Pip and the Twilight Seekers (6 page)

Sam stood back in the alleyway. Thick smoke was rising quickly upward but the fire was out. He had the villagers to thank. That and the stroke of luck delivered in the form of a rooftop avalanche.

It was times like this when Sam realized there was a strong community spirit bubbling under the chill winds of the hollow. The people who passed his window and
stayed buttoned up in their homes under the snow were out there, heart and soul, when he fell into trouble.

He looked around himself. There they all were. Covered in black smoke, coughing and choking. Some of them drenched in the water they had been passing to and fro and now frozen with it. If they ever rid this place of all its woes there was a great city beneath its evil crust.

The damage was bad enough, but Sam would get by. He had been through worse than this. It seemed that the fire had begun in the back alley. That was where it had burned the longest, the barrels reduced to nothing but crumbling charcoal. A fire in the alley when the streets were filled with winter snow! It could only be deliberate. He was furious. His mind tracked back, wondering if he had upset anyone at the tavern. And then he remembered the scene with Jarvis. The frustrated outburst, the raid on the premises and now the fire. Were those things connected? Maybe!

It was time to have words with Mister Jarvis.

Toad pushed down on the latch. It was open. It was not the first time he had chanced upon an open doorway and he knew that to do so here in the hollow was to take a life-threatening chance. But what could they do?

They stepped in, their three faces appearing around the frame of the door. The room was in darkness and the only light was from blackened coals and logs crumbling into a relaxed warmth in a stone-built hearth.

“Quick, get in and shut the door,” said Toad.

They shuffled forward, banging the snow from their boots and calling out gently, but no one came. For a moment they peered through the curtains at the small square panes of the window.

Jarvis rattled past in the black pumpkin. He seemed to slow up at the window and the three of them almost jumped from their skins when his leering face appeared to stare right in. Surely he hadn’t spotted them? They shrank back from their positions at the curtain and coiled themselves up into a corner. It wasn’t until they could hear the wheels of the carriage rolling forward again that they breathed a united sigh of relief.

They crouched in the hearth, warming their frozen fingers in the orangey glow.

“Where are we?” asked Frankie.

“How do I know?” said Toad. “Someone’s house.”

“Well, we can’t just make ourselves at home. It could belong to anybody. We might be in great danger,” insisted Pip.

“Just being here in the first place means we’re in great danger, doesn’t it? It’s nothing new.” Toad grinned.

Just then the latch lifted at the door and the children froze. A long lean bespectacled man entered, bringing a heavy smell of wood smoke with him. He shook his coat tail, removing a long scarf that was bundled about his neck, and then he sat in his chair to kick off his snow-filled boots. When he looked up he saw the children, silent and staring back at him.

“Holy witchwood!” he said, holding on to his heart and almost leaping backward through the seat of his chair. “Where did you spring from?” And then, squinting through his glasses in the dark, he took a closer look at Toad as his hands gripped his armchair in startled fright. “Well, bless my soul, you’re Sam’s boy, aren’t ya?”

“Yes, sir, and we’re sorry to intrude but Mister Jarvis was after us, sir. We didn’t mean no harm.”

The man jumped to his feet and took a nervous check on the street outside. “Now look here, children,” he began, “I don’t mind helping out, really I don’t, but I could be in serious trouble for harboring youngsters. You realize that, don’t you?” He scraped his hair back and rubbed his chin. He was tall and light on his feet and somehow all his limbs seemed too long and loose, as if he had been badly put together. He was the nervous type, the kind that can’t seem to stop shuffling when they’re talking.

“I can’t put you up,” he said. “No way.” And then as soon as he had said it he changed his mind. “OK, I’ll do it,” he returned, “but not for long. I’ve been helping your father put out the fire,” he said, turning to Toad again. “It wasn’t easy. There are good people here among these darkened streets. They all helped. It’s out now, your father is safe. He’s a good man, your father, and I’ll help him as much as I can, I will, and if that means keeping you here, I’ll do it. That’s what we do here. We help each other.” It was almost as if he was telling himself to do it as he spoke. As if he needed to convince himself of his actions.

