by Matt Drabble
“I said good day,” she added curtly, ending the conversation.
Stuart left the chemistry lab more despondent than when he’d entered it. One stupid night that he couldn’t even remember had potentially ruined two important friendships in his life.
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Sarah lost herself in the constant stream of visiting cars collecting enthusiastic children. She didn’t want to think about Jemima or Stuart or even what her own feelings were. She knew that she had no right to feel betrayed, but she couldn’t help it. She hadn’t wanted anything to happen with Stuart, at least not now, but it felt like Jemima had just taken the option away from her. Her whole life had felt like she had been a supporting character in her own life’s story. Just for once she wanted to be the lead.
The morning passed by quickly as she shared hugs and best wishes with some of her students. She was soon inundated with Christmas gifts from some of the younger kids - brightly colored wrappings expressing affections that caught her off guard.
By lunchtime the snow had started to fall and by late afternoon, when the last child had left, the blizzard was coming down in hard flurries. She stood outside the front door as the world grew quiet and the last honking of car horns had retreated back to the world.
“Aye, it’s going to be a big one this year,” Maurice said, as his boots crunched through the settling snow as he made his way up to her.
This was her sixth year at Ravenhill and the first that she had seen the real bite of winter. The first year, she had worried about being cut off by the weather, but the snow had barely registered a few flurries of white that had left a thin layer across the ground. Since then, she had come to think that winter’s reputation had been greatly exaggerated, but now looking through the thick falling flakes she was worried again.
“Don’t worry yourself, Miss,” Maurice said, reading her thoughts. “Ain’t nothing but a bit of frozen water is all. It’ll thaw like it always does in a week or two.”
“How bad can it get?”
Maurice looked up to the heavens and pondered for a moment. “This’ll be bad I think, maybe the worst it’s been for a long time. The lanes will soon be impassable as they don’t grit or plough this far out. We’ll be cut off for a spell, but we’ve got more than enough supplies to last a hundred times what we’ll need. No one’s about to go hungry; we’re not the Donner party,” he grinned.
That thought hadn’t occurred to her, but it didn’t seem as ridiculous as it would have yesterday. “Thanks for that image,” she only half joked.
“Welcome,” he said before crunching away.
She watched him go and wondered what he did in the cottage of his. Ravenhill seemed to run smoothly by the hand of one man with a multitude of talents. Despite his outwardly grumpy attitude, she liked Maurice; at least he was honest.
“Can we talk?” A small voice startled her from behind.
She had been dreading the moment as she really had no idea just what to say to Jemima. “I don’t know what to say,” she said honestly.
“Well that’s good, because neither do I,” Jemima shrugged with a tear in her eye. “I suppose I start with sorry?”
“You haven’t done anything wrong,” she answered, not quite believing it.
“I saw that look in your eyes this morning when you saw me coming out of Stuart’s room. You looked like you had caught me in bed with your husband, and please don’t deny it. I know I kept on trying to push you guys together, but you kept telling me that it wasn’t what you wanted. I don’t know how things got so out of control last night, but I wouldn’t want to hurt you for the world Sarah, honestly I wouldn’t.”
“I know that,” she said with a sigh. “I guess this is why Barnaby discourages personal relationships here.”
“Yeah, he gave me the same speech when I started. I told him that I was far too professional and concerned with my career,” Jemima laughed a little bitterly. “I guess I showed him, huh?”
“Do you remember much about the party last night?” Sarah asked suddenly.
“No, not really.”
“Oh, come on Jemima. You must do, surely?”
“Look, I said I’m sorry,” Jemima snapped. “I’m sorry that you think I stole your boyfriend,” she said sarcastically.
“No it’s not about that,” she stressed. “It’s the party last night; didn’t it strike you as odd that everyone was acting like they were drunk, and yet no one was drinking?”
“Oh I see, so the only way that Stuart could have possibly been interested in me is if he was pissed?” Jemima said angrily, missing the intended point.
“No of course not, that’s not what I meant,” Sarah said quickly.
“Yeah, right,” Jemima snapped, turning on her heels. “Well you’ll be glad to know that he was more disappointed when he woke with me than you were,” she said in a choked voice as she walked quickly away.
Sarah wanted to run after her friend, hug her and tell her that it was all right, but there was still enough of her self-built wall left to stop her. The thought of how everyone had acted last night had suddenly come to her in a strange moment of clarity. The whole thing was just too damn weird, and she was a woman who had experienced more than her fair share of weirdness.
She started to go after Jemima when her feet suddenly stopped, seemingly of their own accord. Her concern rapidly morphed into anger. Wasn’t she the injured party here? Why the hell should she be looking to make amends when she had been betrayed by her supposed best friend? She couldn’t believe that she had almost run after Jemima when she should be clawing the bitch’s eyes out.
She stood in the doorway and watched the snow fall, her heart and mood feeling as cold as the falling snow. All the while, unbeknownst to her, a slender blonde boy had suddenly appeared in the shadows of the atrium just as she’d turned to run after Jemima. Joshua smiled with pleasure and anticipation as the blizzard intensified and Ravenhill Academy was isolated from the outside world.
