by J Ryan
I tip the beans out of the can into a bowl and stick it in the microwave. ‘Where’s Mum?’
He wanders over to the calendar that’s hooked onto the cupboard. ‘I think tonight is her art group. Yes, Tuesday. Seven thirty. She won’t be back till nine.’ He’s forgotten about the kettle. I fill it and switch it on. Grandad gets knives and forks from the drawer.
I take the beans out of the microwave, spoon them onto plates and dish up the pizza. ‘Thanks, Grandad. For taking me and Becks in to see Andy.’ We sit down together, munching in a companionable silence. Now that Andy’s going to be alright, all I can think about is how Becks and I are going to warn Arnaud. Right now, it looks as easy as a rocket trip to the sun.
What Grandad says next leaves my forkload of beans and pizza hanging in the air on its way to my mouth. ‘So, the next mission is Paris?’
I can’t have heard him right. ‘Sorry, Grandad?’
He cuts up his pizza. ‘I’m blessed, or maybe cursed, with ears that are much better than my eyes, Joe. I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation in the car.’
I put my fork slowly down on my plate.
He munches on his pizza. Swallows, and says, ‘I think it’s time I told you that I did this kind of thing myself, when I was your age.’
I stare at him. ‘What…kind of thing?’
He gets up, takes two mugs from the cupboard and puts teabags in them from the tin. ‘Two sugars, isn’t it?’
‘Er…yeah. Thanks.’ He spoons sugar into my mug, clicks two sweeteners into his and pours in the hot water. ‘WHAT did you do, Grandad?’
He adds the milk and hands me my mug. Then he shakes his head, like the memory is far away. ‘When I was at school, I was quite good at languages. Especially German. It was the early Seventies. The Cold War was still on then. East Germany was Communist and the West was terrified that Communism would take over the world. You’ve covered this in History haven’t you, Joe?’
‘Well, yes, but…’
He sits down at the table again and takes off his glasses. Without them, he looks years younger. ‘It came right out of the blue. One morning I was called to the Head’s office. I went in, wondering what on earth I’d done this time. There was a tall, thin man with the Head. He wore a dark, pin-striped suit and he looked at me very hard as I entered. I got the feeling that nothing much escaped this gentleman.’
‘Who was he?’
‘At the time he just said, the less I knew, the safer I would be. It was only years later that I realised he must have been working for MI6.’
‘MI6? They catch spies, don’t they? Did they think you were…?’
‘That’s MI5. Domestic intelligence. MI6 operates abroad.’ He shrugs. ‘They do the spying, basically.’
‘They wanted you to become a SPY?’
‘That’s not how Mr Pinstripe put it, of course. First, he gave me a real grilling about my views on Communism. I was only sixteen and, as you can imagine, my mind was on other things than world affairs.’
‘Like, Pink Floyd?’
Grandad smiles. ‘I think I must have convinced him pretty quickly that I was no budding Communist.’ He pockets his glasses and pops a forkload of pizza and beans into his mouth. ‘Eat up, Joe, it’s getting cold.’
‘What did he want you to do, Grandad?’
‘He called it, ‘keeping your ear to the ground.’ I was sent to a boarding school in Stuttgart, Northern Germany. Ostensibly, to develop my German. Covertly, to listen in to what German youngsters were saying about the Communist movement.’
‘Why were they scared of what teenagers thought about Communism?’
‘Remember those History lessons? Hitler Youth? Extremism so often exploits young people.’
‘What were you supposed to do? Did you have like, a radio…or was it Morse Code?’
He shakes his head. ‘Nothing like that, Joe. I simply had to write letters home. Not too many – one per week. And my parents were never allowed to open them. They were discreetly collected by some MI6 stooge.’
I remember Dad’s letter and how the only way he could write to Mum was by snail mail. ‘Couldn’t you contact your mum and dad at all?’
‘I phoned home from time to time, when I could afford it. Mr Pinstripe gave me an allowance but it wasn’t generous.’
‘What did your Mum and Dad feel about you going away like that?’
