by Humza Arshad
‘I’m not here about the laptop. Open up and I’ll explain.’
‘I’m not allowed to open the door to strangers,’ she replied.
‘I ain’t a stranger! I’ve known you since I was four!’
‘Well, who’s that behind you?’
‘That’s my uncle, Grandpa.’
There was a pause.
‘Is he your uncle or your grandpa?’ asked Wendy, sounding confused.
‘He’s my uncle. His name’s Grandpa. Actually, his name’s Tariq, but that doesn’t matter. He’s Auntie Uzma’s husband. He wants to help us.’
There was silence for a moment. Then the door opened a crack and Wendy’s hand slipped through, held out stiff, towards Grandpa.
‘Nice to meet you,’ said Wendy.
Grandpa shook Wendy’s hand.
‘Nice to meet you too,’ he said.
The hand pulled back inside and the door swung open.
‘I guess you can come in now,’ said Wendy.
‘Nah, that’s OK,’ I replied. ‘We don’t want to come in. I just need some of the missing teachers’ names. You know any?’
‘Their names? You mean their full names?’
‘Exactly, so we can look ’em up in this,’ I said, holding out the phone book.
‘Um … I think I remember a few,’ said Wendy, after a pause. ‘Mr Pamplemousse is called Peter.’
‘Peter Pamplemousse – great. Who else?’
‘Um … Wanda Plum,’ she added. ‘She teaches Year Threes.’
‘Miss Plum. Perfect. Next?’
‘Oh, there’s Ada Whelp – she’s a dinner lady. I think that’s all I can remember off the top of my head. How many do you need?’
‘That’s probably enough to get started.’
Then a thought struck me.
‘Hey, how about Mr Turnbull?’ I asked her. ‘Have you got his?’
‘Mr Turnbull?’ said Wendy, thinking hard. ‘Sorry, no. I don’t recall.’
‘That’s all right,’ I told her, though I felt kinda gutted. ‘Thanks for your help.’
‘No problem,’ she replied, with an awkward smile.
‘I’ll see you Monday, yeah?’ I said, turning to walk back out the gate. ‘Good luck with the laptop.’
‘Goodbye, Wendy Wang,’ said Grandpa, and we headed off in search of Peter Pamplemousse.
Year Five teacher Peter Pamplemousse lived over in Trum. Now if you ain’t been to Trum (and, trust me, there’s no point ever going to Trum), it’s about a twenty-minute bus ride away from Eggington.
We found his house without too much trouble, but there was no sign of him anywhere – just a stack of post building up inside the door. According to his neighbour, Pamplemousse had just upped and vanished one day, with only a note to explain that he’d decided to go and live with his mother in Scotland. It looked like a dead end.
Next up was Wanda Plum. We had to get the number 28 back into town, then two more buses out to where she lived in Hogfurst Mallet. The sun was already pretty low in the sky by the time we rang the front doorbell. Once again, there was no answer.
‘Another dead end,’ I said, bending down to look through the letterbox.
Inside was the same big pile of post as we’d seen at Mr P’s place.
‘Who is next on list?’ said Grandpa.
‘We’ve only got one name left,’ I replied. ‘Ada Whelp.’
‘OK,’ said Grandpa, and he began flicking through the phone book to find her. ‘Here we are. Ada Whelp, 28b Ocelot Mews, Ikingham.’
‘Ikingham?’ I said. ‘We can’t get to Ikingham – it’s miles away. Damn it, I wish one of us could drive.’
‘Another bus?’ he suggested.
‘Yeah, with, like, six changes. We wouldn’t get back until midnight.’
‘Maybe try telephone?’ suggested Grandpa.
‘Good idea!’ I replied. ‘Give me your phone.’
‘What phone?’ he said, looking blank.
‘Ah, man! You ain’t got a phone either? That means we have to go all the way home just to make a call!’
‘Can we use a payphone?’ he asked.
‘If we can find one,’ I said, ‘but these days most of ’em are just used as public toilets.’
‘They make them into toilets?’ asked Grandpa, looking confused.
‘Not officially,’ I replied.
‘Oh …’ he said, wrinkling his nose up.
