Spark, p.1
Spark, page 1
Table of Contents
1: Zombie
2: Who Shot Colonel Mustard?
3: Lady Barbara Goremore
4: Kingfishers
5: Splaticus Caticus
6: Breakaway Detective Squad
7: Preliminary Investigations
8: Trail of Blood
9: Flatcap
10: Sky Patrol
11: A Threatening Sky
12: Bait and Shot
13: The Preying Dead
14: Storm Riders
15: Briddswamp
16: Submerged
17: Rosefinch Marina
18: Skinner’s Minions
19: Frightened Rabbits
20: Night Stalker
21: Shooting Butt
22: Skywatch Hide
23: Raspberry Alert
24: Toxic Fizzy Death
25: Playing Dead
26: Spark Bird
27: Lifer
28: The Spooktacular Plan
29: Yellow Tape
30: Halloween Ball
31: Monster Mash
32: Thriller
33: Trick or treat
34: Somebody’s Watching Me
35: Birds of a Feather
Author’s Notes and Acknowledgements
About the Author
Copyright
For Arthur, with love.
“Vultures are the most righteous of birds: they do not attack even the smallest living creature.”
— Plutarch
A soul-chilling howl paralysed Jack as he entered Aves Wood. The hairs on his body lifted as a scream reverberated through the trees. It was a horrible sound, writhing with tones of fear, pain and agony. It sent birds bolting skywards, seeking safety in the clouds.
Alarmed, Jack cautiously peered along the path, scouring the browning bracken beyond the east gate for any sign of a monstrous hell hound. Without taking his eyes from the path, he bent down and picked up a stick that was lying on the ground.
What had made that unearthly noise?
Jack felt like he was stepping into one of his own fantasies. In his most frequent daydream, a dangerous dishevelled army of the undead would hunt his friends across an apocalyptic landscape, desperate to dine on their flesh. Twitch, Ozuru, Ava, Tippi, Terry and Tara would get trapped with their backs to a wall. They’d be about to have their limbs torn off and gnawed on, like barbecued chicken wings, when Jack, seeing his friends in danger, would vault over the wall, dropping down in front of them in a superhero pose. Armed only with a golf club, he would fight the flesh-eating zombies, defeating them in a gruesome battle, and saving his friends.
At least I’m wearing my boots, combats and camo coat, he thought. I can always run and hide. He raised the stick high above his head, wishing it was a metal golf club.
“Here, Zombie, Zombie,” he called softly, creeping forward. “Come out, come out, wherever you are.” He approached a clump of ferns beneath an old oak tree. Something was in there; he could sense it. “Let’s make a deal, I won’t decapitate you, if you don’t bite me.”
The reply was a vicious noise, like fat crackling in a wet frying pan, followed by another banshee scream.
Warily, Jack parted the fan of decaying ferns with his stick, jumping backwards as his ears were assaulted by a harrowing shriek. Just for a second, he had glimpsed the shocking sight of a ginger cat, eyes wide, ears flat against its head, blood all over its haunches.
“Not a zombie then,” Jack said to himself, trying to calm his hammering heart. He sat down on the ground in front of the cat’s hiding place. The undergrowth vibrated with a low growl of warning. Zombie Cat wasn’t going to let anyone touch it.
What should he do? The cat needed help, he could see that. Should he go to the hide, where his friends were meeting to plan the half-term holiday? It would take at least twenty minutes to bring them back here. In that time Zombie Cat might move, or whatever attacked it might come back to finish it off.
Jack wished Twitch were here. He was Jack’s best friend and leader of the Twitchers, their birdwatching squad. He was brilliant at handling animals, even cats, which he didn’t like because they killed birds.
What would Twitch do? Instinctively, Jack knew the answer. Twitch would get the hurt cat to a vet as quickly as he could, even if it meant he got bitten, scratched and missed the meeting with his friends.
“OK, Zombie,” Jack said softly. “You’re going to have to trust me.” He put the stick down, as a gentle wind rustled the golden leaves above him. Rising to his knees, he parted the ferns with his hands. The cat howled and spat, baring its teeth, hunkering down as if it were going to pounce.
