The Black Cat Detectives

by Wendy Meddour

  “So you must be Amin’s family?” she said at last. “How terribly nice to meet you.”

  Nanna Stalk eyed her suspiciously and nodded her head. When the woman’s back was turned, Nanna Stalk whispered to Shaima: “How did she know?”

  “Know what?” asked Shaima.

  “That we’re Amin’s family, of course!” hissed Nanna Stalk. She straightened the creases in her jilbab and clutched her bag of samosas to her chest.

  “Just a lucky guess, I s’pose,” grinned Ramzi.

  ***

  The pupils at The Academy were a different species. Tall girls wearing long tartan skirts glided around the Grand Hall while serious boys in blazers gave out cups of tea by the door. Ramzi wished he wasn’t wearing a skateboard top and jeans. He tried to flatten down his curls but they kept bouncing back.

  “You look cool,” laughed Shaima.

  “It’s all right for you,” said Ramzi.

  Shaima was wearing a dark green pinafore with matching bows in her hair. But Ramzi wasn’t even wearing matching socks. Mum used to wrap them into neat little balls and put them in his wardrobe, but since Baby Zed was born, his sock drawer had been empty.

  “Hey, there’s Amin!” Shaima was pointing to the stage at the far end of the hall. “Come on.” They pushed their way past a mini-chess tournament, a fancy cake stall and a blindfolded boy trying to ‘pin the tail on the asteroid’.

  “Amin! Salem!” called Shaima as she clambered up on to the stage. Ramzi followed.

  “Salem, guys,” smiled Amin. He wore cool glasses and an easy smile. “Long time no see, little sis. Ramzi – good to see you here. Thinking of applying?” Ramzi shook his head.

  “You should,” said Shaima. “Those maps you draw are awesome. And you know the capital city of everywhere!” Ramzi blushed. “Go on, try him,” said Shaima.

  Amin leant against the table. “OK... What’s the capital of the Kingdom of Bhutan?” Shaima stared at Ramzi, expectant.

  “Thimphu,” he said, effortlessly.

  “Population size?” asked Amin.

  “According to the UN, about 708,500,” said Ramzi.

  “Current Head of State?” continued Amin.

  “King Jigme Khesar Namgyel Wangchuck, but it’s hardly like I’m anything special,” said Ramzi.

  “No way. You should definitely apply. That’s awesome.”

  Ramzi laughed. “I’m only good at maps and stuff.”

  “Yeh, right,” smiled Shaima.

  “Whatever,” shrugged Amin. “Why don’t you have a go at the ‘Sweet Jar Guesstimate’?” he said, pointing to the jar on the table. “There’s a totally random prize.”

  Shaima folded her arms and stared at the jar. “Well,” she began, “if the volume of the jar is the height times the surface of the base.” Her mind began to whizz like a noisy hard drive. “And if the sweet is about 3 cm3, then the number of sweets is... 53 x 100 π ÷ 3... approximately... 5546.”

  “Not bad, little sis,” grinned Amin, writing her answer down. “Your turn, Ramzi.”

  Ramzi gulped. “No thanks. I told you... I can only do maps and stuff.”

  “Go on,” said Shaima. “Have a go.”

  Ramzi looked at the sweets. There were loads. But he couldn’t write that. He looked at the column of answers. They were all similar. He picked a number somewhere in the middle: “5,777,” he said at last. “But it’s just a guess.”

  “Cool,” said Amin, scribbling the answer down. “And take no notice of Shaima. She’s not exactly normal.” He winked.

  “What’s so good about normal, anyway?” said Shaima, digging Amin in the ribs.

  A loud voice echoed through the speakers at the back of the stage:

  “Could all those wishing to have a guided tour, please come to the refectory?”

  “That’s the new Deputy Head,” said Amin. “Professor Entwistle.”

  “Where’s the Headmistress?” asked Shaima, clearly disappointed. “Has she left?”

  “No. She’s in Geneva.... taking the sixth form to visit the Hadron Collider.”

  “You mean that huge tunnel where they collide particle-beams at super-fast speeds?” asked Shaima.

  Ramzi tried to picture it: a sort of underground motorway full of flashing torch lights and bouncing dots.

  “What are they doing that for?” he asked.

  “So they can understand the origins of matter immediately after the Big Bang,” said Amin. “You know, they’re sort of like trying to understand ‘the mind of God’.”

