Sally’s heart bumped harder. Her stomach detached itself and whisked off into some void or other. Her hand was still clutching Imogen’s oboe case. She had almost forgotten it was there.
(‘Guilty,’ it said to her.)
‘What’s he doing?’ she asked nervously.
‘Having a lurk, I guess.’
‘He’ll be looking for someone with an oboe case.’
Charlie’s eye fell on it. ‘Ah. And what happens if he finds them?’
Sally shrugged miserably. ‘The world will end.’
‘We have to lie low for a bit,’ said Charlie, reverting to film script.
All right, thought Sally bitterly. I’m guilty. And the guys I thought were cool aren’t cool. There was something mean about the way they chased us . . .
And in just a few minutes I’m going to have to walk out and let Mr Singh see me with the oboe and put the cuffs on me. Because Imogen’s got to have it back. And then I’ll have to lie and take the blame, or tell the truth and get a whole lot of others into trouble. Either way, it’s going to be pretty world-ending stuff.
Where’s a meteorite when you really want one?
Charlie said, ‘Uh-oh.’
Zac and Tony had appeared around the corner of the school.
‘Keep down,’ said Charlie. ‘Maybe they’ll miss us.’
Again this was film talk. It really didn’t matter whether they lay down or stood on tip-toe. The sheds hid them no matter what. So long as no one came round the corner and found them there.
Except that they also needed to see. If they could see, they would know whether to stay put or retreat around the other side of the bike sheds when the sixth-formers came looking. So Sally crammed herself right up close to the corner, made herself as small as possible and peeped with just three quarters of an eye round it so that she could—
She jerked back in alarm. ‘They’re heading this way,’ she hissed.
‘They don’t know we’re here!’
Another look. Tony was still coming straight towards them. Zac was angling towards the far corner of the sheds, as if to cut off their retreat. The boys approached slowly, menacingly, like wolves who expected their prey to break into a last, hopeless flight.
‘They know.’
They must have seen them from an upstairs window. Something like that. Or someone had told them . . .
‘They can’t do anything with old Singh out there.’
‘They can if we stay put,’ said Sally. She hefted the oboe. ‘And if we run, and Mr Singh sees me with this . . .’
If she was caught with the oboe it would be Sally in the dock, no mercy, no appeal. Plus Charlie had spread live frog all over the games corridor. Janitors would be screaming. Deputy Heads would have fits. Right now.
And it was her fault. Partly it was anyway.
Guilty, again.
‘We’ll fight to the last man!’ said Charlie.
‘Good plan – then what?’
‘Then we escape and become mercenaries!’
‘Charlie, for crying out loud . . .!’
‘OK, better plan. Give me that thing.’
His hand was out for the oboe. A strange light had crept into his eyes.
‘But . . . it’s got to go back to Imogen!’
‘Sure. Now give. And stay down.’ He took it from her. Before she had time to think, he trotted swiftly around the near end of the bike sheds.
Stay down? She couldn’t! He’d gone out there like a robin that thought it could fight crows. Maybe he thought the oboe case really did hold a bomb and he was going to try to use it. Some disaster was only seconds away!
She peered once more round the corner. She saw Charlie start to run. Gathering speed, he burst into the open just as Tony was covering the last metres towards the bike shed. At once he swerved and, uttering a high-pitched yell (with added Doppler effect) he tore past the oncoming sixth-former and charged across the playground towards the school buildings.
‘Hey!’ yelled Tony, and gave chase.
‘Hey!’ bellowed Zac, doing ditto.
‘EEEE-EEEE-EEEE-EEEE-EEEE-EEEE-EEEEE!’ went Charlie, his cry following him like the jet-trail of a ground attack aircraft.
Mr Singh leaned from his window. He saw the hunters. He saw their quarry.
He saw what the quarry was carrying.
‘CHARLES BLATCHLEY!’ he roared.
Most pupils at Darlington High, addressed by such authority, could be relied on to come dutifully, if guiltily, to heel. Charlie, moving at speed with his mind full of jet fighters and mercenaries, could be relied on with 100% certainty to accelerate. Sally knew this.
