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  ‘Sorry about the reception I gave you,’ he said. ‘There’s no shot in these cartridges. They’re just for show. Or rather, for the noise they make. Not like the chap on the next lot. He uses live shot. But that’s another story. Speaking of stories, I think we need to settle down with a drink and hear yours.’

  Once inside the house I understood, as we walked down the narrow hallway and into the large room at the end of it, why I hadn’t seen any lights from the driveway. The space was lit with kerosene lamps and candles that cast nothing but a soft glow, leaving much of the place in deep shadow.

  I paused for a moment, looking up at the ceiling and furniture with amazement. Dad always said that Great-uncle Bartholomew was an eccentric aviator—and he hadn’t been wrong. And it wasn’t just because he’d built his own jet. His place was like a workshop and flight museum. There were bits of aeroplane everywhere, but they weren’t all being worked on: some parts he’d turned into furnishings!

  A four-bladed propeller, holding four flickering candles, hung low in the living room like a massive candelabra. Melted wax stalactites dropped from it, some of them dripping down onto the threadbare carpet, where they formed an equally big X-shape. The walls held pictures and posters of old-fashioned planes, while the shelves carried volumes of flying magazines and journals. Sections of aeroplane instrument panels, old sextants and other navigational instruments were scattered around haphazardly. In one corner, an entire aircraft engine block, sitting on bricks with a big cushion on it, formed a sort of chair. What looked like most of a cockpit and part of the fuselage of some World War II warbird was pulled up next to a long bench-like table that was made out of the wing of another aircraft. I guessed this must have been like his desk, judging by the papers, pens and empty coffee mug sitting on it.

  Just beyond this, alone on the top of an antique wooden sideboard, shone a scale model of the Ormond Orca, complete with small rockets on each side of its undercarriage.

  Bartholomew, seeing my interest in the model, came up beside me. ‘You should see the way the launching system works. All it needs is a little rocket fuel. It can do an almost vertical take-off.’

  He put his hands on my shoulders, turning my face into the light that shone from the candles flickering along the propeller blades.

  ‘Tom’s son, eh? Then let’s have a good look at you. Haven’t seen you since you were a tiny little chap no higher than my flying boots. How old are you, Cal?’

  ‘I’ll be sixteen in a couple of months,’ I said. Sadness washed over me as I realised that in a couple of months my dad would have been dead for a whole year. In July—the same month as my birthday.

  Great-uncle Bartholomew studied me for a while and nodded. ‘Yes, I can see your father in those eyes, God rest his soul.’

  He sat himself down again, his bottom lip quivering.

  ‘Makes me wish I’d seen more of my family, especially now that Tom’s gone. I’m sure it doesn’t seem like it, with me living out here on my own and all, but I do realise that family and friendships are the important things.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I agreed. ‘I don’t know what I would have done without my mate Boges. Or the thought of one day being happy with Mum and Gabbi again.’

  ‘You’ve had to grow up quickly, Cal. You’ve got an old head on young shoulders—that’s what we used to say about people like you. Now you need to—’

  Bartholomew was cut short by a strange whirring sound and movement from above that made me duck for cover. It was a large magpie! It had suddenly flown in from upstairs, circled the room and then flapped over to the aircraft engine block. It was the attack bird!

  ‘That’s the bird that had a go at me earlier,’ I said, ‘when I was walking up to the house. It dive-bombed me!’

  ‘Oh, Maggers,’ chuckled my great-uncle, almost with as much pride in his voice as he had when he spoke about the Orca. ‘He’s a fighter pilot. Soon as he sees an intruder, he dives for them!’

  The large black and white bird folded his wings and looked at me with his brown eyes gleaming in the firelight.

  ‘I painted my jet in his colours,’ said my great-uncle, ‘but on that aircraft, the black and white reminded me more of a killer whale than a magpie and that’s why I called it the Ormond Orca. What’s got into you, you funny bird?’ he said, as he stroked the magpie’s feathers. ‘Why aren’t you asleep? It’s past your bedtime.’

