Mister Monday Page 6

  ‘Oh, my!’ exclaimed someone from behind Arthur. ‘The very spit of how I’ve always imagined Mister Darcy. He must be an actor! I wonder why he’s dressed up like that.’

  It was the librarian. Mrs. Banber. She’d crept up on Arthur while he wasn’t paying attention.

  ‘And who are those strange men in the black suits?’ continued Mrs. Banber. ‘Those faces can’t be real! Are they making a film?’

  ‘You can see the dog-faces?!’ exclaimed Arthur. ‘I mean the Fetchers?’

  ‘Yes . . .’ replied the librarian absently, still staring out the window. ‘Though now that you mention it, I must be overdue for an eye checkup. My contact lenses don’t seem to be quite right. Those people are rather blurry.’

  She turned around and for the first time looked properly at Arthur and his battlements of books.

  ‘Though I can see you all right, young man! What are you doing with all those books? And what is that?’

  She pointed at the Atlas.

  ‘Nothing!’ exclaimed Arthur. He slammed the Atlas shut and let go of the Key, which was a mistake. The Atlas shrank immediately into its pocketbook size.

  ‘How did it do that?’ asked Mrs. Banber.

  ‘I can’t explain,’ said Arthur rapidly. He didn’t have time for this! The handsome man was walking towards the library, with the Fetchers following. He looked a bit like Mister Monday, though much more energetic, and Arthur wasn’t at all sure that the same strictures that kept the Fetchers from crossing thresholds would apply to him.

  ‘Have you got any salt?’ he asked urgently.

  ‘What?’ replied Mrs. Banber. She was looking out the window again and smoothing her hair. Her eyes had gone unfocused and dreamy. ‘He’s coming into the library!’

  Arthur grabbed the Atlas and the Key and stuffed them into his backpack. They glowed as he put them away, shedding a soft yellow light that momentarily fell on Mrs. Banber’s face.

  ‘Don’t tell him I’m here!’ he said urgently. ‘You mustn’t tell him I’m here.’

  Either the fear in his voice or that brief light from the Atlas and the Key recaptured Mrs. Banber’s attention. She suddenly looked less dreamy.

  ‘I don’t know what’s going on, but I don’t like it,’ she snapped. ‘No one is coming into my library without permission! Go and hide behind the zoology books, Arthur. I’ll deal with this person!’

  Arthur needed no invitation. He hurried away from the window, into the maze of library shelves, walking as fast as he dared. He could feel his lungs tightening, losing their flexibility. Stress and fear were already feeding his asthma.

  He stopped behind the zoology shelves and crouched down so that he could see through two rows of shelves to the front door, where Mrs. Banber stood guard at the front desk. She had a scanner in her hand and was angrily checking in books, the scanner beeping every few seconds as its infra-red eye picked up a bar code.

  Arthur tried to breathe slowly. Perhaps the handsome man couldn’t come in. If he was waiting out front, Arthur could escape through the staff entrance he’d seen at the back.

  A shadow fell across the door. Arthur’s breath stopped halfway in. For an instant he thought he couldn’t breathe, but it was only a moment of panic. As he got the rest of his breath, the handsome man stopped in front of the door.

  He reached out with one white-gloved hand and pushed the door open. For a hopeful moment Arthur thought he couldn’t cross that threshold. Then the man stepped into the library. As he passed the door, the anti-theft scanners gave a plaintive beep and the green lights on top went out.

  Mrs. Banber was out from behind her desk in a flash.

  ‘This is a school library,’ she said frostily. ‘Visitors must report to the front office first.’

  ‘My name is Noon,’ said the man. His voice was deep and musical, and he sounded like a famous British actor. Any famous British actor. ‘I am Private Secretary and Cupbearer to Mister Monday. I am looking for a boy. Ar-tor.’

  He had a silver tongue, Arthur saw. Literally silver, shining in his mouth. His words were smooth and shining too. Arthur felt like coming out and saying, ‘Here I am.’

  Mrs. Banber obviously felt the same way. Arthur could see her trembling and her hand rose, almost as if it was going to point to where he was hiding. But somehow she forced it back down.

  ‘I . . . I don’t care,’ said Mrs. Banber. She seemed smaller and her voice was suddenly weak. ‘You have . . . you have to report . . .’