CHAPTER 9
Father Brendon Monroe looked out at the falling snow and worried for his flock. The weather people on the television had been talking for weeks now about the storm rolling in, but he hadn’t paid them much heed. There were always scare stories about the weather and it seemed to be a particularly common British pastime. But now, as he watched the heavy flakes fall, he knew that they were in for a bad spell.
His parish was the small village of Bexley Cross. His parishioners were elderly folk who still wished to remain within the bosom of the Lord’s embrace. He often held services at several of the small churches and chapels dotted around the surrounding villages on a rota basis. The falling snow may well make his job more difficult, but where there was a will, there was always a way. His way included a monster of a 4x4 that allowed him to pass the narrow lanes and off-country roads to reach those in need. He liked to refer to his vehicle as “The Beast” but only in private circles; he had found, to his bitter cost over the years, that the church could be somewhat lacking in the sense of humor department.
The phones could go down at any time and with no mobile reception this far out he was concerned with his elderly neighbors who could become vulnerable prisoners in their own homes. Old bones were brittle and prone to break under the smallest of falls.
Brendon was 43 which was considered young in his profession, but he was as far removed from his peers as one could be. He found it difficult to take at times that whilst those priests with dubious reputations who found themselves running from their parishes were afforded enviable positions, he was often relegated to the far flung reaches of the church’s jurisdiction.
He was a tall man at a little over 6 feet three, and a heavy one as well. But he carried his bulk with the athletic grace borne of a lifetime of experience. He had always been a man of excessive tastes and appetite whether it was on his plate or in his soul. He had graying hair that he kept short for ease of maintenance and his eyes were a dark hazel brown. He was a man that had little time for the
borders and regulations of organised religion; as far as he was concerned there were far too many layers between God and his people.
A life beneath the clerical collar had always been in his future. It wasn’t a calling as such; he hadn’t been blinded by the light, just a small voice in his heart that had guided his hand and heart towards the church. After his graduation from the seminary he had taken a sabbatical and joined up with various charity organisations on some decidedly dangerous frontlines. He had grown tired of learning about the evils of man from text books and had wanted to travel and experience the world in the flesh.
His last posting had been at a mission out in Sierra Leone. It had been an outreach program that concentrated far more on the practical than the spiritual. He had witnessed the looks on the faces of the young and innocent as they were dragged into the makeshift hospital, maimed and bloody. He had stuck it out for as long as he could manage, but in the end there had been a time limit on his faith. He was still a believer in God; he just wasn’t the man’s biggest fan.
Upon returning to the UK he had felt his faith initially shaken a little, but ultimately made stronger by his questions. He had served as a deacon for 6 months before finally taking his vows. His probationary period had been full of life and challenges in a large inner city church. There was a constant stream of the needy dealing with problems stemming from abuses such as drink, drugs, and domestic. He had enjoyed being on the frontline and making a difference. However, after he had taken his final vows and entered the priesthood he had found himself posted out to the back of beyond for his first stab at cutting it solo.
He looked out of the cottage window again at the falling snow. The small house came with his position and it was more than adequate for his needs. He had a christening tomorrow a few miles over in Bexley Cross and he wasn’t going to miss it, no matter what the sinister skies above had in mind.
He stared out at the open fields towards the private school that sat upon the horizon. He had always found something distinctly creepy about the place and had avoided it thus far in his posting. He had been here around three months now and his initial feelings of dark foreboding had not faded as far as Ravenhill was concerned. He wasn’t a man given to flights of fancy, but the school just rubbed him the wrong way.
“Will you be requiring tea, Father?” Edna Bailey jarred him from his thoughts.
He had given up trying to tell the old woman to call him Brendon. She was a staunch Catholic woman who would rather have chewed her own arm off than circumvent protocol. Her demeanor today, however, seemed remarkably upbeat from her usual quiet reserve. She had told him a few days ago about the possibility that her neighbor Rosa Marsh might be missing. He had called the local police personally, only to be assured that everything was in hand. Edna had told him that morning that everything was fine and that Rosa had simply been away visiting her sister.
“I’ll be fine, Edna; why don’t you head home before the weather bites too badly?” he replied, knowing that there was no way that she would accept a lift as he had offered many times before. She was able to walk across the fields and, as the crow flew, her cottage was less than a mile’s walk from his.
“I’ve left you a casserole in the oven, Father,” she said, nodding towards the kitchen.
“Thank you, Edna,” he said, not talking his eyes from the window. “And give Rocco a pat from me,” he joked.
“Who?” she asked, honestly.
“Rocco, your dog?” he said, finally turning to face her in surprise. He knew that she lived and breathed for her fat chocolate Labrador and his days were often full of the dog’s tales whether he liked it or not.
“Oh yes, of course,” she smiled awkwardly. “Sorry. I just didn’t hear you properly; maybe I’m getting old” she smiled as she left quickly.
