by Ross Welford
We sat in Roxy’s garage, the three of us. The copy of A Tale of Two Cities lay on the desk and we stared at it, silently, for ages. The rest of the collection of Dickens books was still in the metal trunk beneath the battered sofa. Eventually Alfie spoke.
‘It is mine. You do believe me?’
‘I believe you, Alfie. It has your name in it,’ Roxy said, staring at the floor.
‘Yeah, me too.’
‘Tell me again,’ said Alfie. ‘What happened after Roxy pretended to faint?’
By the time Mr Springham had made it over to the gathered crowd, Roxy still hadn’t recovered. Any longer, and I was getting scared they’d call an ambulance or something. Soon afterwards, she ‘came round’, and I accompanied her indoors with Miss Newton, where she was made to sit in the library with a glass of water.
Miss Newton started filling in some form about Roxy fainting and she was asking questions like, ‘Do you have a headache? Did you injure yourself when you fell?’
School was finished for the day, anyway. Miss Newton offered to run Roxy home in her car, which was nice of her, and, because I live next door, I got a ride as well. It was only when we were sitting in Miss Newton’s car that Roxy’s mobile phone starting pinging like mad.
‘You’re popular!’ said Miss Newton, smiling, but Roxy’s face was expressionless.
‘Oh my Goodness!’ she said, reading her messages. ‘There’s been a theft at school. Some book has gone missing or something.’
I’ve got to hand it to Roxy. If I hadn’t known she was acting, I just could not have guessed. Her tone was pitch-perfect: surprised but not personally concerned. I knew I couldn’t act as well as she could, so I just kept my responses to the minimum I thought I could get away with.
‘Gosh! A theft! Blimey!’
Roxy shot me a sideways glance and rolled her eyes, smiling.
Miss Newton said, ‘I’m sure someone’s just mislaid it. These things happen all the time. Is this your house, Roxy?’
And now, an hour later, all three of us were in the garage, staring at Alfie’s book.
‘It is not theft,’ he said, when we’d filled him in. ‘It was mine to begin with. You cannot steal something you already own.’
‘But how did Inigo have it in the first place?’ asked Roxy, fanning herself with the hat from her Oliver! costume. ‘He said it had been in his family for ages. His Uncle John or something?’
I started saying, ‘Couldn’t you, you know …’ but she was already out of the door.
‘Back in a minute!’ she said.
We sat in silence for a bit, Alfie and me. Eventually I picked up the book. ‘Is it any good?’ I said.
‘Any good? It is his best! He told me himself, it was his favourite.’
‘What’s it about?’
‘Do you remember the French Revolution?’
‘No, but I suppose you do.’
‘Sort of. It did not affect us directly. Not at first. But I do not think there is anyone left in the world that it has not affected by now. Anyway the two cities of the title are London and Paris, and there is a man called Sydney Carton who is a brilliant lawyer—’
He was cut short by Roxy returning with her laptop. As we watched over her shoulder, she logged into the same genealogy sites that she had shown me a few weeks ago.
‘Thank heavens for people with weird names,’ muttered Roxy as her fingers tap-tapped on the keyboard. ‘Here we go: Inigo Delombra. There’s his birthday, born at North Tyneside General Hospital … father Alfonso Perera Delombra, born in Spain … mother Anne Janette Mac … erm … McGonagal …’
‘Wait,’ said Alfie. ‘Did you say McGonagal?’
‘Yeah, look. Why?’
He didn’t answer her straight away. Instead he said: ‘Check her parents, can you, please?’
More tapping, then, ‘Here we go. Anne Janette McGonagal, second daughter of James McGonagal and Carol Downey Adams who were married at … hang on …’
‘No, do not bother with James,’ Alfie snapped. ‘Who is this John McGonagal? Who is Great Uncle John?’
Roxy gave him a look as if to say, ‘Steady on with the commands,’ but she could tell that he was excited, so she carried on searching.
Moments later, up came a scanned page from an old census.
‘There! John McGonagal, born 1951 in South Shields. He’s the brother of James.’
