Beetle Queen Read online

  ‘He’s been through a lot,’ Bertolt said. ‘You both have.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Darkus sighed, ‘but he won’t talk to me about it.’

  ‘What about your Uncle Max?’

  ‘He’s acting like everything is brilliant, which is how I know it definitely isn’t. He’s worried too. Last night, when they thought I was sleeping, I heard them arguing.’ He shook his head. ‘This morning, I tried to talk to Dad, but he kept changing the subject, asking me about school and – get this – girls!’

  ‘Girls!’ Bertolt laughed.

  ‘He asked me if I thought Virginia was pretty!’ Darkus couldn’t hide his outrage. ‘I mean, c’mon!’

  ‘Of course she’s pretty.’

  Darkus felt his face going purple. ‘That’s not what I meant. Something serious is going on, Bertolt – something to do with Lucretia Cutter – and Dad won’t let me help. We don’t know what she’s going to do next.’

  ‘Maybe she won’t do anything,’ Bertolt said hopefully. ‘After all, she’s a fashion designer.’

  ‘She’s more than a fashion designer. You know that.’ Darkus clenched his teeth. ‘If she isn’t up to anything, why did she kidnap Dad in the first place?’

  ‘Calm down, Darkus. We got your dad back, didn’t we? And the beetles are safe. No one knows they’re hiding in the sewer. It’s all going to be OK.’

  ‘You don’t understand. I thought everything would go back to being normal when Dad came home, but it’s not. I thought he’d love the beetles, but he hates them.’

  Bertolt blinked at him. ‘It’ll be OK, you’ve got a good dad.’

  ‘He’s different.’ Darkus struggled with his words. ‘He changed when we showed him Beetle Mountain. He has this look in his eyes all the time, like there’s something he’s thinking about.’ Darkus bowed his head. ‘It’s like when Mum died. If I walk into a room, he doesn’t notice I’m there. Even if I’m standing right in front of him.’ His voice wobbled. ‘I thought I’d got him back, but I haven’t.’ He punched a sofa cushion. ‘And he’s made me promise not to go anywhere near Lucretia Cutter, or have anything to do with her. Do you know, he lies when people ask where he was all those weeks when he was missing? He says he was doing research. And he’s lying to me too. He knows what Lucretia Cutter’s doing, and he won’t tell me.’

  ‘You can’t know that,’ Bertolt said, gently.

  ‘I do know it.’ Darkus looked away. ‘I know it like I know my mum is dead.’ He punched the cushion again.

  There was a loud clatter on the other side of the Base Camp door, and Virginia stormed in.

  ‘It’s snowing!’ she said, her brown eyes shining. ‘Come outside and see.’

  ‘Is it?’ Bertolt turned to look at her. ‘That’s the first snow this winter.’

  ‘I know! Just in time for Christmas! Come on.’ Virginia spun around and ran back out of the door. Bertolt looked at Darkus, concerned.

  ‘I’m fine,’ Darkus said.

  Bertolt gestured to the door. ‘Are you coming?’

  ‘Are you kidding? Of course I’m coming.’ Darkus gave his friend a weak smile. ‘It’s snowing!’

  Bertolt smiled with relief and followed Virginia out of the door.

  Darkus lifted Baxter from his knee and stood up. He held the beetle against his cheek and gently leant his head towards him. ‘I won’t ever let anyone hurt you, Baxter,’ he whispered, lifting his hand so that he and the beetle were looking at one another, ‘and I won’t let Dad separate us either. Not ever.’

  Baxter rubbed the tip of his horn against Darkus’s nose.

  Moving his hand to rest against his collarbone, Darkus waited as the rhinoceros beetle clambered on to his shoulder, and they headed out of Base Camp together.

  They scrambled through the warren of tunnels constructed from the bric-a-brac furniture in the yard. A Grand Archway made of bicycles strapped together with cable ties offered a choice of tunnels, signposted as Weevil Way, Tok-Tokkie Tunnel and Dung Ball Avenue. Scurrying into Weevil Way, careful not to trigger Bertolt’s booby trap, Darkus ran in a crouch, bursting out from under the folding table to find Virginia dancing around in circles with her arms up, trying to grab the fat flakes of snow that fell from the mushroom-coloured sky.

  Bertolt stuck out his tongue and caught a snowflake, which promptly melted. Newton dodged a series of flakes and took cover in his hair.

