The Paradise Trap

  ‘I am fixing it.’ Her husband popped his head around the side of one French door, screwdriver in hand. ‘That’s why I had to take its arm off.’

  ‘Well, don’t just leave the horrible thing scuttling around,’ Coco said crossly. ‘We have guests here.’

  ‘Sorry, my love.’

  ‘If it’s not fixed by dinner, I’m hiring a proper maid,’ Coco finished. ‘And don’t for God’s sake let the cats anywhere near it!’

  ‘I won’t,’ Sterling promised, snatching up the runaway arm. As he shuffled out of sight, Coco pursed her lips at his receding figure, her expression formidable. But when she turned back to Holly, she looked smug.

  ‘It’s for his own good,’ Coco declared. ‘If I wasn’t firm, he’d never finish anything. He’s always getting distracted.’ She sipped at her drink. ‘Now. Where was I?’

  ‘You were saying that all men are children.’

  ‘Yes. Exactly. I rest my case.’

  Holly heaved a sorrowful sigh. She was still fumbling with her chocolate wrapper. ‘I don’t think Marcus is very childish,’ she lamented. ‘He spends all his time hunched in a chair like a little old man. He never talks, he never runs around, he never gets excited about anything except his wretched computer games . . .’

  ‘Mum!’ It was Marcus. He burst into view, panting and red-faced and clutching the little white dog. His glasses were so warm and sweaty that they’d misted up. ‘I couldn’t . . . call you . . .’ he rasped. ‘No signal . . . dropped the phone . . .’

  ‘Marcus?’ Holly exclaimed, stiffening with alarm. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Newt . . .’ he groaned. ‘Edison . . .’

  ‘What about them?’ Coco said sharply.

  ‘They’re both . . . stuck in . . . the cellar . . .’

  ‘What cellar?’ Holly rose from her inflatable lounge, which made squeaky, rubbery, fart-like noises. ‘Sit down, sweetie, you look terrible. What happened to you?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Marcus. Suddenly he noticed his mother’s glossy nails, false eyelashes and caramel-coloured fake tan. Her hair was the usual sandy shade and her eyes were still green, but . . . ‘What happened to you?’

  ‘I had a makeover,’ Holly admitted. Meanwhile, Coco was struggling out of her own inflatable lounge.

  ‘Now listen, Marcus.’ She sounded impatient. ‘What exactly is going on?’

  ‘I told you,’ Marcus replied. ‘Newt and Edison are stuck under our caravan.’

  Coco gasped. Her eyes widened with horror as she clapped a hand over her mouth.

  ‘They’re what?’ Holly shrieked. Glancing from face to face, Marcus suddenly realised that he hadn’t been clear enough.

  ‘Oh – I don’t mean they’re squashed, or anything,’ he added quickly. ‘I don’t mean the caravan’s fallen on them. They’re in the cellar, that’s all. And they won’t come out.’

  ‘But Marcus—’ Holly began. Marcus, however, wouldn’t let her continue.

  ‘There’s a cellar, Mum! I swear to God!’ he insisted. ‘If you don’t believe me, come and have a look!’

  ‘Marcus—’

  ‘I thought I was hallucinating, only I wasn’t! Because Newt saw the same thing I saw! And so did Edison!’ Marcus blinked back tears, cleared his throat and fixed his pleading gaze on Coco. ‘You’ve got to come,’ he begged. ‘They won’t listen to me. The whole thing’s so weird – I didn’t know what to do.’

  ‘It’s all right, Marcus. I’ll come.’ Coco shoved her manicured feet into her high-heeled sandals. ‘I’ll come and I’ll give them both a piece of my mind. Since they’ve obviously played some dreadful trick on you.’

  Marcus considered this theory for a moment, then dismissed it. ‘I don’t think so . . .’ he mumbled.

  ‘I’ll come too,’ said Holly. ‘If there’s anything wrong with our caravan, the buck stops with me.’

  ‘How far is it? A long way?’ asked Coco.

  Holly hesitated. Her son bent his gaze to Coco’s high heels.

  ‘I don’t think you’ll be able to walk there,’ was his conclusion.

  ‘Then we’ll take the golf cart.’ Coco teetered towards the living room. ‘Sterling!’ she called. ‘Where are you? I need the keys to the golf cart!’ Over her shoulder, she added, ‘No dogs in the house, Marcus. Meet me out front . . .’

