‘I don’t know. Bill?’
‘Bill?’
I shrugged. ‘Jack?’
Lewis stopped smiling. ‘No, Jack’s my grandpa. And – hang on, the man told you his name?’
‘Stop flapping.’
‘Did you tell him your name?’
I looked down at my lunch box. I put the lid carefully on the top and squeezed it till it clicked.
He gasped. ‘Fi-on-a!’
‘Fi.’
‘Fi! You’re playing with fire! Don’t talk to him again. Promise me you won’t.’
I looked down and pretended to brush a bit of dust off my skirt. ‘I’m positive I won’t talk to him again.’
‘Not positive. Promise?’
I took breath. ‘Promise.’
The thing is, if you’re already really bad, there’s not much lower you can go.
But Lewis had scared me. I pretended I needed to speak to Dr Sharma, and went to look at the encyclopaedias in the school library. I needed something better than a Scrabble dictionary to investigate what the writing on the flyer had been on about.
In the library, I got the R edition of the encyclopaedia from the shelf and carried it to one of the big tables in the middle of the room. I put it down with a thud and found the right page.
A registrar is an official keeper of records made in a register. The term may refer to (see specific sections below):
Education
Government records
Medicine . . .
There were loads of sections.
Not all spying is fun.
After what felt like hours, something under Government Records caught my attention.
The General Register Office or General Registry Office is the name given to the government agency responsible for recording vital records such as marriages, births and deaths, and items related to property transactions. Marriage, birth and death certificates are issued . . .
I stared. Death certificates.
I pulled the crumpled fair flyer out of my pocket.
registrar – death cert
will
account numbers
Registrar – death certIFICATE.
I shoved the encyclopaedia back onto the shelf and crumpled the flyer up in one hand.
I could see it now, as clear as anything. Carl had been on the phone to someone about paperwork. Stuff to do with his mum dying, not Danielle. And he jotted down notes on the nearest piece of paper – which happened to be a flyer that had come through the door – a fair flyer. Something that he thought was junk.
That list had nothing to do with certain death. Or the fair. Or Danielle.
Which meant Carl had nothing to do with Danielle’s death. There was no reason to link them at all.
The bell rang and I picked up my rucksack. I pushed the crumpled flyer into the library bin.
If my investigations had been a game, I would have just bumped back down a long snake. I was nearly back where I’d started.
I had two weeks to go. Two weeks. And, now Carl had turned out to be a red herring, I only had one lead. The article on the microfiche at the library. The only clue I had left.
By Adrian Sykes.
25
Sometimes my parents say they’ve done something for my benefit but it actually makes my life worse.
(paradox)
Thirteen days to the fair
The next morning, Saturday, I knew Mum was out on lessons. I stood on the stairs, planning to make a dash for the phonebook while Dad wasn’t looking.
Happily, Dad was distracted. His quiz show application form had arrived, and he was filling it out at the peninsula.
Dad saw me on the stairs. ‘Fi, look at this!’ He waved me over. ‘What’s the capital of Italy, see? Twenty grand top prize, and these are the questions!’
I smiled and pulled the kitchen door closed between us. I grabbed the phonebook and ran upstairs.
I knew I was born unlucky as well as bad. Get this.
There were twenty-three A Sykes in the local phonebook, and none of them might be Adrian Sykes the reporter.
I called the first number and a woman answered. ‘Five one two eight three nine.’
I coughed. ‘Can I speak to Adrian?’
‘Who is this?’ The woman sounded like she was eating crisps.
‘Fiona Larson.’ I wanted to be eating crisps.
‘Fiona who?’
‘Larson. L-A-R-S-O-N.’
Crisp crunch, crisp crunch. ‘How old are you?’
‘Twelve this month.’
‘And you want to speak to who?’
‘Adrian.’ I drummed my pen on my bedside table. ‘A-D-R-I-A-N.’
The woman chuckled. ‘But there’s no Adrian here, pet!’ Crisp crunch.
I put the phone down and tried the next one.
An old lady answered. ‘Hello?’
‘Can I speak to Adrian please?’
‘Adrian who?’
How many Adrians did this woman have living with her? ‘Adrian Sykes.’
‘Wrong number. You’ve got me out of the garden for nothing!’
The dial tone told me she’d hung up, just like that. Rude for an old lady, I thought.
It went on like this. Eleven more wrong numbers. Eleven more people who couldn’t hear me properly, or asked me to repeat myself, or talked down to me, like the man who said, in a slow careful voice, ‘Can’t your mum help you make calls so you get the right number?’ – like he couldn’t tell the difference between a little kid and someone who was nearly twelve.
The fourteenth call took ages.
‘What number did you ring?’ This woman sounded like she had a cold.
‘It doesn’t matter because it’s not you, is it? Sorry for bothering you.’
‘But what number did you ring?’
I checked the phonebook and said the number again.
‘That’s the right number, but there’s no Adrian here.’
I raised my gaze to the ceiling.
It’s like, the more time I spend dealing with adults, I’m not sure they’re the geniuses we’re always told.
‘Thanks,’ I said.
‘Where did you get my number from? I’m wondering if someone’s registered it incorrectly in a phonebook and I’m going to start getting lots of calls, or—’
I decided to act like the rude old lady earlier, and hung up. I never usually do that, but this woman wouldn’t stop.
I dialled the fifteenth number. ‘Can I speak to Adrian?’
‘I’ll just get him.’ A friendly female voice. ‘Who is it?’
I panicked. ‘Fiona. Fiona Larson.’
‘Hang on.’ There was the clunk of the woman putting the phone down on something. ‘Adrian!’
More muffled clunking as the phone was handed over.
‘Hello?’ A man’s voice.
‘Adrian Sykes?’
His voice sounded crinkly. ‘Speaking.’
‘You are a reporter on the Monkford and District Advertiser?’
A pause. ‘It’s been a while. Who is this?’
He didn’t sound like a scary wall-of-ham man. ‘Fiona Larson.’
‘Right. And you are. . .?’ He sounded quite nice, actually. Like a nice old grandpa.
‘Someone looking for some information. You wrote an article about my sister in 1982 and I found the article on the microfiche at the library.’
‘1982!’ There was laughter in his voice. ‘Well, now.’
I pressed the phone hard against my ear. ‘She died. At the fair. And I want to know how she died. Danielle Larson in 1982. She was eleven. Can you tell me?’
When he didn’t answer straight away, I added, ‘Please?’
There was quiet for a
minute.
‘You’re Fiona, you said?’
Fi. But, ‘Yes.’
‘How old are you, Fiona?’
‘Twelve in August.’
‘Do your parents know you’re calling?’
‘I don’t want to bother them,’ I said. ‘They’re busy.’
‘Love. Some advice. If you want to know more about your sister’s death – and I was very sorry to hear about it, by the way – your mum and dad are the ones to ask.’
‘They won’t talk about it.’
He didn’t say anything.
‘And seeing as you’re on the phone now, Mr Sykes, and I’ve already got you up from whatever you were doing . . . it will only take a second. Could you tell me how she died? I definitely won’t ask any more questions afterwards.’
The line was quiet. My ear ached where I pressed the phone against my head, and I moved it further away.
That was better.
‘Fiona, I couldn’t tell you if I wanted to. I wrote a lot of articles for that paper. Thousands. I was a news reporter. And it was a long time ago.’
‘But she died. You’d remember a girl who died.’
‘I’m sorry, love. When you work on a local paper – a lot of people die.’
‘But she was eleven. People don’t die at eleven. You’d remember that.’
He said nothing.
‘You said she was perfect.’ I realised I was pressing the phone hard into my head again. ‘You said my parents were devastated. You said she was active in the RSPB, and she was dead when the paramedics arrived. Danielle Larson. Blonde hair. Smiley. Tall for an eleven-year-old. Pretty as a picture. You must remember! Surely no one else has ever died at the fair?’
He still didn’t reply.
‘Are you still there?’
‘I don’t know what to say to you, Fiona.’
‘Is there any way you can find out?’
‘I retired, love. Five years ago.’
‘But do you still know some people at the paper? Do you have your own records or—’
‘I’m sorry. I’m going now.’
I switched the phone off. I looked at the address of the number I’d dialled. 23 Chestnut Walk.
I closed the phonebook and I sat there on my bed, for a very long time. I didn’t even hear Dad come up the stairs, till he was in my doorway.
‘Come to the shops with me, Fi. Let’s go and get something interesting for dinner.’
It was a shame, I decided, that if you wanted to have your secret pocket, you needed to wear a coat.
Because today, the sun had fully got his hat on, as the song went – and now everyone was smiley and other people were all hip hip hooray-ing in their T-shirts and shorts.
But not me.
The first thing Dad said as we left the house was still, ‘Have you got your inhaler?’ But we weren’t even out of the drive before he followed it with, ‘Aren’t you hot in that coat?’
Have you got your inhaler? and Aren’t you hot in that coat? follow me around like haircut follows Greeney.
‘You never know when you might need a coat,’ I said. ‘We might bump into some kid from school and they might ask me over for a barbecue. And it gets cold at night.’
We turned down George Street and I tried to imagine something less likely than me bumping into some kid from school and them inviting me over for a barbecue.
I trailed behind Dad when we reached 56 George Street, out of habit. Just to see what he did.
But Dad didn’t cross at the postbox, just walked straight in front of Carl’s house. He smiled at me as he walked.
I pointed at the postbox. ‘I usually cross the road here with Lewis and Sean.’
Dad nodded. ‘So I hear. Your mum said there’s a story about an axeman killing his brothers and sisters in that house.’ His voice was even.
‘Just his brothers, I think. No sisters. Or maybe he didn’t think to mention the sisters.’
‘Do you believe the story?’
‘I don’t think so. Hardly at all.’
Dad smiled. ‘Is your friend Sean the kind of kid who makes things up?’
I nodded. ‘He has an awful lot of cousins. Drummers in bands. Racing car drivers.’
‘Do you need me to tell you that story about the man with the axe isn’t true?’
I shook my head.
Dad and I reached the park and passed the big wasps’ nest. I watched the wasps buzz around it in a cloud, circling the nest like moons around a planet.
