to give proper faces to the human characters. Instead, the dummies appeared to be made from a form of black material, some of which had been used to create the eyes for the other characters, for even the billy goats and the little pigs had eyes like deep, dark pools.
Hang on: weren’t there
Meanwhile, what looked like hundreds of elves danced and sang as they labored happily in Santa’s workshop, although what they appeared to be producing were just more versions of themselves as more elves poured off the production line. Children pressed their noses against the windows, mouths agape. Even their parents were amazed. It was the greatest Christmas display anyone had ever seen. A bit graphic, admittedly, but very impressive.
The main doors of the store opened, and Mr. St. John-Cholmondeley appeared. Behind him, Wreckit & Sons remained dark. Clearly another surprise was planned, and people remarked aloud that if the windows were that good, imagine what the inside must be like!
“Welcome!” said Mr. St. John-Cholmondeley. “Welcome, all!”
His voice boomed, even though there was no microphone visible. A hush descended on the crowd.
“On behalf of Mr. Grimly, I’d like to say how greatly pleased we are that you could join us on this very special evening. I can assure you it is one that will not easily be forgotten.”
A round of applause came from the crowd, although they weren’t entirely sure what they were applauding. Most of them were hoping for some free stuff, just for entering into the spirit of the thing.
“I’m especially pleased to welcome our guest of honor for the evening: Mr. Samuel Johnson and, of course, his dog, Boswell.”
There was another smattering of applause, but not much.
“Why him?” someone asked. “What’s he ever done?”
“Well, there was all that invasion-from-Hell business.”
“Oh, but that was ages ago. What’s he done since then, eh? I mean, yes, he saved the world and all that, but he can’t expect us to go around bowing and scraping to him for the rest of our days just because of some demons. Anyway, I heard that they weren’t real. It was all made up to promote a film, or a television show, or something.”
Samuel stepped forward, Lucy Highmore on his left arm, and Boswell’s leash held tightly in his right hand. A photographer from the local paper popped up and took a couple of pictures, although Samuel noticed that he was pointing his lens at Lucy alone, and the only part of Samuel likely to end up in any photos was his left ear.
Mr. St. John-Cholmondeley placed a hand on Samuel’s shoulder. It felt both hard and strangely light.
“So good of you to come,” said Mr. St. John-Cholmondeley. “So very good.”
He looked around, as though expecting someone else to appear.
“And your, um, friends?” he inquired.
“What friends?” asked Samuel.
“Mr. Cushing, and Mr. Lee. Won’t they be joining us?”
“I don’t know who you mean,” lied Samuel.
Mr. St. John-Cholmondeley seemed about to differ, then changed his mind.
“Not to worry,” he said. “Perhaps they’re just a little delayed. They’ll join us in time: I’m certain of it.”
He cleared his throat, and raised his hands to silence the crowd, which was getting restless.
“We have two other gentlemen whom we would like to honor this evening. They are the sleepless guardians of the law, the men who keep us all safe at night. May I please ask Sergeant Rowan and Constable Peel to step forward?”
Sergeant Rowan and Constable Peel looked shocked to be singled out in this way. They were simply supposed to be on crowd duty, and nobody had suggested that they would be honored with anything other than overtime. Now their names were being called out, and the same voice that, moments earlier, had been complaining about Samuel was asking why they were so special, and commenting how, at the rate things were going, everybody in town would be special except him, and what kind of world were we living in, exactly?
The two policemen came and stood awkwardly beside Samuel and Lucy and Boswell. There was a third, generally polite burst of applause, as everybody liked to stay on the right side of the police.
“If all four of you—and, of course, the delightful Boswell—would come into the store for a moment, we have a small presentation we’d like to make,” said Mr. St. John-Cholmondeley.
“And when we’re done,” he continued, addressing the crowd once more, “the main festivities will begin, and you’ll all get what’s coming to you.”
Which was an odd way to put it, thought Sergeant Rowan as he and the others moved toward the darkened interior of the store. He glanced again at the window displays and noted that, close up, the polar bears looked less like bears than some kind of abominable snowmen; and the reindeer had very vicious horns and spiked hooves; and the workshop elves had a mean, spiteful appearance about them; and those machines were producing an awful lot of them, so many, in fact, that pretty soon the window areas wouldn’t be big enough to hold them all. They were already piling up, except that they weren’t piling up so much as lining up. But the workshop machines were just tossing them on the floor of the store, and there was nobody around to set them on their feet, so how exactly were they ending up in neat rows before the windows?
And why would somebody design Christmas elves with such sharp teeth?
But by then the four humans, along with one small dog, had crossed over the threshold of Wreckit & Sons. As soon as they were inside, Mr. St. John-Cholmondeley vanished, and the darkness of the store closed so tightly around them that they could not see their own hands in front of their faces, and they were only vaguely aware of the sounds from outside of glass breaking and people screaming.
“Sarge?” said Constable Peel to the blackness.
“Yes, Constable.”
“Maybe we should have told the man that we didn’t want to be special after all.”
“It’s a little late for that, Constable, don’t you think?”
But Constable Peel didn’t get to reply, because the darkness swallowed his words, and then his breath.
And, finally, it swallowed him.
XX
In Which History Comes Alive
NURD WAS LYING ON the top bunk, staring at the ceiling. Mrs. Johnson had gone out to bingo again. Nurd suspected that Mrs. Johnson was a bingo addict. Whenever anyone mentioned a number in conversation, Mrs. Johnson would instinctively try to cross it out.
Nurd was sulking, although it was hard to tell because Nurd’s face naturally formed a kind of sulk, even when he was happy.
“I spy with my little eye—” said the voice of Wormwood from the lower bunk.
“I’m not playing anymore,” said Nurd.
“Come on. It’s fun.”
“No, it’s not. I-Spy is only ever fun for the person doing the spying. I hate I-Spy. Anyway, you’re on the bottom bunk staring up at the top bunk. So far you’ve spied a mattress, some wood, and a sheet. You’re unlikely to spot a camel, are you, or a spaceship? There’s a limit to how interesting it can be.”
“I’ll look somewhere else, then.”
“No.”
“Please, just one more? Oooh! Oooh! I’ve just spotted something. It’s great. Seriously. Please? Oh, please?”
Nurd sulked even more. While he really did understand the reason why Samuel hadn’t wanted him to go along to the grand reopening of Wreckit’s store, he remained hurt. Once again, Nurd recalled that he had once been a demon with high hopes. He’d even had ambitions to take over the Earth. They hadn’t worked out very well because Nurd was useless at being properly demonic, and a squirrel with a nut allergy had a better chance of ruling the world, but at least it had been something to aim for.
