Finders Keepers полностью

‘Yeah, but maybe he hasn’t,’ wheedled Shane. ‘Can’t hurt to ask!’

It can always hurt to ask.

Shane is an idiot.

Those were the two truths that crystallized instantly in Davey’s brain the very second he explained to his older brother that they needed his help in getting their stolen money back from Mark Trumbull.

Instead of just saying ‘No’ or simply carrying out the task as requested, Steven immediately asked questions. Awkward questions that Davey had not foreseen, but which – now they were being asked – seemed blindingly obvious.

How much money?

Where did you get it?

Davey was a pretty good liar, but even as he spun a web woven from Shane’s birthday, Shane’s rich uncle, and Shane’s unprecedented generosity in deciding to split the windfall, he could tell it was full of holes. And Steven saw all those holes instantly, and repeated his questions with a quiet persistence until finally Davey felt the unaccustomed taste of truth on his tongue.

One hundred pounds in twenties, found in the hedge near the old witch’s house halfway up the hill.

Davey rolled that truth around his mouth and found it was not so unpalatable after all. He should try it more often. He also noticed that the moment he told the truth, it was obvious that Steven believed it. How did he know? Davey was perplexed, but also pleased that they had got the truth out of the way and could now move on to the question of Mark Trumbull.

But Steven’s idea of moving on was very different from his.

Instead of leaping immediately off his bed and into action, Steven went very quiet. So quiet that Davey could hear the alarm clock ticking on his bedside table, even though it ran on batteries.

Davey let him think. In the meantime he looked around Steven’s bedroom. It was smaller than the one they used to share, and darker, too. He wondered why Steven preferred it when he could almost certainly have pulled rank and demanded the big room. This one had blue curtains and a new carpet. For years – when they were not allowed in here because of Uncle Billy being dead and all – there was an ugly brown carpet on the floor, but a while back Nan had bought this one. It was pale blue and so cheap and thin that in places Davey could make out the shape of the uneven floorboards underneath, but it was still better.

Uncle Billy’s stuff was no longer here. There used to be a Lego thing gathering dust on the floor, a few tattered paperbacks on the shelf, and a photo of Billy on the bedside table. Only the photo was still there, but up high on the bookshelf, almost hidden behind some Batman action figures that Davey used to covet. Now Steven’s things filled the room: socks balled up behind the door; his iPod on the bedside table; his skateboard leaning against the wardrobe.

Davey wasn’t allowed to touch Steven’s stuff generally, but he’d had a go on the skateboard when Steven had first bought it. He’d thought he’d be great on it – it looked pretty simple and Steven was encouraging – but in fact he’d been hopeless. Steven had persevered despite falls, but Davey had quickly lost patience with pain, and rejected the skateboard, the ramp and Steven himself as a big waste of time. As time had gone on and Steven had got better and better – and further and further beyond him – Davey’s animosity towards the skateboard had grown. He’d infected Shane and a few other uncoordinated classmates with his disdain, and ‘bloody skater’ had become a stock insult, whether their target partook or not.

‘What were you doing up the hill? You’re not allowed to go to Springer Farm.’

It wasn’t what Davey had been expecting and he had no pat answer for his brother, so he said he hadn’t been to Springer Farm.

Once more, Steven seemed to know he was lying. ‘If you go up there again I’ll tell Mum on you.’

‘It’s only an old ruin. Nobody cares.’

‘You don’t understand. Going up there is dangerous.’

Davey rolled his eyes. ‘OK, Granny.’

Steven grabbed his upper arm so hard and so fast that Davey yelped. ‘I’m serious! Don’t go up that hill, OK?’

Davey twisted away from him. ‘OK! Shit. I said OK, didn’t I?’ He rubbed his arm. ‘You going to get our money back or not?’

‘Yes,’ said Steven quietly.

‘Really?’ said Davey suspiciously.

Steven didn’t answer – just got off the bed and pulled on his trainers.

Mark Trumbull was reading Beaver Patrol in the bus shelter when Steven Lamb walked up to him and snatched it out of his hands.

‘Hey!’ he said and stood up. He was two years younger than Steven, but only a bit shorter and far heavier – and he wasn’t used to taking shit from anyone.

‘Where’s the money?’ said Steven coldly.

‘What money?’ said Mark Trumbull. ‘Gimme back my magazine.’

‘I’m Davey Lamb’s brother.’

‘Yeah? So what?’

‘So where’s the money?’ said Steven again.

‘I haven’t got his money. Gimme back my magazine.’