Groosham Grange

by Anthony Horowitz

  “You don’t have time to eat,” Mr Eliot declared. “You’ve got to go upstairs and pack.”

  “Where am I going?” David asked.

  “You’re going to a wonderful school that I’ve found for you. A perfect school. A glorious school.”

  “But it’s the end of term…” David began.

  “The terms never end,” his father replied. “That’s what’s so glorious about it. Pack your mother and kiss your clothes goodbye. No!” He banged his head against the table. “Kiss your mother and pack your clothes. Your train leaves at one.”

  David stared at his mother, who had begun to cry once again – though whether it was because he was leaving, because of the pain in her fingers or because she had somehow managed to get her hand jammed in the milk jug he could not say. There was obviously no point in arguing. The last time he’d tried arguing, his father had locked him in his bedroom and nailed up the door. It had taken two carpenters and the fire brigade a week to get it open again. Silently, he got up and walked out of the room.

  It didn’t take him long to pack. He had no uniform for the new school and no idea what books to take. He was neither happy nor particularly sad. After all, his father had already cancelled Christmas and whatever the school was like it could hardly be worse than Wiernotta Mews. But as he was folding his clothes he felt something strange. He was being watched. He was sure of it.

  Closing his case, he walked over to the window and looked out. His bedroom had a view over the garden which was made entirely of plastic, as his mother was allergic to flowers. And there, standing in the middle of the plastic lawn, he saw it. It was a crow, or perhaps a raven. Whatever it was, it was the biggest bird he had ever seen. It was pitch-black, its feathers hanging off it like a tattered cloak. And it was staring up at the bedroom, its glistening eyes fixed on him.

  David reached down to open the window. At the same moment, the bird uttered a ghastly, gurgling croak and launched itself into the air. David watched it fly away over the rooftops. Then he turned back and got ready to leave.

  TRAVELLING COMPANIONS

  David arrived at Liverpool Street Station at twelve o’clock. True to his word, his father had sent him on the bus. His mother hadn’t come either. She had gone into hysterics on the doorstep and Mr Eliot had been forced to break a milk bottle over her head to calm her down. So David was quite alone as he dragged his suitcase across the forecourt and joined the queue to pick up his ticket.

  It was a long queue – longer, in fact, than the trains everyone was waiting to get on. David had to wait more than twenty minutes before he reached a window and it was almost one o’clock before he was able to run for his train. A seat had been reserved for him – the school had arranged that – and he just had time to heave his case on to the luggage rack and sit down before the whistle went and the train began to move. Pressing his face against the glass, he stared out. Slowly the train picked up speed and London shuddered and rattled away. It had begun to rain. The scene could hardly have been more gloomy if he had been sitting in a hearse on the way to his own funeral.

  Half an hour later they had travelled through the suburbs and the train was speeding past a number of dreary fields – all fields look much the same when they’re seen through a train window, especially when the window is covered with half an inch of dust. David hadn’t time to buy himself a book or a comic, and anyway his parents hadn’t given him any money. Dejectedly, he slumped back in his seat and prepared to sit out the three hour journey to King’s Lynn.

  For the first time he noticed that there were two other people in the compartment, both the same age as him, both looking as fed up as he felt. One was a boy, plump, with circular wire-framed glasses. His trousers might have been the bottom of a school uniform. On top he was wearing a thick jersey made of so much wool that it looked as if the sheep might still be somewhere inside. He had long black hair that had been blown all over the place, as if he had just taken his head out of the washing machine. He was holding a half-eaten Mars bar, the toffee trailing over his fingers.

  The other traveller was a girl. She had a round, rather boyish face with short brown hair and blue eyes. She was quite pretty in a way, David thought, or would have been if her clothes weren’t quite so peculiar. The cardigan she was wearing could have belonged to her grandmother. Her trousers could have come from her brother. And wherever her coat had come from it should have gone back immediately, as it was several sizes too big for her. She was reading a magazine. David glanced at the cover and was surprised to see that it was Cosmopolitan. His mother wouldn’t even allow Cosmopolitan in the house. She said she didn’t approve of “these modern women”, but then, of course, his mother was virtually prehistoric.

