The Turnarounders and the Arbuckle Rescue (47 page)

Ralf swore.

At that moment, they saw Alice Cheeseman running down a strangely quiet High Street. Peering through shop windows, down side streets and alleys as she ran, her face was a picture of fearful desperation.

‘I’ve got a feeling this isn’t going to be good
either!’ said Leo.

Ralf whistled. Alice turned at the sound and was soon running across
the Green to join them.

‘Ralf! Leo!’ she gasped. ‘Thank goodness I’ve found you!’

‘What’s happened?’

‘It’s Alfie! He sent me back to tell you!’ she doubled over, clutching at the stitch in her side. ‘We followed Oyler. There’s a gap in the fence to the Army Training Camp.’ She straightened up again, still panting. ‘Oyler went through it and Alfie’s gone after him!’

‘Fabulous!’ Leo exclaimed.

‘The one thing I told him not to do!’ Ralf groaned in frustration. ‘Is it me or is everything going massively badly at the moment?’

He glanced up at the clock. ‘It’s nearly eleven o’clock. We’re running out of time!’

He paced fo
r a second muttering to himself. Then, his mind made up, he outlined his plan.

‘
We get Valen first but then we’ll need Cabal to track Alfie, who’s exactly where he shouldn’t be!’

‘I said you’d be cross!’ said Alice smugly.

‘Not so much cross as a bit pressed for time,’ said Ralf grabbing Leo and heading towards Hatcher’s Catch

‘You’
re going to have a showdown with Brindle!’ Alice exclaimed. She turned and started running.

‘Where are you going?’ Leo called.

‘To get the others, o’ course!’ Alice yelled over her shoulder. ‘This is going to be brilliant!’

The shop was deserted when they got there, the ‘CLOSED’ sign stark and white in the door. This in itself was odd; Hatcher’s Catch was always open at this time. The other odd thing was the birds. Seagulls scavenge wherever there are rich pickings and the fish shop normally attracted a small flock. But today they lined the gables of the roof and perched on the front wall in astonishing numbers.  Ralf thought briefly back to Mr Sedley and the crows and shivered.

Leo knocked, but there was no answer. They looked towards Valen’s window but the blacks were up. They walked round the side of the building, shaking with nervous energy.

‘Valen?’ Ralf called tentatively. ‘Val?’

Leo rushed forwards at the same moment they heard a cry.

‘Ralf! I’m round – round the – back!’ Valen’s voice was muffled as if coming from the bottom of a well.

They ran through the gate and into the small garden at the rear of the shop. It was a scene of complete chaos. There was a deep gash in the grass and a path of chu
rned mud and water that led to the newly constructed Anderson shelter. Tools littered the ground, as did blankets, clothes and even a tin of peaches lying forlornly on its side. Seagulls clung to the fences and a dozen eyed them from the washing line, waiting…

‘Val?’ Ralf called again, uncertainly.

‘Ralf Osborne!’ The voice muffled and echoing startled him and then a head appeared in the door of the Andersen. A beaming Mr Hatcher emerged from the shelter wearing his Sunday suit.

Ralf took a step back. Hatcher’s smile was a rictus grin, his suit ripped in several places and caked in mud.

‘Glad you’re here, boys!’ Mr Hatcher exclaimed grabbing Ralf’s hand in both of his own. Ralf glanced down and was shaken to see that the fishmonger’s hands, which were pumping his up and down maniacally, were filthy and bleeding.

‘Where’s Valentine, Mr Hatcher?’

‘I've been making some improvements to the shelter...’

‘But Valen, Mr Hatcher. We’ve come to see Val –’

‘No, no lad. Come and see this!’ Mr Hatcher said enthusiastically, grabbing Ralf by the shoulder. ‘You too, Leonard!’

They climbed down the steps of the shelter and clunked on to the newly boarded floor. It was dark underground and Ralf turned to say as much when a match flared. Mr Hatcher lit a candle, held it high and gestured at the interior with evident satisfaction.

Ralf looked around him. Two bunks had been haphazardly constructed and lay drunkenly along a wall. Valen sat on the floor, wrists tied to the end of one of them, glaring.

‘He’s gone mad! He won’t let me go!’ she cried.

Ralf rushed towards her and in that second Hatcher changed.

