Henry Hoey Hobson (5 page)

There was a truck parked out front when I marched down the front steps for the second time that morning.

Caleb and Manny – the misshapen bloke from last night – were unloading bags and boxes and carrying them into the house. Manny had an odd set to his shoulders, as though not all his moving parts were working properly. As if something, somewhere had jammed, making his movements more awkward than most.

A tall man – someone I hadn't seen before – emerged from the back of the truck. Dark-haired, whip-thin and silent, his face closed, as if bracing against a stiff wind. While the other two grunted and sweated over the heavy lifting, he worked easily and methodically, the only sign of strain showing in the corded muscles that stood out on his arms.

He worked in and out of the back of the truck, shifting furniture by himself and handing it on to Manny and Caleb, who would then ferry it with difficulty into the house. I watched silently while they took in bedheads and mattresses, a chest of drawers and a dining table, before working up enough courage to put my plan into action.

‘Um, do you need a hand with anything?' My voice chose that moment to change pitch, ending up somewhere near a squawk. The heat flooded my face as Caleb turned towards me, lowering the chair he had been carrying.

The sheen of sweat on his pale face made him look clammy and unhealthy. He was breathing heavily. He didn't answer immediately, but looked up at the man standing motionless on the tailgate of the truck.

‘What do you think, Anders? We could get it done a lot quicker, if the four of us worked in pairs.'

The tall, wiry guy stood unnaturally still and didn't appear to be breathing. He had his eyes on Caleb, but for some reason I felt sure it was my presence that had caused him to stiffen. Finally he nodded – once, curtly – then disappeared into the body of the truck.

Caleb's face was turned away from me, so I could see a sliver of dark eye fixed on the truck through the side of his reflective glasses. The tall bloke, Anders, had retreated deep inside. He stood with one hand braced against the wall, head hanging, his back towards us. After a moment he straightened, took a deep breath and slowly resumed work, unstacking more boxes and manoeuvring them out towards us.

A heavy hand on my shoulder made me flinch.

‘Jumpy little fella, aren't you?' I spun around. The gravelly voice jangled with amusement. ‘I'm Manfred–' he stuck out a thick paw, ‘–but my friends call me Manny.'

I shook his hand, trying not to stare.

Up close, he looked like he'd been broken into large chunks and reassembled. His face bore the gouges of deep ugly scars that roped down his thick neck and disappeared into his T-shirt.

‘Want to work with me, matey?'

I swallowed, and looked from him, to Caleb, then back to the tall bloke in the truck. I didn't want to work with any of them. This plan of mine was starting to look like a very bad idea.

Caleb's voice cut in. ‘Let him work with Anders. You and I are managing fine as we are.'

Manny raised a scarred and tufted eyebrow. ‘You're the boss.' He shrugged. ‘C'mon, kid. I'll give you a boost up.'

Before I had a chance to argue, he grabbed me under the arms and hoisted me into the belly of the truck.

My throat closed over. Every warning Mum had ever given me screamed inside my head, but nothing came out. Not even a squeak.

Never get in a car with a stranger. If anyone ever tries to grab you, scream your head off, kick him in the goolies and run like the clappers.

She didn't mince words, my mum, when it came to my personal safety. Now here I was, bundled into the back of a truck by the very freaks I had tried to warn her about. She was going to kill me, if I lived long enough to tell her the story.

I was lucky: the bloke in the truck, Anders, hadn't noticed me yet. He was clattering a bundle of long-handled implements – a mop, rake, broom and a hoe – across the metal floor of the truck. I edged away from him under cover of the noise, risking a quick glance back outside. Manny and Caleb were halfway up the driveway, with pairs of dining-room chairs clamped under their arms.

I hesitated in the open back of the truck. For would-be abductors, they were showing a remarkable lack of interest in me. I glanced back at the man inside the van, but he was still fiddling with loose stuff up front.

No-one was taking the slightest bit of notice of me; they were all intent on what they were doing. That's not how I would have expected serial killers to act.

From where I stood, I could easily jump back out of the truck, and there was no-one on the ground to stop me. I figured that had to make me fairly safe, at least for the moment.

When I turned back round, Anders was standing little more than a body length away from me.

I knew it was a body length, because stretched out between us, resting on top of a long narrow table, was a gleaming polished wood coffin.

He dropped his eyes to the armful of blankets he held, as though unsure what to do next. The blankets must have been wrapped around the coffin, to protect it in transit, because I hadn't noticed it until this very moment. Believe me, a coffin wasn't the kind of thing that normally escaped my attention.

