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Dark and moonless was the night, and no stars twinkled under black clouds. Faint phosphorus lights lit our way, casting an amber pall over our bikes, as we pedalled down foggy back streets then onto Buckingham Road.
Quakehaven Town Hall was smack bang in the middle of what passed for Quakehaven's business district, to the South of Sub Rosa and to the West of the Hospital, opposite Wane Park. It was a large cream-white construction, about the same age as Sub Rosa. With its tall clock tower, the Town Hall looked like a scaled-down Big Ben.
"I'm glad you're finally here," huffed Aunt Bea, spying us as we entered the foyer. "Anyone to make up the numbers. It must be the weather. That, or the hideous decorations."
"The place looks great, Aunt Bea," I said re-assuringly, tapping Platto lightly through my jean's pocket. "It's early. More people will come." I wasn't so sure. The weather was no worse than usual for this time of year, but we'd seen very few cars on the road, or people strolling up Buckingham Road dressed for a dance.
"Maybe," said Aunt Bea, pursing her lips. "We need this to work after the unfortunate incident at the school."
"The plague, you mean," said Joke cheekily.
"Silence!" scolded Aunt Bea, waving her hands angrily at Joke. "It's not a plague. Let's keep it to ourselves, shall we? We don't want the word to get around. We've managed to keep it out of the Inquisitor so far."
"Don't worry," I said, winking slyly at Joke.
"Now where are those dratted caterers?” scowled Aunt Bea. “The hors d'oeuvres should have been out 15 minutes ago. After all these years, I don't know why that woman had to make changes. Against my recommendation, mind you. And I've only been running this event for fifteen years."
"That woman?" asked Joke.
"That dreadful Kroker woman," snapped Aunt Bea. "Calls herself an event planner. No-one needed event planners back in my day. It's not rocket science. Throw up a few trestle tables of chips and cakes, dim the lights and let the Quirky Earthquakes conjure their magic. But no. She says: 'That's outdated. We need to appeal to the younger crowd.' Starts changing it all, willy nilly. Hires a new band!"
I nodded my head sagely. It was easier that way. But I secretly agreed with Mrs Kroker.
The Quirky Earthquakes were all in their late 80s and desperate to retire. But Aunt Bea hadn’t let them, even when Mr Costello, their double bass player, had fallen off his chair and fractured his hip a couple of years ago.
"And have you seen the way she dresses?" Aunt Bea stage-whispered. "Like a floozy. The only event she's planning is her wedding!"
Joke and I looked at each other, and I shook my head at him. There's no way Aunt Bea would have been so mean if she had any memory that Mrs Kroker had lost her son. If a Forger like my Aunt had forgotten Tim, chances were the rest of Quakehaven had as well.
Joke was about to say something, but I jumped in like a high diver plummeting into a shark tank. "You're right, Aunt," I said, nudging Joke forward. "I'm sure this won't be as good as the dance last year. But let's make the best of it, if only for Quakehaven's sake."
"The first sensible thing you've said this month, boy," nodded Aunt Bea. "You two should scram. I've got things to do. That woman asked - begged me - to meet and greet out here, and, as you can see, some other guests have finally straggled in."
I turned around. A family of three – a mum, dad and a little girl dressed like a cowgirl - entered the foyer. The parents were rubbing their hands together miserably, as the young girl twirled a pink toy gun round her finger like Annie Oakley.
Aunt Bea grinned - the toothy fake smile she saved for strangers - and set off to greet the family.
"Have a good night, Aunt Bea" I muttered. I grabbed Joke's arm and pulled him into the hall.
Mrs Kroker had worked wonders. The place - usually a dusty hall lined with portraits of mayors and scout flags - was almost unrecognisable. A huge, stained-glass globe hung from the ceiling. A small digital projector had been installed inside the globe, like a security camera. It beamed rippling pictures of life on the gold fields onto the spinning globe, like a globular movie screen and disco ball in one!
My mouth watered. I hadn't eaten since I'd scoffed down the plate of sandwiches the night before.
At the back of the hall, Mrs Kroker had installed elegant glass tables on wrought iron legs. An extravagant buffet of foods had been supplied by the local restaurants. Wonderful smells of roast chicken, fish curries and vegetable stir fries mingled and wafted through the hall. Without a word, Joke and I snatched up dinner plates from the stack at the entrance and began to ladle hunks of food onto them from silver trays.
"Stuffing your faces already?" said a voice from behind us. "Leave some for everyone else!"
We swung around. It was Nicky, but like a version beamed in from different dimension. Her hair, usually cropped and scruffy like a boy's, had been neatly styled and slicked back like a movie star's. Her freckled face was transformed by layers of bronzed make-up. She wore a shiny black baby-doll dress cut above the knee. And she towered over Joke and I in matching stiletto heels. I gawked. She'd gone all out tonight, and here we were in jeans and old T-shirts!
"Nice to see someone else going to some trouble," she laughed. "Looks like you spent hours on your looks tonight."
"Six minutes," said Joke, missing her heavy sarcasm. "But thanks."