  14

  THE FIRST DOOR ON THE LEFT

  MARCUS WAS TIRED. HE’D BEEN RUSHING AROUND SO MUCH that he sank into Coco’s pink golf cart with a sigh of relief. But the golf cart was painfully slow. And Coco refused to accelerate when he asked her to.

  ‘How can we go any faster?’ she rejoined. ‘This place is crawling with people – we’ll crash into someone if I go any faster than this.’

  ‘Yes, we have to be careful, Marcus,’ Holly concurred. ‘There’s a speed limit around here, you know.’

  So they chugged along at a leisurely pace, carefully avoiding old men, mooching seagulls, and toddlers on tricycles. At one point the little white dog jumped down from Marcus’s lap, sniffed at a discarded sandwich wrapper, peed on a car tyre, and jumped back into the golf cart again – all without having to rush.

  ‘We would have got there quicker if we’d walked,’ Marcus complained.

  At last they reached the Bradshaws’ caravan, which looked dirty and battered and surprisingly small. Even next to the golf cart it looked small. And when Marcus squatted down to check for evidence of a cellar staircase, he saw nothing beneath the caravan except dirt, shade, spiders and a squashed styrofoam cup.

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ said Coco. She was sitting behind the wheel of her golf cart, staring in amazement at the grubby little caravan. ‘Isn’t this where Miss Molpe used to live?’

  ‘What?’ Holly frowned at her. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Your caravan,’ Coco replied. ‘It looks exactly like Miss Molpe’s.’

  ‘No, it doesn’t,’ Holly said quickly. Then, after a moment’s hesitation, she added, ‘Who’s Miss Molpe?’

  ‘You know. The old lady who used to play us those gramophone records!’

  ‘Oh! That’s right.’ Holly turned to study the caravan. ‘You really think so?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’ Cocking her head, Coco appeared to be ticking off a mental checklist. ‘Hers was spotless, of course, but it was the same shape . . . with the same blue stripe . . .’

  ‘Come on!’ Marcus urged. He was already hovering on the doorstep. ‘What are you waiting for? We’ve got to hurry!’

  ‘The curtains are different,’ Coco went on, ignoring him. She began to climb out of her golf cart. ‘I remember Miss Molpe’s curtains. They had red flowers on them.’

  ‘Really?’ Startled, Holly raised her eyebrows. ‘I had to replace the old curtains,’ she revealed. ‘They certainly had flowers on them, but the flowers were pink, not red.’

  ‘They could have faded,’ said Coco, teetering towards Marcus. ‘Is it the same layout inside?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Holly had to confess. ‘I can’t remember much about Miss Molpe’s caravan.’

  ‘Can’t you? Goodness! I remember it so well. It had a sort of banquette with striped seats, and speckled laminex on the table, and frosted glass wall sconces with a painted gold trim . . .’ Coco caught her breath as Marcus opened the door for her. ‘Oh my God!’ she squealed. ‘It is the same place! It must be!’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Except that it never used to smell like this.’ Coco pinched her carefully sculpted nose between her lacquered talons. ‘No offence, but it smells like a septic tank in here.’

  ‘I think it smells like sweaty gym clothes,’ said Marcus. He had followed Coco across the threshold; his mother was close behind him. ‘The staircase is under that seat,’ he pointed out. ‘Which is why we didn’t spot it, at first.’

  He ushered Holly over to the seat in question, lifting its lid to show her the mysterious cellar. Coco, however, didn’t seem very interested in the cellar. She was gazing around, awestruck.
‘It’s the same one,’ she murmured. ‘I know it is. I remember those cushion covers. And those benchtops. And that funny little oven . . .’

  But Holly wasn’t listening. ‘This can’t be true,’ she croaked, staring down into the dimness. ‘This— this is impossible.’

  ‘I know,’ Marcus said solemnly.

  ‘There can’t be a cellar!’ She rounded on him, as white as salt. ‘How can there be a cellar?’

  Marcus shrugged.

  ‘The man at the lot didn’t mention a cellar,’ Holly continued, oblivious to the fact that Coco had joined them. So had the little white dog, which would have jumped into the stairwell if the sides of the bench hadn’t been so high.

  Defeated, the dog fell back, barking furiously. Marcus picked it up.

  ‘Well, this is very impressive,’ Coco observed. She was leaning forward, peering downstairs. ‘Sterling will want to see this, for sure. He’ll be so jealous.’

  ‘It doesn’t make sense, though.’ Holly sounded almost panic-stricken. ‘How can this caravan possibly have a cellar?’

