stillborn elder brother who might have fulfilled
everything…"
Mr. Dry Senior just
shrugs again, and reaches under the blanket. Feeling around for a
moment, he produces a pink and white felt rabbit toy, and offers it
to me.
"I, er, don't
understand…" I falter.
The zombie thrusts the
stuffed toy under my nose. It is wearing a red waistcoat, on which is
appliquéd a pocket-watch and chain, in golden thread.
"It's the rabbit
from Alice in Wonderland , yes," I agree. "She fell
down a hole – I fell down a hole. I get it…"
" Noooo ,"
the zombie replies, and prods the felt rabbit in the middle. The
sound of an air-squeaker inside it makes me jump.
"And it squeaks,"
I add. I'm at a loss. "I don't know what you mean…"
I find myself staring at
the toy rabbit's chest, as it is held even closer. The word SWISS is embroidered on the white watch-face.
"Is it a clue?"
I ask. The zombie's shoulders slump, and he slaps his free hand over
his eye in resignation. "Do you want me to take this?"
" Yessss ,"
Mr. Dry Senior groans, and shoves it into my own hands. It's
surprisingly heavy. "Go nowww …"
"Back the same way?"
I say in dread, thinking of the naked Frittata brother, with his frog
fixation and dubious golden ball in the wishing-well, and the giant
monitor lizard in the underground hen-house.
I follow him back out
into the study, where he glances sadly back at the nursery before
closing the door behind us.
"Up," Mr. Dry
Senior says simply, and points to the corner of the wall, above the
desk.
A couple of ribbons
flutter from a large aluminium air-vent. Aha …
I step up onto the desk
and start to open it, but he stops me with one hand on the leg of my
pyjama-bottoms. I look down to see him closing the leather-bound
diary, buckling it shut, and offering it to me as well.
"More clues?" I
query, taking it, and tucking it into my waistband.
" Duhhh …"
The zombie slumps in the chair, and looks defeated, dropping his head
into his hands and shaking it slowly.
I think he's
deteriorating rapidly. Probably too much time spent outdoors on the
Body Farm at the weekends, experiencing alternative forms of decay.
* * * * *
The ventilation shaft is
wide and smooth, and the only sound is the echo of my own hands and
knees as I crawl along. But I don't trust it. The aluminium throws
dark reflections and moving shadows at every turn, and I'm sure that
behind me – although I could be imagining it – I hear the
scuttling of claws.
What could Mr. Dry want
by giving me his stillborn son's toy rabbit, and an old diary full of
sketches and drawings? I can only imagine he wants me to pass them on
to Crispin – with all his modern technology in the bunker below
the stairs, surely he'll be able to decipher it? And maybe find that
special hereditary clockwork hand, which will save his home from the
clutches of the National Trust…
As I'm thinking this, I
suddenly become aware of a smell creeping up on me slowly, along the
air-way. The smell of burnt feathers, and rotten eggs. And the mental
image of something that stalks chickens on their nests, and devours
them whole…
I hear the scaly scrape
of a reptile tail against aluminium behind me. Before the echo has
even formed, I've never moved so quickly in my life.
I know I don't have a
hope in Hell.
Out-crawl a monitor
lizard in a low passageway? I might as well try turning around and
seeing if I can out-bite it…
But my fear drives me
forwards, even knowing that I'm doomed. And around the next corner,
my heart jumps vertically up into my throat, and makes a desperate
grab for my epiglottis…
A ladder!!
Leading straight up!
Almost crying with
relief, I propel myself forward quickly, using the slippery silk of
the pyjamas to surf the aluminium floor, and clutch at the rungs of
the upward ventilation shaft. No more than six or seven feet up, I
feel the violent vibration as a powerful claw twangs the bottom of
the ladder, and make the mistake of looking down – into
everything…"
Mr. Dry Senior just
shrugs again, and reaches under the blanket. Feeling around for a
moment, he produces a pink and white felt rabbit toy, and offers it
to me.
"I, er, don't
understand…" I falter.
The zombie thrusts the
stuffed toy under my nose. It is wearing a red waistcoat, on which is
appliquéd a pocket-watch and chain, in golden thread.
"It's the rabbit
from Alice in Wonderland , yes," I agree. "She fell
down a hole – I fell down a hole. I get it…"
" Noooo ,"
the zombie replies, and prods the felt rabbit in the middle. The
sound of an air-squeaker inside it makes me jump.
"And it squeaks,"
I add. I'm at a loss. "I don't know what you mean…"
I find myself staring at
the toy rabbit's chest, as it is held even closer. The word SWISS is embroidered on the white watch-face.
"Is it a clue?"
I ask. The zombie's shoulders slump, and he slaps his free hand over
his eye in resignation. "Do you want me to take this?"
" Yessss ,"
Mr. Dry Senior groans, and shoves it into my own hands. It's
surprisingly heavy. "Go nowww …"
"Back the same way?"
I say in dread, thinking of the naked Frittata brother, with his frog
fixation and dubious golden ball in the wishing-well, and the giant
monitor lizard in the underground hen-house.
I follow him back out
into the study, where he glances sadly back at the nursery before
closing the door behind us.
"Up," Mr. Dry
Senior says simply, and points to the corner of the wall, above the
desk.
A couple of ribbons
flutter from a large aluminium air-vent. Aha …
I step up onto the desk
and start to open it, but he stops me with one hand on the leg of my
pyjama-bottoms. I look down to see him closing the leather-bound
diary, buckling it shut, and offering it to me as well.
"More clues?" I
query, taking it, and tucking it into my waistband.
" Duhhh …"
The zombie slumps in the chair, and looks defeated, dropping his head
into his hands and shaking it slowly.
I think he's
deteriorating rapidly. Probably too much time spent outdoors on the
Body Farm at the weekends, experiencing alternative forms of decay.
* * * * *
The ventilation shaft is
wide and smooth, and the only sound is the echo of my own hands and
knees as I crawl along. But I don't trust it. The aluminium throws
dark reflections and moving shadows at every turn, and I'm sure that
behind me – although I could be imagining it – I hear the
scuttling of claws.
What could Mr. Dry want
by giving me his stillborn son's toy rabbit, and an old diary full of
sketches and drawings? I can only imagine he wants me to pass them on
to Crispin – with all his modern technology in the bunker below
the stairs, surely he'll be able to decipher it? And maybe find that
special hereditary clockwork hand, which will save his home from the
clutches of the National Trust…
As I'm thinking this, I
suddenly become aware of a smell creeping up on me slowly, along the
air-way. The smell of burnt feathers, and rotten eggs. And the mental
image of something that stalks chickens on their nests, and devours
them whole…
I hear the scaly scrape
of a reptile tail against aluminium behind me. Before the echo has
even formed, I've never moved so quickly in my life.
I know I don't have a
hope in Hell.
Out-crawl a monitor
lizard in a low passageway? I might as well try turning around and
seeing if I can out-bite it…
But my fear drives me
forwards, even knowing that I'm doomed. And around the next corner,
my heart jumps vertically up into my throat, and makes a desperate
grab for my epiglottis…
A ladder!!
Leading straight up!
Almost crying with
relief, I propel myself forward quickly, using the slippery silk of
the pyjamas to surf the aluminium floor, and clutch at the rungs of
the upward ventilation shaft. No more than six or seven feet up, I
feel the violent vibration as a powerful claw twangs the bottom of
the ladder, and make the mistake of looking down – into
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