Authors: Catherine Jinks
The Paradise Trap (4 page)
‘Can I have your green hair-dye? The stuff in the spray-can?’
‘No.’
‘Please?’
‘
No!
’ the girl snapped. ‘Go buy your own hair-dye!’
Edison shrugged. Then he turned to Marcus and said, ‘Shaving cream is probably just as good.’
‘I’ll count to five,’ Newt growled. ‘One. Two. Three . . .’
‘You are
so
going to regret not coming,’ Edison warned her.
‘And you are
so
going to regret not going. Especially if I have to get up and make you,’ was his sister’s testy response.
‘Come on, Edison.’ Marcus felt like a complete fool. He tugged at the younger boy’s arm. ‘Leave her alone, eh? She’s not interested.’
With a shrug, Edison gave up. As he stomped out of the room, his sister uncovered the mouthpiece of her phone again.
‘This place is bad enough,’ she muttered to the person at the other end of the line, ‘without total strangers bursting in on me . . .’
Marcus cringed.
‘I guess your sister really hates it here, huh?’ he said on his way downstairs. ‘I don’t blame her. I’d rather be at home too.’
‘Really?’ Edison was obviously taken aback. ‘Why? Do you have a dog at home?’
‘No.’
‘A treehouse?’
‘No.’
‘A ride-on mower?’
‘Don’t be stupid.’
‘Well, what’s so good about your place, then?’
‘Nothing,’ Marcus said impatiently. ‘I just don’t like the beach, that’s all.’
Edison pondered this remark for a moment. But he couldn’t seem to make much sense of it.
‘If your caravan’s really haunted, you’ll have a
great
time here,’ he pointed out, with the air of someone offering comfort. ‘It’ll be the best holiday you ever had. Especially if we manage to catch that ghost.’
Then he turned on his heel and went to look for shaving cream in the bathroom.
I
T WAS A VERY LONG WALK FROM THE BEACH TO THE
B
RADSHAWS
’ caravan. Marcus and Edison trudged on and on, their eyes screwed up against the glare. They had to dodge a lot of balls and frisbees and puddles of melted ice-cream. Dogs were barking and radios were blaring. Onions sizzled on barbecues. Pigeons and seagulls strutted around, pecking at all the squashed chips and discarded wrappers that littered the landscape.
At f irst the two boys passed crowds of sandy people carrying wet towels and surfboards. Gradually, however, the sand disappeared. Marcus saw one little kid making a dirt-castle, while her mother sunbathed on the bonnet of the family car. Nearby, an old man had set up a deckchair and a beach umbrella, so he could sit and stare at another old man doing exactly the same thing across the road.
By the time Marcus and his friend reached their destination, they had been joined by a small white dog wearing waterwings and swimming goggles.
‘Shoo!’ said Marcus, flapping his hands at the dog ‘Go home! Go on!
Get!
’
But the dog wouldn’t leave him alone. It trotted after him into the caravan, where it began to sniff around suspiciously.
Edison was sniffing too.
‘Wow,’ he said, wrinkling his nose. ‘This place smells just like my grandad.’
‘You think?’ Marcus was surprised. ‘
I
think it smells like sweaty gym clothes. Does your grandad smell like sweaty gym clothes?’
‘No,’ Edison replied. He dumped his backpack onto the floor. ‘It’s not very big, is it?’ he added, gazing around. ‘There isn’t much room to hide a skeleton.’
‘A
skeleton
?’ Marcus gaped at him. ‘What skeleton?’
‘That old lady’s skeleton.’ Yanking open a cupboard, Edison hunkered down to peer inside. ‘Did you check for hidden wall panels?’
Marcus snorted.
‘You’re nuts,’ he said. ‘Why would an old lady’s skeleton be stuffed inside our wall?’
‘Who knows?’ Edison shrugged. ‘Maybe she was murdered. Maybe that’s why she’s haunting the place.’
Marcus shook his head in despair as Edison kept poking around in search of bones, or bloodstains, or paranormal activity. Meanwhile, the little dog followed its nose along the kickboards and beneath the table, where it sat down and gave a sharp yap.
‘Swimming goggles can’t be good for dogs,’ Marcus observed, eyeing the animal doubtfully. ‘Maybe we should take them off.’
Edison didn’t seem to hear. ‘Hey, Marcus,’ he inquired, ‘do these seats lift up?’
‘Huh? What?’
Edison explained that in
his
family’s caravan, all the bench seats were storage units. By raising their hinged and padded tops, you could expose the cache of flippers or picnic rugs or fishing equipment underneath.
Marcus pursed his lips.
‘Those are extra beds,’ he replied. ‘You take off the cushions at the back so you can lie down.’
