Jungle Tangle

by Debbie Thomas

  Coriander put her hand on Abbie’s arm. ‘Not without the police,’ she said, soft-but-oh-so-firmly.

  Abbie pushed her away. ‘Don’t you see? If we give up now, Klench’ll never be caught. He’ll wander the world till kingdom come.’

  Coriander stared at Abbie. ‘Oh dear,’ she sighed, ‘you’re right. He must be caught. But we can’t do the catching. There has to be another way.’

  ‘Hang on!’ Abbie clapped her hands. ‘There is another way! The policeman said Klench hasn’t broken the law in Ecuador. But I bet he has. I bet he’s breaking it right now, doing something terrible at that hotel. If we can prove it, then the police have no choice – they’ll have to go after him.’

  ‘So,’ said Grandma, ‘’ow do we prove it?’

  ‘We hide in the jungle and spy on the hotel. When we find out what Klench is up to, we get some evidence, then come back and tell the police. They’ll have to go after him then.’

  Perdita frowned. ‘What if he’s not up to anything? What if he’s just retired from crime to run a hotel?’

  No one answered. But the look on their faces said, Klench retire from crime? Guinea pigs might fly.

  Back at the hotel Fernando was waiting for them in the wardrobe of Grandma’s room. They brought him out and told him what had happened.

  ‘Oh no,’ he said when they described the unhelpful policeman.

  ‘Oh si,’ he said when they explained the plan about spying.

  ‘Oh no,’ he said when Abbie showed him the map Antonio Monio had given her. It was a solid green square with a cross in the middle. ‘How we ever find thees hotel?’

  Coriander smiled. ‘Don’t worry, I’ve got a great compass.’ She winked at Perdita.

  Abbie smiled too. What a relief to see the Platts perking up. It must be the prospect of a jungle jaunt. Coriander loved her wildlife. And once she was happy, so was Perdita. Plus the thought of getting Klench arrested was enough to brighten anyone’s day.

  After lunch they repacked their rucksacks with jungle essentials. The receptionist had agreed to store the rest of their luggage at the hotel.

  When she’d stuffed in her last pair of knickers, Abbie went down to the lobby and phoned home.

  ‘Hello?’ came a crackly voice.

  ‘Hi, Mum.’

  ‘’Arling! ’Ow are you?’

  ‘Fine. We’re in a hotel at the edge of the jungle. Mum, the line’s not good.’

  ‘’Issing you ’ery much. Any more ’ews on Carm–?’

  ‘We’re on her trail. Look, Mum, we’re going into the jungle tomorrow. It’s too much to explain. I’ll be out of touch for a few days. Don’t worry.’

  ‘What’s this ’bout Klen–?’

  ‘Never mind. Please tell Matt we’ll keep miles away from him.’ It was sort of true. If you were an ant, fifty metres was miles.

  ‘Be caref’ ’arling. We ’ove you so mu–’

  ‘You too, Mum. You’re breaking up. I’d better go.’

  Was it sniffs or static that crackled in her ears? Abbie put the phone down. She grabbed a tissue and dabbed at the stupid leak in her eyes.

  * * *

  Klench puffed upstairs to the third floor of the Hotel Armadillo. He paused on the landing in front of a white door.

  ‘Go on,’ urged Inner Mummy.

  ‘Are you sure?’ he mumbled. ‘How can I boss zem about, Mums? I am Doctor of Eefil-Doink, not medicines.’

  ‘But I sure am, you hunk of ham.’

  Klench nodded meekly. How could he forget her degrees in pathology, pharmacology, cardiology and bullyology? He opened the door. Fumes of disinfectant scoured his nostrils. Fortified by his favourite scent, he strode forward. ‘Doctors,’ he squeaked.

  Three faces looked up from their microscope, fingernail-scrubbing and tool-sharpening.

  ‘Ve need to talk,’ said Klench. ‘About pain. Guests are complainink zat treatments are too hurtsy. You must bump up anaesthetic.’

  Dr Banoffee put down a knife with spikes on the blade. He smoothed his hair. ‘We can’t,’ he cooed in a creamy voice. ‘If we increase the dose it’ll kill them. And if they’re dead, they’re less likely to pay us.’

  Dr Squidgychocolatelog laughed sweetly. ‘Basic psychology.’

  Mummy boxed Klench on the inner ear. ‘Tell zem zey must make a plan – or you’ve got probs, you jumbo flan.’

  ‘Make a plan, you jumbo flan,’ said Klench.

