‘That’s the one,’ said Coco. ‘He’s very clever.’
She led the Bradshaws along a vinyl pathway, up a flight of fake-marble stairs and into a small, collapsible entrance hall. The walls were covered with mirrors that could be pulled down like roller blinds; from the ceiling hung a disposable chandelier made of crystallised mineral salt. (‘It’s completely soluble,’ Coco revealed. ‘When you’re packing up to go, you just wash it down the drain.’) Under this chandelier stood a little white robot with the smooth, triangular, almost featureless head of a praying mantis. It had stubby, hydraulic fingers and caterpillar treads on its feet.
Coco addressed it imperiously.
‘Prot,’ she instructed, ‘bring us some iced tea, the bowl of cashews, diced ham with cheese, lemonade and three glasses.’
‘Yes, Ma’am,’ the robot buzzed. Then it spun around and rammed straight into one of the walls before reversing, stopping, adjusting its coordinates, and trying again.
This time it managed to pass through a doorway without banging into anything.
‘I’m afraid he’s one of Sterling’s prototypes,’ Coco explained fretfully. ‘Sterling likes to test out his early models at home, but sometimes they don’t work very well.’
‘Goodness!’ Holly was amazed. ‘Would you look at that, Marcus? A talking robot!’
‘Cool,’ said Marcus.
‘He’s a pest, I’m afraid. More trouble than he’s worth.’ Coco suddenly brightened as a grey Persian cat slunk into the vestibule. ‘And here’s my little Choo-choo,’ she purred, pouncing on the cat. ‘She’s not clumsy. She’s Mummy’s little girl, aren’t you, angel? Yes, she is. She’s a good little girl . . .’
It was obvious that Coco loved cats. Her living room was full of cat statues, cat cushions, cat lamps, cat paintings, cat books and cat hair. Four real cats were lolling around on the overstuffed couch and matching ottomans. There were photographs of the same cats sitting on the mantelpiece – which was made of plastic, though it looked like stone.
Apart from the fireplace and the cats, everything in the room was pink, including the curtains, cushions and carpet.
‘Where’s the TV?’ Marcus inquired, when he saw that there wasn’t one. ‘Is it hidden somewhere?’
‘It’s out the back.’ Coco waggled her fingers at the rear wall. ‘In our rumpus room.’
‘There’s a rumpus room?’ Holly squeaked.
‘It’s just a little lean-to. You can dismantle it in about ten seconds flat,’ Coco assured her, before turning back to Marcus. ‘Why don’t you go and find the other kids, sweetie? They’ll show you how the equipment works. It’s no good asking me; I’m hopeless.’
‘Okay.’ Marcus was keen to explore the rest of the caravan. ‘So where are the other kids?’
‘God knows. Upstairs, probably.’ Coco waggled her fingers again – at the ceiling, this time. ‘Either that or they’re in the gym.’
‘There’s a gym?’ cried Holly.
‘It’s just an inflatable thing like a jumping castle. It comes in a box,’ Coco replied. To Marcus she said, ‘Keep looking – you’ll find them somewhere. It’s only a caravan, after all. It’s really not that big . . .’
4
A NEW FRIEND
MARCUS’S FIRST STOP WAS THE KITCHENETTE. HERE HE found Prot trying to open the fridge door, which kept hitting the robot’s caterpillar treads and springing shut, over and over and over again.
‘Hey, Prot,’ said Marcus, as he came to the rescue, ‘is there an Xbox in this place?’
‘You want eggs?’ Prot droned. ‘In a box?’
‘No, no. An Xbox. Or a Wii console. Something like that.’
‘You have a weakened sole? You require a shoe repair?’
Marcus rolled his eyes, just as a grufflittle voice behind him warned, ‘It’s no good talking to Prot. He never understands anything.’
Turning, Marcus was surprised to see a very small boy in a suit of armour. The armour had been constructed out of tinfoil, flowerpots, kitchen utensils and computer equipment. The boy underneath it had unruly hair and no front teeth.
‘I’m Edison Huckstepp,’ the boy announced. ‘Who are you?’
Marcus introduced himself. ‘Your mum and my mum are friends,’ he explained. ‘Your mum said I could look around.’
‘She’s not my mum,’ Edison corrected. ‘She’s my stepmum.’
Marcus shrugged. ‘Whatever,’ he replied. ‘So can I have a look around or what?’
