The Birth of Venus

A 'Catherine Lock, Art Restorer' novel

 First published 2009
This edition 2010

Text copyright © Kelley Townley, 2009

All rights reserved

The moral right of the author has been asserted

Second Edition.

ISBN: 1-448-66311-3
EAN-13: 978-1-448-66311-8

All characters in this publication are purely fictitious

and any resemblance to real person's living or dead
is purely coincidental.

No part of this book may be reproduced,

in any form or by any means, without
prior consent of the author.

Happy reading!
 Prologue

Taking out the day’s frustrations on the faded red leather

I notice my knuckles are bleeding.
I stop to examine the cracked raw skin. Norio keeps
telling me to wear gloves but that would be like cheating.
How can you truly experience something if you’ve got a
safety net?
However to save getting blood on the punch bag I
change to kicking – five snaps, five side kicks and one
roundhouse. Swap sides, and do it again.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
The rhythm keeps me sane. Concentrating on the flow of
energy from my muscles I forget about my life. My
thoughts blur into nothingness and for those precious few
moments it's almost like I cease to exist.
1
 Thump. Thump. Thump.
No arguments with Mum.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
No Damon messing with my head at school.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
No regrets about Dad...
Thud...Chink.
Ooops. Too rough.
Norio comes gliding over - he may be ancient but he still
moves like a cat.
“You not careful, you bring my whole gym down,” he
says in his strong Japanese accent. “Time you go home.”
I scuff my feet. Home. Great. No place I’d rather be.
Norio looks at me sadly. “Do not worry, Neko Chan.
Nothing ever stay same. Always change coming.”
Yeah, I could do with a change.
No. I need a change. Before something in me snaps.
I jump, spin and deliver a final fatal blow to the much
abused punch bag.

2
 1
A naked woman with long red hair is standing in a giant
seashell. She looks wistful as it washes ashore. From the
trees a woman hurries forward with a flowing red cloak
ready to greet her. On the left, two winged figures blow
like the wind.
It’s a massive painting.
I’m thinking it must be a real pain to move.
Lost in the beautiful art work I don’t notice until too late
that Damon has stuck a pen down my front. My initial
inclination is to grab him in a Wado Ryu neck lock, kick
his legs out from under him and force him to the ground -
from where he’d apologize and promise never to touch me
again.
But of course I can’t.
Everyone knows I’ve been teetering on the brink of
expulsion ever since... Well, ever since last summer. One
more misdemeanor and I'm out – not that that would
probably be such a bad thing.
So, anyway, no, I don’t reach for Damon and make
mincemeat of his face. Instead I take a deep breath and try
counting to ten - just like Norio taught me.
“I'm so sorry Catherine,” Damon says in mock horror.
“Total accident. Here let me get it...”
My hand snaps out, inches from his nose and he raises a
smug eyebrow at me.
“No thank you,” I smile through gritted teeth. “I can
manage.”
Sighing with resignation I reach into my school blouse to
retrieve the pen. He watches with glee as I have to
rummage around in my cleavage.
“I'll just take that back now,” he says, eying the warm
3
Biro in my hand.
My cheeks flush with a mixture of anger and
embarrassment, while everyone else just titters at me.
Ignoring him I turn on my heels and look for a bin to
dump the pen, and preferably Damon, into. It’d be dead
easy - basic Judo body drop, over the shoulder and SLAM
into the rubbish. But unfortunately art galleries don't have
many bins.
We're in the National Gallery in London and Mrs Adams,
our substitute teacher and group guide, calls us over. It’s
just typical that out of the three groups we were split into I
get put in the one with Damon and the know-nothing
teacher.
“Okay, everyone. Gather round,” Mrs Adams calls
enthusiastically. “This is the main exhibition we’ve come
to see. 500 years of the painter Sandro 'Bottyselly'.”
“Bot-a-chelly,” I pronounce correctly under my breath,
wishing I could go off on my own. Bet the do-gooder who
sent our school free tickets is regretting it now.
“Let’s look at the painting Catherine was just admiring,
shall we?” says Mrs Adams.
Reluctantly the group shuffles towards the painting of
the naked woman on the seashell. Our feet are noisy on
the polished wooden floorboards.
“This is one of Botty-sellys most famous paintings,” Mrs
Adams explains. “It’s called The Birth of Venus.”
Well, at least she got the title right.
“Rather see a picture of Uranus,” Damon smirks and
everyone laughs.
Mrs Adams' eyes bulge and she drops the guidebook all
in a fluster.
Who would have thought - teenage boys and crude
humor?
4
 In a lame attempt to recover her adult dignity she starts
spouting trivia, “Venus is the Greek goddess of war.”
Sadly she’s wrong. Normally I'd let the animals of my
school eat her alive whilst remaining in my corner of
obscurity but not today. Not in front of the painting.
“Venus is the Roman goddess of love,” I say out loud.
“And it's Bot-a-chelly, not Botty-selly. In this painting he's
showing us the ultimate female beauty. The perfect
woman.”
Silence.
Then my fellow classmates tut and pull faces at my usual
display of weirdness. I really should learn to keep my
mouth shut.
Damon, however, seems to be thinking it over. “That
makes sense,” he nods. “Except, if she’s the perfect
woman, why aren’t her tits as big as yours?”
My fists clench. I imagine busting Damon’s nose with my
knee.
Deep breath. Nice deep breaths.
But it’s not working.
“I can’t believe they let people like you in here!”
Everyone stares at me blankly.
"What did I say?" says Damon innocently.
“Oh forget it,” I snap and stomp away.
I sail past the gallery attendant, obviously drawn to the
now raucous laughter coming from our group, and cool
my temper by looking at the muted browns and deep
shocking blue of another Botticelli.
I listen to the group leaving and return to offer The Birth
of Venus my apologies. Hmmm, although maybe Damon
was on to something because the Goddess presented here
is certainly no super model. Those are some seriously
sloppy shoulders, her neck's way too long, and she's in
5
major need of a good pedicure. Nice hair though.
I realize a man has stepped up beside me, a little too
close for comfort. He's tall and dark with shiny olive skin
and way too much gel in his stark black hair.
I hope he doesn’t talk to me.
“A real beauty,” he says.
Crap.
“Most people,” he continues, “can only see the surface,
si? The paint, the brush-strokes. But to us it is more. We
see with our hearts what they can’t see with their eyes. We
see what was in the artist’s mind as they painted it, like
looking into their souls. It is a moving experience, no?”
Oh, he's foreign. That's why he's weird.
I mean, I know I look older than my fifteen years (well,
technically still only fourteen until next Thursday) but
surely the navy blue jumper with school logo gives it
away? Adults don't talk to school children. It's like
forbidden.
I decide to just nod.
The man carries on regardless. “I have waited a long time
for this exhibition. It has a special relevance to me.
Botticelli was a remarkable painter, don’t you think?”
A mumbling sound falls out of my mouth.
Please go away, please go away...
“Wouldn’t you just love to steal her away and keep her
for yourself?” he smiles, undeterred. “I wonder how
would you do it?”
He looks at me expectantly.
“Er... Do what?” I frown.
“Steal it.”
Steal it? Crikey. “I dunno,” I shrug.
“Come now,” he encourages. “You look a bright girl. Just
for fun. Think if you were to steal this magnificent
6
painting, how would you do it?”
I look at the massive piece of art and try to imagine just
lifting it off the wall.
“It’s so big,” I mumble. “And all this security.”
“Yes. You’d have to be very clever about it, no? Maybe
sneak in at night and gas all the guards unconscious?”
“No!” I snort. “That’s for the movies. You’d need to...”
It’s a silly game, pretending to mastermind a crime, but
my mind is suddenly whirring with ideas.
“...got it! You'd have to go to the curator's house and tie
him up or something. Then forge the paperwork... No!
Wait. This is a much better idea. Pretend to be a
policeman. Tell the gallery you’ve had a tip-off. Possible
terrorist attack. Get them to help you move the painting
for safety reasons, putting it somewhere easier to steal
from – too much security in here. Then you'd break in later
and take it. Yes. That's it.”
I smile, pleased with myself.
“Ah yes, that's a very good idea. But then how would you
get it out of the building? You couldn’t just carry it.”
“Nooo,” I muse. “It’s linen canvas over 500 years old,
you’d need to be very, very careful.”
“You’d have to use a proper air conditioned vehicle.”
I nod. “Yes. One of those proper art courier vans. Maybe
hire one or better yet steal it. Oh! Oh! If you stole one from
the loading bay right here you could fiddle the paperwork
and no one would know you'd taken it. Maybe, if you
were really clever, you could even swap it with a painting
that is supposed to be going somewhere else and totally
cover your tracks.”
The man nods, obviously impressed. “Very good. And
then what would you do with it?”
“Hmmm... Well, I'd probably just give it right back and
7
say 'look after it better!' or something. It'd be no good to
me,” I laugh.
“What a waste,” the man pouts. “I'd take it back right
back home to Italy.”
“Is that where you're from?” I ask.
“Me? No. I am from Spain. But the painting belongs to
Italy.”
“Oh.”
The man looks at me. “Shall we do it?”
“What, steal The Birth of Venus? Of course not. If you want
a copy maybe you should get a poster from the shop,” I
advise wisely.
The man gives me a look I can’t quite describe. It’s almost
a parental look, like when they know their kid is about to
do something wrong and then the kid goes ahead and
does it - kind of a sad face twinged with a hint of affection,
mixed with smugness.
“It has been a pleasure, Catherine,” he says, then shocks
me senseless by raising my hand to his lips and planting a
kiss on it! Once released I can’t help but wipe my hand on
the back of my trousers.
“Maybe we will meet again,” he smiles before departing.
Jeez, I hope not.

2
It’s at least a couple of hours back to Bicester from
London and I am not looking forward to the journey. No
one ever wants to sit by me. As we wait to board the coach
I pace in the cool October air and comfort myself with
thoughts of going to class this evening. Norio has finally
promised to show me how to use a sai. I imagine holding
the pair of giant metal forks in my hands and testing their
weight. I've been waiting ages for...
8
 “Ow!” I shout as someone pulls out my hair-tie and long
brown hair falls annoyingly into my face.
Of course it’s Damon. Constantly buzzing around me like
an annoying bee. He really needs to learn to stop pushing
me or one day it’ll be a short sharp kick to the groin, or the
heel of my palm into his face. He’ll finally get his
comeuppance and...
I’ll get expelled.
Huffing, I use both hands to pull my hair back into its
usual high ponytail. Which is when Damon reaches out
and makes a grab for my unprotected middle. I step back
instinctively.
“Don’t,” I warn him.
“Oh, come on,” Damon laughs. “I was just going to spin
you.”
“Just leave it,” I snarl as Mrs Smart, our Head of Art,
starts loading us on. Damon backs down but there’s still a
little mischievous glint in his eye that I’d love to slap right
out of him.
I hang back and am the last person to skulk onto the
coach. As I look down the aisle I realize there are no
empty seats. Which is weird because I had one on the way
down. Oh Lord please don't make me sit with a teacher!
“Come along, Catherine,” Mrs Smart says impatiently.
Hesitating I say, “I don't think there's a seat.”
She sighs and peers over my shoulder.
“There’s a spare seat beside me,” bellows a voice from the
back and my stomach plummets.
“There you are. You can sit next to Damon,” says Mrs
Smart.
She's eye-balling me but I'm not moving. There is no way
I am sitting next to Damon.
My teacher bristles. “We’re already running late,
9
Catherine. Just sit in the seat.”
Fine. Great. Just marvelous. Perfect end to the perfect
day.
I move slowly towards the back of the coach. Maybe
there’s a space I missed? Everyone looks at me as I walk
by. I attempt a few smiles in return, hoping for some offer
of friendship - I could bunk up on the edge of someone’s
seat, no problem. But no one offers. It’s strange how
everyone always seems so intimidated by me. I’m not that
scary, am I? I mean, I can’t be if Damon’s so eager to tease
me.
Currently he's lounging in his throne, the middle seat of
the back row, watching my approach with delight. I’m
taking my time and only two thirds there when the coach
pulls away from the kerb. The sudden jolt sends me flying
and I fall at his feet.
“No need to throw yourself at me,” Damon declares
humorously.
“Don’t start,” I frown, getting up.
“Aw, don't be like that,” he says, patting the spare seat
next to him. “Sit down and we'll have some fun.”
“Forget it,” I say, hauling Mark out of his seat by the
window so that I get the window seat and Mark has to sit
next to Damon.
Damon looks a bit put out, but Mark soon brings out his
phone to show off some daring skateboard footage and
people gather round. I gladly lean my head against the
cool glass and watch the world go by. Soon this journey
will be over. Soon I can just get on with my life. The real
me. Not this pseudo rubbish I have to put up with at
school.
It takes ages to get home but finally we hit the dual
carriageway at the edge of town. Not far now. I must be in
10
a right daze because it takes me a full second to realize
something is tugging at my blouse.
“What did you just do?” I demand as Damon retreats.
He’s holding Mark’s camera phone and everyone’s
crowding around it.
“We’re playing this game,” Damon smiles at me.
“Everyone closes their eyes, then the one with the camera
takes a picture of a body part. Then we guess whose body
it is.”
My eyes go wide. “You took a picture of...”
“Yep, but sadly it’s a bit fuzzy.”
A menacing look must pass over my face because Mark
jumps in, “Oh, come on, Catherine, it’s just a picture.
Claire let me stick the camera up her skirt.”
Claire would.
“Give it here,” I snap at Damon.
“No way,” he grins.
“Look. I’m not going to break it or anything. I just want
to make sure it’s deleted.”
“It’s not like everyone doesn’t see your big boobs every
day anyway, the way you flaunt them around,” says
Claire.
I flash angry eyes at her. I so do not flaunt them.
“You can’t see anything,” insists Mark. “It’s just fuzz.”
“We’ll replace it with a picture of your actual fuzz if
you’d rather,” Damon suggests.
I spring forward and grapple with him for the phone.
He's got a good grip and I'm trying to reach the delete
button.
“Come on Catherine,” whines Mark.
“You are such a spoilt witch,” tuts Claire.
Damon and I are practically rolling on the seat together
in our fight for the phone, our legs are entwined and our
11
faces are nearly touching.
“Gimme!” I say.
“And waste this perfect opportunity? No way.”
“Opportunity?”
His lips smack into my face like a wet fish. My mouth,
which was part open in surprise, gets a jab of tongue.
I'm totally frozen. Totally and utterly statuesque.
Then I feel something squeeze my left breast and
everything changes. The conscious side of my brain -
which is currently wide-eyed and useless in the situation -
is suddenly elbowed out of the way by something else,
something more primeval. I feel my face flow from
shocked rabbit into dangerous tiger; my eyes becoming
dark and hooded. A small smile even appears. He’s finally
done it. He’s finally pushed me over the edge and I’m
glad.
Surprise, and possibly regret, shows on Damon’s face just
before he goes flying backwards into the aisle, the heel of
my right hand planted in his chest. Before he’s even hit the
floor I’m on him.
Claire screams.
We hit the floor together and his breath escapes. My knee
in his belly. The other leg pins him to the ground and I
pull back my fist, ready to deliver a deadly leopard blow.
“How about this for an opportunity?” I practically growl.
I am aware of nothing but the fear in his eyes. He’s been
teasing me for so long now that my heart delights in his
ultimate vulnerability. Just me and him. I could make him
pay in so many delicious ways. I could make it last
seconds or hours. I could make his idea of our flesh
touching turn from barely controlled desire to morbid
dread...
But it’s not just me and him.
12
 It’s me and him, and school, and home and
consequences.
The world comes flooding back to me as silence. No
shouting, no mumbling, no breathing. Not even an engine.
Mrs Smart and Mr Lloyd hover just down the aisle. The
look of utter horror on their faces tells me quite clearly I’ve
gone too far.
Everyone is just waiting. Shocked. I’m shocked myself. I
look back down into Damon’s contorted face and feel
ashamed. Norio will never forgive me. And now, after last
time, I really will be expelled. Maybe even the police will
be called. An assault charge?
My head is buzzing: thoughts and feelings and tired
frustrations. I just want to screw everything up and shrink
it down to nothing, make it disappear, make me
disappear...
Impulsively I leap over Damon’s body and bang open the
emergency door of the coach; jumping down into the road.
A couple of cars beep at me but I’m already running. I
don’t look back. Nobody’s going to follow me across three
lanes of traffic - hell, I wouldn’t even follow me! I’ve
totally lost it. On the last lane a car brakes so sharply that I
have to slide over the bonnet. I land neatly on the
pavement and the driver mouths off at me.
I don’t look back at him either. I just keep running,
wishing I wasn’t. Wishing I’d stayed on the bus. Wishing
I’d never hit Damon. Wishing I’d sat somewhere else.
Wishing I’d missed the trip. Wishing I hadn’t gone to
school today. Wishing I’d never been born.

3
I run hard until my pulse is in my throat and my hand is
on our garden gate. I’m a little surprised to find myself
13
home. Why would I turn here for support? It’s one of the
problems. But then where else would I go? I push open the
gate and hesitate.
Well, actually, there is somewhere else. My last refuge.
Norio’s. I’d be early of course but he wouldn’t mind. I
could get started on my lesson in using the sai. Yes,
excellent idea!
I turn around to leave, then remember I haven’t got my
kit. Or my wallet. Or anything else for that matter. My bag
is still on the bus with all those staring faces. Nice one
Catherine. Here’s hoping no one steals anything from it.
Not that I have anything worth stealing. I don’t even own
a phone for pity’s sake.
Irritably, I push through the gate to get my spare kit.
Luckily I’m a practical kind of girl and have hidden a
spare set of house keys in the front garden. Mum would
never approve, but then she never approves of anything.
I find the keys where I left them and edge delicately into
the hallway. I don’t know if Mum will be in or not, but she
certainly won’t be expecting me home this early. Not only
because of the school trip, but also my extra-curricular
activities. Of course she thinks I take art classes rather than
martial art classes - something else she’s never approved
of.
Just as I put my hand on the banister, ready to sprint up
to my room and grab that spare kit, the sitting-room door
flies open and Mum pins me with a stare.
I look longingly up the stairs. “I'm in a hurry. Forgot
something for class. Talk later?”
“You’re not going anywhere,” Mum snaps. “School just
rang.”
My hand drops off the banister and flops to my side. Idly
I wonder what they said. Maybe it'll be okay. Maybe
14
people said Damon started it. Maybe they'll blame him
and not me...
“I can’t believe you’d do this, Catherine,” she says.
Or maybe not.
“I thought you were mature for your age? she continues.
“I never ever thought you'd stoop so low as to become a
bully!”
“You what?” Where the hell did that come from? What
have Damon and the others been saying about me?
“And I know all about your supposed art classes,” she
accuses. “School said there are no art classes. You’ve still
been going to that horrid fighting place, haven’t you?
HAVEN'T YOU?”
I concentrate very hard on the frayed end of my school
jumper as she goes on and on.
“...All this time you’ve been lying to me. I told you no
more fighting. No more violence. Look where it leads.
Beating people up. Getting expelled!”
At that one word, expelled, a weight seems to suddenly
lift off my shoulders.
Could I really be expelled? Imagine never having to walk
through those school gates again. Never having to sit on
my own all the time. No more Damon. I could go to a new
school, where no one knows me. Start again. Make some
friends. This could actually be the best thing that’s ever
happened to me.
“I had to plead with them to let you stay,” says Mum.
My heart falls and shatters.
No, of course I’m not expelled. Nothing good ever
happens to me.
She clocks the look on my face. “Are you disappointed?
Did you want to be expelled?”
“You know I hate it,” I mumble. “You never listen to me.”
15
 “I listen plenty. What you don’t seem to understand is
just how serious being expelled would be. It’d be on all
your school records, affecting job interviews and any
future...”
“WHO CARES ABOUT THE FUTURE WHEN I’M IN A
LIVING HELL RIGHT NOW!” I shout.
“Look, I know every little thing feels like the end of the
world to you at the moment, but when you’re older, you’ll
think differently.”
“You don’t have a clue,” I snap.
“You think you’re the only person who’s ever had a
tough time? I was at school once too, you know.”
“Not at my school. Not as me. You may have been fifteen
once but you weren’t ME!”
“You are not fifteen yet, young lady.”
“One week,” I shout. “One more week and then it’s only
a year before I’m sixteen and then I’ll be free. I'll be outta
here in a flash.”
“Oh yeah? Then we’ll see how well you cope in the real
world. See how bad school seems then!”
I fly up the stairs. What’s the point? I manage to reach
the landing before my eyes betray me and I start crying.
Once in my room I can’t help but slam the door. She didn’t
even ask me for my side of the story. How could my own
mum not know me well enough to know I'd never bully
someone? It's so unfair!
I try and walk across the room but it’s like chains are
holding me back, weighing me down. I catch myself in the
mirror: watery amber eyes in sad puffy cheeks peer
uselessly back. A scared little face. I HATE ME! I’m stupid
and ugly and useless. The only thing I can do is fight and
that’s the one thing I’m not allowed to do.
The image suddenly splinters into a million fragments.
16
My foot sits neatly in the middle of the impact. I didn’t
even know I was doing it. That’s a bad sign.
Really bad.
I need to see Norio.
Tearing off my stupid school uniform, I replace it with a
gray hooded sweatshirt and mauve combats. I grab my
spare kit and turn to the window. My eyes track the route:
garage roof, next door’s garden, alley. I glance back at my
bedroom door, shut tight, a barrier between Mum and me.
Do I care about her? Not at this moment in time. Grabbing
a chair I ram it under my door handle and stick the radio
on. Not so loud that Mum will break down the door, but
loud enough that she’ll think I’m ignoring her.
Thirty seconds later and I’m on my way to Norio's.

4
The gym is quiet and dimly lit as I enter. I close my eyes
and take a familiar breath of stale sweat and worn leather.
Pure heaven. This place has been my only sanctuary since
Dad left. I don’t know what I would have done without it.
“Neko Chan,” Norio calls out cheerfully in his strong
Japanese accent. “You very early today.”
I try to smile but emotions rush forward and distort my
face.
“Humph. Better come in,” he says disappearing into his
office.
Damn. Why can’t I act better?
I follow him but hesitate at the door. I don’t want to tell
him what happened today. Why can’t we just ignore it and
get the sai out? Norio looks at me patiently from behind
his desk. I have to say something, but what? I hit someone?
Hmm, too aggressive sounding. I was forced to hit someone?
Not strictly true. I sigh and decide to start with the
17
smallest thing.
“I’m grounded.”
“Grounded?” he frowns.
“It means I’m not allowed out. I can’t come to class.”
“I know what it means,” he frowns. “Why you get
grounded? What you do? Maybe I talk to family?”
“Erm, probably not a good idea,” I say and try another
smile but it’s still not working. “There was an incident,” I
mumble.
...please don’t be cross. I don't want you to hate me too. You’re
all I’ve got left. The only person who really understands me,
who likes me for who I am...
“I see violence in your chi,” he says quietly.
I nod.
“First rule in martial arts is never strike first blow. Please
say you not strike first?”
Well, yes I did but, he started it. He touched me. Does that
count?
I’m confused and taking too long to answer.
Norio's eyes look up to study the photographs on his
wall. All the great champions he has trained in his many
years, all holding trophies and medals, all smiling back at
him. My face is not among them. Norio has always said
my fire is too hot to enter any competitions. That I don't
have the mental stamina to compete and win. Finally he
thought I was getting it under control. Now I’ve proved
him wrong. I’ve failed him.
“I think it best if you take rest,” he says.
I nod. Don't think I could practice now anyway.
Norio looks at me. “Not just tonight. I sense time for
change.”
I frown. “What do you mean?” And even I can hear the
fear in my voice. I can’t survive without this place.
18
 Norio sighs and leans back into his chair. For the first
time I see him as a old man.
“I've done as much as I can for you here. You are talented
with your body but not your mind. You are very angry
inside. You need to find the fuel of this anger and control
it. I can not help you. This is a journey only you can take.”
He pauses and looks at me intently. “You can’t stay here
anymore.”
“No!” I panic. “No, I can’t do this on my own! I need you
to help me. Help me, sensei, please?”
He shakes his head slowly. “You only one who help you.
You only one who has complete control over yourself.”
“But I don't have control over anything!”
“That is your first lesson.”
I narrow my eyes at him.
“You have control over everything,” he concludes.
He’s wrong. How did I ever expect an old Japanese guy
to understand a British teenager? I’ve been living a dream
here.
“Don't be mad,” he says too late, I’m already out of the
door.
But now where do I go?

5
Angry and restless, I walk the streets.
I can’t believe Norio has chucked me out. I’m his best
student for Christ’s sake. What is he thinking?
It’s getting dark and starting to drizzle. I curse myself for
not bringing a coat. Seeing the bus station I duck in for
shelter. It’s a drab concrete monstrosity and the pitiful
lighting is just enough to pick out the choicer pieces of
litter and vomit surrounding me, but at least it’s dry. I sit
on a graffiti covered bench and hug my kit bag. The rain
19
gets worse and worse. It suits my mood.
Where to now? I’ve run out of options. No more Norio,
and if I go home, Mum and I will probably end up killing
each other. There’s nowhere else for me to go. I might as
well stay here and rot. Maybe throw myself under a bus.
Maybe this one...
Headlights bob into the station and a bus trundles to a
stop in front of me. The driver gets out. “Five minutes,” he
calls as he disappears into the staff area.
I guess he thinks I’m waiting and I clock the destination:
Oxford.
Maybe I am!
Dad lives in Oxford.
Is this fate telling me to finally sort it out between us?
I shake my head and scoff. He might have moved away
for all I know. Or worse. He could tell me to get lost. Nah,
it’s a silly idea. Mum would have a head fit. And I don't
have any money anyway. Better just go home and face the
music.
I sit there miserably thinking about all the horrible things
Mum and I will end up saying to each other, the wind and
rain slicing sideways into me, and my world looks bleaker
than ever. Suddenly I’m on my feet. To hell with it. Stuff
Mum. Stuff Norio. I will go to Oxford. I will go and see
Dad. He’ll understand - I’ll make him.
I quickly glance both ways. There’s nobody about -
except for the unconscious drunk two benches down but
he doesn’t really count - so I sidle up to the bus, heart
thumping at my sudden recklessness. There’s a button on
the outside and I get a heady rush of adrenaline as I push
it. The doors hiss open noisily and I practically wet myself,
but nobody comes running to arrest me. Grinning with
exhilaration I jump aboard and frantically search for
20
another button to close them again, finally finding it above
my head. The doors thud shut. I rush down the aisle and
fling myself on the back seat, breathing hard.
In what seems like mere seconds the doors hiss open
again and I hunker down lower. I start to regret my
decision. Surely the driver will see me in these bright
lights? Will he call the police? Will I get a criminal record?
I concentrate on being really, really small. I wait but
nothing happens. What’s going on? Is the driver coming?
Is he calling for back-up? Then I hear a passenger get on.
He chats with the driver then sits near the front. Then
we’re away. I’ve done it! I’ve really done it! I’m going to
Oxford.

6
It’s dark and still raining heavily when we pull into the
Oxford bus station. My mouth dries up as I disembark but
the driver ignores me. I’ve made it all the way without
paying! Grinning, I’m both appalled and thrilled at my
first ever criminal offense.
Walking down the lamp-lit streets I realize that if Dad
isn’t here, if he’s moved or gone out, then I'm gonna be
totally stuck. The bravado and recklessness I’d been
getting dizzy on begins to turn into stupidity and regret.
I’ll have to find a payphone and ring Mum. Ask her to
pick me up, from Oxford! Oh God, she’ll kill me. But it’s
her fault. I mean, she’s the one who drove me to this!
A few more streets and I’m standing outside a familiar
red brick town house getting lashed by the rain. The
ground floor light is off but the next floor up gleams
yellow. At least someone’s in. I reach for the doorbell and
then hesitate.
Maybe I shouldn’t do this. I mean I haven’t seen Dad in
21
what? Ten months? Not since I *cough* lost my temper
and told him I never wanted to see him again. But if I don’t
ring this doorbell, I'll definitely have to phone Mum and I
really don’t feel up to that conversation right now. Besides,
how smug will I feel if while she’s worrying where I am,
I’m with the one person she hates the most? A wicked grin
spreads across my face and I reach out my finger to press
the bell.
But it stops short.
What if he really doesn’t want to see me? What if Dad just
turns me away? He’s made no attempt to contact me. He’s
the adult, why am I the one making all the effort? I should
just forget about him like he’s forgotten about me.
Although it was me who told him to leave me alone.
Hmmm.
Oh, this is getting tiresome. I’m wet and cold and at the
very least I can dry off here. My hand snaps out and rings
the bell before I can change my mind again. Instantly I’m
regretting it.
“Hello?”
The voice makes me jump. I was expecting the door to
open, not a speaker phone.
‘Hello?’ the metal box asks again, a bit more impatiently.
I get a lump in my throat as I recognize Dad’s voice. I
open my mouth to reply but nothing comes out. Suddenly
I’m not even sure how to introduce myself.
Above me there’s a rumbling sound. The opening of a
sash window.
“Who is it?” Dad’s voice calls down.
I freeze, head down, heart pumping.
“Look, I’m rather busy...” he continues.
“Sorry,” I mumble and begin to walk away.
“Catherine? Catherine, is that you?”
22
 Busted. I start to run.
“CATHERINE!” he calls.
I hear a thud and then a few seconds later an arm lands
on my shoulder. I spin around in alarm. Dad smiles at me.
“Did you... did you just jump out of that window?” I
blurt out.
He grins cheekily. “You were running away.”
“Was not!” I declare, then scuff my foot at the obvious lie.
He keeps hold of my shoulder, giving it a little squeeze.
“It’s great to see you. Are you going to come in?”
My eyes narrow, suspicious. He’s not fazed at all. Almost
as if he’s been expecting me. It makes me want to back off.
But then I remember how wet I am.
“Okay then. But only to dry off,” I add.
He nods like he’s not really listening and then realizes
he’s locked himself out. Jumping out of windows will do
that to you.
“Silly me,” he grins.
I pull a face - not unlike the one Mum makes when
dealing with Dad. “Please tell me you have a spare key
hidden somewhere?” I sigh.
He winks at me. Then looks up and down the street
before confidently climbing up the side of the house and
back in through the window... leaving me gaping open-
mouthed on the street. I always knew he was athletic but
not a flipping monkey! Jeez, I’m not even sure if I could do
that.
Moments later Dad opens the front door and ushers me
in. Cautiously I step into his hallway. Not sure what’s
expected of me, we simply stand opposite each other. He’s
grown a goatee since I last saw him and his nearly black
hair is now shoulder-length. His skin looks tanned like
he’s just got back from somewhere exotic.
23
 “It’s really great to see you,” he smiles broadly. “I knew
you’d come back.”
I frown at his easy familiarity after all this time and
startle as he leans forward as if to kiss me. My head nips
sideways without thinking. So not ready for kisses.
“And you’ve grown loads,” he continues unfazed.
“Nearly as tall as your old man now. Still keeping up all
your classes?”
“Erm, yeah,” I nod, wondering how long it’ll take him to
realize I’m dripping on his carpet.
“I’m actually just on the phone,” he says turning to jog
back up the stairs. “Won’t be a minute. Make yourself at
home.”
A trickle of annoyance darkens my eyes as I’m left
sodden in his hallway, abandoned once again.
Five minutes then I’m outta here.
First though I’d better dry off. Huffing I try and
remember the layout. Downstairs the hallway runs the
entire length of the right side of the house, all the rooms
coming off the left-hand side. The first door on my left is
the sitting room, window facing the street, past that there’s
the stairs going up, and then at the back is the kitchen,
where I might find something to dry myself with.
Dropping my bag I make a bee-line for the kitchen and
grab a cloth from the sink to dab at my hair and clothes.
My trainers are soaked through, they’ll take days to dry
properly. Looking around I notice everything has been
redecorated since I was here last. It’s all chrome and black
granite in here now. Unbelievably clean and shiny. The
whole place smells new and unused, like a show-home.
As dry as I’m gonna get without a hair dryer and a
change of clothes, I toss the cloth back into the sink and
take the connecting door straight through into the sitting
24
room. The décor in here is new too, lots of leather and
neutral tones. I perch on the edge of a brand new brown
leather sofa. It creaks embarrassingly. I discover the cream
carpet when I make a mark on it with my trainer.
Annoyingly I have to get up and move the sofa to cover it.
I sit and wait.
And wait.
What am I doing here? Dad and I haven’t seen each other
for ages. I can’t expect to just turn up and everything to be
okay again. And it certainly doesn’t look like we have
anything in common anymore. He hasn’t even got a TV for
Pete's sake. Just books. Shelves and shelves of them. I
mean, seriously, how can I be related to this man? Idly I
scan the pile on the glass coffee table: a battered travel
guide to Spain, a big book on Picasso, and a slim
paperback called ‘Feel The Fear And Do It Anyway’.
Do what anyway?
I turn my attention to the walls where several prints of
famous paintings hang: Van Gogh, Rubens, Monet etc.
Dad always did enjoy getting copies of all the paintings
he’d helped restore. He’s an excellent art restorer. One of
the best.
One wall is dedicated to Japanese prints and some items I
instantly recognize Weapons. One set in particular jumps
out at me. A pair of sai! I didn’t know Dad had a pair! I
knew he was into martial arts obviously but, hey, maybe
this won’t be a wasted journey after all? Maybe he'll even
let me hold them. Curiosity gets me closer. But just in case
he doesn't... I reach out a tentative finger. Closer... Closer...
Come on Catherine, show some respect – you should
never touch another person's weapons without
permission. Reluctantly my hand pulls back and I turn
away.
25
 Hmmm, it must be dead late by now. I wonder what
Mum’s doing? Has she noticed I’ve gone yet? I wonder if
Dad’s got a spare bed? Where is he anyway? Who is he
talking to? SUDDEN PANIC. What if it’s Mum? What if
he’s telling her that I’m here and he wants her to come and
collect me straight away?
I notice a phone. It would be so easy to just pick it up
and... No. You can’t listen in on people. What if it’s a
girlfriend or something?
(I cringe at the thought of Dad with a girlfriend.)
Shaking my head I try to focus. Just a quick listen. If it’s
not Mum I’ll hang up instantly. That’ll be okay. Won’t it?
I pick up the phone. It’s cordless. I cover the mouth piece
with my hand and press the button.
“...look, I’m really not going to talk about this any more.”
Dad says, sounding kind of irritated.
“You have responsibilities, Leo. I need you tonight,”
replies a deep male voice.
Leo? Since when did people call my dad Leo?
“Or you’ll do what exactly?” Dad replies.
“Don’t push me Leo.”
“I told you, not tonight,” Dad snaps and hangs up
aggressively.
I put the phone back guiltily. It so wasn’t Mum.

