Really Weird Removals.com (9 page)

“This is Eilean. Everybody knows everything about everybody!”

“True. It’s bait.”

“For what?”

“I’ll tell you another time.”

Something else he’ll tell us another time.

“ISABELLA! DUNCAN!” Uncle Alistair calls cheerfully, as we make our way in. My mum is wearing paint-splattered jeans and she has a yellow
half-moustache
of paint on her face. She’s redecorating our guest bedroom. Nonna Rina is coming from Italy to spend the whole summer with us in Eilean, and my mum wants everything to be perfect for her.

We are sent upstairs while Uncle Alistair negotiates with Mum and Dad in the kitchen. We stop halfway, of course, and sit on the stairs, so we can hear what they’re saying.

“It’s a great opportunity, Duncan. They’ve never been to the Museum of Scotland.” My mum’s voice.

“It’d be fun for them,” adds Uncle Alistair. “And they’d learn so much. I’ll look after them.”

“Will you?” Dad’s voice is sarcastic. Valentina and I look at each other. This might not work. “You’ll look after them like you looked after our parents?”

A moment of silence. Dad has gone for the throat. Poor Uncle Alistair.

“Duncan, Luca will go to high school next year. This museum visit would be great for him…” Mum is trying to smooth things over.

“Maybe
I
want to take them, have you thought of that?”

“And will you?” asks Mum. It’s her voice that sounds cold now.

“Well, not in the immediate future… Ach, you know what my writing schedule is, Isabella! Right, you have me in a corner there. Ok. Ok. They can go. But you look after them
for real
, Alistair, do you hear me?”

“Of course I will…” he begins, but Dad walks out of the kitchen. We run upstairs as fast as we can. I’m barely in my room, and pretending to look for my sunglasses, when I hear a knock at the door.

“Come in.”

It’s Mum. “Sorted. I’ll help you pack,” she says with a smile.

It’ll be a great summer, I know it. This is just the beginning.

We’re standing on the pavement in front of the Nicols’ house, a beautiful, grand-looking building. Our eyes are closed, our shoulders hunched, as Uncle Alistair douses us, and himself, in stinky brown liquid from several pickled-onion jars. The smell is revolting.

“You didn’t tell us you were going to do this!” I complain. My hair is soaking with the stuff.

“Stop moaning, Luca,” snaps Valentina, but I can see she’s annoyed too.

“Sorry guys. Everybody knows trolls can’t stand pickled onions.”

“
How
do they know that?” Valentina is trying to smooth back her wet blonde hair.

“Well, two young lads were coming home from a chip shop in Cromarty, in 1976. A troll attacked and the boys threw the chip bag at him. It had a fish supper and two pickled onions in it. The troll threw up and ran away.”

“How do they know it wasn’t the fish supper that did the trick?”

“Yes. Well. Could be. We’ll find out soon enough.”

I can’t believe it. We’ve got pickled onion skins all over us and he’s not even sure we won’t get eaten. He might just have
seasoned
us!

Uncle Alistair rings the bell. An old lady in a woollen jumper and tartan trousers opens the door. She has a pen in one hand, and a Sudoku in the other.

“Alistair Grant, RWR. I’m here for the thing in the cellar.”

“Oh, yes. I’m Mrs Nicol,” answers the lady. “Well, you’re too late. It’s too late for James.”

Our faces fall. Oh no! The troll has struck already! Poor Mr Nicol. Mrs Nicol doesn’t look too fussed though.

“I’m so sorry, Mrs Nicol,” says Uncle Alistair. “Do you have anywhere to go? A relation, a friend? While we sort this for you.” He gestures towards the back of the house.

“I’m not going anywhere, young man. I want to see what happens. It’s not every day I get this much excitement. Come on in, I’ve got tea and sandwiches ready. To give you energy,” she adds, leading us into the
living room. We walk on, leaving a wet stinky trail on the wooden floor.

“Was it raining, outside?” Mrs Nicol asks as she notices our wet hair. Then the smell hits her. She wrinkles her nose. She’s too polite to comment, but I can see her wincing.

“Pickled onion. Repels trolls, which is what I think this is,” says Uncle Alistair, matter-of-factly. “Mrs Nicol–”

“Call me Jean.” She really is very cheery for someone newly widowed.

