The Mystery of Stormy Island

by Jennifer Gray

  ‘All right,’ Ruth agreed. ‘Let’s go where the sand’s a bit wetter,’ she said in her teacher’s voice, ‘then we can make a really cool castle with a moat.’ She set off towards the darker sand. A group of chicks followed her obediently.

  Next to come out of the basket was a bag containing a long net made of string, two lollipop sticks and a bouncy ball. ‘Volleyball!’ Boo cried. ‘Amy, how about you make up one team and I make up the other?’

  ‘Okay.’ Amy loved volleyball. She used to play with her friends at Perrin’s Farm before she became a chicken warrior.

  The two chickens found a patch of flat sand and set up the net. Then they divided the excited chicks into teams with Boo as captain of one team and Amy of the other. Very soon the game was under way.

  It proved to be loads of fun. The chicks had bags of energy. They raced around, keeping the ball up in the air with their wings and passing it between them; setting it up for the captains (who were taller) to bash over the net. Boo’s team had the advantage as Boo was brilliant at jumping, but Amy didn’t mind. What she lacked in height, she made up for in determination. Besides, everyone was enjoying themselves so much, no one was bothering to keep score anyway!

  The ball was at Amy’s end. BOUNCE! BOUNCE! BOUNCE! The chicks worked it steadily towards her while Amy got into position. BOUNCE! Her teammate sent the ball high in the air.

  Amy bent her knees and jumped up to meet it, stretching out her wing to make the strike.

  Suddenly Boo gave a shout. ‘Watch out behind you!’ she yelled.

  Amy wondered what on earth was the matter. Then she remembered Raptorov. Had he decided to attack in daylight after all? She turned her head, fearing the worst. But instead of the eagle owl, Amy saw a wizened old chicken hurtling through the air towards her with a horrible war-like expression on its face. A second later a sharp elbow connected with her head as the chicken knocked her out of the way, intercepted the ball and whacked it over the net with its tatty wings.

  ‘OOF!’ Amy plunged to the ground, seeing stars.

  ‘HEE-HEE-HEE!’ the chicken screeched, landing on top of her in a scrawny heap. ‘Good strike, grannies. Someone pass me my zimmer frame.’

  Grannies??? Zimmer frame??? Amy could hardly believe her ears. She dragged herself out from under her attacker so she could get a better look. A group of ancient hens had gathered beside the volleyball pitch, cackling encouragement. As for their ringleader, Amy knew exactly who she was.

  ‘Granny Wishbone!’ she said crossly. ‘It’s you!’

  The dirtiest fighter in Chicken World Wrestling staggered to her feet, her sallow chicken skin sagging around her ankles. ‘In the flesh,’ she replied triumphantly, removing her false teeth and showering Amy with sandy spit.

  Amy brushed it off in disgust. ‘But what on earth are you doing here, of all places?’ she demanded.

  ‘It’s the annual Granny Hen Beach Volleyball Championships. We’re staying at the caravan park for the weekend.’ Granny Wishbone’s face assumed an even meaner expression. She addressed her ancient cronies. ‘Who wants to jump on some sandcastles?’

  A cheer went up from the granny hens. They raised their zimmer frames in salute and scuttled off towards where Ruth and the other chicks had been hard at work.

  Amy let out a deep sigh. Working with James Pond was bad enough, but having to put up with Granny Wishbone and her gummy granny pals was even worse. This mission was turning out to be a pain in the gizzard.

  Not far away, at the Stormy Cliff Convalescent Home for Distressed Foxes, Thaddeus E. Fox was getting accustomed to his new surroundings. The doctor had gone back to the Deep Dark Woods to deliver more baby ferrets, leaving Thaddeus in the care of the specialist fox-iatric team.

  He was beginning to feel a bit better. It was good to have a change of scene. Being surrounded by other afflicted and recovering foxes helped. So did knowing that Professor Rooster and his elite-chicken squad would never find him here in a million years. He was safe.

  In fact, Thaddeus didn’t think he’d ever been anywhere so remote in his life. The convalescent home was in a derelict stone farmhouse set high above the sea on the clifftop. Like most other places on Stormy Cliff, the farmhouse had long been abandoned by the humans, but in this case the roof was still sound and the walls were reasonably weather-proof. Thaddeus had been given a small room in the attic. It lacked the earthy cosiness of his burrow but had a reassuringly pungent, foxy smell from its previous occupants. The mattress wasn’t as comfortable as his own feather bed at home either – it was rather thin, like him, and its springs dug into his ribs – but it would do. For the first time in ages Thaddeus felt optimistic. He had high hopes for the Stormy Cliff Convalescent Home. He wanted to be cured.