‘Yes,’ Alfie said. ‘That’s Great Uncle John!’ He was practically shouting.
‘And this is relevant why, exactly?’ murmured Roxy, clearly baffled by Alfie’s excitement.
‘I knew him!’
We both stared at Alfie.
‘You know these people?’ I gasped.
He nodded slowly. ‘It was John’s father, Jack, who stole the book from me in the first place. I always suspected but I had no proof. Now I know.’
We were letting this sink in when Roxy’s phone pinged.
‘It’s Mum. She wants me to go in.’
She had hardly finished speaking when we heard Precious Minto’s ear-splitting screech from her back door: ‘Rrrr-o-xyyyyy! You come in now! An’ bring your friends an’ all!’
This did not sound good.
The email from the school head was open on Precious Minto’s iPad, and we passed it around.
TO: All Year Seven Parents
FROM: Mr. D. J. Landreth, Head of School
SUBJECT: Exhibition Theft
Dear Parents/Carers,
It is with sorrow that I report what appears to be a serious theft on the school premises today, and with equal sadness that it appears very likely that the perpetrator(s) is/are fellow students at Sir Henry Percy Academy.
As you may know, an after-school exhibition was held today in the school grounds for Local History Week at which students showed items from home of local historical interest.
One valuable exhibit – a book signed by Charles Dickens – was stolen at around 4.10pm from the exhibition stand of Inigo Delombra, a Year Seven student.
There will be a whole school assembly tomorrow morning in which I will address the students personally. In the meantime, I would be grateful if you would ask your children if they know of any information that may be of help in tracking down this item.
The police have been informed and are working closely with me and the school authorities.
Naturally I would prefer an outcome that did not further involve the police, and take this opportunity to reassure you that, if the book is returned, the matter will be handled within the school’s own disciplinary procedures.
With thanks
D. J. Landreth (Mr)
Headteacher
The ‘whole school assembly’ was something that only usually happened on the first day of the school year, in September, because it was virtually impossible to fit all of the students, including the sixth form, into the assembly hall.
The early summer heatwave made it even worse. The hall actually smelt bad, with everybody’s odours mingling and amplifying in the crush.
I won’t bother telling you the whole of Mr Landreth’s speech: you can probably guess most of it.
‘Serious theft … letting the school down … letting yourself down … thoughtless crime … police informed … Come forward anonymously with information …’
All of that.
Roxy, Alfie and I looked straight ahead at the stage where Mr Landreth was speaking. We didn’t dare even glance at one another in case we gave something away.
And then Mr Landreth said, ‘Of course, as you all know, we have CCTV cameras in the school grounds, and we will be examining these closely. Believe me, if we find out that the culprit has NOT volunteered to come forward then the consequences will be much worse.’
That’s when we did break our gaze, and glance at each other.
CCTV cameras? None of us had thought of that. Could one have picked up Alfie’s theft? Surely not.
Surely yes.
I did not even think of security cameras
when I made my oh-so-clever plan to get back my book – stolen all those decades ago by the boy I thought was my friend.
Who would? Who would think that a school, of all places, would have cameras placed on the gates, in corridors and stairwells?
On the way to the science block for ‘double biology’, I looked up at the walls that may have held cameras overlooking the playground, or ‘the scene of the crime’.
There were none, and I relaxed a little – enough to pay attention in class, at least. Of all the lessons biology was my favourite. In most of the other subjects, I was quite far ahead of the other students, and the main effort I made was not to be too clever, or to contradict the teachers when they made idiotic statements like, ‘Shakespeare’s audiences found these jokes hilarious.’ Well, not that I remember. Mam and I liked plays, but William Shakespeare’s jokes often fell flat. For years, women were not allowed to act in plays (I cannot remember why – probably another king’s order) so the women’s parts were played by young (and not so young) men. That was often very funny, but not, I think, as Mr Shakespeare intended.
I had not studied modern sciences very much at all, however.
Anyway it was biology with Mrs Murphy, and I was paying attention because I have decided that I want to be a doctor when I am older. That is, properly older.