He could be such a literal twit at times. "And you look great, Nicky," I said.
"Wish I could say the same about you, Paddy," she said scanning the room to see who else was around. "And it's a pity."
"Because I was looking forward to a dance with you, silly," said Nicky. "But we'd look ridiculous together."
"Why do you care?" I asked.
"Because she doesn't want to dance with slobs," said Mark cruising up behind Nicky and putting his arm around her waist. "You shouldn't let your mother pick your clothes, Paddy. She's mad as a march hare, you know."
I sighed. "Hi Mark." In a black, tailored tuxedo and bow tie, he looked suave. His hair had been freshly cut and styled and his arm-cast was sheathed in a long silver glove.
"Nicky, my dear," said Mark. "You look fantastic."
"Thanks Mark," said Nicky. "You look pretty decent yourself."
"It's all relative. You look ravishing. They look," he said pointing at Joke and me, "like radishes!"
Nicky giggled, and a current of anger shot up my spine. This was so superficial after the last few days. Tim, Mr Tangen, Mick and Justine were dead, and Mark still wanted to preen and stand around name-calling.
"Let's give it a rest, Mark," I said. "We're just here to have a few laughs."
"The only laughs you'll hear tonight will be mine. When I win the competition. Nice model, by the way. Like something out of an elephant's pottery class. Make sure you check out our entry," he said squeezing Nicky's arm like he owned it.
I turned to Nicky, stunned. "You're partners with him?"
"Well, I -" stuttered Nicky, looking flustered. "I didn't have a partner, and, well, you and Joke were already working together so -"
"What about Tim?" interrupted Joke.
"Who's Tim?" snapped Mark. "Is he, like, one of your imaginary friends? Does he live at the bottom of your garden, outside your dad's caravan, perhaps?"
"Tim?" said Nicky, her face creasing with concern. "That name sounds familiar. Like an echo in my head." Mark rotated his finger around his ear, like Nicky was nuts.
"My favourite name," said a sad, sultry voice from the other side of the buffet table. In a simple, silver frock, Mrs Kroker looked even more beautiful than usual. But her face was etched with lines. Deep circles, streaked with mascara, surrounded her dull eyes, like she'd been crying and hadn't slept in days. "If I ever have a son, that's what I will call him. Timothy."
Joke and I glanced at each other, not sure what to say. Then, from across the hall Aunt Bea called for more glasses. "Coming, Beatrice," said Mrs Kroker, summoning a smile. "Have a good time, kids," she s
aid, and walked away.
"Weird woman," said Mark, breaking our silence. "Certainly won't be hiring her for my next major event. She's hot, but I think she's losing her marbles. Maybe she and your mum can become therapy buddies, Paddy."
"Lay off Paddy,” said Nicky. “Insulting his mother is totally uncool. Let's just have some fun."
"This isn't just about 'fun', Nicky," said Mark. "It's about my triumph. Our triumph, when our awesome design sweeps to victory."
"We'll see," said Joke.
"Ah, the pumpkin squeaks," said Mark, sneering at Joke and putting his arm back around Nicky, steering her towards the stage. "You won't win. And you know why?"
"We're all ears, Mark," I said.
"Because when you're born a loser, you're always a loser. Every man has his place. And yours is in a gutter waiting for a delivery of food stamps."
"You're scared of losing to us, Mark" I said. "You beat us, no big deal. You've had every advantage. We beat you, though, you've got no excuses. Think how disappointed your father will be if you can't win with all the money and help in the world."
Mark flinched, but recovered quickly, with his trademark sneer. "Talent is genetic, space-cadet. Like fathers, like sons, Paddy. A deadbeat in pumpkin-pip's case. Just dead in yours." It was my turn to flinch. Without pausing for a comeback, Mark escorted Nicky away. As they reached the centre of the room, Nicky looked over her shoulder and shook her head at us, apologetically.
I turned back to Joke. His hands shook and he looked like he was about to cry. "Hey," I said putting my hand on his shoulder. "Don't let Mark ruin things. He's a boofhead. And, deep down, he knows it."
"I'm just worried about dad. I should be out looking for him. Not here. I thought he'd be here for some reason."
Suddenly, a mottled hand clutched my shoulder and I jumped. "Where's your tutor?" cawed a crone. "Such a gentleman, so elegant and manly," she cooed. I pivoted to face the hand's owner and was nearly garrotted by the old woman's hot pink, acrylic fingernails.
"Mrs Carruthers!?" I cried, aghast. Like a faded disco dancer, the old lady had done away with her uniform of a shapeless widow's smock, replacing the ensemble with tight jeans, an ill-advised crop top and knee high cowboy boots. Her face was a rock-slide coated in chalky pits of foundation and her eyes were encircled by smears of kohl, like Cleopatra's Mummy, but to less youthful effect.
I stepped back and scoured the room. "He's not here," I mumbled. "But he should be here later."
Mrs Carruthers curtsied and battled her false eyelashes coyly, struggling to re-open her right eye as her top lash became snared, the thatched mess mired in makeup. "If you see him, let him know I'm keeping my dance card free," she giggled, patting her pompadour.
