The Black Cat Detectives

by Wendy Meddour

  Contents

  The Missing Piece

  Beetles and Tweezers

  Truly Deeply Muslims

  Don’t Wake the Baby!

  Steaming Open the Inbox

  The Larval Stage

  When Iqbal Completely Forgot

  Rasheed Khan Passes GO

  The Black Cat Detectives

  Ramzi Wins a Prize

  Cash in the Attic

  Don’t Panic!

  Agent Ramadan – Over and Out

  Dad’s Balancing Trick

  Money Troubles

  Up, Up and Away

  The Wedding Sari

  A Beetle is Born

  Aunty Urooj’s Secret

  Dusty Corners

  The Butterfly Effect

  A Full & Complete Explanation of... What things Mean

  ‘Set up your Own Detective Agency’

  Acknowledgements

  About the author

  Dedication and Copyright

  The Missing Piece

  It all began when Iqbal Stalk got a chess piece stuck up his nose. Until that sticky moment, nothing much was happening in Cinnamon Grove. Blackbirds were cluttering up the telephone wires, clouds were drifting over chimney pots and lazy-day dads were mowing weed-speckled lawns. The holidays had begun. No school. No homework. No worries. Just long, empty days stretching across the summer like a yawn.

  “CHECKMATE,” beamed a wiry little girl with glasses.

  “That is so not fair,” groaned Ramzi. He was fed up with losing – even if it was to Shaima Stalk.

  Hmmmpph.

  “What was that?” asked Ramzi, his head swivelling round.

  “What?” Shaima leant forward to listen.

  HMMMPHHH.

  There it was again! Only this time, the noise was louder.

  “It’s coming from behind the sofa,” whispered Ramzi. He stood up and tiptoed across the carpet. Shaima followed. They crept on to the cushions and peered over the top.

  A tiny little boy stared up at them, clutching his nose very tight.

  “Iqbal,” groaned Shaima, catching her slipping spectacles. “What have you done now?”

  “Nothing. It just f...f...fell up,” stammered Iqbal.

  “What fell up?” asked Ramzi.

  “Nothing did,” Iqbal cried.

  “MUM,” yelled Shaima, “Iqbal’s got a chess piece stuck up his nose!”

  “How do you know that?” asked Ramzi, peering over the sofa. Iqbal was still clutching his face tight.

  “Just a simple process of deduction,” said Shaima. “I noticed a missing chess piece earlier and Iqbal’s always putting things up his nose.”

  “Is he?” asked Ramzi, looking down at Iqbal. His eyes were filling with water.

  “Yeh. It’s quite normal. It’s a recognised toddler phase.”

  Ramzi didn’t look convinced.

  Just then, Mrs Stalk appeared in the doorway. Her peach-coloured sari sparkled in the sunlight as she scooped Iqbal into her arms.

  “Iqbal Stalk,” she said kindly. “How many times must I tell you, noses are for sniffing, not stuffing. What have you done this time?”

  “It was only an accident, Ammi,” whimpered Iqbal.

  Mrs Stalk prised Iqbal’s hand off his nose. “Subhan’Allah!” she exclaimed.

  “Let me see, let me see,” said Shaima eagerly. Jumping off the sofa, she rubbed her glasses and peered into the puffy darkness. “I knew it!” she said. “It’s a pawn!”

  “Then we’ll need a bag of frozen chickpeas,” said Mrs Stalk, carrying Iqbal into the kitchen.

  “Chickpeas?” asked Ramzi, puzzled.

  “To keep the swelling down,” explained Shaima.

  Mrs Stalk perched Iqbal on a stool and dug about in the freezer.

  Shaima looked at Ramzi and grinned. Her eyes were sparkling. They always did that when she had a plan. “Back in a minute!” she cried, diving into the cupboard under the stairs. There was a CRASH and a BANG and a RUSTLE. Moments later, Shaima staggered out of the cupboard carrying an enormous black box.

  “If I... sterilise... the... pliers,” she puffed, her tiny body struggling under the weight, “I can make... the... extraction... myself.”

  “No. You cannot,” said Mrs Stalk firmly. “Now put your father’s tool kit away.”

  “Ammi,” moaned Shaima. But she pushed the tool kit back into the cupboard.

