Beware! Killer Tomatoes

by Jeremy Strong

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘Blimey!’ said Acne-Man. ‘Er, wait. I’ll have to test you, see if your brain’s all right. Er, how many fingers am I holding up?’

  ‘Three!’

  ‘Blimey!’ said Acne-Man. ‘Er, what’s the capital of Rome?’

  ‘Rome is a capital,’ answered Maisie. ‘The capital of Italy.’

  ‘Blimey!’ said Acne-Man. ‘Er, why is there blood all over your front?’

  ‘It’s tomato sauce,’ Maisie giggled.

  ‘Blimey!’ said Acne-Man. ‘She can talk!’ he announced, in case we hadn’t noticed.

  Maisie stood there, surrounded by amazed hospital staff, while Kathy smiled like it was Christmas Day and she’d just opened her best present.

  ‘I was wondering where you’d got to, you little tinker.’

  ‘I’m not a tinker, I’m a talker,’ replied Maisie coolly.

  ‘So I see. And how come you can talk all of a sudden?’

  ‘Jack taught me,’ she said. Everyone swivelled round and looked at me. What could I do? I was just as surprised as everyone else.

  Kathy smiled. ‘Thank you, Jack. I knew there was something going on between you.’

  ‘No, there isn’t. She’s not my girlfriend!’ I blurted.

  ‘But you’re his girlfriend,’ sniggered Maisie, pointing at Acne-Man, who turned into a beetroot on the spot, while Kathy blushed a delicate pink. She took Maisie by the hand.

  ‘We’d better go back upstairs. I think we have some exciting news for your mother.’

  The smile slipped from Maisie’s face. As they left the ward Maisie turned round and glanced back at me. I gave her a thumbs-up sign. She pressed her lips together determinedly and then

  they’d gone.

  Mum and Dad stayed on for ages, while a cleaner came in and mopped up the spilled tea and the big blobs of tomato sauce that Maisie had somehow managed to spread round the entire ward. It even had her footprints in it. My parents wanted to know everything about Maisie. Mum shook her head sadly. ‘Strange girl. How can she be cured? Doesn’t she know she’s deaf?’

  ‘Sometimes you have no idea what goes on in their heads,’ said Dad, and for a moment I didn’t know whether he was talking about Maisie or Mum. ‘Why did she pretend to be dead?’

  I knew the answer to that one. ‘Dad, you have to remember that Maisie is a creature from another universe.’

  ‘Right,’ murmured Dad. ‘That would explain it, I suppose.’

  I was expecting Mr Cutter to return and interrogate me again but he didn’t, which was only half a relief. He was bound to come back sooner or later, dragging his torture rack with him. It was just a matter of time. There must be something I could do before he returned – maybe find out something.

  Long after my parents had gone Maisie reappeared with Kathy, who went straight across to Acne-Man of course.

  ‘Do you think they’ll get married?’ I asked Maisie. She shrugged.

  ‘Who knows? What did you think of my miracle?’

  ‘Cool!’

  ‘I thought if I could make something astonishing happen it would make that policeman go away, and it did.’

  ‘He’ll be back,’ I added gloomily. ‘And if it’s not him it will be a different one. They’re all after me.’

  ‘But you might be innocent. Somebody might have set you up because they have a grudge against you. They do that in movies.’

  ‘This is real life, Maisie. I’ve been thinking about the dead body. We could try and find out more.’

  ‘Like an autopsy!’ said Maisie. ‘They do that on telly in murder mysteries. They open up the dead body to find out how they were murdered.’

  ‘Yeah, I’ve seen it on telly too. Gruesome.’

  ‘Great!’ beamed Maisie. ‘I’d love to do that. I’d cut open the body and say – goodness me,

  Sergeant Lemming, this man was stabbed to death with a drawing pin!’

  ‘You’re mad,’ I chuckled. ‘Anyway, if you opened up the man under the pyramid you’d only find tomato tins.’ I was trying to be funny, but it didn’t sound the least bit comical really. Not to me. I went on.

  ‘I thought I could go down to Casualty tomorrow and ask a few questions. I’ve got this daft bar chart to do for Miss Crispin. I could pretend I want to know about accidents and stuff.’

  ‘And I could help,’ said Maisie, putting on her ‘intelligent and helpful’ face – the one that made her look like a very confused mouse stuck in a maze.

