ALSO BY CATHERINE JINKS
The Reformed Vampire Support Group
The Genius Wars
Genius Squad
Evil Genius
Living Hell
This Way Out
The Future Trap
Witch Bank
Eye to Eye
Piggy in the Middle
What’s Hector McKerrow Doing These Days?
The Rapture
THE PAGAN CHRONICLES:
Pagan’s Crusade
Pagan in Exile
Pagan’s Vows
Pagan’s Scribe
Pagan’s Daughter
www.catherinejinks.com
CATHERINE JINKS
First published in 2011
Copyright © Catherine Jinks 2011
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or ten per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to Copyright Agency Limited (CAL) under the Act.
Allen & Unwin
83 Alexander Street
Crows Nest NSW 2065
Australia
Phone: (61 2) 8425 0100
Fax: (61 2) 9906 2218
Email: [email protected]
Web: www.allenandunwin.com
A Cataloguing-in-Publication entry is available from the
National Library of Australia
www.trove.nla.gov.au
ISBN 978 1 74237 574 8
Cover design by www.blacksheep-uk.com
Cover illustration by Sam Hadley
Text design by Bookhouse, Sydney
Set in 12/15 pt Bembo by Bookhouse, Sydney
Printed in Australia by McPherson’s Printing Group
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
To James Jinks, the latest addition
Contents
1 ‘OUR BEST HOLIDAY EVER . . .’
2 . . . OR MAYBE NOT
3 AN OLD FRIEND
4 A NEW FRIEND
5 PAST AND PRESENT
6 GHOST HUNTERS
7 A BURIED SECRET
8 ‘THIS IS CRAZY . . .’
9 ‘HEY, EDISON!’
10 GETTING HELP
11 BACK TO THE CELLAR
12 THE WORLD’S BEST PARTY
13 MUMS TO THE RESCUE
14 THE FIRST DOOR ON THE LEFT
15 THE CRYSTAL HIBISCUS
16 WE NEED THAT ROBOT!
17 THE DISAPPEARING DOORS
18 PICK YOUR DREAM
19 ‘PLEASE ENTER YOUR CODE . . .’
20 THE CRYSTAL HIBISCUS REVISITED
21 TRIGGER POINT
22 GATECRASHING
23 PARTY POOPERS
24 LOST IN THE DARK
25 ALL ABOARD
26 IN SEARCH OF EDISON
27 ESCAPE!
28 MORE MISS MOLPE
29 OLD DIAMOND BEACH
30 FAMILIAR CHILDREN
31 ‘YOU’RE NOT ALLOWED IN THERE . . .’
32 THE TERRIBLE TRUTH
33 ‘THEY DON’T EXIST . . .’
34 THE LAST RESORT
35 INSIDE THE SUITCASE
36 LEAVING AT LAST
37 NEARLY HOME
38 ‘LET HER GO!’
39 NIGHTMARE HOLIDAY
40 THE LAST PLACE YOU’D EVER WANT TO BE
41 BELOW DECK
42 SINKING
43 WHERE TO NOW?
44 ‘THIS IS A JOB FOR THE EMERGENCY SERVICES . . .’
45 THE PERFECT ESCAPE
46 MARTIYA
47 THE AMBASSADOR
48 TERMINAL ONE
49 WAITING
50 AMBUSHED
51 ‘I HATE EVERYTHING ABOUT AIRPORTS . . .’
52 THE SEARCH FOR THE SMOKING ROOM
53 CHOKING
54 PAPER CHASE
55 INFERNO
56 EXCESS BAGGAGE
57 ‘IS THIS THE REAL THING?’
58 THE END OF THE HOLIDAY
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
1
‘OUR BEST HOLIDAY EVER . . .’
MARCUS DIDN’T WANT TO SPEND HIS SUMM ER HOLIDAYS AT the beach.
He wasn’t a beach person. His skin was pale and freckled, so it burned easily. He wasn’t a body builder, so he didn’t like taking off his clothes. And he wore glasses, which had to be removed in the surf.
