The Fabulous Phartlehorn Affair Page 8

  Her eyes roved around the assembly hall like laser beams, and she allowed them to rest on each parent in turn.

  “Would anyone like to confess to such a talent in their child?”

  Gregor and Daria Oblonsky sunk even further down inside their coats. Mr and Mrs Maldewicks stared up at the ceiling. The Chalks looked at each other in confusion. The Messiah Browns were too busy arguing to answer. “Pop goes the stinker! Pop goes the stinker!” declared Chippy, flapping her wings.

  Grandpa Trevor slowly raised his hand. “My grandson Bruno,” he announced proudly, “is perhaps the most prodigious parper the world has ever seen.”

  The other parents glared. So it was this elderly seaman’s fault that their children had been kidnapped! How dare such a penniless nobody send his grandson to the same school as their precious progeny?

  Mr Oblonsky turned to Grandpa Trevor and blew out a ring of smoke. It hung like a noose in the air. “Just you wait till Agent Frogmarch finds that boy. Why, I’ll make him wish he’d never been rescued.”

  Mrs Chalk looked suddenly hopeful. “Agent Frogmarch,” she said, “you will find our children, won’t you? They did rescue the other missing children … didn’t they?”

  A shadow fell across the craggy plains of Agent Frogmarch’s face. She snapped shut her bulletproof suitcase, then descended from the stage. “It is my sad duty to report that in fact none of these children have ever been found.” She paused in the doorway. “Actually, that’s not entirely true. We have found bits of them. But we’ve never found a whole one.”

  The assembly hall doors banged shut behind her.

  Grandpa Trevor stepped out through the St Ermingarda’s school gates and into a blaze of flash photography. Paparazzi: all fighting for a shot of the world-famous pop diva Shakti Messiah Brown in her hour of personal tragedy. The glossy magazines would pay thousands for a picture.

  Gregor Oblonsky stormed into the scrum of reporters. He grabbed an unsuspecting cameraman by his shirt collar and wrenched him out from the crowd. The cameraman’s eyes bulged in fear.

  “You want an exclusive?” demanded the billionaire. “Then film this, you pathetic little parasite!”

  Terrified, the cameraman pressed record.

  “This is a message to my daughter’s kidnapper,” puffed Gregor Oblonsky. “I don’t give a boiled beetroot about your musical mania. This year you have picked the wrong parent to mess with. To anyone who can help bring about the safe return of my beloved Natasha, I offer five million pounds. To anyone who hurts a hair on her head, I promise a lifetime of punishment and pain.”

  With that, the Russian oil baron crunched the end of his cigar beneath his boot and stomped off towards his chauffeur.

  “Gregor,” bayed the photographers, knowing it would annoy him if they used his first name. “Tell us more about your missing daughter. Daria, do you have any reason to believe Natasha is still alive?”

  But it was too late. The Oblonskys were already gliding away in their black Phantom Rolls Royce.

  Now the other parents jostled to make their own appeals to camera. As you know, St Ermingarda’s was a highly exclusive establishment. The parents of Bruno’s classmates were not short of cash to splash on kidnapped children. Soon the reward fund had topped ten million pounds.

  Grandpa Trevor stood alone on the pavement. In his rush to get to the meeting he had forgotten his umbrella. Raindrops trickled down his bald head, mingling with the tears that streaked his cheeks. Chippy was perched on a nearby lamp post, her feathers wet and bedraggled.

  A little way off, Mrs Chalk was rocking her baby to sleep under the shelter of its waterproof pushchair cover. Noticing the old man’s distress, she waggled her large rainbow-striped umbrella, motioning for him to step in out of the wet.

  “No fun being here on your own, is it?” she said with a kindly smile. “My husband’s had to go back to work. Why don’t you and the parrot come home with Georgie and me? I’ll make up the sofa bed and warm through a bit of chicken soup. People should stick together at a time like this.”

  Grandpa Trevor didn’t want to intrude, but the thought of another night alone on a cold and leaky boat without Bruno was hard to face.

  “Thank you,” he said. “That’s very kind.”

