Night School

by C. J. Daugherty

  A thrill of excitement rushed through Allie. As if she’d seen that, Isabelle hurried to quash it. ‘It’s not my decision alone, Allie. Others will have to agree. But I will back you up.’

  Even though she heard Isabelle’s caution, Allie didn’t believe it. She knew Isabelle could do anything she wanted.

  She was in.

  Changing the subject, Isabelle said, ‘You sound terrible, by the way. Did the doctor look at your throat?’

  A doctor had visited Allie an hour ago to examine her. He’d pronounced her throat ‘Not as bad as it could have been’, and given her a bottle of pills and something to gargle.

  She nodded. ‘He said I’ll live. But I’ll never sing with the opera.’

  ‘Puccini will get along without you,’ Isabelle said. ‘It could have been much worse.’

  ‘That’s what I thought. How’s Jules?’

  Isabelle nodded. ‘She’s doing very well. She has a concussion – she tripped and hit her head. It knocked her unconscious. But she was spared the worst of the smoke and heat, so her lungs weren’t permanently damaged. She’ll be back here tonight.’

  Guiltily, Allie remembered how she’d doubted Jules up to the last minute in the library.

  ‘I’m so glad she’s OK,’ she said. ‘She was very brave.’

  ‘She said the same thing about you.’

  Allie asked the next question with trepidation.

  ‘Have you seen Sylvain?’ Her throat tightened. ‘I … wanted to thank him.’

  ‘He’s avoiding you,’ Isabelle said bluntly.

  Allie’s head shot up. ‘Why?’

  The headmistress’ eyes were kind. ‘You know, don’t you?’

  The heat of the tea radiated through the porcelain of the teacup, burning Allie’s fingers. ‘Know what?’

  ‘He has feelings for you.’

  At that moment Allie realised that she did know. She remembered his tears falling on her face. Emotions she didn’t even recognise flowed through her.

  ‘But I’m with Carter,’ she said weakly.

  ‘I know.’ Isabelle held her hands up. ‘So there we are.’

  Allie watched the slice of lemon floating aimlessly in her cup. ‘There we are.’

  The headmistress curled up in the deep leather chair next to her – the circles under her eyes betrayed her exhaustion.

  ‘I don’t think you’ll see Sylvain again this term. He needs time to think. And to heal.’

  ‘Would you tell him …’ Allie thought about what to say. ‘Just … thank him for me?’

  ‘I will.’

  Allie set her cup down. ‘And I’ve decided I’m going to go home, rather than to Rachel’s. I need to talk with my parents.’

  Isabelle looked worried.

  ‘I think it’s the right thing to do, and I’m glad you’re doing it,’ she said cautiously. ‘But now that we know Christopher is with Nathaniel and Nathaniel is interested in you … Well, things are different. The situation is more dangerous. I’ll explain this to your mother. But, Allie, at home you will be in more danger. I will do what I can to protect you, but don’t take any chances.’

  Allie thought about Ruth. ‘I’ll be careful,’ she promised. ‘I’ll lie low.’

  ‘The autumn term starts in three weeks,’ Isabelle said. ‘But I can’t let you stay home that long. I’ll give you a few days at home, but after that I really think you should go to Rachel’s. Her father is completely capable of protecting you and he will be expecting you. I’ll send a car for you.’

  There was something awful about being told that home – once the safest place she had ever known – wasn’t safe any more. But Allie didn’t argue. She’d seen what Nathaniel was willing to do.

  ‘OK,’ she said again.

  Isabelle took a piece of paper off her desk and wrote something on it. ‘If you get concerned or frightened at any point – if anything feels threatening or just wrong …’ she handed her the piece of paper then handed it to Allie, ‘call me, and I’ll send somebody for you. Don’t take any chances. Will you do that for me?’

  The paper had Isabelle’s name embossed on the top, and Allie saw that she’d written a phone number on it.

  Allie nodded. ‘I promise.’

  They stood and Isabelle gave her another hug. Allie walked to the door. As she turned the handle, Isabelle stopped her.

  ‘One more thing,’ she said. ‘Ask your mother to tell you about Lucinda.’ Allie’s eyes widened but she said nothing.

  Isabelle finished: ‘Tell her I said it’s time.’

  THIRTY-ONE

  ‘Come on, bag. Zip!’

  Allie had stuffed the last few things into her bag and now it bulged at the sides and refused to close. Even when she used all of her strength she couldn’t get it to zip up.

  The girls had all been given fifteen minutes in their rooms to pack. It turned out most bedrooms were fine. But the teachers were worried the fire and water might have made the ceilings and floors weak.

  ‘Oh, bugger it.’

  Panting from the exertion, she flipped it open and looked for something to jettison. Her scuffed dark red, knee-high Doc Marten boots lay right on top. She pulled them out and tried again.

  It closed easily.

  She picked up the boots lovingly. No way am I leaving these behind.

  Holding them in front of her she studied the scuffs on the toes, the way the leather had moulded to fit her ankles. She’d been in love with these boots since the day she saw them in the window of the charity shop down the road from her school. When she found out they were the right size, she knew they were destined to be hers. For two months she’d gone to that shop every day to make sure they were still there. Eventually she convinced the workers to put them aside for her until her birthday. The thick soles, the sturdy leather, the sheer aggressive power of them made her feel strong again. They were like her armour.

  I know I’ve changed while I’ve been here, she thought. But I haven’t changed so much that I don’t think these are bitchin’ boots.

