Boom!

8 Goodbye, Charlie

Charlie wasn’t at school. I’d taken an early bus and waited at the gates. Eight hundred pupils walked past me. But no Charlie. I stayed put till the bell went, then loped up to the main doors.

Perhaps he was ill. Perhaps he was pretending to be ill because he had some cunning plan to work on at home. There was obviously a rational explanation. I just didn’t know what it was yet.

Then the headmistress made an announcement during assembly and I knew that things were taking a serious turn for the worse.

After she’d told us about arrangements for the forthcoming sports day, Mrs Gupta tapped her on the shoulder and whispered something into her ear.

“Oh yes,” said the headmistress, “I nearly forgot to mention. Mrs Pearce and Mr Kidd are both off sick. Their classes will be taken by two very nice supply teachers, Mr Garrett and Miss Keynes.” She nodded towards the two new faces squeezed in at the end of the line of staff.

Something was badly wrong. It was too much of a coincidence. I tried to persuade myself that Charlie and his dad had solved the puzzle, that they’d gone to the police and that Mr Kidd and Mrs Pearce were already behind bars or heading for the nearest airport. But it didn’t seem very likely.

I couldn’t concentrate. I got a detention from Mr Kosinsky and another one from Mr Garrett and I simply didn’t care.

After lunch I faked a migraine and went to the sick bay. I was given two paracetamol and a mug of tea and groaned dramatically until they rang Dad and told him to come and pick me up.

I carried on groaning dramatically all the way home on the bus. When we reached the doors to the flats, however, I apologized to Dad, told him I’d explain everything later, ran to the bike sheds, undid my lock and broke some kind of land-speed record getting to Charlie’s house.

I went through their gate, hit the brakes, turned sideways and sprayed gravel all over Dr Brooks’s car. I dropped the bike, ran to the door and pressed the bell.

After a few seconds Mrs Brooks loomed up behind the frosted glass and the door swung open. She lunged towards me, shouting, “Where the hell have you been, you stupid, selfish, thoughtless little—” Then she stopped. “Oh, it’s you.”

Two hands appeared around Mrs Brooks’s shoulders and moved her gently to one side as if she were an unexploded bomb. The hands belonged to Dr Brooks.

“Jim,” he said, his face blank, “come inside and close the door.”

I stepped onto the mat and squeezed myself round Mrs Brooks, who was starting to cry. Dr Brooks chivvied me down the hall and into the living room.

“Where’s Charlie?” I asked.

“Charlie’s disappeared,” he said.

“What?” I tried to sound surprised.

“He went to bed last night. Usual time. He seemed, well, like he always does. But this morning…he simply wasn’t there.” He shook his head slowly. “We’ve got no idea where he’s gone.”

Out in the hall, I could hear Charlie’s mum wailing horribly.

“Look. You know Charlie. He gets into scrapes. He plays silly games. Do you have any idea where he might have gone?”

I took a deep breath. I was going to sound crazy. I was going to be in trouble. But now wasn’t the time to be worrying about that. “Charlie rang me last night,” I said. “He told me to come over. He had something important to tell me. I couldn’t come because Dad was cooking a big meal. It was about that code. Do you remember? Charlie said you’d solved the puzzle.”

“Yes,” said Dr Brooks. “Yes, we did. Sort of. But I thought that was just a game. Are you saying it has something to do with-?”

“What was the answer to the puzzle?” I asked. “He said you knew what Coruisk meant.”

He rubbed his face with his hands. “Coruisk. It’s a loch in Scotland. On the Isle of Skye. The numbers after it — the ones in brackets — they’re a grid reference. You know, so you can find the place on an Ordnance Survey map.” He paused. “You’re not seriously trying to tell me that he’s gone to Scotland?”

“Wait,” I said, holding my head. It was all falling into place. Mrs Pearce went on holiday to Scotland. She owned a book on Scottish castles. The map in the box of wristbands under the water tank — it was a map of Skye.

“Jim?” asked Dr Brooks.

“This is going to sound insane.”

“Go on,” he urged me.

“The code…”

“Yes?”

“It was someone’s secret. They didn’t want anyone to know about it.”

“Who, Jim? Who?”

“Mrs Pearce. Mr Kidd. The history teacher. The art teacher. They were up to something.”

“Jim, what the hell are you talking about?”

“I’m being serious. And they weren’t in school today.”

The doorbell rang.

“I’ll be back,” said Dr Brooks. “That will be the police.” He disappeared into the hallway.

They’d taken Charlie, I knew it. He’d used the wristband. The voice on the other end…They knew. He hadn’t behaved. He was facing the consequences.

I had to find him. And to find him I needed clues. I needed the notebook. And I couldn’t trust anyone. I skidded into the hallway and ran up the stairs. I reached Charlie’s room. I pulled out drawers. I yanked up the loose floorboard. I looked in the wardrobe.

I found them under the mattress. The orange Spudvetch! notebook and the brass wristband. I shoved them into my pocket.

I stood up and saw the robot piggy bank on the windowsill. I emptied the contents into my hand. Eight pounds sixty-five. I shoved it into my other pocket.

When I came back downstairs I saw Dr Brooks standing in the middle of the hallway talking to a large ginger-haired policeman.

The policeman looked up at me. “The doctor tells me you’re a friend of Charlie’s.”

“Yes,” I said.

“Well, perhaps you can help us,” he said, taking a small flip-top notepad out of his jacket pocket.

“Tell him what you told me,” said Dr Brooks. “That stuff about Mrs Pearce and whatsisname — the art teacher.”

