The Time-Thief
Page 15
‘I’m not in the vibe but Leaps can hang if they like.’
‘Sure will,’ says GMT. ‘Catch you by the green stage at midnight.’
‘Midnight’s too late. You don’t wanna miss countdown. Five to.’
‘OK, guys. You gonna take Francis?’
‘No probs. What about you, big bro?’
Big Ben smiles. ‘I like it here.’
‘Laters, then,’ says MC2 and off they go.
I love spending time in the Daisy-Chain. I get to relax and a free 1968 audio cassette from Zilla who promises to get me a machine to play it on when I get home, via GMT. That’s a kind thing to do. GMT gets to chat with her friends. Big Ben seems to like Zilla, who has a habit of flicking her extremely long hair over her shoulder. Big Ben seems mesmerised by the action but suddenly turns to me looking excited.
‘Mr Johnson leans his head like the thief in the video.’
‘Well spotted, BB. But I don’t think he’s the thief. He’s too large!’
We both smile. It’s just as well we’re having downtime now: it prepares us for what happens next.
‘10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1,’ chant the crowd. ‘ZERO!’
Wednesday the 2nd of September becomes Thursday the 14th!
There are loud bangs like gunshots and 11 missiles shoot into the sky, exploding into bright white light and so much smoke you could see it on the south coast! Then they change colour to red and green. Fireworks but not as I know them. At the same time, they ramp up the classical music. I fumble in my bag for the ear defenders. I LOVE the visuals but have never been great with loud, sudden noises. The music’s uplifting though; it holds onto your heart and makes it thump with joy.
With each set of explosions, the displays become more spectacular. Then I realise they’re fireworks through the ages. The final ones scrawl a message in the sky in sparkly silver writing: 1752. The year itself explodes and eleven dates fall through the sky in old-fashioned, spiky handwriting, September the 3rd to September the 13th. Dates that will never exist!
The crowd cheers so loud, I’m thankful for my ear defenders. Then I hear a low, familiar whirring noise that increases in intensity. It can’t be. It IS! A flying car display, 11 bright-green futuristic mean machines glowing in the night sky. They duck and dive in perfect formation and I have to look away, remembering what it felt like flying in Portia’s Lamborghini. Just watching makes me want to throw up. But I wonder if Season’s Ferrari Forever is up there? It would be great to catch up with her again. Big Ben’s whooping and Francis is jumping for joy. It’s the best thing he’s EVER seen.
MC2 guides us to the far side of the field to an open stage that looks like wooden crates squashed together. A dense crowd has gathered but we manage to weave our way in. I take deep breaths to keep calm. I don’t mind standing in crowds but always feel panicked moving through them. A man in a top hat is blocking my view. When I move to see better, I accidentally disturb him and he turns round to glare at me. I jump. He looks like an older version of The Grandfather! But he turns back round again so he can’t be. I relax but can’t help checking the crowd for purple hoodies. I’m still wondering about the hooded figure I saw earlier. And New Meg’s warning.
Einstein is the stage host. He’s a friend of MC2, a muscular black teen wearing a lime-green tracksuit and bright white trainers.
‘Next up,’ he says, in a deep, breathless voice, ‘the best act you NEVER saw! Give it up for M C SQUARED.’
I gasp when I see who comes onto the stage. This is MC2 but not the one we know; it’s a younger version with shorter funky dreads, blinking so much with nerves we can barely see his eyes. He walks to the centre of the stage, disappears and reappears on the spot. That’s his speciality. The crowd cheers. Next, he does it across the stage and back again. The cheering gets louder. Then, he disappears for several seconds and reappears in the audience and the crowd start shouting and swearing with over-excitement. My ear defenders aren’t sophisticated enough to block out the cursing. I turn to the older MC2 beside me.
‘What happens next? Do you do any—?’
‘Awesome!’ says a familiar voice behind me.
I freeze, not because it’s someone bad but at the unexpected surprise. Without thinking, everyone closes in around Francis to protect him. But it’s Portia. Of course she’d be here; music’s her thing. She’s dressed in a silver sequinned tracksuit, her peacock hair a bit less spiky than usual.
‘How long have you been here?’ I say.
‘Not long enough. Elle, I’ve come to warn you. Meridian, The Grandfather and Millennia had a Meeting of the Elders. Something’s going to happen but I don’t know what.’
Big Ben shakes his head. ‘Not logical. How do you know if you weren’t there? And how did you know we’re here?’
‘I can’t explain! Just that Elle has to leap back to 2021 and . . .’ her voice quivers ‘. . . stop celebrating non-events in leap years!’
What she just said reminds me of something. I have a sense of déjà vu. I wish I knew what it was. The crowd cheer MC2 for his freestyle rap.
‘It’s not a non-event, it’s the 11-day leap,’ says Big Ben
and I say, ‘Can’t I stay to the end of the Carnival?’
at exactly the same time.
Portia shakes her head. ‘This isn’t the time for debate. You can’t take on the bad guys alone.’ She glances to her right. ‘Look! You can’t hide under tables forever; you need an inside ally. I’m working for them but I’m on YOUR side.’
I frown. ‘Like a double agent?’
‘Yes. And I KNOW you’re in danger. Trust me.’
I trust her. She’s the opposite of a backfriend. But she could be mistaken about me being in danger tonight.
‘Prove it,’ says Big Ben.
‘On our right are two hooded figures. I saw them prowling outside Mr Johnson’s house earlier. They arrived here just after you.’
My heart sinks. That fits with the figure I saw through the kitchen window. Without moving my head, I look to my right and she’s right. Two hooded figures at the edge of the crowd are staring straight at us.
‘What’s happening?’
‘I don’t know but it doesn’t look good. Leap with me, Elle. The others can look after your young friend.’
‘I’m coming too!’ says Big Ben.
‘OK. But only you. We need to get out of the crowd to form a Chrono. Leave now, to our left!’
No time to say goodbye to anyone. We weave our way through brightly dressed revellers until we’re at the edge of the crowd. I try not to see if the hooded figures have moved. We hold hands and concentrate. Portia directs.
‘Destination, the Music, Maths and Music entrance; date, Friday 25 June.’
‘What ti—’
The word freezes in my throat and my whole body suddenly feels cold. I’m dwarfed by a tall, hooded shadow on my right-hand side, feel a heavy hand on my shoulder as an identical shadow towers over my left.
‘Elle Bíbi Imbelé Ifíè,’ says a deep, robotic voice. ‘We of the Bissextile Investigation Division arrest you for the theft of the Infinity-Glass on Monday the 21st of June 2021 at 9:21.22. Anything you say may be taken as evidence against you . . .’
Chapter 22:00
THIEF-TAKING
I’m sitting at a table in a square white room with no windows.
There’s a glass of water in front of me, untouched. Opposite me is the interrogator, a mixed-race woman wearing a white shirt and dark-brown trousers. Her hair’s in long braids, parted down the middle. It’s her job to ask me questions.
‘Don’t worry, Elle,’ she says. ‘We haven’t told your Grandma. Mrs C Eckler is on her way.’
I nod. I was worried if they told Grandma I’d been arrested she’d have a heart attack. Luckily, they brought me back to 6 p.m. on Friday 25th of June, so Grandma’s still at her cleaning job.
‘Are you hungry? I could get you a sandwich or some soup.’
I shake my head.
Didn’t Portia say something about kids who know too much?
Didn’t she say, ‘Stop celebrating non-events in leap years’?
I know too much.
And now, everything I know makes sense.
I know who stole the Glass from Mr Johnson’s house; I know who stole it from the museum; and I know where it is now!
‘Elle, in your own time, tell us what happened at the museum on Monday the 21st of June.’
There’s a knock on the door and a male officer appears followed by Mrs C Eckler wearing a 1950s dress with purple flowers on it. Her ginger hair is slipping out of its bun and she looks upset but her voice is calm.
‘Elle,’ she says, ‘I know you’re innocent.’
But how can she know? She’s not me. She doesn’t live in my skin.
Mrs C Eckler might not know what it feels like to BE me but she knows me well. She knows that in the past few months, when I haven’t been able to speak, I have been able to write.
The only way to record my story is for me to type it. It’s going to be difficult; when your friends are also your enemies, it’s a no-win situation. But I have to tell the truth. I can’t let them know all the stuff about The Vicious Circle because they could give me two extra charges for breaking and entering but the first time was by mistake and the second was to get the hourglass back to Francis. Anyway, I don’t have enough evidence against them. Not yet. But I can tell the police enough to solve both thefts of the Glass, the 1752 and the 2021. Now I know the truth: there were two thefts; there were also two thieves!
The interrogator finishes reading my statement and raises her eyebrows.
‘Thank you, Elle,’ she says. ‘You’re a very brave girl.’
She taps into her phone and a minute later, there’s another knock on the door. Two female officers this time. The taller one smiles at me.
‘Elle. We are pleased to say that your typed statement matches that of an independent witness. There has been a confession. You are free to go!’
It takes a few moments for me to process what’s just happened.
Someone’s confessed.
Grandma won’t have a heart attack.
Mrs C Eckler can drive me home in her bright red Audi Ur-Quattro.
I raise the glass of water to my lips and drink. It’s ice-cold, exactly what I need.
‘Before you go, Elle, we need to discuss your role at the private view tomorrow afternoon at the museum. We need you to remain on the itinerary as planned, to read your poem. However we would like you to help us secure essential evidence instead. But only if you feel comfortable.’
‘What do I have to do?’ My voice has come back. It sounds hollow in this white-walled room.
‘Read your typed statement with a few additions and alterations. One of the thieves has confessed but they weren’t working alone. We’d like you to help us catch the second and find the Infinity-Glass.’
‘OK,’ I say. ‘But what if it doesn’t work?’
‘We have a Plan B. Elle, you’ve been through a lot and helped us solve the crime. If you are unable to speak, we fully understand.’
I take a deep breath. ‘I WANT to speak,’ I say. ‘It’s the right thing to do.’
The private view’s taking place in The Present Gallery at the Museum of the Past, the Present and the Future. It’s a large white square room full of Anno’s Olympic sculptures. My favourites are the sprinter on the start line, the shot putter mid-turn with one foot off the ground and the Paralympic high-jumper, suspended mid-air just after take-off. There’s a large TV screen on one of the walls and a black glossy lectern in front of it.
The room’s buzzing with people in posh clothes. Anno’s wearing a full-length dress that looks entirely made out of litter and her hair’s sculpted like the Leaning Tower of Pisa. I can’t take my eyes off it. She smiles at me as I walk past and says what sounds like, ‘Something to finally something your poem,’ but it’s too noisy to catch it in full. Anon wears a long pale pink silk dress with a matching walking stick and glasses; and even Nona, Evil Nine, looks smart in a dark blue trouser suit. There are lots of official gallery people, two men in wigs who look like they’ve leapt straight from 1752 and a frowning boy in a tall top hat. Would you believe, The Grandfather! He gives me the cat’s eye and I look away. I’m amazed he has the nerve to attend this event, pretending to be a respectable citizen. And some of the guests are plain-clothes police from the Bissextile Investigation Division but I’m not sure which ones!
Mrs C Eckler comes over to me. ‘Are you still OK to read?’
‘Yes,’ I say.
‘Your friends are here!’
She points to the entrance: Big Ben, GMT, Kwesi and MC2 wave and come over.
‘Mrs C Eckler filled us in,’ says MC2. ‘You OK, Elle? Ain’t no joke bein’ arrested.’
Big Ben squeezes my hand. I can see he’s barely slept. He must have been so worried about me.
‘I’m supposed to read my poem,’ I say, then lower my voice, ‘but I’m going to talk about the Infinity-Glass instead.’
Someone clinks a glass and the room goes silent. The older wigged man addresses us from the lectern.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, poets and artists, I am Mr Coffer, founder of the Museum of the Past, the Present and the Future. We are gathered here today to launch On Your Marks, Set, Gone! by celebrated artist and sculptor, co-founder of the Music, Maths and Movement School, Director of Movement: Anno. The sculptures that surround us are exquisite but might I say, Anno, that your flamboyant attire is a work of art in itself.’
