Darcy Burdock Book 3 Page 3

  ‘They can feel your vibrations, you know!’ I snap at him. But he doesn’t care. I just keep looking at the mice cage that should be full to the brim of pet mice all having a luxurious time, but it is as empty as our biscuit tin. If only the mice knew that we were only trying to help them, then perhaps they would understand and give themselves up. But then again they might not trust us and anyway, most importantly, I can’t speak mouse language. Fuming.

  ‘I KNOW!’ says Poppy. ‘Let’s tell Lamb-Beth what we want to say to the mice and she can pass the message on to them that we come in peace and we only want to protect them and love them.’

  ‘How will Lamb-Beth know what to say?’

  ‘She’s an animal, duh. Have you ever seen that film Babe, about the pig?’

  ‘No . . .’ I am well jels now.

  ‘I watched it at Timothy’s, but basically, all animals can speak animal language and it’s about this pig . . . but I can’t remember its name.’

  ‘Er, let me guess,’ I say with sarcasm. ‘Babe?’

  ‘Oh, yeah. The pig is called Babe.’ She smiles all goofy and I roll my eyes in impatience. ‘So you just need to tell Lamb-Beth what the message is and she can pass it on to the mouses . . . I mean, mice.’

  ‘Good idea, but how will Lamb-Beth know what we are saying to her?’

  ‘She’s fluent in both human and animal for goodness’ sake, as she’s lived with us long enough. It’s like when Uncle Adrian moved to New York and learned how to speak American so quickly, remember?’

  ‘Poppy, American is the same as English.’

  ‘Oh, I just thought he was really clever. Oh well, OK, but it’s worth a try anyway.’

  Lamb-Beth is snoring away on Mum’s lap. We gently wake her up and peel her off.

  ‘Oi, she was keeping me warm,’ Mum moans.

  ‘We need her for a real quick sec,’ I say.

  ‘Don’t disturb her, you lot.’

  We ignore Mum and get back to work. We prop Lamb-Beth up by the cage, so she can get a good old look at it and hopefully recommend it as suitable accommodation to the mice.

  ‘Hi, LAMB-BETH,’ I start, really loudly and slowly and clearly.

  ‘Don’t speak to her like she’s an idiot!’ Poppy nudges me. ‘Move over. You are patronizing her.’

  GGGGGGRRRRR, Poppy and her stupid clever words. Who does she even think she is?

  All of a sudden Poppy transforms into what I can only describe as a full-blown geezer, exactly like the builders at the house at the end of our road.

  ‘Hey, Lamb-Beth, right, not wanting to cause too much of a fuss or upheaval here, sure you’ve heard the gossip and it’s all true. Yes, I can reveal, we have, you’ve guessed it, got mice. Riddled. I mean top to bottom, place full of ’em. So myself and my siblings here, who you know very well, would like to ask a favour of you, seeing as we do favours for you like cleaning up your poo and stuff, if you wouldn’t mind simply passing a message on to the mice, if you see them?’

  Lamb-Beth stares blankly at Poppy and then slow blinks.

  ‘Perfect, thanks, mate,’ Poppy continues.

  ‘She didn’t say yes.’

  ‘Yes, she did!’

  ‘When?’

  ‘She blinked!’

  ‘KIDS!’ Dad shouts. ‘Enough, enough. Bed.’

  ‘But, Dad!’ I yell back. ‘We’re so close to catching a mouse.’

  ‘I’m sorry, come on, no fighting, it’s past your bedtime, come on now. Brush your teeth, up we go, let’s go.’

  ‘Plllllleeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaassssssssseeeeeeee . . . just five more minutes?’ Poppy pleads.

  ‘Nope. Don’t push it, come on, upstairs.’

  I am well fed up. Not as in full up from food overload – as in disappointed. I am in a right grump.

  Ring, ring, ring, goes my rubbish alarm, which means it’s Monday morning and time for school. Being big means that I’m at bigger school with loads of important stuff to do and know about. I’m basically Darcyopedia these days. I think people make up facts all the time anyway; there is no possible way on those nature programmes that the scientist actually truly knows what is going on inside a maggot’s brain – I mean, it’s not like they can interview the maggot. Or when they say, ‘Here is the tiger, gently approaching the antelope, preparing to capture its prey.’ How do they know the tiger and antelope aren’t just really good friends actually, and all the tiger wants to do is get a piggyback off the antelope?

