How Kirsty Jenkins Stole the Elephant (3 page)

Monday 1

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Chapter 5

On Monday, after school, Ben and Kirsty met outside the council buildings.

‘This is exciting!' Kirsty said. ‘Like a spy mission.'

Ben grinned. ‘Yes. We should hide. Do some surveillance.'

‘Cool. In there.' Kirsty pointed towards a phone box opposite the main doors. It was a tiny space, with just enough room for the phone, a small ledge and the two of them wedged one on top of the other. It smelled bad. Kirsty shoved Ben's arm out of the way so she could get a clear view of the staff leaving. The men were wrapped up in woolly coats, scarves muffling their heads. The women looked exactly the same but smaller.

‘You'll never recognise him,' Ben said.

‘Yes I will. His image is burned into my brain for ever. He's the one that looks like a matchstick.'

The crowd thinned; some staff unchained their bikes and sped off in Day-Glo jackets; trams pulled up and whisked others away. Soon there was hardly anyone else left.

‘We've missed him,' Ben said.

‘No, no, there he is!'

Mr Thomas strolled down the stone steps, his umbrella clipping the edge of each one with a satisfying thwack. He smiled as the crisp winter air hit his cheeks. His face was as rosy red as ever.

‘Come on,' Kirsty said. She pushed open the door.

Ben grabbed her arm. ‘Not so fast. Don't you know anything about spying? He's our target, but we don't know anything about him. What makes him tick? If you want something from someone you have to ask in the right way.'

Kirsty grinned, then nodded. ‘I know. Like, if I wanted some money from Mum, I'd tell her how important it is for my future. If I wanted money from Dad, I'd tell him that Mum says it's OK.'

‘Exactly. We need Mr Thomas to change his mind, but we haven't got a clue about what will make him do that.'

Kirsty rolled her eyes. ‘Well, 007, you'd best be quick. He's leaving.'

Ben nodded, then raised a finger to his lips. He crouched low and pushed open the door. Kirsty dropped down behind him. They were a commando unit, silent, deadly, with a licence to kill. Ben ran forwards, bent double. He stopped behind a postbox. He peered around it, a short, decisive glance, just to keep Mr Thomas in view. Then he tapped the air with two fingers of his left hand:
move out
. Kirsty obeyed, running behind him, silent as an assassin. They kept to the shadows, hid behind lamp posts, slinked through crowds – always keeping Mr Thomas in view. He led them through the Old Town, down dark alleyways. Ben and Kirsty kept out of sight, but never lost their target.

Mr Thomas turned left down one of the closes. It was a narrow lane, still cobbled, not tarmacked. It was a short cut through to Cathedral Square.

‘He's going to church!' Kirsty hissed.

‘Perhaps. The museum is down here too. Or he might live in one of those funny old buildings next to the cathedral.'

Mr Thomas was swinging his umbrella now. They could hear him whistling as he walked. He glanced up at the stone monsters that swarmed over the west front of the cathedral, but he carried on past. When he reached the museum he practically skipped up the worn steps, passed the thick columns and then disappeared inside. Kirsty was ready to chase him, but Ben grabbed her arm again.

‘Hold up, 006. We need to debrief, to look at our intelligence. What have you discovered about our target?'

Kirsty thought hard. ‘Well, sir. He's gone to the museum. He likes whistling.'

‘Is that it?' Ben was smiling now. ‘We've learned loads. For example, think about his beige coat. Bit strange for a gardener. Beige isn't very practical. Grandad always wore his manky, old clothes. And did you see the way he was smiling when he came out of work? It was like he'd been given his freedom. I don't think that Mr Thomas likes gardening. I don't think he likes his job at all. Also, look at where he goes to relax – the museum! Mr Thomas likes culture. Did you hear
what
he was whistling?'

Kirsty frowned. ‘No.'

‘Oh dear, 006. That was a violin concerto by Vivaldi.'

‘You what?'

‘My mum plays it in her salon when she does manicures. Mr Thomas might look like a matchstick, but inside he's posh. He won't like being harassed by a lout. You're going to have to be polite. Sweet, even. Do you think you can do that?'

‘Thould I have a lithp?'

‘No. That's too much. Just be sweet and nice.'

‘OK.'

‘It's best you go alone, so he doesn't feel bullied. I'll wait for you out here. Are you ready to go and whine at him?'

‘Ready as I'll ever be, 007.'

.

Chapter 6

Kirsty stepped into the main hall of the museum. It was all white marble and high ceilings. She had been here before, on one of their weekend family outings. They had had iced buns in the cafe. The stuffed elephant was cool; the mummies were a bit scary, but it had been fun.

In the middle of the hall was a woman in uniform sitting behind a desk. The desk was covered in leaflet holders. Adverts for steam trains and factory tours spilled on to the marble surface. Kirsty went up to the desk, smiling.

The woman in uniform leaned forwards to see Kirsty better. ‘Hello. Can I help?'

‘Yes, I'm looking for, erm, my uncle. He just came in. Did you see where he went? He's sort of tall, with a light brown coat on. His face is a bit red.'

The woman nodded. ‘You mean Mr Thomas? From the board? Well, he usually goes to Natural History. He loves that. But today, I think I saw him go to Ancient Rome. Top of those stairs.' The woman pointed to a grand sweeping staircase behind the desk.

