Jungle Tangle Read online

  Oh, Mum. Oh, Dad. Oh, Bourbons. Abbie grabbed Grandma and hugged her tight. They moaned and rocked.

  * * *

  In her bedroom on the first floor, the Pittsburgh Pearl Pincher rocked and moaned and moaned and rocked. Five days after her operation and it still felt as if a knife was gouging her eyeballs. She fumbled blindly in her bag for the painkiller Klench had given her. She didn’t trust that man an inch – for all she knew it could be poison – but anything was better than this. Her fingers closed round the bottle. She brought it out, unscrewed the cap and drank. Licking her lips, she sat back and closed her eyes. ‘Mmm!’ It tasted as sweet as revenge.

  But whose?

  She fell asleep. In her dream, a blurry form appeared. Slowly it came into focus: a white-haired lady wearing a pearl necklace. A second old lady appeared by her side, then a third, then a fourth, until row upon row of old ladies, all in pearl necklaces, stood facing her.

  The Pearl Pincher shifted uneasily in her sleep.

  The first old lady undid her necklace and held it up in a U-shape. ‘You stole this from me.’ She glared at the Pearl Pincher.

  ‘And this from me,’ said the second lady, holding up her necklace.

  ‘And this … and this …’ echoed the others in a rising tide of anger.

  The Pearl Pincher moaned softly.

  The first lady pulled the clasp off her necklace. She slid a pearl off the string and rolled it in her hand. The others did the same.

  ‘Lift,’ said the first lady, raising her fist. ‘Aim … fire.’

  Pearl after pearl came flying at the Pincher. They slammed into her like giant hailstones. She turned to run. But her feet slipped on the pearls and she got nowhere. They were piling up around her, to her knees, her chest, her chin. They blocked her ears and filled her mouth, almost – but never quite – choking her: an endless burial alive.

  The Pearl Pincher screamed in her sleep.

  ***

  In the room next door, Brag Swaggenham sat on his bed. His fingertips were throbbing in agony. He leaned towards his bedside table and snagged the bottle of painkiller between his wrists. He pulled off the cap with his teeth, held the bottle between his lips, threw back his head and swallowed. ‘Aaah.’ Sweetness spread down his throat. He lay back on his bed and dozed off.

  He dreamed he was walking through the jungle. Plants crowded on every side: fat vines, spiky ferns and garish flowers with huge, fleshy leaves. Wherever he looked a tree or creeper blocked his view.

  ‘Outta my way.’ He kicked a vine that lay across his path. It whipped round his ankles, reared like a snake and strung him upside down. Brag shrieked as the jungle closed in. The ferns bent towards him, jabbing spikes into his face. The flowers grew brighter, dazzling him with their reds and yellows. Their fat leaves split into huge leering mouths.

  ‘I hate ya, nateya!’ cried Brag.

  ‘We know you do,’ whispered the mouths. ‘We hate you too. You chop, you drill, you steal, you spill.You kill, you kill, you kill, you ki–’

  Brag shrieked as the mouths gaped wider and closer, forever on the verge of swallowing him whole.

  * * *

  All down the corridor, guests drank the juice, fell asleep and suffered nightmares of their victims’ revenge. The wasp-faced gangster whined in terror as a rival he’d once stabbed brandished the knife at him, endlessly about to plunge it in. The bank-robbing couple screamed as a clerk they’d shot turned the gun on them and repeatedly cocked the trigger. The bubble-wrapped man sobbed in despair as the business partner he’d cheated gave evidence upon evidence in an interminable trial.

  If only Klench had known.

  * * *

  He opened an eye. How long had he been there, snivelling into his desk? He lifted his head. Oh, how it ached. He gazed at the shelf on the opposite wall. A row of brown bottles, waiting to cure the pain of future guests, gazed back.

  Klench blinked. Wasn’t his anguish as great as theirs? Didn’t his loneliness scream as loudly as any levelled eye or squashed neck? He reached for a bottle, unscrewed it and drank. He leaned back in his chair. His eyelids drooped. He nodded off.

  Oh dear. Where do we start?

  With a long, long queue. Lining up patiently in his mind were the hordes of people he’d hurt. Why? For sharing the one thing he’d never had. And what was that?

  Happiness.

  First came the hundred and eighty-four pensioners to whom he’d given Chinese burns just for greeting him in the street. Smiling sweetly, they surged towards him in his dream and pushed him onto his back. Before he could get up, they seized his arms and legs and pinned him to the ground.

