The Beasts of Upton Puddle (4 page)

Joe's feelings of apprehension fell away instantly as he looked down at the angry creature. A huge grin split Joe's face. “You're calling
me
an ankle biter? You're a pixie!”

“Pixie? A bloody pixie?” The little man almost swallowed his pipe in rage as he jumped up and down inside his apparent prison. “How dare ya! How
dare
ya! Pixie, me granny's armpit. Don't ya know a cluricaun when ya sees one?”

“A what? A loony corn?”

“Let me outa here and oi'l stick dis fist up ya nostril.”

Joe laughed and sat in front of the cage, watching the tirade.

“Oi'l slap seven bails of—”

The sound of a clicking padlock came from behind Joe. A wave of cold shock stifled his laughing. He was locked in! But was it an accident, or did somebody do that on purpose?

The tiny Irishman ceased his ranting, watching Joe with his mouth forming a ridiculing O. “Oh, dearie, dearie me! Da little boy's a goner!”

“But I haven't done anything. I only wanted to—”

“He-he, yes, indeedee. A goner he is.” The tiny man's anger had suddenly turned to glee.

“Which one of these doors gets me upstairs?”

“Oooo, dat'll cost ya,” he said, removing the pipe from his mouth and casually tapping the tobacco out. “Oi'm a little thirsty. A bit droy in de old cake horl, if ya take me meaning.”

“But I don't have anything to drink. Just tell me how to get out.”

The little man raised his eyebrows as he settled his gaze upon a cobwebbed wine rack in the far corner.

“Wine? You want wine?”

“Of course oi want some woine, ya stoopid boy. Now let me outa dis cage, would ya?”

Joe eyed him. “I think I'll just pick one of those
doors and try my luck.”

“Oooo, oi wouldn't do dat if oi were you.”

“Why?”

“Troo one door, da way out. Troo de udder door,” he whispered in tones of melodrama, “certain death.”

Joe raised an eyebrow. “Certain death? Which one?”

“Get me outa dis bloody cage, and oi'l tells ya,” he screamed back.

“Tell me first, and
then
I'll let you out.”

“All roight, all roight. Go troo da green door, but never go troo da red door.”

“Got it. The green door takes me upstairs.”

“Aye, now let a little fella out, would ya?”

“I'd like to check first, if you don't mind.”

The angry man rolled his eyes.

Joe edged to the red door and pressed his ear against the cold wood. No sound came from behind it. Joe looked at the black doorknob.

“Oi said da green door!”

“I know. I'm just curious.”

“Curiosity killed da cat, ya knor.”

“Is there a cat in there? A big one, I mean?” Joe was still looking at the red door, his hand poised above the knob.

The cluricaun crossed his arms. “Moi lips are sealed.”

Joe eyed the knob for a few more seconds before forcing his attention to the green door. With his breath held, he turned the knob and pushed. Sure enough, a
set of carpeted stairs greeted him, and he let out a sigh of relief.

Perhaps he could get back to the entrance of the house unnoticed. But what would he say to Mrs. Merrynether? Was it she who had locked the padlock? And what was she doing with a cluricaun in her cellar? With each question wriggling like a worm in his stomach, Joe decided it was no use staying in the cellar. He had no choice but to take his chances.

He made a move for the stairs.

“Oi! Ya little tadpole, where d'ya tink you're goin'? Let me out!”

Joe looked at the little man and grinned. “I didn't say
when
I'd let you out, did I?”

And with that, he closed the door and sneaked up the stairs.

Behind him, through the closed door, echoed the ranting of a betrayed midget about to burst a blood vessel. “Ya backstabbin', slippery son of a pig farmer's poop shoveler. If oi ever foind ya, oi'l stick my pointy red boot roight up yer . . .”

The bellowing faded as Joe passed through another door into a cold pantry with a single door at the far end. Quickly but silently, he closed the trapdoor, tiptoed out of the room, crept along a hallway, and to his great relief found himself near the familiar entrance.

Joe hesitated, his fingers on the door handle. The events of the last ten minutes should have been enough
to convince him to restrain his inquisitive nature, yet the same curiosity that drew him into the cellar ached for more information about Mrs. Merrynether and her ill-tempered tenant.

