Wed Wabbit

by Lissa Evans

  ‘I believe that it is customary to hold a trial before punishment is decided upon,’ said Dr Carrot.

  Red Beret ignored this. The second bolt shot back.

  ‘I’m going to faint,’ said Graham. ‘Any second now. I can feel myself going.’

  ‘I think we should work on our inner spirit animals,’ suggested Ella. ‘Let’s imagine we’re eagles, soaring high, high above the valley of fear.’

  The door began to swing open. Fidge took a gulp of air, bracing herself for what she might see – and then let it out again with a puzzled grunt.

  She was looking at a large white-walled room containing six extremely long plastic-topped dining tables, each large enough for at least fifty people. On the floor at one end of the room was a pile of cleaning materials.

  Red Beret turned to the prisoners, his expression stern.

  ‘You have one hour to wipe these clean,’ he said, harshly.

  ‘These table tops must be pristine.

  So start at once and don’t delay

  And use the gloves, sponge, cloth and spray.’

  ‘What?’ asked Fidge, stupidly. Her hands were suddenly released and she was pushed into the room with the other prisoners. The door slammed shut behind them.

  ‘And don’t forget the sticky rings,’ shouted Red Beret, through the panelling.

  ‘Make sure you use those scourer things.

  If it’s not clean when I return,

  A second punishment you’ll earn.’

  For a moment, they all stood and looked at each other: Fidge, Ella, the Oldest and Wisest of the Greys, Dr Carrot, the King, the Pink and Graham. And then the Pink spoke.

  ‘I’m sure we all feel in a muddle.

  Would anybody like a cud—’

  ‘No,’ said Graham sharply.

  ‘Well, I certainly would,’ said Ella, galloping across the room towards the Pink. It looked slightly startled as she squashed it into a vast embrace.

  Graham stood with his arms folded, staring at the tables. ‘What on earth’s all this?’ he asked.

  ‘I think I know,’ said Fidge. ‘This would be Minnie’s idea of a horrible punishment. It’s her job at home, you see – to wipe down the table after meals – and it always takes her ages. The only thing she hates more than having to tidy up is being made to sit still.’ She walked over to the nearest table and grimaced at the covering of smears, crumbs, grease stains and juice spills. ‘We’d better get on with it, I suppose. At least we can talk while we’re doing it and try and make some sort of plan.’

  ‘I can’t do anything at the moment,’ said Graham, flopping down in a corner. ‘I’m too tired. I’ll be ill if I don’t have a sleep.’

  ‘Yes, I too feel a touch exhausted,’ said the king.

  ‘I’ll rest a while, then help. Rex Rorsted.’

  ‘Oh, thanks a bunch,’ said Fidge.

  ‘Well, I’ll help, darling,’ said Ella, ‘and so shall my new friend the Pink, and I’m sure Dr Carrot will too.’ She turned to the carrot. ‘Could we possibly hang a bucket around your stem? And maybe place another one on your little platform? I’m not able to carry anything heavy, you see, since my back injury.’

  ‘Delighted to be of service,’ said Dr Carrot, shooting a disapproving glance at Graham.

  ‘And what about you?’ Fidge asked the Oldest and Wisest, who was standing doing absolutely nothing. It gave a little start of amazement, its eyes widening.

  ‘I’d love to be of help to you.

  But I’m a Grey. We Think not Do.’

  ‘What about trying both at the same time?’ she said, but the Grey just stared back at her, apparently shocked by the suggestion. Fidge shook her head, and turned away. There was a lot of work to be done.

  ‘You know the start of the instructions in the prophecy?’ she said to Ella, as they scrubbed and sluiced.

  ‘First seek the lost device and ring,

  The listener who knows everything?’

  ‘Yes. Well, the lost device is Minnie’s phone – I’d already worked that out – but I’ve just realized who the “listener who knows everything” is.’

  ‘Who, darling?’

