Creed (43 page)

Creed reacted instantly, possibly faster than he’d reacted to anything in his life before. He lunged for his son, rising into the air and taking him on the jump like a basketball player collecting a high pass, the impetus wrenching the boy from the woman’s grasp. Creed stumbled on, Sammy clutched to his chest. He shifted his burden on to his shoulder as he gathered pace.

Unfortunately, in his panic Creed ran straight into the quartet of musicians grouped together in the semi-darkness. Cello, violin and viola clattered to the floor, arms and legs intertwined like Kerplunk sticks. Creed struck out, kicked out, yelled out, and generally made a nuisance of himself among the fallen bodies. As he rose, bringing Sammy up with him, one of the musicians (a man so emaciated he made Mother Teresa look a glutton) raked at Creed’s chest with twiggy fingers. A hard-driven knee under the musician’s pointed chin put paid to that nonsense; he fell away with a plaintive squeal and a badly bitten tongue.

Creed cradled Sammy in his arms, carrying him like a baby, one arm around his shoulders, the other beneath his knees. Toppling music stands and kicking aside obstructing limbs, he staggered towards the central staircase. The descent wasn’t easy – Sammy really had to cut down on shakes and burgers – and twice Creed’s heel slipped off the steps, only good fortune and desperation preventing disaster. He reached the turn and realised too late that the stairs only led to the ballroom itself. Worse still, lumbering up towards him was the crazy fuck made up to look like Frankenstein’s monster.

All in all, the evening was turning out badly.

‘Keep away!’ Creed warned, taking a step backwards, and then another. This was a bad dream, his –
anybody’s
– worst nightmare. Although the make-up didn’t have quite the same scare factor as Boris Karloff’s original, this one was big and frightening enough in his own right. ‘I’ll kick your teeth in, you come any closer,’ Creed warned again. And he meant it, he really did.

Unperturbed, the monster climbed.

Creed took a threatening step towards him, changed his mind and turned to run back upstairs. He stopped, almost overbalancing, for Laura was coming down to him.

But she wasn’t walking, not in the real sense; she was sort of floating and shape-changing at the same time, her edges wavering, becoming messy, bits of her dripping on to the steps, smearing one of the walls. What was left of her face leered rather than smiled.

‘Oh . . .’ Creed couldn’t help but say.

He turned again and stood at the centre of the bend where he could view both staircases. Sammy stirred. ‘No school today, Mum,’ the boy pleaded in his sleep. He snuggled his head into his father’s chest.

Creed had two choices, neither of which was particularly attractive. If they ascended, the quick-growing glutinous mess would engulf them; if they descended, the brute would flatten them.

Oh shit.

He took two fast paces down, then leapt feet first at the climbing figure, Sammy held tight in his arms. With luck (and it was about time some of
that
came his way) the ‘goliath’ would break their fall.

As it turned out the fall broke the goliath’s neck; however, that didn’t hamper him as much as it should have.

When all three had tumbled to the bottom of the stairs Creed heard the snap – an awfully
loud
snap – of breaking bones and as he slithered himself and Sammy off the floundering giant, he fervently hoped the damage was mortal. Imagine his surprise when he pushed himself into a sitting position to find the other man also starting to sit up, albeit very clumsily and with a lot of arm-waving and nonsensical roaring. The monster’s neck was at a ridiculous angle, the head flopping loosely on to his chest. He used a big, scarred hand to push his forehead upwards so that he could look accusingly at Creed. His other hand swiped angrily in the photographer’s direction.

But now others grabbed at Creed and his son. Sammy was wrenched from his arms as Creed was dragged to his feet. Resistance was useless, but he did his best. After some tussling and a lot of cursing, he was confronted by the roly-poly receptionist, who (obviously not having been invited to the ball) still wore her pale blue uniform and fluffy pink cardigan. She also wore a very serious expression. Two muscly men, the kind you see in those High ’n’ Mighty catalogues, in the male equivalent of the blue uniform (without pink cardy), held his arms.

‘Let go of me!’ Creed demanded. ‘You people don’t realize how much trouble you’re in.’

