Jungle Tangle

by Debbie Thomas

  * * *

  ‘I wouldn’t go in there, dear,’ whispered Genevieve Strode-Boylie. ‘Your father’s in a bit of a mood.’

  Marcus rested his hand on the doorknob of his dad’s office. ‘But I want to show him my Maths test. I got everything right.’

  ‘I don’t think that’ll help right now, Marcus. Leave him at his desk. He’s colouring in a set of false teeth. You know how that calms him down.’ Genevieve’s weak smile suggested she didn’t believe for one second that denture decorating would soothe her husband.

  They went into the kitchen. Genevieve unlocked a drawer and took out a packet of Jelly Babies. She held it out to Marcus.

  ‘But Dad says they ruin your–’

  ‘Dad’s not here.’ She winked.

  Marcus took one and sat at the table. ‘He’s been in a mood for days, Mum.’

  ‘I know. It’s been one thing after another. First Mr Hartley appearing on telly. Then your zoo trip and that “insult to the family name” nons– I mean business. Then his letter not getting into the paper. Then two more rejections of his book.’ Genevieve sighed. ‘I just wish he could stop competing. That he could count his blessings instead of other people’s. He’s got enough, for goodness sake – smart job, smart house and a son to be proud of.’ She reached across the table and ruffled Marcus’s hair.

  ‘Thanks, Mum.’ Marcus chewed his sweet. If only that were true. If only he hadn’t let his dad down. If only he hadn’t messed up at the zoo. If only his Swimathon article had got into the paper. If only he could spell pseudo-thingy.

  Hang on. Who was to blame for all this? Who owned the zoo? Whose articles had got into the paper?

  Marcus took two more sweets. He squeezed one between each forefinger and thumb. ‘Die, dorks!’ he muttered, biting off the heads of Jelly Baby Platt and Jelly Baby Hartley.

  14 - Cakes and Clues

  ‘Not another Incan pot for storing beer. I could spit!’ groaned Abbie.

  ‘Which is exactly what they did,’ said Coriander. ‘The Inca women chewed corn then spat it into the pot and left it to ferment. The beer’s called chicha. They still brew it in the jungle.’

  ‘Can you brew it from toffee?’ Grandma was chomping one as she peered at the pot.

  Abbie yawned. Her idea to visit Puyo’s Museum of Archaeology had seemed brilliant at the time. If Klench had come to Puyo, this would be the obvious place to bring his Incan box. But when Coriander had asked the man on reception about Klench, he’d stared as if she was from Planet Pull-the-Other-One. If she’d asked him about Klench, of course. Abbie couldn’t help wondering if someone who wasn’t keen on finding someone else would make much effort to describe that someone else. But she didn’t know enough Spanish to check.

  She did, however, know a golden box when she saw one. And so far they hadn’t. All they’d seen were pots. Pots and pots of pots.

  ‘This is useless.’ Perdita sighed. ‘Let’s go.’

  Walking back to the hotel where they’d left their luggage, Abbie felt a rush of irritation. Coriander and Perdita had given up. Oh sure, they were pretending to look for leads. But really they were waiting until Abbie gave up too. Then they could all go home without looking like scaredy cats.

  Well, you can wait away, she thought fiercely. We’re not quitting yet. We owe it to Fernando.

  She stopped on the pavement. ‘I want to look round Puyo,’ she said. ‘See you back at the hotel.’

  She wandered down the cobbled street. There was no one about. Shops with bright awnings lined the pavement. Above their flat roofs, electricity wires scribbled on the white sky. A car crawled past, as if struggling against the heavy air.

  Abbie pulled out her T-shirt, dark with sweat, and fanned it over her stomach. She pictured Klench scuttling along in his tight white suit. Where would he have gone? Who might remember him?

  She passed a clothes shop. No chance. Nothing would fit.

  A post office. No friends to write to.

  A souvenir stall. Klench buying presents? Please!

  A bicycle-hire shop. That’d be the day.

  She flopped down on a bench. What was she doing here? The Platts had lost their nerve; the trail was dead. ‘Stupid Puyo,’ she mumbled. ‘Stupid Ecuador. Stupid adventure.’

  A tear slipped down her cheek. A raindrop plopped on her head. Another tear slipped. Another drop plopped. And before she knew it there was slipping and plopping all over the place. As her tears spilled, the sky poured out its sympathy. Oh the comfort, the relief, the sheer wonderful misery of the rain! Abbie threw back her head and welcomed it on her tongue, down her neck, into her bones.

