The day of reckoning

I was nine years and five days old when my family moved to Newcastle. My parents wanted a new start, away from the problems they had in London. I wasn't aware that was the reason at the time. In fact I wasn't aware at all of the fact that my dad had lost his job. The recession took care of that one.

It was towards the end of the summer when we left for our new home. I was actually excited about the change in spite of the fact that I was leaving all my friends behind. One thing I wouldn't miss though was the lunchtime rounds of 'British Bulldog' in the playground. By the time that dinner bell struck two I had more bruises on my arms, legs and body from playing that game than a heavy weight boxer.

But despite my optimism my early days at Summerfield Primary were not rosy. Most of the kids were nice to me. I mean they'd say hi or talk to me if I sat next to them in class, like ask if they could borrow a pencil or rubber from my case or ask me where I got my pen top or stickers from. That kind of stuff. I made one really good friend there. Her name was Marina. She was the daughter of the local policeman. We would hang out and go to the cinema and stuff. She was really cool and lived in a really big house. I particularly liked the fact that she had a brother. That was something I didn't have. I just had a sister who was five, and annoying. She did stuff normal annoying sisters do, like painting all my dolls faces with felt tips pens or breaking the legs to my plastic horses. But the school was completely different to what I was used to; it was smaller and with fewer students in each class, which was where the problems began. I stood out a mile from everyone else, not least because of my clipped southern accent. It made me an easy target for two girls in particular: Kara Robinson and Vicky Oxenblade.

At first Kara and Vicki teased me. They called me names on my way home from school, like 'southerner' or 'posh'. It was mean and I didn't like it. I didn't want to be singled out for being what they considered different. I was the same as them. I told my mum what happened and she told me to tell them, "sticks and stones may break my bones but names will never hurt me". I did what she said but Kara and Vicky just laughed in my face. My attempt to deal a blow just bounced off them, like a bullet off armour plating. I felt a shudder of terror as I realised what I was up against. Instinctively, I tried to appear as though I wasn't affected, that I was impervious, but in truth their name-calling had already nicked me and their laughter was now cutting open the wound. I was bleeding.

Over the weeks the torture got worse. It had, as I feared, graduated from harmless name-calling to harmful pushes, which in turn became slaps, then punches, then kicks, then full blown fights. Every day I stumbled home in tears with scratches and bruises and torn clothing. My mother was beside herself. She made every attempt to stop the bullying but despite petitioning the school to get involved they simply said that because it was happening outside of school grounds it wasn't their responsibility to deal with. The local policeman tried having words with Kara and Vicky's parents but that didn't work either. Nothing was going to get through to those girls. It was as though they knew exactly how to get round everyone that could come to my aide. It was as though they had done this before. Wisdom through experience.

Every day I was terrified to go to school, not knowing if I was going to get a kicking before, on the playground during lunch or on my way home, or worse still not knowing what state I was going to go home in. I took to spending most of the school day inside the school building. I felt like it was my own sanctuary until the dreaded the 3 o'clock bell signalled my doom.

One overcast early summer day, not long after the final bell, I noticed Vicky was waiting for me. She had amassed a small army outside the school gates beneath. They were huddled in a semi circle, waiting for me, watching me pass out of the school grounds. Vicky was sneering at me from the centre of the crowd with her hands on her hips and a sneer on her face . Knowing that running would only delay the inevitable, and give Vicky more power and more reason to continue torturing me I decided to stand up for myself. I decided I was not going to hide away, despite my trembling mind filling with images of what was about to happen. As I stood there facing her, my enemy, I remembered the last thing my mum said to me that morning. "If they hit you, you hit them back."

"Come on then," Vicky goaded. "Think you can tell my parents on me, do ya?"
"No," I said trembling.
She charged toward me and swiped a hand across my head. The blow caused me to stumble backwards and twist my ankle. I winced from the pain that shot up my leg, but gritted my teeth. All around me the kids were shouting and cheering, not for any particular side, they were cheering for a bust up.
With my mum's words ringing in my head I lunged forward and shoved Vicky hard in the chest. I caught her off guard and she fell backwards and landed with a thump on the tarmac. Her face contorted with rage, turning a darker shade of red with every passing second.
"You cow!" she yelled and launched herself at me. She kicked my legs, swung her fists wildly delivering random but precise punches to my arms and stomach before unclenching them and grabbing big handfuls of my blond curly hair. She pulled it so hard she got enough momentum to swing me round in circles. The pain was searing through every fibre of my body. I was screaming in pain and terror. Tears poured down my face. I just wanted it all to stop. To stop. To stop.
Then out of nowhere my little sister barged through the crowd with her flask in her hand and marched up to Vicky.
"Leave my sister alone!" she bellowed before she walloped Vicky across the head with her flask.
I don't know whether it was from shock or pain but Vicky let go of me and clutched her head. She screamed and burst into tears. The crowd were silent. They looked at Vicky, then at me, then at my pint-sized sister. As I stood there, puffing, my heart racing, my hair dishevelled, my grey school jumper hanging like a loose sack over one shoulder, my legs bloody and dirty, my face stinging from salty tears trickling over scratches, I watched Vicky run away. I was dumbfounded.
When the crowd dispersed, their entertainment over, I trudged over to my sister and gave her a big hug. She had managed to do what no other had done. She stopped those girls from bullying me, ever again.

