Bad Dreams (12 page)

I sat in the library window-seat, chewing my nails, working out what to say to her. First, I'd explain about the necklace. Then I'd remind her of all the bad things about the gift, and how it was ruining her school life. And then I'd get her to agree that the best thing to do was—

‘Up here? On this shelf? Oh, thank you!'

Over the other side of the tall shelving stacks, someone was speaking to the librarian.

I knew that breathless, eager voice. I peeped round the bookshelves. Yes! It was Imogen's mother. Around her shoulders was a wrap like an old-fashioned counterpane of bright sewn squares, and in her blazing hair were rows and rows of pretty pink plastic slides.

If she'd been my mother, I'd have crawled out of the library with my head in a bag. Instead, I watched her carefully. She drew down book after book, flicking through, peering at indexes in the back and returning them to the bookshelves. And then she settled on a large red book as big as a brick. Pulling a pencil out of the little bag dangling from her wrist, she copied a few words down on a scrap of paper, skipped a few pages, then copied down a few words more.

Then, looking satisfied, she slid the book back on the shelf and left.

I didn't take my eyes off its cover for one single second. So there was no mistake. I pulled the right book out.

And my heart sank. The book in my hand was called
Make More of Magic!

So it was obvious that, to rescue poor Imogen, I was definitely going to have to get rid of the necklace myself. But how? You can't just snatch a gold chain from around someone's neck and hope they'll not notice. All week, the problem gnawed at me. I tried to slide the idea into her head of taking it off.

‘Doesn't it irritate your skin a bit, wearing it all day?' I asked her.

‘No,' she said cheerily. ‘Mum used to find it scratchy. That's why she hardly ever wore it. But it doesn't bother me in the slightest.'

No hope there, then. So I tried something else. ‘Well, don't you worry about losing it when we have sports, or in dancing?'

But she just shook her head. And since the only time I'd ever seen her take it off was at the pool when Mum persuaded her, I was stuck.

And stayed stuck. I couldn't, after all, invite her swimming again, and snaffle it then. Mum would end up in jail. But I was sure there had to be some way of parting Imogen from her necklace.

Twice that week I thought, I'll give up. It's not my problem. And twice, Mr Hooper picked her to fetch the set of reading books,
The Hunted
, out of the cupboard. The first time, she managed to bring them back in a pile balanced on her own workbook and slide them off, untouched, onto his desk. But it did cause an avalanche. So, next day, when he told her to fetch the books again, he added, ‘And, this time, Imogen, try carrying them
sensibly
.'

She left her workbook on her desk, and carried the readers in a normal pile. Her hands were shaking, and her eyes were wide with fright.

‘Really,' he said, quite sharply. ‘All I said to you was “Carry them sensibly”. There's no need to look as if I'm going to catch you and put you in the broth pot!'

So that was the ending of yet another book given away – another reading time spoiled. And Imogen didn't look too happy, either, at the ticking off. So I kept thinking, turning crazy, far-fetched plans over and over in my mind as the end of term crept steadily closer.

Imogen kept asking, ‘Melly, is something wrong?'

And I'd say, ‘Nothing. No. I was just thinking.'

‘What about?'

‘Nothing.'

And Mr Hooper soon climbed on my back as well.

‘Is something worrying you, Mel? Are you getting nervous about the Harries Cup?'

It seemed as good an excuse as any for being too distracted to work properly. So, not exactly lying, I told him in an anxious voice, ‘Well, there are only two days, three hours and five minutes before the race . . .'

He put his hand on my shoulder. ‘Brace up! You won't have any problems. It's my guess that—'

Imogen swivelled hastily in her seat. ‘Mr Hooper! You mustn't
say
that!
Anything
might happen!'

‘Yes,' Tasj said, overhearing. ‘Melly might get cramp.'

‘Or meet a shark under water,' Luke offered helpfully.

‘Or get her toe stuck in the pool drain,' suggested Maria.

Mr Hooper let out one of his great who'd-be-a-teacher groans. ‘What
is
it about the people in this classroom? Why can't a teacher even have a private word with one of his pupils without everyone in earshot muscling in with their feeble jokes and half-witted suggestions!'

He turned to Imogen, to correct her work. And just as well, because one of those feeble jokes and half-witted suggestions had given me the best idea I'd had – the
only
idea I'd had in a whole week of solid thinking – of how to rescue Imogen and get rid of the necklace without either me or Mum being arrested for robbery.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

N
ext morning, I hauled my gym mat onto the pile, and said to Miss Rorty, ‘Did you hear about the swimming gala at Green Lane Primary?'

