Guinea Pigs Online (3 page)

4

Coco Logs On

I
t took a lot of persuading from Henrietta, but eventually Ben decided that the cha-cha-cha was just what he needed to cheer him up.

Guinea pigs, said Henrietta firmly, as she handed him another sheet of quilted toilet paper to wipe his
eyes on, were extremely intelligent animals made of stern stuff. Fuzzy (like Henrietta’s mother, the Antarctic explorer) had probably just wanted a bit of a change and gone out for a walk. He’d be back when he’d had enough of it. “Isn’t that right, Coco?” Henrietta crooned, picking her up and stroking her lovingly.

“I do hope so,” Coco squeaked back, not wanting to worry her. She wondered what Henrietta and Ben would think of her if they found out she was to blame for Fuzzy’s disappearance.

“I’ll go into work later,” Ben said, sounding more cheerful, “and see if anyone’s found him and handed him in to the rescue center.”

“Good idea.” Henrietta popped Coco back into the hutch and reached for her coat. “And if he’s not there we’ll put up some fliers. Don’t worry, darling, he’ll be all right.”

As soon as the Blisses had gone, Terry hopped in through the cat door.

Coco couldn’t help smiling when she saw him. Terry was a skinny little patchwork of brown and dark orange
and he always wore a wool hat, even in summer.

“All right, Co?” He headed straight for the computer, which sat on a desk beside the sofa. “Mum says you need a bit of help.”

Coco’s smile faded. Honestly, she thought, the youth of today! Imagine calling the Queen Liz, or Lizzie, or Betty! But Terry was trying to help her find Fuzzy, so she decided
not to chastise his manners at that particular moment.

“One does require assistance,” she admitted, helping him get the jump and the squashy cushion into position. “Ready?”

“Ready,” Terry confirmed, pulling his hat down firmly.

Coco bounced him onto the desk, then waited. She could hear him scampering about. After a few seconds his hat appeared over the side. “There’s nothing to throw down,” he said. “The desk’s empty except for the mouse.”

“But I need to get up there!” Coco cried. “Isn’t there a book or something?”

There wasn’t.

“Sorry, Co—no can do.” Terry disappeared.

Coco heard the click of the keyboard.

“What did you say the restaurant was called?” Terry shouted.

“Oh, for goodness sake!” In a flash, Coco had climbed up, using the tangle of wires that hung down to the floor at the back as a ladder.

“How did you do that?” Terry looked stupefied. “Guinea pigs can’t climb.”

“I can,” Coco said, “as long as it’s not too slippery.”

Terry was still staring at her.

“One has to”—she shrugged—“if one is to be any good at the harp! Now let’s get on with it.”

“Right.” Terry turned back to the computer.

Coco watched closely. She had never paid much attention to the computer before, preferring to use the gold telephone next to Henrietta’s bed to contact her parents at Christmas,
but Fuzzy used it sometimes to keep in touch with his friends and swap guinea-pig recipes. In fact they’d had a few arguments over it. Fuzzy said she was terribly old-fashioned; Coco said his brains would turn to jelly if he stared at the computer screen too much. (She knew they wouldn’t really, but the truth was, she was rather jealous that Fuzzy knew how to use the computer and she didn’t. Being Coco, she was too proud to admit it.)

Finding what she thought was a guinea-pig-size seat she made herself as comfortable as she could. Sliding
off for the fifth time—the seat was the wrong shape for her bottom and very slippery—she tried lying on top of it instead. She shot toward Terry, scrabbling desperately at the desk with her claws to stop herself.

“Nice technique with the mouse, Co!” Terry looked impressed. “I usually just push it, but that looks much more fun.”

“Yes, well, I learned it at the Palace,” Coco lied, blushing, still spread-eagled over the device. She had forgotten that humans use the word
mouse
in the same way that they use the term “guinea pig,” to mean something completely different to what it really was.