7
Dad’s coming back down the stairs. I rush to sit
innocently on the sofa.
“Sorry about that,” he says coming into the room.
“No problem,” I try to say casually.
He sits down opposite me on the matching brown leather
armchair. My gut tightens as I think about the stain I made
on the carpet. Please don’t notice I moved the sofa. The
26
last thing I need now is another parent to go ape at me.
After an awkward silence we both speak at the same
time. We smile a little.
“You go first,” he says.
Shrugging I say, “Just, you know... in the
area....thought...well, you know.”
Yeah, go Catherine. Queen of words.
I look around the room, chest tightening. Stupid words.
He smiles and then almost leaps forward to embrace me.
A great big bear hug that takes over my entire body.
“Oooh! I’ve missed you!” he declares, then he’s gone just
as quickly.
I sit there stunned.
“Sorry about that,” he mumbles, back in his own chair,
hand behind his head playing with his hair. He looks so
silly. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. I feel a bit sick
actually.
“It’s just so great to see you again,” he says gently,
looking at me again. “I kept meaning to come over or give
you a call but, you know, work is just...”
My eyes go a bit steely at the excuse of work. It’s his
excuse for everything. How can cleaning paintings be so
demanding?
“Well, you know,” Dad shrugs. “Anyway, it hasn’t been
that long surely?”
“Nine months and twenty-seven days,” I say quietly.
“No! Really? That can’t be right,” he frowns.
“I kinda thought you must hate me.” I mumble.
“No! Of course I don’t hate you! I love you, Catherine.
You’re my daughter. And come to think of it... wasn’t it
you who was mad at me?”
“I was... I mean I am.” Ahhhh! Why are emotions so
annoying?
27
 “Chinese?” Dad says, springing up out of his seat.
“Er?”
“Why don’t we start again over dinner,” he suggests. “I
could order us a nice Chinese take-away.”
“Well, I am kinda hungry...”
“Great!” He grabs the phone, dialing from memory, and
I’m suddenly aware of why his kitchen is so clean.
“Hi Cheng, it’s me. Can I get a number 45, 34, 67, 75 and
two number 3’s. Yeah, I’ve got company.” I see him blush
slightly and turn to the wall. “No, no, my daughter.
Drink?” he asks me.
“Yeah, lemonade?” I suggest.
“And two cans of lemonade. Thanks, Cheng.”
He hangs up and wanders through the connecting door
to the kitchen.
“So, how’s school and stuff?” he asks, rattling a cutlery
drawer.
“Erm, fine,” I hear myself reply before I’ve even
registered the standard question. Best not to mention my
fight with Damon, anyway.
“Only fine?” he laughs coming back in and putting some
forks on the coffee table.
“Well, you know. The usual. I don’t exactly love it but it’ll
be over soon.”
“Of course,” Dad nods. “And then you’ll need a job. Got
anything in mind?”
“Well, I kinda assumed I’d go to college. Maybe do art,” I
say, thinking this will please him.
“Haven’t you had enough of education?” he asks. “Why
not train on the job. Get an apprenticeship somewhere.
You could even follow in my footsteps? Hmm?”
Uh oh. How to politely tell him that being a boring old
art restorer, endlessly applying cleaning fluids to dirty oil
28
paintings cooped up in some darkened room, isn’t exactly
my idea of a dream job. Always been surprised it was his
really - he’s as much into extreme sports and martial arts
as I am. You’d think art restoration would be too tame for
him. Go figure.
“I know, I know. ‘Shut up Dad. Stop asking me endless
questions’,” he grins at me. “Just shocked at how much
you’ve grown, that’s all. Not exactly my little girl any
more. You look like... well, like a woman. Have you got a
boyfriend?”
“Dad!” I protest.
“Only asking,” he chuckles.
“What about you? What have you been up to?” I ask.
“Do you mean have I got a girlfriend?”
Well, it might be nice to know if there was a potential
step-mum on the way.
“No. No, girlfriend,” he clarifies.
“I don't have a boyfriend either,” I confess.
He looks pleased.
We lapse into silence again. It’s weird, sitting opposite
him. He feels totally alien yet completely familiar. It’s hard
to get my head around it.
“You look tanned,” I say, to break the silence. “Been on
holiday?”
Dad rubs his arm absently. “Just a little weekend break.”
Nodding, I wait for more. But nothing comes.
I try again. “Working on any masterpieces at the mo?”
“Did a bit of restoration on a Picasso recently,” he says.
“Really? Which one?” I ask interested. Picasso isn’t
exactly my cup of tea but he’s real famous.
“Oh, erm, just a minor one. You wouldn’t know it.”
I frown at his vagueness. “I wouldn’t have thought any
Picassos would need restoring yet. None of them are very
29
old.”
“This one was, er, damaged.”
“Oh, right.”
Well, this is fun. No wonder we haven’t bothered getting
back in touch with each other! I stare at the impractical
cream carpet and it reminds me of how useless Dad really
is.
“Oh, Catherine,” he suddenly sighs. “What’s happened?”
Excuse me?
“We used to get on so well,” he says sadly.
“Well, maybe you not being around for the last ten
months may have something to do with that,” I snap.
“You’re the one who told me to get lost,” he says
petulantly.
“I’m a kid, Dad! And I was angry. I think you’ll find it
was your fault.”
“Oh, it’s always me who’s in the wrong, isn’t it? Never
you. I thought, seeing how ‘grown up’ you’ve become,
maybe you could see it from my point of view for a
change. But no...”
I can’t believe this! Nothing has changed. I’m beginning
to hate him all over again.
“Grown up? Look who’s talking!” I shout. “I stood there
by the window for five hours. FIVE HOURS! Christmas
morning and I spent it thinking he’s just around the corner
any minute now, any minute. Mum tried to pull me away
but I insisted, ‘He’ll come this time. It’s Christmas after all.
He promised!’ That’s what I said and guess what? YOU
WERE AS USELESS AS EVER.”
“I thought Christmas would be okay. I didn’t think I’d
need to work,” he squirms.
“You always let me down.” I press my hands into my
face. Angry. Frustrated.
30
 “You know that my work is... unpredictable,”
“Oh, forgive me. Yes, of course, I understand. Fiddling
about, restoring crummy old paintings is so much more
important than seeing ME!”
“You used to love these paintings as much as I do,” he
says flatly.
“What’s that got to do with anything? They weren’t going
anywhere.”
Dad snorts and turns his head away.
“Stop doing that! Stop turning away from stuff you can’t
handle.”
He suddenly glares at me. “Oh, I see. Your mother been
telling you how to fight with me, has she?”
“How dare you...” I jump to my feet. “Oh, just forget it. I
wish I’d never even bothered.”
“Come off it,” he says bitterly. “You’re not here to see me,
anyway. Not at this hour. She’s probably upset you and
you did the only thing you could, came crawling back to
me.”
I gape open mouthed at his audacity, even if it is true.
“No wonder Mum kicked you out,” I say callously.
I’ve stung him hard. I can see it in his eyes.
“Get out,” he glares.
“Fine,” I snap.
Now isn’t this scene familiar?
I fly out of the room, eyes burning.
“No, wait!” he calls. “This is stupid. I’m sorry. Come
back...”
I hear him coming up behind me but I’m nearly at the
front door. I grab my bag and reach for the handle but
something seems wrong. I pull up short and Dad plants a
hand on my shoulder. I’ve fallen into a fighting stance
facing the front door, my legs wide so that my weight is
31
spread and stable, my hands up, ready for anything.
There’s an almighty crunch and a huge dent appears in the
wooden panel.
I back up in alarm.
Dad swears.
Another smash and there’s a hole the size of a football in
the door. A black clad arm reaches in and grapples with
the lock.

8
I run back into the sitting room. I’m panicking. I know I
am, but I don’t know what to do. Dad just hovers in the
sitting room doorway, face blank, stance casual, waiting.
I hear the front door crash open. People shouting,
throwing themselves at Dad. They’re all over him, like a
swarm of black ants. My throat is dry and my eyes are
prickling with fear. One of them looks at me. These ‘ants’
don’t look human, covered head to foot in black. But my
fear drains away as I feel my eyes go dark and hooded. I’m
ready for a fight if that’s what they want! I’m prepared.
The one who spotted me starts forward. Instinctively I
leap onto the back of the armchair nearest the sai and take
them down from the wall. Back on the ground I face my
opponent with my new weapons, centering myself in a
low fighting stance, both knees bent. The sai feel light and
natural in my hands like I was born with them; left hand
thrust forward, right hand pulled right back.
The ants have weapons too. Short black poles and
possibly tasers - small hand-held units that shoot out an
electrical charge.
The longer I wait the more ants come in. I need to take
some down now. But I’m hesitating. There’s already five of
them. I’ve only ever fought three people at once before
32
and that was in class. Just for fun. And I lost. There's no
way I can beat them. I need an exit. But there isn't one I
can see. We’re stalemating each other and you can’t hold a
fighting pose indefinitely, your muscles tend to get tired.
Then Dad’s voice trickles through the rushing in my ears.
“...put them down. It’s okay.”
I turn my head slightly to look at him.
He’s on his knees. His hands behind his back. Two ants
stand sternly either side of him. He didn’t fight at all.
What’s wrong with him?
“What the ....” but I don't get to finish my sentence.
A man has entered the room. He’s not dressed like the
others. He’s big built but not fat, wearing a crumpled gray
suit with a beige mac, reminding me of someone out of a
retro cop drama. Yet he moves gracefully, like his muscles
are made of water. His face is sandpaper rough and
covered in light brown stubble. His hair is cropped close,
military style. Not a pretty man.
“Well, well, well,” he beams. “Evening, Leo.”
I frown in confusion. He’s the second person to call Dad
‘Leo' tonight.
“Not disturbing anything, I hope,” the man continues.
“Who’s the wildcat?”
He’s looking at me now. I’m starting to feel a little stupid
in my fighting stance. All the ants have pulled back. I
stand up straight.
“She’s no one,” Dad says and my eyes flick to him in
confusion. “Just a neighbor”
“Just a neighbor, huh?” the man smiles and comes over
to me. I bristle. Everything is so confusing. What am I
supposed to do? The man reaches out to touch my face. I
step back, alarmed. Instinctively the sai come back up and
before I know it I’m on the floor. I let him take the sai off
33
me and sit there, stunned, my face stinging. That slap was
very fast. I figure it’s safer to stay on the floor.
“ID,” he snaps at me.
I look up at him in fear. My wallet and stuff was left on
the bus. Will he hit me again?
“No ID means I take you down town,” he growls.
“For god’s sake, Earl, she’s just a neighbor,” Dad says.
“That’s Detective Superintendent Earl to you, Leo.”
“A promotion. How nice. Run out of real cops, did they?”
Dad replies.
“Such wit,” Detective Earl sneers.
“The police?” I mumble.
“Was that not the first thing we said when we came
through the door?” Earl glares at me accusingly.
To be honest they could have been singing ‘Happy
Birthday’ for all I heard.
Earl turns back to Dad, “You know why we’re here, Leo.
Give it up.”
“You got a warrant?” Dad says.
“Leo, old mate, when it comes to you we don't need a
warrant. We’re warming up a cell for you as we speak. So
why not go easy on yourself and just hand it over?”
“Hand what over?” I demand.
Earl turns back to me. “Maybe you know where it is?”
“Where what is? What the hell do you people want?”
“We’re looking for a painting,” he says calmly, bending
down to reach the books on the coffee table. “And looky
here,” he adds in mock surprise. “A guide to Spain and a
book on Picasso? What a coincidence.” He straightens up
and suddenly shouts, “Search the place!”
The ants march out. They go into the kitchen and up the
stairs where I hear lots of banging and crashing. They
sound more like they’re wrecking the place than searching
34
for something.
Dad lets out a huge sigh. “I’ve just got the place back
together from your last visit, Earl. You didn’t find
anything then either. Don’t you think you’re barking up
the wrong tree here?”
“Oh, but I like our little visits, Leo. Keeping in touch and
all that.” He says lightly before turning cold and serious.
“One day you’ll slip up and then I’ll have you.”
The ants reappear, shaking their heads dramatically.
Earl sighs. “Oh, well.”
“You never even expected to find it here,” Dad says.
“You’ve got no leads so you come and take out your
frustrations on my house, same as usual. You're a lousy
detective Earl.”
The ants are leaving.
“Just remember we’re keeping that cell warm for you,
Leo,” Earl sneers. “Any day now, oopsy daisy and in you go.
For a very long time. You think your lady friend here will
stick around that long?”
Even though Dad is kneeling with his hands tied, he
looks like he might just rip Earl’s throat out.
There’s a commotion outside and a scared looking Asian
boy wanders in. The aroma of Chinese food fills the room.
Earl pushes past arrogantly and disappears into the
night.
“Mr Lock?” The boy mumbles.
“Nothing to worry about, Paul. Just dump it and go on
home.”
The boy puts the bag of Chinese food on the coffee table
and practically runs out of the house.
Can’t blame him. Tempted to do the same myself.

9
35
 I remain seated on the ridiculous white carpet as the
smell of fresh Chinese food spirals out of the plastic bag.
After a few seconds I reach for it and start pulling out
containers as if nothing unusual just happened. I notice
my hands are shaking. I think I might be in shock.
Dad is still on his knees in the corner. He slips his arms
under his bum and then his legs so that his tied hands are
now in front of him. He shuffles forward and sits up
opposite me at the coffee table.
“Do you think you could remove these for me?” he asks.
Of course. Stupid me.
His hands are bound with black plastic ties, I’ll need
scissors to get them off. I get to my feet and enter the
kitchen. The once pristine room now looks like a tornado
hit it: broken glass, smashed dishes, torn blinds - the ants
did a good job. I put a hand to my mouth to stifle a sob.
Then gently touch the side of my face where Earl hit me. I
try and slow my breathing. I can’t think straight.
“There are scissors in the drawer to the right of the sink,”
Dad calls.
Scissors. Right.
I gingerly reach for the dented drawer, retrieve the
scissors and walk back into the sitting room. One snip and
he’s free.
He lifts my chin. “I’m proud of you.”
My chest heaves. My eyes fill up. Stop it. I won’t cry.
“Did he hurt you?” Dad asks.
“I was just... surprised that’s all,” I mutter.
“It shouldn’t bruise,” he says knowledgeably.
I nod numbly. Can’t believe that Earl guy actually hit me.
I mean, I’ve been hit plenty of times in class but not like
that. Not in a real situation.
“Who was that man?” I say quietly. “You seemed to know
36
each other.”
Dad nods. “Kind of. Earl doesn’t exactly like me very
much.”
“He called you Leo. Just like the guy on the phone did
earlier.”
Dad raises an eyebrow. “You listened in on my phone
call?”
Oops.
“I didn’t mean to,” I blurt. “I thought maybe you were
phoning Mum or something.”
“Unlikely.”
“Why do they call you Leo?” I persist.
Dad gets to his feet. “Just a nickname. I’d better fix the
front door before we get any more unexpected visitors.”
It’s fairly obvious he’s avoiding the subject.
“What’s it stand for?” I persist.
“Oh, you know... it’s my star sign.”
I don’t push it any further but I obviously know more
about star signs than he does, because I know he’s a
Gemini.
I barely touch any of the food as Dad bangs nails into the
front door. Instead I think about what it felt like to face
five opponents with the sai in my hands. How natural the
weapons felt. How all five of them stayed out of my reach,
scared of me. Well, maybe not scared exactly, but certainly
wary. Maybe I could have taken them after all?
Then I think about how quickly Earl knocked me to the
ground. A funny tightness grips my stomach. I think it’s
fear. But they claimed to be the police. Police are the good
guys, aren’t they?
I call out, “Were they really the police?”
“It was just Earl and his band of thugs,” Dad sighs.
“So, they’re not the police?”
37
 He stops hammering. “No, they are, but they weren’t
here officially. Earl has a habit of visiting me to let off
steam.”
I step out into the hallway to look at him, wondering
what kind of link there could be between my art restorer
dad and a bully detective. I’m scared of the answer but I
have to ask. “Have you done something wrong?”
Dad smiles. “No, Peachkin. I’m one of the good guys.”
It’s bizarre but I feel better. He’s telling me what I want to
hear and at this point that’s all I care about. My Dad’s not a
criminal.

10
I have no idea where I am. It’s dark and there’s this
ringing. Long and low. There it goes again. Then I
remember. I’m on Dad’s sofa. I can tell because I ache all
over. Dad did offer me his bed saying he’d sleep on the
sofa but frankly I’d rather have the clean sheets. Again
with the ringing. I finally figure out it’s the doorbell.
Rolling off the sofa I stagger into the hall. I notice the
panel nailed to the front door and remember the black
clad arm groping for the lock. Not a happy thought to
kick-start the morning. The bell rings again. It’s really loud
this close up and I yank the door open in annoyance
before thinking maybe I should check the spyhole first.
I’m expecting a postman or milkman or something. What
I get is a boy, black, about my age. I’m suddenly very
awake and very aware that I am wearing nothing but one
of Dad’s t-shirts. I very nearly shut the door in his face.
"You must be Catherine," he says in an American accent.
Obviously I’m stunned. I’m miles from home and I’ve
never seen this guy in my life before. He’s a bit odd
looking actually. Mainly because of his bright pink hair,
38
but he’s also dressed differently than most boys I know.
Smart blue jeans with a navy pinstriped suit jacket over a
light blue hoody. And he’s got a big orange flower sticking
out of his top pocket. It clashes horribly with his spiky
pink hair.
I must look pretty dumbstruck because then he says,
"Either that or Leo’s started dating women way too young
for him."
I bristle at use of the name Leo again. So far it hasn’t been
associated with anything good. I finally manage to pull
myself together enough to ask, "Who are you?"
"Oh, right, sorry. I’m Ollie. Mikey’s boy."
"Right. And who’s Mikey?"
Ollie smiles at me as if he’s amused.
"Can I come in?" he asks.
"I dunno. Do you usually come in?"
He holds up a brown paper bag and a couple of
takeaway coffees. Jeez, does no one use their kitchens in
Oxford?
I step aside and watch him saunter happily down the hall
and straight into the kitchen. He whistles at the mess as I
close the front door.
“You drink coffee?" he asks.
"No. Not really."
I don’t like this invasion. Wish he’d go away. I was
planning on having a nice long chat with Dad this
morning.
"That’s lucky because I only brought two coffees. Didn’t
know there were going to be three of us," he smiles.
I watch from the kitchen doorway as he starts displaying
the various pastries he’s brought with him on what must
be the last remaining plate in the house. He’s carefully
arranging them in a pretty pattern. Then he picks up the
39
upturned kitchen table with relative ease - which surprises
me because it’s made of heavy granite - and brushes it
down with a cloth before setting out some napkins. He
then removes the big orange flower from his pocket and
sticks it in a chipped tumbler at the center of the table. It’s
all a bit girlie, really.
There are footsteps on the stairs and then Dad appears,
yawning. He‘s just wearing silk pajama bottoms and a
green toweling robe, which hangs open, revealing his
naked chest. I’m so embarrassed I look away but Ollie just
smiles and hands him one of the coffees. Dad greets Ollie
like he lives here.
It’s a very domestic scene.
My stomach suddenly hits the floor.
OH MY GOD! My dad is gay!

11
"I’m gonna shower," I blurt out and practically run
upstairs.
Dad follows.
"I’ll get you some towels, Pumpkin."
Swinging round to face him on the stairs, I widen my
eyes in a ‘What do you think you’re you doing?!?’ kind of
way but he just looks at me blankly.
"Dad?!?" I sputter.
"What?"
"How could you? He’s just a kid."
"How could I what?"
"Don’t play innocent with me. I’m not blind. And neither
are the police!"
"It’s a bit too early for mind games, Sweetie," he smiles
tiredly.
"Dad! There’s a teenage boy in your kitchen bringing you
40
breakfast and you’re swanning around half naked."
Dad frowns. "That’s just Ollie. Mikey’s boy."
"Yeah, that much I got."
"They live down the road."
"So?"
He reaches into the airing cupboard and hands me a
towel.
"So he helps me get up in the morning."
"Good God! You can’t tell me stuff like that! Is this why
you and Mum split up?"
"What? Over coffee?"
"No! For dating boys."
Dad bursts out laughing. "That’s a horrid thought," he
manages to say between laughs. "Ollie’s like a son to me."
My mood switches instantly. "Instead of me?" I say
grumpily.
"Oh, Sweetpea." He grabs and hugs me. “No one
compares to you.”
I feel a bit silly but it’s nice being hugged properly. Mum
and I never hug. Then I realize I’m snuggling against his
bare chest.
"Eww!" I say pulling away. “And we still have some
serious stuff to talk about you know.”
“Later,” Dad smiles, grabbing me in a headlock and
rubbing his knuckles into my head. He hasn’t done this for
years.
"Awwww! Get off!" I almost laugh.
"Only if you promise to stop jumping to conclusions. I
suppose I should be glad you didn’t grab the sai again."
“That’s right. Bring up last night like it was a game,” I
frown.
He has the grace to look sheepish.
“How’s your face?” Dad asks turning my head gently.
41
 “Fine.”
Truthfully I hadn’t even thought about it. It must have
been more shock than pain that spun me last night.
“Why don’t you have a good long shower and then come
down for breakfast,” he says heading back downstairs.
“Ollie does a mean sausage buttie,” he adds cheekily.
I threaten to throw the towel at him and can’t help but
feel a small tug at the corners of my mouth. An almost
unfamiliar sensation rides my stomach - happiness. Okay,
I admit it. I have missed him. A lot.
I turn the shower full on and slip out of the t-shirt. So
Dad isn’t gay after all. That’s a relief. I don’t think I really
thought he was anyway. Although it’s not exactly
surprising that I’m still a little mixed up after last night.
I step into the shower, it’s deliciously hot. Unfortunately
there’s only man smelly stuff, but it does the job and I step
out feeling clean and refreshed. I dry myself off and then
remember I only have yesterday’s clothes. Damn. I wasn’t
meant to be out all night. Hmm, that’s a good point - Mum
will be having kittens. Oh well, sort that out in a minute.
Tragically I’ve gone and left my clothes downstairs. I
frown at the towel Dad gave me. It’s tiny. I suppose men
only have to cover up half their bodies. I wrap myself as
best I can, then open the door a crack. No one about.
Good. I step into the hallway.
“Hello again.”
I spin round to see Ollie smiling at me. Blushing, I back
up. An unpleasant thought strikes me. What if he heard
my outburst on the stairs? Or if Dad told him I thought he
was gay? He’s probably been waiting here in the hallway
just so he can prove he’s not. I wait for some snide, sexist
comment. A flash of Damon groping me fills my mind.
He raises his eyebrows at me, “Are you alright? It’s just I
42
need to... you know...” He points at the bathroom. “...pee.”
Oh, right. Stupid me. I move aside.
He smiles and trots into the bathroom. I can hear him
whistle as he... well, I can hear him whistle.
“Princess?” Dad asks from the bottom of the stairs.
“Don’t look!” I frown indignantly, coming down the
stairs. “I left my clothes downstairs and your towels are
tiny. And I think I embarrassed Ollie.”
“Oh, I doubt that,” Dad smiles, disappearing back into
the kitchen.
What’d he mean by that? I shut both doors in the sitting
room and close the blinds. Why wouldn’t Ollie be
embarrassed? I eye my dirty knickers. Not nice. I consider
going commando. Where does that phrase come from?
Surely commandos don’t go around pant-less? I decide it’s
impractical and put them on anyway. I tell myself boys do
it all the time. I wonder if Ollie wears underwear two days
in a row? Somehow I don’t think so. He’s so smartly
dressed and... wait a minute!
He arranges pastries like a girl scout, he's super keen in
his personal appearance and he didn’t bat an eyelid at me
in a towel that barely covers anything? Of course, that’s
where the gay vibes were coming from. Well, at least I’m
not completely mad. God, does he fancy my Dad? That is
so gross.
“Peachkin, you want breakfast?”
I pull open the door and hiss, “Dad!”
“Now what?”
“You can’t call me stuff like that when...” I wave my hand
around.
“When...,” he looks confused. “At breakfast?”
Ollie comes bouncing down the stairs. Gay or not, I’m
not having Dad use his nicknames for me in front of Ollie,
43
or anyone else for that matter. I point at Ollie and I think
he understands.
I go back into the sitting room to put on my still soggy
trainers.
“So, what do you want for breakfast?” Dad calls.
“Whatever’s going,” I reply running back up the stairs to
put the towel away.
Opposite the bathroom is Dad’s study. I’m used to seeing
it immaculate with his easel and cleaning fluids, paint-
brushes all in different sizes and styles, all neatly laid out
ready for the next painting he’s going to restore.
Obviously the real priceless paintings are kept at the
museums and he does most of his work there, but he says
he likes to keep his hand in it at home too.
This morning however, his study is a tip. Last night’s
visitors have left a right mess. Not for the first time I
wonder what they were really after.
Just inside the door I spy a business card, off-white paper
with red and gold lettering stating Fine Art Restoration
Trust. I recognize this as the company Dad works for.
Slipping it into my back pocket I make a mental note to
check out their website later.

12
Downstairs Dad and Ollie have practically finished their
breakfast. Men are such gannets. Dad goes upstairs to
change. Ollie dishes me out an apple danish and a bacon
and cheese slice. He’s so at ease in this kitchen, it’s obvious
he comes here all the time and it seems to be making me
cross.
“How did you know who I was earlier?” I ask between
mouthfuls.
“Who else would you be?”
44
 “Meaning?”
“Meaning everyone talks about you so much I feel I
know you already,” he smiles but it doesn’t seem a very
nice smile.
I can’t help but stare at his hair. How did I not get the gay
thing straight away? I mean, what kind of boy would dye
his hair pink?
The phone rings and I jump. Ollie gives me a sideways
glance. Does he know what happened here last night?
The ringing stops. I guess Dad answered it.
“So does Mikey work with my Dad?” I ask.
“Sure does.”
“What does he do?”
“Same as Leo. Restores paintings to their former glory.”
That name again. I can’t help thinking there’s more to it
than this.
Dad is clomping down the stairs loudly. He’s dressed all
in black and has his hair tied into a ponytail that looks too
short to stay in long. He’s shouting down the phone. “It’s
hardly my fault.... You can’t just blame everything on
me...”
Arse. This can only mean one thing.
Dad thrusts the receiver at me. “You talk to her.”
Arse.
“Hello, Mum,” I say in a jolly voice.
“God damn you, Catherine! I’ve just had the worst night
of life. How dare you treat me like this. For all I knew you
were lying in some ditch somewhere but no, one small
argument and you go back to your Dad despite all the
times he’s let you down in the past...”
She goes on and on. Dad and Ollie look at me with
pained expressions. At this moment in time I really hate
her. She’s ruining everything. I was just having a nice
45
breakfast, me and Dad talking again. Even if we were
sharing it with Captain Dye-kit here.
“Well, thanks, Mum. I knew you’d understand. You’re the
best mum in the world. I’ll see you later. Bye.” I hang up.
Dad frowns at me. “Did you just hang up on your
mother?” I think he’s trying not to smirk.
“I thought maybe I’d spend some time with my dad,” I
smile shyly.
He grins back. “That’s a splendid idea. We can do
whatever you want, Peach...” he stops himself just in time.
“We could see a film, or go to a theme park or London or
even...”
Ringgggggggg.
Dad and I lock eyes. Can’t she just leave us alone? I
mean, I haven’t seem him for ages. One day. Just one day.
“You answer it, Ollie,” Dad says. “Say she’s got through
to New York or something,” Dad and I grin at each other
like a pair of naughty school children.
“New York Central,” Ollie answers in an even thicker
American accent, grinning along with us. “Oh, hi,” he says
in a more subdued voice and passes the phone to Dad.
“It’s Mikey.”
“Hey, Mikey,” Dad says brightly.
Hmm, the mysterious Mikey.
Dad rubs a hand over his face. “Okay, I’ll be ready in
five.”
“What? You’re going out?” I demand as he hangs up.
“But I thought we were... Oh, God, why do I even
bother?”
“Oh Peachkin, I’m so sorry. But there’s nothing I can do.”
I should be really cross but I’m not. I’m getting curious
instead. Something is going on here. Something that
involves the police and the nickname Leo. Something that
46
makes Dad run off at the drop of a hat. I’m beginning to
think he’s more than just an art restorer. Something more
sinister. Maybe even something illegal. Is that why Mum
kicked him out?
I nod my head. “Okay, but maybe I can come with you?”
I suggest.
Dad shakes his head.
Well, no, illegal crime rings don’t normally allow family
attendance.
“I can take care of Catherine,” says Ollie.
I flash him a look. Take care of me? What is that
supposed to mean? Is he gonna kill me? Is Dad in deep
with the mob? Do I know too much now?
“I could take her to the Tate or something. Go on the
London Eye,” he continues.
Oh, take care of me. Sightseeing. My heart starts to slow
down. Or is that just a cover?
Paranoid much?
Dad nods. “You could get a lift in with Mikey and me.”
Wow, cool. Trip to London. And I get to meet Mikey. But,
wait, there’s something niggling me. Oh, yeah, Mum.
“I’d love to... but maybe... I should, you know, go home.”
“Stuff it,” Dad says and I’m shocked. “One day isn’t
going to hurt her. She knows where you are, she knows
you’re safe. Maybe my meeting won’t last too long and we
can go for lunch or something. Hell, it’s the weekend. I’ll
take you back on Sunday.”
I smile so wide my mouth hurts. I really want to point
out it’s half-term, I could stay all week, but that’s probably
pushing it. Just enjoy the day. I don’t think I’ve felt this
happy since... well, since before Dad left.
“Come on, though. We’ve got to go now. Mikey’s
waiting.”
47
 “Maybe I should just ring Mum back and explain what
I’m doing.”
“Phone her in the car,” he says grabbing a coat.
“On your mobile?”
Dad stops and stares at me. Oh, dear. Have I said
something wrong?
“Where’s yours?”
I shake my head. “Don’t have one.”
“What teenager doesn’t have a mobile phone?” he says
crossly. “How can your mother be surprised she doesn’t
know where you are, if you don’t have a phone?
Ridiculous. I’ll buy you one. Now, out. Both of you.
Quickly.”
And just like that I join the 21st Century. I’m getting a
mobile phone! Could the day get any better... Hello?
What’s this?
Outside the front door sits a very nice, very blue, BMW
convertible. Now, I may not know much about cars but I
know a posh one when I see it, and this car is screaming
money at me. There’s a big bald black man wearing
sunglasses at the wheel and even though he wears a black
leather jacket over a navy dress shirt you can still see he's
rippling with muscles. The only color on him comes from
the heavy gold jewelery at his wrist and neck.
Ollie jumps stylishly into the back seat without opening
the door. Dad pops his own sunglasses on and slips neatly
into the passenger seat. The three of them stare
expectantly up at me from the luxury of black leather,
October sunshine reflecting off their lenses.
Yeah, right.
Art restorers my ass.

48
 13
“Come on,” says Dad. “We’ll do introductions in the car.”
I jump into the back seat like Ollie did. The driver turns
around and extends a big black hand. I don't mean to be
funny but living in middle England I don't see a lot of
different people – it's just a sea of white, and this hand is
very big and very black. I probably stare at it a moment too
long before shaking and then I shake it a little too much in
an attempt to prove I'm not racist. Which I suppose makes
me kinda racist. Whoa. What a minefield!
“Hi there,” he says in an amused, deep baritone voice,
sounding even more American than Ollie. “You must be
Catherine.”
How does everyone know who I am?
“And you must be Mikey,” I say.
“Sure am. Great to meet you at last,” he smiles, turning
back to rev the engine.
And why is it everyone seems to have been expecting me?
Top down in mid autumn we hurtle out of Oxford.
Mikey drives like an American. Well, like they do in the
movies anyway. Way too fast. Dad and Ollie seem calmly
composed while I imagine bits of us mashed into the
motorway. What with all the rushing wind there’s no
chatter and I’m left to stare at the passing cars and wonder
what exactly Dad’s emergency meeting is all about.
Once we’re in London, Mikey drops us off pretty quickly.
I have no idea where we are but Ollie seems fine with it.
“Take my card,” Dad says handing me plastic. “The pin
number is 0007. Get yourself a decent phone and some
credit. Ollie knows where to shop.” Mikey starts to pull
away so he has to shout. “And get anything else you want.
Think of it as an early birthday present. I’ll catch up with
you later!”
49
 I look down and cradle the shiny credit card. Oh. My.
God.
“So when’s the big day?” Ollie asks cheerfully.
“Er?”
“Your birthday?”
“Oh, right. Thursday.”
“Cool. So what do you want to do first, birthday girl?”
I blink at him blindly. I wanna say shop til I drop but he’s
a boy, he won’t want to shop.
“I know a great place for clothes and there’s this really
good phone shop on the way,” he says.
I smile wickedly. I’ve just been let loose in London with a
license to spend and a gay shopping companion. I think I
may have just died and gone to heaven.
Shopping for a phone is actually very hard work. So
many different tariffs and packages and options and add-
on’s... I’m lost within minutes. Luckily Ollie turns out to be
something of a techno-geek and can talk the talk as good
as any salesmen. I get a great deal. I think. The main thing
is the phone is brilliant. It’s black and rubber cased so if I
drop it, it won’t break - Ollie said that’ll be really useful
for where I’m headed, whatever that means. It has
everything: camera, video messaging, games, MP3 player,
Internet access. I believe you can even make phone calls on
it. I love it. I might just have to marry it.
I flip through the ring tones as we ride the underground.
It’s a toss up between the current number one or Ride of the
Valkyries.
“Thanks for all your help back there,” I tell Ollie. “I
didn’t have a clue what the salesman was on about. But
you were brilliant. You seem to know loads about
phones.”
“I’m good with gadgets,” Ollie says giving me a little shy
50
smile and a shrug of the shoulders. It’s a much nicer smile
than earlier.
We get off the tube train and I put my new toy away to
concentrate on avoiding all the jostling people. It's a
struggle but I marvel at the way Ollie moves. A confident
swagger to his step, again unlike any of the boys I know,
who all shuffle around like the world’s about to end. He
seems so much more mature. I have to keep swerving
around people but he just flows through the crowds with
ease. It’s actually getting so crowded now that I have to
walk behind him in his wake.
“Here, take my hand,” he offers. “So we don’t lose each
other.”
Crikey. I’ve never held a boy’s hand before. Not that this
means anything, we've only just met , and we're only
shopping, this isn't a date, plus the whole gay thing, but
still, a boys hand!
He smiles and grabs my hand, pulling me closer. “It’s
alright. I don't bite.”
His hand is surprisingly cool and I start to panic that
mine is all hot and clammy and horrid feeling! Try to think
of something else. His skin is so smooth yet muscular and
it's the color of proper Belgian chocolate.
Mmm chocolate...
Great. Now I'm salivating.
Change the subject!
“Why is it so busy?” I ask.
“This is Camden market,” Ollie explains. “The place to be
on a Saturday.”
I look around. Wow. Camden market. And little old me
with money to burn!
“What’s your style?” he asks me.
At first I think he means in martial arts but then I figure
51
he means clothes. I’m not so big on fashion. I mean, when I
have money I buy games and music and sports stuff.
Occasionally I’ll go on a shoe spree - I like shoes. And
bags. Got quite a few bags. But generally, clothes wise, I
just wear what I find comfortable.
“Kinda casual?” I suggest.
He stops me in the middle of the street and turns to look
at me. People push past, frowning at us in annoyance. He
looks me up and down.
“Size 8. Yes?”
I nod. Impressive.
“Except on top. Where you’d probably need a 10 or 12.”
I frown. Boobs had to come into it at some point.
“Don’t look at me like that. You have great breasts, don’t
get all uppity about it.”
I’m blushing and want to slug him one.
“So dresses are out,” he continues. “We’d never find one
that fitted properly.”
“I don’t do dresses,” I say flatly.
“But skirts, yes. A short skirt would be great. What kind
of legs do you have?”
We are so not doing this. I pull away and cross my arms.
“Look, can’t we just look around without you dissecting
me in the street?” I ask angrily.
“Okay, okay. No problem.” He says putting his hands up
in mock surrender. “Let’s try Millies.”
Millies turns out to be a Barbie shop. I refuse to go in.
Girls in pink mini skirts giggle outside and bat their
eyelashes at Ollie. I want to shout, ‘he’s gay’ at them
they’re so stupid but Ollie doesn’t seem to mind. Instead
he wanders up to them and chats, leaving me alone on the
pavement. Finally he comes back.
“I’m sorry, am I boring you?” I snap.
52
 “Let me guess, you don’t have many friends, do you?” he
smiles.
I glare at him in surprise. “Well, I...”
He raises a hand to stop me from embarrassing myself
further. “I was just asking them if they knew if Jeb had his
stall out today.”
“Who’s Jeb?” I say grumpily.
“You’ll like Jeb,” Ollie smiles, linking arms with me,
waving to the Barbie girls as we pass.
Jeb turns out to be a crusty old army bloke with a beard
to hide grenades in. Ollie’s right, I do like him. Although I
can’t understand a word he’s saying. I think he might be
Scottish or Irish or something. The stall is littered with
combat pants and hooded sweatshirts, ex-army gear and
vest tops.
“This more your style?” Ollie asks.
I nod eagerly.
Don’t want to max Dad out too much - the phone cost
quite a lot - so I only buy one pair of combats - brushed
gray cotton, and a couple of tops - one black with a silver
tiger stalking down the side and one orange just to shut
Ollie up over how dull my wardrobe is.
Ollie picks out a bright red t-shirt with black Chinese
lettering. It’s a bit flashy for my taste and even Ollie’s not
sure. Jeb tells him to try it on and he slips out of his clothes
as easy as that. He hands me his jacket and top to hold. I
can feel their warmth and have a funny urge to breathe in
their smell. Luckily seeing Ollie topless numbs my brain
so that I can’t do anything. He has the most amazing
abdomen I’ve ever seen - not that I’ve actually seen many
(read as any) - but I’m talking the whole crate here, not
just the six-pack. Jeb whistles and nudges me, winking. I
don’t know where to look my brain is running in so many
53
circles.
“What d’you reckon?” he asks turning around in the new
top.
I reckon I’d lose the ability to talk to him if I didn’t know
he was gay. “I, erm, it’s very tight,” I manage.
Ollie looks at himself, twisting and turning. Two girls
giggle nearby. Ollie smiles at them. They leave giggling.
Why are girls always giggling? I never giggle.
“Sold,” smiles Ollie.
I’m not sure he should trust the girls’ opinions when he’s
batting for the other side, but whatever, it’s his money.
Next to Jeb’s stall there’s a van serving hot food. We get
some beans and noodles, and settle on a bench. Ollie eats
carefully so he doesn’t spill anything, while I’m stuffing
forkfuls in. I try to act more ladylike by slowing down.
“So we’ve been shopping, we’ve bonded. I think it’s
about time we talked about serious stuff,” I say between
mouthfuls.
Ollie begins to look worried.
“Question number one, is your real name Oliver?”
He smiles relieved. “Yeah. Cos I drove my mom round
the twist.”
“Are your Mum and Dad still together?” I ask.
“Actually, she died.”
“Oh crap. I’m Sorry. I didn't know.” Dumb ass.
Ollie shrugs. “Don't worry, it was a long time ago now.
Cancer. Of course I miss her and stuff, but I worry more
for Dad. He can’t hang onto a girlfriend because of...”
“His work?” I suggest.
Ollie nods. “Uh huh. What about you? What’s your mom
like?”
I want to say she’s annoying and controlling and totally
irritates me all the time, but it seems wrong to diss her
54
after Ollie’s lost his mum. She’s still there, she’s still my
mum. I’ll always love her, we just don’t get on. Really
badly don’t get on. We can’t even watch TV together
without arguing over something. The idea of going back
there when I could be here, with Dad, is crippling.
Ollie registers the silence. “Okay, forget that one. What
are you studying?”
“Studying?”
“Yeah, at college.”
Oh, now I feel stupid. He thinks I’m older. He’s never
gonna wanna hang with me once he realizes I’m only
fifteen - well, fourteen until Thursday.
Again he registers the silence. “My questions are dumb,”
he says shyly.
“No, it’s not that.” I put a reassuring hand on his arm,
then pull it back nervously. Don't know why I did that.
“It’s just that I’m still at school.”
“Really? You look much older. I thought you were
seventeen at least.”
“I get that a lot. How old are you?” I ask.
“Sixteen,” he grins. “But people normally think I’m older
too.”
“It’s probably because you dress smart. You don't look
like a teenager.”
“People see a black kid in sweats and they freak out. I
find if you wear smart clothes you get more respect.”
I think about that. How would people respond to me in
different outfits? I imagine myself in a candy pink mini-
skirt like those girls and nearly choke on my noodles.
Moving swiftly on.
“But then why the hair?” I ask. Meaning, if he’s going for
smart and respectable it doesn’t seem wise to have bright
pink hair.
55
 He smiles and rubs a hand lovingly over his fuchsia
locks. “That’s easy. When people try and describe me they
only remember the wacky hair. They don’t remember any
features and I can easily change my hair.”
“Why wouldn’t you want people to recognize you?”
“Reasons,” he smiles mysteriously.
I’m about to press for more but there’s someone running
towards us. Quite fast. I strain to see and Ollie looks over
his shoulder. Others are looking now too.
“Stop!” a woman shouts. “Stop him! He’s got my bag.”

