Friday Barnes 2 Page 4

  ‘Is that a tattoo?’ asked Friday.

  ‘No,’ laughed Christopher. ‘It’s a birthmark.’

  ‘Really?’ said Friday. ‘It looks like one of those symbol tattoos that mean something.’

  ‘I guess you could argue that a birthmark is a kind of naturally occurring tattoo,’ said Christopher.

  Behind her, Melanie coughed loudly. Friday turned round to see her looking meaningfully at Ian as he walked out the door, letting it slam behind him.

  ‘I’ve wrapped your pudding up in a napkin,’ said Melanie. ‘I know you want to walk away from it now to make a dramatic point about just how cross you are with Ian. But I’m pretty sure you’ll regret it at 2 o’clock in the morning when you wake up hungry and realise you have to wait another six days before Mrs Marigold cooks it again.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Friday. She turned back to Christopher and found herself staring into his eyes again. ‘And thank you.’

  ‘For tripping you up?’ asked Christopher.

  ‘No, for catching me,’ said Friday.

  ‘My pleasure,’ said Christopher.

  Friday walked away with Melanie. There was something about that boy. The way he looked at her. No other boy looked at her that way. Friday glanced back at him. He was still watching her. He smiled and winked. Friday turned away and kept walking with Melanie.

  ‘Does he hate himself for how he feels about you too?’ asked Melanie.

  ‘What?’ asked Friday.

  ‘I was wondering if he had a reason for tripping you over,’ said Melanie.

  ‘It was an accident, I stumbled,’ said Friday.

  ‘It’s going to cause trouble,’ said Melanie, shaking her head sadly. ‘Now Ian has seen you in the arms of another boy, who knows what he’ll do next?’

  ‘The police still have my hollowed-out hockey stick, so he can’t tamper with that again,’ said Friday.

  ‘What luck,’ said Melanie, happily. ‘We’ve got gym for first period tomorrow and we’re supposed to be playing hockey – now you won’t be able to participate! I wonder if I could get Ian to hide something illicit in my hockey stick too.’

  Chapter 6

  More Trouble

  As it happened, Friday wouldn’t have been able to attend gym even if her hockey stick hadn’t been dissected at a criminology lab, because just as she sat down to breakfast she was summoned to the Headmaster’s office.

  ‘Can it wait until after breakfast?’ Friday asked the messenger.

  ‘He’ll yell at me if I go back and ask him that!’ said the boy.

  ‘All right,’ said Friday as she scooped the bacon, eggs and baked beans on her plate onto a slice of toast, then stole Melanie’s slice of toast and put it on top to make it into a sandwich. ‘But I’m not happy about it. I would have thought that a man with the Headmaster’s girth would appreciate that breakfast is the most important meal of the day.’

  When Friday arrived at the Headmaster’s office the door was shut, so she took a seat on the now familiar bench. She wished she had brought her copy of The Curse of the Pirate King with her. The Headmaster could, depending on what mood he was in, make a person wait a considerable amount of time. Friday suspected he had some sort of microscopic camera hidden in the corridor so he could see whoever was on the bench while he sat inside his office eating chocolate biscuits and watching them sweat.

  Friday looked about at the hallway. The tan carpet was institutionally generic. The walls were a creamy white, which may have looked nice when it was first painted, but now the crispness of the colour only served to highlight the presence of spiderwebs on the ceilings and smudged fingerprints on the walls.

  Opposite the bench hung the Highcrest Academy honour boards. These were huge placards crafted out of dark wood with the names of all the school duxes painted in gold leaf. Friday supposed they were put there specifically to intimidate the students on the opposite end of the achievement spectrum, who found themselves regularly sitting on this bench.

  Friday ran through the list of names, wondering the gender of the duxes: J.V. Patel, H.C. Baumgartner, E.M. Dowell, A.J. Dean, S.M. Lau, S.J. Peterman …

  Really, reflected Friday, if they wanted to make the honour board interesting, they should include more detail than the year, initials and surname. Everyone had at least one peculiar fact about them that made them inherently interesting. It would be much more fun if the honour board read …

  1990 J.V. Patel, allergic to peanuts

  1991 H.C. Baumgartner, direct descendant of Kaiser Wilhelm

  1992 E.M. Dowell, will one day be super famous novelist

  1993 A.J. Dean, will one day be incredibly annoying vice principal

  1994 S.M. Lau, can fit three hot dogs in his mouth simultaneously

  Friday couldn’t understand why being dux didn’t warrant a photograph. If soulless shops went to the trouble of putting up a photo of their star employee of the month, would it kill the school to put up a snapshot of each of the duxes? The honour board couldn’t be more anonymous, with its list of surnames and initials. It was limp with lack of meaning.

