Gillian realised she was holding her breath. Every sense in her body, every nerve and neuron was agitated, and she knew she had to see the face of the youth even if it meant something horrible: for there was to be a horrible revelation, she forefelt it
“Totally amazing,” laughed Zak, coming over to them. “He just keeps saying, like, two sentences. It’s like he fell out of the sky or something.”
“Gyppo,” Sol smirked, spitting
Gillian left the others behind and felt completely alone, in perfect silence, with the boy. She joined the queue of pupils, passing alongside and before the youth – that funereal thing again! – and as she came around in front of him she reached the apex of trepidation. His dark hair was cut short and the strands of his wet fringe spiked down to his cheekbones. As he looked up, as if knowing she was there, they met eye to eye and all fear evaporated
Love poured into Gillian’s soul and his eyes smiled at her again – again, because it was him: the boy she remembered from Italy, from the holiday, from the bar – and she smiled right back. She couldn’t help it! Somewhere behind her shoulders Gillian could hear people speaking, like voices underwater, but she couldn’t remove her gaze from his
Looking into the boy’s eyes she saw the universe she’d come from, that she belonged in. His black pupils were great planets with fiery, divine halos encircling them. Shards of silver, slate and Ionian blue drew her close to his face and their lips sealed the bargain their eyes and souls had struck
“… back, Gil – there’s people coming!”
Gillian heard voices, caught her breath, and rocked back on her haunches. The words of the others were as loud and frightened. Standing, she looked down at the shivering, grey shape of the boy and tore off her coat, shirking clear of Kizzie long enough to drape it around his shoulders before the other girl got her away, pulling her free of the crowd
A group of prefects were now circling the sitting boy, facing outwards, arms joined at the elbows like policemen ordering the pupils back and away, back and away, back and away, and Kizzie led Gillian – who was dazed and wide-eyed and pale – back to their group. “I got her just in time,” she reported to the others
“Gillian, what the hell?” asked Angela, her hand over her mouth
“That was top class, really, Gil.” Zak laughed. “Amazing stuff.”
“Tongues and everything,” added Sol, clicking his fingers. “Straight in there, man!”
They began to drift back with the other pupils, back towards the path, the Assembly Hall, double Maths and normality, and soon Gillian was shaking her head and saying that she didn’t know what had happened to her, but of course she did
She could feel the afterburn of his lips on hers. She could feel the meshing of their souls, like smoke with smoke, and knew he was with her; that they were connected now. In her heart and soul she was happy and it was an odd feeling; something she was not used to
I am different, she thought. And she was
I am not the same girl who walked down here ten minutes ago. And she wasn’t
8
Miss Tartt’s nickname was The Bell because of an old haircut she’d long since ceased to live under. The name had been given to her years back, not long after she’d arrived at St Francis’s, and had been passed down through the years. She knew it well and considered it not half as bad as it might have been. The only thing that niggled her was the way she would hear pupils whispering “ding dong” at her as she approached. Some of the bolder boys might shout it from doorways or windows where they were hiding
She looked out at her class from behind her dark lashes and matt-black shiny hair. As usual she was wearing a sombre-coloured business suit, this time with thin white lapels and a brooch. In her long-fingered, purple-nailed hands she was holding a copy of Romeo and Juliet and was repeating, “Page three. Page three everyone. Page three, if you would all be so kind. If anyone would be so kind. If anyone would even listen to me. Is anyone listening to me? Does anyone know what Page Three even is? I’m doing this for you, people. I’ve read this book. I know this stuff. I know what’s on Page Three – do you?”
Angela kicked the back of Kizzie’s chair until the other girl turned around. “What?”
“Who is this?” Angela held up her own copy of the book and pointed at a pencil drawing. “This bloke here. Who is ‘e?”
“It’s him. Whatsisname. Shakespeare!”
“Seriously?” Angela was wide eyed. “Well, you know what? That’s the guy I saw this morning up on The Gallops!”
“What?”
