by Tim O'Rourke
“Blah! Blah! Blah!” he mocked. “You go on believing that, girlie. Whatever floats your boat!” Laughing, he looked at me and added, “Get-it? Whatever floatsyour boat!”
Just wanting to punch this whack-job straight in the face, I sat on my hands, turned away and looked up at the school. The car tyres crunched over gravel, and it sounded like the car were rolling over a carpet of broken bones. The driver swung the car round the last bend in the driveway and killed the engine in front of the school. Not wanting to spend another moment in the driver’s company, I snatched hold of my small case and fled the car. One of the hooded figures stood in the rain and beckoned me forward with a gnarled finger.
“This way!” the figure ordered. “Follow me.”
With my stomach churning as if my innards were being strangled, I started after the figure.
“Hey!” a voice called after me.
I spun around to see that the driver had wound down the passenger’s window of his car and was now leaning across both front seats. “Good luck, girlie!” he grinned. “You’re gonna need it!” Then the driver wound up the window, drowning out the sound of his obnoxious laughter, started the engine, and drove away down the drive.
With rain jabbing away at my face like broken fingernails, I watched the car until it had disappeared from view.
“Follow me!” the hoodie ordered, its voice sounding stern and old.
I gripped the handle of my case over my shoulder, turned on my heels and followed the hoodie into the school.
The school was very old. The building was constructed of cold slabs of grey stone and rock. The corridors the hooded figure led me through seemed never-ending. The walls towered high above me like some ancient cathedral. The sound of my shoes snapping off the cobbled walkways echoed all around me as the hoodie’s long robes made a whispering sound as they trailed behind him. Set into the walls were giant stained glass windows and they cast eerie shadows along the corridors.
The hooded figure led me to a small, wooded door. He pushed it open to reveal a dimly-lit room. On the floor was a cardboard box with the words Poor Box written along the side in red marker pen.
“Find yourself a suitable blazer then get to class,” the figure hissed, its grey robes swishing back along the floor as it made its way up the stone corridor.
Once it was gone, I bent down and rummaged through the Poor Box, my hands lost amongst second-hand ties, socks, jumpers, and blazers. The clothes smelt musty — like a tramp that had brushed up too close to me on the London Underground.
“This sucks, don’t you reckon?” came a voice from beside me.
I looked up to find a boy about my own age standing next to me. He was thin-looking, with a long face, a mop of black curls, and mischievous blue eyes.
“I guess,” I sighed and went back to rummaging through the box.
“You’re new here, ain’t ya?”
“Yep,” I said without looking up.
“Don’t worry,” the boy said. “This place takes some getting used to, but…”
“Who said I’m worried?” I asked, pulling a dusty-looking blazer from the box and holding it against me.
“You look as if you’ve just seen a ghost!” he smirked. “Either that or you ain’t feeling too well.”
I brushed the dust from the blazer, and said, “I’m fine, okay? So if you don’t mind, I’m trying…”
“Just look at this crap, will ya?” he groaned, cutting me dead. “How do they
expect anyone to wear this stuff?” he said, yanking a blazer from the box and putting it on. The sleeves dangled over his wrists and covered his hands. I slid my arms through the sleeves of the blazer I had chosen and they stopped halfway up my arm.
Then he looked at himself, then at me. “We look like a right pair of Muppets!”
“Swap?” I suggested.
“You kidding?” the boy grinned. “If they insist we wear this crap, then they’ll have to put up with us looking like a couple of dicks.”
“But we don’t look very smart,” I said.
“That’s the point,” he smiled, poking his fingers from beneath his sleeves.
“But…”
“I’m Brook. Sam Brook,” he said, thrusting his hand out towards me.
“Kayla Hunt,” I replied, shaking Sam’s hand.
“What year you been put in?” Sam asked, kicking the box over and walking away up the corridor.
“Sorry?” I asked, watching the second-hand clothes spill out of the box like a pile of entangled guts.
“How old are ya?” Sam shouted over his shoulder.
“Sixteen!”
“Nice one. You’ll be in the same classes as me!” he smiled back at me, and his piercing blue eyes seemed to sparkle with delight. “C’mon, you don’t want to be late for Brother Michael’s lesson!” And with another wicked grin, Sam mooched away and up the corridor.
I straightened my thick auburn hair and said, “To be honest, I do feel kinda nervous.”
“I knew it,” Sam smiled at me.
“How? Is it that obvious?”
“You look as if you’re gonna shit yourself!’ Sam laughed.
“Thanks!”
“I’m just taking the piss!” Sam grinned and slapped me on the back. “Don’t worry, you’ll get used to being at Ravenwood.”
I knew that my time at the school was short, and I needed to find out as much information about it and the staff as possible. So not wanting to waste any time, I said, “The teachers here seem weird — kinda strange.”
“The Ravenwood Greys, that’s what we call ‘em,” Sam said, his voice dropping to just above a whisper.
I thought of the teacher who had met me outside of the school and the grey robes and hood that it had worn, and the name seemed to fit. Wanting to know more about these Ravenwood Greys, I said, “You’re not reassuring me, Sam. Are they really bad?”
“The old lot of teachers we had — they were pretty safe. But one morning we all tipped up for lessons as normal, and they’d all gone — vanished!” Sam told me.
“What do you mean, vanished?” I asked, thinking of Emily Clarke.
“Dunno,” Sam shrugged. “They just disappeared and were replaced by the Greys.”
“Where did they go?” I asked him.
“How should I know?” Sam whispered, approaching the door to the classroom and pushing it open. I followed him inside.
