Muddle and Win (20 page)

He passed a row of statues. Two were headless and one had been broken off at the knees. A great hole gaped in the wall behind them. It looked very Corozin-shaped.

‘Amazing!’

A clutch of hysterical ideas barged past him and ran down a stairway screaming. They seemed to be mathematical equations, but for some reason they were carrying hockey sticks. The fountain below the central chamber was choked with rubble. On the stairs, Muddlespot found the remains of Corozin’s brass hammer. He picked it up and tried to unbend it. He couldn’t.

Sally herself was not in the central chamber, but Windleberry was. He had a broom in his hands and was quietly sweeping up a pile of glass rubble.

‘You did it!’ cried Muddlespot.

Windleberry turned.

It was a Windleberry scarred by battle. His face was
bruised
, his cream tuxedo was torn and his vermillion bow tie was badly rumpled. His magnificent Ray-Bans, when Muddlespot looked closely, had been reassembled with sticking plaster.

But it was Windleberry as was, undefeated. His shoulders were square. His head was more or less (give or take the odd swelling) square. His teeth – those he had left – were square. He towered over the little imp.

‘Er, you’re not going to do that to
me
, are you?’ said Muddlespot.

‘Too right I am,’ said Windleberry. He thrust the broom under Muddlespot’s nose. ‘Unless you
instantly
take this out of my hands and get sweeping.’

Muddlespot’s hands closed on it. ‘Deal,’ he said.

‘This is nice, you know,’ he added, as he began to brush up the fragments of the statue of Trufe. ‘Just you and me. No bosses.’

Windleberry was examining the statue of Fairness. It had fallen from its pedestal. The base was damaged, but  . . .

He bent down, picked up the statue by the shoulders and heaved.

‘It’s better to keep things
local
, don’t you think?’
said
Muddlespot. ‘Nobody interfering, from your place or mine?’

‘Shut up and sweep,’ said Windleberry.

Clunk
went the statue as it was set on its feet again. It wobbled a bit. Windleberry gave it a fierce look. It stopped wobbling, sheepishly.

‘ . . . I want this place cleared up by morning,’ he said, turning away.

‘You think you had it hard?’ said Muddlespot. ‘I had to sell my soul to a
cat
!’

The statue of Fairness tumbled once more from its pedestal.

Some things could be mended. Some couldn’t. Some could be patched up. Other places had to be taped off with yellow warning tape and marked
DON’T GO HERE! HEALING PROCESS AT WORK
. Many ideas were homeless and had to be rehoused. Pretty much the whole of the French vocabulary corridor was uninhabitable, so entire families of verbs, declensions, subjunctives and irregulars got herded in together wherever there was space. Sally’s French grades would not recover for a month.

It was during this part of the night that they noticed
that
the trap door had gone from the little room just behind the central chamber. Windleberry frowned.

‘Well, we can put the pin numbers and passwords in here,’ said Muddlespot. ‘Until we can get them properly sorted out, at least.’

‘Hmm,’ said Windleberry.

Muddlespot knew what was worrying him. Jumbling up the numbers would definitely cause problems later on, but it wasn’t that. It was the trap door.

The trap door never went away. It might move, but it would always be somewhere. If there was one thing worse than having it close to the central chamber, it was not knowing where it was at all.

In the small hours, Muddlespot found it. He was rounding up some runaway Possible Boyfriends in the lower back rooms of Sally’s mind, when, down a passage where the light flickered, he spotted a door.

He left the Boyfriends to their own devices – they were all pretty vague and shapeless, unlikely to do any harm – and tiptoed down to the door. Softly, he opened it and looked in.

There it was, in the middle of the floor. Closed. There was a lock on it. He looked at it and pursed his lips.

Locks could be opened, of course; that was the point of them.

But Sally would have the key.

He looked around the room. It was quite large, in fact. Dark. In the gloom he could make out a table, and against the walls there were cabinets and things. Little points of light showed here and there, as if from electric sockets. It might have been a kitchen.

There was a faint smell of burning in the air. It was not a smell that he could ever scrub away.

He closed the door softly and put some yellow tape across it. Not that he was changing sides or anything, but as he had said to Windleberry, he now firmly believed in keeping things
local
.

Then he picked up his broom and went whistling down the corridor in search of those Boyfriends. After all, one of them might come in useful one day.

‘SALLY!’ CALLED MUM
from downstairs. ‘Are you awake?’

‘No,’ said Sally. At least, she thought she did.

