The Paradise Trap by Catherine Jinks Read Free Book Online Page B

. H E ’ D BEEN RUSHING AROUND SO MUCH that he sank into Coco’s pink golf cart with a sigh of relief. But the golf cart was painfully slow. And Coco refused to accelerate when he asked her to.
    ‘How can we go any faster?’ she rejoined. ‘This place is crawling with people – we’ll crash into someone if I go any faster than this.’
    ‘Yes, we have to be careful, Marcus,’ Holly concurred. ‘There’s a speed limit around here, you know.’
    So they chugged along at a leisurely pace, carefully avoiding old men, mooching seagulls, and toddlers on tricycles. At one point the little white dog jumped down from Marcus’s lap, sniffed at a discarded sandwich wrapper, peed on a car tyre, and jumped back into the golf cart again – all without having to rush.
    ‘We would have got there quicker if we’d walked,’ Marcus complained.
    At last they reached the Bradshaws’ caravan, which looked dirty and battered and surprisingly small. Even next to the golf cart it looked small. And when Marcus squatted down to check for evidence of a cellar staircase, he saw nothing beneath the caravan except dirt, shade, spiders and a squashed styrofoam cup.
    ‘I don’t believe it,’ said Coco. She was sitting behind the wheel of her golf cart, staring in amazement at the grubby little caravan. ‘Isn’t this where Miss Molpe used to live?’
    ‘What?’ Holly frowned at her. ‘What are you talking about?’
    ‘Your caravan,’ Coco replied. ‘It looks exactly like Miss Molpe’s.’
    ‘No, it doesn’t,’ Holly said quickly. Then, after a moment’s hesitation, she added, ‘Who’s Miss Molpe?’
    ‘You know . The old lady who used to play us those gramophone records!’
    ‘Oh! That’s right.’ Holly turned to study the caravan. ‘You really think so?’
    ‘I’m not sure.’ Cocking her head, Coco appeared to be ticking off a mental checklist. ‘Hers was spotless, of course, but it was the same shape . . . with the same blue stripe . . .’
    ‘Come on!’ Marcus urged. He was already hovering on the doorstep. ‘What are you waiting for? We’ve got to hurry!’
    ‘The curtains are different,’ Coco went on, ignoring him. She began to climb out of her golf cart. ‘I remember Miss Molpe’s curtains. They had red flowers on them.’
    ‘Really?’ Startled, Holly raised her eyebrows. ‘I had to replace the old curtains,’ she revealed. ‘They certainly had flowers on them, but the flowers were pink, not red.’
    ‘They could have faded,’ said Coco, teetering towards Marcus. ‘Is it the same layout inside?’
    ‘I don’t know,’ Holly had to confess. ‘I can’t remember much about Miss Molpe’s caravan.’
    ‘Can’t you? Goodness! I remember it so well . It had a sort of banquette with striped seats, and speckled laminex on the table, and frosted glass wall sconces with a painted gold trim . . .’ Coco caught her breath as Marcus opened the door for her. ‘Oh my God!’ she squealed. ‘It is the same place! It must be!’
    ‘But—’
    ‘Except that it never used to smell like this.’ Coco pinched her carefully sculpted nose between her lacquered talons. ‘No offence, but it smells like a septic tank in here.’
    ‘ I think it smells like sweaty gym clothes,’ said Marcus. He had followed Coco across the threshold; his mother was close behind him. ‘The staircase is under that seat,’ he pointed out. ‘Which is why we didn’t spot it, at first.’
    He ushered Holly over to the seat in question, lifting its lid to show her the mysterious cellar. Coco, however, didn’t seem very interested in the cellar. She was gazing around, awestruck. ‘It’s the same one,’ she murmured. ‘I know it is. I remember those cushion covers. And those benchtops. And that funny little oven . . .’
    But Holly wasn’t listening. ‘This can’t be true,’ she croaked, staring down into the dimness. ‘This— this is impossible.’
    ‘I know,’ Marcus said solemnly.
    ‘There can’t be a cellar!’