The Castle (4 page)

He tried some more to stop me, but it was his own fault – he'd found the house for me. At last, there was something I could do. For the first time since Mum scattered those
stupid
ashes, I felt as if I was getting closer to the truth.

SEVEN

I
'd run away to my Auntie Eliza's before, just after Christmas, when Mum announced her engagement to ‘Rupe'. I'd spent three days in her flat near the O2 in London while she baked me brownies and listened to how upset I was. Not my proudest moment. I still had the old backpack I'd used – I'd kicked it under the bed when I got back, and not thought about it since.

I pulled the backpack out now and looked it over. It was small and covered in a pattern of garden birds, but comfortable to wear, and waterproof. It would do for a day out in London tomorrow, looking up the Wahool house and going to Auntie Eliza's to spend the night.

Two days, Max Wahool had said. Two days of hiding. And meanwhile Dad was out there, and in trouble. If I could, I would go to him, just as I knew he'd have come for me. Besides, anything was better than sitting here, with the Wicked Queen outside my window.

As I packed, it was as if Dad was in the room with me. I used to watch him get ready before he went on tour, or even if it was just us going camping, and he was always very precise about packing. All soldiers are. I think it's the first thing they teach them in the army. Dad could fit the most enormous amount of stuff in the tiniest space, and it would never, ever get wet. Paper (you always took a pen and paper) went in sealed plastic pouches from the kitchen. Pills (you always took headache pills, so you could concentrate) went in pouches of their own. To go to Auntie Eliza's, I'd swiped a range of Mum's painkillers from the bathroom cabinet. They were still in their pouch at the bottom of the backpack.

Even though I'd only be away for one night, or two at the most, I packed the old, familiar things in the old, familiar way. Thin layers to wear – rolled, not folded. Trousers with zip-up pockets, for keeping things safe. Trainers. A windproof jacket. A hat for disguise. (This was my idea, not Dad's, but it seemed sensible in the circumstances.) Torch. Chocolate. (This actually was Dad's idea. Things tend to go wrong when you run out of energy.) Phone charger. Water. Photo of me with Mum and Dad at Buckingham Palace, a bit crumpled because it went with me everywhere.

The bag was still only two-thirds full. Lacy watched me from my bed as I considered what to add.

‘What?' I asked.

If a pet can look sceptical, Lacy did. Disloyal cat.

Or maybe she was just being sensible. I caught sight of
myself in the wardrobe mirror, clutching the photo frame. What was I
doing?
My mother's boyfriend wanted to send me to boarding school and I'd convinced myself some ‘bad people' were trying to kidnap me. Maybe Granny was right. If Dr Benson could see me now, he'd have a field day.

I decided to go downstairs and have a proper chat to Granny. Maybe she could help me sort things out in my head. Also, she'd never forgive me if I ran away during Mum's ‘special time' with Rupert. Some things you can't undo.

It was dinner time and the inn was humming with activity. Chefs clattered in the kitchen; waiters moved swiftly through swinging doors, bearing multiple plates of food stacked up their arms, like jugglers, while diners laughed loudly in the restaur ant, and louder still in the bar. It was hard to track Granny down. Eventually someone told me she was signing in a new guest. I found her in Reception.

‘Ah, Peta darling, do come and meet Mr Bellacqua. He's come all the way from Rome.'

A square-jawed man with a head of dark curls glanced up from the paperwork he was signing.

‘Bellacqua. Like the—' He cocked his head and smiled at me. His brown eyes caught mine and held them. He knew me. And because of that, I knew him.

‘—pop star,' I finished lamely.

‘Oh yes?' he asked.

Yes. There was a famous pop star called Giovanni Bellacqua who was in all the charts right now with a beach song. That must be where he'd got the fake name from.

Marco, the Range Rover's driver. I'd seen him before, in profile, sitting next to the Wicked Queen. I felt dizzy.

‘He's writing a travel piece about the best hotels on the
south coast,' Granny told me happily. ‘I hope he'll be nice about us. I've given him the Flaskers Suite.'

She smiled at him coquettishly. My grandmother was flirting – actively flirting – with the man who'd been sent to get me. She was booking him into a bedroom two floors below mine.

I pictured how the conversation would go:

‘
He's not a travel writer, Granny, he's trying to kidnap me.'

Big sigh. ‘Don't be silly, Peta darling. Why would he do that?'

‘Because of my power.'

‘What do you mean, you stupid, deluded girl?'

‘I don't know. It's got something to do with Dad.'

‘Hello? 999? Can I have the nearest mental institution, please?'

‘Hi,' I said. ‘Pleased to meet you.'

‘You too.' He held out his hand. I shook it. ‘Peta, is it? What an interesting name.'

‘Yeah. Some people mistake it for a boy's name.'

