by Robin Jarvis
"Come 'ere, Cret!" his pursuer demanded.
Ben was terribly afraid, there was no way he could cross the bridge and reach Aunt Alice's cottage—he was done for. Desperately he glanced over his shoulder, Danny was closing on him.
"Coward!" accused the snarling voice. "Ain'tcha got yer sister to fight for yer?"
The pavement streaked beneath the two boys' feet as they pounded down the sloping road towards the harbour, but there was still a long way to go. This was no good, Ben told himself. He had only one chance and that was to hide.
Recklessly he leapt into the road. A car screamed and the driver stamped on the brakes. Ben dodged aside as it skidded to a halt and then he was across. The man in the car leaned out of the window and bawled at him but the boy had scurried up into Pannet Park, up to where the shrubs and bushes screened him from the traffic below.
"Ruddy idiot!" the driver fumed. "Could've killed him!" He took hold of the steering wheel once more and gave a slight shudder at the thought. Then another boy darted out in front of him.
This one slapped the bonnet of the car as he passed and shouted, "Up yours Grandad!" then he too disappeared up the steps into the park.
Pressing close to the dense rhododendrons, Ben hurried from one side of the park to the other. Already he could see the exit to St Hilda's Terrace which led directly to the bridge—ought he to chance it he wondered? He waited indecisively, hiding beneath the drooping dark leaves of the shrubbery. Where was Danny? Ben held his breath and listened—he could hear nothing behind him, the Turner boy must have given up or gone the other way.
Stealthily he crept from the cover and peered back down the sweeping lawns he had just climbed.
"Oh no," he whispered.
Up came Danny, his face resolute and angry. "Laurenson!" he shrieked. "Yer for it now!"
Ben scrambled over the grass, hurtling towards the gateway. In a trice he was through, but instead of careering down the hill, he leapt over the wall of a nearby house and ducked quickly. With his face half-buried in a pile of damp, dead leaves he froze and waited.
Danny Turner shot from the park and glared about him. There was no trace of the Laurenson boy anywhere. "I'll get yer!" he shouted. "Ain't no use hidin'. Come out, yer whingin' Jessie!"
Ben remained exactly where he was, his chin submerged beneath the deep decay of autumn. He was extremely uncomfortable; the damp had soaked through his trousers and a repulsive, cloying smell of mould fouled his nostrils. A cloud of agitated flies buzzed around his head and his flesh crawled when one landed on his lip. If only Danny would give up and go home. "Go away," he mouthed, willing his enemy to retreat, "get lost."
Across the street, Danny snorted and spat with disgust. "Flamin' baby," he muttered, "next time I sees him—or that stinkin' sister, they'll be sorry."
He wandered along the terrace, kicking the gates of the houses as he passed by. In his cramped hiding place, Ben could hear the vicious 'clangs' growing fainter. He let out a sigh of relief. Now he could move. The dead leaves squelched as he stirred. Ben was glad to be free at last—he couldn't bear another minute with all those flies amid that putrid smell.
He raised his head from the wet pile, but what he discovered made his eyes bulge round and wide. Now he knew where the stench was coming from—and why there were so many flies. On the ground, just next to where he had been crouching, were the gutted remains of a cat.
Ben let out a cry of horror. The poor creature had been in a terrible fight. What meagre tatters of skin it had left were covered in vile rents and savage claw marks. He leapt to his feet and the flies zoomed back to their feast—Ben felt ill.
"What sort of animal would do that?" he murmured. "Not a dog surely?"
Then he noticed the colour of the bloodstained fur—it had been a marmalade cat. He thought of the woman he and Jennet had met yesterday and how frantic she had been. Here then was Mrs Rigby's Mokey, this awful carcass was all that was left of her little darling. It had been eaten. The back of Ben's throat burned as the bile bubbled up from his stomach and he turned away.
"Gotcha!" sniggered a voice.
Danny Turner jumped over the wall and grabbed Ben round the neck. It was too quick and sudden for the boy to resist and he felt his legs give way as Danny kicked them. Down he went and the Turner lad pushed him into the leaves a second time.
