by Lena Jones
I have the sudden feeling that the staircase will never end – we’ll be climbing forever. At this thought, my legs collapse under me, and I fall forward on to the steps. I can hear Liam’s voice calling my name, but darkness rises inside me, and I can’t move or respond. As I lie here, I can feel the cold slime rising over my legs, up to my waist, my chest …
And now I feel … nothing.
White light.
I am a mind without a body, floating in light. Can you float without a body? I don’t know. But I have no legs to stretch, no fingers to flex, no eyes to blink. But I am somewhere – I exist. It’s peaceful here, and there’s no reason for me to want anything to change. If I had lungs, I would let out a long, contented sigh.
I sink back into nothingness.
‘Hello, love.’
A familiar voice – Dad’s. He strokes my hair, then takes my head in both his hands.
‘I’m just going to pop out and get myself a coffee. I’ll be back soon. I’m so proud of you.’
He kisses me on the forehead, and I sink back into sleep.
‘Hello, Miss Oddlow.’
I know this voice. It’s the voice of a man with many voices, though this one is perhaps his scariest.
I hear the beeping of a heart monitor in the background, and I hear it speed up. It is my heart.
‘Don’t worry about moving – I know you can’t anyway. Temporary paralysis, the doctor called it.’
Yes, I know this voice – it has threatened me before, and it is threatening me again now.
Patrick Maxwell.
‘Big words, but all it means is that you can’t run away. And, judging by that heart monitor, it seems you can hear me just fine.’
I try to control my fear, but my heart keeps racing. I hear the sound of a plastic chair being dragged close to my bed.
‘How does it feel, Miss Oddlow, to be trapped in your own body?’
His voice is close now, and I can smell his sour breath. To a passerby he might look like a caring relative, begging me to open my eyes, to wake up, to be all right. He snarls each syllable.
‘If you’d had your way, Miss Oddlow, I’d have been caught by now. But you couldn’t quite see it through, could you? Still, my career is over. I’ll never work in this city again. He’ll see to that – he doesn’t like people who fail …’
He’s practically whispering into my ear now. Who is he talking about?
I want to ask, but I can’t.
‘So, we both know what it feels like to be trapped, Miss Oddlow. Except the difference is I’m going to escape this trap you’ve set for me – I have a private jet waiting to take me away. But you, Agatha – you’re going to stay trapped forever. You’re never going to wake up. Just like your mum never did.’
Mum? Did he have something to do with that? I hear him lean over and pull something closer, something on wheels. A second later, there’s a sharp pain in the crook of my arm.
‘They put this needle in you so you could get some water, Agatha. Ironic, really, after all that’s happened – it’ll be the last drink you ever have. By the time I’m on my plane, you’ll be growing cold in the mortuary, and the doctors and nurses will be fighting over who gave you too much pain medication, so that you just stopped breathing, just slipped away …’
My heartbeat is racing so fast on the monitor it seems like it will burst right out of my chest. But then the sound stops – the monitor is off. I hear him fiddling with the stand that holds my drip, tampering with the plastic bag. Finally, he sits down.
‘There. It’s done,’ he says, whispering into my ear. ‘Goodnight, Agatha.’
I hear him take something from my bedside table, then the sound of water pouring from a jug.
‘Here’s a toast,’ he says, louder now, ‘to the late, great detective, Agatha Oddlow.’
I wait, my heart racing away in silence, my fear contained, trapped. I start to feel drowsy again, but still I wait, until –
The door bursts open and two policemen rush in, grabbing Maxwell and forcing him to the floor. I open my eyes and rip the needle from my arm.
‘What the …!’ Maxwell yells in rage.
‘Hello, Mr Maxwell,’ I say, swinging my legs out of bed. ‘In answer to your question I woke about an hour ago. I thought you might come looking for me here, so I had a word with these nice policemen.’
He’s breathing heavily, grunting almost, jaw clenched. They put handcuffs on him, and for once Maxwell seems lost for words, in any of his voices.
‘Oh, and thank you for speaking clearly,’ I say, pulling a small microphone from under my pillow. ‘I’m sure your confession will come in handy.’
‘You little …’ he yells, trying to throw the police off and failing. And at last I get to say the words I’d always dreamed of saying …’
‘Take him away.’
‘Clean shirt – check. Clean, mended skirt – check. Polished shoes – check. Clean tights – check. Brushed beret and blazer – check …’
I tick the items off on my list, feeling with each one that I’m being restored to my former self. I look myself over in the mirror, and my outfit is immaculate. The first hot shower was bliss, and Dad had to tell me to get out after twenty minutes.
It took the water board another week to clean the clogged mains pipes, and it will be another month before everything is back to normal, but the supply to our cottage is back with cool, clear water running from the taps. All over London the red algae have died off without sugar to keep them alive. Tons of dead sludge was dredged from the Serpentine and flushed into the sewers. The broken shop windows from the raids are being fixed, and London is being put back together.
