by Maz Evans
‘Class dismissed,’ muttered Boil reluctantly as his students sprinted out of the classroom towards their half-term break.
‘So I’ve been doing extensive research on What’s What about the great heroes – they make a fascinating study,’ said Virgo, showing Elliot the magical scroll of parchment that she consulted for guidance on everything from politics to pants. She was going to get her kardia back, she just knew it. And Virgo was never wrong.
‘Great,’ groaned Elliot, jumping the stile towards Home Farm.
He was in a most peculiar humour, Virgo thought.
‘Where are you going?’ she said. ‘We assured Athene we would go to the shop for some groceries. And Zeus gave me some money for a publication he enjoys – although what more he needs to learn about models in swimsuits, I do not know. He said we can purchase some sweets.’
‘Great.’ Elliot muttered again, but turned back and followed her along the lane that led to Little Motbury.
Virgo was confused. This was highly irregular – the boy would normally eat his own toenails for the promise of sweet goods. Or without.
She carried on anyway.
‘According to What’s What, there are differing definitions of a hero in the immortal and mortal realms. An immortal hero is defined by a “quest”. So that’s it! I need to undertake a quest!’
‘Great,’ said Elliot once more. He was clearly not listening.
‘Will you stop saying that!’ snapped Virgo.
‘OK . . . fascinating,’ said Elliot, wiping his nose on his sleeve. Had no one informed mortal boys about tissues?
‘Hercules’s quest was to complete twelve impossible labours, risking his life to obtain forgiveness,’ Virgo read out. ‘What is this forgiveness? It must be very important.’
‘It’s when you say it’s OK that someone did something wrong,’ sighed Elliot. ‘Like . . . “Virgo, you’re really annoying, but you’re forgiven.” Except you’re not.’
‘Not annoying?’ said Virgo. ‘I’m perfectly aware of that. Theseus’s quest was to solve the labyrinth, risking his life to slay the Minotaur. But this is illogical. Why would you risk your life?’
‘Great hero you’re gonna make,’ said Elliot, removing a piece of paper from his pocket. He’d been looking at it all afternoon, Virgo had noticed. Curious. Elliot rarely read anything and never more than once.
‘Jason,’ she continued, ‘went on a quest to retrieve the Golden Fleece, risking his life to find a priceless treasure . . . Again, the risking of life. This seems highly excessive. Why would anyone want to harm me?’
‘Because they met you?’ Elliot suggested.
‘So if that’s the immortal definition of a hero, what’s the mortal one?’ she continued. ‘Ah – here it is . . . Mortal hero: anyone who has won a reality television contest. So if I’m going to be a hero, I need to be on constant alert for my quest. Maybe I must perform an impossible task? Maybe I must solve a labyrinth? Maybe I must find a priceless treasure? Maybe . . .’
Her phone bleeped a text.
‘This could be it!’ she squealed, taking a deep breath to read it out loud. ‘My quest to become a hero and regain my immortality is: Babe – don’t forget to buy more loo roll. I’m stuck in the bog with guts like a gorgon – Hermes.’
She stopped outside the shop.
‘I fear it would be life-threatening to reject this quest,’ she said to Elliot. But he was leaning against the shop window re-reading the piece of paper. A look passed over his face that Virgo had observed before, but not conclusively analysed. Occasionally, it was an indication that Elliot was feeling sub-optimal. More frequently, it was a warning of impending wind.
‘What is that?’ Virgo asked, trying to grab the piece of paper. She caught a glimpse – it looked like a letter.
‘None of your business,’ said Elliot, snatching it away. ‘Let’s get those sweets.’
Virgo eyed him curiously. She had learnt that ‘none of your business’ was mortal code for something of great interest. Athene had explained that mortals highly valued the right to privacy. This was fascinating, but deeply unhelpful when all she wanted to do was read that letter.
A plan started to form in her perfect mind. It might not get her kardia back. But Virgo’s first quest was to find out precisely what was in that letter.
6. Two for the Price of One
Patricia Porshley-Plum thought she’d survived her worst nightmare when she lost her fortune last December. Stripped of her wealth, her dignity and her biggest house, she truly believed that she’d hit rock backside (she refused to use the other word, which was only for oiks and Shakespearean actors).
