‘Funny, that doesn’t sound like Chall to me.’
Nobody had told Heidi anything. She’d just seen the way Challon and George behaved with each other, and come to her own conclusions. But she’d hoped it wasn’t true.
‘You’d better put this back,’ she said, handing him the locket. ‘It’s old and it’s too good, it’s bound to be on a police register. You’ll get done if you try and sell it.’
‘I knew you’d be impressed. Right up your alley, inner-city girl. Okay, spurn me, see if I care. I still like you. I get shivers whenever you’re near. Like this.’ He was too close and she couldn’t make herself stop him: his fingertips traced fiery sparkles up and down her spine.
‘Be nice, and I’ll tell you something. Something that you reeeaally need to know—’
A horn tooted loudly, out in the farmyard.
‘Heidi?’ called Brook’s mum’s voice. ‘Heidi! Where are you? We need to get going!’
She pushed George away and ran.
13: The Tower
Brook called her in the evening, asked some questions about the Bad Dream Cat and volunteered to do a house visit. Brook, thought Heidi, was one of those rare, valuable people who doesn’t just say things. If they can do something for you they’ll do it, and at once. She didn’t know if a slave was allowed visitors. On the whole it seemed better not to ask, so they arranged for the visit to be discreet. Next day after lunch Brook texted her, and she went to open the back gate. Brook and Chall were waiting there, and Sorrel too: which Heidi didn’t remember being part of the arrangement, but it couldn’t be helped. In silence the four of them tiptoed swiftly up to the front hall: past the door of the Book Room where Old Wreck was probably lurking, and up all the hundreds of spooky stairs.
Heidi’s attic looked a lot worse with three fresh pairs of eyes staring at it. She wished she could have entertained in the basement kitchen, a room she could be proud of.
‘Right,’ said Brook, after a short, awkward silence. ‘Where’s the patient?’
‘Shut in my bathroom.’
‘Let’s get him.’
Sorrel and Challon came along, which Heidi could have done without. Sorrel stared hard at the Baba-Yaga bath, the torn lino and the damp-stained walls. The Bad Dream Cat didn’t put up a fight. When Heidi picked him up he gave one piteous mew, and made no resistance. Back in Heidi’s room, Brook examined him. The Cat kept his round orange eyes on Heidi, pleading for mercy and making her feel terrible—
‘Yep,’ said Brook, ‘that’s an abscessed bite.’
‘What bit him? A fox?’
‘That’s what he can tell his mates. From the shape of the tooth-marks, it looks more like a run in with a squirrel. Now we need to immobilise the patient. Get ready to hold him.’
Brook unrolled her tool kit, and produced a fat, soft stretchy tube, like a knee-bandage. With amazing speed she’d whipped it over the Bad Dream Cat’s head. She turned him into a bulging, bandage-coloured sausage, and started snipping away at his fur.
‘Now I have to lance it. This will be disgusting, I warn you.’
She took out a professional-looking scalpel, sliced the lump and gently eased it open. There wasn’t much blood: what rolled out was mainly stinky green pus.
Sorrel yelped ‘Euuugh!’
Heidi had trouble not throwing up, but she managed to keep on holding the cat’s head. Brook cleaned the wound and sprinkled it with antiseptic powder. She pressed open Bad Dream Cat’s jaws, gently but firmly, and squeezed clear liquid from a dropper down his gullet. She smoothed his throat until he swallowed, fastened a cone collar round his neck and deftly rolled him out of the wrap.
The Bad Dream Cat crouched flat on the floor, not daring to stir.
‘That’s it,’ said Doctor Brook. ‘He’s amazingly docile, so I’ll leave the bottle and the antiseptic powder with you. Wrap him in a towel: you wouldn’t manage the body-wrap, it’s a trick to learn. Give him two one mil doses a day, keep the wound clean, and I’ll see him in a week. Or before that, if the wound looks infected or starts smelling again. Or if he starts kicking up rough. Where will you keep him? He has to stay indoors, with the collar on, until the wound is cleanly healed.’
Heidi picked up Bad Dream Cat. ‘In the bathroom. I’ve made him a litter tray, and I can keep that door shut. My owners never come up here.’
Brook came to inspect the facilities. The litter tray was a baking tin filled with torn up paper. The patient’s bed was a cardboard box with one of Tallis’s ratty old towels in it. It was the best she could do.
Brook nodded. ‘This is fine. You’ve thought it out. You must have had pets before.’
