The Castle (8 page)

SIXTEEN

A
t lunchtime the next day, the engines slowed again. This time, there were more footsteps on deck and in the corridors, more instructions. The atmosphere was different. I sensed the
Princess Nazia
had finally reached her destination.

Like yesterday, the yacht was sailing in a calm crystal sea, under a cloudless sky. The distant coastline was rugged and hilly. Was this Italy? I wanted to look at it more closely, but before we got too close I had no choice but to tuck myself up in the trunk again, draping the yellow dress over me and hoping my cramping muscles wouldn't give me away.

I clutched my chest to my knees in the hot, stuffy
darkness, singing pop songs silently to myself – every lyric I could remember – and wondered if I was getting closer to Dad, or further away.

It felt like hours before the
Princess
finally came to a stop. There were toots from boats around her, and orders barked sharply to the crew. Then came the unloading. That took hours too. Inside the trunk, my muscles were screaming. The pain seemed to come on quicker this time, because they knew what to expect.

Someone put the trunk on a set of wheels and pushed it along the corridor to the lift. Once it reached the waterline, the trunk was lifted, heaved and swung in the air until I felt dizzy. It was dumped and bumped and raced through the water on a speedboat, engine churning through the waves. Bump. Bump. Bump. Voices around me, speaking a language I didn't recognise.

We stopped. The trunk was lifted out amidst lots of swearing. I could tell they were swearing, even if I didn't know the language. And I could guess roughly what they were saying: ‘Blimey, this is heavy. What does she keep in this thing? Bloody diamonds?'

Actually, no,
I could have told them.
They keep the diamonds in the desk.

Another heave, a groan, a thud. The trunk hit the ground and suddenly, the wardrobe door swung open and bright daylight nearly blinded me. I stifled a scream.

More swearing. I caught a brief glimpse of a tanned and grizzled face as a man bore down on me, but he was looking elsewhere, shouting at someone. He banged the door shut.

Oh my God. He banged the door shut. If he'd glanced down even for a second, he'd have seen my elbows and knees
poking out from behind the yellow dress. I held my breath, certain he must sense my terror – smell it, even. But he didn't. He just lit a cigarette – its pungent fumes hit my nose from the moment he took his first puff – and argued with the other men on the dock,

I was swayed around one more time, and a diesel engine coughed into life, rattling me to the bone. The trunk was on the back of a truck, which set off up a steep track. The wardrobe door opened again as we rounded a bend, and this time I managed to pull it shut, gripping at the inner catch with my fingernails. But not before I'd glimpsed where we were heading. At the top of a hill, the massive stone walls of a castle rose up and up and up and up, to towers so high I couldn't see the tops.

Castello Rodolfo
. It was like something out of a fairy tale. Or a nightmare. My cramping muscles told me definitely nightmare.

We rattled and bashed, bashed and rattled up the track, and all the time the air inside the trunk got hotter and hotter, and the walls burnt under the heat of the sun. I thought about castles. There were a few around Rye, and one even in the town, but they were small or in ruins. This one was solid, and vast, and high: just the sort of place you'd use to defend the coast from pirates. Then I got too hot to think about it any more. My throat hurt. Muscles ached in places that hadn't ached before.

It was hard to concentrate on anything except the burning sun, but I suddenly remembered Auntie Eliza and her yoga lessons. She'd made me go with her that time I ran away. They were learning to meditate. You had to lie flat on the floor of the studio and imagine that you were in a beautiful, exotic
place where you felt really happy. Ironically, here I was on an island off the coast of Italy, and my happy place was an old studio in east London. A cool, fresh studio, with the sound of the yoga teacher's soothing voice in the background. You had to focus on relaxing every muscle in your body, one by one, while she talked you through it. Your right foot is . . . relaxed, your right ankle is . . . relaxed.

Bump, rattle, bump. But the yoga teacher's voice was really working. It was weird, but when we got to the top of the track and the truck drove down a short piece of smooth road and came to a halt, I was kind of disappointed. I still had ‘my right ear' and ‘my forehead' to do. And I'd been enjoying the studio's air conditioning. Dad always told me that survival is ninety-five per cent in your head, and now I was starting to see what he meant.

The trunk was carried inside, where the air smelled cool and musty, like old stone. Two people were arguing nearby and their voices echoed off the walls. They were quarrelling, I eventually realised, about how they were going to carry the trunk up several flights of stairs and down several corridors. They never really agreed how to do it, and kept up the argument all the way. But luckily it never occurred to them to open the wardrobe door and see what was inside to make it so heavy. Instead, they bumped and swayed me for several minutes, until finally, a female voice gave an order, and they put me down and there was silence.

After counting to two hundred in my head, I risked opening the wardrobe door a crack and peeped round the yellow dress. All I could see was painted roses and a high ceiling. I opened the door some more. Nobody screamed or called for security. I was alone.

Off the boat. On dry land. Scared. Strangely excited.

I pushed the trunk door fully open and tipped myself out. Once again, I landed on the floor with a thud and a crunch. Sitting painfully upright, I looked around.