  “I so want to come to this school!” grinned Shaima. Then she remembered something and her face fell. “Amin, I really need to talk to you,” she said.

  “Why? What’s up? What’ve you done?”

  “Well...” Shaima fiddled with one of her plaits. “It’s not me, exactly. It’s Aunty Urooj. I’m really worried about her and it’s kind of all my fault.”

  ***

  A few words can change everything. One minute, Shaima felt awful. But the next minute, she was on cloud nine. For Amin loved the idea of The Black Cat Detective Agency and he was sure that Ramzi and Shaima would get to the bottom of the mystery of Rasheed Khan.

  Sometimes that’s all you need: someone who believes in you. Shaima gave Amin a big hug and breathed a sigh of relief. He hugged her back and patted her head.

  “Hey, there’s your Nanna,” said Ramzi, pointing at the crowd. Nanna Stalk was waving a plastic bag in the air.

  “Alhamdulillah – she’s brought me some ‘real’ food at last,” grinned Amin. He leapt across the table and down off the stage.

  “What’s wrong with the food here?” asked Ramzi.

  “Not halal,” shouted Amin. “And if I have to eat another lentil bake, I’m going to...”

  “Lentils are a fantastic source of iron and...” began Shaima.

  “Shaima... I love ya... but give it a rest,” yelled Amin.

  Shaima grinned at Ramzi and they chased after Amin, squeezing their way through the crowd. When they reached him, Amin was throwing Iqbal in the air, making him squeal with laughter.

  “Look what we’ve brought you,” smiled Nanna Stalk, opening her supermarket bag.

  Amin put his head inside and took a deep breath. “Ahhhhh! Home!” he sighed.

  “Not home, silly,” giggled Iqbal. “It’s samosas.”

  ***

  Ramzi and Shaima had never seen anything like it. They watched gunpowder experiments in the science block, heard didgeridoo recitals in the music rooms, and watched the Maths teacher do handstands on his desk!

  “Mr Braithwaite says it helps him think,” grinned Amin. Ramzi and Shaima laughed. “Come on, or we’ll miss the Prize-giving Ceremony.”

  They rushed back to the Grand Hall and found the others, just in time. Certificates had already been given out for Mathematical Chairs, Pin the Tail on the Asteroid and Latin Whispers.

  “And now for the Sweet Jar Guesstimate,” said Professor Entwistle. “It gives me great pleasure to tell you that the winner is....” There was a deep hush as the professor opened the envelope. “... Mr Ramzi Ramadan.”

  Nanna Stalk clapped loudly but Ramzi blushed. “I just copied everyone else,” he whispered to Shaima.

  “But your guess was right.”

  “Really?” asked Ramzi. “You mean, you don’t mind?”

  “’Course not!” said Shaima.

  She nudged him with her arm and Ramzi stumbled through the crowd. With churning stomach and shaking knees, he staggered up to the stage.

  “Assalemu aleikum, Ramzi, well done,” said Professor Entwistle, shaking Ramzi’s hand. Ramzi looked up at the Professor and felt his cheeks burn. Stooping over, the Professor spoke into the microphone:

  “Congratulations – and this year’s prize is...” He opened a blue envelope: “A hot air balloon ride for four! Courtesy of The Pendragon Balloon Company!”

  The hall echoed with applause as Professor Entwistle gave Ramzi the tickets.

  Ramzi was l
ost for words. A hot air balloon ride! He’d always wanted to go up in a hot air balloon. And four tickets meant that he could take Shaima – suddenly he didn’t feel so bad. He turned and grinned at the sea of clapping hands.

  ***

  “Who are you going to take?” asked Amin, making space for Ramzi in the crowd.

  “You and Shaima, of course. Oh, and my dad,” said Ramzi.

  “What about your mum?” asked Amin.

  “She’s got Baby Zed.”

  “Great!” grinned Amin.

  But Ramzi was looking thoughtful. “How come Professor Entwistle gave me salaams?” he asked.

  “Because your name’s ‘Ramadan’, you muppet,” laughed Shaima.

  “No... but... I mean, he said it perfectly.”

  “’Cos he’s Muslim,” said Amin.

  “Really?” said Ramzi.

  “Muslim?” blinked Shaima, staring at the stage. Professor Entwistle was giving a hamper of pickles to the winner of the chess tournament. “He can’t be Muslim.”