‘Leave her be!’ Hatcher commanded. He snatched up a shovel that had been leaning against the wall and brandished it threateningly. His voice was quit
e different now, Ralf noticed, harsh and brittle. Ralf froze.

Silence fell, t
hick and heavy.

‘What a lot of food!’ Leo said suddenly, with forced cheerfulness. He thrust his hands in his pockets and shot Ralf a quick look. Ralf understood: keep it normal, play for time.

Leo stepped forward and smiled. ‘You’re very well stocked!’

Mr Hatcher seemed to perk up a little at that. He drew himself up proudly and pointed with the shovel at a lopsided shelf, which bowed under the strain of the canned food it supported. Ralf couldn’t credit it. There was more food here than at the bunker – potted meat, tinned vegetables and fruit, condensed milk and sardines. Leo strolled towards Valen, his hands casually behind his back.

‘Cashed in our savings for this lot,’ Mr Hatcher said, proudly. ‘You can still get things if you know where to go and you’ve got the money to pay for it.’

Ralf cleared his throat, incredulous. ‘You look very – er – prepared.’

Mr Hatcher laughed. The sound jarred in the enclosed space. ‘It’s all ready. Everything we’ll need. When it happens we’ll be safe down here.’

‘When it happens?’ Ralf asked, edging toward Valen whose tied hands were now moving rapidly in the shadows. He stepped in front of her to obscure Mr Hatcher’s view.

‘The invasion, boy!’ Hatcher laughed again, louder this time and higher in pitch. ‘Not long now but when they come, we’re ready. There’s enough food down here to last for years.’

‘But the Nazis might not invade,’ Ralf said tentatively. He glanced down at Valen. She
grimaced at him and continued to saw away at her ropes with the penknife Leo had passed to her concealed between her palms.  Mr Hatcher hadn’t noticed but was still standing with his spade at the foot of the ladder, blocking the stairs.

‘You’ve seen the birds, Osborne. That’s a sign, that’s what that is. It’s happened before you know. The birds appear before a battle. Have you seen the rooks? All over the fields they are. And seagulls! And crows! Them’s carrion birds Ralf. They eat dead flesh! The Nazis’ll be here before the week is out. You mark my words.’ He was whispering now, conspiratorially, like a child revealing where he’d hidden his stash of sweets. ‘They’ll come like a storm, you know.’

‘Where’s Mrs Hatcher?’

‘Left,’ said Mr Hatcher flatly. The smile faded from his face to be replaced by a look of morbid contemplation, like someone watching a stranded whale. ‘She’ll die, likely, along with the rest. Most of them will, you know. The people up there.’

His eyes glinted, a flash of gold in the darkness. Ralf recoiled. He’d known Mr Hatcher for years. But the man in front of him was not Mr Hatcher. He was someone else. Someone ill. Someone terrifying. There was a wet earthy smell to the air – the slick mud aroma of rot and many-legged crawling things. Ralf’s stomach clenched.

Without warning, Hatcher sprang forward and gripped him in a fierce and almost crushing embrace. ‘You always seemed such a nice lad,’ he said. ‘It’s a shame you have to die.’ He squeezed with such force Ralf was fighting for breath. When he finally pulled away, Ralf saw tears streaming down his face. Hatcher wiped them away with his sleeve, leaving his face streaked. ‘I’m doing wha
t I can for Val,’ he choked. ‘He’ll let her live if I keep her locked away. I think that’s right. I can’t always hear Him...’

‘Done it!’ exclaimed Valen suddenly, springing to her feet. She rubbed her wrists as the rope fell away and pocketed
the knife. ‘Now, are we still trying to look normal or can we get the hell out of here?’

Mr Hatcher’s mouth opened in surprise. His eyes flashed with anger and he lunged at Valen who Shifted round him and up the ladder. Mr Hatcher roared in frustration and swung the shovel but with a small flick of the wrist, Leo Shunned him and fled upwards too. The spade clanged off the wall sending Hatcher staggering but Ralf did not look back. He leaped forward, dodged Hatcher, and scrambled up the ladder.

‘No!’ Mr Hatcher shrieked, spittle flying. ‘You’ve got to stay here!
He’s
coming, I tell you! He’ll kill you all!’

