by Kevin Brooks
21
Although the official verdict of the coroner’s inquest into Peter’s death was death by misadventure, most people thought that he’d taken his own life. Mr Wells certainly did, and as far as he was concerned it was all his fault. He blamed himself for his son’s death. If he hadn’t been so hard on him that day, he thought, if he hadn’t lost his temper with him, if he’d only been a little more compassionate and shown him how much he loved him, Peter would still be alive.
I don’t suppose it really mattered whether he was right or not, it was what Mr Wells believed.
For the first couple of weeks after Peter’s death, Mr Wells seemed to be coping fairly well. He was only off school for a week, and when he came back it was almost as if nothing had happened. He was just the same old nice Mr Wells. A bit sadder than usual, perhaps. A bit quieter. But essentially the same person.
But then gradually – in a strangely similar fashion to Peter’s gradual change – Mr Wells began falling apart. He started coming into school looking like he hadn’t slept or washed or changed his clothes for days – his face unshaven, his eyes bloodshot and ringed with dark circles, his normally pristine suit all crumpled and stained. And when he got close to you, he smelled really bad, all sour and sweaty, and his breath absolutely stank. Then the drinking started. At first, it was only apparent in afternoon lessons, when he’d obviously had a few drinks at lunchtime. He wasn’t incapable or anything, but everyone in the classroom could tell he’d been drinking – his words were slurred, his eyes were glazed, he was slightly unsteady on his feet. It didn’t happen every day, but over time it became more and more frequent, and eventually it got to the stage where Mr Wells was pretty much drunk all the time, and that’s when he did become incapable. He’d fall asleep in the middle of a lesson. He’d start talking to the class about Peter, and then he’d end up sitting at his desk crying his eyes out. And he started talking to Peter as well. You’d see him walking along the corridor, his head down, his eyes fixed to the floor, and when he went past, you could hear him muttering under his breath, and if you listened closely you’d realise that he was having a discussion with his dead son.
Eventually the headmaster insisted that he take three months’ compassionate leave, and although he wasn’t given an official ultimatum, I think he was basically told that if he didn’t seek professional help and get himself sorted out, he wouldn’t be coming back.
I don’t know if Mr Wells did get professional help or not – alcohol rehabilitation, grief counselling, stuff like that – but whatever he did, when he returned to school at the beginning of the autumn term, he was at least halfway back to himself again. He’d lost a lot of weight, and his wife had left him, and whenever I saw him I got the sense that a light had been switched off in his heart. But he was sober again, and he no longer talked to himself or his son, and after the initial surprise that he’d actually come back to school – which no one had really believed would happen – the gossip and the whispering about him gradually faded away and he simply became Mr Wells again: English and drama teacher, a nice but troubled man.
He was really good to me when my mum and dad died. Most of the teachers were pretty good, to be honest – offering their condolences, asking me if there was anything they could do to help, telling me not to worry about homework and stuff. But Mr Wells was the only one who took the time and trouble to actually sit down and talk to me about my parents’ death. He didn’t just offer his sympathy and heartfelt condolences either, he talked to me about the practicalities of my situation – who are you living with now? are you happy with your nan and grandad? are they financially secure enough to look after you? They were the kind of questions that no one else had bothered to ask me, and although I was perfectly happy living with Nan and Grandad, and there weren’t any practical problems, I really appreciated the fact that Mr Wells had thought to ask. It was also really good talking to him because he knew exactly what it was like to lose someone you love. He knew from personal experience what it can do to you, and he knew better than most that whatever grief does to you, you can’t really control it.
‘It’s as if something gets inside you,’ he said to me once, ‘something that’s you, but not you. And whatever it wants you to do, there’s nothing you can do to stop it.’ He smiled sadly at me. ‘That probably doesn’t make a lot of sense, does it?’
‘It makes perfect sense to me,’ I told him.
