Read Online Gift of the Gab by Morris Gleitzman - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Morris Gleitzman
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mongrel driverâs gunna pay for that.
Itâs not fair.
All I needed was a few days.
Once I was on the hit-and-run driverâs tail I could have tracked him down really quickly. Specially if heâd panicked and left clues lying around.
I could have had a written confession by Thursday, probably.
Instead all I got was twenty minutes.
Twenty minutes in Mumâs town before the police swooped.
Twenty minutes and here I am in the back of a police car.
They probably spotted me and Dad when we came out of the station. We must have looked pretty suspicious, the way we were staring at everything.
Dad was staring at street signs, trying to remember the way to the hotel. He was also glancing anxiously at every passer-by.
At first I couldnât work out why he was doing that. Then I twigged. He must have been worried the locals would recognise him as Mumâs husband. And think heâd come back to stir up trouble about her death.
If things turned ugly he couldnât run very fast because a wheel had fallen off his suitcase. That must be why he was trying to hide his face with his jacket collar, which is about as suspicious as a person can look in public, specially when theyâre wearing cowboy boots in a district that doesnât have any cows.
I canât blame it all on Dad, but. I was probably looking pretty suspicious myself with all the staring I was doing.
I was staring at how narrow the streets are. No wonder people get knocked down here. And you canât even widen these streets because all the houses and shops are made of brick. At home if you want to widen a street you just bung the wood and fibro buildings on the back of a truck and shift them back a bit.
I was staring at the streets for another reason too.
I was wondering which one Mum was killed on.
I kept getting a pang in my chest and it wasnât just the rucksack strap cutting into me.
For a bit I wasnât sure if I really wanted to know.
Then I remembered it was a clue and I had to know.
I was about to ask Dad when he suddenly pointed to a damp-looking grey building.
âOur hotel,â he said.
I donât understand why the police didnât just pick us up on the street. Why did they wait till we were in the hotel? Perhaps they needed to go to the toilet before they arrested us.
I certainly did.
I left Dad at the check-in desk thumbing through the phrase book and went for a pee.
When I sat down I realised how tired I am. I havenât slept for about twenty-six hours. I almost nodded off on the dunny.
I stopped myself, but, and when I got back to the check-in desk Dad wasnât there.
I looked around.
I saw the police car parked outside.
I saw an anxious face peering at me through the car window.
It was Dad.
For a sec I thought Iâd nodded off and was having a nightmare.
I hadnât.
This isnât a dream.
Weâre in a police car and the policeman behind the wheel is driving much too fast down these narrow streets.
He must be taking us to police headquarters.
Well, I wonât be blabbing.
They can shine a lamp in my eyes and question me for hours, but it wonât do them any good.
All Iâll tell them is my name, my address and what class Iâm in at school.
Talk about weird.
I mean, I know France is a foreign country, but I wasnât prepared for anything like this.
The police car suddenly stopped outside a brick house with blue shutters on the windows and a hedge that had been carved into shapes of birds and windmills and things.
Jeez, I thought, pretty strange police headÂquarters.
It got stranger.
The policeman beeped the horn and two people came running out of the house. One was another policeman. He had a moustache and a tummy that wobbled as he ran and a feather duster. The other was a tall woman in normal clothes. I figured she must be a detective. She was wearing an apron, but Iâve heard how much French people like to cook.
As they got closer
Itâs not fair.
All I needed was a few days.
Once I was on the hit-and-run driverâs tail I could have tracked him down really quickly. Specially if heâd panicked and left clues lying around.
I could have had a written confession by Thursday, probably.
Instead all I got was twenty minutes.
Twenty minutes in Mumâs town before the police swooped.
Twenty minutes and here I am in the back of a police car.
They probably spotted me and Dad when we came out of the station. We must have looked pretty suspicious, the way we were staring at everything.
Dad was staring at street signs, trying to remember the way to the hotel. He was also glancing anxiously at every passer-by.
At first I couldnât work out why he was doing that. Then I twigged. He must have been worried the locals would recognise him as Mumâs husband. And think heâd come back to stir up trouble about her death.
If things turned ugly he couldnât run very fast because a wheel had fallen off his suitcase. That must be why he was trying to hide his face with his jacket collar, which is about as suspicious as a person can look in public, specially when theyâre wearing cowboy boots in a district that doesnât have any cows.
I canât blame it all on Dad, but. I was probably looking pretty suspicious myself with all the staring I was doing.
I was staring at how narrow the streets are. No wonder people get knocked down here. And you canât even widen these streets because all the houses and shops are made of brick. At home if you want to widen a street you just bung the wood and fibro buildings on the back of a truck and shift them back a bit.
I was staring at the streets for another reason too.
I was wondering which one Mum was killed on.
I kept getting a pang in my chest and it wasnât just the rucksack strap cutting into me.
For a bit I wasnât sure if I really wanted to know.
Then I remembered it was a clue and I had to know.
I was about to ask Dad when he suddenly pointed to a damp-looking grey building.
âOur hotel,â he said.
I donât understand why the police didnât just pick us up on the street. Why did they wait till we were in the hotel? Perhaps they needed to go to the toilet before they arrested us.
I certainly did.
I left Dad at the check-in desk thumbing through the phrase book and went for a pee.
When I sat down I realised how tired I am. I havenât slept for about twenty-six hours. I almost nodded off on the dunny.
I stopped myself, but, and when I got back to the check-in desk Dad wasnât there.
I looked around.
I saw the police car parked outside.
I saw an anxious face peering at me through the car window.
It was Dad.
For a sec I thought Iâd nodded off and was having a nightmare.
I hadnât.
This isnât a dream.
Weâre in a police car and the policeman behind the wheel is driving much too fast down these narrow streets.
He must be taking us to police headquarters.
Well, I wonât be blabbing.
They can shine a lamp in my eyes and question me for hours, but it wonât do them any good.
All Iâll tell them is my name, my address and what class Iâm in at school.
Talk about weird.
I mean, I know France is a foreign country, but I wasnât prepared for anything like this.
The police car suddenly stopped outside a brick house with blue shutters on the windows and a hedge that had been carved into shapes of birds and windmills and things.
Jeez, I thought, pretty strange police headÂquarters.
It got stranger.
The policeman beeped the horn and two people came running out of the house. One was another policeman. He had a moustache and a tummy that wobbled as he ran and a feather duster. The other was a tall woman in normal clothes. I figured she must be a detective. She was wearing an apron, but Iâve heard how much French people like to cook.
As they got closer
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