up to Florrie, there was no one to fear.
Walking into school on Monday, he found himself whistling. Sitting at his desk, he found himself sucking a peppermint. Watching Florrie peck to the front like a constipated hen, he found himself sniggering. All of which were normally unimaginable offences.
But today, it turned out, wasnât normal.
The teacher reached her desk and turned round. âDid anyone see Alec over the weekend?â Heads shook, brows wrinkled.
âWhy?â asked Kevin.
âBecause,â she said slowly, placing her palms on the desk, âhis parents just phoned. They havenât seen him since Saturday.â
C HAPTER 10
HEARTENING HONEYCAKE
It was a higgledy-piggledy, itchy-twitchy, restless mess of a day. The sort of day that, if it was human, would be sent out of class for flicking paperclips round the classroom.
While the children whispered and fidgeted, Mrs Florris shouted more than ever. She shouted at Clodna Cloot for writing too slowly and at Gary Budget for writing too quickly. She shouted at Skinny Ginny for sneezing, at Kevin for sniffing and at a stapler for running out. She shouted at the moss that had died on the nature table at the back of the classroom. And she shouted at Tracy for gazing out the window. âYou do not come to school to gaze, young lady. Gazing is not an exam subject. Gazing does not improve your grades.â
âWhat?â Tracy gazed at her.
âPay attention !â Mrs Florrisâs fingers closed round a rubber. Her fist rose.
Like a many-limbed creature with a single lung, the class held its breath. She wasnât actually going to â¦?
There was a knock at the door. The teacherâs hand dropped. Garda Poggarty came in.
You may not have heard of Tullybunâs annual Favourite Grandpa competition. And if you say you have, then youâre lying, because there wasnât one. What was the point? Filo Poggarty would have won every year. A round, smiley man, he looked more like an overgrown robin than a garda. His grey hair stuck out in feathery tufts. His jacket was always open, flanking his stomach like too-small wings. His cheeks were two little sunsets.
He was the best and worst policeman you could imagine. Best at helping old ladies across the road and cats down from trees. Worst at catching vandals and robbers who had plenty of time to run away, and even stop to buy a Twix, as he shuffled after them. No one could be scared of Garda Poggarty.
Except Brian OâBunion.
It wasnât the hair or the smile, the stomach or the cheeks. It was the job. Brian had been terrified of the gardaà ever since the Great Unspeakable. Of course Dad hadnât reported the truth about Mumâs death. But Brian knew the police would discover it one day. They had to. It was only fair. And then heâd get what he deserved.
But he wasnât going to help them find out. And until that day, heâd vowed to lie low. He slumped in his chair as Garda Poggarty shuffled to the front of the class.
âSorry to bother you, Mrs F.â He wasnât smiling today. âJust a quick word.â His eyebrows were little nests of worry.
âOf course, Sergeant Poggarty.â Florrie had put four tablespoons of sugar in her voice.
He looked gravely round the room. âAs you probably know, one of your classmates has been, er, temporarily mislaid. Iâm here to ask if anyone might know anything at all about his, ah, movements since Saturday.â
Heads shook. Bottoms squifted (shifted squirmily) and shirmed (squirmed shiftily) in seats. Clodna fiddled with her pencil case as if, perhaps, Alec was hiding inside. When no one spoke, Garda Poggarty took a notebook from his jacket pocket and wrote for what seemed like a month.
Oh dear. Brian swallowed down the guilt he always felt when something went missing in class. Was it me? Have I forgotten that I kidnapped Alec by mistake on Sunday? As far as he could remember
Walking into school on Monday, he found himself whistling. Sitting at his desk, he found himself sucking a peppermint. Watching Florrie peck to the front like a constipated hen, he found himself sniggering. All of which were normally unimaginable offences.
But today, it turned out, wasnât normal.
The teacher reached her desk and turned round. âDid anyone see Alec over the weekend?â Heads shook, brows wrinkled.
âWhy?â asked Kevin.
âBecause,â she said slowly, placing her palms on the desk, âhis parents just phoned. They havenât seen him since Saturday.â
C HAPTER 10
HEARTENING HONEYCAKE
It was a higgledy-piggledy, itchy-twitchy, restless mess of a day. The sort of day that, if it was human, would be sent out of class for flicking paperclips round the classroom.
While the children whispered and fidgeted, Mrs Florris shouted more than ever. She shouted at Clodna Cloot for writing too slowly and at Gary Budget for writing too quickly. She shouted at Skinny Ginny for sneezing, at Kevin for sniffing and at a stapler for running out. She shouted at the moss that had died on the nature table at the back of the classroom. And she shouted at Tracy for gazing out the window. âYou do not come to school to gaze, young lady. Gazing is not an exam subject. Gazing does not improve your grades.â
âWhat?â Tracy gazed at her.
âPay attention !â Mrs Florrisâs fingers closed round a rubber. Her fist rose.
Like a many-limbed creature with a single lung, the class held its breath. She wasnât actually going to â¦?
There was a knock at the door. The teacherâs hand dropped. Garda Poggarty came in.
You may not have heard of Tullybunâs annual Favourite Grandpa competition. And if you say you have, then youâre lying, because there wasnât one. What was the point? Filo Poggarty would have won every year. A round, smiley man, he looked more like an overgrown robin than a garda. His grey hair stuck out in feathery tufts. His jacket was always open, flanking his stomach like too-small wings. His cheeks were two little sunsets.
He was the best and worst policeman you could imagine. Best at helping old ladies across the road and cats down from trees. Worst at catching vandals and robbers who had plenty of time to run away, and even stop to buy a Twix, as he shuffled after them. No one could be scared of Garda Poggarty.
Except Brian OâBunion.
It wasnât the hair or the smile, the stomach or the cheeks. It was the job. Brian had been terrified of the gardaà ever since the Great Unspeakable. Of course Dad hadnât reported the truth about Mumâs death. But Brian knew the police would discover it one day. They had to. It was only fair. And then heâd get what he deserved.
But he wasnât going to help them find out. And until that day, heâd vowed to lie low. He slumped in his chair as Garda Poggarty shuffled to the front of the class.
âSorry to bother you, Mrs F.â He wasnât smiling today. âJust a quick word.â His eyebrows were little nests of worry.
âOf course, Sergeant Poggarty.â Florrie had put four tablespoons of sugar in her voice.
He looked gravely round the room. âAs you probably know, one of your classmates has been, er, temporarily mislaid. Iâm here to ask if anyone might know anything at all about his, ah, movements since Saturday.â
Heads shook. Bottoms squifted (shifted squirmily) and shirmed (squirmed shiftily) in seats. Clodna fiddled with her pencil case as if, perhaps, Alec was hiding inside. When no one spoke, Garda Poggarty took a notebook from his jacket pocket and wrote for what seemed like a month.
Oh dear. Brian swallowed down the guilt he always felt when something went missing in class. Was it me? Have I forgotten that I kidnapped Alec by mistake on Sunday? As far as he could remember
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