How to Live Forever (5 page)

‘Come on, let's go,' said Peter. ‘They sound useless.'

‘See, just like last time and the time before,' said the second voice. ‘They're going.'

‘Oh no, come on, please,' Festival whispered softly so Peter wouldn't hear. ‘Please open the door. Please be wise and please, please, please, help me.'

‘You said you opened the door last time,' said the
first voice. ‘If they went away last time, you can't have opened the door.'

‘I didn't mean then,' said the second voice. ‘I meant the last time the door was opened, when we went shopping yesterday.'

‘That doesn't count,' said the first voice. ‘I meant opening the door when someone rings the bell.'

‘What bell?' said the third voice. ‘Did the bell ring? Is there someone at the door?'

Archimedes pushed at the door, which opened itself. Peter and Festival followed the cat inside and stood there while the three old men argued about who had forgotten to lock the door the last time they had gone out, which might or might not have been yesterday when they went shopping or could have been very early this morning when one of them, who wouldn't own up, had let the cat out.

The inside of the Three Wise Men's house was like that old-fashioned pretend Chinese pottery where everything is painted in blue on white and looks very flat. It was a weird optical illusion. Even the three old men were blue and white. Their skin was as clear as china, which was not surprising because that was where they came from. Their clothes were blue and white too. If they hadn't been moving around, the entire room would have looked like a very large dinner plate.

‘Not your cat,' said the First Wise Man to Peter. ‘Our cat, who might or might not be the brother –'

‘Or sister,' the Second Wise Man interrupted.

‘Or sister,' the First Wise Man continued, ‘of your cat.'

‘Though, of course,' said the Third Wise Man, ‘our cat is a completely different cat. It's a wise cat and doesn't look remotely like your cat.'

‘Define remotely,' said the First Wise Man. ‘They do both have four legs, fur, ears, a tail and teeth.'

‘Yes, but the boy's cat says meow and our cat says woof, woof,' said the Second Wise Man.

‘Then your cat is a dog,' said Festival. ‘And you are all stupid.'

‘No we're not,' said all three of the old men in unison. ‘We are the Three Wise Men.'

‘Well, be wise then and help us,' said Festival, and she told them about Peter arriving without the book.

‘Book?' said the Third Wise Man. ‘We've got a book. We've got hundreds of them. We're Wise Men. Wise Men always have tons of books. Do you want to borrow one?'

‘She means
THE BOOK
, stupid,' said the First Wise Man. ‘But we do have a book upstairs which will tell you what to do. I'll go and get it.'

‘So we do,' the Second Wise Man called after
him. ‘It's the thirty-seventh from the left on the ninth shelf up from the floor in the wall opposite the window.'

‘And it is called “What To Do When You Arrive Without The Book”,' said the Third Wise Man.

‘No, I think you'll find it's called “What To Do When Someone Arrives Without The Book”,' said the Second Wise Man.

‘I should know the title,' the Third Wise Man snapped. ‘After all, it was I who wrote the book. It was a bestseller in its day.'

‘When was that?' said Peter.

‘The next Fourth of Remember,' said the Third Wise Man.

‘Well, if you wrote it,' said the Second Wise Man, ‘it should be called “The Idiot's Guide To What To Do When Someone Arrives Without The Book”
.'

‘If you wrote it,' said Festival, ‘why can't you just tell us what to do?'

‘It's not that simple.'

‘Why?'

‘I've forgotten.'

‘Do you mean you've forgotten why it's not that simple, or you've forgotten what's in the book?' said Festival.

‘Probably. Would you like some green tea? It's very good for the brain.'

‘How would you know?' said the Third Wise Man. ‘You haven't got one.'

‘Look, do you know who can help us?' said Festival.

‘Of course we do. We must do,' said the Second Wise Man. ‘First of all, we are very, very wise, and second of all, we know everyone, so we must know the person who can help.'

‘Unless they live next door,' said the Third Wise Man. ‘We don't know the people who've just moved in next door.'

‘Okay, okay. We know everyone except the people next door.'

‘And Foreclaw. We don't know him.'

‘Yes, yes, yes. But we don't know Father Christmas either.'

‘I mean real people,' said the Third Wise Man. ‘Father Christmas and Foreclaw aren't real people.'

‘Yes they are,' said Festival.

‘Darkwood,' said the Third Wise Man. ‘We don't know him.'

‘Well, of course we don't,' said the Second Wise Man. ‘No one does.'

