The Castle (10 page)

TWENTY

W
e were all talked out. Karim could tell I was pre-occupied and went back to his sewing task. Meanwhile, I tried to make sense of what he'd said. Why would Dad have been working in this place? And why did Mr Wahool care about the power thing? But none of that mattered. Dad was very close, and from everything Karim had said, he needed me even more than I thought.

Amina came back from her chores and settled down to join us. She'd been pressing and hanging Yasmin's new clothes and she looked exhausted.

‘Look, you've both helped me enough already,' I said. ‘Just tell me where the . . . dungeons are and I'll get there somehow.
Don't worry about me.'

I was half hoping Karim would offer to take me there anyway, but that didn't happen.

‘You are a very stupid, brave girl,' he said, shaking his head at me and half smiling.

‘No, really. Just tell me where to go.'

‘No. It is dangerous. The guards. Your face and hands . . . Perhaps . . . Let me think about this. It would take time . . .'

‘I don't
have
any time,'
I shouted, louder than I meant to. I made Amina jump, but this was unbearable. ‘You don't understand. I have to go now. Mr Allud's in trouble. I have to get to him as fast as I—'

‘You
do not understand,' Karim interrupted, staring at me with a stern expression that reminded me of Granny on a bad day.

I turned to Amina. Maybe the little sister would be easier to persuade. But as I opened my mouth, she gave me a kick to the ribs so hard she sent me sprawling against the wall.

Hello?

I stared back, astonished.

The door flew open and she didn't even glance at me. Her face did that mask thing as she looked up at whoever was standing in the open doorway. From the other side, a high-pitched woman's voice addressed the brother and sister briefly. Karim got up and followed her outside, closing the door behind him.

I struggled to catch my breath.

‘Did she see me?' I asked Amina.

‘No. My brother has gone to read for her. He will be back soon.'

She didn't apologise for kicking me out of sight, and I didn't need her to. Karim, though, when he came back, was
very apologetic.

‘The others who live down here – they are not bad people, but they are afraid of the master. If he asks them a question about you, they will tell him what they know. It is not safe for you here tonight. You must return to the tunnels, I think.'

I nodded. Mouse poo. Spiders. All on my own. Fantastic. But it didn't look much better for Karim and his sister in the cellars. Here it was cold and bare, and the stale air smelled of old sweat. Amina had no one to tuck her in and wish her goodnight. I wondered if such a person had ever existed.

It was getting late. Karim checked that the path was clear and took me back, past the storerooms, where he picked up a thin woollen blanket for me to use, and through the almost-empty kitchens, where a solitary chef kept his back to us as he wiped his work area clean. We reached the door to the tunnels.

‘But what if someone comes in?' I whispered. ‘A guard? A servant?'

He shook his head.

‘They do not come here. They cannot. Only Amina and I can fit inside. There is a story that a rich woman made these passages many centuries ago, because she did not like to meet her servants in corridors. She employed only children and monkeys.'

‘Monkeys?'

‘That is the story. I don't know if it is true. I am sorry you must stay here.'

‘It's OK. There are loads of smugglers' tunnels in Rye, where I come from. I'm used to them.'

He looked surprised. ‘We have smugglers' tunnels too,' he said, showing off, I thought. ‘I am glad you are used to them.
I must go to my prayers now. Goodnight.'

He bowed and left. It was dark, and once again, I was alone.

I hadn't told the entire truth about the smugglers' tunnels at home. They did exist – some even led from the Smugglers' Inn – but most of them had disappeared long ago, and I'd never been inside one. The pictures I'd seen were of broad, stone-lined spaces, tall and wide enough for two men to pass through, and well lit by burning torches set into the wall.

Not like this.

I looked around to get my bearings, but the dim moonlight penetrating through the nearest stairwell hardly made it as far as this low, cold, narrow passage. I couldn't stay here. And not just because of the new and unwelcome image of sharing it with thousand-year-old monkey poo. It was at the heart of the maze of tunnels, and somewhere beneath me were the dungeons.

Dad was
here
. If Karim wouldn't help me, I'd just have to find him by myself.

Further along, at least three other passages led off the main tunnel, into deeper darkness. I remembered I'd left my backpack under Max's bed. Oh hell. All alone in the darkness I really missed that bag, and especially MY FAVOURITE TORCH, which I'd packed in the front pocket.

