Timothy Williams The Infernal Shadow (The Timothy Williams Saga Book 2), page 26
Mr Borenett’s thin spidery moustache quivered as he fought to control his very stiff upper lip. He bowed his balding head. ‘You are an example to us all, young Master Williams,’ he said. The beanpole history teacher stood to attention, and forthwith he presented Timothy with an unexpected military salute. ‘It has been a privilege,’ he declared. ‘Until we meet again.’
Geoff and Susan watched Timothy with pride, as did Isabella. Sometimes it was easy to forget that Timothy was the chosen one. He was an ordinary teenager like his friends, but occasionally, he reminded them all who he really was and who he was to become.
‘Thanks, sir,’ answered Timothy. In the teacher’s honour, he returned Mr Borenett’s salute. Yet when Timothy met Miss May’s blue eyes, he saw them glistening with tears.
‘Please, I want to stay,’ implored Miss May, sniffing. ‘I need to stay.’
Susan eyed the younger woman’s emotional outpouring with a scowl.
‘It’s too dangerous, miss. You saw what happened at the museum.’
‘I know, but there’s nothing for me out there.’ Miss May threw her arms wide. ‘Underwood Upper is lost; my sister is moving away…I just want to help; you know I do.’ Her big blue eyes searched Timothy’s face for signs of hope.
Timothy was uncertain. The last thing he wanted was for Miss May to join the growing list of names lost to the cause. Yet since the very beginning, Miss May had always been there for him, even before his parents. It was hard to deny her, especially when she was so pretty.
‘She can stay, can’t she, Tim?’ begged George. He peered over to Isabella for support, but the demon hunter merely shrugged her shoulders as if to say, ‘It’s not my decision.’
‘You can’t send Miss May away, Tim. She’s got to stay,’ demanded Rupert. ‘It wouldn’t be the same without her,’ he added quietly while staring at the floor in embarrassment.
‘Aww. Thank you, boys,’ gushed Miss May. ‘You’re all so sweet.’
Susan rolled her eyes.
Later that evening, after Mr Borenett had driven Tommy, Baz, and the two Daves home, those who remained down in the lair, including Miss May, huddled together around the electric heater. It was cold underground, particularly at night. ‘If we do stay down here, we’ll all freeze to death well before New Year’s Eve,’ moaned Rupert. ‘The demons won’t have to do a thing.’ He held his hands out toward the glowing orange bars behind the heater’s safety grill. ‘Is this thing on maximum?’
As was often the case, no one listened to Rupert while he was whinging. Ignoring him was the simplest solution for all concerned. However, on this occasion, instead of complaining, Rupert suddenly became animated. ‘Ruddy hell!’ he yelled. ‘George is glowing!’
‘What?’ said George. He was sat by himself studying his German phrasebook, German for Dummkopfs, and before he or anyone else took any notice, Rupert’s alleged mystery glow blinked out. ‘Stop messing about, Rupert. I’m trying to concentrate,’ said George shaking his head.
‘How did no one see that?’ questioned Rupert. ‘You were literally glowing like a power station from head to toe!’
‘Shut up, Rupert,’ advised Gunda. They were all trying to relax and reflect after what had been a trying experience.
‘He was glowing; I swear it,’ promised Rupert with frustration.
Like the rest, George ignored his friend, but he did have a moan of his own. ‘I wish we were at school. We’d be starting our GCSEs now. I wanted to learn German. How can I help my father in the meat industry if I can’t speak the language?’ A good understanding of German was essential when dealing with the Bavarian sausage market.
No one seemed remotely interested in what George had to say either. Geoff switched on the radio to help drown out all the whinging and whining. It had been a long, emotional day, and the last thing he or any of them needed right now was to hear the bickering of teenagers. Nonetheless, Rupert’s interest in George wouldn’t go away, and he moved across to observe his friend at close quarters. George was wedged into one of Toby’s beanbags with his head buried in his books.
‘Wie viel kostet deine Wurst?’ George read aloud. ‘How much does your sausage cost?’ As George recited from his second phrasebook, An Englishman’s Guide to Bavarian Meat Etiquette, Rupert stood over him staring. ‘Rupert, do you know that’s really quite off-putting?’