‘Not really. I’m incredibly grateful, Brook. And really impressed.’
‘No problem. I practice every chance I get. Because, well, you never know.’
They flushed a bunch of pus-smeared tissues, washed their hands and left Bad Dream Cat in peace. Back in Heidi’s room, Sorrel had got hold of Rock Mouse. Heidi reclaimed him, and moved some things so Brook could sit on the rimless wheelback chair.
‘Sorry,’ said Sorrel, ‘shouldn’t I have touched your pebble?’
‘Nah, it’s okay.’
Heidi sat on the floor, Rock Mouse in her hands. She didn’t like having Sorrel here, not after having met her mum; and that thing with George in the barn. ‘It’s only an old souvenir. Mum and Dad bought it for me on my first ever day at the seaside. It used be a mouse, with eyes and a tail, and two little shells for ears, but they fell off. Dunno why I keep it, really.’
She was lying. Rock Mouse was very precious. He held the sparkling green water, and the pebbles, all shades of pink and brown, that had hurt her toes. The bouncy bright smell of the sea; the cries of the gulls. The vanilla ice cream that dripped from her cone, and the feeling, the unbearably lovely feeling of clinging to Mum’s hand and Dad’s hand, swinging along between them. For years and years she had loved that memory above anything, and found it again whenever she held Rock Mouse: not caring that he’d lost his trimmings.
The green water was still there, sparkling with silvery bubbles, but it was far down deep now, buried under cold darkness. She couldn’t feel Mum and Dad’s hands swinging her.
‘Sorry,’ said Heidi, suddenly realising they were staring. ‘Wool-gathering.’
‘It’s okay, Heidi,’ said Brook, gently.
‘I have a doll like that,’ said Challon. ‘No hair left: I burned it off trying to give her a laser-cut. One of her feet gone, I don’t remember how. I’ll never, ever chuck her.’
‘Heidi,’ said Sorrel, ‘I know I’m being tactless, but this is awful. This horrible room, that manky bathroom. Don’t you have relatives? Was there nobody who could take you in?’
‘Not really. Anyway, they’d have to take on the debt as well, that’s the rules. Nobody related to me could afford to do that.’
‘But if you could be somewhere nicer, and, and where people are more like you—’
Heidi laughed, but she was angry. ‘Sorrel, come on. I think I’ll survive. There were white kids at my school, they got on fine. And I’m not even the only brown face in this room.’
Sorrel looked bewildered, then her eyes bugged and the tattoos screwed up in a gape of amazement. ‘Oh, wow, you mean Challon. But that’s not the same at all. ’
‘She means I’m Malaysian,’ said Challon, pulling a monkey-face. ‘I get a special pass.’
‘Malaysians are like, second cousins to the Imperial Chinese,’ added Brook, equally sarcastically, ‘and the Chinese are Boss Nation of the world, so that’s got to be good.’
‘You’re putting words into my mouth,’ shouted Sorrel. ‘You always do that, and it’s not what I meant at all. It’s not racist, it’s cultural. I’m not saying anything wicked! I’m not saying anything wrong! It’s just a fact that there are certain groups of people, in England, who belong in the countryside, and certain groups who—‘
Her phone piped up. She pulled it out, read the text and jumped off Heidi
’s bed.
‘Scum! That’s why my tits are dripping, it’s feeding time. Mum’s after me, she won’t leave me alone, got to go. God, I hate this. God, my life is filthy.’
Heidi saw the tattooed girl out. Thankfully Sorrel didn’t say another word, about the Imperial Chinese or anything else. She crept through the house holding her breath —as if she’d been told Old Wreck was a teen-eating witch, and she believed it.
Challon and Brook were still in her room when she got back. She was surprised they hadn’t somehow vanished.
‘Sorry about that,’ said Brook. ‘We couldn’t shake her off. She’s not so bad, when you get used to her. She can’t help the way she is.’
‘She’s just jealous,’ said Challon. ‘She doesn’t get that not everyone can be born in Brixton, like Heidi. Where the real music comes from, and everyone knows that People’s Young Artist is talent-free government rubbish, put on to keep the masses happy.’
Heidi felt her cheeks get hot, and was glad her skin was too dark for the blush to show —much. ‘Oh, er, well. Actually, you may have seen Brixton in my personal data. But I feel you should know: I was showing off. Where I used to live is in South Clapham, really.’
Brook snickered. Challon laughed and they all started giggling helplessly: partly in relief at having said the unspoken stuff, partly really laughing too; really feeling closer.
