Sky High! Read online

  For my brother, Adam – G.J.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  About the Author

  Copyright

  The double-chinned security guard sat slumped in front of a wall of black-and-white TV screens. He opened his bleary eyes, yawned and pulled a doughnut from the box. He took a bite, licking a globule of jam that dribbled down his chin, unaware that every move he made was being watched by a four-metre-long, red-backed, green-bellied, urban-based Mountain Dragon, who was perfectly blended with the sloping rooftop across the road.

  Dirk Dilly, dragon detective, gazed longingly at the doughnuts. He was starving. To take his mind off his rumbling stomach he opened his book and read.

  “Now, where was I?” he muttered.

  A pregnant female dragon will travel deep into the earth’s belly to the banks of the Outer Core, where she lays the egg. She then picks it up in her mouth and dives into the liquid fire. This is an extremely painful experience. The mother plants the egg in the liquid fire and returns to the shore, where she waits for her youngling to hatch and swim to the surface.

  Dirk examined an illustration of dragons waiting for their newborn babies to appear from the bubbling underground lake.

  A female Sea Dragon places her egg relatively near the surface of the fiery lake, giving its offspring’s skin the ability to soften in water. A Mountain Dragon’s egg is planted deeper into the lava, making the child’s back tougher and giving it the chameleon-like ability to blend with its environment. It is the Sky Dragon that buries its egg deepest. It takes weeks for a young Skyling to swim to the surface, by which time the fire has become a permanent part of its composition. This gives it the rare power known as ‘sublimation’, the ability to turn its entire body into cloud-like gas.

  Dirk looked up from the book. Nothing had changed. The screens still showed the interior of an art gallery located above a doughnut shop on a busy London street. At night, the doors were locked but they might as well have stayed locked during the days for all the visitors the gallery got.

  Dirk had been watching the gallery every night since he got the call from a plummy-voiced man who had introduced himself as Mr Strettingdon-Smythe, the curator.

  “Important pieces are going missing,” Mr Strettingdon-Smythe said over the phone.

  “Don’t you have security?” Dirk had held the receiver between his shoulder and his long, pointy ear as he reached for his glass of neat orange squash.

  “Yes, but he’s useless – always asleep on the job.”

  “Why don’t you fire him?” asked Dirk, draining the contents of the glass.

  “I wish I could but he’s a relative of the owner.”

  “What about CCTV?”

  “Every room is monitored but the picture goes fuzzy whenever a painting goes missing, like it’s being interfered with somehow.”

  “Why don’t you go to the police?” Dirk had enquired.

  “The owner says it’s bad for business. Although I can’t see how business could be any worse,” the curator replied bitterly.

  Mr Strettingdon-Smythe explained that there had been four thefts so far, each following the same pattern. Late at night the CCTV would go haywire for around an hour, during which time the thieves somehow removed a painting without breaking any windows, setting off the alarmed door or showing signs of forced entry. In each case the broken frame was left behind. Only the picture itself was taken.

  It sounded intriguing. Dirk agreed to take on the case.

  “And, Mr Dilly,” added Mr Strettingdon-Smythe, “I’d appreciate utmost discretion. I haven’t told the owner I hired you. I know he would disapprove but I can’t bear to have any more pieces go missing. Please don’t let anyone see you.”

  “Believe me, it would be a bigger problem for me than for you if I was seen.”

  Dirk’s first thought was that it had to be an inside job. The obvious suspect was the double-chinned security guard but, after a few days following him, Dirk uncovered no signs of guilt. During the day, the man worked on the security desk of an office building. He had a cheery nature and enjoyed greeting every employee by name. After a full day’s work, he headed to the art gallery, via the doughnut shop, and spent the evening stuffing his face and dozing off. He was incompetent and sleep deprived but he wasn’t corrupt.

  The question that bothered Dirk was why the thieves didn’t take the whole lot in one go. Why take one painting at a time, risking capture with each return visit? It didn’t make any sense and, after almost two weeks staking out the gallery, Dirk was no closer to getting any answers.

  He opened his book and flicked to a page on Sky Dragons.

  If you have ever looked up at a cloud in the shape of a dragon, the chances are you have seen a Sky Dragon.

  Since dragonkind went into hiding it is generally believed that all of the world’s Sky Dragons have remained in a ‘sublimated’ gas-like state. Some say their return will signify the beginning of the great war between dragons and humans but, in truth, no one knows.

  If a Sky Dragon were to materialize, it would leave a dragon-shaped trace of ash on the ground. The process of changing from solid matter into a gas state and vice versa is thought to be very painful. Some claim they can distil water from the clouds and create powerful firewalls but, as with so much about this rare species, no one knows for sure.

  The book, Dragonlore, had been written by Ivor Klingerflim, the late husband of Dirk’s landlady. It worried Dirk that a human could know so much about dragons. There was a chapter on eating habits, which correctly identified all dragons as vegetarians, and sections on how different types of dragon varied in appearance, strength and powers. It was spot-on in every detail. It even covered types of dragon he had never encountered, such as the Californian Desert Dragons who apparently had spikes sticking out of their backs and spat poison instead of breathing fire.