  It was the girl who broke the silence. “I’m Jill,” she said.

  “I’m David.”

  “I’m J-J-Jeffrey.” It was somehow not surprising that the fat boy had a stutter.

  “I suppose you’re off to this Ghastly Grange?” Jill asked, folding up the magazine.

  “I think it’s Groosham,” David told her.

  “I’m sure it will be gruesome,” Jill agreed. “It’s my fourth school in three years and it’s the only one that doesn’t have any holidays.”

  “W-w-one day a year,” Jeffrey stammered.

  “W-w-one day’s going to be enough for me,” Jill said. “The moment I arrive I’m heading out again.”

  “You’ll swim away?” David asked. “It’s on an island, remember.”

  “I’ll swim all the way back to London if I have to,” Jill declared.

  Now that the ice had been broken, the three of them began to talk, each telling their own story to explain how they had ended up on a train bound for the Norfolk coast. David was first. He told them about Beton College, how he had been expelled and how his parents had received the news.

  “I was also at p-p-public school,” Jeffrey said. “And I was expelled too. I was c-c-caught smoking behind the cricket pavilion.”

  “Smoking is stupid,” Jill said.

  “It wasn’t m-m-my fault. The school bully had just set fire to me.” Jeffrey took off his glasses and wiped them on his sleeve. “I was always being b-b-bullied because I’m fat and I wear glasses and I’ve got a s-s-stutter.”

  Jeffrey’s public school was called Godlesston. It was in the north of Scotland and his parents had sent him there in the hope of toughening him up. It had certainly been tough. Cold showers, twenty mile runs, porridge fourteen times a week – and that was just for the staff. At Godlesston, the pupils had been expected to do fifty press-ups before morning chapel and twenty-one more during it. The headmaster had come to classes wearing a leopard skin and the gym teacher had bicycled to the school every day, which was all the more remarkable as he lived in the Midlands.

  Poor Jeffrey had been completely unable to keep up and for him the last day of term really had been the last. The morning after he had been expelled, his father had received a prospectus from Groosham Grange. The letter that went with it had been rather different from David’s. It had made the school sound like a sports complex, a massage parlour and an army training camp all rolled into one.

  “My dad also got a letter from them,” Jill said. “But they told him that Groosham Grange was a really classy place. They said I’d learn table manners, and embroidery and all that sort of stuff.”

  Jill’s father was a diplomat, working in South America. Her mother was an actress. Neither of them were ever at home and the only time she spoke to them was on the telephone. Once her mother had bumped into her in the street and had been unable to remember who she was. But like David’s parents, they were determined to give her a good education and had sent her to no less than three private schools.

  “I ran away from the first two,” she explained. “The third was a sort of finishing school in Switzerland. I had to learn flower arranging and cookery, but I was hopeless. My flowers died before I could arrange them and I gave the cookery teacher food poisoning.” />
  “What happened then?” David asked.

  “The finishing school said they were finished with me. They sent me back home. That was when the letter arrived.”

  Jill’s father had jumped at the opportunity. Actually, he had jumped on an aeroplane and gone back to South America. Her mother hadn’t even come home. She’d just been given two parts in a Christmas pantomime – playing both halves of the horse – and she was too busy to care. Her German nanny had made all the arrangements without really understanding any of them. And that was that.

  By the time they had finished telling their stories, David realized that they all had one thing in common. One way or another they were “difficult” children. But even so, they had no idea what to expect at Groosham Grange. In his parents’ letter it had been described as old-fashioned, and for boys only. Jeffrey’s parents had been told it was some sort of educational assault course. And Jill’s parents thought they were sending their daughter to a posh ladies’ college.

  “They could be three completely different places,” David said. “But it’s the same school.”

