Pyro Watson and the Hidden Treasure (17 page)

And then, out of nowhere, they remembered the little chant that they'd had to learn … how did it go?

The enemy of my friend … no … the friend of my friend … no … the friend of my enemy is …

They let it go and waved their good captain goodbye.

Later on, when he was safely back on board, they'd pluck up courage to ask him to remind them again.

Step One hadn't been hard.

In his head Pyro had made his list as he puffed down the last incline towards the main street and the post office.

Step One had been to find out the name of the man who'd made him go into the post office yesterday. The electricity man. The one who had left the post office ahead of him.

‘You mean Stanley Davo,' the man at the end counter had said. He was selling stamps and wasn't too happy to have Pyro turn up again and bob around from one foot to the other. ‘Have you got something wrong with you that makes you do that?' he said.

‘I do it when I want to get going,' Pyro explained. His father said it was a habit that he'd have to break or people were going to think he had a bladder problem. His mother said not to be ridiculous and that all highly strung people had trouble standing in one spot for too
long. ‘I want to ask Stan … er … Mr Davo about my dog.'

The post office man looked down and Pyro fought the urge to bounce to his other foot.

‘Stan's usual morning jaunt is to the newsagent's and then up to the beach to check out the waves and then back home to Old Red and …' he glanced up at the clock, ‘that's probably where he's headed now.'

Pyro held his breath. ‘He'll be at home then?'

‘He will.'

Pyro didn't move.

‘It's in Smith Street. Down the end near the mangroves. Yellow house with a blue fence.'

‘And a dog …' Pyro finished for him, as he prepared to take off slowly. The post office didn't look like a rushing-about place. ‘… called Old Red!'

The man at the counter laughed. ‘Old Red's his missus and you'd better not forget it.'

Pyro found Smith Street on the town map and set off. It wasn't far and he caught up with Mr Davo who was whistling as he walked. Pyro couldn't whistle and he thought that Mr Davo was good at it because it was an actual tune that was played on the radio.

Pyro had to bounce around to land in front of him and then walk backwards a few steps saying ‘excuse me' as he went.

Mr Davo recognised him. ‘What's got into you, then?' he said.

Pyro told him. He didn't say that he thought someone had stolen his dog. He didn't say that he thought that someone who was big and stupid and so
dumb they couldn't even get a joke right, was playing a trick on him.

He pretended, instead, that perhaps his friends had taken the dog to their houses to get it out of the storm and he was a bit worried because they'd need him to fetch it before the end of the school day.

Mr Davo listened. He scratched his head and then took a couple of steps towards his house. Pyro fell in beside him.

‘I saw a couple of kids hanging around,' he said. ‘You reckon they'd be your mates? One's a big 'un and the other one's …'

‘… got fat lips,' Pyro finished for him.

‘I didn't like to say.' Mr Davo swung open the gate to his house. ‘Right pair of drongos if you ask me. I would've thought a nice kid like you'd know better than to hang out with the likes of them.'

A little voice in Pyro's head was saying ‘Yes yes yes' and he longed to high-five the old man in front of him. His fist itched to punch the air but all he could do was stand and try to look apologetic that he was friends with a couple of drongos, whatever they were.

‘You know what I reckon?' Mr Davo said.

Pyro looked at him.

‘I reckon that they took your dog without asking. I reckon they sneaked up and pinched her to give you a bit of a fright.' Mr Davo touched the bags under his own eyes. ‘Your eyes are lookin' as baggy as mine. And your nose's all bunged up. Been cryin', haven't you?'

‘She's my friend's dog.'

‘Thought I recognised her. Dot Mitchell's dog, isn't she?'

‘And Min's.'

Mr Davo thought for a minute. ‘Well, I like your style,' he said. ‘Trying to trick me into telling you if they took her or not by making out they were your friends. Clever move!' He nodded. ‘I'll tell you this for nothing …' he pointed up the hill. ‘Them two scoundrels took off towards home. I know where they live and that's the way they were going and I'll tell you this as well, I reckon they were scared of the lightning and thunder. Big sooks!'

