Henry Hoey Hobson (10 page)

‘Angelica's here? Where? Are you sure?'

I swivelled round, scanning the pool enclosure. ‘I haven't seen her. Where is she?'

‘Careful. If you unscrew your head, it'll roll straight into the pool.' Hero jerked his head at the front gate. ‘She's outside, finishing off land training. I saw her on my way in.'

His eyes caught on my swimming bag, open on the table between us. ‘Wow, Tim Tams – You planning on eating both those,
amigo
?'

I shook my head and his thin brown hand shot out, scooping them up. He put one in his mouth and hesitated. ‘I 'spose you want the other one, right?'

I took it off him and tried to ignore the mess that melted Tim Tam was making of his teeth. He continued his story, spitting little chocolate bits across the table.

‘When I got here, she was out in the car park banging on about you hanging with a coven of witches and vampires. Something about sacrificing Virgin Airlines at a Black Mass you were at last night–'

‘What the–' I stopped mid-chew. ‘Sacrificing what–?'

‘She says she saw the whole thing.' He clawed his fingers and faked a spooky voice. ‘A candle-lit ceremony. A girl dressed in white. An open coffin. Vampires toasting their sacrifice with glasses filled with blood–'

His voice dropped back to normal. ‘Well, not the whole thing. They closed the curtains when you went home. But she says the little girl in white never left...'

I opened my mouth and then closed it again. It was hard to argue with Angelica's interpretation of events when I'd entertained similar fears myself.

Hero pretended not to notice my hesitation.

‘Anyway, that was this morning's big news. Then, when Angelica turns up for squad training this afternoon, here you are again with your own private vampire.
Amigo,
you really have the gift for getting A-team's knickers in a knot.'

I frowned, wondering if I'd missed something. ‘A-team?'

‘Yeah, that's what we “also-rans”,' he hooked his fingers around the words, ‘call her. She thinks that she and her friends are all on the A-team and that everyone else at school sucks.'

He licked the last of the melted chocolate off his fingers.

I tapped at my front tooth to let him know where to go for seconds. ‘You don't really think that Caleb's a vampire, do you, Hero?'

‘Nah, he's just a weirdo.' He sucked the chocolate off his teeth. ‘But according to Ms Sanders, I suffer from “a cute lack of imagination”, so I'm probably the wrong person to ask.'

I pushed away from the table and stood up. ‘He's not a weirdo, Hero.' The words had come out harsher than I intended. But Caleb and his little ‘coven' were the only people, apart from Mr Paulson, who had treated me like a human being since I'd arrived.

‘He's my friend.' I didn't know where the words came from, but as soon as they were out of my mouth, I knew they were true. ‘Which is more than I can say for anyone else round here.'

I picked up my goggles and cap and looked pointedly at my watch. ‘You better get going, Hero. Angelica's squad starts in about thirty seconds and you don't want her to catch you talking to a
weirdo,
now do you?'

I grabbed my swimming bag and started to walk away.

Hero called after me. ‘Hey, where you going? I thought you were going to help me with my freestyle?'

I was disappointed that that was all he wanted from me. ‘I'm going to shadow the squad training.' I kept on walking. ‘You can do what you want.'

He must have been quick off the mark, because the next thing I knew, he'd grabbed me by the arm and spun me around.

‘You think
I
care who you're friends with,
amigo
? Or that I care what A-team says about you? She never even talks to me, except to say
Out of the way, Bugs Bunny
or
Watch yourself, Bucky.'
He let my arm drop and stepped back, taking a deep breath.

‘Look, I don't think you're any weirder than anybody else round here. And if you want somebody else on your team, then, hey–' He spread his arms and cocked his head, letting the invitation float in the air between us.

I looked away, then down at my feet, scuffing at a blown-in leaf on the concrete. ‘Well, I have done up a bit of a training schedule for you...'

His eyes lit up. ‘What, like proper drills and stuff?'

I nodded. ‘It would be a shame to waste it, I guess...'

‘Damn, I got my own private swimming coach.' He punched the air. ‘BB's not going to know what's hit him. I'm going to kick his–'

‘Don't get too excited, we don't have a lot of training time left.' I rummaged in my bag and found the sheet, crumpled and a bit damp, under my towel. ‘Here, see what you think.'

‘Cool.' He took it back to the table and sat down, smoothing out the crinkles. ‘Hey, that's real pro.' He grinned up at me. ‘What do you want me to do first, Coach?'

I could feel the heat in my face, but I was pleased that my entire lunchtime's work wasn't going to be wasted.

‘Just follow the drills in the order I've written them. If there's anything you're not sure about, grab me during the breaks in the squad training. OK?'

‘No problemo.' He picked up his goggles, which were in a lot better shape than mine, and waggled them in front of my nose. ‘They're new, so I can see my way to victory.'

He snapped them over his head. ‘And they can double as eye protection if things turn ugly when A-team gets here.' His bare feet drummed at the concrete floor under his chair. ‘A-team versus Team-Triple-H ... Man, this is going to be fun.'