He picks up his mug of tea and stares at it thoughtfully. ‘I think they were rather proud. I’ll never know what Mr Pinstripe told them. I dare say ‘Queen and Country’ came into it. In those days, you see, you didn’t ask too many questions. So many people had lived through the Second World War. They didn’t want a third one.’
‘Didn’t your mum and dad think it was weird, you being in Stuttgart?’
‘They must have thought it strange, me living in a city that my Dad had been told to blow to pieces on bombing raids thirty years before.’ He sips his tea.
I cram in a mouthful of pizza and mumble, ‘So…what did you report back, Grandad?’
He smiles wryly. ‘I must have been a huge disappointment to MI6. I made a lot of friends in Stuttgart. And guess what they were all talking about, Joe?’
‘Pink Floyd?’
‘And the Beatles splitting up.’
I push the remains of my pizza around the plate. ‘Can we get something straight, Grandad? Are you saying I can go to Paris?’
‘Let me play Mr Pinstripe. Why exactly do you need to go?’
‘It’s not the kind of big stage you operated on, Grandad.’
‘It sounds a damn sight more dangerous. Is it to do with this Bertolini? The one you tangled with before?’
‘Mum said…you saw the newspaper…’
‘Billionaire drugs baron behind bars. And on your half term trip to Aix, I imagine you and Becks had something to do with that?’
‘Well…yes. With some mates…’
‘And now those friends that you helped out need you again? Is one of them your former employer, this Monsieur that you told us about? And his son?’
‘It could be both of them, Grandad. This new girl at school. Talia? Becks and I think her mother’s this awful woman DIW told us about. He said she runs a huge drugs gang and she could be trying to take over Bertolini’s.’
‘And, now that he’s in a French jail…’
‘Exactly. Time she made her move. She’s evil. DIW said she poisons people. Sixteen years ago, she sent an email to Monsieur, like she was out for him too…and Arnaud’s going to be at that party.’
‘Can’t you tell DIW, like you did with that Corsican thug?’
‘Problem, Grandad. DIW still suspects that Monsieur and Bertolini were in the drug running together. Monsieur could get arrested if I go to the police.’
‘I take it you’ve tried texting, phoning and the rest?’
‘I’ve tried and I’ve tried.’
‘I see.’ He picks up the plates and mugs and loads them in the dishwasher. ‘Then you’re in a bit of a dilemma, aren’t you? And a rather risky one, at that.’
I watch him with a sinking feeling. ‘You and Mum are never going to let me do this, are you, Grandad?
He closes the dishwasher door with a quiet click. ‘What makes you think that?’
‘I…you mean…?’
He looks at me, wiping some tomato sauce off his hands with the dishcloth. ‘Just because I’ll worry about you until you step back through that door doesn’t mean I’ll stop you, Joe. Right now, warning your friends means more to you than anything, doesn’t it?’
I nod.
‘And, you’ve come through some pretty nasty situations before. I’m not sure I could have handled them at your age…or any age, in fact.’
This is sounding more and more like a Y
es. ‘But…what about school?’
He raises bushy eyebrows. ‘I think this could be called compassionate leave…at a stretch. Anyway, there’s a couple of inset days coming up next week, aren’t there?’
‘I forgot about those…so…’
‘Tack on the compassionate leave and that would give you, say, a week? Can you get in and out in that time, do you think?’
‘Shouldn’t take that long. But what are you going to say to Mum?’
He refills the kettle and switches it on. ‘Leave your mother to me. I’ve had plenty of practice in managing my daughter.’
I stare at Grandad’s bald head and battered jacket. He quietly whistles ‘Misty’, while he puts biscuits on a plate for Mum. ‘Grandad…?’
‘Mm?’
‘It wasn’t all just Beatles and Floyd in Stuttgart, was it?’
‘Not quite, no.’ He smiles, a faint sparkle in his blue eyes. ‘But, as they say, that’s another story.’
A car revs frantically in the drive. Then Mum crashes through the door, clutching her art portfolio. Her hair’s like it’s had an electric shock. She stops dead, looking at us. ‘What have you two been cooking up? You look guilty!’
