Dream Guy (7 page)

This time, he was flying, flying high above a town. He could hear wind rushing in his ears. He was going fast, perhaps thirty or forty miles an hour, but he was not falling. He stretched out his arms and found that angling them slowed him down and allowed him to steer himself. He descended a little, looking at the woods around the town, trying to work out from the layout of the streets where he could be. It didn’t look like a British town. The gardens were big, the houses were made of clapboard and the streets were wide. There were scarcely any cars, and those that he could see were old-fashioned, cars from a black-and-white movie with long bonnets and huge sweeping wheel arches and running boards. There were a few imposing brick buildings in the center of the town, one with a cupola and a statue of a blindfolded woman bearing scales outside and an American flag on top—the Stars and Stripes.

Joe racked his brain. Thomas had made them work out the layout of Maycomb using directions and descriptions from the book as a guide. Then someone had found a map in a study guide and they had all cribbed it, except for Joe, who had wanted to see if he could get it right. And he had, drawing a fuller and more detailed map, marked with quotations to back up his decisions. He felt vindicated when he saw that his drawing was closer to the town than the study guide’s, until he remembered that this was his dream and consequently much more likely to correspond to his view.

There was a very fine garden and next door, a more functional yard, with a swing and an American football lying on the lawn. Joe circled what he believed to be the Finch property. He landed and walked up the steps onto the porch where there was a swinging wooden seat for two. He knocked at the door but no one came. There was a screen door and an inner door. He tried them both and they were open. In he walked. He called out a hello, but there was no response. He walked through the hall, past the doors opening onto a sitting room, a dining room and a study with a desk piled high with papers. He went in and looked at the walls lined with bookshelves. Behind the desk the wall was lined with law books. Joe left the study and just as he was about to go through to the kitchen, two children clattered down the stairs and raced past him through the swinging door to the back of the house. They had not seen him, though he stood right in front of them.

Once again, Joe was stymied. He couldn’t work out how he was to get Dill back here, not now that Dill was safely practicing multiplication in Miss Donohoe’s class, nor could he say anything to the Finch children. But then he turned, and there was Dill, right behind him, wearing a school smock and covered in yellow paint.

“How did you get so grubby? I thought you were doing maths?”

“I finished real quick. The sums were easy as pie, so Miss Donohoe said I should help that William kid clean up, but we just messed around, and he squelched yellow paint all over me. It was better than anything. We don’t have paint so good back home.”

“Quick, let’s go upstairs and wash all that stuff off. I’ll take the smock back.”

It did not occur to Joe that a 1930s bathroom in deepest Alabama might not be quite what he expected.

“There won’t be any water up there. The kitchen is the only place with a pump.”

“Then just give me the smock and go and hide under the bed. Quickly, before they all come back in.” Joe was convinced that a Finch of some sort would come in much too early and spoil the story once again.

“Okay. Say, that class was fun. I wouldn’t mind doing something like that again. If you ever remember me.” Dill’s gaze was wistful. Joe steeled himself.

“It’s been a pleasure to meet you, Dill, but I’m going to try not to do that again.”

“I figured.” Dill waved without looking back and ran up the stairs. Joe stood still, but was feeling dizzier and dizzier, everything around him shimmering. He reached out for a banister, but his hand passed through it then through the step behind it, and he was falling into darkness.

Mrs. Naismith was standing over him, tugging at his shoulders. “Wake up, Joe. Wake up. It’s time for you to go home now. The bell’s about to go.”

He sat up and the bile rose again, but he did not retch this time. He screwed up his eyes and rubbed his temples.

“Would you like me to call your mother to fetch you? I know you’ve got to go down to the junior school to get your sister, but if you’re not sure you can manage, I can always track down Ben.”

Joe stood up and waited for his mind to clear a little more.

“It’s all right. I can go. Thanks for looking after me, Mrs. Naismith.”

“Just doing my job, Joe. You look pretty ropey still. Are you sure you don’t want me to call Ben or your mum?”

“I’ll be fine.”