‘Sure.’ Edison made for the dining nook. ‘See that table?’ he asked, pointing at a square table with rolled edges. ‘Well, check out what happens when I push this button.’
As Edison pushed – and Marcus watched – the ends of the table unfurled like a length of carpet.
‘It goes from four people to twelve people,’ Edison continued. ‘And if I push this button, you get flowers.’ A holographic centrepiece suddenly appeared on the tabletop: pink roses in a nest of cherry blossom. ‘You can change them, too,’ he added, pressing the wall-mounted button again and again.
The roses flicked off, to be replaced by lilies, then orchids, then peonies, then carnations . . .
‘Yeah, but where are the computer games?’ said Marcus, who wasn’t very interested in flowers.
‘Upstairs,’ Edison replied. ‘I’ll show you.’
He led Marcus back into the vestibule, where they encountered a fat, balding, red-faced man wearing a vivid Hawaiian shirt. Marcus guessed that this man was probably Sterling Huckstepp.
‘Hi, Ed,’ the man said cheerfully, pausing on his way to the front door. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Hi, Dad.’ Edison’s greeting confirmed Marcus’s suspicions; the man definitely was Sterling Huckstepp. ‘I’m going to play a game with Marcus. What are you doing?’
‘I’m off to show the people next door my new pocket-sized barbecue.’ Sterling Huckstepp waved a small black box at the two boys, then opened it like a book so that two halves of a metal grill fitted neatly together. ‘See?’ he went on. ‘You can plug it into a dashboard cigarette lighter and stow it away in a glovebox!’
‘That’s great, Dad.’
‘The grills are detachable. You store the tongs and the spatula underneath.’ Grinning with delight, Sterling glanced from Edison to Marcus. ‘Guess how many sausages you can fit on this?’
‘Umm . . .’ Marcus was confused. He didn’t know if Sterling meant fat sausages or skinny sausages.
‘Four?’ Edison hazarded.
‘Six!’ his father cried. ‘Six sausages or two steaks!’
‘Wow,’ said Marcus.
‘Or four chicken drumsticks. Or eight kebabs.’ Sterling smiled down at his invention. ‘You can barbecue anything on this baby.’
Without another word he departed; the front door banged shut behind his retreating silhouette. Marcus stared after him, open-mouthed, but Edison seemed unfazed. ‘My dad invents things,’ the younger boy volunteered.
He then guided Marcus up a circular metal staircase, which punched its way through an even sturdier metal ceiling before delivering the two boys into an air-conditioned hallway made of canvas. On one side of the hallway were plastic windows hung with frilly pink curtains. On the other side were a series of hard plastic doors, each with a lightweight aluminium knob.
‘That’s my room,’ Edison informed Marcus, pointing at the last door in the row. It was shut. ‘All my games are in there.’
Marcus nodded. He followed Edison down the hallway, but stopped outside the first open door that they passed.
‘Who’s she?’ he inquired, staring at the girl in the room next to Edison’s. She was a black-haired teenager with a jewelled stud in her nose, wearing lots of tattered lycra over very short shorts. Her room was hung with dark, brooding posters; she was sprawled across a velvet beanbag, muttering into a mobile phone.
‘That’s my sister,’ Edison declared. ‘Her name is Newton, but we all call her Newt.’
Marcus thought that Newt
looked interesting. She certainly didn’t look like a beach person. ‘Do you think she’ll play a game with us?’ he asked.
Edison shook his head. ‘Nah. She’s on the phone.’
Marcus suppressed an impatient sigh. ‘I don’t mean right now,’ he said, very slowly and clearly. ‘I mean when she gets off the phone.’
Edison gawped at Marcus. ‘Are you kidding?’ the younger boy scoffed. ‘Newt never gets off the phone.’
5
PAST AND PRESENT
‘. . . AND SHE NEVER GETS OFF THE PHONE,’ SAID COCO, WHO was also talking about Newt. ‘She spends the whole day in her room, chatting or texting. And when she does go out with her friends, half the time she’s on the phone to her other friends!’ Coco began to massage the bridge of her nose, as if she had a headache. ‘I don’t know what to do. It’s as if she can’t talk face to face anymore. She certainly doesn’t talk to me.’
‘At least she has friends,’ Holly replied sadly. ‘Marcus doesn’t seem to. He’s always on his computer, playing games.’