All of that was on my mind as I backed away from the dressing-room door that afternoon – Peter Wells’s troubled life and death, the hell Mr Wells had been through, the way he’d come through it, and his kindness to me – it all flashed through my mind in a matter of moments, and I couldn’t help but despise Mr Jago for the way he’d just treated Mr Wells.
I was about ten metres away from the door when Jago came out of the dressing room, followed closely by Mr Wells. Jago saw me, glanced at his watch, and just as he looked back at me and was about to say something, the referee in charge of the Slade Lane game blew his whistle for half-time.
Jago turned to Mr Wells. ‘You might as well wait inside till the start of the second half now.’
Mr Wells nodded, smiled at me, then went back into the changing rooms.
As Mr Jago came over to me, the ref in the Kell Cross match blew for half-time, and when I looked out over the playing fields I could see that a few players were already ambling over towards the changing rooms.
Half-time in school games isn’t like half-time in Premier League matches. We don’t get fifteen minutes in the dressing room with a limitless supply of energy drinks and massages from physios and tactical team-talks from the manager, we usually get a five-minute break at the side of the pitch with a plate of sliced oranges and a litre-bottle of tap water. But because this was the Twin Town Cup, half-time had been stretched to ten minutes and allowances had been made to let players back into the changing rooms if they needed to use the toilet or change their studs or their kit or whatever.
‘It was a false alarm,’ Mr Jago said irritably, stopping in front of me.
I couldn’t help glaring at him.
‘What?’ he said, frowning at me.
I shook my head. There was no point in saying anything to him about Mr Wells. ‘I’ve turned off the sensors,’ I told him. ‘I’ll reset them and put them back on again when the second half starts.’
‘Right.’ He sighed. ‘Hopefully a certain member of staff will remember what he’s supposed to do now.’
‘We all make mistakes,’ I said.
‘You can say that again.’
He gave me a look then – a kind of man-to-man, you-know-what-I’m-talking-about kind of look – and it was pretty obvious that he wasn’t just referring to Mr Wells’s mistake in opening the door. He was, in effect, sharing with me his opinion of Mr Wells in general. And not only that, he was assuming that I’d agree with him too.
As he turned round and began strutting back across the playing fields, his chest puffed out like a tracksuited pigeon, I had to force myself not to run after him and punch him in the back of his head.
22
As the second half of the semi-final began, and I resumed my place on the subs bench, I couldn’t help wondering what I was still doing here. It was freezing cold, the rain was bucketing down, soaking me to the skin, and – thanks to Mr Jago – my enthusiasm for the case had virtually disappeared again. His despicable treatment of Mr Wells had ruined everything for me, and the fact that he was the only reason I was sitting here was almost too much to take.
I looked over at him now, standing on the touchline, bawling out stupid instructions – ‘PUSH UP, KELL CROSS! COME ON, KENDAL, GET THEM PUSHED UP! PRESS, PRESS, PRESS!’
‘Idiot,’ I muttered.
‘You what?’
I’d forgotten that Mosh Akram was sitting next to me.
‘Nothing,’ I said, shaking my head.
Mosh glanced at Mr Jago, then turned back to me. ‘He thinks he’s Arsène Wenger.’
&n
bsp; ‘More like Arsehole Wenger.’
Mosh grinned. ‘No offence, Trav, but how come he picked you as a sub?’
‘I’m his secret weapon.’
‘Yeah?’
I nodded. ‘I’m so useless that when he brings me on, everyone on the other side breaks down in hysterics, and while they’re laughing themselves stupid, we stroll upfield and score.’
Mosh laughed. ‘That’s Jago’s master plan, is it?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Maybe he’s not such an idiot after all.’
‘No,’ I said, ‘he’s definitely an idiot.’
I felt a bit better after that, and although I still hated the idea of having anything to do with Mr Jago, I found that if I kept reminding myself that I wasn’t actually working for him, I was working for the school, that made things just about tolerable.
Even so, I would have been perfectly happy to get through the rest of the day without the motion-sensor alarm going off again. But something told me that wasn’t going to happen. In fact, I was so sure it was going to happen that when it finally did I felt a strange sense of almost pleasant relief.
