Attica - By Garry Kilworth Page 0,20

you’ll never be able to get it, will you? You’re terrified of Katerfelto.’

So are you.

‘Yeah, well, I’m not after a map, so it doesn’t count.’

The bat begins swinging back and forth on the board-comber’s ear.

Stop that.

But the bat keeps on swinging.

When evening time comes round, the bat flies away on its usual jaunt to find food. The board-comber, in a heap by an ostrich-feather shrub, watches the children from beneath the brim of his hat. He watches and he watches. When he hears slumber, when he sees slumber, he crawls from his outer clothes as if they were a snail shell. They are left behind. Once or twice, perhaps it is practice, he darts back again, quick as a rat, into the clothes. However, the children really are asleep and besides now it’s so dark only a wolf or a bat could see him. He slithers and slides until but a metre or two from the sleeping forms. There he writes in the dust. Then he shoots back again, flashing through the darkness, to enter his coats.

‘Did you enjoy that? Your trip out?’

Wha— you back, are you?

‘Yup, full of insects.’

No burping to prove it.

‘Wouldn’t dream of such bad manners.’

Yes, well, I know you.

‘And I know you, mine host. Here, lend me your ear, I come to bury my claws, not to prise them. The evil that men do lives after them …’

Quiet, I need to sleep.

‘Did you warn the children?’

I left a message – messages.

‘Uh-oh, you couldn’t resist, could you?’

What?

‘Asking them about the map.’

No, no – I never asked them about a map. I simply asked if they knew about any stamps or coins.

‘Same thing. Same thing, old host. Now you’ll have them looking in every trunk, under every pile of books, for treasure – you realise that?’

Why should they?

‘Because children are like combers: they collect things, especially if they think they’re valuable. You should know. You were one once. Maybe you’re still one, how would I know? I’m just a bat.’

I’m going to sleep.

‘All right, you sleep, I’ll keep watch.’

What for? asks the board-comber, looking round nervously into the pitch-black darkness.

‘You know.’

The board-comber shudders involuntarily, as he remembers that the Removal Firm could be near. While he has no particular reason to worry, he fears he may have done something wrong without realising he has transgressed. The Removal Firm do not listen to reasoning or excuses: they act on their belief in a creature’s guilt.

‘Hey, have you seen this?’ cried Alex, on his way back to the others from a drinking umbrella.

‘What?’ asked Chloe, not very interested, thinking it might be an old steam-engine toy or something of that nature.

‘It’s a word, written in the dust.’

‘What does it say?’

‘Something about Kate somebody.’

‘It’s probably spider tracks.’

‘No,’ said Alex firmly, ‘it’s a word all right. Here, I’ll show you. Look.’ He pointed.

‘That says “Katerfelto”. That’s not a word, is it?’

‘I dunno. Look, here’s some more. “Any stamps? Any coins?”’

This made Jordy come over and look.

‘Cool,’ he said, ‘Attican graffiti. Stamps and coins. Hey, that would be something, gang. Treasure indeed. I once heard a man found an envelope in his attic which had a stamp worth thousands. Mauritius stamp, I think. He was an East German and very poor, so it meant a lot to him.’

Chloe said, ‘It would mean a lot to anyone, that amount.’

‘And coins!’ crowed Alex. ‘There must be coins up here. Old war medals. This could turn out to be a treasure hunt. We could be rich.’

‘Well,’ Jordy said practically, ‘first we have to find Mr Grantham’s watch.’

‘That’s true,’ agreed Chloe. ‘But picking up treasure on the way can’t do any harm.’

The two older children had forgotten completely about the first word etched in the dust: Katerfelto. It was overlooked in the excitement of realising they were in a potential Aladdin’s Cave. Their minds were now tuned to seeking stamps and coins. They scoured the floor with their eyes, looking for the glint of bright gold, burnished silver. Or the dirty yellow of ancient paper envelopes, perhaps held together by a rotting rubber band. This was an adventure to lift the spirits!

On then, into the sunlit-shafted world of Attica, like three lost mice within the walls of an enormous castle. At noon a dust storm rose, seemingly from a single powerful draught coming from the direction of the mountain. The grey choking motes were blown from the boards and from the cracks between, into a thick blizzard. The children tied handkerchiefs around their mouths and noses, but