  Then came Jonty Chuckle, the little boy whom Klench had once seen hugging his dad on the pavement. Enraged by such a show of love, Klench had snatched Jonty’s toy rabbit and bitten its ear off. Now Jonty knelt down and gave Klench’s ear a never-ending tweak.

  Next appeared the army of shop assistants Klench had held at gunpoint just for smiling at him. ‘Shut ups!’ he shrieked in his sleep as they told jokes he didn’t get and roared with laughter.

  Then the presidents of two Pacific islands climbed onto his stomach and jumped up and down. Why? To pay him back for the war he’d organised after visiting their sunny, smiley nations.

  And that was it. All the happy, skippy, Christmassy folk he’d ever met and maimed – not to mention the animals and birds he’d smuggled – jumped on too, and trampolined their hearts out.

  ‘No!’ Klench wailed in his sleep. ‘Go vay, happy folks. Go vay, everyone I have hurt.’ He slid off his chair. Rolling around the floor, he clutched his ears. But the clapping and cheering, roaring and squawking just grew louder and louder and–

  ‘Enough!’ roared a voice.

  The dream crowd froze.

  Glaring at them was a woman with a face the colour of storm clouds. ‘Leave my boy alones. Shoo shoo, ze lot of you!’ Inner Mummy raised her arms. The crowd vanished, leaving only Jonty Chuckle still clutching Klench’s ear and staring at her in terror. ‘You too, vimp!’ Jonty blinked and disappeared.

  Klench opened his eyes. He rolled onto his front. He pushed himself up. He wiped the tears from his face.

  ‘Stupid boy!’ Mummy shouted in his head. ‘Vy you drink zat medicine? How dare you be unhappy? Viz mum like me you should be glad. Vot more you vont, ungrateful lad?’

  Klench glowered at her with his inner eye. He knew exactly what.

  * * *

  ‘Super pooper-scooping!’ shouted a deep voice. Marcus looked up from his shovel. Abigail Hartley’s dad was striding up to the elephant pen. ‘Thanks a mil for helping out, Marcus. Having a good day?’

  Marcus tried to smile. ‘Um, yeah. Though I didn’t realise there’d be so much …’ He nodded at the shovel.

  Mr Hartley hooted. ‘That’s zoos for you. And you’ve got the cream of the crop there, from Gina. Wait till we tell Abbie. She’ll be amazed to hear you’re doing this.’

  ‘Mmm.’ That’s not all she’ll be amazed to hear.

  ‘Matt! Come and meet Marcus.’ Mr Hartley beckoned to a skinny man in a green boiler suit. His black hair was tied in three plaits. He had huge rabbity teeth.

  ‘This is Perdita’s dad,’ said Mr Hartley.

  Duh. You don’t say. Marcus gave a tight smile.

  ‘Thanks so much for helping.’ Mr Platt looked exhausted. ‘There’s a lot to do while they’re away.’ He rubbed a finger over his teeth.

  Marcus stared at him. He’s not actually crying, is he?

  ‘Graham!’ A small lady with blonde hair ran up. ‘I asked you to … Oh hi, Marcus. I’m Abbie’s mum. I’ve seen you at school. And Abbie’s, er, mentioned you a few times. Very nice of you to help.’ She frowned. ‘Though, I must say, it’s quite a surprise. Anyway,’ she turned back to Mr Hartley, ‘I asked you to put up the picnic table in the ape house, darling.’

  ‘I’ve been trying to, darling. Can’t get the legs down.’ Mr Hartley slapped Mr Platt on the back. ‘Wondering if you
’d do the honours, Matt?’

  Mr Platt sighed. ‘I was going to play chess with Gina. But OK.’

  Mrs Hartley nudged her husband. ‘I wanted to give Matt a break, darling. Please try again.’

  Mr Hartley nudged her back. ‘I’ve been trying for half an hour. Darling.’ He winked at Marcus. ‘Ask about picnic tables in history and I’m your man. Ask me to put one up and I’m–’

  ‘Useless,’ said his wife. ‘Oh, by the way, Marcus, please join us for dinner. The zoo closes at five on Saturdays. All the staff eat together at six.’

  Marcus stopped shovelling. ‘Really? Er, thanks, but my mum wants me home.’ He turned back to his shovel.

  Yes! He’d found his moment.

  23 - Klench’s Request

  Abbie stared at the floor. Not that there was much to stare at, just brown packed earth. She wondered if that’s what her mind would look like after the operation: brown packed earth whenever she tried to remember anything beyond three seconds ago.

  That got the tears going. They rolled down her cheeks and fell on the ground in dark, fat blotches.

