He peered out from between the weeds and rusting machinery to glance quickly round the farmyard, rubbing his nose briefly on the back of his hand. ‘Now then, Grissel,’ he said, ‘you’d best lead on, and show us the way in. Ready? Away, then – and mark ’ee now – leave that maid to me.’
Chapter Twenty-three
‘WHY ARE YOU putting all these stupid ideas into his head?’ said Katie, when George had gone. ‘He’s bad enough as it is, without your help. Why don’t you just act normal?’
‘Why are you so horrible, all the time?’ retorted Midge, angrily. ‘I mean what’s your problem? All you do is watch telly and read dumb magazines all day – you haven’t got a clue what’s going on, or what’s happening to anyone else round here. Not that you’d care about anyone else. And as for stupid ideas – well, you wouldn’t know an idea if it jumped up and bit you on the bum. Never having had one.’ And she stormed out of the kitchen, banging the door behind her.
‘Oooh, get you,’ said Katie, to the empty room. And then, as an even less effective afterthought, added, ‘Get back in the knife drawer, Miss Sharp.’ She’d read that in a magazine somewhere.
She stared crossly out of the grubby kitchen window as she waited for the kettle to boil, and wondered whether there might be such a thing as an egg in the house. Probably not. Stupid house. Then she noticed, between the gaps in the balustrade pillars of the front garden wall, some sort of movement . . . something . . . odd . . . moving quickly across the yard. She leaned closer to the windowpane, peering apprehensively through the dusty glass. Three small figures – shocking, inconceivable things – suddenly appeared at the end of the path, hurdled the steps in flying leaps, their brightly painted wings outstretched, and scuttled, crouching, towards the house. They were barefoot – and they were armed with bows and arrows.
Katie fell back against the towel rail, gripping it for support, feeling the warm metal, slippery on her wet palms. She heard the snick and clack of the cat flap, and a whimpering panic began to rise within her. There was a pause, the sound of hurried whispers in the hallway, and then something pushed against the kitchen door. Katie shrieked. Another push on the door – committed now, determined. Gibbering and quaking with terror, Katie looked frantically about her for some sort of weapon – but then escape, rather than defence, became her uppermost instinct, and she remembered the scullery. She dashed into the washroom, slammed that door behind her, and opened the door to the scullery. Here there was a small high window. She dragged the Ali Baba basket from the washroom, positioned it beneath the window and clambered up on to it, frantically struggling with the stiff metal catch until at last it opened. Squeezing herself painfully through the narrow frame, she was grateful to see the makeshift compost heap below her – the grass clippings, rotten cabbage leaves and potato peelings would help break her fall.
George hurried across the back lawn, thinking, ‘I’ll show you, Miss Smartypants – just wait till you see this,’ but then stopped, and looked about him, listening. He could hear music. The sound of the wind-up record player came drifting through the trees. It was playing ‘On The Road To Mandalay’. He looked vacantly at Phoebe, lying, bored, beneath the apple tree. She twitched her stump of a tail, hoping that he might whistle her up for a walk, but he ignored her and continued towards the copse, his puzzled face squinting up into the sunlight. Phoebe stood up, panting slightly, and took a few hesitant steps in the same direction as George – but then changed her mind and ambled back towards the yard, stopping every so often to sniff the grass.
The song had ended by the time George had clambered up the rope ladder, but the record needle was still turning in its groove, kurtick-kurtick – an eerie sound when all around was quiet and still. He stood for a few moments longer, looking at the shiny black disc with its red revolving label, and then, lost in thought, moved the lever back to the ‘stop’ position. The sudden feeling that he was being watched came over him, a creepy tingle across his shoulders. He looked back over the lawn but could only see poor old Phoebs, padding slowly and aimlessly across the uncut grass.
The sun had risen above the roof of the tree house now, and George was conscious that the heat would do his record no good. He gently lifted the disc from the turntable and found the paper sleeve to put it in – glancing down at the ammo box as he did so, reminding himself of what he’d actually come for. The record remained half in and half out of its sleeve, as George stared in bewilderment at the empty space at the other end of the box. Where was the little bowl?
