by Lissa Evans
‘No.’
‘You sure? You haven’t put your mind to it for more than a single second. Take some time and see if you can figure it out.’
‘Don’t you understand?’ Stuart was almost shouting with exasperation. ‘I don’t have time to worry about the will – I’m trying to find something that’s loads more important than a piece of paper. I’m trying to find my friends.’
There was a short, sharp pause.
‘Well now,’ said Miss Edie coldly, ‘my gramma always said that you were nothing but trouble and sass, and I can see now that she was—’
There was another burst of static on the line, and then nothing but an echoey hiss. Stuart stared at the receiver; his mouth was dry and he felt as if someone had just dropped an ice-cube down his back.
‘Your grandma never met me,’ he whispered into the silence. ‘She died years before I was born.’
The kitchen stool was awkward and surprisingly heavy to carry, and it was dusk by the time Stuart arrived back at the yard. A woman was walking her dog along the road, but once she’d gone past there was no one else to be seen. Stuart climbed onto the stool. Stretching to his full height, he was still nowhere near the top of the wall, and he could now see that there were pieces of glass embedded in the mortar at the top. He got down again, went over to the double gates and fingered the enormous padlock. He took out the elf-sized screwdriver, compared it to the size of the screws in the gate hinges, and put it back in his pocket again. It was too small. He was too small. In frustration, he kicked at the base of the gates and heard the hollow boom of metal. He kicked at it again, and missed, his foot slipping into the gap between the gates and the ground.
‘Ow,’ said Stuart, rubbing his ankle. He knelt down to look. The road surface beneath the gates was heavily rutted and potholed, and near the centre was a gap that was just possibly large enough for a small, thin person to wriggle through.
Just possibly.
Night was falling rapidly now. The street was still empty, but from the EL-ECTRIC garage opposite, a small yellow diamond of light shone through the only window. Odd sounds of hammering came from within.
Stuart lay down and started to inch forward, head first. The ground was rough beneath his cheek, and the lower edge of the gate scraped through his hair like a toothless comb. He wriggled forward a little further, and something tiny and painful and pointy dug into his cheek – a screw or a stone chip, perhaps – and he flinched and felt his opposite ear fold agonizingly beneath the gate … and that was it: he was stuck fast, panic bubbling through his limbs. His legs flailed helplessly across the pavement, and he must have cried out because he suddenly heard the noise of the garage door opening. He held his breath.
‘Hullo?’ called a man’s voice that seemed somehow familiar. ‘Anyone in trouble?’
Stuart kept absolutely still.
‘Close the door!’ called another voice urgently – a woman this time. ‘You’ll let Gerald out!’
‘Oh. Sorry.’
Across the road, the door scraped shut again, and Stuart took a breath. He reached up with one hand and tried to unfold his ear, and he had almost managed it when he felt something climb onto his ankle.
Something small, with claws and whiskers and wiry fur; it paused for a split second and then shot up the leg of Stuart’s jeans.
Stuart yelled.
AND YELLED.
The garage door opened again, more hurriedly this time, and loud footsteps crossed towards him. ‘Are you OK?’ asked the vaguely familiar voice.
‘There’s a rat!’ screamed Stuart, head still stuck under the gate, one hand clutching the knee of his jeans to stop the creature going any further. ‘There’s a rat up my trouser leg.’
‘Is that Stuart?’ asked the man incredulously.
‘Get it out of there.’
‘Stuart Horten?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s Clifford!’
‘It’s a rat!’
‘No it’s not,’ said the woman’s voice reassuringly. ‘It’s a guinea pig. He ran out when the door opened earlier. I’ll catch him, and if Clifford fetches my car-jack from the garage I’ll be able to raise the gate and get you out of there.’
It was only a minute or two before Stuart was sitting on an upturned crate in the garage, ear throbbing, biscuit in hand, guinea pig on lap.