But Mr Seth's dance card was full. He was booked to dance with the Zealtor. Assuming they both turned up for the show.
17. BARN TRANCE
From behind the curtains, an electric guitar screamed to life. Smoke billowed from a smoke machine at the back of the stage, and three back-lit shadows marched onto stage.
"Whoa!" said Joke like a surfer dude stumbling over a sand dune and spying a killer rip.
I laughed at the image - the pale boy a surfer! - glad to see Joke distracted from worries about his dad. "Let's check out the band."
We struggled to push past the bigger kids, using our elbows and shortness to dart between lines of teenagers. The smoke machine was in hyper-drive, and we became lost in an almond fog, unable to see much more than tendrils of smoke coiling around shuffling figures illuminated by the spotlights.
A microphone screamed and someone cursed in what sounded like German. "We are The Runts," boomed a deep baritone voice. "And we take no requests."
The crowd cheered, and the band launched into their first number, a thumping, funky, rock song. The smoke parted and the crowd gasped. The Runts were the three biggest men I had ever seen. The singer, the guy with the deep voice, was at least seven foot tall and probably three foot wide. He wore a black T-shirt and skinny jeans, and had pale, freckled skin, green eyes, and long red hair with a matching beard that seemed to swallow the microphone in its mossy coils.
Even posing on his knees, the lead guitarist looked even taller. He was also clad in black - a tight leather jacket and pants that emphasised his lean, muscled body. He was tanned with piercing hazel eyes and short-cropped blonde hair flecked with blue and red tips, like crayons. He smiled, and the girls started to scream.
The third member was not as pretty. He was not pretty at all. The drum kit obscured much of his lower body, but he had massive shoulders and arms like bundled logs. His head was red and slicked with sweat, and his eyebrows, nose and lips were pocked with black metal piercings. Atop his head, a jet-black mohawk flapped in time with the music, and both sides on his head were riddled with thin, jagged scars. He roared as he thumped the drum skin, and gold-diamond teeth glinted through heavy metal braces.
The band killed their first number and hurtled into their second, sending the crowd wild. I looked over at Joke. He stood transfixed, his mouth agape, like he was watching a miracle. I tapped his back, and he turned to me, tears in his eyes, grinning with joy.
Joke had probably never seen a rock band and it was clear that he loved The Runts. I grinned back, and we started to jump up and down. Despite Mr Seth's attentions, my ribs hurt, where I'd been hit by the Mick-Manticore. But I didn't care. Watching Joke thrash about completely free in the moment was the release I needed - however temporary - from the horrors of the week. Joke crashed and bounced into a wall of tolerant teenage flesh surrounding us. Who'd have thought the class nerd would turn out to be such a headbanger!
The song ended with a crazy thousand note guitar solo from the blonde guy lying on his back in the middle of the stage. As the song gave way to feedback, the crowd, especially the girls, erupted into screaming hysterics. I wondered what Aunt Bea was thinking out in the foyer. She would hate it. But she'd have to admit they were more popular than the Quirky Earthquakes!
"Thanks guys," croaked the red-bearded singer, walking off stage, then returning with what looked like an electric banjo. "Now a change of pace."
The singer strummed a few chords on the banjo. "This is called Ardour in a Sleepy Old Town," he said. "It's about love and loss. But mainly, it’s about unfortunate tattoos."
And with that, The Runts launched into their first ballad of the night. It was - bizarrely - a slow waltz. Still out of breath from the song before and hot and sweaty, we turned around and pushed back through the crowd to have a rest. The older people at the back of the hall put down their dinner plates, grabbed their partners by the hand and led them onto the dance floor.
By the time we got back to the buffet table and poured ourselves some water from a plastic urn, Joke's smile had vanished. We stood next to the trestle table alone. At the edge of the dance floor, Mrs Carruthers and Mr Costello embraced each other passionately and kissed. I tore my eyes away from the writhing pensioners: they looked like vacuum cleaners duelling for lint.
Mark and Nicky swanned over. Mark was laughing at his own joke before he said it: "Why don't you love birds dance with each other?"
"Get lost," I said, stepping protectively in front of Joke.
"Maybe if you put as much effort into your hair and clothes as you put into your ridiculous dancing, you'd be able to get your own dates."
"I'm not your date," said Nicky. "And looks don't matter as much as you think. Paddy, I was just joking before."
"Sure they don't," said Mark, then winked at me, pulling Nicky closer to his tuxedo lapels and whisking her off. I felt sick. What was Nicky doing with such a ratbag! Platto stirred in my back pocket, sensing my anger.
"Let's sit down," said Joke. "I need a rest. The competition winner should be announced soon."
I watched the small boy trudge off towards the back of the hall. A sweet soprano soared effortlessly over the banjo, and I turned back to the stage expecting to see a beautiful c
hanteuse at the microphone. There wasn't one. The sweet, innocent voice was coming, freakishly, from the pierced lips of the scarred drummer!
