Neverwhere

Mr. Vandemar said, «Got to keep her alive. She’s the only one that can open the door.»
Mr. Croup glared up at his associate. «That’s it,» he said. «Tell him everything, why don’t you?»
«I wanted a turn,» muttered Mr. Vandemar.
«Right,» said Mr. Croup. «So you’ve got three answers, for all the good that will do you. My first question: why are you protecting her?»
«Her father saved my life,» said the marquis, honestly. «I never paid off my debt to him. I prefer debts to be in my favor.»
«I’ve got a question,» said Mr. Vandemar.
«As have I, Mr. Vandemar. The Upworlder, Richard Mayhew. Why is he traveling with her? Why does she permit it?»
«Sentimentality on her part,» said the marquis de Carabas. He wondered, as he said it, if that was the whole truth. He had begun to wonder whether there might, perhaps, be more to the upwortder than met the eye.
«Now me,» said Mr. Vandemar. «What number am I thinking of?»
«I beg your pardon?»
«What number am I thinking of?» repeated Mr. Vandemar. «It’s between one and a lot,» he added, helpfully.
«Seven,» said the marquis. Mr. Vandemar nodded, impressed. Mr. Croup began, «Where is the—» but the marquis shook his head. «Uh-uh,» he said. «Now we’re getting greedy.»
There was a moment of utter silence, in that dank cellar. Then once more water dripped, and maggots rustled; and the marquis said, «An hour’s head start, remember.»
«Of course,» said Mr. Croup. The marquis de Carabas tossed the figurine to Mr. Croup, who caught it eagerly, like an addict catching a plastic baggie filled with white powder of dubious legality. And then, without a backward glance, the marquis left the cellar.
Mr. Croup examined the figurine minutely, turning it over and over in his hands, a Dickensian curator of the Museum of the Damned contemplating a prize exhibit. His tongue flicked out, from time to time, like a snake’s. A perceptible flush appeared on his pallid cheeks. «Oh, fine, fine’,» he whispered. «T’ang dynasty indeed. Twelve hundred years old, the finest pottery figurines ever made on this earth. This was created by Kai Lung, finest of potters: there is not a twin to it in existence. Examine the color of the glaze; the sense of proportion; the life . . . » He was smiling now, like a baby; the innocent smile looked lost and confused on the shady terrain of Mr. Croup’s face. «It adds a little wonder and beauty to the world.»
And then he grinned, too widely, and lowered his face to the figurine, and crushed its head in his teeth, chomping and chewing wildly, swallowing in lumps. His teeth ground the china to a fine powder, which dusted the lower part of his face.
He gloried in its destruction, throwing himself into it with the strange madness and uncontrolled blood lust of a fox in a henhouse. And then, when the statue was nothing but dust, he turned to Mr. Vandemar. He seemed strangely mellow, almost languid. «How long did we say we’d give him?»
«An hour.»
«Mmm. And how long has it been?»
«Six minutes.»
Mr. Croup lowered his head. He ran a finger across his chin, licked the powdered clay from his fingertip. «You follow him, Mister Vandemar,» said Mr. Croup. «I need a little more time in which to savor the occasion.»
Hunter could hear them walking down the steps. She was standing in the shadows, with her arms folded, in the same position she had been in when they left her. Richard was humming loudly. Door was giggling helplessly; then she would stop, and tell Richard to be quiet. Then she would start giggling again. They walked past Hunter without noticing her. She stepped out of the shadows, and said, «You have been gone for eight hours.» It was a statement of fact, without reproach or curiosity.
Door blinked at her. «It didn’t seem that long.» Hunter said nothing.
Richard grinned wearily at her. «Don’t you want to know what happened? Well, we got ambushed by Mister Croup and Mister Vandemar. Unfortunately we didn’t have a bodyguard around. Still, I gave them a good run for their money.»
Hunter raised a perfect eyebrow. «I am in awe of your pugilistic talents,» she said coolly.
Door giggled. «He’s kidding. Actually—they killed us.»
«As an expert in the termination of bodily functions,» Hunter said, «I must beg to differ. You are neither of you dead. At a guess, you are both very drunk.»
Door stuck her tongue out at her bodyguard. «Nonsense. Touched hardly a drop. That much.» She held out two fingers to show how tiny an amount «that much» was.
«Just went to a party,» said Richard, «and saw Jessica and saw a real angel and got a little black pig and came back here.»
«Just a little drink,» continued Door, intently. «Old, old drink. Tiiiiny little