Marcus would have been quite happy sitting in his bedroom all summer long, playing computer games. His favourite game was Cruising for a Bruising. Even though he was only eleven years old, he had already reached the lowest first-class deck on the S.S. Midas. There were just five decks to go. Once he’d fought his way past the angry chefs in the gourmet kitchen, dodged the fat people bouncing off each other on the dance floor, and pushed all the armed lifeguards into the heated pool, he would be within easy reach of the bridge.
He was looking forward to his life-and-death struggle with Captain Creap. Defeating this evil despot would mean conquering the world’s largest, richest luxury liner. Marcus couldn’t wait to do that. He had plans for all the stewards who’d been throwing deckchairs at his stowaway avatar.
But Marcus’s mother didn’t care about his plans. She had plans of her own. That was why, on the last day of school, he arrived home to find an unfamiliar caravan parked outside their house.
‘It was cheaper to buy this old caravan than to hire a nicer one for the week,’ explained his mother, whose name was Holly Bradshaw. ‘I got a great deal because it was taking up valuable space in the lot. No one wanted to hire it.’
‘I’m not surprised,’ Marcus muttered. The caravan was small and dirty and covered in dents. There were dead flies on all of its windowsills. Inside its poky living area, the two-burner stove was encrusted with grease, as were most of the benchtops. The curtains were in shreds. The linoleum was sticky.
‘It’s a bit small,’ Marcus pointed out, just in case his mother hadn’t noticed.
‘That doesn’t matter,’ she said. ‘There’s plenty of room for the two of us. Besides, just look at all the cupboard space!’ She yanked open one of the cupboard doors, which came off in her hand. ‘Don’t worry about that,’ she added, hastily propping the door shut again. ‘I’ll fix everything before we go. And I’ll give the whole place a good scrub too.’
‘Will scrubbing get rid of the smell?’ Marcus sniffed suspiciously. ‘It smells like sweaty gym clothes in here.’
‘Really? I think it smells like mouldy baked beans.’ When Marcus screwed up his nose, Holly tried to reassure him. ‘We’ll air the place out. I’m sure it’s not permanent. Maybe the little old lady used to smell a bit.’
Marcus was confused. ‘What little old lady?’ he asked.
‘The little old lady who used to live here.’
Gazing at his mother in alarm, Marcus squeaked, ‘She didn’t die in here, did she?’
‘Of course not.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Because the man at the lot told me she didn’t.’
Marcus wasn’t convinced. ‘I hope she didn’t die in here,’ he mumbled. ‘I hope it’s not haunted.’
Holly laughed. ‘Don’t be silly,’ she rejoined. ‘Whoever heard of a haunted caravan?’
Marcus shrugged. He adjusted his glasses and looked around at the cramped, grimy, battered space. He didn’t want to spend a whole week in it. Though his own home was quite small and shabby, at
least it wasn’t a rat-cage on wheels.
‘Most of the time we’ll be outside,’ Holly promised, watching his face. ‘When I was eleven, and I went to Diamond Beach, I spent every day in the open air from dawn till dusk. It was fantastic. I made lots and lots of friends and had the best time ever.’ She smiled her encouragement. ‘I know that you will too, Marcus.’
But Marcus didn’t believe her.
‘I don’t like the beach much,’ he said.
‘You’ll like this one,’ Holly assured him. ‘I told you before – there are fish and rockpools and barbecues and lagoons and heaps of great kids and a fantastic playground. It’s magical.’ Her eyes softened as she remembered her long-ago visit to Diamond Beach. ‘We don’t have many treats, so we deserve this,’ she insisted. ‘You’ll love it. You won’t want to come home.’
Marcus didn’t bother asking if his dad would be coming too, because his dad lived on the other side of the country and never took trips with Marcus. They hadn’t laid eyes on each other for nearly five years.
Instead Marcus asked an even more important question. ‘Can I bring my laptop?’
‘No.’ Holly was firm. ‘You spend too much time on that computer. I want you to get out and enjoy the real world while you’re still a kid.’
Marcus sighed.
‘But the real world isn’t any fun,’ he objected. ‘It’s not as good as a fake world.’
‘Yes, it is. At Diamond Beach, it really is.’ Holly put an arm around his shoulders. ‘You wait,’ she said. ‘I guarantee Diamond Beach will be more fun than any computer game. It’ll be our best holiday ever.’