Ignoring the noise, Jack peered at the cat’s injury, grimacing at the sight of fur matted with congealed blood. The cat’s left hind leg was hanging at an odd angle. It couldn’t have run away from him even if it wanted to. He studied the poor moggy. It didn’t look like it had been in a fight. There were no claw marks or any other injuries. And it couldn’t have been hit by a car: they were too far from the road. A trail of flattened plants showed the way the cat had dragged itself into this hiding place. It must’ve been hurt in Aves Wood, but by what … or who?
If he left the cat here, Jack feared it would die.
There was a vet on the Briddvale Road, about a mile away, outside town. Could he get the cat there? Hoping to spot something or someone useful, Jack looked around. He saw glossy hawthorn berries dangling from lichen-covered branches, butterflies and buzzing beasties feeding on overripe crab apples, but he couldn’t see anything that would help him carry a petrified injured cat.
Twitch had taught him that the key to dealing with frightened animals was to be calm, firm, gentle and swift. Wriggling out of his camo anorak, Jack pulled off his grey hoodie and put his coat back on, taking his gloves from his pockets. He tucked the hoodie into the neck of his coat, spreading the jumper across his chest, and pulled his gloves on. His heart was hopping about nervously.
Closing his eyes, he inhaled the calming earthy scent of autumn. He could do this.
“OK, Zombie, I’m going to pick you up now.” Jack flattened the ferns and Zombie shrank into a defensive posture, snarling at him. “Please don’t attack me, Zombie. I’m trying to help.” His words had no effect on the distressed cat. “Oh yikes,” he muttered to himself. “This is going to hurt.”
Before he could overthink, Jack leaned forwards, placing his hands around the cat’s middle, careful not to touch its injured hindquarters. He lifted it, swiftly, hugging its head and front half under his right armpit, keeping the injured end of the animal up.
The cat clawed at him, wildly. Jack’s coat and hoodie protected his ribs, but he sucked in air as one of Zombie’s razor-sharp talons caught him across the forearm, raking his skin.
A sickening waft of poop told him that the cat had soiled itself, and a wave of nausea turned Jack’s stomach, but he didn’t have time to worry because Zombie was wriggling and spitting, trying to escape.
“It’s all right, Zombie,” Jack said, struggling to keep hold of the cat. He manoeuvred his right arm so that it pinned the cat against him, and, using his teeth, he freed the hoodie from the neck of his coat, letting it drop over the cat’s head, so that it enveloped the feline and hid the world. He kept its injured backside lifted, touching nothing.
Jack stared at the cat’s thigh, which was oozing blood. He could see a hole. Was it made by a bullet? Had someone shot Zombie? He was horrified. Who would do a thing like that?
Rising to his feet, Jack half walked, half jogged, with bent knees, moving as smoothly and swiftly as possible along the familiar paths of Aves Wood. He hurried across Crowther Bridge over the canal and came out on the Briddvale Road.
With a sickening jolt he suddenly realized the cat had stopped struggling. Terrified that Zombie might be dying in his arms, Jack raced up the road.
Jack burst through the door backwards. A woman in blue overalls saw that he was carrying an injured animal and sprang into action. Taking the cat from him, she disappeared through a door behind the counter.
Suddenly exhausted by his mad dash through the nature reserve, Jack slumped onto a blue plastic chair in the waiting area. Gingerly, he took off his coat and rolled up his sleeves. His arms were slashed with angry-looking scratches. Examining the raised red marks, Jack imagined his skin becoming purple and tinged with green, as he turned into a zombie.
“You did the right thing” – Jack jumped at the sound of the vet’s voice – “bringing the cat to me.”
The vet was smiling at him as she picked up the phone on the counter. Jack listened as she told someone – the owner he guessed – that his ginger tomcat, whose real name turned out to be Colonel Mustard, had been brought in. She reassured the owner that the cat had not been run over. Jack noticed she didn’t tell them that Colonel Mustard had been shot.
Hanging up the phone, the vet took a first-aid kit from beneath the counter and came to sit beside him, introducing herself as Jess. She set about cleaning the scratches on his arms with antiseptic wipes. It stung and Jack tried hard not to wince.
