

THE SCATTERSMITH

by David James Kane

Copyright 2013

Smashwords Edition

Copyright David James Kane 2013

The author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the author.

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For my wife and sons.

**Table of Contents**

About the Blackgum

Chapter 1 - Snakes in my Mouth

Chapter 2 - Pumpkin Gutted

Chapter 3 - The Old Man and the Fee

Chapter 4 - Trunk Call

Chapter 5 - Testing Times

Chapter 6 - The Brother of Death

Chapter 7 - New Attractions

Chapter 8 - Dream Team

Chapter 9 - Fisticuffs and the Ferine

Chapter 10 - Crab Date

Chapter 11 - Building Bridges

Chapter 12 - Dashed Plans

Chapter 13 - Scrambled Lines

Chapter 14 - Spectre in the Hole

Chapter 15 - Crouchers

Chapter 16 - Heel and Toe

Chapter 17 - Barn Trance

Chapter 18 - Man Witch

Chapter 19 - Pact Off

Chapter 20 - All the Way Home

Chapter 21 - Games to Play with One Red Witch

Chapter 22 - Return to Ender

Chapter 23 - Mea Culprit

Chapter 24 - Scattersmith

## ABOUT THE BLACKGUM

Even if you know a lot about monsters, you probably haven't heard of the Blackgum.

Since stone tools and flint-fire, they've stalked us; and probably long before then. Some have not adapted to our new cities, or our germs or guns or phone cameras, and lurk in the shadows of country lanes and the outskirts of towns.

Others have retreated completely to wild space: coiled underground, crouched low in scrub, burrowing deep under desert dunes, soaring overhead behind thick banks of cloud, or slithering through reefs and the wrecks of old ships. They are near-forgotten abominations, half mad with hunger, feeding off twisted memories of ancient glories.

But most modern Blackgum favour disguise over exile. They have learned to hide in plain sight amongst us. Right beneath our noses.

An urban Blackgum wears deodorant and shaves its legs - in some cases, its flanks and back too - to fit in with us. Some wear tailored suits or dresses or, in more casual settings like the shopping centre, swan about in jeans and T-shirts embossed with witty quips from blockbusting movies. Some of the Blackgum - those that don't wither in sunlight - hold down honest day jobs, pay their rent and put their kids through school. Some even volunteer at Christmas, ladling out fare at local soup kitchens. They look just like you or me, or your mum or dad.

They might even _be_ your mum or dad.

Even the most careful Blackgum can't hide forever. Its lumps and bumps can be covered by huge blouses and voluminous track pants. Its demonic pupils can be cloaked by contacts or designer sunglasses. Clammy skin and horrid stinks can be sprayed over with fake tans and vats of perfume. But a Blackgum has to drop its human mask when called to battle or to feed. And the Blackgum do not munch on hamburgers and chips.

How do I know this?

In most countries, experts identify the cursed brats at birth. These unlucky kids are abducted from their parents and drilled in secret facilities for years by disciplined, wise men and women who train them in the many ways and methods of the Blackgum.

Not for me. I stumbled on my first Blackgum by accident, and was lucky to survive. My apprenticeship, if you want to call it that, came later and lasted just over a week. My teacher, to put it mildly, was offbeat and unreliable. A tad flighty, even.

Amongst the few lay-people who know of the Blackgum, most dismiss them as fables: scary stories made up by scheming parents to teach kids of yore dubious lessons of life, like the health benefits of doing what you are told. Less ignorant folk, including some who've devoted their lives to the study, think the Blackgum existed once, but are extinct, like dinosaurs and tape decks. The Blackgum like it this way. It's much easier to hunt if no one's looking out for you.

My kind fights the Blackgum. We have never been many and are now hopelessly few. Most obscure of all, however, are the Blackgum masters. Pray you never cross paths with one: you won't survive the introduction.

This is the story of how I discovered the Blackgum and what it cost me. Let me start at the beginning. I'd just woken up in the kitchen of my Aunt Bea's house.

With snakes in my mouth!
1. SNAKES IN MY MOUTH

I sniffed in the stink of cheap detergent and an old roast lamb. Then I opened my eyes.

From the freezer handle of Aunt Bea's ancient fridge, my warped reflection snarled back at me. My enormous forehead, sharp white teeth and pointy chin leered out of the chrome like a rabid alien caged in a hall of mirrors. As my mouth flew open to scream, three luridly coloured, drooping snake tails flopped against my chin.

The lights were off, but moonlight streamed through the window and glinted off the wet sink. Of more immediate relevance, the snakes defied my urgent attempts to spit them out and clung on desperately, affixed to the underside of my chin like three old wads of chewing gum stuck to the bottom of a school desk.

I whipsawed the back of my hand across my stinging lips and finally dislodged the sticky serpents. The three writhing snakes plopped onto the floor half a metre from my bare feet and twitched menacingly. I flung myself back against the kitchen wall. One of Aunt Bea's prized mock-medieval tapestries bounced off its hook, smashed onto my forehead, glanced off my shoulder, and clattered onto the tiled floor, nearly decapitating one of the snakes. It didn't move.

I cursed and rubbed my head, then hunkered down to inspect the serpents. I groaned: they were just lollies, my favourite sugar asps! I licked my lips and winced at their sharp sherbet residue. Shaking my head, I walked over to switch on the light, but suddenly froze.

Heavy feet stomped overhead, tramped quickly down the stairs and shuffled up the hallway. The dining room door crashed open. The shuffling became louder and more abrasive, like mops raking a gravel trap.

The kitchen door swung open. I jumped. An ancient hand, splotched with moles, curled around the door and scrabbled at the wall, flicking on the light switch with a plastic clack.

Aunt Bea stepped into the room, squint-scowling at me under the harsh fluorescent lights that ran across the ceiling. At five foot flat, she was shorter than me. Swathed in Uncle Gerry's blue dressing gown, she seemed to have shrunk. Bright green slippers, modelled on clogs, adorned her feet. Atop her head sat a crotched pilgrim bonnet that covered all but the fringe of her wiry, silver-black hair. Aunt Bea's face was round and pink, and carpeted in light fuzz, like a plum's, which she normally buried in make-up. She brandished Uncle Gerry's old walking stick like a sword.

"What on earth is going on, boy?" said Aunt Bea. She always called me 'boy', as though there were hundreds of us living under Sub Rosa's roof, and she couldn't reasonably be expected to remember all of our names. "I thought you were rats. Oh, my _Bayeux!_ " she said, shaking her stick at the shattered tapestry frame on the floor. "You have to stop being so careless."

"I'm sorry," I said. "I -"

"Just what were you doing down here in the depths of the night anyway?" Aunt Bea interrupted. "Midnight snacking? I hope you haven't woken my poor Katy! I've got a Council meeting on the Beltway tomorrow. If I'm not at my best, the whole town could perish. Is that what you want? A Councilor too tired to protect Quakehaven and her people from oblivion?"

"I doubt it very much, Beatrice," said a gentle, calm voice from the other side of the kitchen. "Patrick did say he was sorry."

Mum joined us in the middle of the room. Her bedroom - a converted conservatory off the back of the main house - adjoined the kitchen through the walk-in larder. She lent down and ruffled my hair, massaging the tender lump that puffed out of my forehead like an ignition switch. "Nightmares again?" She looked worried.

"I don't remember," I said embarrassed, gesturing vaguely down at the half-chewed carcasses on the floor. "I woke up suddenly downstairs and -"

"What in heaven's name are those?" shrieked Aunt Bea, wiggling her stick at the sweets.

Mum giggled. I joined in. It was hard not to. Dad used to call her laugh 'infectious', like a disease, but a good one. Aunt Bea glowered at us, and I tried to stop.

"It's amazing what the young Patrick Lee can discover when he is on one of his sleepwalking escapades," said Mum, smiling. "I only bought these today, and you can't have seen them before bed. I thought they'd be safe, hidden beneath the teaspoons!"

Crinkled with mirth, Mum's freckled face and gleaming green eyes lit up the room. She was taller and leaner than her sister, with an open, oval face that nestled within a mane of uncontrollable, red ringlets that broke combs. Despite the cold, she wore a simple black nightie and no slippers. She went over to the sink, grabbed some Ajax and a dish cloth and bent down to clean up my mess.

"While you two giggling gerties stand around cackling at each other," huffed Aunt Bea, "I'm going to bed. You should see Doctor Vassel about the boy, Bridget. _Some_ of us have to work tomorrow and we can't be woken up every time the boy goes walkabout. He's liable to climb into my bed one of these days."

I shuddered. As much as I loved my aunt, somehow snakes weren't as frightening as the idea of lying in bed with Aunt Bea in the dark. Mum winked at me, mischievously, and I fought the urge to laugh again. Without another word, Aunt Bea tapped her walking stick sternly on the floor, turned around and clomped dramatically out of the kitchen back the way she had come.

"Sorry, Beatrice," called Mum down the hall. "Reg thinks it's just a phase he'll grow out of. Goodnight!"

As Mum rejoined me in the kitchen, I grabbed her hands. "Don't be sorry, Mum," I said. "It's not your fault - I'm the one with the problem."

"Don't be silly, Paddy," she said. "You can't help sleepwalking, and it's hardly a problem."

I looked down at the floor, which was now spotless. Mum was an amazing cleaner. I hadn't seen her scrub up the snakes.

"Aunt Bea isn't angry with you," Mum said. "She's just tired. Us oldies get grouchy when we're tired. And she's still not used to having people around after all those years alone."

Uncle Gerry passed away about eight years ago. I was too young to remember him properly, though I had vague memories of bouncing up and down on his enormous belly while he bellowed German beer songs from his favourite armchair in the reading room.

Mum lent over for a hug. She seemed surprised at how little she had to bend down. We hugged and, for a minute, it was like things were back to normal. When we let go, we both had tears in our eyes, though I blinked mine away quickly.

Mother and son, together in the kitchen. It was the perfect, TV special moment. Then I glanced over Mum's right shoulder and saw them: two, red and silver wings the size of guitars flapping against the window above the sink.

Each scarlet wing had a large black dot at its centre, with acute silver markings like furrowed brows. The black dots dilated slowly. The wings flapped once, like a taunting wink, and then faded into the black of night.

###

I waited a few minutes for the wings to reappear. They didn't. My spine was as stiff as a skateboard. I bear-hugged Mum protectively, keeping my eyes on the window behind her. She laughed, pushed me back, gently, and rested her hands on my shoulders.

"What's wrong?" she asked, her eyebrows raised in tiny tents of bemusement.

"Nothing," I said. "Just cold." That wasn't a total lie. Sub Rosa, originally a school, had high ceilings and large windows that almost forced the heat out. It was like an icebox in winter.

Mum eyed me up and down dubiously. "Are you sure that's all it is?" she asked.

"Yeah," I said, studying the fine cracks in the paint near the cornice of the wall. "And I'm real tired."

"Really tired," corrected Mum. Once an English teacher, always an English teacher! "You'd better get off to bed," she continued. "We're going to go and see Dr Vassel tomorrow, just to check you're OK. I want my number one baby-boy to stay healthy." It was easy to be her number one when I was an only child!

Mum guided me out of the kitchen into the hall, then kissed me goodnight and went back through the kitchen towards her room. I ascended the stairs, entered my room, and leapt into bed, rubbing my frozen feet together as I dug under the covers.

My head twittered with thoughts. I lay flat on my back and stared up at Uncle Gerry's old chandelier. A streetlight shone through the boughs of the giant pomegranate tree that framed my window. A rainbow of colours refracted from the chandelier's crystal teardrops and splashed unevenly onto the white walls, like a toddler's finger painting.

I turned onto my side and propped my head up on my arm, surveying my bedroom. Uncle Gerry and Aunt Bea had never had kids, and my room - a small classroom during Quakehaven's gold rush in the 1850s - had been dedicated to housing my uncle's impressive stamp and coin collections. It still did: two floor safes dominated the room, planted on either side of the wall beneath the window like guards.

The safe on the left was bronze, and stacked full of antique coins. The one on my right was silver and full of leather folios of rare stamps. Or so Aunt Bea told me - she kept the safe combinations to herself. Probably thought I'd hawk the coins for a console and some games, if I had the codes. I must admit I would have been sorely tempted!

Aunt Bea didn't like changes to Sub Rosa, especially to Uncle Gerry's rooms. After he'd passed away, the house had become a museum to his stuff. It took weeks for Mum to persuade my aunt to let us lug up a spare bed and an old oak wardrobe with no doors from the backyard shed. Reluctantly, she'd also let me put up a few family photos and one of my Dad's favourite posters: _Tobor the Great_ , a classic robot movie from the 1950s.

Just after I started school at Quakehaven Public, Mum had gone out and picked up a second hand folding card table, a rickety chair and a battered desk lamp at a garage sale. Miraculously, the card table fit perfectly between the safes, and functioned as my desk. The rest of my possessions - clothes, school stuff, old CDs, a travel clock, and a couple of Dad's trashy horror novels stashed under my bed - _The Beastbreaker_ and _Ghostgurgler_ \- looked like a pile of random objects plonked temporarily in someone else's room. More than a year after I'd moved in, this was still close to the truth.

I fell back onto my pillow, closed my eyes, and sucked my bottom lip, puzzled: why had I had lied to Mum about the wings in the garden? For all I knew, there was a crazed puppeteer squatting in the backyard. A normal son would have raised the alarm and called the police.

For some reason, however, I knew the display was for my benefit and mine alone. The wings belonged to something much more special than a creative burglar or confused performance artist - I was sure of it. Or I may have imagined the whole thing: it wasn't a giant leap to go from sleepwalking to moonlight hallucinations! Either way, I didn't want Mum to worry. She had enough on her plate.

###

Usually, I don't remember my dreams and the next morning was no different. I woke up at nine o'clock, exhausted, with the sun in my eyes. I'd forgotten to pull down the blinds, or to turn on my alarm!

I lunged out of bed and started to throw on my school uniform. It wasn't until I was pulling on my itchy school-jumper that I remembered it was Saturday! I smacked my forehead with the heel of my palm, then sat down on my bed, wincing. I'd also forgotten the lump on my head, where the falling tapestry had thwacked me.

Saturday! A whole weekend ahead. No chores. No homework. Two days of completely free time, watching TV and playing computer games. The best kind of weekend - at least for someone living in Sub Rosa.

Aunt Bea wouldn't allow TV or computer games in Sub Rosa, much less the Internet. She said they rotted your brain and that boys my age should be out climbing trees, fishing Lake Ebb, playing cops and robbers in the backyard, or shooting marbles on the pavement, and all the other 'adventures' boys did back in her day. In my first six months in Quakehaven, I dabbled with the whole country lad thing, and had the scars to prove it. But like most of the other kids in my class - country or not - I preferred DVDs and computer games any day.

Despite the temptation to smuggle in contraband games, I obeyed Aunt Bea's house rules. Sub Rosa was hers, after all, and I was already risking enough with Dad's horror novels under my bed. It didn't matter too much: my best friend, Mark, had all the latest stuff at his house; more games than you could play in a lifetime. And, when he wasn't in the mood to have me over, Mum was happy to slip me a few dollars to play the old games at Arcadia, down near Lake Ebb.

Excited, I brushed valiantly at the most obnoxious kinks in my hair, imagining alien explosions and dying stars played out on Mark's giant flat screen TV with 6-way surround sound. It wasn't until I accidentally brushed the lump on my head for the third time that I remembered my appointment with Doctor Vassel.

Ugh! Vassel was OK. But I'm not a fan of any doctor, and I've seen enough of them to have good reason! When I was born, there were 'complications'. The way Dad told it, I got stuck and tried to come out of Mum, bum first. It sounded funny, but Mum and I almost didn't make it. It's why I don't have any brothers or sisters. It was also why they thought that sometimes I daydream too much and sleepwalk. Not enough oxygen to the brain at birth. Like I was brain damaged!

I shook myself out of my daydream about daydreams, pulled on some jeans, a T-shirt and my favourite jersey, and set off for the kitchen for breakfast. Aunt Bea would be at her Council meeting, probably lecturing some poor newcomers on what colours they were allowed to paint their house to keep in line with the town's heritage. Mum usually slept late on Saturdays, which meant I had the house to myself for a while.

I bounded down the staircase, taking the steps two at a time, enjoying the outraged squeaks of the wooden planks. I stomped into the hall and blew a kiss at Katy.

Katy stared back at me disapprovingly from behind the bars of her black lacquered cage, but didn't squawk. She was finally getting used to me.

Katy was my Aunt's budgerigar, a kind of tiny parrot, covered in green and yellow feathers. Over the years, Aunt Bea had several budgies, all called Katy. Aunt Bea liked to think of each Katy as her guard-budgie - an early warning system for intruders. The current Katy, however, was old and slept most of the time, except when she was gnawing on cuttlefish, her favourite snack.

I danced down the hall, belting out a prehistoric Bruce Springsteen song Dad had made me listen to in his car 100 times. Just outside the dining room, however, my voice faltered. Doc Vassel and Aunt Bea were whispering to each other in the doorway, ignoring my stupid racket. The doctor had his back to me, but, as I approached them, I saw the worry lines etched onto Aunt Bea's face.

My stomach convulsed like a school of anxious eels. "What's going on?" I yelped, terrified. "Is Mum OK?"

"Of course, boy," said Aunt Bea, turning to me and smiling indulgently. I'd seen that smile before: far too many teeth glinting between dry, stretched lips turned up at the corners, her eyes just a little wide and earnest. Tell tale signs she was fibbing.

"Where's Mum?"

"She's sl-sl-sleeping, Patrick," said Doc Vassel, turning around and waggling his long fleshy fingers at me like pink, headless toothbrushes. "I've gi-gi-given her something to help her s-sleep. She's exhausted."

"Not surprising, either," said Aunt Bea. "Paddy had her up all night with midnight sleep-snacking." My face flushed with a red-hot lava flow of embarrassment.

"I do-do-don't think Patrick's sl-sleepwalking had anything to do with it at all, Mrs Logs-st-ston," disagreed the doctor, stooping down to check the lump on my head. He straightened his back slowly, like an over-polite doorman completing a bow. I scanned his face for news, but he was hard to read, perhaps because his face was so far away. At six foot five, Doc Vassel loomed over us like a redwood. "Patrick: she's n-not tired. Or n-not j-just tired. It's more like her nerves. Nervous exhaustion. Do you-you know what I mean by that?"

I nodded. Six months after Dad's funeral, Mum started getting sick like that. She stopped eating and spent most nights watching the home shopping channel in bed. At first, she missed one or two days of work a week. She was a popular teacher, so the school cut her some slack. But, after a month, she stopped going to work altogether and the school found a replacement.

I didn't tell anyone about her condition. It was my fault for not taking better care of her and I was too ashamed. News got out, though, when we fell behind on our bills and the Bank tried to take our apartment away.

My old teacher, Mrs Jax, was a friend of Mum's from university and was married to a teller at the Bank. She knew that Mum had been sacked and noticed my crinkled shirts. I hate ironing! She also heard the kids teasing me for having no Dad and a crazy Mum. It's hard to keep secrets in the playground for long.

Mrs Jax rang my aunt. Aunt Bea flew into town like a level five hurricane. The way Mum told it, my aunt stormed into the Bank and shouted at the manager until he started to cry. Then she went up to the school and gave the principal a serve. She hired two men with a truck to pack up a few personal items in our apartment the day we were scheduled to be evicted and, before we even knew what was happening, she swept us all back to Quakehaven in her wake.

That was all a bit over a year ago. Sometimes, I forgot how much we owed Aunt Bea.

There was a loud bang in the kitchen. Aunt Bea, Doc Vassel and I walked down the hall to investigate. When we got to the kitchen, Mr Fisk, the local handyman, looked down on us like zoo exhibits. He had reframed Aunt Bea's tapestry and nailed it back onto the wall.

Mr Fisk's presence wasn't all that surprising: he popped by every week or so to use Aunt Bea's Council computer to print receipts and bills for his odd jobs around town. In return, he helped repair things in Sub Rosa. Mr Fisk was Quakehaven's prime gossip. As always, he was using his job to eavesdrop.

"Sounds like your Mum needs some rest, Paddy," said Mr Fisk, jumping down from a rusted steel stepladder. He had the tonsured scalp of a monk and layers of love handles slopped over his thin belt, giving him the appearance of a beige beanbag stuffed into a dustbin. His watery-blue eyes captured the cheeky excitement of a disoriented piglet. "Don't you have to get ready for the party, anyway?"

Mark's party! In the confusion, I had forgotten my best friend's birthday!

"I'll drop you over to Mark's, if you want," Mr Fisk said. "I'm on my way there, anyway."

Aunt Bea flashed her fake smile again: "An excellent idea, Balder. Thank you. A good place for the boy to indulge that sweet tooth of his during waking hours. And I need to get to my meeting. You won't believe what the Dixons want to do to their bathroom," she said, with disgust. "Such lovely original features and they want to destroy the tiles to install hot water!"

The idea of showering without hot water during a Quakehaven winter was enough to make my knees knock in sympathy with the Dixons. No wonder Mrs Dixon, my teacher, always looked so miserable!

I looked my aunt in the eye. "I want to stay and look after Mum."

"Don't w-worry, P-P-P-lad," said the doctor. "Your mother will be sleeping soundly for hours now, and I'm going to stay and watch her to make sure she sleeps. You've got an impressive bump on your head, but no serious damage. Go to the party and have fun."

Reluctantly, I followed Mr Fisk out to his van, which was parked across the driveway. "Aren't you a bit underdressed for the party?" he asked, stashing the ladder into the back of the van and closing the hatch.

"Nope," I answered. "These clothes are fine."

"But it's fancy dress, isn't it?" asked Mr Fisk, opening the driver's door.

"Only for the total nerds," I chuckled. "Mark told almost all the kids to dress normal. The fancy dress idea was a prank for the -"

The passenger door slid open. I gasped. A grinning pumpkin sat on the far left passenger seat reading an old book emblazoned with hieroglyphs.

"Hi Paddy. Long time, no see," squeaked the pumpkin, his voice raised in singsong. "Great day for a celebration!"

I winced and piled into the van, slamming the door shut beside me. "Hi Joke."

## 2. PUMPKIN GUTTED

"Did you know, Paddy," shrilled the pumpkin, "that the Pyramid of Cheops in Egypt is one of the seven wonders of the ancient world?"

"No," I replied, strapping myself in and looking straight ahead. "I didn't."

After two attempts and some colourful words, Mr Fisk got the van going. We backed out of Sub Rosa's driveway and drove northwest, towards Mark's house and the eastern shore of Lake Ebb.

Joke wasn't his real name of course. Nor was he usually garbed as a pumpkin. Jokkum Fisk was named after his Norwegian grandfather. 'Jokkum' wasn't so strange a name in Scandinavia.

I sneaked a glance at the orange sphere. Even when dressed normally, Joke was an unusual sight: short, like his father, but with straight, almost wispy, blonde hair and a serious pinched face with a button nose that was always burnt, even in winter. Not that people had much of an opportunity to examine his nose: it was usually buried deep in a history book or pressed against his father's old TV, watching science documentaries.

"Did you know," continued Joke, "Cheops' pyramid was built over 4,000 years ago and still stands? Imagine that. It's like our classroom lasting until the year 6,012AD!"

"Almost enough time for Tim Kroker to graduate," I said.

Joke giggled, emitting a high-pitched whistle through his teeth like a hammer grinding safety glass into a pestle. Tim was the biggest guy in our class, which wasn't surprising: he'd repeated twice. He was a bit of a bully, and a touch slow, especially when on his medication for attention deficit disorder. I got along with him well enough, mainly because we were both Mark's mates.

At the crossroads, near the cemetery, Mr Fisk turned left. As we approached Mark's street, I shifted uneasily in my seat. "Hey Joke," I said. "You know Mark's party? Well, you should know that -"

"I love parties," interrupted Joke, still immersed in his book. "I don't get invited to many. It's great you're going. I don't really know anyone else that well." My guilt worsened: apart from me, Joke had shared a class with almost everyone going to the party since preschool.

"Yeah," I said, taking an inventory of the elm trees lining the road as they flashed by my window. "Well, Joke, the truth is, um, the party isn't really fancy dress. That was just something Mark told some people as a -."

"Oh," said Joke, lowering his book for a moment and inspecting the grinning jack o' lantern face embossed in black thread across his abdomen. "I wondered why you weren't in costume. I thought maybe your aunt disapproved of dressing up." He shrugged, and went back to his book, his suit rustling with the sound of scrunched up newspaper. He must have stuffed balls of paper down his front and back to fill out the globular, satin suit. He said: "Why did Mark tell me to come in fancy dress?"

"I guess he thought it would be funny."

"Kids!" growled Mr Fisk, shaking his bald head. As usual, he'd been listening in. "Makes me wonder why some people think children are angels. Monsters, the whole lot of you. Jokkum, you want to go home and change?"

"No need," said Joke, thumbing the index. "We're running late as it is and you've got to help Mr Barker set up. Anyway, I like this costume. It won't fit me much longer."

"I think you should listen to your father and change," I said, suddenly angry at Joke's stubbornness. "Everyone's going to laugh at you when you turn up looking like a prize-winning vegetable."

"Pumpkins are fruits, actually," sniffed Joke, studying a two-page diagram depicting stone slabs being hauled across sand dunes on rolling logs. "From the ancient Greek, pepon, meaning 'large melon'."

"What's that got to do with anything?" snapped Mr Fisk. "You're going to embarrass yourself."

"I don't care about my clothes," said Joke. "It's not my fault I dressed up for the party. I only did what the host asked me to do. Mother gave me this costume. Said I looked great in it."

Mr Fisk slammed on his brakes. The van skidded sideways and my seatbelt whipped tightly across my chest, pushing the air out of my lungs as I shot forward. As I crashed back into my seat, Joke's book flew out of his hands, smashed against his father's headrest and thumped onto the floor mat between Joke's feet, face down.

"Fine," hissed Mr Fisk, his fat hands throttling the steering wheel. "Go to the party looking like a twit, if that's what you want."

Without a word, Joke unfastened his seat belt and retrieved his book from the floor mat, stroking the crumpled pages smooth. He sat down again, clicked on his seat belt and resumed reading, his face a mask of concentration.

Mr Fisk drove on. I knew what was wrong. Three years ago, Joke's mum ran away from home with another man. Aunt Bea warned me never to mention Mrs Fisk to Joke - especially not in front of his father.

No one uttered a word until we drew up at the Barkers' estate. When Mr Fisk killed the engine, I clamoured out of the van, relieved to breathe fresh air again, away from the oppressive silence.

For a moment, the three of us stood on the footpath and gazed up at Mark's house with awe. The Barkers lived in a palatial mansion, right on the shores of Lake Ebb. Even by City standards, it was more than a house. It was a gleaming temple, a marvel of modern architecture. Its three stories of glass and steel dominated the street, pristine white plumes of canvass arcing out of the zinc-coated roof towards the Lake like the sails of a tall ship.

I was shabby and underdressed. I could only imagine how Joke felt in his tatty costume. The three of us walked down a red-gravel path towards the wrought iron gates, Mr Fisk slinging his tool belt over his shoulder like a stole. As we approached, the gates clanked open. Green neon arrows ignited on the side of the path, signaling the way.

Joke's pumpkin suit was overstuffed and he struggled to walk. Mr Fisk and I strode forward, leaving Joke trailing behind. I was too excited to see Mark and, to be honest, a bit embarrassed to be seen with Joke.

We walked about fifteen metres down the path and stopped at the side of the main house. "Fisk!" shouted a booming voice from above us. "You're late. Move quickly. The lights in the marquee aren't working properly. Get to it, man!"

Mr Fisk and I looked up. Like a carved figurehead lashed to the prow of a warship, Mr Barker leaned out over the balcony that jutted off his den. He was texting furiously on his smartphone, while checking his email on a flat screen that hung from the eaves. He wore his trademark gold earpiece.

"Sorry sir," said Mr Fisk in a groveling tone that set my teeth on edge. "I'll have the lights up in a jiffy."

"See that you do, Fisk," said Mr Barker, and then dismissed the bald man with a flick of his wrist. "Good to see you, again, Patrick," he said. "I hope your aunt and mother are well. Do send them my best regards."

Before I could answer, another of Mr Barker's phones sounded with the ring tone of a chiming cash register. Smoothly, Mr Barker plucked the third device from the breast pocket of his jacket and tapped his earpiece. "Ni Hao," he said, presumably to someone far from Quakehaven, then retreated inside the house to take the call.

As soon as Mr Barker was out of earshot, Mr Fisk sneered: "See that you do," a weak imitation of Mr Barker's commanding voice. "I'd best get to work, Paddy." I nodded then watched him walk down to a big white tent at the bottom of the garden on the Lake's shore.

###

Like everything the Barkers did, Mark's party was extravagant. They could afford it. Mr Barker owned Midas Mountain, a gold-mining theme park and Quakehaven's sole tourist attraction. He also owned Barkerfield Village, the town's shopping centre. More than half the town's population depended directly on the Barkers for a job, and most of the rest would struggle without the busloads of tourists and shoppers his businesses lured to Quakehaven.

Mrs Barker was a partner of a large City law firm. From portraits I'd seen hung up around Mark's house, she'd been beautiful once. But, after one too many face-lifts, she now resembled a half-melted street lamp in a pantsuit.

Rustling paper crackled behind me, like a glutton munching popcorn at the movies. Without looking back, I walked away from Joke to search for Mark.

Despite the Barkers' park-sized garden, I spotted Mark quickly. He was on the back deck off the main house, standing tall on a high-backed chair, surveying his guests. He wore a brilliant white polo shirt and designer jeans that looked like they'd been splashed with radioactive milk. Mark liked to be noticed.

He must have seen me, too, and waved imperiously. Even from that distance, I could see his electric blue eyes, flashing white teeth and symmetrical dimples. Caught in the headlights of Mark's full attention, I froze and had to stop myself from bowing down like a manservant.

Joke rustle-sidled up to me. A flash of his satin rind caught the corner of my eye, distracting me. Mark crossed his arms and smirked. "My name is Ozymandias," whispered Joke into my ear, slightly out of breath. "King of Kings. Look on my Works Ye Mighty and Despair!"

I stepped away from the poetic pumpkin. "Ozy-what?" I snapped. "What on earth are you talking about?"

Joke invaded my personal space again. "Ozymandias," he said. "Another name for Ramesses the Second. The greatest of all Pharaohs. A bit like Mark, especially the way he's standing up there lording over us all. I was quoting a famous poem about the futility of great empires. How even great men and their works end up forgotten and buried in the sands of time. I thought you'd find it fu-"

"I don't," I said. Mark now had his back to me and was talking to Nicky Jackson. I turned on Joke. "I've heard enough about pyramids for a lifetime. Give the ancient Egypt thing a rest. Doesn't your father need some help?"

"No, he's fine," said Joke. "Says I just get in the way."

"I know how he feels," I muttered, and looked away a little too late not to register the pain on Joke's face. I marched over to the stairs. Nicky had gone and Mark was laughing - hopefully not at me.

"Paddy!" Joke called after me, confused. "Don't leave me here alone."

"Sorry, Joke. I gotta go," I said, trying not to lose my cool in front of Mark. "Catch you later, hey?"

###

"How you doing, space cadet?" said Mark, jumping off the chair and marching on the spot with his eyes closed, pretending to sleepwalk. "Thanks for coming."

"Thanks for the invite," I replied. "Great party. Must have taken your Mum weeks to organise it."

"Mother's overseas on a merger," said Mark inspecting an imaginary spot on his shirt. "Dad hired Mrs Kroker to run the whole thing."

"Oh," I said. "Looks like she's done a brilliant job."

"Wanna see a highlight?" Without waiting for my answer, he squatted down and unzipped the front pouch of a small translucent bag lying under the high-backed chair. He retrieved a silver hexagonal box, about the size of a coffee mug. As he held it aloft, the box glittered in the winter sunshine as if coated in diamond dust.

"Wow!" I said: an understatement. "I didn't even know these were out yet."

Mark put the box to his mouth. "They're not," he drawled, his voice distorted by the box's built-in microphone. He sounded like a Texan android. He lowered the box and grinned. "My father knows this guy that works for the company in China. He pulled a few strings, and voila."

"Voila?" I asked.

Mark twisted the box lid in his left hand, and put his right thumb and index finger to his cleft chin, like a statue of a thinker. "That's French for 'look at that!' I learned it when I was at Disneyland Paris, last summer."

"Can I have a go?" I asked.

Mark frowned and shook his head. "You can watch me if you like."

He thumbed at the touch pad on the box lid. The console unfurled into a hexagon of brick-petals. The box emitted a jingle-wash, and the petals flattened out to form a double-sided display. We sat down on the top step of the deck and watched, hypnotised, as the game loaded. The title screen popped up and I gulped: it was the new one, Ancient Assassins!

"Awesome!" I whispered, almost bursting into applause.

He swiped at the screen, resuming a saved game. "Watch this!" Mark said. An ice-ninja cartwheeled across the deck of a pirate ship, hurled a silver disc over the ship's prow, and decapitated a sea dragon. "So realistic!"

"Not really," piped a squeaky voice from the foot of the stairs. "From what I can see from the screen facing me, the warrior appears to be using piranha shurikens. At that range, he'd be better off pitching scorpion stars. Would cut through the dragon's vertebrae more efficiently."

"Who asked you?" growled Mark. A Scandinavian dragon, gold and multi-winged, swooped down through the clouds and bit off the ninja's legs. Mark swore and tapped the screen twice. The game froze, and he lowered the console and looked down his nose. "Nice outfit pip-squeak. Where's my present?"

Joke blushed. "Your invitation. It said not to bring presents. That you didn't need any."

"I don't _need_ presents," snapped Mark. "But I want them just the same. Don't you think it's a bit rude to turn up to someone's party without a gift? Or to dress like that? It's insulting."

"But your invitation said -"

"You're lucky I even invited you, Jack o' Joke," laughed Mark. "I'm a gracious host, so you can stay, but don't talk to my friends - which are everyone - and don't eat my food. Just go and play with your deadbeat dad. You should audition to be his apprentice, or something. Best you can hope for."

"Leave my father alone," said Joke. "He's good at his job, and doesn't need me. And I'm going to be an archaeologist when I grow up."

Mark sniggered. "As if! You need a degree to do that. Your dad doesn't have the cash to send you to Pinkerton, much less university. You'll never be an anthropologist."

"Archaeologist," corrected Joke.

"Whatever," said Mark, turning back to the game. "You'll never be neither."

"You mean either. And I will too," said Joke, angrily. "I'll study hard and get a scholarship." He voice wavered, undermining the certainty of his words.

"Stop being a sook," ordered Mark. "Why don't you run home to your mum for a good cry? Oh, that's right you don't have one."

Joke looked at me, pleading. I scanned the Lake shore, unsure what to say. He started to sob, then turned and ran off across the manicured lawn. I watched his pumpkin suit bounce toward the lake rhythmically, like a karaoke-cue ball marking out the lyrics of a power-ballad.

"You didn't need to bring up his mum," I said. "He was trying to be helpful. He knows a lot about ninjas. And I didn't bring a present either. You didn't need to single him out."

"Oh, I forgot," said Mark, twisting the console shut like a hand juicer. "You're the nerd's best friend, right?" He stood up and puffed out his chest. "The nerd was your only friend when you first rocked up to freeload off your aunt. He latched onto you pretty good at school. I almost felt sorry for you. Thought you were trying to get away from him this year. That you wanted to hang with me and Tim?"

"I did," I said, pushing myself up onto my feet. "I do. But Joke's not that bad a guy, once you get to know him. He's just not good at...social situations."

"OK, then. Let's spend all day discovering the real Joke, shall we?" said Mark, sarcastically. "Perhaps we could go camping and plait each other's hair? Maybe spend a few days reciting sonnets to each other in Joke's caravan, eating baked beans from the can and farting out operas. It might be fun living a day as poor trash."

I faked a laugh. There was no point arguing with Mark when he was on a roll. "Your birthday, your rules, Mark," I said. "Forget about Joke. Let's party!"

Mark grinned, his perfect white teeth glinting, his dimples dancing. "That's more like it, space cadet!"

As we descended the stairs, two at a time, I spied Joke sitting on the end of the Barkers' private jetty. From the jerky movement of his shoulders, I could tell he was crying. Less than two metres away, his dad was too busy fiddling with extension cords to notice.

###

Mark and I joined some of the other kids by the shaded side of the party tent - Mark called it a 'marquee' - and watched _Tasers and Tarantulas_ on an inflatable screen. It was a terrible film, though the final scene with the drunken sheriff attacking the pregnant spider-queen with a broken chopstick was pretty funny!

When the credits rolled, Mark shouted "show time!" and herded us into the marquee. Ravenous, the thirty-or-so partygoers descended on the buffet tables lined up against the southern side of the tent. The air was redolent of satay skewers, blueberry pancakes, sausage rolls and candy floss. A pandemonium of clowns worked the tent, churning out balloon-robots, performing magic tricks with cards and coins, and handing out layered mocktails to the guests.

From the northern side of the space, farthest from the buffet, an elderly Japanese DJ spun out mashes of top ten and 60s rock from a dual-turntable on a raised podium. A smoke machine was affixed to the top of the DJ station and spewed a waterfall of vanilla-scented fog-plumes into the tent. Retro-green and red lasers twirled up and down the tent wall next to the podium in time with the beat.

To the immediate right of the marquee's entrance stood a round table on which sat a double-layered ice-cream cake shaped like a UFO. Orange chocolate Martians pocked the cake's upper deck in lieu of candles. I'd wolfed down at least 10 party pies and quaffed three mocktails, and we still had the birthday cake to go!

From the dance floor in front of the DJ's podium, Mr Barker's Events Manager oversaw the whole shebang. Mrs Kroker, though not tall, was blonde and curvy. A relative newcomer to Quakehaven - she and Tim had moved to town when Tim was about 10 \- she was popular with the kids, and particularly so with the kids' dads.

"AK Events," was scrawled in white letters across the front of Mrs Kroker's tight black T-shirt. A fob watch hung from the belt of her silver miniskirt. From time to time, she would look at it and shout into her headset microphone: "Stay On Message," whatever that meant.

After we finished our feast, the clowns escorted us all to assigned seats. We sat along two parallel, backless benches, like pews, in the centre of the marquee.

My place was between Mark and Tim on the bench closest to the entrance. The less popular kids sat on the other bench, facing us. The obvious cool bench/loser bench divide was typical of Mark - he loved to rank us. More than a few of the kids on the loser bench looked mystified with their classification, and I'm sure most of them wondered how I'd made it to Mark's bench at their expense. I hadn't even been invited to Mark's last birthday.

An old wooden beam pocked with six lit candles swayed above and between the pews, suspended by rope. It was cool, but a bit creepy, like a dungeon's lighting rig. A constellation of tiny silver strobe-lights on the ceiling flashed twice - Mr Fisk had obviously managed to fix them - then the room darkened into a deep, foggy purple. The music turned funky.

A white spotlight cut through the purple haze and Mrs Kroker appeared at the DJ's side on the podium. A lectern rose from the floor in front of her. Under her left arm, Mrs Kroker held a large, golden box. She clapped twice and the music died. Like military cadets, the clowns snapped to attention then marched out of the marquee in formation. Mrs Kroker lent forward to speak into the lectern microphone, but her headset screamed with feedback. We all screamed back and laughed.

"Boys and girls," said Mrs Kroker, tearing off the headset and glaring at the oblivious DJ. "It's time for the games. We're going to start with pass the parcel. Timothy, come up here and help mummy kick things off."

Mortified, Tim stood up, trudged over to his mother and seized the gold parcel from her manfully. Even under the violet light, his face glowed beet-red. "Say thank you to mummy," shouted Mark, as Tim resumed his seat next to me, and we sniggered, thrilled with his embarrassment.

Mrs Kroker nodded to the DJ to restart his mix. But, before he could spin the first track, Mark jumped up onto the bench, grabbing my jersey for balance. With his free hand, he pointed at the buffet and bellowed:

"Stop! Thief! What do you think you're doing?"

###

Like everyone on my bench, I swiveled left. Everyone on the bench facing us swung right. Thirty kids - sixty eyes - stared at Joke. Still clad in his costume, the small boy was a statue of shock, frozen at the buffet in the act of lowering a sausage roll onto a plastic plate with silver servers.

"Answer me!" screamed Mark with such force that Joke dropped the servers. The roll glanced off the side of his plate and flopped onto the floor like a tiny, talentless gymnast dismounting a vaulting horse. Joke hunkered down to clean up the mess. "Sorry, Mark," he said, so quietly we could barely hear him. "I was so hungry."

I didn't like the angry glint in Mark's eyes \- he looked like a shark closing in on an injured seal. I scanned the marquee for Mr Fisk. He was nowhere to be seen.

"I said you were not allowed to eat anything," said Mark, feigning outrage. "You disobeyed me. First you steal my food. Now you waste it."

I stood up and tapped Mark's arm gently. "It was an accident," I whispered. "It's just one sausage roll."

Mark shook my hand away, pulled out his console from a side pocket of his radioactive-milk jeans, and put the silver box to his lips. "You know what we do to thieves in these parts?" he drawled, robotically.

Before anyone could react, Mark jumped off the pew and lunged at Joke. Joke tried to evade Mark's charge, but a loose thread from his costume snagged the corner of the buffet table, which tilted as he tried to pull away. Trying to right the wobbly table, Joke tripped and fell forwards. The table crashed on top of him, a cheese platter shattering centimetres from his head. Mark hollered with outrage, threw the table upright, and hauled the smaller boy to his feet with a savage wrench.

"Look what you've done now!" shrieked Mark, shaking the pumpkin gleefully, exulting in the carnage. "Time for a new game, everyone!" Mark beamed, his face dripping with sweat. Some of the kids on the opposite bench began to giggle; and almost everyone stood up. A shard of broken glass had pricked Joke's cheek, and the sight of blood set everyone on edge.

"It's called pin the tail on the pumpkin! Or pumpkin piñata, if you prefer!" Before anyone could react, Mark dragged Joke over to the cool bench, and made him stand up in the middle of it. The other kids backed off. Mark jumped up and seized the end of the rope that hung from the bottom of the medieval chandelier. Then he bound Joke's hands with it. "As the birthday boy, I'll go first," Mark said, and pulled down hard on the rope, hoisting Joke's feet into the air.

"Please, don't," wailed Joke, recovering his voice.

"Let him go, Mark," said Mrs Kroker, saying exactly what I was thinking. "Let's just play the game."

"This is the game now," snapped Mark, almost snarling. "Your job is to make me happy, so shut up and get me the donkey tails."

Mrs Kroker looked like she was about to say something to Mark, but decided against it and swallowed her words. "Be gentle," said Mrs Kroker, then nodded to her son. Tim snorted, shunted me aside, scrambled under the DJ podium and retrieved a white plastic ice cream container.

I strode to the podium. "Mrs. Kroker," I said craning my neck to make eye contact. "This isn't right."

"The customer is always right," muttered Mrs Kroker, staring into space. "When you're my age, you'll know that." She stepped down from the podium just as Tim handed Mark the container. Mark tipped it upside down so that its contents - about a dozen furry donkey's tails with pins stuck in the ends - spilled onto the floor.

Mark stooped down and snatched up a handful of pintails and began jabbing them randomly into the padded flanks of Joke's costume. Tim chuckled with glee, breaking into a wild jig.

"I'll teach you to steal from me," Mark scolded. Joke was bone white. Hanging limply by his arms from the rope over the pew, he looked even smaller and more helpless than usual.

"Aren't you meant to be blindfolded?" said Nicky, wringing her hands. Nicky was the tallest kid in the class, and by far the best athlete. Unlike most of the other girls, she cropped her hair, claiming long locks slowed her down over the hurdles (her favourite event). She was kind of pretty, though her face was splattered with freckles: in the purple light, she looked like someone had dunked her head in a trough of melted chocolate. She was one of the few kids Mark respected, perhaps for her strength, though for some reason he'd assigned her to the loser bench.

"This is my property," said Mark, glaring at her. "And if you don't like my rules why don't you leave? I've got a good mind to get your dad sacked."

Mr Jackson, Nicky's father, ran the historically accurate toffee shop in Midas Mountain. For a moment, Nicky bristled and held Mark's gaze. Then she bit her lip, muttered something inaudible (probably rude!), and sat down on the loser bench, looking up at Joke, concerned.

Mark stuck a pin dangerously close to the edge of the pumpkin padding, centimetres from Joke's left upper thigh. "Careful," I called out from the dance floor. "You might hurt him!"

"Wouldn't that be just terrible," laughed Mark and jabbed a pin directly into the soft skin behind Joke's right knee. "Just terrible."

Joke bucked and thrashed. The candle flames flickered as he yanked side to side on the rope. Hot wax slopped out of the candleholders onto Joke's hair, and down the back of his neck. Mark laughed. A small trickle of blood dripped down Joke's green tights, staining them black. Mark had gone too far. I ran towards Joke, but stopped cold when I heard a chilling scream.

Apart from the elderly DJ, who was snoring face down on his deck, we'd all been transfixed by Mark's torture show. As one, we turned to the source of the shriek.

It was Tim. He clutched his left wrist with his right hand, like a microphone. "The parcel," he whispered, then collapsed and started to blubber.

Dumbfounded, I looked at the golden parcel on the ground beneath the bench. Or what was left of it. It looked like it had been torn apart from the inside. I looked around for the culprit and caught a glimpse of a black scorpion's pincers and sting disappearing through a small hole in the marquee next to the podium.

"It scratched me," sobbed Tim. Mrs Kroker, who'd been trying to look the other way while Mark toyed with Joke, rushed over to her stricken son.

"What scratched you?" she asked, trying to prise Tim's hand away from his wrist to look at the wound.

"A lizard. Black-green scales. Like a big blue tongue."

"No, it wasn't," said Nicky, matter-of-factly. "It was a bird. Like a pheasant, with a long tail. I saw it peck its way out that way," she said, pointing to the same small tear in the marquee.

"It was a rat," said Mr Fisk, running into the marquee with a rake. "A filthy, black water-rat. I saw it exit the tent and chased it into the Lake." He sized up the scene, then palmed Mark away without a word, and went to his weeping son.

Just then Mr Barker marched into the marquee, unbuttoning his jacket. "What's going on here, Annette?" he shouted at Mrs Kroker. "I thought someone had been injured. I couldn't hear my team in Jakarta over the hullaballoo. I hired you to keep control! Why's that little boy tethered to a rope?"

Mrs Kroker pointed dumbly at the golden parcel. "A rat in the parcel. It hurt my son."

"How, pray tell, did a rat get into a kid's party game?" said Mr Barker. "Was it meant to be some kind of edgy pet? The latest party-bag filler. What's wrong with you?" Then he turned to Mr Fisk: "You," he ordered. "Take the Kroker lad to Base for a checkup. Tell them to charge it to me."

"I did-didn't," stammered Mrs Kroker. "Not a pet. It was a DVD, not a -"

Nicky screamed like a girl, something I'd never heard her do before. "Look at the cake!" she cried.

The roof lights pulsed then the marquee was flooded with black light. From near the entrance, came the muffled sound of a thousand legs scratching. The UFO cake shook violently, like it was struggling to take off, spraying orange Martians in all directions.

The cake's roof exploded and hundreds of blue-black bugs erupted out of it, scuttling in waves across the dance floor toward us. Almost everyone, including Mr Barker, Mrs Kroker and the surprisingly spry DJ, now wide awake, started for the exit. Mrs Kroker staggered under the load of her son, but was stronger than she looked, and made it out.

Ignoring the bugs, Mr Fisk threw down his rake, braining some beetles in the process, and fumbled with the knot around Joke's wrists. I ran over to help, pushing against the surge of kids heading the other way. The floor was slippery with mocktail slops and I slipped, almost landing face first in the sea of swarming bugs. I recovered my balance, and held Joke's swinging legs still, while his father clawed at the knot. Despite the bugs climbing his legs, Joke grinned.

With a grunt, Mr Fisk gave up on the knot, pulled a serrated army knife out of his pocket and sawed through the rope. I dragged Joke to the marquee door, crushing bugs underfoot with every disgusting step. Mr Fisk retrieved his rake and drove the bulk of the bugs through the tear in the marquee and out towards the Lake.

As Joke and I exited the dark tent, we were hit with blinding daylight. Joke and I fell to the ground, stunned. Mr Fisk, still wielding his rake, followed us out. "You look after him, Paddy. This time," he said, blinking. "I have to get that hulking Kroker lad off to the Base," he said, referring to the local hospital, "but I'll be back to pick you both up in half an hour."

I nodded, patting Joke on the back as the small boy applied pressure to the pinprick wound behind his knee. Mr Fisk lent down, mussed Joke's hair and winked at him. Joke smiled and winked back. Then his father went over to help Mrs Kroker lug her son to the van.

Joke and I sat on the soft grass and waited for Mr Fisk to come back, watching the thinning stream of bugs splash into the Lake. Mark stood out on the jetty, shouting at Mr Barker and stomping his feet like a toddler mid-tantrum. Even from where we sat, we could hear him: "Dad! My party! Wrecked by cockroaches! Filthy cockroaches."

"I thought the rat was more troubling, from a hygiene perspective," whispered Joke, almost grinning. "Or was it a bird? Or a lizard?"

"Or a scorpion?" I muttered.

"What?" asked Joke, his voice trembling with excitement.

"Nothing," I said. "My eyes playing tricks in the dark."

"Indeed," said Joke mysteriously. "Well, the bugs aren't cockroaches. Did you see their shovel-shaped heads? They're scarab beetles."

"Can't be," I said. When I'd first arrived in Quakehaven, Joke had been at pains to drill me on all the local bugs, spiders and snakes. "Scarabs aren't from here -"

"That's right," said Joke, beaming. "This particular species is from North Africa."

I arched my eyebrows, but said nothing. Joke coughed, and Mark saw us. He sidestepped his father, and stormed up the jetty, advancing on us with hatred in his eyes and balled fists. I scooted forward, shielding Joke.

Mark stopped and spat on my shoes. "Tell your nerd mate I hold him responsible for this," said Mark, gasping for control of his breath. Then something inside him - pride? - gave way, and he started to sob like a fairy princess stung by a bee.

"Come on, Mark," I said, rubbing my spittle-soaked shoes on the grass. "Don't cry. You know Joke had nothing to do with it. It's just one of those things. Freakish bad luck."

"I told that Kroker woman that I wanted an exclusive event. But she said bigger was better. Invite the whole class, she said. Stupid sow!"

"It was a great party, Mark," I said, trying to placate him. "Huge. We'll laugh about the Barker bug attack in a few days. You can tell people it was your way of ending the event with a bang!"

But Mark was in no mood to listen. "Pauper filth. Should never have invited them. Tracked dirt and vermin onto my land. Wrecked everything good and clean. That's how the bubonic plague killed a third of the world. Poor, squalid people, squatting with rodents."

Ignoring Mark's stupid diatribe - poor doesn't mean dirty or bad, any more than rich means clean or good - I helped Joke to his feet. The back of Joke's costume was covered in grass stains, and his tights were torn and stained with blood. The pumpkin suit had seen its last party!

We walked back the way we had come and waited out on the street. Though Joke had been a victim, there was something odd about his reaction to the beetles, his grinning face as Mr Fisk and I struggled to set him free. North African bugs in Quakehaven? The only thing remotely North African in town was Joke's book on Egypt.

"Quite a coincidence," as Dad used to scoff when investigating fishy deals. " _Quite a coincidence_."

## 3. THE OLD MAN AND THE FEE

Tim turned out to be fine. Barely a surface scratch on his wrist. "Probably just a bit of shock," huffed Mr Fisk, as he dropped me off at Sub Rosa. He sounded disappointed.