He stared at me hard after that. I turned on my heel and went back upstairs.

Back in my room, I was cool and calm. I added some fresh underwear and a few more practical things, ready for tomorrow. On my laptop, I looked up train times to London and the best way of getting to the Wahool house by Tube. It was in Eaton Square, not Eden. It looked pretty central on the map.

An image flashed across my mind of a policeman going through my computer history later, putting together a picture of what I'd done. Well, this should give him a good indication. For good measure, I wrote an email to Mum, which they could find in my drafts folder if they looked.

‘I love you. It's OK. This is not about you. Peta xxx'

Then I added, ‘PS, I hope you had a great holiday', because even though that wasn't strictly true (I liked to imagine Rupert having food poisoning for most of it), it was the right thing to do.

Lacy watched me unwaveringly, her sceptical expression never changing. What girl pictures
policemen
going through her stuff and leaves messages accordingly?

One whose would-be kidnapper is unpacking in the Flaskers Suite.

Once Granny and Grandad were in bed, I crept to the main door of the flat and locked it from the inside. The door handle rattled twice in the night, as far as I could tell. Knowing Grandad was there was a big help, but even so, I didn't sleep. I didn't really expect to.

EIGHT

T
he next morning, as soon as I heard Granny and Grandad moving about, I got up and checked the contents of my bag. Everything was ready. I'd expected to feel exhausted after last night, but in fact I was buzzing. I just wanted to get to London as fast as I could.

I skipped breakfast and pretended I couldn't find my homework, making myself so late that Grandad had to drive me to school. Marco/Giovanni watched us leave from behind his paper in Reception. I gave him a little wave. He didn't wave back.

Grandad complained about my inefficiency the whole way, but got me to Collingwood door-to-door, safe and
sound. I hesitated before heading through the gates. Soon I'd have to come back out again and head for the railway station. I wasn't looking forward to walking through that coach park. Even though I was planning to get changed at school, it would be quite easy to spot me if someone happened to be, say, watching out for me from a dark estate car parked nearby.

Today, there was a big coach parked in front of the school gates. Even that made me shiver a bit.

My phone rang and I fished it out of my bag. Luke.

‘Hi.'

‘You didn't say goodbye!' he complained.

‘Kind of in a rush . . .'

I was lying. I hate goodbyes. I've done too many of them in a lifetime of moving schools. I'm great at hellos, though.

‘I wanted to tell you, I did some more research last night,' he said. ‘Have you got a moment?'

I lurked near the coach. Lots of Year 7s milled around me, waiting to get on it. Tragically, I was only slightly taller than most of them, and shorter than the tallest boys.

‘Sure.'

‘I found another article about that house,' Luke said. ‘You've got to hear this.'

The coach door opened. A nervous young teacher stood on the steps, muttering stuff about the Houses of Parliament, and had they brought their fact sheets? Oh – a day trip to London. Lucky them.

‘It's got an underground swimming pool,' Luke went on, ‘and a cinema and two kitchens.'

‘Two kitchens? What on earth do they need two kitchens for?' I tried to focus on what he was saying. But my plan was rapidly changing.

‘No idea,' Luke said.

The nervous teacher got out of the way so the Year 7s could start boarding. He had that frightened look of supply staff and didn't know anybody's name. Ideal. A better plan was forming. In fact, it was beautiful.

‘Sorry, gotta go,' I said, grinning down the phone. ‘Send me the link.'

‘OK. Catch you later. Call me from the train.'

No,
I thought to myself,
not necessarily.

The whole thing felt as if it was meant to be. Free trip to London. No worries about getting to the station. Nice, comfy ride . . . It had to be worth a try.

I slotted in among the jostling crowd and climbed up the steps of the coach. The supply teacher happily waved me through, though some of the Year 7s gave me strange looks as I headed down the aisle.

‘Special project,' I muttered. They shrugged and left me to it. Sometimes it helps to have a reputation for being odd.

I walked right down to the back and checked out of the window. There
was
a dark estate car parked further along the road.

Sorry, Queenie. Bye.

By the time the rest of the teachers arrived, I was sitting in the corner, head down, checking my phone. Nobody bothered me.

The next two and a half hours were so much better than if I'd caught the train. The coach wound its way past the open marshes and the wind farm by the sea, and on through little villages and larger towns, then up the motorway.

I used some of the time to check out the details of the Wahool house. According to the article Luke sent me, one of the rooms was set up as a nail bar and another was purely for
wrapping presents. So the people of Marvalia were starving and the Wahools had a
present-wrapping room
? No wonder there was a revolution.

I got to Level 74 on Jelly Flop and caught up on some more sleep. Luke sent me a couple of messages. I told him I'd call him later. Didn't want the Year 7s overhearing my conversation. I was pretty sure Dad would approve of my super-sneaky spy approach.

