The Lornea Island Detective Club Read online

  "Fucking leave him alone you fucking gobshite faggots."

  Before I know what's happening, Amber is amongst us, like some kind of wild cat. She shoves James in the chest so hard that he falls over on his butt. Then, before he can get up she makes like she’s going to kick him with her massive boots. He scuttles away, looking a bit like a beetle, so in the end she doesn’t actually kick him. Instead she turns to his friends. There's a sudden, stunned silence, but then the boys re-group, because it's still five against two, even though Amber is older than them.

  "The fuck has this got to do with you, Goth?" Paul asks, but he kind of mutters it, and he’s a long way back from her. Except she then turns on him.

  “Fuck you! You motherfucking dumbass dipshit," she steps towards him, and he almost stumbles, he backs away so quick.

  "You want me to rip your tiny dick off and stuff it up your ass?"

  I take advantage of the sudden silence to gather together my notes and slip them back in the folder. When I look again Drolley is back on his feet. He's trying to make himself look brave.

  "Are you part of it too, Goth?" Drolley says, now he’s surrounded again by his friends. "Billy Wheatley's fucking detective club?"

  "I said fuck off maggot-dick." Then Amber actually spits at him, but because Drolley is hiding behind his friends, it lands on Paul's bag. It looks for a second like he might have to react to that, but then she lunges forward like she really wants to kill them all, and they scatter out of her way. Then the others realize they can turn on Paul and laugh at him, now he's got Amber's spit on his bag. That way they can still be bullying, and pretend to themselves that they're not scared of Amber. Paul looks pretty miserable about it, but at least they're leaving now. As they do Drolley shouts over his shoulder.

  "See you in class Wheatley. You can't always have a vampire to protect you."

  There's an awkward silence as Amber and me watch them disappear, jostling each other and laughing loudly, as if there were never worried.

  "I hate assholes like that," Amber tells me. "Really fucking hate them."

  I wonder for a moment about explaining my idea for BullyTracker but decide it's not a good time.

  "Come on. Let's get out of here," Amber goes on.

  "Hang on," I put my hand on her arm to stop her, and she turns in surprise. But then I point to the honors board I noticed before.

  "What?"

  Newlea High School is really old. I didn't tell you that, but it is. It's been here for maybe a hundred years, or maybe longer. So the list of important people in the school goes way back too. And the honors board lists them all out, in gold letters. And one of those names, the gold glowing where a shaft of sunlight hits it from the skylight, is the name we've been looking for.

  "Look at the honors board."

  "What? Why?"

  "Look at the list of school principals."

  Amber frowns at me again, but I see her eyes begin to scan the list. And then she gets to 1972-1979, where the principal is listed as "Henry Arthur Jacobs"

  "Shit," Amber says. "He was the school principal?"

  Sixteen

  It's not far into town but it's quite scary because of how bad Amber is at driving in traffic. She nearly kills three people, then a dog, then parks half on and half off the sidewalk. I don't know if I feel more worried about being out of school at lunchtime, or dying in a car wreck.

  The Island Times' office is one of the big stone buildings in the centre of Newlea. I've never been in it, but I've seen it loads of times. It has that look of somewhere that used to be really important, but isn't anymore.. It does still have a revolving door though, which is quite fun to walk through.

  Inside we find two ladies behind a long reception desk. There are copies of this week's edition of the paper laid out all neatly, and an old man is giving some listing for the second hand section. I don't know why, you can just do it online.

  "We want to search old editions of the paper," Amber says, when one of the receptionists turns to us.

  "It says on your website you can do it here. You've some kind of reading room?"

  "Sure." She studies us for a moment, quite suspicious. "School project is it?"

  "Not exactly." Amber replies, with a smile. The woman doesn’t smile back.

  "Only if it's for commercial purposes I have to charge you."

  "Oh. It's definitely a school project then," Amber says, and I feel her foot pressing into my leg.

  I don't say anything. Honestly, sometimes I wonder if Amber thinks I'm stupid.

  The woman comes out from behind her desk and leads us to a door in the corner of the room, it leads to a very small room where there's just a computer terminal and a couple of chairs.

  “Where’s the microfiche machine?” I ask.

  “All the records have been digitized. We wouldn’t be able to trust the original records with children.” She wiggles the mouse to bring the computer to life.

  "You put your search terms in there." She points at the screen. "You sure this is for a school project?"

  “No it definitely is,” Amber replies, and after a moment the woman leaves us to it. I'm still a bit disappointed we don't actually get to use the microfiche machine, but Amber sits right down and begins typing. She puts in the words:

  Henry Jacobs

  After a few moments the computer loads up results and we scan them. There's lots of mentions of 'Henry', and quite a few of 'Jacobs', but none mentioning them together. So I tell her to put them together properly, like this:

  Henry + Jacobs

  This cuts down the results to just three articles.

  The first, from February 1979 has the headline:

  Roadworks causing pupils to miss up to an hour's education a week, head teacher says.

  We click to see the story, but it's not like a normal website. It takes us to an actual copy of the newspaper, laid out just like it was in 1979. There's only one mention of Henry Jacobs, and it takes a while to find it. When we do it says this:

  School Principal Henry Jacobs warned that school buses are not able to get pupils to school due to the upgrading work on the main Silverlea to Newlea link.