So when she saw him skitter to a sheepish halt under Mr Singh’s window, she saw that he had meant to get caught.
Zac and Tony closed in on him from behind, warily. They weren’t exactly sure what was going to happen next. The one thing they were sure of was that the troublesome Year Nine was never going to become a Year Ten. Not if they could possibly help it.
‘What have you got in that case?’ rumbled Mr Singh.
Charlie ham-acted trying to hide it behind his back.
‘What is in the case, Zac?’
Alec took the case. He opened it. ‘An oboe,’ he said, ‘with . . .’
A brightly-coloured bit of card fell spiralling to the playground tarmac. Tony put his foot on it. He picked it up. He read it.
‘Oh my God,’ he said. And, grinning, he showed it to Zac.
‘“I love you”!’ cried Zac. ‘Whoa, Romeo!’
Oh, Charlie, thought Sally. I’m so sorry! Not only have I sent you for execution. I’ve also sold you to every gossip corner in the school. They’ll never let you hear the last of this.
Across the courtyard she saw Charlie stiffen. From forty metres away Sally could not actually tell if his face was changing colour. She just knew it would be. He had been ready for interrogation, torture, solitary confinement. He hadn’t reckoned on being caught with a pink heart that said I Love You.
But he was made of stern stuff, Charlie B. His round form hid the steel of heroes. He squared his shoulders. His chin tilted mulishly. Maybe he hadn’t realized how bad the world could be to him. But he was going to take it. He would carry on taking it until the world ran out of ideas.
‘You are in deep trouble, Charlie,’ said Mr Singh. ‘Serious trouble. Tony, bring him up to my office. Zac, take that instrument to Miss Ogle in form 9c. It belongs to Imogen Grey and must be returned to her straight away. Do it now, please.’
‘He took frogs from the biology tanks,’ said Tony. ‘And tried to feed them to us.’
‘Serious trouble,’ repeated Mr Singh after a pause, as if he was lost for words other than ones he had already used. ‘Come now, please.’
He closed the window. Silently, the two sixth-formers marched Charlie towards the school entrance. As they entered the porch Tony dropped back a pace and kicked him in the leg, hard. Charlie stumbled. He kept on walking. The school doors closed behind them.
The car park was empty.
It wasn’t quite empty, really, because Sally was in it. She was standing in the open about five metres from the sheds. She had been drawn that far out of hiding by the scene beneath the school windows. No one had looked her way. No one had seemed to think that it was worth looking for anyone else. They had caught Charlie. He was enough of an explanation for everything.
He was going to get it. He was really going to get it. If it had been just the oboe, that bit of paper might have got him off the worst of it (though he would hate being caught with what she had written). But the stunt with the frogs as well . . . The school was not going to see the funny side of this. And Charlie already had a number of previous convictions. This wasn’t going to be just another detention. This was going to mean parents getting called, suspension maybe. It was going to be heavy, heavy stuff.
He had got himself caught deliberately.
He had been caught, anyway. With the sixth-formers closing on their hideout and
the Head of Year at his window, they had been doomed. He had seen that. What he had done was get her out of it. He had taken it all on himself.
Why? If you were going to get caught, wasn’t it better to get caught with someone, so they could share the blame? But Charlie hadn’t thought like that. He had taken it all – kicks, frogs and even the oboe (which was nothing to do with him). That wasn’t just cool. That was . . .
Somewhere a bell rang for the end of break. Instinctively her body responded. Her feet carried her towards the school entrance. Her mind was turned inwards, on the memory of Charlie. She saw him ahead of her, scurrying towards these same buildings. The buildings towered over him like the walls of a huge city. The windows looked down upon him, blank-eyed, as if they thought that he didn’t belong. As if he were a creature from some other place, disguised, who should be expelled as soon as his true nature became clear.
He had seemed so small.
He had done it for her.
And . . .
‘Look out!’ shrieked Muddlespot, far too late.
A sudden image filled her mind, as if she had turned a corner and found something large and round and heavy and gold coming at her very very fast . . .
You would have thought . . .
