Brightling (23 page)

42

Sparrow was woken the next morning by Scaramouch's sandpaper tongue, rasping her cheek. But was it morning? She didn't know; everything was still black as ink around her.

‘What? What is it?' she muttered, yawning. She rubbed and rubbed her eyes but still couldn't see a thing. Then she remembered: she was in the cellar.

She stretched her aching legs and arms. She was cold and hungry.

‘Meow!' Scaramouch moved away, leaving her chilled.

‘Where are we going?' she cried. ‘Not too fast!' She got up slowly, shivering. ‘Ow! Scaramouch, hold on! I'm stiff and cold.'

She found and took hold of the tip of his tail again and let him lead her through the horrible darkness. At last, tripping, stumbling, they came to an opening in the wall. Scaramouch stopped. Sparrow could smell fresh air and sensed an open space in front of her. Her spirits lifted. Feeling around quickly, she discovered a hearth and an iron grate – a fireplace.

‘Now what?' she asked the blackness.

She felt Scaramouch leap up past her, onto the grate. Even as her fingers touched him, she felt his fur slip away from her and he was gone.

‘Meow!' His cry sounded hollow, softened by the thick wall between them. He'd gone up the chimney.

‘Oh no, Scaramouch. You can't be serious?'

‘Meow.'

He was.

So she would have to do it.

She reached for the grate and sat on it with her head inside the chimney. Sitting like that was not nice. The soot made her choke and cough and if it hadn't been for the fresh air swooping down coldly from high above, she couldn't have done it. She looked up – nothing. Not even a dot of light at the top.

‘It's going to be a long climb, she said.

‘Meow!' He was already further away, she could tell, and moving off. A shower of dust and soot and twigs fell on her.

‘Hang on, I'm coming!'

She stood up very slowly. If only she could see, she thought. She was scared of smashing her head against something, frightened of touching something unpleasant like a dead bird or  …  Oh stop being such a sissy, she told herself. Get on with it.

The inside of the chimney was rough and uneven, lined with bricks that had been laid so that they were not flush with each other but jutted out and formed make-shift footholds. I suppose we're not the first, she thought, imagining the poor little chimney sweeps who once, long ago, had cleaned these chimneys.

Scaramouch called for her to hurry. ‘Meow!'

‘Coming!'

Her toes sought out the tiny ledges, she braced her back against the wall, her fingers gripped the protruding bricks and she began to shuffle and drag herself up the chimney. It was hard, especially doing it blind. Her legs were soon tired and aching and her hands were sore and scratched.

‘Wait – wait, Scaramouch,' she called. ‘I can't keep up. I need a rest.'

She stopped and wedged herself with her knees bent and her back jammed against the bricks.

She couldn't see up or down. ‘My legs are burning!' she told Scaramouch. ‘My head hurts. I'm thirsty. I can't see.'

He only answered with a soft, trilling ‘
Meeee-ow
.'

‘Yeah, I see. Encouraging up to a point!' she said with a smile.

She stayed put, getting her breath back. She couldn't go back down now, but how much further was there to go up? ‘I've heard about people finding the skeletons of chimney sweeps in their chimneys,' she told the invisible Scaramouch. ‘They'll know it's me by my lovely red coat. Ruined,' she went on, wiping her dirty, sweating hands down it. ‘Hilda will be so disappointed. And my boots will be scuffed! Heaven knows what my hair looks like.'

‘Meow.'

‘Yes, well it's all right for you, you've only got fur and whiskers.'

She gathered her strength and even though her thighs felt as if they were on fire and her fingers throbbed and every single nail was broken and torn, she went on and on and on.

‘Meow! Meow!' Scaramouch's cry was suddenly quite different. Not an alarm, more a call to say, ‘
Look!
'

So Sparrow looked up and, for the first time, she saw light. It was still far away, but there it was, a small patch of sky.

‘There's light at the end of the tunnel!' she yelled, and her shout brought soot and dust toppling over her face, making her splutter and cough and laugh. ‘We'll do it, Scaramouch, we will!' Looking up she could even see Scaramouch now; he was on a wide ledge with his front paws resting on the stone above and his tail only inches from her face.

Sparrow felt lighter. Her legs had some spring in them again. Out, she was going to get out! Every few feet that she climbed now, she stopped and glanced quickly up to the square of daylight, thrilled to see that it was growing bigger. And every time she looked up, there was Scaramouch, looking down at her with his lovely yellow eyes, urging her on. The air grew colder and clearer, as if it were coming down to meet her, and she breathed it in greedily. As she got nearer and nearer the top, desperation took hold of her, desperation to get out of the chimney and into the open. It overwhelmed her so that even when Scaramouch was standing on the very rim of the chimney, she forged ahead.

