The Haunting of Drearcliff Grange School

by Kim Newman

  Bok tried to focus. She was out of her depth.

  An Ordinary, Light Fingers would call her – an Ordinary, in an extraordinary contest… Used to the light, but venturing among shadows. All that training to attain a physical peak… and Draycott’s put her out of the Game with a touch.

  ‘What are you?’ Bok asked.

  Amy gave the Sixth’s shoulder a squeeze.

  ‘Rest here,’ she said. ‘The Sausage will find you. I have to go after Larry.’

  Bok looked blank but didn’t make a move to stop her.

  Amy left the tin of lozenges with the wounded girl.

  The alleyway extended, widening. She was momentarily disoriented. Both sides of the road were obscured as the fog wrapped around her.

  Up ahead, a light burned.

  Another lamp post, with people gathered beneath it. Someone in a Drearcliff-grey coat had shinned up to the lantern cage. It was Larry, arms hooked over the crossbar, gripping the post with her knees. Her face was close to the glass – distorted by weird, hard shadows.

  Three girls – arrows on their coats and berets – surrounded the post. One raised a glowing white fist. The Glove Girl. Electric arcs played and the post wobbled.

  The Draycott’s triad were jostling and stamping. Someone else was at the bottom of the scrum.

  Metal boot caps sparked. Amy heard yelps of pain.

  Who was this?

  Something got under her feet – a four-foot stick. With a mentacle, she stood it on end and turned it round. It was forked and padded at the top. A crutch.

  She supposed she shouldn’t be surprised to find Draycott’s girls kicking a cripple.

  Still, it was Not a Done Thing.

  She would not let it pass.

  IV: Three Wrong ’Uns and a Right

  AMY STOOD FIRM, arms crossed on her chest, concentrating. In her mentacle grasp, the crutch rose off the pavement. She got a sense of the heft of the thing and took crude aim by swivelling it to point at the lamp post.

  She propelled the crutch, letting its own weight add to her fluence, and belaboured the Draycott’s girls…

  She remembered a grinning Doug Fairbanks showing off with a quarterstaff, bopping the bullet heads of the Sheriff of Nottingham’s men-at-arms.

  ‘Take that, Norman dog… Have at thee, knave…’

  Owws, oofs and ouches were followed by language that would have earned an instant Major Infraction at Drearcliff Grange.

  The Draycott’s girls waved arms over their heads as if beset by wasps.

  The Glove Girl tried to grab the crutch, but couldn’t reach that high. Her teammates had to watch where she put her electric fingers.

  The crutch was too light to do real damage. No blocks were knocked off and no coconuts cracked.

  But Amy got their attention.

  Everyone twisted around to look at her – Larry up the lamp post, the three brutes in berets, and the abused wretch on the pavement.

  She spread moth wings and floated at them. As always when her boot toes lifted off the ground, she felt a pleasurable lurch in her tummy. Under her tingling feet was a rubbery delicious nothing. She trailed her wings through fog wisps, stirring dramatic eddies. Taking a breath, she ascended to roof level and surveyed the sorry scene.

  She knew she was imposing.

  If the foe were imposed upon, her own confidence swelled.

  ‘Halt…’ she said. Should she add ‘in the name of the law’ or ‘in the name of the king’? Neither really applied, and ‘in a just cause’ sounded awfully priggish. Doug Fairbanks knew what to say – it was written on screen for him, with suitable exclamation marks.

  ‘Stop kicking that lad,’ she said. ‘It’s low, unladylike and wrong.’

  The Draycott’s girls goggled up at her.

  Terrified? As if the cloak shadow of Dr Shade or the wingspread of the Aviatrix had fallen on them? Or just gobsmacked at the sight of a self-righteous Moth Girl?

  She tried not to be nervous or hesitant.

  Ideally, this could be settled without further violence.

  The aspect of fighting for a just cause Amy was least sure of was the actual fighting.

  Even with arrant injustice in view – three healthy harpies clog-dancing on one lame ragamuffin was almost a caricature of the wrong-doing Kentish Glory was against – she was in two minds about hitting people. Thwacking at a distance was one thing. Laying into loutesses with fists was another.

  For a start, she wasn’t terribly good at it.

