by Jean Ure
There was a stunned silence. Not even Joe had an answer to give.
‘Some of us,’ snarled Mr Snitcher, ‘are attempting to get some rest. In my state of health, I cannot afford to be deprived of my sleep. It is essential I have my full eight hours. Kindly lie yourselves down and cease this intrusive chitter chatter!’
The light was snapped off, the door closed. There was a long silence; then Harry’s voice came quavering into the dark:
‘If it wasn’t the Snitch.…’
He didn’t finish the sentence; he didn’t need to. They were all asking themselves the same question.
If it wasn’t the Snitch who had disappeared into the spaceship, then who was it?
* * *
‘Could have been any of ‘em, really,’ said Joe, as they crawled, bleary-eyed, out of bed the next morning. ‘I reckon most of ‘em’s prob’ly aliens.’
Harry objected. It couldn’t have been Mrs Jellybaby, they would have recognised her from her shape. Any of the others, maybe.
‘And just cos it wasn’t the Snitch doesn’t mean he’s not one of ‘em,’ said Ryan.
Joe agreed. It may not have been the Snitch whom they had trailed up the hill, but he obviously wasn’t human.
‘Not when his eyes keep going red.’
‘And don’t forget the cloaking device,’ urged Bal. ‘I reckon you’re right, there’s a whole nest of ‘em!’
‘What we ought to do,’ said Joe, ‘we ought to see who’s missing… gotta be one of ‘em!’
They set off along the passage, but before they had gone more than a few steps Mr Snitcher’s door had burst open and the Snitch himself sprang out at them like a Jack-in-the-box on the end of a wire.
‘Ah! The very people I am looking for. I wish you to know,’ said Mr Snitcher, ‘that I have been awake, on and off, almost the entire night!’
They shuffled, nervously. Round Mr Snitcher’s mouth there were traces of foam.
Harry muttered, ‘Sorry about that, sir! Didn’t mean to upset you, sir.’
‘Whether you meant to or not is beside the point. The fact is that you did. I shall be a nervous wreck all day. I simply cannot function without my full eight hours! Now, get in here, the four of you, I need you to find something for me. Down there!’
He pointed. Bal said, ‘Down there, sir?’
‘On the floor! My contact lens. I dropped it whilst I was gargling.’
‘G-gargling, sir?’
‘Yes,’ said Mr Snitcher. ‘Gargling! Glaaaaa-AAAAA-ergh… gargling!’
He paused. Four pairs of eyes stared up at him. Four mouths dropped open.
‘Do I perhaps hear you inquire – ’ Mr Snitcher cupped a hand to one of his big pancake ears – ‘why was I gargling at the same time as attempting to remove my contact lens? I will tell you why! It was because I was running late. And the reason I was running late? Because my sleep pattern was interrupted! So, if you would just get down there and locate my missing property, we can all proceed to breakfast. Such as it is,’ said Mr Snitcher, in tones of some bitterness. ‘In my case, a mere handful of seeds and a glass of water. I am a martyr to my health at the best of times. Being rudely awoken in the middle of the night does nothing for my digestive system.’
‘No, sir.’ Harry nodded, gravely. ‘I can see that it wouldn’t, sir.’
‘Just get on with it,’ said Mr Snitcher.
They fell to their knees and began a slow crawl across the carpet.
‘Sir,’ said Ryan, ‘please, sir! I’m not sure I know what a contact lens looks like, sir.’
‘Small,’ said Mr Snitcher. ‘And red. And exceedingly delicate!’
‘Sir, did you say red, sir?’ Ryan sat back on his heels. ‘Wouldn’t that make your eyes go a bit of a funny colour, sir?’
Mr Snitcher’s top lip curled. ‘What sort of a funny colour did you have in mind, precisely?’
‘Well, like… red?’ said Ryan.
‘Red!’ Mr Snitcher gave a little snicker of laughter. ‘Was that a wild guess, I wonder, or did you actually employ your brain?’
Ryan looked round, rather doubtfully, at the others. ‘Just wondered why anyone’d want red eyes, sir.’
‘To frighten small boys?’ said Mr Snitcher. ‘The fact is, I have been invited – ’ his chest swelled, slightly – ‘to a fancy dress party being thrown by the Head Master’s wife. I intend,’ said Mr Snitcher, ‘to go as a vampire.’
