John Connolly - The Infernals aka Hell's Bells

“I can’t believe someone’s nicked the van,” said Dozy. “I mean, it’s not like we left it on a council estate with the doors open. It’s a desert. What kind of lowlifes do they have around here, anyway?”

“It’s Hell,” Angry pointed out glumly. “It’s probably full of the kind of people who’d nick your feet if your legs weren’t attached to them.”

“Suppose so,” said Dozy. “Still, that’s how a place gets a reputation for being unwelcoming to visitors.”

“Leaseraneem,” said Mumbles.

“You’re right,” said Jolly. “There never is a copper around when you need one.”

Which was slightly ironic, given that (a) Mr. Merryweather’s dwarfs were not the sort to court the attention of the police at any time; and (b) generally it was not Mr. Merryweather’s dwarfs who needed the help of the police, but other people who needed it to protect them from Mr. Merryweather’s dwarfs.

At this point, as if on cue, a police patrol car appeared on top of a nearby dune, its blue lights flashing.

“Blimey,” said Jolly. “They’re efficient around here, I’ll give them that.”

Angry squinted at the car as it made its way carefully down the side of the dune.

“You know, I could be wrong, but those coppers don’t half look familiar.”

The car drew to a halt. Its doors opened. From one side stepped Sergeant Rowan, and from the other Constable Peel. Both of them scowled at the dwarfs, and on their faces was etched the memory of incidents of assault; drunkenness; unauthorized taking of vehicles, including an ambulance and a bus; arson; breaking and entering, specifically into Biddlecombe’s Little World of Animal Wonders, and the removal of a penguin and two ferrets from same; using a penguin and two ferrets as dangerous weapons; and last, but by no means least, stealing a policeman’s helmet, namely Constable Peel’s, and allowing a penguin and two ferrets to use it as a public convenience. What these incidents had in common was that they had all involved, to some degree or another, one or more of, yes, that’s right, Mr. Merryweather’s dwarfs.

“Oh no,” said Jolly as his brain registered the two policemen, and all of the unfortunate memories associated with them. “It’s true: this must be Hell.”

SERGEANT ROWAN AND CONSTABLE Peel were deeply, deeply unhappy. To begin with, they had been hauled through an interdimensional portal, which had hurt a lot. Then they had recovered consciousness just in time to see a pink-skinned demon with three heads, too many eyes, and a mouth in its stomach steal the loudspeaker from their roof before running away while wearing it as a hat on its middle head. Then a smaller demon carrying a bucket of white sand had passed them, waved, and disappeared over the top of a dune. He had been followed by another, and another, and another, all of them identical and all of them carrying buckets of white sand. Attempts to engage them in conversation, including such beloved opening gambits as “Who are you?,” “Where is this?,” and “What are you doing with that bucket?” had met with no reply.

“You know what, Constable?” said Sergeant Rowan as the never-ending procession of demons passed, each one greeting them with a cheery wave.

“I don’t want to know what, Sarge.”

“What?”

“I mean that I don’t want to hear what you’re about to say, because I know what you’re about to say, and I know it’s not something I want to hear. So, if it’s all the same to you, I think I might just put my fingers in my ears and hum a happy tune.”

And he did just that, until Sergeant Rowan made him stop.

“Now, lad, don’t let’s be overdramatic,” said Sergeant Rowan. “We have to face up to the truth here.”

“I don’t want to face up to the truth. The truth’s nasty. The truth’s walking up that dune holding a bucket. The truth has three heads and stole our loudspeaker.”

“Which means?”

Constable Peel looked as if he was about to cry.

“You’re going to tell me that the portal’s opened again, and all kinds of horrible creatures are pouring out.”

Sergeant Rowan smiled at him. “I wasn’t going to tell you that at all, lad.”

“Really?”

“No, that’s not what’s happening here.”

“Are you sure?”

“Virtually certain.”

“Oh!” said Constable Peel. He smiled with relief. “Oh, thank goodness. Phew, don’t I feel foolish?”

“I’ll bet you do, lad.”

“There was I, worrying that the portal had opened, and monsters were going to pop out of it and try to eat us, and the dead were going to come alive again, and, you know, all that kind of thing. Silly old Peel, eh?”

“Silly old you,” said Sergeant Rowan. “Monsters aren’t going to come pouring through the portal.”

“That’s a load off my mind,” said Constable Peel, then thought about what he had just heard. “But what about the one that stole our loudspeaker, and the little red blokes with the buckets?”

“They didn’t come through the portal. None of them did.”

“Why not?”

“Because they’re already here. It’s we who have come through the portal, Constable, not them. We’re in Hell.”

All things considered, thought Sergeant Rowan, Constable Peel had taken the news remarkably well, once he’d stopped raving and calmed down. They had taken the decision to get away from the steady train of bucket-toting, polite, but relatively uncommunicative demons and find someone who might be able to answer a straight question, which is how they had come across four dwarfs standing on a flat patch between dunes, scratching their heads and staring at the sky. Both policemen had recognized them instantly, and their moods had immediately brightened. They might have been in Hell, but they weren’t alone, and if there were four individuals that Sergeant Rowan and Constable Peel would like to have seen consigned to Hell more than Mr. Merryweather’s dwarfs, then they hadn’t met those people yet, and probably never would.

“Hello, hello, hello,” said Sergeant Rowan, watching with pleasure as the four dwarfs looked in vain for a means of escape. “What have we here, then?”

“Why, I believe it’s the fabled Mr. Merryweather’s Dwarfs, Sarge,” said Constable Peel.

“Is it really? My, my. Correct me if I’m wrong, Constable, but would they be the same dwarfs who stole your helmet and allowed two ferrets to do their business in it?”

“Two ferrets and a penguin, Sarge,” Constable Peel corrected.

“Oh yes, the penguin. I’d almost forgotten about that penguin. Phil, wasn’t it?”

“That’s right, Sarge. Phil the Penguin. Filled my helmet and all.” He smiled at his own little joke. The thought of getting some revenge on Mr. Merryweather’s dwarfs was cheering him up no end.

Sergeant Rowan looked around. “So we have the dwarfs, but where is Mr. Merryweather?” He turned his attention back to the dwarfs, and pointed at Jolly. “You, Mr. Jolly Smallpants, you’re the leader of this motley crew, but where’s the ringmaster?”

“He abandoned us,” said Jolly.

“Hardly blame him,” said Sergeant Rowan.

“He doesn’t love us anymore,” said Dozy.

“Wonder that he ever did,” said Sergeant Rowan.

“Prifowig,” said Mumbles.

“Whatever,” said Sergeant Rowan.

“We’re only little people,” said Angry. He put on his best sad face, made his eyes large, and tried unsuccessfully to force a tear from them. “We’re very small, and we’re all alone in the world.”

His fellow dwarfs bowed their heads, peered up from beneath their brows, and introduced some trembling to their lips.