by Adele Abbott
“What’s wrong?”
“It’s Caroline.”
“What’s happened? You two haven’t fallen out, have you?”
“No, of course not. We’re still best friends.”
“What is it, then?”
“I think she might be in danger.”
“Why?”
“I’ve been getting messages from her all day.”
“What kind of messages?”
“Messages in my head.”
“What did they say?”
“Help.”
“Just that?”
“Yes. I’m really worried, Auntie Jill.”
“Could you have imagined it?”
“No!” she snapped. “I didn’t!”
“Are you alright, Lizzie?” Kathy glanced back at us.
“She’s okay,” I reassured her, and then said to Lizzie, “Sorry. Do you often get messages from her?”
“No, that’s why I’m worried. Will you check on her, Auntie Jill? Please?”
“Of course I will. And don’t worry. I’m sure everything is okay.”
***
When we reached my house, Kathy got out of the car too.
“Did you find out what was wrong with Lizzie?”
“It’s nothing. She’s just a bit upset about one of her friends at school who’s been poorly. I think she’s worried in case she gets ill too.”
“She never mentioned anything about it to me before we went away.”
“It’s nothing, I’m sure. She’ll be right as rain by the morning.”
I waved to Lizzie as they drove away, then I checked to make sure there was no one around before magicking myself over to Ghost Town.
I’d been to Caroline’s house before, and I was confident that a quick check with her mother would reveal that everything was okay. The ‘messages’ that Lizzie had heard were probably no more than her overactive imagination.
I could hear movement inside the house, but when I knocked on the door, there was no answer. I tried twice more, and was beginning to get worried when Caroline’s mother came to the door.
“Sorry.” She looked flustered. “I was just upstairs.”
“I apologise for turning up unannounced like this, and I realise this may sound kind of weird, but I was just wondering if Caroline is okay?”
“She’s fine.”
“Right, good. It’s just that—err—Lizzie has been worried about her. Kids, eh? If I could just say hello to Caroline, I can get back and report that everything’s okay.”
“She’s in bed.”
“Is she poorly?”
“No. Just an early night.”
“Right, I see.”
“I’m sorry, but I have to get back inside. You can tell Lisa that Caroline is okay.”
“Right, thanks I—”
She’d already closed the door.
Was it my imagination or had she been acting strangely? She was probably just put out because I’d turned up out of the blue like that.
I started back down the path.
Wait a minute!
She’d called Lizzie, Lisa. A mistake? Surely not because I’d only just mentioned her by name.
Something didn’t smell right.
Perhaps Lizzie had been right. Maybe Caroline and her mother were in some kind of trouble. I walked down the road, but then doubled-back and made my way around to the rear of the house. I checked the window, but couldn’t see anything, so I tried the door.
It was open.
I’d taken no more than two steps into the kitchen when someone slammed the door closed behind me. I spun around to find a man standing there; he must have spotted me when I’d doubled-back. He’d then unlocked the door to set a trap, which I’d walked straight into. I’d seen this man’s face before: Constance Bowler had shown me his mugshot.
“Oswald Mean, I assume?”
“At your service.” He grinned with a mouthful of rotten teeth.
“What have you done to Caroline?”
“Is that the little girl? Don’t worry. She’s okay. She’s just a bit tied up at the moment.”
“If you know what’s good for you, you’ll give yourself up now.”
“I don’t think so.” He laughed. “I quite like it here. I plan on staying until things have blown over.”
“That could be weeks from now.”
“That’s okay. There’s plenty of food in the freezer. Now, if you wouldn’t mind, go through there.” He pointed.
Caroline and her mother were both tied to chairs. The poor little mite looked terrified.
“It’s okay, Caroline,” I said. “You’ll be out of here soon.”
“You shouldn’t make promises you can’t keep.” Mean pushed me towards a third chair. “Sit down!”
I did as he said, and moments later, I was tied to a chair too.
There we remained while I bided my time. I knew Mean would have to take a leak sometime, and sure enough, just over an hour later, he checked our bindings were still secure, and then disappeared upstairs.
As soon as I heard the bathroom door open and close, I cast the ‘shrink’ spell to free myself. After reversing that spell, I found a knife, which I used to cut through the ropes that were securing Caroline and her mother.
“Go and phone the police. Ask for Constance Bowler. Tell her that Oswald Mean is here and that I told you to call.”
“You have to come with us.” Caroline’s mother grabbed my hand. “He’ll be back down in a minute.”
“I’ll be fine. Go on. Call Constance. Oh, and Caroline, will you let Lizzie know you’re okay?”
“I’ll do it straight away. I don’t want her to worry.”
And with that, the two of them left.
“I’m starving. Which one of you is going to make me some dinner?” Mean reappeared, saw the three chairs and did a double-take. “What the—?”
There was little wonder he was shocked because he found himself face-to-face with three versions of me—one in each chair.
“Who are you?” he yelled. “What have you done with the others?”
