The Serpent of Eridor
The Serpent of Eridor
Alison Gardiner
Copyright © 2015 Alison Gardiner
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study,
or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents
Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in
any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the
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Matador®
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ISBN 978 1784627 362
Artwork used for cover courtesy of Gary Bonn
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Matador® is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd
Converted to eBook by EasyEPUB
To Adam, Natasha, Alex, Charlie and Sophie with many thanks for their love and support
Contents
Cover
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 1
Why don’t they make mouse-flavoured cat food? Discuss.
Alex Weston smiled. Great essay title: it would do for English and, with a few strategic changes, Food Tech. He reached down to stroke the cream hamster sleeping beside him, without receiving a flicker of response. ‘You’re awake so little, Skoodle,’ he told the fur ball. ‘You could be a sleep donor.’
Ignoring his heavy eyes and numb bum Alex started typing, amused at the rubbish he was turning out. He had begun writing about the difficulty of getting food tasters to work in a pet products factory when a soft ping announced the arrival of a message. He flicked a glance down to the time on his screen. Midnight.
Alex clicked on the email from his father. The horrifying contents flashed up in front of him. His parents were missing. Possibly even dead. Mind numb, he stared at the screen. Yet it had come from his father’s email address. Shoulders hunched, head drooping, he punched in a reply.
Dad. Someone has hacked your account. Just had a horrible email from your address. It’s got to be rubbish but please let me know you’re OK.
He picked up a photo of him and his parents with their surfboards: all blond-haired, soaked in seawater, happy, carefree. He gazed at his parents’ laughing faces then clutched the picture to his chest. Nauseated, cold sweat trickling down the back of his neck, he stared at the screen. ‘Come on, Dad, answer me. You’ve got to be there,’ he whispered.
Body trembling, he waited. It can’t be true, he kept telling himself, failing to gain control of his fear. Twenty minutes crawled past, hope draining as every second evaporated. Yet no further email arrived. He scanned the message once more, as if rereading would somehow change what it said.
Dear Alex,
If this ever gets to you, something serious will have happened to us. This email has been held on delay and will only go out if we fail to move the send date. Even explorers as careful as we are can come unstuck. If we’re still alive, we’ll be fighting to get back to you. We’re so, so sorry to cause you pain. Aunt Lisa will take care of you. Look to her for love and advice.
‘Sorry, Dad,’ Alex murmured, shaking his head. ‘Can’t. If only you knew the truth about her. I care more about Skoodle.’
I know it’s a terrible time to ask this, but it’s vital that you let our friend Zorrin know that we’ve disappeared – not returned to England – otherwise disaster may occur, wrecking everything we’ve fought for. Get a message to him via Ethan Bailey at Frank’s Bar on Tikopia. You can’t contact Ethan by phone or email as the place is so remote. You’ll have to go there. Please do this immediately. Book a flight to the Solomon Islands and then a ticket for Tikopia on a boat called the Coral Grove.
Use the credit card in my top desk drawer and take the envelope of Solomon Island dollars. Take a copy of the map of Tikopia from my netbook, but leave the netbook in England. Do not, under any circumstances, attempt to get on to Eridor. Following us could put your own life at risk.
Always remember that we love you.
Dad.
A deep-seated ache gripped his chest, like a boa constrictor squeezing his heart and lungs. Putting down the photo Alex curled round Skoodle, stroking the soft warm body.
The door crashed open. Aunt Lisa lurched in, vodka glass in hand, dyed blonde hair an unbrushed mess, dirty dressing gown flopping open to reveal a stained nightie. ‘Have you had an email from Mark too?’
Alex dropped his eyes back down to Skoodle and nodded.
‘Dreadful news.’ Lisa came over and sat on his bed, wafting the smell of cigarettes and alcohol towards him.
‘You care?’
She drained her glass. ‘Of course I do. It’s a complete disaster. My allowance will stop if they’re dead.’
Alex stared at her. ‘That’s harsh.’
‘Realistic. Also, it takes years to declare somebody dead with no corpse. No bodies, so no inheritance. No cash.’
‘You vicious witch. Are you really saying you’d prefer they were definitely… ’ Alex swallowed, ‘… gone forever, instead of there being any chance that they could be alive?’
Lisa gazed at him, face like a disappointed bloodhound. ‘See it my way. I’ve spent a year looking after you with them popping up at intervals like fairy godparents, clutching presents, oozing charm. Each time I’ve had to suddenly become Mrs Perfect.’ She jabbed a dirty nail-bitten finger repeatedly into his chest. ‘I’ve had to put up with filthy sports kit, constant cooking, having a fourteen-year-old eating machine invading my space. And now this. We’ll have to live on what you get. I can’t even sell their house for seven years. At least they can’t interfere any more. From here on I run this place my way.’
