CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Saved by the Bard

With a growing dread in their hearts, the children accompanied Fritz and Theo back to the basement. When they reached Hack Ward, they felt palpable relief at not finding Pascal in one of the narrow beds. They hoped this meant she was still in the arcade somewhere. But then they saw two Botchers scrubbing up at metal troughs, at the same time polishing off their glasses of whisky. The Botchers were in no apparent hurry and it took only seconds for Fritz to lead them all past as soundlessly as ghosts.

In the operating theatre, under a huge spotlight and buckled onto a trolley by a series of clasps and belts, lay an unconscious Pascal. Her cheeks were drained of their usual ruby colour and Milli shuddered to imagine what she’d been thinking when the anaesthetic was administered. A trolley bearing implements similar to those they had seen before was waiting beside the sleeping doll. A screen on the ceiling showed a Tempest Anomali design that detailed the proposed changes to the prima ballerina doll; the Botchers would only need to look up occasionally to follow her instructions. If they achieved only half of the suggestions outlined the post-surgery Pascal would be monstrous. She would have extra eyes in place of her dimples, her head would be shaved and covered with metal scales, and from her navel would hang electric wires that emitted a charge on touch. Army boots would be glued to her dainty feet so she wouldn’t be able to dance a single step. The design bore Tempest Anomali’s swirly signature and trademark bolt of lightning crossing the T.

A small needle attached to a massive syringe was inserted into the back of Pascal’s hand. The sight of it made Theo emit a deep rumble of rage. With the greatest care, he withdrew the needle with his paw and flung it to the floor in disgust.

‘Untie her,’ he instructed gruffly, but before anyone could move the sound of footsteps came from just outside.

‘Behind here!’ cried Milli, grabbing Ernest and pulling him down behind a trolley piled with sheets. Theo and Fritz followed, and they all huddled there together, pulling the sheets around them in a disorderly fashion to conceal their presence. They saw the Botchers’ feet, swathed in ruched netting, enter the room. The men staggered a little, which they seemed to find rather amusing, and shared a joke about steady hands not being a requirement in their current positions.

They half-heartedly turned their attention to the ballerina doll strapped to the table, still decked in her opening night finery. One of the Botchers reached for a pair of nail scissors and began snipping roughly at the delicate bodice of her gown.

‘This one was hard work,’ he commented. ‘Kept kicking and squealing. Even bit a golly’s hand at one point. Beautiful, though.’

His partner gave a malicious chuckle. ‘I enjoy working on the pretty ones,’ he said. ‘I like to see their faces when the bandages come off. What’s this?’

Ernest felt his heart stop, but then saw that it was only the disconnected syringe that had drawn the Botcher’s attention. The man picked it up from the floor with a puzzled look.

‘Must have knocked it out in her sleep,’ said his partner. ‘They do that sometimes, jerk and jolt all over the place.’

The first doctor blew off any dust clinging to the hypodermic needle before re-inserting it.

‘Better get started,’ he said. ‘The game starts at five. The Big Lugs against the Knobbly Knees—should be a good one. Will you look at this! These instruments haven’t been cleaned since the last theatre. There’s glue on these scissors. That’s happened three times in a row now. I don’t know about you, but with or without a licence to practise, I’m not putting up with this.’

‘First things first,’ said his partner. ‘Open her up.’

‘Not without sterile instruments—this is an insult!’ The Botcher let out an exasperated sigh.

‘Okay, I’ll get a fresh lot. But lay off the grog while I’m gone.’

The remaining doctor moved to a metal cupboard and rummaged around inside, humming ‘Raindrops on Roses’, a popular musical theatre tune. A clatter indicated that the faulty air conditioning had just come on, and its buzzing allowed a hushed conference to take place behind the trolley.

‘I say we tackle them,’ hissed Theo, his teeth and fists clenched. The children had never seen him this riled.

‘It’s worth a try,’ agreed Fritz. ‘We’ll distract them from the operation if nothing else.’

Milli thought it was a desperate plan and looked at Ernest for support.

‘All the world’s a stage,’ he said cheerfully.

Theo and Fritz exchanged confused looks.

‘Not now, Ernest,’ said Milli crossly, wondering how he could be so insensitive at such a time.

‘All the world’s a stage,’ he repeated doggedly, as if the words had a hidden meaning he expected them to divine. He decided to help them out. ‘And men and women merely players…’

‘What’s he babbling about?’ growled Theo.

‘He’s quoting Shakespeare,’ said Fritz, who, Milli observed, must be a cultured young man. ‘I think he has a plan.’

Ernest’s face broke into a wide grin and he nodded enthusiastically at Fritz. Then he put his finger to his lips, indicating they should wait for the other Botcher to return.

When he did, and the two men were unwrapping fresh instruments, Ernest cupped his hands around his mouth and began to speak in a floaty, far-away voice. His plan was inspired by the school production of Macbeth. In the event that an understudy may be required, Ernest had decided to learn every character’s lines as well as his own.

‘It will have blood, they say: blood will have blood!’

