Monkie Business
Page 19
‘The GOBLET!’ Marcus stopped dead. Matt crashed into him. Ursula dropped the back end of the stretcher, tipping Coriander onto the quivering ground. While they bundled her back on, Abbie staggered towards the helicopter. What was it doing? Why had it turned away? And who was that in the cockpit?
Reaching Klench, the helicopter swung round to face her. And now she understood. A claw gripped her heart as she recognised the grinning face beneath the wide-brimmed hat. That cowboy from the Amazon jungle! The villain who’d teamed up with Klench and tried to shoot her … who’d been arrested then released because his fingerprints didn’t match those of Brag Swaggenham, notorious oil baron and one of the crookedest crooks in the book.
‘No!’ she wailed as a single rope dropped through the sky from the helicopter. ‘You’ve got to take us!’ She blundered on, knowing it was useless: that he’d scoop Klench up and scarper.
Klench staggered towards the rope that swayed drunkenly in the propeller draught. He let go of the goblet with one hand and reached for the rope. But the cup was too heavy, even for him. It fell from his grasp and rolled away. Lunging forward, Klench cried out.
‘What’s ’e sayin’?’ yelled Grandma behind Abbie.
‘I can’t hear. But it looks like his foot’s stuck in a bog.’
Klench flailed his arms, trying simultaneously to pull out his leg and retrieve the goblet. But it was just beyond his reach, sinking slowly into the bog.
‘Well don’t just stand there. ‘’Elp ’im!’
Help? Abbie stared at the struggling blob. Him? The man who’d filled her nightmares and dogged her daydreams for nearly a year. The man who’d tried to remove her memory and ruin her life.
The man who couldn’t kill.
She found herself moving towards him. Was it for Grandma, who was already pushing past her? Was it for the goblet that he’d managed to grasp with one hand? Or was it for Klench himself: that black-hearted, lemon-haired postman of cruelty, who’d brought her twice to the letterbox of death but never quite popped her in?
Before she knew it, Abbie had scrambled over the shaking earth and reached out to grab Klench’s free hand.
‘You!’ he gasped, twisting round. His piggy eyes were a battleground of amazement, confusion and terror.
‘Leave the goblet!’ she yelled. ‘I need to grab both your hands to pull you out!’
But now greed joined the struggle in his eyes. Instead of reaching for Abbie, he leaned out further, his fingers tightening round the rim of the cup.
‘I’m losing my grip!’ screamed Abbie. ‘Drop it!’
Grandma grabbed her waist from behind. ‘I gotcha!’
‘It’s no good. He won’t let go. I can’t … ooofff.’ Something yanked Abbie backwards. She fell yelling and sprawling on top of Grandma. They looked up to see Bacpac standing over them.
A shriek split the air. Released from Abbie’s grip, Klench had lost his balance. Stumbling forward, his other foot had landed in the bog. He stood in the goo, waving one hand wildly as he began to sink. The other still clutched the goblet.
Abbie and Grandma lurched to their feet. Strong hands pushed them down.
‘Leave us.’ Bacpac’s eyes were calm. ‘Our time has come. Now he will hold our hands.’ The old servant joined his master at the edge of the bog.
‘Save me!’ Klench was knee-deep in gloop.
Chunca reached out a hand.
The stoutest crook seized it. ‘Get me outs!’ he screamed.
The emperor looked up at the darkening sky. The dying sun danced in each shining eye. Then Chunca Inca, Ruler of the Known World and Pencil Case of the Unknown, jumped.
Bacpac leapt in after him.
‘No!’ screamed Klench.
‘Yes!’ sang Chunca, his feet plopping into the bog. Bacpac landed beside him. The Incas both seized Klench’s free hand and held on for dear death.
Abbie crawled on all fours to the edge of the bog. The ground was bowing and rising more vigorously. While Grandma bobbed like a toddler on a bouncy castle, Abbie lay down on her stomach. She reached out both arms as far as she could towards Klench’s other hand. It was still clasped round the top of the cup, now nothing but a golden ring in green goo. ‘You have to let go!’
His knuckles whitened round the rim. He fixed her with glittering eyes. Then – Abbie couldn’t tell if he lost his grip or gave up on the cup – he was reaching for her. She clutched his hand and tugged with every atom of strength.
