The Indian in the Cupboard Complete Collection. Lynne Banks Reid

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      “So you did,” said Adiel in triumph.

      “I did not!”

      “You’re red in the face – that’s proof you’re guilty!”

      “I swear!” said Omri.

      “They’re probably under your bed,” said their mother to Adiel. “Go up and have a look.”

      “I have looked! I’ve looked everywhere.”

      “Oh, my God, it’s starting to hail now,” said their father despairingly. “So much for the apple blossom.”

      Under cover of the moans that went up about the prospect of no apples in the autumn, and the exclamations about the size of the hailstones, Omri slipped his coat on and ran through the bouncing ice-lumps to school. On the way he stopped under a protecting yew tree and took the little men out. He showed them each a large hailstone, which, to them, was the size of a football.

      “Now, when we get to school,” said Omri, “you must lie very still and quiet in my pockets. I’m putting you in separate ones because I can’t risk any fighting or quarrelling. If you’re seen I don’t know what will happen.”

      “Danger?” asked Little Bull, his eyes gleaming.

      “Yes. Not of death so much. You might be taken away from me. Then you’d never get back to your own time.”

      “You mean we’d never wake up outa this here drunken dream,” said Boone.

      But Little Bull was staring at him very thoughtfully. “Own time,” he said musingly. “Very strange magic.”

      Omri had never arrived at school with more apprehension in his heart, not even on spelling-test days. And yet he was excited too. Once he had taken a white mouse to school in his blazer pocket. He’d planned to do all sorts of fiendish things with it, like putting it up his teacher’s trouser leg (he had had a man teacher then) or down the back of a girl’s neck, or just putting it on the floor and letting it run around and throw the whole class into chaos. (He hadn’t actually dared do anything with it except let it peep out and make his neighbours giggle.) This time he had no such plans. All he was hoping was that he could get through the day without anybody finding out what he had in his pockets.

      Patrick was waiting for him at the school gate.

      “Have you got him?”

      “Yes.”

      His eyes lit up. “Give! I want him.”

      “All right,” said Omri. “But you have to promise that you won’t show him to anybody.”

      Omri reached into his right-hand pocket, closed his fingers gently round Boone, and passed him into Patrick’s hand.

      The moment he’d let go of him, things started to happen.

      A particularly nasty little girl called April, who had been playing across the playground at the moment of the transaction, was at Patrick’s side about two seconds later.

      “What’ve you got there then, what did he give you?” she asked in her raucous voice like a crow’s.

      Patrick flushed red. “Nothing! Push off!” he said.

      At once April pointed her witchy finger at him. “Look at Patrick blu-shing, look at Patrick blu-shing!” she squawked. Several other children speedily arrived on the scene and soon Patrick and Omri found themselves surrounded.

      “What’s he got? Bet it’s something horrid!”

      “Bet it’s a slimy toad!”

      “A little wriggly worm, more like.”

      “A beetle!”

      “Like him!”

      Omri felt his blood begin to get hot in his head. He longed to bash them all one by one, or better still, all at once – Bruce Lee, knocking down hordes of enemies like skittles. He imagined them all rolling backwards down a long wide flight of steps, in waves, bowled over by his flashing fist and flying feet.

      The best he could manage in reality, though, was to lower his head and, keeping his hand cupped stiffly over his left pocket, barge through the chanting circle. He caught one of them a good butt in the stomach which was rather satisfying. Patrick was hot on his heels, and they belted across the playground and in through the double doors, which fortunately had just been opened.

      Once inside, they were relatively safe. There were teachers all over the place, and any kind of fighting or taunting, above a sly pinch or a snide whisper, was out. Patrick and Omri slowed to a walk, went to their places and sat down, trying to look perfectly calm and ordinary so as not to attract their teacher’s attention. Their breathing gave them away, though.

      “Well, you two, what are you puffing about? Been running?”

      They glanced at each other and nodded.

      “So long as you’ve not been fighting,” she said, giving them a sharp look. She always behaved as if a little fight was a long step along the road to hell.

      Neither of the boys got much work done during the morning. They couldn’t concentrate. Each of them was too aware of the passenger in his pocket. Both Little Bull and Boone were restless, particularly Little Bull. Boone was naturally lazier; he kept dozing off in the dark, and then waking with a little jump that made Patrick very nervous. But Little Bull was scrambling about the whole time.

      It was during the third period – when they were all in the main hall listening to the headmaster, whose name was Mr Johnson, announcing plans for the end-of-year show – that Little Bull got really sick and tired of being imprisoned, and started to take drastic action.

      The first thing Omri knew was a sharp prick in his hip, as if an insect had stung him. For a moment he was silly enough to think an ant or even a wasp had somehow got into his clothes, and he only just stopped himself from slapping his hand instinctively against his side to squash it. Then there came another jab, sharper than the first, sharp enough in fact to make Omri let out a short yelp.

      “Who did that?” asked Mr Johnson irritably.

      Omri didn’t answer, but the girls sitting near him began giggling and staring.

      “Was that you, Omri?”

      “Yes. I’m sorry, something stuck into me.”

      “Patrick! Did you stick a pencil into Omri?” (Such a thing was not unknown during assemblies when they were bored.)

      “No Mr Johnson.”

      “Well, be quiet when I’m talking!”

      Another jab, and this time Little Bull meant business and kept his knife embedded. Omri shouted “Ouch!” and jumped to his feet.

      “Omri! Patrick! Leave the hall!”

      “But СКАЧАТЬ