Krindlekrax Page 7

  ‘Hello,’ Ruskin said softly.

  ‘Can I talk to you?’ asked Corky.

  A pause.

  ‘Please,’ Corky said.

  Ruskin went downstairs.

  The two of them sat on the kerb outside.

  Ka-clunk! went the drain in front of them.

  For a while they sat in silence.

  Then Ruskin noticed that Corky was holding something. He looked closer and saw it was the metal helmet with the torch on it.

  ‘What are you doing with that?’ asked Ruskin. ‘Are you going into the darkness again?’

  ‘No,’ replied Corky. ‘This helmet’s for you.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  ‘But … but I don’t deserve it,’ Ruskin said. ‘I ran away from you in the school playground and … Elvis has stolen the medal you gave me! All I’ve got left is a pin!’

  Corky smiled and shook his head.

  ‘That doesn’t matter, my dear boy,’ he said. ‘A pin is a useful thing to have.’

  ‘But … but there are other … things as … well …’ stammered Ruskin.

  ‘Listen,’ Corky said, ‘nothing matters, only that we remain friends. You understand me? That’s the only important thing.’

  ‘So … you still want me for a friend?’ Ruskin asked.

  ‘I’ll always want you for a friend,’ Corky said.

  They hugged each other.

  ‘Corky,’ said Ruskin, ‘I’m still curious about what you did to get the medal. Will you tell me the story?’

  ‘Oh, I’m so tired,’ Corky said. ‘Can’t it wait a while, my dear boy?’

  ‘Please,’ pleaded Ruskin.

  Corky sighed and said, ‘Well, I’ll tell you as much as I can before tiredness overtakes me.’ Corky took a deep breath. ‘When I was a child – about your age – I had no friends. Don’t ask me why. It’s just the way it was. I think other children thought me strange because all I wanted to talk about was the theatre and actors and actresses. So I played alone for most of the time. And my favourite place to play was … the dump.’

  ‘What’s the dump?’ asked Ruskin.

  ‘Well, it’s not there any more,’ said Corky. ‘But it used to be an area of waste ground. I used to play there every day. It was great fun. And then … and then … one day I found something …’ Corky yawned.

  ‘What was it?’ asked Ruskin, eyes wide.

  ‘At first, I couldn’t make it out,’ said Corky. ‘It was sticking out of the ground. It was pointed and shining like the head of a gigantic silver fish …’ Corky yawned again.

  ‘Come on!’ urged Ruskin.

  ‘No, my dear boy,’ Corky said, rubbing his eyes. ‘Please forgive me, but I’m far too tired. I’ll finish the story tomorrow.’

  ‘But …’ began Ruskin.

  ‘Tomorrow,’ said Corky.

  Ruskin smiled and nodded.

  ‘Now,’ said Corky. ‘Time for bed.’

  Corky stood up and walked down Lizard Street. His walking stick made harsh tap-tapping sounds on the cracked pavement.

  When he got to his front door, Corky turned and waved to Ruskin.

  Ka-clunk! went the drain.

  Ruskin waved back.

  Eeeek! went the pub sign.

  Corky went into his house.

  Corky closed the door …

  Ruskin put the tin helmet on and switched on the torch. The beam of light shone all the way down Lizard Street.

  Ruskin walked up to The Dragon and the Golden Penny. He shone the beam of light at the sign with the tiny green crocodile on it.

  There it is, thought Ruskin. The baby that became Krindlekrax.

  He stood at the sign for a long time, listening to it go Eeeek! in the night-time breeze.

  On his way home, he suddenly felt an overwhelming desire to knock on Corky’s door, wake him up and tell him he loved him. But he resisted. After all, it would be unfair to disturb Corky’s dreams to tell him something he could be told in the morning. It could wait until tomorrow. Just like Corky finishing his story.

  Both things could wait.

  Until tomorrow.

  Ruskin walked home.

  The noises of Lizard Street echoed around him.

  Ka-clunk!

  Eeeek!

  Da-boinggg!

  ‘TISHOO!’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  The next day, when Ruskin got up, he looked out of his bedroom window to say, ‘Good morning, Lizard Street,’ and saw an ambulance parked outside Corky’s house.

  Two men were putting a stretcher in the back of the ambulance. The stretcher had a white sheet over it.