The great fairy robbery

Matilda was fed up.
"Mum," she bellowed as she thumped down the stairs in her night dress. She stormed into the kitchen holding a coin aloft in front of her mother. "Look what the cheapskate fairy left me last night. Fifty pence. Fifty pence. That's all I got for one of my biggest teeth," she grumbled.
Matilda's mother sighed and she poured milk on Matilda's bowl of cereal. "Perhaps that's all the fairy could afford, Matilda. Money is tight for everyone at the moment."
"That's no excuse," Matilda snapped. "I'm going to have words with it the next time. I can already feel a tooth at the front coming loose."
A week later after painstakingly working it free with her tongue, Matilda's front tooth fell out. Remembering her vow to confront the tooth fairy she stayed awake all night with her head under the pillow-eyes fixed on her tooth. As the hours ticked by Matilda wondered whether the fairy would actually materialise until there was a flash of shimmering silver light beneath her duvet covers. Matilda felt her heart start to race with excitement. A moment later, from underneath the folds of white cotton, there appeared a tiny person, a fairy.
Matilda was instantly shocked. The fairy wasn't at all what she expected. She was so old her skin was wrinkly.
Matilda wasn't the only one shocked.
"Oh my," said the fairy when she noticed Matilda's round face staring back at her from the pillow. "You're supposed ta be asleep."
"And you're supposed to be young, and pretty and," Matilda ran her eyes over the fairy's tattered silver dress and her bare feet, "glamourous."
"Yeah, well, we don all fit in wiv the way you 'umans perceive us ta be," the fairy said brusquely as she dusted herself off and straightened herself up.
"And what's that stuff in your hair?" Matilda asked.
The fairy ran a hand through her frizzy curls and shook balls of white fluff from them. "Clouds," she said, matter-of-factly.
The white puffs hung in the air around her head before gradually dissolving.
"So wot 're you doin' awake for anyway, Matilda?" asked the fairy.
"How do you know my name?"
"How else would I know where to come? You 'ave lost a tooth, 'aven't you?"
Matilda nodded.
"Well, ven," the fairy said, as she rummaged into a large pack on her back and pulled out a twenty pence piece. She placed it on the pillow and reached across to claim the tooth. Matilda covered it with her fingers.
"Hey, dats mine, dat is. Give it ta me," shouted the fairy as she tried to lift up Matilda's pinky finger.
"Not until I get paid a descent amount for it. I'm sick of you fairies giving me pennies for my teeth. I made these teeth, they're in perfect condition, they're worth a lot more."
"Tough, you ain't gettin' any more. This is all I 'ave."
Matilda felt her face flush crimson with anger. "What's your name?"
"Pauline," huffed the fairy as she dropped Matilda's finger and rested against it puffing and panting. "Why da you want ta know?"
"Because I want to complain to the head fairy about you. You're mean."
"An you're greedy. Do you have any idea how tough it is bein' a toof fairy at the moment? We ain't exactly rich you know. Not since you 'umans stopped writing books and films and myths and plays about us," Pauline began. "We had a great deal on royalties ya know. We got twenty percent of da money wot you 'umans made on stories about us, twenty percent . We were once so rich we started makin' clouds out of money. Now, we make diddly-squat. All you 'umans want are stories cuddly, talkin' animals."
"And that's my problem because?"
"Because no-one wants to hear about fairies any more! And because no-one wants to 'ear about fairies, you lot are goin' to have to get used to gettin' smaller cuts for your pearly whites. Alright?"
"I could hold you to ransom you know. I could grab hold of you," Matilda said, swiftly lifting her hand from the tooth to clasp Pauline round the waist.
"'ey, let me go."
"Not until you give me at least a pound for that tooth."
"It ain't worf a pound. It's only an incisor."
"A what?"
"A pointy toof," Pauline spat. "Anyway I can disappear even wiv your hand round me. I'm wearing fairy dust which means I can disapparate at any moment."
"Go on them," Matilda challenged.
With that Pauline shut her eyes and whistled. A second later Matilda found she was no longer in her warm bed. She was hovering an inch above white smoke. Above her was a deep blue sky. Deeper than the deepest summer sky she'd ever seen. It was peaceful and tranquil, but cold, bitterly cold. A brisk breeze whipped round her. She throw her arms around her body, still dressed in her cherry blossom pyjamas, and tried to warm herself up. It was only when the smoke cleared a little in front of her that she realised where she was. Through the clearing she could see a patchwork of green and brown below with streams of shimmering silvery blue that meandered through them.
"I'm in a cloud," she muttered, as she clutched at her chest in horror. "That fairy dust must have rubbed off on me. But where is she?"
Matilda scanned the fairyworld around her but as far as her eye could see there was nothing but undulating puffs of white, like freshly whipped meringue. Pauline had disappeared.
Before Matilda had a moment to consider how she was going to get back down to earth she heard a voice call out. She whipped round and in the distance two queues of silvery fairies appeared in a spot where before there was nothingness. At the head of each queue were two fairies dressed in silvery black clothes, as tattered and unkempt looking as Pauline's. Behind them Matilda saw a sight that made her eyes light up and her stomach flutter with excitement-piles and piles of silver coins. Matilda watched as the black clad fairies read names and addresses from a sheet of paper so long it trailed round their feet and disappeared into the cloud. As each name was called a fairy approached. They collected a certain value of coin, struggling under the sheer weight and size of it as the coins were almost as big as they were, then they disappeared down into the smoke.
Matilda ducked down behind a hump in the clouds and watched. When all the tooth fairies were gone there was still a sizable stack of coins waiting to be used. Matilda calculated there was probably about fifteen pounds worth there. Her mind buzzed with ideas as to what she could spend that money on: a new dress, that pair of red, sparkly shoes she she'd seen, the latest ballroom dancing Zindy doll.
"Well if no-one is going to take it, I will," she said. She walked towards the heaps, with surprise and delight that her feet didn't even touch the clouds. But when she reached them she found the coins were as big as she was.
"Wow, giant coins," she said with glee. "These will be worth much more than the ones I have in my piggy bank."
Matilda began to pull coins from the tops of the piles and stuff them under her arms, determined to carry as many as she could: fifty pence pieces, twenty pence pieces, ten pence pieces.
"Then I'll just close my eyes and whistle, like Pauline did, and I'll be home," she said.
"Not quite so fast," said a deep, booming voice behind her.
Matilda spun round, dropping armfuls of coins on the cloud with a clatter.
Standing next to the familiar old, pale form of Pauline was a slightly taller, stouter fairy who wore a tarnished, silver crown on his head.
"What do you think you are doing? Stealing? From your own kind?" he said.
"I'm not one of your kind. I'm a human and I'm taking what I rightfully deserve."
"Deluded fairy, you are. "
"I'm not deluded at all. I am a human. My name is Matilda, and that fairy tried to fudge me off with a measly twenty pence for a tooth," whinged Matilda as she pointed at Pauline. "So now that I'm here I'm taking my compensation and I'll be off."
The stout fairy turned to Pauline.
"Is this true? Do you know this...this...being?"
Matilda stared at Pauline, fully expecting the dishevelled fairy to acknowledge Matilda. Instead the fairy eyed her up with suspicion and said, "No. I don know wot on earth she's talkin' about."
"What?" Matilda spat. "She's lying. That crusty, old, tattered, crabby-faced stink fairy is lying."
"Fairies don't lie. And they don't steal either," said the fairy king. "You have committed the worst sin against our kind and for that you shall be imprisoned for eternity. Guards take her away."
A moment later two fairies dressed in silvery green uniforms appeared at either side of Matilda and grabbed her arms.
"No. Let me go," yelled Matilda as she tried to kick and punch the fairies. "I'll get you all for this. I'll escape and take all you're money away from you and no kid in the world will every get any money for their teeth."
Pauline smiled to herself as the guards led Matilda away. She then picked up the scattered coins on the clouds, piled them back where they were meant to be and welcomed he next two queues of fairies ready and waiting to deliver a little surprise to the thousands of expectant children below.

Houdini (Part 3)

“Captain Sternglass” greeted a disembodied voice.
“Captain Blackfoot” Sternglass replied, “Have you no courage to show yourself. Do you fear me that much that you would rather skulk in the shadows…hiding behind your reluctantly loyal crew?” she added sarcastically.
“On the contrary. I have no desire to acquire your ship or your crew…as well you know” he retorted walking into full view of Sternglass and her crew.
“You know what I have come for. Hand it over to me and I shall be on my way,”
“Give me The Destructor and you shall have The Ocean” was her obdurate response.
“Do you really think you are in a position to bargain with me? Blackfoot chuckled “Look at your ship, it has been so beaten and battered by the storm I fear one cannon would sink it. And what about your crew, malnutrition has driven them to frailty; even my cook could see you off…and he’s legless.”
Blackfoot’s crew howled with laughter.