I excused myself and went to the bathroom, splashing water over my face and wetting my hair. When I returned, the band was on a break and the house lights were up.
Mr Lyons - normally a calm public speaker - was clutching the microphone. Behind him, stood Mr Dixon with something strange on his head. Standing further back, stood Aunt Bea and Mr Barker. To Mr Lyon's left (and my right) was a long table covered in a blue velvet cloth.
A clump of kids and parents were pressed against the stage, rapt. Joke was probably right at the front, breathless with excitement. I set off to find him.
"There were a number of solid entries, and some great ideas," said Mr Lyons. "There can be only one winner, but there were two standouts. Mr Dixon, if you would, please."
Mr Dixon strode over to the table. He wore an ordinary black suit, not particularly well made. Despite his shabbiness, the way he snatched back the tablecloth with precision showcased his military training. Adorning his head was the most amazing knit wear I'd ever seen: a beret-cum-stetson, with a miniature teepee pitched up from its high crown, all knitted with golden yarn!
Minmi, remade, sat proudly on the left of the table. In the middle, sat the prize - a silver-white trophy. A bright blue certificate - Pinkerton blue - and a white envelope stuck out of the trophy's rim. A flutter of excitement tickled my stomach and ribs. Wherever he was, I knew Joke's eyes would be fixed on that certificate, ignoring the trophy and envelope.
On the right of the table, the other finalist's model glinted under the lights. It was spectacular. At least twice as large as Minmi, it looked like it was wrought from silver, like a science fiction jet. It was a pterodactyl, with its wings at full stretch. A taut, thin wire was strung between its pentadactyl limbs. Hanging from the wire were replica stage-coaches from the 1850s. I didn't have to guess at the designers' identities. Next to Mark and Nicky's beautiful creation, Minmi looked like an ashtray.
"We're done for," I whispered to Platto, thinking of how devastated Joke would be when we lost.
"You are," said Mark, who had sidled up to me silently. We both stared up at the stage, not looking at each other. "You like my design? Dad let me use Midas Mountain's Blacksmith shop."
"And its Blacksmith, by the look of it," I said.
"Not officially," said Mark, and I could almost hear his smirk. "That would be cheating."
"You know how much Joke wants the scholarship," I whispered to Mark. "You don't need it, your father's on Pinkerton's board of trustees. How about doing something generous for once in your life and withdrawing?"
"Out of the question. The best design should win. That's what makes our country great. Merit."
"If everyone has the same opportunity, maybe," I said. "If you win, it will be because the dice were loaded. You have to know how much this matters to Joke."
"Sour grapes. It's not my fault I'm rich. You don't know the responsibilities that come with it. Pumpkin patch might find out one day! If he survives Raglan."
I was about to respond when Mr Lyons cleared his throat. "I think you'll agree both finalists are worthy winners. And, in the end," he said waving his arms to include the rest of the panel, "we had a difficult decision. A split decision, in fact."
Mark gasped. For the first time that night, he looked a little unsure of himself. It occurred to me that he probably thought his father's influence would win it for him hands down.
"Think how embarrassed you'll be if you lose this, Mark. If even your cheating isn't enough to beat us."
"Shut up, space-cadet," said Mark, and skulked off, probably to find Nicky.
"We judged the designs based on a number of factors," continued Mr Lyons. "Most important, was how well the entrants combined the dinosaur and gold-mining elements. We also looked at how much it would cost to build the bridge based on the models' specifications and whether the models were architecturally sound. Finally, we looked at the aesthetics of the designs. How good the bridges looked and their ability to draw in tourists."
"On most of these criteria, the Pterosaur-cable-car was the superior design."
My heart sank. "Wahoo!" shouted Mark. He was now at the front of the stage, and started climbing the stairs, dragging Nicky, tottering on her high heels, after him. Embarrassed, Mr Lyons waved Mark away. Mark faltered and retreated down the stairs, almost tripping over Nick's heels. A stew of curious excitement started to bubble in the pit of my stomach.
"As you know, the competition was sponsored by James Barker and approved by the Council. The initial round was judged blind. We had no idea who submitted which entry. On discovering the designers' names, both Beatrice Logston, Paddy's aunt, and James Barker, Mark's father, recused themselves from any involvement in the decision."
"Recused?" I muttered to myself.
"To excuse oneself from a case because of a possible lack of impartiality," squeaked Joke, suddenly at my elbow. "It means your Aunt and Mr Barker had a conflict of interest.
I nodded, pleased to find Joke.
"Knowing how much your Aunt likes Mark, it's lucky she doesn't have a say. And I think Mark and Nicky made a big blunder with their design."
"It looks perfect to me," I said.
"I don't mind saying," Mr Lyons said, smiling back at Mr Barker. That my preference was for the Pterosaur. In concept, aesthetics and draw-power, I thought it was by far the better design. But Mr Dixon, as the engineer, is the head judge." He turned to the hatted man behind. "Do you want to say a few words?"
