The Various (38 page)

‘There
are
, Katie,’ said George, eagerly. ‘I’ve seen them! Well, one of them. He had a bow and arrow, and,’ he added, incongruously, ‘an elastic belt.’

‘Oh, that’s OK, then,’ said Katie, taking the kettle over to the tap. ‘As long as he had something to keep his pants up with.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘What is it, April Fool’s? Oh, no. Bit late for that. Must be sunstroke in that case.’ She filled the kettle noisily, letting it clatter against the already chipped ceramic sink. ‘You’re both headbangers, the pair of you. What was all that stuff about Celandine? Got you at it as well, has she?’

‘Well, it’s
true
,’ said George, emphatically. ‘She
did
see . . . what she said she saw. I know – we know – because we’ve seen them too. Haven’t we, Midge?’

Midge grunted. She couldn’t be bothered to answer. Katie would find out for herself – or she wouldn’t. Either way it didn’t seem to matter much. There were other things to think about – like why would an Ickri archer come to Mill Farm? If it had been Pegs, or even Little-Marten, she would have been less surprised, but an Ickri?

‘Where’s the bowl?’ she said to George. ‘Didn’t bring it with you, did you?’

‘No,’ said George. ‘I put it back on the ammo box. Tell you what, I’ll go and get it now – perhaps Miss Know-All might like to see it.’ He scraped back his chair and dashed out of the kitchen. The front door
slammed
shut, and a few flakes of whitewash fell from the kitchen ceiling.

George’s departure was observed by Scurl and his crew – as had been Uncle Brian’s. The six hunters were huddled among the weeds and long grass that grew beneath the plough. Grissel’s prior knowledge of how the land lay was proving very useful.

‘Who be that one?’ whispered Scurl, watching the boy as he ran round the outside of the farmhouse.

‘Never seen him afore,’ muttered Grissel. He was feeling even more uncomfortable about the nature of this second visit to the Gorji settlement than he had about the first one.

‘Benzo – get arter ’un,’ growled Scurl. ‘Take Flitch and Dregg here and see what he be about. Don’t let ’un leave – not on no account. Grab a hold on ’un, and bring ’un back here, to me. But, Benzo – no harm to ’un, mind. Not yet. Not till we has what we come for. Go on, then! What bist waiting for?’

Benzo scuttled away, keeping low, followed by Flitch and Dregg. They slipped between the balustrade pillars at the far end of the garden wall, and made their way around the corner of the farmhouse, heading in the direction of the back lawn.

Scurl looked at Snerk and Grissel. ‘Well then,’ he leered. ‘I reckon our maid be all alone in there. Now, that don’t seem too much to chew on, do it? We shall have this witchi gewgaw directly – and be home afore breakfast. Then we shall see what to make o’it, and whether ’tis all Pegs has it cracked up to be. And if ’tis
so
– then who’s to say what the morrow may bring us? And if ’tis but some mazy tale, then no matter – for we shall have some sport, I can promise ’ee that. I’ve a score to settle here. I ain’t forgotten Tulgi, and what that maid brought down upon ’un.’

He peered out from between the weeds and rusting machinery to glance quickly round the farmyard, rubbing his nose briefly on the back of his hand. ‘Now then, Grissel,’ he said, ‘you’d best lead on, and show us the way in. Ready? Away, then – and mark ’ee now – leave that maid to me.’

Chapter Twenty-three

‘WHY ARE YOU
putting all these stupid ideas into his head?’ said Katie, when George had gone. ‘He’s bad enough as it is, without your help. Why don’t you just act
normal
?’

‘Why are
you
so
horrible
, all the time?’ retorted Midge, angrily. ‘I mean what’s your problem? All you do is watch telly and read dumb magazines all day – you haven’t got a
clue
what’s going on, or what’s happening to anyone else round here. Not that you’d care about anyone else. And as for stupid ideas – well, you wouldn’t know an idea if it jumped up and bit you on the bum. Never having had one.’ And she stormed out of the kitchen, banging the door behind her.

‘Oooh, get
you
,’ said Katie, to the empty room. And then, as an even less effective afterthought, added, ‘Get back in the knife drawer, Miss Sharp.’ She’d read that in a magazine somewhere.

