Monkie Business

by Thomas, Debbie;

  The Platts looked at each other.

  ‘What’s he up to?’ said Coriander.

  ‘Who cares? Let’s just grab what we can and go.’

  ***

  The engine of the Fidgety Bridget juddered to life. ‘Wonder what the pwoblem is,’ murmured Bundy Pilks, steering the boat out to sea. His hand moved towards his chin. ‘Oh poops.’ It was at times like this that he most missed his beard. It would have been just the thing to rub thoughtfully. Instead he patted the steering wheel. ‘That teacher sounded wowwied on the phone, Bwidgy,’ he said to the boat that had become his closest friend in the last six months. ‘Ah well. At least it’s calm. Come on, old gal. We’ll have ’em back by dark.’

  27

  Wobbles

  At last everyone was back at the huts. Well, nearly everyone.

  ‘Where the Butterscotch is ’e?’ Grandma looked up at the ridge of the moor. ‘I thought ’e said ’e was surrenderin’.’

  Everyone had gathered by the wall, where Matt and Ursula had piled the hastily packed rucksacks. They were now taking down the food tent, folding up the poles and canvas. As for the Potted Histories – no one wanted to leave litter but there was no choice. It would be hard enough carrying Coriander without lugging those crates back over the moor.

  ‘I guess Klench has a problem,’ said Abbie, leaning against the wall. ‘On one side he wants to come with us, which means he has to stay close. On the other side he doesn’t want Chunca to hold his hand, which means he has to stay away. And that’s what he’s doing now.’

  Coriander was still sitting with her back to the wall. ‘Well away he can stay. I refuse to go on a boat with that monster. He’ll find some way to throw me overboard, I know it.’ She rubbed her ankle fretfully.

  Abbie patted her shoulder. It was true that Coriander shared more horrific history with Klench than anyone. She’d been kidnapped in a zoo, held hostage in a hair museum, holed up in the jungle and threatened with brain shrinkage. You could understand why boarding a boat with him didn’t appeal.

  But Grandma was having none of it. ‘Nonsense. There’s bound to be ropes on deck. I’ll gladly tie ’im up meself.’ She turned to the Incas. ‘Then I’ll grab ’is chubby paw and you can ’old it as fast as you like.’

  Bacpac translated. Chunca blew Grandma a kiss.

  ‘Ropes won’t stop him,’ cried Coriander. ‘Remember the Hair Museum?’

  Fair point. Abbie recalled last summer when Klench had been tied up with two others and somehow wriggled free.

  ‘Oh yes they will,’ said Grandma. ‘Trust me.’

  ‘Why should I?’

  Another fair point. Abbie remembered last Christmas when Grandma had persuaded Coriander that Klench was reformable.

  ‘I’ll never trust you again where he’s concerned,’ Coriander shuddered.

  ‘Well too bad, Missus. Coz ’e’s comin’ with us.’

  ‘No way.’ Matt put his arm around Coriander.

  ‘Yes way.’ Grandma put her hands on her hips.

  Mr Dabbings stepped forward. ‘Now look here. As the teacher responsible for these precious children, I can’t possibly allow a hardened criminal on board.’

  ‘Bunkum. You can do what I bloomin’ well tell you.’

  ‘Bossy boots.’ Terrifica glared at Grandma. ‘I’ve got a better plan. We leave him here with the Incas, then they chase him round the island till they catch him.’

  Grandma snorted. ‘Those old codgers won’t get within a mile. ’E may be a porker but he can’t ’alf move. And ’e’s bound to find some way of escapin’.’

  Abbie imagined him breathing in, jumping in and floating away: an inflatable, lemon-haired dinghy.

  ‘Their only chance of death is on the boat.’ Grandma folded her arms. ‘Klench is comin’. End of story.’

  ‘Oh no it’s not.’ Matt pushed his glasses up his nose.

  ‘We owe it to the Incas,’ snapped Grandma.

  ‘We owe it to ourselves,’ said Mr Dabbings.

  ‘Oh shut it, you great wet wipe.’ Grandma stamped her foot.

  ‘How dare you … aaagh!’ Mr Dabbings staggered backwards as the ground shivered beneath him. Abbie lost her balance and was thrown against the wall. There was a dull thud.

  ‘Look!’ cried Ursula. A stone slipped out from the lower part of the wall of the nearest beehive hut. It hit the ground and broke in half. Another stone, loosened by the hole, dropped out.

