The Case of the Wayward Professor

by Gareth P. Jones

  ‘Brilliant. I’ll remember to bring my ear plugs,’ said Holly, quickly leaving before Petal could think of a good response.

  Outside the front of the school building the last few band members were boarding the coach. There was an excited buzz as she climbed on. The pretty flautists were doing each other’s hair while the trombonists were trying to rally everyone to sing along with ‘There’s no business like show business’.

  Holly spotted Callum sitting on his own, staring out of the window. She took a seat next to him.

  ‘Are you looking forward to the concert?’ she asked.

  ‘No. Stupid concert is just another photo opportunity for Father.’

  ‘The Prime Minister is coming?’ said Holly. For a moment she considered whether the Kinghorns could strike at the concert, but how could they? The place would be crawling with security. She wondered whether her own dad would be coming. She hadn’t even told him about being in the band, but if there was an opportunity to be seen with the Prime Minister you could bet he would be there.

  ‘Callum, the tree creatures you’ve seen. I think I’ve seen them too. They’re Tree Dragons. They’re not in your head,’ said Holly.

  Callum looked at her then turned away, smoothing down his black hair nervously.

  ‘They’re in my head,’ he replied.

  ‘They’re not. They’re real,’ protested Holly.

  ‘No, they’re not. They’re in Callum’s head. The doctors say I can control them.’

  Callum stared out of the window and hummed to block out her voice. He refused to speak for the rest of the journey.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Little Hope Village Hall was empty when they arrived. Miss Gilfeather got them to put out rows of chairs before asking everyone to take their places on stage for rehearsals.

  As the day progressed, more and more people came in and out of the hall. Holly saw Hamish the security guard arrive with Bruno the poodle. Police officers with thick bullet-proof jackets and machine guns entered and checked for any possible signs of terrorism. They were met by men in dark suits and sunglasses. Holly recognised them as the men who had taken Callum. She looked over to where Callum was sitting, but he was avoiding eye contact.

  TV crews arrived with loud-mouthed directors, scruffy-looking cameramen and long-haired soundmen. They set up lights, did sound-checks and fixed speakers outside so that the hundreds of onlookers who were expected to turn up would be able to enjoy the concert too. Locals gathered to witness the excitement which had descended on their sleepy village.

  There was so much commotion that at one stage Miss Gilfeather shouted at everyone in the hall to ‘Please be quiet!’ unless they were involved in the band practice. A policeman with a face like a bulldog and an extremely large machine gun stopped his conversation with a TV director and look sheepishly at his feet, like a naughty school boy.

  During the breaks they all had to stay inside the hall for security reasons. Not that Holly minded. She no longer wanted to use the opportunity to escape. She just wanted to get through the concert without messing up too badly.

  At half past five they did one complete run-through, which was, everyone agreed, a total disaster, but Miss Gilfeather was positive and said that a bad rehearsal usually indicated a good performance. After that, she announced that there would be no more practice and everyone should save their lips for the performance. She took them through the order of events, so they knew what to expect.

  ‘You will file on and take your places on stage. We will open with the Gershwin medley and then the first solo performer will come on. During that performance you will sit very quietly and politely, until I come back on and lead you in the second number.’

  ‘Who’s the first solo performer?’ asked a tuba player.

  Miss Gilfeather checked her notes. ‘Petal Moses,’ she said, barely managing to hide her disdain.

  ‘Who’s accompanying her?’ asked a flautist.

  ‘She’ll have … oh dear me … She will have that most tacky of things, a backing track. Regardless of this, please show respect during all solo performances and remember you will be visible to the audience and the television cameras.’

  By the time everyone had changed into school uniforms and eaten as many of the sandwiches and crisps provided as their nervous stomachs would allow, it had grown dark outside and the audience had started to arrive. A red carpet had been laid at the front door and snap-happy paparazzi had gathered on either side of it, taking pictures of every parent that arrived, on the off chance that they were famous.

