Jungle Tangle Page 19

  ‘It’s OK,’ said Perdita. ‘Heppie won’t come out. At least …’ She bit her lip.

  ‘I know,’ said Mrs Strode-Boylie. ‘That’s why we’re here.’ Taking a deep breath, she stepped onto the grass. Then she turned the carrier bag upside down. Eighteen flattened paper bags fell out. ‘Marcus,’ she said, ‘tell them why their hippo went walkies.’

  * * *

  Corky Shocka’s fingers flew across the keyboard. She hated working on Saturdays – tried to leave it to the weekend staff – but this story broke all the rules. She’d even cut short her weekly zoo visit to rush to the office.

  Corky finished typing, sat back and read over her article. It couldn’t even wait till Sunday. She’d print a:

  Special Saturday Edition

  HIP HIPPO HOORAY!

  THE ZOO CAN STAY

  The Bellow reveals the whole sweet tooth

  Bradleigh Zoo is saved! Thanks to a STARTLING CONFESSION, the mystery of the wandering hippo has been solved. THE BELLOW can reveal that hefty Hepzibah Potts was lured from her home by nothing more fancy than humble household SUGAR! Some SICK TRICKSTER left a trail of the treat along the path by her pool. Smelling her NUMBER ONE NOSH, the hungry hippo gobbled her way out of the zoo. The ROTTEN RUSE was rumbled on Friday when the culprit came clean.

  And thanks to the admission, Police Sergeant Bolt says the zoo can now stay open. ‘After extensive discussions with the proprietors, we are satisfied that precautions can be taken to prevent further abscondings,’ he said. Which to you and me, readers, means IT WON’T HAPPEN AGAIN.

  Why not? Because zoo owner Matt Platt is already at work inventing a SNEAKY SNACK-TRACKER. ‘All visitors will be scanned at the entrance by a special camera that detects food,’ he said. ‘Any treats will be confiscated. So there’ll be no more escapes and no need to lock the animals up.’

  But WE want to lock someone up, don’t we, readers? Yes indeed – the LOUSY LOUT who poured the sugar out. Who’s behind the PESKY PRANK? Someone with a grudge? Someone seeking revenge on the Platts for a past insult? Who could it be?

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you,’ said Matt Platt.

  ‘Mum’s the word,’ said his wife, Coriander.

  ‘It wouldn’t be fair,’ said their daughter, Perdita. ‘He’s only a boy.’

  Only zookeeper Charlie Chumb was prepared to spill the beans – or should we say sugar? ‘It was, um – you know,’ he said.

  * * *

  There are several skills you don’t need to become a Massively Successful Dentist. Among them are modesty, humility and losing well at Monopoly.

  One skill you do need, however, is basic maths. Which is why Terry Strode-Boylie soon put two and two together to make roar.

  ‘MARCUS!’ He smacked the Special Saturday Edition of The Bellow on the table. ‘COME. HERE. THIS. MINUTE!’

  30 - Missing

  Abbie should have been happy. The zoo was saved and Marcus was disgraced.

  But she was furious. Fuming. Spitting mad. Well not actually spitting – it was Saturday evening and she didn’t want to waste her dinner on the tablecloth – but certainly mad.

  ‘Why couldn’t we tell Corky it was Marcus who let Heppie out?’ She stabbed a sausage. ‘He deserves to have his name splashed all over The Bellow.’

  ‘Over The Bellow, over The Bellow,’ squawked Mackenzie, ‘name him and shame him, the smelly young fellow.’

  Hear hear, thought Abbie. Thank goodness Mum had chosen the bird house for their dinner spot. At least the parrot saw sense.

  ‘Look,’ said Dad, ‘even if we had told Corky, she couldn’t name Marcus in the paper. He’s a child. It’s against the law.’

  ‘So was letting Heppie out,’ said Abbie. ‘He should pay for his crime.’

  ‘Pay for his crime, pay for his crime,’ echoed Mackenzie, ‘no doubt about it: the boy should do time.’

  You tell ’em, Mack. Abbie threw him a pea gratefully. He rolled it on his tongue.

  ‘I’m not sure it was a crime,’ said Matt. ‘Remember, Heppie wasn’t fenced in. That could be a bit of a grey area in the law.’

  ‘Anyway,’ said Mum, ‘this way the Strode-Boylies owe us one. Genevieve promised that if we don’t go round telling people, she can keep her husband quiet. Otherwise he’ll be so mad he’ll find another way to close the zoo down.’

