The Infernals aka Hell's Bells

XXI

NURD, THE FORMER SCOURGE of Five Deities, now reformed, wondered how much bad luck a demon could have. First of all, he’d been banished to the Wasteland with Wormwood, where they had spent a very, very long time getting to know each other and wishing that they hadn’t. It had been aeons of utter monotony, broken only by the capacity of Wormwood’s body to produce the most extraordinary odors, and Nurd amusing himself by hitting Wormwood hard on the head with a scepter in return. Then, in the manner of a great many buses arriving together after you’ve been standing in the rain for hours waiting for just one, Nurd had found himself sent back and forth through a hole in space and time on no fewer than four occasions, causing his body to be stretched and then compressed in a most uncomfortable manner, as well as being crushed by a vacuum cleaner, hit by a truck, dropped down a sewer, and then forced to face the wrath of the armies of Hell by undoing the Great Malevolence’s plan to invade Earth. What was more, he had managed to annoy two policemen, the very same policemen who were now staring at him balefully while surrounded by four hostile-looking dwarfs and a shortsighted ice-cream salesman.

It’s just not fair, thought Nurd. All I wanted was a quiet life, and maybe some candy and an ice cream.

Constable Peel removed his notebook in an officious manner, licked the tip of his pencil, and prepared to write.

“Ready, Sarge,” he said.

“List of charges,” began Sergeant Rowan. “Evading arrest. Leaving the scene of a crime, namely an attack on a house of worship by assorted dead people. Soiling a police vehicle.”

“I never did,” said Nurd.

“You made it smell,” said Sergeant Rowan.

“I fell down a sewer.”

“Nevertheless, our car has never smelled right since. Causes Constable Peel here to feel nauseous on a regular basis.”

“And it makes my uniform pong,” said Constable Peel. “It undermines my authority, having a smelly uniform.”

Nurd was tempted to suggest that the main factor undermining Constable Peel’s authority was Constable Peel himself, but decided against it. He was in enough trouble already.

“What else do we have, Constable?” asked Sergeant Rowan.

“Immigration offenses?” suggested Constable Peel.

“Right you are. Improper entry. Entering Britain without a proper visa. Entering Britain without a passport. Illegal alien, you are.”

“I’m not an alien,” Nurd corrected. “I’m a demon.”

“Don’t nitpick. You were an illegal immigrant.”

“I didn’t immigrate,” said Nurd. “I was sent against my will.”

“You can explain it to the judge,” said Sergeant Rowan. “Now we get on to the really interesting stuff. Damage to private property. Theft of a privately owned vehicle. Driving without a proper license. Driving without insurance. Speeding. Theft of a police vehicle. They’re going to throw away the key for you, Sonny Jim. They’ll put you away for so long that by the time you get out we’ll all be living on other planets.”

Nurd folded his arms. He whistled, scratched his pointy chin, then tapped his fingers against it, all of which served to communicate the following message: Hmm, I’m thinking here, and I seem to have spotted a fatal flaw in all that you’ve just told me.

“Forgive me for pointing this out, officers, but I wasn’t aware that you had jurisdiction in Hell. Biddlecombe: yes. Hell: I think not.”

“Got you there, Sergeant,” said Jolly, sticking his oar in and splashing it about merrily. “Old Moonface is a bit of a jailhouse lawyer.”

“You keep quiet,” said Constable Peel. “You lot are in enough trouble of your own.”

“Oooh,” said Dozy. “Make sure you add ‘stealing ice cream’ to our list of charges. We’ll get life for that.”

“Listen, you,” said Sergeant Rowan, wagging his finger at Nurd and doing his best to ignore the Greek chorus 31 of dwarfs, “you have a lot to answer for. You need to come down to the station and explain yourself.”

“You know, I’d actually be happy to do that,” said Nurd. “Unfortunately, I, like you, am stuck here in Hell, and there are more pressing problems to consider.”

“Such as?”

“You’re not the only humans in Hell.”

“What do you mean? Who else is here?”

“Samuel Johnson and his dog.”

Sergeant Rowan frowned. Nurd could almost hear the cogs turning in his brain. Sergeant Rowan had been one of the first on the scene after the portal closed, but he’d never managed to find out the full story. He only knew that Samuel had effectively saved the Earth, aided by an unknown person in a stolen Aston Martin who-

Who had bravely driven it into the portal, causing it to collapse.

Sergeant Rowan took a few steps forward and examined the moving rock. More particularly, he examined the wheels of the rock, and then peered into the interior of the disguised car.

“Constable Peel, do you still have your notebook open?” he said.

“Yes, Sarge.”

“You know that page you’ve just filled with all of the charges against Mr. Nurd here?”

“Yes, Sarge. I’ve written them all down very neatly, in case the judge wants to read them for himself.”

“Tear it out and throw it away, there’s a good lad.”

“But-”

“No buts. Just do as I say.”

With considerable reluctance, Constable Peel did as he was told. He tore the page into little pieces and dropped them on the ground.

“Littering,” said a small, cheery voice from somewhere around his belly button. “That’s a fifty-quid fine.”

“Shut up,” said Constable Peel.

“It seems I may owe you an apology, sir,” said Sergeant Rowan.

“No, not really,” said Nurd. “I did all of the things that you said, or most of them anyway.”

“Well, I think you may have made up for them. Now, what’s this about Samuel Johnson?”

And Nurd did his best to explain how he had felt Samuel’s presence, and how he believed that it was Mrs. Abernathy who had been responsible for dragging Samuel and by extension the policemen, the dwarfs, and Dan, Dan the Ice-Cream Man to Hell.

“And what do you suggest we do about that?” asked Sergeant Rowan.

“We find Samuel, and then we try to discover the location of the gateway so we can get you all home,” said Nurd.

“You seem very sure that there is a gateway.”

“There has to be. Even here, certain laws apply. Wherever it is, it has to be close to Mrs. Abernathy. I do have one question for you, though.”

“And what’s that?” said Sergeant Rowan.

“What is that terrible music?”

“It’s ‘(How Much Is) That Doggie in the Window?’” said Constable Peel glumly.

“Woof-woof,” said Angry, mainly out of force of habit. (He was Pavlov’s Dwarf. 32)

“I told you,” said Dan. “I can’t turn it off if the engine is on, and I’m a bit worried about turning the engine off and leaving us stuck here.”

As he spoke Wormwood opened the door of the van, peered beneath the dashboard, and fiddled about a bit. Instantly, the music stopped.

“Thank you,” said Constable Peel. “Thank you, thank you, thank you. If you didn’t look like a rodent, smell funny, and have what I suspect may be a number of easily communicable diseases, I might even hug you.”

“Nicest thing anyone has ever said to me,” Wormwood replied. He sniffled, and wiped away a little tear.

“That is a relief,” said Sergeant Rowan. “Now, where’s Samuel?”

Nurd pointed to his left. “I think he’s over there somewhere.”

“Then over there somewhere is where we’re going. Lead on, sir.”

Nurd and Wormwood returned to their car while the policemen and the dwarfs climbed back into the ice-cream van with Dan.

“Hey, what was that song again?” said Dozy, followed quickly by the words “Ow!” and “Never mind” as Constable Peel made his disapproval of such questions felt.

Nurd started the ignition on the Aston Martin and pulled ahead of the van, which was soon rumbling along behind them.

Wormwood tapped Nurd on the arm.

“Look what I found in the van,” he said.

In his hand he held a bag of jelly beans.

“If you ever tell anyone I said this, I shall deny it,” said Nurd, “but, Wormwood, you’re a marvel…”