14
Now I see it. He’s a tall, beefy man running with a
handbag. Not too difficult to work this one out.
“Is no one gonna stop him?” I ask.
He’s almost at our bench. Ollie’s alert but not moving.
The man is almost upon us. Should I stop him? Should I...
Too late. He’s past us.
Anger flares.
Stuff this!
I’m up and running before I even really realize it. He’s
heading for the canal. He’s been running full pelt for a
while now and I’m just getting started. I should catch him
easily. My trainers skid in the loose gravel as I hit the canal
path. People jump back as we speed past. He glances back
at me and there’s fear in his eyes. Well, that’s promising.
Maybe he’ll just dump the bag.
He twists to look again. The fear’s gone. He must have
come up with a plan to lose me. I’m almost on him. I
reckon a stamp to the back of the knee should bring him
down. Then a judo neck hold until more people arrive.
Assuming anyone else is coming, that is.
We run into a tunnel and I pull up sharp. So this was his
56
plan. Should have seen it coming really. In the dark he’s
stopped and turned to face me. He’s breathing a little hard
and his eyes are wild. My brain finally works out that he
might be on drugs. That might make things a little
difficult.
“Just dump the bag,” I say in my biggest tough girl voice.
I’m starting to feel a little small in this confined space with
the big nasty mugger. He grins at me and bares broken,
yellowed teeth.
Yuk! He must so live alone.
There’s an audible click and a glint of metal. Oh, that’s
just brilliant. He’s got a knife. Now I’m in trouble. What is
it Norio says? What am I supposed to do in situations like
this? My brain is bouncing around all over the place.
Focus, girl, focus! My feet are itching to turn and run back
to the safety of the light, but how pathetic would that
make me feel? Yesterday I was facing down five cops.
Why can’t I tame one Big, Beefy, Drugged up, Desperate
Mugger?
I really ought to run.
“Now, no need to get frisky,” I say calmly, one hand up,
palm facing him. “I just want the bag.”
He’s beginning to close in. I’m gonna have to react. When
he goes to stab, I need to block and strike. But which side
do I strike? I can’t remember! Damn it, I can't remember.
“Hey, Jackass!”
The mugger’s head whirls round to face the new voice
coming from the other end of the tunnel. I take my cue
and kick him in the stomach. Then a roundhouse kick to
the back of the head. He’s down but still holding the knife.
I step on his hand and peel it from his grip. He grumbles
incoherently then empties his stomach contents. Nice. But
at least he doesn’t seem to be getting back up.
57
 Ollie appears, revealing it was him who shouted. I’m
glad he’s here. I’m all pumped up with adrenaline and
can’t stop smiling. I beat the bad guy. I’m a hero!
“We did it,” I beam. Well, share the glory.
Ollie glares at me. “How could you be so stupid?” he
snaps. “I thought you were supposed to be some kind of
genius.” He snatches the knife and flings it into the canal.
Then he grabs my arm and pulls me out of the tunnel,
back into the light. I struggle in confusion as he marches
me away from the mugger, away from the bag.
“What about the bag?”
“Leave it,” Ollie hisses. His nice boy image has gone.
Now he’s all contorted with rage. I’m scared to meet his
eyes. His change is so abrupt.
“What did I do?”
“Jesus, Catherine. I thought you were supposed to be
cleverer than this?”
My humility is quickly turning to anger. I stick my foot in
front of his leg and he nearly trips, releasing me. I stop
with my hands on my hips.
“What is your fricking problem?”
“You hear that?” Ollie says..
I listen. People, traffic, birds, sirens. Sirens! Police. A good
thing, right? But after last night...
“You wanna visit the police station? You want Leo to
have to come down there and pick you up? You wanna
give them an excuse to check him over?”
My hands drop down. “I just wanted to get the bag...”
Ollie softens. “I know. But you can’t afford to take risks
like that. There’s more at stake here than one woman’s
handbag.”
I start to wonder if that woman will ever get her bag back
or whether the mugger will get back up and take it again.
58
The thought is making me cross.
“I’m gonna have to dye my hair again now,” Ollie sighs
running a hand through his hair. “Come on, we’d better
keep walking.” He reaches for my hand again but I snatch
it back, folding my arms.
“Why does everyone call my dad, Leo?” I demand.
“Because he’s top dog,” Ollie shrugs.
“So?”
“So he’s the best at what he does. The number one. The
big cheese. The dog’s...”
“Okay, but what is it that he does exactly?”
“He restores art to its former glory.”
It trips off his tongue so easily, but I don’t believe him.
“Yeah, but what is it he really does?” I say narrowing my
eyes.
“You know what he does. He restores...”
I punch him.
I’m sorry but the smug little git was asking for it.
“Liar,” I spit and run as far as possible away from him.

15
Great. I’m lost in the middle of London. I haven’t a clue
where I am. Everything looks the damn same. There are so
many people everywhere but no one makes eye contact.
No one wants to stop. And even if I did ask someone
where I was, it wouldn’t help. I don’t know where
anything is or even where I want to go.
I’m regretting hitting Ollie and running off. I over-
reacted. He’d just saved me from a mugger. God knows
what would have happened if he hadn’t arrived. I might
have been stabbed. I might be dead. And I punched him
for it. So not cool.
But he was lying to me. I just know Dad is involved in
59
something major, and so are Ollie and Mikey. They have to
be doing something illegal, but what? The most logical
theory is forgeries, painting fake pictures and selling them
as real. The police did say they were looking for a
painting.
Hmmm.
I suddenly stop dead in my tracks beside a news-stand.
A headline reads Stolen Picasso's miraculous return to
Spanish curator!
I grab a copy...

60
Stolen Picasso's miraculous
return to Spanish curator!
The curators of the Museu Picasso in
Barcelona, were celebrating last night
after the safe return of their prized
painting The Offering by Pablo
Picasso.
Stolen two weeks ago, the thieves
left no clues and the whereabouts of
the painting was a complete mystery.
Leading to the worry that the
priceless work of art would become
just one of the thousands stolen each
year that never reappear.
Authorities then intercepted rumours
that the painting had been smuggled
into the UK. Since receiving this
news, Alvaro Rodriguez, Head Curator
at the Museu Picasso has been staying
in a London Hotel to be near the
Scotland Yard investigation, headed by
Detective Superintendent Earl of the
Arts and Antiquities unit.
Amazingly, last night the painting
was anonymously returned to Rodriguez
in his hotel room. In a press
conference this morning he said, 'It
is a miracle. We thought we would
never see it again.'
Yesterday, before the painting had
been returned, we spoke to DS Earl who
stated, 'We have some excellent leads
that we are currently following up and
it is simply only a matter of time
before we retrieve the article.'
DS Earl's comment today was, 'It can
only be assumed that my strong
presence yesterday scared the thieves
into returning the painting pretty
damn sharpish!'
61
 “Are you gonna pay for that?”
I look up. The news-stand owner is glaring at me. I smile
awkwardly and check my pockets. I don't have any
change.
“You take cards?” I ask innocently.
He scowls at me.
Spying a supermarket across the road I say, “I’ll just cross
over and get some cash.”
Inside the shop I pick up a bar of chocolate and get in the
queue. Slowly the cogs in my brain are turning. Things are
starting to come together. The books on Dad’s coffee table:
Picasso and the travel guide to Spain, Detective
Superintendent Earl looking for a painting, Dad’s tan...
Oh God! Dad stole the painting. He’s not an art forger. He’s
an art thief! He must have got scared when Earl trashed his
house and somehow returned the painting. Maybe getting
Mikey or Ollie to return it.
“55p.”
I stare blankly at the cashier as she takes the card out of
my hand and pops it into the machine.
“Now, just type in your pin number,” she says slowly,
like I’m foreign.
I shake my head. “Cash back. Can I get cash back?”
“Oh, right, sure, Love. How much?”
“How much does it take to get a taxi to...” I pull out the
business card with Dad’s work address on it from my back
pocket. “...to Albert Embankment?”
The cashier titters. “Don’t know about a taxi, Love, but
you can get the tube straight there. Victoria Line to
Vauxhall,” she smiles. “Piece a cake.”
“Piece of cake,” I repeat, unconvinced. I hate the
underground.
Like a good girl, I return to the news-stand and buy the
62
newspaper. The owner smiles at me now like I’m an angel.
Of course I only bought the darn thing so he’d tell me
where the tube entrance was. Luckily it’s just around the
corner. I leave the newspaper with a beggar sitting
outside.
Sighing I stare at the tangled mass of color that is the
underground map. Victoria Line. Light Blue. Found it.
Now where am I? Warren Street, that’s me. I’m here and
follow it down to the Vauxhall station. Five stops.
After a fight with the ticket machine and a few wrong
turns on my way to the platform I finally manage to board
a train. What with all the distractions, I haven’t quite
worked out my game plan yet, but I’m going to find Dad’s
work and see if it really exists. I bet it doesn’t. I can’t
believe it. My own dad, a dirty rotten art-stealing criminal!
I’m so gonna turn him over to Detective Earl.
It doesn’t take long to get to my stop. Thank the Lord for
the map of the local area at the exit and Albert
Embankment is easy to spot. Soon I’m standing outside a
very posh looking office building called Sommer House. I
enter the foyer and suddenly wish I wasn’t wearing
combats and a hoody. The woman at the main desk gives
me one look and I stroll right back out again.
Okay, plainly that isn’t going to work. However, I did
manage to spot a sign for the Fine Art Restoration Trust.
Floor 9. Right at the top. Typical. Well, at least it exists.
Maybe I’m jumping to conclusions again. I mean surely
Dad isn’t really an art thief. He told me he was a good guy.
He wouldn't lie to me. Would he?

16
Idly I saunter around the building wondering if there’s a
way I can check out the top floor without anyone seeing
63
me. I need some binoculars!
Round the back there’s a small yard. I can see two men
unloading a white van and carrying the contents inside.
Otherwise, apart from a dozen recycling bins and a
random pile of gravel, it’s empty. There doesn’t seem to be
any security: no cameras, no guards, no nothing.
Hmm, I bet if I wanted to, I could sneak right in through
that door and make my way to the top floor via some back
stairs or something. But have I really got the gall to
trespass?
Maybe. Maybe not.
A little tingling feeling starts to fizz through my veins as I
seriously consider stepping through that gateway into the
unknown...
What am I even thinking!?!
Trespassing is bad! Illegal even! I should probably just go
announce myself properly at the main reception. But then,
what if they really are crooks? They might not take too
kindly to me sticking my nose in. I just want a quick peek.
See what it’s like. See if it’s kosher. I mean it’s important to
know if your Dad’s a criminal, right?
I nibble my none existent nails as I hover outside the
gates. What am I going to do?
Suddenly Ride of the Valkyries explodes out of my pocket.
Startled I practically run halfway round the building
before I realize it’s my new phone. I stop and laugh at
myself. Idiot. I flip open the phone.
“Hello?”
“Catherine! Where are you?”
Ah, it’s Ollie. Of course it's Ollie. He’s the only one with
my number.
“Erm, I’m a bit busy at the moment,” I reply, wishing I
hadn’t answered.
64
 “Tell me where you are. I’ve been trying to call but there
was no signal.”
“I was underground.”
“On the tube?” he asks.
Damn. Sneaky Sherlock.
“Come on. Where are you?” he pleads.
Obviously, I’m not going to tell him. If Dad is a criminal
then so is Ollie. I figure I’ll be safer if the bad guys don’t
know I’m standing outside their HQ. I change the subject
instead.
“Look, I’m sorry about hitting you. I kinda got a bit
cross.”
“Yeah, I figured that. But that’s nothing compared to
what Leo will do to me if something happens to you.
Please, tell me where you are?”
“I just want to check something out, okay?”
“Tell me where you are,” he demands, the frustration
showing in his voice. “Are you lost? Do you know where
you are?”
“Yes,” I snap. “I know exactly where I am, thank you
very much.”
“Why can’t we meet back up then?”
Because I don’t trust you.
Instead I say, “Gotta go. Catch you later.”
“Catherine, wait......”
Too late. I snap the phone shut.
Feel a bit bad now. I’m surprised to find myself feeling
sorry for Ollie. Maybe he’s not so bad after all. Or maybe
he’s just pretending to be friendly? Ahh! Having a look
upstairs would help sort that out. Hell, it’d sort a lot of
stuff out. Right. Let’s just do it.

65
 17
I wander confidently through the back gates of Sommer's
House, although hidden in my chest my heart hammers.
As I walk across the yard I’m trying to fine tune my cover
story, something about coming to see my dad - a lie closest
to the truth is always best - but the two men unloading the
van have disappeared. With not a soul in sight I decide to
grab one of the boxes from the back of the van and head
inside.
The passageway is thankfully empty, then a large woman
in an apron comes out of nowhere. She frowns at me.
Have to think quickly. “Where’s this going?” I ask.
“Who are you?” she questions.
“I’m with my dad for the day,” I lie. “You know, work
experience.”
“Child labor more like it. You Jack’s girl?”
I nod.
“Well, he’s just gone on break.”
“Why do you think I’m unloading stuff?” I shrug.
“Typical Jack,” she tuts. “Just dump it through there,
love. Then go and get yourself some tea and biscuits
before he eats them all.”
She walks off.
I dump the box quickly, double-check the woman’s gone,
and then peg it along the corridor. I need to find a way up
now! A sign says ‘Service Lift’. Perfect. Inside I hit the
button for the ninth floor - repeatedly. The doors close
annoyingly slowly. Come on, come on. This is taking too
long.
I’ve only gone three floors when it stops. I hold my
breath. The doors slide open to reveal an old Hispanic
man in royal blue overalls carrying a mop and bucket. He
nods at me. I nod back. He gets off on floor seven. I
66
breathe again. Floor eight. Floor nine. The doors open. I
brace myself in case Dad is right there, but it’s empty.
I step out of the lift, frowning. But this is just another
corridor? Plainly decorated with a scattering of mops,
buckets and boxes of paper towels.
No super criminal HQ in sight.
Then I listen harder: people talking, telephones ringing,
the hum of electrical machines. Of course. The service lift
doesn’t come right out into the offices. Duh! This is a
service corridor.
There are two doors. I crack open the nearest and peer
out. This looks more like it: deep red carpet, dark paneled
walls, ornate coffee tables, a semicircle of plush red sofas
trimmed in gold. On the walls hang famous paintings -
Leonardo da Vinci, Michelangelo, Raphael... Copies I
assume - well, hope - and also on the wall is plaque, which
reads Fine Art Restoration Trust.
Ha ha! Success.
Continuing to scan around I notice a reception desk. A
smart, imposing woman with a black bob and red horn-
rimmed spectacles raises a questioning eyebrow at me.
Hastily I slam the door shut.
Nice and subtle like.
I wait a second, sweating buckets and running through
my over story, but nothing happens. So before losing my
bottle completely I very gingerly crack open the other
door. Again there’s the same smart décor but this time it’s
an open-plan office. Big floor-to-ceiling windows with an
impressive view of the London skyline provide the
backdrop for about two dozen people busy at their desks.
The clicking of keyboards and the ringing of telephones
fills the air, together with the smell of recycled air and
stale coffee. I spot a water cooler, various pot plants, a
67
photocopier and what looks like a separate office at the
back. Straight-forward office stuff. No guns leaning
against the side, no crates of explosives tucked in the
corner, no one beating up a grass while he pleads for
mercy.... but then what did I expect?
I’m starting to feel real stupid round about now.
I mean, if there is anything criminal going on here they’re
hardly likely to flaunt it this publicly, are they? It’d be
hidden and encoded somehow. What was I thinking? Going
off on some Nancy Drew trip! And now I’m stuck on the top
floor of a London office building with no escape route.
I slump against the wall.
Why, oh why, didn’t I think this through?
Okay, don’t panic. I could just step out and find Dad... in
his criminal office standing beside his criminal boss who’ll
decide I’m a liability and dump my dead body in the
Thames.
Okay, I said don’t panic!
Need to get out of here. That woman downstairs may
well have found out I’m not Jack’s daughter by now -
security might be looking for me. Shit, I’m an idiot. Maybe
if I could disguise myself? I look along the corridor and
spy a pair of royal blue overalls, a mop and bucket. I
shrug. Could work.
Dressed as a staff cleaner I wait by the service lift to go
back down. Why do these things always take so long?
Come on... Come on...
Voices!
I whip my head around to face the door to the reception
area. There are definitely voices on the other side. I
remember the scary receptionist lady looking right at me.
Maybe she talked to security. Maybe they're coming to get
me.
68
 The lift isn’t coming.
I swear I can hear the door knob turning.
My nerve breaks and I sprint through the second door
into the brightly lit office space.
Blood hammering I prepare to be confronted by an angry
hoard, instead everyone is busy doing whatever it is
they're doing on their computers and telephones. I'm a bit
'deer in the headlights' and am desperately trying to figure
out what to do next when shouting erupts from the
separate little office at the back. From inside a vicious
argument is taking place. All the office people turn and
twist for a better view, whispering to each other. Then the
door of the little office flies open and a young woman,
wide-eyed and teary, hurries out. And just before the door
swings shut again I get a quick glimpse of Dad’s face...
Fancy that! He really does work here.
“You okay?” someone asks from beside me.
Uh oh.
Turning nervously I see a jolly plump lady smiling at me.
“Don't worry about them,” she says. “The boss man is
always shouting. No volume control.”
“Erm... I come clean toilet?” I say in my best Hispanic
accent, which let’s be honest is appalling but maybe, just
maybe I sound foreign enough because she happily points
me in the direction of the toilets.
“Gracias,” I nod and move towards it. Inside the ladies I
fly into a cubicle, lock the door and plonk myself down on
the seat.
ARGH!!!!!!!!!!!
What have I done? What have I done?? Now I really am
trapped. I bang my fists into my head. STUPID! STUPID!
STUPID!
I force some deep breaths. I’ll think of something in a
69
minute. Any minute now. Any minute...
But even now my mind is wandering back to the little
office - I wonder what they were arguing over? You
couldn’t get that mad over restoring paintings, could you?
My curiosity is overriding my common sense again. Stop
it. Just think of a way out of here.
Something is humming noisily above me, disturbing my
delicate thought processes. Irritated I look up and see my
salvation! The suspended ceiling – where all the air
conditioning is tucked away out of sight. Brilliant!
With a burst of adrenaline I jump up on to the toilet lid
and gently push until the ceiling panel pops out. Petrified
someone is going to walk in any second I scramble into the
dark cramped space above. It’s horribly dirty, but hey, I am
in overalls. Sliding the panel back into place I gently lie
out in the dark. Now all I have to do is stay here until they
forget about me. How long will they search for I wonder?
A dust ball rolls across my face.
It’s going to be a long afternoon.
In the silence I'm starting to pick up some of that
shouting again. I strain to hear better...
“I don’t care! _____ first duty lies here______” booms a
deep voice, not unlike the one I heard on the phone last
night.
Intrigued I roll over onto my front and inch my way
forward a bit.
I think I hear Dad say, “With ___ ___ respect, Botti___, sir,
I don’t see ___ problem. ____ painting ___delivered
________ paid up. __________ my part of the deal. Mikey
and I ____ Picasso safely ___securely.”
I crawl a bit closer. Is Dad admitting he stole the Picasso?
“Safely and securely?” booms the man.
I've inched so far along now that I’m actually right above
70
the room. Through the tiny gaps in the panels I can see the
shouting boss man. He’s old looking but not frail, red
cheeked and white haired with a wiry mustache He wears
a smart checked shirt with an outlandish bowtie. I move
so I can see Dad too - younger, sleeker and all in black.
They’re glaring at each other. I figure Dad could take him.
“You embarrassed the company and me by not showing
up last night,” the boss man booms.
Dad shrugs, “You didn't need me, Botti...”
Botti?
“DON'T TELL ME MY JOB, LEO!” the Botty boss man
shouts. “If I say you are needed, you ARE needed. You
may be number one, but that doesn’t make you
irreplaceable.”
“I’m fully aware of that,” says Dad. “And that’s why I
couldn’t be here last night - I was with my new
apprentice.”
No he wasn’t! He was with me. More lies.
“Don’t tell me you’ve finally got hold of your elusive
apprentice,” boss man Botty laughs.
“I have, and she’s an excellent candidate.”
“She?” Botty says raising an eyebrow.
“I want a bit more time and then I’ll bring her in.”
Who is Dad referring to? Has he got a girlfriend after all? Did
he lie to me about that too? And what’s he doing introducing
her to this world of criminal espionage? Shame on him.
“What’s her style?” Botty asks curiously, his anger
temporarily distracted.
“Well, Earl called her a wildcat and I’d say that about
covers it at the moment but there's a lot of potential,” Dad
smiles affectionately.
My world stalls. Earl called me a wildcat last night. He can’t
mean I’m his apprentice? I don’t wanna be an art thief. I’m not
71
a criminal!
“She’s already met Detective Earl?” asks Botty, surprised.
“Yes. That was the other thing I was doing last night,
entertaining Earl and his thugs.”
“Again? He really hates you.” That was Mikey’s voice.
I twist round even further to see who else is in the room.
There’s Mikey, grinning away, and two new people. A tall
blonde man, smartly dressed in a dark green suit. And
next to him... hmmm, a blonde boy, looks just a bit older
than me, also smartly dressed and looking strangely
angelic with his sparkly blue eyes and delicate features.
And wow... dazzled by that tousled hair, looks like pure
gold.
My attention snaps back to Botty as I hear him ask, “So,
what can this wildcat do exactly?” And I’m suddenly
intrigued too.
“She can fight,” Dad says. “She’s intelligent. Quick
leaner. Agile. Resilient.”
“And she’s a stunner,” adds Mikey.
“Humph. Anything else?” Botty asks.
I realize in sudden horror that the ceiling has been giving
way. A bolt pops and metal bows. The panel I’m lying on
slides out of its groove and I slip forwards into the room
full of people. I let myself fall. Holding out my hands I hit
the floor and roll away from the gathering. I fall back into
a fighting stance, ready to defend myself. Everyone looks
at me with bemused expressions, all except Botty whose
red cheeks are growing darker.
Dad says, “She also seems to have just added espionage
to her list. Although it needs a little work.”
The door to the office suddenly swings open and the
black bobbed receptionist woman comes in. “Sorry to
disturb you sir, but I think we have an intruder... oh.”
72
 Botty goes beetroot. “I can see that! What the hell is she
doing in my office?”
“I’ll have you know I have police back up,” I lie
defensively.
Dad cocks his head at me.
“You’re all going to jail for a long time,” I continue, then
add, “You are very bad people.”
“Where’s Ollie?” Mikey asks.
I blush. “Well... we had a bit of a falling out...”
“Oh great, what have you done to him?” he sighs.
“Nothing... much.”
There’s a commotion outside and Ollie races in.
“See, he’s fine,” I say. Jeez, parents don’t half worry.
Dad is grinning at me. Botty is going nuclear.
“Oh, good. You are here,” Ollie puffs at me. “Why are
you in overalls?”
“What the hell is going on here, Turner?” Botty shouts.
It takes me a second to realize he’s referring to Ollie.
Does everyone here have a nickname?
“This is Leo’s new apprentice,” Ollie says, like it’s really
obvious.
“To hell with that!” I storm and jump. I catch the rim of
the hole in the ceiling and swing my feet out - people
duck. On the backward swing I haul myself back into the
gap, scrabbling to escape.
Dad’s face appears behind me.
“Peachkin?” he calls
“Don’t Peachkin me, you... you... liar!” I snap and blow
dust at him. He disappears in a plume of grime.
I’m not inching slowly any more, I’m crawling rapidly. I
can actually feel the ceiling bowing under my weight. It’s
not going to hold out much longer. I might as well as come
out. I kick out a panel and jump down onto the desk of a
73
startled worker. He makes a grab for me so I kick him in
the face. Harsh but true. These people are probably
gangsters and I don’t really have police back-up.
I grab the phone from his desk. I need some bargaining
time. I hit 999. Everyone is descending on me. Dad, Mikey
and Ollie are at the front of the crowd.
“What are you doing?” Dad asks.
“I’m phoning someone.”
He frowns. “Who?”
The handset speaks to me. “What service please?”
“Police,” I answer.
“Sweetie? What are you doing?” Dad says totally
bemused.
“Some apprentice,” I hear Botty say.
“Shut up, Botty!” I snap.
Mikey bursts out laughing until Botty shoots him a
dangerous look then turns back to me, “It’s Botticelli!”
“Riiiiiight!” I say, really needing to get away from these
weirdos before they body-bag me.
“Look, I could have the police here in five minutes,” I
say. “I want you to clear a path to the fire escape for me.”
“No, you couldn’t,” says Dad.
“No I couldn‘t what?”
“Have the police here in five minutes.”
“Alright then, six or seven.”
“No, you see Monnie handles the switchboard. Your call
hasn’t left the room.”
He points to the receptionist woman with the black bob.
She’s back at her desk, holding a phone, looking straight at
me. If this really was 999 they would have put me through
by now. I’m really beginning to hate her.
“God damn it.” I slam the receiver down. “How could
you?” I demand, glaring at him.
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 “What’s the matter? Why are you so upset?” Dad asks.
Crowded in by a sea of office workers I feel the panic rise
again. Calm. Need to stay calm. If I’m ever going to get out
of here in one piece I need to stop panicking and use my
head - but there’s no way I can fight this many people...
Or maybe I don’t need to fight them at all!
I feel a calmness seep through me as I let my instincts
take over. Trusting my abilities I relax my muscles and feel
my eyes go dark and hooded. Dad senses the change
because his eyes respond. I’m looking right at him and it’s
like staring into a bottomless well.
“Catherine, wait...” I hear him say but it’s too late.
I jump down from the desk and land by the wall. In that
brief second I notice everyone has spread out more, ready
to grab me. These are definitely not your ordinary office
workers; I spot three horse stances and one man’s hidden a
bamboo stick from a pot plant behind his back.
“Just stop a minute,” Dad says, lowering his hands,
palms face down.
“You lying...” I turn and grab the fire extinguisher off the
wall, “...art stealing...” I snap open the hose, “criminal
scum!” And spray.
As the misty haze from the fire extinguisher dissipates
it’s clear from the surprised faces that they never expected
me to have crossed the room and have my hand on the fire
exit door handle, ready for my leap to freedom.
“You and the Fine Art Restoration Trust are history,” I spit
venomously and push down on the handle.
“We don’t steal art,” Dad calls.
The door is open. I can see blue sky and breathe fresh air.
I turn back to him.
“We steal it back,” he continues. “I wasn’t lying when I
said I was a good guy.”
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 I hesitate.
“She good enough to be an apprentice, now?” Mikey
asks Botty.
“After the stunt she’s just pulled?” Botty says glaring at
me. “Of course she is. But for God’s sake someone tell her
what we do here.”

18
I’m sitting at Dad’s desk with a hot cup of something.
Dad is sitting on the desk. Mikey is swiveling on a chair to
my right next to his own desk, on top of which Ollie is
perched – and whose face is looking a little puffy where I
hit him but nothing major.
I’m still wearing the dirty blue overalls and desperately
need to wash the dust and dirt off myself but I’m too busy
reeling in shock.
“So,” I say, trying to make sense of what Dad has been
trying to tell me. “You steal back what the bad guys have
stolen first?”
He nods slowly.
“For example, a bad guy stole Picasso’s The Offering so
you went to Spain and stole it back?”
“Pretty much,” says Dad.
“Then last night the Fine Art Restoration Trust handed it
secretly back to the museum curator. Secretly because
what you do is illegal.”
He nods again.
“But doesn’t that still make you a criminal?” I frown.
Dad sighs. Mikey tries to stifle another laugh.
“The world isn’t that black and white, Honey,” Dad
explains. “The police can’t always get close enough. If a
crook thinks the police are on to him, he’ll scarper, taking
his loot with him, or worse, destroy it. We do what the
76
police can’t. We live in the criminal’s world and play by
their rules. It means bending the law sometimes but we do
it for the right reasons.”
“Is that why Earl hates you so much? Because you can do
stuff he can’t?”
“Yes and no. Mainly with me and Earl it’s personal.”
“Why?”
“Let’s just say I became a blight on his CV.”
“How?”
“Do you want in or not?” Dad asks impatiently, changing
the subject.
“As your apprentice?”
“Yeah.”
“You want me to work for a company who’s acronym is
FART?”
Ollie chokes back a laugh. Dad looks at me blankly.
“Yes,” he nods.
“To help steal art.”
“In a Robin Hood styli, yes,”
“Mum’s not going to like it,”
“She can’t know.”
Of course not. Silly me.
“What does it entail exactly?” I ask.
“Lots of sitting at a desk, researching people and places,
tracking phone records and Internet usage. Occasionally
you get to go out into the field and bring back a painting.
You’re perfect for the job.”
Me? Perfect for something? It sounds amazing, but
totally unrealistic.
“Dad, I’m still at school. I can’t do this,” I mumble.
“Oh, that’s another thing,” he says jumping up and
whispering in my ear. “You can’t call me Dad.”
I look around conspicuously. “Why not?” I whisper.
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 “Because you’re not supposed to be related to your
apprentices. Too personal. It’s against the rules.”
“Don’t be daft!” I laugh and point to Mikey and Ollie.
“What?” he says.
“Well, I don’t exactly need a DNA test to prove these two
share chromosomes and here’s a news flash for you, we
don't exactly look too unlike each other either. And now I
come to think of it where’s that blonde man with the
blonde kid. I bet they’re flipping related.”
“No, they’re not,” Dad declares, crossing his arms.
“Whatever,” I sigh.
“And you’ll need a new name.”
“Jeez, I haven’t even signed up yet.”
“Are you going to turn it down?”
I shift uncomfortably. “I’m still at school. I can’t get a job.
Let alone an illegal one. I had plans. I was going to
college.”
“And then what?”
I shrug. Truthfully I don’t have a clue what I’m going to
do with myself, but I have options.
“Well, you can still study here. We’ll tutor you privately.”
“Tutor me?”
“Yes. No more school.”
Good God! Sold to the lady in the blue overalls. Where
do I sign?
“What about Mum?” I ask quietly.
“You’ll have to come live with me.” He looks serious like
he’s afraid I might not want to. A tingling feeling spreads
over my entire body... no more school... no more living
and fighting with mum... Could it really happen?
“You need time to think about it,” Dad acknowledges,
then adds proudly, “You did good today.”
Mikey suddenly explodes with all the laughter he’s been
78
struggling to contain. “When you fell through the ceiling...
And then kicked Reynolds in the face... And then the best
bit was calling old Botticelli, Botty!”
Mikey’s almost in tears. Dad’s trying not to grin too much.
Ollie winks at me.
My heart swells. This is the most praise I’ve received in
years. Maybe this is something I could do... Hang on a
minute!
“Oh, my, God! I just got it. You’re all nicknamed after
painters,” I exclaim.
“Finally,” Ollie grins, rolling his eyes.
“The boss man is called Botticelli.” I say. “Ollie is Turner.
Mikey must be short for, erm, Michelangelo! Which means
Leo is for Leonardo da Vinci?”
Dad smiles and nods.
“But Ollie said you were called Leo because you’re top
dog. Does that mean...”
“I’m the best 'restorer' here,” Dad winks.
Gosh. And there I was thinking my Dad was a boring old
nobody.
I beam at him proudly. I always knew he was great.
“Everyone back in,” Botty suddenly shouts from his
office.
I look to Dad. Mikey and Ollie are already on their way.
Dad gets up.
“Do I come?” I ask him.
“Are you my apprentice?”
Seriously, how can I refuse such an offer? “Yes. I think I
am.”
He grins. “I knew you would.”

