Twitch Page 4

  Frazzle landed clumsily in the giant terracotta saucer that served as a bird bath. The doolally bird had big unblinking eyes, a scraggly thin neck and permanently ruffled feathers.

  “Look, lads,” Twitch said as Frazzle hurried over, “if Robber Ryan comes here, you’re going to have to help me defend the house.” Scabby carried on eating, but Frazzle stared at Twitch. “Frazzle, if Ryan breaks in, I’ll do this.” Twitch lifted his chin, pursed his lips and made a warbling whistle. “That will be your signal to attack.” Frazzle cocked his head, looking confused. “Like this.” Twitch made the whistling sound again, then squawked, flapped his arms and pretended to peck an imaginary person. “Robber Ryan will run away because of your ferocious battle moves, and you’ll be rewarded with…” He sprinkled birdseed into his own mouth. “Mmm, yummy.” He looked at Frazzle. “What do you think?” Frazzle looked hypnotized. “You have a go.” Twitch tipped his head back and whistled. Frazzle stared at him and pooped a white puddle onto the roof.

  “Some use you are.” Twitch shook his head. “Pigeons are supposed to be clever.” He turned to Scabby, who was still guzzling grain. “Scabby, when Frazzle attacks the robber, your job is to fly to the police with a message that I’ll write on a scrap of paper and fasten to your leg in one of these.” From his pocket, he pulled a tiny silver canister looped onto a Velcro strap.

  “Dinner!” his mum called up the stairs.

  “Coming,” Twitch shouted back, scattering the remaining grain over the roof and dusting off his hands. Lifting the feed bucket lid, he took out the scoop and piled grain into the two bowls in the pigeon loft. With his watering can, he filled the water dishes and the bird bath. Then, ducking in through the window, he washed his hands in the bathroom sink. As he lathered soap over his fingers and thumbs, he thought about Billy and Robber Ryan. Could they be the same person? Surely someone would’ve recognized him?

  Amita had left, and two plates of omelette, chips and salad sat on the table. “This looks great,” Twitch declared, sliding into his chair and grabbing his knife and fork.

  “Tomorrow is the first day of your holidays,” his mum said, cutting into her omelette and letting the steam out. “What’re you going to do with it?”

  “After my paper round I was going to go to Aves Wood, but I don’t think I’ll be able to now.” Twitch dipped a chip in the gloopy splodge of ketchup on his plate.

  “I think you should steer clear of Aves Wood.” His mum caught his eye. “You could invite a friend or two over if you wanted. I wouldn’t mind. I’d stay out of the way.”

  Twitch shrugged. The idea of anyone from school coming to his house filled him with horror. He’d built a shield against the jeers in the playground based on the fact that no one really knew him. He didn’t want people coming here. It would give them ammunition. His home life was private. He was happy on his own, building his hide, watching the birds and training his pigeons. You knew where you were with birds; they were better friends than humans. But he didn’t say this to his mum. He knew she worried about him not having friends.

  When they’d finished, Twitch cleared the plates, whilst Mum dished up the rice pudding and dolloped Amita’s jam into it. They took their bowls outside and sat cross-legged on the grass beneath the lilac tree. It was a warm evening and they ate their pudding, watching the sun go down, and discussing the placing of Amita’s teapot.

  “Give me your bowl,” his mum said, getting to her feet. “I’m going to turn in. I’ve an early start tomorrow.”

  “I’ll put the birds to bed and lock up,” Twitch replied, standing up and kissing her on the cheek. “Night, Mum.”

  After chasing the chickens into their coop and shutting up the pigeon loft, Twitch made his way through the house, closing every window and double-checking the doors were locked. There was only one window he couldn’t shut, and that was in his bedroom. Before going up to bed, he went into the living room and took the iron poker from beside the fireplace.

  Just in case I need a weapon, he thought.

  The staccato bleeps of his alarm woke Twitch at four thirty. He sat up, turned it off and the fairy lights on. Feeling around, he grabbed the clothes he’d set out at the end of his bed – faded jeans, black vest, and oversized camo shirt with poppers instead of buttons – and put them on. Crawling out of the circular door in his box bed, he took the balled-up socks from inside his trainers, pulled them on and shoved his feet into the shoes without undoing the laces. He stretched and his knees cracked as he turned to look out of the window. The sky was aubergine.