It was a bucketload of atoms. But not enough. Klench was sinking faster by the second as if the bog, on tasting this vast profiterole, couldn’t gobble it fast enough. Swamp slid up his thighs. His mouth gaped in silent anguish. Tears streamed down his face.
Chunca was grinning and shouting at him.
‘Master say you hero,’ said the sinking Bacpac. ‘You have rescued us from the jaws of life. Do not cry.’
Klench cried.
Abbie was losing strength. Klench’s weight was dragging her towards the bog. Her stomach sang with pain. She clawed at the ground with her free hand, cramming soil under her fingernails, uprooting clumps of heather. Her eyes blurred with sweat. Tasting earth and salt and the sour tang of terror, she slid uncontrollably towards the bog.
And stopped. She twisted her head round. Grandma had crawled behind and grabbed her ankles.
With Grandma pulling one end and Klench the other, she felt like a Christmas cracker – without the joke inside. Something had to give.
The maths was simple.
O + O ≠ O
Abbie plus Grandma does not equal Klench.
‘Scchhhnnniiiikkkkkk!’
Klench’s hand lost Abbie’s. It smacked down, sending green blobs flying. He fixed her with tiny, bewildered eyes, up to his chest in swamp.
The Incas, too, were sinking fast. Chunca waved his free arm and shouted at the sky.
Faithful to the end, Bacpac translated. ‘Milk and two sugars, Granddad. We comiiiing!’ With a whoop and a gloop, the two old men sank into bright green silence.
And Klench? His head jerking backwards, he screamed his last word. Was it ‘Money’ or ‘Mummy’?
***
‘So long, suckers.’ Brag Swaggenham pressed a button. The rescue rope reeled up into the helicopter.
When the jewelled goblet had sunk into the bog, Brag had let out a word that his mother never taught him. But he couldn’t tear himself away from the drama. The death of The Flabmeister (as Klench was un-fondly known among his criminal un-friends) was not to be missed. So he’d hovered above the bog, enjoying the shrinkage of his former partner into a circle of lemon hair, a few bubbles and bright green oblivion.
Now he tipped his hat to the losers below, kids and adults, wriggling like weevils over the quaking moor. He smiled. Too bad about the treasure. But hey, this was fun. Why not hang around a while, watch those fools suffer, before abandoning them for Monaco and a good night’s sleep?
***
Bundy’s phone flew from the dashboard and smashed on the floor of the cabin. ‘No!’ Out of touch, out of reach, out of options … ‘It’s you and me now, Bwidgy!’ he yelled, steering for his life towards the shore.
30
Wescue
Abbie stared at the bog. No Klench. No Incas. Just bright green soup, churning and slopping as the moor pulsed up and down.
She pressed her face into the heather and breathed its sweet, woody smell. For a moment she relaxed, let her body ride the rippling muscle of the earth.
Just for a moment. Because now she was slipping. She shrieked as the ground dropped behind her. Sliding backwards on her stomach, she crashed into Grandma. They rolled and slithered unstoppably towards the beach. The others, too, were tumbling uncontrollably. Coriander had long since lost the stretcher and was sliding on her bottom, with Matt one side and Ursula the other. Perdita, Marcus and Terrifica were still on their feet, half-running, half-falling. Dad and Mr Dabbings held onto each other, reeling and colliding like rubbish barn dancers.
The ground was levelling beneath her. Rolling to a stop, she opened her eyes. Spray stung her face from the waves breaking over the beach … and over something else too.
‘Quick!’ she screamed, pointing. There was the Bridget, fidgeting away in the raging shallows. And there was Bundy, shouting and beckoning from the cabin.
Matt hoisted Coriander onto his back and led the way, splashing through the water to the rock’n’rolling boat, clambering up the ladder and falling onto the deck, the others close behind.
And then they were off, though in what direction was anyone’s guess. They plunged and rose in the furious sea.
Lurching across the deck, Abbie looked up. The helicopter was still circling in the ink-blue sky peppered with the first stars. No doubt that horrible cowboy was waiting to enjoy the final spectacle of the boat smashing up in the waves. Crazy with rage, she threw her head back and yelled. Perdita lunged over and pulled her towards the cabin.
