The Ghost at the Point (15 page)

The moment they saw the Crickles unlatch the door and go into the shed, Dorrie knew what to do. But they’d have to hurry.

Beckoning Alonso to follow, and keeping to the shadowy edge of the drive, she hurried down to the shed. They edged along the wall and crouched beside the door, listening to the pair inside.

It hadn’t taken the Crickles long to locate the digging tools hanging on the far wall. Then Mrs Crickle heard something.

“What was that?”

“What was
what
?”

“That rustle – down behind the bench.”

“A mouse, or a rat, probably.”

“No, it sounded slithery, like a snake!”

Could easily be, thought Dorrie, or maybe a goanna. All her muscles were tense, ready for action. When she signalled her intentions to Alonso, he nodded.

“L-let’s get out of here,” cried Mrs Crickle, the large dark shape of her rump backing through the door.

“Now,” hissed Dorrie, and they sprang up and gave Mrs Crickle a mighty shove in the back.

It felt like pushing a solid boulder, but it worked. Mrs Crickle screeched and, letting out an almighty fart, lost her balance and went barrelling forwards into her husband.

“Ugh!” He sounded like a boxer’s punching bag as he went down, flat on his back, the lovely Mrs Crickle on top of him. Arms and legs thrashed about as the lantern got kicked and went out. Dorrie and Alonso slammed the door shut on a volley of cries and curses. Then Alonso leaned hard on the door, while Dorrie started groping frantically around for the iron pin to secure the latch.

With a “Get
off
me, woman!”, they could hear Mr Crickle disentangling himself from his wife and scrambling up.

Dorrie patted about on the dark ground, feeling sticks and leaves and sand. If he’d taken the pin inside with him when he unlatched the door, she knew they didn’t stand a chance of keeping it shut. Maybe they could withstand the puny weight of Mr Crickle, but certainly not if it was combined with that of his mighty wife.

The Crickles were proceeding to thump and push the other side of the door. Alonso pushed back against it, teeth gritted, digging his heels in. Dorrie’s heart sank as she swept her hand around.

And then, right up against the wall, her fingers brushed against the metal pin. She grabbed it, reached up and jammed it through the latch, just as the door was starting to come open.

Inside, the cries and thumps increased. Alonso and Dorrie straightened up and stood there, panting and grinning at one another.

“Open this door! I command you – open this door!” shouted Mr Crickle, shoving against it.

The door, reinforced with stout wooden beams, didn’t budge.

“You’ll be sorry, you little wretch,” Mrs Crickle shrieked. She flung herself against it and this time the door groaned and rattled, but stayed fast.

Dorrie was tempted to call out that
they
, Mr and Mrs Crickle, were the ones who were going to be sorry. Maybe even adding that it was
certain
to be a snake in there! Although she knew that if this were true, with all the racket going on, the poor terrified thing would have skedaddled quick smart through one of the cracks in the walls.

Instead she merely whispered a tiny “Sh” to Alonso. Much better to keep the enemy in the dark, in more ways than one.

Sure enough, as the banging and shouting subsided, they heard Mrs Crickle say, “Edmund, who … who d’you think pushed me?”

Mr Crickle scoffed. “Why, that dratted brat, of course.”

“But Edmund …” Her voice had dropped to a hoarse whisper. “I felt
four
hands!”

“What?”

“I felt them – there was definitely two pairs. No,” she added, cutting into his predictable response, “scoff all you like. There was more than one … person … out there. What did you think – that skinny little wretch could’ve knocked me over on her own?”

There was a rare silence from her husband.

“I tell you, Edmund,” Mrs Crickle’s voice was rising to a sob, “there’s some very strange things going on around here. And here we are, locked in with a snake, without even a light–”

“For goodness sake, calm yourself. You’re becoming hysterical again.”

“Can’t you even find a light?”

“Where?” he hissed. “It’s your fault the lamp’s broken, with all your kicking and floundering about. And even if we did have some matches, if we struck one, there’d probably be an explosion, what with all the sulphurous gas you’ve emitted. Phew – I can still smell it!”

“Don’t be vulgar, Edmund. You know the tonic plays havoc with my digestion.”