  Twitch’s bed was like a cabin. When he was little, he’d fantasized about being a bird. He loved making himself wings, from cardboard, from his mother’s scarves, and once from a pair of kites. Instead of building dens or forts, he’d construct bird boxes with nests inside, and played at being a bird. For his seventh birthday, his grandad had constructed a giant wooden bird box to put over his bed and painted it sky blue. Over the years, Twitch had papered the inside with pictures torn from wildlife magazines, added a shelf for his books, a curtain to draw across the door, and fairy lights. It was his nest and he felt safe inside.

  The only other furniture in his room was a chest of drawers. The ceiling, walls and floorboards were painted white. At the far end was a sash window, wedged open at the top with a piece of wood. There were splatters of muck on the wall and floor around the window, because, every summer, Twitch shared his bedroom with a family of swallows.

  At the end of March, Twitch would scan the skies every morning, hoping to see the long-tailed birds that flew from South Africa, over the Sahara Desert, to nest in his bedroom. Their arrival heralded the start of the summer. This year Mr Swallow had arrived on the second of April and Mrs Swallow appeared a week later. After a brief courtship, they’d set about building a nest, using mud from Amita’s pond, next to an old nest from last year, attached to the architrave beside his window.

  Twitch loved to watch them from his box bed. He kept a diary of their activity, as they reared their first brood and the chicks fledged. Now there was a second clutch of eggs in the nest. He was always careful to be calm and quiet around the swallows, and he fancied that they knew and trusted him.

  Creeping along the landing to the bathroom, Twitch opened the window, climbed out and silently removed the bird food from the pigeon loft. He was reading a book about training pigeons, and it said not to feed them before their first flight home. Hungry birds would fly straight to the loft for food.

  Once in the kitchen, he made himself a bowl of cereal, opened the back door and sat on the doorstep to eat it. The air was moist, but he could tell it was going to be another sunny day. A blackbird called, and a moment later the territorial recitative of a robin answered. He closed his eyes as birds hidden in treetops and shrubberies began their pee-weeting and cooing, tee-weeting and hooting. He recognized the distinctive trill of a wren, then a warbler. He had learned to listen to birdsong, memorizing their calls, and loved being able to identify which birds were around him even when he couldn’t see them. It made him feel part of the avian world. As their arias became a chorus, tremolos and trills blending and crescendoing, the sun was summoned from its slumber to rise into the sky again.

  Twitch watched the sky change colour as he listened.

  “Miss you, Grandad,” he whispered, before taking his bowl back inside.

  He put the kettle on and made his mum a cup of tea. Tiptoeing upstairs, he left the tea on her bedside table and planted a kiss on her forehead. Creeping out of the house, he pulled on his helmet and unlocked his bike.

  The sky was awash with blues and violets as the sun chased the night away. Riding a bike at this time of the day was the best, because there was no traffic. Pedalling hard through the sleeping streets, Twitch built up speed until he reached the downward slope of the main road. He rose up, standing on his pedals and throwing his arms wide. The wind blew his shirt open, so it flapped behind him like a cape as he freewheeled down the hill. He arrived at the newsagent’s breathless and grinning as Mr Bettany was unbolting the shutters and opening the door.

  “Morning, Twitch.” Mr Bettany smiled, crinkling his leathery skin. “You’re early.”

  “It’s the first day of the summer holidays,” Twitch said, propping his bike against the wall and following him into the shop, where stacks of newspapers bound with string were piled on the floor in front of the counter.

  Mr Bettany pointed at the piles. “Need you to sort them into the rounds.”

  “No problem.” Twitch sank to his knees and, taking his penknife from his pocket, cut the string tying the first bundle. Mr Bettany handed him pen and paper, and he began making up the first round. Mr Fullester at number 23 had The Times, Mrs Glengarick at number 24 had the Guardian, and so on.

  Twitch didn’t have time to read any of the articles, but it was impossible not to notice that Robber Ryan was on the cover of every newspaper.

