Paris stared at her, then turned slowly towards the house. A man peered out from what the policeman remembered to be the dining room, a man he recognised as the homeowner. A small guy, with round glasses and short black hair. Most of it was covered at the moment by a blue-grey peaked cap, one that matched the antique railway uniform he wore. His head moved from side to side as his eyes scanned up and down the street.
‘He’s not even noticed us,’ said Paris. ‘But he’s obviously looking for something.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Cassandra, ‘it’s the 19:03 from Birmingham.’
The man in the old-fashioned outfit stepped away from the window and disappeared into the house. Paris turned to face his two companions.
‘Let’s find out,’ he said.
The trio got out of the car and walked across the road towards the building. It was as big and grand as the others in the street, in similar faultless condition, painted a pale colour Paris couldn’t quite name in the fading evening sun. He thought “hint of watered-down yellow” probably wasn’t right. On one side stood a garage, built onto the house, its door painted in the same pastel shade. On the other side a high fence stretched across to meet the neighbouring property.
Paris opened the front gate. He strode onto a pathway lined with perfectly manicured shrubs and rose bushes.
‘Our guy likes gardening,’ he said, casting his eyes around as he walked.
‘Or,’ said Cassandra, ‘he likes paying someone to do it for him.’
Paris nodded. ‘I’m sure he can afford it. Some sort of commodities trader, apparently. Name’s Stone. Fifty-one. PhD. Lives on his own, because his wife ran off with a twenty-year-old from the butcher’s shop. Can you imagine giving up all this for a butcher?’
‘You know how it is,’ said Cassandra. ‘Less money, more sausage.’
Paris ignored her.
‘Bonetti?’ he asked over his shoulder. ‘Do we have anything else on him?’
No reply. Paris realised his sergeant had stopped walking. He stopped as well. Cassandra did too. They both looked behind them. Bonetti was standing on the path a couple of paces back, staring at the house with the slightly bewildered expression which meant that he’d had an idea.
‘What’s wrong?’ asked Paris.
‘How do they get in?’
Paris considered the question from as many angles as he could manage. None made any sense.
‘What are you talking about?’
Bonetti’s gaze shifted from the building to the senior officer.
‘The magical creatures, Boss,’ said the sergeant. ‘The portal’s behind the house, right? So how do they get there? You can’t get past the garage. And I’d be hard pressed to climb over that fence.’
Paris looked at the building again and reconsidered the question. It was, he had to concede, a pretty good one after all. He went to frown, then remembered Cassandra telling him not to. He un-furrowed his brow and puffed out his cheeks instead. Somehow it wasn’t as satisfying.
‘If our man’s still inside,’ he mused, ‘maybe nothing else has been here. And if they have…’
‘Of course,’ interrupted Cassandra. ‘Fairies can fly. Some of the other creatures can climb much better than we can. And the rest – use magic?’
‘Yeah,’ said Paris. ‘Or maybe they just go round the back way.’
The two officers and their mystical advisor started walking again. When they reached the house, Paris raised his hand to ring the doorbell. He stopped with his finger in mid-air. His eyes moved from the bell to the edge of the door.
‘It’s already open,’ he hissed. ‘Must be on the latch.’
He lowered his arm. Taking hold of the handle, he opened the door cautiously. Shadows and silence stretched along the unlit hallway.
Paris knocked with his other hand.
‘Hello,’ he called. ‘Anyone home?’
‘Yes!’ came a cheery reply.
‘There you go,’ whispered Cassandra. ‘He’s not deaf.’
‘You’re early,’ said the voice from the house, getting closer. ‘But no problem. Come in and…’
The voice tailed off as its owner emerged from the dining room. A man in a guard’s uniform froze as he stared at the plain-clothes cops. Paris stared back at him.
‘Oh,’ said the man.
‘Oh,’ said Paris. ‘The living Doctor Stone, I presume?’
20
Paris’s eyes travelled up and down Stone. The homeowner’s body wore the uniform of a train guard from the age of steam, with the insignia and shiny buttons which denoted officialdom. His face, however, wore the expression of somebody trying very hard to appear innocent – the usual indicator of guilt. The inspector smiled inwardly. Although this was the most unusual case he’d ever worked on, some things remained constant.
