POWER AND FURY

by James Erith

  ‘A mild expulsion of water vapour, that’s all,’ Isabella said nervously.

  ‘You think so?’ They all started to back away.

  ‘No, not necessarily,’ Isabella admitted.

  The test tube was beginning to glow, steam seeping out of the top.

  ‘Has anyone added anything to it?’ Isabella asked.

  Archie and Sue shook their heads.

  The activity in the test tube increased. They could hear crystals popping against the glass.

  ‘Get out!’ Isabella yelled. ‘It’s going to blow!’

  They ran for the door, shutting it firmly behind themselves before diving to the floor. Seconds later, the storm glass blew into Smithereens.

  Sue shivered. ‘What does it mean?’ she asked.

  ‘I think it means that we were right all along.’ Isabella’s voice quaked. ‘Here, above us, lies the storm from hell.’

  Thirty-Two

  Sue and Isabella

  ‘Sue, it’s time for direct action,’ Isabella said. ‘Solomon clearly doesn’t want to know about the storm, so we’re going to have to either disrupt the match, or figure out an exit strategy—’

  Sue couldn’t face direct action. ‘A leaving strategy gets my vote—’

  ‘Good. If I can get Arch and Daisy over the bridge, then I think we’ll be fine. When we get to the lane, the canopy of the tunnel should protect us. It’s you that I’m worried about.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes. You.’ Isabella confirmed. ‘How are you going to get out of here? You’ll need to get home fast, or get to high ground. Have you ever driven a car?’

  ‘Of course not. Stop being ridiculous—’

  ‘I’m not. You could steal one.’

  Sue glared at Isabella, who shrugged back. ‘I’ll think of something, but you’re getting weird.’

  ‘That’s not good enough,’ Isabella snapped back. ‘You need a plan. Come home with us.’

  ‘I can’t. Mum wants me back.’

  ‘In that case, start engaging that brain of yours.’

  As the two girls trudged slowly back from the science laboratories in silence, they could feel the buzz of the crowd making its way down towards the football pitch.

  ‘I feel so edgy about this match,’ Isabella said, as a couple of boys ran past nearly knocking her over. ‘What if Daisy gets a kicking and can’t run? Then they lose, the storm breaks, and she can’t get home?’

  ‘Isabella, that’s not going to happen—’

  ‘And what about Archie? He’s all over the place, have you seen him? He looks ill, the poor boy. I’m worried he won’t save a thing. He’s even more scatter-brained than usual.’

  ‘Well, it is the final—’

  ‘I know that,’ Isabella said. ‘It’s just that I’ve got a hollow feeling deep inside me.’ Isabella closed her eyes and shook her head. ‘You know, I’m not sure I even like football—’

  ‘What tosh! You love it,’ Sue replied, ‘you’re jealous of Daisy, just like everyone else.’

  ‘That still doesn’t mean I like it—’

  ‘You’re her sister and you’re as sporty as a mole yourself, so it’s natural for you to want her to do well.’ Sue looked up at the sky. Her heart seemed to skip a beat. She whistled.

  ‘Blimey. Solomon’s floodlights are on,’ Isabella said, her tone betraying her nerves.

  ‘Every time I look up, my body starts shaking like a jelly,’ Sue said, inspecting her watch. ‘We’ve got five minutes.’

  Sue slowed down and grasped Isabella’s arm, as if setting herself up to say something important. ‘Listen, Isabella,’ she began, ‘I’ve been meaning to tell you something important—’

  ‘Important?’ Isabella noticed that her friend had gone a little pale. ‘You put the wrong mix in the storm glass—?’

  ‘No. It’s not about that... it’s about—’

  ‘You did add something to it, didn’t you—’

  ‘Isabella, I haven’t touched it. I’m quite sure it did what it did perfectly naturally.’ Sue added. ‘It’s about you. It’s personal.’

  ‘Me?’ Isabella’s mind whirled. ‘What? You’ve got a boyfriend and you haven’t told me—’

  ‘For goodness’ sake, you know full well I haven’t—’

  ‘Okay, someone out there fancies me—’

  ‘NO. Of course not. Listen, Isabella—it’s got absolutely nothing to do with boys—’

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘YES.’

  ‘Good,’ Isabella said, ‘they’re such a waste of—’

  ‘It’s about you,’ Sue said.

  ‘Me?’ Isabella said. ‘OMG. You... and... me?’

  Sue shrieked. ‘For crying out loud, Isabella. NO! Will you please let me speak?’ She took a deep breath. ‘It concerns YOU, in fact it concerns all of you de Lowes. You, Archie and Daisy. All those things I told you about? Well, there’s more.’

  ‘More?’

  ‘Yes! I wrote a whole lot of stuff down the moment I woke up. I’m pretty sure it’s about you, and that in some way you’re linked—’

  ‘Linked? With what?’

  ‘SHUT UP! Listen to me for just a minute.’ Sue said, trying to compose herself. ‘What I’m trying to say is that—’

  The long shrill of a whistle and the roar of the crowd swept over them. Sue followed Isabella’s eyes towards the floodlit football pitch.

  ‘We’re late!’ Isabella cried. ‘Your watch is slow.’

  Sue tapped the face of the dial and compared it to the clock on her mobile. ‘Oh no!’ But when she looked up, her friend had already gone.

  Isabella tore off down the track. What was I thinking? I bet someone’s scored.

  ‘Come on, keep up!’ Isabella yelled over her shoulder, as she took off down the shingle path. ‘You’ll have to tell me later! I mean, it’s not like it’s life or death, is it?’ she yelled.

  ‘There are things you absolutely... must... know,’ Sue said, her voice trailing off as she watched Isabella zoom away with extraordinary speed. In fact, she couldn’t remember seeing Isabella run as fast in her whole life.

  Sue felt empty, the moment lost. Everything that had happened in the last hour had started to confirm that what she had seen, heard—and felt—was going to come true. If there was even the tiniest chance of this happening, she needed to tell Isabella everything.

  Because, increasingly, it really was about life or death.

  Thirty-Three

  Kemp Finds Someone

  Kemp reached into his pocket, pulling out Archie’s scrap of paper.

  He leaned against the stone wall outside the school hall and held it up. If that Old Man Wood had played a prank on Archie and given him the coat to wear, then what were the others capable of? Perhaps this was an elaborate set-up, dreamed up by Isabella in order to get him to fight with Gus Williams.

  Kemp could smell Isabella’s cheap perfume all over this.

  He glanced up. The sky was ridiculously dark and ridiculously huge. What if Isabella’s experimental madness had some foundation?

  Kemp’s eyes returned to the paper. He read the middle, double-underlined, option.

  ‘Alleyway behind kissing houses.’

  Kemp thought about it. If he was going to meet a knife-wielding ghost in a quiet spot, it was a pretty good choice. It had the advantage that you could get out at both ends, and it was close enough to the playing fields for a quick getaway.

  Clever Archie. Not just a scruffy boy.

  The alleyway was also the perfect place for a fight. He clenched his fist. He remembered the look on Williams’ face, the glimmer of madness in his eyes. Kemp twisted the fabric on Archie’s coat. It was nice and strong, and light, too. A layer of protection if Williams came at him.

  Kemp sucked in his breath. It was a set-up for sure. It had to be. After yesterday’s performance, Archie had been duped by his sisters.

  Oh, well.

  Kemp tapped his pocket, feeling the metal object within.

&nbs
p; If he was right, and Williams was coming after him, Gus Williams was in for a mighty big surprise.

  From the road above the football field, Kemp scanned the crowd lining the perimeter of the pitch. They stood four deep behind the barrier rope at times, with smaller kids kneeling at the front. Kemp ached to be part of it, to have them cheer him on.

  He’d never play alongside Daisy de Lowe, though. Never. Just the thought of her running beside him made his stomach heave.

  He kicked a loose stone on the ground, which skipped across the raised pebbles and smacked a small boy in the knee with a dull crack.

  The boy collapsed on the path as Kemp clenched his fist. Nice one, he thought, wishing it had been Daisy de Lowe’s knee.