As much as she didn’t want to admit it, Blackfoot was right, any confrontation with her ship and crew in their present state would result in more than the loss of her vessel. It was more than she could risk. Her crew, sensing her conceding defeat, got on their feet and stood proudly behind her drawing their cutlasses. If anyone was going to say they weren’t fit to fight it was going to be their Captain.

Pride washed over her as she saw the staunch determination on the faces of her weary crew. She turned back to Blackfoot.
“Do you really think we are defeated?” she added as she too drew her cutlass. “Do you want to find out?”
The look of dissatisfaction on Blackfoot’s face made her more determined. He hadn’t banked on her putting up a fight and she knew it.
“So be it Sternglass. But let this be known, you had your chance to deal with me without the sword. If this is your choice then you shall die by it.”
“It is Blackfoot and believe me…I’m more than ready for it”
She and the rest of her crew braced themselves for attack as those aboard The Destructor swung down to The Sea Breeze. But there was someone missing. Leon. He hid in the crew’s quarters, preferring to spectate than to take part. But no one, not even Sternglass, noticed.

Wave after wave of pirates boarded her ship. There seemed to be an endless number of them coming for her and her crew from every angle. She swung her cutlass this way and that, taking down as many as she could handle. At one point the numbers subsided and she had a moment to glance around the ship. Her men were struggling to fend off Blackfoot’s superiorly armed and strengthened crew as the numbers swarming around them grew, from one to two to three a piece. Their strength and resolve was fading; some had collapsed altogether and were being dragged to the centre of the deck; others were desperately attempting to fight the enemy on bended knee until they too surrendered. Tears ran down Sternglass’s cheeks as she watched the carnage unfold in front of her. Overcome with exhaustion and guilt at what she had put her faithful crew through, she loosened her grip on her cutlass and it fell to the deck with a clatter.

Sternglass watched as Blackfoot strode across two planks of wood that bridged the two ships. The soft, reassuring voice she had come to recognise whispered to her from behind.
“Give it to him, give him The Ocean” he said. She half heard the voice but her attention was focused on the tall, robust figure of Blackfoot as he boarded The Sea Breeze.

He landed on the deck with a heavy thud and approached Sternglass with a cocky grin on his face. He was unsullied and unscathed, rather typical of a tyrant who made his subordinates do his dirty work.
“They all fall to me in the end my dear” he said, his gravelly snigger cut through her like cheese wire, but she had neither the heart nor the strength to fire a retort. Her head hung low as she continued to watch her bedraggled crew collapse or surrender one by one.

Blackfoot waited patiently for her to give him the word.

Against everything she believed in and fought for she conceded defeat.
“Stop,” she sighed.
There was no response.
“STOP” she bellowed, “You win, now end this”
Blackfoot, his eyes fixed on Sternglass, held up his hand and motioned to his crew to cease the attack.

As she regained her composure she faced him with repentant determination.

“This is far from over Blackfoot. Heed my words. My ship shall be repaired, its crew will be fattened and our doggedness affirmed. This fight may be yours but on the grave of my brother I will defeat you,”
“Empty threats don’t scare me,” he said impassively.
“Now give me The Ocean,” his hand outstretched.
“I’m curious Blackfoot,” she stalled “why the interest, I’ve had this necklace for 3 years and we’ve crossed paths on many occasions in that time yet its only since our last encounter that you have pursued it. Why do you want it so? What does it mean to you?” she replied curiously.
Blackfoot mumbled as he struggled to find a convincing explanation.
“It’s, it’s…a trophy of war…” he replied unconvincingly “…nothing more”
“I wanted to show the world I was capable of taking something personal from the greatest of my enemies” he smiled to himself, proud that he had thought of something so falsely plausible.
“I’m flattered that you think of me so highly Blackfoot for I had assumed, and pray correct me if I’m wrong, that The Ocean was of greater value to you than that. After all you would happily risk your crew for a mere necklace, one that is neither precious, nor a gem, nor flawless. If you had demanded my ship and crew then I would have been more convinced that it was a ‘trophy of war’, but it just doesn’t quite add up”
Her crew, who wondered where she was going with her challenge, were starting to cotton, their curiosity had begun to grow to stomach bursting proportions. Blackfoot’s crew, who weren’t the brightest pennies in the chest, just gawped at him nonchalantly.

Blackfoot was speechless, which didn’t surprise Sternglass, as he wasn’t much brighter than his crew. Somewhat abashed at being outwitted he changed the subject.
“All this chatter is delaying the inevitable Sternglass, now hand it over and you and your crew shall live to see another day” he wasn’t prepared to waste any more time.
When she failed to comply he swiped his cutlass to strike her down but at the last second gently laid the blade against her neck. She winced as the needle like tip grazed her skin. Her crew, in her defence, made for him but the might of Blackfoot’s men held them back.

She forced herself to undo the silver clasp at the back of her neck, and dangled it enticingly from her outstretched arm.
“If you want it, come and get it,” she challenged.
Blackfoot plucked the necklace from her hand as his cutlass dug further into her skin. A thin, warm stream of blood trickled down her neck.

Lucy's monsterpiece

"This darn rain," Lucy's dad complained as he stared out of the patio windows at his wilting garden. "It's ruining my flowers. Look at them. They're all going brown, the petals are falling off, it looks a mess."
Lucy lifted her head from the Plasticine palace she was carefully and painstakingly constructing. Every minute detail was given her close attention-the markings on the bricks, the position of the windows, the height of the turrets. She'd even added drainpipes and gutters, a draw bridge and a moat to her design.
"There is absolutely no chance of winning the Cressington Local Gardens competition now," said her dad.
"I don't think anyone will, dad," Lucy stated.
"I just wish I could create a garden that wouldn't spoil. That I could look at and admire all year round, that would always be in bloom."
Lucy felt a spark of ingenuity zip across her mind. Her eyes widened and she leapt up from the floor.
"I know exactly what you can do, dad."
Lucy's dad looked at her with raised eyebrows. He clearly didn't believe she could have a suggestion that would fulfil his dream.
"Plasticine!" she suggested, as though it was the most obvious idea in the world.
Her dad laughed. "Nice try, Luce," he said. "But I would need tons of plasticine to do that garden. All the art shops in the country couldn't provide that much of the stuff."
"But think about it dad," said Lucy. She grabbed a rough ball of unused green plasticine and held it up to him. "You can mould it into anything you want. You can create whatever plants you want, even exotic ones that don't grow here. And you can make them as tall or as small as you want. You could even spray them with perfume and make them smell."
From the way her dad was rubbing his chin and frowning Lucy was sure her idea was germinating in her dad's mind. She decided to give it a gentle nudge-he always needed it when he was unsure about something-so she crafted a rose with a stem using her deep red and vivid green plasticine and gave it to him.
"It looks so lifelike," he said, admiring the detail Lucy had put into it. "With my ideas and your artistic abilities, we could mould the best darn garden in the world."
Lucy jumped up and down and clapped her hands. "Yes, yes. Let's do it," she beamed.

