Garth Nix - Grim Tuesday

Arthur ducked down behind some fallen bricks and froze. The Grotesque sang to itself as it picked up a huge pair of long-handled tongs from the floor and went over to the dark bottles.

“Double, treble, quadruple bubble, watch the stock market get into trouble…”

Using the tongs with much grunting and shuffling, the Grotesque picked up one of the huge bottles and slowly manoeuvred it over to the boiler. It put the bottle down for a moment to open a hatch almost at ground level directly below the smokestack. Then it drew out gloves, a tightly fitting hood and goggles with smoked quartz lenses from inside its apron. It put these on, picked up the tongs again and used them to lever the bottle into a position where its neck fitted into the opening in the boiler.

Then it spoke. Three words in a language that Arthur did not know. Words that sent a shiver through the soles of his feet and up his spine. Words that caused the heavy wax seal on the bottle to shatter and release the contents into the boiler.

The contents were Nothing. Arthur saw a dark, oily waft that was both liquid and smoke at the same time. Most of it poured into the boiler, but a few tendrils escaped, winding back towards the Grotesque, who stepped smartly back. It dropped the tongs and drew a glittering blade of crystal that crackled with electric sparks.

The Nothing that had escaped began to eddy and spiral, taking a definite shape. At first it looked like it would become some sort of animal, something tiger-like, with clawed paws and a toothy mouth. Then it changed to become a human shape, but one with bunched tendrils instead of hands.

A Scoucher!

The Grotesque sheathed its crystal blade and eased one of the many rings it wore off its middle finger. As the Scoucher’s shape became definite and it lunged forward, the Grotesque flicked its ring. It struck the Scoucher in the face, and once again Arthur heard the sizzling sound. A moment later, the Scoucher was gone and the ring bounced on the floor with the clear bell-like sound of silver.

The Grotesque laughed and bent to pick it up. Arthur chose that moment to run to the next pile of debris. Instantly, the Grotesque swung round, its crystal blade in its hand once more. Arthur instinctively flinched, but the Grotesque did not rush over to attack. Instead it smiled and flourished its hand at the machine.

“So the Master of the Lower House has come to see my strange device. I presume you require a demonstration? A little foretaste of what is to come at twelve o’clock?”

The Grotesque strode to the side of the machine and turned a large bronze wheel. A shriek came from the boiler, rising in intensity with each turn of the wheel. Smoke suddenly poured out of the smokestack. Weird smoke that was grey and slow and thick, pitted with tiny specks of intense blackness. As the smoke rose and the shrieking grew louder, the arms of the machine rose high in the air and began to jerk and jitter from side to side.

Arthur looked around frantically. Whatever the machine did, it would be bad. He had to find the way into the House!

“Oil up fifteen per cent!” shouted the Grotesque, and it spoke another word that made Arthur feel suddenly ill. In response, the spider arms stopped for a moment, then began to dance in a rhythmic, mesmerising pattern. As they moved, sparks fountained out of the pointed ends of each limb, leaving luminescent aftertrails across Arthur’s eyes. Bright trails that were vaguely reminiscent of mathematical formulae and symbols, though not ones that Arthur recognised.

On the plasma screen, the graphs suddenly disappeared, replaced by a spinning BREAKING NEWS logo. It was replaced a moment later by the face of a TV network woman, with the words SUDDEN OIL SHOCK scrolling across the screen. Arthur couldn’t hear her over the shrieking machine and the whirr and buzz of its arms, but he could guess what she was saying.

The Grotesque’s bizarre machine had somehow sent the price of oil up fifteen per cent.

“What stocks does your father own?” jeered the Grotesque. It took a piece of paper out of its apron pocket and looked at it. “Oh, I know. Music SupaPlanet, down fifty per cent!”

Again it spoke a strange word that sent a ripple of pain through Arthur’s joints. The spider arms stopped at the word, then began a different dance, tracing out their strange formulae in patterns of light.

Arthur shook his head to try and clear the aftereffect of the bright sparks and the words. On the second shake, he saw something. A little door at the base of one of the huge paper mill chimneys. A metal inspection hatch that was slightly ajar.

The chimneys go below the surface. That has to be a way down .

He ran towards the hatch, with the Grotesque’s voice echoing all around, even above the shrieking engine.

“Northern Aquafarms, down twenty-five per cent!”

Arthur reached the inspection hatch. As he pulled it open, the shriek of the engine suddenly stopped. He glanced back and saw the Grotesque staring at him malignantly.

“Go where you will, Master of the Lower House. The Machine merely pauses for want of fuel, and I shall soon supply that!”

Arthur shuddered, bent his head and climbed through the hatch. He was only just inside when the Grotesque shouted something, another word that made Arthur’s teeth and bones ache, and slammed shut the hatch behind him, cutting off all the light.

In the brief moment before the door closed, Arthur saw that the chimney was at least thirty feet in diameter, with well-worn steps that circled around and down. In the total darkness, Arthur descended by feel, careful not to commit his weight to a step until he was sure it was there. Not for the first time, he wished he still had the First Key, for the light it shed and many other reasons.

Finally he reached the bottom. It was slightly flooded, water coming up to Arthur’s ankles. The river was close by here. He was probably below its level, Arthur thought uneasily. It didn’t help to think of the river suddenly breaking in, not here in the absolute darkness.

But there had to be a way out, a way into the House. Didn’t there? Arthur began to think that he had been lured into a trap. Maybe this was just a chimney and he’d been led into it like a complete fool.

Maybe the Grotesque is going to let more water in. Is it already rising?

Arthur began to edge around the walls, feeling with his feet and hands. He was starting to panic, and the cold water was not helping his breathing. He could feel his right lung seizing up, the left labouring hard to make up for its companion’s failings.

His hand touched something sticking out from the wall. Something round, about the size of an apple. Something smooth and soft. Wooden, not brick.

A door handle .

Arthur sighed in relief, and turned it.

The door opened inwards. Arthur stumbled in, tripping over the lintel. His stomach somersaulted as he continued to fall.

Straight down!

Just like the last time he’d entered the House, Arthur was falling slowly – as slow as a plastic bag caught on a summer breeze – through darkness.

But this time he didn’t have the Key to get him out of this strange in-between place that was neither his own world nor the House. He might fall for ever and never arrive anywhere…

Arthur gritted his teeth and tried to think of something positive. He had held the First Key. He was the Master of the Lower House, even if he’d handed his powers over to a Steward. He felt sure there was some remnant magic in his hands, which had once wielded the Key.

There has to be some residual power .

Arthur thrust out his right hand and imagined the Key still in his fist. A shining Key.

“Take me to the Front Door!” he shouted, the words strangely dull and flat. There was no echo in this weird space, no resonance of any kind.