by Valija Zinck
‘Well, that’s a matter of opinion.’ Penelope had a thought. ‘You don’t happen to know where a Mr Seller lives, do you?’ she asked. It was a small village, after all, and if it was anything like hers then everyone knew everyone.
The grin on the boy’s face vanished abruptly.
‘That weirdo? Why are you asking? D’you know him or something?’
‘No, but perhaps I’ll be able to get to know him, if you tell me where he lives.’ Penelope tried to make her voice sound as casual as possible.
‘He lives on Rose Street, in the very last house, next to this empty piece of land that’s covered in weeds. But look, I’m telling you, I wouldn’t want to get to know that guy – he’s not quite right in the head, there’s something rotten about him and the other guy in that house. If I was you . . .’
‘You’re not me, though,’ said Penelope. ‘And now excuse me please, I’ve got to get going.’ She turned away – but suddenly it dawned on her what the boy had just said. The fish-eyed man lived with ‘the other guy’ – that could be her father. Maybe he didn’t bring his grey letters to the post-box himself, but had Mr Fish-Eyes do it for him. She stopped and turned back to the skater boy.
‘You said this Mr Seller lives with another one like him. Does that person have red hair, by any chance?’
‘Nah, it’s not really any colour – it’s sort of colourless,’ said the boy.
‘How do you mean? Has he got grey hair? A sort of ash grey?’ asked Penelope, her heart racing.
‘Yeah, sort of – you could call it a dirty grey, I s’pose. Whatever. Gotta go.’ The boy got on to his skateboard. ‘Good luck with those freaks. Perhaps they’ll be a bit chattier than the ground.’ He skated off.
Penelope walked along the walls of Rose Street. At least she knew where she was going now, so could afford to catch her breath and collect her thoughts. But it didn’t matter, really: she was so excited that her heart was beating wildly, and her legs were longing to run in spite of their heaviness. She kept up a brisk pace and passed all the walls. Now she was crossing the overgrown plot of land the boy had described. Dark ivy grew over dank woodpiles, old barrels and the remains of a rotten caravan. Stinging nettles, rusty stovepipes, small animal bones, cobwebs . . . she shuddered, walking faster.
Zuck! Zuck! As she approached the wall at the end of the wasteland, she felt two tremors on the back of her neck, tingling down her spine. It was a fleeting sensation, and very light, yet Penelope immediately sensed that there wasn’t just one person of her kind around here: there were two. She could sense one person quite clearly – that was Seller – but the other was gentle, quiet. In spite of that, Penelope noticed that this second connection was completely different. It was familiar. It felt like a part of herself. ‘Dad,’ she murmured, and this time the word felt right.
Penelope shook her head, cross with the pang of longing and hope she had felt as she spoke the word. She wasn’t just here to meet her father, she was here to tell him to stop insulting them! She had to keep that in mind.
The wall surrounding the last house on the street was even higher than the previous one. It had nails and glass shards sticking out of the top, and Penelope could also see coils of barbed wire.
‘Looks like you don’t want any one getting in here, Leo Gardener, you and your strange companion,’ Penelope said quietly. ‘If this is how you live, no wonder you don’t have a problem with doing weird stuff like sending people sand in envelopes.’
A massive steel gate loomed in the middle of the wall. If only I could take a quick look behind that wall, Penelope thought. It wouldn’t be clever to peer through the gate – anyone in the house could see her, then – so she snuck back to the overgrown plot. She squeezed past the decayed caravan and climbed on to a pile of wood, but even from up there she couldn’t see over the wall. OK then, she’d have to try something else. She quickly pulled her water bottle out of her ruck-sack. She rooted her feet – it was second nature by now – poured water over her head and muttered, ‘Semus triokko.’
Nothing happened.
‘What’s going on?’ Penelope poured more water over her brown hair, jumped down from the pile of wood and tried it from the ground. ‘Semus triokko.’ Nothing. ‘Semus triokko! Semus triokko!’ Nothing!
Why can’t I take off? Is this a dream? At least that would explain why it’s not working. Exhausted and confused, she ran a hand through her wet brown hair.