  The one thing the attic room did have was a good view. Thaddeus gazed out of the window. Dusk was gathering, but it was still light enough to see that the empty shore along Stormy Cliff stretched for miles in both directions. Nor was there anything visible on the horizon except a small island a little way to the north, which stuck out of the sea like a gigantic tombstone. He opened the window and leaned out to get a better look. He caught sight of a dilapidated caravan park, which stood on the cliff opposite the island. It looked as if the humans had abandoned that as well.

  Just then there was a knock at the door. ‘Mr Fox?’ It was one of the nurses.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s time for your therapy session.’

  ‘Coming,’ Thaddeus said jauntily. He closed the window and trotted down the stairs after the nurse.

  The therapy session was held in what had once been the farmhouse kitchen. Half a dozen foxes sat round the room in a rough semicircle in front of an unlit iron stove. Facing them was one of the fox-iatrists.

  ‘I’m Doctor Thicket,’ she said to Thaddeus. ‘Welcome.’

  Thaddeus’s optimism began to evaporate. He didn’t feel very welcome: in fact quite the reverse. The other foxes were staring at him as if he had LOSER written all over his face. He wondered if they knew why he was here. He felt a flicker of his old pride run through his thin bones. Let them stare if they wanted to: he didn’t care! He glared back at them haughtily.

  ‘The first thing we do at every session is to introduce ourselves to the group and let everyone else know how we’re feeling and if we think we’re making progress.’ Dr Thicket gave Thaddeus a sugary smile. ‘It helps to share.’

  Thaddeus offered her a weak grin in response. He wasn’t really a sharing sort of fox. And he didn’t want to introduce himself. He was the infamous Thaddeus E. Fox. Everyone ought to know who he was already!

  Dr Thicket hadn’t finished. ‘When we’ve done that, we’ll split up into teams and do some role-play to improve our confidence.’

  ‘What’s that?’ Thaddeus asked huffily. Dr Thicket’s sugary smile was really beginning to annoy him. It wasn’t very foxy.

  Dr Thicket was undeterred by his tone. ‘Well,’ she said smoothly, ‘one of you might pretend to be a human with a gun, or an angry badger, for example, and the other one has to work out what to do to stop their tail getting blown off or being bashed up or whatever.’

  ‘You mean come up with an evil plan?’ Thaddeus said with more enthusiasm. That sounded much more up his street. He was ace at evil plans. Or at least he used to be.

  ‘Well, it doesn’t necessarily have to be evil,’ the fox-iatrist said, her smile wilting a little. ‘It could just be about being sensible and not getting hurt.’

  Being sensible and not getting hurt? That was one of the most stupid things Thaddeus E. Fox had ever heard, especially coming from another fox. Foxes were supposed to be superior predators, for goodness’ sake, not spineless failures like rabbits. ‘But evil plans are always the best ones,’ he argued. ‘Otherwise you’ll never become a great villain, like me.’

  ‘Yes, well …’ Dr Thicket began, but Thaddeus interrupted.

  ‘What happens when you’ve worked out a plan?’ he demanded rudely.

&n
bsp; The fox-iatrist looked as if she was choosing her words carefully. ‘You act out the scene together, then you discuss it with the group to see if anyone thinks you should have handled things … er … differently.’

  Thaddeus raised his eyebrows. He had absolutely no intention of discussing his evil plans with any of these foxes, let alone taking their advice as to how he should handle things. The sooner they learned who was boss, the better. ‘I see,’ he said coldly.

  ‘Good, then let’s make a start,’ said the fox-iatrist, sounding relieved. ‘Roger, why don’t you begin?’

  ‘Okay.’ A small, timid-looking fox stood up. ‘My name is Roger and I’m scared of baked beans,’ he said.

  Everyone clapped except Thaddeus, who chortled under his breath. Scared of baked beans?! What a joke!

  Dr Thicket glared at him. ‘And why is that, Roger?’

  ‘Because I once knocked over a whole shelf of them in STACK ’EM HIGH SELL ’EM CHEAP SUPERMARKET and was nearly buried alive,’ Roger whispered, a tear running down his cheek.

