Free Disappearing Home by Deborah Morgan Page A

about other people’s lives, without them knowing anything at all about me.
    I ride the bike back into our square. Dad watches over the landing. He tosses his head towards the stairs for me to come up. I stand up, try to get off the bike, but the pedals dig into the backs of my legs, trapping me. He carries on watching. The tip of the seat pushes into my back like a gun.

9
    B efore the end of morning assembly, Mr Merryville asks us to put our hands together. We are to say an Eternal Rest, for Arthur Raynard who died last weekend. When we have finished, Mr Merryville’s shoes squeak, squeak across the polished floor, like there’s an army of mice inside. They stop at Angela. He tells everyone how Angela, a valued member of our school, and her mother, are to be commended for being of great comfort to Mrs Raynard during her time of need. He pats Angela’s head. Angela’s red face disappears behind her hands.
    Later that morning when we are in the middle of doing collective nouns, Mr Merryville comes into our classroom. Mr Thorpe’s face brightens. He picks a brand new stick of chalk from the box. ‘Ah, you’re just in time to witness how well the class is doing with their collective nouns.’ He turns to the board.
    Mr Merryville scans the room. ‘Yes, yes, wonderful I’ll bet. I’m here to borrow Angela. Ah, there you are.’ He’s managed to get a man from the local paper, to interview Angela and her mother. They’re in his office right now. ‘Exciting stuff,’ he says, mainly to himself, rubbing his hands together like he’s trying to start a fire.
    Mr Thorpe says nothing. The chalk drops to his side. He watches Mr Merryville leave the room, pat, patting Angela’s head. When the door closes, Mr Thorpe snaps the chalk in half and throws it on the floor. Rubbing his hands together to remove the chalk, he looks around the room. This happens sometimes, when Mr Merryville has interrupted the lesson. He will stand up, walk around the room trying to find things, things that didn’t bother him before. The number eleven at the top of his nose has changed into a V.
    â€˜Tommy Taylor, have you had breakfast?’
    â€˜Yes, sir.’
    â€˜Then why are you eating your cuff? Maureen Clarke?’
    Maureen looks astonished. ‘Yes, sir?’
    â€˜Stop chewing your hair. You’ll drown the nits.’
    Her face flushes pink. ‘Sorry, sir.’
    He spies the lid off the biscuit tin. ‘Who has been at the tin?’
    Faces drop under Mr Thorpe’s eyes.
    â€˜Anybody?’
    Silence.
    He looks inside the tin. ‘They must have eaten themselves then.’ His head shakes. He lifts the tin up, bends his knees and tilts his head to look underneath. Like a magician, he taps the side of the tin with a ruler. Shakes his head again, tips the tin upside-down. A few crumbs and an empty packet of Rich Tea spill to the floor.
    â€˜I placed a packet of biscuits in here yesterday. A full packet. Now they’ve gone. We must have a mouse. Don’t you think?’
    No answer.
    â€˜Cat got your tongues?’
    Silence.
    Mr Thorpe picks up the empty packet, walks over to Tommy Taylor and scrunches it under his nose.
    He found a fistful of broken biscuits once, in Tommy’s pocket. Tommy blinks his eyes away inside his head. When he opens them again, Mr Thorpe digs him in the ribs with the ruler. Tommy knows what’s coming so he rolls to the floor with a thud. Mr Thorpe walks back to the tin.
    â€˜No more biscuit money out of my pockets for greedy mice.’ He picks the tin up and drops it
clang
into the bin under his desk.
    Tommy starts to get up.
    â€˜Stay where you are.’
    Trisha Fisher raises her hand.
    Mr Thorpe ignores her.
    He walks back over to Tommy. ‘Open your mouth.’
    Tommy opens his mouth and Mr Thorpe pokes his nose too close inside and sniffs. I imagine Tommy sinking his teeth deep into the nose, while