The Plot Thickens

by R. A. Spratt

  ‘Some things are worth sacrificing for,’ said Friday. She stepped out in front of the group. ‘Should I begin?’

  ‘Go ahead,’ said Mr Fontana.

  ‘Right,’ said Friday. ‘Who will join me in refusing to wear the tracker, and instead doing burpees?’

  The class had already passed the trackers out amongst themselves.

  ‘I think it’s cool,’ said Harris, playing with the buttons on the tracker. ‘Look, it can read my heart.’

  ‘I wanted one of these for Christmas,’ added Trea. ‘My sister’s always going on about how many steps she takes. Now I can totally smoke her.’

  ‘No one?’ asked Friday. She looked at Melanie.

  Melanie shook her head. ‘Sorry, I’d rather spend all day walking around wearing a webcam with live internet streaming attached to my forehead than do even one burpee.’

  ‘You’re on your own, Barnes,’ said Ian.

  ‘Fine,’ said Friday. She took a deep breath ready to begin, then turned to Mr Fontana. ‘What’s a burpee again?’

  Mr Fontana sighed and shook his head. ‘You lie down flat on your stomach, get back up, jump and clap your hands over your head.’

  ‘You’re kidding?’ said Friday.

  ‘No,’ said Mr Fontana shaking his head.

  Friday gritted her teeth and reconciled herself to the task. She put her hands down on the floor, stepped her legs back and lay down on her chest. That wasn’t too bad. Then she got back up, jumped and clapped her hands over her head.

  ‘One,’ said Mr Fontana.

  ‘One?’ said Friday. ‘But there were four different movements there.’

  ‘I know what a burpee is,’ said Mr Fontana. ‘And that is just one of them. You’ve got ninety-nine more to go.’

  Chapter 14

  Mural

  Friday and Melanie were sitting in the art classroom waiting for Mr Brecht. Friday had never hurt so much in her life. She’d expected her arms and legs to be achy, but her stomach muscles felt traumatised, and even though she’d been doing the burpees on grass, the pitch was pretty dry and she’d managed to take the skin off both knees.

  ‘I always knew exercise was deeply unpleasant,’ said Friday, ‘but I never knew just how deeply unpleasant until today.’

  ‘And to think, some people do it voluntarily,’ said Melanie. ‘They even claim to enjoy it.’

  ‘Ugh,’ said Mr Brecht as he stomped up the stairs into the classroom and slapped his satchel down on his desk.

  He was twenty minutes late.

  ‘Problem, sir?’ asked Melanie.

  ‘Your idiot of a headmaster has given me an assignment,’ complained Mr Brecht.

  ‘Are you allowed to call the headmaster an idiot?’ asked Melanie.

  ‘One of the advantages of being on a short-term contract is that the process of firing me would take longer than just letting me serve out my contract,’ said Mr Brecht. ‘As a result, I can say just what I like, about just who I like.’

  ‘I’m not sure that’s entirely true,’ said Friday. ‘If you said you murdered someone, I’m pretty sure the Headmaster would fire you straight away.’

  ‘If he found out,’ said Melanie. ‘Lots of things go on at this school without the Headmaster ever finding out.’

  ‘True,’ agreed Friday. ‘Like all the weird graffiti that keeps popping up on pictures around the school. Look at the Mona Lisa behind you. There’s a perfectly executed Renaissance style depiction of an airplane flying behind her head.’

  ‘Would you two shut up so we can find out what Mr Brecht is going on about?’ snapped Ian. ‘That is actually interesting, unlike anything either of you has to say.’

  ‘The Headmaster isn’t content with humiliating me by making me teach children,’ said Mr Brecht.

  ‘You mean, doing your job?’ said Friday.

  ‘Precisely,’ said Mr Brecht. ‘It is mortifying for an artist of my calibre to be reduced to this.’

  ‘So why don’t you quit?’ asked Friday. ‘Surely you could arrange some sort of payment scheme with the tax department?’

  ‘Humph!’ grumbled Mr Brecht. ‘The tax department is the least of my worries. No, the Headmaster knows I can’t escape, so now he’s making me arrange this stupid art show.’

  ‘I thought that was meant to highlight your inspirational influence on the students’ artwork?’ said Melanie.