Mr Dixon was stating at the giant glass orb hanging from the ceiling. I followed his gaze, and noticed that the orb, now black, was swaying gently, as if wind-affected. But there was no wind in the hall. The foyer doors had been closed to keep the chill out.
"Mr Dixon," repeated Mr Lyons somewhat impatiently. Mr Dixon swivelled his magnificently millinered head, and nodded brusquely. He marched forward, almost stepping on Mr Lyons, who jumped back just in time.
Mr Dixon seized the mike in his big hands. "Simple. The ugly one is sturdier. Costs less to make. Cable cars are dangerous. Hard to insure. This town doesn't need any more accidents."
"Finally," said Mr Dixon looking at his well-swaddled wife on the dance floor. "This one has more educative value. It's far more relevant to Quakehaven - it's modelled on local fossils. And it's more authentic."
"Not true," shrieked Mark from the crowd. Aunt Bea nodded at Mark, in agreement.
"Silence," shouted Mr Dixon, causing both Mark and Aunt Bea to jump. "I haven't finished. Mind your manners!"
Mark looked shell-shocked. No-one ever told Mark what to do. "Dad, are you going to let him talk to me like that?"
Mr Barker glanced briefly at his son, then tapped his golden earpiece urgently, and walked quickly off the stage. Aunt Bea's face broke into her toothiest smile. I could tell she was furious.
"Dad!" squealed Mark. His voice, usually so controlled, cracked badly, like an operatic frog who'd been gargling helium. The crowd laughed. I almost felt sorry for Mark. Almost.
"As I was saying, before I was so rudely interrupted," he said glaring at Mark. "The clay one truer to Quakehaven. Minmi bones were found just out near Lake Ebb. The spines are covered in useful facts, including a timeline linking the dinosaur age with our own. And, most importantly, it fulfils all the criteria. The pretty one doesn't. Which is why I disqualified it."
The crowd gasped, and a few people clapped. Barkers rarely lost in Quakehaven. They were never disqualified.
"What do you mean, disqualified?!" bellowed Mark petulantly. "You can't do that. Don't you know who I am?"
"An insolent brat," snapped Mr Dixon. Someone had turned on the smoke machine and wisps of almond smoke were beginning to rise around Mr Dixon's legs. "I can and I have disqualified the pterosaur entry," said Mr Dixon. "The rules state clearly that you have to have a dinosaur in the design," he said. "And yours didn't. So
it's disqualified."
"It did. The Pterosaur! Can't you see it. Are you blinded by your silly hat?"
Mr Dixon smiled coldly. "My eyes are better than yours, lad, I'd warrant," he said. "And so is my knowledge of prehistoric biology, by the looks of things."
"I told you," said Joke excitedly. "Mark made a big mistake. I knew one of the judges would know something about dinosaurs!"
"What mistake? I just don't see it," I said, distracted by the rising smoke, which now encircled Mr Dixon at waist-height. The black star and moon curtains fluttered.
"A dinosaur is an extinct reptile of the Mesozoic era. Dinosaur means terrible lizard in Greek. There are many forms, though all are terrestrial, with an upright stance, like Minmi."
"And the pterosaur?" I asked distracted. Platto squirmed about in my back-pocket. I was sweating, but the room was cold. The Globe above us was now sable-hued, as if filled with black water. It seemed to be sucking light in, rather than casting it out.
"Pterosaur means winged lizard in Greek," said Joke grinning, oblivious to the globe.
"A pterosaur is not a dinosaur," said Mr Dixon to the stunned crowd. "So the Barker-Jackson entry is disqualified. Jokkum and Patrick: please come up and accept your prize!"
"Yes!" shouted Joke, almost somersaulting up the stage steps. Mr Dixon led the applause enthusiastically, his heavy claps booming in the microphone. Aunt Bea and Mr Lyons tapped their palms politely to his left. Mark stamped his feet, gesticulating furiously at Mr Dixon, refusing to accept the decision.
From the back of the stage, The Runts emerged from the smoke-filled curtains to start their second set. They stood very close to each other, like they were trapped in an invisible phone box, their heads almost touching each other. The black, stormy water in the Globe suddenly cleared and a sick, off-emerald light streamed down onto the stage, repelling the smoke.
All was revealed.
I bolted up the stage steps, trying to shoulder Joke off the stairs, but falling heavily on top of him in the process. "Mr Dixon, Aunt Bea, Mr Lyons. Watch out!"
It was too late for Mr Dixon. The guitar seemed to melt mid-air and become a stony club. Mr Dixon turned and took the full brunt of the blow. His hat flew across the stage like an exotic bird exposing the poor man's head, cracked like a dropped egg. Mr Dixon crumpled to the ground without a word.
The three heads spoke in unison: "Thirty-two white horses upon a red hill. Now they champ, now they stamp, now they stand still. Who can answer?"
Silence. The Runts strode forward, the smoke remnants dissolving into thin, tattered fingers. The band was no longer composed of three individuals, but one Giant, with three heads. What had been the drummer's head ripped open at the scars and small, wet, bar-wings slithered out.