That week Lucy and her dad set about planning their masterpiece. They spent every evening after dinner, and every weekend, designing every last detail-what plants and flowers her dad wanted, what they looked like, how high they should be, where they should go. They even built in a pond and waterfall into their plan. All that remained was to find plasticine in large quantities and in the colours they needed-green, red, purple, brown, yellow, orange, pink and white.
Her dad made numerous phone calls to suppliers around the country and eventually found one that would supply them with all that they needed as long as the company got some publicity for it in the local papers and if they were allowed to put a sign in Lucy's garden to say where the plasticine had come from. Her dad agreed, without question.

Over the two months that led up to the competition Lucy's dad cleared the garden of withered plants whilst Lucy started creating all the flowers. She built the stems first at the required heights and laid them out across the dining table, then made the leaves in the correct shapes for each flower and the petals-lilies had long tongue-like white petals whilst the roses had more rounded red and pink petals. When the garden was cleared Lucy built each flower and handed it to her dad to plant. Little by little the garden began to take shape until it was a riot of brilliant colour that glowed in the summer sunshine. It truly was a master piece.
Lucy and her dad stepped back and admired their creation.
"Well, I have to hand it to you, Luce. That was the best darn idea I've ever heard. Look at this. We'll be able to sit and admire this garden for ever. And the best thing is I never need to do any more gardening ever again. No weeding, no pruning, no watering. It is entirely self-sufficient."
Lucy smile stretched so far across her face she was sure it would split her head in two.
"And we made it in time for the competition."
"Golly, the competition. Heavens, I was so caught up with creating it I clean forgot about the competition."
"It's tomorrow, dad."
"Yes, I know. We'll have to get tidied up," he said, picking up stray bits of plasticine.

The next day Lucy woke up with a start, eager to see if her plasticine creation was okay. She ran downstairs and pulled open the patio curtains. To her relief it was still intact. Not that she really had any doubt that it wouldn't be but given the work she and her dad had put into it she would have been devastated if someone had sabotaged it. But on closer inspection something was a little different. She was sure the pansies were higher than they were the day before. They were now halfway up the stems of the Lilies when they were only a quarter of the way up when they were planted.
"Does anything look odd to you, dad, about the garden?" she said as she munched through her cereal.
"Not that I've noticed. Why?"
"I'm sure some of flowers look taller."
"Impossible," her dad chuckled. "They can't grow, Lucy. Anyway we've no time to inspect it now. People will start trickling in in an hour. You'd best get upstairs and get dressed. You're the star of this show."
Given the sun was shining and the sky was blue Lucy decided to put on her best pale blue shirt with the cherry buttons and her dark blue shorts. She dressed down. She didn't want to go over the top and distract people's attention from her and her dad's colourful creation.
It certainly had an impact. There were a lot of surprised and confused faces meandering along the gravel path way inspecting the flowers, and some quiet mutterings too. Lucy overheard one person say that the garden was a cheat. So when a competition official approached her dad she was afraid he was going to say they were disqualified.
"It's an unconventional entry, Mr Burgess," the gruff, portly official said. "But I'll allow it, despite the grumblings I'm receiving from other entrants. I can disqualify plastic but not plasticine-at least not this time."
Lucy was relieved. All she was waiting for now was the verdict.
As the entrants all gathered in the local town hall the head official took to the stage to announce the winners. Lucy felt her insides twist with anticipation.
"In third place, Mrs Hitchings, with her Japanese garden," he said to a round of applause and the handing of a small trophy to a pint-sized old lady. "Second place goes to Mr and Mrs Maitland, for their cottage garden."
Lucy was starting to feel a mixture of nausea and disappointment. She had a horrible feeling they had lost.
"And in first place, and grand prize winner of the Cressington Local Gardens Trophy, is Ms Lucy Burgess and Mr Roger Burgess."
Lucy leapt so far off her seat she ought to have had a parachute strapped to her back. She ran up onto the stage and grabbed the trophy from the officials hands and gave her dad such a big hug she almost garrotted him.

That afternoon, however, when Lucy and her dad returned home, there was definitely something wrong with the garden, and her dad noticed it too. Every one of the flowers had grown a foot in height and were leaning to one side; the climbing Ivy had obliterated the kitchen window; the pink Clematis had spread over the fence into next door's garden; the Sweet Peas were strangling the Roses and the Cotoneaster was climbing the decking.
"What on earth?" her dad exclaimed, open mouthed.
Lucy couldn't even say anything. She dropped the trophy to her side and stared out at the jungle her garden had become.
"How?...why?...what?" her dad seemed to be so lost for words he couldn't finish his sentences.
Over the course of the minute that Lucy and her dad spent standing on the decking in astonishment the Cotoneaster had crept up to their feet.
Lucy jumped back.
"Get inside, Lucy," her dad said before shutting the patio doors.
They stood and watched the garden all afternoon as it gradually took over itself.
"What do we do, dad?" Lucy asked, with a tear in her eye at the idea they were going to have to destroy what took an age to create. "We have to stop it. It'll be in the house soon."
"There's only one thing we can do," her dad said as he walked into the hall, opened the cupboard and took out an axe. "Cut it down."
Lucy started to weep. She watched her dad, tears pouring down her face, as he hacked and hacked at the plasticine flowers, plants, trees and shrubs. But it didn't seem to work. Where one flower was cut down two grew up in its place. The more her dad hacked the more the garden seemed to multiply. He gave up in the end and came back in and ferreted around in the cupboard. He pulled out a container of liquid with a tube attached.
"What's that, dad?"
"Weed killer," her dad replied.
But the weed killer didn't work either.
When Lucy woke the next morning and peered outside her bedroom window at the garden below she could see that it had spread over the fence on either side and completely obliterated the neighbours' garden.
Lucy leapt out of the bed to find vines poking out of the sink and toilet in the bathroom, vines creeping up the stairs and banister rail, vines snaking across the hall floor, up the lounge walls, across the kitchen work surfaces and round the dining room table. The entire ground floor of her house was a jungle.
Her dad was on the phone trying, by the sound of it, to calm someone down.
"Yes, I know Mrs Pritchard. I'm in the same position. Trust me though, I'm dealing with it. I'll rescue your cat from the sunflower in a moment," he said. He slammed the phone down and let out a big, hopeless sounding sigh.
"So the weed killer didn't work either," Lucy stated.
"Neither does fire. I tried burning it before you got up."
Her dad shook his head and slumped down on the hall chair. "I don't know what to do."
"We have to call the police, or the fire brigade. They need to know."
Whilst her dad made the necessary calls Lucy wrestled the bread bin and toaster from the clutches of a determined ivy, and made some breakfast. She was feeling less sad about her creation now and more mad.
"They're on their way," said her dad."Although it took a bit to convince them it wasn't a hoax call."
"I imagine they're not regularly called about mutant gardens," Lucy said, trying to see the funny side to the chaos.
Her dad gave a slight smile too.

