The Secret of Platform 13 Page 12

  ‘Get the boy, idiot!’ she spluttered at Bruce.

  But that was easier said than done.

  Every time it looked as though he could get a shot at Ben, some bit of Doreen got in the way. Anyway his sister was sure to win – the boy fought like a maniac, but he was half her size and her hand was almost on the needle. Now she was clawing at his face and as he pushed her away and tried to free himself his arm was clear of Doreen’s body . Blowing a h ole in the boy’s arm was better than nothing and carefully , Bruce lifted his gun and aimed.

  The next second he staggered back, reeling, while pieces of splintered wood rained down on his shoulders. The double bass player had gone mad and hit him on the head with his instrument.

  Except that the real double bass player was up on the bandstand with his hand to his mouth staring down at the man who seemed to be him.

  But Doreen’s crawling fingers had reached the needle, pulled it out. Holding the glittering steel, above Ben’s throat, she brought it down in a single, violent thrust – just as Ben, with a superhuman effort, rolled out of her grasp.

  ‘Ow! Help! Gawd!’

  Bruce clutched his foot, hopped, tried to pull the needle out of his shoe. Maddened by pain, half stunned by the blow the troll had given him, he seized a brass table lamp.

  Ben had turned, trying to catch the mistmaker. He had no time to dodge, no time to save himself. The base of the heavy lamp came down on his skull in a single crushing blow – and as the blood gushed from the wound, he fell unconscious to the ground.

  ‘He’s dead!’ screamed a woman.

  ‘I hope so,’ said Doreen softly . ‘ But if not . . .’

  She pulled the needle out of her brother’s shoe and knelt down beside Ben, searching for the soft hollow beneath his ear.

  But then something terrifying happened. As she bent over the boy, she was suddenly pushed back as if by an invisible hand – pushed back so hard that she fell against the plate-glass window which broke with a crash.

  It was incredible but they could all see it – slowly , gently , the wounded boy rose into the air . . . H igher he rose, and higher . . . Blood still trickled from his scalp, he lay with one arm dangling and his head thrown back . . . lay in the air, unsupported and clearly visible above the mist.

  ‘He’s going to heaven!’ cried someone.

  ‘He’s been called up to Paradise!’

  And that was how it looked to everyone there. They had seen pictures of saints and martyrs who could do that . . . levitate or lift themselves up and lie there in the clouds.

  But that wasn’t the end of it. Now the boy who had to be dead – began to float slowly , gently, away, high over everyone’s head . . . until he vanished through the door.

  Sixteen

  On the morning of the eighth day of the Opening, the Royal Ya cht set off from the Island, bound for the Secret Cove.

  Not only was the Queen aboard, but the King and several of his courtiers, for he understood now that the Queen had to get as close as she could to the place where the Prince would appear – if he appeared at all. Two days had passed since the cheerful message from the witch and still there was no sign of their son. All along the King had tried to comfort his wife, but now even he was finding it hard to be brave.

  Down below, a special cabin had been prepared for the Wailing Nurses. They had begged to be allowed to come along, but since they hadn’t washed for nine years they had to be kept well away from the other passengers. With them had come a new crate of bananas because the first batch had become overripe, and the Queen had managed a smile as she saw it carried aboard because it meant the triplets, at least, still hoped.

  As the Royal Ya cht drew out of the harbour, a second and much larger boat pulled up its anchors, ready to follow. This was a ship chartered by people on the Island who could not fit on to the King’s yacht but who also wanted to be there for the last day of the Opening. Most of these were people who cared very much about the little Prince and longed and longed for him to be brought back safely, even now at the eleventh hour. But some – just a few – were peevish grumblers: people who wanted to gloat over the old wizard and the loopy fey and the conceited little hag when they came back in disgrace. And there were some – there are always such people even in the most beautiful and best-ruled places – who just wanted an outing and a chance to gawp at whatever was going to happen, whether it was good or bad.

  The Royal Yacht skimmed over the waves. The charter boat followed more slowly . I n their cabin the nurses wailed and tried to think of ways of punishing themselves, but not for long because they became sea-sick and no one can think of a worse punishment than that.