  ‘The moment there’s enough snow to make a snowball, you’re dead meat.’ Virginia grinned at him.

  ‘I’m a pretty good shot,’ Darkus replied with a wry smile.

  ‘Nah,’ Virginia shook her head, ‘you’re going down. You can even have Bertolt on your side and I’ll have you both begging for mercy in minutes.’

  ‘Hey!’ Bertolt protested half-heartedly.

  She pushed up her coat sleeve and whirled her arm around to demonstrate her snowball-hurling deadliness. Darkus laughed. You couldn’t be angry when snow was falling from the sky – it made hard surfaces soft, covered up problems, and transformed the world into a giant playground.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Turning Rogue

  Novak sat on the edge of her pink marshmallow of a bed, nervously swinging her legs. She stared at the tower of cases and trunks beside the door, hope and anxiety churning her insides. It felt odd to be leaving Towering Heights. She’d always lived here, but today she was travelling to a private school in Copenhagen. She’d never been to a school before. She hoped the girls there would like her.

  She was wearing her smartest travelling outfit, a candy-floss-pink dress and matching bolero jacket, with thick white tights and ballet pumps. The scabs from the assassin bug bites were beginning to fade, but she still wanted her body covered. She knew she was different from other girls, and she didn’t want anyone to see the bites and ask difficult questions. Mothers weren’t supposed to lock their daughters in prison cells and send assassin bugs in to hurt them.

  Mater hadn’t guessed that Novak had helped Darkus rescue his dad, but she’d been severely punished for distracting Mawling when he should have been guarding the cells. Mater had thrown her in a cell for a whole week, and released the assassin bugs to feed on her. For the first few hours, she could brush off the bugs, but eventually Novak had got up, and she had danced. She filled her head with the music from the ballet Giselle and danced all the parts in the story about the peasant girl who fell in love with a faithless prince. Dancing made it harder for the bugs to climb on to her. She killed countless numbers of them as she leapt and spun, but finally she was unable to dance any longer, and fell to her knees. Every bite hurt. There were so many of them. She’d imagined Darkus kneeling beside her, holding her hand, telling her to be brave. Mater was his enemy, and now she was Novak’s enemy too.

  A knock startled her from her thoughts. It must be the car. She jumped to her feet.

  ‘Mademoiselle.’ Gerard stood in her bedroom doorway. ‘Your mother wishes to see you.’

  Novak blinked, surprised. ‘I need a minute.’

  Gerard nodded. ‘You are to go to her rooms immediately.’ He bowed his head. ‘I’ll wait outside.’

  Novak hadn’t seen Mater since she’d ordered Craven to throw her in the cell. Did she want to say goodbye? Novak gently lifted off the Alice band that was holding back her long silver-blonde hair. The band had a corsage of dusty-pink silk roses that sat prettily on the side of her head. Nestled in the corsage, almost invisible, was a jewel beetle, its body shimmering all the colours of the rainbow.

  ‘You can’t come with me, Hepburn. It’s not safe,’ Novak whispered. ‘Not to Mater’s rooms.’

  The pretty jewel beetle flicked its antennae huffily as it clambered up out of the silk flowers.

  ‘I know, I know, but I’ll be back soon, and then you and I are getting out of here – for ever.’ Novak stroked Hepburn’s thorax with her little finger. ‘I’m going to put you in my handbag.’

  She opened her pink leather shoulder bag. It was packed ready for the journey to Cope
nhagen. She carefully wedged the Alice band between two books so that Hepburn’s hiding place wouldn’t get crushed. ‘You’ll be safe in here.’ She blew the beetle a kiss and closed the bag. ‘I’m ready,’ she called, opening the bedroom door.

  Gerard walked ahead of her in measured strides. Halfway down the hallway he stopped and turned his head. ‘It is good mademoiselle is leaving here.’ He faltered, and swallowed. ‘I cannot protect you.’

  Novak took his white-gloved hand and gave it a squeeze. They walked along the corridor and down the stairs in silence, hand in hand. When they reached the third floor Gerard let go.

  ‘Sois courageuse,’ he whispered. ‘Be brave.’ He knocked on the door.

  ‘Come,’ Lucretia Cutter called out.

  Novak commanded her heart to beat slowly and regularly, arranging her face into a blank mask before pushing the door open.