It had a strange kind of beauty: an elongated six-sided casket, with six ornate silver handles and six decorative silver clips clamping down the burnished oak lid.

Goose flesh broke out all over my body.

Six sides. Six handles. Six silver clasps.

Six ... Six ... Six ... the devil's number.

I plunged my hand into the pocket of my school shorts. It was still there, the reassuringly solid lump of my old mobile phone. It might be the cheapest on the market, but it came with a built-in camera. If I could get off just one quick photo, Mum would have to believe me. But first, I had to get this bloke out of the way.

‘Uh, would you like me to watch your stuff? You know, while you take those blankets inside?' My voice echoed uncertainly in the confines of the truck.

I'd packed and unpacked enough times to know that this was one of the better jobs associated with moving. Blanket and pillow carrying. You'd have to be crazy not to put your hand up for that job.

Which apparently he was ... because he said nothing, just dumped the armful of blankets on me and backed away, his blue eyes locked onto me in a weird, intense way.

I looked away, not sure if he was mute, rude, or maybe a bit crazy.

‘That's OK, Henry. Just pass them down here. I'll take them in.' It was Caleb, back for another load, looking like he needed a bit of a breather.

I passed the blankets down to him just as Manny arrived beside him. He stared past me, into the body of the truck, a look of concern leaping onto his face.

‘Anders! Don't try to move that on your own – you'll chip the finish! Kid, quick, give him a hand–'

I turned just in time to grab the shiny end of the coffin as it swung my way. My hands left sweaty skid marks on the wood's polished surface. It wasn't heavy, thank God – that meant it was still empty – but it was long enough to be a bit awkward for one person to carry on his own.

Anders hesitated as I adjusted my grip, and then shuffled back down the length of the coffin. I edged towards the open back of the truck, planning my next move.

Manny held up his hands for me to pass the coffin down to him, and I knew that this was my chance. As soon as he had it, I could mutter something about having to phone my mother, pull out my camera phone and snap off a quick shot. Bingo, I'd have my evidence.

But just as I handed my end to Manny, a flash went off in my eyes. I blinked in confusion; it was as though the real world and the one inside my head had somehow collided. It took me a moment to realise what had happened.

Somebody else had just photographed the coffin.

When my vision cleared, a Perpetual Sucker uniform and hat swam into focus, then a second flash went off. I yielded the coffin to Manny's sure-fisted control, blinking out stars, trying to focus on the source of the flash.

The photographer backed away with a girly squeal as the coffin swung towards her. The phone dropped away from her face, revealing eyes wide with excitement and triumph.

My heart shrank in my chest.

It was Angelica. The queen of the catty Year Seven girls had just captured me on film, sliding a full-sized coffin into the waiting arms of someone who looked like a cross between Frankenstein's monster and the Hunchback of Notre Dame, while Count Dracula looked on.

My life, pathetically un-newsworthy as it had been until this point, was now officially over.

I clambered down from the truck and watched Angelica run off, mobile phone held high like a trophy, schoolbag thumping against her back.

She was a bit early; according to my watch, school didn't start for another half hour. Pretty soon, though, the whole street would be bristling with Perpetual Suckers heading on down to the school.

‘Friend of yours?' Caleb appeared at my shoulder, gripping the other end of the coffin close to his chest.

I shook my head, too sick to speak. Manny nudged me with the casket, rocking me back on my heels. ‘You want a photo too? Souvenir of your morning's work?'

‘I didn't do much.' My voice came out sounding flat and pathetic.

Manny snorted – ‘Suit yourself ' – and started to move off, pulling Caleb along with him.

I mentally shook myself. I had to get a grip. I'd come this far, it would be stupid not to salvage what I could from the morning's disaster. I fished my mobile out of my pocket and snapped off a couple of quick shots as they carted the coffin off down the driveway.

Now I had my evidence ... and a whole lot more trouble than I had bargained for.

The back of the truck creaked and a shadow flitted across me; I flinched as the tall, dark-haired man landed with a light thud beside me.

‘You should go to school.' His voice was hoarse, creaking like old leather that had been left too long in the rain. His gaze swept across the footpath, to the house and back again, brushing past me without stopping.

He started towards me, then stopped, his eyes locking onto mine. Something like pain rippled across his face. The wiry muscles in his forearms tensed, as though readying to fend off a blow. Like he was cornered, out here in the open ... threatened, in a street that was empty, apart from the two of us.

