AN INVITATION
I like horror stories – but not when they happen to me. If you’ve read my other adventures, you’ll know that I’ve been smothered in concrete, thrown in jail with a dangerous lunatic, tied to a railway line, almost blown up, chased through a cornfield dodging machine-gun bullets, poisoned in Paris … and all this before my fourteenth birthday. It’s not fair. I do my homework. I clean my teeth twice a day. Why does everyone want to kill me?
But the worst thing that ever happened to me began on a hot morning in July. It was the first week of the summer holidays and there I was, as usual, stuck with my big brother Tim, the world’s most unsuccessful private detective. Tim had just spent a month helping with security at the American Embassy in Grosvenor Square and even now I’m not sure how he’d decided that there was a bomb in the ambassador’s car. Anyway, just as the ambassador was about to get in, Tim had grabbed hold of him and hurled him out of the way – which would have been heroic if there had been a bomb (there wasn’t) and if Tim hadn’t managed to throw the unfortunate man in front of a passing bus. The ambassador was now in hospital. And Tim was out of work.
So there we were at the breakfast table with Tim reading the morning post while I counted out the cornflakes. We were down to our last packet and it had to last us another week. That allowed us seventeen flakes each but as a treat I’d allowed Tim to keep the free toy. There was a handful of letters that morning and so far they’d all been bills.
“There’s a letter from Mum,” Tim said.
“Any money?”
“No…”
He quickly read the letter. It was strange to think that my mum and dad were still in Australia and that I would have been with them if I hadn’t slipped off the plane and gone to stay with Tim. My dad was a door-to-door salesman, selling doors. He had a house in Sydney with three bedrooms and forty-seven doors. It had been two years now since I had seen him.
“Mum says you’re welcome to visit,” Tim said. “She says the door is always open.”
“Which one?” I asked.
He picked up the last letter. I could see at once that this wasn’t a bill. It came in a square, white envelope made out of the sort of paper that only comes from the most expensive trees. The address was handwritten: a fountain-pen, not a biro. Tim weighed it in his hand. “I wonder what this is,” he said.
“It’s an envelope, Tim,” I replied. “It’s what letters come in.”
“I mean … I wonder who it’s from!” He smiled. “Maybe it’s a thank-you letter from the American ambassador.”
“Why should he thank you? You threw him under a bus!”
“Yes, but I sent him a bunch of grapes in hospital.”
“Just open it, Tim,” I said.
Tim grabbed hold of a knife, and – with a dramatic gesture – sliced open the mysterious envelope.
After we’d finished bandaging his left leg, we examined the contents. First, there was an invitation, printed in red ink on thick white card.
Dear Herbert
, it began. Tim Diamond was, of course, only the name he called himself. His real name was Herbert Simple.
It has been many years since we met, but I would like to invite you to a reunion of old boys and girls from St Egbert’s Comprehensive, which will take place from Wednesday 9th to Friday 11th July. I am sure you are busy but I am so keen to see you again that I will pay you £1,000 to make the journey to Scotland. I also enclose a ticket for the train.
Your old friend
,
Rory McDougal
Crocodile Island, Scotland
Tim tilted the envelope. Sure enough, a first-class train ticket slid out onto the table.
“That’s fantastic!” Tim exclaimed. “A first-class ticket to Scotland.” He examined the ticket. “And back again! That’s even better!”
“Wait a minute,” I said. “Who is Rory McDougal?” But even as I spoke, I thought the name was familiar.
“We were at school together, in the same class. Rory was
I like horror stories – but not when they happen to me. If you’ve read my other adventures, you’ll know that I’ve been smothered in concrete, thrown in jail with a dangerous lunatic, tied to a railway line, almost blown up, chased through a cornfield dodging machine-gun bullets, poisoned in Paris … and all this before my fourteenth birthday. It’s not fair. I do my homework. I clean my teeth twice a day. Why does everyone want to kill me?
But the worst thing that ever happened to me began on a hot morning in July. It was the first week of the summer holidays and there I was, as usual, stuck with my big brother Tim, the world’s most unsuccessful private detective. Tim had just spent a month helping with security at the American Embassy in Grosvenor Square and even now I’m not sure how he’d decided that there was a bomb in the ambassador’s car. Anyway, just as the ambassador was about to get in, Tim had grabbed hold of him and hurled him out of the way – which would have been heroic if there had been a bomb (there wasn’t) and if Tim hadn’t managed to throw the unfortunate man in front of a passing bus. The ambassador was now in hospital. And Tim was out of work.
So there we were at the breakfast table with Tim reading the morning post while I counted out the cornflakes. We were down to our last packet and it had to last us another week. That allowed us seventeen flakes each but as a treat I’d allowed Tim to keep the free toy. There was a handful of letters that morning and so far they’d all been bills.
“There’s a letter from Mum,” Tim said.
“Any money?”
“No…”
He quickly read the letter. It was strange to think that my mum and dad were still in Australia and that I would have been with them if I hadn’t slipped off the plane and gone to stay with Tim. My dad was a door-to-door salesman, selling doors. He had a house in Sydney with three bedrooms and forty-seven doors. It had been two years now since I had seen him.
“Mum says you’re welcome to visit,” Tim said. “She says the door is always open.”
“Which one?” I asked.
He picked up the last letter. I could see at once that this wasn’t a bill. It came in a square, white envelope made out of the sort of paper that only comes from the most expensive trees. The address was handwritten: a fountain-pen, not a biro. Tim weighed it in his hand. “I wonder what this is,” he said.
“It’s an envelope, Tim,” I replied. “It’s what letters come in.”
“I mean … I wonder who it’s from!” He smiled. “Maybe it’s a thank-you letter from the American ambassador.”
“Why should he thank you? You threw him under a bus!”
“Yes, but I sent him a bunch of grapes in hospital.”
“Just open it, Tim,” I said.
Tim grabbed hold of a knife, and – with a dramatic gesture – sliced open the mysterious envelope.
After we’d finished bandaging his left leg, we examined the contents. First, there was an invitation, printed in red ink on thick white card.
Dear Herbert
, it began. Tim Diamond was, of course, only the name he called himself. His real name was Herbert Simple.
It has been many years since we met, but I would like to invite you to a reunion of old boys and girls from St Egbert’s Comprehensive, which will take place from Wednesday 9th to Friday 11th July. I am sure you are busy but I am so keen to see you again that I will pay you £1,000 to make the journey to Scotland. I also enclose a ticket for the train.
Your old friend
,
Rory McDougal
Crocodile Island, Scotland
Tim tilted the envelope. Sure enough, a first-class train ticket slid out onto the table.
“That’s fantastic!” Tim exclaimed. “A first-class ticket to Scotland.” He examined the ticket. “And back again! That’s even better!”
“Wait a minute,” I said. “Who is Rory McDougal?” But even as I spoke, I thought the name was familiar.
“We were at school together, in the same class. Rory was
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