There's a Hamster in my Pocket (6 page)

As far as Killer Queen was concerned, we'd reached the end of the road.

I held her against my cheek. Her fur was silk-soft and she smelled of fishy milk. “There's nowhere left for you to hide,” I told her. “And I've no more food for you. And
you're making Nani ill. I can't keep you. I just can't. . .”

Killer Queen meowed pathetically and watched, cross-eyed, as I gave her box a bit of a clean. Feeling incredibly sorry for myself, I lifted her back in, got dressed, and went downstairs to begin the hunt for the heart-shaped key.

I hunted everywhere. I climbed on chairs and ran my hands along every shelf. I tipped out every vase and every jar. I crawled under tables, searched inside drawers, and rummaged down the backs of settees and armchairs. I even felt inside the toes of ancient shoes and slippers. That key was
nowhere
.

By this time, things were beginning to stir upstairs. In double-quick time, I set the breakfast table, and by the time Mum and Dad appeared with Bilal, the tea was bubbling on the stove and the bread was in the toaster.

When everyone was settled round the table, I ran back upstairs and shifted Killer Queen into my bedroom. Kylie had given me a ball with a bell inside which belonged to one of the Papillons, and I threw it in the air and watched Killer Queen pounce on it, then roll onto her back and shred it with her back claws.

I wished I could play with her all morning, but of course I couldn't. Before you could say ‘executive office', Mum and Dad and the wallpapering table were on their way up. I threw Killer Queen's ball one last time,
then went downstairs to keep Nani and Bilal company, and to take my mind off things.

All week, Nani had been playing a game with Bilal which involved a load of plastic tubs. Every time he put a small tub inside a bigger tub, Nani would say, “
In
, Bilal. Say
in
,” and every time he tipped one out, she would say “
Out
, Bilal. Say
out
.”

The game was incredibly tedious, and Bilal only ever made gurgling noises, but Nani kept on and on at it. I suspected anything was better than thinking about red and gold zigzags and Auntie Shabnam. I sat on the settee beside Nani and we watched Bilal.

“Any progress?” I asked.

Nani smiled and shook her head. “The best things in life,” she said solemnly, “take time.
Out,
Bilal.”

I sat for a bit, watching Bilal dribble into his tubs. Then, cautiously, I said, “You know the key for the puzzle box, Nani? I don't suppose you have any idea. . .?”

Nani frowned and chewed the inside of her cheek. Then she shook her head.

“If you don't mind,” I went on, “I'd like to give the box to Kylie's mum for her fortieth birthday.”

To my relief, Nani's face softened a little. “Go ahead, Yosser,” she said. “And I hope it brings her more joy than it brought
me
.
In
, Bilal.”

***

By lunchtime I'd had more than enough of the
In/Out
game, so I changed into my very best jeans and my turquoise-and-silver kameez, and my glitziest turquoise hijab. I found an umbrella, and went to Kylie's house to see if she needed help with the ‘do'.

When Kylie opened the door, she looked completely stressed out. Her hair was sticking straight up, and there were streaks of purple glittery stuff on it, and on her arms and her face.

She had two Papillons clamped to her chest. Another two were running in and out between her legs. Behind
her, three more leapt up and down like demented jack-in-the-boxes. Every single dog was barking fit to burst.

“We usually keep the Papillons in the dining room,” Kylie explained, “but we've set out the buffet there. Can't trust them with a roomful of canapés. . .” And she handed one to me.

Now, I'll be honest, I'm not that keen on Papillons. I know they're very cute, with their shiny black noses and their funny butterfly ears and everything, and I could probably cope with
one
if it was reasonably calm – but seven hysterical Papillons was
way
too much for me. And, that afternoon, it was definitely too much for Kylie as well.

I dumped my umbrella and tried to sidle in, but my way was completely blocked. Then, as I turned to close the door, a Papillon took hold of the hem of my jeans – my
very best
jeans – and proceeded to shake it vigorously from side to side.

Handing me another Papillon, Kylie tried to pull the jean-ripper off. Immediately, the three jack-in-the-boxes smelt freedom and flew out of the door and down the garden path. With an agonised cry, Kylie raced after them.

As soon as she'd gone, the remaining Papillon joined forces with its friend, and a spirited tug-of-war began.
I watched in horror as my very best jeans
ever
were shredded before my eyes. Then, when it seemed things couldn't possibly get any worse, they did. Germane arrived.

Taking gigantic strides that sent all the Papillons flying, he strode up the path towards me, and as he walked he slowly drew his hand out of his pocket. I saw the bright flash of something small and silver.

A knife? A razor blade?

On the doorstop, Germane bent so that his face was level with mine. This close, he was simply enormous, and he was wearing some sort of musky stuff that made me feel quite lightheaded.

