Girl Underground

by Morris Gleitzman

  ‘What is that document?’ he says. ‘The one that seems to be causing so much trouble?’

  My guts turn to the sort of mush you usually only find in Latvian bread-making machines.

  The bodyguard boy darts across and bends over me. Before I can gather my thoughts he pulls Gavin’s letter out of my hand.

  I sit up to jab him.

  Before I can, he does an amazing thing.

  Still bending over me, keeping his back to Mr Lamb and the other kids, the bodyguard boy stuffs Gavin’s letter into my blazer pocket. From his own pocket he takes another envelope.

  He turns and hands his envelope to Mr Lamb.

  ‘It’s some sort of letter, sir,’ he says.

  ‘Thank you, Menzies,’ says Mr Lamb.

  ‘Dobber,’ hisses Chantelle.

  But I’m thinking this kid called Menzies isn’t a dobber. I reckon he knows I’m in the same boat as him, but without a bodyguard.

  He’s trying to help me.

  While Mr Lamb pulls the letter out of the envelope and studies it, I wonder if this is the letter Menzies was reading yesterday and getting upset over.

  Mr Lamb starts reading out loud.

  ‘Today the man in the next cell yelled the names of his children and then tried to climb over the razor wire fence. Some other prisoners stopped him but he still hurt himself. I explained to the guards that the man just needed to know when he was going to get out. “Don’t ask me,” said one of the guards. “I can’t see that far into the future.” He laughed. I had to stop Bibi from biting him on the ankle.’

  Mr Lamb rolls his eyes, folds up the letter and puts it back into the envelope.

  I’m feeling sick.

  This is terrible.

  This is no help at all.

  Menzies’ letter is from someone in a maximum security jail. No wonder Menzies was upset if it’s a brother or a cousin or an uncle. I’m upset, too. Now everyone will think I’ve got a murderer in the family.

  Before I can get my letter out and show everyone that Gavin’s just a harmless shoplifter, Mr Lamb gives a big sigh and points to me with Menzies’ letter.

  ‘It seems we have another refugee sympathiser among us,’ says Mr Lamb. ‘Did Menzies arrange this penfriend for you?’

  Refugee sympathiser? Penfriend? I don’t understand. I don’t know what to say.

  ‘Menzies needs to learn that not everybody is as obsessed as he is about refugees in detention centres,’ Mr Lamb goes on. ‘I’m beginning to wonder if that refugee project I set last term was a mistake.’

  He holds the letter out to me.

  He obviously wants me to take it.

  I take it.

  ‘There’s only one type of detention I’m interested in right now,’ says Mr Lamb, glaring at me and the two bully boys. ‘And that’s the detention the three of you will be doing at lunchtime.’

  The class take their seats and Mr Lamb shows me where my desk is. As I realise what’s happened, the sick feeling goes. I give Menzies a grateful look across the classroom.

  He has helped me.

  A lot.

  These people don’t think I’m part of a major crime family, they just think I’m a refugee sympathiser.

  Perhaps, just perhaps, I can stay at this school after all.

  I knock urgently on Menzies’ door.

  Lunchtime’s almost over, but I want to thank him for helping me. I also want to ask him how I can get a refugee penfriend like his.

  It’s a brilliant way of keeping his crim family secret. If ever he forgets himself and blabs about prisoners or cells or visiting hours, people just think he’s talking about a detention centre.

  Perhaps it’ll work for me too.

  I knock again.

  Come on, Menzies. If I’m sprung here in the boys’ building I’ll be back in detention myself.

  Someone taps me on the shoulder. Startled, I turn round.

  And freeze.

  It’s the bodyguard.

  I recognise him instantly, even though in daylight his face doesn’t look so much like plasticine. And instead of a black roll-neck jumper he’s wearing a Britney Spears t-shirt. I can tell he recognises me from the way he takes a bite of his toast and chews it slowly without taking his eyes off me.

  Now I’m in for it. Unlike last night, this is definitely his business. It’s his job, apprehending intruders like me and keeping them away from his client. Specially female ones who aren’t even meant to be in the building.

  ‘Hello,’ says the bodyguard, flicking crumbs off his t-shirt. ‘I see you’ve decided to postpone your departure.’