Try as they did, the police and fire brigade and even the local horticultural society couldn't contain the voraciously growing flora and fauna. By the end of the day the entire street had to be evacuated to the local town hall. Lucy's garden had consumed each and every house; they looked like they had been draped in a green carpet.
Lucy and her dad sat down on camp beds at the end of the hall, but it wasn't far enough away from the rest of people that lived on street. They were all staring at Lucy and her dad; their eyes filled with anger and frustration.
Lucy didn't want to look at them. She hated the idea that people disliked her, especially when she didn't mean to annoy them.
The following day the situation worsened. Half the town was evacuated because the voraciously spreading bendy vines, flowers and branches had pulled down electricity lines and choked water pipes and sewers. They were growing so quickly they caught up with a bus loaded with elderly people from Cressington Care home on its way to a bridge tournament, lifted it up and carried it two miles into Cressington Wood. The stubborn plants even invaded the school, winding down corridors, round pipes and wall bars in the gym, round desks and chairs in classrooms and through the teacher's common room. Lucy heard that Mr Swiffen, the english teacher, who'd only dozed off for 15 minutes, awoke to find his legs and arms pinned to the chair by sweet peas vines.

The town was desperate and so was Lucy. As the mayor fended off a barrage of abuse from furious townsfolk Lucy puzzled over how she could fix the problem she created. She knew she had to think of something radical, something unconventional, something creative. And that's when the answer came to her, like a light bulb exploding in her head.
"I know how to fix it," she bellowed to the crowd.
Everyone turned to face her.
One man yelled back. "Why should we trust you with an answer when you created this catastrophe?"
"I know you all blame me for what happened. I wish I could change it. I didn't know this would happen."
"I believe her," said a woman at the back. "I'm a plant and soil biologist. My team and I have been doing tests on this phenomena and there's no way this poor girl could have known that the chemical composition of the earth could react to the chemicals in the plasticine in this way."
"What's your idea, child?" said the major.
Lucy cleared her throat. She felt her entire body trembling.
"W...Well, you see I created the garden out of plasticine."
"This we already know."
"I know but you see I created it. So I suppose the only way to uncreate it is to make it into something else."
There was a collective "ahhh" from the crowd as Lucy's idea began to make sense to them.
"What do you propose we make it into?"
Lucy thought for a moment as she scanned the room of faces. Their angry expressions had melted into hope: hope that their lives would return to normal.
"I know the plants have been so strong that they've caused a lot of damage to houses, which can't be repaired. So we can make them into bricks and rebuild everyone's homes."
A veil of silence fell on the room as the townsfolk looked at each other. One by one they began to clap and clap and clap.
Lucy was delighted.
"Brilliant idea," beamed the Mayor. "We'll set to work immediately."
Over the weeks the whole town helped mould the plasticine plants into bricks of all sizes and colours and set about designing their town again. Soon it was rebuilt and looked decidedly more cheery than before. Lucy had saved her town, and what's more her and her dad still had their grand prize trophy.

Ghost writer

Clara Cleaver was not in the least bit excited about the move to the country, unlike her parents who were literally bouncing with joy in the front seats of their car.
"Why can't we stay in the city? I like it there," moaned Clara as she snapped her book shut and threw it on the seat beside her.
"Darling, we've been over this more times than I can to count," her mum said, curling herself round the passenger seat to address Clara. "Your father and I have always longed to return to Derbyshire. It's where we both grew up. Now that we have the money to do it, we are."
"But why can't I stay with Uncle Mike?"
"Because he's not your father. I am," snapped Clara's dad. "Besides, you'll love it when you get there. Fresh air, trees, hills, rivers. You can't beat it."
Clara huffed. Unless the town had a multiplex, ice rink, shopping mall and her friends, she wasn't interested.
"So what's the town called we're moving to?"
"Little Hampton. And it's not a town. It's a village," her mum said.
"A village!" Clara blasted. "But that's so boring. It'll be filled with old people."
"Oh don't be silly. I'm sure there'll be kids your age there."
As they pulled into Little Hampton Clara stared out the window hopefully. There were only a handful of houses scattered over a wide expanse of hilly nothingness and from the looks of it the village appeared deserted. There was no hussle, there was no bussle, just quiet. Clara realised, with a heavy heart, that there would be little chance of seeing any kids there, let alone ones her age.
"We're here!" her mum trilled.
Clara got out of the car and leaned against a damp, mossy wall whilst her mum and dad dragged suitcases from the back of the car. She stared up at her new home and sighed. There really was no going back.
The cottage was old and grey with thick ivy on one side that was slowly creeping round the corner, a dark green wooden door, a short wall that encircled it and a green gate that was hanging on its hinges. Clara sneered. She wasn't impressed.
"How are we all supposed to live in that?" she said pointing to the house. "It's only got one floor? Where are the bedrooms?"
"The bedrooms are on the same floor as the lounge," her mum said as she returned to the car to retrieve another suitcase.
Clara grabbed her bag and book from the back seat and trudged inside.
Beyond the front door there was a long corridor that led down to what looked like the kitchen. To the left there was a lounge and dining room and on the right there were the two bedrooms. Clara pinched her nose at the smell inside. The air stank like rotting grass and hundred year old dust, and what's more is was freezing. Clara shivered.
"I'll fire up the generator in a minute Clara while we wait for the removal trucks."
That night Clara got no sleep. She shivered, she was surrounded by stacks of unpacked boxes and trunks and she was kept awake by strange noises; lots of creaking, groaning, moaning, and grumbling noises. When she told her parents about them the next day they merely laughed it off.
"It's an old house, Clara. This is something you have to get used to. There's a lot of history in these walls. Sometimes they talk," her dad said.
"Well they talk too loud. They need to be quiet, or I'll never sleep."
"Ask your mum to give you earplugs. They might help."
They didn't. In fact the noises seemed to be getting louder and were peppered by a faint wailing. As she lay awake one night, staring at the ceiling Clara wondered if there were ghosts in the house. She'd read plenty of stories about them, both fiction and ones that were supposedly true but had never actually seen a ghost. Could that be what was causing the noises?
The next day Clara challenged her dad.
"Who lived in this house before us?" she asked over breakfast.
"A young woman I believe. But that was some time ago. I don't know where she moved to."
"So the house has been empty?"
"Yep. She had a real problem selling it. I can't imagine why as it's idyllic. Although that does explain why we got such a good deal on it," he said
"I think there are ghosts here. I think that's why she couldn't sell it."
Her dad laughed.
"I think you're letting that overactive imagination run away with you. It's far more likely to be mice or birds than ghosts, Clara."
Clara wasn't convinced. So she vowed to stay awake all night and listen to the sounds. She wasn't scared by the idea of seeing a ghost, she was intrigued. With her knees tucked up against her chest and a torch in her hand she sat and waited. When the moon was out, shining yellow-white, and the sky was dark the groaning started.
"Awrrrrr," it went. "Ohhhh, whooaaa. Whoooaaahs meee."
Clara's eyes flicked open.
"Is anybody there?" she said.
"Whooaahs meee," was the reply.
"Whoever you are, you sound sad. Perhaps I can help."
"Noooaahhh. Awwrrr."
"Are you a ghost?" she asked.
There was no reply.
"If you can tap twice for yes and once for no," she said. "Are you a ghost?"
"TAP"
"Well if you're not a ghost I should be able to see you but I can't."
There was no reply, but from the corner of Clara's eye she saw something hazy emerge from the empty bookcase. She spun round and shone her torch at the apparition. Hovering above her yet-to-be-unpacked boxes was the faint outline of a man. He was wearing, from what Clara could see, a soldier's uniform and had a tin hat on his head.
Clara was so dumbfounded that all she could do was gawp and wave at him.
He waved back.
When she finally composed herself, and got over the initial shock of seeing something she wasn't really sure she believed in, she said, "You don't know you're a ghost, do you?"
The hovering figure looked down at himself and then back at Clara. He shook his head.
"I think you died," Clara said solemnly.
The figure floated to Clara's bedroom window and looked out at the starry sky.
Clara climbed out of bed and stood at his side.
"Do you remember your name?"
"Pri-vate Samp-son," the ghost whispered. "El-more Samp-son."
"Nice to meet you Mr Sampson. I'm Clara, Clara Cleaver. I'm ten and about to start school here. I'm guessing you're a soldier. Were you in a war?"
Elmore nodded. "The Great War."
"Was that the first one or the second one?"
Elmore looked puzzled by her question. "Second?" he asked.
"You don't know there were two world wars?"
Elmore shook his head and gave a despairing sigh.
"So you were in the first one then. Where did you die?"
"France," Elmore whispered.
"Is that why you're sad?"
"Yes...and no. Yes I'm sad I died, but no that's not why I'm sad now," he began and floated over to where Clara had stacked a pile of her books waiting to go on the bookcase. He stared down at them and gave a longing sigh. "I wish I could write. I used to, in the trenches. I wrote a lot, to pass the time and so I didn't have to think about shells and guns."
"Is that why you're sad? Because you can't write?"
Elmore nodded. He reached a wispy white hand down to a pencil that rested on top of a box and tried to clasp it, but the pencil just cut straight through his hand.
"Ohhh, you can't physically write. I see," she said.
Elmore sat down on the box and sank right through it. All Clara could see of him was from the chest up.
"What do you want to write?"
"Stories," Elmore said.
"Ah, well you're in luck Private Elmore Sampson because I happen to love stories," Clara said, climbing on top of the covers of her bed. "How about I write your stories for you?"
Elmore stood up. A smiled graced his youthful but transparent face, and he nodded.