  When I get downstairs Dad is making coffee with a very cheeky grin on his face.

  ‘Morning, Dad.’

  ‘Morning, Darcy.’

  ‘You look happy.’

  ‘I am.’

  Mum does a sideways smile-meets-eyebrow face, like the faces they do on quiz shows when they already know what the answer is but they are being polite and letting the quiz master finish the question before answering it correctly.

  ‘He’s very excited, aren’t you?’ Mum says.

  ‘Wouldn’t say excited . . . just interested.’ Dad pours the hot smoky brown coffee (blended-up monster poo) into his and Mum’s cups. I can’t wait to start needing coffee and having a set of door keys because it means you’ve truly made it.

  ‘Why?’ I pour my cereal into the bowl. Poppy and Hector are already crunching away.

  ‘Because he is looking forwarded to peeking his eyes inside the poison pot to seed if he killed any of the mices,’ Hector says whilst watching the morning cartoons – we’ve had to get a mini-TV put in the kitchen for Hector or otherwise he doesn’t eat his breakfast.

  ‘Oh, really?’ I am furious.

  ‘Yes, he is going to look after we’ve gonned for school as well.’

  ‘THAT IS NOT FAIR!’ I bark.

  ‘Er. Did somebody get out of the wrong side of bed?’ Mum squeaks.

  ‘No, I got out the side of bed I always get out of because there is a wall against the other side. So technically what you have suggested is NOT POSSIBLE.’

  ‘What’s the matter then?’

  ‘Him!’ I point at Dad.

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What did I do?’ Dad slurps his coffee, knowing exactly full well what he did.

  ‘A mixture of absolutely wretched things.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Firstly, killing the mice and being excited about it.’

  ‘I didn’t say I was excited, Darcy. Mum said that. I said I was interested.’

  ‘Fine. Well, you’re interested in killing mice and that’s really bad.’

  ‘We’ve been through this, remember? Otherwise they can run wild in the house. What would you rather? That they nibble up all your writing books and Mum’s moisturizer and eat out of Lamb-Beth’s food bowl?’

  ‘Course not! You just don’t have to be all haps about the whole thing.’

  ‘I’m not HAPS. In an ideal world we don’t have mice in our house, they live in the fields and forests and we live here. What else is in the cocktail of wretched things of why you are annoyed?’

  ‘That YOU get to catch them whenever you want but you didn’t even let us try and catch until a bit later on last night, and therefore our cage is empty.’

  ‘That actually annoyed me too,’ Poppy pipes up. ‘That was out of order.’

  ‘You had school this morning, you had long enough to catch the mice. Back me up please, Mollie.’

  ‘I’m not getting involved,’ Mum says, and finishes packing Poppy’s lunch in tinfoil.

  ‘AND you never told us that mices were day-allergic even though you knew that.’

  Dad laughs. ‘It seems the only person here who is day-allergic is you! You need to go back to bed and try restarting the day over.’

  ‘I’m not finished. And THEN, on top of all of that, you thought you would look to see if the mice had taken the poison when we were all at school, so we would miss out.’

  ‘I just know the morning time is a rush.’

  ‘Still. It’s selfish.’

  �
��OK, I’ll wait till later on, and we can all look before dinner.’

  ‘You won’t wait,’ Poppy argues. ‘You can’t even wait for your toast to get toasted properly and that’s why your toast is always rawed and soggy.’

  ‘They do have a point . . .’ Mum giggles.

  ‘OK, so let’s look now.’

  ‘Well . . . fine.’

  I was quite surprised at this. We never get to do anything other than get ready for school in get-ready-for-school hour.

  We all creep down and it’s as if that scary music from the shark film Jaws is behind us and we are little action figurines tiptoeing over the top, down into the cellar, one after the other. The tension rises as the stuffy smell of the damp basement hits us like a wall. It’s like walking into a dust cloud.

  ‘I don’t like it.’ Poppy runs back up again, but not me or Hector, we’re brave. Dad shines his torch now and it beams all over the room in golden pyramids. I start to feel all itchy again, as though the mice are running up my legs and in my hair. My heart begins to beat a bit louder. I feel like giggling even though nothing is funny, but my tummy is doing cartwheels and swishing about like I’ve eaten loads of popcorn kernels and they are exploding in my stomach. Dad crouches down next to the big tub of blue pasta bait and then he lifts the lid off.