“Has anybody asked questions… you know, about James? They must have wondered what caused his untimely death…”

“Death?” Jean turns to look at us. “He’s not dead! He’s at his men’s club. He goes every Tuesday. You missed him by twenty minutes.”

I’m about to breathe a sigh of relief, when an unearthly growl breaks the silence. We all jump. It’s like something from beyond the grave, piercing and deep at the same time. I feel chilled to the bone.

“That’s our cat. She ate a whole Mars Bar this morning – stole it off the wee boy next door and ran away with it. She’s been in agony since.” A ginger cat with a red collar pads slowly across the room, makes an attempt to jump onto an armchair, then tries again, and again, until she (just) makes it. She abandons herself on the cushions and emits another terrible growl. We all wince.

“Have a seat, I’ll get your refreshments.”

A few minutes (and a few groans from the cat) later, Jean comes back with a plate of sandwiches,
tea for herself and Uncle Alistair, and blackcurrant juice for us.

“Jean, I
must
advise you,” says Uncle Alistair, in between morsels, “it would be better if you left the house while we do this.”

“Out of the question. I’ve got to see…
it
.”

“It could become dangerous.”

“I’ve prepared a small kit, just in case,” Jean says with a smile, and produces a handbag from under the coffee table. “Let me see. Yes. A rolling pin,” she takes out the objects as she lists them, “a pan, some rope, my perfume – to spray into his eyes – and some mints.”

“Mints?” I ask.

“My throat gets awfully dry.”

“I’m sorry, Jean, I must insist.” Uncle Alistair puts down his empty cup. “You cannot be here while we do what we need to do.”

“I know it’s dangerous, but James and I –”

“I don’t think you know how dangerous this
really
is. Someone I know had a run in with a troll on the outskirts of Dublin two months ago. They found his hat and a sock. And
nothing
else
.”

Jean’s eyes widen.

“I suggest we wait for Mr Nicol to return, and then we put you both into a taxi to wherever you want to go. We’ll phone you when we’re finished.”

“Well, Mr Grant. I suppose you know best. As soon as James is back we’ll go to my sister-in-law’s house, over in Morningside. What a shame, to miss all the excitement! Our life has become so boring since the Elliotts moved. They were hippies, you know –
strange clothes, long hair, lots of peculiar friends: I could have spent all day watching them from the kitchen window. I had the perfect vantage point. It was so entertaining.”

Another growl interrupts her. It’s the cat again. She sounds different, though.

A meow. High pitched, sort of strangled.

We all look at the armchair where she’s sleeping.

Where she
was
sleeping.

She’s disappeared.

Uncle Alistair springs up.

“Where’s the cellar?”

“This way!” exclaims Jean, who’s gone a bit pale.

“We haven’t got the stuff out of the car!” I say, panicked.

“No time!” hisses Uncle Alistair.

We all hurry after Jean. She stops in front of a black wooden door.

“
Here
,” she whispers.

All noise has ceased. There’s perfect silence. Uncle Alistair takes Jean gently by the shoulders and pulls her behind him. He stands in front of the door.

Suddenly, it opens, just a little… And then shuts again with a bang. Something has been thrown through, nearly hitting Uncle Alistair in the face.

It’s a small red collar, with a bell.

The cat’s collar. 

Jean gasps and leans down to pick up the collar.

“Oh,
no
,” she whispers sadly.

“Stay back,” Uncle Alistair urges her.

We all take a step back.

Nothing happens.

“Luca, Vally.”

“
Yes
,” we whisper.

“Go get the equipment from the car.” Uncle Alistair throws me the keys to the van.

We run out as quickly and as silently as we can. I open the boot, and take out the white cool-bag with the orange flowers that my mum lent us. She didn’t know what it was for, of course. She wouldn’t have
lent it otherwise. I hand it to Valentina, who runs back in with it.

I’m left to manage the cage. It’s really heavy; I’m sweating as I lift it out of the boot. It falls onto the pavement with a CLANK!

A dog-walker, who’s just stopped at a bush for a quick wee (the dog, not the walker), looks at me.

“Yes, it
is
a cage, you saw right,” I mutter grumpily under my breath. It’s just too heavy for me to carry, and we’re in a rush. I’m about to run back in and call Valentina, when she runs out again. Together, with great effort, we manage to lift the cage and bring it into the hall.