‘Same as now. It’s just what’s really important that’s changed.’
‘Shut it. You’ll hand over your allowance or take the consequences. Behave well, then things will only get a bit worse. Remain lazy and lippy… ’ She shrugged and staggered to her feet. ‘I’m going downstairs for a top-up.’
Alex dropped his gaze. ‘Vodka won’t give you two dead bodies.’
‘Might give me one. Yours, if you drink enough of it.’ She laughed. ‘Oh, lose the face. They’ve not been around much for a year. You should have got used
to being alone. Well… abandoned, really.’
‘It was necessary,’ Alex yelled. ‘They’d never have left me if it wasn’t vital for their work.’
‘Yeah, right. Believe that if you must.’
‘I do believe it, because it’s true. Get out.’
Curling back over Skoodle, Alex thought about the task his father had given him – the last thing he could do for his parents. Whatever it cost him – his home, his friends or even his life – he’d go to Tikopia. If it hadn’t been seriously important they wouldn’t have asked. Then on to Eridor, whatever his dad had said. Maybe they were alive. He had to find them.
Lisa paused at the door. ‘He said he wanted you to take some message somewhere foreign – but even you are not stupid enough to go, are you?’
Raising his head, Alex looked her straight in the eyes. ‘No, of course not.’
CHAPTER 2
Alex leaned against a palm tree in the early morning sun on Point Cruz docks, studying a boat. Grey, its paint blistering, with two tattered flags drooping over the bridge, the Coral Grove looked more suited to a scrapyard than to a Solomon Island cruise. No choice. No other boat. He’d have to risk it.
Dumping his rucksack, Alex pulled his mobile out of his jeans and started texting.
Gone to take message to Tikopia.
He hit Send. Seconds later, Lisa’s reply whizzed back.
Come home instantly.
Sorry. Can’t. Boat goes in two hours.
Leaning back against the wall of a boat shed, Alex sat down on an overturned oil drum.
Where are you?
Solomon Islands.
Lisa’s reply messages became increasingly threatening as Alex repeatedly refused to return to England. Finally she gave up.
Have it your own way.
Will do.
Sliding the phone back into his jeans Alex gazed at the low forested hills beyond the docks, past distant white sandy beaches framing the turquoise sea, down to the local bustle of the quay as fishermen prepared their boats. Several of the glossy black-haired local children stared at him openly.
Skoodle stuck his head out of Alex’s pocket, nose twitching, glancing around.
‘Looks strange to me too.’ Alex stroked the silky cream head. ‘I’m loving the temperature, though.’
A laugh came from nearby. Looking up, Alex saw a boy about his own age with a black ponytail and a round Asian face.
‘Are you really talking to that rat in your pocket?’
‘He’s a hamster. And yes.’
‘Are you crazy?’
‘Don’t think so. But I could be. I’m Alex. The hamster’s Skoodle.’
‘Hoku.’
Putting down a dive tank, Hoku pulled two cartons of mango juice from his rucksack, handing one to Alex. ‘Going somewhere?’
‘Tikopia. On her.’ Alex jerked his thumb towards the Coral Grove. ‘If she makes it that far.’
Hoku shrugged. ‘Got two lifeboats. No obvious holes in the hull. I’m risking it too.’
Alex shifted along the oil drum. Hoku sat down and wiped a hand down his cargos, leaving a streak of dirt and oil.
‘You local?’ asked Alex, digging a packet of cookies out of his rucksack.
‘Yup. I help my dad teach scuba-diving on the ships. There are fifty passengers on the Coral: a third of them dive, so we’re busy.’
Alex offered a biscuit to Hoku, then gave one to Skoodle. Teeth working like a tree grinder, Skoodle crunched his way through it in four seconds then stared at the packet.
‘Don’t think you could shove any more in, balloon face.’ Hoku winced. ‘Oh, no. Now I’m talking to that animal.’
‘At least you don’t expect him to answer,’ replied Alex, grinning. ‘So you’re not too crazy. Yet.’
‘Who are you travelling with? Your parents?’
The dull heaviness in Alex’s chest returned. Same as every time he thought of them. ‘If only. They’ve disappeared. Don’t know what happened or even if they’re… ’ Alex stopped, trying to swallow the enormous lump blocking his throat. ‘Anyway, I found out forty-eight hours ago. Just flown over from London to see if I can find out more.’