  It was Coco’s turn to shrug. ‘Don’t ask me,’ she replied. ‘Ours has a gym and a home theatre, but I’ve no idea how Sterling managed it.’ She shot an inquiring glance at Marcus. ‘Are my kids down there?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Newt!’ she cried. ‘Edison!’

  ‘They can’t hear you,’ Marcus explained. ‘The doors are closed.’

  ‘Doors?’ said Holly. ‘What doors?’

  ‘I’ll show you.’ Marcus climbed into the stairwell, then made his way carefully to the bottom step. He could hear Coco’s cork heels clomping after him.

  ‘Is there a light switch?’ she asked. ‘It’s awfully dark down here.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Marcus replied. He hadn’t bothered to pull Newt’s phone out of his pocket, because it didn’t seem to be working anymore. ‘I haven’t seen one.’

  ‘Luckily I’ve got my keyring torch,’ said Coco, as a thin, pinkish beam pierced the shadows. It flickered across three full-sized doors and a small plastic flap.

  ‘What on earth . . . ?’ Holly squeaked. She was bringing up the rear. ‘You mean there’s more cellar?’

  ‘Um . . .’

  ‘Newt! Edison!’ Coco brushed past Marcus and headed straight for the nearest door. ‘This isn’t funny! You’d better come out before I have to come in and get you!’

  ‘Wait – Mrs Huckstepp?’ Marcus grabbed her. ‘There’s just one thing . . .’

  ‘Which room are they in?’ said Coco, shaking him off.

  ‘I’m not really sure,’ Marcus admitted. ‘The whole layout’s changed since I was here last.’

  ‘Edison!’ Coco was fast losing patience. ‘I’m coming to get you!’

  ‘No! Wait!’ cried Marcus, who had suddenly worked out what was going on. But it was too late. Coco had already opened the first door on the left.

  15

  THE CRYSTAL HIBISCUS

  ‘WELCOME, MRS HUCKSTEPP!’ A SOFT VOICE PURRED. ‘Welcome to the Crystal Hibiscus Health Spa and Beauty Retreat! We’re so happy to offer you our holistic relaxation and energy-balancing experience this afternoon!’

  A wave of perfumed air hit Marcus with the impact of a hurricane-force wind. At the very same instant, his ears were assailed by hysterical barking as the dog in his arms began to thrash around madly.

  Then he saw that Coco was being addressed by a giant pink cat.

  ‘We’ll begin with a full-body pamper session, incorporating a five-senses therapy approach,’ the cat continued. Standing on its hind legs, it was almost as tall as Coco. It had golden eyes and a silver bow around its neck. ‘This will include a degustation aromatherapy menu, a music massage, a colour-spectrum light bath and a head-to-toe feather wrap.’

  ‘Oh my God,’ Holly whimpered. Together, she and her son gaped at the tropical paradise that lay in front of them. Huge, scented flowers bloomed against a backdrop of palm trees and distant lagoons. Marble fountains bubbled in the foreground, their gentle plashing barely audible above the tinkle of wind chimes and the ripple of a recorded harp. Thatched pavilions were scattered between clumps of thick jungle foliage and white cane furniture. An artificial waterfall cascaded into a mosaic-encrusted plunge pool, which was ringed by cushions and bisected by a row of stepping stones shaped like lily pads.

  ‘Oooo!’ Coco exclaimed, breathless with enchantment. ‘This is heaven!’

  ‘We like to think so,’ the cat replied suavely, ushering her over the threshold. Other giant cats were padding between various pavilions, carrying fluffy pink towels and glass jars full of cotton-wool balls. ‘Welcome!’ they murmured. ‘Come in and put your feet up!’

  Coco advanced like a sleepwalker as white doves cooed in a nearby coconut tree and butterflies as big as pigeons fluttered overhead. A white cat in a pink kimono presented her with a pair of slippers. Another cat offered her jasmine tea. Giant felines were converging from every direction, some on their hind legs, some on all fours.

  It was too much for the little white dog, which wriggled out of Marcus’s grasp and jumped to the ground, yapping fiercely.

  ‘Whoa!’ cried Marcus. When he darted forward to restrain the dog, his mother stumbled after him, onto a paved terrace dotted with statues.

  ‘Marcus?’ she quavered. ‘Am I losing my mind?’

  ‘No,’ Marcus assured her. He held the writhing dog in a modified headlock. Meanwhile, Coco was being led towards the nearest pavilion – where a bath shaped like a clamshell was filled to overflowing with iridescent bubbles.

