PANICKING, MOLLY DROPPED THE KEYS AND dived onto the floor. There she discovered that there wasn’t enough space under the bed for her to conceal herself.
“Drat!”
The footsteps stopped. The door handle turned. By now Molly had thrown herself onto the bed and was scrambling across it like a mad monkey, towards the nearest wardrobe.
Mum pushed open the bedroom door.
Molly pulled open the wardrobe door –
and Mum came into the room, her frown-puckered eyes seeking out the source of the strange scrabbling noises.
By now Molly was in the wardrobe; with great skill she’d pulled the door silently shut – and then she cried “Flipping Nora!” as an avalanche of clothes fell from hangers onto her head.
With a raider’s rage Mum stormed forth to ransack the wardrobe. Flinging open the door, she loomed over Molly in silhouette as Molly cowered beneath her covering of black tee-shirts.
“Mum, it’s not what it looks like!” Molly squealed. “I mean, it’s exactly what it looks like, but I didn’t know what else to do! I came up to see if there were any keys, and – Mum, say something!”
The silent silhouette simmered with rage. Molly fully expected Mum to smite her like a vengeful Fury. Instead, she seemed suddenly to crumble. One lanky leg gave way momentarily at the knee, and she grabbed the frame of the wardrobe. She bumbled backwards and bumped into the bed, then sat clumsily down.
“Mum, are you OK?”
Mrs Thompson put her head down in her palms and quietly started to sob.
“Mum?”
Molly threw the tee-shirts off her head and crawled out of the wardrobe. Briefly she inspected the tee-shirt that was wrapped around her forearm. It definitely wasn’t one of Mum’s. It pictured the album cover from a record by a famous heavy metal band. The artwork showed a ghoulish soldier rushing forward, gripping a union flag and a sword.
“Mum? Whose clothes are these?”
Molly crept closer.
“So you’ve found me out,” Mum said bitterly. “I didn’t throw all of his stuff away. Happy now?”
Molly sat down next to Mum on the edge of the bed, the tee-shirt on her lap.
“What – these horrible tee-shirts are Dad’s?”
No answer – just noiseless tears.
“And you kept them? A whole wardrobe of them?”
Mum hiccupped, but said nothing.
“I never saw Dad wear them,” said Molly.
Mum sniffed and glared for a long time. Molly wondered if she was supposed to get up and leave.
“Do you want me to leave you alone, Mum?”
But before Molly could get up, Mum started to speak in a small, tense croak.
“Molly, your dad had a secret.”
Molly jolted with alarm. “What?”
“He was a heavy metal fan.”
Molly spluttered with relief and disbelief. “No way.”
Mum nodded slowly. “It’s true, I’m afraid. He used to wear these tee-shirts when he went to those rough pubs on Lastmead Lane for his reading group.”
“I can’t imagine Dad wearing one of these,” Molly said, “laughing and joking with smelly blokes who’ve got tattooed knuckles.”
“Heaven knows,” muttered Mum, shaking her head and staring at her clasped hands. “Heaven knows.”
Molly waited. “Um, heaven knows what, Mum?”
Another span of silence.
“Heaven knows … how he got them to join his book club, those reprobates who drank there. He loved befriending people like that. He once said that you can’t really know a person until you’ve tried your best to care about them. So he tried to care about the people who nobody else liked. He made them laugh with his silly magic tricks.”
Molly turned a tee-shirt over in her hands. “I remember his silly magic tricks,” she said. “They were silly.”
Mum sighed heavily.
“People said that those rough toothless blokes changed when they were around your dad,” she said. “That was the real magic trick: he knew how to get people on his side. He had a magic smile.”
“I wish I had a magic smile,” said Molly. “I wanted to learn how to be like him. He died before I had a chance.”
“You have exactly the same smile as your father,” said Mum. “But you never use it. Not since he died, anyway. If you combined your knowledge and your dad’s smile, you’d be unstoppable.”
Molly remembered what Carl said, about how she never smiled.
She remembered what Felicity had said about her miserable little scowl.
She remembered how Furlock had called her earnest. She didn’t want to be earnest. She wanted to be fun and carefree, like Dad.
