Sterling answered on the seventh ring.
‘Hello?’ he said.
‘Mr Huckstepp?’
‘That’s right. Who’s this?’
‘It’s Marcus Bradshaw.’
‘Who?’
‘I’m with Mrs Huckstepp. She needs your robot.’ There was a long silence. ‘Hello?’ said Marcus. ‘Mr Huckstepp? Are you there?’
‘Sorry, I . . . who am I talking to?’
‘Hang on a minute.’ Marcus shoved the phone towards his mother. ‘Mum, you’ve got to talk to Mr Huckstepp!’ he pleaded. ‘Tell him to bring his robot, or he’ll never see his family again!’
‘Who . . . ?’
‘It’s Mr Huckstepp! He won’t listen to me!’
Gingerly Holly took the phone. Then she pressed it to her ear, almost poking herself in the eye with a false fingernail as she did so. ‘Hel-hello?’ she stammered. ‘Oh, hello Sterling. It’s Holly Bradshaw.’
‘Tell him to bring the robot!’ Marcus softly reminded her.
‘The thing is, Sterling, we’ve . . . um . . . we’ve got a problem. A very strange problem.’ Holly’s voice broke. ‘No, I— it’s hard to explain. But we need you here. Coco needs you here.’
‘Ask him to bring his robot!’ Marcus hissed.
Holly, however, was busy describing her exact whereabouts. Only after she’d given Sterling a set of precise directions did she instruct him to ‘bring his little robot’ along.
‘There’s a door that needs opening,’ she quavered. ‘Coco’s stuck behind a door, and – well, you just have to come and see. It’s very peculiar.’ Sterling must have asked something at this point, because Holly hesitated briefly. Then she said, ‘Well, to be honest, it’s downstairs. In the cellar. What? That’s right, there’s a cellar.’ Her taut face slowly relaxed as she listened to the booming assurances at the other end of the line. ‘Oh, thanks,’ she croaked at last. ‘Thank you so much, Sterling. See you soon.’
‘And don’t forget the robot!’ Marcus piped up.
‘And don’t forget the robot,’ his mother finished. ‘Thanks. Okay.’
She signed off.
‘Well?’ Marcus demanded.
‘He’s coming,’ Holly replied. ‘He wants to look at the cellar.’
‘And the robot?’
‘He’s bringing the robot.’
‘Good.’ Marcus gnawed at his thumbnail, thinking hard. ‘If we can get that robot to open a door, we might not end up walking into our own dream holidays,’ he mused. ‘We might be able to get back into Coco’s spa. Or Newt’s nightclub. Or maybe we’ll see what’s really behind those doors!’ For a moment he considered the vast range of possibilities, his eyes widening. Then something else occurred to him. ‘Unless it doesn’t work,’ he added glumly. ‘Those doors might not open for a robot. They might disappear when a robot tries to touch them. Maybe you need to actually have some kind of dream holiday before you can open any of the doors down there.’
But Holly wasn’t listening.
‘Sterling will know what to do,’ she mumbled, in a distracted kind of way. ‘He’ll work out what’s going on.’
‘I told you what’s going on,’ said Marcus. ‘It’s magic. This is a magic caravan.’
His mother shook her head.
‘Things always look like magic when you don’t understand them,’ she rejoined. ‘Sterling will understand, though. He’s a brilliant engineer. When Sterling arrives, he’ll be able to explain everything.’
17
THE DISAPPEARING DOORS
IT WAS HALF AN HOUR BEFORE STERLING FINALLY SHOWED UP. He had warned Holly that there might be a delay while he reassembled his robot; by the time his two-seater dune buggy appeared at the end of the street, a glorious sunset was tinting the sky red and gold.
‘My word!’ Sterling exclaimed, as he braked behind his wife’s golf cart. ‘What an absolute classic you’ve got there! It’s an old Airstream, isn’t it? About 1965?’
‘Uh . . .’ Holly swivelled around to look at the caravan behind her. She had been sitting on its front steps, but had jumped to her feet at Sterling’s approach. ‘I’m not sure . . .’
‘It’s a beauty,’ Sterling continued. ‘I love vintage caravans. Are the fittings original?’
Marcus gave a snort. He had rushed forward to unclip the harness that Sterling had wrapped around Prot. ‘They’re original, all right,’ Marcus growled. ‘They’re about as original as you can get.’