  ‘Really?’ asked Noon. ‘You can’t allow a few words . . .’

  ‘No, no,’ whispered Mrs. Banber.

  ‘A pity,’ said Noon. His voice grew colder, authoritarian and threatening. He smiled, but the smile was cruel and did not extend beyond his thin lips. He ran one gloved finger along the top of a display stand and held it up in front of Mrs. Banber’s face. The tip of the glove was stained with grey dust.

  The librarian stared at the finger as if it were her eye doctor’s flashlight.

  ‘Spring cleaning must be done,’ said Noon. He blew on the dust, and a little cloud of it fell on Mrs. Banber’s face. She blinked once, sneezed twice, and fell to the ground.

  Arthur stared, horrified, as Noon carefully stepped over the librarian’s body and stalked past the front desk. For a second he thought Mrs. Banber was dead, till he saw her trying to get up again.

  ‘Ar-tor,’ called Noon softly, his silver tongue flickering. He had stopped just past the desk and was eyeing the shelves with obvious suspicion. ‘Come out, Ar-tor. I merely want to talk to you.’

  ‘Ar-tor!’

  The voice was commanding, and once again Arthur felt the urge to reveal himself, to run out. But he felt a countervailing force from the Key and the Atlas in his backpack. A soothing vibration, like a kitten purring, that reduced the force of Noon’s words. Arthur undid the bag, took the Key in his hand, and slipped the Atlas into his shirt pocket. Both were immensely comforting, and Arthur found that he could even breathe more easily.

  Noon frowned, a momentary ugliness on that handsome face. Then he reached out with his white-gloved hand and opened a small cupboard that materialised in midair the instant he reached for it. There was a telephone inside. A very old telephone, with a separate earpiece on a cord and a bell-mouth to speak into.

  ‘Mister Monday,’ said Noon into the mouthpiece.

  Arthur could hear someone muttering on the other end.

  ‘This is official business, you fool,’ snapped Noon. ‘What is your name and number?’

  There was more muttering at the other end. Noon frowned again, then slowly and deliberately hung up the earpiece, let it sit for a moment, then took it up again.

  ‘Operator? Mister Monday. Yes, at once. Yes, I know where I’m calling from! This is Monday’s Noon. Thank you.’ There was a pause as Mister Monday was connected. ‘Sir? I have the boy trapped.’

  Arthur clearly heard Mister Monday yawn before he replied. His voice not only came out of the earpiece, it echoed around the whole library.

  ‘Have you the Minute Key? It must be brought back to me at once!’

  ‘Not yet, sir,’ replied Noon. ‘The boy is hiding in a . . . library.’

  ‘I don’t care where he’s hiding!’ screamed Monday. ‘Get the Key!’

  ‘A library, sir,’ said Noon patiently. ‘There is a lot of type. The Will could be here too –’

  ‘The Will! The Will! I am so bored with this talk! Do whatever you have to! You have plenipotentiary powers! Use them!’

  ‘I need that in writing, sir,’ said Noon calmly. ‘The Morrow Days –’

  There was a sound that was a cross between a yawn and a snarl, and a tightly bound scroll flew out of the earpiece. Moving so fast that Arthur didn’t see it happen, Noon ducked aside, and as the scroll shot past, he snatched it from the air with his free hand.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ he said, and paused. There was no answer from the other end. Just a long snore.

  Noon hung up the phone and carefu
lly closed the cupboard. As the door shut, the phone cupboard dissolved into thin air.

  Noon unrolled the scroll and read it. This time, a real smile fleetingly moved across his face, and a red light flashed briefly in his eyes. ‘This is your last chance to come out,’ Noon said conversationally. ‘I can bring the Fetchers in now. They’ll soon root you out, Ar-tor.’

  Arthur didn’t respond. Noon stood there, tapping the scroll against his thigh. Behind him, Mrs. Banber pulled herself up onto the desk and picked up the phone handset. Arthur watched them both, panicked, not knowing what he should do. Should he help Mrs. Banber? Should he give himself up? Maybe if he gave Noon the Key then they would leave him alone?

