‘I don’t like this,’ Thug said nervously.
‘Me neither,’ Slasher agreed. He pulled a face. ‘I never thought I’d hear myself say this, Thug, me old mate, but I’d rather clean Pam’s poo bucket.’
‘I’d rather scrub Pork’s bum,’ Thug said gloomily. ‘This place gives me the creeps.’
The two birds were in Ricardo Butteredsconi’s private pickling laboratory.
This was where he and Pork spent the three hundred and sixty-four days of the year that they weren’t in the pickle factory. It was where they preserved bats, rats, gnats, lizards, monkeys, mice, lice, spiders, snakes, drakes, goats, stoats, moles, voles, scorpions, millipedes, zillipedes, trillipedes, hogs, frogs, loads of toads, quails, snails, baby whales, sows, cows, bugs, pugs, slugs, weevils, beavers, chicks, ticks, foxes, oxes, germs, worms, bees, fleas and manatees … and, of course, sharks, and stuck them into jars and tanks.
It was where they had pickled the megalodon.
It was where they planned to pickle Inspector Cheddar later that night.
‘This is where the patients from the old hospital were brought when they died,’ Slasher hissed.
‘Don’t remind me!’ Thug looked pale. Zenia had told them all about the mad doctor and his experiments the day before.
‘Yeah, but you fainted before Zenia got to the really gruesome bit,’ Slasher insisted.
‘Go on, then,’ Thug said, his curiosity getting the better of him.
‘This is the mortuary slab,’ Slasher went on, ‘what he laid the corpses on whilst he got them ready.’
‘What do you mean, got them ready?’ Thug asked.
‘Well, you know, pickled them like what Butteredsconi does with his vegetables and animals and stuff so they didn’t smell too much whilst he was experimenting on them.’
‘Maybe we should have tried that with Beaky,’ Thug said thoughtfully. Beaky was one of their friends who had been killed by a passing car. The magpies had held a funeral for him. ‘He’d got a bit whiffy by the time we had our gathering.’
‘Yeah, maybe,’ Slasher agreed.
The two magpies stopped for a rest.
‘You missed a bit!’ Pam the parrot was in charge of the cleaning operation.
Pam wasn’t at all squeamish. Nor was Pork. The idea of pickling a human made them guffaw with laughter, particularly when Zenia told them they would both get to help.
Pam took off from her perch and landed on the table. She pointed at a rusty coloured spot of gunk with her wing. ‘Clean it up!’ she squawked at Thug.
‘I can’t,’ Thug moaned. ‘Not after what Slasher just told me. I’ll be sick.’
‘Pass the Slab Brite, Thug,’ Slasher sighed. ‘I’ll do it.’
Thug pushed the jar towards his friend with his toe, averting his eyes from the label.
Slasher dipped his rag into the polish and rubbed away at the rusty spot.
‘Good.’ Pam pronounced herself satisfied. ‘Now go and help Jim with the embalming tank.’
Jimmy Magpie was performing a similar task on a large copper cylinder next to the mortuary table. The cylinder had tubes sticking out of it and a pedal at the bottom attached to a pump.
‘No way!’ Thug objected. ‘It’s too gruesome. It’s like something out of a horror film. You know, one of them ones where zombies pop up and pull all your feathers out.’
‘Gruesome, poosome!’ Pam nipped at him. ‘Go and help or I’ll tell Pork I want to pickle YOU!’
‘Okay, okay!’ Thug shuffled off the table with his rag in his beak. He dropped to the tiled floor in a flutter of feathers, grumbling to himself. ‘Chaka-chaka-chaka-chaka-chaka!’
Slasher flew after him. They joined their boss at the base of the embalming tank.
‘Get on with it, Jim!’ Pam snapped. ‘You’ve still got the surgical instruments and the drainage vat to go.’
‘Shut up, you old bat,’ Jimmy shouted back. ‘Can’t you see I’m doing it?’ Jimmy had nearly finished the tank. Beside the cylinder was a large copper basin. Next to that was a tray full of hypodermic needles, syringes, scalpels and various pairs of curiously shaped scissors.
‘She’s not going to make us watch, is she?’ Thug said in a pathetic voice, eyeing the equipment.
