‘I didn’t mean civilians,’ Whisker cut in. ‘I meant him.’ He pointed to a fourth cut-out of Frankie Belorio, positioned on the balcony of a monumental sandstone hotel. Frankie’s arm was raised above him, as if waving to the arriving tourists.
‘I’m not quite following you, Whisker,’ Pete said, screwing up his nose. ‘How will a sponsorship deal for Trojan Pasties get us past an arsenal of paint pellets?’
‘The cut-outs aren’t for advertising,’ Whisker laughed, ‘they’re for romancing.’
Papa Niko removed his cap and scratched the top of his head. ‘Zeus’s underpants! I don’t remember the Trojan Horse story being this complicated.’
‘Hear me out,’ Whisker said, his tail shaking excitedly. ‘What better way to distract Gustave’s boys than with a boat-load of beautiful bunnies. We’d need to give our Frankies a makeover, but with a palette of paint, the right accessories and some romantic moonlight, we’ll have the entire crew believing they’re in bunny heaven.’
‘Mythical maidens ahoy!’ Papa Niko cried, clapping Whisker on the back. ‘Now that’s a plan with Greek legend written all over it.’
Pete let out a long, wheezing sigh. ‘Is it just me, or does every one of Whisker’s plans involve dressing up in ridiculous costumes?’
Eager to share their ideas with the rest of their companions, the three rats caught up with the crew in a small square at the top of the steps. Stately buildings rose around them, curving in a line along a crescent-shaped street. There were boutiques and bakeries, cake shops and clothing stores as far as the eye could see. After ‘Mission Trojan Pasty’ was approved by the head coach, the party split into small groups to scrounge up supplies for their elaborate raid.
Mama Kolina and Granny Rat headed for the village market to purchase fresh vegetables and puff pastry. Aphrodite and Hera wandered down the fashion strip on the hunt for feather boas, sequinned tops and posh-looking coats. Pete clomped off in search of a painting supplies shop with the goddess of the arts, Athena, chattering away beside him about her love of the great masters de Rattio and van Rodent. Ruby and the Captain departed for the industrial section of town to secure a cart to haul the supplies, and the others were instructed to beg, borrow or barter whatever Frankie cut-outs they could get their paws on.
It took Whisker, Horace and Fred several hours of doorknocking before they found a shopkeeper willing to part with her ‘precious Frankies.’ The shop in question, Nana’s Knitting, was a run-down looking store with peeling paint and a musty smell. The old ewe behind the counter complained her cut-outs had done absolutely nothing to boost her sales of wool and knitting needles.
‘Death Ball fanatics are hardly the knitting type,’ Horace sniggered, as they lugged six cardigan-wearing Frankies out of the shop.
With their official duties taken care of, the three rats made their way to the Fish ‘n Ships Inn – the rendezvous point for the crew. The inn was situated on the outskirts of town, halfway up the hill, and backed onto a deserted farm.
On their way up the hill, they passed several information plaques describing the history of the popular inn. Built by a rich merchant mink over a century ago, the building had been constructed to resemble a giant, stone ship. The lower two floors formed the ship’s hull, complete with a restaurant, dance floor and gaming rooms. Two large accommodation towers rose from the building like the masts of a ship. The penthouse level of each tower contained an authentic crow’s-nest balcony with three-hundred-and-sixty degree views. Billowing blue flags flew from each tower, displaying the golden crest of the inn: three fish in a ship.
In keeping with the nautical theme, the entrance to the inn was accessed via a long, wooden gangplank that led from the cobblestoned street to the first floor.
Waiting at the end of the gangplank, the three rats were soon joined by Papa Niko and Rat Bait, carrying a brightly coloured cut-out. The only Frankie they had managed to source was a paint-splattered, hole-ridden target from the Paint Pellet Parlour.
‘We’d best not mention any of these to the real Frankie,’ Rat Bait suggested as they stashed the wooden figures in a rocky crevice under the gangplank. ‘Do ye think he’ll be in?’
‘Of course he’ll be in,’ Papa Niko exclaimed, striding up the plank to the fish-shaped saloon doors. ‘It’s lunch time, and Frankie never misses lunch.’
Frankie Belorio
The stylishly dressed bilby sat on a high-backed bar stool, surrounded by sketch artists, reporters and the usual hangers-on. He slicked back his ears, straightened his long nose and posed for yet another picture. Across the room, Whisker and his companions waited patiently for Frankie to finish his official promotional duties.
