The Tale of Angelino Brown

by David Almond

  Bert stamps his foot again.

  “Come on,” he says. “Time to tell the police!”

  And they turn from the priest and pile into the bus and off they go.

  They dash in through the police station door. PC Boyle is at the counter with his helmet on. Sergeant Ground can be seen in the office behind.

  The bus stands right outside.

  “We’ve come to report a kidnapping,” gasps Ms Monteverdi.

  “We need your best officers now!” snaps Bert.

  Boyle raises his eyes.

  “Mr Brown. We meet again.”

  “Aye,” says Bert. “And we need action fast!”

  Sergeant Ground slowly rises from his desk. He comes through from the office.

  “What appears to be the problem, Mr Brown?”

  “Angelino’s gone, Sergeant.”

  “Angelino?”

  “The angel!” cries Nancy.

  Boyle taps his notebook.

  “The Angel Angelino, Sarge,” he says. “Encountered on the same day as the Monster Hawkins.”

  “Ah, yes,” says Ground. “And where has he gone, Mr Brown?”

  “He’s just gone! He’s been kidnapped. Stolen.”

  “There’s been an awful crime,” says Ms Monteverdi.

  “Somebody grabbed him on the bus,” says Nancy.

  “Somebody?” asks Ground.

  “Somebody with a white beard dressed all in white.”

  “Are you getting this down, PC Boyle?” asks Ground.

  “Yes, Sarge. Angel. Kidnapped. Stolen. Bus. Beard. White. Awful Crime.”

  Ground nods slowly and sagely. He ponders the void for a moment.

  “I’m a Police Sergeant, Mr Brown. I don’t know about angels, Mr Brown.”

  “But you saw him with your own eyes,” says Bert. “Last night. He was on the table eating midget gems and farting.”

  Ground ponders once again.

  “Perhaps I did.”

  “Perhaps?” gasps Bert. “It’s written down in PC Boyle’s book!”

  “Indeed. But we should not believe everything that is written down in books, Mr Brown.”

  “But look at these books!” says Alice. “We made them just today. Here he is! Angelino!”

  The children open their sketchbooks. They show the drawings to the sergeant.

  He laughs.

  “Kids’ books made by little kids!” he declares. “Start believing in things like that and we’ll have to start believing in unicorns and dragons and tomfoolery all around us. What do you think, Boyle?”

  “Dunno, Sarge. You’re the Sarge, Sarge.”

  “Indeed I am. And my Sergeantly interest is in the criminal Hawkins. Not in an angel that is nothing but a distraction. An illusion, even.”

  “An illusion?” says Nancy.

  “Yes, young miss. Illusions and tricks are every-where.”

  “But he danced in my hands!” says Nancy.

  “He saved my penalty!” says Jack.

  “He let me draw him in all this detail!” says Alice.

  “And we’ve recorded his voice!” says Ms Monteverdi.

  “Yes,” replies Sergeant Ground. He smiles sweetly. “Of course you have.”

  They all glare at him. He goes on smiling.

  “Even if there is an angel,” he says, “we must ask these questions. Can an angel be stolen, as an object can be? Can an angel be kidnapped, as a person can be? What do you think, PC Boyle?”

  Boyle scratches his head.

  “Leave that to you, Sarge. You’re the Sarge, Sarge.”

  “Thank you, Boyle. Indeed I am the Sarge, and this Sarge knows of no laws that apply to angels. Write that down, Boyle.”

  “Yes, Sarge. Unicorns. Tomfoolery. No laws for angels. Very clever, that, Sarge, if I may say so.”

  “Thank you, Boyle.”

  “But they must be connected!” says Bert.

  Ground raises his eyebrows.

  “Hawkins must be involved in this crime,” continues Bert.

  “Aha,” says Ground. “So now you are a detective, are you, Mr Brown? And no longer a bus driver. A rapid promotion, if I may say so.”

  Boyle sniggers as he scribbles.

  Bert grinds his teeth.

  “So do you believe, Detective Brown,” says Sergeant Ground, “that it was Kevin Hawkins who … took the angel, Angelino?”

  “Aye!” says Bert. “It must have been.”