Jimmy shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I wish they’d pickle her instead. Anyway,’ he added, ‘I don’t see why you’re so uptight about it, Thug. We hate humans, remember? They’re car-driving magpie mashers. It’s them that turned Beaky into roadkill. They don’t think anything about mangling us. This is our chance to get even.’
‘You’ve got to admit the boss is right, Thug,’ Slasher agreed. ‘It was Inspector Cheese who put us in the slammer in the first place. He deserves it.’ He put a comforting wing around Thug. ‘Don’t worry, it won’t be that bad. All they’re going to do is drain his blood out and inject him with formaldehyde.’
‘Form-al-de-doody what?’ Thug asked weakly.
‘It’s a posh name for pickle juice,’ Slasher explained. ‘Anyway, then they’re going to pop him in a pickling tank like the megalodon so that Butteredsconi and Pork can look at him floating about. I mean, where’s the harm in that?’ He gave Thug a little squeeze. ‘And it’s not like he’ll feel anything cos he’s asleep. Although,’ he added as an afterthought, ‘it could get a bit messy when the pump starts.’
PLOOMPH! Thug slipped from under Slasher’s wing and passed out on the tiles.
Just then Ginger Biscuit sauntered in. ‘Not long now, boys!’ He cast a meaningful glance at Pam. The intention was that Biscuit would make Pam ‘disappear’ after Inspector Cheddar was pickled. Then they would be freed.
‘What about Claw?’ Jimmy demanded.
‘Don’t worry about him,’ Ginger Biscuit said. ‘There’s nothing more he and the rest of those sickening do-gooders can do without another search warrant. By the time they get here – if they get here – Inspector Cheddar will be Butteredsconi’s prize exhibit, Pam will be in Pork’s stomach and we’ll be long gone. Then we’ll bide our time, go back to Littleton-on-Sea when Claw’s not expecting us and squish him, just like we planned. Vroom, squish, squash. Okay?’
‘What if he comes anyway,’ Jimmy insisted, ‘without the others?’
Ginger Biscuit grinned. ‘I hope he does,’ he said. ‘There’s plenty of room in the pickling tank for him as well. Besides,’ he added, ‘the security at this place is crazy …’ He paused meaningfully. ‘And I mean crazy.’
He bent down and whispered something to Jimmy.
Jimmy’s eyes gleamed. ‘Nice,’ he said, ‘very nice. I couldn’t have thought of anything more devious myself.’ He drew himself up and stretched his wings, examining the glossy blue sheen on the tips. Then he spread his tail feathers and did the same with the green shine on those. He looked twice the size he had a moment ago and a whole lot more evil.
Thug had woken up. He and Slasher watched Jimmy Magpie with a growing sense of excitement. To tell the truth, they’d been a bit worried about how parrot-pecked their boss had become since his marriage to Pam. But this looked more like the Jimmy they knew of old.
‘CHAKA-CHAKA-CHAKA-CHAKA-CHAKA!’ Jimmy’s voice rang harsh and cruel around the pickling laboratory. ‘Boys,’ he said to Thug and Slasher, ‘forget Cheddar. I think we might be in for a good cat-crushing tonight. Take a look at this.’
Ginger Biscuit padded over to an old TV monitor and switched it on.
The three magpies crowded round. What they saw was Ricardo Butteredsconi, Pork and Zenia upstairs in the drawing room scoffing pickled chocolates. Butteredsconi muttered something to Pork. The pig trotted off and returned with the remote control in his mouth. The remote control had two security settings. It was currently set to PRETEND. Ricardo Butteredsconi’s fat sausage fingers gripped the dial.
‘Chaka-chaka-chaka-chaka-chaka!’ the mapgies chattered their approval as Ricardo Butteredsconi slowly twisted it to the other setting: FOR REAL.
‘There it is!’ Mrs Tucker roared towards
Butteredsconi’s Pickle Factory on her motorbike.
Atticus and Mimi were squashed up in the sidecar with Michael and Callie. Mrs Cheddar perched behind Mrs Tucker on the seat.
Atticus turned his head. The ugly square factory loomed towards them out of the darkness. Beyond it, out to sea, Fort Sconi was just visible in the weak moonlight; pinpricks of electric light shone from the second-floor window, illuminating the rocks beneath.
Atticus looked apprehensively at the sky. It was a dark, windy night. Heavy clouds scudded across the moon. There was going to be a storm.
