by Laura Ruby
“If a cat meows in a cage,” said Gurl, “does it make a sound?”
“What kind of nutball question is that?”
That’s when the word exploded in her head: MEOW.
Gurl sat up in the chair. “Did you hear that?”
Bug slipped the monkey back in his pocket. “No. What?”
Meow.
“There it is again,” said Gurl. “But where is that coming from?”
“Where’s what coming from?”
“The meow. Noodle.”
“Gurl, I didn’t hear anything.”
Meow.
“Maybe because there is no sound,” said Gurl. “But that doesn’t mean she isn’t making one.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“It’s hard to explain. When I pet Noodle, I get this weird riddle in my head. If a tree falls in a forest when there is nobody around, does it make a sound? I have this feeling that she’s making a sound right now, but we can’t really hear it.”
“But we are around. And you just said you heard it.”
“Well, I didn’t exactly hear it. But the sound sort of popped into my head. I think it’s Noodle.”
Bug looked at her dubiously, but shrugged. “If you say so. What do you want to do?”
“Help me look around.”
“But we already checked everywhere.”
“There must be something we missed.”
“What? Like a secret door?”
Bug was kidding, but Gurl wasn’t. “Yeah. Like that. Start knocking on the walls,” she said. “Maybe one of them is fake. Or look behind the pictures.”
“Let’s think about this for a second,” said Bug. “If you had gotten $20,000 in plastic surgery so that you could look a hundred years younger, where would you put your secret door?”
Gurl and Bug spoke at the same time: “The mirror!”
Both of them ran over to the mirror on the wall and began plucking and pulling at the ornate gold frame. It didn’t budge.
“That’s too bad,” said Bug. “I was beginning to believe that there was a secret door.”
But Gurl wasn’t ready to quit. “There’s got to be some way to open it.” She knelt and felt all the edges of the mirror, smiling when she came to something on the middle of the right side, tucked just behind the gold frame. “What do you know?” she said. “A combination lock.”
That was all the encouragement Bug needed. He brushed Gurl aside, rubbed his fingers together to warm them, and started dialling.
“Can you open it?” said Gurl.
“Shhh!”
Bug pressed his ear to the wall next to the lock, dialling carefully this way and that. Gurl heard the tiny click as he found the right combination. He pulled on the frame of the mirror and it swung away from the wall like the not-so-secret door it was. Behind the door was a huge metal safe the size of a walk-in closet, stuffed to the brim with fur coats, shoes, scarves, neatly stacked jars of caviar, a row of champagne bottles and a very peeved cat sitting in a birdcage.
“Noodle!”
“Meow,” said Noodle in a rather irritated way, as if to say, What took you so long?
Gurl dragged the cage out and opened the latch. Noodle leaped from the cage and gave Gurl’s cheek a few quick rasps with her tongue. Then she wound herself around and around Bug’s legs.
“I think she’s happy to see us,” said Gurl.
“I don’t know about that,” Bug said. “Maybe she just has to pee.”
Gurl reached down and scooped up the cat, feeling like she had just reclaimed a part of herself. “Maybe we should call her Little Pee Pee.”
“I think you’ve been in this place too long,” said Bug.
Gurl grinned and held out her hand. “So what do you say we disappear?”
Chapter 17
Never Trust a Monkey
MRS TERWILIGER HUNG UP THE phone, her overlifted eyebrows twitching in irritation and her overwide mouth drooping down to her jawline. Well, she thought, she never! (As in: she had never been spoken to so rudely, never been so disorganised, never been taken less seriously, never felt so old.)
What Mrs Terwiliger was particularly irked about: the fact that it didn’t seem to matter to anyone that her Strongbox® Alarm System had been malfunctioning for days now and that one of her prized monkeys was missing because of it. “A monkey?” said an impertinent policeman when she’d called 911. “A fake monkey? Lady, you need to get yourself what the kids call a life.”
