***
Ollie threw a Caramel Swirl at the board. The white king fell over. ‘Ha, you die!’ He was teaching the Incas a version of chess in which, to win, you had to hit the opponent’s king with a chocolate.
Chunca picked up the king. Shaking his head, he gabbled to Bacpac.
‘Master say, what is point of dying in game? When can he die for real?’
Grandma looked up from the crossword. ‘When I’ve worked out where Klench ’as escaped to. In the meantime, we’re stuck ’ere.’
‘Why?’ said Ollie. ‘I want to go out.’
‘I’ve told you,’ said Mum, ‘we’re not going anywhere till Klench is caught.’
‘But I’m borrrrred.’ He threw a Vanilla Fudge at her.
‘Ow!’ She rubbed her nose. ‘Don’t be a baby, Oliver. You’re six years old.’
‘So? He’s four hundred and fifty.’ Ollie pointed to the antiquated Emp who was lobbing Quality Streets through the window and knocking out caterpillars on the lawn.
***
The lady in the camping shop coughed. ‘I’m not sure that one will quite, er, accommodate you, Sir. Better go for the two-man.’
‘But I am vun mans.’ Klench pulled down his dark glasses and scowled at her. ‘I think perhaps you are tryink to rip me offs. And zat makes me sad.’
The lady gulped. Sad wasn’t the word she’d use to describe the expression in those piggy eyes, beneath the black Afro that must surely be a wig. It so didn’t match his pasta-pale skin. Not that she was about to ask. He clearly wasn’t a man for small talk – or indeed small anything. ‘It’s just with your, um, build, you’d have more, er, breathing space. I assure you, Sir,’ she lied, ‘most single campers go for the double tent.’
Mollified, Klench opened the wallet he’d found in the prison officer’s jacket.
Inner Mummy, who had a degree in counting money, did a quick sum. ‘Sixty-five you can afford,’ she declared. ‘But time you cannot. Grab ze tent and hit ze trail. Cops vill soon be on our tail.’
9
Troubles and Bubbles
Lunch was a bad mood bring-and-share. The first offering was from Mr Dabbings. Returning from the moor he stormed off to his hut, still furious at being out-fungied.
The second was from Dad. He stood outside the food tent waving a bowl in one hand and a stick in the other. ‘I’ve been scraping this for half an hour and it’s still caked in porridge!’ he shouted at nobody in particular. A skylark called Nobodyinparticular Jones burst into tears and changed her name to Sue.
Matt came out of the tent. ‘I offered your dad some Scour Flour,’ he explained to Abbie, holding out a handful of brown powder. ‘You mix it with water and it cleans the dishes perfectly.’
Dad wagged his stick. ‘That’s cheating. The monks didn’t use chemicals.’
‘I told you,’ said Matt, ‘Scour Flour’s only bramble thorns mashed in vinegar. Both were around in medieval times. The monks could easily have made up this mixture.’
‘Ha!’ Dad jabbed his stick in the air. ‘But we don’t actually know if they did.’
‘Suit yourself.’ Matt shrugged. ‘I’m off to light the fire.’ He turned towards the beach then grinned over his shoulder. ‘Don’t worry, I promise I’ll do it medieval-style, with flint and steel.’
Dad looked as if he’d like to mash Matt in bramble thorns and vinegar.
The third grumpster was Terrifica. She’d found a patch of nettles near the camp and wanted to boil them to make tea. But she’d forgotten to bring her garden gloves and had to abandon her Picking Cruel Plants Sensibly badge.
Henry too was miserable. After the blankie incident, he’d tried to restore his tough image by picking the nettles with his bare hands. Now he was sitting against the wall of his hut whimpering. Coriander had collected some dock leaves to rub on his stings but he wouldn’t let go of Mr Binkles.
‘Why do I have to share a hut with him?’ Marcus grumbled. ‘I’ll never sleep with him snivelling into his blankie.’
Only the Platts and Ursula seemed happy, which made Abbie the mother of all bad mooders. ‘Thanks for including me,’ she snapped, as Ursula explained a move to Perdita that involved knees and ankles.
‘I will if you like.’ Ursula crouched down and tickled the back of Abbie’s knees. Her legs buckled. Ursula kicked the back of her heels.
Abbie’s legs shot forward. ‘Yoww!’ She plonked onto her bottom.