  The Queen would not go below. She stood leaning over the rails, her long hair whipped by the wind, and over and over again she said: ‘Dear God, please let him come. Please let him come. I will never do anything bad again if only you let him come.’

  Poor Queen. She never had done anything bad; she was not that sort of person.

  They had been at sea for only a short time when something happened. The sky darkened; a black thunder cloud moved in from the west, and a few drops of rain fell on the deck.

  Or was it rain?

  The sailors who had been below hurried up the ladders, preparing for a storm. The gulls flew off with cries of alarm; the dolphins dived.

  It was not a storm, though, and the swirling blackness was not a cloud. The sky yelpers came first: a pack of baying, saucer-eyed dogs racing overhead, dropping their spittle on the deck where it hissed and sizzled and broke into little tongues of flame which the sailors stamped out.

  But it was the harpies which made the Queen sway and the King run to her side.

  They flew in formation like geese, with Mrs Smith at their head and the others in a V shape behind her: Miss Green, Miss Brown, Miss Jones and Miss Witherspoon. Their handbags dangled from their arms; their varnished talons hung down from their crimplene bloomers . . . and their unspeakable stench beat against the clean, salty air of the sea.

  From the charter ship, a cheer went up. These were the real rescuers, the proper ones. And about time too! The King and Queen had waited till the last possible moment before sending in these frightful women, and there were those who thought they had delayed too long.

  The harpies flew on, the dogs racing before them. In an hour they would be through the gump. The Queen’s knuckles whitened on the rail, but she would not faint; she would bear it.

  ‘There was nothing else to do, my dear; you know that,’ said the King.

  The Queen nodded. She did know it. There were twenty-four hours left; only one day. These ghastly creatures were her only hope.

  Seventeen

  Ben lay on the floor of the summer house, his head pillowed on the wizard’s rolled up cloak. His eyes were closed; his face, in the light of the candles, was deathly pale. Since Hans had carried him out of the Astor he had not stirred.

  Gurkie sat beside him, holding his hand. She had rubbed healing ointment into his scalp; the bleeding had stopped, the wound was closing – but the deeper hurt, the damage to his brain, was beyond her power to heal. And if he never came round again . . . if he lived for ever in a coma . . . or if he died . . .

  But no one could bear to think of that. Cor sat still as stone in the folding chair. He was shivering but they hadn’t been able to stop him giving his cloak to Ben.

  ‘I am too old,’ he thought. ‘I have failed in my mission and brought harm to as brave a child as I shall ever see.’

  Hans was crouched on the steps. His fernseed had gone blotchy and every so often a moan escaped him. ‘Oi,’ murmured the giant. ‘Oi.’ If he had followed Ben at once into the dining room instead of waiting by the Prince he could have prevented this dreadful accident, and he knew that he would never forgive himself.

  The manhole cover on the path now lifted slowly and the Plodger climbed out, still in his working clothes.

  ‘Any news?’ he asked. ‘Has he come round?’

  The w
izard shook his head and the Plodger sighed and made his way back into the sewer. Meli-sande was going to be dreadfully upset.

  It was well past midnight. In Trottle Towers the servants slept, believing that Ben had already been taken to his new ‘home’. The ghosts had come to stand round Ben as he lay unstirring, and then gone back to the guarding of the gump.

  It was amazing how many people had come to ask after Ben, people who should scarcely have known the boy. Wizards and witches, the banshee who had worked in the laundry room of the Astor . . . the flower fairy who had pinched Mrs Trottle on the nose. It was extraordinary how many people cared.

  It was the last day of the Opening. They had expected to be back on the Island by now, but no one even thought of leaving. Ben had helped them from the first moment they had seen him cleaning shoes in the basement of Trottle Towers; he had seemed at once to belong to them. Not one of the rescuers dreamt of abandoning him.

  Odge was not with the others as they clustered round Ben. She had gone off by herself and was sitting by the edge of the lake, wrapped in her long black hair.

  Ben was going to die; Odge was sure of it.

  ‘And it’s my fault,’ she said aloud. ‘I brought the mistmaker and it was because he went to save him that Ben was hurt.’