The receptionist smirked. ‘You’re the one who’s in trouble,’ she said in her squeaky voice. ‘We knew you’d come back. You’re even more stupid than you look.’

Inwardly, Creed agreed. He was, he really was, stupid. Why hadn’t he cut and run when he’d had the chance? He looked around for Sammy.

The boy was awake again and on his feet, although still doddery. He was being held by one of the costumed guests, someone dressed in a white silk Armani dinner jacket and paisley waistcoat. He also sported a jackal head.

Sammy blinked his eyes several times, the lids remaining heavy as though sleep was not fully conquered. ‘Dad . . .?’ he said when he saw Creed in the grip of the two male nurses, attendants, warders, whatever they were.

‘It’s okay, Sam. The police will be here soon to give us a ride home.’

That assurance set off a drone of murmuring through the crowd gathered around them.

‘I think not.’ The voice came from the far end of the ballroom, but it was as clear and as menacing as ever. The crowd parted like the Red Sea to reveal the dark-clothed man who claimed to be (or whom others claimed to be) Nicholas Mallik. ‘Bring them to me,’ he said.

Creed was reluctant to go, but had little say in the matter. The two attendants (or warders, etc.) propelled him forward, while Jackal Head brought along the sleepy boy.

‘A lot of people know where I am!’ Creed shouted, resisting still. ‘My newspaper for a start!’

‘Nobody knows you’re here.’ Mallik’s low voice carried such conviction that Creed quaked. Someone in the crowd tittered; someone else laughed aloud.

Odd, fantastical faces peered into his as he was hustled along, some of them so credible (lifelike would be the wrong word in this context), so skilfully made, that it was difficult to consider them as masks. The fat man with the beak for a nose and a rooster’s crest on his head prodded Creed with his whip. The photographer flinched and kicked out at the blubber belly, but the attendants kept him in check. As he was manhandled onwards he wondered if he hadn’t hurt himself more than he’d thought in the fall down the stairs: the fat weirdo hadn’t been quite in focus when he’d aimed a kick at him.

Eyes behind masks stared as he passed; other eyes, patently false, for they bulged from the masks themselves, inexplicably gleamed with malicious pleasure at his predicament. The two-tone hag, one side of her painted blue, stood on tiptoe to cackle into his face. He jerked his head aside at the terrible stench that was discharged.

Creed managed to look over his shoulder for his son and saw he was right behind, the dopey expression still there, his mouth half-open, not in fear but in dulled bewilderment.

‘Don’t worry, Sammy,’ Creed called back, his bravado not quite up to scratch by now, ‘we’ll—’

Something had bumped into him. Creed turned to look into the shaggy face of the masquerader with the head and paws of an unkempt dog. Canine teeth were bared only inches from Creed’s nose and he almost gagged at the foul breath – this one hadn’t seen his dental hygienist for a long time either. For a terrifying moment, he thought the wolfman was going to bite him – those teeth were
wicked
– but suddenly the attendant on Creed’s left gave the pest’s snub nose a sharp smack. The wolfman yelped and loped away whimpering like – well, yes, like a chastised dog.

Creed looked from one attendant to the other and said, ‘You gotta be kidding.’

They forced him to walk, no emotion in their expression, just two regular guys doing their jobs like Heinrich and Hermann did theirs in the old days. They threw him at the foot of the short staircase where Nicholas Mallik had been waiting patiently.

Creed landed heavily on hands and knees, but angrily, fearfully, pushed himself to his feet.

‘I’m gonna sue for this!’ he shouted. ‘You’re making a very big mistake!’

‘No, you’re the one who has made the mistake,’ came the soft-spoken reply.

Yeah, Creed thought, I trusted the girl. Or at least, went along with her.

‘Unfortunately you have interfered in matters that are well beyond your very limited perception.’ Mallik took a step towards him and Creed took two steps back. The pale blue wall of muscle behind prevented further retreat.

He grimaced at the close sight of that withered and worn countenance, a face so saturnine, with so much evil written in those deeply trowelled lines, and so infinitely aged, that this man could have been a
thousand
years old.

