by V M Jones
I also noticed something else. Something that grabbed my attention as surely as if it had sprouted legs and arms and started waving and yelling ‘Over here!’
It was a roadside café, all lit up with a big neon sign that said Open. Through the rain I saw a sign below saying All day breakfasts. And I didn’t have to read at all to figure out the smell wafting across the wet tarmac.
Bacon.
My feet headed off towards the café, and the rest of me moseyed along. Didn’t have much choice, really.
Five minutes later I was sitting in a booth, my wet clothes gently steaming in the warmth and a Truckdriver’s Special in front of me. Two fat sausages, just about bursting out of their skins. French toast with maple syrup. Two halves of grilled tomato. Two fried eggs, with little crispy bubbles at the edges, and runny golden yolks. And a humungous pile of bacon, with crunchy-looking fat all curled and crinkled at the edges. The waitress took one look at my face when she put the bacon on, gave me a grin and a wink, and dumped on another couple of rashers. ‘For luck,’ she said.
I needed all the luck I could get, but I didn’t care about that now. I took a long, luxurious slurp of my hot chocolate, and dug in.
For the next little while I don’t think I’d have noticed if a truck had driven through the middle of the café, or even if Matron had suddenly appeared jangling a pair of handcuffs in my face.
It was the best breakfast I’d ever had — I hadn’t known breakfasts like that even existed! I thought about asking the waitress if I could come and live there — clean the floors or something, and have Truckdriver’s Specials for breakfast, lunch and dinner, every day.
But as I slowly started to warm up and think straight again, I realised what I really wanted. What I really, really wanted was to get to Quested Court.
I mopped up the last bit of egg yolk with the last morsel of French toast, and popped it into my mouth.
Up at the counter, the waitress was serving a man and a tall skinny girl with plaits, who looked about my age. They picked up their trays and came towards me through the tables, looking for an empty one. As they passed, I snuck a glance at their plates. The girl was having a mammoth muffin and a cola, and the man just had a cup of coffee. I felt sorry for them — they didn’t know what they were missing.
It was only when I heard them start talking that I realised they’d taken the booth behind me. It sounded as if they were continuing a discussion they’d been having in their car — the kind that isn’t much fun for anyone.
‘I still don’t see why they had to cancel,’ the girl said. She had a posh accent, and one of those whiny voices.
The man sounded tired. ‘Well, they have cancelled,’ he said. ‘This rain doesn’t look like letting up — and even if it does, there’s no way the ground would dry out overnight. Not enough to make it safe for showjumping.’
‘But Houdini is at his absolute peak, Daddy,’ she whined. ‘I just know he would have won. And now we’ll have to wait weeks for the next show.’
‘I know, darling,’ said the poor dad. ‘It’s just one of those tough breaks.’
‘We’ve come all this way for nothing,’ she moaned. ‘And now we’ve got the whole long drive back. It’s so boring.’
‘Well, we have the book tape,’ said her dad hopefully. I grinned. The poor guy was trying his best! If I was him, I’d tell her to belt up … or put her in the back with the horse.
‘How long will it take to get home?’
‘It’s just under three hours to Cranmer, and then another hour and a half or so to Winterton … so I’d say four and a half hours — maybe five, given the weather.’
It was as if the names appeared in the air above me in fluorescent neon, flashing on and off like the café sign.
Cranmer. Winterton.
Without even thinking, I slid out of the booth and headed for the door. I’d noticed a public toilet on the way in — I paid a quick visit, but I didn’t waste any time. How long could it take to drink a cup of coffee and eat a muffin?
I pushed though the glass doors and stood in the shelter of the awning, scanning the car park. There were trucks, parked mostly over to one side, and heaps of cars near the station entrance. Suddenly I saw it, almost hidden by a caravan: a big, grey four-wheel drive, with a horsebox hitched behind.
I ran up to it, glanced quickly over my shoulder to check no one was watching, and tried the little door in the side. I expected it to be locked but it opened easily, and I slipped inside.
