The Secret of Platform 13

  ‘Here it comes!’ said Mr Trottle, and the guards moved aside the cones and turned up the landing lights, ready for the helicopter to land.

  The pilot who’d been sent to fetch the Trottles was one of the best. He had flown in the Gulf War; he was steady and experienced and of course he would never have taken even the smallest sip of drink before a flight.

  And yet now he was seeing things. He was seeing dogs. Which meant that he was going mad because you did not see dogs in the sky; you didn’t see stars blotted out by threshing tails; you didn’t see grinning jowls and fangs staring in at the cockpit.

  The pilot shook his head. He closed his eyes for an instant, but it didn’t help. Another slobbering face with bared teeth and saucer eyes had appeared beside him. There were more of them now . . . three . . . four . . . five.

  There couldn’t be five dogs racing through the sky . But there were – and they were coming closer. He dipped suddenly, e xpecting them to be sliced by his propellers, but they weren’t. Of course they weren’t because they didn’t exist.

  High above him, Miss Witherspoon, her handbag dangling, encouraged the pack.

  ‘Go on! See him off!’ she shouted. ‘Faster! Faster!’

  Excited by the chase, the dogs moved in. Sparks came from their eyes, spittle dropped from their jaws. The pack leader threw himself at the cockpit window.

  The pilot could see the roofs of the Astor below, but every time he tried to lose height the phantom dogs chivvied him harder – and what if those sparks were real? What if they burnt the plane?

  ‘Tally ho!’ cried Miss Witherspoon, high in the sky . S he blew her whistle and the dogs went mad.

  The pilot made one more attempt to land. Then suddenly he’d had enough. The Astor could wait, and so could the people who had hired him. The Trottles, staring at the helicopter’s light as it came down, saw it rise again and vanish over the rooftops.

  ‘Now what?’ said Mrs Trottle, peevishly .

  She was soon to find out.

  The people of London had forgotten the old ways. They had heard the baying of the phantom yelpers in the sky , a nd now they could smell the evil stench that came in with the night air, but they spoke of drains, of blocked pipes, and shut their windows.

  And the harpies flew on.

  ‘Yuk!’ said Raymond, chewing his toffee bar. ‘It stinks. I feel sick!’

  ‘Well, my little noodle-pie, I did tell you not to eat sweets before—’

  Then she broke off, and all the Trottles stared upwards.

  ‘My God!’ Mr Trottle staggered backwards. ‘What are they? Ostriches . . . vultures?’

  The gigantic birds were losing height. They could see the talons of the biggest one now, caught in the landing lights.

  And they could see other things.

  ‘B . . . Bloomers,’ babbled Mrs Trottle. ‘F . . . frills.’

  ‘Shoot, can’t you!’ yelled Mr Trottle at the guard. ‘What are we paying you for?’

  The guard lifted his gun. There was a loud report, and Mrs Smith shook out her feathers and smiled. The wings of harpies have been arrow proof and bullet proof since the beginning of time.

  ‘Ready , g irls!’ she called.

  The second guard lifted his gun . . . then dropped it and ran screaming, back into the building. He had seen a handbag and could take no more.

  And the harpies descended.

  Each of them knew what to do. Miss Brown landed on Mrs Trottle who had fainted clean away, and sat on her chest. Miss Green picked up the remaining guard and threw him on to the fire escape. Miss Jones pinned the gibbering Mr Trottle against a wall.

  Only Raymond still stood there, his jaws clamped so hard on his treacle toffee that he couldn’t even scream.

  And then he stood there no longer.

  Nineteen

  By the evening of the ninth day, the rescuers could put off their return no longer, but as they made their way to King’s Cross Station they felt sadder than they had ever felt in their lives. To come back in disgrace like this . . . to know that they had failed!

  Odge, trudging along with the mistmaker’s suitcase, was silent and pale and this worried the others. They had expected her to rant and rave and stamp her feet when Ben once more refused to come with them, but she had behaved well and that wasn’t like her. If Odge was sickening for something that would really be the end.

