The Creeps: A Samuel Johnson Tale

XXIV

In Which Nurd and Wormwood Plan a Great Escape

NURD AND WORMWOOD CROUCHED in the darkness of Samuel’s bedroom, watching the activity below. Nurd turned to Wormwood and examined him critically, which wasn’t difficult where Wormwood was concerned. He straightened Wormwood’s costume, and adjusted his hat.

“This plan will never work,” said Wormwood.

“It might,” said Nurd.

“I look ridiculous.”

“Wormwood, you always look ridiculous. Admittedly, you now look slightly more ridiculous, if such a thing were possible. I did not believe it was, but it seems you have just proved me wrong. How do I look?”

“You look ridiculous, too. And it still won’t work.”

“Do you have a better plan?” asked Nurd.

“I have never had a plan in my life,” admitted Wormwood, although he was tempted to add that he was currently trying to come up with his first, because whatever he thought of, it couldn’t be worse than this one.

They were under a state of siege. The elves had surrounded the house, but so far had failed to enter it. They had found the double glazing on Mrs. Johnson’s windows harder to break than expected, mostly because their little arms weren’t strong enough to hurl stones at the glass with sufficient force to do any damage, while attempts to squeeze through the spring-loaded letter box had resulted only in severe injury to the elves involved.

In desperation, the elves had resorted to fire.

Nurd and Wormwood had looked on as a gang of elves struggled under the weight of a can of petrol, along with some matches and various rags, all stolen from the shed of Mr. Jarvis, who lived next door to the Johnsons and was currently away on business.⁴⁰

“Mr. Jarvis won’t like that,” said Nurd. “He doesn’t even allow people to borrow his lawn mower.”

This was true. Mr. Jarvis was very mean. If Mr. Jarvis had been a ghost, he would have charged people for frights.

“What are they going to do with that petrol?” said Wormwood.

“I’m not certain, but I suspect that they’re going to try to burn us out.”

“They do know that we’re demons, right?” said Wormwood. “Demons don’t burn very well.”

“No,” said Nurd, “but this house will burn nicely, whether we’re in it or not. What do you think Samuel’s mum will say if she comes home from bingo and finds her house on fire?”

“She won’t be happy,” said Wormwood.

“She won’t be happy at all.”

“Will she blame us?”

“She might, unless we can show her some elves with matches in their hands, but I’d prefer it if the house didn’t burn to begin with.”

“I’ll start filling buckets with water,” said Wormwood.

“That would be helpful,” said Nurd.

He continued to watch the elves. Even by the standards of not-very-bright creatures, the elves were spectacularly unintelligent. Perhaps it was because they were made from supernaturally animated wood. Say what you like about wood, but if you’re on a quiz team and one of your team members is made from birch, or if you and your fellow prisoners are trying to come up with a cunning plan to escape from prison and one of you is carved out of oak, there’s a limit to how much help the wooden representatives are going to be. Animated entities made from wood are usually not clever. So it was that the elves were splashing petrol around, and failing to light matches, and getting themselves wrapped up in bits of rag like small wooden mummies. More and more elves arrived to help, adding a second can of petrol to the first, and more matches, and even more confusion. They began carrying everything to the front door, spilling more petrol as they went.

“Tut-tut,” said Nurd.

“What?” said Wormwood, who had arrived with a bucket of water.

“Very dangerous, mucking about with fire. Someone could do himself an injury, and I think a lot of wooden someones are about to do just that.”

It’s a funny thing about fire, but it burns very well when there is wood involved. It burns even better when there is wood and petrol involved, and better still if a little paint is added to the mix for good measure. Basically, Mrs. Johnson’s garden was now full of small, painted, petrol-soaked pieces of wood.

Suddenly one of the elves finally managed to get a match lit.

“Weeeee!” it said with delight, holding the match above its head like a small, and not very impressive, Olympic torch.

“Weeeee!” said the other elves.

“Weeeee!” said the first elf again. It watched as the flame neared its fingers.

“Oh-oh!” it said, and dropped the match.

There was a loud whoosh, and a burst of flame. Mrs. Johnson’s garden was immediately turned into an elf bonfire. Somewhere in the middle of it, small figures could be seen running around trying to put themselves out. Bells tinkled hotly before melting.

“Can I make a joke about elf and safety?” said Wormwood.

“No, you can’t,” said Nurd.

They waited until the flames began to die down. Some of the elves, now slightly charred, had made it to safety, although they were still stunned by what had happened. In a very short time, though, it was likely that they would overcome their shock and get angry, and then they’d start looking for revenge.

“Now is our chance,” said Nurd. “If we don’t make it, I’d like to say that it’s been an honor to have you as a friend, Wormwood. I’d like to say that, but I can’t, because it wouldn’t be true.”

“Thank you,” said Wormwood. He was getting quite tearful. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“It is, Wormwood. In return, do you have anything you’d like to say to me?”

Wormwood thought for a moment. Nurd picked up a faint smell of burning. He thought it was coming from the elves until he realized that it was the smell of Wormwood thinking.

“I couldn’t have asked for a better demonic master,” said Wormwood finally.

“Really?”

