Muddle and Win (15 page)

‘There’s no way she’ll get back in time,’ she said aloud. ‘They’ll just burn.’

‘It’s that or  . . .’

She bent down.

‘
No
, Sally!’ cried Windleberry desperately. ‘No, no, NO!’

*

Click
, went the oven dial.

To ‘0’.

Somewhere, something else also went
click
.

To ‘1’.

On a scrap of paper Sally wrote,
If you’re hungry, you can have one of mine
. She propped the note up by the Tupperware box.

She left the room.

MUDDLESPOT LEFT THE
room too – the one in Sally’s mind. He slipped quietly away around the statue of Reason. Behind him, Windleberry was protesting.

‘You switched her oven off!’

‘Yes,’ said Sally.

‘Her muffins will be spoiled!’

‘They’d have been ruined anyway.’

Muddlespot tiptoed down the first set of stairs.

‘You could have waited and taken them out  . . .’

‘Yeah. That’s what
everybody
thinks I’ll do.’

Muddlespot ran for it. He ran down corridors and across courts. He skittered past fountains and frowning statues. He found a series of narrow passages that he didn’t remember (maybe they hadn’t been there before) and he hurried down them. He came to
a
quiet corner where – unusually in Sally’s mind – it was also rather dark.

He pulled out his communications dish and set it on its tripod. He scattered brown powder into the dish. He spat upon the powder.

Huff!
it went, and burst into light.

Muddlespot waited, glancing nervously over his shoulder.

Slowly the flames died to embers. The embers faded from bright gold to orange, except for two spots like eyes that seemed to glow more brightly. The eyes fixed themselves on the little imp.

‘Corozin here. Report, Muddlespot.’

Muddlespot gabbled out his story.

‘You did what? I see. And did she  . . .? Sssuper! You have done well, Muddlespot. I am pleased.’

‘
Thank
you, Your Serenity!’

‘Oh no. Thank you, Muddlespot. And  . . .’

People say eyes smile. Eyes don’t smile, because they don’t have mouths to smile with. All that happens is that they change shape. Corozin’s eyes changed shape now (they were just careful not to show their teeth).

‘ . . . Keep up the good work.’

*

‘Yes!’ cried Corozin gleefully, in his chamber of brass.

The glow in his communications dish was fading (taking the
ridiculous
, not to say
repulsive
, little face of Muddlespot with it). Quickly he conjured up more powder and scattered it over the embers.
Huff!
went the flames. Corozin leaned forward. His immaculate fingers were trembling with excitement.

There was the face of Sally Jones, looking calmly at him through the flames.

And there, written in figures of fire, was the LDC.

Lifetime Good Deeds: 3,971,756

Lifetime Bad Deeds: 1

‘YES!’ cried Corozin.

Breakthrough! At last! When everything else had failed!

‘Switched off her sister’s oven!’ He chuckled. ‘I like that  . . .’

He always liked it when they played with fire.

‘Guards!’ he called. His voice flowed down the
corridors
like lava down a mountainside. When he rose from his seat, all the palace trembled. And he stood before a mirror.

The figure in the mirror was beautiful. It smiled back at him. As he watched, the red robes it wore vanished, to be replaced by a dull red woolly jumper, artfully baggy and unravelling just a little at the elbow. And jeans, with the beginnings of a rip at one knee. He nodded. Yes, that would do.

‘Guards!’ he called again, and was answered by the distant rattle of knuckles along polished floors.

In the mirror, a red-brown scarf wove itself nonchalantly around his reflection’s neck. Scuffed white trainers cloaked the hooves.

‘Cool,’ he said, experimentally.

The rattle of knuckles was coming closer.

Corozin stepped forward, into the mirror. At the same time his reflection stepped out to meet him. They seemed to blur into one another at the mirror’s surface. When the guards entered, gawping, they found their master standing before them in a woolly jumper, scarf and jeans, while his red-robed reflection looked on benignly from the mirror.