  They had waited till the last minute to make sure Ben had completely recovered from the blow to his head. He’d kept telling them he was fine; he’d helped them to clear up the summer house, sweeping and tidying with a will, and that had made the parting worse because they’d remembered the moment when they first saw him in the basement of Trottle Towers. How happy they’d been when they thought he was the Prince! How certain that they could bring him back!

  But there’d been no changing Ben’s mind; he wouldn’t leave his grandmother. ‘She’s having an operation,’ he’d said. ‘I can’t leave her to face that alone. Maybe I can come down next time, when the gump opens again.’

  He’d turned away then, and they knew how much he minded – but Odge hadn’t lost her temper the way she’d done before; she’d just shrugged and said nothing at all.

  The ghosts were waiting on platform thirteen. They looked thoroughly shaken though it was hours since the harpies had come through on their way to rescuing Raymond.

  ‘I tell you, it was like the armies of the dead,’ said Ernie. ‘I wouldn’t be Raymond Trottle for all the rice in China. They’ve had engineers here all afternoon looking for blocked drains.’

  And indeed the harpies’ vile stench still lingered. Even the spiders on the stopped clock looked stunned.

  Now it was time to say goodbye and that was hard. The ghosts and the rescuers had become very fond of each other in the nine days they had worked together, but when Cor asked them if they wouldn’t come through the gump, they shook their heads.

  ‘Ghosts is ghosts and Islanders is Islanders,’ said Ernie. ‘And what would happen to the gump if we weren’t here to guard it?’

  But the ogre was looking anxiously at the station roof.

  ‘I think we go now?’ he said. ‘I wish not to be under the smelling ladies when they return.’

  No one wanted that. No one, for that matter, wanted to see the Prince brought back in the harpies’ claws like a dead mouse.

  They went through into the cloakroom and shook hands. Even the ghost of the train spotter was upset to see them go.

  ‘Please could you take the mistmaker’s suitcase for me,’ said Odge suddenly. ‘ My arm’s getting tired.’

  Gurkie nodded and Odge went forward to the Opening. ‘I’ll go ahead,’ she said. ‘I’m missing my sisters and I want to get there quickly . ’

  It says a lot about how weary and sad the rescuers were that they believed her.

  When he came into the ward, Ben saw that the curtains were drawn round Nanny’s bed.

  ‘Has she had the operation?’ he asked the nurse. It was Celeste, the one with the red rose in her hair whom everyone loved.

  ‘No, dear. She’s not going to have the operation. She’s – very ill, Ben. You can sit with her quietly – she’d like to have you there but she may not say much.’

  Ben drew aside the curtain. He could see at once that something had happened to Nanny . Her face was tiny; she looked as though she didn’t really belong here any more. But when he pulled a chair up beside the bed and reached for her hand, the skinny , b rown-flecked fingers closed tightly round his own.

  ‘Foiled ’em!’ said Nanny in a surprisingly clear voice.

  ‘About the operation, do you mean?’

  ‘That’s right. Going up there full of tubes! Told them my time was up!’

  Her eyes shut . . . then fluttered open once again.

  ‘The letter . . . take it . . .’ she whispered. ‘Go on. Now.’

  Ben turned his head and saw a white envelope with his name on it lying on her locker.

  ‘All right, Nanny . ’
She watched him, never taking her eyes away, as he took it and put it carefully in his pocket. And now she could let go.

  ‘You’re a good boy . . . We shouldn’t have . . .’

  Her voice drifted away; her breathing became shallow and uneven; only her hand still held tightly on to Ben’s.

  ‘Just sleep, Nanny, ’ he said. ‘I’ll stay.’

  And he did, as the clock ticked away the hours. That was what he had to do now, sit beside her not thinking of anything else. Not letting his mind follow Odge and the others as they made their way home . . . Not feeling sorry for himself because the people he loved so much had gone away. Just being there while Nanny needed him, that was his job.

  The night nurse, coming in twice, found him still as stone beside the bed. The third time she came in, he had fallen asleep in his chair – but he still held his grandmother’s cold hand inside his own.

  Gently , she uncurled his fingers and told him what had happened.