Valen, waiting on the surface, looked white ‘Look out!’ she cried as Ralf scrambled from the hole.

Ralf turned to see Hatcher lurch from the shelter and dive forward, shovel swinging. He ducked just in time.

‘Go!’ he yelled at the others. ‘SHIFT!’

Leo blurred out of the gate. Valen gave Mr Hatcher a look of utter sadness. ‘Sorry,’ she whispered. Then, she too, blinked away.

Mr Hatcher howled in rage and confusion and swung out wildly with the shovel, but it was too late.

Ralf Shifted.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

The Hidden Revealed

They were at Brindle’s in four Shifts and Ralf silently signalled for them to hunker down in the bushes facing the cottage. It was just before mid-day but, oddly, Brindle was inside with her blacks up. Ralf glanced at Valen and registered the thinness of her lips, her clenched fists.

‘You okay?’

Valen nodded, ‘So what’s the plan?’ she whispered with a tight smile. ‘Knock her out and grab Cabal?’

Leo shook his head. He Shifted to Brindle’s door and cocked his head to one side, listening. Ralf and Valen joined him on the step and were surprised to see him smiling, eyes shining with excitement. ‘Follow my lead,’ he said. ‘I’ve just figured something out!’ He didn’t bother to knock but turned the handle and stepped inside.

Ralf took in the scene in a split second. Brindle’s kitchen was rather like the rest of her. The surfaces were bare and every cup, saucer and plate was lined up in strict precision on the dresser. But there was grime on the shelves, the sink was crusty and a thick black cobweb drooped low over the range. Everything was neat looking, but nothing was really clean. There were few ornaments but a picture of Edward VIII and Mrs Simpson hung above the fireplace and a couple of paintings of hunting dogs sagged crookedly on the walls. A rather expensive looking pot of face cream stood on the windowsill. She ought to get her money back on that, Ralf thought acidly.

The
Post Mistress sat, rigid with shock, at the kitchen table. She was in a housecoat, hair net and was smoking a clay pipe. Clearly, she hadn’t expected company. Her old map was open under her hands. Books and newspaper cuttings lay scattered about her.

‘We’ve come for the dog.’ Leo almost had to shout over the noise coming from the wireless.

The voice from the speaker was tinny and distorted. Ralf frowned and glanced over, trying to make sense of it. Brindle eyes widened at their expressions and she flew across the room to turn it off.

‘Something you don’t want us to hear?’ Leo asked with a strange smile.

She spun to face them. ‘How dare
you
come in here?’

‘Oh, save it, will you?’ said Leo, contemptuously. ‘Where’s Cabal?’

Brindle’s expression changed from shock to derision. Ignoring Leo, she stepped forward, put her hands on her vast hips and scowled at Ralf.

‘And why, exactly, would I let
you have him?’ She grabbed a letter from the shelf and waved it under his nose. ‘I have a certificate of ownership right here! The dog belongs to me! I don’t know what you think you’re doing, Ralf Osborne. But it won’t work!’

‘
Ah, but you see Miss. Brindle it’s not just Ralf you have to worry about,’ said Leo.

Brindle spun to face Leo. Her face was puce. ‘
You
! How dare
you
come into my house! How dare
you
even talk to me! The barefaced cheek of it! Of all of you!’ She shot a glance at Valen. ‘Aggressive, slovenly girls with no respect for their elders! And the children you’re friends with! That stunted, runt of a criminal, Lightfoot! The Goldberg boy,
the Jew
who thinks he’s so clever and –
you
!’ She turned back to Leo, spitting in fury. ‘
YOU
! In my house? I will not have it!’

Brindle’s face was hot red. Ralf squinted and adjusted his focus. Just as he suspected, her colour pulsed the thick blood-blackness of rotting berries. It made him feel sick.

‘I am going to do everything in my power to see you put back in the Poor Houses and Orphanages where you belong. I’ll make sure you are separated and brought low. I’ll see you suffer for this! I’ll have you all locked up!’

Valen’s fists bunched and Ralf could see she was struggling to keep herself in check. ‘You evil, conniving, pig-smelling,
hag-faced, leathery old vinegar-mouth!’

Leo held up a hand. ‘
Valen, stop,’ he said, quietly.

With an effort, Valen got her mouth under control but looked ready to swing for Brindle should the opportunity present itself. Leo turned to face Brindle once more.

