The Trophy of Champions (18 page)

‘So, Whisker,' he said, making conversation as they munched on their spinach filo pastries. ‘I take it you're some kind of overgrown field mouse?'

‘Err, no, Mr Belorio,' Whisker replied awkwardly. ‘I'm a rat just like the others – just not as big ... or as small …'

‘Yeah, of course you are,' Frankie said, glancing across at Fred and Horace. ‘Sorry, I never was too good at zoology.' He took another bite of his food. ‘So, anyway, if you're a rat like the rest of ‘em, and you're wearin' the tackiest palm tree tourist shirt I've ever seen, you must be a Pie Rat in disguise, right?'

‘Um …' Whisker began, unsure how he should respond.

‘Don't worry,' Frankie whispered. ‘I know all about the Pie Rats and the Pirate Cup. If Death Ball's involved, I'm onto it. Believe me, I'd be there cheerin' you on if I didn't have my squeaky clean reputation to uphold. I'd lose my sponsors in an instant if they heard I'd been hangin' with a horde of bloodthirsty bandits – present company excepted. So, tell me, kid, who's the team to beat?'

Whisker gulped down a buttery slab of pastry. ‘That would be the Cat Fish. The
bloodthirstiest
crew of them all.'

‘And we're facing them in the grand final,' Horace added, crumbs falling from his mouth. ‘They beat the marmosets in a full-time penalty shootout yesterday – six goals to four. It was the roughest, toughest game in the history of the cup.'

‘A taste of what's to come …' Whisker said under his breath.

Frankie looked at both of them. ‘Where's your confidence, lads? You'll never defeat an opposition unless you believe you can defeat ‘em.'

‘Okay,' Horace squeaked. ‘We can do that. Can't we, Whisker?'

‘Sure,' Whisker said, sounding anything but confident. ‘Think positive.'

‘I'll tell you a secret,' Frankie said, putting down his fork. ‘It's the key to my success. You'll find it all in my biography –
Frankie Belorio, the Champ Tells All,
which sells in all good bookshops – but here it is from the bilby's mouth.

‘I was once a kid just like you. Yeah, I know it's hard to believe a big strong superstar like me was once a mere child, but I was. Anyway, do you think I was the fastest or the strongest kid when I was your age?'

‘Err … no,' Whisker replied.

‘Well, actually I was,' Frankie said, ‘but that's beside the point. The point is, there were plenty of young bilbies who were almost as big and nearly as strong as me, but they never turned pro, and they never won the league's most valuable player four years runnin'. And why?'

‘They suffered horrible, career ending injuries,' Horace guessed.

‘Yes, that was partly to blame,' Frankie conceded. ‘But the main reason was this.' He pointed to the middle of his broad muscular chest.

‘Your oversized pectoral muscles,' Horace gasped.

‘No,' Frankie replied. ‘It's what's directly under here: my heart.'

‘Zoologically speaking, your heart's actually a little to the left,' Horace pointed out. ‘Just in case you didn't know.'

Whisker elbowed Horace in the ribs. ‘Go on, Mr Belorio.'

Frankie tapped his chest and continued, ‘Now, I'm not talkin' ‘bout some touchy-feely love thing here, I'm talkin' about the real deal – a big meaty organ that pumps blood from my head to my toes. It's what keeps me going – literally. Think about this. When I miss a shot or get knocked flyin', and I'm lyin' face down in the turf, what keeps me goin'? My heart keeps me goin'. With every beat it says
Frankie, I'm still pumpin', I haven't given up. What about you?
So I dust off my paws and tell myself that as long as my heart keeps beatin', I'm gonna keep on fightin'. That's what makes a true champ, boys: you never give up … Oh, and a loose fittin' uniform – none of this new skin-tight rubbish. You'll never win a game if you're more restricted than a hippo in a corset …'

Frankie drifted off into a rambling diatribe on contemporary sports fashion, but Whisker's mind lingered on the champion's advice. As Delores brought out sizzling dishes of fried potato fritters and sweet chilli dumplings, Whisker repeated in his mind,
Never give up. Never give up.
It was a phrase he knew all too well, but one he'd somehow pushed to the back of his mind.