‘Look, I don’t care what you’re into,’ Creed insisted, trying not to wilt under the intimidating inspection. ‘I’ve already handed over the photographs, so what more do you want from me? I just take snaps, you know, I’m not interested in anything else. I mean, what did I have anyway? A picture of a grief-stricken mourner at the graveside of a dear, departed actress. Big deal. Who gives a – who gives a damn?’

‘But you’ve witnessed so much more. And your presence here tonight would eventually cause further problems.’

Creed didn’t like the way Mallik was smiling.

‘All I’ve seen tonight is a high-class fancy dress party. What’s so special about that?’

‘Oh, but you’ve had a grand tour, you’ve discovered much more than you should have. You have visited the secret chambers below this house, for instance. Tell me, what impressions do you have?’

The décor could have been a little brighter, Creed thought of quipping, but somehow the humour wasn’t in him; his mouth was too dry, his throat was too tight and – oh God, he was too scared. What were they going to do with him and Sammy?

‘No comment? Too tongue-tied? Now there’s a refreshing change.’ Mallik raised his head and addressed the assembled guests. ‘This person . . .’ even the finger he pointed was rutted with lines ‘. . . this fool, this unbeliever, represents – no, is the
embodiment
– of today’s vulgarian society, a society that denies the traditions, and the truths, of the ancient faiths, a society that mocks the subversive dynasties and substitutes its own shallow mythic creations.’

He glared, he spat out the words. ‘The infernal deities are ignored in favour of false devils, the kind who have blades for fingers, or wear foolish masks, or are physically deformed, imposters who create havoc with nothing more than knives or cleavers. Mundane demi-demons who possess chainsaws rather than diabolic powers. While we . . .’ he roared the word ‘. . .
WE
. . . are passed over for these new fashions in evil.’

Creed shook his head in disbelief. This guy was pissed off with Freddy Krueger and his pals.

Mallik’s voice quietened again. ‘Even our own creations have been stolen and adulterated into spurious visual fallacies that serve as entertainment, unworthy thrills for the masses. This feckless insensibility has wearied us. Our primacy in the order of chaos is diminished by public capriciousness and social cynicism. Our sovereignty over the iniquitous courses is threatened by glib, deceitful metaphors. But this rot will end, and it will end tonight. This one . . .’ he stabbed the wrinkled finger at Creed again ‘. . . will bear witness to our resurgence, this cynic will
believe
in the rebirth.’

Everyone in the ballroom appeared pleased at the idea. They applauded, they cheered. One or two even gave game-show whoops.

‘If it’s all the same to you . . .’ Creed began to say, but Mallik didn’t even have to ask him to be quiet; his look stung the photographer hard enough to make his body sag. If the two attendants had not held him he would have collapsed completely.

Creed wrenched himself away and shook his head to clear it. ‘Who . . . who are you?’ he stammered. ‘Who are you really?’

‘You know my identity,’ the man in black replied. ‘It was Nicholas Mallik in my last existence. Now I’m called Parmount. In this world, that is.’

‘So they didn’t hang you. You got away with it, you did a deal.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. Naturally I was hanged, and very unpleasant it was too.’ He reached for the silk scarf at his neck and loosened it. ‘See for yourself,’ he invited.

Creed took in the shrivelled throat and flinched at the ugly scars there, scars that looked as though they had been caused by rope-burn. Although they were undoubtedly old, they were still a vivid mauve mottled with red, the flesh itself indented.

‘You survived
that
?’

The other man became impatient. ‘Of course I didn’t survive. But I survived afterwards.’

Creed nodded as if he understood. Then he said, ‘I don’t understand.’

‘You will . . . presently.’

Mallik aka Belial aka Parmount half-turned towards the arched door at the top of the staircase and the assembled guests became hushed once more. He called a name: ‘Bliss.’

The curtained door opened slowly. The Nosferatu doppel-gänger emerged.

Creed stared. Bliss?
Bliss?
This freak was called fucking
Bliss
?