‘Yeah, but have you checked
under
the cushions?’ Edison wanted to know. When Marcus shook his head, the younger boy grinned. ‘We should do that. We should take a look. Maybe the skeleton’s in one of those seats . . .’
The seats wouldn’t budge, though. Not at first, anyway. Marcus tugged and strained and nothing happened.
‘I told you,’ he said, panting. ‘They don’t open up.’
‘Wait . . . hang on . . .’ Edison wriggled under the table so he could take a good, long look at the lower halves of the two benches. Luckily, he was small enough to squeeze into such a restricted space. ‘Just pass me the torch, will you?’
Marcus shuddered; he knew how dark and greasy it was under the table. As he fished around in his friend’s backpack, the little white dog began to lick Edison’s face.
‘Ah-ha – stop – get off!’ Edison giggled, then gasped. ‘I knew it!’ he cried.
‘What?’
‘There’s a hook-type thing! It’s holding the seat down!’ After a moment’s silence, Edison gave a grunt. ‘It’s really stiff.’
‘Here. Let me,’ said Marcus.
But Edison needed help with the dog, not the latch. ‘He won’t leave me alone,’ Edison explained. So Marcus had to eject their little white visitor as Edison fiddled with a rusty hinge.
‘Go home,’ Marcus ordered, dumping the dog outside. ‘Go on! Get!’
But it wouldn’t move. It just stood on the front steps, wagging its tail.
‘Gotcha!’ yelped Edison. When Marcus glanced around, he saw that the other boy was on his knees, opening one of the benches like a toy-box.
‘You don’t live here,’ Marcus informed the dog, before slamming the door in its face. He felt guilty when he heard it scratch and whine.
‘Hey, Marcus.’ Edison was peering into the deep, dark hole he’d just uncovered. ‘Guess what?’
‘You’ve found your skeleton,’ Marcus replied. He was joking, of course.
Edison, however, took him seriously.
‘No. At least . . . I dunno.’ He looked up. ‘It depends what you’ve got in your cellar, I guess.’
I
T WAS TRUE
. E
DISON HAD DISCOVERED A CELLAR
.
‘That’s— that’s impossible,’ Marcus protested. He stared in disbelief at a narrow flight of wooden steps that descended into some kind of musty, shadowy, subterranean region. ‘This caravan is on wheels,’ he croaked. ‘It
can’t
have a cellar.’
Edison peered downstairs. ‘It sure looks like a cellar to me,’ he said.
‘But—’
‘It’s big, isn’t it? You’re lucky. We don’t have a cellar in our caravan.’ While Edison rooted around in his backpack, Marcus stood gawking, unable to believe his eyes. Was it an optical illusion? Was it done with mirrors? How could there possibly be a cellar when the caravan was sitting on wheels, off the ground?
Could Holly have parked over an abandoned cellar and not noticed it?
‘We should get another torch,’ Edison remarked crisply. He had strapped on his infrared goggles, but hadn’t dragged them over his eyes. ‘Is there one around here somewhere?’
‘I – uh – yeah.’ Marcus couldn’t help sounding dazed. ‘Are you – I mean, are we going down to have a look?’
‘Of course!’ Edison seemed taken aback. ‘Don’t you
want
to?’
‘I guess . . .’
‘We should take a can of drink as well,’ Edison solemnly recommended. ‘Just in case we get thirsty.’
He waited until Marcus had retrieved a torch from one of the kitchen cupboards. There was no soft drink, but Marcus found a bottle of water instead. He stuffed it into the backpack, which was now hanging off Edison’s shoulders. Outside, the little white dog was still whining and scratching.
‘Okay,’ said Marcus, ‘I’ll go first.’
‘No, I will.’
‘No,
I
will.’ Marcus refused to give an inch. ‘It’s my caravan, and I’m the oldest. I’ll go first.’
So it was Marcus who ended up in front, with Edison close behind him. Very slowly and carefully they advanced down the stairs, which creaked under their weight and wobbled slightly beneath the impact of every footfall. By the time they reached solid ground, they had already switched on their torches; the wavering beams flickered across a stone floor, a vaulted ceiling, and damp brick walls hung with cobwebs.
‘Oh, wow.’ Edison’s tone was reverent. ‘This is
fantastic.
It’s like a dungeon
.
’
‘But what is it?’ Marcus demanded faintly. ‘Why is it here?’
‘Hey! Look at that!’ Edison pointed. The beam from his torch had come to rest on a closed door with a shiny brass knob. ‘Let’s see where that goes!’
‘Hang on,’ said Marcus, whose own torch beam had picked out another, identical door. The two doors were placed side by side.