  The ground shuddered again. A slate slid out from another hut. Two more followed.

  Those who were standing grabbed each other. Those who were sitting spread their palms on the ground to steady themselves.

  The earth went still. Dad couldn’t help himself. Walking gingerly across to the nearest hut, he picked up a broken slate. ‘Wow.’ He shook his head. ‘Secure for ten centuries … broken in a second. Unbelievable.’

  Abbie stuffed a fist in her mouth as a thought punched through her: terrible, improbable – yet possible. The landslide on the mountain, the tremble on the moor. It wasn’t feet that had loosened the rocks. It wasn’t the sun that had shaken the ground. Pressing her hand against her stomach, she forced out slow, deep breaths. Keep calm. She ran her tongue over her lips and rehearsed what to say. From now on every word counted. ‘Listen to me. Take your bags, leave everything else. Go to the beach. Now. No arguing.’

  Despite the croak, there was an authority in her voice that made everyone reach for their rucksacks.

  Coriander tried to stand. ‘Aagh!’ She sank against the wall.

  Matt turned and crouched in front of her. ‘Get on my back.’

  ‘You’ll never carry me all the way to the beach.’

  ‘We can take it in turns,’ said Ursula. But while she might be strong enough to give a piggy back, she was too small to stop Coriander’s foot dragging along the ground.

  ‘Where’s the stretcher?’ said Abbie.

  Matt pointed to the big hut. ‘I was going to fetch it when–’

  ‘You carry Coriander up to the ridge.’ Abbie turned towards the hut.

  ‘Oh no.’ Dad gripped her arm. ‘Don’t even think of it. It’s not safe.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ said Abbie pulling away as calmly as she could. ‘I’ll be quick.’

  ‘I said no, Abigail! And this time,’ he shouted, ‘you’ll do what you’re jolly well told!’ As he lunged towards her, the ground shuddered, throwing him backwards.

  ‘Stop it, Dad,’ she said quietly. ‘See you in a mo.’

  ‘Come BACK!’ he yelled, as she raced towards the biggest hut. Another wave rippled out of the earth. More stones slid out of the walls, leaving gaps that dislodged even more.

  As Abbie ducked into the entrance, a stone dropped from above and narrowly missed her head.

  At least the ground had stopped shaking. She crept across the floor towards the stone bench, trying not to disturb things further.

  ‘Ow!’ A stone stung her head. Her hand flew to her scalp. She pressed her fingertips into the pain. They came down covered in blood. Another stone stung her shoulder. Another and another … now they were tumbling all around. With the base destabilised, the roof must be caving in, like a geological Jenga. Shielding her head with her arms, Abbie fought her way through the razor-sharp rain. Oh why were the monks such craftsmen? Why had they honed every stone like a blade?

  She reached out to the bench. Phew. Her fingers closed round the end of the stretcher. That’s it. Grab and go.

  But she didn’t. Because underneath it, something else caught her eye.

  A glint of yellow. A wink of red.

  She gasped. Stones clattered down around her. Dropping the end of the stretcher, she rubbed her eyes.

  For a moment she forgot that the ceiling was falling. For a moment she forgot she could be buried alive or cut to shreds in this vicious air. For a moment she forgot everything except the goblet, standing inside the hollow bench, exposed by the collapsing side, and dripping – yes, dripping – with rubies and diamonds.
/>
  Bending forward, she closed a fist round its thick golden stem. It didn’t budge. She’d need both hands to lift it.

  No! The choice danced before her. The goblet or the stretcher? She couldn’t carry both. For a second she froze.

  Only a second. Because, as she bent over the bench, a stone struck the back of her neck. A dizzying sickness shot through her, blazed into pain and shocked her to her senses. Seizing the end of the stretcher, she staggered across the floor through the falling rubble. By the time she reached the entrance, the archway had collapsed into piles of debris. She heaved the stretcher through and was out, coughing and blinking in the sunlight.

  ‘Abbie!’ Dad raced over. He tried to hug her. ‘Your head – there’s blood!’

  ‘I’m OK.’ The cut on her scalp was nothing compared to the pain in the back of her neck. But now wasn’t the time to mention it. He was upset enough, trying to hug her and tell her off at the same time.

  ‘That was stupid!’

