The Ability (Ability, The) (29 page)

“Um, no, I forgot my jacket.”

“And scarf and hat—it’s freezing out tonight; you’ll catch a cold. Anyway, where you off to?”

“King Street, Hammersmith,” said Chris.

“King Street it is,” said the taxi driver, pulling away.

Ten minutes later and the taxi ground to a halt behind a seemingly endless line of cars, their brake lights a vibrant red against the black night.

“Traffic’s terrible since they closed off Hyde Park,” explained the driver. “Every year it’s the same—you think they’d do something about it.”

“Why is it so bad?” asked Chris.

“The Antarctic Ball—they close off all the roads around the park so that nobody can see what they’re doing. Tried to take a cheeky shortcut across yesterday, but the police were having none of it—though I did manage to see a line of trucks unloading blocks of ice as big as this taxi. Unbelievable.”

“Wow,” said Chris, trying to imagine a block of ice that big.

“Always my dream to go to it,” said the taxi driver wistfully.

“I’m going this year,” said Chris.

“You’re what?” said the taxi driver, turning round in his seat to look at him. “Lucky you! I’d have cut my right hand off to get an invitation to that when I was a boy—still would, for that matter. There’s more chance of winning the lottery though—bet you didn’t know that.”

“No,” said Chris, amazed. “I think it’s going to be really good.”

“Best night of your life, I’d bet.”

The driver turned back to his driving as the line of cars began to move slowly forward, and Chris leaned up against the window and watched his breath mist up the window. He had never really thought of himself as lucky or unlucky, having always felt that it was up to him to make his own luck in life, but the driver’s words stuck with him, and he spent the rest of the journey thinking about the incredibly fortunate series of events that had unfolded for him recently through no doing of his own. It was true, he thought; he really must be a very lucky person.

“Here we are,” said the taxi driver, breaking Chris from his thoughts. “That’ll be sixteen pounds forty.”

Chris suddenly froze. In all his preparations for sneaking out of school, he hadn’t once stopped to think about bringing some money. Now, here he was, in the middle of London at night, and there was nobody he could call. He put his hand in the pocket of his jeans in case a twenty-pound note had miraculously appeared there, but of course it hadn’t. Chris’s mind raced—he truly had no idea what to do, and for once he didn’t think that being honest was going to be the best option.

The driver watched him in his mirror with increasing suspicion as Chris pretended to fumble in his pocket. “You’ve got the money, right, son? I don’t want any messing about.”

Chris didn’t say anything, desperately trying to think of what to do.

The driver turned around and glared at Chris. “You’ve got five seconds to pay me, or I’m calling the police. Five . . . four . . .”

There was only one option that Chris could think of at that moment. He pushed aside the feeling of guilt that was beginning to form and looked up at the driver.

“Oh yeah, here it is,” said Chris quietly, looking straight into the man’s eyes. He let his eyes glaze over, and within a couple of seconds he found himself standing in the Reception of the driver.

“You have twenty-five pounds in your hand,” said Chris, repeating the sentence three times, watching the image of the money suddenly appear before him, small at first but growing rapidly, until it was all that filled the man’s mind.

The driver looked down at his empty hand and smiled.

“Blimey, thank you!” he said. “Happy Christmas and have a good time at the ball.”

“Thanks,” said Chris, full of guilt. He stepped out of the taxi as quickly as possible and watched the man drive away, and vowed that after this night he would never do anything like that again.

•  •  •

Looking around at the familiar surroundings, Chris realized how little thought he had given to his old life since he had arrived at Myers Holt. It made him feel even more unsettled than he was already feeling, and he crossed the road quickly, eager to get the job done.

Although all the shops were closed, the street was still full of people hunched over and rushing to their destinations in order to escape the bitter cold. A few of them looked up
and gave him a strange look. For a moment Chris wondered if they knew that he was here to break into the building in front of him, and then he realized that they were probably staring at him because he was a twelve-year-old boy standing in the street at night in a T-shirt. He pretended to look at his watch, as if he were waiting for someone, hoping that nobody would ask him any questions—which, fortunately, nobody did.