The dishes kept coming and the guests kept arriving. From their luxurious vantage point, the rats could see the rest of their companions marching up the gangplank two-by-two, carrying an assortment of boxes and brown paper shopping bags. The last guests to arrive were Ruby and the Captain. After seeing Horace's three sisters waving through the lounge windows, Ruby decided not to join the others and instead began loading the supplies into her new cart. Fred, having already eaten his weight in Ship-Shaped Chips, went to assist her.

When the loading was done, the two of them were joined by Rat Bait, eager to see if his small hired vessel would support the extra weight. Together, they disappeared down the hill with a stack of Frankie cut-outs protruding from the top of the cart. Frankie was too busy talking about Death Ball and sucking down sorbet to notice his seven painted faces staring back at him.

‘Papa Niko told us you were working on a new set play for the winter season,' Horace said through a mouthful of mango gelato.

Frankie's eyes lit up.
‘The Double Decoy – Centre Steal.
It's my greatest play yet.' He stopped and looked around suspiciously. ‘Listen, if you can keep a secret from the reporters, I'll give you the inside scoop.'

Horace and Whisker nodded excitedly.

Frankie plucked a pencil out of Delores' apron on her way past and unfolded a white cloth napkin on the table.

‘It goes like this …' he whispered, drawing a large circle in the centre of the napkin.

Talking at a million miles an hour while scribbling frantically with his pencil, Frankie brought the play to life before their eyes. Whisker could barely keep up.

‘… and then the winger runs this way, but the opposition thinks the player in the centre has the ball, and half of them are already committed to the other winger, who is actually the centre, actin' as the keeper … and the whole thing ends with a sneaky goal!'

Frankie had to repeat himself several times before the two rats fully understood the play, and by that stage Papa Niko was peering over their shoulders, clapping his paws excitedly. Frankie was ready to launch into a detailed history of set plays from his last ten seasons when the restaurant band began to play.

‘Come on,' Frankie said, dropping the napkin and leaping up from his chair. ‘Grab a partner, it's time to dance!'

In moments Frankie was on the parquetry dance floor, surrounded by adoring fans. Mama Kolina pulled Papa Niko up to dance, the Captain politely escorted Granny Rat over for a waltz and Athena dragged Pete into the action. To everyone's surprise, Pete was soon tapping his pencil leg and jiving away to songs of Betty Confetti and the Slew Foot Four.

‘Who are you going to dance with, Whisker?' Horace asked cheekily as Hera and Aphrodite approached them in the lounge.

‘M-me,' Whisker stammered, his tail coiling around the leg of the couch. ‘Dance with? I, well … you see …' He shot a quick glance out the window, hoping to see the one rat he wanted to dance with, but the gangplank was deserted.

I doubt she'd dance with me, anyway,
he thought, downcast.
She won't even talk to me.

‘Whisker?' Hera cried, pushing Aphrodite out of the way. ‘WHISKER!'

‘Yes – Hera,' Whisker sighed, turning from the window. ‘What can I …'

‘You said yes!' she exclaimed. ‘Oh, that's fabulous. We'll make such a swell dancing duo. Come on, let's tango.'

Before Whisker could protest, Hera had grabbed him by the paw and was dragging him over to the dance floor, leaving Aphrodite fuming in the lounge behind them.

As the trumpets blared,
HONKA TONK TONK,
and the drums boomed,
DUM DUM DE DUM
, Whisker realised there were worse things in life than dancing with the queen of the gods.

It sure beats sitting in the corner being miserable,
he thought. Finding the confidence, he slowly began to lighten up and enjoy himself.

