I just hoped Grandma was OK in Glasgow.
The next day was Saturday and I spent the morning on my bed, working on my letter.
Dear British Hairways,
I am Fiona Larson and I would like the job of Hairdressing Assistant you advertised. Please. I am young and quite small but mature for my age. I am. . .
I looked at my scribbled notes.
presentable with good customer service skills. I—
‘Gail!’ Dad shouted from the lounge. ‘There’s been a bomb! In Manchester!’
‘Oh my God!’ Mum’s footsteps thundered down the stairs.
I grabbed my glasses and hurried after her.
On the TV, a reporter with a microphone stood in front of a row of police vans, lights flashing. Mum, Dad and I sat in a line on the sofa and stared.
‘The nearest estimates are several hundred injured. The number of dead and seriously injured yet to be confirmed, but sources expect it to be in double figures.’
Behind the reporter, I could see an empty city street with blackened buildings. Police tape shivered in the wind. Dad had the teletext subtitles on.
‘Are the bombers still around?’ I asked.
‘They will have left quick-smart,’ Mum said quickly.
‘The device was believed to be in a lorry parked on Corporation Street, outside Marks and Spencer’s.’
Mum clucked her tongue against her teeth. ‘Marks and Spencer’s.’
‘A warning with an IRA code word was phoned in to Granada Studios ninety minutes before. A hundred thousand were evacuated.’
‘Why send a warning?’ I asked. ‘If they wanted to hurt people?’
Mum did a flapping thing, like a pigeon about to take off. ‘Please.’ She dropped her hands into her lap. ‘I can’t believe it’s happened. Here. I want to cry.’
I looked at the clock. It was only two hours till England versus Scotland.
I shook Dad’s arm so he was looking at me. ‘Is the football going to be cancelled?’
At first, neither of my parents reacted.
Mum sat up straighter. ‘Is it?’
Dad grabbed the remote.
Mum hunched forward to the front of the sofa. ‘I mean, they don’t think anyone’s been killed.’
Dad booted up Teletext and jabbed numbers into the remote.
Mum flapped her hands at Dad, all pigeon again. ‘Hurry up!’
‘Page four of seven, Gail, page four of seven!’
Mum tried to grab the remote but Dad lurched his hand away.
‘And we’ve just received notification from the FA that the match at three p.m. is still going ahead. I’ll repeat that, England versus Scotland at Wembley is still going ahead.’
The subtitles on the screen flashed up, ‘ENGLAND SCOTLAND FOOTBALL STILL ON’.
Mum sat back. ‘I mean, it would have been fine if they’d cancelled it, of course.’
Dad nodded. ‘Of course.’
We watched some more news. We even ate our lunch in front of the telly, listening to the presenter in the studio.
‘And England v Scotland is still on. I will say that again for anyone who missed it: the football is still on.’
I adjusted my glasses. It was strange to be able to see this well. ‘When will the police solve the mystery? They’ll catch the criminals, right?’
‘Oh.’ Mum looked at Dad. ‘Probably soon, Fiona. Don’t be scared. As soon as we know what’s happened and the bad people are caught, it will all be OK.’
We watched the news until the football came on. The news never changed, it was just the same reporters in front of the same wrecked black buildings and wind-rippled police tape; the same reporters saying the same thing, again and again.
I’d shown I was interested in the news, but it was wasted. It didn’t make me look grown up at all. Every kid, everywhere, would be watching the news that day.
And the whole time, neither of my parents said anything about my glasses.
An hour later, still on the sofa, I watched the footballers run and spit.
I fidgeted. Who knew a day of telly could be this long?
The commentator kept his voice at all one level. ‘Gary Neville there, protecting his keeper with a run from right-back position.’
‘Position.’ I sat up straighter. ‘Like preposition.’
Mum glanced over and back at the telly.
I took a deep breath. ‘A preposition shows relation, like on the bridge or at the station.’
‘Nice block,’ Dad said.
Mum nodded.
‘Neville jogging back there, he knows he’s done his job and done it well.’
I made my voice louder. ‘A preposition shows relation, like on the bridge or at the station.’
Mum turned slowly to face me.
‘What did she say?’ Dad asked.
There was a pause.
‘I’m not exactly sure.’
On screen, a whistle blew.
Mum yanked her head to look.
I pushed my lips together and glanced at the screen. A Scotland player jerked his hands angrily, shouting at one of the England players.
Mum and I both turned to look at Dad. Waiting.
Dad made a big drama of rolling his eyes. ‘He said you’re an effing diving effing cheating mother-effer.’
But even that didn’t cheer me up. ‘I’m going upstairs.’
Mum bounced forward on the sofa. ‘Have fun.’
I walked upstairs slowly, trailing my hand along the wall. I bumped it over each door frame, one by one.
I stopped at the closed door where there used to be a tile sign with a yellow flower under the words Danielle’s room. Dad chiselled the sign off when I was in primary school.
I stared at the closed door for a second. I hurried back to my own room and sat on the bed.
The shouts from downstairs were getting louder. There was a muffled banging of hands on sofa arms.
‘YES, SHEARER, YES!’ Mum.