‘Except Darkwood himself,' said the Third Wise Man. ‘He knows Darkwood. You really do need to learn to be more precise.'

‘Oh, go and eat your trousers,' snapped the Second Wise Man.

‘See, that's exactly, or rather precisely, what I mean,' said the Third Wise Man. ‘I am Chinese. I am a Chinese Wise Man. I wear robes of hand-spun silk. I do not wear trousers, so how can I eat them?'

‘I was being very precise,' said the Second Wise Man. ‘I did not say eat the trousers you are wearing. I said, “Go and eat your trousers.” I was referring to the chocolate trousers you keep in a small box by your bed that you nibble in the middle of the night when you think we are asleep, so you don't have to share them with us.'

‘Have you been eating my trousers?' said the Third Wise Man.

‘No, it was him,' said the Second Wise Man, pointing up the stairs.

Peter realised that talking to the old men was like trying to untangle an enormous ball of very knotted string. It was the kind of thing that could send you crazy, as it obviously had done to the three of them. They may have been wise at some time in the distant past but now they were as mad as hatters. Still, if the Three Wise Men really did have a book that could tell them what to do, they might as well wait.

The Third Wise Man poured some tea from an iron pot on the windowsill and handed it to the
children. It was stone cold, but as the old man was watching them intently, Peter and Festival had to drink it.

‘Can you feel it improving your brain?' he said.

The Second Wise Man sat at the table trying to build a pyramid from playing cards. The Third Wise Man went and stood very close to the wall and began whispering to himself.

After half an hour of this Festival said, ‘If you know exactly where the book is, why is he taking so long to find it?'

‘He can't read,' said the Second Wise Man.

Normally, Peter would never question anything an adult said to him, even if it seemed ridiculous or completely untrue, but now he could keep quiet no longer.

‘Well, couldn't he just count …' Peter began, realising before he finished that the First Wise Man probably couldn't count either.

‘Don't say it,' he added. ‘I'll go and get it,' and he ran up the stairs.

‘Why did you say Father Christmas wasn't real?' Festival said when he had gone. ‘
I
know he isn't, but Peter might still believe in him.'

‘Well, so do I,' said the Third Wise Man. ‘I was just pretending I didn't.'

Peter came downstairs carrying a large book.

‘You're both wrong,' he said to the two old men. ‘It's called “I Bet You Wished You Knew What To Do When Someone Arrives Without The Book”
.
It's useless.'

‘Are you sure it's not called “The Idiot's Guide To I Bet You Wished You Knew What To Do When Someone Arrives Without The Book”?' said the Second Wise Man.

‘What's it say?' said Festival, and to Peter she whispered, ‘What's the old man doing up there?'

‘Lying on the floor sucking his thumb,' said Peter. ‘The book is useless because there's nothing written in it. Look.'

Apart from the title page, the book was completely blank.

‘It's a work in progress,' said the Third Wise Man. ‘I'm still doing the research.'

‘They were right,' said Peter. ‘You are idiots. How on earth did you ever get called wise men?'

‘We've got a good agent,' said the Third Wise Man.

The two children turned and left, and Archimedes followed with his tail in the air.

‘If you find out what to do, will you let us know?' the Second Wise Man called after them.

‘I can put it in the second edition of the book,' said the Third Wise Man.

‘Who's Foreclaw?' said Peter as they walked out of the Chinese Sixteenth.

‘He's a
real
wise man,' said Festival. ‘My dad reckons he is the oldest person in the world. If anyone knows what to do, he should.'

‘But that old man said he wasn't real.'

‘Oh, he's probably just jealous because Foreclaw's a proper wise man,' said Festival.

‘So, where is he?' said Peter.

‘That's the trouble,' said Festival. She pointed up to the roof. ‘He lives up there on the thirteenth gallery. Of course I knew we should have gone to see him straight away. It's just that it was a lot easier to come here, so I thought we'd do that first in case Foreclaw had told the old men what to do when someone arrives without the book.'

Peter looked doubtful.

‘Well, he might have,' said Festival as they set off up the stairs between the galleries.

‘So what's the problem?' said Peter. ‘Let's go and find him.'

‘We're not supposed to go above the ninth floor,' said Festival. ‘And he lives on the thirteenth.'

‘Why not?' asked Peter.

‘It's dangerous,' said Festival. ‘Bad people live up there, and monsters.'

‘Have you seen them?'