  “And there’s something else p-p-peculiar,” Jeffrey added. “It’s meant to be on an island next to N-N-Norfolk. But I looked on the map and there are no islands. Not one.”

  They thought about this for a while without speaking. The train had stopped at a station and there was a bustle in the corridor as people got on and off. Then David spoke.

  “Listen,” he said. “However bad this Groosham Grange is, at least we’re all going there together. So we ought to make a pact. We’ll stick together … us against them.”

  “Like the Three M-M-Musketeers?” Jeffrey asked.

  “Sort of. We won’t tell anybody. It’ll be like a secret society. And whatever happens, we’ll always have two people we can trust.”

  “I’m still going to run away,” Jill muttered.

  “Maybe we’ll go with you. At least we’ll be able to help you.”

  “I’ll lend you my swimming trunks,” Jeffrey said.

  Jill glanced at his bulging waist, thinking they would probably be more helpful if she used them in a parachute jump. But she kept the thought to herself. “All right,” she agreed. “Us against them.”

  “Us against th-th-them.”

  “Us against them.” David held out his hand and the three of them shook.

  Then the door of the compartment slid open and a young man looked in. The first thing David noticed was his dog-collar – he was a vicar. The second thing was that he was holding a guitar.

  “Is that free?” he asked, nodding at one of the empty seats.

  “Yes.” David would have preferred to have lied. The last thing he needed right now was a singing vicar. But it was obvious that they were alone.

  The young man came into the compartment, beaming at them in that horrible way that very religious people sometimes do. He didn’t put his guitar up on the luggage rack but leant it against the opposite seat. He was in his thirties, with pink, rosy cheeks, fair hair, a beard and unusually bright teeth. As well as the dog-collar he was wearing a silver crucifix, a St Christopher medallion and a BAN THE BOMB sign.

  “I’m Father Percival,” he announced, as if anybody was slightly interested in who he was. “But you can call me Jimbo.” David glanced at his watch and groaned silently. There were still at least two hours to King’s Lynn and already the priest was working himself up as if any moment he was going to burst into song.

  “So where are you kids off to?” he demanded. “Going on hols together? Or having a day out?”

  “We’re going to s-s-school,” Jeffrey told him.

  “School? Fab! Triffic!” The priest looked at them and suddenly realized that none of them thought it was at all fab or triffic. “Hey – cheer up!” he exclaimed. “Life’s a great journey and it’s first-class all the way when you’re travelling with Jesus.”

  “I thought you said your name was Jimbo,” Jill muttered.

  “I’ll tell you what,” the vicar went on, ignoring her. “I know how to cheer you youngsters up.” He picked up his guitar and twanged at the strings. They were horribly out of tune. “How about a few hymns? I made this one up myself. I call it ‘Jesus, You’re My Buddy’ and it goes like this…”

  In the hour that followed, Jimbo played six of his own compositions, followed by ‘Onward Christian Soldiers’, ‘All Things Bright and Beautiful’ and, because Christmas was approaching, a dozen carols. At last he stopped and rested his guitar on his knees. David held his breath, praying that the vicar wouldn’t finish off with a sermon or, worse still, pass the collection plate around the carriage. But he seemed to have exhausted himself as well as them.

  “So what are your names?” he asked.

  Jill told him.

  “Great! That’s really super. Now tell me – Dave, Jeff and Jilly – you say you’re off to school. What school’s that?”

  “Groosham Grange,” David told him.

  “Groosham Grange?” The vicar’s mouth dropped open. In one second all the colour had drained out of his face. His eyes bulged and one of his cheeks, no longer rosy, twitched. “Groosham Grange?” he whispered. His whole body had begun to tremble. Slowly his fair hair rippled and then stood on end.

  David stared at him. The man was terrified. David had never seen anyone quite so afraid. What had he said? He had only mentioned the school’s name, but now the vicar was looking at him as if he were the devil himself.

  “Grrooosss…” The vicar tried to say the words for a third time but they seemed to get caught on his lips and he hissed like a punctured balloon. His eyeballs were standing out like ping-pong balls now. His throat had gone dark mauve and it was evident from the way his body shuddered that he was no longer able to breathe.

