Class Act

by Debbie Thomas

  ‘Direct me where? If Alec’s parents and the gardaí don’t know where to look, how will we?’

  Dulcie yawned. ‘Let’s sleep on it. I’m sure we’ll come up with a plan.’

  You’d better, thought Brian, reaching for his pyjamas. Because when it came to detecting, he didn’t have a clue.

  CHAPTER 12

  NOT A TRACE

  Luckily Dulcie had enough ideas for both of them next morning. When Brian rubbed her awake on the pillow she was buzzing in her air bubble, thrilled to get her mandibles into a project.

  ‘We need to put out feelers,’ she said as he threw on his uniform.

  ‘I haven’t got any,’ he reminded her, buttoning up his shirt.

  She tutted. ‘How do you manage? Well then, I guess your eyes will have to do.’ Grudgingly she added, ‘I’ve noticed you don’t use yours too badly.’

  Brian blushed. It may not sound much of a compliment, but for someone who got an average of minus four a month, it was praise indeed.

  Luckily too, Dulcie’s mind was methodical. ‘Remember I spent my early days cleaning and tidying. Organisation is the key. We need an HQ for Operation Find-Alec.’

  Brian loved the idea of turning his bedroom into a command centre. He was Sherlock, he was Poirot, he was Double-O-Bunion. Pulling his tie rakishly to one side, he scanned the room. It needs to look more professional. He should lose that Star Wars cushion for starters, buy a fingerprint kit and replace the Doctor Who poster with a map to stick pins in, like they did in war films.

  But Dulcie would have none of it. ‘Use that brain of yours,’ she squeaked. ‘The first rule is secrecy. What if your dad comes in? We don’t want him nicking our clues, telling the gardaí so they can steal our glory.’

  Brian blinked in the mirror. ‘You really think we can beat the police?’

  ‘Course we can – because we’ve got a great big ace up our sleeve. School.’

  Brian could think of several words to describe school, but ace wasn’t one of them. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, where does Alec spend most of his time?’

  ‘Home. And school, I suppose.’

  ‘Exactly. We can’t go snooping round his house. But imagine if someone at school knows something … something they want to hide. You’re the perfect spy. Lurking in corridors, listening in the yard – easy as pie because, no offence, everyone ignores you.’

  A sour-sweet smile rose in Brian. Being invisible had its uses.

  With secrecy paramount, the command centre was downgraded from the bedroom to the back of the Doctor Who poster. And by the time Brian shoved it under the bed it was even less impressive.

  Questions

  Answers

  1. When did Alec disappear?

  Between Saturday night and Sunday afternoon

  2. Where?

  Dunno

  3. Why?

  No idea

  4. How?

  Haven’t a clue

  5. Who could be involved?

  Anyone

  6. Suspicious-looking characters

  Everyone

  ‘It’s a start,’ said Dulcie as they headed downstairs to breakfast. ‘Now keep your eyes skinned and your ears pinned back. Who knows what we’ll find at school?’

  Nothing, it turned out, except long faces and short fuses. The children huddled in jittery groups, speculating wildly.

  ‘Maybe Alec ran away.’

  ‘To join the circus.’

  ‘Maybe his nan took him to Barbados and forgot to say.’

  ‘Maybe he went to Hollywood,’ said Skinny Ginny, who dreamed of going herself, ‘to audition for the Muppet Hunger Games.’

  ‘Quiet!’ Florrie flew in. Her normally rock-hard hair stuck out in wispy tufts. ‘Not a peep from anyone today. Thanks to your parents I haven’t slept a wink.’ She clutched an imaginary phone to her ear. ‘What are you doing to protect my Barry, Mrs Florris?’ Broadbean blushed. ‘How do I know my Clodna’s safe?’ Clodna’s eyelids fluttered clumsily, like swing-bin lids in a breeze. ‘As I gently reminded them,’ the teacher snapped, ‘Alec went missing from home, not school.’ She glowered from the front desk. ‘I am fully confident he’ll be back before home time. And you are all perfectly safe.’

  Oh dear, Mrs Florris. Fail. And fail again. Because Alec was still missing when the last bell rang. And the next day there wasn’t a Trace.

