Mister Creecher (2 page)

This gravelly, guttural outburst was greeted by a few moments of astonished, uncomprehending silence.

‘What the hell . . . ?’ said Fletcher, his voice sounding thin.

The giant tightened his hold on Tyke’s forearm, turning it as he did so. Tyke’s scream died in a gurgling croak and the relative silence allowed for a sound like a chicken leg being twisted apart. He dropped to the cobbles and screamed again.

‘Layliberrrrrerrrrr!’ growled the giant, without once looking at the writhing Tyke at his feet. Billy felt another wave of weakness wash the life from his limbs and his eyes drifted out of focus. Had Fletcher not still had hold of him, he would have dropped to the ground like Tyke.

Fletcher seemed uncertain as to what to do next. The first to react was Skinner, who had already pulled a knife from his coat pocket and now lunged at the giant.

The giant barely seemed to move, but Billy saw the knife fall to the ground as the stranger grabbed Skinner by the throat and, holding him at arm’s length, began to lift him slowly into the air.

Skinner enjoyed his pies. He was not your normal skin-and-bones street urchin. He was big. He was heavy. Billy stared in disbelief. What kind of man was this?

The stranger flung Skinner away as though he were nothing but the stinking clothes he was wearing. The boy landed with a sickening clang against the nearby railings and lay in a motionless heap.

Billy could sense the conflicting emotions in Fletcher: should he leap to attack this giant while he had the chance, should he run – or should he carve a piece out of Billy before he went?

Billy felt sure he had decided on the latter and shut his eyes, waiting for the cold kiss of the knife blade, but opened them immediately as he heard the giant, with a speed and agility that belied his size, come rushing forward.

Before Fletcher had time to move or cry out, the giant grabbed his right arm. Billy heard the wrist bone snap and Fletcher’s knife fell to the pavement.

Fletcher was tough if nothing else and, broken wrist or not, he fought back. He kicked and lashed out with his good arm, but it was to no avail. The giant struck him with a fearsome blow to the side of the head and he dropped like a sack of flour. He did not stir.

When Billy turned away from Fletcher, he found himself staring straight at the giant’s chest. He looked up. The giant looked down. His skin had the almost translucent look of a drowned man Billy had once seen by London Bridge.
Perhaps this is what Death looks like
, thought Billy. Or
his
death, at any rate.

The giant leaned forward, staring at Billy with the bemused look of a snake about to strike. The fog seemed to rush forward suddenly, and then there was nothing.

CHAPTER II.

Billy was flying, floating a few feet off the ground. His head lolled back and forth. When he opened his eyes, the world lolled queasily along with him, as if he were bobbing on a boat adrift on ocean waves.

The scene was blurred, as though viewed through greasy glass. His eyelids flickered, never fully open, never fully closed. Everything he saw seemed determined to slide away and out of sight; all solid objects had lost their moorings.

Noises washed across his ears but Billy could not identify them. They merged and surged, sometimes echoing loudly inside his head, other times faint and barely audible.

He felt chilled to the marrow. The air was cold on his clammy face and he became aware of being pressed up against something even colder.

‘Where now?’ came a voice near his ear.

Billy lifted his head and peered into the distance. He was dreaming. He must be. He could see features he recognised – a shop sign, a crooked railing, a shabby courtyard with an alleyway beyond.

‘That way,’ said a voice so faint and far away that it took him a few moments to realise it was his own.

Billy was inside now – he was sure of it. Warmer: the air was warmer, but he still felt cold. He shivered and found that once he started he could not stop.

The shivering rattled his jaw and joints and seemed set on dislocating every bone in his body. His teeth chattered and the harsh noise clattered horribly in his head.

Billy blinked, and blinked again, screwing up his eyes, trying to focus on something, anything. But the world seemed resistant to all his attempts to make it solid.

Maybe I’ve died
, he thought.
Maybe this is what the world looks like when you die.
But if he was dead, then where was this? He was fairly sure that he wouldn’t gain entry through heaven’s pearly gates, but it didn’t look much like hell either.

Maybe he was in that other place: the place where you waited to have your fate decided. He tried to remember its name but could not recall it. Perhaps this was all there was.

Billy now became aware that there was a large shadow some feet away. Or at least it seemed as dark and formless as a shadow. He strained his eyes, trying to will some clarity into the black smudge in front of him, but instead of becoming clearer, it merely grew and shifted its shape.

The shadow grew and seemed to flood the room with darkness, swirling like a cloud of smoke, and then, out of this inky vagueness, a terrible face loomed towards him. Billy cried out and covered his face with his arms, cowering on the floor, not daring to look back and see if it had gone.

Sleep overtook him. It was a chill, comfortless sleep, but still it came, pulling him down into oblivion. He opened his eyes but the darkness remained. He could taste the soot in his mouth and knew that he was a climbing boy once more, wedged inside a chimney.

