Black Queen, Page 2

  We were on our way out of the house when I felt her hand on my shoulder. “Billy,” she said, “I’ve been thinking. You could be the answer to my prayers. You want to help me out? It’s no big deal, honest. The thing is: the day after tomorrow I have to go back home to America for a while, to New York, just for a couple of weeks. I have to see my son, the chess one. I have to go to visit him; but I can’t, not unless I find someone to cat-sit Rambo.”

  “Cat-sit?”

  “Feed him, keep an eye out for him. That sort of thing. Would you do it for me? I guess I could put him in the cat home, but I wouldn’t feel right about it. He’d just hate being all shut up like that. He’d curl up and die, I know he would.”

  “OK,” I said. If I was thinking at all when I said it, I suppose I must have been thinking that one good turn deserves another. All I know is that I had no idea what I was letting myself in for. I was about to find that out.

  “You’re a real nice kid, Billy,” she said, as we went down the steps into the garden. “But there’s a little problem. Like I told you, Rambo doesn’t take too kindly to strangers. He’s kind of wild, I guess. The only person in the entire world he gets on with is me. I mean, he’s sort of real fixated on me. Hates everyone else, loves me. So if you’re going to feed him for me, you’ve got to pretend to be me, else he’ll just run off some place, and then of course he won’t have anything to eat at all. So, Billy, do you think you could do that?”

  “How do you mean?” I asked.

  “Well,” she said, “I guess you’ve just got to sound like me a little. And of course you’ve got to look like me too.”

  “You mean I’ve got to dress up? Like you?” I simply could not believe what I was being asked to do.

  “Well, it worked just fine before. I had a friend who came over a while back, when I was real sick. I had the flu pretty bad. He just put on my hat and my glasses and my coat and then he called him just like I do. Rambo never knew the difference. Came running for it, sweet as pie.”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I’m not sure.”

  “You’ll do just fine,” she went on. “Just once a day for a few days, a couple of weeks. What d’you say?”

  I was in so far now that I didn’t know how to get out. “All right,” I said, weakly.

  She ruffled my hair. “I knew you were a great kid. I saw it in your eyes, first time I met you – that’s the kind of kid I can trust, I thought. I’ve only got to look in a person’s eyes and I know just what they’re thinking, just what they’re going to do next.” Now she was being scary again. “But the thing is, Billy,” she went on, lowering her voice confidentially, “I don’t want anyone in the neighbourhood to know I’ve gone, that you’re feeding my cat for me. If word gets about a place is empty, you can get burglarized, vandalized. So you’ll be the only neighbour who’ll know I’m not here. No-one else, right? You hear what I’m saying? Best if you say nothing to nobody, right? Our little secret.”

  I nodded.

  “Promise me then?”

  “I promise,” I said, and at once wished I hadn’t. Desperately, I sought for a way out, a way not to have to do it, any of it. “What about the cat food? What about the clothes?”

  We were outside in the garden by now. She crouched down and lifted up an empty flower pot by the sundial. “I’ll leave the key right here, Billy. How’ll that be? Then you can let yourself in. I’ll leave out his bowl and all the cat food you’ll need on the kitchen table, and a can opener with it. There’ll be some milk left in the ice-box. When it’s finished you can give him water instead. He’ll be fine. I’ve got an old hat and coat that’ll do the trick. I’ll leave them in the kitchen for you, OK? I feed him right here. You just come down these steps tap-tapping away at his bowl with a spoon, and calling him like this: ‘Rammy Rambo! Rammy Rambo!’ He’ll come, no problem. But don’t ever let him inside the house, OK? First off, he loves it in there, you’d never get him out again. Second, he tears my curtains to pieces with his claws; and third, he makes messes – if you get my meaning.”

  I did. But the cat seemed the least of my worries as I ran down the garden to climb back over. I just wanted to get away before she asked me to do anything more. Already I had promised to keep a secret I didn’t want to keep, dress up like some mad old witch, and feed a cat that I didn’t like the look of, not one bit.

  “Hey, Billy,” she called after me, “aren’t you forgetting something?”

