The next day, after Ben had eaten his breakfast and done his chores, he returned to his room to find Kartofel and Orff engaged in a game of Scrabble. Or rather they were engaged in an argument about a game of Scrabble, since the board had been turned over and the tiles were spread out all over the floor.
‘You can’t just upturn the board if things don’t go your way,’ said Orff.
‘Who says?’ said Kartofel. ‘Does it say that in the rules? Bet it doesn’t.’
‘Some things don’t need to be written down. They’re common decencies.’
‘I’m telling you, “idioty” is a word.’
‘Use it in a sentence then.’
‘Orff is really idioty.’
Ben grabbed the copy of The Elfstones of Shannara he’d taken out of the library, and headed for the door.
‘Oi, oi, oi! Where do you think you’re going?’ said Kartofel.
‘The garden. I’ve got to feed Druss.’
‘Tch. Someone should skin that thing and put it in a stew. It eats books now, does it?’
‘I might sit out and read while I’m there.’
‘Did someone say stew?’ said Djinn, billowing out of the Box.
‘We’re talking about the blasted bunny,’ said Kartofel.
‘Oh,’ said Djinn, crestfallen.
Druss was the large, lazy angora that lived in a hutch in the garden. He was also Ben’s only friend. He was the latest in a line of rabbits that had been recruited into the family after Social Services had first taken Ben off his mother and put him in the care of his grandparents: he could hardly remember the first, a brown lop called Dandelion, but Dandelion’s successor, Muffin, had lived to the ripe old age of four. Druss had joined them shortly before Muffin’s death and had become the first rabbit Ben had taken care of on his own.
‘I hope you’re not staying out there all day,’ said Kartofel. ‘It’s Saturday. We should do something.’
‘I am doing something,’ said Ben. ‘I’m going to feed Druss and then I’m going to read my book.’
‘That’s nutty. It’s flippin’ freezing.’
‘Oh, you don’t need to tell me,’ said Orff. ‘I can feel it to the very marrow of my bones. I do suffer so when it’s chilly. You’re not going to spend the whole day out there, are you?’
‘So what if I am?’ said Ben. ‘What are you going to do about it?’
‘Just remember to wash your hands after you handle that rodent, that’s all. A dose of myxomatosis is all I need.’
The weather outside was crisp and dry, and so once Ben had changed Druss’s food and bedding, he settled down in a deckchair to read. At his feet, Druss lazily hopped around the special wire enclosure that been erected to prevent an assault on the vegetable patch.
The garden was as far away from the Box as Ben could go without provoking a reaction: if he went too far, the music would get hectic and impatient, missing beats and hitting bum notes, until it filled his head with an unbearable maelstrom of noise. Happily, it was also too far away for the demons to be able to follow him, and so the garden was his sanctuary, the only place he felt truly safe. It had high brick walls and a solid white wooden gate, and it was populated by an array of plants and vegetables, all lovingly planted by his grandmother.
He spent most of the day there, and would probably have stayed longer were it not for his grandmother calling him inside as evening approached. He scooped Druss up (frustrating his attempt to strip the garden of dock leaves) and returned him to the hutch. At the back door, having had it drilled into him at an early age, he started to take his shoes off.
‘I wouldn’t bother if I were you,’ said his grandmother.
‘What?’ said Ben.
‘Pardon. We don’t say “what”, we say “pardon”.’
‘Pardon?’
‘Don’t take your shoes off. Your grandad is going to be late back, so I need you to go to the chip shop.’
‘Aw, Gran . . .’
‘You can go out the back gate. It won’t take you twenty minutes.’
Ben took the money she offered, retied his shoelaces, and stomped back outside. He drew back the bolt on the gate to the front yard and lifted the latch. The Box began to protest, a resentful shift in its default melody.
All right, all right, he thought. Keep your hinges on.
He walked round to the front door, took his shoes off, and ran up to his room. He walked coughing through a cloud of Djinn, who was clapping his hands in excitement.
‘Are we going, Ben? To the chippy? Are we? Are we?’
‘Yes. Get in the Box. And stop hiding behind the door.’
Djinn dissipated, his gaseous form rolling across the floor and into the Box. Kartofel and Orff were nowhere to be seen, but the evidence of them having been out was all around him: books and clothes were strewn across the floor, and the all-pervading musty smell was proof that Orff had been lying on the bed. Ben grabbed the Box, shoved it into his satchel, and bolted down the stairs. With a grunted, ‘See you, Gran,’ he was off out the door.
The chippy was busy, as was to be expected on a Saturday night, and Ben found himself at the back of a long queue. The moment they had arrived, Djinn had squelched out of the satchel and set up home on top of a small circular table that was crammed into the recess of the shop’s bay window. He was now breathing in the aromas and sighing happily; every time he took a ‘breath’, he turned a pale watery brown colour, not unlike vinegar on a chip.
A rat-faced young man in a red tracksuit came in, looked at the queue, and pushed in with a glare that dared Ben to protest. Ben waited for the man to turn away and then started mentally punching him in the back of the head. Kartofel scrambled out of the satchel and perched on Ben’s shoulder.
‘I wouldn’t let him get away with that, no way. Taking the mick, that is.’ Ben tried to ignore him, but he felt the heat on his left cheek and needed to fan himself. ‘I wish you weren’t such a wimp. I wish we were stuck with someone else. Someone in the Cadets who wouldn’t let some scumbag push in.’
‘Shut up,’ said Ben under his breath.
‘What was that? I didn’t hear you,’ said Kartofel.