She had a life, thank you. A very fine life now that she had Gurl under control. She fingered the delicate silk scarf she wore, a prize from one of Gurl’s errands. Yes, this was a life that she had grown extremely fond of and one that she would not readily give up. She had to find that monkey. Who knew who had it, and who knew what the monkey would reveal? Quite unpredictable, monkeys, especially fake ones. This is what her dear mother always said: Never trust a monkey.
Her mother, how she missed her mother! So regal, so youthful and so brave. But then, that wasn’t surprising. Mrs Terwiliger came from a long line of brave and youthful women. (Her great-grandmother was one of the very first people to undergo a facelift. The results were questionable, as the surgeon lifted one side of her face higher than the other, but everyone agreed that she did look younger, if rather lopsided.).
Mrs Terwiliger sighed and set the phone back on the bedside table. She knew that she should try to get some rest, but rest seemed impossible. When she was a little girl and couldn’t sleep, her mother would come to her and tell her a story, one that had been handed down from mother to daughter for generations. It was the story of the very first monkey, the monkey that began it all. She could almost hear her mother’s voice as she remembered…
Go to sleep.
Tell me a story. Tell me about the monkeys, Mother.
No.
Please!
No.
Pretty pretty pretty pretty please?
Oh, all right, if you’ll stop whining. A long time ago, your great-great-great-great-grandmother Barbie had a monkey.
Did the Indians give her the monkey?
What’s with you and the Indians? Anyway, like I was saying, your grandmother had a monkey.
What was its name?
For pete’s sake.
Its name was Pete?
Are you going to let me finish this? So about the monkey. One day, Grandma’s sitting in her living room, watching TV.
They didn’t have TV 150 years ago!
Have it your way. She was sitting there, not watching TV, not watching anything. She was bored, so she decided to play a little game with her monkey.
The monkey she stole.
Of course she didn’t steal it, dummy. She took it from a little man who didn’t need it, OK? There’s nothing wrong with taking things from people who don’t need them, right?
Right.
So, anyway. Your old great-great-great-great-grandma Barbie decides to play a game with her monkey. She throws it a penny. She figures that the monkey will catch the penny and maybe throw it back or something, you know? I mean, what else was there to do when there’s no TV, right? The monkey catches the penny, but instead of throwing it back, he puts it in his pocket (he wore one of those monkey waistcoats). And then he starts to talk.
What does he say?
All sorts of monkey nonsense, that’s what. Monkeys don’t know very much. But your grandmother figures out that every time she gives the monkey a penny, he’ll start talking. She thinks it’s kind of fun, so she keeps doing it. Then one day one of her friends comes over. This friend notices the monkey and wants to pet it. But instead of petting it, she starts to whisper to it.
What was she whispering?
Your grandma couldn’t hear. And the friend didn’t seem to remember she had whispered anything after she was through, and looked at your grandma like she was crazy to suggest that people whispered to monkeys. Anyway, after the friend left, your grandma gave the monkey a penny and the mo
nkey started to talk. Only this time he didn’t talk his regular monkey nonsense; he told your grandma what the friend had whispered to her. It seems the friend had revealed all her secrets to the monkey.
What kind of secrets?
Nothing juicy. Some stuff about eating too many cookies and thinking her husband was boring. But your grandma thought that the monkey’s trick might come in handy with some more interesting people. She started bringing the monkey out with her and found that all kinds of people would tell the monkey their secrets. And some of those secrets were useful. You know, stock tips, bank account numbers, that kind of thing. It helped her make a little extra cash. And there’s nothing wrong with making a little extra cash with your monkey, now is there?
No. But the monkey died.
Yeah, the monkey died. Monkeys can’t last for ever. But a monkey’s tricks, now, that’s a different story. Tricks last. And your grandma Barbie was tricky too. She took all those pennies that the monkey had saved up in its waistcoat, went to a toy shop and bought a brand-new monkey. A mechanical one. One that wouldn’t die. And she gave the new monkey the old one’s pennies. And the new one worked as well as the old, better even, because a mechanical monkey doesn’t eat, or yell, or hop up and down, or swing from the light fixtures, throw bananas, or have to go to the toilet in the middle of the night. A mechanical monkey is the best sort of monkey. Which is why we still have your great-great-great-great-grandma’s mechanical monkey in the living room.