Too late to worry about that now. Dad never had much time for people who let fear stop them from doing something perfectly simple and straightforward. This was only crawling in the dark. How hard could it be?

You know those horror movies where you're screaming at the girl, ‘Don't go there!'? It was like that. I wasn't sure if I was more terrified of what I might find, or what would happen if
I got lost. I moved along on my hands and knees, using the fear to push me forward. I tried each tunnel in turn, and other passages beyond that led further into the dark, trying not to think too much where I was going, ignoring the impression that the tunnels were closing in, and that the darkness was like a living thing, waiting for me.

But however long I looked, however sore and bloody my knees became, however much I scraped my elbows on the narrow walls, I couldn't find a staircase leading downwards – only up, or round in circles.

After what felt like hours, I ended up back where I'd started, and the constant dread had left my throat dry and my muscles exhausted. I decided to leave it until morning, when at least I'd have enough light to see where I was going. I lay down and huddled under the thin blanket as best I could.

Karim had said he was going to his prayers. I tried to think of some, but all that would come was
You have the power
. Yeah, right.
You have the power to be utterly depressed, Peta Jones.

Back at the inn, Granny would be comforting Mum, dragged home from her ruined honeymoon. Luke would be back at his house, worried too.

And Dad? Dad was in the darkness somewhere down below. Alive, but perhaps barely. And just out of reach.

We tend to their wounds . . .

Tiny feet skittered along at super-speed a few centimetres from my shivering body. Mice. Probably. A spider landed from out of nowhere on my cheek, just below my left eye, and crawled across my face until my stiff and tired fingers finally managed to flick it away. Fabulous.

TWENTY-ONE

A
mina woke me with a shake.

‘Come! Come!' she said, frowning at me.

‘Why? What time is it?'

I'd been dreaming about finding Dad in Winchelsea Church, and eating iced buns and
croquembouche.
I looked at my watch in the light of her torch. Ten past four. I stumbled groggily to my feet.

‘Ayo
. Come.'

A clock in the kitchen said ten past five. Of course, the time was different here. Ten past five was still a bad time to be awake, but not quite so horrific. And it was good to be back in the light.

Being careful to avoid the only chef at work this early in the morning, we crept along to Karim's cellar room. He was dressed and busily making something in a bowl. The harsh light of the bulb cast strong shadows on his skin. He had an elegant face, I realised – fine features under his shock of black hair. The muscles on his arms looked powerful.

‘Hi. Is that breakfast?' I asked, thinking how starving I was again.

He looked up, grinned and shook his head.

‘Good morning, Peta Jones. No, it is not food. It is for later. Wait two minutes, please.'

Amina and I watched as he poured dark brown liquid from a teapot on to a fine, dark, reddish powder in the bowl. At first, he looked like a wise guru as he sat cross-legged and stirred, but the longer he did it, the more I wondered if he really knew what he was doing. He didn't seem sure how much liquid to add, testing the consistency of the mush in the bowl with a quizzical expression. He saw me looking at him and shrugged.

‘I have not done this before. Nor have I often watched the women do it. Amina?'

He asked his sister something in their language, and she giggled and went over to the bowl, poking at the sludge with the spoon and making faces at it.

‘Amina knows, but she does not remember. This will have to do. Ah, I forgot to tell you last night. A bad thing has happened.'

Another bad thing? He seemed very fond of bad things. ‘What?'

‘Your bag. Amina found it in the young master's room and I burnt it.'

I gasped. ‘My backpack? You burnt my backpack?'

‘Bad,' Amina echoed, shaking her head.

Yeah. Bad. Absolutely. I stared open-mouthed at her brother.

‘I am sorry. Also the jacket. And the photograph,' he continued.

I pictured them. My school blazer, with the Collingwood Academy crest on it. The photograph that showed Dad and me together.
Hell
. Karim was right: they were a dead giveaway. If the guards had found the bag here, they'd have started hunting for me straight away. I nodded grudgingly.

Karim brightened. ‘But there is this.' Going to the hole in the wall, he extracted the little bundle I'd seen him hide yesterday and handed it to me. Inside were my phone, the torch and some other bits and pieces from the bag.

‘You are happy, Peta Jones?'

