Charlie Bone and the Shadow of Badlock. Jenny Nimmo

house, ‘Diamond Corner’, had been restored.

      There began a succession of bangs, scrapings and irritated exclamations as the painting was presumably carried down into the cellar. Finally, the cellar door was shut and, after more discussions, bangs and clicks, Grandma Bone, her two sisters and Eric left the house.

      Charlie waited in his room until he heard everyone bundle into Great Aunt Eustacia’s car. Then, with much mis-firing and a painful scraping of gears, the old Ford lurched down the street.

      After another five minutes had passed, Charlie slipped out of his room and ran downstairs. When he reached the cellar he found that the door had been locked. Luckily, Charlie knew where all the keys were kept. He went into the kitchen and pulled a chair up to the dresser. Standing on tiptoe, he reached for a large blue jug patterned with golden fishes.

      ‘And what might you be up to?’ said a voice.

      Charlie hesitated. The chair wobbled. Charlie uttered a shaky yelp and steadied himself. He hadn’t noticed Grandma Maisie folding the washing in a corner.

      ‘Maisie, are you spying on me?’ asked Charlie.

      Maisie straightened up. ‘I’ve got better things to do, young man.’

      Charlie’s other grandmother was the very opposite of Grandma Bone. Maisie wasn’t much taller than Charlie and battled hard to keep her weight down. Being the family cook didn’t make this easy.

      ‘Now, I wonder why you were trying to get those keys?’ Maisie’s face was too round and cheerful to look stern. Even frowning was an effort. ‘Don’t deny it. There’s nothing else up there that would interest you.’

      ‘I think Great Aunt Eustacia has put a painting in the cellar.’

      ‘What if she has?’

      ‘I . . . well, I just wanted to . . . you know, have a look at it.’ Charlie clutched the fish jug and drew out a large, rusty-looking key.

      Maisie shook her head. ‘Not a good idea, Charlie.’

      ‘Why?’ Charlie replaced the jug and jumped down from the chair.

      ‘You know them,’ said Maisie with meaning. ‘Those Yewbeam sisters are always trying to trick you. D’you think they didn’t know you’d be just itching to take a look at . . . whatever it is?’

      ‘They didn’t know I was listening, Maisie.’

      ‘Huh!’ Maisie grunted. ‘Course they did.’

      Charlie twiddled the key between his fingers. ‘I just want to take a look at the outside of it, the shape of it. I won’t take the paper off.’

      ‘Oh no? Look, Charlie, your parents are watching whales on the other side of the world. If something happens to you, how am I going to . . .?’

      ‘Nothing will happen to me.’ Before Maisie could say another word, Charlie walked briskly out of the kitchen and along the passage to the cellar. The key turned in the lock with surprising ease. But as soon as the low door opened, Charlie knew that there was really no doubt – something would happen to him. He could feel it already: a light, insistent tug, drawing him closer; down a set of creaking wooden steps, down, down, down, until he stood in the chilly gloom of the cellar.

      The package was propped against the wall, between an old mattress and a set of rusty curtain poles. Charlie couldn’t be certain but he thought he could hear a faint sound coming from beneath the crumpled wrapping paper.

      ‘Impossible!’ Charlie clutched his hair. This had never happened before. He had to see a face before he heard its voice. But this sound was coming from something out of sight. As he stepped towards the package a deep whine whistled past his ears.

      ‘Wind?’ Charlie reached out a hand.

      At his touch the paper rustled and creaked. The whole package seemed suddenly alive and Charlie hesitated. But a second of doubt was immediately overcome by his burning curiosity, and he began to tear at the wrapping. Strips of paper flew into the air, borne by Charlie’s frantic fingers and the unnatural wind that blew from who knew where.

      The painting didn’t even wait to be entirely revealed. Long before every corner was free of the paper, a dreadful landscape began to seep into the dim cellar. This was not how it should happen. Charlie was mystified. He waited for the familiar tumbling sensation that usually overwhelmed him when he travelled into paintings. It never came. He watched in astonishment as the brick walls of the cellar were swallowed by a vista of distant mountains. Tall, dark towers appeared in the foreground; one swam so close to Charlie that he could smell the damp moss that patched the walls. Ugly scaled creatures scuttled over the surface, pausing briefly to stare at Charlie with dangerous glinting eyes.

      It has to be an illusion, Charlie told himself. He put out his hand – and touched the horny spine of a black toad-like thing. ‘Ugh!’ Leaping away from it, he tripped and fell on to his back. Beneath him he could feel rough stone cobbles, slippery with grey-black weeds. Above him purple clouds rushed through an ash-coloured sky, and all about him the wind roared and rattled, howled and sighed.

      ‘So I’m there already.’ Charlie got to his feet and rubbed his back. ‘Wherever there is.’

      In brief intervals, when the wind died to a low whine, Charlie could hear the tramp of heavy feet and a low muttering of voices. ‘It’s here,’ one said. ‘I can smell it.’

      ‘It’s mine.’ This voice glooped like a sink full of dishes. ‘I know how to catch it.’

      ‘Oddthumb knows,’ came a chorus of low, tuneless voices.

      Charlie backed round the tower as the marching feet drew closer. There appeared to be no windows in the building and Charlie was just beginning to think that it was without a door, when he was suddenly seized round the waist and lifted high in the air. A huge fist closed over his mouth and a voice, close to his ear, whispered, ‘Boy, your life depends on your silence.’

      Shocked and speechless, Charlie was swung backwards through an open door and set down. He found himself on the lowest step of a stone staircase that spiralled upwards before disappearing into the shadows.

      ‘Climb,’ whispered the voice, ‘as fast as your feet will take you.’

      Charlie mounted the stone steps, his heart beating wildly. Up, up and up, never stopping until he had reached a door at the very top. Charlie pushed it open and went into the room beyond. A narrow window high in the wall shed a dismal light on to the sparse furnishings beneath: the longest bed Charlie had ever seen, the highest table and the tallest chair, and . . . could that be a boat, hanging on the wall? He turned quickly as the owner of the room ducked under the lintel and walked in, closing the door and locking it.

      Charlie beheld a giant, or the nearest thing to a giant he had ever seen. The man’s white hair was coiled into a knob at the back of his head, and a fine, snowy beard reached a neat point just above his waist. He wore a coarse shirt, a leather waistcoat and brown woollen trousers tied at the ankle with cord.

      The giant held a finger to his lips and then, raising his arm, pushed open a small panel set between the rafters of the roof. Without a word, he lifted Charlie up to the dark space revealed. Charlie rolled sideways and the panel was immediately replaced, leaving him in a dark, stuffy hole with his knees drawn up to his chest and his arms wrapped around his legs.

      ‘They’ll not find you. Trust me,’ whispered the giant, whose head was perhaps only a foot below the rafters.

      There was a tiny hole right beside Charlie’s ear and when he turned his head, he could see directly into the room below. He had just positioned himself as comfortably as possible when he heard voices echoing up the stairwell.

      ‘Otus Yewbeam, are you there?’

      ‘Have you seen the boy?’

      ‘Caught him, have you?’

      ‘He’s