  Mater was sitting at her dressing table, her back to the door. Her chambers had cathedral-height ceilings constructed of arches, and were an artist’s exercise in shades of black. Black walls, black doors, black glass, black lace . . . and everything was edged with gold. Novak had always found the rooms terrifying, but it was the faint lingering smell of pear drops – or was it rotting bananas? – that most unnerved her.

  She stepped into the room. ‘Good morning, Mater.’ She dropped into a curtsey, her eyes locked on the black floorboards. Lucretia Cutter slowly turned around in her ebony chair, and Novak braced herself to receive the critical gaze of her mother.

  She was wearing a floor-length black kimono with gold embroidery that matched her lips. The fringe of her black bobbed wig brushed the top of her trademark sunglasses.

  ‘You wanted to see me?’ Novak kept her eyes on the floor.

  ‘Oh yes. So I did.’

  There was a long silence, and Novak’s hands began to shake as her mother scrutinized her. ‘I’m going to school today,’ she said, to break the silence.

  Mater turned back to her dressing-table mirror. ‘No, you’re not.’

  ‘What?’ Novak flicked her gaze up, her heart jumping when she saw her mother staring at her in the mirror.

  ‘I’ve changed my mind.’

  ‘But I’ve packed, I . . .’

  ‘I’m shutting up the house. We will be flying to LA in a few days.’

  ‘LA?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve got to prepare for the Film Awards.’

  ‘Film Awards?’ Novak stuttered. ‘But you don’t like awards ceremonies . . .’

  ‘I’m going to like this one a lot.’ A smile twisted her mouth. ‘And you have been nominated for an award.’

  ‘I have?’ Novak’s mouth dropped open.

  ‘Yes, in the Best Actress category.’ She laughed. ‘Isn’t that hilarious?’

  ‘Best actress?’ Novak couldn’t believe what she was hearing. It was her dream to win a Film Award. Only the truly great actresses won a Film Award.

  Novak felt a draught on the back of her neck, and suddenly Ling Ling was there, standing at her shoulder.

  ‘Ah, Ling Ling, do you have news for me?’

  Ling Ling didn’t answer, but looked pointedly at Novak.

  ‘Go away.’ Lucretia Cutter shooed Novak out of the room with a hand weighed down with diamond-encrusted rings.

  ‘Yes, Mater.’ Novak curtsied again and backed away.

  Outside, she stood for a minute trying to work out what had just happened. Her mother hated awards ceremonies. She never attended them, even when she won things, so why would she want to go to the biggest award ceremony in the whole world when it was Novak who was nominated?

  Imagine if I won, Novak thought, and a thrill of excitement made her heart swell. A thousand sparkling fireflies seemed to be darting about inside her chest. She sighed and leant her head against the door, hoping to hear a bit more about the Film Awards.

  ‘What’s the news on those revolting cousins, the owners of the Emporium?’ she heard Mater ask Ling Ling.

  ‘Humphrey Gamble and Pickering Risk are still in prison, but without evidence to support the charge that they shot Darkus Cuttle, the police will have to release them eventually.’

  Novak went cold, goosebumps rising on her arms. Darkus, shot?

  ‘Forget those morons. They’re so unbelievably stupid, they’re hardly a threat.’ She laughed, and, after a pause, sighed. ‘If only that boy hadn’t leapt in front of his father, there wouldn’t be all this fuss. It’s made it impossible to stay in London. Just when I think I’ve paid off everyone, a new witness appears. I can’t risk the media attention. I wasn’t shooting to kill Bartholomew Cuttle, just put him out of action. I should have let you do it. Did you take care of that obnoxious journalist?’

  ‘Emma Lamb won’t be reporting any more news stories,’ Ling Ling replied. ‘No one will hire her now.’

  ‘Good.’

  Novak crept backwards, away from the door, and then ran down the hall. Gerard was waiting by the stairs.

  ‘The car is here, mademoiselle.’

  ‘I’m not going,’ Novak gasped. ‘She’s changed her mind.’

  She ran up the stairs two at a time. Her heart was breaking apart; her only friend in the whole world had been shot, by her own mother. Darkus was dead.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Migrating Jail Birds

  Humphrey Gamble was lying on his back in his bunk. He stared at the grey foam mattress above him, following the diamond shapes cut out by the wire bed-base, trying to ignore his cousin’s endless wittering. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a wood-louse trundle along the whitewashed wall towards his chubby elbow. He pinched it between his thumb and forefinger, popping it into his mouth. There wasn’t enough food in prison.

