‘Yeah,’ Slasher grumbled. ‘He’d’ve deserved it after everything he’s done to us.’
Once, when Atticus was still a cat burglar, the magpies had asked him to steal all the shiny things in Littleton-on-Sea from the humans for them. That was when Atticus met the Cheddars, decided to stop being a cat burglar, and threw the magpies in jail instead. Since breaking out of Her Majesty’s Prison for Bad Birds the magpies had been on the run. It had been a great relief to them to finally return to their home under the pier when Atticus agreed not to arrest them after their latest crime spree, in exchange for their help and on the condition that they didn’t try to steal anything else.
Jimmy put his head on one side and regarded Thug and Slasher coldly. ‘Are you questioning my leadership?’ he asked. It was he who had agreed the deal with Atticus. ‘Cos if you are, I’ll punch you in the crop.’ He flexed a wing.
‘No, Boss,’ said Thug hastily.
‘Never!’ said Slasher.
Being punched in the crop by Jimmy was bad news on two levels. Firstly it hurt. Secondly it meant you couldn’t talk for a while. And Thug and Slasher loved to chatter.
‘Chaka-chaka-chaka-chaka-chaka!’
‘Chaka-chaka-chaka-chaka-chaka!’
‘Very wise, if I may say so,’ said Jimmy. ‘Anyway,’ he continued, relaxing a little, ‘we’ll get even with Claw when the time comes. We need to make sure we’re prepared. Then, when his guard’s down, we’ll whack him. Then, when we’ve whacked him, we can start stealing shiny things again.’
‘Good plan, Boss,’ Slasher agreed.
‘So, with that in mind,’ Jimmy grinned, ‘I’ve got a little surprise for you.’
‘Oh, Jimmy! A Christmas present!’ Thug gasped. ‘You shouldn’t have!’ He put his wings round Jimmy and gave him a big hug. ‘Is it something shiny? Please say it is. Or one of them yummy chocolates in the foil wrappers? I love the gold ones.’
‘Get away me, you big oaf!’ Jimmy shrugged him off. ‘It’s not something shiny. And you should lay off the chocolate, Thug. You’re too fat.’
‘I am not!’ said Thug, offended. ‘It’s feathers. They puff up in winter to keep me warm.’
‘You’re puffed up in summer too,’ said Jimmy. ‘It’s fat.’
‘What’s the present, then, Boss?’ Slasher asked. ‘If it isn’t something shiny.’
‘An army training camp,’ said Jimmy.
‘What?’ The two magpies looked at him in astonishment.
‘An army training camp,’ Jimmy repeated. ‘To make us fit so that we can bash Claw and his do-gooding friend, Inspector Cheese, and steal all the shiny things we want without them interfering.’
‘It sounds like awful hard work,’ said Thug.
‘That’s the point,’ Jimmy said.
‘I dunno, Jimmy,’ Slasher said, glancing at Thug. ‘I’m not sure me bad foot’s up to it. I’ve got Arthur-itis.’
‘And I’ve got a bald tail,’ said Thug. ‘They don’t take you in the army if your tail’s bald.’
‘Yes, they do, Thug,’ snapped Jimmy. ‘This is the Crow Brigade. They take anyone, even you. So stop making excuses, the pair of you. You’re going whether you like it or not. Now take a look at this. It came with the pigeon post yesterday.’ He leant over the nest and pulled out a piece of smudgy green card which was stuffed into an old screw hole in the rafter. It had black writing on it and a crow’s-foot logo in the top right-hand corner.
RECRUITING NOW! CROW BRIGADE ARMY TRAINING CAMP
Think you’ve got what it takes to be in the Crow Brigade? One week’s basic training with our top commandos will sort out the tough turkeys from the dozy dodos amongst you.
Stamina, strength, hextermination and hexstreme survival techniques taught. Any member of the Corvus family may apply. Results guaranteed.
(Please note: fat, flabby and flightless birds are accepted. Also those with Arthur-itis. You’ll either be dead or a fully functioning fighter by the time we’ve finished with you.)
‘You sure we’re members of the Corvus family?’ asked Thug desperately. ‘Only I wouldn’t like to intrude on a family gathering, especially not at Christmas.’
‘You know perfectly well we are, Thug,’ Jimmy snapped. ‘Crows, jays, jackdaws, rooks, ravens and magpies are all species of Corvus. And Corvids are the most intelligent birds on the planet. Except for you.’ He gave Thug a peck and smiled to himself. ‘What a lovely bunch of villains to spend New Year with!’ he mused aloud. ‘We’ll have a whale of a time.’ His eyes glittered. ‘Well, I will anyway – watching you two suffer. Now go and pack. There’s a kit list on the back.’