It was just gone three o’clock by then, about midway through the second half, and Kell Cross were 3-0 up and cruising to an easy victory. I took out my phone and checked the screen. This time the letter A was showing inside the flashing alarm icon, which meant the sensor in the away dressing room had been activated. Before doing anything else, I looked over at the changing rooms. The bus that had previously blocked my view wasn’t there any more, and I could clearly see both doors. Mr Ayres was still outside the away dressing room, and – more importantly – Mr Wells was definitely outside the home dressing room. Both doors were shut, presumably locked. There shouldn’t have been anyone inside. But someone or something was in the away dressing room, and as my alarm went off again and I saw the letter H inside the flashing icon, I knew that someone or something had activated the other alarm now too. Unless there was something wrong with the sensors, that could only mean that someone had been in the away dressing room and had now got through the connecting door into the home dressing room.
I glanced over at the changing rooms again, saw that Mr Wells was still there, then texted Mr Jago – AAA+AAH. Alarm Activated, Away and Home dressing rooms. Just like before, Jago immediately stopped yelling out instructions, pulled out his mobile, read the message, then headed off towards the changing rooms.
Unlike before, I didn’t follow him.
I’d seen how he’d dealt with an innocent intruder. I didn’t want to be anywhere near him when he got hold of a genuine thief.
I turned my attention back to the match. A chorus of boos and jeers had just gone up, and there was a scuffle going on in our penalty area.
‘What’s going on?’ I asked Mosh.
‘The German number nine just got booked for simulation.’
‘He dived?’
Mosh shook his head. ‘Kendal brought him down, but he made sure the ref didn’t see it. When the German kid appealed for a penalty, Kendal started yelling at him, calling him a cheat, then everyone else joined in, accusing the kid of diving, and the ref fell for it.’
‘No wonder they call it the beautiful game,’ I said.
Mosh shrugged. ‘It’s all about winning, Trav. That’s all that matters in the end.’
My phone buzzed again, this time alerting me to a text. It was from Mr Jago. Target apprehended, it read. Come now.
‘Idiot,’ I muttered, getting to my feet.
‘You got the squits or something?’ Mosh asked, assuming that I was going to the toilet again.
I couldn’t be bothered to think up a better excuse, so I just said ‘Yeah,’ and trudged off to see who Mr Jago had ‘apprehended’.
23
As I approached the changing rooms, I saw Mr Jago come out of the home dressing room and say something to Mr Wells. Mr Wells hesitated for a moment, then Jago gave him a stern look and spoke to him again. Mr Wells nodded sheepishly and walked off round the front of the changing rooms. He stopped and said something to Mr Ayres, Mr Ayres frowned and looked over at Mr Jago, then he shrugged his shoulders and the two of them walked off together towards the playing fields.
Mr Jago waited in the doorway, watching them go, then he turned and beckoned me over, gesturing at me to hurry up. As I headed towards him, I wondered if he thought he was being subtle, but was just really bad at it, or if he was simply too stupid to realise how unsubtle his actions were.
‘Come on, Delaney,’ he said in a loud whisper, ‘we haven’t got all day.’
I followed him into the dressing room, and he closed the door behind us. A kid I’d never seen before was sitting on a bench across the room. He looked about fourteen or fifteen. He had pale skin, close-cropped hair, and was dressed in a green bomber jacket and black jeans. He was staring silently at the floor.
‘He had these on him,’ Mr Jago said, holding out his hand to show me an iPhone, an iPod, and two wallets.
I looked over at the connecting door. It was open. The lock had been forced. I glanced over at the kid again.
‘Do you know him?’ Mr Jago asked me.
I shook my head. ‘Haven’t you asked him who he is?’
‘He won’t say a word to me. He just sits there staring at the floor.’
‘Hey,’ I said to the kid. ‘Wie heifst du?’
He looked up and sneered at me. ‘Hau ab!’