I gazed, mesmerised, into his shades. Every sequin of my glitzy turquoise hijab was reflected there. So were the whites of my eyes.

Above the shades, Germane's dreadlocks hung like wet creepers in a dusky-grey forest, and somewhere to the left of his nose, a diamond sparkled like a solitary star in a dark, dark sky. For a long time, neither of us spoke. Then Germane did.

“You Yosser Farooq, then?” he said, in a big, deep voice.

For a split second I considered denying it. Then I nodded. I was beyond terrified.

“Got somefink for ya, Yosser Farooq,” Germane said,
and he opened his hand, and held the silver object right under my nose.

I looked down into his massive palm. All I could make out through the rain was a vague silver shape which was pointed at one end. Desperately, I stood on tiptoe and tried to catch Kylie's eye but Kylie, oblivious to my plight, was still chasing Papillons.

I was all on my own with Germane and a deadly weapon. The Curse of Samarkand had struck again.

You know that feeling when you're
so
embarrassed, you wish a wormhole would open under your feet and suck you into a parallel universe?

That was the feeling I got when I finally realised what was in Germane's hand.

I'm still not sure of the exact sequence of events, because afterwards I reckon I was in post-traumatic shock, but I
think
I must have said something like, “Please,
please,
put that away. Please.”

It must have been something like that, because then Germane said, “No way, sister. Dis here has cost me a lorra bovver, know wot I mean?” And he pressed the silver thing into my hand.

Which is when I began to think I might, just
might
, have got it wrong. . .

The silver thing didn't feel like a knife or a razor blade. It was soft and warm. It also had a faintly meaty smell – though, in fairness to me, the meaty smell was pretty hard
to make out, on account of Germane's overpoweringly musky one.

The actual moment of realisation came when Germane said, “Chicken livers, innit. For da pussy-cat.”

That
was when I wished the wormhole would open.
That
was when I wished I'd never been born.

Fortunately, at that precise moment a swarming, squealing stream of wet white fur rushed towards us. Germane made his escape into the house, leaving me standing on the doorstep, gazing down at the river of Papillons.

“Stop
chatting,
Yosser!” Kylie shouted on her way past. “The fruit punch isn't even started!”

I shoved the foil parcel of chicken livers into my pocket and followed Kylie into the kitchen. I must have looked like a zombie. I certainly felt like one.

Tersely, Kylie handed me an apple and a knife. Then she opened a carton of blackcurrant cordial and poured it into a bowl.

“Twista's been upstairs banging and thumping with Sniper since first light,” she muttered. “And now Germane's arrived. Who knows what they're up to?”

She poured in a second carton. Her hand was shaking.

“As if that wasn't enough,” she went on, “now Mum says we've to use my bedroom for the coats and umbrellas.
I'm dead scared someone's going to step on Toffee ‘n' Caramel. . .”

I stared miserably into the bowl of blood-red cordial. Another vision of the man with the pins and the woman with the puzzle box flashed through my mind. This time, the vision was accompanied by the agonised screams of mortally-injured Russian Dwarf hamsters. I badly wanted to cry.

“It's ‘cause we're cursed, Kylie,” I said. “Everything –
everything
– goes wrong for us.”

Kylie ran her hands through her glittery hair. Then she gave me a long, hard look.

“You need to open that box, Yosser,” she said. “You need to see for yourself it's not got a curse inside.”

She put down the empty carton. “We're getting out of here,” she said decisively. “We'll finish making the punch, then take Toffee ‘n' Caramel and Castle Hamster to your nani's bedroom, out of harm's way. We'll keep watch on Sniper from the window, and then I'll help you look for the key.

“
Not
, you understand,” she added, “that I believe in the Deadly Curse of Samarkand. The Deadly Curse of Samarkand is merely a psychological phenomenon with which you have become obsessed. You do
realise
that, don't you?”

I nodded meekly and, as the two of us chopped
up apples, I concentrated hard on thinking of the Deadly Curse of Samarkand as a psychological phenomenon with which I had become obsessed.

I had to admit it made me feel ever so slightly better.

When the punch was all ready for Kylie's mum to add the vodka, Kylie and me crept upstairs. We gathered up Toffee ‘n' Caramel, and all their personal effects, ready for the Great Escape.

“We needn't take the tubes or the yoghurt pots,” Kylie said, as she pushed Castle Hamster up under her T-shirt. “It's important to look as inconspicuous as possible.”

I looked at Toffee ‘n' Caramel's cage, which was an enormous plastic thing with built-in exercise wheels, and decided there was no way I could carry it inconspicuously. So I slipped a hamster gently into each of my
jeans pockets, added a sprinkling of sunflower seeds, and followed Kylie out onto the landing.