Allie whirled around and took off. Leaping over Mrs Burson’s low fence, she ran to the back gate she knew was always unlocked and tore through it. Behind her she could hear the men swearing and struggling to get through the gate in the dark as she pounded back to the park, across the slippery grass and through the fence on the far side.
Twisting and turning her way through the neighbourhood, she ran until she couldn’t hear them behind her. Then she jumped a garden wall and crawled beneath a hedge.
When she hadn’t heard footsteps for what seemed like an hour, she pulled her phone out of her pocket with shaking hands.
Now she sat on the smooth leather passenger seat in the black Audi, watching as Rachel’s dad manoeuvred through traffic on the South Circular at speeds well over the allowed limits. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust him exactly, but she kept her distance, leaning against the door, one hand resting on the handle.
Rachel kind of looks like him, Allie thought. But his skin was darker and his hair was coarse, whereas Rachel’s was all glossy curls.
He didn’t speak until the rows of houses around them thinned, then faded away, replaced by dark pastures.
‘You OK?’ he asked then. His question was abrupt but she could hear a touch of fatherly concern underlying the words.
‘I’m fine,’ she said, sitting straighter. ‘Just a bit … freaked out.’
‘Thank you for trusting me,’ he said. ‘I wasn’t sure you would at first.’
‘You look like her,’ Allie said. ‘Like Rachel, I mean. So … I believe you.’
For the first time he smiled, his eyes on the road. ‘Don’t tell her that. Her mum’s the pretty one in the family.’
He looked nicer when he smiled, and Allie felt herself relax a little.
‘What happened?’ he said. ‘We left your house two hours ago and everything was fine.’
‘You were at my house?’ Allie tensed again.
‘Not inside.’ He seemed to sense her anxiety and his voice was calming. ‘Just nearby. Isabelle asked me to keep an eye on you. One of us has been there – one of my guys – every day.’
Rachel had told her he ran a security firm – one so respected it was used by presidents and business executives. Other than that she didn’t really know anything about him, except that he went to Cimmeria when he was a kid.
As hard as she tried to remember seeing him or anyone like him on her street, Allie came up with nothing. The idea that she’d been watched all the time gave her the creeps.
‘Everything was fine,’ she said. ‘There was nobody outside when I went to the park. When I came back, though, those guys were just standing around my street. They recognised me.’
‘Did they try to grab you?’ He glanced at her.
She shook her head. ‘They said they wanted to talk to me. But I didn’t believe them,’ she said. ‘I ran. They never touched me.’
‘Good girl.’
Hearing approval in his voice, Allie felt a flush of unexpected pride.
‘I’m surprised you got away from them, though,’ he said. ‘They’re very good at what they do.’
Her shrug was modest. ‘I’m kind of fast. I ran where I thought they might have trouble following me.’
‘And you wore black,’ he said.
‘Isabelle told me to wear it at night, just in case.’
He pulled on to the M25, glancing into the side mirror to make sure the way was clear.
‘I’m sorry she was right,’ he said.
‘Me too,’ Allie replied, slipping further down into her seat, and watching the cars slip behind them as he sped up. Now that she was warm and safe, all the adrenaline drained from her body. Her eyelids drooped.
‘What about my parents?’ she asked, weariness making her voice thick.
‘Isabelle will phone them and explain,’ he said. ‘They’ll know you’re safe.’
Allie rested her head against the seatback.
‘Good,’ she murmured. ‘I don’t want them to be scared.’
In a few minutes she was asleep.
A cool breeze woke her some time later. She sat up with a start.
The car wasn’t moving. The driver’s side door was open – she was alone.
The night around her seemed unnaturally quiet after London. There were no sounds of traffic. No sirens. She could hear low voices nearby – a man and a woman talking quietly.
Sitting up, she ran her hands through her mussed hair.
‘You’re certain no one followed you?’ the woman asked.
‘Positive,’ Rachel’s dad replied.
‘Poor thing. She must be exhausted,’ the woman said. ‘I didn’t wake Rachel; we can tell her in the morning.’
