Return to Groosham Grange

by Anthony Horowitz

  “I’ll be back here first,” David replied.

  They stepped into the boxes.

  “Let the tiebreaker begin,” Mr. Kilgraw commanded.

  David felt the air inside the box go suddenly cold. He had been standing with his hands pressed against the glass, looking at Mr. Kilgraw. Then, slowly at first but accelerating quickly, the glass box began to turn. It was like an amusement-park ride except that there was no music, no sound at all, and he didn’t feel nauseous or giddy. Mr. Kilgraw spun past him, a blur of color that had lost all sense of shape, blending in with the walls of the cave as the box turned faster and faster. Now the whole world had dissolved into a wheel of silver and gray. Then the lights went out.

  David closed his eyes. When he opened them a moment later, he found he was looking at a street and a hedge. Swallowing, he pulled his hands away from the glass, leaving two damp palm prints behind. The box was illuminated from above by a single yellow bulb. A car drove past along the street, its headlights on. David twisted around. Something bumped against his shoulder.

  He was in a telephone booth. Not a modern kiosk but one of the old red telephone booths with a swinging door that stood in the middle of Regent’s Park, London. It took him a moment to open it, but then he was standing on the pavement, breathing the night air. There was no sign of Vincent. He looked at his watch. Seven o’clock. He had traveled a hundred and twenty-five miles in less than a second.

  But he was still a long way from the museum. Vincent would already be on his way. And this was his last chance . . .

  David crossed the road and broke into a run.

  In fact he took a taxi to the museum. He caught one in Baker Street and ordered the driver to go as fast as possible.

  “The British Museum? You must be joking, buddy! There’s no point going there now. It’s closed for the night. Anyway, aren’t you a bit young to be out on your own? You got any money?”

  David had no money. Neither of the boys had been given any—it was part of the test. Quickly, he hypnotized the driver. He knew he wasn’t allowed to use magic, but Mr. Kilgraw had often told him that hypnosis was a science and not a magical power, so he decided it wouldn’t count.

  “The British Museum,” he insisted. “And put your foot on it.”

  “Foot on it? All right, pal. Whatever you say. You’re the boss.” The driver shot through a red light, zigzagged across a busy intersection with cars hooting at him on all sides and accelerated the wrong way down a one-way street. The journey took them about ten minutes and David was relieved to get out.

  He paid the driver with a leaf and two pebbles he had picked up in the park. “Keep the change,” he said.

  “Wow! Thanks, buddy.” The cabdriver’s eyes were still spinning. David watched him as he drove off across the sidewalk and into a store window, then slipped through the open gates of the British Museum.

  But why were the gates open?

  Had Mr. Helliwell arranged it for him? Or had Vincent gotten there first?

  Feeling very small and vulnerable, David crossed the open space in front of the museum. The building itself was huge, bigger than he remembered. He had once heard that there were more than two miles of galleries inside, and looking at it now, its classical pillars arranged in two wings around a vast, central chamber, he could well believe it. His feet clattered faintly across the concrete as he ran forward. A well-mowed lawn, gray in the moonlight, stretched out as flat as paper on either side of him. There was a guardhouse next to the gate, but it was deserted. His shadow raced ahead of him, snaking up the steps as if trying to get into the building before him.

  The main entrance to the museum was locked. For a moment David was tempted. A single spell would open the door. He could simply move the tumblers inside the lock with the power of thought or else he could turn himself into smoke and creep in through the crack underneath. But Mr. Helliwell had said no magic. And this time David was determined not to cheat. He would play by the rules.

  It took him ten minutes to locate the side door that Mr. Kilgraw had opened. He slipped through and found himself standing on a stone floor beneath a ceiling that was so far above him that, in the half-light, he could barely see it. Doors led off to the left and right. Straight ahead there was an information desk and what looked like a souvenir shop. A grand staircase guarded by two stone lions swept up to one side. Which way should he go?