Once again, Dorrie would have found it funny if she hadn’t been thinking so desperately. It was all very well to have locked up these villains, but what were she and Alonso to do now? Should she go and get help in the truck, leaving Alonso to keep watch on his own? And how long could they actually keep the prisoners shut inside? The old shed was only made of rusting galvanised iron, and as horrible as Mr Crickle was, he wasn’t stupid. She could already hear him moving about inside, feeling his way around for the tools. Sooner or later, they’d be able to cut – or even dig – their way out.

She glanced at Alonso. Despite not being able to see his face properly in the dark, she was sure he was thinking much the same things. If only they could discuss the situation, mull things over together.

And one more thing. As far as she knew Mr Crickle had the map on him; she was certain he hadn’t left it on the ground where they’d been searching. Whatever happened to the Crickles, she and Alonso had to make sure they got hold of it.

She was going to have to get help. Either from Jacky and his dad, or, a bit further away, from the Jennings. Sergeant Tonks in Redcliff was simply too far.

Dorrie turned to Alonso and mimed herself driving the truck. He nodded. Then she asked him whether he wanted to come with her or stay. He signalled that he wanted to stay. He still wanted his presence to be kept a secret, she thought.

But when she hurried over to the garage, the truck wouldn’t start. At least the engine started, but then sputtered and died, six times in a row.

She and Alonso, who had come with her to the garage, exchanged looks of dismay. Fishing the torch out of the glove box, Dorrie switched it on. She shone the beam on the controls, thinking hard.

Then she tried again, with the same result. Only this time the starter sounded ominously sluggish, as though the battery was going flat.

She thumped the steering wheel with fury. Of all times for this to happen! The old truck was pretty temperamental, but Gah always seemed to have a trick up his sleeve to get it going. She waited a minute, then pumped the throttle several times – to no avail.

Alonso tapped on her shoulder and jerked his thumb, miming driving. Dorrie gazed blankly at him for a second before the penny dropped.

“Of course,” she cried. “Brilliant, Alonso – I’ll take the Crickle machine.”

She’d only ever driven the truck, but the roadster couldn’t be that different, surely. And when they had a look, it did seem as though she could manage it.

There was only one snag. To suit Mr Crickle’s stork-like legs, the seat was set right back from the pedals, but when they located the adjustment lever under the seat, it was stuck fast. No amount of pushing or pulling would move it, or the seat. Unless Dorrie’s legs suddenly doubled in length, there was no way that she was going to be able to drive the roadster.

And it would take far too long to get anywhere on Sampson.

She gave a little cry of frustration, and banged the torch against the seat. The light went out for a second, then came on again when she shook it.

Dorrie and Alonso stared at the torch, and then at one another. They might be able to signal for help – with a flashing light. There probably wouldn’t be any boats out on the water, but it was worth a try.

They hurried up to the house again. The occupants of the shed had gone ominously quiet; Dorrie hated to think what they were up to. They certainly wouldn’t be sitting there waiting for the door to be unlocked.

She lit the biggest hurricane lamp and scooped up a rug from the sofa. Then they took them down the end of the point.

The moon had set; all was black outside the glow of their light. The wind had dropped; the sound of the waves slapping hard on the rocks below was the only reminder of the storm.

She got Alonso to sit down, holding the lamp on his lap, and put the rug over its metal top. Then, standing behind him, she lifted the whole rug up and put it back again, quickly, three times in a row. She repeated this sequence, only this time making the light and dark periods longer. Lastly, she did a re-run of the three quick flashes. She waited five seconds and repeated the whole pattern again. And again, and again …

SOS, they signalled. SOS … SOS … SOS …

Save Our Souls.

Alonso boosted their signal with the torch, switching it off and on in time with the flashes of lamplight.

Despite the brightness of the resulting light, Dorrie didn’t hold much hope. From their humpy tucked away in the sandhills, Jacky and his father wouldn’t be able to see the flashes. Unless they happened to be out on the beach, which in the wee small hours of the morning was pretty unlikely. And across from the Pearce’s, on the other side of the lagoon entrance, lay the shanty town of Jack’s Landing, but she was positive the signal would be too dim to reach that far. Even if anybody did happen to be awake, looking out into the darkness.

“That should be enough,” said Dorrie, after three or four minutes of signalling. “If anyone’s out there, they would’ve seen it by now.”

