Really Weird Removals.com

by Daniela Sacerdoti

  “To the beach, Luca. Bye Adil!” Valentina is already dragging me down to the sand. Her head bobs up and down as she walks on, purposefully.

  “Bye, Valentina,” calls Adil. “Bye then… Bye. Bye!” He’d keep going, if Valentina hadn’t turned her back on him already. Embarrassing. I really don’t understand what this is about. I can’t picture myself going red and mumbling around girls. Anyway, each to their own.

  “I’ve just been to see Donald, to thank him for the octopus,” Valentina whispers conspiratorially as we walk towards the waterline. “He said that Uncle Alistair has been up to his boat a few times. He bought a lot of fish, and… oh–”

  Valentina’s phone is making a strange noise. A horrible tune, something between a song, a grunt and a screech. She takes it out of her pocket and starts pressing buttons.

  “What was that?”

  “A message from Uncle Alistair. Change of plan! He wants to see us. Come on!” She makes a sharp 180-degree turn, and I follow, biting the last remains of my ice-cream cone as quick as I can.

  The phone makes that horrible noise again.

  “What on earth is that sound?”

  “Another message.”

  “But that weird noise!”

  “Oh, that. It’s a singing troll. There was a podcast on the net – on, you know, that site Uncle Alistair is putting together, the Paranormal Database. Cool, isn’t it?”

  “A singing troll?”

  “Yep. Anyway, Uncle Alistair says to pack our bags, we’re going to Edinburgh.” She waves her phone. “Awesome! I knew he’d want us with him again!”

  “If Mum and Dad let us…”

  “They will, they will. I’m sure he’ll find a good excuse.”

  “I suppose.” We step onto the boardwalk, making our way briskly towards Uncle Alistair’s. I’m looking forward to our next adventure, but I leave the sunny beach with a bit of regret.

  “So, what did you think of that strange stuff he had in his kitchen? In his… lab-kitchen,” I ask Valentina. “The helmet with the horns, and the shield… and all those bottles.”

  “No idea. But…” Valentina pauses.

  “But what?”

  “Remember when he had snow on his head and ice up his nose? And the furs?”

  “Yes. He’s so up to something.”

  “Shall we ask him?”

  “He’ll just make up more daft stories. I don’t think he wants to talk about it. Maybe we can try and ask Camilla.”

  “Ask Camilla what?” Camilla is suddenly floating beside us.

  “Hey, welcome back! Where have you been? I missed you!” exclaims Valentina, throwing her arms around Camilla and going right through her.

  “Just a floatabout. I went to sea and spent some time with the dolphins – it’s great out there…”

  I notice that Mrs Armstrong is standing on the doorstep of her hairdresser’s shop, looking at us wide-eyed. She’s seen Valentina hugging the air and talking to nobody. Well, nobody she can see.

  “Valentina!” I whisper, elbowing her and signalling towards Mrs Armstrong, subtly (I hope).

  “Welcome back, Luca! I didn’t see you all morning!” Valentina tries to recover. We hug awkwardly. Camilla giggles, and Mrs Armstrong keeps staring at us, bewildered.

  We hurry away, and let ourselves into Uncle Alistair’s house, now known as “Weird HQ”. The sign on the door says:

  Really Weird Removals Company

  Pest Control

  No pest too big or too small

  reallyweirdremovals.com

  It’s a bit of a flimsy cover, more for my mum and dad’s benefit than anything else. We’re all over the internet, especially now Uncle Alistair has updated our website. Type “Really Weird Removals Company” into Google and you’ll quickly see exactly what we do, although there’s no mention of me or Valentina. Thankfully, Mum and Dad are completely allergic to technology. My dad actually writes letters to his agent and publishers, I mean real letters, stamps and all. He refuses to own a mobile; he uses the home phone. And my mum says that technology is bad for you, because of all the electromagnetic waves.

  Sooner or later, though, they’ll find out…

  “Anyway, Camilla, what we meant to ask you was, those bottles–”

  A loud bang, coming from inside, interrupts us.

  And an even louder “OUCH!”