‘Yes!' I found myself hugging the useless phone like a long-lost teddy bear.

‘And now you must dress.' He indicated a pile of old, dark rags in the corner, and left the room briefly while Amina helped me put them on. They were held together with patches, but made of softest cotton and very clean. Consisting of a mismatched shirt, tunic and trousers, they covered every part of me, from neck to ankle. As a finishing touch, Amina added a scarf, winding it over my hair and around my neck.

When Karim returned, he laughed.

‘You look different, Peta Jones.'

‘Better?'

‘Different is good. Now – breakfast. You are hungry, yes?'

We hid back inside the tunnel door and feasted on hot bread rolls scavenged from the kitchens.

‘Soon, Amina and I must work,' Karim announced
through a mouthful of bread. ‘You will stay here. At twelve o'clock, I will meet you in this place.' He tapped the ground in front of us. There he was again, handing out instructions like some sort of maharaja.

‘Look,' I pleaded with him. ‘Why don't you take me to the prisoner now?'

‘I can't,' he said, shrugging.

‘Why? It's quiet. There's no one around.'

He shook his head. ‘It is the wrong time. It is impossible. You will stay here. Promise me.'

‘But—'

‘Promise me!' His eyes blazed.

He
was impossible. What had happened to the person I spoke to on the phone? The one who loved the game, and danger? Now that I actually wanted to meet the prisoner, Karim seemed to be finding any excuse not to take me to him. Perhaps he was scared of what would happen if we were caught. Being a slave would do that to you, I supposed. I could understand it, but it was a shame.

‘Sure, I promise,' I said meekly. I was a much better liar than Yasmin Wahool. He didn't need to know what my plans were.

He looked relieved. ‘That is good. I will see you at twelve o'clock.'

‘Got it.'

He headed back out into the kitchens, looking furtive. Amina went the other way, up into the main living quarters.

As soon they were out of sight, I changed my watch to Italian time, before hiding it under my ragged sleeve. Ten to six – plenty of time for what I had in mind. Then I slipped back out into the kitchens too. No way was I staying in a cold, damp stairwell all morning. I had things to do, places to
go. People to find.

Karim had looked very shifty as he headed off just now, and that made me curious. Maybe the stairway to the dungeons wasn't in the tunnel system after all.

TWENTY-TWO

T
his corner of the main kitchen was mostly used for storage. Crouching behind a stack of empty crates, I watched Karim on the far side of the room as he took some scraps from a bin of leftovers and put them into bowls on a tray. He added four golden croissants from a cooling rack and set off down a corridor next to one of the walk-in fireplaces.

A couple of kitchen workers entered the room, shrugging on white jackets and switching on more lights. The day was starting. When their backs were turned, I ran down Karim's corridor and ducked into the first doorway I found, which was an empty laundry room.

Five minutes later, he walked back past my hiding place. I held my breath and shrank into the shadows. As soon as he was gone, I headed off into the dark, retracing his steps.

The corridor led to a long, deep spiral staircase that wound down, down, down into the depths of the castle – so far down these levels must have been cut into the rock. This was not like the side of the island I'd seen from Yasmin's bedroom window, which was all gentle slopes and scented flowers. The sound of crashing waves penetrated through rough-hewn slits for windows. I sensed steep, jagged cliffs outside, and a raging sea far below. Inside was blackness, dripping water, bad smells and danger. The lower I went, the more the air smelled of blocked-up drains and stale sweat. The stones oozed slime, and the stairs were dangerous and slippery. It felt as though I was finally heading in the right direction.

At the bottom, I made out another dingy corridor heading off round a corner, where a buzzing ceiling light flickered intermittently. Pausing on the last step, I crouched down and peeked forward just enough to see what was there.

The corridor wasn't long. In the uncertain yellow light I could just make out two men sitting at a small metal table at the far end. Dressed in heavy jackets against the cold, they were busy eating the croissants and talking to each other, but if either of them looked up, they would see me. Behind them were three doors – one at the end and one on each side of the table – all very solid and guarded and shut.

I sat back on the stairs. I was really here at last. It was scar-ily, in fact, how I had pictured it in my worst nightmares. After all this time, Dad must be behind one of those doors – so close that if only my own heart would stop beating so loud, I felt sure I would hear his.