  “Why not?” asked Amin.

  “Well...” began Shaima.

  “It’s cos he hasn’t got a beard, isn’t it?” interrupted Ramzi.

  “No!” said Shaima. “Of course not.” She looked at Professor Entwistle’s sparkling blue eyes and neatly trimmed blonde moustache. “It’s just that...” Her voice trailed off.

  The professor continued: “And now, I am delighted to announce the winner of the grand raffle....”

  “It’s cos he’s English, then,” said Ramzi. “I bet you don’t think I look very Muslim either. Well, let me remind you, Shaima Stalk, the Prophet Muhamed (peace be upon him) wasn’t actually from Pakistan.”

  “Sorry,” stammered Shaima, “I didn’t mean...”

  But Shaima Stalk was lost for words. Ramzi noticed that her bottom lip was quivering.

  He looked at Professor Entwistle again and felt bad. He couldn’t really blame her. With his dark green cords, tweed blazer and gingham shirt, Professor Entwistle looked like he was going to a fox hunt, not a mosque.

  “Forget it,” said Ramzi. “It doesn’t matter. Honest.”

  “Are we still partners?” asked Shaima anxiously.

  “Yeh – ’course, Agent Stalk.”

  Shaima smiled.

  “Will you two stop your chattering!” said Nanna Stalk, putting her finger to her lips. “I want to see if I won the Rubix Cube Contest.”

  Cash in the Attic

  Nanna Stalk was gracious in defeat. “Well, I can’t expect to win everything. Not at my age,” she said. “Especially when most of those children have the brains of elephants.”

  “Do they?” asked Iqbal, surprised.

  Ramzi leant as far forward as his seatbelt would let him. “I didn’t know elephants were clever,” he said.

  “Oh yes,” nodded Nanna Stalk. “They’ve always struck me as being most wise.”

  “We’re here,” said Mrs Stalk, pulling the hand break on the people-carrier. “Belts off.”

  “Nanna...” began Iqbal, “can I be an elephant when I grow up?”

  “You’re a bit of a Dumbo already,” giggled Shaima.

  “Shaima! Manners,” said Mrs Stalk.

  Iqbal leapt out of the car, opened an old wooden gate and raced down Aunty Zakiya’s garden path, swinging his trunk as he went.

  “And this,” said Shaima, waving her hand, “is Aunty Zakiya’s cottage.”

  It had yellow roses trailing over the front door and apple trees in the garden. Ramzi thought it looked like one of those cottages on fancy biscuit tins. At least, he did at first. But then he noticed something strange. There were cardboard boxes and bubble wrap pressed against the downstairs windows.

  “Is she moving house?” asked Ramzi.

  “No,” smiled Shaima, “I told you – she collects things.”

  Rat a tat tat.

  The brass knocker clattered and the curtains twitched. Then, after what seemed like forever, someone opened the door. Ramzi guessed it was Aunty Zakiya but he couldn’t be sure. You see, the person in front of him looked like a black pillar-box – with the slit for the letters framing sparkly brown eyes.

  “Whyever are you wearing niqab?” exclaimed Nanna Stalk. “We’re just family.”

  Aunty Zakiya glanced at Ramzi and winked. “Not all of you,” she said. “So, this is Ramzi Ramadan?”

  “Yes. But he’s only a child, Zakiya,” said Nanna Stalk. “Really, you’re taking this too far!”

  “Are you Ramzi – only a child?” Aunty Zakiya’s eyes twinkled mischievously.

  “No,” said Ramzi. “I’m nearly eleven already.”

  “Exactly,” nodded the black pillar-box. “Ammi, why do you always have to be so...”

  “So what?” asked Nanna Stalk.

  “Well, so... old-fashioned,” said Aunty Zakiya.

  “Old-fashioned?” exclaimed Nanna Stalk. “For your information, young lady, I spent most of last week canoeing on the internet.”

  “You mean ‘surfing’,” said Shaima.

  “That’s what I said!” snapped Nanna Stalk.

  Aunty Zakiya’s eyes smiled. “Well done, Ammi,” she said, kissing both her cheeks. “Now, where’s my favourite nephew and niece?”

  “All of me’s here,” grinned Iqbal, throwing himself at the black cloth. Aunty Zakiya tickled him until he wriggled with laughter.

  “Aunty,” said Shaima, peering into the hall. “Do you think you’ve got some spare magnifying glasses?”

