CHAPTER 15

WOOD YOU?

Brian didn’t have a clue what lesson it was, or what homework Florrie had just written on the board, or how many months there were until Christmas.

But he did have a clue. The question was what to do with it.

As he sat at the back of the class, through whatever subject it was that involved a large amount of shouting, a medium amount of tooth-licking and a small amount of jabbing Gary’s arm with a ruler, three options came to mind:

1. ignore it: forget that he’d just seen a deaf man hear;
2. tell Sergeant Poggarty;
3. confront the gardener himself.

He frowned. A) was impossible. How could he forget what he’d seen? B) was pointless. The police had already questioned all the staff. So either there was some perfectly reasonable explanation that Brian couldn’t think of right now, or Mr Pottigrew was hiding something – in which case he’d lie again, both to the police and to Brian – which meant that C) was a waste of time too.

Staring out the window, he came up with D). More snooping.

When the last bell rang, Brian grabbed his school bag, ran to the cloakroom and stuffed it into his locker. Then, instead of joining the froth of children pouring into the front yard, he slipped down the corridor and out the back door. He ran across the empty yard, over the lawn and into the trees. On the far side he crouched in the gloom and looked along the path.

Sweat tickled his palms. It was what he’d hoped and dreaded. Mr Pottigrew was there, locking up the shed with a key from a bunch. He turned left down the path and stopped at the back gate. With another key he undid the padlock.

Brian’s heart didn’t know whether to leap or dive. So it settled for both, bouncing like a basketball in his chest, kicking up a dust of indecision. Now what?

Dad would be waiting at the front gate. Brian should turn round, tell the gardaí what he’d seen, go home and live happily ever after.

Except that he wouldn’t – because ever after would be anything but happy unless he did something about it.

He fingered his ear. Dulcie would know what to do.

His hand dropped. There was no time to talk. Mr Pottigrew had locked the back gate and disappeared from view. And besides, it was clear what to do.

He crept across the path, crouched by the dustbins and looked through the fence. Mr Pottigrew was getting into a small grey car.

No! It hadn’t occurred to him that the gardener might drive.

As the car drove off slowly down Finn McCool Lane, Brian climbed onto one of the dustbins. Wedging a foot between two rungs, he hauled himself over the fence. He dropped to the ground and crouched behind a bush by the railings. Maths may be a disaster and spelling a no-no, but climbing he could do.

Too well. Mum’s face drifted across his mind.

When the car had turned left into High Street Brian darted down the lane and stopped at the end. The traffic was bad; he could follow the car easily, melting into the crowd as it stopped for red traffic lights and pedestrians who spilled dozily across the road.

At the top of High Street it turned right into Gandhi Way. Brian walked faster. With fewer shops and pedestrians here, the car went faster and it was harder to hide. He kept his hands in his pockets in what he hoped was a casual way, and his eyes on the car in what definitely wasn’t.

Mr Pottigrew turned left into Joan of Arc Avenue where the shops gave way to houses. Brian followed in a kind of creeping trot that must look very odd. The car disappeared right into Spartacus Lane, where the houses gave way to bushes. No, I’m losing him. Brian broke into a run. He couldn’t keep this up for much longer.

He didn’t have to. Entering the lane, he saw the car turn left and disappear down a narrow track. The engine stopped. He heard a door open and shut. A lock clicked faintly. Then silence.

Brian counted to five. Then he scuttled along the pavement to the entrance of the lane.

Thank goodness there was plenty of cover. The hedgerows spilled ivy and sweet smells onto the path. Brian hid behind a clump of ferns. The little car was parked behind a tree at the side. Mr Pottigrew was about ten metres ahead, approaching a gate into a field. At the far end of the field stood a cluster of trees.

Not any old trees. Tullybough trees. Brian’s stomach swooped.

He pulled his sleeve forward and rubbed his earring.

‘Good of you to call!’ squeaked Dulcie. ‘I was wondering when you’d bother. Well, go on then – after him!’ Mr Pottigrew had reached the gate. He slid the bolt, pushed it open and walked into the field.

Brian scraped his fingers across his palms. Sweat squeezed under his nails. ‘I don’t think–’

‘Duck!’

Twigs cracked as he shrank into the hedgerow. Mr Pottigrew was turning round. Brian hunkered down and held his breath.

Phew. Whatever the gardener could or couldn’t hear, it wasn’t him. Breathing out slowly, Brian watched the old man close the gate and set off across the field towards the woods.

‘Quick,’ Dulcie shrieked, ‘or we’ll lose him!’

Brian hugged his knees. A nettle brushed the back of his hand. A second of numbness then the sting screamed in. He circled his fingers round the little white bumps bursting from his knuckles. Through the pain came a face, a smile, a scream.

‘I can’t,’ he mumbled.

‘Can’t what?’

‘Go into the woods.’

‘Oh.’ Dulcie’s voice softened. ‘I was forgetting. Course you can’t.’

Brian’s fingers relaxed. Thank goodness. He’d thought for a second there was going to be a scene.

‘I mean, imagine if you did go in. You’d actually have to face your fear, instead of letting it stew nicely in your memory and ruin your life.’

Brian knew there was something he should be doing right now. Oh yes. Breathing.

‘And imagine if we’re actually onto something,’ she continued. ‘I’m sure those missing children would understand that it’s far too upsetting for you to go in and help them.’

Brian swallowed. Across the field, Mr Pottigrew had nearly reached the woods.

‘If I were you,’ she said, ‘I’d go straight back to Sergeant Poggarty. I’m sure he’ll believe you when Mr Pottigrew keeps on acting as deaf as a dustbin, and when he’s already been questioned and cleared of suspicion. Why on earth would you bother being brave enough to go in there?’ A yawn uncurled into Brian’s ear. ‘Heroes. They’re so last year.’

Two butterflies played kiss-chase above the gate. Mr Pottigrew was at the edge of the woods. Did Brian imagine it or was the old man’s back a little straighter? He stepped into the trees and was gone.

Brian stood up. ‘You don’t understand.’

There’s only one thing worse than a sarcastic fossil. A silent one. But no matter how hard he rubbed, there was no reply.

‘I can’t go into those woods,’ he explained.

So why were his feet moving down the path towards the gate? Why were his arms reaching for the latch and his hands sliding it open? Why, when he didn’t have a single brave bone in his body, was every one of them acting as if he did?