Thug suppressed a sob. ‘Me poor old mum!’ he said. ‘What will become of her if I join the Crow Brigade?’
‘What are you talking about, Thug?’ asked Slasher. ‘Your mum got run over by an ice-cream van four years ago in the High Street.’
‘Oh yeah,’ said Thug. ‘Poor old me, then.’ He set about assembling his kit from all the bits and pieces the magpies had collected in the nest over the years. ‘What’s a bungee rope?’ he asked, reading from the card.
‘Search me, mate,’ said Slasher. ‘I’m taking a bit of knicker elastic.’
‘Good idea.’ Thug poked about in the pile of stuff.
A little while later Jimmy Magpie went through the list.
‘Black feather polish?’
‘Yep,’ Thug and Slasher replied.
‘Stamps?’
‘Yep.’
‘Head torch?’
‘Yep.’
‘Swimming goggles?’
‘I can’t swim,’ said Thug.
‘Too bad. Take them anyway.’
Thug packed two bits of clear waterproof sticking plaster – one for each eye – with a weary sigh.
‘Bungee rope?’
‘Sort of.’
That’s it, then,’ Jimmy said. ‘We’re ready.’
‘By the way, Boss,’ Slasher hoisted his pack on to his back. ‘Where’s the training camp being held?’
‘Somewhere remote, that you can’t escape from,’ Jimmy replied. He examined the flyer. ‘It gives directions on here somewhere.’ He found the information he was looking for. ‘On the moor,’ he read, ‘near Biggnaherry, in the Highlands of Scotland.’
‘That’s miles away!’ Thug protested.
‘Which is why we’d better get going.’ Jimmy took a last look around the nest. ‘And remember, boys, when we get back – if you do get back, that is – Atticus Grammaticus Goody-Four-Paws Claw won’t know what’s hit him.’
‘Chaka-chaka-chaka-chaka-chaka!’
Chattering excitedly, the three magpies flapped out of the nest and headed north.
‘Hurry up!’ Inspector Cheddar shouted. ‘We’re late.’
The next evening at Bigsworth station the Cheddar family were racing along the concourse with their suitcases. Mr Tucker had booked tickets on the sleeper train for them to collect on arrival, but the long queue at the ticket office meant that what should have been a nice relaxing journey had turned into something altogether more stressful.
Atticus slithered about in his cat basket. The cat basket was usually reserved for when Atticus refused to go and see his enemy the vet and had to be manhandled into the surgery by Inspector Cheddar. The reason he was in it tonight, Mrs Cheddar had explained, was because he had to stay hidden from view from someone called Great-Uncle Archie.
Atticus HATED the cat basket; he had no idea WHY he had to stay hidden from Great-Uncle Archie; and he didn’t care WHO knew it. He had meowed the whole way there. He had also resolved to unpick the catch as soon as they got on the train and let himself out when Inspector and Mrs Cheddar weren’t looking.
‘Platform 17,’ panted Inspector Cheddar.
‘Here we are,’ gasped Mrs Cheddar.
Their way was blocked by the train guard. ‘Tickets, please,’ said the guard. Atticus peeped through the grill of the cat basket. The guard was a large woman with short hair, big biceps a
nd a moustache. A heavy set of keys dangled from her belt. She looked more like a prison guard than a train guard, Atticus thought. He stopped meowing.
Inspector Cheddar waved the tickets at her. ‘We’re in a bit of a hurry,’ he said. ‘If you don’t mind …’
‘I do mind.’ The train guard stood in front of him. She took the tickets and examined them carefully. ‘Have you got a ticket for the cat?’ she asked, eyeballing Atticus.
‘No,’ Inspector Cheddar said.
‘I can’t let you board this train if you don’t buy a ticket for the cat,’ said the guard.
‘But why do we need one?’ Callie asked.
‘The berth will need deep cleaning,’ said the guard, ‘for cat hairs. They get everywhere.’ She picked one off Inspector Cheddar’s sleeve. ‘See?’
Atticus felt offended. He was very clean, thank you very much. Okay, he might shed a few hairs from time to time. But so did humans. That’s why a lot of them were bald. And you didn’t often see a bald cat, did you? (Except for the ones that were supposed to be.)