The intense twitching rushed over her neck a second time, and a cold shiver ran down her spine. Another one like me! And then she heard a familiar noise – a loud, rumbling clatter.
Penelope peered out from behind the crumbled caravan and saw a tractor driving up the street: a huge green tractor with heavy twin tyres. She’d seen it before, near the dragon house. It was the tractor that had tried to mow her down and, she was fairly sure, the tractor that had nearly killed her mother. Suddenly, she remembered where she had seen Seller’s gold-rimmed sunglasses – he’d been the driver! But he wasn’t behind the wheel now. She clenched her fists. What was going on here? She knew what it looked like . . . but had her father really told these men to try to kill her and her mum?
She hurriedly ducked down as the tractor passed. The vehicle drove up to the steel gate. The man driving it drew a phone from the pocket of his black suit and tapped on its screen. The huge gate opened.
The tractor rattled inside, and the gates began to close slowly. Penelope didn’t allow herself to think: in a flash, she whipped the Anti-Eye out of her backpack, ran through a bank of stinging nettles, pressed the button, and squeezed through the gate, invisible, at the last moment.
The tractor tyres crunched over a path of white pebbles. Penelope jumped behind a large rose bush and watched the vehicle through the leaves.
32
Behind theWall
Astately, cream-coloured mansion stood at the end of the drive, a row of beautiful white columns lined the front porch. Wow, Penelope thought, Even Pete’s house isn’t as luxurious as this! She nearly rubbed her hands as she considered how much damage the creeper corms would inflict . . .
The tractor chugged to the house and stopped next to the sleek silver car, the engine cutting out. The man in the black suit climbed down awkwardly. When he reached the ground, he suddenly turned around and sniffed the air, like a wolf that had scented prey. Penelope’s breath caught in her throat. Had he sensed her, somehow?
He can’t feel me, she reassured herself, stroking her brown hair. Nothing’s going to happen, he can’t feel me. All the same, relief washed over her when the man turned away and disappeared between the columns. She noticed for the first time that the gravel path was lined with white statues. The marble figures sat, stood or tiptoed on pedestals: she noticed delicate ladies in flowing robes, wreaths around their heads, and a huge angel with four wings carrying a child in its arms. Strange garden decorations, thought Penelope. She remembered what the boy on the skateboard had said about the people who lived here, and felt suddenly afraid. Who were these men? What did they have to do with her father? And where was the woman for whom he had left Penelope and her mother? If this was the sort of company he kept, he might well be dangerous himself. Oh, why had she just slipped through the gate like that, without thinking it through?
‘I’m Penelope Gardener, and I didn’t get this far by being afraid,’ she whispered to herself, firmly. But after a moment she added, ‘But perhaps it’d be safer if I didn’t give my father a piece of my mind. I’m definitely planting the creeper corms, though; I owe myself that much. Close to the house, ideally, where they’ll do the most damage.’
She ducked to the next bush, closer to the house, and waited a moment. Nothing happened. She darted behind one of the statues – again, no alarm bells sounded, no shouts from inside. Penelope spotted a dense hedge a little further down. If she followed it around, she’d find herself right up close to the rear of the house . . .
Behind the house, a number of marble statues had been tipped
over at all angles, as if they had been knocked down in a struggle. They lay scattered in the grass around a black iron plate set in the ground next to the house’s wall – and they had lain there for some time by the looks of it, dirty and overgrown with moss. Penelope’s eye fell on a very small angel with broken wings and then on the black plate again. It was rather large – roughly the size of a door – and looked very heavy. Attached to the iron plate was a thick chain, which was wrapped around a large winch. Penelope bent the branches of an overhanging bush to get a better look at the black plate . . . oh, but it wasn’t a plate at all – it was a hatch. Is it a safe, or something? she wondered.
Just then she heard footsteps approaching. Her heart turned a somersault, her stomach contracting in fear. She dived behind the bush and curled herself as small as possible, clutching the Anti-Eye. The footsteps grew closer. From her hiding place Penelope could see two black-trousered legs and a pair of gleaming black shoes approaching through the grass – it was the second man, then, the one who had driven the tractor. He passed her without stopping, but she didn’t dare breathe – she was sure the wearer of the shiny shoes would hear her.