  Then it stopped, just like that, as if a tap had turned off in the sky. Abbie sniffed. Sat up. Snatched a handful of T-shirt. Squeezed. Felt better. Felt itchy. Felt peckish.

  She looked at her watch. Five o’clock. Dinner was two hours away. Her stomach growled.

  She got up and wandered back towards the hotel. The tiny leaves of bushes along the pavement glittered with rain. A fresh, sweet scent rose from their pink flowers.

  Very fresh. And very sweet.

  Getting fresher and sweeter all the time.

  Abbie stopped. Down a side street on the left was a shop. Across its orange awning was the word Panaderia.

  The smell translated for her. A bakery.

  A bakery?

  It was worth a try.

  ‘Queen,’ said the man behind the counter when Abbie asked if he spoke English.

  ‘BBC,’ he replied when she asked if a fat man in a white suit had ever come into his shop.

  Abbie tried a different approach. She took a large bun from a tray and a small bun from a basket. She put the small bun on top of the large one. Then she took a yellow napkin from the counter and crowned the small bun.

  The baker stared at the model. ‘Teletubby,’ he gasped.

  He recognised it! ‘Here?’ said Abbie. ‘In the last two weeks?’

  ‘Si si!’ cried the man. Pointing to a plate of pies he shouted, ‘Big Ben!’

  Abbie guessed that meant Klench had bought a lot of them. ‘Where did he go – um – dónde vamos?’ She waved up and down the street.

  ‘Bobby on beat. London Underground. Tipitopitapas,’ said the man.

  Abbie frowned.

  The baker pointed to the Klench model. ‘Marble Arch. Tipitopitapas.’

  You what?

  ‘Left right left right. Tipitopitapas.’

  Directions! Maybe Klench asked directions to a place called Tipitopitapas.

  ‘Muchas gracias,’ Abbie shouted. She grabbed an apple turnover from a tray and shoved a two-dollar bill across the counter.

  ‘Crown Jewels!’ the baker called gratefully as she ran out of the shop without waiting for change.

  * * *

  Back at the hotel the receptionist was idly flicking paper clips across the lobby. He looked up from his desk as Abbie rushed in.

  ‘Excuse me,’ she gasped. ‘Do you know a place called Tipitopitapas?’

  The receptionist yawned. ‘That is café-bar.’ He reached under the desk and brought out a street map of Puyo. He pointed with a paper clip to a spot by the river. ‘There. Oh, your friends say to tell you they in lounge.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Abbie ran across the lobby. A paper clip bounced off her head.

  The others were sitting round a table playing Snap, or trying to. Fernando was watching from an ashtray. Every time Coriander put down a card he yelled ‘Esnap!’ to stop her winning. Revenge, no doubt, for her reluctance to look for Carmen.

  Abbie plonked on the sofa next to Perdita. ‘Guess what?’ she said breathlessly. ‘I know where Klench went!’ She told them about the bakery.

  ‘So? ’E visited a bar called Tipitopitapas. Big deal,’ said Grandma. ‘Snap.’

  ‘No, it’s not,’ said Perdita, ‘it’s a six and a Jack.’

  ‘Picky picky,’ said Grandma.

  ‘Well,’ said Abbie, ‘at least it proves that Klench came to Puyo.’ She turne
d to Coriander. ‘I’m going to that bar. You’re the only one who speaks Spanish. You’ve got to come with me.’

  ‘But …’ Coriander put down a card miserably.

  ‘But what?’ said Abbie. ‘We’re only finding out where he went. It’s not like we’re inviting him for Christmas.’

  ‘But what if we do find out?’ said Perdita. ‘Look, Mum and I just phoned Dad. And when I told him about Klench he burst into tears.’

  Olympic wimp, thought Abbie. ‘Why are you Platts so scared?’ she said. ‘There’s six of us against one of him. What can he do to us?’

  Coriander twisted a plait round her finger. ‘Look what he did to me, locking me up for three months. Look how he starved the zoo animals. Look at the pain he’s caused.’

  The pain he’s caused … now that sounded familiar. ‘Ha!’ snorted Abbie as Marcus Strode-Boylie sneered into her mind. ‘What was it you said the other day? People who cause pain are usually in pain. No one’s just horrible.’

  Coriander stared at her cards. ‘Except Klench,’ she mumbled. ‘I’d forgotten about him.’