  “Hold these against Iqbal’s nose,” said Mrs Stalk, passing Ramzi the chickpeas. He pressed them gently against Iqbal’s nose while Mrs Stalk searched in the folds of her sari. “I know it’s in here somewhere,” she said. “Ah, got it.” She pulled out her mobile phone and texted Aunty Urooj. “She’ll know what to do.”

  “Is she a doctor or something?” asked Ramzi, the melting ice dripping down his arm.

  “Kind of,” grinned Shaima. “Just wait. You’ll see.”

  Beetles and Tweezers

  “Salaams, everyone,” beamed Aunty Urooj, striding into the house. She wore a long velvet jacket, a beetle-print headscarf and a pair of high-heeled burgundy boots.

  “Alhamdulillah!” said Mrs Stalk. “Have you brought your equipment?”

  “Of course,” smiled Aunty Urooj, patting the enormous carpet bag hanging from her shoulder. “I’ll just slip off my boots.”

  While Aunty Urooj was undoing her laces, Shaima threw herself round her waist. “And it’s good to see you too,” laughed Aunty Urooj, squeezing Shaima hard. “But who’s your friend?”

  Ramzi was hovering in the hall, grinning awkwardly.

  “You know... he’s the one I told you about,” began Shaima, “... with the sleepwalking Dad and the cute baby sister.”

  “So, you’re the famous Ramzi Ramadan, are you?” winked Aunty Urooj.

  Ramzi nodded and blushed.

  “Come on then. Show me to the patient,” she said, rubbing her hands together.

  “He’s in the kitchen,” said Ramzi, leading the way.

  ***

  “What have you done?” gasped Aunty Urooj. Iqbal’s face was inflating like a little balloon. She tipped back his head and looked up his nose.

  “I don’t even know!” cried Iqbal.

  “Judging by the small circle of green felt,” said Shaima, “we’re pretty sure it’s a pawn.”

  “Excellent,” said Aunty Urooj. She rolled up her sleeves. “Right, no time to lose. Amira, get me some olive oil.”

  Mrs Stalk poured some thick golden oil into a mug.

  “Shaima – a torch.”

  Shaima ran upstairs.

  “Iqbal – suck this.” Aunty Urooj popped a bright red lollipop into Iqbal’s mouth. “Now, where are my tweezers?” she said, rummaging in her carpet bag.

  That’s when Ramzi saw it! He completely and utterly froze. There was something scurrying up Aunty Urooj’s arm. Something large and spindly and black! Ramzi gulped and took a step backwards. The thing had six twig-like legs and two gigantic antennae. Pointing at Aunty Urooj’s arm, Ramzi let out a stifled scream.

  “I’ve got them,” said Aunty Urooj, waving some tiny little tweezers in the air.

  Ramzi blinked. Couldn’t she see it? Or was he dreaming? But how could he be? He wasn’t even asleep. No. There was definitely a HUGE insect on Aunty Urooj’s arm.

  “Back inside, little one,” cooed Aunty Urooj.

  The creature stopped, turned round and crawled back down her sleeve. Ramzi blinked again. It had gone.

  “What was that...?” he asked.

  Aunty Urooj was about to answer when Shaima burst into the kitchen.

  “I’ve got the torch,” she panted. Ramzi noticed a black notebook tucked under her arm. He’d seen it before – on the night Dad got stuck up a t
ree.

  “Then we’re ready,” smiled Aunty Urooj. She pushed her bangles up her sleeves. “Now – watch and learn.”

  Shaima threw her notepad on to the work surface and scribbled:

  “Shaima, stop writing me down!” cried Iqbal.

  But Shaima wrote everything down. For her, life was one big experiment. It had to be observed, analysed and recorded. Shoving the pen behind her ear, she pointed the torchlight up Iqbal’s nose. Aunty Urooj dipped the tweezers in olive oil. Then she told Iqbal to suck hard and look at the ceiling.

  Pop!

  It was all over in seconds.

  “Ta taaaa,” smiled Aunty Urooj, dropping the dripping little pawn on to the table.

  “Iqbal’s nose all better,” grinned Iqbal.

  “Alhamdulillah,” sighed Mrs Stalk. “And well done, Urooj!”

  Aunty Urooj wiped her tweezers with some kitchen roll and took a little bow. Shaima and Ramzi clapped.

  “Now, promise not to do it again,” said Mrs Stalk.

  “Can I promise tomorrow?” yawned Iqbal. “All of me’s sleepy now.”

