“Good luck, Alex,” he said. “Look after yourself.”
“Thank you, sir.”
The rest of the school party had been told that Alex had already left. Miss Bedfordshire had packed his bags for him, and everyone else had been too busy sorting out their own things to think about him any more. Only Tom knew that Alex was lying. They had been sharing a room in the hotel, and Alex’s passport was still on the bedside table. Acting on impulse, Tom had taken it with him. He had given Alex his brother’s address in Naples. There was still a chance he might show up there.
The scenery flashed past, as uninteresting as scenery nearly always becomes when seen through the grimy window of a train. Tom had parted company with the school party outside the hotel They were flying back to England. He had a ticket to Naples, where his brother would be waiting to meet him. He had about six hours to kill. There was a Game Boy in his backpack and a book—Northern Lights. Tom didn’t much like reading but everyone in his class had been told they had to get through at least one novel during the summer holidays.
There were just a few days left until the start of term and he was only on page seven.
He wondered what had happened to Alex. And why had Alex been so determined to break into the Widow’s Palace in the first place? As the train rattled on, leaving the outskirts of Venice behind, Tom thought about his friend. They had met two years ago. Tom—who was about half the size of anyone else in his year—had just been beaten up. This was something that seemed to happen to him quite often. In this case it was a bunch of sixteen- year-olds led by a boy called Michael Cook who had suggested he should use his lunch money to buy them cigarettes. Tom had politely refused and a short while later Alex had come across him sitting on the pavement, picking up his tattered books and wiping blood from his nose.
“You OK?”
“Yeah. I’ve got a broken nose. I’ve lost my lunch money. And they’ve told me they’re going to do it all again tomorrow. But otherwise I’m fine.”
“Mike Cook?”
“Yeah.”
“Maybe I should have a word with him.”
“What makes you think he’ll listen to you?”
“I’ve got a way with words.”
Alex had met the bully and two of his friends behind the bike shed the following day. It was a short meeting but Michael Cook never bothered anyone else again. It was also noticed that, for the following week, he limped and spoke in a strangely high-pitched voice.
That was the start of a close friendship. Tom and Alex lived near each other and often cycled home together.
They were in lots of teams together—despite his size, Tom was extremely quick on his feet. When Tom’s parents started talking about divorce, Alex was the only person he told.
In return, Tom probably knew more about Alex than anyone at Brookland. He had visited his house a few times and had met Jack, the cheerful, red-haired American girl who wasn’t exactly his nanny or housekeeper but seemed to be looking after him. Alex had no parents. Everyone knew that Alex had lived with his uncle—who must have been rich, judging from the house. But then he had died in a car accident. It had been announced in school assembly and Tom had gone round to the house a couple of times, hoping to find Alex, but he had never been in.
After that, Alex had changed. It had started with his first long absence from school in the spring term, and everyone assumed that he must have been knocked off balance by his uncle’s death. But then he had disappeared again in the summer term. There was no explanation. Nobody seemed to have any idea where he went. When the two of them had finally met again, Tom had been surprised how much his friend had changed.
He had been hurt. Tom had seen some of the scars. But Alex also seemed to have got a lot older. There was something in his eyes that hadn’t been there before, as if he had seen things he would never be able to forget.
And now this business in Venice! Maybe Miss Bedfordshire was right after all, and Alex really did need to see a shrink. Tom reached for his Game Boy, hoping to put the whole thing out of his mind. He knew he ought to continue with the book, and he promised himself he would go back to it in two or three hundred miles’ time …
after they had gone through Rome.
He became aware that someone was standing over him, and automatically fumbled for his ticket. He looked up and gaped. It was Alex.
He was dressed in old-fashioned jeans and a baggy jersey, both one size too big. He was dirty; his hair was matted and untidy. Tom glanced down and saw that he was barefoot. He looked worn out.
“Alex?” Tom was almost too shocked to speak.
“Hi.” Alex gestured to an empty seat. “Do you mind if I join you?”
“No. Sit down…” Tom had a whole table to himself—which was just as well. The other passengers were staring at Alex in horror. “How did you get here? What happened? Where did you get those clothes?” Suddenly the questions were tumbling out.
“I’m afraid I stole the clothes,” Alex confessed. “I nicked them off a washing line. I couldn’t get any shoes, though.”
“What happened to you last night? I saw you go into the palace. Did they find you?” Tom wrinkled his nose.
“Did you fall in a canal or something?”
Alex was too tired to answer any of his questions. “I’ve got a favour to ask you, Tom,” he said.
“Do you want me to hide you from the police?”
“I need to borrow some money. I couldn’t buy a ticket. And I’m going to have to get some new clothes.”
“That’s OK. I’ve got plenty of money.”