  He had no idea how Ivor had learned so much, but he was relieved when Mrs Klingerflim had said that he could only afford to print a hundred copies.

  “He spent his whole life studying dragons,” she had explained.

  “So weren’t you surprised when you discovered that I was one?” Dirk had asked, feeling foolish, always having assumed that Mrs Klingerflim’s poor eyesight was the reason that she didn’t scream when she first saw him.

  “Very little surprises you when you get to my age,” the old lady had replied. “Except for ice cream.”

  “Ice cream?”

  “Oh yes, all the new flavours they keep bringing out. I bought a tub of salted caramel the other day. Goodness me. Caramel with salt. Whatever next? Sugary asparagus sorbet? I wouldn’t be surprised.”

  Dirk often found himself replaying conversations with Mrs Klingerfilm on slow days and, since taking the art gallery case, there had been a lot of those.

  The double-chinned security guard fell asleep, dropping the half-eaten doughnut on to the floor. Dirk was about to return to his book when he
noticed the CCTV screens flicker and the picture disappear.

  He checked the street below. At the bus stop a few late-night party-goers were waiting for the night bus home, eating revolting-looking kebabs and dripping chilli sauce on the pavement. None of them looked up. Londoners rarely did.

  He flew to the large window and peered inside the gallery. There was no sign of a break-in but, on the far wall, a painting of a sad-looking lady had fallen to the floor, shattering the glass.

  Dirk pushed his nose to the window and saw the picture lift itself out of the frame and move across the floor.

  He pushed the window open and entered the gallery. It was risky but he knew the CCTV cameras would still be down. Standing on his hind legs, he surveyed the scene. No sign of anyone. In one corner of the room was a small red light. He bent down and inspected it. The light was coming from a black sphere about the size of a golf ball. Dirk picked it up. He had seen similar devices before. They gave off a small electromagnetic pulse, knocking out all electronic devices in their vicinity.

  “That explains the cameras,” he said to himself.

  He tucked the black sphere behind his wing and noticed a second blinking light on a white box attached to the ceiling. Realizing what it was, he clamped his paw over his nostrils. But it was too late to stop the thin line of grey smoke drifting up from his nose through the room into a vent in the small box. Dirk knew exactly what would happen next. The smoke particles would neutralize the ions, causing a drop in current between the two plates in the ionization chamber, triggering the smoke alarm.

  “Rats,” he muttered, as the sound filled the room. Case or no case, he couldn’t afford to be seen by a human. He dived back out of the window just in time as the double-chinned security guard entered the room, holding a fire extinguisher. He didn’t spot the painting moving across the floor until he tripped over it. As he fell, he pulled the pin out of the extinguisher, spraying foam everywhere.

  From his position on the roof across the road, Dirk could see that the security cameras had come back on and were recording the farcical scene inside the gallery from various angles. He was relieved he had got out in time. To be seen by a human was to breach the forbidden divide between dragonkind and mankind. Mrs Klingerflim and Holly were human, of course, but that was different. Mrs K and Holly were his friends.

  There had been much change in the Bigsby household following Mrs Bigsby’s defeat in the general election. The morning after, there had been tears and consolation – although neither came from Holly. The following week there were angry phone calls and arguments.

  Following this very public loss, Holly had found herself feeling uncharacteristically sorry for her stepmum as she moped miserably about the house. Mrs Bigsby had never spent so much time at home.

  It was surprising then, when, on the final day of the summer term, Holly returned home to discover her stepmother in the kitchen, smartly dressed, carefully arranging delicate morsels of food on a plate.

  “What’s going on?” asked Holly.

  “We have a very important guest coming tonight,” replied Mrs Bigsby. “So I need you on your best behaviour.”

  A small, furry white face with a black smudge on its nose followed Holly into the kitchen.

  “And keep that animal away from my canapés,” said Mrs Bigsby.

  Holly picked up Willow and nuzzled her.

  “What guest?” she asked. “Dad said we’d have pizza because it’s my last day of school for the summer.”

  “You can have pizza in your bedroom. Brant Buchanan is visiting.”

  “Who’s Brant Buchanan?” asked Holly.

  “Who’s Brant Buchanan?” squawked her stepmum incredulously. “He’s the seventh richest man in the world, that’s who. He runs Global Sands.”

  Holly shrugged. “Never heard of it. What do they do?”

  “Look him up online if you’re so interested.” Mrs Bigsby picked up the tray and carried it through to the living room.

  Her dad entered the kitchen. “Hi, Holly. How was school?”

  “Great. It’s been cancelled.” She paused before adding, “For six weeks anyway.”

  Mr Bigsby smiled. “I know you’ve been struggling to fit in but you’ll find your people, I’m sure,” he said. “Gristle Street Comprehensive must be quite a contrast to your last school.”

  “Who’s this special guest then?” asked Holly, changing the subject.

