The mower turned on and off as Mr. Charles carefully cut around the edge of the fishpond. He dipped the blades up and down, trying to avoid damaging any of the plants. Two more strips and he was returning back to the patio for the last time, expertly turning the mower off just as he reached the end. Stretching his arms behind him, he looked back up at me, a strange grin on his face. He held up a finger as if to say, Wait there just a second, young man before he dashed off to the kitchen, leaving the mower clicking and popping as it cooled down. My stomach churned a little. Something didn’t seem right. He emerged back into the sunshine holding a glass of something clear and fizzy in each hand. It looked like lemonade. My heart was racing. He walked toward the fence between our gardens and stretched an arm upward, the sun glinting on the glass. Did he think I could just reach down and take it? I stared back at him and shrugged my shoulders. I didn’t know what to do. He put one of the glasses down on the patio table and beckoned for me to join him. His other arm held the lemonade high, as if it were some ridiculous trophy waiting to be presented to me.
And the award for “Removing Oneself from One’s Bedroom Goes to …”
Mr. Charles’s grin began to wobble. I shook my head and stepped away from the window. Then I saw it. He dropped his gaze, and his face contorted into a sinister snarl as he said something under his breath. I’d never seen his face like that before, all twisted and nasty. I quickly pulled the curtains.
“Did you see that, Lion? Did you see his face?”
I glanced up at the Wallpaper Lion. His eye was directed toward my window, and I knew immediately what I’d done wrong—I’d pulled the curtains too fast and now death and disease were escaping from the folds of fabric and swarming everywhere. If I did nothing then before long the whole room would need to be decontaminated. I closed my eyes and tried to ignore the germs, but I could hear the scurrying of their dirty feet as they ran across the walls and ceiling. I sat up, wiped my eyes, took a deep breath, and reached down for my cleaning things.
There were two emails in my inbox, both from my old best friend, Tom.
To: Party Crowd
From: Thomas Allen
Subject: Invitation
Venue: My House
Event: Barbecue!!!
When: Saturday, August 9th at 3 p.m.
Reason: Summer!
RSVP to TOM!
(BRING A FRIEND)
Along the bottom of the email there was a row of yellow emojis all doing random things like blowing raspberries, winking, or spinning around. I clicked on his other email.
To: Matthew Corbin
From: Thomas Allen
Re: Invitation
Hey bud! How’s it going? Haven’t seen you in ages! I heard about that little kid next door to you going missing. That’s awful! [Here he had inserted a sad emoji with a tear running down its face.] I hope they find him soon!
I’m happy it’s summer vacation. How great is that!? Hope you can make the BBQ!! I know things have been a bit weird, but get in touch if you want to go out or something!!!!!
Tom
I cringed. It appeared that he had developed an affliction for overuse of exclamation marks. Next to the word weird he’d inserted another smiley face that looked like it was straining to go to the toilet. It was obvious that I’d missed far too much school and my best friend had become an idiot.
To: Thomas Allen
From: Matthew Corbin
Re: Invitation
Hi Tom,
Thanks for the invite—it sounds amazing!
(I allowed myself one exclamation mark to make him feel comfortable.)
I don’t think I’ll be able to make it unfortunately. Things have been pretty crazy around here after Teddy went missing. There’s police everywhere. The woman across the street found his blanket, and this morning they said they found some of his blood
I stopped. I suddenly had a thought. I looked down from the window and saw Officer Campen standing outside next door. He was rocking onto his toes and then back onto his heels like he was on some kind of invisible swing. I quickly ran downstairs and opened the front door. The step looked too filthy for my bare feet, so I held onto the doorframe with my fingertips and leaned forward.
“Officer Campen!”
The policeman was staring across the street vacantly as he stifled a yawn.
“Hey! Officer Campen!”
He looked around, frowning.
“I need to tell you something. It’s about Teddy!”
The policeman darted over to the fence between our front gardens.
“What is it? You saw someone, didn’t you? I knew it …”
My fingers hurt as I dangled around the doorframe at an awkward angle.
“No, no I didn’t, but it’s about the blood. The blood they found on the blanket? Teddy scratched himself when he was picking the petals off the roses. I remembered just now—I didn’t write it down for some reason.”
The policeman kept turning behind him, making sure no one was venturing near the house.
“How do you know all this?”
“Because I was watching him. He was picking petals and caught his arm on a thorn and he dabbed at the bloody scratch with his blanket. Get it? The blood they found doesn’t mean he’s been hurt.”
Officer Campen stared at me as I waited.
“Where on his arm?”
I was dangerously close to falling out of the house.
“On his forearm. The right one. Look, I’ve got to go.”
I pulled myself back inside and closed the door, knowing that before long the police would be knocking again and asking the same question in ten different ways. Dad was in the conservatory using a roller to paint beneath the window ledges; the pool table was covered with an old, stained beige cloth.
“What’s going on, Matthew?” he called.
I walked to the edge of the conservatory, stopping at the white, shiny tiles that harbored a trillion germs. Nigel was nowhere to be seen.
“I remembered something, so I told the policeman next door. Teddy scratched his arm when he was in the front garden; that’s probably why there was blood on the blanket.”
“And what did the police say?”
I just shrugged, and Dad huffed. I knew he was embarrassed that I looked out the window so much. He’d have preferred me to be on an Xbox or something, doing something normal.
“Pass me that brush, would you, son? I need to get around the edges.”
In the corner of the conservatory and lying on top of a few sheets of newspaper was a thin, black brush. It was just within my reach. Without stepping onto the tiles I stretched awkwardly around and picked up the brush between my bare thumb and index finger. There was no way I was going to walk across Nigel’s vomiting playground, but Dad wasn’t making any sign that he’d walk toward me, so I was now stuck with the brush in my hand.
“Come on, Matthew. Give it here, I haven’t got all day.”
Dad stared at me, his roller in one hand, as I stared back, the brush in mine. We stood there like two bizarre cowboys waiting to see who was going to draw first. Just when I was considering throwing the brush at Dad and making a run for it, the doorbell rang.
“I’ll get it!”
The brush clattered to the floor as I made my escape. Officer Campen was on the step with the man in the suit who’d tried to comfort Melissa Dawson when she’d collapsed.
“Matthew Corbin? Can we come in for a chat?”
I stood back and let them in as Mum and Dad appeared.
“Mr. and Mrs. Corbin, your son has said he remembered something else about the day Teddy went missing. We just need to ask him a few more questions.”