‘He’s called Gerald after my father,’ said Clifford. ‘They’ve both got ginger eyebrows, you see. Elaine and I were just practising the guinea-pig disappearing act for our next performance – I really feel we’re starting to improve. The lighting’s still a great deal better than the trick, of course …’
‘Have another biscuit,’ said the woman, Elaine. She was the small, pale-faced electrician who’d come to see Clifford’s first show, and this was obviously her workshop. It was highly organized – tools hanging on the walls, equipment neatly marshalled. In the centre of the room stood Mysterioso the Magician’s trolley, no longer looking shabby and makeshift, but glimmering with myriad tiny lights.
‘I don’t really have time,’ replied Stuart. ‘I have to get into Mr Kingley’s yard. Somehow.’
‘Why?’
And because it was Clifford who asked the question – Clifford who had seen real magic (who had actually been there, just inches away, when Stuart and the mayoress, Jeannie Carr, had disappeared into the Well of Wishes, dissolving into the past like a splash of water into a pond) – Stuart found that he was able to tell him everything.
Afterwards, there was a long silence.
Clifford’s eyes were shining. ‘Wonderful things,’ he said. ‘More wonderful than I realized. No wonder Jeannie was so desperate to get her hands on them.’
‘Wonderful,’ agreed Stuart, ‘but dangerous too.’
‘Of course we’ll help you get into the yard, won’t we?’ said Clifford, looking over at Elaine.
She nodded, her expression entranced. ‘And would you like us to come with you into the Book of Peril?’ she asked.
‘No,’ said Stuart firmly. ‘There’d be too many people for me to keep track of. What if you got lost as well?’
Elaine stood up. ‘Just give me a minute or two to prepare,’ she said.
Quickly and efficiently she filled a tool-bag, folded a square rubber mat – ‘to get us over the glass’ – and slung a lightweight set of ladders over her shoulder. ‘Ready,’ she said.
Clifford nudged Stuart. ‘She’s absolutely marvellous, isn’t she?’ he whispered.
Elaine blushed. ‘Let’s get going,’ she said.
With Elaine organizing things, they were up and over the wall within five minutes, and into the shed in another three.
‘The Magic Star …’ said Stuart, peering at the floor.
‘For that, I have a wand.’ Elaine took what looked like a slender steel aerial out of her bag, extended it like a telescope, and waved it across the floor.
There was a series of clinks, and when she lifted it into the beam of Stuart’s torch, it was encrusted with small screws and nails. Right at the tip was the single remaining bar of the Magic Star.
‘Not magic but magnetic,’ said Elaine, grinning.
Stuart took the star. In the torchlight, the dented cover of the Book of Peril was like the entrance to a dark passageway, the silvery letters – OPEN AT YOUR PERIL – floating in the air. Stuart tugged on the handle and the door swung wide, though it groaned as it opened, as if the dent had affected the hinges.
‘Where does the star go?’ asked Clifford.
By way of reply, Stuart crouched down and prised open the secret compartment where he and April had found Great-Uncle Tony’s message. April was the one who had spotted a single groove in the floor of the compartment, and at the time Stuart hadn’t known what it was for.
Now he did.
He took a breath to steady his nerves. His fingers were clenched around the star, but he could feel them trembling.
‘How long will you be?’ asked Clifford.
; ‘As long as it takes me to find the Kingleys and bring them back,’ said Stuart. ‘It might be hours and hours.’
‘We’ll wait, don’t worry. And Stuart …?’
‘Yes?’
‘Have you changed your mind? Would you like us to come along?’
Stuart couldn’t trust himself to speak, in case another ‘yes’ slipped out. His skin prickled with fear, and he desperately wanted company, but he knew that two extra people might make things even more complicated, just as they had in the Cabinet of Blood. So instead of speaking, he smiled, shook his head, and quickly and carefully fitted the last spoke of the Magic Star into the Book of Peril.
And gasped.
HE WAS IN his own kitchen.
It was broad daylight.
His mum was standing by the cooker with her back to him, while through the window Stuart could see his father sitting in a deckchair on the lawn, staring into space, while an eager Charlie ran in tight circles around him. The Kingley triplets were in their own garden, standing in a row with their chins resting on the fence, and one of them spotted Stuart in the kitchen window and gave a frantic wave.