  ‘As if I want that highlighted!’ said Mr Brecht. ‘The fewer people who know I’ve been reduced to “teaching”, the better.’ He said the word ‘teaching’ as if it was the worst swear word he had ever said. ‘But, to add insult to injury, he’s asked me to design a mural.’

  ‘A urinal?’ asked Patel, who was sitting in the back row and as such couldn’t hear clearly.

  ‘No, although I’d enjoy that more,’ said Mr Brecht. ‘At least designing a urinal, or any sort of toilet, really, would be an artistic challenge. No, I have to have my nose ground into my humiliation, by designing a blasted great big mural that will stand for all posterity on a wall of this school.’

  ‘Which wall?’ asked Friday.

  ‘The northern wall of the science block,’ said Mr Brecht.

  ‘But that’s huge!’ said Friday. ‘It’s a two-storey building, so it must be at least six metres high and thirty metres long. The mural would be 180 square metres!’

  ‘It would?’ exclaimed Mr Brecht. ‘Urgh, I really wish you hadn’t done the mathematics, Barnes. Now I’m even more depressed.’

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ said Friday.

  ‘The whole thing is just so utterly boring it makes me want to vomit,’ said Mr Brecht.

  ‘You really do have an artistic temperament, don’t you, sir?’ said Melanie.

  ‘On the bright side, being an idiot, the Headmaster has given me a ridiculously inflated budget,’ said Mr Brecht, ‘which means if we’re going to desecrate a great big wall with the amateur scrawlings of this student body, at least we can do it properly.’

  ‘What do you mean by “properly”?’ asked Ian. ‘Are you thinking spatter painting like Jackson Pollock? Will we be using cannons?’

  ‘No, we will not,’ said Mr Brecht. ‘I may be this country’s leading avant-garde artist, but I still believe a painting should look like something.’

  ‘So how are you spending your huge budget?’ asked Friday.

  ‘On cheese?’ asked Melanie.

  ‘No, although that’s not a bad idea,’ said Mr Brecht, ‘I am peckish. No, I’m getting a building company to come in and erect scaffolding across the entire face of the building so we can cover every last inch with paint.’

  ‘Cool,’ said Peregrine.

  ‘And it has the added benefit of minimising the chance of anyone plummeting to their death,’ said Mr Brecht. ‘This job is bad enough without me having to fill in endless tedious Occupational Health and Safety forms just because some student is too stupid to not know how to hang out of a window without dying.’

  ‘What will the mural depict?’ asked Friday.

  Mr Brecht grinned. ‘I’m not telling anyone. Because whatever I decide, there would be some committee discussion about it, with tie-wearing nerds telling me how I could “improve” my work. Then I’d probably strangle someone and get in real trouble. So, to save myself from that, I’m just not going to tell anyone.’

  ‘Aren’t the students meant to do the painting?’ asked Ian.

  ‘Yes,’ said Mr Brecht.

  ‘So how does that work?’ asked Ian. ‘Will we paint wearing blindfolds?’

  ‘That wouldn’t be very safe up on a scaffold,’ said Melanie.

  ‘No, my plan is much more brilliant than that,’ said Mr Brecht. ‘I’ve done my design, and I’ve cut it up into 350 pieces, one for each student at this school. The pieces are numbered. Each student will have to take their ten centimetre by ten centimetre piece and enlarge it in a numbered square on the building.’

  ‘Like a colour-by-numbers painting?’ asked Friday.

  ‘Yes,’ said M
r Brecht, ‘like a giant colour-by-numbers painting where you each only get one number.’

  ‘It sounds more interesting than the macramé plant hangers Miss Van Den Porten had us make in art last term,’ said Ian.

  Mr Brecht rifled through his satchel and pulled out a big plastic bag. ‘Here, you lot can get the first pieces. Line up down the middle of the room, then take your turns pulling a piece of the design out of this bag.’

  The class lined up. Because she was sitting in the front row, and everyone lined up behind her, Melanie was at the front of the line. She reached into the plastic bag and pulled out a small square of paper. Melanie looked at it.

  ‘It’s just blue,’ said Melanie.

  ‘Lucky you,’ said Mr Brecht. ‘That will be nice and easy for you to paint.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Melanie, smiling happily.

