Girl Underground Page 2

  Veuve gives Antoinette a scornful look.

  ‘I can buy more clothes and stuff,’ she says. Then her face crumples. ‘All my photos of Muffy are in there. He looks sooo cute in his new saddle.’

  I can see she’s really upset.

  Without thinking I drop to my knees in front of the suitcase. Typical expensive flash luggage with a lock that wouldn’t keep a mosquito out.

  Dad’s cousin Ollie is an airport baggage handler and he showed me how if you jam a pen into the lock and bash the lid a certain way, ninety-eight percent of suitcases will fly open before you can say, ‘Sorry madam, your luggage is on a plane to Gympie.’

  I jam a pen into the lock and bash the lid.

  It flies open.

  Then I realise what I’ve done.

  Veuve and Chantelle and Antoinette are staring at me, mouths open as wide as the suitcase.

  Without saying a word, I’ve almost dobbed Mum and Dad in. I might as well be wearing a t-shirt that says ‘my lot are all crims’.

  I try not to think how many judges Antoinette, Veuve and Chantelle have got in their families. Or dads who play golf with judges. Or mums who sell judges their helicopters.

  I stand up.

  ‘S’cuse me,’ I say. ‘I’ve just remembered I need to be somewhere else.’

  I hurry out of the room, glad I didn’t accept the matching set of Romanian picnic baskets Dad wanted to give me for luggage. If my room mates want to break into my bag to check for stolen goods, they’ll have to get through an ex-army kitbag with a triple-tumbler brass padlock and they won’t be able to.

  I run down the corridor and down the stairs.

  I don’t know where I’m going.

  All I know is I want to be alone. It’s the only safe place for me to be in this school.

  Mum and Dad sent me here because they think a posh expensive school will keep me out of jail. It’s a very kind thought, but pretty dopey because now I’ve got to concentrate day and night to keep them out of jail.

  As I run across the courtyard lawn a loud bell rings.

  For a panicked second I think it’s an alarm bell.

  Crim in the school.

  She’s trying to hide.

  Get her.

  Then I remember it’s just the meal bell. There was a bell demonstration this morning while I was enrolling. Short bell for end of lesson, medium bell for assembly, long bell for meal-times, bell that sounds a bit like Dad’s Latvian Christmas door chimes for church.

  Suddenly the courtyard is full of kids, jostling and yelling as they head for the dining hall.

  I duck into a stairwell, down behind some mop buckets under the stairs. I’m hungry, but I’d rather go without than have to make small talk with three hundred sons and daughters of families with burglar alarms.

  Once everyone’s in the dining hall, I’ll creep back to my room, eat some of the Bulgarian chocolate biscuits Dad packed in my bag, and be in bed asleep by the time my room mates get back from dinner.

  First, though, I want to spend a bit of time with Gavin.

  I pull his latest letter out of my pocket.

  Gavin writes really good letters. The spelling’s not always spot on, but the feelings are. When I read how much he loves us all and misses us and can’t wait to get out of prison, tears come to my eyes. And now I’m in this place I know even more how he feels.

  I read Gavin’s letter three times behind the mop buckets until my leg starts to cramp. Then I stand up, peering out across the courtyard.

  All clear.

  Suddenly, down the corridor behind me, I hear a boy swearing.

  This is incredible. If Mum and Dad knew how much swearing goes on here, I reckon they’d have second thoughts about this place.

  I’m about to sprint across the courtyard to my building when the boy starts swearing even louder. There’s something in his voice that makes me stop and listen. As well as sounding angry, he also sounds sad and frustrated and trapped.

  Just like me.

  I creep along the corridor, towards the voice.

  Go back, I say to myself as I get closer. Go back to your room and go to bed.

  I ignore myself.

  Gavin reckons he ignored himself the day he got caught. Don’t nick the cuckoo clock, he said to himself. It’s too big to fit under your coat. But he ignored himself and the cuckoo went off as he was creeping out through Men’s Underwear.

  The swearing is coming from inside that room.

  I stand outside the door, listening.

  That sounds like a very sad, very upset person in there.