The motorbike skidded to a halt. Mrs Tucker removed her night-vision binoculars from her basket and swept the sea with them. ‘Herman’s not there yet,’ she muttered. ‘I hope he hurries up.’
Atticus did too. The plan was that Mr Tucker and Bones would provide backup in The Jolly Jellyfish. The rest of them would enter Fort Sconi via the tunnel under the sea. With any luck they would be able to rescue Inspector Cheddar and make their getaway before Butteredsconi and his gang even realised they were there.
Mrs Tucker got back on the motorbike. They sped towards the factory gates.
‘They’re locked!’ Callie said.
The gates were chained and padlocked together.
Atticus hopped out. He might not be a cat burglar any more but the world’s greatest cat detective could still open a padlock in an emergency. He picked at the lock carefully with his claws.
CLICK! The padlock sprung open.
‘Well done, Atticus!’ Michael said. He unwrapped the chain and pushed the factory gates open.
Mrs Tucker wheeled the motorbike into the shadows. ‘We need to watch out for security cameras!’ she hissed.
The rescuers crept through the gates.
Michael led the way to the corrugated door. Atticus hung back. He didn’t want to go on the pickle ride again.
‘Please, Atticus,’ Callie pointed to a second padlock. ‘Help us.’
Atticus swallowed his fear. Mrs Tucker held him up while he picked the second lock. This one was tougher than the padlock on the gates. His claws ached as he twisted the mechanism this way and that. Eventually the padlock gave way. Callie gave him a squeeze and kissed his paw better. ‘Thank you, Atticus,’ she whispered.
Mrs Tucker punched the button on the wall. The corrugated door rolled upwards.
They were in!
‘Don’t put the light on,’ Mrs Tucker warned. ‘We’ll use torches.’
Everyone got out torches, except Atticus and Mimi who could see in the dark.
An empty cart shaped like a giant gherkin trundled along the track in front of them and came to a stop.
‘Is it safe?’ Mrs Tucker asked.
Callie nodded. ‘It’s just a ride about making pickles.’
‘It’s all fake,’ Michael reassured Mrs Tucker. ‘Don’t worry.’
‘Let’s go, then.’
The kids jumped in the front. Mrs Cheddar went behind them. Mrs Tucker sat in the rear.
Atticus hesitated. Everything looked just the same as it had before, but his instinct screamed at him that something was wrong.
‘What’s up?’ Mimi asked.
Atticus shook his head. ‘It’s all too easy. Butteredsconi and the villains must know that we might try and get in through the tunnel.’
‘You think it’s a trap?’
Just then the gherkin started to move.
‘Come on, Atticus!’ Callie called softly.
‘Hurry up, Mimi!’ Mrs Cheddar held out a hand.
‘I guess we’ll just have to risk it.’ Atticus squeezed in between the children. Mimi jumped in with Mrs Cheddar.
CLANG! The bars clanged shut. The cart trundled forward. They were off.
Let me take you on a journey,’ the voice of Ricardo Butteredsconi boomed around the secret tunnel, ‘into the world of pickles.’
It was time for the flying meat. ‘Duck!’ Callie shouted.
Everyone ducked. BAMPH! Somehow they managed to twist to one side as the first huge lump of grizzly meat projected out at them from one side of the cart. BOOMPH! They twisted the other way as the second lump zoomed towards them from the other side of the tunnel.
BOOSH! The two joints of meat met in the middle, showering everyone with blood and gristle.
‘I thought you said it was fake!’ Mrs Tucker shouted from behind.
‘It was!’ Michael yelled back.
‘Well this looks pretty realistic to me!’ Mrs Tucker shouted.
Atticus felt afraid. His instinct had been right. The ride was different in one vital respect. Everything that happened to them when they first visited the factory was about to happen again, only this time it was for real!
Mrs Cheddar had worked it out too. ‘Move to the back, kids!’ she yelled.
‘We can’t!’ Callie and Michael struggled with the bar.
‘Imagine you are a piece of meat,’ the voice intoned. ‘About to be pickled.’
The meat had retreated to the wall.
‘First, you would be washed with water.’ The voice came again.
‘Hold your breath!’ Mrs Cheddar cried.
A deluge of water hit them in the face. Michael and Callie coughed and spluttered. So did Atticus and Mimi.
