Doubting Thomas Page 6

  ‘Thomas, what are you doing here?’

  Thomas almost dropped his mission log.

  He scrambled to his feet, looking around in alarm.

  Sprung.

  Dad was coming down the steps from the upper level of the cinema centre. He was carrying a dripping lunchbox and dabbing at a wet patch on the front of his jacket. And staring at Thomas, amazed.

  ‘You should be in school,’ he said.

  Thomas was tempted to say ‘you should be at work’, but he didn’t. Perhaps Dad was at work.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ said Dad again.

  Thomas hesitated. A million excuses ran through his head. Most of them involved lying about being on a school geography excursion to see Batman.

  He decided to tell the truth.

  ‘I was worried about you,’ said Thomas.

  Dad looked down at his dripping lunchbox and jacket.

  ‘I spilled my drink,’ he said. ‘These cardboard drink cups are hopeless.’

  Thomas wished he had some tissues or a hairdryer in his schoolbag. Poor Dad. He looked shocked at being sprung too. Thomas felt like giving him a hug. He didn’t.

  ‘Why aren’t you at work, Dad?’ he said.

  He hoped Dad would say ‘I am’, and be telling the truth.

  Dad looked away.

  ‘Day off,’ he said.

  Thomas’s chest burned with itchiness on the outside and ached with disappointment on the inside.

  ‘Then why,’ he said softly, ‘did you pretend you were going to work this morning?’

  Dad looked at Thomas for a long time.

  Suddenly he closed his eyes and his shoulders slumped. He sat down on a step and put his head in his hands.

  ‘I was fired three weeks ago,’ he said. ‘I’ve been trying to get another job. Nobody wants me.’

  Thomas didn’t know what to say. He sat down and put his arm round Dad’s shoulders.

  He felt numb. No wonder Dad had lied.

  ‘Did you follow me all the way here?’ said Dad.

  Thomas nodded.

  Dad looked at him again. For an awful few moments, Thomas thought Dad was going to burst into tears.

  But Dad just kissed him on the top of the head.

  ‘You’re one in a million, Thomas,’ said Dad. ‘There aren’t many kids like you, you know that, don’t you?’

  Thomas didn’t reply. Dad was right, but no way was he going to make Dad’s stress worse by telling him about lie-detector nipples.

  Dad was staring down at the carpet.

  ‘Sorry I lied to you, son,’ he said.

  ‘That’s OK, Dad,’ said Thomas.

  His chest, which had calmed down, went hot and bothered again.

  Dad thought for a moment.

  ‘Best not say anything about this to Mum,’ he said. ‘She’s got her own worries at work. No point making her feel worse.’

  Thomas nodded again. He’d sort of been expecting this.

  ‘I’ll get another job soon,’ said Dad. He frowned for a while, then brightened. ‘Hey, do you want to see Toy Story 3 with me?’

  As Thomas walked home with Dad from the station, he tried to think of cheerful things to say about the movie.

  But he didn’t feel cheerful.

  Dad was lost in his own thoughts, and soon Thomas was too, remembering how much better things had been before his nipples started filling his days with sadness and worry.

  Why me? he said silently to his nipples.

  Thomas remembered how stressed he’d been when they first started going itchy. Sitting in the doctor’s waiting room, panicking that he was turning into a girl.

  Big deal.

  I wish I had turned into a girl, said Thomas silently to his nipples. I’d rather be a girl any day than have to put up with you two.

  He waited for a sign that his nipples were listening.

  Nothing.

  Not even a tweak.

  Now I haven’t even got any friends thanks to you, he said to them. And I have to keep secrets from my own parents.

  Thomas wished his nipples would shrivel up and drop off. But they didn’t. They stayed exactly where they were.

  They were still there when Thomas and Dad walked into the kitchen and Mum peered up from her business accounts with a weary frown.

  ‘You’re early,’ she said to Dad.

  ‘I deserve a bit of time off,’ said Dad. ‘The deliveries I’ve made this week.’

  Thomas tensed his chest to try and make his nipples less itchy.

  It didn’t work.

  It never did.