  Don’t knock, I tell myself.

  I knock.

  The door isn’t locked. It isn’t even latched. It swings open.

  I stare.

  A boy is sitting at a desk, an untouched meal on a plate in front of him, reading a letter with the unhappiest face I’ve seen in this school since I caught my own reflection in Dad’s rear vision mirror.

  It’s the boy from the police car.

  He looks up.

  ‘Are you OK?’ I say.

  He stares at me.

  ‘Who are you?’ he says.

  ‘Bridget,’ I say. ‘Bridget White.’ We don’t mind giving our family name now since Dad changed it a few years ago.

  I can’t take my eyes off the boy’s letter. That’s what’s making him sad, I just know it. The letter.

  Just like me.

  ‘What do you want?’ says the boy. He’s got big round glasses and a startled expression. He doesn’t look like a swearer.

  ‘You sounded upset,’ I say. ‘I was worried.’

  He looks at me for a bit. I can see he’s a worrier too.

  ‘You shouldn’t be here,’ he says at last. ‘This is the boys’ building. If you get caught here we’ll both be in for it.’

  I take his point. There was a bit in the school rules about what’ll happen to kids who go into the other lot’s building.

  ‘The adults are all in the dining hall,’ I say, just to show him I don’t scare easily.

  ‘My bodyguard isn’t,’ says the boy.

  I stare at him. Then I look around the room. Only one bed. No bodyguard.

  I look back at the boy. If he’s got a bodyguard, why did he come to school in a police car?

  What a shame. He seemed like a nice person. He didn’t seem like a crackpot or a liar.

  Not till now.

  As I hurry out of the building and across the courtyard, I try not to be too hard on myself.

  It’s what happens, I tell myself. You’re at a new school and feeling lonely. You see a kid with a police escort and a private room and an upsetting letter. You start to think you’ve got things in common with him. You start to think that just possibly here’s a person you could risk making friends with.

  You completely forget that this is an exclusive top-notch school. That the chance of two kids here both having crim dads is about as unlikely as a Mongolian deep-fryer having two chip baskets.

  I’ve never felt lonely sharing a room with three other people before.

  When I went camping with Mum and Dad and Uncle Grub, I didn’t feel lonely once. Not even when the police came and took Dad and Uncle Grub off for questioning because our cabin was full of toasters. Me and Mum wrapped ourselves in blankets and talked all night and made toast.

  I felt a bit worried, but not lonely.

  Not like here.

  OK, my room mates have tried to be friendly. When they got back from dinner just now and saw I was already in bed, they did try to make conversation.

  ‘Hey, Bridget,’ said Antoinette. ‘Where did you learn that trick with the pen?’

  ‘Do your folks make crime movies?’ said Chantelle.

  ‘Or luggage?’ said Veuve.

  It was kind, but it was also just what I’d feared. Too much friendliness. I don’t think I’ve got good genes for being questioned after all.

  I muttered something about being tired and pulled the covers over my head. That wa
s about two hours ago.

  The girls weren’t offended. They just started talking about horses. I thought they’d never shut up and go to sleep. One more whisper about Muffy’s new saddle or Brad’s cute fetlocks or the colour of Gandalf’s poo and I’d have jumped out of bed and committed an assault with menaces on their photo albums.

  Just as well I didn’t or they’d have seen I’m still wearing my school uniform and shoes.

  I think they’re asleep now.

  Antoinette’s breathing heavily and Veuve’s snoring and Chantelle’s making a noise with her mouth like a horse drinking.

  Now’s my chance to get out of here and go home and tell Mum and Dad that I’ve given this school a go for their sakes but that it’s just too dangerous. They’ll understand when I explain to them about the stupid mistake I made with Veuve’s bag and about the relentless questioning I’ll be suffering over the next seven years. They’ll understand why I have to leave and why they mustn’t come to parents’ night tomorrow.

  They’ve got to.

  I slip out of bed.

  Should I try and take my luggage with me? No, learn from Gavin’s mistake. You never get away if you’re too loaded down. He reckons he could have outrun the store detectives if it hadn’t been for the jaffle maker in his coat pocket.