‘What did he say?’ Mr Jago asked.
‘I asked him what his name was. He told me to get lost.’
‘He’s German?’
Duh, I thought.
‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘He must be with the team from Steindorf. Maybe a non-playing reserve or a first-team player with an injury or something. He was probably in the dressing room next door with his teammates at half-time, and when they went back out for the second half, he hid somewhere, waited for Mr Ayres to lock the door, then forced the lock on the connecting door and started nicking stuff from in here.’
‘Do you think he’s the one we’re looking for?’ Jago said.
I couldn’t believe he really meant it at first. I stared at him, waiting for him to realise that of course this wasn’t the thief we were looking for, but he just looked back at me, waiting in all seriousness for me to answer him.
‘No,’ I said, barely able to keep the disbelief from my voice. ‘This isn’t our thief.’
‘What makes you so sure?’
‘Well, firstly, our thief doesn’t force his way in. Secondly, ours doesn’t take valuables. And thirdly, this kid wasn’t even in the country when our thief first started stealing stuff.’
Mr Jago nodded thoughtfully. ‘So it seems we’re back to square one.’
‘Looks like it,’ I agreed.
‘Damn. I was hoping to get this all sorted out before the final.’ He looked over at the German kid. ‘And now I’m going to have to work out what to do about him as well.’
‘Why don’t you just report him to his teachers?’
‘If only it were that simple.’
I guessed he was referring to the diplomatic complexities of the situation. Steindorf were guests of the school, and the school represented both the town and the tournament sponsors. If news got out that a Kell Cross teacher was accusing a Steindorf pupil of theft, the repercussions could be seriously damaging.
Luckily for me, that wasn’t my problem.
All I had to do – once Mr Jago had made arrangements for the connecting door to be fixed and then escorted the German kid from the changing rooms – was reset the sensors, go back to the subs bench, and watch the rest of the game.
The final score was 4-0 to Kell Cross. As the full-time whistle blew, and the players celebrated to the cheers and applause of the home crowd, I got to my feet, pulled out my mobile, and turned off the motion sensors. The other semi-final hadn’t finished yet, and as I wandered over to catch the last few minutes, I spotted someone I recognised watching from the sidelines. Her name was Evie Joh
nson. She was a year or two older than me, and I’d met her at her boxing club when I was investigating my parents’ last case in the summer. Together with Mason and Lenny, she’d helped me out when I’d confronted the men from Omega, and although we’d only spent a short time together, we’d become pretty close. I hadn’t seen her since then though, but I’d thought about her quite a lot, and I’d often thought about calling or texting her, but for some reason I kept chickening out. I wasn’t sure what it was that had held me back, but whatever it was, I was suddenly feeling it again now.
Evie hadn’t seen me yet, and as I carried on walking towards her, I couldn’t keep my eyes off her. She looked even more amazing than I remembered. Those deep dark eyes, that beautiful light-brown skin, that strangely intriguing face . . . I felt exactly the same now as I’d felt when I’d first set eyes on her – weirdly confused. It was like I wanted to talk to her, but I didn’t want to talk to her. I wanted to be with her, but I also wanted to run away.
Good and bad at the same time.
Very confusing.
She turned my way then, almost as if she’d sensed me looking at her, and when she saw me her face lit up and she waved and called out to me.
‘Travis! Hey, Travis!’
As I smiled and raised my hand and headed over to her, I saw her put her hand on the shoulder of a young man standing next to her. I guessed he was about seventeen, and it was obvious from the way Evie leant in close to him, lovingly gripping his arm as she pointed me out to him, that he was her boyfriend.
I couldn’t help feeling a tiny pang of disappointment and jealousy. I knew it was totally irrational. I hardly knew Evie really, and there was never any realistic chance of us being anything more than just friends. I’d only just turned fourteen. She was at least fifteen, more likely sixteen. And the boy she was with was a big handsome black guy who no doubt had a car and a job and was to all intents and purposes a fully grown man . . .