‘But what does he do out there?’ Callie asked. ‘It looks awfully lonely.’
‘Invents pickle recipes, I suppose,’ the driver said impatiently. ‘I don’t know.’ He pushed a button and the glass partition between him and the passenger section rose smoothly into place.
The limo approached the gates to the factory. They swung open automatically to let the car through. Atticus heard a clang as they closed behind them. His chewed ear drooped. The factory looked like an enormous prison. He tried to imagine what it must have been like when it was a hospital. He felt sorry for the poor patients.
The limo stopped outside a large corrugated door. The driver got out and held the car door open for the visitors. ‘Mr Butteredsconi has a surprise for you,’ he said, ‘for winning the pickle-painting competition.’ He looked pointedly at Atticus.
Atticus didn’t budge.
‘Come on, Atticus,’ Inspector Cheddar ordered. ‘Stop being so lazy.’
Reluctantly Atticus jumped out after the children.
‘This way.’ The driver punched a green button on the wall. The corrugated door rolled upwards.
‘Callie! Come and look at this!’ Michael shouted in delight. ‘It’s a ride!’
‘A ride?’ Callie echoed.
‘Yes, come and see!’
Atticus padded after Callie and peered in. Behind the corrugated door was a platform. Beside the platform was a cart in the shape of a gherkin, with three rows of seats.
‘Come on, Atticus!’ Michael hopped into the cart with Callie. Atticus squeezed between them. Mrs Cheddar took the next row and Inspector Cheddar sat in the rear.
An iron bar descended and snapped into place across their chests. Atticus wriggled. He was wedged in. Suddenly he felt panicky. He wanted to get out! He wriggled some more. The bar wouldn’t budge.
‘Don’t worry, Atticus,’ Callie whispered. ‘This will be fun!’
‘Way more fun than I was expecting,’ Michael agreed.
Atticus told himself to keep calm. It wasn’t as if he had any choice anyway. He took a deep breath as the cart shot forward into darkness.
‘Welcome to Sconi Point,’ a spooky voice said.
Atticus looked up, startled. The voice was coming from somewhere above them.
‘We are about to embark on a journey,’ the voice said, ‘a journey which will teach you about the power of pickling.’
‘I thought it was a rollercoaster,’ Michael complained. ‘This is lame.’
Atticus didn’t think it was lame. He thought it was scary, like one of Michael’s horror stories. He put his paws over his ears but it didn’t block out the voice.
‘For thousands of years before fridges were invented, pickling was man’s traditional way of preserving food,’ it boomed. ‘Those ancient methods of pickling have been passed down more or less unchanged to the present day.’
‘Boring!’ Callie yawned.
Atticus relaxed a little. He’d got used to the darkness. He was a cat, after all. And, unlike humans, cats aren’t afraid of the dark, the main reason being that they can see in it better than humans can. He took in his surroundings as the cart trundled along. They were in a narrow tunnel with fake fibreglass rocks on either side, which jutted out at angles towards the cart. Apart from the fact that, as a rule, Atticus didn’t like confined spaces, he didn’t feel scared any more. Callie and Michael were right: it was just a boring ride about pickles. Atticus yawned too. He might even have a little nap.
BAMPH! Suddenly a huge lump of grizzly meat projected out at him from one side of the cart. Atticus recoiled. BOOMPH! A second lump zoomed towards him from the other side. They were being attacked by giant chops!
Callie screamed. So did Inspector Cheddar.
‘Imagine you are a piece of meat,’ the voice intoned, ‘about to be pickled.’
The meat retreated to the wall. Atticus twisted round to get a better look at it. To his relief, he realised the meat was fake. It was made of plastic. He had to admit it looked pretty realistic, though: all red and gory with a big bone going through it and bits of gristle hanging off.
‘First, you would be washed with water.’ The voice came again.
FTTTZZZZZZZZZZ! Atticus was sprinkled with mist from both sides. It collected on his whiskers. He shook it off.
‘Then you would be rubbed with salt.’
A faint dusting of white crystals fell from the ceiling. Atticus stuck his tongue out. Salt. It tasted familiar: he knew the flavour from Mrs Cheddar’s yummy chicken gravy. He also knew it from when he’d once swum in the ocean with Bones.
Bring it on, Atticus thought: feeling cross with himself for being a scaredy-cat. He wasn’t afraid of a bit of salt.