  Quietly I lift my bag onto my bed, pull the covers over it and head for the door.

  I silently thank Gavin for the birthday present he gave me when I was seven. At the time I didn’t think it was much of a present from a big brother, being taught how to walk across a room in pitch darkness without tripping over shoes or books, but now I do.

  Better than a fairy dress any day.

  I slip out of the room, hurry along the passage and down the stairs.

  The tricky bit is at the bottom. The front door is locked, and Ms Hummer the boarding mistress has her room right next to it.

  I have to be quiet.

  Luckily Dad’s cousin Ollie knew I didn’t want a fairy dress for my birthday this year either. He gave me something much more useful. A master key, guaranteed to open ninety-eight percent of deadlocks before you can say, ‘Help I’ve been burgled.’

  I slide the key into the lock, jiggling it gently like Uncle Ollie showed me.

  I turn it and the door clicks open.

  I pause, listening for the sound of Ms Hummer waking up and groping for her slippers and torch and detention book.

  Nothing.

  I step out into the cool night air and carefully lock the door behind me.

  Don’t want burglars getting in.

  Then I set off towards the school gates, keeping on the grass so I don’t crunch on the gravel. I can see the gates up ahead in the moonlight. Beyond that, the open road. I don’t even know which direction the local town is or how far I have to walk to get to the nearest station or bus stop.

  Doesn’t matter. I’ve got all night. Ms Hummer is meant to do bed checks, but I overheard the girls saying she hardly ever does.

  I’ve got plenty of time to get home and then beg Mum and Dad to let me stay there if I promise to choose a career other than crime.

  I climb up the school gates. From the top I peer along the road in both directions, trying to see a signpost.

  Nothing.

  Dad’s always complaining about the lack of signposts on roads. He reckons people in local government keep the signpost money for themselves to buy over-priced Japanese electrical goods.

  I decide to go to the right. When Gavin was sprung with the cuckoo clock he tried to go to the left through Men’s Cosmetics and was arrested.

  Suddenly I’m dazzled by a light.

  A torch, shining in my face.

  A hand grabs my leg and drags me backwards off the gate. I fall onto the gravel driveway and it really hurts.

  Which is good. Pain stops you feeling scared.

  ‘You’re in for it, now,’ I yell into the dazzle. ‘Our lawyer’s an expert on police brutality. And school brutality.’

  I’m not sure about the last bit, but it sounds good.

  Even though I’m shaking and dizzy, I decide to run for it. I’m a good runner and I reckon I can beat a school caretaker or a sleepy boarding mistress.

  I stand up.

  The torch person grabs my arm.

  ‘Don’t try it,’ he says.

  He’s strong. I peer at him through the torch glare. He’s not a caretaker or a boarding mistress. I can tell what he is from his clothes.

  A bodyguard.

  Looks like that boy with the glasses was telling the truth after all.

  ‘Let me go,’ I say.

  The bodyguard grips my arm harder. He’s about Gavin’s age but taller with one of those faces that looks like plasticine.

  ‘This is none of your business,’ I say.

  ‘Really?’ says the bodyguard, amused at something.

  ‘You’re a bodyguard,’ I say. ‘Your job’s stopping people getting in. I’m trying to get out.’

  The bodyguard stops smirking. ‘Who told you I’m a bodyguard?’

  I decide not to dob the kid with glasses in.

  ‘I can tell from that jumper,’ I say. ‘Only bouncers and bodyguards wear roll-neck jumpers under their jackets.’

  The bodyguard looks down at his jumper and frowns.

  ‘My uncle used to work as one,’ I say. ‘Earlier in his career.’

  The bodyguard gives me a strange look. I realise I’ve almost done it again. Blabbed about my family. I change the subject.

  ‘Why does a kid in this school need a bodyguard?’ I ask. ‘Does his dad associate with mean and vicious and desperate individuals?’

  ‘None of your business,’ says the bodyguard. ‘Now go back to bed or I’ll report you to the headmaster.’

  He lets go of my arm and gives me a little push towards the school buildings.