‘But I’m pretty sure there’s still one outside the library. We’d have to go back into town, but the bus would drop us just round the corner.’
‘Good. We’ll go there,’ said Grandpa.
And without another word we set off to use the library payphone.
‘Oh my …’ said Grandpa, looking down at the mess that used to be a public phone box.
I don’t know if he was more disappointed by the fact that it had clearly become a toilet over the last decade, or because someone had ripped out the receiver, leaving just a wire dangling in its place.
‘The youth of today,’ I said, shaking my head.
‘I guess that is that?’ said Grandpa.
I was about to agree with him when something through the window caught my eye.
‘Not so fast … I got an idea.’
Inside the library, I paid a pound to the librarian for half an hour on the computer.
‘I don’t know what I was thinking!’ I told Grandpa, as I typed. ‘Why go all the way across town looking for teachers when we can just check ’em out online? Teachers can’t help posting stuff about their social lives. They think we can’t see it for some reason, but most of us know more about computers than they do.’
While I was typing, I’d opened one of the social network sites popular among teachers and created a profile for Grandpa. He looked surprised when I used the webcam to snap his photo.
‘It’s me,’ he said with a grin, admiring his new profile pic.
‘Yup,’ I replied. ‘You’ve officially joined the twenty-first century, Uncle.’
Three minutes later we were looking at the profile page for ageing dinner lady Ada Whelp. The most recent status update was from three days ago. It read:
Ada Whelp is on holiday
Underneath that was a photograph of Ada standing beside an enormous mountain, surrounded by cherry blossom. I know dinner ladies aren’t meant to be photogenic, but, even so, it was a pretty terrible shot. She looked like she’d been dragged out of bed, through a bush and halfway up a mountain.
‘Where is that? China?’ I asked.
‘Japan,’ said Grandpa. ‘Mount Fuji.’
‘Man, I thought Ikingham was far. I ain’t got a clue how many buses it’d take to get to Japan.’
Next I typed in ‘Wanda Plum’ and hit SEARCH. Her profile popped up immediately.
‘Huh, that’s weird,’ I said. ‘It looks like Miss Plum’s on holiday too.’ Her last post was from a few days back and featured a photo of Miss Plum in front of an enormous waterfall. She didn’t seem that impressed to be there either.
‘I thought long holidays were the only reason for becoming a teacher. She looks like she’d rather be in bed than wherever that is.’
‘Niagara Falls,’ said Grandpa, leaning in to scrutinize the photo.
Finally, we looked up Peter Pamplemousse. Same as the rest: one update, one photo, one sleepy-looking teacher in an exotic location.
‘Man, what the hell? He’s on holiday too! What’s up with that?’
Grandpa didn’t answer. He had a puzzled look on his face.
‘I know this one though,’ I said, pointing to the enormous orange gorge behind Mr Pamplemousse. ‘That’s the Grand Canyon, yeah?’
‘Mmm,’ agreed Grandpa, ‘… Grand Canyon.’
He sounded far away.
‘What is it?’ I asked him.
‘Something … something is not right … But … what?’
I didn’t have any answers. Our search had only raised more questions. Why were all the teachers on holiday
now? Why could none of them take a half-decent photograph? And why would anyone pick a phone box for a toilet when it had glass walls? It was all a mystery.
We paid 30p for a printout of everyone’s holiday snaps, to add to Grandpa’s investigation board, then headed to the exit. It was dark when we got outside.
‘Home time,’ said Grandpa.
‘What? No!’ I replied. ‘We can’t go home yet. We’ve got to figure this out!’
‘It will have to wait,’ said Grandpa, putting a hand on my shoulder. ‘People will wonder where we are. Get suspicious. They cannot find out we are on to them. All we know for sure is that these aunties are dangerous.’
We walked home in silence, trying to put together all the different pieces. None of it made sense. These teachers weren’t just gone from the school. They’d completely vanished from their lives.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Weird Weekend
Now, with it being the weekend, I figured Grandpa and I were gonna have all the time we needed to get to the bottom of this thing. Yeah, right. Between Dad making me play cricket and Mum making me help prepare for Sunday’s big family dinner, we didn’t get any investigating done. Dad was ready to pounce before I’d even got out of bed.