  Mrs. Banber, her hand shaking so much she could hardly hold the phone, started to punch in a number. The keypad beeped, and Noon whirled. His wings exploded out behind and above him. Huge, feathery wings that had once been white and lustrous but now were stained with patches of something dark and horrid, something that might even be dried blood.

  Noon’s wings cast a dreadful shadow over the librarian as he thrust out his hand and flexed his fingers. A fiery sword appeared in his fist, and he struck down at the phone, the flaming blade melting it in an instant, the papers on the desk exploding into flame. Mrs. Banber staggered away and collapsed near the front door as smoke billowed to the ceiling.

  ‘Enough!’ said Noon. He stalked to the front door, his wings still arched up behind him, and opened it.

  ‘Come in, my Fetchers! Come and find the boy! Come and find Ar-tor!’

  Six

  BLACK SMOKE ROLLED across the ceiling. A fire alarm began to clang and clatter outside, followed a second later by the whoop-whoop of the evacuation siren. The Fetchers came into the library with the sound, all in a rush, barking with excitement at being invited past the door.

  Noon pointed at the shelves and the Fetchers bounded forward, many of them bent over so they could sniff at the floor, their tongues lolling and flat noses twitching. Sniffing for their prey. Arthur.

  But Arthur hadn’t waited. He was already at the back door. It was locked, but there was a release button inside a glass box, plastered with warning signs about alarms and only being used in the event of fire.

  There was a fire. Arthur swung his backpack at the box and smashed the glass. It broke into tiny clumps rather than shattering. He reached in with his left hand and punched the button, because he didn’t want to let go of the Key he held tightly in his right hand. Somehow it helped him breathe, and he really needed to breathe properly right now. He could hear the Fetchers behind him, growling and grunting as they raced along the corridors made by the shelves, pausing at each intersection of the Dewey Decimal system to sniff out his path.

  Nothing happened after he pressed the button. Arthur’s hand trembled as he punched it again. The button pressed in easily enough, but the door didn’t open. Arthur kicked the door, but it wouldn’t budge. As he kicked it again, a red flame ran around the door frame. The same rich, deep red of Noon’s fiery sword.

  ‘The back door, my Fetchers! Ar-tor attempts the back door!’

  Noon’s voice carried through the fire alarm, the siren, and the Fetchers’ barks. Arthur immediately knew that Noon had used his powers to seal the door. But Arthur had his own magic. Or at least he had something that had power, even if he didn’t know what it really was or how to use it.

  The Key.

  Arthur touched the door with the point of the minute hand and shouted, ‘Open!’ There was a flash of white light, a sudden heat upon his face, then the twin leaves of the door flung open and a new alarm joined the cacophonous wail. Arthur ran out onto the fire stairs and jumped down the first two steps. Then he suddenly stopped, whirled, and jumped back. He had to close the doors behind him or the Fetchers would catch him for sure. But he had wasted a precious second – could he do it in time?

  He threw himself at the doors and slammed them shut, just as two Fetchers leaped at the gap. Arthur was thrown backwards and the doors started to open again, the Fetchers yowling and growling as they tried to grab him. Fingers ripped at his shirt, buttons went flying, but he slashed with the Key and the Fetchers let go, screaming horrible high-pitched screams.

  Arthur slammed the doors again and made a wild cut across them with the Key, shouting out, ‘Shut! Lock! Close!’

  Whether it was the cut or the words, the doors stayed shut, though Arthur could hear the thuds as the Fetchers threw themselves against the exit. But he didn’t hang around. Arthur knew that no doors would stop Noon.

  He’d only made it to the narrow hall between the library and the school refectory when there was an explosion above him. He crouched down and looked back as flames jetted out in all directions, and the doors flew over his head, whistling towards the science block quarter of a mile away. Noon strolled out onto the fire stairs, black smoke rolling out in coils above his head, with the Fetchers crouched around him. They looked less like men now and more like half-human dogs, their black suits in rags and their bowler hats lost somewhere in the burning library.

  Arthur turned to run again. But he had only gone a few yards when he heard the whoosh and beat of giant wings above him. A cold shadow passed over his head, and Noon landed right in front of him. His wings were spread wide, his flaming sword had appeared in his hand once more, and it was pointed right at Arthur’s throat.

  ‘Give me the Key,’ instructed Noon calmly.

  ‘No,’ whispered Arthur. ‘It was given to me.’