"Try to run, did yer, Cret?" hissed Danny, delivering a spiteful punch to Ben's ribs. "I'll show you and yer sister not to make a fool of me. Good job she never broke me nose or I'd have got me Dad's air pistol at the pair of yer. It puts eyes out it does—an' believe me I'd do it an' all!" He raised his fist to give Ben another punch but the blow never fell. His own eyes had lit upon Mokey's body.
Danny let out a long, admiring whistle. "Fwor!" he cooed. "Look at this!" He reached over and picked the corpse up without flinching. "This'd make a great mascot for the front of me bike," he drooled, "I could tie it to the handle bars—look at them eyes stickin' out on stalks!"
"Put it down!" shrieked Ben in outrage. "Leave it alone!"
A horrible smile flickered over Danny's thuggish face. "Put it down," he repeated in a whining imitation of Ben's voice. "Doesn't yer like it, Diddums? Does it scare yer?" He dangled the grisly body above the boy's head, bobbing it up and down like a yoyo. "Woooo," he taunted, "have a look at the big gash in its froat. Open yer peepers, soft lad! Look, I can make its tail twitch by pulling this bit."
Ben squirmed and screwed his face up. Danny was no better than an animal.
"Hur, hur," his tormentor chuckled, relishing the agony he was putting him through. "There's not much left of its innards, see—I can put my hand right up its ribcage and use it like a puppet." With his free hand he pinched his nose to produce a squeaky, nasal voice. "Ooh, Judy," he sang waving the cat in Ben's face, "that's the way to do it, that's the way to do it."
He laughed, then wiped the blood on Ben's coat. "Does yer not like me puppet show?" he asked. "I thought you crets went in for that sort of thing. I'll have to come up with summat else to keep yer happy."
"You're disgusting," Ben said angrily, "put it down."
At that, all traces of humour left Danny. "Don't you talk to me like that!" he growled. "I'm gonna teach you some manners I am. Feel sorry for this rancid moggy does yer? Well here! You can have it!" With a shout, he swung the cat round and pushed it into Ben's face.
The boy spluttered and tried to get free, shaking his head for the other to stop. But Danny was determined, he smeared the gory carcass all over Ben, then spat on him.
"Hoy, you two!" came a stern protest. "What the 'ell do you think you're playin' at?"
Danny glanced up. At the window of the house stood a gruff-looking man. The boy stuck his fingers up at him then hissed in Ben's ear. "This ain't over yet! Me an' my gang's gonna come after you. It won't be cat blood on yer then, but yer own!" With that he leapt over the wall and disappeared back into the park.
The owner of the house had left the window and was hastening to the door. Ben wiped his mouth with his sleeve and stared miserably at what was left of Mokey.
"Right!" roared the man, appearing from the doorway with a stick in his hand. "Where are the beggars? I'll learn 'em to trespass and cheek me."
But the garden was empty and when he ran to the gate to glare down the street he could only see a duffle-coated figure hurrying towards the harbour. "Flamin' kids," he swore.
***
Miss Wethers threw up her hands and let out such a scream that Eurydice's kittens dashed upstairs and refused to venture out from beneath Miss Boston's bed for two whole days. Eurydice herself gave the remains a curious sniff, then sauntered away in a huff with her tail in the air.
"Take it away!" Edith squawked. "Get rid of it immediately! You horrid, dirty boy!"
Ben closed the front door behind him. All the way home he was hoping that the postmistress would not be the one to let him in. Unfortunately however, she had. At once she saw the stains on his face and that he was tryin
g to hide something under his coat. When she had insisted on seeing whatever it was, he had reluctantly opened the duffle and shown her the newspaper parcel concealed within. Then of course she had to know what was inside it—he had tried to warn her but too late—Miss Wethers had confiscated it and opened the thing for herself.
Her shrieks were still shaking the plates on the draining-board in the kitchen when Ben knelt to pick the dead cat up again.
"Don't touch it!" she screeched, running up and down the hall as though she had sat on a wasp's nest. "You wicked, wicked child! How could you? Throw it away—Aaaagghhh!" She leant against the wall to steady herself and the tissue came flying from her cardigan to cover her eyes. "I must sit down," she whimpered, "I can feel one of my faints coming on—ooh, Jennet, help me."