  Just then the door burst open.

  ‘Barnes,’ barked the Headmaster. ‘Is that you I can hear breathing in the corridor?’

  ‘Yes, it’s me,’ said Friday.

  ‘Harrumph,’ grunted the Headmaster. ‘You’d better come in, I suppose.’

  Friday sat down in the chair opposite the Headmaster’s desk and wondered if she could get away with eating her bacon, egg and baked bean sandwich in front of him. She could feel the baked beans soaking through the pocket of her cardigan. The sandwich wouldn’t taste as good when it had lint stuck to it.

  ‘What do you know about these holes?’ asked the Headmaster.

  ‘What?’ asked Friday.

  ‘Holes,’ said the Headmaster. ‘Concave indentations in the ground. They’ve been popping up all over the school. Some student or staff member must have a cock-eyed reason for doing it. Although what that might be is beyond me. Anyway, it’s a problem. Two students fell in holes this morning, which is bad enough. But I dread a member of staff breaking their ankle. The teachers’ union has me on probation already for forcing the staff to chaperone school excursions.’

  ‘But all teachers have to chaperone excursions,’ said Friday.

  ‘The teachers’ union argues that the students at this school are so conceited and entitled that forcing teachers to mind them in an unstructured environment is an act of mental cruelty,’ said the Headmaster.

  ‘They’ve probably got a point,’ conceded Friday.

  ‘I suppose I’ll have to talk to Ian Wainscott,’ said the Headmaster.

  ‘What’s Ian got to do with it?’ asked Friday.

  ‘He’s the captain of the golf team,’ said the Headmaster. ‘Handicap of two. Excellent swing. But they’ve been complaining for months that they want a course built on school grounds. Perhaps they’ve taken matters into their own hands.’

  ‘It’s an interesting hypothesis,’ said Friday. ‘I can just see Ian as a vigilante golf-course constructor.’

  ‘Anyway, that’s by the by. The reason I called you here is because I’ve been on the phone all morning,’ grumbled the Headmaster.

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Friday. ‘Was it your bookie? Have you taken up gambling again?’

  ‘No! I was listening to complaints from parents,’ said the Headmaster.

  ‘About the poor academic standards of the school?’ guessed Friday.

  ‘What?’ asked the Headmaster.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Friday.

  ‘The complaints have been about me harbouring a terrorist in the student body,’ said the Headmaster.

  ‘Who?’ asked Friday.

  ‘You,’ said the Headmaster.

  ‘Me?!’ said Friday. ‘But I was wrongly accused – framed, in fact. I’ve been completely cleared. I was the victim of a nasty prank.’

  ‘Yes, well, there has been a lot of talk of smoke and fires,’ said the Headmaster mea
ningfully. ‘Also, the parents at this school are not great believers in letting truth or reality cloud their judgement.’

  ‘What do you want me to do about it?’ asked Friday.

  ‘What I’d really like to do is suspend you,’ said the Headmaster.

  ‘But I haven’t done anything wrong!’ exclaimed Friday.

  ‘Are you sure?’ asked the Headmaster. ‘Not even a tiny violation such as sneaking out after lights out? Copying someone else’s homework, perhaps?’

  ‘I’m the smartest student at this school. Why would I copy someone else’s homework?’ asked Friday.

  ‘Point taken,’ agreed the Headmaster. ‘It’s just that if I could be seen to be doing something about you, even for a few days until this whole things blows over and the next imaginary crisis distracts everyone, it would make my life easier. Wouldn’t you like to go home for a bit?’

  ‘No, I would not,’ said Friday. ‘The food is much better here than at home. For a start, there is actual food here. My parents are so caught up with quasars and string theory that they forget to go grocery shopping for weeks. They’ll get themselves a sandwich from the vending machine at work, but they never think to get one for me. No way, I’m staying.’

