by Greg James
It is indeed a wonderful moment. That first half opening of an eye, and then the realisation that the beep of your alarm is still aeons away. You can go back to sleep – delicious, extra, bonus sleep. A flip of the pillow to get the cool side, a stretch of a foot out from under the duvet to test the air and you’re ready to turn over for a really top-notch spell of snoozage.
Murph had just found a massively comfortable position and was about to drift back to sleep like a warm dormouse that has invested its savings from the Dormouse Bank in a really high-quality mattress, when there was the thump of wellington boots landing on his wooden balcony outside. Then came the tap of a metal umbrella tip on his window.
For a while he tried to pretend it wasn’t happening. He was too warm and comfortable to do adventuring right now.
But adventures don’t wait for you to have a nice lie-in. They have notoriously inconvenient timetables. The tapping continued.
Murph sighed, sat up and ruffled his hair with a sleepy hand. He knew without turning his head that Mary was on his balcony, hopping about excitedly and mouthing something.
He turned his head.
Mary was out on the balcony, dressed in her yellow raincoat and her most ‘open the window RIGHT NOW’ expression. She was hopping excitedly from boot to boot and mouthing something.
‘I can’t hear you,’ said Murph quietly. ‘Hang on.’ He shuffled across the room in his pyjamas and opened the large window that led out on to the wooden platform.
‘I said – open the window RIGHT NOW!’ hissed Mary as she stepped through. ‘We haven’t got any time to lose. I’ve solved the poem.’
‘What? Really! Mary, you are the actual, literal best!’ Murph was suddenly wide awake. Unfortunately his hair hadn’t got the memo and was still sticking up in ‘too early in the morning’ mode. ‘What’s the message, then? What does it all mean? Was it in the words or the numbers?’
‘It was both. Look.’
Mary dug in her pocket and pulled out her copy of the poem. Murph could see that she’d circled certain letters.
‘It’s a code. So, in the first line we have “One for … a stranger”. So “one” means that we need to take the first letter of the words “a stranger”.’
She had drawn a ring around the letter ‘A’ in red pen.
‘OK, so then, second line,’ Murph tried. ‘“Two, an old thief”. Two means we take the second letter of “an old thief”. That’s … N.’
‘Right,’ confirmed Mary.
Murph worked his way down the circled letters in the first verse. ‘A, N, G, E … is it a name? Angela?’
‘Keep going,’ Mary told him, looking serious and even, now Murph glanced at her again, a little frightened.
He carried on: ‘Right, second verse. L … so it could be Angela. No, wait, it’s I next. Angeli? Is that, like, more than one Angela?’
‘Stop saying Angela,’ a frustrated Mary told him. ‘This is nothing to do with Angela, or the plural of Angela.’
‘Sorry,’ said Murph. ‘Right then, carrying on … S, A. Angelisa. Then it’s L, I, V … E. Live. No, wait, alive.’
Mary waited almost patiently for his brain to catch up.
‘Someone is alive … Angel! Angel is alive?’
‘ANGEL IS ALIVE. That’s what the message says,’ Mary confirmed intently. ‘That’s what made Flora and Carl disappear.’
The paper with its circled code was trembling slightly in Mary’s hand. Murph looked at his friend open-mouthed as a question formed in his mind.
‘Who’s Angel?’
‘That, Kid Normal, is very much the question of the day,’ nodded Mary. ‘We need to find out the answer, and fast. It’s the only way we’ll know where Flora and Carl have gone.’
16
Unrehearsed Bassoon Recital Emergency
Murph pelted down the stairs like a rhino late for a ‘who’s got the gnarliest horn’ competition.
‘See you later,’ he shouted to his mum, and was halfway down the front path before the words had made it as far as her ears. He skidded round the corner in what would have been a handbrake turn if boys had handbrakes, and sprinted off down the street.
‘You go and get Hilda, I’ll grab Nellie and Billy,’ Mary had told him before taking off and flying away, backwards and rather stylishly, over the roof of his house. ‘We’ll get to school before anyone else and find out anything we can about who Angel might be. Even if it means breaking into Mr Souperman’s study.’