  ‘You can forget about ’im now,’ said Grandma. She jabbed a finger at Coriander. ‘And you can think about poor Fernando instead. Snapped off ’is shoulders, snapped into a bag, snapped apart from ’is wife … Snap!’

  ‘No,’ said Perdita, ‘it’s an Ace and a Quee–’ The look on Grandma’s face shut her up.

  Coriander put her head in her hands. She sat there for a long time. Then she looked up. ‘You’re right. I have to do it. For Fernando. I’ll come to the bar. I’ll do what I can. But I won’t face Klench again.’

  * * *

  At nine o’clock next morning it was already hot. Abbie and Coriander walked in silence along the cobbled streets. The sky was soft and grey, like damp tissue. A fine mist rose from the river on their right. A not-so-fine smell rose with it.

  They passed a fisherman crouching on the riverbank and a skinny dog nosing through litter. Finally they reached a row of cafés and shops. At the first café two old men looked up from their coffees and smiled. Abbie smiled back.

  But Coriander stared grimly ahead. ‘There.’ She pointed to the last building in the row.

  it said across the ragged awning. Outside stood two round tables with collapsed umbrellas.

  ‘Come on.’ Abbie took Coriander’s arm and steered her through the open door.

  They peered into the gloom. On the left was a dark wooden bar. A few plastic tables were scattered around. The floor was a fly fiesta. A sad beery smell curled up Abbie’s nose. The place was empty except for a man in the corner. He was slumped at a table, staring into a glass of golden liquid and moaning to himself.

  Abbie nudged Coriander. ‘Ask him where the waiter is,’ she said.

  The man looked up. His eyes watered; his skin was grey. ‘I am waiter. And since my wife leave I am waitress too. I do all job here. Oh oh.’ He gulped his drink. ‘Manager and manageress. Barman and barmess.’ He gave a laughter-free laugh.

  ‘Oh,’ said Abbie in a sympathetic way.

  ‘Oh oh,’ agreed the man.

  ‘The thing is,’ said Abbie, ‘we’re looking for someone. We think he might have come in here about two weeks ago.’

  ‘Two weeks? Oh oh.’

  ‘Someone fat. With yellow hair.’

  ‘Fat? Yellow? For sure, oh oh. He meet me here.’

  Coriander grasped Abbie’s arm. The man’s face crumpled like a dirty dishcloth. A tear dripped onto the table. He waved at them to sit down, apparently keen to share his sorrows. He held out a hand. ‘Antonio Monio.’

  ‘I’m Tilly,’ said Abbie quickly, ‘and this is Mrs Budds.’ No way was she going to give their real names to a man who’d shaken Klench’s horrid little paw. She and Coriander pulled up two chairs, brushing off the crumbs.

  ‘I tell you my story. But first …’ Antonio heaved himself up from the table. He went to the bar, reached behind it for something and returned. ‘Cigarro?’

  ‘Oh oh,’ gasped Abbie and Coriander. Antonio Monio was holding out a golden box with an engraving of the sun on the lid.

  * * *

  ‘Good griefs!’ Klench blinked up from the reception desk. ‘You startled me.’

  A man stood in front of him. He wore a short-sleeved khaki shirt and long shorts.

  Klench glanced at his mint-green watch. ‘You are right on times. But how come I not hear your helicopter?’

  ‘Helicopter?’ The man raised his eyebrows. ‘A hunter likes to walk.’ His voice was low and quiet. ‘Took less than a day from Puyo.’

  Klench nodded curtly to hide how impressed he was. ‘Vell, let us see if your poachink matches your timekeepink. You may start schnip-schnap.’

  The man grunted through his grizzled beard. ‘A hunter likes to work at night.’

  ‘Of course.’ Klench cleared his throat. ‘I vos forgettink.’ He glanced at the rifle slung over the man’s shoulder. ‘But please to leave zat here. You vill not be killink. I am sure you understand zat a dead pet iss a bad pet.’ He giggled at his little joke.

  The man fixed Klench with cold grey eyes. ‘I’m sure you understand that I need my dart gun to stun the big ones.’

  ‘Ah.’ Klench shifted from one foot to the other. ‘Just checkink.’

  The man caught sight of Carmen on the desk. ‘Hey, that’s some trophy.’ He whistled. ‘You do that yourself?’

  ‘Of course,’ Klench lied, knowing that she wouldn’t correct him. Ever since Brag had tried to unscrew her, the head had played dead around the guests. ‘Now, Mr …’

  The man stared at him.

