Dear Scarlett (2 page)

I’m lying in bed watching this long shadow stretch across the floor. It’s the control tower from the old airfield next door. It means there’s a full moon. Ellie’s snoring on the top bunk but I’m wide awake.

I’m looking up, at Ellie’s mattress above me; I’ve stuck Dad’s message to the underneath of the top bunk.

Keep looking up, Scarlett, keep up the gym, and don’t trust just ANYONE
.

Useless.

Absolutely useless.

All of it. Even the postcards. They’ll mean more
to Mum than to me.

As for telling no one – Ellie already knows.

I turn over and face the wall. I scrunch up my knees and pull the duvet really close.

I try to remember Dad’s face, but Ellie’s made my bedroom smell funny, so all I can see is her, and her dad. Her bag’s like a magic washing-powder stink dispenser, a sort of blue clean smell that smothers everything else. Even Syd’s baby wipes. Their whole house pongs of it.

I wonder what ours smells of. Baking? Soup? Poo?

Ellie’s is the only house I ever go to these days, and she’s the only person that ever comes here. The boys used to; Sam Lewis was round all the time, but he’s into football now. The boys at our school have always been more fun than the girls. All the girls are prize horrors and I wouldn’t want to bring them home. I certainly wouldn’t want to go to their houses, and I’m really glad they never ask me.

I think their mums are scared of us. After all, Dad was a criminal.

But Ellie – honestly, what did I do wrong in a former life to be landed with
her
?

I roll on to my stomach and put my hands
around the bars at the end of the bunk and stare at the wall.

I suppose Ellie’s different; she doesn’t have any friends, boys or girls, she’s only got me because of Uncle Derek and Mum, and we’ve only got Uncle Derek because he towed out Mum’s car when we got stuck in the mud. He’s not bothered about Dad, but then he’s used to dealing with criminal types.

Although I’m not sure I’d really describe Ellie as a friend.

If she is a friend, she’s very annoying.

Are friends supposed to be that irritating?

I turn on to my back, and press my feet up against the underside of Ellie’s bunk. I could tip her out.

Or, I could take a look at Dad’s tools.

I think of them lying there in the moonlight, waiting for me, only fifteen centimetres away. It’s unbearable, so I reach out under the bed for the bundle of picklocks, gently closing my hand around the leather pouch.

I clamber over Ellie’s electronic equipment – DS, phone, iPod – all plugged in and glowing in the corner of my bedroom. For a moment I’m tempted to pull out the leads, but I think her gadgets are
probably her true friends, and that, although just like Ellie and her dad, they’re really annoying, it would be wrong.

Downstairs, Houdini the cat’s licking his bottom in the moonlight. He only comes out when Syd’s gone to bed.

He breaks off to rub his jaw against my knee. I unroll the tools and he pads over them, making them clink.

“My dad was a burglar, and he’s left me his tools,” I whisper to Houdini but he just scratches himself on the corner of the sofa.

I run my fingers over the tools. I need to try them. I need to have a go. They’re cold and heavy in my hand. I pad through the moonlight into the kitchen. Uncle Derek’s parked his running shoes by the back door, next to Mum’s wellies. I tiptoe around and pull back the bolt.

Now what?

I stand on the wet gravel. The moon’s reflected in the watercress beds. I can hear the stream running into the big tank at the bottom.

The moonlight falls on Mr Hammond’s wooden watercress shed. It’s got a big padlock dangling
from the door and inside there’s a locked honesty box, where people pay for the watercress.

The gravel’s cold and sharp under my feet, and I try not to let it crunch. An owl hoots off in the trees behind the airfield. Something rustles in the hedge and something else squeals.

I lay Dad’s tools on the ground, and choose one of the picks. I’ve no idea what I’m doing, but I stick the longest in the lock and fiddle about.

Nothing happens.

I take the smallest. Again, nothing happens.

Perhaps this burgling thing is more difficult than it seems.

I try three more before anything feels like it might happen. There’s a pick with a thick end. I slip it gently into the padlock, and this time something moves. It’s as if my hand holding the padlock can feel the inside, almost as if I can see it. I use my left hand to hold the pick, I don’t know why, but it feels right.

Ping
. “Yes.”

The lock falls open.

It slips off easily, and I lift the door so that it doesn’t scrape on the gravel.

This is crazy.

I watch my fingers laying the open padlock on the step.