Murph covered the distance to Hilda’s house in about the time it took you to read that last paragraph, which is convenient as we wouldn’t want to have to pause the story and wait for you to catch up.
We say ‘Hilda’s house’, but it was more like a small mansion really. It stood at the end of a long, curving gravel drive, where about a thousand windows reflected back a mirror image of the lush conker trees that lined the front lawns. Murph had walked home with Hilda a few times, and he always expected to see a butler or footman polishing the shiny Rolls-Royce that was usually parked outside.
Murph crunched his way towards the front door, tugged hard on the old-fashioned bell pull, and after a moment the door swung open to reveal a rather plump man wearing black trousers and an extremely smart-looking waistcoat.
‘Hello,’ smiled the man. ‘Who do we have here?’
Murph hesitated. Was this Hilda’s dad, or an actual real-life butler? Until he’d seen Hilda’s house he’d always thought butlers only existed on the sort of TV programmes his mum made him watch with her on Sunday nights, but anything was possible where Hilda was concerned.
‘I’m Murph, Mr … um … sir,’ he replied cautiously.
The man broke into an even wider smile. ‘Ah, the prodigy! The young maestro! Come in, come in.’
He ushered Murph through into the hall, which was hung with paintings and a brass barometer.
‘She’s upstairs,’ continued Hilda’s dad, or possibly Hilda’s butler. ‘Why don’t you head on up?’ Then he trotted towards the back of the house and said, ‘It’s a great pleasure to finally meet you,’ before vanishing behind an enormous potted palm.
Murph climbed the stairs. They were huge and made of dark wood, which meant they were exactly the sort of stairs a detective might clomp down when he was about the solve the murder of a young heiress in a Sunday night TV programme. Murph wasn’t exactly sure what an heiress was, but he did know that their life expectancy on Sunday TV wasn’t great. He shook his head, suddenly remembering that he had bigger things to worry about, and stared down the large landing.
It was a fairly safe bet which room was Hilda’s, because the door was decorated with glittery stickers of horses. Murph knocked softly and pushed the door open.
Hilda was sitting at a desk over near one of the large windows. She had her back to him, and was so busy writing or drawing something that she hadn’t heard him come in. Murph headed towards her, stepping over a large stuffed toy horse, a riding helmet and other equine-based items as he did. Now he was closer he could see what Hilda was working on.
It was a comic strip, entitled EQUANA: MISTRESS OF HORSE! The title frame showed a muscled heroine with flaming red hair ordering two massive stallions into battle. It was, Murph admitted to himself, pretty awesome, and he was silently admiring the artwork when Hilda spotted his reflection in the window and turned around with a shriek.
‘Gah! What are you creeping up on me for?’ she scolded him, grabbing some blank pieces of paper and covering up her work.
‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to creep. But your … dad? … said I should come upstairs and find you.’
‘Oh, right,’ replied Hilda, mollified. Then she reddened. ‘Did you see what I was drawing?’
‘Um, well, yeah. It’s really good!’ enthused Murph. ‘Like, amazing. Can I have a proper look?’
‘Not until it’s finished,’ said Hilda primly, although she looked like she was secretly rather pleased at Murph’s praise. ‘Anyway, why are you here so early?’<
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Murph suddenly remembered that he was on an emergency Hero-type mission, and not just popping in to admire Hilda’s drawings.
‘Mary solved the code,’ he told her seriously.
Hilda took one look at his solemn face and nodded. ‘Then what are we waiting for?’ She carefully replaced the lids on her felt tips and followed him to the door.
‘By the way,’ said Murph casually as they went down the stairs, ‘your … dad? He called me maestro or something. What’s all that about?’
‘Urm, I’ve been meaning to tell you abou–’ began Hilda, before being interrupted by a cry of ‘Ah, here he comes now. The young woodwind genius!’
The plump, smart, friendly man was at the foot of the stairs, and he had now been joined by an equally plump, smart, friendly lady.
‘Hi, Mum; hi, Dad,’ piped up Hilda, solving Murph’s whole butler conundrum in an instant. ‘Murph and I have to head to school early this morning, is that OK?’