(thought the Inner Sally, with a sense of flying through space)
(Upmh! as she came to the ground and saw stars)
. . . I might have known it was there?
‘There’s going to be an investigation,’ said Windleberry.
A sort of calm had returned to Sally’s mind. The golden hunt had vanished. The corridors and hallways were straightening themselves out again, with a trembly uncertainty as if they weren’t sure they would be staying that way. Colours still flushed along the crystal walls, but more weakly now. In the war rooms thoughts regrouped, checked over the register, found out who was still missing and which cupboard they were hiding in. Sally and Muddlespot peeped nervously into the central chamber but Windleberry was alone. Even the black oboe case had gone.
‘An investigation?’ said Sally, a little shakily. ‘What does that mean?’
‘Things have been happening that should not have happened,’ said Windleberry. ‘A team of angels will be coming down to find out why. In fact, they’re already on their way.’
Sally hesitated. Then she shrugged. ‘Fine by me,’ she said. ‘But I’m not answering any questions I don’t want to.’
‘And I get immunity,’ said Muddlespot firmly.
Windleberry frowned. ‘If that’s what Sally wants.’
‘It is,’ said Sally.
‘Where did they go?’ said Windleberry.
‘Who?’ said Sally.
‘I think he means the little fat guys,’ said Muddlespot. ‘You know, the ones with the bows and arrows and harps and the, er, wrecking balls and things . . .’
‘Oh, them.’ Sally paused. ‘I guess they ran out of ammunition.’
‘By the way,’ said Billie, ‘I’ve dumped Tony.’
‘Hmm?’ said Sally.
‘I said I’ve dumped Tony,’ said Billie, pouting. ‘Told him so. Found someone better.’
They were on their way out of the school gates with the main flood of Darlington High pupils. Sally was moving slowly. She was checking the crowds for Charlie B, but he wasn’t there. Probably he was in Mr Singh’s office getting things said to him. Possibly he was already on his way to see the Head.
She did see Imogen, hurrying after Cassie and Tara who were talking in high fits of giggles that left them dangerously short of breath. Imogen had her oboe case and was looking horrified and embarrassed. So probably someone had told them about the pink heart and who had been carrying it. And Cassie and Tara thought this was hysterically funny, and Imogen did not think it was funny at all. Whatever she was playing for her exam this evening was going to sound a lot like The Ride of the Valkyries.
Poor Charlie!
Viola passed, towing Alec by the hand. Alec was looking dazed (and was going to be in big trouble with the Year Twelve girls tomorrow). Viola was grinning from ear to ear. She too was going to be hearing from the Year Twelve girls about this, but she didn’t care. She even said ‘Hi’ to the twins as she passed.
Sally counted four, five, six other couples all hand in hand. Mr Kingsley and Miss Tackle were getting into Miss Tackle’s car. Somewhere some bird was singing its head off.
Birdsong. The war was over. At least until the Year Twelves got going. Everyone was smiles. The teachers had their victim. And who had taken the fall?
He had.
‘Aren’t you even interested?’ said Billie.
‘Mm? Oh, yes. Who?’
Billie’s eye gleamed in triumph. ‘Wouldn’t you like to know . . .’
Not really, thought Sally. The way you’re going, you’ll be on number three by the end of the week. Or five.
‘Tall and handsome?’ she sighed.
‘Yes to both. Going to guess?’
Sally was looking around again.
‘You all right, Sally?’
‘Hmm? Oh, I’m fine.’
There was still no sign of him.
The CIA (Celestial Inspections Angel) was huge. He was also humourless. High on the crest of his flaming hair he wore a peaked cap. He took notes by burning the letters into a small tablet of stone with his fingernail.
‘. . . deny that I entered the City illegally,’ he intoned. ‘I deny attempting to obtain controlled store items under false pretences. I deny assaulting a citizen of the City. I deny the charge of theft. I deny the charge of—’
‘Ahem,’ said Muddlespot. ‘You don’t get to charge me with anything.’
‘That’s right,’ said Sally, standing by with her arms folded.
‘So mind your manners or I’ll bite your kneecaps,’ snarled Muddlespot.