He stepped into his yard and closed the gate. ‘Bet you didn't rush off home bawling like a baby because of a bit of a storm, eh?'

Pyro didn't want to think about how bad he'd felt yesterday. He didn't even remember the storm.

‘No, I thought not. So, you get yourself up that hill and try their houses. I reckon that little dog of yours is probably locked in one of their rooms. They'd be too stupid to work out what to do next.'

He set off up the path.

‘Good luck!' he yelled. ‘Let me know how you get on. I like old Dot, she's a good old girl.'

The gates to the big house up on the highway out of town were open. The grounds beyond stood quietly waiting, frowning down on the boy who'd wandered through.

Pyro stayed on the paved driveway. His heart was beating so loudly he was sure the people in the house would be feeling the vibrations.

Ahead of him stood two cars, two very big cars. One was black and showed him how he looked as he walked by. A squished up little kid with a big head. The other was a gold colour but it was an older car. Pyro knew because his dad had said old Mercs were like tanks and they went round corners like cakes of soap.

Pyro didn't think that car would like to be compared to a cake of soap so he didn't look at it too closely.

He stepped up to the front door. There was a knocker high up on the door. A face that was polished and, in
the cloudy light, shone gloomy and grim and dared Pyro to take hold of it.

Pyro wiped his hands down his jacket and then leaned up. He looked to one side while he bashed the knocker three times. Bash. Bash. Bash.

Nothing.

The cars smirked in their polished ducos and the trees sniggered.

Pyro bashed again and then saw a little button with
Press
written above it.

Pyro pressed it. There was no sound. A raindrop creaked onto the roof, and another onto the car and then another onto the window. Small puddles formed as raindrops fell heavily along the edges of the drive.

Pyro pulled his hood up and the door sprang open.

‘Yes?'

A woman with dark hair tied into a ponytail stood in front of him. She had slim trousers on and plastic shoes and a T-shirt with an anchor on the front. It was the sort of anchor that Pyro rather liked as it reminded him of pirates' ships with their anchors at the front waiting to be slipped silently into the water.

‘Is there something wrong?'

Pyro shook his head and stood a little straighter. He crossed his fingers behind his back. ‘I'm a friend of Plonker's,' he said.

The woman said nothing and Pyro wished he hadn't said Plonker. ‘We call him Plonker sometimes,' he said.

Still the woman said nothing. She placed the broom that she'd been holding along her side and wrapped her arm around it so she had her own leaning post.

‘Anyway …' Pyro went on and took a deep breath and crossed his fingers behind his back ‘… I let Plonks and Sandy collect my dog yesterday …'

At this the woman smiled. ‘That's what it is. I couldn't work out what was all over the eiderdown.' She nodded to herself. ‘Dog hair!'

Pyro's heart almost leapt out of his chest and into his mouth. He had to swallow to make sure it stayed put.

‘She loses a lot of hair,' he said. ‘So, I came to collect her and I'm sorry it took so long and that she's messed up your house.'

The woman grinned out at him. ‘Oh, she didn't mess up my house. This house belongs to the Plonker's mum and dad and it's this house your little dog has messed up, not my house.'

‘So, could I have her now please?' Pyro's feet were itching to bounce and leap about.

‘She's not here, kiddo,' the woman said. ‘Why don't you try over at Sandy Grivett's place? I heard his mum
grizzling about Sandy having a dog in tow when she called in this morning to take the boys to school.'

Pyro glanced behind him. He felt as if he'd just run the longest, hardest race of his life and had just been told that he had to begin all over again.

The woman closed the door. ‘Sorry I can't help,' she said as it finally clicked shut.

Pyro turned to leave and the door sprung open.

‘You know,' the woman said, ‘that little dog of yours isn't going to be over at Grivetts' place. They've gone away for a couple of days and Sandy's staying here. I know because I've just been getting the spare room ready.'

‘Did they have her in the car?' Pyro's heart was pumping hard.

‘No. No, they didn't.' The woman stepped out onto the front step. ‘You know, they probably took her to your house.'

Pyro shook his head. There was no way they were going to turn up at the caravan with Becks. They'd know there'd be trouble. They might be stupid but that didn't mean they weren't as cunning as foxes.