She pulled my mat straighter. ‘No. What about it?'

‘Tons of things lost,' I told her. ‘Watches. Bracelets. Everything.'

‘What,
stolen
?'

‘No, no,' I assured her. ‘Just fallen off in the water.'

‘I don't see—'

‘To find someone's tiny silver crucifix, they even had to drain the pool.'

‘Drain the pool? Really?'

I added the clincher as I turned my back. ‘
And
the school had to pay for it.'

Her forehead wrinkled. ‘Melly, where did you hear—?'

No way of answering that one. And the people behind were pushing. So I fled.

They only pinned up the notice the day before the race.

‘I'm just going to tuck my watch into my sock,' I said to Imogen. ‘I know it'll be safe.'

‘Do you think so?'

‘Oh, yes. We're not out of the changing rooms that long. Especially people like you, who are only in the class relay.'

That set her off again, fretting about her one part in the gala – swimming her width.

‘Will they mind if I'm the slowest?'

‘You won't be slowest,' I assured her. ‘Tasj will be slowest. She only learned to swim two weeks ago. And Colin Hamblebury's pretty useless. He just thrashes his arms about and never gets anywhere. And Liz doesn't put herself out much. So you'll probably even be faster than her.'

Imogen was still looking worried. ‘You really do believe you have it taped, this swimming gala, don't you, Mel?'

‘You bet,' I said, not mentioning that, this year, it was going to be more important than ever to judge it right. I'd worked out that I'd only have eight or so seconds' leeway before Toby Harrison would come steaming up behind, with Surina behind him, and at least one of the Trent twins after her. One clumsy dive, and I'd lose most of my head start. So I had two more things to practise now, and only one session in the pool to get both of them perfect before the big race.

‘Nervous?' asked Imogen, but I wouldn't say. For one thing, although she only had one measly width to swim, each time I caught her eye, it seemed to me that she was still staring at me anxiously, and I didn't want to make her worse. And for another, she was the last person in the world I could confide in this time, because my plan to win the Harries Cup now included wasting six seconds getting rid of her necklace.

Six seconds exactly. I'd timed it. My new ‘touchthe-bottom' tumble turn took four seconds longer than usual. And then you had to add on another two before I was back up to speed. It was still a dead cert, if not the romp home I'd wanted. But there seemed no way out. No point in explaining to anyone about the necklace if no-one was going to be tough enough to throw it away for good. For that was the only thing. All the books said so.

I could try and explain to her mother. The problem was, I wasn't sure what Mrs Tate would do. My mother would have taken a ferry out to sea, to drop the pesky thing deeper. But Mrs Tate was different. You only had to peek in her enchanted back garden with its secret dells and perky elves, or join in eating iced fairy cakes in one of her story-book tea times, to know she didn't really live in the sensible grown-up world where people look after their children properly and protect them from things that might damage them. Look how excited she already was about Imogen's weird powers – ‘Anything “special” happen?' If I explained that I'd worked out that they came through the gold chain, instead of wanting to hurl it over a cliff into the sea, she'd more than likely clap her hands together and tell us it was
exactly
like something in one of her favourite old books,
Ellen's Enchanted Necklace
. She'd look up ‘amulets' in
Make More of Magic!
, and want Imogen to keep it to see what would happen.

If Imogen ended up looking grey and haunted enough under the strain, then Mrs Tate might finally come to her senses and lock the chain safely away for a while. But not for long, I'd bet. After a bit, the memory of how it had chewed up her daughter's life would begin to fade round the edges. She'd soon forget how rotten Imogen's schoolwork had been, and how people used to move away when she came near, and how she could scarcely bear to touch some books, and daydreamed her life away when she picked up others.

And, one rainy day, out it would come again. ‘Just in case you're a bit better at it, now that you're older,' or, ‘Just in case, this time, it only tells you about
nice
things.'

But I'm not tired and distracted. And I can open any book I like without jumping for fright, or acting as if the pages have scorched me. And, over the week, I had been reading up on all sorts of magic rings and lamps and mirrors and swords and boots and wands and crystals, and even pebbles. I'd found a dozen stories called things like
The Amulet in the Wood
, and
The Silver Talisman,
and
Sasha's Charmed Bracelet
, and
The Enchanted Cap of Gold
.