  “Uncle Alistair! Are you ok?” We run through, only to bump into a very wet, very slimy uncle.

  “Blooming big lizards!” he’s muttering under his breath, trying to wipe the light-brownish slime off his t-shirt.

  “Eurgh! What’s that?” I squirm.

  “What? Oh, this?” he lifts a hand, a trail of slime joining his fingers to the shirt. “It’s jelly. I was making jelly.”

  “Jelly? That colour?” Valentina stifles a smile.

  “It’s… mustard jelly.”

  “Right.” We exchange a look.

  “Mmmm… tasty!” he licks his finger and winces. “Lovely!”

  He’s in summer mode, with faded blue shorts and a bright yellow shirt. He looks very tanned. Awfully tanned, for someone who’s always indoors working. His nose is actually peeling.

  “Are you sunburnt, Uncle Alistair?”

  “Am I? Oh yes, a bit. Lovely sunny day!”

  “How did you get sunburnt? You’re always in here. I’ve never seen you on the beach.”

  “I went yesterday, you know, to get a tan. It works wonders for your looks.” He glances away.

  “You’re worried about your looks?” Valentina laughs.

  “YEAH WELL WE GOT AN EMAIL!” Uncle Alistair booms, all in one breath. He’s holding a piece of paper. “Read this.” He hands me the sheet.

  I suppose we’re not to know how he got that weird slime all over himself. It’s not jelly, that’s for sure. Or how he got so sunburnt. Another Alistair mystery.

  I read the printout aloud.

  To SOS@reallyweirdremovals.com

  From NicolJames@coldmail.com

  Dear Mr Grant,

  My name is James Nicol. My wife and I live in a Georgian house in Edinburgh, in Garfield Road. Great location, I hear you say. Fabulous, we say as well. Except that we have something in the cellar. We have no idea what it is.

  It all started with the light in the basement being shattered in a million pieces. We thought it’d exploded, but now we know better. It’s pitch dark down there. I went and bought a torch and tried to go down to repair the light, but as soon as I put a foot on the stairs I heard the most bloodcurdling scream you can imagine—

  “Cool!” interrupts Valentina. “A creature!”

  …it’s still ringing in my ear. I needed not one but two stiff drinks to recover from that, and another one at bedtime. And another one around two. We thought of calling the police, but I was scared they’d think we were pulling their leg. What to say? “There’s a monster in my basement?”

  Since then, we’ve been hearing strange noises, grunting and grinding of teeth, banging, and the sound of things being shoved against the walls. I tried to go down and have a look, but every time the same shriek stopped me. Then, one day, I steeled myself and made it down three steps. Well, I don’t remember anything after that. I know that something hit me and I went out cold–

  (Sharp intake of breath from Valentina and Camilla.)

  …my wife had to drag me back up. She said that she just heard a scream, a thump (that was my head, I’m afraid) and the sound of heavy footsteps scurrying away.

  Thing is, we’ve been hearing footsteps in the house, too, at night. We’ve been finding little bones all over the place – bird and mouse bones. Our neighbour’s cat has disappeared.

  Mr Grant, I fear – no, I’m sure – that if we don’t do something about it, it’ll be us who disappear next.

  “It’ll be them for sure!” exclaims Valentina, darkly.

  We found your website and would be most grateful for your help.

  Kind regards,

  James
and Jean Nicol

  “So. What do you think? That, to me, sounds like a troll.” Uncle Alistair is very cheerful.

  “Yes, to me too,” says Valentina knowledgeably.

  “We better hurry, it sounds bad,” I add, just to make sure that Uncle Alistair intends to take us too.

  “Very bad, actually, that troll must be starving, feeding only on mice and birds! We need to take it somewhere it can find bigger prey.” Valentina has her priorities right.

  “I was thinking more of the human beings!” I laugh.

  “Can we leave tonight, Uncle Alistair? asks Valentina.

  “Mmmm… well… might rain… homework. ’Nother time,” he mumbles.

  “What? Rain? Homework? What are you talking about?” asks Valentina.

  “It might rain. And you have homework.”

