History Keepers 1: The Storm Begins Read Free

parrot. The bird’s plumage of soft feathers was a kaleidoscope of colours, from orange to crimson to deep turquoise-blue.
    The boy was typing quickly on an instrument that looked a little like a typewriter, though there were fewer keys, and in place of letters there were odd symbols. Sticking up out of the back of the apparatus like an aerial was a crystalline rod that fizzed and buzzed with electrical charges as each key was struck. After typing for a while, the boy quickly wound a lever at the side of the machine, then carried on again.
    ‘Excuse me. You’re blocking my light,’ he told Jake without taking his eyes off the job. ‘If this isn’t sent within the next five minutes, I’ll be done for.’
    As Jake moved round to the other side of the desk, the boy looked up and scrutinized him; then he pushed his spectacles up his nose and returned to his work.
    On the table next to the typewriter there was a plate of delicious-looking tarts. The boy reached out his hand, took one and popped it into his mouth. Jake’s stomach was rumbling: he hadn’t eaten since lunch time.
    ‘Have one if you must.’ The curly-haired boy could obviously sense Jake’s hunger. ‘They’re pear and cinnamon. The pastry is as light as air.’
    Jake looked at him quizzically; he had a correct, old-fashioned voice, like the people who read the news on serious radio stations. Jake took one of the tarts, and the multi-coloured bird watched him carefully as he bit into it.
    ‘Is he friendly?’ Jake asked, reaching out his hand to allow the bird to sniff it.
    The parrot squawked like a banshee, puffed up his feathers and flapped his wings. Jake jumped back in alarm.
    ‘Mr Drake doesn’t take kindly to strangers!’ his owner pointed out. ‘He was a rescue parrot, from Mustique. If I were you, I would follow Mr Cole’s advice and take a seat.’
    The boy carried on typing and muttering to himself as Jake retreated to the chair by the door. Mr Drake, the parrot, watched him very carefully as he did so.
    Jake’s thoughts turned to the events of the week. Up until an hour ago they had seemed in no way out of the ordinary …
    Jake Djones lived in a small semi-detached house in an ordinary street in an unassuming part of South London. The house had three small bedrooms, one bathroom and an unfinished conservatory. There was a study that Jake’s father amusingly called ‘the communications room’; it was a dumping ground for old computers and a jungle of knotted cables. Jake’s parents, Alan and Miriam, ran a bathroom shop on the high street. At the weekends Miriam would invent inedible dishes and Alan would attempt DIY. All would invariably end in disaster: lopsided soufflés, burned sauces, burst pipes and unfinished conservatories.
    Jake’s school was a fifteen-minute walk across Greenwich Park. It was neither a particularly bad nor a particularly good school. There was a handful of interesting teachers and a smattering of vindictive ones. Jake was awful at maths, good at geography and excellent at basketball. He enthusiastically auditioned for every school play, but rarely made it beyond the chorus. He was intrigued by history; by the type of powerful, mysterious people in the murals he had just seen – rulers and emperors – but sadly his history teacher was not one of the interesting ones.
    Jake had last seen his parents four days earlier. They had left him a message to pass by the shop on his way home from school. When Jake had got there, it had been deserted. He’d waited.
    The bathroom shop was not a success. Jake often wondered how the business continued at all. His parents had started it up just after he was born and had struggled ever since. As one of the many unsatisfied customers had pointed out, ‘They just have no instinct for ceramic!’
    Jake tended to agree. Miriam manned the store in a whirl of confusion, always losing papers and receipts, and sometimes entire bathroom suites. Alan worked mostly on site,