by Eddie Saint
The growing crowd held its breath.
The Scoots enamel badge fell with a tinkle to the stage.
Silence.
Spike spoke first.
‘W… w… well! That was cl… close!’ He picked up the badge and pinned it carefully right over Ivan’s heart.
The crowd relaxed. A small cheer went up.
‘I won’t be needing this either,’ said Ivan, unwrapping the long stripy scarf and dropping it at Spike’s feet. He stood at the foot of the steps, in his dark blue gym kit, with a bandaged paw and foot, his callipers shining in the coloured light and his Scoots badge sitting proudly on his chest.
‘Gemini, here I come,’ he said softly, and two young Angel Delights near him sighed.
He ascended the steps, feeling like it was a rite of passage, a new life, a new beginning. He stumbled on the top step and put his paw out to steady himself on a soft rope barrier, that gave a little under his weight but had enough tension in it to allow him to pull himself upright again. It made him feel giddy realising just how simple, how uncomplicated life could be when you knew what you wanted and it was within your grasp.
And what was in his grasp?
Well, still the soft rope barrier for a start…
Latex rubber melts at a little over 50 degrees C. That is about three times cooler than the temperature of the outer casing of the main lights high up in the arena’s retractable roof.
When the first balloon burst it sounded like a gunshot.
The crowd, keenly aware of the horrors at Little Meadow only the day before, didn’t stop to consider the evidence. Screams rose up, younger animals leapt to their feet, and as one the assembled crowd turned and stampeded for the exit. More bangs followed for good measure, but the message was already firmly entrenched.
The words, ‘Gemini, I’m wearing the badge!’ were lost in the commotion. Ivan surveyed the scene. What had, only moments before, been a burbling gathering of cheerful animals, had descended into a scene from Farmyard Inferno.
He stood, helpless, repeating his call. ‘I’m wearing the badge, Gemini! I’m wearing the badge! Look!’ He pointed at his chest, the orange Scoots badge clearly visible against the dark blue of his T-shirt. But as he pointed he realised he was still holding something in his hand. It was the soft rope barrier. He looked along its length to where it disappeared, not into a small upright metal pole on a circular base, but into the net of balloons. Or, ‘not of balloons’ as it now was.
At the top of the stairs a slightly pink Porcupine was advancing slowly on him, quills raised.
‘N… n…no h… hard fffff… ffeelings, eh?’ said Spike, as he levelled a plucked quill in his paw…
Outside the Carrington 5ive photo booth there were wild scenes. Animals were running for the foyer exit as the hail of bullets continued.
Only… something didn’t sound quite right about them. The sound was more sporadic, like pop-corn in a pan, neither the regular bursts of an automatic weapon nor the rhythmical pause of a shoot-and-reload rifle.
I risked a look back at the stage. Standing under a slow rain of coloured latex were two figures, and neither had a weapon, at least not in the conventional sense. In the centre of the stage was a rather sheepish looking Fox, in a gym kit and bandages, holding a limp rope. At the top of the steps, and screaming at the Fox menacingly, a stammering Porcupine advanced, quills raised…
‘Please make your way to the main exit,’ said the still cheerful announcer. ‘And be good to each other. Remember, a little help goes a long way!’
‘This way,’ said Dug, ignoring the announcer and pulling me in the direction of Room Six. It had been a long time since Dug had bossed me around, and I wasn’t completely sure I enjoyed it, but he did seem to be on home turf, and there was a large crowd of animals all trying to head in the opposite direction. We held paws and quickly made good ground through the thinning ranks of animals. Just as we passed through the doorway to Room Six I looked back and saw the Porcupine now sitting on top of the Fox, his quills pinning the wretched creature down.
‘Well that’s a prank that’s gone expensively wrong,’ I said.
‘Can’t say I’ll lose any sleep over a Fox being parted from their money,’ said Dug, gently tugging me away from the main arena.
The Artist Alley was deserted now and we were able to relax and stroll unhurriedly towards the green EXIT sign.