Mad.

I must be mad.

I stop.

I could just leave.

Or I could go further.

Inside, there’s the money box, built into the wall. It’s got a different sort of lock. I peer across at it in the gloom.

I should turn round now and lock up the shed.

But instead I reach into the pouch. I pull out a lumpy pick, but it’s obviously the wrong thing, so I reach for another set of picks; they’re heavier.

Ping
.

The tiny door creaks open. I put my hand in and I can feel notes; masses of pound coins. Real money. But I like Mr Hammond and I don’t think Dad would have stolen from him. It feels wrong, so I won’t touch anything.

But now I know that I could be…

…I could be a burglar too.

Monday morning.

Nearly five o’clock.

I think I’ve been awake all night. Ellie went home yesterday and my room smells almost normal again. I’ve done nothing about Dad’s box, except hang the poxy key around my neck on an orange shoelace and wonder why he gave it to me now.

I imagine, Dad was trying to tell me something. But I can’t see what. It feels like it’s all a big clue to something. But I can’t work it out. Perhaps he should have waited until I was older; I might have been cleverer.

He left me his tools, so he must have wanted me to break into things. So I will, and I’ll do it properly. I’ve been thinking about the equivalent of a jewel robbery in Dampington, and I think I’ve come up with exactly the right target.

A mission.

Downstairs, Houdini looks hopeful, so I feed him. Then, tucking the roll of picklocks under my arm, I slip out.

There are no cars. No one’s up, but it’s nearly light out here and the birds think it’s morning. The grass is wet under my feet, and nettles brush my legs as I take the footpath past the airfield into town.

This feels like a dream, I can’t possibly be doing it in real life.

My spine’s tingling. My blood’s turned back to fizz again. I have to stop and breathe for a minute, because part of me feels like I could explode.

“Hey!” I shout at the fields. A single crow takes off from a phone line and flaps off, creaking and screeching.

“HEY!”

I wait.

This time, nothing moves. There was only me and the crow, and now he’s gone.

I walk on. I keep thinking of Dad. I’m doing what he did. I’m on a job, an early morning visit to a rich person’s house, to relieve them of unwanted jewellery. In order to succeed, I must move like a wraith through the town. No one must ever know I’ve been here – even a footprint could land me in it.

When I reach Dampmouth Bay, I slip down a side alley and stay absolutely still. The streets are empty. There are noises down in the harbour, but nothing up here in the town.

I stay there waiting for the longest possible time, listening to myself breathing in and out, in and out.

I could just go home.

Abandon the whole thing.

But I don’t.

I walk a little further.

Just off the high street is Ye Olde Sweete ’n’ Toys Shoppe. One window’s crammed with jars and lollipops and tins of stripy candy. The other, Nerf guns, Lego and Playmobil.

I stand to one side as if I just happen to be there,
waiting by the wall for a lift at five-thirty in the morning.

Listening, I can’t hear anyone around, no footsteps, no cars, but I think up an excuse.
“I was window shopping, it’s my brother’s birthday.”

Not great, but it’ll do if anyone appears now, this second. I put my hand on the doorknob, slip one of the picks into the lock and I don’t even stop to think what I’m doing.

Clunk, clunk, clunk
.

Nothing happens.

A tiny pulse of panic starts on the side of my head. Bet this never happened to Dad.

I pull out the longest pick.

Clunk, clunk, ping
.

I turn the knob and the door opens a crack.

If an alarm goes off, I’m dead. I hold my breath for at least a minute, but nothing happens, the shop just breathes out at me, hotly, fruitily, beckoning me inside.

Yes!

Yes. Yes.

I’ve done it. I’ve opened the door to the most exciting shop in town.

For a moment I’m awed by my own ability, then I
remember that I’ve been standing here for possibly five whole minutes, and that anyone could have spotted me. A sudden wriggle of fear shoots down my back and I turn, almost expecting someone to be there, watching me. But all’s still, so I step over the threshold.

I push the door shut and stare. Every sort of sweet I could possibly want is there right in front of me, and I can take as much as I like. The jars line the walls, prices written on in felt tip; the top of the counter’s scattered with baskets of wrapped sweets and underneath those are rows of brightly coloured boxes crammed with more sweets.

I check behind the counter, just in case someone’s hiding there, but of course they’re not and no little red lights are flashing. On the other hand, I should make it quick, in case there’s some sort of secret alarm and the police arrive.

