“Doing here?” Nurd finished for him. “Well, I was going to try to conquer your world and rule it for eternity, but I don’t think that’ll happen now.”

“Why not?” asked Sergeant Rowan, carefully drawing a little closer to the car once more.

“Funny you should ask, but someone else has his eye on this place, and I don’t think he’ll fancy any competition. I’d really prefer not to be around when he gets here, so if you could see your way clear to letting me out, I’ll be about my business.”

Sergeant Rowan stared at Nurd. Nurd smiled back politely.

“What exactly is happening?” asked Sergeant Rowan.

“Well, it’s just a guess,” said Nurd, “but I think it’s the end of the world as you know it…”

XXV In Which Bishop Bernard the Bad Makes His Presence Felt, and the Dead Rise from Their Graves, but Only the Nasty Ones

MARIA, TOM, SAMUEL, AND Samuel’s mother watched from the darkened house as all manner of infernal creature slid, jumped, flew, or crawled from the direction of 666 Crowley Road, where a blue light hung over the adjoining rooftops. They had already been forced to fend off two further attacks, the first from a pair of foot-long slug demons with mosquitolike proboscises for sucking blood, which had oozed through the letter box, the slime trail behind them eating away at the carpet as they approached their intended victims. The judicious use of a container of table salt had caused them to dry up into withered husks before disappearing entirely in a puff of smoke.

The second attack was still ongoing, as the house was being buzzed by a pair of giant flies with jaws in their bellies. They struck the windows occasionally, the hooked teeth in their abdomens leaving marks upon the glass, and their pink saliva staining it like watery blood. Mrs. Johnson monitored their attempts to gain entry, a can of bug spray in each hand. All things considered, Samuel thought she was coping very well with being confronted by demons, but he also felt angry at something she had said earlier. She had wished his dad was with them and, for a moment, when he first saw the flying skulls, Samuel had wished that too, but now he no longer felt the same way. He had suggested using salt on the slugs, and he had found the bug spray hidden away in the back of a closet. With Tom’s help, he had secured all the doors and windows, and set up a system of watches so that, between the three children and Samuel’s mother, they were able to keep an eye on all the approaches to the house. For the first time since his dad had left, Samuel was starting to feel that, if necessary, he could look after both his mother and himself.

What he couldn’t do, it seemed, was stop Mrs. Abernathy. They were trapped inside the house, and they had heard nothing further from Dr. Planck.

Soon, Samuel feared, all would be lost.

Back at the parish church of St. Timidus, the thumping sounds continued from what should have been the final resting place of Bishop Bernard the Bad but clearly wasn’t, since the last thing Bishop Bernard the Bad appeared to be doing was resting. Clouds of dust rose from the stone bearing his name, and the dates of his birth and death. One end of the stone lifted from the floor. It hung in the air, and the vicar and verger could almost feel the dead man below straining to move it higher, but then the stone fell down again and all was quiet.

“He’s very strong,” said the verger as he and Reverend Ussher peered through the small window in the door. He was quite surprised. After all, Bishop Bernard couldn’t have been much more than a collection of old bones, and old bones tended to break easily. They shouldn’t have been able to move huge slabs of stone. It just wasn’t right.

“Limestone,” said the vicar.

“Beg your pardon?”

“The rock beneath the church is limestone,” said the vicar. “Limestone preserves bodies. Not just that: it mummifies them. Bishop Bernard has been down there for a long, long time. I suspect that, if you were to touch him, his bones would feel as hard as rock.”

“I don’t want to touch him,” said Mr. Berkeley. “I really don’t.”

The burial slab began to move again, but this time it rose and didn’t fall. A skeletal hand emerged from the crack and tried to get a grip on the edge of the stone.

“You may not want to touch him,” said the vicar, “but I suspect that he would very much like to get his hands on you.”

Reverend Ussher opened the door of the little room and threw himself on the stone, hoping that his weight would push it back down. His right hand reached out and found the verger’s bicycle pump, and with it he began hitting Bishop Bernard on the fingers. It took four or five strikes, but eventually the bishop was forced to release his grip. The stone slammed back down, and there was silence once more.

“Quick!” said the vicar to the verger. “Give me some help here.”

Reluctantly, Mr. Berkeley joined him. In one corner of the room was an old stone statue of St. Timidus. It had fallen from its plinth beside the front door of the church the previous winter, and its right hand had dropped off. There hadn’t been enough money to repair it, or the plinth, so it had joined the old bicycle and the chairs in the storage room. With some difficulty, the vicar and the verger together managed to move the statue onto Bishop Bernard’s marker stone.

“There,” said the vicar. “That should keep him occupied for a while.”

The verger leaned against the wall as he tried to get his breath back.

“But why is all this happening now?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” said the vicar. “I don’t even know what all ‘this’ is.”

“Do you really think it’s like the monk said: the end of the world?”

“I think the end of the world is some way off yet, Mr. Berkeley,” said the vicar. He tried to sound confident, but he didn’t feel it. This was all very disturbing: gargoyles running about on the church lawn; Bishop Bernard the Bad attempting to escape from his tomb. If it wasn’t quite the end of the world, it might well be the beginning of the end.

Bishop Bernard began pounding on the floor once again.

“Oh, I do wish he’d stop that,” said the verger. “He’s giving me a headache.”

He knelt on the floor, then put his mouth near the stone. “Now, Bishop Bernard, Your Excellency, be a nice bishop and go to sleep,” he said. “There’s been a bit of a misunderstanding, but we’ll get everything sorted out and you can go back to being dead. That sounds lovely, doesn’t it? You don’t want to be up here in the land of the living. It’s all changed since your time. There’s pop music, and computers, and, you know, you won’t be able to go around sticking hot pokers up people, because that’s not allowed anymore, not even for bishops. No, you’re much better off where you are, believe you me.”

The verger looked at the vicar, then nodded and smiled.

“See,” said the verger. “All he needed was for someone to have a quiet word with him.”

There came a muffled roar of rage, and then the thud of stone upon stone as Bishop Bernard flung himself, hard, upward. The statue of St. Timidus shifted slightly.

“Oh, wonderful, Mr. Berkeley,” said the vicar. “That was most helpful!”

Bishop Bernard attacked the stone again, and the statue moved a little more. The verger tried to hold on to it, but it was no use. He gave up and retreated to the window.

“We should make a break for it,” said the vicar. “Those gargoyles seemed rather clumsy and slow. We can easily outrun them, and my car is parked around the back.”

But the verger didn’t appear to be listening. Instead, he was looking out of a small side window.

“I say, Mr. Berkeley,” said the vicar. “Did you hear what I said? I think we should run for it.”

“I don’t think that would be a good idea, Vicar,” said the verger.