Timothy Williams The Infernal Shadow (The Timothy Williams Saga Book 2), page 21
Friday brought news. Isabella gathered the gang together. Susan brewed a fresh pot of tea and cracked open the custard creams. ‘The call was made, and the League of Demon Hunters has answered,’ explained Isabella. ‘They will send what help they can, but they have their own problems.’ Isabella allowed herself a rare smile. ‘We are honoured,’ she continued, ‘they are dispatching one of their finest to aid us in our time of need. They are sending Pars Fearbolt.’
‘Pars who?’ queried Rupert. He’d never heard of him.
The Swedish sisters reacted as if starstruck, as if a famous rock god had promised to serenade them in the lair. They were all coy smiles and excited giggles.
Any second now, thought Rupert, they’re going to become all giddy, press the back of their hands to their foreheads and swoon. It really didn’t suit them, especially not Gunda. Hitting stuff with weapons, yes. Swooning like a drama queen, no.
‘He is a legend,’ drooled Sigrid.
‘He once slew a nest of vampires with nothing but a sharpened pencil,’ gushed Gunda. ‘They call him, Thorsbolt the fearless!’
‘He is a big Dane,’ explained Sigrid, ‘with a big beard and a big weapon and―’
‘Yes, thank you, girls. We all get the idea,’ interrupted Susan shaking her head. ‘I’m sure he’ll be a valuable addition to the team ― if he ever shows up.’ Susan was sceptical. The League of Demon Hunters hadn’t exactly been quick to act and complaining about having their own problems was laughable. Didn’t they know her son was the chosen one? And that Lucifer was planning his second home, not in Paris or Rome or Amsterdam, but in Great Underwood?
As if reading Susan’s thoughts, Isabella explained the situation further. ‘Lucifer’s demons have unfurled their unholy wings and spread to all the corners of the world. The infernal shadow rises, and we must do all we can to send it back to Hell.’
Tedium returned on Saturday and with it a feeling of unrest and a need to see the sun. Isabella wasn’t happy about allowing access above, but with reluctance, she agreed, so long as they went out during daylight hours and did some shopping in the process. The lair was well stocked, but there were a number of extras they’d overlooked in their haste to move, and fresh produce was always preferred to what came out of tin cans and cartons.
At the prospect of a shop, George cheered immeasurably and at once began writing a considerable list of chocolatey products to be purchased. Rupert hoped for a visit to Burt’s. A good supply of fizzy wiz bangs would be just the thing to help him through his time spent underground. Timothy craved for takeaway pizza, but that required another trip into Ashgate, and if their last visit was anything to go by, pizza was off the menu.
Even though they all wanted to go outside, Isabella thought it prudent to keep the number to a minimum. Experiencing a change of heart, George volunteered to stay behind. Yes, he quite fancied the idea of feeling cool autumn air fill his lungs and warm sunlight bath his skin, but he wasn’t so keen on the possibility of bumping into a demon and having his head staved in and his brain spooned out.
Unhappily, Timothy passed George’s list on to Rupert after being told, in no uncertain terms, that he was not to leave the safety of the lair unless absolutely necessary. And, according to his great auntie, going shopping wasn’t ‘absolutely necessary’. Being the chosen one sucked. Rupert didn’t care about the dangers. He’d set his heart on fizzy wiz bangs no matter the consequences.
In this case, Isabella decided to take Rupert, Sigrid and Gunda. ‘Prepare yourselves. We go in ten minutes,’ instructed the demon hunter as she busied herself gathering weapons and equipment for the sortie.
Timothy watched as his great auntie strapped Demon Bane to her back. Ordinarily, there wasn’t much call for taking an enchanted samurai sword to a big shop ― nor stakes, nor ADM bracelets, nor crossbows with silver-tipped bolts ― but these weren’t ordinary times. And besides, if nothing else, going armed to the teeth would probably alleviate the need to queue.
‘Don’t forget the shopping bags,’ reminded Timothy as the four intrepid adventurers were all set to leave.
Before allowing departure, Isabella inspected her acolytes. Once satisfied, she snatched up the shopping bags and marched them up the stairs to the trapdoor.
‘And don’t forget my chocolates!’ called George as they disappeared above.
