“What is it with you, boy? What is it that you think you’re going to gain by playing your sick little games?”
“I don’t know what you mean, miss,” Oz said.
“Be quiet.” She hurled the words out through gritted teeth. “Sit down.”
Oz wasn’t going to play any of her little games. He didn’t want her looming over him. This was a school and it had rules. But it wasn’t a jail and he didn’t have to put up with being treated like a prisoner.
“No, thanks,” he said. “I’d rather stand.”
The Volcano suddenly let out a mirthless laugh. “Don’t think for one minute that I am not on your case, Chambers. I know all about your kind.” She glowered. “I see you when you don’t even know I’m looking. You and your friends. Think you’re any different from all the others? Well, you aren’t. I’ve seen you loitering around that coffee shop on a Saturday. Started sneaking up to the recreation ground with a four-pack of cider or a little sniff of UHU yet?”
“We don’t do that sort of thing,” Oz said.
“Really?” She dragged the word out to twice its normal length to emphasise her derision. “Then again, perhaps not. Perhaps you prefer threatening girls or attacking other students in dark quiet places.”
“I haven’t attacked anybody—” Oz protested, but the Volcano cut across him, throwing out words like spears.
“Two people are injured and it was only through sheer luck that someone turned up early here today; otherwise, poor Phillipa’s face might have been torn open just like Kieron’s.”
Oz stared at her, a growing anger making his legs shake. It was as if they were itching to turn and run, or kick out. This was mad. She was mad. “Why would I cut anyone’s face?”
The Volcano’s eyes had become glittering discs of distaste, her mouth distorted in a sneer, her voice a harsh, rapid whisper. “My God, have you any idea what would have happened to you in the school I was educated in? A proper school with proper standards and proper discipline. Little thugs like you were dealt with in the only way that worked.” She lifted her chin up. Oz watched the skin beneath it wobble. “My father was a headmaster,” she announced. “A headmaster in one of England’s finest public schools. He ruled with an iron fist. Six strokes of the birch on naked flesh never failed to work in offences against moral law, written or unwritten—” She caught herself then, her breath coming in little panting jerks, her eyes widening in the realisation that she’d said too much.
Oz shook his head. “I only just got here. I haven’t been anywhere near the hall or Pheeps all lunchtime…”
But the Volcano’s control was short-lived. She thrust her face towards him again and demanded, “Where were you ten minutes ago?”
“I was with Mr Gingell.”
“A likely story.”
“Why don’t you ask him?”
“Oh, I will, don’t you worry.” She whispered, leaning in even closer, quivering with fury as she struggled to contain her anger. Oz could see the open pores of her skin under her thick powdery makeup. “Have you ever stopped for one moment to wonder what your poor father would think of all this, eh? His only son playing at monsters just so that he could get a little bit of attention.”
“I’m not looking for attention.” This time, it was Oz’s turn to grind out the words through gritted teeth. “And you didn’t know my father, so don’t pretend you did. And I don’t think he would have wanted to know someone like you, either.”
“How dare you!” snapped the Volcano. “You miserable, vile little—”
The door of the hall flew open and Mr Gingell strode in with Mr Fidler in tow.
“Oz, are you okay?” Mr Gingell asked, full of concern. A sentiment that seemed totally out of place in a room still reverberating from hurled accusations and hateful assumptions. So much so that Oz managed only an airy and uncertain, “Ummm, yeah,” in response.
Mr Gingell’s frowning expression flicked from the Volcano to Oz and back again, trying to gauge the charged atmosphere. “Mr Fidler said there’d been some kind of attack.”
“Yes, there has,” the Volcano replied with a chin thrust. “One of the girls has been badly frightened. We’re still not sure yet if actual physical force is involved.”
“Frightened by who?” Mr Gingell’s question hung in the air like a floating bomb waiting to go off. Confusion fought with realisation on his face. He looked again from the Volcano’s barely controlled fuming to Oz’s flushed, unhappy face until, eventually, a kind of understanding dawned. “Miss Swinson, what exactly is going on here?” he asked.