  ‘So Marcus gets away scot-free? That’s outrageous!’ said Abbie.

  ‘Outrageous, unfair, disgraceful, unjust.

  The boy needs to pay for his deed – it’s a must.’

  Amen. Abbie threw Mackenzie a sprout. He caught it in his beak and swallowed it whole.

  ‘I bet he will pay,’ said Perdita. ‘His dad’s bound to punish him. So we shouldn’t go blabbing at school either. That would make it unbearable for Marcus.’

  Mackenzie cocked his head:

  ‘I hear what you’re saying – annoying but true –

  When you put it like that, I agree with your view.’

  ‘Traitor!’ Abbie threw a baked potato and knocked Mackenzie off his perch. She stood up from the table and stormed off.

  Grandma found her later by the porcupines’ bouncy castle. Abbie was throwing tennis balls at a turret.

  ‘That’s it, my girl. Get it out of your system,’ said Grandma.

  ‘It’s so unfair!’ Abbie snapped. ‘Marcus nearly ruined our lives.’

  Grandma nodded. ‘Certainly did.’

  ‘And now he’s got away with it.’

  ‘True.’ Grandma tutted.

  ‘Like he always does.’

  Grandma sighed. ‘So it seems.’

  ‘And I can’t even tell anyone!’

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that.’

  ‘What do you mean? You heard them at dinner.’ Abbie lobbed a ball at a battlement.

  Grandma folded her arms. ‘You could tell Marcus.’

  Abbie blinked. ‘What?’

  ‘Tell ’im exactly what you think of ’im. Get it off your chest. It’ll do you a power of good.’

  Abbie’s eyes widened. ‘You mean at school? Wow.’

  ‘Somewhere private, mind.’ Grandma shrugged. ‘Just a thought. Chew on it.’ She pottered off.

  Abbie gazed after her. It was a great idea … but how to get Marcus alone? If anyone overheard, and word got out, she’d be in the poop.

  She threw another ball. ‘Now what do I do?’ she said, as a porcupine speared it on one of his spines.

  ***

  Nothing, as it turned out. When she and Perdita walked into the classroom on Monday, Marcus wasn’t there. Nor was anyone else.

  ‘Are we early?’ said Perdita. ‘Or late?’ She frowned round the room. ‘According to that thing,’ she pointed at a knitted sundial on Mr Dabbings’s desk, ‘it’s either midday or night-time.’

  Abbie guessed that woollen sundials don’t cast the best shadows. So she looked at her watch. ‘It’s ten to nine. Where is everyone?’ Her heart sank. She’d actually been looking forward to school. Not just to shout at Marcus. She’d also dared to hope that the class might welcome them back. At the very least, you’d think they’d celebrate Saturday’s article in The Bellow about the zoo staying open.

  ‘Perhaps they’re on a school trip,’ said Perdita. ‘Had to leave early.’

  ‘Then why didn’t Mr Dabbings tell us? He could’ve left a message with Wendy.’ Abbie scowled. She’d never water his classroom herbs again.

  ♫ ‘FOR … THEY’RE TWO JOLLY GOOD FELL-OWS!’ The class burst through the door. They were singing, clapping and playing all manner of papier maché instruments.

  Terrifica tooted through a paper trombone.

  Behind her came Henry on cymbals. ‘Smash! Wallop! Clang-ang-ang!’

  Claire trilled through a newspaper flute.

  Rukia plucked a floppy banjo.

  Ursula tapped a tissue-paper triangle. ‘Ping!’ she yelled, though it was drowned out by Snorty’s nose percussion.

  ‘Welcome home!’ they shouted, crowding
round the girls.

  ‘How was the trip?’

  ‘You’re so brown.’

  ‘Fantastic news about the zoo.’

  ‘We missed you.’

  Abbie grinned, though her insides were blushing. How could she have doubted Mr Dabbings? Or the class? She still hadn’t got the hang of being, dare she say it, popular. Everyone grinned back.

  Everyone except Marcus. She looked round. He still wasn’t there.

  The others were tying bells round their ankles for the Welcome Home Frolic.

  After she and Perdita had been wrapped in ribbons like human maypoles (who cared if it was December?) Abbie went up to Greg Fnigg. ‘Where’s Marcus?’ she said.

  Greg shrugged. ‘I dunno. Off sick I s’pose.’ He blinked at the ground.

  And suddenly Abbie knew. ‘You know, don’t you?’ she said.

  ‘Know what?’ Greg blushed.

  ‘You know. About the You-Know.’