  For a moment I had no idea what she was talking about. Then I saw Matey hopping towards me through the long grass. I bent to pick him up.

  She was chuckling. “The day after tomorrow, Billy. Don’t you go forgetting now.”

  Forget? I only wished I could.

  Chapter 5

  Sometimes It’s Hard to Be a Woman

  I LAY IN bed that night quite unable to sleep. The more I thought about it the worse it became – everything I had let myself in for. And what about the Black Queen herself? Who on earth was she? What was she? I just couldn’t get it out of my head that she really might be some kind of witch. She certainly had powers. Hadn’t she healed my bee sting? Hadn’t she bewitched me into promising to do all sorts of things I didn’t want to? At best she was strange; at worst . . . it made me shiver to think of it.

  All the next day I kept thinking that I should tell my mother all about her, about what the Black Queen had asked me to do. But I said nothing. To be honest, it wasn’t because I had promised to keep quiet about it; it was because I had it in my mind – and I know it sounds silly – that the Black Queen might do something terrible to me if she ever found out. Maybe she’d turn me into a bee. Maybe all those bees were spellbound spirits she had punished, condemning them to live out their days in the beehive at the bottom of her garden. My mind was in a constant whirl of terror. I longed to tell all, and that evening I very nearly did too.

  After supper I was playing chess with my father. Rula was watching and fidgeting as usual. I just couldn’t concentrate, but it wasn’t Rula’s fault. Every time I looked at the black queen on the chessboard my mind drifted back to Number 22. I kept wondering why there should be so many chessboards there. And why have boards without the pieces? Could they be part of some mysterious and dreadful witch’s rite?

  My father had me checkmate in ten minutes.

  “You’re miles away, Billy,” he said. “Anything the matter? You don’t look too good.”

  I should have spoken up. I had the chance, but I didn’t. “Not in the mood,” I said, and left it at that.

  I had another sleepless night, thinking how hard it was going to be to pretend to be a woman, dreading everything I had to do the next day. I drifted in and out of nightmarish dreams – dreams full of killer bees and haunted houses and cackling witches, and a prowling black jaguar with orange eyes which chased me through the jungle.

  By the next morning I really did not want to go and feed Rambo at all. I kept trying to convince myself that promises didn’t matter. Rambo could manage by himself – he’d catch a few mice, he’d murder a few robins. He didn’t need me to feed him, he’d be fine. But when I went out into the garden and heard him yowling pitifully on the other side of the fence, I knew I couldn’t just leave him to starve. I had to do it, I had no choice.

  My father was out at work, and the others had gone shopping. It was now or never. I scrambled over the fence and dropped down into the long grass the other side. Rambo hissed horribly at me from the top of the sundial. He even swiped his claws at me as I crouched down to see if the key was under the flower pot, where the Black Queen had said it would be. It was.

  Quick as a flash I was up the steps and inside the house. My heart was pounding in my ears. I wanted to get it all over as quickly as possible. The black coat and the floppy black hat were ready and waiting. She’d left some glasses too. I put them on and got dressed up. I opened a tin of cat food and scooped it out into the bowl, all the while trying to remember how exactly she had called for Rambo. I practised out loud in
the kitchen, imitating her accent, her tone of voice. “Rammy Rambo!” I called out. “Rammy Rambo!” It didn’t sound at all convincing to me.

  I was just making my way out of the kitchen into the hallway, the bowl and spoon at the ready, when I remembered the milk. I went back to the fridge to get it, took out a bottle and nudged the door shut. I was all set. As I came out into the hallway again I was still practising my “Rammy Rambo” call out loud. I was getting better at it all the time. I had the bowl in one hand, the milk bottle in the other. That was the moment I heard someone coughing.

  It sounded at first as if there was someone in the house. A chill of fear crept up my spine. Then I saw the shadow outside the front door, through the frosted glass. I froze where I stood and held my breath. How the milk bottle slipped out of my hand I do not know, but the crash of it echoed through the empty house, echoes that seemed to go on for ever.

  “Are you all right in there, Mrs Blume?” The milkman! I knew his voice. “I thought you said you were away for a couple of weeks.”

