Johnny Mackintosh and the Spirit of London (3 page)

He decided not to try again straight away. Someone was apparently onto him and Johnny suspected Mrs. Irvine would be far from happy if a member of the CIA came knocking on the door of Halader House in deepest Essex.

“Kovac—display signal detection results,” he said and the screen returned to the earlier visual. Johnny looked at it, studying the crisscrossing lines radiating from points representing telescopes on Earth and cross-checking it with data scrolling down the side of the display. This was certainly odd, and not at all what he expected. In fact this was much better. Since Johnny had programmed Kovac to check for signals from space there had been a few interesting results—things that Johnny couldn't explain. But all of them were pretty much as he'd expected in that they were from a long way away—a spike or two in the background signal from the direction of the galactic center, or out on a spiral arm somewhere. Why Kovac hadn't been able to get a fix in this case was that it was all so near to home. The signal had moved across the sky so quickly it had to be somewhere within the Earth–Moon orbit, or traveling faster than light, and Johnny
knew enough about physics to know that wasn't possible.

Bentley licked Johnny's ear. It broke Johnny's concentration but alerted him to footsteps coming along the corridor. He whispered, “Kovac—camouflage mode,” and instantly the screen went blank. Whoever it was had stopped right outside the computer room door. Johnny grabbed hold of Bentley's collar and dragged the dog across the floor to just beside the door. He only just got there in time as it was flung open, but he managed to grab the handle to stop it swinging back behind whoever had come in. The lights flickered on and heavy footsteps walked over to the computer table.

“I've got him this time,” somebody muttered—it was Mr. Wilkins. It sounded as though he'd pulled the chairs away and crawled underneath the table, which was weird, but Johnny didn't dare put his head round the door to check. Instead, he just held the door handle as tightly as his breath and prayed Bentley wouldn't make any noise. The Old English sheepdog seemed to understand how important it was. The sound of Johnny's heart pounding away in his chest, which was almost deafening, became his next worry. Luckily, Mr. Wilkins was really clunking around and wheezing loudly. “That should do it,” said the cook to himself. “Now we'll know exactly what you're up to, sonny.” There was the sound of chairs being pushed back under the table and footsteps coming toward the door. Johnny let go of the handle as he felt Mr. Wilkins take hold of it from the other side. The lights went out and the door clunked shut.

Johnny slid down the wall until he was sitting on the floor next to Bentley, who slathered a long wet tongue over Johnny's face. Tiredness was really beginning to set in now. Johnny crawled along the floor and under the table to see if he could discover what Mr. Wilkins had been up to. It was hard finding anything in the dark. He took a handheld games console from
out of his pocket and switched it on so the blue screen lit up the underside of the table. He saw it almost at once—a shiny new keylogger was plugged into the back of the master machine. Johnny was almost impressed—every keystroke he typed at the terminal would be recorded on this. It was just a shame for Mr. Wilkins that Johnny was using a voice-activated interface.

He clambered out from under the table and went over to the door. Pressing one ear against it, he heard nothing from outside. Silently, he turned the handle and slipped out into the corridor with Bentley. They walked along, up a flight of stairs and turned left down another corridor, then round another corner until they came to a narrow spiral staircase leading up to the white ceiling, where there was a trapdoor with a red “no entry” sign screwed onto it. Johnny climbed the staircase a little more easily than Bentley, pulled down the door and carried on through into a small room built into the roof space, every square centimeter of its sloping walls covered with posters of space scenes. There was a huge picture of Saturn, one of the International Space Station and another showing all the planets in the solar system together. Once Bentley was inside Johnny pulled on a rope and the door closed shut behind them.

This was Johnny's room. Opposite the trapdoor was a large square window built out of the roof to form a box shape. In front of the window was an old-fashioned chunky radiator. Right in front of the radiator was Johnny's bed, with a box and his red sports bag underneath. Bentley made a beeline for under the bed and curled up in the warmth of the radiator. Against the wall on the left-hand side of the room was a battered chest of drawers with some dirty clothes piled on top.

