The Lornea Island Detective Club

by Gregg Dunnett

  Amber looks at me once we've both finished reading. She's still pouting. "So what does that mean?"

  I scroll down the screen a bit. "Look. It gives a number to ring if you're in need of help. For the Samaritans."

  "So he killed himself?" Amber shakes her head. "Well that's a fat lot of use."

  I don't reply, in fact I hardly hear her. I'm thinking instead about Eric. He would have been about my age. Thinking about it, he would probably have gone to this school too. He would have sat right here in this same cafeteria. He would have seen the same things I see, and yet, he chose to kill himself. He decided he preferred to swim out into the cold waters of Lornea Sound and let himself sink into the deep. That's terrifying.

  "I wonder why he did it?" I start to say, but then I'm interrupted by Amber talking again.

  "Or maybe he didn't? Maybe he was murdered too? Think about it... If he found out what happened to his dad, then maybe the old lady bumped him off too? To keep him quiet. I bet Principal Sharpe knows about it too, that's why she never told us she had a brother...."

  "Oh shut up Amber. Why don't you just shut up?"

  I don't mean to shout at her like that. I've just had enough.

  "What? What's wrong with you?"

  "Nothing's wrong with me, what's wrong with you? She didn't hide the fact she had a brother, we just never asked. And her brother’s dead. He killed himself. You just don’t know what it’s like!"

  “What what’s like?”

  “When bad things happen to your family. You just don’t get it!”

  Amber shoots me a funny look, but it’s gone in a flash, then her face hardens again.

  "Unless he didn't. Unless he was killed, because he was going to reveal what really happened to his dad."

  "Just stop it! I told you, this isn't a game. It's people's lives. It's Principal Sharpe's life. We should never have gotten involved. It's not our business."

  Amber stares at me. I shove her phone back across the table to her. Then I grab my bag.

  "This whole thing, we got it wrong. We got it all wrong. It was never a big mystery, it was a tragedy. All along."

  Amber's face is white with rage now, her eyes dark and sunken under her brows. I glower at her, wanting to keep fighting. But then I’m too angry. I stand up and stalk. I feel her eyes on me as I go.

  I'm so wound up, I just walk at random round the school, which I never do normally, because there's lots of places I can't go. Or shouldn't go. Like the part of the school grounds at the back of the science block, where the basketball courts are. I don't like basketball, or any sport really, but that's not why I normally avoid it here. It's because this is where James Drolley and his friends usually hang around at lunchtime. And they do it because none of the teachers like coming back here, so they can do whatever they want. But I'm so annoyed with Amber's reaction to what happened to poor Eric Jacobs that I'm not thinking straight. And that continues when Drolley spots me.

  "Hello Wheatley!" I actually nearly bump into him before I realize who it is. "You come for your daily dead arm have you?" He's got into this habit of punching me in the arm every day. He seems to think it's a kind of game we're playing, almost like we both enjoy it. I sort of told you about it.

  "Which one do you want to do? Left or right?" He grins at me, and I can smell he hasn't cleaned his teeth in days.

  Normally I'd talk to him, but I don't think I can today. I try to push past, but he steps in my way, blocking me.

  "Where'd ya think you're going Wheatley? I ain't seen you all week. I must owe you three days worth of punches. Maybe four." He begins to roll his sleeves, and his friends abandon their game and gather closer to watch what's going to happen.

  But today I'm just not in the mood.

  "Let's do both arms shall we Wheatley?" Drolley grins again, and he lines up a punch. He's kinda got me trained so I don't even move, just to get it over and done with.

  But then I don't know what happens. It’s definitely something that's never happened to me before. I feel my hand tighten into a fist, and I pull it back behind me. Then, while Drolley is still grinning like an idiot, I spin myself around, and throw my arm forward with all my might. Dad tried to teach me once, how to throw a punch, and I kinda remember now, how you're not supposed to aim at the target, but through it. Behind it. That’s what I do now. Then there's a massive, sudden pain in my knuckles as they smash into Drolley’s face and keep going. And then I hear this shouting, and it's me. Yelling at Drolley, even though he's not standing there any more, he's sprawled on his back on the ground.

  "Why don't you just stop it? Why don't you just get lost? I'm so fed up with you. You're just an idiot. Wasting everyone's time. People who are trying to be sensible. Trying to work in class or do useful things. Why don't you just...?"

  I stop. I'm about to swear at him, and I don't want to, because that would be wrong. And I'm shocked by the scene around me. I'm panting like I've been running hard, and Drolley is still on the floor. His nose is split and gushing blood over his mouth and chin.

  "Oh shit," someone says. I don't know who. "Wheatley's broken his nose."

  "I didn't want to hit him," I say to his friends, they're all staring at me now, their mouths hanging open. "I don't want to hit anybody. I've just had enough of violence. I just want him to leave me alone."

  And then I pick up my bag and walk on.

  Sixty-Eight

  As soon as afternoon classes begin I know what's going to happen. First of all everyone's staring at me, and then a girl who's never even spoken to me before comes up and asks if it's true that I punched out James Drolley. I don't know what to say, so I explain that I didn't really mean to, it just happened. But instead of having a go at me, like I expect her to, because James Drolley is a much more popular kid than I am, she doesn't.

