What Abigail Did Tha Summer, Ben Aaronovitch [if you give a mouse a cookie read aloud txt] 📗

up, it wasn’t Simon’s mum, who is now showing her a laminated photo ID which she slips back into her jacket before I can get a good look.

Lady Fed is made of sterner stuff, because she holds up a hand to stop Simon’s mum in her tracks and turns to me.

‘This woman cannot be your appropriate adult,’ she says.

‘Why not?’ I ask.

‘Because it would be inappropriate,’ she says.

‘Why’s that, then?’ I ask.

Lady Fed mentally reviews her answers and realises that she doesn’t have an objection she can say out loud. So she smoothly changes tack, which is well slick and I get a better opinion of her.

‘Don’t you think one of your parents would be more suitable?’ she asks.

I look at Simon’s mum again – her face is a total mask. It’s actually kind of cool how mask-like her face is. I wish I could do a face like that. Like not all the time, right? But just when I need it. You know. On special occasions.

‘She is suitable,’ I say. ‘A responsible person aged eighteen or over who is not a police officer or a person employed by the police.’

As set out in Section 38 (4)(a) Crime and Disorder Act 1998 – but I’ve learnt the hard way not to quote statutes at the Feds. They don’t like it and it makes them suspicious.

Lady Fed shrugs and turns to Simon’s mum.

‘She’s all yours,’ she says.

Simon’s mum settles in the chair beside me. The detective opens her mouth but before she can speak Simon’s mum turns on me and, baring her teeth, snarls.

‘You little wretch,’ she says. ‘Where’s my son?’

2

The Lost Boy

‘Hello,’ he says. ‘What’s your name?’

‘He’ is a good-looking white boy, taller than me but about my age. Dark brown hair, big face, blue eyes under long lashes. He’s dressed in a pair of cargo shorts and a bright red polo shirt. He looks like he should smell of shampoo and money.

I give him the look, but he just waits patiently for me to answer.

This vexes me – the look usually works – but it also makes me curious.

‘What’s your name?’ I ask.

He smiles, showing perfect white teeth.

‘Simon,’ he says.

We are standing at the entrance to Hampstead Heath at the point where Parliament Hill Road ends. Despite it being morning, the heat has bleached the colour out of the air and made my scalp dry and itchy under my Rasta hat.

I tell Simon my name and he says it back to me as if I’m a teacher and we’re in class.

‘Abigail,’ he says. ‘Pleased to meet you.’

I deliberately don’t respond but he’s just gazing at me expectantly as if he’s waiting for instructions. It’s bare creepy but also interesting. I know if I walk away the mystery’s going to vex me forever.

I look around to see if maybe there’s an appropriate adult nearby, a nanny maybe, chatting on their mobile now she’s away from the mother and not paying attention. But there’s no one obviously nanny-ish around, and anyway Simon is too old to need one.

A skinny white woman jogs past us in a pair of red short shorts and a yellow Lycra top, her legs bending awkwardly inwards as she goes. Following her is a dachshund, wheezing in the heat as it tries to keep up. We both watch the poor dog go past.

‘That lady needs a bigger dog,’ says Simon.

‘Or maybe pull it along on a trolley,’ I say.

‘Dog on a skateboard,’ says Simon, and just like that we’re friends.

For the day at least.

‘Were you waiting for someone?’ I ask.

‘Jessica,’ he says and smiles, which then fades into a frown. ‘But she didn’t come.’

Now this is interesting to me, because I was supposed to meet someone in the same spot. A girl from my old primary school called Natali, who I hadn’t seen for ages but suddenly turned up round my flats. Which is weird since I didn’t think she knew anyone from my ends. Her mum and dad were both media types and had got her into Marylebone when I went to Burghley. She ran over and hugged me when she saw me and asked to come in for tea, but Paul was being a bit rowdy just then so we ended up in a café instead. Natali paid, which normally I mind, but to be honest I was too glad to be out of the flat to object.

‘We’re having an event,’ she said.

‘What kind of an event?’ I asked.

‘A happening,’ she said, and before I could point out that a ‘happening’ was just a synonym for ‘event’ and just as short of actual information, she explained. They was going to have a ‘happening’ on Hampstead Heath, all kids from the area with food, drink, dancing, billiards, music and dressing up.

‘And dancing,’ said Natali once more for emphasis, which just showed she didn’t really remember me that well. After she’d given me the time and place of the ‘happening’ and cut, I stayed in the café and made some notes in my Falcon diary. Peter gave me my first one because he knew that getting me involved in magic was the only way to keep me out of trouble. This one was diary number three, but only because I write small.

Natali had been talking in a weird sing-song voice, which was causing all sorts of proximity warnings to go off in my head. Now, maybe going to posh school makes you talk like you’re guesting on Tikkabilla,1 but I thought it was worth a bit of investigation. Something I could show Peter when he got back from the middle of nowhere. Me and Simon are standing where we’re supposed to be, but no Natali and no Jessica. And def no ‘happening’ happening. Given we’ve been there ages, I’m wondering if I should wait longer to see if anybody else turns up.

Simon is still smiling and seems content to wait forever. I’m not, but Natali never gave me her number so I can’t text or nothing.

‘I was