Candleman (11 page)

Foley stared up at Theo, ghostly white. ‘I only ever half-believed it until, until …’

‘Until what?’ pressed Chloe.

‘Until I met
him.’
Foley gulped, shrinking away from Theo so much he nearly fell off his chair.

Theo could feel Chloe’s curious gaze burn into him. She must know now that he had used his deadly powers. He didn’t mind. He looked at his own hands in awe. He gazed down at the old robber, a hardened villain, who cringed at Theo’s mere presence. He experienced a strange, not unpleasant sensation – one he had scarcely known before in his life – a feeling of power.

I am not Theo Saint,
he told himself.
I am Theo Wickland. Last descendant of the original Candle Man.

‘Look,’ Chloe butted in, ‘do you want to help get revenge on the people – the so-called charity – that helped to murder your grandad? We can help you. But only if you tell us everything you know.’

‘Already have,’ sighed Foley. ‘Never witnessed none of it myself. Just heard the legends from time to time. Now and again, someone in the burglary trade would whisper one of the old myths – that if the Candle Man crossed your path, you would soon be snuffed out.’

Wind rattled the window. Chloe and Theo both jumped, then relaxed.

‘We’d better go,’ she said.

‘No, not yet!’ Foley suddenly begged them. ‘This is my chance – to get it all out of the house!’ He gave them an ingratiating grin. ‘I’ll show you the stuff,’ he said. ‘Come down to the shop!’

U
nknown to the people inside the room, a grey figure was clinging to the wall outside, crouched just above the window. The thick, dirty fog concealed him from human eyes. Flin, a smoglodyte spy, had been following the events within. He scampered back up to the roof, where his leader, Skun, was awaiting his report.

‘They’re moving!’ hissed Flin. ‘Reckon we should strike now!’

‘Not yet,’ whispered Skun, the chief smoglodyte tracker. He narrowed his tiny eyes in thought, his face resembling a shrewd, shrivelled turnip.

‘Let’s see where they go. We could learn some secrets here.’ Skun wasn’t like the average smoglodyte. He didn’t believe in just following orders – he wanted to know
why.
Most smogs never bothered with that part. The tribe had been told by the illustrious Society of Good Works to grab Theo. Skun had been watching this strange boy – he looked weak, bewildered, half-asleep most of the time. Why was he so important?

Skun crept up the rooftop and spoke to a group of surly, wrinkled smogs huddled at the top under a big chimney pot.

‘Our target is on the move,’ he said. ‘I’ll need one of you under every ledge and above every doorway.’ Skun surveyed the ragged mob. He distrusted every one of them. He alone, the great hunter, had tracked the boy Theo all the way – by scent – from the graveyard, in a slow, painstaking pursuit. He had been forced to gather these scum along the way, as reinforcements.

‘Let’s just kill him now,’ said Frub, a bloated old smog. ‘That’s what the Society really wants. It’s what it always used to want, anyway.’ The other smogs leapt to their feet. They were all ready to follow Frub. They wanted to score a quick man-kill and then live off the reputation for years.

‘They’re in the downstairs shop now,’ reported Flin, the spy smog, popping his head back up over the roof edge. ‘Make your move, Skun, or someone else will.’

It was looking bad. Skun’s glorious hunt for the boy – across a London that had grown to a stupendous size – should be a tale enjoyed by smoglings for years to come.
Capturing
the boy was the real task. But if this rabble didn’t get to see some action soon, they would first kill Skun, then Theo – and take all the credit for the hunt.

Skun sighed. Maybe he would just let them slay the girl anyway, to keep things bright. Suddenly Frub stood in front of Skun – a clear insult – and turned to address the smog rabble.

‘I say we start killing now!’ he hissed. ‘And I’m not fussy who!’ Frub looked meaningfully at Skun. Then something else caught his eye, and he glanced upwards. It was the last thing he did. A dark shape dropped out of the sky and crushed him to death.

‘Garghoul!’ screeched Skun. The terrible creature had landed in their midst, its dark horns lowered, its eyes flashing blue fire. ‘Kill it!’ Skun cried.

The smogs leapt on their attacker. In an old smog manoeuvre, they tried to wrap all their stretchy bodies around him at once, in a big ball, suffocating and crushing their foe. But this garghoul was tough. He was already breaking out of the smog-ball, ripping his foes to shreds with claw and fang. Skun backed away, down the roof.

