Top-Secret Grandad and Me

by David MacPhail

  And then he took something else from his back pocket, something shiny and sharp.

  Chapter 28

  The Fringe Evasion

  “What am I going to do to you?” He waved a pair of scissors in my face. “Why, I’m going to cut your hair, of course.”

  “Eh?” I said.

  “EH?” said Grandad.

  He suddenly began brushing my hair with the comb, and trimming bits off with the scissors. Snipping swiftly and efficiently, like a good barber. He was humming and whistling while he did it. “Aside from being an agent for the G.D.F., I am also one of Lisbon’s top hairdressers,” he said. “I’m sorry, but people in this country have such bad hair. Don’t worry, I’m going to fix things for you, and then we’re going to talk.”

  I glanced round at the table. Those shiny, steely objects in the unrolled bundle were all pieces of hairdressing equipment: combs, scissors, razors, that kind of thing.

  Meanwhile, Grandad had squeezed himself through one of the doors, the one behind me. “OUCH! I hate that!”

  I wondered what he was up to. He’d have a job of running for help, as nobody else could see him but me. Then I heard a noise, a long, spine-tingling wail, which rose up from the other side of the door and echoed off the metallic roof.

  “AAAIIIIEEEE!”

  Even I had to admit, it sounded quite frightening. As for Valente, he froze. His eyes gaped at the door.

  “Excuse me one second,” he said, and stepped gingerly towards it. His hand reached up and gripped the handle, turned it. The door creaked open.

  A sudden gust of air caught the door and blew it wide. It slammed against the wall. Valente tumbled onto his back with a kind of whimper. And there was Grandad, standing at the open doorway, puffing his cheeks.

  He paused for a second and glared at me. “Run, boy!”

  I didn’t need a second invitation. I sprinted for the other door. All hope rested on being able to open it. I fiddled with the snib. For a split second I thought it was stuck. My hands were shaking, blood was rushing in my ears. Then it suddenly flicked up, and I turned the knob and flung the door open.

  A set of stone steps led downwards. I took them three at a time. At the bottom was a fire exit. I glanced over my shoulder to see Valente stagger through the doorway. Grandad was floating in front of him, blowing in his face.

  “What? STOP!” cried Valente.

  Outside was a dark alleyway. I couldn’t see an escape route on either side. The last thing I wanted to do was run down a dead end. But there was a fence. Tall, but easily climbable.

  I hauled myself over, just as Valente appeared at the fire exit behind me.

  “Come back, fella!” he yelled. “I haven’t even done your fringe yet!”

  I ran along a chain link fence, then through an opening. Suddenly my eyes were dazzled by bright light shining from above. Floodlights. They must have been movement-sensitive ones, for the tennis players, as I was standing on a tennis court. More than one tennis court in fact. There were about eight of them, stretched out ahead of me in two rows.

  I stumbled towards an opening on the other side, passing by a long covered recess that ran the length of the place. The fence behind me rattled as Valente began climbing over it. Grandad floated across the court, shouting: “Run, Jayesh! Run!”

  I tripped over something: a cable, a socket, I don’t know. I clattered to the ground, before pulling myself to my feet. Then I heard a loud PONG from near my head, somewhere in the dark and shady recess. Something round, yellow and travelling at great speed whizzed past me and landed on the other side of the court with a POCK.

  A tennis ball.

  And another PONG

  And another PONG, PONG

  POCK… POCK, POCK

  All at once balls were firing out from all over the place. A whole line of tennis-ball machines shooting away. It was like an artillery barrage. I must have set off something as I tripped.

  Keeping low, I darted across their path.

  “He’s gaining on you!” cried Grandad.

  Sure enough, Valente was racing closer. He was nimble, dodging the tennis balls like a boxer evading an opponent’s punches. And fast. Too fast for me, I could see that. I would not be able to outrun this man.

  “Ha!” he laughed, as he danced around the flying yellow balls. He looked like he was doing the tango. “This is why in my business they call me ‘The Stylist’.”

