Dorrie felt another surge of fury. How dare he? Aunt Gertrude’s mind was as sharp as a tack. Certainly more than sharp enough to see through these two!
She nudged Alonso. Then she pointed at the Crickles, widening her eyes, opening her mouth and raising her arms in a ghost-like gesture.
Catching on at once, Alfonso nodded, stifling a little snort of laughter.
Dorrie felt around at her feet. After a moment she came upon a small rock, half-submerged in the wet, sandy soil. She dug around and lifted it out – a lump of limestone the size of a cricket ball. Raising it above her shoulder, she took aim at a spot near the Crickles, and hurled it.
It landed with a thump, a few yards behind the intruders.
“What was that?” They whirled around, the lantern making an arc of light against the bushes.
Silence. Dorrie had to bite her lip; she knew Alonso was doing the same.
Mr Crickle grunted. “Must’ve been a kangaroo.”
He didn’t sound very certain.
“But it d-didn’t hop away,” croaked Mrs Crickle.
The moon appeared briefly from behind a cloud to reveal the odd shapes of the Crickles, peering in the opposite direction, ears cocked. Mrs Crickle was clutching her husband’s arm; he was trying to shake her off.
Meanwhile, Alonso had been quietly finding another rock. He raised it up, grinned at Dorrie, then tossed it in front of the Crickles.
Another thump; Mrs Crickle shrieked.
“Help, Edmund! That wasn’t a roo.”
“What the devil?” Her husband was sounding rattled too.
Another silence. A gust of wind rushed through the trees. Two branches scraped loudly against one another.
Mrs Crickle gave a small scream.
“Let go of me,” shouted Mr Crickle. “That was simply a tree, for heaven’s sake.”
Dorrie and Alonso grabbed one another, their fingers digging in hard. It was almost like trying not to giggle in class – their nervousness was making them a bit hysterical. Except this time there was more than getting the cane to worry about.
“Ssshh!” said his wife. “The girl’ll hear us.”
They stared up past Dorrie and Alonso’s bush to the dark shape of the house.
“She’s the least of our worries-ss,” said Mr Crickle. “I’ll deal with her, if she shows her face.”
Will you now, thought Dorrie. Nonetheless, the coldness in his voice wiped the smile right off her face, and she was very glad of Alonso’s company.
“I don’t like it here, Edmund,” hissed Mrs Crickle.
A bat swooped past the Crickles and they both cried out, ducking slightly. Dorrie had to stop herself shouting with glee. Mother Nature to the rescue!
“Look here,” said Mr Crickle finally, straightening up, “we’re not going to get anywhere with you carrying on like an hysteric! Where’s your nerve tonic?”
“In the glove box, in the motor,” came the reply. “But–”
“Have a swig – a big one. Then sit in the vehicle and calm yourself, while I dig.”
“Well …”
“I’ll accompany you there,” he added, a little too quickly.
The pick and shovel were left where they’d been dropped and the Crickles headed to the drive.
The next idea was Alonso’s. As soon as the coast was clear, he darted out from behind the bush, seized the tools and went and hid them behind the tank at the end of the verandah. Mr Crickle would get a nasty shock when he came back.
Dorrie beamed at him, miming clapping. Then they ducked after the Crickles, whose progress to the motor was hesitant, to say the least. For once Mr Crickle didn’t seem to mind his wife hanging onto his arm.
As Dorrie and Alonso rounded the corner of the house, there was no sign of the roadster. Then for a second, the moon appeared again, and she glimpsed a gleam of metal on the first bend in the drive, down past the garage.
Of course, the Crickles wouldn’t have driven right up near the house, noisy storm or not.
After signalling to Alonso, Dorrie scurried around the vegetable patch, the chook house, the garage and then into the scrub. She emerged behind the roadster at the same time the dark shapes of the Crickles were starting to shuffle down the drive. Crouching out of sight, she carefully stepped onto the running board on the driver’s side. She opened the door, leaned in and groped around for a particular knob.