  We scan read the whole thing, but it doesn't seem very relevant.

  "Go back," Amber says. "What's the next one?"

  I click back and try the next link.

  State-of-the-art building project to bring world-class gymnasium to Newlea High School.

  This time the article is a bit more interesting.

  Building work has commenced on a new project to construct a world-class gymnasium at Newlea High School. Henry Jacobs, School Principal, commented that students would now be able to play a range of sports in the new indoor facility.

  There's a picture too, only instead of being a photograph, it's an artists' impression of all these children in a gym, dressed in old fashioned gym shorts. It's interesting because it's not just a gym. It's our gym. It's the actual gym we have to use at school.

  "World-class facilities? Fucking hell, he was hopeful wasn't he?" Amber says. "Go back. Go to the next one."

  I do what she says, and click the final link.

  New Principal starts at Newlea High School

  Dated February 1980, the article only briefly mentions Henry Jacobs, where it says this:

  Mrs. Clarke steps into the vacancy left when Henry Jacobs left his position of Principal in Christmas last year.

  I get an excited feeling as I read on, expecting it to say what happened to him, but it doesn't. It just says how the new principal wants to move the school forward and prepare the students for the world, and things like that.

  "Is that it?" Amber asks. "Isn't there anything more?"

  We search for a while longer, trying different keywords. But nothing comes up. It's a bit disappointing after such a promising start. After another half-hour of searching we give up.

  "I can't believe there's nothing more. How can someone disappear – how can the school principal disappear – and there's
no mention of it in the newspaper?"

  "I don't know," I say. "But at least it matches what Mrs. Jacobs said. How her husband went missing in Christmas 1979. At least we know she remembered that part right."

  "Yeah, I suppose so," Amber replies, but she's clearly not satisfied. I've been getting worried about something else though.

  "Hey, do you think we should maybe get back? We're going to get in trouble otherwise, for skipping class."

  If Amber hears me she doesn't answer.

  "It's just I already had to see Principal Sharpe once this month already...." I don't actually mean to say this, since Amber obviously already knows, but it just slips out. But it's OK because Amber just ignores me anyway.

  "What do we know?" She says instead. She grabs her notebook and turns to a fresh page. "What do we actually know about what happened?"

  I don't answer her, but again she ignores me. She answers her own question.

  "We know Mrs. Jacobs says he went missing in 1979. At Christmas time. She said they were putting up the decorations, when he just walked out and never came back."

  Amber writes on her pad Christmas 1979 and then circles it. "And we know from the school honors board that Henry was school principal from 1973 to 1979. And from the Island Times that a new school principal started in 1980." She looks to me, as if it's my turn to add to the list of facts.

  "And we know Mrs. Jacobs is crazy. So he might not have gone missing at all. He might have just... left."

  Amber gives me a warning glance.

  "Then why does she think he went missing? She wouldn't have hired us if there was no mystery."

  I don't have an answer to this, so I think about it instead. I suppose it must count as some sort of evidence. At least a little bit.

  "Well, maybe, but we don't know anything else."

  "Actually we do," Amber says, and slowly she starts to smile.

  "We do what?"

  "We do know something else."

  I frown and try to work out what she means. I don't much like the look of satisfaction on her face.

  "Come on Billy. We've searched the newspaper right? For anything about him disappearing? And we've not found anything?"

  "Yeah."

  "So that does that mean?"

  I really want to work it out, before she tells me, and I think I nearly do, but just not quite in time.

  " It tells us that whatever happened wasn't a big thing. If he was – I don't know – murdered by a serial killer, or died in a big car wreck, it would have been all over the paper and we'd have found it. So because it wasn't there, we know that when he disappeared, it wasn't a big thing. It wasn't news."

  I open my mouth to object to this, but I can't. It's quite clever actually.

  Seventeen

  It’s the middle of afternoon classes when we get back to school. I kind of expect to get into trouble walking into the lobby, but all the receptionists are back in their little room and they don't come out. It's strange though, standing in the empty lobby and looking up at the honors board. I stare at Henry Jacobs' name up there, picked out in gold letters. For a moment it's like I'm in the school, all those years ago. Someone who stood right here must know what happened to him, why he left...

  "Hey Billy," Amber interrupts my thoughts. "Don't just stand there? Someone'll see you."

  "Oh sorry,"

  "When you get to class say you had a doctor’s appointment. Say it’s for something personal. That way they can’t ask you about it."

  I nod, and Amber leaves, to whatever class she has, and I go to Math. I decide to tell Mr. Duncan I had a dentist’s appointment, and I’m all ready to pretend I’ve got toothache, but he doesn't really care, he just tells me to sit down. After that it's PD. And after that I get on the bus home. But all the time I'm thinking about how we can find out more about Henry Jacobs. I start to get some ideas too. But then, when I get home, everything changes.

  It feels like an ambush. As I walk in the kitchen Dad and Tucker are there waiting for me.

  "Billy," Dad begins. "Can you take a seat? We need to have chat."

