CHAPTER 13

NIBBLES AND TROUBLES

Brian knocked three times on Alf’s door, shiny and red except for pale streaks where the paint had scabbed off. No answer. He knocked again. At the ninth knock, when he was just deciding that the human race had its limits, there was the sound of slow footsteps. The door opened a crack. A white face peered round. White as paper. White as snow. White as flour – because that’s what it was. Alf’s face and hands were covered.

‘Aye Aye, Cap’n’. His salute sent a cloud into the air.

‘Are you baking?’ said Brian. ‘Anemia told me you were sick.’

Alf smiled sadly. Little cracks appeared in his white lips. ‘Baking, yes. Sick … in a way.’ His mouth twisted oddly. ‘Don’t want you catching it. See you soon, Cap’n.’ He pushed the door.

‘No!’ Brian stuck his foot in the way. ‘Please let me in.’

‘I can’t.’ An astonishing tear snaked down Alf’s white cheek.

‘Why not?’ Brian pushed his foot against the door.

Alf looked up and down the street. Flour sailed off his forehead. ‘Just for a minute then.’

Mystified, Brian followed him down the narrow hall to the kitchen.

Alf had indeed been baking. There was flour on the table, the chairs and the floor. The kettle and stove had a sprinkling. A sweet cushiony smell filled the air.

‘Hang on.’ Wiping his cheek with a sleeve, Alf took a tea towel and crouched by the oven. He opened the door and brought out a tray of scones, lumpy and golden like rocky suns. ‘Nothing beats a nibble when you’re in a bit of trouble.’ He slid a knife under each scone and lifted them, one by one, onto a cooling rack on the counter.

Brian sat at the table. ‘What trouble?’ He’d never seen Alf sad, let alone tearful.

The old man brought out two plates and knives, a saucer with butter and a pot of honey. He sat down heavily opposite Brian. ‘Sergeant Poggarty came round. Said he had a few questions. Said …’ he picked up a knife and put it down again, ‘I was seen chatting to Tracy in the shop. And Alec too, last week. And that someone heard me inviting you over. That it was just a formality but–’

‘But because you’re kind to children you must be a kidnapper!’

‘No no. Well, not in so many words.’ A tear plopped onto the table.

‘Outrageous!’ Brian smacked his hand down. A knife bounced in alarm. ‘How dare anyone suspect you! I’ll go and tell them you’d never, ever–’

‘No.’ Alf raised a hand. ‘As I say, it was a formality. I’m sure the gardaí are talking to everyone. Just a bit upsetting, that’s all. But nothing compared to what Tracy and Alec’s families must be going through.’ He shook his head. ‘Lord help ’em.’ Pushing his chair back, he stood up and shuffled over to the counter. He put the scones on a plate and brought it to the table. ‘There you go, Cap’n.’

Brian sliced his scone and plastered each half with butter. He spread honey on top and took an angry bite.

Alf was right: a nibble was good for trouble. The fluffy warmth soothed his indignation. Sergeant Poggarty was only doing his job. But Alf of all people! He was part of the furniture, safe as the sofa in Tullybun library. The gardaí must be desperate. Two disappearances and no one seemed to have a clue.

Except. Brian took another bite. Could two disappearances be a clue in itself?

Alf buttered his scone slowly, covering every golden ridge and dip. ‘No one’s ever vanished from the village as far as I can remember. And that’s pretty far.’

Brian finished his scone. Tracy and Alec. Why them? It’s not as if they’re friends. He licked the last honey off his knife.

Alf smiled. ‘I feel better for talking. Thanks for your kindness, Cap’n.’ Bits of scone were stuck between his teeth. He loosened them with his tongue. ‘They should teach it in school. More use than long division.’

Brian snorted, imagining Florrie. ‘Did you just share your Lion Bar, Brian? A+ for being a pet.’

Pet? Brian’s fingers tightened round the knife. That’s it. Alec and Tracy may not be friends, but they did have something – or rather someone – in common.

Surely not. A terrible thought danced through his mind. So terribly terrible – and deliciously delicious – that he couldn’t possibly share it with another being until he was sure. Not a human one, at least. He fingered his earring. ‘I’d better get going,’ he said. ‘Dad’ll be wondering where I am.’ As if. ‘Thanks for the scone.’

At the front door Alf scanned the street. ‘Don’t tell anyone you came round. It wouldn’t look good right now.’ He patted Brian’s shoulder. ‘Glad you did, though. As they say, a snack shared is a problem halved.’

Brian had never heard that one. And far from halving, the problem had multiplied into something far more thrilling.

He walked down the road. After a few paces he turned to check that Alf had closed the door. Then he rubbed his ear with his sleeve. ‘It’s obvious!’ he hissed.

‘What is?’