  And inside, the pasta has been completely eaten so there are just a few crumbs and there are six or seven mice all hanging out inside the pot.

  One of them looks at Dad like, ‘Hey, man, shut the lid, dude.’ AHHHHHH! Dad drops the lid and we all run out and upstairs as quick as can be, and we are screaming and screaming.

  ‘What. On. Earth?’ Mum is in shock.

  ‘Mum, Mum . . .’ I gasp for new, clean, not mouse-shared air. ‘We . . . lifted the lid of the tub and inside . . . were . . . loads of mice.’

  ‘YUCK! But hang on, that’s good, isn’t it? Where are they now?’

  ‘Down there,’ Dad says, and then he starts to panic. ‘They . . . erm . . . leaped out of the tub when I opened the lid and then I dropped the torch and we . . . er . . .’ Dad suddenly realizes he is sounding quite feeble and weak. ‘Then I, er . . . thought the kids should be getting off to school and so I . . .’ I look at Dad in disbelief; he really is a cheeky biscuit.

  ‘Hmmm. I heard you scream the loudest.’ Mum nudges Dad; she loves to show him up.

  ‘Oh, really?’ he answers in a squeaky high-pitched tingly shrill. ‘I mean, oh really?’ He makes his voice go all extra-deep, gravelly and cavemanlike, just like the voices that do the voiceovers on trailers in the cinema. ‘I was just supporting the kids. Of course.’

  I feel sad. Imagine if WE were mices and somebody dreaded and wretched was trying their best to kill us! If only I could catch one, rescue it and keep it as my pet.

  On the way to school, I pull out my notebook and start writing . . .

  I am actually glad that the cage at home is empty of mices. I wouldn’t want to be separated from my family and live in a new home.

  Chapter Five

  I meet my bestest friend Will by the gates. He is peeling a tangerine.

  ‘Hi so much!’ I smile so hard I make my eyes blind with cheek chub.

  ‘ORRRRRRGGGGH.’ Will throws his peel down.

  ‘What did I do?’

  ‘Jogged me.’

  ‘Jogged you? I’m nowhere near you.’

  ‘Jogged me with your words. I was trying to peel this off in one go, you know, to make a spiral. Annie can do it and I can’t, and just to be annoying she’s leaving them all around the house to show off. It’s getting on my nerves.’

  ‘Sorry. I didn’t realize.’

  ‘It’s not your fault, it’s just frustrating. I’ve been trying all weekend.’

  ‘Have you got any more? Let me try.’

  Will hands me a tangerine and then begins chewing on his own and the juicy sunshine smell explodes into the air. ‘Honestly,’ he begins again, ‘I’ve had so much vitamin C from all these tangerines and satsumas over the weekend, I’m surprised I’ve not turned into an orange.’

  ‘You’ve got the hair for it,’ I say, naturally imagining what Will would look like as an orange. It’s easier than you think. We walk, as I am beginning to peel the stiff fruit, popping my thumb into the head and working my way round.

  ‘How was your weekend?’

  ‘Funny but annoying,’ I say as we step into school. ‘I feel like I never have a relaxing weekend, there is always something wild and crazy and annoying going on with my family.’

  ‘You wouldn’t want it any other way though. Believe me, if Annie goes out, sometimes I just sit in playing PlayStation and eating whole packets of cookies for hours on end. It can be well boring.’

  ‘Sounds like a dream,’ I say, but that’s also because if Annie was my big sister I would probably also be sneakily going in her room, trying on her clothes and hoop earrings and perfumes.

  ‘Oh no.’ Will suddenly stops completely in his tracks, as if his feet have been cemented to the floor. He goes a translucent tracing-paper white, though his cheeks redden and his eyes water. His whole body stiffens, as if a cold current of ice has just shot through his veins, and his eyebrows get higher and higher as his chin slowly drops. He lets his school bag fall with a stinging thud and does something he rarely if ever does: grabs my arm for support or comfort or just to stop himself from actually physically falling over.

  ‘Will, Will? What is it?’ It’s almost like he’s a statue. I try and look ahead to see what’s bothering him, but it’s too busy with all the noise and commotion at the start of school on a Monday morning. Birds caw overhead followed by an aeroplane, and when the plane soars over and leaves the quiet noise behind, the school bell screams its head off, meaning it’s time for registration. Through all this Will is ear-puncturing me with his silence. I shake him again. ‘Will? You’re scaring me, what is it?’ The other kids start piling their way through the school doors and that’s when I see a man, looking sad mixed with happy, waving, trying to say hello.

