Alana Oakley (16 page)

Emma did not know of the girls' suspicions, although it may have offered some strange comfort if she had. As she wandered back home, lamenting the loss of the Sandringham Hotel (where Hugo and Emma had first met) along the way, and resisting the smells of restaurant food – Thai, Lebanese, Fijian – her thoughts spiralled downwards into a Sad Spot. Why did things have to change? Just as quickly, she stopped herself. She knew from experience that after the question about Change came the question about Dying, and for that there was no answer.

At her front door, Emma patted her pockets and, disturbingly, found nothing. She emptied her handbag, from which she extracted a packet of tissues, sunglasses, peach-scented hand-lotion, lipstick, a bottle of painkillers (now separated from the similar-looking bubble-bath capsules) the-spare-change-from-a-jar-on-the-fridge, a baby tooth, a rubber band, scrap paper, a packet of half-eaten sweets (for diabetics, she said, because you could save a life with a well-timed jelly-baby), a black pen, a skipping rope, a safety pin, and (because of Oliver) a toothbrush, just in case. More bizarrely, she found a flashlight, a butane torch, and a monkey wrench – none of which belonged to her. She sat back on her heels, confused. Then her heart softened as she realised Boris, Tr
ầ
n and/ or Enzo must have popped the ‘gifts' into her bag – like a ‘teacher's apple'.

They were such sweet boys. No,
really
.

She returned to her search and checked her hair. It was no good. The house keys were gone.
Again.
She knew Alana would be upset, for Alana was sure she'd found a sure-proof way for her mum to never lose her keys again:
this
key-chain sounded an alarm whenever you whistled.
But I can't whistle
, Emma had confessed, and proved this was the case by pursing her lips and producing a pathetic
pfft
.

In a house two suburbs away, however, someone's father was whistling very loudly indeed. The kind of whistle that said
Wow
and
Gee Whizz
and
What The
..? all at once. And every time it happened, a toddler's tummy emitted the strangest noise: a kind of
beep, beep, beep,
like an alarm, muffled by the extra-absorbent nappy he wore. This prompted another
Wow-gee-whizz-what-the…
-whistle. This would have continued indefinitely had the toddler's mother not investigated why a nappy change was taking so long. She whisked the child to the local hospital's Accident and Emergency at once – providing further proof to health officials that toddlers will put anything they find in the sandpit into their mouths.

“Everybody has got a key to our house except you!” Alana later accused Emma, and Emma had not very convincingly replied, “Surely not!”, while secretly wondering if it wasn't a little bit true.

CHAPTER 26

The Toy Truck arsonist strikes again

Emma handed Alana a postcard, but not before taking a look at the picture. The girl in the image had the most incredible green eyes, deep-set and filled with laughter and secrets. Her dark skin was the perfect foil for the colourful scarf framing her face, while in the background, small mounds of intense hues hinted at the freshness of the spices being sold at the marketplace.

“Looks like James is in Morocco again,” she said. “I hope he'll be back in time for the Elvis convention (no, don't ask) photo-shoot next week.” With any luck, Emma's head would look less like a football by then (perfectly normal for wisdom-teeth extraction, the dentist had assured her, although Emma wasn't convinced) so she could conduct the celebrity interviews at the charity event looking semi-human.

Alana gave a squeal of delight and dropped the newspaper she was reading. “Oh, that's so beautiful,” she breathed, gazing at the picture postcard. She looked up after reading the back. “He said he'd be back in time for The Big Game.”

“He wrote you a postcard all the way from Morocco to tell you that?”

“No, we've been skyping and exchanging photos. He's helping me with algebra and stuff,” she explained.

Emma looked at her daughter in surprise.

“And he comes to soccer practice most weekends when he's free.”

“Well, I'll be …” Emma's gaze turned thoughtful. She gave her daughter a hug and then stepped back, as if looking at Alana properly for the first time. “He's a big part of your life too, isn't he? And here I was thinking I knew everything there was to know about that man.”

“Uncle James has some interesting secrets, you know,” Alana said mysteriously.

“Well, so have I,” Emma grinned. “I know exactly what to get you for your birthday this year, and it's something you really, really love.”

