Abarat: The First Book of Hours

Now!”

Candy knew it would be wiser to obey this petty despot rather than argue with him. So she went to the door and stepped into view.

Wolfswinkel was sitting in his leather armchair with the receiver of an antiquated telephone in his hand.

“I’m talking to somebody who has some considerable interest in you,” he said.

“Oh, really?” she replied with a little shrug.

“It seems you’re quite the celebrity, Candy Quackenbush. At least that’s what I’m hearing.” He returned his attention to the person at the other end of the line. “Yes, I’ve got her here right now. She’s standing right in front of me, as plain as day. Oh, she’s about five-three, five-four.

“So, what am I to do with her, Otto? What’s she worth on the open market?” Clearly the man he was talking to became agitated at this remark, because Wolfswinkel’s next words were: “Calm down, Otto. That was a joke. I know Carrion wants her. But be reasonable. If he wants both the Key and the girl, then I’m going to be expecting something substantial by way of recompense. That’s only right and proper, isn’t it? Ninnyhammer? No, I don’t want Ninnyhammer. When all this is over I never want to see this wretched little rock ever again. No. I want to be Lord of Babilonium! Or Commexo City! Anywhere but here. I’m sick of living in a place where everybody’s half asleep!”

Again, the person at the other end of the line had something to say in response. Wolfswinkel listened, drumming his stubby fingers—like the fingers of a chicken slaughterer, fat with blood—on the threadbare arm of his chair.

“Have you quite finished, Houlihan?” he said finally. “You seem to forget that I’m the one with the cards at this table. I’ve got something Carrion wants badly. No, no, not the girl. The Key! I’ve got the Key! I don’t know how she got hold of it, but I’d stake my hats on the fact that it’s the real thing. I know what power feels like. And this is it.”

He raised his right hand, which held the aforementioned key, and casually studied the object. He wore a smug smile as he listened to the reply from the fellow he was speaking to.

Finally, he said, “Candy? Get over here, will you? I’m speaking to a friend of mine called Otto Houlihan. He’s a… deal maker and he wants to speak with you.” Woifswinkel beckoned to her, his gesture impatient. “Hurry up, girl! And be polite. He just wants to know you’re the real thing.” Candy kept her distance. “Come on” Woifswinkel muttered, his face reddening with fury.

“Go,” Malingo murmured behind her. “He loses his temper in a heartbeat.”

Very reluctantly, Candy went over to Woifswinkel.

“Here she is, Otto,” Woifswinkel said. He handed Candy the receiver. “Like I said, you be nice. Otto Houlihan’s a very old friend of mine. We were at school together.”

Candy took the receiver from Woifswinkel and put it to her ear.

“Hello…?” she said.

“Am I speaking to Candy Quackenbush?”

The voice at the other end was silky smooth. She imagined she was talking to someone closely related to a snake, which—given the variety of people she’d met so far—was not beyond the bounds of possibility.

“Yes, I’m Candy Quackenbush.”

“Well, you’re a very lucky young lady.”

“Am I?” Candy said. She didn’t feel very lucky at the moment. “Why’s that?”

“Well, carrying that Key around could have been the death of you.

“Really?” she said. She didn’t believe a word of it.

“Agree with him,” Wolfswinkel mouthed.

“I didn’t realize I even had a key,” Candy said. She remembered how passionately Mischief had impressed on her the need to deny that she had it.

“You tell me the truth now,” Houlihan was saying. “It’ll be better for you if you tell the truth than be found out later.”

“I am telling the truth.”

“I won’t warn you again,” Otto Houlihan said, his voice losing its silkiness. “Where did you steal it from?”

“I didn’t steal it,” Candy said. “I told you: I didn’t know I had it.”

“Wolfswinkel tells me he found it in your thoughts. Are you telling me he’s a liar?”

“No,” Candy said. “If that’s what he says, then I guess he must have found it there.”

“But you don’t know how it got there?”

“No. I don’t.” The line went quiet for a moment. “Can I go now?” Candy said. “I really don’t have anything else to tell you.”

“Oh, I think you’ve got plenty more to tell me,” Houlihan said, his voice now entirely bereft of its silken quality. There was now a subtle element of threat in his words. “But we’ll have plenty of time to talk when I come to fetch you. Put Kaspar back on. I’ll be seeing you very soon.”

“He wants to talk to you again,” Candy said, passing the receiver over to Wolfswinkel.

“Are you finished with her?” Wolfswinkel said to Houlihan.

The answer was apparently yes, because Wolfswinkel now waved Candy away. She retreated into the next room, relieved that the interrogation was over.

Perhaps she might get out, she thought, while Wolfswinkel was occupied by his telephone call. She went over to the window and tried the handle, but it was locked. Outside, rain was falling. It pattered against the little panes of glass.

“There’s no way out. At least not that way.”

She looked around. Malingo was hanging upside down from the rafters. She wandered over to him.

“Can I trust you?” she said. It was a silly question, of course; if she couldn’t, he wouldn’t confess to it. But still he nodded, as if he knew what was coming next.

“You have to help me,” she whispered to him. “I need to get out of here.”

A pitiful expression crossed Malingo’s inverted face.

“It’s impossible,” he said. “You think I haven’t tried over the years? But Kaspar always catches me. And when he catches me, he beats me with his stick. You don’t want to have that happen.”

“I’ll risk the beating,” Candy said. “This fellow Otto Houlihan is coming to get me. And I really don’t want to be here when he arrives.”

Malingo looked even more distressed. Rocking back and forth from the rafters he sang a little rhyme:

“Houlihan, Houlihan,
The Criss-Cross man,
The Criss-Cross man.
Fetch yourself a holyman
Do it fast
Fast as you can,
Because here comes Houlihan,
The Criss-Cross man—”

“Well that’s not very useful,” Candy said. “I need help and you hang upside down, singing songs like a crazy man.”

“I’m not crazy,” Malingo protested. “I’m just tired of being beaten all the time. When I sing my songs it makes me feel better.”

He started swinging again, his arms wrapped around his body, a perfect picture of despair.

“Listen to me,” Candy said, putting her hand on his shoulder to slow his swinging. “We both want the same thing. You want to get out of here and so do I.”