  It was hard to understand that he was now absolutely alone. People dying, however much you expect it, is not like you think it will be.

  The Sister had taken him to the rest room; she’d given him tea and biscuits. Now, to his surprise, she said: ‘I’ve been in touch with the people who are going to fetch you and they’re on their way. Soon you’ll be in your new home.’

  Ben lifted his head. ‘What?’ he said stupidly .

  ‘Mrs Trottle has made the arrangements for you, Ben. She’s found a really nice place for you, she says. A school where you’ll learn all sorts of things. She didn’t think you’d want to go on living with the other servants now your grandmother is dead.’

  Ben was incredibly tired; it was difficult to take anything in. ‘I don’t know anything about this,’ he said.

  The Sister patted his shoulder. Mrs Trottle had sounded so kind and concerned on the telephone that it never occurred to her to be suspicious.

  ‘Ah, here they are now,’ she said.

  Two men came into the room. They wore natty suits – one pin-striped, one pale grey – and kipper ties. One of them had long dark hair parted in the middle and trained over his ears; the other was fair, with thick curls. Both of them smelled strongly of after shave, but their fingernails were dirty.

  Ben disliked them at once. They looked oily and untrustworthy and he took a step backwards.

  ‘I don’t want to go with you,’ he said. ‘I want to find out what all this is about.’

  ‘Now come on, we don’t want a fuss,’ said the dark-haired man. ‘My name’s Stanford by the way, and this here is Ralph – and we’ve got a long drive ahead of us so let’s be off sharpish.’

  ‘Where to? Where are we going?’

  ‘The name wouldn’t mean anything to you,’ said Ralph, putting a comb through his curls. ‘But you’ll be all right there, you’ll see. Now say goodbye to the Sister and we’ll be on our way.’

  The Sister looked troubled. The men were not what she had expected, but her orders were clear. Ben must not leave the hospital alone and in a state of shock.

  ‘I’m sure everything will be all right, dear,’ she said. ‘And of course you’ll come back for your Granny’s funeral.’

  The men caught each other’s eye and Ralph gave a snigger. One thing the children at Ramsden Hall did not get, was time off to go to funerals!

  Ben was so tired now that nothing seemed real to him. If the Sister thought it was all right, then perhaps it was. And after all, what was there for him now in Trottle Towers?

  He picked up his jacket. The letter was still in his pocket, but he didn’t want to read it in front of these unpleasant men.

  ‘All right,’ he said wearily. ‘I’m ready . ’

  And then, sandwiched between the two thugs Mrs Trottle had hired to deliver him to as horrible a place as could be found in England, he walked down the long hospital corridor towards the entrance hall.

  It was very late. As she trudged through the streets, Odge was dazzled by the headlights of cars and the silly advertisements flashing on and off. Advertisements for stomach pills, for hairspray, for every sort of rubbish. For a moment she wondered if she was going to be able to stand it. On the Island now it would be cool and quiet; the mistmakers would be lying close together on the beaches and the stars would be bright and clear. It wasn’t a very nice thought that she would never see the Island under the stars again. Well, not for nine years. But in nine years she might be as silly as her sisters, talking about men and marriage and all that stuff.

  She stopped for a moment under a lamp to look at the map. First right, first left, over a main road and she’d be there.

  London wasn’t very beautiful, but there were good things here, and good people. The Plodger was kind, and Henry Prendergast, and even quite ordinary people: shop assistants and park keepers. It wouldn’t be too bad living here. And she wouldn’t miss her bossy sisters – well, perhaps Fre-degonda a little. Fredegonda could be quite funny when she was practising squeezing people’s stomachs to give them nightmares.

  The mistmaker she’d miss horribly , t hat was true, but she couldn’t have kept him. The way those idiots had carried on in the Astor had shown her that, and he was old enough now to fend for himself. When the others realized that she hadn’t gone ahead – that she’d doubled back and hidden in the cloakroom – they’d see to him, and explain to her parents. And even if she wanted to change her mind, it was too late. In an hour from now, the gump would be closed.

