“I’m looking for work, ma’am,” the traveller answered, hat in hand. “I’m a schoolmaster but I’d take any odd jobs for grub right now. ‘Til the worst of the weather passes, anyhows.”
“Don’t need no schoolmasters ‘ere,” came the reply. The traveller heard pigs at the woman’s back; pigs and snorting horses. He smelled dung and straw. The crone blinked furiously. “Don’t need anyone ‘ere as a matter-a fact.”
“I see.” The traveller braced himself and asked the old lady if he might shelter somewhere on the grounds for the night. “Seeing as it’s so cold and that, out.”
She wiped her long, dripping nose on a dirty sleeve. “Not an inn, either.” But a raised palm indicated he should wait
The hatch slammed shut and the traveller took in his surroundings, blowing into his hands to warm them. Directly in front of the Main Building was a flat, uneven meadow spotted with dollops of manure. A night mist was coming in, oozing from between the trunks, which lined the entrance path, filling the open spaces. The full moon was gradually being rubbed out by cloud and the traveller thought of his wife and young children. If it wasn’t for them he’d have stopped long ago: lain down to sleep and die in some frozen field in the middle of nowhere
A male voice not more than a whisper sounded over his shoulder, “Come inside, then, my friend. Don’t dawdle. Come inside, out of the cold.”
The traveller wheeled about: the wooden door was open, golden warmth within, and he saw the ground floor was indeed a shuffling menagerie of animals. An elderly, cowled, shrivelled monk with misty-blue marbles for eyes, took the traveller’s hands in his own. “Come on inside, my boy, come on inside. Follow me in, follow me in. There’s a fire over here, look. Get yourself warm, won’t you? ‘Tis bitter cold out there, I’ll bet.”
“God bless you, kind sir.”
“Travelled far, have you, my young friend?” The two men stood together amid the snuffling pigs. The monk was trembling in hands and lips
“A fair distance, sir, yes. From the Midlands, sir, or thereabouts.”
“Oh! Quite a journey, then.” The monk licked his lips to wet them and whistled his s’s. “The Midlands. I see. I see. And what brings you here, of all places, if I may be so impertinent as to enquire?”
“I’m bound for London, sir, but, perhaps now is not the best time to be in the city.”
“Plague, again, eh?”
“I believe so, sir.” The traveller saw those blackened, wagging fingers again, banging up and down to the rhythm of the cart
“Schoolmaster, are we?” The monk nodded his trembling head at the traveller’s satchel. “Mrs Sharpe said something about you being a learned man. Came here looking for work, I suppose? The villagers at the Benbow pointed you here, did they? Yes, well. We’re trying to make a go of it. One must stay true to one’s principles, eh? Follow one’s own convictions. Do what’s right, as it were.”
The traveller thought the monk might be nervous. Religion was a sensitive political subject. “I only wish shelter for the night, sir. I wish to cause no trouble. If there is work, sir, I should be happy to undertake it. If not I shall be on my way at dawn.”
“Yes, yes. Very well. I see. You may sleep here, of course.” The old monk wafted a hand around the clucking, snivelling beasts. Two pigs were standing beneath the traveller, dirty ears bent over their black snouts, sniffing and licking at the mud, or whatever it was they liked, on his boots. “They’ll all settle down shortly, I shouldn’t wonder. They’ll need their sleep too.”
The traveller looked around the dirty floor and walls. There was a small hay shelf which looked sturdy enough and he thought he might sleep there. Anything was better than another night outside. “I shall be more than comfortable here, sir. And I thank you and your lady for your hospitality.”
The monk bowed and then began to haul himself up a leaning ladder to the upper floor, his sandals raining dust from the wooden rungs. “Mrs Sharpe will bring you supper shortly,” the monk called down. “I’m sure you could use something to eat and drink.”
“Many thanks again, sir. Most kind of you.”
