Monster Mission

‘Creepy crawly things… things that slither, and freaks with tails—only they’re not really there.’

There was a sudden yell from Des. The bodyguard knew that it was as much as his life was worth to yell when they were trying to get into a place unseen but now he stood up in the dinghy and pointed with staring eyes at a rock sticking out of the water.

‘My God,’ he shouted. ‘Look, guv’nor! It’s a bloomin’ mermaid!’

‘No, it isn’t,’ cried Lambert. ‘She isn’t really there. It’s because of what you’ve eaten. None of them are there, the other one isn’t there and the old one isn’t there and the long white worm isn’t there. They’re all because of what Art put in the—’

‘Be quiet, Lambert,’ said his father. Then to Des, ‘Catch her,’

Des didn’t need to be told twice. He slipped off his holster and dived into the sea.

The girl was Queenie, and she thought the whole thing very funny. She waited till the clumsy man was almost up to her—then she gave her silvery laugh and vanished underneath the waves.

‘She isn’t there, she isn’t there,’ Lambert went on yelling. ‘It’s what you’ve eaten—it’s Art’s seaweed flour.’

‘Don’t be silly, Lambert,’ said his father. ‘I haven’t eaten any seaweed flour and I saw her quite clearly. Unless it was a trick. It must have been a trick, but if so it was a good one.’

Des was still thrashing about in the icy water. Now suddenly he dived down, grabbed at something—and missed. But when he swam back to the boat he had two things clutched in his hand. A silver fish scale and a golden hair.

Mr Sprott examined them. Then he turned to his son.

‘Now then, Lambert,’ he said. ‘Just tell us what else you’ve seen on the Island.’

‘I haven’t seen it—it isn’t—’

‘All right, boy. Tell us what you haven’t

seen, then. Tell us carefully.’

By the time Lambert had finished babbling about old mermaids with no teeth and long white worms that sucked peppermints and outsize birds the size of elephants—all of which weren’t there - Mr Sprott’s face wore a look of eager cunning. Of course it was probably all rubbish, but if it wasn’t, the money one could make! And those trees with the branches stripped off—the ones that Lambert called stoor-worm trees—they were there all right.

‘Go on, what else?’ he prompted, digging his son roughly in the ribs.

But Lambert had said all he could. The sight of that island in the bay that hadn’t been there at night and then really hadn’t been there in the morning had frightened him so much that he couldn’t say another word, nor about the small island that had broken off from the big one and was around somewhere.

‘Please, Daddy, take me home,’ he whined. ‘Look, there they are; they’re coming for me!’

Stanley Sprott looked up. The three dreaded women whose pictures were on the wall of every police station in London were coming towards them.

Aunt Myrtle was in the lead, which was unusual for her. She was carrying a brown paper parcel and she was very nervous—but in a way Lambert was hers, just as Fabio was Aunt Coral’s, and Minette belonged to Etta, and she felt she had to hand him back herself.

‘Good morning,’ she said, bracing herself. ‘I see you have come to fetch Lambert—he will be pleased to go home. I’m afraid he never quite fitted in.’

Mr Sprott stared at her. The cheek of the woman was unbelievable!

‘I’ve washed and ironed his underclothes and his pyjamas. I wasn’t able to take many of his clothes in the cello case but you’ll find everything is there.’

Myrtle now felt she had done all she could and stepped back, leaving her sisters to take charge, which they did by asking Mr Sprott if he would care to stay to lunch.

As she spoke, Etta was looking warily over the bay. She had told everyone to stay out of sight as soon as the dinghy had rounded the point but one could never be sure, she thought, not realizing that it was already too late.

‘No, don’t,’ begged Lambert. ‘Don’t eat anything in there—you’ll think you’ll see creepy-crawlies.’

‘Be quiet, Lambert,’ said his father—and told the aunts he would be delighted.

It was a strange lunch. The aunts had been well brought up and though they thought that Mr Sprott was just as nasty as one would expect from someone who was Lambert’s father, they were most polite, passing him the salt and pepper and filling up his plate.

‘Won’t you try a brandy snap?’ asked Aunt Coral. ‘They were freshly made this morning,’

Mr Sprott took one and decided it was time to come to the point.

‘Now, ladies,’ he said, smiling his oily smile. ‘I have a suggestion to make to you.’ He leant forward, folding his hands on the tablecloth. ‘I am getting on in years and I need somewhere to end my days—so I want you to sell me this island.’

There was a gasp from Myrtle, and Aunt Etta stared at him in amazement.

‘Sell the Island?’ said Coral.

‘Sell the Island?’ said Myrtle.

‘Sell it!’ thundered Aunt Etta.

‘I take it it belongs to you, does it not? And Captain Harper?’