19
Botty sits at his desk facing us, his fingers steepled, his
79
face severe, his intense gray eyes.. well, intense.
“Okay,” he bellows in what I now realize is just his usual
volume. “Back to business.”
I squirm sheepishly and chance a glance at the blonde
duo who are also back in the room. I wonder who they
are? The boy looks at me and I quickly look away.
“This is a biggy people,” Botty booms. “Possibly the
biggest we’ve ever dealt with. If we don’t find The Birth of
Venus within the next 72 hours it’ll probably disappear for
decades, maybe more.”
My jaw drops open. The Birth of Venus? The painting of
the naked woman in the seashell? Stolen?
“But I was only looking at that yesterday,” I say out loud.
“You were?” Botty says. “Notice anything?”
“Ooh.” My mind goes instantly blank. Everyone’s
looking at me. “Er... nope.”
“Pity. Well, what do you think, Turner?” Botty says
turning to Ollie.
Surprisingly Ollie’s usual confident and relaxed persona
completely evaporates. “Oh, erm, I think that, erm, what I
mean is, er ...”
Wow. He's completely choking! I feel Mikey bristle
irritably behind me.
“Hmmm,” Botty scowls and Ollie deflates in what looks
like a mixture of relief and annoyance. “What about you,
Whistler?”
I turn to see the blonde boy look up. I suppose he’s quite
good looking really, in an old fashioned, renaissance kind
of way. I mean, if you like that kind of thing. His hair
really does look like spun gold though and he oozes cool
in his chino’s and a two-tone khaki long-sleeved t-shirt,
and check out those biceps.... ooh, crap, he’s talking. Better
listen.
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 “... a painting this famous could only have been stolen to
order. No one would buy it on the black market. So we’re
probably looking for someone with an awful lot of
money...”
His voice is just as angelic as his looks. A curious thing
happens to my blood pressure and I feel my chest tighten.
I notice Ollie looking at me in an exasperated manner.
‘What?’ I mouth at him.
“...unlikely they live in Europe, or even the US,” Whistler
continues. “Probably they’ll live somewhere in the third
world where their money will go further and they can rule
like kings. I’d look at drug lords and arms dealers from
South America, Africa, Asia, etc. who have demonstrated a
previous interest in art.”
Wow. Impressive. Well, the bits I was listening to anyway.
“Very good. I agree.” Botty hits his intercom. “Monnie.”
The door swings open and the receptionist woman
enters. Her black bob swings in my direction and she gives
me a wry little smile as she passes. I actually feel quite
intimidated which is strange because I bet I could floor her
in seconds if it came down to it.
“Sir?” she says slapping a file on his desk.
“I want you to organize a team to search through our A-
list for anyone in the southern hemisphere and who's been
to Italy recently.”
“Why Italy?” I hear myself ask, then blush. I’m sure
speaking out of turn isn’t encouraged around here.
Botty turns to me, but he doesn't look mad. “As I’m sure
you’re aware, The Birth of Venus was only on loan to the
National Gallery. It normally resides in the Uffizi Gallery
in Florence. I would expect the instigator behind this
audacious theft to have visited the painting shortly before
it was stolen, one last time, in case anything went wrong.”
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 Botty then turns to the blonde man, “Raph, I want you
and Whistler in Florence. If it’s an inside job there might
be something in the paperwork down there. Mikey, I want
you to take control of the team currently monitoring the
airports and ferry terminals etc. Leo, I want you prepped
and ready to move as soon as we get a lead.” He looks at
each of us in turn. “This is an important painting, people,
and I want it restored.”

20
I’m sitting in the back seat of Mikey’s shiny BMW on my
way back to Oxford. Dad’s driving cos Mikey’s still at the
office. Ollie is sat next to me. I expected him to have
stayed too but apparently not.
The traffic out of London is slow enough that I can talk to
Ollie even though the roof of the convertible is down.
“How come you didn’t stay with Mikey?” I ask him.
He merely shrugs.
Odd. He’s normally such a chatterbox. I try again.
“But Whistler went with erm, thingy, the blonde guy, to
Florence.”
Ollie rolls his eyes at me. “Yes. Whistler went with Raph
to Florence.”
“Raph is short for Raphael, right?” I begin to wonder
what my nickname will be.
Ollie nods sullenly. “He's the third best 'restorer' at
FART.”
“Mikey's the second then? So you're the second best
apprentice,” I smile, sure this will be a good topic to cheer
him up.
“What and you're the first?” he sneers.
Ouch.
“No, no, of course not. Actually I was thinking
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Whistler...”
Ollie gives me an outraged glare, “You are so
predictable,” he scoffs.
“What?” I say, truly bewildered.
He continues to glare at me.
“God, just take a chill pill already,” I snap.
Ollie snorts.
“I was just thinking he seemed to know a lot of stuff,
that’s all,” I mutter coldly.
“You fancy him,” Ollie says with barely concealed
resentment.
“What? How could you... I can’t believe you’d... I so do
not,” I sputter. I mean he’s cute and all, but it takes more
than a few golden curls to impress me - although I did get
a great view of his butt as we left and...
“Do too,” Ollie says grumpily.
“Why do you even care?” I snap back.
“Don’t.”
“Shut up then.”
Are you two bickering back there?” Dad asks and I can
see his concerned reflection in the rear-view mirror.
“No,” we answer simultaneously.
I fold my arms and look at the passing traffic.
“Whistler is a stuck up arse kisser,” Ollie mumbles.
“Oh, erm, right, okay, well...” I trip over my words
wondering what to say next. I mean, I haven't even met
Whistler properly yet and it seems wrong to bad-mouth
him, but I need to get into Ollie's good books again; he's
the only person who's been even remotely friendly with
me, well, since primary school. “He did seem a bit up
himself,” I say and watch for Ollie's reaction.
Ollie cracks a grin and I’m relieved. “Yeah. He thinks he’s
the best. I like to call him SAS man.”
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 I raise an eyebrow.
“Sunshine out of Ass Syndrome,” Ollie explains. “Cos he
thinks he’s so great the sun shines out of his backside.”
We both burst out laughing and Dad gives us a bemused
frown in the mirror. I beam at Ollie and he grins back.
Look at me! Having a proper laugh with a friend. I feel so
happy. It makes me realize just how amazingly unhappy I
really am at home.
“I wonder why do people do it though?” I say wanting to
keep our conversation going. “Why risk prison to steal a
painting you could easily get a print of for a couple of
quid?”
“Art is about a lot more than pretty pictures, you must
know that?” Ollie says leaning back into the seat. “It’s
about prestige and status. If I own a real Picasso it makes
me into someone rich and cultured - I’m a success. For
someone to own a cultural icon like The Birth of Venus,
well, that would show immense wealth and power.”
“People steal paintings for power?”
“Well, there's passion as well. The Venus for example is
wrapped up in history and mythology, symbolism and
national pride. It has a lot of emotional currency too.”
I think back to the first time I saw a really famous
painting, one of Van Gogh’s sunflowers. It was awesome. I
mean, I know it’s just some paint on a canvas but I was
totally bowled over. I don’t know why. It was just so
famous, like a celebrity or something.”
“Still,” I muse. “Stuff like this can’t happen very often.
How do we ‘Art Restorers’ occupy ourselves the rest of the
time?”
Ollie laughs. “Actually art theft is the third largest
criminal enterprise in the world.”
I frown in disbelief.
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 “No, really. Most cases never make the headlines because
people don’t know enough about art to care. What’s the
odd fifteenth century fresco missing from church or a
Victoria portrait taken from a private house mean to most
people? Nothing. Journalists only get excited when it’s
something big, like the Venus. And cos no one knows or
cares enough, only about 10% of stolen art is ever
recovered.”
My eyes widen. “But what if the Venus is never found?
I’d be one of the last people to ever see it!”
Ollie smiles at me. “Don’t worry. The general get-back
rate may be 10% but at FART it’s nearer 90%.“

21
Back in Oxford Dad's turning the slinky BMW into our
road.
“Do you want to come in with us, Ollie? We can start...”
Dad stops mid sentence.
I look up to see Mum and nearly die. I swear my heart
stops for a second. She’s leaning against her white Volvo
outside Dad's house, and boy, does she look mad.
Dad pulls up alongside Mum's car and jumps out. “Tilly!
What a pleasant surprise.”
Mum shakes her head. “Catherine, get your stuff. You’re
coming home.”
Stepping out of the car I open my mouth to reply but
Dad beats me to it. “You don’t want to come in for a bit?”
he asks.
Mum just glares at him. “Catherine, go and get your
things.”
I’ve heard this tone before and it means business. My
legs want to obey but my heart is rattling in its cage. I’m
Dad’s now. I’m here to stay. I’m his apprentice. I’m a big
85
shot art restorer!
“Maybe you better do as she says,” Dad says.
My mouth drops open. “What?”
Dad turns to me and whispers, “Just go with her for now.
She’s really angry and we’re not going to get anywhere
with her today. We’ll work out how to tell her later.
Besides maybe it’s for the best what with this Venus case.
You’re a bit too new to have much influence on it.”
I stand there, horrified. I thought this was my job now. I
thought I was one of them. How can he treat me like this?
I narrow my eyes at him in anger. I know exactly what’s
going to happen. Mum will take me home and I’ll get
locked in my room and no one will ever see me again. Dad
will forget all about me and this whole day will become a
dream. All the things I’ve done: standing up to the police,
fighting muggers, breaking into office buildings - will blur
into nothingness.
“I don’t want to go...” I whine childishly.
Mum pushes herself away from the car and sighs
dramatically. “For God’s sake, Catherine. I’m sure you’ve
had a fantastic day but it’s over. Just get in the car so I can
take you home. He’s not going to want you forever.”
He does! He does want me forever I want to shout, but
I’m too choked to speak. Ollie hangs back nervously. Dad
is fiddling with his goatee, staring at the floor. He never
could stand up to her.
I consider just running. I could run away and then come
back to Dad’s when she’s gone. But she won’t go. Not
without me. I have no choice. No control over the
situation.
“Fine,” I say giving Mum the dirtiest look I can muster.
“Dad, open the front door so I can get my stuff.” At least
I’ll get clean underwear if I go home.
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 Dad unlocks the front door and I walk steadily in,
snatching up my kit bag and checking to see if I’ve left
anything lying around. Ollie is by my side.
“You’ll be back real soon,” he says.
“Yeah, we’ll see.” Reality is starting to set in. How could I
have let myself get so carried away with a dream? Mum
will never let me go. She’ll never let me live with Dad.
She’ll make me stay at home and go back to school where
Damon will continue to tease me until I really do snap and
kill him and then I’ll end up in prison.
“You got your mobile?” Ollie asks.
“Hmm? Oh, yeah. My phone. Well, at least I got
something good out of this stupid mess. Oh, and a few
clothes. Happy Birthday me.”
“I thought maybe you’d lost it or thrown it away after
our fight earlier.”
“Why?”
“Well, you didn’t use it at the office, when you were
trying to phone the police.”
I stare at him.
Oh God, how slow am I? I didn’t even think about using
my mobile. My bottom lip trembles. I don’t belong here
anyway. It's better if I go home. Much too stupid to be a
real art restorer.
“I’m sorry I hit you,” I mumble.
“Don’t worry about it. I deserved it,” Ollie says and puts
an arm out to comfort me.
A fat tear streaks down my cheek. I wipe at it harshly. I
should be gutted to cry in front of Ollie, but I don’t feel too
bad. Is this what it means to have a true friend?
“I’ll make sure Leo gets your phone number,” Ollie says.
“Maybe keep it on silent and hide it from your mom,
yeah?”
87
 I nod.
As if on cue Mum calls for me again.
I wander outside. By the look of things there have been
some pretty emotional goings on out here too. Dad’s eyes
are all hooded and dangerous. Mum’s all flushed with thin
lips and she’s swinging her car keys aggressively.
“Get in the car,” she says turning to get in herself.
I take a step towards Dad. “Bye,” I say.
“It’s not goodbye, Peachkin. It’s see you later,” he says
with a small smile but he and I both know it’ll take a
miracle for Mum to give me up.

22
The tension in the car is just ridiculous. Mum’s all bent
over the steering wheel frowning at the road. I’m slouched
in my seat, arms folded, staring out of the window. Cars
speed past us and I wonder what would happen if we
crashed.
I try and remember what Mum and I were like before
Dad left.
-Christmas mornings when Mum, still in her dressing
gown, would help me unwrap my presents.
-Being top of the class in her gymnastics lessons - her
trying hard not to explode with pride in front of the other
parents.
-The sports day she cheered me so much she lost her
voice.
-The endless visits to the zoo in the summer... and
birthday parties... and holidays in Devon.
Those were the good days. Then Mum and Dad started
arguing. Dad moved into the spare room. Then out
altogether. Mum was so angry all the time and I was the
only one left to shout at. I still don't know why she kicked
88
him out? If she was so upset that he was gone, why didn’t
she just take him back? Why did she break the family up?
Why did she ruin everything? Why? Why? Why?
“He’s not the saint you think he is,” Mum says coolly as if
reading my thoughts.
I snort. He is actually. He’s a hero. A present day Robin
Hood.
Mum shoots me a look. “Christ, you're with him for one
day and already you're acting like him.”
“I want to go live with Dad,” I say.
“Don’t be absurd.”
“I mean it. I’m not happy at home.”
Mum suddenly swerves left and we brake sharply into a
lay-by. She turns to look at me.
“You think it’s easy being a single parent? Do you? I’m
the one who has to do all the hard work. I’m the one who
cooks and cleans and makes sure you have everything you
need. And I’m the one who has to dish out all the
discipline. I’m the big ogre who says, ‘No! No! No!’”
“It’s not that,” I mutter.
“I bet you’ve had the time of your life today. I bet he’s
spoiled you rotten. Bought you anything you asked for, let
you do whatever you wanted, taken you anywhere you
wanted to go. But that was just one day. Don’t you see?
He’s hasn’t been there for you for nearly three years. Three
years, Catherine! You don’t even know him anymore.”
“That’s funny because I was just about to say the same
thing to you.”
We stare at each other. I wonder, does she really know
what he does? How can you live with someone for so long
and not truly know them?
Mum’s head sags. “You’re too young to understand,” she
says.
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 “I’m fifteen!”
“Not until Thursday you’re not. And you’ll be lucky if I
let you out of your room until then.”
“Like you can keep me in,” I mumble.
Mum’s body tenses. “I nailed your window shut.”
“Well, so what if you did? There’s the bathroom window
or your bedroom window. Hell, there’s even the front
door. You fancy trying to stop me. Reckon you could take
me on?”
“Don’t threaten me,” Mum warns.
“But that’s exactly what you’re doing to me! Treat me like
an adult and I’ll behave like one. I’m too old to be smacked
and sent to bed early.”
“I know that. I’m... I’m just trying to make the best of the
situation,” her voice is cracking.
Oh God, please don’t cry.
“I don’t want us to fight,” she struggles. “I just want to
do what’s right.” She leans her head wearily onto the
steering wheel, closing her eyes. “Don’t you think I wish it
was like it used to be? When we were all happy. I loved
your Dad. I still...”
Her voice trails off and I helplessly watch the rise and fall
off her back. In the extending silence I tentatively reach
over to pat her awkwardly on the back.
“I’m sorry we fight,” I mumble.
“Just because you love someone, it doesn’t mean you can
live with them,” she whispers and I can barely hear her.
“You’re so like him, it scares me. I don’t want to lose you
too.”
I don’t know what to do. What to say or how to say it. So
I just sit there and wait for her to take control again.
Finally she sits back up and starts the engine, returning to
the road.
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 23
Back home Mum seems reluctant to punish me. We seem
to be on a truce. A fresh start perhaps. Upstairs I’m
relieved to find someone from school has returned my
bag. I shower and change into my chocolate brown velor
tracksuit.
In the kitchen Mum is sprinkling fresh toppings on a
couple of pizzas. I hesitate in the doorway.
“You want to put your own topping on?” she asks.
I amble over and start rearranging pepperoni and
peppers into a smiley face. Mum adds ears and whiskers
and I’m looking at a pizza cat. We smile at each other.
“I’m sorry for not letting you know where I was last
night,” I say. “I meant to. I just forgot.”
Mum takes a moment to reply. “What made you go to
your dad’s?”
“Nothing really. There was a bus. I got on it. I didn’t
really think.“ I check to see her expression. “I’m glad I did
though.”
She looks up at that comment and sighs. “You always
were a daddy’s girl.”
I smile and playfully throw a piece of pepper at her.
“Don’t throw food,” she frowns.
My smile disappears. “Why can’t I go live with him?”
She huffs and grabs a bottle of wine from the rack. “Are
you kidding me? You don’t see him in months, then after
one lousy day you decide you want to move in with him.
Don’t you see... No, of course you don’t,” she tuts and I
bristle.
“I’m growing up,” I say. “I can make my own decisions.”
“You’re still only a child. You have no idea about the real
world. Look, it’s too complicated. Wait until you’re sixteen.
We’ll look at colleges near him and then maybe, if he
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agrees, you could stay there during the week or
something.”
I twiddle another piece of pepper between my fingers.
“You know I’m not happy here...”
“You’re a teenager. You’re not meant to be happy,” she
snaps.
“Yeah, well, you don’t make it any easier for me,” I snap
back.
We glare at each other.
“Can I eat upstairs?” I say.
“If that's what you want,” Mum says and turns to uncork
her wine.
I take my pizza upstairs and sink onto the bed. I can’t live
with her anymore, I just can’t. My heart aches as I wonder
what Dad and Ollie are doing at this precise moment. It’s
such a waste of time being here. I should be with them,
doing something useful, not stuck in my room hiding
from my own Mum. I try to imagine myself back in Dad’s
house, but now that I’m home I find it impossible. Today’s
events are already starting to fade.
I dump the empty plate on the floor and retrieve a heavy
art volume from my bookshelf. Opening it up on my bed I
find a picture of The Birth of Venus to study, anything to
feel connected. It’s such a famous painting. The beautiful
Venus, goddess of love, being born into the world. Except
she’s not beautiful, not in this picture. It's just like Damon
said, she should be thin and have big boobs but this Venus
has funny sloping shoulders and a really really long neck,
her left arm is bent all weird and check out those ankles!
Fat or what? And totally flat chested. She’d never make the
cover of Vogue. Am I missing something? How can she be
the personification of beauty and yet look like a gangly,
ironing board?
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 Maybe it's like that other guy said – the weird foreign
one from the gallery - paintings show us something
beyond the obvious. When we see the Venus we see
beauty, not because the picture is of a pretty woman but
because of the depth the painter put into it? The ideas. The
symbolism. The meaning. It's the difference between a
Botticelli and my GCSE art folder - pretty pictures but not
enough magic to make them really special, and certainly
not enough to make them worth stealing.
Suddenly there's a figure in my doorway. Bolting upright
in surprise I realize it's only Mum.
“What’s that?” she says sharply.
“What?” I grumble. Why does she have be so angry all
the time?
“That picture,” she storms, pointing at the Venus.
“The Birth of Venus by Botticelli,” I answer.
“Why are you looking at it?” she says, eyes narrowing in
suspicion.
“It’s just a painting. I went to see it on Friday.” God, what
is her problem now?
“Do you know it’s been stolen?”
Oh, yeah, that.
“It was on the news,” she continues. “That painting was
stolen last night. Did you know about that?”
What is she asking me exactly?
“How would I know?” I frown. “I want to see this news
report.”
“What was your dad up to last night?” Mum asks.
I freeze. Does she suspect Dad?
“Did he leave the house at all?” she insists.
Christ! She does suspect him. How much does she know?
Does she think he’s a bad guy, like I did? Is that why she
kicked him out?
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 “No, he didn’t leave the house,” I say carefully.
She looks at me long and hard. I try to remain aloof and
empty of knowledge but her gaze seems to catch
something.
“We’ll see,” she says and walks out of the room.

24
Sunday. I wake early and can't get back to sleep - too
busy thinking about the Venus. It’s dark outside but the
first hint of dawn is poking through. I decide to go for a
jog, refresh myself, and then do some serious surfing
online - if I can’t be with Dad and Ollie I’ll do my own
research. Maybe I'll discover something to help. Wouldn't
it be great if I solved the case? Botty would have to like me
then.
Dressed all in black I feel a bit like a ninja as I quietly
close our front door and begin my jog. I’m not normally a
big fan of jogging, what with the need for a good support
bra and all, but I do enjoy being out before everyone else.
It’s so peaceful I can feel the tension that crowds my back
and shoulders being blown away as I run; the rhythm
calming my frantic thoughts. Calm. Calming. Life will get
better. Even if Mum won't let me go with Dad now, I'll be
sixteen soon and then it'll no longer be in her control. I
WILL be an art restorer. I DO have a purpose. I CAN be
happy.
It's amazing how this sudden secure future makes me
better able to cope with the present. I'll see Damon next
week and apologize There was no excuse to hit him, or
anyone. I'm stronger than that, better. Maybe we can start
again, a kind of truce...
Distantly there's a boom boom noise. Curious on a quiet
Sunday morning. It gets louder and louder, then adds an
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engine noise. I sense rather than see the car coming up the
road behind me. It slows right down to pace me.
Oh, goody.
I glance sideways. It's a black souped-up something or
other - I’m about as good with cars as I am with gadgets. It
has four wheels and goes. But it also has tinted windows
and go-faster stripes. Classy.
The driver’s window rolls down and as the cloud of
smoke dissipates a male face appears. It looks vaguely
familiar but I can't work out why.
Over the music he shouts, “Hey, gorgeous.”
I simply shake my head and keep running. Don't interact.
How far from home am I?
“Why you running? You wanna lift somewhere?” he tries
again.
I hear giggling. There must be four or five more people in
the car. The wafts of alcohol and smoke make me think
they've been up partying all night. I concentrate on
running.
“Come on, hop in. I could take you places,” the driver
says, a slight impatient edge to his voice.
As if I’d ever get in his car.
“I got something to show you. I just know you’ll like it,”
he croons.
This is getting a bit too much. I consider punching him
through the open window. That’d shut him up. But then I
spy the park.
“No, thank you,” I say and slip into the park, where the
car can't follow.
Now, normally I would never go in here while it's still
dark. It’s just not a very safe thing to do. But I was already
being harassed outside the park, wasn’t I? How much
worse could it get? I consider stopping, waiting for them
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to drive off and then coming straight back out and
heading home, but my body has just settled into a nice
rhythm. It’s nearly light now anyway. I’ll be fine.
This park isn’t too bad actually. Big open field, birds
twittering and look, two squirrels, gathering supplies
before winter. I can hear the thump, thump, thump of my
feet hitting the grass - or is that the car’s music again? I
wonder if Dad and Ollie are up yet? Have they found any
leads? Birds chatter up ahead and the sky blossoms into
first light. I can see the exit in front of me. See, how easy
was that? I'll turn towards home now and...
Figures enter the park in the dim light. Teenage boys.
Four... no five of them, one particularly tall, one
particularly round, but otherwise all nondescript in dark
hoodies and jeans. It must be them.
I pull to a stop and fold my arms over my head to restore
my oxygen levels faster – just in case. I spend a few
seconds checking my exits and then a few more
considering suitable wise-cracks but ultimately I'm no
word-smith so I go with “What?”
“You were a little rude to me back there,” says the tall
one. I recognize him as the driver who spoke to me. Still
something familiar about him...
“Nice try,” I say. “You gonna let me past or what?”
The driver cocks his head at me and his eyes roam down
my body. “My little brother has been going on about you
for months. We used to take the piss out of him for it but
I'm starting to see why he's so interested.”
“What are you on about?” I say irritably.
Driver turns around and drags a reluctant boy forward.
“Damon?” I say.
Damon gives me a weak wave. I'm so used to seeing him
as the biggest and most dominant alpha male in our
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school that I'm totally stunned to find him subjugated to
his big brother like this. I never gave it a second thought
but I suppose there's always someone bigger than you.
“This her?” Driver asks Damon.
“Yes, this is Catherine,” Damon mumbles. “It doesn't
matter. Just leave it.”
“Leave what?” I'm looking along the line of faces of
teenage boys in total confusion.
“Well, you see, we have a problem,” says Driver. “I have
a reputation to protect and you...”
“I'm sorry but who are you?” I ask petulantly knowing
full well this'll push his buttons.
Driver glares at me. “I'm someone who you should show
some damn respect too.”
“Like you've shown me?” I say, tipping my hip, giving
him a dose of attitude. (Not sure why I'm goading the big
bully instead of running away as fast as my knock-off
Nikes can take me, but I am having fun.)
Driver takes a step forward, and subtly moves his coat so
I can see the knife riding in his belt.
“Ohhh, you want me to respect your big scary knife, is
that it?”
“Okay! Okay!” Damon says stepping forward, between
his dead-beat brother and me. “This is getting stupid.”
Too right it is but Driver is really hotting up for a fight
and I'm telling you, he ain't the only one.
“She beat on you in public you dick-weed, making me
look bad and now she's gonna pay,” says Driver.
“Are you tripping?” I say.
“Just stop it,” Damon says putting a hand on his brother
shoulder before turning to me. “I'm sorry Cath...”
There's a squeal as Driver grabs hold of Damon's arm
and twists it violently until Damon's kneeling on the floor
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in agony. I'm two steps closer before I realize I've moved
and stop – after all the idiot has a knife.
Hmmm, time I removed myself from this equation before
it gets messy.
Putting up my hands I say, “You boys wanna work out
your issues that's fine with me but I'm going home.”
I make a move to go around the group but one of the
boys blocks my path. I spin on my heel and try the other
side. Also blocked. Not a total loss, I can always run back...
oop, maybe not as boy number three slips in behind me.
Should have seen this coming. Should have got away
sooner. But something in me isn't disappointed at all.
Something is actually very excited.
“We ain't finished yet,” Driver says pulling Damon back
to his feet - his eyes sparkling with the pain. “My little
brother needs to settle the score with you first.”
Driver shoves Damon at me. He falters a few steps,
looking a bit sorry for himself. I can't say I'm totally
sympathetic, Damon's been teasing me for years. I wonder
if a quick leopard punch to his nose will end this
situation? I doubt it. There's no way Driver's letting me
walk away from this unscathed. The first tendril of fear
prickles the base of my spine. It annoys me so I crush it
before it takes hold.
“Go on then,” Driver calls. “Take your shot at her. Show
her who's boss.”
The other boys jeer in excitement as Damon takes a deep
breath in preparation. I'm guessing this must be some kind
of initiation test into his brother's gang. Can't believe I was
planning on apologizing to this guy.
Damon flexes his arms and determination fills his eyes.
I'm watching his hands for movement but his feet aren't
centered at all. It's gonna be dead easy to knock him on his
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ass.
“Catherine,” Damon says. “Would like to go out some
time?”
What?
“Go see a movie?” he continues.
WHAT!!!
“Or maybe skating or something?” He shrugs innocently
and gives me this foppish grin.
I'm speechless. Totally struck dumb.
“What is this?”Driver yells. “I thought you were gonna
kick her ass? Not kiss it!”
“No one could kick Catherine's ass,” Damon says with
surprise, then adds in a barely audible whisper that has
me straining to hear it “...and I'd much rather kiss it.”
“Argh!” Driver yells throwing his hands in the air. “You
gonna diss your own brother over a skirt? And what d'ya
mean no one could take her? She's a girl. Even Cho could
take her.” I follow Drivers pointing hand to the fat Asian
kid who shrugs at me almost in apology.
“I seriously doubt that,” Damon says and Driver's frown
creases.
Shut up Damon.
“I bet she could take Cho easy.”
Shut up Damon!
“I bet she could even take you!”
SHUT UP DAMON!!
Slowly Driver turns to face me, challenge written all over
his face.
Great. Just marvelous Well done Damon. Well done
indeed.
Unlike his brother, Driver walks like he knows how to
move – loose and fluid yet perfectly balanced. He
obviously follows at least one martial art – maybe more –
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and he's about twice my weight.
“You think you can take me little girl?” Driver sneers.
No. I think you would knock me senseless with the first blow,
is what I think. However what I say is “Size isn't everything.”
Stupid mouth.
Driver pulls his coat off and Damon has the decency to
look worried. I give him a pointed look and his eyes widen
in guilt. Driver squares up to me. The other boys hold
their circle around us and practically have their tongues
lolling out in anticipation.
“Ladies first,” Driver says.
“Again, nice try,” I say. “But a true warrior never strikes
first.”
Driver nods in recognition and I instinctively bow in
return which is totally stupid because that's when his leg
comes flying out and catches me square in the temple. So
stupid not to see that coming.
I taste gravel before my eyes refocus and my head feels
wet and sticky. My fingers gently probe but they come
away unbloodied.
Driver is laughing. So are the other boys. Damon is
stepping toward me but Driver hooks his arm and sends
him flying into the waiting grip of Cho.
Shaking my head I get to my feet. “You have no honor,” I
say in disgust.
“There ain't no honor on the streets.”
“Only because of people like you. Who take what they
can and destroy what they can't.”
“Whoa. That's deep. I must have hit you pretty hard,” he
grins and spins around to high-five his mate for such a
witty come-back.
With his back turned and Damon distracting Cho I could
easily slip through their net and make a run for it. Run
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back home to Mummy and safety. Driver turns back to
face me, follows my gaze and flicks his eyebrows. He'd let
me go now. He's got what he wanted. Humiliated me and
Damon.
Chance of me running away from this situation just went
from slim to none.
“So,” I say. “You're a kick boxer. What else you got?”
“That was just a little love tap girlie,” Driver laughs.
“You want more. I got plenty to give.”
“No!” Damon calls out but the big bad Asian kid
swallows him up in a tighter grip.
Driver and I square up once more.
“You gotta lay a finger on me first,” I smile.
He's actually not that fast. I slip right and elbow him in
the upper left arm before he's completed his right hook. It
deadens his arm but then the real power is in his legs.
Predictably his left leg kicks backwards but I'm no longer
there. Instead I'm on the other side stomping down on the
back of his right knee. He buckles but doesn't go down
which is a shame. Unfortunately I'm in the perfect place to
get clobbered by his right arm as it swings out in
frustration. No special move. Just one pissed of guy with
big biceps. Hits me full in the cheek and I have to fall back
and recover. He charges at me and I only partially step out
of the way. We tumble to the ground with me on top. I
strike his shoulder with the heel of my hand as he punches
into my stomach. My weight drops and my knee slides
into his groin. The boys around us gasp in sympathy.
Driver grabs a fistful of my hair and I headbutt him which
loosens his grip enough so I can put my hands either side
of his head and do a forward roll off of him. Twisting
quickly to face him I'm still struggling to catch my breath
after the stomach punch. Driver staggers to his feet
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spitting blood.
Suddenly out of the corner of my eye a branch appears I
duck and step back as one of the other boys has entered
the fight. I trip him with my foot and he smashes his face
into the ground.
“She's mine!” yells Driver as I'm bear hugged from
behind. Podgy Asian arms encircle my torso and my little
girlie feet kick out feebly in surprise - until I regain my
composure and stomp on Asian's knee while I
simultaneously elbow him in the stomach. His body reacts
by bending forward and he gets the full force of Drivers
punch that was coming my way. Asian's arm slide off me
and I'm facing Driver again.
I fall back into a fighting stance with one hand forward
and the other pulled back ready to strike.
“Er... Guys?”
Driver and I both turn to see the last remaining boy,
Damon, standing above the body of the third boy.
“Don't you think we could stop here and call it a draw?”
suggests Damon.
“No!” Driver and I say in unison.
“Well, I'm off,” he says and turning, walks out of the
park.
Huh! Who knew he was such a pacifist. One who can
fight too, when needed, judging by the body on the floor.
I turn back to driver.
“I can't believe he likes you,” Driver spits.
“I can't believe he likes you!” I reply.
A light drizzle starts.
We're still locked in position.
The rain gets harder.
“Right, that's it. I'm going home,” I say.
“This ain't over,” Driver says relaxing.
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 “See ya around,” I say and walk away.
“Not if I see you first,” he calls.

25
“God in Heaven! What happened to you?”
Looks like Mum is up early too. I've stagger into the
kitchen and stood over the sink to spit blood.
“Mugger,” I explain, running water and delicately
splashing my face. Ow.
“Are you hurt?”
“I'll live.”
“I'll call the police.”
“I don’t think it’s that bad,” I say, sinking into a chair.
“We're phoning the police, Catherine.”
“No!” I say a bit too harshly, strangely I’m not too
comfortable with the police anymore.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Mum says. “Did he take
anything?”
“Who? Oh, the mugger. No, I was jogging,” I shrug.
“Didn’t have anything worth taking.”
Mum frowns. “Then why would he mug you?”
“Rapist, then. Whatever.”
“Catherine! This is serious. I'm calling the police right
now.”
“I said NO.”
“It’s not your decision to make!”
There she goes again, controlling me.
I stand up. “Trust me, okay. This is not one for the
police.”
“I don’t think you...”
“Look, you may have believed the school when they said
I was a bully but the truth is a little different.”
“What do you mean?” she asks suspiciously.
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 I sigh in exasperation. “Isn’t it obvious? I’m the one who’s
being picked on Mum. And now it’s spilled out of school.”
Mum looks confused. “But...”
“But what?”
She looks at me with a pained expression. “Why didn’t
you tell me?”
“GOOD GOD! What do you think I’ve been going on
about? I keep telling you I hate it here!”
“But you never said anything about being bullied.”
“I didn’t know I had to spell it out for you. Wasn’t my
constant unhappiness a small clue?”
“I’m not a mind-reader, Catherine,” she says defensively.
“You wouldn’t need to be if you’d just listen to me once
in a while.”
I slope out of the kitchen to run myself a hot bath. Lying
in the soothing water I actually feel pretty sorry for
myself. I ache something chronic, new bruises forming
before my eyes. And I don’t feel very clever either. I’ve just
made things worse, haven’t I?
The next time Damon's brother sees me he'll be more
prepared and better organized Maybe attack the house, or
even Mum! I was spoiling for a fight and that's what I got.
And I probably came away with the most injures. Should
have just run away from the start. Would have beaten him
in a different way and not hurt all over.
And was it me or did Damon really ask me out on a date?
He was kidding right? Winding me up again. Right? He
couldn't really like me. I mean I read magazines, there are
signs to this sort of thing, like using silly excuses to talk to
me, get my attention and touch me...
Oh.
No. It can't be.
Am I really so stupid that I've been pushing away
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someone who really did like me? Oh boy. I am totally and
utterly useless.
After my bath I slouch into my bedroom and gingerly lie
on the bed. An uncomfortable lump turns out to be my
new mobile. Surprisingly it's flashing. I try to answer it.
'Hello? Hello?' Nothing happens. God, I hate technology. I
shake it. Then press a few random buttons until it starts
speaking at me.
‘Welcome to your answer phone. You have one new
message: Hey, Catherine. It’s Ollie. Well, we really could have
done with you last night. It was as dull as watching an oil
painting dry. Leo’s gone to chase up some leads now so I’m left
cleaning up his house. I thought phoning you would kill some
time, but you’re obviously doing something more interesting.
Oh, well. Catch you later. Bye. End of messages.’
I attempt to call him back but either he’s switched his
phone off or I’m doing it wrong, probably the latter. I sling
the phone away in frustration and decide to crash out
instead.