Another bedroom. I'd landed next to the clothes rail and on top of one of the shopping bags, near a huge four-poster bed that was hung with white lace and scattered with dozens of cushions. Beyond the bed, a tall, open window, framed by rose-pink shutters, looked out on to the bright blue sky. Way above me, the ceiling was painted with flying cherubs and hung with a crystal chandelier. On a desk in one corner, a rose-pink iPod sat on a speaker, next to a matching tablet and desktop monitor. Even the air smelled of roses.

This is the bit where Julie Andrews comes in and tells you you're the Princess of Marvalia.

In a MOVIE, Peta.
Right now, what would probably happen would be some hulking great delivery man would appear with another load of shopping bags, find me sitting here and hand me over to Muscle Man. Or, just as bad, Yasmin would arrive – I guessed this was her room – and wonder what this smelly, dirty schoolgirl was doing here. (I hadn't dared wash on the yacht in case they noticed the messy towels.)

But they weren't here yet. I'd got this far. I just had work out how to stay ahead.

Stretching my sore muscles, I straightened out the shopping bag I'd landed on (Chanel, enormous), grabbed my backpack and ran for the window, which was framed with real roses, growing up the wall outside. Looking out, I tried to work out exactly where I was.

And it was heaven.

It just
was
heaven. The castle was very high up, at one end
of the Isola Sirena. It wasn't a large island – just the castle, on a hill, and down to the right the jetty where I'd landed, some scrubland dotted with blue and yellow wildflowers, a few ruins and an abandoned shack. You could probably explore it in a day. Ahead, the sea glittered under the blazing sun. Boats dotted the water, all tiny compared with the massive
Princess Nazia
, the size of a small island herself, moored a short way out to sea. Further away over to the left was a strip of land that looked like the mainland. Close enough to see, but much too far away to swim.

I looked down to where a series of neat green lawns led down to an infinity pool. Everything within the castle grounds was fresh and immaculate, apart from the wing to my left, where building works were going on. Opposite them, a tower on the right wing soared towards the sky, topped off with picture-perfect ramparts and parapets, just like the ones from my storybooks.

A gull flew by and I watched it land on the tower. As it did so, a security guard in bulky black body armour emerged from a door in the ramparts, pulling his black baseball cap low over his eyes to protect them from the sun. It was only as he turned away that I noticed the gun tucked into a holster on his belt.

So that was nice.

Heaven was patrolled by armed guards. Real guards with real guns. This
so
wasn't a movie with Julie Andrews. I wanted my mum, and I wanted to go home.

A splash from below distracted me. Someone had dived into the swimming pool and was carving through the water like a professional athlete. His tan was emphasised by a small pair of red trunks. I watched him as he executed a perfect turn.

Footsteps in the corridor.

Stop admiring the swimmer, you IDIOT. Hide.

There was a small pink silk-covered armchair in front of the window. I ducked behind it instinctively, still thinking about the boy in the pool. He looked about the right age to be one of Mr Wahool's sons. Which son? The creepy one, Omar, with the honey voice – or the younger one, Max, my friend, the one person in this place who could help me?

A moment later the bedroom door burst open and someone moved through it at speed. She raced up to the window, right beside where I was crouching, and yelled out:

‘Max! Get out of the pool! Max! We're back! Maxi!'

It was Yasmin. Her brother obviously didn't hear her, because she groaned in frustration. Then she moved back into the room and called out:

‘Amina! Amina!'

There was a pause. Someone must have arrived in the room, because Yasmin started giving out instructions.

‘Find me a bikini. Three, so I can choose. And a kaftan. I'm off to the pool. God, it's been tiring today.'
Yeah. Getting off a superyacht. Try doing it in a trunk, Yasmin.
‘I'm going to relax for a bit and then we're having dinner on the boat, so Papa can show the boys. Find me something from Dior. There's a blue dress I brought from Paris that should do. Oh God, I'm
so tired.
Where's Omar?'

She yawned loudly. A quiet voice muttered something about Omar going to see the
Princess
. Then the servant moved around, opening and closing drawers.

The chair I was hiding behind was so small and inadequate it was almost funny. If they weren't so busy finding bikinis, they would spot me in an instant. But I was too busy thinking about what Yasmin had just said to be properly terrified this
time. Meanwhile, she changed quickly and soon the room was empty again.

Alone, undiscovered, I breathed in the scented air. In that one shouted sentence through the window, Yasmin had changed everything for me.

It
was
Max in the pool.

I'd found Max! He must have called me from this castle. And where the boy was, the prisoner was. I'd accidentally ended up in the perfect place.

Dad, I'm here
, I whispered.
I'm coming. Wait for me.

SEVENTEEN

I
t took me five minutes to find Max's room, dashing across the corridor in the eerie silence, heart racing. There were four bedrooms on this corridor – all of them enormous – but only one of them had an almost life-size photograph opposite the door of a dark-haired boy on a polo pony smiling to camera, with a caption saying
Max Wahool
underneath.