‘I always eat lunch at the Fish ‘n Ships Inn on a Thursday,’ they heard him say loudly. ‘Where else can you order a bowl of steamin’ hot Ship-Shaped Chips covered in the Inn’s famous seaweed seasoning?’
On cue, a mink waitress appeared from the kitchen and plonked a large bowl on the bar in front of him.
‘Mmm, delicious!’ he exclaimed, reaching into the bowl. He pulled out a potato wedge with a toothpick flag and held up the boat-shaped morsel for the entire restaurant to see. ‘Now this is premiership-winning material!’
There was a flurry of activity from the tables around the room, as patrons tried to grab the waitresses’ attention. ‘Yoo hoo, over here … can I add a bowl of chips to my order …? Make that two bowls …’
As the flood of orders were taken, Frankie dropped the Ship-Shaped Chip into the bowl without tasting it and, with a tired sigh, stood up from his chair. He brushed the sketch artists aside with a flick of his paw and began making his way across the room. He was halfway to an exit door when he noticed the five rats waiting in the corner. His tired eyes lit up with recognition.
‘Coach Niko!’ he exclaimed, throwing his paws in the air. ‘And little Horace. What the exploding artichoke are you doing here?’
‘We’ve come to see you, Frankie,’ Papa Niko said, rushing over and giving him a big hug.
Frankie clapped Papa Niko on the back and laughed out loud. ‘Well, this is a splendid surprise. I didn’t expect to see you until the start of the winter season. You will join me for lunch, won’t you? I was gonna order room service, but it’s much nicer with guests in the VIP lounge.’ He pointed to a small mezzanine level to the side of the restaurant, where velvet-cushioned couches and carved coffee tables overlooked the ocean.
‘Of course we’ll join you, Frankie,’ Horace burst out.
‘An’ how ‘bout we order a few jugs o’ berry juice to commemorate this momentous occasion,’ Rat Bait added, licking his lips.
Frankie whistled to the waitress behind the bar. ‘Hey Delores, tell Chef I need a barrel of raspberry juice and a banquet for six pronto –’ He glanced up at the hulking figure of Fred and added, ‘On second thoughts, you’d better make that eight.’
Whisker had never been in a VIP lounge, and he’d certainly never eaten a five-course banquet of the finest delicacies a restaurant had to offer. Unsure how he should act, he sat nervously to Frankie’s left and waited for the bilby’s lead. It didn’t take long for Whisker to realise that Frankie wasn’t a silver-service kind of celebrity. Despite the eight different utensils in front of him, Frankie chose to eat each course with the same fork, freeing up his other paw for expressive paw gestures.
‘So, Whisker,’ he said, making conversation as they munched on their spinach filo pastries. ‘I take it you’re some kind of overgrown field mouse?’
‘Err, no, Mr Belorio,’ Whisker replied awkwardly. ‘I’m a rat just like the others – just not as big ... or as small …’
‘Yeah, of course you are,’ Frankie said, glancing across at Fred and Horace. ‘Sorry, I never was too good at zoology.’ He took another bite of his food. ‘So, anyway, if you’re a rat like the rest of ‘em, and you’re wearin’ the tackiest palm tree tourist shirt I’ve ever seen, you must be a Pie Rat in disguise, right?’
‘Um …’ Whis
ker began, unsure how he should respond.
‘Don’t worry,’ Frankie whispered. ‘I know all about the Pie Rats and the Pirate Cup. If Death Ball’s involved, I’m onto it. Believe me, I’d be there cheerin’ you on if I didn’t have my squeaky clean reputation to uphold. I’d lose my sponsors in an instant if they heard I’d been hangin’ with a horde of bloodthirsty bandits – present company excepted. So, tell me, kid, who’s the team to beat?’
Whisker gulped down a buttery slab of pastry. ‘That would be the Cat Fish. The bloodthirstiest crew of them all.’
‘And we’re facing them in the grand final,’ Horace added, crumbs falling from his mouth. ‘They beat the marmosets in a full-time penalty shootout yesterday – six goals to four. It was the roughest, toughest game in the history of the cup.’
‘A taste of what’s to come …’ Whisker said under his breath.
Frankie looked at both of them. ‘Where’s your confidence, lads? You’ll never defeat an opposition unless you believe you can defeat ‘em.’