‘Oh, he’s probably doing that with his friends,’ Coco assured her in a comforting tone. ‘You can play online games with other people.’
‘Yes, but they’re not real friends, are they?’ Holly objected. ‘Not like the friends you and I had. That’s why I brought him to Diamond Beach – because I remember how easy it was to make friends here.’ Her forehead puckered as she stared out the living-room window, which was angled to give anyone sitting on the Huckstepps’ enormous pink couch a perfect view of the ocean. ‘But it’s changed so much,’ she lamented. ‘There are so many people here now.’
‘Which is good for Marcus,’ Coco chirped, stroking her fattest, fluffiest cat. ‘With so many people, he’s bound to have a bigger choice of friends.’
‘I guess so.’ Holly heaved a weary sigh. ‘The trouble is, even if he does make friends, there’s nothing much to do. You just told me yourself that it’s too crowded to kick a ball around, and too dirty to go swimming. And if there isn’t enough wilderness left for a game of stowaways . . .’ Trailing off, her eyes misty with nostalgia, she allowed herself a wistful little smile. Then she snapped out of her daze, adding, ‘Marcus is always telling me that his computer games are better than real life – and I’m beginning to wonder if he’s right after all. I mean, just look at this place! It used to be paradise, and now it’s awful!’
‘It’s not so bad,’ said Coco. Holly, however, wasn’t convinced.
‘How can you bear it?’ she asked. ‘I bet you can afford any kind of holiday you like. Doesn’t it depress you, coming here?’
‘Oh, no!’ Coco looked shocked. ‘I love coming here.’
‘Why?’
‘Because it makes me happy.’ Seeing Holly’s puzzled expression, Coco tried to explain. ‘The first time I visited Diamond Beach, I thought it was perfect. And whenever I come back, I remember how I felt the first time. All these memories pop into my head. Like Jake’s treasure map. Or the dancing dog. Or that little old lady who used to play us nursery rhymes on her antique gramophone – remember her?’
Holly nodded. ‘They were the prettiest songs I’d ever heard.’
‘That’s just what I thought!’
‘And the weather was perfect,’ Holly reminisced. ‘And the sea was always warm.’
‘And no one argued.’
‘And there were no flies or mosquitoes.’ Holly gave an embarrassed little laugh. ‘Sometimes I think I’m delusional. I keep telling myself that it can’t have been that great. But it was, wasn’t it? You think so too.’
‘Of course,’ said Coco. ‘It was perfect. Everyone felt the same. Jake didn’t want to leave. He packed a knapsack and told me he was going to run off and hide when his family went home.’ She clicked her tongue and shook her head. ‘I don’t think his parents were very nice to him,’ she concluded.
‘They weren’t,’ Holly agreed. ‘He told me they weren’t. So did he run off and hide, in the end?’
‘I don’t know. We left before his family did. And he wasn’t here when we came back the next summer.’ It was Coco’s turn to smile a nostalgic smile. ‘My mother always loved this place,’ she said. ‘Sterling and I used to bring her every year before she died. And Sterling doesn’t mind where we go, as long as he gets to tinker with his caravan. He adores this caravan. He loves to show off all the new gadgets he’s installed to make it better.’
‘So it’s just the memories that draw you back?’ Holly asked sympathetically. Coco shook her head.
‘Oh, no!’ she rejoined. ‘It’s because the service here is so good. And so cheap. Diamond Beach isn’t like the city, you know.’ She began to count off the local attractions on her lavishly manicured fingers. ‘There’s a fabulous beautician, and an excellent massage therapist, and a hairdresser, and a pet groomer, and a whole tribe of personal trainers, and a really nice jeweller who sells door to door. Not to mention the tradesmen, who are desperate for work. Nobody says “I can’t make it for another three weeks” in this neck of the woods, let me tell you!’
She was cut short as Prot hummed into the room, bearing a pink lacquered tray laden with (among other things) three pairs of spectacles.
Coco gave a little shriek.
‘For goodness sake!’ she quavered. ‘What’s that?’
‘Some mice teeth, a bowl of cash, used ice ham, with cheese lemonade and three glasses,’ Prot replied in a toneless voice.
‘Oh, you stupid machine!’ Coco’s voice became shrill and waspish. ‘I asked for some iced tea, the bowl of cashews, diced ham with cheese, lemonade and three drinking glasses.’ She threw a cushion at the robot. ‘Get out! Go on! And take that hideous stuff with you!’