  "I'm so glad someone's finally done that,” she says instead.

  I stare at her in amazement.

  "He's such a jerk. Him and his stupid friends. They’re always picking on me. No one ever does anything about it."

  And then more people come up and tell me the same thing. Even Paul, who is one of his stupid friends, whispers to me that he’s glad it happened. It’s weird.

  But from the moment Mr. Matthews, the teacher, comes in, I know I'm not going to get away with it.

  "Billy Wheatley? Mr. Evans would like a word with you. Right away please."

  Mr. Evans is the Deputy Principal. If I'm being sent there, it must mean Principal Sharpe isn't in today. That's something I suppose, but even so I feel my face flush hot with the injustice of it all.

  "I assume you're familiar with the school policy on fighting?" Mr. Evans says, when I'm standing in front of his desk. And actually I'm not, since I've never had to consider it before.

  “I suppose you’re probably not allowed to do it?”

  “No you are not. This school does not tolerate violence. Not in any circumstances." Mr. Evans replies. Then he fixes me with a stare and holds it until I have to look down at my feet. Then he waits what feels like a full half-hour before going on.

  "However, I understand from several of Mr. Drolley's associates that he himself threw the first punch, and that you were merely responding to provocation. Is that correct Billy?”

  I look up again, confused.

  “No, he didn’t…” But I don’t get any further because Mr. Evans interrupts me.

  “I said, Billy, that my understanding is that Mr. Drolley initiated the violence, and that you were simply defending yourself. And if that’s the case it would certainly influence how I view your role in the matter. Now can you confirm, that is indeed what happened?”

  I squint at him, really confused now. I'm pretty sure Drolley didn't actually hit me this time at all.

  “If you say so.”

  “Good. Violence is never the answer Billy. Never." He keeps his eyes on me. "Not even when it seems that maybe it is the answer. It isn't. Are we on the same page?"

  I don't know how to answ
er this. I don't know what page we're on at all.

  "So if you have any more trouble with Mr. Drolley, you come directly to me. Rather than taking matters into your own hands. Is that understood?"

  If I'm honest it isn't, but I nod anyway.

  "Good," Mr. Evans says again. "Excellent. Now I have lots to do this afternoon, so I suggest you go back to class and we make sure this is the end of the matter. OK?

  And that's the end of it.

  Sixty-Nine

  There’s some good news when I get home. Someone’s posted my phone back to me. It had my name and address on a sticker on the back, so I was hoping this might happen, but I still think that’s quite lucky because a lot of people would have kept it.

  Then I sit down with Dad, he wants to go through the spreadsheet I made, about the whale watching business. So we check through every figure I used, like for how many people we could fit onto the boat, and how much we could charge them, and how much we'd need to spend on fuel. He makes me change loads of the figures, and then redo all the calculations, and with every little change the business ends up costing a little bit more to run, or making a little bit less money. So at the end it’s all a bit depressing. Dad tries to stay positive, but I can see he’s worried about it.

  Then I go upstairs, and I can’t stop myself thinking about my fight with Amber. I don’t really argue with people, but with Amber it’s hard not to. I decide her problem is she thinks everything’s about her. That’s why she’s always dyeing her hair new colors - to make people look at her. She’s desperate for attention. And she’s not even a good detective. She jumps to conclusions too quickly. Like seeing conspiracies where there aren’t any. And she just thinks everything is a game, for her entertainment.

  But it's not a game. Not to Mrs. Jacobs. Not to Principal Sharpe, and it definitely wasn't a game to Eric Jacobs.

  I think back to when this all began. I knew then we shouldn't have got involved. I knew we could never have actually found out what happened. We were never real detectives, and the only reason Mrs. Jacobs hired us was because she was too crazy to notice we were just kids. But even so we should have known we were messing around with real people, with real feelings, and real lives.

  I think about how we told the police about Mrs. Jacobs 'confession'. I think I feel the most guilty about that. It wasn’t ever a real confession. It was just a mad old lady getting confused because her memory was going. I feel my chest heat up with shame.

  Then I remember the check.

  The five thousand dollars from Mrs. Jacobs. I took it, but told myself I'd only pay it in if we actually found out what happened to Mr. Jacobs. I guess we never will now. I rummage around in my desk drawer until I find it. I look at the spidery handwriting. Five thousand dollars written out in black ink. I should tear it up. I’m about to do it too, when something stops me. It's the thought that she's got loads of money.

  I'm not thinking of cashing it. Honestly it’s the opposite of that. I'm thinking how she's got so much money, she probably hasn’t realized that we didn't cash it in the first place. There’ll be so many thousands in her bank account, she won’t notice five thousand either way. Which means she’ll think we’ve ripped her off. She’ll think we tricked her into telling the police she killed her husband, and stole a load of her money.

  I can just imagine how that would make me feel. If I was a little old lady I mean, and my husband had run away and my son had killed himself. I'd definitely feel even worse about all that if I also thought I'd been conned by some private investigators who were just kids.