Allie opened the car door and their conversation stopped.
Mr Patel was talking to a woman with light brown hair and fair skin. She wore jeans and a long blue cardigan, which she’d belted tight across her torso.
‘Um … hi,’ Allie said, uncertainly.
‘Allie,’ Mr Patel said, ‘this is Rachel’s mum, Linda.’
It was so dark around them, Allie could see very little. She could just make out the shape of a building behind them – one light on in a ground-floor room. An open door.
She was still trying to orient herself when Mrs Patel put her arm around her shoulders and ushered her to the house. ‘I think it’s a cup of hot chocolate and bed for you, Allie. I’ve put a few of Rachel’s things in your room – they might be a bit big but you should be able to make them work. It’s only for a short time anyway.’
A steaming mug was placed in her tired hands then Mrs Patel led her up a flight of stairs to a spacious room with thick cream-coloured carpet and pale yellow walls. The lamp by the bed cast the room in a soft light and the double bed, covered in a lemony duvet, was made and turned down.
‘The bathroom is there.’ Mrs Patel pointed at a door. ‘And the clothes I’ve left you are in the dresser. Make yourself at home. Rachel will come to get you in the morning and bring you down to breakfast. Sleep well. We’ll talk it all over in the morning.’ With a reassuring smile, she closed the door behind her.
Allie sat on the bed for a long moment. She knew she should get up and wash her face. Find something to sleep in. Figure out where exactly she was.
Instead she kicked off her shoes and lay back against the pillows. Then, rolling on to her side, she curled up into a tight ball and counted her breaths.
THREE
‘Welcome back.’ After running lightly down the old stone stairs in front of the intimidating Victorian brick building that held Cimmeria Academy, Isabelle le Fanult pulled Allie into a warm hug. ‘I’m so glad to see you in one piece!’
‘It’s good to be whole.’ Allie grinned at the headmistress.
After the London rescue, she’d spent a few days sheltering with the Patels, which consisted mainly of hanging out by the pool and, memorably, riding a horse for the first time.
Clearly seeing a girl in need of a parent, Mrs Patel had overfed Allie and fretted about her safety, while Rachel’s younger sister, Minal, followed them everywhere, eager to be included in everything they did. In some ways it was bittersweet; the Patels were the kind of family Allie had always wanted. The kind of family hers had almost been once.
But Rachel’s father and Isabelle had decided they’d be safer at Cimmeria. So even though school didn’t start for another ten days, Mr Patel had driven the girls back.
The school looked the same as it had in the summer – huge, solid and intimidating. The three-storey red-brick building towered over them – its slate roof a range of Gothic peaks and valleys where wrought iron finials thrust into the sky like an armoury of dark knives. Symmetrical rows of arched windows seemed to watch them as they pulled their bags from the car.
The headmistress had pulled her light brown hair back tightly with a clip, and wore a white Cimmeria polo shirt over a pair of jeans. Allie couldn’t remember ever seeing her in jeans before.
‘Thank you f
or sending Mr P. to save me,’ Allie said. ‘I don’t know what would have happened without him.’
‘You followed my instructions perfectly.’ Even on a cloudy day like today the headmistress’ golden-brown eyes seemed to glow. ‘You were very brave. I can’t tell you how proud of you I am.’
Blushing, Allie looked down at her feet.
‘And Rachel, my star student.’ Smoothly deflecting attention, Isabelle turned. ‘Thank heaven you’re back; the library needs you. Eloise will be so glad you’re here. Hello, Raj.’ As she shook Rachel’s father’s hand she arched one eyebrow. ‘Or should I call you, Mr P.?’
‘If you must.’ His smile was wry. ‘I seem to have no say in the matter.’
Turning back to the stack of luggage beside the car, Isabelle said, ‘I assume most of these hold your books, Rachel? You can leave them here between terms, you know. We won’t throw them away.’
Grinning, Rachel picked up one of her bags and heaved it over her shoulder. ‘You know how I am, Isabelle …’
‘Indeed I do. Well let’s get you settled in. Everybody’s busy with the repair work, so we’re more on our own than usual.’