Eventually, the coach hit the slow, busy streets of London. It followed the bank of the River Thames before dumping us near the Houses of Parliament. The supply teacher tried to count us off, but it was easy to dodge behind someone and avoid him. I milled about on the pavement with the Year 7s, waiting for the chance to get away.

Big Ben loomed over us as we walked beside the grand, ornate buildings, until we came to the open space of Parliament Square. Last time I came here with Dad (research trip) the place was full of anti-war protesters with sleeping bags and banners. Even though they were protesting against the war he was engaged in, Dad admired them for fighting for their cause. Today, the square was smart and green and empty. I kind of missed the mess.

By the time we reached the House of Commons, I was starting to get more strange looks from the Year 7s. A large group of tourists walked towards us, following a guide with a Japanese flag.

One minute I was there, and the next, I wasn't.

If anyone had looked closely at the Japanese tourists, they might have noticed a pair of school shoes among all the walking boots and trainers heading across the square towards Green Park. A brown head among the black ones; a Collingwood
school blazer quickly disappearing into a backpack; a school tie stuffed into a pocket.

The sky was blue and I was on my own. It was a beautiful day.

According to Google Maps, Eaton Square was a twenty-minute walk away. I even got to go past Buckingham Palace. It reminded me of the day Dad got his medal from the Queen. He'd looked so smart in his dress uniform. Mum wore a navy suit and looked très chic. I wore something purple with a short skirt and looked hideous.

When I got there, Eaton Square was not what I expected. For a start, it was more of a rectangle. It was even bigger and grander than I'd pictured, with two long terraces of creamy-white houses down each side and railed-off gardens in the middle. The whole effect was green and cream and space and trees and money. OK, so if I had fifty million, I might consider wrapping my presents here.

Judging from the pictures on the web, the Wahool house was at the far end. It was taller than some of the others: five storeys of glistening windows, with a balcony above the front door and steps leading down to a basement.

It wasn't hard to find but, annoyingly, a yellow furniture van was parked right outside. There was a ramp leading up to it and the shutter was open, which meant it was being used. I didn't want to be spotted by anyone coming in or out of the house, so I quickly crossed the road and crouched behind a jeep parked next to the gardens. I still had a pretty good view.

A burly man in a yellow T-shirt and sand-coloured shorts emerged from the van and disappeared into the basement. I ducked further behind the jeep, but he didn't even glance in my direction. The place went quiet again. I got my phone
and turned it to silent. Now was not the time for Roxanne Wills to go off in my bag.

I stared up at the gleaming windows, willing someone to look out – some face to give me a clue as to who was inside. But the house was dark behind the shining glass.

After another five minutes, a different man came up the basement stairs, struggling with an old-fashioned upright trunk. He put it on a trolley and wheeled it up the ramp into the van. He was straining under the weight of it. Were the Wahools moving out? Or just going on holiday? Either way, these were clearly not people who stuffed their clothes into the nearest rucksack and hoped for the best.

However, one other thing seemed certain: for the moment, at least, the family was here. Of all the places they could have been, I was right – this was this one.

Was there a cell in the basement, I wondered, near the underground swimming pool? After one simple coach ride, could I really be so close?
Dad? Are you a prisoner behind those walls?

I shivered. The air seemed to shimmer. The house, so close, seemed impossibly distant and impregnable. It was eerily quiet. Apart from the removal guys, there didn't seem to be anyone about. The only sounds were birdsong and passing traffic, and a pneumatic drill going off somewhere in the distance. A black cat jumped on to a nearby wall, curled its tail neatly around its paws and watched me.

I couldn't stop thinking that Max Wahool could be inside right now, which meant Dad was there too. I couldn't imagine how, or why. Or rather, I could imagine a million scenarios, but none of them made sense.

My muscles were cramping from all that crouching by the jeep. There's only so long a girl can pretend to tie her
non-existent shoelaces. Even the removal guys seemed to have given up for a while. I straightened up and checked my watch: 12.15. Perhaps they'd gone for lunch. It seemed amazing that they should leave the van open like that, shutter up, with the ramp leading into it, but they had.

Rather like an invitation.

I got a prickle down the back of my neck.

The house looked impregnable, but the van was wide open. This was the school coach story all over again, but scarier. I could hear Luke in my head, screaming at me not to, but the thing was . . . maths.

The statistical probability of me making it into the van, finding out something useful about the Wahools and getting out safely was, oh, about ten per cent. Or maybe five. Or – the more I thought about it – one. But the family was moving, it seemed, and the chance of me ever seeing Dad again if I didn't do
something
, now, was zero. Absolute zero. That's how it felt to me. And I was the only one who cared enough to try.

This was my chance. The only one I'd get. So I ran.