Grandad hands her the mug. ‘You look frazzled. Cup of tea?’
***
I slide out of the door and upstairs while Mum and Grandad sit down at the kitchen table. As I arrive on the landing, there’s a sloshing. Jack carries a bucket from the bathroom. ‘Need to top up. The water’s getting a bit dodgy.’
I follow him into his room, weaving my way between Jack’s sax, keyboard, guitar and drum kit. The lights from the tank shine on his floppy blond hair, as he carefully pours in jugfuls from the bucket. Inside the wreck, the Black Ghost Knife Fish ripples, a restless shadow. The solitary angel fish cruises slowly towards the bubbles from the fresh water, its long fins floating like a wedding veil. ‘You going to get another angel?’
‘When I’ve saved up. I think he misses her.’
I pick up the small fishing net, twirling it between my fingers. ‘I’m going back to France for a few days.’
‘What, Aix?’
‘Paris. New girl on the block has invited me and Becks to her birthday party.’
Jack puts the jug down. ‘I thought you didn’t much like her. After that thing with Nat?’
‘I don’t.’
Jack nods sagely. ‘Another rescue mission, then?’
‘Sort of.’
‘Does Mum know?’
‘That’s the amazing thing. I had to tell Grandad. And he’s like, up for bringing Mum round?’
‘But last term she grounded you for not getting your ICT coursework in on time. And now she’s letting you…?’
‘One day, you ask Grandad what he did when he was sixteen, right?’
‘Will there be another hit man outside the house? Those police marksmen were so cool.’
‘Shhh! Mum’s on the stairs.’
‘Time to get your heads down!’
‘Night, Mum!’
Jack quietly trickles more water into the tank. ‘Hey, catch this!’
The Black Ghost Knife Fish has slipped out of the wreck. It’s only the third time I’ve ever seen all of him. His black, powerful body, with its rippling dorsal fin, darts forwards and backwards with equal ease around the floor of the tank. Small shrimps scramble out of the way. The little crab slides beneath a stone. I feel a shiver, like cold fingers on my neck. ‘He’s awesome.’
‘Take care, bud.’
As I slip out of Jack’s room, he’s trickling a last jug of clean water into the tank, gazing intently at that dark, mysterious fish.
Chapter 6
The Double Hook
In the library at break, Becks and I tap into our emails on the balcony and exchange whispers. Miss Higgins is tidying books just below us.
‘Your grandad was a teenage SPY?’
‘I don’t think he told me half of what he actually got up to.’
‘So – he’s alright with you going?’
‘That’s what he said. What about your dad?’
Her voice is bitter. ‘I really don’t want to know what my dad was doing when he was sixteen.’
‘But – will he let you go?’
‘Any old excuse’ll do. He’s away working in Southampton this week,’
‘What about Steve?’
‘New girlfriend. He won’t even notice I’m gone.’
‘Course he will, Becks. What are you going to tell him?’
‘I might try the truth for a change. We’ve been invited to a party in Paris. It’s a wonderful opportunity to polish our French. Steve’ll buy that.’
‘So – I call Talia?’
‘Why not? But don’t let Miss Higgins see your mobile.’ Becks pulls some homework out of her bag as I punch in the number. She looks tired. I feel like I’m on fire.
The lazy drawl replies. ‘Joe – how are you?’
‘Good, Talia. Look, is it still on for me and Becks to come to your party?’
‘I thought you said No Thanks, Joe?’
‘I thought we couldn’t get away from school. But that’s changed.’ I pause. Mustn’t sound too keen. ‘Unless…this gives you a problem, Talia?’
‘No, is no problem, Joe. I am pleased that you are coming.’ Her voice becomes more businesslike. ‘Now, listen. This is what you do.’ I grab my pen, and frantically scribble down times and places.
‘It’s her mum’s itinerary for us, isn’t it?’
Covering the mouthpiece, I whisper, ‘I don’t like being organised by the enemy, any more than you. But what else can we do?’