  At the school’s last championship bout, Hjordis Bok held up through fifteen rounds with Pinborough, losing only on points. Bok and the Blonde Bruiser swapped blows that could smash bricks. Amy’s punch could just about put a hole in crepe paper.

  Her friends were better prepared for a ruck. Kali was trained from infancy in foot-boxing, a particularly spiritual form of kicking people where it hurt. She could break a bedpost with a whirling kick – though was on notice not to do it again since the House Mistress got suspicious about having to provide a replacement every time the Princess showed off. Frecks, a devoted Fairbanks fan, had seen Robin Hood seven times and could give a decent account of herself in fencing, archery and singlestick. She’d even tried to get the Pony Club to take up jousting, though Horsey Hailstone – the Viola Fifth who held the reins on all equestrienne endeavours – was horrified at the prospect.

  Kali and Frecks weren’t even Unusuals.

  Light Fingers wasn’t interested in fighting the Pinborough way, where the other girl has a chance to hit you back. She was quick enough to land fifty or sixty average jabs inside ten seconds. That would incapacitate an opponent before anything that could technically be called a fight got started. The one time she tried the tactic in the gym – even though pitted against the unpopular Lydia Inchfawn – she was booed for unsporting behaviour and slunk to the changing room muttering about ‘slowcoaches’.

  It was the tiniest bit like cheating.

  What would the Lady of the Lake think?

  Nevertheless, Amy supposed she should ponder martial applications of her own Talent. While you swallow the halfpennyweight of shame that comes with resorting to underhand methods in a just cause, a Wrong ’Un lying senseless on the mat can’t hurt other people.

  She knew this fight couldn’t be avoided. The Draycott’s girls were vandals and visigoths. The prospect of getting thumped was one thing. She was also squeamish about hurting anyone – even if they soundly deserved a walloping.

  ‘What are you wearing?’ said the tallest of the Draycott’s girls. ‘You look a Perfect Prawn.’

  Amy fixed them all with a glare – which probably didn’t come over that well through goggles.

  The tall girl was dark-haired and thin-faced, with huge eyes, a deeply dimpled chin and a long neck. Her beret was fastened to the side of her head with a silver arrow pin. At Draycott’s, that was the equivalent of a whip’s braid. She must be a Sixth, and Top Girl in the Triad of Thuggee – but she wasn’t Primrose Quell, the Team Captain.

  She said ‘one for luck’ and gave the wretch a final savage boot to the bread basket then abandoned cripple-kicking to sneer up at Amy. If intimidated by a glare from on high, she covered it up well.

  Her teammates also left off the aggravated assault to pay attention.

  The Glove Girl – a Third or Fourth – was tubby, with tight blonde curls, short legs and fat knees. Her single glove drew the eye. Either it was padded like a clown’s or her hand was grossly out of proportion with the rest of her. It was a man’s dress glove. Three ridges on the back, black stitching around the wrist. Her raised fist radiated light – and, Amy could tell even from a distance, heat. An unimpressive, middling sort to look at, but she’d put Drearcliff Grange’s second-best boxer out of the Game. So, one to be mindful of and stay away from.

  While Amy was distracted by the glove, which infallibly drew the eye, something fast and heavy lashed out, disturbing tendrils of fog, cracking like a razor strop. She flinched, though the wh
ip hadn’t the reach to scrape her ankles.

  The third girl’s long brown hair was done up in a dozen ropy braids that spilled onto her shoulders like gorgon coils. The thickest, oiliest braid was wound into a fifteen-foot flail, with fish hooks woven into the business end. She wore arrow earrings – another frippery prohibited at Drearcliff but allowable at Draycott’s. An old chin scar suggested early, clumsy experiments with her home-grown scorpion tail. No comfort in that. She’d obviously got more skilled since. It must have taken years to cultivate and fashion her weapon.

  Amy noted the glove and the whip… and wondered whether the tall girl had anything as nasty about her person.

  The fallen fellow groaned and hugged the base of the lamp post.

  Amy made out ragged clothes and a battered, scabby face. It was a boy – perhaps a year or two older than her, but with ancient eyes. Rather beautiful eyes, in fact. Bright with martyr’s tears. This was someone used to suffering. He tried to pull himself upright. A casual flick from the whip-braid ripped open his flimsy coat and bloodied his bony back. He lost his grip and fell badly.