‘Fantastic!’ Sterling beamed at him. ‘You’ll have to give me a tour.’
‘Yes, but we shouldn’t need to give you a tour! Not in a place this size!’ Holly wailed. ‘That’s the whole problem! We shouldn’t even have a cellar! It doesn’t make sense!’
Across the road, a woman hanging up wet laundry peered over the top of her clothesline at Holly, who flushed and fell silent when she realised that she was being stared at. A small, sun-dazed crowd had already gathered to inspect Sterling’s dune buggy, which had a slightly homemade look about it, as if Sterling had thrown it together one afternoon using bits of jet aircraft and ride-on lawnmower.
Three bare-chested teenage boys whispered to each other as they poked at the buggy’s super-sized wheels.
‘I like it when things don’t make sense,’ Sterling remarked. Having climbed out of his own seat, he was helping Marcus to extract Prot from the other one. ‘It gives me more to think about.’
‘Hey,’ said the boldest teenager, ‘is that a robot?’
‘Affirmative,’ Sterling replied, in his best robotic drone. Then he set Prot down on a patch of dirt and pointed at the caravan. ‘Inside,’ he ordered.
When the robot began to move, there was an admiring murmur from the crowd. Marcus immediately decided not to mention giant cats or talking dodgem cars. Not for a little while, at least. Not until he could do it in private.
Holly must have reached the same conclusion, because she didn’t speak until she and Sterling and Prot were safely over the caravan’s threshold. Then she closed the door and said, ‘Our cellar is under that seat over there. Maybe it’s been done with mirrors or holograms – I don’t know. But I’m sure you’ll be able to figure it out, Sterling.’
‘Let’s hope so.’ Sterling rubbed his hands together, his blue eyes twinkling with excitement. He looked fatter than ever in such a cramped, crowded, dingy space; his glowing sunburn and vivid Hawaiian shirt made everything around him seem colourless in comparison. ‘I’ve always wanted a portable wine cellar, but I’ve never been able to build one. I could certainly use a few tips.’ Lowering his voice, he leaned towards Holly. ‘If you want my advice, though, you should invest in a couple of air fresheners. It smells like a fish processing plant in here.’
Marcus heaved an impatient sigh. ‘You can’t build something like this,’ he argued. ‘It’s magic. You’d need to be a magician.’
Sterling wasn’t listening. He had shuffled forward and was goggling into the open seat, his eyebrows raised. ‘Good lord!’ he marvelled. ‘You’ve got stairs and everything!’
‘I told you, it’s a cellar,’ said Holly.
‘Yes, but I thought you were talking about a sub-floor storage area slung between the axles,’ Sterling confessed. He was sounding more and more enthusiastic. ‘This is amazing! It’s a masterpiece! I’ve never seen anything like it!’ With a laugh, he added, ‘Bit of a squeeze, though. I hope I can fit through that hole.’
‘It doesn’t matter if you can’t,’ said Marcus. ‘Prot’s the one we need down there – if he can manage it.’
Marcus wasn’t trying to be unpleasant. He was just stating the obvious. And it was Holly who took offence, not Sterling. ‘Marcus!’ she snapped. ‘Don’t be so rude!’
‘Oh, there’s no need to worry about Prot,’ Sterling remarked breezily, as if she hadn’t spoken. ‘Prot’s hydraulics are state-of-the-art. He can handle a few measly stairs.’
Sterling was right. Prot descended into the cellar without difficulty, using an inbuilt, he
ad-mounted light to plot a course. It was Sterling who found the stairs troublesome – and not just because the entrance hole was so narrow.
‘These treads aren’t very wide!’ he cheerfully announced. ‘When you’ve got a gut like mine, you need wide treads or you can’t see where you’re going!’ He nearly came a cropper several times, thanks to his poor night vision and intense curiosity. ‘This feels like the genuine article,’ he would comment, abruptly stopping to examine a wall or a stair-rail. Whenever that happened, Marcus would bump into him.
It was a miracle that they both reached the bottom of the staircase in one piece.
‘Good lord!’ Sterling gave an admiring whistle. ‘Just look at the size of this place! It’s so solid!’
‘Yeah,’ Marcus said. ‘It is, isn’t it?’
He noted that there were still three full-sized doors, clearly visible in the glow of the robot’s headlamp, but that the doggie door had vanished. Perhaps because the dog had vanished?