  ‘I … no. Oh no.’ And then it all came out. How Marcus had told Greg his plan. How Greg hadn’t taken it seriously until Hepzibah’s escape. How he’d been in agony ever since, not even confiding in his parents. How he was worried about getting into trouble for covering up Marcus’s crime. And how he was even more worried about Marcus.

  ‘I’ve phoned loads of times,’ Greg said, his face all pinched from the strain of not crying. ‘But his dad won’t let me talk to him. I bet he’s having a dreadful time.’

  Abbie snorted. Here we go again. Everyone’s on Marcus’s side.

  ‘Look,’ Greg went on, ‘I know he’s been horrible to you. And I have too. I’m really sorry. I should never have gone along with him. And maybe it’s no excuse – but things aren’t easy for him at home.’

  Abbie glared at him. Skinny, snickery Greg Fnigg, all tea and sympathy. ‘It is an excuse!’ she yelled. ‘It’s nothing but excuses!’ She stomped off. Marcus Strode-Boylie was the pits of the planet, the U-bend of the universe – and she was going to tell him so.

  It was easy enough to slip back into the classroom at lunch break. Perdita was in the playground handing out Incan toothpicks. Mr Dabbings was in the staff room knitting Wendy’s wedding bouquet. Abbie ran along the corridor into the empty classroom. She crept up to Mr Dabbings’s desk and opened the top drawer. Taking out the class register, she turned to the page of pupils’ contact details. She scribbled down Marcus’s address on a scrap of paper. She slid the book back in the drawer. Then she hurried out and along the corridor. At the school office she asked to phone home. After a quick ‘Hi-Mum-I’m-going-to-the-zoo-with-Perdita-after-school-I’ll-catch-the-bus-home-see-you-around-six-love-you-bye’, she ran back to the playground, arriving just in time to pull Henry Holler’s toothpick out of Ursula Slightly’s arm.

  Abbie’s heart hammered through the rest of school. When the home bell rang she jumped up from her chair. ‘Do me a favour,’ she said to Perdita. ‘If Mum phones, pretend I’m at the zoo with you. See you tomorrow.’

  ‘What are you …?’

  But Abbie was already out of the door. She ran to the cloakroom, threw on her coat and rushed out of school. Ten minutes later she was on the bus to Bradleigh’s smartest suburb.

  * * *

  Marcus pulled the pillow off his face. There was a knock at the door.

  ‘Yes?’ he said, sitting up and wiping his nose on his sleeve. Please let it be Dad, please let it be Dad, please let it be–

  His mum crept in. She was carrying a glass of milk and a chocolate bar. ‘Give me the wrapper when you’ve finished, darling. Don’t want your dad finding it.’

  ‘You mean he might look in my bin. Like you did.’

  Genevieve blushed. ‘I had to, darling, you know that.’

  Marcus hugged the duvet round his knees. ‘Is he still mad?’

  ‘I’m afraid so. We need to give him time.’

  ‘Why? I was trying to close the zoo down. I thought that’s what he wanted.’

  Genevieve sighed. ‘Yes, but he’s worried that if word gets out it was you, the family name will be ruined.’ She ran a hand through Marcus’s hair. ‘Look, this’ll all blow over. We just need to give him time.’

  ‘He’s had two days.’

  ‘Mmm. But you know what he’s like. Best keep out of his way for now. How about going back to school tomorrow? Better than lying here all day.’

  ‘No.’ Marcus pulled the duvet up to his chin. ‘What if everyone knows it was me who let the hippo out? What if Greg or Abigail or Perdita have told them?’

  Genevieve shook her head. ‘They won’t. Their parents promised.’

  Tears rolled down Marcus’s cheeks. If only his mum knew how horrible he’d been this term. Abigail Hartley would be itching for revenge – and this was her chance.

  31 - Payback

  Abbie stared over the gate. The lawn was huge and perfectly mown. Bet they’ve got a gardener. In one corner was a pond with a fancy rockery. Bet there are goldfish. In another corner was a trampoline. And that’s just the front!

  As for the house, it was enormous. There were windows everywhere, French doors at the bottom and skylights in the roof. A huge glass conservatory stuck out on the left. The garage on the right would make a decent home in itself. The Strode-Boylie Jaguar was parked in front.

  He’s loaded, thought Abbie. Rolling in it. Stinking rich. Marcus had everything he wanted. Why couldn’t he leave her and Perdita alone? By the time she’d opened the gate and crossed the lawn she was radiant with rage. She rammed her palm against the doorbell. It rang, loud and long.