Emerging from Geoff’s shed, Isabella led Rupert and the girls across the overgrown lawn to the front of Timothy’s house. Unfortunately, the sun and its warmth were hidden behind thick rolling cloud, but at least the air was cool and fresh. In fact, it was so fresh it took their breath away with freezing autumnal gusts blasting from the north.
Rupert’s disappointment regarding the weather ― which living in the British Isles was something he and the populace were accustomed to ― was short-lived, especially when he recalled his pending visit to Burt’s. He grinned. Yet disappointment reared its ugly head once again.
‘Damn and blast!’ cursed Isabella before blurting out a string of harsh-sounding Dutch words that had Sigrid and Gunda blushing and Rupert frowning. She pointed to her van parked beside the curb. ‘Look what they have done to my Mina!’ All four tyres were slashed, the blacked-out windows were smashed and what they found deposited on the driver’s seat was unmentionable. ‘Dirty goblin…’ Isabella left the insult unsaid, but the others understood what she meant and filling in the blanks was all too easy.
‘And look at what is on the outside of the vehicle,’ observed Gunda.
Rupert was surprised by the correct use of both grammar and punctuation. Who would have thought that goblins commanded such an elegant grasp of the English language? ‘Demon hunters are filth.’ ‘Death to the chosen one.’ ‘Williams will die.’ ‘Van Helsing’s heir is a―’ The messages were all neatly scratched into Mina’s paintwork: some on the bonnet, some on the side panels and some on the roof.
‘Oh, no,’ muttered Sigrid with a sigh. ‘Poor Little Blue has not been spared either.’
Susan’s car was tucked away on the far side of the house, and now like Mina, was rendered inoperable. Isabella cursed again. She should have realised this would happen.
‘You would have thought one of the neighbours might have called the police?’ said Rupert. ‘How did they manage to sleep through all this going on? They must all be deaf.’
Discreetly, Isabella nodded to the neighbouring house on the left, number eight, and in particular, the young lady visible through the bay window of her lounge. She cradled a baby in her arms and peered out across the street. And then, Isabella directed Rupert’s gaze to the other side, number ten, where an elderly couple stood staring at them from behind their net curtains.
‘Nosey neighbours. So what?’ said Rupert.
‘Yes,’ replied Isabella, ‘nosey possessed neighbours.’
Rupert shivered.
‘Even now, Lucifer may be watching us through their eyes and if not him, then some other demon. Either way, he’ll know our every move.’ Isabella pondered for a moment. ‘The big shop is off,’ she announced. ‘It appears that we are restricted to walking.’
‘We can walk to Burt’s, can’t we? It’s not that many miles,’ implored Rupert fearing his dream was over.
‘No,’ confirmed Isabella. ‘We walk only to the local shop. Any further is now too dangerous.’
‘You can’t mean Peeks?’ said a dismayed Rupert. ‘We won’t find anything in there, nothing edible anyway. Everything on the shelves has got last year’s sell-by date on it. If the demons don’t kill us, there’s a good chance anything we buy from R J Peeks will!’
Later that day, their safe return to the lair was met with indifference, especially from George. A petulant Rupert had chosen not to acquire a single item from his friend’s shopping list ― if Rupert was to be denied his treats, then so too was George. Not that there was much on offer at Peeks. Gunda had noted Rupert’s mean-spiritedness and had bought something for George herself, even if it wasn’t in-date or what George had asked for.
Susan was shocked to learn what goblins had done to her car, not that she truly believed in goblins, and she was angry with the neighbours for allowing it to happen. ‘That’s the last time I put Mr and Mrs Brown’s bins out,’ she declared.
‘Don’t you mean it’s the last time you tell me to put Mr and Mrs Brown’s bins out, love?’ corrected Geoff.
Susan ignored her husband. ‘And to think, I was going to help them assemble their daughter’s new wardrobe.’
‘Don’t you mean you were going to tell me to help assemble Chelsea’s new wardrobe, love?’
‘Will you shut up, Geoff! It’s all about you, isn’t it?’
Tempers began fraying, and when tinned beans were issued for supper in the absence of takeaway pizza, they snapped. In all honesty, the full-on riot that followed helped clear the air, metaphorically speaking at least, and they all agreed to tolerate one another’s faults with a little more decorum from now on.