  “Home is where the heart is,” warbled Chippy, swooping down to join them. “Home is where the heart is.” “Not without Bruno it’s not,” said Grandpa Trevor with a sigh.

  19

  Phartesia’s Next Top Trumper

  The children stood in a line at the back of the stage, dressed in their matching black-and-white suits. Lunch had been another helping of Stunkenstew. By now the side effects of a traditional Phartesian diet were becoming all too apparent. The faint stirring that Bruno had felt at breakfast had morphed into a violent rumbling. He could hear his stomach gurgling like an over-excited jacuzzi, and the waistband of his trousers had grown uncomfortably tight.

  Bruno looked anxiously at the other children. It seemed he wasn’t the only one experiencing these symptoms.

  “Your belly’s as big as a football!” jeered Humbert and poked Natasha in the tummy.

  “Well, so’s yours,” she said, poking him right back.

  Grace was looking a little queasy.

  “Are you OK?” whispered Bruno.

  She shook her head. “I feel ridiculous.”

  “I thought you said you liked the idea of musical parping?”

  “I do,” she replied defensively. “I just wasn’t planning on making a career out of it.”

  Bruno sighed and turned away. There was just no pleasing some people. Up in the Royal Box, the countess was taking a seat between her father and Monsieur Zidler. The thought of having to audition in front of such a talented musician made Bruno panic. After all those years spent practising in his bathroom, his whole future now rested on this one performance.

  The duke rose to his feet. “I can sense you are all close to bursting with nerves… Well, f-f-fear not. While there can be only one solo phartiste, you shall all have the chance to give an explosive performance at the concert!”

  The knights, who usually remained so expressionless, began to snigger. What was it they found so amusing? Bruno wondered.

  The duke waited for the noise to die down. “At today’s audition you shall not be required to play a phartlehorn. Instead you must simply demonstrate the f-f-force of your personal instrument.”

  Natasha tapped her foot, pouting. When this failed to provoke any response, she reluctantly raised her hand.

  “Yes, what is it?” snapped the duke.

  “Do you mean, Your Highness, that you want us to —” she looked as if she had swigged from a carton of sour milk “— fart?”

  The duke let out a scandalized gasp. “That is not a word we like to use here in Phartesia,” he sniffed. “Vulgar people may use that term. I prefer to refer to the exquisite emanations of the human derrière as phartling.”

  “But doesn’t it stink?” asked Humbert, disgusted.

  “Only an uncultured imbecile would f-f-feel that way,” said the duke witheringly. Bruno Pockley, as you were the one the Trumpenhund f-f-first sniffed out, we’ll save your audition till last. Natasha, since you seem so confident in speaking up, perhaps you’d like to begin.”

  Natasha paled.

  “Just express everything you feel welling up inside,” encouraged the countess in her gentle, lilting voice.

  “On the count of three.” The duke beat time with a baton. “One … two … three!”

  Natasha pursed her mouth, then bent into an elegant plié. Wheeeshhh! The air sailed out of her in a high-pitched wail then pinged around the marble walls of the theatre, tinkling against the crystal baubles of the chandelier. It smelt sharp, like swimming pools, and strangely metallic, as if she had been sucking on money.

  “Bravo,” cried the duke, “a most excellent way to commence!”

  “What an original style!” praised his daughter.

  Monsieur Zidler
put a tick by Natasha’s name in his notes.

  “A clear contender for the solo phartiste,” proclaimed the duke. “Now, who’s next?”

  Humbert pushed his way to the front. “Forget these amateurs,” he shouted up at the Royal Box. “Wait till you hear what a true musical prodigy has to offer.”

  Humbert assumed the position. The duke swept down with his baton. The knights held their breath.

  A low hiss, like a saucepan boiling over, rattled around the theatre. After a while the hiss became a reedy warble, as if someone was gently blowing over a milk bottle. There was a faint smell of sulphur in the air.

  Monsieur Zidler, the duke and his daughter looked unimpressed.

  “Hardly what I’d call a natural talent,” said the countess. “Whatever were you thinking, Monsieur Zidler?”

  “Next!” screeched the duke.