‘Cricket!’ he shouted, leaning in through my door.
‘Aargh!’ I yelled, jumping in fright.
‘We have a match today,’ he added with a grin. ‘Get dressed! We leave in four minutes.’
‘Actually, I thought I might go look after Grandpa instead. He’s … uh … he’s been a bit off colour.’
‘He is always off colour,’ said my dad. ‘It’s hard to tell if he is alive most days. We have almost buried him on six occasions.’
‘Right, but I still think I should –’ I began, but Dad cut me off.
‘Today you are playing cricket!’ he shouted. ‘And you are going to win!’
‘Can’t I miss it, just this once, Dad?’
‘If you disobey me, boy, I swear I will ship you straight to your uncle in Pakistan. I have already purchased a crate!’
‘What? No you haven’t.’
‘You want me to fetch the crate?’ he bellowed. ‘I will fetch the crate! Don’t make me fetch the crate!’
I bit my tongue. I could never be sure when he actually meant it or when he was just being mental. He used to tell me that I once had a brother who was so disobedient he’d packaged him up and sent him to live in Pakistan for eighty years. Was he lying? You tell me. I couldn’t take the risk. The investigation was just going to have to wait.
An hour later we were standing with the rest of the cricket team in the middle of a playing field. The others looked as miserable to be there as I did.
‘Hey, guys!’ I said, forcing a smile. ‘Ready for some cricket?’
‘I hate cricket,’ replied Jamal Jones, barely looking at me.
Wow, it takes a special coach to make Jamal Jones hate cricket. My dad had a gift.
The team we were meant to be playing seemed like normal happy kids. They were doing a few warm-ups, running back and forth, catching and hitting the ball. Our team just sat around in the shade, looking as tired as we were miserable. Even walking up from the car park had left us out of breath. And there were a lot more bellies on show than there used to be.
Maybe this wasn’t a case of shrunken laundry after all. I looked down at my own belly, sticking out from under my top. Hmm, definitely bigger. And, I swear, Jamal had never had a tummy on him before now. There was no two ways about it: all of us had piled on the pounds since the aunties showed up. Could this be part of their plan?
‘Mohammed Ali Khan!’ came a voice from nearby.
My dad turned to see who was calling his name. His mouth fell open.
‘Abdul Saeed Siddiki!’ he gasped. ‘My old nemesis!’
‘I have never forgotten that day on Manora Beach,’ he said, ‘when you cheated and stole victory from me and my brothers at the tyre factory.’
‘Cheated?’ shouted my father. ‘We won despite your cheating!’
‘Ha!’ laughed Siddiki. ‘Well, today I will have my revenge. My team are the greatest twelve-and-under cricket team this side of Lahore!’
‘And mine,’ replied my dad, ‘are the greatest team of any age, anywhere on the planet!’
The other team burst out laughing. Even a few of our team smirked at the claim. What was he thinking? Next he’d be placing bets on us.
‘One hundred pounds says we beat you like the wretched dogs you are!’ shouted my dad.
‘Wretched dogs’? Huh. I guess that’s one way to refer to a bunch of pre-teens playing a cricket friendly.
‘Why not make it interesting?’ said Siddiki. ‘Two hundred pounds!’
‘Ha!’ shouted my father. ‘There is nothing interesting about two hundred pounds! Not when you have –’ he started going through his wallet, then emptying the change out of his back pocket – ‘two hundred and seven pounds, thirty-one pence, and a half-full loyalty card for Uzbek Fried Chicken!’
‘Agreed!’ roared Siddiki, whipping out his own loyalty card for Uzbek Fried Chicken. ‘May we thrash you like a herd of escaped goats!’
‘You are the goats who have escaped and will require thrashing!’ said my dad, his eyes bulging from his head.
If our cricket was half as terrible as that comeback, this was still gonna be a disaster.
And it was.
The smell of burnt rubber filled the car. Dad was furious. I swear you could see a little bit of steam coming off his bald spot. To say it wasn’t helping his driving would be an understatement.
‘He cheated me!’ shouted my father, skidding over a mini-roundabout. ‘He cheated me and stole my money!’
‘I don’t think he did, Dad,’ I replied, gripping on to the dashboard to keep myself from falling out of my seat. ‘They beat us fair and square.’