  Maggers half closed his eyes while my uncle ruffled the feathers around his neck. The magpie then made a soft, carolling sound and flew up into the high corners of the room and perched in the shadows.

  ‘I found him on the ground after a storm. Hand-raised him. He’s a great companion. Doesn’t even mind the sound of the shotgun.’

  I was aware of the rustling as Maggers resettled himself, roosting for the night.

  Once we’d settled down at the aircraft-wing table, my great-uncle lit another kerosene lamp, cut some bread and cheese and poured some tea. ‘Now, over to you and your story,’ he prompted.

  I hesitated. He said he didn’t care for the news, so I had no idea how much he knew or didn’t know. I couldn’t see a TV anywhere, although I could hear dull voices on a radio somewhere, intermittently jammed by bad static.

  ‘Where to begin …’ I sighed.

  I started with Dad’s trip to Ireland and the letter he’d written to me from there, hinting at a massive secret and warning me of danger. I continued with Dad’s illness, the drawings he’d made before he died, and then, well, his death … which led into a detailed recollection of the series of terrible events that had happened to me and my family since then. Once I’d told him about the attack at home that left Gabbi in intensive care, I found it was easy to keep going.

  It was an unbelievable feeling to be able to talk to him, without holding back—someone who was family, the younger brother of my late Ormond grandfather. Bartholomew listened without interruption until I was finished—and so were the bread and the cheese.

  224 days to go …

  made it 2 mount helicon. all cool. awesome place. making progress. b in touch again soon.

  After our massive talk last night, Great-uncle Bartholomew set me up on an air mattress in a room occupied only by an old-fashioned dressing table and mirror. I could see that I’d had him up much later than he was used to—he looked exhausted, and his age was really showing—and I had a sore throat from talking so much.

  We’d met up again at the wing table over a lazy breakfast of sausages and tomatoes.

  ‘You have had a time of it, haven’t you,’ he said, with a messy mouthful of sausage. ‘I listen to the radio sometimes, and I did hear something about a youngster with the Ormond name who was in strife. I wondered about you, especially after getting Tom’s letter.’

  ‘You got a letter from Dad?’

  ‘Sure I did,’ he said, slopping barbecue sauce awkwardly over his plate. ‘I called your mother a few times after Tom’s funeral, explaining why I couldn’t go. The dicky ticker was playing up. I think I even called her sometime earlier this year—I’m pretty sure it was after I heard the name Ormond on the radio, but I wouldn’t bet on it—and I must say that she sounded quite strange …’

  ‘She’d been through a lot.’

  ‘I was a bit worried about her. I called back a little later, but the phone had been disconnected.’

  ‘Yeah, she moved into Rafe’s place. Actually, it’s her place now. Rafe signed it over to her.’

  ‘That’s generous,’ said my great-uncle, his bushy, white eyebrows rising.

  ‘You said Dad had written to you,’ I reminded him.

  ‘Yes, yes, so he did. Not quite sure where his letter is right now, but he told me he’d stumbled upon the Ormond Angel and the rumours of a great secret to do with the family from hundreds of years ago. He wanted to come and see me—he’d remembered I had some old documents stored here somewhere, related to the family. I warned him I didn’t know if I could help him, but I used to have some information about Pier
s Ormond’s will. When you get to my age, you can’t help becoming a bit of an archivist. An archivist who can’t remember what he has!’

  This was more information than I’d had in ages. I felt a thrill of excitement rush over me. ‘And do you? Do you have information about Piers Ormond’s will?’

  ‘Possibly,’ said Great-uncle Bartholomew, sounding very unsure. ‘I’d have to look through all my papers.’

  ‘There’s a lot of paper here,’ I said, twisting around to look at the room.

  ‘It’ll be around here somewhere.’

  The library of journals and magazines, and the amazing collection of aircraft parts, reminded me of Repro’s place.

  ‘What about the Ormond Singularity?’ asked, turning back to him. ‘Do you know anything about it?’

  ‘The Ormond Singularity. Now that’s a familiar phrase,’ he said, frowning, ‘but I haven’t heard of it for many, many years. I think I’ve forgotten what it was all about—if I ever knew.’