  ‘It’s Minnie! Minnie knows every single thing there is to know about Wed Wabbit and the Wimbley Woos, so she’s the one we have to ask advice from. So we’ve got to somehow get out of this castle and then find the phone and speak to Minnie …’ She stopped, a lump in her throat at the thought of hearing her sister’s voice. ‘Speak to Minnie and ask her what to do.’ She scrubbed hard at a sticky mark on the table and remembered the wide view of Wimbley Land that she’d seen from the top of the monument. Near the horizon had been an odd cluster of pink, twinkling lights …

  ‘Hi,’ said a voice behind Fidge.

  She turned to see Graham.

  ‘I thought you were having a rest.’

  ‘I tried to sleep, but …’ He glanced over his shoulder and lowered his voice. ‘That Grey Wimbley is unbelievably boring. It kept droning on and on and I couldn’t stand it any longer.’

  ‘Well, grab a sponge then.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Grab a sponge. Start cleaning.’ She nodded her head towards a bucket.

  Graham stared at her. ‘You want me to wipe the tables?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But I don’t know how to.’

  Fidge nearly groaned in disbelief. She nearly shouted, ‘How useless are you?’ But something had changed about Graham’s manner – there was a hesitancy that hadn’t been there before – and instead, she picked up the bucket and held it out to him. ‘Why don’t you just have a go?’ She said.

  Slowly, cautiously, Graham reached into it, his expression that of someone about to pull a dead frog out of a pond.

  ‘Good,’ said Dr Carrot, approvingly, ‘and now squeeze out the sponge. That’s it, that’s the way. And now take it over to the table.’

  They all watched as Graham began to dab feebly at the stains.

  ‘Try to use long wiping movements,’ added Ella. ‘Perhaps a little bit more pressure?’

  ‘Stop staring at me,’ said Graham through gritted teeth. ‘Just carry on talking.’

  Fidge nodded. ‘OK. Well, if we’re planning to escape, the first thing to tackle is how to get out of the actual cells. Does anyone have any ideas?’

  The Pink raised a hand.

  ‘Is your idea to do with hugging?’ asked Fidge.

  The Pink nodded.

  ‘Right,’ said Fidge. ‘We’ll bear it in mind. Anyone else?’

  ‘Can someone just break the doors down?’ suggested Graham. ‘Someone who’s really big and heavy?’

  There was a long pause during which everyone did a lot of cleaning and no one looked at Ella.

  ‘OK,’ said Fidge, ‘any more ideas?’

  ‘I noticed,’ said Dr Carrot, ‘that the guard with the red beret keeps the cell key on his belt, on a hook – it’s the same key for every door. I wonder if it might be possible for someone with arms to reach through the bars and snatch it. If we wait until we’re locked in for the night, it might not be noticed until the morning.’

  ‘It would have to be someone with very long, thin arms,’ said Fidge.

  ‘Or someone, darlings …’ said Ella, straightening up and tossing her hair back, ‘who has a trunk!’

  Fidge was about to say Brilliant! when she heard the sound of bolts being drawn back. ‘Quickly, quickly,’ she called, ‘we’ve only cleaned four and a half tables out of the six!’

  But the door was already opening.

  They’d run out of time.

  TWENTY

  The day wore on.

  The second punishment consisted of being forced to sit still, without fidgeting, on a row of hard chairs, while listening to a recording of a ninety minute flute concert. They failed the task when Ella fell asleep and slumped heavily onto Fidge, creating a domino effect all along the row, ending with the Pink being knocked off its chair.

  Then, while the prisoners ate their
lunch (broccoli soup), a team of Blues set up the third punishment, bringing into the room a chest of drawers, a small desk and a bedroom door, all of which were covered with extremely gluey stickers of ponies, rainbows and puppies. The half-hour they were given to peel all the stickers off again was nowhere near long enough, especially as the only person with any fingernails was Fidge (Graham’s were bitten).

  The final task was the worst. Red Beret gave them each a dustpan and brush and then opened a huge packet of silver glitter and threw it all over the room. Even the King roused himself to help with this one, but by the end of ninety minutes the prisoners looked like a bunch of Christmas decorations, and the floor was almost as sparkly as when they’d started.

  ‘Tomorrow we’ll begin anew

  With harder, longer tasks for you,’ announced Red Beret.