A rare consolation to Timothy’s half-term captivity ― because that’s what it felt like ― was his Devil free dreams. It seemed the White Knight, Timothy’s so-called guardian angel, had succeeded in scaring the demon king away. That or Lucifer had found better things to do with his time.
It wasn’t until the early hours of Sunday morning that anything remotely interesting happened. Isabella and Geoff had spent the latter half of the night on patrol, trying to ascertain the enemy’s local strength and location. Isabella was a stickler for facts and figures when it came to a fight. ‘Information in war is a strength,’ she would say, ‘and a lack of information is a weakness.’ The demon hunters returned to the lair just before daybreak, and they’d brought someone with them.
‘Look who we found skulking about up top,’ said Isabella. She shoved the trespasser in front of the gang, who, despite the early hour, had eagerly gathered in the hope of some excitement.
The character in question was decked out in camouflage with a face streaked in greens and browns to match. A pair of night-vision goggles encased their eyes and slung over a shoulder was a gas-propelled sub-machine gun. Whoever this sneak was, they looked like a miniature commando.
Timothy had his suspicions. ‘Tommy? Is that you?’
The boy, even smaller than Rupert, pushed his goggles from his eyes. ‘Hello, Tim,’ he said.
‘What are you doing here?’ asked Timothy. The last time he’d seen the youngster was standing beside him at the boy’s front door trying to explain to his mother, Jane, why her son appeared like he’d just been barbecued, which in effect, he had been.
‘You know it’s too dangerous to be outside on your own,’ said Timothy. ‘And besides, you should be resting. Getting blown-up by satanic fireballs shouldn’t be taken lightly.’
‘I know,’ admitted Tommy, ‘but I have important top-secret info you need to hear.’
Timothy wasn’t so sure that Tommy’s ‘info’ was going to be as important as he was making out. He suspected the younger boy didn’t need much of an excuse to put on his war paint, don his battle gear and head out into the dark. Still, Timothy was keen to hear his news, even if he didn’t necessarily believe it would be anything worth hearing.
‘Spit it out, boy,’ prompted Isabella, already losing patience. She had things to do: weapons maintenance, kung fu practice and the Sunday Times crossword ― she’d stolen a copy from Mr and Mrs Brown’s front porch earlier.
‘I’ve had a tip-off from my next-door neighbour,’ began Tommy. ‘Trumpton’s booked him to take a busload from Underwood Upper to the London Museum on the first day back after half-term.’
‘But that’s tomorrow,’ stated a worried George, ‘and there’s been nothing mentioned about a history trip?’
‘That’s because it’s obviously not a history trip, is it? Muppet! It’s Trumpton up to no good,’ scorned Rupert.
‘Your neighbour’s a bus driver, Tommy?’ queried Timothy conceding to himself that perhaps Tommy’s info was worth listening to after all.
‘Yeah,’ confirmed Tommy. ‘Harry Hoolahan.’
Rupert snorted. ‘Happy Harry is your next-door neighbour? Blimey, I feel sorry for you. I would rather have possessed neighbours than have Happy peering over the garden fence. I bet he never throws your balls back, does he?’
‘Harry’s alright. He’s just a bit socially awkward.’
‘Socially awkward? Yeah, like a psychopath. Socially awkward is what they call all the nutters. Didn’t they say that about Ted Bundy?’
‘Enough, Rupert,’ reprimanded Isabella sternly. ‘Let us concentrate on finding out what Trumpton is up to.’
‘What does he want that’s at the London Museum? And why take a busload of kids?’ pondered Geoff.
‘I am not sure what he is after, but you can be sure that the children are not going along for the ride. They are his worker bees. Many hands make light work. Think about it, if Trumpton wants to find something at a public museum, what better way is there than a scheduled school trip? The perfect cover,’ explained Isabella. For a moment, the demon hunter stood in thought, her brow creased and her eyes staring. ‘It will be dangerous,’ she finally said. ‘Perhaps more dangerous than anything we have attempted before, but we must find what the demon prince seeks, and we must find it first.’
Timothy nodded. Anything was better than spending another day down here in each other’s pockets. It was enough to drive anyone insane.