But before Brian could explain, Mrs Alveola Fripp turned into the street. The founder of the ‘Tullybun Says No to Gum’ campaign was on her daily round, unsticking grey blobs from fences and pavements and fixing them to her forehead, in order to remind villagers that ‘Chewing gum is the acne on the face of the earth’. Catching sight of Brian, she nodded in greeting. A blob dropped from her brow. As she bent down to retrieve it, he hurried past.

Arriving home breathlessly, he unlocked the front door and went upstairs.

‘Brian?’ Dad called from the kitchen. ‘Did school finish early?’

Brian stopped on the landing. ‘You didn’t get my message then.’

‘No. What happened?’ Dad came to the bottom of the stairs. ‘How awful,’ he said when Brian told him about Tracy. ‘Two children missing.’ He put a hand to his cheek. ‘What’s going on?’ He began to climb the stairs. ‘Brian, be careful. I can’t bear to think of–’

‘There was a text too.’ Brian’s voice was icy. ‘You were supposed to collect me from school.’

‘I was?’ Dad stopped on the third stair. ‘I – I’m sorry.’ He laid his hand on the banister. ‘I was in the workshop. I left my phone in the house.’ His eyes were bright with a focus they’d lacked for months, as if he’d woken from a long sleep.

Brian held his gaze. This was the bit where Dad would say, ‘I forgive you for what happened, Brian. Let’s move on.’ You could almost hear the violins.

A funny little muscle moved in Dad’s cheek. ‘You’re not to walk anywhere alone. I’ll drive you to school.’ The light went off in his eyes. He turned down the stairs.

Brian marched into his bedroom and slammed the door. ‘Why can’t he talk to me?’ he said, rubbing his earring roughly.

‘You weren’t exactly Mr Let’s-Be-Friends,’ said Dulcie. ‘And stop rubbing so hard. You’re giving me the jitters. Now tell me what’s so obvious.’

Brian’s anger gave way to excitement. He kneeled by the bed and pulled out the Doctor Who poster. ‘Mrs Florris,’ he said, pointing to questions 5 and 6 on the list.

‘That hideous old hornet – what about her?’

‘She’s the link between Alec and Tracy. I mean, they’re both teacher’s pets.’

Dulcie’s wings fluttered irritably. ‘You’re saying she likes them so much she kidnapped them? Funny way to show you care.’

Brian frowned. He hadn’t thought of that. He’d so wanted Florrie to be the villain, he hadn’t been thinking straight. His shoulders sank. The excitement leaked out of him.

Almost. Something still glimmered inside, the ember of a thought that refused to die, that smouldered and glowed and sprang into flame.

‘Oh!’ He clapped a hand to his mouth. ‘You don’t think–’

‘I certainly do. All the time. Not much else to do in here.’

‘No, I mean, you don’t think that …’ Brian jumped up. ‘Come on!’ With shaking hands he pulled off his shoes, praying that Dad had gone back to the workshop. He mustn’t hear a thing; he wouldn’t let Brian out alone now, and there was no time to explain.

He crept downstairs, carrying his shoes, and out the front door. Slipping them back on, he ran down Hercules Drive.

‘Blinking buddleia,’ gasped Dulcie as he panted out his fear. ‘I see what you mean. Quick!’

He was. But it still took ten minutes to get to Hannibal Crescent. He turned into Caesar Close.

He stopped dead. I’m too late. His insides collapsed like wet sand.

A garda car was parked by the kerb outside Number Twelve. Two neighbours stood on the pavement. Their arms and faces were folded tight. Brian recognised old Mr McDooly, the greengrocer, and tiny Mrs Mallows.

Drooly McDooly waved across at Brian. ‘Hey, lad, what are you doing here?’ His bald head glowed like an onion in the evening light. ‘You shouldn’t be out alone.’ Brian didn’t move.

‘Another one gone,’ said Fontania Mallows. The president of the Tullybun Nitting Circle, a group of retired women who met every Tuesday to teach head lice to circle dance, pressed her hands to her cheeks.

Brian stopped himself from blurting out, ‘I know.’ Instead he managed, ‘When?’

‘Lunch time. His mum was waiting at the gate but he never came. The principal rang the guards.’

That rules Florrie out, thought Brian. Why would you abduct a pupil then phone the police?

‘How do you know all this, Fontania?’ Mr McDooly looked impressed.

‘I was, er, watering the roses. I heard Sandra Nimby over the wall. One tries not to listen but –’ she tutted sympathetically, ‘she was slightly hysterical.’

How can you be slightly hysterical? wondered Brian grimly.

Not that it mattered. The point was that if he’d been smarter, thought faster, had a bigger brain, he could have stopped the disappearance of Unbeatable Pete.

‘Hold on, lad.’ Drooly shuffled into the road. ‘I’ll walk you back.’

But Brian was already legging it miserably home.