  Humbert clenched his fists. “You cannot be serious! That was just a warm-up! It’s not fair! I was just tuning my instrument!”

  “A total disgrace!” pronounced Monsieur Zidler.

  Humbert stormed off the stage.

  Xanadu volunteered to take his turn next. The duke leant forward in his seat as he strutted across the stage. Here was a child who demanded to be looked at.

  “Everybody Get Down!” cried Xanadu. Bruno looked on in amazement as the child star broke into an elaborate body-popping routine. He kinked his neck from side to side like a cobra. He tucked himself up into a ball and spun round on the floor. He arched his back into a bridge. He jumped up and did the splits. Then, finally, he let rip. A three-tone gospel guff sang out through the hall.

  The audience went wild. There was dancing in the aisles. The knights’ moustaches wiggled and jiggled to the rhythmic reverberations. Xanadu sprang into a celebratory Brazilian Bonk Flip.

  Bruno felt another surge of nerves, and something which might well have been jealousy. The competition was proving tougher than he’d expected.

  “I think this boy could be the future of phartistry!” exclaimed the countess.

  “My, oh my!” The duke whistled. “I do f-f-feel sorry for whoever’s next. Who is it? Ah yes, Grace Chalk.”

  Bruno watched his friend march to the front of the stage. How small she looked, alone in the spotlight. And yet her face was set into an expression of pure determination. Grace might not like the idea of becoming a famous phartiste. But she sure as heck didn’t want to be beaten by Natasha or Xanadu.

  At the duke’s count, Grace focused her sights on victory and blew out as hard as she could.

  Boom! Boom! Boom!

  The force of the explosion took everybody by surprise. The audience gasped as Grace stumbled backwards. Bruno looked on in horror as she lay motionless on the floor. Then she opened her eyes and burst out laughing.

  “That was fun!” she exclaimed.

  Monsieur Zidler, the duke and his daughter, and two hundred knights leapt to their feet in a standing ovation.

  “Such a tiny girl! With such a powerful instrument!” the countess cried.

  “Our new solo phartiste!” proclaimed the duke. “Surely no one can better that!”

  Monsieur Zidler turned to the duke with a fawning smile. “Aren’t you forgetting something, Your Highness? We still have to hear from Bruno.”

  The duke frowned. “Very well,” he said. “I suppose we must give the boy a chance.”

  Bruno stepped to the front of the stage. Two hundred knights stared up at him. The sight of all those bristling moustaches chilled him to the bone. So this was what stage fright felt like. A sickening panic that left your head reeling and your lungs gasping for air. Bruno closed his eyes and tried to imagine he was back in the dank bathroom of The Jolly Codger.

  The duke counted to three. Bruno sucked in his tummy muscles, then breathed out as hard as he could.

  Nothing.

  He squeezed harder.

  Still nothing.

  He squeezed harder still.

  But it was no use. Not a whiff of a whistle, not a peep of a parp. The knights began to jeer. Bruno squeezed until his face was crimson. He squeezed until his eyes were pricked with tears. At last he felt the air start to move inside him. Squelch followed raspberry followed squelch. It sounded like the death throes of an aged hippopotamus. A stench, as stagnant as old flower water left to fester in the vase, skulked down from the stage.

  “Eewk,” squealed the duke. “How deliciously disgusting!”

  “But not what I’d call an impressive noise,” said the countess. “All in all a great disappointment! Zidler, that dog of yours must have a blocked nose. This boy will never make a solo phartiste.”

  Monsieur Zidler looked sheepishly down at the floor. What could he say? The boy was an utter let-down.

  Bruno was furious with himself. He’d blown his one chance to impress. Or rather he hadn’t. That was the problem.

  The duke and his daughter huddled together, whispering. It took less than twenty seconds for them to reach a decision. The duke rose to his feet.

  “Phartesia’s next top trumper shall be…” The knights were on the edge of their seats. “Grace Chalk!”

  The applause from the theatre was thunderous. Over and over, the knights chanted Grace’s name. She responded with a shy smile.

  Bruno felt sick with envy. It was so unfair. Grace didn’t even want to be famous. It should have been his name they were chanting, not hers. The duke waved his baton for quiet.

