The Ability (Ability, The) Page 3

  “I’ll be home straight after school. Do you need me to get anything at the shops?” he asked, but his mother didn’t respond; she had fallen asleep again.

  Leaning over, he pulled the blanket back up over his mother’s shoulders. He put his keys in his bag, slung it over his shoulder, and walked out of the front door, closing it gently. He reached the end of his road and turned left. It was beginning to drizzle, and Chris quickened his pace, wishing he had taken an umbrella with him. He had no intention of turning back, however, in case his mother woke up again and asked him any questions. He hated lying to her, but, although she hadn’t taken any interest in him or his schooling for many years, he still didn’t want to do anything to disappoint her. He pulled up the collar of his jacket and headed off in the direction of the main road.

  • • •

  The rain had worsened by the time Chris reached King Street. Most of the shops hadn’t opened yet, but the road was still full of people on their way to work and school. He walked slowly, ignoring the squelching from his shoes, and mulled over what had happened the day before. Although he didn’t particularly like his teacher, he couldn’t help but feel guilty about stealing from her, and he had spent all night trying to work out how he would rectify the situation. Sometime in the early hours he had come up with a plan, and only then was he able to fall asleep.

  He was walking on autopilot, lost in thought, so much so that he almost walked past the pawnbroker’s. Chris stopped and turned to face the shopfront. The windows and glass doors had been painted black so that passersby couldn’t see who was in a situation desperate enough to trade their valuables for money. A sign on the door told him it was open, but a wave of doubt swept over him. After a few minutes of trying, and failing, to come up with an alternative, and with the rain seeping through his clothes, Chris took a deep breath, pushed open the door, and walked through the entrance into a dark and damp-smelling room. A bell rang to notify the staff there was a customer.

  Chris stood awkwardly in the middle of the room, not sure what to do. He looked around at the glass cabinet that created a barrier between staff and customers around the shop. Behind it the walls were lined with shelves that looked as if they were going to buckle under the weight of the televisions, stereo systems, and larger electrical goods that had been crammed upon them. Inside the counter, past the dirty glass, jewelry, cameras, watches, and other small items filled the shelves. Every single item, he thought, represented somebody in a desperate situation like himself.

  “Can I help you, son?” said a gruff voice to his right.

  Chris turned and saw a surly-looking, thin, old man in a somber dark-gray suit standing behind the counter.

  The man eyed him suspiciously as he approached.

  “I have something I wanted to, uh . . .”

  “Pawn?” said the man.

  “Yes,” said Chris.

  “Well, get on with it. What is it?”

  Chris fumbled in his jacket pocket. He took out the velvet box and placed it on the table gently, wishing that there were some other option.

  The man picked it up and slowly opened it. For a moment there was complete silence as the man inspected it. Finally, he looked up at Chris.

  “Son. Do you know what this is?”

  “Yes. It’s a medal.”

  “It’s not just a medal. It’s a very rare military medal, and a boy your age should not be walking around with one in his pocket. Who does it belong to?”

  “Me.”

  “Well, you’re either the British Army’s youngest soldier or you’re lying. Either way, I’m not interested.” He closed the lid shut, put it on the counter, and pushed it toward Chris.

  “Take it back before whoever owns it realizes it’s missing.” The old man turned to walk away.

  “I own it,” said Chris desperately. “It was given to my dad after he died, and it’s mine now.”

  The man stopped and turned back to face Chris.

  “He died when I was five.”

  “And your mum . . . hasn’t she got something to say about you bringing this in?”

  “No. My mum doesn’t care. She hasn’t been well since he died.”

  The man heard the falter in Chris’s voice and saw how hard the boy was trying to keep his composure. He looked down at the box and then back at Chris. He softened.

  “What do you want to be trying to get rid of it, then?” he asked.

  “I don’t want to get rid of it,” said Chris, with more anger than he had intended. He took a deep breath to calm himself. “I’m going to buy it back. It’s just . . .”