26
Monday morning. Wake up panicking that I’m late for
school - until I remember it’s half-term. Thank God for
small miracles. Downstairs I hear Mum preparing to leave
for work. I wait until she's gone then come down for
breakfast. Passing the mirror in the hallway I shrink back
with shock. My face! It looks like a sort of plum crumble
affair with extra custard. I press the bruises seeing how
much they hurt. A lot. I press them once more before
getting my cereal.
Sitting on the floor of the front room I get out our laptop
and eat my breakfast while it boots up. I google 'Birth
Venus Stolen' and get about 135,000 pages. Jeez, the whole
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world’s gone mad for it. Although there's hardly any
information. It just says that the Venus was there when the
National Gallery closed on Friday at 9pm, but gone
Saturday morning when they opened up. And that's about
it. It's really frustrating. Surely they have video cameras or
security guards or something!
Bing Bong.
Doorbell. How annoying. I’m not getting up, I'm still in
my pajamas It’ll just be a salesman or something.
Bing Bong.
Go away. I am a very serious art restorer on a very
important case.
Bing Bong. Bing Bong.
Insistent little blighters, aren’t they?
A voice calls through the letterbox. “Catherine? Are you
home?”
My head snaps up. It sounds like Ollie. I run to the front
door and fling it open.
“Oh, thank God!” I beam. “I was getting bored out of my
mind.”
Today Ollie's hair is bleached a bright yellow blonde and
he’s wearing black jeans and a smart black leather jacket. A
shiny black helmet is nestled under his arm.
“Hey, nice pajamas I was...” Ollie pauses at my face.
“What happened to you?”
“Got in a fight,” I shrug.
Ollie whistles. “You and Leo got matching shiners now.”
“Dad’s got a black eye?” I ask in surprise. I can’t imagine
him hurt.
“Yeah. He was following up a lead in Germany but it
turned out to be drugs not paintings.”
“He’s okay though?”
“Yeah. He’s back home now.”
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 “Oh, good. You wanna come in?” I say hesitantly, not
used to having people round.
He smiles and nods. In the front room he takes off his
jacket revealing the red top we brought in Camden
together.
“Mind if I just collapse on your couch? It’s a long way
from Oxford to here.”
“You got a bike?” I ask in wonder.
He grins, flopping onto the sofa. “Wanna see?”
I nod excitedly and he jerks his thumb at the window.
Padding over in my bare feet I pull back the net-curtain.
At first I don’t see it, then I understand. It’s more of a
moped than a real motorbike. Royal blue with silver trims.
It’s a bit disappointing.
“What?” Ollie frowns defensively.
“No. It’s great, really,” I say.
“You reading about the Venus?” he says, clocking the
laptop.
“Yeah, trying, but there's just no information.”
He wiggles an eyebrow. “Bet I could tell you more.”
I plonk myself down in front of the sofa. “Tell me.”
“Oh, there’s been a whole heap of trouble about this,”
Ollie says authoritatively. “Apparently at about 11:40 on
Friday night the security guards got a call from Scotland
Yard saying they've heard a whisper about terrorists
attacking the Venus – possibly even left a bomb already.
They'll send someone senior soon...”
“But it wasn't real,” I say in awe.
“Wait for it,” Ollie says raising an eyebrow. “They'll send
someone soon, but in the meantime they'll get the closest
available unit over to give the guards a hand, suggest
some immediate precautions. No sooner has the security
guard hung up when there's a policeman knocking to get
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in.”
“Hmm, leaving no time for the security guard to think it
through and check with someone?” I suggest.
Ollie nods. “This guard lets the policeman in, without
checking ID, cos he's so worked up about this very serious
threat on his normally dead-boring shift. The policeman
asks to speak to everyone in the building at once.”
“Clever,” I say.
“There's three guards. One remains at the desk and the
other two take the policeman to the Venus. At some point
the policeman doubles back and takes out the single guy
at the desk.”
“Did he hurt him?” I ask.
“No. Quietly over-powered and tied up. Back at the
Venus the 'policeman' gets a call saying the top brass want
the moving gear ready for when they get there, just in
case.”
“To move the Venus?”
“Yeah. It's a big massive painting, right, and needs
careful handling. There's this kind of electric trolley they
use for moving big paintings – it's a three man job.”
“The thief needed their help!”
“He certainly had some balls, heh?” Ollie grins.
“Then what?” I ask.
“He separates them while looking for 'suspect packages'
and that's the last they remember. The Venus is gone.
Morning shift find them tied up around 7am.”
I sit there stunned. One man! One man was all it took to
steal one of the world's greatest masterpieces and he didn't
even have a gun or anything. “That is so clever,” I marvel.
How on earth do you come up with something like that?
“The only thing is,” Ollie says, “We can't work out how
he got the Venus out. There's CCTV all around the gallery,
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covering every exit. We see the policeman go in but
nothing comes out.”
“Underground?” I suggest. “Through the sewers?”
“This is not the movies, Catherine,” Ollie says, rolling his
eyes at me. “And do you have any idea how big the Venus
is?”
“Of course I do,” I pout. “It's as tall as me and twice as
wide. Just thinking out loud. It's so big and old that you'd
need to be careful.”
“Exactly. So no sewers.”
There's a niggling feeling in my head. Did I see
something like this in film once?
“So no one even knows if the painting left the building?”
I muse.
Ollie pulls a funny face. “Of course it left the building.
Why steal something if you’re not going to take it with
you?”
I shrug. I don’t know what I’m talking about.
I begin to wonder why he’s here.
“Why are you here?” I ask.
Ollie laughs. “Well, Ms Direct, I thought I’d come and see
you. That okay?”
I shrug casually but I’m glad he’s here. “I just wondered
why you’re not helping with the investigation.”
“Maybe I don’t want to,” he says, lying back on the sofa.
“Really? God, I do. I’d do anything to be there, helping
out.”
“Can’t we just talk about something else?” he says with a
frown.
Okaaay. I play with the tassel on the end of the sofa.
“Don’t you ever wonder why?” he sighs.
“Why what?”
“Why you’re interested? I mean at your age you should
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be out shopping with friends, getting a boyfriend,
painting your toenails or whatever. But instead you’re
cooped up in here scouring the web for a missing painting.
Doesn’t that strike you as a bit odd?”
“I’ve never really thought about it.”
“Well, maybe you should.”
His tone is surprisingly aggressive. “What are you trying
to say exactly?” I ask.
Ollie shrugs and falls silent. Typical.
I sit up on my haunches. “Come on. You’re dying to tell
me something, so do it.”
He huffs.
“Come on,” I insist.
He sighs dramatically. “Can you really, honestly say that
after everything you found out over the weekend, about
your dad and FART, that there isn’t a bit of you that’s
suspicious? You’re ‘interested’ in so many things that
would be useful to an art thief, like painting, art history, all
sorts of sports: martial arts, rock climbing, swimming,
gymnastics... Am I getting through to you at all here?”
I’m frowning in confusion. So I’m interested in this stuff,
so what? It’s a damned good thing if I’m gonna be an art
restorer. What’s he getting at?
Ollie rolls over on his side to look at me directly. His face
is intense, you could almost say bitter. “You know that
rule? The one about apprentices not being related to their
mentors?”
“Uh huh.”
“Well, you're right. It’s stupid. Nine out of ten times the
apprentice is the son, or daughter. How could it not be?
You have be trained from birth for this sort of job.”
Hmmm, trained from birth. “Are you saying...”
“We’ve been tricked, Catherine!” Ollie declares.
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“Hoodwinked from childhood. Our dads have been
training us to be their apprentices since the day we were
born. Manipulating us. Controlling us. And even then I’m
still crap at everything. My dad hates me. I’ve had to put
up with him and Leo going on about how great you are
for years. How brilliant you are. How talented...”
“Don’t be stupid. I mean how would they know? Dad
hasn’t even seen me for ages.”
“You may not have seen him, but he’s been seeing you.”
My eyes widen. “Are you saying my dad’s been spying
on me?”
“Don’t you understand? You’re his. He owns you. Do you
really think he’d put so much time and effort into making
you the perfect apprentice and then just walk away? He
always knew you’d come back to him and that you’d
happily become his apprentice because he made you that
way.”
“Well, I suppose it might look that like that but you can’t
know for sure...” I struggle.
“Why d’ya think Norio teaches you for free?”
“What? How do you know Norio?”
“Don’t you get it?” Ollie says. “Everything you’ve ever
done, every activity class, every outing, every holiday, has
been carefully choreographed by your dad to help
towards your eventual career as an art thief.”
“Art restorer,” I state.
He pauses to stare at me.
“Catherine, you’ve been made to like art and karate and
stuff. Leo’s manipulated you into what he wants as the
perfect apprentice.”
“But what if I didn’t... if I don’t... What if I say no?”
“You think you have a choice?” Ollie laughs bitterly.
This doesn’t make sense. How can someone manipulate
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someone’s basic personality? I mean, I HATE being told
what to do. It’d never work. I’d just be stubborn and do the
opposite...
“Reverse psychology,” I mutter darkly.
“Hmm?” says Ollie.
My breath starts coming out in short, sharp gasps.
Thinking back I can remember Dad always saying stuff
like ‘you’re too young to understand’ or ‘this won’t be of
interest to you’ whenever I’d ask about art and stuff. So I’d
always insisted that I wasn’t too young and, yes, it would
interest me. Even my martial arts classes. ‘You wouldn’t be
able to cope with two classes a week’ he’d say. ‘Can too!”
I’d responded. “I could do three or four easy.”
He has been controlling me!
My own dad. Shaping me. Molding me. The one person I
thought was actually helping me be the person I wanted to
be, turns out to be the biggest controller ever! It’s his fault
I’m such a freak, into fine art and extreme sports. If I
wasn’t such an oddball I might have had friends. I might
be normal. I might be happy!
I stand up, fists clenched, eyes becoming dangerously
hooded. I want to break something. Snap it into tiny little
pieces and grind it to dust in my palm. I want to scream
until the house falls down. I want to grab my dad by the
throat and strangle the life right out of him. How dare he?
How DARE HE!
...atherine, Catherine, look at me. Focus. Calm down,”
Ollie’s staring wide eyed at me. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t
have said those things, I’m sorry. I was just wound up.
Please, calm down. Please.”
Ollie pulls me back down to the floor. We kneel, facing
each other. I blink and see Ollie’s worried face. I feel the
anger start to settle, not disappear, but get stored away for
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later use. When I get hold of him, Dad is in serious
trouble.
There’s movement by the door.
“What’s going on?” a voice demands.

27
I look up and see Mum.
“Oh, hi, Mum,” I say getting to my feet. Ollie jumps up
and is just bristling with charm as he greets her.
“Hello, you must be Mrs Lock.”
Mum smiles despite her initial anger. “Actually it’s Ms
Smith now. Can I ask what the pair of you were doing on
the floor?”
“Yeah, great, nice one Mum,” I mutter, escaping into the
kitchen.
She follows me in. “I mean it, Catherine. I’ve never even
met this boy before and you’re rolling around with him in
your pajamas on my floor!”
“Our floor. And you have met him before.”
“Well, I don’t remember,” Mum mutters.
“He was...” I’m about to say he was with Dad but then
realize that’s not going to win her over. “He’s been
around.”
“Well... I just wish you’d ask before having people over.
Especially boys.”
“I didn’t plan it. He just turned up. Anyway, he’s gay.”
“Really? He doesn’t seem gay,” she says straining to look
back into the front room. “Not that I’m saying you can tell
or...”
“What are you doing here?” I frown.
“Well, there’s gratitude for you,” she says dumping a
grocery bag on the table. “I came home for lunch, thinking
you’d be lonely. I bought smoked salmon and bagels from
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the deli.”
“Oh, cool, thanks.”
“There should be enough for your friend as well. What's
his name?”
When I don’t answer she looks at me.
“You all right?” she asks.
“Fine,” I lie, but I’m still in shock. I can’t believe Dad
would do this to me. He doesn’t think of me as his child.
I’m an employee, a tool, a flipping status symbol. ‘Oh, look
at my daughter, isn’t she great. I’ve been training her from
birth don’t you know.’ He even picked an Olympic
gymnast for good breeding.
My hand suddenly slaps over my mouth in horror. He
never! He wouldn’t do that, would he? He didn’t just pick
Mum because she was such a good athlete?
“What is going on in that head of yours?” Mum asks
opening the packet of salmon.
“How did you and Dad meet?” I demand.
“You know how we met.”
“Yeah, but who approached who? Did Dad seek you
out?”
“Why are you asking me all these questions when you
should be getting dressed?”
Argh! She’s at it again. “Stop telling me what to do!” I
storm up the stairs to throw some clothes on.
When I re-enter the front room more appropriately
dressed in my new gray combats and a purple hoody, I
find Mum has come in to have lunch with us. Marvelous
But I watch in rapture as Ollie charms her with
embellished tales of private school and high-class living. I
can’t see how anyone could say he’s not good enough at
his job - assuming being an apprentice art restorer
includes lying and manipulation, which I’m sure it does.
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 “... invite Catherine on a brief sailing trip.”
I tune back into the conversation. Ollie is going on about
a sailing trip. Convincing Mum I will be perfectly alright
with his family as we bob up and down the Channel.
What is going on? Am I really going sailing?
I can’t believe Mum is nodding. She is so smitten with
him. I don't know how he’s done it. She’s normally such a
hard case.
“Would you like to speak to my mom about it?” Ollie
asks digging out his mobile.
What’s going on? It can’t be his real mum. He told me she was
dead!
“Hi, Mom. It’s Oliver. I’m at Catherine’s and wondered if
you could just speak to her mom about the sailing trip. Is
that okay? Great.” Ollie hands Mum the phone.
Who on earth is on the other end of that phone?
“Hello?” says Mum. “Yes, it’s lovely to speak to you too.
Really? Yes Catherine mentions him all the time too. A
right pair, aren’t they. Well, yes, I do have a conference to
go to actually, so it would be quite useful. Okay, you’re
very kind. Goodbye.” She hands the phone back to Ollie.
“What a lovely woman.”
“Is that okay, then?” Ollie asks.
“Yes, Catherine can go sailing,” Mum smiles.
“I’m going sailing?” I marvel. “But what was that bit
about a conference? What conference?”
“Yes, that’s the other reason why I came home early,” she
says with barely concealed glee. “I got a letter today
inviting me to be a guest speaker at a gymnastics
conference in Florence in Italy. Bit short notice but
apparently someone dropped out so now they're asking
me.”
“Are you famous then?” asks Ollie.
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 “Well, I won gold at the Olympics back in the day,” she
beams reminiscently.
“When is this conference?” I ask.
“Thursday.”
“But that’s my birthday!” I say appalled. “You were
going to leave me on my own for my birthday?”
“But you’re going sailing now,” she says.
“But you didn’t know that!”
“It’s not like these offers come up everyday,” she shoots
at me. “I get paid a fee.”
Good God, does she have no feelings?
“Well, looks like it’s all worked out perfectly then,” Ollie
says, throwing me a meaningful glance.
I huff anyway. “Come help me pack,” I say to Ollie,
making for the stairs.
“Erm?” Mum coughs.
I cock my head on one side then realize she’s referring to
him being a boy and coming into my bedroom.
“Gay!” I say exasperated.
Mum’s lips thin but she doesn’t say anything. Ollie
follows me up sheepishly. I bustle into my room in
annoyance, can’t believe Mum would do this to me, and
on my birthday too. At least I’ll be away now. Wonder
what I need to go sailing?
Ollie hovers in the bedroom doorway.
“Come in then,” I say, yanking open my wardrobe and
hunting for a suitable bag to pack stuff in.
“A girl’s bedroom is a very special place,” he says. “The
first entrance should be savored”
“Whatever.” I pull out a purple jumper and test the
smell. Should be okay.
“It’s very messy,” Ollie says. “And your mirror’s all
cracked.”
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 “So?”
“Just making observations,” he says sitting on the bed.
Boys are so weird, which reminds me. “Downstairs, on
the phone, your mum?” I ask hesitantly.
“Oh, that's just a little service FART offers,” he grins.
“There's this special switchboard run by a big fella called
Bernie. He uses voice modulating software so he can
pretend to be anyone you want him to be.”
“Oh my God. That’s mad!”
Ollie rolls onto his front on the bed and beams at me.
“There’s so much cool stuff I want to show you.”
I catch a gleam in his eye that's irresistible, the promise of
discovery and adventure. I feel a ripple of happiness
warm me and my temper cools slightly.
“Well, I’m glad you didn’t lie about your mum,” I say.
“Don’t think I could ever really trust someone who lied
about something like that.”
Ollie nods, “Of course not.”
“So what do I need for sailing?” I ask.
“We’re not really going sailing,” he says bemused.
“We’re not?” I say disappointed.
“It was just an excuse to get you out of here so we can
have some fun together, back in London.”
“Oh,” I say sadly. I was quite looking forward to sailing.
But then now I’m free all week! To do whatever I want.
Cool.
“Well done by the way,” Ollie adds. “Getting me into
your room by saying I was gay.”
“Sorry about that,” I squirm. “I didn’t mean to spill.”
“No, It was a clever lie...er, what do you mean spill?”
“If you don’t want people to know, that’s cool. I promise
never to tell anyone else, ever.”
“But I’m not gay.”
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 “No, it’s cool. I’m sorry.”
“No, really. I’m not gay.”
“Don’t worry about it. I understand.”
“No! I really don't think you do.” He stands up and walks
slowly towards me, swinging his hips. “I am not gay. I am
a fully functioning, heterosexual, red-blooded male.” He’s
giving me one those looks he gives all the girls and even
my mum. It makes me want to giggle. He frowns.
“I’m not!” he protests putting his hands on his hips.
I shake my head, trying not to smile. Poor boy. He really
shouldn’t hide it. He’d feel so much better if it was out in
the open.
“So, I’m not gay, right?” he asks me.
“Nope. You’re not gay,” I say very seriously.
We take Ollie’s scooter back to Oxford. The spare helmet
is pink. Need I say more?

28
I can’t believe I dissed Ollie’s bike. This is so much fun.
The wind flapping all around us as we hurtle along the
dual carriageway - admittedly everyone’s overtaking us as
we buzz along at 35mph but it’s so cool. Every time we
turn a corner I have to lean with the bike and you feel
everything. I really have to get myself one of these - minus
the pink helmet of course.
Ollie parks the bike lovingly in the garage opposite his
house and we enter through the front door.
“You wanna see my room?” he asks with a cheesy grin.
I nod eagerly.
Ollie’s house is very similar to Dad’s - well, it is only six
doors down - I wonder if FART bought a job lot? Looks
more lived-in than Dad’s though. The décor is older and
more shabby, although still fashionable. And in the front
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room there’s not just a telly, but a really BIG telly, and a
posh stereo and a games console and even one of those
exercise games where you use a real exercise bike to play a
virtual cycling game. I’d quite like a go on that.
But going up the stairs emphasizes how much this
bachelor house lacks a feminine touch. Magazines, books
and shoes try tripping me up. Discarded clothes waft at
me menacingly. Wet towels peek out from around the
bathroom door. Mum would have a heart attack.
I brace myself for serious mess as we enter Ollie’s
bedroom but surprisingly it seems quite organized The
curtains are drawn, casting a dim orangey glow, so it takes
my eyes a second to adjust. It’s the same room that is Dad’s
study in his house. Second floor up, at the front, with big
windows. Ollie has his bed in the far corner sporting a
faded Spiderman duvet cover. He flings himself on it as I
look around.
Metal shelves line the walls and wire baskets hang from
the ceiling. The shelves are stocked with what looks like
electrical circuit boards and the like. There’s a tool box
with a hand-drawn map of where each tool goes and a
custom-made wooden pencil holder - all the pencils
graded by density. The hanging baskets contain more
electrical stuff: wiring and transistors, motors and LED
bulbs, that sort of thing. And a posh looking, state-of-the-
art computer sits on a chrome desk.
“Well, what d’you think?” Ollie asks.
“It’s not exactly what I imagined,” I admit.
“What did you imagine?”
If I’d had to guess I’d have said some mirror encrusted
boutique not this... electrical workshop.
“Something a bit less industrial,” I shrug.
“Well, we all have our little surprises,” he says. “I saw
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that Vin Diesel poster on your wall.”
Blast. I’d forgotten about that.
“So, what do you want to do?” he asks. “We could do
something low key like go to the cinema in town. Or we
could go mental and go to London for the night. Go to a
club.” His eyes twinkle.
A club, huh? Well, I am fifteen (nearly). It’s probably
about time I went clubbing, not that I’ve ever been to so
much as a school disco before - no friends equals no
parties - but I’m getting an inkling all that is about to
change.
However there's still that niggling feeling I'm missing
something. Something important about the Venus.
“How about we visit the National Gallery?” I say.
Ollie stares at me blankly.
“I know, I know,” I reply defensively. “After everything
you said about my dad manipulating my interest in this,
but right now I don’t care. I still want to find the Venus.”
Ollie frowns. “What exactly do you want to do at the
gallery?”
“I dunno. Look around.”
“You wanna go on a job?” Ollie sighs.
“Just a little one.”
“Fine,” Ollie snaps, getting up. But he’s not. He’s not fine
at all. I watch him stomp around the room, flinging things
into a bag.
“We don't have to. It’s silly,” I say, trying to pacify him.
“Let’s go clubbing instead.”
“No. You wanna be all macho and go on a job, we’ll go
on a job.”
“We can go clubbing afterwards,” I suggest.
“Whatever.”
His attitude stinks. I just wanna go check out the gallery
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for God’s sake. How bad can it be?

29
We catch the London Flyer into Victoria Coach station
and then a bus to Trafalgar Square. It doesn’t seem long
until we’re standing outside the grand stone building with
its big dome and tall columns that is the National Gallery.
I love this place. I must have been here like a zillion times
before, but today it feels different. Today I feel a part of it
rather than just an outsider looking in.
To avoid suspicion Ollie makes sure we visit a few other
exhibits before we move to the Sommer Wing and pay our
entrance fee to the Botticelli exhibition. But to be honest
we needn’t have bothered. Everyone and their dog has
come to gawp at the empty space where the Venus was
hanging. Many more than when it was actually here. Can
you believe it? What a bunch of phoneys.
There's police tape and a big sign explaining the
painting's absence but I guess the extra publicity was too
much to lose – ticket sales wise.
“You don’t know what you’ve got til it’s gone,” Ollie sings at
me and we grin at each other.
We sit on a nearby bench and look at the throng of
people. Now we’re here that niggling feeling is getting
stronger. It's almost there... Something really obvious...
“So you were here on Friday?” Ollie asks idly.
“Yeah, with school. Some do-gooder sent us free tickets.”
“Nice. Who was that?”
“Dunno. Bet they'd have wished they hadn't if they'd
seen us.”
“Why's that?”
“Everyone at school is a jerk. I tried to tell them about the
painting and they just laughed at me. Really loudly. The
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gallery guard came over. It was dead embarrassing,” I
mope.
Ollie laughs. “Did they kick the group out?”
“Yeah but I hung back and then some really creepy guy
started to talk to me about...”
BAM!
That niggling feeling? It just hit home.
“Christ! What's happened to you?” Ollie says marveling
at my expression.
In total shock I say, “This guy. He spoke to me. About
stealing the Venus.”
“Really? On Friday! Why didn't you mention this before,
when Botty asked?”
“I thought his name was Botticelli?” I say.
“Yeah, well, your little nickname has really caught on at
the office and don’t change the subject. Why didn’t you
say?”
“I can't be expected to remember everything that
happens to me,” I pout childishly.
Ollie gives me an unimpressed look. “What did this guy
say exactly?”
I rack my brains for the memory. “He said something
like 'wouldn't you love to steal her away and keep her for
yourself'.”
“Well, that's not too incriminating I suppose. Lots of
people must think about it.”
I squirm on the bench.
“What else?” he probes.
“He asked me how I'd do it. How I'd plan the theft.”
“And?” Ollie shrugs.
“And I said I'd use a policeman and the risk of a terrorist
attack.”
Ollie looks at me blankly. “Did you really? That's dead
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clever.”
I twist my hands together, feeling wretched. What if this
really was the thief and I helped him? I could never
forgive myself. Why didn't I remember this earlier? Why
am I so dense?
“We’d better let FART know right away,” Ollie says
getting his mobile out and dialing
I stare at my feet. The last thing I want to do is tell FART
what an idiot I am. What happens if the Venus is lost
forever because I didn’t think to tell them about creepy Gel-
man? I’m going to be so fired - before I was even properly
hired.
Ollie looks at me and sighs. He ends the call.
“They won’t be mad at you,” he says. “They’ll be
pleased.”
I snort, doubting that very much. I imagine Botty’s face
turning puce.
“Trust me,” Ollie says. “I know mad. It’ll be nothing
compared to how my dad is feeling about me at the
moment.”
Curiously I glance at him sideways. I may be stupid but
even I’ve been picking up on the tension between Ollie
and his dad.
Ollie takes a deep breath and admits, “I’m not helping on
the Venus case because when we were in Spain, on the trail
of Picasso’s The Offering, I messed up. Big time.”
“How?”
“I was on back door duty when Dad and Leo went into
this building to get the painting. My job was to stop
anyone going in or out. But someone got out, and they
were carrying a painting sized parcel with them.”
“But you’re... well, no offense, but you’re just a kid,” I
protest. “They can’t blame you.”
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 “Oh, they can,” he says darkly. “I’ve been training since
birth for this sort of thing remember. Like you I’m a
blackbelt in karate.”
Funny. He doesn’t move like he knows karate.
“How did they get past you?” I ask.
Ollie rubs his chin in agitation. “I’m no good in...
situations. I just freeze.”
Oh.
“And the worst thing is he wasn’t even some big scary
bloke. He didn’t look much older than me.”
“I bet I couldn’t have stopped him either,” I say to cheer
him up.
Ollie gives a short sharp laugh then imitates his dad’s
voice saying, “Leo’s girl would have stopped him. You’re
useless. Worse than useless.”
“Your dad said that?” I say in disbelief.
“When we first met, I was quite ready to hate you. I
thought I had you sussed. You would be this snooty nosed
know-it-all, another Whistler, and I was going to have to
show you just how much you didn’t know. But then you
just hit me.”
I wince. Why’d he have to bring that up again?
“You were being a git,” I mumble.
He laughs out loud and nods. “You’re not the aloof
know-it-all I thought you were going to be at all. You’re
actually kinda alright. If not a little hot-headed.”
High praise indeed.
“Well, I thought you were a right weirdo when I first met
you and I was right.”
He nudges me and I nudge him back. We’re grinning
then laughing.
“Ladies and Gentlemen,” the Tannoy announces. “The
National Gallery will be closing in fifteen minutes.”
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 “Come on. Let's go,” I sigh.
“Yeah, no job for us today,” he laughs.
“Er?”
“Well, you wanted to look around, didn't you?” he says
wiggling his eyebrows.
Comprehension dawns on me. “No, no! I just meant have
a look. Like this. I didn't mean anything... naughty,” I say,
slightly horrified by the idea of anything illegal.
“Naughty!” Ollie laughs. “I really didn't judge you right
at all. You're nearly as bad as me.”
I sink further into my gloom.
“Sorry,” Ollie smiles apologetically. “You're not that bad.
Shall we phone them then?” He holds up his mobile.
I nod solemnly. “Yeah, cos I think I might know how the
thief got the Venus out as well.”
Ollie looks excited. “Don't tell me...”
“Yeah, he asked me that too.”
“And?”
“I said I'd use a courier van that was scheduled to leave
before the painting was stolen but delay it so the records
would be messed up. You know, it'd look like it left before
the painting was nicked but really it'd leave after.”
“Jeez, Catherine. That's genius.” Ollie gives me a curious
look. “You know what I think?”
“I dread to imagine.”
“I think we should show them back at FART that we’re
not just useless kids. So what if I’m pathetic at fighting and
you’re an impulsive, thoughtless, hot-head?” I frown at
him but he ignores me. “Together I bet we could find out
something worthwhile.”
I give him my best ‘sandwich short of a picnic’ look and
he gives me a wry smile in return.
“That’s not the Catherine I’ve come to know. Where’s the
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spirit? The bravado? The reckless disregard for rational
thought?”
“What are you even suggesting?” I ask.
“We go downstairs.”
“We are downstairs. And they’re closing up.”
“Not just downstairs, but naughty downstairs. In the
loading dock.”
“Oh.”
He smiles wickedly at me. “It’d be dead easy. We hide in
the cinema screen on the next floor where there's a camera
and person blind-spot, and wait until they close. Then it’s
just 17 paces to the back stairwell that will take us down to
the loading dock.”
“17 paces. That’s pretty precise.”
“You have to be precise in this business.”
I shake my head. Now who's risking police attention? “I
thought you didn't like doing stuff like this?”
“What? Here? The National Gallery is practically a
second home to me. This is nothing,” he grins manically.
Somehow I let Ollie convince me that I ought to at least
look at this room as we have to go back past it to get out –
and the longer I can put off phoning Dad and telling him
the missing Venus is all my fault, the better. Ollie takes me
by the hand and proceeds in a calm fashion up the stairs of
the Sommer Wing of the National Gallery.
Adrenaline starts to pump through me as I give some
consideration to going through with Ollie’s plan. My eyes
take everything in, where my exits are, what direction the
cameras are pointed. And even though I didn’t intend to, I
let Ollie drag me into the cinema.

