“I can’t believe she just gave it to you,” said Ramzi.
Shaima laughed.
“Well of course she gave it to you,” sighed Nanna Stalk. “That daughter of mine has no sense of money.”
Ramzi looked back at the house and saw Aunty Zakiya’s pillar-box silhouette appear behind the closed curtains. Two arms stretched up as she took off her niqab – and a new silhouette appeared – a slight little figure with a bobbing pony tail. Then she was gone.
“Why does she live here on her own?” asked Ramzi.
“Cos she likes it,” said Shaima.
“But isn’t it a bit...”
“What?”
“I dunno... spooky?”
The cottage looked eerie as it faded in the half-light. And it was so quiet. Not like Cinnamon Grove. At home, there was always the hum of distant traffic. A dog barking. An ice-cream van. A child laughing outside. But on the winding lane outside Aunty Zakiya’s house, there was only the sound of the wind.
“We’re always asking her to move back to Cinnamon Grove,” began Mrs Stalk.
“But she’s as stubborn as a mule,” interrupted Nanna Stalk.
“Nanna!” said Shaima.
Mrs Stalk started the engine and drove down the twisting lane.
“Do you reckon there are ghosts here?” asked Ramzi, peering into the thickening darkness.
“You mean ‘unexplained supernatural phenomena’?” said Shaima.
“Yeh,” said Ramzi. He could feel the skin tingling on the back of his neck.
“No,” said Shaima. “It’s highly unlikely. You’re probably just experiencing some sort of mild anxiety.”
“Am not,” said Ramzi. But he felt disappointed. Why did Shaima have to be so logical about everything? He looked up at the pale, charcoal sky and watched the stars appear – one by one. He traced them with his finger. ‘I’ll go up there, one day,’ he thought. ‘Outer Space. Beyond the Final Frontier. Where no man has gone before....’
Shaima prodded his arm. “You’re doing it again, Agent Ramadan,” she said.
“What?”
“Dreaming,” said Shaima.
“Nothing wrong with dreaming,” shouted Mrs Stalk, over the sound of the radio. “In fact, I’ve always thought that dreaming is what makes us human...”
“But animals dream too, Ammi,” said Shaima. “When four rats had micro-electrodes implanted in their hippocampus...” Suddenly, her voice became strange and muffled: “Iqbal! ’ill you ’lease take your ’oot out of my ’ouf!”
Ramzi smiled in the darkness. He loved being with the Stalks. But he couldn’t wait to get home. It felt like he’d been away for weeks, not just a day. He hoped Baby Zed was OK and that Mum and Dad weren’t worried about him.
Something dug into his leg. He reached into his pocket and brought out a crumpled envelope – the tickets for the Hot Air Balloon Ride! How could he have forgotten? His stomach swirled with excitement. Not long now.
Don’t Panic!
When Ramzi got home that night, Baby Zed was already fast asleep. It felt good to be the only one again. I mean, he loved his new little sister. But it was the first time in weeks that he’d had Mum and Dad all to himself. Dad made some warm, sweet, fluffy milk – full of sugar and cinnamon – and Mum prepared a plate of hot buttered toast. Then they sat around the kitchen table and just waited for Ramzi to talk.
Mum and Dad blinked in amazement as he described the gunpowder experiments at The Academy. They gasped when he told them about the nearly-smashed Chinese vase. And they clapped after he said he’d won the Sweet Jar Guesstimate. But when he showed them the tickets for the Hot Air Balloon Ride, Dad’s face fell.
“But there’s four tickets,” said Dad.
“Yeh, I know,” grinned Ramzi.
“... but that means four people,” said Dad, slowly.
Ramzi smiled. “Yeh, Dad. Me, Shaima, Amin and you.”
“Me?” said Dad.
“Go on!” laughed Mum. “It’ll be fun.”
“Fun?”
“Yeh. It’ll be totally cool,” said Ramzi.
“Cool?” said Dad, his voice rising to a squeak.
Mum nudged Ramzi. “I think Dad’s just lost the power of speech,” she said.
“I am p...p... perfectly c...c... capable of speech,” stuttered Dad. “It is just that... well... I’ve got vertigo... so it’s impossible for me to go up in a Hot Air Balloon. I mean... I’d love to... but... well... surfaces just can’t be trusted.”
“You can do it, Mohamed,” said Mum.