CLUNK! Something gripped his shoulders. This time everyone screamed, except Atticus, who let out a strangled yowl. He turned his head. A pair of disembodied rubber hands was kneading his fur! He twisted away. The hands withdrew to the roof of the tunnel.
‘And then you would be left in the cold for several weeks,’ the voice boomed.
A blast of cold air hit Atticus in the face.
‘Until you were ready to be carved.’
A great blade swung down to within an inch of Atticus’s whiskers. He hid his face in his paws and closed his eyes.
‘Isn’t this great?’ Michael said.
‘It’s brilliant!’ Callie agreed.
Atticus decided he would never understand humans. They seemed to enjoy being scared!
‘Now imagine you’re a cucumber …’
Atticus kept his eyes closed.
‘First you would be sliced into thin strips …’
Atticus heard the swish of the blade.
‘Then you would be soaked in vinegar, sugar and spices.’
Suddenly the tunnel became unbearably hot and smelly.
‘Eerrrggghhh!’ Callie was screaming in delight.
Atticus felt his eyes sting.
‘And placed in sealed jars.’
Atticus peeped out from between his paws. The cart was travelling through a thick wall of glass. It was airless. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t remember when he had ever felt so terrified in his life.
‘Until it is time for you to be enjoyed with a burger and chips.’
Now the cart was wedged between the two sides of a giant plastic burger bun. Pretend ketchup spewed out of a knobbly brown burger like blood. Atticus felt sick. He didn’t think he would ever eat meat again. Let alone pickles.
The cart rounded a corner. An enormous set of chomping teeth appeared.
Atticus cowered between Callie and Michael. Of course, the teeth wouldn’t really bite him. Would they? He was so freaked out he didn’t know any more. He ducked just in case.
CHOMP! The teeth bit down to within a fraction of an inch of his head.
‘And that,’ the voice said, ‘completes our journey. But remember, the ancient art of pickling isn’t just used on food.’ The voice paused. ‘It is also a way to preserve BODIES, BODIES, BODIES, BODIES, BODIES …’
The voice echoed around him. Bodies? Atticus thought he might faint. He had to get off. The cart trundled to a halt beside a platform. The bar lifted. Atticus struggled out.
‘That was absolutely fantastic!’ Michael cried. ‘Can we do it again?’
‘I’m afraid not,’ a man’s voice said. ‘But I’m glad you enjoyed my little surprise. Most people never realise how fascinating pickling really is.’
Atticus turned slowly. It was the same voice as the one on the ride, only this time it had an owner.
‘I’m Ricardo Butteredsconi: Italian pickle giant,’ the voice said.
Atticus looked the man up and down and (mostly) sideways. Giant was one way to describe him: gargantuan was another. Pickles must be very fattening, he thought. I’ll stick to sardines.
‘And this is my pet pig.’
Ricardo Butteredsconi stepped to one side, his body bulging and sagging like a beanbag.
Atticus blinked. It was Pork!
‘Welcome to our world.’
Pork! So he was making pickles after all. It had been his ugly mug staring back at Atticus from Mr Tucker’s jar of Italian Truffle Pickle. Atticus examined the pig. Pork was fatter than ever. And no wonder! His snout was stuffed into a trough of truffles.
Just then Pork looked up. A faint gleam of recognition lit the pig’s eyes.
‘Hello, Pork,’ Atticus growled.
The pig’s face contorted into a frown. ‘Claw?’ he grunted eventually.
‘Yes,’ Atticus said. ‘It’s me, Atticus. Looks like you landed on your trotters!’
Pork stared at him for a few long seconds. He nodded. ‘Like it here; lots of truffles,’ he snorted. Then he turned his attention back to the trough.
Atticus sighed. Pork had never been very chatty, especially when there was something truffly nearby. He was happy, though, that he didn’t have to explain to the pig what he was doing at Sconi Point, or that he wasn’t a cat burglar any more, or that he had become a police cat sergeant. He didn’t trust Pork. The pig might have been adopted by an Italian pickle giant but that didn’t stop him being a nasty piece of chop. Luckily Pork didn’t seem in the least bit interested in anything except his food.
Atticus turned his attention back to Pork’s owner. He could see why the two of them hit it off. Ricardo Butteredsconi was basically a human version of Pork. He was hugely fat with a decidedly piggy face. His eyes were beady, squashed back into the sockets by two massive cheeks and a big forehead. His nose was round, like a snout, and tipped up at the end so you could see right up his nostrils, which were hairy; unlike his head, which was bald, except for one greasy strand of hair side-combed from ear to ear. He wore a smart pinstriped suit, a big green apron and a pair of bright red wellington boots. He smelt powerfully of aftershave.