She found a knob next to the steering wheel and pulled it, but nothing happened. Probably the choke – she pushed it in again. The aim was to get rid of the Crickles, not cause them to be stranded here with a flooded engine. But with the knob next to it Dorrie hit the jackpot.
The headlamps came on, catching Mr and Mrs Crickle full in their glare. They both cried out, Mrs Crickle letting out a shriek louder than a locomotive whistle.
Hidden by the light in their eyes, Dorrie raised her head to enjoy the fun. The Crickles’ hands had gone up to shield their eyes, which, like their mouths, had become perfect “O”s of terror.
Dorrie had thought that she might flash the lights on and off, but now she realised that might be overdoing the poltergeist effect. Besides, she was going to need the dazzle of the lights to retreat, which she quickly did, back around the motor.
The only trouble was that on the way, her toe caught in an exposed root and sent her sprawling. To make matters worse there happened to be a half-buried rock lying right where her head hit the ground.
Before she could stop herself, she cried out in pain.
“Now that doesn’t sound like a ghost,” came a horrid voice, and in a flash the Crickles were down the drive.
Dorrie, dazed from the blow on the head, tried to get up and run, but her ankle was twisted and painful. She was seized in Mr Crickle’s pincer-like grip, the lantern held to her face.
“Let me go!” she cried, struggling. For such a thin man his hold was surprisingly strong.
“Ah,” sneered Mr Crickle, his false teeth gleaming scarily white, “here’s our little ghost girl.” He stuck his face right in hers. “You didn’t really think a couple of noises were going to frighten us-ss, did you?”
Dorrie felt as though she was choking with apprehension, but she managed to summon up a kind of a snarl. “Well,” she croaked, “you certainly seemed scared.”
Her other arm was grabbed in sweaty, pudgy hands and Mrs Crickle’s face loomed in like a great pink ball. “That’s enough from you, missy.” Dorrie was hit by a blast of bad breath – she jerked her head back. “I’d keep my trap shut, if I were you.”
Dorrie refrained from telling her that for public health reasons she should keep her own trap well and truly shut.
“What are we gunna do with her, Edmund?” Mrs Crickle’s glittery, piggy little eyes bored into her. “Our little Miss Smartypants?”
Dorrie felt her insides lurch with fear.
Mr Crickle smiled. “The cliffs are handy – we could feed her to the fishes-ss.”
Dorrie’s stomach dropped even further, but she glared at him, determined not to show her terror.
“Get that rope,” he hissed at his wife, “out of the boot.”
Mrs Crickle’s mouth dropped open. “Edmund – what are you going to–”
“Get her out of the way! What do you think?”
“But–”
“Just do as you’re told!”
The rope was fetched and Dorrie’s hands tied tightly behind her. Then, limping, she was frogmarched up the hill towards the house, bony dry hands gripping one arm, plump sweaty ones the other. She did her best to struggle and kick, but their hold was fierce, and her sprained ankle didn’t help.
In her churning, terrified mind there was one beam of hope: Alonso.
Was he watching from the bushes, or had he gone right around the far side of the house? Whichever way, if he jumped on Mr Crickle from behind, she was pretty sure she could tackle fat Mrs Crickle.
When they stepped onto the verandah, Mr Crickle pushed her to the left. “In here,” he
said, indicating the end bedroom. “Open the door, Mavis-ss.”
Dorrie sagged with relief. The image of the black drop off the cliff temporarily faded.
Mrs Crickle pulled open the flywire door, and the little room was revealed in its bareness. Dorrie was thankful that Alonso had refused to sleep in it – the only sign of his existence was a slightly wrinkled bedspread.
“We’ll tie her to the bedstead,” said Mr Crickle, “for now anyway. We’ll decide what to do with her later.”
Dorrie almost spat in his face. We’ll see about that.
They pushed her onto the end of the bed and, her hands still behind her back, tied her tightly to the bottom of the iron frame.
Mrs Crickle bent down to Dorrie. “Now, don’t go away,” she chuckled.
Dorrie got another blast of foul breath, right in her face. “Phew,” she cried, jerking her head back, “why don’t you brush your teeth?”