A surprised whooffle and a sweet smell of hay, horse and leather greeted me. It was pretty gloomy and it took a moment for my eyes to adjust. But the horse was easy to see — he was white, and shone out of the dark like a ghost. And anyhow, he wasn’t about to be ignored. He pushed at me with his nose, looking for attention.
I put one hand flat on either side of his face, and whispered urgently to him. ‘Hey, buddy — hey, Houdini. Don’t give me away, huh?’ He blew down his nostrils at me. The end of his whiskery nose was pale pink and soft as velvet as he nibbled at my sleeve.
I stroked his neck. It felt how I’d imagine silk would feel, only warm and alive. He was so beautiful. If I had a horse like that, I’d never moan about anything ever again.
I could see more easily now. On the other side of the horse was a whole bunch of stuff — a couple of buckets, what looked like a saddle and a saddle blanket, and a spare rug. I ducked under the horse’s neck and burrowed in under the rug, leaving a tunnel to breathe through. It smelt dusty and I hoped it wouldn’t make me sneeze.
Suddenly I heard voices outside.
‘Don’t you think you should check on Houdini, darling? He may need more hay.’
‘Oh, Daddy — he’ll be fine. Let me in — I’m getting soaked!’
I heard two car doors slam in quick succession, and the sound of an engine starting up. The horsebox gave a lurch, and started to move.
We were off!
I popped my head out, spread the blanket over me, and snuggled down deeper into the hay.
Houdini reached down his head and gave me a gentle nudge. I gave him a wink, and in the dim light I could almost have sworn he winked right back.
Quested Court
It was warm and dark in the horsebox, and I was snug on my bed of hay under the rug. I felt full and safe, and most important of all, I was back on track. So with the gentle rocking of the horsebox, and the soft humming of the wheels on the road, I drifted off to sleep.
Next thing I knew, I was jolted awake by a rattling crash as the horsebox ramp hit the ground. It gave Houdini a fright, too — he threw up his head and put his ears back and did a little kind of dance with his front feet.
Quick as a flash, I pulled the rug over my head, leaving a tiny peephole. What now? I’d been planning to slip out the side door as soon as we arrived.
It was almost completely dark. The girl stomped up the ramp and gave Houdini a rough shove. ‘Move over, stupid!’ Obligingly, he shifted over to make room. ‘Why can’t you stay where you are till morning?’ she asked him crossly.
I wished he could have, too — it would have made my life easier.
‘Oh, gross, you’ve done a poo, you yucky thing! Daddy will try to make me clean that up, if he sees it. Come on — get out!’ She untied him, grabbed his halter and gave his chest a shove. He started backing away down the ramp with little, stiff steps. You could tell he didn’t much like it — his ears were still cocked back, and his eyes were rolling backwards trying to see where he was going. He was being very slow and careful. ‘Hurry up!’ snapped the girl.
I figured she’d probably take him to his stable, shut him in and maybe fetch him some hay and water before she came back to the horsebox. I’d have a good chance of slipping away while all that was happening. I tensed under my rug, ready to run.
At last he was down. They turned away and clopped off, Houdini’s pale behind disappearing round the side of the horsebox. Cautiously I wriggled out from under the rug. I grabbed my bag and tipt
oed softly towards the open ramp.
Suddenly the girl appeared round the side of the horsebox. She was looking back over her shoulder as she walked, talking to someone, presumably her dad. I froze.
‘Oh, just put him in the stable and close the door. Rogan can see to the rest in the morning.’ She was halfway into the horsebox — about a metre away — when she looked up and saw me, standing like a statue in the gloom. Her eyes bulged and her mouth fell open. She lifted her hands up to her face, and let out this ear-splitting shriek.
I’d been going to run the second she saw me, but when I saw her there, white as Houdini’s backside and rooted to the spot with horror, I couldn’t resist it. I twisted my face into this real mean snarl, and lifted my hands up like claws. ‘Graaaagh!’ I growled, taking a couple of steps towards her. That got her moving. She spun around and ran for it — right into the pile of horse poo. Both her feet skidded out from under her, and she fell smack on her back in the middle of it with a juicy squelching sound.
