And then Sam went back to sleep. Because he was still tired. And because now, for him, the really important day was not the eighth of September, even though that was a day he used to look forward to for so long. The really important day was the ninth of September. He wanted to go to sleep before midnight on the eighth, and then wake up on the morning of the ninth to see if what he hoped was indeed true.
Sam woke to the sound of the birds singing at around 7.30am. He lay in bed. Which might seem odd, since he’d been in bed for so long. He wasn’t tired. He felt much, much better. The long sleep had done him good, and any poorliness he’d had from the night getting to the island had vanished. So why didn’t he get up?
Because he was waiting for a knock on the door. That little, gentle knock that meant his mum was behind it holding a tray. With a special birthday breakfast on it.
He was waiting for that knock … really, really hoping it wasn’t coming. He wasn’t sure how long you have to wait for something that you’re hoping isn’t going to come. Before you know it isn’t.
But then he realised that he’d been thinking about it for so long that the answer had arrived: his mum was definitely not going to be doing that knock on the door.
No, on the ninth of September, Vicky did not come into Sam’s bedroom with a special birthday breakfast-in-bed tray. And neither were there any presents for Sam, or cakes, or singing of “Happy Birthday”; no trips to the cinema, or to Go Ape, or to an indoor climbing rock; and there was no party. Unless you call Grandpa Mike, Grandma Glenda, Grandma Poppy and Grandpa Sam sitting around, drinking tea and watching telly, a party. In which case, you need to get out more.
Grandpa Sam, in fact, had spent the previous day in hospital, being checked out by doctors following his time on the island. But, apart from a bit of a cold, he turned out to be fine. Well, not fine – as perhaps you will have realised, Grandpa Sam had a thing called dementia, which old people sometimes get – but physically, the doctors explained, he was remarkably fit for a man of his age. So they let him go.
Carmel had come round to Noam Chomsky House as well, to keep an eye on him, and make sure he didn’t go wandering off again. While everyone was there, DCI Bryant and PC Middleton turned up. It was procedure, they said, to come round to check that all was OK now, and wrap up the case.
“It appears …” said DCI Bryant to the entire family and Carmel, “that Mr Bailey here … by which I mean Grandpa Sam … had managed to leave Abbey Court with a bag of things purloined from your son, including a voice-changer and a super-bright torch … Will you be wanting to file charges, by the way?”
This was directed to Sam. Sam looked at Grandpa Sam, who was smiling at him.
“Er … no, DCI Bryant.”
DCI Bryant made a face. “Well … it’s up to you.”
“Did he …” said Charlie, “swim there? To the island?”
“It appears so.”
“He used to swim for the county,” said Poppy proudly, linking her arm with Grandpa Sam’s. “That’s when I first remember falling in love with him, seeing him at our local pool.”
“Did he keep his trunks on that time?” said Glenda slyly.
Poppy shot a cross glance at her, but DCI Bryant continued:
“Yes, we’ll be filing a report. Case successfully closed. The children found, and of course, Samuel Bailey, also found. Well done, Middleton.”
“Thank you, sir. For what?” said PC Middleton.
“For finding the children. Of course. And Mr Bailey. I shall – in my report – be commending both of us.”
“I see, sir. Will you be mentioning, though, that it was, in fact, the children – Sam and Ruby – who actually found Mr Bailey?”
“Middleton …” said DCI Bryant.
“Moreover,” said PC Middleton, “that it was actually Spock the guinea pig who found – or at least directed us towards – the whereabouts of the children?”
“MIDDLETON …”
DCI Bryant started to do the zip gesture with his mouth towards PC Middleton. But Sam said:
“DCI Bryant! You’re, um … flying low …”
Everyone looked down. At DCI Bryant’s zip. Which was indeed … low. DCI Bryant went very red. But not before PC Middleton could go:
“Zip it! … Sir.”