‘You know you mentioned going to a kid’s house later for a barbecue? Why do you never invite kids over to ours?’
I would never say it was because of the flashing lights when someone rang the door. ‘It’s just easier to go to Lewis’s.’ He looked sad, like he knew anyway, so I added quickly, ‘And because I don’t really have any friends.’
But then Dad looked sadder still, so I said, ‘It’s fine.’ Change the subject. ‘Now, I hear Mum used to work in a brewery?’
Dad nodded. ‘She worked in sales there. Your mum was good at sales.’ His smile faded. ‘But it’s really unfair for her to expect other people to be as good when they haven’t had any formal training. And, as I tried to explain to your mother, not a lot of people want ironing board covers.’
It took me a second to realise what we were talking about.
‘Anyway, Mum worked in sales at the brewery,’ Dad said, ‘but she changed jobs when she was pregnant with you. We both made the decision to change jobs at the same time. You know I used to be an aeroplane engineer?’
I frowned. ‘It was my fault you stopped being an engineer?’
‘No, silly!’ He smiled. ‘Me and your mum both worked long days and we didn’t always see each other that much. My work was over an hour away, and your mum was always on the road, driving all over the country. And we wanted a different life. Something happening, something big, makes you rethink what you want. And when Danielle—’
I held up my hand. ‘Right. That.’ Always.
‘We wanted to be better to each other, and we both wanted to be around more for you, Fi. To be better parents. We wanted to make the most of our time with you, and we don’t regret it for a second.’
I looked at the park’s second-biggest bush.
A bunch of boys and girls sat on picnic blankets, smoking and drinking Coke, flicking through magazines. These kids were made differently from the kids from our school. They were shinier, with newer clothes, and the boys talked in a different kind of loud and, I knew – even though they weren’t in uniform – they wore blazers and school uniform, even in sixth form.
Chester Road School kids.
I’d once asked Mum if I could go to Chester Road and she laughed like it was the funniest thing ever, and said, ‘Yes, fine. And we can get a chauffeur and a butler, too.’
I saw what the kids were doing and my heart stopped.
These Chester Road kids were, right now, sitting in front of our bush – reading magazines.
Had I stolen the magazines from these kids? Would they look at me and just know? Chester Road kids weren’t as hard as Monkford High kids – it was just a known fact – but still.
I moved onto the other side of Dad, trying to look casual and un-thief-like. But none of the kids said anything as I walked past. I’m not sure they even noticed me there, at all.
26
A spy cell is only as strong as its weakest member.
The Junior Spy’s Secret Handbook™
Eleven days to the fair
The rest of the weekend passed without anything exciting going on. When I waited for Lewis at the lamppost on Monday morning, there was a big truck outside 56 George Street, and a dirty yellow skip in the driveway. Carl was outside in a T-shirt and shorts, talking to a man in grey overalls.
He s
aw me and waved. I waved back.
Lewis walked up and stared.
I shrugged. ‘Just waving to Carl.’
‘Hey, kid!’ Carl waved both hands now, trying to get our attention. ‘Lewis, is it?’
Lewis looked at me in panic. He set off in a rush.
‘Come back!’ Carl crinkled his face up in confusion. ‘Why are you running? I won’t bite. I just want to talk to you about some strimming!’
I hurried after Lewis and found him in the park.
‘Strimming.’ He looked like a wild animal was after him. ‘Strimming! What is strimming?’
‘I’m sure it’s nothing bad. He wouldn’t shout it in the street, would he?’
‘We don’t know what he’s capable of, Fi! That’s the whole point!’
‘I’ve decided Carl might not be a strange man after all. I’ve got him all wrong. And think about it. If strimming is like flashing, he wouldn’t be making a big deal of it. Flashers don’t shout I’m flashing, do they? They just open their coats and do it.’
‘I feel dizzy,’ Lewis said. ‘And I’ve got a tummy ache.’
‘You’ve just got scared and ran too soon after breakfast.’
‘Do I look right to you?’
I stopped and gave a big sigh. I turned to study him.
His skin was shiny with sweat. He had a fuzzy look in his eyes.
‘You look fine,’ I said kindly. I pulled on his arm. ‘Come on.’
School news. But not good school news.
Turns out Lewis was ill.
He threw up in English, all over his copy of The Taming of The Shrew, and his mum had to come and pick him up. I’m not in that English class, but I heard Mr Kellett told all the kids to get back, while the rest of the class laughed and pointed and made Jaws music ner-ner-ner-ner and Robert Kitson shouted, Harris is about to blow!
Which – turned out – he was.
Everyone heard about it. Which meant I hoped Lewis was off ill for a few days, at least. For his own sake.
On the way home, I headed down George Street. It was fine – I felt way more relaxed walking past Carl’s house now.
The van had gone but, next to the skip, there were boxes and old household things. A broken lamp. A metal shelf. A frilly tissue box.
Carl came outside carrying a box. His T-shirt had a cartoon with Duff Beer on it, even though that’s from The Simpsons, and The Simpsons is a show for kids.
All the Fun of the Fair: A hilarious, brilliantly original coming-of-age story that will capture your heart Page 16