She stared crossly out of the grubby kitchen window as she waited for the kettle to boil, and wondered whether there might be such a thing as an egg in the
house
. Probably not. Stupid house. Then she noticed, between the gaps in the balustrade pillars of the front garden wall, some sort of movement . . . something . . . odd . . . moving quickly across the yard. She leaned closer to the windowpane, peering apprehensively through the dusty glass. Three small figures – shocking, inconceivable things – suddenly appeared at the end of the path, hurdled the steps in flying leaps, their brightly painted wings outstretched, and scuttled, crouching, towards the house. They were barefoot – and they were armed with bows and arrows.

Katie fell back against the towel rail, gripping it for support, feeling the warm metal, slippery on her wet palms. She heard the snick and clack of the cat flap, and a whimpering panic began to rise within her. There was a pause, the sound of hurried whispers in the hallway, and then something pushed against the kitchen door. Katie shrieked. Another push on the door – committed now, determined. Gibbering and quaking with terror, Katie looked frantically about her for some sort of weapon – but then escape, rather than defence, became her uppermost instinct, and she remembered the scullery. She dashed into the washroom, slammed that door behind her, and opened the door to the scullery. Here there was a small high window. She dragged the Ali Baba basket from the washroom, positioned it beneath the window and clambered up on to it, frantically struggling with the stiff metal catch until at last it opened. Squeezing herself painfully through the narrow frame, she was grateful to see the makeshift compost heap below her
–
the grass clippings, rotten cabbage leaves and potato peelings would help break her fall.

George hurried across the back lawn, thinking, ‘I’ll show
you
, Miss Smartypants – just wait till you see
this
,’ but then stopped, and looked about him, listening. He could hear music. The sound of the wind-up record player came drifting through the trees. It was playing ‘On The Road To Mandalay’. He looked vacantly at Phoebe, lying, bored, beneath the apple tree. She twitched her stump of a tail, hoping that he might whistle her up for a walk, but he ignored her and continued towards the copse, his puzzled face squinting up into the sunlight. Phoebe stood up, panting slightly, and took a few hesitant steps in the same direction as George – but then changed her mind and ambled back towards the yard, stopping every so often to sniff the grass.

The song had ended by the time George had clambered up the rope ladder, but the record needle was still turning in its groove,
kurtick-kurtick
– an eerie sound when all around was quiet and still. He stood for a few moments longer, looking at the shiny black disc with its red revolving label, and then, lost in thought, moved the lever back to the ‘stop’ position. The sudden feeling that he was being watched came over him, a creepy tingle across his shoulders. He looked back over the lawn but could only see poor old Phoebs, padding slowly and aimlessly across the uncut grass.

The sun had risen above the roof of the tree house
now
, and George was conscious that the heat would do his record no good. He gently lifted the disc from the turntable and found the paper sleeve to put it in – glancing down at the ammo box as he did so, reminding himself of what he’d actually come for. The record remained half in and half out of its sleeve, as George stared in bewilderment at the empty space at the other end of the box. Where was the little bowl?

There was something weird going on. George put down the record and knelt by the box, peered under his bed, lifted his pillow, then Midge’s, pulled back both duvets – and finally sat back on his heels to try and think for a minute. ‘Right,’ he muttered, flicking his fringe out of his eyes, ‘where was the
last
place you saw it?’

‘Did ’ee
lose
summat then, young’un?’

George spun round in fright, then overbalanced – toppling sideways and banging his elbow on the corner of the ammo box. Three of them there were – three of them, looking down upon him from the branches of the cedar tree, all dressed in raggedy greys and blacks, bits of fur, white feathers here and there, bows and arrows – and their arrows were pointing at him. The dull eyes of the one he’d seen earlier gazed at him incuriously, the long jaw still hanging half open, but it was another who had spoken – and now spoke again.

‘What do ’ee seek, then? Perhaps we could help ’ee.’ This one looked sharper – with quick dark eyes that seemed to look everywhere at once. He wore a tatty little waistcoat, once black and silver striped but
now
stained, green with age and tree sap. ‘Come, now,’ he said – the creaky little voice had grown harder, ‘Don’t be back’ard. Zpeak up.’