But when Mrs Sharpe did come down the ladder, wart bulging, in a foul temper, carrying a tray of bread, cheese and small beer, she found the young man snoring on the hay shelf as the pigs made light work of his satchel
3
Alain Verne was in the bathtub in the attic of the Old Cottage, his head propped up against the white rim of the tub. He was sweating, the water scalding hot, a flannel draped across his reddening chest. He had read that Napoleon took baths like this and Napoleon was fast becoming a hero of his. It wasn’t because he was French but because he was his own man. Self-made. Fearless
OK – French too. That didn’t hurt
A bath, one’s own private bathroom, was a privilege which came to Alain as Head of the Magistrate. The room itself was only small, the antiquated toilet jammed up against the edge of the tub, the cistern bubbling by the roof and the roof itself so angular and sloping so steeply that you had to mind your head not to bang it, but it was his. Only his. No shared showers or urinals for Alain!
The wind blew against the window in gusts. Alain closed his eyes, disregarded the infrequent thumps, the leaking tap and the water dripping off his nose into the water and thought of Gillian
She was his default setting, the Queen of his mind. She was there when he closed his eyes and he studied her as a though she were a piece of art, which she was. He watched her now, sighing to himself, wondering how something so wonderful could ever have been created. As she revolved slowly in the darkness of his mind he saw her lovely, kissable mouth open and heard her whisper, “Beware water.”
The Head of the Magistrate opened his eyes. “Qui est là?”
There was a scratching on the door of the bathroom and the single bulb above the sink flickered. Something was pressing against the door. Scratching. Whining
“Who’s there?” Alain sat up in the steaming water and some slopped out over the edge onto the tiles, landing with a splat. He swore. “I’m in the bath! Get out!”
The door was pushed slowly open and a large male baboon padded in on all fours. Its face was bright red and blue, its mane grey, furry and fluffed up. Behind its sleek, swishing, muscular body, its tail was up, waving too. Its small, dark eyes fixed on Alain and it came to an unhurried halt before him baring its teeth in a terrible, silent scream
Alain was frozen, one knee out of the water. He could smell the animal
The bulb flickered and died and he was cast into darkness. He could hear the baboon breathing. Hear its nails scratching on the tiles
Good evening, a voice told him
Alain was wide awake now, blind, completely blind, but aware of movement. Coolness replaced the stench of beast. Cold rushed in around him. He felt as though he were floating. He was not in his bathroom. Looking down, he couldn’t see himself. No water. “Who are you?”
I confirm your suspicions.
“Master?”
It is I.
“My suspicions?”
In the vast, inky murk, which comprised his field of vision, Alain thought he could make out a lighter area somewhere up above him, where the sloping ceiling should have been. Perhaps this was the ceiling or a glimpse at whatever form the Master had taken. But then the dark floor lightened, too, and he had a sensation of moving upwards, of rising towards the higher light
The imposter is not real.
“The boy?” Alain gasped. “I knew it!”
Indeed.
“Is he here?” Alain looked about him. “Here in the school, I mean? Is he still here?”
Of course. He cannot escape.
“And you can’t find him? I thought you had people for that? I thought that’s what you did?”
The Master remained silent
“I apologise,” Alain muttered, blind eyes staring about the darkness. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude. I’m just worried. If one of them is here, I need to know. I
need to sort things out. Can you take me back? I don’t even know where I am! Am I dreaming? Take me back now and I will find the boy. I will find him and remove him!”
You are in water.
Alain looked up. Yes, through that shimmering, wobbling ceiling of light above him he could see clouds and trees, like reflections. Like looking up through the surface of water
Beware water.
Alain felt cold liquid fill his mouth, ears and nostrils and knew he would drown if he didn’t swim upwards immediately. The chill liquid tasted of mud and grit got between his teeth. He kicked blind. Kicked on. Closing his stinging eyes, he broke the surface, feeling daylight and wind. He gulped air
A cold morning. Rocks, sharp against his hands, water black at his neck like a too-tight collar
He was tiny, minute. The wind fierce. Plants wild and flapping like tongues
Staring ahead at the vast gravel horizon Alain saw an enormous ant stop and block out the sun. It twitched its black, shiny head and Alain thought about diving underwater to escape it but then both of them noticed a growing rumbling, like far off thunder, and the ant scuttled away
“Oh, no.”