  Kemp climbed further up the slope, towards the houses above the playing fields. He kept going until he was on his own, high above the pitch. As he walked, he thought about how he could occupy himself over the break with his dreary aunt. Last time, he’d nearly died of boredom, being dragged around endless museums, antiques shops, and flea markets. Sure, his aunt was pleasant and she tried hard, but her never-ending jollity and the way she talked to everyone about the same things over and over again drove him mad.

  She was too nice, too wet and too dull.

  His mind turned to his lost parents. They would have done awesome, cool, outdoor stuff, and they’d all get stuck in together, like sailing, or mountaineering, or holidaying abroad.

  He imagined a trip by the side of the river next to a large campfire. Looking at the stars, his mother by his side playing guitar and singing, and his father smiling at him proudly, sharpening a blade.

  It was a fantasy, of course. It was the idyllic family life he’d never have. Every time he thought of it, it brought an overwhelming sadness into his soul. He couldn’t remember if his mother used to sing to him and he had no idea what his parents even looked like; but to him, the fantasy felt right.

  A long rumble boomed in the sky above. Kemp spied another round pebble, and took a mighty swipe with his heavy, black boot. The stone connected sweetly, skipped a couple of times and then, on the last bounce, lifted quickly and seemed to whistle past the head of someone lurking by a lamppost near to the alleyway.

  What was an old bloke doing standing over there in the first place? He didn’t even flinch! Bloody weirdo. The stone must have missed him or else he’d have been knocked out cold.

  Kemp put his head down and sauntered on as if nothing had happened. A few paces on, Kemp noticed a man just inside the entrance to the alleyway. He was sure no one had been there a moment earlier.

  His heartbeat quickened.

  Kemp pretended to read Archie’s bit of paper while he studied the man.

  It was a hunched over old man, he thought, shrouded in a long, dark cloak, with a thick scarf wrapped round his chin and nose. He had a kind of wide-brimmed hat pulled down over his head in such a way that Kemp couldn’t identify a face. The figure leaned on a stick like a blind man.

  Maybe, Kemp thought, this is Archie’s ghost.

  Thirty-Four

  Solomon’s Party Plans

  Solomon leant on the oak door, and listened as their footsteps receded down the corridor. He let out a sigh. Had she believed him? It was hard to read her expression.

  Returning to the soft leather armchair, he picked up his schedule. Isabella’s persistence was admirable, if misplaced. No, no. Nothing was going to stop today going ahead, neither a big storm nor a few drops of rain.

  Goodness me, he thought, this is Yorkshire, the finest county in all of England, God’s Own Country! Thunder and lightning go hand in hand with the rough landscapes of the moors and the dales.

  Kids these days were getting soft.

  He chuckled to himself. Met Bureau? What nonsense. He simply knew that the only way he’d be able to stop her in her tracks was to throw something scientific back at her.

  But why Mr Fish? It was an implausibly good name for a weatherman.

  In any case, he had a busy morning ahead. Press were turning up, and there were place names to sort out for the banquet in the school chamber. It was an evening he’d anticipated for years. How much sweeter still if they won the cup?

  He hoped that sister of Isabella’s, Daisy, would play her heart out again. What a player! He’d never seen the like. She was George Best, Pele, Messi, and Ronaldo, all blended into one slender slip of a girl. Brave as a mercenary, tough as leather, quick as a pike and slippery as ice.

  He sighed before returning to the matter of wondering who he should sit next to tonight. Geraldine Forbes, perhaps. The star of Summerdale, the TV soap. Yes, perfect. Famed for her gritty Yorkshire one-liners, in reality she was a delightful, attractive lady, with beautiful green eyes and lips as full as cushions.

  He pictured the scene in his mind; the hall decorated to the nines in the school’s scarlet and green colours, candles accentuating the Gothic arched windows, and trophies and cups sparkling in the atmospheric light. Magnificent!

  It would be a banquet that the governors, his friends, and their exclusive guests, would never forget.

  Afterwards, he’d make his retirement speech and receive warm, generous, and heartfelt thanks from those whose lives he had touched. Yes, he mused. It was to be a glorious swan song.

  Nobody, certainly not Isabella de Lowe, was going to stop it.

