Billy shakes his head and his dark curls spring about in different directions. “Well, okay, if Pearl’s not dead then, smarty-pants, and we can’t ring her, then that means Pearl is officially missing, like the sword from my toy pirate.”
“Oh,” I reply, hiding the sword inside my parasite book where I was using it as a bookmark. I pause before tilting my head. “…Kay. Let’s just say you’re right and we set up a spy agency – then we have to decide who the boss is, the person making all the decisions.” I am so certain it should be me that I barely listen as Billy says he wants to be that very famous secret agent that everyone loves.
“James Bond,” I mutter, turning to page sixty-three: hookworms.
“Perry the Platypus,” Billy replies.
We spend the next twenty minutes in our bedroom setting up the spy agency. Billy says the room might be stinky and cold but it will do until we get somewhere better. I have a feeling that we’re not going to get anywhere better but I don’t tell Billy. First decision for the agency: what we should call it. Billy says “Billy Spy”. I say that’s boring and ask if it took him ten seconds to think of the name. Billy says it took him five. I offer “I Spy!” I don’t mind saying that mine is the best and beats Billy Spy hands down.
Billy shakes his head like a person weary of dealing with a brother from Planet Moronic. “We have no time for games of I Spy.” Straight away, he trots over to the corner of the bedroom and brings a pencil and another piece of paper out of his box of belongings.
“I Spy is a name for the agency, you muppet,” I explain, rising from the bed and looking out of the bedroom window. Chip papers like tiny ghosts float across the pavement below and seagulls parade up and down the rooftops nodding to each other. This isn’t where I’m supposed to be, I tell myself. I should have woken up in my own bedroom this morning. I drop the curtain and turn back, watching as Billy’s pencil moves furiously up and down on the paper. “Or what about the Secret Network of Observations, Operations and Probing? SNOOP for short.” It’s genius, I tell you. I only just stop short of patting myself on the back.
Obviously, Billy does not recognize my genius because he thinks about this name for a few seconds and then declares that it’s “okay”. It’ll do for now, until he thinks of something much better, like Billy Spy. So, for the moment, we are members of SNOOP and, as members, Billy suggests we need to make secret name badges so we can recognize each other. When I say we’re brothers so it’s not that tricky recognizing each other, Billy says SNOOP members must not talk of their relatives.
After five minutes of drawing, my badge design is finished and I say I’d like to see Billy’s efforts.
“I didn’t draw a badge,” exclaims Billy. He tuts and shakes his head like a dog with an ectoparasite in its ear. “If we had a badge with our name on, people would realize we are spies and no one is supposed to know.”
“So what were you drawing then?” I sigh, not bothering to point out that he suggested making badges in the first place.
That’s when Billy assumes his full height, which isn’t anything to shout about since he takes after Dad on that, and wafts the piece of paper under my nose. “Is it a tissue?” I ask, only for Billy to tell me it’s actually a letter and, what’s more, it’s a letter to Pearl. “I have said we miss her and she should come and live with us in—”
“Pies?” I snort, reading it.
“Peace,” says Billy. “I made a spelling mistake – and anyway, Daddy would love to live in pies.”
I tell Billy that maybe his idea about posting a letter to Pearl isn’t such a bad one. She may not answer our texts but this could be the next best thing. I’m so on board with this idea that I start making plans of how we can find the nearest postbox. Maybe even sneak a stamp from Dad’s wallet, because that’s where he keeps them. Just behind the photo of Pearl and us.
Billy smiles at me like an evil egghead, his eyes narrowing. “Oh, Becket,” he mutters. “We are not posting this letter. No, we are hand delivering it.” That’s when Billy says this is our very first SNOOP secret mission and I must choose to accept it. As Billy sets the letter down and begins to rummage around in his box of belongings, I say it’s not much of a choice but I do choose to accept it anyway. “Found it,” yells Billy with delight written all over his face (in invisible ink, obviously). He straightens up again and I realize he’s holding a balaclava big enough for Mr Potato Head, knitted by Ibiza Nana. He pulls it on. “Mmmm disggggusssse.”
“Huh?”