  Maybe in Lisbon, I thought, but this was Glasgow. We had ways of defeating anything that approached ‘style’. I spotted a tennis racket lying half-in, half-out of the shadows. A cheap one, and busted too, with some of its strings gone. Someone had probably just abandoned it there. It was a gift for me. I bent down and snatched it up without breaking my stride. I turned, just as another ball launched in my direction.

  PONG

  I’d never learnt tennis. Didn’t know the rules. Had no idea how to play. But being from Pollockshields I was good at hitting stuff. I leapt into the air. The whole world spun into slow motion as I swung the racket, smashed it hard against the ball, and aimed it square at Valente’s face.

  He didn’t even see it coming. He was too busy shimmying around like he was on a dance floor. It whacked him straight between the eyes.

  POCK

  His head bounced back and he tripped, tumbling into a very unstylish heap.

  Grandad laughed: “That is game, set and match to you, boy!”

  It was all I needed to escape. I made for the open gate. Once through it, there were two ways I could go. One way led up to a portacabin, which served as the tennis club. The other way led across a grass pitch ringed by thick bushes and trees, and more darkness. Darkness I promptly disappeared into.

  Chapter 29

  The Bum Confrontation

  Home again, and if I was expecting Mum to be waiting for me at the door, brow creased, arms folded and angrily tapping her feet, I’d have been very wrong. She hadn’t even noticed I was gone.

  In fact, the meeting of her ‘Earth Healing’ group was just reaching its final, horrific conclusion. As I walke d into the hall a semi-circle of legging-clad bums confronted me, all slowly lifting up and down. Serene music was playing, and a man’s voice, airy and calm, was calling out, probably from one of the bums, but from which one I couldn’t tell:

  “Imagine yourself floating above the Earth, high up in the atmosphere, being buffeted by gentle breezes.”

  Grandad chortled, pointing at one of the bums. “You would get more than buffeted by wind coming out of that.”

  “JAY!” cried Mum’s voice. Her face, upside down, peered out from between two lemon-coloured thighs. “You must try this some time, it’s exhilarating.”

  “It looks it, Mum,” I replied. “But no thanks, I’ve got homework.” That wasn’t even half true. I’d rather do someone else’s homework than stick my bum in the air and be buffeted.

  As for Granny, she was still painting. Actually, she was painting around them, and I mean literally. Her arm was poking out from beneath someone’s bum cheeks. Her hand, spotted with white and clutching a paintbrush, was carefully daubing the skirting boards.

  “Oh, have you had your hair done?” said Mum. “It’s nice.”

  Grandad guffawed and pointed to my forehead. I took a glance at myself in the hall mirror. I looked ridiculous. Valente had trimmed half my head, which left the other half untrimmed. He’d also combed down my hair in preparation to cut my fringe, but hadn’t got around to it before I escaped. I tried to brush the fringe back up, but it just made me look worse. Like I’d been attacked by a crazed pair of garden shears.

  “Ooooh, haven’t you grown, Jay,” said one of the bums. Again, not sure which.

  “You’re turning into a handsome young man,” said another.

  “Well, you are looking at him the wrong way up,” said Grandad.

  I smiled and nodded, then pushed my way through. As I closed my bedroom door behind me the bums were still talking to each other. In fact, one of them
seemed to turn to the other as they talked. “What a shame for the boy… Must be hard for him without his dad.”

  I was too tired, at that point, to even think about Dad. It had been a long and exhausting day, complete with several dressings down from the police, dead bodies, kidnappings, getting drugged, and having my hair assaulted by a Portuguese special agent.

  I kept thinking of that diamond necklace, those tiny little studs linking up together in a chain. Africa, the laundry, and the worst printers in the world. The pieces were coming together, but I’d have to prove it for anybody to listen.

  And prove it I would, for in the dying embers of my mind that night, something was forming…

  A plan.

  Chapter 30

  The Lunchtime Plan

  “What are we going to do?” Grandad kept asking after I got up the next morning.