‘I’ll give you one last chance to back out, JJ. No disgrace.’
‘What exactly would I be backing out from?’
He paused to consider his answer, then took a deep breath and said,
‘I’m convinced Hornworm is a big deal for the Foxes. You are a red hot investigator and I could do with an extra pair of eyes, ones I know I can trust, helping me hunt Hornworm down.’
‘Then count me in all the way,’ I said. ‘This is going to make the story of a lifetime!’
We took the rear fire exit, made our way around the perimeter of the building and spotted Mel in the distance talking to Buster in a corner of the concourse outside the main entrance. The old Badger had a hand on the young Otter’s shoulder, and then she let go of him as three of his earlier group of friends walked up to them. Mel gave a little wave and stood watching the young group go. Dug and I skirted the concourse, staying in the shadows, and called Mel over when we got close.
‘Dug! Why am I not surprised to see you again, mixed up in all this?’ she said, unfazed. ‘Hold that thought though, our cab’s just coming.’
Sitting in the back of the private hire car we talked excitedly about all the different costumes we had seen. For the cab driver it was just another fare, nothing remarkable beyond ‘the la-di-da of all that comic nonsense’. We knocked off the act once he had dropped us, a mile away, and as I watched the cab turn back towards the city I recognised an ‘instantly forgettable’ car parked a short stroll away up the road.
‘Can’t you at least oil your door hinges?’ I said, as I opened a door and the dry metal screeched on its hinge.
‘Just settle yourself down. It’s about a thirty minute drive in this traffic, and I’ve got an old agent to debrief.’ She winked at Dug, sitting beside her in the front.
I didn’t need to be told twice. It had been a long time since I’d met Mel in Tony’s front room, and I hadn’t managed any sleep since. Dreams of balloons, rhino horns and long stripy scarves soon came to claim me.
Chapter Eighteen
‘THIS IS A Service safe house,’ said Mel. ‘You’re both on different hit lists now, so I’m not taking any chances. I can tell you we’re in the suburbs. I won’t tell you where exactly. You know how little I trust, well… everything.’
She leaned on the back of a chair and gestured expansively around the kitchen.
I guess things change pretty fast in the spy business. Mel was already totally fine with replacing an agent in hospital with a rookie journalist and a back-from-the-dead spy. Adapt to survive.
‘We’ll be safe enough here for a day at least, and it will give us a secure base to work from. Except…’
She pushed away from the chair and picked a coat off the rack behind the hall door.
‘… one of us has to go and do some proper work. I’ve got an agent in intensive care and a suspected Fox contract killing on my patch. I can’t really drop off the radar right now.’
That made sense. As for me, I’d had half a cup of coffee with my long lost brother and it was already like he’d never been away.
‘OK, well what have we got here?’ I asked. ‘What kit is there?’ I was keen to get started, and also to make it look like I knew what I was doing in front of big brother.
‘Ah, yes, well… safety comes with a price, I’m afraid,’ said Mel, cautiously.
I squinted at her. That didn’t sound good.
She led us into a tiled hallway.
‘Down we go,’ she said, opening a door under the stairs. We hopped down an uncarpeted staircase into a large basement room that had a slightly dam
p smell and no natural light. Two strip lights lit the room, showing a small office that looked for all the world like the old Service office Dug had described.
‘It’s like I’ve never been away,’ he said, following an untidy trail of cables back to a run of sockets in the wall. He switched them on, and the room began to buzz with intermittent exertions from various computer fans as the old machines coughed and spluttered into life.
‘Well, that’s the Service for you,’ said Mel. ‘Can’t abide to waste money, as you know. When the new office refit came along quite a few of our safe houses benefitted from these… mini-office installations.’ She grinned.
I sat down at one of the desks. The top was scratched and written on like it had some stories to tell. Dug sat opposite me and cracked his knuckles.
I’d forgotten how much I hated him doing that.
He hadn’t.