Everywhere he turned he saw smiling, laughing faces. Joyous bodies swayed to the rhythm of the music. Heels tapped, hips shook, shoes shuffled and tails wiggled. Horace even pulled out his trademark dance move, the
Hookinator Handstand,
much to the delight of the crowd.

As Whisker spun in crazy circles with Hera, he noticed that even Delores and her fellow waitresses had swapped their menus for dancing shoes and were up grooving with the diners. The entire restaurant appeared to be on the dance floor – the entire restaurant except for two solitary figures.

Whisker saw them almost simultaneously. The first leant cross-armed against an entrance pillar, glaring angrily at him with her emerald green eye. The second was already halfway out a side door, his orange and white fur disappearing into the shadows, his black coat rippling behind him. He shot a suspicious glance over his shoulder with a pair of cunning orange eyes before slipping silently through the doorway.

Whisker froze mid-spin.

His paws slipped from Hera's grasp.

His heart skipped a beat.

He's here,
he thought in astonishment.
Of all places …

And in a flash, Whisker was gone – darting past the dancers and vanishing through the doorway on the trail of a fox in a long black coat.

The Fox with No Name

Whisker found himself standing in the centre of an empty stone corridor. High, windowless walls rose above him, disappearing into the blackness in both directions. There was no sign of the fox.

Where did he go?
he thought, scanning the passage for movement.

‘HEY!' he shouted, his voice echoing off the stone walls. He waited for a reply, but all he could hear was the stomping of feet and the crashing of cymbals as the restaurant band continued to play.

Unsure which way he should turn, Whisker raised his nose and sniffed the air. A faint scent of musky cologne lingered in the passage. Sensing the smell was stronger to his right, he set off in that direction. Staying close to one wall, he used his whiskers to guide him along the corridor until he reached a wooden door.

He fumbled in the darkness until he located a cold metal handle and gave it a sharp twist. There was a soft
click
as the latch released and a thick, oak door swung outwards, filling the passage with blinding white light. Whisker shielded his eyes with the back of his paw and staggered forward.

When his eyes finally adjusted to the brightness, he realised he was standing on a first floor balcony, facing a sunlit courtyard. A grass-covered square was surrounded by walls on all sides and filled with fish-shaped topiary trees and an enormous stone fountain. Water squirted from the mouths of three giant fish in the centre of the fountain and splashed into a boat-shaped pool at its base. The balcony ran the entire perimeter of the courtyard and was accessed by a door at either end. A number of glass-paned windows hung open along each wall.

Over the soft gurgling sounds of the fountain, Whisker heard muffled voices coming from a window to his left. Hoping the voices would lead him to the fox, he pricked up his ears and listened carefully.

‘… Business as usual then?' asked a thin, raspy voice.

‘Aye,' replied a younger, quivering voice, ‘but we're running short on workers and production's ramping up. You wouldn't happen to –?'

‘No,' snapped the first voice. ‘That was never part of the deal. If you can't meet the deadline then –'

‘We'll meet the deadline,' interrupted a third voice, deep and confident. ‘I can assure you that more workers are being recruited as we speak.'

‘Good,' hissed the first voice. ‘At least you have things under control.'

‘Always,' said the deep voice. ‘Now, if we're done talking, I'd like to get this game underway.'

Whisker heard the shuffle of chairs, the creak of a door and the tinkle of coins. Seizing his opportunity, he lowered himself onto his stomach and slithered closer. He reached a black marble statue of a mink, perched to the right of the window and, using the shiny statue as his cover, raised his head and peered inside.

Illuminated by a small candle chandelier, Whisker made out the dimly-lit interior of an elegant wall-papered room. A round table stood in its centre, covered by a layer of green felt. High stacks of Aladryan gold coins were piled across its surface, sparkling in the candle light. Seated comfortably at the table were two smartly dressed meerkats, a cloaked figure with his back to the window and the fox. The trader's penetrating amber eyes stared, unblinking, at the piles of coins around him.