  Ground nods sagely.

  “PC Boyle,” he says, “could you read me the notes you wrote yesterday relating to Hawkins’s appearance and clothing in the school?”

  “Certainly, Sarge,” answers Boyle, leafing through his notebook. “Aha! Here it is. Hawkins. Kevin. St Mungo’s. Black hair. Moustachioed. Dressed all in black.”

  “Thank you, Boyle. And now could you read your notes pertaining to the appearance and clothing of the snatcher of the angel?”

  “Yes, Sarge. Bloke. Dressed all in white.”

  “Thank you, Boyle. Anything else?”

  “Beard. White.”

  The Sergeant smiles. Boyle sniggers.

  “So, Detective Brown,” says Sergeant Ground, “where is your connection now?”

  Nancy marches right up to Sergeant Ground. She pokes him in the chest. He steps back in surprise.

  “What are you doing, child?” he asks.

  “I’m making sure you’re really there,” she says. “I’m not quite sure you are. I think you’re the trick and the illusion. And I believe in Angelino more than I believe in you!”

  The three children and their teacher pile back into the bus and Bert drives them all to school. They dash in through the front door. Bert jumps from his cab and runs straight for the kitchen.

  “We have to see Mrs Mole!” says Nancy to Samantha Cludd, who is sitting in her office.

  “She is in a Very Important Meeting,” says Samantha, “with the Professor and the Government Advisor. They are planning—”

  “But something terrible has happened!”

  “I’m sure it can wait, dear.”

  “Angelino has gone!”

  “That silly little wingy thing? Thank goodness for that.”

  Nancy decides to take matters into her own hands. She strides past Samantha Cludd and shoves open the door to Mrs Mole’s office. Jack and Alice and Ms Monteverdi crowd in behind her.

  “Angelino has gone!” Nancy yells to the Acting Head Teacher and the Professor and the Government Advisor, that Very Important Man named Cornelius Nutt.

  “Somebody grabbed him on the bus!” says Jack.

  They all look up from their charts and their laptop screens.

  “We searched and searched and couldn’t find him!” says Alice.

  “Ms M-Monteverdi!” exclaims Mrs Mole. “We are involved in Highly Important Educational M-Matters. Can you not keep these ch-children in—”

  “But it’s true!” gasps Ms Monteverdi. “One minute he’s there, and the next he’s gone.”

  The Government Advisor rises from his seat. He is very tall. He is wearing a grey suit and a white shirt and a very impressive striped tie and very, very shiny shoes. He peers down at the children and at lovely Ms Monteverdi.

  “Of whom,” he says in his Deep and Important voice, “are we speaking?”

  “Of Angelino!” explains Nancy. “Of our angel. We were on Mr Brown’s bus and—”

  He raises his hand to silence her. He turns to Mrs Mole.

  “On Mr Brown’s bus?” he says. “What were these children doing on Mr Brown’s bus?”

  “It was an educational trip, sir. A project.”

  “And what was the subject of the project?”

  Mrs Mole blinks. She licks her lips.

  “The subject was Buses and Angels,” says Ms Monteverdi. “It was new, it was…”

  “Buses?” says the Government Advisor. “And Angels?”

  “Yes, sir,” whispers Mrs Mole.

  “Is this how you intend to bring about School Imp
rovement, madam? Is this how you intend to drag this school out of Special Measures? By getting these children to study Buses and Angels?”

  “No, sir,” whispers the Acting Head Teacher.

  “But…” says Nancy.

  “SILENCE!” booms the Government Advisor. “Professor Smellie, were you aware of this project?”

  “I was indeed,” says the Professor. “I informed the Acting Head Teacher that I would not demean myself by taking part in such a ludicrous farrago.”

  “Good man. You are destined for Great Things. Mrs Mole, see to it that the Professor receives a promotion immediately.”

  “Yes, sir,” whispers Mrs Mole.

  “Sir, we’re wasting time!” says Nancy. “We need to rescue Angelino!”

  “You are indeed wasting time,” agrees the Government Advisor. “Any child not in a classroom is a child not learning. Time that is wasted can never be regained. You must return to your class. You must calm down and apply yourself to your lessons.”

