I puffed along High Street like an old man, my heart pounding, but I felt good. I’d done it! I was out and I was actually doing something. I was investigating.
I looked through every shop window that I passed to see if I could spot a pale blue blouse. I got to the crosswalk and waited for someone to press the button, my gloved hands hidden in my pockets. Suddenly she was there, on the opposite side of the road. She shuffled along, her back bent over as she put her bag down on the ground so that she could push the button. It tipped forward and two balls of blue wool dropped onto the curb. She quickly grabbed them and stuffed them back into the bag, her pink scalp showing through her thin, white hair. The lights changed and I tucked my chin low and quickly crossed, avoiding any eye contact as we passed each other in the middle of the road. A few people were waiting at a bus stop and I hovered nearby, keeping my distance from anyone as I watched her go into a newsstand.
Balls of wool. Balls of blue wool. Was she making an outfit for a small boy? Or maybe she was planning on knitting something to replace his blue blanket! An old man walked up behind me and placed his shopping bags down with a huff. I realized he thought I was part of the bus line so I edged back slightly, keeping an eye on the other side of the road.
My throat was dry and I needed to wash. I needed to wash very, very soon. But a tiny little voice deep inside me was telling me that I could do this. If I didn’t touch anything and kept at a good distance, then I could watch Old Nina and get all the proof I needed that she had kidnapped Teddy. Then I could sprint home. Or maybe jog—yes, definitely jog home, then I’d tell the police and get straight into the shower and everything would be all right again.
Everyone in the line began to jostle around as a bus arrived. I turned to go but walked straight into the old man behind me, stumbling over his bags.
“Whoa, slow down! What’s the rush?” he said and he put his hands up. As I fell forward my cheek brushed against his dirty, brown cardigan and I got wafts of peppermint, vinegar, and stale aftershave. There was an orange, crusty stain near the buttons that looked like dried egg. I steadied myself, revealing my gloved hands, but he didn’t notice them.
“You all right, boy? You look like you’ve seen a ghost. I know I’m old, but I’m still alive, you know!”
As he laughed, stringy, white saliva stretched like elastic bands in the corners of his mouth.
“I-I … I’m sorry,” I said as I stepped over his bags. “I’m so sorry.”
So that was it. There was no way I could cope with that degree of exposure. I’d have to go home and wash immediately.
“Listen, son, if it’s worth knocking an old man over for, it must be important. Off you go!”
And then he threw back his head and laughed again and a gold molar twinkled in the sunlight. Putting my head down, I turned toward home. It was no good; I’d failed. My face was burning where it had brushed against the old man’s cardigan. I felt dizzy and my heart was pounding so badly it felt like it was about to erupt through my rib cage. My eardrums were throbbing and my throat felt gritty, but most of all I really, really needed to wash. I needed clean water—gallons and gallons of it—and lots and lots of soap. New packets of soap. Unopened and sterile.
I walked back to the traffic light and began to cross the road. Old Nina was just coming out of the newsstand, a magazine poking out of the top of her bag. She was headed in the direction of home but suddenly paused. Something had caught her eye in the window of a pharmacy. She put her shopping bag down and leaned forward, her forehead inches from the glass as she blinked at the display. I stood still, trying to look as if I was just waiting for someone. After a few seconds she picked up the bag, brushed her wispy hair from her forehead, and carried on along her way.
I jogged toward the window. Displayed symmetrically in a pyramid shape were boxes of pull-up diapers, the repeated photograph of the single toddler on its packaging faded in the sun. I looked up and watched as her pale blue blouse disappeared around a corner.
“So you’re out again! Who’d have thought it? The Goldfish Boy seen out twice in public!”
Jake grinned from ear to ear like some manic Cheshire Cat as he stood astride his bike at the top of our road. In the distance I could see Old Nina just closing her front door behind her.
“What did you call me?” I took a step toward him and he held his hands up.
“Whoa! All right, freak! No need to have a fit.”
I tried to walk around him but he rolled his bike back, blocking my way like he’d done in the alleyway.
“What’s with the gloves?” he said.
“None of your business,” I said as I put my hands in my pockets.
Jake scratched at the back of his neck and a red mark appeared where he’d broken the skin and drawn blood. He studied his fingernails and I darted around him.
“So, you do think it’s Old Nina after all then?”
I stopped and turned to him.
“What?”
He looked smug.
“I saw Melody trying to see into Old Nina’s yard earlier. Is it to do with that thing in her tree?”
I didn’t say anything.
He wiped his nose with the back of his hand.
“Anyway, I don’t know why you’re bothering. The kid’s clearly dead. You and Melody are wasting your time if you ask me.”
“You have no idea what’s happened to Teddy Dawson, Jake.”
Two plainclothes policemen were talking in front of Mr. Charles’s house, and they both looked up at us for a moment and then carried on with their conversation.
“No I don’t,” said Jake. “But maybe you do, eh? Maybe you know where he went, Goldfish Boy?”
My throat tightened.
“Don’t call me that.”
Jake laughed.
“Ah, come on. Everyone is saying it! It was that little kid next door to you who started it. Teddy’s sister. Mum told me she’d called you that when she was there phoning the police. She said, ‘The Goldfish Boy probably knows where he went.’”
I swallowed.
“So, what did you see from that window of yours then, hey?”
I blinked away the tears.
“Stop it.”
Jake laughed again, his head up high.
“You should be pleased—you’re famous!”
He adopted a news anchor’s voice.
“The Goldfish Boy was the last person to see Teddy Dawson alive. How exactly does that make him feel?”
He waved an invisible microphone at me and I took a step to the side. I felt like I was gasping for air. I swallowed and swallowed again.
“He’s not dead!” I shouted and my voice echoed down the street. One of the policemen stretched his neck to watch us.
“Look, I’m sorry to burst your fluffy little bubble, but if a kid goes missing and a few days later they find blood on his blanket, then it’s not exactly going to end happily ever after, is it? Life’s tough. Deal with it.”
He rolled his bike back and adjusted his pedal to leave. My legs were trembling.
“He scratched his arm. That’s why there was blood on his blanket,” I said.
Jake turned back.
“How do you know?”
“Well, you said it yourself. I was the last person to see him al—to see him. He was playing in the front garden and he scratched his arm on a thorn and blood got onto his blanket. That answer your question?”
He did a kind of shrug.
“Melody didn’t even try to get the thing out of the tree, you know. She just stared at it over the fence. I can help if you want. With this investigating you’re trying to do?”
I laughed.
“You? Help? When have you ever wanted to help anyone besides yourself?”
His face fell, and then he let me have it.
“Me?! You should talk! I didn’t see you trying to help me when everyone said my eczema was infectious! Or when Mr. Jenkins called me a loser all those times. I didn’t see you sitting next to me when no one else dared. Where were you, eh? Where were you, friend?” He said friend sarcastically, eyes shiny with tears that he quickly blinked away.
I opened my mouth to say something, but he held up his hand.