‘Thank you very much,' Kirsty said. Polite, polite – she must remember to be polite. The stairs were beautiful; bright metal poles held a thick red carpet in place all the way up them. Her arm slid easily up the wooden handrail, as though it had been greased. This would be the perfect palace for a queen!

Her footsteps made no sound on the carpet. At the top of the stairs, she turned into the Roman gallery. There were objects in glass cases balanced on top of pillars. The only light in the room came from the small spotlights pointing to the objects. It was as though they were floating in the dark space. She could make out jugs and bottles, plates, bowls and roof tiles, the odd piece of dark twisted metal that could be anything at all. It was nothing like the Rome she had seen in films! The only other person in the room was Mr Thomas. He had his back to her.

Kirsty went to stand next to him and, as she did so, she watched his face reflected in the glass case. He was smiling slightly; he looked content. Then he caught sight of her reflection. He frowned but didn't turn around. Kirsty smiled as sweetly as she could manage. He ignored her.

‘Hello,' she said brightly.

He turned a little and his eyes flicked towards her, but he didn't speak.

‘Hello, Mr Thomas. Do you remember me?'

He turned to look at her properly. ‘No,' he said and turned back to the case.

Kirsty looked up at him. The thick wool of his coat seemed to be like a shield around his thick body. She felt a lick of anger rise inside her. She squished it down; anger wasn't sweet.

‘We met on Friday, er, sir. At my grandad's allotment. I was thinking about all the pretty flowers I want, I mean, I
would like
to grow. Don't you remember?'

‘No.'

That was ridiculous! It was only three days ago!

‘You must remember! You said I couldn't look after it!' Her voice sounded too loud in the dead space of the museum.

Mr Thomas turned to her with his eyebrows creased as though he were in pain. ‘Shh! You can't shout in here. Where are your parents? You can't be here by yourself. There are rules.'

‘There's no sign or anything. I can talk if I want.'

‘Not to me, you can't. I said everything that there was to say last week.'

Kirsty bit her lip.
Be polite, be polite, be polite
, she repeated in her head. She took a deep breath. ‘Please, Mr Thomas, I just want you to listen to me, just for a bit. Then I'll leave you alone. I want to keep the allotment and I think you should let me.'

Mr Thomas looked stunned; it was as though one of the jugs in the case behind him had started talking. Then he said, ‘Do you see my desk here? My filing cabinet? My hole punch and stapler? No, you do not. Because I am not at work. This is my leisure time. Which I spend at leisure. Not talking to little girls. Your grandfather's allotment is vacant. I will write up the findings of my inspection this week and next week I will offer it to new tenants. End of story. Now, go away.'

Kirsty felt her hold on her temper loosen; it seemed to rise up out of her like the bubbles rushing out of a can of lemonade. He was going to give away the allotment next week! ‘It's not fair. You won't even listen. It's not
fair
. I promised Grandad, and you won't even let me try. You don't care about anyone. Not me, or Grandad. All you care about is stupid old jugs and plates and . . . and . . . Vivaldi!'

‘How did you . . . Have you been spying on me?'

Kirsty hung her head. ‘No, not really, hardly at all.'

Mr Thomas's face turned a violent shade of purple, like plum jam smeared over a red postbox. ‘What?' he roared. ‘You've been following me? How dare you! You are a very rude little girl. Now, get out, go! If you ever come bothering me again. I'll call the police.'

‘But, I just –'

‘Out!'

Kirsty turned and ran.

.

Chapter 7

Kirsty rushed down the museum steps towards Ben. How dare Mr Thomas! He was stupid, grumpy and rude. She glared at Ben, then pulled tongues at the museum.

‘Pester power didn't work, then?' Ben asked as Kirsty stomped up to him.

She shook her head.

‘Oh.'

They started walking away from the museum. Kirsty swung her arms like a soldier. As she walked, her anger began to turn into something else. Determination.

‘What was the first thing on your list, Ben? The way grown-ups get people to change their minds?'

‘Demonstrations. You make banners and stand in the street.'

‘Then that's what we'll do next.'

Ben stopped walking. He stood winding the hem of his jumper around his finger. He looked uncomfortable.

‘What?' Kirsty asked.

He stared down at his twisted hem. ‘Well. I dunno if it's a good idea. I dunno if I want to stand in the street. My mum might see, or Dad. They might be angry. We might get into trouble.'

‘Dad won't see you. He didn't come out of his bedroom all weekend.' Kirsty felt a sudden shock as she said this. It was true; Dad hadn't come out of his room for ages. She frowned. That didn't seem right. Usually at weekends he'd be in the middle of all the noise and action. In fact, he would be making most of the noise, playing music, laughing, teasing everyone. But this weekend he'd been quiet, spending it alone in his room. It was weird. And Mum had cancelled his work this week. And
that
was weird because Dad never let people down; if he said he'd fit your kitchen by Friday, then it was done by Friday. Kirsty put her hand on Ben's arm and gave it a small squeeze. ‘I'm sure it will be all right,' she said, though she didn't feel sure at all.

Ben let go of his jumper. ‘Where would you want to have the demonstration?' he asked.

‘The allotments? The council building? Which do you think?'

‘I think the council building would be best. Where Mr Thomas will see us.'

‘Yes! He just said to me that I wasn't to bother him outside work. So I should bother him in work! I'm going to go home to paint a banner. Do you want to come?'

‘No, I should go to my house. It's getting late. I'll make a banner there. I'll meet you outside the council building after school tomorrow.'