It was a big if.

And she had a horrible feeling that the situation down at the shed might have changed.

They hurried back up the point to the house. When they rounded the corner of the verandah next to the drive, Dorrie stopped, putting a finger to her lips. They stood still for a moment, listening. Everything was quiet. There was no noise coming from the shed.

She extinguished the lamp and put it down. Alonso switched off the torch and they sneaked around the edge of the drive, the dark shape of the shed becoming dimly visible.

When they were about ten feet away, they stopped again. Alonso switched on the torch and flashed it on the door.

The bolt was in the latch – it was still locked.

They stared at it, orange-painted and silent in the beam.

“What the heck are they
doing
in there?” Dorrie whispered. “Why are they so quiet?”

Alonso didn’t need to understand her exact words. He shrugged, tugging uneasily at the bush beside him.

Suddenly, there was a footfall from behind and something heavy came over them – something rough and smelling of salt. Dorrie heard herself gasp, then scream in terror.

“Got you!” hissed a horribly familiar voice, as she and Alonso were yanked together, hard.

They’d been caught, she realised, in a fishing net. The one that was stored in the shed. Wound together, up and down, around and around.

“Pull it tight, Mavis. Pull it tight!”

Dorrie and Alonso yelled and struggled and kicked, but with their arms already pinned, all they succeeded in doing was to fall over in a tangled, panicky heap.

“Well, fancy that, another brat,” came Mr Crickle’s slimy tone. “So much for your ghosts, my precious-ss.”

Ignoring his sarcasm, his wife snatched up Dorrie’s dropped torch and flashed it right in Dorrie’s and Alonso’s faces. They blinked and squirmed, unable to shield their eyes.

“My, my, what a nice little catch we’ve got here, eh, Edmund?” She cackled as though it was the funniest joke ever. “A couple of beauties. Snapper or whiting, d’you think?”

“Ha-ha,” Dorrie sneered, still trying to pull and twist. She and Alonso had ended up back to back, the ropes cutting into them. “So funny.”

Mrs Crickle bent down to her and Dorrie got yet another blast of bad breath. “Don’t you give me cheek, my girl, or you’ll be food for the real fishes, very smartly.”

Dorrie glared at her, but a chill went through her. Meanwhile, Alonso was cursing the Crickles in his own language, and it sounded pretty colourful.

“What have we here?” Now it was Mr Crickle’s turn to bend down. “A little foreigner, eh?”

“Seems to be,” leered Mrs Crickle. “One of those oily, dark continental types like you see in the talking pictures. The ones that smell of garlic.”

You can talk, thought Dorrie furiously.

She and Alonso had more or less given up struggling – all it did was make the ropes dig in tighter.

Mr Crickle grunted as he tied knots on top of knots.

“There we are, my dears, just try and get free of that!” He turned to his wife. “Come on, let’s get back to our mission, before we were so rudely interrupted.”

But Mrs Crickle looked alarmed. “What’s that?” she cried, slowly straightening up.

Mr Crickle swung around, listening. Sure enough, from down on the road came the faint sound of a motor vehicle approaching.

Dorrie held her breath, willing it to slow down, and come up the drive.

Then the engine revved as it changed down gears, and they heard the unmistakable sound of the tyres starting to bump along the track.

“Drat!” hissed Mr Crickle.

“That’ll be Sergeant Tonks,” cried Dorrie, triumphantly. “He knows I’m here.” Never had she heard a more welcome sound. “You two are done for.”

Mr Crickle snatched the torch from his wife, unlatched the shed door and rummaged inside. He rushed out again brandishing something that flashed in the torchlight.

A fish filleting knife – old, but still quite sharp.

“Get up,” he commanded, jabbing it at Alonso and Dorrie, “the two of you. And do
exactly
as you’re told or you’ll both be sorry.”

The Crickles heaved and tugged them onto their feet, and the children stood there, swaying slightly, like an enormous, ungainly parcel on legs.

“Now move – quickly – round behind the shed.”

Dorrie and Alonso started shuffling forwards, teetering, almost overbalancing. The Crickles held onto their human bundle, steadying it and pushing it along.

“Hurry up,” cried Mr Crickle. “Faster! Faster!”