Billy realizes it’s on back-to-front and turns it around. “Phew! I wondered why the lights went out. It’s my disguise. Now it’s your turn.”
Swallowing back my laughter, I say I can’t fit in the same balaclava. Nodding, Billy produces my disguise from his box.
“No way am I going as a werewolf,” I say, staring at it.
“I see,” replies Billy, chucking it back in the box. “You are right. This rubber mask is too much like your real face. You need a different disguise.” With that, Billy is back to rummaging around. The white woolly hat with ears that he throws at me next isn’t much better. Who wants to go from a wolf to a sheep? When I think about protesting for the second time, Billy says I mustn’t talk because he is coming up with SNOOP’s plan of action, because spies must be organized and make very detailed plans.
After a few minutes of writing it down on paper, Billy shows me his very detailed plan:
Gobsmacked by the plan, and not in a good way, I tell Billy that getting from here to there isn’t the actual problem. The actual problem is getting Dad to let us get from here to there. “We need to persuade Dad to let us out first,” I say, my knitted ears wobbling as I tilt my head. “And,” I add, “we need to think up a really good excuse or Dad will see straight through it. Or my name’s not—”
“Shaun the Sheep?”
Dad looks a bit confused when I tell him Billy and I need to go play football straight away and when Dad opens his mouth to protest I make sure to promise we’ll be back in time for tea. Dad thinks for a second and then asks if we mean at the park he mentioned across the road and I nod and then give Billy the little secret spy wink we’d discussed not more than two minutes ago in the bedroom. Billy grins and asks me if this park has a giant curly-wurly slide that makes your belly feel bubbly.
“Um…not sure.” How would I know when I’ve never been there before? I wink at Billy again. You know, that secret spy wink that says we’re in the middle of a SNOOP secret mission.
Anyone would think Billy hadn’t been there when we discussed it, because now he is bobbing up and down like a jack-in-the-box on a trampoline. “Does the park have a sandpit? All the best parks have a sandpit. With hidden dinosaur bones under the sand.” Billy is so excited now he’s clutching his stomach and Dad is telling him to keep calm.
For Pete and Paulette’s sake! “I don’t know if it’s got a sandpit,” I say very slowly, making sure Billy understands. Right now, I’m secret-spy winking so much my eyelid thinks it’s having a workout with a personal trainer – and still Billy doesn’t get it. “We’re playing football, aren’t we, Billy?” Wink-wink-wink.
“Does the park have…? Does the park have…?” Anyone would think Billy was choosing a pick ’n’ mix of what he’d like in his ideal park. In the end I just tell Billy the park has everything: super giant slides that make your tummy feel like you’ve eaten popping candy, swings that go so high your feet touch the clouds, roundabouts that go so fast that when you step off you immediately fall over…and dinosaur bones? Pah, not just bones: a real stegosaurus.
I think I might have laid it on a bit thick because Dad scratches the koi carp tattoo on his arm and says, “There aren’t any real dinosaurs, Becket.” Dad has forgotten about the teacher I had in Year Four – he was a bit of a dinosaur. “And it’s a bit cold out there,” adds Dad. Billy replies that we have hats. He’s already wearing his balaclava and I’m apparently disguised as a load of fluffy cotton wool, so the fact we have hats is obvi
ous to any fool with eyeballs, which counts Dad in. Dad’s still unsure about us going out when we’ve only been in the flat for less than twenty-four hours. That’s when I tell Dad it’s important for us to explore our surroundings and we can’t be stuck in the flat any longer. “We’ll get scurvy,” I add quickly, and I offer to go and find my medical book that explains all the symptoms. I promise Dad there’s quite a long list.
Dad’s mouth slackens. “Um, nah, you’re all right,” he says. “But where’s the football, because I didn’t pack it in any of the boxes?” Dad shakes his head and says he hopes I’m not pulling the wool over his eyes, which is ridiculous since I’m the one with the wool pulled over mine. Dad repeats the question.
The football? To be honest, I hadn’t thought of that. Thrown into a panic I look at Billy and he looks at me and after a few seconds of looking at each other I realize that this isn’t getting us anywhere and I have to think of a clever response and fast.