  ‘After your cleansing and relaxation routine, you can take advantage of our beauty bar,’ the pink cat was saying to Coco. ‘There’s a wide range of options, including our complete manicure package, our organic facelift and our hair-enhancement program.’

  ‘Mrs Huckstepp!’ Although Marcus had to shout over the dog’s frenzied yelping, neither Coco nor the pink cat seemed to hear him.

  ‘I’m hallucinating,’ Holly declared brokenly. ‘I’m seeing pink cats.’

  ‘So am I,’ said Marcus.

  ‘We must have breathed in some kind of toxic fumes.’ His mother’s tone became more and more hysterical. ‘It must be that stuff I used on these stupid fake fingernails!’

  ‘It’s not fumes,’ Marcus insisted. ‘It’s magic.’ Then he raised his voice again. ‘You can’t stay here, Mrs Huckstepp! It’s a trap! It’s not real!’

  The pink cat rounded on him, its hackles raised. ‘Excuse me,’ it hissed, ‘but you don’t have a booking, little boy.’

  ‘Mrs Huckstepp!’ Marcus shoved the dog into his mother’s arms, before trying to run after Coco. Unfortunately, he didn’t get far. His path was blocked by a big black cat wielding a syringe.

  ‘Botox?’ the black cat inquired, its fangs bared and its green eyes narrowed. ‘Or would you prefer a laser treatment?’

  ‘Mrs Huckstepp!’

  ‘Perhaps a spell in our isolation tank . . . ?’

  ‘Mrs Huckstepp!’ Marcus dodged the black cat as it lunged for him. Almost immediately, however, he was slapped in the face by a hot towel. A second hot towel was thrown over his head. By the time he’d freed himself, some other super-sized cats were bearing down on him with acupuncture needles and electric hair irons and bowls of steaming hot wax.

  ‘Do you really want a chemical peel, little boy?’ they yowled. ‘Do you really want a deep-tissue massage?’

  Marcus retreated a step or two. At the same time, his mother lost her grip on the white dog, which shot towards the black cat like a guided missile. The cat unsheathed its painted claws. It swiped at the dog; there was a fierce spitting sound, followed by a high-pitched yelp.

  Suddenly the dog turned tail, bolting between Marcus’s legs on its way to the door.

  ‘Run!’ Holly cried, as a looming wall of fur bore down on her.

  Marcus ran.

  16

  WE NEED THAT ROBOT!

  HOLLY WAS JUST BEHIND MARCUS WHEN HE STU
MBLED INTO the cellar. She slammed the door shut behind her, then hustled him towards the stairs. But Marcus dug his heels in.

  ‘Wait!’ he protested. ‘Where’s the dog?’

  His mother couldn’t reply; she was too out of breath. Pausing for an instant, she scanned her dimly lit surroundings.

  Her gaze fell on the plastic flap, which was swinging back and forth. Squeak-squeak-squeak. Each swing revealed a brief glimpse of emerald-green grass bathed in a golden light.

  ‘Oh, no.’ Marcus tried to pull away from Holly, whistling frantically. ‘Here, boy!’

  Holly yanked him back again.

  ‘No,’ she snapped.

  ‘Just let me—’

  ‘No!’

  She half-dragged, half-pushed him upstairs. Only when they had reached the safety of the caravan did she finally let him go.

  As she collapsed across the table, gasping and moaning, Marcus tugged at her sleeve.

  ‘We need the robot,’ he insisted.

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘We have to get Prot down here. Can you call Mr Huckstepp? Can you tell him to bring his robot?’ Seeing Holly’s blank look, Marcus’s tone became even more urgent. ‘Robots don’t have dream holidays!’ he cried. ‘Not like people! We need Prot to open one of those doors!’

  ‘But—’

  ‘It’s magic, Mum. They’re magic doors. Every one of them leads to somebody’s dream holiday. That’s why we can’t go back – if we do, we’ll get sucked into our own dream holidays. And we won’t want to come out again.’

  Still Holly didn’t react. She just stared at him, shell-shocked.

  Marcus sighed impatiently.

  ‘Do you have Mr Huckstepp’s number?’ he demanded. ‘Did you put it in your phone? Because if you didn’t, we’ll have to go and get him.’

  Holly groped for her hip pocket, but Marcus was way ahead of her. He seized his mother’s phone and began to check the contents of her electronic directory.

  As it turned out, Coco had supplied Holly with a generous list of Huckstepp contact numbers. There was a home number, two office numbers, a fax number, a ski chalet number, and five mobile numbers, one of which belonged to Sterling’s phone.