The Castle (5 page)

NINE

I
was panting by the time I got inside, and I instantly knew I'd made a mistake. The van was half empty. There was a clothes rail to one side, next to the trunk, and some antique chairs and tables held in place with ropes and blankets near the back. What could I possibly learn from trunks and clothes rails? But beyond them I could just make out one other thing: an ornate writing desk with lots of drawers. Drawers could be full of papers. I ran over to it as fast as I could.

Only one drawer opened and it was empty. I tried the others. Maybe I'd find a letter mentioning Dad, or a photo, or something connecting them, or . . . But even as I
desperately tried each new drawer, the possibilities seemed increasingly unlikely.
You have the power to be way over-optimistic, Peta Jones.
Anyway, the other drawers didn't even budge. Of course they didn't budge. Why had I ever thought this was a good plan? Oh, wait – I never had.

That's when I heard voices coming up the basement steps. The removal men, both of them, this time. Perfect. It was as if they'd been waiting specially for this moment.

My eye fell on the nearby clothes rail, packed with garment bags. It felt as though the beating of my heart was powerful enough to catapult me through it. I ducked behind the bags and rearranged them in a solid mass in front of me. Thank God the Wahool family had loads and loads of clothes.

‘You seen what's in this one?' the first voice said in an Australian accent, tramping up the ramp into the back of the van.

‘No.'

‘Basketballs. Dozens of 'em, all blown up.'

‘What does he need them there for? Don't they sell basketballs in Italy?'

‘No idea. Guy inside said they were signed or something. How much more've we got to go?'

‘Three more boxes? Then the cases and the shopping bags. That's about it.'

‘Won't take long.'

The men arranged their boxes in the middle of the van and disappeared again. Somehow, they hadn't heard my heart pounding.

I could have gone at that moment. Should have done. But I was busy trying to think of excuses. What would I say if they caught me? I'd tell them I lived nearby. I'd say I was curious. I'd say my cat had jumped inside and I'd come in looking for him.

But before I could move, I heard more steps on the ramp. This was someone new, and big. The van shook as he entered. I could smell his aftershave – it was strong, like lemons.

I made a tiny gap between the clothes bags to peep through. Despite the thud of the new man's walk, he wasn't bulky like a rugby player; he was like the men in Dad's old regiment who were experts in judo and karate. His body was lean under his business suit, but solid muscle, and his head was shaved. You could just tell he could beat you in a fight (not only me – obviously he'd beat
me
– but even someone tall, and mean, and trained). He radiated calm efficiency. This was not a man you made excuses to.

Holding a shallow black box in one hand, he approached the desk. He opened the one drawer that
would
open, felt around for a minute and took out a key. The key opened the central drawer. He put the box inside, locked the drawer and replaced the key in its hiding place. Then he left. Outside, I heard him call sharply to the removal men.

‘One of you's always looking after the van, right?' He sounded brisk, commanding.

‘Yup,' an Australian voice assured him.

Really? They
so
weren't.

‘Good. Keep it that way.'

‘Sure thing. No problem, mate.'

Oh, great. So
now
they were turning all conscientious. I waited for a few more minutes, then peeped through the clothes to see if they were still outside. Even if they were, I'd use the cat excuse on them and run. It was better than staying here.

At that moment, a car pulled up behind the van. A Range Rover. Dark, with blacked-out windows. I peered into the light and adjusted my vision. The driver's door opened and a
woman got out.

Ingrid – the Wicked Queen. Right here. Right now. Right in front of me.

My heart beat so fast I thought it might blow itself up.

Stupid idiot, Peta Jones. You went straight to them.

As she locked the Range Rover with a quiet beep, I heard somebody call sharply across to her: it was Muscle Man. ‘So you're back. Where's Marco?'

‘I left him there,' she answered. Her accent was clipped and sounded German now she wasn't trying to hide it. I watched her through the garment bags.

‘Does he have the kid yet?' Muscle Man asked, coming into view.

‘No. He's staying down there to get her. I'm bringing the car back because he said it was too con . . . con . . . It stood out too much.'

‘Conspicuous,' Muscle Man said. ‘Yes, I can see that.' He sounded unimpressed by her grasp of English, and also her grasp of kidnapping.

‘Anyway, Marco will finish the job tonight,' she said crossly. ‘He has the equipment.'

‘Good,' Muscle Man said. ‘The boss is waiting. He'll join us later with Miss Yasmin. Madam is still in Paris, shopping.' He almost spat out the word ‘shopping'. Obviously that wasn't something he was very impressed by, either. ‘So – Southampton docks, nine-thirty tomorrow. Marco must have the kid by then.'

‘Oh, he'll have her. Alive and kicking.'

He laughed at that. A short, sharp, satisfied laugh.