I look up at the jars lining the walls.

I’m frozen, paralysed by the possibilities, but then I remember my mission – a prize from each part of the shop.

I’m tempted to take a whole box of fizzing snakes, but they’d be missed and I’d have to explain them away at home so instead I stuff two fizzing
snakes in my mouth and feel the popping candy explode up my nose.

Delicious.

I stuff two more in my pocket and grab ten bubblegums. Then I take down the jar of sherbet raspberries, weigh out exactly two hundred grams and tip them into a paper bag.

That’s enough.

But I spot a bag of liquorice whirls and stuff that in my pocket too.

Definitely enough.

I pop one more fizzing snake in my mouth and move on to the toy shop behind. One side is heaped with boxes of spangly pink dolls, horses and teddies, the kind of thing Ellie likes. The other side has the boy stuff. I run my fingers over the wheels of a skateboard; I’d like a skateboard but there’s no way I’d get away with it. Mum would find it and kill me, slowly.

I crouch down to look at the shelves of toys for little kids. The dinosaurs are fun, but Syd doesn’t really need any more of them. I trail past the trains, and tractors and cars. At the end there’s a display of Lego wind-up torches. They’re little Lego people but big, and turned into torches. So I help myself
to a policeman.

Perhaps I’ll give it to Uncle Derek for Christmas.

I really don’t think there’s anything else I could possibly want; anyway, I need to get out.

Back on the street, it’s full daylight. My pockets are bursting and I’d quite like breakfast.

Bong, bong, bong, bong, bong, bong
.

Six o’clock.

Syd’ll be awake, which means Mum’ll be awake.

I try and relock the door, but I can’t. I try again, but I haven’t a clue how to do it. I just pull it shut. It doesn’t even do that properly.

Bet that never happened to Dad, either.

A car drives past the end of the alley, pauses, and drives on. A dustbin lorry rattles down the high street.

A tractor engine starts up somewhere out of town.

I turn my back on the shop and run.

Dampmouth Bay Zoo is about as exciting as the watercress beds. The only things that are any good are the butterfly house and the souvenirs. The whole class stares longingly at the gift shop while Mrs Gayton hands out clipboards.

I can hardly keep my eyes open but I stick one hand out for a clipboard while selecting a sherbet raspberry from my pocket with the other. Mrs Gayton ignores me and hands a clipboard to Melissa instead.

“Ecology, Golden Class,” says Mrs Gayton. “That’s the purpose of our visit.”

I don’t think this zoo is very ecological. It’s not very eco and it’s not logical either. Some tired monkeys hang from the roof in their small stinky cage and there’s an anteater that refuses to come out. He seems to have a room the size of a swimming pool. There are also two tired flamingos that haven’t eaten enough prawns and seem to be turning grey.

And a lot of concrete.

Like the watercress beds, but I suspect the watercress beds have more ecology going on.

I’ve only brought the sherbet raspberries, and two bubblegums, and I feel weird. One moment, I feel fantastic, like I know something that no one else knows. Then I feel slightly sick.

It could just be lack of sleep.

I’m with Ellie. Of course I’m with Ellie, I’m the only person that isn’t mean to her. Melissa, Jessica and Amber are already giggling behind their hands. Of all the horrible girls in our class, those three are the worst. Mum calls them the Coven. It helps, because that way I can always think of them as witches who will ultimately come to a bad end if they keep it up. They’re giggling at Ellie because of her clothes, which is almost fair enough as Ellie’s
clothes are never good, but today they’re epically misjudged. Pink fluffy jumper, oversized backpack, tight pink leggings that make her legs look like cocktail sausages and spangly see-through boots.

Oh, and she’s wearing a hat.

No one ever wears a hat, even though it’s always on the list that Mrs Gayton sends out. I bet, even though it’s raining, she’s got the suntan lotion too.

“Now, Golden Class, take your clipboards and answer as many questions as possible; if you get stuck, you’re obviously not trying hard enough.”

Mrs Gayton heads off to the café. She’s probably hoping that someone will be eaten by the lion or savaged by the mangy tiger. I expect she’d really love it if it was me or Ellie.