  Coughing, Klench reached under the desk and brought out a bunch of keys. ‘Zese are for cages, vich are ready in vine cellar under kitchen.’ He rang a bell on the desk. A door on his left opened. A nervous-looking youth came through. He wore the brown uniform of the hotel staff. ‘Ziss is Nanto. He vill feed animals for you. But do not give him keys to cages. And you must sleep in vine cellar.’ Klench smiled at the hunter. ‘You can never trust a servant – not even ziss yunk fool.’ He clipped Nanto round the ear. ‘Take Mr … Mr …?’

  The man stared again. ‘Call me Mr … Hunter.’

  * * *

  Marcus jabbed the white ball with the pool cue. It bounced off the side of the table and potted a stripy ball. ‘Yes!’

  He flung the cue on the table. So what? Dad wasn’t there to witness his skill. He hadn’t set foot in the games room for a week. He was still in the mother of moods.

  Marcus grasped the cue again. What could he do to cheer Dad up and sort out whacko Platt and fartley Hartley once and for all? He stabbed a ball. It hit the side of the table, flew over the edge, landed on to the carpet and rolled out of the open door.

  He gasped. Of course!

  But how on earth would he pull it off?

  15 - No Posseeble

  ‘But why hasn’t he sold it?’ said Perdita. ‘Using it for cigars – he must be crazy!’

  They were sitting in the hotel lounge. Abbie and Coriander had rushed back from Bar Tipitopitapas to tell the others Antonio’s tale. How he’d built the Hotel Armadillo, a luxury jungle retreat. How he’d hoped rich tourists would flock there after a thrilling trek through the forest. How his wife had warned him that rich tourists aren’t into roughing it. How, after eight months without a single booking, she’d left him. How he’d sunk into despair. And how no one would buy his five-star flop … until Klench phoned.

  ‘So Mr Moany-Pants got the box,’ said Grandma. ‘If it’s so valuable, why didn’t ’e just sell it and buy another luxury place?’ She popped a peanut into her mouth.

  Coriander sighed. ‘He can’t be bothered. Poor man, it seems he’s given up on life. He got a job at the Tipitopitapas bar so he can sit there all day feeling sorry for himself.

  ‘I wish we could help him,’ said Abbie. She drained her glass of bright green, sweet-as-heaven juice.

  ‘Who care about Moanie Man?’ squeaked Fernando. He was perching on Abbie
’s lap. ‘Where my Carmen? Where Klench take her?’

  ‘We still can’t be sure he did take her,’ said Coriander.

  ‘But we do know where he went,’ said Abbie. ‘Though we’ve no idea why.’

  ‘What does Klench want with a posh ’otel in the middle of nowhere?’ asked Grandma.

  ‘That,’ said Coriander firmly, ‘is for the police to find out.’

  * * *

  But the policeman behind the desk at Puyo station wasn’t interested. ‘So,’ he said, raising a fierce eyebrow, ‘you hear of fat man in white suit? And you theenk perhaps he beeg-shot baddie? And you want us to search jungle for find? No posseeble. There are many fat mans in world. And many wear white suit.’

  ‘But the description is just like Klench!’ Abbie cried. ‘He’s got this funny accent and pale face and–’

  ‘You have funny accent and pale face,’ said the policeman sharply. ‘If you wear white suit and stuff cushion under shirt, perhaps I arrest you too.’

  ‘Please,’ Coriander begged. ‘He’s committed all sorts of crimes in all sorts of countries.’

  ‘But not in Ecuador. Now excuse me, I very busy man.’ The policeman picked up a pen.

  ‘Can’t you at least check?’ said Perdita. ‘You’ve got a helicopter sitting out the front doing nothing. You could fly over the jungle, look at the hotel.’

  The policeman tapped the pen. ‘I tell you, I very busy.’

  ‘Take us to your boss then,’ said Grandma.

  The policeman eyed her coldly. ‘I am boss. When you find me a crime, I find you the time. Now I have urgent meeting. Adios Señoras.’ He got up and marched through a door. From the gurgles that followed, Abbie guessed that his urgent meeting was with the kettle.

  ‘Puffed-up pooper!’ shouted Grandma. Abbie prayed the policeman’s ears and English weren’t that good.

  They headed slowly back to the hotel.

  ‘That’s that then,’ said Perdita. ‘Klench goes free and we go home.’

  Abbie kicked a stone along the pavement. ‘There must be something else we can do!’