An hour later I find myself under my duvet without knowing what steps I took to get there. The glow-in-the-dark stars light the ceiling; five-pointed beacons of happiness. It hurts to look at them, so I close my eyes. When Mum got home from the supermarket she shouted up that she’d brought back some slightly stale biscuits that they couldn’t sell. Even then I didn’t leave my bedroom to get any.
That night I dream of the Paradise estate again. It’s the same dream as before: the one where I’m standing beneath the Dad tree. This time the Saint Gabriel medal has turned into the moon and the leaves from the tree fall like rubies from heaven. At first I catch them, but they shatter and fall around me like petals falling from a blood-red rose. They blanket the ground before building up until they reach my knees and then my waist. I stumble and fall below a scarlet river, my fingers the only thing visible. The hand, when it comes, fills me with hope. From nowhere it grasps my fingers and pulls me upwards. I wake up thinking of Dad.
“The monster appears for breakfast,” says Grace, shovelling toast into her mouth. “You look a right mess.”
Mum looks up at me and then her eyes skip away. Her fingers wrap around a mug of steaming tea and occasionally she takes a sip. “Do you feel rough too?”
I shrug and sit down at the table.
“Something I ate hasn’t agreed with me,” says Mum. A volcanic burp rumbles in her ribcage and she puts a fist to her mouth before it explodes. “Sorry.”
As I pour the last of the chocolate cereal into a bowl I mentally cross number six off my list. Saint Gabriel is never going to get me a swimming pool full of these babies.
“Too many biscuits,” Mum sighs. “I knew I shouldn’t have eaten the entire packet myself.”
Mum’s face is the colour of a dolphin’s flipper. If I put her in my grey school jumper you wouldn’t be able to tell where Mum’s skin begins and the jumper ends. Usually Mum is never ill, so it’s a surprise when she says she’ll have a little lie-down before her shift at Aladdin’s. When I ask if I can help, she smiles and says I could look in her handbag for some indigestion tablets and bring them up to her with a glass of water.
“Ooh, Mr Suck-Up from Suck-Up Street, Suck-Up Town,” says Grace as Mum disappears up the stairs. She’s just jealous because I thought to ask Mum if I could help, which makes me Number One child. As I stick my tongue out, Grace screeches, “Ugh! Chocolate puke.”
Mum’s pink sequined bag is tucked neatly under the coats in the hallway. I unzip it and look inside. This is the same as discovering one of the mysteries of the universe. I’m like that bloke going into Tutankhamun’s tomb for the first time. What am I going to discover? Will there be treasure?
At first sight, nothing exciting. No mini gyro flyer or finger skateboard, and definitely no pick ’n’ mix sweets. Neatly folded up and hiding at the bottom of the bag is a booklet. I take it out and sit on the bottom stair, smoothing the paper across my lap. There is a questionnaire inside and it’s from our local hospital, The Princess Rose. And I know it’s wrong to read other people’s stuff but there you go. There’s only room for one saint in this house and that’s Gabriel. So the first question is:
1. Your boobs are:
a) Perky
b) Lumpy
c) Sore and prickly
Prickly makes me think of hedgehogs and I’m quite certain Mum doesn’t have two of those in her bra. But she has circled b) and c). Question number two makes no sense whatsoever.
2. Is there:
a) No blood
b) Spotting
c) Heavy blood
Mum has circled a) this time, which is the only answer that doesn’t make me gag.
Question three has me completely stumped. In fact, it might as well be written in French for all the sense it makes.
3. Describe your symptoms:
a) Fit, happy and full of life
b) Heartburn, achy, uncomfortable
c) Moody, exhausted and always going to the toilet
Again, Mum has circled two: b) and c). I know she’s heading towards forty in a fast car, but surely it’s not time to give up on life just yet. Mrs Nunkoo from down the road is eighty-six and she’s probably more a) than Mum.
The last question isn’t really a question at all. It says if you circled more than two b)s or c)s then you need to ring the clinic to make an appointment. Mum has underlined the phone number, twice. In red ink, no less.
