by J Ryan
‘What was the other part of that message? Always remember…?’
‘NFM. Never Forget Me.’
Becks wrinkles her nose. ‘Cheesy. Or creepy. And the email was sent all that time ago.’
‘Monsieur must have put mega protection on that file to make it impossible to delete. I didn’t know you could do that sort of thing then.’
Becks looks thoughtfully at the ‘Filtered’ message on the screen. ‘I don’t think we’re asking ourselves the big question, Joe.’ The bell rings. She jumps to her feet, grabbing her blazer. ‘I’ll be late for RE.’
I call after her as she heads for the stairs. ‘What d’you mean, the big question?’
She spots Miss Higgins hovering by the door and comes back to me as I log off. ‘Why does this Palestrina woman want to get at Monsieur? What happened, sixteen years ago?’
Chapter 3
Foul
That night I dream about racing round the test track in the Bentley with Monsieur, six months ago. The scenery’s flashing past. There’s that half-smile on his face. The dream dissolves into Fast Forward, to less than two weeks ago. We’re in Bertolini’s mountain hideaway. Monsieur’s short cropped silver hair glistens in the emergency lighting. He’s holding a gun. He’s just hit Bertolini’s flying knife with his last bullet and saved his son’s life. Arnaud looks at his dad like he’s come back from the dead. We all thought he had.
Then, it’s Fast Rewind. I’m sitting with Becks in Monsieur’s chateau, less than an hour after we’d escaped from the silver knife in the dark. The room is just like it was. Dim lights illuminate the many portraits and photos on the wall. There’s that photo of Monsieur with his arm around his beautiful wife, as she smiles in her wedding dress and long lace veil. Lisette, who died soon after Arnaud was born. And I can hear Monsieur saying what he said then. I couldn’t forgive myself.
I wake up, staring into the dark of my room. Sixteen years ago, something happened. Sixteen years. My age. Becks’. And Arnaud’s. The numbers jumble in my half-asleep brain. Something happened that Monsieur couldn’t forgive himself for. Maybe, not even now? Something that this Palestrina woman knows about?
I get up and pad quietly downstairs. The kitchen door creaks loudly. Fats looks up sleepily from a chair, yawns and gives a small, squeaky miaow. What’s the time? God, half past two. I switch on the kettle and take a mug from the cupboard. As the kettle heats up, I glance absent-mindedly at the Sunday newspaper lying open on the kitchen table. A headline catches my eye. ‘Drugs baron captured in Corsica.’ I stare, fascinated, at the photo of Bertolini being bundled into a police van.
Sipping the hot choc, I stroke Fats while I skim the article.
‘Alfredo Bertolini, widely known in the underworld as The Executioner, was arrested last Monday. He and four of his men were found tied up in a house high up in the Corsican mountains, three miles from the village of Vivario. The house is thought to belong to Bertolini, reputedly a billionaire. There were signs of a struggle and shots had been fired. The Corsican police were apparently alerted by the British. Detective Inspector Wellington, of the Stroud force in Gloucestershire, declined to name his sources. The capture is a major victory for the police in the ongoing war against the narcotics trade. There has been much speculation as to who was responsible for bringing the gang to justice; some sources say it could have been a rival cartel that overpowered them and tipped off the police.’
‘They got him then, Fats.’ Fats rumbles happily, pushing his head against my hand, his purrs deafening in this silent house. The kitchen door creaks again. I jump to my feet.
Mum’s small bare feet tiptoe across the tiles beneath her dark blue dressing gown. She looks a bit like a nun. ‘Can’t you sleep, love?’
‘It’s OK, Mum. Just a few things I have to work out.’
‘It’s horribly late. Are you coming up soon?’
‘Soon.’
Seeing the newspaper, she comes over. ‘Your Grandad and I were reading that, too. It’s our Detective Inspector Wellington, isn’t it? There can’t be two of them in Stroud.’
‘Mm.’
‘He gets around, doesn’t he? I wonder who told him about that horrible gang. It must be the same people who tied them up, mustn’t it?’ I splutter as my hot choc goes down the wrong way. Mum folds up the newspaper and puts it on the sideboard. ‘Come up soon, won’t you, love?’