There was something weird going on. George put down the record and knelt by the box, peered under his bed, lifted his pillow, then Midge’s, pulled back both duvets – and finally sat back on his heels to try and think for a minute. ‘Right,’ he muttered, flicking his fringe out of his eyes, ‘where was the last place you saw it?’
‘Did ’ee lose summat then, young’un?’
George spun round in fright, then overbalanced – toppling sideways and banging his elbow on the corner of the ammo box. Three of them there were – three of them, looking down upon him from the branches of the cedar tree, all dressed in raggedy greys and blacks, bits of fur, white feathers here and there, bows and arrows – and their arrows were pointing at him. The dull eyes of the one he’d seen earlier gazed at him incuriously, the long jaw still hanging half open, but it was another who had spoken – and now spoke again.
‘What do ’ee seek, then? Perhaps we could help ’ee.’ This one looked sharper – with quick dark eyes that seemed to look everywhere at once. He wore a tatty little waistcoat, once black and silver striped but now stained, green with age and tree sap. ‘Come, now,’ he said – the creaky little voice had grown harder, ‘Don’t be back’ard. Zpeak up.’
‘I’ve lost my . . . glasses,’ George said, astonished to hear the words actually come out. It was as though someone else was speaking for him. His tongue felt as though it had fallen down his throat, and he had to keep swallowing. This couldn’t be happening, it couldn’t be. ‘I . . . I put them here somewhere.’ He was trying to control the terrible panic that he felt, trying to appear calm, glancing around as though looking for the non-existent pair of glasses, wondering whether he could jump from the platform and make a run for it – but realizing that his legs would never allow him to stand, let alone run. He could feel himself beginning to quake from the shock of what was happening to him.
‘Put . . . them, somewhere?’ said Waistcoat. ‘Them? Now I don’t know as I’ve met glaaarsses afore, but I reckons I heard ’ee say “where’d I last see . . . it?” Now them’s seldom it – not to my way of thinking. Tell ’ee what. Why not come along o’ we – and us’ll zee ’bout glaaarsses presently.’ And with a nod to the other two, the archer jumped lightly from the cedar tree to the platform, standing squarely and firmly on the creosoted boards, his bare feet slightly apart, an arrow notched to his bow. He looked at his companions and said, ‘Now then, Flitch, do you and Master Dregg go on down to bottom of this yer tree and make zertain our good friend here don’t hurt ’unself coming down.’ The little figure stood more or less eye to eye with George, who was still on his knees, helpless, and added, ‘For ’tis surprising how easy ’tis to get hurt, if thee don’t watch thee step.’
George was beginning to crack. ‘Wh—what do you want?’ he said, unable now to keep the tremor from his voice. ‘Why are you here? I—I’ve got nothing for you.’
‘P’raps not,’ said Waistcoat. ‘But I reckons that a friend o’ yourn might. And we means to find that out.’
‘Are you – Scurl?’ Again his words seemed to appear of their own accord, as though somebody else was in charge of his voice.
The archer seemed slightly taken aback. ‘Someone been talking, have ’em? No, I bain’t he. If I were Scurl you’d unlikely still be gabbing. Nor be able to. But you’ll meet ’un soon enough.’ He nodded towards the edge of the platform. ‘Goo on then.’
George managed to get to his feet, feeling slightly sick, and clambered shaki
ly from the platform onto the branch of the cedar tree where the rope ladder hung. The archer leaned over to watch him descend, and one of the two below said, ‘All right, Benzo, we’ve got ’un.’
It was the noise of the cat flap, rather than Katie’s muffled scream, that got Midge up from the corner of her bed and brought her out into the landing corridor once more. Katie was probably the sort of person who’d scream at some wimpsy little spider – in which case she could scream away, as far as Midge was concerned. But the cat flap . . . that reminded her of the night that Tojo’s terrible yowling had got them up, and of the presence of something odd beneath the sink . . .