  For a moment Ruskin didn’t move.

  He just watched the ambulance and the two men with the stretcher and the people of Lizard Street standing nearby.

  Mr Lace was there, wearing his scarf and sucking pencils.

  Mrs Walnut was there, smelling of potatoes.

  Dr Flowers was there, clutching a handkerchief and sneezing noisily.

  Mr Flick was there, in his green waistcoat with big brass buttons.

  Mr and Mrs Cave were there, smoking cigars.

  Elvis was there, bouncing his ball.

  Sparkey was there, saying ‘Yes, Sir’ to Elvis.

  Everyone was there.

  Except …

  Ruskin saw something on the pavement next to the ambulance.

  At first he thought it was a long twig.

  But it wasn’t a twig.

  It was a stick.

  A walking stick.

  A walking stick like the one that belonged to Corky.

  ‘Corky,’ said Ruskin softly. Then louder, ‘Corky!’

  He ran downstairs.

  His mum and dad were peering round the front door.

  ‘Something’s happened to Corky,’ Ruskin cried.

  ‘Don’t interfere,’ said Winston.

  ‘He needs me,’ Ruskin said, pushing past his dad.

  ‘It’s not my fault,’ said Winston.

  Ruskin ran down the street and up to the stretcher. He clutched at the white sheet.

  ‘Don’t, Ruskin,’ said Mrs Walnut. ‘There’s nothing you can do.’

  ‘It happened early this morning,’ said Dr Flowers.

  ‘We found him on the pavement,’ said Mr Cave.

  ‘He was on his way to school,’ said Mr Lace.

  ‘Must have been a heart attack,’ said Mrs Cave.

  ‘Yes,’ they all murmured. ‘A heart attack.’

  The doors of the ambulance closed and it drove away.

  The street was very quiet.

  Ruskin picked up Corky’s walking stick and stared at everyone.

  He was trembling and his eyes were full of tears.

  Ruskin knew it wasn’t a heart attack.

  He knew that – after all these years – Krindlekrax had finally got Corky.

  ‘It’s all your fault,’ Ruskin cried. ‘Every one of you.’ And he pointed at Dr Flowers, saying, ‘It’s your fault because eleven years ago you said the pub sign needed painting.’ Then he pointed at Mr Lace, saying, ‘And it’s your fault because you suggested Mr Cave copy a crocodile!’ Then he pointed at Mr Flick, saying, ‘And it’s your fault because you agreed with Mr Lace.’ Then he pointed at Mr Cave, saying, ‘And it’s your fault because my dad wanted to be your friend.’ And he pointed at Mrs Cave, saying, ‘And it’s your fault because you went into hospital to have Elvis!’ And he pointed at Mrs Walnut, saying, ‘And it’s your fault because you fell asleep and let the crocodile escape.’

  Ruskin ran back home. He pushed past his mum and dad and rushed up the stairs. At the top step, he turned round and pointed at his mum, saying, ‘And it’s your fault because you threw toast down the drain.’ Then he pointed at his dad, saying, ‘And it’s your fault because you stole the crocodile in the first place.’

  Ruskin ran into his room.

  He flung open his window.

  ‘I HATE YOU, LIZARD STREET!’ he screamed, his voice louder than anyone had
ever heard it before. ‘I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU!’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Ruskin lay in bed. Spread out across the blankets in front of him were Corky’s walking stick, the tin helmet with the torch, and the pin from the medal. Tears dripped constantly from Ruskin’s eyes and soaked the pillows and mattress.

  Wendy came up to see Ruskin.

  ‘Kiss,’ she said.

  ‘No,’ Ruskin said.

  ‘Tea?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Toast?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Baked beans on toast?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Poached egg on toast?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Scrambled egg on toast?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Fried egg on toast?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then what do you want?’ Wendy asked.

  ‘I want Corky back,’ Ruskin replied.

  Wendy sat beside Ruskin and stroked his forehead.

  ‘He’s not coming back, darling,’ she said. ‘You’ve got to understand that. He’s dead. We’ve all got to die some time. This is just the first time you’ve experienced it. Corky’s body got tired, that’s all.’

  ‘No,’ Ruskin said. ‘Krindlekrax got him.’