‘So,’ he said. ‘You want to tell me what’s going on?’
‘In what way?’ stammered Stone.
‘Oh, let’s see. You report a dead fairy in your garden, then everything goes quiet. We come to check if you’re alright and find the Thomas the Tank Engine fan club. You said we were early, but it wasn’t us you were expecting. Was it?’
‘No,’ replied Stone, evidently trying to think. ‘It’s… the rest of the model railway fancy dress party?’
Paris raised an eyebrow at him. ‘Try again. Even trainspotters can find their way through a house.’ He pointed at the floor.
Stone looked down. Stuck onto the polished wooden floorboards was an arrow made from yellow tape, pointing past him along the hallway. His shoulders drooped.
‘You’d better come in,’ he said.
He trudged back into the dining room. Paris, Bonetti and Cassandra followed him.
The room was large, with plain white walls and a generous bay window facing out onto the front garden. A modern art painting hung on each of the other three walls. In the centre of the room was a contemporary eight-place dining table, while around it stood a matching sideboard, dresser and drinks cabinet.
Paris recognised the expense of everything, though the vagaries of tasteful design somehow passed him by. Only the last item of furniture held any interest for him. He hadn’t had a drink in two days and had even managed to not get one in his own house. He wondered how he could wangle being offered one here.
Cassandra interrupted his longing as she emitted a low whistle behind him. Paris turned to see her admiring the decor.
‘This is nice,’ she announced. ‘Very nice indeed. I’m going to have to come back in the daytime. The approaching twilight doesn’t do the place justice.’ She smiled at Paris, aware of his eyes on her. ‘What can I tell you? Magic people have great taste.’ She winked. ‘You should know that already.’
Paris tried hard to concentrate on the job at hand. He turned towards Stone, standing next to the sideboard. The attempt at looking innocent had been abandoned. But he still looked guilty.
‘Well?’ asked the cop. ‘Yellow stickers. Luminescent too, I imagine. Right?’
Stone avoided the policeman’s gaze.
‘I’ve had a few visitors,’ he said quietly. ‘Visitors who aren’t exactly house-trained. Some of them have never even been in a house before. I had to show them where they were going.’
‘You mean magical creatures? So why didn’t you report these other ones?’
Stone fidgeted. ‘Hasn’t quite worked out like that.’
Paris frowned. ‘Bonetti, give me your book. I need to take some notes.’
The sergeant handed over his notebook. Paris produced a pen and fixed his eyes on the twitchy householder.
‘Remember,’ he said. ‘Anything you say might be used in evidence against you. No matter how bloody stupid it sounds.’
Stone nodded. He took a deep breath, letting it out slowly.
‘You know how it started,’ he said. ‘Two days ago, I got woken up in the early hours by weird noises in my garden. Had no idea what was going on, so I went to investigate. And you know what I found. So I cal
led the police. Some constables came. Then you two.’
He glared at Bonetti. ‘You tried to convince me it was a fake. Wanted to keep things hushed up. And I co-operated. I showed the reporters the doll made by your scientist. I kept mum. Because, basically, I was in shock. I’m not stupid, though. I knew it was real. Wasn’t certain what the hell it was, but I knew it was a real whatever-the-hell-it-was. So I stayed off work. Phoned in sick. I spent all day trying to figure out what’s happening. We get to evening time, a bit later than now, and I hear a knock on the front door. I answer it and find four dwarves standing on my doorstep! With leather waistcoats and pickaxes! And I’m not talking “persons of restricted height” type dwarves, I’m talking “fairy tales and dragons” type dwarves. You understand?’
Paris understood, only too well.
‘Fancy that,’ he said. ‘Then what happened?’
‘They stood there looking at me and I stood there looking at them, none of us sure what to do. Then one of them says, “We want to get to the portal.” And I said, “What?” And he says, “Are you the gatekeeper?” And I said, “What?” And he says, “How much do we have to pay?” And I said, “Yes, I’m the gatekeeper!”’