I was out of there. As I hurtled away down the drive I heard one startled shout of ‘Hoy!’ before I was flipping a right and pelting away down the road into the darkness, grinning and whooping like a maniac.
My first mad dash soon settled down to a steady jog. I laughed out loud. I felt like a million bucks. It was raining pretty hard and I had no clue where I was headed, but just at that moment, I couldn’t have cared less.
I must have gone along the road for twenty minutes or so before I came to a sign. I crossed over and stood in front of it, rummaging in my bag for my torch and the letter. First up, I shone the torch on the sign to see what it said. Winterton, 5. There was an arrow pointing off to the left. Hamley, 45. I turned the letter over, and shone the torch on the map. It took me a minute to figure out exactly where I was. Quested Court was on the outskirts of Winterton, six kilometres along the Hamley road. All I had to do was follow the side road for a bit, and I’d be there! I couldn’t believe my luck.
I flicked off the torch, tucked my precious letter away in my bag again before it totally disintegrated, and headed on down the Hamley road with the rain in my face.
I walked for what seemed like hours. The map had said six kilometres, but trudging along on foot in the pouring rain, I had no idea how far I’d gone.
When I figured I must be getting close, I started paying more attention to the houses I was passing. I couldn’t see most of them — there were just gates, mostly closed, or gateposts, some with surnames or the names of farms. Every now and again I’d see lights shining through trees, or a car would swoosh past. Apart from that, I could have been the only person on the planet.
Then came a long stretch of road with nothing — no farms, no houses, just a tall, dark hedgerow rambling along beside me, and what looked like woodland on the other side of the road. I began to worry that I’d missed it. And then at last I saw twin stone gateposts up ahead, each topped with a massive stone sphere. I squelched up to them, hoping this was finally it. Sure enough, the words Quested Court were carved into a flat stone plaque set into the left-hand post. The gateposts flanked wrought-iron gates that looked as though they meant serious business. Through them, I could see a long, overgrown driveway winding between the trees.
The gates were fastened with a thick steel chain and a hefty padlock on the other side. Without much hope, I reached through and tested it. Locked.
Fastened onto one of the gates was a notice. I squinted at it through the rain. No trespassing, it said. Guard dogs loose.
I realised I was shivering. I felt cold, tired and wet. My feet were sore, and the Truckdriver’s Special seemed a long, long time ago. An icy little trickle of water cruised down the back of my neck. Come on, Adam, it seemed to say. If you stand here feeling sorry for yourself, you’re only going to get colder.
I tossed my bag up over the gate, gripped a metal upright in each hand, and started to climb.
When it finally came into view, the house was way more awesome than I could ever have imagined. I rounded the final bend of the driveway, and there it was — more like a castle than a house, with a dozen or so expensive-looking cars pulled up at the front.
The big windows on the ground floor were brightly lit, and friendly squares of light glowed on the other floors.
I stepped forward … there was a smashing sound in the undergrowth behind me, and something hit me squarely in the back and knocked me onto my face in the mud. Instinctively, I covered my head with my arms; I could hear a low, guttural growling, and feel hot breath on the back of my neck.
I was too scared to move; too scared to cry; too scared to do anything except lie with my face squished into the mud and wait for the dog to shred me to pieces.
His muzzle was nearer now; I could feel his cold nose sniffing, and his stiff whiskers tickling the back of my neck. I held my breath.
I felt a hot tongue lick my ear, and heard a worried, almost apologetic whimper. And then I did start to cry — great, hiccuping sobs that seemed to go on and on. I sat there and bawled like a baby, while the dog whined and licked my face and clambered all over my lap with his huge, muddy paws.
He was the size of a tank, black and fearsome, with a studded leather collar and teeth like a tiger. But his eyes were as soppy as a spaniel’s, and his ferocious-looking face was creased with embarrassment and concern. When eventually I got up, he wagged his little stump of a tail and walked the rest of the way to the house pressed against me, glancing up into my face every few seconds. He was so big I could walk with my hand on his back, without even having to bend down.