  I don’t get it. He’s not apprehending me. He’s not even telling me to get out of the boys’ building. Perhaps he doesn’t know about the rule.

  ‘I’m looking for Menzies,’ I say.

  ‘He’s in there,’ says the bodyguard, nodding towards Menzies’ room. ‘Don’t bother knocking, he won’t hear you. Just go in.’

  The bodyguard strolls off down the corridor.

  I’m shocked. He’s not even trying to protect his client. Just wandering around the school making toast. This is pathetic. Menzies’ dad is being ripped off. It’s criminal.

  I step inside, wondering what the bodyguard meant about Menzies not hearing me.

  The room looks empty. Then I hear muffled sounds coming from the wardrobe.

  Uncle Grub, who used to do a lot of burglary when he was first married, reckons the minute you first step into a room you can tell if something’s wrong.

  There’s definitely something wrong in this room. I wish the door hadn’t swung shut behind me.

  The muffled sounds in the wardrobe are getting louder.

  I try to think what might be making them.

  Noisy hot water pipes? A guard dog that Menzies keeps hidden in the wardrobe? Menzies in some kind of trouble?

  I pull the wardrobe door open and get ready to dive behind the bed if it’s a fierce dog.

  It’s not.

  It’s Menzies, in a lot of trouble.

  He’s handcuffed to the clothes rail and his ankles are tied together with a towel and he has a pair of underpants stuffed in his mouth. He’s glaring at me through his big round glasses. He looks cross and upset and embarrassed.

  I pull the underpants out of his mouth.

  ‘Thanks,’ he mutters.

  ‘Are you OK?’ I ask.

  He nods, but I can see he didn’t like the taste of the underpants.

  ‘What happened?’ I say.

  ‘Nothing,’ he says.

  I understand. He’s trying to protect his family’s identity. Probably a kidnap attempt or some sort of gangland revenge.

  ‘I reckon it’s really unfair,’ I say. ‘People shouldn’t have to suffer because of what their parents do.’

  Menzies doesn’t agree or disagree. He just tells me that the key for the handcuffs is on the bedside table.

  I find the key and unlock the cuffs.

  Menzies falls out of the wardrobe onto the carpet. I realise I should have untied his ankles first.

  ‘Whose handcuffs are they?’ I ask as I unknot the towel.

  ‘Dave’s,’ says Menzies crossly. ‘My bodyguard.’

  I stare at him.

  ‘Your own bodyguard did this?’

  I try to make sense of it. Perhaps Menzies was so desperate to have lunch with the other kids in the dining hall that the dopey bodyguard had to restrain him. Or perhaps it’s some sort of training exercise.

  ‘Dave lent me his handcuffs for a school project,’ says Menzies.

  He sits on the bed and rubs his wrists and ankles.

  ‘Then who did it?’ I say.

  Menzies suddenly looks sad and I can see he’s going to tell me the truth.

  ‘Kids from class,’ he says. ‘They thought I was being a dobber with the letter. Plus they blamed me for Rich and Trav getting detention.’

  ‘That’s not fair,’ I explode. ‘You were just helping me.’

  Menzies picks
his lunch tray up off the floor. Stuck to it is an empty yoghurt pot.

  ‘It was six against one,’ he says. ‘But they didn’t get it all their own way. I stuffed yoghurt in Bryce Wentworth’s mouth. He hates yoghurt.’

  ‘Good on you,’ I say. ‘I wish I’d been here to help.’

  Menzies looks at me sadly and nods. He has a big splodge of yoghurt in his hair. I try not to stare at it. Instead I pull his letter out of my pocket and hold it out to him.

  ‘Thanks for what you did,’ I say. ‘It was really kind.’

  Menzies takes the letter. ‘I could see you wanted to keep your letter private,’ he says.

  I want to say more. I want to tell him how much we’ve got in common. How if I stay at the school we can be friends and allies and look out for each other.

  But first there’s something I have to ask.

  ‘The kids who did this, why didn’t your bodyguard stop them?’

  I think I already know the answer. Because he was off making toast.

  Menzies sighs. ‘Dave doesn’t interfere with school stuff. He’s just here to guard me from bigger stuff. You know, terrorists.’