The headmistress picked up a bag and walked briskly to the door. The others lumbered themselves with luggage and followed her through the grand entryway with its stained glass window, dull on this cloudy day with no sun to illuminate it. Allie noticed the fanciful unicorn tapestry usually found hanging near the door was missing. And it soon became clear much more had changed since she’d last seen the school on the night it nearly burned down.
‘Carter, Sylvain and Jo are here already.’ Isabelle’s voice echoed as they walked across the stone floor towards the grand hallway. ‘Jules will be back in the next few days, as will Lucas and a few of the older students, but we’ll be a small group until term starts.’
In the wide, main hallway, the wood floors were covered in an inelegant carpet of dirty canvas dust sheets. The dozens of oil paintings that usually brightened the glossy oak wall panelling had all been removed. Without them the space felt oddly naked and, to Allie, disturbingly impermanent.
Ahead, Isabelle was still talking cheerfully but Allie noticed how high-pitched she sounded; she could hear the strain the headmistress was trying to hide.
‘Because some rooms were damaged in the fire, classes and bedrooms are being shifted around.’ Isabelle’s sensible, rubber-soled shoes gripped each step with firm assurance. ‘We must be ready by the time the rest of the students begin arriving in ten days. I think you’ll find volunteering to help is compulsory.’
At a brisk pace, she led them up the wide staircase, where the Edwardian crystal chandelier overhead was draped in a filmy, protective fabric that looked like a gigantic spider-web. As she trotted after the others, she could hear hammers banging somewhere, workers shouting orders and the sound of something being dragged.
She’d known repairs would be needed. Even though she’d left the day after the fire, she’d seen enough to know the work would be substantial. But somehow she hadn’t envisioned the school so … damaged. Stripped of the art and details that had made it feel like a fairy tale castle it seemed wounded, and she trailed her hand softly up the wide, polished oak banister as if to comfort it.
At the top of the stairs they turned on to a narrower staircase which led them to another hallway and then a second set of steps. The acrid smell of smoke was stronger here and Allie’s stomach churned as she remembered the night a few weeks before when she’d seen her brother, Christopher, standing down the hall, a flaming torch in one hand, as he set fire to the school.
As if she’d expected this reaction, Isabelle was by her side in an instant, putting an arm around her shoulders and turning her away from her room.
‘Your room had smoke and water damage, Allie, so we’ve moved you down the hall.’ She steered Allie past her usual door to one marked 371. ‘Your things have already been moved.’
‘Hey, that’s right next to mine!’ Rachel said, throwing open the door marked 372. As she walked in Allie heard her say, ‘Hello small, rectangular personal space. How I love you.’
Isabelle opened the door to Allie’s room. ‘I thought you might feel better living closer to Rachel.’
The plainly furnished room smelled of the sticky-clean, chemical scent of fresh paint. Allie stood in the doorway as Isabelle fussed with the arched, shutter-style window, pushing it open to let the watery grey light flood in.
The tall bookcase was lined with the familiar spines of her small collection of books. The bed was covered in a fluffy white duvet, and a dark blue blanket was folded neatly over the footboard – just as it had been in her previous room. Everything was exactly the same.
Isabelle was already heading out of the door. ‘Your parents sent some of your things over; I’ve put them in the wardrobe. Once you’re all settled in, come and find me. Let’s have a chat.’
As the door closed Allie’s heart gave a happy flutter. She was back where she belonged.
This homecoming was so different from last term, when she first arrived at Cimmeria. Back then it had seemed intimidating and hateful. Most of the students had treated her like a gatecrasher at an exclusive party. Her parents had been so angry with her at the time – she’d just been arrested – they told her nothing about the school. They just drove her here and dropped her off. When Jules, the perfect, blonde prefect, showed her around on her first day she’d felt like an idiot. It was only then that she discovered its bizarre rules – all electronic devices were banned, and nobody could leave the school grounds – and the elite group known as Night School, which gathered secretly after curfew and took part in strange training rituals other students were forbidden even to watch.
