A Hen in the Wardrobe Read online

  “That’s what he’s missing in England,” sighed Dad.

  “Don’t be silly,” said Mum. “He’d have no teeth by the time he was twelve!”

  “No,” snapped Dad. “Not lollipops! I was talking about family. Family. That’s what he’s missing.”

  “Oh… yes… of course,” stammered Mum. She blinked back a tear and hurried inside.

  Dad scurried after her. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I wasn’t talking about… I mean… I didn’t mean… ”

  “I know,” said Mum.

  Dad took Mum’s face in his hands. “Don’t be sad, Beauty,” he said.

  “I just wish I could’ve given Ramzi a little brother or sister, that’s all,” whispered Mum.

  “Ruby Ramadan,” said Dad firmly. “When will you remember that you’re not in charge of the Universe. Whatever God wills will be.”

  Mum smiled but she still looked sad.

  ***

  Back down on the pavement, Ramzi was crunching on the remains of the lemon-sherbet lolly. It fizzed in his mouth and made his lips tingle.

  Amel was still whispering in her best ‘ghost-telling’ voice and Meccy and Ramzi looked scared.

  “But what does he look like?” asked Ramzi.

  “No one’s ever seen Boulelli’s face,” replied Amel, “but it’s evil and angry and mad.”

  “How come no one’s seen his face?”

  “Ah… that’s because of his long Berber cape. It has a pointed hood that covers his bloodshot eyes.”

  Meccy started to bite his nails.

  “Go on,” said Ramzi.

  “People say that he carries a twisted stick that he shakes at the thundery sky.”

  “But he doesn’t live in town, does he?” Meccy looked nervous.

  “No,” said Amel. “He lives up in the woods. Deep in the forest. Just at the edge of the town. Alone… in the darkness…with dead children’s bones!”

  “RAMZI,” yelled a voice.

  Ramzi leapt out of his skin! But it was just Uncle Kader, driving past in his little yellow car.

  “Can we not talk about Boulelli any more, please?” said Meccy.

  “Good idea,” nodded Ramzi.

  “OK,” shrugged Amel. She passed Ramzi the stones and the snail shells. “Your turn,” she said.

  Ramzi threw a glistening white snail shell high into the air, but it landed on Meccy’s head.

  “Owwww!” cried Meccy. “You’re dangerous.”

  “Sorry,” laughed Ramzi. “It’s my first time.”

  “What?” exclaimed Amel. “Don’t you play snails in Cinnamon Grove?”

  “Never.”

  Meccy looked shocked. “But you must have snails in England. Everybody has snails.”

  “Yeh, ’course,” said Ramzi. “It’s just we don’t throw empty snail shells around.”

  “What do you do with them?” asked Amel.

  “Nothing,” said Ramzi.

  “Nothing!” Meccy gasped. “I’m so glad I don’t live in England,” he said.

  “Me too,” agreed Amel.

  “But it’s really nice,” insisted Ramzi.

  “Don’t worry,” said Meccy, putting his tanned little arm around Ramzi’s shoulders. “You’re with us now.”

  Hamza’s Dare

  It wasn’t long before Ramzi heard Boulelli’s name again. He was drawing Africa on the pavement for his cousins when Mum and Dad came back from the souk.

  “Algeria’s much bigger than that!” laughed Dad as he strode past. He had a long patterned rug over his shoulder and a silver teapot in his hand.

  “Look what I bought,” said Mum. She swished three tangerine-and-emerald-coloured headscarves in front of their noses.

  “They’re lovely,” sighed Amel.

  “Well, in that case, this one’s for you,” smiled Mum. “I’ll give the others to Shaima and Mrs Stalk.”

  “What about me and Meccy?” asked Ramzi.

  “Call me old-fashioned,” laughed Mum, “but you’d look a bit funny in a headscarf.”

  “Mum,” groaned Ramzi.

  “Share these instead,” said Mum. She gave Meccy a bag of salted cashew nuts and Ramzi a bottle of mineral water. Then she followed Dad inside.

  When the heavy metal door had banged shut, Amel looked at Ramzi and said, “What’s the matter with Aunty Ruby?”

  “What d’you mean?” asked Ramzi.

  “Didn’t you notice?” said Amel. “There’s a strange rash across her nose.”