Alana groaned. Unlike her friends, who looked forward to their birthdays, Alana dreaded hers. If her mum behaved like other parents and bought the latest ‘i'-whatever, she would have been more than happy, but Emma wasn't like other parents. She planned Spectacular Events to make her daughter feel Special. Unfortunately, her Big Ideas were always too ambitious and ended in disaster.

“Please, Mum. Don't make any trouble –” Alana began, but Emma, mishearing, kissed Alana on her head, and said with a smile, “It's no trouble at all.”

Alana sighed and went back to the article in the newspaper.
Another
fire had broken out in a local school. And at the crime scene, the arsonist had left another toy truck … She
really
had to do something about Flynn!
Tout de suite.
Immediately!

CHAPTER 27

Busted!

Alana forced the
clang
and
jangle
of the Hare Krishna religious songs to the back of her mind as she focussed her binoculars. She was missing extra soccer practice for this – she really hoped her hunch was going to pay off. Alana was pleased with her choice of location. From up here in the Hare Krishna restaurant, she could clearly see the florist and Church Hall, where she had last lost Flynn. She checked her watch. If he was punctual, he should be turning up soon. Four o'clock came and went. At five minutes past he was still a no-show. Alana began to have some doubts. But then, at 4:08, she spotted the familiar hoodie, drawn up to protect the wearer's identity. “Gotcha,” Alana murmured, and watched as Flynn looked around furtively before ducking into a side alley.

Alana raced down the stairs, pressing a donation into the hands of a bald-headed attendant, who shook his tambourine in thanks. By the time she was able to investigate the alley, however, there was nowhere to go and nothing to see. The alley was a dead-end, and Alana was sure Flynn had not come out. She spun around; the fading light revealed nothing but the odd commuter rushing to escape winter's icy fingers. Alana resisted the childish urge to stamp her feet.

She drifted away from the florist, where Fate made a second appearance, this time as a busker who had set up to perform. The musician was short, and somewhat squashed-looking. Despite the cold, his head was bare, revealing grassy tufts that grew at random. With eyes closed, he hit the top of two metal trashcans with drumsticks, and every now and then, the side of an upside-down bin.

Bang. Bing. Bang. Bing. Boom. Boom. Boom.

It was a jarring sound – not at all musical or rhythmic. Instead of inviting an audience in, it drove people away, Alana included. Only someone like Emma would have dropped a coin into the busker's woolly hat. Emma was forever dropping coins into busker's hats and open guitar cases, or pressing it into the hands of people who were Down On Their Luck.

But Fate wasn't in the mood for a cacophony that evening. Nor was an angry middle-aged woman in a black woollen cardigan, leotard, skirt and tights; she opened the heavy door of the Church Hall and stalked out, demanding that the busker to move away with irate flourishes and agitated hands. Alana watched the unfolding drama and then looked beyond her into the hall's dark, woody depths. Something snagged her attention. Not something. Some
one
. Someone who looked an awful lot like …
Flynn Tucker!
Alana had to pinch herself, for there, in charcoal grey tights that showed off perfectly the tautness of his muscled thighs, was Flynn, stretching at the barre. Alana's mouth began catching flies. “Do you mind?” the woman asked, blocking Alana's view, nose high in the air. “This is a private class,” before closing the Church Hall door with an emphatic
thud
.

Bad-Boy was a Bun-head?

Okay, maybe not a bun-head, since he was a boy. Alana wondered briefly what male ballet dancers were called. In French, it would be
danseur
. At the Police Boys' Club, she imagined it would be ‘death-wish'. No wonder he was keeping it quiet.

Faint strains of Beethoven (or was it Bach?) escaped through the cracks in the door as Alana drew nearer to listen. She pressed her ear to the cold wood. She could just make out the words:
arabesque en lair, chassé, fondue …
Alana could almost see the curved lines of Flynn's body, the smooth glide of legs moving forward and back as he gave the appearance of melting.