  I stare at him.

  Terrorists? Menzies’ family is in danger from terrorists?

  Suddenly Dad’s Bulgarian associates don’t seem so bad.

  ‘Look,’ I say, ‘I don’t want to pry, but my dad might be able to give your dad some advice about how to get on with difficult business partners. For example my dad’s discovered it’s a big mistake to ask for a receipt.’

  Menzies is looking at me like he doesn’t have a clue what I’m talking about.

  ‘My father’s a minister,’ he says.

  Now it’s my turn to be confused. Why would terrorists want to harm the son of a minister? Perhaps his dad was rude about them in a sermon.

  ‘What religion?’ I ask.

  ‘Not that sort of minister,’ says Menzies. ‘A government minister. My father’s the Minister for National Development. He criticised a terrorist organisation, so now I have to have a bodyguard.’

  ‘Oh,’ I say.

  I let all this sink in.

  ‘I see,’ I add after a while.

  What I see mostly is how tragic it is. For the first time ever I almost had a real friend. A lonely crim kid just like me, but brave and clever too.

  Now I’m just glad I didn’t blab any more details to him about Mum, Dad or Bulgarian exporters.

  ‘Oh no,’ groans Menzies, feeling in his blazer pocket. ‘They put jam in my pockets.’

  Poor kid. I do feel sorry for him. The other kids probably think he’s up himself because his dad’s more important than their dads.

  But I can’t do anything about that.

  What I have to concentrate on is getting as far away from Menzies as I can. Before he finds out any more about my family and suddenly the police and customs and the Department of Overseas Trade are busting into our place with search warrants.

  I feel sick and shaky. I just want to be at home in my own bed.

  I’m so glad parents’ night is tonight so I can tell Mum and Dad how desperately I need to get out of this place.

  I wish this school didn’t have a parents’ night.

  It’s a disaster.

  Parents’ night is on the first evening of term so all the country parents can come before they head back home, and the trouble with country people is they’re really chatty.

  ‘How’s it going?’ Antoinette’s mum just asked Dad. ‘Making a crust?’

  I’m sure half the school hall heard Dad telling her how last month’s heavy rain in Turkmenistan was great for business. I tried to distract him, but he just went on about the seriously top-notch mudslides and how a lot of Russian trucks got bogged and how his business partners own the only tow truck for two thousand square kilometres. If he tells everyone how the going rate for a tow in those parts is thirty washing machines or sixty dryers, we’re history.

  Mum’s usually good at keeping a cork in Dad, but she’s being distracted by Antoinette who’s telling her about Brad’s brave battle with hoof mould.

  I’ve got to get Mum and Dad outside for an urgent talk. The only reason I’m not doing it now is they sent me off to get them a drink.

  I’m hurrying back with two glasses of fruit punch.

  Oh no. Now Dad’s talking to Veuve’s parents. I heard Veuve boasting this afternoon how her parents are in the media. They could be recording everything Dad’s saying.

  There’s only one thing to do.

  Pretend to trip.

  ‘Sorry, Dad,’ I say.

  Two glasses of fruit punch fly through the air.

  ‘Ow, Bridget, what are you doing?’ wails Dad. ‘I’m soaked.’

  Fruit punch drips off his suit. Luckily it’s one of the Lebanese ones that arrived last week so he’s got another hundred and seventy.

  ‘Get cold water on it,’ say Antoinette’s parents.

  ‘And salt,’ say Veuve’s parents.

  ‘Come on,’ I say to Mum and Dad. ‘The toilets are outside. We’ll grab a bowl of peanuts on the way.’

  I drag them out of the hall with Mum dabbing at Dad’s front with a tissue. In the courtyard I turn and face them both.

  ‘I’m sorry, Dad,’ I say. ‘I’m sorry, Mum. This is a nightmare.’

  ‘No it’s not, love,’ says Mum gently. ‘It was an accident. We all have accidents sometimes. Remember when Dad tried to wash nine thousand pairs of pearl earrings in the dishwasher and they melted?’

  ‘I don’t mean spilling the punch,’ I say. ‘I mean this school. Look at the other kids. Look at their parents. I shouldn’t be here.’

  I hold my breath.

