Hamish X and the Cheese Pirates (25 page)

She held her breath as the approaching footsteps echoed outside. To her horror, they stopped right outside the cell. For an endless moment she waited. Then another. When Mr. Kipling didn't call her out of her hiding place, she screwed up her courage and peeked around the edge of the door.

He stood under the bare bulb at the base of the stairs, light shining down on his worn peaked cap. His body was turned away from Mimi's hiding place, his back to the cell, looking down at a small tattered photograph in his hand. The picture showed a smiling young woman with short blond hair.

Mimi scarcely breathed. Silently, she willed him to leave.
You have to go to the bathroom,
she urged silently.
You left the stove on! The bathtub is overflowing!

Mr. Kipling didn't budge.

Please! Please! Please!
Mimi pleaded.
Move!

As often happens when one is desperate to be quiet, the body is determined to be heard. Perhaps it was the tension. Perhaps it was a cramp from standing so still. Perhaps it was a diet of canned food interrupted only by the odd morsel of seal jerky, but at the worst possible moment, Mimi's stomach decided to gurgle. Not loudly. Not long. Just one, distinct blort.

Mr. Kipling raised his eyes from the photo. He stood still as a post, his head tilted to the side. Mimi waited, tension coiled in every limb, ready to launch herself at him should he turn to look into the cell.

For a long moment, nothing happened. Mimi's stomach didn't offer any more comment. Mr. Kipling didn't move. Mimi clenched her fists, ready to spring.

At last, he shook his head, tucked the photo into his threadbare peacoat, and trudged slowly up the stairs.

Mimi waited a full five minutes just to be certain. Satisfied, she edged out of her hiding place and into the hall. Nothing stirred. She set off quickly down the corridor and stopped at Mrs. Francis's door, pressing her ear to the steel blackened with years of soot. A metal ring hung on one side in lieu of a doorknob, with a huge keyhole piercing the metal below the handle. A flicker of light showed through the keyhole. Mimi crouched down and looked in.

She saw a lamp sitting on a crate. Beside it, she made out the end of a lumpy cot. On the floor in front of the cot, a foot was on display. A fuzzy pink slipper adorned the foot.

“Mrs. Francis,” Mimi hissed. The slipper didn't budge. Mimi tapped lightly on the door. “Mrs. Francis.”

The slipper shifted, to be joined by another slipper. Mrs. Francis stood up and rubbed her eyes. She'd been crying. She pulled her housecoat around her and stood looking at the door.

“Who's there?”

“Mrs. Francis! It's me, Mimi!” Mimi could barely contain her excitement. “We've come to get you out.”

Mrs. Francis couldn't believe her ears. She ran to the door and pressed her hands to it. “Is it really you? I can't believe it. I thought I saw you outside but … oh, Mimi! How is it possible! Is Parveen with you? And Hamish X?”

Mimi felt the excitement drain away at the mention of her lost friend. But she pushed aside her sadness and got
down to business. “We're here to get you and the children. Where are they?”

“Down below, I think. They're all together. You have to get me out of here. You need the key.”

“Who has it?” Mimi asked.

“I do.”

Mimi whirled to see Mr. Kipling. A ring of keys dangled from the end of one long, elegant finger. He arched an eyebrow in amusement. On either side of him stood Tim and Tom, grinning evilly.

Chapter 29

Parveen crouched behind a pile of foul-smelling garbage. After a meandering transit of the pirate camp he'd at last arrived at the hut nearest the warehouse, and now he looked across at the two guards who leaned drunkenly against its door. They were passing a bottle back and forth between them, but Parveen doubted they were drunk enough to fall asleep in the next hour or so. He looked closer and realized the two men were none other than Pianoface and Tubaface.

“I'm thinking I should get my own website,” Pianoface said, belching loudly to punctuate his thought.

“Website,” scoffed Tubaface. “What do you need a website for? You're a pirate.”

“All the more reason. I need to get my name out there, promote myself.”