Yes! But it doesn’t work.
Lord have mercy, I’ve raised an idiot. Of course it doesn’t work, you knucklehead. It’s a monkey. A toy. This is a bedtime story. You’re such a weird little girl.
But Mrs Terwiliger knew that the monkey did work. At least halfway. Whenever you passed it, you felt the urge to talk, to spill all your innermost secrets. Mrs Terwiliger had even seen her mother whispering a bit to the monkey occasionally. But when she gave the monkey a penny, the monkey never said a word. It was like the secrets all went in, but they never quite came back out again.
And yet she hadn’t given up hope that one day, she too would be able to make a little (or a lot of) extra cash with the monkey, and she bought a whole bunch of monkeys just in case. Still, her mother had always told her that the way to move up in the world is to land a wealthy man, and that’s exactly what Mrs Terwiliger had planned to do. As an eighteen-year-old, she went to work for the mayor’s office, thinking that she would meet men of power and riches there. And she met one and married him as soon as she could. How was she to know that James Terwiliger would give up his lucrative fur coat resale shop to become a mime artist? How was she to know that this gloomy post at Hope House, something she took only out of desperation, would become her entire life?
Oh, it was terrible the things she had been forced to do just to make ends meet! The risks she had to take!
But she always believed that she was destined for more than this orphanage, that she was destined for something grand and that any day now it would come. The monkeys, she always thought, would be the key. Dutifully, she presented a monkey to every child who came to her, watching eagerly as each child whispered in the monkey’s ear, always too low for Mrs Terwiliger to hear. As in her mother’s story, she gave the monkeys pennies regularly, hoping that an orphan had held the secret to a fortune and that one day a monkey would reveal it. But monkeys never made any sense. They never told her anything important. Sometimes she got a name, or maybe a phrase, but it never added up to a thing. It was as if the monkeys liked to tease her.
Then again, it was Gurl—and not the monkeys—who filled her closets with beautiful furs and her fridge with champagne and caviar. What good were the monkeys, really, except to help to…to…to…cleanse the minds of a lot of troubled children? Yes, Mrs Terwiliger thought, that’s what they did. Ease the mind, soothe the soul. When she did finally escape from this place, she would have to leave at least a few monkeys with the next matron of Hope House, along with instructions on their use. It was for the children’s own good that they forget their pasts, oh, yes, yes, yes! Their pasts could bring them nothing but pain.
As for Gurl, well, Gurl was now Mrs Terwiliger’s monkey of fortune. And Mrs Terwiliger intended to keep her for a good long time.
With that cheerful thought, Mrs Terwiliger unknotted the silk scarf she wore, folded it carefully and tucked it into her silk scarf drawer. She changed into her nightclothes and was about to slip into bed when she heard some strange sounds. Muffled, as if they were coming from far away.
The main building! The broken alarm!
Quickly, she threw on her robe and slippers, grabbed the nearest weapon she could find (a hairbrush) and flew from her quarters to the main offices. Holding the brush high, she slipped through the front door and floated slowly down the hallways and through the offices, astonished at what she saw. Papers were strewn about the floors, the closets were emptied of their contents, files had been pulled from cabinets.
The children. Somehow, the children had managed to disable the alarm and vandalise the offices.
Her wide mouth somehow defied its collagen injections and tightened into a thin line. It was that boy, Chicken, she could feel it in her bones. He had a terrible attitude problem (never mind the fact that he was extremely violent and quite possibly brain-damaged). Their very first meeting, when she’d asked for his name, he’d given her a bunch of nonsense before snarking, “What’s it to you?!” Oh! To think that she had been concerned about the pain the children were in!
Plink!
Aha, thought Mrs Terwiliger. The little leadfoot was still there! She would teach him a thing or two. Almost smiling, she drifted back into the hallway and down the corridor, listening for any sounds.
Scritch!