As soon as I opened the front door, Aunt Bea ambushed me. She'd been cleaning out Katy's cage, but interrupted the task to tell me the 'dreadful' news of Mr Barker's 'hideous plans' to turn a couple of disused warehouses near the hospital into loft-style apartments. As if to emphasise Aunt Bea's distress, Katy bounced up and down on her shoulder while my aunt ranted about the 'underemployed artsy folk from the City with their jazz cafes and cocktail bars'. Such plans were not, in my aunt's view, 'at all in keeping with Quakehaven's culture', or 'its proud tradition of scone and tea houses'. Katy squawked in agreement.

I stuck my head in to see Mum. She was fast asleep, no doubt assisted by Doc Vass' prescriptions.

Straight after dinner, I excused myself and went up to my room. I was about half way through one of Dad's old novels, a scary story about duelling magicians. After reading the same paragraph three times, I gave up, turned off the light and closed my eyes.

With all the excitement (and sugar!) at Mark's party, and all the questions running through my head about the lizard-bird-rat thing and the army of scarab beetles, I didn't sleep well. I was just beginning to settle into a deep sleep, when the alarm sounded, a static-beeping too annoying to ignore.

Groggily, I climbed out of bed and slapped off the alarm. I rugged up and tip-toed downstairs. My clunky French horn case was next to the hall stand, and I picked it up, being careful not to disturb Katy, and crept out the front door. On the front porch, I grabbed my bike, latching my French horn case to the rear rack behind the seat. I hopped aboard and pedalled down the three porch stairs, through the open gate and down my freezing, empty street, and across town to Mr Tangen's newsagency.

Tangen's newsagency was about a twenty minute ride south of Sub Rosa, just west of Base Hospital. It felt longer that morning, peddling into the frigid wind. There were no cars or people on the streets, but somehow Justine had already beaten me to the shop and taken out her cart. How did she and her twin brother, Mick, get up so early? Even on Sundays and Thursdays – my shifts – Mick had football practice at 7am. Did the twins ever get to sleep in?

I jumped off my bike and chained it to the dead gum tree outside the shop. Then I unlatched the horn and jumped over the single marble step and into the newsagency.

Mr Tangen frowned, tapping his watch, then winked to show he was joking. Lucky for me! His newsagency was not in the best part of Quakehaven: some of the shops nearby had closed because of robberies. But not once in all the years he'd managed the shop had anyone dared to hold him up. Mr Tangen, known around town as the Viking, looked like an old Norse warrior without the horned hat: he seemed twice my height, with massive shoulders and proud puff-muscled chest.

"You're late, lad," declared Mr Tangen. "My customers pay good money for personal deliveries, but they're probably wishing they had subscriptions with Luk."

"Sorry sir," I said. Mr Tangen was the type of man people called sir, even though he never asked you to. I'll make up time on Tavistock Street - I'll just have to shorten my cat-chat with Mrs Carruthers by a few minutes."

"You'll do no such thing," frowned Mr Tangen. "That poor old lady's all alone now, except for her cats. You'll not deprive her of one second of your time just because you can't get your lazy bones out of bed on time."

"Sure, Mr Tangen," I said, smiling, and handed him my horn case. He stashed the case under the counter. I sighed, taking in the newsagency's wonderful stink of oranges, tobacco and burned coffee beans.

Mr Tangen went into the back of the shop. "Any special orders?" I called after him, hopeful.

"Two," said Mr Tangen, returning with my red cart, fully laden with _Quakehaven Inquisitors_ , and a couple of magazines under his arm.

Mr Tangen pulled a pad and biro from his shirt pocket and licked his lips as he thumbed down his customer list. " _Yarn Yarns_ , for 15 Taubman Street, Mr Dixon, $6," Mr Tangen said, handing me a pastel-hued monthly packed with knitting stories and tips. My face almost split open with laughter at the thought of Mr Dixon - ex-army engineer and fishing enthusiast - crocheting the baby blue mittens featured on the cover. Mr Tangen shot me a warning glare, and I swallowed my laugh.

"And we have a very special order for a customer I haven't heard from in a while. Mr Seth, at 49 Blakes Road. " _Sumerian Anthropological Digest_ ".

I looked at the cover, confused.

"It's in Arabic," explained Mr Tangen. "And you'll be very pleased to hear that it's tremendously expensive: $30."

"Great," I said, suddenly alert. The job paid 8 cents a paper, but I got 15% of the face price of every special order. From my jacket, I pulled out my trusty school calculator and punched in the numbers. "Three-seventy-five!"

Mr Tangen smirked. "You must be getting close to your target. How long till I have to replace you with someone less tardy?"

"A few more weeks yet, sir," I said, stuffing the calculator back into my pocket. "I'm about three-quarters there. Another $20 dollars will do it."

"Your mother will be so proud" said Mr Tangen, placing the magazines spine down into the cart, making sure not to bend them. "Like I am."

I blushed. Mr Tangen was not a man who paid false compliments. A few awkward moments passed, then I stammered out a weak 'thank you', grabbed the cart and headed for the door, nearly running over my own feet in the process.

The truth was that Mr Tangen and I were co-conspirators. Aunt Bea, Mum and the school basketball coach, Mr Walker, thought I spent Sunday and Thursday mornings at band practice. That's why I had to lug my horn to the newsagency twice a week. Ms Crabshank, the band mistress, thought that I was at basketball training with Mr Walker. It worked because Mr Walker and Ms Crabshank refused to talk to each other. They'd fallen out over a cake prize at the Quakehaven Show. It was a perfect white lie, so long as none of my customers dobbed me in!

Mr Tangen got a kick out of our secret. When I'd first applied, he refused to hire me without Mum's written permission. He'd said no, even when I told him I wanted the job to buy her a secret birthday present: Fabliaux, an expensive perfume Dad had bought her every year since they'd been married. But, in one of his gossip sessions, Mr Fisk had spilled my whole sad story to Mr Tangen. Mr Tangen had shooed Mr Fisk out of the shop, locked up and ridden straight out to Sub Rosa on his ridiculous tiny scooter and given me the job!

I opened the shop door. A tobacco-orange scented gush of warm air rushed past my ears into the chill of the street outside. From my tracksuit pocket, I pulled out a silver whistle on a plastic chain, and looped it around my neck. The back of the cart crackled to life: Mr Tangen had activated my docked walkie-talkie. He used them to keep tabs on his staff and in case there was any trouble. I turned to salute Mr Tangen, then paused.

"Did you say Blakes Road?" I asked the Viking.

"What?" said Mr Tangen.

"The special order. The one for Mr Seth. Did you say Blakes Road?"

"Yes," said Mr Tangen. "It's his first order in years. He's been overseas and must have moved back recently. Make sure it's not his last order with us."

"No-one moves to Quakehaven," I said. "Especially not to Blakes Road."

"Well, you moved to Quakehaven. And so did I," said Mr Tangen. "And Mr Seth has been here for years: long before either of us."

I frowned. "Why would anyone live there? There's nothing in that street. It's -"

"Sounds like you've been listening to Mr Fisk's stories," said Mr Tangen, shaking his head. "That man has an overactive imagination."

"Yes. No, but - isn't number 49 near the butcher's shop?"

A flicker of concern crossed Mr Tangen's face. "Those stories are untrue, Paddy. I've met Mr Seth, and he's a perfectly charming gentleman. And he's a paying customer!"

"But -"

"No buts," interrupted Mr Tangen. "You've got customers waiting for their daily news. Off you go. Before you let out all the heat!"

"OK sir," I said, dragging the cart and onto the street. A snowball-sized chill rolled up my spine. It was more than the wind.

"Any trouble," said Mr Tangen, tapping the walkie talkie on his belt, "You call me."

###

Half-frozen, with the wind slapping my ears like a boxing snowman, I trudged up and down the streets trilling on my silver whistle: Taubman Street, Tavistock Lane, Gloucester Avenue, Pegasus Boulevard, Westbourne Drive and Ligar Crescent. Customers, many in dressing gowns, beanies and ugg boots, dashed from their houses, grabbed their paper and tossed me coins without a word.

Mr Dixon, resplendent in a purple cable-knitted sweater, gave me $7 dollars for _Yarn Yarns_ : a $1 tip! But in the bitter cold, no-one seemed to care for Mr Tangen's famous personal touch. Even Mrs Carruthers picked up her paper and went back inside with barely an update about Ping Ping and T-Bone, her cats.

One street remained. I turned right, walked a few metres down Main Street and turned right again into the desolate quiet of Blakes Road.

Blakes had once been fairly respectable, lined with mixed businesses, restaurants, a twin cinema, and a flea market on weekends. That had all come to a shuddering halt a few years back when Mr Barker opened his massive Barkerfield Shopping Centre on the other side of town.

Blakes Road was now the closest thing Quakehaven had to a Ghost Street. This was my first ever Blakes customer. And he was somewhat of a celebrity.

My first month in town, Joke told me the story. He'd heard it from his dad.

The story around town was that Mr Barker wanted to demolish the houses but some of the old folks wouldn't go, so he hired a gang from the City to clean the street out. The gang - which became known as the Barker Bandits - rode into town on vintage Indian motorcycles. Night after night, they descended on Blakes Road, vandalising shops.

One shop held out: Suresh Seth's Sausages. The butcher, Mr Seth, lived in an apartment above the shop and refused to budge, despite spray-cans of graffiti, buckets of broken glass and threats.

One night, Mr Barker ordered the Bandits to burn the shop to the ground! Bandits were seen entering the shop around midnight, carting jerry cans of petrol.

The next morning, a street cleaner found the cans of petrol, lined up neatly on the pavement outside Mr Seth's shop. A small sign had been placed in the window: 'Gone Hunting - Back Later'. The shop was untouched. Even the walls were whitewashed - not a fleck of graffiti.

Several days later, Mrs Crabshank noticed a large metal sculpture perched on the edge of the butcher's roof, like a glinting gargoyle. Fashioned from the wreckage of vintage motorcycles, the installation had been twisted and melded into a double helix, from which sprouted the gnarled, giant wings of a sculpted butterfly.

No Bandit was seen again in Quakehaven.

Some of the story was verifiable: Joke had shown me a photo of the motorcycle butterfly. But like most of Mr Fisk's stories, some of it was surely exaggerated and unbelievable.

I stopped outside the butcher's shop and blew my whistle. No response. I was about to leave, when I remembered Mr Seth's special order and the money.

I pulled my cart up to the shop's crooked fence, and walked down the broken path to the front door. It was solid oak, with a stained glass panel in its centre. I pushed the door-bell. It bleated like a sheep. Something was wrong. Terribly wrong. I turned to run away.

I should have fled.

It was suddenly hard to stay focused. The thick canopy of cloud broke open and, for the first time that day, my shadow appeared on the path behind me. A green-yellow light seeped out from the base of the oak door. Two black eyes appeared and glinted through the stained glass panel. A heavy lock clanked open like a struck anvil.

"I've got to get out of here," I whispered to myself and backed up too quickly. My cart became stuck on a rock, then toppled onto its side. Mr Tangen's walkie-talkie clattered out of its holster, skittered across the shop front and collided into the fence.

Before I could react, the door flew open and a tiny, ancient man jumped through it, stomping his feet like an embittered leprechaun swindled of his gold. "What is the meaning of this intrusion?" he hissed. "How dare you disturb me at this hour?!"

Gobsmacked, I fought the urge to giggle-cry. The midget man's leathery brown face turned tangerine with indignation. In stark contrast to his weather-beaten features, the man was resplendent in a silver-grey suit, white shirt and scarlet tie. Shiny black shoes adorned his feet, matching his glossy hair that was slicked back like an aged stock broker's.

"Sorry, sir," I said. "I tripped. My cart. I -"

"Insolence! I don't care about your clumsiness, oaf-boy," spat the old man. I jumped backed, but he leaned in, and I caught a whiff of his cologne: a mix of sandalwood masking, in part, the scent of a freshly mown lawn. "That shrill piping," he snapped, pointing accusingly at my whistle. "It stings my ears. Should be outlawed. Rude, imbecilic nut."

"There's no need for name-calling," I said, sounding a touch like Aunt Bea. "Apologies. Mr Tangen sent me, Mr Seth. I've a special order and he wanted to make sure you got it personally."

"What, what!" shouted the man, his rather sunken cheeks suddenly vaulting up his face, his features animated, like a whiskerless seal perched on the edge of a mackerel buffet. "My periodical? It's arrived? Give it to me!"

I turned to my cart, righted it and pulled out his magazine. It was heavy, and wrapped in special thick plastic. Apart from the Arabic headlines, the cover featured photos of a strange black statue of a bearded man-dog tattooed with squiggles. The sort of stuff Joke obsessed over.

"That'll be $30, thanks, mister," I said, presenting him with the magazine.

"Nonsense," clucked the old man. "I know for a fact that the magazine retails for less than $25. I will give you $25. And 10 cents extra, for your trouble."

"Sorry, sir. That's not how it works," I said, a flush creeping up my neck. "It's $30. Take it, or leave it."

The old man's face collapsed into a frown, his cheeks slipping back, like pockets of wet sand forced into a deflated balloon. He hobbled towards me, looking pitiful and elderly. I regretted my rudeness.

"I will take it," said Mr Seth, "and leave you!" With that, Mr Seth snatched the magazine from my hands, leapt back into his house and slammed the door in my face.

For a second, I was too shocked to move. Then fury took hold. I shouted, and pounded on the oak door with the palms of both hands, rattling the glass panel: "Mr Seth. Give me my money."

"Why?" sang the old man through the door, his eyes cloaked. "You have done nothing to earn it."

"I got up at five, rode my bike four kilometres, walked six streets in freezing temperatures, and made a special trip to this ghost street just to deliver your stupid magazine. Now, if you don't want to pay for it, just give me back the magazine. Otherwise, give me the money!"

"Say please," tittered the old man. "What's in it for me!?"

"What's in it for you?!" I parroted, exasperated. "You've got the magazine. Now give me the money."

Silence. The old man's black eyes reappeared at the arched panels, sweeping from side to side like spotlights in a prison, through the stained glass.

"Please," I said. "Please, sir, just give me the money. I don't want trouble."

"Why do you need money?"

"That's my business".

"Then you don't get my coin to line your pockets."

"Fine," I said. The old man was clearly crazy and I would play his game if it got me out of the cold quickly. I grabbed my calculator out of my pocket and started hitting numbers. "The magazine retails for $25, as you've said. I get 15% of the cover price, which is $3.75. Mr Tangen charges $1.25 for special deliveries. That's $30."

The old man flicked up the mail slot beneath the glass pane. "$3.75 for you," he tutted. "You look too fat and spoiled to need $3.75. Are you going to waste it all on sweets and milkshakes, plumpy?"

"I'm not fat," I said, hotly. "I'm just wearing lots of clothes. Because it's freezing out here! I'm not spending a cent on myself. It's for my Mum. Her birthday."

"I see," said the old man. "If I'm not mistaken, her second birthday since your father left you both in the lurch. I can imagine why you want to buy her something nice to make up for such betrayal."

I wanted to kick in the door. Instead, I threw my calculator down on the doorstep as hard as I could. It shattered. "He didn't leave us, you old geezer. He was killed investigating criminals!"

"I know all about that" said the old man through the slot, suddenly serious. "I was there, in Hong Kong, you see. Your dad wasn't investigating criminals. Something much more interesting, believe me."

"I don't believe you," I said, and started to cry. Who was this old man? And why was he taunting me about Dad? "I know what I was told, and I trust the people who told me. You're just an evil, funny looking, smelly, geriatric, obnoxious, midget-man."

Mr Seth laughed and stuck out his tongue. "You are right about that, Paddy. I can't help the smell: it's called decrepitude, and that's not a perfume. But I'm right as well. I don't blame you for not trusting me. Yet. But believe me when I say I knew your father and he was much more than an accountant. Not that there's anything wrong with accountants, of course."

"Of course he - How do you know my name?" I asked, suddenly scared. My mind whirled through a cycle of random images: Mr Seth's silver and red tie, his large black pupils, the photo I'd seen of the mangled metal sculpture and its butterfly wi-. "You've been spying on me!"

It wasn't exactly a question, but he didn't deny it. It had been Mr Seth at the kitchen window flapping those puppet moth wings.

"I've been waiting for months for you to wake up to yourself. All this time squandered, moping up in your room, feeling sorry for yourself. Avoiding life by playing silly games and reading childish books. Worrying about what to wear, and who to impress. Crying yourself to sleep. This paper job is the first constructive thing you've done since you got here, and even it's still more about generating compliments for you than actually helping your mother."

"Not true," I said, weakly.

"At my most diplomatic," said Mr Seth, "I'm as subtle as a hammer in the face. But you didn't recognise any of the signs I planted. I shouldn't have to dance at your window in the dead of winter like some little match girl for you to wake up to yourself and look around. Your father would be disgusted at how self-centred you've become!"

Speechless and unbearably ashamed, I struggled to think of a retort.

"You're not alone, lad," he said, less harshly. "We all underestimated how bad things were getting. But we don't have much time. Our enemies are everywhere. Their plans for Quakehaven are advanced."

"The Barker Bandits?" I asked, dimly. "Are they coming back?"

"Those pipsqueaks!" snorted Mr Seth. "No Paddy, it's VERY unlikely to be those amateurs. It would take a mass resurrection to start with."

A bird screeched overhead, and the sun disappeared. Mr Seth pulled back from the door. "Paddy: This isn't the place for explanations. The skies have eyes."

"So do potatoes," I said. It was one of Dad's lame jokes. 'Get it?' he'd say and expect a standing ovation, even the second - or three-hundredth - time he told it!

"Just my luck," said Mr Seth. "Another comedian in the family! Forget the stand up act, get off your buttocks and explore your surrounds - start with the trunk in your Mum's room. See what you see."

"I'm leaving," I said, smarting from the old man's criticism. But my heart was pounding and I was more than intrigued.

"We need to talk," said Mr Seth. "Come tonight. I'll cook ribs and chips. Things boys like, from memory."

"You're a stranger," I said, automatically. "I am not coming into your house without Mum or Aunt Bea."

"Sensible boy," said Mr Seth. "Though let's leave the sisters out of it for now. The library, then. Is that public enough for you?" He didn't wait for a response. "Tomorrow at four. Be on time."

I said nothing, but nodded quickly and turned to leave. Like his Winking Wings, there was something about the old man's demeanour - his plain talking for a start - that made me want to trust him. There were probably hundreds of axe murder victims who'd fallen for the same trick!

"And Paddy," said Mr Seth.

"Yeah," I said, wiping unbidden tears from my ruddy cheeks.

The old man pushed five ten dollar notes through the mail slot: $50. I stooped down and took three. Then I walked over and retrieved Mr Tangen's walkie talkie. The Viking's voice bellow-twittered my name over and over from tinny speakers.

"Good boy," said the old man, as the remaining two notes were swallowed back under the door. "There's hope for us all yet."

## 4. TRUNK CALL

"I was so worried," said Mr Tangen, rubbing the palms of his massive, red hands on his thighs. "What took so long? Why didn't you answer me when I called you? Have you been crying?"

"No," I said, answering only Mr Tangen's last question. I looked up into Mr Tangen's disbelieving, bearded face. "Well, yes. I fell down. But I wasn't hurt, just surprised. I'm OK now."

"I don't know what I would have said to your Mother or Aunt if something happened to you on Blakes Road. What was I thinking?"

"I thought you said it was safe?" I said. Mr Tangen looked devastated.

"Was it that Seth?

I shook my head and took a swig of hot chocolate. "No. Nothing like that," I said. "He was perfectly normal."

"Really?" said Mr Tangen. He'd obviously met Mr Seth.

"Well, not normal," I conceded. "Kind of grumpy."

"Yes?"

"And direct."

Mr Tangen blanched, and he seized my arm causing me to slop chocolate milk. "You didn't go into his house, did you?"

"I'm not stupid. Mum would kill me if I set foot in a stranger's house."

"She wouldn't need to. I'd do it first." I didn't doubt the big man.

I skulled what was left of my chocolate and held Mr Tangen's unconvinced gaze.

"It's just, well; I didn't know what to think," said Mr Tangen. "Well, thank the North Star you're OK. Now: on your way. Band and basketball practice ended half an hour ago." He opened the clasp on the leather money pouch attached to his belt and pulled out 11 crumpled one dollar notes: what I was owed, plus a bonus dollar. "On your bike, Paddy," he said dismissing me. "Would be a shame to be caught out when you're so close to your target. See you Thursday. On time, if you please!"

###

It was about 9 o'clock when I got home. As I walked in the door, Katy screeched then stuck her beak under her wing as the cold wind whipped through the door, ruffling her feathers. "Sorry, Katy," I said closing the door behind me.

I walked to the kitchen. There was a blackboard stuck to the wall above the sink where we wrote each other messages. In my Aunt's loopy copperplate, was scrawled:

"Beltway Emergency Meeting. Back at lunchtime."

That probably meant she'd be back around four o'clock, when her voice wore out. Aunt Bea loved long meetings.

I'd almost forgotten about the dreaded Beltway. The Old Stump Highway skirted the north of town, and had served travellers for over a century. But it could no longer cope with the volume of cars. On Friday nights and Sunday afternoons, the road resembled a car park. The Government had decided to build a new freeway, called the Beltway. The only problem was that, as designed, it would bypass Quakehaven altogether. That meant fewer tourists and shoppers. The threat was so serious that, for the first time in history, Aunt Bea and Mr Barker actually agreed on something: the Beltway had to be stopped.

I had a glass of milk, then went into Mum's bedroom. Mum and Aunt Bea's father - my granddad, a doctor and explorer - added the room to the back of the main house after he'd picked up a bug in Singapore on one of his voyages. The room was bright, with three walls made entirely of double-glazed glass. The fourth wall, against the larder, was plastered.

In his final years, granddad's health had deteriorated and he installed a fireplace there to keep him warm. It was perhaps the only conservatory in existence with a red brick chimney!

Mum slept against the glass wall farthest from the fireplace in granddad's oversized teak day bed. The room was cluttered with exotic objects from granddad's travels: wicker chairs from England, Persian carpets from Iran and Pakistan, and two large porcelain pots cast in China, each containing a lemon tree that bore fruit year round.

Mum lay in the middle of the bed, her head propped up on a pile of white pillows, her eyes closed. In vain, I tried not to look at the large wooden trunk at the base of the bed, and busied myself straightening Mum's bedspread.

Scented candles and the hearth had been lit, most likely by my Aunt before she left for her meeting. The room smelled pleasantly of musky smoke and citrus. Mum breathed gently, seemingly at peace. Just what Doctor Vassel had ordered!

With one last glance at the trunk, I retreated from the room the way I'd come. As I stepped through the door, Mum's eyes flashed open and she sat bolt upright, her red locks bouncing up and down like rusty springs.

"Paddy," she said, and lowered her head back onto the pillow. "Stay awhile."

I walked over and sat down at the foot of her bed. "Hi Mum," I whispered. "Sorry to wake you." My eyes slipped back to the trunk.

"No, I'm sorry, Paddy," said Mum. "I don't know what happened. I was feeling as strong as an ox. Then this," she said, her voice wavering. "My poor baby! Have you had any breakfast?" She moved to sit up.

"Shh! Stay in bed," I said, gently rubbing Mum's hand through the covers. "I can make my own breakfast. And Aunt Bea has everything under control. Including me!"

Mum laughed. "She's a good lady, your Aunt. I don't know where we'd be without her."

"We'd be fine," I said.

"I don't know what's happening to me, Paddy, but I promise you I'll pull through this and be back to look after you as soon as I can." She smiled and tapped the mattress: "Get in."

I grinned and wiggled up the bed, kicking off my shoes. Under the quilt I dove, my head ending up next to Mum's.

"How was band practice?" she asked.

"Fine," I said, scrunching my eyes shut and rubbing my hands together to hide the white-lie.

"You're half-frozen!"

"Yeah," I mumbled, digging myself in deeper. "Ms Crabshank made us do marching practice."

"Silly woman! I'll be astounded if none of you catches the flu. Even with the fire, I'm cold! I'll pay her a visit as soon as I can. My baby shouldn't be marching in the dead of Winter!"

"No need," I said quickly, almost stumbling over my words. "It was voluntary. I wanted to practice my turns. French horns usually play the offbeat, so turning isn't easy. But Ms Crabshank didn't force me to practice outside."

Mum nodded, apparently satisfied. "Beatrice told me about the party. Poor Mark! What a horrible thing to happen to him on his birthday."

"Yeah," I said, relieved she'd changed the topic. "Can't say I felt too sorry for him. He kind of deserved it."

"Why?" asked Mum, blinking slowly, her body rigid and thin. I told her about the party, including the games and Mark's shoddy treatment of Joke and Tim's injury.

"Poor Joke!" said Mum. "What was Annette thinking! Kids are so cruel sometimes."

"That's pretty much what Mr Fisk said."

"He's spot on in this case. Why didn't you say something to stop it? Joke's your best friend."

"Was my best friend," I said. Mum groaned and shook her head. I propped up on my elbow: "I did say something. I mean I tried. But it's hard to say no to Mark. He's so - so persuasive. I'm his friend now, and it was his party. I had to be loyal to the host! He has all this cool stuff. And his father practically owns everyone. Aunt Bea says -"

"Stop it, Paddy," said Mum, opening her eyes, her face an approaching storm. "No-one owns anyone. Doesn't matter how much money they have, or how many toys. Stuff is just stuff."

"Well I wouldn't mind some stuff for a change!" I said, then instantly regretted it. Mum closed her eyes, wounded.

"I know things are tough at the moment, Paddy. But your father's insurance should come through soon. And we've got the important stuff: a roof over our heads and family. Your Aunt didn't need to take us in, but she loves us. You know that. You also know that you should have helped Joke, even if that made you unpopular. You should stand up for your friends."

"He's not my friend," I said. "We haven't been friends for ages. He's so embarrassing, with his books and quizzes and his squeaky voice and -"

"I don't believe what I'm hearing," Mum said, thumping the mattress with both palms. "When we first came to Quakehaven, Joke was the only boy in your class that would talk to you. Do you remember?"

"That's just because no-one else would talk to him," I said. "I mean, he's so weird. He doesn't care what people say about him, even when he's dressed like a pumpkin - you should have seen him waddling up Mark's driveway. Even Mr Fisk was embarrassed. I tried to warn Joke, but he wouldn't go home to change. He studies all the time and talks on and on about Pinkerton University and becoming an archaeologist. I mean, he needs to come back to Planet Earth. He's just crazy."

"Like me?" whispered Mum. "As crazy as your mother?"

"That's not what I meant," I said, horrified by the clumsy words that kept tumbling from my mouth. "You're not crazy, you're sick. Joke's different. He just refuses to -"

"He refuses to be like everyone else, right?" said Mum. "Just like me. Or your Dad for that matter. So just because Joke doesn't let others tell him what to do - doesn't follow the popular kids around like a lonely puppy - and, God forbid, works hard to get what he wants out of life, he's a outcast, is he? Someone you are too cool to be seen with?"

"Yes, I mean no, of course not," I said. "You don't understand. It's just that -"

"I'm disappointed, Paddy. I thought Dad and I raised you better than that. Your father would not have been half the man he was if he spent his time trying to be like everyone else. If he didn't fight against the tide for what was right. You think your Dad cared what people thought about him?"

Tears welled in my eyes, and I rolled over, away from Mum. "I'm sorry," I said. "I don't know what I mean. And why I didn't..."

"It's confusing," said Mum, turning onto her side and raking my back gently with the tips of her fingernails. "Life's like that. I'm not telling you who your friends should be. You have to decide that for yourself. But you're different, too, Paddy, and I don't want you to feel you ever have to hide who you are because you're worried about what Mark, me or anyone else might think. You're stronger than that, I know. And I love you for it. My baby! Don't compromise who you are just to fit it."

"Thanks, Mum," I said. "I'll make you proud."

"I'm already proud, Paddy. You're my little boy," she said.

I flipped over and kissed her cheek. "Not so little anymore," I said. We hugged a while, and I nearly fell asleep in her arms. Then Mum sharply inhaled and turned onto her back.

"I'm a bit tired, Paddy. I might have a small nap, if that's OK?"

"Of course," I said. "Go to sleep." I rolled out of bed, and put on my shoes. Rain drops splashed against the glass walls, like tears. I lowered the wooden plantation shutters, and blew out the candles. As I poured Mum a fresh glass of water from the blue china pitcher on the dressing table next to her bed, I glanced again at the trunk. I couldn't help it. _Explore your surrounds - start with the trunk in your Mum's room. See what you see._ Mr Seth's words had been paddling through the backwaters of my brain since I'd cycled home from the newsagency.

I crept to the end of the bed to examine the trunk. On the carpet in front of the trunk, lay an orange and white exercise book splayed open on its face, like a half-read novel. My name was inscribed in blue ink on the cover in Mum's neat cursive script. I lent over to study it, and Mum stirred.

"What this?" I muttered to myself, picking up the book and rotating it.

Mum's eyes fluttered open. "It's for you. Thought you might need it. For your maths test tomorrow, and other things." Her eyes closed again, and she started, almost daintily, to snore.

It was my turn to wince. My stomach was knotted like a nautical rope. In the excitement of the last couple of days, I'd completely forgotten the test!

###

I made myself some honeyed oats and listened to dance music on the kitchen radio for a while. Then I read one of Uncle Gerry's few science fiction novels in the reading room. As best I could tell - the writing was very old fashioned - it was about a psychic detective framing a robot for a murder on a space station. A chapter after the robot turned the tables and murdered the detective, I got bored and must have dozed. By the time I woke up, Aunt Bea was home and had baked a beef pie for lunch!

I hoped that Mum would wake up for lunch, and give me the opportunity to look at the trunk while she ate. But Mum slept and slept.

Eventually, after I'd done the dishes, walked down to the corner shop for some milk, mopped the kitchen floor and run out of other chores and excuses, I trudged upstairs with my exercise book. Back in my bedroom, I pulled my chair over to the card table and sat down to study.

Almost instantly, my eyes glazed over. Numbers didn't come to me easily. Ask me to write a story, or give a speech at assembly and I was your man. Ask me to count backwards from 100 by threes and I stammer like Dr Vassel. I can't see patterns in numbers like Dad did. I think that's one reason he was so good at his job; he could detect anomalies, breaks in sequences of numbers that hinted at lies.

Distracted by the wad of notes in my back pocket, I flopped onto the floor, crawled under the card table, reached behind the bronze floor safe and retrieved my moneybox. It was a gift from Dad: originally a soft drink bottle from the 1950s, it was shaped like a rocket, and was cast from amber glass with an inverted taper lip wide enough to swallow coins. Dad had cut a hole in the bottom and fitted a black rubber plug fashioned from a squash ball. The bottle's label showed the appalled faces of three faded aliens standing on the bridge of their ship, aghast as a nuke blew up Earth. As I stuffed the 11 notes through the bottle's neck, I wondered how a nuclear holocaust was meant to tempt people to drink cola - I guess you wouldn't have to worry about the calories!

I backed out from under the table and resumed the appearance of study. Unlike me, Dad was great at maths. Give him two numbers - any numbers - and he could add, subtract, divide and multiply them in a matter of seconds. He was like the Amazing Human Calculator!

My calculator!

I'd smashed it to smithereens on Mr Seth's doorstep! I'd have to ask Mrs Dixon to lend me hers for the test.

Without the calculator, I struggled even more than usual through a practice test. But it wouldn't have mattered if I'd had a supercomputer. I couldn't get Mr Seth's strange words out of my head. They flittered and echoed like bats in a cave, distracting me from algebra and long division. _Your dad wasn't investigating criminals_. Me Seth had said. _Something much more interesting_.

What could be more interesting than hunting down criminals? I shook my head and tried to refocus on a quadratic equation. I'd read far too many adventure stories. Maybe Mr Seth was talking a load of rot. Except for maths, I wasn't a total idiot. Yet Mr Seth had said he could prove it. Had almost challenged me to test him by looking under the trunk in Mum's room.

How did he even know about the trunk? I'd barely noticed it until he'd mentioned it, and I'd lived in Sub Rosa for over a year! How could I concentrate on maths with questions about Dad base-jumping inside my skull?

I gritted my teeth and dug in. My head in my hands, I propped my eyes open with my fingers and tried to absorb the contents of my text book. The numbers blurred and bled into each other, a fuzzy maze of obscure symbols that suddenly made no sense, like the Arabic script of Mr Seth's magazine. At one stage, I must have fallen asleep at my desk.

When I woke up it was dark. Pins and needles shot up my legs as I stood up, my chair scraping against the floorboards like a pair of pivoting basketball shoes. I bent over and flung the textbook onto my bed.

I pulled on my fur lined slippers and skated across my room, pausing to inspect the cold plate of meatloaf in the shadows of the landing. My Aunt must have put it there, not wanting to disturb my studies!

I descended the stairs, noting Aunt Bea's door was closed. Down the hall I walked, careful not to make big movements that would alert Katy to my presence. I turned into the dining room and paused outside the conservatory door. The door was on tracks, and I slid it open. I stuck my head into the room and stifled a cough. Mum lay on her back, still asleep.

Like a cat burglar prowling for diamonds, I slunk into Mum's room and hunkered down next to the trunk. The trunk was as long and almost as tall as Mum's bed but quite narrow. It sat atop a red, blue and gold prayer rug granddad had carted back from Syria. All the blinds were locked shut, except on the back wall, which had been half-opened to let in the air.

My eyes adjusted slowly to the relative gloom. Squatting next to the trunk, I saw faint markings. Bathed in moonlight, however, the markings revealed a pattern.

Outlined on the front of the trunk was the unmistakable image of a rounded face, with two large oval eyes the colour of dirty quartz glowering over a flat, broad nose. Two rows of tiny grey teeth embossed a raised strip between pebble studded lips and a mono-brow zig-zagged across the face's furrowed brow like an eroded range of hilltops. On either side of the face, palms of a ghostly hand signalled 'stop'. Each was pocked with a single black hole, like an unhealed spear-wound. The figure seemed to beckon and to ward off: an invitation and a warning.

The moon disappeared and the face and hands vanished into the grain of the wood. Nervously, I tugged at the frayed ends of the prayer rug. The rug slid easily to reveal a blue-black patch of wood - a trapdoor - more coarse than the glossy red floorboards around it.

I walked around the trunk. Kneeling on the patch, I scrabbled around its edges. At the corner of the square furthest from me, my fingernails snagged on a thin wire wedged between two boards. Gently, I scooped under the wire and pulled up. The loop of wire snapped tautly, and then twisted like a combination lock.

Two thin wooden latches popped up with a loud click, and a whiff of old lacquer. I glanced up at Mum. She continued to sleep. I sat down and, with both hands, heaved at the latches. The patch of wood loosened easily. I fell back clunking my head for the second time in three days! Like a Buddhist monk at prayer, I rolled back into a sitting position, then carefully swung my legs to the side. I lent forward, and peered down into the dark void where the patch had come from.

Although the moon was still smothered, a sickly green light flickered faintly from the hole, revealing a silver ladder. As if sensing me, the light darkened, staining my hands an eerie blue. Something black and wispy wobbled and spun up the ladder rungs. It was impossibly quick and coming straight for me!

I lurched sidewards and the thing leapt out of the hole and vaulted over my shoulder. It was a huge rat, almost the size of a rabbit!

I stifled a scream, as the rat skittered into the dining room. I prayed that it would run right out of the house before Aunt Bea saw it. I prayed even harder that King Rat had no friends or family down there. Because Mr Seth was right: despite my fear, I had to go down the hole to see what I could see!

I lowered my legs into the hole, swinging them from side to side until my feet found purchase on the second top ladder rung. Lowering myself down, a rung at a time, I eased my grip until my chest, then head followed my legs into the mysterious blue abyss below.

Looking down was not an option. I closed my eyes and clamoured down the ladder until my right foot, then left, sank into the soft, spongy ground at the ladder's base. It was cold inside the hole, but warmer than the street. The place was musty and stunk of cat wee and rotting food. It was fairly quiet, and I could hear trickling water close by.

Of course, I hadn't expected a secret trap door when I set out to inspect the trunk, so I was unprepared, with no torch or proper shoes. My soft, woolly slippers were sodden. With trepidation, I crept forward triggering a row of red-brown dot-lights on the floor, like the emergency lights on an aeroplane. They revealed a short tunnel, maybe 10 metres long, leading to what looked like a cave.

As I padded carefully down the tunnel, the red-brown lights faded. A strange silver-blue seep-glowed from swathes of moss that carpeted the smooth, stone walls, like stubble dipped in bioluminescent paint.

At the end of the tunnel, against a smooth stone wall, sat another trunk. It was similar to the one at the end of Mum's bed, though much smaller. An ochre oval had been painted onto its lid. Unlike its bigger brother upstairs, the trunk had no eyes, teeth or nose, but elephantine ears drooped off each side, and its fat, pursed lips described an almost perfect 'O'. I shivered, half-hoping it too was filled with sheets and towels. But I doubted it: why would Mr Seth go to the trouble of helping me discover a trove of linen?

Despite my thumping heart and dry, cottony mouth, something felt oddly familiar. Like I'd seen it before. Nothing seemed connected to the real world of Mum, Aunt Bea or Sub Rosa, even though they were only a ladder climb away. For a moment, I wondered if I'd fallen asleep in Mr Tangen's shop after drinking my hot chocolate. Perhaps, none of it was real.

My toe smashed into a loose shard of boulder, and I yelped with pain. This was no dream! I hopped the rest of the way over to the trunk then paused, unsure. Curiosity and fear fought each other for a few seconds: a battle between head and gut. I thought of Dad, and curiosity won. I flung open the lid and looked in.

Books. Boring, musty books that looked like they were from the 1970s, or even earlier. Financial Models for the 20th Century, Micro-computers and the Future of Management Information Systems, Business Strategy for the Electronic Age. One at a time, I threw them onto the floor, looking for something more interesting. But it was just a jumble of old dusty junk! Floral sweaters that looked like something you'd wear to Dress-as-a-Hippy Day, a scuffed up football trophy on a cracked granite base with no plate. What looked suspiciously like a kaftan. A faded red and blue baseball cap. A brown leather suitcase with a broken clasp. An array of used fishing tackle. Utterly mundane rubbish.

I sighed. Mr Seth had played a practical joke on me. A good one too: I was in a stinky, cold wet hole in the middle of the night. There were better things to do, like maths study or even sleep!

Just as I was about to throw everything back into the trunk and leave, I found a shrivelled scroll scrunched up at the back of the trunk, under a broken badminton racquet. "Probably a shopping list," I said to myself, as I unfurled its crumbling paper and held it up to the moss-light.

Everything changed!

Dad's accounting degree. That meant everything in the trunk was probably his - Dad's old stuff from his university days! My arms and legs jangled. When Mum and I had left the City with Aunt Bea to come to Quakehaven, we travelled light. To tell the truth, I'd been happy to leave all the old personal stuff behind. But as time passed, it was harder to remember Dad clearly - even harder with nothing more than a couple of old photos, movie posters and my moneybox to keep the memories fresh, and solid and real. Mum had been far too sick to deal with Dad's detritus, but maybe Aunt Bea had picked it up and, for some reason, decided to store it down there. Now I had a whole trunk of Dad's stuff. My rightful inheritance!

I smiled at the thought and grabbed one of Dad's old sweater vests. Like many of his clothes, it was hideous. The pattern looked like someone had put a rope of Christmas tree lights and a jar of chillies into a blender for 10 minutes, then knitted the results. I pulled it over my head. It smelled just like him, but mixed with mothballs and a light hint of coconut and talcum powder. The most wonderful smell in the world!

It was like Dad had enfolded me in his arms. Then my tingling hands started to shake. My brain kicked into gear. What was the trunk doing down here, hidden away, like a dirty secret someone didn't want found? And what was so important about this stuff that Mr Seth had gone out of his way to tip me off about it? How did he even know it was here? Had he planted it? Had I just stepped into a trap?

The more I thought about it, the less sense it all made. That's when I noticed the lights. While I'd being savouring the scent of the sweater vest, the moss-light had perished and the red-brown aeroplane emergency lights had re-ignited. They now pulsed a deep-orange purple. With each flash, my shadow appeared to convulse, draped as if wounded over the open trunk. With each strobe, my shadow's shape changed minutely, looking less and less like me each time, like a photocopy of a photocopy.

My head started to spin, and the almost painful tingles in my hands lanced up my arms, into my chest and swirled around my burning neck like a feral string of pearls. A deep, familiar cackle reverberated through the tunnel from the top of the ladder and my shadow quailed and trembled, hugging the blue-bearded walls.

Groggy, and too slow to react, I lumbered back down the tunnel. I tried to scale the ladder, but the rungs were barbed wire and sliced through my slippers like shears. The hole in the floor above closed with a fearsome bang and, for the first time, I realised whatever was up there was a foot from Mum's bed! The emergency lights flashed thrice - white, blue, then sickly green. Then they died.

I was alone in the dark.

## 5. TESTING TIMES

I awoke with a start. Someone was banging on my door, like an incensed bongo player locked out of her apartment.

"Patrick Lee! Wake up this instant!" It was Aunt Bea. She bludgeoned the door again. I half-expected it to splinter off its hinges: "Do you even know what time it is?"

I didn't have a clue. I didn't even know what day it was. The last thing I remembered was the barbed-ladder, and the trap door sliding shut with a bang. And that cackle as the lights went out. In Mum's room.

"Mum!" I cried, sitting bolt upright, my throat in my mouth.

"No," said Aunt Bea, rapping her knuckles, like she was conveying urgent orders in Morse Code. "Guess again."

"Is Mum all right?"

The rapping stopped. "Of course she is," said Aunt Bea. "I just dropped her at Doc Vassel's clinic. He's doing some more tests today."

I lay back down on the bed, and glanced over at my alarm clock, which hadn't gone off. 8.00 a.m. Eight in the morning. Monday morning. School started in thirty minutes!

"No more of the silent treatment, boy!" whispered Aunt Bea through the door. I recognised her tone: it was the one she used on City people who asked her directions for another town. The voice she used just before launching into lectures. "You spend too much time cooped up in your room, boy. It isn't healthy. I shouldn't have listened to your mother and let you eat dinner up here last night, studying or not."

Dinner last night? I looked around. A tray of half-eaten food - the remnants of the meatloaf - lay on top of the silver floor safe. I couldn't remember eating! It was like I'd been sleepwalking again, but with no memory at all of what I'd done or said (or not said).

I jumped out of bed and winced. Pain shot from the heel of my right foot, up the back of my leg. My head throbbed. Perhaps I'd slipped and blacked out after my paper run. But my reflection in the mirror on the back of my door told a different story. My pyjama arms stuck out of an ugly jumper. Dad's Christmas-light-chilli sweater vest! I'd even worn my slippers to bed. The sheets were filthy and caked in mud and worse from the tunnel's floor. Gently, I stepped out of the soiled slippers and swaddled them in my dirty blankets and sheets, throwing the filthy bundle into the wicker basket at the end of my bed. Just in time!

Aunt Bea barrelled into the room. The door flew open with such force that it almost caught my Aunt square in her round face on the rebound. Quicker than she looked, Aunt Bea jumped back, just evading the doorknob. Her horn-rimmed glasses sailed off her nose and bounced into her chest, tethered to the chain around her neck. "What are you doing in here, boy?" she demanded, as if expecting to catch me red-handed in the midst of a crime.

"I'm sick," I cried out, throwing in a couple of fake coughs for emphasis.

"I wasn't born yesterday," said Aunt Bea, squinting myopically. "Your Mum told me about the test. It's normal to be nervous. Shows you're ready to perform."

Perform? The maths test was this morning!

Aunt Bea shook her head with disapproval and went over to my desk to pick up the dinner tray. "Come on, boy," said Aunt Bea. "Why are you wearing that ridiculous outfit? Come on. Do you need me to help you?"

"No!" I shouted, pulling the sweater vest over my head and tossing it into the clothes-basket. Aunt Bea smiled and walked out of the room with the tray, like a flight attendant.

"Two minutes, downstairs," she said. "Or I'll come back and dress you myself."

I kicked off my slippers, looking around wildly for a clean school uniform. "I'll be there in one minute. Start the ca-."

The words died on my tongue as I saw it. Atop the faded green card table, between the silver and bronze floor safes, lay a tiny model of Mum's trunk. The window behind it was open and the curtains flapped in the wind like the headless ghosts of two dancing nuns.

It might have been a trick of light or perspective, but as I edged closer, the trunk seemed to flatten out and darken. Carefully, I picked it up and flipped open its lid. A calculator! But not like any I'd seen before: heavier and less 'plasticky'. I turned it on and bashed in a few numbers on its faded orange keypad. It worked, though it seemed a little sluggish. I toggled it off, and closed the lid.

Before I could inspect the primitive workmanship further, Aunt Bea rapped on the door again. I jerked my hands away, nearly dropping the calculator.

"Quick sticks, boy," she said in her dangerous, quiet voice. "I've got a meeting in town today. I can drop you now or never. Scramble."

I tossed the calculator, a couple of pens and my new orange and white exercise book into my school bag. Then I grabbed a school shirt and trousers out of the closet and ran out of my bedroom, discarding my old clothes as I followed my impatient Aunt out to the car.

###

Red faced and sweaty, I ran into class puffing from the three flights of stairs I had hiked up to get to my classroom. I was ten minutes late.

"Good afternoon," said Mrs Dixon. She cradled a bundle of paper to her chest with her puffy, be-jacketed arms. From the way no-one looked at her, I could tell my teacher was nursing the test papers. "Nice of you to join us. Finally."

Some kids at the back broke into snuffling giggles. I mumbled an apology and I plonked myself down at my desk in the middle of the L-R quadrant at the back left of the cavernous, freezing classroom.

Mrs Dixon was the youngest teacher at the school - in her mid-twenties at most - and had started at Quakehaven Public a few months before I arrived. Her husband, Quakehaven's sole subscriber to _Yarn Yarns_ , was much older and had decided to retire from the army to live in his late parents' house in the North of town.

Before Quakehaven, both Dixons had lived in Guam, where Mr Dixon's unit was stationed. Mrs Dixon, a trained biologist as well as teacher, had studied the life cycle of tropical mosquitoes for an American university. She had yet to acclimatise to Quakehaven Winters. Although as thin as a sparrow, she resembled a large, pink tennis ball swathed in layers of felt and furry coats and cardigans. Her nose, always running, would not have looked out of place on a clown.

"OK, class," Mrs Dixon said, her voice muffled under a fluffy white scarf. "Now that Master Lee has graced us with his presence, the test will begin in a few minutes. Everyone, close your eyes and take a few deep breaths while I get organised. There's no need to be worried - if you've studied, that is."

Most of us shifted nervously in our seats, tense with pre-exam jitters or guilty at our lack of preparation, or both. Joke, who was neither nervous nor ill-prepared, squeak-tittered uproariously as if Mrs Dixon had uttered the world's most fabulous joke. Mrs Dixon smiled at her favourite student indulgently.

Despite always assigning us tonnes of homework, I liked Mrs Dixon. She was an outsider, like me. Sure, she had a few odd quirks, like seating her class in alphabetical quadrants, but letting us sit wherever we wanted within them. Sometimes, she'd burst into laughter when Mark or Nicky made a rude joke in the troublesome L-R quadrant, or start sobbing when reciting sad poems to the class. She didn't hide her feelings. And she really cared about us, even the bad kids in the S-Z quadrant, in the back right corner of the classroom.

Unzipping my school bag, I pulled out some stumpy, chewed-up lead pencils, the orange and white exercise book from Mum, and my brand new calculator; and arranged them on the table. I opened the exercise book to a fresh page and gasped: instead of normal white pages with faint red or blue lines, the pages were dusty pink, embossed with love-hearts and wide-eyed portraits of manga lambs gamboling around the floral borders! I flicked the book open to its middle pages and recoiled. A plump baby unicorn reared before a bejeweled blonde princess clad in a white, diaphanous gown. On closer inspection, the unicorn appeared to be knighting the princess with the tip of his rainbow-hued horn while a court of silky white rabbits applauded. Horrified, I flipped back to the slightly less girlish lamb page. What was Mum thinking!

"What a pretty book, Patrick," cooed Mrs Dixon, smiling and sniffling simultaneously as she placed the grey exam paper onto my desk. "No extra points for the cute animals, though, I'm afraid."

I blushed and closed my eyes. There was no way my short study session would be enough, especially since I'd spent most of it pondering Mr Seth and the trunk. Then someone thumped me on the shoulders. Hard!

"Hey Paddy-fields!" whispered a familiar voice close behind me. It was Mark. "Grand entrance this morning. And, my, my, what a pretty book," he sniffled, mimicking Mrs Dixon. "You auditioning for teacher's pet? I thought pumpkin-patch had that all sown up!"

"Shut up, Mark," I whispered back, keeping my eyes closed, my head facing forward.

"Why don't you ask her out on a date, or are you worried that Mr Dixon might mow you down with his AK47? Or even worse, stick you with his knitting needles!"

Next to me on the edges of the S-Z quadrant, sat Tim Kroker, almost too big for his desk. He leant over, trespassing into L-R territory, and guffawed. "Mr Dixon would stitch you right up!"

It was actually a pretty good line for someone who'd repeated the year twice. But I almost missed the joke as his foul breath, like a mix of old sneakers and burnt hair, buffeted my nostrils. "Less jokes, Tim," I complained, waving my hand in front of my nose to ward off the stench, "more breath mints." The stink was so strong, even Aaron Alexander would be able to smell it all the way at the front left side of the A-F quadrant.

Tim cursed at me and pulled back into his own territory. He raised his left, bandaged hand to his shoulder and, for a moment I feared he was winding up to punch me.

Then Mark did it for him, whacking me on the ridge of my shoulder blade, even harder than before. "Where's my present, Paddy?"

"What are you talking about?" I said, dragging my chair around on two legs to face Mark.

"My present, remember. For my birthday."

"How could I forget," I said smirking. "An event we'll all remember for a lifetime." From the front row of our section, Nicky turned around and smiled, her straight white teeth contrasting pleasantly with her freckled face.

"Shut up," scowled Mark, sticking his tongue out at Nicky. "I'm waiting for my present."

"Look," I said, trying to sound reasonable. "We've been through this before. The invitation clearly said 'no presents'. You already have everything you need from your dad."

"It's not want I need, Paddy. It's what I want. And my _true_ friends, like Timbo, got me a present. Well, his mum did, anyway. To make up for the complete hash she made of my event."

I glanced over to Tim, expecting him to react to Mark's sledge. But his eyes were riveted to his test paper, like the grey paper was hiding the mysteries of the universe.

Mark scraped his chair forward under his desk, almost within kicking distance. "You owe me compensation, Paddy."

"What?" I asked, planting my feet on the ground in case I had to push back in a hurry.

"Pain and suffering," he said. "Nervous shock from exposure to poverty. From your thieving, pumpkin side-kick. I think I'm allergic to it."

"He's not a thief, Mark," I said. "And he's not my sidekick."

"You might be right," said Mark, suddenly smiling, his famed dimples re-pocking his cheeks like buttons on a sofa cushion. "Though I guess I could let you make it up to me now."

"What?" I said, confused by the sudden appearance of 'good Mark'. "How?"

"Let me copy your answers. I was too busy slaying Kraken with Ninja-pirates to study for the test.

"Kraken?" I asked, confused. "I thought the game was about dragons?"

"Only on the basic levels," smiled Mark. "I could let you watch me play in Kraken-mode later if you share your answers."

"No," I said, silently thinking that the last thing Mark wanted to do was copy me on the maths test! "We'll get busted."

"We'll get busted," parroted Tim, attempting a girly soprano, but failing miserably. Tim's voice half-broke last year, and he sounded like a hyena gargling gravel.