“
What’s happening
?” I whisper to Uncle Alistair, making sure he can see my face and read my lips. “Nothing yet.”

“Where’s Jean?”

“It got her.”

I feel the blood drain from my face. Valentina and I look at each other. She is as pale as I feel.

“Just joking! She’s in the living room, I told her to lock herself in.” Uncle Alistair smiles mischievously. Valentina rolls her eyes. My heart starts beating again.

“Valentina, you go upstairs, too. Luca, get the cage ready–”

“I’m not going upstairs!”

“Do what I say! Now!” whispers Uncle Alistair, loudly and urgently, as he opens the cool-bag and takes out a few dead, plucked chickens. He scatters them in a trail from the cellar door to the cage, with the last one right inside it.

“Ok, ok!” Valentina grudgingly makes her way up the stairs. She crouches on the landing, her face between the bars of the banister.

“Everybody still. Cage ready?”

I nod. I’m holding its door open, ready to shut it as soon as we get the troll inside.

I can feel my heart thumping like it’s going to jump out of my chest. There’s perfect silence, except for our heavy breathing…

Then Uncle Alistair opens the cellar door.

“HELLO-HOOOOO!” he booms.

Nothing.

“HELLOOOO-HOOOOOOO!!! THERE’S FOOD HERE!”

A thumping sound, heavy footsteps up the stairs, a terrible smell – strong enough to cover even the pickled onions – and there he is, emerging from the darkness of the cellar. The troll.

“A moor troll!” booms Uncle Alistair. He seems delighted.

The troll is dressed in what look like rabbit skins; he has a huge head and huge feet and hands, and his skin is all leathery, with a greenish-yellowish hue. He has a few straggly yellow hairs on the top of his head and pale, nearly white eyes. He blinks in the light, towering over Uncle Alistair – he must be at least seven feet tall.

“There you are! See? I was right. It
is
a troll!” shouts Uncle Alistair triumphantly.

Great, I think. You were right, yes. Hooray.

After a few interminable seconds of blinking, the troll throws himself on the first thing he sees: Uncle 
Alistair. Uncle Alistair ducks, covering his head with his hands. Valentina screams, I’m about to run to his aid, when the troll stops in mid-air.

He scrunches up his face and makes a gagging noise, then roars in anger.

“I smell bad, don’t I? But look! This is good! THIS SMELLS GOOD!” shouts Uncle Alistair, grabbing a chicken by the leg and waving it in front of the troll’s face. “FOOD!”

The troll roars and grabs the chicken, and then bites a great big chunk off it. I can see his teeth: huge, pointed, black. Slowly, deliberately, he devours it, making a horrible, disgusting crunching noise. I feel my stomach churn. I could throw up, but I stop myself.

“There – there’s more! Good boy, good boy!” Uncle Alistair entices him on, and the creature grabs the next chicken on the trail and starts chewing. Then the next one. And the next one.

And then the troll sees me.

His pale eyes are looking straight at me. My legs give way. I have to hold on to the cage to stay standing.

“LUCA!” I hear Valentina’s terrified scream, and it seems to come from far away.

The troll crouches slightly to gain momentum. I know what he’s about to do: he pounces towards me, all seven feet of him. I fold over myself, hiding my face, praying for my life.

When he’s near enough to smell the pickled onions, he stops in his tracks, just a few inches away from my face. I can smell him, too: a mouldy, revolting stench that seems to come from the depth of a bog.
The troll scrunches up his face again and makes the same gagging noises, and again he howls in anger.

It’s my moment.

“Here boy… here…” my voice is coming out all small. I grab a chicken and lift it up, dangling it in front of him. I’m shaking so much that the chicken trembles too. I throw it into the cage.

The troll puts his head through the cage door. Not one, but
two
plucked chickens lie inside. He can’t resist. He’s taking a step… I’m ready to close the door and lock it, when…

“Jean, I’m hooooome!”

The front door opens. And there’s James Nicol.

It takes James a few seconds to grasp the situation. He blinks, just like the troll did when he came out of the dark cellar. In front of him there’s a huge,
foul-smelling
, seven-foot-tall creature who’s watching him like he’s a plate of haggis, neeps and tatties. With a whisky sauce and all.

James screams. I scream. Valentina screams. Uncle Alistair screams. The troll growls.