  ‘I guess,’ I answered doubtfully. ‘What did your mum say when she discovered you can speak after all?’

  Maisie gave a hoot of laughter. ‘She was so astonished she couldn’t speak!’ Her face became serious. ‘Then she cried and hugged me. I almost stopped breathing. I kept thinking all her tears are going to make a huge puddle and it’ll come through the ceiling and crash down on Jack and

  it’ll probably drown him and kill him and if it doesn’t do that all the falling plaster will probably break his other leg.’

  ‘You’re daft.’

  ‘Not as stupid as you. Anyway she cried lots and said she’d felt so alone and it was like she’d lost Dad AND she’d lost me because I wasn’t speaking.’

  There was a short silence. Maisie stared at me hard and her eyes went sort of shimmery and she stared at her feet instead. ‘When she told me that it made me cry too,’ Maisie said with a deep sigh. I hate it when people cry. I never know what to do, so I just kept quiet until Maisie suddenly lifted her head, sniffed and grinned at me. ‘And I’m not telling you any more because it’s P – R – I – V – A – T – E between me and Mum. Anyhow, I can go home now.’

  Oof! That was a blow. I was surprised how I felt about that, like the breath had been knocked out of me. It wasn’t as if we were fantastic buddies or anything – she’s nine and I’m eleven. But she’d been fun and she’d saved me from Mr Cutter and stopped me dying of boredom and – oh, all sorts of things. Liam was going, and now Maisie. I was going to be on my own – apart from Princess La-La, who was about as much fun as a used tissue.

  ‘But I have to come back tomorrow for some tests so I’ll see you then and I can help you do that investigating.’

  Hmmm. I got that sinking sensation in my stomach – a feeling of fast-approaching doom. Somehow the words ‘Maisie’, ‘help’ and ‘investigating’ weren’t nearly as encouraging as she meant them to be.

  10 How Not to Conduct an Investigation

  I’m up! I can walk – almost. Actually, it feels more like my leg has turned into a log and I’m hauling a large bit of tree trunk around. Paul – he’s the physio – he says I’ll soon get used to it.

  ‘My mum said that about Christmas cake,’ I told him. ‘And I still can’t stand the stuff.’

  ‘I think you’ll find a broken leg is a bit different from Christmas cake,’ he answered. He’s given me lots of exercises to do to build up my leg muscles. It’s almost like PE at school, except that Mrs Fetlock isn’t here to slave-drive me. She’s a maniac when it comes to PE. She joins in with everything, which is fine most of the time, but sometimes we have piggyback races. I’ll leave it to your imagination.

  At least I’m back on my feet – I mean foot. I have to use crutches. Don’t tell anyone but they’re quite fun once you’re used to them. They’re good for poking things. The other advantage to being allowed up is that I can wear ordinary clothes. My mum laughed when I got my favourite baggy jeans a few months ago but they’re brilliant if your leg’s in plaster. Anyway, I’m out of pyjamas at last. I feel so much more… um, like a person, I suppose.

  Maybe that’s why I don’t like being in hospital. You end up feeling like an object, like something that has to be wrapped and unwrapped and cleaned and tidied and sorted. Next time your mum or dad says to you: ‘Time you were out of bed. Come on, get up!’ just remember that you can actually do that. You can get up. Most people in hospital can’t.

  It’s been a great morning. When the doc had

  seen
me he left me sitting on my bed and went across to Kirsty and examined her chart. He went to her side and took her pulse. He pulled back both her eyelids and shone his little torch into her pupils. He told her to stick out her tongue and say ‘ah’. He walked round her bed and took the pulse from her other arm.

  By this time Princess La-La looked positively queasy. She was sure it was Bad News. The doctor showed the chart to Tricia, pointed out something and Tricia nodded gravely. They whispered together and Tricia raised her eyebrows.

  ‘That is so terribly sad,’ she exclaimed in a loud enough voice for everyone to hear.

  Kirsty almost collapsed on the spot. Her round eyes were fixed on the doctor. She slid right down into the bed, pulling the covers up to her chin as if she were trying to hide from the ghastly truth.

  ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’

  The doctor took her hand, patted it gently and gave her a pitying look. ‘I’m afraid it’s bad news.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘According to your chart here, you’re dead.’

