by Kim Slater
I ran back upstairs and put my sketchpad and pencils into my rucksack. It was easy to turn a bad day into a good day. All you had to do was think of something to treat yourself with, rather than do everything for other people.
Especially when that other person happened to be Ryan.
Although it was cold outside, it wasn’t raining, so I set off.
I could hear Ryan shouting as I shut the back door. When I came out of the alleyway at the side of the house, he banged on the window. It was easy to ignore him.
It took me about fifteen minutes to get to the Lace Market.
In Victorian times, the Lace Market was at the centre of the world’s lace industry. I got a leaflet from the Tourist Office on a school trip and it told you all about it.
It’s brilliant that it is only fifteen minutes from my house. No one else in my class is interested in coming here, which is crazy.
The buildings are massively high and made of red brick. They are mostly posh apartments now that you have to buzz to get in. In the olden days they were used as salesrooms and warehouses to make and store the lace.
I walked up and down a couple of streets, just looking up and around me. There was nobody about, which is how I like it.
The City Council call this area the ‘Creative Quarter’ now. There is a big art gallery here and I’m going to get some of my drawings hung on the walls when I’m older.
It was easy to imagine you were an English gent and it was Victorian times. There are still the old railings and gas lamps around which modern builders don’t have now.
People from all over the world came here to buy Nottingham lace. Now it belongs to me.
I sat down on a low wall in front of one of the apartment blocks. It was a good spot for looking up the street at the tallest buildings.
I turned to a fresh sheet in my sketchpad and selected a pencil.
In Salford, where Lowry lived, he used to sit and draw, like me. During his lunch hour, he drew sketches of people and buildings, on bits of paper. Sometimes, he gave them to passers-by.
I wasn’t going to give my drawing away. Nobody round here would want it.
I knew how Lowry felt when he looked at the tall buildings that used to be warehouses and factories.
They made you feel small and a bit scared. But somehow, you still liked them and felt proud.
‘Industrial areas’, Miss Crane calls them.
I started to sketch.
I drew smoking chimneys and turned all the apartment blocks back into warehouses filled with the world’s finest lace. I made the people tiny next to the industrial buildings. I blocked out the modern world and went back to Victorian times.
Lowry always drew factories because not everyone lived in the countryside and had picnics. When you live in a city, you get to like the outline of dark buildings against the blue-grey sky. It’s a different sort of beauty. He called these pictures ‘industrial landscapes’.
I mixed up the real with the imaginary, like Lowry did. I painted my own reality.
‘Very good.’ An old man stopped to look at my drawing, while his dog sniffed at my rucksack. ‘Although you’re not supposed to sit here, you know.’
He pointed to a sign next to me that said:
Polite Notice
Please do not sit or stand on this wall.
I’d finished my drawing, so I snatched up my bits and stood up.
‘These buildings were here before you were born and they’ll still be here when you’re six feet under,’ I said.
The man opened his mouth and then closed it again.
Old people think they can say what they like to you. But if you stick up for yourself and answer them back, apparently you are the one being rude.
Sometimes, the rules sucked.
I started the long walk home.
I dawdled a bit on the way to school.
When I got to class, Miss Crane was already turned round in her seat, looking for me at the door. Her face was shiny bright, like when her boyfriend asked her to marry him on Valentine’s Day. Girls love that sort of thing.
She patted the empty chair next to her.
‘Morning, Kieran. I’ve got a surprise for you.’
She slid a white envelope in front of me. It had my full name and the school address on it. In the top left corner was the red, white and black Sky News logo.
I couldn’t stop looking at it. It was a proper Sky News envelope. You can’t buy them in the shops, even if you’ve got loads of money.
Miss Crane slit open the top of the envelope nice and neat, with a letter-opener.
I got to open out the letter and read it first because it was addressed to me. Nobody else should open your mail; it’s a private thing everyone gets to do for themselves.
Tony opens my mum’s letters. He doesn’t even wait until she gets home from work.
I opened out the letter. There was a big Sky News logo on the top. If you ran your finger over it, it felt like it was stuck on to the paper, not just printed on it.
‘Embossed,’ said Miss Crane.
I read the letter just to myself, first off. It was so brilliant that I had to have a puff on my inhaler.
Afterwards, Miss Crane asked me to read it out loud to the rest of the class.
Dear Kieran,
Thank you very much for your letter.
I was very sorry to hear about the upsetting incident that happened near your home. I am sure the police will do everything they can to bring the matter to a satisfactory close.
Unfortunately, I am not able to visit as my team and I have an extremely busy schedule here at Sky News.
Thank you very much for your interest and I hope you will keep working hard at school so that you can achieve your ambition of working with us at Sky.
I am enclosing a signed photograph of me and the Crime Team.
Yours sincerely,
Martin Brunt
Crime Correspondent
Sky News
When I’d finished reading, the whole class clapped.
I looked at the photograph Martin Brunt had sent me. It had been taken in the Sky News studio, the exact same one you see on telly.