He gives a low bow and Anno bows back. I worry her Leaning Tower of Pisa hairdo will collapse and she’ll look like GMT when she hasn’t combed her hair. But it doesn’t. I try to concentrate on her litter dress, looking at it out of the corner of my eye, but it’s no good. I can only concentrate on the task ahead. My speech.
Butterflies lurch in my stomach. As his introduction continues, words like ‘absence’ and ‘non-existent dates’ stand out in his speech. I see Portia slip into the room, wearing a slate-grey tracksuit. She nods at me, gives me a knowing wink and I nod back. Suddenly, I feel nauseous with nerves. Deep breaths, I tell myself. If you can break into The Vicious Circle and cope with the smell in 1752, you can do this. You can do it, Elle!
‘. . . To open proceedings, I would like to welcome Elle Ifíè, who will read her poem inspired by the Infinity-Glass.’
My heart almost leaps out of my chest but I somehow manage to reach the front of the room. My hand’s shaking so much, the piece of paper I’m holding makes more noise than my voice.
‘I was going to read my poem about the Infinity-Glass,’ I pause. ‘But I thought I’d talk about the Glass instead.’
There’s some background murmuring and a note of surprise but I take a deep breath and continue.
‘On Monday it was stolen from the 1752 Gallery during my school trip. That evening, I leapt back in time to try to catch the thief and get it back. I failed. But I know who the thief is.’
‘Then name the culprit!’ says Mr Coffer.
‘The thief is the same size as me and is familiar with the school track at Intercalary International. They also have a habit of tilting their head to one side before they leap. Like you do, Portia!’
‘You don’t have enough evidence,’ says Portia. ‘Leaplings can easily look up information about your school. And lots of people tilt their heads. Doesn’t make them guilty.’
‘We have more evidence, from your own lips.’
There’s a hush in the room now and everybody looks at Portia. Everyone except me. I can’t look at her; it would be too painful. Even though she confessed to the police, even though this was planned, it’s still horrible accusing a friend in public. I take another deep breath.
‘But now I wan
t to talk about the second theft. I met the original owner of the Glass in 1752: Francis Barber, servant to Dr Johnson, the famous lexicographer.’
Several people in the room gasp. Not everyone knew the history until now.
‘I was there just after the original Glass was stolen. The witness said the thief was a woman wearing a fine silk gown and carrying a stick, who disappeared into thin air. The description exactly fits Anon.’
Anon shakes her head. ‘How dare you make this wicked allegation against me! I suspect Mistress Anna is behind this.’
‘But something didn’t fit. Another witness, Old Meg, described the thief as being in such a hurry that morning, she didn’t say “how do you do?” or give her coins like she had the day before. And Francis himself said the woman who was constantly asking him about timepieces showed “no desire to greet the Master”. Yet Anon is a close friend of Mr Johnson. She loves visiting him. What if it wasn’t Anon but someone PRETENDING to be her?
‘Portia would be in the ideal position to copy her aunt’s speech but she wouldn’t be able to fool Mr Johnson. Unfriendly behaviour gave her away.’
‘So you’re accusing me of BOTH thefts?’ says Portia. ‘What evidence have you got that I stole from Mr Johnson’s house?’
‘These,’ I say, showing the sweet wrappers. ‘Dropped just outside the candle cupboard. Which reminded me of the sculptures you’re working on. Identical sweet wrappers. Whoever stole the Glass had likely leapt from the Art Department at the Music, Maths and Movement School.
‘The original Glass was returned to Francis. But the ancient Infinity-Glass is still missing. Or is it? Ladies and gentlemen, I know where the Glass is!’
The low rumble of chat whilst I’ve been speaking stops. Everyone looks at everyone else. Mr Coffer has gone red in the face, ready to explode. He can’t cope with the anticipation.
‘Elle, in the name of God, discover it!’
‘It’s in a safe place where no one visits, in a year no one wants to leap to.’