  His mood turned from happy to jovial. Mr Fish. Ah yes! The forecaster who in 1987 told the whole nation there was no need to worry, shortly before a devastating hurricane ripped across England.

  Solomon laughed out loud and dabbed his brow. What if Isabella rang up the Met Bureau and asked to speak to Mr Fish?

  Whatever will they think?

  Thirty-Five

  Kemp’s Fight

  A roar rang out from below. Kemp spun back to the game. He picked out the chant of "Daisy de Lowe, GO, GO, GO" and smacked his fist into his hand. Dammit. She must have scored.

  Kemp reached into his pocket and his hand touched a waxy piece of paper. It was a sweet wrapper. With a frown on his face, he tried to work out how it had got there. Of course, it was from a pack of Haribo he’d stolen from one of Daisy’s girlie friends at break. He’d stuffed the sweet in his mouth and nonchalantly tossed one of the wrappers into the headmaster’s rose garden, where it stuck comically on a thorn and flapped in the breeze.

  So, how come this one was folded, and in his pocket?

  He pulled the wrapper out, opened it up and stared at it. Strangely, the sweet paper not only looked larger than he remembered, but scribbled all over it were random lines like spaghetti plonked on a plate.

  Just as he was about to trash it, a few of the lines started to look familiar. Faces? he thought. Kemp scanned it, turning it sideways and then round again. Three figures came out at him, like a "magic eye" puzzle revealing itself on the wrapper.

  There were three clear faces staring back at him.

  Then it struck him. It was the de Lowes! Absolutely, definitely, them, all smug and cheerful and ghastly. As he studied it, their faces seemed to melt away into the paper, like slush dripping through a gutter.

  The next time he blinked, he was staring at nothing. Not a damn thing.

  He turned the sweet paper over.

  Blank.

  Kemp felt a surge of excitement run through him. Was this some kind of joke?

  He slapped his cheeks and rubbed his eyes. He looked at the wrapper again. Its colour was changing gradually from white through grey to almost black, like the vast cloud above them. The words "HELP ME" started to form in tiny molten streaks of lightning on the paper, as if the words were being burned into it.

  Kemp crumpled the paper up and tossed it in the gutter.

  His heart raced. For a moment, sickness overwhelmed him.

  Instinctively, he started walking faster and faster, as if walking might make what he had just seen go away.

  Kemp bounded up a series of wide stone steps back to street level, and tentatively made his way towards the street�
�s beamed dwellings. He peered down the dark alleyway but it was empty, save for the black wheelie bins guarding it like mini soldiers.

  As he took his first step under the buildings, he noted how the houses on either side weren’t leaning over the street as if they were kissing, more leaning towards each other like fighters braced for combat.

  He heard a groan from the crowd below, and moved to the roadside to figure out what was happening.

  Bodies lay all over the pitch. Had Newton won a penalty?

  Was that Archie staring up at him?

  He waved back, before turning and walking into the alleyway.

  Halfway down, he slowed. He sensed something behind him. Who? A teacher? Nah, unlikely. They’d be watching the game, or making last minute plans for the performances later on. In any case, by now they’d have said something.

  Gus Williams. He almost spat his name out. Williams was coming after all. It was exactly his style to creep up on people.

  Kemp curled his fist into a ball. ‘Williams,’ he said, ‘I’m warning you. Stop, and walk away, NOW.’

  There was no reply.

  He could feel the presence edging closer.

  Kemp bent down, pretending to tie his boots. His pulse raced. He readied himself. He sensed the person behind him was now only a couple of paces away.

  ‘I’ve been waiting for this,’ Kemp said, and in one movement swung around and threw his biggest punch. His momentum carried him forward, his fist unstoppable.

  But it wasn’t Williams. It was the old man.

  Instead of connecting, his arm careered straight through the man, propelling Kemp onto the grey stone. His head cracked on the paving as he went down.

  ‘You don’t have to do that, Archie,’ said a gravelly voice from behind the scarf. ‘We’re on the same team now.’

  Kemp was struggling to get to grips with what had happened.

  ‘Believe me, it is excellent news that you have arrived on time.’