Turtle Terror (4 page)

“Ah—time's up,” Petty said. Josh and Danny stared. There was now a slightly weary-looking black and white mouse in each of her armpits.

She scooped them up and held them both in her hands. “Well done, Hector! Well done, Percy!” she said. The mice looked at each other. Having their cells hijacked by Petty's serum was clearly wearing a bit thin by now. They'd probably been even more S.W.I.T.C.H. creatures than Josh and Danny. Danny could have sworn they both sighed.

“Wow!” Josh said. “That's the next REPTOSWITCH, then! Can we have a go? Can we?”

“Well, I must say, you
have
changed your tune these days,” Petty said smugly. She put the mice into the pocket of her shiny orange raincoat. “Wasn't that long ago you were accusing me of attacking you with S.W.I.T.C.H. spray and tricking you into being my helpers!”

“That's because you attacked us with S.W.I.T.C.H. spray and tricked us into being your helpers,” pointed out Danny.

Petty pursed her lips and pushed her spectacles up her nose. “Fair point,” she said. “But you can't use the turtle S.W.I.T.C.H. spray today. I'm not sure it's quite ready. We can try it in the lab when you get back home next week.”

“But—but—” Josh waved at the sea, an inky line in the distance now, at low tide. “It would be perfect here! We live miles from the sea! It won't be any fun lumbering about on land as a turtle, will it?'”

“Can't be helped,” snapped Petty, turning her back on them and gathering up some bits and pieces she'd deposited beside the rock pool. “It's not all about fun, you know! Run along now.”

Josh felt angry. He and Danny deserved a treat after all the things they'd done for Petty in the past few weeks. And he loved leatherback turtles! “I might have guessed that if we actually
wanted
some
fun
we couldn't have it!” he snapped.

“Temper, temper,” called back Petty. She didn't
turn round but just stomped away up the beach.

“Wait,” called Danny, waving the yellow note. “You need to know about the parachute—about the Mystery Marble Se—”

“Go and
play
!” Petty yelled back. “I have
work
to do!”

Then Josh noticed something. She'd left something behind. A small white spray bottle lay beside the rock pool—and on it, in marker pen, was the word TURTLE. Petty was heading toward
the cliffs. Josh picked up the bottle and was just about to call after her when he bit down on the words and put the bottle into his shorts pocket instead.

I'll give it back to her later
, he thought.

“Come on, let's not bother about Petty!” Danny said. “Let's get to the fort and find the marble . . . and then when we see her next, we'll show her we've got a top secret code of our own! That should wipe the smug look off her face!”

Josh grinned at him. “Yes! Let's go.” And they turned and ran across the wet ripply sand toward the tiny island and its ruined fort.

Clambering onto the little island was quite difficult. It was covered in great long streamers of red, brown, and green seaweed. Myriads of little blobby olive-colored things squelched and popped when they stepped on them.

“Sugar kelp! Bladderwrack!” Josh squeaked, rummaging through the assorted clumps as if he were rummaging through bins in a candy shop. “Thongweed! Sea lettuce!”

“Josh—have you ever thought about collecting football cards instead of bits of seaweed? You freaky, frothy, frondy . . . freak!” muttered Danny. The way seaweed tickled his feet creeped him out.

“If we ever got stranded on a desert island,” Josh said, “I would know which of these we could live on! And you would eat your football cards.”

Eventually they managed to scrabble up the rocks above the tide line. The little island was really not much bigger than their garden back at home, and the ruins of the fort filled up most of it. Wiry sea grass and lichen clung to the ground, and a few sea birds were nesting in the dark gray stones. The ruin was a sort of very wide chimney shape, bashed in and tumbled down on the land-facing side. It was as high as their house, but there was only half a roof to it. It had narrow windows and a rough curve of steps against the inside wall.

“OK,” Danny said, pulling the note out of his pocket. He read aloud, “
IN THE LOW, CLIMB HIGH. IN THE HIGH, LIE LOW. AIM HIGH—SHOOT LOW!
So, we got here thanks to the low tide . . . now, what about ‘aim high—shoot low'? What does that mean?”

Josh turned slowly in the middle of the ruin. The sound of the sea was odd and muffly in here. The floor was uneven and scattered with lumps of fallen rock and crunched up shell and bird droppings. It smelled a bit. If someone wanted to hide a marble on the floor, it would be easy. There
were loads of chinks and cracks and little holes that would easily swallow a small glass orb—it would take for ever to hunt for it.

“But . . . ‘aim high,'” murmured Josh. Outside, gulls cried above the thunder and sigh of the waves. Josh's eyes traveled up the weathered rock steps built into the side of the curving wall. Some of them had crumbled away altogether, but it would still be possible to get up to the next level. “Come on!” he said and began to climb the steps, using his hands as well as his feet to stay steady.

Danny climbed close behind him, and in a few seconds they were both standing on the small area that must once have been a complete roof and lookout level. A shoulder-high wall protected them from a steep drop to the rocks below. It was like the top of a castle—going up and down in square blocks all round the wall. The lower ledges were wide enough to get your head and shoulders through. Near one of these was a box-shaped block of stone, built right up to the ledge.

“We've aimed high—we're as high as we can be,” said Josh. “And that . . .” he pointed to the boxy block of rock, “is where we would shoot low—if there were still a cannon fixed there.”

“What—this is where defenders fired cannons from?” Danny asked, leaping onto the block immediately.

“Yep,” Josh said. “Out to sea.” He pushed Danny to one side of the stone box, leaned across it on his belly, and put his head and one arm right through the gap over the ledge. “The cannon couldn't move round much,” he said. “So if you shot low . . . it would be down here.”

He angled his arm as if it was the muzzle of a cannon and pretended to fire a heavy ball of iron out across the waves. And then he saw it. Directly under his elbow, someone had driven a bamboo stick—like the one his shrimping net was attached to—deep into the wall, about three feet down. Hanging on the stick was a small black fabric bag with a drawstring, knotted securely into place and swinging in the breeze.

“Danny! Look!” Now Danny pulled Josh out of the way and wriggled across the ledge to see his twin's discovery.

“Hold my legs!” he yelled over his shoulder. Josh grabbed his brother's legs as Danny leaned right down off the ledge from his waist and, straining his fingers, caught hold of the stick. A few sharp tugs and it came out of the cleft of crumbly lichen and bird poo that it had been driven into, and a few seconds later Danny and Josh were sitting down on the uneven rock roof and opening the bag.