‘April!’ shouted Stuart joyfully, amazed at how simple the rescue was going to be.
He turned to wrench open the back door, and stopped short. Right next to the door was a tall shimmering black panel, and across it, in silver lettering, floated the words:
He was inside the Book of Peril, he realized, and the shimmering black panel (with its central dent) was the way out, and when he pressed his face to its surface he could dimly see the interior of the shed, as if viewed through inky water. Clifford and Elaine were standing together, his arm round her shoulders, waiting for him. All Stuart had to do was go out into the garden, fetch Charlie and the triplets, and take them back through this dark doorway into the shed and it would all be over.
He reached for the handle of the back door.
‘Stuart,’ said his mother, ‘your nuggets and fries are ready.’
Stuart’s hand froze.
Slowly, slowly, he turned towards his mother. She was holding a plate out towards him. On it was a vast stack of chicken nuggets, a hillock of chips and a lake of tomato ketchup. Next to the lake was a very large pinch of salt.
‘More salt?’ asked his mother.
‘No thanks,’ said Stuart hoarsely.
He took the plate and walked like a zombie to the table. Through the window he could see the triplets, still watching him but beginning to look impatient now.
‘Stuart!’ called April. ‘Hurry up! We want to get out of here!’
Still standing, he looked down at his plate again. A slick of grease was pooling around the chips.
‘Eat up. There’s treacle tart with condensed milk for pudding,’ said his mother, ‘and you still haven’t eaten that stick of rock that your uncle sent you.’
‘Is there an apple or something?’ asked Stuart.
His mother shook her head. ‘I keep forgetting to buy fruit.’
Stuart set the plate down.
This woman in the kitchen looked like his mother, but she wasn’t. His mother never added salt to anything. His mother regarded chicken nuggets as a sort of slow-acting poison, and puddings as an opportunity for eating fruit. His mother would rather run out of air than apples.
He edged away from the table, wondering what he should do. Everything had seemed easy and obvious, but now he felt as if the ground was shuddering under him. He needed to put this right.
‘Cola with that?’ asked the woman, going to the fridge.
‘Don’t rush,’ Stuart muttered to himself. ‘Work it out. Think.’
He looked around carefully. Everything looked normal – the roller blind that drooped on one side, the calendar with views of Great Libraries of the World, the photograph of Stuart and his parents in the Lake District. And then he spotted something strange and new on the door that led to the living room: the letter A, half visible, glimmering like a snail trail.
‘Just got to get something,’ he said, then slipped over to the door and opened it.
And found himself in the kitchen again, his mother at the stove.
He caught his breath and whirled round.
As before, the Book of Peril stood next to the back door. Through the kitchen window, he could see the triplets lined up against the fence, his father sitting in the deckchair and Charlie sniffing along the edge of the lawn.
‘Lunch, Stuart,’ said his mother. ‘Pea and mint soup.’
‘Thanks.’
‘I’m going into work this afternoon. Can you let Dad know his food’s ready?’
‘OK.’ He slipped out of the back door.
‘Stuart!’ shouted April. ‘At last! Shall we climb over? Stuart? Stuart!’
But Stuart didn’t answer. He was too busy staring, aghast, at his father, who had got out of the deckchair and was doing a series of press-ups on the grass.
‘Shall we climb over the fence?’ repeated April impatiently.
His father began to do the press-ups one-armed.
‘No,’ said Stuart, struggling to think. It was somehow even more frightening to feel lost in his own home than it was in a trackless desert or a giant maze. ‘Not this fence. Maybe the next one. I think – I think I have to choose the right life. And the right letter.’
He ran back indoors.
The letter B glimmered on the living-room door. Steeling himself for what might come next, he went through, and found himself in the kitchen again.
This time his father was cooking, peering anxiously at a recipe book. The page had a photograph of an artichoke.
‘Where’s Mum?’ asked Stuart.
‘Dunno,’ said his dad. ‘I think she said was going to get her nails done or something.’
