The Creeps: A Samuel Johnson Tale

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Mr. St. John-Cholmondeley sat back in his chair. He was very relieved that the dwarfs were gone.

“I think that went well,” he said to the Voice in the Wall. “I don’t believe they suspected a thing. I acted entirely normal.”

Twenty-five pounds an hour, said the Voice in the Wall. Do you think I’m made of money?

Mr. St. John-Cholmondeley shook his head. Whatever the Voice in the Wall was made of, it wasn’t money. Money didn’t smell that foul.

“They were tough little negotiators,” said Mr. St. John-Cholmondeley. “Very tough indeed. They wore me down.”

They won’t live long enough to collect a penny of it, said the Voice in the Wall. Still, it’s the principle.

“I’ll be more careful next time,” said Mr. St. John-Cholmondeley.

That’s nice, said the Voice in the Wall, and Mr. St. John-Cholmondeley, who couldn’t remember his past, failed to hear in its tones the sound of his very short future coming to an unhappy end.

XII

In Which Invitations Are Received

THE INVITATIONS BEGAN TO arrive in the days before the grand opening of Wreckit & Sons. Samuel received one, with a special note informing him that, as the hero who had saved Biddlecombe and the Earth from a demonic invasion, he would be a guest of honor. He was also warmly requested to bring the courageous Boswell along with him. The note was signed by Mr. St. John-Cholmondeley on behalf of the new owner, a mysterious Mr. Grimly.

“That’s very nice of him, isn’t it?” said Samuel’s mother as she examined the note. “And look at that invitation! It’s printed on ever such expensive card, and the handwriting is so lovely. It’s odd that it’s written in red ink, though, isn’t it? You’d think they’d have used black, or blue. Maybe they thought it was more festive in red.”

The invitation made Samuel uneasy for reasons he couldn’t quite pin down. Perhaps it was the fact that Boswell took one sniff and decided he didn’t care for it at all, or that the ink didn’t look much like ink. It looked, to be honest, a bit like blood, and Samuel told his mother as much.

“Don’t be silly,” said Mrs. Johnson. “You always see the worst in things.”

“Fighting demons and being dragged off to Hell will do that to a person, Mum,” said Samuel.

“Oh, hush,” said Mrs. Johnson, who didn’t like being reminded of the unpleasantnesses that had befallen her son, even if she did have two demons living in her spare room and making funny smells in the bathroom. She had decided to look upon Nurd and Wormwood as a pair of slightly eccentric lodgers, and leave it at that.

“Anyway,” Mrs. Johnson continued, “it’s about time you got some recognition for all that you’ve done for this town. They should have put up a statue to you, if you ask me.”

In addition to the wandering statue of Hilary Mould, Biddlecombe only had one other such monument, and that was of Brigadier General Sir Charles MacCarthy, the hopeless nineteenth-century British commander, who, while on his way to be knighted in 1820, had stopped for tea in Biddlecombe and left a small tip.²⁵ It was often suggested that the town needed another statue or two, although this suggestion usually came from mayors or local politicians, who seemed to think it would be a good idea if the statue looked a bit like them, and maybe had their name carved underneath.

“I don’t want a statue in my honor, thanks,” said Samuel. He could think of nothing worse than having a bronze version of himself providing a convenient head on which pigeons could poo. Life was hard enough as it was.

A thumping sound came from above, and moments later Nurd and Wormwood appeared in the kitchen. They were very excited. Samuel could tell because Wormwood had somehow set himself on fire and hadn’t noticed, and the fire had spread to Nurd’s coat but he hadn’t noticed either. Samuel discreetly put out the flames with a damp tea towel and waited to find out what was going on.

“We’ve received an invitation,” said Nurd.

“To the opening of the new toy shop in the town,” said Wormwood.

He was positively glowing, which was probably how the fire had started. Wormwood had recently developed an unfortunate habit of bursting into flame when he got angry or embarrassed, or even if he coughed for too long. He would turn bright red, and the next minute you could toast bread on him.

Wormwood had never been invited anywhere before, unless you counted being invited outside for a fight, or to make a room smell better by his absence. Even Nurd had rarely received invitations to events, largely because he had spent billions of years going through a phase of conspiring to rule worlds, and nobody wants to invite someone to a party only to find that he’s declared himself king of their house and is now trying on their slippers for size.

“That’s very peculiar,” said Samuel.

He examined the invitation that the demons had been sent. It was addressed to Mr. Cushing and Mr. Lee, the names under which Nurd and Wormwood were living in Biddlecombe. Only a handful of people knew that Nurd and Wormwood weren’t exactly human: even most of their employers at the Biddlecombe Car Testing Institute just regarded Nurd as unusually fireproof, and quite bendy.²⁶

“Why is it peculiar?” asked Wormwood. “We’re good company!”

He thought for a moment.

“Well, we might be, if there was nobody else in the room.”

“It’s peculiar,” said Samuel, “because, as far as most of Biddlecombe is concerned, you’re just two odd- looking men who happen to be living with us. You haven’t been drawing attention to yourselves, have you?”

“No,” said Nurd. “Wormwood’s been drawing flies, but that’s nothing new.”

“I like to think of them as pets,” said Wormwood. “And, sometimes, as snacks.”

Mrs. Johnson felt queasy, but said nothing.

“So why would this Mr. Grimly invite you two to the opening of his new shop?” asked Samuel.

It was only after he had asked the question that he realized how unkind it sounded. He hadn’t meant it that way. He had been thinking aloud. But now he could see the hurt in Nurd’s eyes, and even Wormwood, who was harder to offend than a dead person, looked a little pained. Nurd snatched the invitation back from Samuel.

“Why wouldn’t he invite us?” said Nurd. “We’re nice.”

“No, you’re not,” said Wormwood.

“And we work hard.”

“No, you don’t.”

“And we— Whose side are you on, anyway?” he asked Wormwood.

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

“I didn’t mean it that way,” said Samuel. “It’s just that Mr. Grimly shouldn’t have heard of you. We don’t want people to hear about you, because if the wrong kind of people know about you, then there’ll be all sorts of trouble, and they might take you away. Don’t you understand?”

Nurd’s shoulders sagged. He wanted to argue, but he couldn’t. Samuel was right.

“Yes,” he said, “I understand.”

“I don’t,” said Wormwood. “But then, I never do.”

“I’ll explain later,” said Nurd.

He placed a consoling hand on Wormwood’s shoulder, then looked for somewhere to wipe his fingers. Mrs. Johnson gave him a cloth.

“It doesn’t matter,” said Nurd. “Honestly, it doesn’t. But just for a while, it felt like we were part of something.”

“You are part of something,” said Samuel. “You’re part of our family. Right, Mum?”