  ‘What’s … Krindlekrax?’

  ‘The giant crocodile from the sewers. The one that Dad stole from the zoo. The one that cracks our pavement and scorches our bricks and digs up our roads. The one that’s been searching for Corky for eleven years. And now it’s got him.’

  Wendy shook her head and said, ‘Oh, polly-wolly-doodle-all-the-day. Where do you get these stories from? You must get up. Everyone in Lizard Street is worried about you.’

  ‘I don’t want to see anyone,’ Ruskin said. ‘Everything that is me hurts: my toenails hurt, my hair hurts, my eyelashes hurt, my teeth hurt. I feel tired all the time and I can’t stop crying. There’s an ugly taste in my mouth that I can’t get rid of and when I fall asleep I dream that Corky is alive and the ambulance was a mistake.’

  ‘Have some tea,’ Wendy said. ‘Then you’ll feel better. I’ve got some chocolate biscuits.’

  But the thought of chocolate biscuits reminded Ruskin of Corky, so he started to cry again.

  ‘Corky can’t be gone,’ Ruskin said, weeping. ‘How can he be gone when he didn’t finish his story?’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Later, Winston came up to see him.

  ‘Want a cup of tea yet?’ asked Winston.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Toast?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Baked beans on toast?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Poached egg on toast?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Scrambled egg on toast?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Fried egg on toast?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then what do you want?’ Winston asked.

  ‘I want Corky back,’ Ruskin replied.

  Winston left the bedroom and went downstairs.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Ruskin tried to sleep, but he kept on being woken up by the sound of Elvis’s ball (Da-boinggg!) and the squeaking of the pub sign (Eeeek!) and the wobbling of the drain (Ka-clunk!).

  Lizard Street was continuing as normal.

  But how could it? Ruskin thought. How could people continue as if nothing had happened? How could Mr Lace continue teaching and sucking his pencils? How could Mrs Walnut open her shop? How could Dr Flowers keep on being a doctor and sneezing? How could Mr Flick open the cinema and show Henry V on his damaged screen? How could Mr and Mrs Cave open the pub, serve drink, talk, smoke cigars? How could Elvis continue bouncing the ball, followed by Sparkey who continued to say ‘Yes, Sir’? How could his mum, Wendy, continue making tea and toast? How could his dad still look after fluffy animals and say ‘It’s not my fault!’? How could St George’s School continue with its school play? How could everyone eat breakfast and dinner and watch television and go to bed and dream their dreams?

  Ruskin imagined Corky’s house, empty and collecting dust; a packet of chocolate biscuits uneaten, the seats unsat, the lights unlit, the carpets untrod. All those little things that Corky had collected throughout his life, all the things he knew, the things he’d seen, the plays, the films, the books he’d read, everything was gone, invisible now, like a wonderful library burned to the ground.

  Ruskin started to weep again.

  ‘I wish I could stop crying,’ Ruskin said to himself, ‘but I can’t. It’s as if my whole body is full of tears.’

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Dr Flowers came to see Ruskin.

  ‘TISHOO!’ was the first thing Dr Flowers said. Then continued, ‘Now what are you doing in bed? It’s been a week now. Seven days is too long to … TISHOO! … stay between the sheets.’

  Ruskin touched Corky’s walking stick.

  ‘I don’t ever want to get up,’ Ruskin said. ‘I keep thinking of Corky and it upsets me too much to move.’

  Tears trickled from Ruskin’s eyes.

  Dr Flowers gave him a handkerchief to dry his eyes. Then he stared at him from the end of the bed.

  ‘But you can’t stay in bed forever,’ Dr Flowers said. ‘Everyone in … TISHOO! … Lizard Street misses you and …’ His voice trailed away and he started to sniff.

  Ruskin thought he was trying to ward off another sneeze, but – instead – Dr Flowers said, ‘I can smell potatoes.’

  And, sure enough, the next second Mrs Walnut came into Ruskin’s bedroom, holding a packet of chocolate biscuits.

  ‘These are for you,’ she said, giving the biscuits to Ruskin.

  ‘I can’t look at biscuits without wanting to cry,’ Ruskin said. ‘They remind me of the way Corky used to lick the chocolate off them.’