I fold the booklet up again and hide it back in her bag. Not what I was expecting to find when told to get the indigestion tablets. From upstairs I hear the drift of Mum’s voice asking me to hurry up before the acid starts eating her stomach alive. “I’m coming,” I call back.
At school I keep thinking about secrets. Mum’s sick and keeping it secret and Dad’s living with Catherine Wheel Boy and keeping it secret. Big Dave is living with Caroline 1973 and keeping it a secret. I’m worried about everyone and keeping it a secret. And Grace is just Grace. Earlier I shoved Saint Gabriel in my blazer pocket and brought him to school with me.
“Is number nine out of the question?” I whisper into my pocket. “If I had a rocket I could fly to the moon and escape all these problems on earth. At least send me a rocket if you can’t do the other things.”
“Daniel Hope, can you please pay attention?” says Mrs Parfitt.
“I suppose I could settle for number eight if I can’t have the rocket,” I mutter under my breath. “Number eight would be mega.” I idly scribble my new address on my notebook.
Daniel George Hope
221b Baker Street
London
“Whoever is whispering, please stop.” Mrs Parfitt, with her big bird beak, peers in my direction and then she puffs up her chest until the buttons on her blouse strain against the fabric. “This is more important than your inane chit-chat. This is Project Eco Everywhere news. Now, as you know, we’re not doing a nativity play this year, as Project Eco Everywhere is going to take its place.”
“Awww…” says Kevin Cummings. “I wanted to be Joseph.”
“The donkey, more like,” says Jo.
“Quiet, please,” replies Mrs Parfitt. “This is going to be unique. Perhaps not quite as unique as the story of Jesus’ birth, that I’ll grant you, but special nonetheless. If you’re missing the nativity angle, I can promise you we’re going to have some stars hanging from the ceiling in the hotel.”
“We’ll need a few shepherds too,” says Kevin.
“There will be no shepherds,” Mrs Parfitt says flatly. “Unless your hero is an actual shepherd, although I find this hard to believe.”
“Nah,” replies Kevin. “I’m doing my dad and he’s very important because he works for the Queen.”
“In what capacity?” asks Mrs Parfitt. You can tell she’s impressed because her eyes are twice the size they normally are.
“Dad works in Her Majesty’s Revenue and Customs. In fact, I bet he collects your tax, Miss.”
“Oh,” says Mrs Parfitt and her eyes shrink back to little rabbit droppings. “Well, that’s very interesting but I think we should move on.” She claps her hands. “Okay, for today’s task I want you to write a poem about your hero and this will help you visualize them and perhaps give you ideas for your costume. Yes, Kevin, what is it now?”
“What if I swapped Dad for the man who owns the pawn shop?”
“Why would you want to do that? Is he your hero?”
“Not really, Miss, but he could bring gold like one of the wise men. There’s loads of it in his shop window.”
“There is no nativity, Kevin. I thought I made that perfectly clear. This is about your hero. You can write an ode, a sonnet, a shape poem, a haiku or whatever else you like, but I want to be pleasantly surprised. If it will help, I looked up the definition of a hero and it’s a person who is admired for their noble qualities. Now it’s up to you.”
“Can I do the Virgin Mary?” asks Jo. “I was going to do my mum but then I thought about how much I admire Mary and how she’s
the most famous mother in the world.”
Mrs Parfitt sighs and replies, “If you really must. But make sure she jumps off the page at me.”
“Sounds scary,” whispers Jo, pulling out her notebook and drawing a halo.
It is scary. How the heck am I supposed to write a poem about Dad being my hero when I’ve just realized I don’t actually know much about him? In the end, I manage to write something, but I’m not sure it says much about Dad’s noble qualities.
My Dad: A poem
There once was a man called Dad
Who made me incredibly mad
I sent him some mail
It came back as fail
And now I’m really quite sad
I glance over at Christopher’s work and instead of writing a poem he’s drawing this picture of his dad. In it, his dad is wearing his heart on his sleeve.