George fished out his asthma inhaler and took several deep calming lungful’s, fighting his rising anxiety.
Rupert frowned. ‘How are we supposed to get there?’ he said, and it was a valid question.
‘George, didn’t your dad recently buy a new people carrier?’ asked Timothy. ‘We could borrow that, couldn’t we?’
George’s eyes went wide. He repeatedly shook his head whilst pumping his inhaler. The last time Timothy ‘borrowed’ his father’s car, it was written off and left burning at the side of the road.
‘Excellent,’ said Isabella, ‘but it won’t be enough.’
‘Harry’s got a minibus,’ offered Tommy. ‘I’ll ask him if we can take that instead.’
‘Very good, Tommy Gunnerson,’ praised Isabella, ‘but there is something more your friend Harry Hoolahan must do for us,’ she added. ‘I have an idea.’
CHAPTER NINETEEN
History Trip
‘This is an awful road,’ remarked Isabella, briefly glancing up from the huge book opened across her lap. It was Eric von Torvik’s Tome of Demonology. Torvik was the leading authority on all thing’s demon, and he was also a successful children’s author ― The Adventures of Plucky Duck, a bestseller.
Returning to the task at hand, Isabella continued thumbing through the pages, scanning their content with a keen eye and cursing each time Geoff drove over a bump. ‘The roads back home are far superior.’
Geoff guffawed. ‘Well, this is the A12,’ he said. ‘It doesn’t get much worse than this ― especially first thing on a Monday morning.’ The A12 was an artery road feeding London from the east, and although it was classed as a ‘main road’, it certainly didn’t look like one. In fact, much of the time, it resembled a car park.
‘Ah, ha!’ exclaimed Isabella. ‘Found it.’ She passed the heavy book behind her and into the reaching hands of Reverend Goodson. ‘Is this what we are looking for?’
The Reverend studied the hand-drawn illustrations on the page before carefully reading through what Eric von Torvik had written on the subject. The author had got most of it right. ‘Yes, I’m afraid it is,’ confirmed the Reverend. ‘Historians call it the Stone of Osiris, an Egyptian relic belonging to the pharaohs. But it’s not; it’s much, much older than that. We know it as the Deathstone, an ancient weapon of pure evil.’ The Reverend shook his head. ‘Alas, I’d hoped not to see it again. The stone lay hidden for centuries until discovered inside Tutankhamun’s burial chamber. An archaeologist called Howard Carter found the tomb. Carter’s benefactor, Lord Carnarvon, claimed the find, but it was to be the death of him. The Deathstone is the largest bloodstone in existence. The lesser stones are merely fragments from the original stone.’ The Reverend pointed to the book. ‘It is a curse on those who are exposed to its evil.’
‘What happened after Lord Carnarvon died?’ asked an intrigued Rupert, hanging over the back of the Reverend’s seat to peer at the open tome.
‘The Egyptian Museum recovered the artefact, and for a time, it was kept on display in Cairo. Yet its evil infected all, and soon the Egyptians believed the thing cursed just like Carter had. Learning of the stone’s true nature, the League of Demon Hunters intervened. They stole and reburied the relic deep beneath the sands. But not deep enough, it seems.’
‘And now the Sceptre of Osiris is in London as part of an Ancient Egyptian tour, right under Trumpton’s nose,’ added Timothy from beside Rupert.
‘Indeed, Timothy,’ said the Reverend. ‘We must find the artefact before Asmodean. Lucifer will hope to use the Deathstone to gain control of the Morning Star.’
Mr Borenett, sitting to the Reverend’s left, raised a bushy eyebrow. He wasn’t sure what to make of all this talk of hocus-pocus, but he was looking forward to spending the day at the museum. And if his expertise could prove useful to the others, then all well and good. The sooner the school returned to normal, the sooner he could recommence his study of second-century pottery without interruption.
‘And if Lucifer can’t use the Deathstone to unlock the pendant,’ continued the Reverend, ‘it is still a formidable weapon in its own right.’ He tapped a forefinger against the page, indicating a specific paragraph. ‘See here, the stone can feed on multiple targets at once and at a far greater rate than a bloodstone shard.’