  She pushed him away. What about brave? What about selfless?

  Over his shoulder the lake lay brown and still.

  Your quarrelling strengthens his power.

  Swallowing her angry retort, she dragged the stretcher towards the slope. Dad took the other end. Together they carried it up to the ridge where everyone else was waiting.

  ***

  Well, nearly everyone. Grandma and the Incas had already set off for the beach, to give their old legs a head start.

  ***

  And Klench?

  If anyone had needed the loo, they’d have been less than relieved on visiting the little brown tent on the moor. He was standing on the seat, watching the escaping group through the air vent.

  When they were well ahead, with Coriander sitting on the stretcher and Matt and Ursula carrying either end, he got down, unzipped the tent and crept after them, zigzagging from bush to boulder to bush like a mint-green pinball.

  28

  Finders Keepers

  Abbie told herself it didn’t hurt. Her arms and shoulders weren’t on fire. The back of her neck didn’t throb. She lagged behind the others, clamping her lips over all the pain and panic she mustn’t unleash.

  Not to mention frustration. The more she tried to forget the goblet, the more brightly it gleamed in her mind. Those rubies the size of Maltesers, the diamonds like glacier mints, winking and mocking from their stone hidey-hole.

  It was no good. She had to tell someone or she’d explode. But who could she trust not to blab to the others, which could start a row about whether to go back, which could start … she bit her lip. Don’t go there.

  She fixed her gaze on the horizon. The sea was a grey smudge between moor and sky. The sun was beginning to sink, sprinkling the air with gold dust. A single cloud glowed at the edges like burning paper. Ahead of her Chunca kept looking up and waving.

  Perdita hung back. ‘He still thinks the sun’s behind all this,’ she murmured when the others were well ahead.

  Abbie stared at her. So she’d worked it out too! ‘Let him,’ she mumbled, ‘and let the others. Let them think anything till we’re off this island.’

  Except what we think, she added silently. Because anything’s better than that.

  She put a hand on Perdita’s arm. ‘I found it,’ she said softly.

  ‘What? You mean the treas–?’ Perdita’s yelp was stifled by a hand across her mouth.

  ‘Keep your voice down!’ hissed Abbie.

  ‘Sorry.’ Perdita’s face was all eyes. ‘Where?’

  When Abbie whispered where she’d found the goblet, Perdita’s hands flew to her cheeks. ‘So you’ve been sleeping on it all week. Priceless!’

  It certainly was. That was the problem. Regret spilled through Abbie. ‘But how could I have carried it?’

  ‘You couldn’t. Don’t worry, when all this is over, we can send someone back for it. And it’s finders keepers.’ Perdita lifted Abbie’s arm in triumph.

  ‘Shhh!’ She pulled it down. But a smile rose through her aching body as she pictured the fame, the fortune, the fuss.

  They walked on in silence. Ahead of them the stretcher-bearers were tiring. Matt and Ursula stumbled over mounds and dips in the moor, ever wary of changes in vegetation that could signal boggy land.

  What with all the staggering and stopping to rest sore hands and weary legs, progress was slow. But at last the heather gave way to rocks and beach and slapping grey sea. Dad and Ursula lowered the stretcher onto the shingle while the others squinted across the water.

  ‘There!’ Terrifica pointed. A dot was bobbing on the horizon. Jumping up, she cupped her hands round her mouth. ‘Yoo hoo Bundy!’ she yelled, though he was much too far away to hear.

  Marcus whooped. ‘We’re outta here!’

  Chunca wagged his finger like a windscreen wiper. Then he turned and pointed back over the moor.

  Bacpac followed his gaze. ‘Master he say, where Klench?’

  ‘Relax,’ said Grandma. ‘’E’ll come soon enough.’

  ‘Master he not believe you.’

  ‘Well Master can stick it in ’is ear’oles, because we’re not traipsin’ back over that moor again. We’ll jolly well wait for ’im ’ere.’

  Which is not the way to talk to the Ruler of the Known World and grandson of our nearest star, who’s more than six times your age and who, even though he might not understand your words, can pick up your tone no problem. Chunca turned to her and yelled a stream of Inca abuse.

  Abbie’s hands flew to her ears. ‘Be quiet!’ she shouted as the ground buckled, then rose beneath her feet, sending her reeling backwards.