2
. . . OR MAYBE NOT
WHEN MARCUS AND HIS MOTHER FINALLY REACHED THE Diamond Beach Caravan Park, they couldn’t see the beach. Not from the entrance gates, anyway. All they could see were rows of caravans, stretching as far as the distant horizon under a blazing sun.
There wasn’t a tree or a rockpool in sight.
‘It’s changed,’ Holly murmured, as she hunted for lot WW6842. ‘It’s grown so much . . .’
Marcus stared out the car window as they bumped past caravans that were squished together like chocolates in a box. He saw crying babies, flapping laundry, potholes, power poles and lots of queues. There was a queue at the kiosk, where flies swarmed around the overflowing rubbish bins. There were queues in front of the nearby vending machines. There was a queue at the amenities block, which was a low grey building made of concrete. And there was a queue for every slide and swing in the grubby little playground near the barbecues.
‘I don’t get it,’ said Marcus, staring in amazement at all the fretful, sticky, sunburned toddlers. ‘Why isn’t everyone down at the beach?’
‘Because the beach is such a long way from here,’ his mother replied. ‘This is the cheap section of the park, remember?’ When at last they reached their designated campsite, she was crestfallen. ‘I owe you an apology, Marcus,’ she said with a sigh. ‘This isn’t what I expected.’
Marcus felt sorry for her. ‘But there are heaps of kids,’ he pointed out. ‘Just like you promised.’
‘Ye-e-es . . .’
They both gazed at a mob of yelling, squabbling children who rushed by in pursuit of a football. Marcus could just make out a tangle of arms and legs through all the dirt that was being kicked up. He couldn’t tell how many kids there were, or how old they might be.
They were soon out of sight, after bouncing down the road like tumbleweed in a whirlwind.
‘You’re bound to find someone who’s nice,’ Holly said, without conviction. When Marcus didn’t answer, she tried gamely to reassure them both. ‘Once we get to the beach, none of this will matter. We’ll be so busy swimming and building sandcastles, we won’t notice how crowded it is. You’ll see.’
Marcus shrugged. Then he helped to unpack the car and settle into the caravan, which still smelled bad despite his mother’s efforts. She had sprayed the greasy walls with detergent, aired the musty cushions, scrubbed the blackened stove, wiped down the rickety cupboards, mopped the peeling linoleum on the floor, thrown out the threadbare rug, and replaced the ragged curtains with new ones made of old sheets. She had even washed the light fittings.
So why did Marcus’s skin crawl whenever he stepped inside?
‘Did you leave the cupboard doors open on purpose?’ he asked his mother. Every cupboard gaped like a mouth, ready to engulf whatever he chose to feed it.
‘No.’ Holly was standing right behind him, carrying a box of food. ‘Those latches are really old. They obviously couldn’t cope with all the bumping and swerving.’
‘Maybe,’ said Marcus. ‘Or maybe we’ve got a poltergeist.’
It wasn’t meant to be a joke, but his mother laughed anyway.
‘There’s no room for a ghost in here,’ she rejoined, dumping her box on the table. ‘There’s barely enough room for us!’
She was right. After only ten minutes inside the caravan, Marcus could hardly breathe. The walls seemed to be closing in. The smell seemed to be getting worse. He kept bumping into Holly as they filled the cupboards with plates and pots and jars. ‘Oops!’ they said, over and over again. ‘Sorry!’ ‘Watch out!’ ‘My fault!’
Though he knew it was impossible, he could have sworn that the windows were shrinking.
So when at last he’d finished his share of the chores, Marcus didn’t curl up in a corner with his Nintendo. Instead he set off for the beach with his mother. He couldn’t stay put, not in a haunted caravan that smelled like sweaty gym clothes. At least there would be fresh air at the beach, even if it was fresh air full of sand and frisbees.
Luckily, there were signs pointing in the right direction – otherwise Holly might have got lost. She didn’t recognise anything. All the old landmarks had disappeared, swallowed up by row upon row of caravans. At first these caravans were small and dilapidated. Then Marcus noticed a change; as he and Holly drew closer to the sea, the caravans became bigger and flashier, with satellite dishes and screened porches and basketball hoops. Some had flowerboxes under their windows. People had set up picnic tables and picket fences.