  Thaddeus rolled his eyes. ‘Roger the Bodger,’ he muttered.

  The fox-iatrist ignored him. ‘And how is your recovery coming on?’

  ‘Quite well,’ Roger said. ‘I can now look at a picture of beans on toast without crying.’

  Big deal! thought Thaddeus.

  ‘Excellent!’ said the fox-iatrist. ‘We’ll have you raiding STACK ’EM HIGH SELL ’EM CHEAP SUPERMARKET again in no time. What about you, Sylvia?’

  Everyone turned to look at a stocky silver fox who was lying on the rug beside the door. Thaddeus grimaced. She was missing her tail.

  ‘My name is Sylvia,’ she said. ‘I used to be a champion dustbin raider, then one morning I got thrown into a bin lorry mid-raid and was trapped in the crusher. I lost my tail. I thought I’d never get my balance back.’

  ‘Ooh,’ tutted the group.

  ‘But I’m definitely getting better,’ Sylvia reassured them. ‘Yesterday I managed to walk along the garden wall without falling off for the first time since the accident.’

  ‘Good for you, Sylvia!’ cried Dr Thicket.

  Yippee! thought Thaddeus sarcastically.

  Round they went in the semicircle. Mostly the foxes had suffered at the hands of humans. One had received a nasty pecking from a murder of crows. Another had been bullied by a bunch of mean badgers.

  Every time someone finished speaking, the group clapped their paws together and murmured sympathetically, except Thaddeus, who listened to each story with growing incredulity. It was becoming increasingly obvious to him that this whole weedy, touchy-feely, sharing, role-play, discussion, therapy thing was a load of phony-baloney. What these foxes needed was something different altogether, something much more satisfying.

  Yes! thought Thaddeus. What they needed was REVENGE.

  It was obvious really. He could see it now with complete clarity. It was what they needed. And it was what he needed, and had done since the day he last suffered defeat at the wings of Professor Rooster and his elite-chicken squad.

  REVENGE! REVENGE! REVENGE! The word went round in his head. On the person who stacked the baked beans at STACK ’EM HIGH SELL ’EM CHEAP SUPERMARKET; on the man who operated the rubbish crusher on the bin lorry; on the pesky pecking murder of crows; on those bullying badgers; and above all on flocking, clucking, cheeping, chirping chickens everywhere, especially ones who did kung fu, dropped brick-eggs on your head and got your posh clothes covered in cow’s muck …

  ‘STOP!’ he thundered suddenly.

  The room went quiet.

  ‘Can’t you see?’ shouted Thaddeus. ‘All this talking is a waste of time.’ He paused dramatically. ‘What you need is REVENGE!’

  He expected his announcement to be greeted with wild cheers of appreciation. To his surprise, however, the convalescing foxes appeared horrified.

  Dr Thicket’s eyes narrowed. ‘We don’t use the R word here,’ she hissed. ‘It’s forbidden.’

  ‘Why?’ Thaddeus asked. He had no idea what the problem was, but nevertheless he felt grimly satisfied. At least he’d managed to wipe the sugary smile off the fox-iatrist’s chops.

  ‘Because it is not one of our methods,’ Dr Thicket snapped back.

  ‘Why not?’ Thaddeus retorted.

  ‘The R word only makes things worse!’ Roger whimpered, his eyes wide with fear.

  ‘Rubbish!’ snarled Thaddeus. ‘It’s the best word in the world.’

  ‘No, it’s not!’ Sylvia held her paws over Roger’s ears. ‘The R word means you just get stuck in the past. You never get to move on with your life.’ She gave Thaddeus a look of contempt. ‘I knew you were a loser when I heard you were afraid of chickens,’ she added.

  Thaddeus went red. So they did know! And now they were mocking him. Well, he’d show them! He, Thaddeus E. Fox, would soon be restored to his former glory by the R word, while they slunk about in the shadows, scared to look at a tin of baked beans.

  ‘I am not a loser!’ Thaddeus roared. He felt intoxicated with adrenaline. The doctor was right – the sea air had done him a power of good. He was cured! ‘I am Thaddeus E. Fox, leader of the MOST WANTED Club of villains. And revenge is my favourite word.’ He grinned at Roger. ‘Go on, say it. It feels good.’

  Roger started to cry.