  He could see me through the glass. I couldn’t just stand there. I had to say something. “Tomorrow. I’m off tomorrow,” I called out, in her voice, in her accent. “A little accident, that’s all.” I could see his face was pressed up against the glass. “I’m fine, just fine.”

  There was a long pause.

  “You sure you’re all right?”

  “I’m sure. Thanks anyway.”

  There was a long silence; then the shadow bent down. “OK then. I’ll just pick up the empties. Have a good trip.”

  I heard the clinking of bottles and then his footsteps going away down the steps. I couldn’t believe it. I had got away with it! I had fooled him! It was all I could do to stop myself giggling with triumph as I swept up the glass and mopped up the milk. I could hear Rambo yowling out in the garden. If I can fool the milkman, I thought, then I can fool Rambo. He was only a cat, after all.

  I did just as the Black Queen had told me. Tapping the bowl, I went down the steps into the garden and called out: “Rammy Rambo! Rammy Rambo!” Sure enough, Rambo came at once, springing down off the sundial and bounding up the steps to meet me. He purred as he ate, his tail trembling with pleasure. It worked! So far as Rambo was concerned I was Mrs Blume, I was the Black Queen. I even felt confident enough to stroke him, and he didn’t seem to mind at all. I went back into the house and fetched another bottle of milk. I poured it out for him and crouched down to watch him lap at it, dipping his pink tongue in and out so delicately.

  Then, a sudden movement out of the corner of my eye! Rula! Rula was peering at me over the garden fence. All I could see of her were two little hands and a round red face. Her eyes were wide with fear.

  I knew then that this was the moment of truth. “Hi there,” I called out as breezily as I could. I sounded just like the Black Queen. It was amazing. “Just feeding my pussy cat. You got a pussy cat?”

  Rula couldn’t seem to find her voice for a moment or two – which was unusual for her. “I’ve got a rabbit,” she said at last.

  “A real live bunny rabbit?” I exclaimed. “Gee, that’s great!”

  “He’s called Matey,” Rula went on, happier now, “and he gets lost sometimes.”

  “And you’ve got a brother too, right?” I was really enjoying myself now.

  “He’s a boy,” Rula said.

  “Your brother?” I replied.

  “No,” she laughed, “Matey. All brothers are boys, worst luck.”

  I chuckled just like the Black Queen, and then retreated to the kitchen, where I laughed myself silly. After that, the rest was simple. I got out of my Black Queen costume and put everything away. I waited by the back door until I was quite sure Rula wasn’t looking, until I knew the coast was clear. Then I let myself out, locked the house, slipped the key under the flower pot and ran down to the bottom of the garden. I scrambled up over the fence and let myself down behind the garden shed where no-one could see me. The last thing I saw was Rambo arching his back at me on the sundial and hissing hideously. “Same to you,” I said, and went back home.

  Chapter 6

  Genius, Pure Genius

  AT SUPPER RULA was full of it. “I wasn’t frightened,” she insisted, “not a bit. And she’s not a witch at all. She’s American and she’s really nice.”

  “Well, she looks like a witch to me,” I told her (I didn’t want her spying on me again). “And if you know what’s good for you,” I went on, “you won’t go snooping. She could turn you into a frog, or a slug maybe, or a worm. You’d make a good worm.”

  The television news was on and my father wanted to listen. “Can’t you two do your squabbling somewhere else?” he snapped.

  So Rula and I made ugly faces at each other in silence instead. Matey sat on the sofa between us, his nose twitching.

  “I bet he does it too,” my father said. He was leaning forward, watching the television closely.

  “What?” I asked. “Who?”

  “Beats Purple.”

  “What’s ‘Purple’?” I had no idea what he could be talking about.

  “Purple’s a computer, the best, the most sophisticated computer in the entire world, and the makers have challenged Greg McInley to a chess tournament. Just listen.”

  “Who’s Greg . . . thingy?” Rula asked.

  “World chess champion,” I said, tutting at her and settling down to watch. “Don’t you know anything?”

  “Enough!” My father rounded furiously on us both. “Will you please shut up for a moment and let me listen.”