‘Promise.’
***
Friday is the only day the Health Police let us have chips. Battered fish, optional. At lunch the hall is always so packed, the queue goes out the door. Becks and I have a strategy for this. We take turns each week so as not to arouse suspicion. One of us makes an excuse at twenty past twelve, in order to get out of class early and arrive near the front of the queue. The excuses have to be really good, because everyone tries this and the teachers are tough on non-original stories. So, ‘Sir, can I go to the toilet?’, or, ‘Madam, I’m about to have a nosebleed,’ won’t hack it.
It’s my turn this Friday. I’ve been thinking about it all morning, spurred on by my rumbling gut. Mrs Hart is tapping the Maths homework onto the whiteboard, her large back to us. ‘You can all access this on the website, so no silly tales like the dog ate it.’ She does a twirl to face us, her skirt swirling around plump knees and baggy tights.
I stick my hand up. Sincerity is key, here. ‘When do you want the homework in for, Madam?’
‘Next Monday. Everyone hear that?’
My hand shoots up again.
‘Yes, Joe?’
‘I have to be in Reception for twenty-five past twelve to collect a message from my Grandad? Something about a dentist appointment this afternoon?’
‘Then you’d better go now, Joe.’
As I slide out of the classroom, Bart Dilalio’s leg sticks out to trip me up but I knew it would be. He’s just jealous that he hasn’t thought of this one. I skip lightly over his foot, and fly up the steps to chips.
We never get right to the front because that’s where the teachers are. You’d think they’d have more concern for their health at their age. But I’ll probably be just like them too when I’m thirty. Ten minutes later, Becks joins me in the chair I’ve saved for her. She squirts T sauce onto her chips. ‘What was it this time?’
‘Reception. Message from Grandad about dentist appointment.’
‘OK. So next week, my dad might have a hernia.’
‘What’s that? Girlfriend trouble? Oww!’
I’m thinking about the toffee sponge pud and looking in my wallet, when Becks gives me a nudge. ‘Talia’s got a new friend.’
Talia strolls into the hall with Andy Briggs, giving him the same big smiles she gave me. And Nat, probably. Andy’s on my team, too. He’s the best striker on the planet. I whisper to Becks, ‘What is it with footie players?’
She flashes me a quick glance. ‘Apart from, they’re always the best looking? Just be grateful that she prefers strikers to wing backs. I think you got off lightly.’
Talia seats herself regally at one of the packed tables. She can’t get one all to herself today because the chips have pulled the entire school into the hall. The kids around her shuffle to one side, crowding up, keeping their distance.
Andy shambles towards the dinner queue. To watch him, you’d never think this guy has the acceleration of a lion after its prey when he’s on the field. He comes back with chips for him and Talia. She nods, the same gracious nod she gave me and Becks. Then, she gets up and joins the queue for water.
Becks watches her. ‘She’s getting the drinks. That’s a first. Why?’
‘Come on, Becks. We’re done with paranoia.’
‘Not quite. Can we meet at your place tonight? I can’t get on the net to check out that P H S A website. Steve and Dad hog it for computer games.’
‘I’ve got footie
practice after school. I’ll call you when I get back.’
***
After three runs around the Astroturf with Mr Piers yelling like Hitler, I’ve had it. Sweat pours off my face as he shouts, ‘Now line up and shoot for goal!’ We’ve got a new goalie. Mick is on the case well before my kick arrives. He punches it away, giving me a quick grin. Nat’s foot blurs as he takes the next kick. It’s Exocet fast. Mick’s body soars towards the ball and brings it down.
Nat jogs away to the back of the line. ‘Nice one, Mick.’
Andy lines up for the shoot. He walks like his legs are made of concrete. He’s sweating even more than me; his shirt is dark with it. And he was last in the run round the Astroturf. He’s usually ten yards ahead of us all. He stumbles. His face is grey. He looks at me, slowly shaking his head. ‘I…can’t do this, Joe.’
Next thing, he’s doubled up on the ground. I kneel beside him. ‘What is it, Andy?’ He clutches his stomach, his face going white now. Then, his eyes close.