“Ruby – vertigo is an illness, not an attitude,” said Dad.
“I know, love. But remember all those cliff walks we did on our honeymoon?”
“I was a young man then – besides...” Dad blushed.
Mum skipped over and pinched his cheek. “Oh, you old dafty,” she said.
“Dad, I really want you to come,” pleaded Ramzi. “It won’t be the same without you.”
“Why don’t you take Mum, son? She’d love it.” Dad put his arm round Mum’s shoulders and squeezed hard.
“Oh no,” laughed Mum, shaking her head. “You’re not getting away with it that easily. Besides, someone’s got to look after Baby Zed.”
“I’ll do that,” said Dad. “Not a problem. I can change nappies. I can sing songs. I could even take her swimming.”
“Swimming?” said Mum, horrified. “She’s six weeks old and needs feeding every two hours! There’s no way I’d go gallivanting off in a hot air balloon while you drown our baby at the local pool!”
“Dad,” pleaded Ramzi. “I really want you to come.”
Dad winced. “Really?”
Ramzi nodded. “Yes!”
“Well...” said Dad, taking a deep breath. “I suppose that the believer should have no fear...”
Mum looked at Ramzi and winked.
“OK,” said Dad. “I’ll do it. But just this once.”
“I knew you would,” grinned Ramzi. “It’s next Saturday. Half past ten. On Bartholomew’s Mount.”
Dad gulped and mumbled something in Arabic.
Agent Ramadan – Over and Out
Shaima was on her hands and knees – a tall glass pressed against her ear. It wasn’t just any glass. It was a Black Cat Detective’s spy-glass and she could hear everything in the room below.
“I never thought I’d learn to ice-skate! Not at my age!” laughed Nanna Stalk.
“Did you see him glide across the ice, Ammi?” said Aunty Urooj.
“Yes, masha’Allah. And such a gentleman. Helping old ladies on to the rink. What kindness. And to think that he’s an orphan – with no guidance – yet such beautiful manners.”
Shaima felt sick. What was wrong with them? Why couldn’t they see that Rasheed Khan was no good? She put the glass on the table next to her Black Cat Detective Casebook. Then she tiptoed over to the telescope.
“Shaima – have you finished your non-verbal, mathematically puzzling paper yet?” called Mrs Stalk.
“Nearly!” shouted Shaima. Her spectacles clattered against the lens. Suddenly Rasheed Khan was larger than life. She could see the hairs on the back of his neck! She moved the telescope to the right. A blackbird looked her in the eye. Blast. She moved it left and down a bit. Good. His hand. He was texting somebody. Probably his mum. Or maybe worse? Maybe.... Shaima grabbed the telescope off its stand, stuffed it into an old sports bag and ran downstairs.
THUD, THUD, THUD.
“Where are you going?” shouted Mrs Stalk. “I need to mark your work.”
Shaima put her head round the door, plaits swinging like pendulums. “I’m just going to play football with Ramzi,” she said. “Exercise stimulates the brain. I won’t be long.” The door slammed shut.
“But...” Mrs Stalk leaned over the sink, pressing her hand against the window, “you hate football.”
Shaima kept on running.
“Ammi,” said Iqbal, pulling on Mrs Stalk’s bright green sari. “Can I put these in
a special place?”
Mrs Stalk turned round. Iqbal had three fat snails stuck on his arm.
“EUCH!” shrieked Mrs Stalk. “Get those things out of my kitchen!”
Aunty Urooj stroked one of the snail’s shells. “They’re so misunderstood, poor things. Come on, Iqbal. Why don’t we go to the park and find your beautiful snails a new home?”
Iqbal grinned.
“But I thought you had a plane to catch,” said Mrs Stalk. “Don’t you have to be in Dusseldorf tonight?”
“There’s always time to look after gastropods,” smiled Aunty Urooj.
Mrs Stalk sighed in despair.
“I like you being a doctor of snails, Aunty ’Rooj,” said Iqbal, as they skipped to the park.
“And I like you being Iqbal,” smiled Aunty Urooj.
***
Ramzi was playing football in his garden when Shaima flew past. “Drop everything, Agent Ramadan,” she yelled.
He’d been hiding behind a fence when Rasheed Khan had walked by, so he was totally ready for action.
“I’ve got you covered, Agent Stalk,” he shouted, leaping over the gate and tumble-rolling across the pavement.