  Chris hesitated. At that moment all he wanted to do was leave the shop and go back home, but he knew that he had no choice. Although it pained him to ask for help, he decided that he had to tell the man the truth.

  “I’m in some trouble and I need the money.”

  The man considered this for a moment. Finally he spoke.

  “Don’t you have anything else you could trade in?”

  “No, nothing,” said Chris.

  “Well, son, I’m sorry, but I can’t take it. It’s worth more money than I have here anyway. I wouldn’t even know what to do with it. What’s more, I’m not allowed to deal with under-eighteens,” he said, pointing to the sign on the door.

  Chris’s face dropped. Deciding to come here had been the most difficult decision he’d ever had to make, and now he realized that it had all been for nothing. He picked up the box and put it back into his jacket.

  “All right, thanks,” he said flatly. He looked up at the man, hoping that he might change his mind, but the man remained silent, a strange blank expression on his face. Finally Chris turned and walked away from the counter.

  “What’s your name?” said the man, as Chris opened the door.

  Chris looked back, surprised.

  “Chris. Chris Lane.”

  “Right. Well, Chris, come back here.”

  He waited for Chris to come back in.

  “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’ve come over all soft or something, but I’m going to give you some money.”

  “You’ll take the medal?” asked Chris.

  “No, son, I’m not taking the medal. That belongs with you. I’m going to pay you to do some work.”

  “Oh,” said Chris, surprised. “It’s just that . . .”

  “That you need the money now, right?” asked the old man.

  “Yeah.”

  “That’s all right. I’m going to give you the benefit of my trust—and I don’t often do that, but something’s come over me today. I’ll give you fifty pounds, and you can begin to help me sort this mess out. My back’s not what it was, and I can’t be doing any heavy lifting anymore,” he said, nodding over at the piles of goods and boxes crammed on the shelves and floors all about him.

  Chris was about to say yes, then hesitated.

  “Pay me a hundred pounds and I’ll do it all myself.”

  The man laughed.

  “Hmm. You’ve got some nerve, son. I don’t know—that’s quite steep.”

  “One hundred. You’ll never have seen this shop look better,” said Chris, with a determination that surprised even himself.

  The man looked at Chris, and after some consideration he smiled.

  “Done. But you better live up to your word,” he said.

  “Thank you. I’ll work hard,” Chris said quietly.

  The man looked Chris in the eye and smiled.

  “I know if I can trust someone the moment I lay eyes on them. You won’t let me down,” he said, and took his wallet out from his pocket. From it he took five twenty-pound notes and placed them one by one on the counter.

  “Now get out of here. Come back on Sunday, the sixteenth of December. We’re closed that weekend. It’ll be a good time to sort out the mess before the final Christmas rush.”

  “I’ll be here. Thank you . . . sir.”

  “Frank.”

  “Thank you, Frank.”

  Chris took
the money, folded it carefully, and put it in his jacket pocket. He smiled gratefully and hesitated, unsure of what to say.

  “Go on, out. I’ll see you in December,” said the man sternly, waving Chris out.

  Chris nodded, turned, and walked out into the street. There was a break in the rain, and the sun had managed to find its way through the clouds. He patted his pocket, smiled, and walked with purpose toward the bus stop shelter.

  • • •

  It was still early when Chris reached the entrance of his school. He had twenty minutes, plenty of time to do what he needed to do and get out again before class registration started. A few students were milling about but nobody took any notice of him. He had only been at the school for two months, and barring the run-ins with teachers and Kevin Blunt, the school bully, he had kept himself to himself. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to make friends; he just didn’t want to explain why he always had to go straight home after school or why he never had any money to go to the cinema or do anything else that most children his age did. On this occasion, however, his ability to blend unnoticed into the crowd served him well. He made his way across the playground, through the main doors, and up the stairwell. He was just about to step out into the corridor when he heard the sound of a door opening ahead of him. Chris froze. Mrs. Tanner came out of the classroom, cup of tea in hand, and headed off in the opposite direction. Chris pressed himself up against the side of the wall and held his breath until she had gone through the doors at the other end.