  She heard Perdita crying too. Reaching over, the friends hugged. Friends, thought Abbie. We’ll forget we’re friends. We’ll have to introduce ourselves every three seconds. The tears came faster. She sobbed into Perdita’s shoulder.

  ‘Quiet!’ said Carmen.

  Abbie looked up. ‘I can’t help it,’ she sniffed. ‘The thought of–’

  ‘I mean leesten.’

  Holding her breath, Abbie heard the tiniest noise. A scraping, rustling sound coming from Carmen’s direction.

  Coriander looked at Perdita. ‘Recognise that?’

  Perdita sat back and wiped her eyes. ‘Woodworm. The hairy harp of Hibernia.’ She turned to the others. ‘Mum brought the harp back from Ireland and stood it in the corner. Took us ages to work out what the noise was.’

  Coriander looked round. ‘It must be coming from your stand, Carmen. That’s the only wood in this room.’

  ‘Aiee, I am eenfested! Worms they climb my neck and eat my brain.’

  Fernando rolled onto Carmen’s wooden plate. ‘Come, worms. You eat my Carmen, you eat me too.’ He kissed her on the mouth: a smeary smackeroo. ‘Remember, wife, you are love of my life.’

  Carmen blinked at him. Her lumpy lips trembled. ‘I suppose,’ she admitted at last, ‘you love of mine too.’

  Life, thought Abbie. Her own hurtled before her. Hot chocolate on Friday nights. Racing Mum along the beach in Cornwall. Pinching chips from Ollie’s plate. Dad’s historical dinners: medieval gruel, pease pudding not so hot. Cuddles from Winnie; puddles from Minnie. Even Marcus and his insults. Oh, to be in the playground right now, insulting him back.

  Her chest ached. Memories. They made her who she was. Without them life meant nothing. She meant nothing. Why had God bothered making her at all? Why hadn’t he put his feet up and watched Masterchef instead?

  The door opened. Klench appeared, gun in hand.

  Abbie gasped. Forgetting her misery for a second, she stared at him. What on earth had happened? His face was red. His jacket was buttoned up wrongly. His shirt hung loose underneath. And, most shocking of all, his parting was wonky.

  ‘Madam.’ Klench turned to Grandma. His squeaky voice was softer than usual. ‘I need to talks. I offer you vun last chance of freedom.’

  Her eyes went heavenward. ‘’Ow many times do I ’ave to tell you, I will never, not in a month of bundays, join you in–’

  ‘I know, I know.’ Klench sighed. ‘Ziss I am no lonker askink. Now I am requestink your helps.’ He leaned forward and whispered, ‘You see, I have problem in brain.’

  Grandma snorted. ‘You’re tellin’ me. All that villainy – must be somethin’ skewy up there. Why are you whisperin’?’

  ‘Because my problem is snoozink. But she vake up any moment.’ Klench talked quietly and quickly. ‘You see, my mums has come back from dead. She sits in my mind and orders me abouts. She is super-smart, viz many degrees in crime. She is also tough and bold like you. Lonk story short – I believe you can help me send her packink from my head.’

  Grandma frowned. ‘And ’ow on earth would I do that?’

  Klench twiddled the buttons on his jacket. ‘By givink me lessons. Teachink me how to stand up to her, give her vot for. You are expert in vot for.’

  Grandma sniffed. ‘You mean I’m a bully?’

  ‘No no.’ Klench shook his head wildly. ‘I mean you are brave and fine.’

  ‘Oh.’ The corners of her lips twitched upward.

  ‘Grandma!’ Abbie jumped up. ‘Don’t be fooled. He’s just trying to flatter you. You know you can’t trust him an inch.’

  Klench wiggled the gun in frustration. ‘Zat is point. You cannot trust me becoss of my mums. Vunce you help me get rid of her, I vill be super-trusty bloke.’

  ‘’Ang on a mo.’ Grandma stood up slowly, shaking her head. ‘Are you tellin’ me that your wickedness is your mother’s fault? That she’s to blame for all your crimes?’

  Klench nodded so hard that his parting changed shape. ‘I knew you vere clever cookie.’

  Grandma put her hands on her hips. ‘Clever enough to know that you’re talkin’ poppytwaddle! I don’t care what your mother’s like. I don’t care what she says or does, whether she’s in your brain or your boots. You’re a grown man. You – and you alone,’ she jabbed a finger at him, ‘are responsible for your actions. You ’ear me? Stop blamin’ your baddery on someone else.’