“I was attempting to find out from Chambers here what his movements were in the minutes before someone found poor Phillipa huddled under the stage with a broom handle in her hand, looking as near to having been frightened to death as anyone I’ve ever seen.”
“What his movements were?” Gingell asked in a dangerously quiet way.
“Yes,” the Volcano said in a tone suggesting that the implied allegations were the most natural thing in the world. She tried staring Gingell down. “Oh, come on, Mr Gingell,” the Volcano reasoned. “It can hardly have escaped your attention that both Kieron Skinner and Phillipa have now been attacked.”
Gingell was having none of it. “And your point is?” he asked.
“In both instances, witnesses have seen Chambers here threatening or arguing with the victims just prior to the attacks. Skinner at a football tournament the day he was struck down, and Phillipa yesterday morning in the yard. An altercation that I witnessed with my own eyes and ears, I might add.”
“I see,” Mr Gingell said. He turned towards Oz. “Did you have a spat with Phillipa yesterday, Oz?”
Oz nodded. “If spat means stopping her from whacking Ruff across the face, then yeah, I did.”
“There, he admits it,” the Volcano crossed her arms in triumph.
Gingell nodded. “I might be inclined to consider Oz as our attacker were it not for the fact that, and correct me if I’m wrong, Kieron Skinner might as well walk around with a placard announcing, ‘World’s most in-your-face, irritating oik.’ As such, I would guess that half the school has threatened him with violence of some sort at some time. And, I might add, the rumour about him having plastic surgery has been greatly exaggerated. Eight stitches in a cut on his cheek, though no laughing matter, is hardly a makeover. And as for Phillipa? Being the little princess that she is, there are many in this school that would happily lock her in a cupboard under the stage and throw away the key, given half a chance.”
Oz swallowed loudly.
“Mr Gingell, really…” the Volcano said in a shocked voice.
Gingell’s smile remained dangerously bright as he interrupted her protests. “Still, since you intend to question the whole school, I suppose Oz is as good a place to start as any. So, I can confirm that, at the time that all this was happening, Oz was with me in the geography classroom discussing tsunamis. So I think he can safely be taken off the list. That, by my calculation, leaves 1,476 students to go. Where would you like to start?”
A muscle in the Volcano’s face twitched. “I hardly think that mass interrogation is necessary—”
“But singled-out interrogation is?” Mr Gingell was still smiling mirthlessly as he left his question hanging in the air.
“I was merely trying to ascertain the facts—”
“The facts are that Oz was with me when this happened.”
“Very well. But there might be accomplices—”
“Ellie and Rufus were with me, too,” Gingell said before she could finish.
The Volcano drew herself up, but Oz saw her jaw clench in disappointment. “I see. However, this is a very serious matter, and as of this moment, Chambers is not allowed to attend orchestra practise until we get to the bottom of this cowardly act.”
“On what grounds should Chambers not attend orchestra practise?” Fidler asked, as if to remind everyone that he was there and was supposedly in charge.
“On the ground
s of being better safe than sorry,” the Volcano said, going a blotchy purple in the face. Obviously, she was not used to having her authority questioned like this, and it showed. Despite his anger at what she’d said about his father, Oz couldn’t remember anything quite as enjoyable as seeing the Volcano back down in the face of Gingell’s challenge.
“Hang on,” Mr Fidler said in desperation. “Oscar is our drummer; we can’t…”
“That cannot be helped. Until this is all cleared up, I must insist that Chambers report to my office every break and lunchtime from now on.”
“I have a much better idea,” Gingell said. “Let him come to me.”
“I hardly think that a cosy chat in the geography room is adequate—” She caught herself just in time. It hadn’t been said, but it was obvious to everyone the next word to emerge from her lips was likely to have been “punishment.”
Gingell shook his head. “There’s work to be done on a 3D model of the water cycle, and I could do with the help.”