“Swear to God.”
“Ladies!”
Angela and Kizzie looked up. “Sorry, miss,” they both said
“What page, Mr Harari?”
“Three, miss.”
“Three. That’s right. We have lift off. Here we go. Outer space. Sources.”
Angela stared down into the eyes of William Shakespeare: they were the same, slightly lost, mildly wild eyes she’d seen on the hill, pencil-grey in the book, blue in real life. And the earring, too. That was the strange thing. Oh, my God – and the clothes! Impulsively her hand shot up. “Miss!”
“Yes, Angela? Shock me.”
“Is this William Shakespeare, miss?” Angela held up the book
“It’s a likeness of the great man, yes.”
“Sure, sure, miss? I mean, like, one hundred percent?”
“It’s one of the likenesses that’s generally thought to represent Shakespeare, yes, Angela,” replied Miss Tartt. How far should she go into this? Just last night she’d been involved in an internet spat with an Oxfordian who believed Shakespeare had not written any of the plays or poems attributed to him
“So it might not be him?”
“It’s him,” declared Miss Tartt, with some finality. “Eyes down, let’s get on with this, I need a coffee.”
“Promise?”
“Angela.” The teacher put the book down on her desk and folded her arms. “All right, I’ll play. Hit me with it. Why are you so desperate to know?”
“I just,” Angela felt the eyes of the class burning into her. Kizzie’s seemed to be pleading with her not to tell the truth. “I just really want to know what he looked like, miss.”
“Why? We can form a picture of him from his words, Angela,” Miss Tartt began, “of which he left us plenty. Besides, it’s a futile exercise to try to image exactly how he looked physically as too much time has passed and we could never be quite sure. And then there’s the fact that it’s not important. What’s important are the words, the plays – ah! The play’s the thing – so it is, so it is. And today we’re looking at the sources of the plays, our play specifically, aren’t we? Yes, the sources. Yes, we are. Which, oh, my dedicated followers of fashion, are described on page?”
“Three,” came a chorus of weary voices
“Mr Keats. Read, if you will. Do your worst, my friend.”
“What, miss?”
“The paragraph which is headed, ‘sources’, sir. Read the goddamn thing.”
“Ah, ok, miss.”
“Miss Tartt?”
“Gillian. Let’s chat! Yes? What’s on your mind?”
“May I; could I ask you a question, miss?”
The teacher examined Gillian’s face and saw worry writ large. She dropped the act and the two of them stepped outside the classroom, in to the small vestibule where the children waited in bad weather; and a moment later everyone nearest the windows watched Gillian walk away around the corner of the nearest classroom towards The Quad. They dived back into their seats as the teacher re-entered the room
“Kizzie, take her things if she doesn’t come back, please,” Miss Tartt said. Then, changing back into character, the teacher took up her book and her position at the front of the class and barked, “Sources! Here we go. Next one to interrupt will be garrotted! Let’s go. Where are we? Where were we? Where are we going? What comes after two? What’s the atomic number of lithium? How many sons did Noah have? T
he fourth Fibonacci number and what you get if you say tree with a lisp is …?”
Gillian kept up her pained face until she’d walked through The Quad and was going down the steps towards the Main Building. She’d complained of a stomach ache and made sure that anyone peeking out of the windows at her, teacher or student, would be convinced she was in real pain. And, indeed, she was in pain: her entire body felt wracked with a desire to see the boy from the fields again
She wasn’t quite sure how she was going to manage it: she only knew that she’d go up to where the offices were, and see if she could find out what had happened. The Magistrate had taken him and that meant he’d probably be under their guard somewhere inside the Main Building. But after that, what? Would they call the police? Take him away? Gillian’s first thought was for the boy’s comfort: would they have given him clothes, made sure he’d eaten something? Were they looking after him properly?