For me, as well, it’s time to get back to ordinary life. There’s one more day of term to get through before the summer holidays. The last couple of weeks have been terrifying and exhilarating – the worst and best moments of my life. While I’m glad that the threat has passed, I’m also sad that the adventure is over. But St Regis beckons, and – for the time being – I’m still a schoolgirl.
‘Morning, Agatha!’ JP calls from his bench as I approach on my way to school.
‘Morning, JP.’
‘Oh, hang on a minute. I wanted to talk to you about something …’
As I watch, he takes a familiar object from the inside pocket of his jacket. The red notebook! I haven’t seen JP for a few days, and with everything that has happened I’d almost forgotten my suspicions of him spying on us. Without changing my expression, I say –
‘Oh, yeah?’
‘Well, it might be nothing, but I saw this guy creeping around outside your house the other night. It seemed like he was planning to break in, but then he knocked on the door and spoke to your dad …’
‘And you were watching the whole time?’
JP shrugs. ‘It’s not like I’ve got much else to do. Anyway, it all seemed innocent, but then you’ll never guess what happened next …’
‘I might, actually,’ I mutter.
‘He disappeared for a while, but later, at about two in the morning …’
I listen to JP’s story of how the mystery man – Davenport, AKA Patrick Maxwell – had reappeared outside our house in the dead of night, only to chop all the flowers off the clematis plant on the back wall. He hands the notebook to show me the times he had noted down. When he talks again, the words tumble out super-fast with nerves.
‘Seemed like a total nutter to me, but your dad seemed to know him, so I thought, well, it might be a joke between the two of them. But what kind of joke is that? Cutting all the flowers off your friend’s plant! So, I wasn’t sure what to do. And I didn’t want to annoy your dad by admitting to spying on his friend, because maybe he would kick me out of the park …’
He’s wringing his hands with worry. I hand the notebook back to him.
‘You did the right thing, JP – thanks for letting me know.’
He pauses, then his frown lightens to a smile.
‘Oh, OK … wel
l, good!’ The tension melts out of his shoulders. ‘You’re looking better today.’
‘You too, JP.’ It’s true – he’s fresh-faced and bright.
‘Well, I’ve been helping out at one of the local soup kitchens. A woman who works there with me knows the owner of a chain of restaurants, and she’s recommended me to them. I’ve got an interview for a job tomorrow.’
‘That’s great!’
He nods and grins. ‘And your dad said I can use the shower and borrow a suit.’
I laugh. ‘Have you seen Dad’s suits? He’s had them since the Dark Ages. I’m pretty sure they all have huge lapels and brown checks.’
He smiles. ‘Sounds like your dad was quite the dandy.’
‘That’s one way of putting it.’
I fish in my pocket and pull out a sandwich.
‘I did like the egg roll you made me the other day,’ he says, eyeing the sandwich with thinly disguised suspicion. ‘Have you started experimenting again?’
‘It’s only Marmite with peanut butter. I thought the protein and vitamin B combination would be good for you.’
He barely suppresses his sigh as he takes the sandwich. ‘Thanks.’
‘I have to go. Good luck if I don’t see you before your interview tomorrow.’
‘Cheers!’ He holds up the sandwich like a toasting glass. ‘Here’s to the chance of a new start.’
I head off. When I get to the end of the path, I glance back. He’s peeling open his sandwich and sniffing it. I sigh and hurry off to school.
‘Morning, Agatha.’
‘Morning, Liam.’
He hands over the paper for the day. I look at the headline on the front page –
– and, in smaller writing underneath –
I fold the paper back up – I don’t want to read it just yet.
‘How are you?’ I ask.
‘I’m good. Getting a bit freaked out by people staring at me.’
I glance around the playground and a dozen heads turn away, pretending they hadn’t been looking at us. I smile.
‘Might as well enjoy it while it lasts – we’re celebrities.’
Liam smiles, then frowns at something over my shoulder. I turn round to see Sarah Rathbone. Her expression is icy.
‘Hello, Oddball.’
‘Hello, Sarah.’ I smile.
Her lip curls into a snarl. I can tell that she’s trying to make me feel uncomfortable, to scare me, but I’m not scared any more. I’ve seen worse things in the last few days than a grumpy rich girl. It must have dawned on her that I’m not going to be intimidated, because she changes tack.
‘What an amazing adventure you’ve had,’ she drawls.
I smile some more. ‘Yes, it’s been quite a week …’
‘Well, I just wanted to say well done.’ She narrows her eyes, smiling the fakest of smiles. ‘I’m just so glad you got away with it.’
She turns and strides away.
‘What the hell was that about?’ someone asks by my shoulder. It’s Brianna.