But in the weeks since, matters had become far, far worse. Patricia had been degraded. Patricia had been humiliated. Patricia had sunk to a new low.
Patricia had got a job.
Spendapenny was Little Motbury’s budget supermarket. Patricia had been unaware it existed – she understood all food simply arrived in a hamper. Spendapenny represented everything that Patricia loathed: it was cheap, it was popular and it allowed poor people to eat.
But desperate times called for desperate measures. Although her illegal tax haven had saved one of her smaller properties – the shame of having only the five bedrooms was intolerable – she still needed money for life’s essentials: food, bills and society magazine What-Ho!
And so Patricia now wasted her days selling gum and lottery tickets to people who actually bought their own groceries. It was unbearable. The only thing that cheered her soul was encouraging customers to spare some change for charity. It felt so good to empty that tin into her purse.
The one thought that dragged Patricia through every soul-destroying day was getting her own back on the Hooper boy. Elliot had cheated her out of what was rightfully his. She was going to make him pay.
‘Revenge is a dish best served cold,’ said the boy she’d bullied at school when he left her on their wedding day. He had a point. Which is why Patricia had waited a whole year before planting fake evidence for an unsolved murder in his car, then calling the police. Patricia Porshley-Plum would have her revenge. All she had to do was wait.
A regular approached the kiosk.
‘Hello, Betty, how are you, sweetie-pops?’ said Patricia, almost pleasantly. Patricia had a lot of time for the elderly. They might leave her something in their wills.
‘Well . . .’ said Betty, as a moth flew out of her overcoat. ‘Me hip’s giving me bother, me knees ache like billy-o in this damp, and as for me dodgy bladder . . .’
‘How delightful, sugar plum!’ Patricia grimaced. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘Please could you check me numbers?’ said Betty, handing over a crumpled lottery ticket with shaking fingers. ‘I’d do it meself, but I don’t have a telly.’
‘Ooooh – how exciting!’ said Patricia as she scanned the ticket. ‘What will you buy with your millions? A yacht? A plane? A mansion?’
‘A telly,’ said Betty.
Patricia scanned the ticket into her machine and looked at her flashing screen:
No Match.
‘Sorry, lovey,’ Patricia pouted, ‘not your lucky day.’
‘At my age,’ smiled Betty, ‘every day’s a lucky day.’
‘Not for anyone downwind,’ muttered Patricia as the little old lady hobbled away.
‘Trisha to the self-service checkouts please! That’s Trisha to the self-service checkouts!’ chimed the supermarket intercom. Patricia shuddered as she trudged towards the self-service area. A fat, balding man whose eyes barely fit behind his glasses, let alone his posterior into his trousers, was cursing at the till.
‘Welcome,’ said Patricia flatly. ‘How may I help you Spendapenny?’
‘This idiotic machine keeps asking me to place my bags in the bagging area,’ grumbled the man. ‘Can you see that I have already done so, or are you as stupid as this device? Your gadgets are ridiculous! A trained ape would do a better job.’
‘They’re recruiting on t
he fish counter if you’re interested,’ muttered Patricia, swiping her staff card. ‘There you are. Sir. Enjoy your visit to Spendapenny. We’re your Number One!’
‘Hmmmm.’ The customer glowered as he scanned his tripe, pickled herring and pig livers. Patricia hurried away from this objectionable buffoon. His blue shirt smelt like three-week-old cream of vegetable bisque.
‘Approval needed,’ the machine intoned as the man placed a tin of poison in his bag.
‘It’ll be a cold day in hell before anything here gets my approval,’ said the man to Patricia’s back. ‘You! Get back here and sort this out!’
Patricia felt anger prickling the back of her eyes. She clenched her fists and returned to the checkout.
‘Certainly, sir,’ she said, punching the keypad. ‘Are you over eighteen? Years, I mean. Not tonnes.’
‘How dare you!’ spat the man.
‘May I ask why you require this poison?’ said Patricia, as the tedious rules required.
‘What do you think?’ hissed the customer. ‘Because I need to get rid of a pest.’
‘Rats?’ asked Patricia.