126
 30
Ollie settles himself down on the back row of the cinema
seating.
“Ladies and Gentlemen,” calls the Tannoy. “The National
Gallery will be closing in five minutes. Please make your
way to the exit.”
My heart’s thumping away in my chest. We should obey.
We should be leaving. But we’re not. Ollie is as cool as a
cucumber. I sit down gingerly at the end of the row.
“No. Sit in this one,” Ollie says motioning to the chair
next to him. “This is the blind-spot.”
“And how do you know that?” I say.
“Cos I designed it,” he smiles smugly. “Alarms and
Security from Sommer: Meeting all your art protection
needs.”
I look bewildered.
“FART is just one branch of a much bigger company,”
Ollie shrugs. “All courtesy of Eric Sommer. You need a
lesson in the company profile.”
“No. What I need is a lesson on how to get out of here
without getting caught. I can't believe I let you talk me
into this!”
“Shhh!”
“Ladies and Gentlemen. The National Gallery is now closed. If
you are still in the building please make yourself known to a
member of staff.”
“How long do we wait?”
“Shhh!”
Footsteps. The door to the cinema opens and a man
walks in humming. “Anyone in here?” he calls without
interest before going straight back out again.
The door bangs on is way out.
I think I just nearly wet myself in fear.
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 We were sitting right out in the open! How can this be a
blind-spot!?!
Still too alarmed to move I sit in silence, waiting for Ollie
to save me.
Then the lights go out and I practically faint with fright.
This is stupid. We're gonna get caught.
Finally Ollie gives me a nudge. “Off we go then.” He
looks at my face and laughs. I imagine I look pale and
scared but it soon turns into a defensive snarl.
“Come on, wildcat,” he says.
“What the hell? Why on earth didn't the guard see us?”
“I told you there was a blind-spot. The lighting is set up
to block these two seats. I'm the only one who knows
about it. Well, and you now.”
“That can't be fool-proof! Lights change. Guards are
trained to be observant!”
“The guard didn't expect to see anyone and he didn't see
anyone.” Ollie says coolly
“We didn't even lie on the floor just in case!”
Ignoring me Ollie walks to the cinema door.
“Right,” he whispers. “The gallery staff will be doing
their checks and escorting any stragglers to the exits. They
won’t set the alarms until they’ve finished.”
“Maybe we should just head for the exit too. Say we got
lost or something,” I suggest.
“Don’t sweat it. We’ll be fine,” he says. “16 paces to the
stairwell....”
“16! You said 17 last time.”
“Did I?”
“Yes!”
“Well, under twenty,” he shrugs.
“But you said we have to be precise in this business.”
“You do. Come on.”
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 Ollie slides out of the door and begins a crouched hobble
towards the stairwell. I spot a camera and grab him back.
“There’s a freaking camera!” I whisper urgently.
“Chill. It’s change over time. They’ll all be chatting.”
“You don’t know that,” I cry exasperated. “We’ll have to
go the long way round. So we move under the camera.”
“That’ll be more that twenty paces,” he retorts.
“Just get on with it before I glue a stupid sign on your
head and sit you in front of the camera with a couple of
sparklers.”
We sneak under the camera. It’s impossible to know if it’s
even on, it looks so harmless, but one false move... Sweat
begins to pour down my back, making it itch. Just gotta
get out of this corridor. Why am I here? Why am I doing this?
Finally we reach the door to the back stairwell and Ollie
pushes it.
“Locked,” he says grimly.
What!?!?
“It’s not a problem,” he grins. “I have a set of skeleton
keys for this place. Just wanted to see your face.”
My hands curl into claws. How can he joke at a time like
this? If we get caught I'm gonna...
Footsteps again!
Even Ollie looks alarmed this time. He rolls his hands at
me, one over the other, before turning a key and pushing
the door open. He pulls me through into a brightly lit
industrial stairwell, gently shutting the door behind him.
“What was all that about?” I ask mimicking Ollie’s hand
rolling.
“Sign language. I was trying to tell you to calm down,
not to worry. You’ll learn it at FART. Essential for the
field,” he says authoritatively.
“Are you showing off?” I accuse.
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 “Never dream of it,” he grins.
“You are! We're breaking into one of the world's top art
galleries and you're wasting energy trying to impress
me!!”
“Is it working?”
Heat creeps into my face. Stupid crazy annoying boy.
“And you're sure there are no cameras in here?” I say
ignoring the question and folding my arms.
He smiles before turning to point to a white box mounted
in the corner. “Only motion detectors and they only get
turned on later.”
At the bottom of the stairwell is a steel door with security
stickers plastered all over it and a card reader over the
handle. It does nothing to improve my rapidly
deteriorating mood.
“It needs a security pass?” I say.
“Sorted,” Ollie says rummaging in his bag of tricks.
“Remember, I helped design this system.”
I glance nervously up at the white box in the corner.
Come on, come on. We shouldn't be doing this. Why are we
even here...
Ollie finally pulls out a plastic card and pops it into the
machine. He causally types in a four digit number.
Nothing happens. I glare at him. He frowns and tries
again. It still doesn’t work. I’m just thinking about using
his head to batter my way through the door when his third
attempt works.
“Simple,” he beams smugly at me, starting to pull the
door open.
“WAIT!” I hiss. “There might be someone on the other
side.”
Good Lord! The guy really has no idea. No wonder his
Dad gets mad at him.
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 Stepping in front I crack the door open slowly. It’s dark.
Unless someone is hiding on purpose I don’t think anyone
is there. I swing open the door and turn back to Ollie –
and in the corner of my eye I see a red light flash on in the
little white box in the corner.
My eyes widen in horror as I turn to petrified stone.
Thankfully Ollie's paying attention and works it out.
With his back to the motion detector he can move his
mouth to speak, “The alarm?”
I nearly nod. Instead I squeeze a ‘yes’ through my closed
lips, eyes locked in a steady gaze at the offending gadget,
its unblinking beam trained directly at the door.
“Don’t move,” Ollie says.
Well, you know, I’d kinda figured that one out for myself.
Obviously I can’t say this or knee him anywhere so I just
have to stand there, feeling very annoyed.
“What model is it?”
I nearly frown. What is he going on about now?
“We need to know how sensitive it is. Motion detectors
work off infra-red energy and not actual movement.”
Eh?
“They work on heat. They’ll only trip if the temperature
changes. They’re quite sensitive and movement causes
friction which gives off heat - hence the motion detector.
But the older the model, the greater the temperature
difference needed to set it off and the more chance we’ll
have to inch our way out of here. So, can you see what
model it is?”
I squint. Sommer 833. Or is that 838. The last bit is in
shadow.
“833 or 838.” I suggest through closed lips.
“Well, which is it?”
I struggle to make it out. I really can’t tell. It’s starting to
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look like 666.
“What models are there?” I mumble.
“Well, there’s no 833.”
“Good, then...”
“But there’s no 838 either.”
My heart sinks. Holding still is starting to hurt and I’m
starting to sweat. Not a good omen if this thing reacts to
heat.
“There is an 836,” Ollie suggests. “It would be good if it
was an 836 because that’s a much older model. Not as
sensitive as the new ones, like the 839.”
I let out a stifled wail.
“Okay, we'll move very, very slowly. If it’s the 836 then
there’s a good chance we’ll be able to move slowly enough
not to trigger it.”
“But?”
“But if it’s the 839 then I’m surprised it hasn’t gone off
already cos you’re sweating like a pig. I can see it
glistening prettily on your skin.”
My blood begins to boil and I’m about to retort when I
remember we’ve gotta stay cool - literally. I take a deep
slow breath and calm myself down, reducing my body
temperature. When I’m ready I begin to move very, very
slowly. Backing my way out of the door and into the
darkness. Ollie follows suit. We’re lucky we had the door
open. Millimeter by millimeter I’m moving. The beam
glaring at me. Please don’t go off. Please don’t off. It’s making
my muscles ache having to keep them so controlled.
Nearly there. A little bit more, just to be certain, and then...
finally through.
I breath a sigh of relief. Then Ollie’s through. He has to
stand there, slowly letting the door shut behind him, so
the temperature between rooms doesn’t change too
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quickly.
“Well, that was close. I'm surprised we made it. Actually
now I think about it there may be a warm up time before it
becomes active,” he muses.
I grit my teeth and carefully begin to sort shapes in the
dark. I can tell the room isn’t carpeted by the echo and
there’s the hum of electrical equipment - I’m hoping it’s
not another alarm. Suddenly the lights come on – blinding
me.
I swing round to find Ollie standing innocently by a light
switch.
“What?” he asks.
I take a deep breath. Think calm thoughts, calm thoughts
The lighting reveals a long, thin tunnel of a room, with a
lift and a door at the other end. The walls are brickwork
that curve overhead into an arch like a cellar. They're
painted dark green, the paint old and flaky. Numerous
wooden crates lean stacked against the walls. It feels quite
cool and I’m guessing we must be below street level.
“So how are you going to impress me next?” I say. “A
visit to the security room maybe? A chat with the guards?”
“That's not a bad idea,” he teases – I think. “But let's
check the loading dock first, shall we?”
Ollie struts off down the tunnel towards the door. I stare
after him wondering, is it too late to turn back, present
myself to a guard and say Ollie kidnapped me? But I do
desperately want to find the Venus - despite my doubts on
whether Dad has programmed me to do it or not - and
even then, although I'm bricking it here, it is one hell of a
buzz!
“What are these?” I ask, catching up to Ollie and
pointing at the wooden crates leaning against the walls.
“Paintings,” he says.
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 “Well, duh! What're they doing here?”
He shrugs and carries on walking.
“You seem to know everything else,” I challenge.
“Probably they're just empty crates. Maybe a few new
paintings waiting to go up, or old ones waiting to go back
out.”
“It’s not very secure down here,” I say.
“You can't alarm everything – and this is right in the
bowels of the building. You'd have to get through all the
alarms above first.”
I stop to study the nearest crate. Disappointingly it’s
nailed shut, but behind it is a much bigger painting just
covered in cloth. Intrigued, I push and pull at the others to
get at it.
“What are you doing?” asks Ollie irritably.
“Just looking.”
“Well, don't disturb anything. We don't want people to
know we were here,” he says.
“As if this lot is in some order,” I snort at the jumble of
crates. “No one would notice if something moved an inch
or two.”
I struggle moving the crates – they're quite big and
damned heavy. Ollie sighs then decides to help me. The
cloth covered painting is massive - as tall as me and twice
as wide. I wonder why it's not protected in a crate like the
others? Maybe they don't make crates this big? Finally we
clear a path and pull off the cloth.
“Wow!” I say stepping back.
Revealed is a painting of a Georgian room. It's really
dark, lit by a single light in the center A scientist is
performing an experiment for a small gathering of people.
Two young girls look particularly stricken at a bird in a
sealed glass jar.
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 Ollie whispers, “What are they doing with the bird?”
“I think it's demonstrating oxygen. An experiment where
you pump the air out of the glass jar so the bird
suffocates.”
“Nice,” Ollie says sarcastically.
“It’s beautifully painted though. Look at the lighting – it's
brilliantly done.”
“Hmm. I’d rather have a Monet. Can we go now?”
“I can't believe there's no security down here when
paintings like this are left lying around?”
Reluctantly I cover the picture back up, but it just doesn’t
seem right.
Continuing down the corridor we go through the door,
through another and then we're in the loading dock. I look
around in awe. It’s big and cold, like a warehouse. Large
doors - big enough for trucks to get through - dominate
the walls, and there's concrete stages for easy loading.
Apart from the odd wheelie bin, the bay is completely
empty.
My excitement is leaking away in the cold air and not for
the first time I wonder why I let Ollie talk me into this.
“What are we supposed to do now?” I ask, hugging
myself in the chilly air.
“We check out your theory,” Ollie says, heading
cheerfully towards a Portacabin. “See if there were any
delayed vans big enough to take the Venus.”
I hang back feeling more and more unsure. “But surely
FART wouldn't have missed something like that. We're
wasting our time and if we get caught...”
“Well then, it'd be quicker if you'd help,” Ollie calls.
He’s turned on the lights and I can see through the
windows that there are two rooms. He’s in the office part,
sifting through papers, and the other side looks like a staff
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room: fridge, kettle, comfy chairs...
A noise behind me.
Click-clack. Click-clack.
The sound of claws on concrete.
I feel my entire body turn icy cold. My eyes prickle and
my throat swells ten times bigger than usual. Please do not
let that be what I think it is.
I turn very slowly to face a dog – a German Shepard if
I'm not mistake - looking straight at me with his shiny
black eyes.
I am so much more a cat person.
“Ollie!” I try and call but it barely comes out. Still the dog
cocks his head.
Ah, hell.
We stare at each other. He doesn't seem that aggressive,
but he is a guard dog. What should I do? If he rushes me I
might just be able to give him a good kick, putting
everything I’ve got into it. Maybe that'd distract him
enough for me to run - either that or just really piss him
off. Damned lucky there aren't more... Ohhh dear.
Another dog slinks into view – ears up, curious. My heart
rate soars. An image fills my head of teeth sinking into my
flesh, blood oozing, muscles tearing, hot doggy breath. It
takes everything I’ve got not to fall to pieces. Think
straight. What to do? What to do?
Portacabin. Get inside. Creep backwards. Slowly.
Carefully. Don't make eye contact. Be calm but don't
challenge. Be assertive but don't threaten. Just your
friendly neighborhood cat burglar.
They’re following me. Slowly. Heads down. Getting more
suspicious, more aggressive.
I don’t want to turn my head but I need to see where I’m
going. Am I heading for the Portacabin door or am I going
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off course? How much longer?
I lose it. I turn around. Nearly there. I hear movement
and never look back. I just run, like I’ve never run before
in my life and throw myself through the door, onto the
carpeted floor. Blindly I kick out my foot and catch
something. A whine and a scuffle. I manage to kick the
door shut then leap on it, pressing my full weight against
the bottom half from a crouched position. The dogs are
suddenly full of aggression, clawing and growling at it.
“Everything all right out there?” Ollie asks, from the
other room.
“Just peachy, thanks,” I reply sarcastically as a sudden
jolt opens the door. A teeth encrusted muzzle thrusts in at
eye level, snapping and growling. I punch up from below,
hitting his jaw. He pauses, surprised but not hurt, and I
push him back out with the door.
“Found anything interesting?” I ask sweetly, smashing
the door shut again.
“Actually, yes.”
“Oh, I am glad because for a minute there I thought this
might have been a fruitless jaunt.”
“Are you trying to be sarcastic?” he asks, then adds.
“There’s a dog trying to get in the window.”
“Then CLOSE IT, you idiot!”
I hear him shut the window.
“What are we going to do?” I say in panic.
“Oh, they’ll get bored in a minute.”
I frown in bewilderment.
“Come here. I want to show you something,” Ollie calls
from the office.
“What? I’m not moving!”
“Oh, don’t be silly. Dogs can't open doors.”
“Willing to bet your life on that?”
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 “Are you coming or not?” Ollie calls.
I finally snap the door handle into place and gingerly
stand up - then rush to grab one of the comfy chairs,
pushing it under the handle. Just in case.
In the second room of the Portacabin, Ollie is sitting at a
desk holding a clipboard.
“What is it?” I say, as my dog joins the one pacing
outside Ollie's window.
“It's the loading bay schedule,” Ollie says triumphantly.
“And? Are there any changes or delays?” I ask,
excitement starting to build again despite the predicament
we're in.
“Well, no...”
My shoulders sag. Stupid pointless waste of time.
“But,” says Ollie, “It looks like they produce the day's
schedule on a computer spreadsheet and then print out a
hardcopy for this clipboard.” He waves the board around
and suddenly all the pages fall out. “Shit,” he mumbles
scrabbling around after them.
I roll my eyes. “So?”
“So any changes to the schedule won't have made it onto
the computer.”
“Well, duh! You're holding the clipboard. If there's no
changes written on there either then...”
“I was thinking maybe there was a post-it note and it fell
off?”
“Sorry Ollie, but I don't think FART are gonna mess
around with this. They would have been dead thorough.
Let's face it if there was anything suspicious going on they
would have spotted it.”
“But we have a lead,” he whines and I realize he thought
this was his way back into everyone's good books. If we'd
found a clue, we'd be showered in praise and Mikey
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would be proud.
I sink onto the desk. “They're highly professional art
restorers, Ollie. We are two dumb kids trapped in the
freezing cold loading bay of the National Gallery relying
on a half remembered conversation I had with a stranger
before I even knew you lot existed. We so do not have a
lead.”
Ollie frowns and looks back through the clipboard as if
he can find something new. One of the dogs is looking
through the window, front paws on the ledge, breath
steaming up the glass. He barks when I look at him. Great.
“But... your theory... about the delayed vans...” Ollie
mutters flicking through the sheets. “It must be how the
thief did it. How else?”
“Look, If I could think about it, I'm sure FART did too.
They're probably working on it right now.”
Ollie sighs. “I really thought we'd find something.”
“I'm sorry I got you all fired up over this. We should
have just phoned it through like you said. I managed to
mess up twice.”
“It was my idea to come down here,” he says sullenly.
“That's true,” I nod. “I'm so gonna kick your butt.”
But Ollie's not listening. “Hang on, the basis of your plan
was to mess up the records so no one would notice the
delayed van, right?”
I nod.
“So we're looking for something that's not there because
it's not meant to be!”
“You mean there is no delayed van?” I ask.
“No, of course there's a delayed van. It's just well covered
up. That's the whole point.”
“Right...” I say, catching on. “But, still, FART would have
investigated anything suspicious.”
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 “But what if it happened afterwards?” says Ollie. “And
what if it wasn't suspicious?”
“Come again?”
He frowns. “But where would you hide such a big
painting?”
“What painting? The Venus?”
In the corner sits a white board covered in various
messages: 'Need more milk', 'Can anyone swap my Sunday
shift?' etc. There must be an artist on the team because
they've taken the trouble to draw doodles by each of the
messages, like a cow by the 'need more milk' comment.
There's a slightly more important looking messages
running down the right-hand side and one word shouts
out at me: DELAYED.
“What've you got?” Ollie says, following my gaze.
I read out loud, “Package 17341797/68: PICK-UP
DELAYED... DELAYED again! - Idiots have messed this one
up royally. Collect Thurs 21st. DELAYED again!!! Collect
Friday 22nd. CANCELLED Collect Mon 25th.”
Ollie and I look at each other.
“Monday 25th. That's tomorrow,” I say.
“But there's nothing out there now,” Ollie says, getting
up to double-check out of the window. “And there's
nothing in here waiting to be collected.”
“Is the code a painting?” I ask.
“Almost certainly.”
“Can you work out it out?” I ask.
“Not sure,” he says.
“Well, what do you think of the doodle that goes with
it?”
Ollie comes up for a closer look. “What? That thing?
Maybe a goldfish bowl or an onion...?”
“Or,” I say dramatically, “A bird in a jar?”
140
 Ollie tilts his head and squints. “Could be but why... Oh!
The big painting in the corridor!”

31
I reach for a battered copy of the National Gallery's
catalog from the desk and spin through the pages.
“Here! 'An Experiment on a Bird in the Air Pump' 1768,
Oil on canvas, by Joseph Wright of Derby.”
“Size?” asks Ollie.
“183 x 244cm. What's the Venus?”
“About 170 x 280cm,” Ollie nods, getting excited.
“Similar enough. Crates aren't made to measure, they
reuse them.”
There's a moment of stunned silence then I turn to Ollie
and practically shout out, “I KNEW IT! I just knew it
wasn't right. Such a special painting not having its own
crate”
Ollie shakes his head in awe. “You were right. The Venus
never left the building”
“You reckon the thief moved the Venus down here on the
night of the theft, opened up the crate and swapped
paintings, hiding the air pump picture in the corridor
under a cloth. And no one checked the crate because they
never expected the Venus to still be here, and besides it'd
been sealed up and ready to go for ages?”
Ollie nods. “Yeah. And then the thief pretends to be the
courier service, picking it up sometime between the police
leaving on Saturday and the real collection date which is
tomorrow.”
“Wow. Clever. And you think FART really missed this all
this?” I ask.
“We only pieced it together because of what that guy said
to you,” says Ollie. “It's no wonder FART can't find the
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Venus. The trail only started yesterday. They've had
nothing to follow.” Ollie beams at me. “This is huge,
Catherine. They're going to love us back at the office.”
“But I gave the thief the idea,” I say sadly. “It's all my
fault.”
“Nah,” Ollie says warmly. “It's too well planned. What's
the chance that the right size crate was conveniently
delayed for two weeks? Just not gonna happen. The thief
probably delayed it. This would take months, if not years
to plan.”
“So it's not my fault?” I say hopefully. “But... he still used
my police terrorist idea.”
“It was a good idea,” Ollie shrugs. “Maybe he was gonna
do that anyway or maybe he was at the gallery putting the
finishing touches to his plan and you helped him out.”
“Gee, thanks. Now it's my fault again.”
“Well, you are an art thief...”
“Restorer,” I correct.
“...and it was a clever ruse.”
“But...”
“But what?” he asks.
“I don't know,” I shrug. “When I think back it's like he...
Well, never mind It's silly.”
“No. Go on.”
“Well, it's like he picked me on purpose. A room full of
fancy art loving adults and he picks on the school girl.
And even what he said seemed...”
Ollie waits.
“Well, kinda rehearsed.”
Ollie laughs. “No offense, but now you are being silly.
How would he know you? You didn't even know about
FART at that point.”
“Yeah, you're right. I'm being stupid again.”
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 I get up and walk to the window. Outside the dogs start
barking excitedly at me. Damn, almost managed to forget
about them.
“Right, let's get out of here and tell FART. What’s our
plan for getting out?”
Ollie looks up. “Hmm,” he says and starts wringing his
hands. I wonder if this is more calming sign language. It’s
not working.
I glare at him. “You do know how to get us out of here,
don't you?”
“Well I thought the dogs would have left by now,” he
says.
“They're guard dogs, Ollie! They guard stuff! They don't
just get bored and go off to watch television!!”
“Never said anything about TV,” he mumbles.
“Are you saying we're trapped?”
“Noooooooo,” Ollie reassures me.
“Good because I...”
“We just have to phone FART and get them to rescue us.”
“WHAT? No way! No way am I asking for help just
because you're a freaking idiot who doesn't think ahead! I
never should have let you talk me into this!”
I start pacing the Portacabin.
“It won't matter when we tell them what we've
found.”Ollie says.
“It might not matter to you, but it matters to me. I don't
want people thinking I need rescuing. Serious art restorers
do not need rescuing.”
“You saying you're a better art restorer than me? After
two days? Maybe you are a stuck up little Daddy's girl?”
“Your dad's going to go mental at you, you do realize this,
don't you? This is your problem. You're either too damn
cocky or scared useless! No wonder your dad gets so
143
mad.”
Ollie flies out of his seat. “Don't tell me what my
problems are. You don't know me.”
“I bet no one knows you. You don't even know you. You
bounce back and forth between personas so much I bet
your mum's turning in her grave...”
Ollie's hand flies up and chops me in the side of the head.
Dazed, I stagger against the wall then fall into a fighting
stance. Humph, maybe the little runt does know some
moves after all. His eyes meet mine defiantly. I hunker
down lower. His foot lashes out. It's a good kick, but I see
his body weight shift and twist away before it does much
damage. I concentrate on blocking as I read his body
language. He really is a blackbelt, I can see that now in the
mechanics of his moves but he's no natural. There's little
invention, just standard moves and his center of gravity is
slipping with each move he makes. I wait out a few more
punches and then send a palm into his solar plexus.
Ollie flies backwards into a filing cabinet and slumps to
the floor. He's breathing hard, clutching his ribs. I hope he
stays down. I don't want to have to hit him again.
Then he starts to laugh, wincing a little.
I tilt my head to one side. What's so funny? Is this a trick?
Ollie struggles to his feet. “Here, give me a hand,” he
says.
I pause, confused.
“Okay, fight's over. You win. Now give me a hand,
please?”
I step forward hesitantly and hold out my hand. He gets
up gingerly.
“God, that was bad,” Ollie grins. “Can you believe I
thought I had you on the ropes then and that's why you
weren't hitting me.”
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 A little coy smile creeps out from me.
“Dang, you're good,” he says, rubbing his solar plexus.
I chew my bottom lip. “I'm sorry. About mentioning your
mum. That was out of order.”
“Yeah. It was. But you're right, I got cocky. Didn't think
things through and now we have to phone FART to get us
out of here – don't worry, I'll say it's all my fault.”
“It is your fault,” I glare.
“Okay! Okay! Just don't hit me again,” he smiles, getting
his mobile out.
“I'm hungry,” I say turning away.
“We'll get them to bring take out with.. Uh uh.”
“What now?”
“No mobile reception down here.”
“So use the landline.”
Ollie gives me a funny look.
“Or not...”
“We can't leave any trails back to FART,” says Ollie.
I nod and my tummy rumbles.
Stalking over to the fridge I pull out some milk. Open the
lid and drink. “Hey, there's a sandwich in here,” I say.
“Ooooh and chocolate.”
“Really?” Ollie says rushing over. “I'm starved. Oh man,
cheese dunkables. My favorite”
“Eww! They're all yours,” I say.
“Catherine?” he says turning to look at me.
“Umm?” I say wearily.
“I'm really glad we're friends.”
Oh. I squirm and feel blood rising to my cheeks.
“You're blushing!” Ollie squeals delighted. “That's
adorable.”
“Shut up,” I glower.
“All rosy cheeked.”
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 “Shut up!”
“I bet I can make you blush even more...” he grins, back
to his usual self.
“Talk to me again and I'll stick that dunkable where the
sun don't shine.”
“Promises, promises.”
I flush scarlet and Ollie nearly wets himself laughing.

32
I become aware of artificial lights buzzing on. I must
have fallen into a half sleep. Surrounding me is a pile of
food debris and curled up in a corner is Ollie. I check my
watch, 6am.
Oh boy!
I spring to my feet. This is it. We couldn't ring FART so
we're planning on playing it like a couple of crazy teens
out for kicks – nothing serious just a jolly. And hope to
death the National Gallery don't press charges. If it wasn't
for the dogs we might have managed to break ourselves
out last night.
I look down at Ollie, snoozing on the floor. My foot
twitches as I get an urge to kick him awake. It's his fault
we're stuck here and I'm not feeling too charitable after a
night on the floor of a dirty Portacabin. Then I remember
the fun part of last night, just talking and laughing. It was
like a slumber party without the warm bedding and
decent snacks.
I sigh and bend down to shake him. “Hey, wake up
Sleepyhead. Someone's here.”
Deep brown eyes look up at me, “I feel sick.”
“That's cos you ate four of those dunking things. Now
get up.”
“Why? We're still not going anywhere. Not with those
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dogs...”
“They've gone!” I exclaim looking out of the window.
“Really?” says Ollie.
Slowly I crack open the Portacabin door. As the seconds
tick by I get braver and braver until I'm practically
outside.
“Don't push it,” says Ollie as he rips around the
Portacabin, suddenly very awake and putting everything
back where it was, hiding any evidence of our stay. His
training kicking in I guess.
“What about the food?” I say alarmed, wishing I'd had
more restraint, at least left some milk.
“Should be alright,” he says straightening the chairs.
“They'll blame each other. No one's gonna suspect people
broke into the National Gallery to pinch scraps from the
fridge now are they?”
He looks out of the window. “Still all clear? I wonder
where they went?”
“Who cares? Probably being given doggy breakfast or
something. This is our only chance. Let's go go go!”
“No. We can't run. There'll be security cameras.” He sees
my worried expression. “No, no, it'll be alright. No one
will be suspicious if there's people up and about already –
no one know we're here, do they? They're not looking for
us, but we've got to look calm and ordinary. Nothing to
draw attention to ourselves.”
I nod over enthusiastically.
Ollie smiles and takes a theatrical breath. “And relax,” he
tells me.
Taking deep breaths helps. “Okay. Ready,” I say.
We step out of the Portacabin and right into the bright
lights. My eyes scan the area for canines but miraculously
the loading dock seems deserted. No dogs. No people. Still
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I feel really exposed as we walk calmly to the exit. Without
really noticing, I find my arm slipping around Ollie's for
reassurance. He smiles and pats it.
There's a door leading into the outside world. Ollie pulls
out his skeleton keys and undoes two locks. Seconds away
from freedom and I hear a bark. “Out! Out! Out!” I almost
squeal. We slip out into the early morning streets and
suddenly I'm running – not through fear anymore, but
exhilaration.

33
We catch the first bus back to Oxford and I am on such a
high! I never chatter this much, but I'm psyched. And I
can't sit still – bouncy, bouncy, bounce.
“You've been bitten,” Ollie sighs.
“Where?” I say looking up and down my arms.
“No, I mean you're one of them now.”
“Who? What are you on about?” I smile.
“Just like your Dad and the others – an adrenaline junkie.
Not like me,” he says sadly.
I screw my nose up and grin, “I'm only so giddy cos we
got out by ourselves without calling FART. I did not want
to ask my dad to come rescue me.”
“Do that again,” Ollie says.
“Do what again?”
“That smile. Where you wrinkle your nose. Go on. ”
“No!” I giggle.
“There it is. It's cute,” he smiles.
“Stop teasing me,” I giggle, then yawn.
“You wanna crash at mine?” he says. “We didn't exactly
get a lot of sleep last night.”
I yawn again and stretch. “Got no key for Dad's so yeah,
if that's okay.”
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 We stumble into Ollie's house tired and uncoordinated,
wired on too much sugar and too little sleep. We're still
giggling over stupid things when Ollie stops dead. I look
at him in surprise and then he boots me up the stairs. I'm
about to object when Mikey’s gruff voice comes out of the
front room.
“So, decided to come home at last, have you?” He doesn't
sound very happy. Not happy at all.
I nip up the stairs and hide on the landing.
I don’t hear Ollie answer and I can't see him any more
either. I wonder what he’s doing? Is he defiant? Or is he
cowering?
“Well? Aren’t you going to tell me where you’ve been?”
says Mikey.
Ollie stays silent.
“WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN, GOD DAMN IT?” Mikey
bellows. “It looks like you slept in your clothes.”
Finally Ollie says. “I was out with a girl. I stayed over.
Okay?”
“No. It’s not okay. I had no idea where you were and no
idea when you were coming back.”
“You made it perfectly clear that I wasn't needed.”
“Use your head, Oliver. That’s what you do, isn’t it? No
good in the field, but you say you've got brains. You could
have been some use if you were contactable. We’re all on
high alert over this missing painting and you go and curl
up with some bimbo again.”
Poor Ollie. I chew my fingers as I listen, wondering why
he's lying about being at the gallery. And why Mikey
thinks Ollie has bimbos – wouldn't it be dreadful if Mikey
was homophobic?
“I should have known you’d be no help, no help
whatsoever,” Mikey storms.
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 “I do help!“ Ollie shouts angrily. “Just not the way you
want me to. I can't be something I'm not – however hard I
try.”
“Stay in the house in case I need you,” Mikey bellows.
“However unlikely that seems.”
I hear the front door slam shut. Ollie kicks some things
and begins to stomp up the stairs. I scramble after him into
his bedroom.
“He never understands,” Ollie growls. “Never even
tries.”
“I know how that feels,” I say.
He sags and shuffles towards his bed, flops down and
rolls towards the wall.
I stand there a little stunned. I mean I argue with my
mum all the time but seeing it like this, from the outside, it
seems, well, shocking! They were both so angry. Neither
listening to the other. Just shouting.
“You never told Mikey about our visit to the gallery,” I
say gently. “About what we found out.”
Silence. Is he asleep?
“I’ll do it. I'll tell FART,” I say turning to find a phone.
“Maybe send them an anonymous tip or something. No
need to get ourselves involved.” I wait for a response. Still
nothing.
I look at Ollie's back and feel a bit frustrated. “I've only
just discovered my dad manipulated me into this stuff, but
you already know, and you're sixteen, Ollie. You can do
whatever you want. If you’re mad at your Dad for getting
you into this stuff, just leave.”
“Humph.”
At least it’s a response.
“I’m serious. If you hate being an apprentice so much,
just go do something else.”
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 Ollie lifts his head. “But I don't hate it. In fact I love it.
And sometimes that alone makes me mad. I'm never sure
whether I really love it or whether I've just been
programmed to love it. It messes with your mind.”
“Tell me about it,” I say.
“But then all the training in the world can't help me be
what he wants me to be. I can do the espionage stuff and
the schmoozing - I can very much do the schmoozing. But
they're always trying to push me into situations I'm bad at.
That's never gonna work out. But they won't listen.”
“We make a good pair though, don't we,” I grin. “Brains
and brawn.”
“Beauty and the beast.”
“Stop teasing me,” I tut.
“Actually I was thinking I was beauty and you were the
beast.”
“Cheeky!” I declare and launch myself at him. The bed
visibly sinks as I land on it. I pick up a pillow and raise it
ready to batter him. He rolls and pulls out the duvet so I
get all tangled up. I wriggle and struggle and laugh but
quite frankly I'm knackered
“Okay, we’re cool,” I sigh. “Too knackered to fight.”
“Here, here.” Ollie says dropping back onto the bed.
“Where shall I kip?” I ask.
Ollie looks at me. “Here, here,” he grins, patting the bed.
For the first time I realize I'm rolling around with a boy
on his bed – I know he's gay and all but still, I start to feel
all weird. Could I really just lie beside him? Have our
bodies touching? Ollie thumps a pillow a few times and
curls up. I take my trainers off. He rolls over to face the
wall. Is he trying to put me at ease? Slowly I lie down,
conscious of the dip his weight makes on the mattress. I
can hear his breathing and feel the heat coming off his
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body. It feels so strange yet perfectly natural all at once.
“Sweet dreams,” he says quietly and gingerly I let my
eyelids close.

34
It’s quite late when I wake up, 16:34 according to Ollie’s
clock. He’s no longer beside me and I can hear the shower
going. Sliding my feet off the bed I’m delighted to find a
tray of food on the floor. Milk and cookies, perfect. I tuck
in greedily then search through my bag for a toothbrush
and some clean clothes. I could do with a shower too.
I wait for a bit but the water keeps running. I thought boys
were supposed to be quick? Restless, I decide to do my yoga.
Four rounds of The Sun Salutation. A series of moves
designed to warm up all your muscles and wake you up.
I strip to my t-shirt and pants - reminding myself it’s
okay cos he’s gay. I just slept next to him for Pete's sake, so
stop freaking out all the time!
Then it’s stretch up and bend down. Tickle my fingers
over the carpet. Onto the floor and stretch my legs, arch
my back then bow my back...
Surprised, I see Ollie in the doorway. I didn’t hear him
come out of the bathroom. He’s wearing nothing but a tiny
blue towel wrapped around his waist, showing off his
fantastic abdomen again. Water droplets still running
down his chest.
I look back at the carpet. Remember, he’s gay.
“Come and join me if you want,” I say causally.
“I think I’m happy just watching, thanks,” he smiles,
leaning against the door frame.
“I could show you some moves,” I suggest.
“I bet you could.”
“Honestly, it’s not hard,”
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 “Don’t be so sure,” he grins at me.
I smile, confused. He’s always saying things I don’t get.
Ollie moves to sit on the bed, drying his hair with
another towel I didn't spot – too distracted by other things.
I notice his hair’s green now. No wonder he took so long in
the bathroom.
“We should ring FART,” I say, moving into the lotus
position. “Should have done it before we fell asleep.”
“We should,” he nods solemnly. “What we gonna say?”
“That we think the Venus got shipped out as the Joseph
Wright air pump painting. That's all we've got really.”
“I wonder where the air pump painting was going?”
“Google it,” I suggest.
Ollie moves to his swivel chair and boots his computer
up while I hover over his shoulder - I wish he'd put some
clothes on. He types in the words and grunts a laugh.
“What?”
“Bloody thing was going to the Uffizi Gallery! It's the
loan for the Venus. Bet they're well narked with the
National Gallery – not only is their reciprocal loan late, but
they lost the Venus... You alright? You've gone a bit pale.”
“I dunno, I dunno,” I mutter. “It seems so strange.”
“What does?”
“Well, that's where the gel-man from the gallery said he'd
take it. Back home.”
“Back to the Uffizi Gallery?”
“Well, back to Italy was all he said.”
Ollie thinks it over. “Nah. I don't buy it. Why wait until
it's out of the country if you're just going to steal it to bring
it back? And the thief wouldn't be stupid enough to send
the package to where it was actually meant to go.”
“It'd be one hell of a double bluff,” I say.
“Hmm, it's true that it would be easier getting a pre-
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organized package through customs – especially during a
high security alert. Yeah, this could be something
Catherine! Time to earn some Brownie points,” he says
cheerfully reaching for his phone.
I try not to look too smug. Just your regular art restorers
hard at work.
“We'll be in their good books for sure after this,” Ollie
says and dials. “Hi Monnie, it's Turner. You... oh, okay,”
He puts his hand over the receiver. “She's putting me
straight through to Botty's office. Hi, Boss...”
Ollie suddenly pulls the receiver away from his ear and I
quite clearly hear Botty shouting. “You'd better have a
damned good excuse for your whereabouts last night
Turner, or so help me God I will strike you out of this
team. I have had it up to here with your wanderings.”
Ollie's gone pale and shaky. He's staring at the phone in
horror. “Turner? Turner?” Botty shouts. “You'd better still
be there boy?”
There's no way Ollie is gonna say anything. He looks like
he might puke. I snatch up the phone.
“Hello Botty Sir. Er! I mean Botticelli.”
Please don't let me make things worse. I watch as Ollie
wanders zombie like towards his bed and falls face first
into it.
“Who the hell is this?” Botty demands.
“Erm. The new girl Sir... I don't have a name yet.” (or ever
at this rate.)
We must be on speaker phone because Dad interrupts.
“Catherine? You're supposed to be at home.”
“Ollie came over, I mean Turner...” Shit, shit, shit. I'm
really messing this up. “He came to get me and...”
“Against orders?” booms Botty.
I bristle. “I wasn't aware anyone had given any orders.”
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 “Don't use that tone with me young lady. I want you back
where you're supposed to be. And put Turner back on.”
I look at Ollie face-down on the bed. “I don't think that's
going to be possible...”
“I don't care what you think...”
“Well, maybe you'd better,” I snap, getting annoyed at
his arrogance. “Because Turner and I have...”
“We are trying to solve the biggest art theft case in recent
history here and you two are distracting us and slowing us
down! Neither of you had better show your faces here
until this is FINISHED!!”
He hangs up. I stare at the phone in surprise.
“What a wanker,” I say.
I hear a muffled laugh from the bed.
“Oh, returned to the land of the living now have you?
Now that I've dealt with your difficult phone call?”
“You handled it much better than I would have.” He sits
up and rubs his face. “Well, that's it. We're fired. Wanna
hit the employment center? I bagsy the supermarket shelf
stacker job.”
“We're not fired yet,” I say. “If only they'd listen to us.
Maybe we could try again.”
“Do I look like I care?” says Ollie. “Let them lose the
Venus. Serves them right.”
“Do be like that,” I plead. “We all lose if it's not found.”
“Yeah, alright. But what we've found out is quite
complicated, we'd never get even halfway through
explaining before they cut us off again.”
There’s a thoughtful pause. We look at each other and
something sparks. An idea. A very naughty idea. There’s a
twinkle in his eye and something else, something
adventurous. We start grinning at each other.
“You wanna, maybe...” Ollie says raising his eyebrows.
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 “Yeah, let’s do it,” I say definitely.
“Let's go to Florence and find it ourselves.”

35
Ollie’s booking us a last minute flight to Florence using
the FART expense account. Of course they’ll be able to
track us this way but we figure this means Dad and Mikey
will arrive just in time for us to smile smugly at them and
point to where the Venus is. It’s going to be great. We’ll
need to be at Heathrow by 20:30.
I’m so excited I keep packing and repacking my bag. I
haven’t been on holiday in years. It’ll be so cool hanging
out with Ollie. We’ll be able to chill in trendy cafés and lay
on the beach - does Florence have a beach? No, actually I
think it’s inland. Maybe we should go to the coast instead?
Oh no, we’re going to chase the Venus, that's right. Maybe
we can go to the beach after. God, why didn’t I pack my
swimming costume? Isn’t that cute blonde kid in Florence?
I wonder if he’ll want to come to the beach with us?
“Are you even nearly ready yet?” asks an impatient Ollie.
We take the train to the airport, it takes about an hour
and half. Damn lucky Mum thought to hand me my
passport as I left yesterday, of course she was thinking I
might go to France not Italy! Something makes me think of
Mum and Florence...
Oh yeah. Her conference. There'd be hell to pay if she
ever saw me but what's the chance we'll cross paths?
Italy's a big country, right?
The woman at the check-in desk has to look twice at me,
what with my bruises and all, but Ollie's charm gets us
through easily enough. On board our plane I hand a
stewardess our boarding passes and look eagerly inside.
Haven’t flown for ages. Dead excited. The stewardess
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seems pleased to see us and sits us down right away - IN
FIRST CLASS!
“FART account,” Ollie smiles. “Automatic upgrade.”
Oh wow. I snuggle into my plush seat grinning like a six
year old in a sweet shop. Now this is the life.

36
Ah, Italy. Land of fine art, romance, culture - and if one
more person offers me a tacky statue of Michelangelo’s
David or a Birth of Venus bath towel I’m gonna ram it down
their throat. What I really need is an umbrella. It is
bucketing it down! And I thought the Mediterranean was
always sunny.
Ollie had the taxi drop us off in the historic part of town.
Florence doesn’t seem to be that big and most of the
interesting stuff is concentrated here. We’re wandering
round trying to get a hotel. Luckily another essential
lesson taught at FART is Italian so Ollie gabbers on like a
local. He picks a smart little hotel near the Duomo, which
is what they call their big marble cathedral. I expected us
to get a room each but apparently the FART expense
account will only stretch so far so we’re gonna have to
share.
It’s a damn decent room, real posh en suite bathroom,
gold and ivory decorations, balcony and even a little
sitting room area to take tea in. I’m surprised to find it has
only one double bed, I was expecting twin singles, but
Ollie just shrugs and explains his Italian isn’t that good.
But aside from that it’s the best room I have ever seen in
my entire life. Mum could never afford something like
this.
It’s too late to go out hunting the Venus now but we’re not
exactly tired since we had our mid-day snooze, so we
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order room service, Ollie breaks open the mini bar and we
watch Italian game shows propped up on our giant bed. It
doesn’t seem so weird being in a bed with Ollie this time
around - the bed is so big anyway we might as well be on
opposite sides of the room. Although I'd feel better if he
was wearing more than a pair of silk boxers!
Instead I focus on the funny Italian man giving out prizes
until I fall asleep.