The players crowd round. No one speaks. Mr Piers is there, his head on Andy’s chest, listening and feeling for breathing. He barks, ‘Got your mobile, Joe?’
‘Yes…’
‘Do it!’ He starts chest compressions on Andy’s motionless body as I call for an ambulance. Five minutes is all it takes for the ambulance to arrive. It seems like forever. Mr Piers is trying to push and breathe life back into Andy. And we’re all just stood there. I feel so helpless. Then, the paramedics are lining up oxygen. But Andy’s eyes still don’t open.
One of the paramedics, she looks only a bit older than me, says, ‘Can someone come with this lad to A and E? While you call his parents, Mr Piers?’
‘I’ll go with him.’
‘Do you want me to phone your mum, Joe?’
‘It’s OK, Mr Piers. I’ll call her.’
‘Good lad. Go, then.’
I’ve never been in an ambulance before. It must be doing ninety on the road to Gloucester, blue lights flashing, sirens blaring. I sit beside Andy. All I can see is his pale face on the stretcher with the oxygen mask over it. The paramedic is sat opposite. She leans towards me. ‘It can help if you talk to him. Take his hand?’
I feel for Andy’s hand. It’s so cold. I say quietly to him, ‘It’s me, Andy. Joe. Can you hear me?’ The ambulance brakes hard and I get shoved back in my seat. I clasp Andy’s hand harder. I’m really scared for him now. ‘Did you see, Andy, Mick’s back in the team?’ The fingers move, ever so slightly. The Nee Naw from the sirens is blowing my head to pieces. I hang on to my seat as we rocket through the streets towards Gloucester Royal Hospital. I whisper in Andy’s ear. ‘We’re going to win some games with Mick back in goal.’ Another twitch of the fingers. ‘You’re going to be OK, Andy. You better be – we need you!’
The hand grips mine. Then, it lets go. Terrified, I look at the paramedic. Glancing at the oxygen mask, she says, ‘Take his hand back. Keep talking.’
I babble on about footie and how we’re going to win the next game, right until they take Andy’s stretcher out of the ambulance and race away with him into A & E. I wander into the reception area. An old lady is sat there in a wheelchair, her foot all bandaged. She’s reading a magazine. Her son, or someone who’s family, paces up and down, muttering, ‘I can’t believe they can take this long!’ He’s wearing a T-shirt, with a huge, bulging belly stretching over his jeans.
She’s so tiny, a Force 2 could carry her away. ‘My foot’s not going to drop off, love. There’s doubtless cases more urgent than my silly fall.’
He mutters, ‘I had this darts game lined up for ten.’
A nurse in a pale pink shirt and trousers comes through the security doors, looking around. ‘Mrs Bates?’
The old lady looks up, her blue eyes bright. ‘That’ll be us, love. And you still might make your darts game?’ Big Belly pushes her wheelchair through the doors. As they disappear, I fish out my mobile. Not sure if Mum or Grandad are home yet. Then, the Reception doors fly open and Mr Piers rushes in. He’s one of the younger PE teachers. He usually looks ridiculously tanned and healthy. But he’s pale now. ‘How’s Andy doing?’
‘I don’t know, Sir. They took him away.’
‘I got through to his parents. They’ll be here in a few minutes.’
‘Right…’
‘You live near Stroud, don’t you, Joe?’
‘Yeah.’
‘It’s on my way. I’ll give you a lift home.’
‘If it’s alright, Mr Piers, I’d like to wait until I can see if Andy’s going to be OK?’
‘I’m sorry, Joe. It’s his parents who have to be with him now. In an emergency like this, the hospital probably wouldn’t admit friends.’
Mr Piers drives an upmarket grey BMW 3 Series. I can smell the leather seats as he slips the parking ticket into the barrier slot, cursing under his breath about what it costs to park in hospitals for five minutes.
‘D’you think he’ll be alright, Sir? Will his mum and dad be with him soon?’
The barrier lifts and he accelerates through the exit. ‘He’s in good hands, Joe. I’m sure he’ll be fine.’ When Mr Piers drops me off, it’s half six. Mum and Grandad aren’t home yet. Jack’s made himself baked beans on toast and left a bowl of beans on the kitchen table. Fats is in the garden, chasing small birds. Hoping he hasn’t got to the beans, I stick a slice of bread in the toaster and put the bowl in the microwave. I wonder what they’ll give Andy to eat when he wakes up. He will wake up, won’t he?