Brendon watched as she made her way across the rear fields towards the lane where she lived. He had been growing increasingly worried over the housekeeper’s age almost since he’d arrived and even given serious thought to bringing up a discussion about retirement with her. But now she waded her way through the growing bad weather with ease. He watched on as she positively skipped over a style with a nimbleness that belied her years. On instinct he made a quick check over her work in the cottage. He found that, despite her barely working a half day, everything was spick and span and the house was full of gleaming reflections. He couldn’t help but wonder about the secret to her vitality and wonder what she was on, and if she had any to spare.
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Dora Tibbs spent her afternoon with her own private agenda. Since she had discovered the school nurse, Hannah Marks, acting most peculiarly in the infirmary in the middle of the night, she knew that she had to inform Mr. Barnaby.
She had been shocked when he had summarily dismissed her concerns earlier that morning. He hadn’t seemed interested when she shared her suspicions about the nurse’s nocturnal activities. The Headmaster’s disinterest had disappointed her as she’d felt that they’d shared the same passion for Ravenhill and its disciplines. He had even spoken at length to her about staff privacy and boundaries. He had treated her like she was some old gossip sharing tittle-tattle across the garden fence.
She was due to head back for the holiday break, but she couldn’t leave with Mr. Barnaby’s tired and borderline contemptuous gaze burned into her memory. She would bring him the evidence that would prove her concerns correct and earn back his trust and respect.
She had tried to speak to Ms Marks, but the nurse had viewed her with some kind of mad glaze in her eyes which only made her more suspicious. She and Hannah had never been the closet of friends, but she knew the nurse well enough to know that this permanently smiling visage had to be a mask.
She suspected that Ms Marks had been self-prescribing from the school’s medical inventory and she wanted a closer look at the books.
She had initially gone looking for Mavis Merryweather, but she had found the school administrator in the canteen wearing the same odd smile as the nurse. There was a strange little circle of staff sitting around a table in the dining hall. Along with the secretary and nurse, there were several of the domestic staff all sharing the same glazed eyes and smiles. It had reminded her for all the world like the sort of prayer meetings that her mother used to attend.
Her mother had been a devoutly religious woman who had fallen foul of a charlatan selling his wares and exploiting elderly women close to the end of their road and desperate to make atonement before the clock ran down. They held meetings in each other’s houses, clutching hands with sweaty palms and fevered brows. They had blindly followed Reverend Clerk with their hearts and purses open wide. She had stumbled into one of their prayer meetings once and she had seen the same kind of blissful devotion on their faces that the gathering in the dining hall had. There had also been the same immediate silence at the presence of an intruding outsider in their mix. She had backed away graciously and quickly, for some subconscious reason not wanting to be drawn into their little circle.
If she couldn’t ask Merryweather for the information on the school’s inventory, at least she knew where the woman was whilst she poked around.
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Barnaby ran through the checklist again, and then once more. According to his records James Corner should have still been here. The 13 year old was scheduled to be in-house over the holidays and yet he couldn’t find the kid anywhere.
The day had been filled with the comings and goings of so many students leaving and cars collecting that it was hard to keep track of everyone. James Corner was usually a right royal pain and could almost always be counted on to make his voice heard above the din.
He checked with several pupils and staff and no one as yet could remember seeing James today. He tried to slow his racing mind and keep it clear of unnecessary worry, but Ravenhill was a place that kept its own house in order and it was always imperative to keep a low profile. The school attracted only the best and brightest families across the country an
d beyond and its reputation was impeccable. Ms Mears’ security scare had been a scare to him more for the possibility of unwanted attention than the unlikely event of a child going missing. Ravenhill had a long and dark past that required his life’s work to keep well hidden from prying eyes. The school was the apex of British education and as such it was his responsibility to maintain this level.
He walked the corridors looking for James Corner. He ducked inside various rooms looking for the boy but not wanting to draw attention to his quest. The students that were staying in-house for the Christmas break were free to make use of the many facilities and were not required to attend classes.
He wandered slowly from the gym and pool to the games rooms and library. He was starting to get genuinely concerned that he was going to have to notify the authorities; it was the last thing that he wanted to do.
He looked out of the window and saw the already settled snow and thought about the predictions for the weather to only grow worse.
He suddenly spotted Mrs. Merryweather rounding the corner. He looked at her in surprise as she wasn’t scheduled to be in today. “Mrs. Merryweather?” he called to her along the hallway.
“Mr. Barnaby,” she smiled, which was unusual in itself.
“What are you doing here?” he asked officiously.
“I hope you don’t mind, Sir, but I had a few things to attend to that I didn’t finish yesterday, but it’s all taken care of now. Mr. Bradley’s information is all filed away, just a momentary misplacement was all,” she beamed.
“Never mind that for the minute, what about James Corner?” he whispered in a low voice to avoid being overheard.
“What about him?”
“I can’t seem to find him anywhere; he is in-house this year, and yet he’s nowhere to be seen.”
“That’s not correct Mr. Barnaby, Sir; I saw him this morning as I arrived, pulling out with his parents,” she said, still smiling broadly with an expression that was starting to creep him out.