  Mum turned to Thomas, not frowning quite so much.

  ‘And you’re late,’ she said. ‘There’s somebody here to see you.’

  11

  ‘Hello, Thomas,’ said Holly, getting up from the couch.

  Thomas’s nipples went garlic prawn.

  For a moment, he was confused.

  How could ‘Hello’ be a lie?

  Then he realised what had happened. The TV was on. It was a news report about whales being hunted, and a Japanese fisherman was claiming that Japan only kills whales for scientific research.

  Thomas gave Holly a nervous grin.

  ‘G’day,’ he said.

  Whatever she’d come for, he hoped it wouldn’t involve talking in a loud voice about him not being at school today.

  ‘Can we talk in private?’ said Holly.

  Good idea, thought Thomas, and led her into his room.

  As he closed the door behind them, he wondered if Holly was going to start accusing him of being a liar and a foot-lotion fraud again.

  ‘I’ve been thinking about your nipples,’ she said.

  Thomas tensed.

  Already it wasn’t sounding good.

  ‘And I’ve been thinking that I was wrong,’ said Holly. ‘I reckon if you were a liar you wouldn’t have done what you did, dobbed Rocco and made yourself the most unpopular kid in the school. Only a decent and honest person would do that. So I believe you about your nipples. The lie-detector stuff and everything.’

  Her eyes were big and sincere and he could see she meant it. Even her short tufts of hair looked sincere.

  Thomas felt weak with surprise. And hunger. He’d only had a small popcorn and half an old lamington to eat all day.

  He flopped into the chair at his desk.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘I’m glad you believe me.’

  Holly gave him one of her grins, like she had at the salon. Except this one was a bit different. It was just as friendly, but she looked sort of tense at the same time.

  ‘Thomas,’ she said. ‘I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news about your nipples.’

  He stared at her.

  Bad news?

  Holly rummaged in her pocket and pulled out a piece of paper.

  ‘Shift over,’ she said, and sat down next to him at his computer.

  Thomas prayed Alisha wouldn’t come in. As far as Alisha was concerned, sharing a chair with someone meant you were going out with them.

  Holly was typing a website address.

  ‘I did some research on the net,’ she said. ‘About itchy nipples and stuff.’

  ‘So did I,’ said Thomas. ‘All I could find was information about breastfeeding and pigs.’

  ‘I’m lucky,’ said Holly. ‘My parents taught me how to use search engines properly. I found this.’

  The computer screen was now full of print.

  ‘It’s a magazine article,’ said Holly. ‘From France, from a few years ago. It’s about people called doubters.’

  ‘Doubters?’ said Thomas.

  ‘I think that’s the right word,’ said Holly. ‘The article was written in French, so I had to download some software to translate it. The software was free but it writes worse sentences than Kevin Abbot.’

  ‘What are doubters?’ said Thomas.

  ‘The article reckons they were children,’ said Holly. ‘They lived at different times in history. Some in France, some in Ger
many, some in other countries. They all had body bits that went weird when people told lies.’

  Thomas stared at her.

  Then he turned to the screen and started reading.

  Holly was right, the sentences weren’t great and quite a few of the words were a bit dodgy too.

  Him nose she burning like a frying, he read. Him nose of liar. Him nose of truther. Him nose of doubter.

  ‘This is much worse than Kevin,’ said Thomas.

  But he kept reading.

  Rare and particular had these littles, he read. Ears she snowing, fingers he wobblement, rump steaks they puffing.

  ‘It’s saying they all had body bits like your nipples,’ said Holly. ‘Body bits that did strange things when people told lies. Ears that went cold. Fingers that went trembly. Stuff like that.’

  Thomas didn’t know what to say.

  He felt dizzy with relief. He wasn’t alone. Other kids had had it too. Maybe he could find out where it came from. How to get rid of it.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Thomas, so excited and grateful he grabbed Holly’s hands. He realised what he was doing and let go of them quickly.

  ‘The article reckons it’s hereditary,’ said Holly. ‘You get it from your ancestors. But it’s only in a few families and it only pops up every few generations.’

  Thomas thought about this.

