Читать книгу Charlie Bone and the Wilderness Wolf - Jenny Nimmo - Страница 10

You might think it was rather careless of Charlie Bone to lose his father a second time, especially when he had only just found him. They had been apart for ten long years; spellbound years for Lyell Bone, a time spent in deep forgetfulness, when he could remember nothing of his past or even recall his name.

This time, at least Charlie knew where his father had gone. He was taking Charlie’s mother on a second honeymoon. What could be better than to get away from cold, dark February days, to watch whales and dolphins roll through a sunlit sea? They had asked Charlie to join them, of course, but he had politely declined. His parents needed to be alone and, besides, there were things that he had to attend to at home. A few mysteries to clear up.

At that moment Charlie was standing by the gate of the house where he was born. It was an old red-brick building, with a steep slate roof and four steps up to a blue front door. Charlie and his mother had left the house when he was two, and he couldn’t remember it at all. Even the name was unfamiliar to him: ‘Diamond Corner’ – it stood on the corner of Diamond Street and Lyme Avenue.

Charlie was twelve now; a boy of medium height with dark, unruly hair and walnut brown eyes. A boy who was ordinary in every way except one: he was a picture-traveller, a talent he had inherited from the legendary Red King.

Beside Charlie stood a very tall man with strong, finely chiselled features and straight black hair that almost touched his shoulders. He wore a long, dark coat and the brim of his black hat had been pulled well down, as though to shade his eyes, though there was not the slightest glimmer of sunlight on this murky Saturday afternoon.

‘Needs a lot of repair,’ the man remarked, looking at the dark holes where slates had fallen from the roof.

‘I wish I could move in right now, Uncle Paton,’ said Charlie.

‘You won’t have to wait long,’ said his great-uncle. ‘They’re starting work next week: builders, painters, plumbers and roofers.’

‘Let’s have a look.’ Charlie opened the gate and walked up the overgrown path. His uncle followed, jangling a bunch of keys. As they drew closer they noticed a light in one of the lower windows.

‘Someone’s in there.’ Charlie ran up to the door. His uncle, only a pace behind, leapt up the steps and fitted one of his keys into the lock. The blue door swung open and Charlie stepped inside.

A stale, mildewy smell filled the hallway. The floorboards were damp and dusty and strips of ragged wallpaper hung from the dark, stained walls. Charlie trod as lightly as he could, but the bare boards creaked with every step he took. He quickly opened a door to his left and looked into the room where he had seen the light. It was empty. Uncle Paton nodded at a half-open door on the other side of the room. ‘The kitchen,’ he whispered.

A shuffling sound could be heard. It was difficult to make out where it came from. Charlie sprang across the room, his uncle’s heavy footsteps pounding after him. But the kitchen, too, was empty. A sharp bang sent Charlie bounding through the kitchen and into the passage. The back door swung open, hitting the wall behind it with another loud bang. A blast of cold air hit Charlie as he squinted outside. He was just in time to see two figures slip through a broken fence at the end of the garden.

‘Hey!’ cried Charlie, running through a sea of long dried grass and weeds. When he reached the fence he peered into the narrow gap. But the intruders had vanished.

‘Could have been tramps.’ Uncle Paton kicked at a pile of newspapers in a corner. ‘Let’s go, Charlie.’

‘Can’t I go upstairs?’ begged Charlie. ‘I want to see if I can remember the room where I slept.’

‘Go on then.’ Uncle Paton followed Charlie up the stairs. When he reached the top Charlie stood and stared at the two doors in front of him. There were two more leading off a passage to his left, and another on his right. He chose this one.

‘You did remember, Charlie!’

‘I just guessed,’ said Charlie. He pushed open the door. ‘OH!’

It was impossible to move any further into the room. Every floorboard had been lifted. Some stood against the walls, others lay scattered on the narrow joists that supported the floor.

‘How very odd!’ Uncle Paton peered over Charlie’s shoulder. ‘I didn’t know the builders had started already.’

They looked in the other rooms. Every one was in the same state: floorboards wrenched up and thrown carelessly into corners or strewn across the thin joists.

‘Looks like someone’s been searching for something,’ Charlie remarked.

‘A pretty desperate search,’ his uncle agreed. ‘I imagine they did the same downstairs, but re-laid the boards in case anyone looked through the windows.’

‘I don’t like to think of strangers coming in and trashing my old home,’ said Charlie.

As they went downstairs they kept an eye open for any sign that the treads might have been pulled up. And this time they noticed the splintered wood, the nails that had been pulled up, and the slight wobble in the banisters.

‘It might be a good idea to change the locks,’ said Uncle Paton, when they were standing in the street again. ‘I’ll tell the agents.’

They began the walk home to number nine, Filbert Street. Uncle Paton was thinking about the intruders and failed to notice that the street lights had come on. Before Charlie had time to warn him he carelessly glanced upwards and the lamp over his head gave a loud pop and exploded.

Uncle Paton ducked as a shower of glass rained down on his head. ‘Bother! Bother! Bother!’ he cried. ‘Who’d be a power-booster?’

