Muddle and Win

by John Dickinson

  They passed under Sally’s door. The landing was in half-light. Voices rose up the stairs. Greg was watching television. Billie and her mum were in the kitchen, humming as they worked together.

  ‘Darlington Row,’ said Scattletail. ‘As normal as it comes. We ship some out, they ship some out. Fair enough. But as long as they had Sally, and we were getting nowhere near her, they could reckon they were ahead. Low Command didn’t like that. That’s why someone in Low Command’s said “Take that kid”. Who did they say it to? Corozin.’

  ‘But I was getting her!’ wailed Muddlespot. ‘Or at least,’ he added, with the ingrained honesty of a cleaner who every day has to admit to himself that he hasn’t quite removed that stain yet, ‘I’d made a start.’

  ‘Sure. But what did that look like to Corozin? Remember how Corozin got his place? By looking smarter than his boss. So his boss was hauled down to Low Command and went under the hammer, and Corozin got the palace. Now Corozin’s using up agents like coal on a fire and still getting nowhere with Sally, and Low Command’s getting sick about it. Who’re they getting sick with? Corozin. What happens if Low Command thinks there’s an agent up here – one who’s finally started to get somewhere with their precious kid – who might be smarter than Corozin . . .? But if Corozin can make it look like he’s done what’s needed, maybe he’ll be moving into a bigger palace, lower down the hill. See?’

  ‘How do you know all this?’

  ‘He’s a devil, ain’t he?’

  ‘Well yes . . .’

  ‘I know the type.’

  From down below came the splosh of water. It sounded like water in a bucket. Billie was still humming.

  ‘I wonder,’ sighed Muddlespot, peering through the banisters of the Joneses’ stairwell. ‘If there’s a vacancy for a cleaner anywhere round here. Nice long hours, low pay – or none at all . . .’

  ‘You can’t run from Corozin, kid. As long as you’re around, he’s not going to feel safe. It’s you or him.’

  ‘Me?’

  Against Corozin?

  A thought popped into Muddlespot’s head. Or maybe it exploded.

  It was:

  ‘Help,’ he said feebly.

  Voices rose from below.

  ‘Billie, what . . . are you mopping the floor?’

  ‘Thought it needed it,’ said Billie brightly.

  ‘Yes . . . yes . . .’ For a moment Mum seemed to be lost for words. ‘Thank you, sweetheart. That’s really good of you . . .’

  ‘I’d spilled a bit,’ Billie confessed.

  ‘I give Ismael an inch,’ sighed Scattletail, ‘an’ he takes a freakin’ mile.’

  ‘Help,’ murmured Muddlespot. In his mind, the mop had become a brass brush and pan and was busy sweeping up fragments of Muddlespot.

  ‘I left the muffins in the fridge. We can bake them in the morning and have them fresh for breakfast.’

  ‘If there’s time . . .’

  ‘And I’ve tidied up the spice cupboard, Mum . . .’

  ‘Right,’ said Scattletail. ‘That does it – I’ve got to get back. Things are getting way out of hand down there.’

  ‘Help me!’ said Muddlespot.

  Scattletail looked at him. ‘I already did, didn’t I?’

  ‘But I can’t take Corozin on my own!’

  ‘Nor can I, kid. Did you think I could?’

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘Look, kid, I’m glad to do what I can. I don’t want him up here near me any more than you do. But I got to look after myself. Anyway, what goes on in there . . .’ He jerked his thumb back at Sally. ‘I can’t be getting into that. Not my territory. That’s got to be between you and him. And her. See?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Muddlespot heavily. ‘I see.’

  Deep within the hard, cold eyes of Scattletail there was a gleam of regret. ‘Good luck, kid,’ he said. ‘And think – holes in pants.’

  ‘Yeah, I know,’ Muddlespot sighed. ‘Keep them to five.’

  SALLY WASN’T USED to talking about herself. It wasn’t something she did much. Mostly she listened to her friends talking about themselves, and she would say the things they needed to hear. The important thing was to be interested.

  Until now, she’d had most of the stuff about herself already sorted. So what would have been the point of talking about it?