The angel looked down. Muddlespot did, indeed, come up to his kneecaps.
‘. . . state that I did not impersonate a duly-summoned witness to the Appeals Board . . .’ said the angel, ponderously burning out his letters with his fingernail. ‘Accordingly I state that the facts contained in the full confession filed by the Guardian Windleberry are false . . .’
‘Ahem,’ said Muddlespot. ‘I think you’ll find that what my, er, my colleague over there has filed is not a “confession” but a complaint against another one of your departments . . .’
‘That is correct,’ said Windleberry.
‘Which will be duly investigated,’ said the CIA woodenly.
‘I have also said that whatever the results of her examination, I believe Sally now has grounds for Appeal,’ said Windleberry.
‘Oh,’ said the CIA.
‘Which will be of interest to my Authorities in due course,’ said Muddlespot smoothly. ‘In the meantime I am merely, as a professional, responding to your enquiries to the fullest of my professional ability.’
‘You mean you’re lying with every word,’ said the angel.
‘Now now,’ said Muddlespot.
In the doorway two other angels, clad in white suits, were comparing notes.
‘. . . one hundred and twenty golden arrows and other missiles signed out from stores,’ one was saying. ‘Fifty-six returned. That makes sixty-four fired on the mission . . .’
‘. . . and we have thirty-three impact sites within the brain. Fifteen external, plus eleven collateral hits – ten humans and one sparrow. Total fifty-nine. Five still unaccounted for . . .’ He looked at Sally, Muddlespot and Windleberry. ‘Nobody stopped an arrow without noticing it?’
The three looked at each other. Beyond them the corridors of Sally’s mind echoed with murmurs. Teams of angels were carefully picking over debris, interviewing thoughts, examining little chips and marks in the walls. ‘. . . fired from the steps up there. Impact here, ricocheting . . . temporary impairment to the mathematical functions. May not be too serious . . .’
‘Arrows?’ said Muddlespot. ‘Er no, no arrows. Not this time, anyway.’
‘I didn’t stop any
thing,’ said Sally with perfect truth.
‘Get the stores totals checked,’ sighed a CIA. ‘It’d be just like the cupids to be sloppy with their paperwork.’
‘Have to interview each of the collaterals as well. Statements from every one. And see if there are any others we’ve missed. Anybody want to try the sparrow?’
‘Oh please, not me!’
‘Sally?’ said Windleberry.
‘Hmm?’
‘Is there something you haven’t told me?’
‘I’m totally fine.’
‘You know what?’ said a CIA. ‘The Appeals Board will be going to town on this. They’ll abso-lutely go to town.’
Sally’s mobile beeped. It was a reply from Greg.
‘Well done, Greg,’ Sally murmured. ‘You’ll live to fight another day.’
‘Wossat?’ said Billie.
Sally stopped on the pavement.
His bus went at quarter to, she thought. From the shelter just opposite the newsagent. If he had been kept back to see the Head, he’d have missed it. He’d be waiting there now.
And if he wasn’t there, maybe he’d be in afterschool detention. In which case he’d still be at the bus stop at about quarter to five.
‘You go on,’ she said. ‘I’ll be home later.’
‘What’s the matter?’
‘I’ve – left something behind.’
She turned and started the short walk back towards Darlington High.
It was strange, she thought, how quickly the streets had emptied.
‘Charlie B?’ said the Angel of Love.
(That’s ‘said’ as in ‘about six octaves above normal pitch’.)
The wrecking-ball cupid, who was still wearing his hard yellow hat because it was nice to get a chance to wear anything in his line of work, shuffled his feet on the Floor of Willing Sacrifice. He muttered something.
‘Charlie Beee???’ repeated the Angel of Love. ‘We mobilized the whole Department, we descended unto Earth with fate and music and passion and what we gave her was CHARLIE BEEEEEEE??????’
‘You just said to get ‘em, Erry,’ muttered the cupid.
The Angel of Love leaned forward. She rested her elbows on her desk (which was, of course, still beating). ‘Are there no professional standards in my Department?’ she said, in a dangerous, cold voice.
Attack of the Cupids Page 16