But the most lavish caravans of all were at the very edge of the beach. The Bradshaws couldn’t believe their eyes when they reached the park’s dress circle, where the richest tourists had parked their luxury cars on massive lots. There were two-storeyed caravans with Juliet balconies and carports, waterslides and plastic hedges, portable plunge pools and astroturflawns that had been rolled out like rugs. There was a blow-up gazebo and a fold-out tennis court. There were people lolling on deckchairs under striped umbrellas, sipping icy drinks served to them by other people in uniform.
‘Wow,’ Marcus said reverently. ‘I wish we were staying here.’
Holly opened her mouth. Before she could speak, however, one of the deckchair people suddenly sat bolt upright and cried, ‘Holly? Holly Bradshaw? Is that you?’
The Bradshaws stopped in their tracks, staring in amazement at a plump little woman with piled-up hair, jewelled sunglasses and very long, polished fingernails.
‘It’s Coco!’ the woman continued. ‘Coco della Robbia! Don’t you remember me? You haven’t changed a bit!’
3
AN OLD FRIEND
AT FIRST HOLLY COULDN’T REMEMBER COCO, WHO HAD TO explain that they’d met years before, as children.
‘It was right here at Diamond Beach,’ Coco recalled. ‘You were older than me, and you had a sequinned bikini and bubblegum-flavoured lip gloss. I was so envious, because I was wearing my sister’s old swimming costume. It had a purple hippo on it.’
‘Oh, yes! The purple hippo!’ Holly exclaimed. ‘I remember now!’
‘What about the crabs? Do you remember feeding the crabs?’ asked Coco.
‘Of course!’ said Holly. ‘Do you remember when Jake sat on the jellyfish?’
Both women shrieked with laughter. The other deckchair people glared at them.
‘Who’s Jake?’ Marcus wanted to know.
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‘Oh, Jake was one of our friends,’ Holly told him. ‘Jake was the loveliest boy. Wasn’t he, Coco?’
‘He sure was. He was gorgeous.’
‘I had such a crush on Jake,’ Holly admitted. ‘I wrote him a letter when I got home, but he never replied.’
‘He never came back to Diamond Beach, either,’ Coco said regretfully. ‘I’ve been here every summer since then, and he’s never shown up. I was always hoping that he would. I was always hoping that you would, Holly. And you did!’ Coco beamed up at the Bradshaws, patting the empty deckchair beside her. ‘Why don’t you both sit down and have a drink with me?’ she suggested. ‘We’ve got so much to talk about.’
Holly and Marcus exchanged glances. Then they looked at the golden strip of sand that was barely visible beneath all the towels and umbrellas and milling bodies. ‘Well,’ said Holly, in a hesitant tone, ‘I’d love to, but I promised to show Marcus the beach . . .’
‘Oh, no!’ Coco shuddered. ‘Not the beach! It’s so dirty and crowded! I never set foot on the beach anymore!’
Holly blinked. ‘But—’
‘You don’t need the beach,’ Coco went on. ‘Not with all the amazing computer programs, these days. You can go scuba-diving no matter where you are!’ She waved at the palatial caravan behind her, which had a pop-up second storey and three satellite dishes. ‘My stepchildren are in there right now, on their laptops, surfing or water-skiing or deep-sea fishing—’
‘I’d like to do that,’ Marcus interrupted. ‘I’d like to go inside your caravan.’
‘Well, of course you would!’ Coco jumped to her feet, wrapping herself in a filmy pink robe. ‘What was I thinking of? Come on in and I’ll give you a tour! My husband’s very proud of this caravan. He’s always tinkering with it.’
As she moved towards the caravan’s front door, taking tiny steps in her high-heeled sandals, Coco explained that her husband was a techno-wizard who liked inventing things. ‘You may have heard of him,’ she chirruped. ‘His name is Sterling Huckstepp.’
Holly’s eyes widened. ‘As in Huckstepp Electronics?’ she asked.
The Paradise Trap Page 1