‘No, of course not, but I know they're there. My dad's told me all about them and you can hear scary noises at night,' said Festival. ‘And sometimes things fall over the balconies.'

‘What sort of things?'

‘Dead bodies,' said Festival. ‘My friend said she saw an arm once. She said it landed on the step right outside her house. There are weird creatures up there too.'

‘Creatures? What sort of creatures?' said Peter.

‘I don't know. I've never seen them,' said Festival. ‘But my dad says he has. He says they were too mangled up to tell what they were.'

‘Sounds like the sort of things grown-ups say to make you do stuff,' said Peter.

Festival agreed but she still looked scared.

‘We haven't got any choice, have we?' said Peter.

‘I suppose not,' said Festival.

‘It'll be all right,' he said. ‘There's two of us, we'll be okay.'

Looking up from the ninth floor at the one above, the children could see that the books looked old and neglected. They could see dirty windows, some broken or boarded up. Doors hung off the hinges of deserted books and those that seemed to be occupied had a lost, desperate air about them. Peter had seen rundown streets like this outside in the city,
where skinny dogs and cats and even people scratched through the rubbish for food. But out there, he had always been inside the safety of a car. As they walked towards the stairs, Festival began to look really scared. Peter tried to reassure her, but nothing seemed to cheer her up.

They reached the stairs that led up to the tenth floor. There was an iron gate at the bottom with a notice that said ‘No Entry'. The chain and padlock that had held the gate shut had been torn off by some immense force. The steel links, thicker than a finger, had been pulled straight like plasticine. Peter pushed the gate open and climbed through the rubbish up to the next level.

‘Come on,' he said, trying to sound as brave as possible. ‘It'll be all right.'

‘I know that,' said Festival, with a tremor in her voice.

Both children could feel the panic building up
inside them as they picked their way over the rubbish on the steps, but there was no going back.

The tenth level seemed almost deserted. Something scurried off through the debris that was piled up against the bottom of all the books. A way off round the gallery there was a fire burning and a group of dark figures standing around it. Peter and Festival tried to keep to the shadows so the figures wouldn't see them, but a dog that had been by the fire caught their scent and ran towards them barking.

‘Who's that?' shouted one of the figures as Peter and Festival ran up the stairs to the eleventh level.

None of the figures followed them. Looking down, Peter could see them gathered round the foot of the stairs, yet no one, not even the dog, lifted a foot onto the first step.

‘Who were they?' said Peter.

‘I don't know,' said Festival. ‘My dad says criminals and madmen live up here, where no one will come after them or bother them.'

The ground beneath their feet was no longer bright soft grass. Now it was unkempt weeds and brambles that scratched the children's legs as they picked their way through them. There were no signs of life, though in the tangle of plants, there were bits of rusty machinery and bright flashes of
bones. They were too hidden to tell if they were human or animal, but something had picked them clean. Neither Peter nor Festival wanted to stop and find out what.

‘Well, there doesn't seem to be anyone alive up here,' said Peter as they walked round to the next staircase.

He had spoken too soon.

‘Dinner,' said a voice. ‘Easy come too.'

A door flew open ahead of them, hitting the handrail and blocking their way. Another slammed open behind them. They were caught between two books whose open doorways held only darkness.

‘The rarest,' said another voice. ‘Children. Too good to cook.'

‘Yes, yes, eat them alive,' said the first.

‘Oh yes, keep them alive,' said the second. ‘Just cut off what we need each day.'

‘Yes, yes. Done properly, you can keep them going for over a week, before the pain kills them off.'

‘Tongues out first, to stop the screaming.'

‘Long time since I ate a tongue,' said the first voice. ‘Best bit, that.'

‘Hands is nice,' said the second voice. ‘Boiling tar on the stumps to stop the bleeding.'

Peter and Festival threw their arms round each other and held tight. The two open doorways beside
them were as black as night. The voices were coming from inside one of the two books, but they couldn't see anyone.

‘Can't see us, can they?' said the first voice.

‘No,' said the second. ‘Even less chance when we eat their eyes.'

‘Eyes is good too, not as good as tongues but better than hands.'

‘Not as good as brains though, specially if you tip the head up and suck them out the ear.'

‘Oh, I loves brains.'

‘Do you think eating brains makes you cleverer?'

‘S'pose it depends on how clever the person was whose brain you're eating.'

‘I never thought of that.'

‘Maybe, if they be really stupid, you might get less clever.'