We scrunched past the cars, and up to the huge, arched door. I took a deep breath. The dog watched me with his warm, brown eyes, tongue lolling, grinning encouragement. I lifted the heavy knocker, and let it fall once, twice, three times.
Then I put my hand on my new friend’s neck again, and waited.
An unexpected visitor
The door opened, and I blinked in the sudden spill of light. An enormous man was silhouetted against the brightness. I felt so dazzled that for a second I had the crazy impression he was a giant.
‘Well, my giddy aunt,’ goes the giant. ‘What ’ave we ’ere? Where in carnation ’ave you come from, young feller? But never mind that, come in outta the cold. And as fer you —’ he bent and scratched the dog behind one ear — ‘Call yerself a guard dog, yer old shandy-pants!’
A huge hand was on my back, gently propelling me into a flagged hallway the size of a soccer field. I shuffled in, digging in my sodden bag for my letter.
‘Please, sir,’ I said, my voice sounding thin and quavery. ‘Please, sir, Mr Quested, I’m Adam Equinox, and —’ my fingers found the letter at last, and I held it towards him. It looked very damp and dog-eared — ‘and this is my letter.’
The huge man stared at me, making no attempt to take the letter. He scratched his head.
‘You’re Adam, are yer?’ he said at last. ‘The wee boy with the chicken pox? And bless yer barnacles, sonny, I’m not Q — I’m Shaw.’
My head was spinning. What was Q? And why was the big man telling me that he was sure he wasn’t it?
‘You’ll not be wantin’ to go to the party in that state.’ He opened one of the heavy wooden doors off the hallway, and ushered me through into a room I realised must be a library. It was lined with books, stretching from floor to ceiling. In one corner was a massive wooden desk with a computer. A fire was blazing in an enormous stone fireplace, with battered-looking leather armchairs on either side. On one of the chairs, a small cream-coloured cat was curled up asleep.
I took a couple of steps into the room, and gasped. Shuffling towards me through an ornate golden doorway opposite was a creature that could have come straight out of the fantasy world of Karazan. It looked half animal, half human. A bowed, shaggy head covered in matted hair, with spikes of straw sticking out at odd angles. A face so streaked and smeared with mud that it gave the impression of being some kind of weird war paint. Its clothes were a dirty brown, li
ke old sacks, and the creature was so filthy it was impossible to make out where they ended and its skin began. Weirdest of all was a visible aura around it of wavering steam, like something out of a horror movie. I gaped, and rubbed my eyes. Surely I must be dreaming? Maybe the whole thing was one long, incredible dream!
And the creature in the mirror gaped right back at me and rubbed its eyes, too.
The man — his name was Shaw, it turned out — went and fetched a lady with a face like a hawk, and they hustled me up a staircase, along a couple of corridors and into a bedroom the size of the entire boys’ dormitory at Highgate.
‘This is the room you’ll be sharing with Richard Osborne, one of the other finalists,’ the lady told me. She pointed to a door over on one side of the room. ‘In the bathroom you will find soap, shampoo and towels. I suggest you have an extremely thorough bath. While you do that, I’ll see what I can arrange in the way of clean clothes. Leave yours in the laundry basket, and we’ll deal with them later. Once you’re presentable, we’ll introduce you to Q. No doubt he’ll have his own ideas about how to cope with your unexpected arrival.’
I guess I must have looked confused. The woman reminded me uncomfortably of Miss McCracken, though I could tell she was trying to be kind.
Shaw gave me a grin and a wink. ‘Usherwood’s the real boss,’ he whispered. ‘We all jump when she says jump, even Q.’
‘Ms Usherwood, if you please, Shaw.’ She gave him a small frown and me a cool, rather distracted-looking nod, and away they went.
I peeled my clothes off and left them in a soggy clump on the bathroom floor. There was something I guessed must be the laundry basket, but it was made of white wickerwork and I didn’t have the nerve to put my clothes anywhere near it.
I must have stayed in the bath for half an hour, wallowing in the hot water and shampooing my hair into a lather that flew round the room like snow. At last, reluctantly, I got out, wrapped one of the thick, fluffy towels round my waist, and headed through to the bedroom.