Rampage! (7 page)

VII

F
LOWER
P
OWER

The scream tore the morning in two, shattering the chatter of the jungle and sending the Capuchin monkeys shrieking into the highest branches.

Electrified by fear, Rose sprinted on to the deck and turned towards Hazel’s cabin as a second scream, even shriller than the first, exploded from it. Footfalls slammed over the wooden boards behind her. Snatches of panicked Portuguese burst out all over the boat.

Ahead of her, she glimpsed Eduardo, two stewards and the chef, still fumbling with the belt of his dressing gown, fly up the steps at the end of the deck. She raced after them and saw them hurl back the cabin door, and now, already halfway up the stars, she gasped, catching sight of Hazel, screeching puce-faced on the bed, pointing at something on the floor. Throwing herself up the last few steps, Rose skidded into through the open door and froze.

A big brown spider was standing in the centre of the floor. Easily the size of her hand, its legs were hunched and bony and, as she watched, it began to tap one front leg against the boards, almost as if it were amused.

I felt somethin’, a-crawlin’ on my arm,’ sobbed Hazel, her voice hoarse from screaming. ‘I sat up to check and, and ––’

She burst into fresh tears.

Rose took a step towards her.

‘No!’ commanded Eduardo, his face slick with sweat, shining, as he scanned the room, searching for something to trap the spider with.

‘It’s a Brazilian Wandering Spider,’ hissed one of the stewards, urging Rose to edge back against the wall. Rose noticed the panic in his eyes. ‘It’s one of the deadliest things in the Amazon.’

Turning back, Rose saw the creature lift its front four legs into the air and paddle them over its head, flashing its red fangs. She felt a sharp chill of unease. Something about the creature’s appearance, those chocolate-brown legs, that patch of cherry-red, seemed uncomfortably familiar.

Now hardly daring to breathe, she watched as Eduardo, keeping his feet planted firmly on the floor, slowly extended his right arm and seized the wicker box sitting on the dressing table. Bouncing instantly back onto all eight legs, the spider raced headlong towards Hazel’s bed, its feet tappity-scratching over the boards.

‘Do somethin’!’ cried Hazel, throwing her hands on her head and squeezing her eyes tight shut.

Deftly, with the grace of a dancer, Eduardo leaped forwards and threw down the wicker box, covering the spider completely. For a second the box lay still. Horribly
still. Then it jerked into life and began juddering across the floor. Cursing under his breath, Eduardo pulled the sleeve of his jacket over his hand, dipped down and flipped the box over, scooping up the spider and shutting the lid in one fluid movement.

Rose edged back, her skin prickling with icy dread, as he walked past.

Suddenly Hazel began gabbling madly. She fell to her knees and began tearing the sheets off her bed, bunching them up and hurling them into a heap on the floor. Then she jumped down and began ripping out every drawer of her dressing table, throwing them on to the floor, spilling jeans and scarves and glittering pink tops.

‘Check it!’ she sobbed, kicking at the pile of clothes. ‘Check it all!’

‘Hazel! It’s all right!’ Rose reached out to hug Hazel, but the young star was hysterical.

Batting Rose away, she began emptying the wardrobe. Hangers skittered over the floor. Sandals flew through the air. Then, with one wide sweep, she sent her bottles and jars tumbling from the top of her dressing table, and threw herself, face-down, sobbing, on to the bed.

And even though Rose reasoned and soothed, promising her friend that the spider had gone, that it was a fluke, that it must have snuck in on the bananas the chef brought back from the market yesterday and they could check every single centimetre of the boat three times over, all she was truly sure of was the hot thumping of blood in her ears.

Not because of the spider, although that had been terrifying enough. But because, now, as she turned away from Hazel and watched the stewards clearing up the mess, the strange flower, delivered the night before, was nowhere to be seen.

VIII

I
T'S
N
OT
O
VER
T
ILL
T
HE
F
AT
L
ADY
S
CREAMS

Ugh.

Well, that was all tremendously unpleasant, I must say. So let me calm my nerves with a sip of tea.

Ah, that's better.

Now, no doubt your teacher has banged on about how the Ancient Greeks gave us theatre, geometry, democracy, the Olympics and blah-de-blah-de-blah-de-
zzzzzz
.

Well, forget all that.

Because what the Ancient Greeks
really
gave us was lots of statues of men and women waving their bottoms in the air whilst frolicking with harps and flutes. And the thing about statues is that they're always moving about. Not by themselves, of course – that would be silly – but because of art collectors who over the centuries take a shine to them. Luckily for Persephone and her holidays, there's long been a particular sort of person who enjoys nothing more than snapping up Greek statues to decorate their lobbies, dining rooms or indeed orange groves, which meant that she often found herself
in new and exciting spots for her holidays. Sometimes the flute-tootling
nymphs
and shepherds ended up gracing the swimming pools of Hollywood stars. Sometimes they topped the staircases of grand liners or adorned the foyers of swanky hotels. But occasionally they ended up on a pedestal, tucked in a curtain-draped alcove, in an elegant corridor that echoed with music.

