Jungle Tangle Read online

  And Dad ‘helped’ Matt with his Very Odd Jobs. That meant he read out bits of the book Fernando was dictating – Heads and Tales: Confessions of a Conquistador – while Matt oiled the gibbons’ skateboards or patched up the porcupines’ bouncy castle.

  Which left the best work for Abbie: grooming the animals with Perdita and Coriander. Abbie loved holding the manicure case while Coriander trimmed the talons of Angelica the fish eagle. She adored rubbing moisturising cream into the skin cracks of the elephant, Gina. And, perching on a ladder to comb the endless eyelashes of Alphonse the giraffe, she felt on top of the world.

  No wonder visitors were flocking in. The animals shone with health. The buildings gleamed with welcome. And thanks to Wendy, the teapots in the café topped the twinkling charts.

  When Matt lowered the entrance fee to £1 for adults and free for children under thirty, the money poured in. And when Dad sent off the first draft of Fernando’s book, he was offered a huge advance by a publisher who adored a gory story.

  So buying an extra air ticket for Grandma was no problem. In fact, the way Dad rushed to the travel agent, you’d think it was a relief.

  ‘Can’t accept this,’ snapped Grandma as he pushed the ticket towards her in the zoo café. She pushed it back across the table.

  ‘Really, Mother, it’s a pleasure.’ Dad pushed it back again. ‘A big one, believe me.’ Grandma leaned forward to look at the ticket, knocking over her cup of tea.

  ‘Wendy,’ called Abbie. ‘Spill.’

  ‘Oh, super!’ Wendy glided across from the till. She skated over the puddle in her shoes with spongy soles.

  ‘Not sayin’ I don’t want to go, mind.’ Grandma tapped the ticket dreamily. ‘Always fancied standin’ on the equator.’ Chester jumped up and down on her head.

  ‘That’s sorted, then,’ said Dad a bit too quickly. He beamed at Abbie. She sighed and unwrapped her third Kit Kat.

  * * *

  ‘I can’t imagine how she’ll cope.’ Abbie was in the school changing room with Perdita the next day. They were getting ready for PE. ‘Can you see her tramping through the jungle?’

  ‘Definitely.’ Perdita pulled her T-shirt over her three plaits. ‘Your grandma’s amazing. Remember how she stood up to Dr Klench when we were kidnapped?’

  Abbie had to grin. The old sausage had certainly sizzled at the vast villain in the Hair Museum last summer. Even he’d appeared to be impressed. ‘But that was mental energy, not physical.’

  ‘Climbing up ninety-three stairs and bellowing? She was Olympic. And anyway, she’s fitter now.’

  ‘Still …’

  ‘Oh, come on. You’re as bad as Fernando. You’d think he’d be jumping – or at least rolling – for joy at the thought of finding his wife. But he’s been nothing but moany-groany-what-if-thissy.’

  The girls went out to the playground. ‘Perhaps he doesn’t dare get excited,’ said Abbie, ‘in case we don’t find her. Which, let’s face it, is pretty likely.’

  ‘At least we’re trying. And at least he’ll see Ecuador again.’

  ‘Who will?’ Marcus Strode-Boylie strolled up.

  Oh no, thought Abbie. Trouble in a tracksuit.

  ‘Hi, Marcus,’ said Perdita in her loud, cheery voice. ‘We’re talking about Fernando.’ She unleashed her grin.

  ‘Don’t,’ Abbie muttered. ‘Can’t you see he’s looking for a fight?’

  Apparently not. ‘We’re taking him to find his wife,’ said Perdita. ‘In the Amazon jungle. He’s a shrunken head, you see.’

  Disaster. Abbie whacked Perdita’s arm.

  ‘Oh, I see.’ Marcus turned to Greg Fnigg, a skinny boy with a black belt in snickering. ‘Hear that? Nerdy Perdy’s friends with a shrunken head.’

  Greg made a noise that could have come from either end. ‘Takes one to know one.’

  ‘Actually,’ said Perdita generously, ‘he’s more Abbie’s friend than mine.’

  ‘Shut up!’ Abbie kicked her ankle.

  ‘He’s always singing Abbie’s praises,’ Perdita continued enthusiastically.

  ‘A singing head.’ Marcus tutted. ‘Now I know you’re from the Funny Farm.’

  Perdita looked puzzled. ‘No, I’m from the zoo.’

  Marcus and Greg hooted.

  A whistle blew. ‘Get in line, children,’ chirped Miss Whelp. ‘Running race today.’