  ‘But they’re a present,’ Mrs Walnut said. ‘You can’t refuse my present. Corky wouldn’t have wanted that.’ Then Mrs Walnut started to sniff. ‘I can smell cigar smoke,’ she said.

  And, sure enough, the next second Mr and Mrs Cave came into Ruskin’s bedroom, with a bottle of cherryade.

  ‘This is for you,’ said Mrs Cave, giving the bottle to Ruskin.

  But Ruskin was still crying and wished they would all go away and leave him alone.

  ‘My bedroom’s getting too crowded,’ he said. ‘It’s only meant for me. Not everyone in Lizard Street.’

  But still more people visited with presents.

  Mr Lace came with some coloured pencils.

  Mr Flick came with a photograph of the actor playing Henry V.

  They all stood at the end of Ruskin’s bed and stared down at him. The room was so hot and stuffy with their breath that the windows started to mist up.

  ‘Get out of bed,’ said Mr Lace.

  ‘We miss you in Lizard Street,’ said Mrs Walnut.

  ‘I miss your squeaky whisper of a voice,’ said Mr Lace.

  ‘I miss your knobbly knees,’ said Mr Flick.

  ‘We miss your fuzzy red hair,’ said Mr Cave. ‘Don’t we, Mrs Cave?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Mrs Cave. ‘We do, Mr Cave.’

  And then, all together, they asked, ‘Why don’t you get up?’

  ‘BECAUSE I MISS CORKY!’ cried Ruskin.

  They all looked at him in silence for a while.

  ‘Does anyone remember that story about Corky?’ Mr Lace said, looking round the room. ‘About what he did when he was a child. Something about a medal.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Mrs Walnut. ‘It was before our time. Years ago, I think. Corky was a boy. He was playing on a dump … a dump at the end of the street. Where the pub is now.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Mr Cave. ‘It was before the pub was built. There was nothing there but rubbish and rubble. Corky was playing on the site when suddenly he found something.’

  Ruskin had stopped crying now. He sat up in bed and looked at Mr Cave.

  ‘What did he find?’ asked Ruskin.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  ‘Someth
ing sticking out of the ground,’ Mr Cave replied. ‘Pointed it was, and silver and very, very smooth. Made of metal.’

  Ruskin leaned forward.

  ‘Like a giant silver fish head?’ asked Ruskin.

  Mrs Cave continued the story.

  ‘That’s right,’ she said, puffing her cigar and flicking ash on to the end of the bed. ‘It was something from the war and very dangerous.’

  ‘A bomb?’ Ruskin said.

  ‘A bomb it was,’ said Dr Flowers. ‘Only Corky didn’t know it was a … TISHOO! … bomb at the time, so he jumped on it and … TISHOO! … and it started ticking.’

  Ruskin gasped.

  ‘But that means,’ Ruskin said breathlessly, ‘if Corky was to move, the bomb would have exploded.’

  ‘Precisely,’ said Mr Flick, continuing the story. ‘Luckily someone heard the ticking and yelled to Corky to keep still.’

  ‘So Corky kept still?’ Ruskin said.

  ‘He kept very still,’ said Mr Lace, sucking a pencil.

  ‘He kept the stillest he’d ever been,’ said Mrs Walnut, her potato smell getting stronger.

  ‘He kept still for hours and hours,’ said Dr Flowers, pinching his nose to ward off another sneeze.

  ‘He kept still until some experts came and defused the bomb,’ said Mr Cave, puffing his cigar. ‘Didn’t he, Mrs Cave?’

  ‘He did, Mr Cave,’ said Mrs Cave, puffing her cigar.

  Ruskin was so engrossed with the story that he pushed the covers off him and stood up on his bed.

  ‘So that’s why he got a medal!’ cried Ruskin, bouncing up and down on his mattress.

  Later, after everyone had gone, Ruskin lay in bed and thought about the story.

  Corky had saved Lizard Street.

  He had saved Lizard Street all by himself.

  He was a hero!

  And now it was Ruskin’s turn.

  Now he had to protect Lizard Street too. Protect it from the thing that cracked the pavement, scorched the brickwork and dug holes in the road.

  Ruskin knew what he had to do.

  That night, while Lizard Street slept, he would tame Krindlekrax.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  Darkness.