Finally, after he had loitered impatiently for over ten minutes, the section of street he was on cleared, and he quickly looked over at the door and willed the lock to open. He heard a loud click, and, looking around him one last time to check the coast was clear, he pushed the door open and hurried inside.

Chris switched the light on and looked around at the piles of boxes, televisions, radios, and other equipment stacked up against all four walls. The cabinets were stuffed full of jewelry that looked lackluster behind the dirty glass cabinets. Chris sighed at the enormity of the task ahead of him, knowing that he had to be back at Myers Holt as soon as possible—even using his Ability, this was going to take a long time. He stepped into the middle of the room and looked over at the wall to his left. Focusing on a large set of speakers, he watched them lift up from the shelf they were sitting on and glide over to the back wall.

•  •  •

Two hours later, after watching the entire contents of the shop fly about him and rearrange themselves in their new positions, Chris stopped and wiped his brow. He looked at the counter and watched the dust cloth rise and fly over to
the final cabinet, which now contained neat rows of jewelry, ordered by type and price. The dust cloth slammed into the glass and began to rub against it furiously, until all the dirt was gone and it sparkled with the reflection of the diamonds contained within.

Chris walked over to the back of the shop and put away all the cleaning equipment. He picked up the pad of paper, now positioned neatly on the counter by the till, and the pen from the polished pen holder beside it.

Dear Frank,

I’m sorry I didn’t come earlier today, but I didn’t forget my promise to you. I hope you’re happy with the job I did.

Have a good Christmas,

Chris

P.S. Sorry about breaking in.

Chris jumped out of the taxi a block away from Myers Holt and waved to the smiling taxi driver, trying to ignore how guilty he felt for having had to use the Ability on him. Chris took a moment to look up at the front of the Myers Holt building. Having seen the screens in Ron and John’s room, he knew that he could avoid detection if he just stayed close to the railing and approached the door from the left, which was exactly what he did. He looked at the lock on the door and, blurring his eyes, willed it to unlock. He heard a click and then carefully opened the door. He ran into the elevator, which was already at ground level, and descended. Now he just had to hope that John and Ron were distracted enough not to notice him arriving, or—even better—asleep.

Chris tapped his fingers nervously on the kitchen counter as the room shook gently and came to a stop. Chris walked up to the doors and watched them open, willing this last bit to be over.

“Where have you been?”

Chris jumped. There, standing directly in front of him, were Sir Bentley, Ron, and John. And not one of them looked pleased to see him.

“I asked you, where have you been?” asked Sir Bentley and though he didn’t raise his voice, Chris could hear the anger in his question.

Chris hesitated, but he couldn’t think of a believable excuse that would get him out of the trouble he was in. He decided to tell the truth.

“I made a promise to do some work at a shop—the man had already paid me to do it.”

“You were under strict instructions not to leave Myers Holt.”

“I—uh—I know . . . it’s just that I made a promise,” said Chris, realizing how ridiculous this sounded. Sir Bentley looked at him with a look of suspicion and anger that Chris had not seen before.

“Come with me, Christopher,” said Sir Bentley, leading Chris toward his office. “Ron, John, you know what to do.”

Ron and John nodded and walked off in the opposite direction.

Inside Sir Bentley’s office, Chris took the same seat he had taken after Hermes had attacked Ms. Lamb. He suddenly realized, with a sinking feeling, that this was probably
a step too far, and he cursed himself for having risked his place at Myers Holt over a small promise he had made to a man he would probably never see again. He also realized he was shaking.

“Put this round you,” said Sir Bentley, handing Chris the tartan blanket that was draped over the worn leather sofa by the fireplace. Chris wrapped it round his shoulders and smiled gratefully. Sir Bentley didn’t return the smile. Instead he took out a pad of paper and a pen from the drawer in his desk and looked up at Chris.

“Now . . . very precisely, I want you to tell me exactly what you did tonight.”