There was a knock on the classroom door, and Mrs Farrow, the Head of Administration, came in. This, it would appear, was very significant to judge from the looks exchanged among my classmates.
She looked at me and said, ‘Alfie Monk. Would you come with me, please?’ There was a low, murmured ‘oooh’ from the rest of the class.
In the Head’s office was Mr Landreth, Sangeeta (whom I had not seen for a few days) and a police officer in short sleeves.
This was going to require a cool head.
Mr Landreth stood up when I came into his study. Sangeeta nodded at me and gave a nervous smile. The police officer fiddled with her notebook.
‘Mr Monk,’ Mr Landreth said. ‘Take a seat.’ He indicated a chair facing the desk, interrogation style. This was probably deliberate.
Mr Landreth rocked on his heels a bit and clasped his hands.
‘You know Sangeeta Prasad. This is PC Gayle. Do you know why you are here?’
Obviously I did. Equally obviously I was not going to admit to anything until I knew what they knew, so I answered, ‘No, sir.’
‘I’d like you to take a look at this.’ He reached over to his desk and adjusted his computer screen so that I could see it. The picture was grainy, but it was clearly me: ten seconds of security film showing me walking quickly to the school’s rear gate. A counter in the bottom corner showed the time: 16:12:30.
And that was it. The book, which I had NOT STOLEN but simply RECLAIMED, was nowhere to be seen because it was in my school bag over my shoulder. I had taken it to Roxy’s garage, and then brought it with me to Earl Grey House because I actually wanted to read it again.
‘Before you say anything, Alfie,’ said Sangeeta, ‘I want you to tell the truth.’
‘Of course,’ I said solemnly.
‘Well?’ said Mr Landreth.
I looked at all three and kept my face steady. ‘What?’
‘This film shows you leaving the school at more or less exactly the time that the apparent theft of Inigo Delombra’s book occurred.’
They were desperate, I could tell, but I had to stay calm.
‘You are right, it does.’ No! Too impertinent. I added: ‘I … I mean, yes. Sir.’
‘Why were you leaving the exhibition so early?’
‘I am sorry, sir, but I did not find it of great interest to me.’
‘And why did you choose the rear gate? You live in the opposite direction.’
Hell’s fire. I had to think quickly.
‘I … erm …’ Quick, Alfie. ‘I wanted to avoid some boys who had threatened me. From another school, from Monkseaton High.’
This, I thought, was rather brilliant. In just a short while at this school, I have noticed that everyone on the staff is terrified of bullying, of accusations of bullying, and especially of not seeming to take bullying seriously. There is even a plaque on the wall of reception declaring the school is a ‘proud supporter of the Anti-Bullying Schools Forum’.
‘Are you being bullied, Alfie?’ asked Sangeeta.
‘Not exactly. But I wanted to avoid them.’ I hung my head, but could see that the adults were exchanging looks. This had thrown their investigation off track. Involving another school was genius, and I was feeling rather pleased with myself.
Too soon.
The police officer said the first words she had uttered so far. She flipped back a few pages in her notebook.
‘What’s your full first name, Alfie?’ she said. She had a pen ready to write it down. I thought she was just checking details.
‘Alve. A. L. V. E. Mam’s idea.’
(Sorry, Mam. I just thought that a reminder of my orphan status would be helpful here. It was not.)
The police officer addressed Mr Landreth. ‘What was the inscription inside the book, sir?’
She knew. She did not need to ask. Mr Landreth played his part. ‘It read, To the dear reader, Alve, with my compliments, Charles Dickens’.
‘A remarkable coincidence, wouldn’t you say, Alfie?’ said the police officer.
I said nothing. Without the book, they could not prove anything. There was no evidence. Coincidence is not evidence.
‘Do you have anything to say, Mr Monk?’ Mr Landreth’s tone had hardened. His eyes narrowed, and he pursed his lips.
‘I do not, sir.’ I looked at him with an expression of what I hoped was puzzled hurt.
He turned to Sangeeta. ‘Very well. Miss Prasad?’
Sangeeta looked at me sadly as she bent down to her bag and took out A Tale of Two Cities.