  From the sound of his voice I think I'm in trouble. For a second I wonder if he's found out about me skipping class, but how? Did Mr Duncan know I was lying about the dentist after all? And then I think that maybe it's Tucker who’s in trouble. Maybe Dad's figured out about him lying about his name. Or not having a phone. But then from the way Tucker's smiling at me, sipping on a beer, it can't be that either.

  "Come on Billy, take a seat."

  I still haven't taken my backpack off, but I do so now, and slip behind the kitchen table. Dad sits down opposite me. He smiles at me, but it's not a real smile. It's fake.

  "What it is?" I ask.

  Dad's smile falls away. "I need to tell you something. Some news. Some good news."

  "What?" I ask again.

  Dad looks away, and rubs a hand over the stubble on his face, so I know it's not really good news after all.

  "What news?"

  "You know I said Tucker would be staying here a few days?" He begins.

  "Yes. That was last Thursday, so he's supposed to go two days ago..."

  "Sure." Dad holds up a hand to cut me off. "Sure, I know. The point is he still needs..." Dad stops and rubs his chin again. When he continues he's changed the subject.

  "Look, I got a call from Frank earlier. You know Frank, down at the harbor?"

  I wait. I guess I must frown too, since Dad explains.

  "You know Frank? The skipper of Ocean Harvest?"

  For a second I don't know what he's on about, but then I remember. Ocean Harvest is one of the fishing boats. The big ones. I don't really know Frank though. It's just one time he did let me on board one time to do a species count of the fish in the hold.

  "A space has come up. For a job."

  I blink.

  "It's just a try out, but it's good money. Real good money. If we get a good catch, it'd be enough to start saving. Putting something away, for... well for whatever."

  Both him and Tucker are staring at me really intently now. I slide my eyes from one to the other.

  "But Ocean Harvest is an offshore boat?"

  "She goes out a bit further." Dad nods. "Sure she does. But that's where the money is. It's a modern boat Billy. It's totally safe. It just means I'll be away a bit longer." Dad lets his voice fade away. So I have to work out what he means.

  "How long?"

  Dad makes a face, like this is a awkward bit.

  "Frank reckons it's a day and a half to get out to the fishing grounds. Then the same back. So it depends on the catch. Could be four nights. A week tops."

  "A week? "So who's going to look after me?"

  Straight away I'm pissed at myself for saying this. I don't need anyone to look after me. Most of the time it’s me looking after Dad. But a week is a long time.

  And then I turn to Tucker. Or Peter. Or whatever his real name is. I see he's looking right back at me. Watching my reaction.

  "It's what I was saying about Tucker," Dad goes on, but I hardly hear him. "How he needs a place to crash. Just for a little bit longer."

  "But you said he was only going to be here a few days,” I interrupt. “He should have gone home three days ago..."

  "Billy. It's a good solution. He can keep an eye on you while he gets himself set up. I can show Frank he can rely on me. It's the opportunity we've been waiting for."

  "Set up?"

  "Sure. Tuck's gonna give it a go here on Lornea. Look for work."

  "Look for work?" I can feel my voice go high again. It feels like it's betraying me.

  "Come on Billy, I know this is a surprise. But you know I've been trying to get a place on a boat? We've talked about it."

  "Yeah, but not on one of the big boats. You talked about the inshore ones."

  "There's no fish inshore no more Billy. You know that."

  I don't reply. I suddenly realize I'm breathing super hard.

  "Come on Billy, we need this. I'v
e gotta have some real money coming in. We got bills to pay. And if I can save a bit we can..." Dad doesn't finish his sentence. But I sense what he was going to say. It's to do with my idea for buying Blue Lady, and running whale watching trips for tourists.

  I try to think fast. Maybe it is a good idea. But then I think about Tucker again. Or Peter. About how I’m going to be left alone with him, when I don’t even know which is his real name. How can Dad think that’s OK? I have to say something.

  But I don't.

  "When are you going?" I ask instead.

  And this time Dad doesn't answer at once. He takes a deep breath and puffs it out. Like this bit's going to be difficult.

  "We're leaving on the next high tide."

  At once my eyes flick to the window. Because I'm sitting down at the table, I can't see the beach, but I don't even need to. I always know what the tide is doing.

  "The next high? Tonight's high?" My voice has risen again.

  "I know it's short notice Bill. One of the other crew phoned in sick. That's why Frank rang me. That's why I wanted to have this talk now. As soon as you got back from school. I wanted to speak to you before I go."

  I calculate in my head. Next high tide is in two hours. It's a half hour drive to Holport, where Ocean Harvest comes in. He'll have to go in an hour and a half.

  "I gotta help load up too." Dad goes on, like he's reading my mind. "I gotta leave now."

  "Now?"

  Why does my voice keep going so high?

  I look out the window again. I can see the sky as it hangs over the sea. The light is fading now, and it highlights the clouds building into towering thunderheads. Mottled grey, studded with showers of rain. I think of Dad heading out there. Hundreds of miles out there.

  "There's a storm coming." I say. I don't know why I say it, because it's not really true. It's just a bit of rain. At least, it is here. I don't actually know what it'll be like miles out to sea.