  “Natasha and Xanadu shall also receive prominent parts in the concert. Over the next two days I shall personally supervise the tuition of the talented trumpers. Everything I know about phartistry I shall teach you.”

  The Countess Strudel pointed at Humbert and Bruno. “The two remedial parpers will receive tuition from me.”

  Bruno felt a small wave of relief. There was at least a glimmer of silver lining poking out from beneath the dark clouds of his disgrace.

  20

  A Spot of Telly

  While the duke was delighted with how the auditions had gone, he was nonetheless exhausted by the day’s excitements. He retired to the Royal Chamber at sunset, ordering the children to have an early night. As always, the trusty moustache-bearers accompanied him to his dressing table. There they set the Royal Moustache in heated curlers before leaving their master alone with his thoughts.

  As he sat in front of the mirror and wiped off his make-up, the duke reflected on the emotional rollercoaster of the past few weeks. The strain was clearly visible on his face. Beneath the heavy white powder, his eye sockets were dark and his skin was threaded with crimson veins. All those nights he’d lain awake worrying that, this year, Monsieur Zidler might fail to find any children talented enough to set the stage alight at the annual concert. Now, here they were with the most exciting line-up they’d had in decades. He should have had more faith in the man. It was not as though Zachary Zidler had ever let him down before.

  The duke slipped on his monogrammed dressing gown and clambered into bed to watch a bit of telly. He flicked lazily between channels, finally settling on the BBC News round-up. There was nothing that he enjoyed more at the end of the day than a large helping of other people’s misery. Tonight’s bulletin did not disappoint. First up was a report on a high-street bank that had just gone bust. Thousands of people were going to be forced to sell their homes. So what? thought the duke. The world would always need poor people. How else were rich people supposed to find servants?

  Next, the screen was filled with the image of a famous pop star sobbing into a microphone. The duke turned the volume up. Now this looked interesting…

  “For more on the mystery of the missing English schoolchildren,” announced the presenter, “we are returning to St Ermingarda’s School for Exemplary Young People, where earlier today international singing sensation Shakti Messiah Brown made this emotional statement to the press.”

  Shakti Messiah Brown looked up into the camera like a wounded deer. Propped against his pile of silken pillows, the duke felt un
comfortably like she was fluttering her eyelashes directly at him.

  “I would like to express gratitude to the police officers who are searching so tirelessly for our missing children,” she said. “But most importantly, I would like to make an appeal to my fans. Help me to find my Xanadu and I will give you front-row tickets and backstage passes to all my concerts, plus signed T-shirts and limited-edition posters.”

  This news was met with a collective gasp from the press. Tickets to Shakti’s concerts were like gold dust. Her fans would stop at nothing to get their hands on them.

  The screen was filled with images of Xanadu, set to a compilation of his mother’s most tear-jerking ballads. It began with a picture of her picking him up from the orphanage in Cambodia. Here he was modelling his first pair of sunglasses and sucking on his award for Most Talented Baby in Britain. The video ended with a clip from his TV show and a number to call with information.

  The duke sat bolt upright in his bed. His blood ran cold in his veins. This was the boy who had performed so confidently at the auditions that afternoon! Xanadu was the son of a famous pop star? He’d even had his own TV show? Whatever had Monsieur Zidler been thinking of, kidnapping him?

  Furious, he clanged the bell for his butler. “Jobsworth!” he screeched. “Summon my moustache-bearers and the Grand Council of the Knights Trumplar! Have Monsieur Zidler escorted to the Council Chamber!”

  “Certainly, Your Highness,” said Jobsworth, who had appeared, as if by magic, at his master’s bedside. “Consider it done.”

  The duke was not the only one watching the BBC News broadcast. In a small terraced house in an unremarkable corner of South London, Grandpa Trevor and the Chalks also had their television on. As they listened to the other parents promising eye-wateringly large amounts of ransom, they felt helpless and inadequate. What did they have to offer in exchange for the safe return of their loved ones, save everlasting gratitude? Somehow they doubted the kidnappers would be interested in that.