They didn’t make it. A wave smashed over the stern, knocking them over and shooting the boat forward.
Not a moment too soon. Struggling onto her knees, Abbie looked up.
And screamed.
There are many kinds of scream. There’s the spider-in-the-bath scream, the brother-in-your-bedroom scream, the caught-with-hand-in-sweet-tin scream and falling-in-cold-water scream. The I scream, you scream, we all scream for …
This was a new scream. Because no one in the history of screams had ever screamed at what Abbie was screaming at.
An island standing up.
The beach had tilted vertically and curved into a hollow, as if breathing in. The rest of the island was rising above it in a monstrous wall. The helicopter danced in front like a drunken insect, trapped in who knows what wild currents of air?
The sea was all at sea. Waves fought in all directions, clashing and cancelling or doubling in height. A breaker smashed over the side of the boat, punching a hole in the cabin wall. The Bridget listed to the right. Everyone tumbled through the hole onto the deck. More waves blitzed the boat. Abbie rolled and clung to whatever she could: ropes, iron posts, a ladder.
Bundy was still in the cabin clinging grimly to the wheel. But if he was trying to steer, he was wasting his time. No rudder or motor could fight the fury unleashed by the rising rock.
Catching hold of a rail on the side of the boat, Abbie pulled herself up. She clung on and stared in wordless horror as rocks fell from the climbing wall, crashed into the water and churned up the waves even more.
The island heaved upright, a colossal tower that blocked out the night. Stars came and went as it rocked forward and backward, ever more rickety.
The boat twirled wildly round the teetering pile. The mountains came into view, one above the other, two great triangles sticking out into the night.
Abbie’s mouth fell open. Salt spray burned her tongue. But she didn’t close it.
Because, just for a second, silhouetted against the sky, the island was a massive, monstrous K.
And then it was falling.
Everything faded – the roar of the sea, the bone-chilling cling of her clothes, the ache in her fingers from gripping the rail. She watched in a dream as the island curled over. Slowly at first, from the top – like a giant bowing its head – it toppled unstoppably, picking up speed as it fell.
She closed her eyes, unable to look.
She opened them, unable not to.
With a terror so complete it was calm, Abbie watched the island bear down on the helicopter, like a hand on a fly, smacking it into the sea.
The last thing she heard before the world exploded was Dad. ‘Ho-ho-hold … o-ho-hon!’
Everything went silent, fizzy and whizzy. Silent because the world exploding is enough to deafen the strongest ears. Fizzy because of the foam splattering her face. And whizzy because she was whizzing. At least her legs were, shooting out behind while her hands squeezed the rail as if her life depended on it – which, she discovered, it did. Because the Fidgety Bridget was flying.
Hitting the water, the end of the island had whipped up the wildest waves of all. One rising swell had caught the boat, carried it up and tossed it into the air. Now it was sailing through the sky. Through the spray she saw the others clinging on with their front ends while their back ends hovered above the deck – all except Chester who’d been flung off Grandma’s head and was flying alongside.
Screwing up her face, Abbie braced herself for the landing, or rather sea-ing. The boat smacked on the water, sending her teeth into her brain and the deck into her stomach. Waves towered above the boat: skyscrapers in a liquid New York that roared louder than all the traffic in the world. The Bridget soared and dipped, hitting the stars and plunging into the troughs of waves.
Abbie’s insides gave way to the ride. Her heart said hello to her mouth. Her stomach popped into her feet. Her lungs jiggled, her kidneys wiggled. A strange peace spread as she surrendered to the might of the sea.
Little by little the waves subsided. Every peak lowered, every trough rose. The rollercoaster levelled. And then they were bobbing in a great bathtub beneath a silent wide-eyed moon.
31
Best Friends
It was Grandma who broke the silence. ‘We’d ’ave paid a fortune for that at Butlins.’ She was sitting on Abbie’s right, leaning against the railing. One of the lenses of her glasses had shattered. Squinting round, with Chester on her shoulder, she looked like a pirate with a hairy parrot.
A light rain began to fall. Abbie tilted her head back and opened her mouth. Oh the soft cold comfort on her salt-parched tongue! Oh the freshness of rain – the first on this trip – from a sky with the lid taken off.