There was a commotion of sorts going on down in the hallway – grunts and repeated thuds. Midge, still furious, and less cautious than she might have been, walked out on to the landing and leaned over the banister to see what was happening. She couldn’t help but give a little squeal of shock at the unexpected sight of the intruders below – and though she immediately put her hand over her mouth, the involuntary sound had been enough to catch the attention of one of them. He quickly glanced over his shoulder, tilted his cropped grey head in her direction, and she found herself staring down at the ugly little face of Scurl. Surprised he looked, just for a second, mouth open, dark eyebrows slightly raised – but then his expression hardened as he fixed his gaze upon her, holding her to the spot. Never taking his eyes off her, he placed his hand firmly upon the shoulder of one of his companions – who was apparently trying to break down the kitchen door – and muttered, ‘Hold hard there, Snerk. We’m chasing the wrong bird I reckon. Now then, maidy,’ he called up, ‘how bist? We’m come to see thee. No, don’t fly off’ – Midge had begun to draw back from the banister in fright – ‘for thee s’ll come to no harm, if ’ee give us what we’m here for.’ The Ickri hunter adopted a friendly expression, a horrible smile that, if anything, was even more sinister than his habitual scowl.
‘What . . . what’s that, then?’ said Midge, recovering her senses a little, and realizing that if she ran she would be immediately pursued. She kept her hand on the banister, and desperately tried to appear calm. Play for time and think. Think. Hide, or escape – those were her options. Where could she hide, though? How could she escape?
‘Zummat that ain’t yourn,’ said Scurl. ‘Zummat you took from the forest. ’Twas no blame to thee, we knows that.’ He wiped the back of his hand across his nose and sniffed.
‘I haven’t taken anything,’ said Midge. Could she get out of a window? Yes, she could get out all right – but was unlikely to survive the drop unhurt. She could lock herself in the bathroom, but then she really would be trapped. Think of something else.
‘Honestly, I didn’t take anything.’
The three hunters looked tense and uncertain, completely at odds with their surroundings. Their small glittering eyes shone up at her, wild and strange and foreign in the homely familiarity of the hallway. There was a faint smell about them, the odour of hunting animals in a confined space – earthy, nervous, and dangerous. She could hear their breathing.
Scurl edged towards the stairs, placing one dusty brown foot on Phoebe’s old mat. There wasn’t much time. Midge mentally ran around the upstairs rooms, searching in her mind for a hiding place. In her wardrobe? Linen cupboard? No – anywhere that was in something was ultimately a prison, a trap.
More time. She needed more time.
‘Tell me what it is you’re looking for,’ she said. ‘Just tell me. I don’t understand what you mean.’ The expression on Scurl’s face had changed. The smile had gone and something like a snarl had taken its place. He wasn’t a talker, a negotiator. He was used to getting his own way, without parley. He was about to make a move.
‘Listen,’ said Midge (height, she needed height. Not in something, nor under something, but on something. High up, where they couldn’t see her), ‘I think I know what you mean. Yes, now I know what it is you want. It isn’t up here, though, it’s . . . down there. But I’m scared to come down.’ The wardrobe in the middle room. It was huge. Maybe she could get up there and hide on top of it. Then at least if she was discovered, there may still be a chance of jumping down and escaping. But how could she get up there?
Scurl had backed off a little. The ingratiating expression, sickening to her, had returned to his ugly little face. ‘Ah,’ he said, ‘now we’m more like to strike a bargain, now that you knows what we wants. And I knows what you wants, maidy. You wants to forget all these troubles o’ yourn, and go decent and peaceful ’bout your . . . whatever ’tis you do. Just like we. Now that’s easy done. Just you come down yurr, and I do make a proper vow that there’s none shall harm ’ee. Then you may lead us to where ’tis to.’
There was a card table, a little octagonal thing with thin legs – not tall enough by itself, though perhaps if she put a chair on top of it . . . but then they would see. Maybe she could drag the chair up after her . . .
‘All right. But . . . but you’ve got to . . . you’ve got to . . . close your eyes first . . .’ Her reasoning had started to go. What a stupid thing to say. She’d blown it.
