Only the day before, the film would have made them dreadfully homesick, but now, knowing that they were going back to Scotland with their dear Laird, they were pleased with everything and didn’t even mind when the hero and heroine kissed each other for far too long.
Not only were the films good, but the cinema looked really festive! The manager had engaged extra usherettes in frilly tartan dresses to serve the audience with ice cream in the MacBuff colours and chocolate haggises and bagpipes made of liquorice, and there wasn’t a spare seat in the house.
After the third film ended, at dawn, there was a gap while the cinema was cleaned and the ghosts had a little nap. Soon, though, the place started filling up again because the manager had arranged to go on showing Scottish films all that day and the next. But the people who filed in for the morning show had grave faces and spoke to each other in low voices, for by now it was known that Helen Hopgood had been kidnapped and that though the police had been searching all through the night, there was no sign of her. It was known, too, that when Mr Hopgood had heard that the Scottish boy had vanished also, he’d collapsed.
‘They fear for his health, poor soul,’ said one lady as she bought a gobstopper stamped with a picture of Carra Castle for her son.
But the ghosts, hanging cheerfully in the beam from the projection box, knew none of this. Any minute now, Alex would come and find them, and as the curtains parted for Orphan of the Isles, they settled down to enjoy themselves.
Twenty
‘I’m sorry, Helen. I was such an idiot.’
‘You weren’t. You were splendid. Only I don’t want anything to happen to you. Your father isn’t a millionaire.’
‘Nothing’s going to happen to either of us,’ said Alex. ‘Your father’ll pay the ransom and they’ll let you go and that’ll be that.’
‘I won’t go unless they let you go too.’
‘Don’t be silly.’
He lay beside Helen, bound hand and foot, in a dark alcove off the central chamber of the mine. Though he spoke bravely, Alex felt anything but brave. He’d crawled through the tunnel right into an ambush. What’s more, he’d recognized the masked woman who’d reared up in front of him, gloatingly pushing her knife into his ribs. As she bent towards him, her coat had opened a little and her locket had swung forward, catching the light. He knew she was Adolfa Batters – and knew, too, that she was the woman that Krok had seen on the boat.
And Adolfa knew that he knew. Which meant that he was going to be killed.
There seemed no way to bear the thought. He didn’t feel like a MacBuff of Carra going to a noble death; he felt like a rat in the jaws of a dog, shaken and gripped by terror.
‘It would have been… nice… to go to Patagonia, wouldn’t it?’ The cold and the drugs she had been given were making Helen dangerously drowsy. That was how people perished in the snow. They just went to sleep and drifted away. Maybe if he couldn’t save himself, he could save Helen.
‘Don’t talk like that. We will go. We’ll do everything we said we would.’
‘And… will we find him?’
‘The giant sloth? Of course we’ll find him. Only not in a cave. We’ll be riding through the forest and the ponies will stop and make that whickering noise and not want to go any further. So we’ll get off and go on foot, very quietly – and then we’ll see something… a shape… only we won’t believe it at first.’
‘Because it’ll be so big?’
Alex nodded. ‘But it’ll be him. Not hanging upside down because the giant ones don’t; just lying there like a sleepy old gentleman with his fur blowing a bit in the breeze. And then he’ll open his eyes – big, round, golden eyes they’ll be…’
‘Will he be afraid of us?’
‘No. Because we’ll be the first humans he’s ever seen.’ Alex was silent for a moment. ‘Only I think you were right, Helen. We’ll just photograph him and leave him there. Not catch him and truss him up and take him back to a zoo.’
In the central chamber of the mine, lit by two hurricane lamps, Adolfa rose from her deck chair and put down her knitting.
‘Right; I’m off to see if the ransom demand’s through. By the time I’m back, the boy’s to be at the bottom of the pool. No point in wasting a bullet.’
She pointed to the third of the tunnels – the one that led neither to the castle nor the cinema, but to the collapsed shaft and the black, fathomless pool of floodwater that had collected there.
‘Can’t I wait till Oscar comes back?’ asked Ratty. ‘He’s more used to all that.’