  So I know what I have to do. I slip the check into an envelope and put it into the pocket of my shorts.

  So I'm all ready for tomorrow.

  Seventy

  I'm on my bike, cycling down to the southern tip of Lornea Island. There is a bus, but it doesn’t go all the way to Mrs. Jacobs’ house. It’s quite remote where she lives. It's actually further than I realized though. And the hills are bigger too. But I'm nearly there now.

  Last night my plan was to actually speak to Mrs. Jacobs. To apologize for everything we did - recording her without her knowing about it, and then getting the police involved and everything. But now I'm not going to do that. I'm just going to slip the check through her letter box and cycle home. She'll understand - well she won’t understand, because she's mad - but what I’m saying is it won’t make any difference if I speak to her or not.

  It's a nice sunny day when I'm cycling, but then just as I arrive a cloud slides over the sun and makes it feels colder. It makes the house look spooky too. I didn’t really see it when I came before, but it actually looks like one of those houses in horror movies, a bit run-down. Mrs. Jacobs has all the drapes across the windows, so that anyone could be in there, looking out, and I wouldn’t see them. Thinking about that, I don’t even know if she’s home. I try to think back to whether there was ever a car here when I came before. I can't think though, and that makes me realize again that I was never actually very good at being a detective, since I'm not very observant. I get off my bike and I lean it against a tree. I feel quite uncomfortable now, with Mrs. Jacobs' big house towering over me.

  I try to walk up to the front door confidently, listening to the crunch of stones under my feet. Then I can't find the letterbox, and I wonder if maybe she has one of those box ones at the edge of her property, that I didn't notice. But then I see it, a slim, cast iron slit right at the bottom of the door. I pull the envelope out of my pocket. I wish I'd written a note now, to explain why I'm returning the check. But she’ll work it out. Or maybe she won't, but I'll know I've done the right thing.

  I bend down and try to push the envelope through the letter box, but it's flimsy, so I have to use my fingers to push the metal plate back, and feed the paper through. And I'm just doing that when I suddenly feel my fingers gripped by the metal, tight against my knuckles.

  I leap back in shock, but my hand is trapped. Then I realize what’s actually happening. It's just the door opening. She must have heard me. Or maybe she was standing by one of the windows, watching.

  I get my hand out now, and get back to my feet. And I see Mrs. Jacobs peering out at me from behind the front door.

  "Mr. Billy?" She says. "What on earth are you doing here?"

  Seventy-One

  She blinks at me from the darkness inside the hallway. There's a trickle of blood from where the letterbox scraped at my finger.

  "Mr. Billy?"

  I want to just hand her the envelope and climb on my bike and cycle out of here. But I know if I do, she'll feel hurt again.

  "I came to... erm..." I hold out the envelope.

  "Oh – your hand! It's bleeding."

  "It's nothing, it's just a scratch, from when..."

  "Oh that wasn't me? When I opened the door? I am so sorry Mr. Billy. Let me fetch you a band-aid."

  "It's alright..."

  "Nonsense," she opens the door wide, and before I do much about it, I'm ushered inside. "Come through to the garden and I'll see what I can find."

  So I swallow, and do what she says.

  Her patio looks just like the first time I came here, with Amber, full of enthusiasm for investigating her mystery. Only this time I notice how she has a view of the water. Lornea Sound, the stretch of the coast where her son swam out to drown himself.

  "Here you go dear," Mrs. Jacobs comes out holding a tray. On it there's a zip-up first aid kit, bright red with a white cross on it, and a pitcher of iced tea with two glasses. She sets it down, then sits and opens the first aid kit, finally pulling out a single band-aid. Then she takes a long while to get the band-aid from the little sleeve they come in, with her long wrinkly fingers shaking as she works. The cut on my finger isn't bad, I've already sucked off the blood and there's no more coming out. But even so, I take the band-aid when she finally holds it out to me, and wrap it around. She looks happy about it.

  "So," she says, sitting down opposite me. "Mr. Billy, what brings you all the way out here?"<
br />
  I think before I answer. About the check, which I've put back in my pocket now, about all the trouble I caused her by going to the police. About how she must look out every single day and see the swirling waters of Lornea Sound.

  "I wanted to say I'm sorry," I tell her. I watch her for a second but then I can't. I lower my eyes.

  "Sorry? What on earth for?" Mrs. Jacobs replies.

  "For everything really. You see," I hesitate. I don't know if it's even worth me explaining, but so far today she hasn't done anything obviously crazy, so maybe she’s having a good day. "We were never proper detectives. Amber and me," I tell her. "We thought we might be, but actually the world is a lot more complicated than we understood. We're just kids really."

  Mrs. Jacobs responds by reaching forward and pouring out two glasses of iced tea. I watch to see if she's going to pour it all over the floor like last time, but she ends up with both glasses exactly three quarters full.

  "You're rather clever kids," she says.

  I don't know how to respond to this, so I sort of half-smile at her and take a drink. It's nice after all the cycling I've done, and the sun’s come back out. I drink a bit more.

  "And I think you've proven to be rather a good detective Mr. Billy." She says.