  “There’s not,” said Ramzi, puzzled.

  “There is,” said Meccy. “It’s sort of pale brown and splotchety.”

  Ramzi wrinkled his eyebrows and thought hard. Suddenly he understood. “Oh! You mean her freckles! They always come out in the sunshine.”

  “But will she be all right?” asked Meccy.

  “’Course she’ll be all right! They’re just freckles!”

  Amel looked cross. “Look, Ramzi,” she said. “Aunty Ruby is your Mum. You should look after her. The Prophet – peace be upon him – said: Heaven is at the feet of the Mother. No one is more important.”

  Meccy nodded seriously.

  “I know,” said Ramzi, trying not to laugh, “but freckles aren’t dangerous. Promise.”

  Just then, a tall boy yelled at Ramzi from the end of the street. “OI, YOU!” He was lanky and looked mean and slick – all bones and t-shirt.

  “Just ignore him,” whispered Amel.

  “YEH, YOU,” he shouted again.

  A group of gangly-looking boys came round the corner to join him.

  “What do you want?” asked Ramzi.

  The boy stared at Ramzi hard.

  Ramzi felt his throat dry up. He grabbed the bottle of water by his side and had a swig.

  “Look, brothers,” sneered the boy. “Baby Ramadan can only drink nice clean water. Ours makes him sick.” The boy put a finger in his mouth and pretended to vomit on the floor.

  “Leave him alone, Hamza,” said Meccy.

  “Shut it, shorty.”

  Meccy started to cry.

  “What’s your problem?” asked Ramzi.

  “You,” said the boy. “You’re our problem. Coming here with your flashy trainers and your flashy clothes, thinking you’re something special. Well, you’re not. You’re nothing.”

  The boy kicked Ramzi’s bottle of water high into the air and it jetted out in circles as it spun across the road.

  “I’ll tell my dad,” said Amel.

  “Like I care,” snarled Hamza. “Just tell Baby Ramadan to go back to his own country. We don’t want his sort round here.” Without warning, Hamza pulled some bright-green chewing gum out of his mouth and threw it at Ramzi’s face!

  Ramzi stared at the floor, anger bubbling in his stomach.

  “Go inside, Ramzi,” said Amel. “Get your dad.”

  But Ramzi didn’t move. Not an inch. You see, something like this had happened before. Back in England. It was after football practice. That’s when he’d heard them. “Go back home, Bin Laden. We don’t need Pakis here.”

  Ramzi had crumpled inside. And he’d run away. He’d run until he could hardly breathe. But he wasn’t going to run away now. Not this time.

  “I’m not scared of you,” Ramzi said quietly.

  “Wazzat?” growled Hamza.

  “I said, I’m not scared of you.” Ramzi stood up and tried to look tall.

  Hamza wiped the sweat off his forehead. “Oooh – I’m shaking,” he said.

  But Ramzi felt so angry, he didn’t care what happened. He stuck out his chin and said, “Actually, this is my country just as much as it’s yours.”

  The group of boys sniggered like a pack of hyenas and looked at their leader to see what he’d do.

  Hamza spat on the floor. “Then prove it,” he growled.

  “OK,” said Ramzi. “I will. What do you want me to do?”

  Hamza threw his head back and laughed. Then, very slowly, he wiggled his fingers in the air.
/>   “No!” gasped Amel. “That’s not fair.”

  “Life’s not fair,” hissed Hamza.

  “What? What is it?” asked Ramzi.

  “They want you to visit Boulelli,” said Meccy.

  “Boulelli?” Ramzi’s heart sank. The Spider that lived in the woods? The Spider that was mean and angry and mad? The Spider that ate children?

  “Tomorrow night,” said Hamza. “After Maghreb prayers. Bring me his stick. I’ll be waiting for you....”

  Out of Puff

  It was sunset at the edge of town. The silhouette of the woods stood out like a black cardboard cut-out against the crimson sky.

  “Now, remember,” said Amel, patting Ramzi on the back, “just grab Boulelli’s stick and run. Don’t get caught!”

  Ramzi nodded. He was too out of breath to talk.

  “Please let us come with you,” said Meccy. “You sound all wheezy.”

  “It’s just the hill,” panted Ramzi. “Don’t worry – I’ve got this.” He took his inhaler out of his pocket and sucked hard. It made him feel dizzy and brave.