But first I had to get past the guards. Every cell in my body wanted to fly down the corridor, defeat them or slip past them somehow, and break into his cell. A part of my brain even started telling me I had a chance. But I wasn't Buffy, or Katniss Everdeen. I might be ten metres away . . . He was
right there
. But the two large men were closer.

While I rapidly thought of, and rejected, a dozen mad ideas, the reality of the situation sank into my bones. It was maths again. Unlike the furniture van – which had been a stupid enough idea in itself – this time I couldn't even see a one per cent chance of getting past those guards. I'd be found out, I'd be killed, or worse – they'd take me to
the room where they do these things.
And I really didn't want to go there.

When it came down to it, I was as bad as Karim. I could hear Dad's voice in my head, like he was talking to me through the walls of his cell.

You have the power to stay alive, Peta. You have the power to hide. Do it, quickly.

So I retreated pathetically back up the stairs. This was NOT what I'd come for. Armies hate retreating. So do teenage girls.

Back near the kitchen doorway, I crouched in the shadows for a long time, trying to calm my ragged breathing and hating myself for giving up. I hated Karim too: if only he'd helped me, I was sure we could have found a way. Somehow, I still would. I would not cry. I
would not cry
. I would hide in the tunnels again. I would think. I would fix this. Because right now Dad needed me, and frankly, I needed him.

I stayed too long.

In the kitchens, several chefs were at work by now, chopping, whizzing and slinging heavy pans on to fierce blue
flames. There wasn't a quiet moment for me to run back to my hiding place, and the more I watched, the busier the place became. Servants in uniform arrived, grabbing plates of food and loading them on to large silver trays. I couldn't stay in this passage forever. I waited until I thought everyone was distracted, then pulled my scarf over my head and, crouching low, made a dash for the tunnel door.

I'd almost reached the packing cases when a hand grabbed my elbow and held me hard.

‘Oui!
You!'

I thought my heart would explode. The hand spun me round. An arm in a white chef's jacket dragged me across the room.

‘Tu vois ça?
Take it!'

Why was he shouting at me in French? I didn't dare look at his face. He was pointing at an enormous tray on a nearby table, loaded with crystal jugs of red and yellow juices.

‘Vite! Vite!
Quickly!'

Oh my God. He wasn't capturing me: he had no idea who I was. He was just looking for another pair of hands.

Before he could look at me any more closely, I picked up the tray, which was so heavy I could hardly hold it, and followed him to the outer passageway. A crocodile of waiters and waitresses was heading off, loaded with trays of food and drink.

‘Allez!
Go!'

Still in shock, I went. I didn't exactly have a choice.

With me at the back, the crocodile wound its way up a brick flight of stairs into the main part of the castle. Bending low under the weight of my tray, I followed the line of servants down a white-painted passageway and out on to the terrace, where bright light and warm air hit me like a camera flash.

The crocodile stopped. I blinked in the light. After just one day I'd forgotten sun could be this bright. To our left was the building site, covered in scaffolding. Straight ahead, on a rose-covered terrace, two white-clothed tables groaned under huge arrangements of exotic flowers. One of the tables was set for four people to eat breakfast. The other was for serving food and looked as sumptuously laden as a banquet at the Ritz. Behind the banquet table, a butler-looking type barked orders.

‘The guests are on their way. Speed it up! You – put the cold meats there. You – arrange the seafood platter. You – go back. No, wait! Help set the table first. Quickly!'

The last ‘you' was me.

Absurdly, amazingly . . . luckily . . . the butler didn't seem to know or care who I was either. I put down my tray and used my shaking hands to pull my scarf down as low as possible over my face. I was almost too scared to think, but if I did as I was told, maybe nobody would notice me.

Set the table. Oh my God – I could do this.

I never thought that helping Granny out with banquets at the Smugglers' Inn would one day keep me alive. There were four places laid out on this table, but two waiters were hurriedly dumping trays with plates, glasses and cutlery for five more. Other servants were drawing up five extra chairs, so I just had to lay a place setting in front of each chair. I could even copy what was already there. Big plate, small plate, glass, coffee cup, knife, spoon, knife . . .

WHAT WAS I DOING? Mr Wahool wanted to kill me and I was
laying his breakfast table
?