  Everyone thought she was off sick. She’d been out of sorts for a few days, with all that yawning and gazing. And in the Land of Florrible, unwell was short for unwelcome because illness, of course, was another kind of failure. ‘Studies show that the common cold can lower your Maths score by twelve per cent,’ the teacher told them at least once a week. ‘A verruca can spoil your spelling – how do you spell verruca, Barry? … There is no record of Albert Einstein ever having piles.’

  So it wasn’t until ten past twelve, when her mum stuck her head round the door, that anyone thought twice about Tracy.

  ‘Sorry to disturb,’ said Sharlette Briquette. She came in holding a pink lunch box. ‘Tracy forgot her–’

  ‘Tracy?’ Mrs Florris’s eyebrows collided. ‘She isn’t in today.’

  Sharlette blinked slowly round the class. Her lashes could have swept the floor. ‘What do you mean? She left as usual this morning.’

  ‘What I mean,’ said the principal in a flat grey voice, ‘is that she isn’t. In. Today.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Sharlette’s voice was bright red.

  ‘Mrs Briquette. Your job is to know where the rain clouds are heading. My job is to know who’s in my class. And I can assure you that your daughter is not. Nor has she been all morning.’

  Sharlette ran a hand through hair the colour of Crunchie filling. ‘So where is she?’

  Not in the corridor. Not in the hall. Not in the staff room or the secretary’s office. The cloakrooms were empty and the other classrooms full – of children who weren’t Tracy.

  When Florrie went out with Sharlette to phone the police, the class sat strangely still and silent.

  The principal came back alone. ‘The gardaí have advised us to close the school today.’ For once her voice was soft. ‘The secretary is texting all parents to collect you at lunch time. Those of you with mobiles, please call them now. Those of you without can use the office phone.’

  It was the ‘Please’ that did it. Florrie never said please.

  Nobody spoke. But everyone knew. There were two missing children now.

  Brian joined the queue for the office phone. When he rang home there was no answer. He left a message on the answerphone.

  ‘No one’s to leave until their mother or father arrives,’ said Mrs Florris as the bell rang for lunch.

  It was chaos at the gate: parents jostling, children shoving, hands held and hugs hugged. But there was no sign of Bernard O’Bunion. Despite the teachers’ efforts to fasten every child to its parent, Brian managed to slip through the crowd and out the gate.

  Trust Dad. He stomped along the pavement. The only no-show. He dodged a car door that swung open across his path.

  ‘Watch it!’ yelled Mrs Budget, a small but mighty woman, bundling Gary into the back seat. Scowling at Brian, she slammed the door.

  ‘Thanks for the lift,’ muttered Brian. How dare Dad not come! He kicked a pebble into the road. He got the text like everyone else. He strode down High Street, past the library – even the lawn looked anxious today – past the bank and the shoe shop, too furious to worry about being kidnapped by any pedestrians disguised as old ladies or pigeons.

  Reaching Smile-in-the-Aisle, he stopped. Why should I go home? Why not let Dad wonder, just for a bit, where he was, and whether he could have disappeared too? Serve him right. With a rush of hot triumph, Brian marched into the supermarket.

  But Alf wasn’t there: not at the till annoying customers, nor stacking shelves or sweeping the floor.

  ‘Called in sick,’ snapped Anemia Pickles from her till. ‘I mean, fanks a mil.’ She che
wed her gum like a lion chews a zebra. ‘I’m on me own ’ere.’

  Brian nodded and turned. Perfect. He’d spend a few hours at Alf’s house and, oh dear, forget to tell Dad. That would give him a kick in the parentings.

  CHAPTER 13

  NIBBLES AND TROUBLES

  Brian knocked three times on Alf’s door, shiny and red except for pale streaks where the paint had scabbed off. No answer. He knocked again. At the ninth knock, when he was just deciding that the human race had its limits, there was the sound of slow footsteps. The door opened a crack. A white face peered round. White as paper. White as snow. White as flour – because that’s what it was. Alf’s face and hands were covered.

  ‘Aye Aye, Cap’n’. His salute sent a cloud into the air.

  ‘Are you baking?’ said Brian. ‘Anemia told me you were sick.’

  Alf smiled sadly. Little cracks appeared in his white lips. ‘Baking, yes. Sick … in a way.’ His mouth twisted oddly. ‘Don’t want you catching it. See you soon, Cap’n.’ He pushed the door.

  ‘No!’ Brian stuck his foot in the way. ‘Please let me in.’

  ‘I can’t.’ An astonishing tear snaked down Alf’s white cheek.