Paris groaned to himself. Their lasting memory of humans would be somebody taking their money off them. Mind you, that’s probably what they’d come to expect.
‘Go on,’ he said.
‘The dwarves came into the house. I was slightly taken aback at first, but once you’ve seen a crucified fairy it’s all downhill, isn’t it? So we sat in here and had a chat. They told me about the thing in my garden, which they said is called a portal or a gateway, depending on who you talk to. Said the garage didn’t use to be there and they could go round the side of the house to reach it. Now, I’ve been here ten years. The garage was built before we moved in. I don’t how long they’ve been in our world.’
Neither do I, thought Paris. Could be centuries.
‘What else did they tell you?’
‘Well,’ replied Stone, ‘they told me how the magical creatures are trying to get back home through this portal. Said there’s some who don’t want to go – some of the other dwarves, for instance. And they told me about the Vanethria and that sort of thing.’
‘That sort of thing,’ repeated Paris. ‘The Vanethria are going round Manchester on a killing spree – that doesn’t worry you?’
‘They’re not interested in humans, apparently. And if they’re not going to bother me, I’m not going to bother them.’
‘Oh, marvellous,’ said Cassandra. ‘How noble.’
‘Never mind,’ said Paris. ‘Rewind a bit. The dwarves gave you money?’
Stone reverted to looking shifty.
‘Not exactly,’ he said. ‘Gold.’
‘Gold?’
‘They’re dwarves, aren’t they? They mine it.’
‘I see. So when other strange creatures turned up at your door, you decided you’d charge them entry as well. Rather than worrying about what you were doing or even reporting it to us, you decided to make a fast buck instead. Right?’
Stone shrugged. ‘They offered. Besides, I’ve got to work nights to let them in. My office still thinks I’m off with the flu! Anyway, I’m not doing anything illegal, am I? There’s no law against taking things off people who aren’t actually people.’
Paris pondered. The police had tried to keep things quiet by appealing to Stone’s fear and by appealing to his better nature. They’d never considered trying his greed.
‘So what’s with the outfit?’ he asked. ‘Dressing up for the occasion?’
Stone glanced down at the guard uniform and held his hands out.
‘I wanted to seem more official. Like a proper gatekeeper. Except when I went to the charity shop, this was all they had. Well, this or St Trinian’s.’
The inspector sighed. Stone had made some very dubious moral and ethical choices, but at least he’d got the fashion one right. He peered at the notebook to check through what he’d written.
‘The magic creatures,’ he said, without looking up. ‘Do they all come traipsing through your house?’
‘Some do. Most of them get to this gateway thing over the back fence, or across the other gardens. I’ve watched from the upstairs window. Can’t make anything out too well in the dark, although I can spot them moving.’
‘And they only come out at night?’
There was a pause.
‘Usually,’ replied Stone. ‘But sometimes they arrive early.’
Another pause. Paris raised his head. He saw that Stone was staring past him. Bonetti and Cassandra were doing the same. Past him, and down towards the floor with surprise etched across their faces.
Paris’s mind raced. What lay in wait at the doorway? A pixie? Another fairy? A whole army of fairies, out for revenge? He braced himself and turned round slowly. His eyes widened. Gazing back at him was – a rabbit. Grey, furry, average size, apparently completely ordinary. It was sitting up on its hind legs, wrinkling its nose and looking every bit as cute as a pie ingredient could.
‘’Ow do,’ it said.
Paris did a double-take. Malbus’s cockney gangster had been replaced by a northern mill worker, but the effect was just as startling.
‘Hello,’ he replied.
‘Is this right place for portal?’
‘Er, yeah.’
‘Follow the arrows,’ added Stone.
‘Grand,’ said the rabbit. ‘Do I have to pay owt?’
‘No,’ said Paris, before Stone could answer.
‘Good. No pockets. Well, I’ll sithee.’
It dropped back down onto four legs and hopped away along the corridor. Paris watched it go. Then he dumped the notepad on the dining table.