  Doctors Ecclescake, Banoffee and Squidgychocolatelog frowned. ‘Who are you calling flan?’ they chorused.

  * * *

  Terry Strode-Boylie tapped his watch. ‘Bedtime.’

  ‘OK, Dad.’ Marcus got up from his chair.

  Genevieve rose from the sofa and kissed Marcus on the forehead. ‘Sleep well, darling. Love you.’

  ‘You too, Mum. Dad.’

  Terry grunted into his book.

  Dad can’t even say goodnight, thought Marcus, climbing the stairs slowly. If only he could finalise the plan, fit the last piece of the jigsaw. Then Dad would be the proudest parent on the planet.

  16 - Into the Jungle

  Email: corkyshocka@bradleighbellow.net

  Subject: Letter from the Equator

  JUNGLE TRUNDLE

  By Abigail Absinthe

  If you need a shopping bag on wheels, you can’t beat the Trundeluxe. I know this because Grandma’s just tried to – by testing it in the rainforest. And after an hour of wheeling over roots, leaves and uber-grumpy ants, it’s still in one piece. Now it’s passed the test, we’ll be using the trolley to carry four hammocks and a cooking pot on our jungle trek.

  It’s going to be a sweaty few days. Before our test-run this morning my T-shirt was turquoise. After twenty minutes in the rainforest it was navy blue.

  Imagine you’re a piece of onion floating in soup. That’s how you feel in the jungle, shiny and slimy, held up and pressed down at the same time by the heat. At every step your boots either sink into moss or trip over roots. The smell of the forest is like a million Indian takeaways rolling up your nose – sweet and bitter, sour and spicy, mouldy and sharp.

  We saw bugs as big as mugs, flies the size of your eyes and leeches fat as peaches. Best of all are the butterflies. Think of the bluest blue you can then add twelve. That’s the colour of the outer wings of the morpho butterfly, designed to dazzle predators. Folded up, though, they’re dull brown. Their camouflage is so good that predators look at tree trunks absolutely plastered with morphos and say to each other, ‘No lunch there, mate.’ Poor things. You wonder if they ever get a decent meal.

  I’m writing this from a hotel in Puyo on the edge of the rainforest. The internet hasn’t reached the jungle yet, so it’ll be a while before I write again.

  Abbie pressed ‘Send’ for the last time in who knew how long. ‘Gracias,’ she said to the receptionist who’d let her use the hotel computer.

  ‘Enjoy jungle,’ he called, flicking a farewell paper clip at her back. She ran out of the hotel and jumped into the jeep where everyone else was waiting.

  A few hours later they were roaring down a river. Herons rose in long-legged alarm as the speedboat ripped through their day. Trees like giant broccoli crowded the muddy banks.

  ‘Isn’t this brill?’ yelled Perdita, throwing her arms out. Abbie nodded, opening her mouth to welcome the wind right down to her toes.

  ‘’Ang on there, Chess!’ Grandma clapped her hand over her head.

  Coriander tapped the boatman on the shoulder and pointed ahead. On the left was a wooden jetty. The boatman nodded. He steered the boat towards it and turned off the engine.

  There was a signpost on the jetty.

  it said in peeling paint. An arrow pointed down a path into the jungle. For all those rich tourists who never came, thought Abbie.

  Everyone lugged their rucksacks and the shopping trolley off the boat. Coriander paid the boatman. They stood on the jetty and waved until the boat was out of sight. As the engine’s roar faded another one grew: the his
sing, crackling din of the jungle. Everyone stared at the dark opening. How many legs, wings, beaks and voices were working up that steamy rumpus? How many snakes were lurking and jaguars lounging, their fangs and claws awaiting intruders?

  Coriander bent over her rucksack. From a pocket she brought out a slim metal box that fitted in her hand. On one side was a screen. She pressed a button on the back. Two eyes, a nose and a mouth appeared on the screen.

  ‘Well hi-de-hi and hey-de-hey!’ came a chirpy voice. ‘Great to see the light of day.’

  ‘Whassat?’ said Grandma. Coriander put a finger to her lips.

  The screen eyes blinked round. ‘Greetings folks, it’s good to meet. Hang on while I find my feet.’

  Everyone stared as two metal legs popped out of the box. At their ends were little feet and toes.

  Coriander stood it on the jetty. ‘Told you I had a great compass,’ she said. ‘This is Gav the Nav. Matt made him specially for our jungle trip.’