But of course, when he was back down at the gate of Liesel’s school, he was anything but fine. The kids were streaming out, and usually Liesel was with her mates, but this time, she was being frogmarched across the playground by Miss Donohoe.

“Joe Knightley, where’s that little boy you left me with this morning?”

Joe tried to buy time. “What do you mean, Miss Donohoe?”

“You lumber me with an extra child, then the minute I turn my back, he’s vanished into thin air. No record of any parents coming to collect him, or you, or your family. He’s just gone. Disappeared. Evaporated.”

Liesel was standing beside Miss Donohoe, looking as irritated and irritable as her teacher, her arms crossed, her nose in the air, her bunches swinging.

“Didn’t Liesel see him go?”

“No, I didn’t. We’ve searched the whole school and he’s just not there.”

“I’m sure he’s somewhere around here. Maybe he panicked and ran away. Let me just call Mum and see if she’s heard anything.”

“I’ve spoken to your mother already. She seemed to know nothing about your houseguests, Joe. Nothing at all.” Miss Donohoe gave a menacing grimace, like a chimpanzee about to eat its offspring. “So perhaps you could explain to me just where this boy came from and exactly where he has gone?”

“He came from America, just like I said, Miss Donohoe. And I think he’s gone back there. There was some problem with his papers, and we just had to take care of him temporarily.”

“He’s gone back to America. Between half past twelve and half past three, he’s returned to America. You are aware, I suppose, that the only means of reaching the US in three hours hasn’t flown for several years now, apart from the fact that a nine-year-old child is unlikely to have a ticket for Concorde stuffed up his jumper, not that young Mr. Harris appeared to have a jumper.”

“I can promise you, Miss Donohoe, Dill is safe and in good hands. Excellent hands. He is visiting the Finch family of Maycomb, Alabama.”

Miss Donohoe gave Joe a suspicious look and released Liesel into his care. “I’m still not sure I shouldn’t call the police and report this boy as missing.”

“He’s not missing, Miss Donohoe. He’s exactly where he ought to be.” Or so Joe hoped. He hadn’t had time to check the book yet.

Liesel sighed and waved goodbye to her teacher, her face lapsing into a sulky pout with which Joe was too familiar.

“What was all that about? And why couldn’t you look after that boy all afternoon? He was closer to your age than mine.”

“Elphick thought he was junior school age. I couldn’t argue with her, Dill didn’t exactly have his birth certificate on him. Anyway, it didn’t matter to him. He’d never been to school before, so it was all new and hanging with your class was a lot more exciting than psychology. Does it matter?”

“Only that Donohoe made me go into every toilet in the whole school to look for him—boys as well as girls.”

Joe grinned. Liesel would have hated that. They stopped at the bus stop and waited there. Donohoe’s interrogation had made them miss their regular bus. Joe dug in his backpack and found his copy of
Mockingbird
, then flicked to chapter fourteen. He read as fast as he could, and heaved a sigh of relief as Scout spotted what she thought was a snake under her bed, fetched Jem and extracted Dill from his hiding place. There was no mention of yellow paint. Perhaps he had managed to get it off, or perhaps it was just a detail that the book skimmed over. The action seemed to unfold as before, as far as Joe could remember. He stuffed the book back in his bag and rummaged again. This time he pulled out his bus pass and the Lamborghini key. Liesel was deep in the latest Jacqueline Wilson book. He examined the key closely. He could hardly wait to get home.

It was strange not to be on the usual school bus with all the other kids. It was after the main rush and before the people who had detentions could escape. The bus was quiet and there was a gentle murmur of pensioners muttering about the price of gammon and comparing blood pressure medication. Liesel kept reading while Joe clutched his key and watched the world out of the window. They were passing through an estate of ugly houses. They looked mean and poky, their windows too small, their brick drab, and even if they were well-maintained, they had no character, just box after brick box, each with the same little patch of lawn outside. Then the character of the streets changed, the houses got larger, the cars a little newer and finally they were at their stop.

They walked up the road and turned left into their street, past the other Victorian and Edwardian houses.

Unusually, Mrs. Knightley’s car was in the drive. “Mum’s home. That’s weird,” said Liesel.

