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'Bobby, you come down here!' he shouted, and Bobby stopped in his tracks. Wearing a silly smile he came down, a step at a time, while everyone stared at him. His face had gone brick-red, a colour which shrieked at his mop of untidy ginger hair and the gaudy yellow T-shirt he was wearing. As he got to the hall, his father's heavy hand descende
d on his shoulder and Bobby looked up at him, his expression placatory.
'Did you fill in that entry form?' Robert Jones demanded.
Bobby didn't utter a syllable, he just nodded. Even the tips of his large ears were crimson—although Bobby's hair was pretty unusual, it was his ears which most people remembered and which were responsible for his school nickname, Jugs, or, when his friends weren't in a hurry, Jughandle. Bobby was fifteen and lived in a state of happy squalor, his room cluttered with the assorted debris of a very busy life: model planes standing on every surface or suspended from the ceiling, clothes left wherever he happened to drop them, books and magazines in untidy piles all over the room. Mrs Jones had a blitz on the room once a week, but no sooner had Bobby been allowed back into it again than he set about restoring it to its usual condition. 'Anyone would think that boy had been born in a dustbin!' Mr Jones often complained.
'Why did you put your sister's name down?' Joe Aldonez asked, and Bobby shot him a wary look. 'Why not your own?' Joe asked.
'Well, it was for girls, wasn't it?' Bobby mumbled.
'Then why did you enter?' Carmen asked furiously, and Mr Jones nodded in agreement. 'Yes, why did you enter?' he chimed.
Bobby became speechless again, shuffling his feet. Joe Aldonez was watching him thoughtfully, one long index finger scratching the side of his jaw as he considered the subject. 'I get it,' he said suddenly. 'You wanted to win one of the transistors, right?'
'Right,' said Bobby, brightening up.
'What?' Mr Jones demanded.
'There were transistor radios as runner-up prizes,' Joe explained. 'Fifty of them, good ones, too.'
'Bobby Jones, I could kill you!' Quincy snapped, erupting into fury.
'That wouldn't solve anything,' Joe Aldonez told her with amusement.
'It would make me feel a lot happier,' retorted Quincy, keeping her eyes on her brother as he edged away.
Carmen Lister had gone red, too, but not with embarrassment, with sheer, blinding rage; her blue eyes glittering like the Northern Lights, very bright and cold. 'You mean, we've driven all this way from London, set up all that publicity, released the story and gone to all this trouble, and now we've got to start all over again with some other girl?' She wasn't so much talking to any of them as to herself, her voice raw with fury, and Quincy could imagine that she was not exactly an easy lady to work with, especially if you had made a little mistake.
Everyone looked at her. Mr Jones tightened his grip on his son's shoulder. Mrs Jones looked worried and Quincy took a step backward as if afraid Carmen Lister might turn dangerous at any minte, only to tread on Brendan's toe and glance round in startled surprise at his stifled yelp. 'Sorry,' she whispered, rather relieved to find him there.
'What are we going to do?' Carmen was saying, looking at the man in the perfectly tailored blue suit who had not spoken a word yet but had been listening attentively and watching them all. He had a face which was far from easy to read; it had a smooth, plastic look, the smile it wore as prefabricated as the one Carmen usually wore, switching on and off like a faulty light bulb. His eyes were knife-sharp; his pale hair, closely shaven face and well-groomed clothes seemed to help him merge into whatever background he was placed against, but gave away nothing about his real personality—as if, whatever he was, he preferred not to be seen being it in public. He looked, thought Quincy, like a perfectly cloned politician.
'I'm sure we can sort out this little hitch,' he said. His voice was American, Quincy noted. Smiling, he held out his hand to Robert Jones. 'I'm Billy Griffith, Joe's manager, Mr Jones.'
'How do you do?' Mr Jones said stiffly, shaking hands.
'Glad to know you,' said Billy Griffith. 'Now, why don't we have a little chat about this, man to man?' He took hold of Robert Jones's elbow and steered him through the open door of the sitting-room before Mr Jones had had time to work out what was happening. Mrs Jones and Carmen Lister followed, but as Quincy moved she found herself facing a closed door. Flushing, she was about to push it open again when Joe Aldonez stepped into her path and smiled down at her.
'You know, I think we could all do with some coffee.'
'I want to know what they're saying in there,' Quincy said crossly. She was certain Carmen Lister had deliberately shut the door on her. A conspiracy was being hatched behind that door and Quincy wanted no part of it.
The phone began to shrill and Brendan said: 'I'll take that in the surgery.' He walked towards the interconnecting door which led from the house into the one-storey building which had been built on to the side of the house to act as a surgery, and switched the call through as he passed the phone. Bobby was staring at Joe Aldonez, whose dark eyes had followed Brendan briefly.
'You look just like your pictures,' he accused.
'Is that a compliment or a complaint?' Joe enquired, turning his black head to look down at him, his mouth curving into an amused smile. He must be well over six foot, Quincy realised, measuring him against her five-foot-five brother. Against that night-black hair, his skin was smooth and bronzed, betraying the fact that he came from a much warmer climate than the West of England.
'I suppose I don't get a transistor now?' Bobby asked gloomily.
'In your place I'd let the subject drop,' Joe drawled with dry amusement.
'I did win!' Bobby protested, then caught a derisive glance and shrugged. 'Oh, well—hey, Joe, could I have your autograph? I've got one of your albums upstairs. Could you sign it for me?'
Joe considered him, gleaming mockery in his stare. 'And then you'll auction it among the girls in your class, I guess?'
'Who, me?' Bobby said hurriedly, a butter-wouldn't-melt-in-my-mouth smile assumed as he gazed back.
