The Castle (14 page)

THIRTY-ONE

O
ne thing about the Wahools – they knew how to party. In the dawn light, the castle terrace looked like the aftermath of a hurricane. Broken plant pots and statues littered the area. Colourful silk cushions floated on the surface of the pool. Two wooden sun loungers lay in the shallow end, like shipwrecks. Half a dozen servants in uniform were moving quietly through the gloom with brushes and rubbish sacks, careful not to wake the family in their bedrooms above.

There were four grown-up slaves too, thin and ragged in other people's mismatched clothes, scouring the lawns looking for litter on the perfect grass. They were all bent over,
concentrating, but I still turned my face away and made sure to keep my ‘brother' between me and them. If they looked up, they would notice instantly that I wasn't the little girl they knew so well.

A butler explained to a lesser servant, who explained to us, that Karim and I were to work in the spa complex, which was the building still covered in scaffolding. Inside, it was bizarre, with its golden floor, central golden hot tub and ancient-looking arched roof. There were two stained glass windows at either end, which reminded me a little of the windows in Winchelsea Church, except those had pictures of knights and saints, and these had mermaids in shell bikinis.

Apparently Omar Wahool had made the servants fill the hot tub last night so he could impress his friends. It had been drained overnight, but the drainage system wasn't working properly yet and the bottom was still covered with wet shards of broken champagne glasses. The servant told Karim that we were expected to clear the glass up with brushes, then go over the gold mosaic floor with our bare fingers, which were more sensitive to finding the almost-invisible shards.

‘Can you do this?' Karim asked me, once we were alone.

‘Of course.'

He got to work, moving carefully and efficiently across the damp golden floor. I copied him.

‘This reminds me of another party, in England,' he said. ‘There was a competition to drop champagne bottles from the windows. It took many days to clean up the green glass.'

‘Wait – you were in
England
? But England doesn't have . . .' I struggled to get the word out. ‘. . . slaves.'

Karim looked sideways at me. ‘Do you think so?'

I gulped. Frankly, up to a week ago I didn't think anywhere had slaves any more. But then, if they were kept in
hidden-away places, how would I know?

‘You were in London? In the house on Eaton Square?'

He shrugged. ‘A big white house. I do not know the address. We were there for a few months, while the castle was made ready.'

‘How did you get there?'

‘By boat, like you.'

‘And before that? I mean, how did you even get to be a . . .?' I gave up. I couldn't say the word again.

‘I was born this way. It is not a good story. You don't want to know.'

‘I do. Really.'

For a while he didn't speak, concentrating instead on sweeping around him with a dustpan and brush, then going over each area of gold mosaic with his fingers, feeling for slivers of glass. Like mine, his fingertips were already bloody from tiny cuts, but he didn't let it bother him. He seemed more bothered by his stiff and aching back.

‘My family came from an island in the ocean,' he said eventually, stretching painfully. ‘It is beautiful, but the fishing was very bad. My mother was with child. Some men came to offer jobs and my parents went with one of them to Marvalia, far away. He promised them riches, but they were taken to a market and . . . the master found them there.'

He wouldn't catch my eye at this point. I sensed that his parents had been sold at market, like cattle.

‘What happened?'

He paused to remove a sliver of glass from his finger. ‘I was born at the master's house. My father angered him, so he sent him to the copper mines. My mother . . . died while Amina was still small. There was an old servant who was blind and sick. He made the others teach me to read, so I could read to
him from the Qur'an. He taught me the path. But he died on our journey to London. We were hidden on a boat – not the super-boat, a different one. It was very dark. That is why Amina is afraid of the dark.'

‘Oh . . .' I thought of the children, and the darkness, and the body, lying there . . . ‘Karim.'

I didn't know where to look, or what to do or say.

‘How do you do it?' I asked. ‘How do you keep smiling?'

He shrugged. ‘I smile? Do I?' He was smiling as he said it. He couldn't help himself.

We worked on in silence. After a while, he said, ‘I live in my mind. Perhaps that is why I smile. My mind is free. Do you understand this?'

‘No,' I told him truthfully.

‘I can read. The master cannot take that away. Mr Johnson teaches me chess. I watch Mr Omar . . . and learn computers. Sometimes I imagine what I would do if I was the master, with all the money he has. The ruins here were once a chapel. Mr Wahool saw them and made . . . this.' He scornfully indicated the golden spa. ‘I would have made a paradise garden. I would have channels of running water, and fragrant plants, and high walls to shade the man of contemplation from the sun. Also, I would learn to play Beethoven. He is the greatest composer, do you not agree?'