  “He’s a businessman. Your mother is hoping to get a job out of it.”

  “Stepmother,” Holly corrected. “A job doing what?”

  “Getting paid,” he said, raising his eyebrows, “and given that a billionaire is popping in for tea, potentially getting paid rather a lot.”

  “It’s no wonder that everyone at school thinks I’m posh, is it?”

  “Is that boy still bullying you? What’s his name? Archie something?”

  “No. I’m fine.”

  That boy’s name was Archie Snellgrove. Over the last term, he had teased Holly mercilessly. At first, he just called her posh. When he learned that her previous school had been William Scrivener, school for the children of the rich and famous, he had repeatedly asked her for an autograph. More recently, Mrs Bigsby’s failed election campaign had been the target of his jibes.

  In a moment of weakness, Holly had admitted this to her dad. She had regretted it ever since. Holly preferred to deal with her own problems.

  “Now, you had better make yourself scarce,” said Mr Bigsby. “This means a lot to your … to Angela. Since losing her seat… Well, you know what she’s been like. A job like this would really help her confidence, not to mention our ability to pay for this house.”

  Holly went to her room where she changed out of her school uniform and switched on her computer. Willow occupied herself chasing a fly around, while Holly typed ‘Global Sands’ into the search engine and found the official website. A dark blue G and S in a circle materialized on the screen, then the home page appeared. It showed all the different things that the company did. The website had links to other divisions of the company too: GS Automobiles, GS Homes, GS Telecoms, GS Air, GS Records, GS Solutions, all linked by the same logo.

  She went back to the search results and found a recent news article with a picture of a silver-haired man.

  A series of protests are being organized in London by animal rights activists targeting multi-billionaire Brant Buchanan whose multi-national company, Global Sands, is accused of engaging in cruel animal experimentation.

  Mr Buchanan, founder of Global Sands (and seventh richest man in the world), dismissed the allegations as ‘ill informed’.

  Holly scrolled through some of the other articles. There were lots of boring business stories about Buchanan buying and insuring islands and something about his plans to purchase a large insurance company, but Holly was more interested in reading about the allegations of animal cruelty. She followed links to sites speculating on what experiments Global Sands was involved in. It was horrible. Willow meowed at Holly’s ankle and Holly picked her up.

  As she scrolled through the images, a motor engine stopped outside the house. Holly looked through the window and saw an extremely expensive silver car. The driver, dressed entirely in grey, leaped out and opened the back door in one smooth movement. A silver-haired man in a black suit emerged from the car and strode up to Holly’s front door.

  The doorbell rang. Holly looked back at the pictures on the computer screen. Mrs Bigsby answered the door. “Mr Buchanan, it’s such a great pleasure. Please come in.”

  “Thank you,” replied the visitor. “Please, call me Brant.”

  Dirk was on the familiar route back to his office, jumping from rooftop to rooftop. He somersaulted on to a school building and dived off the edge, spreading his wings, gliding down to a row of houses and running across them, over a busy road, checking the street below before soaring through the open window.

  It was such a familiar route that he could have done it blindfolded. It came
as a surprise then, when he crashed headfirst into something inside his office.

  “Owmph!” he exclaimed as the rest of his body caught up with his face.

  Whatever Dirk had hit was scaly, unstable and moving backwards. He knocked the light switch with the tip of his tail and saw that he was face to face with a rather startled-looking Sea Dragon, who was foaming at the mouth and staggering precariously through his office.

  Dirk wasn’t exactly the tidiest of dragons. Old newspapers, case files, discarded orange-squash bottles and empty baked bean tins littered the floor. The Sea Dragon tripped and lost its footing, sending Dirk flying over its head.

  Dirk collided with his filing cabinet, which rocked back, knocking the television that had been resting on top.

  “Oof.” The flat screen landed on Dirk’s head and he had to quickly grab it to prevent it from bouncing off and smashing on the floor. He placed it carefully back. It was unharmed, which was more than he could say for himself.

  He rubbed his head. He couldn’t see the other dragon any more but there was only one place in his office big enough for a dragon to hide. Under his desk. It was the largest desk he had been able to find online but it was still a bit of a squeeze to get under. Dirk knew how the Sea Dragon was feeling. The pins and needles would have started and soon the cramp would follow.

  “Hello, Mr Dilly,” called Mrs Klingerflim from the landing. “Is everything all right in there?”

  “Fine, Mrs K,” responded Dirk. “Just clumsy old me.”

  “Right-o. Call if you want anything. I’ll be putting the kettle on in a minute. A man at the station gave me a free sachet of herbal tea. I don’t usually like herbal things but I do like a freebie … and ‘sachet’ is such a fun word to say. So we’ll have to see how it tastes.”

  “OK,” said Dirk. “Thanks, Mrs K.”

  Dirk dropped on to all fours and approached the desk. He picked up a bottle of orange squash and poured himself a glass.

  “Whoever you are,” he said, “you shouldn’t be here. You know the punishment for breaching the forbidden divide.”