Granny

Table of Contents

 

 

She was
evil.
For reasons that he did not yet understand, Granny hated him and wanted to hurt him in any way she could.

Joe shivered.

He knew the truth about Granny even if nobody else in the room could see it. But that wasn't what frightened him.

What frightened him was that Granny knew he knew. And she didn't care.

Maybe she knew that whatever Joe said, nobody would believe him. Or maybe it was something worse. Watching her, hunched up in the middle of the Christmas gauze and glitter, her eyes sliding slowly from left to right, he realized she was planning something. And that something included him.

THE ALEX RIDER ADVENTURES

 

THE DIAMOND BROTHERS MYSTERIES

 

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Copyright © Anthony Horowitz, 1994

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eISBN : 978-1-101-01984-9

 

 

 

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T
he storm broke early in the evening and by seven o'clock it looked as if Heathrow might have to shut down. Runway One had disappeared in the rain. Runway Two was a canal. Half the planes had been delayed and the other half were circling hopelessly above the clouds, waiting their turn to land. The wind had blown an Air France DC10 all the way to Luton while, in a Jumbo Jet from Tokyo, seventy-nine Japanese passengers had all thrown up at the same time. It was a night no one would forget.

The green Mercedes reached the airport at exactly half past seven, skidding around a corner and spraying water over two traffic cops, a porter, and a visitor from Norway. Swerving across the road, it missed a taxi by inches and rocketed into the parking garage of Terminal Three. The electric side window slid down and a hand with a signet ring and the initials
G W
entwined in gold reached out to pluck a parking ticket from the machine. Then the car jumped forward again, shot up three ramps with the tires screaming, and crashed into a wall. Ten thousand dollars' worth of metal and paintwork crumpled in on itself. The engine died. Steam hissed from beneath the bent and broken hood.

The doors of the car opened and three people got out. The driver was a short, bald man. Next to him was a woman in a fur coat. The backseat had been occupied by a twelve-year-old boy.

“You told me to park on the fourth floor!” the man screamed. “The fourth floor!”

“Yes, Gordon…” the woman muttered.

“But this parking lot's only got three floors!” the man moaned. He pointed at the wreck of his car. “And now look what's happened!”

“Oh, Gordon…” The woman's lips quivered. For a moment she looked terrified. Then she blinked. “Does it really matter?” she asked.

The man stared at her. “You're right!” he exclaimed. He laughed out loud. “It doesn't matter at all! We're leaving the car here! We'll never see it again…!”

The man and woman rushed into each other's arms, kissed each other, and then grabbed their luggage, which the boy had meanwhile taken out of the trunk. They had only two suitcases between them and these looked as if they had been packed in a hurry. Part of a pink silk tie, a striped pajama leg, and a frilly shower cap were poking out of one side.

“Come on!” the man exclaimed. “Let's go…”

But just then there was a flash of lightning and an explosion of thunder and the three of them froze, alone in the middle of the dimly lit parking garage. A plane roared past overhead.

“Oh, Gordon…” the woman whimpered.

“It's all right,” Gordon snapped. “She's not here. Keep your hair on. We're going to be all right. I'd keep my hair on except I packed it…”

“Come on. We've got to get the tickets,” the boy said. And without waiting for his parents, he began to walk toward the elevators.

Ten minutes later, the family was lining up at the British Airways ticket desk. After the darkness of the storm, the building was unnaturally bright, like a television set with the color turned up too much. There were people everywhere, milling around with their suitcases and carry-on bags. A policeman with a machine gun patrolled the area. He was the only person smiling.

“Good evening, sir.” The man at the ticket counter was in his early twenties with close-cropped hair and tired eyes. He had his name—OWEN—on a badge on his chest, but in his tiredness he had pinned it on upside down. “Can I help you?”

“You certainly can, Nemo,” the man said, squinting at the badge. “I want three tickets…”

“Three tickets, sir?” Owen coughed. He had never seen such nervous-looking passengers. They all looked as if they had just come off the worst amusement-park ride in the world. “Where to?” he asked.

“America,” the man replied.

“Africa,” the woman said at the same moment.

“Australia,” the boy exclaimed.

“Anywhere!” the man said. “Just so long as it leaves soon.”

“And it's got to be far away!” the woman added.

“Well, sir…” Owen swallowed. “It would help if you actually knew where you wanted to go…”

The man leaned forward, his eyes wild and staring. (They weren't staring in quite the same direction, which made him look even more wild.) His clothes were expensive—tailor-made—but the ticket salesman couldn't help noticing that he had dressed in a hurry. His tie was crooked and, more surprisingly, on the wrong side of his neck.

“I just want to go away,” the man hissed, “before
she
gets here.”

The woman burst into tears and tried to hide her face in her mink coat. The boy began to tremble. The ticket agent's eyes flickered to the computer screen in front of him. The computer screen flickered back. “How about the nine o'clock flight to Perth?” he suggested.

“Scotland!” The man screamed the word so loudly that several passengers turned to look at him and the policeman dropped his machine gun.

“Australia,” the agent said.

“Perthect!” the man exclaimed. He snapped a gold Visa card onto the counter. “We'll take two tickets first class and one in coach for the boy. Ow!” The man cried out as his wife's elbow caught him on the side of his head. “All right,” he said, rubbing a red mark above his eye. “We'll all go first class together.”

“Certainly, sir.” The ticket agent picked up the credit card. “Mr. Gordon Warden?”

“Yes. That's me.”

“And the child's name?”

“Jordan Warden.”

“Jordan Warden.” The agent tapped the name into the computer. “And your wife…?”

“Maud N. Warden,” the woman said.

“Gordon Warden. Jordan Warden. Maud N. Warden. Right…” He tapped some more buttons and waited as the machine spat out three tickets. “Check in at Desk Eleven. And it'll be Gate Six for boardin', Mr. Warden.”

Five hours later, British Airways Flight 777 took off for Perth in Western Australia. As the plane reached the end of the runway and lurched upward into the swirling night and rain, Gordon Warden and his wife sank back into their first-class seats. Mr. Warden began to giggle. “We've done it,” he said in a quivering voice. “We've beaten her…”

“How do you know she's not on the plane?” his wife asked.

Mr. Warden sat bolt upright. “Stewardess!” he called. “Bring me a parachute!”

Just across the aisle, Jordan strained in the soft half-light to get a sight of the other passengers. Had they really done it? Or were they going to see that terrible, wrinkled face turning slowly to leer at them in the crowded cabin?

The plane reached thirty thousand feet and turned south on the first leg of its journey across the world.

The events that had begun nine months before were finally over.

N
ine months before, the Wardens had been a wealthy and—to all appearances—happy family living in a large house in North London. The house was called Thattlebee Hall.

It was a huge place with eleven bedrooms, five living rooms, three staircases, and about a mile of thickly carpeted hallways. You could have played tennis in one of the bathrooms—which was something Mr. and Mrs. Warden occasionally did, quite naked, using the soap as a ball. It was also very easy to get lost. One man—who had come to read the gas meter—actually stayed there for three days before anyone noticed him, and that was only because he had parked his company van in the hall.