"You'll get busted if you don't let me," said Mark, his smile fading like over-washed jeans. He smacked his fist into his hand. "But not by Dixon."

Tim drew his index finger across his throat and laughed, a little too loudly.

"Enough, boys," said Mrs Dixon. She'd finished handing out test papers to the H-K section and was waddling back to her desk at the front of the classroom. "Eyes front, Patrick," she said, her words muffled by a mouthful of wool. She spat out her scarf and continued: "Test conditions start now. No more speaking. Everyone, if you haven't yet done so, turn off your mobile phones and put them in your bags. You're allowed to have two pencils on your desk, a ruler, an eraser, a work book and your calculator. This test has a duration of 45 minutes. No-one will leave until I have collected all the papers. Any questions?"

Apart from the shuffling of feet and the sound of mobile phones being switched off and zipped into bags, the class was silent.

"Good luck to you all," said Mrs Dixon. "You may now begin."

###

I turned over the paper and whizzed through the first few questions. Even though I'd missed the final cramming session wandering through a subterranean tunnel, some of the homework Mum had made me do over the last few weeks was paying off. I turned the page and started to study the next problem: "If (a) Jenny is twice as old as Peter; (b) Peter is one third as old as Mary; and (c) Mary is 35, how old is Jenny?"

I scribbled workings into my exercise book, wedging my workings between lambs. If Jenny = J, then Peter = 1/2 J; and Mary = 3(1/2J) = 35. 1.5J = 35. J = 23.33. Jenny is 23 and 1/3. I moved on to the next question.

"Hey - why'd you turn it over so fast," whispered Mark from behind me. "I didn't catch the last answer. What is it?"

I ignored Mark, and focussed on the test.

"Move a bit to the right, Paddy. I can't see your answers."

Although Mark was a mate, he was becoming a pain in the neck. I struggled to concentrate, and time was leaking away. With a squeak, I dragged my chair to the left and covered my answers with my hand, lowering my head closer to the desk to block snoopers access.

"Hey," muttered Tim. "What are you doing? Show Mark your book. He needs the answers." I shot Tim a dirty look and nearly dropped my pencil. Tim hadn't even opened his test paper, and was staring blankly at the cover page. He was unusually pale - even for him - and his brow was armed with a cache of sweat-bullets. Was he sick?

"Paddy. Don't make me make you," hissed Mark.

"Get lost, Mark," I said. "You're not copying off me."

Like a pink slipper thrown at my head, Mrs Dixon suddenly loomed. "Can I hear talking?" she asked, not really asking.

"No ma'am," said Mark and I in unison.

"Good, Paddy. Because if I did, I would have to fail you," she said sternly.

Typical Mark, I thought. Gets everyone else in trouble, but let off scott free. Half the teachers, including Mrs Dixon thought he was some sort of prodigy. Mark was very smart. But the other half - the half who'd been around long enough to see Mark's dark side - were too scared to touch him. Mr Walker had once put Mark on detention for deliberately tripping up a team mate during basketball practice. According to Mr Fisk, Mr Barker had made a call to the principal, Mr Lyons, and Mr Walker had quietly rescinded Mark's punishment, instead inflicting it on the kid who Mark tripped. For provoking Mark! It helped that Mr Barker was both the president of the P&C and the largest benefactor of the school.

I looked at the clock above the blackboard. This was no time to rail against favouritism! Time was running away from me. I refocused on the problem, punching the heavy buttons on my calculator. My best guess at the answer flashed up on the screen. But before I could transcribe it onto the test paper, I heard splintering wood and felt the chair go out from under me. Mark had kicked out one of my chair legs.

I went down like a sack of spuds, upturning my desk as the chair collapsed. I landed heavily on my left arm, winding myself. My test paper, book and calculator flew up in the air and scattered. The class erupted, the excitement shattering the tense silence of test conditions.

"What is the meaning of this, Paddy?" hollered Mrs Dixon over the din, flapping her arms up and down and she strode toward me. "I've had about enough of your -"

She stopped mid-sentence. She must have seen the broken chair leg and me in a heap on my back, struggling for breath. "Oh Paddy! You OK?"

"Yeah," I gasped. "But can I go to the bathroom? To clean up."

"Of course," soothed Mrs Dixon squatting down beside me. She was close enough to see I was on the edge of tears. "Do you want me to help you?"

"Help him go to the bathroom, miss?" asked Mark, feigning innocence. "Doesn't he know how to do that himself?"

The whole class roared with laughter, and I felt tears leak from the corners of my eyes.

"Silence, Mark!" shouted Mrs Dixon, standing up to shield me from the class, like a pink, planetary eclipse. "We don't need any smart words from you. You'll stay back after the test and write the class an apology for making stupid comments when you should have been helping your classmate."

Everyone gasped and Mark's face reddened, then blanched with obvious fury. Mrs Dixon looked surprised at herself. No-one spoke to Mark like that. No-one.

Mrs Dixon ignored Mark's glare, helped me to my feet and led me to the door. "Off you go," she whispered, opening it. "Take your time, I'll add twenty minutes to your finish time. Sure you're OK?"

I nodded, immensely grateful to my teacher for saving me the embarrassment of bawling in front of the class, and went out in to the hall. My wounded feet hurt. "Everyone else, back to the test," cried Mrs Dixon. She winked at me and closed the door behind her.

Composed, I trudged down the hall and into the bathroom. The fall had come as quite a shock. My arm was OK, just jarred, and I didn't feel like crying anymore. Mrs Dixon had saved my day shouting at Mark. He'd probably had a bigger shock than me! He wouldn't be happy about being told off, especially after his birthday fiasco. Mr Lyons would probably get another call from Mr Barker sometime soon! I hoped Mrs Dixon wouldn't land in trouble for shouting at the brat.

I poured cold water into the long, silver sink-trough, then cupped some and splashed my face with it. There'd be time to think about Mark later. Stranger things were going on in my life than his weird idea of blind loyalty as friendship. Mark's tantrums seemed trivial compared to what Mr Seth had told me about Dad and the discovery of Dad's trunk right where Mr Seth had told me to look. But, first things first, I needed to re-focus and get through the test.

My train of thought was derailed suddenly by a blood-curdling scream! Ours was the only classroom on the school's third floor, so it didn't take me long to guess from where the scream had come.

I bolted back down the hall, ignoring the pain in my feet, threw open the door and ran into the classroom, smashing head first into a bull-rush of kids stampeding the other way, desperate to get out. Tables and chairs had been overturned and Mrs Dixon was hunched over a small figure in the L-R section, wrapping her pink-felt jacket around it. The whole place reeked of blue cheese and petrol fumes.

"What happened?" I shouted, but Mrs Dixon ignored me, desperately bandaging her stricken patient with her white scarf like a war time nurse. I raced over and recognised the figure: Mark. He was sob-wailing, his voice hoarse from screaming earlier. I pivoted around Mrs Dixon and kneeled down at Mark's head. His right arm had been torn open in several places and bright gouts of blood still jetted from the wounds like dirty water from a bubbler, despite Mrs Dixon's best efforts to staunch the flow with pressure.

"There, there Mark," sang Mrs Dixon, struggling to stay calm. "The ambulance is on its way. And so's your father's secretary."

Mark's eyes rolled up into his head and he lapsed into unconsciousness.

"What happened?" I asked the teacher.

"Paddy, please go outside with the others," said Mrs Dixon. "I need to focus on Mark right now."

I nodded. She was right. There'd be time for questions later. I gathered my exercise book and pencils and stashed them into my bag, which I found beneath my upturned desk. As I turned to leave, Mrs Dixon muttered, seemingly half to herself. "Animal. Must have been feral to have caused so much damage. So fast. Didn't see it."

I walked over to the exit. "I did," whispered Joke, stepping out from behind the door.

I jumped back with a jolt. "You scared me," I said.

"Sorry," Joke replied. "But I saw what did this to Mark."

"What? What was it? You have to tell Mrs Dixon. So she can tell Doc Vass-"

Joke shook his head and looked down. "No-one will believe me. I barely do," he said, soccering my too-heavy calculator into the hall with the side of his foot, the closest thing to sport I had ever seen Joke perform. The calculator skidded away from us. We chased and caught it.

The case was slick with smeared blood. "I saw Mark," said Joke quietly. "Your book flew into the H-K section when Mark kicked out your chair. He was copying your answers while you were in the bathroom. I was going to dob on him. But then it changed."

"What?" I asked. "What changed?" Joke was making no sense.

"That thing," he said nodding at the calculator. "It sunk its spurs into Mark's arm and twisted them around. It looked like it was enjoying itself. It was wallowing in Mark's flesh!"

I stooped down, scooped up the calculator, and wiped it on my school trousers. Joke snatched the black case out of my hands and threw it into my open school bag, like it was covered in nettles.

"Careful," chided Joke. Then he zipped up my bag closed with such violence that I nearly fell down.

"You need to take a break from the books once in a while, Joke," I said, steadying myself then yanking the bag away from Joke's hands. "You're hallucinating. Whatever did this to Mark was a wild animal, not an old adding machine!"

"That thing is no calculator, Paddy," said Joke, frowning. "Where on earth did you get it?"

## 6. THE BROTHER OF DEATH

With my schoolbag slung over my shoulder, I trotted down the pink marble staircase that descended from the foyer to the lower ground floor of the library. I was about half an hour late, and hoped Mr Seth hadn't given up on me. He didn't strike me as the most patient of men.

I needed answers urgently: about Dad, about my blood-splattered calculator, about the rat-lizard-bird creature and bugs that had wrecked Mark's party, and about what on earth was going on in Quakehaven. I prayed Mr Seth was still waiting there. The idea of traipsing out to Blakes Road and rapping on the butcher's door filled me with dread.

Opening the library door, I went inside, scrunching my eyes shut to ward off the sudden brightness. The main room was lit like a kebab shop. The walls were lurid: hot pink and yellow. In wild bursts, recycled air wheezed from vents installed in each of the three walls, like a circle of asthmatics blowing up balloons for a birthday. A virulent green door on the far wall was closed, cutting off the study room.

Fire extinguishers were attached to the end of each row of books, a precaution insisted on by Aunt Bea and the rest of the Council. Twenty-six years ago, an electrical fire had ripped through the grand buildings of Main Street, and gutted the original library. Since the fire, the Town Hall's basement had functioned as Quakehaven's 'temporary' library and, decades later, there were no plans to build a permanent one.

The green door crashed open. Mr Seth's wrinkled orange head and neck popped out, his black eyes glowering. "Here, lad!" he called, looking from side to side like a bank-robber scanning for his tardy getaway car. "Over here. Quick now!"

"I'm not a dog," I said, then obeyed his command anyway. Mr Seth's tangerine face and glossy black mane disappeared back into the study room. I followed it, easing the door shut behind me.

In contrast to the main library, the study room was dimly lit and dank. The walls were the faded beige of old stockings and the room reeked of moulding paper.

There were two other people in the room: Mrs Carruthers, who worked part time as a library volunteer and seemed to be enjoying a long tea break, and another old woman I had never seen before. Both ladies were swaddled in black and sat at the large, square pinewood table in the middle of the room, poring over thick paperbacks of crossword puzzles. At the front of the room stood Mr Seth, his back to an old overhead projector screen. He tapped his right foot impatiently like an ancient tap dancer.

"About time, lad," barked Mr Seth, not looking at me, but instead at the cross-word crones. In his pin-striped suit and silver bow tie, he looked like a croupier from a black-and-white film set in a European Casino. His black hair was parted severely in the centre and swept back with dollops of gel or bryl cream. His dapper look was marred by a scowl.

"I couldn't help being late," I said, and told him about the animal attack on Mark. Mr Lyons had kept the whole school cooped up in the assembly hall while a vet with a tranquiliser gun searched for the culprit. It was 4.30 pm before the frustrated vet confirmed that the coast was clear and Mr Lyons let us go.

"Did they find the beast?" said Mr Seth, smirking. "Did they track down the beast that savaged the boy?"

"No," I said. "And you know as well as I do that they won't find it."

"Really?" said Mr Seth, wiggling his eyebrows in mock surprise. "And why is that?"

I flung my schoolbag down. Mrs Carruthers looked up from her crossword puzzle, disapprovingly. "Because," I said, stooping down to unzip the bag and pulling out the small black box. "This is what attacked Mark. This thing you gave me."

"What makes you think I gave it to you?" asked Mr Seth.

"Who else knew about what happened to my old calculator?" My exasperation made me shout. Mrs Carruthers and her friend both tut-tutted.

"You mustn't jump to conclusions without studying the evidence, Patrick. That's a calculator in your hand. Not a wild creature. The only things it attacks are fractions and calculus."

"Stop treating me like a baby," I wailed. Mrs Carruthers' put her finger to her quivering lips to hush me. Mr Seth waved at her, shrugged his shoulders and winked as if to say: "kids of today, hey?"

Mrs Carruthers beamed back. She batted her eyes at Mr Seth like a teenage girl, then lowered her head, coyly.

"She's an old married woman, Mr Seth," I whispered, horrified.

"Widowed, I believe," he replied, his smile fixed on the coquettish hag. Her friend elbowed Mrs Carruthers' ribs and whispered something that triggered a riotous giggle-cackle from both ladies. I shuddered.

"Pay attention to me," I whined. It was like the old man had attention deficit disorder. "I broke my calculator at your shop. Then I went home, and looked under the trunk in Mum's room, just like you told me to."

"So easily led," Mr Seth said, shaking his head. "If I asked you to base-jump from a bridge without a parachute, would you? How dangerous to just launch yourself on an underground adventure without equipment. And at night! You could have drowned in a flash flood or hit your head and fallen unconscious. How reckless!"

"I blacked out," I admitted. "After the lights went off. The second trunk. The ladder cut my feet. Then it was the next morning, and I found this on my window sill." I brandished the calculator like a gun. "This thing you gave me - and don't deny it - bit my friend."

"This plastic case?" asked Mr Seth dubiously. "Did you see it bite?"

I paused and said: "No. I was in the bathroom when it happened. My friend -"

Mr Seth frowned, his dapperness buried under an avalanche of saggy-baggy wrinkles. I was suddenly a bit frightened. "Your friend? The boy bitten, you mean?"

"No," I said. "Another." Without knowing why, I was nervous for Joke. "Says he saw something, but not much," I lied. "Just a blur of movement and then the blood."

Mr Seth glowered at me for a moment, but I held his gaze, my legs stiff with nerves. He swivelled back to the whiteboard.

"What's going on?" I asked, trying not to wheedle. "Something's wrong, but I don't know what or why it involves me, or Dad. This is freaking me out."

"And so it should," Mr Seth murmured. "Something is very wrong, Patrick. And you seem to be the only one with enough sense to have picked up on it. This town is dying from the inside like an old oak."

"The Beltway?" I asked. "Plenty of people are trying to stop that."

"Quakehaven has far bigger problems than a ring road, Patrick. And I don't know if we have the time, or firepower, to save it."

I tapped the calculator. "Does this thing have anything to do with it?"

"No," said Mr Seth, as he scrolled the base of the projector screen with his palms like a rolling pin. "This thing, as you call him, is here to protect you."

"From what?" I asked, then gaped as the projector screen furled with a bang, revealing a shiny white board covered with tiny black scribbles. Mrs Carruthers gasped, her face white from jolt of sudden noise. Her friend did not react, and I realised she was deaf. Mr Seth mouthed 'sorry' at Mrs Carruthers and she nodded graciously and went back again to her puzzle.

"Let's begin, lad," said Mr Seth, poking the top left of the board with his index finger. "Listen carefully. You'll need a pad and pen. Schoolboys still carry those in their bags, I trust."

I nodded then, realising he had his back to me, said: "Yes."

"Good," said Mr Seth. "There'll be no time for revision. Pay heed to what I'm about to say. Your family's safety depends on it."

###

I looked up at the board, confused. "Looks like Greek to me," I said.

"Latin proverbs, actually," whispered Mr Seth. "Didn't want to alarm the gentlewomen unduly," he said motioning towards Mrs Carruthers. "And you never know who'll turn up. We are in a public place, after all, at your specific request. Come closer."

As I approached the board, the lines of foreign quotations shimmered and faded, replaced by a table filled with tight, slanted script. The words were half-obscured by geometric symbols that seemed to defy close inspection.

"Paddy: Your father told me you're an aficionado of horror tales."

"A what?" I asked, placing the calculator down on the table and pulling my orange exercise book and a stumpy pencil from my bag.

"A fanatical. A fan, of horror stories."

"Oh. How - when did Dad tell you about m-"

"All in good time," interrupted the old man. "First, the basics." Mr Seth pointed to the table. "Tell me, has that school taught you how to read between heritage days and trips to the zoo?"

I squinted up at the blackboard and read the column headings: "Um. Blessed. Imperilled. Damned. Devout."

"Right. Now, horror movie expert, tell me this: what are the most popular monsters in history."

"Ahm. Dracula, Frankenstein, I mean, Frankenstein's monster, the Crypt Keeper, the Headless Horseman, Lord Loss, the Nazgul, Darleks, Godzilla, -".

"No," interrupted Mr Seth, glaring at me. "Not their names. Their species?"

"Vampires," I ventured.

"Good, go on."

"Ghosts, and werewolves."

"Yes, yes. And others?"

"Mutants, sorcerers, zombies, blobs -"

"Excellent," said Mr Seth. "And what do they all have in common?"

"They're evil," I said.

"True. Embarrassingly obvious, but true. What else?"

"Um. They attack people. They kill. Or turn people into monsters, like them."

"Yes. And why is that?"

I scratched my head. This was one weird conversation. "Because they're evil?"

"You've already said that," snapped Mr Seth. "Think harder. Use your imagination."

"Because the goodies have to have someone strong enough to put up a fight to make the story interesting?"

Mr Seth laughed, his voice warm, and, for the first time that day, reassuring. "Creative answer, lad. Very post-modern. But there's something else they have in common."

I looked down at the ground, my mind full of mud.

"Souls," said Mr Seth, and I nodded as if even a fool would have known that. "Or, more precisely, an absence of souls. A lacking."

I arched my eyebrow and crossed my arms. Mr Seth was preaching. My family aren't religious, but I'd gone to Mass with Nicky once to get in her good books, and was amazed at how the priest could make even the most terrifying subject - hell, eternal suffering, the devil - as boring as cleaning Katy's cage.

"Pay. Attention!" hissed Mr Seth, and I jumped. Mr Seth was no minister. "Souls make us human," he growled. "Without one, you're a monster."

"The Damned," I said, re-reading the board.

"Yes," said Mr Seth. "Lost forever. Now what if I told you some things from horror stories are more than make believe?"

"I would say," I said bravely, "that you were crackers."

"Ha!" laughed Mr Seth, sounding genuinely pleased with me. "A sensible response in ordinary times, lad, though I suspect you know better than that from the events of the last few days."

"What's a Blallgam"? I asked, reading the first row under the 'Damned' column. "Is it a zombie, a vampire, what?"

"A Blackgum," said the old man, over-enunciating the word to correct me, "is all of those things."

I must have looked as stumped as I felt.

"What's the first thing you notice when you see a police constable at the end of the street?"

"A gun?" I hazarded, unsure where this was going.

"Not from that distance."

"His uniform?" I guessed.

"Or hers," said Mr Seth. "I never specified whether the officer was a man. But you're essentially right. His - or her - uniform would mark him - or her - out as a police officer."

I looked at Mr Seth blankly.

"Another example, perhaps," he said. "Why do all the senior high school kids in this town walk around in clumps, wearing black, with multi-coloured dyed hair, pierced ears and noses?"

"Because Quakehaven's full of losers?"

Mr Seth ignored my joke. "Why do the older kids all listen to the same songs with their white wirelesses turned up far too loud?"

"You mean their iPods?" I laughed. "Because they're cool?"

"Don't be silly, Paddy. You're smarter than this; at least I hope you are."

My cheeks burned. I was being tested and wasn't doing well. "Um. I guess they dress the same way and do a lot of the same stuff to fit in. Actually, more so they don't stand out."

"Bullseye!" said Mr Seth, jubilantly, clapping his hands. "And what if I told you that, in the real world, most of these monsters - the Blackgum - were once human? That, even after they lose their souls, they retain human habits, at least for the first few years?"

"Well," I said, thinking hard about the teenager-goths. "They'd probably want to hang out together."

"Splendid. And that's just what they do. After a few days wandering around in their rotting human skin, a Blackgum finds a gang dressed up in superior clothes: a fancy suit, like a werewolf's fur and claws, or a vampire's cloak and fangs, or whatever. The new Blackgum copies the local gang to avoid sticking out like a black swan in a nest of whites. Funny thing fashion, of course," he said wistfully. "Human skin is the latest fad. Who'd have thought?"

"What's to stop them changing over and over again? Zombie-suit for Winter, and a wraith-look for Summer, and so on?"

"Have you ever heard the saying, the leopard can't change its spots?"

I nodded.

"Once a Blackgum locks into its first look, it's painful for it to change form. Think of a newly-minted Blackgum as a lump of wet plaster. Once it's squeezed into its first cast, it sets and gets stuck in the mold. There's still the odd shapeshifter about that can morph between forms, true. But they're not common these days."

"Why haven't I ever seen a Blackgum in real life?" I asked sceptically.

"The 21st century," sighed Mr Seth. "Have you ever goggled 'monsters' on the Interweb?"

I laughed. "Googled, you mean? On the Internet?" I shook my head. Our school strictly supervised our use of the Internet. Mrs Dixon would never let me search for monsters.

"Well plenty of people do. Newspapers and web catalogues -"

"Blogs," I grinned.

"Such liberties with language," scoffed Mr Seth. "Yes, the press would pay top dollar for a confirmed monster picture. The Blackgum were forced into hiding - either to some remote Siberian outpost, like abominable snowmen - or by disguising themselves as people to avoid being caught on geeks' phones or the security cameras on every street corner."

"So Blackgum are harmless now?"

"Far from it, Paddy," said Mr Seth, resting his hands on my shoulders. "Times are harder for them now, but they're just as hungry, and probably more desperate than ever."

"What do they eat?" I asked, not sure I wanted to know.

"The same thing they eat in the stories, Paddy."

I gulped. "People."

"Only a few are partial to human flesh, and then only on special occasions. Most prefer pizza. Who can blame them?"

I sighed, ignoring Mr Seth's lame jibe. "They eat souls don't they?"

"Bingo."

###

Mrs Carruthers and her friend stood up, collected their crossword books and headed for the exit. At the green door, Mr Seth bowed, cartoonishly, like a peasant chasing a piglet who'd stumbled into the path of a pair of princesses. The crones giggled. Their fossilised flirting with Mr Seth made me queasier than the Blackgum lecture.

I pointed up at the whiteboard. "What does the rest of it mean? Who are the Blessed: the Forgers and the Ferine? Hello, Mr Seth?"

The ladies exited regally, and Mr Seth held the door open, his tanned face creased with chivalrous pleasure. But as he closed the door behind him, the old man's face collapsed again and he was all business.

"We all start out as Forgers," he said. "Contrary to some myths, babies have very strong souls. That's why Blackgum are frightened of them. Either their souls or the stench of diapers. As we age, most of us lose our zest. Forgers are the people in this world who keep their passion. Who press buttons and pull the levers."

"Like politicians, you mean?"

"Far from it," snorted Mr Seth. "Forgers make a real difference. Researchers who discover vaccines for diseases, inventors who make our lives less painful, poets who reduce us to tears and bring us together, adventurers who set out for new lands and planets. Farmers who plough the earth to feed us. Creators and discoverers."

"And the Ferine?"

"Wild things: soaring eagles, ravenous lions, sleepless sharks and ancient crocodiles. Venomous snakes and laughing hyena chasing down wounded prey. Swarms of locusts and wasps; and armies of termites. Giant trees with roots that tear up the pavements and crush fallen cities. Many were here before us; and I'm sure they will survive the fall of man."

"And woman," I said, pleased to catch him out at his own game.

"Indeed, lad. Ferine are natural allies of neither the Blackgum nor the Forgers. They would conquer both if given half a chance.

I shuddered, remembering the bugs at Mark's party. And the Ferine were in the Blessed column: the _good guys_!

"What about the Imperilled?"

"Two kinds: the Ts&Cs and the Passengers."

"Ts&Cs?"

"The Tamed and Crops. Domesticated cats, dogs, sheep, cows, goats - the whole of Old McDonald's farm. And fields of wheat and rye, corn and rice ploughed and harvested in neat rows."

"And the Passengers?"

"Men and women who've lost their way. People who've given up trying to control their lives, who are happy to let the Forgers tell them what to do and how to think, or who spend their lives criticising Forgers, cutting them down jealously or drowning them in red tape. Slugs who trudge off to dead end jobs all day and gobble chips in front of the TV at night. Monks who retreat into silent monasteries while people around them starve. Analysts, consultants, commentators, and lawyers. Doctors prescribing useless pills and self-help gurus who add nothing but noise and jargon, playing on our fears and vanity. A hopeless bunch."

"What about my mother?" I asked. "She's sick. Are you saying she's Imperilled?"

"Yes, of course" said Mr Seth. "Don't you understand yet? This whole town. The reason I came back. Quakehaven is Imperilled. I can smell it. I think you can as well. There's an epicentre nearby - like someone's calling the Blackgum together. For a Big Hunt."

"The boss?"

"I've felt a few of these calls over the years. But this is not some Vampire Lord calling a convention to discuss the latest in fang dentures, or a Gorgan jamboree for the gals to swap viper-hair care tips. A battle's brewing. And, somewhere close, scheming and counting down the days hides the Zealtor."

"Zealtor?" I asked. "The king Blackgum?"

"In a sense," said Mr Seth. "Though he would refuse such a moniker."

"But you're here to fight him," I said. "Like a white wizard?"

Mr Seth pounded the Devout column of the whiteboard, knocking the markers onto the floor. "You're new to all this," he snarled. "But if you had any idea of what you'd just accused me of, you'd be worried for your life."

I scanned Mr Seth's face for a twinkle in even one of his eyes to suggest he was joking. The face that glared back at me was an iron mask wrought from menace. I knew then that Mr Seth was no crotchety old man with a heart of gold. He was dangerous.

Mr Seth's lips twitched, like a Doberman as it bared its teeth at a startled burglar. "What I've been talking about - The Blackgum, the Forgers, the Ferine, the T&Cs and the Passengers - is Nature at war with herself. Survival of the fittest. Messy, but natural."

He slapped the first row under the Devout column, smudging the ink. "The Witches play a different game. They mess around with forces they don't understand."

"What forces?" I asked, trying to imagine what could be worse than the soulless Blackgum.

"Old things. Things banished long ago. Things that must not be allowed back."

"Do these things have names?" I asked.

"Legion," said Mr Seth, laughing as if he'd made a joke.

"Huh?"

"Legion are their names. They have many names. Have you heard of Ammit, or Vanth?"

I shook my head.

"You are fortunate. How about Belial or Beelzebub?"

Beelzebub rang a bell. Some old comic of Dad's I'd read a long time ago. "Beelzebub," I repeated. "Isn't he Lord of the Flies?"

"Impressive," said Mr Seth. "Not many young men know that title, which is probably a mistranslation in Matthew 12:24-27."

"Isn't he a demon?" I asked.

"Demon can mean anything these days. Some of you twits even include the Blackgum. But if you mean d-a-e-m-o-n - meaning a divinity or supernatural being - you're getting closer."

"Then what are they?"

"Gods," said Mr Seth, sadly. "Fallen gods."

"What have Gods got to do with Witches?"

Mr Seth sighed. "You probably think Witches are withered old hags with hooked noses or young blondes waving magic wands and flying about on broomsticks?"

"Yes, actually," I admitted.

"I blame TV. Elizabeth Montgomery and Melissa Joan Hart are pretty, but about as frightening as doilies. If you'd taken the time to research the subject properly - I recommend the _Malleus Maleficarum_ by Sprenger and Kramer, as a primer - you'd know that witches are blind disciples. Apostles. Priests. Doorways."

"Doorways?" I asked.

"Yes. Foolishly signposting the road back into this world, after we've spent so much time trying to hide our tracks. Luring Gods who would devour nations - Forgers and Passengers, the Ferine and Ts&Cs, everyone and everything - just as easily as you or I would slurp up a scoop of vanilla ice-cream."

"What if there was a witch in Quakehaven?" I asked.

"There isn't," said Mr Seth.

"But what if there were?"

"I'd kill her," said Mr Seth simply, with not a scintilla of hesitation or doubt.

Reeling and overloaded with information, I sat down at the desk, and carefully transcribed the table into my exercise book. When I finished, I looked up to see Mr Seth watching me patiently.

"Any questions?" he asked.

"What's that thing?" I asked pointing at the black box on the table. "Where do attack calculators fit in?"

"Everywhere," said Mr Seth. "Inanimate things \- do you know what inanimate means?"

"Not alive," I nodded. Dad had taught me the word. "Like rocks, and rivers and toothbrushes and -"

"Calculators," interrupted Mr Seth. "Exactly. They don't have souls, like Forgers and Ferine and the rest. But everything in this world has a spirit, an essence, if you like. Sometimes good, sometimes bad."

"Which does that thing have?" I said gesturing at the calculator.

"Depends on its mood," smirked Mr Seth. The calculator appeared to pulse, almost like it was annoyed. "Sshh boy!" said Mr Seth, and the box settled. "This one is inhabited by a good spirit. Feisty, but good. We call good spirits Helpers, for obvious reasons."

I sat down and inspected the calculator's carved case, thinking. "So you're a good guy," I said. "Helped by Helpers. The Zealtor's a bad guy, ruling the Blackgum. And Witches are just crazy."

Mr Seth closed his eyes. "Out of the crooked timber of humanity no straight thing was ever made," he intoned.

"What?" I asked, dumfounded by yet more riddles.

"Something a very smart Forger once said. Things never turn out as simple in the real world as in modern fairy stories. The older tales were closer to the mark. Good doesn't always win. The hero doesn't always save the world. You know this."

"Yes," I said, thinking of Dad, the ultimate good guy.

"I know this is already complicated, but you've got to realise that the Zealtor thinks he's the good guy, to use your vernacular, and that I'm the bad guy. He thinks that by sucking the souls out of every living thing, we'll all be content, safe in our houses. No conflict in our hearts or out on the streets."

"No more fighting, no danger," I said. "That sounds pretty good to me."

"Yes, tempting, I know. But no freedom either. We would all be slaves."

"So it's a choice between... Um." I hesitated, my brain beginning to fry. "Sorry, what is the fight for? Or about?"

Mr Seth exhaled and tapped his foot. "Let me put it this way. The Zealtor fights for control of everyone. I fight for freedom, even if the various ways people waste their freedom sicken me."

I closed my eyes. An image of winking wings fluttered across my eyelids, and I realised that the wings at the kitchen window were no costume or act of puppetry. My heart pounded. "Are you human?"

"Of course I am, stupid boy," said Mr Seth, offended. "And so is the Zealtor for that matter, if you define a human as a hominid of the homo sapiens species with at least one soul. The Zealtor has too many souls, you see: he harvests them. That's how he controls the Blackgum."

"But -" I said, more confused than ever.

"I'm just a man, though better trained than most. I'm a Scattersmith."

"Like a blacksmith?" There was a smithy at Midas Mountain that made iron horse shoes for tourists.

"Yes, a smith that scatters things, makes chaos and opportunity, core ingredients of freedom."

"And Dad?"

"He was a Scattersmith too. A great one, and my good friend."

"What about me?"

"You?" he said, staring up at the whiteboard, his hands buried deep in his trouser pockets. "Paddy, I appreciate what I've told you is a lot to take in - and we don't have much -"

"Time, yeah I know, you've told me a hundred times. Just tell me what you want. What you need me to do."

For the first time since I'd entered the study room, the old man turned his full attention to me. His black eyes glinted. Under the muted lights of the dank room, his shadow twisted, swathing me in darkness. Then the fire in his obsidian eyes died.

"I need you to help me find and fight the Zealtor," he whispered. "We need to save Quakehaven. And every soul in her."

## 7. NEW ATTRACTIONS

Lots to think about.

As I closed the front door behind me, familiar angry wings beat a furious tattoo against lacquered wood. "Sorry again, Katy," I said to the irked guard budgie. The green and yellow bird tilted her head and glared, then resumed her dinner of dried cuttlefish.

Sweating from the bike ride, despite the cold, I kicked off my shoes, pulled off my gloves and shrugged off my jacket. The hallway was redolent of caramel and mustard.

I traced the wonderful smell to the dining room. I stood in the doorway for a while and watched the happy scene. Mum and Aunt Bea sat next to each other on the near side of the oak dining table, like two school girls. Mum and Aunt Bea must have felt a draught, for they looked up together, smiled and beckoned me in.

I closed the door, shutting out the cold. I almost felt sorry for Katy. Against the far wall, a fire crackled in the hearth under a granite mantle. The lights had been dimmed, but I could see tendrils of smoke twisting up the chimney. A huge slab of roast beef sat on a silver tray in the middle of the table, surrounded by bowls filled with roast potatoes, carrots and peas. An apple crumble sat next to it, untouched. My mouth watered.

"Paddy/boy" sang Mum and Aunt Bea in unison, then giggled. In the dim room they looked younger.

"Sit down with us and have a drink," said Mum.

"Bridget!" exclaimed Aunt Bea, reaching forward to encircle the half empty bottle of red wine with her arms and chest. "He's far too young -"

"Of lemonade, Beatrice!" grinned Mum, shaking her head. The two women descended into a fresh fit of giggles. For once, they looked like sisters.

"What are we celebrating?" I asked. "Did we win the lottery?

"Almost as good," beamed Aunt Bea, relaxing her cordon around the wine bottle and pouring Mum another glass. "Dr Vassel was here earlier, and declared your Mum on the mend. Fit as a fiddle."

"More like a cello," said Mum patting her stomach. "Especially if I keep eating like this!"

"Great news!" I said, jumping out of my seat and running counter-clockwise around the oval table. I lent in to peck her cheek, and Mum bear-hugged me, squeezing the air out of my lungs with her surprising strength. She moved to slap my back and, as I braced for the impact, she spun me toward her gently with her left hand, then, with her right, deftly dropped something light, but cold, into my shirt pocket. I looked down to inspect it, but Mum grabbed my chin and held my gaze. I drew back and arched my eyebrow, but Mum shook her head very slightly, then turned back to her right, and scooped up a ladle of baby carrots.

"Doc Vassel also said that Mark was recovering well," said Mum, her voice light. "He'll be back at school tomorrow."

"Great!" I repeated, genuinely relieved. I walked back to my chair.

"And yet more good news," continued Aunt Bea. "About the Beltway."

"You stopped it?" I asked.

"No. The Government's too focused on progress to ever stop a project," said Aunt Bea, her thin lips pursed. "But almost as good. Council met with Mr Barker and the Government today. Mr Barker's promised to develop a new attraction in Quakehaven - with the Council chipping in some seed money to help, of course. In return, the Government's agreed to build an exit near the Lake. We'll put up so many signs advertising the new attraction that people will feel compelled to turn off and visit."

"You and Mr Barker agreed on something?" I said, amazed.

"A real turn up for the books, I know," laughed Aunt Bea. "For once, Barker's self interest just happens to coincide with the interests of Quakehaven. I doubt the truce will last - you should see his plans for Wane Park! But, when we team up, it'll take much more than a road to stop us from getting what we want!"

"Forgers," I muttered under my breath, remembering Mr Seth's name for movers and shakers. The perfect description of Aunt Bea and Mr Barker - that's probably why they fought so much.

I looked up. Mum was carving up the roast beef. Aunt Bea stared at me. "What did you say, boy?" she asked, and I realised I had muttered over my breath!

"I said 'gorgeous', Aunt Bea. A new attraction will be gorgeous for Quakehaven. What's it going to be, Aunt? The attraction, I mean?"

"My lips are sealed, boy," my Aunt said. "Council confidentiality. Not even Mr Fisk knows, though he's called me three times today to try to prise it from my zipped lips! It's going to be announced very soon, though. The good times will soon be back for our beautiful town!"

"Oh Little Town of Quakehaven," sang Mum in her husky alto. "How sweet thou are tonight!"

The sisters broke into an even sillier fit of giggles. They could be so immature. "I'll give you a clue, though, boy," warbled Aunt Bea, her voice the tuneless soprano of a terrified washerwoman plummeting downhill on a roller coaster. "It bites."

Later, I was putting my clothes into the clothes basket, after my bath, when the cold object Mum had stuffed into my pocket fell out. I bent down. It was a silver case about the size of a packet of cigarettes. Mum hated cigarettes, so I didn't have to open it to know it wasn't filled with cancer sticks, but I flicked open the lid anyway, curious to know what was in it.

A deck of playing cards. I rolled my eyes, disappointed. I closed the lid, tossed the case back into my shirt pocket, and threw my shirt into my washing hamper. Mum probably thought smuggling a deck into the house was as close as we could safely go without breaching Aunt Bea's 'no games' rule. But playing snap with myself was way too weak to risk a fight with Aunt Bea - I'd rather do homework. Almost!

###

Special school assemblies were rare at Quakehaven Public. Noisily, we filed two at a time through the small assembly hall door, like animals fighting for passage on Noah's ark. Kids crowded around Mark and marvelled at the sleek, black cast that covered his wounds.

"Imported from Sweden," Mark said, bravely grimacing as Nicky nodded and stroked his arm. "By Dad. Especially for me. Dressing contains special antibiotics and secret balms from Ecuador to promote fast healing. Doesn't help with the pain, though," he said stoically.

Typical Mark. Always the brave class hero! All I could remember was him on his back blubbering as Mrs Dixon tried to staunch the blood and calm him down. He _had_ been injured. Who was I to deny him the sympathy of the masses?

Mark marched into the hall and sat down in the third row from the stage. We all followed him. Like Passengers. Each class was organised by their teacher, so of course Mrs Dixon had seated us quasi-alphabetically in quadrants, with Nicky separating Mark and me. The back of Joke's head poked over the top of the seat in front of Mark like a shy sock-puppet cowering behind a fence post. I didn't even need to look around to know that Tim was right behind me: the stench of his foul fish paste breath was worse than ever. I lent over Nicky and tried to catch Mark's eye. "OK?" I asked.

"Yeah," said Mark stoically. "Though my memory's a bit patchy, and I feel a bit woozy."

"It's OK, Marky-wark," said Nicky. "I think you'll survive your little possum attack."

I cracked a smile, and she grinned back at me. Until that moment, I hadn't noticed how pretty she was when she smiled, despite the freckles. And she smelt nice too: like strawberry sherbet.

"It wasn't a possum," scowled Mark. "I don't know what attacked me. But I think some people in this hall do," he said, and then reached over and flicked the Joke's right ear lobe with his good index finger and thumb.

"Hey!" squeaked Joke, his puppet head spinning around to reveal a prim buttoned-up face. "Don't blame me, Mark. I didn't have anything to do with it!"

"Master Barker, to you," said Mark. "And eavesdropping, hey? There's a habit that runs in the family."

Mark had that dangerous glint in his eye again. I waggled my fingers at Joke, signalling for him to turn around and ignore Mark. He caught my meaning and turned back to the front, but not quickly enough to avoid Mark's next broadside.

"So it's a coincidence that everywhere you go, foul animals follow? Maybe you should have a wash. Or has the hot water been cut off to your caravan because your dad can't pay the bills."

"Calm down, Mark," I said.

"I'll do what I want to him," said Mark, twisting Joke's other ear, this time cruelly. "I'm getting a bit bored of you sticking up for the cretin. You're meant to be my mate."

"I am your mate," I said. "But take it easy on Joke. He didn't have anything to do with what happened to you. And you know it."

"You seem so sure," said Mark leaning over Nicky and scanning my face like a headline. "Don't think I've forgotten that you were in the toilet when I was attacked. Anything you want to confess?"

I shook my head, innocently. "Why would I want to hurt you?"

"Good question," said Mark. "Because I need to be sure I can trust you. There's a big honour coming your way if I can be sure we're mates. But it's too important a gift to share with someone I can't trust."

"You can trust me," I said, wondering what Mark was talking about.

We shivered on our hard plastic chairs in the semi-darkness. After a few minutes of fidgeting, the stage lights were lit, revealing the school concert band. I groaned inwardly, thinking of my unused French horn.

We all stood up. Ms Crabshank, lumpen, tall and shrivelled like a bipedal prune waddled out onto the stage and waved her conducting stick. The band exploded into sound. A cacophony: horrible, like a whole zoo of terrified animals being squashed into a stinky old shoe with a golf club.

If anything, our school song was even worse than the band. "Youth Of Quakehaven" was over 100 years old and had once been a passable military marching tune. But in the 1970s, an experimental music teacher by the unlikely name of Seamus Fernando-Garcia, had decided to update it by transforming it into a Spanish dance number, spiced up with elements of an Irish reel.

The official party, led by the grizzled principal and the teachers, did their very best to look dignified, march-tangoing down the hall. Mrs Dixon, as the most junior teacher, was usually at the back of the line. But this time she wasn't: Mr Barker stood behind her, unruffled by the discordant trombone slides that book-ended the anthem like peat bog burps.

The 'music' died followed by embarrassed silence. "Hey Mark," I whispered. "What's going on? Why's your dad here?"

"You'll find out soon enough," said Mark, smirking secretively.

Mr Lyons, a barrel shaped man with an enormous orange afro that everyone knew to be an inexpensive wig, switched on the microphone. He'd started out as the football coach and, though he'd run to fat, was still strong, a fact he highlighted to kids on detention.

The microphone screamed, just like Mrs Kroker's headset had done at Mark's birthday. "Better than the band," shouted Mark. Almost everyone - even Mr Lyons and some of the flute players in the front row of the band - burst into laughter. Ms Crabshank lips slid up her teeth, like she had bitten into a chilli dipped in lemon juice.

"Settle down," commanded Mr Lyons wiping tears of laughter from his eyes. "As you can see, we have a special guest today, so I want you all to be on your best behaviour. Without further ado, let me welcome Mr Barker to the stage, though he needs no introduction."

"Who?" shouted Mark, and again the hall erupted into raucous laughter.

Mr Barker stepped up to the microphone and held up his hand. A white glossy screen lowered behind him with a serpentine hiss, blocking out all but the teachers' legs from our view.

"Thank you, Mark," he said. "I'll introduce myself to you this evening when you're washing one of my cars."

A few kids sniggered. Mark swore under his breath.

"I'm here to announce something exciting," said Mr Barker. "Quakehaven's seen better days. It seems like many of us are resigned to the Beltway bypassing our town and for Quakehaven to become a forgotten little town that used to be on the way to the City."

"Well, I for one am not prepared for that to happen." ( _Forger_ , I thought again.) "But I need your help."

"It's no secret that visitor numbers at Midas Mountain are down this year. When the Beltway opens they are projected to halve."

The assembly gasped. Most of us knew things were bad. But not that bad!

"Honesty is the best policy, and I don't think anything is to be gained in not telling children the truth. So let me be frank with you all: if Midas Mountain closes, this town will become a backwater and will be beyond saving." Mr Barker paused and let his words sink in. For 10 seconds, 300 people in the hall made not one sound.

"But it's not too late!" shouted Mr Barker, beaming.

"I am here to launch a new project that will bring people to our town: let me introduce DinoQuake - the kingdom of the dinosaurs!" The white screen behind Mr Barker ignited. Cartoon dinosaurs - tyrannosaurs, triceratops, stegosaurs - stampeded across the screen and disappeared into a lush green forest. The digital projector zoomed in, then up like it was attached to a rocket to reveal a 3D map of the proposed park. It would be right next to Midas Mountain, separated by the northern most tip of Lake Ebb.

Spontaneously, the school - students and teachers alike - burst into applause and jumped up to give Mr Barker a standing ovation. Mr Barker grinned. After a minute solid of furious applause, he held up his hand and signalled for us to sit down.

"But that's not all. When I said I needed your help, I didn't mean just your congratulations and good will. I've got enough people on my pay roll to do that," he said laughing at his own joke. "Good wishes get you nowhere in life. And compliments are not going to save a single job."

"Here it comes," whispered Mark as the laughter subsided. "Time for us to join forces."

"I need real help," said Mr Barker. "Most of the site is ready. I've been building it in secret. Most of dinosaur models and rides arrived from Japan last week and have been assembled in a warehouse in an undisclosed location."

Mr Barker cleared his throat. "I plan to install the models for a soft opening in two weeks. What I'm missing is this," said Mr Barker. He pulled a thin metal tube from his pocket and swiped it. The map on the screen flashed gold, Lake Ebb lit up in silver, and its northernmost tip flashed red and green like a confused traffic light.

"This thin finger of water jutting out from Lake Ebb marks the boundary of the town and the closest Beltway exit to Quakehaven. It will also mark the physical connection between my two marquee attractions: Midas Mountain and DinoQuake. I want to attract tourists to turn off the Beltway. But I don't want them to have to choose between the two park experiences when they get here. So I need a bridge between the parks. And I need someone to design it. Today - right now - I am announcing a competition, only open to students from this school. I need teams of two to design my bridge. And you only have two days to do it."

"This is your chance, space-cadet," said Mark, beaming like his father. "I'm going to let you join my team."

"What about Tim?" I asked. "I thought he was your best friend."

"He is on the football pitch and when I need some muscle," said Mark, smacking his fist into his palm. "But - and this is no secret - he's as thick as a plank of wood. He couldn't design his own lunch, much less a bridge."

I was sure Tim could hear him. I turned my head to check. Sure enough, Tim looked wounded and pale. "He's right, Paddy," slurred Tim, sadly, his eyes glazed yellow like lemon spread.

"I always am," said Mark.

"Don't worry about it, Tim," said Nicky and swivelling around. "I'd love to have you on my team."

"Really?" said Tim, looking blankly at Nicky. Maybe it was the light, but Tim was as white as a spectre.

"Sure," she answered. "No worries at all, though I'm probably even less of an engineer than you!"

Tim smiled wanly and raised his thumbs in appreciation. I caught a glimpse of a blackened band-aid on his left wrist. It looked infected. I was about to tell Tim to go to the school nurse when the projector stopped and the silver, gold, red and green map faded to grey.

"Two days is not much time," said Mr Barker. The winner will be announced by a special judging committee on Thursday night at Quakehaven's Barn Dance. The key criterion on which your design will be assessed is whether it connects the Quakehaven Gold Rush of the 1850s to the age of the dinosaurs effectively. On Monday, my engineers will give the winning entry the once over and then start building it for the opening. The Council has generously pre-cleared the winner for immediate construction.

"Ridiculous," squeaked Joke suddenly jumping to his feet. "We are talking about two completely different eras. Most dinosaurs roamed the earth more than 200 million years ago. You're asking us to find a link between then and something that happened less than 200 hundred years ago! It's time on a different scale. It's unscientific!"

The hall sat in shocked silence. 'Unscientific' was one of Joke's strongest insults. But he was not known for interrupting assemblies. He was not known for interrupting anything! For a moment, even Mr Barker seemed ruffled, but recovered his poise. "That may be the case, young man. But we are after more than technical accuracy. We are after creativity - something that will help draw people to Quakehaven and save our town."

"And your dad's job," sneered Mark, flicking the back of Joke's ear, even harder than before.

Joke slumped deeper into his chair and put his hands over his ears, bracing himself for another attack. From where he was standing, Mr Barker couldn't have heard his son's threat. I wondered if he knew the types of things his son got away with in his name.

With his good fist, Mark reached out to smack the top of Joke's head. Mark's move was telegraphed and I blocked it, almost backhanding Nicky in the process!

"Watch it guys," warned Nicky. She wasn't smiling.

"I'm telling you for the last time, Mark," I said, looking straight ahead at his father. "Lay off Joke."

Mark rubbed his knuckles against his school shirt and sneered: "Remember your station in life, space-cadet. If you keep defending him, I'll kick you off my team."

"What if I don't want to be on your team?" I said, breathing heavily. "You can't treat people like they are dirt on your feet. It's not right."

Mark shuddered with disgust like he'd been doused in sewage and balled his good hand into a fist. Nicky shot me a worried look, and I tried to stay calm.

"Really, Paddy," snarled Mark. "I wasn't going to say anything, but a funny thing happened when I was being tended to by Dr V-V-V-Vassel. While he was setting my arm, he got a call from another patient, that old biddy, Carruthers. Poor man had to take the call in the next room - patient confidentiality and all that. Anyway, while he was gone, his notebook just happened to fall open on my lap. Would you like me to tell everyone what I found out?"

"Shut up, Mark," I said.

"Or what?" said Mark, chuffed he had hit a raw nerve. "You going to lose your mind like your mother and hit me?"

Joke swivelled around in his seat and Nicky looked away. I tried to control my temper.

"That's right, guys," announced Mark, his voice loud enough to carry to the whole class. "Paddy's mum's a madwoman. Who could blame her with such a loser of a son? Probably drove his dad crazy too, before he died!"

I was about to leap across and tackle Mark, when Nicky put her hand on my shoulder, and suddenly pushed herself up onto her feet. "He's not worth it," she whispered to me out of the side of her mouth.

"Yes, dear?" asked Mr Barker.

"What's the prize for winning?" asked Nicky. "The competition, I mean."

"Aah. Of course. Back in my day, the honour of having your design accepted would have been enough. But times have changed, I know. My wonderful son has taught me that lesson!"

Everyone - except Mark and me - laughed.

"I have spoken to Mr Lyons and to the Council," said Mr Barker. We have agreed to award two prizes to the winners, to be divided between the team as they see fit. Around-the-world-airline tickets for two, hotel charges included; and a full scholarship to attend Pinkerton Grammar."

"Grammar?!" caterwailed Joke. "A full scholarship?"

"That's right," said Mr Barker smiling down at the embarrassed boy. "Are you ready to abandon your scientific objections to the contest now?"

The projector screen rose. Nicky sat down. As she did so, Mark shot up like a jack in the box. "Da- I mean, Mr Barker, can anyone compete?"

"Yes then can, son, I mean Mark," answered Mr Barker, smiling. "And to ensure there's no favoritism, the decision will ultimately be made by Mr Lyons and one of Quakehaven's finest engineers, Mr Dixon." Mrs Dixon grinned with pride.

"That's not what I meant," said Mark, looking at Joke. "Can poor kids like Joke and kids with no dad and mad mothers like Paddy enter?"

Mrs Dixon's smile faded, and her forehead furrowed. My ears burned and I wanted to smash Mark to pieces. But Joke was smiling at me, trying to keep me calm, even though he must have been hurt by Mark's words as much as I was.

Mr Barker frowned, unable to think of a sensible response. Mr Lyons, as if sensing his confusion, stepped up to the microphone and said, "That's enough questions for Mr Barker. He's a busy man. I'd like everyone to thank him in the usual way. Mark, I want to see you in my office."

"Haha," laughed Mark as he made his way out of the hall. "Another slap on the wrist coming up. Lyons is too scared of my dad to do anything serious. I've got this competition in the bag."

"Maybe you used to, genius" said Nicky, slapping him on the shoulder, too hard to be called friendly. "But you've just managed to annoy one of the judges, the wife of another, and force two of the smartest guys in the school into a team against you. Good luck."

Joke and I looked first at the crestfallen Mark, and then happily shook hands.

## 8. DREAM TEAM

"Sorry, Joke" I said, looking my friend in the eye. We stood in the foyer of the assembly hall, waiting for the other classes to file out.

"For what?" asked Joke, shifting his weight from one foot to another.

"For being an idiot. For leaving you alone at Mark's party. And for not standing up to Mark when he hurt you."

"You're not the one that just called Mr Barker's project unscientific. In front of the whole school! I could have smacked myself in the head when Mr Barker said the prize was a Pinkerton scholarship."

