Pyro Watson and the Hidden Treasure

by Nette Hilton

  He set off up the path.

  ‘Good luck!’ he yelled. ‘Let me know how you get on. I like old Dot, she’s a good old girl.’

  The gates to the big house up on the highway out of town were open. The grounds beyond stood quietly waiting, frowning down on the boy who’d wandered through.

  Pyro stayed on the paved driveway. His heart was beating so loudly he was sure the people in the house would be feeling the vibrations.

  Ahead of him stood two cars, two very big cars. One was black and showed him how he looked as he walked by. A squished up little kid with a big head. The other was a gold colour but it was an older car. Pyro knew because his dad had said old Mercs were like tanks and they went round corners like cakes of soap.

  Pyro didn’t think that car would like to be compared to a cake of soap so he didn’t look at it too closely.

  He stepped up to the front door. There was a knocker high up on the door. A face that was polished and, in the cloudy light, shone gloomy and grim and dared Pyro to take hold of it.

  Pyro wiped his hands down his jacket and then leaned up. He looked to one side while he bashed the knocker three times. Bash. Bash. Bash.

  Nothing.

  The cars smirked in their polished ducos and the trees sniggered.

  Pyro bashed again and then saw a little button with Press written above it.

  Pyro pressed it. There was no sound. A raindrop creaked onto the roof, and another onto the car and then another onto the window. Small puddles formed as raindrops fell heavily along the edges of the drive.

  Pyro pulled his hood up and the door sprang open.

  ‘Yes?’

  A woman with dark hair tied into a ponytail stood in front of him. She had slim trousers on and plastic shoes and a T-shirt with an anchor on the front. It was the sort of anchor that Pyro rather liked as it reminded him of pirates’ ships with their anchors at the front waiting to be slipped silently into the water.

  ‘Is there something wrong?’

  Pyro shook his head and stood a little straighter. He crossed his fingers behind his back. ‘I’m a friend of Plonker’s,’ he said.

  The woman said nothing and Pyro wished he hadn’t said Plonker. ‘We call him Plonker sometimes,’ he said.

  Still the woman said nothing. She placed the broom that she’d been holding along her side and wrapped her arm around it so she had her own leaning post.

  ‘Anyway …’ Pyro went on and took a deep breath and crossed his fingers behind his back ‘… I let Plonks and Sandy collect my dog yesterday …’

  At this the woman smiled. ‘That’s what it is. I couldn’t work out what was all over the eiderdown.’ She nodded to herself. ‘Dog hair!’

  Pyro’s heart almost leapt out of his chest and into his mouth. He had to swallow to make sure it stayed put.

  ‘She loses a lot of hair,’ he said. ‘So, I came to collect her and I’m sorry it took so long and that she’s messed up your house.’

  The woman grinned out at him. ‘Oh, she didn’t mess up my house. This house belongs to the Plonker’s mum and dad and it’s this house your little dog has messed up, not my house.’

  ‘So, could I have her now please?’ Pyro’s feet were itching to bounce and leap about.

  ‘She’s not here, kiddo,’ the woman said. ‘Why don’t you try over at Sandy Grivett’s place? I heard his mum grizzling about Sandy having a dog in tow when she called in this morning to take the boys to school.’

  Pyro glanced behind him. He felt as if he’d just run the longest, hardest race of his life and had just been told that he had to begin all over again.

  The woman closed the door. ‘Sorry I can’t help,’ she said as it finally clicked shut.

  Pyro turned to leave and the door sprung open.

  ‘You know,’ the woman said, ‘that little dog of yours isn’t going to be over at Grivetts’ place. They’ve gone away for a couple of days and Sandy’s staying here. I know because I’ve just been getting the spare room ready.’

  ‘Did they have her in the car?’ Pyro’s heart was pumping hard.

  ‘No. No, they didn’t.’ The woman stepped out onto the front step. ‘You know, they probably took her to your house.’

