How Kirsty Jenkins Stole the Elephant by Elen Caldecott

from the shelf. There was dust on the cover. Each letter in the band’s name, Sex Pistols, was written in a different size, as though each letter had been torn from a newspaper. There had been a row once about that album. It had a rude title and Mum had said that Dad shouldn’t let Kirsty see it. Dad had said that Kirsty was his daughter too and she should know about the things he cared about. Dad had won.
    No one had played it for a long time. Kirsty looked up at the ceiling. Dad’s bed was directly above her. Kirsty slid the record from its sleeve. It was sleek and black, the music printed on it in bumps and grooves that you could touch. She held it by the rim and looked at it. Dad knew all the lyrics to each song. He used to yell them as loud as he could, not caring that the neighbours would bang on the wall. He used to jump up and down to the music, not dancing, just throwing himself about like a mad thing.
    Kirsty lifted the glass lid of the record player, then moved the stylus gently. The speakers hissed and crackled for a minute, then roared into life with the first tune. Drums thumped, a wild guitar joined in and then the singer, shouting each line until his voice seemed to be breaking. The speakers shuddered with the noise. Kirsty put down the sleeve and started dancing the way that Dad did, bounding into the air, shaking her hands and head, slamming back down to the floor. The whole room juddered with movement and music. Could Dad hear this? She didn’t know the words like Dad did, but she started yelling the ones she knew anyway. Was he listening? Would he come down and join in?
    â€˜Kirsty!’ The door opened. Kirsty stopped dancing. Mum crossed the room and lifted the stylus off the record. The silence was shocking.
    â€˜What are you doing?’ Mum hissed.
    â€˜I was just listening to music.’
    â€˜On full volume? When your dad’s trying to rest upstairs?’
    Kirsty didn’t answer.
    Mum frowned. ‘What were you thinking?’
    â€˜I thought, I thought Dad might like it. He hasn’t listened to it in ages.’ Kirsty hung her head.
    Mum sighed. A moment passed. Mum sat down on the sofa and patted the seat beside her. She wanted Kirsty to sit. So Kirsty sat. ‘Kirsty, it’s hard for your dad just now. You know that, don’t you? Your grandad was his dad.’
    â€˜I know. But he’s been in his room for ever.’
    Mum smiled, but it was a sad smile. ‘It does feel a bit like that, doesn’t it? But we have to give him time.’
    â€˜How much time?’
    â€˜Oh, Kirsty. You just have to be patient. I’m sure he’ll be right as rain soon. He just needs some peace and quiet. Give him space, OK?’
    Kirsty nodded slowly. She stood up and lifted the record off the deck. She slipped it back in its cover. ‘Can I at least dust them?’ she asked.
    Mum nodded. ‘OK. Dad would like that. I’ll get you a cloth.’
    Kirsty put the album back on the shelf, in first place. In the horrible quiet, it felt as though she was hiding it away.

Friday

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    Chapter 15
    At 3.35 p.m. exactly, Kirsty met Dawn and Ben at the council building. Kirsty, taking no chances, had wrapped her head round and round with the longest scarf she could find. She could hardly see out of it.
    â€˜Why are you dressed like an Egyptian mummy?’ Dawn asked.
    â€˜It’s complicated. Well, not complicated, exactly –’
    â€˜If they recognise us, we’re in trouble. The fire alarm, see,’ Ben butted in, pulling his own hood down over his forehead.
    Dawn rolled her eyes. ‘You two are impossible,’ she said and led the way inside.
    Kirsty kept her head down and let Dawn do the talking.
    â€˜Help you?’ the man at the reception desk said, without looking up.
    â€˜I’ve got an appointment with Mr Thomas,’ Dawn said.
    â€˜Mr Thomas gardens or Mr Thomas school dinners?’
    â€˜Er . . . Mr