"Mark was doing a good enough job of that for you," I said. Joke's ears were still like a pair of scarlet fruit bats. "And don't forget the round-the-world trip! Imagine all the museums you could visit."

Joke smiled nervously, his thin lips pressed tightly together, his shoulders hunched. We watched the crush of babbling kids pass, then exited the hall. Outside, the air stunk of charcoal and manure. Winter in a big country town.

"I've always wanted to go to private school," I said. Joke nodded, and stared at me with the shimmering eyes of an orphaned rabbit.

"Relax, Joke," I laughed, mock-punching his arm. "I'm just messing with you. The scholarship's yours, if we come first. I'd love to win that trip for Aunt Bea and Mum. To thank my Aunt for taking us in; and to give Mum a holiday from Quakehaven."

Joke exhaled. Colour returned to his cheeks and his shoulders dropped. "Thanks, Paddy. You don't know what it means to me."

"I think I might have an inkling," I replied. "You may have mentioned your archaeologist plan once or twice in passing. More like a million times!"

Joke giggled – his horrible crushed safety glass laugh - and I fought the urge to wince. For a while we dawdled. Then Joke broke the silence: "I don't know why Mark hates me so much."

"Because you've got something he wants."

"What does he want from me?" said Joke.

"Me for a partner for the bridge project," I laughed, and lightly slapped his back. We set off for class.

"Mark's always hated me," said Joke sadly. "Ever since first grade. I don't know why."

"Probably because you don't worship him," I said. Joke raised his eyebrows. I continued: "He doesn't like that you're not impressed by him, that you're not desperate to be his friend like everyone else. Like I was."

Joke nodded, but I could tell he was just being polite; that he couldn't imagine what I was saying was true. Then he stopped without warning, and I had to prop to avoid bumping into him.

"What he said about your Mum," asked Joke, delicately. "Is it - is she OK?"

"She's not mental," I said. "But she is sick: worn out with nerves. She's been like that a few times since Dad -" My eyes welled with tears. Joke nudged me forward, studying the bitumen beneath our feet.

"I hope she gets better soon," said Joke. His sincerity was touching, especially as I'd ignored him since the start of term. "I don't know why Mark had to say those things about her," continued Joke. "When he gets riled up, it's like he's a monster."

It was my turn to stop dead. Joke, still inspecting the ground, tripped over my feet.

"Mark's not a monster," I said. "For all his faults, he's heaps of fun to be around, if you stay on the right side of him."

Joke pursed his lips, and I realised how dumb my words sounded. "Yeah, he does have another side to him - I guess I hadn't seen how bad it was till his party. He crossed the line. Big time. But he's smarter than he pretends to be - I've seen some of the books he's read. The class clown routine is just an act. It can't be easy being Mr Barker's son and his mum's not around much. He's not a monster," I repeated. "I'm sure of it."

"I didn't mean an _actual_ monster," said Joke frowning. "Monsters don't exist: it's a scientific fact."

"Just because scientists haven't captured one, doesn't mean monsters don't exist. True scientists would admit that."

"Highly improbable, though," sniffed Joke, upset that I'd corrected him on scientific theory. The bell rang. Automatically, I jogged towards the demountable.

"Wait up," said Joke, doing his best impersonation of a run. "It's a big deal to me, Paddy."

"What is? Monsters?"

"No. Not monsters," bleated Joke. "Why do you keep talking about monsters? The prize, the scholarship. I need to win it."

"Then start thinking of ideas," I shouted back over my shoulder.

"I'll do nothing else for the next two days. This is my chance. You know that, right?"

I stopped and waited for Joke to catch up. His running gait was awful: reminded me of a three-legged, fox I'd once accidentally frightened out of the scrub with my bike. But his words were true. The bridge competition was his way out of Quakehaven to the career and life he wanted so badly.

Out of breath, Joke almost collapsed into my arms. "I know I haven't been the most reliable mate," I said. "But I also know you need this. Come over after school, and we'll get cracking. Uncle Gerry's got tonnes of books we can pillage."

###

For over an hour, I sat on a broken deck chair in the middle of Uncle Gerry's lap pool in the backyard, waiting for Joke. After Uncle Gerry had passed, Aunt Bea had drained the pool. The empty shell stunk of biological warfare: a battle between evolving strains of surface mould and the increasingly concentrated doses of bleach Aunt Bea used to control it.

Joke didn't show. Sunlight eked through the frayed edges of clouds, but it was cold. I hoped Mum continued to sleep snugly, as she'd been doing when I got home from school.

Words from two speeches - Mr Seth's bizarre lecture in the library and Mr Barker's address to the school - bounced and wove about in my head like duelling Cassock dancers. What to make of it all?!

Quakehaven didn't seem to be in any imminent danger. Life seemed as uneventful as ever. Putting aside the winking wings in the kitchen. And Mark's party fiasco. And if you ignored the unfortunate calculator incident at school. And assumed Mr Seth was batty! Nothing was truly amiss: nothing that would have satisfied Joke's rigourous scientific scrutiny, anyway.

But what about the tunnel under Mum's room? And those trunks with their carved faces? And how had Mr Seth delivered the calculator to Sub Rosa's second floor? Why hadn't I told Mum or Aunt Bea about any of this?

I grabbed my school bag from under the deck chair and pulled out the black case. Not a drop of blood. Mr Seth was an old man. Maybe he suffered dementia and had confused fact and fantasy. Or maybe he was sly and taking advantage of my over-active imagination. He'd probably found out all that stuff about me and Dad from Mr Fisk, like everyone else in Quakehaven. Perhaps we were both deluded.

I flipped open the calculator's lid and switched it on. The calculator activated with a jazzy jingle and the LCD screen - much bigger than I remembered it - suddenly exploded mid-battle. Hordes of ice-ninjas hurled pixelated metal stars at acid-spitting space-dragons. Ancient Assassins!

A shadow fell over me, blocking out the sun. "What have you got there, boy? Show it to me."

I looked up at Aunt Bea. The sun was behind her head and I couldn't see her face. But I knew from the quiet, even tone of her voice that she was not happy.

"Maths homework, Aunt Bea," I said. I flipped the lid closed, muffling the roar of the dragon. "They're re-testing us tomorrow."

"Don't give me lies, boy," said Aunt Bea, her voice softer and flatter. "Maths homework! Do you think me so naive?

"I am - I mean was," I spluttered.

"You shouldn't lie, boy," said Aunt Bea sternly. "I've nursed your mother since you got here, paid your school fees and fed and clothed you for over a year. And what's the one rule I've asked you to obey?"

"But Aunt Bea! I didn't mean -"

"No excuses. Computer games are forbidden in my house - and that includes my yard. The violence is unacceptable for growing minds. You should be reading. We've got hundreds of wholesome classics for young men in the library - all you have to do -"

"Books have violence in them too, Aunt Bea," I interrupted. "Have you read your so-called classics recently? Jack London or Dickens? They're filled with blood and violence. That's why they are still so popular."

"I was talking about Austen and the Brontes, boy," snapped Aunt Bea. "How dare you speak back to me!" She strode over to the pool steps and clamoured down them. "Give me that silly beeping machine."

The calculator began to vibrate. It was suddenly hot and wet in my hands. The ninja war cries faded and the case began to shudder. I tightened my grip. "Please don't," I begged it.

"Don't tell me what to do, boy" shouted Aunt Bea. "This is my house, my rules. I thought that at least was understood. Hand it over this very instant!"

The calculator continued to heat up. Coarse bristles sprouted from its hide and dug into the webbing between my fingers. Claws tapped a light tattoo into my defenceless palms. I raised my hands to my mouth. "Don't you dare hurt her!"

"It's a her now is it!" shouted Aunt Bea, her calm veneer imploding. "Most unnatural. Give HER to me now." She clasped her hands over mine. Her fingers were strong and wiry from years of housework and letter-writing and I struggled to resist. Close up, Aunt Bea's lavender scent was sharper, like candyfloss dipped in a stale vase water of roses.

"You don't want to do this, Aunt Bea," I grunted. "Please."

Another shadow fell over us. Aunt Bea and I looked up. Mum, dressed in a nightie, her hair loose and massive, glowered down at us.

"What's going on?" she demanded. "Both of you, stop it." She ran her fluttering hands through her thick tresses, then started to cry. She was barefoot and her white nightie was thin cotton. She must have been chilled to the bone.

Aunt Bea let go of me. "Bridget," she said. "We didn't mean to disturb your rest. It's nothing. We were just...horsing around. You should go back to -"

"Yes, Mum," I said. "We were just playing a game. Monkeying around, you know. Let me help you back to be-."

"I'm sick, not blind," Mum said. "Playing horses and monkeys? Give me a break. You were squabbling. I heard the whole thing from my bedroom."

"How?" I asked. Mum's room was at least ten metres from the pool. She couldn't possibly have heard us through the double glazed walls.

"Paddy, give me the game," said Mum, ignoring my question.

"But -" I started.

"Just do it!" she ordered. "You heard your Aunt. She has given us everything since we got here. We're the last thing she needs with all her responsibilities."

"Bridget," said Aunt Bea, starting to cry. "I didn't mean it. I love you both. I don't know what came over me. Paddy, I'm sorry. I'm just. Just so tired."

"I'm sorry, too. Aunt Bea," I said, my voice hoarse with self-disgust. "I know I'm not allowed to play computer games. It's just -"

"Good. Now give me the game," said Mum.

"Mum, no I -"

"Now, Paddy!" she commanded, kneeling on the wet grass.

I opened my hands. The calculator's fur and claws had receded. It was perfectly ordinary black plastic box again. My hands shook as I handed it over.

"Good," she said, standing up and secreting the game into the dew-soaked front pocket of her nightie. "And before I forget Joke called." She pulled a folded piece of yellow paper out of the same pocket and handed it to me. I glanced at it and then pocketed it.

Mum swooned and collapsed onto the lawn. As one, Aunt Bea and I scrambled up the stairs. We hauled her up, Aunt Bea taking most of the weight, and trudged back to the house. This wasn't the first time Mum had fainted, so we weren't too worried. She just needed a change of clothes and some sleep.

I kick-swiped the conservatory door open and we heaved Mum onto her bed. I sat on the trunk, facing away from the bed, as Aunt Bea helped Mum out of the wet nightie and into some clean pyjamas. "Sorry, again, Aunt," I said, massaging my arms. "I really appreciate all that you've done for us."

"I know," said Aunt Bea. "I love having both of you around. Until you came to stay, I didn't realise how lonely I'd become."

Around Mum's neck, something silver caught the light and glinted. I jumped off the trunk to investigate. It was a fine silver locket shaped like a two-headed swan.

"When did mum get this?" I asked.

"A small gift," Aunt Bea answered. "It belonged to my mother, your grandma. She left it to me, but it looks so much nicer around your mother's neck. I wanted her to have it."

Aunt Bea plumped Mum's pillows and kissed her forehead. I went over and hugged her. "We've disturbed your peace and quiet. And you've been so patient with me, especially my sleep-walking," I said. "I love you, Aunt Bea. We both do."

"Thanks, boy," she replied. "That means a lot. This place has been pretty quiet since your Uncle Gerry passed. My social skills are somewhat...rusty. But it doesn't mean I don't love having you here."

Mum was asleep. As we turned to go, Aunt Bea pointed at the yellow card jutting out of my jeans.

"What was Jokkum's message?" asked Aunt Bea. "Do you need a lift somewhere?"

"No, thanks." I said. "He was meant to be coming over to work on the bridge. But he had to help his father with a job."

"I see," said Aunt Bea. "Have you got any ideas?"

"Not yet," I said. "Would it be all right if I looked at a few books in Uncle Gerry's library? Just until dinner?"

"Of course," laughed Aunt Bea. "Just stay away from those Jack London books you warned me about. And certainly no Dickens!"

I smiled and walked to Uncle Gerry's reading room. As I closed the door, my grin gave way. I unfolded the message. On one side was Joke's message, in Mum's neat handwriting. But on the reverse, typed in italicised caps, was some sort of poem:

"ITS MEN, LIKE SATYRS GRAZING ON THE LAWNS SHALL WITH THEIR GOAT FEET DANCE AN ANTIC HAY."

I read the cryptic sentence a few times. Something about it rang a bell, but I couldn't put my finger on it. I scrunched up the message and stuffed it into my pocket. I wondered whether Mum would ever get better; or whether she was, in fact, getting worse.

I decided I'd tell Doc Vassel about the poem when I next saw him, but not to worry Aunt Bea. She was already worried enough about Mum for the both of us.

##  9. FISTICUFFS AND FERINE

The next morning, Aunt Bea dropped me off at school, kissing my cheeks like a Russian diplomat before driving off to her meeting at the Town Hall. The Barn Dance was in two days time, and Aunt Bea had volunteered to organise it, like she did every year. No wonder she was so tired!

It was chilly: little bouquets of my breath puffed from my mouth and nose as I trudged through the main gate. Most of the kids were playing football on the field. But three tiny familiar figures wrestled on the far side of the playground. Nothing unusual in that; probably just a game of pre-school bull rush. But, as I squelched my way across the muddy football field, I saw what was really going on.

I bolted over. Tim, sweaty and bone-white, had pinned Joke's arms behind his back like a prisoner and was dragging him through the bark-covered ground to the monkey-bars against the high mesh fence that marked the school's western perimeter.

Atop a treated pine log, facing the boys, sat Mark. Attracted by the commotion, some of the kids had fanned out on either side of Mark's log-throne in a V-shape. Joke struggled, his face mashed against the mesh fence. But Tim was much bigger, and held him fast.

"Stop!" I shouted, and skidded to stop half way between the fence and the log. Mark sneered. Then he stood up, strolled over to Joke and punched him once – hard - in the kidneys. The lookers-on stood mute, transfixed. "Passengers, all of them," I muttered to myself.

Joke slumped against the fence, curled up in a whimpering heap at Mark's feet. For a terrible moment, I thought Mark was going to stomp on him. I gasped, and Mark chuckled, then lowered his boot.

The crowd - now almost the whole class - remained motionless. Even Nicky just stood there, eyes glazed, absorbing the spectacle.

I rushed over to Joke and hunkered down beside him. "You OK?" I asked. He didn't answer, but flinched and curled up like a wood louse.

From the corner of my eye, I saw Tim sneaking up from behind me. "You proud of yourself, tough guy?" It was bad cop-show dialogue, but it seemed to fit the scene.

"Very," said Mark, grinning like the town idiot I knew he was not. "Pumpkin-patch forgot his place. He needed a lesson."

"Lesson?" I snorted, pivoting to my left. "And what lesson, oh guru, have you imparted today? How to bash up a defenceless boy with help from a brainless stooge?"

Some of the kids, including Nicky, seemed to stir from their stupor. Robotically, Tim marched over to Mark, stopping a foot or so behind his leader. Classic henchman. Tim looked seriously ill, so anxious that he was walking on the spot grinding his teeth.

"Space-cadet," said Mark, irked at the crowd's laughter. "For a defenceless dust mote, your little Pumpkin-patch has got a big mouth. Perhaps he'll keep it shut from now on."

"Is this what it's all about?" I said, incredulous. "Speaking in assembly? If that were a crime, you'd have been locked up long ago."

Nicky guffawed, and Mark scowled. Tim snarled at Nicky, until Mark waved him back. Nicky fell silent. What was going on with Tim? As far as I knew, he had never hit a girl. If anything, he had always got on well with Nicky. Perhaps he'd forgotten his meds.

To break the tension, I spoke again: "What's Joke ever done to you, Mark?"

"He exists," snapped Mark. "He fouls my air supply with his blabberings. Thinks he's too smart for the rest of us. Refuses to follow the rules."

"Whose rules?" I asked. "Yours?"

"Of the jungle, mate. Survival of the fittest."

"And you, protected by your pet-thug, think you're the fittest do you?"

Tim growled, like a wounded dog, and prowled forward, his left shoulder now in front of Mark's chest. Mark didn't beat him back him this time and smiled innocently.

"I was born to lead, Paddy," Mark said, narrowing his eyes. "It's in my genes. Just like poverty is in Joke's genes and madness runs through yours. Still sleepwalking, little psycho?"

I'd stayed over at Mark's house once, and Aunt Bea had told the Barkers about my condition just in case they found me snore-prowling around their estate. But now I resented him knowing about it; knowing anything private about me at all. Mark couldn't keep a secret.

Breathing deeply, I held my ground. The other kids seemed to know where this was heading and moved closer to the action.

Joke stopped whimpering and sat up.

"Paddy, let it go," he whispered.

"I thought you'd learned your lesson," snarled Mark. "Keep your bloody mouth shut." Without warning, Tim vaulted forward and kicked Joke in the small of his back. Both victim and aggressor howled: Joke in pain, Tim in what sounded like pleasure.

"Take it easy Tim," said Mark, his 100 watt smile faltering a little, his dimples disappearing. "We don't want to inflict permanent damage."

"Keep your hands and feet to yourself," I ordered Tim. The hulking boy's face was a mask minted from an alloy of contempt and outrage. I turned back to Mark. "Keep your dog on a leash. Otherwise, you might be the one who gets the lesson."

"I'd like to see you try, Paddy," said Mark.

Tim had retreated again to stand behind Mark. He shook violently. Suddenly, his eyes clouded over, like a fog had rolled out of his skull. Tim cocked his head acutely. Red liquid seeped from the tops of his eyes, staining the foggy-whites pink. He did not blink the droplets away. Then, horribly, he opened his mouth.

Tim's gums were black and his teeth were sharpened daggers! He stared ravenously at the back of Mark's unprotected neck.

Some kids in the crowd had spotted the change and thrummed with whispered excitement bordering on the glee of a Colosseum of fans watching a lion pick gladiator sinews from its teeth. Why weren't they running for their lives?

"Mark," I said, palms upturned. "I need you to do something for me." I was channelling a hostage-negotiator I'd once seen in a movie: submissive and reassuring.

"Huh - why would - ?

"Just listen," I soothed. "Stay still. You're in danger." I scanned the circle of dullards standing around us. Not a brain in their collective heads. Heads all within striking distance!

"Danger!" Mark scoffed. "You're the one that's in danger - of a good whipping by my true mate Tim. You had your chance, but you chose Joke. And I can hold a grudge. Forever."

"Listen to Paddy," squeaked Joke. "He's not having you on."

"I'll do as I please," said Mark. "I've had enough of all this talk."

Tim gnashed his sable inky teeth and clasped his right hand around Mark's shoulder. From where I stood, Tim's grey hands looked like they had moulted scales, and his fingernails were green-black claws. Tim lent over to savage Mark's neck.

Pricks of sunlight pierced the clouds. My shadow fell across the monster's face. I leapt forward, and shunted Mark to the side, slapping Tim's cheek. The monster staggered back, then lunged forward with a leonine roar, tossing Mark across the playground. As he flew through the air, Mark squealed, then hit his head on a wooden bench and fell still.

Joke scrabbled to his feet and ran to me. "What's going on?" he whispered. "What's wrong with Tim, and with the others?"

I hadn't been watching the class. Nicky and the others weren't doing anything. It didn't look like bravery. Nor did it seem like fear. They just stood there like human-shaped trees, eyes cast down to the ground, moaning and swaying like...

"Passengers!"

"On what?" cried Joke.

"I'll explain later," I said. "No time. Need you to distract the others and get them the hell out of here. They're Imperilled!"

"Imperilled?" asked Joke.

"Use your head," I said shoving Joke towards Nicky. "Do it now."

Joke ran through a small break in the circle between Nicky and Anthony. I turned back to the Blackgum. Joke and the rest of the playground faded into stark irrelevance.

"What are you?" I asked the monster with Tim's face.

"You know what I am," hissed the thing. "And I know what you are. Knew as soon as I tasted your shadow."

A thin stream of purple pus leaked from its lips. "What do you want?" I asked, trying not to let my voice quaver.

"Stop stalling. You know that too. My master will reward me handsomely for a Smith-Soul. I might be permitted to feast on all of these Passengers," it said licking its lips at the circle of kids. The Zealtor might even reward me with the soul of that spoilt brat," it said pointing its right claw at Mark's motionless body. "He's got Forger blood, that one. I can almost taste him from here."

"Leave them alone," I said, trying to sound authoritative. The Blackgum thought I was a Smith, the only reason he hadn't devoured me on the spot. I needed more time. I needed help.

"Make me." Without further ado, the Blackgum lurched forward, much faster than I expected, and seized my right elbow, almost wrenching my arm from its socket. I screamed, and flailed at the monster's legs with my feet. But the beast was too strong.

"Not so powerful," tutted the Blackgum, sounding almost disappointed. "Not a full Smith?" he said, the stench of his fish-paste breath almost as debilitating as his grip on my arm. "A Novice, is it? No mind, you'll do as an appetiser."

The Blackgum lifted me, off my feet, gripped my neck with his free claw and opened his filthy maw, presenting his cutlery-drawer of teeth. "Let me go," I gasped, kicking at his stomach, trying to prise his claws off my neck.

"So weak. I forget what it was like to be human."

"You were a good bloke once, Tim. Don't do this."

"This isn't some fairy story," growled the creature. "Little Timmy won't stir, or rise up to drive me out. He's gone. Dead. Forever," spat the Blackgum, and I knew it was true. "He was stupid and scared and useless, like all of you. Easy pickings for my master," it said, and threw back its head. A forked, blue-green spike erupted from the back of Tim's head and swatted me, almost playfully, with its dull edge. I screamed.

The monster's grip had cut off the circulation of blood to my head. I was woozy, like my head was an aspirin, slowly dissolving in a jug of coppery water. It was useless. I couldn't overpower the monster. Time slowed down, and I became very aware of my surroundings: the kids standing around wide-eyed, the overgrown weeds poking through the fence.

The monster's mouth-spike shot out again. I yanked my head back from its barbs, my eyes scrolling heavenward. From the big gum tree shading the monkey-bars, a magpie watched my struggle indifferently. I jerked my head to the left, just avoiding another strike.

Like a high definition camera, I saw incredible details of the ground beneath my swinging feet. Red ants crawled over the carcass of a fallen praying mantis. So much wildlife living around us right under our noses and over our heads. Life and death above and below; unnoticed, till now.

Life! Wildlife! That was it - the Ferine!

I jagged my head to the right, and the monster smirked. It was playing with its food, savouring my struggle. "Ferine, help me," I whispered under my breath, trying, without knowing how, to direct my thoughts, wiggling my eyebrows, as if to amplify the thoughts.

"Why should I?" squawked a voice above me. Somehow, I knew it was the magpie.

"What's in it for us?" boomed a tiny red soldier ant, dismantling an antenna from the alien head of the dead mantis.

"What will you give us?" whispered the Lantana weed, its voice silky, a soft rustling of air through reeds.

"Whatever you want," I yelped. "Just help me."

"Will you cede us this territory?" cawed the magpie.

"What?" I asked. Dark splotches splashed across my vision. I was not in the strongest of positions to haggle. "Yes. Of course. Whatever. It's yours. Take it."

"So quick to deal with us, is he?" asked the ant. "How can we trust him?"

"I swear, on my honour as a Smith. But only if you hurry. Do it now."

I began to black out. The sucking blood rush in my ears stopped and an unbearable silence descended on me like a bell jar.

Then came a disturbance.

From the bark covered ground beneath the monster's feet, a crackling began, that quickly grew into a flatulent rumble. The monster's grip loosened, and I wheezed in a lung full of air. I squashed open my eyes just in time to see what looked like a white grooved arrow erupt from the earth and embed itself deeply in the monster's right upper thigh.

The monster dropped me, and I crashed to the ground, an insensible lump. The beast roared, and clutched at its thigh, trying to dislodge the thick gum-tree root. But the more the monster pulled, the deeper the tree root burrowed.

The monster pushed its leg down on the root. The root slithered under the monster's skin and up into its guts. Gouts of black blood flooded down the monster's torso and onto the ground, steaming as it ate its way through the bark. Its blood was acid.

"Nice try, Smith. I'll be with you in just a second," said the monster, wearily winking at me like a department store elf on Christmas Eve. As he opened his winking eye, however, a blur of black and white careened into the monster's face, then shot back up into the gum tree.

"My eyes!" screamed the monster, falling onto his knees, driving the writhing root up through his back with the force of its fall. "My eyes!" It began to struggle blindly to its feet.

A drop splashed onto my head. I looked up at the tree where the magpie sat, cheerily chomping down the monster's peepers. My scalp tingled where the teardrop of eye-juice had broken, and I wiped it quickly with the back of my hand, which also started to sting.

"Sorry," sang the magpie, husky and hearty. "I'm a messy eater."

"No problem," I said. The monster struggled upright, then fell again. A red-metallic river spouted from the ground and engulfed the thrashing creature. I squinted and saw that it was no brook or stream. It was a vast army of fire ants.

"Be careful," cawed the magpie. "Ants get a bit carried away when the mood takes them. Some of the younger ones are none too smart, if you catch my drift."

I leapt onto Mark's log, then vaulted up onto the monkey-bars, pulling myself up onto the horizontal ladder at its apex. Upside down, I scanned the battlefield. There was now no sign of the other kids.

The Blackgum fought the ant horde. All over, its bare skin had erupted into open, bleeding sores where the ants had stung it thousands of times. I reminded myself that this thing wasn't Tim. My friend had been dead, possibly since the party. But it was still a nightmare to watch.

The creature's wails gave out as the ants demolished its throat and voice-box. It tried to squash its attackers, but two reinforcements arrived for each crushed comrade. The monster again attempted to scrabble to its feet. But another tree root shot out of the earth and pierced the creature's side. The barbed roots of the gum tree were strong enough to break concrete. The monster fell back to the ant-carpeted ground thrashing in agony.

"I can't see you, Smith" hissed the Blackgum, its voice projected from the tip of its half-devoured sting. "But I smell your fear. It won't be long till you die at the hands of my Zealtor."

"You are the only thing dying today," I said, then looked away as the ants ate into the monster's heart. With a hideous death rattle, the monster finally perished.

I clung on. Eventually, the sated ants receded, and the roots ploughed back into the earth. Gingerly, I dropped from the monkey-bars and inspected what was left. A skeleton of gnawed bones. Bones only slighter larger than my own.

Poor Tim! He'd been a bully, sure, but no-one deserved to go like this. Body-snatched by a Blackgum, then munched and torn apart by wild things.

"I've got to get out of here," I mumbled to myself, my ears ringing. "Too much death."

"Eye, Eye, Captain," squawked the magpie.

"What?" I said.

"Don't you get it? Eye eye! I gots its eyes!" cawed the magpie and then cackled at the hilarity of its quip.

"Not funny," I said, sobbing for my dead friend.

"Ferine jokes never are," said a familiar voice. I turned. Mr Seth carried a large brown brief-case under his arm. He nodded curtly, then stooped down, gathered up Tim's grey-white bones, and bundled them into his case. He snapped his case shut and scooped it up by the handle.

The old man swept me up with his free arm. With not a hair out of place, Mr Seth strode for the gates, ignoring the jubilant Lantana shoots sprouting up and down the field like a Mexican wave.

The school-yard reeked of compost. I was thankful, knowing it masked far fouler scents.

## 10. CRAB DATE

"Did you, or did you not, promise Quakehaven to the Ferine?"

I'd been day-dreaming about life on Venus. About the same size as Earth. Of course you'd have to get used to the heat. And the sulphuric acid clouds, and absence of oxygen. What factor sun-block did Venusians wear? And so on. I started at Mr Seth's words, and shuddered as grim reality destroyed my fantasy.

A bright spot shone through the blanket of clouds in the East like a torch. It must still have been morning. We were just outside the school gates. The street stunk of ozone and rotten eggs. I summoned my arm to bury my nose in my jacket, but the stubborn limb wouldn't obey. Then I saw the blood, not all of it mine, and sat bolt upright.

"Answer me, boy," shouted Mr Seth.

I tried, but the words wouldn't come. Mark was sprawled out on his back on the footpath next to me, snoring lightly and mumbling to himself; something about his father. My body was racked with pain, especially my back. I'd fallen asleep slouched up against an old fashioned iron post box. Speaking of which, what did I want for Christmas? Unlikely to be Ancient Assassins while I lived in Sub Rosa. Probably more books, though anything beat socks or shirts...

"Boy!"

"Huh?" I said groggily. "Yeah, yes, no sir". My heart pounded and I shook all over, just like Tim had before -. I stifled the thought.

"Well, which is it, lad?" demanded the old man. "Did you promise them Quakehaven, or not?"

Mr Seth had his pinstriped back to me. Mr Seth wiggled the fingers of his right hand furiously at the distant gum tree, which had swollen and become massive. With his left hand, he gesticulated at the black and white smudge of a magpie, which was perched sensibly out of the old man's reach on the left pillar of the school gates.

"Magpie," I whispered, trying to suppress the memory of it skulling Tim's eyeballs like olives.

"And an obnoxious one at that," snorted Mr Seth, opening and closing his fist. "You have obviously recovered your power of speech, so answer my question!"

The old man, the bird and the tree looked like a group of mutes arguing over a bill. If the Ferine were talking back to Mr Seth, however, it was a private conversation. I could no longer hear them, though perhaps it was because my ears still rung.

Mr Seth swung around and glared at me, his left hand continuing to harangue the irritating bird.

"Not," I said. "I mean, no, I did not promise the Ferine that they could have Quakehaven. The playground - that's all. Not the town. Did they say I promised them the town?"

"Typical," huffed Mr Seth, turning back to the wild things. "Ferine always exaggerate. Not even you could be so stupid to give away the town," he said now clenching and unclenching his fists slowly, like an arthritic boxer. Whatever he signalled provoked an indignant screech from the bird, who took off from the gate pillar with two sullen, curt flaps of its wings.

"Well, I've restricted the damage," said Mr Seth, lowering his arms, and turning again. He looked tired, his features, cracked and lined like an un-oiled baseball glove. "But what was this rubbish I hear about oaths sworn on the honour of Smiths?"

"I had to do something. I was about to pass out. I -"

"Foolish boy," snapped Mr Seth. "That oath and this school-yard were not yours to give. You're not even a Novice, and you've left me with quite a mess."

Abashed, I looked away from the old man to the back Western corner of the playground where I'd nearly been killed by the Blackgum. He was right.

Firs and conifers lining the school fence had emulated the gum tree and become giants. They towered over the school building. Giant weeds, interspersed with angry red mushrooms carpeted the football field, choking the grass with burrs, thorns, thistles and spores. Flocks of birds of prey - kites, crows, ravens \- wheeled overhead, swooping with intent at anyone or thing that approached the back fence. A coalition of ant armies patrolled the front gate, marching in jagged lines.

From behind us, a brown cloud buzzed towards the school, a super-swarm of bees seeking safe harbour in Ferine territory. Tree roots danced and undulated like slow skipping ropes ripping up the bitumen quadrangle. Already, a labyrinthine nest of knotted vines snaked east from the back fence and launched themselves at the main school building, worrying the mortar between the old grey bricks. The stink of overripe fruit mingled uneasily with the rot of decaying vegetables and manure, casting a cold, humid pall over the schoolyard like a deserted greenhouse stacked with vats of fermented yeast.

"I had no choice," I sputtered, appalled. "I was fighting for my life. Tim was trying to -". Air fled my lungs. I couldn't breathe. Tim. The teeth and claws. Sharp beaks. Red blood. Killer roots. Bones in a suitcase. I opened my mouth and began to wail like a banshee.

Mr Seth frowned and said: "It was painless for your friend, Patrick."

I nodded. "Poor, Tim," I said. "He was a bit of a bully, but no-one deserves to die like that."

"Nonsense," said Mr Seth, though not unkindly. "We all die eventually. Some deserve it more than others, but it's always a surprise in the end. You know as well as I do that this abomination - this Blackgum - was not your friend. That thing killed the boy, probably days ago. We need to locate the source."

"Mark's party," I said. "It came out of a game. It stung, or bit him. We didn't think much about it. A small mark. And he was cleared by doctor."

"Fiddling while Rome burned, that's what you were doing."

"What?"

"Don't you kids do history these days? Nero?"

I stared at him blankly.

"Nero Claudius Caesar Augustus Germanicus 15 December AD 37 – 9 June AD 68. Emperor of Rome. Ring a bell?"

It didn't.

"Honestly? Huh. Rome burned in 64, while the Emperor stood around fiddling. Most serious historians think the fiddle bit is just a myth, though he did play a mean lute, if Suetonius is to be believed, which is inadvisable. But sometimes even false stories have something to teach us. Gorging at a party and missing the first infection was just plain negligent."

I was about to make the obvious point - I only heard about the Blackgum after Mark's party - when a prolonged squeal of a microphone sounded in the distance, followed by the distorted, but unmistakable voice of Mr Lyons calling a roll.

"The Passengers are over in the Commons," said Mr Seth, waving his arms vaguely in the direction of the sound. He probably meant Wane Park, our meeting place for school fire drills, about two blocks away to the south of school. "Quakehaven would have sustained far heavier losses today had it not been for some sensible soul triggering that infernal alarm and rousing the Passengers from their stupor." That explained the ringing in my ears. It wasn't in my head. "Did you see what happened to the Passengers in the presence of Blackgum."

"They were like zombies."

"Not exactly like zombies," said Mr Seth. "They're alive to start with, but if you mean brainless sheep, then yes. This town's forgetting itself. Those Passengers," he said gesturing towards the Park, "will not remember the Blackgum attack, and in an hour or two will not recall that Tim even existed. I've never seen such a high percentage of Passengers amongst young folk. It's lucky there was a Forger to save them. A small boy arrived with a pink globular woman and herded them away while the Blackgum had its way with you. Quite impressive, though that woman should do more exercise."

"Mrs Dixon," I said. "She's not globular. She just wears a lot of clothes to stay warm. She's not from here."

"Strange person," said Mr Seth. "They haven't noticed you two yet," he said gesturing at Mark, who was still out cold. "Wait till they see what you've done to the place. Talk about V for vandalism!"

"You were late," I said hotly. "Where were you? I could have died."

"Stop talking about death," said Mr Seth. "Do it often enough, you'll just invite it in. If you must know, I was trying to track down the enemy, the fiend who slayed your late friend."

"The Zealtor?" I asked.

"I was hunting in caves just north of the Lake," said Mr Seth, nodding. "Turns out I shouldn't have skipped the spelunking and just followed you. You're like a lightning rod for Blackgum."

"You could have warned me," I said.

"I was under the distinct impression," scolded Mr Seth, "that I had. In the library. Did you think I was doing story time?"

A high-pitched voice chimed in from the side. "Danger from what?"

I flinched and swung round. Joke had crept up on us without warning.

"Where's Tim?" asked Joke. "What's in the bag? Paddy, you'd better get over to Wane Park."

"OK," I said, side-stepping the questions.

"Do you know what this thing is called?" commanded Mr Seth.

"Just a schoolmate," I said pushing myself up onto my haunches and standing up.

"This guy lost?" said Joke suspiciously. "Geez, what's happening to the schoolyard?!"

"Curious, isn't it?" said Mr Seth advancing like a small bear on the small boy. "Too curious, perhaps?"

"Joke, this is Mr Seth. Mr Seth, meet Joke."

"A silly name for a serious boy," said Mr Seth. "Some parents should be banned from naming their brats."

"It's Norwegian," said Joke bristling. "Short for Jokkum. And I am."

"What does he mean?" asked Mr Seth, looking again at me.

"A serious boy," answered Joke. "And if you wouldn't mind, please address me directly."

"You were the one that triggered the fire alarm," said Mr Seth. "It's lucky there's someone around here with a brain and some initiative. If we'd left it to Paddy over here, we'd all be lost."

"Hey!" I said. "That's not fair. I'm the one who -"

"Got us into this quagmire, yes, I know," said Mr Seth, shooting me a warning glance, then a sly wink. "Now, Jokkum. Do you know the local pest control expert?"

"Yes. It's my dad."

"Mmmm. Lucky coincidence?" said Mr Seth doubtfully, narrowing his eyes a little. "Now what say you run and get him. Tell him it's an emergency and he needs to bring an array of avicides, herbicides, insecticides and fungicides, pronto. And a chainsaw. Do you need me to write that down?"

"Got it. Herbicides for the weeds, insecticides for insects, I'd recommend an organophosphate for this job; Avitrol for the birds, though those kites are a protected species, and tea tree oil for the mushrooms - it gets the job done but doesn't poison the grass like some of those other fungicides. Anything else?"

"Just the chainsaw," said Mr Seth, visibly impressed by Joke's knowledge of lethal chemicals.

"I'll go get dad. But not until you tell me what happened to Tim."

"He ran off," said Mr Seth, sadly. "Paddy smacked him on the nose and, like most bullies, he couldn't take it. Isn't that right, Paddy?"

"Um..." I said, not wanting to lie, but not sure how to explain what had really happened.

"Who'd of thought this weakling would have it in him," said Mr Seth pointing at me, but now staring deeply into Joke's eyes. "Still, I'm sure Tim will turn up soon, probably by dinner time. Wounded pride is less important that an empty belly to most young men."

"I don't believe you," said Joke. "There was something wrong with him. He was sweating. And those teeth, the smell..."

"Gum disease," said Mr Seth. "And bad personal hygiene. Not that rare in a boy his age."

"I don't believe you," repeated Joke stepping forward and reaching for Mr Seth's bag. "Something bad happened. Show me what's in the case, sir."

"Be my guest," said Mr Seth, reaching down and unclasping the bag.

"No Joke, don't -" I shouted, wanting to protect my friend from the grisly truth.

Joke ignored my warning, leaned over and inspected the bag's contents. Green smoke puffed out of the case. Joke yelped, then and blinked several times.

"See," said Mr Seth, raising an eyebrow. "Nothing in there but some books, a set of compasses and a set square. To help you with your homework."

"Set square," repeated Joke, his eyes glazed like those of the other kids earlier. "Set square, newly cut, and some text books."

"And a pair of compasses," said Mr Seth, picking up, then depositing the metal instrument into Joke's pocket, being careful not to stab the boy with the pointy end. "Now you've sated your curiosity, it's time to run home and get your father," said Mr Seth.

"Home. Father," parroted Joke. "Pesticides, and a chainsaw. Yes. Nice to meet you, sir."

"And you, lad," said Mr Seth. "Now go."

Before I had a chance to say anything, Joke turned on his heels and ran across the street towards a pay-phone.

I strode over to the case and looked down. No smoke for me. Just a bundle of bones, now neatly tied with a silver wire, like kindling. "What did you do to him?" I said. "Why did you turn him into a zombie?"

"Stop talking so ignorantly. You can't turn someone into a zombie with a parlour trick like that. It takes a lot more power and pain."

"Then what did you do?"

"Temporarily turned him into a Passenger, though it was harder than I expected," he said, shaking his head. "Just showed him what he wanted to see. A carnival trick, though I must say this is the first boy I have ever met who wanted text books and a set square. Any idea what he'd want them for?"

"The assignment, I guess. There's a competition to design a bridge for Mr Barker's new theme park, DinoQuake."

"Homework?" said Mr Seth, picking up his satchel. "That's an even stranger thing for a boy to want."

"The winner gets a scholarship to Pinkerton Grammar. Joke's desperate to win it."

"Aha!" said the old man, slinging the bag over his shoulder, then rubbing his chin sagely. "A way out of a one horse town. That's more like it. You watch that boy. My trick," he said, tapping the briefcase, "will confuse him a mite. Muddle his memory. He'll need your help - keep him focused on what's important in his life and this town, the here and now. Don't let him day-dream."

"What makes you think I'll be in a state to help anyone? I was nearly -"

"Yes," said Mr Seth. He placed both hands on me, massaging one of his hands over the cut in my wrist and my bruised elbow, and the other, palm up, under my chin. His hands pulsed and thrummed: it was like being plugged into the electricity mains.

"You were nearly killed. Murdered, to be more precise. I must take some of the blame for leaving you exposed. I wasn't expecting so a brazen attack this early. They won't try it again for a while. What you managed to achieve, almost entirely untrained. Not unimpressive."

Not unimpressive was the closest thing to a compliment I'd received from Mr Seth. "What should we do?" I asked. Mr Seth grunted and lifted his hands from my neck and arm.

"We? We will do nothing. I will redouble my efforts to find the mastermind. Something's very wrong. Ferine know the rules - the town's normal defences must be stretched near breaking point for them to take such liberties. I have to hold the Ferine stable, show them the strong hand of a gardener-shepherd."

"The pesticides," I said.

"My priority is to unearth the Zealtor. But I won't be distracted by a few weeds and some stroppy, lower order vertebrates. The last thing these pests want is to become Ts&Cs under the Zealtor's yoke."

"The Tamed and Crops," I said, pain now draining from my legs and lower back. "And me? What should I do?"

"Join the rest of your school at the Commons, get your name ticked off their list. You will then go home and pretend nothing has happened."

"They'll notice Tim's missing and call a search party. The police will be all over the school looking for clues."

"We'll see," said Mr Seth, sadly.

A chill ran down my now unbruised back. "What if the Blackgum come at me again? At school or at home with Mum and Aunt Bea?"

"The last thing the Zealtor wants right now is a pitched battle with the Ferine and us. The Zealtor is still gathering Blackgum troops."

I hoped the old man was right.

"Let's go, Paddy," said Mr Seth, pointing at Mark. "I'll lug this log over to the Commons with you, but you'll have to drag him the last few metres," he said, picking up the still unconscious Mark.

"I'm scared," I admitted.

"Good. Hopefully fear will help you focus. I'll be checking in from time to time, whenever I have time to draw breath from the hunt. And Paddy?"

"Yes."

"Keep Platykuk with you from now on. Within reach, even when you're sleeping. I don't know what you were thinking leaving home without him."

"He? Who's Platypop?"

Mr Seth shook his head, disgusted. "Platykuk \- your adding machine. Did I forget to make the introduction?"

###

I sneaked into the house, ducking like a limbo dancer under Katy's cage to avoid detection. Although my wounds had almost completely healed, I didn't want Mum or Aunt Bea to see the blood on my clothes.

As I crawled down the hall, I heard Aunt Bea on the phone in the reading room: "An infestation, James", she said. The only James we knew in Quakehaven was Mr Barker.

"Balder's been down there all morning - Jokkum told him to bring everything," said Aunt Bea. "Said they used fewer chemical weapons in Vietnam. But the plants just keep growing. The place is swarming with bugs, and the birds - just like Hitchcock!"

Aunt Bea paused, listening to Mr Barker. "I don't know," she responded. "Maybe the school used too much fertiliser when they replanted last year. Whatever it is, it's like a magnet for pestilence." She fell silent again, then continued. "I agree completely. The last thing Quakehaven needs is tourists thinking that we're plagued!"

I crept down the hall, then up the stairs. Mum and Aunt Bea would no doubt cross-examine me later. Before then, I needed time to sort out my thoughts. What would I tell them? Maybe it was time for the truth, however bizarre.

Platykuk sat innocuously on my pillow, like an oversized after-dinner mint at a fancy hotel. I picked it - him \- up, and rotated the case carefully, holding my breath. He looked just like an old calculator again.

I placed the calculator gently onto the bronze coin safe, within reach from my bed. Then I lay down and closed my eyes. I didn't trust the thing - platykuk - fully. But Mr Seth's command to keep it close by was clear. I hadn't had the courage to admit to Mr Seth that Mum had confiscated it, and I'd thank Mum later for returning it. Without further thought, I fell into a deep sleep. Unusually, it was dreamless.

###

I awoke suddenly to the shrill cling-clang of discordant doorbells, followed by Katy's squawk.

My first thought was that the Blackgum had found me! I jumped out of bed, ran down the stairs, and into the hallway, realising as I sprinted that the Blackgum were unlikely to use the front door; much less ring the bell!

"That'll be the Fisks, boy," said Aunt Bea, walking out of the reading room. "Don't run in the hall.

Dutifully, I power-walked to the front door and opened it. Katy's cage-cover was off and she glowered balefully from her swinging perch. She screeched as a blast of cold air from outside ruffled her yellow and black wing feathers.

"Good evening, Mrs Logston," said Mr Fisk, formal, stiff and rather nervous. He looked straight through me to Aunt Bea. My Aunt almost sashayed to the door, straightening out her floral-print dress with the palms of her hands.

"Good evening, Balder," said Aunt Bea, equally formal. It was like a meeting of ambassadors! "My, you look dashing this evening. And such lovely blooms."

With his bright red face and tatty brown suit, Mr Fisk looked like a fat crab stuck in a bucket with legs. The bunch of garish yellow flowers he handed to Aunt Bea looked like the type you pick up for $5 at the petrol station. Something fishy was going on. As he stepped through the door, I was assailed by the reek of musk cologne and, under it, the faint whiff of ammonia.

"Thanks for looking after Jokkum tonight," Mr Fisk said, stepping through the door to reveal his son. Joke followed his father into the house, lugging a green backpack about half his size. His face was blank and shiny, like he had also just woken up.

"Shouldn't be any trouble," said Mr Fisk, winking at his son. "Must have 20 books in that bag, so you probably won't hear a peep out of him."

"My pleasure," said Aunt Bea, not very convincingly. "Jokkum and Patrick will keep each other amused. They have a bridge to design. I'll let Bridget know you are here," she said, almost coyly. "Boy: why don't you help Jokkum with his school bag?"

"Let Mum know he's here?" I asked Aunt Bea. "What do you mean?"

"Oh, didn't I tell you, boy," said my Aunt innocently. "Mr Fisk has kindly invited your mother out for dinner and a movie."

"Movie and a dinner, actually," laughed Mr Fisk, looking at his watch.

"She's not well enough to go out," I said to Aunt Bea. "Not with Mr Fisk, anyway."

"Nonsense, boy," snapped Aunt Bea. "Don't be insolent. A night out on the town is exactly what your mother needs. It's not healthy staying cooped up in the house all day and night."

"But she's not healthy, Aunt Bea. That's the point," I said, pouting crossly.

Before Aunt Bea could respond, Mum's walked serenely into the hall. She wore a slinky metallic, green dress and her hair had been harnessed into a bun lanced with silver chopsticks. Unusually, she had applied makeup and her lipstick was the same glossy red as Mr Fisk's cheeks.

Mum's silver swan-pendant twinkled under the hall chandelier. She looked every inch a movie star, a femme fatale from an old noir movie, the type we used to watch with Dad. Even Katy stopped mid-squawk to gaze at her.

"Good evening, Balder," she said. "Sorry to have kept you waiting."

Aunt Bea brandished the petrol station flowers, like a soggy sabre, then thrust the stems into Mum's hands. "These are magnificent, Balder," she said. "You shouldn't have. I'm sure the last thing you need tonight is to take me out. Beatrice told me about the school."

"It's a big job," admitted Mr Fisk, pretending to be modest. "And it's not finished yet. Will probably take days before the school ground's safe for classes to resume again. But I wouldn't have missed tonight for anything, Bridget. You look ravishing."

My blood boiled. I felt like punching Mr Fisk on his beetroot nose.

"Thank you, Balder," Mum said. "You look very smart yourself."

"That would be a first," I muttered, louder than I'd intended.

"Hey," squeaked Joke.

"Boy," shouted Aunt Bea, her smile fading. "Why don't you help Jokkum upstairs? You don't have much time to finish the project."

"Sounds like a plan," said Mum, mussing my hair. "And apologise to Mr Fisk for being so incredibly rude."

"But -" I started.

"Now!" Mum ordered, sounding just like her sister. "Paddy?" said Mum.

"Sorry, Mr Fisk," I said, through gritted teeth.

"Don't worry, Patrick," said Mr Fisk, flashing his chipped choppers. "I'll take good care of your mother."

"Have a grand night on the town," said Aunt Bea, with a salacious wink.

"Come on Joke," I muttered. "You know the way."

"Good boy," said Mum, twisting her swan-pendant absently with her left hand. Mr Fisk escorted her out the door. "And Paddy," said Mum, looking back over her shoulder from the doorway.

"Yes, Mum?"

"Don't wait up."

## 11. BUILDING BRIDGES

I slammed my bedroom door, snatched Joke's bag from his shoulder and pelted it against my _Tobor_ poster. The bag crashed to the floor.

"What the hell is your father up to with Mum?"

"Calm down," said Joke. "It's just a movie."

"And a dinner," I said pretending to comb wisps of hair across my head like Mr Fisk. "And cheap, ugly flowers, don't forget. Your dad thinks he is on a date. With my Mum!"

"They're not ugly," said Joke. "I grew those flowers from seed: _paeonia officinalis_."

"Huh?"

"The scientific name for the angiosperms commonly known as peonies. And I think they're beautiful."

"Hah, I sneered."So your dad's too cheap to even buy flowers."

"Well, it's not as if we are swimming in money, Paddy," said Joke. "Not all of us have Aunts to live with."

"Well," I said, trying to think up a good comeback, and failing. "Just tell your dad to stay away from my Mum."

"Why?"

"Because he's a gossipy no-hoper and not good enough for her, that's why." I crossed my arms.

"Sounds like you're jealous," said Joke, quietly.

"Of what? Your loser dad?" I said.

"That you're not the one out at a movie with your mother."

"Don't be stupid," I snapped. "I don't want to watch some dumb film about kissing."

"You've been hanging out with Mark for too long," said Joke, holding his ground. "You think everything revolves around you. Poor Paddy. His mummy isn't at home one night to tuck him in."

"Shut up, Joke. You don't know what you're talking about."

"Rubbish I don't," said Joke, resting his hand on my shoulder. "Your father passed away and your mother's sick. My mum ran off and left dad stuck with me. Ever thought that they might and want to spend some time talking to people other than you and me?"

"Mum has Aunt Bea," I said, weakly, shrugging Joke's hand off my shoulder.

"And you wouldn't want a night away from her?" said Joke, grinning suddenly. Despite my best efforts, I couldn't help but snigger.

"Come on Paddy," said Joke. "I can't see your mother falling head over heels for my dad, especially in that old suit he's wearing! I think he got married in it! You should have seen him trying to zip up the trousers. He can hardly sit down. And the jacket's made of thick polyester, so he'll be as hot as hell all night."

I burst into laughter. "I'm sorry for being such a jerk, Joke."

"I'm used to it," said Joke. He walked over to the wall, smoothed out the rumpled poster of Tobor the Great and picked up his bag. "You want to watch some TV?"

"TV?" I asked. In the whole time I'd known him, I'd only seen Joke watch TV once, and that was a black and white National Geographic documentary on Amazonian pygmies. "What about the bridge?"

Joke yawned. "We can do it later. I know your Aunt doesn't let you play computer games in the house, but let's go to Arcadia and play space shooters. Do you think your Aunt would drive us?"

Arcadia was a games arcade owned by Mrs Barker. I was surprised Joke even knew about it, much less wanted to go.

"Are you all right, Joke?" I asked.

"Yeah," he said, sitting down on my bed. "Actually, I can't be bothered asking your Aunt. Why don't we just watch a DVD and then go to bed? Something we've seen before. Do you have _Clash of the Titans_? The original one with the clockwork owl?

What had gotten into Joke? He hated that movie, didn't think it was scientifically defensible in any dimension.

Joke lay down on my bed. "Paddy, just start the movie. I'm just going to take a little nap." His eyes drooped shut, and he yawned again, massively like a dying lion. "Wake me up when it gets up to Medusa. Those snakes on her head are cool. I wish the grumpy old man had given me the set square."

"Huh?"

Joke closed his eyes: "The set square in his case. That old guy showed it to me at school, remember, just after the -". Joke furrowed his brow. "Doesn't matter. The compasses are beautiful. Though we could design beautiful bridges with that set square, if only he had given it to me."

