282Sunday Mputu peeled the lid off the glue he'd nicked from Alex's room and breathed in the fumes. His thoughts drifted off. Soon he picked up Alpha's disturbed thoughts.
He fingered a nostril delicately, then smiled. Disturbed or not, he was pleased to have found her. His spindly legs, dangling over the edge of the four-poster bed, caught his attention and he stared his swinging feet. He wished his legs would grow so he could become a proper Zulu warrior. It shouldn't be too long now, he was nine already and boys of his tribe became men at fourteen. I wonder if I can persuade Dr Scott to hold a rite of passage ceremony for me?
Na! He'll say it's too dangerous, Sunday decided after giving the matter some consideration. He sighed, then shrugged. On the whole, things were better here than back in Africa. And here he felt much closer to the girl…
That reminded him of her, and he reached for her thoughts once again. He was glad she was still in his head – she'd been popping in and out of it for years now. Mostly it was just the trace of an image: like that time she'd fallen down some stairs and broken her wrist (and his had ached for months afterwards) or that fleeting taste in his mouth when she'd bitten into an olive and almost thrown up. Sometimes he took an olive from the buffet just to remember that moment, though he hated their bitter flavour. He wished he could track her for long enough to find her. The girl reminded him of his mother before…
'Aaaieee! I'm not going back,' he cried, as memories of his past rushed into his thoughts, shifting the girl out of them. He felt her go. 'No! Stay with me.'
The loss of contact was painful, as though a knife had severed an artery that extended out beyond his brain to hers. His brows furrowed, eyebrows coming together as he concentrated on drawing her back. It required enormous willpower since his brain was happiest when it was scampering in several directions at once.
It was no good, he'd lost her. For a few minutes he sat breathing deeply, as he'd been taught, then he buried his nose in the gluepot once more.
There! He found a vision of her… and started violently as he realised that she was screaming because another girl was twisting her arm.
He needed Mrs Hickelroy now! He jumped out of bed and hurtled from his
bedroom, charging down the main staircase and on towards the door leading to the courtyard.
It was locked.
'Tockalosh!' he exclaimed, voicing a swear word that named the small demon found under the beds of unwary travellers in Africa.
Suddenly the doors flew open and Mrs Hickelroy appeared towering over him, her long blonde hair trailing over silk pyjamas. 'Good gracious Sunday, whatever's the matter?' Her eyes softened as she peered into his anxious black face.
Sunday opened his mouth, showing the gap where his two front teeth had not yet grown. 'That girl Dr Scott's been looking for?' he spluttered. 'She's inside my head. She's in trouble.'
Mrs Hickelroy turned on her heel and began to run across the courtyard, struggling to tie her dressing gown as the wind caught it, and tried to whip it off her. 'Come on, the principal needs to know at once.'
Sunday sped after her, almost tripping. His mind was too busy with fragmenting images of the girl to control his own feet: she'd pushed herself off an enormous dustbin, head reeling, body in pain and mind in pieces.
Mrs Hickelroy thrust open the door to Dr Scott's private quarters without bothering to knock.
The principal, Dr Michael Scott, was sitting behind his desk, almost glued to the machine that was whirling dizzily in his hands. His eyes jumped to her face. 'Vicky, have you found another one? The Phortometer's going crazy.'
'Not me. Sunday. Come in Sunday.' Mrs Hickelroy drew him into the room.
Hesitantly Sunday eased round the door. His gaze travelled round the room before alighting on a cabinet holding a rather claustrophobic antique diver's helmet, a world globe spattered with stains and a set of books so ancient they might crumble to bits if anyone tried to read them. In spite of his concern for the girl, his eyes took them in with interest. Then he remembered that he wasn't in Africa any more; if he stole these things he didn't know anyone he could sell them to.
'It's that girl,' stated Mrs Hickelroy.
'I knew it,' the principal said, grabbing Sunday up in his arms as the boy's legs wobbled under him.
'Aaargh!' cried Sunday, as Dr Scott lowered him into an armchair. Sunday shut his eyes and touched his forehead, wishing he hadn't sniffed quite so much glue. The girl's thoughts kept shifting around in his head. She was kneeling next to a closed door. He couldn't work out what she was doing though he sensed her feelings: she was trying to shut everyone out.
'We'd better be quick,' said the vice-principal.
'Details Sunday. What can you tell us about where she is?'
Sunday's glance slid desperately from Dr Scott to Mrs Hickelroy. He'd been counting on her to find the girl. Huge dustbins, bare rooms, splintered images – nothing pointed to where she was.
'Language?' asked Mrs Hickelroy.
'English,' Sunday said, his spirits rising fractionally, because he could answer this question.
'Maps, they'll be fastest,' snapped Dr Scott, lifting an armful, but before he could cross the room to deliver the pile to Sunday the glass in the display cabinet smashed and the antique globe came crashing off the shelf. It spun wildly and flew towards Sunday, coming to rest in midair just as Sunday extended his index finger to stab at it.
Dr Scott reacted instantly, jumping across the room just in time to detect where Sunday's finger had landed before the globe dropped to the ground and shattered into pieces. 'Fantastic! She's in Britain!'
