CHAPTER 10

HEARTENING HONEYCAKE

It was a higgledy-piggledy, itchy-twitchy, restless mess of a day. The sort of day that, if it was human, would be sent out of class for flicking paperclips round the classroom.

While the children whispered and fidgeted, Mrs Florris shouted more than ever. She shouted at Clodna Cloot for writing too slowly and at Gary Budget for writing too quickly. She shouted at Skinny Ginny for sneezing, at Kevin for sniffing and at a stapler for running out. She shouted at the moss that had died on the nature table at the back of the classroom. And she shouted at Tracy for gazing out the window. ‘You do not come to school to gaze, young lady. Gazing is not an exam subject. Gazing does not improve your grades.’

‘What?’ Tracy gazed at her.

‘Pay attention!’ Mrs Florris’s fingers closed round a rubber. Her fist rose.

Like a many-limbed creature with a single lung, the class held its breath. She wasn’t actually going to …?

There was a knock at the door. The teacher’s hand dropped. Garda Poggarty came in.

You may not have heard of Tullybun’s annual Favourite Grandpa competition. And if you say you have, then you’re lying, because there wasn’t one. What was the point? Filo Poggarty would have won every year. A round, smiley man, he looked more like an overgrown robin than a garda. His grey hair stuck out in feathery tufts. His jacket was always open, flanking his stomach like too-small wings. His cheeks were two little sunsets.

He was the best and worst policeman you could imagine. Best at helping old ladies across the road and cats down from trees. Worst at catching vandals and robbers who had plenty of time to run away, and even stop to buy a Twix, as he shuffled after them. No one could be scared of Garda Poggarty.

Except Brian O’Bunion.

It wasn’t the hair or the smile, the stomach or the cheeks. It was the job. Brian had been terrified of the gardaí ever since the Great Unspeakable. Of course Dad hadn’t reported the truth about Mum’s death. But Brian knew the police would discover it one day. They had to. It was only fair. And then he’d get what he deserved.

But he wasn’t going to help them find out. And until that day, he’d vowed to lie low. He slumped in his chair as Garda Poggarty shuffled to the front of the class.

‘Sorry to bother you, Mrs F.’ He wasn’t smiling today. ‘Just a quick word.’ His eyebrows were little nests of worry.

‘Of course, Sergeant Poggarty.’ Florrie had put four tablespoons of sugar in her voice.

He looked gravely round the room. ‘As you probably know, one of your classmates has been, er, temporarily mislaid. I’m here to ask if anyone might know anything at all about his, ah, movements since Saturday.’

Heads shook. Bottoms squifted (shifted squirmily) and shirmed (squirmed shiftily) in seats. Clodna fiddled with her pencil case as if, perhaps, Alec was hiding inside. When no one spoke, Garda Poggarty took a notebook from his jacket pocket and wrote for what seemed like a month.

Oh dear. Brian swallowed down the guilt he always felt when something went missing in class. Was it me? Have I forgotten that I kidnapped Alec by mistake on Sunday? As far as he could remember he’d spent the morning in Smile-in-the-Aisle, showing Alf his bee earring. (Uncharged. Brian couldn’t trust even his best two-legged friend with his best six-legged one.)

At last the garda closed his notebook. ‘Thanks for your time, folks. And don’t worry.’ He glanced at Florrie. ‘There’s bound to be a simple explanation. Alec probably went to stay with an aunt or a friend and – ahem – forgot to tell his parents.’ The sergeant didn’t look as if he’d fooled even himself. ‘I’m sure he’ll turn up very soon. Eh, Mrs Florris?’ She nodded in a noble, law-abiding way.

But he didn’t. And for the rest of the morning it wasn’t only Brian who failed to concentrate. The class was one big fidget, twiddling its twenty-five pens and biting its fifty lips.

When Florrie ran out of shout, she ordered them outside. ‘Four times round the yard.’ She was a great believer in physical pain to restore peace and order.

But it did just the opposite. Peace and order would mean Unbeatable Pete coming first, like he always did in anything involving legs. Today he came fourth. When Mrs Florris yelled at him to pull his socks up – not easy, considering they were ankle-length – he looked at her in bewilderment. Then he bent forward, as if to do that very thing. But instead of reaching for his ankles, he sat cross-legged on the ground and rubbed his eyes.

‘Get up at once!’ screeched the teacher. ‘Resting is not on the school curriculum. I will not have resting in my class.’

At the end of school there were twice as many parents as usual at the gates. Word must have spread about Alec’s disappearance. Not as far as Number Six Hercules Drive, though; Dad was nowhere to be seen. Slinging his schoolbag over his shoulder, Brian hurried along the pavement, his nerves nibbling his insides. What if Alec’s kidnapper was here on High Street, lying in wait for another victim? What if he or she was disguised – as that sweet little lady going into the post office, for instance? She might look like Miss Emer Pipette, retired teacher and the secretary of Tullybun’s Small Fruits Appreciation Society, but perhaps beneath the strawberry headscarf and kindly smile lurked a ruthless child trafficker. Perhaps the real Miss Pipette had been kidnapped too.