‘Impossible! No team of mine would ever lose to a cowardly dog like Siddiki!’
‘But, Dad, haven’t you noticed? We’ve all slowed down a bit …’
‘He must have poisoned you then!’ shouted my dad.
‘I don’t think so. I’ve been wondering if it’s how much everyone’s been eating. You know, since the aunties came to help at the school?’
‘He probably put chemicals in the reservoir!’ roared my dad, not listening to a word I was saying. ‘Or some sort of gas in the air vents! Or sorcery! I would not put it past him to use sorcery.’
I could see there was no point discussing it with him while he was riled up. But I’d definitely be mentioning my theory to Grandpa when I saw him. Because, if I didn’t know better, I’d swear the aunties had been fattening us up for something …
Next, it was Mum’s turn to screw up my weekend. The whole of Sunday morning was wasted helping her get ready for family dinner that afternoon. It was kind of a tradition for us all to get together like this on a Sunday, all the aunts and uncles and cousins, eating and talking and catching up. But seriously, man, did I really have to help with the cooking? Apparently, the answer was yes.
The only good thing was knowing that Grandpa would definitely be there. I’d been desperate to talk to him again since our investigation had begun. And I knew I was on to something with the food. I just knew it.
We drove over to Auntie Salma and Uncle Bashir’s place a little before five. The car boot was full of the rattling dishes we’d spent the morning preparing. Mum insisted on driving so Dad didn’t wreck all our hard work. Dad was still in a foul mood about yesterday’s cricket, so he just sat sulking in the passenger seat, not saying a word.
When we arrived, I followed them up the path to the front door, carrying a big bowl of butter chicken. My mum had cooked a lot, but nothing out of the ordinary. It’s like this most weeks. Everyone shows up, everyone cooks, everyone stuffs their faces. Whatever was going on with the aunties, my mum didn’t seem to be in on it. Auntie Salma, on the other hand, I wasn’t too sure about …
‘Hiii-eeeee!’ squealed Auntie
Salma as she tore open the door.
She pushed between my parents, nearly knocking their plates to the floor, and grabbed me by the cheeks with both hands. She squeezed them with her super-strong auntie fingers, giggling like a crazy person. With my arms full of butter chicken, I couldn’t even defend myself. I was helpless.
‘Get off, Auntie!’ I said, shaking my head, but it was no good. She had me in her death grip.
‘Beautiful fat boy!’ she said, laughing. ‘Come in, come in, come in!’
She took the bowl of butter chicken out of my hands, before bumping my dad out of the way and hurrying back inside. I was just about to follow everyone in when I heard a hiss from the bushes.
‘Psssst!’ said the voice.
I looked over to find Grandpa squatting in a hedge, his face peering out at me like some limited-edition Asian gnome.
‘All right, Grandpa? What you doing in a hedge?’
‘Aunties,’ he replied. ‘So many aunties.’
‘Oh right … So you’re just going to hang out in the bush then?’
‘I was waiting for you,’ he said.
‘Doesn’t Auntie Uzma think it’s kind of weird that you’re sitting outside in a shrub?’
‘She does not care. As long as I don’t get in the way of her cooking, she doesn’t seem to notice what I do.’
‘I knew it!’ I said. ‘It is the food! There’s something going on with all this cooking. At first I thought it was just a nice change, all the delicious food at school, but they’re up to something.’
‘Up to what?’ asked Grandpa.
‘Fattening us up to eat us!’ I said as dramatically as I could.
‘Hmm, maybe,’ replied Grandpa, not sounding convinced. ‘Maybe not.’
‘Why? It makes sense, doesn’t it? Aunties are pretty weird and sinister anyway, so it wouldn’t take a lot for them to turn fully evil. And kids have got to be tastier than adults – like how lamb’s tastier than dirty old sheep. They probably just went crazy and decided it was time they ate all the kids.’
‘I don’t know,’ said Grandpa. ‘It does seem a lot of work just to eat some children.’
‘Mmm,’ I said, thinking it through. ‘I guess getting rid of all those teachers and taking their jobs is quite a lot of trouble to go to. Maybe there is more to the plan … But what?’