The Volcano hesitated but knew she was beaten. Her twisted logic in banning Oz from orchestra was all to do with security, not discipline, or so she wanted them to believe.
She peered down her nose at Gingell before reluctantly nodding. “Very well. I’m snowed under with meetings, anyway. Now, I suggest we cancel school for the rest of the day and summon the buses. I have a feeling that all the pupils will be better off at home at the moment.”
The Volcano swept out without another glance at Oz, leaving Gingell and Fidler to exchange questioning looks before Fidler rounded on Oz.
“I knew it was a mistake letting you into the orchestra,”
he muttered.
“Hey,” Mr Gingell said, louder than either Oz or Mr Fidler would have expected. “Don’t you start. Oz is not to blame for any of this.”
Mr Fidler squeezed his eyes shut. “You’re right. Stupid of me. Sorry, Oz.”
Oz gulped and nodded awkwardly. Fidler ran his hands over his bald head and stared at the floor before sending Mr Gingell a desperate glance. “Think she’ll ease up on the orchestra ban?”
“Keep working on her,” Gingell suggested. “You never know.”
Fidler hurried after the Volcano like a man possessed, leaving Oz and Mr Gingell alone.
“Thank you, sir,” Oz said.
Mr Gingell shook his head. “Don’t mention it. But it does seem that you do have an uncanny knack of ending up on the wrong side of Miss Swinson, I notice.”
Oz shrugged. “I don’t mean to. Just sort of happens that way.”
“Yes, well, Miss Swinson’s ‘guilty until proven innocent’ approach leaves a lot to be desired, I’m afraid. Justice is a very blunt knife, the way she wields it.” He fell silent for a moment.
“It’ll be very interesting to hear Phillipa’s take on what happened,” Mr Gingell said as they walked back towards the teaching block.
“Yeah,” Oz said.
Nevertheless, he couldn’t help the sinking feeling he had in the pit of his stomach as he thought about that. Somehow, he wasn’t at all as confident as Mr Gingell that Pheeps had all the answers.
Chapter 12
Allies And Orphans
Mrs Chambers was in the converted drawing room that was her office when Oz returned from school that afternoon. It was just warm enough for the window to be open a few inches, and Oz could smell the heady, auspicious aroma of first-cut grass on the faint breeze. His mother sat at her desk surrounded by piles of manuscripts, her reading glasses perched on her nose. Oz explained what had happened at school, leaving out only the bit where the Volcano had been on the verge of having him carted off to jail.
“Poor Phillipa,” Mrs Chambers said.
“Yeah,” Oz said, trying his utmost to inject a little bit of genuine sympathy into his voice, an effort that did not go unnoticed.
“Now, now, Oz. I know she’s been a bit of a—” “Cow?” suggested Oz.
“I was going to say ‘princess’.” Mrs Chambers gave Oz a reprimanding look.
“Oh, yeah, princess. That’s exactly the word I was looking for. Not.” Oz shook his head.
“Well, she’s had a lot to put up with, what with her mother leaving and having no one but Lorenzo and… Well, let’s just say that I don’t think he’s cut out for single-handed parenthood.”
“It’s no excuse for being a…princess, Mum,” Oz said
“Oz,” Mrs Chambers said, dipping her chin warningly. She took off her glasses and let them dangle in one hand. “And the school thinks this is tied up with Kieron’s assault, did you say?”
“That’s what the Volcano thinks, anyway. But she has a habit of jumping to conclusions quicker than Ruff can neck a can of Tango.”
“Well, it must be serious if they’ve closed the school. What about tomorrow?”
Oz wrinkled his nose. “As normal. But the Volcano’s banned orchestra practise, and we’ve got our concert in six days. Looks like I’m going to have to practise on my own.”