There was a silence. Then very politely Harry said, ‘Wouldn’t you need fangs for that, sir?’
‘I have fangs,’ said Mr Snitcher. A giggle burst from him. ‘I made them out of orange peel!’
Bal said, ‘Oh, that’s brilliant, sir! I’m sure you’ll make a very convincing vampire, sir.’
‘Only,’ said Mr Snitcher, ‘if I have my contact lens!’
‘Don’t worry, sir.’ Bal crawled hastily off across the floor. ‘We’ll find it for you.’
‘Sir, sir! What’s this, sir?’
Joe was holding out a small black box on a strap.
Greatly daring, Bal said, ‘It looks like a cloaking device, sir.’
‘Cloaking device? What are you babbling about? That,’ said Mr Snitcher, ‘is my pedometer. It measures how many steps I take when I go for my jogs. An essential tool to maintain my well-being. Kindly put it back where you found it. And you!’ He poked at Ryan, busily crawling off towards the window. ‘You’re going in the wrong direction!’
Ryan was about to turn himself round when Bal gave a triumphant cry.
‘Sir, I think I’ve got it, sir!’
He stabbed at something with his finger. Mr Snitcher let out a screech.
‘Careful, careful, you’ll damage it!’
‘Are you going to go to breakfast wearing it, sir?’
‘Certainly not,’ said Mr Snitcher. ‘The Head Master would be most displeased.’
‘But don’t you need to practise, sir?’
‘I find it best at night.’ Mr Snitcher giggled again. ‘They glow, you know, in the dark!’
So that, thought Harry, was that. Red contact lenses and a pedometer. And gargling. Huh!
‘Still doesn’t mean he’s not one of ‘em,’ said Joe, as they clattered down the stairs to the dining hall.
‘I dunno.’ Harry wasn’t quite so sure. Obviously somebody on the staff had been one of them; just not the Snitch. The Snitch was obviously just a bit weird. A bit mad. Lots of teachers were.
‘Anyway,’ said Joe, ‘we’ll check ‘em out in assembly. See who’s missing.’
Nobody was, as far as Harry could make out. All the prime suspects were there, including Mrs Jellybaby, though for the moment she didn’t really count.
There was Mr Bulstrode, spluttering enthusiastically into the ear of a reluctant Mr Trout. There was Monsieur Tittinbot, nervously fingering his glass eye. Mr O’Hooligan, a football already clamped between his beefy thighs. Mr McNutter, absent-mindly gnawing on a pencil. Dr Dredge, at the lectern, standing on one leg like a stork. Who was missing?
And then he realised… there was one person who wasn’t there.
Chapter Eight
Mr Smith Gets His Chips
The Head Master made the announcement at the end of assembly. With deep regret… sudden emergency… called back home… will be greatly missed.
Right up until that moment, Harry had been secretly hoping it wasn’t true. Even now, he found it hard to get his head round the idea. It just didn’t seem possible!
‘Reckon we ought to tell someone?’ said Joe, as they left the hall.
But who could they tell?
‘The Fish?’ said Ryan.
‘Yeah.’ Joe nodded. ‘Tell the Fish!’
If anyone were going to believe them, it would be Mr Trout.
He was there, at his desk, as they filed in for their first lesson.
‘Sit!’ said Mr Trout. ‘What are you waiting for?’
‘Need to speak to you, sir.’
‘About mathematics, I trust?’
>
‘N-not exactly, sir. The fact is, sir – ’
‘Yes?’ said Mr Trout. ‘The fact is…?’
Joe took a deep breath and launched into the story. The others rushed to his support.
‘It’s a fact, sir!’
‘Saw it with our own eyes, sir!’
‘All of us, sir!’
‘Sorry, boys.’ Mr Trout shook his head. ‘You may have got away with it once, you’re not getting away with it again. I will not be sidetracked a second time! Be seated, we have work to do.’
‘But, sir, please, sir, this is serious!’
They clustered round the desk, earnestly beseeching him to listen.
‘It’s true, sir! We saw it happen, sir!’
‘We did, sir!’
‘Top of Bunkers Hill, just like you said!’
‘It was definitely a ship, sir! Could even have been the same one you saw.’
‘Had this strange glow, sir — ’
‘Kind of greenish.’
‘And this sort of opening, in the side.’
