The Grasshopper's Child (16 page)

The green water was still there, sparkling with silvery bubbles, but it was far down deep now, buried under cold darkness. She couldn't feel Mum and Dad's hands swinging her.

‘Sorry,' said Heidi, suddenly realising they were staring. ‘Wool-gathering.'

‘It's okay, Heidi,' said Brook, gently.

‘I have a doll like that,' said Challon. ‘No hair left: I burned it off trying to give her a laser-cut. One of her feet gone, I don't remember how. I'll never, ever chuck her.'

‘Heidi,' said Sorrel, ‘I know I'm being tactless, but this is awful. This horrible
room
, that manky bathroom. Don't you have relatives? Was there nobody who could take you in?'

‘Not really. Anyway, they'd have to take on the debt as well, that's the rules. Nobody related to me could afford to do that.'

‘But if you
could
be somewhere nicer, and, and where people are more
like
you—'

Heidi laughed, but she was angry. ‘Sorrel, come on. I think I'll survive. There were white kids at my school, they got on fine. And I'm not even the only brown face in this room.'

Sorrel looked bewildered, then her eyes bugged and the tattoos screwed up in a gape of amazement. ‘Oh, wow, you mean
Challon.
But that's not the same
at all.
'

‘She means I'm Malaysian,' said Challon, pulling a monkey-face. ‘I get a special pass.'

‘Malaysians are like, second cousins to the Imperial Chinese,' added Brook, equally sarcastically, ‘and the Chinese are Boss Nation of the world, so that's got to be good.'

‘You're
putting words into my mouth
,' shouted Sorrel. ‘You
always
do that, and it's not what I meant at all. It's not racist, it's
cultural.
I'm not saying anything wicked! I'm not saying anything wrong! It's just a fact that there are certain groups of people, in England, who
belong
in the countryside, and certain groups who—‘

Her phone piped up. She pulled it out, read the text and jumped off Heidi's bed.

‘Scum! That's why my tits are dripping, it's feeding time. Mum's after me, she won't leave me alone, got to go. God, I hate this. God, my life is filthy.'

Heidi saw the tattooed girl out. Thankfully Sorrel didn't say another word, about the Imperial Chinese or anything else. She crept through the house holding her breath —as if she'd been told Old Wreck was a teen-eating witch, and she believed it.

Challon and Brook were still in her room when she got back. She was surprised they hadn't somehow vanished.

‘Sorry about that,' said Brook. ‘We couldn't shake her off. She's not so bad, when you get used to her. She can't help the way she is.'

‘She's just jealous,' said Challon. ‘She doesn't get that not everyone can be born in Brixton, like Heidi. Where the real music comes from, and everyone knows that
People's
Young Artist
is talent-free government rubbish, put on to keep the masses happy.'

Heidi felt her cheeks get hot, and was glad her skin was too dark for the blush to show —much. ‘Oh, er, well. Actually, you may have seen
Brixton
in my personal data. But I feel you should know: I was showing off. Where I used to live is in South Clapham, really.'

Brook snickered. Challon laughed and they all started giggling helplessly: partly in relief at having said the unspoken stuff, partly really laughing too; really feeling closer.

‘Heidi,' said Brook, when they'd calmed down. ‘Seriously. I don't know how to say this, exactly, but: be careful around Sorrel.'

‘She's completely indiscreet,' added Challon. ‘And she bitches about Portia, but don't you believe it. Anything you say to Sorrel, you might as well say it straight to her mum.'

‘And that would be bad?'

‘Well . . .' said Brook, slowly. ‘It could be. What Portia said to you at the veg-sorting, for instance. Maybe she
could
have you sent somewhere else. And maybe you'd be a lot worse off.'

Like Elaine? thought Heidi, puzzled. But she just nodded.

‘Okay, thanks, I'll remember. What about George?'

‘George is different,' said Challon. ‘He's not naïve about his parents.' She looked Heidi dead in the eye. ‘Just so's you know. He used to be my boyfriend, but it's over.'

Heidi didn't know what to say: but then all their phones went off at once. It was Andy Mao, the Munchkin-sized Traveller kid.

‘Mayday! Mayday!' he screamed. ‘We're at the Tower! Joe's
killing
Clancy!'

There was a final squawk, a loud clattering, and the call went dead.

‘What
tower?
' demanded Heidi. ‘Why would
Jo Florence
be killing Clancy?'

‘It's
Joe
, not Jo,' said Challon, which didn't help Heidi much—

‘Tell you on the way,' cried Brook. ‘Come on—!'

Clancy wasn't sleeping well. The more time he spent with Mrs Scott-Amberley the worse he felt, and the more he couldn't bear to stay away. Irene Crace never left the room since Clancy had seen the man in the overcoat. She sat there watching, her cold eyes filled with menace — and if Clancy coaxed Mrs Scott-Amberley to perk up, or even chat a little (always calling him
Roddy
), he had a horrible feeling she'd be punished for it when he was gone. The inexplicable cruelty of it was getting him down.

In the grey of dawn he left the Temple by his usual route and walked up to the top of Lark Down, to check on the local amateurs: who were camped on the cliff-tops beyond the village. He'd been watching these guys for a while. They had to be bunking off from Ag. Camp, what else could they be? But why had they built that ridiculous great eyesore of a woodpile? Why were they living out in the open? Were they
trying
to get caught?