“Where did you find Colonel Mustard?” she asked.
“In Aves Wood.” Jack told her the story of how he’d found and rescued the cat.
“You were very brave to pick him up.” She unscrewed a tube of cream. “He’s really gone to town on your arms.” She started dabbing the cream onto Jack’s scratches.
“Will the cat be OK?” Jack swallowed, thinking of the moment the cat had stopped struggling in his arms. “He’s not going to die, i s he?”
“He’s asleep now. Once we’ve fixed him up, he’ll be OK.” She smiled reassuringly. “He’s lost a lot of blood and that back leg is a mess, but he’ll live to eat a few more fish suppers, don’t you worry.”
“What happened to him? It looked like he’d been shot!”
“Yes.” The vet’s expression became sombre. “That is what it looks like, although there’s no bullet in his leg. It’s a bit odd.” She sighed wearily. “He isn’t the first cat that’s been hurt in this way recently.”
“There have been other shootings?” Jack sat up straight.
“Colonel Mustard is the third cat targeted in Briddvale this week. Sadly, the first one didn’t survive.”
“Do the police know?”
“Yes, and I’ll tell them about Colonel Mustard too.” The vet put the lid back on the tube of antiseptic cream. “There, that should take care of those scratches. Now, I’d like to call one of your grown-ups and let them know you’re here. Do you have a number for them?”
Jack was waiting for his mum to collect him when a taxi pulled up outside the vet’s. The driver hopped out and helped an elderly gentleman, dressed in a blue shirt and tweed suit, rise from the back seat. He set a walking-frame before him.
“Mr Reginald Frisby?” the vet asked, opening the door.
“At your service.” Reginald Frisby lifted an ancient hand of knuckles and wrinkled skin to his liver-spotted forehead. “But, please, call me Reggie.” He walked a step at a time, leaning on the frame. “How’s the old Colonel bearing up? Is he being a good patient?”
“He’s sleeping. Another vet is looking at the X-rays.” Jess stepped back from the doorway to give Reggie the space to get through. “My name’s Jess.” She helped him to a chair. “I’m the vet treating Colonel Mustard, and this is Jack. He found your cat and brought him to me. He saved the Colonel’s life.”
“Thank you, young man.” Reggie took Jack’s hand, closing his own around it. “I’m very much indebted to you.” His blue eyes were watery. “My daughter gave the Colonel to me when he was nothing more than a ball of ginger fluff. He and I have been together since my wife died.” He gave Jack an emotional smile. “I don’t know what I’d do if I lost him.” He turned to Jess. “What trouble has he got himself into this time?”
“He has a serious injury to his back left leg, but the good news is that none of his major organs are damaged.”
“How did he hurt his leg?” Reggie asked. “Did he trap it in something?”
“No. It seems likely he was … shot.”
“Someone shot the Colonel!” Reggie was aghast. “What sort of callous hooligan does a thing like that to a poor old cat?”
“I don’t know.” Jess shook her head. “We’re hopeful we can save the leg, though he’ll probably limp for the rest of his life.”
“Well that makes two of us then,” Reggie said.
“Mr Frisby,” Jack said. “Colonel Mustard isn’t the only pet to be shot. There’s a shooter on the loose, targeting cats.”
“That’s dreadful. In my day, you only shot an animal if you were hungry enough to eat it, and no one ate anyone else’s pets.” He shook his head. “If I were a younger man, I’d hunt them down…”
“Would you?” The same thought had occurred to Jack.
“I would.” Reggie nodded. “Although, I’m not sure I could catch a snail with this thing.” He patted his walking frame.
“I could do it,” Jack suggested. “I’d make sure that whoever hurt Colonel Mustard is caught and sent to prison.”
At this very moment, the Twitchers were in Aves Wood planning what to do over the half-term holiday. Twitch wanted to build a skywatch hide on Passerine Pike, to chart the birds departing on their autumn migrations, but Jack was certain they’d all much rather be solving the mystery of the evil cat killer.