‘Aren’t you cold?’ asked Rupert. Everyone else in the lair, himself included, were wrapped in multiple layers and draped in extra blankets, but George sat there in a set of pyjama shorts like it was summertime. Rupert was intrigued, but before he’d the opportunity to study his friend for further oddities, Geoff cranked up the radio. The London Museum ‘Jewell heist’ was top billing on the news broadcast.
‘Oh, my goodness,’ exclaimed Miss May, ‘we’re on the radio!’
The newsreader announced the headlines in dramatic fashion: ‘Popular London museum attacked! Priceless jewel stolen! Bodies found! Accomplices named but remain at large! School conspiracy at the centre of police investigation!’
Timothy’s heart sank. Bodies found? So, they are dead. Up until now, he harboured a secret hope that perhaps his school friends had survived, but it seemed it wasn’t to be. God only knows what their poor families are going through, he mused sadly. Deep in thought, Timothy’s mind wandered, but a familiar voice over the airwaves instantly brought his attention racing back. Trumpton, or rather Asmodean, was being interviewed.
Reporter: Headmaster, can you confirm that the culprits are from your school, Great Underwood Upper?
Trumpton: Yes, I’m afraid so. The news comes with great sorrow and personal shame, but it is true. I can assure your listeners that I had no idea what was going on.
Reporter: And you know the ringleader and his accomplices?
Trumpton: I do. Mr Borenett is a dangerous individual and cannot be trusted. He is responsible for the tragic deaths of schoolchildren. He must be brought to justice! The names of his co-conspirators, some of them pupils from the school, have been passed on to the authorities.
Reporter: Thank you, Mr Trumpton.
Trumpton: I would just like to add that Great Underwood Upper will be open as usual tomorrow. I know the children’s parents are concerned for their little ones’ well-being, but I can promise them that my staff and I will be ready and waiting for their return to school in the morning.
The report concluded with news that a police investigation was underway, including a planned visit to Underwood Upper on the following day. The police also issued a helpline number for worried parents and information relating to the incident. Afterwards, to lighten the mood, the radio presenter played a Cliff Richard single.
At first, the news bulletin left the gang speechless, but anger quickly replaced shock. ‘The snake!’ seethed Isabella. ‘To accuse us of his evil crimes…’ She was too livid to continue.
‘If I ever get my hands on him ― well, I’ll wring his scrawny neck and set fire to his ridiculous hairpiece!’ promised Susan. She was moved to an unaccustomed urge to commit violence on a grand scale.
Worry superseded anger.
‘What about Mr Borenett?’ said a distressed George. ‘The poor man’s going to be arrested.’
Timothy despaired. If only he hadn’t sent Mr Borenett home. He hoped Tommy and the others would be able to evade the long arm of the law.
‘Does this mean we’re fugitives now?’ queried Rupert.
‘If our names are on Trumpton’s list, I suppose it does,’ answered Miss May with a troubled frown wrinkling her brow.
‘Cool.’
‘No, not cool, Rup. Not cool,’ chastised Timothy, promptly resuming his anxious marching from earlier.
‘Oh, great,’ whimpered George, ‘not only are demons hunting us but now we’re going to be chased by the police too.’ George threw his German phrasebooks in the air. ‘What’s the point. I’m never going to learn anything. Not unless it’s from the inside of a prison cell.’ He joined Timothy and began a ceaseless stomp around the lair’s perimeter with an angst-ridden expression plastered across his face.
‘I thought you were joining the church?’ quizzed Timothy.
‘For my father’s sake, I’m keeping my options open.’
Timothy nodded. ‘Fair enough.’ He could understand why George wanted to honour his father’s wishes, especially in the circumstances.
‘Hang on a minute,’ said Rupert, ‘isn’t a school visit from the cops a good thing? They’ll expose Trumpton for who he really is, won’t they?’
‘Nothing will change,’ called Timothy from a dark corner of the lair. ‘The officers they send will either get themselves possessed or killed.’
Isabella agreed. ‘Timothy speaks the truth.’ She was under no illusions at how Lucifer’s servants operated. There was nothing they wouldn’t do for their master.
‘We must be able to do something?’ asked Miss May hopefully.