Chapter 4
Suspicion
I sit on my bed, staring at the wall. It’s almost covered with my posters of Provence. Swallows dart over blue fields of lavender, and fountains gush water in the leafy avenues of Aix. But all I can see is Andy’s stretcher disappearing through those doors. My mobile rumbles. ‘Sorry, Becks…I forgot…’
‘You sound…has something happened?’
‘It’s Andy. He’s in hospital. He collapsed at footie…’
She whispers, ‘Andy’s in hospital? What’s wrong with him?’
‘I don’t know but it’s serious. I wondered…if it was something he ate?’ There’s a long pause. ‘You still there, Becks?’
‘If it was the food, half the school would be in hospital and it would be on the national news.’
‘Then, maybe it was appendicitis? Jack had that when he was four. He was doubled up with the pain, like Andy.’
‘Or maybe it was something he drank.’
‘It can’t be the water, or everyone…’
‘Who gave Andy that drink at lunchtime, Joe?’
‘Are you saying…? No, you can’t mean it…’
Becks’ voice is very quiet. ‘I just hope Talia doesn’t take after her mother, that’s all. And I really hope Andy gets through this.’
All that night, until I drop into a ragged sleep, I hear Nat’s warning. ‘Stay away from her, bud. She’s poison.’
***
‘Do you want to call the hospital before you get the bus, Joe?’ Mum takes my plate and dunks it in the washing up bowl.
‘Mr Piers said it could be a family-only thing. I thought about calling on the Saturday, but…’
She says softly, ‘They must be so desperately worried. Poor Andy…’
Jack picks up my bag and brings it over. ‘You said you’ve got PE Mondays. Shall I dig out your kit from the cupboard?’
‘Cheers, mate. That’ll give me five minutes to check something out.’ I race upstairs to my computer. Google. P H S A. The page of links flashes up, and there it is again. ‘Investment opportunities with new horizons. If you’re tired of old money, invest in the future. Palestrina Holdings invites you…’
I click. Mum’s parental controls don’t block it like the schools network did. The screen fills with a sky blue background and a
blazing sun top right. The message continues: ‘Palestrina Holdings invites you to explore the exciting opportunities of a global organisation where everything is to gain for those who are not risk averse.’
I click on Next. The words scroll on. ‘First, let’s get to know each other. Tell me something about yourself.’ I’m looking at a form that this ‘me’ wants me to fill in. The questions set off a blaring alarm in my head.
‘Joe? Bus!’ Jack’s voice is urgent.
‘Let’s go!’ I shut down the computer and take the stairs in two leaps like I’m running from the Nazgul.
Mick’s not sat with his mates this morning. He’s saved seats for me and Jack and the mates are sat behind him. They look as worried as he does. ‘How’s Andy?’
‘I don’t know. He didn’t look good in the ambulance.’
‘You going to call the hospital today?’
‘Mr Piers said he would. Let’s talk to him first, yeah?’
‘Right. Break?’
‘See you in his room then.’
All the rest of the way to the school, none of us says a word. The Year Sevens sitting in front of us are quiet too. They’ve overheard enough to know something bad has happened. As I get off the bus, Jack shoves my PE kit into my hand. ‘Don’t forget this.’
‘Thanks, bud. I’m getting like Grandad.’
He shakes his head. ‘Nah, that takes way more practice. See y’later.’
Becks is waiting in the bus bay. She takes my hand as we walk towards my form base. ‘Have you heard anything?’
‘Mick and I are going to see Mr Piers at break.’
‘Can I come too?’
‘Course you can.’
Becks flicks a quick look behind her and stops suddenly. I turn. The last bus is rolling out of the school gates. The black Merc cruises inside and parks right in the middle of the bus bay, like it did before. Talia gets out, her school bag slung casually over her shoulder. She walks away from the Merc without a backwards glance. This time, she sees me and waves. I wave back. She comes towards us, smiling that usual easy smile.