The children breathed a sigh of relief. They had had no control over the extinguishing of the fire and had watched helplessly from the labyrinth of alleyways.

“My name’s Floyd,” said the man, “Percival Floyd. But you can call me Percy.” And as he asked the children their names he put water in a pan over the burning embers and stoked up the fire with fresh wood. “I’ll make us a warm drink, eh, that should sort you out.” Toad instinctively pulled the shutters closed and Pip and Frankie hung their wet clothes by the hearth. “I never had children of my own,” he continued. “I was never married. I’m a simple man. But I’m a good cook,” he insisted, and he brought another pot into the room. This one was filled with a wonderful-smelling stew and as it warmed at the stove the room filled with the aroma. “I know it’s a strange hour to eat,” he said, but it will do you good to get something warm down you. All that time out in the snow will have frozen the bones.” He laughed.

They sat and talked through the early hours and it seemed Mister Floyd was full of knowledge about Hangman’s hollow. Even more so than Toad, Pip thought. And perhaps, after all his concerns, he was actually enjoying the company that he craved in the times he was alone. At length, daylight poured through the gaps in the shutters and the children disappeared to a secret spot to get some rest as Floyd sat back in his chair and closed his eyes. Just for now, they would all stay still.

There was no reason at all why Jarvis would suspect they hid at Percival Floyd’s house, was there?

There was a soft gray blue light at the end of the day that signaled more snow. It had stayed freezing cold and icicles stared down from above, pointing at the passersby.

But it took more than mere cold weather to keep Mister Jarvis from the streets. And now that he had Captain Dooley in his possession he was all too keen to venture out.

To Mister Jarvis, it was the perfect evening. Captain Dooley was tucked into his belted waist and the two of them were setting out into the heart of Hangman’s hollow. As the wheels of the black pumpkin began to turn, small flakes of white began to fall around them. It was postcard pretty but things were about to grow a little hectic.

Where would Jarvis head first? He had lost sight of those rats from the Deadman’s Hand, but for now there must be plenty more for the picking.

“Tell me, Captain Dooley. Where might the nearest of our dear children be? It would be so good to furnish our cabin with city rats. It has been so long since I plucked one from its nest. Speak to Mister Jarvis, Captain, and make him happy.”

“Where the river swallows up the broken bridge. One little bird in the rounded roof,” croaked the captain.

A smile broke across Jarvis’s face. This was going to be so easy. Plucked like fruit from ripened trees.

He considered it hard, his eyes staring upward in thought. He kept moving the carriage forward and then as he realized he knew where the captain was sending him he slowly pulled on one side of the reins, yanking a steady left-hand turn and sliding gently until he faced the other way.

A little farther and he’d be in a good position to get a view of where he headed.

He steered up and around the corner to take in the view of where he knew the timbers of an old walkway had sunk into the stinking river. From the stone bridge he could see it: a wooden construction that had long since collapsed halfway across the water, as if unable to make the distance. Its rotted wooden struts stuck out like broken fingers and at the bank side was a small circular building: home to Mrs. Duvell. Though Jarvis had presumed she lived alone she was obviously harboring an escapee.

He set off again and savoured the moment, the carriage swaying and rocking across the snow-topped cobbles as he wound back down to the other side of the river. As he neared he could see a wisp of smoke pipe up from the chimney pot, and though the shutters were tight across the window, a slice of light peeped out from within.

“How dare she!” he whispered to himself. “How dare she lie to me and keep those rats from my sight.” He pulled up just short of the rounded house.

He climbed down from the carriage seat, wandered to the back, and, confident of his catch, opened the lock and positioned the prison door ajar, ready for its first victim.

He announced himself with three slow loud knocks at the door.
Thud, thud, thud.

“Little pig, little pig, let me come in,” he sang to himself.

A frail and frightened-looking woman came quickly. But it was not the time of night to receive visitors, especially in such harsh weather. She partially opened the door, just enough to poke her face out into the light of Jarvis’s torch.