  Holly and half of the other band members were crammed around the backstage door, peeking out at the main hall, either celebrity spotting or looking for their parents arriving in their best suits and evening dresses. If they were deemed important enough they were interviewed by a showbiz reporter in a red dress. If not, they were taken straight to their seats by school prefects.

  Each time someone really important arrived, the red carpet erupted like a war zone, the photographers screaming at the celebrity to look at them, smile for the camera, show a bit of leg and so on. The biggest of these explosions was for Petal Moses and her superstar mother. Petal’s mother had obviously decided to pick up Petal, so they could arrive together. After their interview with the reporter, Petal came backstage, while her mother was escorted to her seat by a very excited-looking Principal Palmer. Petal wore a black sequinned dress and shoes so shiny that Holly thought they could probably be seen from space.

  Holly moved away from the door, not wanting to look like she was interested. Petal entered the room, glanced at the half-eaten sandwiches and crisp packets lying amongst the instrument cases, and pronounced, ‘I was promised my own dressing room.’

  Miss Gilfeather, who was wearing a smart black trouser suit and crisp white shirt, said, ‘I believe they’re building one for your ego next door, Petal.’

  Petal glared angrily at the teacher and handed her a CD. ‘This is my backing track,’ she said.

  Miss Gilfeather took the CD, holding it at arm’s length, and handed it to the pupil behind her, who happened to be Callum, smoothing down his hair and looking nervy.

  ‘Callum, dear,’ she said, ‘There’s a CD machine at the back of the room attached to the PA system. Please could you put this object in it?’

  ‘Yes, miss,’ he replied.

  Outside, the red carpet exploded with noise again, louder even than for Petal and her mother, and Holly knew that Callum’s dad, the Prime Minister, must have just arrived. Everyone crowded around the door wanting to see, except for Callum, who crouched down by the stereo. Holly joined him.

  ‘Are you nervous?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t get nervous about music. Music is calming.’ Callum smoothed down his hair and pulled something out of his pockets. ‘Look,’ he said.

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Holly.

  ‘Ear plugs,’ he replied, showing her two wax earplugs, ‘for Petal’s song.’

  Holly laughed. He was making jokes. That had to be a good sign.

  Miss Gilfeather told everyone to quieten down and to line up, so Holly said good luck to Callum and took her place behind her fellow trumpeters, Julian and Sandy.

  As she stepped into the harsh TV lights in front of the audience, Holly became strangely conscious of her body movements, as though walking was something she had just learned to do. She found her seat, pleased she wasn’t at the front of the stage, and gazed into the sea of faces.

  Principal Palmer sat in the front row, talking animatedly to Petal’s famous mother. Beside her was the Prime Minister and, next to him, Holly’s dad, holding hands with his big-haired wife.

  Holly had never liked her dad’s wife, with her large blonde hair and expensive shoes. She resented that she had moved in with them so soon after Holly’s real mother had died, like she could somehow replace her. But seeing the two of them holding hands, while her dad chatted to the Prime Minister, she had a strange feeling that she hadn’t felt in years. She
realised that it wasn’t just Dirk and Willow she had missed since being at the school. It was her home and her dad, and being part of a family.

  Her dad spotted her, smiled and waved. Although Holly knew they had come for the photographers more than her, for a fleeting moment she felt like a normal kid with a normal family, playing in a normal school concert. It was a nice feeling. She waved back.

  Miss Gilfeather raised her baton and everyone lifted their instruments. She smiled, counted them in, and they began.

  To Holly’s surprise, it sounded OK. The mistakes that seemed so disastrous in rehearsals didn’t seem to matter now.

  When the tune finished the audience burst into rapturous applause.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Miss Gilfeather into the microphone. ‘Next, one of our pupils will give a solo performance. Please welcome, singing a song written by her mother, Petal Moses.’

