Creed (45 page)

‘Come on, Sam,’ Creed urged, moving swiftly, ‘we’re getting out.’

But something snagged his collar, spinning him round. The man made up as a pug-nosed wolf uttered a low growling sound that Creed would have thought ridiculous had he not seen and heard too much that defied reason that evening. He turned his head aside from the awful breath as canine teeth snapped at his throat.

‘Don’t be bloody stupid!’ he said, grabbing at the shaggy mane to push the head and its slavering jaw away from him. He quickly realised that this was no mask he was holding on to, for there was warm flesh beneath the hair. Sharp claws raked his clothes, tearing through his coat and shirt, and the beast snarled and growled and gave a very decent impression of being a blood-crazed werewolf and Creed, whose disbelief had, by now, been suspended totally, kicked and screamed to get away. It was all insane and it was all very real.

The only weapon he had, the only hard object at hand, was his trusty Nikon, and it was with some regret, but without second thoughts, that he lifted it from his chest and jammed it into the great slobbering mouth before him. His assailant yowled when three jagged teeth broke off and he leapt away to twirl around on the dance floor in agony, scattering guests in all directions. Unfortunately, Lily Neverless happened to wander by at that moment, a hand imperiously stretched out before her, the long cigarette holder at last in its proper place between her rouged (and now smeared) lips. She was unsteady, but she smiled a benign if crooked smile, and as she passed the agonised wolfman she patted his head. That particular condescension enraged it even more; it leapt upon her and tore at her throat, drawing blood that was too oozingly thick to be natural (or healthy).

Lily squawked and gurgled blood and the paparazzi stopped what they were doing in shocked horror, their cameras dropping away from their faces. The horror may have lingered, but the shock didn’t: viewfinders returned to eyes and shutters clicked and motors whirred with renewed frenzy at this fresh spectacle. ‘Help her!’ one of them cried, but no one wanted to miss this unique photo opportunity, least of all the photographer who had shouted.

Another figure, this time a woman in pale gold, her powdered hair coiffured high, barged into Creed, the knock bringing him to his senses. He ceased watching the old actress dying all over again and turned to grab hold of his son.

But the boy was gone.

He wheeled this way and that in panic. By this time, most of the masqueraders were making their way towards the main doors at the far end of the room, their intention obviously to get out, find their transport and flee the Mountjoy Retreat as swiftly as possible, no doubt grateful that it had been a masked ball and their identities would be safe from tomorrow’s newspapers. He was halfway down the ballroom before he realised Sammy wasn’t among them. He caught a glimpse of the two-tone hag, and that’s all it was, merely a glimpse, for she was fading fast like a movie-dissolve, becoming nothing, an empty space. Then another blur, this one closer to him, a quick impression of the beak-nosed blubber-belly before he, too, vanished. The thing with the donkey face and peacock tail was standing alone, glaring resentfully until it popped out like a spent lightbulb, leaving behind a small cluster of drab feathers which drifted lazily to the floor before they, too, disappeared.

Creed’s search became even more frantic. Maybe Sammy was lost somewhere in the crush around the main doors, too small to be seen among the tightly packed throng. Or maybe he wasn’t down that end at all. He turned back to where Mallik was standing –
had
been standing, for he was gone also – and was just in time to see the spidery figure of Bliss (what a misnomer) slipping through the narrow gap of the partially opened doors at the top of the short staircase. He had his back to Creed, but it was obvious that he had something clutched to his bent body. Creed caught sight of a small shoe and a grey sock protruding from beneath Bliss’ elbow.

‘
Sammy!
’

Creed chased after them, skirting round the hairy beast that was hunched over the dead rag that had once been Lily Neverless, and had been Lily Neverless again for a short time, worrying the limp form, tearing off slivers of stale meat and swallowing. With the flashing lights, running figures and other fallen bodies, it was almost like crossing a war zone. Creed mounted the stairs two at a time and burst through the door.

Beyond was a wide corridor brightened by a central chandelier, with several doors leading off it. Gilt-framed portraits decorated the walls, faces from history judging by the style and their garb; some of them he vaguely recognized, although he took no time to make a study. At one end was a staircase, its balustrade elegantly curving to the floor above. He heard footsteps and made towards the sound. He paused at the staircase. He could still hear the hurrying footsteps, but they were going down, not up.

Creed went past the stairs and discovered there was another set behind them, these descending to the Retreat’s cellars. It was dark and uninviting down there, but when a door slammed below he knew that that was where the creature had taken his son.

He took a little time to think it over. He really didn’t want to go down there, he didn’t want to follow that wretched thing into the sinister depths of the Mountjoy Retreat. But Sammy was there and who knew what malicious intent Mallik and his creepy henchman had in mind? He remembered the crime for which Nicholas Mallik had been hanged; would he do the same to Sammy, would he dismember the boy out of spite, revenge, maybe even for old times’ sake? He had to go after them.

He hesitated on the top step and thought,
on the other hand
. . .

The arched curtained doors further along the hall crashed open and the big man with the broken neck lurched through to smash into the wall opposite. He staggered back a step or two and stood there breathing heavily, his loose, scarred head surveying the floor. His right eye moved round to regard Creed, then he used one of his huge hands to tilt his head for a better view. A low grunt that might have been satisfaction came from him and he swivelled his whole body towards the mesmerized photographer. He lumbered forward, arms waving, head lolling.