‘We are going up,’ he said. ‘To take charge.’

The guards looked at each other, and then at their lord.

‘To take charge,’ they answered dutifully.

(If in doubt, it was safest just to repeat what the boss had said. Even the hint of a question mark could have dire consequences. They had learned this from experience – mostly that of some of their former, less fortunate colleagues.)

‘Of Things,’ Corozin said.

He was not worried that the LDC registered only ‘1’. What mattered was that it registered anything at all. He knew, as well as any Archangel in Heaven, how enormous the possibilities were when someone who had been straight all along began for the first time to stray. Yes, he knew how to use shame. He knew how to make people hate themselves, and then how to use it when they did. He knew how to look for the little things, the things that didn’t seem to matter at the time you did them.

He was particularly fond of the sort of little thing that, without anybody intending it, turned out to be very big afterwards. So big that nobody ever mentioned it, and nobody could ever forget it. Like causing damage to the house without meaning to. Or the
maiming
of a pet. Or the accidental death of a sister.

He had done it before.

Which left just one little problem. One little and rather warty problem. He knew the first question Low Command would ask when they heard the good news. It would be, ‘Who had made the breakthrough?’ And it would be unfortunate (not to say downright dangerous) for Corozin if the name they heard happened to be the wrong one.

But again, it wasn’t the sort of problem that he couldn’t solve. He’d had, after all, quite a lot of practice with this sort of problem recently. He twirled his brass hammer and smiled affectionately at his guards.

‘I think our time has come.’

Some things just came naturally to Billie. She could achieve Modest Grades with No Effort in her sleep (and frequently did). She could achieve a Room so Untidy She Would Never Have to Clean It, with results that were truly impressive. And when she set out to Stir Up A Row, she was just world standard.

The aftermath of the Food Tech lesson, when the school authorities had woken up to the fact that the thing had been a complete disaster and were preparing
to
come down hard on anyone whose name got mentioned in connection with it, gave her the perfect opportunity.

‘
Sally!
’ said Mrs Bunnidy, who had been hauled along the corridor by a red-faced Billie. ‘Is this true?
Did
you switch off Billie’s oven?’

‘Yes, I did,’ said Sally.

She forbore to remind Mrs Bunnidy that she had said all ovens had to be off by a quarter past. She also did not bother to say that the forlorn and lumpy set of half-baked muffins Billie had tearfully produced as Exhibit A were about averagely good for Billie’s baking. Had she switched off the oven? She had. Had she meant to spoil Billie’s muffins? She had. Guilty as charged.

‘
Well
!’ cried Mrs Bunnidy. ‘I’m – I’m shocked, Sally. Shocked and disappointed. I don’t know what to say. You’ll have to see your Head of Year  . . .’

Sally said nothing.

‘ . . .
Well!
’ said Mr Singh, Head of Year. ‘Sally, I’m surprised at you! Surprised and disappointed. We expect pupils in this school to respect each other. Do you have anything to say?’

Sally said nothing. There was no point.

‘You will join Richard and David and Charlie B in detention. And before the next Food Tech period I am going to speak with the whole class. The general level of behaviour was disgraceful.’

Still Sally said nothing, though maybe she went a little pale. She had never, ever had a detention before. She had never, ever been bracketed with boys like Richard and David or even Charlie B.

And detention, she realized, meant she would get home late.

Billie would get there first.

With her muffins.

‘
Sally!
’ cried Mum that evening. ‘I – I don’t know what to say. That was just –
spiteful
! Wasn’t it? I’m – I’m
very
disappointed  . . .’

Sally stood in the hallway with her bag over one shoulder. The bag was heavy. Her shoes and tights were wet from coming home in the latest shower of rain, and her knee was scraped and sore and still throbbing slightly from when she had fallen on the hockey pitch. Still she didn’t say anything. But maybe her face hardened a little. Maybe she let her eyes say a little of what she felt.

And Mum, tired, dismayed, bewildered, lost it.