‘Okay,’ Horace squeaked. ‘We can do that. Can’t we, Whisker?’
‘Sure,’ Whisker said, sounding anything but confident. ‘Think positive.’
‘I’ll tell you a secret,’ Frankie said, putting down his fork. ‘It’s the key to my success. You’ll find it all in my biography – Frankie Belorio, the Champ Tells All, which sells in all good bookshops – but here it is from the bilby’s mouth.
‘I was once a kid just like you. Yeah, I know it’s hard to believe a big strong superstar like me was once a mere child, but I was. Anyway, do you think I was the fastest or the strongest kid when I was your age?’
‘Err … no,’ Whisker replied.
‘Well, actually I was,’ Frankie said, ‘but that’s beside the point. The point is, there were plenty of young bilbies who were almost as big and nearly as strong as me, but they never turned pro, and they never won the league’s most valuable player four years runnin’. And why?’
‘They suffered horrible, career ending injuries,’ Horace guessed.
‘Yes, that was partly to blame,’ Frankie conceded. ‘But the main reason was this.’ He pointed to the middle of his broad muscular chest.
‘Your oversized pectoral muscles,’ Horace gasped.
‘No,’ Frankie replied. ‘It’s what’s directly under here: my heart.’
‘Zoologically speaking, your heart’s actually a little to the left,’ Horace pointed out. ‘Just in case you didn’t know.’
Whisker elbowed Horace in the ribs. ‘Go on, Mr Belorio.’
Frankie tapped his chest and continued, ‘Now, I’m not talkin’ ‘bout some touchy-feely love thing here, I’m talkin’ about the real deal – a big meaty organ that pumps blood from my head to my toes. It’s what keeps me going – literally. Think about this. When I miss a shot or get knocked flyin’, and I’m lyin’ face down in the turf, what keeps me goin’? My heart keeps me goin’. With every beat it says Frankie, I’m still pumpin’, I haven’t given up. What about you? So I dust off my paws and tell myself that as long as my heart keeps beatin’, I’m gonna keep on fightin’. That’s what makes a true champ, boys: you never give up … Oh, and a loose fittin’ uniform – none of this new skin-tight rubbish. You’ll never win a game if you’re more restricted than a hippo in a corset …’
Frankie drifted off into a rambling diatribe on contemporary sports fashion, but Whisker’s mind lingered on the champion’s advice. As Delores brought out sizzling dishes of fried potato fritters and sweet chilli dumplings, Whisker repeated in his mind, Never give up. Never give up. It was a phrase he knew all too well, but one he’d somehow pushed to the back of his mind.
The dishes kept coming and the guests kept arriving. From their luxurious vantage point, the rats could see the rest of their companions marching up the gangplank two-by-two, carrying an assortment of boxes and brown paper shopping bags. The last guests to arrive were Ruby and the Captain. After seeing Horace’s three sisters waving through the lounge windows, Ruby decided not to join the others and instead began loading the supplies into her new cart. Fred, having already eaten his weight in Ship-Shaped Chips, went to assist her.
When the loading was done, the two of them were joined by Rat Bait, eager to see if his small hired vessel would support the extra weight. Together, they disappeared down the hill with a stack of Frankie cut-outs protruding from the top of the cart. Frankie was too busy talking about Death Ball and sucking down sorbet to notice his seven painted faces staring back at him.
‘Papa Niko told us you were working on a new set play for the winter season,’ Horace said through a mouthful of mango gelato.
Frankie’s eyes lit up. ‘The Double Decoy – Centre Steal. It’s my greatest play yet.’ He stopped and looked around suspiciously. ‘Listen, if you can keep a secret from the reporters, I’ll give you the inside scoop.’
Horace and Whisker nodded excitedly.
Frankie plucked a pencil out of Delores’ apron on her way past and unfolded a white cloth napkin on the table.
‘It goes like this …’ he whispered, drawing a large circle in the centre of the napkin.
Talking at a million miles an hour while scribbling frantically with his pencil, Frankie brought the play to life before their eyes. Whisker could barely keep up.
‘… and then the winger runs this way, but the opposition thinks the player in the centre has the ball, and half of them are already committed to the other winger, who is actually the centre, actin’ as the keeper … and the whole thing ends with a sneaky goal!’