  ‘We could get Mrs Marigold to pack you a hamper,’ urged the Headmaster.

  ‘I’m not going anywhere because it’s wrong,’ said Friday decidedly. ‘I didn’t do anything. I shouldn’t be punished. I pay a lot for my education and board. I intend to get value for my money.’

  ‘You got a windfall solving a bank robbery,’ said the Headmaster. ‘It’s not like you scrubbed floors for years to save that money.’

  ‘I could have spent it on something frivolous,’ said Friday. ‘Like a pony, or clothes, or worse shoes. I chose to invest in my education.’

  ‘Yes, yes, you’re right, of course,’ agreed the Headmaster. ‘But sometimes with these parents it’s easier to just compromise all your principles and give in to their unreasonable demands. But it’s quite all right if you don’t want to.’

  ‘Don’t you usually just ignore complaining parents?’ asked Friday.

  ‘Yes, but I’m under pressure,’ said the Headmaster. ‘A member of the school council thinks I’m a tired old has-been and wants to have me replaced by the Vice Principal Dean.’

  ‘Really?’ said Friday. ‘Which member of the school council?’

  ‘Vice Principal Dean,’ said the Headmaster.

  The telephone on the Headmaster’s desk started ringing.

  ‘Excuse me a moment,’ he said, picking up the phone. ‘Yes … What?! Have you called an ambulance? Good, I’ll be straight there.’ The Headmaster hung up.

  ‘What happened?’ asked Friday. ‘Has someone fallen into another hole?’

  ‘No, worse. A huge seed pod from a bunya-bunya pine has fallen on Mr Pilcher’s head,’ said the Headmaster. ‘He’s unconscious.’

  ‘Really? This school just keeps getting stranger and stranger,’ said Friday. ‘Poor Mr Pilcher.’

  ‘I’d better get down there and see for myself,’ said the Headmaster. ‘I hope it’s not serious. Otherwise our insurance company will want us to cut all the trees down.’

  ‘Can I come with you?’ asked Friday.

  ‘Yes,’ said the Headmaster. ‘And be sure to tell anyone who asks that I am personally keeping you under close surveillance until you have been cleared by Interpol.’

  ‘Are Interpol investigating me?’ asked Friday.

  ‘I doubt it,’ said the Headmaster. ‘But it sounds good, doesn’t it?’

  Chapter 7

  The Deadly Pine Cone

  Friday and the Headmaster trudged across several damp playing fields to get to the caretaker’s shed. The shed was a large corrugated-iron building that housed several impressive-looking machines, a tractor, a ride-on lawnmower and a whole wall rack full of hand tools.

  A crowd of a dozen or so students plus their young dorm supervisor was gathered at the far end of the building. The Headmaster puffed himself up as he approached, ready to assume authority. ‘Out of the way, boys,’ he called.

  The boys stepped aside to let the Headmaster and Friday into their circle.

  There on the ground was the caretaker, completely unconscious. There was no blood but there was a scattering of large triangular seed pods all around his head.

  Friday looked up at the huge bunya-bunya pine tree that towered over them. It had massive pine cones the size of watermelons, and when they hit the ground they shattered like hand grenades into triangle-shaped seed pods the size of a fist.

  ‘That must have hurt,’ observed the Headmaster.

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ agreed Friday. ‘A bunya-bunya pine cone can weigh up to 10 kilos. To have that hit you on the head accelerating at 9.8 metres per second over a 40-metre drop – allowing for the fact that Mr Pilcher is about 1.8 metres tall and collapsing to the ground would absorb some of the impact – it would result in over 2,177 newtons of impact force slamming into your skull.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said the Headmaster. ‘I know what I’ll be thinking about as I attempt to sleep tonight.’

  ‘He’s breathing and he’s got a strong pulse,’ said the dorm tutor.

  ‘That’s a miracle,’ said Friday.

  ‘What happened?’ asked the Headmaster.

  ‘I was taking the boys out for their cross-country training,’ explained the tutor. ‘It was Gillespie who found him. He’s our fastest boy. We’ve got high hopes for him at the regional carnival.’