  With greater caution, he walked up to the door of his classroom and looked in. The room was empty. Not knowing how long he had before Mrs. Tanner came back, he darted in and made his way straight to her desk. Her handbag wasn’t in its usual place. The thought briefly crossed Chris’s mind that this was because of what he had done, but he pushed it away—he needed to concentrate on the task in hand. He checked once more behind him, reached into his pocket, slid open the top drawer, and carefully placed the twenty-pound note inside it. He went to close the drawer when—

  Creak!

  Chris jumped. He turned and saw a woman he didn’t recognize standing in the doorway. The fitted gray suit, manicured nails, and blond hair perfectly in place all suggested that she wasn’t a teacher.

  “Hi, I’m just looking for the lunch hall. I seem to be going in circles and can’t find it anywhere.”

  “Oh,” said Chris, red-faced, “it’s through the courtyard, upstairs, on the other side.”

  “Right. Of course. Are you busy? Could you show me where it is and give me a hand? I have to bring some chairs into the hall.”

  Chris hesitated, but, unable to come up with an excuse on the spot, he agreed.

  “Yeah. Okay,” he said, pushing the drawer closed behind him. He quickly followed the woman back out into the corridor.

  • • •

  “Thank you for doing this,” said the woman from behind the stack of chairs that she was carrying.

  “That’s all right,” said Chris. “What are they for?”

  “I’m from the Ministry of Education. We’re running some interviews today. How old are you?”

  “Elev—I mean, twelve.”

  “Excellent. So that means I’ll be seeing you again later—we’ll explain it all then. What’s your name?”

  “Chris. Christopher Lane.”

  “Well, hi, Christopher, I’m Allegra Sonata—Miss Sonata,” she said. She looked over and smiled as she put the chairs down. She opened the door into the hall and secured it on the latch so that it wouldn’t close.

  “I need them over there,” she said, pointing to the other end of the hall.

  They walked over and put the chairs down.

  “I could really use a cup of coffee,” said Miss Sonata.

  “You could get one in the staff room. It’s at the end of the corridor, upstairs.”

  “Pardon?” asked Miss Sonata, looking confused.

  “You can get coffee in the staff room. It’s upst—”

  “No, I heard what you said, but how did you know I wanted coffee?”

  It was Chris’s turn to look confused.

  “You just said so,” he said.

  Miss Sonata opened her mouth to speak, paused, then closed it again. She thought for a moment.

  “What did you say your surname is?” she asked finally, picking up a folder from the table next to her.

  “Lane.”

  “Lane. Hmm,” she said, leafing through the folder. She stopped, then ran her finger down the page.

  “Ah! Got you. You’re class 7C, right?”

  Chris nodded.

  “Excellent. Your interview is at eleven forty-five. I’m looking forward to it.”

  Chris hesitated and then decided to tell her the truth.

  “I’m not going to be here later. I’m, uh, suspended today,” he said, embarrassed.

  A look of surprise flashed briefly across Miss Sonata’s face.

  “Oh. I’m sorry to hear that,” she said, considering her words carefully. She paused and looked at him, and a thought crossed her mind.

  “I had something to do before school started. I’m going to go home before lessons begin,” explained Chris.

  “So how come you’re in school today?” asked Miss Sonata at the same time, then stopped and smiled as Chris finished what he was saying.

  “You’re an interesting boy, Chris,” she said. “I’d like you to stay and do the test and interview anyway, before you leave.”

  Chris hesitated.

  “It’s okay. It won’t take long. All you have to—”

  “Christopher Lane!” shouted a voice from the other end of the hall.

  Chris and Miss Sonata turned quickly to see Mr. Tuckdown standing in the doorway, blocking out the light coming through the door like a moon eclipse.