Paton Yewbeam, another of the Red King’s descendants, had inherited an unfortunate endowment. If he so much as glanced at a light that was on, whether it was in a window, a house, on the street or at home, the element would reach such intense heat that the bulb inevitably exploded. So Paton rarely left home in the daytime. Traffic lights, brake lights and shop windows were all at risk from his unhappy talent. And he found it very embarrassing.

This time Uncle Paton’s accident had revealed something. In the bright flash that momentarily filled the street, two figures could be seen cowering beside a hedge. The moment lasted less than a second but their faces were printed sharply in Charlie’s mind. They looked – not quite human.

Charlie had blinked against the shower of glass that fell on to his uncle. When he opened his eyes again, the figures had vanished.

‘Come on, Charlie, let’s get out of here before someone sees us.’ Uncle Paton took Charlie’s arm and pulled him away from the scene of his crime.

‘Someone did see us, Uncle P,’ said Charlie. ‘I think it might have been them. You know, the intruders. But they weren’t exactly people. If you know what I mean.’

‘I do not.’ Uncle Paton gripped Charlie even tighter. ‘Quick, quick! Over here.’

Charlie found himself being dragged across the street. A fast-approaching car gave a warning hoot and Uncle Paton hauled him on to the pavement.

‘What did you say about not-exactly-people?’ Uncle Paton tugged the brim of his hat. Now even his nose was hidden.

‘They were weird, Uncle P,’ Charlie panted. ‘I can’t explain.’

‘Try,’ commanded his uncle. ‘I want to know what kind of creatures we’re up against.’

Uncle Paton set off again at his usual breakneck speed. Charlie had to make little skipping movements in order to keep up with him. ‘It’s not fair,’ Charlie complained. ‘Your legs are twice as long as mine.’

‘I want to put distance between myself and the street lamp,’ Uncle Paton snapped. He turned a corner and slowed his pace. ‘Now, try again. What made these things inhuman, Charlie?’

‘They were a bit hairy for one thing,’ said Charlie. ‘And their eyes – their eyes, well, I think they were too far apart for a human. They were more like dogs – or, or –’

‘Wolves?’ his uncle suggested.

‘Maybe,’ Charlie said cautiously. ‘If wolves have yellow eyes.’

‘Hmm. Why do I think that the Bloors have something to do with this? Tell me, did your father mention anything that he might have left at the old house?’

‘Nothing,’ said Charlie. ‘But then there were so many things that he’d forgotten.’ He smiled to himself. It was enough that his father had remembered his mother and himself. ‘His memory is coming back, though. Every day something new pops into his head. Maybe when he comes home again, he’ll be completely recovered.’

‘And that’s what they’re afraid of.’ Uncle Paton came to a standstill.

‘Who? What?’ asked Charlie.

‘Listen, Charlie. We believe that Manfred Bloor hypnotised your father, because he caused old Ezekiel’s accident. But I have come to think that there was more to it. I believe your father was hiding something that the Bloors wanted. Perhaps they hoped that under hypnosis he would reveal its hiding place. But this never happened. And now they’re afraid that he will remember, and find whatever it is before they do.’

Charlie couldn’t imagine what had led his uncle to this conclusion. But Paton Yewbeam had an enquiring mind. He was writing a history of the Red King, and his room was crammed with huge books that covered every subject Charlie had heard of, and a lot more that he hadn’t.

Diamond Street lay on the outskirts of the city and it took Charlie and his uncle nearly an hour to get home. By that time dusk had fallen and a thick mist was creeping through the streets. Curiously it smelled of salt, though the sea was at least thirty miles away.

Charlie’s grandmother, Maisie, met them at the door. She had the look of someone who’d had a nasty shock. ‘Grandma Bone’s back,’ she whispered, turning out the hall light, in case of a Paton accident.

‘Back?’ said Paton loudly. ‘Why on earth . . .’

‘Sssh!’ Maisie put a finger to her lips. ‘Come in here.’

Charlie and his uncle followed Maisie into the kitchen. The table had been laid and while Maisie ladled mushroom soup into three bowls she told them about Grandma Bone’s dramatic arrival.

Grandma Bone was Paton’s sister. She was twenty years older than him and they’d never got on. She didn’t even get on with her only son, Charlie’s father. As soon as he’d come home after ten long years imprisoned in Bloor’s Academy, Grandma Bone had moved out. She’d gone to live with her three sisters at the end of a grim and gloomy alley called Darkly Wynd. Charlie had hoped he would never see her again.

‘She’s still got a key,’ Maisie told them. ‘She marched in, dumped her bag in the hall and said, “I’m back!” “Why?” I asked. Well, that was wrong for a start. “Anyone would think you were sorry,” she said. “I am,” I said. “I thought you’d gone for good.”’

Charlie began to giggle.

Paton asked, ‘But what is her reason, Maisie? Why has she returned?’

‘A wedding!’ said Maisie.

‘Whose?’ begged Paton.

‘Your youngest sister, Venetia. She’s getting married next week.’

Charlie choked on his soup. ‘Great Aunt Venetia? Who on earth would want to marry her?’

‘Who indeed, Charlie love,’ said Maisie. ‘But some poor man is soon going to rue the day.’