  The front door opened. Dr Strode-Boylie loomed in the doorway. He wore a V-necked sports jersey, the same light blue as his eyes. Below the left shoulder an embroidered lion roared.

  ‘Yes?’ He arched a silver eyebrow.

  Abbie couldn’t help stepping backwards. ‘I – I’m Abigail Hartley.’

  ‘I know. Daughter of that writer foo– fellow.’

  ‘I’ve come to see Marcus.’ Abbie cursed the quiver in her voice. I’m not scared, she told herself, I’m furious. I’m not scared, I’m furious. I’m not scared, I’m … ‘Aah!’ He was closing the door.

  Abbie shoved her hand through. ‘I know what Marcus did,’ she said quickly. ‘And if you don’t let me in, I’ll tell everyone at school.’

  Dr Strode-Boylie stopped. Something flared in those pale eyes. Uncertainty? Fear? He cleared his throat. ‘You’ll, ah, do no such thing, young lady. Now go home and mind your own business.’

  ‘It is my business.’ Abbie’s voice was louder than she intended. ‘Marcus has spent the whole term bullying my friend Perdita. Just because she comes top in Maths and Geography and–’

  ‘What? My son is top of the class. He comes first in everything.’

  ‘That’s not true. Perdita’s beaten him in every single Maths test.’

  ‘Are you accusing my son of–?’

  ‘Ask him yourself,’ squeaked Abbie.

  Dr Strode-Boylie turned his head. ‘Marcus!’ he roared into the hall. ‘Here, now!’

  Marcus must have been listening because three seconds later he appeared behind his dad. His face was white, his eyes red. His hair was rumpled, his shirt crumpled. He stared at Abbie, miserable as mumps.

  She swallowed. This was her moment of power and payback. Her chance for revenge, to right all the wrongs Marcus had done.

  She took a deep breath – and let him have it. ‘How can you be such a bully? Pushing people around, cheating and shoving your way to the top, doing anything to win, blaming everyone else if you don’t? How can you,’ she yelled, ‘ruin your son’s life?’

  Because the truth was staring her in the face. The truth she could no longer ignore, that she’d glimpsed at the school gates, through the window of a Jaguar, in Maths tests and running races. The truth that a frightened boy would stop at nothing to win his father’s love.

  The boy took a step back. The father took a step forward.

  ‘How. Dare. You,’ Dr Strode-Boylie whispered, ‘Speak
. To me. Like. That. I. Am. A Massively. Successful. Dentist.’ He bared his teeth as if to prove it.

  ‘And I,’ came a voice, ‘am. A Massively. Fed-Up. Wife.’

  Mrs Strode-Boylie appeared behind Marcus. She seized his hand and pushed out of the door past her husband. Out on the porch she threw her arms round Abbie. ‘Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.’ She hugged her tightly.

  She wheeled round. ‘You,’ she jabbed Dr Strode-Boylie in the chest, ‘have just heard’ (jab) ‘what I’ve never dared’ (jab jab) ‘say. You,’ she pushed him backwards, ‘are an Impossible … Unpleasable … Ridiculous … PLONKER! Nothing is ever good enough for you – your massive success, your flashy car, your meek little wife, your wonderful son. Don’t you see? Marcus would do anything to make you happy! Even close down a zoo, if that’s what you want. How dare you punish him!’

  Dr Strode-Boylie went as pale as pasta. His eyebrows bunched; his forehead scrunched. His shoulders shivered; his lips quivered. ‘B-b-but,’ they managed, ‘the shame. The family na–’

  ‘The family name, the family name!’ Mrs Strode-Boylie clapped her hands to her ears. ‘I’ve had enough of the family name. Stuff the Strode-Boylies, long live the Strodboils!’ She ran across the lawn and leapt onto the trampoline. ‘Strodboil!’ she yelled, jumping up and down. ‘I married a Strodboil! A silly, snobby Strodboil!’

  Next door’s lawnmower went silent. A car slowed down in the road. And four slugs stopped their game of lawn tennis to stare at the loopy leaper.

  * * *

  ‘I wish you could’ve seen her,’ said Abbie that evening. She was on the sofa in the sitting room. ‘You’d think she’d won the lottery.’

  ‘I wish I could’ve seen you,’ said Mum. ‘I can’t believe you spoke to Marcus’s dad like that.’ Abbie couldn’t tell if there was pride or dismay in her voice.

  Dad came to the rescue. ‘Not a moment too soon. Just what that pompous twit needed. Well done, my girl.’