Like this one.

Which was, as I'm sure you've noticed, most certainly not part of an orange grove. This was because this particular statue had been on the move again, having several years ago been donated to its latest plinth by a Lady Lavinia Snodgrass, the wealthy Victorian widow of a man who'd made his fortune from a certain fruit plantation high above the rainforest.

Harrumphing, Aries wedged his muzzle up against Orpheus's marble ankles. At least they were familiar, he thought, recalling the same puffy pair he'd seen dangling in the nymphs' pool two days ago in the zoo.

Unlike everything else.

Untangling his back hoof from the curtain, Aries bustled out into the twilit corridor and felt his hooves sink into the thick red carpet.

‘I wonder where we are,' said Alex, as the portal door closed, its edges melting into the creamy alcove of marble.

Stepping out behind Aries, he cautiously scanned the luxurious corridor, glad to see that it appeared to be deserted. A row of doors, each topped by carved scrolls
and festooned by curtains, stretched away along the right-hand wall. Lights shaped like falling showers of ice twinkled from the ceiling, casting a buttery glow on the gold frames of portraits clustered on the walls.

‘And where Jason is,' muttered Aries, his ears now twirling round and round in time with the distant strains of music.

‘I hope he's all right,' said Alex, scanning the pictures for any clues they might hold as to what this building was. In them, men with curled moustaches and women in dresses that billowed like ships' sails loomed, each one's mouth making a perfect ‘O'.

Then, noticing that the door beyond them lay open, Alex edged his nose inside.

‘It's a theatre!' he whispered, glancing back at Aries over his shoulder. ‘Like the one Hazel sang in. Come on, we need to find Jason and tell him everything we know about them.'

Curious now, Aries craned his neck around the door-frame for a proper look. Seeing the small space, filled with gold chairs, and walled either side by panels of fancily twisted wood, he realised that this theatre was much snootier than the one Hazel had performed in. Rings of small enclosed spaces like the one he and Alex were standing in, that'd we'd recognize as theatre boxes, stretched around the circular wall, brimming with pink-faced men and ladies, staring over a lavish gold balcony into the crowded auditorium below.

Noticing a rather frosty old lady fanning herself in
the next box, he hunched down and began to creep, commando-style, along the carpet. Rams, as you might imagine, aren't made for stealth. It's just one of the reasons you never see them serving as soldiers in the British Army. Quite apart from the fact that they keep making horn holes in their berets, their derrières are easily spotted from miles around. But undeterred and determined not to draw attention to himself, he slumped down and stuck his muzzle through the balustrade.

At the front of the auditorium, musicians were playing. The men wore black coats with tails like swallows. The women were dressed in shimmering purple. Everyone plucked and strummed and blew, watching a scrawny man at the front whirl a small stick in the air. Aries swivelled his eyes, right and left, looking across row after row of heads and hats for a glimpse of Jason as slowly the sumptuous theatre curtain rose to reveal a man and a woman, singing, on what appeared to be a little humpbacked bridge.

Suddenly feeling an unceremonious poke on the flank, Aries twisted back to see Alex framed in the doorway, gesturing furiously for Aries to join him.

Huffing at the indignity, he quickly reversed out and followed the boy down the corridor.

‘We have to keep out of sight!' scolded Alex, checking back over his shoulder.

Behind him, Aries was still busy pulling a face, when the boy stopped in front of a door marked ‘No Entry to the Public' and quickly pushed it open to reveal a
grimy stairwell. ‘Come on! We should be able to keep out of sight this way.'

A minute later, they found themselves at the end of a long, well-lit corridor, lined with doors and hung with more pictures of singing people. Large wooden boxes were stacked against the walls. A mop leaned against a wall, stood in a red bucket.

‘“Dressing room”,' read Alex uncertainly, leading Aries past the first door. He walked on, reading out the signs on the other doors. ‘“Make-up”, “Wardrobe”, “Green room”.' Then he stopped. ‘This looks better,' he said, nodding towards its sign, which said ‘Store room'.

Gently turning the handle, he opened the door a fraction to see a room jumbled with piled-up tables and chairs, more boxes and two rails of clothes carelessly jammed against the wall.

‘Wait here,' he instructed, ushering Aries inside and glancing up and down the corridor. ‘And do not step through this door. I'll find Jason and then we'll both come back for you. All right?

All right?

Hardly.

Ten minutes later, Aries lay gloomily on the floor, with Alex's instructions still echoing in his mind, thumping into each other like bad-tempered rabbits in a burrow.
‘Don't move!' ‘Remember what happened last time we stepped on to Earth?' ‘We don't want to cause a scene again, do we?' ‘Well, of course I have to look for him. He's leading the quest!' ‘Don't pull that face!' ‘Are you listening to me?'

Sighing, he stretched out his back legs, accompanied by a small sour twang of the lyre. Less than half an hour into their new quest and golden boy had already abandoned them.

Not that Aries was surprised.