  The mistmaker lay beside Ben now; Odge had been able to snatch him up when the ogre brought Ben out of the dining room. If Ben woke he would see the little animal at once and know that he was all right, but he wouldn’t wake. No one could lie there so white and still and not be at death’s door.

  And if Ben died, nothing would go right ever again. She could grow an extra toe – she could grow a whole crop of extra toes – she could learn to cough frogs, and none of it would be any use. Only yesterday her great aunt had taught her the Striking People with Baldness Spell, but what did that matter now? Hags don’t cry – Odge knew that – but nothing now could stop her tears.

  Then suddenly she lifted her head. Something had happened – something horrible! An evil stench spread slowly over the grass, and crept through the branches of the trees . . . The roosting birds flew upwards with cries of alarm. A cloud passed over the moon. Running back to warn the others, she saw that they had risen to their feet and were staring at the sky .

  The smell grew worse. A mouse in the bushes squealed in terror; a needle of ice pierced the warmth of the summer night.

  And then she came! Her rancid wings fluttered once . . . twice . . . and were folded as she came in to land. Her handbag dangled from her arm; the frill round the bottom of her bloomers, hugging her scaly legs, was like the ruff on a poisonous lizard.

  ‘Well, well,’ sneered Mrs Smith. ‘Quite a cosy little family party, I see.’ She opened her handbag to take out her powder puff – and the rescuers fell back. The smell of a harpy’s face powder is one of the most dreaded smells in the world. ‘One might think that people who have fallen down on their job so completely would at least show some signs of being sorry . ’

  No one spoke. The nail polish on the harpy’s ghastly talons, the loathsome hairspray on her permed hair, were making them feel dizzy and sick.

  ‘Candles! Flowers! Giants in embroidered braces! Pshaw!’ said Mrs Smith. She put her claws on Gurkie’s begonia and tore it out of the ground. ‘Well, you know why I’m here. To tell you you’re finished. Demoted. Kaput. Off the job. I don’t know if the King and Queen will forgive you, but if they’ve got any sense they won’t. You’re failures. Yo u’re feeble. Pathetic. A disaster. Rescuing a kitchen boy and leaving the Prince!’

  Still the rescuers said nothing. They were guilty of everything the harpy accused them of. For they had put Ben before the Prince. Hans had struggled with himself for a few minutes but in the end he and the troll had run back to help Ben and left the true Prince of the Island in a squelchy heap inside the cake. They had forgotten him, it was as simple as that. And Raymond had come to himself and climbed out and even now was probably guzzling Knickerbocker Glories in his room in the hotel. What’s more, they hadn’t even thought of going back and having another go at getting him out; all they’d thought of was carrying Ben away to safety. They weren’t fit to be rescuers; the harpy was right.

  ‘The ghosts told me what happened,’ said Mrs Smith. ‘And if I was the King and Queen I’d know what to do with you. All that fuss about a common servant boy!’

  ‘He’s not a common servant boy, he’s Ben,’ raged Odge – and took a step backward as the harpy lifted her dreadful claw and sharpened it once, twice, three times against the step.

  ‘Well, the most useful thing you can do now is keep out of our way,’ Mrs Smith went on. ‘Get yourself through the gump and let us finish the job.’

  Gurkie put her hand to her heart. She didn’t care for Raymond but the idea of him being carried away in the talons of Mrs Smith was too horrible to bear.

  ‘How will you operate?’ asked the wizard.

  ‘That’s none of your business. But some of my girls are sussing out the Astor now. There seems to be a helicopter pad.’

  She said no more, but in the distance they could hear the baying of a hell hound and a high, screeching voice ordering him to: ‘Sit!’

  The harpy flew off then, but the evil she had left in the air still lingered. Then from behind them came a strong young voice.

  ‘Goodness!’ said Ben, sitting up and rubbing his head. ‘What an absolutely horrible smell!’

  Eighteen

  ‘And, please, let us get this clear,’ said Mrs Smith. ‘It is I who will actually snatch the boy. You will help me, of course, you will take care of his mother and the guards, but the Prince is mine!’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Smith,’ said the other harpies gloomily . ‘We understand.’