  “But he’s our responsibility!” says Nancy. “Angelino is a pupil at this school!”

  “An angel is a pupil at this school?” The Advisor turns again to Mrs Mole.

  “Oh no, sir,” says Mrs Mole. “I can show you the r-registers, sir. He is—”

  “But he was here yesterday,” says Nancy. “He was flying in Ms Monteverdi’s Art room. He was playing football. He was even in a lesson with the Professor himself.”

  “Can this be true?” the Advisor asks the Professor.

  “I am afraid it is,” says the Professor. “And I was wrong to demean myself in such a way. That creature was a source of chaos and confusion. He even helped to bring about my own dismissal, sir.”

  “But just for a little w-while,” squeaks Mrs Mole. “Until we realized that the Chief Inspector was an im-impostor.”

  “An impostor?”

  “Yes, sir. His real name is Hawkins, sir. He used to fart in tune. We chased him off the premises.”

  The Advisor blinks.

  “And the Impostor Inspector Hawkins, named Bruno Black,” says Jack Fox, “was the man in white who grabbed the angel on the bus!”

  There’s an eerie silence, disturbed only by the chatter of children in a classroom somewhere near by.

  The Advisor Cornelius Nutt stares into the void.

  Mrs Mole and the Professor stare into the void.

  Nancy, Jack, Alice and Ms Monteverdi watch them.

  “We’re on our own,” says Nancy. “It’s up to us to find him and to save him.”

  They begin to back away.

  “Perhaps,” says the Professor suddenly, “we have all been the victims of some kind of mass delusion. A kind of hysteria.”

  “Yes!” says Mrs Mole. She clenches her fists. She tells herself to pull herself together. “That’s it, sir. Hysteria brought on by the stress of School Inspections, of trying to emerge from Special Measures. The angel was not here at all. Nor was Hawkins. Perhaps this was what happened to poor Mr D-Donkin.”

  “Yes,” says the Government Advisor. “Perhaps you should all get back to work. And perhaps we should continue our meeting another day.”

  “That would be best,” agrees the Professor. “And it’s Friday, so we have the weekend to recover, then we can start next week refreshed and renewed. Now I will go to Class 5P. I will deliver to them my lesson on the nature of the gerund and perils of the split infinitive. I will go right now.”

  But no one moves. The silence and the void return.

  Then there is the sound of running footsteps in the corridor outside.

  Bert in his uniform and Betty in her pinny appear at the door.

  Betty’s eyes are filled with tears.

  The Government Advisor slumps and sighs.

  “Who,” he whispers, “are these people?”

  “That’s the School Cook,” whispers Mrs Mole. “She gave the angel chocolate cake and custard. And that’s the Bus Driver. He found the angel in his p-p-p-pocket.”

  “Torture!” says the Boss. “That’s the way to get it out of you!”

  Angelino stands on the table with his hands on his hips and the chain around his ankle and just looks back at him.

  “Pain! Cruelty! Suffering! Tears! Confessions!” cries the Boss. He leans closer until his face is almost up against the little angel’s own. “That’s what’s coming your way, sonny boy,” he says.

  Angelino shakes his head.

  “What do you mean by that?” says the Boss.

  “You’re nice,” says Angelino.

  “What? You think I’m nice? Well, you’ve got another thought coming. I’m a Proper Villain, kidder, a Criminal Mastermind, a—”

  “You’re nice.”

  The Boss clenches his fist and waves it in the air above Angelino.

  “No, I am not! I’m the Boss! I am a Monster. Ain’t that right, K?”

  “Yes, Boss,” says K.

  “See?” says the Boss. “Nice? HA! So you’d better watch out, laddo. Before we sell you on we’re gonna get the truth!”

  “The truth!” repeats Angelino.

  “The proper truth. Who you are. Where you come from. Who your mates are!”

  “I don’t know nowt.”

  “We’ll drag it out of you. Me and K! Won’t we, K?”

  “Yes, Boss,” says K.

  Now the Boss is waving both fists in the air and snarling and glaring at the angel.

  “This,” he yells, “is what I was born for!”

  He laughs an evil laugh.

  “Hahahahahahahaaaaa!”