  Pyro shook his head. There was no way they were going to turn up at the caravan with Becks. They’d know there’d be trouble. They might be stupid but that didn’t mean they weren’t as cunning as foxes.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘They don’t know where I live,’ Pyro said before he’d had time to think about it.

  ‘And they’re friends of yours?’

  ‘New friends.’

  The woman thought hard. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘… maybe they just let her go? Wouldn’t she just go home by herself?’

  Pyro would check it out but he knew it wasn’t right. They’d put her somewhere so they could watch and see how worried he was. And how much trouble he might get into when Min came back home and his dog was gone.

  They’d keep her to make sure that he was going to be punished as long and as hard as they thought he needed.

  And all because he played a joke on them.

  Ha. Ha. Ha. Not funny anymore.

  As he walked back up the drive and the rain drizzled itself to a halt, he tried to imagine the places where they’d keep Becks. They knew this town, he didn’t. Min had shown him the best places to play and he just bet that Plonker and Sandy Grivett would hang out there too.

  They didn’t look like they’d be playground types. Or skate-park skaters. He was pretty sure of that. And he was pretty sure he was right about them hiding Becks away.

  All he had to do was try to work out where they’d leave her.

  San Simeon sat on the wharf. His hat drooped and his trousers were soggy from the water that lay about on the decking.

  It hadn’t been difficult to trick Yorrick the Plonk into talking about Roy Bistro. It’d been hard going though because Yorrick liked to laugh at his own jokes. It was especially tricky because Yorrick wasn’t even funny: at least, his jokes weren’t.

  Roy Bistro was still in port. He learned that much and he also learned that he’d had a young lad with him the last time he came in. A young lad, Yorrick the Plonk was quick to add, with yellow curly hair.

  San Simeon’s ears had pricked up at that bit of news and he thought about it now.

  Yorrick the Plonk wasn’t the sort to notice yellow curly hair. It must’ve been special, that hair. ‘He smelled proper, too,’ Yorrick had said and San Simeon felt a tingle up his arms and down his back.

  He leapt to his feet and almost scared a snoozing cormorant off her perch. She flapped her wings and squawked but Simeon had already taken off.

  The search was on for his Calamity. He knew now she was disguised as a young lad and Roaring Roy, the hound, would be trying to sneak her past the harbour master. There’d be trouble a-plenty if Master Ernesty Flew caught sight of Calamity in the wrong company. The whole world knew that she was beholden to the Olga and her crew since she’d been rescued so bravely by San Simeon.

  Simeon rushed along the harbour front. Swiftly he flew over coils of ropes and drunken sailors and their baggage. He dodged wild cats and their kittens and outran dogs in their junkyards.

  If Roy took Calamity to sea it’d take forever to get her back. He’d fight them in every ocean and on every sea and Simeon burned now with fury as he understood the truth of Calamity’s capture.

  Roaring Roy Bistro would keep her as ransom. They wouldn’t even need to bother about her treasure map. He’d be able to steal and plunder ships and their treasures and if San Simeon tried to stop him, all he had to do was remind them that he, once again, had Sweet Calamity, and this time he wouldn’t be letting her go!

  She’d be worse than shark-bait. This time he’d keep her captive and she’d be forced to live her life as a slave to the dreadful Bistro and his motley crew.

  San Simeon slowed down.

  His great heart heaved as he thought of his fair Calamity.
He’d loved her, he knew that now, from the first time he’d clapped eyes on her, bound as she was, head to toe, and ready to be pitched into the briny deep.

  Oh why, he cursed himself now, did he ever distrust his men? Why did he not listen when she was trying to make him see he’d made a terrible mistake? His men, his faithful crew, were armed to the teeth and ready to act on his every word and he, oh here he was, struck down with misery.

  He had to get her back. The oceans would never be safe if he couldn’t rid them of the dreadful pirate scourge named Roaring Roy Bistro.

  And he couldn’t rid the ocean of his threat if he didn’t have Calamity by his side.