  But that wasn’t true any more.

  And now that she had stuff she wanted to say – things that if they didn’t get out through her mouth would swell up and make her chest burst – she didn’t know how to say them. She stumbled. She put her hand to her head and said, ‘No, that’s not right. What I meant was . . .’ She shook her fists and paced up and down like a starlet in a TV soap, or like Cassie complaining about the latest man she had ditched. She knew it was acting. She knew that half of it wasn’t real. She just didn’t know how else to do it.

  Anyway, he seemed interested.

  ‘All this “Being Good” – it’s been a con,’ she said. ‘A great big con. And I fell for it.’

  He put his head on one side. He didn’t question what she meant by ‘all this Being Good’. And she was glad, because she would have found that difficult to answer without saying something really tacky like ‘Everything’ or ‘My Life’, etcetera.

  He asked: ‘Who’s been conning you?’

  Sally faced him. ‘I have,’ she said.

  She thought about how deep his eyes were. They seemed to know a lot more than he said. Sometimes she wondered if he knew what she was going to say before she did.

  ‘And . . .?’

  She shrugged. ‘And everybody else has got used to it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because it suits them.’

  ‘It does, doesn’t it?’

  Help, thought Muddlespot.

  He was cowering in the shelter of the banisters, wondering if there was anywhere better to hide. Anywhere Corozin wouldn’t find him.

  The huge figure of Mum was climbing up the stairs before his eyes. She was calling over her shoulder, ‘Billie, bedtime!’

  ‘Coming,’ answered Billie’s voice from below.

  On Mum’s shoulder two tiny figures circled, throwing punches at each other and emitting squeaks of rage. One had white wings and a halo. The other had horns and a tail.

  Help, thought Muddlespot. If I’m seen. If it gets back to Corozin where I am . . . How long before he finds out what happened to his guards?

  He scuttled round to the other side of the banister. He almost ran into a face.

  It was a huge face, black, yellow eyed, furry, topped with two enormous triangular ears.

  ‘HEEEELP!’ screamed Muddlespot.

  In the black face a little line parted. It opened into a mouth the size of a volcano cone, edged with huge pale teeth and floored with a vast pink tongue.

  What kind of help, exactly? said the cat with a yawn.

  It didn’t actually speak. No words travelled through the air. But its meaning was (ahem) purrfectly clear.

  ‘Er . . .’ said Muddlespot, still trembling with the shock. ‘Any, really. Any at all.’

  I see.

  ‘Er, yes! Yes you can!’ agreed Muddlespot. ‘I – er – that is, you can see me. How do you do that?’

  The cat blinked, hugely.

  You can’t be a figment of my imagination, it said. I don’t have one.

  ‘No, I – er – you said you could help me?’

  Shades studied the tiny imp. It made him look cross-eyed.

  Possibly, he said at last.

  ‘Thank you! Oh, thank you!’

  . . . For a price.

  ‘Name it – anything! Anything!’

  You have to bow down and worship me.

  ‘I beg your . . . WHAT??!!???’ shrieked Muddlespot.

  You have a problem with this?

  ‘But – but – it’s the wrong way round! It’s supposed to be the other way around!’

  Take it or leave it, buster.

  Angels don’t often get headaches.
They don’t drink. They don’t suffer from migraines. They do play music, sometimes quite loud music, but it doesn’t generally have that sort of effect.

  So for Windleberry, coming round with a head like the insides of Krakatoa was a new experience. And it wasn’t interesting.

  It was even less interesting to discover that he was tied to a chair, with ropes around his wrists, ankles and arms all pulled so tight that he might have been cased in concrete. He had cramp in about six different places and it hurt like . . .

  Like the other place.

  His mouth was filled with cloth. A gag. It forced his jaw wide open and was tied firmly at the back of his head. If it had been stuffed any further down his throat, he’d have had to swallow it. He could hear voices, but somehow they didn’t seem very important. What was important was the headache, the cramp and the gag. He hated all of them. In that order.

  Or maybe the cramps were worst. They made him want to scream.