  ‘But you have heard of it,’ I said. ‘And what about the Ormond Riddle?’

  ‘Most definitely—the Ormond Riddle,’ he said, nodding. ‘Yes, yes. The Ormond family is full of secrets. It’s just that I’ve forgotten most of them.’

  I knew it was up to me to jog the old man’s memory. I dug around in my backpack and brought out the plastic folder with the drawings, the transparency with the names written on it and the soft vellum fabric of the Ormond Riddle. My great-uncle picked this up with reverent hands.

  ‘I don’t believe my eyes!’ he exclaimed. ‘Where did you get this? This looks like the original manuscript! I didn’t think this was what you stole from that Oriana de la whatever’s place! You did well, boy! I heard the Riddle had disappeared during my grandfather’s time. Until it was stolen, it had always been in the family, handed down from generation to generation. I don’t know where that woman got it from, but collectors love this sort of thing. There’s a big trade in antiquities like this.’

  Great-uncle Bartholomew must have been well over eighty, so something that happened in his grandfather’s time was a long time ago. I did a fast and rough calculation, wishing that Boges—the handy human calculator—was around. I figured the theft must have taken place back in the 1850s—over a hundred and fifty years ago.

  I watched while the old man read over the fancy writing of the Riddle a couple of times.

  Finally, he looked up. ‘I’d heard it was a difficult riddle,’ he said, ‘especially with the last two lines missing.’

  ‘You knew about that?’

  ‘Oh yes. The Riddle was damaged—sabotaged—centuries ago. Someone cut off the last two lines in the eighteenth century or even earlier, probably out of spite, so it would be near impossible to solve. There is no lack of spite in the world.’

  Carefully, he put the vellum back down on the wing table, frowning. ‘What is creating that interference with my weather channel?’ he said, looking around, crankily. ‘That darn static!’

  I wished he’d just turn the crackling radio off. It had been spluttering for a few minutes now.

  ‘It’s a great adventure you’ve got yourself into, Cal,’ he continued. ‘And I’m glad it’s not too late for me to get to know you, and help you in any way I can. You’re more than welcome to hide out here for as long as you like. It’s no Taj Mahal, but it’s no Leechwood Lodge, either. No straitjackets, I promise!’

  It was great to have him on my side. Melba had been another surprising source of kindness, but it was even better to have a relative backing me up. The rest of my family were in no position to help.

  ‘Thanks, Uncle,’ I said, over the static on the radio.

  He stood up and patted me on the shoulder, before walking over to his radio, trying to fix the tuning.

  ‘I like listening to the weather channel,’ he said. ‘It reminds me of my flying days. All the briefings about the weather and flying restrictions for pilots—got a little generator that keeps me running. There,’ he said, turning back to me. ‘I think that sounds a little better. Now where were we? Yes, the Ormond Riddle. Some people say that it is no more than a nonsense rhyme, others say that it’s a very valuable part of history and a big secret.’

  ‘I have a friend,’ I started to say, thinking of Winter, ‘and she’s suggested that it’s a number riddle.’

  ‘Could be, could be,’ my great-uncle nodded. ‘Who knows … Either way, it is the Ormond Riddle and I’m glad it’s back in the family again.’

  He looked up, frowning, distracted again by the rhythmic static that was once more cutting into his radio channel. ‘I’m damned if I know what that interference is all about. I don’t know what’s wrong with it!’

  Funny, I thought. Brian had mentioned interference too on his CB radio, before joking about UFOs. Maybe it was the weather.

  Great-uncle Bartholomew switched his attention over to the drawings, which I’d laid out along the wing table.

  ‘My dad drew this Angel twice as you can see,’ I said, ‘and it led us to the stained glass window at Memorial Park—in memory of Piers Ormond.’

  ‘He died before my time. But what about all these other drawings? Did Tom do all of them?’

  ‘Yeah. Boges and I have been trying to decipher them ever since I got them. Uncle Rafe tried to hide them from me, when they first arrived, even though they were addressed to me.’