  ‘It was a mistake, you foolish boy,’ said Noon. He looked through a window at the sun and frowned. ‘Hand it over, circle end first. I haven’t got all day.’

  Something about the frown and the way he said those last words sparked an idea in Arthur’s mind. He looked down, pretending that he was thinking about handing over the Key. But he was actually looking at his watch. It was one minute short of one o’clock.

  ‘I don’t know,’ mumbled Arthur. Desperately he looked around. He could hear the Fetchers coming up from behind, and the flaming sword was close enough for him to wince at the heat. Sweat was dripping down his face, stinging his eyes. But at least he could breathe, though he was pretty certain that would stop as soon as he let go of the Key.

  ‘Give me the Key!’

  ‘Come and get it!’ shouted Arthur. He spun like a discus thrower and hurled the Key across the hall at the nearest door and threw himself after it.

  The very tip of the flaming sword caught him on the left arm as he ran, burning a line of intense pain from his shoulder to his elbow. Noon shouted something, but the boy didn’t hear. His lungs had frozen as he let go of the Key, and suddenly he didn’t have any breath at all, perhaps not even enough to last a few steps.

  He’d expected the Key to bounce off the door for him to pick up, but the clock hand had flown like a thrown dagger straight through the paper-thin gap between the door and the wall. So Arthur crashed into the door instead, and once again his expectations were confounded. It should have been locked, but instead of bouncing off and back into the path of Noon’s flaming sword he went slam-bang through it and rolled onto the floor beyond. His open hand fell on the Key and his fingers closed on it as tightly as they could. With the Key in his grasp he felt blessed breath come back and the burn on his arm fade into a dull ache.

  ‘There is really no point to your ridiculous acrobatics,’ said Noon as he stepped through the doorway. ‘Give me the Key and I shall allow you to crawl away. Otherwise I shall cut off your hand and take it.’

  Arthur looked at his watch. The second hand was sweeping towards the twelve. It was almost one o’clock. His watch was very accurate, and he had set it only a week or so ago.

  Slowly, he began to loosen his grip on the Key, as if he were obeying Noon’s instructions. As he let go, he felt his lungs tighten again, and the burn on his arm began to return.

  ‘Hurry up!’ shouted Noon. He raised his sword and the flames upon it roared into brighter, hotter life.

  The secon
d hand was on eleven. Arthur gulped as he realised that he was about to bet his hand – his life – on a guess. A guess that Noon could only be here in Arthur’s world for the single hour between noon and one.

  ‘No!’ shouted Arthur. He snatched the Key back and recoiled, shutting his eyes. The last thing he saw was Noon’s eyes reflecting red and the flaming sword hurtling down towards his hand.

  But no pain came. Arthur opened his eyes. The second hand of his watch was past the twelve, the hour hand and minute hand on one o’clock. There was no sign of Monday’s Noon, and the Fetchers were silent, though slavering, just beyond the door. There was a smouldering line of ash along the floor, an inch from Arthur’s fingers. He stared at it and wondered how Noon could have missed.

  The fire alarm was still ringing, and the siren still sounded its steady whoop. In the distance, Arthur could hear other sirens growing louder as fire engines converged upon the school.

  Arthur slowly got up and looked around. He was in the back of the refectory, in fact in the staff and delivery entrance for the kitchen. There was no one around, though it was clear from all the partly made meals, readied ingredients, still-steaming pots, and rotating microwave platters that the kitchen staff had only just left, responding to the evacuation alarm.

  He looked back at the Fetchers through the open door. They were silent now, standing in ranks. Somehow they had got their bowler hats back, and their black suits were restored. Once again they looked more like very ugly men and less like dogs.

  One of them stepped forward and opened its mouth, showing large canine teeth. Then it made a curious repetitive grunting noise. It took a moment for Arthur to realise it was meant to be a laugh. But what reason could this Fetcher have to laugh?

  Then he saw what it was holding in its stubby-fingered, long-nailed hand. The Atlas! Arthur’s own hand flashed to his shirt pocket and came away holding a strip of cloth. The pocket had been torn off, back when they’d almost got hold of him at the library. His chest was scratched as well, though he hadn’t noticed it at the time. Now it hurt. But not as much as losing the Atlas.