‘
Don’t
be like that with me! You
never
give Billie a chance! You
never
let her get it right! What’s the matter with you? You don’t do
anything
to help her  . . .’

Pale-faced, Sally stood it for about eight seconds. Then she turned for the stairs.

‘
Go
to your room!’ said Mum hurriedly, before Sally could hit the first step with a stomp. ‘Go to your room! And don’t come down until you can be
nice
to your sister!’

Sally did not stomp. She just climbed the stairs.

‘She – (sob) – ruined my –
muffins
!’ Billie wailed.

‘Never mind, sweetheart,’ Sally heard Mum say. ‘
We
can make some more. Would you like that?’

‘It won’t be the
sa-a-a-ame
!’ cried Billie.

‘Look, I was going to bake something later anyway. You can help me. And you can lick the bowl afterwards.’

‘Sniff,’ said Billie.

Sally closed her bedroom door.

The evening drew on. Shadows fell around the Jones
household
. Other shadows moved within them.

‘No Sally?’ said Greg at supper.

‘She’s having a sulk,’ said Billie.

‘
Sally’s
having a sulk?’ said Greg, incredulous.

In the hallway, Shades tensed. His eyes narrowed.

‘ . . . So I sent her upstairs,’ said Mum. ‘And she’s decided to stay there. It’s a battle of wills, I suppose.’

‘Well done,’ said Greg.

‘Are we going to do those muffins now?’ asked Billie hopefully.

‘In a moment, sweetheart. We’ll start them tonight and have them for breakf—Oh.’ She turned to Greg. ‘Did you call the electrician?’

‘Er  . . . no. I was going to  . . .’

‘Uuuurgh!’ groaned Mum in despair. ‘Can’t you do
anything
? One day we’re going to wake up with the house on fire!’

‘Ovens are metal,’ said Greg reasonably. ‘Even if something burns, there’s not too much that can go wrong as long as you don’t open the oven door.’

Billie, with some effort, was persuaded to go and stack the dishwasher. While she was clattering
in
the kitchen, Mum put her head in her hands.

‘I didn’t handle it well,’ she said. ‘I just wasn’t
ready
for it. I got home shattered  . . .’

‘Never mind,’ said Greg.

‘ . . . Billie was so upset. She’s like me. She takes everything to heart. She doesn’t react well when things go wrong for her  . . .’

‘
You
were never like that?’ said Greg, his eyes widening diplomatically.

‘All the time. I still am a bit, aren’t I?’

‘Mmm,’ said Greg, again diplomatically.

‘Sally’s got to learn that the world’s not perfect. It’s never going to be. She can’t expect it to be  . . .’

‘Mmm.’

‘She gets
that
from her father.’

Greg nodded wisely.

‘Damn him,’ said Mum.

‘Mmm.’

‘He was a sock fascist.’

‘Mmm.’

‘Don’t keep saying “mmm”.’

‘What do you want me to say?’

*

Ismael looked up to call for his card. But for once Scattletail was not watching him.

He was looking away at the twin windows on the world. At the lights of the kitchen, where the Outer Billie worked, humming, on her dough. He was looking at the shadows beyond the light.

‘What’s up?’ asked Ismael.

‘Felt something,’ said Scattletail.

Ismael waited. Scattletail just sat there. He sat very, very still.

‘Twist,’ said Ismael eventually.

Scattletail glanced down at the pack. He seemed to have forgotten all about it. He flipped a card to Ismael and went back to watching the shadows.

The card was the three of hearts. With his six and eight, that made seventeen. ‘Stick,’ said Ismael.

Scattletail glanced at the pack again. He turned three cards in quick succession, barely looking at them. ‘Bank’s bust,’ he said. ‘C’mon. Let’s go for a walk.’

Ismael blinked at the fallen cards. Scattletail should never have turned that last one. He had made nineteen without it. ‘Why did you do that?’ he demanded.

‘Dunno. Must’ve been thinking ’bout something else. You coming?’