“Where did Fuzzy find the ad?” Terry demanded, clattering up and down the keys glancing at the screen. “Click!” he yelled suddenly.

“In a newspaper,” Coco said, flopping up and down on the mouse—actually it
was
rather fun—“but he
tore off the address of the restaurant. I thought he might have been looking for the directions on the computer.”

“Mmm,” Terry scratched his hat. “Seems like he told some of his friends about it too.”

Coco hung her head. Fuzzy had tried to talk to her about it and she had laughed. No wonder he wanted to tell his other friends.

“I’m on his Micespace now,” Terry continued. He shook his head. “There are loads of unread messages in his inbox.” He clicked on something. “All warning him not to go.”

“Really?” Coco gasped. It
wasn’t
just her then. “Why? What do they say?”

“There’s been some weird stuff going on lately.” Terry was peering at the screen intently.

“Weird?” Coco echoed. “In what way?”

“Scroll down.” Terry ordered.

Coco whizzed the mouse backward.

“Slowly!”

She rolled forward gently.

“Arnie from Crouch End reports five guinea pigs missing,” Terry read grimly, “Fi-Fi from Chelsea says
eight. Basil from Basildon knows of three. The list goes on . . . Looks like someone’s been breaking into houses, taking the guinea pigs and leaving all the jewelry.”

“But why would anyone do that?” squealed Coco. An awful thought was beginning to form in her mind. “You don’t think . . . ?” she began breathlessly—all that rolling and flopping was making her quite exhausted.

“Incoming!” Terry yelled. “Scroll!”

Coco heaved herself forward. She couldn’t help thinking that the Queen
would never have to do something like this. She wished she had a private secretary or a butler, or both.

“Well, well, well,” Terry gasped. “Would you believe it?”

“What?” cried Coco. “What?” She was stuck.

“Ken from Kensington saw his mum and dad being driven away in a van. Luckily he got a good look at it. On the side it said . . .”

But Coco had already guessed. “The Meat Cleaver,” she whispered. She thought of the picture in the newspaper—of Scarlet Cleaver smiling
up from the bottom of the cage, the huge chopping knife in her hand. She felt faint. If Fuzzy were here he would have passed her the smelling salts, but Fuzzy was not here. Scarlet Cleaver was holding him prisoner, along with all the others—Coco was sure of it.

“Terry,” she said, rolling off the mouse and rubbing her tummy, “can you find out where the restaurant is?”

Terry went to work with his feet. “Click!” he cried.

Tap, tap, tappedy tap, tappedy, tappedy, tap, tap.

“Click!”

They tapped and clicked and clicked and tapped. Eventually Terry sat back. He scratched his hat.

“Upper Street,” he said. “111 Upper Street, Strawberry Park. ‘Scarlet’s groundbreaking new restaurant: the Meat Cleaver.’ The opening night’s tomorrow.” He checked his watch. “Sorry, Co, I’ve got to go. Mum’s making lunch.”

Coco swallowed. “Thank you, Terry,” she said in a small voice. “You’ve been most helpful.”

“No problem,” Terry said,
jumping off the desk onto the squashy cushion. “You know how to get the directions?”

“Yes,” Coco lied.

“All right. I’ll tell my mum what we found out. She’ll know what to do.” Terry disappeared through the cat door.

Coco gazed at the screen. Fuzzy was in danger: not just Fuzzy, but dozens of other guinea pigs, too, by the sound of it. They couldn’t
all
be helping Scarlet Cleaver with the cooking, at least not in the way that Fuzzy had imagined.

“Groundbreaking,” Terry had said. Coco thought she knew what
that
expression meant. It meant new recipes. It meant new ingredients. It meant trying things out that other people hadn’t. Coco dreaded the thought of what might be on the menu at the Meat Cleaver on its opening night.