Mrs Gayton’s part of the reason why Ellie and I manage to get on. She’s evil to both of us: Ellie’s clever and Mrs Gayton hates clever people, they show her up. I’m the daughter of a thief, and she never lets me forget it. She always holds her handbag close when I’m near, as if I’m going to steal it from round her arm. She’s about 108. She’s been at the school since Mum was there and I think Mrs Mason, the head teacher, is too scared to sack her.

Mrs Gayton actually seems to like the Coven; perhaps she recognises something of herself in them.

We leave the boys trying to tempt the anteater out with a chocolate brownie and I push open the flappy door that leads to the butterflies. It’s absolutely boiling and a little creepy. These huge butterflies flap slowly over our heads. They mostly look fairly tatty, like old curtains.

I offer Ellie the little paper bag of sherbets. “Oh – thanks, Scarlett.” She pops one in her mouth. It matches her hat.

I take one myself and push it round my mouth. I should be massively enjoying it, but somehow, it doesn’t taste so good. I feel slightly better that Ellie’s eaten one too, it spreads the guilt, although strictly speaking she doesn’t know it’s stolen, so she can’t feel guilty.

Was Dad wracked with guilt every time he committed a burglary?

“Ellie, have you ever done anything really wrong?” I ask, pretending to look at a brown moth. It’s probably dead, or maybe it’s a piece of bark.

“Wrong?” asks Ellie. “What d’you mean?”

“I mean, like stealing? For example?”

Ellie’s peering at a rock. I think it’s actually a frog, but Ellie’s short-sighted, so it comes as a surprise to her when it gets up and walks over the mossy stones. “Are you thinking about your dad?”

I wasn’t, but I’m scared of what she’s going to say if I tell her the truth, and nod my head.

“Well, I’m sure, even with your dad, there were grey areas.” We move along as a man in a suit and a chauffeur’s hat shuffles through the plastic flaps and gazes around. A large blonde woman in a
leopard-skin
coat squeezes in behind him, and I could swear she stares at me more than the butterflies.

“That’s the lady mayoress,” says Ellie, pointing backwards.

I look again at the large woman. She’s wearing a huge golden chain, but because of her fur coat, I can barely see it. What on earth is she doing in the butterfly house?

“Lady mayoress?” I ask. “Surely not, she looks like…” I can’t think of anything polite.

“A Christmas decoration?” asks Ellie. “Don’t you remember, she won the election last summer? Dad said it was a surprise; they’ve only been living here three years. She brought the chauffeur with her.”

I stare at them. The chauffeur looks like the sort
of man that hangs out outside the betting shop; his grey suit’s all rumpled, and his hair’s too long.

“You mean they run the council?” I mutter.

“Yes,” whispers Ellie. “Dad says her election was iffy, he thinks they rigged the vote, but no one can prove it now.”

Trust Ellie to know something like that. I shrug and lead her further through from Africa to South America.

“Anyway, thing is,” she says, “it all depends on what you steal, and why. It’s a bit like white lies.”

“So you’re saying that sometimes it’s OK to steal?”

“Yes. And no. I mean, we don’t really know the details of what your dad stole, and from whom.”

Only Ellie would say “whom”.

“Right,” I say. I kick at a mushroom thing growing out of a log. It oozes yellow pus-like stuff all over my shoe. Serves me right for stealing sweets. “But, it wasn’t really about Dad.”

“Oh?” says Ellie, pushing through the plastic flaps at the other end of the butterfly house. “What did you…?”

But she stops in the middle of the sentence.

We’re standing at the back of the zoo, the air
suddenly damp and fresh on our faces. In front of us, there’s this tiny concrete pond with three penguins squeezed into it. They look deeply, deeply sad.

They’ve always looked quite sad, but they used to have a bigger pond; I’m sure they did. Now the concrete seems to have been nibbled away around the edges and they’ve only got about a foot of water.

Luckily it’s raining, otherwise they’d never be able to get completely wet.

We both stand and stare.

“Oh no, it’s like they’re in prison,” says Ellie.

Mrs Gayton joins us by the rail. “Just like your father was,” she says to me. “The difference is that the penguins don’t deserve it.”

I swallow and slip along the rail as far from her as possible.

“Nasty,” says Ellie.

“Yes,” I murmur. “Shame it’s not her in there.”

We walk right around the penguins’ enclosure. It’s tiny, smaller than our sitting room.

“This is awful,” I murmur to Ellie.

“This is really wrong,” she says.

“We should do something about it,” I say.

“Yes,” says Ellie doubtfully. “But what?”