Creed descended rapidly and the unhealthy smell of dinginess and dementia welcomed his return. Whether or not he would have entered this dark catacombed sanctum without the added incentive of this maddened monster coming after him he would never truly know, and right then wasn’t the time to contemplate the question. He jumped the last couple of steps and fell against a door at the bottom.

He felt for the handle and prayed that the door wouldn’t be locked. It wasn’t, but once on the other side he looked for a key. There wasn’t one, but there was a centre bolt (strange that one should be fitted on
that
side – to keep people out, perhaps?) and he quickly shot it, then leaned back against the wood to catch his breath. A heavy, rolling clatter came from the other side as his pursuer fell down most of the stairs, and Creed smiled with grim satisfaction in the silence that followed.

The smile was wiped away when something slammed against the panel close to his head. The door rattled in its frame and the wood bowed outwards. He leapt away from it as though propelled.

An inadequate naked lightbulb lit the way to another inadequate naked lightbulb along the low ceiling and Creed followed them, having no desire to linger by the increasingly swelling door. He was obviously in the more slummy part of the basement area again, probably close to the rear of the house and perhaps somewhere near where he and Cally (
was she
really
Laura, was she another one of these degenerate fuck-ups pretending to be human?
) had entered originally. There were stone steps now, a short flight, and another passage. He thought he could hear voices in the distance, but had no idea of where they were coming from. He sniffed, catching the faint odour of smoke.

From behind there came the splintering of wood, then a rending and finally a crashing, this followed by the
clomp clomp
of heavy boots.

Creed quickened his pace, breaking into a run when he reached a wider area. The place looked familiar with its various openings and corridors, and he knew he’d been here before when he spotted the big vault-like door set in the opposite wall.

The iron door was open this time. And it was at its entrance that Bliss and Sammy were waiting for him.

The spindly creature’s wickedly-pointed fingernails were digging into the boy’s throat.

‘Take it easy,’ Creed appealed, holding up a restraining hand, but keeping his distance.

Bliss bared his outrageously long and jagged teeth and hissed.

Creed shivered. ‘Tell you what,’ he said, doing his utmost to remain calm and reasonable, ‘you let the boy go and I’ll give you a head start. You could be long gone before the police get here. The place is finished, you know that, but you don’t need to take the rap. Cut out now while you’ve got the chance . . .’

Voices drifted from one of the corridors and Bliss’ bugeyes shot left and right, searching for the source. Creed was delighted to note the confusion in them.

‘Come on, give it up,’ he said, taking a pace forward.

Bliss lifted Sammy and dipped his bony head to the boy’s angled neck, those sharp teeth poised.

‘Daaadd . . .’ Sammy wailed.

‘Don’t be stupid!’ Creed snapped. ‘You’re not a fucking vampire, you’re just a skinny guy with a diet deficiency. But if you really want to suck blood, here, have some of mine.’
Humour the bastard
, he thought as he pulled up a sleeve and offered his bare arm. ‘Come on, forget the virgin stuff – his’d be too sweet for you, anyway. This has been around awhile, matured in the cask you might say, like fine old Scotch.’
When you’re dealing with a crazy, you gotta think like a crazy
, he told himself, moving closer all the time.
And this crazy is interested, he might just go for it . . .

‘No!’ Creed screamed.

Bliss had jerked back his head to plunge.

Creed held out the camera as if it were a crucifix on a chain. He pressed the shutter release, hoping to use the Hitchcockian trick as before in the park. If he could momentarily blind him with the flash he might be able to snatch Sammy back. But nothing happened this time. He tried again. Still nothing. He moaned aloud, realising he must have broken the mechanism when he’d smashed the camera into the wolfman’s jaw earlier.

Was that malicious glee in those horrible staring eyes, Bliss at last betraying some human emotion? Creed attempted to speak, to protest at least, but couldn’t. Bliss’s mouth opened wider, the fangs glistened wetly.

Two things happened at once.

The broken-necked monster who had been
clomping
the corridors arrived on the scene and threw a clumsy arm over the photographer’s shoulder, while on the other side of the chamber a horde of hooting, yelling banshees poured through (at least to Creed they looked like banshees, not that he’d ever seen or even heard banshees in his life before, but if he had he was sure they would look exactly like this motley crew). Many were naked, others wearing tattered rags that might have been bedsheets; all were painfully emaciated, resembling refugees from Belsen, and there were women among them, their hair bedraggled and long, breasts like envelope flaps, bodies caked with filth; some of the men, those who wore sheets like robes, could have been auditioning for the part of ‘ranting ancient prophet of doom’ in a Greek tragedy. Henry Pink, his grimy and stained bedsheet wrapped around his lower body like a huge nappy, feebly waved the keys that had been left in his unlocked cell door.
Les
gleeful
Miserables
crowded into the chamber and stopped dead when they spotted the other occupants. All parties were transfixed, staring in surprise at each other.

It was Creed, needless to say, who reacted first.

He dropped like a stone, slipping under the big restraining arm and made a half-crouched dash for his son.

When he reached him the proceedings became enlivened once more. The mob surged forward and swamped the trio. Creed, Bliss, and Sammy went down under the crush of bodies, falling through the vault-like doorway and sprawling on to a concrete platform inside.

Creed felt a sharp pain in his chest as he pushed himself away, lifting his body and dislodging whoever it was clinging to him from his back. He cried out as the pain became intense and he looked down, thinking he had been stabbed; in a sense, he had, for the vampire wannabe was up to his old tricks again and boring a hole through Creed’s torn coat and shirt with his home-grown lethal weapon, i.e. one bony finger.