Mrs Crickle’s smile vanished. “Why, you little–”
“She’s quite right, you know,” said her husband, matter-of-factly. “You do have a problem in that regard, Mavis-ss.”
Mrs Crickle looked like a red puffer fish set to explode. Dorrie would remember the expression on her face for a long time. But she bit her lip – she didn’t think it wise to giggle.
“Come on, come on,” said Mr Crickle, pulling his wife away. “No time to lose-ss.”
Mrs Crickle waddled out the door after her husband. “I have never,” Dorrie heard her say, as they passed the window, “been so insulted, in all my life! Edmund – are you listening? You apologise …”
Their voices faded down the drive. Dorrie wriggled about in the darkness, yanking her hands back and forth, but they were tied extremely tightly. The rope bit into her wrists and her shoulders and back were already starting to ache from the awkward way she was sitting.
Where was Alonso? She held her breath to listen, but the only sounds she could hear were the wind and the ever-present thump of the waves. The storm seemed to have passed over.
Dorrie had a terrifying thought. What if they got him too?
The door squeaked. She gave a little cry. “Alonso?”
“Sí.”
And then his dark shadow was there, feeling the end of the bed and her tied hands. He started tugging at the knots.
“Mi Dios!”
Alonso bent down and tugged at the knots with his teeth, until finally Dorrie was free of the bedstead and then the ropes around her wrists. She gasped with relief, wriggling her numb fingers.
“Vamos,” he whispered, beckoning to her, and then they were out the door and creeping along the verandah. They jumped off the end and scuttled around behind the tank. Sure enough, the pick and shovel were there where he’d left them, resting against the wall. They both gave a little laugh. As far as any digging attempts went, the Crickles would be in a pickle.
It made a nice ditty, she thought – Crickles in a pickle, Crickles in a pickle.
And now they could hear the Crickles’ delightful tones, coming from down the hill. They sneaked closer. The pair had clearly been searching for the tools in the darkness.
“They’ll be back over there – we must’ve missed them the first time.”
“No, Edmund. I’m positive they were about here.”
The lantern, held aloft in a scrawny claw, was swung in the night air.
“I tell you what has happened.” Mr Crickle’s voice had taken on a note of certainty. “That wretched child has hidden them – that’s what’s happened!”
Silence, then, “Well, she must’ve been pretty quick to hide them and then get down to the motor.”
“I’m sure they’re not here.” Mr Crickle raised the lamp higher for a final check of the surroundings. The glow swung towards Dorrie and Alonso; they shrank back further behind the tank.
“We’ll have to go and get it out of her – where she’s hidden them,” said Mr Crickle, grimly. “One way or another. Come along.”
Now that’s going to be interesting, thought Dorrie.
She could hardly wait.
Chapter 10
“I don’t believe it!”
From Dorrie and Alonso’s peeping spot around the corner of the verandah, they could see the lantern moving about in the bedroom as Mr Crickle checked under the bed and behind the curtains.
“That little wretch!” he spluttered. “How the dickens did she get free? Those knots were so tight.”
“She couldn’t have got them undone,” said Mrs Crickle. She paused. “Unless …”
“Unless what?” For once her husband was listening to her. “Well, go on, spit it out.”
“Unless she had supernatural help.” In the glow of the lamp, Alonso and Dorrie saw her clutch Mr Crickle. “Oh, Edmund, what if there is a ghost?”
As usual, Mr Crickle shook her off. “Don’t be ridiculous-ss.”
But this time he didn’t sound so sure.
Dorrie put her hand over her mouth and clamped her nose.
“The pick and shovel going missing, and now these ropes untied. I don’t like it, not one bit!” Dorrie could hear the wobble in Mrs Crickle’s squawk. “Let’s forget about the treasure. We’ve got Buckley’s chance of finding it, anyway–”
“Rubbish. Why else would old Jose have drawn such a map? For sport?”
Dorrie stopped smiling. She and Alonso had to get rid of these ghastly thieves.
But first, they had to get hold of the map somehow. If anyone was going to find the treasure, it should be the rightful owners. Joses, not Crickles!