‘No,’ replied Isabella. ‘We do nothing.’
Abruptly, the music stopped and the lights went out, plunging the lair into silent darkness. The electric heater provided the only light, but slowly, its three orange rods diminished until all was black. ‘We’ve lost power,’ stated Geoff.
‘No kidding, Sherlock,’ mocked Rupert. His cheeky remark earnt him more than a few disparaging stares ― at least, it would have done if there was light enough to see.
Geoff rummaged in the dark for a torch. While he did so, the rest of them became aware of another light beginning to blossom from the far side of the lair. A red light that at first was no more than a faint flicker. Yet soon, its strength increased until it pulsed rhythmically with deep crimson. ‘The Sceptre of Osiris,’ whispered Sigrid. The jewel’s blood-red glow flashed in her wide pupils.
‘The Deathstone calls for its master,’ declared Isabella. It was a chilling proclamation ― a grim forewarning of what was to come. In answer, a pounding began from above.
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
It was a terrible drumroll, becoming louder and louder as the Deathstone’s throbbing beat became brighter and brighter.
‘I don’t like it, Mummy,’ cried little Toby. He ran to his mother’s side. ‘Make it stop!’
Timothy didn’t like it either. It was as if they’d been transported back in time to an air-raid during 1940. Maybe sending Mr Borenett and the boys away was the right decision after all.
‘This isn’t good, is it?’ murmured Rupert. He found himself flinching with every echoing thud from above. Dust and debris began falling in choking clouds from the ceiling.
George sneezed, and suddenly there was light.
‘George is glowing again!’ exclaimed Rupert. ‘You see, I told you he could glow, didn’t I?’ And it was true, George Apples was shining like the Star of Bethlehem.
George stared down at his body and yelped in shock. ‘What’s happening to me?’
‘Angelic transmogrification!’ cried Isabella in wonder.
‘Trans―what?’
‘It is rare, so rare in fact that many do not believe its existence. Yet here you stand, George Apples, and here it is!’ declared an enlivened Isabella.
‘I don’t understand?’ whined George, terrified to the point of panic. Feeling an episode coming on, he began fishing around in his pyjama shorts for his medication. George’s inhaler was never far from his side.
‘Your so-called White Knight is an angel. An angel spirit, to be precise. Some claim that with regular holy possession, a host subject has the potential to develop divine powers.’
‘Ruddy hell!’ exclaimed Rupert. ‘Before we know it, he’ll be speaking bleeding Italian again.’
‘Latin, Rup,’ replied George numb with shock, ‘and I’d rather it was German.’
As if by the flick of a switch, George’s white glow promptly winked out again. ‘Oh, thank God!’ praised George.
‘It appears we will have to wait a while longer before your power manifests fully,’ lamented Isabella. ‘It is a shame. Such capabilities would have proved useful in the fight to come.’
‘Fight?’
At last, Geoff managed to fire up the backup generator. In a puff of smoke, the old diesel engine chugged into action. Although dimmed on low power, the lights in the shelter flashed back into life, and with them, the lair was filled with the dulcet tones of Frank Sinatra crooning from the radio.
The Deathstone continued to pulse, and the pounding grew louder and nearer. Subsequently, large chunks of the ceiling dislodged and crashed to the ground directly over their heads. Leaping aside, those below dodged the falling earth and rock that smashed down behind them, silencing the radio beneath a mountainous pile of rubble. There goes Frank, thought Timothy. He only hoped they weren’t about to share his fate. He didn’t fancy the idea of getting buried alive. Through the clouds of dust, a big gaping hole was revealed in the ceiling, and things were moving on the other side. Then again, thought Timothy, maybe being buried alive would be a mercy compared to what’s about to come through that hole.
‘Prepare yourselves!’ cried Isabella. She drew Demon Bane and adopted her battle face ― which, in all honesty, didn’t appear any different to her everyday face, except for a slightly sterner scowl and a flared left nostril.
Geoff snatched up the Sceptre of Osiris and helped Miss May, Susan and Toby to the far side of the shelter. It was the furthest point away from the breach in the ceiling. He thrust the evil artefact into his wife’s reluctant hands. ‘Don’t look at the light,’ he said before joining Isabella with Bright Steel in hand.