‘Sorry, JJ,’ he said with a wink. ‘Old habits. Anyway, now that we’ve got the dream team back together let’s see if we can’t pin down Hornworm before its too late…’
BREAKFAST IN TOAD Hall was, in Toad’s words, a ‘casual affair.’ The usual serving table was still there, with its silver domed warming plates holding bacon, sausages, black pudding, kippers, smoked salmon, mushrooms, tomatoes and three types of egg: poached, fried and scrambled. There were white, wholemeal and spelt bread slices ready to be toasted, a basket of freshly baked croissants and crystal jugs full of juices and milk. In fact, the more Weasel looked at the table, groaning under the weight of enough food for a rugger team, the more puzzled he was by Toad’s description of it.
Weasel knew that his first goal was not to provoke Toad into campaigning any harder than he might otherwise do. No point egging the other side on. The poll numbers showed it was going to be a hard enough struggle as it was, even if the tide was definitely turning in his favour.
But some itches just demand to be scratched.
‘I’m sorry, you said ‘casual’? Did I get that right?’ he asked.
Tarquin Toad the Third, dressed in his business breakfast attire of open necked blue shirt, his smallest stud cufflinks and just the trousers from a Harris tailored suit, looked around the room.
‘Yes, that’s right,’ he said, as if his gaze around the room were enough explanation.
‘I’m sorry?’ said Weasel, keen not to press too hard, but still desperately curious. ‘Er…?’
He left the syllable hanging, hoping Toad wouldn’t make him repeat his question. No point sounding like a badgering cub.
‘Well?’ replied Toad. ‘Can you see Phillips?’
He realised that his tone was a little petulant, and reeled himself back in. The morning polls had given him a jolt, but he was still a good margin ahead, and with only one day of campaigning to go he knew, deep down, that if he was worrying then it was over nothing.
‘Phillips?’ repeated Weasel.
Toad had a word with himself, took a short, deep breath, and set himself back on the patient track he had intended to be on all along.
‘My dear old thing, there is no need for us to bother with staff to serve our breakfast. Not when we are such animals of the world, about to discuss the biggest issues of the day. You must serve yourself whatever you wish, then we can go through the binders as we eat.’
The light finally went on in Weasel’s mind. It just hadn’t occurred to him that anyone might have waiter service for breakfast.
Toad filled his plate with a little of everything, then when Weasel had taken what he wanted Toad topped his own plate up again with most of what was left.
‘Waste not, want not, what?’ Toad said with a forced bonhomie.
‘Quite,’ said Weasel, and he took his plate to the conference table and started to tuck in to a sausage.
‘Between you and me,’ said Toad, once he too had sat down, ‘I think there might be a spy in Toad Hall.’
Weasel coughed up his food straight away and reached for a glass of juice to wash down his throat.
‘Good heavens, are you alright?’ said Toad, concerned.
‘Mmm… mmm…’ managed Weasel, still swallowing the juice. ‘Just went down the wrong way.’
Toad let his companion compose himself again before continuing.
‘Yes, a spy. I do believe something is leaking from Toad Hall, somehow. I mean, how else is anyone supposed to explain this?’
With a casual prod he pushed a newspaper across the table, open on a page that showed the polls just before the early morning print run.
Weasel looked at the columns; blue, yellow and red. Two days ago the difference between his yellow column and Toad’s blue one was as marked as that between ankles and shoulders. Now the latest polls had Toad closer to stomach height and Weasel creeping up the thigh. The red ‘Don’t Know’ column had dropped significantly overnight, and was heading down the shin at a rate of knots.
‘No wonder he’s annoyed,’ thought Weasel cheerfully.
‘One wonders quite what has got into the electorate,’ said Toad, resisting the urge to show Weasel how to hold his cutlery properly. ‘I’ve been up all night trying to work it out.’
Warning lights flashed in Weasel’s mind.
‘Up all night? Well that’s very dedicated of you, but I reckon those polls are just a blip. You know what the papers are like. They’ll make up anything to get a sale…’
As the words left his greasy lips Weasel realised he had just pitted his ‘reckon’ against Toad’s newspaper ‘facts’. It hadn’t been deliberate, but now he was fascinated to see how his new favourite weapon would play out in the very heart of Toad Hall itself.