Alain dragged himself out of the puddle using a twig the size of a branch floating near his head. Heaving himself out, he ran for the grass verge as a herd of white trainers came beating down the path. Gigantic waves doused him and the backwash unbalanced him. Only by jamming himself across the bars of the grate, body rigid, star-shaped, did he manage to avoid being sucked down the drain
When the waters subsided, cascading away to the well-bottom sewer, he crawled to his feet, sodden, and balanced his way across one of the iron beams like a gymnast. He negotiated the tarmac, scaled the kerb and ran into St Nicholas House under the back door
A moment later he was normal size, standing, dripping, in his bathroom in the Old Cottage, the light bulb flickering and holding, paw marks on the tiles and a voice in his head, but not his own, repeating, each time more softly than the last:
Beware water
Beware water
Beware water
4
“Kizzie … Kizzie!”
A scything wind was sharpening the thorns on the rose bushes which lined the route of the girls’ morning run. While the boys made their circuit clad only in shorts and trainers, the girls ran in jumpers, cardigans, tracksuits and, sometimes, with duvets wrapped around their shoulders
Kizzie’s fair complexion was stained strawberry from the exertion of running against the wind. She jogged on the spot as her friend ran up. “Gil? What’s up? Are you all right, babes?”
“Aye, why?”
“Because normally you don’t say a word until after breakfast.”
Gillian managed a smile, panting now that she’d caught Kizzie up. “Come on. Keep going. I need a favour, Kiz. A big favour.”
Both girls slowed – eyes flicking housewards to check neither Magistrates nor Miss Bainbridge were on the prowl – and Kizzie, sensing the seriousness in Gillian’s expression, inquired after more information. “Go on then.” She smiled sympathetically, sniffing through her bright pink nose. “What is it?”
“I wanna get married,” Gillian said. “No. Change that. I’m going to get married. Aye, I’m going to get married. This morning. And I want you to do it. The ceremony, that is.”
Kizzie’s face contorted. “Eh?”
“I know.”
“Rewind.”
“I know. I know.”
“Married, you say?”
“Aye.”
“Who to?”
“Him.”
“Who?”
“Him!”
“Alain Verne?”
“What? No!” Now it was Gillian’s turn to look horrified. “No, Kizzie, no! Come on!”
“Then who?”
“The guy I was telling you about. The guy from the holiday.”
“Oh! Him.”
“Yes!”
They jogged on. “Did he message you or something? Track you down online?”
“No!” Gillian shook her arms in exasperation. “It’s him, Kiz! The one who was here!”
“Who? Where?”
“From the fields, yesterday.”
“The one you kissed?”
“Yes!”
“The naked one?”
“Yes!”
“Bloke from Italy?”
“Yes!”
“Why was he naked?” Kizzie grabbed Gillian. “Oh, did he sell all of his clothes to get here?”
“I don’t know!” Gillian pulled her friend close, interlocking elbows. “Look, it doesn’t matter what you think, anyway, because it’s all sorted. And I know it sounds crazy and I know it sounds nuts but we’ve talked about it and we don’t have much time and we both want to do it.”
“Get married. Right.” Kizzie’s eyelids fluttered closed as a piercing arrow of pure Arctic breath blew through her
“Aye.”
“Oh God, you want me to marry you, don’t you?”
“Yes! Come on. You said it. You said it was just a ceremony. You said there were ways. All that stuff, that witchcraft, pagan stuff or whatever. Your books!”
“Stuff?”
They were coming close to the entrance. Warmth. Company. “Will you do it or not?”
“Of course!”
“I love you.”
“Love you too, babes!”
“Forever!”
“Whatever.”