‘The Bumparump.’
Perdita clapped. ‘Classic. Winnie would love it.’ She helped Abbie up. ‘Hey, there’s a thought. Urse could teach the orangs to wrestle. Great idea, don’t you think Abbie?’
Yeah. Abbie rubbed her bottom. And while you’re at it, why not invite her to come and live at the zoo? ‘I’ll help Dad with lunch,’ she muttered, hobbling off to the food tent.
Inside Dad was sitting on a crate, trying to unscrew a Potted History. ‘Phew.’ He wiggled his fingers. ‘You need a bionic wrist for this. Hey Abbs, go and get Ursula, would you?’
Her face crumpled. ‘Not you too.’
‘What?’ Dad put the pot down. ‘I just thought, because she’s–’
‘Strong and amazing and everyone’s new best friend.’
‘What are you on about?’
A tear squeezed out. ‘Well, Perdita’s anyway.’ Abbie brushed it away angrily. ‘Sharing a hut with her, learning those stupid wrestling moves.’
‘Oh, come on.’ Dad patted the crate. She sat down next to him. ‘You know what Perdita’s like. Friends with everyone.’
‘Except me,’ Abbie sniffed.
‘Nonsense.’ He put his arm round her. ‘But if that’s how you’re feeling, you should talk to her. I’m sure she’ll put your mind at rest. And in the meantime …’ he glanced at the tent door. ‘Tenth-century tonic.’ He fished a Yorkie bar out of his pocket.
Abbie’s eyes widened. ‘That’s not medieval. It’s Nestlé.’
‘Says who?’ Dad winked. ‘I’m the history expert; I’ll tell you what it is.’ He broke the bar in two. ‘A Celtic medicine, found in a peat bog, preserved for a thousand years.’
Abbie took her half, grinning. ‘You’re not so bad for a dad.’
‘But remember,’ Dad brandished the other half in the air, ‘it comes with an ancient curse. If you tell anyone about it, your head falls off. You have been warned.’
Dad might be a choco-sneaking superstar, but he’d been useless on the Perdita front. Talk to her? When? Ursula was stuck to her like a hairclip. Even at lunch they were sitting on the wall finding new ways to push each other off.
Anyway, why should I go crawling? thought Abbie. Perdita’s upset me: it’s her job to apologise. Abandoning her bowl of pease pudding not-very-hot, she went down to the beach where Terrifica and Marcus were skimming stones.
‘Four … five … six.’ Terrifica sighed. ‘I need eight bounces for my Stone Skimmer’s badge.’
‘Who’s to know?’ said Marcus.
Terrifica’s jaw dropped. ‘But that’s cheating. I’ll lose my Honest and True badge.’
‘Not if you don’t tell anyone.’
‘That’s double cheating. I’ll lose my Usually Honest and True badge.’
‘Not if you don’t tell anyone.’
‘I’ll lose my Nearly Usually Hon–’
Abbie left them to it. The sun was high as she wandered along the beach. Tiny waves crinkled the lake.
Hearing laughter, she turned round. Perdita and Ursula had come down to the beach and were playing Piggy in the Middle with Henry. Her chest went tight. Even he’s better than me now. First Claire, then Ursula, now Henry – what had she done wrong? Flicking through the last few weeks in her mind, she came up with the worst possible answer. Nothing.
She sat down by the water and ate the last chunk of Yorkie. Sweet misery sank into her tongue. Should I talk to Coriander? And say what? ‘Hey, why has your daughter stopped liking me?’ What was the point? Coriander couldn’t force their friendship. And nor could P
erdita. An ache filled her throat as she realised that Perdita wasn’t to blame. She couldn’t help her feelings. And if she’d suddenly gone off Abbie – well, it wasn’t her fault.
Abbie reached into the lake and snatched a handful of pebbles. ‘It’s never her fault!’
The stones glittered in her palm. Closing her eyes, she fanned the flame that Marcus had lit that morning. Imagine, by the teeny-weeniest chance, that the treasure was still here. And imagine, by the jammy-wammiest fluke, that she found it. Ha! The class would be at her feet. The world would be at her toenails. And Perdita would be on her knees, begging to re-best their friendship.
‘Well, you can beg your bottom off, Miss Two-face, because I’ve gone off you too. In fact I’m completely sick of you!’ Abbie flung the pebbles at the lake. Tiny explosions shattered the water. Jumping up, she turned to go.