‘Miss Brindle,’ said Leo, with icy politeness. ‘I’m afraid, you’re not going to do any of those things.’

‘Oh really?’ the woman sneered. ‘And why not?’

‘Because
I
won’t permit it.’

‘
YOU?
You
won’t permit it!’ she laughed scornfully. ‘And tell me, what makes you think you have the power to prevent anything? You’re nothing!’

Leo just looked at her. It must have been something in his eyes, something sad and wise and much older than those of an ordinary twelve year old, because for the first time Brindle faltered. Her hand clenched on the judge’s letter, crumpling it into a misshapen sausage.

‘Where’s Cabal?’ Leo repeated.

Brindle’s eyes betrayed her when they flicked towards a passage leading off from the kitchen. Ralf strode down it.

‘Cabal!’

An answering yip from the coal cellar told Ralf where his dog could be found. He yanked the door open and Cabal bounded up the stairs into his arms. Astrid plodded after him.

Ralf hurried back to the kitchen to find a tense Brindle, babbling about theft and the appalling decline of youth in general, while Leo studied papers he’d pulled from an open dresser drawer.

‘Now this is interesting!’ Leo said, frowning. ‘I thought as much.’

Brindle shot forward. ‘You leave those alone! Those are my private papers!’ She made to snatch the notebook but the hand that had held it was suddenly empty. Brindle screeched but Leo silenced her with a look and a cunning bit of sleight of hand. He reached forward and, seeming to pluck the book from thin air behind Brindle’s head, tossed it to Ralf.

‘You’ve been practising!’ Valen grinned while Ralf rapidly leafed through the notebook’s pages.

Brindle rushed towards him but was distracted by another exclamation from Valen.

‘Oh, My –!’ Valen had joined Leo at the table where he was looking at the map still flattened out on its surface. ‘Fuel dumps, army training areas and three Zero Stations all marked!’ he exclaimed.

Brindle seemed frozen to the spot. She made a whimpering kind of noise and wrung her hands.

Leo grabbed other papers and rifled through them. ‘Sketches of the sea defences at Dungeness.’ 

Suddenly, Ralf understood. ‘Hettie was wrong,’ he said, holding up pages covered in incomprehensible marks. ‘Not spells. Nazi Codes!’

‘So that’s what Urk was talking about!’ said Valen, appalled. ‘She’s not a witch. She’s a stinking spy!’

Leo dropped what he was holding and to confirm his suspicions, turned the dial on the wireless. A plummy voice gleefully announced massive British casualties in France. ‘The radio’s tuned in to Lord Haw-Haw at the Reich
Propaganda Ministry,’ he said before snapping the wireless off again

Valen glared at Brindle in disgust. ‘T
RAITOR!’

Whatever paralysis had held the
Post Mistress now evaporated. ‘Give those to me!’ she shrieked, barrelling forward. Scooping up map, book and papers she ran for the door.

‘They’re coming!’ Brindle screeched back at them. ‘They’re only days away! Soon, this country will know order for the first time in history!’

For a second the Turnarounders, shocked into stillness, did nothing. Valen came to her senses first.

‘Stop her!’ she shouted.

This was enough to get the two boys moving. They Shifted outside in time to see Brindle emerge from one of her outbuildings on, of all things, a motorbike. They had to stop her! Ralf flung out an arm and Shunned Brindle with all the force he could muster. Leo, with the same goal but a rather different method of achieving it, Shunned the main gate. Brindle, her face a picture of confusion and terror, clutching desperately at the post-bag under her arm sailed backwards off the moving motorbike. The bike, out of control, hurtled into the gate that Leo had just closed.

It was at this exact moment that Alice Cheeseman and the rest of Alfie’s Crew arrived.

‘Brindle’s flying!’ gasped Alice, in delight.

‘Not anymore!’ yelled the fair-haired kid next to her.

Charlie Duke was right. Brindle, demonstrating one of the simplest laws of physics, had gone up and, after second’s pause when all the molecules of the universe seemed to stand still, had come right back down again.

The bike’s wheels spun, sending up a sheet of muddy water, which engulfed the fallen woman. The engine idled, then died. Brindle floundered in the mud slick for a moment then scrambled to her feet and slithered towards the other gate.