  * * *

  ‘So, m’boy.’ Terry Strode-Boylie eyeballed his son across the dinner table. ‘What did you come top in today?’

  Marcus chewed his steak and stared at the table. ‘The usual.’

  ‘Maths?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘English?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘PE?’

  ‘Mmm.’

  Under the table Marcus’s mum squeezed his hand. ‘Even if you hadn’t, you know it wouldn’t matter. We’d love you just as much.’

  ‘What did you say, woman? Of course it matters!’ Terry speared a meaty brick with his fork. ‘Remember this, boy.’ He jabbed the fork at Marcus. ‘I never learned the meaning of second. I always came top, always aimed for the stars – and look where it’s got me.’

  Marcus looked. And saw a mouth you didn’t mess with and a nose that meant business.

  * * *

  Hubris Klench dabbed his mouth and forced himself not to eat the napkin. He was starving. Only two omelettes for dinner. But how could he order another? Inner Mummy had told him that dieting would improve his criminal skills – so diet he must.

  His stomach growled. The waiter scurried over. ‘Si Señor?’

  Klench swatted him away. ‘I said nothink. Go avay before I eat you.’ Klench pushed his hands against the table. The chair legs screeched backwards.

  ‘Exercice iss my advice,’ sang Mummy. She may not still be alive, but she was very much kicking in his brain.

  Klench waddled out of the hotel. On the pavement he gasped for breath. He should never have come to this country, full of heat and height. Whoever designed these mountains deserved a good smack.

  The street was deserted except for two boys on the opposite side. One was whirling a hula hoop round his waist. The other dribbled a football in the dirt.

  Inner Mummy tapped Klench on the brain. ‘Go on, Hubes. You know vot to do.’

  He shuffled reluctantly across the road. Shaking his head, he reached into his pocket. Sighing, he pointed a gun at the boys. The football rolled into the road. The hula hoop bounced on the ground. The boys ran off squealing.

  ‘In you get,’ ordered Inner Mummy. Klench stepped miserably into the hoop.

  ‘Now lift.’

  He pulled the hoop up as far as his knees. ‘I cannot do ziss!’ he shrieked as the plastic dug into his flesh. ‘Loosing veight iss for loosers.’ He snapped the hoop and stamped it into the dirt.

  For a second his mind went blank. Then darkness swelled like a storm. Thunder roared and lightning flashed through his brain.

  ‘HUBRIS VILDEBEEST KLENCH!’ roared Inner Mummy. ‘Trim your hide or voe betide!’

  3 - Hiyaa!

  Marcus Strode-Boylie lifted his foot. Perdita skipped over it. Abbie didn’t and crashed into a desk.

  Marcus scowled at Perdita. ‘That was meant for you. For tripping me up in the race.’

  ‘She did not!’ Abbie rubbed her arm to numb the pain Marcus would love to know he’d caused. ‘Perdita won fair and square.’

  But apart from his hair, there was nothing fair about Marcus Strode-Boylie. ‘She’s a cheat,’ he muttered to Greg Fnigg. ‘Cheats at PE, cheats at Maths, cheats at everything.’

  ‘Hang on.’ Perdita frowned. ‘If I cheat at everything, that means I cheat at cheating. And if I cheat at cheating that means I’m not cheating. Isn’t that funny?’

  ‘No. But this is.’ Marcus stamped on Perdita’s foot. Then Abbie stamped on his. Then Greg stamped on Abbie’s. Then Abbie stamped on Greg’s.

  Except it wasn’t Greg’s. It was the teacher’s – he’d slipped in between t
hem. ‘Whoa there,’ gasped Mr Dabbings.

  ‘He started it,’ Abbie snarled.

  ‘She hurt my foot.’ Marcus made a show of rubbing it.

  Mr Dabbings nodded. ‘I’m sure your foot feels very hurt, Marcus. And sad, too. Because feet aren’t for fighting, are they? Feet are for dancing and treading grapes. Now let’s all join hands and say a big hello to November the twelfth.’

  Abbie said a small hello. She stomped to her desk. ‘Why didn’t you stick up for me,’ she hissed, ‘when I stuck up for you?’

  Perdita didn’t seem to hear. ‘Poor Marcus,’ she said, sitting down beside Abbie. ‘He finds it so hard to lose.’

  ‘Poor Marcus? When he’s spent the whole term making our lives a misery? Oh yeah, my heart goes out to him.’

  Perdita nodded. ‘Mine too. I wish we could help him.’

  Abbie gazed up at the ceiling. Why do I bother, she wondered, with a friend who understands sarcasm like a lentil understands astrophysics?

