He leaned his body against the door and slammed it shut. The latch fell into place and he threw a bolt across.
The beast hit with incredible force, bending the wooden panels and cracking the plaster around the frame. Somehow the door held. As Sylas stepped back, it struck again and he saw a crack of light appear between two timbers. A splinter of wood flew off and nicked his cheek. It would give way all too soon.
He turned and ran through the doorway into the adjoining office, pulling it closed behind him just as he heard the beast smashing its way into the kitchen. Breathlessly he skirted the desk, praying that his uncle had left the door between the office and the corridor unlocked. He reached for the cold brass handle and turned it. The door held firm. He hurled himself against the wooden panels, but still it held fast. He heard a crash and turned to see the kitchen door bulge and splinter and the hound’s ghoulish head forcing its way through, its jaws biting at the shards of timber. In desperation he wrenched at the handle, rattling and twisting it from side to side. Suddenly he felt something smooth and cold brush against his fingers. He bent down and saw the old brass key still sitting in the keyhole. With a surge of relief he turned it and shouldered the door open, almost falling into the dim light of the corridor. He ran as fast as he could towards the main stairwell, hearing snarls, growls and crashes behind him.
In seconds he was there.
As he turned on to the first step, he looked behind. The massive figure of the hound smashed through the door in an explosion of plaster and splinters, hitting the opposite wall and falling to the floor. It lowered its head and glowered through reddened eyes, then threw its glistening snout high into the air and let out a blood-curdling howl that almost drowned out the chime of the bell.
Sylas launched himself off the top stair, taking them three at a time, forcing himself to keep his eyes ahead. He heard the clatter of the dog’s claws on the floor above as it gave chase. He reached the second floor and saw a crowd of residents gathered round the stairwell, peering up at him with frightened faces.
“Run!” he cried. “Get inside!”
Most scattered as he passed, but the more curious remained and as he continued his descent he heard their shrieks and shouts behind him. He thundered on to the sound of plaster shattering and wood snapping close behind. Finally he leapt off the bottom step and flung himself through the outside door.
He skidded to a halt on the pavement, gasping for breath, then turned to close the door.
It was already shut.
A tall, dark figure stood to one side, stooped over the lock. He heard the bolt click into place and then the figure slowly rose and turned. He found himself looking into the sallow face of Herr Veeglum.
“In a hurry, are vee?” asked the undertaker, leaning forward to peer into Sylas’s face. His voice was as grey as his features: monotone and dry.
Sylas had never actually heard Herr Veeglum speak before. He was about to attempt a reply when the dog struck the door. The thick oak panels shuddered, but didn’t move.
“Built for ze job,” said Herr Veeglum, glancing over his shoulder as though he needed reassurance of that fact. “But it vill not hold for long.”
Sylas stared at him, utterly confused. “But how did you...?”
Herr Veeglum raised a gloved hand and put a finger to his lips.
“Zer is more here zan meets ze eye, young man. But zer is no time to explain. You must go.”
He spoke firmly, but his manner was altogether warmer and his eyes livelier than Sylas would have expected. He so much wanted to know why Veeglum was there, but the undertaker was already leading him round the corner of the row.
As they came to the front of Buntague’s Bakery, the old man stopped and pointed across the street.
“Run as fast as you can,” he said. Then he put his mouth to Sylas’s ear and hissed: “Ze bell is calling you, Sylas!”
With that, he gave the boy a firm shove between the shoulder blades and Sylas found himself in the road. He heard the wail of a car horn and he turned his head to see three cars bearing down on him. He threw himself forward, darting left and then right to avoid them as they slammed on their brakes, sending up plumes of spray from their tyres. His heart was in his mouth, but somehow he danced between them and got safely to the other side.
As he stepped on to the pavement, he chanced a look back across the road. Herr Veeglum was still standing there, his hands at his sides, his face peculiarly calm, bearing an expression not dissimilar to Mr Zhi’s at the moment he had said goodbye. The undertaker raised one hand in a brief wave, then motioned furiously for him to go.
Sylas glanced quickly in the direction of the Shop of Things. Somehow he knew that Mr Zhi would be able to explain everything, but he could see no light through the window and there was no sign of the old shopkeeper. He summoned all his courage and turned his back on Gabblety Row.
Veeglum watched as Sylas sped off down the pavement towards the supermarket and then disappeared down a dark alley at its side. He shook his head wistfully, turned and walked round the corner of the row. When he reached the door, he stood some distance away and watched it shudder and vibrate as the beast charged at it from behind. The timbers held, yet around the frame tiny clouds of dust were curling into the night air and small pieces of mortar were falling to the floor. Then the great wooden beam above the frame shifted and an entire brick fell out of the wall.
He unfastened the buttons of his greatcoat and pulled it from his shoulders, revealing an immaculate black suit, a crisp white shirt and a pressed black tie. He laid the coat neatly on the pavement, folding the arms tidily over the top.
At that moment another smaller figure appeared from the lane behind Gabblety Row. This man also wore a suit, but of an ill-kempt, crumpled sort, and his appearance was all the more curious on account of his odd little pot-like hat and one ornately decorated glove.
Veeglum didn’t acknowledge him as he approached, but pulled on a plain green glove of his own.
Then they turned to face the door.
Sylas ran down the alleyway into the housing estate, the noise from the road quickly giving way to the near silence of the sleeping town. He emerged into a cul-de-sac and swung right, following his normal route to the shops. For once he was glad of the many errands he had run for his uncle, for he knew these roads well. He took a twisting, turning path down little-known lanes, across private gardens, allotments and tiny streets: he would be almost impossible to follow. He headed for the Hailing Bridge, which crossed the river in the centre of town. It lay directly in his path to the bell.
The bell struck again and he saw the rain around him change direction sharply, then slowly swing around as the sad, long note drew it towards the hills. He glanced in disbelief at the darkened windows of the estate, the curtains firmly closed and the occupants oblivious to the drama that was unfolding around them. Every unexpected splatter of rain in a puddle, every random crunch of a stone underfoot made his heart race even faster, but he fixed his eyes ahead and ran for his life.
He negotiated a warren of darkened pathways and finally he saw the bridge ahead. It was a simple structure of steel girders fixed at crude right angles to one another, most of which were emblazoned with graffiti colours. The centre of the bridge was unlit, but the two lamps at either end shone brightly above the oily black river.
Sylas’s heart sank.
There, barely visible in the very middle of the bridge, was a man leaning on one of the railings, looking in the opposite direction.
What was he doing there at this time of night?
Sylas stopped – this felt wrong. He thought of turning and running back through the estate to the other bridge,