‘I am Skun, chief tracker of the Ilk tribe,’ he called out, trying to maintain his authority. ‘We are here on
human business
– which you are forbidden to interfere in!’

The garghoul ignored him. For a moment, the sheet terror of its physical presence almost overwhelmed him. There had been rumours among the smoglodytes of a shadow following them as they searched the city for Theo. Skun realised now he should have paid those rumours more attention.

Now a terrible battle ensued, as one by one the garghoul tore the smoglodytes apart. Soon their shredded bodies were strewn all over the rooftop. In the thick fog, the battle went unnoticed by human eyes, and completely unsuspected by Theo below.

Skun had to forget about the mission now. He had to preserve the most valuable tribe member – himself. His smog team were managing to scratch and bruise the garghoul – even poison him with their toxic claws – but it was obvious there would be only one victor. And there was something familiar about this proud, ferocious enemy.

‘It’s Tristus!’ Skun realised as he began to slink away. ‘One of the most feared garghoul of all.’ There were dark legends about Tristus. Skun knew he had to take off fast.

‘Help me!’ squealed Flin, the little spy, crushed under one garghoul claw and about to have his throat torn out by the other. Skun didn’t. With a lame smile – and a cheeky bow – he sprang off the roof and lost himself in the filthy night. Even Tristus was unable to stop him.

Unaware of events on the rooftop above, Theo followed Foley into the dingy premises on the ground floor. The engraving shop had been neglected for years. Piles of yellowing prints lay discarded on tables, awaiting a restorer’s hand that would now probably never come. Whole folios, jammed with maps, diagrams, depictions of long-forgotten sea battles and portraits of families long gone, were stacked in toppling piles. The once-prized engravings in frames on the walls were mottled with damp now, uncared for.

‘Worthless rubbish,’ Foley muttered, gesturing at the mouldy artworks. ‘I used to keep the old family business running, when my brother was alive,’ he said. ‘Can’t ever find the time now.’

Theo was almost trembling with excitement. Many of the prints were from the era when his ancestor Lord Wickland had been alive.
The lost secrets are getting nearer,
he thought, his heart racing.
The truth is getting close enough to touch.

The old man groaned as he bent down to open a corner cupboard. It was crammed with crumpled card. He dragged an old biscuit tin out from under the pile and put it on a workbench.

‘Grandad gave me this before he died. Wanted me to look after it, because he knew my dad had no time for the old Dodo stories.’ With shaking hands, the old man opened the tin. As well as a roll of paper, there were a couple of military medals, a dog collar and a little toy soldier.

‘Sentimental rubbish,’ Foley said quietly, tipping the keepsakes to one side. The old burglar seemed to have recovered his composure now that he was about to unburden himself. ‘Don’t know if this is any use to you after all this time. But I want it out. Finally. All this mystery stuff has been nothing but bad luck for me ever since I first heard about it.’

Foley spread out the top sheet. ‘Plans for a job.’ He grinned. ‘It’s a bit late to stop this caper now – it happened over a hundred years ago! Grandad was asked to transport some weird animals out of a certain house and leave them in a tunnel somewhere. There was a pick-up point for some pistols marked. Nothing special.’

‘You don’t say,’ yawned Chloe.

‘It was a crazy idea. I used to laugh about it as a kid. It was the animals – not the pistols – that was being used to kill the other gang.’

‘Hilarious,’ Chloe said.

‘This first sheet is just the map Grandad was given so he wouldn’t muck up the job,’ Foley explained. ‘Now here’s the interesting bit!’ He lifted up the chart and there was another, very thin sheet under it. At first glance it appeared to be a series of geometric drawings, lines and shapes, laid over each other to make a baffling pattern.

‘This was found with the map. Grandad reckoned it wasn’t supposed to be there. It must have been included by accident, rolled up in a careless moment by one of the bosses. Grandad said it held a great secret – never told me what.’

Foley looked up, hoping for some sign of interest. He was disappointed. His mysterious visitors just stared blankly.

‘Is this all you’ve got?’ Theo asked, somewhat crestfallen. ‘I thought you might have pictures of the Candle Man. And I really want to read
Slaughter of the Gargoyles
!’

Chloe just sighed and carelessly stuffed all the papers back in the box.

‘Might be useful to wrap our chips in,’ she remarked. ‘Come on, Theo, we’ve wasted enough time here. All we’ve got is hearsay and the plans to a hundred-year-old mugging. Might as well have spent the afternoon painting my toenails.’