  It was only now that he was here that David grasped the enormity of the task that faced him. Miss Pedicure had lived for three thousand years. And she had lived in just about every part of the world. So this statue of her—which had once belonged to her mother—could come from anywhere and any time. It was two and a half inches high and it was blue. That was all he knew.

  So much for the needle. But what about the haystack?

  The British Museum was enormous. How many exhibits did it hold? Ten thousand? A hundred thousand? Some of them were the size of small buildings. Some of them, in fact, were small buildings. Others were no bigger than a pin. The museum held collections from Ancient Greece, Ancient Egypt, Babylon, Persia, China; from the Iron Age, the Bronze Age, the Middle Ages, every age. There were tools and pottery, clocks and jewelry, masks and ivory . . . He could spend a year in the place and still get nowhere close.

  David heard the rattle of a chain and pressed himself back against the wall, well into the shadows. A guard appeared, walking down the stairs and into the main hall. He was dressed in blue pants and a white shirt, with a bunch of keys dangling from his waist. He paused in the middle of the entrance hall, yawned and stretched his arms, then disappeared behind the information desk.

  Crouching in the dark, David considered. As far as he could see, he had two choices. One: search the museum as quickly as he could and hope for a lucky break. Two: look for some sort of catalog and try to find the statuette listed there. But even if a catalog existed, how would he know what to look for? It was hardly likely that Miss Pedicure’s name would turn up in the index and there were probably statuettes in just about every room in the building.

  That left only the first option. Straightening up again, David crossed the hall and climbed the staircase that the guard had just come down. He would have to hope for a little luck.

  Three and a half hours later he was back where he’d started.

  His head was pounding and his eyes were sore with fatigue. The stairs had led him up past a Roman mosaic and on into Medieval Britain. He had backtracked into the Early Bronze Age (dodging a second guard) and had somehow found his way into Ancient Syria . . . which was indeed seriously ancient. He must have looked at about ten thousand objects all neatly laid out in their glass cases. He felt like a window-shopper in some sort of insane supermarket and he hadn’t found anything remotely like Miss Pedicure’s statuette. After a while, he barely knew what he was looking at. Whether it was a Late Babylonian jug or an Early Sumerian mug no longer made any difference to him. David had never been very fond of museums. But this was torture.

  Standing once again in the entrance hall, he looked at his watch. It was a quarter to eleven. Less than two hours of the challenge remained . . . assuming that Vincent hadn’t found the statuette and left with it long ago.

  Another guard crossed the entrance hall. “Who’s there?” he called out.

  David froze. He couldn’t be found, not now. But then a second guard, a woman, appeared from the door on the right. “It’s only me.”

  “Wendy? I thought I heard someone . . .”

  “Yeah. This place gives me the creeps. I’ve been hearing things all night. Footsteps . . .”

  “Me too. Care for a cup of tea?”

  “Yeah. I’ll put the kettle on . . .”

  The two guards walked off together and David ducked back through another open door just opposite the main entrance. It led into the most amazing room he had ever seen.

  It was vast, stretching the entire length of the museum. It was filled with a bizarre collection of animals, people and creatures that we
re both. Everything looked Egyptian. Huge Pharaohs carved in black stone sat with their hands on their knees, frozen solid as they had been for thousands of years. On one side, two bearded men with lions’ feet and dragons’ wings crouched, staring at each other in grim silence. On the other, a gigantic tiger stood poised as if about to leap into the darkness. Farther down the gallery there were animals of all shapes and sizes, facing in different directions like guests at a nightmare cocktail party.

  David froze. He had seen Vincent before he had heard him. The other boy was moving incredibly quietly and would himself have seen David had he not been looking the other way. David noticed that Vincent had taken his shoes off and was holding them in his hand. It was a good idea and one that David should have thought of himself.

  Vincent was looking as lost and as tired as David. Crouching down behind a brass baboon, David watched him pass. As he went, Vincent rubbed his forehead with the back of one hand and David almost felt sorry for him. He had never liked Vincent and he didn’t trust him. But he knew what he was going through now.