  “You look tired, Boss,” says K. “It’s been a long day, Boss.”

  The Boss calms down.

  “You’re right,” he says. “And there’s lots to do tomorrow, including torturing angels!”

  He snarls at Angelino.

  “I’ll get some kip,” he says to K. “You keep your beady eye on him. Any trouble, let him have it!”

  “Yes, Boss,” says K.

  The Boss heads for the door. He grabs the handle, then he hesitates.

  “Basher,” he says. “He didn’t leave a message?”

  “No, Boss.”

  “Did he sound happy?”

  “Couldn’t really tell, Boss.”

  The Boss turns and looks at him.

  “No,” says K. “I don’t think he sounded very happy, Boss.”

  “He never was. There was one time… But no, we don’t want to remember that. Did he say where he was calling from?”

  “No, Boss.”

  “Did he sound like he was near by?”

  “Couldn’t tell, Boss. Could have been in Australia. Could have been in the room next door.”

  “The room next door?”

  “I’m sure he wasn’t, Boss.”

  The Boss stares into the void for a few moments.

  “I’ll get a bit of shut-eye, should I?” he says quietly.

  “Aye, Boss. Sweet dreams, Boss,” says K.

  “Night-night,” says the Boss as he shuts the door.

  “Night-night,” says Angelino.

  “Poor Boss,” says K. “It ain’t easy being Boss. So much to think about. So much responsibility. And he’s just a lad, really, just like me.”

  He rubs his eyes and yawns.

  “I’m knackered and all,” he says. “It takes it out of you, getting the disguises on, inspecting, spying, catching buses, nicking angels.”

  Angelino sits with his legs crossed and watches K.

  “We won’t torture you,” says K.

  “No,” says Angelino.

  “Do angels get knackered?” says K.

  No answer. K stares at him. He rubs his eyes again, then again.

  “Are you real?” he asks Angelino.

  No answer.

  “Am I dreaming you?”

  No answer.

  “Mebbe I am,” says K. “Mebbe it’s all a dream. I used to think that when I was little. I used to think I was in the wrong dream, and there might be a better one I c
ould go into.”

  He switches the light off and opens the curtains. There’s a thin sickle moon high up in the sky and millions and millions of stars. Their light glitters like frost on the black rooftops of the city.

  K points out into the universe.

  “Is that where you come from, Angelino?”

  Angelino lies on his front and rests his chin on his hands and looks up into the lovely night. His wings quiver above him. He says nothing.

  “Do you think it’s all a dream?” says K.

  Angelino lifts his shoulders in a little shrug.

  “I used to want to go out there,” says K. “I had a little plastic spaceman called Sid. I made a rocket for him out of cardboard. I wrote his name on the side. I used to put Sid in the rocket and hold it up high and run round my bedroom pretending he was flying through space. Zoom! Zoooooom!”

  K closes his eyes and remembers what fun it was and he sighs and softly laughs, and as he talks he really does seem to become younger, to become smaller, to turn back into the little boy he was.

  “I used to make up stories,” he says. “Me and Sid went flying billions of miles through the universe. We found lovely stars and lovely planets and we lived there with a lovely family and lovely friends. They were aliens, but they were kind and friendly. Those stories were like dreams, but like dreams that were really real.”

  He sighs again.

  “I tried to write one of the stories for school but the teacher just laughed.” He imitates the voice of an exasperated teacher. “Kevin Hawkins, you are such a messy boy! How can you expect me to make sense of something as messy as this?”

  He reaches down and gently touches the angel’s wing.

  “Dunno what happened to Sid and his rocket in the end. Probably me dad threw them out. He was always going on about me being a stupid useless baby and how I needed to grow up and toughen up and… Did you have a dad, Angelino?”

  Angelino gives another little shrug.

  “I loved me dad,” says K. “And I loved me mam as well. I don’t think they loved me very much. Me mam was always off with Larry the fishmonger and me dad was always in the Drunken Duck. Then they both cleared off and … and I was on me own.”

  He stands and stares into the night sky. He remembers flying through the galaxies with Sid in the cardboard rocket. Angelino watches him, like he’s waiting for him to go on.