  He lay coughing in a bath of fog.

  Whatever fight he had was knocked out of him.

  Who was he?

  Had he tried help Larry and been cruelly treated for it? She detected gallantry in him, a wounded dignity.

  ‘Thomsett,’ said Larry.

  Amy was about to tell Laurence delivery was at hand, but saw the girl wasn’t at all relieved. ‘Where’s Serafine?’ she asked, disappointed and – unreasonably, in the circs – a little annoyed to see Kentish Glory floating to her rescue.

  Amy would do her best to overlook the ingratitude.

  Larry was distraught. She wasn’t thinking it through.

  The tall girl paid attention. She realised Larry knew Amy.

  ‘Ah-ha,’ she said, ‘a Drearycliff girl! Though not the gallant our greedy lamplighter was expecting. And not in uniform. Doctor Swan wouldn’t approve.’

  Her friends grunted and made hog faces.

  Amy deftly used the crutch to swipe the beret off the head of the Glove Girl.

  ‘Oww, my crown!’ she said.

  Amy brought the crutch towards the Silver Arrow, getting mentacle weight behind it for a good old slosh.

  The tall girl lifted her arm as if to parry the blow. Though there was no physical connection, the makeshift bludgeon swatted out of Amy’s hold. It whooshed through fog and clattered against a wall. Once she couldn’t see it, Amy couldn’t grip it.

  Bending over with an oof, the fat girl reached for her beret with her ungloved left hand. Amy could see – and fix on – the cap. She skipped it away from the girl’s grasp.

  ‘Stop that,’ said the tall girl. ‘It’s rude.’

  The Silver Arrow knew Amy was moving things with her mind.

  Usually, Amy counted on people not realising that. They worried about a noisy ghost before they suspected her.

  ‘I’m Kentish Glory,’ Amy announced.

  ‘The tick said you were Thomson…’

  ‘Thomsett,’ she corrected.

  ‘Same diff. If it’s aliases and alter egos we’re using at the mo, Sparks and Sterlyng are the Glove and the Knout. You can guess which is which. Sparksie, show Thomkins some Glove Love…’

  The fat girl grinned and thumped the wrought-iron lamp post, producing a crack of lightning and the stink of ozone.

  Amy blinked away the light streaks burned into her eyes.

  The lamp post tilted like the Tower of Pisa. Larry screeched and lost her knee grip. She dangled from the crossbar. One shoe fell off, and slapped Sparks’ head.

  ‘Oww, my crown… again! Is every blessed beetle going to take a whack at it this week?’

  Sparks – the Glove – rubbed her bruised bonce with her left hand, which didn’t properly reach where she wanted. She pulled a pettish face. Her Talent was formidable, but tricky to handle. If she made a mistake like her teammate had with her whip-braid, she’d have no chin left to show a scar.

  Amy was glad she was floating out of the Glove’s reach.

  ‘Watch the dreg, Sterlyng,’ said the tall girl.

  The cripple was trying to crawl away again.

  Sterlyng – the Knout – coiled her whip-braid around his throat and hauled him upright. He stood on one foot. His right leg seemed boneless. His clothes were mismatched. Frayed striped trousers from before the war, patched at the knees. A good, new-ish waistcoat. One shined brogue on his good foot and the string-bound remains of a curly-toed Persian slipper on the dead one. An overcoat three sizes too large, so badly stained it was impossible to tell what colour it was supposed to be.

  The fellow grimaced as the rope tightened around his throat.

  Amy winced in sympathy. Poor unfortunate puppy!

  Was the Knout an Unusual – or just an Ordinary with unconventional grooming habits and nasty-minded ingenuity? Distinctions weren’t always clear-cut.

  Amy tried to get a mentacle to the flail. It was like scrabbling to pick up a needle with mittens. She couldn’t take hold of other people – or parts of other people – as she could herself. So she couldn’t free the Knout’s captive or float Larry to safety. The most she could do was give a shove or a nudge. She couldn’t hit a person with mentacle fists – which would have been useful at the moment.