Martin Brunt stood in the middle of the Crime Team with his arms folded. His face looked like he was in no mood to mess about.
He had actually signed the photo for real. You could even see where the letters had pressed through on the other side. It was so weird, thinking that Martin Brunt had touched the spot where my fingers were now.
‘Would you like me to get the photograph framed for you, Kieran?’ Miss Crane asked. ‘You could hang it on your bedroom wall.’
‘I’m hiding it in my secret Beano annual,’ I said. ‘So Ryan can’t get it.’
We had to put the letter and photo away then because it was time for Literacy.
We were studying a book called Lord of the Flies written by a man called William Golding, who is dead now. It was about a group of boys who are in a plane crash and get stranded on this island, miles away from any places, shops or people.
‘A remote island,’ said Miss Crane.
The best thing on the island is that there are no adults. Not even one. The boys have to manage completely on their own; they have to hunt for food and everything.
I would like this but I wouldn’t want to have to kill a pig like they do in the book.
I couldn’t eat my school dinner because my tummy felt all fizzy.
It was cheese pie and mashed potato, which don’t really go together. My mind is strict about which foods match up. Brown sauce only goes with sausages and bacon. You have to put red sauce on other things. If foods don’t match, I can’t eat them.
It’s Jamie Oliver’s fault about the mashed potato. He got rid of chips and all the other nice things. If you stay packed lunch, you’re not even allowed chocolate or crisps in your lunchbox because of his healthy school-lunch campaign.
When all the schoolchildren grow up, nobody will buy his cookery books because of it
and it serves him right.
I went to the library after dinner but there were no computers free so they sent me back out.
I tried to be invisible at the end of the football field.
In Harry Potter, there is an invisibility cloak which is made of the hair of a magical creature. I imagined I had it on, and for a bit it felt like it was working, because nobody even looked at me.
‘Nice ankle-bangers,’ said an older boy I didn’t know. He had his arm round a girl who was wearing a short skirt. ‘Is there a new fashion I don’t know about?’
The girl giggled and they carried on walking round the outside of the field. The boy put his hand on her bum and she didn’t even push it away.
Ryan has a word for pretty girls who wear short skirts. He calls them ‘slags’. It’s because none of them ever want to go out with him.
I tried to pull my trouser hems down but they wouldn’t shift.
I walked up the other side of the field and stood near two dinner ladies who were talking. I wished I had my letter and photo from Martin Brunt to look at but Miss Crane was keeping them safe until home time.
At the end of the day, I put my letter and photo in my satchel and ran out of school. Gareth and his friends always hang around the entrance to the park smoking, so I went the other way, even though it takes twice as long.
I went straight to the phone box and rang the hospital number.
A robot answered. They try and make it sound like it’s a real lady on the phone but the voice doesn’t stop for breath and if you speak, it just carries on. You had to choose numbers for different bits of the hospital. I kept pressing numbers until a real lady answered.
‘I’m looking for my grandma,’ I said. ‘Her name is Gladys Clements and she used to live on Oakham Street in Mansfield.’
She put me through to another number and I had to say the exact same thing.
‘Do you have her date of birth?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘She used to come to our house but Tony said she wasn’t welcome any more. Then the man who lives in her house said she’s been taken into hospital.’
The words were tumbling out all wrong.
‘It’s best if you can get an adult to help you and call back,’ she said. ‘We need more information than that.’
When I got down the embankment, Jean was sitting on her bench. I sat down next to her.
‘Nice trousers, buddy,’ she said in an American accent.
Normally it makes me laugh when she puts her funny accents on, but this time it didn’t.
‘Tell Auntie Jean what’s up, me duck.’
She put a bit of her blanket over my legs and I let her, even though there was a risk a flea could jump on me.
I told Jean that Tony had banned Grandma from the house when she said he was a violent, stinking pig who needed castrating. She laughed and said her and my grandma would get on well.
Her face went serious again when I said Grandma wasn’t living at her house any more. She was missing, and nobody but me cared about it.
‘The hospital needs her date of birth,’ I said. ‘But Mum won’t tell me anything, in case Tony gets mad.’
‘Did you ever have a little party when it was your grandma’s birthday?’ said Jean.
I had a think. My eyes went to the left, like they do when you are accessing old information that has actually happened. If Jean understood body language, she would know I wasn’t telling lies.
I remembered once Grandma stuck a candle in one of our little cakes and the wax melted down on to the cream so we couldn’t eat that bit.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I sang her “Happy Birthday”.’
‘Was it cold or hot outside?’ Jean went on.
‘Cold,’ I said. ‘One time it snowed and we made a birthday snowman.’
‘Sounds fun,’ said Jean. ‘Now, were there Christmas decorations up around the time of Grandma’s birthday?’
I shook my head.
‘Fireworks?’
Then I remembered.
‘Grandma said when she was little, her mum told her all the fireworks were for her but really it was because it was Bonfire Night.’