Toad had wasted no time filling his mouth with food while Weasel was speaking. He closed his eyes and pushed the food down his throat as best he could, then washed it down with a crystal glass of cranberry juice held delicately in his hand, with one leathery pinkie extended.
‘The only answer I can come up with is that they are getting the wrong information,’ he said. ‘And that has led me to one, obvious conclusion.’
In all the times he had spoken with Toad that week, from the time in the toilets to the present breakfast banquet, Weasel had always felt on top of the conversation. Suddenly, his tail involuntarily tucked itself under him, and he began to wonder for the first time if he had bitten off more than he could chew.
‘Which is…?’ he said, trying gamely to keep any sign of fear from his voice.
Sympathetic eyes, straight face, head bowed, don’t look him straight in the eyes…
If he had been rumbled at this late stage… Well, the consequences didn’t bear thinking about.
‘Why, isn’t it obvious, my dear boy?’ said Toad, letting out a savoury burp and reaching for more juice. ‘Someone is cheating!’
Weasel gulped.
Toad pushed his plate away, one solitary piece of sausage still left swimming in tomato sauce, and stood up. He padded over to the window and gazed down on the early morning traffic below.
‘The very thought,’ he continued, ‘that on my watch I have let this happen… Why, it shames me.’
Weasel put down his cutlery and finished his milk. He didn’t like the turn the conversation had taken.
Toad turned back from the window and returned to the table. On resuming his seat he instinctively flicked out his tongue and snagged the last remaining piece of sausage from his plate. He instantly jolted upright in his seat, gave Weasel a wide-eyed stare and blushed slightly.
‘Oh,’ he said, shocked at his own lack of etiquette. He raised a linen napkin to his wide lips and covered them while he swallowed. Then he wiped them clean and dropped the napkin beside his plate and put his knife and fork together, forgetting that Phillips was not waiting on him that morning.
‘You must think I’m a terrible oik,’ Toad continued.
Weasel had many thoughts going through his head at that point, but none of them involved Toad in any significant way. Finding a legal team and building a good defence case were his most pressing
thoughts, along with being sure to carry a pair of gloves for turning door knobs.
However, as the pendulum ticked away in the grandfather clock by the door, Weasel noticed that the ground had yet to disappear from beneath him. Was Toad toying with him?
‘Still. Can’t be helped now,’ said Toad, livening himself up with a mini pep-talk. ‘I’ve taken the necessary steps. I do hope you’ll forgive me.’
That caught Weasel off guard.
‘Forgive… you?’ he said, slowly, incredulously, realising that what he thought was his own endgame might actually be Toad’s surrender. It didn’t matter that he didn’t understand what had just happened, just that he no longer seemed to be caught in Toad’s cross-hairs. He told his mental lawyers to stand down, and took off his protective gloves.
Toad opened his leathery palms and shrugged across the table.
‘I’ve had to sack my office staff.’
‘Really? What for?’
‘Why, someone on my team must have been giving you binders with all the wrong information in them. That is, quite simply, the only explanation.’
Weasel could not keep a shocked expression from his face.
‘The… wrong information?’
‘I can see you are shocked,’ said Toad. ‘I was too, when I realised. But, a good Toad will always make amends for his errors.’
Toad gestured towards the Red folders piled on the far end of the conference desk.
‘So, I took it upon myself to photocopy all today’s information personally. You can rest assured that all the facts in those binders, what we pay to the LEAF League and what they give us in return, are identical to the ones in mine.’
‘You…?’ began Weasel, surveying the four, thick binders. ‘You did all that yourself?’
Tarquin Toad the Third looked up at the portrait of his ancestor then leaned his elbows on the desk, steepled his fingers and looked Weasel straight in the eye.
‘My dear old thing, ‘MONEY’ is a bit of a specialism of mine, so it really was no trouble.’