We all run towards James, with different intentions: three of us want to save him, one of us wants to eat him.

Thing is, the one who wants to eat him is a lot faster than us, and his legs are a lot longer. He’ll bite James’s head off before we can reach them…

“AAAAAAAHOOOOOOOOO!”

All of a sudden, the troll stops, takes his foot in his hand and starts hopping. Jean has come out of the living room, the handbag in one hand and the rolling pin in the other.

“Do. Not. Touch. My. Husband,” she says, in a low deep voice. Her eyes are blazing.

We are frozen. Jean lets the rolling pin fall as she rummages in the bag. She takes out a small bottle, then jumps around a bit until her hand is even with the troll’s face, which is lowered because he holds his sore foot.

“Take this!” A hissing sound. Jean sprays her perfume right in the troll’s eyes. He growls again, covering his face with his hands. He’s now blind and rolling on the floor in pain.

“And
this
!” Jean takes out her final weapon, the frying pan. With a scream you wouldn’t think could come out of an old lady, she raises the pan and lowers it with all her might on the troll’s head. There’s a resounding BANG. He’s out cold.

“RESULT!” says Valentina jubilantly.

James slides against the wall, and sits down with a sigh.

“Help me, Luca!” Uncle Alistair and I drag the troll into the cage and lock the door. We both sit on the floor as well, exhausted.

“Mint?” says Jean.

“We can’t set it free, it’s too dangerous! It
eats
people!”

The troll is still unconscious, but is starting to move a little. We’re about to cover his cage in sheets, and take him out into the van.

Uncle Alistair’s plan is to drive somewhere north, as far from civilisation as we can, and free him on a
wild moor to feed on wildcats and deer. But I have my doubts that he’ll stick to animals.

“Uncle Alistair, you’ve seen him in action. Sooner or later he’ll get someone.”

“Yes, perhaps. Kill him, then.”

“WHAT?”

“Kill him. There you are.” Uncle Alistair hands me his dagger. Yes, he keeps a dagger in his sock, believe it or not. Just in case.

I take it, my hand shaking.

“Luca! You can’t!” I hear Valentina’s voice from somewhere far away. The wind is roaring in my ears.

Where? Where do I hit, to
kill
?

The troll’s eyes open. He sees me and the dagger, and curls up. He lifts his head to one side, and we look at each other.

His pale eyes are full of terror, and… resignation. Like he knows he’s about to die.

That second, that precise exact second when my eyes meet the troll’s, I know that I can’t do it. That I can’t kill anyone, anything.
Ever
.

I hand the dagger back to my uncle, who gazes at me with something very similar to pride.

I have no words to describe the stench in the van on the way back. A mixture of mouldy troll and pickled onions. I think I’ll never eat again.

We drive north for hours to the middle of nowhere: a place Uncle Alistair chose for its remoteness. When
we get there it’s past midnight, and it’s pitch black because there are no lamp-posts or houses for miles around. The sky is clear and covered in a million stars.

Uncle Alistair gives us another drenching in pickled-onion liquid to make sure that the troll won’t attack us, then hands out a torch each.

We stand in a semicircle as he opens the cage. The troll blinks at the harsh light of our torches, and hides his face in his hands. He’s scared.

“
Come on. Come out. It’s ok
,” I whisper. He looks up, tentatively. It dawns on him that he’s being set free. He jumps out of the van, and my heart is in my throat as he stands there among us, all seven feet of him.

Then something weird happens.

The troll puts his hand in the rabbit skin he has around his hips, and he takes something out. Without a sound, he extends his huge pale-green hand, curled up in a fist, towards me. Then he unfurls his fist to reveal a little shiny thing inside. I can’t make out what it is.

Cautiously, I take the object from his hand.

The troll looks at me, then at Valentina, then at Alistair, as if he’s saying goodbye. He turns around and takes a huge leap into the darkness.

Valentina and Uncle Alistair step beside me to look at the troll’s gift. It’s a small medallion, beautifully carved with waves and spirals. It looks like it’s made of pure iron, and very, very ancient.

“Troll treasure,” says Uncle Alistair. “Very rare. Keep it safe.”

I put it around my neck and tuck it inside my sweater, proudly. Then we climb back into the van and try to snatch a few hours’ sleep while Uncle Alistair drives back, across the dark moors.