  Kicking off her school-issued sensible shoes she pulled on the Docs, lacing them up with happy familiarity. Paired with her school uniform, they looked … perfect.

  Then she looked around one last time, running her hand along the top of her desk. She’d hated this place so much when she first arrived. Now she couldn’t wait to come back.

  She hoisted the bag to her shoulder and hurried through the door crashing full-force into Carter, who stood on the other side.

  ‘Hey Speed,’ he laughed, steadying her with a hand on each shoulder. ‘Where’s the fire?’

  ‘Ha ha, you’re hilarious,’ she said, rolling her eyes.

  He smoothed her hair. ‘Are your parents here already?’

  ‘They’ll be here any minute.’ She made a face. ‘I’m only hurrying because my dad hates waiting.’

  His eyes clouded briefly, and she remembered that his parents would never come to pick him up again.

  ‘Where will you live during term break?’ she asked with a worried frown. ‘They won’t let you stay in the guys’ dorm.’

  ‘I’m moving into the teachers’ wing while they’re fixing the smoke damage,’ he said. ‘It’ll be fine.’

  ‘I hope you won’t be too lonely.’

  ‘I’ll be OK,’ he assured her. ‘This is home for me, remember? And I won’t be alone. Jo and Sylvain are staying and Jules is only going home for a few days. Most of Night School will be back after a week or so.’

  Hearing Sylvain’s name, Allie felt an unwanted tug on her heart. She hadn’t seen him since the fire.

  ‘Good,’ she said. ‘But I’ll worry about you anyway.’

  ‘And I’ll worry about you. Write to me,’ he said. ‘And I’ll nick Isabelle’s phone and call you.’

  ‘You still have my number?’

  He held up his hand – she’d written her number just below his knuckles an hour ago.

  ‘I’ll have it tattooed while you’re gone,’ he joked.


  A sombre silence fell, and Allie rested her bag on her foot and gently bounced it with her toe.

  ‘You’re going to be careful, right?’ he said, tugging lightly at the hem of her shirt, pulling her a step closer to him. ‘You’ll stay safe?’

  Even though he kept his voice light, she could hear the concern behind his words.

  ‘Don’t worry. I’ll be good as gold. I’m only home a week then I’m off to Rachel’s country pile, which is apparently as secure as Buckingham Palace.’

  ‘Good,’ he said, pulling her into a tight hug. ‘As long as you’re careful. We need you around here, you know.’

  ‘Yes you do. This whole place would fall apart without me,’ she said with an ironic smile.

  Burying his face in her hair, he breathed in deeply.

  ‘Time! Everybody out!’

  Zelazny’s voice rang out in the hallway outside the door. Allie lifted her face for a quick kiss, pulling away almost immediately. It was too late for long goodbyes.

  She picked up her bag and threw it over her shoulder.

  ‘I’m going to go down by myself, OK?’ Her eyes searched his face, but she knew he would understand. If he really kissed her properly or asked her to stay – if she just kept looking into those eyes – she’d never make it out the door.

  Moving briskly she walked to the door and opened it.

  He called after her: ‘Nice boots, Sheridan.’

  She didn’t look back.

  ‘Stay cool, Carter West.’

  She was halfway down the hall when she heard his reply.

  ‘Always.’

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  This book started on a dare. I never thought I could write a novel but my husband thought I could. One day he dared me to try. Dared me. Told me I’d be a coward if I didn’t try. I never back down from a reasonable dare and he knew that.

  Thank you my darling, for daring me.

  The dare started it but everything else that happened was serendipity and kindness and generosity. And while you can only thank the gods for serendipity, kindness and generosity deserve to be recognised.

  Without the enthusiasm and energy of Madeleine Buston and everyone at the amazing Darley Anderson Agency (especially Clare Wallace and Mary Darby), there’s no way this book would have made it onto shelves. Your phone call changed my life, Maddy. There aren’t enough words in the world to thank you for that.

  To the fabulous Samantha Smith, editor extraordinaire at Atom Books, a million thanks. Not only is she a brilliant editor but she’s funny too. Working with her is a dream come true. Frankly, the whole crew at Atom/Little, Brown is incredible: Gina Luck, Kate Agar, and Darren Turpin – you all helped to make Night School happen. Thank you all so much! I owe you so many cupcakes …

  This book was shaped and honed with the help of friends who read it while I was writing it, and told me the truth about it. Their honesty and brilliance made it so much better. Hélène Rudyk, Kate Bell and Sally Davies – you are all goddesses.

  To the staff at the Starbucks on Memorial Drive at Dairy Ashford in Houston, Texas, thank you for letting me sit and write in your icy air-conditioning for hours on end – sometimes until you were stacking the chairs around me and sweeping the floor under my feet – without ever asking me to buy more coffee or get out of your way. Basically, thank you for ignoring me. Night School was fuelled by your iced mochas.

  While this book was being written my mother passed away, so she never got to see that everything worked out. That this wasn’t just another of my crazy dreams. They say sometimes people watch over you after they die so … Look Mom! I did it.

  C.J. Daugherty was 22 when she saw her first dead body. Although she left the world of crime reporting to edit travel books instead, she never lost her fascination with what it is that drives some people to do awful things. And about the kinds of people who try to stop them. Night School is the product of that fascination.

  C.J. lives in the south of England with her husband and a small menagerie of pets – you can learn more about her at www.cjdaugherty.com

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