“Christopher.” Mrs Parfitt glides over to his desk. I knew this was coming. “All very commendable but I didn’t ask you to draw your hero. I asked you to write a poem about them. Instead of drawing hearts, why not write it from the heart?” I quickly put my arm over my work in case she sees what I’ve written. “If you’re stuck on what to write about your father, I suggest you try writing about your mother instead.”
“I don’t have a mother,” says Christopher, playing with his fingers.
Later, when I ask Christopher if he meant what he said in class, he pretends not to hear me. When I repeat the question he gives me a death glare and says he was only messing around so he could draw pictures instead of doing work.
I know he’s lying but I don’t know why.
The zombies are taking over the world and Big Dave thinks it’s hilarious. As a zombie man and his zombie dog wander down the dark alley searching for human flesh, I scoop handfuls of popcorn and shovel it into my mouth. Big Dave says he’s watched this movie many times and it always cracks him up.
“Boys, zombies, dogs, popcorn – an unbeatable combination,” says Big Dave, dropping the kernels down his throat.
These four things make me happy, which is a big deal since I’d been feeling properly fed up after the Dad incident two nights ago. Big Dave arrived at just the right moment with the movie and a popcorn bucket. I look over at him and he tells me to keep watching the screen because the best bit is coming up. He warns me to watch the zombie with the crazy eyes.
“That’s all of them,” I say and then I laugh.
I can’t help but like Big Dave. Despite knowing he has a wife and child, he’s fun to be around. No matter how many times I tell myself not to enjoy his company, I can’t do it. While he snorts at a zombie, I wonder if he hugs his wife the way he hugs Mum: all open-armed and smiling, then deep and comforting, with his fingers knotting her hair. I wonder if Caroline 1973 pats him on his bald head the way Mum does.
“There are more zombies now. They’re behind you,” shouts Big Dave. “The zombie dog wants a human bone. Look out! They’re getting into your house.”
“Where do you live?” I mumble through pillows of popcorn, but I keep my eyes on the TV screen.
Big Dave doesn’t look at me.
“Over in the Ireland estate.” He laughs and points at a zombie falling through a window before rolling down a flight of stairs.
“The houses are nice there,” I say.
“Yup, they are,” says Big Dave, adding, “but I’m only renting at the moment.”
“Have you been there long?” I ask.
“Not long. We’ve moved around a bit, I suppose.”
We, not I. Big Dave has just slipped up. Not that he’s noticed, because he’s too busy shouting at the man in the movie that there are zombies behind him. Big Dave says this bit gets him every time. “It’s ridiculous,” he says. “How can that bloke not know there are twenty zombies shuffling along behind his back? The mumbling and grunting should give it away.”
“Where’s your wife?” I don’t know why I suddenly blurt it out, but I do. It’s as though my tongue freaked out and said the exact thing I was thinking in my head.
Big Dave chokes on a bit of popcorn and bangs his chest with a fist. “Sorry, popcorn went the wrong way. It’s lethal stuff. I know of a woman who broke her back tooth because of the hard bits. Maybe I should give it up too before it gets stuck in my windpipe.” Big Dave gets up from the sofa and walks ridiculously fast towards the kitchen, saying he needs a beer before he pops his clogs from popcorn.
Big Dave is funny like that. Only I’m not laughing, because the zombies have left the house and made it to the shopping mall, and my big moment has gone. Gone but not forgotten. I’m already ahead on Operation Baskerville so, in theory, I could add another mystery to my list. This is the brightest of my bright ideas. I mean, how difficult could it be to find out more about Caroline 1973?
Operation Reichenbach is born.
Reichenbach Falls is where Sherlock Holmes takes on his arch-enemy, Moriarty. I read it in Dad’s Sherlock book and it was so exciting that a bit of chocolate wafer dropped from my mouth onto the page and now it acts as a brown bookmark. Of course, I’m not saying I’m likely to end up beside a waterfall, fighting tooth and nail. And I’m not saying Big Dave might be like Moriarty or that he’s toying with Mum’s affections, but if the deerstalker fits… Either way, if Caroline 1973 is out there, then I want to know all about her.