‘Heidi,’ said Brook, when they’d calmed down. ‘Seriously. I don’t know how to say this, exactly, but: be careful around Sorrel.’
‘She’s completely indiscreet,’ added Challon. ‘And she bitches about Portia, but don’t you believe it. Anything you say to Sorrel, you might as well say it straight to her mum.’
‘And that would be bad?’
‘Well . . .’ said Brook, slowly. ‘It could be. What Portia said to you at the veg-sorting, for instance. Maybe she could have you sent somewhere else. And maybe you’d be a lot worse off.’
Like Elaine? thought Heidi, puzzled. But she just nodded.
‘Okay, thanks, I’ll remember. What about George?’
‘George is different,’ said Challon. ‘He’s not naïve about his parents.’ She looked Heidi dead in the eye. ‘Just so’s you know. He used to be my boyfriend, but it’s over.’
Heidi didn’t know what to say: but then all their phones went off at once. It was Andy Mao, the Munchkin-sized Traveller kid.
‘Mayday! Mayday!’ he screamed. ‘We’re at the Tower! Joe’s killing Clancy!’
There was a final squawk, a loud clattering, and the call went dead.
‘What tower? ’ demanded Heidi. ‘Why would Jo Florence be killing Clancy?’
‘It’s Joe, not Jo,’ said Challon, which didn’t help Heidi much—
‘Tell you on the way,’ cried Brook. ‘Come on—!’
Clancy wasn’t sleeping well. The more time he spent with Mrs Scott-Amberley the worse he felt, and the more he couldn’t bear to stay away. Irene Crace never left the room since Clancy had seen the man in the overcoat. She sat there watching, her cold eyes filled with menace — and if Clancy coaxed Mrs Scott-Amberley to perk up, or even chat a little (always calling him Roddy), he had a horrible feeling she’d be punished for it when he was gone. The inexplicable cruelty of it was getting him down.
In the grey of dawn he left the Temple by his usual route and walked up to the top of Lark Down, to check on the local amateurs: who were camped on the cliff-tops beyond the village. He’d been watching these guys for a while. They had to be bunking off from Ag. Camp, what else could they be? But why had they built that ridiculous great eyesore of a woodpile? Why were they living out in the open? Were they trying to get caught?
By his own rules he should move on. He’d done that before when he found he had bunkers for company, lunatics or not. But this was the end game, and he couldn’t leave. On his way back he heard a cry of pain, which he recognised at once as the hideous sound of a rabbit in distress. He found the poor beast hanging from a noose, under the fence that divided the downland pasture. He killed it, then searched up and down the warren bank and killed two more victims: too far gone to scream, but still living.
Sick and furious, he carried the dead bunnies away with him, leaving a note speared on a sharp stick. He’d skinned them and was cleaning them, in the forecourt of the Temple, when Andy Mao turned up. The tiny Traveller boy held out Clancy’s note.
‘I can’t read it. I can only read print.’
‘It says,’ said Clancy, without taking the note, If you can’t check your snares, you don’t deserve to be a hunter. I hate snares. Don’t ever leave them to die like that. It’s disgusting.’
Andy nodded, and went on standing there.
‘What’s keeping you? You’re not getting these bunnies back.’
‘I’ve been sent with a message. From the Tower Gang.’
‘Okay. I suppose I know who you mean. What’s the message?’
‘They don’t like you spying on them. They want a parley.’
‘D’you think I should go?’
‘I don’t know. I’m not on their side, Clancy. I’m just saying what they said.’
Clancy had only observed the bunkers from a distance. When he and Andy Mao got close he saw that the campsite wasn’t as stupid as it looked. The tower stood in a dip on the cliff-tops, screened by a band of trees. A matted thicket of gorse grew round it in a horseshoe; open end facing the sea. It would be invisible from the village, and couldn’t be seen from any road. There was a tunnel through the gorse. They crawled into it, Clancy first. The construction had grown again. It really looked like some kind of mad watchtower now. Nothing was moving, no sign of the bunkers. The honey-scented gorse flowers were trying to make him sneeze: a pair of wrens had spotted him and were scolding furiously.
‘Looks like nobody’s home,’ he whispered to Andy.