“What, like
www.pirate.com
?”

“Exactly! Then people could reach me for the odd side job, pillaging and whatnot.”

“I bet someone already has
www.pirate.com
, though.”
⁷²

“Good point. I could try getting
www.pirate.org
.”
⁷³

“Naw, that's only for nonprofit companies.”

And on and on. Parveen had to find a way past them. He studied the patchwork warehouse, cobbled together
out of pieces of aluminum siding, planks of wood, and sheets of corrugated tin.

He carefully retraced his steps and crept around the side of the hut. When he was out of the guards' sight he cut straight for the warehouse, huddling down in its shadow. After a short search, he found a loose board in the wall. With a little effort, he wiggled it till he'd created a gap large enough for him to slip through.

Inside he couldn't even see his hand in front of his face. He paused, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. The air in the warehouse was heavy and stale, rich with the stink of rare cheeses. After a moment, Parveen was able to make out row upon row of precariously stacked crates. He jogged along a corridor made of boxes and came out into a square space in the centre of the warehouse. A ladder, attached to a support beam, led up to a square of pale moonlight. Parveen checked to make sure no one was about. Satisfied, he ran to the ladder and swiftly climbed up.

The ladder emerged in the middle of the platform atop the warehouse. Directly above him loomed the vast bulk of the airship, with a retractable staircase leading up into its open cargo bay.

“Well,” Parveen whispered to himself. “Onwards and upwards.”

He tiptoed up the steps, his heart beating so loudly he was sure the guards below would hear it, and peeked into the hold.

It was empty save for a pile of coiled ropes on the floor and some long poles with hooks on the end hanging on the walls. The poles were used to guide the ship into its moorings and to push her off again during launch. Parveen hopped into the empty bay and moved to the nearest hatchway.

It was the engine room. In the dim light of emergency lamps overhead, the dark, bulky humps of engines glistened like great animals sweating in their sleep. The engine controls were probably in the bridge. He had to find it.

Parveen strode back across the cargo bay to the opposite hatch, and stepped through it into a corridor panelled in dark wood. At one time the panelling might have been quite handsome, varnished and polished. The pirates didn't place varnishing and polishing high on their list of priorities, however. The wood was scuffed and scratched. Someone had carved “Jimmy Loves Feta” in crude letters at eye level. Small wooden doors punctuated the corridor every three metres. Parveen looked in one that was open: a small cabin with a bunk and a tiny table. Dust swirled on the floor and the bunk was unmade, but otherwise it looked quite cozy.

Parveen padded softly along the worn carpet that ran the length of the corridor and stepped out into a wider room. Rows of tables and benches: the mess hall.
⁷⁴
Once again, the room was empty. Obviously the pirates didn't think there was any need for guards on the airship while they were safe at home.

Parveen passed through the mess and into a tidy little kitchen. Pots and pans hung overhead. A stove took up one corner and cupboards covered every bit of space. In the corner opposite the stove was a steep metal hatchway
leading forward. A wooden chopping block stood in the centre of the room with a very sharp knife sticking out of it. On the block was a loaf of bread cut in slices, of which several were missing, and a chunk of cheese.

Parveen froze. Someone had evidently made a sandwich. He reached over and poked the loaf of bread. It was still soft. He stood still and listened, hearing nothing but the sound of his own heart thumping. Gathering his courage, he walked over to the hatchway, pushed it carefully open, and stepped through.

He stood on a catwalk running all the way down the ship in both directions. Bare bulbs cast a yellow light. Surrounding the catwalks and supported by aluminum beams, giant gasbags crowded in overhead. Vast nets attached to the beams held the hydrogen envelopes in place. Parveen looked down towards the front of the ship. Light shone from an open hatch about twenty metres away. As softly as he could, he padded down to the hatchway and peered through.

He was looking into the bridge. On one side was a bank of levers attached to cables, on the other an array of monitors. Parveen recognized a radar screen and a sonar panel. In the middle of the floor facing a panoramic window that wrapped around the cabin, a helmsman's wheel sprouted from the deck. The Captain's chair was directly behind the wheel on a raised step.