Chris began his confession, leaving out the part where Philip had agreed to cover for him. Sir Bentley didn’t speak except to clarify details every so often, and as Chris spoke, he wrote everything down.

“So, this is everything?” asked Sir Bentley, once Chris had finished speaking.

Chris nodded.

“And this is the complete truth?”

“Yes. Of course,” said Chris, surprised at the question.

“Christopher . . . if you are working for somebody else . . . if you are in any way involved with what happened to Cecil Humphries and the others, then I think it’s best you say now—because we
will
find out.”

Chris took a moment to process what Sir Bentley was suggesting, and his eyes widened in shock.

“You think that I—what?—no! I don’t know anything about what happened to them!”

“I hope not, Christopher . . . I really hope not,” said Sir
Bentley, standing up. He walked over to the door of his office, opened it, and called out down the hallway. “You can come in now.”

Chris looked around, not knowing what to expect. A wave of nausea hit him, and he took a deep breath.

“Come in,” said Sir Bentley, stepping out of the way.

Lexi and Rex walked in in their pajamas, followed by Ron and John.

They looked over at Chris, who looked back at them in surprise.

“Not a good idea,” whispered Rex. “You’re in big trouble.”

Chris nodded but didn’t say anything.

“Christopher,” said Sir Bentley, walking back round behind his desk, “I suggest that you don’t resist this. If you use a block, then I will take that as an admission of guilt. Rex and Lexi—you are going to use your Ability to find out precisely what Chris was doing tonight between the hours of eight forty-five p.m.—the time he activated the elevator—and eleven ten p.m. You may not speak at all while you do this, and when you have finished, Ron and John will lead you into separate rooms to write up a report. I will check them and see if all three accounts—both of yours and Christopher’s—match. For your sake, Christopher, and ours, I hope that they do. Do you all understand?”

Chris, Lexi, and Rex all nodded.

“Very well, you may begin.”

Chris sat back and tried to relax as the ringing in his ears began.

•  •  •

After what seemed like hours but was in fact just twenty minutes, Sir Bentley walked back into the office alone. Chris watched as he laid the pile of papers he was carrying down on his desk.

“The reports all matched, Christopher.”

Chris breathed a sigh of relief.

“That’s not to say you’re not still in trouble, though I’m glad my worst fears weren’t realized. We have a duty of care for you, and what you did tonight was beyond foolish. It was dangerous. You may feel that you can take care of yourself now that you know about your Ability, but the fact remains that you are only twelve years old, and the streets of London are not a safe place for you to be roaming about unescorted at night. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” said Chris. “I’m really, really sorry. I know I shouldn’t have done it; I just wanted to keep my promise.”

“And your integrity is one of the qualities we most admire about you, but you took it too far tonight and put your safety at risk. Do you want to tell me what was so important about helping this man tidy up his shop?”

Chris knew that if he had any chance of staying at Myers Holt, he would have to be completely honest, and so, for the first time in his life, he spoke about everything that had happened since his father had died. Sir Bentley listened as Chris poured out the details of the last seven years—the way it had changed his mother, the difficulties at his old school, the responsibilities he had at home, and the trouble he had in paying the bills every month.

“He wouldn’t take the medal, but he offered me money
in exchange for getting the shop ready for Christmas. Nobody had ever trusted me like that, and I didn’t want to let him down,” said Chris finally. He felt completely drained and at the brink of tears.

There was a long pause. Finally, Sir Bentley sighed.

“I knew you’d been through a lot, Christopher, but I had no idea your situation was as bad as it was. You should have spoken to someone about this sooner and asked for help.”

“I didn’t want them to take me into care and leave Mum on her own.”

“I understand, but that’s always the last option, Christopher. There are many more ways you could have been helped—you didn’t have to go through all of that on your own. You are going to have to learn to trust people more.”

Chris nodded.

“Well . . . I suppose this all makes a lot more sense, but it doesn’t change the fact that what you did tonight was foolhardy. If you had spoken to me, we might have been able to work out something. Aside from that—did you really think we wouldn’t find out?”