SOMETIMES, BEING A BRILLIANT SCHOOLBOY detective – as I am – can have its moments of danger. Not very many, thank goodness, but it happens now and again.
Looking back through my case files, there have been several times when I’ve been placed in a situation of real, actual, genuine peril. For example, I narrowly avoided falling flat on my face while chasing the villains in their getaway lorry during the case of The Bloodsucker’s Grave. And I was very nearly pushed into a huge tank full of cow poo during The Mystery of Eviltree Farm. However, only twice have I ever faced a situation which could truthfully be described as ‘Oh-no-get-outta-there-now’.
The case of The Poisoned Arrow is perhaps the most hair-raising example.
It was 8.45 p.m. on a Friday evening. A sweeping fog dampened the distant glow of the streetlights. The cloudy, moonless sky cast a darkness over everything that was so deep I kept feeling as if I was staring into a bottomless pit.
I was standing, alone, on the gravelly forecourt outside the Rackham Road Community Theatre. This theatre, which is situated on the edge of town and which doubles up as a venue for all kinds of local events, is a rather squat, lumpy building, which looks like it’s been put together using giant toy blocks instead of bricks. Most people call it the ‘Turtle-Shell’. I was standing close to the hideous statue that’s plonked down outside it, the one which shows four human figures striking dramatic poses. I guess it’s meant to be theatrical.
I was looking for my phone. I’d realised I’d dropped it out there on the gravel somewhere, and it was vital that I retrieved it immediately. I was expecting a very important call, a call that would signal the endgame of a particularly nasty crime.
In the misty darkness, the crunch of my shoes on the gravel sounded like mountains collapsing. I glanced around nervously. The cold eeriness of the evening set me thinking about one or two creepy movies I should never have watched. The fog was thickening. The theatre’s full-to-bursting parking area was only fifty metres away, but I could barely make it out. The streetlights on Rackham Road seemed to have become dimmer.
Where was that blasted phone?
Right by my feet, as it turned out! I glanced down, and there it was. Tutting to myself, I bent down and scooped it up. Good – I hadn’t missed any calls.
I was about to turn and hurry back inside the theatre, when the sound of approaching footsteps froze me to the spot. Pocketing my phone, I stood up and stared uneasily into the surrounding gloom. I could feel my heart beginning to thump.
Then suddenly, out of the darkness, emerging through the mist came four, five, no six hulking figures – tall, heavy men, all of them smothered in dark coats. They were each wearing a horrible Halloween pumpkin mask.
I think my heart actually stopped for a few seconds. The crime I’d been expecting was about to take place!
The men marched towards the building, quickly but calmly. The darkness of the theatre’s unlit forecourt was keeping me out of their sight, but I’d be spotted in a matter of seconds. I had to get away! If they saw me . . .
The heftiest of the men, out in front, was carrying a large canvas bag. It was clearly heavy. Knowing what was about to happen, I realised with horror that inside the bag must be weapons of some kind.
I couldn’t risk being seen! But if I took a single step, the crunch of the gravel would instantly alert them.
I have never, ever, ever been so scared in all my life. It felt as if my insides had been forced through a paper shredder.
What could I do?
At that moment, my phone trilled. Loudly.
The man in front halted. ‘Is someone there?’ he boomed. ‘Show yourself! Now!’
He twitched an arm to usher the others forward.
I didn’t dare breathe. The only thought going through my head was: Why do I let myself get into these messes?