‘How's the princess?' Ingrid asked. ‘Is she ready?'

‘Magnificent,' he said. ‘The best in her class. She's everything he wanted and more, they tell me. And yes, she's ready.'

They walked out of sight, but as they did so, the removal men came back with more bags and boxes. They made a couple more trips while I hid as far into the shadows as I could.

I waited for everything to go quiet again. I was ready to run as soon as the coast was clear.

What I
wasn't
ready for was for one of the removal guys to come back, pull down the shutter and lock me in the dark.

I wasn't ready for the engine to start up and the van to move off, with me inside it.

I wasn't ready for that at all.

TEN

T
he engine rumbled and the van shook and rattled like an orchestra of loud banging things. Inside, I was exploring fear in a totally new way.

They had me! Without even trying, they had me! And worst of all, I'd done it to myself. I actually had negative power.
Stupid, crazy, stupid girl.

As the van drove slowly through the city streets, all I could think about was that when we came to a halt and that shutter went up again, I'd be caught like a mouse in a trap.
Alive and kicking. Hahaha.

I kicked out in frustration and my foot caught the box of basketballs. Flinching in pain, I heard something rattle on the
floor beside me. My phone had fallen out of my pocket. My phone! As soon as I found it and pressed the button, the glow of its screen reassured me a little. At least I had light. And I could call for help. I was about to call Luke when I noticed I already had a text. Actually, three.

Where r u? School called. Your gran's gone nuclear.

Seriously P. Call me. Ru ok?

Peta dear. It's Granny. You're not in trouble, but please call.

It's when they tell you you're not in trouble that you know how bad it really is.

I found Luke's number. He answered after a few rings.

‘Hello? Hello?'

‘Hi, Luke! It's me!'

‘Peta? Are you
crackle crackle
? Did
crackle
message?'

I shouted that I was LOCKED IN A MOVING LORRY. But it was hopeless. The signal was terrible and the very loud rattling around me meant he could hardly make out a word I said.

‘Where
did you say? Are you
crackle
?' I assumed he meant ‘OK'.

‘No! Really not!' I shouted.

‘What?'

In the end, I decided it would be easier just to text him. So I sat on a box and wrote him a long text about the house, and the van, and Southampton docks, and the fact that I had accidentally got myself kidnapped, and asking him to get the police to look out for a big yellow—

And that's when my phone died. Bam. No warning.

No battery.

No light.

No text.

No way.

All because I'd played too much Jelly Flop on the coach. Granny was right about my dangerous addiction.

Alive and kicking. Hahaha.

I sat there with my head in my hands, reliving all the moments when I could have told Luke what I was doing, or – you know –
not
climbed into the back of a van containing the possessions of a very rich man who was trying to kidnap me, or just done something, anything, that wasn't spontaneous and stupid.

This wasn't like getting a detention in school, or the ‘Death Dive' rollercoaster, or even lying in bed listening to the rattle of the flat's front door. This level of fear was so strong it sounded like an electric wire humming above my head.

Dad would know what to do. He was trained for this stuff. He'd have fought his way out by now, using his martial arts training. Or he'd have found some hidden exit from the van that I'd missed.

I was not trained. I was desperate. At some stage, those men were going to reach their destination and unpack this van, piece by piece. They might just notice that one of the objects was a terrified, hungry girl.

One thing I discovered, though: as long as they haven't actually got you in their grasp, your brain doesn't stop working. However scared you are, you keep thinking. After all – there's nothing else you can do.

The darkness wasn't total – a few rays of sunlight made their way through a small gap at the edge of the shutter. As my eyes grew accustomed to the light, I ran them over the outline of each object near me, calculating its size and weight and the chances of me fitting into it, or under it, or behind it while the van was unloaded. My head was a whirr of
That? No. That? No. That? No.
for five minutes. And then,
That? Maybe.

The big heavy trunk. I'd seen one like that in a film once. They called it a steamer trunk. The heroine was a Victorian heiress, and she'd used it like a travelling wardrobe. It had a cupboard in the top half for dresses, with drawers underneath for her gloves and underwear. I crawled over and pulled tentatively at the top half of this one. It opened. The van braked sharply and several dresses fell out on top of me. Beads and feathers scratched my face and got in my eyes. I pulled the dresses out properly and examined the space behind them.

It might be big enough. Just.

The van drove on for hours. When it finally stopped, I was curled up in my hiding place, ready, but the men didn't even open up the back. They just pulled at the shutter to check it was locked, and walked away.

The rays of light filtering through the gaps in the shutters grew dimmer, and eventually it was dark. I heard other lorries pull up nearby, and other lorry drivers wish each other good-night. Looked as though the Australians weren't coming back for a while.