  I decide not to argue. My thoughts are churning faster than a Mongolian dishwasher on pot scrub.

  Bodyguards who work all night get paid double time and a half. Only very rich employers can afford to pay that kind of money.

  That boy’s dad must be a major crime boss.

  Pity, if I was able to stay at this school, we could have been friends.

  I’m taking Gavin’s advice.

  Keep to yourself, Bridge, and don’t nick anything.

  That’s what Gavin wrote when he heard I was going to this school. And that’s what I’ve done so far today.

  At breakfast, as soon as Ms Hummer stopped trying to introduce me to half the dining hall, I kept to myself. Same in assembly. And now, to get away from all the kids who want to know what it’s like to sit on a Melbourne Cup winner, I’ve come to class early.

  I was tempted to say g’day to that boy with the bodyguard, but I didn’t. I thought about it, but I reckon Gavin would say the last thing I need right now is being seen hanging around with another crim.

  It’s peaceful here in the classroom. Nobody around to question me. That’s the good thing about being on your own, no risk of giving away family secrets.

  I don’t know which is my desk, so I sit on the floor up the back.

  It’s another eight hours till I can see Mum and Dad at parents’ night and explain why they have to take me home, so I read Gavin’s letter again to keep my spirits up.

  There was a fight at dinner, he writes. The kitchen ran out of peas. I kept to myself and kept my nose clean.

  I shouldn’t have read that bit. Poor Gavin. I hate to think of him in a place that has random outbreaks of violence and not enough peas.

  Thank goodness he’s only in there for six months. I hope he manages to keep his nose clean. It’s not easy for him because he’s allergic to pollen and his sinuses swell up.

  A loud noise makes me jump.

  The classroom door crashes open.

  I stand up.

  Two kids come in, both males, average height, thick build, no distinguishing features apart from the sneers on their faces.

  ‘Aw, sookie’s
reading a letter from Mummy,’ says one.

  I stuff Gavin’s letter into its envelope. Even as I do, I know I’m being dumb. I should be eating it.

  Too late.

  One of the boys lunges towards me and grabs the letter. I hang on to it desperately.

  ‘Come on, give us a read,’ says the boy. ‘My mummy doesn’t write to me.’

  ‘Nor does mine,’ says the other boy. He grabs onto the letter too.

  I can tell they’re both lying.

  Most of the scrunched paper is in my hands, but they both have finger-holds on the other end.

  I pray the paper doesn’t rip. Even if the boys only get a bit of the letter they’ll probably see words like jail or six months or I wish I never nicked that stuff from those shops and then the whole school will know the truth about my family.

  Other kids have come into the classroom and are standing round watching us struggle.

  ‘Leave her alone, you bullies,’ says Antoinette.

  The boys ignore her.

  I’m in a dilemma.

  Uncle Ray’s a doctor as well as a vet and he’s shown me the place on the human body where if you jab it with your fingers the other person goes totally numb for about five minutes. It’s illegal, but Uncle Ray reckons it’s very effective.

  Trouble is, if I do it now, everyone watching will know I’ve been trained in self-defence by a criminal.

  The boy with the bodyguard has just come in and he’s hovering, alarmed, eyes as big as Bulgarian chocolate macadamias behind his glasses.

  I wish he had his bodyguard here, I could use some help.

  It’s no good, I can’t let these thugs get Gavin’s letter. I’ll have to numb them and pretend I got how to do it off TV.

  I yank on the letter to pull the boys closer into jabbing range. They’re not as tough as they look and they stagger forward in surprise and we fall onto the floor in a heap.

  For a second I can’t hear anything. Then I get my head out from under a leg just as a teacher’s voice roars from the doorway.

  ‘What is going on?’

  It’s Mr Lamb, our class teacher. The headmaster told Mum and Dad that Mr Lamb used to play rugby for Wales, and I can see he’s still got the red face you get in scrums.

  He’s glaring at me and the boys, who are scrambling to their feet. I wish Mr Creely was here with his gameboy to keep a friendly eye on me and protect me. Now Mr Lamb is glaring at the letter crumpled in my hand.