‘Yes, yes, of course,’ smiled her dad. ‘But we can’t meet the great Murph without him giving us a quick sample of his talent, now, can we? You must allow us five minutes, Master Cooper – and then we’ll save you some time by driving you to school in the Rolls. You’ll still get there nice and early. Come, come!’ And he beckoned them to follow him into a nearby room.
‘So … you know we’ve been out, erm, Hero-ing quite a few evenings this summer?’ whispered Hilda. ‘Well, I had to tell my parents something to explain why I was never in, and …’
Murph had one of those impending doom sensations, where the back of your hair goes all cold. ‘What have you told them?’ he muttered grimly.
‘I said that I’ve been going round your house, because …’ She chewed her lip nervously.
‘Yes?’
‘… because you’ve been helping me with my bassoon practice. Mum and Dad think you’re, like, one of the country’s best young bassoonists.’
The realisation of what was about to happen hit Murph like a medium-sized whale. ‘So are you telling me,’ he hissed through clenched teeth, ‘that in about five seconds’ time I will walk through that door and your parents are going to make me play the …’
The five seconds were up. Murph stepped through the door.
‘… bassoon,’ he finished weakly, seeing a large, polished-wood instrument propped up by the fireplace waiting for him.
‘It really is so nice to meet you at last, Murph,’ sighed Hilda’s mum delightedly. ‘Hilda’s told us so much about your extraordinary talent! We are a family of bassoon lovers, you know, and it’s so rare to find a fellow appreciator.’ Murph tried to smile but it just looked like he was choking on lemons.
‘Now we don’t mean to pressure you,’ Hilda’s dad said reassuringly as he sat down on the ornate sofa. ‘Any piece of music you want to play will be a delight. But don’t hold back! Hilda tells me your Dvorák is world-class.’
Murph had no idea what Hilda’s dad was talking about. This was even worse than the time in his first year when Mr Flash had tried to get him to fly in front of the entire class. At least back then he’d been able to confront his fears and tell the uncomfortable truth. This time he had to keep his mouth shut or he’d risk exposing their whole secret life as Heroes.
There’s nothing in the Heroes’ Vow that covers this, thought Murph mournfully as he grasped the gleaming bassoon with both hands and held it uncertainly upright in front of him.
In case you’re not familiar with the bassoon – and after all, why would you be – it is a long, upright wooden tube with a lot of pipes and buttons around the outside. The one Murph had been presented with was a highly polished specimen that looked as if it cost a lot of money. Sticking out at around head height was a thin, gleaming metal tube that snaked towards his mouth. It was tipped with a thin brown reed that, Murph guessed, he was supposed to blow into.
He glanced over at Hilda, who had taken a seat in a chair to one side of her parents. She nodded to encourage him, then licked her lips exaggeratedly. Murph tried to do the same, but nervousness had sucked every millilitre of water from his mouth. He sandpapered his lips with a catlike tongue and gripped the reed between his teeth.
‘This will be a real treat,’ smiled Hilda’s mum.
Now, playing any woodwind instrument for the first time is tricky. You’ve got to know what you’re doing to make any kind of noise at all. And this is doubly true of the bassoon, which is the wild stallion of the orchestra.
So let’s give Murph his due. The fact that he managed to make a sound at all is really very impressive; it just happened to be very different to what his audience had been expecting. They were expecting the sweet, mellow tones of an expertly blown bassoon. What they got was the noise of a cross donkey with a sore bottom reversing into a huge clump of thistles.
The kind smiles froze on Hilda’s parents’ faces. (Both the apostrophes in that last sentence are in the correct position, we checked.)
‘Sorry, bit nervous,’ said Murph through his mouthful of bassoon.
‘Yes, of course,’ soothed Hilda’s dad, settling himself back into the hugely expensive sofa in anticipation of some less donkey-like sounds.
Murph steeled himself to have another go. We have no idea why. The chances of him spontaneously working out how to play actual classical music with absolutely no training were embarrassingly slim. But luckily, he was about to be reminded of one of the great advantages of being part of a team of crime-fighting superheroes. Someone’s always got your back.