  It could explain Nan’s great-uncle Aaron’s itchy teeth.

  ‘What’s the bad news?’ asked Thomas. ‘You said you had bad news.’

  Holly looked at the floor, her face clouding.

  ‘The article says something else about doubters,’ she said quietly. She hesitated and Thomas could see it was something she didn’t want to tell him.

  ‘What?’ he said.

  ‘They mostly die young,’ said Holly.

  Thomas felt a curdle of dread in his guts.

  ‘How young?’ he said.

  ‘Our age,’ she said. ‘Eleven or twelve.’

  Thomas felt the dread growing. He remembered what Nan had said about itchy-teeth Aaron. How he’d died mysteriously at twelve.

  Please, Thomas silently begged his nipples. Go feather duster so I know this isn’t true.

  They didn’t.

  Thomas stared helplessly at Holly.

  ‘If I’m a doubter,’ he said. ‘Does this… does this mean…?’

  He couldn’t say the rest of the words. They were too scary.

  Holly squeezed his arm. He didn’t pull away.

  ‘There is one doubter who didn’t die young,’ said Holly. ‘She’s in this article, too. A woman called Vera Poulet who lives in France. Her nose used to go hot.’

  Holly scrolled down the screen and pointed.

  Thomas read more Kevin writing.

  Vera Poulet she birth in Boulogne since 1947.

  Educate in some England. First career working to teach. Housing to Paris since fifteen years past ahead.

  Holly scrolled some more. To a photo of a woman with grey hair, dark eyes and a serious face. Vera Poulet didn’t look very friendly and her nose didn’t look very hot. But at least she didn’t look dead.

  ‘Does it say how she survived?’ asked Thomas, reading on frantically.

  ‘Fraid not,’ said Holly. ‘Sub-editor probably cut that bit out. They’re always doing that to my parents’ articles.’

  ‘Vera Poulet must know how to survive being a doubter or she’d be dead,’ said Thomas. ‘I can ask her. Email her. Ring her up.’

  ‘I did,’ said Holly.

  Thomas wanted to grab Holly’s hands again. Nothing romantic, nothing Alisha could make a meal out of, just gratitude.

  ‘Or rather, I tried,’ said Holly. ‘It says here Vera Poulet works in a place in Paris called the Denfert-Rochereau Catacombs. The translation software reckons that’s some sort of pet-grooming business. I’ve checked lots of internet directories but I haven’t been able to find a single place like it in that part of Paris.’

  Thomas felt the dread coming back.

  ‘We have to find her,’ said Thomas. ‘We have to contact her.’

  ‘I know,’ said Holly quietly.

  Thomas’s thoughts were racing. There had to be a way. But if Holly hadn’t been able to do it, the daughter of journalists, with all her research skills…

  An idea hit him.

  Before he could say anything, Holly reached out and took his hand.

  ‘We should tell your parents,’ she said.

  ‘No,’ said Thomas. ‘This is a really bad time to be worrying them. Anyway, we don’t need to. I’ve just thought of someone who can help us.’

  12

  ‘Are you sure this is a good idea?’ said Holly as they hurried towards Kevin’s street.

  ‘Definitely,’ said Thomas. ‘Kevin’s dad is in law enforcement. The police are really good at tracking people down. Mr Abbot will know how we can contact this Vera lady in Paris.’

  ‘Aren’t you worried he’ll tell your parents?’ said Holly.

  ‘No,’ said Thomas. ‘The police have to respect people’s privacy. It’s the law. Kevin told me once.’

  ‘And when Kevin told you all this,’ said Holly, ‘had your nipples started their career as lie-detectors?’

  Thomas had to admit they hadn’t.

  ‘It’s still worth a try,’ he said.

  ‘You’re a very positive thinker,’ said Holly. ‘That’s why I like you.’

  Kevin’s front yard was very untidy. Thomas wasn’t surprised. Miss Pearson reckoned Kevin Abbot didn’t know the meaning of the word neat and had probably never even used the word tidy in Scrabble.

  The lights were all on in the house, and the curtains and blinds were all open. Thomas and Holly paused at the front gate, trying to see which room Kevin was in.