‘GET IN, MY SON!’ Dad.
I was thinking hard.
Mum had said, as soon as we know what’s happened and the bad people are caught, it will all be OK.
She wasn’t talking about the fair, of course. She was talking about the bomb. But still . . .
I took my glasses off and folded in the arms.
The idea was perfect.
As well as showing my parents I was grown up enough to be trusted, I could prove that what happened to Danielle at the fair would never happen to me.
And that meant – solving the mystery!
I looked at my bookshelf, past Grandma’s long-legged wrong owl.
I tapped The Junior Spy’s Secret Handbook™ gently, like I was saying good girl to a pet, then reached past it to my book of lists.
How to Investigate How Danielle Died
1)Ask the police
2)Ask Crimewatch
3)Ask the local paper
4)Ask Mum and Dad*
5)Ask someone else to ask Mum and Dad**
6)Ask Grandma
7)Ask Mrs Carpenter next door
8)Ask anyone and everyone else
9)Eavesdrop on people
10)Look for clues in Danielle’s bedroom.
*carefully
**better
8
Dead people still have bedrooms.
(paradox)
Thirty-three days to the fair
The next morning, I wrote a letter.
Dear Monkford and District Advertiser,
Please can you send me a copy of your newspaper that covers the night of 24 July 1982.
I can pay.
If you can’t send me a newspaper, can you tell me the name and address of the reporter who covered n
ews and fairs in 1982.
Thank you,
Fiona Larson
I’d only been to Danielle’s grave once, before Mum and Dad decided it wasn’t helpful. But I remembered her death day, because it was carved in gold on the sticking-up stone. Right above God takes the best of us and keeps them to himself.
I took two envelopes and stamps from the Cupboard of Office Things. I enveloped up the letter, along with the letter I’d written to British Hairways.
And I ran to the postbox, as fast as I could. I pushed the letters into the slot and felt a fizzle up my spine.
No going back now.
My investigations had started.
And now I knew I’d definitely need money for the fair, I decided the next thing to do was to start planning for the car boot sale. I ripped out a page from a plain notebook and wrote in my best handwriting:
Available Magazines
Mayfair, June 1996
Razzle, May 1996
Fiesta, June 1996 . . .
I didn’t put any prices on. I didn’t know what to write.
I wrote the same list out nine more times in my best handwriting, ready to hand out to customers at the car boot sale. When I’d finished writing, I put my leaflets and magazines in a cardboard box, and dug out old ponies and bears from my wardrobe. I threw them on top of the magazines, as decoys.
In the back of my wardrobe, I saw Sprinkles. I paused. She was my old favourite pony – from back when I thought it was OK to have a favourite pony.
I picked her up and turned her over in my hand. Remembering how I used to make her canter over the lawn while I whispered what a good horse she was. How Dad peeled carrots for me to leave for her on the bedside table.
How weird I felt about that now. How the thought made me want to kick Sprinkles down the stairs.
I shoved Sprinkles in the box, under the other toys, so I couldn’t see her anymore.
Later, I read the Sunday paper at the peninsula. Mum sat next to me, sewing curtains on her machine. Across the kitchen, Dad chopped vegetables for tea.
I turned the pages as loudly as I could.
It took ages. Turns out there’s a lot of news in a newspaper. And it takes even longer to read if you’re making notes.
Grown-up Topics
1.The Manchester bomb
2.The IRA
3.How Paul Gascoigne is a mercurial player
4.The new constitution in Ukraine
5.The elections in Turkey
6.The situation in Bosnia
7.Bin collections
8.The chancellor Kenneth Clarke’s upcoming Rolls Royce budget and the predicted economic growth of 2.5 per cent in 1996
Look Up
1.Tremble Trigger
2.Ammonium Nitrate
3.Criminal Injuries Compensation Authority
4.Republican
5.Masonry
6.Callous
7.Mercurial
8.Constitution
9.Chancellor
After what felt like hours, I closed my list book and turned the newspaper back to the front page.
People read that every week? Every day?
‘The bomb’s a lot to take in.’ Dad glanced at Mum and back. ‘Maybe best not to look in so much detail?’
Maybe I’d have better luck with Danielle’s bedroom. ‘I’m going upstairs.’
But then Dad came upstairs too and stood sorting out washing, so it wasn’t safe to look. Then Mum said she wanted us all to have a nice tea and watch an old film that she thought I’d like. She wanted us to spend the evening together, as Dad was staying at Uncle Jim’s the next night, for a pool and pub and talking the hind legs off a donkey session.
So I didn’t get to sneak into Danielle’s room that night. But the film was called Caddyshack and it turned out Mum was right. It had a dancing gopher in it, and it was actually pretty funny.
On Monday morning, I was up early before school. Perfect. I woke up at the sound of the door banging, as Dad went to do the post.
I went 0–60, just like that. Sleep. Bam. Wide awake.
Before I could get scared or think too much about what I was doing, I slipped into Danielle’s room.
They’ve never said I’m not allowed to go in there. It’s just I’ve never wanted to.
I put my arms around myself in a safety hug.
Danielle’s room was so much bigger than mine. And so pink. As pink as a stationery set for girls.