  They sat in a circle round their chief in a disused underpass not far from the Astor. No one went there after dark; it was the sort of place which muggers loved and ordinary people avoided. All of them would have liked to be the one to snatch the Prince but they hadn’t really expected to be chosen – their leader always kept the best jobs for herself.

  Miss Brown, Miss Green, Miss Jones and Miss Witherspoon were a little smaller than Mrs Smith, but they had the same rank black wings, the same evil talons, the same stretch tops and bloomers ending in the same frills. They too had handbags full of make-up but Miss Witherspoon kept a whistle and some dog biscuits in hers. She was the sporting one; the one who trained the dogs.

  ‘You have the sack, Lydia?’ asked Mrs Smith – and Miss Brown nodded.

  ‘And you have the string, Beryl?’ she went on – and Miss Green held up the ball of twine.

  ‘Good. We’ll parcel him up in the cloakroom – I don’t fancy any wriggling as we go through the tunnel.’ She turned to Miss Witherspoon: ‘As for the dogs, they’d best stay on the lead till the last moment. I’ll give the signal when you should let them go.’

  One of the black yelpers stirred and got to his feet.

  ‘Sit!’ screeched Miss Witherspoon – and the dog sat.

  ‘Now grovel!’ she yelled – and the great saucer-eyed beast flopped on to his stomach and crawled towards her like a worm.

  ‘Well, that settles everything, I think,’ said Mrs Smith. ‘Just time for a little sleep.’ She opened her handbag and took out a packet of curlers which she wound into her brassy hair. Then she tucked her head into her wings, as birds do, and in a moment the others heard her snores.

  There were only a few more hours before the closing of the gump for nine long years, but it was clear that Mrs Smith didn’t even think of failure. Much as they had wanted to snatch the Prince themselves, the other harpies had to admit that she was the best person for the job.

  On the roof of the Astor, Mrs Trottle waited with her husband and her son. Her suitcase, ready packed, was beside her, and a travelling rug. In ten minutes the helicopter would be there to take them to safety. Mr Trottle’s uncle, Sir Ian Trottle, who lived in a big house on the Scottish border, had offered to shelter them from the madmen who were chasing Ra
ymond.

  Her darling babykin hadn’t realized that the gang of dope fiends were after him again. When he came round inside the cake he couldn’t remember anything and she hadn’t told him what had happened. And actually she herself wasn’t too clear about what had gone on in the Astor dining room. Bruce had told her that he’d thrown the boy for safety into the cake to save him from the clutches of the kidnappers and she’d rewarded him, but he wasn’t much good any more, limping about and with a bruise on his head the size of a house. And Doreen, who’d been thrown through a window, had cut her wrist so badly that it would be a long time before she could knit. She’d sent them both home and it was two of the Astor’s own guards who were protecting them until the helicopter came.

  As for the rest of the babble – something about some boy being lifted up and taken to heaven – Mrs Trottle put that down to the effect of the poisonous gas that had been let off in the room. By the time she’d got back after some idiot kept her talking on the phone, the dining room was in a shambles and what everyone said was double-dutch.

  ‘I’m hungry!’ said Raymond.

  ‘We’ll have some sandwiches in the helicopter, dear,’ said Mrs Trottle.

  ‘I don’t want them in the helicopter, I want them now,’ whined Raymond. He began to grope in Mrs Trottle’s hold-all, found a bar of toffee, and put it in his mouth.

  Mrs Trottle looked up, but there was no sign yet of the helicopter. It was a beautiful clear night. They’d have an easy flight. And as soon as Raymond was safe at Dunloon, she was going to call the police. Once Ben was out of her way and there was no snooping to be done, she’d get proper protection for her Little One. And Ben would be out of the way – she’d left clear instructions at the hospital. Even now he might be on the way to Ramsden Hall. She’d had a scare with Ramsden – some meddling do-gooders had tried to get the place shut down, but the man who ran it had been too clever for them. Whatever it was called, Ramsden was a good old-fashioned reform school. They didn’t actually send children up chimneys because most people now had central heating, but they saw to it that the boys knew their place and that was what Ben needed. And oh, the relief she’d feel at having him out of the house!