The sweep was barking orders into the fireplace below. His sharp tone carried the threat of a beating to come. Billy took a deep, gasping breath and gagged on the soot as it rushed into his nostrils and throat.

The chimney was narrow, but Billy was skinny – deliberately starved by the sweep. ‘It’s for your own good,’ he’d say. ‘Don’t want to get stuck halfway, do ya?’

His feet were jammed against the brickwork of the chimney, his elbows finding purchase on a small ledge. He felt so tired, so very tired. He wondered if he would be able to hold on much longer.

Looking down, he saw the tiny, vague shape of the hearth way below. How could it be so far? He guIlped with fear, gagging on the dry soot. A fall now would be the end. All he needed to do was let go and it would all be over.

Billy looked up and saw daylight above him, visible through the chimney-pot opening like a full moon in a black, black night. He dropped his brush, letting it clatter far below, and began to climb towards the light.

CHAPTER III.

Billy woke with a start, as he always did. He was catlike: almost as alert in sleep as he was awake. But he was drowsier than usual. He tried to concentrate. A dream . . . A strange dream . . .

Lemon-coloured light was raking the gloom with long beams, illuminating galaxies of dust motes swirling in infinity in front of his waking eyes. At the far edge of this universe sat the giant who had made such a mess of Fletcher and his gang.

Billy jerked back, scrabbling with his feet until his back hit a wall and he came to a sudden halt. The movement had been a mistake. His head reeled and he felt sick. Where was he?

‘Rrrrest,’ growled the giant.

‘What?’ said Billy groggily. ‘You can talk?’

The giant nodded. Billy tried to get up, but the dizziness overcame him and he sank back down.

‘Fever,’ said the giant.

Billy’s mind seemed to be filled with the same tumbling dust motes as the room.

‘Fletcher,’ he said, frowning. ‘What happened?’

‘That was three days ago.’

‘Three days . . .’ But Billy did not finish. He shook his head and closed his eyes, half expecting the giant to be gone when he opened them, but he was still there. This was no fever dream.

‘Wait,’ said Billy, squinting. ‘I know this place. We’re in the attic above the baker’s in Chalk Street.’

This was one of Billy’s favourite hideaways, something he had managed to keep to himself. The heat from the baker’s ovens made it unbearable in summer, but in winter it was a lifesaver.

‘You brought us here,’ said the giant.

‘What?’ said Billy. ‘Yes. I remember. I was floating.’

Billy still felt like he was floating. His head seemed light. His own voice caused him pain, it sounded so loud. The giant’s growl was deafening. Billy winced, narrowing his eyes.

‘I carried you,’ said the giant.

His voice was thick with an accent – the accent of the French weavers in Spitalfields.

‘And you looked after me?’ said Billy.

The giant nodded slowly.

‘Why? Who are you?’

‘Sleeeeeep,’ said the giant, leaning towards him.

It seemed more of a command than a recommendation, and Billy had no desire to argue with whoever – whatever – this stranger was. Besides, sleep did seem appealing all of a sudden . . .

Billy looked around for the giant. He was not always there when Billy woke up and if Billy had been stronger he would have climbed out of the window and run for it. But he had already tried to stand and found that his legs did not share his enthusiasm for escape.

In any case, the giant was back. Billy could see him sitting at the far end of the attic. There was a pale yellow glow seeping through the window. Morning? Evening? It was hard to tell.

Billy’s vision was clearer now and the fog that had clouded his mind had also begun to dissolve. Even so, he found it difficult to find the courage to speak.

‘Hey?’ he said.

The giant slowly raised his head and Billy saw his watery eyes twinkle in the gloom.

‘You are awake?’ said the giant.

He was so large that he would have put his head through the roof had he stood up. He moved slowly towards Billy on his hands and knees, and the sight of it made Billy take a sharp, stuttering intake of breath.

‘Why are you helping me?’ said Billy.

‘You needed help,’ said the giant with a shrug.

Billy raised a quizzical eyebrow.

‘You think because of . . . how I look,’ the giant said with a curl of his lip, ‘. . . you think I must be without goodness?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Billy.

‘You think I am a demon, no?’

‘I don’t know what you are,’ said Billy, but he knew that he did not like the word ‘demon’ being mentioned.

The giant grinned unpleasantly.

‘Maybe I am the Devil himself?’ he snarled.

‘What?’ said Billy nervously.

‘Yes . . .’ The giant seemed pleased at the notion. ‘I am surely cursed as Satan was cursed, shunned as he was shunned. There can be no heaven for me, on Earth or elsewhere. For me there is only hell.’

It ain’t no fairytale for me neither
, Billy thought. But he said, ‘You certainly gave old Fletcher a taste of hell, and no mistake.’

A wave of dizziness came over him and he closed his eyes. When he opened them everything seemed far away and blurred.

‘Fletcherrrrr?’ said the giant, rolling the syllables round in his mouth as if tasting them. Billy had never seen such white teeth.