‘Now look, Ratty, I don’t want to get cross with you,’ said Adolfa softly, running her knife gently up and down Ratty’s cheek. ‘Even your funny little biceps should be equal to pushing a child that’s bound hand and foot to the edge of a pool and shoving him in. If you’re too feeble to lift him, drag him. If you have to cut his throat first, then do it, but I want as little mess as possible.’
She took off her coat, felt for the zip fastener hidden in the ruffle of her long tartan dress, and unzipped it. Then she stepped out of the lower part of her skirt and picked up her torch. Dressed like that, she looked exactly like all the other usherettes in the Rex Cinema.
‘And the girl?’
‘She can stay where she is for now. If there’s any fuss about the money we may still have to send her father a reminder – a finger or an ear.’
Adolfa scowled. She’d meant to leave Helen in the mine for the police to find – or not – once they were on their way home as the Zugorsky Trio. But the boy had messed everything up. Helen, too, now knew more than was safe.
Ratty, left alone, felt gloomy. It wasn’t nice in the mine. Oscar was still out in a fast car, hoodwinking the police, while he was here doing boring things. Nasty things, too – dragging the boy to the pool where he’d plop and scream and bob up again, maybe.
He put his gun down on Adolfa’s chair and buckled on his knife. It was all so unfair, thought Ratty. Adolfa’s knife was nicer than his and Oscar’s muscles were bigger than his. Oscar was stupid, but his biceps were like grapefruits and his thighs were like the trunks of trees.
All the same, I’ll show them, thought Ratty, picking up a lamp and pulling off his face mask. Since both kids were for the high jump there was no point in getting itchy. When I’ve done Mr Guggenfelder’s exercises a bit longer, my biceps’ll be like melons and I’ll bulge all over. And they’d better not push me around then!
The children were lying where he’d left them, side by side under the blanket. The girl seemed to be asleep, but the boy was wide awake.
Perhaps I’ll limber up a bit, Ratty decided. You had to be in the mood to cut people’s throats and drown them. He slapped his skinny shoulders with his arms, then squatted down on his haunches, stuck out a leg and rolled his head round and round on his scraggy neck.
‘Isn’t that one of Mr Guggenfelder’s strengthening exercises?’ asked Alex. The waiter’s son in Torquay had been very keen on body building.
‘Yes, it is.’ Ratty straightened himself, flexed one arm, and took the pose that the champion wrestler held on the cover of his book.
‘You are strong,’ said Alex admiringly, looking at the pinhead-sized lump that had come up under Ratty’s jersey. ‘Can you do the one where you hook one leg behind the other one and then unroll your back? The spine strengthener?’
‘’ Course I can.’
Standing on one leg, the little man wobbled badly, but the knife stayed firmly in its sheath.
‘That’s not bad,’ said Alex. ‘But when I saw Mr Guggenfelder on TV, he had his arms crossed behind his back as well. He said that really pumped the muscles. You could almost hear them growing!’
Ratty grunted, and twisted his arms behind him. He writhed; he wriggled – but the knife was still in place.
‘There!’ he gasped. Then he untangled himself and moved closer to Alex. Better get on with the job…
‘That was fantastic!’ said Alex quickly. ‘Terrific! I’d almost
think you could do the Guggenfelder Reefer.’
‘Almost? What d’yer mean, almost? ’Course I can do it.’
Ratty whipped the blanket off Alex and sat down on it. He put his right hand under his left armpit and his left hand under his right armpit. Then he drew up his knees, jammed his greasy head between them and tried to lift his buttocks off the ground.
‘That’s the single Reefer,’ said Alex contemptuously. ‘I mean the double Reefer – the one where you put your ankles behind your neck. Only about three people in the world can do that.’
Ratty gritted his teeth. He’d never heard of the Guggenfelder double Reefer, but he wasn’t going to admit it.
He lifted his left leg. He pulled at it, he tugged at it – he fell over. Then he straightened himself, took hold of the right leg, managed to hook it behind his head, picked up the left leg again…
And the knife fell to the ground.