  The papers were all carrying a shadowy picture taken from a petrol station CCTV camera, which showed the back of a figure in a long black coat with a shaved head. The image was grainy, but it was clearly not Billy and Twitch felt relieved. The caption said Ryan had been spotted at a twenty-four-hour garage in Briddvale late on Thursday night. Twitch thought back to what the police officer had said about a sighting and wondered why they thought he’d be heading for Aves Wood.

  Whilst making up the newspaper rounds, Twitch glimpsed sentences piecing together the story. A year ago, Ryan had been one of five masked raiders who’d held up a security van at gunpoint. They had stolen five million pounds, the biggest cash theft since the Great Train Robbery. Three of the robbers had been caught and convicted; the fourth had been killed by Ryan, who made off with all the money. Ryan was arrested, pleaded innocent but was found guilty. The police found no trace of the five million pounds. It had never been recovered.

  Mrs Inglenook was exaggerating, Twitch thought as he took the remaining newspapers to the empty racks and filled the display. Ryan didn’t kill the whole gang, just one member.

  “Do you recognize the garage?” Mr Bettany asked, seeing Twitch looking at the papers.

  “What?”

  “That garage in the picture is the one on Briddvale Road by Aves Wood.”

  Twitch looked at the picture and felt a jolt as he realized Mr Bettany was right.

  Mr Bettany looked at his watch. “Sarah’s late again.”

  “Do you want me to take the north rounds today?” They were the furthest from the shop but if he was quick – which he always was – he could get them done in under two hours and race back home to prepare for his squabs’ first homing flight.

  “You’re a good lad, Twitch.” Mr Bettany nodded. “But don’t stop to talk to any strangers, mind. Not with that robber about.”

  “I won’t.” Twitch picked up the north rounds, sliding them into two canvas delivery bags which he wore criss-crossed across his chest, and set off on his bike, wobbling, weighed down by the newspapers. He peddled to the crossroads at the heart of Briddvale and dismounted. Wheeling his bike over the ditch that ran along the road, he squeezed through a gap in the hedgerow, laid his bike on the ground and removed one of the newspaper bags. It was quicker and easier to do one bag at a time, so on dry days he hid one under the hedge while he did the other. He was pushing it into the well-worn nook when he heard familiar voices and squatted down out of sight.

  “Hi.” It was Jack Cappleman.

  “Why did we have to meet this early?” came the whining tones of Pamela Hardacre. “Couldn’t we have done this later? I have a skincare regime I need to follow, or I’ll get spots. It’s hard work looking this perfect, you know.”

  “I told you, we need to go early to get a head start,” Jack said. “We’re not going to be the only people hunting for that money.”

  “What are we looking for?” Terry Vallis asked.

  “Five million pounds,” Jack replied. “Dad says the police think it’s in Aves Wood. That’s why they were searching it yesterday.”

  “Yeah, but how big is five million?” Terry asked as they approached the spot where Twitch was hiding. “Is it, like, suitcase big? Or is it the size of a tea chest, or a car? Or a briefcase? It’s not going to be sitting in a pile amongst the trees, is it? It’ll be buried, or sunk in the pond. I mean, it could be anywhere.”

  “I don’t know where it is.” Jack sounded frustrated. “We’ll keep our eyes open for signs of digging or disturbed earth; anything that looks suspicious.”

  “But if the robbery was a year ago, and the money’s been hidden in Aves Wood all this time, wouldn’t someone have found it by now?” Terry pointed out.

  “What if we find a shallow grave in the woods?” asked a soft voice. Twitch peered through the hedgerow, making out the long dark hair and brown eyes of Tara Dabiri. Despite being friends with Pamela, Tara never joined her when she called him names. He shifted to see her more clearly and trod on a stick that snapped loudly.

  Tara turned her head, looking right at the spot in the hedgerow where he was hiding. “What was that?”

  Twitch froze and held his breath.

  “Trust Tara to turn this expedition into a horror movie,” Pamela scoffed, giggling and giving her friend a shove. She looked squarely at Jack. “I’m not digging up any skeletons.”

  “We’re not looking for dead people,” Jack reassured her. “C’mon, let’s go.”