Mr Seth's words came back to me: _He'll need your help - you have to keep him focused on the town, the here and now. Don't let him day-dream_. It seemed funny to say, but until Joke had mentioned the set square and Mr Seth's case, I hadn't thought much about the attack - or even poor Tim. I hadn't forgotten it - how could anyone forget such a nightmare! - it seemed so remote, and unreal, unimportant somehow. Irrelevant. But it had only happened that morning. And I had nearly been killed!

Joke dozed away, on his side. I sat down on the bed next to him and punched him, hard, on his nearest bicep.

"Owww!" groaned Joke. Like a malfunctioning android, he opened one eye, then closed it. "What was that for?"

I punched him again, harder, in exactly the same place, my second finger curled in a question mark to make the blow more painful. It worked: Joke opened both eyes and sat up.

"Paddy - what the heck?! I think you've corked my arm."

"Get up, now!" I ordered. "Or I'm going to keep smacking you."

"Why? What's so urgent? Let me sleep. Please, Paddy. Just a while."

"We're not going to sleep yet - and we're not going to watch TV, or play video games - until we've finished the bridge design."

"No rush, let's do it tomorrow," pleaded Joke.

"It's due tomorrow, and we haven't even started it. We were meant to work on it yesterday, when you didn't show up."

Joke rubbed his eyes. "Yesterday? Oh, yeah. Sorry about that." He looked over my shoulder to his reflection in my mirrored door. "Dad needed me to help move some old furniture for Mrs Carruthers."

"Don't make excuses!" I barked like a drill sergeant. "Get up and show me what's in the bag. Now!"

Joke pushed himself off the bed, unzipped his schoolbag and unpacked its contents, stacking book after book on top of each other, from largest to smallest, until the stack resembled a small Mayan temple.

I waited patiently until he was done, and then kicked the stack over.

"Don't damage the books!" squealed Joke. His eyes were starting to clear, and his face was scrunched up with exasperation. "They're library books," he said. "Mrs Carruthers ordered them express from the City to thank me for moving her hall stand."

I stooped over and picked up the largest of the books. _De Architectura_ by Vitruvius. Although the cover said it was a reprint, it looked old and delicate. I flicked it open and started to tear out pages.

"No!" screamed Joke, flapping ineffectually at my legs. I jumped back, and he tried to wrestle the book out of my hands. I cracked the book's spine. He lunged at me, his compasses flying out of his pocket and onto the floor. I ducked him like a matador and he charged across the room, tumbling over my hamper, and crashed head first into the card table. The card table collapsed, knocking my desk lamp off its stand. The lamp's tubular globe shattered on the bare floorboards.

I danced around the room, whistling while I ripped. Joke picked himself up and chased after me, caterwailing.

Joke's never been good at sports - he's got terrible hand-eye coordination - and after less than a minute, he stopped chasing me and plonked himself down in the centre of my room, out of breath, his features bubbling with rage.

"Paddy," he said. "You can't destroy library books. I'll have to pay to replace them. And we need that one: it's got some great ideas for our bridge."

"I thought you didn't care," I observed.

"Of course I care," snapped Joke. "I need that scholarship."

"Then why were you napping?"

"I -". He stopped, open mouthed like a landed cod. "I don't know," he confessed. "I was so tired, and slow, like my head was full of sand."

"Well I'm glad you are back on message, as Mrs Kroker would say."

"Mrs Kroker?" Joke's face went white, and his eyes widened. "Tim! What happened to Tim?"

I put the remains of the book down, walked over to Joke and sat down beside him. "He's dead, Joke," I said, gently. "There's something evil in this town, and it killed him."

"Who? Why aren't the police hunting for the killer? We need to call them."

"It's a what."

"What?"

"The thing that killed Tim. It's not a 'who', it's a 'what'. And it's dead too. But there are more coming. No-one remembers Tim anymore, probably not even Mrs Kroker. Before you came, I heard Aunt Bea rabbiting on to Mr Barker about weeds. Do you think your dad would be taking Mum our on a date if they knew one of our classmates had been murdered? Everyone's forgotten he ever lived here. I'd half forgotten him as well, until you mentioned that set square!"

It took Joke a few seconds to absorb what I'd said. "So as far as this town is concerned, he never existed. What's happening, Paddy? Maybe someone's poisoned the reservoir with a hallucinogen. Maybe that old man. There was something fishy about him."

"No," I replied. "I don't think anyone's poisoned our water supply. And Mr Seth's trying to help stop more deaths from happening by finding the source."

"And while we wait, twiddling our thumbs, more people might die?"

"Probably," I said. There was no point trying to sugar-coat it for Joke. He needed to know how serious things were.

"We've got to do something, Paddy."

"We need to keep our minds working, or we will become easy prey."

"Which is why you tore up the book."

I nodded. "I needed to snap you out of it. Do the same for me if I start to forget stuff. Start with my maths textbook," I said, and grinned. Joke stood up and righted the card table. Then he picked up his pair of compasses, sat down, and started carving at the floorboards underneath the table. I crawled forward to inspect his work:

"Tim Kroker was murdered. Lest we forget," it said, followed by the date.

"The best way to help is to keep ourselves thinking," I said. "That way, we'll be awake and ready to fight if we have to. Mr Seth said he didn't expect another attack for a while."

"And you believe him?"

"We don't have much choice," I said. "Now concentrate, and let's brainstorm a bridge."

Joke quivered. Then he squared his shoulders and set his jaw. I was impressed: he'd just processed a lot of information - much or it irrational and terrifying. "Let's get out of this room," I said. "That bed is too tempting."

We gathered the books and headed for Uncle Gerry's reading room.

Sub Rosa had originally been a small school. The reading room was the school library. It was a huge room, with walls of built-in shelves crammed with books. Some of the bookcases on the side walls contained first editions. Those were locked behind glass doors and Aunt Bea guarded the key jealously. Most of the other books were neither rare nor off limits.

The first time Joke walked into the reading room, he nearly collapsed in a paroxysm of joy. Even after all we had just gone through, his eyes hungrily scoured the shelves.

I switched on all the lights. The reading room lit up like the top floor of a light house.

Uncle Gerry had installed two oversized green leather armchairs like thrones. Each chair featured an inbuilt mahogany side table, on which he used to rest his plentiful bowls of cashew nuts and ashtrays. He liked to snack and smoke while he read, and he read a lot, which is probably why he was so fat and unhealthy!

The armchairs were too deep - and too relaxing - for me and Joke, so we sat cross-legged in front of them, resting against their footrests. Thick blue velvet curtains were drawn across the large bay window that looked out at the street.

Mum must have anticipated we'd come down there to study. Plates of sandwiches, fruit and gingerbread piglets \- the latter her specialty - were laid out on the side-tables. Ignoring the healthy stuff, Joke and I stuffed sties of piglets into our mouths, savouring the chocolate sugar dots Mum had used for their eyes.

Joke opened his bag, fanned out the text-books, then pulled out a couple of battered sketch pads and some coloured pencils. We set to work, flicking through the books for ideas. After we'd looked at Joke's library books, we found plenty of useful engineering tomes in Uncle Gerry's shelves. Most of them too technical for us to understand. But they had some great pictures.

Mr Barker had been clear: the bridge needed to connect his two theme parks. Midas Mountain was a re-creation of what Quakehaven had looked like in the 1850s, when the town had sprung up from no-where in the aftermath of an earthquake and the discovery of gold seams. DinoQuake was to be a family park with a dinosaur theme.

The winning design had to incorporate features of both parks: the gold rush and dinosaurs. After less than half an hour, it became clear that Joke and I had very different ideas of what we wanted the bridge to be.

"What's wrong with a T-rex lying on a surfboard juggling gold-pans?" I asked Joke, wounded. I thought my idea was genius, but Joke shook his head gravely.

"Where to begin," he said. "First of all, Tyrannosaurus Rex - if that what this is meant to be - did not populate this area, or even this country. Second, T-Rex stood upright and couldn't lie flat because of his spine - he'd be a lousy bridge. And third - and most obviously, T-Rex lived about 110 million years ago - man only arrived in this country about 40,000 years ago. Gold-diggers weren't seen in these parts until about 160 years back."

"Why do you have to be so literal?!" I said, "The bridge should be a bit of fun to bring in the crowds."

"Your idea is a scientific abomination," said Joke primly. "Those pans are not to scale. And, on top of all of that, your design would repulse tourists. They'd flee to the Beltway."

"Well what's your great idea, then?" I said, trying not to sulk.

"It's not finished, yet," said Joke, holding his sketch book to his chest.

"Come on! We don't have much time - we've got to start building the model soon."

"OK then," said Joke, handing me his book. "But bear in mind it's just a prototype."

I glanced down at the page, and laughed. It was a simple crescent-moon shaped bridge, with white pickets on either side.

"Couldn't you make it any more boring? How's this meant to link Midas Mountain and Dino-Quake?"

"Look closer," said Joke.

On each picket, tiny symbols had been scribbled. At first glance, I'd assumed they were Joke's idea of decorative art. I squinted, bringing the page a little closer to my face and deciphered minute words on each picket, like:

Years ago - Event

4500 million - Earth's crust and the oceans formed

1600 million - Marine Life

590 million - Trilobites

408 million - Insects

360 million - Amphibians, Sharks and Reptiles

250 million - Dinosuars, Crustaceans and First Mammals

213 million - Birds

98 million - Dinosaurs died out

65--5 million - Primates, Mammoths, Dogs and Cats, Snails, Grazing mammals

2 million - primitive Humans (e.g homo habilus)

0.01 - Humans develop agriculture

17,000 years - Cave Paintings Lacaux

5,500 years - Sumerian empire

5,000 years - Minoan civilisation

4,800 - Chinese civilisation

4,600 - Mayan civilisation

4,500 - Great Pyramids in Egypt and Stonehenge in England; and Indus civilisations in India

3,260 - Celts

And so on.

There were a whole lot more - no wonder it had taken him so long, and all from memory! I won't bore you with the dates for places like ancient Babylon, Persia, Greece, Rome, and people like Socrates, Alexander the Great, Buddha, Plato, and a guy called Jesus - maybe you've heard of them. But I will tell you the last picket, right after 1841 - Irish potato famine" read:

160 years - Gold Rush Quakehaven, welcome to Midas Mountain.

"You have an amazing mind, Joke", I said, impressed. "But this is going to bore everyone to tears. Walking on the bridge will be like a forced history lesson."

"Maybe it will give everyone some perspective \- I mean the 1850s are not even ten minutes ago, in geological time."

"True. But Dad used to tell me history isn't just a bunch of dates and names. It's the stories that matter. Things ordinary women and men have achieved. Learning how to avoid mistakes others have made.

"Well, I've put a lot of work into this," said Joke stubbornly. "Unless you can think of a better idea, I say we go with it. I'm not going to embarrass myself in front of the scholarship committee with a Juggling Jurassic Junk bridge!"

He had a point. My design did lack the nerd factor likely to attract the committee. Still, I liked the look of my bridge better, even if it was silly. I put both our drawings next to each other, and compared them. Suddenly, lightning struck.

"Hey Joke," I cried. "What was the name of the dinosaur they found under Barkerfield all those years ago?"

"Minmi," said Joke scratching his ear.

"That doesn't sound like a dinosaur name."

"I know. It was the shortest dinosaur name, till the Chinese named one Mei, about five years ago."

"And what did it look like? Minmi, I mean." I had a vague picture in my head from the news reports, but I knew Joke would have a detailed description imprinted in his cortex.

"Not sure this is the best use of our time, Paddy," he said.

"Just humour me for a minute. What did Minmi look like?"

Well it was an ankylosaur, so it had a head a bit like a plant-eating reptile's, but much more fierce with a long tail."

"Like a battle turtle?!" I asked, excited.

"Um. Kinda, though that's not technically correct. Turtles are reptiles, not dinosaurs. Minmi is really old - those fossils were dated to over 100 million years. It was about three metres long, walked on four legs and ate plants, things like ferns, fallen tree boughs and grasses, which it crunched up with its beak. Minmi's back was curved and covered with armoured plates, and it also had plates that stuck up on the side of its spine and on its tail."

I grinned. "So let me get this right. It's a local dinosaur. Its body was long and arched, and its back was covered in armour that stuck up like -"

"Pickets!" said Joke, excited, suddenly understanding where I was going. "That's perfect, Paddy!"

Joke reached into his bag and grabbed a plastic takeaway container full of modelling clay and some folded up butchers' paper, which he spread out on the carpet. "Let's get started," he said. He opened the container and scooped out a glob of clay.

We got to work. The next two hours flew by. I tracked down and traced out a picture of Minmi from one of Uncle Gerry's old science magazines, copied it onto a page of my sketch book and then set about modelling Minmi's body. It was slow and hard going: I worked on the armour plates, then body, head and tail \- the big picture stuff - while Joke painstakingly inscribed the dates and events into the plates with my pair of compasses.

About forty minutes in, I stopped: "We've got the dinosaur and the dates, including the gold rush plate. Do you think we've done enough to link it properly to Midas Mountain?"

Without even looking up from his work, Joke said "I thought of that half an hour ago and figured out the answer \- let's paint Minmi gold! There are only two extant fossil specimens on record, and neither suggests its colour. Gold is thus scientifically defensible, if a little bit of a stretch."

It was so simple. "Go team, Joke!" I said.

"Less talk, more work," muttered Joke, as he carved the word 'amphibian' into one of the plates with the tip of a compass.

"Yes, boss," I said grinning at Joke's set jaw, square shoulders and deep concentration.

I was still smiling twenty minutes later when the door suddenly crashed open. Mr Fisk ran into the room, followed by Mum. Joke and I turned and kneeled, peering over the backs of the chairs at the unexpected intrusion.

"Go get your things, Joke," shouted Mr Fisk. "You are not spending another minute with that fork-tongued snake!"

## 12. DASHED PLANS

"How dare you speak about my son that way," said Mum quietly. "I'm sorry things didn't work out the way you wanted them to this evening, but it had nothing to do with Patrick."

"Be quiet, woman," snarled Mr Fisk, his bald head glistening with sweat under the lights. "You are all the same, leading a man on, then kicking him to the curb once he's paid for dinner. Come on Jokkum. Let's go."

"You stay right where you are, Jokkum," said Mum, crossing the room to stand in front of the chairs, half way between Joke and Mr Fisk. "Jokkum, your dad's had a little too much drink to drive," said Mum. "We nearly crashed into a tree stump on the way home. I think it's best if you stay over tonight."

"I quite agree," snapped Aunt Bea curtly, entering the room. She was still dressed in her day clothes. "This display is unseemly, Balder. And I will not stand for such rudeness in my house."

"Your mother's house, you mean," sneered Mr Fisk, slurring his words into each other. "You've never had to work a day in your life, and yet you stand here judging me. A working man."

"Boys," said Aunt Bea, pointing to the nearly finished clay model Minmi. "Clean up this mess at once, then go up to Paddy's room. Balder," she continued. "I suggest you take a seat and calm down while I call you a taxi. You must be over-tired from your efforts at the school."

No-one moved for what seemed like a full minute. Mum held her ground, staring impassively at Mr Fisk. The bald, squat man struggled to hold her gaze. His face was as red as a fire-engine and his breath was laboured, like he'd just run a four minute mile. He raised his arms, revealing large patches of sweat at the armpits, right through his jacket.

"Come on Joke," I half-whispered, folding up the butchers paper and resting the model on the bare floorboards next to the heating vents under the window. "Let's wash up the left-over clay and then go to bed." I didn't like the wild look on Mr Fisk's face one bit, and my instincts told me there was a lot more going on than I understood. This was no place for Joke and me.

"Stay put, you little monster!" hissed Mr Fisk. "This is all your fault, poisoning your mother against me. Spreading stories about me," he said. "Jokkum, go get your things. He's no friend - remember how stood by while that rich brat stuck you like a pig!"

I flinched. He was right. Mum started to say something back to Mr Fisk when Joke walked around the green armchair, ducked under Mum's hand, and beat her to it.

"Dad," he said, joining Mr Fisk at the reading room doorway. "Let's go home." He reached up and hugged his dad, wrapping his short arms around the bald man's wide waist.

"Jokkum," started Mr Fisk. "Bridget, I didn't mean -" Then the handyman burst into tears.

I didn't know where to look. Aunt Bea clicked her tongue like a judgmental kangaroo. Apart from when Dad broke his arm trying to teach me to play football when I was five, I hadn't seen a grown man cry before. Mr Fisk looked like a baby with his eyes squashed shut, his flushed bald palate and his tear stained cheeks.

"Balder," said Mum, in the same dulcet voice she used to soothe me when I was upset. "You've had a really long day. First with the pest problems at the school. Then at the movies, when the projector chewed up the film. Then the mix up at the restaurant."

"I booked it," said Mr Fisk petulantly. "The best table, yesterday, you have to believe me!"

"I do, Balder. I told you before that I do. But you didn't need to be so rude to the waitress. It wasn't her fault the chef had called in sick. And when they ran out of lobster, you didn't have to storm out. And you certainly didn't need to take your frustrations out on Beatrice and Paddy."

"Or Bridget," snapped Aunt Bea. "You were meant to give my sister a relaxing night out, but you couldn't have made things more stressful. I hope you're proud of yourself."

"Shhh, Beatrice," chided Mum. "You're not helping. We're all willing to forget about this whole thing and to pretend it never happened. But only if you let us call you a taxi right now. We'll look after Jokkum tonight. You need to sleep it off."

For a moment, it looked as if Mum's words had done the trick. Mr Fisk dried his eyes on his tie, took a deep breath, and looked ready to apologise. I exhaled - I hadn't realised I'd been holding my breath. Joke let go of his father's legs, and turned around to face me. We exchanged reassuring glances, thinking we had averted near disaster.

Then Aunt Bea cut in. "Speak for yourself, Bridget," she said. "I for one am not ready to forgive, much less to forget this outrage. Balder: you are a disgrace. Babbling and blubbering like a town drunk, especially in front of the boys. I've a good mind to tell the Council about it tomorrow. People have a right to know what type of man they let into their houses."

"Beatrice," cried Mum. "That is enough!"

"Don't tell me what to do," snapped Aunt Bea. "Balder needs to face some home truths. We've put up with his snivelling and gossiping for long enough. No wonder Vivian took off."

"Be quiet, Bea!" commanded Mum. "You are completely out of line!"

I was shocked. Mum rarely spoke harshly to my Aunt. And Aunt Bea herself had been the one to warn us never to speak about Joke's mum, Vivian. Joke's mum had never come back to Quakehaven, even for the divorce. She'd never once even called her son.

"Stop it, Mrs Logston," shouted Joke at my Aunt. He was trembling, and tears fell from both eyes down his pale cheeks, like tiny paperweights filled with water. "Leave us alone."

"Sorry to air your family's dirty laundry in front of you, boy," said Aunt Bea. "But your father needs to face facts and deal with his problems. Not blame women and children. Balder: I've got a Council meeting with Barker tomorrow to discuss the maintenance contract for DinoQuake. I hear you are one of the frontrunners. In my humble view, Mr Barker should think twice before he considers such an unreliable character for such a big job."

Mr Fisk's face blanched. He stepped back from Joke, into the door of the hallway, pulled off his stained brown jacket and threw it across the room onto the chair in front of me. Then, without further warning, he charged at Aunt Bea.

Aunt Bea, grunted with surprise and rocked back on her heels. I didn't have time to think. I didn't think. I dropped to my knees, grabbed one of Uncle Gerry's old textbooks and pitched it over the chair at Mr Fisk. I missed and threw another big tome, this one hard at his body.

Aunt Bea ran out onto the porch. Mr Fisk ran straight at her, hunched over like a goblin. The book spun wildly through the air, and clipped Mr Fisk in the side of his head - just above his right eye, near his temple. He went down like a sack of potatoes, falling between the chairs. Aunt Bea pulled the porch doors shut behind her. I heard her bolt the lock from the outside.

"Paddy!" shouted Mum, rushing over to the back of the armchair. "Come to me." She looked alert, but not frightened.

I ran around the far side of the chair to Mum. Joke darted over to his fallen father. Mr Fisk, cursing, pushed himself up clumsily onto his knees. Then he palmed Joke away and roared. The plastic dust jacket of the book had torn the skin above his right eye, and blood streamed down his face.

"Get out, Balder," said Mum holding her ground. "Get out now, or I'll call the police." She grabbed my arm and yanked me behind her. "Paddy was just trying to protect his Aunt. He didn't mean to hurt you."

I cursed silently. I'd left Platykuk up in my room. There was no way I could fight Mr Fisk - he was too big, and angry. My eyes fell on Minmi, lying on the floorboards just in front of Joke's left shoe. Joke had almost tripped over it when Mr Fisk had shoved him away. Like a hawk tracing a nervous field mouse's escape route, Mr Fisk followed my line of sight. Unexpectedly, he started to laugh.

"I wasn't going to hit her, Bridget, I swear," he rasped. "I just wanted to give her a fright. And I'm not going to touch your son, either, though he could do with a clip around the ears from a man for once."

"Let me know when you find one," said Mum icily. "No-one touches my son. Get out before Beatrice calls the police. She went too far and will apologise for what she said. I'll see to it. But that's no excuse to terrorise children."

"Fine," spat Mr Fisk. "Whatever. I just need my keys," he said, bending to retrieve his jacket from my armchair.

"Leave them!" ordered Mum. "You're not driving drunk. You can pick up your things tomorrow when you're sober and ready to apologise. A long walk will do you good. Just leave!"

"Yes, ma'am," Mr Fisk said, sarcastically. Then he walked towards his son, reached down, and grabbed something. Automatically, I stepped forward and gripped Mum around the waist.

Joke gasped.

Said Mr Fisk: "So this is the big assignment piece Joke's been babbling about." He spun around. He was cupping Minmi in his dirt-stained hands. "The sprog thinks this going to get him the big scholarship. To the fancy school that his dog of a father can't afford."

"Dad," cried Joke. "You're not a dog. You've taken good care of me since mum left."

Mr Fisk smiled. "Look how much work the little devils have put into it," he said, thumbing the back and tail of the model. Look at all the amazing detail on the spines."

"Plates," said Joke. "Armour plates. We're making a dinosaur bridge." While Joke talked, I examined the model. Was it just a trick of light, or had the clay somehow reddened? It looked like it had been baked bone dry, but it had only been next to the heater for a few minutes.

"Jokkum, why don't you come over here with Paddy and me?" beckoned Mum, softly.

"Do what the lady says," snarled Mr Fisk. "Get used to women telling you what to do,". Mr Fisk squeezed Minmi. Although Mr Fisk was treating the model roughly, he was making no impression.

"Put it down, Mr Fisk," said Mum.

"Your wish is my command, Ms Lee," sang Mr Fisk in a deep baritone. "Or are widows still _missus_." Mum balked.

"I've burned so many bridges tonight," hummed Mr Fisk, "what's one more?" He lifted Minmi above his head and hurled it down onto the black wooden strip that skirted the floor of the reading room. On impact, Minmi detonated into a thousand shards.

Joke screamed and ran over to Mum. Incensed, I lunged at Mr Fisk. Or at least I tried to. Mr Fisk leered at me, licking the blood that had streamed from his eyebrow and onto his lips. I tried to propel myself forward. Mr Fisk's eyes rolled back in his head as he whispered something inaudible and quick. The lights flickered, and an invisible force buffeted me, throwing me backwards, onto my bum.

Mum had been distracted by Joke's cry. But she must have noticed the lights flicker and heard my fall. With one arm around Joke, she ran forward and grabbed me under the shoulders, hauling me onto my feet. "Did you hurt yourself?" asked Mum.

"No," I said, glaring at Mr Fisk. "I didn't hurt myself." I hadn't fallen. I'd been pushed.

I scanned the devastated rubble that had once been Minmi. A pebble of clay had flicked up off the curtains and onto the bald man's arm, nestled in a thatched-nest of arm hair. I closed my eyes, concentrating on the small object. I thought of Mr Seth, lava flows, then the centres of stars.

"Aaagh!" screamed Mr Fisk. I opened my eyes, and saw him brush the pebble off his arm onto the floor, where it glowed like an ember. The smell of burning hair wafted through the room. Mr Fisk's stared at me, agog.

Mr Fisk recovered and performed a mock-ceremonial bow. It would have been a clever exit, but for a flash of yellow and black that darted through the door and struck Mr Fisk's glistening pate at high velocity. Mr Fisk screamed and swatted the thing away. The yellow and black blur settled on the top of a bookcase and resolved into Katy.

Mr Fisk clamped a hand to his bleeding head. Without so much as a glance at his son, the handyman stormed out of the room and down the hall, slamming the front door behind him.

For a while, Mum and I stood motionless. Then Katy flew out of the room and Joke started to whimper. Mum squatted down in her beautiful green gown and soothed Joke.

Mum embraced Joke and tried to calm him down. "Everything's OK; everything's OK, she chanted into his ear like a mantra. But, of course, everything was far from OK. I sat down to lend Mum a hand and recognised the glazed expression on Joke's face. A Passenger stared back at me. Joke's dreams of a scholarship were in smithereens, like our clay bridge. And he didn't know the worst of it. Joke's father was a monster.

I couldn't stomach telling Joke the truth. But I knew what had to be done; and what I had to do.

## 13. SCRAMBLED LINES

There was a loud rapping at the porch door. I braced for another attack.

"It's OK, Paddy," said Mum, still holding Joke. "It's just your Aunt. Go let her in."

Aunt Bea unbolted the door from the outside, and I went over and opened it. The little woman marched in, rubbing her hands against her dress and the cold.

"Has he gone?" she huffed. "What was that smashing sound? Did you call the police?"

"He's gone," said Mum. "He dropped the boys' project, but left quietly after that."

"He didn't drop it, Mum," I said testily. "He threw it on the floor. Shattered it deliberately.

"What a mess!" cried Aunt Bea looking at the wreckage on the reading room floor. "Boy, go and get the dustpan and clean this up. The blue one. I'm going to call Henry."

Henry Lam was the town sergeant - the closest thing we had to a sheriff in Quakehaven.

Joke began to sob, like a teething baboon. "No need to do that, Beatrice" said Mum. As she looked at her sister, her eyes positively shouted: 'the boy's had enough, don't make things worse'.

Aunt Bea shook her head, and Mum nodded: "Come on, Beatrice, it's over now. He was just drunk. He must have had a few too many drinks before he picked me up. I should have called it a night earlier."

"But dad doesn't drink," said Joke, quietly, his voice muffled into Mum's shoulder. "Not since she -"

"Shh!" soothed Mum, rubbing Joke. "Don't worry about it. None of this is your fault, and I'm sure your father will be over first thing tomorrow to apologise. We'll talk it out then."

"We most certainly will," said Aunt Bea. "He attacked me, a defenceless woman, in my own house."

"Hardly defenceless," snorted Mum. "None of this would have happened if you hadn't decided to dredge up the past and then to threaten his livelihood."

"Well, he's unstable. We need that park to function properly. Quakehaven's depending on it."

"Your outburst wasn't about the town," said Mum. You didn't have to be so cruel to the poor man. I mean, what were you thinking mentioning Vivian?"

"Please," cried Joke.

"Sorry, Jokkum," said Mum massaging his shoulders and glaring at my Aunt. "That was insensitive of me: must run in the family."

Aunt Bea said: "I don't know why you're being so hard on me, Bridget. Would you have been satisfied if he'd hit me? Or the children? Is that what you wanted?"

"Beatrice," said Mum quietly. "Let's discuss this later. I don't think any of us handled the situation well."

For once in her life, Aunt Bea had no immediate retort. She shrugged her shoulders, and pointed at me.

"Clean this mess up, boy. I'm going to bed, and I want this room spotless by tomorrow morning." Without another word, she tromped across the room, out into the hall and stomped up the stairs.

"Just leave this, Paddy," said Mum. "I'll clean up. You take Jokkum up to bed."

"No, I'll clean up," I said, "You go to bed. You don't look too well." Mum was doing her best to mask it, but the stiffness of her neck and shoulders was a dead give-away that a migraine was on its way.

Joke squirmed in Mum's arms. He clearly didn't want her to let go. "Thanks, Paddy," said Mum, breathing heavily. "I just need to lie down. Joke, you want to bunk in with me tonight?"

Joke nodded his head violently. "OK then," said Mum, "Let's go. Can you walk?"

"Yes," said Joke. Mum took Joke's hand and led him through the saloon doors into the dining room.

The three of us walked around the dining table and headed for Mum's bedroom. At the doorway to the conservatory, Mum turned and blew me a kiss. Then she went into the conservatory and slid the door half-closed behind her.

Joke stood outside the door while Mum changed. He looked wrecked. "Sorry about the bridge and, well, everything else. Dad and stuff."

"No worries, Joke," I said mustering a smile. "It wasn't your fault. You get some rest and we can talk about rebuilding the bridge tomorrow. Maybe Mr Lyon's will give us an extension."

"Don't worry about it," said Joke sadly. "I don't want Mr Lyons to know what happened. The park opens in two weeks and they need to start building it straight after the Barn Dance. There's no time." He was right of course.

"Well, it's just a project," I said. "There's far more important stuff in life."

"Like what," said Joke. "Without that Pinkerton scholarship, my life is over."

"And you think I'm the dramatic one!" I said, shaking my head. "You're smart enough to ace anywhere, even if you end up at Raglan." Raglan was the local high school. Although not terrible, it was pretty rough and tumble.

"I don't know," said Joke. "Maybe dad's right: I should go work with him in a couple of years. The other kids at Raglan, they -"

"You're staying in school," I said, shocked at the idea of Joke wielding power tools. "And don't worry about the kids. I'm going to Raglan. Anyone that gives you trouble will have to deal with me. Consider me your personal bodyguard, in return for letting me copy your maths homework!"

Joke smiled wanly: the first flicker of life I'd seen since Mum and Mr Fisk had crashed our building session. The door slid open, revealing Mum. She must have been eavesdropping. She embraced Joke and, over his shoulder, mouthed "thank you, Paddy" to me.

I nodded and waved Mum and Joke adieu. As Mum slid her door closed, my smile faded. I was dead on my feet. A lot had happened that day. But more had to be done.

First, the easy job. Through the dining room I walked, out to the hall and then turned into the kitchen. I took a deep breath and entered the walk-in larder.

When I'd first moved to Sub Rosa, I had found the larder weird, a little spooky, even. I descended the five steep stairs that took me under the floor of the dining room. Unlike the rest of the house, the larder hadn't been re-wired. A single bare light-bulb cast a feeble light that barely lit my way.

In winter, the larder was an ice box, and I shivered. Eight bare hooks hung from the roof. Three of the eight were little more than jagged strips of wire, rusted through.

The walls were white washed and the paint had flaked off in parts. The western wall of the larder adjoined the conservatory. A small mesh grille high on that wall allowed air and light in from outside, but kept out the flies. Shelves had been built into the eastern wall and stored boxes of cereal, bags of flour and sugar, stacks of canned vegetables and jars of jam.

In the centre of the larder sat a simple grey-stone slab. Aunt Bea called it a thrawl. It was originally used for fish salting before fridges. But, under the hooks, it looked like a sacrificial altar.

I retrieved Aunt Bea's dustpan and duster from a narrow ledge underneath the thrawl. I tore a translucent white garbage bag from a spool. Then I hightailed out of the larder as quickly as I could, almost tripping up the stairs in my eagerness to get out.

Back in the reading room, I devoured a half-stale chicken sandwich. Then I stooped down by the velvet curtains, and swept up the bits of dinosaur, emptying them into the bag. As I'd suspected, the pieces were baked dry, like they'd been blasted in a kiln. Many of Joke's spine palings crumbled when touched by the quills of the brush. There were simply too many pieces to glue the model together.

After I'd emptied the final remnants of Minmi into the garbage bag, I returned the dustpan and duster to the kitchen. I walked back into the dining room and stuck my ear to Mum's door. But for Joke's light snoring, all was quiet. I hoped Mum was fast asleep.

Ashen features stared back at me from the mirror as I closed my bedroom door. Across the landing, Aunt Bea's light was out.

I lowered the plastic bag gently, just inside the door, and went over to my bed. I was tempted to lie down and rest my eyes. I scratched myself, hard, on the arm. "Stay awake, Paddy," I muttered. "You're not done yet."

He was sitting on the windowsill. Nervously, I picked him up and shook his case like a tambourine.

"Wake up."

No response. I felt ridiculous, talking to my calculator. But there was no-one around, and it was hardly the craziest thing I'd done recently. I squeezed the case, and shook him harder.

"Platykuk," I said. "Answer me!" The calculator was unmoved.

"Listen up!" I continued. "I need to talk to Mr Seth. Urgently. Can you tell me where he is?" Still no response.

Frustrated, I hurled the calculator at the corner of the silver stamp safe. It glanced off the safe and clattered onto the floor, letting out a slow, inhuman hiss, like a tractor tire deflating. I strode over to the silver safe, and tapped Platykuk's case with my foot, a little harder than I intended. The hissing box began to vibrate.

"I know you're in there," I said. "And I know Mr Seth ordered you to watch me. You've been doing a lousy job by the way. Now, enough of this hide and seek. Tell me how to find Mr Seth."

The box growled, and two sharply spurred feet sprung out of each of its flanks. The lid flipped open with a clack, and a long buck bill slid out and rolled back, like a wave of blackened honey, enveloping the creature's case in an armour of chiton. White translucent lids, closed and opened over two red beady eyes raised slightly from the solar panel, above his keys. He growled and snapped his bill open and shut like a caiman. His case emitted a malevolent stink, like stilton cheese dipped in petrol.

My heart tunnelled up my throat like a disorientated earthworm, but I stood my ground. Despite Mr Seth's words of encouragement, I'd seen what Platykuk could do; seen Mark's arm ripped to shreds.

This thing was a predator. Dad taught me never to run from something stalking you. "Act like prey and you will become prey," he'd said. We'd been at the local park - I was four or five - and I'd been chased by a toy poodle. "Carnivores respect only those that can hurt or kill them," said Dad. I wondered whether Dad had been preparing me, even at that young age, for worse things than show-pooches.

Platykuk raised itself on its short, clawed legs and advanced. I gulped.

"Don't move!" I commanded and slammed my foot onto its bill.

Platykuk growled again, and raised its front claws. They were webbed. Long, hooked spurs jutted out from the backs of its ankles. For a moment, I thought it would attack and rip out my throat. But I kept my foot planted, and slowly, Platykuk dropped its claws.

Carefully, I lifted my shaking foot. Then I marched forward, taking advantage of his retreat to show him I was the boss. "Tell me where Mr Seth is," I ordered. "I need him. I've found another Blackgum."

Until that moment, I wasn't sure if Platykuk could understand a word I was saying. But, at the word 'Blackgum', I knew he comprehended me. He vaulted into the air, yanked in his legs and bill, and slammed his case shut.

"Hey," I said. "Don't be such a coward."

But I'd misunderstood. Platykuk wasn't hiding. He was changing again. The calculator case bounced twice and landed on my card table with a light thud. His case stretched and narrowed, then and flipped open again to reveal a key pad. Instead of six rows of four buttons, the keys were laid out in four rows of three. The screen lit up, and three bars flashed in the top right corner of the display.

"You're a smart-phone," I said, surprised. Platykuk answered by self-dialing ten digits, beeping loudly as he went.

"Who are you calling?" I asked, as the number rang over and over.

"Yes?" barked Mr Seth.

I was on speaker, but Mr Seth's voice was very faint. "Oh hi," I said, whispering into what I hoped was the receiver.

"Who is this and what do you want?" demanded Mr Seth.

"You, Mr Seth. It's me. Paddy."

"Paddy?" he rasped uncertainly. A few seconds of silence passed, as a terrible thought drifted through my skull. What is the Zealtor had caught Mr Seth, made him forget all about Quakehaven? All about me?"

"Master Lee. Why are you calling me so late, lad? Do you have any idea of how much this call is costing me?" I wondered, absurdly, what phone plan Platykuk was on!

"Um. Sorry," I floundered. "I need to talk to you. Something's happened. There was a fight. Mr Fisk and Aunt Bea and Mum, and Joke and well, we -"

"Who's this Fisk?" said Mr Seth.

"Joke's dad."

"Who's Joke?"

"You met him."

"I've met lots of people."

"This morning. After the Ferine killed the Blackgum. Joke was the serious kid. With the set square fetish."

"Careful, Paddy," snapped Mr Seth. "This line isn't secure - they might be listening." I wondered how one would bug Platykuk. With great care, I concluded.

"Um, well, at first I thought it was a normal argument. Mum and Mr Fisk had a bad night out. The movie and dinner were disastrous."

"A date?" asked Mr Seth. "Is your Mum dating again?"

"No," I said crossly. "Just a dinner and a movie."

"Sounds like a date to me," said Mr Seth. "Things always go wrong on dates, if I remember correctly."

"It wasn't a date!" I said. I'd forgotten how irritating the old man could be. "Anyway, that's not the point. The argument at our house got out of control. Mr Fisk tried to hit Aunt Bea and Mr Fisk ended up smashing the project - you know the bridge."

"Is anyone dead?" asked Mr Seth.

"What? No, nothing except the model, and -"

"Then what's the problem? You're calling me because the bad man smashed your little assignment? People are dying all over the place. I have better things to do than -".

"No, it's not about the assignment. Although it kinda is," I said weakly.

"Spit it out, lad. I don't have all night."

"I was angry about the project. Joke and I had spent all night on it. And there was something wrong with it - it shouldn't have smashed like that. It was still wet clay. But it shattered like glass."

"Was it set? Like it had been heat-blasted?"

"Yes, exactly like that."

"Mmmm," said Mr Seth. "Go on."

"Anyway, I didn't really think things through."

Said Mr Seth,: "No surprises there."

"I was going to smack Mr Fisk for wrecking our work. I tried to run forward, but my legs wouldn't work."

"Because you were scared? It's quite common for small mammals like you to seize up when they're frightened.

"It wasn't like that at all. He was pinning me down - with his mind. You know, with telekawhatnot."

"Telekinesis," said My Seth. "A Blackgum? So soon? Did Platykuk slaughter him?"

"No, the fight was in the reading room downstairs; my calculator was upstairs."

"Didn't I tell you to keep Platykuk with you?" He sounded angry.

"You did," I admitted. "But me and Joke were in the house and you said we'd be safe for a while." I peered out of my window, scanning the street for movement. There was no-one about.

"Obviously, I may have been wrong," said Mr Seth. "It happens from time to time". Like every time, I thought to myself.

"No need for that!" said Mr Seth.

"You can hear my thoughts?" I asked, taken aback.

"Not from here," he said. "But I saw you roll your eyes. Platykuk's got a video camera - new feature. He should use his energy more productively. He should have sensed that Blackgum a mile away."

Platykuk shook with what I took to be righteous indignation and emitted a sharp burst of static.

"So what did you do?" said Mr Fisk, impatient. "Not something stupid, I hope."

"I burnt him with a piece of clay."

"Idiot," said Mr Seth. "So you identified yourself as one of us, and a hopeless beginner at that. Pebble scalding? How terrifying. What's next in your arsenal: ear muff tickling? You should advertise, you know. Scattersmith Novice Lives Here! Would save you time. So how did you kill it? Do I have to come back and mollify another magpie?"

"Um, I didn't," I said. "He just left."

"That doesn't make any sense," said Mr Seth, his voice distant, like he was talking to himself. "After that pebble prank, most self-respecting Blackgum would have snapped you up like a red-light special. Maybe it sensed Platykuk?"

"It didn't act like a Blackgum," I said, thinking of the thing that had murdered Tim.

"And you know so much about them after meeting, what, a grand total of one. They come in different formats, you know. It would be far too easy to track them down if they all looked like creatures from the Black Lagoon. Some of them border on intelligence. Maybe it had just eaten."

"No," I said. "They left the restaurant before the food came. Mr Fisk had a tantrum about lobster."

"I wasn't talking about food, foolish boy. I meant souls!" He sounded impatient, but not with me, like he was trying to fit the pieces together.

"It seemed like Mr Fisk," I said. "A bit sweatier than normal, and wearing a hideous suit."

"And the sculpture. Is it still warm?" I picked up Platykuk, went over to the door and listed the bag with my other hand. The contents, now like sand, fell out of the bag and scattered onto the floor. They'd burned a hole in the bag.

"Yes," I said. "What's going on?"

"The Fisk man's teeth, Paddy. This is important. Did you get a good look at his teeth?"

I thought back to the moment, just after I had hit Mr Fisk in the head with the book, when he roared, spittle flying everywhere from -

"Yes!" I said. "They were normal, a bit uneven, but I guess they didn't have braces when he was a kid. Not sharp. And his gums were normal too. Pink, like -"

"Paddy," interrupted Mr Seth. "I'm leaving now. Don't do anything unusual before I get there. Do exactly what you would do in your daily routine, no deviations. You're probably being watched. Assume that you are. And stay away from this Fisk fellow."

"What's wrong?" I didn't like the tone of Mr Seth's voice.

"You need training. An accelerated primer, I'm afraid. I'm going to have Platykuk summon some help to protect you and your family while you are in the house."

"Like a spell?"

"Leave that junk to the Witches," said Mr Seth, contemptuously. "It takes a bit more than waving a wand and sprinkling some fairy-dust to deal with this problem, I'm afraid. Take Platykuk down to the trunk-cave tonight, as well as something Fisk has handled recently. What must be done will come at a price, Paddy, and for that I'm sorry. But our arts are not acquired without pain."

"Why don't I just stay in my room until you get here. Pretend I'm sick."

"Because he will know you are hiding from him. He mustn't suspect that. If he does, he will move quickly. And Platykuk is no match for him. He will slaughter you and your family in your beds, and anyone else in his way."

"Who is he?" I asked, petrified.

"Paddy. I'm afraid you have had the worst of luck. Whatever your natural talents, you're far from ready for this."

"Mr Seth," I said. "Just tell me."

"I've wasted all this time," said Mr Seth, "chasing down false rumours in Cheswick, and Daysnow, and Heathershore. I've been an old fool.."

"Mr Seth!" I shouted.

"Mr Fisk," said Mr Seth sadly. "He's the Zealtor. Pink gums don't lie."

The line went dead, and Platykuk's screen faded a sickly green as he converted back – pungently - into a calculator.

I stood up and closed the blinds. Then I put Platykuk on the bronze floor safe closest to the head of my bed. For the first time since Dad's funeral, I began to pray.

## 14. SPECTRE IN THE HOLE

I crept into Mum's room, swinging Uncle Gerry's beer tankard in front of my chest for balance. Made of pewter (mostly tin, with a bit of copper thrown in to make it hard), the tankard glinted silver-blue. I'd chosen it for its strength: it was full to the rim with pieces of Minmi - something Mr Fisk had handled. Even now, the shards of baked clay were too hot to carry in a bag.

Mum was sound asleep in the centre of the bed. Cradled in her arms, his head tucked under her neck, snuffled Joke, his right ear and the top of his head poking out from layers of blankets.

Quietly, I squatted and set the tankard down next to the trunk, winking at the round face carved on its front. The last time I'd inspected it, the face had scared me. But I'd seen real horrors since then, far worse than creepy etchings carved into wood.

Grabbing the edge of the rug, I yanked it towards me. Then I dug out and twisted the loop of wire, and waited for the wooden latches to pop up. They rose with a whiff of lacquer, and I gripped them, pulling the blue-black wooden trapdoor out of the floor. I lowered the trapdoor lid onto the carpet. In the back pocket of my jeans, Platykuk vibrated with what I guessed was excitement.

"Shh, boy," I whispered, flattening my stomach and chest against the floor. "Hold your horses till we get into the tunnel." I lowered my feet into the hole, swinging them from side to side like a metronome until they found purchase on the ladder's second rung.

When my body was halfway into the hole, Joke stirred. I froze, my hips resting uncomfortably on the sharp ridge. "Don't send me to Raglan," he groaned in his sleep. "I want to be an archaeologist. Heinrich Schlieman, another Troy."

I had no idea who Heinrich Schlieman was. Raglan catered mostly for kids who wanted to do a trade when they turned 16, like becoming a plumber, carpenter, or electrician. It focused on useful skills like wood turning, and car stuff. Joke was hopeless at making anything. For his end-of-year woodwork assignment, a pencil box, he'd had so many turns at the sander to get the edges straight that, in the end, it could only hold one pen, and only if you jammed it in diagonally!

If Joke were to become an archaeologist, he needed to know about chemistry, geography, ancient history and languages, like Latin. Raglan just wasn't set up for that kind of thing. And that wasn't Joke's biggest problem, of course. His father was the Zealtor!

I shook my head to clear the cobwebs. There would be plenty of time to feel sorry for Joke later. I grasped the tankard's handle with my right hand, and gripped the side of the ladder with my left. I took one last look at Mum and Joke, then climbed down the silver ladder.

The tunnel seemed different. For one thing it was warmer. Much warmer. I was sweating under my layers of Winter clothes. The air smelt different too, like the mulched sandalwood of Mr Seth's cologne. Oddly comforting.

Blue-silver lights emanated from the cave stubble now coating the tunnel's lower walls. The more brilliant light revealed pictures - cave paintings - I hadn't seen on my first trip. On the tunnel's ceiling and upper walls, were murals of brown birds, tethered to leafless tree boughs. Giant white bulls were yoked in pairs to what looked like a plough. Above my head, a solitary grey steed tied to a fence post, grazed on grass. An elderly chimpanzee sat, legs akimbo, at the base of a cliff breaking small stones against rocks.

As I advanced down the tunnel, the ground became muddy. Further on, the lower walls were half submerged in water. I'd come prepared this time: my galoshes splashed noisily as I waded through the soupy muck.

Platykuk jiggled in my pocket and emitted a low growl. "Relax, boy," I said. "Just a bit of water. We're not going to melt!"

I reached the end of the tunnel and stepped into the cave. It was almost certainly deeper and wider than I recalled. Though humid and hot as a sauna, it was not as wet underfoot. About five metres above me - I couldn't believe the roof was so high - thousands of tiny silver stars twinkled, like a disco planetarium.

I scoured the cave walls. Like the tunnel, the upper walls were covered with paintings. But these were not drab sketches of entrapped birds, enslaved cattle or broken horses. Snarling sabre tooth tigers, packs of baying wolves, boa coils sprouting cobra heads, and eight legged elephants with sharpened tusks scrutinised us, as if looking for flaws. The wild beasts had been painted with wild brushstrokes in arterial-blood red, electric blue and solar-yellow paints.

Platykuk thrashed in my pocket like a cat in a sack. "Hang tight," I said. "I'm still looking - Aaargh!"

In agony, I slipped and nearly dropped the tankard in the mud, clutching my backside with my free hand as Platykuk dug his spurs into my flesh. The calculator rotated itself and gouged at the back pocket of my jeans, landing in the muck beside me with a dull splash. I massaged my sore backside through the rent material.

"You didn't have to do that!" I spluttered. "Mum's going to be furious," I said. "These were my good jeans!"

My words echoed, and sounded ridiculous. Who cared about ripped jeans! There were more important things going on. As if reading my thoughts, Platykuk clacked his bill then paddle-crawled to solid ground, scaling a small stone lying against the far back wall of the cave. The rear of the cave was not well lit. Platto disappeared into the shadows, and began furiously scratching at rock. I tensed: perhaps something was hidden in the nook of the concave surface where the stone met the wall.

"Easy, Platto," I said, placing the tankard down carefully next to a small rock. I waded over to join him. "What have you found?"

My eyes adjusted to the semi-darkness and Platto's silhouette, or shadow, emerged. He was burrowing into a hidden mural, this one rendered in smudged charcoal. I squinted and deciphered the shapes. "A man," I said. "No, two men." They stood on either side of a raging grey fire and looked like twins. Each of their hands had only four elongated fingers and their feet were hidden behind the fire.

Darker parallel lines thrust down into the flesh above each man's right hip, like a spear. The figures were not identical. The one on the right wore dangling earrings which, on closer inspection, turned out to be tiny statutes of women with blades for legs. The man on the left had antler buds jutting out from the top of his skull. More differences emerged: the men were different heights, weights and shades of black-grey. How had I mistaken them for twins?

Platto started to quiver and quake. Three clawed feet retracted into his casing with a slurp, a belch of foul blue cheese and petrol exploding from his hide. Platykuk's fourth foot and front right leg, slid down and across the bottom of the black case like a manual gear stick, grinding then settling near his belly. Platykuk tottered, then found his balance.

For a few moments, Platykuk stood motionless. Then all four sides of his case stretched flat simultaneously, his edges rounding as the case extended and thinned to become a DVD-sized disk. The disk slowly rotated atop Platykuk's anchoring leg.

The tiny stars on the roof flashed in a deliberate rhythmic pulse. It was as if they were dancing to a rave of sub-sonic drum and bass.

"What are you up to?" I asked.

I stopped talking and used my brain!

_I'm going to get Platykuk to summons, help,_ Mr Seth had said on our call.

Platto accelerated, and I found myself mesmerised, my eyes locked onto the disk's black surface, now as glossy as a pair of polarised sunglasses. Platto started to hum, first low, like a contrabassoon, then up its register till it blasted the high pitched trill of an oboe. The pitch scaled yet higher, becoming the whistle of an old boiled kettle. Dizziness swept over me, and I felt car sick.

As the disk spun, animal shapes began to flicker, green and blue, on its surface. Some, perhaps, were reflections from the cave walls, but others were unmistakably new. Open-mawed sharks and crocodiles chased each other around the disk. A massive claw, like a bear's, shot into frame and tore out the shark's gills with a single swipe. There were voices too, beneath the whistle: wild and discordant, like someone thumping broken piano keys with a hammer.

My head rapped like the side of a snare drum. Blood gushed to my ears. Balance deserted me, and my stomach lurched and dropped away. For a moment, I thought I would vomit. Then I snatched my eyes away from the squealing disk. Scores of black spots, miniatures of Platto, marred my vision.

It was nothing like last time. To the wall behind Platto, I fixed my gaze, trying to clear my mind of spinning wheels. Viscous blobs of red and silver fluid sprang off the disk as it twirled, like the split contents of a broken lava lamp.

The lurid paint of the cave wall carnivores shimmered like the air around a desert oasis. Snakes uncoiled, tigers slunk forward, ready to pounce. A cauldron of bats sang their Doppler-affected screeches rippling up and down the tunnel. On the roof, giant mud-caked leather wings cracked and unfurled from hidden nooks, eclipsing the twinkling stars.

The two stick men began to dance around the crackling fire, shuddering ecstatically. Then the man with antler buds tripped the other man and tossed him head first into the flames. The fallen man's earrings whipped from side to side across his face, as his body, whitened and charred. The antler-bud man danced on and became an antelope. From the back of the cave, a rasping whisper echoed off the walls:

SEE THE SCHISM

My splayed palms hit the wet cave ground I'd slipped. I pushed back, straightening up onto my knees, as if in prayer. I tried to stand. But then the cave itself tilted and began to rotate at first slowly, then almost as quickly as Platto. I crashed heavily onto my stomach, and must have hit my head on a submerged rock. I very nearly passed out.

From somewhere deep, a thousand drums pounded. Slow, heavy beats, shook the ground, hijacking my heart. I was sick to the stomach as the heat increased with the spinning and drumming. Hot blood pulsed at my neck, enslaved to the tempo of the drums. Pain erupted at my temples. I flipped over onto my back, screaming as my skull seemed to shrink, the pressure in the cave squeezing my brain like a gauntleted fist. I pressed my cold, soaked palms to my burning forehead, and lurched onto my right side.

Just in time: a twirling white stick man tore an earring from his elongated lobe and gutted a fish with its blade. Beneath, a giant blue snake struggled to swallow the man-antelope, the serpent's jaws straining to gorge on thrashing legs.