The crowed recoiled. The silence that had greeted the monster's attack was broken by a single piercing scream: Mrs Dixon's. As one, the rest of the crowd joined in.
"Don't panic," I shouted. But my voice was drowned out as the crowd surged to the doors at the back of the hall, trampling the few brave souls who tried to push the other way.
"Aunt Bea!" I cried. "Jump off the stage." She looked stunned, her eyes glazed like a sick deer.
Once more the Giant's club descended with a thud. Mr Lyons' football skills hadn't deserted him entirely and he ducked at the last minute. The club missed his head by inches, but it didn't matter. The club hit him square on the left shoulder, opening up a huge tear next to his neck. His damaged arm flopped uselessly to the stage floor and a fountain of blood erupted in its place. He collapsed to the stage floor with a hideous splash, his tremendous orange afro flying off his bald head and onto the floor like a family of hirsute guinea pig abandoning a sinking ship.
"Thirty-two white horses upon a red hill," simpered the drummer's head in its girlish soprano.
"Now they champ. Now they stamp," bellowed the singer.
"Now they stand still," hissed the guitarist. "Who can answer?"
Someone had locked the hall doors from the outside and the crowd broke against them like moths trapped in a jar. I picked myself up off Joke. He didn't move, probably winded by the fall from the stairs. I ran to the stairs and pushed past Mark. Mark was a statue, hands frozen in mid-accusation at the empty space that had so recently been occupied by Mr Dixon. Slowly, the three headed-giant turned its six eyes to me, unconcerned at my approach.
"Do you answer?" asked the drummer, yawning, its black gums leaking muddy saliva down its red shirt.
"Only when spoken to," I said, and scrambled up the stairs, hurling Platto into the space between the drummer and singer's heads. Platto started feeding, and the Giant's heads roared.
Strong as he was, Platto was no more than a distraction to the Giant. But that's exactly what I needed. Vaulting awkwardly onto the stage, almost spraining my ankle, I looped an arm around Aunt Bea and pulled her towards the far right of the stage - stage left, I thought irrelevantly. As if awaking from hibernation, Aunt Bea at first attempted to ward me off, then quickly followed me off the stage, and down the stairs without a word.
Unceremoniously, I bundled Aunt Bea into a storage cavity under the stage. Apart from the doors at the back, there was no exit, and my best bet was to convince my shadow to possess the doors and to break them open. But to do that, I needed time.
Platto's case flew through the air - pelted by enormous hands. The calculator pirouetted mid-air and smacked into Mark's face, breaking his paralysis and what looked like the bridge of his nose. The Giant roared and bore down on Mark and my pesky helper. I didn't have time!
"Thirty-two white horses upon a red hill. Now they champ, now they stamp, now they stand still. Who can answer?"
Why did the Giant keep saying that? It was like a broken record!
The monster stopped under the swinging globe. For a moment, I thought it might loiter there long enough for me to bring the orb crashing down onto its heads. That's how it would have worked in the movies. Unfortunately, the Giant had no intention of dying that easily and, instead, picked up the banjo that had been kicked off the stage in the tumult and tossed the hill-billy tool into the air. As it gyrated, the banjo stretched and transformed, returning to the Giant's clutches in the form of a long-bow, the banjo strings taut and elastic against the bow limbs that had once been the banjo's neck. In its other hand, the Giant twirled the club like a bandleader's baton, but faster than humanly possible. When it stopped spinning, the club had become a javelin-sized arrow.
The Giant laughed at its own ingenuity and lined up the globe's near equator. It set up the arrow, which had now sprouted peacock feathers, and pulled back on the banjo's strings, aiming for the orb's heart.
If the globe detonated, the crowd would be shredded with glass shrapnel. Something had to be done! I closed my eyes and whispered to my shadow. But as the Giant was about to release the strings, Platto beat me too it, galloping back up the stairs. It bit the monster, hard, on its right foot. The Giant screamed, and I opened my eyes just in time to see the arrow skitter out of its bow and glance off the rim of the globe, sending it into a violent spin. As the Giant hopped, the long bow fell from its fingers, its bow-limbs clattering to the stage.
The three-headed Giant kicked Platto with its good foot, pummelling my helper into the wall. Platto rebounded onto the cork floor in the middle of the hall, struggled to get up, then collapsed, its energy spent, its case cracked.
"Platto!" I shouted. I wasn't sure who to protect or how, and stood motionless in the centre of the room.
The Giant lumbered to the back of the stage and seized the Pterosaur. Wrapping its mammoth hands around the model's neck, the soprano chanted while his head-wings thrummed. The Giant opened its hands, and pulled at the model, stretching it into the crescent shape of a giant scimitar.
"Great," I said, as I surveyed the wreckage and the advancing Giant. "Some days you really shouldn't get out of bed."
As if offended by my observation, the Giant leapt off the stage
and grabbed me by the scruff of my neck. Then he threw me across the room. I landed heavily, my fall this time interrupted by Mark.
"Please don't hurt me," whimpered Mark, his nose bleeding profusely, his black-cast covering his eyes as the Giant approached us. "I can give you anything you want. Anything money can buy."