  I could’ve explained, but where was the fun in that? I didn’t have many pleasures these days, but one of them was seeing the growing look of confusion on Grandad’s face.

  “You’ll see,” I said.

  “See what?” he asked, shaking his hands at me. “You need to work on your communication, boy.”

  I reckoned I’d string Grandad along for a while yet. “You’ll find out soon.”

  Mum was working in the library all day so she gave us a lift to school. We left Granny behind, assaulting a flat-pack cabinet with her screwdriver.

  All eyes turned to me as I entered the classroom. “Look, Jay’s back!” My classmates clamoured to find out why the police had wanted to interview me the day before, and where I’d been the following afternoon.

  “You should be arrested for your bad hairdo,” joked Anton.

  Pyotr burst out laughing.

  Mwahahahaha teeheehee!!!

  But only because a bear got stuck up a tree in the video he was watching on his tablet under the desk.

  “Don’t you listen to them, boy,” said Grandad. “Yes, you do have bad hair, but tomorrow you can get it cut, and he,” he pointed at Anton. “He will always be ugly.”

  Grandad bent over, gritted his teeth and began trying to lift Anton’s pencil case into the air. To my surprise, it did budge slightly, before dropping back down. “Ha! I did it again!”

  Anton looked around, slightly scared. “What! What was that?”

  Freaking out my mortal enemy, Anton, was about as useful as Grandad got that morning. The rest of it he spent interrupting my learning. The worst part was when we went to the gym for a P.E. lesson. He kept marching up and down beside me while I was doing warm-ups, shouting, “Left, right, left, right, left, right!”

  It was lunchtime before I was able to put my plan into gear properly.

  “Follow me,” I said, leading him towards the library, which was next door to the school office.

  Just outside the library door, I heard a squeak and saw the door of the office opening. Two people stepped out. I heard the voices of Mr Kessock and Mrs Cravat. I ducked back round the corner. Since my mum worked in the library I could always explain why I was there, but still, I’d rather they didn’t see me here.

  Mr Kessock was flapping, as usual. “All these visits from the police, what’s going on? I mean, how am I supposed to win Head Teacher of the Year with all this investigating going on? It is ruining my reputation!”

  Mrs Cravat seemed to take in a sharp breath, as if this was the umpteenth time today she’d had to hear this. Then she collected herself, and replied calmly. “I am sure the police have finished their investigations, and you have nothing to worry about.”

  “You really think so?” whined Mr Kessock.

  “It’s OK,” said Grandad. “They’re heading in the other direction.”

  I poked my head out. They were carrying their lunchboxes, pushing through the double doors at the other end of the corridor and heading for the staff room. That was good. That was exactly what I was banking on.

  I found Mum in the library, leaning over Mrs McCleary, who was lying on her front across one of the big tables. Mum’s stance reminded me of when she performed as an assistant in Dad’s magician’s act. She was waving her hands about in the space above Mrs McCleary’s ample rear end.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “Fixing Mrs McCleary’s sciatica,” Mum replied.

  “By wiggling your hands over her bum?”

  “Oh dearie,” Mum replied, shaking her head at me as if I was simple, “I’m using my positive mental energy to heal her lower back.”

  Grandad chortled and leaned over to whisper in Mrs McCleary’s ear, “I hope your bum gets better soon, Madam.”

  Mrs McCleary snored loudly in response, her head lolling to one side. “Ha! She’s asleep,” said Grandad. That was good too. Another potential witness out of the way.

  “Now be quiet. I have to concentrate,” said Mum, and she went back to jiggling her hands above Mrs McCleary’s bottom.

  Perfect, I thought. When Mum was doing anything like this she fell into what she called a ‘state of meditation’. Sometimes the pupils in her eyes would roll up and her tongue would stick out, which was pretty weird. Whether it was a load of old rubbish or not is beside the point. It meant she was totally wrapped up in what she was doing and didn’t notice as I slipped my hand into her bag and nicked her set of keys.

