The London Eye Mystery (13 page)

Salim.

‘He tried to call me . . . I called back, of course. Right away. But nobody picked up. It was switched off again. Nobody. Oh, Salim. You called me. And I wasn’t there for you.’

The last six words came out in a wail that grew louder until the ‘you’. Then she got stuck on the ‘oo’

sound.

‘Oo-oo-oooo,’ she cried, like a baby that’s dropped its bottle.

Viking North Utsire South Utsire Forties cyclonic six
to gale eight
, I chanted in my head.
Decreasing five,
rough or very rough
.

‘Oh, Glo,’ Mum said. She took her by the elbow and they went to stand out in the back garden and I saw Mum handing Aunt Gloria her packet of cigarettes and her lighter, which was very strange because my mother is a nurse and nurses know all about how smoking is hazardous for human health. Aunt Gloria would have been better off with a cup of tea because in my book of first aid it says a hot drink is good for you if you have had a shock.

Rashid sat slumped at the kitchen table. He put his head in his hands and muttered something about calling in the press. Then he went out into the garden too.

Kat looked at me. ‘Ted,’ she said, ‘this is getting serious.’

‘Serious,’ I agreed.

She got up from the table and walked around it three times until I felt dizzy. I could see she was thinking. When Kat thinks, she moves about a lot, but when I think, apart from putting my head to one side, I am still. I didn’t like the way Kat was thinking. Her ponytail swung from one side to the other and her lips were pressed up tight and her mouth was moving but no sound came out. Suddenly she went into the living room. I followed her. She picked up the A–Z phone book from the shelf and flicked through it with her eyebrows pulled together. Then she turned a page over and nodded. She tore out the page and folded it.

‘Ted,’ she said, ‘I’m going out. This instant.’

‘But . . .’

‘You’re just going to have to lie again. Say I’ve gone round to Tiff’s.’ Tiffany is Kat’s best friend at school. 

‘But you’re not going to Tiffany’s, are you?’ I said.

‘No,’ she said.

‘Hrumm.’

‘Stop twitching your head like that! All you have to say if Mum asks is that I’ve popped over to Tiff’s. Got it?’

‘Popped over to Tiff’s.’

‘For the afternoon.’

‘For the afternoon.’

‘Don’t drone it like that. Say it like you mean it, Ted.’

‘But I don’t mean it, Kat. It’s not true.’

Kat slapped her forehead. ‘How did I end up with a brother like you? How? You’re a hopeless case.’

‘Where are you really going, Kat?’

‘If I tell you, you’ll tell the others.’

‘I won’t, Kat. Not if they don’t ask me.’

‘They
will
ask you. There’s no time to lose. I’ve got to check this thing out myself.’

‘No,’ I said. ‘No, Kat.’

She was in the hall, putting on her jacket.

‘No,’ I said.

She ran upstairs to fetch her leopard-skin backpack. I followed her. She stuffed the blown-up photo of the strange man’s blurry face into it along with the phone-book page and ran downstairs again.

‘No,’ I said, following. My hand shook itself out.

‘No, Kat.’

‘I’ll be back as soon as I can.’

‘Kat!’

She opened the front door.

‘Kat!’ I grabbed the sleeve of her jacket. ‘Take me with you. Please.’

‘Gerroff, Ted,’ she said. She tried to slap my hand away.

‘Uh-uh-uh,’ I grunted. I held on.

‘Let go, Ted.’ She shoved me hard back through the front door. ‘I’m sorry, Ted. You’re really good at thinking. But you’re no good at doing. If you come with me, you won’t be any use.’

She slammed the door in my face. I saw her silhouette go down the path. I slumped to the hall carpet and a feeling like molten magma churned in my belly. My foot banged up against the skirting board, my hand shook itself out and my brain went into a whirling vortex of bad feelings. Katastrophe. Kataclysm. Katalogue of Disasters. Hurricane Katrina. Mean, mad, mad, mean Kat.

Bingo

I went upstairs before Mum and the others found me. I didn’t want to have to explain anything. I didn’t want to have to tell the Tiffany lie. But first I fetched the phone book. I wanted to find out which page Kat had torn out.

