Black Queen by Michael Morpurgo Page A

orange eyes.
    I was all for climbing over there and then to see if I could find Matey, but my father held me back. We knew there was a Mrs Blume living in Number 22 – Mrs Watson had told us that much – but we hadn’t even seen her yet, let alone met her. “We can’t just go barging in, Billy,” my father said. “We’d better ask first. Someone’ll have to go round to the front door.”
    “I will,” I said. I don’t know why I volunteered, but I did.
    So that was how I found myself going up the steps into the porch of Number 22 that afternoon. It was strange, but somehow I knew even then that once I had pressed that bell I would be starting something I would not be able to stop. I wasn’t frightened exactly, but I was nervous, I admit it. But I could still hear Rula crying. I had no choice. I couldn’t chicken out, not now.
    I heard the bell echoing through the house. I waited, but no-one came. I rang again. Still no-one. I stepped back out of the porch, down a step or two, and looked up. The house looked deserted. But it wasn’t, because I could hear music from inside. All the curtains were closed. Then, in a downstairs window, a curtain shivered – I was sure of it. It wasn’t the only thing shivering, I can tell you. If I’d had any sense at all I’d have just run for it. But for some reason I didn’t. I heard footsteps. I saw a shadow looming closer behind the frosted glass door. I heard bolts grinding back, a key turning in the lock. Slowly, horribly slowly, the door opened.

Chapter 2
    Black Queen

    “WELL?” IT WAS a strange voice, deep and croaky, like no voice I’d heard before. The door had opened only a crack. She wore glasses – that was all I could see of her. “Well, what do you want?”
    “I live next door,” I began. My mouth was so dry I could hardly speak. “I just moved in.”
    “And?”
    “It’s our . . . We wondered if we could climb over into your garden. We lost our—”
    “Football, right?” She sounded American, I thought, and not at all friendly.
    “No,” I said. “It’s a rabbit.”
    “A rabbit! You mean to tell me you’ve got a rabbit that jumped right over the fence into my backyard? That’s some rabbit.” And the croak turned suddenly into a high-pitched chuckle. “What did he do? Pole-vault over? Trampoline? What?”
    As I tried to explain how Matey had tunnelled his way out, the door opened a little wider, just enough for me to be able to see more of her. She seemed to be dressed entirely in a black coat of some kind, and she wore a floppy black hat with a wide brim that shaded her face. But I could see her eyes clearly through her glasses. They were darting about nervously all the time we spoke, at one moment fixing me with a piercing stare, the next looking out beyond me into the street.
    She suddenly seemed in a hurry to get rid of me. “OK, OK,” she said, the door closing again. “Listen, I don’t want you snooping about in my backyard. Not you, not anyone. I’ll go look for the rabbit myself, OK? Now, go on home. Get out of here.”
    I backed away down the steps, and was already out of the gate and in the street when she called me back. “Hey, kid.” She had the door open wider again. “I didn’t mean to get mad at you. It’s the bees. I wouldn’t want you coming into my backyard on account of the bees. Those bees can be real mean. And if they don’t get you, then that grouchy old pussy cat of mine surely will. Rambo doesn’t take kindly to strangers. Bit like me, I guess. Listen, kid, if I find that rabbit of yours, I’ll let you know – that’s a promise.” The door closed.

    I went on home. I just didn’t know what to make of her. One minute she was frightening me half to death, the next laughing herself silly. One moment kind, the next moment nasty.
    We were busy all the rest of that day putting up LOST RABBIT notices on every lamp post, in every shop window, at every bus stop, with our telephone number to call if anyone