“Did you manage to get everything?”

Joe jumped when he heard the voice behind him. Breathless, he turned to see Mrs. Merrynether standing at the end of the hallway. Mrs. Merrynether's left forearm was wrapped tightly with a bandage; four distinct crimson lines, looking very much like a claw wound, bled through. Nestling by Mrs. Merrynether's feet and looking up at her was, unmistakably, a black potbellied pig.

Mrs. Merrynether continued to wrap linen around her arm as she watched Joe expectantly. “Well, Master Copper? Has the cat got your tongue?”

“Cat?” Joe stared at the pig.

Mrs. Merrynether followed his line of sight and smiled down at her friend. It was still looking at her, its snout wrinkling slightly as if it hoped for a morsel.

“Oh, don't worry about Archibald. He won't hurt you. Archy, go and say hello.”

The small pig, apparently understanding her completely, turned his attention to Joe, snorted, and then half-skipped, half-trotted toward him. He butted Joe's leg and stared up with tiny eyes barely visible between great folds of skin.

“Hello,” said Joe, scratching behind one of Archibald's ears.

The pig squealed and ran to Mrs. Merrynether's side.

“He likes you,” she said, “but he's rather shy, I'm afraid.”

“Oh . . . is he—?”

“Did you manage to get everything on the list?” she repeated.

“Um, no . . . not quite. Mr. Bacon has to order a few things in.”

“Oh, dear. Did you get the water bottles?”

“Yes.”

“The jam?”

“Yes.”

“Out of cat litter, was he?”

“Yes, but I did get five bags.”

“Hmm, well, that'll have to do. Can you bring it inside for me? As you can see, I'm not able to lift anything for the time being,” she said, motioning to her injured arm.

“Right away, Mrs. Merrynether.”

Joe was astounded she hadn't asked how he had entered the house. Perhaps she was coming to that. He opened the door and brought the trolley inside.

Mrs. Merrynether examined the contents briefly. With a mumble of approval, she wheeled it into another room out of sight.

“How did you hurt your arm?” Joe called after her. “Is my badger okay?”

“As you seem to have discovered, Joseph,” she said
as she returned, “I spend much of my time attending to a great many different species. Some animals are less amiable than others when receiving treatment. Thankfully, your badger friend was less of a trial than . . . than my
other
patient I dealt with this morning. She's fine, by the way.”

“Thank you.”

“No. Thank
you
, young man,” she said, ushering him toward the room he had sat in earlier.

On the small table, Joe saw a silver tray on which sat an old brown teapot, a jug of milk, and two teacups. The excited pig followed them in, found his way to a tatty tartan cushion, and flopped onto it with a satisfied grunt.

“I simply don't have the time or desire to go shopping for things these days. And it looks like I won't even be able to for a week or two anyway.” She looked at the bandage on her arm with apparent irritation, as someone might look at a wasp that had landed on their sandwich.

Still nervous about being found out, Joe felt an uncontrollable urge to prove his good intentions. The words spilled from his mouth: “I come this way most days, Mrs. Merrynether. I can help you with your shopping.”

“My! We
are
feeling enthusiastic, aren't we?” Her gaze was fixed firmly on Joe as she poured tea into the cups; it was a miracle it didn't spill everywhere.

“I just want to help.”

“I'm sure you do. Did Mr. Bacon give you any change?”

“Oh! Yes. Sorry. I completely forgot. Hold on . . .” Joe rummaged in his pocket and pulled out two screwed-up notes and some loose change. At the precise moment he handed them to Mrs. Merrynether, a chill of fear almost choked him.

Something was missing from his pocket.

“Very well,” she said, making her way to another chair close to the snoring pig. “You can start next Sunday. Come back here at the same time, and I'll have another list for you. It'll be quite a novelty having someone fetch my groceries for me. Is twenty pounds a reasonable payment? If not, we could always . . .”

Joe didn't hear the rest as hot panic surged through his stomach to his chest. He fished deeper in his pocket, then dug into another one. No doubt, it was gone. He searched the floor with rapid but furtive glances.