‘Atticus?’ Mimi meowed. She sounded petrified.
‘Just do as Mrs Cheddar says!’ Atticus meowed back. ‘You’ll be safe with her.’
‘Then you would be rubbed with salt,’ said the voice.
‘Close your eyes!’ Mrs Cheddar gasped. ‘And don’t be scared if something grabs you from behind. That part of it won’t be real.’
Atticus hoped she was right.
A blizzard of white crystals fell from the ceiling, covering them with salt.
CLUNK! Something gripped his shoulders. Callie screamed. So did Mrs Tucker. Six pairs of disembodied rubber hands kneaded their shoulders.
‘You’ve got to get off the seat, kids!’ Mrs Cheddar shouted again.
Atticus’s heart raced. The blade was coming soon.
‘Do it now!’
Callie and Michael twisted and wriggled. They slid off the seat into the foot well of the cart. Atticus was about to follow them when the bar tightened. It gripped him across the chest so tightly that he could hardly breathe.
‘And then you would be left in the cold for several weeks,’ the voice boomed.
Atticus braced himself. A blast of Arctic air hit him in the face like an iced brick. Atticus felt his whiskers freeze.
‘Until you were ready to be carved.’
Atticus wriggled desperately. He knew the blade wouldn’t miss this time. He had to escape!
‘Unscrew the bar, Atticus,’ Callie’s frantic voice came from the foot well. ‘Use your claws. Then we can push it up.’
Atticus turned his head. The bar was screwed on to each side of the cart with three round screws. One of them looked slightly loose. If he could loosen it a bit more then he might still have a chance. Squirming frantically, he managed to free his left paw. It wasn’t the one he usually used, but he would have to manage somehow. He popped out his claws and reached for the loose screw. He bent his paw and fixed the back of his claw along the thread.
Slowly, painfully, he turned the screw once, twice, three times.
He could hear the blade descending.
Callie and Michael were pushing at the bar. It rocked slightly, but not enough for him to wriggle through.
‘Once more, Atticus,’ Michael urged.
The blade was perilously close.
Atticus turned the screw again. Four times. Five times. His claw ached with pain.
The two children heaved on the bar. He felt it give a little more.
‘Atticus!’ Mimi meowed. ‘It’s coming! Move!’
SWISH!
With one final squirm Atticus managed to twist himself free of the bar. He slid out from under it and collapsed on to the floor beside Callie and Michael, panting. But there was no time to rest.
‘Now imag
ine you’re a cucumber …’
Atticus tried to remember what came next.
‘First you would be sliced into thin strips …’
Atticus heard the swish of the blade returning. ‘Keep down,’ Mrs Cheddar yelled.
The tunnel was becoming unbearably hot and smelly.
‘Keep your eyes closed, Mimi!’ Atticus meowed.
‘What’s happening now?’ Mrs Tucker cried from behind.
‘We’re about to be pickled in vinegar!’ Mrs Cheddar shouted.
‘Not if I’ve got anything to do with it, we’re not!’
Atticus couldn’t see what Mrs Tucker was doing but it sounded as though she was rummaging in her basket again.
‘Put these on!’ Three plastic bags landed in the foot well of the cart. Atticus read the label.
The children tore the bags open. They pulled on the plastic macs. Atticus waited patiently while they fitted him into his cat-sized one.
SPLOOSH! The vinegar washed over them in a stinking wave.
‘And placed in sealed jars …’
Atticus looked up. The cart was wedged between the two sides of a giant burger bun.
‘I can’t breathe!’ Callie gasped. She lifted her head to try to get some air.
‘Stay down, Callie!’ Mrs Cheddar shouted. ‘It’s nearly over.’
Michael pulled his sister down.
‘Until it’s time to be eaten with a burger and chips.’
Atticus visualised the enormous set of teeth filling the tunnel ahead of them. CHOMP! The cart rocked slightly as the teeth bit down. If they had remained in their seats the teeth would have chewed what was left of them.
‘And that,’ the voice said, ‘completes our journey. But remember, the ancient art of pickling isn’t just used on food.’ The voice paused. The cats huddled together, listening. ‘It is also a way to preserve BODIES, BODIES, BODIES, BODIES, BODIES …’
Atticus Claw Learns to Draw Page 9