‘I’ve lost my . . . glasses,’ George said, astonished to hear the words actually come out. It was as though someone else was speaking for him. His tongue felt as though it had fallen down his throat, and he had to keep swallowing. This couldn’t be happening, it
couldn’t
be. ‘I . . . I put them here somewhere.’ He was trying to control the terrible panic that he felt, trying to appear calm, glancing around as though looking for the non-existent pair of glasses, wondering whether he could jump from the platform and make a run for it – but realizing that his legs would never allow him to stand, let alone run. He could feel himself beginning to quake from the shock of what was happening to him.

‘Put . . .
them
, somewhere?’ said Waistcoat. ‘
Them?
Now I don’t know as I’ve met
glaaarsses
afore, but I reckons I heard ’ee say “where’d I last see . . .
it
?” Now
them’s
seldom
it
– not to my way of thinking. Tell ’ee what. Why not come along o’ we – and us’ll zee ’bout
glaaarsses
presently.’ And with a nod to the other two, the archer jumped lightly from the cedar tree to the platform, standing squarely and firmly on the creosoted boards, his bare feet slightly apart, an arrow notched to his bow. He looked at his companions and said, ‘Now then, Flitch, do you and Master Dregg go on down to bottom of this yer tree and make zertain our good friend here don’t hurt ’unself coming down.’ The little figure stood more or less eye to eye
with
George, who was still on his knees, helpless, and added, ‘For ’tis surprising how easy ’tis to get hurt, if thee don’t watch thee step.’

George was beginning to crack. ‘Wh—what do you want?’ he said, unable now to keep the tremor from his voice. ‘Why are you here? I—I’ve got nothing for you.’

‘P’raps not,’ said Waistcoat. ‘But I reckons that a friend o’ yourn might. And we means to find that out.’

‘Are you – Scurl?’ Again his words seemed to appear of their own accord, as though somebody else was in charge of his voice.

The archer seemed slightly taken aback. ‘Someone been talking, have ’em? No, I bain’t he. If I were Scurl you’d unlikely still be gabbing. Nor be able to. But you’ll meet ’un soon enough.’ He nodded towards the edge of the platform. ‘Goo on then.’

George managed to get to his feet, feeling slightly sick, and clambered shakily from the platform onto the branch of the cedar tree where the rope ladder hung. The archer leaned over to watch him descend, and one of the two below said, ‘All right, Benzo, we’ve got ’un.’

It was the noise of the cat flap, rather than Katie’s muffled scream, that got Midge up from the corner of her bed and brought her out into the landing corridor once more. Katie was probably the sort of person who’d scream at some wimpsy little spider – in which case she could scream away, as far as Midge was concerned. But the cat flap . . . that reminded her of
the
night that Tojo’s terrible yowling had got them up, and of the presence of something odd beneath the sink . . .

There was a commotion of sorts going on down in the hallway – grunts and repeated thuds. Midge, still furious, and less cautious than she might have been, walked out on to the landing and leaned over the banister to see what was happening. She couldn’t help but give a little squeal of shock at the unexpected sight of the intruders below – and though she immediately put her hand over her mouth, the involuntary sound had been enough to catch the attention of one of them. He quickly glanced over his shoulder, tilted his cropped grey head in her direction, and she found herself staring down at the ugly little face of Scurl. Surprised he looked, just for a second, mouth open, dark eyebrows slightly raised – but then his expression hardened as he fixed his gaze upon her, holding her to the spot. Never taking his eyes off her, he placed his hand firmly upon the shoulder of one of his companions – who was apparently trying to break down the kitchen door – and muttered, ‘Hold hard there, Snerk. We’m chasing the wrong bird I reckon. Now then, maidy,’ he called up, ‘how bist? We’m come to see thee. No, don’t fly off’ – Midge had begun to draw back from the banister in fright – ‘for thee s’ll come to no harm, if ’ee give us what we’m here for.’ The Ickri hunter adopted a friendly expression, a horrible smile that, if anything, was even more sinister than his habitual scowl.