Johnny heard footsteps on the staircase outside, there was a knock on the trapdoor, it opened and up came Miss Harutunian carrying a steaming mug of hot chocolate. “Hi Johnny—why weren't you watching the soccer game? Everyone else was there.”

“I'm dead tired,” Johnny replied, yawning for extra effect. “We had a big match this afternoon.”

“OK. Well I just wanted to tell you we're going into London with the others tomorrow so it's half-seven for breakfast in the dining room. Oh, and I thought I'd bring you this—help you sleep.” Miss Harutunian handed over the hot chocolate. Johnny took the mug and had a sip. “And please stay out of the basement from now on, Johnny. We don't want you getting into any more trouble.” Johnny nodded. His social worker must have recognized the “no entry” sign Johnny had unscrewed from a locked door in the bowels of Halader House for a dare. Miss Harutunian fixed Johnny with a firm stare before leaving the room. At least it didn't seem she'd spotted Bentley underneath the bed. The Old English sheepdog was meant to sleep in a little kennel in the yard behind Halader House, but he hardly ever ended up doing that.

Johnny changed into his pajamas and sat down on the bed, sipping his hot chocolate. He always left the curtains open so he could lie on his bed and look out. There was a streetlight down below outside, but it had stopped working a couple of days after he'd moved into this room, so he could gaze at the stars all he wanted. Cassiopeia was clearly visible, dominating the heavens. Johnny smiled. Unusually for a boy of his age, particularly such a fair one, he didn't have any freckles to speak of except on his left arm, just below his elbow, where five little brown dots mirrored the wonky “W” he was now looking at. He always liked looking at Cassiopeia. He yawned—this time it was for real. He was really tired and hated the thought of getting up so early on a Saturday morning. Even so, he tried to think about the signal and what it might mean. Would he ever find it again and, if he did, how could he get a proper fix next time? He pictured himself in New York being presented with a medal by the Secretary General of the United Nations—the first person on
Earth to find clear evidence of extraterrestrial life.

The thoughts eventually switched to his mum and the trip to St. Catharine's tomorrow. He didn't know what he'd say to her, but as she never reacted it probably didn't matter. Bentley barked and Johnny came to with a start, nearly spilling the drink which was now cold. The Old English sheepdog had climbed onto the bed and was staring out of the window into the blackness. Johnny put his face to the cold glass and peered outside. And then he saw it—or did he? An insect's head bigger than his own, staring back at him. Before he could really be sure, the window had fogged up with his hot breath on the glass. Frantically he wiped it dry with the sleeve of his pajama top, but when he looked again there was nothing there.

Johnny looked at the alarm clock by his bed—it was much later than he'd thought. Just then the Moon emerged from behind a cloud, before another obscured it a few seconds later, the eerie silhouette backlit by a silvery glow. That must have been it. He'd been half asleep and had seen a strangely shaped cloud outside the window. It was a trick of the light—his mind had put two and two together and made lots. He got into bed properly, with Bentley's heavy frame on top of the duvet. Johnny put his head onto the pillow and closed his eyes, but it was a very long time before he went off to sleep.

Breakfast hadn't been good. Johnny hated getting up in the morning, especially so early, and arrived late in the Halader House dining room on the ground floor. By the time he was there all the bacon sandwiches had gone, leaving him to go without or accept the thick, cold porridge a sneering Mr. Wilkins had slopped into his bowl. Now, as he sat on the 08:33 from Castle Dudbury to London Liverpool Street station, it felt as though the porridge had turned to concrete in his stomach.

Johnny had partly got his own back—Mr. Wilkins was most unhappy that Bentley had been allowed onto the train. In fact, the cook had asked several members of the railway company staff to see if any of them had heard of rules to prevent dogs traveling but, much to his disappointment, there were none. Everyone from Halader House seemed to be on board with Mrs. Irvine, resplendent in a tartan coat, leading the outing. They'd taken over one entire carriage and from the chatter it sounded as though Johnny would be missing a great day out.