  Meccy looked impressed.

  “What if someone notices you’re gone?” asked Amel.

  “They won’t. I’ll be home before they get back from the mosque,” said Ramzi.

  “Insha’Allah!” said Amel. “May Allah protect you!”

  Meccy and Amel kissed him on both cheeks and scrambled back down the hill.

  Suddenly, Ramzi felt alone – a tiny dot beneath the vast, star-strewn sky. He traced the twinkling pattern of the Plough with his finger – just like he did when he was at home, looking at the stars from his bedroom window.

  Home. It seemed so far away. How he wished he was in his own room, back in Cinnamon Grove. Not stuck up on a mountain in the darkness. But then he remembered Dad. And the hen. And the fire brigade. And Dr Slight. And then he remembered Hamza and the bullies.

  No. Cinnamon Grove would have to wait. Ramzi took a deep breath, said, “Bismillah!” and disappeared into the forest.

  ***

  The trees grew so close together that Ramzi had to crawl on his hands and knees. Pine needles scratched his skin and hard earth made his knees sore. But he wasn’t going to give up. Not now. He was going to get Boulelli’s stick. That would show them.

  Suddenly the trees stopped and Ramzi fell on to the floor with a THUD. Right in front of him, on the other side of the clearing, was an old rectangular house. The faint light coming from a tiny square window made its sharp edges just visible in the darkness.

  Trembling, Ramzi crept across the clearing and hid behind the cold concrete wall. But how would he find the Spider’s stick? He tried to think of a plan but he couldn’t. The door was shut and the window was too high. So he just waited. Waited and listened until… CREEeeeeak. The door opened.

  Ramzi crouched in the shadows. And that’s when he saw him: Boulelli. He was just like Amel had said. He wore a long, dark Berber cape and a hood that hung over his face.

  Ramzi closed his eyes and prayed that Boulelli wouldn’t see him. “Please, Allah, make me invisible,” he said again and again in his head.

  When he opened his eyes, the figure had gone. Gone into the woods. Ramzi took a deep breath. This was his chance. Without thinking, he crept out of the shadows and pushed open the creaking door. His eyes scanned the dimly lit room. A bed… a curtain…a fireplace… a stick! There, resting against the wall.

  Ramzi rushed over, grabbed it and ran for the door. But the candlelight was weak and Ramzi couldn’t see. He tripped on something. “Arghh!” he yelled as he crashed to the ground.

  “Eshkun? Who is it?” called a voice.

  Ramzi leapt to his feet and stumbled out of the door, leaving the stick behind. It was Boulelli! Boulelli the child-eater! He was coming to get him! Ramzi ran across the clearing until he reached the trees. Then he dived into the darkness of the forest.

  When he was sure that he was safe, Ramzi stopped. Puffing and out of breath, his whole body shook. But he’d done it! He’d been into Boulelli’s house and escaped alive! He didn’t care what Hamza said about the stick. He wasn’t going back. No way.

  He carried on crawling through the forest – among the needles and the dust – but his chest began to hurt. It felt tight and sore – as if wasps had stung him on the inside. He reached for his inhaler but it wasn’t in his pocket! He tried the other pocket…no… it had gone.

  Hurriedly, Ramzi began to retrace his steps. It must have fallen out in the forest. He fumbled on the ground in the darkness. Nothing. Just needles and dust. As he got closer and closer to the clearing, a lump of panic swirled in the pit of his stomach. Perhaps it was in Boulelli’s house? He remembered falling over. What if? Oh no.

  He didn’t want to go back inside the Spider’s trap. He didn’t want to become a pile of bones. But his chest was getting tighter and tighter. He could hardly breathe….There was no choice. Ramzi stumbled into the clearing.

  The Spider’s Prophecy

  By the half light of the moon, a hooded figure found a boy lying on the ground. Boulelli dragged him to his feet and, with great effort, carried him inside.

  “This is it!” thought Ramzi. “He’s going to eat me!”

  Boulelli dropped him on to something soft. Ramzi struggled for breath. He wanted Mum and Dad. He wanted Cinnamon Grove. He wanted to be at home.

  Something cold hit against his teeth. A puff of cold air filled his mouth.