You would think that would be easy but it wasn’t. The
Business and Services Book
for London has 989 pages. The pages are floppy and thin. When one page is missing, it doesn’t automatically open on that page. You have to search page by page until you see a break in the page numbering at the top. I started at the beginning, with businesses that are called things with number-beginnings, like ‘00 Finance’. By page 6 you are on the As. By page 75 you are on the Bs. By ‘Eye of the Needle Software Solutions’ my own eyes were like needles and my fingers were black. The pages rubbed against my finger-pads like cotton wool as I turned them. Sweat trickled down my neck. The cool breeze of the morning had gone. The temperature was climbing. Downstairs, I heard the police arrive.

I started on the Fs. By
Family to Fashion
I was beginning to wonder about going the other way: starting on the Zs and working backwards. But I’d seen Kat hunting through the book and I’d had the impression she’d been looking nearer the start. Then I remembered about mirrors. I picked up the book and rifled through it the way Kat had done, but in front of the mirror on my wardrobe door. Mirror image, the other way round, back to front . . .
depending on how you look at it
. . . I remembered Kat staring at me after I’d asked her about why letters in photos appear the right way round and not back to front.

Then I dropped the phone book. ONT – FRONT. My favourite weather word. Why hadn’t I thought of it sooner?

I skipped forward through
Fashion
,
Felt
,
Fisher
,
Flowers
,
Fortune
. Sure enough, page 333/334 was missing, as were all entries between ‘Frocks Galore’and ‘Futon Futura’.

The rest was easy.

ONTLI ECUR. FRONTLINE SECURITY.

I said out loud what Dad says whenever he finishes the weekend crossword.

Bingo.

The TV Crew

I went downstairs. I had worked out what Kat had worked out and I was glad. But now I needed to think some more. What was the next thing to do? The police were in the kitchen. The door was open. I did some more eavesdropping and heard Detective Inspector Pearce saying, ‘It could have been anyone phoning, Gloria. Not necessarily Salim. Anyone who had found or borrowed his phone.’

And then another police officer: ‘Sometimes mobile phones ring a number of their own accord –

when the keypad’s not locked.’

It wasn’t very interesting, and while the grownups’ attention was diverted, I decided it was a good time to take action.

I crept into the living room and picked up the phone. One thing I know about, because Mum has shown me, is getting an unknown number through Directory Enquiries. The six numbers to dial are in my head. I dialled them and a man answered. 

‘Frontline Security,’ I said. ‘London.’

He put me through to an automatic voice, which gave me an eleven-digit number. I memorized it. I hung up and dialled the number.

There was music playing and then a recorded message:

‘
Welcome to Frontline Security, the number one
London security company. We supply stewards, ticket
collectors, body-searchers and guards with two-way
radios. Whether you’re hosting a celebrity party, a fire-
work show, a popular concert or an exhibition, we can
meet all your requirements. Frontline Security. Your
complete security solution. Please hold while we put you
through to an operator
.’

The music started again. My free hand flapped. I was still waiting for the ‘operator’ when Rashid came in. I wondered if I should put the phone down but he smiled at me and said nothing. He fetched his jacket from the back of the armchair and left the room. I was still on hold. The recorded announcement went round another time, then another. Halfway through the fourth time there was a click and a real woman’s voice saying, ‘HelloFrontline-Security-can-I-help-you?’

‘Hrumm,’ I said.

‘Hello?’ the woman said again.

I didn’t know what to say.

‘Hello?’

My mind spun like the vortex of a tropical cyclone.

‘Hello? Is anybody there? Frontline Security?’

I hung up.

Just as I did so, I heard a big van draw up outside. Doors slammed, voices shouted, the doorbell rang. I looked out of the window. A television crew had arrived. Aunt Gloria and Rashid had decided to go public.

Within minutes, the house was full of men in jeans and trainers, carrying cables, cameras, light stands, microphones. The living room was very busy indeed. Sometimes when Dad asks Mum how work was, she says the ward was like Piccadilly Circus. I imagine flashing lights and people bumping into each other and drug trolleys zooming around like fast cars and that’s how it was in our living room now. Nobody noticed me standing by the telephone. Detective Inspector Pearce talked on her mobile. Aunt Gloria searched her make-up bag. Mum helped a cameraman plug a camera light into the socket behind the sofa. She looked up and saw me.

‘Ted. There you are. Where’s Kat?’

My mouth opened but no words came out. Instead the cameraman said, ‘Pass the plug over, love,’ and Mum was distracted. Seconds later a man with a thin, frowning face said, ‘Let’s roll.’ But instead of rolling, another man said, ‘Lights. Camera. Action. Take one.’