He was sitting with his forehead pressed against the window, watching the fields flying past outside, with Bentley lying at his feet. Miss Harutunian was next to him on his right, reading a magazine and wearing a navy, what she'd called, “pant suit,” which Johnny found very funny. He knew he should look his
best for his mum, so had on his own brown suit. The sleeves and legs were too short as Mrs. Irvine had bought it for him a couple of years before. Mr. Wilkins was sitting opposite, taking up both seats and pretending to read the paper, but holding it at an angle so he could keep an eye on Johnny. The shoulders of his faded gray jacket were now covered with white flakes of dandruff that he kept trying to brush off every few minutes, hoping no one noticed.

Normally, Johnny would have thought that any day away from Castle Dudbury had to be a day well spent—it was surely the dullest place anyone had ever imagined. Today, though, was a double whammy. On the one hand he couldn't be where he desperately wanted to be—in the Halader House computer room analyzing the signal that Kovac had intercepted the day before. Then, to make matters even worse, he had to go on the soul-destroying trip to St. Catharine's to sit in a room with a mum who didn't even know he was there. Life was really unfair.

Mr. Wilkins lowered his newspaper and started talking to Miss Harutunian. “Most of the staff think Mrs. Irvine's mad to let the boy visit his mother.”

Johnny hated it when people talked as though he was invisible. Miss Harutunian ignored the cook and turned the page of her magazine. Mr. Wilkins continued, “You know his father's in prison—maximum security somewhere. If you ask me, it'd be far better in the long run if he just forgot about them both.”

Slowly, Miss Harutunian closed her magazine and looked across at Mr. Wilkins. “Exactly how do you figure that?” she asked in a steely voice.

“Just look at the boy—he's practically a delinquent. But can you blame him? They were hardly good role models. That's what you social worker types say they need, isn't it?”

Johnny's fingernails were digging into his hands. He was still facing out of the window—next to him he could see his own
reflection becoming redder, while further away he watched Mr. Wilkins shoving his bushy beard forward toward Miss Harutunian. Johnny felt a calming hand from her on his shoulder. She said, “We social workers believe there's nothing more important for a child than maintaining a close family bond.”

“Don't you know what they did?” asked the cook. “Both of them? They killed his older brother—in cold blood. Micky.”

“Nicky!” snapped Johnny, turning round. “His name was Nicky.”

Johnny stared defiantly at Mr. Wilkins, who lifted the newspaper in front of his face and hid behind a headline that read “
YARNTON HILL HORROR
!” Johnny sensed Miss Harutunian looking at him, but he turned away and stared out of the window again. He missed his family more than anything, but didn't want to talk about them. He hadn't seen his dad since he was a little boy and he didn't want to see his mum like this. He wanted his real mum, the walking, talking, fun one he'd loved as a little boy. But, as he knew that would never happen now, he just wanted to go to the Tower of London with everyone else. Outside, the fields had given way to tower blocks. A giant mural had been painted on the side of one, showing children, several meters tall, playing. Calming down a little he wondered if you were born on Mars, might you actually grow to be that tall because of the low gravity? Soon an announcement came over the tannoy: “We will shortly be arriving at London Liverpool Street where this train terminates. Passengers are reminded to take all their …”

“Here we are then,” Mr. Wilkins said, struggling out of his seat and dusting more dandruff off his lapels. As soon as the cook walked over toward the doors, Bentley climbed up onto his empty seat and watched the station come into view. Miss Harutunian gave the dog a friendly pat, before standing up. The
doors opened and everyone started spilling out onto the platform. Reluctantly, Johnny got to his feet and gave a gentle tug on Bentley's lead. The dog jumped down and joined him in the middle of the carriage. Johnny gave him a little rub under his collar and followed the others through the doors, keeping a tight hold of the lead.

Johnny had no idea a train station could be
this
busy. Mrs. Irvine lifted a large tartan umbrella above her head and shouted, “Follow me,” above the noise of the public address system. The crowds of morning commuters parted before her and a long line of children snaked toward a set of escalators leading up to street level.

Johnny looked round and found Miss Harutunian immediately behind him. “Can't we go on the Underground?” he asked. It was the one part of the day he'd been looking forward to. The few times he'd been to London before, he'd traveled by Tube, going in at one end and popping out the other in no time at all.