Chapter Eight
The next morning Rhyllann scrambled eggs, chopped mushrooms and fried bread, planning to be extra nice. After Crombie left he’d steeled himself for questions. But Wren didn’t speak, rocking to and fro on the sofa, obviously deeply troubled but unwilling to share. Rhyllann tried. He cooked supper, put on a "Jackass" DVD and warned him several times to stop worrying. Wren smiled and nodded but didn’t show the slightest interest even when Rhyllann confessed he thought Becky Roberts was buff. Around nine, Wren swallowed pain killers and sleepers and bumped his way upstairs. Later, when he sobbed in his sleep, Rhyllann didn’t wake him.
For the thousandth time that week, Rhyllann closed his eyes and wished his own mum home.
‘Please mum, please. I can’t do this anymore.’ Like a tightrope walker trying to juggle too many balls in the air, it seemed that at any moment he would fall and crash. He wasn’t even too sure where she was, apart from somewhere in Northern Europe. If there were animals in need, mum or aunt Sarah would be there. His earliest memory was sharing a pram with a belligerent goose rescued from the local park. Sighing, he added a glass of milk to the breakfast tray, and trudged upstairs.
‘Up and at ‘em!’ Rhyllann called cheerfully entering his mum’s bedroom. ‘C’mon brawd … time to …’ His voice trailed away into empty air. Balancing the tray on a crumpled duvet, he rushed across the landing to hammer on the bathroom door.
‘Wren – are you in there?’ Cursing, Rhyllann ran back downstairs, through the kitchen and out through the back door, making a desperate sweep of the garden. Moving methodically he checked every single room in the house. Then searched the garden again, knowing it was useless. Wren had vanished. He'd been spirited away in the night.
Rhyllann slumped against the window sill, twisting Crombie’s card in his fingers, struggling to remember if he’d heard an engine during the night. A BMW engine. He tried and failed to think of a single logical explanation apart from “Kidnapped” of where or how Wren had gone. And with every moment ticking by without action, Wren could be further and further away. Rhyllann tried not to think about how many bones there were in the human foot. Because the word stubborn did not begin to describe Wren.
Unfolding his mobile, he called Crombie. The last resort.
‘Detective Inspector Crombie.’
‘It’s me – Rhyllann Jones – Please Mister … I mean Detective Crombie …’
‘Sorry, I’m unavailable. Leave a message and I’ll get back.’
Rhyllann stared at the phone incredulously before hurling it across the room. Fat lot of good that fat bastard was! Burying his head in his hands, fingers yanking at his hair Rhyllann told himself to think! Think! Where to start searching?
A sharp rap rattled the glass behind him; Rhyllann shot upright, spinning round with a thumping heart, certain they’d come back for him, wishing he had a baseball bat or equivalent to get in a couple of whacks first.
Two inches away Wren rested on his crutches, pointing impatiently to the door.
‘Let me in!’ he mouthed.
Rhyllann ran to the door, flinging it open. ‘Fool! You nearly gave me a heart attack! Where’ve you been? Get in here quick!’
Wren hobbled in, as though he’d just taken a stroll round the garden, and not worried the life out of Rhyllann.
‘Didn’t you see my note?’
‘Note?’
In answer Wren clumped into the kitchen, pointing towards the fridge. There, scrawled large in red marker: “Gone home. Back soon. Me.”
That better wipe off thought Rhyllann as he followed. Outloud he said
‘No I didn’t – normal people use pen and paper. Where the hell have you been?’
Wren lowered himself onto the kitchen bench, sniffing the air then wrinkling his nose.
‘I told you. Home – look!’ Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a handful of crumpled bank notes.
Rhyllann spluttered ‘But you … how did you …’
Pulling the biscuit jar towards him, Wren selected a cookie.
’How did I get there? Taxi. How did I pay? Money. Where did I get the money from? That jar.’ He nodded over, taking a bite out the cookie. ‘Mm. I’m starved. You had your breakfast?’
‘My child benefit!’ Insult added to injury. ‘Why didn’t you ask me?’
‘You were asleep. Here – look – I’ve saved up. One hundred and twenty pounds. Put it with your money.’ Laying the notes on the table, Wren smoothed them out, humming happily.
Giving up, Rhyllann grabbed a cloth and scrubbed at the fridge.
‘Where’s my notebook Annie?’
Hairs rose on the back of Rhyllann's neck. He turned slowly, narrowing his eyes. ‘How did you know I had your notebook?’
‘Educated guess. Where is it?’
Rhyllann stared at him.
‘What?’
‘You swapped the books didn’t you?