‘You’ve almost done it.’ (Oh, please, God, don’t let him notice!) ‘But you have to get your ankles so far round that your toes almost touch your ears – and then your hands go under your armpits.’
And Alex rolled over as if to show Ratty. He was on the edge of the blanket!
Ratty yanked at his ankles; he crossed his hands and stuck them under his arms … And then he saw the knife! Frantically, he tried to free his right arm, but as he pulled, the muscles only seemed to tighten. The left arm, then … Only which was his left and which was his right? His limbs were completely muddled up.
‘You have to squeeze your armpits together. That’s how you get free,’ said Alex – and rolled over once again.
Ratty squeezed. ‘Ow! I’ve got cramp! I’m stuck! I’m knotted!’
Alex was on top of the knife. He was levering it against the rope which bound his wrists.
The little crook was still tied up in a welter of arms and legs, squealing with rage and pain, as Alex freed Helen, and the children ran away down the tunnel and out of sight.
Twenty-One
‘This film’s kind of slow, Ma,’ said a boy called Joe Peters, sitting between his mother and his sister in the front row of the Rex Cinema. ‘Can I have another chocolate haggis?’
Orphan of the Isles was a bit slow. The orphan was a girl called Fiona who’d been imprisoned by her wicked step-father in the cellar of his castle because she’d helped Bonnie Prince Charlie find a horse. The step-father was on the side of the English who were against the noble prince and he was treating Fiona very badly, keeping her in her nightdress and not giving her enough to eat. Fiona had a friend, a true Scottish boy called Hamish who was a cowherd (though of noble blood) and wandered about tending his cattle in full Highland dress, which is unusual, but it was that kind of film. Hamish had got hold of a file and was trying to free Fiona, but he was taking his time.
‘Why doesn’t he get on and saw through the bars?’ Joe wanted to know.
The cinema was packed, the tartan usherettes were everywhere and the sweets were fine, but it was no good pretending that Orphan of the Isles was coming up to scratch. You can always tell whether a film is good by how full the lavatories are and the lavatories that morning were crammed with children who wanted a change from sitting still.
Then suddenly the most amazing thing happened. The film turned into a proper 3D spectacle! The hero and heroine came right out of the film and into the cinema. Up on the screen, Hamish and Fiona had escaped and were hiding from the wicked step-father in a churchyard – and now both of them had appeared from under the stage and were running up the aisle!
‘Hey, look, it’s the feelies!’ yelled Joe.
And really it was extraordinary! The girl in the white nightdress and the boy in the kilt were exactly like the ones on the screen – and the way they looked over their shoulders to see if they were being followed was the same. This was the best trick photography they’d ever seen, thought the kids, and they stamped their feet and cheered.
But that wasn’t all. Because the wicked step-father had come out of the same place and started to run after the children. He’d shrunk a bit, but it was him all right with his horrible foxy face.
‘Boo!’ shrieked the children in the audience. ‘Get away! Leave them alone!’ –and Joe’s little sister tried to throw her ice cream at the nasty man.
‘Hurry, Helen!’ Alex, panting, dragged her by the hand. Ratty had a gun and his mad shrieks as he’d unknotted himself and chased them through the mine made it likely that he might fire even in this crowded place.
They were almost at the top of the aisle, and here now was an usherette hurrying towards them. She’d help them! Ratty wouldn’t dare to do anything while they were talking to an usherette. They were safe at last!
‘Please help us,’ begged Alex, fighting for breath. ‘We’ve been held down in the mine and we have to get out to the police.’
A torch flashed into his eyes. A very strong torch; stronger, surely, than the ones that usherettes had usually? At the same time Helen cried out and Alex saw a flash of silver against her cheek.
‘Certainly I will help you, my dears,’ said Adolfa Batters. ‘Certainly. All you have to do is come with me very quietly to that side exit over there. Very quietly indeed. I’ve only made a little gash in your friend’s face, but there’s more to come, I promise you.’
‘Oh, no!’ It was all Alex could do not to spring at Adolfa’s throat.
Adolfa now had nothing to lose. She had to kill the children at once – both of them – and make her escape, leaving Oscar to follow with the money. The side exit led to a deserted alleyway and a patch of waste ground … and the Ferrari was parked nearby.