“They’ve gone, but don’t worry, you won’t be lonely for long because the police should be here any minute.”
He took out a knife and plunged it into the first version of me. His hand and the knife went straight through the apparition. He tried again; this time with the second version of me, but once again the blow found nothing solid.
“Think you’re clever, do you?” He snarled. “I’ve got you now. You’re dead meat!”
He lunged forward, but with no more success.
“Whoops!” I laughed.
He spun around to find the ‘real’ me standing behind him.
“Boo!”
“How did you do that?”
“Just my little party trick.”
Before he could attack me, I bound him, hands and feet, with his own ropes.
“Who are you?” he screamed. “What are you?”
“Sorry. I should have introduced myself. I’m Jill Maxwell.”
“You’re not a ghost!”
“Ten out of ten for observation.”
“If you’re not a ghost, how can you be here in Ghost Town?”
“Haven’t you heard about me? Of course you haven’t. Sorry, I was forgetting that you’ve been locked away for a long time. Never mind. I’m sure Constance Bowler will bring you up-to-date, on your way back to jail.”
Chapter 13
It was Monday morning, and I’d just about managed to drag myself out of bed. A shower was normally guaranteed to wake me up, but not this morning. It took three attempts just to get my head through the right hole in my jumper.
“Morning, sweet pea.” Jack hurried across the kitchen to give me a peck on the cheek.
“How do you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Spring around like a new-born lamb?”
“I’m feeling refreshed from the weekend break. Aren’t you?”
“Does it look
like it?”
“I know what will set you up for the week ahead,” he said.
“What’s that?”
“A nice bowl of muesli.”
“Forget it. I’m having a sausage cob. In fact, I might have two.”
“You haven’t asked me yet.” He grinned.
“Haven’t asked you what? I’m not awake enough for cryptic clues.”
“You haven’t asked who won at bowling yesterday.”
“I don’t need to. You’re grinning like a Cheshire cat. If you’d lost, you’d be sulking.”
“I never sulk.”
“What about that time when I beat you at bowling?”
“That was just a fluke. Hold on, it’s only just occurred to me. You must have used magic that day. You did, didn’t you?”
“That’s for me to know and for you to hope.”
***
“Morning, Jill,” Mr Ivers shouted.
How was it that no matter what time I set off for work, he was always waiting to ambush me?
“Morning, Mr—err—Monty.”
“It won’t be long now until the launch of my new business venture. You’ll never guess what it is in a million years.”
“It wouldn’t happen to be an internet café, would it, by any chance?”
“That’s amazing. How did you know?”
“I saw them erecting your rusty sign when I was on the high street.”
“Catchy name I came up with for the new business, don’t you think?”
“Very, and not too dissimilar to the name of your home-movie business.”
“I’d rather not talk about that. I’m all about the future. There’s no point in dwelling on past mistakes.”
“True. I assume you’ve done your research this time?”
“I don’t believe in wasting time on research, Jill. You know what they say about procrastination, don’t you?”
“Not really, I haven’t got around to finding out yet.”
What? Come on. What’s the point in all this comedy genius if you’re going to dismiss it with a sigh?
Mr Ivers continued, “It’s the thief of time, and none of us knows how much of that we have, do we?”
A few hundred years in my case. “Do people actually use internet cafes these days? I don’t recall seeing one in Washbridge for some time. They all closed down several years ago.”
“Precisely.” He beamed. “With no competition, I’m onto a sure-fire winner this time. I expect them to be queuing around the block.”
“I hope you’re right. When does it open?”
“The week after next. You will come, won’t you?”
“I’ll try, but I am rather busy at the moment.”
“I’ve booked a major celebrity to perform the opening ceremony, so there’s bound to be a big crowd.”
“Who’s that?”
“Charlie Barley.”
“Not the Charlie Barley?”
“None other.”
“Err—I realise I should probably know this, but just remind me, who is Charlie Barley?”
“You must remember that TV programme in the early eighties called: Where’s My Carrot?”
“How old do you think I am?”
“Sorry, it was probably a bit before your time. It was a monster hit.”
“And you say it was called where’s my—err—”
“Carrot, yes. It was a kind of game show. There were two teams who had to follow clues to locate the golden carrot. Charlie Barley was the host.”
“And it was popular, you say?”
“Absolutely. I was a member of the programme’s fan club. I’ve still got some of the memorabilia. I could show you some time.”
“Maybe. What has Charlie Barley been doing since then?”
“Mostly personal appearances, I think. They did launch a spin-off series called Where’s My Onion, but it never caught on.”
“Right. Anyway, I should get going.”
“Don’t forget to get there early for the launch.”
“I’ll do my best.” Wild horses couldn’t—you get my drift.
***
I was still half asleep when I arrived at work, but I soon woke up when I walked into the outer office. For a moment, I thought I’d taken a wrong turn and stepped into a disco, but then I realised that the flashing lights were coming from Mrs V’s desk.