Aunt Gloria sat on the sofa. Rashid sat next to her. She’d put on some bright orange lipstick and this made her face look whiter than usual and the skin between her eyelashes and eyebrows look bruised.

‘This is a message,’ she began. She swallowed, took Rashid’s hand. ‘A message. If you are holding Salim – if you know where my boy is – if you think you might have seen him, please, please come forward. We’ll do anything to have him back. He’s our boy. Just a call to let us know he’s safe. To let us know he’s . . . alive.’ Her face crumpled. ‘The worry is crippling us.
Please
. Call the police. Thank you.’

‘Cut,’ the thin-faced man said to the cameraman.

‘That was great, missis,’ he said to Aunt Gloria.

‘Do you want me to do it again?’ Aunt Gloria said.

‘Do you want another take?’

‘No need, love.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Fine first time. You’re a natural.’

And within minutes the camera crew had packed up and left. Mum and Rashid saw them out to their van and the police left at the same time. This meant I was on my own in the room with Aunt Gloria. She sat on the sofa staring into space.

‘Oh, Ted,’ she said after a minute of silence. She was looking straight at me and I couldn’t understand what her expression meant. I thought she was going to say something cross. But instead she shook her head and her eyes watered. ‘Did I do all right?’ she whispered.

‘Yes, Aunt Gloria,’ I said.

‘Do you think somebody out there might hear, might help?’

‘It’s a possibility,’ I said.

‘What do you think, Ted? Do
you
think Salim is all right?’

‘Hrumm,’ I said.

‘What does
that
mean?’ she said. Her face took on its mini ice-age look.

‘I was just thinking, Aunt Gloria.’

The mini ice age thawed. She sighed. Her hand went out and landed on my head. She ruffled my hair the way Mum does. I squirmed. Aunt Gloria didn’t notice.

‘You know, Ted, I’m sick to my stomach.’

I stared at her stomach in confusion.

‘At least you’re honest,’ she said. ‘Everyone keeps telling me he’s OK, they’re sure he’s fine, it will all work out, he’ll be back any minute. But minute after minute goes by and he isn’t back. They don’t mean what they say. The truth is, we just don’t know.’

‘Aunt Gloria,’ I said, ‘Salim has to be somewhere. 

It’s a mystery. I’m working on it. In my brain.’

‘Your brain,’ Aunt Gloria repeated. She smiled at me, but it reminded me of the way Mum smiled at me the time I asked her about miracle cures and whether I could get one for my syndrome if I prayed hard enough. Like Mum’s then, Aunt Gloria’s lips turned up but at the same time a tear came down her cheek. She took my hand and rubbed my knuckles, which was a strange thing to do and started my other hand flapping. ‘Sometimes I think there’s more in that brain of yours, Ted, than in the rest of ours put together. If brains alone could bring Salim back, yours would do it.’

Then Aunt Gloria got up from the sofa and went upstairs to Kat’s room, which was where she was sleeping.

I didn’t want to run into Mum in case she asked me about Kat again and I would have to tell the Tiffany lie. So I went where I always go when I want to do my two favourite things, think and watch the weather: the back garden.

The shirts were still flapping on the line. They had been up for three days. Mum had forgotten about them. I touched them. They were damp from the light rain we’d had that morning. I paced the lawn to check it hadn’t grown or shrunk. Twelve-anda-half strides wide and seven across, the same as last week. Then I realized that when I grew taller, and my legs longer, the number of strides would decrease. It was another example of how things can change, depending on how you look at them. I was back with the water going down the plughole in different directions, depending on which hemisphere you were in; the London Eye revolving in different directions depending on which side of the river you were on; worms being male and female; satellites moving and staying still. Something flickered in my brain. It was a pattern – two things that looked alike; something that looked like one thing but was really another thing. I pinched my right forearm to make the pattern stay, but it didn’t. It vanished before I could fix it, before I could find out what it was. I looked up at the sky. Thin strata cloud, white and harmless, floated in the southeast. But to the northwest, in the heart of the city, a cumulus cloud was in formation. I stared as vapour collected and imagined how the particles of water were swirling around a central funnel, making it into a threatening shaft. It might or might not bring rain. It was moving this way over the skyline. Its heavy bulbous shape billowed out as rising air currents added to its mass.