  ‘It’s my dad.’

  Surrounded by the shrieking hum of the bell, Will allows himself to be carried towards where his dad is standing, as if hypnotized. The man’s face lifts when he sees Will walk towards him and he begins to smile properly now. I take this as my cue to pick Will’s bag up and rubberneck (unwanted looking or spying) as I let my jelly legs jiggle me into the building. Should I tell Reception about Will’s dad? Should I phone Annie? Should I run back out and stand next to Will? Would he even want me there?

  I decide to go up to the front desk.

  ‘How’s your lamb?’ The receptionist, Mavis, is Scottish and her voice sounds like a xylophone, all plinky plonky and musical.

  ‘She’s fine. Erm . . .’ I shake my head to try and focus, but I can’t really get my head ironed out and my words tumble out in a jumble that went like this but at 500 miles per second:

  ‘Will’s here but he’s not in here with me, he—you see, Will’s here but his dad, who I think we hate but I’m not sure because we never speak about it, who I’ve never met and I have known Will for years, has just turned up at the gates, the school gates, and I wanted you to know . . . what I mean is that Will has turned up for school but obviously wasn’t expecting to see his dad at the other side of the gates and I was going to go over too but then I—I’ve got his school bag as proof, look, and his tangerine.’

  ‘Slow down, hen . . . start again.’ Mavis smiles, shifting her glasses down her nose so she can see me properly.

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Take a wee breath.’ I have to remind myself that in Scottish wee means ‘little’ and not ‘wee wee’ and that she wasn’t just suggesting that my breath smelled unspeakable.

  ‘William Hopper’s dad, who he doesn’t really know, has just turned up outside.’

  ‘Was Will expecting him?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so.’ I breathe out like a deflated balloon.

  ‘OK, thanks, petal. Do you want to leave Will
’s bag here with me, come in and have a wee drink of something, a sweet tea or some squash maybe, and a biscuit? I’ve got shortbread from home. I’ll call Security.’

  ‘Security?’

  ‘Yes, love. Will’s dad can’t just turn up unannounced, it’s trespassing.’

  I sit down. I feel like I take up too much space in the office, with all the other staff members typing and nattering away. I feel like an intruder, an alien on another planet, like I’ve been let backstage at the theatre or am looking inside the engine of a car – this is the stuff you’re not meant to see. I watch as Mavis punches the number for Security into the phone. The clock is ticking behind my head. My class will be wondering where I am. I’ll have an absent mark put next to my name in the register. What if they call home and tell Mum I bunked off school? Poor Will! What if his dad is upsetting him? He might not have wanted school to know his dad turned up. I might have ruined everything for him!

  A lady who I don’t recognize comes past and places a plastic cup of orange squash in front of me, and then Mavis, who is on the phone, snaps her fingers at her. ‘Tea!’ she says, covering the mouthpiece. ‘Nice hot sweet tea, to dunk biscuits into please . . . the shortbread, it’s in my top drawer . . . would you mind fetching it? I’ll have a cup too, thanks.’

  The lady smiles at me sarcastically and tuts, and then walks off to make tea for our unannounced mini tea party.

  Mavis winks at me. ‘Can’t have shortbread without tea,’ she whispers, then considers. ‘Can’t have tea without shortbread . . . ah, yes!’ She goes back into conversation on the phone and I am left with sweaty palms and watering eyes wondering what is happening outside with Will and his dad.

  I feel guilt swallow me up. We never talk about Will’s parents. I have only ever seen one photograph of Will and Annie’s mum, and that lives by the TV in their living room. I have been to Will’s house fewer times than the amount of fingers I have because Will gets a bit weird about people being there. In the picture Annie and Will are smallerer, Will is just a toddler and Annie is about eight. She still looks exactly the same and Will looks even more ginger. They are both wearing their pyjamas and it looks like it’s Christmas Day because everybody seems happy and there is crumpled-up wrapping paper on the floor. Will’s mum has an arm around them both, like a bird with a chick in each wing. Her face is a picture of a new kind of happiness. Walt Disney couldn’t even create this kind of wild smile. The eyes are twinkling and shining and her hair is bright red and curly and framing her face like a border of red roses. She is probably the most real-life prettiest person I have ever known other than my own mum.