The back door was open, the Hall empty but for a healthy fire. Gillian thought about checking the Eleusinian Room but decided against it: she wasn’t a prefect and there was no way she’d be able to get in. Her best hope was that the boy might be upstairs and she could pretend she was on her way to her house to get medicine for her stomach
She climbed the stairs slowly, hunched over, acting again, ready at any moment to explain her presence, but nobody stopped her and when she got to the headmaster’s landing she saw no sign of life but for some damp, fading, half-footprints on the green carpet
He’s still up here, she thought, and couldn’t help smiling
Gillian didn’t think twice. She began creeping along the landing, careful to avoid the creaking centre, until she was in the small passageway where the Headmaster’s study and the Secretary’s rooms were. She could hear voice – Firmin, someone else, more teachers – in the Headmaster’s study. She pressed her ear to the Secretary’s door, heard nothing and on instinct tried the handle. It was locked. She crouched to peep through the keyhole and saw him, the boy, sitting on a chair with the only window in the room bright as a spotlight behind him
He had a brown blanket thrown around his shoulders and looked drawn and tired. Gillian wanted to call out him and tapped as lightly as she could on the door with her short, square fingernails. She saw him come to life, as though out of a daze, and he came over to the door and crouched down by the keyhole, sniffing like a dog
“Are you all right?” Gillian whispered. She was so close to the door she could taste the bitter metal of the handle fixture
“Can you get me out?” the boy’s voice came back, also a whisper
“The door’s locked.”
“Also, the window.” The boy had an accent, she noticed. Not strong but not local nor British. More European. Southern European. Italian?
“Wait. I have an idea.” Gillian had thought of something: the girl’s trunk room, where they kept their cases and trunks, was next to the Secretary’s office. The walls adjoined. Perhaps there was some way she could get from the trunk room into the office? Perhaps there was an old door or a thin piece of wall? “I’ll be back in a sec.”
“Don’t go!”
Gillian back away and straightened up but as she turned down the main corridor she bumped hard into the chest of Alain Verne. “Ouch!”
“Gillian?” Alain picked his phone from the floor. “What’re you doing here?”
“I wanted to check on the boy,” she said, unable to lie
Alain’s face darkened and he shook his head. “He’s not here.”
“What? I just saw him.”
“You can’t see him,” Alain replied, growling before he could stop it. He wanted to control himself but raised a hand, a warning finger wagging. “Gillian, you don’t know what’s happening. That boy is very dangerous. We have a big problem with him.” He took a deep breath, looked once at the Headmaster’s door and then back to the girl. “Please. You must trust me. I can’t tell you any more than this but you must not think of him anymore. Don’t even think about contacting him. That boy is not what you think he is. It’s something complicated. Something strange. Unnatural.”
Gillian had her wits about her now and nodded. “Fine.”
Alain smiled and caught her by the elbow as she turned away. “One more thing.”
“What?” Gillian shook herself free. The boy’s grip was strong, like a pinch, and had hurt her
“Did you speak to your friend about me?”
“Who?”
“Kizzie?”
“No.”
Alain nodded. “Maybe we can talk some time? I’d like to ask you something.”
“Maybe. Not now, you know. Maybe later.”
There was a bang from one of the office doors and Alain turned his head. Gillian grabbed her chance and set off in the other direction, towards the house. Frustratingly, the trunk room was locked and after a quick tour of the empty dorms she walked back out into the corridor in time to hear raised voices on the stairs. Leaning out over the banisters she saw the boy – her boy – in the centre of a group of prefects and teachers, his head covered with the blanket but his arms and feet bare on the brown stairs
The people with him were shouting at him and Gillian felt tears spring up in her eyes as she watched. Stop being so cruel! she tried to say but her voice was barely a whisper
As the noisy party reached the Main Hall, the boy flung off the blanket and there was an anxious cry of voices and some violent shouting. The air lit up with tension. Gillian saw the boy’s bare shoulders flex and watched as two teachers went sprawling across the wooden floor on their backs, shock on their red faces
After a moment’s wonder, she turned and ran back through to the Dorm, running down the centre of the threadbare carpet to the window and pressing herself against the glass. She was just in time to see the naked boy sprinting away across the lawn chased by Alain, some other male members of the Magistrate and two puffing teachers
Half-laughing, half-crying, Gillian shouted him on, banging on the glass: “Keep going! Keep going! Keep going!”