  A minute later Vincent had gone. David stood up. Which way now? Vincent hadn’t found the statue yet, and that was good, but it didn’t help him. He looked once more at his watch. There was a little over an hour left.

  Left or right? Up or down?

  At the far end of the gallery he could see a collection of sarcophagi and several obelisks—some carved with hieroglyphics like Cleopatra’s Needle—plus four gods with the heads of cats.

  And that was when he knew.

  In fact he should have known from the start. This challenge was all about skill, not chance. Mr. Helliwell had said it himself: a test of stealth and cunning. What he and Mr. Kilgraw had said, what Miss Pedicure had said, and what he had just seen . . . put them all together and the answer was obvious.

  David knew where he was going now. He should have known hours ago. He looked around him for a sign, then ran off down the gallery.

  He just hoped he wasn’t already too late.

  Wax

  Between them, Mr. Kilgraw, Mr. Helliwell and Miss Pedicure had given him all the clues he could have asked for. David played back what they had said.

  Some needles are bigger than others . . . that may point you in the right direction.

  Well, David had just seen the biggest needle of all—a stone pillar that had made him think of Cleopatra’s Needle on the Thames River. And what direction had that come from? Egypt!

  And then Miss Pedicure: It was taken from my mummy . . .

  She wasn’t talking about her mother, of course. The statuette had been buried with her, part of an Egyptian mummy.

  That was where he was going now. The head of a giant ram watched him without interest as he plunged into the Egyptian rooms of the museum. The statuette would be somewhere here—he was certain. How could he have wasted so much time? If only he’d stopped and thought first . . .

  The first room he entered was filled with more sarcophagi—the stone coffins that contained the mummies. There were about a dozen of them on display, brightly colored and strangely cheerful. It was as if the Ancient Egyptians had chosen to gift wrap their dead. Some of the cases were open, and glancing inside, David saw hunched, shriveled-up figures in dirty gray bandages. Strange to think that Miss Pedicure had once looked like that—although when it was raining and she was in a bad mood, she sometimes still did.

  David hurried into the next room. What he was looking for would be displayed separately, in one of the side cases. How much time did he have left? There were still hundreds of objects on display all around him. His eyes raced past dolls, toys, mummified cats and snakes, jugs, cups, jewelry . . . and then he found it! It was right in front of him, a blue figure about the size of his hand, lying on its back as if sunbathing. David rested his hand on the glass and stared at the little doll, at its black hair, thin face and tapered waist. He recognized Miss Pedicure at once. The statue was labeled:GLAZED COMPANION DOLL. XVIIITH DYNASTY. 1450 B.C.

  It was incredible. The English and history teacher had hardly changed in three thousand years. She was even carrying the same handbag.

  Somebody coughed at the end of the gallery and David froze. But it was only another guard, making for a side room and an early-twenty-first-century cup of tea. He tilted his watch. It was just after eleven. He had more time than he thought. He lifted the cover of the glass case and took out the statuette.

  The Unholy Grail was his.

  At half past eleven, David climbed the escalator at the Baker Street subway station and emerged into the street. He had preferred to take the train back to Regent’s Park, losing himself in the crowds underground. It was only a ten-minute walk back to the telephone booth. The statuette was safely in his pocket. He had plenty of time.

  It was a cool evening with a touch of drizzle in the breeze. David wondered where Vincent might be now. The other boy was probably still in the British Museum, desperately searching for the statue. Even if he did work out the puzzle and find the display case, he was too late. It was too bad. But the best man had won.

  A motorcyclist accelerated through a puddle, sending the water in a spray that just missed David. On the other side of the road, a bus without passengers rumbled through a yellow light and turned toward the West End. David continued on past Madame Tussauds. His father had taken him to the famous waxworks museum once, but it hadn’t been a successful trip. “Not enough bankers!” Mr. Eliot had exclaimed, and had left without even visiting the Chamber of Horrors. The long, windowless building was silent. The pavement outside, crowded with tourists and ice-cream vendors by day, was empty, glistening under the streetlights.