What was that? She spun back round. A movement in the middle of the lake. A bubble breaking the surface. Another, and another. A fish? The bubbles were spreading. A school of fish? More like a university, the way they were popping and dancing outwards. Waves were growing too, carrying the bubbles to the edge of the lake.
Abbie backed away. The bubbles had reached the shore and were snapping onto the pebbles, sending up spurts of foam. She scuttled up to the undergrowth at the top of the beach, then turned and ran. As she approached the huts, the waves began to calm. The bubbles shrank to the middle of the lake, petered out and vanished. The water returned to its gentle movement: a restless denim of crisscrossing lines.
The grown-ups were sitting on the beach. Thank goodness – they must have seen it too. They’d have the explanation.
In fact they had several. Mr Dabbings said it was Nature letting off steam, whatever that meant. Dad said it was the Loch Ness Monster on holiday eating beans.
Coriander suggested underwater plants giving off gases. ‘Like the Whiffaweed of Wataronga. I once dived into a bloom off New Zealand. I was looking for the Bearded Trout. But I gave up because of the smell.’
‘This didn’t smell,’ said Abbie. ‘And why did the bubbles come and go so fast?’
Matt had the best answer. ‘Hot springs. Those two mountains are classic volcanic cones. There must be magma near the surface. And when the water comes in contact it heats up and bubbles.’
Mr Dabbings scratched a sideburn. ‘You mean we could, um … erupt?’
‘No.’ Matt smiled. ‘I’m sure the volcanoes are long extinct. Nothing to worry about, Bran.’
Sitting round the fire that evening, you could almost believe it. The children’s skinny shadows licked the beach. The fire cackled and spat, barbecuing their potted boar sausages into bliss. The dusky air was warm. Marcus was thanking goodness that Henry was moving to Coriander’s hut so that she could tell him bedtime stories. Mr Dabbings was strumming his guitar and singing a long-distance lullaby to his unborn babe.
And Abbie? Oh she was just watching the flames fidget into the sky and wondering where to start her own private treasure hunt.
***
Klench’s face stared blankly from the telly.
‘Police are following several leads,’ said the newsreader whose hair flew in all directions, as if following those leads.
Grandma threw her slipper at the screen. ‘In other words, they ’aven’t a clue. Where’s ’e got to, the Jammy great Dodger? There aren’t many places a whopper like that can ’ide.’
***
‘What the hell …? Ah thought you were in jail, Tubman.’ Brag Swaggenham, oil tycoon and billionaire baddie, sat up straight in his chair. If he’d known the call was from his old partner in crime, he wouldn’t have answered. He hadn’t forgiven Klench for their capture in the Amazon jungle just four months ago. He was still sore about his near-imprisonment. He was still sore about the huge sum he’d paid Klench for an operation to change his fingerprints and stretch his fingers. And he was still sore. While the operation had worked technically – he could now fit twenty more rings on each hand – his fingers still throbbed, despite Klench’s promise that the pain would wear off.
‘I escaped,’ Klench squeaked down the satellite phone he’d nicked from the camping shop. ‘And I have learned about an island zat hides priceless treasure.’
Brag wasn’t surprised at either piece of news. Klench was the cleverest crook he knew. He glanced at the jeweller working in front of him and pressed the phone to his ear. ‘So what’s your plan?’
‘Take me to island and I vill give you cut of loots.’
Brag pulled his cowboy hat down over his forehead. ‘Now why would ah do that – after all that pain you caused me?’
‘Becoss zat pain also saved your bacons. Vizzout your new finkerprints, you vould be locked up for life. Like I voss.’
Brag frowned. Fair point. He’d got off free when they couldn’t match his prints to his crimes, while Klench had landed up in jail.
Pulling a gun from his belt, he pointed it lazily at the jeweller. The poor man got the message. He huddled over the new ring he was engraving for Brag, humming loudly to make sure he didn’t hear a word of the conversation.
‘So where’s this island?’ Brag whispered down the phone.
Klench snorted. ‘As if I tell before you give me lift. Vhere are you now?’
‘Monaco. Bumping up mah finger wardrobe.’
‘Perfect. You can pick me up on Vednesday. Fly me to island in your private helicopter and I vill locate treasure. Believe me, it vill fetch more money zan I can spend in vun lifetimes. You are velcome to leftovers.’