‘Like a curtain.’
‘Curtain of light, sir. Like in the paper.’
‘And this one person that went in, and this – this thing that came out.’
‘It was like a horror film, sir! Like a monster.’
‘Had these big bug eyes – ’
‘And fur – ’
‘All covered in it!’
‘All gingery!’
‘And a beak, sir! It had a beak!’
Mr Trout smiled a tight little smile. ‘And no doubt claws and fangs and eyes like Catherine wheels?’
‘They were, sir! They were! That’s exactly what they were like!’
‘Your imagination,’ said Mr Trout, ‘knows no bounds. But I fear your efforts are wasted. I do not fall for the same trick twice.’
‘But, sir!’ protested Bal.
‘It hurts, doesn’t it,’ said Mr Trout, ‘when people don’t believe you?’
‘We believed you, sir!’
‘We always believed you!’
‘Really?’ said Mr Trout. Plainly not convinced.
‘Honestly, sir! That’s why we’ve come to you.’
‘And what, precisely, would you expect me to do?’
‘Thought maybe you could… go to the newspaper, sir?’
‘And tell them what? That another spaceship has landed?’
‘Only this time, sir, you could say about the aliens… how one went in and one came out.’
‘Cos last time, sir, you weren’t sure. You didn’t know they were aliens.’
‘Do you take me for a fool?’ said Mr Trout. ‘I have already been made a laughing stock once! You wish me now to tell the world that the staff of St Bede’s is infested with extra-terrestrials?’
‘Only one, sir. As far as we know. And they’ve gone, now, sir.’
‘To Australia, boy! To Australia! A family emergency. Do you doubt the Head Master’s words?’
‘Reckon he might have been hoodwinked, sir.’
‘In that case,’ said Mr Trout, ‘I suggest you go and tell him yourself! In the meanwhile, just be seated along with the rest of the class and take out your books. Page 121!’
‘But, sir,’ bleated Harry.
‘No more!’ thundered Mr Trout.
Defeated, they went to their desks.
Harry took out his maths book. Mechanically, he opened it at page 121. A jumble of words and figures danced before his glazed eyes. All he could think about was Miss Beam. Beautiful Miss Beam!
Who could ever have guessed that she of all people would turn out to be an alien? Not Mr Bulstrode. Not Mrs Jellybaby. Not the McNutter, not the O’Hooligan, not the Head Master. Not even Monsieur Tittinbot, with his dodgy eye. But beautiful Miss Beam! The last person anyone would have suspected.
Or was she?
Something stirred at the back of Harry’s mind. Something that had been nagging at him. It was the very thing that had kept him awake. The thing that had sent him down the corridor at dead of night, past the room where the Snitch lurked in his red contact lenses…
Of course! He sat up, with a jolt, banging his knee against the desk. Now he remembered! It was obvious. They should have spotted it. He had spotted it. He just hadn’t quite got around to putting two and two together. And even if he had…
Even if he had, he wasn’t sure he would have believed it. Not Miss Beam! Beautiful Miss Beam! But Miss Beam had gone. Just as Mr Potts had gone. And Mr Hodge, before him. The evidence spoke for itself.
At the front of the class, Mr Trout droned on. Harry could hardly contain his impatience. The minute the bell rang, almost before Mr Trout had even left the room, the words came tumbling out of him.
‘I’ve got it!’
‘Got what?’ said Joe.
‘It was the chips! The chips … they all had this thing about chips!’
There was a pause.
‘Who did?’ said Ryan.
‘Mr Hodge? Remember? Used to bring bags of them into class? Mr Potts? Complained he was eating too many? Said they made him fat? Miss Beam – ’
‘Miss Beam didn’t get fat,’ said Bal. They all sighed.
‘No, but Harry’s right. She did like her chips.’ Joe said it regretfully. ‘Remember that time with your gran and granddad?’
‘Gorging herself on chips.’
Bal had turned very red. ‘Miss Beam didn’t gorge.’
‘She was tucking into them, though. A huge great plateful.’
‘Yeah, and remember when we did those essays and she said there were some aliens might consider chips a delicacy?’
‘Doesn’t prove anything!’ said Bal.
Except that Miss Beam had disappeared, just like the others. Mr Potts had had a nervous breakdown. Mr Hodge… what had happened to Mr Hodge?
