Middle School: How I Got Lost in London (10 page)

“Hey…Miller?”

The deal was he’d hide behind a Spanish Inquisition exhibit. I stepped out from behind the French Revolution, took a deep breath, and went over to it.

“Hey, Miller…” I said. I peered behind a man being stretched on a rack.

He wasn’t there.

Straightaway I realized what had happened. How could I have been so
dumb
? He’d double-crossed me. He’d promised to hide but joined the group and left.

My imagination woke up. I pictured the group boarding the coach outside Madame Fifi’s. I pictured Dwight taking roll-call and Miller saying “Here” at my turn and everyone snickering. And then I pictured the coach leaving. Without me. Miller back at the hotel, failing to alert anybody to the fact that his roomie hadn’t turned up…

I dashed to the door. But it was locked. I began banging on it. A thick, wooden door like the door to a dungeon.

“HERE!” I shouted.

(A great “Here” it was too. A really meaty “Here.”)

But nobody came. I was locked in. I was locked in for the night.

“
THIS IS ALL
your fault,” I told Leo as I looked nervously around at the exhibits. It wasn’t really Leo’s fault. It was
my
fault. Even so.

My gaze travelled past a man in a mask who held an axe. I looked away then quickly back again to see if he’d moved.

Of course he hadn’t moved. None of the waxworks were going to move. They weren’t going to move. They weren’t going to come alive. And they weren’t even going to start dancing. You know why?
Because they were waxworks!
There are only two places waxworks come alive.

One, in movies I’m not old enough to watch yet.

And two, in my imagination.

That’s what I told myself. Even as I wandered around looking for another door, feeling like I really needed the bathroom, talking to Leo the Silent as I did so. I told myself, “They’re only waxworks—they don’t come alive.”

Okay, it was time to bring in the big guns. I reached for my phone, ready to dial 911.

(Which would have been the wrong number for emergency services, remember? Told you it would become important.)

But anyway, I had no bars on my phone.

Okay
, I thought,
don’t panic
. A place like Madame Fifi’s was going to have security. A night watchman. And pretty soon that night watchman was going to discover me. Which meant that pretty soon I’d be back with the group. Truckload of trouble etc., but still—a decent mark on the Popularity Score. No face lost.

I listened out for the sound of a security guard. What would a security guard sound like? Shiny black boots on the stone floor. The rattle of keys on a long chain. And whistling—because people in England whistle a lot. They drink tea, eat Marmite, and whistle. It’s how they roll.

In the end, I didn’t hear him approach at all. Which was probably quite lucky, since I would have jumped out of my skin. Instead what I heard was, “And what might you be doing here?”

Oh, I did—jump out of my skin, I mean. And when I’d returned to my skin I found myself face to face with a very old but kindly looking security guard.

“What’s your name?” he asked me with a smile.

I relaxed and told him.

“You’re American, are you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, I’m pleased to meet you, Rafe,” he said. “My name is Albert.”

I certainly appreciated his effort to make me feel at ease. He ushered me to the rear of the exhibit, to a door that I hadn’t seen when I’d been looking around.

Inside was the night watchman’s office. It was a really simple set-up. A desk with what looked like an old newspaper on it. A fire with a pot of water bubbling on it. No kettle for this guy. He was heating his water the American way. Over a stove. Well…a fire.

I took a seat. I was thinking that maybe Albert would pick up the phone to call the Mercury Lodge Hotel. But there was no phone in the office. Matter of fact, Albert didn’t have a TV, either. Or even a radio. No wonder he wasn’t angry with me: He must have been glad of the company.

“You haven’t introduced me to your friend,” said Albert.

“Oh,” I said. “This is Leo the Silent.”

“It’s splendid to make your acquaintance, Leo,” said Albert.

“Uh…sure…” laughed Leo in reply.

Albert turned to me. “And why, might I ask, are the two of you alone in the Temple of Terrors after hours?”

I took a deep breath and told him.

I guess I did what they call “over-sharing,” because I told him pretty much the whole story. Beginning with my lame “Here” at first assembly and ending in the Temple of Terrors.

And I know it’s kind of a cliché but it felt good to talk. It felt like I got a lot of stuff off my chest.

“Well, you had better rejoin your group,” said Albert. He stood up. He had a weird way of doing things without making much noise. Or even, really,
any
noise. Then he said, “But how would you like your own guided tour of Madame Fifi’s first?”

“The whole thing?” I asked. “Not just the Temple of Terrors?”

“The whole thing,” said Albert with a smile. “And when it’s over, I have a gift for you. Something that might just help you with your bully problem…”

MADAME FIFI’S ALLOWS
photography, but that’s the problem—everyone, like
everyone
, is taking photographs. I’d found that out earlier when I’d been trying to get a picture for my Living History trip report and ended up with some fascinating shots of the backs of people’s heads.

It’s not a problem when you have the place to yourself, though. And even easier when you have your own tour guide in the shape of our new friend Albert. He took Leo and me around the whole place. He and Leo were getting on like a house on fire. Leo asked questions while I snapped away with my camera and scrawled notes and sketches wherever I could. How cool was the tour? Put it this way. Before the tour I had nothing for my report. After it, I had enough for two.

It seemed like hours later when we came to the last bit of the tour—a storeroom where the old, unused exhibits were kept. Then Albert gave me my gift— my gift to help beat the bully—and I tucked it in my backpack.

And then, as the battery on my phone ran down to nothing, I managed to get one last picture: It was Albert, standing next to a waxwork of Elizabeth I.

He posed, smiling. Then he indicated to a side door leading onto the street, which hung open.

“And there we have it,” he said as he ushered us out. “Dawn is about to break, and I must continue my rounds.”

I stepped outside, where the sun was just coming up on a chilly morning. Then turned to him. I wanted to thank him for the gift and for the tour. And to say they were great but…uh,
how do you figure I’m going to get back to the Mercury Lodge when I don’t know where the heck I am, don’t have any money, and the battery on my phone just died when I took your picture?

But he wasn’t there. And the door had slammed shut. Leaving me standing on the street in the middle of London, in the early morning, without even the taxi fare to the hotel.

Gulp
.

“Where to now?” I asked Leo.

A couple of cars passed, but otherwise the street was deserted. And not in a good way. There was a rattle that my imagination insisted was a rat, but it turned out to be a McDonald’s carton blowing in the breeze. Even so. It was eerie, being so deserted.

“Back to the river bank?” suggested Leo.

And seeing as that was one of only two places in London I was familiar with, it seemed like the best idea at the time.

I may have been lost but I reckoned I was clever enough to make my way back to the river bank. That much I could manage.

Okay, so the signs to “South Bank” helped.