  Klench sank back against the door. ‘But, madam.’ His voice was whiny. ‘If you met my mums you vould …’

  A look of fear came into his eyes. Fear and distraction. He gazed past Grandma, shaking his head and muttering, ‘Go back to sleep, Mums. I am busy.’

  He blinked back at Grandma. ‘So, madam. You refuse to help me.’ There was a tremble in his voice. ‘Fair enoughs. Zen ve proceed viz op. Tomorrow you vill all say goodbye to today.’

  * * *

  Up in the lounge all the guests who’d drunk the jungle medicine were sprawling in addled agony.

  ‘The pain’s even worse!’ Brag lay on a couch. ‘Not just ma fingers but ma branches – ah mean arms. And ma stems – ah mean legs.’

  ‘Feels like pearls are ramming into my eyes,’ wailed the Pincher, her head in her hands.

  ‘I’ll pay everything back,’ groaned the bubble-wrapped head. ‘Just let me go free.’

  Klench came in. He’d tucked in his shirt, redone his buttons and straightened his parting. He was back to professional neatness. Only his voice betrayed uncertainty. ‘Please to quiet, folks,’ he bleated, almost timidly. ‘I vill go back to junkle man. He must have made simple mistake. He vill redo painkiller and all vill be sorted.’

  ‘Oh, gimme a break!’ cried a lady whose arm already had three.

  * * *

  Down in the cellar Carmen, too, was crying. ‘Owee! Get off. You never free me from stand. Woodworm, they comeeng to eat my brain.’

  Abbie stopped twisting. She couldn’t detach Carmen’s neck. And the scratching was getting louder.

  ‘Shhh.’ She put a finger on Carmen’s lips. Another sound, faint but chirpy, was growing in time to the rhythmic scraping. A sound you’d almost call–

  ‘Singing!’ Abbie moved Carmen aside and put her ear to the ground. She sat up and scrabbled at the dirt with her fingers. ‘Come on,’ she yelled. ‘Dig!’

  * * *

  It was getting dark. People were trickling out of the zoo exit.

  At the gate Charlie Chumb shook Marcus’s hand. ‘You’ve done a great day’s um … Sure you won’t join us for … you know?’

  Marcus humped his rucksack over his shoulder. ‘No. I told Mum I’d be home by five-thirty.’

  ‘Well, thanks for all your hard, ah … And do come again any, um …’

  ‘Thanks.’

  And no thanks. Marcus headed out of the gate. He turned left and dived behind a tree as Charlie disappeared back into the zoo. Taking out his
cell phone, he rang home. ‘Mum? We’re watching a movie. And Greg’s mum’s doing pizza. Can I stay?’

  ‘Fine by me, love,’ came his mum’s voice. ‘You won’t need dinner then?’

  Marcus’s stomach growled. He was starving. ‘Maybe a snack. Greg’s dad said he’ll drop me home.’

  ‘Enjoy the film, dear.’

  Marcus looked at his watch. Four fifty-two. The last visitors trickled towards the exit.

  Marcus rushed up. ‘I forgot my jumper,’ he said through the gate. On the other side, a lady was dragging a little boy to the exit.

  ‘I wanna stay in the zooooo,’ whined the boy.

  ‘Look, Otis.’ The lady pointed at Marcus. ‘There’s the boy who was shovelling doo-doos.’ Otis stopped to stare. The lady clicked the gate open and held it for Marcus.

  ‘Thanks.’ Marcus ran inside.

  ‘Wanna shovel doo-doos,’ wailed Otis as his mother pulled him out.

  Marcus crept past the entrance pond and along the path. It was dark and deserted. He took off his rucksack and pushed it into the bushes at the side. Then he followed and crouched down. Clutching the heavy rucksack, he waited.

  24 - Stick Around

  Everyone with hands dug madly, spraying up earth from the cellar floor. Everyone without them shouted, ‘Olé!’

  The hole grew deeper. The singing grew clearer. The scratching grew louder, faster, closer. Then a shout, a snout and–

  ‘GAV!’ yelled Abbie. The little silver gadget popped up, doing a jig on the head of–

  ‘BRILLO!’

  Box and beast emerged from the hole. Abbie kissed Gav on the screen.

  Perdita threw her arms round Brillo. ‘You darlings! You heroes! You superstars!’

  ‘So that was the scratching sound!’ said Abbie.

  Carmen whooped. ‘My brain eet safe from wooden worms.’

  ‘Grab your partners,’ sang Gav, ‘give a cheer,

  I’m the one who led us here.

  Tracked down Brillo, steered his snout

  Through the ground, then up and out,

  Waited underneath the floor