‘Got took ill,’ said Joe. ‘Just suddenly. Least,’ he added, ‘that’s what we was told.’
Bal scowled. He muttered again about it not proving anything, but the undeniable fact was that Miss Beam had gone. Back to her home planet, wherever that might be.
The next lesson was English. Year 6 waited, glumly, to see who would be taking it.
Probably the Head Master, thought Harry. He pulled a face. Dr Dredge was strict and stern with absolutely no sense of humour whatsoever. As different as could be from beautiful Miss Beam.
Year 6 braced themselves for the worst. Great was their surprise when the door opened and a totally new teacher walked in. He was young, with ginger hair and a long, forbidding beak of a nose. But he seemed friendly enough.
‘Good morning, Year 6! My name is Mr Smith and I’m your new English teacher. I’m sure you must all be missing Miss Beam, I’m aware that she was very popular, but I’m here, now, and you must make the best of me. Just as I must make the best of you! I give you my word, I will try not to disappoint. Righty-ho!’
He rubbed his hands together. ‘Let’s get cracking! I’ve been reading some of the essays you did for Miss Beam on the subject of Unidentified Flying Objects. Most interesting! I think over the coming weeks we might explore the subject a bit further, if that’s agreeable to you?’
Year 6 blinked. A teacher who actually asked if something was agreeable to them?
‘What do you think?’ said Mr Smith. ‘A good idea, or not?’
‘Good!’ shouted Year 6.
‘Of course, we’ll have to do some curriculum work, as well. Set books, and all that. Literacy, and so forth. But that’s all right! We’ll fit it in. Just not too much of it. All work and no play makes Fred a very dull boy!’
Greatly daring, Bal said, ‘Isn’t it Jack, sir?’
‘Jack?’ Mr Smith seemed puzzled.
‘Dull boy, sir.’
‘Oh! Yes. How silly of me! Makes Jack a dull boy. We wouldn’t want that, would we? Never be bored, is my motto! I think we’re all going to get on just fine.’
Year 6 thought so, too. With his tufty ginger hair and his big beaky nose, the new teacher might not
be much to look at – unlike Miss Beam. Beautiful Miss Beam! – but he seemed pretty cool, for all that.
‘Literacy today, UFOs tomorrow. How about it?’
Year 6 took out their literacy papers without a murmur. They could live with that!
When the bell rang for the end of class, Mr Smith was the first to pack up his books.
‘Ah!’ he said. ‘Lunch! I’ve been looking forward to this all morning. What do you suppose will be on the menu? Any chance of chips?’ He licked his lips. ‘I’ve been told they’re really good!’
Innocently, Joe said, ‘Do you like chips, sir?’
‘Oh, I think so,’ said Mr Smith. ‘From what I’ve heard… yes! I’m sure I like chips. They’re said to be a real delicacy! Do you find them a real delicacy?’
‘When we’re allowed to have ‘em,’ said Joe. ‘Doesn’t happen very often.’
‘Oh.’ Mr Smith’s face fell.
‘But you can get ‘em down in the village.’
‘Really? That’s good to know. Maybe I should go down there right now. What do you think?’
Joe said, ‘I think you should, sir. Be better than school dinners. Miss Beam used to go down there all the time.’
‘In that case,’ said Mr Smith, ‘say no more! What was good enough for Miss Beam is good enough for me. See you later, boys!’
They watched as Mr Smith beetled off down the corridor.
‘Guess that proves it,’ said Bal. But he didn’t sound as if he minded quite so much as he had before.
‘Know what I reckon?’ said Joe, as they made their way to the dining hall. ‘I reckon we got it wrong about aliens. It’s not them that’s weird, it’s all the rest of ‘em!’
They gazed round the hall. They saw Mrs Jellybaby, staggering under the weight of all her beads and bangles. Mr Bulstrode, spluttering over his macaroni cheese. Mr O’Hooligan, Mr McNutter, Monsieur Tittinbot, screaming by the serving hatch. ‘Attention, attention! Watch out for the eye!’
‘Mad,’ said Joe. ‘They’re all mad!’
And they were the human beings. The alien was down in the village, eating chips.
‘I reckon this one’s gonna be OK,’ said Joe.
‘Reckon he is,’ agreed Harry.
Just wait till he told Granddad! There’s this alien takes us for English…