Monday teatime, Stella was walking in through her front gate with a bag full of groceries when she saw Rupert again. She knew he was on the prowl – that much anyone could have guessed – but she also had a very good idea where he would be going.
‘If someone comes asking questions about Thomas,’ she had said to Mickey when they had passed each other in the street on Saturday, ‘don’t tell him anything you believe to be a secret. Some things are best kept to yourself.’
So when Mickey got home and found his mother giving tea and biscuits to the stranger, he knew what to expect. He frowned at his mother.
‘This is Mr Shawcross,’ said Mrs Trent quickly. ‘He is one of the people who are looking for Thomas Derwent. He thinks someone may have taken him away against his will.’
‘Not quite that,’ said Rupert, steering clear of telling a palpable lie. ‘We simply do not know how he went, whether willingly or not. There are a number of options. But the more information we can get hold of, the better chance we have of finding him.’
He turned very abruptly towards Mickey.
‘When was the last time you saw him?’
‘Before Christmas,’ said Mickey’s mother, not giving her son the chance to answer. ‘Like I told you.’
‘Well?’ said Rupert, still looking at Mickey.
‘Before Christmas, when he was in the hospital. We tried to get him to come home.’
Rupert did not ask whom the ‘we’ included. He did not need to. He went straight to the point.
‘Why did he not come?’ he said in a friendly voice. An honest answer to this question would have been very illuminating. Mickey gave an answer that was less than honest. He felt entitled to. People who ask impertinent questions have no right to be told the truth.
‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘The hospital wouldn’t let him go.’
The true answer came unbidden to his mind: Thomas had refused to be taken back to Belthorp. He had been determined to wait for his father to collect him and take him away in a spaceship the size and shape of a golf ball. Mickey’s natural honesty made even a half-truth difficult.
Mickey’s mother saw the embarrassment in her son’s face and said quickly, ‘I know you have your job to do, Mr Shawcross, but I cannot have my son upset. We like to help, where we can. But Mickey has told you all he knows. That will have to be enough.’
‘Just one more question, Mrs Trent, if you don’t mind,’ said Rupert. ‘Then I shall be going to catch my train. It isn’t much.’
Mrs Trent nodded. If the man were going to catch his train, they would soon be rid of him. She had not wanted to invite him in at first, but he was polite and official. Jenny Trent was basically shy. She did not know how to be rude to people.
‘One final question then,’ said Rupert, taking out his notebook and biro. ‘Now, Mickey, I want you to think very carefully before you answer. Did Thomas at any time say anything that sounded to you strange or weird? Was there ever anything said about his name or the name of the place he came from?’
‘Yes,’ said Mickey, brightening.
‘What did he say?’ said Rupert, eagerly sucking the point of the pen to make sure the ink would run freely.
‘It wasn’t what he said,’ said Mickey. ‘It all started with Miss Crosbie at school. She said because my second name was Trent and Thomas was called Derwent, we were like two rivers: the Trent and the Derwent are both tributaries of the River Ouse. That’s how we first became friends.’
The story was true, but it had nothing whatsoever to do with aliens or spaceships or any other extraterrestrial paraphernalia.
Rupert sighed. It was certainly not what he had been hoping to hear.
‘But Thomas, Thomas himself, did he never tell you anything – anything secret?’
Mickey looked annoyed. His mother caught his glance and decided it was time to send their visitor on his way. Not easy but clearly necessary.
‘You said one more question, Mr Shawcross,’ she said. ‘That would be two. Besides, you won’t want to miss your train. It’s a ten-minute walk from here to the station.’
She stood up and went out into the passage, calling back over her shoulder, ‘I’ll just get your coat for you.’
Rupert followed her reluctantly, put on his coat, and was manoeuvred to the door. Even after the door was opened and he was out on the doorstep he tried to go on talking. Mrs Trent would have none of that.
‘I’m sorry, Mr Shawcross, but I really have to shut the door. This house is draughty enough without letting more cold air in. My son catches cold so easily.’
On Tuesday morning, on his way to school, Mickey met Mrs Dalrymple. She had been deliberately looking for him.
‘Well,’ she said, ‘what did you think of Mr Shawcross?’
‘He was nosy,’ said Mickey.
‘Did you tell him anything?’
‘I told him about Thomas and me being two rivers, but he wasn’t interested. I thought he was going to write it down but he didn’t bother.’
Stella laughed.
‘Well, you had to tell him something, didn’t you?’
Mickey smiled. He liked Mrs Dalrymple. Never had he fully acknowledged to her what he now believed about Thomas and his father. But then, she had never broached the subject with him. Each knew what the other believed, but thought it was best left unsaid.
As he walked away, however, Mickey did say, ‘I’m glad you warned me about him. I thought very hard about what I was going to say. I was ready for him.’