  Her name was soothing; a bit like those lolly things cooked by Derrick that melted butter and caramel onto his tongue when they had nasty colds. He felt his heart slow and his brain begin to fizz.

  He knew what he had to do now.

  He went back to the Grottley Mug and bought himself a pint and a pen and a bit of paper. San Simeon was going to make a list of all the places Roaring Roy liked to be and then … and then …

  Ha, ha, ha.

  Pyro ran.

  He didn’t think, he just ran. Down to Min’s house – Becks wasn’t there – and up the next street – no Becks there – and then down to Stan Davo’s street, in case Becks had decided to go there and, of course, she hadn’t.

  So Pyro went back to the town map. He made himself stand still and breathe deeply.

  Mr Stig called out. He was on his way home with the paper and had been putting up some more posters and talking to all sorts of people. He took Pyro to the café and bought him a cool drink and then he went on to the high school to see if anyone there had seen a little dog.

  Pyro went back to the town map.

  He could see the mangrove swamp and how it drifted around the back of the town. He could see the inlet and how it flowed in a wide arc with the old fisheries in the corner. He could see how it skirted around the backs of houses as it continued on to the next village further down the coast.

  It wasn’t a big area. There were houses and shops and water and beaches. Pyro looked at the pattern of the streets. If Becks was wandering about, someone in one of those streets would claim her. They all seemed to know her and Min and Min’s grandma.

  In his head Pyro crossed the streets off his list.

  Next, there were the beaches.

  He checked the coastline. In some places it was wild with steep cliffs that fell down suddenly to the shore; Pyro had seen them from the caravan park. He’d seen across the inlet to the other side and knew that the beaches there were too treacherous for swimming. Hiding a dog down here would mean you’d have to scramble all the way around the far side of the inlet, past the fisheries and the little rock-walled boat harbour and the new road with the leftover pipes. Somebody would notice a dog being dragged along here. And there’d been no time for Plonker and Sandy Grivett to do that anyway – not if they’d been dropped off at school by Sandy’s mum.

  Pyro wished he had some paper to make a proper list. It was hard to keep it in his head and he wished, as well, that Geezer could be here.

  He moved his finger around the map tracing a line from Plonker’s house and Sandy Grivett’s house to the places they’d have time to hide a dog.

  He didn’t count the streets.

  He didn’t count the houses along the streets because, even if they had old sheds in their yards, Becks would bark and be heard.

  He didn’t count the ocean beaches. There’d only be driftwood to tie her to and what would be the use of that? She’d just bolt off down the beach dragging it along behind her.

  That left the old fisheries.

  And the inlet.

  Pyro took a deep breath. It wouldn’t be easy. Places like Austen-on-Sea were pretty quiet when school was in. The only human sounds were his own footsteps, and the other sounds didn’t making him feel any easier. Cars didn’t make a happy sound as they whooshed by; it was almost like the air was gasping, trying to catch up again to get out of the place. And the wind in the trees wasn’t helping. But the sailboat further out was the worst of all, the way it creaked out eerie warnings to nobody at all.

  There wasn’t a single soul anywhere.

  His head was already filled up with warnings about keeping with friends and never being by yourself and watching out for strangers and yelling fire, although that seemed a bit silly on this grey day on the edge of this rocky old inlet.

  It was too late now to go back. And there weren’t any strangers hanging about. He was all alone.

  And Becks had to be found.

  Going back to the camper would be like perching on a bull ant’s nest for an hour or two. He’d never be able to sit still while Becks was still out there somewhere.

  The fisheries were going to be the worst.

  Do the worst first, that was what his nan always said and, to keep himself company, Pyro thought he could write and tell her when all this was over. ‘I remembered what you said,’ he’d write and then he tried to think of other things. But they all slipped away as his ears pricked to the sounds in the silence.

  He scrambled over the new bit of road that led to the fisheries. It still had great big rocks jutting out. They hadn’t been there long enough to be disguised by plants and bits of trees that would try to grow there. The pipes were there, with their too-white tops gleaming in the strange grey light of the stormy day. They were waiting too, for soil and trees and leaves to cover them, which had better not be too much longer or somebody with spray cans would get in first.