He caught me staring and stopped stamping. ‘What?'

I shook my head. ‘Nothing.'

It sounded weird hearing someone else use the nickname that my mum had given me. Not bad. Just weird.

I wasn't used to being called anything friendly. I'd hated Blowy Blobson at my last school, and I hadn't been at some of my other schools long enough for the kids to even remember my name, let alone create a personalised version of it.

I pulled on my goggles, aware of an unfamiliar lightness in my chest. Like a tight band had been removed and I could breathe a little easier for a change.

The sun beat down on my shoulders and the impossibly blue sky stretched forever. Right now anything seemed possible and not even the thought of Angelica making her way in from the car park for squad training could darken this day for me.

Against the odds, I now had two Perpetual Suckers on my side: a buck-toothed Spanish misfit and a toadstool of a preppie. That left only one hundred and twenty-four kids who wouldn't be seen dead with me. But I could live with that.

I might never make the A-team, but that didn't faze me. I had just doubled my popularity rating at Perpetual Suckers, and that was enough for now.

Hero tapped me on the arm and pointed.

Nearly twenty squaddies had filed in while we were talking. They had slung out in a cordon, arms folded across their chests, barricading us off from the pool. Angelica stood in the centre, flanked by her posse.

No-one spoke, not even Hero, until a bark from behind us made us both jump.

‘You lot looking to do push-ups instead of laps today?'

Ma Mallory pushed her nuggety frame past me, jolting a ripple of unease through the ranks of the squaddies.

‘Hit the water for a twenty-lap warm-up, or hit the deck and give me fifty push-ups – on your knuckles and toes!'

The whole lot of them snapped into action, peeling into four lines and hurling themselves into the pool like frenzied synchronised swimmers. Within seconds the four centre lanes were boiling cauldrons of white water.

‘So, you two interested in joining squad?' The seasoned sultana face of the resident pool Nazi squinted up at me. ‘We can always squeeze in a coupla newbies.'

I didn't know what to say. Unless she was blind as well as old, she would have to know that sharing a lane with that pack of unfriendlies was about as appealing as a floatie in the baby pool.

‘Uh, thanks,' said Hero, stepping into the breach. ‘But I already got a coach. He's given me some drills to build me up a bit, get me ready for the carnival.' He flexed his bony frame in an attempt to impress. ‘I might just stick to Lane One, if that's OK with you.'

Ma Mallory nodded like she didn't much care and turned to me.

‘What about you, Hotstuff? Looking pretty slick with the sprints. Got anything left in the tank to train with?'

I shrugged, toeing the concrete skirt around the pool. ‘Uh, I might just watch. Maybe shadow the drills for today.' I risked a quick glance to gauge her reaction. ‘See how it goes. I'll stick to my own lane and keep out of everyone's way. Is that OK?'

She grunted. ‘Suit yourself. Offer's open if you ever want to get serious about your swimming.'

Hero waited till she moved off, then jabbed his bony elbow into my ribs.

‘How about that,
Hotstuff
? An invitation to join squad; A-team's gonna spew.'

I shoved him away and hotfooted it for the pool. After the rollercoaster of my day, I was aching to hit the water and lose myself in the rhythm of a hundred laps. Where nothing existed but the burble of breathing, the churning of water, the ceaseless thrum of heart and muscle. Where I could ride high in the water through my own efforts and nothing and no-one had the power to pull me down.

I somehow survived the first week at Per petual Suckers and was into the second before I knew it.

Life had become almost bearable since Hero and I had settled into our afternoon training routine. I say ‘almost' because I still couldn't hang out with him at school.

Pretty much everyone still avoided me. But Hero was Hero and usually made an effort to say hello, which would earn him a shove, a nipple cripple, or worse, from Joey Castellaro. So I tried to stay clear, to make his life less complicated.

I haunted the library during lunch break and volunteered to change the school sign most days, effectively padding out the morning breaks.

Everyone next door had retreated behind their lion's-paw doorknocker; I hadn't seen any of them for days. Before and after school, the place was as quiet as a grave, and at night, only the flickering glow of candlelight in the darkness within gave away their presence.

‘Getting their house in order,' was Mum's verdict. ‘They'll surface eventually.'

She was so busy with her new job that I'd barely seen her either. I'd filled the yawning emptiness of the weekends with long lazy days at the pool and the latest Robert Muchamore novel.

In Week Three, I developed an acute case of tunnel vision, shutting out everything around me and focusing on the swimming that was my reward at the end of each day.

It wasn't what anyone would call living ... I wasn't sure how much longer I could cope with merely surviving.

Manny appeared at the side fence when I slid my key into the front door one evening after training.

‘Better call your mum, Henry; she's been chasing you.'

He was wearing a skin-tight black T-shirt featuring a grinning red devil spearing a sausage with his pitchfork.