Big, pink – and cold. And not because Danielle’s ghost was haunting it. Mum had been really clear after I went in that one time – that the room was always cold because the radiator hadn’t been switched on for fourteen years. Nothing to do with ghosts.
The room was faded. Even Danielle’s few colour posters had the brightness sucked out, so they looked like posters from another century.
I felt a slow shiver trickle up my back.
Ghost or no ghost, it was like going into a cold pink time machine.
I’d better touch something soon, or I’d be too scared to do it, so I stepped across the room and made myself put my hands flat on Danielle’s dressing table.
The table had old nail varnishes on it, the bottles dried up. Faded photos of Danielle and her friends lined the mirror, with thin scarves hanging down, scarves that – I knew from photographs – Danielle used to tie in her hair.
I caught my reflection in the mirror. I looked scared.
I shouldn’t be in here.
On the shelf next to Danielle’s bed sat a record player, a stack of records propped up against it. I leafed through the records.
Turned out Danielle really loved ABBA.
I opened Danielle’s wardrobe and pulled out a thing on a hanger. An all in one shirt-thing, the trousers connected to the top.
No wonder Mum liked Danielle so much. That kid was so nice she even let Mum make her clothes.
I held the thing up against me, and the bottom of the legs draped on the floor.
I pushed it back into the wardrobe roughly. A bunch of unused hangers fell to the floor – a clattering of metal on wood.
NO!
There was a noise from across the landing. A rush of feet, and Mum burst into the room.
She stopped in the doorway, hand still on the door knob. She shut her eyes. ‘Fiona.’
‘I’m sorry.’
Mum put her thumb and first finger on her eyelids.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said again.
‘Love.’ Mum let her hand drop and opened her eyes. ‘What are you doing in here?’
I thought I saw a dog run in.
I wanted to borrow a pen.
‘I wanted to see if there was anything to sell for the car boot sale. I’m sorry, Mum. Don’t be cross.’
Mum sank slowly onto the bed next to me. ‘I’m not cross.’
‘You are,’ I mumbled.
‘Danielle’s stuff is really important to me.’
‘I’ll go, I’m sorry. I don’t need anything to sell.’
Mum gave a big sigh. ‘I know I’m being silly. It’s just a room. Just – stuff.’
She patted the space next to her. I didn’t want to, but I sat down on the heart-covered duvet. The bed creaked. Dead girl’s bed.
‘I’ll have a think. Whether there’s any of this stuff we don’t need. I know your dad thinks . . .’ She stopped talking and pushed hair out of her eyes. ‘I’ll look out for some stuff for you today.’
‘You don’t need to.’
‘No.’ Mum stared at the fluffy rug. ‘I’ll look today.’
And I didn’t want to leave her there, but she made a shooing gesture. ‘Close the door after you.’
9
The good spy practises to improve his craft, as the gifted musician pract
ises with his instrument.
The Junior Spy’s Secret Handbook™
Thirty-two days to the fair
I tried to distract myself from my new levels of Scar badness by telling Lewis my plans at the lamppost, and showing him The Junior Spy’s Secret Handbook™.
Lewis took the handbook from me and I followed his gaze to the cover – to the picture of a man in a hat and long coat, peering at fingerprints through a magnifying glass.
‘The book only has pictures of men and always says “he”,’ I said, ‘but it doesn’t say anywhere that I definitely can’t be a spy. I promise I won’t get kidnapped.’
‘I’ll do the practising bit.’ Lewis handed the book back. ‘I’ll make invisible ink out of lemons and practise crawls with you, that’s fine. I’ll even sew a secret pocket. But spying on your parents or investigating how Danielle died? No way.’
I put The Junior Spy’s Secret Handbook™ away. ‘But the whole point of practising is so you can be better at the actual spying!’
He made that stubborn face he does when I know he’s going to ruin everything.
‘OK,’ I lied. ‘We’ll just do the spy practising.’ I decided not to show him my latest list, after all.
How Did Danielle Die?
1)Fell off the big wheel
2)Fell out of a chair swing
3)Choked on candyfloss
4)Had a heart attack on the Waltzers
5)Got hit on the head with a whack-a-mole hammer – accidentally
6)Got hit on the head with a whack-a-mole hammer – deliberately
7)Fell through a funhouse mirror
8)Took a drug overdose
9)Got killed by a flasher
10)Got killed by a paedo
11)Got killed by a zombie
12)Got killed by someone who wasn’t a flasher, a paedo, or a zombie
I know about paedos. They’re the adults who tell you to sit on their knees when it’s your birthday. They offer to tie your shoelaces and act interested in your day when – let’s face it – adults have cars and go to nightclubs and can buy whatever they want – they’re not really interested in kids’ days. The only people who are really interested in kids’ days are your mum and dad or grandma, the people who have to be interested – it’s their job.
I put drug overdose on my list just to make Danielle seem more interesting, but it definitely wouldn’t be that. And I was pretty sure she wasn’t killed by a zombie, either.
All the Fun of the Fair: A hilarious, brilliantly original coming-of-age story that will capture your heart Page 6