  Princess La-La sat bolt upright and gave an anguished wail. ‘I’m de-’ she began, and then stopped, mid-word. She collapsed back against her pillow. You could almost hear the clickety-clack of her eyebrows as they knitted themselves into a furious frown.

  ‘That’s a horrible trick. How could you?’ she demanded.

  The doctor shrugged. ‘I didn’t, but someone has been tinkering with your chart. Look, the wiggly line here shows your temperature. You see where it changes colour? Someone has taken a pen and added a bit extra so according to this your temperature is over fifty degrees centigrade. That means your blood would have boiled and you would probably have exploded. Very messy.’

  The doctor eyed Liam and me. ‘Very funny and when I tell my colleagues they’ll laugh themselves silly. However, it was a stupid and dangerous thing to do. Never fiddle with these charts. They are for staff only. I don’t want to know who did this. It doesn’t matter. What does matter is that you understand how serious this might have been. It won’t happen again – will it?’

  Liam and I mumbled our agreement and he gave a nod. ‘Good, that’s the end of the matter. Just one thing, nurse. Do you think you could resuscitate Kirsty? A glass of fruit juice should be sufficient.’

  Everyone laughed, except Princess La-La, who sat there looking like Miss Grumpy 2007. She folded her arms across her chest and her lower lip pouted so much you could almost stack books on it.

  ‘Try and smile, Kirsty’ suggested the doctor. ‘You should be relieved.’

  As soon as the doc had gone Princess La-La pushed back her covers and came straight over. ‘It was you, wasn’t it?’ she hissed. All I had to do was point at my broken leg. How could I possibly have done it? Anyhow, I didn’t care. I was going home! I was on my way, almost. Princess La-La went and accused Liam but he told her he didn’t have any pens or pencils. ‘Besides, I’m dyslexic,’ he added, for good measure. Kirsty was so cross she didn’t even realize dyslexia had nothing to do with it. He might just as easily have told her he had a pimple.

  She returned angrily to her bed, slumped into it, turned her back on us and that was that. Liam looked cheerily across at me and raised his thumb.

  I gave him an uneasy smile. Seeing Princess La-La miserable all the time was unsettling. It must be horrible to have so many food allergies and getting teased by Liam and me was hardly likely to cheer her up, even if she did seem to be asking for it.

  On the other hand my heart was singing because I’m up and about today, hooray! Maisie was quite impressed when she came wandering in with her mum.

  ‘It’s a miracle! I’m cured!’ I joked and we all laughed, even Maisie’s mum.

  ‘Yes, I heard all about that miracle of Maisie’s yesterday. I know you two have something to do together but I wanted to pop in to thank you.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘For getting Maisie talking.’

  ‘I didn’t do anything,’ I said.

  ‘You are the only person she has spoken to in almost a year. She says you told her something that got her talking. What on earth was it?’

  Good grief! The body beneath the tins! Maisie had told her mum! Sweat broke out on my brow. I started to panic and glanced accusingly at Maisie, but she was shaking her head and mouthing ‘NO!’ at me. My heart decided to stop thundering along like a racehorse and return to normal.

  ‘Don’t think I can remember,’ I said, and tried to change the subject. ‘Look, I’ve got crutches. Liam reckons I should stick go-faster stripes on them.’

  ‘He’s an idiot,’ Maisie said, and her mother drew in her breath sharply.

  ‘Maisie – don’t say such things.’

  I looked at her sympathetically. ‘I’m afraid Maisie’s right.’ I called across the ward. ‘Hey, Liam, you’re an idiot, aren’t you?’

  ‘Course I am,’ he answered. ‘Grade A. Got a certificate and everything.’

  Maisie’s mum laughed and said she thought we were probably all idiots on this ward. ‘Except for that girl over there. She’s very quiet.’

  ‘That’s Kirsty’ I murmured.

  ‘She does look poorly’ Maisie’s mum said sympathetically. Maisie rolled her eyes.

  ‘Of course she looks poorly, Mum. That’s why she’s in hospital. She hasn’t come for a holiday’

  I couldn’t help laughing and fortunately Maisie’s mum joined in.

  ‘I still can’t get used to you talking, Maisie,’ she said. ‘It’s so wonderful.’

