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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Children’s Books in 2020 HarperCollins Children’s Books is a division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd, HarperCollins Publishers 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF The HarperCollins website address is www.harpercollins.co.uk 1 Text copyright © Tom Mitchell 2020 Illustrations copyright © Euan Cook 2020 Cover design copyright © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2020 All rights reserved. isbn
978–0–00–829226–3
Tom Mitchell and Euan Cook assert the moral right to be identified as the author and illustrator of the work respectively. Typeset in Plantin by Palimpsest Book Production Ltd, Falkirk, Stirlingshire Printed and bound by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon CR0 4YY A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library. Conditions of Sale This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form, binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. ™
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CHAPTER 7 Bad Memes Champaign, Illinois
I
could literally feel my intestines tighten as the police
approached. I’d seen enough American movies and TV shows to know what happened to snitches. Stitches. But, really, I should put my hand up. And right now. Why cover for a stranger? The police called her ‘dangerous’. That doesn’t sound good. That sounds painful. (But could a monster feel this warm?) Should I wake her? Let her deal with it? I don’t even know her name. Look, what’s in the parcel? No writing. No address. No stamps. Just brown wrapping paper. Drugs? Money? Someone’s head? Oh my days, an actual head. Maybe a cat’s head? There’s someone killing cats near Bristol. Mum had said. Maybe she’s a cat killer. Maybe she has a dead
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cat in her box? Or a live cat? Or a stolen cat? Or loads of kittens? No, this is getting silly. She’d not be in trouble for carrying a cat around. It’s definitely drugs. They’re mad for them in America. Maybe if I excuse myself to go to the toilet and lock the cubicle until everything’s done, that would be okay? I’d show my passport. ‘I got confused,’ I’d say. ‘I’m British and on my way to Hollywood.’ Thinking about the box’s contents didn’t help. I needed to control my breathing: in through the nose and out through the mouth. Or was it the other way? I didn’t know! And why hadn’t I put my hand up yet?! Was my breathing suspicious-looking? I let out a tiny fart. Luckily it was silent. Where was the responsible adult to tell me what to do? There should be an app. You’d type in your problem and a teacher would reply with the correct decision. Only, I knew the right thing to do – I should tell the police. I should be a good citizen. If they wanted her, she’d have done something bad, right? That’s how it works. One officer moved up the aisle with the other close behind. It was like the dinner service on the flight over, which was something that felt a lifetime ago. The female
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cop showed both sides of seats the iPad and all the passengers shook their heads. If someone else had seen her, that would save me a decision. But they’d all been on their phones when we’d got on. (Meaning maybe all the teachers/parents have been right all along? Phones are bad for society. It didn’t stop them using the things, though.) ‘Hey,’ I hissed at the baseball cap in such a way that if you were looking at me, either in real time or a later CCTV recording, you’d not see my lips moving. ‘Hey!’ But my sleeping neighbour didn’t stir, and the police were now only six rows away. ‘Do you have any trail mix, ma’am?’ an elderly passenger asked the cops and I had no idea what she meant. But there was hope, I realised, and that hope was the hat. It was pulled so far down over the girl’s face that, because she was turned to me, there’d be no recognising her from the aisle. I would stay silent. Result. Best decision ever. Because it wasn’t a decision. And I wouldn’t be betraying her or lying to the police. Because I didn’t have it in me to deceive officials twice in one day. And these two were proper cops. With the faces and everything. I mean, the girl on the iPad wasn’t wearing a baseball cap, so . . .
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There was a split second of panic as I wondered what Dad would say if he knew what was happening to his son (me) at this precise moment (are parents telepathic?) and also the decisions made to get here. But it was because of me that she’d hurt her wrist and not grassing her up to the police would kind of mean we were quits, right? It made sense. The female cop was actually leaning across the girl and into me and showing me the iPad. Its screen was bright and hurt my eyes. Cruel and unusual punishment. The image was something you might see on social media. The girl was smiling but also wincing like the sun was in her eyes. At the bottom of the picture was a single word. MISSING. It looked like a meme gone bad. ‘Is this individual with you?’ asked the female cop, pointing down to the girl. ‘This individual with the . . . package?’ This wasn’t fair. I hadn’t been expecting an out-and-out question. My throat felt all pink and tiny. ‘I’m sorry,’ I just about said. ‘I didn’t catch that,’ said the male cop. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said.
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‘Are you from around here, sir?’ asked the male cop, speaking loud and slow. The way that police ask questions makes you feel guilty. Something in the tone. Maybe it’s part of their training. And this here now at this moment was how all bad stuff started. I could feel it, the world’s tightening focus and also the bad stuff. I struggled for control of my thoughts and voice. ‘I’ll be the one asking questions,’ said the female cop. ‘Are you from around here, son?’ One deep breath. Through the nose. And relax. ‘No,’ I said. ‘I’m British. And I’m heading for Los Angeles to be in a superhero movie because I won a competition. I was supposed to be on a plane but I missed it and then there weren’t any other planes because of the snow but my attitude is that if I keep my head down and stay out of trouble but stay on the bus, it won’t make a huge amount of difference, so . . .’ They stared open-mouthed. Eventually the woman spoke. ‘Are you trying to be funny, sir?’ Why do all the police think that? I’m only a kid from Somerset trying to get to Hollywood without upsetting anyone. ‘No.’
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I shook my head and felt tears spiking behind my eyes. I should just confess all! Let them arrest me! Take me away, officers! It’s a fair cop! Yes! It’s her! She’s the one you want! ‘Are we going to be moving any time soon or are we going to be moving any time soon? I’ve got me a dying grandmother to get to,’ shouted a gruff voice from the front of the bus. ‘And the Lord sure ain’t waiting!’ ‘Is this individual with you?’ asked the female cop again, nodding to the girl. ‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘She’s British too.’ The cop stared as if she could look into my mind. And if she could, she’d have seen a tornado of confusion. Like, obviously the girl wasn’t British; she was wearing a baseball cap for one thing. The police officer put a palm to her partner’s back and pushed him on. ‘Stay out of trouble,’ he said, as he stepped to the next line of passengers. ‘They don’t like strangers around these parts.’ I don’t think I breathed again until they’d left the bus and the deep thud of its engine started, sending vibrations throughout the cabin like the crazy nerves shaking my body. And, through it all, the girl stayed asleep.
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