  ‘Not that you will,’ chuckled the screen. ‘Trip, I mean. Now I’m here to mark the path, we’ll skip along and have a laugh.’

  The gadget whirled round three times then faced the forest opening. ‘Don’t be anxious, don’t be stressed. Gav has found the way north-west.’

  ‘Does ’e rhyme all the time?’ said Grandma.

  Coriander blushed. ‘Matt knows I love barn dances.’

  ‘Hitch your rucksack on your back,’ chanted Gav, ‘and do-si-do along the track.’ He scuttled into the forest, surprisingly quickly for a box on legs.

  ‘’E’s annoyin’ me already.’ Grandma took Fernando out of her handbag and perched him on top of her shopping trolley.

  ‘For sure,’ he agreed.

  Gav was waiting a few metres ahead. He tapped a foot impatiently while everyone smeared on insect repellent. ‘Come along now, get the beat. Grab your gear and move your feet.’

  The party followed him into the jungle. He darted in front, his toes a flash of silver in the gloom.

  It was clear from the sawn-off tree stumps that a path had once been cut here. But the jungle was taking over again. At every step Abbie had to push away huge leaves and hairy vines. She guessed the normal rules of growth didn’t apply: everything sprouted twice as fast in this rich wetness. It was like a speeded-up nature programme. With all the rustling and snapping and the sweat blurring her eyes, she could almost see the plants budding, ripening and rotting around her.

  ‘Spin your partner, Strip the Willow. Straight on for The Armadillo,’ sang Gav, hopping onto a log.

  ‘Eef straight on,’ snapped Fernando, ‘let’s turn heem off.’ He glared at Gav.

  Coriander nodded. ‘I suppose there is a path. Maybe we should save the battery.’ She picked Gav up and pressed the Off button. His legs shot into the box.

  ‘Some people feel they must compete,’ came Gav’s huffy dying voice, ‘just because they don’t … have … feet.’ His face vanished from the screen.

  ‘Phew!’ Grandma sighed, flopping down on a tree stump. ‘Tea break.’

  Abbie agreed it was time for a rest, though tea was the last thing she wanted in this steam bath. She sat on a log next to Perdita and took a water bottle from her rucksack.

  ‘Just sips,’ said Coriander. ‘Antonio Monio said we’ll come to a river this afternoon. We can camp there and fill up on water. But it’s a few hours away yet.’

  ‘Plus you don’t want to go to the loo too often,’ said Perdita, grinning. ‘You never know what might be underneath.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Abbie, pushing her off the log.

  They carried on along the trail. Coriander led the way, then Perdita, then Abbie. Grandma came last, wheeling her shopping bag with Fernando perched on top. Conversation died as they fell into step with the squeak of the Trundeluxe wheels.

  Abbie sank into a green dream. Light green, dark green, every in-between green. Apple green, bottle green, bean green. Pea green, sea green, looking-up-a-tree green. How could they all squeeze into one colour? If this was painting by numbers, you’d need a thousand just for green.

  A branch fell onto the path. Abbie looked up. A furry bum-bag was hanging from a tree.

  ‘Sloth!’ cried Perdita, clapping her hands. ‘And look, there’s a baby on its stomach.’ Abbie squealed with delight. Four eyes peered from china-doll faces, not at all scared – though perhaps a little annoyed – at the disturbance.

  ‘This place is fantastic,’ she said, giving Perdita a sweaty hug. ‘It’s so … so–’

  ‘Sticky?’ Grandma grumbled behind her. ‘Mouldy? Gloomy-rotten-stinky?’

  Yes, thought Abbie, all those things. That was it exactly: a great glorious mess. Not just green but a thousand greens. Not just stinky but a stack of stinks. Not just hot but steamy-sopping-stifling. She imagined God going wild in his playroom, splashing and mixing the craziest sights, sounds and smells, and then hurling them into the Amazon. Even the sweat was thrilling. It pricked her stomach with tiny shocks, as if a million ants were tap-dancing under her T-shirt.

  Fernando too was perking up, now that Gav had perked down. ‘Aah.’ He tilted his head back on the shopping bag, which was moving a lot slower without Gav setting the pace. ‘The esmell of rotten leaf – I remember how I roll with my Carmen on forest floor. The howl of howler monkey – I remember how we howl through our sewn-up mouths.’

  ‘Cut the poetry,’ muttered Grandma, ‘or I’ll sew yours up again.’