  “Are you looking for bugs again?” asked Aunty Zakiya.

  “No, it’s not that,” said Shaima. “We’re...” She stopped and looked at Ramzi. She couldn’t tell them about The Black Cat Detective Agency, could she?

  Ramzi could see her weakening. “It’s a matter of national importance,” he said. “But we’re sworn to total secrecy.”

  “I see,” said Aunty Zakiya. “In that case, you’d better see what you can find. This house is full of treasures!”

  Ramzi and Shaima ran off. Meanwhile, Mrs Stalk slipped off her flip-flops and Nanna squeezed past the stacked boxes in the hall.

  “When will you have enough?” asked Nanna Stalk.

  “It’s my job, Ammi. I’m an antique dealer. It’s how I pay my bills. Why won’t you at least try and understand?”

  “Because you trained to be a lawyer, Zakiya. You could have had the world at your feet.” Nanna Stalk pushed past her daughter and bustled down the hall.

  “I don’t want the world at my feet,” sighed Aunty Zakiya, looking at her toes. “I like it exactly where it is.”

  “She just worries about you, that’s all,” said Mrs Stalk, patting Aunty Zakiya’s shoulder.

  “Then tell her to stop worrying. I’m fine. Now... tell me about Amin. How is he doing?”

  “He’s all hungry,” said Iqbal, rubbing his tummy. “Iqbal hungry too.”

  Aunty Zakiya laughed. “Well, it’s a good job I’ve made cake,” she said. “Come on, there’s still some space to sit in the lounge.”

  ***

  “I’ve found something!” cried Ramzi. He was peering under a white cotton sheet behind an old chest-of-drawers. “It’s much better than a magnifying glass.”

  “Let’s see,” Shaima scrambled across the room and helped pull back the sheet. And there it was – an old wooden telescope on a gleaming bronze stand.

  “Awesome!” sighed Shaima. “But do you think it still works?”

  “Sure,” said Ramzi. He tilted the telescope in the direction of the window, up towards the sky. A distant flock of starlings lurched into view.

  “Of course it works,” said Aunty Zakiya, her black outline popping round the door. “I’m an antique dealer, not a rag-and-bone man. Now come and have a mango smoothie. I’ve put extra ice-cream in.” She disappeared, the drinks tray rattling down the hall.

  “It’s my turn now,” said Shaima, elbowing Ramzi aside. Standing on tiptoe, she lowered the telescope and swivelled it round on its stand.

/>   “Careful!” exclaimed Ramzi. Just in time! He’d only just managed to catch the strange-looking vase that Shaima had knocked off the windowsill.

  “WHATEVER YOU DO, DON’T GO NEAR THAT CHINESE VASE,” called Aunty Zakiya. “IT MIGHT BE FROM THE QUAINLONG DYNASTY.”

  “Phew! That was close!” said Ramzi, putting the vase back.

  Shaima turned to Ramzi. “Did she just say Quainlong Dynasty?”

  “Yeh – I think so.”

  “Subhan’Allah!” exclaimed Shaima. “One of those just sold for 43 million pounds!”

  “No way!” exclaimed Ramzi. They both stared at the vase. The weird fish swimming across its surface seemed to stare back at them.

  “It must be a fake,” said Ramzi, taking a step backwards. “I mean... she wouldn’t just leave it here if it was worth that much.”

  “Of course not,” nodded Shaima. “That would be silly.” But she moved the telescope away from the vase, just in case.

  “Anyway,” said Ramzi, turning his back on the vase. “Do you reckon this thing’s good enough for The Black Cat Detective Agency, Agent Stalk?”

  Shaima peered through the lens. “Well, I can see right into that man’s car. He’s eating some crisps... they’re salt and vinegar... and he’s got a tattoo on his wrist. Yeh. I think it’ll be great, Agent Ramadan.”

  Ramzi noticed a tiny red car out of the window. It was weaving its way through distant hedgerows.

  “Let’s have a look,” said Ramzi. He peered through the telescope and the car shot into range. Sure enough, there was the crisp packet, the hand and the tattoo!

  “This’d be perfect for spying with,” he said. “But will she let us have it?”

  Shaima just grinned.

  ***

  It was getting late by the time they left. Nanna Stalk was strapping Iqbal into his car seat whilst Mrs Stalk was squeezing the antique telescope into the boot of the car.