  “We live in Scotland! We don’t mind a bit of rain! And we’ll keep up with homework,” Valentina exclaims. But I know that rain and homework are not what’s worrying Uncle Alistair.

  “Do you not want us with you, this time?” I ask, gloomily.

  “It’s not that. I do want you with me. It’s… trolls can be funny business. You know, eating human meat and all that. I just don’t want you turned into sausages.”

  “But you need us! And I know you can keep us safe!” Valentina puts a hand on Uncle Alistair’s arm. Their eyes meet.

  “Can I? You sure?”

  “Positive. You always know what to do. You’ll return us in one piece.”

  “One big meatloaf, yes,” I can’t help saying.

  Uncle Alistair looks out of the window for a while. All you can see from the living-room window of Weird HQ is a lamp-post and a tiny dry-cleaners. He stares wistfully at the yellow sign – Eilean Wash N’ Iron Services – and then he turns around.

  “Yes.”

  “Yes… as in we can come with you?”

  “You can. And I’ll keep you safe.” He wants us with him again! Result!

  “Of course you will!” cries Valentina.

  I’m a bit more cautious. There’s another obstacle ahead.

  “Will you convince Mum and Dad to let us go?”

  “I’ll speak to them. Come on.” He strides out of the place, and we hurry after him. Uncle Alistair has very long legs. When he walks fast, we need to run if we want to keep up. Maybe this is the right time to try and find out about what he’s been doing.

  “Uncle Alistair,” I call, trying to keep up with his pace, “why are you buying tons of fish?”

  “How do you know?” He stops suddenly and we bump into his back.

  “This is Eilean. Everybody knows everything about everybody!”

  “True. It’s bait.”

  “For what?”

  “I’ll tell you another time.”

  Something else he’ll tell us another time.

  “ISABELLA! DUNCAN!” Uncle Alistair calls cheerfully, as we make our way in. My mum is wearing paint-splattered jeans and she has a yellow half-moustache of paint on her face. She’s redecorating our guest bedroom. Nonna Rina is coming from Italy to spend the whole summer with us in Eilean, and my mum wants everything to be perfect for her.

  We are sent upstairs while Uncle Alistair negotiates with Mum and Dad in the kitchen. We stop halfway, of course, and sit on the stairs, so we can hear what they’re saying.

  “It’s a great opportunity, Duncan. They’ve never been to the Museum of Scotland.” My mum’s voice.

  “It’d be fun for them,” adds Uncle Alistair. “And they’d learn so much. I’ll look after them.”

  “Will you?” Dad’s voice is sarcastic. Valentina and I look at each other. This might not work. “You’ll look after them like you looked after our parents?”

  A moment of silence. Dad has gone for the throat. Poor Uncle Alistair.

  “Duncan, Luca will go to high school next year. This museum visit would be great for him…” Mum is trying to smooth things over.

  “Maybe I want to take them, have you thought of that?”

  “And will you?” asks Mum. It’s her voice that sounds cold now.

  “Well, not in the immediate future… Ach, you know what my writing schedule is, Isabella! Right, you have me in a corner there. Ok. Ok. They can go. But you look after them for real, Alistair, do you hear me?”

  “Of course I will…” he begins, but Dad walks out of the kitchen. We run upstairs as fast as we can. I’m barely in my room, and pretending to look for my sunglasses, when I hear a knock at the door.

  “Come in.”

  It’s Mum. “Sorted. I’ll help you pack,” she says with a smile.

  It’ll be a great summer, I know it. This is just the beginning.

  11. THEFT OF A MARS BAR THIEF

  Alistair Grant’s Scottish Paranormal Databas

  Entry Number 1001: Vegetarian troll

  Type: Troll

  Location: Bettyhill

  Date: 2011–present

  Details: Mr Shepherd of Bettyhill currently shares his home with a troll. The troll, known as Charlie, occupies the basement and sheds of Mr Shepherd’s property. Charlie’s diet is uncommon, for a troll. He feeds only on fruit and vegetables, particularly mushrooms. This allows him to dwell undisturbed among the people of Bettyhill.

  CAUTION: Do not approach. Though not keen on human meat, Charlie can still attack and maim.