  Gillespie blushed at the praise.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ said the Headmaster, ‘but did anyone see what happened?’

  ‘No, sir,’ said Gillespie. ‘Mr Pilcher was lying on the ground, knocked out cold, when I got here.’

  ‘When was that?’ asked Friday.

  ‘Ten minutes ago,’ said the tutor.

  Friday crouched down and inspected the caretaker herself. She looked at his fingernails. The tread of his boots. The hems of his trousers. And she even smelled his breath.

  The older boys were disgusted. ‘Ew, gross.’

  The Headmaster rolled his eyes. ‘Barnes, must you always sniff things? You know it’s behaviour like this that makes you such a credible suspect for the police.’

  ‘It’s behaviour like this that got me and a swarthy ex-jailbird off when suspected by police,’ said Friday as she grabbed Mr Pilcher by the arm, pulled his knee up and rolled him over onto his side.

  ‘What are you doing?!’ demanded the Headmaster. ‘You shouldn’t touch him.’

  ‘I thought all teachers had to do first-aid courses,’ said Friday. ‘An unconscious person should always be rolled onto their side, into the safety position, so if they throw up they don’t choke on their own vomit.’

  ‘Ew,’ chorused the boys again.

  ‘She’s right, sir,’ said the tutor. ‘I did my first-aid course six weeks ago and they were very adamant about that.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ said the Headmaster. ‘I may have many faults as a headmaster, but I assure you that allowing staff to choke on their own vomit is not one of them.’

  ‘Plus,’ said Friday, ‘rolling him on to his side allows me to look at the back of his head.’ She peered closely at the back of Mr Pilcher’s crown. ‘Just as I suspected,’ she muttered.

  ‘What did you suspect? That he’d have that enormous lump?’ asked the Headmaster. ‘I can see it from here. That’s going to hurt tomorrow.’

  ‘Yes, there is an enormous lump,’ agreed Friday. ‘That is the lymph rushing to the area with platelets and white blood cells to help heal the wound. But if you look closer you’ll see that the back of Mr Pilcher’s head has a lot to tell us.’

  ‘Here we go,’ said the Headmaster, rolling his eyes.

  ‘Does anyone have a sheet of paper?’ asked Friday.

  The boys were in their running shorts and singlets, so they were of no help. The tutor shrugged.

  ‘Not even a betting slip?’ asked Friday, looking meaningfully at
the Headmaster.

  The Headmaster sighed and took a small slip of paper from his pocket, and handed it to Friday.

  Friday laid the paper on the grass under Mr Pilcher’s head. Then she brushed his hair with her hand. A shower of dirt, dried grass and leaves fell onto the slip.

  ‘That is a lot of organic debris,’ said Friday.

  ‘He’s a caretaker,’ said the Headmaster. ‘He’s got a dirty job.’

  ‘But he always wears a flat cap to protect his hair,’ said Friday. ‘Besides, if he had simply been hit on the head and fallen to the ground, like so …’ Friday lay down on the grass for a moment then sat back up. ‘Can you see anything in my hair?’

  The Headmaster looked at Friday’s head. There was nothing there.

  ‘You’ve lost your hat,’ said the tutor, picking up Friday’s green pork-pie hat.

  ‘Well observed,’ said Friday, putting the hat back on her head.

  ‘A man could only get that much debris in his hair if he had been dragged,’ said Friday.

  ‘Dragged where?’ asked the Headmaster.

  Friday looked about. ‘The answer lies with Mr Pilcher’s flat cap. Can anybody see it?’

  Now all the boys looked about.

  ‘Over there,’ called a boy. ‘In the doorway to the shed.’

  The group hurried over to inspect the hat.

  ‘Stay back!’ Friday warned.

  The rest of the group stood several metres away while Friday carefully crept forward. She took a biro out of her pocket and carefully picked the cap up and checked the underside.

  ‘Just as I suspected,’ said Friday.

  ‘What is it?’ asked the Headmaster.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Friday. She looked down at the ground, peering intently, until she dropped to her knees, whipped out a magnifying glass and closely inspected a blade of grass. Then, just as quickly, she slapped her hand across her mouth and squeezed her eyes shut, as if she were obviously sickened by what she saw.