Prot’s upper portion swivelled around on its caterpillar treads, which began to reverse out of the room.
‘And don’t bother coming back!’ Coco yelled. Then she turned to Holly. ‘Sterling insists on lumbering me with every harebrained invention he comes up with. The freeven was bad enough, but this thing is worse.’
‘The freeven?’ Holly echoed, all at sea.
‘It was a combined freezer–microwave oven. Sterling wanted a vending machine that would deliver a roast dinner at the push of a button. But all he got was a great big mess.’ Coco pushed the cat off her lap as she stood up. ‘I’ve told him time and again, I don’t want a robot maid. You can hire local staff at Diamond Beach for practically nothing. He won’t listen, though. So I end up doing everything myself.’ Suddenly the pinched expression was wiped off her face by a brilliant smile. ‘Maybe we should just forget about the lemonade,’ she concluded, ‘and have something a little stronger instead . . . ?’
6
GHOST HUNTERS
IN EDISON’S ROOM MARCUS WAS ADMIRING THE BUNK BEDS, which could be pulled out of the wall. Every fixture and fitting was either retractable or collapsible, including the wardrobe. A brightly coloured box in one corner could be endlessly reconfigured; by folding it in different ways, you could turn it into a chair, a bedside cabinet, a storage chest, a stepladder, a desk, a partition . . .
‘This is fantastic,’ Marcus said with a sigh. ‘I wish we lived here.’
Edison shrugged. ‘It’s okay, I guess,’ he allowed. ‘But I’d rather live in a teepee. Or an igloo.’
‘You should try living in our caravan.’ Marcus pulled a face. ‘It’s really old and smelly.’
‘Eww.’
‘Yeah. Some old lady used to own it. I think she might have died in there.’ Grimacing, Marcus examined Edison’s Nintendo. ‘It’s probably haunted.’
‘Really?’ The younger boy perked up. ‘Why?’
‘Oh, the cupboards keep popping open,’ Marcus observed. ‘And the whole place feels funny. Like it’s shrinking in on you.’
‘Wow!’ Edison was growing more and more excited. ‘Can I go see it?’
‘There’s nothing to see. It’s just a dirty old caravan.’
‘Oh, please?’ Edison whined. ‘If it’s haunted, I wanna
see it.’
‘Why?’ Marcus was trying to be patient. ‘You can’t see ghosts in the daytime.’
‘Maybe I can, if I use my infrared goggles.’ Edison plunged into his wardrobe, emerging seconds later with something that looked like a pair of strap-on binoculars. ‘Dad made these,’ he announced. ‘If they work, we might be able to catch the ghost.’
‘With what?’ Marcus’s tone was sceptical, to say the least. ‘A jam jar?’
Edison grunted. Then he frowned, chewing on his bottom lip as he surveyed his possessions. ‘I guess a butterfly net wouldn’t work,’ he mused.
‘Not in a million years.’ Marcus spoke firmly. ‘And neither would a mousetrap. Or a mosquito zapper.’
‘We’ve got an infrared camera, but it’s at home,’ Edison continued. Then suddenly he brightened. ‘Hey! You know what? Newt’s got some spray-on green hair-colour!’
‘Huh?’
‘If I see the ghost through my goggles, I can spray it with green stuff! And then you might see it too!’
Marcus swallowed a snort of derision. ‘You think hair-colour is going to stick to an invisible ghost?’ he said. ‘You’ve gotta be kidding.’
But Edison ignored him. The younger boy picked up a backpack and began to stuff it with supplies: goggles, a torch, a pair of scissors, a half-eaten muesli bar. ‘We’ll get some flour from the kitchen,’ he decided. ‘If you put flour on the floor, sometimes ghosts will leave footprints. I saw that in a movie once.’
‘Edison, that caravan is filthy enough. My mum will have a fit if you put flour all over the floor . . .’
Edison, however, was already charging across the threshold, shedding bits of armour as he went. Marcus followed him into the next room, where Newt was still lolling on the beanbag with her phone pressed to her ear.
‘What is it?’ she asked, scowling at her brother.
‘Hey, Newt!’ he cried. ‘You wanna see a haunted caravan?’
‘Nope.’
The Paradise Trap Page 2