When Clara woke the following morning she couldn't wait to tell her parents about Elmore. She ran into the kitchen and before her mum could even say 'good morning' Clara launched into her revelation.
"There's a ghost," her mum repeated with wide eyes and raised brows, "in your bedroom. That wants you to write stories for him?"
Clara nodded.
Her mum held her palm against Clara's forehead. "I think you're coming down with something."
"It's true, mum," Clara said, earnestly before looking to her dad for support. "He died in the great war. He told me. He said he used to write in the trenches and now he can't. That's why he's sad."
"Don't look at me, Clara. I'm with your mother on this one. Ghosts, spooks, ghouls, spectres or whatever you want to call them simply don't exist. It's all a load of mind trickery."
Clara huffed, grabbed a slice of buttered toast and stormed out of the house. She was so mad with her parents for not believing her she paid no attention to where she was walking and smacked into an elderly lady on the gravel pathway.
"I'm so sorry," Clara said.
The elderly lady steadied herself and stared down at Clara.
"You're the Cleaver girl aren't ya. What's moved into the Sampson house?"
Clara's stomach fluttered at the mention of the name. "You know Elmore Sampson?"
The lady seemed almost as surprised at Clara as Clara was at her.
"Not personally no. He died before I was born, but I knew his parents. They lived in the house you're in now."
"Where did they move to?"
"They didn't. They died there in that house, about forty year ago. Nobody's lived in it since, apart from some young girl whose name I can't place, but she didn't last long. I think she only lived in it about a month before she left."
"Do you know why?"
The woman shook her head.
"Some tell strange tales about that house. Things are heard."
"Like wailing and moaning?"
The woman didn't answer her. She carried on her way, shuffling down the path. "Mind yerself now."

That night Clara was at the ready: torch, paper and pen.
It had crossed her mind, as she sat there in the darkness, that it might all have been a weird dream and that Elmore really didn't exist but when he appeared at the foot of her bed, she smiled.
"Hi Elmore," she said.
"Clara," Elmore said, tipping his tin helmet at her.
"I have a pen and paper. What shall we write?"
That night Elmore began recounting his entire life as a soldier in the first world war, from how he was conscripted as a seventeen year old boy, to how he ended up in France fighting the Germans in the Battle of the Somme. It wasn't the kind of story Clara was expecting to write but Elmore said that he had to 'purge some baggage' before he could be creative. Clara assumed he meant he had a lot to get off his chest. She didn't blame him. After eighty years of waiting to have a voice on paper she was sure she'd have a lot to get off her chest too.

When Clara showed her parents what she had written as dictated by Elmore they were more than a little surprised.
"Have you been reading about the war, Clara?" her dad asked as he thumbed through the pages.
"No. Elmore told me this stuff."
Her dad and mum exchanged looks of concern.
"It's okay,dad," Clara said resting a hand on her dad's arm to reassure him. "Elmore is nice. He doesn't want to hurt me. He just wants me to write his stories."
Her mum shrugged her shoulders. "If it means she stops complaining about this place she can write what she likes."

Once Elmore had told Clara all he wanted to say about the war Clara decided that she really ought to do something with Elmore's words. She had accumulated two hundred pages of a story that she really wanted others to read. The Great War, as they called it, wasn't so great for the soldiers that fought in it, particularly as many were dragged into it at seventeen years of age. That was younger than some kids are nowadays when they finish school. And the conditions those poor soldiers had to endure made Clara feel guilty for complaining about the lack of luxuries in Little Hampton that she was used to. They endured overcrowding, infestations of lice and fleas, weevils in their bread, trench foot caused by standing in the mud day after day and having to drink water diseased with cholera and typhoid. It sounded unbearable.
So Clara asked her mum to take her to the local town library so she could find out who would publish Elmore's book. After consulting with the librarian who suggested Clara look at a reference book that listed publishers and their addresses, Clara set to work. It didn't take her long to find someone to send it to-Historia Books they were called, and were even based nearby, in Derby.
Clara posted her book with a letter and waited, and waited, and waited, and waited. To pass the time Clara and Elmore wrote more stories. Not war stories but adventure stories and ghost stories and fantasy stories. But when two months passed and Clara hadn't heard anything about Elmore's war book she was convinced that the publisher didn't want it. Elmore was not as disappointed as Clara. He was happy enough to have someone write his story for him. Then to Clara's delight, a letter finally dropped through the letter box addressed to Elmore Sampson.
Clara tore it open and skim read the letter inside. As she read the words she leapt into the air and screamed at the top of her voice. "They like it, they like it," she cried.
"Like what, Clara," her mum said appearing at the lounge door with a bowl full of cake mix in one hand and a wooden spoon in the other.
"Elmore's book," she announced with glee. "They want to publish it."