Wren shrugged. ‘Did I?’ He mocked.
Grasping Wren's arms, Rhyllann dragged him off the bench, ignoring the squeals. Throwing up the bench lid, retrieving the notebook, he thrust it into Wren’s chest.
‘Thanks.’ Wren dropped his head, studying the damaged lock with a smile. ‘You’ve read this?’
The words written in code with a mysterious Welsh postscript. Something clicked in Rhyllann’s mind.
‘You recognised one of those men didn’t you? Why didn’t you tell Crombie Mikey was there that night?’
Another shrug. ‘Was he?’ He spoke without looking up.
‘You know damn well he was. You spoke to him. “Please Mr. Stern,” you said. I thought you were calling for old man Stern.’
Suddenly that night was back with him again. The other guy, the one that looked like a retired rugby player had named him too. “Leave him alone Stern, he’s only a kid.” At the time Rhyllann hadn’t stopped to worry it out. Now he started to smell a rat.
“Why didn’t you tell Crombie?’
‘Why didn’t you tell Crombie?’ Wren smirked.
Rhyllann exploded; slapping both hands palm down on the table, leaning across, inches from Wren’s startled face.
‘Look you horror! Play Crombie for a fool, trick the nurses, and take the pee out your teachers all you want. But don’t jerk me around!’
Banging into the front room, Rhyllann slumped on the sofa, head in hands again. Hell. Hell and damn. What had he done? He would have to put up with this until … until what? Social services wised up? Until his mum got home? Until gran recovered? Crombie’s words drifted back to him. “On your own head son.” His mobile rang. Jesus, was the guy telepathic? Rhyllann scrambled across the room for it, desperate to answer before Crombie decided to come round and see why he wasn’t picking up.
‘Hi Detective Crombie.’
‘Rhyllann – you wanted a word? What’s up?’
He cast a look towards the kitchen. In spite of everything, he couldn’t give Wren up. They were family.
‘Nothing. Nothing’s up. I just wanted to thank you for last night.’
Silence. Then: ‘You being funny son? I thought you should be the one to break the news.’ Great. Crombie thought he was being sarcastic again.
‘No. No. Detective Inspector Crombie Sir. I mean it. Thanks. I mean thanks for not … you know.’
‘Tipping the S.S. off?’ Crombie sounded amused. ‘Don’t mention it. They’re not that bad though, you might be better off with them. Until your mum gets back from the shops.’
Crombie’s idea of a joke. Rhyllann smiled. ‘No. You’ve met him. You’ve seen what he’s like. It’s bad enough at school, if he’s not winding the other kids up, he’s hacking off the teachers. Sad really. He doesn’t even know he’s doing it.’
‘HAH! I think he does. Anyhow, you know best. If you’re sure you can cope.’
Rhyllann nodded.
‘You still there?’
‘Yeah, no worries. I can cope.’
‘Hurmph. We’re gonna do an appeal on the local news tonight. If your cousin does remember anything, ring me.’
Before Rhyllann had a chance to respond Crombie disconnected the call. The guy had the worst telephone manner.
The sofa gave a soft whump as Wren sat next to him. Without raising his head, Rhyllann apologised.
‘S’okay Annie, I understand. You’ve got your own problems.’
Rhyllann’s brow wrinkled at that. Indicating Wren’s notebook, to change the subject he asked.
‘What’s with the code?’ He grinned. ‘What are you trying to hide?’ So Wren told him.
Rhyllann listened for almost twenty minutes. When Wren finished, he sat in stunned silence. Finally he managed:
‘You’re roasting me.’
‘Roasting you?’ Wren sounded puzzled. ‘You think I’ve made this up?’
He sat on mum’s saggy third hand sofa, wearing Rhyllann’s cast offs. Tee-shirt swamping him, hair sticking heavenwards, toes poking comically from a plaster cast and expected Rhyllann to believe that he held the key to a hoard of treasure. Not just any old treasure either. A King’s treasure.
‘Mike Stern gave you an ancient text. Which just happened to be written in Welsh. Which just happened to be the diary of a princess, who hid a shed load of treasure. Have I got that right?’
‘Mike didn’t even know it for Welsh Annie!’ Wren clutched at him, eyes sparkling, words tripping from him. ‘Mikey junior delivered a mountain of books for him to translate – all different languages – you should have seen them! Arabic – Hebrew – Latin – Greek! Mike grumbled – but I could see he was really happy. “Look look – they must think I’m Rumplestiltskin to spin so much crud into gold. Look my boy!” And he shoved this book at me. “Have you ever even seen such a tongue – no vowels!” But Annie I recognised it!’ Tears glistened, as Wren remembered. ‘And he laughed and said “So, the student begins to outstrip the master!” He was so happy for me – he seemed so proud. He sat down surrounded by books and began working out my share of the fee.’
