“Do it tomorrow,” Mr. Bacon sniffed, dumping the trap on a pile of old junk near his garden shed.
“Great. I’ll go, then,” David said, backpedaling triumphantly toward the gate. He clenched a fist and turned away — just as something went clank behind him. He paused and looked back at the pile of junk. An old metal watering can had slipped sideways across a bag of compost, knocking its spout against a stack of roof tiles.
David shrugged and reached for the gate latch. But as he lifted it, Gadzooks popped into his mind. The image of the dragon was so clear and so sudden that David dropped the latch as if it were aflame. The special dragon huffed what looked like a smoke ring. It seemed to contain a fragment of speech: … hiding place, low to the ground … David’s stomach tightened. He turned and peered at the pile of junk.
“Lost your bearings?” Henry barked. He nodded at the gate.
“Just going,” David muttered, deep in thought. He glanced again at the watering can. It was probably nothing. Wishful thinking. Hopeful imaginings.
Dragon dreaming.
He shut the gate behind himself and walked back home.
In the living room, Liz was watering plants. “So, any news?”
David kicked off his shoes and flopped out on the sofa. “Henry caught a hedgehog.”
“I hope he let it go.”
“ ’Course. I made him.”
“Hmm,” Liz grunted, looping her hair. She picked a dead leaf off a Christmas cactus. “So it works, the rodent remover?”
David squeezed a cushion against his stomach. “Yes, but Conker’s safe — for now. I tricked Henry into raising the trap off the ground. But if he changes his mind and puts it back …”
Liz topped up the yucca plant’s saucer and dabbed at a spill with a piece of tissue. “Talk to Gadzooks if you’re worried,” she said. “Special dragons can help at times like this.”
David rolled his eyes to the ceiling. Sometimes he had to wonder about Liz. She always seemed like such a practical person and yet… “Why do you talk about the dragons as if they were real?”
“They are real,” she said in a throwaway voice. “To me and Lucy, anyway.”
David let his shoulders sag. “I think I’d be better off chatting with Bonnington.”
“Oh, no,” said Liz with a serious frown. “He’s as dumb as a halibut is wide. Gadzooks can reach you on … a deeper level.”
David threw her a quizzical look.
“You said yourself, he suggested Snigger’s name. You asked him a question and he spoke to you, didn’t he?”
“That was different,” David muttered, looking away. Even so, he thought about the flash of Gadzooks in Henry’s garden. Had the dragon been trying to speak to him then? No, it was ridiculous. How could a pottery dragon have any idea where Conker might be hiding? “Anyway,” he said, “while we’re on the subject of peculiar things: I keep hearing a noise, in bed, at night.”
“Noise?” said Liz, tending the leaves of a spider plant.
David pointed upward. “From the Dragons’ Den. It sounds like a purr, but it’s not — it’s a hurr.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that,” said Liz, touching the snout of the dragon by the yucca plant, “that’s just … the central heating. Feet off the sofa, please.” She whacked his ankles and swept out of the room.
David swung his feet to the floor. For a moment or two he sat in silence, twiddling his thumbs, staring into space. Then a strange thought crept into his mind. He glanced at the dragon by the yucca plant, then at all the walls of the living room in turn. “Liz,” he called out, “there aren’t any radiators!”
You don’t have any central heating, he thought.
SIGHTING
He decided it was one of Liz’s jokes. There was a gas fire on the chimney wall. As yet, he had never seen it working. What he was expected to believe, no doubt, was that fire-breathing dragons kept the house nice and toasty and were a cheaper alternative to electricity or gas.
Yes, Liz. Very funny. Ha, ha.
Dragons. The spiky little whatsits were popping up everywhere. David often saw Lucy carrying them around. She would leave one on the mantelpiece, or take one off the mantelpiece, or move them bafflingly around the living room. In the last few days, when the weather forecasts had hinted at frost, a couple had even appeared in the picture window near the top of the stairs. To anyone outside the Pennykettle household it would have seemed … eccentric, to put it mildly. David had simply learned to live with it.