A troubled silence followed. Neither Botcher trusted his own ears. With their professional reputations already in tatters in the outside world, neither doctor was prepared to add hearing voices to their list of shortcomings.

‘What was that?’ one of them finally hissed.

Again Ernest called out: ‘Turn, hell-hound, turn!’ Their semi-inebriated state played havoc with their reasoning skills. The Botchers seemed shaken. A small chisel clattered noisily to the floor.

‘Is it a trick?’ asked one.

‘A ghost more like,’ whimpered the other. ‘It’s the ghost of the doll.’

‘Don’t be a damn fool!’ his colleague said. ‘There’s no such thing as ghosts.’

‘You keep going then,’ spluttered the superstitious one. ‘I’m reading it as an omen of what’s in store if we touch this doll.’

‘He shall live a man forbid,’ Ernest moaned. He was beginning to enjoy himself now.

Both Botchers stood paralysed, unable to continue. Theo decided to get in on the act.

‘I am one who perished under your knife years ago,’ he intoned in a low, gloomy voice. ‘I haunt these corridors at night looking for retribution.’

‘I am Raggedy Ann,’ sang out Milli. ‘Woe befall those who gave me a tail.’

‘I am the lion whose roar you stole,’ Fritz contributed. ‘But my teeth and claws are intact.’

‘Set Pascal free,’ they chimed in unison, ‘and your punishment may be less severe. Set her free …set her free!’

‘I want out!’ cried one of the doctors, sounding like a frightened child. ‘I knew this was a bad idea the moment I got here. It’s not natural. Remember what happened to Victor Frankenstein?’

‘I’m with you,’ declared the other. ‘I even see them in my sleep now. They stand there staring at me and pointing to their scars. It’s horrible.’

In their rush to leave the theatre, the Botchers knocked over the tray of implements and brought it crashing to the ground. As the doctors fled like maniacs down the corridor, their arms flailing, the rescue party scrambled from its hiding place and Pascal was gently lifted into Theo’s waiting arms.

‘Let’s get out of here before anyone comes to check on their progress,’ Fritz said.

They ran in what they thought was the direction of the basement steps, but the passageways all looked identical and they found themselves temporarily lost. Fritz skidded to a halt and glanced around to get his bearings.

‘We’re in the west wing,’ he muttered. ‘Come on, it’s this way.’

They rounded a corner and their faces filled with new panic. Two more Botchers, gowned and wearing caps on their heads, were heading their way.

‘Intruders! Catch them!’ one called out, and Milli recognised Dr Savage’s voice as well as his thick sideburns.

Fritz looked from the Botchers to Theo and the others, then back again, and decided on a course of action. He let out a blood-curdling war cry and ran at the men, an action that surprised the Botchers and stopped them in their tracks for a moment. Milli and Ernest followed Fritz, and together they leapt and kicked and jumped on the men’s backs, causing enough mayhem to allow Theo to duck through the mêlée to safety, carrying the sleeping Pascal in his arms. They’d almost worn the Botchers down when reinforcements arrived, drawn by the noise, and the children and Fritz were wrestled to the ground.

With their arms pinned behind their backs, Ernest, Milli and Fritz were led by red-faced and dishevelled Botchers to their common room. The doctors mopped their brows and poured each other stiff drinks whilst someone alerted Tempest Anomali. Everyone knew she’d arrived when the doors were kicked open by a metal-tipped boot.

Everything about Tempest Anomali suggested turbulence, Milli thought, from the strands of hair falling over her face like black twigs to the crocheted shawl slipping from her sharp shoulders. Something she hadn’t noticed before was that Tempest had a wandering eye. It was something she usually managed to control but when she became riled or over-excited, as she certainly was now, the eye wandered off so far that only the white could be seen. It made her look quite deranged. She pinned the children and Fritz with her good eye and her upper lip did not stop quivering with pent-up emotion.

‘What have we here?’ She stalked towards them, too tall for real gracefulness. ‘Hopeless children and a renegade employee!’

‘They abducted a patient from theatre,’ a Botcher informed her.

‘Who was on duty?’

‘According to the roster, Spleen and Bunion, but they’re nowhere to be found.’

‘In hiding, no doubt, hoping it’ll all blow over,’ scoffed Tempest. ‘How did they get to theatre anyway—in wheelchairs?’

No one felt sure enough of Tempest’s reactions to attempt laughter. Instead they looked fixedly at particular flecks in the grey floor, hoping she’d soon dismiss them. It didn’t help that she was carrying a silver-tipped cane; she had been known, when in one of her furies, to attack them with whatever she happened to be carrying at the time.

‘And where, pray, is the patient?’ she continued.

‘I’m afraid she escaped,’ replied one of the Botchers sheepishly.

‘Escaped? How?’

‘She was assisted by a teddy bear.’

‘Do I look like an idiot?’ she screamed. ‘Are you asking me to believe you were outwitted by a soft toy?’

‘He was a particularly large soft toy,’ said Dr Savage.