Ben's sister was giving her brother deadly looks. How could he be so stupid? She shook her head at him then went to Miss Wethers' rescue. "Let me help you into a chair," she said taking hold of the spinster's arm. "I'll make you a strong cup of tea with lots of sugar in it."
Edith gagged. "Couldn't keep it down," she refused. "Where did the boy come by such a filthy thing? I'll have to fumigate the carpet." At that she looked down at her own hands and remembered that she too had touched the grisly parcel. "Eeeee!" she cried and dashed to the sink where she took the nail-brush and scrubbed herself with disinfectant.
"I found it," said Ben following them into the kitchen. "It's Mrs Rigby's, I couldn't leave it there could I?"
"Don't you dare bring that abomination into this kitchen, young man!" declared Miss Wethers adamantly. "What did you think you were doing? Just you wait till I tell Alice. I knew I wouldn't be able to manage. 'Children are nothing more than little monsters,' that's what my mother used to tell me, 'never have anything to do with them, Edith' she said. All these years I listened to her and now look how right she was!"
She ran into the hall, avoiding Ben as best she could then sped upstairs. "It's bath-time for you my lad!" she squeaked. "But goodness knows what I'm to do with your coat. I'll have to boil the thing and if it shrinks you've only yourself to blame."
Alone with Jennet, Ben crossed to the back door. "Ben," she said tersely.
"What?"
"Are you mad? What's the matter with you? Are you so stupid? Chuck that dead cat in the bin outside and tell Miss Wethers you're sorry. Honestly Ben you're such a child at times!"
The boy stared impassively at her. He did not want to mention his encounter with Danny Turner, she would only go and make matters worse again. "No," he said flatly, "I'm not going to put it in the bin—what would you think if someone did that to Eurydice or one of the kittens?"
"I'm sure I wouldn't care," she replied, "what else can you do with a dead cat?"
"I'm going to bury it in the garden," he told her pulling the door open. On the step he gave her one last, bitter look and added, "would you've cared if they'd put Mum and Dad in the bin too?"
Jennet slammed the door and Ben took the body to the far side of the garden then went in search of Aunt Alice's trowel.
6 - The Fall Of The Veil
The sleek, black taxi barged through the heavy traffic, like an impatient giant beetle. Through amber lights it roared, taking corners at an astonishing speed. In the back, Miss Boston slid along the seat one more time and blamed herself for not taking the Underground. It had been a break-neck, nerve-rattling journey all the way from Kings Cross, anyone would think the cabbie was driving the getaway car from a bank robbery. No, she was doing the poor man a disservice—perhaps he had been an ambulance driver before taking up this present career. She ventured to open one eye and peered at the back of the man's head. He was thick-set and had a cauliflower ear—maybe her first suspicion had been correct after all.
They raced over a zebra crossing, heedless of the people waiting on the pavement and Miss Boston covered her face with the hat that had been shaken off her head. "Ironic really," she told herself, "one of the reasons I decided to take a taxi was to see more of London." At that moment the cab hit a bump in the road, the old lady bounced off the seat and hit her head on the roof.
That was too much. She tapped on the glass that separated her from the driver and shouted, "Excuse me, would you care to drive a little more carefully? I'm not enjoying this at all!"
The cabbie shifted disagreeably and muttered something under his breath. "You wanna get there, missus, or don't yer?" he asked.
"Most certainly," she replied, "but preferably in one piece."
"Fifteen years I've been cabbin' it," he grumbled, "you out-of-townies come up 'ere for the day an' think you know it all. Just pipe down in the back an' lemme do my job."
Miss Boston stuck out her chins at his insolence but there seemed little else she could say. It had been a tiring day, most of it had been spent cooped up in a crowded, stuffy train and she was in no mood for an argument. "Unpleasant fellow," she merely mumbled, and left it at that, turning her attention to the blurred scenes that whipped by outside the windows.