‘The papers!’  Valen cried.

But Ralf was already on it. He Shifted across the yard, grabbed the bag and Shifted away again in under a second. The bag’s strap gave way with a satisfying rip. Brindle spun like a top then careered into the side of the cottage.

The Post Mistress shook herself like a dog. When she could see straight, she took in the scene around her: the broken, smoking motorcycle; Alfie’s Crew standing laughing on the fence; the three Turnarounders watching her with their unnerving, adult eyes. Something inside Brindle snapped. Her eyes narrowed. With astonishing speed, she scuttled into a shed and came out brandishing a pitchfork. She roared like a cornered bull and charged towards Ralf.

He let her come, then Shifted a foot to the right at the last second. Carried forward by her own momentum, Brindle skidded across the yard and straight into the lean to where she did her butchering. There was a deafening crash as pots and knives clattered to the floor. A congealing bucket of pig’s blood somehow upended itself to land on top of her head. Valen disguised the flick of her wrist she used in Shunning the bucket but she did nothing to hide her broad smile as Brindle slumpe
d covered in goo and pigs guts.

The
Crew on the fence whooped and cheered.

‘Oooh!’ exclaimed Alice, deliriously. ‘She won’t like that!’

She did not. Sliding around in the manner of Bambi on ice, Brindle wrestled the pot from her head and roared.

‘YOU!’ Completely mistaking the culprit, she pointed a shaking finger at Leo. ‘Witch! Over here with your stinking, tribal
, black magic!’ Panicked, she looked to the others for support. ‘It’s voodoo, that’s what it is!’

Alice Cheeseman
sniggered at her expression. ‘He reminds me of a man!’

‘What man?’ Alfie’s Crew chanted back at her.

‘The man with the power!’

‘What power?’

Alice widened her eyes and shook her hands in the air. ‘The power of voodoo!’

‘Voodoo?
Who do?’ Alfie’s Crew chanted the well-known rhyme back at Brindle, their faces gleeful at her obvious rage and confusion.

‘
Do what?’ Alice spluttered, giggling helplessly.

‘
Remind me of a man...’ Charlie Duke and the others were barely able to get the words out they were laughing so hard. Leo waved them quiet and fixed a stern eye on the Post Mistress.

‘Oh no,’ he said. ‘My magic is far greater than that.’

‘The Nazis’ll put a stop to what you’re doing! They won’t tolerate you meddling in sorcery!’ Brindle laughed wildly. In the dying sun, he eyes glinted gold. ‘You’ll be shot!’

‘Sorry to break it to you, but the Germans won’t be coming,’ said Leo. ‘You see, we do have power,’ he said, looking into her fearful eyes. ‘Power you can only dream of! We know things. Things about the future...’

‘Over the next few days all the British troops will be evacuated from France, Miss Brindle,’ Ralf said. ‘The country will fight on and the Nazis will never set foot on British soil. Do you know why?’

Brindle twitched some more and slithered around in the foul smelling muck as she struggled to regain her footing.

‘There’ll be a broadcast from Parliament in a week. They might let you listen to it in your jail cell,’ Ralf explained. ‘The new Prime Minister will explain the reason very clearly. You’re a coward and a bully so you might find it a bit difficult to understand, but the reason can be summed up in one sentence...’

‘WE WILL NEVER SURRENDER!’ Valen crowed. She grinned across at Ralf. ‘Even I know that one!’

‘We’re running out of time,’ said Leo, nodding at Brindle who was now on her feet and edging across the yard. ‘Let’s wrap this up.’

Whether Brindle thought she still had a chance of getting the papers or whether she hoped to genuinely hurt Ralf, no one really knew. Whichever the reason, the hate-filled woman now launched herself at him. Worried that he may be squashed like a bug under her immense weight, Ralf Shifted again. Brindle changed direction. Valen sent out a wave of Shuns, which not only prevented Brindle from reaching Ralf but also propelled her across the yard. Seeing a space between the Turnarounders, Brindle made a dash for it but this time Cabal closed the gap. He barred his teeth and growled. Brindle pulled up, uncertain whether the massive dog intended to herd her like sheep or take a chunk out of her, just as Leo Shunned her again. Brindle slithered sideways through blood, mud and water to the pigsty wall.