‘Say what you like,’ Foley said sulkily. ‘Those was great secrets in their day. Meant a lot to me as a kid, being trusted with that stuff. Here, hold on!’

He rushed back across the room and stopped Theo in the doorway. Theo was amazed to be loaded up with camera equipment and a laptop computer, which the burglar pulled from under a smelly rug in a long-disused dog basket.

‘Here’s your stuff back, Weirdy.’ Foley gave a cracked grin. ‘I passed your test, didn’t I?’ he said. ‘You was waiting to see if I’d give this lot back! No need to punish me now, is there?’

‘No,’ said Theo simply. ‘You, err – you did the right thing.’

Suddenly they were back on the streets, with Chloe hurriedly waving for a cab. Theo looked up excitedly.

‘Are we really going to have chips?’ he asked.

‘If you like,’ grinned Chloe. They bundled into a taxi and sank into the deep red seats gratefully. It had been a long, tense day.

‘We learned a lot,’ Theo remarked eagerly.

Chloe ignored him, peering at the pile of Foley’s goodies balanced on her lap.

‘Shame that lot turned out to be pretty useless,’ Theo said.

Chloe looked up, her eyes alight with excitement.

‘Theo Wickland, my dear boy –’ she grinned at him – ‘we have just hit gold dust!’

As they pulled away, neither noticed a dark, winged shape swooping from the rooftop above.

T
he monstrous silhouette loomed in the study doorway, a hunchbacked giant of a man. A long, antiquated cape swamped his body, and a deep hood concealed his face.

‘Who – who are you?’ stuttered Dr Saint, his eyes bulging behind his circular spectacles. He whirled round to call for assistance. ‘Mr Nicely! Come here at once! Explain this intrusion!’ he barked.

No one answered his summons. A moment before, all had seemed in order at Empire Hall. The master of the house had been sitting in his shirtsleeves, nibbling a bowl of celery, studying reams of readouts from the Mercy Tube Archive. Now suddenly he faced the unknown.

‘Where is he?’ the extraordinary stranger demanded in a thick, deliberate voice, as if his tongue were too big for his mouth.

Dr Saint blinked, horrified.

‘His scent is all over this place!’ growled the stranger.

Dr Saint pulled on his grey jacket and donned his bow tie smartly, pulling himself together. He would not be taken at a disadvantage, right here in Empire Hall.

‘I don’t believe the Society of Good Works has granted you an audience,’ he replied haughtily.

‘I don’t believe I requested one!’ shouted back the intruder, stepping closer.

Dr Saint started to back away.

‘I want him!’ screeched the stranger with sudden rage. ‘I know he has been here!’

‘Who?’

‘Master Luke Anderson,’ the figure said.

‘I don’t know anyone of that name,’ Dr Saint said innocently, his glance flitting from the garden windows to the outside corridor for any sign of his own staff.

The stranger drew closer. Dr Saint was starting to get a glimpse of the face concealed in the hood, and it was not a welcome sight.

‘Let’s try another name,’ said the visitor quietly. ‘Wickland!’ he suddenly roared, making Dr Saint jump, despite his best efforts to remain composed. ‘Now you know what I mean, don’t you, you craven two-faced hypocrite! I’m looking for Wickland, son of Wickland, son of Wickland, son of Wickland!’ he bellowed. ‘I think I’ve got that right,’ he added, finally calm again.

‘Who – who are you?’ Dr Saint asked.

The stranger threw back his hood. Dr Saint struggled to regain his composure as he saw the hideously deformed head, the immense, crooked nose, the dark, sunken eyes.

‘I am known to you people as the Dodo,’ the stranger breathed. Dr Saint stepped back. The dreadful face combined with an unearthly body odour almost caused him to faint.

‘You – you can’t be him!’ Dr Saint said finally.

The intruder’s face was disfigured by a bitter smile. ‘Unfortunately for me, the Dodo is the only person I
can
be,’ he said darkly.

‘This is impossible!’ blurted Dr Saint, dashing behind his desk in a sudden panic. ‘Mr Nicely! Foundlings! In here at once!’ He began to scrabble in a drawer for a revolver he kept hidden there, but the Dodo smashed him to the ground with a vicious claw.

Dr Saint tried to rise, but he was trodden to the floor by an enormous boot. A gnarled, twisted hand appeared from the folds of the Dodo’s great cloak, snatched Dr Saint’s gun from the drawer and clung on to it with talon-like fingers.