OK, so he wasn't exactly shy, but if you look that good on a polo pony, life-size photos must be tempting.

The rest of the room was the opposite of Yasmin's. This one was pure boy, apart from the fact that it was insanely tidy. It had everything Luke could possibly have wanted – two huge TV screens, a stack of gaming equipment and a walk-in
wardrobe full of (I checked) immaculate polo shirts and designer jeans. There was also a vast double bed, a futuristic leather armchair that swivelled, five electric guitars on stands, and a punch bag hanging from the ceiling near the window. So he could punch something while he admired the view. Kind of weird. Presumably it kept him fit, though. Which he was, from what I'd seen in the pool just now. Very.

It was the swivel chair that attracted my attention – much more promising than the fancy little armchair I'd crouched behind in Yasmin's room. This one had a deep leather seat and a broad back, wide enough to hide a polo pony from view. I shoved my backpack under the bed, dashed across to the chair and sank down in its comfy seat, moving it with my feet so it faced away from the door. My plan was to swivel round when Max came in, like someone from a Bond movie. Except it would make me look like the villain, but whatever. I sat in position and waited.

And waited. Thirty long minutes ticked by. I used the time to stretch out my aching muscles. Eventually, there were footsteps in the corridor and the door opened. A young man's voice shouted out, ‘Amina! Amina!'

Hell. That servant girl would be here in a minute. Didn't anyone in this place spend any time alone? I hunkered down where I was.
Another bad choice of hiding place, Peta. Seriously bad choice.

‘Sir?'

It wasn't a girl who answered, though. This time, it was a boy.

‘Not you,' Max said, irritated. ‘I called for Amina. I want Amina.'

‘Can
I
help you, sir?' the boy insisted. Odd. His voice sounded familiar. ‘Amina is busy. Miss Yasmin has asked—‘

‘I don't care about my sister! I don't care about
you
! I want Amina. Tell my sister I want her now. Do it.'

The boy disappeared. Max opened another door and I heard the sound of a shower running. Meanwhile, I sat where I was and thought about those voices. One was quiet and musical, the other harsh and cruel. But they were the wrong way round.

Max wasn't the boy who'd called me.

Somehow, I'd made a terrible mistake.

As I hunched in my stupid swivel chair, the sound of the shower stopped. Max could emerge at any moment. I sat there, frozen. The bathroom door opened and the harsh voice snapped, ‘Ah, Amina! Good. You're here.'

‘Master Max,' the girl said obediently. Once again, I hadn't heard her come in.

‘Tidy the bathroom. Lay out my clothes. The blue linen for tonight, I think. No, the silk. Do it!'

While she worked, I listened to Max's fists rhythmically hitting the punch bag.
Smack. Smack. Smack.
I moved the chair around, microscopic centimetre by centimetre, using my toes, so it was still facing away from them both.

‘Your clothes are ready, sir,' the girl said. Her voice was hardly more than a whisper.

He moved over to inspect them. ‘What's this?' he called out.

‘Shirt. Sir.'

‘The
linen
one. Did I ask for the linen? No! It was the silk.'

The sharp sound of a slap. A hard one. She gasped and he grunted with the effort of hitting her. I bit my lip. This wasn't my secret friend. This boy
so
wasn't my friend.

‘Get me the silk,' he said icily.

The girl ran past him to get the new shirt. On her way
back, eager to stay as far away from him as possible, she passed around the front of the swivel chair. Her leg brushed mine; she glanced around and gasped again.

The shock on her face matched the shock I felt seeing her.

She only looked about ten, with a black scarf over her hair, a red mark on her cheek where he'd hit her, and big dark eyes staring at me. Then, in a single moment, those eyes went blank. Her face was a mask – you'd never know she'd seen anything at all. She went over to Max and handed him the shirt.

‘Now go,' he spat. ‘I don't know why I ask for you, you lazy dumbskull.'

She almost ran from the room. I stayed motionless while he went back to the bathroom, humming. My mind was racing. What if he found me? Should I try and hit him with something? Or go for his nose, or eyes? Those were the vulnerable places. But Dad said never to take on someone stronger than you in a fight if you could possibly avoid it. Cheat or run away, he said. I wanted to run, but where?

Here was it. Max had always been it. Max Wahool was where I'd been running to.

Without warning, the chair swivelled round, flinging me sideways.
Hell!
But to my amazement, I was facing the little girl again. She must have come back silently. She brought her finger to her lips.

Very confused, but so glad she wasn't Max, I gave her a nervous smile. She pointed at the wall opposite and made a motion for me to follow her. I stared back, more confused than ever. She glared at me, angry now, and motioned again. The wall was blank. What did she mean? With no idea what we were doing, I eased myself out of the chair and followed. When we got to the wall, she put her palm up against it and
pressed.

And the wall gave way.

A tiny, invisible door opened in front of us – just high enough for a child to pass through – leading to a black hole. The girl moved quickly into the dark. Nearby, the bathroom door opened with a click.

I have never followed a small, angry stranger so fast in my life.