Lights continued to strobe. The burnt man with the torn earlobe leapt into the fray. He tore the other earring from his ear and advanced on the serpent. The cobra-headed snake struck, but the burnt man ducked its fangs, lowered the dagger to his waist and charged for the serpent's belly. Savagely curling his biceps, he slashed up with the blade, slitting the snake from head to tail.

TWO KNOTS OF THE SCHISM: WITCH AND SCATTERSMITH.

As the burnt man dragged the antelope-man from the broken jaws of the twitching serpent, the antelope-man cocked his head and gored the burnt man's chest with his antlers. The gutted snake locked its jaws over its own tail and began to gorge on itself.

The antelope man whirled away and danced, faster than ever before, disappearing into a blur that enveloped the snake then the wall in a smudgy storm-cloud.

I blinked. Fat globs of silver and red mercury splashed off Platykuk's sable surface and onto my chin and neck. Jolts of pain lanced down my body, gouging at the flesh of my chest and back.

I rolled and curled up into a foetal position, propped my feet against the wall, and crossed my arms. I screamed again, and felt the agony of terrible loss, as my shadow wrenched itself from my body and started swirling up and down the cave walls like an anti-spotlight. As my shadow gambolled and tumbled, it sprouted horns that split and kinked back on themselves into snarls, like brambles. Then its earlobes split as bloodied ivory daggers unsheathed themselves from shadow-flesh and fell into the shadow's outstretched hands. My shadow, oblivious, twirled and danced with abandon across the roof of the cave, gouging the tigers with its antlers and piercing the membranous wings of bats with its daggers. I flinched as my shadow shoved hunks of riven flesh into its gaping, distended mouth.

Platykuk squealed, then spun up into the air, steaming, like a torpedoed helicopter. The drum beats doubled their tempo, and with them my pulse. Lights, flashed red and silver. The ground beneath me trembled and cracked open. I fell into the abyss. I braced for what I knew would be a painful end, crucified on dirty cave teeth.

###

But it didn't end like that.

I stirred and opened my eyes. Darkness.

Click. A square beam of pale white light struck the featureless grey roof, like a small artificial moon, illuminating the space. I was still in the cave.

"Is someone going to tell me what's going on?" boomed a familiar voice.

Warily, I sat up and peered into the shadows. My eyes adjusted. Slouched against a boulder he sat, his big belly jutting up and over his belt, almost touching his knees like a portrait of King Henry VIII.

"Uncle G-Gerry?" I stammered. It couldn't be real: more hallucinations, I thought looking at the bare stone walls of the cave.

"It's me, I admit. In the flesh," whispered Uncle Gerry, hoarsely. "Or should I say, in the bones?" As I approached, I saw what he meant. The skin of his face and his enormous belly were translucent, like spider webs. The closer you got to him, the more wispy the skin-threads became. I stopped when I could see the grinning skull beneath his unhappy smile.

"Why have you brought me here?" sighed Uncle Gerry. "It's not right, you know."

"I didn't bring you back," I said.

"Then who did?" he asked. "This creature?" He pointed a bony finger - actually a finger bone - at Platto. Platto lay flat on the cave floor in a small puddle. He'd retracted his legs and morphed back into the approximate shape of a calculator. One of his plastic lid hinges was broken and his number display emitted the wan square beam that allowed us to see each other.

"Yes," I said. Uncle Gerry studied the small broken box with malice. "We both did," I admitted.

Uncle Gerry sized me up. "It's not right, Patrick" he repeated. "You shouldn't meddle with death. And I'm so tired and hungry. It hurts to be here." As if to prove the point, he let out an enormous pained yawn. "It's dangerous."

No kidding, I thought, reflecting on the ordeal I'd just been through. The longest day of my life.

"Sorry, Uncle. Platto - we - didn't mean to hurt you. But we - I - had no choice."

"You always have a choice," said Uncle Gerry. "That's what distinguishes the living from the dead. Piddling about with necromancy is not a good idea."

"Necro-what?" I asked.

"Necromancy - communicating with the dead - me, if you had forgotten - through magic. From the Greek word 'nekros' meaning 'corpse'. "The ritual your little friend over there performed could easily have gone wrong, killed you or worse."

"Worse than death?" I asked.

"Yes, Patrick. There are things in this world worse than death," he said ruefully.

"Sorry," I said, weakly. It was feeble apology for dragging someone back from the dead!

"Well release me then," said Uncle Gerry, standing up, looking even taller than his 6'4" frame. "Release me now, before your actions disturb the universe and provoke a response."

"It'll just be for a day - two at most," I said, not actually sure. "We need your help."

"Why?"

"I'm in danger. All of us are. Mum, Aunt Bea an -"

"Beatrice!" shouted the ghost, hoisting himself onto the balls of his enormous feet and then float-lumbering across the space like a surfing jellyfish. His concern for his wife was as naked as his skull. "Is she safe."

"Not really," I said. "That's why we need -"

"Tell me everything. Now!" he commanded, snatching my soaked and muddy shirt front with his bony right fist. His hand didn't pass through me like the cartoon ghosts I'd seen on TV. The thought comforted me. What protection would he be if he couldn't lay a glove on a Blackgum?

"Stop daydreaming, and tell me," spat Uncle Gerry, lifting me off my feet. He was angry and less than human.

In a babble of words, I rattled off the whole sorry tale, starting with Mark's party, the maths test, Mr Seth's lecture, the Blackgum attack and Tim's murder. Then I told him about the shattered bridge, and how Mr Fisk was the Zealtor. It sounded preposterous. Then I remembered I was talking to a dead man in a hidden cave under the house lit by a possessed calculator, and decided not to worry about it.

For most of the story, Uncle Gerry listened to me patiently. But when I got to the bit about the Zealtor and how Mr Fisk had launched himself at Aunt Bea in the reading room, he roared and stamped his feet, like an enraged rhinoceros.

"I'm not allowed out of the house - that's one of the rules," bellowed Uncle Gerry. "But if the Zealtor dares foul Sub Rosa's doorstep with his presence again, I'll crush him! He'll pay for threatening my poor Beatrice.

I told Uncle Gerry the rest of the story. "You were right to bring me back," he said. "You and your little friend." My helper vibrated in his puddle.

Uncle Gerry nodded. "Seth's a sensible bloke, good butcher as well," he said. "Polite."

I arched my eyebrow. "Mr Seth might be a lot of things," I said. "But polite isn't one of them."

"People change," said Uncle Gerry dubiously.

"Leopards don't change their spots. Aunt Bea told me that."

"Your Aunt has a somewhat, um, fixed view of the world," smiled Uncle Gerry. "We'd best check on her and your mother."

I scooped up Platto and dried him on the least soaked patch of my jeans. Platto's light washed over the cave walls. Something glinted blue-silver at the neck of the tunnel.

"Is that my tankard?!" exclaimed Uncle Gerry, sallying forth to claim it. "How considerate, to bring me a welcome-back beer!"

I'd forgotten about the tankard. "No it's -"

"Empty," said Uncle Gerry, disappointed.

"Huh?" I said. "No, I brought it down to carry - be careful not to spill -"

He tipped the tankard upside down. Nothing fell out. "What's this?" he asked, stooping down to grab a long, curved object at his left foot. He held it up to the light. "Why did you bring me a welcome turtle? You can't drink a turtle!"

"It's not a turtle," I grinned.

"Well what is it?" he asked. "It looks like a turtle with spines - and what are all these little words? I need my glasses. Some eyeballs wouldn't hurt either."

"Date plates," I said. "It's Minmi! Our bridge design."

I laughed and kissed Platykuk's mud-flecked case. Uncle Gerry looked at me, aghast, like I had lost my mind.

## 15. CROUCHERS

"You'd better stay here," I said once the three of us - ghost, calculator and boy - were back in my bedroom. "I don't want you to scare the daylights out of Aunt Bea or Mum."

"Don't worry," said Uncle Gerry. "Only the summoner can behold the spirit."

"What?"

"I beg your pardon, you mean," said Uncle Gerry. "What I meant was that you and Platto are the only living people - creatures I should say," he said nodding at the calculator, "that can see me."

"My collections," said Uncle Gerry, wistfully running his wraith-hands over the bronze floor safe. "Beatrice should have sold them."

"She won't let anyone touch your stuff," I laughed. "And she doesn't need the money. She's a Councillor now. It doesn't pay much, but enough to pay the bills, and keep us fed."

"Beatrice has a job?" said Uncle Gerry, genuinely surprised. "My poor wife. Forced out to work!"

"She loves it," I said. "Gives her a chance to protect Quakehaven's old buildings, and to keep the old town traditions alive, like the annual barn dance and Christmas carols. If she had her way, she'd run Quakehaven like Sub Rosa."

"This is your bedroom?" said Uncle Gerry, studying Tobor the Great with interest. "How long have you been here?"

"A bit over a year."

"It looks like you've just arrived," said Uncle Gerry. "You should turf out my detritus and make it yours. It's not as if I need any of this."

"Aunt Bea would have a stroke if I moved any of your stuff," I laughed. "And I'm used to it now."

The ghost nodded doubtfully. He walked over to the card table, lent forward and, with his thumb and index finger, began to mark the window with silver symbols, like snail tracks: "I will patrol the perimeter. No-one will enter. Get some sleep."

For some reason, I felt almost rested, though I'd been up almost 24 hours. I looked out my window onto the street below. The sun would be up soon and I shivered.

"Is it cold?" he asked.

"Icy," I said. "Can't you feel it?"

"No," said Uncle Gerry sadly. "Apart from basic sight, hearing and touch, I can't feel anything here."It's like living inside a TV. So it's Winter then?"

"Yes. The solstice was last week. Today, it's Thurs -". I stopped myself, and looked at my watch. "Jeez," I sighed. "You stay here and guard the place. I've gotta go. Come on Platto."

"So early?" asked Uncle Gerry.

"It's Thursday. I always deliver papers Thursday mornings. Mr Seth told me to act normal. To make no changes to my routine."

"You're late," said Uncle Gerry looking up at my travel clock.

"That is my normal routine," I grinned. I pulled on my quilted jacket and went over to the card table and scribbled a note. Then I picked up Minmi and Platto from the bed, and stashed the latter in the side pocket of my coat. "Keep Mum and Bea safe," I said, and the ghost nodded, his jaw set.

I went downstairs and deposited Minmi safely outside Mum's bedroom, its feet pinning my note to the floor. Then I jogged quietly through the house, gathering up Platto, my gloves, jacket, hat, scarf, wallet, and my French horn on my way out. Katy regarded me with silent contempt as I edged past her cage.

When I pulled up at Tangen's newsagency, I thought my watch had stopped. I was usually the last one out, but Justine's red cart stood outside the shop lashed to the old dead gum-tree next to Mick's. Even more oddly, the shop's security door was still rolled down. I was confused. It was after six.

Platto was nestled deep inside the pocket of my wind-breaker, surrounded by a wool-lined pouch. Perhaps he needed to recharge, like a mobile phone? If so, it was better to leave him be until I really needed him. I hoped that wouldn't be any time soon.

I chained my bike to the gum tree. As I twiddled clumsily with the combination lock, I scanned my surroundings. Mr Seth had said I was probably being watched, but I couldn't see anyone or anything unusual. In fact, there was no-one around at all.

I hoisted my French horn case off the back of the bike, and sauntered over to the shop door, doing my best to make it look to a casual observer (if one turned up) that this was just another day. "Mr Tangen," I shouted, rattling the metal roll of the security door. "It's Paddy. Open up. I'm freezing."

A minute passed, then a faint, dull grunt broke the silence. Heavy footsteps stomped towards the other side of the door. "Mr Tangen!" I said. "Is that you?" No answer. More footsteps, louder than before, accompanied gruff, muffled curses. Horrible possibilities flitted through my head. Maybe Mr Tangen had been attacked by a Blackgum. Maybe the footsteps belonged to a hungry Blackgum!

"Hold your horses, Paddy," said Mr Tangen, his heavy Nordic accent dispelling my fears. "Where's the fire?" The Viking threw up the security shutters like it was composed of cardboard. Fluorescent light spilled onto the street, and I was face to face with my boss.

The Viking wasn't looking incredibly valorous that morning. His normally kempt beard was a scraggly mess of grey, like that of a homeless Billy goat. He was clad in a stained, grey tracksuit that was too short in the legs, and thin at the waist, revealing mismatched socks and a roll of flab over the string of his trousers. He slouched against the door, one hand on his pot-belly, then almost curtsied, bow-legged and scratched himself. The edges of his dirty-white sneakers pressed into the stained ochre step, marking the shop's threshold.

"You OK?" I asked, moving forward. A reek of rancid oranges and soured milk almost drove me back. Mr Tangen looked like he hadn't bathed in days and smelt even worse than the oranges.

"What do you care, Paddy?" sighed Mr Tangen. "You're just like the rest of them, hand out for money. Don't worry, you'll get you pieces of silver."

"That's not what I meant, sir," I said, flummoxed. "I was worried. I thought something had happened." I'd never seen his shop closed.

"Nothing ever happens," said Mr Tangen. "Nothing other than you and those other runts pumping me for my last dollar. I'm not made of money, you know."

Mr Tangen made no sense. Perhaps he's had a sleepless night. I decided to let his shambolic appearance drop, and to change tack. "Where's Justine?"

"Lazy good-for-nothing, just like her brother. Mick hasn't shown up for days, either," whined Mr Tangen. "Too slack to call." Mick and Justine had slogged for Mr Tangen for more than two years. The twins were old enough to make more money flipping burgers at Arcadia. But they'd stayed loyal to Mr Tangen, even though the Viking couldn't match Mrs Barker's wages. As far as I knew, they'd never once called in sick.

"They're right not to show up," whinged Mr Tangen, reluctantly waddling back over the shop's raised threshold as I swung my French horn at his shins to get into the shop. "Only a fool would get out of bed in this crummy weather."

I ignored the implied insult, and followed the Viking to the shop counter. "Why aren't you open?"

"What's the point?" grumbled Mr Tangen, as I darted around him and stashed my horn case under the counter. "People get their news from the idiot box and the internet these days. Most of what they read is junk: celebrities getting drunk, pregnant and divorced; bombs killing people in places no-one's heard of. Titillate and terrify: that's what qualifies as news these days. Those few old ducks that still read the paper are mostly stingy penny-pinchers. They get it cheaper from Barker and the Luks."

"But everyone in Quakehaven loves your newsagency," I protested. "They love paperboys and girls with carts and whistles. Papers and magazines hand-delivered with a smile and a joke."

Mr Tangen shrugged, then plonked himself down on a black bar stool behind the counter. The case toppled over with a bang. Mr Tangen yawned and flicked on the radio. "Suit yourself," he said, with a sardonic smile. "Enjoy the sunshine."

"I will," I said, and marched through to the warehouse at the back of the shop. The broadsheet had been delivered in boxes of 1000 from the City in the early hours of the morning, but Mr Tangen hadn't bothered to cut the string or sort them into piles. Undeterred, I grabbed a pen-knife from the warehouse workbench and slit the nearest box open. I counted out fifty papers - "Prime Minister's tips for the Oscars - free give-away," screamed the headline in 40 point bold capitals. Then I put a small pile of Inquisitors on top of the broadsheets ("Barker to the rescue: DinoQuake Bonanza") and hefted the stack past a snoring Viking.

I unlocked Mick's cart and tossed the papers into it. "Any special orders today?" I shouted at the shop. If Mr Tangen heard me over the racket of the radio, and his own snores, it didn't show.

"Fine," I shouted over my shoulder, and set off into the frigid morning headwind. Taubman, Tavistock, Gloucester, Pegasus, Westbourne and Ligar. I didn't bother with Blakes. Not a single customer. Not a single sale. An hour's work. Not a cent earned for Mum's perfume.

Mr Tangen was right. It was a waste of time. I'd have to admit it, though I'd done everything to prove his pessimism wrong. Exhausted from my futile whistle-walking and, sore all over from the traumas of the day and night before, I tethered the cart to the tree. As I approached the shop, the ochre step at the entrance glowed orange under the dull grey sky.

Platykuk stirred and shuddered. I jumped. I'd forgotten he was there!

"What's wrong, Platto?" I asked. "You think this is a trap?" I whispered. Then I walked straight into it.

It had been crouched, hidden behind the trunk of the dead tree. With a roar it ambushed us.

Unlike the last Tim-Blackgum, there was no exchange of pleasantries. It went straight for my throat like a cheetah. I ducked and went down on one knee as it hit me, my arms crossed over my chest to ward of the assault. Sharp teeth tore into the left arm of my jacket. Plumes of white feathered-down flew out where it'd bitten me. It locked its jaws on my arm and swung me from side to side, its fangs twisting and digging closer to skin with each shake.

I thrust my right arm into my pocket, grabbed Platto, ripped my hand free and pelted my helper at the creature's face. Platto's black, hard case smacked into the monster's nose, and the beast retreated a few steps to inspect it.

As he skittered down the path, Platto transformed, claws erupting from his flanks. The monster appeared mesmerised. For the first time, I got a good look at it. It was about the size of a German shepherd pup, and had the paws of a wolf. Its body was feline, however, and its short fur was the dirty red of a dingo. It had small black-feathered wings, like a chicken. And its rusty, serpentine tail was barbed with silver-black spines. I absorbed all these horrors in a second. But, it wasn't the body, or feet or tail that made the creature abominable.

It was its head.

Mick's tanned, symmetrical face, blue eyes and white smile had always made him popular with the girls at school. But now his face sat distorted atop the leathery bald neck of the monster, his once fine features twisted with rage, his eyes bloodshot, his fangs jutting crookedly in all directions from blackened gums.

"Mick," it's me," I said. "Paddy."

With grace, Mick's head twisted away from Platto and inspected me. It loped forward, opening his jaws impossibly wide, revealing not one but three rows of inky dagger-teeth, like a shark. It swished its tail to the side and a spine projectile shot out straight at my head! I pulled back just in time and it thrummed into the gum-trunk like an arrow. At the point of impact, the gum bark started to smoke, and char, grey ash falling to the ground like a moulting crayfish.

"Poison!" I said to Platto.

Platto was fully changed. The duck-billed terrier leapt at the beast, scratching at Mick's blue eyes with its spurs. Mick's head tilted unnaturally to the left and the monster narrowly missed losing an eye. A gout of steaming purple blood spouted from the wood with the malodor of coppery-vinegar.

The monster reared, trying to shake Platto off. It opened its mouth again, outraged with pain. I grimaced expecting a blood-curdling howl. But, instead it trilled and blared like a quintet of trumpets!

Platto seemed as surprised as I was by the brassy blast, and lost his grip on Mick's head. With its front right wolf paws, the monster thumped Platto to the ground. For a moment too long, Platto lay on his back like a stranded cockroach. Long black claws extended from the monster's paws like flick knives and raked across Platto's stomach.

The sun emerged suddenly from a break in the clouds and the creature fell back, whimpering like a whipped dog. I bolted to Platto. As I lent down to pick him up, my shadow, long and thin, fell across the step of the newsagency entrance.

I didn't see the other one, until it was upon us. Platto growled, and a second trumpet blast, higher and louder than Mick's, blared just behind my right ear. Part-deafened, I swung round just in time to see the second monster charge. Justine's head hissed then and let forth a flutter-tongued trill. I dropped to the ground and rolled away, narrowly escaping its spiked tail. The creature sailed over me and landed softly with the grace of a tiger, already resetting for a second strike.

Platto scampered across the footpath and leapt at Justine's head, his duck bill agape revealing a single row of short, sharp teeth cut like diamonds. He clamped his bill shut on Justine's nose.

"Good boy," I said. "Keep it -"

Whoosh! I lay flat on my back, winded by the bulk of the Mick-monster. It had recovered and sneaked up behind me. Its claws scratched at my ribs, through the padding of my jacket. I opened my eyes. Gnashing teeth snapped open and shut, a centimetre from my face. I grabbed the monster around the neck and tried to push it off. But it was too heavy.

Mick's jaws got closer and I turned my head away to the side, trying to get as much distance from its maw as possible. Platto was flat out fighting the Justine-Blackgum. They circled each other like duelling wolves looking for a gap in the other's defences.

I was too weak. My arms shook, and Mick's forehead grazed my cheek. I could smell its acrid, coppery breath. The heat of its breath scalded my chin. A shadow fell on my face as the sun came out and the monster's tail extended and curled up over the beast's shoulder. Was it planning to finish me off with a noxious spine to the face?

I squeezed my eyes shut. Both monsters brayed, their brassy pitches clashing horribly, like Ms Crabshank's band. Black spots corrupted my vision, as my left arm started to give. 'Ms Crabshank's band,' I muttered. 'Shadow'. I dwelled on thoughts of sprouting antlers and dagger necklaces; the band and the shadow.

That was it! I was doing this all wrong, trying to fight mythical monsters with puny muscles. From behind me, Justine's monster yipped, and Mick's head swung round to see what was happening, its weight shifting off me as it went to the aid of its twin.

I seized my chance. 'Shadow,' I thought-commanded. 'Seek help. A spirit.' Nothing happened. It wasn't working. "Now!" I shouted, fighting the urge to panic.

My feet exploded with fire, like I was walking on coals. My dark duplicate snapped off at my heels, and whirled weightlessly across the ground and into the shop. I felt the same sickening loss I'd felt in the cave. Mick's head turned back to me. The twins burst into a Processional. It was one of Ms Crabshank's favourites: Fanfare for the Common Man. They were celebrating their impending triumph.

"Don't count your chickens just yet," I muttered and pulled myself up. For the first time, I noticed I was taller than the beast. I advanced on the creature. The monster seemed surprised, suddenly unsure of itself.

"Shadow," I muttered. "Dance for the horn. Make it play for me."

I stood over the beast and waited. Doubts surfaced. Did I have any idea what I was doing? I banished my absence of faith to the back of my mind.

"Here, kitty, kitty," I sneered at the confused mongrel and stroked it behind its clammy ears. "It's time someone put you and your sister out for the night." I ran backwards and then vaulted forward and up onto the shocked beast's back, gripping its chicken wings. Then throttled its neck. "Now," I bellowed to my shadow, as the wild monster bucked. "The horn must play for me!"

The doorway exploded, and the roller shutter blasted off its guide rail. I was nearly thrown from the beast's back as it recoiled from the cacophony and used the chance to tear at the monster's throat. The smoke cleared, and a new combatant entered the fray. Its golden body glinted under the Winter sun and its rotary-valve teeth snapped hungrily. It sounded the hunt like an English riding party - Du-dah! Du-dah! It retracted its bell and mouthpiece and wheeled recklessly towards me and the monster, like a hurtling crown.

"My horn!" I cried, as the golden wheel attacked. The beast sprang back in panic, its trill muted. Dada-da-duuuuuuh, bellowed the horn again, drowning out the now bleating trumpets of the monsters.

The Mick-monster reared and unseated me, my fists full of wing-feathers as I fell. The horn sounded again, whizzed right by my ear - too close for comfort - and accelerated straight over the pitiful monster. Not content to merely mow the creature down, the horn stopped and unhooked one of its crooks. Then it backed over the beast, cleaving it in two horizontally with its scissoring spit valve. The horn rolled forward again and mounted the monsters' shoulders. Then it stretched its brass bell over Mick's head and started to swallow the beast like a killer python feasting on piglet.

"Gross!" I shuddered, hit by the sudden stench of copper. I turned around to check Platto.

Platto had disembowelled the Justine-monster and was feasting noisily on its guts. "Oh yuck!" I cried. "This Blackgum slaying business is disgusting!"

Suddenly, Mr Tangen stuck his head out of the newsagency door.

"It's OK, Mr Tangen," I said. "It's safe to come out now. They're dead."

The Valorous Viking bellowed with rage. "It will be, Paddy," he screeched. "You'll pay for hurting my younglings." Then he opened his mouth to reveal black, foamy gums and five rows of dagger-teeth.

The Viking-Beast bounded out of the shop. Mr Tangen's head sat atop a massive lion's body with a spiked tail the length of a javelin. With two leaps, it was upon me. I looked around, frantically. My horn and Platto were pre-occupied sating their appetites. They were too far away. My shadow pranced back through the newsagency door and fused itself to my feet, uselessly.

"I did the best with what I had," I said to my shadow, then closed my eyes and braced for the Tangen-Blackgum's bite.

A whoosh of heavy wings beat the air like curtains blowing in a gale. Then the world started to scream. I opened my eyes: two giant red and silver wings, with obsidian pupils, swooped between me and the Tangen-beast, slicing like razors through the monster's thick neck. Geysers of coppery blood shot out from between the monster's shoulders as Mr Tangen's bearded head flew up through the air and bounced back into the newsagency.

I fell to my knees, and was sick to the stomach.

"I can't take any more!" I cried.

"No doubt, lad," said Mr Seth. "You obviously paid attention to the cave primer. Summoning that Helper horn was inspired thinking against Manticores. What's a hunt without a horn?"

"Manti-who?" I said, dazed. I tottered over to a relatively blood-and-guts free patch on the footpath and collapsed next to Mick's cart. The unsold papers on top were flecked with blood.

"Manticores," said Mr Seth, squatting down to inspect my cuts and bruises. "Very old school. Medieval, in fact. Haven't seen one in ages, much less a Discontent."

"A what?" I asked.

"Discontent. Collective noun for Manticores. Don't you learn anything useful in school these days? Had actually thought them extinct, like unicorns." The old man brushed the arms of his pinstriped suit and straightened his lapels. But for a few nicks above his eye and a bruise on his cheek, he looked perfectly dapper, like he had just stepped out of a limousine after a smashing night out at a swanky gentleman's club.

"Looks like I got here just in time," said Mr Seth surveying the wreckage. "Platykuk, stop stuffing your face and get over here."

Like a naughty puppy caught chewing its master's shoe, Platto shook off the bigger chunks of Manticore meat and padded over to Mr Seth. They looked at each other silently for a few seconds, then Mr Seth raised his eyebrow and grinned. "Sounds like you've had one hell of a night, Patrick. Sorry I missed it. A cave ghoul? Manticores? What are you planning for an encore?"

"Sleep," I said. My eyes felt ready to drop from their sockets. Shakily, I wiped puke from the side of my mouth with the back of my hand.

"Good idea. Leave this to me," said Mr Seth, waving absently at the Manticore carnage. It's too late for your horn, I'm afraid."

My horn lay slumped against the left upper half of the Mick-Manticore, its bell split in two.

"I don't think I could play it again anyway. Not after this."

Mr Seth snickered. "Understandable. Its spirit perished in a bulimic frenzy, but it died nobly. Get some rest. You're going to need it."

_Yes_ , I thought, but my mouth wouldn't co-operate to voice the thought aloud.

"We face the Zealtor soon," said Mr Seth. "Perhaps at the dance. Until then. Sleep."

I nodded, and my cheeks rubbed against the soft linen of my pillow. Outstretched in bed at home, I dreamed of demons, both slayed and still to slay.

## 16. HEEL AND TOE

I woke up, just as the sun perished over Quakehaven. My eyes were wet with tears for Mr Tangen, Justine and Mick. More innocent victims of the Blackgum. Their deaths would be avenged!

Opening my eyes, I flinched. A small pointy face filled my vision, almost touching my nose with his, like a Maori kiss. "Don't cry, Paddy," squeaked Joke. "It was just a nightmare."

It was a nightmare. But real people were dying in Quakehaven: Tim, and now Justine, Mick and Mr Tangen; and goodness knows how many more I didn't know about. Most would die forgotten.

"We did it!" shouted Joke, spraying my face with spittle. I wiped my cheeks. Joke's face was hard to look at, as bright as a solar eclipse.

"Did what?" I asked and pulled myself up against the bedhead, wincing. I pushed down the bedclothes. I wore clean flannelette pyjamas. The cuts and scrapes on my legs and arms had been dressed with clean white bandages.

"Made the deadline," said Joke.

"Huh?" I asked, almost too tired to care. The walls, window and door of my bedroom were covered with silver squiggles. Joke seemed oblivious.

"For the bridge," he said.

The project seemed so irrelevant, and frivolous when people lay dead. But, I remembered how much the scholarship meant to him.

"That boy's been hovering here since this morning," explained Uncle Gerry, materialising astride my chair. "You've never seen such ado about schoolwork."

"That's Joke for you," I sighed, and sat up in bed, marvelling at how pristine I felt - even the dirt beneath my fingernails had been removed.

"What's Joke for you?" asked Joke. "Who are you talking to?"

"Myself," I grinned. "First sign of madness, they say."

"You're not crazy, Paddy," said Joke solemnly. "I don't know how you did it, but thank you for saving the project."

I lay back and closed my eyes, nodding from time to time as Joke prattled on. He'd woken up to find my note and Minmi. Competition entries were due at ten o'clock, so when he'd seen I was out, he'd pedalled all the way over to the Town Hall and submitted Minmi to Mr Lyons, who was helping set up the barn dance. Joke rushed back to Sub Rosa, but by then I was fast asleep.

"Where is everyone?" I asked.

"Your Aunt is over at the Hall reviewing Mrs Kroker's decorations."

"And Mum?"

"She didn't feel well this morning," said Joke. He must have seen alarm in my eyes. "Just a headache. Doc Vassel came over just after lunch and gave her some new pills. Stronger one. She was cranky with you for staying up all night, but I think she was proud at the same time."

"I checked on her just before you woke up," said Uncle Gerry, materialising behind Joke. "She's OK, but I don't think she should go to the dance. The last thing her migraine needs is loud music!"

I nodded at my half-invisible uncle. Joke looked at me strangely.

"And your father?" I asked as delicately as I could.

Joke frowned. "I rang the house. I wanted to tell him you'd fixed the bridge; and that everything would be OK once he apologised. But he wasn't there. "I called Mr Luk. He said dad's van wasn't in the driveway."

"Your father just needs some time to sort himself out," I said. _Or someone to do it for him_ , I thought. "You can stay with us as long as you want, Joke. I'm sure Aunt Bea will be fine with it."

"Thanks, Paddy," he said, looking at the floor. "She is. Said I could stay indefinitely. Even gave me some of your old clothes to wear, I hope that's OK?"

"No worries. What time is it?"

"Almost six-thirty," said Joke. "You've slept the day away. We'd better get moving. It takes 37 minutes to get to the hall by bike and the dance starts at seven-thirty. That leaves just under 19 minutes for us to get dressed, and four minutes to park our bikes and to enter the hall. Do you mind if I borrow a shirt?"

"Course not," I said, climbing out of bed. "Though I might give it a miss. Mum might wake up and want company."

"Please Paddy," pleaded Joke, his brow furrowed. "You have to come! Both team members have to be there to claim the prize. We'll be disqualified if you no-show."

"Go," said Uncle Gerry. "I'll keep patrolling. No-one in. No-one out. Anything happens I'll call on my summoner. Platto briefed me on the Manticores. I cleaned most of the muck off," he said pointing at the small black box on the windowsill. "Don't forget to take him with you."

I nodded to my Uncle, then grinned at Joke. "Ok, mate," I said, grabbing a couple of shirts and a pair of jeans from their hangers. "Just build in two extra minutes to your schedule, so I can look in on Mum." I winked at Uncle Gerry while Joke re-calibrated the maths under his breath.

###

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 said, 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 chanteuse 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.

###

"Come in," stage-whisper-hissed a small chorus of hushed voices. Alarmed, I opened my eyes and found myself standing in the dining room doorway, behind the half-closed door to Mum's room. I slid the door open the rest of the way. Aunt Bea, Doc Vassel and Mrs Kroker were crouched at the head of Mum's bed like the three wise men re-enacting the Nativity. Mum lounged on her back in the middle of the daybed, her eyes closed.

The room looked like it had been ransacked. The tall reading lamp lay broken, its stand snapped in two, its shade soiled and torn. Yellow peonies - Joke's flowers - were scattered all over the room, and dirty, wet streaks on the one plastered wall tracked like a slug trail where the vase had shattered against the wall. Lemons had been ripped from the boughs of the potted trees and shredded with what looked like teeth. Funny black markings were scrawled across the ceiling, like a trampolining toddler had been let loose with an outsized marker.

"Blackgum attack?" I muttered under my breath. My heart pounded against my upper ribs.

"No-one - and nothing - has been in or out of this house, except the people in this room," said Uncle Gerry half-materialising beside my right ear. "I don't know or how or when exactly you and the other boy came home. But I swear to you. Your mother's been safe at all times."

Three shiny faces read my concern and smiled up at me in unison a little too brightly. Mrs Kroker's grin, far too happy to be real, scared me the most with its trembling intensity. And as much as I liked Doc Vassel, I hated morning house-calls to Sub Rosa. It usually meant something was wrong with Mum.

"It's OK," said the doctor, dropping his false smile, beckoning me in. "She's fine."

I stepped into the room and grimaced. My body ached all over, especially my right ankle, which I'd twisted in my useless hero-diving onto the stage to fight the Giant.

"You were walking in your sleep," whispered Uncle Gerry. I swung around and squinted. He wasn't exactly invisible, but it was hard to see more than the faint outline of his beer belly over bones.

"How long have I been standing here?" I whispered.

"You just got here," said Uncle Gerry, his ecto-skin pulsing, and becoming a little more tangible, his face drawn. "I was worried you'd fall down the stairs. I kept calling your name but they always say be careful not to wake a sleepwalker- "

"Who are you talking to?" said Aunt Bea, cutting over her late husband's speech, pretty much as she'd done all their married lives. "I told you Doctor. All this sleepwalking and whispering to himself, it's getting worse."

"Beatrice," said Doc Vassel, polite but firm. "As I said on my last visit, the walking is more likely to happen when the lad is stressed. And he's got every reason to be after the fire last night."

"Fire?" I asked.

"Don't tell me you've got amnesia now as well as the sleepwalking and invisible friends. How am I supposed to live normally in a house full of -". Aunt Bea stopped herself, and looked down at Mum, her face crumpled with guilt.

"Crazy people, you mean," I said. "How are you supposed to live in a house full of crazy people?"

"No-one thinks that," said Mrs Kroker, glaring at Aunt Bea, then smiling at me, again too hard. "Everyone has had a terrible night and not enough sleep. We lost you and Joke in the confusion."

"It was your fancy lighting that did it," snapped Aunt Bea at Mrs Kroker. "The Town Hall's old electrics just couldn't take it. I told you so. It was lucky we remembered the fire extinguishers in the library. Two men are dead because of you."

Mrs Kroker blanched and Doc Vassel put his arm protectively around her waist. "No-one knows what caused it yet, Beatrice," he said. "We won't know until the fire crew have conducted an investigation and have interviewed everyone."

"After all the worry the boys put us through last night. No wonder your Mum took a turn."

"That's e-enough!" shouted Doc Vassel. "Bridget didn't even know he was m-m-missing. How could she?" Aunt Bea held her ground and Doc Vassel's eye. For a moment, I thought he was going to slap her.

"What happened to Mum?"

"This isn't like Beatrice," whispered Uncle Gerry, half to himself. He stood right behind her, his eyes wide open, like he was trying to peer into her head. "She loves you, Paddy. And she love's your Mum. She's just scared."

I wasn't so sure, but the only thing that mattered to me at that moment was Mum's health.

Doc Vassel released Mrs Kroker, ambled around to the side of the bed, stooped down and examined me. "As far as we can tell," he started. "Around the time of the fire -"

Suddenly, and without warning, I lost control. "There was no fire," I cried. "They've just made you forget, turned it into an accident. That's how they work. They keep attacking us. And you all keep forgetting, like goldfish swimming round and round in a bath, while the water drains out. But I remember. I know what's going on."

"See," said Aunt Bea, rolling her eyes at the doctor. "What I told you. Paranoid hallucinations, thinks he's got some special faculty the rest of us are too average to understand. The boy lives in a fantasy world. Always has."

"Beatrice," said Mrs Kroker quietly, a haunted, but hard, glint in her eye. "Why don't you just shut up and let the boy finish. Paddy: what do you remember that we've all forgotten?"

Aunt Bea was stunned. Her jaw dropped open like a sunken treasure chest lid flipping open with the tide on a coral reef.

"Tim," I said, tears welling in my eyes. "I remember Tim, Mrs Kroker. And I think you do too."

Aunt Bea shook her head with disapproval. Mrs Kroker started to shake all over. "No," she said, her voice cracking with emotion. "I don't - I can't - remember. Please tell me about Tim. Tell me everyth -"

"Paddy," interrupted Doc Vassel, gripping my shoulder a little too tightly, staring almost hypnotically into my eyes. "Look at me and listen. It's important. There is no boy called Tim. There is no 'they'. No-one is attacking you or anyone else in this town. No-one is forgetting anything that shouldn't be forgotten."

I said stubbornly: "Sorry, doctor but that's just not true."

"I'll tell you what's true," said Doc Vassel. "You trust me, right?"

I nodded.

"I think you are trying to forget the fire. And you're trying to forget some of the other bad things that have happened recently. Your father's passing. Your Mum's illness. But it's important for you to know what's real, even if it's not easy to hear. Your Dad is gone to a better place. Your Mum is sick and needs to heal. There was a fire last night, Paddy, at the dance. People died. Mr Dixon, Mr Lyons and, perhaps, Joke's father, though we don't know that for sure yet. It was all a terrible accident. And you were there."

"No," I said, trying to pull away. "That's not what happened."

The doctor shook me gently. "I think you are trying to escape bad memories. I understand. But it's making you sick, Paddy. The sleepwalking, the headaches, the fantasy world you're so desperate to defend against the evidence. All symptoms of you trying to duck reality. To avoid your real problems. Listen, Paddy: your Mum needs your help in this world. She needs you here and now. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

I did. It all sounded so sensible, so logical. What if I had imagined the whole thing: Mr Seth, the Blackgum, the Scattersmiths, Platto, the Witches, Uncle Gerry's ghost, the Zealtor still hiding out somewhere in Quakehaven, ready to launch his attack. It did sound far-fetched. Just like a world made up by a scared, lonely boy living in a haunted house in a back water town. Just like one of dad's penny dreadfuls. Maybe I was just stressed and sleep-deprived and recovering from a trauma. Like a fire.

Then I saw Mrs Kroker's face, and knew it was all real. Tim was real. My other friends - Mr Tangen, Justine and Mick - they were real too. So were Mr Dixon and Mr Lyons, and they hadn't perished in a fire. They'd been murdered by monsters. Blackgum under the control of the Zealtor. Killing my friends and townsfolk in cold blood, then making them forget.

I knew also that there was no way I could make Aunt Bea or Doc Vassel believe me. Not yet.

"You're right," I said to Doc Vassel, not daring to look at Mrs Kroker. "There was a fire last night. Joke and I escaped, somehow got back to the house, walked, I guess. I remember it now. I'm sorry for making up all that stuff. I was scared."

"Understandable," said Doc Vassel, mussing my hair. No-one is angry."

"Good job, Doctor," said my Aunt, smiling. "Welcome back to earth, boy. And it's about time too."

I straightened Mum's pillow. "Now tell me - honestly - what happened to Mum? I've been straight with you. Don't beat around the bush."

"As far as we can tell she was fine," said Doc Vassel, closing his eyes. "Your Aunt Bea had called just before the dance started and she was half asleep in bed."

"Yes," I nodded. "She was asleep when Joke and I left, it would have been around seven."

"Well, the best we can figure is that she remained asleep until around the time of the fire - about nine. Something must have woken her, maybe the fire truck sirens and the commotion. She must have jumped out of bed, knocking over the lamp \- "

"I found her crouched in the corner against the freezing glass behind the curtain," said Aunt Bea. "Only her thin nightgown to protect her from the cold. She was shivering uncontrollably. But her skin was so hot when I tried to pick her up. Then she started babbling. That's when I called the doctor. Or tried to. He took his sweet time to return my call."

"I was helping the ambulance crew with the fire victims outside the hall," explained Doc Vassel. "A lot of them were in shock, some with smoke inhalation, some with burns. Annette and I came as soon as we could. When we got here, your Aunt was doing her best to stop your mother from hurting herself. Even with Annette to help out while I prepared a sedative, it was a struggle. We held her down until she fell back asleep, then we moved her onto the bed."

"What about the marks on the roof?"

"I think they're burn marks, Paddy," said the doctor. "Though we don't know how she got up there. They were there when your Aunt arrived. A bit of a mystery. Your Mum must have jumped up from the bed. And slashed at the ceiling with a cigarette lighter?"

"She doesn't smoke," I said dubiously. "No-one here does." The marks were thick and even. They didn't look like they had been made by a lighter. Especially, by a lighter applied by an upset woman jumping up and down on a bed.

"Matches, then?" offered Doc Vassel. "I know she likes to read by candle light."

"She's OK now, Paddy. But we have to think about moving her somewhere she can be watched 24 hours a day."

"You're not moving my mother to a mental asylum," I said, angrily, looking down at Mum's peaceful face. "Aunt Bea and I will look after her."

"I know you love your mother," said Doc Vassel. "But it's not fair to expect you and your Aunt to devote yourself entirely to looking after her. She needs specialist help. And you need to live your lives."

"What she needs," I said, smoothing out the bedspread and drawing the blanket down a little to ease Mum's breathing, "is some peace and quiet."

Mum sighed and turned her head onto the left revealing deep scratches gouged around the base of her neck beneath the light silver chain of her locket. Gently, I reached out and tugged on the locket chain's clasp to remove it. The lock was stuck, and I began to jerk at it with frustration.

"Leave the necklace, Paddy," said Aunt Bea. "I tried before and it's stuck. It will only hurt her more if you pull on it."

I released the locket and dropped my hand to my side. "I'm sorry, Paddy," said Aunt Bea, her voice breaking with emotion as tears streamed down her face. "Until tonight, I thought she was getting better, that our support was enough."

"It is," I insisted.

Aunt Bea hugged me tightly. "No, Paddy. It isn't. You didn't see her tonight: how close she came to really hurting herself. She needs full time medical care. And she needs to go somewhere that can give it to her. You know that. We can visit her every week. Or more than that; whenever you want."

"Your Aunt is right, Paddy" said Doc Vassel. "A short stay - say 3 months - at Avonlea Farm Clinic should do wonders. It will also give you and your aunt a much needed rest. Your continued episodes of sleepwalking tell me you need to rest." He turned to my Aunt. "Beatrice, I'm going to write Bridget a referral," he said reaching into for his bag and retrieving his pad. "And also a script for some pills for Paddy. These should reduce his sleepwalking and the daydreaming. Dampen his overactive imagination. Help him concentrate and focus on what's real."

Aunt Bea nodded. "Thank you doctor."

I couldn't believe it had come to this. Avonlea Farm! The kids at school called it Mental-ly Farm. The local nut house. They were going to send Mum to the loony bin! And they were going to put me on drugs that made it hard to think creatively, just like Tim.

Almost toppling over with fatigue, I bent down and kissed my mother's forehead. "I can't be part of this," I whispered, and for a moment I thought I could hear her voice echoing softly in my head:

"NonononoMustnotMustnotLetThemTouchNeverNeverNEVER!!!"

I bolted out of the room, hearing Mrs Kroker's voice, laced with sympathy: "Let him go, Beatrice. He needs some time alone to process it all."

A thousand years wouldn't be enough time to deal with everything, I thought, as I fled to my bedroom. Joke was nowhere to be seen. I was about to throw myself face down on pillow, when I froze.

Enthroned upon the middle of my bedspread sat Platto, repaired, his black fur glistening wetly under the yellow light of my chandelier. Between his clenched jaws was a pale green envelope.

Platto spat out the envelope like it was poison. On its face, emblazoned in red ink, were the words "Master Lee, Esq. Strictly Private and Confidential. To be opened by the addressee only. Urgent."

This is what the letter said:

## 19. PACT OFF

"Dearest Patrick

By now, you know who I am. But you do not know what I need from you; nor what I'm prepared to do to get it.

I need a favour. You need one in return.

I know where the Zealtor resides.

Come to the Lake at noon. I will wait for you at the pier.

Come alone. Tell no-one of this missive, especially the Smith. I have sent him out on a wild goose chase so that you and I may speak without interference.

Do not tell Jokkum I am alive. He will understand none of this. It would not be safe for him at the lake. For the sake of your friendship, keep him away.

If you are not at the Lake at noon precisely, I will join forces with the Zealtor to get what I need. My parlour trick with the scarab beetles at Mark's party will pale in comparison to the panic the Zealtor and I, aligned, could inflict on Quakehaven.

I look forward to seeing you at noon. Read the enclosures carefully and make the right decision.

Yours sincerely

B.F.

Enclosures

Enclosure I - to be sent at 12.05pm if Master Patrick Lee does not attend on me at Lake Ebb at noon precisely:

The Principal

Pinkerton Grammar

[Address]

Dear Sirs

Re - Master Jokkum Fisk

Your school is for idiotic buffoons with too many dollars and no sense. Your insulting scholarship is hereby rejected. For the avoidance of doubt, it is my express wish that my son never suffer the mediocrity of your hollow halls or talentless teachers.

Yours faithlessly

Mr Balder Fisk

Enclosure II - To be sent if Master Patrick Lee attends on me at Lake Ebb at noon, as requested:

The Principal

Pinkerton Grammar

[Address]

Dear Sirs

Re - Master Jokkum Fisk

As Jokkum's father and legal guardian, I am delighted to accept your very generous offer of a fully funded scholarship for my son to attend your distinguished school.

Yours faithfully

Mr B.F.

So Mr Fisk had been behind Mark's birthday beetles!

The attachments weren't signed and were both watermarked with an italicised "draft" stamp. Otherwise, I would just have forged Mr Fisk's signature, sent the second letter to the Grammar, and then gone to find Mr Seth to help deal with the Witch. I dressed in a hurry, stuffed the letter into the back pocket of my jeans, and set off to look for Joke.

It didn't take long. Joke sat on the second bottom step of the hall stairs, humming to himself. Half way down the stairs, I cleared my throat theatrically and he turned. I nearly fell down the stairs. Joke was grinning.

"Um, you all right?" I asked, worried.

Joke nodded. "I'm fine, Paddy. Sorry I was such a jealous brat last night. Everything's going to be OK."

"You found your dad?" I asked, nervously.

"Well, no," he admitted. "But I know he's OK, and he'll be back soon."

I was stumped. "Look," said Joke. "I know I'm not exactly the most, well, the most open minded guy you know when it comes to, um, supernatural stuff."

Understatement! Just after I arrived in Quakehaven, Joke and I went to an old black and white _Swamp Thing_ movie. He'd driven everyone six rows on either side of us nuts scoffing at the plot and complaining that the creature's gills were too small and wrongly shaped, and how it would have drowned the first time it dove into the lagoon!

"I haven't been completely honest with you, Paddy."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"Science and history are the two most important things in my life; the best kinds of knowledge," said Joke. "But you know me. I'll read anything by anyone if there's nothing else around. Even Puppetslasher and the other novels under your bed."

"Dad's penny dreadfuls?" I asked using Dad's name for old, cheap horror novels, including the ones I'd brought with me to Quakehaven.

"I'm not completely ignorant of other systems of knowledge," said Joke. "And books aren't the only ways to get it."

"What are you talking about?" This was getting weird.

"Don't laugh, Paddy. You promise?"

"Depends."

"Promise," pleaded Joke.

"OK," I said. "Now lay it on me."

"A ghost."

"What?" I asked, tension pinching between my shoulders.

"It - he - visited me while you were sleeping," whispered Joke. "Told me dad was fine. On his way back. That dad wanted me to get to Pinkerton and nail the interview."

I scoured Joke's face. "How do you know you weren't dreaming?"

"He left this." Joke thrust his hand into his shirt pocket and pulled out a shiny object. I leaned forward. It was a misshapen disk about the size of a large thumb nail, and with silver flecks glinting through a coat of what looked like black rust. Joke passed it to me. It was cold, and heavier than I expected. One side featured an owl, the other a hook-nosed queen or princess.

"I think it's a coin," said Joke.

It was a coin, and a very old one at that. Like 1500 years old: a tehradracm from Athens. "Uncle Gerry," I muttered under my breath. Only he knew the combination to the bronze floor safe.

"Said I needed to pull myself together. 'Take the scholarship! Live your dream!'" Joke said, puffing out his chest in a passable impersonation of my uncle.

"You're welcome," said Uncle Gerry, semi-materialising at the bottom of the stairs behind Joke. His hands were crossed over his enormous belly like an apron.

I shook my head.

"What?" said Joke, and swung around. But Uncle Gerry had vanished.

"Nothing, Joke," I said, handing him back the coin. "Take good care of this. Don't you have a bus to catch?"

"Less than an hour," said Joke, checking his watch. "But I've got three problems," he said counting them off on his fingers. "One: I don't have anything to wear for the interview."

"Easily sorted," I said, and ran up the stairs. Joke followed me.

Over to the doorless wardrobe we went. I rifled through my clothes and plucked out the hanger carrying my black suit and formal white shirt. I handed it over to Joke.

"Isn't that?" stuttered Joke, massaging the woollen jacket through the plastic bag. "Is that -?"

"Yeah," I said. "I wore it to Dad's funeral. It's a great suit, and it's too small for me. I'm sure you'll look very professional - if it's not too weird for you."

"No, it's not weird," said Joke, his face somber. "It's an honour."

"Thanks, Joke" I said, my voice hoarse. I forced a smile. "So what next?"

"Two," said Joke. Tapping his index finger with his thumb. "I don't have any money for the bus."

"How much is it?" I asked.

"Heaps," said Joke. "About $30 for the Express, return."

"Why don't we just ask Aunt Bea for it?" I asked. "I'm sure she'll be happy -"

"Well, that's my third problem, Paddy," said Joke.

"What is?"

"Aunt Bea, and not just her. Doc Vassel and Mrs Kroker too. They all think it's a bad idea for me to go. I tried to sneak out the front door, but that budgie screeched and your Aunt caught me."

I ducked under the card table and crawled behind the silver floor safe. My tired reflection gazed back at me from the amber glass of my money bottle.

Mum's perfume had seemed so important a few days ago. But priorities had changed. Tim, Mr Tangen, Justine, Mick, Mr Dixon and Mr Lyons were gone, all murdered by the Blackgum. Mum was about to be put away in Avonlea - and a Witch was trying to cut a deal with me behind a Scattersmith's back. Against the swamp of lethargy swallowing Quakehaven, the fire in Joke's belly - his ambition to get out of it - was more precious than a dozen bottles of Fabliaux.

I stood up and flipped the bottle over, dumping its contents onto the floor. Without counting the booty - I knew how much I had to the cent - I scooped up the cold coins and tatty notes and stuffed them into Joke's hands.

Joke was gobsmacked. "I couldn't. It's too much. I know what you were saving for, and I can't."

I smiled and closed his fist over the money - $83.50 in all. "You'll need lunch when you get there, and supplies when you get in," I said. "If our roles were reversed, you'd do the same for me."

"I'll pay you back," said Joke. "With interest."

"I'll hold you to it," I laughed. "When you're a famous archaeologist, hoarding ancient gold, you'll probably spend more on dinner! Now get changed and let's go!"

"What about the bird and your Aunt?" he said.

"Get dressed and let me worry about that!"

When Joke was ready, I climbed onto the card table and opened the window, being careful not the smudge the silver symbols. I scrambled out onto the pomegranate's biggest bough and gestured for Joke to follow suit.

Like firemen, we shimmied down the tree trunk. Joke nearly slipped a couple of times, but somehow scrambled to the ground in one piece.

Our bikes were still over at the Town Hall. Joke pressed his lucky coin between his palms, and practised his interview techniques. When we got to the crossroads, just outside the cemetery, Joke fell silent.

"Off you go!" I laughed. "It'd be a shame to miss your bus after all this effort! Your dad will be proud of you."

Joke shook my hand then strode confidently downhill towards the Highway bus stop. I watched him disappear round a bend, then set off in the other direction.

