the sight of him, and he had lost count of the number of elderly ladies whom he had caused to faint with fright. It was easier just to walk home, even if it did take him an hour.

Home. Nurd grimaced at the word. Mrs. Johnson’s house wasn’t home. Oh, it was comfortable, and Samuel and his mother did all that they could to make Nurd and Wormwood feel like part of the family, but as time went on, Nurd just became more and more aware of how different he was. Earth was better than Hell, but Nurd still didn’t belong there, and he didn’t think that he ever would.

A bird sang from a nearby tree. Nurd stopped to listen. The bird took one look at him, let out a startled squawk, and suddenly decided to fly south for the winter, even though it wasn’t a migratory bird.