JAMES PATRICK

CHAPTER 2

And now here he was. In an Italian square. Three days of the trip had already gone by and he had found nothing.

“James you Fancy an ice cream?”

“No. I’m alright.”

“I’m hot. I’m going to get one of those things you told me about. What did you cal it? A Granada or something…”

James was standing beside another fourteen year old boy who happened to be his closest friend at Brookland. He had been surprised to hear that Bob Stanice was going to be on the trip, as Bob wasn’t exactly interested in art or history. Bob wasn’t interested in any school subjects and was regularly bottom in everything. But the best thing about him was that he didn’t care. He was always cheerful, and even the teachers had to admit that he was fun to be with. And what Bob lacked in the classroom, he made up for it on the sports field. He was captain of the school football team and James’ main rival o. Sports day, beating him at hurdles, four hundred metres and the pole vault. Bob was small for his age, with spiky black hair and bright blue eyes. He wouldn’t have Ben found dead in a museum, so why was he here? James soon found out. Bob’s parents were going through a messy divorce, and they had packed him off to get him out of the way.

“It’s a granite,” James said. It was what he always ordered when he was in Italy: crushed ice with fresh lemon juice squeezed all over it. It was halfway between an ice cream and a drink and there was nothing in the world more refreshing.

“Come on. You can order it for me. When I ask anyone for anything in Italian they just stare at me like I’m mad.”

In fact, James only spoke a few phrases himself. Italian was one language Tommy Patrick hadn’t taught him. Even so, he went with Bob and ordered two ices from a shop near the market stalls, one for Bob and one Bob insisted for himself. Bob had plenty of money. His parents had showered him with euros before he left.

“Are you going to be at school this term?” he asked.

James shrugged. “of course.”

“You were hardly there last term or the the term before.”

“I was ill.”

Bob nodded. He was wearing a Diesel light sensitive sunglasses that he had bought at Heathrow duty free. They were too big for his face and kept slipping down his nose. “You do realize that no one believes that,” he commented.

“Why not?”

“Because nobody’s that I’ll. It’s just not possible.” Bob lowered his voice. “There’s a rumor you’re a thief,” he confided.

“What?”

“That’s why you’re away so much. You’re in trouble with the police.”

“Is that what you think?”

“No. But Miss Clinton asked me about you.

She knows we’re mates. She said you got in to trouble once for nicking a crane or something. She heard about that from someone and she thinks you’re on therapy .”

“Therapy?” James staggered.

“Yeah. She’s quite sorry for you. She thinks that’s why you have to go away so much. You know to see a shrink.”

Clara Clinton was the school secretary, an attractive woman in her twenties. She had come on the trip too, as she did every year. James could see her now on the other side of the square, talking to Mr Craig . A lot of people said there was something going on between them, but James guessed the rumor was probably as accuratr as the one about him.

A clock chimed twelve. In half an hour they would have lunch at the hotel where they were staying. Brookland School was an ordinary West London comprehensive and they’d decided to keep costs down by staying outside Venice. Mr Craig had chosen a hotel in the little town of San Lorenzo, Just ten minute away by train. Every morning they’d arrive at the station and take the water bus in to heartod the city. But not today. This was Sunday and they had the morning off.

“So are you” Bob began. He broke off. It had happened very quickly but both boys had seen it.

On the opposite side of the square a motorbike had surged forward. It was a Vespa Gran turismo, almost brand new, with two men riding it. They were both dressed in jeans and loose, long sleeved shirts. The passenger had on a visored helmet, as much as to hide his identity as to protect him if they crashed. The drive wearing sunglasses steered towards Miss Clinton, as if he intended to run her over. But, a split second before contact, he veered away. At the same time the man riding pillion reached out and snatched her hand bag. It was done so neatly that James knew the two men were professionals scippatori as they were known in Italy. Bag snatchers.

Some of the other pupils had seen it too. One or two were shouting and pointing, but there was nothing they could do. The bike was already accelerating away. The driver was crouched low over the handlebars; his partner was cradling the leather bag in his laps. They were speeding diagonally across the square, heading towards James and Bob. A few moments before, there had been people everywhere, but suddenly the centre of the square was empty and there was nothing to prevent their escape. “James!” Bob shouted.

“ Stay back,” James warned. He briefly considered blocking the Vespa’s path. But it was hopeless.

The driver would easily be able to swerve round him, and if he choose not to, James really would spend the following term in hospital. The bike was already doing 20miles per hour, it’s single cylinder four stroke engine carrying the two thieves effortlessly towards him. James certainly wasn’t going to stand in it’s way.

He looked around him, wondering if there was something he could throw. A net? A bucket of water? But there was no net and the fountain was too far away, although there were buckets…

The bike was less than twenty metres away, accelerating all the time. James sprinted and snatched a bucket from the flower stall, emptied it, scattering dried flowers across the pavement, and filled it with bird seed from the stall next door. Both stall owners were shouting something at him but he ignore them. Without stopping he swung round and hurled the seed at the Vespa just as it was about to flash past him. Bob watched first in amazement, then with disappointment. If James had thought the great shower of seed would knock the two men off the bike,? He’d been mistaken. They were continuing regardless.

But that hadn’t been his plan.

There must have been two or three hundred pigeons in the square and all of them had seen the seed spraying out of the bucket. The two riders were covered in it. Seed had lodged in the folds of their clothes, u dear their collars and in the sides of their shoes. There was a small pile of it caught in the driver’s crotch. Some had fallen in to Miss Clinton’s bag; some had become trapped in the driver’s hair.

For the pigeons, the bag thieves had suddenly become a meal on wheels. With a soft explosion of grey feathers, they came swooping down, diving on to the two men from all directions. Suddenly the driver had a bird clinging to the side of his face, it’s beak hammering at his head, ripping the seed out of his hair. There was another pigeon at his throat, and a third between his legs, pecking at the most sensitive area of all. His passenger had two on his neck, another hanging off his shirt, and another half buried in the stolen bag. And more we’re joining in. There must have been at least twenty five pigeons, flapping and batting around them, a swirling cloud of feathers, claws and triggered by greed and excitement, flying splatters of white birds droppings.

The driver was blinded. One hand clutched the handlebars, the other tore at his face. As James watched, the bike performed a hundred and eight degree turn so that now it was coming back, heading straight towards them, moving faster than ever. For a moment he stood poised, waiting to hurl himself aside. It looked as if he was going to be run over. But then the bike served a second time and now it was heading for the fountain, the two men barely visible in a cloud of beating wings. The front wheel hit the fountain’s edge and the bike crumpled. Both men were thrown off. The birds scattered. In the brief pause before he hit the water, the man riding pillion yelled and let go of the handbag. Almost in slow motion, the bag arced through the air. James took two steps and caught it.

And then it was all over. The two thieves were a tangled heap, half submerged in cold water. The Vespa was lying, buckled and broken, on the ground. Two policemen, who had arrived when it was almost too late, we’re hurrying towards them.

The stall owners were laughing and applauding. Bob was staring. James went over to Miss Clinton and gave her the bag.

“I think this is yours,” he said.

“James …” Miss Clinton was lost for words.

“How …?”

“It was just something I picked up in therapy,” James said.

He turned and walked back to his friend.