  A large bookcase screened the connecting door to the office from Mum and her boss. I whispered to Grandad, “Nip into the office and check if the coast is clear.”

  He nodded, and took a deep breath, before pushing through the door, groaning. “Uurgh! I HATE that!”

  He was gone for what seemed like ages. I grunted and stared at my watch. Where was he, and what did he think he was doing? I only had a short space of time, maybe fifteen minutes, to put my plan into operation. I was almost at the end of my patience when he poked his head back through the door, smiling.

  “Sorry, but those Mumbari lads can really talk. You know, they are not too bad once you get past the poppy-out eyeballs and the missing limbs.”

  “Look, is the coast clear or not?”

  “Oh, yeah, sorry, I should have told you before – there is no one in the office. No one alive, anyway.”

  “Yeesh!” I discreetly unlocked the connecting door to the office and slipped through.

  Chapter 31

  The Spaghetti Map

  “Are you sure you know what you are doing?” Grandad said as he watched me lift the African tribal mask off the wall.

  I shrugged. “Don’t worry.” Although I had to admit I wasn’t sure. How could you ever be sure? There were so many ifs and buts. Even the great detectives, in the middle of their summing up, with all the suspects sat around them, were never a hundred percent sure. Sometimes all you had to go on were hunches and probables. This was probably even more than probable. This was a ‘likely’. “I know it was stolen. That’s why the Mumbari are so unhappy.”

  “Of course it was stolen,” said Grandad, shifting about like he was being jostled on a football pitch. “These guys are the ancestors of the tribe. They want to know what your game is.”

  “They need to trust me,” I said. “Tell them, I’ll make sure the mask is sent back to Africa once this is done.”

  “You bet it will!” chimed in Grandad. “And it is the only thing stopping them from lynching me right now.”

  I settled the mask on the floor and flipped it round so I was staring at the back. A wide, curved rim circled the edge. I ran my fingers along the inside, and stopped.

  “A-ha!” I shot Grandad a meaningful look, which was completely wasted as he just stared back at me, confused. I delved further underneath the rim, then, as my fingers gripped on something soft but bumpy, I pulled. A tearing of tape, and I ripped something free – a long, thin white bag, with the duct tape still attached to it.

  “A-haaaa!” I stared at it, turned it over, and yanked off the rest of the tape. I undid the top of the bag and tapped it gently.

  A trio of sparkling clear stones dropped on
to my palm.

  Diamonds.

  Rough, uncut diamonds.

  For a moment, I could barely speak. Neither could Grandad. He blinked, showing me, for a moment, a whole host of faces, the ghoulish faces of the Mumbari, staring down at my hand. Everyone was entranced by the glistening rocks sitting in my palm.

  Grandad blinked them away again, then whistled. “Jackpot.” I carefully tipped the diamonds back into the bag. “What now then, genius?” he asked.

  “Can you ask the Mumbari about that?” I pointed to the empty rack underneath where the mask hung on the wall. “Was that for some kind of ceremonial stave?”

  “A what?” he asked.

  “It’s like a big, carved wooden stick.”

  “Yes,” said Grandad. “They are all nodding yes. In fact, one of them has nodded so much the top of his head has fallen off. It is pretty gross.”

  “A-haaaaa!” I said.

  “A-haaaaa what?” said Grandad.

  “That’s the murder weapon. Well, for Morrison, that is. That’s what the murderer used. We need to find that stave.”

  Something else occurred to me. I turned to the computer on the desk, which was unlocked, while Grandad spoke to the deceased tribesmen. I opened the web browser and looked up the website for Big A Printers.

  Something I saw on there before had been playing on my mind. An out-of-hours number was listed, for ‘VIP customers only’: 0141 5550212. 212!

  I then checked the website for Companies House, an organisation that holds lots of information on businesses, and, more importantly, who runs them. I wanted to find out who ran Big A Printers – the name of the person in charge.