The doorbell rang.
Hilda’s dad hauled himself out of the sofa to answer it, and after a moment Murph heard a familiar voice from the hall. ‘I’m terribly sorry to disturb you, but I think someone’s blown up your Rolls-Royce,’ Mary was saying.
Hilda and Hilda’s mum leaped out of their seats as if the starting gun had been fired for the annual Baker family one-hundred-metre sprint. As Murph placed the bassoon gratefully back against the wall, he hoped heartily that he would never have to see it again.
Out on the drive, Hilda’s dad was inspecting his pristine green car, which was leaning dangerously to one side. One back tyre was several times its normal size, the rubber bulging and creaking as if it was about to burst.
Billy and Nellie were standing nearby. Billy glanced at Murph and gestured anxiously with his thumb in the internationally recognised signal for ‘Let’s get the cheese and pickle salad out of here!’
‘Hope you get it sorted, Dad! Looks like we’ll need to walk to school after all,’ fluted Hilda as they all edged off down the drive.
‘Yes, yes,’ he mumbled distractedly, fiddling with the valve on the side of the tyre. A huge blast of air shot out and, startled, he fell over backwards into a small, conveniently placed puddle.
‘Nice to meet you,’ called Murph as they neared the gates.
‘But we still haven’t heard you play …’ Hilda’s mum wailed after them.
‘Another time, Mum, promise,’ called Hilda. Murph aimed a gentle kick her way. ‘See you later!’
‘Right,’ said Mary, ‘that woodwind-related setback has cost us twenty minutes. Let’s get to school, quick!’ It was the only time in history a twelve-year-old girl had uttered those words. Mary didn’t know that, of course. We just threw it in as an interesting extra.
And so the Super Zeroes pelted off down the road, accompanied by very dramatic music which you must supply in your own head. Whether it involves a bassoon or not is up to you.
17
A Secret Never to Be Told
As the five friends turned into the scruffy, nondescript road where The School was located, a memory kept tickling the back of Murph’s brain.
Angel, he kept thinking … Angel. It was as if he’d seen the word written down somewhere significant, or heard someone mention it … but he couldn’t bring it to mind properly.
He was so frustrated with his own brain that he actually let out a little growl of rage as they raced through the school gates and across
the front yard. The unrehearsed bassoon recital had really held them up. By now they only had about half an hour until lessons started, and an entire school to search for references to one cryptic name.
‘Flora’s desk, that’s the best place to start,’ decided Mary. ‘She keeps all sorts of things there.’
As the school secretary, Flora’s desk was located just outside Mr Souperman’s study. They found it covered in its usual jumble of papers, but as they turned them over, there didn’t seem to be anything significant amongst them.
Murph scanned the pictures on the walls and the knick-knacks spread all over the bookcases, looking for further clues. Flora kept her little waiting area like a junk shop: it was full of friendly clutter and intriguing artefacts. Murph studied the print of a snowy mountain, the shark’s jawbone, the instrument dial from an old aeroplane … but nothing seemed to link to the word ‘angel’. There wasn’t even an angel-shaped ornament, he thought to himself desperately – and Flora had more ornaments than you could shake a stick at. In fact, as he searched, he realised that the answer to the eternal question of ‘Who on earth buys all the tat in museum gift shops?’ was ‘Flora and Carl.’ Or ‘Flora, Carl and Murph’s mum,’ actually. She couldn’t go to a gallery without buying a thimble or two.
And then he got it.
‘Wait!’ he told the others. ‘I know where I’ve seen an angel. Lots of angels, in fact. Carl has a whole shelf full of them!’
The memory had finally burrowed its way right to the front of Murph’s brain. While sweeping out Carl’s workshop during his first year, he’d been bemused to see Carl’s collection of angel ornaments. He had so many, and all of different types and sizes.
‘Come on!’ urged Murph, as they arranged Flora’s paperwork back into some sort of order and followed him down the stairs.
By now, the corridors were starting to fill up with teachers and early arrivals. The Super Zeroes hustled their way through the back doors and out across the playing fields, squinting against a light rain that had started to fall.