After Clara and Elmore waited, and waited, and waited, and waited, and then waited some more, a box arrived at Clara's house, addressed to Private Elmore Sampson and Miss Clara Cleaver.
Clara eagerly ripped the sellotape off the box and gingerly pick up one of the books. It had a glossy jacket that covered the hard back of the book. Clara was so pleased she cried and cried. That night she waited up to see Elmore and when he appeared and saw the book he cried too-wispy white tears.
When he was done he glanced up at her from the book.
"Thank you, Clara," he said and then faded from her sight.
She never saw him again. But she still has his book, and she doesn't complain about living in the country, anymore.

Wag the puss

My dog died today. We, I mean my parents and me, knew it was going to happen. He'd been ill for a while, but that doesn't stop it feeling like someone has just reached down my throat and pulled out my insides. There is now a big hole in my life and I don't know what to fill it with. I'd rather not notice it's there. See, he was more than just a dog. He was my dog, and a very special one at that. I remember when we picked him up from the pound. I was only eight years old, so I don't remember everything, but I do remember the woman say, "He has some strange behavioural traits for a Jack Russell. Nothing aggressive, just strange."
She wasn't wrong.
"So, what shall we name him, Olivia?" my dad asked on the way home.
"Wag!" I insisted, apparently.
"Wag? Are you sure?" he said. I think he thought I could have come up with something more original.
"Wag!" I said again.
So Wag it was.
Despite his physical problems and what the woman at the pound said, Wag was pretty normal looking. I mean he had a tail and four legs and really cute rings of black fur round his eyes that made him look like he was wearing sunglasses, but he didn't act like your regular dog.
According to the woman at the pound Wag was found in a ditch with a litter of kittens. The mother cat was found on the road side. She'd been knocked down by a car. Wag was about six months old, they estimated. The kittens were fine and were rehomed almost immediately, but Wag had a crooked leg and only one eye so he wasn't as so appealing. But his past instantly explained his behaviour.
On the way home I had Wag on my lap in the back of the car. As I stroked his bristly fur he arched his back and let out a strange, gravelly purr, like a cross between a cat purr and a growl. At first it startled me and I stopped stroking him, a little afraid as I didn't know if he liked it or not. But when I stopped he looked up at me with his one eye as though asking me to carry on. So I did and he purred louder and louder.
"Is that Wag making that noise?" Dad asked.
"Yep. I think he thinks he's a cat," I declared.
Dad laughed and said that wasn't possible and that Wag knew he was a dog.
Boy was he wrong.
When we got home the first thing Wag did was coil himself round the telephone wire and start to play with the cord with his paws.
"Told you," I said, as mum trotted down the stairs.
When she saw Wag she nearly had a fit.
"You only went out for milk!" she barked.
"Mum, meet Wag," I said, tugging Wag out from under the telephone table. "Wag, meet mum."
Mum rolled her eyes, slung her handbag over her shoulder and made for the door.
"I won't be late, so don't get any ideas about staying up with that little one," she said. She was looking at me when she said it but really I knew it was directed at dad. Dad was a soft touch when it came to me. I suppose that's why we came home with a dog and not a pint of semi-skimmed.
That night none of us got any sleep, including Wag. In fact Wag was the cause of it. He cried and wailed and screeched and paced round the kitchen by the door until dad got up and opened it for him. But once outside Wag refused to come back in. He wanted to wander round the garden all night, so dad had to sleep in the kitchen with the door ajar. The next day dad had a dog flap fitted in the kitchen door, so he didn't have to get up.
Given I was the one that wanted Wag in the first place I was the one that fed him morning and evening and walked him round the garden. Mum said I was still too young to take him for longer walks so dad was left with that job. Wag was difficult to walk though. He didn't like to go on the lead. He preferred to lead himself. And when he did eventually get to the park he spent most of the time trying and failing because or his crooked leg to climb trees, or he would hiss at other dogs, or pounce on bits of rubbish blowing across the ground or meow at children. He and my dad got a lot of strange looks from people; some stared, some craned their necks over other people to get a good gawp, some muttered under their breath 'crazy dog' or giggled and one person even strode confidently up to my dad and thrust a business card into his palm.
"I think you're dog needs help," the man said. "Give me a call."
The card was from an Animal Behaviourist, but dad never called him.
"Wag might have a few screws loose, but he's not hurting anyone," dad said as he picked up his newspaper.
A vomited fur ball dropped from the pages and plopped onto his lap. "But then again."
Dad, myself and even mum, eventually accepted Wag for what he was: a cat in a dog's coat. We even accepted Wag's love of bringing home dead birds and mice, which he left on the hall floor or in dad's slippers. Though his lack of sight did mean that on the odd occasion he'd bring in next door's plastic duck from their pond.

And as the years passed Wag's behaviour got more and more unpredictable. He rarely seemed to sleep, preferring to spend hours wandering outside and trying to scale the trees in our garden. Sometimes he'd be gone all day, only returning at night to get his fish stew dinner (the only thing he could eat without vomiting it back up). Then one day he didn't return. Nor did he return the day after.
"He'll be back," dad said confidently. "Once the town is fed up with giving him scraps."
"How can you be sure?" I said, feeling bitter that he didn't seem the slightest bit concerned.
"Because he always comes back."
That wasn't good enough for me. I needed to know that Wag wasn't lying in a ditch again somewhere. So I used a photo I had of Wag that my cousin, William, used when he entered Wag into an 'Ugliest Dog' competition (I gave him a thorough beating for that), and created a lost dog poster. I printed out as many as my printer would allow before the ink ran out and plastered them all over town. I put them on telegraph poles, in shop windows, through letter boxes, on notice boards in my school, in the police station, hospital, dentist, doctors, supermarket and anywhere else I knew there would be lots of people. A week went by and I heard nothing. I was beside myself with worry. I couldn't sleep or eat, my stomach was in knots and my mind kept tormenting me with ideas of what could have happened to him.
I was so desperate I began pestering the police. Every day I rang and asked if they'd heard anything, and everyday I got the same answer. 'No'. So I rang the local radio station every day and asked them to announce I was still looking for my dog. But got nothing. It seemed hopeless.
By the end of the second week I was convinced Wag was dead. The weather had been particularly bad, heavy rain and strong winds so I was sure that Wag, as independent and brave as he was, couldn't have survived it. That was when I was utterly depressed. I cried all night and day for Wag. I was inconsolable . Mum considered taking me to a bereavement counsellor to help me get over my loss and that was when I got a phone call. It was the Fire Bridage. They'd been called out to old Mrs Scrimmanger's house on the outskirts of town. Mrs Scrimmanger is a particularly crabby old bat who never left her home and complained about absolutely everything. She was the kind of person who would call the emergency services because she couldn't get the lid of her jam jar. Anyway Mrs Scrimmanger had complained to the police that there was a strange 'gurl'ing noise coming from the trees outside her house. The police had tried to ignore her for as long as they could but Mrs Scrimmanger was as persistent as me and wouldn't stop until they sorted it. So they conceded, investigated the problem and what do you think they found?
Yep, there was Wag, at the top of a Silver Birch. The only problem was that they couldn't get Wag out. He didn't seem to want to come down.
When dad and I arrived at Mrs Scrimmanger's, who grimaced at us as we walked down her driveway and muttered under her breath something about us being irresponsible pet owners, I realised why. Wag was a bit wet and scraggly but he wasn't scared, or unhappy or distressed or even all that hungry. He turned down everything the Fire Officers offered him. He was the opposite. He was happy or I should say delighted. He was making the same noise as the day dad and I took him home from the pound.
"He climbed the tree, dad," I said with a smile.
Dad looked at me with sheer surprise, obviously wondering why I had only just worked that out.
"I mean he managed it. He's been trying to climb trees ever since we had him. Now he's succeeded he doesn't want to come down."
"But we'll have to get him down, Olivia. He can't stay up there forever."
Dad was right. I wanted him down too. I wanted to give him a bath and see him jump around my bedroom like a crazed rabbit when given shiny bits of paper to play with. And that was when the answer came to me.
"I know how we can make Wag happy," I said confidently.
A week later we had the grand opening of Wag's official home: a tree house. Wag was delighted and 'gurled' in my arms. Wag's home was filled with everything he loved; his scratching post, balls of wool I got from the charity shop, newspapers for him to shred, and even a ramp that led from the garden up to the entrance. Now Wag could come and go as he pleased.