‘How extraordinary.’ Paton stared at Maisie in disbelief.

‘Grandma Bone is very put out,’ Maisie went on, ‘but her sisters are all for it apparently.’

‘Phew.’ Paton blew on his soup, which couldn’t have been that hot because he’d already swallowed several spoonfuls without a murmur. He was trying not to show it but anyone could see that he was utterly baffled and extremely shocked.

Uncle Paton’s four sisters were all as bad as each other. They loathed their only brother and spent their lives tormenting him, just because he didn’t agree with their morals and made very sure they knew it. All four of them were mean, spiteful, arrogant, dishonest and greedy. In fact, Charlie couldn’t find enough words to describe how horrible they were. None of them had ever given Charlie a kind word, let alone a birthday present, not even Grandma Bone.

Maisie had saved the best part of her announcement till last. ‘The worst of it is, he’s got children,’ she said dramatically. ‘What do you think of that?’

‘Children!’ Charlie shuddered. ‘Poor things. Imagine Great Aunt Venetia being your mother!’

‘Impossible.’ Paton suddenly looked up.

Charlie had his back to the door and failed to see Grandma Bone walking up behind him.

‘I’m glad I’m not your mother,’ said Grandma Bone testily. She marched over to the fridge and opened it. ‘There’s nothing in here,’ she complained. ‘Nothing but cheese and old bones. No pâté, no mayonnaise and not even a sniff of salmon.’

Maisie gave a huge sigh. ‘How was I to know you’d come hunting in here, with your fussy stomach and your dainty mouth? Sit down, Grizelda, and I’ll give you some mushroom soup.’

‘No thank you.’ Grandma Bone plonked herself in the rocker by the stove.

Paton frowned. He had been meaning to get rid of the rocker. No one else ever used it. It had been a constant reminder of Grandma Bone’s gloomy presence. If only he’d thought ahead and chopped it up for firewood a day earlier.

Creak! Creak! Creak! There she went, with her eyes closed and her head nestled into her chin. Rock! Rock! Rock! The sound was enough to curdle the soup.

‘So,’ Paton found a voice at last. ‘I hear you’ve fallen out with your sisters, Grizelda.’

‘They’re your sisters too,’ she snorted. ‘Marriage indeed! I never heard of such rubbish. Venetia’s fifty-two. She should’ve given up that sort of thing years ago.’

‘What sort of thing?’ asked Charlie.

‘Don’t be insolent,’ his grandmother replied.

Charlie finished his soup and stood up. ‘I bet you’ll leave when my dad comes back,’ he said.

‘Oh, but you’re all going to live in that cosy little Diamond Corner.’ She gave Charlie one of her chilly stares. ‘But then whale-watching can be very dangerous. He may never –’

Charlie didn’t wait to hear what his grandmother might say next. ‘I’m going to see Ben,’ he cried, rushing into the hall and flinging on his jacket.

Maisie called, ‘Charlie, it’s dark, love. Don’t pay any attention to Grandma Bone. She didn’t mean anything by it.’

‘She did,’ muttered Charlie. He left the house, ran across the road to number twelve and rang the bell. Filbert Street was always quiet at this time on a Sunday. There were very few cars about and the pavements were deserted. And yet Charlie felt a prickling at the back of his neck that told him someone was watching him.

‘Come on, come on.’ Charlie pressed the bell a second time.

Benjamin Brown opened the door. He was a few months younger than Charlie and a lot smaller. His scruffy yellow hair was exactly the same colour as the large dog that stood beside him, wagging its tail.

‘Can I come in?’ asked Charlie. ‘Grandma Bone’s back.’

Benjamin understood immediately. ‘What a disaster! I’m just taking Runner Bean for a walk. Want to come?’

Anything was better than spending the evening in the same house as Grandma Bone. Charlie fell into step beside Benjamin as he headed towards the park. With joyful barks, Runner Bean ran circles round the boys then darted down the dark street. Benjamin didn’t like to lose sight of his dog. He knew he worried unnecessarily. His parents were always telling him to lighten up, but Benjamin couldn’t help being the way he was. Besides, a mist was beginning to creep into the street; an unusual, salty sort of mist.

Charlie hunched his shoulders. There it was again. That odd prickling feeling under his collar. He stopped and looked back.

‘What is it, Charlie?’ asked Benjamin.

Charlie told his friend about the not-quite-humans that he’d seen near Diamond Corner.

‘Nothing’s normal tonight,’ Benjamin said shakily. ‘I never tasted salt in the mist before.’

And then they heard the howl; it was very distant, but a howl nevertheless. A sound that was almost human, and yet not quite. For the first time since his parents had left, Charlie wished they hadn’t gone whale-watching.

Runner Bean came racing back to the boys. His coarse hair was standing up like a hedgehog’s.

‘It’s the howling,’ said Benjamin. ‘I’ve heard it before. It makes Runner nervous, though he’s never usually scared of anything.’

It wasn’t until much later that Charlie made the connection between the distant howling and the not-quite-humans that seemed to be following him.

As for the salty mist, that was another thing entirely.