“Er…we don’t need one because we’re playing invisible football.” That was some sort of response, but clever it wasn’t.
“Right,” says Dad, rubbing his eyelid and easing back into the sofa. “Why do you need to wear a sheep on your head to play invisible football?”
“I thought it was better than a werewolf,” I reply.
Ah.
Eventually, after Dad says he supposes he could pop down to Crops and Bobbers and chat to Cat while we’re out and ask her about things to do in the area and after about one million rules about what we can and can’t do and when we have to return, we escape from the flat. The first SNOOP secret mission to find Pearl is a go-go.
Once we’re outside I explain to Billy that we’re not actually going to the park at all and there’s no such game as invisible football and that it was just an excuse to get out without making Dad suspicious. Well, Billy is clearly not impressed by this because he kicks me on the shin.
“What’s that for?” I howl.
“It’s an invisible tackle,” mumbles Billy through the balaclava. “And it’s for making me think I was going to the park.”
We wander across the road; two boys, one in a balaclava and one a hobbling sheep. Eventually Billy asks, if I’m so clever, then how are we going to get back to our old house in Honeydown Hills?
“WE’RE GOING TO CATCH THE BUS,” I shout, gesturing to the bus stop opposite us. This morning, when I was looking out the flat window, I noticed the bus that passed our street was going to Honeydown Hills. So, even if I say so myself, I think I might be the master spy here. “WE WILL CATCH THE BUS RIGHT NOW,” I yell.
“No need to shout,” mutters Billy. “I’m wearing a balaclava, I’m not on Pluto.” Yes, but I swear his brain is on another planet.
The sixty-three bus comes and we get on. The bus driver says he wasn’t expecting to herd up any sheep today. When we’ve taken our seats and the bus driver can’t hear me complaining, I bleat, “That driver’s joke was b-aa-aa-aa-d.” Billy says I am very funny, but when I ask him why he isn’t laughing he says he is, I just can’t see it under the balaclava.
The bus takes us down Eden High Street, past the park and houses the colour of Dolly Mixtures and along the seafront where you can see down to the small horseshoe-shaped harbour. Tiny fishing boats bob about like toys in bath water and the slap of the waves against the harbour wall sounds like the rhythm of a heartbeat. We take a sharp turn right and away from the seafront and twenty minutes later we’re at Honeydown Hills and it feels like we were only here a few days ago, which we were. My stomach is doing more somersaults than a gymnast, which is stupid because this is our home and Pearl’s our “almost” mum. Standing in front of the door I think about what I’m going to say to Pearl when I see her. Maybe I’ll just reach out for a hug instead because she’s good at giving hugs. I’m sweating like a sheep in a woolly jumper when I eventually take my front door key from my coat pocket. The door opens easily and we both tiptoe into the hallway like two pantomime villains. We stop and listen for voices, but it’s quieter than a kebab van outside a vegetarian conference.
“I can’t hear Pearl,” whispers Billy.
“Me either,” I whisper back, running my finger along the blue swallows on the hallway wallpaper. Mum chose that wallpaper. I remember because recently Pearl said she wanted to change it and Dad said Mum picked it and Pearl got in a right huff because she didn’t pick it and she was the person living with it. Then she smiled at Dad and said she didn’t mind after all and Dad felt guilty about it and said Pearl was right. Dad then said she could change it and Pearl smiled again because that was what she wanted in the first place.
“Oh, Mum,” I whisper, my fingers tracing one of the little swallows.
“What?” Billy hisses, lifting up his balaclava. “Did you just say bum?”
I shake my head and say, “Let’s hurry up. We can’t stay here long because we promised Dad we’d be back for tea.” We go into the living room first and immediately Billy says Pearl has gone for good. Following his gaze, I see the ghost of a frame mark on the wall. Pearl’s self-portrait that hung above the mantelpiece has disappeared. Pearl painted it one rainy Sunday evening.
“You’re right,” I reply, staring up at the empty wall. “Pearl wouldn’t have taken that down. She loved that portrait.”
“Maybe Pearl’s moved it upstairs?”