  Everyone laughed as Mrs Stalk hoisted him on to her hip. “Yes,” she said, “it’s time for your midday nap. In fact, after this morning, I think we could all do with a little rest!”

  Truly Deeply Muslims

  Moments later, Iqbal was asleep upstairs, Mrs Stalk was chopping onions and Aunty Urooj and Shaima were talking by the sink. But Ramzi didn’t mind. In fact, he liked listening to the bubble of a language he didn’t understand.

  Strange words, fast and light, soon filled up the kitchen and Ramzi closed his eyes. He breathed in the spicy smells that wafted out of Mrs Stalk’s pan. Then he took a deep breath and imagined himself in a far-off land... Pakistan... India... Bangladesh... He drew their wiggly outlines in his mind.

  Opening one eye, he looked around. No. He was still in Cinnamon Grove and they were still chatting, so he jumped off his stool and wandered over to the shelves. They were laden with pots, all tightly packed with Mrs Stalk’s potions and herbs. Craning his neck, Ramzi read the labels.

  He glanced back at Mrs Stalk, who was stirring her enormous pan. She reminded him of a magician – with her billowing sari and her big wooden spoon. Only she didn’t make spells. She made deep orange curries that made your eyes water and your throat tingle. Dad said Mrs Stalk’s curries were the best in the world.

  “Come on,” said Shaima, pulling Ramzi’s arm.“Stop dreaming. I want to show you something.”

  Ramzi let her drag him into Mr Stalk’s study where she flicked open the laptop. She clicked on ‘favourites’ and images of distant galaxies filled the screen.

  “That is so cool!” said Ramzi, gazing at the swirling, multicoloured light. He’d go there one day. Into space and beyond.

  From the corner of the study, Aunty Urooj let out a big sigh. Ahhhhhh. She was flicking through some Persian poetry by the bookcase. Shaima and Ramzi looked up. She sighed again. AHHHHHHH.

  “Are you OK?” asked Shaima.

  Aunty Urooj nodded and adjusted her beetle-print headscarf. Beetles. How could Ramzi have forgotten? He had to ask:

  “Errmm... Urooj... what was that thing in the kitchen? The one that crawled out of your bag?”

  “Thing?” exclaimed Aunty Urooj, closing the book with a SNAP. “It wasn’t a thing. It was an extremely rare Long-Horned Capricorn Beetle.”

  “Awesome!” exclaimed Shaima, leaping up from Mr Stalk’s leather chair. “Did you bring it with you?”

  “It’s not an ‘it’. It’s a ‘he’,” she said, disappearing into the hall.

  “She’s probably gone to check on him,” said Shaima.

  “But why does she keep a beetle in her bag?” asked Ramzi.

  “It’s her job. Beetles and stuff. You know.”

  But Ramzi didn’t know. He shrugged his shoulders.

  “She’s an insectologist,” explained Shaima. “She studies insects.”

  “You mean, like, bugs. That’s her job? No way!”

  “Ahem,” coughed Aunty Urooj. She was standing right behind them, stroking her enormous carpet bag. “His name is Gulliver,” she said.

  “You’ve called the beetle Gulliver? That is so weird,” laughed Ramzi. “Beetles aren’t supposed to have names.”

  “Yes, they are,” said Shaima.

  Aunty Urooj smiled kindly. “It’s all right, Shaima. I’m probably the first insectologist Ramzi’s ever met.” She looked at Ramzi. “The thing is, Gulliver’s one of the very few Long-Horned Capricorn Beetles left in Britain.”

  “What? Are there more?” asked Ramzi, edging away from the bag.

  “Yes, isn’t it wonderful?” said Aunty Urooj. “They were thought to be extinct until last year. But then, in a dusty corner of a furniture shop in Llanelli, one crept out of its hiding place.”

  “What happened?” asked Shaima.

  Aunty Urooj bit her lip. “There were screams. People didn’t know what to do. And tragically, the dear creature met a premature end. But it wasn’t all sadness. What this unfortunate incident proved...” she leant forward, “was that the British Long-Horned Capricorn Beetle had not died out!” She grinned victoriously.

  “So there are more?” said Ramzi nervously.

  “Oh, yes. Lurking in old furniture. Hiding under stairs. Crawling around in cupboards. There might even be one under your bed.”

  The blood drained from Ramzi’s cheeks. He didn’t mind ordinary-sized bugs. In fact, he quite liked them. But HUGE ones! That was different.

  “U...under m...my b...bed?” he stammered.