9
Angela ran uphill in the dusk behind the pack of glowing, white singlets. The afternoon was so dark and gloomy that some of the leading girls were wearing climber’s lights. The beams danced about the tangled roots and bushes and turned the footpath into a tunnel
This was Angela’s second run of the day but she felt fine. She was with the cross-country team, pretending she was training again to keep her stamina up. “I might take the short way back, Oban,” Angela told the leader as she slowed and waved the others on
“Your ankle still sore from this morning, is it?” Oban raised an eyebrow
“No. Just some twinges here and there. Don’t want to do any damage.”
“Want me to send Joe or Sophie back with you? They’ll go by Alveston or St Gregory’s?”
Angela pulled a face. “Nah, I’m fine. I know the way like the back of my hand.”
“All right,” replied Oban, nodding. “Watch it though. Stay on the path and check in as soon as you get back.” He put his hands to his head. “Want to borrow my light?”
“No, no. I’ll be quick.”
“Careful, then.”
Angela nodded her assent and let herself back into the line of runners. It was so dark she couldn’t see the brambles tugging and snagging her clothes, only the white flashes of the trainers of the girl in front
When they came out at the The Gallops, Angela bent to tie a loose lace. She watched Oban, Sophie, Joe and the last of the white bibs fade into the gloom and set off in the opposite direction. The air was cold and clammy, as though there were dead snakes hanging, unseen, from the blotchy boughs. Alone, her breathing seemed louder; alone it always felt like there was someone being you, following you. Angela did what she always did and spoke aloud: Hello trees. Just look after me. I’m going home, that’s all. Just running home.
She looked up and saw the full moon staring back at her from an empty, grey, bruised sky. It seemed to reveal the path ah
ead, lighting the way silvery-bright and the small hairs on the nape of Angela’s neck prickled
The birds were singing a song that they only ever sang at sundown, pretty but sad. The noise always reminded her of her first night at St Francis, homesick and lost, lying on a scratchy blanket in her dorm, sleep and home a million miles away. If things were bad now, how had they been for the fat little girl who’d turned up at St Francis’s four years ago?
Were things really better now? Angela wasn’t sure. When she’d been fat, ugly and weird at least she’d been left alone. Now she had no way of avoiding people. She had to show this horrendous mess of a face to everyone, never mind how she woke up in the morning. It was humiliating, soul-destroying, to watch people’s eyes widen as they examined the eruptions and stains on her face, inclining their heads pityingly and thinking, so clearly Angela could hear it, oh, you poor thing, looking like that.
And she did look horrible, there was no point pretending otherwise. She looked a mess. Foul! Even her hair, no matter how many times she washed it, was constantly greasy. Her skin looked like someone had wiped an oily cloth over it. Her forehead seemed to be smeared with smashed up strawberry, and spattered with yellow paint. She was horrendous!
Can I have a piece of your face for dinner?
Oh God
Running was the only thing these days that made her feel better. Maybe if she kept running she’d get away from it all? From herself? Just keep running and never have to come back. Come back and be someone else! Why did everyone else – and, yes, it was everyone in the whole school, in her whole life – have better skin than her? Normal ears? Normal chins, thighs, ankles, shoulders and no weird scraggy necks and bad nails? Why was it everyone else had something that was more or less all right? Because normally, in this situation, people thought, well, at least you’re not so and so. But she was so and so! She was the worst case scenario. She was as bad as it gets and there was no way of ignoring that
I’m the bottom of the ladder.
The light that had been guiding her faded in a blink and Angela stumbled on a root, almost falling, and threw out her hands, the soles of her shoes slapping in the mud
Cold Fire Page 4