  Because, answered the ceiling, that’s why she’s your friend. She couldn’t be snide if she tried.

  ‘Hey,’ said Perdita, ‘look what I made you.’ She plonked a furry brown pencil case on Abbie’s desk.

  Abbie squeaked. ‘Is that–?’

  ‘Yep.’ Perdita nodded proudly. ‘Yeti nostril hair. Remember that piece we saved from the museum? I couldn’t think of a better use for it.’

  ‘Wow.’ Abbie recalled picking up a dusty tangle from the rubble after the Hair Museum had collapsed last summer. ‘Thanks a mil.’ She grinned up at the ceiling.

  The ceiling grinned back. That’s the other reason. She’s the craziest friend in the world.

  Mr Dabbings clapped his hands. ‘Settle down now, boys and boyellas. Time for Maths. Page fifty-seven, Count Me In.’

  Count me out, thought Abbie, opening her book with a groan. Maths was double yuck these days. There was the single yuck of – well, obviously – Maths. Then the extra yuck when Perdita finished first, got everything right and triggered more malice from Marcus.

  The only good thing about Maths was that Mr Dabbings hated it too. ‘It doesn’t really matter how many nuts the squirrel gathered,’ he sighed when Claire Bristles got stuck on question five. ‘What’s important is that he made some granola bars and shared them with his friends.’

  ‘He collected a hundred and sixty-eight,’ said Perdita. ‘Twelve piles with fourteen nuts in each.’

  Mr Dabbings cleared his throat. ‘Correct. I was just about to say that myself.’

  Abbie looked at Marcus. He was leaning over his desk, his face scrunched with spite, whispering into Greg’s ear. Greg was sniggering for England.

  ‘Remember, kids,’ said Mr Dabbings, who hadn’t noticed them, ‘numbers are all very nice, but what’s the point of counting nuts when there’s nothing to collect them in? Books away, overalls on. It’s pottery time.’

  Yes, thought Abbie. Goo and squelch and no more sums.

  She and Perdita were last in the queue for clay. That was because Marcus and Greg kept letting people in ahead of them. Even Claire, a tall girl with a friendly fringe, slipped in front.

  ‘You’re pushing in,’ said Abbie.

  ‘It’s OK,’ said Perdita. ‘I don’t mind being last.’

  ‘Could’ve fooled me,’ said Marcus over his shoulder, ‘Miss Nutty Know-All.’

  Abbie wondered if clay was good for making thumbscrews. She collected her lump and returned to her desk. Perdita was soon smoothing off a perfect bowl. ‘That’s fantastic,’ said Abbie. ‘Who’s it for?’

  ‘Winnie. To keep her hair things in. She’s always losing them.’

  Abbie laughed. It was true: they were always finding the orang-utan’s clips and combs round the zoo.

  ‘I’ll make a giant fruit bowl,’ said Abbie, ‘for Gina.’ The elephant loved apples – and bowls were simpler than thumbscrews.

  ‘I’ll help you,’ said Perdita. ‘Let’s get more clay.’

  The girls went up to the front desk. Abbie heard a whisper behind her. Then a rustle, then a hiss, like wind whipping up a wheat field.

  ‘Yeuucch!’ said someone.

  Abbie and Perdita spun round. People were giggling at their desks.

  ‘What?’ cried Abbie.

  ‘Must be from the zoo,’ said Marcus loudly.

  ‘Ooh, I wonder which animal?’ said Greg.

  ‘Hmm. Tiger?’

  Abbie’s hand flew to her bottom. ‘You smeared our chairs with clay!’

  Perdita examined her orangey hands. ‘No, Marcus, tiger dung would be darker. This looks more like elephant.’

  ‘You complete …’ Abbie tore off her overall and hurled it at Marcus. It missed by miles.

  ‘Hey!’ Mr Dabbings put down the bison he was knitting for the North American display. ‘Calm, Abigail.’ He patted the air with his hands. ‘Now, count to three and tell us how you’re feeling.’

  Abbie swallowed. Her throat was bursting, her face on fire.

  Mr Dabbings put a hand to his ear. ‘Not quite hearing you there, Abigail. But my guess is you’re feeling sad. We all feel sad sometimes, don’t we, kids? And it makes us, well … sad.’ A snigger went round. ‘How about you, Perdita?’

  ‘Oh, I’m fine.’ She grinned. ‘Actually, Marcus just gave me a great idea. No one seems to know much about zoos here. So why don’t you all come and visit? A school trip. My parents would love it. And so would the animals.’

  The class froze. Abbie gasped. And Mr Dabbings’s sideburns wriggled with joy.

  * * *

  ‘Why is Marcus so awful?’ Abbie was slumped at the kitchen table after school. ‘I mean, what’s his problem?’

  Mum took a spoonful of crumbs from a pot and sprinkled them over a pie. ‘Who knows, darling? But the more you show you’re upset, the more it’ll encourage him.’

  ‘I wanted to cry. But I didn’t.’

  Mum reached over and stroked Abbie’s chaos of curls. ‘Well done. How did Perdita react?’

  ‘She didn’t seem to care at all. And can you believe it – she’s invited the whole class to the zoo!’ Abbie covered her face with her hands. ‘She’s already the class joke. Imagine when they see parrots with mohicans and hippos in bubble bath.’

  Mum finished sprinkling. ‘Don’t worry. I bet most of them have visited already.’

  ‘No, they haven’t.’ Abbie’s hands plonked wearily onto the table. ‘They’d boil their bums in butter before supporting Perdita.’

  ‘Well then, they’ve got a treat in store.’ Mum smoothed the crumbs over the pie with the back of the spoon.

  Abbie snorted. ‘They’re bound to find some way to hate it.’

  Mum waved the spoon like a mamma on a pizza advert. ‘Thassa notta your problem.’

  Abbie sighed. You’d think Mum would understand. Four months ago she’d have ironed raisins to impress the neighbours. Still, on the plus side, it showed how much she’d lightened up. Since meeting the Platts she’d learned to care so much less about other people’s opinions and so much more about having fun.

  ‘Here.’ Mum scooped up more crumbs. ‘Try some.’

  Abbie licked the spoon. ‘Yum. What are they?’

  ‘Toasted toenails. Coriander says they’re full of vitamins.’

  * * *

  ‘ANOTHER DISASTER LOOMS.’ Abbie was sitting on her bed after dinner, confiding in her tape recorder. Over the term her microphone had become more of a sympathetic ear than the practice ground for a budding reporter. She still wanted to be a journalist, of course. It was just that with school, homework and zoo duties she hadn’t actually got round to writing anything lately.

  ‘Perdita Platt’s plan to show her class round the zoo,’ she said, ‘is the latest in a string of brain-bashingly bad ideas.’ Abbie paused. Maybe ‘brain-bashingly’ was a bit harsh. What were the other ideas again?

  1. Taking a shrunken head to find its shrunken love in the world's biggest rainforest.

  2. Bringing a grumpy gran and her
whizzy wig along for the ride.

  3. Leaving Mum, Dad and Ollie to help Matt run the zoo.

  ‘… A string of brain-bashingly bad, mind-mashingly mad ideas.’

  Abbie switched off the tape recorder. The door opened.

  ‘Great news.’ Dad danced into her room. ‘I’ve just been on the phone to the Hiyaa! show. They want to interview me about my … er, Fernando’s … er, our book.’ He did a jig on the carpet. ‘Wotcha thinka that then? Your dad’s a celeb!’ He bowed out backwards, whistling the Hiyaa! theme tune.

  Abbie switched on the tape recorder again. ‘… A string of brain-bashingly bad, mind-mashingly mad, skull-smashingly sad ideas.’

  * * *

  It was worse than sad. It was Dad. Sitting there in front of the world at 7.30 on Thursday morning. His bald patch gleamed. His bow tie beamed.

  Opposite him sat Caz Cazoo and Wippy Winkel. ‘Hiyaaa!’ they yelled as the theme music faded.

  ‘Plonkers,’ muttered Grandma, watching the telly from the sitting-room sofa. Abbie guessed that she didn’t just mean the presenters. And she was right. Why had Dad insisted on that spotty bow tie? It looked like a disease.

  ‘This morning,’ Caz gasped from the screen, in her so-excited-I’ve-forgotten-to-breathe voice, ‘we’re thrilled to have a sneak preview of a book that really sticks its neck out.’ She held up the book. Fernando was understandably sensitive about his appearance and had refused to be photographed for the cover. Instead there was a painting of men in armour shooting men in loincloths.

  ‘Heads and Tales: Confessions of a Conquistador,’ breathed Caz, ‘will be head-ing for the bookshelves soon. Joining us is the co-author, Graham Hartley, a man who’s a-head of his time!’

  Fernando, who was perching on Grandma’s lap, snorted at the telly. ‘He not the Ahead. I the Ahead.’

  Wippy Winkel winked from the screen. ‘Yes, viewers,’ he said. ‘Graham’s account of a conquering conk will soon be hitting the head-lines!’ He slapped his shiny green trousers.