‘There’s no end to the damn thing, either,’ Sterling continued in amazement. ‘What’s through here? Cupboards? Cellars?’
‘Wait!’ Marcus yelped. He grabbed Sterling’s hand, which had been reaching for the nearest doorknob. ‘Don’t you open it, Mr Huckstepp! Prot has to do that!’ Turning to his mother, Marcus added, ‘The doggie door’s gone. That can’t be good. If the doggie door’s gone, then Coco’s door might have gone as well. These doors might be for us.’
Holly blinked. ‘Oh dear,’ she said weakly.
‘And if these doors are for us, they won’t lead to the Crystal Hibiscus,’ Marcus went on. ‘We might never get back into that spa, unless Prot can help.’ Leaning down, he addressed the robot. ‘Hey, Prot,’ he asked, ‘can you open one of those doors for me?’
Prot’s head swivelled, so that Marcus found himself shading his eyes from the robot’s spotlight.
‘Please specify,’ came Prot’s flat rejoinder.
‘No.’ Marcus was firm. ‘I can’t specify. Just choose one. Any one. We can’t choose it for you.’
‘Random selection, Prot,’ Sterling suggested helpfully. ‘There’s no correct answer.’
For about five seconds, Prot remained motionless. But as Sterling opened his mouth again, the robot trundled forward.
Marcus caught his breath and crossed his fingers.
18
PICK YOUR DREAM
PROT CHOSE THE MIDDLE DOOR, WHICH DIDN’T VANISH WHEN the robot turned the knob. Click went the latch. Cre-e-eak went the hinges.
Marcus wasn’t expecting much. He wouldn’t have been surprised by a blank brick wall, or a mirror image of the cellar, or even another door, leading to another door, leading to an infinity of identical doors, with never an end in sight.
To his astonishment, however, there was a room behind the middle door: a drab, windowless room containing a beige carpet, a wooden desk, a high-backed chair, a banker’s lamp, a telephone and lots of display shelves. Stretched across the rear wall, above a modest-looking lift, was a sign that read ‘Siren Song Travel’.
‘Wow,’ Sterling breathed. He was much more impressed than the Bradshaws, whose faces fell as they surveyed the room.
‘I knew it,’ Marcus said glumly. ‘We can’t get back into that spa. Or into the nightclub.’
‘But where’s Coco?’ his mother fretted. ‘I don’t understand . . .’
‘Neither do I.’ Marcus was stumped. Surely they couldn’t have stumbled on Prot’s dream holiday? ‘Do you recognise this office, Mr Huckstepp?’ he asked, wondering if the robot’s circuits contained an image of the place where it had originally been assembled.
Sterling shot him a puzzled glance. ‘Of course I don’t recognise it,’ he replied. ‘How could I? I’ve never been here before.’
‘Maybe this is a different part of the spa.’ Holly appealed to Marcus, desperately trying to make sense of the inexplicable. ‘Maybe we’ll find Coco if we take the lift.’
‘I don’t see how,’ said Marcus. ‘There’s no up button. Or down button.’
‘You’re right. There’s no control panel.’ Sterling seemed both amused and delighted. He bustled across the threshold, heading straight for the back of the room. ‘Is this lift a fake?’ he inquired. ‘Could there really be more levels down here?’
Marcus shrugged. Having cautiously advanced, he suddenly found himself within easy reach of a display shelf – which was stocked with row upon row of travel brochures. There were hundreds of brochures, some for fishing and skiing holidays, some for more peculiar holidays.
‘Cakeland Cruise,’ he read aloud. ‘Toy Store Safari. Chocolate Farmstay.’ He screwed up his nose in bewilderment. ‘This is weird . . .’
‘Jumping Castle Weekend,’ his mother said. She too was now scanning the array of titles. ‘Space Vacation8/24/2011. Dolphin Jockey Training Camp.’
‘Some of these are really ancient.’ Marcus eyed a yellowing pamphlet that sported black-and-white engravings. ‘Antarctic Balloon Expedition – join doughty explorer Alfred Repton-Kinshaw in his quest to conquer a final frontier.’
‘This one’s in German,’ Holly pointed out.
‘Pilgrimage to Jerusalem?’ Marcus had picked up a parchment scroll tied with red ribbon and inscribed with Gothic lettering. ‘What kind of a holiday is that?’
‘Oh my God!’ Holly shrieked. Marcus and Sterling both spun around to gape at her; Prot simply stood in a corner, circuits humming.