"I don't think it needs money," I whispered, and clamoured to my feet to stand between the monster and Mark. The drummer's diamond-braced teeth glittered sickly green under the lights. I closed my eyes and tried to summons my shadow. No answer. "What's wrong. You busy?" I yelled uselessly, then tried to regroup, realising I was well out of time.
The cold, curved tip of the scimitar pressed into the small bones in my neck. The Giant leaned forward and spoke slowly from all three mouths, harmonising eerily with itself, like Enya. "Thirty-two white horses upon a red hill. Now they champ, now they stamp, now they stand still. Who can answer?"
I had no idea what it was talking about. What did it want from me?
"Who can answer?" it repeated as it edged the blade further against my naked throat. I could hardly swallow. Mark sobbed behind me. From the rafters above, a Kookaburra laughed.
"I've got it," squeaked Joke. "I will answer!"
The sword's blade whipped back from my throat. I crumpled to the floor and squashed open an eye between splayed fingers. The Giant had abandoned Mark and me in an undignified heap. It now towered over Joke, his back to the edge of the stage. He looked frightened but in control. I prayed he knew what he was doing.
"It's a riddle isn't it? Like in a fairy story. Thirty-two white horses upon a red hill. Now they champ, now they stamp, now they stand still. It's a game. A test!"
The Giant roared and raised its curved blade high over its heads.
"Teeth!" squealed Joke. "An adult has 32 teeth. The white horses. The red hill represents the gums."
All three heads roared in astonished rage, and suddenly the doors burst open behind us, releasing the crowd into the foyer. The Giant began to shrink and unspool, as the one unravelled, messily, with a stink of chicken manure, into three. But the drummer still held the scimitar over Joke's head. And there was murder in its eyes.
I struggled to get up, but slipped in a puddle of blood - whose I don't know - and fell down. Mark grabbed my legs, hugging me like a baby blanket. I tried to kick free, but I was stuck in his sweaty embrace.
Acid balls exploded from the back of the hall and engulfed the guitarist and singer. Mr Seth flew - literally flew - across the room and punched the drummer in the face, all the time hurling blobs of acid at the other two. The drummer went down, but kept hold of the sword. The burning guitarist and singer wrestled Mr Seth to the ground.
Aunt Bea chose exactly the wrong time to stick her head out to see what was happening. The drummer jumped away from Mr Seth and charged at the stage. Aunt Bea dashed out from the cavity under the stage and made for the exit directly into the drummer's path. I watched helplessly as it tore towards her.
Wings - silver and red and edged with gleaming blades - unfurled from Mr Seth's suit jacket. With these wings, Mr Seth enveloped the singer and guitarist and incinerated them. The room stunk of burnt flesh. Mr Seth turned to chase down the drummer-beast, but it was too late: the Blackgum seized Aunt Bea and hoisted her onto his shoulders.
From the back of the stage above us, a window shattered, and Mr Fisk leapt through, his eyes closed, muttering. Platto screamed - like a boiling lobster. In mid- air, Mr Fisk splayed his fingers and reeled in my helper on invisible strings. He clutched Platto's flanks and tucked him into his brown coat pocket.
The drummer froze, and watched stupidly as the bald man vaulted over the Blackgum's back and landed gracefully behind, facing Aunt Bea. Mr Fisk's strange muttering continued, and the drummer clamped his hands to his ears, trying to block out the noise.
The drummer's face started to twist and warp. A gold-black portal crackled open a few metres in front of the monster. The drummer attempted to jump forward into the portal, but Mr Fisk tackled him, dislodging Aunt Bea, who crashed to the floor with a yelp.
The beast bolted for the hole with Mr Fisk in hot pursuit. For a few seconds, the drummer and Mr Fisk teetered on the edge of the abyss, wrestling. Then Mr Fisk turned and winked at me, hurling the struggling Blackgum headlong into the pit.
Joke ran to his father, his arms outstretched. Mr Fisk ignored him and turned to me. "Paddy," he said, breathless. "I did this for you."
"Don't do it, wretch!" cried Mr Seth, jetting low towards Mr Fisk, his wing-blades crossed before him. But Mr Seth was too late.
"Daddy," screamed Joke, as Mr Fisk plunged into the pit, Platto ensconced in his jacket. The portal shimmered briefly, then disappeared with a wet, highly inappropriate fart.
18. MAN WITCH
"I have no idea," I said. "I honestly don't."
"Sure you don't," said Joke, crossing his arms. I'd tried a hundred different ways of telling Joke his dad's words meant nothing to me. But he wouldn't - perhaps couldn't - believe me. I didn't blame him. His father's last words had been dedicated not to his son, but to me.
"Paddy," interrupted Mr Seth. "I need to speak with you for a moment." The hall reeked of ammonia and synthetic pine deodorant. He'd spent the last half an hour scrubbing the hall of corpses, just like he'd done with Tim at the school and, earlier that morning, the Manticores. He was becoming quite the town cleaner, in a sick way!