  Ramzi sucked in deeply. Slowly, his chest started to open. The Spider had given him his inhaler! He could breathe again! He opened his eyes and looked around the room. The hooded figure was huddled over the fire… The Spider was smaller than Ramzi had imagined…. He thought about running but he felt too weak.

  Suddenly the Spider turned round.

  Ramzi gasped.

  “I’m not going to hurt you,” Boulleli said.

  “But…but…” stammered Ramzi.

  Boulelli smiled.

  “But… but… you’re not a man!” cried Ramzi.

  “No, I’m not,” laughed the Spider as she pulled back her hood. Long tresses of hair fell about her face, and her eyes smiled kindly in the candlelight.

  Ramzi had never seen anyone so completely and utterly beautiful. “But I thought…” stuttered Ramzi.

  “Everybody does,” said the girl. “Please don’t tell anyone I’m not.”

  “But why…?”

  “It’s a long story,” sighed the girl.

  Ramzi waited, but she said nothing.

  “So if you aren’t Boulelli, then who are you?” he asked.

  “My name is Scheherazade. But shouldn’t I be the one asking the questions? After all, weren’t you trying to steal my stick?”

  “I’m sorry,” said Ramzi. “It’s just that… well… Hamza and his gang dared me.”

  “What? Those bullies,” said Scheherazade. She seemed to know them. Her face tightened with anger. “They made my dad’s life miserable.”

  “Your dad?” asked Ramzi, confused.

  “Yeh – they called him Boulelli.”

  “But I thought Boulelli was mad. I thought he hunted children?”

  Scheherazade huffed and stared into the fire. “No. Children hunted Boulelli,” she said. “Hamza and his horrible friends used to throw stones at him. Can you believe that? Dad just waved his stick to try to scare them away.”

  Ramzi suddenly felt ashamed of himself.

  “That’s awful,” he said. “I’m really sorry. I didn’t know.”

  “That’s OK,” smiled Scheherazade.

  While they were talking, a lovely, sleepy smell filled the room. Scheherazade took an old kettle that hung above the fire and poured out two cups of a dark, steaming, green liquid.

  “Have some tisane,” she said. “It will help your chest.”

  Ramzi took a deep sip. It tasted of all the wonderful things he couldn’t name.

  “Why were they so mean to your dad?” he asked.

  “He was different,
I s’pose. People didn’t understand him. That’s why he moved up here.”

  “And you came with him?” asked Ramzi.

  “No. Not at first. I stayed with an aunt in town. But then Dad got sick. I couldn’t bear for him to be alone. And now he’s gone. Well…” She paused. “I like it here.”

  “Where’s he gone?” asked Ramzi.

  Scheherazade looked upwards.

  “Oh! Sorry!” blurted out Ramzi.

  Scheherazade said nothing.

  The silence filled with questions. There was so much Ramzi wanted to know. Why was a beautiful girl living all alone? And why did she pretend to be Boulelli? And why did people say Boulelli was mad?

  “What was so different about your dad?” he said at last.

  Scheherazade sighed. “I think it was the war. I think it damaged him inside. You know… when the French were here. Whenever he heard planes, he thought the bombs were coming again. It made him act strange. And, well, he thought…” She blushed. “He thought he had a special gift: that he knew the secrets of the future.” Tears began to flow from her eyes. “I wish he was still here,” she cried.

  Ramzi didn’t know what to say. He just wanted to make her feel better. The words came out of his mouth before he had time to think

  “My dad acts weird too,” he said.

  Scheherazade looked surprised. “What does he do?” she asked.

  “He sleepwalks. Climbs trees in his pyjamas. That sort of thing.”

  Scheherazade raised her eyebrows and smiled.

  “It’s not that bad,” said Ramzi. “He doesn’t think there’s a war still on or anything. And children don’t throw stones at him. But it does make him really unhappy. And he doesn’t want to go back. To England, I mean.”

  “Hang on a minute!” exclaimed Scheherazade. She plonked her tisane on the floor, jumped up and disappeared behind an old grey curtain that divided the room. Ramzi could hear the rustling of paper. Then Scheherazade flung open the curtain – a big, brown leather book in her hands.

  “What are you doing?” asked Ramzi.

  “My dad! My dad!” she cried excitedly. “He wasn’t mad! He could tell the future. He told me you were going to come. It’s all written here!”