###

When I arrived at Arcadia, Mr Fisk was waiting, perched on the rickety pier looking out at the Lake. The squat man's bald head glistened like a polished red opal.

Apart from Mr Fisk's unusual outfit - a long white shirt dress that billowed out at his waist like the blousy flanks of a jellyfish - Mr Fisk looked much like any other middle-aged dad enjoying a break from his kids. A faint breeze drifted slowly off the Lake. The place stunk of rot and fish guts.

Trying to look relaxed, I strolled up the pier and casually observed the Lake's surface. The water was fetid and half-choked with lilly-pads. A few antisocial wasps hovered above brown-grey petals and dipped in and out of the flowers like overused tea bags.

"Greetings, Patrick," said Mr Fisk, not bothering to turn to me. "I'm glad you came. Where is my son?"

I told him, leaving out a few details, like the ghost. Mr Fisk swayed with approval. "I'm glad you got him out of town. It's not safe, especially near this Lake," he said gesturing at the placid, grey-green water in the distance.

I was sick of riddles. "Is the Zealtor here?"

"Do you think I'd just be sitting around if the Zealtor had paid us a visit? Where's your Smith, by the way?"

"You sent him on a goose chase, remember."

"I did," said Mr Fisk, walking his hands back from the edge of the pier. I heard a clink of metal as he struggled to his knees. A weapon? "I was almost sure you would have called him on that feisty device you had at the dance."

"And you didn't bring him with you. Foolish."

It was. I'd been too focused on getting Joke to the interview. I'd somehow managed to show up for a Witch duel with no real way of defending myself. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid!

"Let's cut to the chase," I said. "I'm here as you demanded. Now what do you want? And look at me when I'm talking to you. Where are your manners?"

Metal clanked against metal. His body remained still, but Mr Fisk's head swivelled all the way around, the muscles of his neck popping out like knotted ropes. The Witch's eyes were red and raw. And his face had been slashed diagonally from the base of his double chin to the black bags just beneath his right eye. The cuts were deep and open, like a cleft. It was hard to tell where his upper lip ended and his broken nose began.

"What happened to you?" I asked.

"Wrong door."

"You hit your head?"

Mr Fisk smiled, revealing a mouth of broken teeth. "Not that kind of door. The pit. Worse things than the Giant awaited me down there."

He was talking about the portal. I was about to ask another question when Mr Fisk suddenly threw his arms up and wailed: "I want her back," he said, his voice choked with emotion.

Unexpected. "Who do you want back?" I asked. As I approached, Mr Fisk's neck began to sway like a confused cobra's. Mr Fisk reeked of stale sweat and whiskey.

"Vivian," he said. "My wife."

"Ex-wife, you mean," I said and immediately regretted it. With a jerk of his shoulders, Mr Fisk swivelled his body to match his head. Suddenly, he looked like the man who had flung me onto my bum with a whisper. The talented and dangerous Mr Fisk. I retreated a step.

"For ten years, she was mine," he said. "And you'll see to it that she is again."

"Me?" I asked, incredulous. "What can I do?" I said. "I couldn't even get a date for the barn dance. How am I going to recover your ex - your wife?"

"That's where you're wrong, Paddy," said Mr Fisk, hobbling towards me, his eyes glittering like zinc. "What sort of a Novice are you?"

"We haven't exactly had much time for lessons," I huffed hotly, swatting again at a wasp as it attempted to land on my ear lobe. "Sorry if I haven't had time for love potions. We've been focusing on silly stuff, like staying alive."

"If you think slaying the odd Manticore - yes I heard about that - is more important than love, then you've a lot to learn."

"If this town survives," I said, "I'll make a point of re-assessing my goals. Perhaps if you helped us slaughter the Blackgum, we'd have time for marriage counselling."

"Quakehaven's fall will be no great loss in the annals of history," sniffed Mr Fisk.

"Why don't you help the Zealtor, then?"

"Partly, nostalgia, I guess," said Fisk, almost wistfully. "I grew up in this town, have lived here most of my life. It's where I got married. Joke was born in the Base Hospital. And my job was a perfect cover."

"For what?"

"It takes years to become a Witch, Paddy. No-one's born one. There are no apprenticeships. It's a lonely path. Talent plays a part, of course, but it takes practice to become great. It took me seven years of prayer just to find her."

"Vivian?"

Mr Fisk scowled, his scar blanching. "No. I met my beloved wife in a tavern. I meant HER," he said. "My purpose."

I looked at him blankly.

"My Goddess!" As he said the word, he fell to his knees. The wind caught the fabric of his shirt and I spied three long iron bars swaying off a loop of leather at the base of his neck. As he prayed, the bars clinked together like rusted wind chimes. Concentric rings appeared in the placid Lake waters behind him.

"What did Vivian think of your hobby?"

"My devotion, you mean? It was impossible to conceal. Vivian caught me in rapture - mistook my gospels for love letters. Thought I had taken up with another woman. In a way, she was right."

"So she left you," I said.

"Yes. Ran out on her devoted husband and only son. Now I need her back. My goddess wills it!"

"Why don't you just ask your goddess to help you, if she's so powerful," I said. "Why bother me?"

Mr Fisk sneered: "You think my Goddess would deign to allow me to use her power for so paltry a task?"

"Since when was getting your wife back a small job?"

"I dare not ask so minor a boon. But Jokkum needs a mother."

"Calm down, Mr Fisk," I said. "You tell me where the Zealtor is, and I'll try to help you with your wife." I had no intention of helping Mr Fisk. You couldn't force two people to love each other. Even if you could, it would be wrong. Being a Smith was about freedom, not coercing them into marriage against their will.

"I'm not stupid, Paddy. First, resurrect my Vivian. Then we can talk about the Zealtor."

"Resurrect?" I said. The red wasp was back, seemingly determined to pollinate my hair.

"She's mine!" screamed Mr Fisk.

"This isn't about love at all, is it?" I said. "You just can't stand someone else being with her. Making her happy."

"Silence, Novice!" shrieked Mr Fisk. There was no-one around. Even the mosquitoes and wasp had fled for cover. I didn't blame them.

"Why don't you tell him the truth, Witch-dog," said a man gruffly, behind me. I pivoted. It was Mr Seth. Unusually, his hair was mussed, and he was holding what looked like a soccer ball in an orange bag.

"So, you survived the Battleswine?" said Mr Fisk, conversationally.

"Hildisuin sends his love," said Mr Seth pitching the ball at Mr Fisk's head. The Witch ducked just too late and the thing thudded heavily into his shoulder. As it hit the ground, and trundled towards me, I saw its lidless eyes: a huge pig's head that had been hacked off roughly at the neck. Dollops of blue gunk leaked from its eyes like antifreeze.

"And Sachrimnir?" said Mr Fisk, grumpily dabbing at splashes of the same blue gunk on his white shirt front.

"Ran all the way home," sang Mr Seth. "You're not his favourite person. He was expecting a minor Witch, not a Smith. And I think he blames you for the mix up."

Mr Fisk's ruined face paled just a little. If Sachrimnir was even half as fierce-looking as the tusked head at my feet, the Witch had every right to be scared.

The two men faced off, like cowboys. "For once you're on time, Mr Seth," I quipped, trying to lighten the mood.

"You think this is funny," hissed Mr Seth. "I was forced to kill a noble creature today so this Witch could lure you into, what, some sort of reverse matchmaking? What were you thinking? Do you have no common sense?"

"He knows where the Zealtor is," I blurted, stung by Mr Seth's words. "He said to come alone or he would ruin Joke's future."

"And you believed him? Lesson one about Witches: Don't trust 'em any further than you could spit a grand piano."

"Like Smiths are so dependable," smirked Mr Fisk. "You think you had me fooled with that wasp routine? Wear castanets next time. More subtle."

"That was you?" I asked Mr Seth. "You were spying?"

"And with good cause, young man!" bellowed Mr Seth. "I had to make sure you weren't defecting. And you nearly fell hook line and sinker for Fisk's sob story. 'Jokkum needs his mother,' said Seth aping Mr Fisk's voice. "Give me a break. Haven't you figured it out: he murdered the boy's mother years ago. As a sacrifice to his damned goddess. Why do you think your friend's mother never calls?"

Shocked, I turned to the murderous Mr Fisk. "You killed Joke's mother?"

"My goddess willed it so. And Vivian wasn't happy with me anyway. I wanted to be sure she wasn't happy with anyone else!"

"Then why did you ask me here then? What do you want?"

"She's at the gate isn't she, Witch? I can almost feel her filthy fingers scrabbling at the locks. Tell me, which idol do you serve?"

"Never!" said Mr Fisk, outraged, as if Mr Seth had blasphemed.

Mr Seth's eyes glazed silver and rolled back into his head. The waves stopped, and then started to push the other way, away from the pier. "I compel you," ordered Mr Seth, his voice unnaturally resonant and deep. "The Knot commands it of you, Witch."

Mr Fisk threw his hands up to his face and growled, as if he'd been slapped. "No!"

"We command it," roared Mr Seth, his voice suddenly joined by a chorus of several others I couldn't see, but felt.

"Not fair!" screamed Mr Fisk. "I will not yield to the Scattersmith Knot."

"You MUST!" shouted Mr Seth and what seemed a tabernacle choir of angry high-pitched voices. A gust of foul green wind erupted from Mr Seth's mouth, throwing me forward and slamming Mr Fisk onto his back. The noxious gale propelled the Witch off the end of the pier. For a moment, I thought he'd plunged into the now churning waters of the Lake. But the Witch planted his feet on the side of the pier and held firm, his body jutting over the water like a diving board.

Mr Seth hauled me up onto my feet like I was concocted from feathers. "Hold the Witch, lad!" ordered the Smith, and at once I felt my shadow detach. My shadow slunk down the pier, and encased the prostrate body of Mr Fisk like a dark cocoon.

Mr Fisk began to mutter-babble. The Lake seethed and tendrils of stinking steam wafted up from its surface, scalding my shadow. I cried out as I felt my shadow burn. But I willed it to hold on, knowing that Mr Seth had asked me to; needed me to.

Suddenly, glass doors shattered behind us. An ancient pinball machine, emblazoned with black and white stars, charged out of Arcardia and down the pier, its power cord trailing behind it like a thrashing serpent. I covered my face and braced for its impact, but the machine was not interested in me and, instead, galloped full tilt toward Mr Fisk.

"Tell me," commanded Mr Seth, standing between the Witch and the pinball machine. "Or I will allow this thing - an amusement device that has been slapped at and tilted for 30 years by spotty teenagers - to vent its frustrations."

"No," said Mr Fisk, quietly, eying the prowling machine warily. "Never."

Mr Seth sighed and stepped aside. "Paddy, release his head," he said. I did so, willing the skin of my shadow to furl down Mr Fisk's arm like a woollen sock. The pinball machine caterwailed, reared up on its front legs and sling-shot molten ball bearings directly at the Witch's face.

"Stop," cried Mr Fisk.

Mr Seth made no effort to reign in the pinball machine and one of the ball bearings found its mark, taking out Mr Fisk's left eye with a squelch-sizzling sound, like a mud pie on a barbecue.

Mr Fisk screamed. "Vorr! Stop it. My goddess is Vorr!"

Mr Seth waved back the pinball machine with a flick of his wrist. The machine pranced back into the arcade. 'Vorr' meant nothing to me, but I could tell from Mr Seth's outraged face that it wasn't good.

"You were going to wait for this Novice to summons his shadow, then enslave him as your vessel - your ankh - to bear the Great War Goddess Vorr?!"

"Yes," sobbed Mr Fisk. "While you were tied up with the Zealtor. It would have been the end of you all."

"Us all," snarled Mr Seth. "She does not suffer fools easily. And you, Fisk, are a top notch fool. Where is the gateway?"

"I'm not telling."

Mr Seth smacked his lips together. "Here Kissy, Kissy, Kissy," sang Mr Seth. The pinball machine bounded back out of the arcade. Mr Fisk heard its legs clattering on the wooden pier and quailed: "The Lake," he moaned.

Mr Seth waved the machine back into Arcadia again. "The whole thing?" said Mr Seth, arching his eyebrow.

"Yes, it was the only closed water surface in town big enough for her to come through."

"Right. I'm shutting it down," snarled Mr Seth. "Lad, hold the Witch down while I do this. It's dangerous - be ready for anything."

Mr Seth's eyes turned a deep, dark purple and again rolled back in his head. Without pausing for breath, the Smith ran towards Mr Fisk and dived headfirst over the Witch's body and down deep into the grey waters. The air thickened, smelling of burned ozone and pepper spray. Tears trickled from my eyes, but I held firm.

With Mr Seth scouring the lake, I felt the full force of Mr Fisk's power. Although weakened, he was desperate. I clenched my jaw, praying for Mr Seth to hurry.

"What are you doing to my Dad, Paddy!?" squeaked an outraged voice. I nearly lost my focus and with it Mr Fisk. I felt my shadow slip and begged it to dig in.

"Joke," I grunted between clenched teeth. "You're meant to be on a bus!"

"The bus is late," said Joke. "Engine problem. Mechanic's missing. I was headed back to Sub Rosa. Then I heard dad's voice in my head. He was screaming!"

"It's not what it looks like, Joke" I said.

"What it looks like," said Joke, pinching my arm, "is that you are torturing my dad."

"Jokkum, son, thank goodness you're here," wailed Mr Fisk. "Help me! This monster-boy has lost his mind and is attacking me. He cut my face and has knocked out my eye. He's mad!"

"LET HIM GO!" shouted Joke and attempted to tackle me. My shadow was holding onto Mr Fisk by its fingertips. "I'm sorry, Joke. You'll understand later." I pivoted and punched Joke hard, a right cross to the nose.

Joke wasn't expecting it, and went down. Momentarily, he tried to get up, but his legs were gone. Instead, he lay sprawled out on his stomach like a tangled fishing net.

"Jokkum. Get up and help me!" said Mr Fisk in a fake panicky voice, shooting me a grin as my shadow lost its grip. I felt his voice in my head:

"Part of me wants you to live so you can behold the Zealtor and feel her deliver a living death to you and this town. But you've hurt my feelings today, Patrick. I'm positively _miffed_. So you die now. There's another gateway for my beautiful Vorr. And I'll find another Smith to open it with." The Witch wiggled his eyebrows and snapped my shadow's arm.

I screamed, clutching my real right arm in agony and hit the deck next to Joke. Mr Fisk started to scroll forward toward the pier, chanting in exultant prayer. Then something really unexpected happened.

It left the water, like an eruption of blue-green flesh. Its snout and jaws were at least two metres long. Its crocodilian maw opened and a hedge of white scissor blades sliced through the air with the shrill whistle of a thousand discordant recorders.

The water moiled and roiled around us. A moment later, it came at the Witch from beneath. Mr Fisk, stunned and half-blinded, must have felt the beast's foul breath on his neck. But it was too late.

"Plesiosaur," gasped Joke. Then the giant jaws snapped shut and swallowed up his father whole.

## 20. ALL THE WAY HOME

"Let me go," I said, inching across the cold, hard floor like a cooling lava flow. Joke kicked me in the ribs and I froze. "It's not her, I swear."

"You said so yourself," said Mr Seth, returning from the storeroom with a thick rope of chain. He hunkered down and lashed the chain around my waist and legs, like a bola spider casting his web.

"Fisk told you the Zealtor was a she," muttered Mr Seth. "Very rare. Like a female Pharaoh or Pope. Operating right under our noses."

"But that doesn't mean -" I started.

"I'd picked her for a possible Witch, a while ago, I'll admit," said Mr Seth, almost to himself. "But she seemed so sickly and weak. I assumed she was an amateur. Like one of those housewives who dabble to fix the teacake prize at the show. She seemed totally harmless! But a Zealtor-Witch. Never in my worst dreams..."

"Don't hurt her," I pleaded. "Let me come with you. Aaargh!"

Mr Seth yanked the knotted chain tightly against the leg of the snarling, beeping pinball machine, the links digging into my shins. "Not a chance," said the Smith. "Now bring me that padlock, Jokkum."

"My pleasure," said Joke. "We should throw him into the Lake. Let the Plesiosaur get him. He deserves nothing better."

"No!" I screamed, trying everything to free myself, willing my injured shadow to detach from my feet and attack. In response, my shadow flopped from my head like an oversized sombrero and limped at Mr Seth. Mr Seth's shadow whirled from his feet like a dervish and side kicked my shadow hard in the groin. I screamed, as my shadow crashed to the ground and lay curled up.

"It's not about what he deserves, Jokkum," said Mr Seth. "It's dangerous to deal out justice when you're angry. In time, you'll understand Paddy had nothing to do with the Wit- your father's demise. The fool was just in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"He murdered my father," shouted Joke, and kicked me again, this time in the stomach, winding me.

"You are wrong, Jokkum. But there's no point arguing about it now," grunted Mr Seth, jerking Joke away from me by the scruff of his neck like a mother cat. "Your father's fate was sealed when he swore allegiance to Vorr. She's a war Goddess, and does not forgive failure. Even if the Lake-monster hadn't taken your father, She would have had his guts for garters."

"Dad would have lived, if Paddy hadn't held him down. He was defenceless."

"Nonsense," snorted Mr Seth. "Your father was trying to kill Paddy, and nearly succeeded. Hardly innocent. Paddy had no idea that monster was down there. Nor did I, until I broke the door at the bottom of the Lake and felt it coming for me. If you want to blame someone, blame me."

"I hate you both," said Joke, starting to sob.

"Irrelevant," said Mr Seth. He turned me over, looping more chain around my chest and pinning my arms to my side. "What matters now is destroying the thing that's killing Quakehaven. The Zealtor started this. No-one would be dead if it weren't for her, including your father."

Without another word, Joke stomped his feet, spun on his heels and ran out of Arcadia, slamming the screen-door behind him.

"Poor lad," said Mr Seth. "I hope he's OK. The Zealtor is on the move. The streets aren't safe."

"Please let me go. Mr Seth," I begged. "I'm your Novice."

"And a good one you are, too," said Mr Seth sadly, then flipped me onto my stomach. "I'm sorry it's come to this Patrick, but there'll be time for apologies later. Know now that I must do this. No boy can be expected to stand by idly while his mother is slain."

And with that, Mr Seth disappeared in an explosive blur of red and silver.

"No!" I screamed and bucked pointlessly. There was nothing I could do. I was chained to a psychotic pinball machine with orders to attack if I moved. I was in a closed games arcade in a converted boat shed on a deserted pier far from the nearest house. And my shadow was crippled! My best friend was sure I had murdered his father. And Mr Seth was on his way to slay my Mum. It was hard to see how things could be worse!

Something thudded heavily into the pylon under Arcadia's floor. The pier creaked and shook, and I felt the room tilt slightly forwards and to the left. The sea-monster - Joke had called it a Plesiosaur - was still down there somewhere, in the lake beneath the pier. And it seemed to know I was there.

Panic surged up and down my spine as I thought of Mum lying helplessly in bed as Mr Seth swept into her bedroom with death in his eyes. I forced myself to take deep, slow breaths. I pulled in my abdominal muscles, and lifted my torso and neck up a few centimetres. I scanned the room, scouring for a spirit willing to help. With my shadow immobilised a metre from my head, I couldn't project far. Most of the games were up the other end of the arcade and were either out of range, or too frightened of Kissy to help. Nothing inhabited the space but an old table with a sheet over it. Not one sign of anything with a spirit.

I lifted my head again, closed my eyes and let my mind wander over to the pinball machine. It was reciting Mr Seth's instructions over and over: "Do not let the boy escape. Do not fall for his tricks. Do not hurt the boy, unless he tries to escape. Protect the boy. Do not kill the boy." But there was something simmering beneath the surface. Something unstable, chaotic - something a Smith could use. I inhaled and held my breath, pushing my mind deeper, through the mantra, and into the machine's deepest thoughts. Something terrible had happened to the machine. Beneath the anger, other emotions leached. Loneliness and guilt. Still holding my breath, I burrowed even deeper:

"Not too old. They should have fixed her, not me. Star of the 1972 Houston Games Exhibition. Reduced to this. No dignity. Puckless, but easily replaced. She's not a workbench. How dare they sit on her and eat chips. Her timbers will rot under that sheet. Her surface will scratch. ImissImissImiss..."

The sheet! He was talking about the table under the sheet. There was a second thud against the pylon, and the creaking of tired timbers. Arcadia pitched further over to the left and Kissy and I slid across the wooden floor with it.

"ThingInTheLake needs to stop," thought the pinball machine. "Must not hurt my Penelope. She will warp in the water. Do not let the boy escape; do not hurt the boy, unless he tries to escape. Do not kill the boy. Protect the boy from intruders."

Air exploded from my mouth and the chanting stopped. I took a risk. "Hey Kissy," I shouted. "I can help Penelope. But you've got to let go of the chain first."

"Do not fall for his tricks," said Kissy, apparently unsurprised to be in telepathic conversation with his ward.

"It's not a trick, Kissy," I said. "That thing. The ThingInTheLake. It needs to stop or the pier will collapse. Penelope will warp in the Lake."

Kissy beeped and jangled with anger.

The Plesiosaur slammed into the pylon for the third time and Arcadia tilted further, its corrugated green roof scraping against the weatherboard walls. One of the newer games at the other end of the arcade skidded diagonally across the floor, and crashed out through the glass side doors into the Lake with a hiss.

"No!" hissed Kissy. I took my chance.

"Penelope's slipping, Kissy," I cried. "The Thinginthelake - the intruder - will get me. We have to help her. You have to protect me." Then, holding my breath again, I mind-pushed Penelope.

As she slid quietly across the room, Penelope was unceremoniously unveiled. She'd seen better days. But, for an air hockey table, she was fairly attractive!

"No!" repeated Kissy. I could feel his agitation vibrating up the chain. "Do not let the boy escape. Do not fall for his tricks."

"We're losing her," I cried, and thrust the air hockey table further away. Penelope slammed into the door. Fissures appeared in the glass and spread. "She will warp," I cried. "And her face will be scuffed with rocks, on the Lake bed, unless you do something about the monster. The intruder!"

Things accelerated and began to happen all at once. The Plesiosaur smashed into the pylon for the fourth time. The glass walls shattered, and Penelope plummeted into the Lake.

Plesiosaur's crocodilian head broke through the Lake's surface, his jaws slavering hungrily. Kissy plunged into the water after Penelope, releasing the chain, and went for the monster. The machine whirred to life, its slingshots, solenoids, bumpers, switches, gates, stoppers, targets and flippers, all buzzing beneath a wall of soft rock. The machine screeched and shot off a volley of white-hot pin-balls directed at the monster's head. Moments later, the furious creature slammed into the pylon for a fifth time. The pylon gave out.

I skitter-rolled out of the sinking arcade, smashing my head on the side of the door.

I was no Houdini! Even if I'd been able to loosen the chains, there was still the padlock to deal with. And by the time all these thoughts had fluttered through my dull skull, I was lying weighted to the Lake floor about 15 feet down in the pitch dark, drowning.

"Sorry, Mum," I thought to myself as things began to slow down. I hadn't been able to save Mum from Mr Seth. Maybe Mum, Dad and I would be together soon on the other side. Smiling, I fell unconscious and died.

###

"Mum?" I asked, my eyes still closed. Rough hands scrubbed my back and arms gently, and I basked in the feeling of calm.

"I sure hope not," croaked a female voice. I opened my eyes and screamed.

Two wrinkled hags leered at me, one inspecting the wound on my head, the other massaging my wrists. They had pale green skin, hair and shaggy-straggly beards. Their eyes were gills of skin folded over bronze coins and their teeth were barbed like rusty fish hooks. Thankfully, their green hair covered their saggy breasts.

My chains had been removed, and lay in broken coils at my side with my shirt. I shuddered: the chain had been chewed through. I glanced down at my arms. One of the hags scrubbed my forearms raw with seaweed, the other tended my bare chest with blood-slurping leeches.

I slammed my eyes shut, shaking uncontrollably. Was this hell? What had I done that was so awful?!

"My stars," cackled the hag scraping my arms. As she brayed, her voice became high, pure and sweet. "Flossie, what on earth are we thinking dressing up like this for company."

"Sorry, Paddy. I think we might have frightened you a tad with our styling."

"Please don't eat me!" I cried.

"Wouldn't dream of it my dear," said Lin. "You're a bit small for eating."

"And we can't eat snacks if we want to keep bodies like these," said Flossie.

Nervously, I opened my eyes, and gasped. No longer hideous hags, the hags were now the most beautiful women I had ever seen. Lin was tall and blonde, with a pretty open face and a body like a swimsuit model. Her long hair only just protected her modesty. Flossie had sleek black hair, refined, almost Japanese features. They both had bright green eyes, and were smiling benevolently.

"I thought I was dead," I said.

"You were," said Flossie. "We thought it was too late."

"We'd have come earlier," said Lin. "But we had to re-capture Sjotroll," said Flossie. "Fisk messed with the runes. A Witch should know better."

"The monster," I said. "Plesiosaur is his scientific name."

"We call him Sjotroll," said Flossie firmly. "Sjo for short. Usually, well behaved. All stirred up by your Smith. Of course, netting Sjo would have been easier if he hadn't been locked in a battle with that altar!"

"Altar?" I asked, perplexed, then figured it out. "His name is Kissy," I said. "And he's not an altar. He's a - an arcade game."

"Well then," said Lin, "your Kissy-game is very brave. He died a warrior's death." Both women thumped their left shoulder with their right fists at the same time.

I felt a pang of sorrow at Kissy's death. I hoped he was with his beloved, lost Penelope.

"How did you know my name?" I asked, my mind slowly coming back online. "And about Mr Fisk? Are you friends of Mr Seth?"

Flossie spat in disgust, a glob of bright green phlegm missing my bare feet by centimetres. "That Smith! Never!"

"Then Mr Fisk?"

"Traitorous wretch. He should have known better than to play with Gateways. Especially in our Lake. We couldn't risk Vorr barging through our Lake. She's far too dangerous for this world."

"One of your own?" I repeated. "So you are Witches."

"In a way," said Flossie with grin, inspecting her five golden rings.

"How did you know my name?"

"We know your mother."

"So it's true then. She's a Witch?"

"It is true. She is," said Lin, grinning.

"And the Zealtor," I said, sorrowfully.

"No!" screeched both women with disgust. For a moment, the monstrous hags I'd seen earlier broke through the ladies' pretty masks.

"Mr Seth thinks she is."

"Smiths are often wrong," said Flossie darkly. "Too much action, not enough critical thought. Then again, subtle thought isn't often called for in their line of work."

"Mr Seth is going to kill her," I said, shivering.

"That's why we saved you," said Lin. "You have to stop him. She's the only one with the power to stop the Zealtor, though she seems damaged - handicapped - and we don't know why."

"Are you rested?" said Flossie, impatiently gathering up the pebbles on my chest and handing me my shirt and shoes.

"Yes," I said, opening and closing my fist. My cuts and scrapes were half-healed, and even the gash on my head had stopped bleeding. "Nothing broken."

"Then hurry," said Flossie, her eyes now glazing deep electric blue. "We sent word - tried to slow him down. But he is determined. He approaches the house. One defender lies between the Smith and your Mother. And he cannot hold out for much longer."

"Thank you," I said, scrambling to my feet. "I won't forget your help today."

"Save your mother, then thank us," said Flossie dryly.

Flossie frowned, her eyes flaring back to green again. "The last defender has fallen. Run."

Both women thumped their chests with their fists, then slid under the water.

I bolted for home, my thoughts on Mum, my legs pumping up and down on the paved streets as fast as I could will them on.

###

The historical town of Quakehaven had never been so Imperilled. Monsters everywhere, shambling up and down the streets of Quakehaven looking for people to attack - for souls to eat! Many townspeople simply stood outside their houses, eyes closed, waiting for the worst to happen. A Passenger massacre was in full swing and no one was lifting a finger to stop it.

"Get away from here!" I shouted at them as I ran. "It's not too late to escape". No one heeded my advice.

By the time I reached Sub Rosa, bedraggled but relatively unscathed, the last defender lay dead, his eyes open, silver darts embedded in his chest, his staff broken in two and discarded into the gutter like a dead stick. I bent over to inspect his corpse and nearly vomited: it was Mr Walker, the basketball coach. I closed his eyes gently.

Strong hands suddenly encircled my waist and flung me down hard onto the bitumen. The monster snarled, its breath a cloud of gunpowder and garlic.

Flat on my back, I could do nothing but gape, stunned, at my bizarre assailant. It was very short, with a squat body and chicken legs. Atop its legs sat an enormous gut, like Uncle Gerry's. Its head was a bowling ball, with dish-like, glowing eyes, and inset jaws like the metal grate of an incinerator.

The monster pinned me to the ground with its chicken talons.

"What are you?" I shrieked, trying to prise its sucker-fingers off my chest. I succeeded in detaching the beast's left index sucker with a wet and painful pop and saw that the sucker featured crown-shaped cogs of whirling, red teeth.

"Call me Joke," said the monster, in a sing-song voice, then squealed with enraged joy as its mouth plate retracted.

##  21. GAMES TO PLAY WITH ONE RED WITCH

The Joke-monster released me, its finger tips splashing blood - my blood - everywhere. I scrambled to my feet, my arms out in front of my chest like a karate champion. The monster lent down and, with one puckered hand, clutched at its right leg, then swatted away a small object with its left. The thing started to spin anti-clockwise, its swollen stomach convulsing half a rotation behind its chest.

The monster kicked out with its left chicken claw and connected with its assailant. A clattering of skidding plastic, was followed by the quick clacking of a cursing beak. A small, black box charged back across the street and leaped back into the fray.

"Platto!" I cried, delighted to see my friend. "Good boy!"

My helper was too busy to answer, careening down the monster's back then circling the beast's chicken legs. On each rotation, Platto nipped at the backs of the creature's knobbly knees with his duck-bill. The monster screamed, revealing white teeth and pink gums.

"He's not a Blackgum yet," I said, half to myself.

The monster swayed from side to side, its enormous gut twitching. Platto ran up the creature's right leg and pressed its bill deep into the undulating folds of flesh. The monster doubled over.

With a belch, then a huge retch, the monster's grille-jaws flew open. Buckets of purple slime erupted out of its mouth. Then, a white, slimy sack, the size of a stuffed laundry bag, tumbled out of the monster's mouth and landed with a splash-plop a foot from my feet. The weakened creature collapsed and fell, and began to diminish, lying motionless under the continuing volley of Platto's nibbles and scrapes.

Horrified, I jumped back from the slimy sack. "That's enough Platto," I said, holding my stomach like I'd been stabbed through. "That's Joke. He's had enough -."

"Help!" shrieked the writhing white sack at my feet. "Is someone there? Help. I can't breathe."

Covering my nose with one hand, I hunkered down warily and pawed at the sticky membrane. Although wet and malleable, it was strong like a spider's web; and it took more than a minute for my fingernails to pierce the bag's hide.

As I ripped through the final layer of webbing, a black shiny limb sprang out through the hole and grabbed my hand. "Platto!" I shrieked. The small calculator on legs turned from the fallen Joke-monster and bounded towards me.

A small human shoulder followed the black-glossy arm out of the bag. Then, a wet, slithery body slipped out of the torn sack. My feet froze as the repulsive, smelly thing rolled towards me. It was about my size, maybe a little bigger, and it was covered in mouldy-slime that smelt like it had been dipped in manure, then fried. Platto readied his charge. Then the steaming, smelly lump spoke.

"Paddy," it cried, gasping for air. "It's me. Thank you."

I'd never heard those words from his mouth, but I recognised the voice.

"Mark?" I said.

"Yes," he replied sitting up, wiping off the worst of the gunk from his face. "I came over to thank you and Joke," said Mark. "For saving my life at the dance."

"You remember?" I asked. Maybe Joke and I weren't the only Forgers left in town, a thought that gave me a glimmer of hope.

"Of course. It's not every day you get set on by an axe wielding Giant," he said, blinking his gunk-laden eyelashes as he adjusted to the sudden daylight. "Though it seems there are worse things that can happen to you in this town!"

I couldn't disagree with that!

"Poor Joke," said Mark, and then burst into tears. "I treated him like a dog, and worse," he sobbed. "If only he knew how jealous I am of him."

I raised an eyebrow. "What could you possibly have to be jealous about? You've got everything."

"I've got a lot of _things_ , sure. I've never had to try for anything. Never will have to try for anything. Joke has nothing."

"You're jealous of someone with nothing?" I asked.

"Everything he's done, everything he is going to do," said Mark. "Is off his own bat. He doesn't care what people think. He knows what he wants to do with his life. He has a purpose. What do I have? I have a really big TV!"

It was almost touching. But I didn't have time to be Mark's counsellor. Not today. I had to get to Mum.

"Tell me what happened," I commanded. "Today, I mean".

"Well, I finally found the guts to press the bell, then heard a rustling sound above me. Before I knew it, that thing reached down. "Pulled me up with its suckers. Then, as far as I can remember, it stuffed me into its mouth. It was hot and disgusting. And I thought I was going to die. Thank you for saving me, Paddy. I owe you my life."

"You can start by helping me with Joke," I said waving him over. It seemed the monster had lost more than its lunch when it vomited up Mark. The flamingo pink colouring had faded, and Joke's normal pinched mouth had replaced those grille-jaws. I squatted down and put my head to Joke's chest.

"He's alive," I said. "Help me get him over to the pomegranate tree, around the side of the house."

"He could still be dangerous," said Mark, unsure.

"He could," I said. "But trust me on this. I won't let him hurt you." Mark nodded without further question and, with difficulty, hoisted Joke onto his slime-covered shoulders. Staggering slightly, he carted Joke down the cement path to the right of the house, and over to the tree.

"Now lean him against the trunk," I ordered. "Put his feet between those two big roots." Mark did what I'd asked.

"Stand back," I said, then turned to the tree.

"Against your trunk lies a friend of the Ferine," I whispered into a hollow knot in the tree's trunk. Mark looked at me strangely, but for once said nothing.

"Tell me your price to restrain and protect my friend from himself, and others. I will grant it to you, as a Smith. A Novice Smith."

For a few seconds, nothing. Then the tree groaned and shook. "Light," whispered the tree.

"Huh?" I asked.

"For my leaves," whispered the tree. "The eaves of this house are too wide. My leaves thirst for light."

"Then light they shall have," I said. "Consider the eaves gone. Just look after my friend while I'm gone."

"Go," said the tree, its roots uncoiling and then wrapping themselves gently around Joke's shoulders like a thick wooden car seat-belt. "The Zealtor awaits you inside. It is no friend of the Ferine, or the Tamed and the Crops. Go with our blessing."

I grabbed the tree's trunk and started to scale it, pulling myself up with my legs, like I'd done so many times before.

"What about me?" said Mark, staring agog at the writhing roots.

"The tree is strong, but not mobile," I said. "If Blackgum - monsters - come here while I am gone, I'll need you to hold them off for as long as possible."

"No problem," said Mark, straightening his back and staring out at the street like an armed sentry. "Whatever you guys need, I'll deliver."

Behind Mark, Platto lay motionless, his claws retracted, looking just like a calculator. I winked at him, and he flipped his lid open in reply. If there were trouble, Platto would be more use than Mark, and truth be told I just wanted Mark out of the way.

The hallway was dark and empty, so I turned into the reading room, and walked through the empty dining room, pausing in each doorway like a SWAT team member clearing a drug den. The sliding door to Mum's conservatory was ajar. Wafts of sour lavender and sandalwood stung my nostrils. Flickering shadows played against Aunt Bea's tapestries. Their knights and damsels appeared to dance (or fight?) with each other. I smelt the smoke and heard the din of a fierce, crackling fire emanating from the conservatory.

I skirted the dining room walls and hunkered down against the wall between the dining room and the conservatory. Past the creepy larder I crawled, my bruised knees pressing painfully into the cold floorboards. At the doorway to Mum's room, I lay down flat, and poked my head around the door.

Despite the fire, the room was icy. An eerie blue light suffused the air, illuminating galaxies of dust motes. Apart from the fire, it was very quiet. The people inside were statues: the portrait of a concerned family clustered about a beloved but sickly daughter.

Mum - still alive! - lay sprawled out on her daybed. She was not sleeping. Her eyes were wide open, in fright. Aunt Bea stood next to the bed. She was trying to comfort Mum, stroking her forehead. She also looked terrified.

In front of the fire place, sat Mrs Kroker tied to a chair with a pinstriped gag poking out of her mouth. She'd been crying: her eyes and nose were red against her otherwise tanned body. She still wore her silver cocktail dress from the barn dance. Her hands were tied behind her back with rope.

Dr Vassel hung upside-down from the ceiling, suspended from another rope. His tuxedo jacket had fallen down his back, surrounding his head on three sides like blinkers. His mouth was open, as if to scream.

Against the far wall was Mr Seth. "Now, once again, let's settle this like civilised folk," said the Smith. "Hand over the Zealtor-Witch, and I'll be off. You can pretend tonight never happened."

"You're a ma-madman," sputtered Doc Vassel. "If you think we are going to let you take this very sick woman out of this house, you're sorely mi--mi-mistaken."

I was impressed. It took a brave man to stand up to Mr Seth.

"Let me ask you again. And please answer me honestly," said Aunt Bea. "Where are the boys? Are they safe?"

"Safe is a relative term in this town, thanks to the Zealtor," said Mr Seth. "But your sister's boy is perfectly well and out of danger. I chained him up myself."

"You did wh-what!" croaked Doc Vassel. "If you've hurt a hair on his head, I'll - I'll!"

"Don't make threats you have no means of carrying out," said Mr Seth, releasing the rope stringing up Doc Vassel with a click of his knuckle, lowering him (almost gently) to the floor. "But you are right when you say she is a sick woman," he said, gesturing at Mum. "What type of woman would send hideous monsters to ravage the very town that has done nothing but help her? What sort of woman would risk her own son's life - and the life of his friends and family - to suck the soul out of Quakehaven? Only a terrible monstrous queen would do that. And that's precisely the definition of a Zealtor-Witch!"

"This is the 21st Century," said Aunt Bea, her voice quaking with fear or rage (or both). "Do you seriously allege witches and demons walk our streets!?"

"I do, madam," said Mr Seth, indignantly.

"I love my sister," said Aunt Bea. "I have known her her whole life, and she is the most sweet-natured, beautiful person I have ever had the good fortune to know. You cannot seriously suspect she is a witch."

"I do, madam."

"Then you are deluded. Please leave my house immediately. And we will try to forget this intrusion."

"I will not. I'm not going anywhere without her head."

"Wrggwch!" Like everyone in the room, I looked at Mum. The sick woman thrashed against the bed, like she was tied down, trying desperately to say something. But she could not. It was like something was stuck in her throat, something more effective than Mrs Kroker's gag. Aunt Bea put her hand to Mum's chest, and tried to soothe her.

"Silence, Zealtor," shouted Mr Seth, waving his hand imperiously. "We will have none of your curses today."

And with that Mum's mouth seem to disappear completely!

Mrs Kroker screamed, muffled by the gag. Mr Seth clicked his tongue twice and she too fell silent.

Mr Seth advanced across the room towards Mum and Aunt Bea. But he'd been distracted by Mum, and then Mrs Kroker's screams, and had lost sight of Doc Vassel. The doctor had escaped the rope around his leg. He wormed his way across the floor on his stomach. Then he crept over to his medicine bag and pulled out a very large syringe. He turned to Mr Seth, but it was hopeless. The Smith would have ample time to seize Mum, then spy and disarm the doctor. Doctor Vassel needed more time.

I took a deep breath and undocked my shadow. Still injured from its confrontations with Mr Fisk and Mr Seth at the pier, it hobbled across the floor, snuck into the moon-faced trunk at the end of Mum's bed and threw open the lid with a tremendous bang.

"Doc Vassel do it now!" I screamed, and ran into the room, my arms helicoptering through the smoky air.

Mr Seth froze in his tracks two steps from Mum's bed. In two seconds, he swung first to the cacophony of the slamming trunk, then back to the doorway, and charged me like a furious bull. It took Doc Vassel those same two seconds to scamper across the room, and plunge the needle, deep, into the flesh of Mr Seth's right calf.

"No!" shouted Mr Seth, going down on one knee, his hands outstretched towards me. He cursed and fulminated. "What have you done, Paddy?" he said grasping my wrist. "You've killed us all!"

I snatched my hand back and Mr Seth crashed to the ground. For a terrible moment, I thought Doc Vass had killed him.

"Just a tranquiliser, Paddy," said Doc Vassel, smiling. "A strong one, but it'll wear off by tomorrow morning. By then your friend Mr Seth will be in the intensive care of Avonlea, getting specialist treatment for his delusions. Well done, Patrick!"

Then it was our turn to be distracted.

"ScissorRock!" screamed Mum, her mouth restored. Then the back glass wall of the conservatory cracked, shattered and blew out in an explosion of glass, knocking over Mrs Kroker's chair. Aunt Bea screamed. A think blanket of plaster dust fell from the ceiling and covered Mr Seth.

For a few seconds, Doc Vassel's eyes bulged out of his head like a 1950s cartoon character, then he too was knocked off his feet by a second blast, somewhere behind the house. Covering Aunt Bea with my back, I pulled her to cover behind the moon trunk. As we cowered there, hugging each other close, I knew suddenly that I had done something terribly wrong.

###

"We're going to be OK, boy," whispered Aunt Bea, releasing her grip. Our backs were pressed against the trunk, our knees touching, like friends waiting for a bus. "You were very brave. I'm not sure the Doctor would have had time to sedate that madman had you not diverted his attention."

"Thanks, Aunt Bea," I said. I was anything but proud of myself.

The room was full of smoke, and stunk of musky, sour incense. Lights flickered on and off, and the room popped and fizzed with live wires that had been ripped from the roof by the blasts. I twisted to the right and craned my neck around, peering over the trunk to survey the damage. Doc Vassel was lying on his stomach next to Mrs Kroker's chair, trying to loosen the ropes around her wrists.

Lying on her side, Mrs Kroker's eyes were closed, like she was praying. Near the door, beneath a mound of rubble lay an unconscious - or worse! - Mr Seth. And, where the back wall of the conservatory had until moments before stood, obscured by smoke, four bulky shapes stood motionless, as if awaiting an invitation to join us.

"Something's not right," whispered a sonorous, but worried voice behind my right ear.

"Uncle Gerry?" I whispered back.

"What's that boy?" asked Aunt Bea, staring at the figures.

"Shh!" hissed Uncle Gerry. "It's me. I'm invisible. But you're not the only one here that knows I'm here."

"Nothing," I said to Aunt Bea.

"Something's wrong," repeated Uncle Gerry, this time silently, inside my head.

"Um, I don't mean to be rude, Uncle," I thought-whispered. "But I would have thought that was rather, well, obvious. What, with Mrs Kroker tied to the chair, Doc Vassel pricking Mr Seth with a syringe, then the exploding wall and - ."

"Don't be obstinate," said Uncle Gerry. "I've been monitoring the perimeter of the house. Nothing in, nothing out, except the Smith, Platto and you. The Blackgum have got us surrounded. There must be a hundred of them within a mile of the house. But they're not moving - not even testing my defences. They're just standing around, waiting."

"So?"

"No-one attacked Sub Rosa. It's like the house attacked itself. Someone inside. But that's impossible. The only people inside are you and Beatrice, your mother, a disabled Scattersmith, and a couple of civilians. So unless you think the woman tied to a chair in the indecent frock or the stammering doctor who can't even untie a blood-knot is the Zealtor, I don't know who is."

"It's Mum," I said, ashamed. "She's a Witch."

"Of course she's a Witch." said Uncle Gerry. "One of the very best."

"You knew?

"Of course," said Uncle Gerry. "But Witches don't normally go around the place destroying their sister's houses."

"But she is not just a Witch. Mr Seth says she's a Zealtor."

"What!" thought-shouted Uncle Gerry. My temples throbbed, as his thoughts ricocheted within my skull, and cupped my head in my hands.

"Then we're done for!" said my uncle.

"Headache?" said Aunt Bea, patting my shoulder, like she'd soothed Mum earlier. "It's just the explosion."

"Yes," I muttered lamely to Aunt Bea, forcing a smile. Silently, to Uncle Gerry, I thought: _I know what you're thinking_.

"I'm thinking you were a fool for helping the doctor take out the only force strong enough to have given us, my wife included, enough time to escape. I'm not a fan of his methods," said Uncle Gerry. "But there's a time and place for blunt force, and if your mother is a Zealtor, a full on frontal attack by a Scattersmith would have been our only way out of here alive."

"But you're a ghost anyway," I said. "What do you have to fear from a Zealtor?"

"Imagine eternal existence without a soul, wandering around unseen without a purpose. It's the closest thing to hell you could imagine."

I shuddered. "But she's not the Zealtor. She's just sick. I mean did you see her tipping out the flowers, babbling about scissors and rocks? Doc Vassel was right. She just needs treatment at Mental - I mean Avonlea Farm."

"Like the game?" said Uncle Gerry.

"What?" I asked, my eyes settling on one of great granddad's lemon trees. It had been shredded by the explosion, and was denuded of fruit.

"Scissors. Rocks," said Uncle Gerry, the faint outline of his hands forming the actions. "You know."

Much, much too slowly, it all clicked into place. Scissors. Rocks. Lemons. "Uncle Gerry, you can make yourself look like anything you want, right?"

"Of course, not that it's going to help, mind you. Even if I turned myself into a box of washing detergent, the Zealtor would still hunt me down. I'd rather run a mile, but I can't leave the house and, anyway, I won't leave Beatrice."

"That's exactly what I want from you."

"What?"

"I've got to go and check something up in my room. But I don't want to leave Aunt Bea. You pretend to be me for a few minutes."

"All right, Paddy," said Uncle Gerry starting to form, my perfect mirror image right down to the mud-stained jeans and old T-shirt. "Just let me do something first. Get ready to run."

He blew on his now visible hand and about a cup of silver-white powder appeared. He blew again, and the white powder started to glow and crackle. He hurled the dust at the wall. Mid-air it shimmered and seemed to melt into a discus. It smashed into the wall with a deep metallic crash like a gong.

Aunt Bea jumped, and turned to look at the wall. "What in the heavens was that?" she cried, as I caterpillar-crawled across the room and out into the smoke-filled dining room.

"The explosion must have knocked some of the saucepans out of the cupboard," said Uncle Gerry using my voice. "Stay calm. It's going to be OK."

"Thanks, Uncle," I mind-said as I stood up and bolted out into the hallway then up the stairs.

"Hurry," said Uncle Gerry. "I hate lying to my wife. What are you doing, anyway?"

"No time now. I'll tell you later. I can't believe I've been so stupid!"

## 22. RETURN TO ENDER

Like a hyperventilating chicken trapped in a hutch, I careened around my room. I threw open drawers and kicked over my hamper, then got down on my hands and knees and rifled through everything I owned. Under my bed, in my schoolbag, I found the orange girly exercise book Mum had given me on the eve of the maths test. I flicked through it, past the maths homework and Blackgum table I'd transcribed from Mr Seth's scribbles on the library whiteboard. I ripped out the page embossed with the plump baby unicorn knighting the princess and stuffed it into my back pocket. Mum would never have bought me such an embarrassing book, unless she was ill. Or trying to tell me something!

At the bottom of my hamper, I located my smelly school shirt. The pack of cards was still in its cotton pocket, right where Mum had stashed them Monday night during our roast dinner. I'd forgotten all about them. I unsheathed the box and fanned the cards out on the floor, like a casino croupier.

One card, sticky and slightly bigger than its sisters, stuck out from the pack. I plucked it from the deck and inspected its face, sweeping the rest away. It showed a crowned queen. She held a golden sceptre, and was enthroned atop a globe of the world. The words "The Empress" were typed in wavy black letters at the bottom. Someone had obliterated her mouth and chin with childish black fangs scrawled in texta.

I pulled out the torn pink unicorn page and the vandalised Empress card and held them up to the light: nothing! I pocketed them both and continued to hunt.

Almost five minutes later, under the card table, I finally found the little yellow wad of paper, scrunched up into a tiny ball against the skirting board. I uncrushed the note and pressed it flat against the floor next to Joke's carving: Tim Kroker was murdered. Lest we forget. I flipped it over and re-read the typed words: "BEWARE. LIKE SATYRS GRAZING ON THE LAWNS SHALL WITH THEIR GOAT FEET DANCE AN ANTIC HAY."

"How could you have missed that one, dummy!" I muttered to myself. The reference to 'dance' should have given it away, especially after the Giant had run amok. But I finally remembered why the poem was familiar.

_Antic Hay_ was one of my parent's favourite books. It was an old novel, even for Mum and Dad, and they'd first read it at university together when they were teenagers. Mum re-read it every couple of years, and had packed a battered copy of the paperback when we moved to Quakehaven. I must have seen it on her side-table a hundred times. I hadn't read it yet - Mum said I was still too young - but Dad had once summarised it for me: it was about a man who disguises himself, and loses himself in the process. I held the yellow paper to my nose and inhaled deeply. It stunk of citric acid.

I punched the floor with frustration. Mum had taken a big risk with such an obvious warning - a warning her dimwit son had still missed! Disgusted, I balled up the yellow leaf and shoved it into my back pocket behind the card and started to back out from under the card table.

Suddenly, directly above my head, glass shattered: the window. Something strong seized my leg. I kicked as hard as I could, freeing myself, and rolled over, cutting my hands on shards of glass as I pushed up onto my side.

Apart from Nicky's head, and the absence of a jelly-belly, the creature resembled the thing that had taken Joke and gulped down Mark. It had been badly injured in the effort to break through Uncle Gerry's defences - scores of small silver pentagrams were branded to Nicky's face, and soupy gouts of blood streamed from its torso and flanks like a chocolate fountain. The creature stank of vinegar and brown paper. Behind it, four additional sucker-digits waggled through the window like nightmarish chorus dancers performing spirit fingers.

Despite the threat, my first thought was that I didn't have time for them! Too much was going on downstairs. I called out to my shadow. But it didn't respond. I called again, but got static in return. Perhaps it had fallen asleep - or unconscious \- in the relative safety of the moon-faced trunk where I'd left it.

As I stood up, the Nicky-monster slapped me across the face. I felt blood trickle from my left cheek, where its sucker finger had connected. "Platto!" I cried. Moments passed. Nicky's head grinned: her teeth thankfully still white; her gums the same flamingo pink as the monster's body.

I was scared. But my trusty helper, wearing serrated wings of glinting steel, hurtled through the window like the loose blades of a malfunctioning food processor, and sliced through two of the twinkling sucker fingers. The chorus line of monsters snatched their remaining fingers back as Platto's bloody wings grew a sheath of moist black leather, mid-air, and clamped themselves around the Nicky-monster's face like a gas mask. The monster's screams were muffled for a moment. Then, as if attached to an invisible fishing line, Platto flung itself backwards, dragging the thing back through the window by its nose.

Two new monsters clamoured through the window. They were adults - one man, one woman. Both dwarfed the creatures that had possessed Joke and Nicky, and appeared to be fully infected. As their grille-mouths snapped open and shut, sharp rows of tea-stained teeth appeared, embedded in stinking black gums. The room was sprayed with aniseed-manure scented spittle as the Blackgum sounded their battle cry. I almost wet myself.

The male was twice my size, a purple crest adorning his otherwise bald head. It lunged for me with its remaining sucker-finger. I sprang back from it, then jumped forward and somersaulted under and between its legs, rolling back under the card table. "Platto," I shouted. My helper, now in the form of a stumpy but bloodthirsty goanna, ran up the female monster's left chicken leg, and burrowed his claws into its guts.

Despite Platto's valiant efforts, I was trapped under the flimsy card table, with no exit options. Another stroke of tactical genius from Novice Lee! The male monster hunkered down and roared with what sounded like pleasure and smelled like death. It lowered itself onto its side, reaching for me with its terrible sucker. I scrabbled back as far as I could go and braced my spine against the side of the silver safe, kicking at the monster's grasping finger.