  ‘Rafe is an interesting chap,’ said my uncle. ‘Perhaps he was trying to protect you, keep you from getting upset. I must say I was happily surprised to hear from you that he’d signed over his house to Win.’

  ‘Me too.’

  Bartholomew pushed himself up from the table, and onto his feet. ‘Wanna come work on the Orca with me?’

  216 days to go …

  It was nearing the end of another almost-blissful day of working on the Orca and getting to know my great-uncle. I’d been at his place for over a week now, and in a strange way I was happy that my life on the run had taken me to him.

  Bartholomew put his tools down and rubbed his hands together. ‘It’s getting pretty cold in here. Let’s head back inside and have another look at those drawings. I’ll stir up the fire and heat us up something to eat.’

  ‘Sounds good to me,’ I agreed.

  My uncle heaved an engine part aside to reveal a pile of kindling and split timber. He placed it across the glowing coals, and soon a brighter and more cheerful blaze lit the room, sending dark shadows jumping and dancing on the walls and ceiling.

  He turned to the drawings again, but couldn’t concentrate. ‘That darn static,’ he said, leaving the room and calling back, ‘I’m going to have to switch the radio off!’

  I went over to the fire and warmed myself, waiting for him to come back, and waiting for the leftover potato and leek soup from the night before to heat up. He returned with a puzzled look on his face.

  ‘That interference, it’s local interference. And I don’t understand where it could possibly be coming from. I certainly don’t have anything running here. Are you running some sort of electronic gadget in that backpack of yours? You youngsters have all sorts of fancy whiz-bangs these days.’

  Brian with the CB radio had asked me the same question.

  ‘No whiz-bangs on me,’ I said. My phone wasn’t even switched on.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ he said, scratching slowly at his white stubble. Without the chatter and buzz of the radio, things were quiet now. All we could hear was the crackling of the fire. He shook his head, and peered down at the drawings.

  ‘So what have you and your friends worked out so far?’ he asked, changing the subject.

  ‘We think we’ve solved a couple of them,’ I said, telling him about the things that can be worn.

  ‘But of course it can be worn!’ exclaimed my great-uncle energetically.

  ‘What can be worn?’ I said, not knowing what he was talking about. ‘What do you mean?’

  Great-uncle Bartholomew looked at me as if I were stupid. ‘There’s no myster
y. That’s what jewels are for, aren’t they? To be worn?’

  ‘Sorry, what jewels are we talking about here?’

  My eccentric relative blinked slowly before speaking very clearly. ‘The Ormond Jewel!’ he said, tasting the soup.

  I was speechless. The Ormond Jewel? Sligo drilled me about a jewel, back at the car yard!

  ‘The Ormond Jewel,’ Great-uncle Bartholomew repeated. ‘That’s obviously what the drawing means. Something that can be worn. And look there,’ he pointed to the Ormond Angel’s chest, ‘the Ormond Angel is wearing it in both drawings.’

  I stared hard at where he was pointing, and was able to make out something that could have been some kind of jewel in each of the drawings, but I wasn’t so sure about that.

  ‘Mind you,’ my uncle said, ‘I’ve always thought that the Ormond Jewel was just another family legend—or that if it did exist, it would have vanished years ago, been broken up and sold on, probably centuries ago. But I thought you would have heard of it, if you have heard of the Ormond Riddle. They go together like a horse and cart.’

  First there had been an Ormond Angel, then an Ormond Riddle, then the Ormond Singularity and now, Bartholomew was talking about the Ormond Jewel! That went together with the Riddle, like a horse and cart!

  ‘We suspected something had been taken from the empty jewellery box we found in Dad’s suitcase, after the break-in back home in Richmond,’ I said, starting to feel convinced that the Ormond Jewel must have once been in Dad’s possession. ‘What else do you know about it?’

  My great-uncle wasn’t paying attention to me. Instead, he was standing perfectly still, head cocked to one side, listening intently. ‘There’s someone out there,’ he said. ‘I can hear a car. I can hear cars that are kilometres away. Where’s my shotgun?’

  ‘Please,’ I said, ‘tell me about the Ormond Jewel. I think Dad might have got hold of it. I think he had it in his suitcase.’