Un Lun Dun

51. Out of the Fire

“Jones!” Deeba yelled. “Mortar! Obaday! Help!” The knots that held her were very tight. “Hemi, he’s going to put us in the fire!” Hemi strained.

“Hush now,” the man said. “No one to hear.” He walked towards them, his arms outstretched. “It won’t take long,” he whispered. “It’ll be over quickly. And then your memories live on as smoke in me.”

Deeba began to scream.

As the Unstible-thing leaned close, his eyes gaping wide, and Deeba’s voice choked in her throat, Hemi moved. He strained against the ropes, and feeling the peculiar motion, Deeba realized what he was doing.

Not being pure-blood ghost, it was harder for Hemi than for his mother’s side of the family, but with effort, he could pass through solid matter. That was what he was doing. The flesh of his arms was oozing through the sleeves of his jacket and the cords that held them.

The rope passed sluggishly through him. He was not transparent like his ghostly relatives, and the bonds disappeared completely within his skin, until they emerged reluctantly out the other side.

Unstible lunged. Hemi yanked off his blindfold and whacked Unstible in the face, grabbed his leg, and tugged. Unstible roared and fell, and the smoglodytes scattered in confusion. Hemi grunted and pulled himself free of his bonds— and of his clothes, which, not being ghost-clothes, had stayed where they were, like the clothes on the bus. Only his shoes and socks remained on him. Without him there, the ropes around Deeba went slack.

“Quick!” Hemi said.

So swollen it was hard for him to rise, Unstible bellowed and smoked. Hemi kicked him, dancing between smoglodytes as they snapped and grabbed for his nude pale legs. Curdle rolled aggressively among them, wheezing sourly as they snapped.

Deeba grabbed Hemi’s clothes. She hesitated for one second, then picked up the tiny scrap of ghost-paper that had drifted out of the fire. It was unmarked, with only a very few ripped edges of spirits clinging to it.

Unstible grabbed Hemi’s ankle. Hemi tugged his leg, and Unstible’s fist closed through the skin and Hemi pulled himself free.

“Come on!” he shouted, and took Deeba’s hand. Behind them, Deeba heard Unstible hauling himself up and growling, and kicking the smoglodytes, judging by the animal squeals. Deeba and Hemi ran.

They tore along the deserted streets of the empty quarter, through an alley where the streetlights coiled and lunged at them like enormous snakes.

“This way! This way!” Hemi said. Deeba called to Curdle, and the milk carton leapt into her hands.

Deeba could hear running, and she knew that Unstible and his smoglodytes were close. Hemi led her to a brick dead end.

“Hold on a second,” he said. Deeba blinked as he shoved his head through the bricks, then brought it back.

“I thought so,” he said. “Jones and the bus are just there.” He held his hands cupped together in a step. The noise of their pursuers got closer. “Quick!”

Deeba struggled up and over with Hemi’s help. She dropped the clothes and Curdle onto the pavement, dangled, and followed them. She could see the top of the bus nearby. A pair of shoes came sailing over towards her, trailing socks.

A hairy mass grew from the wall, then burst out. It was Hemi’s head. He strained through the bricks as if shoving through jelly.

“Come on,” he said, emerging with an audible slurp. “Give me my clothes! Go! Unstible’s still coming.”

“Jones!” Deeba called, realizing that to shout might tell Unstible where they were but too terrified to care. “Jones! Rosa! Quick! Go! Let’s go!”