Brag’s blue eyes narrowed. Either Klench was telling the truth, in which case they’d both make a killing. Or he was lying, in which case … there was nothing to lose but a tank of helicopter fuel. A smile cracked his tanned face. ‘See ya Wednesday, Gutbutt.’
10
The Hunt is On
Mr Dabbings couldn’t have been more helpful. His timetable next morning suited Abbie perfectly. After a breakfast of corn meal and milk – or in Abbie and Dad’s case, secret rice crispies in the tent – Mr Dabbings announced that everyone would go off alone to catch Nature’s Newshour.
He waved his arms as if conducting an orchestra. ‘Hear the headlines in the wind. Watch the live un-coverage of mist. Interview the rabbits, badger the badgers.’
Henry scrunched Mr Binkles. ‘Do we have to go alone?’
‘Of course. Nature speaks differently to each of us, Henry. When it comes to noticing, two is a crowd.’
Abbie couldn’t agree more. Tucking her notebook into the pocket of her shorts – it would come in useful for jotting down clues – she looked around. Where do I start?
The trick was to think like a monk. What had Dad said? They’d brought out the goblet every day from a secret place. So it had to be hidden from general view but easy for them to get to.
The coast? She hadn’t seen any caves or cliffs, and surely it was too far for the monks to traipse over the moor every day.
The lake? Three old men in dresses would hardly be up to diving.
The moorland? Her heart sank. It could be buried anywhere under all that heather.
Except … the monks would need to locate it easily. So they’d have had some sign, some landmark. And while there was plenty of land, there weren’t many marks: just gorse, a few trees and those huge scattered rocks.
Abbie screwed up her eyes. Come on monks, give me a clue.
For a moment she went blank. Then a brown-robed grandpa shuffled into her mind. ‘Ooh, me poor old bones,’ he murmured, rubbing his back. ‘Ooh, me poor old eyes.’ He hobbled away into darkness.
Thank you! Abbie opened her eyes. The goblet must have been within easy walking distance of the huts. And it must have been clearly marked for their dimming eyes, with some sort of sign that would weather the rain and wind – and, with any luck, the centuries too.
By the time she set off across the moor, Abbie was planning her outfit for the Hiyaa TV show.
At the first boulder she found lichen in
the shape of Africa.
At the second boulder she found bird poo in the shape of a Walnut Whip.
At the third she found Marcus. He was kneeling down, examining the side of the rock. ‘Whoa!’ He jumped up, brushing off his trousers. ‘You gave me a shock.’
If I was an inventor of paint colours, thought Abbie, I’d make a new red called Embarrassed Marcus.
He cleared his throat. ‘I was just, um, listening to this boulder.’
Abbie snorted. Since when was Marcus into Dabbings-style Nature? ‘Rubbish. You were looking for treasure.’
Marcus stumbled backwards. ‘No … I mean, what? … I mean … how did you know?’
Abbie felt herself blushing a new sort of pink called Because I Was Too.
‘Great minds, eh?’ Marcus whistled. ‘Well I won’t tell if you don’t. And seeing as we’ve caught each other, why don’t we look together?’
They ran to the next boulder. And the next. And the one after that. They found puddles. They found moss. They found a rock shaped like a croissant. They found tussocks that looked like Jedward.
And they found Terrifica. She was staring through a magnifying glass at a vein of quartz on a boulder. ‘Yes,’ she admitted. ‘But if I did find the treasure, I’d use it to earn my Rich and Generous badge.’ She turned a shade called Terrific Liar.
‘You mean you’d give it to charity?’ said Marcus.
‘Of course.’ She turned a deeper shade of Terrific Liar.
Three boulders later they found Dad. ‘Oh dear,’ he mumbled, turning a colour called Whopping Great Cheat. ‘I’m supposed to be a responsible adult. Please don’t tell Mr D.’
They didn’t have to. Because at the next boulder they found him copying shiny squiggles on its surface into a notebook. He went the brightest red of all: Caught-In-The-Dabbings.
Dad traced the squiggles across the rock. They ended at a snail. Everyone folded their arms and smirked at the teacher.
‘OK, OK!’ He threw down his pencil. ‘But my motives are pure, I promise. If I found the treasure I’d spend the money preserving this island’s natural splendour.’
Monkie Business Page 8