‘It was in your room at Earl Grey House, Alfie. I didn’t even have to look hard.’
Well, that changed things.
Sitting outside Mr Landreth’s office, I could hear voices inside, but I couldn’t make out what they were saying.
Next to me was Dad. Next to him were Roxy and her mum. Mr Springham was sitting opposite, stony-faced.
This was super-serious, and I was very scared.
Fifteen minutes earlier, Roxy and I had both been called out of our lessons by Mrs Farrow, who walked us, wordlessly, to the Head’s study, where Dad and Precious Minto were waiting with Mr Springham.
While Mr Springham’s back was turned, Dad mouthed at me, ‘What’s up?’
I shrugged, and adopted a look of bewilderment, but I knew what was up all right. And then Alfie came out of the Head’s study, followed by his social worker, Sangeeta, and a policewoman. Alfie kept his eyes fixed on the ground.
I glanced across at Roxy. Her skin looked dull and even a bit pale, and she stared dead ahead, not meeting my gaze.
Then we trooped in.
I’ll give you the short version. The long version is too horrible to remember.
We were rumbled.
If you want to convince somebody that you’ve fainted, you don’t do what Roxy did, apparently.
1. Don’t fall backwards. That’s what she did and I caught her. Mr Springham didn’t see that bit, but he heard descriptions of it. Real fainters nearly always fall to the side, or forward.
2. Watch out for the ‘hand-drop’ test. The paramedic (or Mr Springham, in this case) holds the fainter’s hand above her face and lets go. A genuinely unconscious person allows the hand to fall and hit their face. A faker, like Roxy, makes it fall so that it doesn’t hit her face.
I didn’t know any of this until it was spelt out by Mr Springham.
‘I thought it was just a silly girl seeking attention. I’ve seen it before,’ he said. ‘But, when I realised it had happened at exactly the same time as the theft, it was obvious that you were working together with Alfie Monk.’
‘Helping somebody else to commit a crime is a crime in its
elf – you do realise that?’ said Mr Landreth.
‘We didn’t know he was going to take the book,’ I protested. That was the truth.
‘So why did you do it, then?’ snapped Dad.
We had no good answer. At any rate, not one that didn’t involve saying stuff like, ‘Alfie had his book stolen back in 1940 by Inigo Delombra’s great-grandfather.’ That was the truth, obviously, but the truth was not going to help us here.
It was Roxy who dug us out of the hole. After the longest of pauses, during which Mr Springham had said, ‘Well?’ three times, with increasing volume, she looked at her shoes and said,
‘It was revenge, I think.’
And she told the story of how Inigo Delombra had teased Alfie on the coach to The Saxon Experience, and taken his glasses. She exaggerated it brilliantly. She said that Inigo had called him ‘Specky Four-Eyes’ and ‘Zombie Mouth’ (a reference to his bad teeth). Alfie was secretly crying, she said.
All four adults in the room were silent until Mr Landreth said, ‘I see. And presumably Alfie didn’t tell us this because he feared being labelled a ‘snitch’, am I right?’
We both nodded. My eyes were directed at the floor, but I did see Mr Landreth and Mr Springham exchange a long look.
It had worked. Once again, I was left in awe of Roxy’s quick thinking in a crisis.
Dad and Mrs Minto left shortly afterwards.
Roxy and I were made to wait outside Mr Landreth’s study again, while Inigo Delombra and Alfie went in. I tried listening with my ear pressed against the door, but Mrs Farrow kept walking past. I think she knew what I was up to and she told me to sit down.
Eventually we were both called in.
1. Prompted by Mr Landreth, Roxy and I apologised for staging the fake faint.
2. Alfie apologised for taking the book.
3. Finally Inigo Delombra apologised to Alfie for taking his glasses.
(Incidentally, I have never heard three less sincere apologies. Inigo’s especially was delivered in a quiet monotone: ‘I-am-sorry-I-took-your-glasses-and-I-won’t-do-it-again-there-can-I-go-now-weirdo?’ He didn’t actually say the last bit, but he managed to imply it.)