  “Wait, what about Vernon and Oz?” Terry asked. “Aren’t they meeting us here? Vernon’s the best at digging.”

  “Vernon’s working; Oz is fishing with his dad.”

  “Wish I was fishing,” Terry muttered as the four of them drifted away, heading south towards Aves Wood.

  Twitch let out the breath he’d been holding, remaining where he was until he was sure they’d gone. So Peaky and Madden’s threats had frightened Jack into getting a search party together.

  Lifting his bike back through the hedgerow, Twitch set off on the first paper round, his bag getting lighter as he went. As he peddled, he thought about places where Ryan might have hidden the money. Twitch knew Aves Wood like the back of his hand. He went there most days after school. He thought back over the past year but couldn’t recall a time when he’d noticed disturbed earth or anything that might have been newly buried.

  There were a lot of police vehicles on the road this morning, although none of them had their sirens on. Twitch guessed they were widening their search for Robber Ryan, and if Jack planned on going to Aves Wood, it had to be open to the public again.

  When Twitch eventually arrived back at the newsagent’s, he saw the other rounds had gone. Mr Bettany was serving a customer, so Twitch hovered until he was done.

  “I’ve finished.” He pushed the canvas bags across the counter.

  “Fastest newspaper boy I’ve ever had.” Mr Bettany handed over a small brown envelope. “Here’s your earnings.”

  “See you next Saturday.”

  The bell rang as Twitch left, but its reverberations hadn’t fallen silent before he was back on his bike and heading home to his pigeons.

  Dropping his bike in the front garden, Twitch didn’t bother to ring the bell. His mum would have left for work already so he let himself in with his key. Running up the stairs two at a time, he dashed through the bathroom and climbed out the window. He’d waited nearly two months for this. Setting Amita’s picnic basket on the roof in front of the pigeon loft, he opened the wardrobe door and gently, but firmly, wrapped his hands around Squeaker, lowering her into the basket. Then he did the same with Frazzle. There was some fluttering and cooing from the birds, but they were used to being handled by Twitch and weren’t alarmed. He tied a bit of string through the basket lids to make sure they stayed shut until he was ready to release the birds. He filled the bowls in the loft with seed, and then put a handful in one of his trouser pockets, just in case.

  Siskin Lock was about a mile from his house. Twitch planned to release the birds there. The lock was only a stone’s throw from Aves Wood, so he thought, after he’d let the pigeons go, he would see if the police were still there. He was worried that they might have found his hide. The thought of it being smashed apart made him feel ill.

  Twitch waved at Mrs Swallow, sat in her nest incubating her eggs, as he grabbed his rucksack from the top of his bed box. It was already ten o’clock. If he was going to venture into Aves Wood, he’d need to take lunch. He went down to the kitchen, grabbed a banana from the fruit bowl and made himself a jam sandwich, putting the food and a flask of water into his bag.

  He felt like there was a tiny bird fluttering about inside his chest, trapped by his ribcage. He was excited, but also nervous about what he would do if one of the birds didn’t make it home.

  Cycling slowly so as not to upset Squeaker or Frazzle inside the basket, which was strapped to his pannier rack with a bungee cord, Twitch made his way carefully down to the canal and along the towpath. Getting off, he pushed the bike as a couple with three dogs came towards him. The dogs were intrigued by the smell of the birds. Twitch stood protectively in front of the basket, as their owners pulled them away.

  When he reached Siskin Lock, Twitch removed the basket from the bike, waiting until a group of women in running gear had huffed and puffed their way past and the coast was clear. Taking a breath to calm himself, he untied the string with shaking hands and opened the lid. Squeaker and Frazzle looked up at him, confused. Squeaker opened her beak and a high-pitched chirrup told him she wasn’t happy about travelling by basket.

  “It’s time to fly home,” Twitch said calmly, even though his pulse was racing. He reached into the basket and lifted out Squeaker. “If you fly straight back to the loft, there’s food waiting for you. Don’t take too long or Scabby will eat it all.” He gently tossed the bird into the sky. She snapped open her wings, flew in a wide circle, then took off in the direction of home. Twitch smiled as he gazed up at Squeaker cutting a path across the sky and wished for the thousandth time that he had wings.