CHAPTER
TWENTY-TWO
Noah sighed and flicked off his anglepoise lamp, staring at the English homework he’d been unable to complete. Sometimes, being so au fait with Murder, She Wrote was a total curse, because there he was, stressing himself out, when there were probably a million and one explanations for the sinister mystery woman in the car taking photos. Like, maybe she was a professional photographer getting new pictures for her exhibition… Maybe it had a “night life” theme, capturing the nocturnal activities of a broad cross-section of people in semi-rural England. Sure, you usually needed some sort of legal waiver to have your image used, but…
Noah moved to the window, staring out across the back garden and into the dark field beyond the fence. The possibilities were gnawing at him, but he must not give in to yet more paranoia. Let’s face it: it was probably just a misunderstanding. People take photos all the time. It doesn’t have to mean anything.
He checked his Casio digital watch. Quarter to nine. Time to see what Pierre was really up to. He got himself together. Grey joggers, his hoodie from Harry (which he would burn if it turned out Harry was at the shed with Pierre – burn with the white-hot, anguished tears that would cascade from his betrayed eyes), espadrilles, a compass, binoculars and his lightweight, packable cagoule – perfect for unpredictable weather, with its tough nylon exterior, adjustable hood and drawstring waist. Finally, he pulled his pièce de résistance from his bottom drawer, last used on a two-day orienteering expedition with the Scouts. Yeah, his three-hole FlexiTog balaclava. Double knit, long neck, ten-gauge acrylic: you couldn’t get better.
He was ready.
He would now be able to slip stealthily and unseen towards the school shed, operating in the shadows, off the grid and under the radar.
“What are you doing?” his mother said, standing immediately outside his door when he opened it.
Noah blinked at her through the balaclava. “I’m testing my outdoor wear for durability. I may leave online reviews.”
His mother considered him. “Fine,” she said eventually. “Don’t walk my espadrilles through any mud.”
“I won’t,” he muttered, trying to get past her.
“What was that?”
“I WON’T!” he repeated. “God, can I just go?”
She stepped aside. “Back before ten, Noah, and remember to use a condom.”
“Will you please shut up?” he said, already down the stairs and out the front door before she could respond. They were surely both perfectly aware that no one had ever got laid wearing a cagoule and a balaclava.
He darted through the darkness towards the school, swift, stealthy…
“Who’s the prick in the balaclava?” some drunk men shouted from across the road.
Noah grimaced and swung a left down Linwood Road. Fewer street lights. Now he really was invisible – a whisper in the wind! He had often imagined himself working undercover for MI5 … in fact, he was expecting the tap on the shoulder from one of their recruiters any day now. He would be known as “The Ghost” – mysterious, unseen…
“Nice cagoule, Noah!” a pair of Year Nines, who shouldn’t have been out anyway, said as he walked past them.
Noah ignored them. There was a possibility his cover had been compromised. Too bad. He had to check out what the “asset” was up to in the shed, like it or not. Yeah, “asset”. He knew all the words.
Feeling particularly heroic and powerful, he hunkered down behind a bush located a good twenty metres from the shed and checked his watch: 20:56. The moment of truth would soon be upon him. Four minutes. Was that enough time to have a nibble on the Kendal Mint Cake he’d packed? Probably not. He should stay focused. He got his binoculars out and trained them on the door to the shed, heart in his mouth, dreading the sight of Harry appearing at this assignation.
The sound of a car in the distance, growing louder.
A flash of headlights. The crunch of gravel.
A car drove across the access drive towards the shed, stopping by the door and cutting the engine.
Noah swung the binoculars across, but he couldn’t see who was driving, past the glare from the headlights. He swung his view back to the shed, and then towards a movement he saw off to the left. Pierre. Walking from the other direction, a holdall hanging from his right hand.
The driver got out of the car.
It was Ms O’Malley.