‘My neighbour’s kitten,’ said the man. ‘The old biddy next door can’t be bothered to fetch it. Like it’s my fault her wheelchair can’t get up my front steps.’
Patricia authorized the purchase with an approving nod. The gentleman poured a shower of copper coins into the machine.
‘Please wait for assistance,’ it replied.
‘Assistance?’ he shouted. ‘I’ll be waiting for ever in this dump . . .’
‘Now listen here,’ said Patricia. ‘If you speak to me like that one more time, you impudent knave . . .’
A familiar figure burst through the automatic doors of the supermarket. Patricia ducked out of sight. So did her customer.
‘Hooper,’ she and the man whispered simultaneously, as the Hooper boy and the strange girl headed for the sweet counter.
‘You know him?’ they both said.
‘I’m his history teacher,’ muttered the man. ‘Vile child.’
‘I used to be his neighbour,’ moaned Patricia. ‘Repulsive boy.’
The man paused for a moment as he eyed Patricia up and down more appreciatively.
‘Boil,’ he said, offering his fat fingers. ‘But you can call me Lance.’
‘Porshley-Plum,’ she answered, reluctantly taking the edge of his pudgy pinkie. ‘But you can call me Mrs.’
‘Please scan your next item,’ the checkout requested.
‘So you had to live near Hooper?’ said Boil. ‘You have my every sympathy.’
‘I deserve it.’ Patricia pouted. ‘He stole a house from me.’
‘The nerve of the boy!’ roared Boil. ‘Not that I’m surprised. That child is an utter delinquent.’
‘Please scan your next item,’ the checkout asked again.
‘Well – what do you expect with a mother like that?’ said Patricia.
‘The fashion photographer?’ said Boil. ‘Never met her. Can’t say I want to . . .’
‘Fashion photographer!’ Patricia laughed. ‘Is that what the lying little swine told you? She couldn’t take a picture from a toddler . . .’
‘What do you mean?’ said Boil.
‘Please scan your next item,’ the checkout repeated.
‘SHUT UP!’ Patricia and Boil yelled in unison.
‘The mother – Josie Hooper,’ said Patricia, circling her right ear with her finger and whistling. ‘She’s completely cuckoo. Batty as a cricket match. Mad as a March Hare with a parking ticket. She has totally lost her mind. Didn’t you know?’
‘I did not.’ Boil grinned unpleasantly. ‘So that’s what Hooper’s been hiding. What about this family of his?’
‘I lived next to the Hoopers all my life – that’s forty-six . . . er . . . thirty-seven years,’ said Patricia. ‘First I’ve ever seen of them. They are about as likely to be related as I am to adopt an orphan.’
‘I see,’ leered Boil. ‘Tell me, Mrs Poorly-Tum—’
‘Porshley-Plum!’ snapped Patricia.
‘Would you prefer the Hoopers to . . . relocate?’
‘Does a politician have two houses?’
‘And I feel that Hooper would be better off . . . elsewhere,’ said Boil. ‘Just imagine if our school welfare officer found out that a young boy was having to care for an incapable mother! After all, I do have a duty of care to my pupils . . .’
Patricia’s eyes flashed like a faulty fire alarm. She grasped the checkout for support before sitting on Boil’s shopping.
‘Unidentified item in bagging area,’ the machine groaned. ‘Checking item weight.’
‘She’d need to go into an institution,’ gasped Patricia. ‘They’d have to take her away.’
‘And if these relatives are as fake as you say, social services would have to take Hooper into care,’ grinned Boil.
‘Home Farm would be up for sale . . .’ gasped Patricia.
‘Hooper would be out of my hair . . .’ exclaimed Boil.
The pair looked at each other breathlessly.
‘Wait a minute,’ said Patricia more calmly, rising to her feet. ‘We can’t just go to the authorities and split up a defenceless child and his mother.’
‘You’re right,’ said Boil. ‘We need evidence.’
Potential ideas floated around Patricia’s mind.
‘Do you have a large net, long-range telescope, mantrap and tranquillizer gun?’ she asked.
‘Don’t be ridiculous, I’m a school teacher,’ sniffed Boil, peeling his squashed shopping off the checkout. ‘Of course I do.’
‘Have you swiped your loyalty card?’ the machine asked. ‘Next time, Spendapenny on us!’