  We’re standing on the pavement in front of the Nicols’ house, a beautiful, grand-looking building. Our eyes are closed, our shoulders hunched, as Uncle Alistair douses us, and himself, in stinky brown liquid from several pickled-onion jars. The smell is revolting.

  “You didn’t tell us you were going to do this!” I complain. My hair is soaking with the stuff.

  “Stop moaning, Luca,” snaps Valentina, but I can see she’s annoyed too.

  “Sorry guys. Everybody knows trolls can’t stand pickled onions.”

  “How do they know that?” Valentina is trying to smooth back her wet blonde hair.

  “Well, two young lads were coming home from a chip shop in Cromarty, in 1976. A troll attacked and the boys threw the chip bag at him. It had a fish supper and two pickled onions in it. The troll threw up and ran away.”

  “How do they know it wasn’t the fish supper that did the trick?”

  “Yes. Well. Could be. We’ll find out soon enough.”

  I can’t believe it. We’ve got pickled onion skins all over us and he’s not even sure we won’t get eaten. He might just have seasoned us!

  Uncle Alistair rings the bell. An old lady in a woollen jumper and tartan trousers opens the door. She has a pen in one hand, and a Sudoku in the other.

  “Alistair Grant, RWR. I’m here for the thing in the cellar.”

  “Oh, yes. I’m Mrs Nicol,” answers the lady. “Well, you’re too late. It’s too late for James.”

  Our faces fall. Oh no! The troll has struck already! Poor Mr Nicol. Mrs Nicol doesn’t look too fussed though.

  “I’m so sorry, Mrs Nicol,” says Uncle Alistair. “Do you have anywhere to go? A relation, a friend? While we sort this for you.” He gestures towards the back of the house.

  “I’m not going anywhere, young man. I want to see what happens. It’s not every day I get this much excitement. Come on in, I’ve got tea and sandwiches ready. To give you energy,” she adds, leading us into the living room. We walk on, leaving a wet stinky trail on the wooden floor.

  “Was it raining, outside?” Mrs Nicol asks as she notices our wet hair. Then the smell hits her. She wrinkles her nose. She’s too polite to comment, but I can see her wincing.

  “Pickled onion. Repels trolls, which is what I think this is,” says Uncle Alistair, matter-of-factly. “Mrs Nicol–”

  “Call me Jean.” She really is very cheery for someone newly widowed.

  “Has anybody asked questions… you know, about James? They must have wondered what caused his untimely death…”

  “Death?” Jean turns to look at us. “He’s not dead! He’s at his men’s club. He
goes every Tuesday. You missed him by twenty minutes.”

  I’m about to breathe a sigh of relief, when an unearthly growl breaks the silence. We all jump. It’s like something from beyond the grave, piercing and deep at the same time. I feel chilled to the bone.

  “That’s our cat. She ate a whole Mars Bar this morning – stole it off the wee boy next door and ran away with it. She’s been in agony since.” A ginger cat with a red collar pads slowly across the room, makes an attempt to jump onto an armchair, then tries again, and again, until she (just) makes it. She abandons herself on the cushions and emits another terrible growl. We all wince.

  “Have a seat, I’ll get your refreshments.”

  A few minutes (and a few groans from the cat) later, Jean comes back with a plate of sandwiches, tea for herself and Uncle Alistair, and blackcurrant juice for us.

  “Jean, I must advise you,” says Uncle Alistair, in between morsels, “it would be better if you left the house while we do this.”

  “Out of the question. I’ve got to see… it.”

  “It could become dangerous.”

  “I’ve prepared a small kit, just in case,” Jean says with a smile, and produces a handbag from under the coffee table. “Let me see. Yes. A rolling pin,” she takes out the objects as she lists them, “a pan, some rope, my perfume – to spray into his eyes – and some mints.”

  “Mints?” I ask.

  “My throat gets awfully dry.”

  “I’m sorry, Jean, I must insist.” Uncle Alistair puts down his empty cup. “You cannot be here while we do what we need to do.”

  “I know it’s dangerous, but James and I –”