  David felt a gust of cold air tug at the collar of his shirt. Behind him he heard the sound of splintering wood. He thought nothing of it. But unconsciously he quickened his pace.

  The road continued up to a set of traffic lights. This was where Regent’s Park began—David could see it in the distance, a seemingly endless black space. He glanced behind him. Although the pavement had been empty before, there was now a single figure, staggering about as if drunk. It was a man, wearing some sort of uniform and boots. He was weaving small circles on the pavement, his arms outstretched, his feet jerking into the air. It was as if he had never walked before, as if he were trying to get his balance.

  David turned the corner, leaving the drunk—if that was what he was—behind. He was beginning to feel uneasy but he still didn’t know why.

  The path he was following crossed a main road and then continued over a humpback bridge. Suddenly he was out of the hubbub of London. The darkness and emptiness of Regent’s Park was all around him, enclosing him in its ancient arms. Somewhere a dog barked in the night.

  “Just slow down . . .”

  He muttered the words to himself, somehow relieved to hear the sound of his own voice. Once again he looked at his watch. A quarter to twelve. Plenty of time. How had he allowed one crazy drunk to spook him like this? Smiling, he looked back over his shoulder.

  The smile died on his lips.

  The man had followed him into the park. He was standing on the bridge now, lit by a lamp directly above him. In the last few minutes he had learned how to walk properly and he was standing at attention, his eyes glittering in the light. He was much closer and David could see him clearly—the brown boots, the belt, the strap running across his chest. He wasn’t wearing a uniform but a sort of brown suit, the pants ballooning out at the thighs. David recognized him instantly. He would have known even without the black swastika on the red-and-white armband on the man’s right arm. How could he fail to recognize the thin black hair sweeping down over the pale face and, of course, the famous mustache?

  Adolf Hitler!

  Or at least, Adolf Hitler’s waxwork.

  David remembered the gust of cold air he had felt. There was always a touch of coldness in the air when black magic was being performed and the blacker the spell the more intense the coldness. He had felt it but he had ignored it. And the
splintering sound! The creature must have broken the door to get out. Who could have animated it? Vincent? David stared at the Hitler waxwork, feeling sick. And even as he backed away, a horrible thought occurred to him. Hitler had been first out of Madame Tussauds. But was he alone?

  The question was answered a second later. The Hitler waxwork jerked forward, his legs jackknifing in the air. Behind him, two more figures appeared, rising like zombies over the top of the humpback bridge. David didn’t wait to see who they might be. Three words were echoing in his mind.

  Chamber of Horrors.

  He tried to remember who was exhibited in that part of Madame Tussauds. He had a nasty feeling he might be meeting them at any moment.

  David turned and ran. But it was only now that he saw how carefully the trap had been laid. Three more waxworks had made their way into the park and were approaching him from the other direction. One was dressed only in a dirty white nightgown and black clogs. It was carrying something in its hands. David stared. It was a victim of the French Revolution. It was carrying its head! Behind it came two short men in prison uniforms. David didn’t recognize either of them—but they had recognized him. Their eyes seemed to light up as they shuffled forward, arms outstretched. David saw a gate in the fence, half open. He ran through it and into the inner heart of the park.

  He found himself on a patch of lawn with a set of tennis courts to one side and an unpleasant, stagnant pool on the other. The field was dotted with trees and he made for the nearest one, grateful at least that it was a dark night. But even as he ran, the clouds parted and a huge moon broke through like a searchlight. Was that part of the magic too? Was Vincent even controlling the weather?

  In the white, ghostly light, the whole park had changed. It was like something out of a bad dream. Everything was black, white and gray. The Hitler waxwork had already reached the gate and passed through with the two prisoners. The French Revolution victim had been left behind. This waxwork had tripped over a tree root and lost its head, and although the head was shouting “Over here!” the rest of the body hadn’t found it yet.