Charlie Bone and the Wilderness Wolf. Jenny Nimmo

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      Beside Charlie stood a very tall man with strong, finely chiselled features and straight black hair that almost touched his shoulders. He wore a long, dark coat and the brim of his black hat had been pulled well down, as though to shade his eyes, though there was not the slightest glimmer of sunlight on this murky Saturday afternoon.

      ‘Needs a lot of repair,’ the man remarked, looking at the dark holes where slates had fallen from the roof.

      ‘I wish I could move in right now, Uncle Paton,’ said Charlie.

      ‘You won’t have to wait long,’ said his great-uncle. ‘They’re starting work next week: builders, painters, plumbers and roofers.’

      ‘Let’s have a look.’ Charlie opened the gate and walked up the overgrown path. His uncle followed, jangling a bunch of keys. As they drew closer they noticed a light in one of the lower windows.

      ‘Someone’s in there.’ Charlie ran up to the door. His uncle, only a pace behind, leapt up the steps and fitted one of his keys into the lock. The blue door swung open and Charlie stepped inside.

      A stale, mildewy smell filled the hallway. The floorboards were damp and dusty and strips of ragged wallpaper hung from the dark, stained walls. Charlie trod as lightly as he could, but the bare boards creaked with every step he took. He quickly opened a door to his left and looked into the room where he had seen the light. It was empty. Uncle Paton nodded at a half-open door on the other side of the room. ‘The kitchen,’ he whispered.

      A shuffling sound could be heard. It was difficult to make out where it came from. Charlie sprang across the room, his uncle’s heavy footsteps pounding after him. But the kitchen, too, was empty. A sharp bang sent Charlie bounding through the kitchen and into the passage. The back door swung open, hitting the wall behind it with another loud bang. A blast of cold air hit Charlie as he squinted outside. He was just in time to see two figures slip through a broken fence at the end of the garden.

      ‘Hey!’ cried Charlie, running through a sea of long dried grass and weeds. When he reached the fence he peered into the narrow gap. But the intruders had vanished.

      ‘Could have been tramps.’ Uncle Paton kicked at a pile of newspapers in a corner. ‘Let’s go, Charlie.’

      ‘Can’t I go upstairs?’ begged Charlie. ‘I want to see if I can remember the room where I slept.’

      ‘Go on then.’ Uncle Paton followed Charlie up the stairs. When he reached the top Charlie stood and stared at the two doors in front of him. There were two more leading off a passage to his left, and another on his right. He chose this one.

      ‘You did remember, Charlie!’

      ‘I just guessed,’ said Charlie. He pushed open the door. ‘OH!’

      It was impossible to move any further into the room. Every floorboard had been lifted. Some stood against the walls, others lay scattered on the narrow joists that supported the floor.

      ‘How very odd!’ Uncle Paton peered over Charlie’s shoulder. ‘I didn’t know the builders had started already.’

      They looked in the other rooms. Every one was in the same state: floorboards wrenched up and thrown carelessly into corners or strewn across the thin joists.

      ‘Looks like someone’s been searching for something,’ Charlie remarked.

      ‘A pretty desperate search,’ his uncle agreed. ‘I imagine they did the same downstairs, but re-laid the boards in case anyone looked through the windows.’

      ‘I don’t like to think of strangers coming in and trashing my old home,’ said Charlie.

      As they went downstairs they kept an eye open for any sign that the treads might have been pulled up. And this time they noticed the splintered wood, the nails that had been pulled up, and the slight wobble in the banisters.

      ‘It might be a good idea to change the locks,’ said Uncle Paton, when they were standing in the street again. ‘I’ll tell the agents.’

      They began the walk home to number nine, Filbert Street. Uncle Paton was thinking about the intruders and failed to notice that the street lights had come on. Before Charlie had time to warn him he carelessly glanced upwards and the lamp over his head gave a loud pop and exploded.

      Uncle Paton ducked as a shower of glass rained down on his head. ‘Bother! Bother! Bother!’ he cried. ‘Who’d be a power-booster?’

      Paton Yewbeam, another of the Red King’s descendants, had inherited an unfortunate endowment. If he so much as glanced at a light that was on, whether it was in a window, a house, on the street or at home, the element would reach such intense heat that the bulb inevitably exploded. So Paton rarely left home in the daytime. Traffic lights, brake lights and shop windows were all at risk from his unhappy talent. And he found it very embarrassing.

      This time Uncle Paton’s accident had revealed something. In the bright flash that momentarily filled the street, two figures could be seen cowering beside a hedge. The moment lasted less than a second but their faces were printed sharply in Charlie’s mind. They looked – not quite human.

      Charlie had blinked against the shower of glass that fell on to his uncle. When he opened his eyes again, the figures had vanished.

      ‘Come on, Charlie, let’s get out of here before someone sees us.’ Uncle Paton took Charlie’s arm and pulled him away from the scene of his crime.

      ‘Someone did see us, Uncle P,’ said Charlie. ‘I think it might have been them. You know, the intruders. But they weren’t exactly people. If you know what I mean.’

      ‘I do not.’ Uncle Paton gripped Charlie even tighter. ‘Quick, quick! Over here.’

      Charlie found himself being dragged across the street. A fast-approaching car gave a warning hoot and Uncle Paton hauled him on to the pavement.

      ‘What did you say about not-exactly-people?’ Uncle Paton tugged the brim of his hat. Now even his nose was hidden.

      ‘They were weird, Uncle P,’ Charlie panted. ‘I can’t explain.’

      ‘Try,’ commanded his uncle. ‘I want to know what kind of creatures we’re up against.’

      Uncle Paton set off again at his usual breakneck speed. Charlie had to make little skipping movements in order to keep up with him. ‘It’s not fair,’ Charlie complained. ‘Your legs are twice as long as mine.’

      ‘I want to put distance between myself and the street lamp,’ Uncle Paton snapped. He turned a corner and slowed his pace. ‘Now, try again. What made these things inhuman, Charlie?’

      ‘They were a bit hairy for one thing,’ said Charlie. ‘And their eyes – their eyes, well, I think they were too far apart for a human. They were more like dogs – or, or –’

      ‘Wolves?’ his uncle suggested.

      ‘Maybe,’ Charlie said cautiously. ‘If wolves have yellow eyes.’

      ‘Hmm. Why do I think that the Bloors have СКАЧАТЬ