In a Sherlock mystery there are lots of clues. My first Operation Reichenbach clue is the one from Nina Biddolpho, who told me that Big Dave has a wife called Caz and a small son. Nina Biddolpho knows everything, what with her being a newsagent and gossiping to hundreds of people a day. You can hardly think you’re going to sneeze in Paradise without her offering to sell you a box of tissues.
I know Nina was absolutely certain about Big Dave’s secret because she got all excited and her eyes started twinkling (although that could have been the electric-blue eyeliner). And what’s more, Nina says she never tells lies. (But actually that’s probably a lie in itself, because everyone tells little lies from time to time. I’m always doing it. If Grace asks me if her bum looks big in her skinny jeans, I always say it looks tiny when I know it looks massive. However, if I say it looks massive, she turns into Ninja Grace and this is very bad for me.)
The second clue is Big Dave said we, not I. It is clear to me that he has a family. A person living on his own would not say we.
My third and final clue, and one that can never be hidden, is Caroline 1973 inked on Big Dave’s upper arm. Thanks to Grace leaving her gossip magazines on the living room table, I know that lots of stars get the names of their wives and children tattooed all over their body. And Big Dave can’t really deny the evidence when it’s written on his skin. (Suddenly, I catch myself wondering if Dad has the name Busty Babs tattooed on his body. Even worse, does he have the name of the beefy boy with the windmill arms too?)
Grace looks a bit surprised when I knock on her bedroom door, offering what’s left of the popcorn and asking if she wants in on Operation Reichenbach.
“Right ’n’ Back? It sounds like some American football team,” she says.
When I explain my mission, Ninja Grace nods her head and tells me it’s about time we joined forces to flush out the traitor in our midst. I try to say that this is investigative and not a witch hunt, but she says Big Dave is guilty until proven innocent. With her next breath, Grace says she wants to do something so utterly crazy that I’m speechless. That’s when she takes the opportunity to gulp down all the remaining popcorn. “You’ll come round to my way of thinking,” she says, wiping bits of popcorn from her lips. “You mark my words.”
But you can’t really. Mark words, that is. And no way is what she suggested ever going to happen, I think, as I’m in the bathroom swabbing the inside of my cheek with a cotton bud an hour later. What Grace suggested was stark raving bonkers on the madness scale. We’d be caught for sure, and that’s if I could even find out Big Dave’s address. I can’t get the directory out again when it took me an hour to clean up
the hallway last time.
The cotton bud looks a bit slimy when I pull it from my mouth. I think there’s a bit of popcorn on it. You never see that happening on the TV. On the telly, when they take a swab for DNA, they never end up with chunks of someone’s movie-time treat. I had planned to put the cotton bud into a little plastic bag and keep it safe, because you never know when your DNA might be needed to prove that your dad is a big telly star. But what if there was a court case and I had to present this one as evidence:
Prosecution: M’lud. This boy’s DNA does not match Malcolm Maynard’s DNA.
Defence: Objection! I think you’ll find we are one hundred per cent certain it does. This is his son.
Prosecution: This swab only proves that the boy is half toffee-popcorn.
Defence: We think when you chew over the facts you will see we are correct.
I laugh and throw the popcorn-covered bud towards the bathroom bin. It misses and I sigh, then try to pick it up with my bare toes rather than my hands. When that doesn’t work I bend down and grab it and set it inside the bin beside an empty packet. Something makes me pull the packet out of the bin.
It’s a pregnancy testing kit.
Although Grace’s belly is rounded it doesn’t look much different than it did before. The stupid baggy T-shirt with purple graffiti that says Good girls are heavenly but bad girls are devilishly good doesn’t help much.
“What are you gawping at?” Grace hisses, easing her body across the sofa like a lazy starfish. “If it’s my breasts I’m telling Mum.” There goes number two on my list. I can’t ask for a new sister who doesn’t say horrible things if the old one is pregnant and needs my help.
A Boy Called Hope Page 5