Alana rubbed her chin as she considered her next move. It looked like Ballet-Boy wasn't going anywhere, not for the next hour or so at least. She shouldered her backpack and headed for Café Newtown, which sat across the road, to grab a bite to eat and do some homework. She ate. She worked. She waited. At ten minutes past six, Flynn emerged from the Church Hall, blowing on his hands. He wore a thick jacket over the hoodie. It bore the brunt of the wind, which had picked up since Alana had first set up camp. She let him walk a few steps before prodding him sharply in the back, just as he had done to her at the cooking demonstration months before.

“Busted,” she said amiably.

Flynn swung around. “What are
you
doing here?”

“Freezing my butt off, to tell the truth. But then, the truth isn't something you'd know much about, is it?” Alana accused.

Flynn stared. Although he didn't know Alana very well, he knew enough to recognise The Look – like a mastiff clenching a bone.

“Fine. But if you're going to give me the third degree, let's go somewhere warm with food. I'm starving.”

Two hamburgers and half a strawberry smoothie later, Flynn allowed himself a contented burp before sitting back. His soft, silver eyes had darkened to a bottomless grey, and they were wary.

Alana didn't waste any time. “You're obviously not the Toy Truck Arsonist,” she stated, rather than asked. “You've got a legitimate excuse, so why not fess up?”

“If my brother found out I was doing ballet, he'd kill me. He's not exactly a fan of the arts, shall we say.” Flynn's lips twisted into a grimace.

“So if
you
haven't been lighting the fires, then who
has
?

“
Ce n'est pas mon secret à dire
,” he muttered in French. “How should I know?” he denied in English with a shrug.

Alana's eyes narrowed. The cogs of her mind spun as she struggled with the translation. Bits of the puzzle clicked into place. “It's your brother, isn't it?”

“What? No. Where'd you get a stupid idea like that? Talk about random!”

“‘Not my secret to tell', you said, so I'm guessing it's your brother's.”

Flynn was shocked. “You speak French?”

Alana forged on. “And I bet he's done this sort of thing before. Come on, spill the beans. I've got a computer-hacking genius and I'm not afraid to use him.”

Flynn gave in. He could see that Alana wasn't going to let it go, and in a way it was a relief to tell someone. He'd been carrying the secret around for so long that he could feel its weight around his neck every time he breathed. “Alright. Yes. He's got a rap sheet as long as my arm. Daniel's been in and out of delinquents' programs and juvenile detention all his life. With this latest escapade, he would've been locked up in a Young Offenders Home for sure, so I wore it for him. Because I confessed, my last school agreed not to put it on my permanent record. Gibson High would only take me if I joined their rehabilitation program …”

“…kickboxing,” Alana added.

Flynn nodded. “Daniel promised he wouldn't do it anymore. Promised he'd stay clean. This move was supposed to be a fresh start.” Flynn's lips twisted again, this time into a sad smile. “I should've known he'd lie.”

“No offence, but why would you cover for such a jerk?”

“I don't expect you to understand. You're an only child, right?” Alana nodded. “He's my brother,” Flynn said simply. “He's all I've got. After Mum walked out …” Flynn paused. There was silence. It crushed. It squeezed. “Even if he
is
a jerk, I'd do anything to protect my brother.”

If Shakespeare had taught Alana anything that year, it was that although characters could be powerless against their fate, they at least had control over their reactions to it. Fate had handed Flynn a difficult choice.

But Fate had given one to Alana, too.

Alana looked into Flynn's eyes, which were now a stormy grey. She could keep quiet, but decided to dive into the waiting tempest. “You know what? I may not know much about having brothers and sisters, but I know this much. People do stuff like that, stupid stuff, sometimes because it's a cry for help. Any attention, even negative attention, is better than being ignored. I mean, why leave a toy truck at the crime scene unless a part of you wanted to get caught? But you're not going to stay under 18 forever.” Alana let that sink in before continuing. “Whatever you choose to do,” Alana paused to look deeper into Flynn's eyes, “don't leave it too late. Don't let him screw up your life. If you turn him in, he'll know you did it for the right reason.”

Flynn wiped his mouth with his sleeve and shrugged. Family was never easy. It didn't have a rule-book or come with instructions. But things
were
getting more serious now. Maybe Alana was right. Maybe Daniel was crying out for help and, like it or not, he and his dad had to listen.