  There was a brief glimpse on the television of a young man getting out of a long black limousine and darting into a hotel. Then the reporter was talking to the camera. “McInley, world chess champion for the past five years, is still only twenty-three. Born in New York, he was a child prodigy – Grand Master at twelve years old – and now he’s back here in New York to take up the ‘Man Against Machine’ challenge, against Purple, the most powerful computer yet devised. Man and machine will play one match a day, and it’ll be the best of thirteen matches. If he wins, Greg McInley stands to win five million pounds. Not a penny, if he loses.”

  “He’ll do it, you’ll see,” my father said. “I’m telling you, that man’s a genius, a pure genius.”

  A shiver went right through me as I watched. I knew! At that moment I knew. You could say I put two and two together. Number 22 next door. The Black Queen. Greg McInley was her son, he had to be. Hadn’t she said he was nuts about chess, a “chess nut”? That was why there were chessboards everywhere. They were his, all his. And hadn’t she said she was going to New York to be with her son, and for two weeks as well? It fitted. Everything fitted, fitted perfectly. That lady next door, Mrs Blume (a false name for sure), the Black Queen, was the mother of the world chess champion! She had to be.

  It was all I could do to hold it in. I wanted to blurt it all out, tell everyone. But I knew I couldn’t. I knew I mustn’t. If I did that, I’d have had to tell the whole story, confess to everything, all the lies and the dressing up, all my play-acting.

  The news came to an end, and my father turned off the television. “Well, Billy?” he said, turning to me. “That could be you in ten years’ time, if you practise. Five million quid for a fortnight’s work. Not bad. And he’ll do it, I’m telling you he’ll do it.”

  The next few days were not good, not good at all. I found it more and more difficult to find the right moment to sneak off and feed Rambo. It wasn’t that anyone was suspicious, it was just that there was someone else in the house. Gran had come to stay with us in our new home for the first time, so that meant there was another pair of eyes I had to dodge. But somehow I managed to sneak away unseen each day, slip in behind the garden shed and scramble over into the Black Queen’s garden. Once inside her garden I felt safe enough. But now every time I went into Number 22 I was troubled by a terrible temptation. I had this deep urge inside me to sneak about the house looking for evidence to confirm my theory about
her son. I longed to peek into one of the front rooms, or even creep up the stairs into the bedrooms. But I just didn’t dare. I was too frightened – frightened that someone might see me through a window; but more than that, I was frightened of the house. I didn’t like being in there. It was dark and empty and cold – just like the haunted house of my dreams. Every time I went inside I just wanted to feed Rambo and get out as quickly as possible.

  Feeding Rambo was never a problem. As soon as I was dressed up in the coat and floppy hat with the glasses on, he seemed to accept me totally as Mrs Blume, as the Black Queen. He loved me to bits. He’d even try to follow me back up the steps into the house. I had to shoo him away. I kept an eye out all the while for Rula. But I think I must have succeeded in frightening her off, for her face never again reappeared over the fence.

  The news from New York was not good. Purple had won the first four matches. I kept thinking how disappointed the Black Queen must be, going all that way to New York just to watch her son lose.

  Every time Greg McInley lost my father became more depressed. He’d read about it in the newspapers and come away miserable. “It’s not like him, Billy,” he’d say, “not like him at all. He keeps making mistakes, elementary mistakes. Greg McInley never makes mistakes.” Then he’d blame Purple. “It’s that lousy computer fazing him out somehow. He’ll do better tomorrow, you’ll see.”

  But tomorrow was always just as bad. Soon it was six matches to nil. If Greg McInley lost the next day, then that would be the end of it.

  But the next day the real action moved from New York to back home. I was feeding Rambo late that afternoon when I saw Matey sitting in the long grass of Number 22, nibbling busily. He must have found another way through. Rambo hadn’t even seen him – he was oblivious to everything except his food. I thought I’d act quickly before Rambo saw him, before someone came looking. I ran down the steps, picked up Matey, clambered up onto the rusty roller by the garden fence and looked over. Rula was just coming out into the garden, crying her eyes out and calling for Matey.