‘We’d better get him a ticket, darling,’ Mrs Cheddar said anxiously. ‘We can’t miss the train. The Tuckers are waiting for us.’
‘Oh, all right,’ said Inspector Cheddar, ‘but I warn you, I intend to make an official complaint about this. How much is it?’ He got out a five-pound note.
‘Ninety pounds,’ said the guard. ‘One way.’
‘What?’ Inspector Cheddar exploded. ‘That’s more expensive than our tickets!’
‘Do you want it or not?’ The guard fingered her ticket machine.
Atticus glanced at the station clock. It was only two minutes until the train left.
‘No,’ said Inspector Cheddar. ‘I’d rather walk.’
‘You can’t walk to Scotland, Dad,’ Callie said.
‘Callie’s right, darling.’ Mrs Cheddar got out her credit card.
The train guard handed over the ticket. ‘Have a nice journey,’ she said. ‘We get to Biggnaherry at 5.21 tomorrow morning. I’ll wake you up at 5.’
Atticus hissed at her. He had the feeling this was going to be a rotten journey.
‘Atticus can share with you two.’ Inspector Cheddar put the cat basket down on the floor in Michael and Callie’s cabin. To Atticus’s surprise he knelt down and opened the catch himself. ‘Feel free to shed as much hair as you like,’ he said to Atticus bitterly. ‘We’re paying for it.’
Atticus perked up a bit. It wasn’t often Inspector Cheddar encouraged him to shed hair. Usually all Inspector Cheddar did was complain about Atticus getting it on his uniform. This was too good an opportunity to miss! Atticus exited the cat basket, jumped on to the bottom bunk, and began to groom his fur with long rasping licks, spitting the hair out as he went. He didn’t want to get a fur ball.
‘We’re next door if you need us,’ said Mrs Cheddar. ‘The Tuckers are in the cabin beside that.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘It’s bedtime,’ she said.
‘Can’t we just go and say hello to Mr and Mrs Tucker?’ Michael pleaded.
‘All right,’ Mrs Cheddar agreed. ‘But you heard the train guard; we’ve got an early start tomorrow, so don’t be long. And remember to keep Atticus hidden from Great-Uncle Archie.’
Atticus wished someone would explain a) who Great-Uncle Archie was, and b) what his problem was. ‘Meow?’ He stopped grooming himself and pawed at Callie’s sleeve. Now that he wasn’t in the cat basket any more, maybe they’d stop ignoring him.
Luckily, Callie got the hint. ‘Great-Uncle Archie is Mr Tucker’s great-uncle,’ she told him. ‘He was staying with the Tuckers for Christmas. He lives with Don and Debs normally. Mr and Mrs Tucker are taking him home to Biggnaherry.’
Now Atticus understood. Well, part of it anyway. He still had no idea why he had to hide. A thought occurred to him. Maybe it was because Mrs Tucker wanted to give Great-Uncle Archie a nice surprise when they got there.
‘Sleep well!’ The two grown-ups went through the inter-connecting door and closed it behind them.
‘Come on.’ Callie opened the cabin door and peered out. ‘It’s okay, the coast’s clear.’ She led the way along the corridor to Mr and Mrs Tucker’s cabin. Michael followed her.
Atticus swayed to and fro behind them, the train wobbling and lurching beneath his feet.
CLACK-A-DE-CLACK! CLACK-A-DE-CLACK!
Callie knocked on the door.
‘Come in,’ said Mrs Tucker.
The children entered the cabin.
Mrs Tucker was in her Hells Angels nightie and biker boots. She was washing her face in the tiny sink by the window with Thumpers’ Traditional GloBrite. Her sleeves were rolled up. Emblazoned on her forearm was a tattoo which read:
DON’T MESS WITH EDNA IF YOU WANT TO KEEP YOUR TEETH
‘Kids!’ she cried, drying her shiny face on a towel. ‘And Atticus! Glad you made it!’ She frowned. ‘I hope you didn’t have any trouble with that train guard. She tried to make Mr Tucker pay extra for his beard-jumper.’
Mr Tucker had a very bushy beard that was all mixed up with his woolly jumper. (Or a very woolly jumper that was all mixed up with his bushy beard.) Whichever way round it was, Atticus liked Mr Tucker’s beard-jumper because very often it contained fishy morsels, which Mr Tucker allowed Atticus to pick out with his claws when Mrs Tucker wasn’t looking.
‘We did, actually,’ said Callie. ‘She made us buy Atticus a ticket.’