There was also a dark-blue Fiat outside the house. Joe began to feel uneasy. They went in, and the door was on the latch. Mrs. Knightley emerged from the living room and watched Joe and Liesel come in.

“Liesel, up to your room to do your homework. Joe, you come in here. There are some gentlemen who would like a word with you.”

Liesel was so delighted that Joe was in serious trouble that she skipped upstairs without a single moan in response to their mother’s peremptory tone. Joe dumped his book bag and reached into his pocket to check that the Lamborghini key was still there.

Chapter Six

Carpeted

Joe’s mother ushered him into the living room then carefully closed the door. She folded her arms and stood, as Joe glanced at the two men lurking by the fireplace.

They were corporate twins, wearing expensive-looking suits and identical purple shirts, one with a tie that had toning lavender and wisteria checks, the other with a mauve diagonal stripe. Both had short brown hair—but not too short—and regular features with square jaws, like models for posh watches. As the door opened and Joe sidled in, both turned to look at him, their faces neutral, their eyes cool.

“Take a seat, Joe.” The taller one spoke as though used to being obeyed. Joe looked at him for a long moment before moving around to sit on the arm of the leather club chair at the far side of the room. Perching there, he felt less vulnerable than if he were to sink into its depths.

“My name is Christopher Taylor-West, and this is my colleague, Rudy Moss. We hear you’ve got a new Lamborghini Gallardo.”

Joe said nothing in the lengthening silence. Rudy Moss took up the patter. He had a slight American accent.

“When your mother rang us this morning, we were a touch surprised to hear about your prize draw success.” He drummed his fingers on the mantelpiece.

“Yes,” said Taylor-West.

“Because we don’t allow Lamborghinis to be used for that kind of promotion, you see. We don’t need that kind of publicity. There’s a waiting list for a Lamborghini.”

“Exclusive, you see,” said Taylor-West.

Still Joe said nothing, just kept his hand clenched around the key.

“In fact, there’s no record of any Gallardo going out of the showrooms in the UK at all.” Rudy Moss sounded baffled rather than aggressive. But Joe did not relax.

Taylor-West took over the talking. “We’re planning to take a look at the car, as we’ve discussed with your mother.” Taylor-West began to bluster a little. “But what we’d like to know is how a schoolboy comes to have a Gallardo in his drive when we have no record of any purchase, or even theft, associated with any of our cars.”

“If you can assist us with our inquiry, Joe, it would be very helpful.” Moss’ voice was not at all flustered, more threatening.

“I’m afraid I can’t help you, really.”

“And I believe there’s no key. Is that correct?”

Joe gave a vague shrug and went “Mmm.” So he wasn’t lying, strictly speaking. After all, there was no way of knowing that the key in his possession was the key for his Lamborghini. And if they really wanted to get the engine running, he assumed they would have some way of bypassing the ignition system, which would be useful to know. Besides, producing the key would only provoke further interrogation, and Joe wanted to get the examination of the car over with.

Moss and Taylor-West exchanged a dissatisfied glance.

They moved as one, suggesting that somewhere there was a factory that churned out men like them—bland, uniform and following orders with unquestioning obedience.

“Okay, let’s take a look at this baby.” Moss walked over to the door and turned. “I assume you’ll want to accompany us, Joe. It is your car, after all.”

“Yes,” said Joe. Sue Knightley looked grim. He could see that she wasn’t happy that her son had been as good as accused of stealing a car. She wasn’t happy that he even had a car, and she certainly wasn’t happy about watching them gawp at the car in question. Silently, she followed them into the garage.

The Gallardo appeared as beautiful as ever. It sat in the midst of all the usual clutter of a family of five, almost glowing in the ugly fluorescent lighting, making everything else in the garage—the bikes, the lawn mower, Dad’s array of DIY tools, the chunks of wood and half-built shelves—seem stark, ugly and cheap.

Silently, thoroughly, Moss and Taylor-West opened up the car. Taylor-West took a smartphone out of an inner pocket and began tapping at it as Moss pulled out a Maglite torch and started an inventory of the car.