‘So you are our winning artist!’ Ricardo Butteredsconi advanced on Atticus.
Atticus backed away.
‘Don’t be rude, Atticus.’ Inspector Cheddar grabbed him and lifted him up. ‘Mr Butteredsconi wants to meet you.’ He held Atticus out to the pickle giant. ‘It’s ridiculous, isn’t it?’ He smirked. ‘I told the kids he couldn’t paint for toffee. I mean, a cat painting pickles! I ask you!’
‘On the contrary,’ Ricardo Butteredsconi said, clasping Atticus’s paw in his big soft hands, ‘I don’t think it’s ridiculous at all.’
Atticus flinched. It felt as if his paw was being attacked by an enormous soggy squid.
‘And your cat can paint, my dear Inspector. He is very talented. I am proud to have an Atticus Claw in my art collection. He is definitely art’s NEXT BIG THING.’ The pickle giant waggled a fat finger at Inspector Cheddar. ‘Remember, my friend, in art as in life, beauty is in the eye of the beholder.’
‘We told you that, Dad,’ Callie said.
‘Yeah, yeah, yeah!’ Inspector Cheddar sulked.
He’s jealous again, Atticus thought. He slipped his paw from between Butteredsconi’s sweaty palms and wiped it on Inspector Cheddar’s jacket.
‘Where are we, by the way?’ Michael asked.
‘Under the sea.’ Ricardo Butteredsconi turned to him.
‘You mean we’re at the fort?’ Callie gasped.
The pickle giant nodded. ‘I converted the old tunnel from the factory into a pickle ride to amuse Pork.’ He smiled at the pig indulgently.
Pork grunted. He didn’t seem very amused, Atticus thought. But then Pork was never famous for his sense of humour.
‘And once a year I allow the winner of our pickle-painting competition to take the ride as a special treat.’ Butteredsconi beamed at Atticus.
A treat?! Was he joking? Atticus felt a slight sense of unease. If being chomped by a giant set of plastic teeth was a treat, he wondered what Ricardo Butteredsconi would regard as a punishment.
‘Can we see inside the fort?’ Michael asked. ‘Please,’ he added politely.
Atticus peered round Butteredsconi. A travelator led away from the platform into the gloomy interior of the building.
‘No.’ Ricardo Butteredsconi’s eyes became cold and hard, like flint.
‘But I want to see the art!’ Callie protested.
‘Tough,’ the pickle giant retorted.
Michael and Callie both looked disappointed. But they didn’t argue. Atticus could see why. In Ricardo Butteredsconi’s case, no clearly meant no.
‘Come,’ the pickle giant clapped his hands. His face resumed its benign expression. ‘We will return to the factory. I have much to show you. Pork – get me the remote.’
Pork removed his snout from the trough and pulled a remote control out from beneath it with his teeth. It consisted of a slim black box with buttons and a dial with some writing which was too small for Atticus to read. The pig tossed it at his owner. Butteredsconi caught it. He tapped a button.
A second cart trundled up behind the first.
‘After you,’ Butteredsconi said.
Atticus wriggled out of Inspector Cheddar’s grasp and dropped down on to the platform, looking for another way out. He didn’t want to get back in the cart. He couldn’t possibly go on that ride twice.
‘Do as you’re told, Atticus,’ Inspector Cheddar said crossly.
‘He’s frightened, darling,’ Mrs Cheddar whispered.
‘Don’t worry, Atticus,’ Callie knelt down and stroked him. ‘I don’t think anything will happen on the way back. Mr Butteredsconi said we couldn’t do the ride again. I think that means it only works one way. Come on – let’s go back to the factory.’ She held her arms out.
Atticus decided not to offer any further resistance. He wanted to get the visit to the pickle factory over with; as far as he was concerned, the sooner they got back to number 2 Blossom Crescent, the better.
He crept into Callie’s arms. The Cheddars resumed their seats.
Butteredsconi and Pork squeezed into the cart behind them. This time, to Atticus’s relief, they shot straight through the secret tunnel. There was no sign of the meat or the blade or the chomping teeth. Callie was right: the ride only operated one way.
After a few minutes they were back at the pickle factory.