“Maybe he was having a joke,” rejoined Mrs Crickle. “Or imagining the whole thing.”
“There’s only one way to find out,” said her husband, “and that’s to dig.”
“But we can’t find the pick and shovel.”
There was a small silence.
“That shed, down across the drive,” said Mr Crickle, finally. “There’s bound to be some implements in there.”
There was – Dorrie knew – at least two shovels, a couple of forks and a pick.
“But what about the girl?” said Mrs Crickle. “What if she’s gone to get help?”
“That’s why we haven’t a single second to lose. Come on!”
The moment they saw the Crickles unlatch the door and go into the shed, Dorrie knew what to do. But they’d have to hurry.
Beckoning Alonso to follow, and keeping to the shadowy edge of the drive, she hurried down to the shed. They edged along the wall and crouched beside the door, listening to the pair inside.
It hadn’t taken the Crickles long to locate the digging tools hanging on the far wall. Then Mrs Crickle heard something.
“What was that?”
“What was what?”
“That rustle – down behind the bench.”
“A mouse, or a rat, probably.”
“No, it sounded slithery, like a snake!”
Could easily be, thought Dorrie, or maybe a goanna. All her muscles were tense, ready for action. When she signalled her intentions to Alonso, he nodded.
“L-let’s get out of here,” cried Mrs Crickle, the large dark shape of her rump backing through the door.
“Now,” hissed Dorrie, and they sprang up and gave Mrs Crickle a mighty shove in the back.
It felt like pushing a solid boulder, but it worked. Mrs Crickle screeched and, letting out an almighty fart, lost her balance and went barrelling forwards into her husband.
“Ugh!” He sounded like a boxer’s punching bag as he went down, flat on his back, the lovely Mrs Crickle on top of him. Arms and legs thrashed about as the lantern got kicked and went out. Dorrie and Alonso slammed the door shut on a volley of cries and curses. Then Alonso leaned hard on the door, while Dorrie started groping frantically around for the iron pin to secure the latch.
With a “Get off me, woman!”, they could hear Mr Crickle disentangling himself from his wife and scrambling up.
Dorrie patted about on the dark ground, feeling sticks and leav
es and sand. If he’d taken the pin inside with him when he unlatched the door, she knew they didn’t stand a chance of keeping it shut. Maybe they could withstand the puny weight of Mr Crickle, but certainly not if it was combined with that of his mighty wife.
The Crickles were proceeding to thump and push the other side of the door. Alonso pushed back against it, teeth gritted, digging his heels in. Dorrie’s heart sank as she swept her hand around.
And then, right up against the wall, her fingers brushed against the metal pin. She grabbed it, reached up and jammed it through the latch, just as the door was starting to come open.
Inside, the cries and thumps increased. Alonso and Dorrie straightened up and stood there, panting and grinning at one another.
“Open this door! I command you – open this door!” shouted Mr Crickle, shoving against it.
The door, reinforced with stout wooden beams, didn’t budge.
“You’ll be sorry, you little wretch,” Mrs Crickle shrieked. She flung herself against it and this time the door groaned and rattled, but stayed fast.
Dorrie was tempted to call out that they, Mr and Mrs Crickle, were the ones who were going to be sorry. Maybe even adding that it was certain to be a snake in there! Although she knew that if this were true, with all the racket going on, the poor terrified thing would have skedaddled quick smart through one of the cracks in the walls.
Instead she merely whispered a tiny “Sh” to Alonso. Much better to keep the enemy in the dark, in more ways than one.
Sure enough, as the banging and shouting subsided, they heard Mrs Crickle say, “Edmund, who … who d’you think pushed me?”
Mr Crickle scoffed. “Why, that dratted brat, of course.”
“But Edmund …” Her voice had dropped to a hoarse whisper. “I felt four hands!”
“What?”
“I felt them – there was definitely two pairs. No,” she added, cutting into his predictable response, “scoff all you like. There was more than one … person … out there. What did you think – that skinny little wretch could’ve knocked me over on her own?”
The Ghost at the Point Page 10