I risked coming out of my hiding place. As it grew cold, I put on the trousers and trainers from my backpack, a few more top layers, and the windproof jacket. Dad had been right about packing warm. I ate half the chocolate, which
wasn't enough, and tried not to think too much about needing the loo. I found a fur coat in one of the garment bags and used it as a makeshift mattress. In the morning they would come back and they
would
unload the van, but until then there wasn't much I could do. I tried not to think too much about anything.

ELEVEN

T
he van set off about an hour after it got light. I had already replaced the fur coat and curled up in my hiding place. Soon, I could hear seagulls and smell the salty sea air. We must be close to the docks by now.

After a short drive, the men parked up again. With a shudder and a loud rattle, the shutter went up and the interior was flooded with light. Bumping and thumping, the men let down the ramp and began unloading. Some things they carried. For others, they used a trolley with squeaky wheels. Every squeak made my heart race. Every thump was a clue about what they were doing. I knew the contents of the van by heart now, and pictured every move, waiting for them
to come for me.

They took the heavy desk off with a lot of grunting and swearing. They carried off the small antiques and wheeled the clothes rail down the ramp. Then they put the old steamer trunk on to the trolley and wheeled that off too.

‘That everything?' someone called to them.

‘Yeah. Truck's empty. Wanna sign this?'

Made it! Oh my God, I made it. If I hadn't been such an idiot to get here in the first place, Dad would be so proud of me.

The smell of the sea was stronger now: briny and sharp. There was the sound of flapping, and a sing-song noise of metal cables hitting each other in the breeze. Boat sounds. They reminded me of the harbour at home. Thinking about them took my mind off my aching arms and legs. There isn't much space for a curled-up girl in the wardrobe of a steamer trunk. If I'd grown another few centimetres, I wouldn't have made it.

I heard the van start up and drive off. As soon as everything quietened down, I'd sneak out of my hiding place and slip away.

‘Oi! Lads! Over here. This lot.'

But not yet.

Oh, I ached. By now, every bit of me ached and my muscles were screaming. When I'd climbed inside the trunk, I'd left a couple of beaded party dresses inside and draped them over me. Now they scratched and tickled my face. But that was nothing compared to the pain in my arms and legs, which were folded up around me and were agony with cramp. And
that
was nothing compared to my back, which was bent double and pressed up against my backpack. Every bone in my spine was complaining. And all the bits in
between. I hadn't been to the loo since yesterday morning and my bladder had a special pain all of its own.

Someone put the trunk on a trolley. Bump. Bump. Bump. Quite a lot of swearing.

‘What on earth does she keep in here? Bloody diamonds?'

‘Probably. Wouldn't put it past her.'

‘Don't diss the family, OK? Shut it.'

Bump. Bump. Bump. Up a ramp. Down a ramp. Bang, rattle, clatter. Bump. Bump. BUMP.

‘Oi! Careful! That's an antique! Louis Vooton.'

‘She can keep it. Bloody furniture.'

‘I
said
, don't diss the family. Got it? Anyway, you can leave it there for now. I've got special instructions for this lot.'

I pictured a container ship. An old, rusty hull. The furniture loaded inside. A huge trap door closing . . .

Crazy.

Stupid.

Crazy.

Girl.

Suddenly, there were voices close to me.

‘Mr Paoli, Miss Herscht, this is the Captain.'

A man's voice said hello in an accent I didn't recognise. Then there were footsteps. One person left, the others stayed.

‘So,' the man's voice resumed, ‘you have been on a mission for the boss, I gather.'

‘Yes.' It was Marco speaking. Even in that one word, he sounded beyond irritated.

‘And? Do we have the special cargo to deliver?'

‘No.'

‘I need to know the truth,' the captain insisted, quiet and steady. ‘There are . . . certain places it can be stored. For safety. In case there's an inspection.'

‘No, we don't have it,' a clipped and irritated voice repeated. Ingrid. ‘We didn't get it, OK?'

‘How unfortunate.'

‘Yes.'

‘The boss will not be pleased.'

‘Yes. We know.'

I could almost feel their frustration through the walls of the trunk. More footsteps. It went quiet outside, but I kept still and silent in my tiny hiding space.
You have the power. You have the power. You at least have the power to be totally still for one more minute, Peta. And another. And one more.

It helped that my fear and pain were mixed with pride. OK, so their cargo would rather be ANYWHERE ELSE THAN HERE RIGHT NOW, but it was curled up under their noses and they were ‘so stupid'. Oh how Max Wahool would laugh if he knew.

Then someone came to pick up the trunk and take it wherever it was going. It was heavier than they expected and as they lifted it, it slipped sideways, falling sharply. I fell with it, banging my head hard against the side of the wardrobe as it landed.

Blackness. Silence. Nothing.