The sky cleared, the wind dropped and sleet showers stopped and started
Back in the dorm, Kizzie and Gillian recruited Athy, half-asleep, as maid of honour, and Angela, setting out for a run, said she’d drop off a message to Zak in the boys’ House on her way out. “We have to do this right now, do we?” Kizzie asked, looking out of the window
“Yep, has to be now.” Gillian checked her watch
“I don’t get this at all,” muttered Athy. She was wearing a multi-coloured, knitted balaclava with matching gloves and was trying to scratch her nose. She ended up having to ask her sister to do it
“Let’s go,” said Gillian, anxious, holding open the door
“Where?” asked Kizzie, scooping bits and pieces from a drawer into the pockets of her coat. “St Catherine’s?”
“The Dips.”
“Romantic!” Kizzie laughed
“Just don’t say anything,” Gillian replied. “To anyone.”
The three girls tried their best not to look conspicuous as they filed out of the dorm and walked down a corridor swarming with girls with combs and headphones and tablets and towels, criss-crossing from room to room. Amazingly no one asked where they were going and they used the back stairs to wind their way down to the ground floor where the canteen was steamed up. “Early aren’tcha?” asked one of the kitchen staff, smoking outside the library
“Quick constitutional,” Gillian said, mimicking her grandmother. “Work up an appetite, you know.”
“Good luck, lass. Rather you than me.”
The girls walked, heads down, through flurries to The Steps and then cut down between the sixth form block and the tennis courts. There was no one about, only the sound of Bob Dylan’s Time Out Of Mind being played at top volume in the senior boy’s house
The rough scrubland, which led down to The Dips, was hard with hoary frost but mushy in places and they had to be careful. When they got to the stamped-down ground under the kissing sycamores all three exchanged a glance
“Here?” asked Kizzie
“Here,” nodded Gillian, peeping back the way they’d come
The sky was eraser white, the snow like the broken shards which are swept off paper. The girls went into a heightened sense of alertness, careful to watch for any approaching movement. Like the roar of a far-off waterfall, the morning traffic on the bypass hummed by behind the old, red-brick wall at their backs
“And what the devil are you three doing here?”
Gillian screamed and slapped Zak as he bundled in amongst
them laughing
“Idiot!”
“Good soldiers you lot would be!” Zak laughed
“What are you doing here?” Athena asked quietly. “I seriously don’t know what’s going on at all. The world’s gone mad.”
“You sound like gran,” laughed Kizzie
“Hello,” Gillian said, suddenly, quietly, in a voice which drew all their attention to the boy who was standing behind them. Even Zak fell silent for a moment. “These are my friends,” Gillian explained, introducing the others. “Guys, this is Romeo.”
Zak snorted but not for long. “You actually look like a Romeo,” he said, shaking the pale boy’s hand. “Nice to see you with some clothes on, too, mate.”
Romeo laughed. “Sorry you had to see that.”
Zak began to mumble something about cold streams and running when, thankfully, he was interrupted
“Ah!” Athena cried, brightening. “Was that you? Yesterday? Purple?”
“Kiz, can we just get started,” Gillian asked. “Just do whatever you have to do.”
“What are we doing?” asked Zak and Athena at the same time
“Us two are going to get married,” Gillian explained. “Kizzie’s going to do it. You’re witnesses.”
“What?” asked Athy, shaking her balaclava and lifting her gloves
“Love it,” nodded Zak
“OK, here’s what we’re going to do,” began Kizzie. She’d tied some manner of tingling, jingling string to the boughs of both trees and as she spoke, she moved everyone into position, Athy behind Romeo and Zak behind Gillian. Kizzie took her place in front of the nervous couple and smiled at them, making them hold hands
Kizzy began, icy smoke streaming from her lips. “We are gathered here this morning to celebrate a union.” Her eyes were honest and clear. “A union of hearts and souls, the hearts and souls of Romeo and Gillian.”
Zak made a clicking noise. “Hear, hear.”
“Sshh.”
“Are we pretending or is this real?” asked Athy
“We don’t have much time so I’m going to keep this short,” Kizzie went on. “First I’m going to say that I only agreed to do this for both of you this morning because I believe you are both sincere
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