  Friday reached in next. She pulled out a design that was a sort of pink and black swirl. ‘Mine looks like a snail shell,’ said Friday.

  ‘You’re a talented artist,’ said Mr Brecht, ‘I’m sure you can handle the challenge.’

  And so the process continued until each person in the class had a design. Patel was considered the next luckiest after Melanie because all he had on his design was a big round black circle. Ian had a more challenging part of the design that looked like zebra stripes. But most people got variations on pink, brown, blue or black blobs.

  ‘I can’t believe he gets paid for this,’ muttered Mirabella. ‘He’s some fancy-pants artist, but my four-year-old sister could come up with something more interesting.’

  ‘Really?’ said Melanie. ‘It’s nice to know that someone in your family is talented.’

  Friday stared at the design in her hand.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ asked Melanie.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Friday. ‘But I’m sure something is.’

  Chapter 15

  Abduction

  One week later, Friday and Melanie were sitting up on the scaffolding alongside the science block. It had only taken them a few minutes to paint their sections of the mural, and now they were enjoying their elevated view over the school. Friday was staring at the sky observing some particularly interesting Cumulus humilis clouds (white fluffy ones) when Melanie spotted something.

  ‘Why do you think Marcus Welby is running away from those two men in suits?’ asked Melanie.

  Friday didn’t have as good eyesight as Melanie, so she peered in the direction that her friend was pointing. She soon spotted Marcus’s red hair as he weaved between the admin building and the music rooms. ‘He certainly seems to be in a hurry. Let’s climb down and see what’s going on.’

  Friday and Melanie had just scrambled down to ground level, when Marcus appeared on the far side of the quadrangle.

  ‘Friday!’ cried Marcus, as he sprinted towards her. ‘You’ve got to help me! Please!’

  He skidded to a halt, grabbing hold of a picnic table and trying to hide himself behind Friday and Melanie, which was foolish because he was unusually tall for a year 8 boy with red hair, so two normal-sized girls did not provide adequate cover.

  Two men in suits now appeared on the far side of the quadrangle. They spotted Marcus and started running towards him.

  ‘Don’t let them take me!’ wailed Marcus.

  ‘Who are they?’ asked Friday.

  ‘The police,’ said Marcus.

  ‘What did you do?’ asked Friday.

  ‘Nothing!’ protested Marcus.

  ‘Grab him!’ cried the slower of the two police officers.

  Friday stood up and blocked his way. ‘Wait one minute,’ she said. ‘I will not allow you to grab him.’

  ‘Get out of the way, kid!’ growled the police officer. He stepped forward as if to shove his way past Friday.

  ‘Hold on!’ cried the Headmaster. He was hurrying across the quadrangle to join the group.

  ‘Why are you arresting him?’ asked Friday.

  ‘We don’t have to answer your questions!’ snapped the older police officer.

  ‘They say a boy matching Marcus Welby’s description was seen vandalising a car in Stratham last night,’ panted the Headmaster.

  ‘And you’re arresting him for this crime?’ asked Friday.

  The police officers glanced at each other. ‘We’re taking him in for questioning,’ said the older police officer.

  ‘Unless you arrest him, Marcus doesn’t have to go with you,’ said Friday.

  ‘I don’t want to be arrested!’ cried Marcus.

  ‘Yes, you do,’ said Friday. ‘If you are arrested, then you are protected by certain legal rights. They must take you before a magistrate, they can only hold you for a certain amount of time and they have to allow you to contact a lawyer. If they persuade you into “going in for questioning”, you are not protected by any of those legal rights.’

  ‘All right then, we’ll arrest you,’ said the older police officer. ‘Marcus Welby, I am arresting you for vandalism. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you do or say can and will be used in a court of law.’

  ‘The PTA is going to be so cross when they hear about this,’ said the Headmaster. ‘It’s bad enough when staff get arrested, but now the students as well?’

  The younger officer grabbed Marcus by the arm. ‘Let’s go.’

  Friday grabbed Marcus by the other arm. ‘Wait! Who are you?’ she asked the officers.

  ‘We’re the police,’ said the older police officer.

  ‘Do you work with Sergeant Dowley?’ asked Friday.

  ‘Yes,’ said the older police officer.