  ‘Each one you fail will add a day

  On to the length of time you’ll stay.’

  ‘We have to escape tonight,’ muttered Graham, out of the side of his mouth, as they were marched back to their cells.

  Fidge nodded, still brushing specks of glitter from her sleeves. ‘When they collect the dinner trays,’ she whispered. ‘That’s when I’ll give the signal to do what we agreed.’

  Graham gave her the thumbs up, and it was so odd seeing him do something so normal and ordinary, that she almost managed to smile in reply.

  Back in Fidge’s cell, the king slumped down with a sigh and closed his eyes.

  ‘Could I just ask you not to wake me

  When they bring the supper? Bakebee.’

  Fidge stared at him. ‘But that’s when we’re going to create a distraction to allow Ella to steal the key. We worked out the plan when we were sweeping up the glitter – you were there, weren’t you listening?’

  The king shook his head.

  ‘I see you’re keen to get away,’ he said, placidly.

  ‘But, frankly, I’d prefer to stay.’

  ‘But you’re supposed to be in charge of Wimbley Land! Aren’t you worried about what Wed Wabbit’s done to your country? Don’t you want to get out there and change it?’

  The king took off his crown and gave it a rueful look.

  ‘It’s really not my sort of thing.

  I never asked to be a king.

  I’m not at all the active sort

  I’d rather just relax. Dip dort.’

  He gave the five-pointed crown a quick polish, jammed it back on his head, folded his hands and went to sleep.

  ‘Useless,’ muttered Fidge. She could hear footsteps approaching; seconds later, the cell shutter slid back and a tray was shoved in through the slot. On the menu tonight was a blue cheese and coriander bake followed by rice pudding with no jam; Fidge choked down a few mouthfuls, and waited impatiently for the guards to come back to collect the trays. Red Beret was with them, supervising, the key dangling from a hook on its belt. Quickly, Fidge propped her tin tray at an angle against the wall and then stamped on it. She picked up the badly bent result and shoved it through the slot beneath the bars. It wedged halfway.

  ‘Oh no!’ she shouted. ‘My tray’s got stuck!’

  A grumpy-looking guard walked across, and started pulling at the tray. In the background Fidge could see Red Beret standing watching, hands on hips. Behind him, Ella’s trunk snaked out between the bars of her cell, but the key was just too far away for her to reach.

  Fidge banged the tray with her fork, as a signal to the next distracter.

  ‘Excuse me.’ Dr Carrot’s voice floated out from the cell at the end. ‘Could I speak to the Wimbley in charge, please?’

  Red Beret turned, irritably.

  ‘I am not in any way satisfied with the conditions in which we are being held,’ continued Dr Carrot. ‘I would like to know if you have an official complaints procedure.’

  Ella’s trunk made another grope for the key, and was just about to snatch it when the guard outside Fidge’s cell gave a fierce jerk to the stuck tray, freeing it so suddenly that it spun across the room like a Frisbee and hit Red Beret on the back of the head.

  ‘You clumsy fool,’ it bellowed, striding towards the guard. ‘I’ll see that you

  Don’t get the sweets that you’ve been due.

  And don’t protest with, “If” or “But”

  Your time in the Reward Room’s cut.’

  The Blue guard sagged pitifully at the knees, looking as if it was about to burst into tears and Fidge felt like doing the same thing, because Red Beret was moving away from the cells now, ordering the guards to close the shutters and preparing to leave for the night. The chance of getting the key was slipping away. She had to think quickly.

  What would stop a Blue in its tracks?

  ‘Hey!’ she shouted, through the bars. ‘Who wants some sweets?’

  The effect of her words was immediate. The guards swivelled round, mouths open.

  ‘I’ve got white chocolate buttons,’ she called. The guards edged closer, their eyes huge and eager. ‘I’ve got lemon sherbets, licorice laces and … and …’

  ‘Jelly beans!’ yelled Graham from the next cell. ‘Fudge in six different flavours. Caramels. Peanut brittle.’

