The Wooden Mile by Chris Mould Page B

he was waiting for a baguette to spear him from behind. Or maybe a shower of bread rolls that would rain down and knock him to the ground. He concealed his laughter, but his shoulders were shaking.
    â€œSomeone there, Stanley?” came a familiar voice echoing down the long staircase.
    â€œOnly … Mr. Grouse,” he replied, “brought some fish. I’ll take care of it.”
    Mrs. Carelli was tidily out of the way. Stanley knew she could handle the pirates, but she would scupper his plan. Sure, a right hook with a crusty bread loaf would keep them at bay, but they needed dealing with permanently.
    â€œGood boy, Stanley. We got you well trained, ’aven’t we. Now listen. We needs to ’ave a look around the old place. So keep ’er
upstairs, will yer?” Flynn eyed the room up and down. “Yer great-uncle Bart ‘ad somethin’ that belonged to us and … well, we needs it back.”
    â€œAnd what would that be?” inquired Stanley.
    â€œOh, just a small worthless trinket to be honest, lad. But … yer know, it was my mother’s brooch an’ all that so I’d like to ’ave it back.”
    The three of them were snooping around, eyeing the place over, lifting lids and opening drawers. Stanley hated bad manners. And he knew just how to get their attention.
    â€œPirates don’t usually dress up as old women and threaten folk with knives just to get their mother’s brooch back,” he began. “What you’re after isn’t here, I can assure you.”
    â€œAn’ how would you know that, Buggles?
We knows this place better than you do. Just let us find what we’re after and we’ll be gone. Nobody gets ’urt and it’s all done an dusted. Or if you want we can come back later when everyone’s asleep. We don’t mind.”
    Stanley felt the urge to toy with them for a while. It was safe. He had the answer they needed, so they would have to be careful with him now. He had all three of them in the palm of his hand. They wouldn’t admit that, but they knew it.
    â€œYou know, it’s my favorite breed of bird,” Stanley announced.
    â€œWhat?” asked Timbers.
    â€œThe ibis,” Stanley carried on. “A magnificent wading bird common to many parts of the world. The scarlet ibis is my favorite, though I’ve never actually seen one, except in a boo—”

    That did it. All three turned on him immediately. Timbers’s knife was back in his hand and pointing into the Adam’s apple on Stanley’s neck before he could blink.
    â€œWHERE?” they all said at the same time.
    Stanley slowly drew a deep breath and stared right at them. They backed off, six yellowy eyes staring at him.
    â€œIt isn’t here,” said Stanley.
    â€œLiar,” said Flynn. “Don’t mess with us, Buggles, I ’aven’t paid you back for getting rid o’ my dog yet.”
    Stanley ignored Flynn’s remarks. He took the map from the breast pocket of his shirt.
    â€œEver seen this before?” he asked, knowing full well they hadn’t. “It was Great-uncle Bart’s.”
He held it open, but not near enough for them to scrutinize it. “Kept it under lock and key, he did. Was a long time before I found it. Shows a small island. North-East Needle. Don’t mean anything to me. Could be anywhere.”
    â€œPass it ’ere,” snarled Jones, hobbling forward.
    Stanley held the map over the flames of the fire. “Mister Jones, your manners are appalling.” All three shrieked and jumped forward. He held it there.
    â€œI don’t want your precious Ibis,” said Stanley. “I want you villains away from my property and out of my hair. So be good pirates and do as I tell you, and we’ll all get what we want.”
    Stanley was feeling good, until the edge of the map singed and burnt his finger, and they all laughed at