  Woodlice aren’t very tasty, he thought as he chewed the tiny ball with his front teeth. Beetles are better. More meat on ’em.

  Pickering was still jabbering on in the bunk above him.

  ‘The big question, Humpty, is what do we do first?

  ‘I’ve told you not to call me that,’ Humphrey growled.

  Pickering’s giggle was a quacking hiss of spittle. His sallow head peered down from above. ‘What do you think we should do when we get out of here?’ His scraggly eyebrows were raised and his yellow rat-like teeth jutted out of his partially open mouth. His elbow of a chin was clothed in salt-and-peppered stubble and his thin wiry hair hung down like unravelling string.

  ‘Whatever,’ Humphrey grunted, rolling away from Pickering’s bloodshot eyes to face the wall.

  ‘But I’m asking you,’ Pickering persevered. ‘C’mon, Humpty, we’re partners now. Do we find the boy first? Or do we visit Lucretia Cutter? She owes us half a million pounds, remember?’ He poked Humphrey’s back with a bony finger. ‘We gave the beetles to her, it’s not our fault the nasty beasties fought back.’

  ‘The moment they let me out of here I am going to a kebab shop.’ Humphrey rubbed his empty belly. ‘And then I’m going to find that boy and hammer him into the ground.’

  ‘Yes!’ Pickering shrieked. ‘We’ll get the boy first!’ He clapped excitedly, then stopped. ‘But wait, what will you buy your kebabs with?’ He shook his head. ‘No, we must visit Lucretia Cutter first and get what’s rightfully ours. Once we’ve got our money, you can have a bathtub of kebabs!’

  Humphrey harrumphed, but nodded. He could see the sense in this, and he definitely liked the idea of a bathtub filled with kebabs.

  ‘And then,’ Pickering flapped his hands, ‘WE’LL KILL THE BOY!’

  ‘Shhhhhhhhhh!’ Humphrey hissed. ‘They’ll never let us out of here if they think the first thing we’re going to do is kill a kid.’

  ‘Oh yes!’ Pickering whispered. ‘We must keep it a secret, Humpty. Shhhhhhhh!’ He giggled.

  Humphrey shook his head. Something had happened to Pickering when their home above the Emporium had collapsed into a heap of rubble. It was as if a tightly coiled spring inside him had been twisted too far, and now it bulged and bounced in unpredictable directions. Pickering used
to care about stuff . . . like his appearance. He was scrupulously clean, always with neatly trimmed nails and nose-hair. But since the beetles had fired an arsenal of poo at him, he’d stopped washing. Everything that used to matter, like his precious antiques and the shop, had melted away, leaving only three things that interested him: the money, that boy and Lucretia Cutter. His crush on the billionairess who’d offered to buy their beetles seemed to have only grown more intense with rejection. He’d tied knots in Muckminder, his comfort blanket, until it resembled a doll, and at night, when he thought Humphrey was sleeping, he called it Lucretia and kissed it.

  Humphrey had gone over and over the events that had led to his and Pickering’s arrest, but couldn’t work it out. Someone had planted bombs in his house and shot the kid, Darkus Cuttle. They’d been charged with both crimes, though neither of them owned a gun, nor had any reason for blowing up their own home.

  Humphrey was not happy about the possibility of a lifetime in prison. He didn’t mind the place itself: it was clean, which is more than could be said about his bedroom, and he’d never lived in luxury. The people inside were no different from the people outside. Humphrey believed everyone would rob you given half a chance – he knew he would. The main thing that upset him about prison was the food, or severe lack of it. He missed his meat pies with cranberry sauce. His pendulous gut was greatly reduced after a month of prison food, his skin hung off his bones like melting wax. He nursed a permanent belly-ache, and the more his stomach hurt the more murderous his thoughts became.

  The sound of footsteps approaching made him turn towards the barred wall of their cell. Pickering swung up into a sitting position, his hairy feet dangling down in front of Humphrey’s face. He really needed to clip his toenails.

  A guard in uniform, with a peaked hat and a large bundle of keys, stood on the other side of the bars.