  “If you’re lucky,” said Aunty Urooj. “But remember, it took me over a year to find one.” She turned to Shaima. “It’s all thanks to your Aunty Zakiya, really. It was in one of her old commodes. And here he is! Sleeping soundly.” She stroked the bag again.

  “Can I see him?” asked Shaima, staring at the bag.

  “I’d like to, Shaima, really I would. But he needs to get his rest.”

  “But he’s just a beetle,” said Ramzi.

  “Just a beetle!” Aunty Urooj guffawed. She leant over to whisper in Ramzi’s ear. “In Gulliver’s natural habitat,” she said, “his life expectancy would be short. But if I give him plenty of rest, then perhaps... just perhaps...” Her voice trailed off.

  Ramzi smirked. He wasn’t sure if she was being serious or not.

  “There – see!” Shaima was pointing at the screen:

  “Shaima!” hissed Aunty Urooj. “That’s confidential. At least, until I’ve presented my paper in Dusseldorf...”

  “Sorry. But your life’s totally awesome. Just imagine...” Shaima’s eyes misted over, “presenting papers to lecture theatres full of brilliant scientists...”

  “... and having a bag full of bugs!” laughed Ramzi.

  Shaima snapped the laptop shut. “Exactly,” she said.

  Aunty Urooj sighed again. “It’s not as ‘awesome’ as you might think,” she said quietly.

  “What do you mean?” asked Shaima.

  “Nothing. It doesn’t matter. You wouldn’t understand.”

  “But Shaima understands everything,” grinned Ramzi. “That’s why they call her ‘the walking encyclopaedia’ at school. Ouch!” Shaima had just elbowed him in the ribs.

  “What won’t I understand, Aunty Urooj?” she asked.

  “Oh, it’s just grown-up stuff. Forget it.”

  But Shaima and Ramzi stared at her expectantly.

  “OK. I’ll tell you. It’s just that... well... I’m lonely. There. I’ve said it.”

  “How can you be lonely when you’ve got your beetles?” exclaimed Shaima.

  “I know,” nodded Aunty Urooj. “I love my beetles. But... it’s just that...well... to put it bluntly... sometimes beetles aren’t enough!”

  Shaima gasped. “But you have 187 different varieties – including a Pakistani Tiger Beetle that can run at 8km per hour. Technically, if you take its size into account, that makes it the fastest land-ru
nning animal on the planet!”

  “Shaima – don’t be dim,” said Ramzi.

  “What?”

  “She’s right. I’m being silly. Come on, Gulliver.”Aunty Urooj stroked her carpet bag and hurried into the kitchen.

  “I don’t get it,” whispered Shaima.

  “At last – something Shaima Stalk doesn’t ‘get’,” grinned Ramzi. “She means...” He blushed. “She’s lonely. Get it now?”

  Shaima’s eyes sparkled as the penny finally dropped. “Well, why didn’t she say so?” Flipping open the laptop again she typed in MUSLIM MARRIAGE UK.

  “What are you doing?” asked Ramzi, trying to hide the screen.

  “Finding Aunty Urooj a husband, of course,” said Shaima.

  “You can’t just find someone a husband!” whispered Ramzi.

  “Why not?”

  Ramzi grappled for an answer. “Because... because... because her parents have to do it.”

  “You mean my grandparents?” Shaima laughed. “Don’t be silly. Nanna doesn’t know anyone here apart from the chiropodist. And Daada... well, he’s gone – rahemahullah.”

  Ramzi chewed on his lip. “What about your dad?” he asked.

  “He’s way too busy at The Spice Pot. Oh, this looks good,” said Shaima.

  Truly Deeply Muslims

  ONLINE MARRIAGE SERVICES

  flashed up on the screen.

  “Are you serious?” asked Ramzi.

  “Yeh. ’Course. I always am!” grinned Shaima.

  Don’t Wake the Baby!

  Back at Number Thirty-Two, Cinnamon Grove, Mrs Ramadan was in a mess. Baby wipes were strewn across the floor and there was a faint smell of sick in the air. “Did you have a good time at Shaima’s?” she asked, pushing back her unbrushed hair.

  Ramzi looked at the soggy wet patch on her shoulder.

  “Baby Zed’s not keeping her milk down,” Mum sighed. “And I feel about one hundred and four.”

  “Don’t worry, Mum,” smiled Ramzi. “I’ll make you a coffee. I know how.”