Hang on. Brian stopped. Who said Alec had been kidnapped? Maybe he’d run away from home and left a note.

Dear Mum and Dad,

You guys are boring. School’s boring. This whole lousy village is boring. I’m off to seek my brainy fortune.

Your loving son, Al.

No. If that was the case, Sergeant Poggarty wouldn’t have suggested Alec might have gone visiting and forgotten to tell his parents. It sounded as if the gardaí were clueless. But a person couldn’t just disappear like that, without someone seeing or hearing something, could they?

Who better to ask than the man who watched Tullybun come and go? Brian hurried along High Street to Smile-in-the-Aisle.

‘Aye Aye, Cap’n.’ Alf waved from the till.

Mrs Clattery scowled as he dropped her packet of All-Bran to stand and salute. Brian saluted back.

‘With you in a sec, Cap’n.’ Alf sat down again and scanned the packet. ‘Bit clogged up are you, Mrs C? All-Bran’s your man. You’ll be running like the Liffey in no time.’

When she’d marched out, red as a pepper, Alf popped a ‘Till Closed’ sign across the conveyor belt and came out. ‘Heard about Alec? Dreadful business.’

‘What do you know, Alf?’

‘No more than you, I dare say. His mum was here this morning asking if I’d seen him in the shop over the weekend. She said he didn’t come down to breakfast Sunday morning. She thought he was having a lie-in. When he didn’t appear at lunch, she thought maybe he’d gone out early to meet one of his friends. It wasn’t until the afternoon that she phoned him. But he hadn’t taken his mobile.’ Alf shook his head. ‘I mean what kind of parenting is that? They’ve only got three kids. Talk about hands off.’

It wasn’t like Alf to criticise, but Brian knew how much he disapproved of the Hunrattys’ relaxed attitude. If he could, Alf would buy a cell phone for each of his forty thousand bees so they could keep in touch while foraging for nectar. It was true that Alec’s parents hadn’t seemed very interested at the prize-giving. Brian recalled his mum fiddling with her phone and Mr Hunratty writing on his hand. But even if they didn’t show it, they must have felt proud of their son. Unlike Dad, he thought. Would he even notice if I went missing? And there’s only one of me.

‘You OK, Cap’n?’ Alf patted his shoulder. ‘Look, I’m just finishing my shift. Why don’t you come round for a cuppa? Looks like you could do with a slice of Dr Alf’s Heartening Honeycake.’

Brian nodded. ‘I’d better tell Dad.’ As if he’ll care. ‘Could I borrow your phone?’

While Alf handed over to Anemia Pickles, Brian called home.

Dad answered after ten rings. ‘No problem. See you later. Bye.’

Alf lived in a ramshackle cottage at the edge of the village near Tullybough Woods. With their soft glades and secret light, the ancient woods had once been Brian’s favourite picnic spot. Not any more. After the Great Unspeakable he’d never set foot in them again.

They had tea in the back garden. The air was squeaky with sunlight. Rose bushes spilled shadows onto the sloping lawn. At the bottom the River Tully ran past, dark and gleaming like a film reel.

Alf cut a slice of cake and pushed the plate across the table.

‘Thanks.’ Brian lifted the golden wedge.

‘Watch out!’ Alf’s hand shot forward. He flicked at a bee that was nibbling the icing. ‘Buzz off, Sue.’

‘Aah!’ Brian dropped the cake. The bee ambled off through the air. ‘I nearly swallowed her.’

‘Ugh.’ Alf’s smile vanished. ‘My poor Susie.’

Brian had been more worried about his throat. But he knew better than to say so. ‘How on earth do you know that was Susie?’

Alf cut another slice of cake and put it on a plate in the middle of the table. Four bees settled on top.

‘There you go, girls, feast your feelers on that.’ Alf pointed to them in turn. ‘Claire, Edna, Jan and Beyoncé. Course I know my bees. And I’d know if one went missing too.’ He gazed at Edna – or was it Beyoncé? – as she probed the dips and mounds of the cake with her antennae. ‘That’s the saddest part. Alec’s parents not noticing for nearly a day.’ He rolled a cake crumb between his finger and thumb. ‘They’re worried enough now, though. Poor Mrs Hunratty. She was wrung out this morning. Can’t have slept a wink. She kept saying, “You’re sure, Mr Sandwich? You’re sure you didn’t see him?” Like if she asked enough times, she’d get the answer she wanted.’

On Brian’s list of top ten favourite people, Alec came fifty-third. But he had to agree it was a terrible thing. ‘I wish I could help,’ he murmured.

‘Me too, Cap’n.’ The old man sighed. ‘But what can we do except keep a look-out and pray he comes back soon?’