  ‘Why not?’ Brian pushed his foot against the door.

  Alf looked up and down the street. Flour sailed off his forehead. ‘Just for a minute then.’

  Mystified, Brian followed him down the narrow hall to the kitchen.

  Alf had indeed been baking. There was flour on the table, the chairs and the floor. The kettle and stove had a sprinkling. A sweet cushiony smell filled the air.

  ‘Hang on.’ Wiping his cheek with a sleeve, Alf took a tea towel and crouched by the oven. He opened the door and brought out a tray of scones, lumpy and golden like rocky suns. ‘Nothing beats a nibble when you’re in a bit of trouble.’ He slid a knife under each scone and lifted them, one by one, onto a cooling rack on the counter.

  Brian sat at the table. ‘What trouble?’ He’d never seen Alf sad, let alone tearful.

  The old man brought out two plates and knives, a saucer with butter and a pot of honey. He sat down heavily opposite Brian. ‘Sergeant Poggarty came round. Said he had a few questions. Said …’ he picked up a knife and put it down again, ‘I was seen chatting to Tracy in the shop. And Alec too, last week. And that someone heard me inviting you over. That it was just a formality but–’

  ‘But because you’re kind to children you must be a kidnapper!’

  ‘No no. Well, not in so many words.’ A tear plopped onto the table.

  ‘Outrageous!’ Brian smacked his hand down. A knife bounced in alarm. ‘How dare anyone suspect you! I’ll go and tell them you’d never, ever–’

  ‘No.’ Alf raised a hand. ‘As I say, it was a formality. I’m sure the gardaí are talking to everyone. Just a bit upsetting, that’s all. But nothing compared to what Tracy and Alec’s families must be going through.’ He shook his head. ‘Lord help ’em.’ Pushing his chair back, he stood up and shuffled over to the counter. He put the scones on a plate and brought it to the table. ‘There you go, Cap’n.’

  Brian sliced his scone and plastered each half with butter. He spread honey on top and took an angry bite.

  Alf was right: a nibble was good for trouble. The fluffy warmth soothed his indignation. Sergeant Poggarty was only doing his job. But Alf of all people! He was part of the furniture, safe as the sofa in Tullybun library. The gardaí must be desperate. Two disappearances and no one seemed to have a clue.

  Except. Brian took another bite. Could two disappearances be a clue in itself?

  Alf buttered his scone slowly, covering every golden ridge and dip. ‘No one’s ever vanished from the village as far as I can remember. And that’s pretty far.’

  Brian finished his scone. Tracy and Alec. Why them? It’s not as if they’re friends. He licked the last honey off his knife.

  Alf smiled. ‘I feel better for talking. Thanks for your kindness, Cap’n.’ Bits of scone were stuck between his teeth. He loosened them with his tongue. ‘They should teach it in school. More use than long division.’

  Brian snorted, imagining Florrie. ‘Did you just share your Lion Bar, Brian? A+ for being a pet.’

  Pet? Brian’s fingers tightened round the knife. That’s it. Alec and Tracy may not be friends, but they did have something – or rather someone – in common.

  Surely not. A terrible thought danced through his mind. So terribly terrible – and deliciously delicious – that he couldn’t possibly share it with another being until he was sure. Not a human one, at least. He fingered his earring. ‘I’d better get going,’ he said. ‘Dad’ll be wondering where I am.’ As if. ‘Thanks for the scone.’

  At the front door Alf scanned the street. ‘Don’t tell anyone you came round. It wouldn’t look good right now.’ He patted Brian’s shoulder. ‘Glad you did, though. As they say, a snack shared is a problem halved.’

  Brian had never heard that one. And far from halving, the problem had multiplied into something far more thrilling.

  He walked down the road. After a few paces he turned to check that Alf had closed the door. Then he rubbed his ear with his sleeve. ‘It’s obvious!’ he hissed.

  ‘What is?’

  But before Brian could explain, Mrs Alveola Fripp turned into the street. The founder of the ‘Tullybun Says No to Gum’ campaign was on her daily round, unsticking grey blobs from fences and pavements and fixing them to her forehead, in order to remind villagers that ‘Chewing gum is the acne on the face of the earth’. Catching sight of Brian, she nodded in greeting. A blob dropped from her brow. As she bent down to retrieve it, he hurried past.

  Arriving home breathlessly, he unlocked the front door and went upstairs.