Still, whichever way the house was heated, the tenant was glad for the warmth the next day. It was Sunday and the heavens had opened. It rained so heavily that even Lucy was forced to admit that sensible squirrels would not venture out in such a downpour, much less investigate traps. She spent most of that day in the company of her mom, working on a drawing project for school. David, glad for the isolation, typed away at an essay for college. It was the quietest day he’d known since his arrival.
On Monday, however, everything changed. David woke to a blaze of sunlight streaming in through a chink in his curtains. He squinted at the clock. Quarter to eight. Pushing Bonnington onto the floor, he wandered, bleary-eyed, into the kitchen. Right away he caught sight of Lucy clambering into the back of the rock garden. He put an ear out for Liz but couldn’t hear her anywhere. He knocked quietly but urgently on the kitchen window. Lucy turned so fast she lost her footing, causing a mini-avalanche of stones. She scowled at the tenant and formed the word, “What?” David beckoned her in.
“What are you doing?”
“Checking the trap.”
“I know that. Don’t you think your mom’ll be a tad suspicious if she sees you playing Queen of the Castle?”
“She’s in the shower,” said Lucy, looking David up and down. “Is that what you wear to bed?”
The tenant was dressed in fluffy blue socks, brown pajama bottoms, and a T-shirt with a picture of a large yellow duck. “What’s wrong with it?” he said.
The doorbell rang before Lucy could tell him. “I’ll go,” she said, swinging down the hall. “We don’t want to scare people away.”
“Charming,” David muttered, and rattled some cornflakes into a dish.
He was reaching for the milk when the front door opened and he heard Lucy say, “Oh, it’s you.”
“Haven’t got long,” Mr. Bacon boomed. “Step aside, child. Where’s the boy?”
David closed the fridge and went to investigate. “What’s up, Henry? I’m having my breakfast.”
Mr. Bacon held up a tuft of gray fur.
Lucy gasped and stumbled back against the stairs.
David felt his stomach sink into his socks. “W-where did you find that?”
“Snagged on a corner of my window box,” said Henry. “Think you need a good pair of goggles, boy. That rat you saw belongs up a tree.”
“You leave him alone!” Lucy cried, stomping forward.
David intercepted fast. “Calm down,” he hissed, pulling her aside. “He didn’t say he caught anything, did he?”
Lucy’s eyebrows knotted together. David turned to Mr. Bacon again. Choosing his words very carefully he asked, “Are you saying you’ve seen a squirrel?”
“Couldn’t miss it,” Henry rapped. “Sitting on my windowsill, clear as a nut. Practically knocking on the glass, it was. Nearly spilled my coffee down my pants with the shock.”
“You should have!” snapped Lucy.
David turned on her again. “Lucy, will you let me deal with this?”
Lucy folded her arms and huffed.
David floated a hand about chest height. “So, it was … well off the ground, you mean?”
Mr. Bacon’s mustache wiggled with impatience. “Should I draw you a diagram, boy?”
“I’m not sure,” said David, scratching his head. How could Conker get onto a windowsill? “This squirrel, how many eyes did it have?”
“Is this a joke?!” barked Henry. “Two, you fool.”
“Two?” gasped
Lucy.
Mr. Bacon leaned down to her height. “One on either side of its ratty little nose.”
That was one gibe too many for Lucy. With a rush of vehemence she kicked the door hard, slamming it shut in Henry’s face.
David emitted a horrified squeak. “Lucy! What are you doing?” He yanked the door open. Mr. Bacon was holding a hankie to his nose. “Sorry, Mr. Bacon. Wind blew it shut. Back door. Just a draft. Happens all the time.” He gave a jovial smile and stepped onto the porch, guiding Henry down the path. “So, it was a squirrel all along? Well, well. Easy mistake to make at a distance. Still, now that we know there isn’t a rat, you won’t need to bother with the trap — will you?”
Mr. Bacon stood to one side. “Squirrels are the scourge of the garden, boy. Sooner we snare the beast, the better.” And with that he turned crisply on his heels, marched across the drive, and got into his car.
David said a swear word under his breath. He turned back to the house. Lucy was tapping her foot against the step. “Let me deal with this,” she toadied, and slammed the door on David as well.