And that is where I'm sitting right now. Surrounded by Wag's familiar scent of fish and biscuits. Soon I will be gone, moved away to a new town and this tree house will belong to some other family. They won't know who lived here but I will, 'The cutest ugliest tree-climbing dog cat in the world'.

Houdini (Part 2)

Three months had passed and the crew of the Sea Breeze hadn’t even seen a whisper of another ship. Morale was desperately low. The increasing boredom and lack of action, made one long day merge into the next. It was an endless monotony.

Sternglass was at a lost; they had never travelled so long and so far without a conquest. It was as if all the ships on the sea had vanished.

She tried to raise the spirits of the crew by holding impromptu sword fighting competitions, which were an excellent temporary boost, but there were only so many times you could pretend to splice someone up before that too became monotonous.

But concerns of boredom were soon replaced by concern for the rapidly dwindling supplies. A visit to the dank, musty storeroom soon brought home the realisation that if they didn’t acquire provisions in the next two days they would starve for sure. It was almost empty except for two cases of beer, 1 small bag of rice, two salted hams and a sack of oranges.

When she returned to deck the sea of hopeful faces, desperate for her to come up with the answers to their woes, brought tears to her eyes. She simply didn’t know what to do.

Only one member of the crew seemed happy in lonely starvation, Leon. Sternglass had come to notice that he was somewhat of a loner. Most of his time was spent in solitude, either in the crew’s quarters or sat on the forecastle deck reading.

Leon emerged quietly from the forecastle and approached her from behind.
“Have faith Captain, all is not lost…you have the greatest weapon of all” he whispered.
The words did little to comfort her; they actually incensed her. Faith was giving her little assistance. How could she have faith when things were so desperate? What she needed was a miracle. She turned in frustration, and was about to give him a piece of her mind when she stopped. The frown across her face became an inquisitive smile as she watched him walk away from her. He sat back down on the forecastle deck and plunged his nose into his book.

There was something strangely soothing about Leon. It was as if his mere presence made even the most complex and hopeless of situations transparent.

Intrigued and anxious to know more about this strange lad she followed and knelt beside him.
“What’s that you’re reading?” she enquired
Leon closed the book and showed her the front cover. Sternglass squinted to read the title; its gold lettering had faded slightly with age.
“Mysteries…of…the…deep”
She chuckled to herself.
“My brother was always interested in the unexplained,” she added nostalgically “anything that defied rational explanation totally mesmerised him. He would spend hours reading and researching to get to the truth or attempt to find his own interpretation of why things were the way they were. Not that he was a sceptic. He wanted to believe, by golly he did, but to believe he had to explore every other possibility first.”
Leon listened intently.
“He was about to go to University to study under the tutelage of Professor Scheldhorn, the eminent Parapsychologist when he succumb to smallpox.”
“He died?” Leon asked softly, a tear forming in his eye.
“Yes,” she sighed “10 years ago today”
“You suffered greatly for it” he added “He never meant to do that to you”
Sternglass looked at Leon quizzically, not quite sure why he had said that, but assumed he meant well and put it down to the fact that perhaps he didn’t quite know what to say, or how to say it.

As she rose to join the rest of the crew a chill wind blew across the deck.
“A STORM’S BREWING FROM THE NORTH CAPTAIN,” the Quartermaster shouted.
“LOWER THE MAINSAIL AND BATTEN DOWN THE HATCHES” he ordered to the crew as they scampered round the deck securing the ship.

A thick band of clouds began to quickly draw across the pale blue sky like a cloak, devouring all the light. As the storm gathered pace the dirty grey sea began to swell and churn, buffeting against the Sea Breeze; the heavens opened and rain lashed the crew and turned the deck into a skating rink; the angry clouds crashed into one another emitting an explosive crack; a lone bolt of lightning struck right in front of the bow, so close you could smell the electric charge. The colossal noise of the storm grew louder and louder as the sea roared and the wind howled, wave after wave swept over the deck taking with it anything that wasn’t tied down, including two of the crew.
“MEN OVER BOARD” one of them screeched
“THROW THE ROPES OUT” Sternglass ordered as she ran down to help haul the stricken seamen back on board.
Leon stood watching the chaos unfold around him. He seemed entirely unaffected by the whole event. He didn’t even flinch when another bolt of lightening hit the bowsprit of the ship sending shards of wood flying through the air as it shattered.

The lightening caught the attention of Sternglass. She could see Leon silhouetted in the white light.
“Leon, watch out” she screamed as she ran towards him to shield him from the splintering wood.
His face was rigid and expressionless. His eyes glanced down to the stone pendant swinging ferociously from her neck.
“He’s coming,” he said, his voice monotone, his eyes fixed on her necklace.
“Who, who’s coming?” Sternglass asked, a little perturbed.
“He wants it”
Her eyes were drawn over Leon’s shoulder and she could see a ship on the horizon. Its sails ballooned in the wind, powering it through the swell.
“Blackfoot” she said darkly.
“Well if he wants a fight he’s found one,” she added as she looked down at her dishevelled and exhausted crew. It was apparent they had little fight left in them as they slumped over barrels and coils of rope, the two that had fallen overboard were now flat out on the deck, those that had hauled them from the deep knelt as they fought to catch their breath. They were weak. Weak from hunger, weak from exhaustion. She feared this was going to be an easy victory for Blackfoot.

With barely enough time to shout her orders The Destructor had pulled up alongside them. Its size dwarfed The Sea Breeze and its polished wood and intricate hand carvings were testament to the fact that no expense had been spared on it. The storm, that had ravaged The Sea Breeze and her crew, had subsided as quickly as it arrived and pockets of blue sky began to appear in the clouds. Her crew were thankful that that ordeal was over, though their relief was short lived when they realised they were about to face their toughest battle. But not one of them had the energy even to fear it.