The Demonata 1-5. Darren Shan
names I don’t recognise. Bill-E talking about school, looking forward to the summer break. Dervish telling him about a new book on Bavarian sorcerers which he bought off the web.
“What about the eye spell?” Bill-E asks. He looks at me and points to his lazy left eye. “I’m supposed to have this operated on in a few years, but I’m sure Dervish can conjure up a spell to spare me the hassle.”
“I’ve asked around,” Dervish laughs, “but the great magicians of yore didn’t bother much with drooping eyelids. Besides, magic shouldn’t be used for personal gain, Billy.” Dervish always refers to Bill-E as Billy. I guess he’s known him so long, he finds it hard to change.
“Tell that to great-great-wotsits Garadex!” Bill-E snorts. “He used his magic to make millions, didn’t he?”
“Bartholomew Garadex was an exception,” Dervish says.
Bill-E treats the study as though it’s his own. Pulls books out and only half-pushes them back. Shoves Dervish out of the way to go surfing on the web. Opens a drawer in the desk to show me the skull of a genuine witch, “burned at the stake for casting lascivious spells on the virile young men of the community,” he informs me, waving it around in front of his face, poking his fingers into its empty sockets. Dervish lets Bill-E do as he pleases. Sits back and smiles patiently.
“He’s not normally this wound-up,” Dervish remarks when Bill-E goes to the toilet. “Your arrival upset him. He’s used to having the run of the house. I think he’s worried that things are going to change now that you’ve moved in.”
“Why does he come here?” I ask.
“His mother and I were friends,” Dervish says. “She died in a boating accident, leaving Billy in the care of his grandparents.” He pulls a face. “All I’ll say about that pair is they’re aptly named — Spleen! A more cantankerous old couple you couldn’t imagine. I felt sorry for Billy, so I started visiting and taking him out on my bike. Ma and Pa Spleen weren’t too keen — they still do everything they can to stop him coming over here — but persistence is something I’m good at. I tend to get my own way when I really want to. The odd persuasion spell helps.” He winks. I can’t tell if he’s serious or joking.
Bill-E returns, shaking water from his hands. “No towels, Derv,” he grumbles.
Dervish raises an eyebrow at me. “Fresh towels are your department, aren’t they, Master Grubbs?”
“Sorry,” I grimace. “I forgot.”
“If I was you, Mr Grady, sir, I’d sack ’im,” Bill-E says with relish, then laughs and asks Dervish to teach him a new spell.
“Will I make the two of you disappear?” Dervish asks innocently.
“Yeah!” Bill-E gasps, face lighting up — then curses as Dervish shoos us out of the room and slams the door shut behind us.
→ The hall of portraits. Bill-E knows the faces and names off by heart. Giving me a lecture, filling me in on my family background. I listen with pretend politeness, only paying attention to the occasional juicy snippet.
“Urszula Garadex — pirate,” Bill-E intones, tapping the frame of a large canvas portrait. The woman in the picture only has one eye, and three of her fingers are missing, two on her left hand, one on her right. “A cutthroat. Utterly merciless.
“Augustine Grady. Servant to some prince or other. Cause of death — he got kicked in the head by a horse.
“Justin Plunkton — a banker. Nothing interesting about him.”
And so on.
After a while I ask Bill-E about the teenagers and if he knows how they died.
“Dervish doesn’t say much about them,” he replies. “I think it’s some ancient family curse. You’ll probably go toes-up any day now.”
“I’ll try hard to take you with me,” I retort.
We come to Dad and Gret. Bill-E pauses curiously. “These are new. I don’t know who–”
“My dad and sister,” I inform him quietly.
He winces. “I should have guessed. Sorry.” He looks at me questioningly, licks his lips, stares back at the photos.
“An unasked question is the most futile thing in the world,” I prod him.
“That’s one of Dervish’s sayings,” he notes. Licks his lips again. “Do you want to tell me how they died, or is it a secret? I asked Dervish, but he won’t say, and Gran and Grandad don’t know — nobody in the village does.”
My stomach tightens. Flashes of a crocodile-headed dog, a hell-child, their eerie master. “They were murdered.”
Bill-E’s eyes widen. His lazy left eyelid snaps up as though on elastic bands. “No bull?” he gasps.
My expression’s dark. “No bull.”
“Do you know who did it?”
“I was there.”
Bill-E gulps deeply. “When they were being killed?”
“Yes.”
“How’d you get away?”
I consider how much I should tell him. Decide to try him with the truth. “They were murdered by demons. I escaped using magic.”
He frowns. “If this is a joke…” Stops when he sees my face. “Does Dervish know?”
“Yes.”
“He believes you?”
“Yes. But he’s the only one. Everybody else thinks I’m making it up.”
Bill-E grunts dismissively. “If Dervish believes you, so do I.” He turns from the photos and does an odd little shuffling dance, mumbling weird words.
“What was that for?” I ask, bemused.
“One of Dervish’s spells,” he says. “It makes the dead smile. Dervish says it’s important to keep the dead happy. The reason this house isn’t haunted is that Dervish keeps its ghosts laughing.”
“Rot!” I bellow.
“Maybe,” Bill-E grins. “But I’ve been dancing for years and never been bothered by ghosts. Why stop now and run the risk?”
→ We watch MTV on the 55 inch widescreen TV, munching popcorn, drinking coke from tall paper cups just like in the cinema.
“The TV was my idea,” Bill-E brags, the remote control balanced on his left knee. “Dervish resisted to begin with, but I kept on at him and eventually he bought one.”
“Does he always cave in to your demands?” I ask.
“No,” Bill-E sighs. “I can wrap Gran and Grandad round my little finger, but Dervish doesn’t crumple. He got the TV because I convinced him it was a good idea — his guests would get good use out of it even if he didn’t.”
“You and Dervish are close, aren’t you?” I note.
“Step aside, Sherlock Holmes — there’s a new kid in town!” Bill-E chuckles, rolling his eyes.
“I don’t want to… like… get between you… or anything,” I mumble awkwardly.
“You couldn’t if you tried,” he responds smugly.
“I could!” I bristle. “He’s my uncle.”
“So?” Bill-E laughs. “He’s my father!”
I stare at him, stunned.
Bill-E looks sheepish. “I shouldn’t have said that,” he mutters. “You won’t tell him, will you?”
“No… but… I mean…” I catch