‘I have no idea,’ I say with a shrug, as the three of us watch her go.
‘Well, if you want someone to switch her hairspray for whipped cream, just let me know.’
I grin. ‘Thanks, Bri.’
‘No worries.’ She brushes her hair behind her ear. I notice she has several small loop earrings round the top of each ear – instead of the CC uniform of a single tasteful diamond in each lobe. She’s wearing a leather biker jacket – all against school rules of course.
‘You look … different,’ I say.
She smiles cautiously.
‘Thanks. I feel different.’
School goes by quickly, and I get used to people whispering as I pass. Liam is nervous about the attention, while Brianna soaks it up. Adulation is nothing new to her, but this time it’s nothing to do with a carefully posed selfie. Several times I hear her retelling the story of our escape through the sugar maze, to a crowd of sixth-form girls, and it becomes more fantastical each time. I raise my eyebrow, but she shrugs as though to say, who’s gonna know? I walk by, keeping my smile to myself – I enjoy our story passing into legend.
The bell rings for the end of day and the end of term. A cheer goes up from the class, and people are running for the door, not waiting for Mr Wynne’s permission, stuffing books into bags as they go. I just sit there, not wanting to rush. Liam is next to me, carefully putting his mathematical protractors away in the right slots.
‘What do you think it’ll be like, when we come back after summer?’ I ask him.
Liam thinks about it for a while. ‘I dunno … I think it’ll mostly be back to the way things were. People forget stuff pretty quickly.’
I nod.
‘That’s what I thought. And I was also thinking … I don’t want things to go back to the way they were – not back to normal anyway.’
He smiles.
‘Agatha, things will never be normal with you around. There’ll be other mysteries to solve.’
I think about those words and feel a bit better.
‘Thanks, Liam. And when there are, we can solve them together.’
The sun is shining on my walk home through Hyde Park, but my mind is elsewhere, back in the cavern under the earth. So I’m surprised when Dad opens the door when I reach the cottage.
‘Dad, what are you doing home?’
‘I came back early – we have a visitor.’
For a moment, I imagine Maxwell, somehow out of police custody and holding Dad hostage. What if he’s standing behind Dad, a gun to his back?
Dad catches my expression and laughs. ‘It’s all right, Aggie – it’s the good sort of visitor. Come on.’ I follow him through to the kitchen.
‘Dorothy is a high-up officer from the Metropolitan Police – she came to say thanks to you in person.’
I gasp as I see Professor D’Oliveira sitting at our kitchen table, sipping tea from china cups. I didn’t even know we owned any china – Dad has clearly pulled out all the stops for her. She sets down her cup as I enter and smiles at me.
‘Miss Oddlow! You’ll forgive me for not getting up – my joints don’t move quite as smoothly as they used to. Too long in a desk job!’
While Dad busies himself making me a cup of tea, she takes my hand between both of hers and squeezes it warmly. ‘I told your dad I was with the Met so he didn’t ask too many questions. The Guild is eager to initiate you,’ she whispers. ‘We have much to thank you for.’ As she lets go of my hand, I find a tiny locket in my palm. I flip it up and inside is a picture of a key – the symbol of the Guild. The professor winks at me, and I slip the locket into my skirt pocket.
‘Does that mean I’ve been accepted?’ I whisper back.
‘For initial training, yes. If you pass the tests, you could become our youngest agent ever.’
‘What about Liam? He’s really good with computers.’
My request doesn’t seem to surprise her.
‘First things first. But I’m sure we could consider his application.’
Dad reappears with my mug and joins us at the table. We munch on chocolate Hobnobs and sip tea. As Dad and Professor D’Oliveira make small talk, I find myself zoning out, Changing Channel. Hercule stands over by the window. He turns to me.
‘But what about this mysterious “he” Maxwell spoke of? And what really happened to your mum?’ he asks.
‘Exactly!’ I reply.
‘What’s that, love?’ says Dad, offering me another biscuit. I smile and take one. The scene in the kitchen is ordinary and comforting – so unlike my recent experiences – I almost feel uneasy.
Like Liam says, things will never be ‘normal’ again.
And I don’t want them to be.
Special thanks to Joe Heap and Rosie Sandler who worked so hard on bringing Agatha to life in these pages. They were helped enormously by Sophie Hignett and the team at Tibor Jones Studio, including Landa Acevedo-Scott, Ana Boado, Mary Rodgers, Charlotte Maddox and Kevin Conro
y Scott. Rachel Denwood and the rest of the team at HarperCollins, in particular Nick Lake, Samantha Swinnerton, Kerrie McIlloney and Ann-Janine Murtagh, are fun, clever and incredibly supportive. A special mention goes to Michelle Misra, who is just awesome.
Look out for the next adventure …
Coming soon!
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