She nudged Scaramouch out of the way. As he jumped over the side, Sparrow hooked her elbows over the edge of the chimney and hoisted herself up into the cold air.

‘We're free!' she cried.

Around her lay a sea of fog, from which terracotta-tiled roofs, turrets, chimney stacks and pointed gables emerged like the masts of ghostly ships. Rooftops were spread out for miles around. Sparrow looked about, suddenly fearful.

Just exactly where were they?

43

Hettie, who had been hiding by the trunk, jumped up with a shout and pointed through the window.

‘Sparrow!' she cried, her face breaking into a grin. ‘Sparrow's come back for me!'

Tapper and Miss Minter spun round in amazement.

‘What's
Hettie
doing here?' Miss Minter said.

Tapper leaped up, already on the move. He saw the cat and Sparrow on the roof and had the roof door open immediately and was rushing towards them. Hettie dashed out too, but Miss Minter was right behind her and swiftly scooped her up and held her arms tightly behind her back.

‘Not you!'

Sparrow tried to run. Scaramouch bounded up onto a high wall.

‘Go away!' Sparrow yelled as Tapper advanced, his arms reaching out for her. ‘Leave me alone!' She darted this way and that; but there was nowhere to go. She ran to the roof's parapet, looked over at the nearest building, saw the terrible drop and veered away.

‘The gap's huge,' Tapper said behind her. ‘You'd never make it.'

She glanced again at the lower roof. Could she? Dare she?

‘I wouldn't. You'd be strawberry jam on the pavement,' Tapper said, grinning. ‘You can't get away,' he added. ‘Might as well give in.'

Miss Minter shouted, ‘Stay right there, Sparrow! Don't try anything. If you do, Hettie's dead!'

She was dragging Hettie to the edge of the roof and Hettie was struggling for all she was worth, kicking and crying. Miss Minter tripped and tottered and wobbled on her high heels. Her hair was falling down and her eyes were wild.

‘Watch out, Miss Minter! Take care,' Tapper called.

‘You wouldn't!' Sparrow cried. ‘Please. That's little Hettie! You
couldn't!
'

‘I would!' Miss Minter screeched. ‘You know I would. I would. I could. I might. I will  … ' She shook Hettie as if she were a doll. ‘Watch me!'

Hettie burst into tears. ‘Miss Minter! Don't!' she sobbed. ‘It's me, Hettie. Don't be scary.
Sparrow!
Help me!'

Miss Minter took a shaky, high-heeled step right to the rim of the roof, flinging Hettie down so she lay half over the parapet, her legs dangling over the edge.

Hettie clutched wildly at her. ‘
Miss Minter!
' she screamed.

Suddenly Scaramouch let out a blood-curdling cry. He flew across the roof like a rocket and leaped on Tapper. Tapper screamed as the cat launched at him, claws out. He was thrown onto the roof tiles, yelling in pain as Scaramouch raked his face with his claws.

Tapper fought and lashed out at him, trying to push him off, but Scaramouch was like a crazy, wild beast, scratching and biting.

Miss Minter abandoned Hettie and ran to Tapper. She grabbed Scaramouch by his tail and hauled him off.

‘Got you, you horrible monster!' she cried.

The cat's claws ripped through Tapper's jacket as he was pulled off. Miss Minter stood, holding the cat by his tail, laughing. Scaramouch twisted and turned, yowling and spitting.

Sparrow ran to them.

‘Stay back!' Miss Minter warned. Then, laughing, she began to whirl Scaramouch round and round, leaning back as she gathered momentum, so the cat became nothing more than a blur of fur whizzing through the air.

She let him go.

She flung him away. The cat sailed past Tapper and right off the roof into nothingness.

‘Scaramouch!' Sparrow ran. ‘No! No!'

Tapper got up and wiped the blood from his cheek. He was laughing hysterically. ‘Flying cats!' he said. ‘Well done, Miss Minter. Flying horses, flying cats  … '

Sparrow knelt at the edge of the roof, hardly daring to look down.

Scaramouch had landed on a tiny window ledge. He was shaking his head, dizzy and confused. He wobbled uncertainly on his legs.

‘Are you all right? I'll get you, don't worry, I'll get you!' Sparrow called to him. ‘Don't worry, Scaramouch! I'll –'

‘Shut up!' snapped Tapper, yanking her upright. ‘That cat's dead meat!'