Holly was waving a crisp and colourful brochure.
‘Look!’ she cried, stabbing at the brochure with one long, glossy fingernail. ‘The Crystal Hibiscus Tropical Health Spa,’ she quoted. ‘Pamper yourself in kitty-cat heaven.’
Marcus squinted at the cover, which showed Coco Huckstepp. She was lolling on a massage table under a palm tree. ‘I don’t believe it . . .’ he mumbled.
‘Look, Sterling!’ Holly pushed the brochure into Sterling’s hand. ‘This is where we left Coco. See? In a spa. And here she is!’
‘And here’s Edison!’ Marcus squeaked. His gaze had snagged on another brand new brochure – this one featuring Edison’s photograph under the words Happy Friends Amusement Park. Edison was shown laughing on a roller-coaster; beside him sat a giant plush panda eating ice-cream.
‘How did you do this?’ asked Sterling. He glanced from brochure to brochure, looking dazed. Meanwhile, Marcus was searching for Newt’s dream holiday among all the others on offer. He finally spotted a Neverending Dance Party pamphlet with her face on it.
‘Gotcha!’ he crowed, snatching it up. ‘Here’s Newt! That’s all of them, now!’
‘Sorry, guys – you’ve lost me,’ said Sterling, with a puzzled half-smile. ‘What’s the joke?’
‘There’s no joke,’ Marcus replied. He was inspecting Newt’s brochure, wondering if it might contain any clues to her exact whereabouts. Unfortunately there was very little text; just picture after picture of young people dancing, drinking, kissing, laughing and sprawling in great heaps on low, squashy couches.
‘I don’t believe it,’ Holly suddenly croaked. ‘I don’t believe it.’ When Marcus glanced up, he saw her clutching a slightly faded brochure as if she’d found a long-lost diamond necklace. ‘Oh my God. This can’t be true.’
‘What?’ said Marcus.
‘It’s— it’s Jake.’ She whirled around, thrusting the brochure in his direction. ‘It’s Jake! Jake Borazio! It’s that kid I had a crush on!’
19
‘PLEASE ENTER YOUR CODE . . .’
MARCUS FROWNED. ‘WHAT DO YOU MEAN?’ HE SAID.
‘Don’t you remember? I told you about Jake.’ Holly pointed at the brochure in her hand. ‘That’s him there. And that’s the rockpool where we used to hunt crabs. And that’s the old kiosk.’ Holly’s voice broke; she had to swallow before adding, ‘This is Diamond Beach the way it used to be, twenty-five years ago.’
Marcus scanned the pictures in front of him. He saw a dark-haired kid of about his own age, wearing board shorts and zi
nc cream. He saw a marshy lagoon; a rundown shack with ‘Snack Bar’ painted on it; a modest cluster of caravans and tents; an almost deserted stretch of white sand.
‘Diamond Beach Paradise,’ he read.
‘You don’t think Jake’s down here somewhere, do you?’ Holly faltered. And Marcus shrugged.
‘I dunno,’ he replied. ‘Maybe. Mrs Huckstepp recognised our caravan – she said it used to belong to a little old lady called Miss Molpe.’ Squinting at the sign above the lift, he murmured, ‘I wonder if she’s got anything to do with this?’
‘Hey,’ said Sterling. His tone, though mild, was also plaintive. ‘Could someone please tell me what this is all about? It’s very clever but I’m not sure what you want me to do.’
Holly didn’t seem to hear. She was mooning over the Diamond Beach Paradise brochure.
Marcus sighed.
‘This place looks like the control room,’ he informed Sterling. ‘We must have got in here because Prot doesn’t have a dream holiday. Now we just need to find a way into Mrs Huckstepp’s spa.’ His wandering gaze settled on the desktop. ‘Do you think that phone works?’ he wondered aloud.
Holly was muttering to herself. As Marcus trudged over to the desk, Sterling examined the brochure he’d been given. ‘It doesn’t say here where the spa actually is,’ Sterling announced. ‘I can’t see a map or an address or anything . . .’
Marcus lifted the phone receiver. It was heavy and old-fashioned. When he put it to his ear, there was an audible click at the other end of the line. Then a recorded female voice said, ‘Please enter your code number.’
Code number? Marcus scowled. ‘What code number?’ he demanded.
‘Please enter your code number,’ the recorded voice intoned again. ‘Please enter your code number . . .’