I took a step back. ‘I will – I am ... Tell Caleb – uh, bye.' I turned and tried not to break into a run as I stumbled back up the drive and into my house.

Once inside, I slammed the front door and sank down beside it, my back to the wall. The bloke had spooked me, but to tell the truth, I was more frightened about what was in store for me at Perpetual Suckers.

Angel Girl had enough evidence to drive a stake through the heart of any chance I might have had of making any friends at this school.

I glanced at my watch. Maybe, for once in my life, I'd catch a break, and develop swine flu in the next thirty minutes. I'd give it fifteen, and if no symptoms developed, I'd phone Mum and suggest she sign up for early starts and late finishes for the rest of the year. Then I could forge a note from her:
Dear Mr Paulson, I am withdrawing Henry from your school and enrolling him in one where he might have some slight chance of making a friend...

That could work. Then I could lock, deadlock and bolt the front door and hole up at home until it was time to start high school.

Thirty minutes later, the ringing of the morning bell forced me to choose: truancy police or public ridicule? I groaned and pushed myself to my feet.

What was the worst thing that could happen? More squealing girls accusing me of being something I wasn't? How bad could that be? The blood welled up my neck and pooled in my face as I slammed the front door on the likely answer to that question.

Outside, rush hour had been and gone in the street. There was no sign of anyone at the truck, so I was spared any further confrontations with the weird mob from next door. Peterson Street had emptied of kids and only a few chatting mums were still hanging around the front gate as I slipped past.

The stream of green-striped uniforms being siphoned off into classrooms had slowed to a trickle by the time I dragged myself up to the Six/Seven room.

Joey Castellaro and Jironomo Marquez were the last to go in, jostling at the port racks and laughing. Joey caught sight of me and elbowed Hero in the ribs. They produced a perfectly choreographed stare – at me and then at each other – before bolting into the classroom.

I hung up my bag and hat, took a breath and pushed open the door.

The classroom was equal parts chaos and noise, with kids shoving, yelling and laughing. Ms Sanders was out the front, ineffectually waving her hands about, trying to get everyone to calm down.

‘Class ... Year Six/Seven – Will you please all just sit down and be quiet–'

I stepped inside and silence spread like a Mexican wave across the room. Every eye in the classroom was on me. Every eye except for Ms Sanders'.

‘Thank you.' She adjusted her glasses. ‘That's much better. Now if you could all open up your
Spelling Matters–'

I slipped into a seat at the back of the classroom, trying to ignore a couple dozen pairs of eyes drilling into me.

‘–and please turn to page twenty-two.'

Reluctantly, heads swivelled back round to the front of the room, and hands began flipping through pages.

I was so grateful for this small mercy that I decided to repay Ms Sanders tenfold for unintentionally diverting attention away from me. I vowed that I would throw myself wholeheartedly into her chosen classroom activity, exceed all her expectations and excel at this, if at nothing else in life.

Within minutes I had memorised the impossible vowel combinations in
manoeuvre
and
facetious,
the correct number of ‘
l'
s in
signalling
and
enrolling
and their correct placement in
parallel.

‘Class–' I looked up expectantly at the sound of Ms Sanders' voice. ‘When you are confident that you know your list of words–'

I was ready, yessiree, was I ever.

‘–pair up with a partner, and commence testing one another.'

It was as though she'd dropped a stink bomb in the middle of my desk.

Chairs scraped on vinyl tiles as everyone inched as far away from me as they could get. Within seconds, the classroom had subtly rearranged itself into pairs of heads busily quizzing each other on spelling as though their lives depended on it.

‘All right then, everyone has a partner–?'

Ms Sanders' eyes roved the room, came to rest briefly on me, then fluttered about for a quick double-check before zeroing back in.

‘Henry–' She knew my name. That was not good. ‘Bring your book up. You can work with me.'

Usually, you had to be disabled, diseased or otherwise dysfunctional to show up as a blip on a supply teacher's radar.

I stood up and managed to knock my
Spelling Matters
onto the floor. Blood lit a fuse in my jugular and exploded across my face. I ducked down, scrambling for the fallen textbook, wondering if the day could get any worse. The answer wasn't long in coming.

‘Excuse me, Ms Sanders–?'

The disciplined curls of the school secretary's silver perm inserted themselves through the gap in the door. ‘Could you send Henry to the office at morning break, please? Principal Paulson would like to see him.'

I somehow made it all the way to Ms Sanders' desk.

A long, lonely walk for a prisoner facing a life sentence in solitary; my only immediate prospect for social contact, an interview with the warden.