Of course, Charlie wasn’t going to let that happen. “Come on, Jimbo,” he said. “This is hot stuff. Tell me the last time anything this exciting ever happened to either of us.”
The answer was ‘never’. I didn’t say it.
He soldiered on. “Perhaps there’s a boring explanation. Perhaps there isn’t. Perhaps Kidd and Pearce are bank robbers talking in code. Perhaps they’re drug dealers. Perhaps they’re spies.”
I mumbled incoherently.
“I’m going to follow them,” said Charlie. “I want to know what they do after school. I want to know where they go and who they speak to. Because they’re up to something. I know it. And I’m going to find out what it is. So…are you in? Or not?”
“Charlie,” I said, “I just need to get some sleep.”
“Suit yourself.”
I got home to one of Dad’s classic dinners. It was called shepherd’s pie, apparently. Though it wasn’t like any other shepherd’s pie I’d ever tasted. I think Dad just arranged a pile of meat and potatoes in a large baking dish, then attacked it with a blowtorch. It looked like something pulled out of a house fire.
I took a mouthful, then gave up. Becky took a mouthful, then gave up. Mum told us to stop being so fussy. Then she took a mouthful, retched visibly and used a word that parents really shouldn’t use in front of children. And we all had a double helping of pears and custard to make up for the lack of main course.
Craterface turned up at the door after supper but Mum told him that he wasn’t allowed into the flat until he’d apologized to me. Apologizing was not really his thing so he and Becky departed in a monstrous huff. Mum then went off to do some paperwork in the bedroom and Dad and I sat down to watch The Phantom Menace. It felt good sitting next to Dad. It was like being little again. All in all I had pretty good parents, I reckoned. Dad might occasionally try to poison me, but he never attacked me with secateurs.
I fell asleep just after Darth Maul tries to assassinate Qui-Gon Jinn. Dad must then have carried me to the bedroom because the next thing I knew I was waking up after eight hours’ quality sleep, feeling a good deal better.
Charlie was a bit stand-offish at school. I’d offended him by not wanting to be involved in Phase Two of the plan. But I’d made up my mind. I’d had enough stress over the last few days. I didn’t want to be caught stalking a teacher. I told myself to be patient. Charlie would get bored soon. Or he’d be caught and hauled in front of the headmistress and given a string of detentions. Either way the result would be the same. Life would return to normal.
We met up at the gates after school, like we did most days, and I asked if he wanted to come round to the flat.
He didn’t. “Things to do. People to watch,” he said, patting his pocket mysteriously and heading off to the bus stop.
So I wandered into town on my own, went to Waterstone’s and bought a copy of 500 Recipes for Beginners. I splashed out on gift wrapping then made my way home.
Dad didn’t know whether to be deeply touched or slightly offended. I told him I’d spent a large chunk of my pocket money, so he’d better use it. I didn’t want my parents getting divorced. And if that meant Dad learning how to make a proper shepherd’s pie, then he had to learn how to make a proper shepherd’s pie.
“It’s like building a model aircraft,” I said. “You just follow the instructions.”
I was wrong about Charlie. He wasn’t getting bored. And he hadn’t been caught. Every time I bumped into him he said, “Sorry, Jimbo. On a job. Can’t stop.”
I was getting lonely. And bored. And irritated.
On Sunday morning, however, I was sitting on the wall of the park opposite the flats trying to remember what I used to do with myself before Charlie came along and wondering which of my non-best friends I should ring. Suddenly Charlie materialized next to me.
“God, you made me jump.”
Using his unbandaged hand he slid an orange notebook out of his pocket. The word Spudvetch! was written across the cover.
“What’s this?”
“Open it,” said Charlie.
I opened it. It was Mr Kidd’s diary. Except that it wasn’t written by Mr Kidd. It was written by Charlie.
FRIDAY
6.30 Sainsbury’s (sausages, bran flakes, shampoo, milk, broccoli, carrots and orange juice).
8.00 Arsenal v. Everton on TV.
10.00 Takes rubbish out.
“Hang on,” I said. “How do you know what he’s watching on TV?”
“He didn’t shut the curtains,” said Charlie.
“Yeah, but—”
“I was standing in his garden,” said Charlie. “There’s a gap in the fence.”
“You’re crazy.”
I returned to the book. There was a map. And there were photographs.
The second half of the notebook was devoted to Mrs Pearce. Diary. Map. Photographs. There was even a photocopy of her library card. It was the kind of notebook you find in a psychopath’s bedside table. Next to the voodoo dolls and automatic weapons. I began to wonder whether Charlie was losing his mind.
“They live like monks,” he said. “They don’t go to the pub. They don’t visit friends. They do their shopping. They weed the garden. They clean the car.” He looked at me. “Don’t you think that’s suspicious?”
“No,” I said. “Suspicious is when you have a bunker under the house, Charlie. Suspicious is when you leave home wearing a false beard. Suspicious is when you visit a deserted warehouse with a hundred thousand pounds in a suitcase.”
He wasn’t listening. “I’m going to have to get inside one of their houses. Mrs Pearce’s probably. Better access. Thursday evening. During the teachers’ meeting. I need to have a poke around.”
“No,” I said. “No, no, no, no, no. Have you any idea what will happen if you get caught? The police. The headmistress. Your parents…”
It was a stupid, insane, suicidal idea. Which makes it quite hard to explain why I decided to help. I guess it boils down to this. Charlie was my best friend. I missed him. And I couldn’t think of anything better to do. Really stupid reasons which were never going to impress the police, the headmistress or my parents.
Looking back, I reckon this was the moment when my whole life started to go pear-shaped.
On Thursday evening we jumped onto a number 45 bus, got off at Canning Road and went into the park at the bottom of Mrs Pearce’s garden. Ideally we would have gone in after dark, but Mrs Pearce never left her house after dark so we had no choice.
We waited for a small group of boys to disappear from round the swings, then headed over to the fence. And it was only then that a really important question occurred to me.
“Charlie?”
“What?”
“How are we going to get in?”
He smiled and extracted a key from his pocket.
“You stole her house key?” I couldn’t believe it.
“No, Jimbo,” said Charlie. “I borrowed it. Last week. She puts it under the flowerpot when she goes out. I popped into town and got a copy made.”
I didn’t know whether to be impressed or horrified. Still, I reasoned, if you were going to break into someone’s house it was probably better to let yourself in through the door, rather than smashing a window.
“We don’t have much time,” said Charlie. “Let’s go.”
Once we were inside I began to see what Charlie meant. The house wasn’t just ordinary. It was super-ordinary. Creepy ordinary. Like a film set. Floral china. A tea tray. The Radio Times. A little silver carriage clock on the mantelpiece. A tartan shopping trolley by the front door. It really did look suspicious.