  ‘Gerroff,’ said Maisie, trying to escape a hug, but I could see she was pleased really. ‘Jack has got some school stuff to do and I said I’d help him, and you’ve got to go and see that psycho-whatsit person upstairs, so I’ll see you back here in half an hour or so.’

  ‘OK,’ said her mum and I wondered who was in charge of who.

  As soon as her mother had disappeared Maisie and I got down to business. First stop, Casualty. I explained my plan as we went.

  ‘Let me ask the questions.’

  ‘What do I do?’ Maisie demanded.

  ‘Follow my lead, and if you think of any good questions then ask them.’

  Walking to Casualty was my first real outing since getting back on my feet and I felt quite proud of myself. Maisie went ahead opening doors for me. We had to go down loads of long corridors. Some were flat and some were sloping so that wheelchairs and beds could be pushed around without any problem. There was a long ramp up to Casualty which was a bit like conquering Everest, but I made it.

  A wheelchair was parked right outside the door and as I tried to get past I got the end of one crutch caught on the side of the chair and then stuck in the spokes. Finally, when I had a third go, it plonked itself on the footbrake. Fiddly things, crutches. They take a bit of getting used to, I can tell you.

  Casualty wasn’t at all like my ward. It was busy, busy, busy, with loads of people waiting to be examined or have X-rays and so on. I even saw a kid with a teaspoon stuck up one nostril – made me feel quite normal. Maybe I wasn’t so clumsy after all. There was no way I’d be so stupid as to get a teaspoon stuck up my nose.

  We went across to Reception to see if it was all right to ask some questions for my project in between them dealing with patients, and the nurse said she’d do her best and asked what it was about.

  ‘I’m doing a bar chart on admissions,’ I explained. ‘I need some figures. The hospital teacher, Miss Crispin, she told me to find out numbers for a particular day and we’ve chosen the day I was admitted, September 6th. How many people came in that day?’

  The nurse searched the computer. ‘Ninety-three, but they’re not all admitted to hospital.

  Most of them get treatment and then go home.’

  ‘How many were admitted?’ I asked.

  ‘Twenty-five.’

  ‘How many had broken bones?’

  ‘Oh, goodness, what a lot of questions. Thirteen suspected broken bones.’

  ‘How many were dead?�
�� Maisie demanded eagerly, and there was a rustling noise as several people in the waiting area put their newspapers down. Faces swivelled in our direction.

  ‘Dead?’ repeated the nurse.

  ‘Yes. I bet you had some dead bodies.’

  ‘I don’t think we need to discuss that.’

  Maisie wasn’t happy. ‘We do. Jack and I need to know.’ The waiting room was all ears now and Maisie was determined to find out more. ‘I think we should be told. You must get dead bodies sometimes. What do you do with them? Do you have a bonfire?’

  The nurse was horrified. ‘Really! I’m sorry I don’t think I can…’

  ‘You must!’ interrupted Maisie. ‘I bet someone was brought in on September 6th and they died. Maybe they’d been in an accident, like a tomato- related accident,’ she hinted.

  ‘I think you’d better stop,’ said the nurse coldly, but now some of the patients had joined us.

  ‘What’s this about bonfires for the dead?’ asked an old lady. ‘That’s dreadful, that is. I wouldn’t have come here if I’d known you had bonfires.’

  ‘We don’t!’ insisted the nurse. ‘It’s this girl here, she –’

  ‘Fancy blaming a sweet little child like this,’ blustered the old lady. ‘Goodness gracious, what is the world coming to? Well, I can tell you something,’ she added, almost stabbing the nurse with an accusatory finger, ‘I’m not stopping here just so’s I end up on your bonfire! I’m going to take my blister somewhere else, so put that in your pipe and smoke it!’

  The old woman barged off towards the door, calling out to the remaining patients as she went, ‘I’d get out of here if I were you, before you all end up on one of their flaming conflagrations!’

  ‘We’re going!’ muttered several patients. ‘I don’t want a conflagration, do you? Last time I was here I had an injection – that was bad enough. I’m not staying for no conflagration.’

  ‘It’s… I… you… we…!’ stuttered the reception nurse. ‘Come back! There aren’t any bonfires! There isn’t a problem!’ But nobody was listening to her and the exodus continued. The nurse glared at Maisie. ‘Do you see what you’ve done?’ she cried.