‘That’s right,’ whispered Adolfa, her knife still pricking Helen’s face. ‘I thought you’d see it my way. Just keep on walking.’
Ratty had recognized Adolfa and stood waiting with his gun. The children in the audience were quiet now, not sure what was happening.
They’d reached the side aisle that led off to the exit. Only a few more steps and they’d be alone with Adolfa, thought Alex. There’d be no hope for them then.
There was no hope for them now.
Or was there? ‘Helen, whatever happens now you mustn’t be afraid,’ whispered Alex. Then he threw back his head and in a voice that rang through the cinema he called out: ‘Oh, ghosts of Carra, appear and come to my aid!’
No one in the audience ever forgot what happened next.
On the screen there was still the churchyard where the children had been hiding. But the cinema now seemed to get very cold and a dark mist swirled round the beam of light from the projection box.
And then the most extraordinary things appeared on the screen! From behind one of the tombstones there floated a long, grey lady with trailing hair and webbed feet. A stone coffin changed into a creaking chair with wheels, and sitting in it was a dreadful spectre with a withered neck. The weathervane on top of the church turned into a pair of hairy feet and then into a mighty warrior who swung his battleaxe and shouted, ‘Death to the enemies of the MacBuffs!’
And then the ghosts swooshed out of the screen and into the cinema itself!
The children went wild. These were the best special effects they’d ever seen. It was fantastic, it was uncanny, it was unbelievable!
‘It’s a spook film! It’s spooks to the rescue,’ they yelled – and Joe Peter’s little sister said ‘I want the ghost with ducky feet,’ and fell off her seat.
It was Cyril who reached Adolfa first, rearing up in front of her, fully visible and as horrible as he’d ever been in Hades, and Adolfa, seeing his fiery muzzle and slavering jaws, staggered backwards – and dropped her knife.
And Alex grabbed Helen’s hand and ran.
Too late. Ratty was at the exit before them.
‘Stop or I’ll shoot,’ he hissed. And then: ‘Eeek! Go away! Shoo!’
Miss Spinks was not often cross, but she was cross now. Poor dear Alex being chased by these vulgar people … She lay back in mid-air, hitched up her skirts and came at
Ratty with her feet, banging him like a battering ram about the face. At the same time Uncle Louse, above her, positioned his chair.
‘You can’t scare me,’ gabbled Ratty. ‘You’re just trick photography.’ But the webbed feet were soaking wet and dreadful and the teeth snapping above him looked hideously real. Ratty shivered and shook and tried to beat the things off with his free hand, but he still held his gun – and it pointed at Alex.
There was no way past. Back, then … If they could get across to the far side of the cinema they could make their way round to the main doors and out into the street.
‘Oh, no, you don’t!’
Adolfa barred the way. Her torch shone cruelly into their eyes; her bony arm gripped Helen’s and twisted it – and she had found her knife.
Above Adolfa, somebody giggled. Then an entire tray of sweets rose up in the air, flew across the cinema – and turned upside down.
‘Gloop! Garrugle! Splish!’
Adolfa’s face was covered in gunge from the chocolate haggises, gobstoppers rained down on her head – and as she groped and spluttered and the children cheered, the tray itself came down and hit her on the chest.
‘We’ll make it now, Helen.’
Spent as she was, blood trickling from the cut behind her ear, Helen managed to run with Alex. They were almost at the top of the aisle, almost in the safety of the street.
No! Ratty might be terrified of the trick photography, but he was more terrified still of Adolfa and racing up the side gangway he reached the doors before them.
‘Get them!’ yelled Adolfa, spitting out a liquorice bagpipe. ‘Get them or I’ll have your guts for garters!’
‘It’s no use,’ sobbed Helen. ‘We’ll never get out.’
Ratty levelled his gun. But now the giggling noise could be heard again and then another sound. Twang! Something had snapped. The next moment Ratty’s trousers, with their bust braces, came down and fell across his feet.
‘He’s in his underpants; he’s in his underpants,’ screeched the children in the audience, falling about.