I didn't have much of an opinion on classical composers. Karim was kind of ahead of me on slavery and Beethoven. I loved the idea of the paradise garden, though.

‘And I would defend my sister,' he added fiercely. ‘From everything.'

I was flooded with guilt again, but we were interrupted. The same man who'd brought us here came back to check our progress.

‘Be quick,' he said. ‘I'll bring you some bleach for the . . . stains.' He meant our blood stains on the gold mosaic. ‘We need to get this thing filled up again by lunchtime.'

As soon as he'd gone, I turned to back Karim.

‘How come so many of the staff here are English?'

He gave the ghost of a smile. ‘Mrs Wahool is from England. Also, the French make the best chefs, the master says, and the English make the best servants.'

I glared at him, affronted. This brought out a grin.

‘I didn't think you would like to hear that, Peta Jones.'

Then he put a hand over his lips. He hadn't meant to say my name out loud in this public space. But nobody was around to hear him, and it was good to see his smile.

The tub was slowly refilled while I was sent to sweep up earth from the broken lavender pots by the pool, and Karim went to wait by the family's bedrooms in case one of them woke up and needed anything.

By now the sun was up, and the adult slaves had gone. Beyond the terrace, the sea sparkled in the morning light. The air was buzzy with the sound of motor boats, and thickly scented with lavender. I worked steadily, collecting the pieces of broken earthenware, sweeping up the scattered soil and placing the bare lavender plants along the side of a path, ready to be replanted.

I thought about Karim and his family. Was his father still alive? Yeah. I knew what
that
feeling was like. Or at least, I used to know. Without trying, I was back where I started, with the knife-sharp grief of missing Dad.

A man walked unhurriedly down the path. His beaky nose and square, handsome face looked familiar: it was Mr Johnson, Mr Wahool's security adviser and Karim's chess
partner. He took a moment to stand by a stone balustrade near the pool, looking out to sea. I kept my head down and carried on sweeping. Another man wandered across to him from the guardhouse. I caught the scent of lemon aftershave cutting through the air: Muscle Man.

He passed so close I that could have touched him.
Use the fear, Peta. Use the fear.
Somehow, I carried on with my task mechanically, making myself as small and uninteresting as I could.

Anyway, they ignored me. They stood at the balustrade together, looking out at the
Princess Nazia
, admiring her smooth, clean lines and the crew in their smart white uniforms, getting her ready for the family to use.

‘Eighty million, she cost, plus the refurb,' Muscle Man said. He sounded just as proud of the boat as when he'd described her to the Wicked Queen. ‘She looks good, doesn't she? Biggest boat on the water.'

‘Until the Grandfather comes,' Mr Johnson replied, sounding less than super-impressed.

‘Oh?'

‘Yes. He is bringing his yacht for the party. The
Juno'
s forty metres longer.'

‘Really?' Muscle Man sounded disappointed.

‘
And
she has a helipad,' Mr Johnson added, like it was a competition. I thoughts servants were supposed to be loyal to their masters, but Mr Johnson seemed more interested in the bigger boat.

‘I'm sure you
could
land a helicopter on the
Princess
, if you had to,' Muscle Man said doubtfully, peering out to sea.

‘Where? On the jacuzzi? Also, the
Juno'
s got state-of-theart anti-piracy defences and a submarine.'

‘A
sub
?'

‘Yup, a sub.' Mr Johnson smirked.

Muscle Man sighed. ‘The boss won't be happy.'

I remembered what it was like to be on the biggest boat in the harbour. Even for a stowaway, it had felt a bit special. Being on the
second
biggest boat wouldn't be the same at all. ‘Eighty million plus refurb' obviously wasn't enough these days. Maybe even billionaires envied other, bigger billionaires.

The men turned away from the sea, while I quickly crouched down and fiddled with a broken pot.

‘Oh, and by the way,' Mr Johnson went on, ‘the Grandfather's bringing the Jongleur. He'll be taking over the . . . guest accommodation.'

‘Oh God.'

Muscle Man had stopped in his tracks. His ‘Oh, God' had sounded very serious, like he'd just been told that somebody had died.

‘It has to be done,' Mr Johnson said. ‘Gerry Alard has kept us waiting long enough.'

‘I suppose so.' Muscle Man shivered slightly and they carried on together down the path.

Alard.
Not ‘Allud'.
That
was how Mr Johnson pronounced the name. Why did it sound familiar to me now? And why did it make me think of stone, and cold, and death?

Beyond the balustrade, a guard patrolled the castle wall with a large German Shepherd on a leash. I shivered too, despite the heat. Karim was right: it was time to get out of here.