Sputtering furiously, he flipped the mail slot open. “Lucy, let me in. It’s freezing out here.”
“Don’t care. I wish you never came.”
“Right now, so do I. Open up, we’ve got to talk. That wasn’t Conker on the windowsill.”
“Yes, it was.”
“No, it wasn’t. A one-eyed squirrel couldn’t jump up there. There must be another squirrel in the garden.”
“It was Conker!”
David banged the mail slot shut. He opened it again with a fresh argument. “All right, if it was Conker, that means his injury must have healed. Now, let me in — or I’ll ring the bell until your mom comes down.”
“Don’t bother, she’s already here,” said a voice.
The door swung open. Liz was holding Lucy by the shoulders like a hostage. She looked as if she were about to explode. “What’s going on?”
David ran in, rubbing his arms. “Henry saw a squirrel.”
“It was Conker,” cried Lucy. “And Mr. Bacon’s going to try extra hard to catch him! And it’s all his fault!” She stabbed a toe at David’s shins.
“OK, I’ve had enough of this,” said Liz, pushing Lucy toward the stairs. “Bedroom, until it’s time for school. As for you …,” she said and turned on David, “… is that really what you wear to bed?”
David snorted in annoyance and retreated to his room.
“That’s it,” he said to Bonnington, lobbing the cat off the bed. “That trap has got to go. If she’s this bad when Henry doesn’t catch a squirrel, what’s she going to be like if he does?!”
M-yew, went Bonnington, arching his back. He shook himself and padded across the room to the chair where David dumped his clothes overnight. A sweater had fallen on the floor. Bonnington took a few sniffs of the wool, pawed it, and pushed his nose under the hem.
“Gotta think of a way to get rid of it,” said David. “Something permanent, that even Liz will approve of.”
A muffled meow broke into his thoughts.
Bonnington had snuggled inside the sweater. The fabric bulged like soup on simmer as the cat decided to fight it for fun.
David groaned and scooped the bundle up into his arms. Bonnington’s head popped out of the neck. “What are you doing?” David asked him.
Meow? went Bonnington.
“That’s my favorite sweater, cat. You’re going to pull the threads if you get yourself st —”
David sat back and blinked.
Meow? went Bonnington again.
A sly smile crept across the tenant’s face. “Yes-ss, you’ll help me save Conker, won’t you?”
A-row? went Bonnington as if he could look into the tenant’s mind and didn’t quite like the picture he was seeing.
“Trust me,” David whispered. “Won’t hurt a bit. By dinnertime tonight, you are going to be a real hero….”
BONNINGTON DISAPPEARS
Around four that afternoon, Liz and Lucy arrived home from school and found David in the kitchen, washing dishes.
“Goodness, I must be dreaming,” said Liz. “I see washed pots and a tidy table and … is that a freshly mopped floor?”
David shuffled with embarrassment. “Had a little mud on my sneakers and …”
“Don’t spoil it,” said Liz, raising her hands. “You cleaned up. That’s what matters. How come you’re home so early?”
David clicked his tongue. “Erm, lecture was canceled. There’s tea in the pot.”
Liz glanced at the cat-shaped cozy and the three clean mugs waiting to be filled. “Gosh, now I do feel pampered.” She smiled and went to hang up her coat.
Lucy passed her in the doorway. “Have you checked?” she whispered, running to the window.
“Yes. No sign. We’re talking again, I guess?”
“Mom says I have to. Have you really checked?”
“Lucy —”
“Okay, let’s try this tea.” Liz breezed in, pushing back her sleeves. She sat at the table and started to pour.
“Oh, I almost forgot,” said David, “I put some Chunky Chunks out for Bonnington but he doesn’t … erm … seem to be around.”
Lucy glanced at the empty basket. “Did you rattle his food?”
David shook his head.
Lucy sighed at the tenant’s hopelessness. “I’ll find him,” she said, and walked out rattling some chicken-flavored cat treats.
Two minutes later she was back. Bonnington was nowhere to be found, she said.
“Did you check the kitchen closet?” asked Liz.
“Twice,” said Lucy.
“Try the garden, then.”