‘Bummer. Sorry.’
‘Stuff happens.’
Hoku gazed over the harbour, silent for a minute, then said, ‘So let me get this straight: immediately on landing, you bought a hamster. Not even slightly cool.’
‘Wrong on two counts. Hamsters are dead cool, and Skoodle travelled with me. Nobody knew. He slept most of the way.’
Skoodle started to scramble out of Alex’s pocket. Alex pulled him out and handed the fur ball to Hoku.
‘Hold him for a sec.’
‘Didn’t they pick him up at security? He might have been some sort of mini terrorist.’
Alex shook his head. ‘If I’d put him in my hand luggage they probably would’ve. But I put him in an inside pocket and kept him on me.’ Diving into the top of his rucksack, Alex brought out a deep plastic box. ‘But he’s pretty dangerous at the moment.’
‘Why?’
‘Poop time. Happens every time he eats.’
Transferring his grip, Hoku suspended the small cream body over the ground. Alex stuffed a couple of tissues into the box, then took Skoodle from Hoku and put him in the box too.
Hoku crushed his juice carton and tossed it into a bin. ‘Well, I guess I’d better look out for you. No parents; best friend is a rodent. You’re some loser.’
‘Hang on. Take a look at yourself. Living on a tropical island, surrounded by palm trees, diving off cruise ships – yet you’re making friends with someone who talks to hamsters. Even bigger loser.’
Hoku grinned. ‘Unless being better at being a loser makes me a winner. Want me to show you around the boat?’
‘Sounds great.’ Alex picked Skoodle up off the yellowed tissues, which were now scattered with tiny black pellets, and dropped the furry body into Hoku’s lap. ‘Safe now.’
‘Sure?’
‘Totally.’
Skoodle curled up, closed his eyes and lay still, his breathing deep and rhythmical.
Hoku poked him. ‘Surely he can’t be asleep already.’
‘He is. It’s a talent.’
Dropping the poop box into a bin, Alex put Skoodle back into his pocket and slung his rucksack over one shoulder. They strolled along the quay, past holidaymakers who – in their brightly-coloured clothes and constantly chattering – resembled a flock of parrots.
A tall man with long straggling black hair sat on a bench nearby, eyes narrowed, frowning, watching the passengers. Dressed in dark trousers and a long-sleeved top, he looked like a raven: watchful, hunched. His sweatshirt lay on the bench and, as Alex watched, a young woman in a faded floral dress dumped a rattan case of chickens on to it. Turning her back to him, she pulled out her phone and started chatting. The sleek brown-feathered chickens peered out through the holes, heads cocked to one side.
Hoku nudged Alex, pointing. ‘That man doesn’t seem to have noticed the lady dumping her dirty old box on his clothes.’
‘When he grabs his sweatshirt the chickens will go flying. Should be funny.’
As they got to the end of the gangplank, Hoku stopped beside an official in a white shirt and trousers who was holding a clipboard. Hoku leaned over and ran his finger down the passenger sheet. ‘New victim for you, Tiki. He’s there on the list. Cabin eight.’
Tiki looked down at his list. ‘Welcome aboard, Alex Weston.’
There was a clatter behind them, followed by a raucous squawking. They swung round to see the woman’s case upended on the ground, chickens flapping and scrabbling for balance. She started shouting at the dark-haired stranger as he strode away towards the ticket office.
Laughing, the boys walked up the swaying gangplank on to the grimy metal boat.
‘Interesting smell,’ said Alex.
‘Oil mixed with seawater. Not great. You get used to it, though.’
‘And the rocking?’
‘That too, when you’ve finished vomiting. This cabin is yours. Comfortable enough, but not exactly luxury.’
The small sparsely furnished room contained a few chairs and a narrow bed, which was covered in a bright orange throw. A picture of a volcanic island brightened up one of the grey walls. The tiny shower room was tucked in beside the porthole.
Hoku flung himself into the only comfortable chair while Alex dumped his stuff on the bed, then made a nest for Skoodle out of some tissues and a metal waste-paper bin.
Alex pulled a photo out of his pocket and handed it to Hoku. ‘My parents.’
‘Your dad looks like you: skinny, blond, tall. That your own surfboard you’re holding?’
‘Yeah. Why?’
‘It’s too long. Clumsy.’
‘Like you’re a surfing expert.’
‘Like I really am.’
‘OK. Maybe I’ll try a shorter one some day.’
From far below them came the noise of the engines starting, then the boat began to vibrate. There was a muffled roar from the crowd on the dock and then Alex could feel the boat beginning to move.