He was in her office! How could he have got past her locks? Her smile turned into a grimace as she remembered what else was in her office. She couldn’t let that stupid boy ruin her plans.
She edged up along the wall towards the door. “Aha!” she yelled as she flew into the room brandishing the hairbrush. “Caught you!”
A figure crouched on the floor, a figure wearing a foullooking trench coat and mismatched shoes. “Kitty?” it said, sniffing the exposed hollow behind the mirror with a nose as long as a finger.
“Who are you?” babbled Mrs Terwiliger in her shock and fright. “Why are you so filthy? What’s wrong with your nose? Why are your eyes red? How did you unlock my safe? I demand an explanation!”
“I think we’re the ones who deserve an explanation.”
Mrs Terwiliger turned. A man, handsome as any model, stood behind her, grinning with his brilliant white teeth.
“Oh,” said Mrs Terwiliger, awed. She twisted her mouth into what she hoped was an alluring smile. “Excuse me, sir. I apologise for raising my voice…er…Mr…er…Mr…?”
The handsome man reached out and plucked the hairbrush from Mrs Terwiliger’s hand. “You can call me Sweetcheeks, Sweetcheeks.”
Mrs Terwiliger’s eyebrows went up so high on her head they were in danger of being lost in her dyed hair for ever. “Sweetcheeks! Sweetcheeks Grabowski? I’ve read about you in the newspaper.”
“We found your monkeys,” said the handsome man. “I was looking for one in particular, but it seems to be missing. Among other things.” He looked pointedly at the safe behind the mirror. “My friend here thought he smelled something in your not-so-secret room. Something that he’s wanted a very long time.”
The rat man snuffled dispiritedly. “Kitty.”
Mrs Terwiliger covered her mouth with her hand. “It’s gone? Well, obviously, that horrible child stole it.”
“Which horrible child are you referring to?”
But Mrs Terwiliger was too distraught to notice the menace in the man’s voice. Perhaps she sensed a kindred spirit. Or maybe she thought that Sweetcheeks and the rat man were some crack team of undercover policemen that had been sent to arrest her. In any case, she leaned against the wall and began to cry (or at least
tried to look like she was crying; excessive eye surgery had dried up her tear ducts for good). “My life is ruined!”
“Oh, please,” said Sweetcheeks. “Let’s not be overly dramatic.”
“That evil, ungrateful, nasty, dirty, lying—”
“Yes, yes, we get your point.”
“She stole my cat!”
“Your cat? She stole it? Who’s she?”
“Gurl!” Mrs Terwiliger said irritably. Mrs Terwiliger stopped blubbering to stare at Sweetcheeks. “Oh! Oh!” she said. “Did the animal belong to you? If I had known that it—she…er, the cat had a proper owner, I never would have kept her, never.”
“Right,” said Sweetcheeks. “Let’s talk about this girl who stole the cat. Or rather, where she went.”
“But I don’t know where she went. I don’t! I swear on my life!”
“Yes,” said Sweetcheeks, stepping back to allow another man entry into the bathroom, a man with a glinting silver zipper like a dagger across his face. “You certainly do.”
Chapter 18
Run
FREEDOM! ONCE GURL AND BUG travelled a few invisible blocks, an invisible cat snuggled in an invisible sling, they were drunk with it. They were free! Free from Mrs Terwiliger. Free from the hopelessness of Hope House.
Free!
Bug’s hand quivered in Gurl’s; she was sure she could feel his heart beating in his fingertips. As they walked, she saw notices for Flyfest, the city’s annual flying festival. Even though she couldn’t see Bug, she knew he was itching to fly. She wondered aloud why he wasn’t.
“I want to,” he told her, “but I want to wait until we’re far away from Hope House and we have plenty of room. I’m going to fly as high as I possibly can. Higher than we did before. Higher,” he said, “than anyone ever has.”
His words were so serious that she didn’t dare make a joke or question him. So they kept moving. Noodle curled up in the sling and napped, purring loudly. After a while Gurl’s legs started to ache and her eyes got tired. Her mouth was dry and her stomach growled. Plus, it was cold.