The only surprise was that Alex had immediately decided to shunt him in here. Greek heroes were never stuffed into cupboards, and yet here he was, bundled away like an unwanted stage prop whilst the boy searched the building to try and find Jason and remind him of what they were supposed to be doing in the first place.

A sudden snatch of conversation, out in the corridor, made Aries prick up his ears. The voices sounded horribly close. What if someone decided to come in? He hunched down – which, when you're the size of a chunky chest of drawers, doesn't make a lot of difference – and sank his head against his chest. What could he do? A cold fear now curdled his earlier frustration, knowing that if it were only the two of them, Alex would never have chosen to leave him on his own.

A few seconds later the voices faded away but, still feeling rattled, he turned his attention to a framed poster leaning against a nearby table. Gold letters at the top spelled out ‘Manaus Opera House'.

Wondering what a Manaus was, Aries glanced at the picture below. In it a woman with a powdered-white face, a small red mouth and lots of black hair piled high on her head looked sadly at a branch of blossom. ‘Madama Butterfly' announced the words at the bottom, which,
as you might imagine, what with Aries being a ghost Greek ram, meant nothing to him.
22
However, that blossom, so succulent and juicy, was quite a different matter, and now, licking his lips, he realised that he was feeling rather peckish.

Of course, worry and frustration always makes rams horribly hungry, and now with his spirits drooping somewhere around his hocks, he swung his head back to re-examine the items hanging from the infernal contraption Artemis had strapped to him, just in case there was anything that might pass as a snack.

Like the roll of blue velvet hanging from his right shoulder, perhaps?

He'd been so furious back in the cave that he'd hardly listened to what each gift was, but the fabric certainly looked tasty. And, surely a little nibble couldn't hurt? Stretching his neck, he managed to clamp one corner with his mouth and, tugging it towards him, began to chew, surprised at how delicious it tasted. Not only was the fabric soft and yielding but it seemed to be flavoured by something sweet and flowery. Quickly beginning to feel brighter, he took a second bite, then another, ignoring the twinkling passionflower petal that spun away to the floor. Much calmer now, he settled down properly, bustled
his rear into a rail of sparkly jackets, aware of the sound of a woman singing. As her lucid notes floated into the room, he took another mouthful and found his mind drifting to the orange blossom and harbours and fine days of her song. Soon, his ears began spinning, scooping up the beautiful trilling like twin spoons in his favourite oatmeal. Not for one moment – as his heart soared, his hooves tingled and his nostrils flared – did he suspect that it was the work of the love mixture Aphrodite had given to Jason. All he knew was that her voice was the most perfect, the most exquisite thing he'd ever heard in his life, or death.

Who was she?

Where was she?

And, more importantly, how could he find her?

Suddenly propelled by an irresistible urge to discover the owner of such an intoxicating voice, he scrabbled up on to his feet and without a second's thought for Alex's stern warnings, butted open the door and hoofed out along the passageway in the direction of her voice. He paused, tilting his head, to listen. It was definitely coming from somewhere behind that pale green door up ahead. The one marked ‘Stage'.

Rosita de Bonita, the world-famous opera star, was as curvy as a cello. Now, standing in front of a paper-walled house on stage, she cast a formidable figure as Madama Butterfly, bundled into her black-and-pink whorled kimono, her silk sleeves trailing to the floor as she flung
out her arms, warbling at the top of her lungs, yearning for her love to return.

Aries gaped.

She was the single most beautiful woman he'd ever seen.

Oh, how his heart leaped as he gazed at her from the wings: her dark kohl-rimmed eyes, her luscious thick, black hair piled high into a bun on top of her head, decorated with a small bunch of cherries and combs dangling with strings of yellow beads, the way she raised her hands, like two chubby pink starfish reaching out into the crowd, calling for her lost love.

And here he was.

Positively bursting with affection, he could stand it no longer and he edged his head coquettishly around the curtain. ‘Yoo-hoo!'

De Bonita's eyes shot sideways and grew larger. Now her perfect note began to slide upwards, rising unsteadily through one octave after another. As she hit a perfect top C, the audience burst into a flurry of applause and then stopped abruptly as her note carried on rising, rising, thinner and shriller, into an ear-detonating screech.

The violinists crossed their eyes. A wine glass on the second tier exploded and drenched three nuns below with vintage port. A cat on a nearby roof began to wail.

As de Bonita finally spluttered to a stop, Aries stomped out from the wings and clopped into full view of the audience. The orchestra slithered to a squealing halt. On
stage, Suzuki, Madama Butterfly's trusted maid,
23
screamed and tried to run away. Instead, her legs tangling in her tight kimono, she flew over backwards, pulling a cardboard tree down on top of her.

Someone sniggered from the front row of the audience.

Sidling over, Aries leaned against de Bonita's hip, gazing lovingly into her shocked face, and puckered up expectantly. Horrified, she leaped backwards and, producing a paper fan from her belt, began thwacking Aries on the forehead in time with her croaked words.

‘GET …'

Aries took another step forward, smiling widely as paper blossom rained down like a snowstorm.

‘… OFF …'