Lucy went out, rattling hard.
“Funny,” said Liz. “It’s very unusual for Bonny to go missing. I hope he didn’t get himself in any sort of —”
A-row-oo-wee-yow-oooooo!
“That was him,” she said, putting down her tea.
“Mom!” cried Lucy.
Liz dashed into the garden.
David said a quick prayer and shot out after her.
On the patio, Lucy explained what had happened. “I rattled the box and he yowled, Mom. Listen.” She shook the box again.
Yow-oo-wee-ar-ooooo!
Liz twisted toward Mr. Bacon’s garden. “That came from next door.”
“Hhh!” gasped Lucy, nearly dropping the cat treats. “You don’t think …?”
Liz didn’t wait to hear. With a face like thunder she set off at high speed for Henry’s front door, Lucy and David close behind.
As luck would have it, Henry had just arrived home from the library. He tipped his hat as Liz approached.
“Henry, let me into your garden now!” Liz pointed at the paneled gate.
“Problem, Mrs. P.?”
“Bonnington’s in there. If he’s stuck somewhere he shouldn’t be, there’s going to be trouble!”
Henry’s face turned the color of an uncooked pancake. He jangled his keys and went into the house. He emerged seconds later from the kitchen door, and slid the bolt on the garden gate.
Liz and Lucy flashed down the path.
Within seconds, they heard a piercing scream. Every bird within a half-mile radius took to the air and flew for its life.
Mr. Bacon gasped in horror. His trap was on the ground, turned over on its side.
A furry face was peering through the mesh.
“Get him out!” Liz thundered, pointing at the box.
Henry raised a trembling hand to his mouth. “But it’s impossible,” he blustered. “That cat’s too fat.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Mr. Bacon bent like a tree in a gale. “Size to space ratio, Mrs. P. Scientific improbability. The cat must have practically stuffed itself in.”
“I’ll stuff you in,” Liz said dangerously, “if you don’t release my cat, right now.”
Henry hooked a finger under his collar. He crouched down slowly and reached for the door. Bonnington h
issed and bared his fangs. Mr. Bacon drew back in alarm.
“Let me,” said David, kneeling down. Bonnington’s reaction was no less virulent. He took one look at David and spat like water in a pan of hot oil. David leaned closer and gritted his teeth. “Cut it out,” he whispered. “I came to let you out.” He yanked the trap open. Bonnington sprang out. He took a hostile swipe at the tenant’s hand, then dropped to his belly and tried to slink away. Lucy scooped him up and handed him to Liz. Bonnington pushed his nose inside her cardigan and started to mew like a day-old kitten.
“Okay,” said Liz, almost nose to nose with Henry. “That trap has got to go.”
Lucy’s eyes widened. She shot a glance at David. He studied his nails and gave a tuneless whistle.
Henry Bacon sucked in through his teeth. “I’ll definitely rethink it, Mrs. P. Minor modifications, perhaps.”
“I’ll minor modify you,” Liz growled. “If that door had come down and trapped Bonnington’s tail, he could have been seriously hurt.” (Bonnington tentatively flicked his tail as if making sure he still possessed one.)
“But Mrs. P.,” protested Henry, “what about the —?”
“Get rid of it, Henry, or else!” And ordering Lucy to come along with her, Liz turned sharply and marched back home.
Mr. Bacon looked to David for support.
“Want a hand smashing it up?” said the tenant.
BIRTHDAY IDEAS
When David returned to the kitchen, Bonnington was being treated like royalty. There was cream in his water bowl and salmon in a saucer. Lucy was hunkering nearby, stroking him. Liz was covering the Chunky Chunks with plastic wrap.
“Phoof,” said David. “Thank goodness he’s safe.”
“Quiet,” said Lucy. “You mustn’t remind him. He has a delicate constipation, doesn’t he, Mom?”
“Constitution,” Liz corrected, washing her hands. “Yes, he’s been through a horrible ordeal.”
Lucy ran Bonnington’s tail through her fingers and told him he’d been a very brave kitty.
“A real hero, isn’t he?” David said, reaching down to scratch Bonnington’s ear.
The Fire Within Page 6