  Abbie could see that Grandma wasn’t taking to the jungle. Despite the Numbskull she’d slipped under Chester, sweat was pouring down her face. He gave up wigging and slid down to stand on her shoulder and fan her cheeks.

  They walked on.

  And on.

  And on.

  The little sun that struggled through the trees began to dim.

  Eventually Coriander said, ‘Can you hear the river? We should be there by now.’

  Above the shrieking of the forest, the squeaking of the trolley and the creaking of Grandma, it was hard to hear anything.

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Coriander. ‘I hope we haven’t gone wrong.’ Coriander fished Gav out of her rucksack.

  ‘Bow to your partner, turn to the right. There’s a spot to spend the night.’

  ‘Silence, bald bandito!’ yelled Fernando.

  ‘Keep your cool, footless fool!’ piped Gav. Coriander turned him off quickly. Sure enough, down a right fork, the jungle opened onto the muddy bank of a small river.

  ‘Perfect,’ said Coriander.

  Abbie and Perdita unzipped Grandma’s bag. They hung the hammocks between trees and draped mosquito nets above them. Coriander lit a fire. Then she wandered around showing the girls which nuts and fruit to collect. Thank goodness she knows, thought Abbie, as Coriander picked a yellow fruit encased in papery leaves, which she called uvilla, and a cluster of dark red camu camu. I’d probably poison everyone.

  Coriander went down to the river and scooped water into the cooking pot. While it was heating over the fire, she knelt down and dug up a knobbly brown root. ‘Yuca,’ she said, peeling the outer skin with a knife. ‘It’s a staple food here – full of energy.’ She chopped the white flesh into cubes and dropped them into the boiling water. The girls threw in the fruit and nuts.

  Grandma peered into the pot. ‘Call that dinner? I could murder a steak.’

  ‘You’ll have to,’ said Coriander sharply. ‘Because the only steak round here is playing tag over your head. And you’ll have to kill me before you kill them.’ They looked up. Two toffee-coloured monkeys were whooping between branches.

  ‘Capuchins.’ Coriander began to hum: a breezy, teasy tune of throw and catch. The monkeys cocked their old men’s heads. Then they plucked nuts from the branches and lobbed them into the cooking pot.

  ‘Thanks,’ called Coriander. She tossed two bananas into the tree. Two skins flew down and landed on Grandma’s shoulders.

  Dinner tasted soft and earthy and slightly sweet: a cross between strawberries and forest floor. Afte
rwards they sat round the fire and watched the inky rags of bats flicker across the stars. Lilies glowed like ghosts on the river.

  Abbie heard, then saw, a frog croaking its little lungs out on the bank. ‘Cute,’ she said, bending over the yellow-black creature.

  ‘I wouldn’t get too close, dear,’ said Coriander. ‘That’s a poison-dart frog. Its venom is deadly.’ She yawned. ‘Well, I’m off to bed. Remember to check your hammocks for tarantulas. Sweet dreams.’

  Thanks a bunch. Abbie climbed into her hammock and tied the cords of the mosquito net tightly. The jungle bellowed around her. She fell asleep and dreamed of poisonous frogs in white suits barn-dancing with tarantulas.

  * * *

  Klench looked across the lobby. ‘Vot you got for me tonight?’

  Mr Hunter was dragging a sack over the floor. ‘Jaguar cubs.’

  ‘Ah, splendid. Zey make most popular cutesie pets. But ooh …’ Klench winced at the trail of scratch marks. ‘Please to mind my floor.’

  Mr Hunter eyed at him stonily. ‘I’m here for hunting, not housework.’

  Klench gulped. ‘Of course.’ He hurried round from the desk and opened a door at the side of the lobby. ‘A cage is ready in vine cellar.’

  * * *

  The bell went for the end of school.

  ‘Now then, Jims and Jimeldas,’ said Mr Dabbings. ‘For homework tonight, please ask your mums and dads if they’ve got anything that needs polishing. Remember the super, um, supervisor of the zoo café?’ A snigger went round. ‘Well, she’s a fantastic pers–, er, polisher. And she said she’d love some extra work. I’m, ahem, helping her out while Perdita and Abigail are away.’

  Marcus looked up from his homework book. ‘You’re what, sir?’

  Mr Dabbings coughed. ‘Lending a hand, Marcus, because that’s what hands are for. Now, bring your stuff in tomorrow and I’ll take it to the zoo. Knives, spoons, sugar bowls and the like.’

  Marcus smacked his palm against his forehead. Of course! That’s it!

  He wrote his homework down. Then he underlined it. Twice.