  Mum and Dad look at each other, and then back at me.

  ‘I know what you’re saying, love,’ says Dad.

  I nod, heart racing. Good old Dad.

  ‘That bloke I was just talking to who produces TV game shows,’ continues Dad. ‘He reckons he uses fake gold watches for his prizes and charges the network for real ones. And the woman who owns the cosmetics factory. She makes that soap that’s meant to get rid of wrinkles and she just told me it doesn’t. OK, sometimes in this world we have to bend the rules to make a crust, but that’s no excuse for lying and cheating.’

  ‘Len,’ says Mum. ‘I don’t think that’s what Bridget means.’

  Dad frowns.

  ‘This school is too dangerous,’ I say. ‘There are kids here whose parents are judges. And commissioners of police. And cosmetics manufacturers who can make citizens’ arrests if they want to. If they find out what we do, we’re in big trouble.’

  Dad looks at me, still frowning.

  ‘What do you mean,’ he says, ‘what we do?’

  He’s making me say it and I wish I didn’t have to.

  ‘What you do,’ I say quietly.

  Dad’s puzzled frown turns into a sad and hurt one.

  Mum puts her arms round me.

  ‘Love,’ she says. ‘I think you’re worrying too much.’

  ‘No,’ says Dad quietly. ‘I know what you’re saying, Bridget.’

  This time I can see he really does.

  ‘Which is why,’ continues Dad, ‘I want you to stay at this school. In years to come, when you tell people you went here, and about the friends you made here, doors will open. You can do great things. Have any career you want. No need for secrets. No need to be ashamed.’

  I look Dad in the eyes, which is hard because mine are filling with tears.

  ‘I’m not ashamed now, Dad,’ I say.

  Dad nods, but his eyes aren’t meeting mine any more.

  ‘This is a good school,’ says Mum. ‘With a wonderful academic record. And I’m sure the people here are too busy with their own lives to worry about us.’

  Dad puts his arms round me and Mum.

  ‘I know it’s not easy for you here, Bridget,’ he says. ‘But we Whites don’t give up, eh? Your great-great-great grandfather Benedict White didn’t give up. He was arrest
ed in 1847 for leading a shearers’ strike and he tunnelled his way out of the police stockade using just his bare hands.’

  I hate that.

  Whenever Dad wants me to do something yuk, he brings up great-great-great grandad White, which wasn’t even his real name. We changed it when we changed ours.

  I wish Benedict White had got locked up in 1847 and stayed locked up.

  Mum is looking at me, concerned.

  ‘Poor love,’ she says. ‘Must still be a bit strange and lonely here.’

  I shrug. If I’m staying at this school, no point in worrying them further.

  ‘Hang in there,’ says Dad. He taps me fondly on the chin with his fist. ‘In four days you’ll be home for the weekend. Very important event this Saturday. I hope you haven’t forgotten.’

  ‘Your birthday,’ I say, trying to sound enthusiastic rather than hopeless.

  ‘And all I want for my birthday,’ says Dad, ‘is a happy daughter.’

  ‘Give her time,’ says Mum, stroking my hair. ‘You’ll feel much better, love, once you’ve made your first friend. Those girls with the horses seem lovely.’

  ‘Hello, Bridget,’ says a voice.

  I turn and my insides droop like a soggy pearl earring.

  It’s Menzies, blinking through his glasses. He looks sort of hopeful and sad at the same time.

  I try to think of a way to get rid of him without hurting his feelings.

  ‘Can I hang out with you for a bit?’ says Menzies. ‘My parents haven’t turned up.’

  ‘Oh, you poor thing,’ says Mum. ‘Of course you can. Bridget, come on love, introduce your friend.’

  ‘This is Menzies,’ I mumble.

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Menzies,’ say Mum and Dad, looking even more pleased than when they last heard it was raining in Turkmenistan.

  I look around for the bodyguard but I can’t see him. He must be getting himself some punch. Or toast.

  ‘My parents were going to be here,’ says Menzies, ‘but they’re very busy.’

  ‘That’s bad luck,’ says Dad. ‘What do they do?’

  ‘My father’s the Minister for National Development,’ says Menzies. ‘My mother helps him with policy and entertaining.’