  Or maybe it was the gag. Because it meant he couldn’t.

  There were two voices. Sally’s was one.

  ‘I shouldn’t have walked away. I just couldn’t handle it. Mum shouting at me like that. I should have stayed and told them what I thought.’

  ‘That would have been better.’

  ‘I just can’t complain! It’s not something I do. So they think I’ll take it. They think I’ll always take it. It’s because I’m always making room for them. In the end, I’ve no place left for myself. They’ve got to make some space for me too.’

  ‘They’ve left you out, haven’t they?’

  ‘I’ve got to show them . . .’

  ‘What have you got to show them?’

  ‘ . . . That I can’t be pushed.’

  Windleberry gathered his strength, like a long intake of breath. Then, on a command from his brain, all his muscles jerked violently.

  Nothing.

  He could not move against the bonds. Not a finger, and not so much as a hair’s-breadth. They were Sally’s bonds, and this was Sally’s mind. She could keep him like this just as long as she wanted to.

  Oh, Sally, please . . . he thought.

  The view through the windows had changed. The Outer Sally had got out of bed. She was standing in the middle of her room. The Inner Sally was standing too. Her fists were clenched.

  ‘Mum’s so desperate about Billie that she’ll scream at me just to show Billie she’s being fair.’

  ‘So she screamed at you to make things better between her and Billie?’

  Sally nodded slowly.

  ‘So she was never going to listen to you anyway. Because . . .’

  ‘Because she—’

  ‘Wants you to be . . .’

  ‘Wants me . . .’ said Sally slowly.

  (No, Sally! No! thought Windleberry desperately.)

  ‘ . . . To be the bad one,’ said Sally.

  Silence.

  ‘Ouch,’ said Sally.

  She was crying.

  ‘Crazy, isn’t it?’ said the man. ‘All that trying. Even tying yourself up. And all it takes is one click of an oven switch, and suddenly you see what’s been there all along.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Sally.

  ‘Of course, if you had really been the bad one, she’d have got more than she bargained for.’

  ‘Yeah, she would.’

  ‘Tantrums are just stupid.’

  ‘They make you look like a kid.’

  ‘But little things. At the right time. Just to show her what she’s wished on herself.’

  ‘Like?’

  ‘Like – oh, the click of an oven switch, maybe.’

  Sally hesitated. ‘Now?’ she asked.

  The man shrugged. ‘Well, they complained when you switched it off, didn’t they?’

  ‘Burn the muffins?’

  ‘Do you like the smell of burning?’

  ‘I don’t know. It depends.’

  ‘I do.’

  The mind of a cat is quite different.

  It does have rooms – a few. They don’t have signs on them, because the cat doesn’t need them. It knows perfectly well that that one is the room where it keeps the idea ‘Wash’, and that’s the one where it keeps the idea ‘Lap’, and that’s where it keeps the (very overworked) idea ‘Eat’. There’s also ‘Find Sunny Spot’, ‘Kill It’, ‘Can’t Be Bothered’, and maybe one or two others. At most.

  There aren’t any corridors. The doors of these rooms all open directly onto the central chamber. And they aren’t doors, of course – they’re cat flaps. Except for the ‘Eat’ one, which has come off its hinges from overuse.

  There are no strange noises, no nightmares, no guilty thoughts chained to the walls. In the mind of the cat, guilt does not exist. There is no trap door.

  Nor are there any fountains, decorations, statues, no ideals. That’s because . . .

  . . . In the central chamber . . .

  (Which is huge, by the way. Probably it’s domed, but it’s a little hard to tell because cats aren’t much interested in architecture.)

  . . . Is the Cat Itself.

  It is enormous. It is majestic. Its head is the size of the night sky and its eyes are like twin yellow moons. It is like the vast statues in ancient temples built by thousands of sweating slaves to honour a god. Which is what all cats are – in their own minds.

  The great face leered down upon Muddlespot.

  Feast your eyes, Mister, the cat said.

  Windleberry jerked at his bonds. Nothing.

  Mustn’t panic! he thought.

  Must. Not . . .

  Now!