‘Bonetti, with me. Let’s follow it.’
‘I’m coming too,’ said Cassandra.
‘No,’ said Paris. ‘Might be dangerous.’
‘What? A killer bunny?’
‘I don’t know what else we’ll find. And police insurance doesn’t cover Death by Monster.’ He pointed a finger at Stone. ‘You stay here too. I’m pretty sure we can charge you with something. Even if it’s only impersonating a customs officer.’
Paris peeked round the doorway. The rabbit was heading into the kitchen, past the propped-open door. Paris and Bonetti jogged after it. More yellow markers were stuck on the tiled floor, leading to the back door. This was also wedged open and the rabbit was on its way through. The two men held back for a moment, then scurried across the kitchen. They waited by the doorway, their eyes tracking the animal as it hopped over the lawn. There were no more arrows, yet it moved unerringly down the garden.
‘Boss,’ whispered Bonetti, ‘you sure we should’ve let him go? He might be one of the Vanethria.’
Paris glanced at his sergeant. ‘They’re supposed to be demons, remember? Horns, fangs, stink of sulphur, that kind of thing. I don’t think Tergil’s description included the word “cuddly”.’
The rabbit reached the thick hedge which separated the long lawn into two distinct areas. Anything behind it was hidden from the house. As the animal rounded the privet, the cops raced down towards it. They peered cautiously around the shrubbery.
This secluded part of the garden was five metres long, enclosed by fences on three sides and the hedge on the fourth. There was a shed at the far end and, about halfway to it, a doll. She lay where Doc Williams had left her, tissue-paper wings still attached in places. If only, thought Paris, the fairy had really been a hoax.
The rabbit came to a halt just beyond the doll. It took no notice of the toy, but sat up on its hind legs again. It seemed to be staring towards the shed.
Bonetti looked at Paris. The inspector shrugged.
‘I don’t know,’ he hissed. ‘Keep watching!’
They turned back to the creature. As they did, a tiny point of light appeared in the air, right in front of the rabbit. It sparkled and twinkled silently, growing as it glowed. The point became almost an oval, hal
f a metre tall. More twinkling lights shone within. The rabbit hopped forward, without hesitation, into the shining shape. The lights sparkled, collapsed down to a single point again, then vanished.
The whole thing had taken barely ten seconds. Animal and light show had both disappeared completely.
Paris and Bonetti moved nervously around the hedge. They walked slowly towards what was now just another ordinary section of grass.
‘Where did he go?’ asked the sergeant.
‘I reckon,’ said Paris, ‘we can safely say we’ve found the mystic gateway.’
Bonetti waved his arms in front of him.
‘There’s nothing here,’ he said. ‘How does it work? Do we say “open sesame”?’
Paris shook his head in confusion. He turned around to face where the rabbit had been sitting and prodded the newly vacated earth with his foot.
‘Perhaps there’s some sort of button or something,’ he said. ‘I can’t see anything obvious, though. That would be too simple, wouldn’t it?’
‘Boss?’
Paris was busy thinking. His brow furrowed in concentration.
‘Maybe you have to be magic,’ he said. ‘I need Cassandra down here after all.’
‘Boss!’
‘What?’
‘It’s opening again!’
Paris spun round. Another twinkling oval of lights had materialised. This one, however, rose over two metres high. A huge dark form was appearing within it.
‘That’s no rabbit!’ said Paris. ‘Run!’
He stepped back and trod on the doll. His shoe slipped on the plastic. Paris’s leg flew up into the air, and he crashed to the ground.
A monstrous figure loomed over him as Tergil’s demon tick-list raced through his mind. Horns? Check. Fangs? Check. Red face? Check. Sulphur breath? Check. Blind panic and sense that he was about to die?
Checkmate.
21
Paris lay motionless on the grass, frozen in absolute terror. Fear was all he had left now. Logic and reason were gone, fleeing into the darkest recesses of his mind. The same dark corners where nightmare beings normally resided. They, however, existed only in his imagination. The thing in front of him was most definitely real.
Breaking the Lore Page 12
