The Gates (Samuel Johnson vs. the Devil #1)(45)

“I don’t have a license,” said Nurd. He frowned. He liked the sound of a piece of paper that said he could drive, although he couldn’t imagine to whom he might show it, policemen aside. Wormwood might have been impressed by it, but Wormwood wasn’t here.

“Oh dear, sir,” said the policeman, who had just been joined by his colleague. “That’s not good, is it?”

“No,” said Nurd. “I’d like a license.” He composed his monstrous features into something resembling a smile. “You wouldn’t have one that you could give me, would you? Even if it doesn’t have my picture, it would still be lovely to own.”

The policeman’s face went very still.

“What’s your name, sir?”

“Nurd,” said Nurd, then added, “the Scourge of Five Deities.”

“Scourge of Five Motorways, more like,” said the second policeman.

“Very witty, Constable Peel,” said the first policeman. “Very witty indeed.” He returned his attention to Nurd. “A foreign gentleman, are we, sir?” he said. “Visiting, perhaps?”

“Yes,” said Nurd. “Visiting.”

“From where, sir?”

“The Great Wasteland,” said Nurd.

“He’s from the Midlands, then, Sarge,” said Constable Peel.

The one called Sarge hid a smile. “That’s enough, Constable. Don’t want to offend anyone, do we?”

“Not only does he not have a license, Sarge, he doesn’t appear to have any license plates,” said Peel.

Sarge frowned. “Is this a new car, sir?”

“I think so,” said Nurd. “It smells new.”

“Is it your car, sir?”

“It is now,” Nurd said.

Sarge took a step back. “Right you are, sir. Step out of the car, please.”

Nurd did as he was told. He towered at least a foot above the two policemen.

“He’s a big lad, Sarge,” said Peel. “Don’t know how he managed to fit in there in the first place. Mind you, he smells funny.”

Nurd had to admit that it had been a bit of a squeeze getting into the Porsche, but he was quite a squishy demon. Some demons were all hard bone, or thick shells. Nurd was softer, mainly because he hadn’t taken any exercise in centuries.

“That’s quite a costume you have there, sir,” said Sarge. “What exactly are you supposed to be, then?”

“Nurd,” said Nurd. “The Scourge of—”

“We got all that the first time,” said Sarge. “Do you have any form of identification?”

Nurd concentrated. On his forehead, a mark began to glow a deep, fiery red. It looked like a capital B that had been drawn by a very drunk person. Its appearance on his skin was accompanied by a faint smell of burning flesh.

“You don’t see that very often, Sarge,” said Constable Peel. He looked quite impressed.

“No, you don’t,” said Sarge. “What exactly is that supposed to be, sir?”

“It is the mark of Nurd,” said Nurd.

“He’s a nutter, Sarge,” said Constable Peel. “Nurd the Nutter.”

Sarge sighed. “We’d like you to come along with us, sir, if you don’t mind.”

“Can I bring my car?” said Nurd.

“We’ll leave, er, your car here for the moment, sir. You can come along with us in ours.”

“It’s got pretty lights on the top,” explained Constable Peel helpfully. “And it makes a noise.”

Nurd looked at the policemen’s car. It still wasn’t as nice as his, not by a long shot, but it was different, and Nurd felt that he should be open to new experiences, especially having spent so long in the Wasteland with no new experiences at all, some curious noises from Wormwood apart.

“All right,” he said. “I will travel in your car.”

“There’s a good Nurd,” said Constable Peel, opening one of the rear doors. Nurd got the uncomfortable feeling that Constable Peel was making fun of him. Constable Peel also made sure to keep the windows rolled down in order to let the smell out of the car.

“When I assume my throne,” said Nurd, “and I rule this world, you shall be my slave, and your life will be one of pain and misery until I choose to end it by turning you to a small mass of red jelly that I will crush beneath my heel.”

Constable Peel looked hurt as he closed the door behind Nurd. “That’s not very nice,” he said. “Sarge, Mr. Nurd here is threatening to turn me to jelly.”

“Really?” said Sarge. “What flavor?”

Then, with Nurd squashed in the back, they began the drive back to the station.





XXIII

In Which We Learn That One Should Be Careful About Accepting Anything That Is Offered for Nothing

THE FIG AND PARROT pub was well known in the village for its Halloween celebrations. The owners, Meg and Billy, decorated it with cobwebs, skeletons, and other ghoulish oddities. The grass square outside the pub’s main doors was dotted with polystyrene tombstones, and a noose dangled from the thickest branch of the old oak tree at its center, the rope tight round the neck of a scarecrow.

Inside the festivities were in full swing, as Meg and Billy had arranged for the local brewery, Spiggit’s, to offer free pints to those who arrived in costume, and there was nothing that the regulars at the Fig and Parrot appreciated more than free pints. Hence, everyone had made an effort at dressing up, even if, in the case of Mangy Old Bob (as he was known to most people except Mangy Old Bob himself), it consisted of nothing more than sticking a sprig of holly on his hat and claiming to be the Spirit of Christmas. For the most part, the villagers in attendance favored the old reliables, and had come dressed as vampires, ghosts, mummies wrapped in bandages and toilet paper, and the odd French maid. The French maids were not, it must be said, terribly frightening, except for Mrs. Minsky, who was a very large lady, and who had not been constructed to occupy anything as small and frilly as a French maid’s outfit.