“That’s very good of you, Jack” – Reggie patted his knee – “but you’ve done enough for me and the old Colonel already.”
“The police are investigating,” Jess chimed in.
“But, I’m one of the Twitchers; the birdwatching detectives. We’re the ones who caught that bank robber and found the missing money.”
“I read about that in the Briddvale Record.” Reggie looked impressed.
“That was us.” Jack’s chest lifted with pride. “We were in all the newspapers. We use our birding skills to solve crimes.”
“Well, isn’t that something.”
“We’ll find out who’s guilty of shooting the cats quicker than the police can,” Jack bragged. “If I interview you about Colonel Mustard’s routine, we can work out where and when he was hurt.”
“Now?” Reggie looked intrigued.
A familiar red car pulled up and parked outside the vet’s. Jack watched his mum pull her handbag from the passenger seat onto her lap. “Um, it’d be better if I had the others with me.”
“Well, I don’t go out much. You’re welcome to pop round my house and ask me questions, anytime.” Reggie paused and then asked, “Do you think you could come before the big storm?”
“What storm?”
“Haven’t you heard? There’s a storm warning for Monday. It’s been on the radio.”
“But the weather’s been nice this week.”
“It can turn on a sixpence at this time of year. If it’s a really big storm, there’ll be flooding, mark my words.”
“We could come tomorrow?” Jack said. “In the afternoon?”
“Lovely.” Reggie nodded and wrote down his address on the back of a leaflet about looking after dogs.
“You live on the same road as me!” Jack exclaimed. “I live at number eight.”
“Jack!” His mother hurried through the door, her shoulder-length wavy hair held back from her immaculately made-up face with combs. Her eyes scanned him. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine, Mum. You didn’t need to come.”
“Your son is a hero,” Reggie told her. “He saved Colonel Mustard’s life.”
Jack’s mum looked blankly back at him, smiling politely.
“Colonel Mustard is a cat, Mum. I saved Mr Frisby’s cat.”
“Look at your arm, Jack! It’s bleeding!” she exclaimed in horror. “Did the beastly cat do that to you?”
“It doesn’t hurt,” Jack lied, pulling down his sleeves to cover the scratches.
Jess handed Jack’s mum a carrier bag. “It’s got Jack’s jumper in it. I’m afraid it’ll need a wash.”
Jack’s mum made the mistake of opening the bag and recoiled at the smell.
“The cat soiled itself,” Jess explained, apologetically.
“Come on.” Jack’s mum headed for the door, holding the bag at arm’s length. “Let’s get you home.”
“But, I need to go to Aves Wood. I’m meeting the others in the hide.” Jack followed his mum as she opened the boot of her car and dropped the plastic bag into it. “It’s important.”
“And I was supposed to be shopping for a costume to wear to the Halloween Ball next Friday.”
“But I have to go to the hide,” Jack pleaded. “They’ll be wondering where I am.”
“Send them a message. Tell them you got mauled by a vicious cat.” Her eyes flickered to his arm. “I’ll need to keep an eye on those scratches; they could become infected.”
“But … Mum!”
“No ifs, no buts,” she replied, marching past him, dropping into the driving seat and turning the key in the ignition to end the conversation. “Get in.”
Jack stared out of the car window as they drove past Aves Wood. There was no phone signal in the woods. He couldn’t send a message. And he didn’t want to. He wanted to see the excitement on his friends’ faces when he told them he’d found a crime for them to solve.
Jack rose early and got dressed. Twitch had messaged him last night, asking why he hadn’t come to the meeting. Jack had sent a cryptic reply, saying he would explain everything when they met. Nothing was going to stop him from going to the hide this morning. He’d already laid out everything he needed for a day of detecting. On his drum kit were: a fresh notebook and pen, his binoculars, a fully charged phone and his camouflage clothes.
Creeping down to the kitchen, Jack smiled at Winnie, the family dog, who was jerking and snuffling as she snoozed in her basket, dreaming of chasing rabbits. He poured himself a bowl of cereal, spooned it down and placed a note on the kitchen table, telling his parents he’d gone birdwatching in Aves Wood for the day.