Pearl’s self-portrait isn’t upstairs; neither is Pearl or any of her stuff. A blade of terror jabs me in the guts and then I realize it’s not a blade but Billy’s sharp elbow and he’s whinging and telling me that this is a real SNOOP mystery but he has an idea where Pearl might have gone. “She’s run away to train animals.”
“What animals?”
“Unicorns,” mumbles Billy. I stare into the slit of the balaclava in case an amoeba with one brain cell has replaced my brother. Nope, it’s still Billy.
“Since when have you ever seen a unicorn around here?” I ask Billy, my hands on my hips. Billy tells me he’s never seen one but he knows they’re all around us because he’s seen the evidence. “What evidence?”
“They poop rainbows on the roads,” offers Billy.
I think about explaining that’s just fuel spills from cars but, seriously, sometimes there is just no point in using all your energy trying to find sense where there is none. Instead I tell Billy this is all pointless and we’re going to have to think of something else. Pearl isn’t here. “Put the letter on the table downstairs,” I say. “If Pearl comes back she’ll find it and read it and contact us.” It’s all I can suggest, unless Billy has any more of his bright ideas.
Billy thinks about it for a moment. “I have a bright idea. How about if I leave the note on Pearl’s bed, then if she comes back she’ll find it, read it and contact us?”
“Okay, that’ll do. Put it there instead,” I reply, watching as Billy trots into Dad and Pearl’s bedroom with the note clenched between his teeth (which I imagine is quite tricky when you’re wearing a thick balaclava). As I wait on the landing for Billy to return, I see the pencil marks on the side of the airing cupboard door.
They’re Mum’s pencil marks. Ibiza Nana said she used to put them on the door to see how tall I’d grown. Of course, they stopped when Mum died; just another one of the things that changed. Ibiza Nana took over with the pencil for a bit. After she left, Pearl said she wasn’t going to do that because it didn’t take a pencil to tell her I was growing when it was costing them a fortune in new clothes and shoes. To hear her, you’d think I was King Kong’s bigger brother.
My fingers reach out and touch the pencil marks that Mum made.
I think of her again.
Sadness puddles in my belly, because the last time Mum used the pencil on this wall I bet I thought she’d live with me for ever.
I was wrong.
There’s a loud mumbling from Dad and Pearl’s bedroom, which translates in balaclavese to: I have left the note on the bed.
“Okay then, we’d better go now,” I yell back, touching the
pencil marks once more. I think about how Mum used to be here in this house with us. And how she’d curl up beside me in the armchair and tell me stories and I’d feel loved and safe and like I was strong enough to take on the world. Ibiza Nana said Mum was the best storyteller in the universe and how she always made sure her stories had a happy-ever-after. Thing is, Mum’s own story didn’t have a happy-ever-after and I feel a prickling in my eyes as I shout, “Hurry up, Billy, we can’t play invisible football much longer. And if Dad comes looking for us we’ll be in trouble.”
Billy mumbles something else, but this time he’s interrupted by a noise downstairs.
A key turns in the lock.
My heart is in my mouth (although technically, I know from all my medical manuals that this is not possible). I yell to Billy to get out here and he comes skidding out of the bedroom. Through the slit in the balaclava, I can see his eyes shimmering like two glitter balls at a disco.
“It’s Pearl,” mumbles Billy. “It’s going to be okay. It’s Pear…” Billy’s voice trails off into a woolly wilderness as the person in the hallway begins speaking.
It isn’t Pearl.
When we get back to the flat, and after we’ve eaten, Billy insists spies always keep notes about their investigations. I say I think that’s a great idea. Billy says he is pleased about that because he can’t write them, what with him being only seven and not so good at spelling.
So these are my notes about what happened on our first SNOOP secret mission to 22 Cavalier Approach, Honeydown Hills. I present them without comment:
SNOOP
secret mission number one
FACT NUMBER ONE: The woman’s voice we heard earlier wasn’t Pearl, as I suspected. Billy said he knew it wasn’t her all along (he made me add this bit to the notes).
The Boy Who Sailed the Ocean in an Armchair Page 2