“Can you switch those off, please?” I shielded my eyes from the strobe effect.
“Sorry, dear. I’ve switched them off now; you can look up again.”
“Let me guess.” I glanced at the two disco-type lights on Mrs V’s desk. “Are they supposed to be indicators?”
“Flashers? Yes, they are. If I flick this switch, this one flashes. If I flick the other switch, the—”
“I get the idea, but I’m still not sure they’ll help with the real thing.”
“I hope they do. I wouldn’t want to flash incorrectly when I’m driving. By practising like this, I can make sure that when the time comes, I click the right switch when I’m turning right, and the left switch when I’m turning—err—”
“Left?”
“See, that’s why I need the practice.”
“Have you booked your driving lessons yet?”
“No, but I will as soon as I’ve mastered these and the pedal thingies.”
“Right, well, good luck. I’m going to nip out a little later to see Sir What’s-his-face.”
She looked me up and down and then frowned her disapproval.
“What’s the matter?”
“Your outfit.”
“What’s wrong with it?”
“Nothing normally, but you are going to see a ‘Sir’.”
“I thought I looked smart. This is a new top.”
“Right, I suppose you’ll have to do, then.”
And with that ringing endorsement echoing in my ears, I went through to my office.
“Winky, do you think I look smart enough to visit with a ‘Sir’?”
“If I can look at a king, I don’t see why not.”
“Huh?”
“Come on, Jill. What’s the point in Adele interweaving all of this clever stuff if you’re too thick to pick it up and run with it?”
“Who’s Adele? Never mind. This outfit is just going to have to do. Anyway, what are you looking so happy about? I thought you’d still be depressed from the speed dating disaster?”
“I have a blind date.”
“How did that happen?”
“An old friend of mine, Rob the Romeo, has set me up. I bumped into him yesterday and told him my sob story about losing my three lady friends. He said he knew just the feline for me. Her name is Crystal. According to Rob, she’s hot with a capital ‘H’.”
“What about her personality?”
“We didn’t really get around to that.”
Men? They’re all the same—human or feline—it doesn’t matter. “I hope you don’t expect me to take you to your blind date.”
“There’s no need. She lives locally.”
“And when is this romantic encounter?”
“Saturday night. Now all I have to do is come up with the right outfit. I was toying with going hipster.”
Give me strength!
***
Hasbene Hall had seen better days. Even the gargoyles looked like they wanted to move out. The building, which was located in Hasbene Wood, was surrounded on all sides by tall trees. The little light that made it into the clearing was barely enough to illuminate the dark walls. The Rolls Royce parked out front had a personalised number plate: HASBENE 1.
“Good morning, Madam.” The butler who answered the door made the gargoyles look attractive. “You must be Mrs Maxwell?”
“That’s right. Jill Maxwell for Sir Hasbene.”
“It’s actually Sir Arthur.”
“Right, sorry.” I only just managed to suppress a laugh when I realised that made him A. Hasbene.
“Sir Arthur is in the billiard room. Would you f
ollow me, please?”
Sir Arthur Hasbene was indeed in the billiard room, but the table was set out for a game of snooker.
“Do you play, Mrs Maxwell?”
“I’ve played a few games of pool.”
“You’ll soon get the hang of it.” He handed me a cue. “I thought we could play a frame first and then talk.”
“Err, okay, I guess.”
He turned to the butler. “Hastings, you can referee.”
“Very well, Sir.” He pulled a pair of white gloves from his pocket. He’d clearly come prepared.
“I’ll break.” Sir Arthur addressed the cue ball.
Once he’d split the pack with his opening shot, I tried to pot a red in the left-hand centre pocket, but missed by a country mile.
Sir Arthur attempted a long pot into the bottom right. The red was set to miss the pocket by a couple of inches until Hastings snatched it from the table and dropped it into the pocket.
“One!” The butler-cum-referee called out the score.
What the—?
“Blue,” Sir Arthur lined up his next shot: the blue ball into the middle pocket.
Once again, he was wide of the mark, but just as before, Hastings grabbed the ball and dropped it into the pocket.
“Six!”
Unbelievable.
“I should have warned you that I’m rather good.” Sir Arthur was smugness personified. “Although I do say so myself.” He walked over to the drinks cabinet and poured himself a large glass of whisky, which he proceeded to down in one go. “Care for a tipple?”
“Not for me, thanks. I need to focus on my game.”
“That’s never been a problem for me.” He sank the next red (with the usual help from Hastings). “I can play just as well with a few drinks inside me.”
“Seven!”
“So I see. Perhaps we should talk about what it is you want me to help you with.”
“Let me just finish this break first.”
I stepped back and watched while he made a series of hopeless shots, all of which ended up in the pockets, courtesy of Hastings and his white gloves. When the break reached sixty-six, Hastings allowed the next shot to miss.
“Drat.” Sir Arthur stepped back. “I lost a little concentration there. Care to concede?”