Tempest Anomali was about to bring her cane crashing down on the surgeon’s head when he blurted out something that stopped her.

‘I heard him speak to the doll.’

At this, the look in Tempest’s eyes grew even wilder and she threw back her head and let out a piercing scream. It sounded just like a cat whose tail has been trodden on.

‘Spoke? Can this be true?’ she spat out. ‘Have Dr Illustrious paged immediately! This is an emergency.’

Milli and Ernest felt their skin prickle at the mention of a Dr Illustrious. It was just like the feeling you get before the onset of an allergic reaction. Tempest Anomali’s words had confirmed what the children had suspected for some time now. They had last seen Lord Aldor being carried in pieces off the battlefield by his ally Federico Lampo. This is not the end was his final threat. You will see me again. Had Lord Aldor returned to fulfil his promise? Were they about to come face to face with him yet again?

The door swung open a second time and two nasty-looking characters pushed into the common room. They were Bertha Slurp and Alistair Phony-Phitch and together they made up the marketing division of Von Gobstopper’s Toy Arcade. The pair were also Tempest’s fiercest rivals and competed jealously with her for Dr Illustrious’s attention. Somehow they had got wind of trouble and had come to gloat. They sincerely hoped it would mean a reprimand for Tempest—something they wanted to see for themselves.

‘What’s going on here, Tempest?’ Phony-Phitch taunted. ‘It is imperative that the arcade’s public image remains untarnished.’

Bertha Slurp’s eyes twinkled maliciously. ‘I don’t expect the doctor’s gunna be too pleased.’

Bertha had the face and shoulders of a bull terrier. She was short and stocky with calves like tree trunks and ankles that bulged over too-tight shoes. She wore a wool skirt and a twinset in pale lavender. Her stringy grey hair was pulled back from her face in a tight ponytail and her skin was blotchy underneath poorly applied foundation. There were broken capillaries either side of her coarse nose. Slurp was a nickname she’d carried from school, no doubt acquired due to her eating habits as well as her abnormally large tongue, which her mouth wasn’t quite able to house. Some of it was always hanging out, like a forgotten piece of washing on the clothesline. As a consequence, she had constant pools of saliva at the corners of her mouth, which she had to slurp back into her throat if she tried to say too many sentences at once.

Alistair Phony-Phitch, on the other hand, was the sort of person who can slather on charm like sunscreen. He wasn’t unattractive, with limp dishwater blond hair, a blobby nose and a set of tiny perfect teeth. His hooded blue eyes drank in everything and gave nothing back. He wasn’t oily or unwashed, but nevertheless had a slippery quality that made him generally disliked amongst the medical staff. He wore an olive-green velour jacket and an open-necked shirt with a cravat. He would have had no trouble working as a double agent: he was intrigued by intrigue and felt loyalty to no one.

‘You’d better let us go,’ warned Milli. ‘If we’re not home soon, our parents will be sending out a search party.’

‘The doctor’ll know ‘ow to deal with you,’ said Bertha with a nasty giggle. She turned to the Botchers. “Ave youse let Illustrious know they’re ‘ere? What’s keepin’ ‘im, I wonder?’

‘Silence, Slurp, I give the orders around here,’ said Tempest cattily. She cast a nervous look towards the door and gave a short burst of hysterical laughter, then turned stony-faced again.

Time passed and the tension mounted, then the sound of running feet put everyone on alert. A lab assistant wearing safety goggles and holding a blowtorch burst into the room. ‘He’s on his way!’ he cried. ‘Dr Illustrious is coming.’

The announcement sent the entire room into a frenzy. Some of the Botchers opened their clipboards and pointed things out to each other in an effort to look productive. Others ran about gathering empty coffee mugs and plumping up the cushions on the couches. Everyone smoothed down their clothes, tucked away stray hairs and stood as straight as boards, like primary-school children awaiting a visit from the headmaster.

Tempest Anomali gripped the children’s shoulders very hard and leaned over them. ‘Tricks won’t help you now,’ she hissed.

Dr Illustrious must indeed have been important because his arrival was preceded by no less than three bodyguards. First came a brutish-looking man with a solid tank-like body and a face so featureless that at first glance it looked like a flesh-coloured blob. It didn’t take a genius to guess that he was there for his strength rather than what was between his ears. The man’s clone filed into the room after him, followed by a third identical figure. They all had earrings in one ear, folded arms over their black shirts and eyes hidden behind reflective sunglasses. Milli thought they looked ridiculous, like thugs from a gangster movie, but their grim expressions left no doubt that they took their jobs very seriously indeed. Their names were Mince, Wince and Vince.

When Dr Illustrious finally made his entrance, the people in the room turned as silent as a church congregation and lowered their eyes respectfully. All except for Tempest Anomali, who threw herself onto the ground, arms stretched heavenward in a fervent kind of worship.

Lord Aldor had certainly changed since the momentous battle at the gates of Mirth. They hardly recognised the mad magician they had come to know and dread. Somehow he had reinvented himself and adopted a completely new identity—that of the sleek and urbane Dr Illustrious.