A few moments later, she allowed herself a breath: there was such an almighty rattling and clattering that Penelope would have had to roar in order to be heard. He must be opening the hatch, she thought. She crawled along a little further. There stood Tractor Man, sparse colourless hair clinging to his head in greasy strands. The heavy chain on the hatch was crunching around the winch, the hatch lifting squeakily.
Tractor Man leant over the opening and smiled mockingly. ‘Gardener!’
Penelope jumped. What?!
‘Wake up! It’s past noon!’ Tractor Man’s voice was quiet, sharp and ice-cold. Penelope heard a voice coming from the cellar, but she couldn’t understand what it had said. Tractor Man laughed for a moment, then whispered, ‘Seller’s already been to the post – your little letter is on its way. You were good last time, so this time there’s a little dosh for your family again. Never let it be said that we don’t keep our side of the bargain – that is, when you keep yours.’ He ran a hand over his oily hair and spat into the grass. ‘You’re getting something cooked today, to keep your strength up – Seller’s on it right now. I’ll leave the hatch open a crack till he brings you the food, so you can get a bit of fresh air. Aren’t we looking after you well today, Gardener?’ Despite his words, his tone was cold and mocking. His fingers cracked, and he turned a key in the metal winch box so that the hatch rattled down again, stopping just before it closed. Then he took the key out of the box and walked slowly back to the house.
Penelope squeezed herself into an even tighter ball behind the hedge, holding a hand over her mouth to stop herself from screaming or crying out loud. This couldn’t be real – it was too terrible. It had to be a nightmare. She wanted to wake up. Wanted this to be over, for it not to be true. But she didn’t wake up, she just lay there next to the strangers’ house, hiding curled up on the ground, trying to deal with the fact that she knew who was sitting there, deep beneath the iron plate. A man called Gardener, whose family would get enough money again this month. Tears ran down her face. Her father had been imprisoned all these years, and she had done nothing to help!
33
The Cellar Spider’s Transport
Penelope lay in shock on the grass behind the hedge, her arms wrapped tightly around her body, for a few long minutes. But eventually a faint noise nearby made her jump. She opened her tear-wet eyes. Right in front of her nose, a piece of dark-green fabric with pink roses on it was sliding over the ground. Her mother’s scarf.
What’s going on? she wondered. The cloth jerked towards the big iron hole in the ground, stopping just short of the edge. A barely visible ripple passed through the fabric, then it turned slightly, and a grey-and-yellow cellar spider crept out from beneath it. The creature crawled industriously towards the well and then moved as if it was lowering something very fine down the shaft – a thin string, thread or hair. It looked straight at Penelope, then turned around, crawled back under the scarf and dragged it forwards until it, too, fell over the edge of the hatch and into the depths of the shaft.
A few moments later, she heard a voice. Penelope, can you hear me? Please don’t be scared.
Of course Penelope was scared. She flinched, pressing the Anti-Eye reflexively. Who had just spoken? The voice had sounded like it was coming from inside her head, but it was a man’s voice, not hers.
Penelope, I’m begging you, listen to me, said the voice. It was quiet and warm, and sounded fragile somehow. This is Leo, your father. I know you don’t know me, and I’m sure you must think I don’t want to know you – you’re bound to, after all these years. I can’t explain what’s been going on – well, not now anyway, it’d take too long.
Penelope stopped dead and listened, her heart beating loudly.
I didn’t abandon you, Penelope. I’m being kept prisoner. I’m a long way away from you, but you might still be able to help me. All you have to do – you and Mum – is bring Coco to me. Please help me – bring Coco to Blackslough . . . bring Coco to Blackslough.
Then all was silent again.
Penelope was sweating. Bring Coco to Black-slough. She knew that phrase from somewhere . . . but where? The recollection wouldn’t come to her. But what was she doing, wasting time thinking about that stupid sentence? There really wasn’t time for that right now. She’d found her father, and now it was up to her to get him out. Now.