  ‘Come back!’ Grandma roared. Chunca and Bacpac were staggering back onto the moor. She turned to the others. ‘If they run after Klench, ’e’ll never come and get on the boat.’

  ‘Thank goodness!’ cried Coriander, and, ‘Stuff Klench!’ shouted Mr Dabbings.

  ‘Stuff you!’ bellowed Grandma. She turned to follow the old men.

  And fell flat on her bottom. Because the ground was now rising and falling like a trampoline.

  ‘Look!’ yelled Henry. Everyone staggered round to follow his pointing finger.

  Solid waves were rippling down the beach, rattling the pebbles and punching across the water. In the distance the Fidgety Bridget plunged and rose, bounced on a crest and spun away.

  ‘No!’ shouted Abbie. ‘Bundy’s turning back. Call him!’

  Mr Dabbings grabbed the satellite phone from his rucksack. ‘What do you mean you can’t?’ he yelled down the phone. ‘You’ve got to come!’

  ‘I’m twying!’ the phone yelled back.

  And failing. The Fidgety Bridget twirled like a rubber duck in a Jacuzzi, powerless against the sea’s might.

  A terrible stillness spread inside Abbie. Over the clatter of pebbles and crashing waves rose a silent scream. We’re stranded. Slowly and fuzzily, as if in a dream, she turned round. The moor, too, was swelling and dipping: a sea of solid waves beneath a sky that was darkening fast.

  Too fast. What was that blocking the sun?

  ‘Look!’ She pointed at the black dot in the sky. They watched it grow and judder towards them.

  For a second everyone froze. Then all at once Matt and Ursula were stumbling down the beach to grab the stretcher, and everyone else was lurching towards the moor.

  Thank you, Bundy, thank you! Abbie seized Grandma’s hand. Of course – he’d called air-sea rescue. Hauling Grandma to her feet, she staggered after the others towards the helicopter that hovered over the heaving moor.

  ***

  Klench too was heaving – the heaviest thing he’d ever heaved – over the shuddering earth. Not that he begrudged the weight. Every milligram brought joy to his heart.

  And what a fickle heart it was. A heart that had longed to change: to shed its greed and spite and all those other vices that Mummy adored; to learn kindness and love and all those other virtues she abhorred … until it heard that one little syllable.

  Cre
eping behind the girls over the moor, Klench’s sneaky-sharp ears had caught the sound ‘Treas–’.

  As soon as he’d heard enough, he’d dashed back across the moor to the huts. After fifteen minutes of scrabbling amid the stones he’d unearthed what he wanted. Running from the ruins of the hut, he’d made an urgent call on the phone he’d stuffed in his pocket before leaving his tent.

  Now, as he rushed back to the beach to catch his lift, the ground had begun to wobble, sending him stumbling forward.

  ‘Clumsy bumsie, do not trip,’ shrieked Inner Mummy. ‘Don’t you dare let goblet slip!’

  If only he could let her slip! Hugging the huge cup, he dreamed of leaving her behind on this terrible island while he escaped with his glittering passport to wealth, luxury and eternal cream doughnuts.

  ***

  ‘Cwipes!’ squealed Bundy. Another wave curled over the boat and smashed onto the deck like a white-knuckled fist. The Fidgety Bridget nosedived, throwing him onto the steering wheel. As the boat bobbed up again, he regained his balance. Steering back towards the island, he stared through the window. Was it all this tossing and turning? Was it the spray blurring the screen? Or was the island really moving up and down?

  ‘Turn awound,’ he told his hands.

  No, they answered, gripping the wheel. Those kids are in twouble.

  ‘And we’re in double twouble. We’ve got to go back.’

  But whether from stubbornness or stupidity, Bundy’s hands did the bravest thing of their lives. They wefused.

  29

  Gloop

  Everyone stumbled towards the helicopter. It hovered ten metres above the quaking moor, the downdraught from the rotors flattening the heather. Even if it can’t land, thought Abbie, it’ll send down ropes.

  ‘What’s it doing?’ screamed Terrifica, waving her arms above her head. ‘Hey – we’re over here!’ But the helicopter was now veering to the left where a blob had appeared on the moor, silhouetted against the glowing sunset.

  At the front of the group, Chunca let out a cry. Grabbing Bacpac’s hand, he turned and lumbered towards the blob that took shape as a familiar fat figure, front-heavy with a load that sparkled in the fading sunlight.