That was easier said than done. Oz had his electronic drum kit set up in his dad’s old study. That way, he could practise while wearing earphones, so as not to disturb his mother or Caleb—though the truth was, there was nothing he liked better than to switch on his drum amp and let rip at full blast. Even so, he usually waited until Penwurt was empty to do so. But trying to practise without the other instruments for orchestra pieces was going to be very difficult.
He put it off by doing his Spanish and geography homework first, so as not to have to think about Pheeps and the Beast of Seabourne…or Ruff’s funny moods. Though being banned from orchestra practise had nothing to do with Ruff, he couldn’t help feeling that his friend had abandoned him, too. Oz was used to being alone. In a way, he quite liked it, but this recent kerfuffle with Ruff, and Ellie’s uncharacteristic moods, had left him feeling strangely isolated.
By four, he just had a bit of geography left. He put it aside and decided to practise some tempo drills on the drums. His dad’s study was just along the passage from his bedroom, and it had remained locked for some time after his father died. When at last Mrs Chambers had decided to unlock it, Oz found out his dad had been besotted with Daniel Morsman and his “artefacts” and had sent Oz a parcel from Egypt the day before he died. In that parcel had been the obsidian pebble, and Soph.
Lorenzo Heeps had taken away a load of his dad’s university stuff, and though he’d brought most of it back, Oz had not bothered to unpack it since. It seemed a little pointless. It just didn’t feel like it was his dad’s stuff anymore since Heeps had been through it all. Therefore, the room now consisted of stacked boxes full of his dad’s papers and bits and bobs, a desk pushed up against a wall, and a clock above a mantelpiece over a boarded-up fireplace.
When he was little, Oz had loved reaching up to run his finger over the carved symbol at the centre of that wooden mantelpiece; it reminded him of a pendulum hanging from some railway lines and, he thought, probably had something to do with the clock his dad had loved so much:
* * *
Apart from those random fixtures, and his drums, the study, once so full of what his dad had been, felt empty and lifeless.
Oz had been at the drums for ten minutes when his phone flashed, indicating a message. It was from the Fanshaw twins from Number 3 across the street, and it said simply,
Skyping you now.
Oz took off his earphones and went to the laptop in his bedroom. He answered the call, and a few seconds later Sydney Fanshaw’s inscrutable face appeared on the screen.
“Hi,” she said. “We saw you practising.”
Oz nodded weakly. He kept forgetting the twins had an incredibly powerful telescope trained mainly on Magnus Street, and quite often on Penwurt.
“Yeah, got an orchestra thing coming up.”
“Must be hard now that they’ve banned rehearsals at your school.”
Oz should not have been surprised they knew. The Fanshaw twins knew everything about everyone. They weren’t at sch
ool with Oz—theirs was a private school with a lilac bowler hat as part of the uniform—but one of their hobbies, of which there were many, was surveillance.
“Let me guess—you’ve got a spy satellite in orbit over the school hall.”
Sydney giggled. “No, Lorenzo Heeps phoned my dad.
They’re supposed to have a meeting here with Gerber today, but Heeps is at the hospital with Phillipa, so it’s been delayed.”
“How is she?”
“He was about to take her home. But he simply had to tell my dad that he’d stopped off at Thornton’s to buy her a mega-box of chocolates, too.” Savannah came into view and made a face.
Oz nodded. If it wasn’t chocolate, it would be some other extravagant present; of that, he was certain.
“Anyway,” Savannah went on, “we do orchestra at school.”
“And we thought that, since your practise was cancelled—” Sydney paused in her usual way for her sister to finish the sentence.
“—we could maybe help out.”
“Really?” Oz asked.
“Yeah.”
“That would be brilliant. What instruments do you play again?” Oz asked.
“I’m not bad at saxophone and clarinet. Got grade eight in them, but not so good on flute and piano. I’ve only got grade seven in those two,” Savannah said.
“And I’m strings, mainly. You know, violin and guitar,”
Sydney added.
“Grade eight?” Oz asked weakly.
“Yes, but I do keyboard and percussion, too.”
The Beast of Seabourne Page 18