  “…ssss.” The hiss died away. The vicar’s hands, suddenly claws, jerked upwards, clutching at his heart. Then he collapsed, falling to the ground with a crash, a clatter and a twang.

  “Oh dear,” Jill said. “I think he’s dead.”

  SKRULL ISLAND

  The vicar had suffered a massive heart attack but he wasn’t actually dead. The guard telephoned ahead, and at King’s Lynn station a British Rail porter was standing by to whisk him away on a trolley to a waiting ambulance. David, Jill and Jeffrey were also met. One glance at the man who was looking out for them and they would have quite happily taken the ambulance.

  He was horribly deformed. If he had been involved in a dreadful car crash and then fallen into an industrial mangle it could only have improved him. He was about five foot tall – or five foot short rather, for his head was closer to the ground than to his shoulders. This was partly due to the fact that his neck seemed to be broken, partly due to his hunched back. One of his eyes was several centimetres lower than the other and he had swollen cheeks and thin, straggly hair. He was dressed in a loose leather jacket and baggy trousers. People walking along the station were trying so hard not to look at him that one unfortunate woman accidentally fell off the platform. In truth it was hard to look at anything else. He was holding a placard that read GROOSHAM GRANGE. With a sinking heart, David approached him, Jeffrey and Jill following behind.

  “My name is Gregor,” he said. His voice came out as a throaty gurgle. “Did you have a good journey?”

  David had to wait for him to say this again because it sounded like, “Dit yurgh av aghoot churnik?” When he understood, he nodded, lost for words. “Bring your bags then, young masters,” Gregor gurgled. “The car is outside.”

  The car was a hearse.

  It had been repainted with the name of the school on the side, but there could be no disguising the shape, the long, flat area in the back where its grisly contents should have lain. The people in the street weren’t fooled either. They stopped in respectful silence, taking off their hats as the three children were whisked away towards their new school. David wondered if he wasn’t in the middle of some terrible nightmare, if he wouldn’t wake up at any moment to find himself in be
d at Wiernotta Mews. Cautiously, he pinched himself. It had no effect. The hunchback hooted at a van and cursed. The hearse swept through a red light.

  Gregor was a most peculiar chauffeur. Because of his height and the shape of his body, he could barely see over the steering wheel. To anyone out in the street it must have looked as if the car were driving itself. It was a miracle they didn’t hit anybody. David, sitting in the front seat, found himself staring at the man and blushed when Gregor turned and grinned at him.

  “You’re wondering how I came to look like this, young master?” he declared. “I was born like it, born all revolting. I gave my mother the heebie-jeebies, I did. Poor mother! Poor Gregor!” He wrenched at the steering wheel and they swerved to avoid a traffic island. “When I was your age, I tried to get a job in a freak show,” he went on. “But they said I was over-qualified. So I became the porter at Groosham Grange. I love Groosham Grange. You’ll love Groosham Grange, young master. All the young masters love Groosham Grange.”

  They had left the city behind them now, following the coastal road up to the north. After that, David must have dozed off because the next thing he knew the sky had darkened and they seemed to be driving across the sea, the car pushing through the dark green waves. He rubbed his eyes and looked out of the window.

  It wasn’t the sea but a wide, flat field. The waves were grass, rippling in the wind. The field was empty but in the distance a great windmill rose up, the white panelled wood catching the last reflections of the evening sun. He shivered. Gregor had turned the heater on in the car but he could feel the desolation of the scene creeping in beneath the cushion of hot air.

  Then he saw the sea itself. The road they were following – it was barely more than a track – led down to a twisted wooden jetty. A boat was waiting for them, half-hidden by the grass. It was an old fishing boat, held together by rust and lichen. Black smoke bubbled in the water beneath it. A pile of crates stood on the deck underneath a dirty net. A seagull circled in the air above it, sobbing quietly to itself. David hardly felt much better.