‘
Sally!
’

Sally sat up. It was light. The alarm said 7:15. When she had last looked at it, it had said 5:45. She must have slept, then. Finally. She groaned and got up. Shades was at the door, mewing pitifully to be let out. She opened it and watched him flit down the stairs in the direction of the kitchen.

Billie’s door opened. Billie hurried out and down the stairs. ‘Hi,’ she said as she passed.

‘What’s the rush?’ mumbled Sally.

‘Baking the muffins for breakfast. Done you an extra one.’

‘Oh  . . . thanks,’ said Sally.

The stairs were seeing a lot of traffic. Here came Mum, up from below. ‘Morning, sweetheart. How do you feel?’

‘Didn’t sleep too well,’ said Sally. ‘But I’m OK now.’

‘Glad to hear it. Have a hug. Mmmm.
Big
hug. Better?’

‘Yeah, a bit. Can I have a bath?’

‘Well  . . .’ Mum hesitated. ‘A quick one. But you mustn’t be late.’

‘Cool.’

‘You may be right, you know,’ said Windleberry reluctantly. He was sitting side by side with Muddlespot, on the fallen statue of Fairness. The Inner Sally passed, towel in hand.

‘No looking, you two,’ she said.

Obediently they turned and sat facing the other way. Hot water splashed behind them. From somewhere the smell of fresh baking stole into the air.

‘You pull your side,’ said Windleberry, after a little while. ‘I pull mine.’

‘Yeah,’ said Muddlespot. ‘Nice. And easy.’

‘She has to find her own way, in the end.’

‘Yeah,’ said Muddlespot. ‘Keep it
warm
,’ he added, dreamily.

‘Muffins are done,’ called someone from below. ‘But the oven won’t switch off again!’

‘Oh God – Greg, you
have
to ring the electrician! No, do it now!’

Windleberry frowned. ‘I wouldn’t go
that
far. Mutual respect. Lines that can’t be crossed. That kind of thing. But let’s face it  . . .’

‘And
easy
,’ murmured Muddlespot.

‘What  . . .?’

Somewhere a voice called, ‘Sally? Are you coming down?’

‘They’re calling you, Sally,’ said Windleberry.

‘Mmmmmm,’ said Muddlespot.

‘Sally?’

‘Sally?’

There was no answer. The house was a jumble of voices. Billie hunting for her sports kit. Greg on the phone to the electrician. Mum calling. But it all seemed to be coming from very far away. Windleberry risked a look over his shoulder. ‘You
fiend
!’ he cried. ‘You’ve sent her to sleep in the bath! We’ll be late for school!’

Mum was knocking on the bathroom door. ‘Sally? Are you coming down?’

‘Sally! Wake up!’ trumpeted Windleberry. ‘SALLY? ARE YOU RECEIVING ME? ALERT! THIS IS AN EMERGENCY! ALERT!’

‘You could try blowing soap up her nose,’ said Muddlespot helpfully. ‘That might work  . . .’

So you dreamed of a city of fire and brass, and you’ve woken in lukewarm water with soap bubbles in your nose. And worse, you’re late.

You tumble out of the bath, towel yourself off (a bit), chuck on your clothes (they stick to your wet skin) and  . . .

 . . .
start running!

There
may
be a place like Pandemonium. There may not be.

There
may
be watchtowers above the clouds, where thousand-eyed angels look down on Earth and all that happens there. You’ll think about that later.

But when you do think about it, maybe you’ll find those places in other things. Little things. And not where you thought they were. In soap and warm water, maybe, and a quick doze after a bad night’s sleep. These can seem pretty close to Heaven all by themselves. So
can
a hug on the landing, which says (without saying it), Let’s Forget About Yesterday. And so can a freshly baked muffin. Even if you have to eat it while running down the pavement.

OK, so it’s not really Heaven. But who wants to get to Heaven?

Like someone said: It’s as good to travel as to arrive.

About the Author

John Dickinson was born in London in 1962. Educated at St Paul’s School London and Trinity College Oxford, he joined the Ministry of Defence in 1985, with spells at the Cabinet Office and NATO. In 2002 he left MOD to be house-husband, touchline Dad and writer. He is also the household cook, a struggling tenor and treasurer for the parish church. John lives in Painswick, Gloucestershire.

Also by John Dickinson

The Cup of the World

The Widow and the King

The Fatal Child

The Lightstep

W.E.

MUDDLE AND WIN
AN RHCP DIGITAL EBOOK 9781446479926

Published in Great Britain by RHCP Digital,
an imprint of Random House Children’s Publishers UK
A Random House Group Company

This ebook edition published 2012

Copyright © John Dickinson, 2012

First Published in Great Britain

David Fickling Books 2012

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