  The audience clapped and cheered and Holly didn’t mind. It was such a good feeling to be part of something like this, that she didn’t begrudge Petal her moment in the spotlight. Petal looked surprisingly nervous as she took the microphone from Miss Gilfeather and took her place in front of the stage. Holly saw her mum mouth ‘Good luck’, and someone pressed play on the CD machine backstage.

  Holly had never had much time for Petal’s mother’s music but, as the backing track began, she found herself transported by its beauty. It was amazing, captivating, lilting and gentle. It was organic, like it was taking its rhythm from her own heartbeat. She never wanted it to stop.

  In fact, everyone was so entranced by the music that came through the speakers that no one seemed to notice that Petal didn’t start singing. Not even Petal. No one cared. No one cared about anything any more, just that the magical music should never stop.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  After leaving Holly at the school gates, while deciding where to head next, Dirk was disturbed by something moving in the trees. He crouched down, blended with the ground and watched. There was another movement and he noticed the Tree Dragon, Betula Pendula, halfway up a silver birch tree, her back disguised against its bark. Her long claws gripped the trunk. Her pale green eyes focused on the school.

  The perimeter gates opened and a coach drove out. It indicated then turned right, heading towards Little Hope. Betula leapt to the next tree, then the next. She was following the coach. Dirk spread his wings and took chase, flying above the forest, keeping a safe distance to avoid being seen by either the coach or Betula.

  The coach arrived at Little Hope and parked outside the village hall. Betula stopped short of the village, but Dirk flew over her and landed on the roof of a corner shop, instantly blending.

  The children got off the coach and Dirk noticed Holly amongst them. Before he could consider getting any nearer, a police van rolled into the car park and four armed policemen got out of the back. Two took their places at the front and back doors, one went inside, and one went up through the building and stepped out on to the flat roof.

  ‘Rats,’ Dirk muttered to himself, ‘now I’ll never get nearer.’

  Throughout the day, more security arrived. Serious-looking men in dark suits and sunglasses checked the area thoroughly, going into people’s houses, on to their roofs. Dirk was forced to hide even further away from the village hall.

  He listened to conversations between villagers to figure out what was going on.

  ‘It’s a lot of fuss over a school concert, if you ask me.’

  ‘Oh, but what a school. All those celebrity parents in our little village.’

  ‘It’s a disgrace, this disruption. I had to queue half an hour for my Bovril and bacon in the shop, stuck behind all those rude people from the telly.’

  ‘It’s not every day that you get a chance to meet the Prime Minister, though, is it?’

  ‘I heard that his son has never been the same since that kidnapping incident, gone funny in the head, they say. Poor kid.’

  As the sun set and the sky darkened, more people arrived, parking their cars along the road, going into the hall, or crowding around the front. Policemen outside kept the crowds in order, occasionally shouting at them through loudhailers to get out of the road if a car was trying to get through. All of the villagers had gone to watch the celebrities arrive, or climbed out on to their roofs to get a better view. Even the pubs had shut. There was no way that Dirk could get any nearer without being seen. It was so frustrating. All he could see were the flashing lights of the paparazzi and the silhouette of the policeman on the village hall roof. They had placed speakers outside the hall but they were facing the other way, towards the car park, and the sound didn’t carry as far as Dirk. He figured that the concert had started because the flashing lights calmed down.

  Then they stopped altogether.

  In fact, all movement stopped.

  The silhouette of the policeman on the roof, which had been circling, no longer moved.

  Cautiously, Dirk jumped to a nearer roof, then another. More figures stood in the darkness like statues. In the street, a policeman held a loudhailer up to his mouth, but his lips weren’t moving.

  ‘Dirk jumped down to the road and saw that the policeman had been in the middle of shouting at three boys, who looked like they were running away, except they weren’t running anywhere. He approached the village hall and saw more people, all unmoving, wearing the same faraway look in their eyes that could only mean one thing.

  Dragonsong.