“Is something the matter, young man?”

Joe gulped, knowing his face was flushed yet again. He had no answer. Deep down, he knew exactly what had happened. The sneaky little man in the cellar had stolen his penknife!

The week dragged by like a zombie with arthritis. A flood of worries saturated Joe's mind the whole time, and just as his face had so often been dunked in the toilet by the school's godfather of torture, Kurt Duggan, the events of each day were drowned in one long blur of embarrassment. He left his school books at home, he wore odd socks, and many lengthy moments of staring into space were captured by sniggering classmates on mobile phones. He even managed to wear a note on his blazer for two whole days that read,
Donkey rides—£1
.

And it was all because the same tormenting questions remained unanswered.

Had the cluricaun taken his penknife and escaped? What if Mrs. Merrynether knew? He hadn't let on that it was missing, but what if she found out? Surely she would. And what would she do about it if she
did
know? Should he go back early and confess all or just
wait to see what would happen on Sunday? What other creatures was she hiding in that house?

Not one fact from any of his school lessons sunk in as he agonized over the possibilities, and his finger-wagging teachers had even felt the need to discuss Joe's distracted state with his mother. Naturally she was concerned, but to Joe's relief, her only action so far was to watch him with a concerned frown and ask if he felt ill.

But Sunday morning at last arrived, and with a hurricane of conflicting thoughts still jostling for control, Joe found himself standing outside the main door of Merrynether Mansion, waiting nervously for it to open.

The seconds seemed to drag almost as long as the last seven days had. Joe eyed the bellpull, chewing his lip like someone about to pull the stinger from a bee. His fingers teetered at the edge of the cord—and then his eyes focused on something he hadn't noticed before: an old plaque, obscured by dead vine leaves, directly behind the cord.

It read:

As was always the case with Joe, curiosity lured him, and he found himself heading left to look for the trade entrance. It was not difficult to find. Not only was it revealed by a conspicuous door and sign, but Joe also
heard a voice bellowing from inside. Though he could not see who was shouting, the thick and pompous tones, punctuated by occasional puffing and wheezing, suggested it was an incredibly fat businessman. The door was slightly ajar but not enough to see inside.

“. . . And furthermore Mrs. Merrynether, if you continue to ignore my solicitors, I shall be forced to involve the police.”

Then came the familiar voice of the old woman, considerably calmer than the other and laced with more than a hint of sarcasm. “Mr. Redwar—or may I call you Argoyle? Is it really so hard to understand my previous replies to your office? There is no need for these legalities; therefore, I shall not respond to them. And
do
stop shouting—surely a man with such a low IQ ought to have a low voice to match.”

Joe expected a returning tirade, but instead, the voice took on a quiet and far more menacing tone. “Need I remind you, Mrs. Merrynether, that I know enough about your little . . . menagerie here to have you imprisoned for the rest of your life? My secretary has a detailed portfolio. Isn't that right, Ms. Burrowdown?”

There was a mumbling response that Joe could not hear clearly, and his curiosity ballooned like a puffer fish on steroids. He had to see what was going on.

Gingerly, he pushed the door open. “Hello?”

Four faces turned toward him.

Mrs. Merrynether was standing, hands clasped, behind
a worn mahogany serving counter surrounded by dusty bottles and books, an antique cash register, and an old bell that had evidently been untouched for years. The bandage that covered her arm the day before had been replaced by a smaller one but still revealed the stains of what must have been a nasty wound underneath. Despite that and the obvious hostility directed toward her a moment ago, she wore a sweet smile and seemed perfectly relaxed, which was more than could be said of the ogre directly in front of her.

Mr. Redwar was exactly as Joe imagined from his voice. The towering mountain of blubber squeezed into an immaculate suit was topped with an equally bloated face resembling an oversized tomato on the brink of explosion. A large toothy mouth exaggerated by a bushy moustache dominated his features, but the man's eyes drew Joe's attention most. Though they were small, they expressed a riot of emotions—none of them positive: anger, greed, impatience. Joe could read all of that.