Sitting in the Captain's chair was a stringy man with a scabby bald scalp. The scabby bald scalp tilted back so that the man could drink deeply from a heavy earthenware jug. He placed the jug on the arm of the chair and picked up a cheese sandwich in his left hand, his right being swaddled in a grimy bandage. He waved his sandwich as he ranted to himself.

“Mr. Kiplink sinks he's soooo much better zan me, but he isn't. No. He'd better vatch his back or I'll schtick a knife in it.” He leapt to his feet, throwing his sandwich at the wall in a sudden burst of fury. “I, Schmidt, should be ze first mate. I'm a better sailor. I'm certainly better lookink, zat's for sure! Forget first mate! I should be Captain. Ja! Captain!” He struck a pose, hands on his hips.

“Check ze trim, zere! Look lively! If you don't do as I say you'll valk the plank!”

As Parveen watched the strange display he wracked his brain for a way to neutralize Schmidt. He had to get him out of the way if he was going to steal the ship. But try as he might, he couldn't think of what to do.

“Wotzat, Mr. Kiplink?” Schmidt shouted, making Parveen jump. The man pointed at an imaginary figure only he could see. “You sink you are man enough to tell me, Helmut Schmidt, vot to do? Never! Do you understand? Nobody tells me vot to do!” He reached for the jug and shook it. “Empty! Bah!” He turned to the hatchway and, to Parveen's horror, began to stagger drunkenly towards him, stuffing the heavy jug under his right arm.

Parveen froze. He watched the scabby scalp bobbing closer and closer. He knew he should run, but he couldn't make his terrified body budge.

The pirate opened the hatch and looked straight at Parveen, blinking blearily.

“Fill zat, vill you?” he said, shoving the empty jug at Parveen, who took it in his hands. “Vell, vat are you vaiting for, boy?” Then his eyes bugged out as he saw Parveen clearly. “Who are …”

He didn't get to finish. Parveen swung the heavy jug by its handle with all his strength, smashing it on the side of
Schmidt's skull. The jug shattered and Schmidt fell heavily onto the deck. Parveen looked down at the inert pirate. “Sometimes it's best to think on your feet.” When he was sure the man wasn't getting up, he shrugged and walked into the bridge. All he had to do now was start the engines and be ready when Mimi freed the prisoners. “If she frees the prisoners,” he whispered to himself.

MIMI BOUNCED
on the balls of her feet, ready for a fight. “Okay, Kipling. Gimme them keys or yer gonna be in a world o' hurt.”

“Is that so? And who, pray tell, are you, my young hellion?” Mr. Kipling asked.

“My name is Mimi Catastrophe Jones. And yer gonna gimme that key or I'll lay a beatin' on ya.”

Mr. Kipling looked at the thin girl with her fierce green eyes blazing and fists cocked. Her hair was a mess and her clothes were tattered but there she was, ready to go toe to toe with three grown men. He looked at her and he did something he hadn't done for many years. He laughed. “Miss Jones, please …”

“I'll take care of this,” Tim chuckled. He took a leisurely step towards Mimi. “Come on, girlie. Let's not make things difficult … Ow!”

Mimi drove her fist into the man's nose, then spun and drove her heel into his belly. Tim folded over and fell to his knees.

“Why you little …” Tom pulled a pistol from his belt and brought it up. The murderous mouth of the barrel looked like a cannon in his tiny hand. He aimed it straight at Mimi, but before he had a chance to fire it Mr. Kipling's sword swept out of its sheath, batting the barrel upward. The shot reverberated loudly in the close quarters of the stone corridor, striking the ceiling and bringing down a rain of stone shards.

The shocked pirate had only time to say “Oi, Kipling! What's the big idea?” before Kipling brought the hilt of his sword down on the little man's head. Tom's eyes crossed, closed, then he fell onto his face.