“You’re kidding.”
“It looks like him,” said Bod. “Can I look properly?”
The large policeman’s shoulders slumped. “Oy! Simon, the kid says it’s his dad.”
“You’ve got to be bloody kidding me.”
“I think he’s serious.” The large policeman opened the door, and Bod got out.
Silas was sprawled on his back, on the ground, where the car had knocked him. He was deathly still.
Bod’s eyes prickled.
He said, “Dad?” Then he said, “You killed him.” He wasn’t lying, he told himself—not really.
“I’ve called an ambulance,” said Simon, the ginger-mustached policeman.
“It was an accident,” said the other.
Bod crouched by Silas, and he squeezed Silas’s cold hand in his. If they had already called an ambulance there was not much time. He said, “So that’s your careers over, then.”
“It was an accident—you saw!”
“He just stepped out—”
“What I saw,” said Bod, “is that you agreed to do a favor for your niece, and frighten a kid she’s been fighting with at school. So you arrested me without a warrant for being out late, and then when my dad runs out into the road to try and stop you or to find out what was going on, you intentionally ran him over.”
“It was an accident!” repeated Simon.
“You’ve been fighting with Mo at school?” said Mo’s uncle Tam, but he didn’t sound convincing.
“We’re both in Eight B at the Old Town School,” said Bod. “And you killed my dad.”
Far off, he could hear the sound of sirens.
“Simon,” said the large man, “we have to talk about this.”
They walked over to the other side of the car, leaving Bod alone in the shadows with the fallen Silas. Bod could hear the two policemen talking heatedly—“Your bloody niece!” was used, and so was “If you’d kept your eyes on the road!” Simon jabbed his finger into Tam’s chest…
Bod whispered, “They aren’t looking. Now.” And he Faded.
There was a swirl of deeper darkness, and the body on the ground was now standing beside him.
Silas said, “I’ll take you home. Put your arms around my neck.”
Bod did, holding tightly to his guardian, and they plunged through the night, heading for the graveyard.
“I’m sorry,” said Bod.
“I’m sorry too,” said Silas.
“Did it hurt?” asked Bod. “Letting the car hit you like that?”
“Yes,” said Silas. “You should thank your little witch-friend. She came and found me, told me you were in trouble, and what kind of trouble you were in.”
They landed in the graveyard. Bod looked at his home as if it was the first time he had ever seen it. He said, “What happened tonight was stupid, wasn’t it? I mean, I put things at risk.”
“More things than you know, young Nobody Owens. Yes.”
“You were right,” said Bod. “I won’t go back. Not to that school, and not like that.”
Maureen Quilling had had the worst week of her life: Nick Farthing was no longer speaking to her; her uncle Tam had shouted at her about the Owens kid thing, then told her not to mention anything about that evening ever to anyone, as he could lose his job, and he wouldn’t want to be in her shoes if that happened; her parents were furious with her; she felt betrayed by the world; even the year sevens weren’t scared of her any longer. It was rotten. She wanted to see that Owens kid, who she blamed for everything that had happened to her so far, writhing in miserable agony. If he thought being arrested was bad…and then she would concoct elaborate revenge schemes in her head, complex and vicious. They were the only thing that made her feel better, and even they didn’t really help.
If there was one job that gave Mo the creeps, it was cleaning up the science labs—putting away the Bunsen burners, making sure that all test tubes, petri dishes, unused filter papers and the like were returned to their places. She only had to do it, on a strict rotation system, once every two months, but it stood to reason that here, in the worst week of her life, she would be in the science lab.
At least Mrs. Hawkins, who taught general sciences, was there, collecting papers, gathering things up at the end of the day. Having her there, having anybody there, was comforting.
“You’re doing a good job, Maureen,” said Mrs. Hawkins.
A white snake in a jar of preservative stared blindly down at them. Mo said, “Thanks.”
“Aren’t there meant to be two of you?” asked Mrs. Hawkins.
“I was supposed to be doing it with the Owens kid,” said Mo. “But he hasn’t been to school in days now.”
The teacher frowned. “Which one was he?” she asked, absently. “I don’t have him down on my list.”
“Bob Owens. Brownish hair, a bit too long. Didn’t talk much. He was the one who named all the bones of the skeleton in the quiz. Remember?”
“Not really,” admitted Mrs. Hawkins.