37
The morning dawns gray and damp. Where is the
sunshine?
I get dressed in a pair of blue stone-washed jeans, purple
jumper, black ¾ -length waterproof Mac and my trusty
black leather boots. Too wet for trainers. Ollie’s wearing
beige chinos and an olive sweatshirt, brown walking boots
and a green waterproof. We have breakfast up on the top
floor and watch the rain slide down the windows. The
view is still interesting though. We’re so high up there’s
just a sea of red roofs all around us. The red comes from
the traditional terracotta roof tiles according to Ollie. The
buildings are mainly painted yellow. Except the old stuff,
like the brown stone churches or the Duomo with its white
marble.
After breakfast we head straight for the Uffizi – where
the Joseph Wright painting was scheduled to go. The
streets are cobbled and the traffic is lethal. I mean, pick a
lane already! But there is one thing I can’t take my eyes off.
Scooters! I’m totally hooked. Everyone has a scooter over
here. There are hundreds of them, buzzing around,
nipping in and out. I am so getting a scooter when we get
back - well, they’re bound to reward us after we find the
Venus.
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 I’m also slightly distracted by all the shops. If I was into
'proper' shopping this place would be heaven. There’s all
the top designers. It’s cool but not really my cup of... cor,
look at those boots!
“Come on!” Ollie says, grabbing my arm. “Stop being
such a girl.”
The old streets are all quite narrow and therefore dark
and it's a bit of a surprise when I'm suddenly out in the
open surrounded by 7ft high naked men. Carved from
marble but still - I don't where to look!
Then up ahead is quite possibly the most stunning
building I've ever seen. It's massive. And horse-shoe
shaped, but with corners instead of curves, and longer
arms. I’m standing at the open end, looking at the interior
of the horse-shoe. My eyes look up from the flagstone
court yard, up a few steps, gray stone columns, up about
fifteen feet to the first floor with large brown-framed
windows and superbly carved stone figures, up to the
second floor with slightly less ornate windows, and then
twenty-five meters from the ground, there’s the roof which
is, of course, tiled red.
“Welcome to the Uffizi,” Ollie sighs contentedly. “The
oldest art gallery in the world. From 1581. You know the
term ‘art gallery’ actually came from here?”
I gape open mouthed, too impressed to speak. I mean,
I’ve seen old buildings before, but this? This is different.
Most of the British stuff I’ve seen is plain and solid but this
is dainty, classy, refined.
“Knew you’d like it,” Ollie grins. “Wait until you see
inside.”
The entrance is on our left. The guide book I flicked
through at the hotel warns of queues but on a wet October
morning we stroll right in. Well, when I say ‘stroll’, I mean
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stopped, security checked, x-rayed and then stroll in.
Crikey, with this much security no wonder the thief
waited until the Venus was moved elsewhere. We go up a
flight of old stone steps until we hit the first floor.
Ollie’s plan is to talk to each of the gallery staff
individually about the Joseph Wright painting in a casual
manner and see if they let anything slip about its delivery.
Apparently this is the easiest and most basic way of
getting information out of people. With all the tiny pieces
of info you get, you can piece them together to get a bigger
picture without anyone being aware you’re poking
around. Clever.
The only problem is I have to go around listening to
sounds that don’t make any sense to me. It’s very
frustrating. I wish I could speak Italian. In the end I leave
him to it. The first floor is alright but ultimately I want to
see the room where the Venus normally hangs.
The second floor starts with a long corridor paneled in
dark wood. Doors on the left lead to the exhibition rooms
while the big windows on my right look across the interior
courtyard to the other arm of the building. In front of me I
can see where the corridor turns right and then right again
to join the other side, all lined with rows of statues, busts
and painted portraits.
Now, where’s this Botticelli room?
Room ten is one of the larger rooms, it's painted white
and has sky-lights. The Botticelli paintings have all been
removed for the 500 years quincentenary world tour and
in their places sit loans from the various museums on that
tour. There is an ominous gap on one wall. A large sign in
about twenty languages berates the National Gallery and
the English in general it seems. I guess they’re not best
pleased with us.
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 I sit and watch people mill around the empty wall,
everyone's still talking about the poor Venus. I hope we
find it. After a while Ollie enters the room and approaches
the gallery attendant, a young blonde woman. I catch his
eye and he nods at me before engaging her in discussion.
While I wait I turn my attention to a painting loaned from
the Guggenheim Museum in New York. It’s a piece of
modern, abstract art by Wassily Kandinsky called
Composition 8. I don’t like it. I mean, look at it. It’s stupid.
It looks like a child’s drawing after they’ve discovered
their first maths set - all compass circles, ruler lines and
protractor curves. Why does anyone think this is art?
I check to see how Ollie’s getting on. He’s still chatting
away. I’m sure he must have heard everything she has to
say by now, and why are they giggling? I huff and turn
back to the Kandinsky painting. Beside me an American
couple chat loudly.
“It says here Kandinsky was big into the connection
between art and music. He claims he could hear colors”
“Gee, do you think this is him seeing sounds?” his wife
replies.
I stand up to get a better look. Well, at least that makes
more sense. I suppose I can see some sort of rhythm in the
painting. The circle in the top left even looks like an old
vinyl record - did they have vinyl in the 1920’s? The
semicircles are like beats pulsing, the squares look like
scales on a keyboard, and the triangles like the sharp notes
produced by trumpets. Hey, I can see a whole orchestra!
“Come on, we’ve got everything we need.” Ollie says
coming up behind me.
“Have you seen this? It’s brilliant,” I say, beaming at the
Kandinsky.
“Yeah, it’s great. You wanna go to the cafe?”
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 “But we just had breakfast.”
“Yeah, well, I need a drink.”

38
The café is all the way at the other end of the other arm of
the horse-shoe. As we turn right, into the middle section of
the horse-shoe, I spot Florence’s famous bridge through
the big windows.
“Hey, I can see the Ponte Vecchio bridge,” I say eagerly.
“We’ll do the bridge later,” Ollie grumbles.
He’s turned into a right sour-puss again. We turn right
into the other arm of the building and annoyingly go
straight past the Michelangelos and Raphaels, towards the
café at the end. Inside Ollie grabs a beer and indicates to
the cashier that I’ll pay while he goes off in search of a
table. Something is definitely up. I grab a juice and pay the
woman with the funny currency.
“Bit early to be drinking, don’t you think?” I say arriving
at the table he's found.
He ignores me. I pull out a chair and notice a man in a
dark suit sat in the corner quickly averting his eyes from
me. I keep forgetting I look all freakish and bruised.
“Okay, what’s going on?” I sigh, sinking into the chair.
“It never arrived.” He says it slowly, like he’s controlling
his temper.
“Well, of course it didn’t. The painting is still in the
National Gallery.”
“No, stupid. The crate. It left England but never arrived
at the Uffizi.”
“So, where is it?”
“It obviously got intercepted.” He sighs heavily and flops
his head into his hands. “So stupid not to have thought
about that.”
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 Ollie proceeds to violently hit his fists into his temples a
few times before reaching for his beer. I’m tempted to
protest about the alcohol again but maybe that’s a
conversation better suited to a less stressful day. Arrgh!
And that man is looking at me again! I know my face
looks kinda gross but doesn't he have any manners?
“But how could it have got intercepted?” I ask, ignoring
the sketchy tourist.
“Someone must have switched addresses. Maybe at the
courier company or on the plane or something. Does it
matter?”
Hmm, when I think about it, it was a pretty weak lead. I
mean, even if it did come back to Florence it was hardly
gonna go all the way back to the Uffizi. Grrr. Is it me or is
there another man staring at us from the terrace exit?
Have they never seen a bruise before?
“Why did we come here?,” Ollie says sadly. “We've done
nothing but waste valuable time and cost FART money. If
we weren't fired before, they are really going to crucify us
for this.”
“We're not total losers,” I say helpfully. “We can still tell
FART about what we found out at the National Gallery.”
“Yeah, but they’ll be tracking us to Florence by now. The
painting isn’t here. They’ll have to fly back to London and
follow the trail from the start again. We are so dead.”
“Maybe they haven’t left yet. We could phone.”
“You phone. I might emigrate to Africa. God, I need a
drink.”
“You've got one,” I frown.
“A proper one.”
“Well look, maybe we can still find the Venus. So it didn't
go to the Uffizi, but maybe it still came to Florence...”
“Yeah or Italy, or maybe Europe, or somewhere else in
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the world,” says Ollie.
“Oh, stop being so damned pessimistic,” I growl irritably.
“And I swear if people don't stop eyeballing me...”
Ollie pauses at the neck of his beer bottle. “Who's looking
at you?”
“A bloke with a paper over there,” I incline my head
slightly. “And there's this other guy smoking outside.”
Ollie looks at me intently, suddenly very alert. “Describe
them.”
“It's nothing, forget it,” I squirm embarrassed.
“No, seriously. Tell me ... No! Don't look at them!“ Ollie
shakes his head. “Just describe them.”
“Okay,” I say slowly. “One man is sat in the corner
reading a newspaper.”
“Which newspaper?”
“I dunno. An Italian one.”
“What’s he drinking or eating?”
“Nothing.”
“Damn. What about the other guy?”
“He’s just beside the door, outside on the roof terrace,
smoking.”
“For the whole time we’ve been here?”
“Uh huh.”
“They look alike? Clothes wise?”
I shrug at their non-descript suits. “Fairly.”
“Okay, we’re in trouble.”
“What?” I say in horror. “What kind of trouble? How can
you tell?”
“Just trust me.” He gets up to leave.
“No,” I state, grabbing his wrist. “If I’m gonna be an
apprentice art restorer I need to know this stuff.”
“Fine.” He sinks back into the chair.
“First man. Probably Italian if he’s reading an Italian
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paper. Why would a local pay the entrance fee just to sit in
the café, alone, with no food or drink, staring at us.”
“He could be from another part of Italy or...”
“Okay, fair enough. But check out the second man. It’s
raining and he’s taking a leisurely smoke outside, barring
an exit, while staring at us. The two facts together suggest
we’re in trouble.”
“But who would they be?”
“If we’re lucky they’re just museum security. They got
wind of my questions and they’re just keeping an eye on
us. If we’re unlucky they’re Interpol and we won’t see
daylight for a week. And FART will probably disown us.”
“Interpol?”
“International Police. I suppose if we’re really unlucky
they’ll be the art crime team from the FBI and just shoot
us. Actually maybe that’ll be a blessing.”
“What should we do?”
“Nothing we can do. Head for the exit and hope they let
us leave.”
“I don’t want to get caught,” I whine. “Hang on. We
haven’t done anything!”
“We’ve acted suspiciously and everyone’s looking for a
scapegoat on this one. Come on.”
Ollie gets up casually and gathers his things. I see the
guy in the corner fold up his newspaper and the guy
outside stub out his cigarette. Great, there I was hoping
Ollie was just paranoid.
Ollie links arms with me and laughs. I stare at him. He’s
acting causal. I think I might vomit with nerves. We leave
the café. The two men follow. The main exit is halfway
down this corridor. Maybe they’re just making sure we
leave. Ten meters to go, nine, eight, seven...
“Damn,” Ollie mutters.
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 Two men wearing similar dark suits chat idly by the
main exit. They clock us as we continue to walk past the
open doorway. We turn left at the end of the corridor and
then left again into the left-hand arm of the building.
“What’ll we do?” I panic.
“All the exhibition rooms are linked,” says Ollie. “We’ll
enter the very last door. The men should follow us at a
leisurely pace so as not to be noticed. We’ll then peg it
back through the rooms and come out at the other end of
the corridor. The men will be left behind. We’ll distract the
two waiting at the exit and run like hell. Any questions?”
I shake my head, wide-eyed.
We near the last room. My legs start to shake with
anticipation.
“Let’s see this room again,” Ollie says loudly, checking
the window’s reflection for the two men.
We saunter in slowly and then suddenly start sprinting.
People stare at us in surprise, some call out. I don’t care.
I’m running for my life here. I jump a bench and side-step
a bawling child. I’m out in front, Ollie's behind. I’m faster
than he is. Gotta slow down if we’re to stick together. I let
him catch up. Drop behind him so I can pace him.
We burst out of the final room. Free! We sprint into the
middle section of the horse-shoe and...
UFF!
My body slides across the polished floor and crumples
against the hard wooden side panel. There's a man on top
of me. He must have hung back while his mate followed
us in. He's winded himself in the tackle. I struggle but
can’t get up. His weight is too much. His hands are
grabbing at me. I need to get a leg under so I can shove
him off but I can’t. He’s too heavy. Too big. Too strong. I’m
freaking out. Can’t breathe.
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 Suddenly the man’s off me and Ollie’s laying into him.
Now I can see his karate training. Oooh, ouch! I take a
shaky breath to recover then spot the other man hurtling
towards us. I struggle to my feet. Gotta keep going. I grab
Ollie and we’re running again, towards the exit. People
spread out of our way. The two men at the exit begin to
move as we get closer. They both swing their jackets back
revealing guns. My first thought is ‘Hey! How’d they get
them through security?’ The next is censored.
“Keep going,” Ollie hollers as he throws something at the
two men. It bounces harmlessly over their heads but they
track it with their eyes as if it might be something
dangerous.
While they’re distracted we sprint past. We’re nearing the
end of the corridor. Right back where we started, at the
café. I hurtle inside, breathing hard, more with fear than
exhaustion. Café staff look on bewildered as Ollie bursts
through the patio doors that lead onto the roof terrace. I
follow him out, raindrops hitting my face and hands. Ollie
stands at the edge looking down, gauging the distance.
But it’s a twenty meter drop, too risky. We’d never make it.
I turn around. The roof! It’s a mere two meters up and
there’s even a handy wall to jump up from.
I do it instinctively, leap onto the wall and then vault
onto the roof. The red terracotta tiles are slippery as hell in
the rain. I drop to all fours for a better grip and scramble
up the shallow incline. I’m glad to see Ollie is right behind
me, although he looks very uncomfortable - but then who
wouldn’t be on a wet sloping roof twenty five meters up
from the ground?
There’s a shout behind us. A man pokes his head over the
roof edge.
“Just keep going,” Ollie yells. “Whoever they are, they
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aren’t the police – or anyone else official for that matter.
They would have announced it by now.”
I reach the peak of the roof and glance down. Big
mistake. I take a deep breath and it’s filled with rain. I
chance a glance behind me. The first of the men is
tentatively getting onto the roof. He’s nowhere near as
light and nibble as us. He slips and slides and curses.
I turn back to my bit of roof, Ollie is ahead of me now. It
gets pretty lethal from here on in. The peaked roof turns
into a steeper, single slope - like a really wide slide. One
mistake and I’ll go over the edge to my death.
Great. No pressure.
I don’t even know where we’re going.
I start slowly, no good getting myself mashed. Ollie’s still
rushing.
“Slow down,” I tell him.
He’s not stupid. He slows down. I’m using all four limbs
to suction myself to the tiles. People below start taking
pictures. How can they think about that at a time like this?
Ollie hisses. “Don’t let them photograph your face or
you’re finished.”
Great, another worry on top of...
CRACK!
“What was that?”
“Gun shot,” Ollie answers matter of factly.
I start to speed up.
“Where are we going?”
“You ask as if I know,” he replies through gritted teeth. I
think it’s taking everything he’s got to hold it together on
this roof.
CRACK!
“What are they doing!?!?” I yell, half in annoyance, half
in fear.
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 “They’re warning shots. If they meant to hit us, we’d be
dead by now.”
“They want us to stop?”
“I guess so.”
I look back and my foot slips.
For a second everything is in motion.
I’m sliding to my death.
I clench every muscle and try to suction myself to the
cold wet roof.
Miraculously I stop moving halfway down the slope, but
now I’m afraid to move.
God, if only it’d stop bloody raining.
Ollie shouts out, eyes wide. He starts to move towards
me.
“No!” I shout.
He hesitates. I don’t want him to come for me. Mainly
because it’s too dangerous. We’ll both go over. But also
because it’s my mess, I’ll get myself out of it. Ha! They say
you get pride before a fall. I hope that’s not literal.
I see the men behind us. Only two now, looking scared
stupid, especially as they’ve seen me slip. I imagine the
others have gone downstairs to catch us if we make it
down - or scoop up our remains if we don't.
Okay, can’t stay here for ever. Time to make a decision.
No gutter as far as I can see, so there really is only one
option, back up. But it’s just too slippery, too risky. Maybe
I’ll just stay put and wait for a rescue helicopter or
something. But my muscles are working hard just to keep
me here. I can’t last forever.
I move my hand up gingerly. There’s nothing to hold
onto! So wet. So slippery. My groping fingers find a
minuscule gap between the tiles – the tiniest hand-hold.
Slowly I inch my way back up. The people below us
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whoop and cheer. The men behind us are frozen still. Ollie
watches my every move. He looks washed out and pale. I
wonder what I look like.
Finally getting closer. Take each move slowly, testing the
resistance, getting a good grip. Crikey, this is taking
forever. I think my wet clothes are actually helping me
stick. At last I reach the highest point, not exactly safety
but safer, and at least the men have stopped firing at us.
“Alright?” Ollie asks.
“Just peachy thanks. Yourself?”
“Been better,” he smiles weakly. “Now, let’s get the hell
out of here.”
Unbelievably the men begin to follow us again! Don’t
they get it? I just nearly fell to my death! Whatever. It’s
their life.
The end of the roof is in sight, we’ve gone the entire
length of the corridor. The roof becomes peaked again and
we can move easier and quicker. Below and to the right of
us stretches the river and the Ponte Vecchio bridge. A
covered walkway goes from the Uffizi to the Ponte
Vecchio. We could get along the top of it and escape onto
the bridge - if only it didn’t start twelve meters below us. It
also has a peaked roof so there’s no way we could jump it.
I’m really beginning to hate these roofs.
“What now?” Ollie frowns. I can see his hands shaking.
I’m reminded that he doesn’t do too well in these types of
situations. Where’s a really long ladder when you need it?
However, there is a drainpipe.
Ollie sees it too. His face goes even whiter.
I start to say “We don’t have time to think, we’ve just got
to do it,” but he’s already heading towards it. I’m
impressed and then slightly worried by the nonchalant
way he flips himself over the edge, like he doesn’t care
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whether he makes it or not. Luckily he does but now I feel
more nervous than I did before.
Right, stop thinking, just act.
Turning my back to the edge of the roof I squat down
and feel behind me for the drainpipe. Got it. God I hope
this holds. I lever myself backwards, booted feet hitting
the side the building, searching for the pipe. I release one
hand and cement it to the cold wet metal of the pipe. Next
hand. Ha! Done it. Then it’s a pretty straight-forward
shimmy down to the covered walkway. People have come
around the Uffizi to watch our progress. I don’t know
what the men are up to. Maybe they went back inside.
Ollie’s eyes look glassed over by the time I reach him.
“Final leg,” I tell him and then we’re off, running along
the terracotta spine of the pitched roof that joins up with
the bridge. It’s no wider than my thigh but I’ve spent years
in the gym, on the beams, and so has Ollie by the look of
it. Besides, after being stuck twenty five meters up, fifteen
meters is nothing.
The Ponte Vecchio bridge is famous for being lined with
shops, we cross the river on their ancient roofs. At the
other end of the bridge we drop down onto a lower
building, then another and then solid ground. Oh, how
I’ve missed you!
No time for breath. Gotta keep running, the men could
be right behind us - although God alone knows why. Ollie
leads us down a maze of back streets until I think my
lungs might actually collapse. Finally we grind to a halt in
an alley. I lean against a grimy wall and close my eyes.
Rain still beating down on my face. I can’t even feel it any
more. Totally drenched.
Ollie’s bending over, hands on his knees. “I think I might
puke.”
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 “But we did it!” I declare triumphantly, suddenly filled
with jubilation.
Ollie throws up. I step back as bits of food splatter the
floor. Gross.
“Does that often happen?” I ask.
“I don’t like stressful situations,” he grumbles.
“No kidding.”
“And now I’m lost.”
“Jeez! Does it matter? Let’s just keep running.”
“Of course it matters! You wanna end up down a dead
end?”
“Like you know every street?” I say folding my arms.
“Actually, yeah, I do. FART makes you memorize maps
surrounding all the major art museums.”
“Oh.”
Suddenly there’s movement behind me. I snap around to
see a figure nearly upon us.
“There you are,” it says.
I punch it.
Ollie stares at me in disbelief.
“Jesus, Catherine. Not that I’m complaining, but that was
Whistler.”

39
Oh, no! I hope he doesn’t hate me. I hope I haven’t bruised that
perfect angelic face.
“He’s coming to,” says Ollie.
Oh, thank God. He’s going to be okay... and quite frankly it’s
about time. I didn’t hit him that hard.
“Mamma?” Whistler moans quietly, lying in the wet
gutter. His light colored trousers turning brown with
water. A black umbrella lies fallen to one side. I pick it up
for him.
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 “No mate. It’s Ollie,” Ollie croons.
Whistler sits straight up. “Get the hell away from me,
you imbecile.”
Ollie backs up with a smug grin on his face as Whistler
struggles to his feet, then turns his attention to me.
“Why the hell did you hit me?” he glares, running a hand
through his perfectly golden, surfer dude hair.
“I was freaked,” I answer defensively, handing back the
umbrella. “And you shouldn’t just jump out at someone
like that, Whistler.”
“Don’t call me that,” he snaps, grabbing the brolly. “I’m
Gabriel unless I’m on the job.”
Ollie chuckles.
“God. You are so immature,” Gabriel sighs. “I’d leave
you both right here if I wasn’t supposed to take you back
to my house.”
“Back to your... But how did you know we were here?” I
ask.
“Botticelli phoned. He said Leo and Mikey were coming
over to get you as soon as they could. He seemed rather
angry actually.”
Uh oh. Busted already.
“I’ve been tracking the homing device on Ollie’s mobile,”
Gabriel says.
“Where’s Raph?” Ollie asks moodily.
“Off with Mother...”
“You brought your mum with you?” I say surprised.
“No,” he tuts at me. “My family lives here. Dad and I
only stay in London when we’re working.”
“You don’t sound very Italian,” I say.
“I’ve trained my voice to be without any regional
dialect,” he says proudly.
“Which means he went to a posh private school in
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Europe and learnt to speak the Queen’s English proper
like,” Ollie explains.
“Well, considering English isn’t your first language you
speak it very well,” I smile.
“Oh, thank you,” Gabriel replies and his eyes twinkle at
me.
“Yes, well, this is all fascinating,” Ollie says. “But as it
happens we are in the middle of being chased and maybe
we should think about...”
“I don’t see anyone,” Gabriel says looking behind us.
“Well, that’s okay then,” Ollie replies sarcastically. “But to
be on the safe side I reckon we should re-cross the river
and mingle with the tourists.”
“Cos you won’t stand out at all, will you, not with your
hair?” I say.
Ollie throws me one of his cheeky smiles and produces a
bottle from his pocket. He tips the black contents into his
hand and massages it into his green hair, instantly it turns
black. He looks completely different.
“Wow. That is one neat trick,” I marvel.
“Can you change your appearance?” Ollie asks me.
I look down at my jeans and black Mac. “Erm...”
“Well, the hair can come down for a start,” Gabriel
remarks.
I reach up and undo my ponytail. My long brown hair
instantly falls into my face. I push it back in annoyance.
“I don’t see why you have it up all the time,” smiles Ollie.
“It looks great loose.”
“Keep your mind on the job,” Gabriel grumbles.
“Now, how about the jeans?” Ollie says.
“What about them?” I ask suspiciously.
“Take them off.”
“I beg you pardon?”
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 “You can turn the Mac inside-out to show the pink lining.
Without jeans underneath it’ll look like you’re in a pink
coat and short skirt. Totally different.”
“There’s no way I’m taking my jeans off.”
“Why? Aren’t you wearing any knickers?” he beams
mischievously.
“What!... You just... How dare...” I settle for waving my
fist menacingly at him. He seems vaguely amused.
There’s a screech of tires and we look up to see a black
car with tinted windows come to a stop at the top of the
alley. Ollie shoves me into a doorway and joins me in
hiding. Gabriel takes to his role instantly. I hear voices in
Italian. Ollie interprets. “He’s asking if Gabriel has seen us.
Gabriel says, ‘No, but you have a very nice car’.”
I hear the car move on.
“Hey, there really are people after you,” Gabriel
comments, coming back to us. “What’s going on?”
“We’re on the trail of the Venus,” Ollie tells him in a very
matter of fact way as he steps out of the doorway.
Gabriel stares at him in disbelief.
“But don't worry, they certainly aren't police,” Ollie
continues. “They must be connected to the thief somehow.
But why would they be keeping an eye on the Uffizi? They
already have the painting?”
A cold chill runs right through me as I step down into the
alley. Are these men really connected to the Venus? Why
are they still after us? Will I ever be safe again? Maybe I
should have thought things through more before joining
FART? And I’m starting to think I might have to take my
jeans off after all!
“I can fix your jeans,” Gabriel says.
I sigh in submission. “As long as I get them back.”
He nods.
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 “You’ll have to turn around,” I say.
He nods again and turns around. Then pokes Ollie to do
the same.
“Oh, I don't have to,” Ollie beams at him.
“You sly devil. How long did it take you this time?”
Gabriel glares at him.
“No, I think you’d better turn around too, Ollie,” I say. “I
know you’re gay but still, I’d rather you didn’t look.”
“Gay?!?!” Gabriel says choking back a laugh.
OH NO! I’ve done it again! I’ve gone and let slip Ollie’s
secret to someone else. I can sense Ollie’s rotten mood
already and Gabriel’s wetting himself. Ollie turns his back
on me. Why can’t I keep my big mouth shut? Poor Ollie.
Some friend I’m turning out to be.
I huff and start unbuttoning my jeans. I can’t believe I’m
stripping in an Italian back alley in the rain. I pass my
jeans over Gabriel’s shoulder then watch in horror as he
takes out a penknife and proceeds to butcher them!
“Voila,” he says handing them back a minute later.
My lovely jeans, reduced to cut-offs. I start putting them
on again but I’m not convinced about this at all, I mean....
Oh, no way! They’re obscene! They’re basically denim
knickers. The boys turn around at the sound of my
obvious protests. I feel totally stupid in my knee-length
black boots, denim shorts and inside-out Mac.
Ollie wolf whistles.
Gabriel just raises his eyebrows. “Well, it certainly takes
the eyes off your bruised face, that’s for sure.”
I’m surprised to feel my opinion change. Maybe I look
okay? Maybe I look kinda good?
“Won’t l get arrested for being indecently dressed?” I ask
suspiciously.
“In Italy?” says Ollie. “I don’t think so. Especially since
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we’re going clubbing tonight.”
“You’re going to a club?” asks Gabriel.
I’m surprised too.
“Nothing like a night of drink and noise to blot out a
near-death experience,” he says.
I get a flashback of sliding off the roof – yeah, a
distraction might be good actually – if I ever want to sleep
again.
“I’m supposed to take you back to my house,” Gabriel
frowns.
“We probably should lie low for a bit, don’t you think?” I
say to Ollie, visualizing armed men leaping out of dark
corners at us.
“Yes, and you could try photo-fitting the men at my
house,” Gabriel says encouragingly.
Ollie pauses in thought. “That’s actually a really good
idea. Better still, we can get Catherine to ID the man she
saw at the National Gallery before the Venus was taken.
Why didn’t I think of this before?”
“Possibly because you are an amateur,” says Gabriel.
“I don’t see you working to find the Venus,” Ollie snaps
back.
“That may be, but I also don’t let thieves get away with
Picassos under their arms.”
“Yeah, well at least I don’t wear curlers to bed!”
“Boys! Boys!” I plead. “Let’s just go back to Gaby’s and
do this photo fit, okay?”
“Don’t call me Gaby,” Gabriel glares at me.
“And then we can go clubbing afterwards,” Ollie beams.
I sigh heavily – and I thought my life before was a pain.

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 40
Gabriel’s house is a good hour’s walk away. I’ve spent the
entire journey struggling to maintain some level of
dryness as I'm wearing my coat inside-out in the pouring
rain - while listening to Ollie and Gabriel bickering like an
old married couple. I’m about to murder them both and
leave them in a ditch when Gabriel announces we’ve
finally arrived.
He lives right at the edge of town in a posh looking villa.
I can’t help but stare as we wander through the front door.
It's like something out of TV. The whole place is decked
out in marble and gold, fine antique furniture, extravagant
chandeliers, and, of course, some really nice paintings -
mainly renaissance stuff.
“How come everyone at FART has so much money?” I
whisper to Ollie.
“Good thieves don’t come cheap,” he winks.
“But where does FART get the money?”
“We’re given a basic salary by the parent company, Eric
Sommer’s Ltd, and then we get a bonus on solved cases.”
“Yeah but where does the money come from?”
“Insurance of course. Sommer's House Art Group to be
exact.”
“Sommer's House Art Group! What is it with this
company? Does no one check the acronyms before they go
public?”
Ollie grins. “Either that or they have a wicked sense of
humor”
An old Italian woman dressed in a gray and white maid's
uniform comes out to greet us and even though I don't
speak the lingo I'm pretty certain she's distressed over
how wet we all are. She looks at me in particular, like I’m
stark raving bonkers. As if I’d choose to wear no trousers
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and my coat inside-out!
“Stefania wants us all warm and dry. There are showers
upstairs and she'll dry your clothes,” Gabriel says.
I nod eagerly. Ollie shrugs like it’s no big deal even
though he’s as wet as I am. Do boys have to act so tough in
front of each other all the time?
Stefania shows me to a guest room with an en-suite
shower decorated in delicate pinky-purples and drapes a
white fluffy dressing-gown on the bed.
Then she waits.
I hesitate uncertainly.
God she's not going to make sure I shower properly is she?
Like at school after gym? Oh, she wants my wet clothes!
I slip into the bathroom, undress and then hand them to
her through a crack in the door. Standing underneath the
hot water I see pictures flow though my brain like a slide
show: the gallery, the café, running, slipping, the alley, the
men still after us... I try to figure out how I feel about it all.
Am I scared? Excited? Numb? Maybe it's too soon to
know. I snuggle into the warm, dry dressing-gown and
flop onto the bed, quite happy to just wait here until FART
shows up.
Knock. Knock.
“Uh huh?” I answer.
Gabriel wanders in. He’s wearing a white t-shirt and
black jeans. It’s a good thing I’m still flushed from the
shower cos that t-shirt is seriously tight. I can see things! I
realize he’s said something.
“Sorry?”
“Are you ready to come downstairs and attempt to
photo-fit these people?” he asks, a little bit of a grin
forming.
“Oh, yeah. Right.” I say a bit sourly. Tired of working
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now. Just want to chill out.
I follow Gabriel down the stairs noticing that his jeans
are incredibly tight too. I mean, how can that be comfortable?
“We can use the computer in Dad’s office,” Gabriel
explains.
“You mean Raph’s office,” I say raising an eyebrow.
“Exactly,” Gabriel smiles. He leads me into a very
traditional looking office, with a green leather topped desk
and dark wooden bookshelves.
Ollie, sporting a similar dressing-gown to mine, is
already sat at the desk, typing away. Gabriel pulls out a
second chair and motions for me to sit in it, next to Ollie,
while he remains standing.
“Hey,” I say to Ollie.
“Hey,” he replies absently, obviously concentrating on
whatever it is he's up to.
“What's Ollie doing?” I whisper to Gabriel.
“He's hacking into the FBI criminals database.”
“He can do that?”
Ollie says, “Baby, when it comes to computers I can do
anything.” He gives me one of his charming smiles and I
give him a genuine smile back. I like it when he's happy.
“Why don't we have one these databases ourselves?” I
ask.
“Why bother with the expense when I can just browse
through this?” Ollie shrugs.
Logical I suppose. Not ethical I'm sure, but logical. The
boundary between good and bad seems terribly blurred at
FART.
“I'm sure they'd do the same to us,” Ollie says seeing me
think it over. “Just not as quickly,” he adds cheekily.
Gabriel rolls his eyes.
“Hey, Gaby, why don’t you go and get us some drinks?”
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suggests Ollie.
Gabriel glares at him.
“Good idea. I’ll come and help,” I say getting up.
Gabriel perks up and Ollie’s smile turns upside-down.
“Yeah, well, don’t be too long,” Ollie mumbles.
I follow Gabriel into the hall. From behind I can’t help
but stare at his butt in those impossibly tight jeans. But I
refuse to be a slave to my hormones and force my eyes
upwards where they rest on his surprisingly broad
shoulders instead. You can see the tanned skin at the nape
of his neck and tiny golden hairs shining in the light from
the candelabra...
“Catherine?”
I break out of my trance to see Gabriel turning to stare at
me.
“Hmm?” I say.
“I said, do you know when you will be starting classes
with us? At FART?”
“Oh, erm. No, not really.” Probably never when Botty
gets hold of me.
We enter a massive kitchen. It’s spotlessly clean but with
real herbs and hams hanging up, and a lovely fresh smell -
a real kitchen. Not like Dad’s pseudo one.
“How did you get your bruises?” Gabriel asks opening
the fridge door.
“Oh, I got in a fight,” I shrug, a little embarrassed by my
less than attractive appearance – I'd actually forgotten
about that.
“I hope you gave them as good as you got,” he smiles
gently.
“Well, there were five of them.”
“I’m impressed.”
A warm glow spreads out from my tummy right to my
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finger tips. Weird or what?
“Juice, water or something stronger?” he asks.
“What are you having?” I ask then kick myself. Am I not
an independent woman? Am I incapable of making my own
choices?
“I’m having pineapple juice,” Gabriel smiles.
Yuk. Pineapple juice.
“Me too,” I say.
God dammit. What is wrong with me? I'm never gonna drink
that!
“So, what’s the story with you and Ollie?” he asks,
turning to get glasses.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, he has quite a reputation,” Gabriel says raising an
eyebrow.
“What in? Throwing up?”
I can not believe I just said that! That is so mean. Ollie is my
friend. But he doesn’t have a butt like Gabriel’s. And now
Gabriel is laughing and I think I might cry with the beauty of it.
“Did you know he was gay before I mentioned it
earlier?” I ask shyly.
“No. I can honestly say that that thought had never
crossed my mind. How on earth did it cross yours?”
“Well,” I blush. “It’s kind of obviously really, isn’t it?
What with the hair, and the clothes, and the terrible
neatness.”
“You’re quite right. I don’t know how I could have
missed it,” he smiles. “Now, let’s talk about you.”
He’s interested in me! My legs are threatening to give way.
“So, where are these drinks?” Ollie suddenly asks from
the doorway.
Oh no, Ollie! Why did you have to come in just then? Gabriel
and I were having a lovely time.
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 “So sorry,” Gabriel tells him. “We got chatting about how
gay you are.”
“I am not gay!” Ollie snaps.
“It’s okay. We’re all friends here,” Gabriel smirks.
“Boys,” I say soothingly. Their constant bickering is
really starting to grate. “Did you get into the FBI files?” I
ask Ollie.
“Of course,” he says grumpily.
“Let's do it then,” I say reluctantly - much rather be
lounging around with these guys than worrying about
stupid art thieves.
As we walk back to the office, Gabriel asks me who we're
looking for.
“A man I saw in the National Gallery on Friday. He may
be the thief.”
“Why do you think that?” says Gabriel.
“He practically admitted it to me.”
“Oh? And what about the men who were chasing you?”
“Who knows?” I say, my voice going a bit high-pitched. I
get angry at myself. I am not scared. The men can't find us
now.
“I reckon they must be connected to the thief,” Ollie says.
“Very heavy handed but wanted us alive. So they
obviously wanted answers about something.”
“Maybe there's been a double cross somewhere?”
suggests Gabriel.
“Seems as good a reason as any,” says Ollie.
“So, how does this work then?” I say, sitting back down
at the computer.
“It's quite simple,” says Gabriel. “You type in the details
of the man you saw: gender, height, hair color, etc. and the
computer will display photographs of known criminals
matching that description. Couldn’t be easier.”
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 Couldn’t be easier, my ass. It’s taking hours. I think my
eyeballs might fall out. I’ve been staring at photos flashing
up on the screen for so long now that I don’t think I’d even
recognize a picture of myself anymore. Ollie just keeps
going, ‘him?’ and I go ‘no’, and he goes ‘him?’, and I go
‘no’. On and on and on. Gabriel's pretty much nodded off
in the corner.
At six o’clock Stefania brings us some supper but we still
keep going. Personally I’m ready to give up. He's not here.
This is hopeless. We’ll never...
“That’s him!” I cry delighted and both Ollie and Gabriel
jump to attention.
Ollie reads out, “Carlos Garcia Ramirez?”
“Definitely him,” I nod.
“But he’s in prison,” Gabriel says, reading the mini
biography that Ollie brings up.
“No. It’s definitely him. I’d recognize that head full of gel
anywhere.”
“A renowned art thief,” Ollie reads. “It’s certainly
possible.”
“But he’s in prison,” Gabriel says impatiently, jabbing at
the screen. “Look! Currently serving eighteen years in
prison.”
“Is it possible to check?” I ask Ollie.
“Not legally,” he grins, flexing his fingers.
“What are you going to do?” I ask.
“Hack into the prison intranet.”
Ollie's fingers dance over the keyboard and in next to no
time he's reading through Carlos' file.
“Carlos Garcia Ramirez. Released early this year after
serving fourteen years of his eighteen year sentence.”
“Well, there we go then. He’s our man.” I say
triumphantly, taking a sip of my drink – which I nearly
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gag on. Damned pineapple juice!
“What was he in for?” Gabriel asks.
“Let's see... Ha! Trying to steal a Botticelli from the
Uffizi!” Ollie says excitedly.
“Hmm, well that does seem pretty convincing,” nods
Gabriel.
“Great,” Ollie beams. ”We’ve discovered the thief. Now
let’s go out and get trashed before our dads get here, cos
there's no way I want to be sober when they do.”
My exhilaration of the moment evaporates instantly. I
don't want to see Dad. He's gonna be mad at me for
running off and if what Ollie says is true - about Dad
training me to be his apprentice from birth, and possibly
even picking mum because she was a world class gymnast
- then well, quite frankly there won't be any talking at all.
He'll be seeing all my training come flying at him with
full-force. How dare he, or anyone for that matter, try and
control me!
Ollie nudges me. “Come on Catherine, come clubbing.
It’s your birthday in about... six hours.”
“Birthday is it? Well, I suppose we could go out,” Gabriel
muses. “For a little while. They'll be here soon though. So
only for an hour or two.”
An hour or two.
My stomach tightens. Turns out I really don't want to face
Dad. And Ollie's right. It is my birthday. I imagine being in
a hot sweaty club. Music pumping through me like a
Kandinsky painting, blocking everything out...
“Yeah. Let's get out of here,” I say.