‘I never thought of that either. You are a clever boy,' said the first voice. ‘Mummy's very proud of you. Maybe we better give them some sort of exam before we eats their brains so we can see if they're stupid or clever.'

‘Good idea,' said the second voice. ‘Hey, children, boy first, what's two times the square root of four?'

‘Eighty-three,' said Peter, thinking if he got the answer wrong, they might not kill him.

‘Correct,' said the second voice.

‘No it isn't,' said Festival, looking from door to door.

‘Can't tell which door we're in, can they?' said the first voice.

‘No.'

‘Shall we give them a clue?'

‘No.'

‘Who shall we eat first, the boy or the girl?'

‘Bit of both. One for lunch. One for dinner.'

‘We … we have to see F-F-F-Forecl-claw,' stammered Festival.

‘Yes,' said Peter. ‘If we don't see him, you'll be in t-t-t-trouble.'

‘T-t-t-trouble, you say?' said the first voice. ‘So, someone knows you're here, do they?'

‘Of course,' said Festival. ‘My m-m-m-mum and d-d-d-dad.'

‘Your m-m-m-mum and d-d-d-dad, eh?'

‘Yes, and if we're not back by teatime, they'll come looking for us.'

‘Well now. Let you come up here alone, did they?' said the second voice. ‘Careless, that. I've got three answers for you.'

‘At least,' said the first.

‘One, you're lying. Two, if you're not lying, how will they find you? Three, if they do find you, then we'll have even more dinners.'

‘And four, you're lying,' said the first voice.

‘I said that already.'

‘No you didn't.'

‘You wouldn't be calling
me
a liar, would you?'

‘I, um …'

‘More dinner,' said the second voice.

There was a brief pause and then a bloodcurdling scream.

‘Now look what you've made me do,' said the second voice. ‘Vile children, you made me kill my mother. I'm rather cross now. That was the only mother I had. Throatgall is all alone.'

A pool of blood began to trickle out of the first doorway. It was followed by muttering and cursing and a small fat naked pink figure appeared, down on its hands and knees like a huge baby, scooping up the blood in its hands and drinking it.

The creature was no larger than a three year old child, but it had the skinny shrivelled body of an old man. Its skin looked like it had been in water too long, crisscrossed with a cobweb of lines. It reminded Peter of Bathline, something living that should have died a long time ago.

The smell of the blood brought other creatures. Rats the size of small dogs and cockroaches appeared from everywhere.

‘Vile creatures,' the pink figure screamed. ‘This is my mother's blood.'

He tried to sweep them aside but there were too many of them. There was blood everywhere. The pink figure was covered in so much of it, the rats threw themselves on him and a terrible fight broke out. Rats and cockroaches were thrown off the balcony, some landing on the gallery below, some falling all the way down into the water. Others ran inside the book, looking for the corpse.

While the fighting was going on Peter and Festival stood rooted to the spot. A rat had bitten Throatgall on the leg and his blood was now pouring onto the ground and mixing with his mother's. Seeing he was wounded, the other rats stopped fighting each other and threw themselves on Throatgall.

‘Help me,' he pleaded, waving his arm toward the two children.

Instinctively, Peter rushed forward. Festival grabbed his shirt to pull him back, but she was too late. Throatgall threw off the rats and lunged at Peter. In a split second his teeth flashed and came down on Peter's hand.

The pain was unbearable and as Peter felt himself begin to faint, Festival dragged him back and the two of them fell through the second doorway. They struggled up the stairs into a bedroom and slammed the door shut. Peter collapsed onto the floor while
Festival jammed a chair under the door handle, but they hadn't been followed. The rats had regrouped and were now attacking Throatgall with renewed energy.

Festival knelt in front of Peter and took hold of his hand. There was so much blood, it was hard to see what damage had been done. She pulled a mouldy sheet off the bed and tore it into pieces. She wiped Peter's hand and gently tried to open out his fingers, but the pain was so bad, Peter couldn't let his grip relax. There was blood pouring out at an alarming rate. Peter felt himself getting fainter, too faint to be frightened but the panic was written all over Festival's face.

‘We need to find help,' she cried, tearing more strips of sheet and tying them round Peter's arm to try and stop the bleeding.

‘It's all right,' said Peter, sliding further down onto the floor. ‘I think I'll just go to sleep for a bit.'

‘No, no, you mustn't,' Festival shouted. ‘Stay awake. We have to go and get help.'

‘No, I'll just sleep for a bit and then we'll go,' said Peter dreamily.