Frankie had to repeat himself several times before the two rats fully understood the play, and by that stage Papa Niko was peering over their shoulders, clapping his paws excitedly. Frankie was ready to launch into a detailed history of set plays from his last ten seasons when the restaurant band began to play.
‘Come on,’ Frankie said, dropping the napkin and leaping up from his chair. ‘Grab a partner, it’s time to dance!’
In moments Frankie was on the parquetry dance floor, surrounded by adoring fans. Mama Kolina pulled Papa Niko up to dance, the Captain politely escorted Granny Rat over for a waltz and Athena dragged Pete into the action. To everyone’s surprise, Pete was soon tapping his pencil leg and jiving away to songs of Betty Confetti and the Slew Foot Four.
‘Who are you going to dance with, Whisker?’ Horace asked cheekily as Hera and Aphrodite approached them in the lounge.
‘M-me,’ Whisker stammered, his tail coiling around the leg of the couch. ‘Dance with? I, well … you see …’ He shot a quick glance out the window, hoping to see the one rat he wanted to dance with, but the gangplank was deserted.
I doubt she’d dance with me, anyway, he thought, downcast. She won’t even talk to me.
‘Whisker?’ Hera cried, pushing Aphrodite out of the way. ‘WHISKER!’
‘Yes – Hera,’ Whisker sighed, turning from the window. ‘What can I …’
‘You said yes!’ she exclaimed. ‘Oh, that’s fabulous. We’ll make such a swell dancing duo. Come on, let’s tango.’
Before Whisker could protest, Hera had grabbed him by the paw and was dragging him over to the dance floor, leaving Aphrodite fuming in the lounge behind them.
As the trumpets blared, HONKA TONK TONK, and the drums boomed, DUM DUM DE DUM, Whisker realised there were worse things in life than dancing with the queen of the gods.
It sure beats sitting in the corner being miserable, he thought. Finding the confidence, he slowly began to lighten up and enjoy himself.
Everywhere he turned he saw smiling, laughing faces. Joyous bodies swayed to the rhythm of the music. Heels tapped, hips shook, shoes shuffled and tails wiggled. Horace even pulled out his trademark dance move, the Hookinator Handstand, much to the delight of the crowd.
As Whisker spun in crazy circles with Hera, he noticed that even Delores and her fellow waitresses had swapped their menus for dancing shoes and were up grooving with the diners. The entire restaurant appeared to b
e on the dance floor – the entire restaurant except for two solitary figures.
Whisker saw them almost simultaneously. The first leant cross-armed against an entrance pillar, glaring angrily at him with her emerald green eye. The second was already halfway out a side door, his orange and white fur disappearing into the shadows, his black coat rippling behind him. He shot a suspicious glance over his shoulder with a pair of cunning orange eyes before slipping silently through the doorway.
Whisker froze mid-spin.
His paws slipped from Hera’s grasp.
His heart skipped a beat.
He’s here, he thought in astonishment. Of all places …
And in a flash, Whisker was gone – darting past the dancers and vanishing through the doorway on the trail of a fox in a long black coat.
The Fox with No Name
Whisker found himself standing in the centre of an empty stone corridor. High, windowless walls rose above him, disappearing into the blackness in both directions. There was no sign of the fox.
Where did he go? he thought, scanning the passage for movement.
‘HEY!’ he shouted, his voice echoing off the stone walls. He waited for a reply, but all he could hear was the stomping of feet and the crashing of cymbals as the restaurant band continued to play.
Unsure which way he should turn, Whisker raised his nose and sniffed the air. A faint scent of musky cologne lingered in the passage. Sensing the smell was stronger to his right, he set off in that direction. Staying close to one wall, he used his whiskers to guide him along the corridor until he reached a wooden door.
He fumbled in the darkness until he located a cold metal handle and gave it a sharp twist. There was a soft click as the latch released and a thick, oak door swung outwards, filling the passage with blinding white light. Whisker shielded his eyes with the back of his paw and staggered forward.
When his eyes finally adjusted to the brightness, he realised he was standing on a first floor balcony, facing a sunlit courtyard. A grass-covered square was surrounded by walls on all sides and filled with fish-shaped topiary trees and an enormous stone fountain. Water squirted from the mouths of three giant fish in the centre of the fountain and splashed into a boat-shaped pool at its base. The balcony ran the entire perimeter of the courtyard and was accessed by a door at either end. A number of glass-paned windows hung open along each wall.
The Trophy of Champions Page 11
