Mr Humperdinck's Wonderful Whatsit (2017 ed). Wynand Louw
my family’s association with your institution with immediate effect. I’m considering lodging a formal complaint with the Department of Education and will be speaking to other families (“That means me,” said Freddy) about this. If we find enough support, we will demand that you be removed from your post.
Kind regards.
“What’s your dad’s name?” he asked.
“Peter,” said Pete.
“Good, then we don’t have to lie. We’ll write the letter in your name and Schiz will assume it’s from your dad.”
On the bottom line he typed: Peter Smith.
Pete was impressed. “Wow, that’s so cool!”
“I’ll make sure that it’s delivered to him tomorrow – by registered mail,” said Freddy. “The midterm break starts on Monday anyway, so you have two full weeks to find a new school!”
When Pete came home, his father wasn’t there yet. The flat was dark and cold, and the big double bed in the corner was empty.
The remains of the morning’s breakfast were still on the table by the window.
It started to rain, and the gargoyle outside the window spewed a stream of water into the gutter under the roof.
Pete took the newspaper clipping Mrs Burton had given him and carefully placed it in his scrapbook, which he hid in a secret compartment in the bottom of his drawer.
Later, as he lay in his bed looking at the gargoyle outside, he thought about how unusual the day had been. He had actually had first-hand experience of real honest-to-goodness magic. (If Freddy said so, who was he to disagree?) And he was going to be the first kid in known history to fire his school.
Pete smiled, and he was sure the gargoyle smiled back at him.
3
Murder
The wail of police sirens and the high-pitched screech of tyres on asphalt woke Pete rudely at about nine the next morning. Earlier, he had switched off the alarm of his clock, turned over, and gone back to sleep. Freddy had promised to have his letter delivered to Schiz by registered mail, so he didn’t need to go to school.
The morning was dark, the sky low and grey, and a soft drizzle sifted down on the city. His father hadn’t come home the previous night; his bed hadn’t been slept in.
Something was going on outside. Pete opened the window to get a better view of the pavement below. The flashing blue lights of a squad of police cars reflected in the wet shop windows. A crowd of people stood around an ambulance that was parked right in front of the bicycle shop, its back door open. Two men emerged from the shop. They carried a stretcher with a long, white bag on it and eased it into the ambulance.
It was as if a rope had been wound around Pete’s neck, strangling him. Someone had died in the bicycle shop.
It had to be Mr Humperdinck.
Pete ran down the stairs and out into the rain. The feeling of the rope around his neck became worse. He was choking and could hardly breathe.
After the ambulance and the police had left, Pete spent the rest of the day wandering the streets, his brain disconnected from his body and senses. His ears heard the noise of the city traffic around him, his eyes saw the crowds of faceless people on the pavements, his skin was cold and wet from the rain, but these impulses didn’t pass on to his mind.
He was only aware of the immense grief burning in his chest.
Mr Humperdinck was dead.
When Pete came home late that afternoon, there were two men in grey coats waiting at his door. One pulled a police badge from his pocket and flashed it in front of Pete’s nose.
“Peter Smith?”
He nodded.
“Inspector Grimsby and Constable Gripe. We’d like to ask you a few questions.”
“I don’t know anything.” Pete unlocked the door, but Grimsby put his arm across the doorway. He pushed his ugly nose into Pete’s face. “Ah, but we think you do,” the inspector said.
“I don’t!” Pete ducked under Grimsby’s arm and tried to slam the door behind him, but the inspector had his foot in the doorway.
He smiled an ugly smile. “Aren’t you going to invite us in?”
“I said, I don’t know anything!” said Pete.
“Look here, you snot-nosed brat, if you don’t let us in this instant, I’ll arrest you for obstructing a police investigation.” Grimsby forced his big body through the door. Gripe followed and closed the door behind them. Pete moved to the other side of the table.
The inspector looked under the bed. “So, where’s Daddy?” he asked.
Pete kept quiet, and kept the table between him and the two policemen. Gripe opened the fridge. It was empty. He banged it shut.
Grimsby smirked. “Your daddy and I, we go back a long way.” He lit a cigarette, went into the bathroom and rummaged through the medicine cabinet. “We were buddies in high school.” He peered into the toilet bowl.
Gripe looked into the dustbin. “Hey, Boss, we’ve got some evidence here,” he announced. He took his handkerchief and used it to lift something out of the bin.
“Good. Put it in a plastic bag.” Grimsby grinned. “Funny how two buddies can grow apart. Here I am, a successful police inspector, and your daddy’s nothing but a drunk.”
“My dad’s a famous lawyer!”
Grimsby laughed. “A famous failure!” He opened the closet and started pulling out the drawers, spilling their contents all over the floor. When he pulled out Pete’s drawer, the secret compartment got dislodged, and the scrapbook with the newspaper clipping fell out. The inspector stooped and picked it up.
“Leave that alone!” shouted Pete. He tried to grab it from Grimsby who gave him a shove, making him fall backwards onto the bed.
“What have we here?” The inspector examined the newspaper clipping. “A photograph of the suspect. Peter and his lovely bride. Pity he couldn’t make her happy.” Grimsby put the clipping in his pocket. “I always said she was too good for him.” He turned to the door. “Come on, Gripe, let’s go!”
A wild rage possessed Pete. He rushed after them, leaped onto Grimsby’s back and pelted the man’s head with his fist. The inspector turned. With all his strength he crushed Pete between his back and the wall and knocked the wind out of his chest. Pete lost his grip and fell, stunned. Gripe laughed as he stepped over him and followed Grimsby outside. He slammed the door behind him.
Peter Smith came home much later, when Pete was already in bed. He was a mess. His hair and beard were caked with mud. His clothes were wet and torn. He cursed when he saw the fridge was empty, banged the door and then fell, unconscious, on the big bed. As soon as he started snoring Pete got up, took his dad’s shoes and clothes off, and pulled the blankets over him. He hated the smell of tobacco smoke and stale liquor that surrounded his father. Pete lay in bed looking at his gargoyle, which seemed angry and red in the flickering neon light from the bar across the street. It felt like ages before he finally fell asleep.
The next morning Pete went to look for Maggie. It was she who had discovered the body. Her shop was locked, so he went to her flat on 21st Avenue. He found her at her kitchen table. Her face was as white as her doughnut dough, with black mascara rings under her baggy eyes.
“I’ve found something to eat at last,” she said. “Vegetables. It’s the only food that doesn’t turn into butterflies when I come near it.” She sniffed at a Brussels sprout as if it had been fished out of a drain, put it in her mouth and started to chew.
“That’s great, Maggie. At least now you won’t starve to death.”
She