Kid Alone Page 27
Garvie nodded. “That sounds about right. Life’s a bore, isn’t it? Though not so boring as it’s going to be for Blinkie. He’s going down, right?”
“No question. Pyotor’s evidence is clear enough. And the gun taken from him at East Field has been confirmed as the murder weapon.”
“All over, then.”
“All over.”
Garvie gave him a sidelong look, hesitated as if wondering how to phrase what he was about to say. “Your … dishonorable discharge,” he began at last.
Singh returned his gaze to the ceiling. “Not yet finalized,” he said quietly. “I’m given to understand there may be possibility of a reprieve. But I don’t know.”
“What will you do if there isn’t?”
“Something else.” After a while he said, “What are you going to do? Stay on at school?”
“Small problem with that. Exam-related.”
“So what, then?”
He shrugged. “Something else.”
Singh looked at him sternly. “What does your mother say?”
“Plenty. She’s got reason, I know.”
“Your mother is a lovely lady. She brought me flowers.”
Garvie turned in surprise to the vase of freesias. “She brought those? For you?”
“She has been several times to talk to me. Of course, she worries about you.”
Garvie said nothing to that and Singh said nothing more, either, and they sat there in a silence for several minutes, as if contemplating the future or perhaps avoiding contemplating it.
There was a knock on the door and it opened at once, and Detective Inspector Dowell came in. As usual he was wearing full uniform, including hat, and he carried a black leather briefcase. His walk was brisk and purposeful, but when he saw Garvie he stopped and his expression turned through several degrees of hostility.
“Well,” Garvie said to Singh, “best be off. The boys get restless without their refreshment.”
He hoisted his rucksack onto his back with a loud chinking of glass and went across the room as far as Detective Inspector Dowell, who stepped across to stop him.
“What are you doing here, son?” he said in a soft and dangerous voice.
“Been trying to tempt the inspector to drink and smoke. But he’s oddly incorruptible. You knew that already, of course.”
Slowly Dowell’s face changed color, beginning with his ears. His eyes hardened; his lips shrank. Smiling pleasantly, Garvie moved to go round him, but Dowell blocked him off.
“And where are you off to now?”
“Old Ditch Road. Kiddies’ playground.”
Dowell nodded, considering this. “I know what goes on at that playground.” A sour expression came into his face, a sudden suspicion. “What’s in the bag?”
“Nothing much.”
“Show me.”
Garvie hesitated. “Just some groceries I picked up for my mum.”
“I said, ‘Show me.’ ”
Garvie took off his rucksack and opened it and removed the contents. A bottle of orange soda, some cans of beans, packets of cereal, a glass jar of olives.
The silence was broken by a noise from the hospital bed, and both Garvie and Dowell turned in surprise. Singh was laughing. Garvie had never seen him laugh before, and he looked younger and sillier. Garvie had never seen his teeth before, either. They were very white and all different sizes. He made a noise like a five-year-old, high-pitched and disorderly.
“Did you want to take any of these down to the lab so my uncle can test them?” Garvie asked politely.
Dowell lowered his big head, whispered, “I’m going to be watching you, son.”
Garvie put his hand up to the side of his mouth and whispered back, “Likewise.”
He stepped past him to the door, and paused. “Hey, Raminder,” he said, “remember that Sikh proverb you told me.”
“Proverb? What proverb?”
“Something about Scottish policemen and overtight trousers.”
Singh was laughing again, and Garvie had gone, and Detective Inspector Dowell stood disregarded at the foot of the bed with his briefcase in his hand, looking like a man beginning to realize he has stepped in something foul.
On the bus Garvie got a call from Smudge.
“Listen, mate. Not being funny, but we’ve been waiting, like, hours. If I have any more goes on the swings I think I’m going to be sick.”
“Relax, Smudge. I’m on my way.”
“Did you get the drinkable?”
Garvie took the half bottle of Glen’s out of his jacket pocket. “Yeah.”
“Full?”
“Not exactly. The volume’s proportional to the unused capacity by a ratio of about one to four.”
There was silence.
“Not quite empty,” he added.
“Oh. Right. What about the other stuff?” Smudge said.
Garvie patted his other jacket pocket. “Yeah, got that too.”
“And the sherbet lemons?”
“Ah, no. Forgot those.”
“That’s a shame. They’re my favorite bit, to be honest. By the way, I been meaning to ask you, you know how to speak Polish, right?”
“No.”
“Yeah, but you did.”
“A few words, Smudge. I’ve forgotten them now.”
“You don’t forget anything.”
“I’m making an exception in this case.”
“It’s just I heard Zuza’s got a sister, right, and I was wondering maybe I’d learn a bit of the lingo. You know, improve my chances. Hey, maybe we could learn it together.”
“I’m not going to be learning Polish, Smudge.”
“No?”
“No, Smudge. No need.”
“You mean—”
He hung up and put his phone away. The bus swayed into Bulwarks Lane, pulled slowly by the shops, past the burger place and Jamal’s and Zuzana’s flat, and he sat there staring at it all through the grimy window, a blue-eyed, black-haired boy in old leather jacket and slouch jeans, looking bored.
It’s a pleasure, as always, to thank my colleagues at DFB, who are both exemplary and unique. Editorial conversations with David Fickling and Bella Pearson, and feedback from other DFBers, and from Pari Thomson, have helped to fundamentally shape the finished book. Thank God for Talya Baker’s excellent copyedit and Julia Bruce’s eagle-eyed proofread, which both tightened the text and caught stubborn errors. Anthony Hinton shepherded the book through the production process with customary efficiency. On the American side of the Atlantic I am indebted to my editor Nicholas Thomas and copyeditor Jessica White for their intelligence, precision, and tact. I am grateful too for help with the math from Ted Walker and Michael Holyoke, and for guidance on the Polish from Katarzyna Deja, and on the Italian from Sandy Fredman. Will Fickling donated a tiny bit of his extensive knowledge of gaming. For strict instructions on clothing, I am indebted to my daughter Eleri. My agent, Anthony Goff, has been unfailingly calm and astute in all negotiations involving the sometimes tricky Garvie Smith. But as usual my greatest debt, for everything I can think of, is to Eluned, Gwilym, and Eleri.
SIMON MASON writes books for both adults and children. His first adult novel won the Betty Trask Award, while Moon Pie, a novel for middle-grade readers, was short-listed for the Guardian Children’s Fiction Prize. Running Girl, Simon’s first Garvie Smith novel, was short-listed for the Costa Children’s Book Award. Simon lives in Oxford, England, with his wife and their two children.
ALSO BY SIMON MASON
Running Girl
Moon Pie
The Quigleys
The Quigleys at Large
The Quigleys: Not for Sale
The Quigleys in a Spin
Text copyright © 2017 by Simon Mason
All rights reserved. Published by Scholastic Inc., Publishers since 1920, by arrangement with David Fickling Books, Oxford, England. SCHOLASTIC and associated logos are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Scholastic Inc. DAVID FICKLI
NG BOOKS and associated logos are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of David Fickling Books.
First published in the United Kingdom in 2016 as Kid Got Shot by David Fickling Books, 31 Beaumont Street, Oxford OX1 2NP.
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ISBN 978-1-338-03649-7
First edition, November 2017
Jacket art © 2017 by Ellen Duda
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e-ISBN 978-1-338-03651-0
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