111 Upper Street, Strawberry Park.
There was a map, but Coco had no idea how to read it. She didn’t even know where Middleton Crescent was, so how was she ever going to find her way to Upper Street? And even if she did find her way there, Coco thought desperately, how was she
going to get into the restaurant and save Fuzzy? Banoffee couldn’t help her; she had a family to look after. No one could.

Poor Coco felt tears welling up. She reached for a piece of quilted toilet paper, which Henrietta had left on the desk by mistake. Its softness reminded her of her bed at the Palace. And of Fuzzy’s cozy brown fur. And . . . oh dear . . . what on earth was she going to do?

Just then the computer gave a soft ping, as if it was trying to talk to her. Cautiously she approached
the screen.
New message
, it said. Squinting slightly—Coco was a little nearsighted, but too vain to wear glasses—she read the message.

Hi Fuzzy! Can I be your friend?

She wondered what to do.

I’m not Fuzzy
, she typed.
He’s run away.

Oh dear
, the message came back. Then . . . after a second or two . . .

Would you like me to help you find him?

Coco hesitated. She needed all the help she could get, but she vaguely remembered Fuzzy saying something
about being careful about making friends on the Internet.

Who are you?
she tapped out slowly on the keyboard.

My name’s Renard. I’m a guinea pig too!
came the answer.
Who are you?

She thought Renard would be all right. All the guinea pigs she knew were friendly.

Coco
, she wrote.

Where do you live?
Renard asked.

Coco told him.

A new message appeared on the screen.
Meet me in the thicket at the back
of the house at midnight by the old oak tree. We can look for Fuzzy together.

OK
, she tapped,
thanks!

Jumping down onto the squashy cushion, Coco felt a bit brighter. This computer business was easier than she had thought, and fun too. She prayed her new friend could help her.

5

After Dark

C
oco had never been into the thicket before, but she knew about it. She had been to the bottom of the garden and peered at it through the gap under the old wooden gate. All she could see was a swathe of long, wild grass and a few tree trunks, none of which was
very interesting for a comfort-loving guinea pig such as Coco. If it had been a feather-down duvet (like they had at the Palace) or, better still, a pile of fresh hay, she would have rushed out there long before now.

But she knew that tonight she would have to go. Midnight in the thicket—it seemed an odd time and place to meet her Internet contact, but then she also knew that different guinea pigs have different habits: guinea pigs in South America got up late because it was hot; guinea pigs in Africa got up early because it was
cool; and guinea pigs in SoHo were up all night clubbing. Maybe, she thought vaguely, this Internet guinea pig, Renard, was the clubbing type.

Midnight was awfully late though. Coco normally went to bed at eight so that she got plenty of beauty sleep. Tonight she had to keep herself awake. Watching Ben and Henrietta helped a bit. Ben had come home from the animal rescue center shaking his head. After dinner he and Henrietta had made
MISSING
fliers on the computer. One of the notices had drifted down in front of the hutch.

Coco saw a picture of Fuzzy staring out of it and the words
HAVE YOU SEEN THIS GUINEA PIG?
written underneath. If only, she thought, she could tell Ben and Henrietta where he really was.

Ben and Henrietta snatched up the notice and disappeared out of the front door with piles of others to put up on nearby lampposts.

Sadly Coco started doing her nails and her hair, combing each strand through a hundred times to make it shiny. By the time the Blisses got back, ate their dinner and did their dance practice, it was half past eleven. Just when Coco was beginning to worry that they would be up all night, they went to bed.

As soon as she heard their bedroom door close Coco was out of the hutch in a flash. Quietly she pushed open the cat door and wriggled out. She rushed down the garden, scooted under the gate and was already in the thicket
when she realized she had no idea where the old oak tree was. She should have asked Banoffee if she knew, but then Banoffee hadn’t had many opportunities to travel because she’d been busy having babies most of her life.

A little mouse scurried past.

“Excuse one,” said Coco politely, “but could you show one one old oak tree?”

The mouse didn’t answer.