‘It cost ninety pounds,’ Michael added, ‘one way.’
‘Ninety pounds!’ Mrs Tucker whistled. ‘I’ll bet your dad wasn’t very pleased about that.’
‘Not very,’ said Michael.
‘I’m glad she didn’t see Bones and Mimi,’ Mrs Tucker said darkly. ‘I’d have pulled her moustache off if she’d asked me to pay ninety pounds each for them.’
‘How come she didn’t see them?’ asked Callie. ‘Weren’t they in a pet carrier, like Atticus?’
Mimi and Bones were curled up fast asleep on Mr Tucker’s pillow.
‘No,’ said Mrs Tucker. ‘Luckily they were at the bottom of my basket, under the fish-paste sandwiches. I put them there to keep them away from Great-Uncle Archie. The cats,’ she added, ‘not the fish-paste sandwiches.’
So it wasn’t just me who has to hide from Great-Uncle Archie, then, thought Atticus. It was Bones and Mimi too. He wished someone would tell him what was going on.
His tummy rumbled. Mrs Tucker’s basket was tucked neatly under the bunk. Atticus sniffed at it to see if there were any sandwiches left. It seemed ages since teatime. He found a crust and chewed it.
‘I still don’t get why we have to hide the cats,’ said Callie.
Atticus listened grumpily. Nor did he.
‘Great-Uncle Archie doesn’t like cats,’ replied Mrs Tucker, ‘especially black ones, like Bones.’
Didn’t like cats? Atticus could hardly believe his ears. What was there not to like about cats? And what difference did it make what colour they were? Atticus knew what he didn’t like. He didn’t like the sound of Great-Uncle Archie.
‘Great-Uncle Archie is very superstitious,’ Mrs Tucker explained. ‘He thinks cats bring bad luck, particularly black ones.’
‘That’s stupid,’ said Callie emphatically, stroking Atticus between the ears.
Obviously! Atticus purred his agreement.
‘I agree,’ said Mrs Tucker. ‘But that’s what he thinks.’
‘Where is he now?’ Michael asked.
‘Mr Tucker’s taken him to the toilet. They’ll be back any minute.’
Just then they heard a clunking noise. ‘There they are now!’ hissed Mrs Tucker. ‘Don’t let Great-Uncle Archie see Atticus or he’ll have a funny turn.’ She pushed the cabin door so that it was almost closed but not quite. The children looked through the gap. Atticus clambered up the ladder to the top bunk and did the same.
There was Mr Tucker. The clunking was coming from his wooden leg hitting the lino floor of the corridor. (His real one had been clipped
off by a giant lobster during a voyage at sea.) He was pushing a wheelchair containing a very old man. The old man had a tartan blanket over his knees, a tartan shawl around his shoulders, a tartan hat on his head and tartan slippers on his feet.
‘Here we aaarre, Great-Uncle Aaaarrrchie,’ said Mr Tucker, bringing the wheelchair to a halt.
‘Have you checked ma cabin for cats?’ asked Great-Uncle Archie in a thin, reedy voice.
‘Aye,’ said Mr Tucker patiently.
‘You sure there are none under ma bed?’
‘Quite sure,’ said Mr Tucker.
‘What about in ma pyjamas?’
‘No, none in there either,’ Mr Tucker said.
Great-Uncle Archie nodded. ‘I’ll take to ma bunk, then. Where’s ma stick?’
‘I’s got it somewhere!’ Mr Tucker fumbled around behind the wheelchair. He handed Great-Uncle Archie an old wooden cane. The cane was topped off with a silver knob. Atticus peered at it curiously. The silver knob was in the shape of an animal. Engraved upon it were a snarling face, ferocious claws and a tail. The creature looked almost dragon-like, but it wasn’t a dragon, Atticus could see that. He could also see that just beneath the silver knob two capital letters had been carved into the wooden cane in italics:
SD
Great-Uncle Archie grasped the knob and levered himself out of the wheelchair with the stick.
‘See youze in the moorrrning!’ Mr Tucker bid him goodnight.
‘Ah hope so,’ said Great-Uncle Archie, ‘but ye never know.’ His door closed with a bang.
Atticus heard the bolt slam.
Mr Tucker folded up the wheelchair and put it in the luggage rack at the end of the carriage. Then he stomped back up the corridor and entered the cabin. ‘Give me strength!’ he said to Mrs Tucker, as he removed his false teeth and put them in the sink to soak in some GloBrite.
Atticus Claw On the Misty Moor Page 2