Joke turned his back on me. Under his right arm, clamped to his chest, was the bloodstained shabby blue certificate of scholarship Mr Dixon had been about to award him. It should have been his proudest achievement. Instead, like the certificate, he was battered. The envelope in my pocket, containing the twin airline tickets for the round-the-world trip, wasn't in much better shape.
"Subject to interview," muttered Joke over and over, rocking backwards and forwards. On top of the trauma of his dad jumping into the micro-black hole, he'd discovered an asterix next to his name on the crumpled certificate. The asterix pointed to small print at the bottom that said simply: "Scholarship subject to interview results acceptable to Pinkerton Grammar." The date scheduled for the interview was Saturday. Less than two days away! And, even worse, he had to take a letter from his parent or guardian nominating him for the place!
"Lad!" shouted Mr Seth.
"Coming," I answered, then leaned over and whispered to Joke: "You don't need to believe me, though I swear I'm telling the truth. We'll find him, then ask him what he meant. And stop worrying about the interview. You're going to kill it. Teachers love you."
"I don't care about the interview," he said. "How could dad not say good bye to me."
"Maybe his tongue slipped," I said.
Joke grunted. I had to admit it was unlikely - Paddy and Joke are not very similar names - but anything was worth a shot. I jumped off the stage and hurried over to Mr Seth.
"Witches," muttered Mr Seth.
"Where?" I asked, looking around wildly. A week before, I would have scoffed at the idea. But I was a tad open-minded about things supernatural these days. We'd just been attacked by a three-headed Giant with a banjo bow and a pterosaurian-scimitar!
"Fisk."
"He's a Zealtor, right?"
"Wrong. You'd be dead if he were. He's just a filthy Witch. Did you see his profane lips twittering? He was casting spells."
I nodded, remembering Mr Fisk's closed eyes and strange whisperings as he'd crashed through the hall window. "I thought witches were women."
"How sexist!" said Mr Seth, pretending to be shocked. "Like saying werewolves can only be men. Preposterous."
Until he'd mentioned it, I had thought all werewolves were men, though I don't know why. Of course I'd never met one.
"Can I ask a question?"
"I know what you want to know. Why was I so late?"
I nodded.
"I arrived ten minutes after you. I was checking whether you’d been followed. Something strange was going on. Some power
greater than my own. I went to investigate. By the time I got back, the Giant had locked the doors and windows, physically and magically. It bound them with an old charm. It wasn't until the charm broke that I could break in. I suspect the Witch Fisk had the same problem. How did you break the charm, by the way? That's pretty advanced stuff."
"It wasn't me."
"Really? Who?"
I nodded over at Joke, still rocking back and forth like a playground pony, and told Mr Seth about the riddle.
"Teeth," answered Mr Seth instantly. "An oldie, but a goodie. Haven't heard it in decades. That boy's got smarts. He'll go far. How is he?"
"As well as can be expected," I said. "By which I mean, pretty messed up. He's been on my case for the last half hour about what Fisk said to me."
"Ah, yes. I'm been meaning to bring that up." Without warning, Mr Seth's left arm shot out and his hand gripped me by the throat. He hoisted me into the air. My legs kicked uselessly.
"I'll ask you this once, Paddy," snarled Mr Seth. "Are you a spy?"
"Ach ach," I grunted, wiggling my eyebrows up and down.
"Yes, or no?" he said. "It's a simple question."
I shook my head.
"Well that's good news," said Mr Seth conversationally, lowering me gently to the floor. "That would have been quite unfortunate for you, and your lovely relatives."
"Are you threatening me?" I was amazed. "My family?"
"Of course not," said Mr Seth, smiling. "We're friends. On the other hand, Paddy, remember that Scattersmiths and Witches are not friends. Not since the Schism. Witches and Smiths are two separate Knots. And we will stay that way until the End."
"But you're on the same team. You and Mr Fisk both fought the Giant."
"In this," he said sweeping his hands to indicate the ruin that had come to Quakehaven. "Perhaps. But don't mistake Quakehaven for the world. Not just yet."
I had no idea what he was saying, but I understood what he meant. "Don't hang out with Witches. Got it."
"Good lad. Let's not speak of it again. It's distasteful to even think about it. But if a Witch so much as nods at you, I want to know immediately, promise me?"
I nodded, then glanced over to Joke to see if he'd heard the commotion. He hadn't. He'd stopped rocking and lay on his side, asleep. The blue paper corners framed his head, the certificate a useless pillow on the cold hard floor.
"Can you help me? With Joke," I asked Mr Seth.
"What do you mean?" he answered, pretending to be stupid. He was surprisingly good at it. "Do you want me to call you a taxi?" I closed my eyes and yawned deeply, then opened my eyes to explain what I wanted. But it was unnecessary. Joke and I were both back in the reading room at Sub Rosa, Joke snuffling, as he slumped against the back of the green armchair facing mine, cradling the certificate to his chest like an old teddy bear.
I lay down across the chair and was asleep almost instantly, dreaming of beanstalks and riddles unanswered.