He threw a bursting garbage bag into the bin and slammed the lid. ‘Then come on over, if you're hungry. There's enough food here to feed ten bears, so you can bring them too, if you want.'

He waved a massive arm and shambled off, not waiting for an answer. Fiery red letters on the back of his T-shirt announced
Mr Good-Lookin' is Cookin'.

I shoved open the door and went in to retrieve my mobile from the kitchen bench where I had left it. Three missed calls. Five messages. All from Mum.

A wave of irritation washed over me. She should know by now that I never took my mobile to the pool. That I couldn't risk having it nicked or ruined around all that water. Not when neither of us could afford to buy a new one.

I scrolled through the messages.

The first was bubbling with excitement. She reckoned she had a buyer for the old place near the river and needed to drive to Ascot to get him to sign the contract.

The next was upbeat too, sent on her way back to Indooroopilly to persuade the owner to countersign.

The next two were more tense, with protracted negotiations and progressively later ETAs, the estimated times of her arrival back home.

The last was an order.

Go next door. Manny will feed you. xx

I opened the fridge door and examined my options. A toasted ham and cheese sandwich. Another homemade pizza. Or Manny's bear food.

I slammed the door shut.

Silence bounced off the bare walls of the empty house. I looked around for something to fill it with, and found nothing but my swimming bag, lying on the floor where I'd dumped it. I reached down and pulled out my balled-up togs and towel, and drifted back through the darkened rooms, hanging the towel on a railing, and my Speedos on a doorknob.

The evening stretched before me like dead elastic, no snap left in it at all. The thought of hanging around like a lump of limp lycra was more than I could bear, so I headed for the door, tapping two letters –
OK
– into my mobile.

My thumb hovered over the
x
key as I yanked open the door. I usually added a couple to every text – it was our signature sign-off – but tonight I didn't feel like sending her kisses.

I was sick of her always running late; of her never being there when I wanted her, when I needed her.

I was sick of relying on the kindness of strangers for meals, for everything, so I pulled the door shut behind me, and hit Send.

The smell of Manny's cooking had already made it as far as the squawking front gate: something roasted, wafting out the open door and down the garden path.

I took the front steps two at a time, my salivary glands flushing out my braces, my gut rumbling like an oncoming train.

‘C'mon in, Henry,' yelled Manny from the back of the house. ‘I'm in the kitchen.'

I padded through the house. ‘How'd you know it was me?'

He leaned through the kitchen door, his broken face dripping with sweat. ‘It was either you or ten bears; I'm not expecting anyone else. C'mon through.'

I was hoping Caleb and Vee would be there too, but Manny was alone in the kitchen with his back to me. Metal snicked against metal, and he turned, a wicked-looking knife pointed in my direction. My heart jumped.

‘I'm thinking roast beef salad – that OK with you?'

He didn't wait for a reply, and started carving into the side of beef that was resting on the bench. My heart rate returned to normal as shaved slices fell cleanly onto the cutting board in the wake of the razor-sharp blade.

My stomach rumbled again, louder this time. Manny grinned and used the flat of the blade to fold the meat into a huge platter of roasted vegetables. ‘Not long now, matey. Go tell Anders to come and git it, before I slop it to the hogs.'

I hesitated, and he nodded in the direction of a brightly-lit doorway off to the side of the kitchen. ‘Go on, he won't bite. He's in the studio. Tell him dinner's two minutes away.'

Anders, the bloke from the truck, sat with his back towards me at a slope-topped workstation, a large sketchbook open in front of him.

He worked in a sharp and focused rhythm, his head, and I presumed his eyes, tracking the dark forms that were taking shape on the page.

His arm swept in sure arcs across the page, shading and sketching in rapid strokes, a stub of charcoal stick gripped in the fingers of his right hand. His blackened fingertips smoothed at too-sharp lines, rubbing, softening and blending, then adding more charcoal lines that drew the eye towards a corner of the page that was obscured by his body.

I stepped forward, unable to resist the pull of the charcoal, each sweep of dark upon white funnelling the eye towards that hidden corner.

The white lights of the overhead fluoros showed a barren landscape, bleak and desolate, curving away to the part of the page that was concealed by his body.

I edged round and saw a tiny figure standing alone at the edge of the page. A detailed sketch of a child, his back turned away, one arm stretched up and out, as though clinging to an unseen hand. He was being led away by someone – from something – turning the world bleak and desolate in his wake.

The power of the sketch pulled the words from my lips. ‘That's really good.'

Blue eyes blazed up at me, startled, as though I'd yanked him out of some private space. He snapped the sketchbook shut and stood, his hand clamping down on the cover.

Judging by the dirty edges of all the preceding pages, he had almost filled the book. I could only hope all his pictures weren't as sad and dark as the one I had just seen.

I backed away from the intensity of his gaze. ‘Dinner's nearly ready. Manny said that you should come–'

He nodded once, eyes burning into me.

I kept back-pedalling, not taking my eyes off him. Telling myself that he didn't scare me. Not for a minute. No-siree.