THIRTY-TWO

A
fter breakfast, the Wahool children left to spend the day on the yacht. They wouldn't be needing the hot tub after all, but that was normal: everything still had to be perfect, just in case. Meanwhile, Amina was told to freshen all Mrs Wahool's summer clothes with a lavender-infused steam machine, so they would be ready for when she got in from Paris tomorrow. We did it together, in the laundry room off the corridor that led to the dungeons. In fact, I did most of it for her, squeezing into a mop cupboard whenever we thought anyone might be coming by.

When we were certain we were alone, I talked to her about leaving the castle. I hadn't changed my mind: I wasn't going
without her, or her brother. I promised that the family had lied about needing papers, and that there were places where she and Karim could go. I wasn't sure what those places were, but I felt certain there were people who would help her. And even if there weren't,
I
would help her. Anywhere I could take her was better than here.

Karim popped in to check on us. He and Amina talked quietly but animatedly together for a long time in their language. Both of them were scared. Both of them were excited. Each seemed to be trying to persuade the other to go with me. Eventually they turned to face me.

‘We do not need papers?' Karim asked.

‘No.'

‘There is safety?'

‘I will find it for you.'

‘You can do this, Peta Jones?'

‘I promise you I can.' If that was what it took to get them out of this place, I would promise.

He swallowed. ‘Then there is much to do.'

I grinned at him. I may not have found my dad, but at least my coming here had been useful for something.

Karim had had an escape plan ready for months, but had just been too scared of the outside world to use it. I convinced him it was less frightening than anything he'd dealt with here. At that he seemed to grow several inches, and the twinkle in his eyes grew brighter.

After the massive laundry session, Amina took me back upstairs, through the tunnels, to find clothes for us to wear after the escape. Karim really had thought this through, but as he'd burnt most of the things I'd brought with me from Rye, we decided we'd just have to borrow something from Yasmin,
who had several cupboards of clothes she no longer used.

It was strange to find myself back in the rose-scented bedroom, so peaceful and quiet. Amina showed me Yasmin's walk-in wardrobe of clothes, which was like the one on the
Princess Nazia
, but mirrored, and five times the size. Inside, there were several drawers of shorts and T-shirts that she no longer used, and that were small enough to fit us – even Karim, who was so thin he could easily fit into a girl's clothes.

I took only the simplest things (Amina couldn't bring herself to take anything at all), but instinct told me to remove as little as possible. The longer Yasmin didn't realise that anything was missing, the better.

While we were there, I sneaked a look at myself in the wall of mirrors. Even though I knew roughly what to expect, it was still a shock. The henna was starting to fade, but my face was still patchy under my black scarf. My arms were worse: orange in some places, brown in others. When I lifted the scarf up, my hair was tangled and filthy. I looked thin and dirty and not so very different from how Karim had seemed to me when I first saw him: a beggar child, a slave girl.

Excellent.

My own mother would struggle to recognise me now.

After lunch, as torpor descended on the castle and everyone tried to shelter from the baking heat of the summer sun, I suddenly thought to tell Karim about the conversation I'd overheard by the pool. I thought the news about the bigger boat would amuse him, and it did.

‘Mr Johnson said the Grandfather's boat has a helipad. And a submarine.'

Karim's eyes glittered. ‘A helipad? For helicopters, yes?'

‘Uh-huh.'

‘And Mr Wahool's boat – she does not have these things?'

‘No.'

His face lit up.

‘He will be
so upset
! He will be
furious
! He will want a new boat immediately!'

‘It almost makes you feel sorry for him.'

A look of cold steel came into Karim's eyes. ‘No. It does not.'

‘Of course. You're right, I'm sorry, Karim. Anyway, I'm glad we're going to be out of here by then. The Grandfather's bringing this person called the Jongleur, and I didn't like the sound of him.'

I wasn't expecting Karim's extreme reaction. His face went grey. ‘The Jongleur?' He had the same note of horror in his voice as Muscle Man.

‘Yes. I think that was it. Is he famous? Why does everyone sound like that when they say his name?'

‘He was the most famous man in Marvalia,' Karim said bleakly. I could make out his heart pumping in his skinny chest. ‘The chief of interrogations. He is . . . a monster.'

‘Oh my God. He's coming for Mr Alard.'

Karim stared dully ahead. ‘If the Jongleur asks you a question, you will tell him anything.' He still looked sick. ‘Nobody survives. Nobody wants to.'

He shut his eyes and I followed his thoughts down, down into the dungeons. The wild man would be cowering in his shackles. They would drag him off to ‘the room where they do these things'. There the Jongleur would be waiting . . . He was already broken. What would they do next?

Karim opened his eyes; we stared at each other.

‘It cannot be,' he said.

‘I know.'