“Really. I couldn’t have asked, because nobody would have paid any attention.”

“How true, Wormwood, how true.”

Nurd and Wormwood went down the stairs and paused at the front door. They each took a deep breath and crossed their fingers. Wormwood had an extra one on each hand, which made it more complicated for him.

“Ready?” said Nurd.

“Ready,” said Wormwood.

Nurd opened the door, and together they stepped into the garden.

• • •

The elves, as we have already established, were not the sharpest tools in the box. They had, until recently, been perfectly anonymous bits of wood before unexpectedly finding themselves infused with supernatural energy. They had only two purposes: to cause as much mayhem as possible in Biddlecombe, and to capture the demons known as Nurd and Wormwood and bring them to Wreckit & Sons. So far they’d been doing reasonably well on the mayhem front, but the attempts to capture Nurd and Wormwood had been less successful. Various elves had lost limbs and heads due to collapsing pyramids and letter-box-related injuries. Half a dozen more had been crushed when stones and rocks thrown optimistically at windows had fallen tragically short of their targets. Finally, fire had taken care of most of the ones that were still standing, leaving only a handful in any condition to resume the mission.

The elves had pictures of Nurd and Wormwood implanted in their minds. They were sure of what the wanted demons looked like. What they did not look like was elves, which was why the remaining elves were slightly puzzled to see two more elves step out of a house previously occupied only by two demons. They were very large elves, and one of them smelled odd, even from a distance, but there was definitely something elfish about them. They had pointy ears, their cheeks were painted a rosy red, and they were wearing hats with bells on the end. They even had white beards, which made them very senior elves, and probably explained why they were so large.

Wormwood tried to keep from scratching at his cotton-wool beard, and from adjusting the Father Christmas hat that Mrs. Johnson had bought to be worn on Christmas Day, and which was making his head sweat. He had also borrowed Mrs. Johnson’s red bathrobe. Nurd, meanwhile, was looking radiant in the green shower curtain from the bathroom, belted at the waist.

The elves stared at them. Anybody would have, really.

“We’re going to die,” whispered Wormwood.

“We can’t die,” said Nurd. “We’re demons.”

“Then we’re going to nearly die, and we’re going to continue nearly dying for a very long time.”

“Keep smiling,” said Nurd, while keeping smiling, so that it came out as “Keek smigink.”

“Keek what?” said Wormwood.

“Keek smigink.”

“Oh. Right.”

Wormwood still had no idea what Nurd was saying, so he decided just to keep smiling and hope for the best. Together, he and Nurd walked down the garden path, their gaze fixed on a point somewhere over the heads of the elves, their smiles never wavering. As they passed, the elves fell to their knees in awe.

“It’s working!” said Wormwood.

“Keek quige!”

But it was working, and it would have kept on working had Nurd’s tail not poked out from beneath the folds of the shower curtain. The tail had been growing shorter of late, and Nurd was certain that eventually it would disappear altogether, but it still liked to make an appearance when Nurd was in stressful situations. One of the elves spotted it as it threw itself to the ground.

“Weeee?” it said.

It nudged the elf beside it, and pointed at the tail.

“Weeee!”

The word was passed among the elves. By now, Nurd and Wormwood were at the garden gate. Another step or two and they’d be on the street, and Nurd had Mrs. Johnson’s car keys in his pocket. He had promised her never, ever to drive again without permission, or unless he was being paid to crash the car in question, but Nurd looked at promises as things you said just to make other people feel better. You never knew what might happen in the future, and you didn’t want to go pinning yourself down.

Nurd reached for the keys. The car was in sight. He took one more step toward it and stopped: not because he wanted to, but because his feet wouldn’t carry him forward. He looked over his shoulder to find a dozen elves hanging on grimly to his tail. One of them was even gnawing at it. Nurd wished him luck. His tail was tougher than leather, and tasted like it, too.

Nurd sighed. There was a discarded match on the ground beside him. He picked it up and flicked at it with a curved fingernail, causing it to ignite.

“Wormwood?” he said. “Will you do the honors?”

He held the match out by his side. Wormwood leaned in close, took a deep breath, and blew hard.

The match disappeared in a torrent of flame that continued in the direction of the elves. If they thought the petrol was bad, the effect of Wormwood’s lit breath on them was a thousand times worse. Nurd wasn’t sure what Wormwood’s digestive system was like, but he decided that whatever was happening inside Wormwood must be very horrible, and certainly explained where a lot of those smells were coming from. The elves didn’t even burn. They just went straight from wood to black ash without any steps in between.

“Thank you, Wormwood,” said Nurd. “Well done. Indeed, they’re probably very well done now, come to think of it.”

Wormwood stopped blowing. Nurd dislodged the remaining pieces of charred elf from his tail, and lifted the tip to examine it. It, too, was on fire. He gave a little puff of breath, and the fire went out.

“What now?” said Wormwood.

“We go to Wreckit & Sons,” said Nurd.

“Why there?”

Nurd picked up an elf foot that had survived the blaze and pointed to the sole of its little painted boot. On it were written the words PROPERTY OF WRECKIT & SONS.

40. You should not play with fire. You are about to discover why.