“What are you doing?” hissed Shaima.
“It’s what secret agents do,” said Ramzi. “I saw it on TV.”
Shaima blinked in disbelief. “Not in Cinnamon Grove. Get back in the hedge, he’ll see you!”
Ramzi pressed himself against the shrubbery.
“Right. It’s all clear. Let’s follow,” said Shaima.
The Black Cat Detectives kept at a safe distance, jumping into hedgerows or behind parked cars whenever Rasheed Khan slowed his pace.
Ramzi was beginning to get out of breath. “What are we following him for, exactly?” he asked.
“We’re collecting evidence, of course! Quick! Hide!” Shaima grabbed Ramzi by the t-shirt and yanked him into a bush. Rasheed had stopped. A bus chugged passed, obscuring their view. It turned the corner. He was gone!
“Oh no! We’ve lost him!” exclaimed Ramzi. But Shaima was smiling, her hand cupped by her ear. Ramzi listened and heard a faint bell ring. It was the unmistakable sound of the door to Café Rouge.
“Follow him, Agent Ramadan,” said Shaima.
“Why me?” asked Ramzi, brushing the leaves off his head.
“Because he knows what I look like. He’s never seen you – you’re the perfect spy. Go on. Quick. I’ll watch your back.”
“You’ll do what?” asked Ramzi, puzzled.
“It’s what secret agents do,” winked Shaima. “I saw it on TV.” She pulled The Black Cat Detectives’ telescope and the bright red casebook out of her bag. “And don’t forget to take notes,” she said. “Here, have this. And don’t lose it.” She passed Ramzi an ‘invisible ink’ pen. “The ink just rubs off if we need to destroy the evidence.”
“Cool,” said Ramzi. “Where did you get it?”
Shaima just tapped her nose. “Any problems – just make a sign.”
“OK,” said Ramzi, stuffing the casebook and pen up his t-shirt. “What sort of sign?”
“I don’t know. Scratch your head or something. Just hurry up.” Shaima pushed Ramzi out of the bushes and darted back into the leaves.
“But I haven’t got any money!” hissed Ramzi. Some coins came flying out of the shrub. Ramzi was trying to catch them when he bumped into an old man walking his dog.
“Blimey!” laughed the man. “And I thought they said money doesn’t grow on trees.”
Ramzi forced a smile. Then he grabbed the coins as they spun on the pavement and took a deep breath. He’d never been in a café on his own before. But he wasn’t going to tell Shaima that. No. He was going to pretend that this was completely normal. After all, he wasn’t Ramzi Ramadan. He was Agent Ramadan. And he had a mission.
***
“Driiiiiiiing.” The café bell rang loudly. Ramzi turned his face towards the window, in case he’d been seen. Then he sidled over to the counter.
“Orange juice please,” he muttered, looking at the floor. The woman behind the counter passed him his drink.
“You look a bit peaky, love,” she said.
Ramzi pulled his dark curls in front of his face, mumbled something and turned round.
After the bright sunlight outside, the café seemed poky and dark – but Ramzi could just about make out some figures. There were two women sitting on an old leather sofa, sipping lattes by the window. A bald man with a walking stick was doing a crossword by the door and a young man in a denim jacket was reading a newspaper in the corner. But there was no sign of Rasheed Khan!
Perhaps Shaima had been mistaken. Maybe he wasn’t in here after all. Ramzi sat on a rickety chair near the window and sighed with relief. His hands were still shaking. He took a swig of orange juice and looked out of the window. Shaima’s telescope was sticking out of the bush!
“HE’S NOT HERE,” mouthed Ramzi, scratching his head. Shaima didn’t come out so he winked a few times. No luck. Perhaps if he stuck out his tongue she’d notice.
The woman with long frizzy hair nudged her friend and they started to giggle.
Ramzi blushed. What must they think? He started to gulp down his juice when he heard the WHIZZZZ of a hand-dryer behind him. A door swung open and shut. Then a young man brushed past him. A man in a cream cotton suit. A man with jet black hair. A man wearing white suede shoes. It was Rasheed Khan! Ramzi spluttered on his orange juice.
“Are you all right, dear?” asked the woman with the big hair.
“We noticed you were a bit...” her friend sniggered, “out of sorts.”