From the little she had seen, London had changed dramatically since she had last visited—why that was over ten years ago now. There were many new buildings to admire, and criticise, even the shops had undergone startling transformations and on every side sheer towers of sparkling glass reached into the sky. The bustling city was a far cry from her more tranquil home.
"Such a mad dash everyone seems to be in," she observed. "Oh my!"
A car had pulled out in front of the taxi without warning and the cabbie pounded the horn whilst adding his own colourfully verbal abuse.
Miss Boston shook her head. How did people manage to live in this frantic place? She suddenly felt very small and insignificant compared to the sprawling old city that had engulfed her. Back in Whitby everyone knew her but here she was nobody.
It was a humbling thought and before she knew what she was doing she was feeling sorry for herself.
"Alice Boston!" she reprimanded quickly. "What do you think you're doing? This isn't like you—pull yourself together, woman. Remember why you're here and save your sympathy for those who really need it!" She tutted into her hat then held her head high. She wasn't going to let the capital city intimidate her!
At last, they arrived in Kensington and the taxi shot past the great museums before turning off into one of the quieter streets. With a jolt the vehicle skidded to a standstill and Miss Boston's hat sailed out of the window.
"'Ere we are, missus," the cabbie announced, "safe and sound."
The old lady gave him a frosty look and rummaged in her purse for the fare. "Outrageously expensive!" she remarked handing the money over.
"What—no tip?" the man protested.
"I'll give you a tip," she said brusquely, "learn some manners!"
"Stuff off."
Miss Boston alighted from the taxi with as much dignity as she could muster and dragged out her luggage. As soon as she shut the door the cab screeched and streaked away. The old lady put her case on the pavement and waddled into the road to retrieve her hat before she looked about her.
It was an impressive street. All the buildings were Georgian town houses, the kind that only embassies or film stars could now afford. They all had four floors, with two entrances at the front, the main doorway flanked by stout pillars and a flight of steps leading to the servants' quarters below.
Miss Boston pursed her lips and cast an eye over herself. Her clothes looked a wreck and she felt far too shabby to enter one of these grand houses. She spent a few moments smoothing the creases from her skirt and perching the hat back on her woolly head. Then, pulling her cape about her, she ascended the steps to number eleven and rang the bell.
The minutes ticked by, but nobody came to the door. Miss Boston pressed the bell again—perhaps there was no one at home, maybe she had come too late. She staggered down the steps and glanced up at the windows. The curtains were not drawn so her fears ebbed a little. Miss Boston decided to ring once more.
This time she kept her fing
er on the button for a full five minutes until she released it. "Most odd," she said aloud, "where is everybody?" She glared accusingly at the door as though it were to blame, then spied the letter-box. Cautiously, the old lady squinted up and down the street to make certain no one was watching before crouching down to lift the letter flap. Bringing her eyes close to the slot, Miss Boston peered inside.
"How peculiar," she muttered, "there appears to be something in the way, I can't see a blessed thing, it's all dark—no, why it seems to be material..."
Her voice failed her as the grey material moved behind the door, she saw a row of shiny black buttons, a white collar and then another eye loomed through the letter-box at her.
Miss Boston blinked and the other eye did the same before disappearing. Suddenly the door was pulled open and a superior voice demanded, "What have we here?"
The old lady looked up sheepishly. A tall, grey-haired man was studying her with the utmost solemnity. He was about fifty years old, possessing a long sharp nose which he could expertly look down. His eyes held no humour and the lids drooped over them in a weary, melancholy fashion. The right side of his thin mouth twitched as he waited for an explanation and his disparaging stare made Miss Boston feel about ten years old.
"I... I did ring," she stammered, rising to her feet, "but there was no answer, so I..."
The man pulled a sour expression. "Whatever it is we don't want any," he said curtly. "Good day."
Miss Boston reached out her foot as he swung the door to. "I beg your pardon!" she declared, overcoming her embarrassment, "But I am Alice Boston. Patricia Gunning has invited me to stay for a few days."
The man regarded her through the half-closed door but made no attempt to let her in. "Mrs Gunning sees no one," he said.
"Well she'll see me!" she cried. "Stand aside and let me in!" Miss Boston gave the door a shove but he continued to hold it firm.