  Dr Thicket stood up. ‘If you don’t stop right now, Thaddeus, I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to leave,’ she threatened.

  ‘Revenge, revenge, revenge, revenge!’ Thaddeus sang.

  The other foxes blocked their ears.

  ‘Okay, you asked for it.’ The Fox-iatrist gave a whistle. Two burly security foxes arrived on the scene. They grabbed Thaddeus by the tail and hauled him backwards out of the kitchen to the hall.

  ‘REVENGE, REVENGE, REVENGE!’ he screamed as he was dragged towards the front door.

  ‘Good riddance!’ A large hind paw connected with Thaddeus’s backside. He landed with a bump on the grass. A moment later the attic window opened. Someone threw down his bag. Thaddeus got to his feet with dignity. He didn’t mind the cold air, or the darkness, or the fact that he was alone. He still felt heady with excitement. He would show that dopey fox-iatrist whose methods were best! He picked up his bag and trotted towards the gate.

  Just then an enormous owl swooped towards him out of the darkness. Thaddeus felt it sink its talons painfully into his coat. Almost before he knew what was happening, he found himself being lifted into the air and borne away across the sea.

  The next day Amy woke early. A horrible snorting was coming from somewhere nearby. At first she thought the caravan park had been invaded by a herd of pigs. Then she remembered. Granny Wishbone and her beach volleyball pals were sleeping in another caravan a few doors down.

  She fluffed out her feathers and stretched. If it weren’t for the proximity of Granny Wishbone, and the fact that they were all in mortal danger from an evil, fossil-collecting eagle owl, the caravan would have been a lovely place for a chicken to spend a holiday. Probably, if you were a human, it would have looked just as dilapidated on the inside as it did on the outside but, being a chicken, Amy thought it was ace.

  At one end of the caravan there were three snug little bedrooms with two narrow beds in each. The chicks slept in one, the young hens in another and the old hens in the third. Those who wanted a little more space to stretch out slept on blankets on the floor and those who wanted a bit of privacy roosted in the cupboards. Next to the bedrooms was the toilet area. (This was only to be used if you were desperate in the night, of course, so you didn’t make the whole place smelly.) And at the front of the caravan was the sitting room.

  The sitting room was where the rest of the hens slept. The room was open plan. At one end a giant corner sofa stretched around three sides of the caravan’s interior with views towards the sea. The sofas were old and scruffy, with large quantities of stuffing hanging out of the cushions. In front of the sofas on a rickety table was a small TV, which the chickens had managed to rig up wi
th an aerial so that it picked up the BBC (Bird Broadcasting Corporation). At the other end of the room was the kitchen. It had loads of interesting nooks and crannies full of pots and pans and brushes and buckets and clothes pegs, as well as a small fridge stuffed with bags of mealworm (raided from the park-keeper’s van when she wasn’t looking) and recycled plastic bottles full of freshly squeezed worm juice. There was even a mini hoover attached to the wall, which the chickens used to keep the place clean.

  It was as if the place had been fitted out for fowl.

  Amy let out a satisfied cluck. Once the mission was over she was looking forward to putting her feet up. But for now, there was work to be done. Very quietly, so as not to disturb the flock, she woke up Boo and Ruth. The three chickens tiptoed over to the kitchen and made themselves some breakfast. Then they let themselves out of the caravan and went to find James Pond.

  The duck agent was pacing up and down outside the bin enclosure, a glazed expression on his face.

  ‘What’s wrong with you?’ asked Boo.

  ‘I didn’t get a wink of sleep,’ James Pond snapped.

  For once, Amy felt a teeny-weeny bit sorry for the duck. Unfortunately, the caravan that the granny hens had chosen to occupy was right next to his sleeping quarters.

  SNORT! SNORE! SNORT! SNORE! SNORT! SNORE! The granny hens were still out for the count. Amy put her hands to her ears. When you got this close they sounded more like a collection of angry warthogs than a mere herd of pigs.

  ‘What about the mission?’ Boo said. ‘Are we going or what?’

  ‘I can’t go like this!’ James Pond quacked. ‘I feel like a zombie right now. Those grannies spent half the night partying and the rest of it on the loo. I need to catch up with my sleep. I have to be in perfect shape to take on Raptorov.’

  ‘We could do it,’ Amy suggested.

  ‘What? After your performance yesterday! Don’t make me laugh!’ James Pond turned his back on them and waddled off towards the other end of the caravan park.