By his own rules he should move on. He'd done that before when he found he had bunkers for company, lunatics or not. But this was the end game, and he couldn't leave. On his way back he heard a cry of pain, which he recognised at once as the hideous sound of a rabbit in distress. He found the poor beast hanging from a noose, under the fence that divided the downland pasture. He killed it, then searched up and down the warren bank and killed two more victims: too far gone to scream, but still living.

Sick and furious, he carried the dead bunnies away with him, leaving a note speared on a sharp stick. He'd skinned them and was cleaning them, in the forecourt of the Temple, when Andy Mao turned up. The tiny Traveller boy held out Clancy's note.

‘I can't read it. I can only read print.'

‘It says,' said Clancy, without taking the note,
If you can't check your snares, you don't
deserve to be a hunter
. I hate snares. Don't ever leave them to die like that. It's disgusting.'

Andy nodded, and went on standing there.

‘What's keeping you? You're not getting these bunnies back.'

‘I've been sent with a message. From the Tower Gang.'

‘Okay. I suppose I know who you mean. What's the message?'

‘They don't like you spying on them. They want a parley.'

‘D'you think I should go?'

‘I don't know. I'm not on their side, Clancy. I'm just saying what they said.'

Clancy had only observed the bunkers from a distance. When he and Andy Mao got close he saw that the campsite wasn't as stupid as it looked. The tower stood in a dip on the cliff-tops, screened by a band of trees. A matted thicket of gorse grew round it in a horseshoe; open end facing the sea. It would be invisible from the village, and couldn't be seen from any road. There was a tunnel through the gorse. They crawled into it, Clancy first. The construction had grown again. It really looked like some kind of mad watchtower now. Nothing was moving, no sign of the bunkers. The honey-scented gorse flowers were trying to make him sneeze: a pair of wrens had spotted him and were scolding furiously.

‘Looks like nobody's home,' he whispered to Andy.

And I've changed my mind, he thought. I've nothing to say to these guys. I'll move out of the Temple and find somewhere more secret: that's all. The attack of common sense came too late. As he retreated, shuffling backwards out of the tunnel, a sudden, iron grip on his ankles was the first he knew of the ambush. He was dragged out. A heavy body landed with spine-cracking thump on his back, massive hands grasped his wrists. He heard Andy Mao squealing protests as he fought to escape, but the kid soon ran off, and Clancy didn't blame him. There was nothing Andy could have done. Clancy was blindfolded, roped and hauled to his feet, a running noose round his throat, his wrists tied tight and painfully behind his back.

The ambushers were breathing hard. He knew there were three of them. He could tell where the giant was: the snorting came from higher up.

‘What'll we do now, Joe?'

‘Get him into the compound, and leave him to soften up.'

Clancy was dragged through the thicket again, dumped face down somewhere dark, and left alone. It wasn't too bad, no worse than some school punishments he'd known. He got as comfortable as possible, given the restraints, listened to the murmur of the sea, and thought of the reasons why he had to stay in Mehilhoc.

When they brought him out, and the blindfold came off, he was standing on the edge of the cliff. It was high tide: there nothing below him but rocks and water. The two smaller bunkers held him by the arms. One of them also had a choke hold on the noose. He was turned around to face a huge, top-knotted, shaven-skulled goon in biker leathers: who still managed to look amazingly like Jo Florence from Exempt Teens. Except about twice the size, more than twice as stupid, and more than twice the muscle.

‘Give me one good reason why I don't shove you off the cliff, Clancy.'

‘Thought you wanted to parley, Joe Florence.'

The brute's scowl told Clancy he'd made a lucky guess. Some parents are
so
lazy at naming their kids. Especially twins.

‘You've been spying on us. You're an undercover grass from the Ag. Camp Office.'

‘No, I'm from County Hall. Have you got Planning Permission for that bird's nest?'

There were crashing sounds: Clancy had misjudged Andy Mao. The Traveller kid had fetched reinforcements. Over the big goon's shoulder he saw Andy, Cyril Staunton and John Fowler popping out of the gorse, one after the other.

‘Don't wind him up, Clance!' shrieked Andy. ‘He's a KILLER!'

‘Step
away
from the violence, Joe!' shouted Cyril. ‘Or I'll tell your mother! I
will!
'

‘Get rid of those fools, Bryan,' said Joe the giant, folding his bulging arms. ‘Sam, you keep a tight hold on Clancy.'

The bigger of the goon's two minions hauled on the noose until Clancy almost threw up.

The smaller one advanced on Cyril, hand inside his jacket as if reaching for a gun. Joe suddenly, viciously, punched Clancy in the stomach.

Cyril rushed forward. ‘Joe Florence! Repent! In the name of Jesus Christ!
Stop
that!'

Bryan's hidden hand shot out. He thrust a grubby, crumpled piece of paper at Cyril, and feinted right and left, cackling. Cyril gave a wordless cry of shame, and backed off.

‘Don't be scared Cyril!' roared John, keeping his distance. ‘You're bigger than he is! He won't
touch
you with it, he wouldn't dare—!'

Clancy had doubled over, black dots spinning in front of his eyes. ‘What is this?' he gasped. ‘Is Joe Florence, the mighty, the magnificent, getting a kid to fight for him? Armed with an old bus ticket? Tell me it isn't true!'

The veins on Joe's naked skull bulged as if his head was about to explode. ‘You calling me a coward?
You smart-arsed townie, you mouthy bastard!
Let him
loose
, Sam!'

Sam dropped the noose and swiftly untied Clancy's hands. Clancy realised his fate and tried to bolt, but he didn't have a chance. Mighty Joe's fists were everywhere. Punches landing on him like rockfall, the Hooded Boy began to be dimly, truly very scared—