Perhaps, thought Coco, he didn’t understand the Queen’s English. “Oi!” she hollered after him, “You. Mouse. Where’s the old oak tree?”

The mouse barely paused. “Don’t stop, don’t stop,” it squeaked breathlessly, its whiskers twitching. “No time!”

“There’s always time,” Coco said stiffly, “for good manners. It’s one of the Queen’s golden rules.”

The mouse stared at her, dumbstruck.

“I believe the oak has squiggly leaves,” she said more kindly. The mouse, like Fuzzy, didn’t seem very bright.

“Over there!” squeaked the mouse, waving with his paw. “If you must
go. You can’t miss it. It’s the first tree you come to! Hurry though. Hurry!” He dove into an old shoe that lay in the grass.

Coco looked round. There, sure enough, only a few feet away, was a large tree. Although the moon was bright, she couldn’t actually see if the tree had squiggly leaves because they were so high up and she was so low down
(and nearsighted), but it was definitely the nearest one in sight, so—if the mouse was right—it must be the oak.

She trotted up to the tree, found a clean hollow and sat down with her back against the trunk, wondering what all the fuss was about. She didn’t need to hurry. She still had plenty of time. Her new guinea-pig friend, Renard, hadn’t arrived yet. There was no sign of him. He was probably still out clubbing, she decided.

She waited a few minutes. Nothing. She looked round. Nothing.
She peered behind her and from side to side. Nothing. No, wait! Coco turned her head again to the right and squinted through her long eyelashes. There
was
something: something glinting in the long grass. No, not
something
glinting,
TWO
things glinting. They moved toward her slowly like torches. The grass swayed from side to side. For a minute she wondered if the Blisses had changed their minds about going to bed and had come into the thicket to look for Fuzzy.

But only for a minute.

Coco gulped.

Her new “friend” trotted toward her. It was very large and very orange, with four long thin legs and a long bushy tail. It didn’t look much like a guinea pig.

“What big eyes you have,” Coco said faintly, her knees knocking.

“All the better to read emails with,” the creature said in a very low voice.

“What a deep voice you have,” Coco whispered, trembling.

“All the better to talk to silly little guinea pigs like you with.” It smiled.

Coco decided not to mention its teeth, which were pointed and white and sharp-looking. She realized she had made a terrible mistake. The mouse had been trying to warn her.

The creature turned on her. His green eyes gleamed. The white tip of his tail twitched. He towered above her, licking his lips.

Coco screamed, but in a delicate way, like the Queen screams if one of her grandchildren picks its nose.

“Didn’t anyone tell you,” the fox smiled nastily, “you should never talk
to strangers on the Internet?” He reached out a paw to grab her.

Fuzzy had told her, but she had ignored him. “One was in a pickle,” she sobbed, feeling the fox’s sharp claws prick her fur. “I needed to find Fuzzy. He’s in danger. I had to get to him in time.”

“Time?” the fox sneered. “You don’t have a lot of that left . . .” He lowered his head toward her and opened his huge jaws.

“I know the Queen!” Coco squeaked. “I used to live at Buckingham Palace.”

The fox laughed.

Coco shrank back. His breath stank like a skunk’s bottom.

“I demand that you un-paw me immediately!” she squealed desperately.

The fox gripped tighter.

Coco said a short prayer. “If I’m to be anyone’s dinner,” she muttered, “at least let it be someone who knows how to use a knife and fork properly.”

Suddenly there was a shout from below. A blur of black fur sprinkled with silver shot out from under the tree trunk and somersaulted onto the fox’s back. The fox twisted and turned, trying to see what was happening.

“Jump, señorita!” a voice cried. “
Salta! Vamos!
”

Coco sank her teeth into the fox’s leg. She felt the fox’s grip loosen. She
wriggled and scratched, trying to free herself.

Eventually, with a snarl of anger, the fox let go.

The last thing Coco remembered was falling through the darkness on to a bed of squiggly leaves.