‘What a pair of detectives we are!’
Jean said to leave it with her and she’d see what she could do.
I told her about my letter and photograph from Martin Brunt. Jean thought it sounded brilliant.
I didn’t get them out in case some of Jean’s fleas went on them.
The river was rough and leaves were blowing around our feet. Even Jean’s blanket didn’t keep us warm. The ducks and geese had gone to their little homes in the reeds.
Colin’s flowers weren’t by the river any more. I didn’t say anything to Jean about Old Billy telling me that Colin had been scared of someone.
To be a good detective, you have to keep some things to yourself while you investigate and check stuff out. Only, I wasn’t sure what I should do next.
When this happens, you just have to think about everything you know so far until another clue shows up. If this was a television series, they would cut out all the boring bits and it would be more interesting. But Colin’s murder happened in real life, so all the boring bits got kept in.
When Jean set off for the hostel, I started to walk home.
I went the long way round and cut through past the Spar shop. I stood by the window for a bit and watched my mum doing her job. She was good at it; she never had to ask anybody anything. She just got on with it.
I imagined the glass wasn’t there so it felt like I was actually next to her and could even smell her perfume. I liked my mum’s smell, even when she hadn’t washed her hair. It made me feel safe and sleepy.
The bruises on her face were turning purple and pink. The thick brown stuff didn’t cover them as good. It made my chest ache, so I stopped looking.
I wished I could show her my letter and photograph.
‘See you later, Mum.’ I said it out loud and sounded happy. I pretended Tony wouldn’t take her away from me as soon as she got in.
They all stood outside our house.
Three men, dressed in black uniforms, with a big white van. Tony stood at the end of the alleyway that ran up the side of the house. He was shouting and jabbing his finger at the man holding the clipboard.
One of the other men was talking on a mobile phone.
I walked a bit closer but not too near because if he saw me, Tony would send me up to my room.
Some of the neighbours began to step out of their front doors to watch.
‘What are you lot looking at?’ shouted Tony.
He was madder than I’d ever seen him, even more than when Mum went on her work’s Christmas night out, without asking him.
Mrs Cartwright went back in but the others just stood there.
Part of me wanted to run back to the Spar to tell Mum. But I didn’t do this because:
a) it was interesting and I didn’t want to miss it; and
b) it looked like Tony might be getting into trouble.
The men wanted to go up the alleyway to get round the back of the house but Tony blocked their path.
Behind him I could see Ryan’s head. He kept shouting, ‘Get lost, you’re not having him.’
A police car came fast from round the corner. It had its flashing blue light on but no siren.
Three policemen got out. One went up and said something to Tony; the other two spoke to the men in black. They looked like they weren’t in any mood to mess about.
I took a few steps nearer.
‘Who’s bleeping reported me? Some coward who daren’t even say it to my face?’ He shouted it so all the people watching could hear.
‘We can do this the hard way or the easy way, sir,’ said the policeman. His words sounded polite but the way he said them definitely meant he thought Tony was a loser. ‘Either way, we need access to your property.’
Someone opened the back of the van and they lifted a cage out.
The cage was massive. I hope
d they were going to put Tony and Ryan in it.
Tony and Ryan stood to one side and let the men in black and a policeman go up the alleyway. I crossed over the road so I could get a better look. They went in the side gate.
Tony was kicking the brick wall under the window. He was going absolutely mental about it all. Ryan stood looking at the cage. He looked over at me once and blinked a few times but he didn’t say anything.
I filed all the pictures away in my unlocked brain to draw in my sketchpad later.
The police car was mint. I looked in the window and saw the radio and a computer display. They even had a laptop in there for sending and receiving data.
Some of the men were coming back down the alleyway. One of them looked at Tony like he hated him and shook his head.
‘Mind your own business,’ Tony said. ‘It’s nowt to do with you lot.’
More neighbours had come out now. They were standing in little groups, talking. Some had their slippers on and one lady was in her rollers and dressing gown.
The police officers and the men in black waited at the end of the alleyway for the last man to come back. He was walking very slowly. When he got out on to the street, people gasped out loud.
I didn’t realize Tyson had got so thin. You could see his ribs, even though I’d given him the ham sandwich.
He was very sad. His head was hanging down. He could only walk really slowly and his legs kept wobbling. I felt bad now for not trusting him. He didn’t even look dangerous.
A woman shouted, ‘You cruel bleep,’ really loud. She wasn’t bothered if Tony heard her. The police and the men in black looked like they agreed with her.
Now I was closer, I could see the men’s badges said RSPCA. They are the animal police. They make sure people aren’t cruel to their dogs and cats and even snakes.
You can give money every month to help them do their job and keep animals like Tyson safe. It is called ‘donating’. I’m going to do it when I am a top reporter.
They opened the cage and Tyson walked into it. He was no trouble at all. Then they pressed a button and a lift thing took the cage up level with the van floor.