A sudden vision of them both capering round Stern’s living room like two demented hobbits struck Rhyllann. He groaned, finally admitting defeat.
‘Brawd – sorry – this just isn’t working. I’m sorry, we’ve tried. We’re gonna have to call in social services. For one thing – I can’t miss any more school.’
Wren started to protest, then stopped. ‘Okay Annie. I understand. I’m sorry.’
‘That’s settled then.’ Rhyllann sighed with relief. ‘Tell you what – let’s go mad this weekend – get some DVDs – curries, pizza: I’ll ring social services on Monday.’
Wren nodded, cradling his notebook.
‘Gran might even be home by then.’ Rhyllann added, ignoring the hurt on Wren’s face. ‘Sod it – I’ll blow the rest of my money.’
As he headed for the kitchen Wren called after him.
‘Annie. If we went after this treasure – we’d never have to worry about money again.’
Rhyllann scowled. This stopped now! Spinning round, he grabbed the notebook from Wren, flung it to the floor, and stamped on it. The spine snapped under his foot with a satisfying crack. Wren grabbed his arm, gripping hard, displaying his own flash of temper.
‘Listen! Just listen to me – I swear down. Believe. Believe.’ Wren’s eyes searched his face, urging Rhyllann to listen.
‘King John’s treasure wasn’t lost – for God’s sake – don’t you think some fool with a metal detector would have found some trace by now? He entrusted it to his daughter, the Princess of Wales.’ Wren's throat worked. ‘A fortune – the crown jewels – wagon loads of irreplaceable valuables worth millions – billions!! Your mum needn’t go undercover. She could work openly – set up a proper animal charity. My mum – we could get her out of prison. And you – you could enrol in a flying school.’ Seeing the flicker in Rhyllann’s eyes he rushed on: ‘It isn’t fair – you know it isn’t fair. You’re a natural – but the RAF can afford to be picky – Even Tescos are asking for graduates now – to stack shelves. Think! If we found that treasure – me and you Annie – we can do it!!! You needn’t worry about GCSEs and A Level exams. Hell – you could buy your own plane!’
For one magical moment Rhyllann did believe. Staring down at his best trainers, Primark’s finest, he imagined sauntering into a shop, and the luxury of trying on Nike, a smart phone and the latest MP3 player in his pocket, Becky Roberts on his arm. Then reality kicked in.
Shaking Wren’s hand off he sneered ‘Yeah – well. Why don’t you wish in one hand, and shit in the other. See what gets filled first.’ One of gran’s favourite sayings. Wren grinned, then sobered.
‘Think about it Annie. Do your own research. I’m not pulling your leg.’ He retrieved his notebook as he spoke, placing it carefully on the coffee table. ‘Or roasting you.’
Rhyllann glared. ‘One. Stop calling me Annie. Okay? Enough. We’re not kids anymore. Two. Do something with your hair. It looks like some mad professor’s. Three. I’m not watching any “Black Swan’s Speech” crap. Come on. It’s going to take hours to get up the road anyway.’
Bickering like an old married couple, they left the house, heading for the local shops. Rhyllann adjusted his pace to Wren’s dot and carry skip, and it only took them ten minutes. It took them ages though to settle on the DVDs they wanted. In the supermarket, they stacked a trolley with pizzas, microwave meals, crisps, sweets, grabbing bottles of coke and tubs of ice-cream. Neither he or Wren speculated on what social services held in store. Rhyllann suspected his cousin conjured the same Dickensian orphanage, and was determined to make the most of his last few days of freedom.
With Wren perched on top of the laden trolley, Rhyllann charged round the corner, galloping for the home strait. The wheels revolved madly, spinning a complete circle, scattering pedestrians. Wren screeched in delighted terror. Grabbing the handle, Rhyllann chugged the trolley behind him cart like.
'Oi! Slow down – Annie – it hurts – mind the bumps – I’m gonna fall!’ Wren called between shrieks.
Rhyllann whooped and sped up. Then skidded to a halt. The trolley crashed against his heels, and Wren yelped in genuine pain. Levering himself from the trolley, retrieving the elbow crutch, he lurched to Rhyllann’s side to stare at the pulsating red and blue lights dominating the road.
’Oh no. Annie … is that your house?’
Abandoning both trolley and Wren, Rhyllann sprinted forward. Of course it was his house.