  He stormed over, his face turning red with a combination of effort and anger.

  “I knew you were stupid from the first moment I set eyes on you, but even I didn’t think you were stupid enough to come into school when you’d been suspended!” shouted Mr. Tuckdown, who was now standing less than two feet away from Chris.

  “Mr. Tuckdown, I was just asking Chris . . . ,” interrupted Miss Sonata.

  In his fury, Mr. Tuckdown hadn’t noticed Miss Sonata standing there.

  He wiped his brow with the back of his hand and took a deep breath.

  “Miss Sonata, I’m sorry about this. I hope this boy hasn’t been pestering you,” he said, looking over at Chris angrily.

  “No, not at all. In fact he’s been helping me to bring some chairs in,” she said.

  “Helping himself to your belongings, more likely,” said Mr. Tuckdown with a sneer. “I’d check my pockets if I were you; this boy’s got sticky fingers.”

  He turned to Chris again. “An explanation, boy. Now. Why are you in school today?”

  “I forgot, sir,” said Chris gruffly.

  “Well, your forgetfulness has just got you another day of suspension. Perhaps that will give you some time to work on your memory. Unbelievable,” he said, shaking his head. “Now I’m going to say this slowly, so you can understand: Don’t . . . come . . . back . . . until . . . next . . . Wednesday. Now . . . Get out!”

  Chris turned to walk out, but Miss Sonata stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.

  “One moment, Christopher,” she said, facing Mr. Tuckdown. “Mr. Tuckdown, I would very much like to interview him. If you would allow it, I’ll have the test completed by the time school begins, and he can be on his way.”

  Mr. Tuckdown’s face tightened, and he pursed his lips in anger, as if about to explode. Miss Sonata took a step back, startled. He opened his mouth, but instead of shouting, he started to laugh.

  “Oh, Miss Sonata, I don’t know what lies he’s told you, but I can assure you that it would be an utter waste of your time. This child has as much chance of getting into an academy for gifted pupils as I have of putting on a tutu and dancing for the Royal Ballet. Now get out, Chris
topher, before I expel you permanently.”

  Chris looked at Miss Sonata but could think of nothing to say. He turned and walked out in silence, the eyes of Mr. Tuckdown and Miss Sonata on his back.

  • CHAPTER FIVE •

  Later that day

  At a quarter to four, after a day of wandering around the local park aimlessly, Chris walked up to his front door. The curtains were still drawn and the mail was sticking out of the letter box, a sure sign that his mother had had a bad day. He walked in, dropped his bag, and entered the living room.

  Chris’s mother was sitting in the same armchair he had left her in that morning. She had changed clothes but was back under the blanket, staring blankly at the television screen, which cast a flickering dark-blue light across her face. Chris walked over to the faded curtains and pulled them open, letting the gray light of the winter sun into the room.

  Chris’s mother winced at the light.

  “Hi, Mum,” said Chris cheerfully.

  His mother put her hand up to shield her eyes.

  “Can you close them?” she asked. It wasn’t so much a question as a demand.

  Chris hesitated, knowing by the tone of his mother’s voice that it was not a good day to antagonize her, but he decided to ignore her request.

  “Mum, I thought we could go out.”

  “Out?” she asked.

  “Yes, out. I thought we could go to the cinema or something.”

  Chris’s mother turned and glared at him.

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Christopher. I haven’t left the house since—”

  “Since Dad died, I know. But that’s seven years ago now. You can’t sit in front of the television for the rest of your life. And people don’t even visit us anymore—not since I could look after you. It’s not good for you.”

  “Don’t tell me what’s good for me, Christopher,” she said, her voice getting louder. “Nothing is good for me. Just bad luck followed by worse luck—that’s the story of my life, and I’m not about to leave the house and let more misery pile up on top of the rubbish that I already have to deal with.”

  “I just thought today would be a good day—”