Pork trotted obediently after his master as Ricardo Butteredsconi showed the group through some rubber doors. Lots of people in aprons and floppy hats were walking about with clipboards and spoons.
‘This is the preparation area!’ Ricardo Butteredsconi’s shout rose above the clatter of blades and mechanical squashers.
Everywhere Atticus looked, vegetables were being chopped and pulverised by machines. He trembled, remembering the swish of the blade in the tunnel as it shaved his whiskers.
Their host led the way into the next room. ‘And these are the pickling vats.’
Atticus counted six huge cylinders of bubbling liquid sunk into the floor. One was purple. One was blue. One was yellow. Two others were brown and grey. The last one was a rather ghastly green and stank the most.
‘Cabbage,’ Ricardo Butteredsconi said proudly.
A cloud of thick gas filled the air as the bubbles rose to the surface and popped. Atticus’s eyes streamed.
‘Can I ask you a question, Mr Butteredsconi?’ Callie said shyly.
‘Go ahead!’
‘How come you’re so interested in art if you own a pickle factory?’
‘I adore art,’ Ricardo Butteredsconi sighed, ‘almost as much as I love pickles. It is my passion. I collect it as bees collect nectar. It is my one true love, apart from pickles and my wonderful pig, Pork.’
‘Wei-erd!’ Inspector Cheddar muttered under his breath. He went over to examine the cabbage vat.
Ricardo Butteredsconi didn’t hear Inspector Cheddar’s remark over the bubbling vats of pickle. Nor did the other humans. But Atticus did. And so did Pork. Pigs, Atticus knew, have excellent hearing, like cats. And to judge by the seriously evil look that Pork was giving Inspector Cheddar, the pig didn’t like what he had just heard. Atticus felt anxious. It wasn’t a good idea to get on the wrong side
of Pork. The pig was three hundred kilos of pure lard. He could flatten Inspector Cheddar with one rump cheek.
‘What sort of art do you like best?’ Michael asked. ‘Apart from Atticus’s painting?’
‘Such an interesting question!’ Ricardo Butteredsconi clasped his hands together. ‘All art is wonderful. So is all pickle. I collect both. But it is when they are put together that art and pickle make the perfect combination.’
‘Pickled art?’ Michael said dubiously.
‘Exactly!’ Ricardo Butteredsconi beamed. ‘Pickled art is my favourite art of all! It is something very special indeed.’
‘Dear, dear, dear! He’s as nutty as a pickled walnut!’ Inspector Cheddar coughed into his sleeve. He prodded at the cabbage vat with a long wooden stirrer.
Pork’s ears twitched. He pawed the ground with his trotter. Atticus stepped out of the way. If Pork decided to charge, Atticus didn’t want to be anywhere near.
‘Pickled art?’ said Callie. ‘I don’t get it. What’s pickled art?’
‘I think Mr Butteredsconi might be talking about pickled animals, Callie,’ Mrs Cheddar said slowly.
Pickled animals? Atticus forgot about Pork and Inspector Cheddar. Pickled animals! As art?! He’d never heard anything so shocking in his life.
‘You are right, dear lady!’ Ricardo Butteredsconi nodded. ‘Please, explain to your delightful children.’
‘Well … some artists preserve animals in formaldehyde,’ Mrs Cheddar said. ‘It’s a type of chemical. They use it instead of vinegar. A lot of rich people collect them. Am I right, Mr Butteredsconi?’
‘Exactly so,’ Ricardo Butteredsconi gushed.
‘What kind of animals do they pickle?’ Michael asked.
‘All sorts.’ Ricardo Butteredsconi smiled. ‘I have many thousands in my collection.’
‘Like what, though?’
Ricardo Butteredsconi took a deep breath. ‘Bats, rats, gnats, lizards, monkeys, mice, lice, spiders, snakes, drakes, goats, stoats, moles, voles, scorpions, millipedes, zillipedes, trillipedes, hogs, frogs, loads of toads, quails, snails, baby whales, sows, cows, bugs, pugs, slugs, weevils, beavers, chicks, ticks, foxes, oxes, germs, worms, bees, fleas and manatees …’ He paused. ‘The art of pickling has been used to preserve animal specimens for hundreds of years.’ He beamed. ‘But recently pickling has turned into an art form in itself. Your dear mother is right: many rich people now collect pickled animals, especially sharks. They are very valuable. Some collectors even have them caught and pickled specially for their collections.’
Atticus Claw Learns to Draw Page 3