Well, yes, I was. Quite efficiently, as it happened. Until one of the servants looked more closely under my scarf and asked what I was doing there, when I would faint.

The fear of being out in the open was so powerful I could actually hear it, like a buzzer inside my head. However, like last night in the tunnels, I used it to keep going. Also, it's amazing the power it gives you when nobody knows who you are.

‘He's here!'

The servants snapped to attention. I snapped too, in a head-down, don't-look-at-me sort of way. Out of the corner of my eye I could just make out a large figure, in a linen suit and white leather shoes, stomping across the terrace. I nearly fainted, but not quite.

I hadn't seen Mr Wahool close to before – well, apart from his feet and trousers anyway. I glanced up enough to see that he was short and portly, with thick grey-black hair, blotchy skin and bushy eyebrows framing narrow, pudgy eyes. His natural expression was a scowl. It was clear Yasmin didn't get her looks from him.

‘Coffee,' he barked as he marched towards the table. ‘And get the boy to bring my tablet.'

He sat down, still scowling. Everyone got back to work. I couldn't stop my hands shaking violently as, at the other end, I finished the last setting. As soon as that was done, I melted behind a stack of building materials at the edge of the terrace. Nobody seemed to notice me disappear. The trouble was, I had no idea where to go.

A group of young people was approaching from the same direction as Mr Wahool, laughing and chatting. There were five girls and a boy, all looking slightly dishevelled. The boy in the middle looked like an older, less mean-looking version of Max.

‘Good morning, Papa,' he said, stretching in the sun, revealing a tanned stomach under a too-short T-shirt.

Mr Wahool's scowl lifted slightly. ‘Omar . . . come. Join me.'

‘These are some chicks from last night's party, Papa. They stayed over. Not a problem, right?'

‘Not at all,' his father said, waving a hand to indicate a total lack of inconvenience. Behind him, the butler-type looked on impassively. So did the row of servants next to him, who had been busting a gut for the last fifteen minutes to create extra food and places.

‘Your boat's so cool, Mr Wahool,' the prettiest girl gushed, sitting down near him and picking some strawberries from a dish that was quickly offered to her. ‘It's, like, really, really . . . big.'

‘Yes,' he nodded graciously. ‘Yes, she is.'

The others joined them at the table, waiters arriving like magnets to pour coffee and offer them food. The nearest girl to me was less than two paces away from the stack of stone and spare scaffolding poles that were hiding me, but nobody even glanced up to see who was serving them, never mind the frightened eyes beyond. If you want to hide from rich people in this place, put on a uniform.

‘My uncle's got a cool boat,' a girl in a crumpled party dress observed, letting a waitress fill her glass with fruit juice, ‘but it hasn't got a pool. I say there's kind of no point without a pool, right?'

‘Absolutely,' Omar agreed. ‘My sister seems to live in that pool. But I like the jet skis. Wanna jet-ski later?'

As the girls all cooed their agreement, a thin, muscled arm appeared from behind Mr Wahool's shoulder and a bony hand put a black tablet on the table beside him. The big man took it with a grunt.

I gasped. Karim. Where had he materialised from?

Unlike the others, Karim missed nothing. As he straightened up, his eyes caught mine almost instantly and widened in shock. A short, silent exchange took place, made up of furious glances.

What are you doing here?

Sorry! Not my idea!

This is a bad thing.

You think I don't know that?

He nudged his head very slightly.
Follow me.

He moved quickly past the table, skirting round my pillar and grabbing my hand as he headed through the nearest open doorway to the house. His grip was so tight I thought my hand might break.

The doorway led to an empty sitting room. Karim rushed me through it, towards a blank section of wall at the back. I knew what was coming. He pushed at an invisible door in the silk wallpaper and it swung into the semi-darkness. Gratefully, I ducked into the tunnel beyond and Karim followed close behind me, pushing the door tightly shut.

We crouched next to each other in the narrow passage, not speaking for a while. I felt sick and dizzy. His chest rose and fell with the beating of his heart. His eyes blazed into me with a thousand questions.

‘I got caught in the kitchens,' I whispered. ‘Sorry.'

His eyes were a big ‘How?' but I couldn't bring myself to answer. He shook his head angrily.

‘Stay here,' he commanded, before heading off again.

I nodded guiltily.
Not going anywhere.