Ramzi nodded and slunk down in his chair. Being a Black Cat Detective wasn’t easy. But he wasn’t going to give up. No way. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched as Rasheed swung into the corner next to the man in the denim jacket. They hunched together over a newspaper and started laughing.
But Ramzi couldn’t hear what they were saying. The enormous silver coffee machine was making too much noise. He needed to get closer. But how? What would a Black Cat Detective do? Suddenly, it came to him. There was a shelf of magazines just behind them. Perfect. Ramzi went over and picked up a tattered copy of Fly Fishing Weekly. It was the perfect size – just big enough to cover the edges of The Black Cat Detective Casebook. He pulled it from under his T-shirt and started to write down what he heard:
Man: Are you sure they’re related, Rash?
Rasheed: How many Asian ‘Stalks’ do you think live round here, man?
Man: Good point. So, she’s going to be, like, totally loaded?
Rasheed: Yeh. And much more wealthy than a bloomin’ GP.
Man: So you don’t mind getting hitched to a bug lady?
Rasheed: She won’t be a bug lady once we’re married. No need. Not when we’re rolling in it. Anyway, I’m gonna get rid.
Man: Of what?
Rasheed: Those bugs. Freak me out, man.
Man: Nice one. But it’s not gonna be easy – with a ‘Mrs’ at your side.
Rasheed: That’s why you’re gonna do it. You owe me, remember?
The man nodded and drummed his fingers on the table. Then Rasheed lowered his voice until it was barely a whisper.
Ramzi slipped the casebook under his T-shirt, dropped the magazine on the floor behind their table and bent down to listen. He only heard a few words, but it was enough:
“... keys... laboratory... honeymoon... fire!” Putting the magazine back on the shelf, Ramzi headed for the door. He was none the wiser about Fly Fishing but he knew a lot more about the hearts of men.
***
“You were right about Rasheed,” panted Ramzi, rushing into the bush. “He’s going to burn her beetle collection!”
“He’s what?” shrieked Shaima.
“Yeh. When they’re on their honeymoon. He’s getting his friend to do it.”
“You’re joking! But why?” gasped Shaima.
“He totally hates bugs. He thought she was a wealthy GP, not an insectolog
ist.”
“This is so my fault,” sighed Shaima. “I thought she’d get more replies on Truly Deeply Muslims if I didn’t mention the ‘insectologist’ bit.”
“What I don’t get,” said Ramzi, “is why he still wants to marry her when he knows about the beetles? It’s totally weird. He thinks she’s loaded.”
Shaima passed Ramzi the telescope. “Take a look,” she said. Rasheed and his friend had gone but they’d left an open newspaper on the table. Ramzi peered through the lens:
“I’m not that interested in money,” said niqab-wearing Ms Zakiya Stalk. “I’ll give some to my brother and sister. The rest will go to charity.”
“So Aunty Urooj will be rich,” said Ramzi.
“And Rasheed Khan knows! We’ve got to warn her! Now!” said Shaima, squeezing the telescope into her bag. “Otherwise her beetle collection will go up in smoke!”
***
They rushed back to Cinnamon Grove as fast as they could. Shaima and Ramzi burst into Number Twelve and started searching the rooms.
“Stop banging the doors!” said Mrs Stalk.
“But Ammi, where’s Aunty Urooj?!” panted. Shaima. Ramzi stumbled into the kitchen: “Assalemu aleikum, Mrs Stalk.”
“Wa’aleikum assalem, Ramzi. Where are your manners, Shaima? You didn’t tell me Ramzi was coming for tea.”
“I’m not, Mrs Stalk. We’re just...” He didn’t know what to say.
“Well, if you’re looking for your aunty, I’m afraid you’re too late,” said Mrs Stalk, wiping Iqbal’s face with a dish cloth.
“Aunty ’Rooj all gone,” grinned Iqbal.
“Where? Where’s she gone?” asked Shaima.
“She flew away,” said Iqbal.
Shaima looked at Ramzi. “Oh no!” she gasped. “She’s gone to Dusseldorf!”
“It’s OK, Agent Stalk,” said Ramzi. “She’ll be totally safe there. He won’t do anything. Not ’til she’s back.”
Mrs Stalk looked confused. Then she smiled and waggled her finger. “Oh, I see. You’re playing some kind of game. Very good.”
The Black Cat Detectives Page 5