Her hands were killing her. She looked down. They were still gripping the boat rail. Letting go, she wriggled her fingers and looked round. Miraculously the cabin lights were still working, bathing the boat in a dim halo. The other campers sat in a daze round the edge of the boat, bedraggled and shiny as seaweed.
Through the cabin window Abbie saw Bundy slumped over the wheel. The Bridget fidgeted left then right, nudged off course by the gentle waves. Chester scuttled into the cabin, crawled up and over Bundy’s head and took the wheel.
Leaving Chester to steer, the little Cap’n staggered out to the deck. He sank down, dropping his head onto his knees. As if on cue, everyone shuffled over on their bottoms, still too nervous to stand.
‘Well done.’ Dad patted Bundy’s oilskin back.
‘Thank you,’ said Coriander, laying a hand on his arm.
The chinless hero looked up. ‘It was nothing,’ he mumbled.
‘It most certainly wasn’t,’ said Grandma. ‘But what the bilberry was it?’
Bundy shook his head. Matt rubbed his temples. Coriander shrugged. Dad pressed his lips together. Mr Dabbings raised a teacherly finger … and dropped it.
‘Not what,’ murmured Abbie, ‘who.’ She gazed round the baffled faces. ‘We were looking for Kenneth in the woods. But he was all over the island. He was the island. His jealousy and selfishness and greed had seeped into everything: the earth, the water, the trees. He even had the weather in his stifling grip. He infected Finbar and Oisín, sucked them into the island itself. And when we came along he infected us too, fuelled our jealousy and selfishness and greed.’
Perdita nodded. ‘And we fuelled him with all our arguing. The island got hotter and stickier as he got stronger and stronger, until that final dose.’
‘Overdose, you mean.’ Abbie shivered. ‘Maybe Klench fell into the same bog as Kenneth did a thousand years ago. Maybe there was such a focus of wickedness there that Klench, with all his greed and selfishness, was too much to absorb –
and the island finally flipped.’
Dad gave a low whistle.
Bundy looked utterly baffled. ‘Sowwy guys. Wun that by me again.’
But just as Abbie was about to tell him all about the monks and the goblet, the curse, the cave and the lake, she heard a funny little snort. Then a sniff, then a grunt, then a soggy kind of snuffle.
She reached out her hand. ‘It’s OK, Grandma. Don’t cry.’
‘I’m not! It’s me sinuses … the rain … me specs … the government … oh alright.’
For the first time in her life Abbie saw tears roll down the old lady’s cheeks. ‘I could’ve ’elped ’im, I know it. All ’e needed was another chance.’
Abbie patted Grandma’s shoulder. ‘He had plenty of chances. But he made his choice – to hold onto the goblet until it was too late.’
No one knew what to say. So they sat in silence and listened to little waves tick against the boat like the hands of a sluggish clock.
At last Matt got up and went into the cabin. While he took over the steering, Chester scampered out and dabbed Grandma’s face.
‘I’m all right, chuck,’ she sniffed. ‘Why don’t you make yourself useful?’ She nodded at Bundy. Chester wriggled over and wrapped himself round the actor’s mini chin. ‘Just a loan, mind,’ she said, as Bundy stroked his living beard in wonder. ‘I want ’im back when we get to the mainland. But I promise we’ll find you a proper new beard.’
Bundy tickled Chester. ‘That’s vewy kind,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘but I’m not sure I’ll need it. What we’ve just been thwough is enough to put bwistles on anyone’s chin.’
Abbie, Terrifica and Ursula clutched their jaws in alarm.
‘Not litewally.’ Bundy giggled. ‘I just mean, when you’ve seen an island cwash into the sea, audiences don’t seem quite so scawy.’ He grinned. ‘So what if they laugh at my chin?’ He clapped his hands. ‘Who cares if they scoff at my jaw?’ He stood up. ‘They can widicule my voice.’ He paced the deck. ‘They can pooh pooh my jokes.’ He punched the air. ‘They can whistle and tease and thwow wotten tomatoes.’ His voice was getting louder, his back straighter. ‘They can mock my Macbeth, they can pan my Hamlet. But guess what?’ He threw back his head and blew a raspberry at the moon. ‘I don’t give a hoot!’