  No sign of him.

  All Thomas could see, in the kitchen and the lounge room and the bedrooms, were Kevin’s older brothers and sisters playing musical instruments and building models for school projects and making cakes and painting t-shirts and writing essays.

  ‘How many brothers and sisters has Kevin got?’ asked Thomas.

  ‘Eight, I think,’ said Holly.

  Thomas wasn’t surprised to hear this.

  No wonder Kevin was always getting into trouble for not doing his homework. The noise around here was unbelievable. Somebody was practising the trumpet. Somebody else was using a power tool. About six people were shouting at each other, and it sounded like at least three of them were vacuuming at the same time.

  ‘Psst.’

  Thomas jumped.

  Somebody was hissing at them from a large bush in the front garden.

  ‘Kevin?’ whispered Thomas.

  He crept towards the bush.

  ‘You looking for Kevin, love?’ said a voice inside the bush.

  Thomas peered in. Through the leaves he could just make out two grown-ups. They were sitting on the ground, their backs against the trunk of the bush. Their knees were up under their chins and they were sipping glasses of wine.

  Mr and Mrs Abbot.

  Thomas stared.

  What were Kevin’s parents doing hiding in a bush in their own front yard? Surely they weren’t on a police operation against their own family?

  ‘Kev’s in the garage,’ said Mr Abbot.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Thomas, feeling awkward. He decided not to say anything about Paris just yet. Best get Kevin to do the actual asking. Plus Thomas wasn’t sure if he should be chatting with a police officer who was undercover.

  ‘Are you friends of Kev’s?’ asked Kevin’s mum.

  ‘Um…’ said Thomas. ‘Sort of.’

  ‘We’re in his class,’ said Holly.

  ‘Poor little bloke,’ said Kevin’s mum. ‘He hasn’t got many friends. Don’t know why.’

  Thomas decided not to say anything. It was like Mum always told him. If you haven’t got anything good to say, don’t say anything at all.

  ‘You’re probably wondering what we’re doing here,’ said Kevin’s m
um.

  ‘Not really…’ said Thomas.

  ‘Hiding,’ said Kevin’s dad.

  ‘When you’ve got nine kids,’ said Kevin’s mum, ‘and they’re pestering you night and day to look at their projects, sometimes you need a break.’

  That seemed reasonable to Thomas.

  ‘I’ve listened to three versions of Stairway To Heaven already tonight,’ said Kevin’s mum.

  ‘Four,’ said Kevin’s dad. ‘Kevin did one on the xylophone.’

  Kevin’s mum pulled an exasperated face.

  ‘I’m always doing that,’ she said. ‘Forgetting Kevin.’

  Thomas smiled nervously and wondered how he could get away to the garage. He didn’t want to seem rude. Not when the grown-ups he might be upsetting could be armed.

  ‘Don’t get us wrong,’ said Kevin’s mum. ‘We’re just as proud of Kevin as we are of all the others.’

  Thomas kept smiling, even though his nipples were suddenly itching big time.

  He wished he hadn’t heard Kevin’s mum say that.

  If only the person in the house who was suddenly playing the drums very loud had started just a few seconds earlier.

  Thomas opened the side door of the garage.

  He and Holly stepped inside.

  ‘Kevin?’ he said.

  He peered around in the gloom. A faint haze of street light was coming in around the roller door, but that was it.

  ‘Here’s a light switch,’ said Holly.

  A fluoro strip blinked on.

  ‘G’day Thomas and Holly.’

  Thomas jumped. Kevin was standing in the middle of the garage, completely still, his legs together and his arms sticking straight out at the sides.

  Thomas stared, wondering how Kevin could tell who it was when he had a green supermarket bag over his head.

  ‘I could hear your voices,’ said Kevin from inside the bag. ‘But I couldn’t switch the light on cause I’m training.’

  ‘Training?’ said Thomas. ‘What for?’

  Kevin never played sport at school. He was famous for his excuse notes, specially among people who knew he wrote them himself.

  ‘My future career,’ said Kevin. ‘Undercover cop.’