“Mum,” Molly said, wishing to shift topic, “of all the things of Dad’s you could’ve kept, why did you keep these tee-shirts?”
Mum sniffed bleakly. She swept her hair back from her damp, flushed face. “I always nagged him to get rid of them. We argued about them. It doesn’t seem fair to get rid of them now, when he’s not here to argue back.” Suddenly she turned to Molly, red-eyed. “Is that weird? Should I give them to the charity shop?”
Molly was taken aback. Mum didn’t often seek Molly’s advice. Nervously she turned the tee-shirt over in her hands a few more times. “Don’t ask me,” she shrugged. “I mess everything up.”
Mum sniffed and looked at her clasped hands once more.
“Yes,” she said at last. “You’re certainly a nuisance, just like your father.”
Molly held her tongue.
“And,” Mum went on, “you’re the best investigator in Howlfair. Or so people say.”
Molly looked at her mum. “What people?”
“Mostly the same people who say you’re a nuisance,” Mum said. She pondered and frowned. “Molly, why do you bother with all of your investigations?”
“I knew there was something wrong,” Molly said. “Even before Dad got ill. He seemed different. He looked so scared and desperate. I knew there was something going on that I didn’t understand, and I hated not understanding. I still think that if I’d figured out what was going on, I could’ve found a way to help.”
“Like burning down the museum, or poisoning us all with werewolf potion?” Mum sniffed. “Molly, don’t you realize that the reason I get so angry at your crazy shenanigans is that I’m scared to death I’ll lose you too?”
Molly shook her head. “I didn’t know that.” She stared at the tee-shirt. “I just feel like helping Dad was the one thing in my life I could’ve got right if I’d figured out what was wrong with him, but I missed my chance. Now I feel like I have to figure out everything.”
Mum said, “Sometimes there’s nothing to figure out. Your dad got ill, that’s all.”
“But he looked so scared!”
“’Course he did! He’d never been ill before in his life. He’d always had so much energy. And like a typical man he refused to see a doctor until it was too late. Molly, you have to trust me: there’s nothing you could have done.”
Molly looked down at her feet. A tee-shirt was wrapped around her leg. “What are you going to do about these?”
Mum tugged at a strand of hair and thought. “Give me a couple of days to say goodbye to them, and then I’ll put them in the bin. It’s time to move on.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure. I’ll need you to do something, though.”
“I know, Mum: stop hiding in wardrobes.”
“I want you to keep a tee-shirt for yourself,” said Mum. “You can choose which one. You can wear it when we go to visit Lowry in the infirmary tomorrow. I’ve heard she’s doing a bit better.”
“Is she?” said Molly. “That’s brilliant news!”
“Go on then – pick a tee-shirt.”
Molly scooped some of the garments off the floor. “But they all horrify me equally.”
“Wear it under a jumper if you like. Dad would be happy just knowing you’re wearing it.”
After pulling faces at a number of them, Molly chose the one with the skeletal soldier and the flag. “This one.”
“Ah, he loved that one.”
Molly folded it and stood up. “Are you going to be OK?”
“’Course,” said Mum, scooping up a long-sleeved tee-shirt and grimacing at it. But as Molly began to head for the door, Mum said, “Molly, wait.”
“What is it?”
“I’m sorry I don’t take more of an interest in the things you investigate,” said Mum. “When this summer’s over, maybe we could find some local historical thing that we can investigate together.”
Molly brightened. “Really? What kind of historical thing?”
Mum said, “Ask me in September.”
Well, September seemed a long way off to Molly. It wasn’t even August. It was the last day of July. In a few hours the second full moon of the month – the blue moon – would show its face; and after that it would be too late to convince Mr Wetherill to help her. Benton Furlock would be voted Mayor of Howlfair, and the Dark Days would return, unless—
Heading down to the lobby, Molly tiptoed across the flagstones while Mrs Jones – a kindly woman, presently unconscious and snoring – was on door-watch. Molly went straight to the guest book, hoping to find, but not daring to expect, another message from Carl inscribed within.
The following note was written in pencil:
