6
Seriously – a dark-haired boy wearing white-feathered angel wings is standing on the kerb, facing away from us, holding a tray and a large white umbrella.
Then he turns round and I do a double take, because this is not an angel at all, it’s Dan Carney. At least, I think it is.
It’s hard to tell, because he isn’t burning exercise books or setting off fire alarms, and he isn’t scowling. He is carrying a big tray of home-made cupcakes, all pastel icing and sugar-strand sprinkles, tilting the umbrella carefully to keep them dry. His soft brown eyes are shining behind a fall of braided hair, his mouth stretched wide into a grin. Then he sees us, and his face falls.
‘Do you see what I see?’ Frankie says, holding my arm a little tighter.
‘I see,’ I tell her.
‘Angel boy,’ Frankie says, and it takes me a moment to realize what she means, because the Polish word for ‘English’ is angielski, which sounds an awful lot like the English word for ‘angel’. Dan Carney may be English, but I’m not sure if he’s an angel, even with the wings.
He looks around, as if checking for escape routes, but short of sprinting across the busy road or loitering under the awning of a shop that sells ladies’ underwear, he has nowhere to go. He stands his ground, trying to hide behind the umbrella.
‘He’s selling cakes,’ Frankie whispers. ‘Must be a part-time job. C’mon, let’s take a look!’
She drags me over, lifts up the white umbrella and pulls me under its shelter. We are face to face with Dan Carney, the mad arsonist of Year Eight. Up close, I’d swear I can see a faint pink blush beneath the caramel skin of his cheeks. I can smell vanilla, warm and sweet, but that’s probably the cakes, of course.
‘All right, Frankie?’ Dan Carney says. ‘Anya?’
He knows my name. I thought I was invisible, but Dan Carney can see me. His melted chocolate eyes hold mine over the tray of cakes, turning my insides to mush. Then the umbrella tilts, and a dribble of cold rain slides down the back of my neck, bringing me down to earth.
‘It’s funny, Dan,’ Frankie is saying, tugging at one of his white-feathered wings. ‘I never had you down as an angel.’
‘I have hidden depths,’ he says with a sigh. ‘Just don’t tell anyone, OK? How come you’re so late out of school, anyhow? I thought I was safe. Thought everyone had gone…’
‘Detention,’ Frankie says. ‘Some divvy set fire to his desk this morning, and the whole day went downhill from there… remind me to tell you about it, sometime.’
‘Don’t bother,’ he says. ‘It’s old news. Want a cupcake?’
It turns out that Dan Carney isn’t actually selling anything – he is giving away cupcakes for free. He explains that this is the opening day of a brandnew cafe, Heaven, and that as a special promotion he is giving away a free voucher for cakes and drinks to a few very special customers.
‘Us?’ Frankie snorts. ‘What’s special about us? What’s the catch?’
‘No catch,’ Dan shrugs. ‘The boss is just trying to attract the right kind of customers. People who could become regulars, tell their friends, that kind of thing.’
‘Are you saying I look like the kind of person who eats a lot of cake?’ Frankie bristles. ‘What does that mean?’
Dan rolls his eyes. ‘I’m not saying that,’ he says. ‘I’m just saying… look, this is the opening day of my mum’s new cafe. It’s chucking down with rain, and we need customers. And it’s free, OK? Please? For me?’
‘Whatever,’ Frankie says, taking a cake and handing one to me. ‘Why didn’t you just say?’
‘I thought I did,’ he sighs. ‘So… what d’you think? Good, huh?’
I take a bite and nod, smiling, as the sweet pink frosting melts on my tongue and sinks into my soul.
‘Awesome!’ Frankie whispers, between mouthfuls. ‘Vouchers for free cake, you said? Count us in!’
Dan laughs and hands us a couple of pastel printed flyers apiece. Heaven, the flyer reads. Where life is sweet. There’s an address and a snip-off voucher for the promised freebies.
‘It’s just across the road, in Lark Lane,’ he tells us. ‘Anya, you’re soaking… haven’t you even got a hat? Look, take the umbrella, OK? I can hang around under the awning.’
Definitely a miracle.
I smile shyly at Dan from behind my dripping hair, and Frankie laughs, grabbing the umbrella. ‘You really are an angel, aren’t you, Dan?’
‘You’d better believe it,’ he says.
Heaven is warm and dry, with pale squashy sofas and mismatched tables and chairs. The place is packed. A gaggle of mums with noisy toddlers tuck messily into cake, and a couple of old grannies in plastic rain hats are chatting in the corner.
And then there are the cakes… a whole long counter of them, behind sparkling glass. There’s a chocolate layer cake, a vast Victoria sponge, an apple and caramel pie, a mountain of glazed fruit tarts and something amazing made of strawberries, cream and fluffy meringue.
Frankie pinches herself, then me, hard.
‘Ow!’ I protest.
‘It’s real, isn’t it?’ she whispers. ‘This place. I’m not imagining it, right? First, the school firestarter chats us up in the street and lends us his umbrella. Then he gives us free cake and sends us here!’
‘It is real,’ I tell her.
I take in a deep breath. I can smell baking, sweet and warm, in the background. The aroma wraps itself round me like a hug.
A smiley boy of about nine, in angel wings and a Heaven T-shirt, comes to greet us. His chocolate eyes and caramel skin mark him down as Dan’s little brother, and I can see another, younger, boy, also in angel wings, carrying a tray of cakes to the chatting grannies.
‘Have you got vouchers?’ the boy asks. ‘Did Dan send you?’
We nod, and he leads us through the crowded cafe. ‘It’s a bit crazy,’ he explains. ‘It’s our first day, and the vouchers have been popular… but we have a few seats left, if you don’t mind sharing?’
‘We don’t mind,’ Frankie says.
‘Just in the corner here…’ the boy says.
Sitting at the corner table, slurping noisily on a tall strawberry milkshake, is Kurt Jones. On the table in front of him stands a tall, tiered cake rack laden with slices of sponge and gateau, cream scones, fruit slices, strawberry meringues.
‘Hey,’ Frankie says, sliding into a seat. ‘If it isn’t the mystery rat-napper!’
‘Shhh,’ Kurt says. ‘They’re very nice here, but I’m not sure Cheesy would be welcome. There are probably health and safety regulations.’
‘Cheesy?’ I echo.
‘The rat,’ Kurt explains. ‘That seems to be his favourite food. I had a cheese and pickle roll in my rucksack, and he ate the whole thing in double maths.’
‘Keep him hidden, or you’ll get us all thrown out,’ Frankie hisses. ‘I want my free cake! Dan Carney in angel wings… what a laugh! Devil horns and a tail would be more his style. Seriously, this has been one crazy day!’
‘It’s not over yet,’ Kurt says, and I follow his eyes. The littlest waiter is carrying a tray of milkshakes across to our table. Someone is following him.
‘There’s a seat here,’ the boy says.
Lily Caldwell slips into an empty chair with a face that could turn milk sour.