And he fainted.

Festival began to cry. She was terrified. Now Peter was unconscious, his grip loosened and Festival gently opened out his hand. His entire little finger
was missing. The girl wiped her eyes and searched through the filthy strips of sheet for the cleanest piece she could find. She wrapped it tightly round the wound, adding more and more strips until Peter's arm looked like the cat mummy in the museum gallery. She lifted him until he was sitting slumped against the wall then made a sling and hooked it round his neck to keep his hand up as high as possible. She knelt beside him with her arms round him and began crying again.

‘Don't die,' she whispered, ‘please.'

She got up and went to the window. The fight was over and there was no sign of Throatgall or the rats. Some cockroaches were eating the last drops of blood off the ground but, apart from them, the gallery was deserted. The doors of the two books that had trapped them were still wide open and jammed against the gallery railing. There was no way of knowing if Throatgall was waiting outside at the top of the stairs so Festival decided she would smash though the wall into the next book.

She got up, broke the legs off a small chair and began attacking the plaster. It came away easily, revealing the cardboard book cover. That crumbled easily too. She ripped away the leather binding and climbed through.

Peter was still unconscious, but Festival decided
they should get away as soon as they could. Throatgall had been wounded so it made sense to leave while he was weakened. Taking the last strips of the sheet, she went through into the next book, down the stairs and out into the gallery. She wrapped the strips around the handle of the door that was blocking the way back and tied them to the rail. If someone tried to pull the door back from the other side and follow them, the sheet would stop them long enough to let them get away.

Back upstairs, she knelt beside Peter again and stroked his head.

‘Wake up,' she whispered. ‘We have to go.'

Peter stirred and opened his eyes. He was weak from loss of blood and was confused. He stared at Festival as if he didn't know who she was, but as he woke more, the pain in his hand brought him sharply back to reality.

‘We have to get out of here,' he said.

‘I know,' said Festival. ‘Stand up slowly. See how you are.'

It took Peter a few minutes to get to his feet without feeling he was going to pass out again. The bandages on his hand were starting to show a few dark patches.

He was still bleeding.

‘Where are we going?' he said.

‘We have got to go on,' said Festival. ‘We can't go back, it's much too risky.'

They walked round the gallery until they reached the stairs up to the twelfth level. Halfway up, they stopped and sat down.

‘I'm cold,' said Peter, shivering.

‘It's because you've lost all that blood,' said Festival, ‘and the shock.'

‘I need to sleep.'

‘You can't. You absolutely mustn't go to sleep,' said Festival.

She sounded so desperate that Peter fought as hard as he could to stay awake. He felt his head slipping forward and his eyes closing and it took all his effort to shake himself awake.

‘But I can't climb any more stairs,' said Peter. ‘My legs keep trying to fold up.'

‘We'll sit here for a while,' said Festival, ‘but promise me you won't go to sleep.'

The bottom panels of the door that Festival had tied open shattered and Throatgall, dragging his torn leg, came to the bottom of the stairs and looked up at them. Festival gripped the broken chair leg she had brought with her and stood up, but like the creatures from the floor below, Throatgall was unwilling to come up after them. He reached out towards the bottom step but, before he touched it, pulled back and sat down.

‘Come back to Throatgall,' he whined. ‘I won't hurt you, I promise.'

‘You were going to eat us,' said Festival. ‘You tried to bite Peter's hand off.'

‘Sorry, I didn't mean to,' said Throatgall. ‘It was just a reflex action.'

‘And you killed your own mother.'

‘I know, I know,' the creature whimpered, ‘but I didn't enjoy it. I won't do it again.'

‘You drank her blood,' said Festival.

‘I had to,' said Throatgall. ‘It's a family tradition. I drank my father's too, when I killed him, but I didn't enjoy it.'

‘You're disgusting,' said Festival.

‘I'm lonely. No more left, just me,' said Throatgall. ‘Come down here, please.'

‘Come on,' said Peter, pulling himself to his feet. ‘At least we know which way to go.'

And they climbed up to the twelfth level.

‘I'll be waiting when you come back,' shouted Throatgall. ‘I'll sharpen my teeth so I'm ready for you, my angels. Little cups of blood, little spoons of skin. Lovely finger, so tender like baby veal.'

As the two children came out on the twelfth level, a steel trapdoor fell shut over the stairs, cutting off their way back. This level seemed deserted. Peter walked over to the nearest book and slumped down against it.