  ‘The Knout and the Glove,’ said Amy, trying to sound confident – like Dr Shade exchanging pleasantries with Stepan Volkoff before they tried to kill each other with gas-guns and barbed-wire bolas. ‘Sounds like a pub sign. A duck in pub cricket. I wish I could say it was a pleasure to make their acquaintance. Who might you be?’

  The tall girl smiled.

  ‘They call me Miss Steps. Can you guess why?’

  ‘Is your name Stephanie?’

  ‘Close. It’s Stephen. Stephen Swift.’

  Should Amy have heard of her?

  ‘Did your parents want a boy?’

  ‘They had two already. An heir and a spare. Stephen is a girls’ name too. Like Jocelyn or Christopher.’

  ‘Christopher isn’t a girl’s name.’

  ‘It could be. In some circles. If your mind isn’t closed. What’s your name?’

  ‘Amanda.’

  ‘That could be a boy’s name.’

  ‘Doubtful. A lad named “Amy” would have a rough time of it at school.’

  ‘“Amanda” has “man” in it. A-man-da.’

  Amy didn’t know what to make of Stephen Swift.

  ‘You’re joshing,’ she said.

  ‘I am not,’ said Miss Steps. ‘I am explaining names to you, Amanda. You have rather provincial attitudes, if you don’t mind me saying.’

  Amy had to admit Crossway Green was in a province, but still…

  ‘I do mind, as it happens,’ she said. ‘Some provinces are advanced, socially. Daring, even.’

  ‘You’re on unsteady ground, there…’

  ‘I’m not on any ground at all. Haven’t you noticed?’

  Hah! That would shut her up! Sophisticate Swift… with pavement under her heels, and a boy’s name.

  ‘Ah yes, we come round the houses again… and reach the front gate. My name isn’t why they call me Miss Steps.’

  Stephen Swift stepped off the pavement.

  Up, off the pavement. Into the air.

  She rose until she was on a level with Amy.

  There was a flight of stairs only she could see. She ascended calmly, with no special effort. As if stepping on solid planes.

  Steps.

  She made steps.

  ‘See,’ she said.

  Swift walked towards Amy. In the air.

  Her teammates looked up. The Knout gave an absent-minded tug, and the cripple moaned. She dropped him and curled her whip round her arm. A high priestess petting a sacred snake.

  Larry’s hold on the crossbar was precarious. And slipping.

  Amy bobbed up and down. Secure in the air, but not steady. Miss Steps might have been on a solid walkway feet a
bove the street.

  How did she do that?

  ‘We have the same Talent, don’t we?’ said Miss Steps. ‘Or similar. It’s Abilities and Applications. Yes, we have those lessons too. Mater Draycott and Dr Swan got their heads together about how to teach Unusuals. They aren’t so different. The way we aren’t, though you’ve a long way to go to catch up… Amanda, are you trying to fly?’

  Swift’s one-sided smile opened and shut – letting out a seal-bark laugh.

  Amy’s face burned.

  Miss Steps walked around her. Amy had to spin in the air – cloak twisting like an insomniac’s sheet – to keep her eyes on the girl’s face. Miss Steps walked around the other way. Amy’s cloak unwound.

  ‘You are, aren’t you? The speckled shroud is supposed to be wings.’

  Amy tried to spread them again, but the mentacle spines failed on one side. Half her cloak jutted like a railway signal.

  Stephen Swift rattled her. If Amy didn’t concentrate, she literally let herself down. Her Abilities became unreliable. Many Unusuals had the problem.

  She sank a few feet and had to focus to rise again.

  ‘What did you call yourself?’ Miss Steps asked. ‘Somethingish Whosamaflip?’

  ‘Kentish Glory,’ Amy repeated.

  Not firm and resolute, like Dr Shade or the Aviatrix… but uncertain and embarrassed, as if she suddenly realised she’d worn the wrong dress and couldn’t remember why.

  ‘That’s a… butterfly?’

  ‘Moth,’ she corrected insistently. ‘Of course it’s a moth! Everyone knows that. There are important differences.’

  ‘Don’t get so het up, child.’

  Amy began to see important differences between her and Miss Steps.

  Amy’s Abilities manifested as mentacles – pseudo-arms, with floppy hands. What she could do was, by Ordinary standards, a wonder… but, compared with Miss Steps’ precision, she was playing violin with a broom handle or shuffling cards with fireplace bellows.