  ‘Brian?’ Dad called from the kitchen. ‘Did school finish early?’

  Brian stopped on the landing. ‘You didn’t get my message then.’

  ‘No. What happened?’ Dad came to the bottom of the stairs. ‘How awful,’ he said when Brian told him about Tracy. ‘Two children missing.’ He put a hand to his cheek. ‘What’s going on?’ He began to climb the stairs. ‘Brian, be careful. I can’t bear to think of–’

  ‘There was a text too.’ Brian’s voice was icy. ‘You were supposed to collect me from school.’

  ‘I was?’ Dad stopped on the third stair. ‘I – I’m sorry.’ He laid his hand on the banister. ‘I was in the workshop. I left my phone in the house.’ His eyes were bright with a focus they’d lacked for months, as if he’d woken from a long sleep.

  Brian held his gaze. This was the bit where Dad would say, ‘I forgive you for what happened, Brian. Let’s move on.’ You could almost hear the violins.

  A funny little muscle moved in Dad’s cheek. ‘You’re not to walk anywhere alone. I’ll drive you to school.’ The light went off in his eyes. He turned down the stairs.

  Brian marched into his bedroom and slammed the door. ‘Why can’t he talk to me?’ he said, rubbing his earring roughly.

  ‘You weren’t exactly Mr Let’s-Be-Friends,’ said Dulcie. ‘And stop rubbing so hard. You’re giving me the jitters. Now tell me what’s so obvious.’

  Brian’s anger gave way to excitement. He kneeled by the bed and pulled out the Doctor Who poster. ‘Mrs Florris,’ he said, pointing to questions 5 and 6 on the list.

  ‘That hideous old hornet – what about her?’

  ‘She’s the link between Alec and Tracy. I mean, they’re both teacher’s pets.’

  Dulcie’s wings fluttered irritably. ‘You’re saying she likes them so much she kidnapped them? Funny way to show you care.’

  Brian frowned. He hadn’t thought of that. He’d so wanted Florrie to be the villain, he hadn’t been thinking straight. His shoulders sank. The excitement leaked out of him.

  Almost. Something still glimmered inside, the ember of a thought that refused to die, that smouldered and glowed and sprang into flame.

  ‘Oh!’ He clapped a hand to his mouth. ‘You don’t think–’

 
‘I certainly do. All the time. Not much else to do in here.’

  ‘No, I mean, you don’t think that …’ Brian jumped up. ‘Come on!’ With shaking hands he pulled off his shoes, praying that Dad had gone back to the workshop. He mustn’t hear a thing; he wouldn’t let Brian out alone now, and there was no time to explain.

  He crept downstairs, carrying his shoes, and out the front door. Slipping them back on, he ran down Hercules Drive.

  ‘Blinking buddleia,’ gasped Dulcie as he panted out his fear. ‘I see what you mean. Quick!’

  He was. But it still took ten minutes to get to Hannibal Crescent. He turned into Caesar Close.

  He stopped dead. I’m too late. His insides collapsed like wet sand.

  A garda car was parked by the kerb outside Number Twelve. Two neighbours stood on the pavement. Their arms and faces were folded tight. Brian recognised old Mr McDooly, the greengrocer, and tiny Mrs Mallows.

  Drooly McDooly waved across at Brian. ‘Hey, lad, what are you doing here?’ His bald head glowed like an onion in the evening light. ‘You shouldn’t be out alone.’ Brian didn’t move.

  ‘Another one gone,’ said Fontania Mallows. The president of the Tullybun Nitting Circle, a group of retired women who met every Tuesday to teach head lice to circle dance, pressed her hands to her cheeks.

  Brian stopped himself from blurting out, ‘I know.’ Instead he managed, ‘When?’

  ‘Lunch time. His mum was waiting at the gate but he never came. The principal rang the guards.’

  That rules Florrie out, thought Brian. Why would you abduct a pupil then phone the police?

  ‘How do you know all this, Fontania?’ Mr McDooly looked impressed.

  ‘I was, er, watering the roses. I heard Sandra Nimby over the wall. One tries not to listen but –’ she tutted sympathetically, ‘she was slightly hysterical.’

  How can you be slightly hysterical? wondered Brian grimly.

  Not that it mattered. The point was that if he’d been smarter, thought faster, had a bigger brain, he could have stopped the disappearance of Unbeatable Pete.