She crept over to the hatch. Hopefully no one was looking out of the window, as she couldn’t press the Anti-Eye. If there was one thing she needed right now, it was her voice.
‘Hello?’ she whispered. ‘Hello, Dad, it’s . . .’
‘Who . . . who’s that? Who’s there?’ The fragile, warm voice floated up to her and Penelope once again felt her spine tingle softly.
She took a deep breath. ‘Dad, it’s me. It’s Penelope.’
There was complete silence below the iron hatch.
‘Dad? Dad, what is it? Why aren’t you saying anything?’ She could hear him muttering down there, but could only make out odd phrases.
‘. . . can’t be . . . Simon’s only just brought me the hair . . . can’t go that fast . . . all of his . . .’
‘Dad, listen, I . . .’
‘Penelope, is that really you? You’ve got to get out of here right away. It’s dangerous!’ her father shouted.
Penelope sighed. ‘I know. And that’s exactly why I’m not going anywhere. I’m getting you out of there.’
‘Is Coco with you?’
‘No, Coco isn’t with me. Now, please listen to me,’ said Penelope impatiently.
But her father wasn’t listening. ‘Penelope, however you got here, you need to go straight back home and bring me the cat.’ His voice trembled. ‘She’s my only hope . . . I’m begging you.’
Penelope let out a sigh. Why was he so obsessed with Coco? She spoke very slowly and calmly, as if she was talking to a sick animal. ‘Coco isn’t here, and I can’t conjure her up out of thin air. But I’ve got a few other things with me that might be a lot more help than an old cat. You just need to do exactly what I tell you.’
Her father groaned. ‘Penelope, you don’t know what—’ he began, but she ignored him.
‘I’m going to throw down an Anti-Eye now.’
‘A what?’
‘An Anti-Eye. It’s just a little metal box, but it has great powers. If you press the rusty button on it, you’ll become invisible. The only trouble is, the thing’s not working properly, and the effect only lasts for ten seconds – oh, and you can’t talk for a while afterwards, but that wears off. So –’ her father started to say something, but Penelope wouldn’t let him speak – ‘when this Seller comes to bring you your food, you must press the Anti-Eye, OK?’
‘How do you know about Seller?’
‘That’s not important right now! Look, I’m going to throw the thing down, and you need to press it, OK
?’ cried Penelope in exasperation.
‘But what use is that supposed to be?’
Good grief. Was her father slow on the uptake, or hadn’t she explained it clearly enough?
‘With any luck it’ll be all the use in the world! Don’t you get it? Look, pay attention: if old Fish-Eyes looks down the well and can’t see you, he’ll think you’ve escaped. He’ll look down, and he won’t believe his eyes at first, but then he’ll rush off to tell his sidekick. He won’t think to close the hatch, because he’ll think you’re not in there any more.’
Her father cleared his throat. ‘But Penelope, what then? I’m sitting here umpteen metres underground, how am I meant to get out? I haven’t got the strength to float, and as far as I can sense, you’re not one of us – uh, I mean, you can’t . . . oh, I’m sorry, you, I, er – oh, nothing.’
‘Don’t worry about getting up to the surface,’ said Penelope calmly. ‘I’ve sorted something out about that. You won’t need to float.’ And then she said, not calmly at all: ‘And about the other thing – my kind, your kind, our kind – there are ways of masking it, you should know that better than anyone. If you . . .’
The gravel crunched.
‘Someone’s coming,’ hissed Penelope. ‘Catch!’
The Anti-Eye fell down the shaft, and because Penelope didn’t hear any impact, she knew her father had caught it. Now all she had to do was quickly duck behind the hedge and mix the hay with the water.
34
Freedom
Seller walked straight past Penelope’s hiding place, carrying a pan and a plate. Placing them both on the ground in front of the hatch, he stuck the key into the box and the chain started to rattle. When the hatch was half open, he cried: ‘Gardener! Luncheon is served! Are you going to catch the pan, or shall I pour the soup on your head?’
The hatch rattled higher.
‘You not answering today, then, Gardener?’
Now, thought Penelope, now he’ll look down. Press the Anti-Eye now, Dad.