‘Shut it, OK?’
‘You say something?’ said the man in the tracksuit.
‘Yeah, bog off, bumface,’ said Kartofel.
‘Um. No. Sorry,’ said Ben with a weak smile. The man turned round, and Ben flicked Kartofel off his shoulder. He landed on his claws, his little talons clattering on the tiled floor. There, he scuttled around cursing to himself.
The queue moved slowly towards the till until Ben was next in line, which was when he heard the grating, high-pitched giggle. He knew what it was even before he turned around. It was usually his cue to run away, or to throw himself into the nearest hedge.
It was the call of the Furies.
It was typical that of all the potential bullies in school, he’d ended up with three twelve-year-old girls. It relegated him to the second string of victimhood, as if he was so pathetic that the top-tier idiots didn’t even consider him worthy of their time. The ringleader of the group was Smelly Jenny: an aggressive, greasy-haired gorgon with an addiction to eyeliner and an acne problem. Her best friend, and second-in-command, was Sally, a clenched fist in the shape of a girl, and the unholy trinity was rounded off by Nikki, a nervy, slight redhead who was the source of the annoying giggle.
Jenny was pointing at him and saying something to the others. Ben turned back quickly, pretending that he hadn’t seen them. He felt the heat rise in his cheeks, and stared intently ahead. The Tracksuit paid and left, and the hairy man behind the counter took Ben’s order and set to work.
‘Three more of them, please, Mr Chipsman. We’re with Bendy here,’ said Jenny, draping a chunky arm around Ben, who almost buckled under the extra weight. Sally and Nikki moved behind him, pinning him to the counter. The combined smell of cheap perfume on the three of them threatened to drown out the stench of Jenny. It was a valiant attempt, but unsuccessful nonetheless. Out of the corner of his eye, Ben saw an anxious-looking Djinn turn a murky brown colour.
‘They’re not with me,’ said Ben quietly.
‘That’s not very nice, is it, Bendy?’ said Jenny, and cuffed him on the back of the head.
The man behind the counter had assembled Ben’s order on a kind of autopilot which allowed him to keep his eyes firmly on the teenagers. ‘Sol’ vingar?’
‘No, thank you,’ said Ben. ‘Can I have them wrapped, please?’
Behind him, Sally sniggered. The Chip Man shrugged and began wrapping the portions.
‘What, no sol’ vingar?’ said Jenny, grabbing the salt off the counter. She shook it all over the food, covering the Chip Man and the counter in the process.
‘Right, that is it,’ said the Chip Man. ‘Out. Get out. Ruddy kids.’ The girls burst out laughing and started mocking his accent. Ben got out the money his grandmother had given him and offered it to the Chip Man.
‘What, you no speak English? You ruddy slow or something? Get all of you out or I call the police.’
Ben looked longingly at the fish suppers lying on the counter. He began to protest, but the Chip Man waved his arms in the air and started saying how he would not serve anyone else ‘till these ruddy kids disappear’.
The Furies were in hysterics. Ben stared at the fish suppers, then at the laughing Furies. He screwed up his face.
‘Urgh,’ said Kartofel, peering up at Jenny. ‘Can you smell that? Satan’s chisel! If had a nose, I’d hold it. If I had arms.’
‘Oi,’ said Jenny, ‘are you eyeing me up, Bendy?’ Nikki began to laugh so hard she could hardly breathe. ‘He is, isn’t he? Do you fancy me or something?’
All three Furies made noises of mock disgust, followed by more howling. Ben felt the eyes of the other customers upon him. Embarrassment flushed in his face.
‘Idiots!’ he yelled. ‘You . . . idiots!’ He grabbed the vinegar bottle from the counter and squirted it at them, shaking out every last drop like the winning driver at a particularly low-budget Grand Prix.
‘Awesome,’ said Kartofel, dancing a mad samba in excitement. Djinn started clapping his hands together and hyperventilating from blue to yellow to green, sucking in the flood of smells as vinegar was splashed around with wild abandon.
Ben let go of the empty bottle. There was a moment of silence.
Jenny wiped her hands on her hideous neon-pink skirt and looked him square in the eye. Her skin looked waxy, like a walrus just out of water.
‘You,’ she said calmly, ‘are a dead man, Bendy.’
Kartofel squealed in delight. Ben turned back to the Chip Man, slammed the money down on the counter, and yoinked the chips from under his nose. And then he did the most athletic thing he had ever done in his life. He tucked the fish suppers under his arm, turned back to face the Furies, and charged towards the slight gap between Sally and Nikki. Djinn tried to scramble up, causing the table to wobble. Ben burst through, knocking Nikki to the ground, and shot out of the door. Djinn dived for the Box as Ben passed, but missed, splatting into the opposite wall, condensing into little droplets and sending the table crashing across the exit. Kartofel tried to scurry past, panicking, hoping to avoid the stretching, but Ben was already away, curses from the Furies and the Chip Man ringing in his ears. The Box started to play a joyful air, but as Ben pulled away it was abruptly replaced with a familiar scraping sound as Kartofel and Djinn were drawn up out of the shop and back inside the satchel.
He ran, though it hurt his lungs, and only stopped when he thought he was far enough away to have escaped. At the bottom of Fford Heulwen he sucked in long lungfuls of air, taking deep, desperate breaths. It would have normally been a painful sensation, but it wasn’t now. All he felt was elation. Slowly he caught his breath, and then walked triumphantly towards his house, his oversalted prize tucked under his arm.