  ‘I am a hag,’ she reminded herself, because rather a bad attack of homesickness was coming on. ‘I am Odge with the Tooth.’

  She turned left . . . crossed the road. She could see the hospital now, towering over the other buildings. Ben would be in there still and when she imagined him watching by the old woman’s bed, Odge knew she’d done the right thing. Ben was clever, but he was much too trusting; he needed someone who saw things as they really were. No one was going to get the better of Ben while she was around and if it meant living in dirty London instead of the Island, well that was part of the job.

  Up the steps of the hospital now. Even so late at night there were lights burning in the big entrance hall. Hospitals never slept.

  ‘I am Miss Gribble,’ she said, and the reception clerk looked down in surprise at the small figure, dressed in an old-fashioned blazer, which had come in out of the dark. ‘And I have to see—’

  She broke off because someone had called her name – and spinning round, she saw Ben coming towards her, hemmed in by two men. His face was white, he looked completely exhausted, and the men seemed to be helping him.

  ‘Odge!’ he called again. ‘What are you doing here? Why aren’t you—’

  The man on Ben’s right jerked his arm. ‘Now then – we’ve no time to chat.’

  He began to pull Ben towards the door, but Ben twisted round, trying to free himself.

  ‘She’s dead, Odge!’ he cried. ‘My grandmother. She’s dead!’ His voice broke, it was the first time he’d said that word.

  Odge drew in her breath. Then she looked at the big clock on the wall. A quarter past eleven. They could do it if they hurried. Just.

  ‘Then you can come with me!’ she said joyfully . ‘You can come back to the Island.’

  Ben blinked, shook himself properly awake. He had lost all sense of time, sitting by his grandmother’s bed; he’d thought it was long past midnight and the gump was closed. Hope sprang into his eyes.

  ‘Let me go!’ he said, and with sudden strength he pulled away from his guard. ‘I’m going with her!’

  ‘Oh no, you aren’t!’ Stanford grabbed his shoulders; Ralph bent Ben’s arm behind his back and held it there. ‘You’re coming with us and pronto. Now walk.’

  Ben fought as hard as he knew how, but the men were strong and there were two of them. And the receptionist had gone into her office. There was no one to see what was happening and help. They were close to the door now, and the waiting car.

  But Odge had dodged round in front of them.


  ‘No, Ben, no! You mustn’t hurt the poor men,’ she said. ‘Can’t you see how ill they are?’

  ‘Get out of the way, you ugly little brat or we’ll take you too,’ said Stanford, and kicked out at her.

  But Odge still stood there, looking very upset.

  ‘Oh, how dreadful! Your poor hair! I’m so sorry for you!’

  Without thinking, Stanford put his hand to his head. Then he gave a shriek. A lump of black hair the size of a fist had come out of his scalp.

  ‘That’s how it starts,’ said Odge. ‘With sudden baldness. The frothing and the fits come later.’

  ‘My God!’ Stanford grabbed at his temples and another long, greasy wodge of hair fell on to the lapel of his suit.

  ‘And your friend – he’s even worse,’ said Odge. ‘All those lovely curls!’

  It was true. Ralph’s curls were dropping on to the tiled floor like hunks of knitting wool while round patches of pink skin appeared on his scalp.

  ‘Usually there’s no cure,’ Odge went on, ‘but maybe they could give you an injection in here. Some hospitals do have a vaccine – it gets injected into your behind with a big needle – but you’d have to hurry!’

  The thugs waited no longer. Holding on to their heads, trying uselessly to keep in the rest of their hair, they ran down the corridor shrieking for help.

  ‘Oh, Odge!’ said Ben. ‘You did it! You struck them with baldness!’

  ‘Don’t waste time,’ said the hag.

  She put her hand into Ben’s and together they bounded down the steps and out into the night.

  Twenty

  The three-masted schooner was at anchor off the Secret Cove. Beside it lay the Royal Ya cht with its flying standard, and the charter boat. A number of smaller craft – dinghies and rowing boats – were drawn up on the beach. The tide was out; the clean firm sand curved and rippled round the bay. In the light of the setting sun, the sea was calm and quiet.