Part 12 (2/2)
He couldn't bear to look at the telephones. The possibility of more of Rafi's threats, plus the inevitable emptiness of his mother's phone-no, it was too depressing. Why wasn't anyone calling his mum? Any of her colleagues or her friends? People to say ”Come over and visit,” or Brother Jerome saying ”Why isn't Charlie coming to lessons?” Charlie didn't know that Rafi had told all his family's friends and relations that they had had to leave suddenly for Africa. He felt as if he and his family had dropped off the edge of the world, and n.o.body cared.
Not that the circus people didn't care, but . . . they were all new friends, and apart from the lions he couldn't tell them what was on his mind. And he couldn't tell the lions how scared he was, and how he wished he didn't have to do this. Late in the evenings he wanted someone he had always known. Someone from home.
He read his letter again. Thought of the friendly cats who had helped. Wondered again if he could trust Sergei-well, he had no choice. Wondered again about the Allergenies. Wondered for the thousandth time what his parents were working on that made them heroes to cats. Well, he was working to find them. So let's get on with it, he said to himself toughly, before the moon started to look too sad, and the night grew too lonely. Get on with it.
So he started to track down the phone numbers he needed-and very complicated it was too. Then the phone at the restaurant was constantly busy. Charlie really hoped he wouldn't have to find another excuse to ask Julius about sw.a.n.ky restaurants. It was such an unlikely thing for someone like Charlie to need to know about.
By the time he went to bed he'd sent two text messages, booked a restaurant reservation, and found out that trains to Venice left from the Gare d'Austerlitz, which was the station right across the river from the Bastille, and that the train left at half past midnight.
Here are the messages he sent: MABEL, SUCH A LONG TIME PLS MABEL, SUCH A LONG TIME PLS.
COME TO SHOW ON FRIDAY, AND.
AFTERWARD TO CHEZ BILLY, I WILL.
MEET YOU THERE. AFFECTUEUs.e.m.e.nT,.
MACCOMO.
And to Maccomo he sent: MACCOMO, SUCH A LONG TIME, I AM MACCOMO, SUCH A LONG TIME, I AM.
COMING TO SHOW ON FRIDAY, PLS.
JOIN ME AFTERWARD CHEZ BILLY.
MABEL.
He really hoped he had the tone right. Who knew what grown-ups wrote to each other? But he had seen invitations with things like ”afterward” and ”please join me” written on them. Oh, well. Either it would work or it wouldn't. And if it didn't, they'd just have to think of something else. He felt a little sick at the thought.
CHAPTER 14.
The next morning dawned misty and damp. While Charlie was out practicing with the acrobats, each of the electric lightbulbs that adorned the s.h.i.+p's rigging and smokestacks was itself adorned with drips of misty rain, drops of water through which light shone and refracted, each reflecting off all the others and glowing in the mist. Charlie had not seen the lights illuminated before. The entire s.h.i.+p gleamed like a ghost. The raindrops flew, shattering rainbows, as the acrobats jumped and swung. Charlie felt like a ghost himself-a flying, silent ghost.
”Whaddaya think, Lionboy?” It was Major Tib, looming out of the mist in his green velvet jacket, tall and suave as Captain Hook.
”It's gorgeous, sir,” said Charlie, coming down from a handstand on the edge of a smokestack, and wis.h.i.+ng he were somewhere else. He didn't want to look the major in the face when he was about to trick him out of his lions.
”Looking forward to the parade tonight?”
”Oh yes, sir,” said Charlie.
”And the show tomorrow?”
”Oh yes, sir.”
”Know what you've got to do?”
”Yes, sir, and looking forward to it!” said Charlie bravely.
”Mighty glad, mighty glad,” said Major Tib, but his attention had wandered and Charlie could escape.
He did know what he had to do-more than Major Tib could dream of. Not only did he know how to lower and raise the ring cage, and pin it in place, and let the lions in and out of the ring, he also knew how he was going to get the lions away from their life of captivity and tricks, off the boat and if necessary onto the train to Venice and freedom, en route to Africa. The night before he had sat late into the night with the lions, hatching their plan. Tonight he would be in the parade, and tomorrow would be his first and last day with the show, the day he would steal the lions.
”I wonder where we are,” murmured Aneba. He wished he had his phone, with its global tracking device, which would have told them immediately. Well, before Winner had taken the phone from him again they had been heading southeast, and they had been traveling, quite slowly he felt, for days. France, he thought, and river. The sea would be a rougher ride, and deeper.
Their door flung open. There was Winner, with a hat pulled down over his head.
”Put these on,” he snapped, throwing a pair of what looked like giant socks at them.
”Even my my feet aren't that big,” said Aneba. He liked annoying Winner with jokes. feet aren't that big,” said Aneba. He liked annoying Winner with jokes.
”Shut up,” said Winner. ”On your heads.”
Magdalen and Aneba pulled the socks over their heads (Magdalen giving Aneba a last beseeching look-a ”Please can we wallop them and run?” look) and allowed themselves to be handcuffed and pushed out the door.
Darkness and stumbling. The giant socks smelled moldy and damp, but through them came an unmistakable smell of outdoors. It was cold, but they both breathed deeply, glad of the fresh air at last.
Winner tripped over something-they could hear him cursing.
Something brushed Magdalen's legs.
A noise-”Mraow!”-and Winner complaining and standing up.
There was something under Magdalen's hand-warm, furry.
She knew exactly what to do. The cat was moving into position beneath her bound hand.
No, wrong end-tail. Rather a bald tail, by the feel.
Head. She stroked it swiftly, wanting to convey kindness and grat.i.tude. Neck. Collar. Yes! Piece of paper! Yes!
She whispered ”Thank you!” under her breath and got a rough ”Mraow!” in response, before the cat disappeared. She held tightly to the sc.r.a.p of paper, as tightly as if it had been her son himself, rather than a letter from him.
<script>