And I’ve changed my mind, he thought. I’ve nothing to say to these guys. I’ll move out of the Temple and find somewhere more secret: that’s all. The attack of common sense came too late. As he retreated, shuffling backwards out of the tunnel, a sudden, iron grip on his ankles was the first he knew of the ambush. He was dragged out. A heavy body landed with spine-cracking thump on his back, massive hands grasped his wrists. He heard Andy Mao squealing protests as he fought to escape, but the kid soon ran off, and Clancy didn’t blame him. There was nothing Andy could have done. Clancy was blindfolded, roped and hauled to his feet, a running noose round his throat, his wrists tied tight and painfully behind his back.
The ambushers were breathing hard. He knew there were three of them. He could tell where the giant was: the snorting came from higher up.
‘What’ll we do now, Joe?’
‘Get him into the compound, and leave him to soften up.’
Clancy was dragged through the thicket again, dumped face down somewhere dark, and left alone. It wasn’t too bad, no worse than some school punishments he’d known. He got as comfortable as possible, given the restraints, listened to the murmur of the sea, and thought of the reasons why he had to stay in Mehilhoc.
When they brought him out, and the blindfold came off, he was standing on the edge of the cliff. It was high tide: there nothing below him but rocks and water. The two smaller bunkers held him by the arms. One of them also had a choke hold on the noose. He was turned around to face a huge, top-knotted, shaven-skulled goon in biker leathers: who still managed to look amazingly like Jo Florence from Exempt Teens. Except about twice the size, more than twice as stupid, and more than twice the muscle.
‘Give me one good reason why I don’t shove you off the cliff, Clancy.’
‘Thought you wanted to parley, Joe Florence.’
The brute’s scowl told Clancy he’d made a lucky guess. Some parents are so lazy at naming their kids. Especially twins.
‘You’ve been spying on us. You’re an undercover grass from the Ag. Camp Office.’
‘No, I’m from County Hall. Have you got Planning Permission for that bird’s nest?’
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There were crashing sounds: Clancy had misjudged Andy Mao. The Traveller kid had fetched reinforcements. Over the big goon’s shoulder he saw Andy, Cyril Staunton and John Fowler popping out of the gorse, one after the other.
‘Don’t wind him up, Clance!’ shrieked Andy. ‘He’s a KILLER!’
‘Step away from the violence, Joe!’ shouted Cyril. ‘Or I’ll tell your mother! I will! ’
‘Get rid of those fools, Bryan,’ said Joe the giant, folding his bulging arms. ‘Sam, you keep a tight hold on Clancy.’
The bigger of the goon’s two minions hauled on the noose until Clancy almost threw up.
The smaller one advanced on Cyril, hand inside his jacket as if reaching for a gun. Joe suddenly, viciously, punched Clancy in the stomach.
Cyril rushed forward. ‘Joe Florence! Repent! In the name of Jesus Christ! Stop that!’
Bryan’s hidden hand shot out. He thrust a grubby, crumpled piece of paper at Cyril, and feinted right and left, cackling. Cyril gave a wordless cry of shame, and backed off.
‘Don’t be scared Cyril!’ roared John, keeping his distance. ‘You’re bigger than he is! He won’t touch you with it, he wouldn’t dare—!’
Clancy had doubled over, black dots spinning in front of his eyes. ‘What is this?’ he gasped. ‘Is Joe Florence, the mighty, the magnificent, getting a kid to fight for him? Armed with an old bus ticket? Tell me it isn’t true!’
The veins on Joe’s naked skull bulged as if his head was about to explode. ‘You calling me a coward? You smart-arsed townie, you mouthy bastard! Let him loose, Sam!’
Sam dropped the noose and swiftly untied Clancy’s hands. Clancy realised his fate and tried to bolt, but he didn’t have a chance. Mighty Joe’s fists were everywhere. Punches landing on him like rockfall, the Hooded Boy began to be dimly, truly very scared—
‘He’s our mate! ’ wailed Andy, jumping around. ‘Leave him alone! ’
John groaned in despair, flapping his hands, totally demoralised.
Cyril was praying—
Then the girls arrived. Challon and Brook had known Joe Florence all their lives. They might have been able to reach him through the red mist, but the three of them had biked madly from the Garden House. Brook, who wasn’t supposed to ‘exert herself’, had hit her limit and beyond. She crawled out of the thorns, tried to stand and immediately crumpled to the ground. Challon had to look out for Brook. Which left only Heidi: who launched herself without hesitation at the big goon’s broad back. Knees gripping his ribs, she wound his topknot in one fist and hauled, while clawing at a meaty earlobe with the nails of her other hand and screaming, ‘ LAY OFF! LAY OFF! ’ at the top of her voice.
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