  ‘That’s strange, because the local police sergeant is called Sergeant Crowley,’ said Friday.

  ‘Then I misheard you,’ said the older police officer. ‘We know Crowley, he’s a good man.’

  ‘Sergeant Crowley is a woman,’ said Friday.

  ‘I mean, woman,’ said the older police officer.

  ‘No, he’s actually a man,’ said Friday. ‘You’ve got nothing to do with the local police, have you?’

  ‘All right, you’ve got us,’ said the older police officer. ‘We’re not locals. We’re part of a national vandalism task force.’

  ‘Friday, we don’t want you being arrested for police harassment as well,’ said the Headmaster.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Friday, ‘that’s not going to happen. Because these men aren’t real police officers. Federal police don’t deal with vandalism. Even local police are barely interested in it.’

  ‘There’s been a change in policy,’ said the older police officer. ‘A national crackdown.’

  ‘Federal police do, however, know the correct wording to use when arresting a person,’ said Friday. ‘They don’t just paraphrase what they’ve heard on TV cop shows. You told Marcus that anything he says “can and will be used against him in a court of law”. You should have said, “may be used”.’

  ‘That doesn’t make any difference,’ said the older police officer.

  ‘Yes it does,’ said Friday. ‘By saying “can and will”, that means you have to tell a judge if he says, “I’d like a slice of pizza”.’

  ‘What are you saying?’ asked the Headmaster.

  ‘I don’t know who these men are,’ said Friday, ‘but they are not police officers. And if they are trying to take Marcus with them, then they are trying to kidnap him.’

  ‘Get the boy,’ snarled the older police officer. ‘We’re getting out of here.’

  The younger officer tightened his grip on Marcus and yanked him.

  ‘Ow!’ cried Marcus. ‘My arm!’

  The younger officer had pulled very hard on Marcus’s arm. But what they had failed to notice was that Friday had handcuffed his other arm to the picnic table.

  ‘Proper police officers also have handcuffs,’ said Friday. ‘Like my handcuffs, which I just used to attach Marcus to this table.’

  ‘Barnes, why on earth are you carrying handcuffs with you?’ asked the Headmaster.

  ‘I al
ways do,’ said Friday. ‘They’re very useful.’

  ‘Give me the key!’ snapped the fake older police officer.

  ‘Get it yourself,’ said Friday, as she tossed the key up on the roof of the building. ‘Go on, I’m sure Mr Pilcher will lend you a ladder. If you walk over to his shed and back, that’ll only take you twenty minutes – which, coincidentally, is about how long it takes Sergeant Crowley to drive out here from the real police station.’

  ‘Actually,’ said the Headmaster, ‘he should be here in ten minutes. I got Miss Priddock to make a call to him and the school’s lawyer when these gentlemen first arrived.’

  The two men looked at each other.

  The school bell rang. Hundreds of students started streaming out into the quadrangle.

  ‘Run!’ the older man urged. They both sprinted through the crowd, knocking students down.

  ‘Quick, Headmaster! They’re trying to get away!’ urged Friday. ‘Give the order to close the front gate!’

  ‘Gosh, yes!’ said the Headmaster. He started running with Friday and Melanie back to the admin block. But the Headmaster wasn’t good at moving quickly. The sea of milling students had grown larger. And he couldn’t get away with knocking them over. By the time he finally reached the front office and stopped panting long enough to tell Miss Priddock to shut the gate, the two men were long gone.

  ‘Never mind,’ said Melanie. ‘At least they didn’t get to kidnap Marcus.’

  ‘Marcus!’ exclaimed Friday. ‘He’s still handcuffed to the picnic table!’

  They all hurried back to release Marcus.

  ‘Sorry, Marcus, we’ll have you out in a jiffy,’ said Friday.

  ‘Don’t you have to get the key down from the roof?’ said the Headmaster.

  ‘Gosh, no,’ said Friday. ‘I’ll just put a sieve at the bottom of the downpipe and pick it up next time it rains. I’ve got a spare key I can use to let you out now.’

  Friday released Marcus.

  ‘Thank you so much,’ said Marcus, rubbing his wrist. ‘I was really scared.’

  ‘The question remains, though,’ said Friday. ‘Why did those men want to kidnap you?’