Sunday shook his head violently. 'I'm losing her.'
Mrs Hickelroy grabbed his chest from behind and rested her other hand on his brow. 'Here, I'll underpin you. Is that stronger?'
'N…yes. I can see her. She's in bed.'
Dr Scott slung the maps across the floor then lifted a map of Britain onto Sunday's lap. Without looking at it Sunday's fingers brushed over it and came to rest on the Midlands.
Flinging that map over his shoulder Dr Scott rustled an ordnance survey map in front of Sunday. Instantly Sunday isolated the area to a patch a few miles wide but, as he tried to find the exact location of the girl on a street map, she snapped out of his head. He looked up at the two adults woefully. 'She's gone.'
'It's OK Sunday, you've done well. Now tell me everything you saw or felt,' Dr Scott urged him. 'Every little detail, no matter how small.'
Sunday tapped on his eyelids, trying hard to recall his visions. He explained how he'd felt the girl watching Bruce, how he'd lost her then found her again in pain. He described the girl who was hurting her and Alpha's feelings as she fell across the large wheelie bin, adding sketchy details about the grown-up who had barely registered on him. With each sentence he felt worse, certain that he wasn't helping at all, until finally he remembered a name. 'The girl said, "Thank you, Sophie," to the woman just before she went upstairs.'
'What sort of relationship does Sophie have to the girls?' Dr Scott asked, speaking without haste, though his fingers were running furiously through his grey streaked hair.
'She's … a kind of boss lady.'
'A relation? A mother, or an aunt?' the principal probed.
Sunday shook his head. 'No, they're not family.' At least he could be sure about that.
'She's in care or at a boarding school,' said Mrs Hickelroy, smoothing down her dressing gown as Dr Scott looked up at her. 'Extra large wheelie bins – it's some sort of communal group.'
'That makes sense. Great work Sunday. I'll get hold of John at once, see whether he can trace a "Sophie" running an establishment like that.' Dr Scott straightened up, reaching for the phone.
Mrs Hickelroy pulled Sunday to his feet. 'It's bedtime for you, Sunday.'
As his head lurched once more, Sunday meekly followed Mrs Hickelroy from the room.
Sunday hid behind the door of a disused linen closet, watching through the air holes as Dr Scott strode down the corridor. The principle stopped abruptly and popped his hand into his pocket, withdrawing his mobile.
'Hello John,' said Dr Scott, before his phone had completed its first chirp. 'That's great! You've got two addresses for me. I knew your team would find it a simple enough task.'
Sunday could just pick up the sound of John's voice complaining down the line. 'How did you know… oh! I wish you wouldn't do that, it's spooky. And no, I didn't use the squad to get the addresses, I got them myself. We can't afford too many questions about you guys.'
After a brief conversation Dr Scott said, '…so a helicopter will be here shortly. Thanks, that'll speed things up. Don't forget the paperwork. Bye.'
As Sunday watched Dr Scott tap the addresses furiously into his phone he heard Mrs Hickelroy's heels click up the corridor. She had changed into a business suit and wound her hair into a tidy French pleat, but she still looked amazing.
'Anything?' she asked the principal.
'Yes.' Dr Scott waved the phone at her. 'There aren't any boarding schools, but I've got the addresses of two care homes housing teenagers in that area. I'll try them both.'
'Can't I go instead?' Mrs Hickelroy asked.
'Sorry Vicky, I've waited a long time for this girl. The last time the Phortometer registered activity like that was three years ago. She's so powerful the needle swung right into the unknown zone. I'm not taking any chances on losing her now.'
Sunday slid out of the cupboard and sidled up behind the principal, just as Mrs Hickelroy opened her mouth to argue. Her eyes swung away from Dr Scott's face. 'Sunday, where did you spring from? You should be in bed!'
'She's in my head again.' Sunday told them. 'She's dreaming, horrible dreams.'
Without a word Dr Scott handed Sunday the phone.
Sunday stood with his legs apart, balancing himself, holding Dr Scott's mobile in his hand. Then he shut his eyes and let his mind reach out.
Mrs Hickelroy stood behind him, draping her arm over Sunday's shoulders. 'He's got her,' she mouthed to Dr Scott. 'Take my hand.'
-0-
Sunday barely heard her speak as dark shapes formed below him: a tiny room, a bed, a sleeping girl, strands of black hair wound across her face. The girl awoke and sat up, startled. Her eyes swivelled fearfully around the room, then a powerful blast kicked Sunday away and he found himself back in the corridor.
-0-
The phone gave a tinkle of sound and vibrated wildly. The words the Willows flashed up in a blue light on the flocked wallpaper before bleeding away until they were unreadable. Sunday's jaw dropped as though gravity had taken an extra bite at it.
Dr Scott grabbed the phone from Sunday. 'She's deleted that address,' he said, breathing heavily. 'I remember it, the Willows, Wicklemast Avenue. She's got so much power it's astonishing… and she's desperate to hide from us. OK, you win, Vicky. I'll board the chopper, but you and Sunday should catch the next ferry to the mainland. Then take a train to Waterloo Station; I might need your help yet.'