There was nothing else in the room; just the doors and the cobwebs.
‘This is crazy,’ Marcus faltered. He felt as if he were in a dream – or perhaps a computer game. Lots of computer games were played in virtual dungeons.
‘Which one looks safer to you?’ Edison asked him. Then, upon receiving no answer, he nodded at the left-hand door. ‘Let’s try that one.’
He darted forward eagerly, before Marcus could pull him back.
‘Wait!’ Marcus shrilled. But it was too late. Edison had already turned his chosen knob and yanked open the door attached to it.
Instantly, the air was filled with carnival music.
The two boys stared. Their jaws dropped in perfect unison. Beyond the threshold lay a vivid, sunlit amusement park. There were striped tents and fluttering flags and rides and booths and banners, but no people. No one was shrieking on the roller-coaster or chomping on fairy floss. No one was throwing hoops at targets or buying novelty baseball caps.
Though it was full of noise and movement, the entire park was empty of life.
‘Oh,
wow
. . .’ Edison breathed.
Together he and Marcus stepped through the door onto a smooth stretch of green lawn. To their right, an enormous carousel was spinning on its mirrored axis, pumping out a cheerful, chiming song. To their left, a row of painted clown heads swung from side to side in front of a wall hung with alluring prizes: plush toys, kewpie dolls, inflatable aliens. Ahead was an arena filled with dodgem cars; beyond that stood a slowly revolving ferris wheel. Wherever Marcus looked, there were flashing lights or moving parts or happy, painted faces.
Everything was bright and clean and colourful under a cloudless blue sky.
‘This is crazy,’ Marcus repeated, his voice hushed.
‘Yeah,’ Edison agreed, ‘but it’s
great
.’
And then, just as Marcus opened his mouth to suggest that perhaps they shouldn’t stay very long, the six restless clown heads swung around to smile at Edison.
‘Hello, Edison!’ they chorused. ‘Do you want to win a stuffed blue gorilla?’
S
UDDENLY THE WHOLE FAIRGROUND SPRANG TO LIFE
.
‘I’d love to go home with you, Edison!’ the stuffed blue gorilla pleaded.
‘Edison! Oh, Edison! Please come for a gallop!’ neighed the pastel ponies on the carousel.
‘Hey! Edison! Over here!’ an enormous voice boomed. Glancing around, Marcus saw that the octopus ride was beckoning with its long, steely arms, each of which had a two-seater buggy attached to it. ‘Come on!’ urged the octopus. ‘You’ll have a wonderful time!’
Marcus swallowed.
‘I bet we’ve been gassed,’ he said hoarsely. ‘There must be a leak in the gas bottle under the stove.’ Not that he could smell gas – only fried fat and hot sugar. ‘We’ve got to get out of here,’ he insisted. ‘I think we’re having hallucinations.’
Edison, however, wasn’t listening. His face was flushed and his eyes were bright.
‘Oh, man!’ he exclaimed. ‘Those dodgem cars are
so cool
!’
‘Edison—’ Marcus began. But he stopped when something tugged at his T-shirt.
Looking down, he nearly had a heart attack. A wooden fretwork policeman was grinning up at him with painted teeth. The policeman held a sign that said:
You must be this tall to get on.
‘You’re too big for these rides,’ the policeman announced, plucking at Marcus’s T-shirt with his uplifted measuring hand. ‘But Edison isn’t. Edison can stay.’
‘Get off!’ Marcus gave the creepy little thing a shove. ‘Don’t touch me!’
At that moment, it occurred to Marcus that you shouldn’t be able to touch a hallucination. Then he found himself wondering how he and Edison could be having the
same
hallucination – unless Edison himself wasn’t real?
‘Hey, Edison,’ said Marcus, whirling around to see if he could grab his friend’s arm. It was too late, though. Edison was already streaking towards the dodgem cars, his legs pumping wildly.
‘Hey! Wait! Edison!’ yelled Marcus, leaping forward. The little fretwork policeman tried to hold him back. But even Marcus had more than enough muscle to deal with a sheet of painted plywood. He slapped the policeman aside just as the clowns revealed that they weren’t disembodied heads on boxes after all.
One by one they stood up, displaying their glossy fibreglass shoulders, arms, chests, stomachs, hips . . .
Marcus pounded past them on his way to the dodgems. ‘
Edison!
’ he screamed, wide-eyed with fear. The clowns followed him, as clumsy and hesitant as newborn foals on their long, skinny, stiff-jointed legs. Behind them swarmed a teeming mob of plush toys, kewpie dolls and inflatable aliens, all of whom had wriggled off their hooks and dropped to the ground so that they could chase Marcus.