How can I not look at the light? thought Susan. The blasted thing was flashing directly into her face. Stupid man! The stone drew Toby’s attention like a shiny new toy, his unblinking eyes becoming glued to the glowing red crystal.
Sigrid unsheathed her silver daggers while Gunda grabbed a gruesome-looking spiked mace from the weapons rack. Timothy, Rupert and George withdrew their stakes or, as Rupert liked to call them, their extra-large pencils. The boys were yet to be trusted with weaponry that Isabella deemed too hazardous, at least not in live combat situations.
If whatever comes out of that hole is armed with anything other than plastic knives and forks, we’re done for, mused Timothy. In the circumstances, surely they should be allowed to use some proper firepower? Some cold, sharp steel? Or even better, a flamethrower or two? Just for the next half hour or so?
‘Stand back,’ warned Isabella. The boys didn’t need telling; they’d already retreated more than halfway across the lair, and in the process, had inadvertently become the second line of defence. ‘Here they come!’
In the flickering half-light, it was uncertain what they were. Shadowy forms began leaping ape-like through the hole. Yet as the creatures assembled below the breach, readying themselves for an attack from across the rubble, Isabella identified them instantly. ‘Goblins!’
Goblins: Lucifer’s henchmen. Misshapen, dreadfully wicked and as ugly as a North Korean haircut. The Devil’s doers of dirty deeds; his mean green fighting machines. Their teeth were sharp, pointed and stained a putrid yellow. Some had long hooked noses; some had big bulbous noses; some didn’t have noses at all. Their eyes were small, beady, and pig-like, and far too close together to make the creatures appear anything but untrustworthy. And they stank to high heaven as if they bathed in their own filth ― which, invariably, they did. Their unnaturally long fingers curled around the hafts and handles of their crude weapons: curved swords, great lump hammers, rusted axes and nail-studded cudgels of all shapes and sizes.
From the other side of the rubble heap, the goblins taunted the humans with harsh, guttural voices. ‘We’re gonna chop you up and turn you into mincemeat!’ claimed a big, hunchbacked specimen with a face to make Joseph Merrick ― the Elephant Man ― look decidedly handsome.
‘Just for starters, I’m gonna eat the little nippers raw!’ yelled another, scrawny and tall and oozing dark green puss from every pore.
‘I wants the fat one,’ said another. The vile thing aimed its rusted scimitar past Isabella’s front line and right at George.
‘No, I wants him!’ argued the big goblin, shoving his comrade away.
‘There’s enough of him to share.’
‘Yeah,’ agreed the big one. He unleashed a horrible, belly-wobbling laugh. ‘You ’ave the arms, I’ll ’ave the legs, and the rest we’ll split right down the middle!’
Rupert glanced at George. ‘Unlucky, mate,’ he commiserated.
Comparing his wooden stake to the lethal arsenal possessed by the enemy, Rupert decided on an upgrade. ‘Bugger this!’ Rupert dropped his stick and ran to the weapons rack, where he grabbed the biggest axe he could find.
‘What are you doing?’ hissed George. ‘You know you’re not supposed to use that!’
Rupert could barely lift the thing: a gigantic double-headed battleaxe, its twin blades inlaid with strange symbols. ‘Now that’s more like it,’ he said, grinning mischievously.
Timothy tucked his stake into his belt. ‘If he’s having one, so am I.’ He raced over, selected a gleaming broadsword, and raced back. More than once, Timothy had wielded a sword during his dream battles. In fact, he was rather good at the skill. Yes, it had been in his dreams, and yes, his hosts, Vlad the Impaler and Jason of Iolcus, had been champion sword fighters, but surely a hint of their ability had rubbed off on him?
George eyed his two friends with envy. Nonetheless, he held on to his stake dutifully. Doing what he was told was at the very heart of George’s DNA, especially when Isabella Van Owlwarden was doing the telling. In his experience, nothing good ever came from disobedience.
Another goblin appeared above them. This one was huge, a chieftain among its kind. Dangling through the hole with one hand, the devil-spawn cradled an AK-47. ‘Eat lead, human dogs!’ The goblin’s machine gun roared into life. Dadadadadadadadada!