The policeman’s eyebrows lifted. He stared at Dr Brooks. Then he stared at me. “That sounds interesting,” he said.

“Well,” I began, steeling myself to tell the crazy story all over again.

“I know what” — the policeman smiled — “why don’t I give you a lift home? You can tell me all about it on the way.”

Dr Brooks nodded to me and said, “It’s OK, Jim, you go with Inspector Hepplewhite. We’ll be all right here. Just ring and let us know if you remember anything.”

I was about to say that I had my bike in the drive when Inspector Hepplewhite reached out towards the doorknob. A moment sooner, a moment later and I wouldn’t have seen it. His cuff lifted slightly and there it was. Round his left wrist. A brass band.

“No,” I said, taking a step back up the stairs. “Thanks. But I’ll be fine.”

“We’ve got some important things to talk about.” The inspector began to chuckle in a way that was not very convincing. “And I’m going to be late for my tea in the canteen. Come on. I can drop you off in a jiffy.”

I looked towards Dr Brooks for help, but he didn’t know I needed help.

“I’d rather not,” I stammered.

The inspector walked over to me and I felt his hand around my arm. “If you know things that are significant, you should tell us. Withholding information is a very serious offence.”

I began to pull away, but his grip was like an anaconda’s. And all the time he was smiling a big, friendly policeman smile from the middle of his orange beard. If I didn’t think fast, I’d be in that car. Once I was in the car, he’d find the wristband and the notebook and the message. And I’d disappear, like Charlie. There would be no one to look for me. And there would be no clues left except the name of a Scottish loch.

“Fine,” I said. “I just need to go to the toilet first.”

“I’ll wait for you here,” said the inspector.

I walked into the kitchen. There was no back door. I climbed onto the sink and opened the window. I was stepping across the draining board when I kicked over a large casserole dish. I tried to grab it but I was too late. It hit the stone floor with a sound like a gong being struck.

Suddenly the inspector was at the door, yelling, “Hey! Get back in here!”

“Jim!” shouted Dr Brooks, in close pursuit. “What are you doing?”

I launched myself through the window to the sound of china shattering behind me. I hit the grass and rolled over, with knives, forks and spoons raining all over me.

I got up, sprinted round the corner of the house, mounted my bike, executed a neat skid round the inspector as he burst out of the front door, rode back over the lawn, then careered through the wooden gate into the park and off through the trees.

I sprinted up the steps of the library, leaving my bike unlocked. I leaped through the doors and aimed myself at the information desk. I was breathing so hard I couldn’t speak properly. “Isle of Skye. Ordnance Survey map. I need the Ordnance Survey map. Isle of Skye. In Scotland.”

“Thank you, I do know where the Isle of Skye is.” With agonizing slowness the librarian extracted a grimy white handkerchief from her pocket and blew her nose.

Then she repocketed the handkerchief. “If you’d like to follow me.”

Eventually we found ourselves in the map section. She led me to a shelf of pink spines. “Typical,” she tutted. “Everyone’s always taking them out and putting them back in the wrong order.”

I pulled a random map out and turned it over. On the rear was a diagram of the entire country divided into little squares. The Isle of Skye was covered by maps 23 and 32. I ran my finger along the pink spines.

The librarian found 32. I found 23.

“Can I take them out?” I asked, extracting map 32 from her hands.

“I’m sorry,” she said, “maps can’t be borrowed. You’ll have to read them here.”

It was not a day for worrying about fiddling details like library rules. I said, “My name is Barry Griffin. I go to St Thomas’s,” and sprinted for the exit.

Only when I reached the flats did I realize what a stupid idea it was, going home. Inspector Hepplewhite knew my address. And if he didn’t, Charlie’s father would tell him.

I overshot the car park, coming to a halt behind the garages. I got off my bike and poked my head round the corner. The car park was empty. The inspector had been and gone. Or hadn’t got here yet. Or simply assumed I wasn’t stupid enough to come back. My head reeled. If I was going to find Charlie, there was stuff I needed upstairs. I could be in and out in three minutes.

I decided to go for it. I ran across the vacant car park, banged through the swing doors and threw myself into the lift.

I let myself into the flat and shut the door firmly behind me.

I went into my bedroom. I emptied my own savings of nineteen pounds fifty-two from the cigar box and added them to Charlie’s money. I pulled the old tent and one of the sleeping bags down from the hall cupboard and stuffed them into my big sports holdall. I grabbed a change of clothes and went into the kitchen and started filling a Sainsbury’s bag with food: a loaf, a packet of biscuits, some of Dad’s leftovers and a box of Quality Street. I opened the wotsit drawer and took out a penknife, the first aid kit, a torch and a roll of string. I went back into my bedroom and found a compass.

As I was doing this, the brass wristband fell out of my pocket. I picked it up and looked at it. Was this how they’d found Charlie? Was it sending out some kind of homing signal? I had to get rid of it. Except that I couldn’t get rid of it. It was my one piece of proof, the one object I possessed which showed that I was not a deranged lunatic.

And then I remembered. Dad lost a plane last year. The park people put corrugated iron round the bandstand. The plane flew behind it, the radio contact cut out and it crashed into the boating lake. Radio signals couldn’t travel through metal. He proved it by putting the radio in the oven and making it go silent.

I grabbed the roll of cooking foil from under the sink, tore off a large square and wrapped the wristband in several layers before shoving it back in my pocket.

Only when I had finished did I stop and stand still and listen to the ticking of the clock and the buzzing of the refrigerator and realize that the flat was completely empty. No Dad. No Becky. Where were they?

I suddenly felt cold all over.