But despite all of that weirdness, only two months later, this felt like her real home.
She opened the wardrobe and lugged out the small suitcase her parents had sent. She’d been quite specific about what they were to include. Several books, all her notebooks, a few changes of clothes and …
She smiled.
There they are. Right on top.
Her red, knee-high Doc Martins.
She caressed the scuffed, dark red leather with one hand; with the other she held the note her mother had put in the case.
‘Cimmeria provides your shoes, so I don’t know why you need these …’ it began.
‘I know you don’t, Mum,’ Allie muttered with mild irritation. She scanned the rest of the note – it said nothing about what had happened in London that night. Nothing about Isabelle or Nathaniel. Nothing that mattered.
So they were back to pretending again, then.
Sometimes Allie felt as if she’d been accidentally scooped up from her rubbish, ordinary world and dropped into the middle of somebody else’s life. A life in which everyone was at war. Now she was in the line of fire but had no idea who was doing the shooting. Although she was beginning to learn who to trust.
She hurried to empty the rest of the suitcase but it all seemed to take too long, and the case was still open on the floor when she ran out of the room. Rapping her knuckles with impatient force on Rachel’s door, she walked in without waiting for an answer to find Rachel sitting on the floor surrounded by stacks of books, with an open text in her lap.
During the few days Allie had spent with Rachel’s family, she’d felt as if she had the sister she’d always secretly wanted. As they’d splashed in the pool and wandered the family’s well-guarded horse pastures, they’d talked about everything: Carter, Nathaniel, Allie’s mother, Rachel’s father. Allie felt that she could tell Rachel everything and not be judged. And she could tell her anything and know that she could trust her.
‘Let’s unpack later.’ Allie hopped from one foot to another. ‘Don’t you want to see the library?’
‘You mean, don’t I want to go with you to find Carter?’ As she closed her book and climbed to her feet, Rachel’s smile was indulgent. ‘Of course I do.’
On the ground floor, things were bustlin
g. A clatter of hammering emanated from the classroom wing, and through the open door they could see workers tearing out damaged plaster. Blackened panelling leaned against a wall awaiting removal; a scorched desk was discarded nearby. Workers hustled in and out in a busy stream. Scaffolding scaled the walls in silvery mesh.
Elsewhere, though, things looked better. The dining room was undamaged, and the common room looked just as it had before the fire.
Stepping into the great hall, they saw that it was in good shape but so filled with furniture they could only just squeeze inside. Clearly furniture was being stored here from rooms being repaired.
Rachel made her way gingerly past the legs of a chair which rested on its side under a desk. ‘I wonder where …’
At that moment, the door flew open and Sylvain rushed in carrying an Oriental rug rolled into a long, heavy tube. He was so focused on getting his awkwardly shaped cargo through the doorway that for a second he didn’t see them. Then he glanced up and his vivid blue eyes met Allie’s. Startled, he lost his footing and the rug swung wildly. Allie and Rachel ducked out of the way as he struggled to regain control, finally dropping the rug on to the floor with a dusty thud.
In the silence that followed, Allie noticed how his dark wavy hair had tumbled over his forehead. His tawny skin glistened from exertion. Then she wondered why she’d noticed that.
She nearly jumped when Rachel spoke. ‘Hi, Sylvain. We didn’t mean to startle you.’
‘Hello, Rachel. Welcome back.’
Hearing his familiar voice with its elegant French accent, Allie felt an indefinable surge of emotion. As if she’d moved, he turned back to her.
‘Hello, Allie,’ he said quietly.
‘Hey, Sylvain.’ She swallowed nervously. ‘I … I mean … How are you?’
‘I’m well.’
His oddly formal vocal cadence made him sound more sophisticated than his seventeen years, and when Allie had first met him just a word could make her melt.
But that was then.
‘How are you?’ he asked. As their awkward conversation continued, Rachel backed towards the door.
Night School: Legacy Page 2