Sparrow pulled away from him and ran to Hettie, who was sobbing. She put her arm round her. ‘You'll be fine,' she said. ‘Don't worry. We'll all be fine – you, me and Scaramouch.'

‘I never have been much to look at,' Tapper said, mopping his bloody, scratched cheek. ‘Now  … '

‘Never mind that,' Miss Minter said. ‘We must take her and go. De Whitt  … '

But even as she spoke they both became aware of a strange noise overhead. They stared up into the misty sky where grey fog swirled above them – thick, and then thin.

WHOOSH, WHOOSH!

Now the grey fog was lit by orangey yellow, as if on fire. Showers of sparks cut through the murkiness and lit up the sky in a rainbow of amazing colours.

‘Dragon's teeth! It's
spitfyres!
' Tapper cried.

Miss Minter was frozen to the spot. She stared up at the two advancing spitfyres. She seemed unable to move as she watched them circling above.

They were preparing to land.

They were coming  … 

Tapper turned and ran.

He raced over the roof, leaped onto the parapet and, with a mighty roar, jumped across the gap onto the next roof. He landed flat on the slanting, icy tiles and straight away began to glide down towards the narrow gutter, his feet slipping and slithering as he tried to get a hold.

At last he found a foothold and began to haul himself up, dragging himself to the ridge of the rooftop. He stood there for a moment, wiping the streaming blood from his face, smoothing back his hair. He glanced back at the circling spitfyres with a smile. They wouldn't get him!

Then he was up and off again.

But it was slow going and hard work.

He crawled along the rooftop and made his way around a large chimney stack, clinging to it with both hands, then climbed over a garret window and onto a flat square of roof. The fog was patchy and now and then a ray of pale sunshine broke through, bouncing off the windowpanes and sparkling on the frosted tiles.

Suddenly he heard something. He stopped. Someone was creeping along behind him. His heart missed a beat. There it was again. He glanced back, peering into the mist.

‘Who's there?' he called.

Dragon's teeth
, he cursed. Someone was
always
following him.

Now his heart was pounding and his hands slick with sweat. The lock of hair dangled over his eyes and each time he swept it back it fell forward again, blinding him.

He struggled on. Across a skylight, over a low railing and then jumping down to a lower roof, flanked by walls. He must reach somewhere soon  … 

Another noise.

He stopped and looked round, teetering on the edge of a parapet. A beam of light cut through the fog and he saw  …  Glori!

Glori was coming after him.

He felt his whole body go rigid. He nearly lost his footing.

Glori!

Sweat broke out all over his body.
Glori!
He set off again, faster, twisting now and then to look back over his shoulder. The fog lifted, and then fell, swirling around his face, so he was surprised when a spiked turret or a garret window suddenly appeared. He could hear Glori's little footsteps and her breathing now too, getting closer and closer.

He turned back. He wanted to tell her to leave him be.
Leave me alone!

The fog swirled and settled, then parted, as if someone was drawing back curtains, and in the clearing he saw Glori advancing with her arms outstretched, reaching for him. Her face was white and her lips were blue. Her long, lovely hair was plastered wetly around her face and she was smiling at him. Smiling and smiling, and coming nearer and still smiling.

He turned and scrambled over a sea of tiles, clung to a length of railing, swung from that onto another low wall. Every scrap of roof seemed identical. Each corner brought another wall, another roof, and another blank, shuttered window.

He inched along a gully until he could clasp the black drainpipe at the end. He stopped: he'd come to a dead end. He looked up and there were more steep walls and, above, more pointed, impossibly high roofs. He'd have to jump, but it was too foggy to see where to jump. He'd have to wait, wait for a puff of wind to clear the fog. He was shivering and yet his hands were wet with sweat, they couldn't grip the drainpipe, and his feet were slipping on the tiles. He turned back briefly and saw Glori, still coming towards him, crawling on all fours along the gutter, balancing like an acrobat as she inched nearer and nearer.

Her saucer eyes glowed yellow in the mist.

‘Go away!' he shrieked. ‘I'm sorry! I'm sorry!'

The fog was swirling thicker and denser than ever but he had to move. He stared through the fog, thought he saw the edge of a flat roof below.

‘Keep back, Glori!'

He looked again and she was still coming; using her tail to balance as she tiptoed towards him. ‘Meow!'

He let go of the drainpipe and launched himself into the void, hands outstretched. He flew through the air, arms windmilling and legs running  … 

There was no flat roof below.

Scaramouch turned and padded back, silently, along the rooftops.