‘Why not?'

‘They don't know where I live,' Pyro said before he'd had time to think about it.

‘And they're friends of yours?'

‘New friends.'

The woman thought hard. ‘Well,' she said, ‘… maybe they just let her go? Wouldn't she just go home by herself?'

Pyro would check it out but he knew it wasn't right. They'd put her somewhere so they could watch and see how worried he was. And how much trouble he might get into when Min came back home and his dog was gone.

They'd keep her to make sure that he was going to be punished as long and as hard as they thought he needed.

And all because he played a joke on them.

Ha. Ha. Ha. Not funny anymore.

As he walked back up the drive and the rain drizzled itself to a halt, he tried to imagine the places where they'd keep Becks. They knew this town, he didn't. Min had shown him the best places to play and he just bet that Plonker and Sandy Grivett would hang out there too.

They didn't look like they'd be playground types. Or skate-park skaters. He was pretty sure of that. And he
was pretty sure he was right about them hiding Becks away.

All he had to do was try to work out where they'd leave her.

San Simeon sat on the wharf. His hat drooped and his trousers were soggy from the water that lay about on the decking.

It hadn't been difficult to trick Yorrick the Plonk into talking about Roy Bistro. It'd been hard going though because Yorrick liked to laugh at his own jokes. It was especially tricky because Yorrick wasn't even funny: at least, his jokes weren't.

Roy Bistro was still in port. He learned that much and he also learned that he'd had a young lad with him the last time he came in. A young lad, Yorrick the Plonk was quick to add, with yellow curly hair.

San Simeon's ears had pricked up at that bit of news and he thought about it now.

Yorrick the Plonk wasn't the sort to notice yellow curly hair. It must've been special, that hair. ‘He smelled proper, too,' Yorrick had said and San Simeon felt a tingle up his arms and down his back.

He leapt to his feet and almost scared a snoozing cormorant off her perch. She flapped her wings and squawked but Simeon had already taken off.

The search was on for his Calamity. He knew now she was disguised as a young lad and Roaring Roy, the hound, would be trying to sneak her past the harbour master. There'd be trouble a-plenty if Master Ernesty Flew caught sight of Calamity in the wrong company. The whole world knew that she was beholden to the
Olga
and her crew since she'd been rescued so bravely by San Simeon.

Simeon rushed along the harbour front. Swiftly he flew over coils of ropes and drunken sailors and their baggage. He dodged wild cats and their kittens and outran dogs in their junkyards.

If Roy took Calamity to sea it'd take forever to get her back. He'd fight them in every ocean and on every sea and Simeon burned now with fury as he understood the truth of Calamity's capture.

Roaring Roy Bistro would keep her as ransom. They wouldn't even need to bother about her treasure map. He'd be able to steal and plunder ships and their treasures and if San Simeon tried to stop him, all he had to do was remind them that he, once again, had
Sweet Calamity, and this time he wouldn't be letting her go!

She'd be worse than shark-bait. This time he'd keep her captive and she'd be forced to live her life as a slave to the dreadful Bistro and his motley crew.

San Simeon slowed down.

His great heart heaved as he thought of his fair Calamity. He'd loved her, he knew that now, from the first time he'd clapped eyes on her, bound as she was, head to toe, and ready to be pitched into the briny deep.

Oh why, he cursed himself now, did he ever distrust his men? Why did he not listen when she was trying to make him see he'd made a terrible mistake? His men, his faithful crew, were armed to the teeth and ready to act on his every word and he, oh here he was, struck down with misery.

He had to get her back. The oceans would never be safe if he couldn't rid them of the dreadful pirate scourge named Roaring Roy Bistro.

And he couldn't rid the ocean of his threat if he didn't have Calamity by his side.

Her name was soothing; a bit like those lolly things cooked by Derrick that melted butter and caramel
onto his tongue when they had nasty colds. He felt his heart slow and his brain begin to fizz.

He knew what he had to do now.

He went back to the Grottley Mug and bought himself a pint and a pen and a bit of paper. San Simeon was going to make a list of all the places Roaring Roy liked to be and then … and then …

Ha, ha, ha.