On the other side of my room, more glass splintered as the female beast pelted Platto into Uncle Gerry's framed town plans. She turned and lumbered across the room to her mate.

I was done for, and for just a moment almost gave up. Then I saw the carved words on the floor:

'Tim Kroker was murdered. Lest we forget.'

Two heads, and four blackened gums closed in on me. The light of my tear drop chandelier caught the plume of the male monster. His head looked like a canon, or an android king's crown.

Crowns! "Uncle Gerry," I mind-blurted, holding my breath as I pedalled furiously at the monster's ruined mouths.

"What is it?" answered my uncle. I felt his thoughts probing my skull. "The perimeter is breached. You're in trouble. I'm on my way."

"No time. Aunt Bea needs you more. What's the combination to the silver safe?"

"Huh?" said Uncle Gerry, rather stupidly.

"The SILVER safe," I repeated, poking the toe of my shoe into the female beast's eye. "The combination. Quickly." My lungs burned, the pressure of the stale air sending globs of red and green across my vision like a school of tropical fish trapped in a tiny aquarium. Battlefish, I day-dreamed.

"12345," said Uncle Gerry. I almost laughed. His secret combination, the one Aunt Bea had spent all these years protecting, was so monumentally easy to crack!

The Blackgum pressed forward, and I retreated pushing myself into the small gap between the safe and the wall. I pretended to sob. Their mouth-grilles sliced into my feet like cheese graters. I screamed – not pretending this time - then seized my rocket-money box, propelled myself head over heels in a hunched cartwheel, slamming the amber neck of my alien space ship/soda bottle across the faces of my attackers like a club.

The bottle's base shattered and I ripped up savagely tearing at the monsters' necks with jagged spikes of glass. Screaming with pain, the Blackgum backed up and I pushed forward, still swinging. At the male struggled to its feet, Platto launched himself at its head, slashing its ruined face with his spurs, until the female managed to prise Platto from its mate and throw him out the window with a howling bellow.

I tossed the remains of the broken bottle at the female. It glanced off her head and she fell down, momentarily stunned. I turned away from her and squatted down in front of the silver safe. "12345," I muttered and dialed in the combination with my shaking right thumb and index finger. It took me two attempts to get it right. The safe door swung open. A dozen thick black books filled the safe. I pulled the one on top onto my lap and opened it to a random page. It was crammed with stamps of kings and queens.

"Crowns! Battlefish!" I commanded. The tissue paper separating the open pages vibrated like a reed, and squadrons of small squares of paper flew out, in perfect V-formation. They ascended and did two laps of the chandelier, then zeroed on the dazed Blackgum. I thumbed through the stamp album, and pages and pages of stamps joined the first detachment. It was hard to see - there were so many - but each stamp bore the head of a King or Queen of Europe. And each monarch featured a single row of sharp, triangular teeth in each jaw, tightly packed and interlocking, like piranha dentures.

Two Vs of stamps orbited each thrashing Blackgum, like spitfires sizing up King Kong. Then, as if in response to some silent signal, the stamps descended and tore the Blackgum to pieces like corn chips at a kid's party. The stink of vinegar and brown paper bags worsened and I ducked back behind the silver safe, lest the stamps became confused about their target in their bloodlust. I watched them work, my hands splayed in front of my face. For blue-bloods they lacked all sense of decorum and table manners.

It was over in less than a minute. When I was finally brave enough to stick my head out from under the desk, nothing remained of the Blackgum but a pile of gnawed upon bones. The floor was covered in red-sodden bits of square paper. From a distance, the blood-sated piranha princes and princesses looked just like confetti at a wedding.

Gingerly, I padded on cut feet to the window, careful not to stir up the now bloated stamps. "Tree," I whispered. "Protect this window, and hold out the Blackgum. In return, I'll grant your saplings earth and light. You will have immortality through your children. Smith's honour."

The old Pomegranate shuddered with delight, dropping fruit with heavy thuds. The tree twisted its boughs thatching the window, and tightening its hold on the unconscious Nicky. Platto patrolled the base of the tree's trunk, obviously recovered from his fall.

"Keep her still, but do not kill her," I ordered both tree and helper. Then I ran for the stairs. Time was very short, if I had any at all, and I prayed I was not too late. If I registered Joke or Mark's absence then, I didn't dwell on it. I was too focused on Mum.

I limped downstairs and into the conservatory, clutching the unicorn page, the Empress card, and the Antic Hay poem like weapons. In a sense, they were.

In the time I'd been upstairs, Doc Vassel had managed to free Mrs Kroker from the chair. The couple was in a tight embrace near the fireplace. As the doctor patted her bare back, Mrs Kroker snorted nosily into Doc Vassel's tuxedo lapels.

Everyone else was pretty much where they'd been when I left them. Mum lay flat on her back on the day bed, staring mutely at the singed ceiling, her eyes wide and unblinking. Mr Seth was presumably still snoring beneath the pile of rubble in the centre of the room. Aunt Bea huddled behind the trunk next to Uncle Gerry, who was still disguised as me. As I edged into the conservatory, I caught my bare foot on a slightly raised floorboard at the door. Startled, Aunt Bea looked around and spotted me. Uncle Gerry saw me too and stood up, but it was too late to hide. Aunt Bea screamed.

"What's going on?!" shouted Doc Vassel, releasing Mrs Kroker. He swung his head repeatedly from me to Uncle Gerry and back like a tennis spectator watching a particularly enthralling rally. With a slurping pop, Uncle Gerry vanished and Aunt Bea screamed again and buried her face in her hands.

"Sorry, Aunt Bea," I grimaced, walking into the room on my wounded feet. "It's me. No time to explain."

I lumbered towards the fireplace, my arms outstretched, the clues in my hands like an offering to the gods. Doc Vassel must have thought I was running for Mrs Kroker, and kicked me, hard, in the shins. I yelped and fell flat on my face, almost losing the clues as my arms hit the edge of the heath.

For a moment, I lay sprawled, keenly aware of the six eyeballs fixed on me. Gritting my teeth, I pulled my knees under my stomach and crawled towards the hearth. I was less than thirty centimetres from the flames, when Mrs Kroker jumped on my back and wrapped her hands around my throat.

"I don't know what's going on," she snarled. "Today's just been one of those days. I wouldn't even have been here if your Aunt hadn't asked me to help look for you. But I'll be darned if I'm going to let you throw those things on the fire. What are they? Explosives?"

"Metaphorically, correct," rumbled a muffled voice. As if someone had plugged an industrial strength vacuum cleaner into the roof, the pile of rubble in the middle of the room was suddenly twitched and was then sucked back up to the ceiling in a mini-twister of rubble and dust. Mr Seth, one eye open, windmilled his bent arms twice, and Mrs Kroker flew backwards across the room, landing softly on the base of Mum's bed. Without a further word, Mr Seth tipped forward onto the floor and started to snore again.

Everyone froze gawking in the wake of Mr Seth's typically dramatic flourish. I took my chance, inching forward on my hands and knees. Sitting back on my calves, I held the three bits of paper, pink, laminated and yellow, to the flames. There was no time to muck around with barbecue forks or pokers, and my hands, already cut, blistered as I held them to the fire.

A few seconds passed, and I pulled the papers back. The pink paper had darkened red, and revealed its hidden message in yellow-brown ink:

"Send word to the Smith. She walks amongst us. She is one of us. A Witch has betrayed us Witches."

The laminated card had melted, and the Empress' golden gown and sceptre had warped and flaked off, giving up its secret:

"She suspects I have found her out, and I am her prisoner. Tell the Smith to act quickly, without fear or favour. To kill us both, if need be. I love you, my son. This is too much for my baby to bear, but you must shoulder it."

The top edges of the yellow message paper had caught alight, obscuring the original words of the poem. The lemon juice ink beneath it had browned and revealed the final message:

"The Smith must come. There is no time to delay. She has summonsed a Giant to kill her enemies, and yoke the town to her cause at the dance. She keeps me captive here in chains, while Quakehaven and my friends fall to shadow. How can this evil thing call herself my -"

I gasped at the last word, and pivoted to face, at long last, the Zealtor.

## 23. MEA CULPRIT

She slung the slumbering Smith over her wrist, like an expensive handbag, or mink stole.

"Seen enough, boy?" she said and pitched Mr Seth over my shoulder and into the fire. The yellow page fluttered from my fingers and was sucked into the flames in the Smith's wake. Mr Seth's eyes popped open, agog, but thick steel spikes shot down from the top of the fireplace, trapping him inside.

"Gotcha," said the Zealtor, smiling. "Now let me hear your death rattle, Smith."

"You'll have no such pleasure," replied Mr Seth. He nodded at me gravely. "My body is just a cage, Patrick" he muttered. "I fly with the phoenix."

"What?" I asked, confused as always by Mr Seth's strange speech.

"I don't have time to illuminate you now. Though I will have plenty of time later." He grinned and gave me a cheeky wink, then his body started to shrink and morph into a moth. The Zealtor blinked. Thin, horizontal spikes of steel jutted seamlessly across the fireplace, hemming in the Smith. I scoured the cage for defects. No gap in the wire existed large enough for even the tiniest of insects to escape. Mr Seth's small silvery-red wings began to blacken and wither under the flames.

"No!" I cried, pulling at the taut wire grid, burning my fingers. Mr Seth's wings were swallowed in flames. Then his furry abdomen and head fell into the glowing embers and was engulfed. A loud bang sounded, like a cap gun. The fire died, leaving nothing of Mr Seth but a small pebble of rusty-brown ash. The metal spikes retracted smoothly back into the wall and mantle, with a pneumatic hiss. Without thinking about it, I stooped and picked out the hardened pebble – cool to the touch – then pocketed it.

"Aunt Bea!" I shouted at the Zealtor, tears stinging the cuts on the face. "What have you done?"

"Call me Master," commanded Aunt Bea, striding over to Mum's bed and squeezing her hand. Mrs Kroker leapt off Mum's bed with a squeal, and hightailed it over to Doc Vassel, who was slumped against the mantlepiece. The doctor shivered, his fingers curled, his mouth a squiggle of horror.

To the Zealtor, I said quietly: "Leave Mum alone. Mr Seth was not the only Smith in town."

I exhaled deeply, and tried again to summons my shadow. It stirred, briefly rattling the lid of the trunk. Then it faded and lapsed back into sleep.

"Is that the best you can do?" sneered Aunt Bea. "And I thought the Smith was easy work, though I guess I have the good doctor to thank somewhat for that." Doc Vassel's face reddened.

"If I'd known you were the Novice earlier," said Aunt Bea, "this silliness would have ended long before the dance." She tucked the bedclothes under Mum's neck. Mum's face was contorted, like she was struggling to open her mouth. Her jaws were clenched and the bones in her neck looked like small twigs twisting in a gale.

The words of Mum's message were burned into my brain: _She keeps me prisoner here in chains..._

My Aunt stood up, and smiled, her eyes blank and cold. "Katy told me she smelt the taint of Smith," she said.

"Your budgie?" I asked, edging closer to Mum.

"Hah! The sacrifices we make to fit in," sighed Aunt Bea, sitting down on the bed between Mum and me. Most of the smoke from the explosion had dissipated. At the threshold of the conservatory, where the wall had once stood, the four Blackgum snapped to attention. In robotic unison, they lined up, pressing their hands or forearms into the ground like 100 metre sprinters on their blocks. They awaited only the Zealtor's go-ahead to charge.

Aunt Bea shifted her weight on the bed. "Katy, or, more properly, my beloved He-ca-te, is my dear friend. Has been with the family for generations. You could say she is familiar to us Logstons," said Aunt Bea, laughing at her own joke.

I didn't react. I'd read enough penny dreadfuls about Witches to know that they were often accompanied by servants called familiars. Usually, familiars were black cats or hell hounds. I'd never read of a budgie fulfilling the role!

"My dear bird changes the hue of her plumage every few years, so no-one wonders why she lives so long. But Hecate's natural form is somewhat more refined." The Zealtor clicked her fingers and soothed: "Hecate: attend on me!"

Almost at once the bird appeared, seemingly materialising out of thin air from on top of the fireplace. Her dramatic entrance was spoiled instantly as the bird jumped to the floor and slipped on her tail, like an inelegant duck on ice. Despite her poor landing, Hecate was sleek and grey-brown, about a metre long, with a fluffy tail the length of a peacock's. A train of golden feathers curved symmetrically from the centre like a lute. She wasted no time advancing on me, her tail feathers vibrating with each step. She stood between her Master and me, bent forward and pecked me on my bare right toe with her beak: a clear warning shot.

The Zealtor's eyes flashed green-yellow, like a cat's eyes in headlights. She grinned. "We are not alone, my sweet."

"Of course not. Doc Vassel and Mrs Kroker are here," I said, lamely trying to divert the Zealtor's train of thought.

"Are they boy?" said Aunt Bea in a very quiet voice. "Are they indeed?"

I looked back to where the couple had been standing near the fireplace. Two brown bowls stood in their place, full to the brim with dried dog food.

"What have you done with them?!" I demanded.

"Shhh, boy!" she said. "They were irritating. So crass and modern with their scandalous affair. Incredibly inappropriate. That floozy should have kept my dance as it was. As for the quack, he should have committed your mother to the madhouse a week ago. She might have survived. Anyway, I wasn't talking about them to Hecate, and you know it. A ghost walks amongst us. It tricked me by disguising itself as you. Hecate: hunt the ghost down and kill it."

"No!" I cried. "You don't want to do that. It's -"

"Silence," whispered the Zealtor, and the whole room shook. The lamp lights buzzed and flickered. I had an inkling of her immense power.

Hecate's black eyes bled red, then white. She opened the blades of her venomous black beak and inhaled noisily like a gluttonous spaghetti slurper. A gelatinous belly shuddered and wobbled into view near the Blackgum. A terrified white face, and skinny legs followed. Hecate shook her head and without a struggle or noise, Uncle Gerry's ghost-body imploded like a failed casino, and was sucked whole into the bird's gullet.

"No!" I screamed. If the Zealtor or her familiar recognised my Uncle's spirit, it didn't show.

Aunt Bea lay down on the bed, her back to Mum, as if Hecate's ghost-busting were an every day event like doing the dishes. "After that silly performance by Balder in the reading room the other night - truly I had to pinch myself not to burst into giggles - and then the imbroglio at the dance, I must confess I suspected the young Jokkum was the Novice, not my own flesh and blood. I should have known better. Any son of Fisk would be too stupid to take on a Giant and win. The whole town was in my grasp that night. Your stunt was clever, but supremely irritating. Pushed my timetable back. Now I have to hunt people down one by one. Not to worry, though. My Blackgum surround Quakehaven, awaiting final orders."

"You were right the first time," squeaked a high-pitched boy's voice from the doorway. The Zealtor sat bolt upright and I swung around. Joke was still in my suit pants, though he had lost the jacket. My white dress shirt was shot through with holes, its sleeves stained with filth. "I am the Witch-Smith," said Joke, glaring at me briefly, then turning back to the Zealtor. But you are wrong about my father and me. We outwitted your Giant, solved his riddle, and rent him head from head. Stopped you in your evil tracks."

"Hecate?" asked Aunt Bea.

The bird nodded twice, its tail rustling against the floorboards like a bouquet of tissue-paper.

"It seems you tell part of the truth, Fisk-boy," conceded Aunt Bea. "Though Hecate tells me you both had a hand in the deed. No matter, I will kill you first, Witch-Smith, then deal with young Patrick."

"Grmmm," gurgled Mum from the day-bed, lifting her neck off the bed, then slamming her head back onto the thick fluffy pillow. Hecate launched herself at Mum, flapping clumsily across the room, talons outstretched. Without thinking, I charged after the bird, desperate to protect my mother. The bird was too far away from me to stop it.

A foot from Mum, Hecate's flight came to a crashing halt. An orange liquid, viscous like honey, enveloped her wings and beak, then hardened into what looked like steaming amber ice-cords. Hecate hit and skittered across the floor, smashing headfirst into the solid mahogany day bed. I swerved to avoid landing into Hecate's tail, and fell again, my hands and knees skidding over the sheets of Mum's bed, just missing her feet.

"You must control yourself, Hecate," said the Zealtor. I want my sister to see the end of her current line and to share in my joy as we restore Quakehaven to its glorious heyday." The Zealtor tilted her head casually and launched a shimmering stream of green-yellow fire from the bags under her eyes directly at Joke's head!

The flames hit Joke before he had time to react. For a moment, I thought he was gone, incinerated instantly. Then the stream ebbed and died to reveal Joke, evidently unharmed.

The Zealtor seemed as surprised as I was. She wailed with frustration unleashing curses composed of words I had only heard in the playground and barely understood. She stormed over to the doorway and rent my dress shirt in two revealing his great shield: a bunch of cheap, service station flowers jammed down the front of my suitpants!

"Peonies!" screeched the Zealtor, her face black. "Bridget tried the same trick the night of the dance. Deflected my powers. Nearly burned holes in my roof." She grabbed the flowers out of his trousers with such force, that he keeled onto his knees, and groaned, as if sucker punched. He looked at me and spat with disgust. My Aunt the Zealtor towered over the small boy, her teeth sparking blue fire as she prepared to demolish him.

Knowing again I would be too late, I was nonetheless about to rush to Joke's aid, when two things happened at roughly the same time. Through the bed-clothes, Mum gave me a hard kick right in the funny bone of my right elbow that caused me to jump as my arm straightened in reflex and then crashed onto Mum's chest. And a metallic voice boomed an announcement from the dining room: "Don't move, Filthy Queen. I've got a chopstick and I'm not afraid to use it!"

Aunt Bea squinted through the smoke to the doorway, trying to make sense of what was going on. The four restless Blackgum started to fidget at the perimeter, unsure whether to cross into the room without clear orders from their Master. Despite the auto-tune distortions, the voice was familiar, and the words sounded like they were from a bad movie. Then I woke up: they _were_ words from a bad movie: _Tasers and Tarantulas_! And the voice was Mark's, using his Ancient Assassins game console, just like he had at his party!

"Nck," mumbled Mum, fighting for breath under my weight. I rolled off her. Through the sheets, her hands clutched my wrists and pulled me closer.

"It's going to be all right, Mum," I whispered. "I'll get us out of here." I had no idea how I was going to do it, but there were tears in Mum's eyes, and beads of sweat dotted her brow. Her skin was raw and broken. It looked particularly sore where her skin had reacted to the precious metal of her swan pendant.

Yellow paper memories: "Keeps me a prisoner here...In chains." The swan pendant! With shaking hands, I leaned in to unclasp the pendant from my mother's neck.

"Stop right there or I'll kill the Fisk-boy where he stands," hissed the Zealtor, the claws of her left hand pressed against Joke's jugular. Simultaneously, the four Blackgum snapped to attention and marched into the room.

"Forget me," squeaked Joke. "I hate you, but your mother was always good to me. This monster is going to kill me anyway."

"True," admitted the Zealtor. "Though I was planning to make your death quick and painless. If Patrick prefers, I could make it unbearably traumatic over hours," she said, the coarse nails of her claws digging deeper into the flesh of Joke's neck.

I dropped the clasp, and fell back. The Zealtor smiled and said: "You should have listened to the pipsqueak." Murder danced in the Zealtor's eyes. Danced an antic hay.

"Not so fast, lady," said Mark, in his tinny Texan drawl, and cavorted into the room, brandishing his arm cast like a rocket propelled grenade. Defenceless, Mark relied wholly on the element of surprise. It was the bravest thing I had ever seen.

Hecate, dazed and perhaps chastened from the collision with the bed, her beak and wings still bound by amber ice-hoops, stagger-flapped at Mark, scratching at the floor with its talons as it skated across the room. Distracted, I nearly missed the Zealtor's ears. Like a potato head, an ear detached from each side of her head and embedded themselves with two dull thwacks, deep into Mark's chest.

I opened my mouth. Mark looked down at his chest. The Zealtor-ears dug themselves out of the boy's chest. Like vampire-boomerangs, the ears flew back to their owner. "Do it now, space cadet!" Mark said, then collapsed.

"Mark!" howled Joke, ducking under the Zealtor's claws to break the mortally wounded boy's fall. Great gouts of Mark's blood gushed out of Mark's chest onto Joke's shirt.

I watched, helpless. "You'll be OK, Mark" promised Joke. "Just relax."

"Thanks, pumpkin-patch," said Mark, with a wan grin. "You are one cool dude," he said, exhaling deeply. Joke held him tight, rocking him gently. Mark's once bright blue eyes faded to a dull matte green. The most popular boy in class, the son of the richest man in Quakehaven, blinked his eyes shut, then open, then breathed no more.

Furious, and with Joke's sobs in my ears, I snatched at Mum's necklace and tried again to unfasten the clasp. A strong electric current passed through the chain, conducting into the palm of my right hand. I snatched my hand away with a yelp.

"Tell you what, Patrick," said the Zealtor. "Let's do a deal."

"Not a chance," I shouted, massaging my wounded right palm with the knuckles of my left.

"Hear me out. The battle for Quakehaven is over. You've seen what's happening outside Sub Rosa. You know it. The more you fight, the more people will die. Because of you."

"You're the one murdering innocent people," I yelled, fighting to control my emotions. "You don't have to kill anyone."

"You're right," allowed the Zealtor. "I don't. But I will continue killing people - your Mum, your little Jokkum, and anyone and everyone else you have ever loved, or loves you - until you submit to me. Do you want another friend's blood on your hands, and for nothing?"

While the Zealtor had been talking, I'd kept an eye on the Blackgum. The four monsters had advanced further into the room, and now stood at the head of Mum's bed. They were within touching distance. The very thought repulsed me.

I glanced at Joke. He had lain Mark's body flat on the floor next to the door, and was doing his best to mop up the blood from Mark's fatal wounds with my ruined shirt. Dirty tears streamed down Joke's cheeks like ink rivulets. He thumbed Mark's eyes shut. Shut for the last time.

Poor Joke. In one day, he had found his father, felt the betrayal of his best friend - me - lost his dad forever because of it, and held a classmate in his arms and felt him die. How much more did he have to endure for a lost cause? For the last time that night, I tried to summons my shadow and failed. It was just too injured to help. I scoured the room for spirits, but none would help me face the Zealtor. I was powerless. A weak, pathetic boy against the most powerful creature in town, short of a God.

"Come now," soothed the Zealtor. "You can't stop me. The Smith knew it was over the moment the dog-food stammerer stuck him with the needle."

_You've killed us all_ _!_ I remembered the horror in Mr Seth's face as he'd said it.

"What's your deal, Zealtor?" I said looking at Mum, my voice hoarse, my mind clogged with sand.

"Your Forger-soul," said the Zealtor licking her lips. "In return I'll spare your mother and the Fisk-boy."

I nodded, trying to process the terms. Uncle Gerry's chilling words echoed in my head: _There are worse things that death. Imagine eternal existence without a soul. It's the closest thing to hell you could imagine._ I trembled at the hopeless choice I had to make.

Mum's eyes bulged out of her head. So much pain because of me. I turned to Joke, now orphaned, who was praying over Mark's corpse. His hands and my shirt were saturated with innocent blood.

"Can you bring back Mark?" I asked. "Can you save him?"

"That is beyond even my powers," said the Zealtor, smiling.

"Will you guarantee you and your minions won't touch them - Mum or Joke - or their souls? That they'll stay free of you and the Blackgum?"

"Zealtor's honour," smirked Aunt Bea, mimicking a smug girl guide. The whites of the Zealtor's eyes were stained as a glowing grey cloud descended over her pupils. The Zealtor opened her mouth, displaying, finally, its glossy black gums. Steaming blood red saliva cascaded down her blue, flaming teeth.

"OK," I said, simply, and the room fell silent. I kissed Mum on the cheek, inhaling her wonderful scent. Mum's eyes were wide and wet. Her body was limp and damp all over. Warily, I climbed down from the bed and trudged slowly towards the Zealtor. "Let's seal the deal then."

The Zealtor almost beamed, closed her eyes, and extended her arms, a sick imitation of a protective mother. Then, horribly, her head flipped all the way back, her chin pointing directly to the ruined roof. A small square flap of withered skin, like an elephant's, rolled down between her neck and chin, revealing a small compartment. It looked like the gearbox of Dad's old car. A black, slimy tube about the width of a garden hose, and the length of a toothbrush, unfurled and sniffed the air like the hungry tongue of a serpent.

Instinctively, I knew that the Zealtor used the tube to eat souls like a straw. Almost paralysed with fear, I willed my feet forward, and prepared to give my Aunt a final kiss goodnight.

"Gmmmm!" screeched Mum, suddenly animated, thrashing up and down in the bed like she was possessed.

"There's no other way, Mum," I said, not looking back, fearing I would lose my nerve if I did. "I failed. I'm sorry, but this is for the best. You deserve a great life. I'll say hi to Dad for you."

"There's always another way!" squealed a voice, like a soprano war cry. "Think harder you idiot!"

Tiny, blood-stained hands encircled the Zealtor's neck. From the corner of my eye, I caught a flash of skin and silver, and then heard a terrible braying wail. The thin, black tube - the Zealtor's soul straw - flopped onto the floor, with a burning hiss. Spastically, it coiled and uncoiled, rolling its way towards me like a loose wagon wheel. I jumped back onto the day bed.

The Zealtor's head flipped back and she roared in agony, almost bringing down what was left of the roof. Three of the four Blackgum swung into action, digging their outstretched fingers into the ringlets of Mum's hair, twisting and tearing out tufts of her beautiful tresses at the root and tossing them on the floor like discarded weeds.

The maimed Zealtor bent down and picked up the silver weapon, hurling it into the wall just above the mantlepiece. Joke's compass! Then she scooped up the writhing tube and shoved it into the pocket of her hideous floral day-dress.

Joke was nowhere to be seen. He'd probably bolted out the door as soon as he'd stabbed the Zealtor's soul-straw with the end of his compass.

"What are you waiting for?" roared the Zealtor at the motionless Blackgum. Her eyes were mad. "Bring me his head."

The Zealtor was rattled. Joke had risked his life to give me a few seconds. He'd risked everything to give me the chance to save my Mum and my soul. I couldn't waste it.

"Joke," I thought, trying to push the words to him telepathically, though unsure if it was working. "If you can hear me, run for my bed-room and climb onto the pomegranate. Platto will protect you. It is on its way." I leapt onto the bed, pulled my shirt sleeve over my damaged hand then, through the fabric, yanked Mum's swan pendant chain with all my strength.

The Zealtor whirled around and caught me. She screamed and pitched her left ear at my head like a malevolent frisbee. I ducked, falling onto Mum's chest again. The ear karate-chopped itself into the mahogany bed-head, thrashing vainly to free itself.

I pushed myself off Mum, and tugged at the chain, wrapping my middle fingers around the kissing swans. Mum gurgled noisily as the chain-links at the back of her neck sliced into her skin. But I had no choice.

Like a stingray, the Zealtor glided low across the room. Long, gold and diamond blades erupted from her claw tips, glinting through the smoke. "Please," I almost prayed to my shadow. "Please help us."

The trunk rattled again, but this time the latch gave and the lid flung open, clipping the Zealtor's chin. The Zealtor screeched, as her shins caught the full brunt of the open lid, upending her and pitching her onto her head, between the foot of the bed and the moon-faced trunk.

I planted my feet on either side of Mum's head, facing the foot of the bed. I squatted down and put my back and legs into the task. Sword-claws sliced through the dark wood of the bed like jelly, and Aunt Bea's distorted face popped up. Her eyes were rusty, and black liquid sloughed down her chest from the wound in her neck.

"Stop him, Hecate," barked the Zealtor, her voice bubbling, like she was talking through a mud-filled drain-pipe. The amber ice-cords around the familiar's beak and wings vanished and the free bird launched itself at me from the floor.

I lurched to the side, ducking Hecate's swinging talons. The bird missed my head by centimetres, then landed on one of the Blackgum's purple crests. The Blackgum tried to swat the bird away, but the enraged familiar was having none of it. Like a psychotic cassowary, it lashed out at the Blackgum, slicing its throat ear to ear.

The bird turned from the dying monster and prepared to launch itself at me again. Being careful not to trample my mother in the rush, I yanked at the chain, and tried to ignore the choking sound emanating from Mum's throat.

"You'll die a thousand times for this impertinence," hissed the Zealtor, now standing at the foot of the bed. Hecate was perched at the head of the bed preparing for takeoff. Trapped between the Zealtor and her familiar, I redoubled my efforts, grasping the necklace with both fists at its centre, using the muscles in my arms and upper back to prise them apart. The swans tilted, then parted with a hard crunching sound, like work boots crunching a broken windshield into bitumen. Finally, the weakest link gave out.

The pendant chain broke in two.

Mum's arms had been trapped at her sides like an Irish dancer's. Now her right arm flew up into the air, and her left scissored down across her body, knocking my feet out from under me. I tumbled off the bed, as a red-platinum beam erupted from Mum's palms, like digital flame-throwers, concentrated beams striking the Zealtor and Hecate.

I landed with a thud, and rolled across the room, stopping just short of being face down in the dog food that had once been Mrs Kroker. Craning my neck to the left, I caught a whiff of burning feathers and stale lavender water.

Hecate thrashed about the floor, in agony, trying uselessly to beat down the conflagration consuming her magnificent tail. She morphed furiously but could not escape the fire: a lizard with black-green scales, a brown pheasant, a black water rat, a giant scorpion, a yellow and red budgie, then back to her true shape. It all made sense! Hecate had infected Tim, starting the Blackgum nightmare on behalf of her Master!

A deep almost inaudible hum sounded under the floor. My stomach lurched. The air around the remaining Blackgum shimmered. Both froze, then burst into what looked like crazed break dancing. With a slopping squelch, both collapsed in on themselves!

The red beams stopped. I fought the urge to throw up at the stench of burning flesh and feathers. At both the foot and head of where the now-incinerated bed had been, stood a Witch. They glowered at each other.

Wordlessly, Aunt Bea turned to me, pointing the shards of her twisted sword fingers at my head. Mum winked and a tiny net shot out of her eyelashes, unfurling and expanding as it flew across the room like a Roman gladiator's net. It spun as it hit me around the chest, dragging me to safety behind the moon trunk. A split second later, the shards of the Zealtor's swords thrummed, harmlessly describing a semi-circle around the mantlepiece. They looked like daggers tossed at a circus-girl pinned to a whirling wheel. They'd have minced me.

Cautiously, I freed myself from the net and inched my head up, like a soldier peeping over his trench at the enemy. The Zealtor's fangs were bared at my mother. Mum looked wholly unfazed.

Hecate had managed to stamp out the fire in her tail and began to retch violently, near the fireplace. The bald, burned-red stump of her tail twitched, as if cold.

"No," shrieked the Zealtor, ignoring Mum and hurrying over to her burned familiar.

Hecate's tail spasmed, and the once great bird toppled onto her side and vomited what looked like a puddle of melted vanilla ice-cream. The familiar closed her eyes for good.

"No!" whispered the Zealtor. "Not like this."

Without sympathy, Mum strode towards the Zealtor and slapped her - hard - across the face.

"How dare you," said Mum, the first words she had spoken since she'd been released from the necklace. "This was our parents' home-town. We were born in this house. And this is how you repay Quakehaven? By desecrating it and enslaving its people?"

I couldn't tell if Aunt Bea was listening. She nursed her jaw, and watched, in abject misery, as her dearest friend perished at her feet. She looked suddenly like a sad, feeble old woman. But, after all that had happened, she deserved every ounce of pain Hecate's death would deliver!

Eventually, the Zealtor spoke. Her voice was soft, but cold, her eyes fixed on the carcass of her fallen pet and friend. "You don't know what you're talking about, Bridget. You left Quakehaven as soon as you could with that man to see the world. Left me here to guard our traditions, our way of life. I did this," she said, gesturing at the broken room, "to save Quakehaven."

Mum's eyes glittered with rage and contempt and disbelief, but she merely shook her head at her sister.

"You didn't see what was going on before I stopped the rot," said Aunt Bea. "New people arriving from the City every day, knocking down our grand houses turning them into cheap blocks of flats and tacky mansions. No-one interested in our heritage. Barn dances turned into rock shows. Boat sheds now game arcades and internet cafes. Barker debasing our history, turning the place into a jumble of fun-parks. Too many shops, open every day of the year, selling worthless junk to worthless people. No time for family. For reflection. A dinosaur park, for goodness sake! What would my dear Gerry have said about that, sitting in his old armchair in the reading room?"

"I'd of loved it," gurgled the small white puddle still growing from a trickle pouring from the dead bird's mouth. The pool rippled, and pulled itself, roughly, into a two dimensional representation of Uncle Gerry's jowly face. "We could have taken our nephew and sister-in-law out and made a day of it. As a family. A picnic."

"Gerry?" said Aunt Bea, aghast, a green algal tear leaking down the side of her left eye.

"I'm not saying I love all that stuff you were talking about, Beatrice. The congestion, pollution, the nasty developments, the strip malls and fast food outlets. Kids twexting, twimmering and bodysurfing the Interwebs, consuming mindless gossip all the time, many without adding a glimmer of an original thought to the mix. Some of this stuff gets me pretty steamed up as well. And there's a place for monuments and heritage, including in our heads. But people and things change - it's the way of this world. Paradise doesn't exist. Trust me, I know. There were some pretty bad things with the way Quakehaven was back when we were young."

"No!" said Aunt Bea, shaking her head vigorously. "It was perfect."

"You forget the unemployment and violence? The racism and sexism. Mothers dying in child-birth. Babies dying from treatable diseases. Nuns forcing teenagers to give up their babies. Orphans being forced to work on the farms, abused by the people charged to look after them. Poor kids going to school hungry, without shoes or enough food in their bellies. You forget all that?"

"There were hardships. But that made us better people. Life was simple then," said Aunt Bea.

"True," gurgled Uncle's Gerry's puddle. "Too simple, in some ways. Like not being able to buy milk on a Sunday, or go to the pub with friends after 6pm. Innocent men and women hanged based on the evidence of corrupt police. Kids told to just accept 'their station in life'. Families torn apart because a daughter dared to marry a man of the wrong stock, or from a different brand of the same religion. Young men and women drinking themselves to death. Trying to conform to the median; to hide who they were. The intolerance for anything different. For anyone different."

"I was trying to save the town, Gerald. To protect our way of life."

"No, Beatrice," said Mum. "You tried to kill the town to save it. How many have died while I was your captive, or worse. Can't you see the monster you've become?"

"I did it for Quakehaven," said the Zealtor, stubbornly.

"You've massacred children," snapped Uncle Gerry, a fizz in his voice. "One in this very room tonight. You have held your sister a prisoner in her own body and tried to assassinate your own nephew. Your creatures are this very moment roaming the streets hunting down innocent people - including your neighbours and those that you love - all for the sake of an impossible and twisted dream of something that never existed outside your head. The only thing more dead than Quakehaven is you. And, to think, I loved you once."

Aunt Bea started to sniffle. "But -" she said, then Mum slapped her across the face again.

"No buts. Face what you've done, Beatrice. Bring this madness to an end. I'll help you. Before we're overrun while we stand here jabbering."

As if eavesdropping on Mum's words, an enormous beast crashed into the room, looking for its Master. It had the body of a large, black bull, but no head. Three yellow eyes pulsed from each flank, six in all. A ridge of sharp armoured peaks rose up from its spine. A furry, blue tongue flopped out of its neck, like a flaccid feather duster, sweeping the floor before it from side to side like a blind man's cane.

Before anyone could react, the thing charged at the bed, then stopped suddenly at the pool of white liquid that was Uncle Gerry. Without pause, the bull-monster mop-lapped my uncle's puddle up, its stained white tongue twisting and retracting like a drill-bit into the monster's neck when it was done.

"No!" groaned Aunt Bea, seemingly forgetting her powers, apparently paralysed with shock. "Not my husband!"

Mum clapped her hands like an impatient maitre de calling for help, and a maroon sphere, the size of a snowball, shot out from her thumbs and pounded through the bull monster, reducing it instantly to dust.

"No," whimpered the Zealtor, her voice barely audible. Mum slapped her again. "Gerry's gone, Beatrice. And you have only yourself to blame. Let me help you bring this calamity to an end."

Three additional headless bull monsters - one ridden by what looked like a disembodied ogress' head, the reins lashed to her tusks - bounded into the room.

"No," said Aunt Bea, determination returning to her voice, even as more algal tears stained her cheeks. "Get the boy out of here, Bridget." The Zealtor straightened her narrow shoulders and began to expand, her eyes a just formed galaxy of stars and black matter. "This is my mess, sister. Let me clean it up."

"Let me help you," said Mum, her voice breaking.

"You already have," said Aunt Bea, smiling sadly. "You, my husband and your remarkable son." I couldn't look at her. Not after what she and her minions had done to my friends.

"I love you all," continued Aunt Bea. "I want you to know that, though you owe me nothing for it. Now get him out of here, Bridget. And tell him the truth soon. He's ready. And he deserves to know."

Mum nodded, and embraced me like an anaconda. "Hold on to me, Paddy. Don't lose me again."

I squeezed Mum back with all my remaining strength. Aunt Bea was now at least twice the size of the Giant. Without warning, she let out a deafening shriek that eviscerated the three bull-monsters where they stood and shattered the ogress head's tusks like a fallen icicle. A foul wind encircled the Zealtor, and with it a squealing whistle that set my teeth on edge.

"She's calling them all to her," muttered Mum. "The Blackgum are all racing back to mama. Hold on to me and think of somewhere safe. Somewhere they won't find us." I held my breath. The world collapsed and we flickered momentarily out of existence, popping back cramped and lost into absolute darkness.

I clawed at the walls of our new prison. "Where are we?" whispered Mum, shivering against the cold stone that surrounded us like a mausoleum. "What's that?"

A faint light leaked from the opening of my jeans pocket. I reached in and pulled out the source. The ash-pebble that had once been Mr Seth cast the dull silver light of a distant sun. I looked up. The roof of our cell was dotted with air holes. Through one of them, I spied eight bare hooks hanging from the roof. From another, I saw sacks of flour and stacks of cans on shelves covered in dated, oil-flecked green floral wall-paper.

"We're in the larder," I said. "Under the thrawl, I think. Sorry. It was the safest place I could think of. I should have thought of somewhere farther away. Like a beach in Queensland. Or a farm house in the South of France. Anywhere but where I'd landed us, in fact! Of all the places in all the world, I'd consigned us to the spookiest room in a house overrun with Blackgum!

"It's perfect," said Mum, smiling and stretching her arms, relishing her relative freedom despite the war going on around us. She clapped her hands, gently this time. Bolts of solid steel appeared and welded themselves across the inside of the larder door and the stone thrawl under which we were hiding, reinforcing them against probable attack. She clicked her fingers and the small, mesh grille near the roof sealed itself shut with shards of brick and dust, sealing us in. (And Them out.)

"I didn't even know there was a secret chamber under the thrawl," I said suddenly weary as some of the adrenalin coursing through my bloodstream ebbed.

"You probably knew there was something strange about this room," laughed Mum. "It's designed to give people the willies. Witches love hidey-holes. Can come in very handy every century or so when people decide to burn us all. Your great grandfather hid here once for three weeks while farmers with pitchforks trashed the place."

The long, thin cavity under the thrawl was just wide enough for Mum and I to sit down facing each other. Mum's hair seemed to fill half the space, even after the Blackgums had barbarically thinned it out. Despite our relatively insulated position in the larder, the sounds of destruction - rocks scraping on concrete and exploding glass - filtered through the thrawl. Nervously, I put Mr Seth's pebble down between us to even out the light. The pebble flickered and I stifled a giggle.

"What's so funny?" asked Mum, bemused. "We really should try to stay as quiet as possible."

"Sorry," I whispered. "Something Mr Seth said: I don't have time to illuminate you now. Though I will have plenty of time later! It was a riddle. Mr Seth is illuminating us now!"

"More like a bad joke," said Mum. But we both laughed quietly at it, until I started to cry.

Mum reached over and placed her hands on my shoulders. "He would have been so proud," she said. "Your dad. I'm so proud of you figuring this all out, surviving so many atrocities without me there to help you."

I said nothing and concentrated on controlling my breath. "You're not my little boy anymore," Mum said.

"Maybe not," I said, giving in and blubbering like a baby. "But I am your boy."

"And I'm your mother. And don't you forget it!"

We sat with our foreheads pressed together for a while, listening carefully to the carnage around us. Although the fight was closing in on Sub Rosa, I felt more relaxed sitting there with Mum than I had felt since the start of the Blackgum ordeal. I felt myself dissolve into formlessness, not needing to say or do anything to communicate how happy I was we were together, sentient and free again. Time slowed. Ecstatic bliss!

A jolt of cold reality. I jumped up, almost braining myself on the bottom of the thrawl.

"What is it?" said Mum, alarmed. "What do you sense?"

"Joke's out there on his own, upstairs. I have to help him."

Mum closed her eyes, then opened them and smiled. "Something tells me Master Fisk is going to be fine," said Mum. "And he's not on his own."

"He is. I've got to help him."

"Your Mum's right," squeaked Joke. I looked over my shoulder at Joke's sweaty, blood-stained face. In his arms, he cradled a rather battered but excited Platto, his black case pocked with sucker marks. And at Joke's feet, against my back, sat two bowls of unsullied dog food.

"I'm OK," said Joke, grinning at Mum, but pointedly ignoring me. "The pomegranate's sustained some damage, but it's still standing. And you wouldn't believe the hurt your sister is raining down on the Blackgum. She's locked down Sub Rosa altogether, except for a small hole in the dining room wall, just wide enough for one of the big ones to squeeze through. She's picking them off one at a time as they line up to get at her! Dunno how much longer she can keep it up. She lost a lot of blood from that wound to her neck."

Joke lowered his eyes. "She was ambushed by a parliament of were-owls about half an hour ago, and would have been a gonna if not for this thing," he said, stroking Platto's case. Despite the seriousness of our predicament, I felt a pang of jealousy as Joke petted my helper.

Joke would have continued his blow by blow account, but for a group of howling Blackgum that breached my Aunt's defences and broke into the kitchen with a cacophony of crashing saucepans and clanging cutlery.

Mum whispered a spell to mask our scent and to amplify the larder's natural defences. Joke and I held our breath and kept very still, both clamping up hands around Platto's restless bill, the small boy studiously avoiding my attempts to catch his eye.

Aunt Bea released a blood-curdling scream as she ran into her beloved kitchen and engaged her former soldiers in mortal combat, metres from our hiding place. Automatically, Mum and I joined hands and threw all we had at defending the breached kitchen wall. When it became clear that the battle was lost, she focused on holding up the flimsy larder door: the last defence between us and the relentless Blackgum.

All around us, the savage impact of the battle shook Sub Rosa's foundations, and those of us hidden within them.

## 24. SCATTERSMITH

We went from room to room, inspecting what was left of Sub Rosa. Joke and I followed a step behind Mum, like two sons touring a soon-to-be-auctioned house with their mother. Flattened fragments of Blackgum corpses littered the hallway and rooms like unfashionable linoleum. The roof was completely missing. Upstairs looked like a bomb had hit it.

Warily, we entered the dining room. A tiny lump lay half-shrouded under a blue velvet curtain in the middle of the table. The small, withered figure gave off a faint scent of charred lavender. Instinctively, I looked away, studying Mum's tortured features.

"Yes," she nodded, tears welling.

"Your sister died with honour, Mrs Lee," squeaked Joke.

"She died alone," said Mum, her voice brittle. "They all turned on her in the end. I should have helped her."

"She died," I said, wrapping my arms around Mum, "protecting those she loved. But - I'm sorry Mum - I can't forgive her for what she did to us."

"She wasn't the only murderer in Quakehaven," muttered Joke darkly. He clearly still blamed me for the death of his father.

I began to explain what had really happened, but Joke didn't want to hear it. Mum was about to intervene when we were interrupted.

"What happened?" shrieked a woman.

"And where are our cl-cl-cl-othes?!" demanded a man.

We swung around, on guard. Mrs Kroker and Doc Vassel- both stark naked - sat red-faced atop their dog food bowls, covering their naughty bits with their hands. Much to the couple's obvious displeasure, and despite (or perhaps because of) the trauma we'd just survived, Mum, Joke and I exploded into a fit of giggles. I laughed so hard I was almost sick!

###

The last weeks of Winter were dominated by death and departure. We said prayers to the lost and the forgotten \- Mark, Mr Tangen, Mick, Justine, Mr Lyons, Mr Walker, Mr Dixon, Tim, Uncle Gerry and, with mixed emotions, Mr Fisk and Aunt Bea. Mrs Dixon gratefully accepted the trip I'd won for winning the bridge competition and used it to return to her work in Guam.

Without saying good-bye, Joke disappeared with nothing but my suit, my paltry paper-route money, my Helper and his tatty blue certificate of scholarship to Pinkerton. As the closest Joke had to a guardian, Mum had immediately put in a call to Pinkerton's headmaster. The principal had confirmed Joke had made it to the school safely, aced his interview and been accepted as a boarder. I missed my best friend and Platto. But I was glad they had each other.

Spring arrived. People rebuilt their houses and shops. Some rebuilt their lives. Mrs Kroker and Doc Vassel eloped in Las Vegas. They sent us a postcard.

The town consensus was another earthquake had hit. Despite the absence of evidence, people believed what they wanted to believe and focused their efforts on recovery. Mr Barker started work on Midas Mountain and DinoQuake in memory of Mark, complete with both the Minmi-bridge and Mark's gleaming Pterosaur cable car.

One hot day, Mum and I were sitting under the shade of the Pomegranate tree. Mum studied Sub Rosa's floorplans. I watched a carpenter narrow the eaves of the house to allow more light to fall on the garden. The tree's twin saplings basked merrily in the sunshine. Absently, I fingered the locket chain I'd tied around my wrist, being careful not to dislodge the ash-pebble. With Mum's help, I'd set Mr Seth's pebble in place of the swan pendant to remember him by.

We were about a fortnight away from moving back into the house. The roof had been retiled, and the rooms professionally cleaned and repainted from top to bottom. We'd decided not to rebuild the conservatory - too many bad memories - and the foundations had been dug up for the construction of my new games room. Mum stubbornly called it a study! I was about to get up to look at the progress of the new room when suddenly I remembered something. "Mum," I said. "That night, you know?"

"Yes," Mum replied, lowering the floorplans onto her crossed legs and looking me straight in the eye. We always referred to the Zealtor battle as 'that night'.

"Aunt Bea said something to you, that night," I said. "About me."

Mum sighed, and buried her nose in the plans.

"Aunt Bea said something about telling me the truth. That I deserve it. That I'm ready."

Mum sat up straight, exhaled and threw the plans onto the ground. "Then I guess you are," said Mum. "I'm not sure if _I'm_ ready. But it's time you knew."

"What?" I asked.

"About your father," Mum said, closing her eyes and setting her jaw.

"What about him?" I whispered, suddenly excited but more than a little frightened.

"He's not dead. Not as you think of it, anyway," she said. "But he may as well be. He's trapped."

"In prison?" I asked. Mum shook her head. "We have to save him," I said, suddenly furious. "Why didn't you tell me earlier? We've just been mucking around watching TV, reading books and watching the paint dry on this old house. We could have been out rescuing him."

Mum pursed her lips. "This is why I didn't want to tell you. The truth is, you're not ready to help him yet."

"I was ready enough to save you!" I said, hotly.

"That was Quakehaven and a single Zealtor - one, as it turns out, we were lucky enough to be related to. We need to recover, to recharge our batteries from that night. You need more training. A lot more: it's going to take more than a Witch and a first year Scattersmith Novice to pull this off. Shadow-calling will only get you so far, especially without your Helper. We need considerably more firepower."

"Who's going to teach me the Smith stuff? Witches hate Scattersmiths. The Schism and all that."

Mum nodded. "We do. And for good reason. But I'm willing to make an exception to save your father."

"OK, then," I said, kicking my feet up and down impatiently on the grass. "Do you know any Smith Masters nearby?"

"Um, you could say that," said Mum. "I've been meaning to talk to you about that too."

"Huh?" I wasn't sure how many more revelations I could take!

"Well, um. How do I say this without upsetting you? Ah -"

A gruff, male voice cleared its throat in the back of my head, like a blast of static. "I think what she's trying to say," intoned the familiar, rude voice, "is that you have an ancient Scattersmith lodging in here. And he's not going anywhere for the foreseeable future, so you'd best get used to it!"

I grabbed my skull between my hands and shook it like my rocket moneybox.

"Mr Seth?!" I yelped, looking at Mum with wide-eyed horror. "In my head?"

"Yes," said Mum and Mr Seth simultaneously.

"How?" I asked, incredulous, then glanced at the chain wrapped around my wrist, and the ash-pebble affixed to it. I tore the chain off and hurled it behind two roots of the Pomegranate tree.

"Not as slow as usual," marvelled Mr Seth, sarcastically. "Though I didn't enjoy being thought of as some sort of trinket or memento. The curse was broken when you snapped the necklace. But it retained some of its juice; helped you absorb me through your skin. It's nice to share head-space with someone with a heart-beat, by the way. You do think silly thoughts most of the time, though. Like this games room. What's the point? Wouldn't you prefer to convert it into a bachelor pad so you can sneak girls in without the Witch watching!?"

Mr Seth planted an image of what he meant in my head. My face glowed with embarrassment. "Aargh! He's actually in my head!" I shrieked at Mum, clutching my head like a bowling ball.

"It's only temporary," said Mum, sympathetically leaning over to ruffle my hair. "The Smith needs a body to survive, and you need a master to train you up. I didn't think you'd object, in the circumstances. It will help accelerate your progress. So we can go and get your Dad."

I dropped my hands to my side. "I'd do anything for that," I said.

"I know, which is why I helped Mr Seth survive my sister's flames."

"Just like she lent you a secret hand with the Tim-Beast, Manticores and the Giant," sniffed the Smith. "She amplified your natural talents, at some considerable cost to her health, I should add. But you're a natural."

"Thanks," I said, as usual unsure whether Mr Seth was paying me a compliment or insulting me.

"We left you to rest as long as we could," said Mum. "Though I wish we could push this day back further, we don't have a lot of time left."

"Understood," I said, all business. "Where's Dad being held? Where are we going?"

Mum looked down at her crossed-knees. "Have you heard of the Hollow Place?"

I shook my head.

"It's an Otherworld. Different from... Well. Worse than. I mean... Not to alarm you, but...."

"What your mother is trying to say," said the Smith. "Rather incoherently for an English teacher, I must say. Must run in the family. Explains a lot, actually."

"Yes?" I said impatiently to both the Witch and the Smith.

"Don't interrupt me, lad," snapped Mr Seth. "I don't care if it _is_ your head."

"Just tell me!" I demanded.

"It's like an underworld," said Mum, flapping her hands around like weary sea-gulls. A different place to here. Not a nice ambience. A bit, well -."

"Witches!" snort-thought Mr Seth. "Lad: listen up. What your mother's trying to spit out - what she is attempting to say - is that we are all going to Hell!"

<<<<>>>>

## ABOUT DAVID JAMES KANE

David was born in an old gold mining town in Victoria, Australia. He grew up listening to ghost stories around school campfires, and started to write his own in second grade to scare his sisters. Senseless!

Years later, on the other side of the world, David took a job at an investment bank. There, he learned a lot about monsters – and not the pretty-pouting-perfumed vamps and well-groomed werewolves you read about or see on screens.

So let me tell you the truth about _real_ monsters...

www.davidjameskane.com

http://twitter.com/Scattersmith

https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/DavidJamesKane

Sydney, January 2013