  Dirk heard voices coming from the car park and dived for cover at the side of the building. He moved quietly in the shadows and found himself face to face with a familiar figure. Wearing a wide-brimmed hat and a long overcoat, Ladbroke Blake stood, rooted to the spot. The last time Dirk had met Ladbroke he had knocked him out and nicked his hat and coat. In spite of this, Ladbroke had helped him when he was unconscious and, more importantly, kept his mouth shut about dragons. So it was with a whispered apology that Dirk lifted off his hat, poked two holes in the rim with his claws and placed it over his own head.

  He moved into the crowd around the red carpet. Photographers stood frozen, holding up their cameras or cleaning their lenses. Autograph hunters held books and pens in the air and police stood in front of the rails. The voices grew nearer and Dirk lowered his head, looking through the holes in the hat.

  ‘Thank you, manumans, oh, I feel so special. No photos, please. What’s that, little manuman? You want my autograph? Why, of course.’

  The Tree Dragon, Acer Campestre, reached out her long twig-like claws and pulled a book and pen from a little girl’s hand, scribbled something in the book and placed it back. If she had been aware of this, the little girl would have screamed and cried and run away. As it was, she stared unknowingly into nothing.

  ‘Don’t be stidiotical,’ said Betula Pendula, skulking behind her.

  All five Tree Dragons were prowling up the red carpet, heads swinging from side to side, staring at the frozen humans. Two of the dragons held the silver case between them, the QC3000.

  ‘Make sure you don’t touch any of the manumans,’ said Betula.

  The Tree Dragons entered the building, walking straight past an armed policeman with a face like a bulldog. They slammed the door shut behind them.

  Dirk spread his wings and jumped. Ladbroke’s hat flew off and Dirk landed behind the static policeman on the roof. He opened a door in the roof, where a ladder led down past the rafters to the hall below. Dirk squeezed himself through the door and climbed down into the rafters, where he could see rows and rows of parents, sitting on wooden chairs, all enjoying the best concert they had ever heard, oblivious to the five Tree Dragons walking down the aisle between them, approaching the stage where the band sat. He picked out Holly, second row back, sitting under the spell of the Dragonsong, her trumpet across her lap.

  A speaker next to his ear crackled, making him jump and almost lose grip of the rafter.

  ‘Brothers Kinghorn, dragons true,’ a voice appeared through the speakers. It was the same deep vo
ice he had heard in the old hospital. ‘I, Vainclaw Grandin, welcome you.’

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  On hearing the voice, Betula, Buxus, Tilia, Acer and Salix bowed their heads low, then Betula looked up and spoke.

  ‘The first up-airer, Vainclaw Grandin, we humble bark sisters are humblonified by your presence. We didn’t know you would be here personally.’

  ‘I grow tired of being let down by inferior dragons, so have decided to oversee this mission myself,’ replied the voice.

  ‘We will not let you down, sir,’ said Betula.

  ‘You already have. You allowed the professor to escape.’

  ‘The manuman disappeared while we were guarding the box.’

  ‘You are idiots, but it is of no matter. He served his purpose.’

  ‘What purpose? What does the manuman box do?’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Acer. ‘What are we doing?’

  ‘You will know soon enough. Bring the case to the raised ground.’

  Dirk watched Buxus and Tilia carry the silver case up the aisle, whispering as they passed under him.

  ‘Why won’t he come out?’

  ‘The boss doesn’t like to be seen,’

  ‘Shouldn’t we tell him about the Mountain Dragon?’

  ‘Strush up. He’ll be angrious if he knows we let him get away.’

  They placed the case on the stage by the feet of the tall woman wearing a black trouser suit and holding a baton.

  ‘Salix and Acer, keep watch at the door.’ Vainclaw’s voice continued barking out orders. ‘Do not touch any of the humans. It doesn’t take much to knock these feeble bipeds out of their stupors. Betula, stay by the case.’

  The Tree Dragons stood guard, Salix and Acer by the door, Buxus and Tilia on either side of the stage and Betula in front, sniffing at a girl in a black dress with one hand held to her mouth as if miming holding a microphone.