  ‘And for those of you with more sophisticated palates,’ called Dr Carrot, ‘I have a selection of fine pralines coated in Belgian chocolate.’

  The guards were clustering around the doors now, peering eagerly through the bars, ignoring the furious shouts of Red Beret who was hurrying from one group to another, trying to close the shutters and drag the Wimblies away. Fidge caught a glimpse of a waving purple trunk, and then the shutter on her own cell slammed down.

  The guards left, their footsteps disappearing along the corridor. There was a long, long silence and then a tiny, clicking, metallic noise: it was the sound of a key turning in a lock.

  TWENTY-ONE

  ‘Well, here we all are,’ exclaimed Ella, a minute or two later, after she had opened every door. ‘It wasn’t too difficult, stealing the key without being seen by a single one of the guards.’

  Fidge and everyone else except the King had gathered in the centre of the circular room, and were standing in an awkward cluster next to the drinking fountain.

  ‘Does this thing even work?’ asked Graham, peering at it. He pressed a lever on the side, but no water came out of the spout. ‘Pointless object,’ he said.

  ‘So, what next?’ asked Ella. ‘Now that I’ve managed to get us all out of the cells? Without being caught.’

  ‘It wasn’t just you,’ said Graham. ‘You couldn’t have done it if the rest of us hadn’t distracted the guards.’

  ‘It was a team effort,’ said Dr Carrot, firmly. ‘Fine work from everybody.’

  ‘I suppose what we do next is go upstairs and try and sneak out of the castle,’ said Fidge, realizing, as she spoke, that too much time had been spent discussing how to get the key, and not enough in planning what to do afterwards. ‘Perhaps there won’t be too many guards around at night,’ she added, hopefully.

  The Pink raised a hand.

  ‘Let me be first to climb the stair

  I’ll see how many guards are there.’

  ‘OK,’ said Fidge. ‘That’s very brave of you.’

  ‘Us Pinks face danger with a shrug

  If someone first gives us a hug.’

  It smiled and held out its arms invitingly, and Fidge was just about to take a very reluctant step forward when someone tapped her on the shoulder. She turned to see the king.

  ‘I can’t remember,’ he said, yawning, ‘if I mentioned

  About the secret tunnel? Denshened.’

  ‘No,’ said Fidge, stepping back sharply from the Pink Wimbley. ‘You didn’t.’

  ‘Oh sorry, yes, I meant to say.

  I’ll open it, without delay.

  It comes out just above the moat.’

  There was a pause, while he took off his crown.

  ‘Oh giddle gaddle goddle goat,’ he added, casually, turning the crown upside down and placing it in
the drinking fountain.

  Each of the five points fitted into a slot in the bottom of the basin. There was a click, and a portion of wall swung open, revealing the mouth of an unlit tunnel.

  In the moment of stunned silence that followed, they all heard the sound of someone coming down the stairs to the dungeons.

  ‘Quick,’ hissed Fidge, ‘let’s go. Can you close it afterwards?’ she asked the king. ‘Unless you’ve changed your mind, and you want to come?’

  He shook his head, and she followed the others into blackness.

  The secret door slammed shut behind them.

  The tunnel sloped downwards, with occasional unexpected steps, so that the sound of cautious progress was punctuated with thuds and cries of pain as one or other of them tripped over.

  ‘It seems to be widening,’ called Dr Carrot from the front. ‘I suggest that we whisper from now on. If we’re near the exit then there may be g—’

  There was a sudden crash.

  ‘Ow,’ said Dr Carrot. ‘I appear to have rolled into a door.’

  ‘There’s no handle!’ It was Graham, panic in his voice. ‘We’re trapped.’

  Fidge fumbled her way past the others to the front of the line, and ran her hands across the wooden slab.

  ‘Maybe it opens outwards,’ she said. ‘Let’s all give it a shove at the same time.’

  ‘Us Greys can’t shove or push or strain

  Our strongest muscle is our brain.’

  ‘Everyone except the Grey,’ said Fidge, putting her shoulder to the door. ‘On the count of three. One—’

  ‘I’m getting a panic attack, I’ll have to sit down,’ said Graham.