‘Then meet me at Home Farm on Sunday night,’ said Patricia. ‘I think it’s time we took some snaps for the Hooper family album.’
The pair ducked down again as Elliot and Virgo left the shop, rising slowly like sewer fumes as they watched the children leave.
‘Tell me,’ said Boil. ‘What do you know about Hooper’s father?’
Patricia pulled a face as though she had just tasted supermarket-brand caviar.
‘Don’t you know?’ she scoffed. ‘Hardly surprising. The grandparents did their best to hush it up at the time – caused quite the scandal.’
‘Scandal?’ gasped Boil, licking some crusty spittle from the corner of his mouth.
‘Oh, yes,’ grinned Patricia. ‘There’s good reason you’ve never heard of Elliot’s father. David Hooper has spent the last ten years in prison.’
7. Mail Shot
On Saturday morning Elliot picked up the letter for the hundredth time, hoping that this time his brain might make sense of it.
My darling Jo,
I hope this finds you and Elliot really well. I’m sorry I haven’t written sooner, especially when you were kind enough to let me know about Mum and Dad. It’s taken me a long time to figure out what to say. I’m sorry I couldn’t come to their funerals and that you had to carry that burden alone. There’s so much that I’m sorry for, Jo, I don’t know where to start.
But I hope I might have the chance. I’m going before the parole board and they say I have a really strong case. If the hearing goes my way, I could be a free man very soon. I know what I said and what we agreed – it seemed right at the time to let you get on with your life without me. But thoughts of my beautiful wife and son are the only things that have dragged me through these past ten hellish years.
I have got so much wrong. Apart from you two. I want to come home, Jo. I want to come home to you and to Elliot. Is there any hope for us? Is there any hope for our family?
After everything I put you through, I will understand if you never want to see me again. But please give Elliot a kiss from his old man. And if you’ll accept it, save one for yourself.
All my love – for it belongs to you both,
Dave xx
Elliot mouthed the words as he read them. For so long he’d wanted to know wha
t had happened to his dad. But then Mum had always told him to be careful what he wished for.
Josie stomped into the kitchen and slumped into a chair. Great. She was in one of those moods today. Just what he needed.
Elliot looked at his scowling mother and tried not to be angry. Why hadn’t she . . .? Why hadn’t anyone told him? He shouldn’t have found out like this. His dad was alive. His dad still loved them.
His dad was in prison.
Elliot shoved the letter in the bread bin and picked up Josie’s breakfast.
‘Here you go, Mum,’ he said. ‘Your favourite.’
‘Don’t like poached eggs,’ pouted Josie.
Elliot took a steadying breath. This was one of his mum’s latest and least welcome changes. Every so often, she would behave like a stroppy toddler for a few hours for no reason at all. Elliot found it hard to handle on the best of days. And today certainly wasn’t one of those.
‘Come on, Mum,’ he said, his voice far too high. ‘Tuck in.’
‘I said I don’t like it!’ huffed Josie, pushing the plate away.
‘Fine,’ snapped Elliot. ‘I’ll eat it.’
‘Give it back!’ snarled Josie. ‘It’s mine.’
He slammed the plate back down a little too hard. He knew it wasn’t her fault.
It’s not yours, either, said his dark voice.
‘So explain again why this chicken feels the need to cross the road?’ asked Virgo, striding into the kitchen. ‘A lone farm animal is statistically most unlikely to survive a road-traffic situation.’
Elliot groaned. He’d already spent half an hour that morning explaining how Doctor Doctor had been allowed to graduate from medical school.
‘Has anything arrived for me during my absence?’ Virgo asked for the millionth time as she sat at the table. ‘A herald from a distressed king? A message via rainbow? I must be ready to respond to—’
The sound of Reg’s bicycle bell rang through the kitchen.
‘My quest!’ gasped Virgo, jumping up with a piece of toast stuck to her arm.
‘Give it up,’ grumbled Elliot, peeling the toast off her and replacing it. ‘That flyer for crochet classes at the village hall wasn’t your quest. The man asking where the nearest toilets were wasn’t your quest. Me telling you you’re an idiot wasn’t your quest. Although you should respond to that.’