  It was the sort of quiet that was filled with sounds that kept making him turn around. Just to check in case there was something that shouldn’t be there. Like one of those skeletony things that oozed up from Davy Jones’s locker in the pirate movies.

  If it was a movie it’d be for sure the right time for one of those to come calling.

  The tide slapped at the inside of the pipes. It sounded hungry and brand new horror pictures started to fizz around in his brain. Waves with foam-shaped fingers. Mzzz Cllump was always going on about how clever they were when they did that in their writing and it would be nice to think about classrooms and school but it was a bit tricky when scary things kept popping into your head and a small dog was missing and you were the one responsible.

  Once he thought he heard a sound that could have been a bark but it stopped before he could make up his mind if it really was a bark, or just one of the sea-birds that stood sulking around on the shore with their bottoms to the wind.

  ‘Shoo!’

  The birds didn’t shoo far.

  ‘Get lost!’

  They didn’t. They grumbled among themselves and frowned over at him with red-ringed seagull eyes and then huddled closer to the old buoys that lined the far side of the wharf.

  The tide slapped harder now. It was racing in. Little white-capped waves were jittering about looking nervous, spraying up the sides of the new pipes and making the yacht further out moan and twist as it was slapped about.

  He had paused in the shelter of the old building when he heard a new sound.

  A hollow clonk, clonk, clonk.

  It was exactly the sound that was in Pirate Movie before the dreadful, awful ghosties appeared. Little fingers of fear trickled their way up his neck so his hair felt like it was standing on end, and every time there was another clonk it stood even higher.

  That noise was never going to go away. He was sure of that. Oh no, when you’re all afraid and there’s a sound like that, it’s not going to leave you alone until you find out what it is.

  A bit like the dressing-gown over the door in the middle of the night. How scary is that!

  And then you switch the light on.

  But now there was no light to switch on. Not in broad daylight in the middle of a wharf with only a flock of stickybeak seagulls for company.

  A light wasn’t going to show him the clonk-clonker either. It was going to have to be him leaning out over the edge of the whar
f.

  Him. Alone. His heart almost stopped still in his chest as he thought of it. It would absolutely kill him but he had to go and lie down and peer over the edge of the wharf.

  Giant wooden sleepers held together with nails as big as fists were waiting for him.

  So was the clonker. It rang out a few good loud ones to make sure he was totally terrified.

  Whistling wasn’t going to help. His nan said it helped her but she probably wasn’t flat out on a wharf. She didn’t have to worry about anything creeping up and clobbering her.

  He had to do it.

  He tried a whistle and a little puffy sound slipped out. It didn’t really help but it stopped him thinking about all the other stuff.

  The seagulls watched. A couple of them had their heads cocked as if they could hear something that shouldn’t be there. Another couple waddled over to check over the edge with him, just in case there might have been a fish or a bit of bread floating about that they hadn’t noticed before.

  It was quieter down here, which made it that much easier to see the clonker. It was a bit like the dressing-gown over the door.

  It was enough to make him laugh. Almost.

  Trapped between the pylons of the old bridge and the new one was an upside-down dinghy. Every time a wave lifted it a little higher the metal sides clonked hard against the thick old timbers.

  It was just a silly old clonkin’ ol’ boat.

  But there was something trailing from it. The good feeling that had come with seeing the dinghy shrivelled up as all of the bits started to come together.

  The dinghy was their dinghy from over the channel. And the thing trailing from it wasn’t just an old bit of rope. It was a dog’s lead.

  The noise that he could hear, the one that jabbed around in and out behind the clonking, was a frantic yapping. The sort of yaps small dogs make when they’re very, very scared and very, very worn out.

  He’d found Becks.

  It was the sort of thing that should have been good and happy but Becks-under-a-boat-in-the-middle-of-deep-water was just making his breath whoosh in and out of his body and his head fill with booming noises that weren’t the waves.