Secret of the Indian. Lynne Banks Reid

       1

       A Shocking Homecoming

      When Omri’s parents drove home from their party, his mother got out in front of the house while his father drove round the side to put the car away. The front-door key was on the same key ring with the car key, so his mother came up the steps and rang the bell. She expected the baby-sitter to answer.

      There was a lengthy pause and then the door opened and there was Omri, with Patrick just behind him. The light was behind him too, so she didn’t see him clearly at first.

      “Good heavens, are you boys still up? You should have been in bed hours ag—”

      Then she stopped. Her mouth fell open and her face drained of colour.

      “Omri! What – what – what’s happened to your face?”

      She could hardly speak properly, and that was when Omri realized that he wasn’t going to get away with it so easily this time. This time he was either going to have to lie like mad or he was going to have to tell far more than he had ever intended about the Indian, the key, the cupboard and all the rest of it.

      He and Patrick had talked about it, frantically, before his parents returned.

      “How are you going to explain the burn on your head?” Patrick asked.

      “I don’t know. That’s the one thing I can’t explain.”

      “No it’s not. What about all the little bullet-holes and stuff in your parents’ bedroom?”

      Omri’s face was furrowed, even though every time he frowned, it hurt his burn.

      “Maybe they won’t notice. They both need glasses. Do you think we should clear everything up in there?”

      Patrick had said, “No, better leave it. After all, they’ve got to know about the burglars. Maybe in all the fuss about that, they won’t notice your face and a few other things.”

      “How shall we explain how we got rid of them – the burglars I mean?”

      “We could just say we burst in through the bathroom and scared them away.”

      Omri had grinned lopsidedly. “That makes us out to be heroes.”

      “So what’s so bad about that? Anyway it’s better than telling about them.” Patrick, who had once been quite keen to tell ‘about them’, now realized perfectly clearly that this was about the worst thing that could happen.

      “But where is the wretched baby-sitter? Why didn’t she come? How dare she not turn up when she promised?”

      Omri’s father was stamping up and down the living-room in a fury. His mother, meanwhile, was holding Omri round the shoulders. He could feel her hand cold and shaking right through his shirt. After her first shocked outburst when she’d come home and seen him, she’d said very little. His father, on the other hand, couldn’t seem to stop talking.

      “You can’t depend on anyone! Where the hell are the police, I called them hours ago!” (It was five minutes, in fact.) “One would think we lived on some remote island instead of in the biggest city in the world! You pay their damned salaries and when you need the police, they’re never there, never!”

      He paused in his pacing and gazed round wildly. The boys had put the television back and there wasn’t much disorder to see in this room. Upstairs, they knew, chaos and endless unanswerable questions waited.

      “Tell me again what happened.”

      “There were burglars, Dad,” Omri said patiently. (This part was safe enough.) “Three of them. They came in through that window—”

      “How many times have I said we ought to have locks fitted? Idiot that I am! – for the sake of a few lousy pounds – go on, go on…”

      “Well,