She saw the shadow of puzzlement as it crossed Scurl’s face – and then the look of decision. He’d had enough. He glanced at the other two and flicked his head in her direction. Midge fled.
There wasn’t enough time – there would never be enough time. She ran straight along the corridor to the bedroom next to Uncle Brian’s and grabbed the cane chair next to the bed. She lifted it up and managed, with a struggle, to place it on top of the card table next to the huge walnut wardrobe, wedging it right back into the corner between the wardrobe and the wall. Shouts and curses echoed up from the stairwell, and she felt as though she wanted to scream with panic. But they hadn’t reached the landing yet. It was a miracle that the table didn’t topple over as she clambered up onto it, yet somehow the wobbly construction stayed upright. She knelt on the chair, gripped the top of the wardrobe, straightened her legs, and heaved herself up over the raised lip. There wasn’t room to pull the chair onto the wardrobe as well. In desperation, she leaned over the edge, caught hold of the back of the chair and lifted the thing up. Swinging it with all her might, she managed to clumsily throw it onto the unmade bed. The chair hung over the edge of the mattress, almost balanced, and then slid gently down until the back legs rested on the floor. It seemed obvious, to her, what she’d done and where she was. But she could do no more. The voices had almost reached the top of the stairs now. She curled up into the smallest space she could – and waited.
She was lucky. The Ickri hunters, so adept at moving from branch to branch, gliding, floating and swooping through the airy foliage of the forest, were not so good with narrow staircases. Vertical take-off – in fact any sort of take-off – was not their strong point. They needed space, and a good long run up, in order to get airborne. Their hunting strategy was to climb, and then swoop. So whereas Midge had imagined that they would fly up the stairs in a trice, the reality was far from that. The stairs were high obstacles to them, and their wings only an encumbrance. That, coupled with the fact that the three of them were trying to negotiate these obstacles simultaneously, had given Midge more than enough time to reach her goal. It got to the point where she wondered what was keeping them.
But now they were coming. Unfamiliar with the interiors of Gorji dwellings, the footsteps and actions of the hunters were hesitant. Midge could hear their confusion as they ran up and down the corridor and in and out of the end rooms, bare feet slapping on the lino like those of small children. She heard them struggling with various doors – kicking and pushing at those that opened outwards, tugging at those that opened inwards. But they were making progress, and they were beginning to think.
‘Snerk!’ The voice of Scurl: ‘You bide there – and make sure she don’t come back down that gurt ladder again. Grissel – you make a beginning up that end, and I’ll make a beginning up yurr. Best we start again.’
Snerk was thinking too. ‘I reckon she’ve gone,�
�� he said. ‘Looksee how this be open.’ Midge gathered that he must be talking about the corridor window, for she heard Scurl hurry back down from the bathroom end and scrabble up onto the window seat. His voice became muffled as he leant out, and then louder as he drew back inside.
‘She ain’t got no wings,’ he said. ‘And she wouldn’t have no legs, either, if she’d gone out o’ there. No, I reckon she’m still yurr. Back to it.’
Eventually the bumps and scuffles of doors being opened and furniture being moved, or overturned, drew closer, and Midge was aware that someone had entered the room she was in – someone breathing heavily from exertion. She squeezed her eyes tight shut and prayed and prayed for her safe delivery from all this. Don’t let them find me, please don’t let them find me, don’t don’t don’t.
Immediately she heard, and felt, the tremor of small strong fingers, prying at the wardrobe door. Too short to reach the handles, whoever it was had got hold of the beaded wooden edge and was tugging on it. There was a slight ping, as the catch gave way, and the door opened with a shudder and a squeak. Midge could hear the faint musical clang of wire coat hangers beneath her. Once again, the harsh dry voice of Scurl. ‘Not there, Grissel? Well, she ain’t up t’other end neither. So she must be in yurr. Come out maidy!’ he shouted. ‘ ’Twill only make it hotter for ’ee when we do grab a hold on ’ee.’
Midge stifled a whimper, and pushed her fists against her mouth. They would see the chair, and the table – and surely they would figure it out. It seemed so obvious.
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