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21.1: HENRICK'S HOUSE OF HORRERS (part 1)

In which Harriet has a good cry.

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From outside, the entrance to Henrick's House of Horrers appeared only as a slit in the front of the dark tent, showing further darkness beyond. But Harriet was no stranger to darkness. Having lived all her life on the edge of Night, she saw more of it (or didn't see it, if you want to be precocious) than the average Middler. So after stowing Juggalug and Rupert safely in different pockets of her dress-Day only knew what squabbling would result if they were crammed in the same one-Harriet ducked fearlessly into the tent.

She found herself in complete blackness. This in itself did not bother her, for reasons just explained, but what did bother her was the way that two large, sweaty hands immediately clamped themselves upon her arms and the way that she was lifted off her feet and shaken about as a deep voice intoned: "Raaaaaarrgghhhh... Rooooaaarrrrgh... RAOOOOARRGGAAHHH!" (spelling approximate).

Now, my readers will know by now that Harriet is a spirited and courageous heroine, capable of enduring much unpleasantness with minimal fuss. But even Harriet could be surprised. So it must be admitted that she screamed a bit at this point. But only a bit.

"Put me down!" she demanded, when she'd got the (little) scream over with.

She was obligingly deposited back on the ground as the voice from the darkness chuckled. Harriet found this very irritating. "Look," she said, "can we skip this fooling around? I just want to see the vampire."

The chuckling stopped. There was a pause. Then the voice said: "Oh."

There came a sharp scratching sound, and a match flared. It hovered over to an oil lamp, which it lit. The lamplight revealed that Harriet was standing in a small booth of about five feet by nine, with walls of heavy black curtain. The space was also occupied by a wooden cashbox and, more alarmingly, by the huge bulk of a very tall, very wide man who was looking down at her with a haggard expression. He looked rather unwell; his skin was sallow and there were bags under his eyes the colour of overly steeped tea.

"You might," the man said heavily, "have approached this with a more open-minded outlook."

Harriet felt rather abashed. "Are you Henrick?"

"I wish to Night I wasn't," the man said, "but unfortunately I must own to the name of Henrick, yes." He stooped to pick up his cashbox-a rather difficult manoeuvre in the small space. "Thruppence to enter," he added.

Thankfully, Harriet had managed to hold onto her purse; there had been a moment during the broomstick ride when she'd thought it was a goner. Digging it out of her satchel, she handed over three pennies. "Are you all right? You seem a bit, um, gloomy," she ventured as she did so, trying to make amends.

"Oh, that," said Henrick. "Nothing to concern you. Got some business problems is all."

"Not enough customers?"

"Not through any fault of my own." Henrick let out a huge sigh, making Harriet wonder if sighs came in proportion to your physical stature.

"This wouldn't be about rumours that your vampire isn't, in fact, a real vampire, would it?" asked Harriet, thinking back to Charlotte's father.

Another massive exhalation. "So you've heard them too, have you? They'll be the ruin of me. But it's slander, pure and simple. I've got a bona fide vampire here, albeit in a bit of a state. Which I assure you," he added quickly, "is nothing to do with my treatment of the exhibits. I clean them out weekly, I do, give them new straw and everything. I got an award for hygienic conditions last year, I did."

"Hmm," said Harriet, unconvinced how sanitary a weekly straw-replacement could prove. But this was not the time to get into an argument over ethics. "How do you know he's a real vampire?" she asked. "Where did you find him?"

"Despite what the rumour-mongers are saying," said Henrick pointedly, "I know he's a real vampire, and I know because he told me so himself. Found him wandering the road. Swaying from side to side, he was, weak as a newborn foal. And, Night swallow me, but was he keen to tell me he was a vampire. Kept saying it over and over. Showed me his fangs and everything-and I'm telling you, them's bona fide fangs, sharp as you like. And, well, as I'm a businessman, it seemed wrong not to take him on board. Positively abhorrent to the profession to pass up such an opportunity." A shudder rippled over Henrick's massive flesh at the mere thought of such a loss of profit. "He was a bit surprised to find himself in a cage, granted, but it was better for him than tramping around the countryside like a lost dog."

"Hmm," said Harriet again, her sympathy for Henrick waning by the second. "Can I go in now?"

"Be my guest," said Henrick and suddenly boomed: "Marvel at the Horrors of the Fearsome Hairy Beast of Wolfhood! Tremble at the Sight of the Dead-that-is-not-Dead, the Terrible, Blood-sucking Vampire!" With a meaty hand, he drew aside a length of black curtain to reveal the entrance to the main tent. "Enter... If Ye Dare!"

Harriet blinked.

Henrick let out a final, gargantuan sigh. "Might as well keep up appearances."

With a shrug, Harriet entered.

The main tent of Henrick's House of Horrers was lit by another oil lamp, hanging from the central tentpole. The lamp was draped with a thin piece of scarlet cloth, which made the light very dim and red. All that Harriet could make out in this crimson light were two lines of bars, one running down each side of the tent: the fronts of two metal cages. The light seeped only a little way past these bars, and beyond all was dark and still.

A small commotion started in Harriet's left pocket. "Oh! Sorry, Rupert!" she whispered, hurriedly fishing him out and depositing him on her shoulder. She reached for Juggalug, but when his head cleared her pocket he made a little squeak of protest.

"You don't want to come out?" Harriet asked.

Juggalug peeped pathetically.

"It's up to you," Harriet said. Juggalug flapped his ears and squirmed back out of sight. "Poor little thing," Harriet whispered to Rupert. "I think the Petallina experience really got to him."

Rupert made a dismissive gesture, then put his shapeless woollen hands in front of his eyes.

"All right, all right," Harriet said. "I can't see anything either. Hang on."

Harriet approached the bars on her left and peered beyond them. All she could see was some dirty straw, which seemed to be heaped up in one corner.

"Hello?" she tried.

In response, a bristling, snarling apparition launched itself at the bars of the cage. For the second time that day Harriet let out a scream, stumbling away as a great, slobbering, toothy mouth snapped at her between the bars. The red light reflected momentarily from the bright white of a rolling eyeball and the curve of a yellowed incisor. Then the beast gave a final, rumbling growl and stalked away, its dirt-streaked hindquarters and tail melting back into the shadows.

"Well," Harriet said breathlessly. "I guess that's the werewolf. Seems genuine enough, eh, Rupert? ...Rupert?" Her shoulders were unoccupied. Harriet peered around anxiously but soon spotted Rupert on the floor, flailing in the dirt. Even though his face currently consisted of stitches, she could tell he was not impressed.

"Oh, sorry!" Picking him up, she tried to wipe some of the grime off him. "Eurgh, it's sunk right in. I think that's going to stain..."

Rupert folded his arms, unamused. Harriet quickly changed the subject.

"Well, at least now we know which is the vampire's cage." She gestured to the one that did not contain the werewolf. "Shall we see what he can tell us?"

Rupert made a shooing gesture that said: Hurry up and do it then.