Take Your Last Breath. Lauren Child

– I’ve done my advanced training and I’m all set for nearly any underwater mission Spectrum choose to send me on.’

      ‘So your next mission will be underwater?’ Clancy shuddered.

      ‘Well, I would hope so,’ said Ruby. ‘I’m gonna look pretty dumb in scuba gear anyplace else.’

      ‘So you aren’t trained up for anything other than diving?’ said Clancy.

      ‘Give me a break Clance, I’ve only been in training a month – I guess I’ll be covering other things soon. I mean I’m not sure when they’re gonna teach me skydiving, but I imagine jumping out of a plane is off limits until they have.’

      Clancy fanned his face with the comic he had been reading. ‘Boy! Am I burning up.’

      Ruby looked at him sitting under the giant parasol, his feet in a bucket of cold water, a glass of iced lemonade to one side of his sunlounger.

      Just about her whole life Ruby had had to put up with her friend’s complaints about being too hot, being too cold, not being just right; Clancy was a regular Goldilocks. He seemed to have been born without a thermostat.

      ‘What’s wrong with you?’

      ‘Can we please go indoors?’ he whined.

      Ruby rolled her eyes heavenwards and struggled up from her very relaxed deckchair.

      ‘OK, OK, let’s go watch some TV before you evaporate,’ she said. ‘At least it might take your mind off your ocean fears for five minutes.’

      But, as Ruby would be the first to point out: RULE 1: YOU CAN NEVER BE COMPLETELY SURE WHAT MIGHT HAPPEN NEXT. As it happened, Clancy’s ocean fears were about to get a lot bigger…

      RUBY LIFTED THE HATCH ON THE ROOF and, barefoot, the two of them made their way down the open-tread staircase to Ruby’s room. It was perfectly cool in the house. Bug, the Redfort husky, was sleeping on the large beanbag that sat in the centre of Ruby’s bedroom. He pricked up his ears when he heard Ruby and Clancy’s footsteps and decided to follow them to the kitchen. There was a good chance someone might drop a cookie on the floor and Bug was quick. There was no chance of Mrs Digby sweeping it up before he had got to it.

      Ruby and Clancy padded into the kitchen, drunk from the sun and exhausted from doing nothing. The transistor on the counter was tuned to Twinford Talk Radio and was blaring out some news story about Twinford City Square. Mrs Digby always had the set turned up too loud because she was a little hard of hearing – though she claimed it was ‘’cause those radio folk always mumble’.

      ‘SO KELLY, HAVE YOU SEEN THOSE GULLS IN TWINFORD SQUARE? CREATING QUITE A RUMPUS I BELIEVE.’ ‘YOU’RE NOT WRONG THERE BOBBY. I CAN’T SAY I’VE SEEN THEM, BUT I’VE CERTAINLY HEARD THEM! NO ONE CAN FIGURE OUT JUST WHAT HAS BROUGHT SO MANY SEAGULLS INTO THE CITY CENTRE, PERHAPS IT’S THE UNUSUALLY SCORCHING WEATHER. BACK TO YOU BOBBY.’ ‘THANKS FOR THAT INSIGHT KELLY. MOVING ON TO ANOTHER ANIMAL-RELATED STORY, SEVEN DOLPHINS WERE DISCOVERED IN TWINFORD HARBOUR THIS MORNING AND DESPITE ALL BEST EFFORTS FROM THE AQUATIC RESCUE TEAM, THEY SEEM TO BE REFUSING TO MOVE ON.’

      Clancy grimaced.

      ‘What’s with the face?’ said Ruby.

      ‘Dolphins,’ said Clancy.

      ‘What have you got against dolphins? Everyone likes dolphins. What makes you such an individual?’

      ‘Just don’t trust them,’ said Clancy.

      ‘Oh Clance, don’t tell me you’re scared of them – no one’s scared of dolphins.’

      ‘I am,’ said Clancy firmly.

      ‘Why?’ said Ruby. ‘What possible reason could you have for being scared of a dolphin?’

      ‘For the following reason: I could be out swimming one day and spot what I think is a dolphin, and get lulled into a false sense of security only to find out it’s actually a shark.’ Just a month ago Clancy had been waiting at the dentist’s office, killing time leafing through the old magazines, when he had stumbled across a story about a man who had unfortunately mistaken a shark for a dolphin – the consequences didn’t bear thinking about, but Clancy couldn’t stop thinking about them.

      ‘And how is that the dolphin’s fault?’ asked Ruby.

      ‘It’s got a fin,’ said Clancy, folding his arms. ‘They make themselves look like sharks.’

      ‘The fin shape is totally different,’ said Ruby. ‘Look in any encyclopedia and you’ll see.’

      ‘Oh yeah, I’ll remember to do that next time I’m swimming along.’

      ‘Well, you know what Clance? It’s never gonna be a mistake you get to make because you’re never gonna be swimming along; you never go anywhere near what might or might not be a shark. You never even paddle!’

      Mrs Digby emerged from the pantry where she had been lining up canned food in alphabetical order. The Redfort housekeeper liked to run a tight ship (as she put it) and keep an A–Z larder.

      ‘Hi Mrs Digby,’ said Clancy.

      Mrs Digby put her hands on her hips. ‘Well, howdy, and what can I do for you? Since I don’t imagine either of you have come in here to volunteer for potato peeling. Am I right or am I right?’

      ‘Just wondering if you might have some kinda snacky type of a thing up your sleeve?’ said Ruby, her eyes all big and innocent.

      The old lady clucked her tongue, pretending to disapprove, but actually loving nothing better than preparing food for Ruby and her friends – they were always so appreciative.

      Mrs Digby had known Ruby since Ruby was a minute old and there was nothing she wouldn’t do for her. Not that she was any kind of pushover – she was most definitely not. One tough old bird in fact. Only a month ago she had been accidentally kidnapped during a robbery, but it was like water off a duck’s back to Mrs Digby.

      ‘Been through a whole lot worse during my long and mainly miserable life,’ was all she had said about the incident. Mrs Digby always described her life as miserable though in fact this was not the case, certainly not for the past fifty years anyway.

      The housekeeper set about making what she called ‘a Digby Club’, which was actually just a regular club sandwich, but with her own home-made mustard mayonnaise, and topped off with a gherkin. For some reason it tasted a whole lot better than any other club sandwich that you might ever have tasted and anybody who ate one never forgot it.

      ‘By the way,’ she said, pulling something from her apron pocket, ‘I found that watch of yours on the front stoop; you oughta be more careful with your possessions child, or you’ll have nothing left to call your own.’

      ‘Darn it!’ said Ruby. ‘The clasp is all bent so it keeps coming loose. I told them to fix it.’

      ‘Told who?’ asked the housekeeper.

      ‘Um… the fixers,’ said Ruby. She was being cagey because this watch was no ordinary watch; it was a Spectrum-issue Escape watch (also known to agents as the Rescue watch) and had once belonged to the wonder kid, Bradley Baker. It was a clever piece of kit: it looked like nothing more than a child’s watch, but this timepiece, though old and not the latest in terms of spy gear, was still a gadget to be reckoned with. It had saved more than a few lives in its time. It had a brightly striped strap and an interesting clasp. The second hand was a fly and the watch face itself was coloured enamel, painted with cartoon eyes. The eyes followed the hands as they ticked tirelessly round. Spectrum had repaired the malfunctioning rescue features, but had neglected to fix the faulty clasp so it was always coming loose.

      Ruby took the watch and fastened it round her wrist, making sure that the clasp clicked home.

      ‘Well,’