Stuart went straight over to the living-room door.
The letter C.
This time the kitchen was empty, apart from Charlie curled up in a basket, but it smelled wonderfully of roast dinner. The garden was empty too, and there was no one standing by the fence.
‘Hello?’ called Stuart cautiously. ‘Anyone at home?’
All was quiet. He waited for a moment or two, savouring the smell, and then took an apple from a bowl piled high with them. Above the fruit bowl, on the wall, was the photo of Stuart and his parents. He glanced at it, and dropped the apple. It fell with a dull thud and rolled across the kitchen floor.
There stood Stuart’s father, his glasses spotted with rain, his mother, her hair blown into a thistle-shape by the wind, and Stuart, his nose bright red from the cold. And next to Stuart stood someone else – a boy, grinning. A boy who was a few centimetres shorter than Stuart, but who was otherwise his double.
In this world he had a brother.
STUART DIDN’T KNOW how long he stood staring at the picture – only that he was jerked from his thoughts by a glassy crack. It came from the direction of the Book of Peril.
He hurried over and saw with a chill that the rippling darkness was now marred by a whitish circle around the dent. The surface there had paled and thickened, and he could no longer see through it. And – most worryingly – just as he reached out to touch it, there was another crack! and the opacity spread further, like ice forming on a pond.
His breathing quickened. What if the door stopped working? What would it mean? Might he be stuck for eternity in an empty kitchen?
He gave the door a tentative push, and it moved slightly; he could dimly see Clifford and Elaine tense in anticipation. He still had a little time, then – enough to grab the triplets and dive back through the Book of Peril, and who cared if he got the letter clue completely wrong and never solved Great-Uncle Tony’s puzzle? Getting back to the real world with them was the only important thing.
He hurried outside. There was still no sign of the triplets, so he shouted their names over the fence. The windows of their house looked blankly back at him. He jumped up and managed to glimpse their garden; it seemed to be weedier than he remembered, and Mr Kingley had
obviously taken the barbecue indoors.
He took a huge breath and yelled April’s name as loudly as he could, and to his relief he heard the Kingleys’ back door open. Footsteps approached.
‘Hello?’ said a young man in a suit, frowning over the fence.
‘Where are the Kingleys?’ demanded Stuart.
‘In Cornwall, I believe,’ said the man. ‘They moved there a couple of months ago. Which is why I’m now showing Mr and Mrs Lee around this well-maintained three-bedroom property in a tree-lined cul-de-sac.’ He flashed a smile at a severe-looking elderly couple who had followed him out to the garden. ‘They’re looking for a quiet retirement residence,’ he added pointedly.
Stuart didn’t wait to hear any more. He hurtled straight back into the kitchen, and through the living-room door.
Letter D.
And the triplets were there, sitting in front of him at the kitchen table.
Knitting.
‘Oh, hello, Stuart,’ said June, smiling warmly at him, the dog lolling asleep on her lap. ‘Lovely to see you – look what your mum’s been teaching us. April’s already made a doll’s bonnet.’
‘Isn’t it lovely?’ asked April in a soppy voice, waving something pink at him.
‘We’ve got to go,’ said Stuart brusquely, trying to ignore the awful weirdness of a world in which his mother could knit bonnets. ‘Come on.’
‘Not until I’ve learned how to make matching bootees. Your mum’s just gone to find some more wool.’
‘We’ve got to go,’ said Stuart, grabbing April’s hand. She pulled away and gave a scream.
‘What?’ asked Stuart, confused. A length of pink wool was dangling from his fingers.
‘You’ve unravelled it!’ wailed April. ‘That took me ages and ages, and now you’ve ruined it. I’m not going anywhere till it’s all knitted again.’
‘WE HAVEN’T GOT TIME FOR THAT!’ shouted Stuart, so tense that he felt as if he might snap in half. He could see the crust of whiteness spreading across the dark panel of the door.
April burst into tears. ‘He shouted at me,’ she sobbed. ‘I’m going home.’ She flounced past Stuart and out of the back door.