Joe Knight Series - Books 1-3

1. The Birthday Present

1

THE BIRTHDAY PRESENT

I walked home on that Friday afternoon relieved to have put another week at Greenfields behind me. But I had no idea of the horror about to unfold.

Mum was in the kitchen baking when I walked in, and the smell conjured up the magic and excitement of all the best birthdays. In three days I would be thirteen, and I was looking forward to some good, thick icing to support all of those candles.

“Good day at school, Joe?”

I looked at her, despairingly. Mum had never attended that school, and if she had done perhaps she wouldn’t ask that question, let alone ask it five days a week. Dad had attended though, and he was still recovering from the experience. He claimed to have fought in the trenches at Greenfields High School, and to this day only ever referred to the place as Insanity High.

I preferred to call it Bullies’ Delight. It probably amounted to the same thing.

It was time for the truth. “Mum,” I said, “That … place is haunted, cursed and riddled with the darkest evil that ever walked the earth. There are no good days there.”

Mum laughed, though she hadn’t a single cruel bone in her body. “That imagination of yours,” she said. “It will land you in hot water one of these days, you mark my words.”

I dumped my school bag and went through to the living room.

For three days short of thirteen years I had lived in that house on Hope Street, and in all that time our living room had been dominated by a hideous wooden cabinet filled with even more hideous ornaments. It had been in our family for generations, apparently. But on that Friday afternoon, it was missing.

I wasn’t complaining. I’d never liked it. I couldn’t see the point of it. But it had always been there. And now it wasn’t.

Something funny was going on.

I went out into the hallway and found the thing parked outside the door to our rarely used front room.

I felt and then saw the shadow creeping.

Someone was standing behind me.

I turned around. “You don’t want to go in there,” said Dad, grinning like a graveyard lunatic.

“Oh,” I said. “And why’s that?”

He tapped his nose and winked at me. “Now that would be telling, Joe. That would be telling.”

* * *

The weekend was dismal and the rain relentless enough to keep me indoors. Dad spent most of the time talking to the cat, and even the cat was sick of it.

“What’s that?” he said, cupping his ear towards our long-suffering pet. “Joe’s birthday?” A glance in my direction was followed by a stage whisper into the cat’s ear. “Can you keep a secret?” Then a low whisper followed by laughter.

But the cat wasn’t laughing. And neither was I.

Enough was enough. “Dad, can I go out, please?”

I wished I’d gone shopping with Mum. It couldn’t have been any worse than watching my Dad holding a conversation with a cat.

“Why would you want to go out in this?” he said. “It’s chucking it down out there.”

“I’m bored.”

“Then why don’t you read a book?”

That was Dad’s answer to everything. Because he wrote books, he thought everybody else wanted to spend all their time reading them.

“What’s that?” He was pretending to listen to the cat again. “Yes, I’ll read you one later.”

The really worrying part being that it wouldn’t be the first time! I’d heard him reading to Doozy when he thought he was alone in the house. He denied it, of course, pretending that he was reading aloud to hear how it sounded. But I’d heard him asking our pet’s opinion too many times, telling him how brilliant his observations were and how he couldn’t manage without him. These days, Dad didn’t even bother to hide his madness. In fact he seemed to revel in it.

“What’s that? You’re not kidding there, Doozy. Some children don’t appreciate how lucky they are. I bet you wish it was your birthday.”

I doubted that. Doozy had an elastic band for his birthday that year, same as the year before and the last three Christmases.

“Can I go out if the rain stops?”

A flash of lightning was followed by a loud crash of thunder. I groaned and wondered if it was too early to go to bed.

Monday came and I was ready for it. Perhaps it was my turn for an elastic band. Yet I knew that ingratitude was the worst kind of meanness, and I was determined to put on a brave face.

I could hear them coming up the stairs. Then the door flew open and Mum burst into my bedroom singing, Happy Birthday. Dad followed close behind, strumming the worn-out yellow guitar that he’d kept as a souvenir from his student days. In a moment there was an assortment of cards and packages littering my bed, Doozy taking it all in and no doubt wondering where his elastic band had got to.

There was a lot of talk at school about the latest games and even trips to Disneyland. Some of my class were on their second and third trips to Florida. Dad always said that you couldn’t beat a tent, a good fire, and a can of baked beans.

I looked at the packages and recognised an all-too-familiar shape. A dozen or more examples of that all-too-familiar shape, in fact.

“Well, dear,” said Mum, “people asked what you were into and we said you can’t go wrong with a good book, isn’t that right, Dad?”

Dad agreed. “People don’t know what to get a thirteen-year-old boy these days, do they, Mum?”

I could have told them.

All they had to do was ask.

I opened the first seven books before catching the pair of them exchanging glances. Then Dad coughed unnecessarily. “Actually, there is something else,” he said. “But you’ll have to come downstairs.”

I followed them down.

The cabinet was no longer blocking the door to the front room, which explained why Dad was holding his back like a bone had come loose. They waited for me outside the front room door. I’d never seen them looking so excited.

“After you, son,” said Dad.

Placing my hand on the door knob, my heart became a ticking bomb.

“Go on in, son,” said Mum.

“Happy birthday,” said Dad.

Opening the door, I went inside … and saw it.

“Isn’t it amazing?” said Mum.

“What do you say to that?” said Dad.

I didn’t know what to say. Words failed me and all I could do was blink, then blink some more.

“It won’t bite,” said Dad

“He’s too excited to speak,” said Mum.

“So what do you think?” they asked in unison.

“I … I …”

“Only fifty quid,” said Dad.

“Dad!” said Mum.

“It’s …”

“Yes …?” said two strange parents.

“A piano?”

“Full marks,” said Mum.

“The boy’s a genius,” said Dad.

“Why?” I asked. “What have I done to deserve it?”

“I had a piano for my thirteenth,” said Mum.

“I had a potato g*n for mine,” said Dad. “Pity we couldn’t afford the potatoes.”

Mum lifted up the lid and started banging out some ancient tune first played at a dinosaur’s funeral. The piano was twice the size of the one in Mr Handel’s music classroom, but where his was white and shiny, this was scrapyard brown.

Then I remembered something. Mr Handel asking me to stay behind after class. “Well, Mr Knight,” he’d said. “A little birdie tells me you’ve started having piano lessons.”

At Greenfields High, no boy was stupid enough to risk having piano lessons, not if he valued his life. A boy in the year above had recently had three fingers broken for having private music lessons.

I told Mr Handel the truth. I had no intention of taking up the piano. He told me that was a shame and let it go, and I’d forgotten about it.

As Mum continued to bash out her ancient tune, and Dad stood grinning like he was waiting for his brain to come back from the cleaners, I realised what had been going on. It had been the parent-teacher evening. Mr Handel and my parents had obviously been talking, and everybody had got the wrong end of the stick.

My head was spinning. If they think for one moment that I’m going to start having lessons!

“And that’s not the whole of your present,” said Dad.

Mum stopped playing. “It certainly isn’t,” she said.

I guessed what was coming.

“We’re including,” said Mum, “a course of lessons to get you started. You’re booked in at six o’clock this evening.”

I was unable to speak.

“Well, say something,” said Dad.

“He’s too excited,” said Mum. Then she screamed. “Look at the time! You’re going to be late for school.”

I threw on the midnight-black uniform and raced out of the house. Greenfields was waiting.

If - IF - I could keep my birthday a secret until home time, then maybe - MAYBE - I could survive the day.

But I didn’t much fancy my chances.