41
I must have been mad agreeing to this. Why do people
do it? It’s crazy. The inside can’t possibly be worth the wait
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outside.
I mean, I’ve been standing in this queue for an hour and I
think I might actually die of pneumonia. Mainly because
I’m still in these ridiculous shorts. It’s so embarrassing!
Everyone is looking at me. I wish we could have gone
back to our hotel room first so I could have changed, but
Ollie was all like, ‘No time. Let’s go now’.
You'd think he wanted me to go dressed like this!
However, my immediate concern is getting past this
bouncer. Not only do I look as rough as a badger's arse
with my bruises, but I’m also only fifteen, well, fourteen
for the next... one hour and 43 minutes! It's going to be a
very different birthday. Never spent one away from Mum
before. Although technically we're still in the same city –
she just doesn't know it. I wonder whereabouts her
conference is?
Anyway, back to more pressing problems. I mean I can’t
see how this bouncer guy is ever gonna let me into the...
oh, he just has. He even patted me on the arse! I’m about
to swing round and give him what for, but both Ollie and
Gabriel grab me by each arm and lead me into the club.
“Don’t worry about it,” Ollie says. “It’s a compliment.”
I’ve never understood this. Why am I supposed to put up
with a man crossing my personal space because he finds
me attractive? If I was ugly they’d call it sexual
harassment!
Then it hits me.
I’m in a club.
Oh my God! My very first night club. How cool is this?
Actually, not very at the moment. I can’t see or hear
anything. I can’t even breath properly. Ollie takes my hand
and leads me to the neon lit bar where he and Gabriel start
flicking their hands at each other. Are they arguing
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already? Oh, I see. They’re using sign language. Hey, that’s
a really neat tool to use in a noisy club.
Ollie turns to me and shouts something.
Not a clue.
He wiggles an imaginary drinking glass. Oh, do I want a
drink? I nod.
He spreads his hands.
I think he means what kind. I shrug in reply.
He smiles one of his cheeky smiles and nods.
Oh dear. God knows what I’ll get now.
My eyes are slowly getting accustomed to the light. It’s
really quite dark in here, except when one of the roving
spotlights hits you and then you’re momentarily blinded.
After that everything is just spotty.
I can just make out a central circular dance floor and then
raised platforms around it for chairs and tables. It’s really
hot and I’m suddenly glad I’m hardly wearing anything.
The place is jam packed with half naked people throwing
themselves at each other. If you look too closely it all gets a
bit risqué. I mean those two over there look like they are
actually...
Ollie nudges me and I’m pleased to see him hand me an
orange juice. I was worried he’d go overboard and get me
something alcoholic. He’s got a clear liquid in his glass and
Gabriel has a bottle of beer. I try some of my orange juice.
Ewg! It tastes a bit funny. I think it might be off.
We stand there, nodding our heads to the music, unable
to speak above the noise until, thankfully, Gabriel moves
to a quieter corner and we follow. Hey, seats! I flop into a
comfy looking armchair. A girl, sat opposite, in a sequined
boob-tube, eyes me suspiciously. She’s sitting daintily on
the edge of her seat. I don’t care. I’m knackered.
Gabriel leans over to talk to me and I suddenly wish I
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was sitting more ladylike and not slouched like a sack of
potatoes. I stretch out my long bare legs instead. I can’t
hear a word he’s saying but I notice his eyes following the
lines of my naked thighs. My hand goes to twiddle with a
strand of my loose hair. He smiles at me. Maybe I should
wear it down more often?
Ollie’s face appears. I frown at him.
“Having fun?” he shouts at me.
“I was,” I snap. “Don’t feel like you have sit with us if
you want to find some male company.”
Ollie makes various frustrated noises then storms off.
What did I say this time?
“Want to dance?” Gabriel shouts.
I suddenly go all coy and start flashing my eyelashes at
him.
Oh. My. God. I’m flirting!
I'm really flirting.
I, Catherine Lock, am in a night club flirting with a boy,
man, whatever - it dawns on me I have no idea how old
Gaby is. He can’t be more than eighteen though. I take
another sip of my juice before setting it down, then let
Gabriel lead me into the throng of people that is the dance
floor.

42
Turns out dancing is just like fighting. I can feel the
rhythm of the music pulsing through me and my body just
responds naturally. To think I used to lie in bed at night
and worry about dancing. I mean seriously worry. I’d go
through all these different moves in my head and try and
work out if they’d look good or not. Of course I was way
too embarrassed to actually try them out, but this is easy.
You don’t think, you just move.
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 I catch Gabriel’s eye and he smiles at me. His eyes fall
from my face and follow the curves of my body. Normally
I’d go mental at this point and slug him one, but tonight I
even encourage it. I can’t help it. It’s so hot in here and all I
can see is Gabriel’s nipples rubbing against that oh-so-
tight white t-shirt. I start to wonder if his chest is hairy or
smooth? I bet it’s smooth. My hand snakes up of its own
accord and places itself on Gabriel’s chest. I run my fingers
over it lightly. Can I feel any hairs? Oh! There’s a nipple.
Crikey. I’m grinning madly. Gabriel’s enjoying my touch, I
can tell. This is so much better than I ever thought
possible.
His hand slides around my waist and he grinds his hip
into my groin. OH MY GOD! Now I’m dirty dancing!
Ollie appears.
“Do I get a dance?” he asks brightly.
Gabriel shoots him an evil glare and I push away from
him slightly embarrassed. I could do with my drink again
actually.
“I’m going back for my drink,” I shout.
Gabriel turns and storms off the dance floor without so
much as a backward glance. Did I do something wrong?
Ollie offers me his arm. I want Gabriel’s arm. I walk off the
dance floor grumpily.
Gabriel is waiting by our drinks. He’s not looking at me.
Why isn’t he looking at me? I was just touching his nipple
for god’s sake. As we get nearer Gabriel hands me my
orange juice. Ollie has to fetch his own drink. I feel a bit
better, especially when Gabriel gives me a small smile. I
smile back and sip my drink. Erg! It tastes worse than ever.
Still I’m dead thirsty. I gulp it down.
“How about that dance?” Ollie asks me.
I look at Gabriel. He’s looking the other way again now,
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in the direction of a skinny blonde. Why isn’t he paying
me more attention? Maybe if I dirty danced with Ollie he’d
take more notice?
I drag Ollie onto the dance floor and position myself
directly in front of Gabriel. I start to move with the music.
Ollie grins at me. I glance back to Gabriel. He’s looking
right at me. Good. I put my hand on Ollie’s shoulder so
that we can move in time together. Ollie’s beaming at me. I
check to see if Gabriel is still watching. He’s not. I put my
other arm on Ollie’s other shoulder and he puts his hands
on my waist. It’s much harder keeping in tune with Ollie’s
movements than it was with Gabriel’s. I look back over.
Gabriel’s disappeared!
I lose my rhythm and stop dancing. Narrowing my eyes
to look for him in the crowds. Ollie pushes me roughly
away and walks off. I’m left standing there on my own. I
don’t know what to do with myself. A man dances up to
me, flashing a naked hairy chest and I suddenly feel very
self-conscious. I make a quick beeline for the toilets.
Phew. It’s brighter and quieter in here. Two girls are busy
applying lipstick by the mirror. I put my back against the
cool wall and discover it's soaking wet with condensation.
I’m feeling a little bit odd actually.
One of the girls asks me something in Italian.
I shake my head. “Sorry. I don’t speak Italian.”
“Oh, hi. You are English,” they beam. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah. I just lost my friends.”
“You want us to help you find them?”
“No. Not really.”
They nod in understanding. “Come with us. We’ll look
after you.”
I do and it’s brilliant. No man can touch us as five girls all
jive together. I can just let the music wash over me and
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lose myself in it. It’s almost like sparring with Norio.
Calculated movements, complex twists and turns. The
girls all clap and beam at me. They think I’m a good
dancer. I love them. I love them all. I want to go home with
them and join their posse and we can all call each other
sister.
The girls pass around a bottle of water. It’s seems a lot
more sensible than buying drinks here. And who needs
alcohol when you’re exercising like this? Water is much
better. But I’m still not feeling right. I thought it was
dehydration but I think I’m getting worse. I think about
the orange juice. It wasn’t just orange juice, was it? Am I
stupid? This is Ollie for goodness sake. King of the vices. I
bet there was vodka or something in it. I’ve never had
vodka before, but it was only the one glass. I can’t be
drunk, can I? I know I must be a light-weight but not after
just one drink?
I think I need to find the boys. I wave to the girls and
break out of our little circle. They’re sad to see me go. I
liked them. I think about my drink. I drank half then left it
on the side and danced with Gabriel and his nipples. Then
he gave it back to me and it was almost full again.
Something must have been added! Gabriel wouldn’t do
something to my drink, would he?
I stumble into a man wearing a white linen suit and way
too much gel on his hair. He says something to me. I wave
him off and stagger away. I must find Ollie. I think Gabriel
has poisoned me. Maybe he’s the thief? Yes, that’s it! He
lives in Florence with his family who all like renaissance
paintings. They wanted the Venus to hang in their living
room. I must find Ollie. But where is he? He’s much
harder to find with black hair. I finally find him snogging
someone in a corner. Or rather someone’s snogging him.
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I’m shocked to see it’s a girl!
“Ollie, Gabriel’s poisoned me,” I say shaking his arm. It’s
quite limp. Ollie seems pretty out of it too. The girl glares
at me. I try to pull him up. He blinks slowly. The girl grabs
my arm and barks something in Italian. I use an Aikido
wrist lock on her and she cries out before scuttling off.
“Ollie! Ollie! I think we’ve been poisoned. Gabriel’s
stolen the Venus.”
“I think I might be sick,” Ollie mumbles.
I pull him upright. Then to his feet.
“We’ll get some air,” I say pulling his arm over my
shoulder and heading for the exit.
On the way we pass a couch with a couple snogging on
it. At the other end Gabriel is laying flat out with his eyes
shut.
“Gaby?” I say worried and drop Ollie on the spot. I rush
to Gabriel’s side and check his pulse. He’s alive but
obviously not well. He must be poisoned too. Of course
he’s not the thief, what was I thinking? Ollie crawls over
and flops onto the couch next to him.
“I feel really bad,” he mutters. “I think I might... I
might...”
Then he’s gone too. Unconscious. I’m all on my own.
My legs give way and I fall onto the floor between
Gabriel and Ollie. The whole world is going fuzzy. Is this
it? Am I going to die? All because of a painting?
A figure comes into view. A man. I blink at him, trying to
focus. He’s wearing a white linen suit and has way too
much gel on his hair. Don’t I recognize him?
“Oh, hi Carlos,” I smile and then the world goes black.

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 43
I wake up slow. My body reluctantly coming to terms
with its various aches and pains. My brain is real mush.
Can’t think straight. What’s going on? Oh, yeah. Great. My
first trip to a nightclub and I get dumped, drunk and
hallucinate. Or did I? Either way I’m never going clubbing
again. At least I made it home okay, although this bed is a
bit hard.
I crack open an eye. It’s gummed up with crap and takes
an age to open properly, let alone focus. The wall is gray
and stone. This isn’t my bedroom. No, wait, I’m at Ollie’s.
No, that’s not right either. Oh, God. I’m in Florence, aren’t
I?
I crack open the other eye.
Jesus, it looks like I’m in a cell. Gabriel’s house isn’t all it’s
cracked up to be after all then.
With great difficulty I turn my head. Hey! This really is a
cell. With bars and everything. Damn. Did I get arrested? I
knew these shorts were obscene. I sit up and promptly
vomit. Luckily I manage to miss myself but my boots get a
bit splashed - nice. My head is throbbing. What the hell
happened to me?
“Catherine?”
My name.
“Catherine? It’s Ollie. Are you there?”
I stagger over to the bars and stare out into a bleak stone
corridor. The other side is plain stone wall but I get the
impression my side is a whole row of cells. It sounds like
Ollie is in the cell on my left.
“Ollie?” I try but it only croaks out. I desperately need to
rinse my mouth out.
“Catherine? It’s okay. Are you okay? Are you hurt?” he
calls.
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 Too bloody right I’m hurt. I hurt all over. But I know
what he means, am I seriously hurt?
“No. I’m okay. Are you okay?”
“No! I feel awful.”
God, he’s such a wimp.
“What’s going on?” I snap. “Why the hell am I in a cage?”
“I don’t know. I just woke up here. The last thing I
remember is getting off with this girl, a pretty brunette
from Rome. She had the most wondrous pair of...”
“Yeah, well, the last thing I remember is Carlos Garcia
Ramirez staring down at me.”
“What!?!” Ollie chokes.
“I saw him just before I blacked out,” I say and realize it
must have been him who did something to our drinks. We
must have got too close to the truth and scared him. How
clever are we? I smile and it makes my head hurt. Hmm,
not that clever.
“I think Carlos may have spiked our drinks.” Ollie calls
out weakly.
“Yes, Ollie,” I nod sadly.
“That dirty bastard!” a voice calls out from my right.
“And I wasn’t even on his stupid case.”
“Gaby?” I ask surprised. I’d forgotten all about him. I
hope he didn’t hear me vomit.
“Don’t call me Gaby!” Gabriel shouts back.
“You okay, man?” Ollie shouts.
“Of course I’m not bloody okay. I’m trapped in a filthy
cell because you two messed with things that were
seriously out of your league. We're dead.”
“Dead?” Ollie panics.
“They’re not going to kill us,” I say reassuringly.
“Oh? And how do you know that?” Gabriel demands.
“Because, Stupid, we’d be dead already if that was the
194
case. We’re obviously wanted alive.”
“Humph. To be tortured maybe,” Gabriel snorts.
I think I like Gabriel a lot better when he keeps his mouth shut.
“But how did he find us?” mutters Ollie.
I sit back down to think. Carlos must have found out we
were on to him. Those thugs in the Uffizi were probably
his. But we lost them, didn’t we? How could they possibly
find us? I remember one of the men wrestling me to the
ground, his hands grabbing at me. What if...
I check myself over, finally sticking a hand in my back
pocket where I find a sim card sized bit of plastic which
seems to be flashing slightly. I eyeball it suspiciously.
Now, I’m no expert but I’m starting to get the hang of this
criminal malarkey and I’m betting this here thingy-majig
is a tracking device. In my own flipping jeans! I should
have taken them off after all. Hmm, I might neglect
mentioning this to the boys however. Don’t think it’d
exactly brighten their day.
Suddenly there’s a noise like a heavy door opening. I
freeze and we all fall silent. Footsteps trudge slowly down
the stone corridor. Keys rattling on a chain. A man walks
into view from my right. He’s massive, all over, like a brick
wall, and it looks like he’s been on the receiving end of one
too many baseball bats. I’m talking way ugly here. He’s
wearing nothing but a dirty pair of dungarees and has a
greasy gray ponytail. He continues past Gabriel’s cell, but
doesn’t get as far as Ollie’s. Instead he stops just outside
mine. Great.
He looks at me.
I think I might vomit again.
“Catherine girl go with Franco.”
I’m confused. “Are you Franco?”
“Si, I Franco.”
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 He painstakingly runs through the keys on his keyring
then puts one into my lock. It opens with a click.
This is my big chance. I just need to knock him out, grab
the keys, release the...
Ow! God, that hurts. Franco’s grabbed me by the back of
the neck. His grip is like a vice, cliché but true. Not that
I’ve ever been held in a real vice so maybe it isn’t. It’s a
damned tough grip anyway.
I throw an elbow strike at him but it just bounces off. He
lifts me off my feet and it hurts.
“Carlos he says you might be tricky. Franco no like
tricky.”
“I got it. No tricky. Please put me down,” I choke.
Gratefully Franco puts me down but retains his grip
around my neck.
“Franco take girlie to see Carlos.”
“Yes. I would like to see Carlos. I have a complaint about
my room,” I growl.
Franco chuckles. “Girlie funny. Franco like girlie.”
“I am glad,” I mutter as Franco frog marches me along
the corridor.
“Be careful!” Ollie calls from his cell.
I can see now that there are only the three cells in this
‘dungeon’. Each with a meter thick wall dividing it from
the next. We walk past Gabriel’s on our way out and I can’t
help but smile at him. How can he still manage to look so
damn gorgeous after the night we’ve just had?
“Can’t you get the keys off him or something?” he asks as
we pass.
“Not without snapping my neck, no.”
“Well, for the greater good?” he suggests.
I am really going off this guy. Can’t believe I liked his
nipples.
196
 44
I ascend the dreary stone steps and enter a dazzlingly
bright castle. And I really mean castle. It’s been plastered
and white-washed, making it look more modern but the
architecture still says medieval, with the tiny windows
and chunky flagstone floor. And if you look out through
the lead-lined glass you can see brown stone battlements
and a central tower. 10/10 for grandeur.
“We go see Signor Carlos now,” Franco says stepping
aside. “Girlie go first.”
Walking in front of Franco means there’s no chance to
duck down a side passage or grab a weapon without him
noticing. I consider just running, sprinting the hell out of
here. But are there any guards? Would they shoot to kill?
And what about the boys? I couldn’t just leave them. The
reality of the situation begins to sink in. It’s hopeless. I
have to do exactly what I’m told.
Ha! And I thought people were controlling me before
this.
Up another flight of stairs we arrive at an open double
door. The room is large and grand. Big tapestries and
medieval paintings hang on the bare stone walls and the
furniture is made of a chunky dark wood - it’s the sort of
room you’d expect King Arthur to feel comfortable in. But
what instantly catches my eye is the billowing fabric on
the other side of the room, through which I can see a roof
terrace. The rain has finally stopped and it looks like
bright sunshine outside. A man is sitting at a table. A rich
breakfast laid out before him.
Franco stops and I turn to look at him. He encourages me
on with a smile. Utter madman.
I look back at the roof terrace. How on earth did I end up
here? I mean, I haven’t even signed up for this
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apprenticeship yet and already I’m going to die for the
cause.
Take a deep breath. He’s not going to kill you. If he was,
he’d have done it by now. Oh, but there are so many worse
things than death...
All too soon I reach the flowing fabric. I take a shaky
breath and step through.
Morning sunlight temporarily blinds me. The man looks
up and smiles. It is unmistakably Carlos Garcia Ramirez.
He sits there relaxed and calm, dressed in pale slacks and
a light green shirt. His jet black hair gelled as always.
“Hello Catherine Lock. I am Carlos Garcia Ramirez.” His
voice is deep with a Spanish accent.
“I know who you are,” I say, wishing my voice was
louder, stronger, more certain - but it’s a mere whisper.
He looks me up and down like a lion in a safari park,
apparently civilized but underneath... who knows? A
nearby church bell tells me loudly that it’s eight o’clock. I
risk a glance to my right, over the roof terrace railings,
towards the countryside and freedom.
Carlos says, “Would you like to join me for breakfast?”
He says it casually like I’m just some friendly house guest
and not a prisoner. A flash of anger makes me retort,
“Funnily enough not really feeling up to breakfast this
morning. Had a bit of a rough night.”
He looks slightly pained. “Yes, I apologize My manners
are a bit rusty. Fourteen years in prison will do that to
you.”
As if that's my fault!
“Why not sit down? You can have anything you want,”
he says indicating the breakfast.
“I want to go home,” I mumble.
He smiles at me and I start to feel a tingling at the base of
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my spine, the beginnings of a fight or flight response to
danger I suppose. But it doesn’t look like I have much of a
flight option here.
Carlos carefully pats his mouth with a serviette. “I’m
afraid that going home is not part of the itinerary I have
planned for you today.”
I stare at him hard, the fear and anger mixing like a
dangerous chemical spill. I can feel my eyes going dark
and hooded.
Carlos barks out a laugh. “You really are a lot like him.”
His comment throws me.
“Like who?” I demand.
“Your father,” Carlos says and smiles. “Whenever he
used to get really angry with me he’d give me that exact
same look.”
Is he baiting me? Does he really know Dad or is he just
winding me up? Either way I’m not going to play along.
I’ve only one agenda, and that is to get out of here ASAP.
My eyes fall on the breakfast silverware glinting in the
sun: a fork, a spoon, a very sharp knife...
“What do you want with us?” I demand taking a sly step
forward.
“Us? Oh, you mean your little friends. I’m afraid I don’t
really care much about them.”
I stop in surprise. “But that means you were only after
me?”
Carlos nods sadly. “For you, my heart has burned with
the passion of hate for fifteen years.”
“Seems a little harsh since we only met last week,” I say
coldly.
“You do not need to know someone to hate them,” he
continues. “In fact if I knew you I expect I would probably
quite like you. I really shouldn’t be talking to you now. But
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I admit I was curious to see you again. You are very
pretty.”
“Yeah, but I bite,” I say taking another step towards the
table, the knife almost within snatching distance now.
Carlos chuckles. “Yes. I can see that by your battle scars.”
He indicates my bruises. “And as such I will not
underestimate you. Please step away from the table.”
I make a grab for the knife anyway. Carlos is up from the
table and has me bent backwards over the railings before
I’ve even centered myself. Damn, he’s quick.
“You forget,” he almost snarls. “I’ve had to live with the
threat of constant danger for fourteen long years. I’ve
become very accomplished at protecting myself.”
His arm pushes against my throat, slowly threatening to
crush my larynx, while his other hand battles for the knife.
I’ve no choice but to let it drop. It clatters onto the tiled
floor.
“Oh, dear,” purrs Carlos. “So very aggressive. Not at all
like your father. He was always very passive. Your bitch of
a mother had him under the thumb from the minute she
saw...”
I knee him in the stomach and he doubles over in
surprise. In desperation I climb onto the railings, wobbling
slightly. I look down to discover we’re five floors up. Not
good. I would at the very least break something if I
jumped - most probably my neck. I look up instead. The
tower. I could possibly jump down from there, but not up.
I’m stuck.
Franco is suddenly by the door. Carlos waves him back.
“Would you like to see the painting, Catherine?” he asks,
choking slightly.
“The Venus? It’s here?”
“It is in the very room you have just walked through,” he
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says.
I didn’t see it. But then I was distracted. Do I trust him?
Well obviously no, but I do need to get off this railing
before I fall off.
Defeated, I jump back down. “Show me.”
Carlos leads me back inside. I’m careful to stay out of his
reach. He points and there she is, Botticelli’s The Birth of
Venus, hanging on the wall like she’s been there all her life.
It looks too romantic and modern to be in this medieval
castle. All the colors - cool greens, palest blues, warm
pinks, buttered golds – are like a gentle dream. And Venus
herself appears dream-like, serene and composed. The
goddess of love being born unawares into a world of war.
Or maybe she isn’t unaware, maybe she’s just confident.
Well, it’s alright for her and her goddess powers but here I
am standing right next to the thief I’ve been chasing, and
there’s nothing I can do about it. Nothing at all.
“You stole it,” I declare sullenly.
Carlos nods.
“We were catching up with you,” I snarl. “We were going
to get you.”
He laughs. “Really? You think it’s that easy to catch a
master thief who’s had fourteen years to plan his crime? I’m
sorry to break it to you Catherine, but you only got this far
because I let you.”
“You’re just saying that...” I say but it trails off, doubt
suddenly crowding my mind. It was, after all, the
conversation that he initiated in the Nation Gallery that got
me here. But then how on earth did he know I would be in
the National Gallery?
“It was you!” I exclaim. “You were the anonymous
person who sent my school those free tickets to see the
Botticelli exhibition.”
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 Carlos smiles smugly. “Clever, no? It was easy to hack the
schools’ computers and find out which one you attended.
With the free tickets I knew they’d bring their top art
students and I knew you’d be one of them.”
“You did all this on purpose,” I say in disbelief. “But
what’s so special about me? I don’t even know you!”
“Ah, but I know you,” he says mysteriously.
I can’t believe this. All my life I thought I was some
boring, bullied teenager. But it turns out I’ve been leading
a double life, where I’m training to be an art thief,
spurning the affections of someone who really liked me,
and antagonizing bad guys. I’m beginning to wonder who I
am.
“Still, it was a serious long shot,” I say sourly. “You
couldn’t have know that I’d come for the painting.”
“Oh, I think I made it pretty straightforward for FART to
find me,” he smiles. “Admittedly I expected you to come
with your father, but lack of teamwork obviously flows in
the family blood.”
Er?
“Okay, I’ll confess that I’m a little confused as to why
your father isn’t with you,” says Carlos.
“He’s coming to get me,” I say and realize it’s true. He is
coming to get me. although he has no idea I’ve been
kidnapped and taken to some random castle.
“Oh, I sincerely hope so,” says Carlos.
I look back at the painting hanging idly on the wall, the
Goddess seemly undisturbed by my plight. How many
other things has it witnessed in its many years, I wonder?
But maybe she will help - if Dad concentrates on tracing
the Venus he'll end up here. It all depends on what he
thinks is more important – finding me or the painting?
I snort a laugh.
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 Carlos raises an eyebrow.
“Oh my dad is definitely coming here.”
We stare at the painting in companionable silence for a
few moments.
“So what happens next?” I ask.
“Next we wait for our special guests to arrive. But for
now I think it would be best for you to return downstairs.
Franco? Please take Ms Lock back to her room.”
“But you haven’t told me anything!” I protest as Franco
starts to move forward. “Why am I here? What do you
want from me? Why won’t you tell me?”
“And spoil your birthday surprise? I think not.”

45
“I hope you bring some good news,” Gabriel grumbles as
Franco marches me back to my cell.
“Catherine?” Ollie calls. “I’m so glad you’re back!”
Franco opens my cell door. I hesitate but only for a
second. There’s nothing I can do. In I go. Back in my cage.
“Are you okay? What happened?” Ollie continues.
“Didn't you manage to escape or raise the alarm at all?”
Gabriel says, disappointed.
“Oh, shut up, Gaby,” I snap. Can’t be bothered with him
at the moment.
Franco whistles tunelessly as he leaves. I wait until I’m
sure we’re alone.
“Right,” I say to the others. “The good news is Carlos
doesn’t care enough to kill either of you.”
“And the bad?” asks Ollie.
“He doesn’t care enough to let you go either.”
“Great. So we stay here and starve to death,” says
Gabriel.
“But wait a minute,” says Ollie. “You said either of us.
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What about you?”
“I don’t know. I really don’t know,” I mutter, sinking onto
my bunk. I feel tears prickling the corner of my eyes.
Carlos’ supreme confidence hangs around me like a noose.
“What happened?” Ollie insists. “Where did you go?”
I flap an arm about uselessly as I explain. “This whole
thing has been a set up. Just to get to me!”
“You? Why you?” Gabriel asks in disbelief.
“I don’t know. He wouldn’t tell me. Just that I have a
birthday surprise coming and we’re waiting for the special
guests.”
“Who?” Ollie asks.
“I don’t KNOW, Ollie! He just kept saying he knows me.
That he’s hated me for fifteen years.”
My voice is getting higher and higher. Don’t freak out.
“That's insane,” says Ollie. “All those years in prison
must have pickled his brains.”
“But if he’s been in jail all this time, how could he
possibly know Catherine?” says Gabriel.
It’s true. Carlos can’t possibly know me. He must be
majorly deluded or confusing me with someone else or
something!
“God, I really hate you both,” says Gabriel.
My mouth drops open.
“It’s all your fault I’m stuck here. Waiting to die,” he
moans.
“Oh put a sock in it Gaby,” Ollie growls.
I’ve never heard Ollie growl before. I wonder what he’s
like if he gets really mad?
We fall into a depressed silence and I lay down on my
bunk. I don't doubt that Dad will come for the Venus – but
how will he know we're down here? What if he leaves
without us? I shudder and hug myself. There's nothing I
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can do but wait.
As the hours stretch by I listen to the boys shift restlessly
in their cells. I watch the sun climb higher into the sky and
then start to drop back down again as the church bell
dongs each hour loudly. I strain to hear noises outside.
How much of a racket does 'art restoration' make? Are
they as silent as cat burglars, or more guns and explosions
style? How much longer do I have to wait? I’m reminded
of Sleeping Beauty in her enchanted castle waiting a
hundred years for her prince to come save her.
Humph.
Stuff that.
Not gonna sit here and await my fate. Have to do
something. Anything! I rub my hands over my face. But
what to do? What to do?
First thing is not to panic. Second, is to check my
surroundings. I mean have I actually tested my cell door
to see whether it’s locked? Check the bars. Are any loose?
Check the window. Is the cement brittle?
No. No. No.
Keep trying.
The flagstones? All solid and freshly sealed. The wall?
Solid rock.
Keep trying.
What’s in the corridor? Nothing. Cold empty air. Check
myself. Hmmm. Not a lot going on there: obscene denim
shorts, purple vest and jumper, black knee-length boots,
underwear, and a small tracking device in my back pocket.
If I was a techno wizard maybe I could do something with
it but... Ollie is!
Just have to figure out how to tell him it's all my fault
that they found us.
Oh well. Better than waiting for a non-existent rescue.
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 “Hey Ollie,” I call. “If you had, say, a tracking device,
could you do anything with it to get us out of here?”
“Rather have your bra,” he replies.
“My bra?”
“Yeah. Assuming it's underwired.”
How does Ollie know so much about bras?
As always I'm wearing one of my practical black bras.
“Yes. It’s underwired,” I say.
“Good. Can I have it?” Ollie says.
Well, if it helps.
Reluctantly I slip out of my bra. Holding the arm strap I
reach through the cell bars and swing it backwards and
forwards to build up momentum.
“Got it?” I ask .
“Nearly! Try again. Ahhhhh....... Got it!” Ollie says
triumphantly. “Hey, you’re a 34D. I had you down for a
32E.”
A picture of him examining my still warm bra forms in
my mind and I shift nervously.
“Stop that! And get on with whatever it is you’re going to
do with it.”
“Oh, I’m not going to do anything with it. I just wanted
your bra.”
WHAT?!?!
I’m beginning to think Ollie isn’t gay at all!
“Only kidding,” he chuckles. “I’m gonna take the wire
out and try and pick the lock.”
“Right. Get to it then,” I say grumpily.
“You can’t pick a lock with a bra wire, you idiot,” Gabriel
calls.
“Well, you got any better ideas, hot shot?” Ollie shouts.
“Or you just gonna wait until Daddy rescues you?”
“That's what you would usually do,” says Gabriel.
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 “Not anymore,” replies Ollie and I think I hear a bit of
pride come into his voice.
“You’re just a pervert,” Gabriel sneers back.
“And you’re just a nancy boy who...”
“Shut up!” I hiss. I can hear Franco coming back. It’s
time. But time for what?
Franco comes ambling down the stone corridor and stops
right outside my cell again. Same ugly mug, same dirty
dungarees, although there’s a few new stains - lunch
maybe?
“Girlie ready for party?” he asks me.
Oh God. What new torture is this? I don’t want to go to a
party. I want to go home.
Franco looks at me. “Don’t be sad. You see family,” he
says cheerfully.
Family?
I stare at him in alarm. He’s sorting slowly through the
keys again.
“What do you mean 'I see family'? My family? Are they
here? Franco? What’s going on?”
“Party,” he says as if this explains everything.
I don't understand. I'm thirsty, I'm hungry, I'm tired... I'm
totally running on empty and I'm beginning to lose it big
time.
As Franco finally finds the right key dread begins to
consume me. The cell walls become suffocating. I'm
trapped. Can't escape. No control. Can't do anything.
Everything's hopeless. What will Carlos do to me? He can
do whatever he wants. I can't do anything. He can do
whatever he wants. I can't...
No!
Don’t fall apart.
DO NOT FALL APART!
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 But I'm so scared.
With closed eyes I clench my fists around the bars of my
cage, the knuckles turning white. Deep breaths. Don't fall
apart. Cope. Fight your way out. Slowly I feel the darkness
creep around my eyes. A veil lifts from my mind. A shroud
that covers the caged animal.
Franco is putting the key in the lock.
I take a deep breath and a stillness fills me.
He twists the key and the lock clicks open.
I stand there, waiting.
He cocks his head at me.
I smile slightly.
He returns the smile and opens the door wider.
I take a step forward and strike him in the throat, nails
buried deep in his larynx. Then I lash out with a high kick
catching him in the face. He staggers back and I kick
again. A side kick, stronger. Then a roundhouse, stronger
still. Relentlessly, I keep at him, driving him back. He may
be big but he’s no fighter. He doesn’t even know how to
block me properly. I keep at him. Anger and frustration
fueling my attack. Blood splatters my face as his nose
breaks. He crumples to the ground but still I keep at it.
He’s a big boy. He can take it.
“Catherine! That’s enough. He’s down. Stop it!”
I spin round full of fury.
Gabriel’s angelic face stares back at me in alarm.
“Jesus,” he says and takes a step back.
I haul Franco’s body into my cell and slam the door shut.
The key is still in the lock. I twist it shut and toss the ring
of keys at Gabriel on my way out.
“Get yourself and Ollie as far away from here as
possible,” I order.
Gabriel just stares at me as the keys land at his feet.
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 “Wait! Catherine, no!” calls Ollie desperately. “Where are
you going?”
“To give Carlos a real reason to hate me,” I reply...

209
 End of the free extract.

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