  Again he jerked, begging for just that slight loosening that could be the start of a struggle for freedom. There was nothing. He was held fast.

  The windows on the outer world showed a view of the stairs in darkness. Sally was standing at the top of them. All the lights down there were off. Everyone was in bed. Only the pervasive yellow glow of the streetlights, filtering in through cracks in curtains and the little window above the door, lit the outlines of the banisters, steps and object-cluttered hall. It was like looking down from a great height into darkness and seeing a city far below. A city built, perhaps, of brass.

  And the unsettled murmurs ran down the corridors of Sally’s mind. A low, background humming. Ominous.

  The Inner Sally stood before her windows. She was still in her pyjamas. The man in the red-brown scarf stood beside her. He had a friendly hand upon her shoulder.

  Sweat gathered on Windleberry’s forehead. It was a trick – he knew it.

  Ovens are metal. Greg had said it. All the family knew it. Even if something burned inside them, nothing could really go wrong as long as you didn’t open the door.

  But ovens aren’t just metal. They have wires, trim and other parts. If it’s a cheap double oven, with wires that run close to the oven casing . . . If it’s turned on and left on, while everyone’s in bed. If the thermostat fails so that the heat builds and builds . . . Old fat. Spilled grease on the elements. Lint and crumbs and other stuff that’s fallen down the cracks around and behind the cooker, because this is the Jones household and the cleaning’s always been a bit haphazard . . .

  There would be a fire. Damage – something Sally never intended. Something that she’d get blamed for.

  And then there would be guilt. And her anger that she was being made to feel guilty; at the unfairness of it. The Enemy could work on that. Like feeding a fire, bit by bit, until the first small spark had become a terrible thing, burning within her.

  All those fingers pointing at her. You were the one who started it, they would say. It was your fault. And even if they didn’t say it, she would feel them thinking it. And Billie – Billie would never let her forget it.

  If Billie survived . . .

  The thought was like a trap door opening in the bottom of his soul.

  An enemy like this did not bother with the little things. He was going for the big one. Now, when things had barely begun. When no one imagined that it could happ
en.

  Sally was moving down the stairs. Softly, in darkness. And in her mind the murmurs were rising like a low wind. Windleberry thought he could hear screams.

  THE BONDS HELD him fast. Because she wanted them to.

  Oh, Sally, he thought.

  She was in the hall. Looking into the kitchen.

  Oh, Sally. Give me a chance!

  ‘They’re in the fridge,’ Sally said.

  ‘Just slip them into the oven,’ said the man. ‘And set it to – oh, to maximum. Why not?’

  The fridge door was open. The tray was in her hands.

  Oh, Sally, please . . .

  ‘Miiiaaaow!’

  It was a pitiful little noise. Plaintive. From down at Sally’s feet.

  ‘What?’ said Sally.

  ‘What . . .?’

  A face was looking up from the kitchen floor. Black, yellow eyed, pointy eared. Pathetic.

  ‘What’s the matter, puss?’ said Sally.

  From down below, she seemed like a mountain. Her face was as high as the clouds. But Muddlespot, squinting upwards through the cat’s eyes, saw all the way to hers. He saw in them a look he knew.

  ‘There’s Corozin!’ he said urgently, tugging at the paw of the huge Inner Cat beside him. ‘Attack! You’ve got to attack!’

  Wrong idea, buster . . . said the cat drily.

  ‘Aaaaaooooww?’ went the Outer Cat. It was such a piteous sound.

  ‘Poor puss,’ said Sally. ‘Has no one fed you?’

  Yeah, about that, said the Inner Cat sourly. Did you know that someone’s been spitting in my dish?

  But Shades was an old hand. He was a pro. Not for a moment did he let his attention wander. He looked up at her, eyes big, mouth small, all purpose and focus and pure intent, doing what a cat does best. Muddlespot, watching from the vantage of the cat’s brain, was filled with admiration.

  ‘You can’t have these,’ said Sally, looking at the tray in her hands. ‘They’re . . .’

  Her voice trailed away. She went on looking at the muffins.

  ‘Aaaaaooooww,’ went the cat again.