‘Have you got all that, Joe? A car collects you at the Gare du Nord?’
‘A white Merc, and the driver will be in a white uniform?’
‘That is right. White is my party theme.’
‘D’you mean, the dress code is white?’ I have this sudden image of me, wrapped in a sheet. I don’t have any white clothes. Even my white T-shirts have gone grey in the wash. Beside me, Becks looks a lot less tired. She’s grinning.
Talia sounds as amused as Becks. ‘No, Joe. Is just the accessories that are white.’
‘Like – the chauffeur?’
‘Of course.’
‘Do you want to give me your address? Just in case…?’
The husky voice says, ‘Is no need, Joe. My mother’s driver will find you. She sends her best wishes. Ciao.’
Becks’ grin gets wider. ‘A white uniform?’
I growl, ‘Wouldn’t have caught me in a white uniform when I was driving Monsieur’s Bentley!’
Miss Higgins appears out of nowhere, sweeps a pile of books off our table and trots downstairs with them.
‘So, what is the itinerary?’
‘St. Pancras, eight thirty tomorrow morning. Eurostar. Tickets will be waiting – I’ve got the reservation numbers. We just need our passports.’
‘And my party dress.’
I stare at my notes. ‘God, we’ll have to get a train tonight!’
Becks taps into RailEasy. ‘Half eight from Gloucester is the last one. Gets into Paddington at half twelve, after thirteen million stops. Then…’
‘We get a bus to St Pancras and sleep in the waiting area.’
‘They have buses that late in London?’
‘Nat’s brother – the one who’s at Imperial? He says the buses run all night in London.’
‘Let’s sleep on a bus then. It’s got to be warmer.’
As we slip out of the library, Mick gives me a wave. ‘You two going to see Andy tonight?’
‘Can’t tonight, bud. A mate of ours needs some help. We could be a few days.’
‘See you later, then.’ We shake.
‘And you keep on giving them pain, Mick. When Andy’s back, we’ll stuff Bentings.’
***
After school, Becks comes home on the bus with me and Jack. Grandad cooks us sausage and chips while we hurriedly do homework and email it into school. My Maths is such rubbish, I might as well not have bothered. All I can think about is tomorrow. ‘Can I borrow Dad’s Balmain again?’
He puts out platefuls in front of us, spoons on baked beans and disappears through the kitchen door. ‘I’ll dig it out of the wardrobe.’
Becks frowns as she munches on a mouthful of chips. ‘What’s the dress code?’
‘No idea. But I can down dress the Balmain. I can’t up dress up my jeans.’
‘Well, take the whole lot then.’
Jack stuffs a forkful of sausage into his mouth and mumbles, ‘Is this a fashion show or what?’
‘I’ll settle for Or What?’ I scrape the last beans off my plate, dunk it in the washing up bowl, and chase up the stairs after Grandad. He’s not wearing his glasses. I need the Balmain, not one of his battered jackets.
Fats is snoozing peacefully on my pillow. I run my hand gently over his soft fur and fluffy ears. He makes one of his funny chirping sounds then snuggles his nose deeper into his paws. I fling open drawers, chucking underwear into the holdall. As I open the wardrobe to grab a shirt, something dark slithers out onto the floor. The silver buttons on my chauffeur’s uniform gleam dully. I stare at it. Bertolini’s sixty cigars a day voice says, ‘Get in the car, Joe.’ Shivering slightly, I cram the uniform back into the wardrobe.
Grandad comes in, the Balmain over his arm. ‘I hope it’s alright. I don’t think it’s been dry cleaned since you last wore it.’
‘It’s fine, Grandad.’
As we get in Grandad’s car, Jack picks up my bag and shoves it in the boot. ‘Watch out on your fishing trip, bud.’ The light from our front door glints on his blond hair as he waves.
Becks clips on her seat belt. ‘What was that about…?’
‘Oh, you know Jack. Fishy things.’
When we get to Becks’ house there’s no sign of Steve. Everything is dark. ‘You better leave a note, Becks.’
She calls down from her room, ‘I can’t find my hair dryer!’