Just like my blazer, the classroom smelt old, musty, and of sweat. It was full of teenagers all about the same age as me and Sam. Some looked a few years younger. They sat in rows behind single wooden desks. I followed Sam across the room, and finding a spare desk and seat next to him, I sat down. Along one side of the classroom, windows spewed dreary shafts of winter morning light across the desks and chalkboard. Glancing out of the windows, I could see one of the turrets that surrounded the school spiralling up into the overcast sky. At the top I could see a hooded figure pacing back and forth as it kept watch over the school and everyone imprisoned within it.
Chapter Eighteen
Kayla
“I thought you said we shouldn’t be late for Brother Michael’s lesson?” I said to Sam, looking at my watch. “He’s five minutes late already.”
“Shhh!” Sam said. “He might already be here!”
“What do ya mean?” I asked. But before Sam could explain, something happened.
At first there was a rustling sound, like leaves being carried along the street in a storm. This was followed by a wailing sound and a spray of shadows that flickered across the chalkboard like the silhouette of a giant bird. Then out of the gloom in the corner of the room stepped one of those Greys. His robes fluttered all around him as he made his way to the front of the class.
“Where did he come — ” I began.
“Shhh!” Sam said again, prodding me in the ribs with his elbow. “That’s Brother Michael.”
Brother Michael stood at the front of the class, his giant frame wedged into a grey coloured ro
be. But it wasn’t just his cloak and the hood that he had draped over his head, everything about him was grey. His hoodie was pulled so far down over his face that the only part I could see was his mouth. Brother Michael’s lips were puckered, cracked, and blistered looking.
“For the benefit of the new student,” Brother Michael’s mouth hissed, “I will remind you of the entire list of school rules.” Then, running his tongue over his lips to moisten them, he began. “You will not leave the school grounds. In fact, you won’t have any contact with the outside world until you leave this school!”
School! Is that what he calls it? I wondered.
His tongue snaked from between his lips again and a silver globule of spittle glistened as it dribbled from the corner of his mouth. He looked as if he were about to throw a fit. “If you should see anyone other than a member of staff in the school grounds, you are to report it at once!” Straightening the rope that hung about his waist, he continued. “By that I mean anyone odd — anyone looking strange! Do I make myself clear?” he asked.
What? Stranger than you? I thought to myself. Not likely!
“Yes, Brother,” the class replied. I sat silently and watched Brother Michael knock away the spit that swung from his chin.
Brother Michael continued to inform the class of the many rules that we must all obey, and as he did, I stole a glance about the room and spied at some of the other students. They sat with their backs straight, faces taut and emotionless, like mindless dummies in shop windows. They looked haunted — lost in some way — like they had given up somehow. Then, as I was turning back to face Brother Michael, I caught someone staring back at me. It was a boy, about my age I figured, with narrow green eyes and a scrunched-up looking face. He had a fierce-looking crew cut like a Marine, and he had his fists on his desk like two giant clubs.
The way he stared made me feel uncomfortable, so I offered him a half smile. In return, he grinned back at me. Then, pointing his thumb and forefinger like a pistol, he aimed it at me and pretended to fire a shot off. I faced front again to find Brother Michael continuing to recite the never-ending list of school rules.
“Apart from the searchlights in the grounds, all the lights will be switched off at nine p.m. After this time, the school will be in total darkness!”
I had no trouble in conjuring up eerie images of Ravenwood at night and as I pictured the long, soulless corridors, a thought came to me. Raising an arm above my head, I tried to get Brother Michael’s attention.
“What is it, Hunt?” Brother Michael hissed. “It had better be good!”
I lowered my arm, glanced at the other kids seated nearest to me, then back at Brother Michael. Just above a whisper, I said, “Brother, if the school is in total darkness, how will I find my way to the toilet — you know, just in case I need to pee?”
The class erupted into hysterics. I stared at them, never intending my question to be humorous, it was a genuine concern that I had.
“Silence!” Brother Michael screeched and the laughter stopped. “So we have a comedian in our midst, do we?”
“No, Brother…I was just wondering…”
“You’d better not be trouble, Hunt. I’m not known for my sense of humour and children who break the rules make me laugh even less!” Brother Michael spat, reaching into the folds of his robes and producing a long, black, plastic rod similar in size to a ruler.
Whoosh!
Brother Michael cut the air with the rod, slicing it back and forth. With a malevolent grin, he said, “Children who wish to disobey the rules will receive this!” He waved the rod again, and this time the end of it lit up in an explosion of blue sparks. The tip of the rod fizzed and spat short bursts of electricity into the air, illuminating Brother Michael’s chin which jutted from beneath his hood.
I was right — I had been sent to live in a prison! The rod that Brother Michael was waving about was some kind of Taser — like the cops carried before the world got pushed.
I tucked my hands beneath the desk, and wondered if the police knew what was going on here. But then I thought of what Isidor and I had discovered on the Web about how the world was now, and guessed that the police couldn’t give a crap as to what happened to me or any of the other kids at the school.
“We take every pleasure in giving you children the odd zap,” Brother Michael said, firing up the end of the rod again. “Because on occasions you will need it. And believe me, one day you will thank us!”
Waving the electric rod around in front of the class, I noticed that one of Brother Michael’s fingers on his right hand was missing. Where his index finger should have been was a stumpy lump of flesh. But instead of it being grey like the rest of him, the stump was purple in colour and it looked raw like a piece of meat that had been gnawed at. Unable to stop looking at it, the flesh along my spine began to prickle and tighten.
“Want to get a better look at it do you?” Brother Michael asked, and he was now looming over me, thrusting the stump under my nose. I looked up at the shrouded figure before me, and that invisible fist tightened itself around my intestines again, making my stomach cramp.
“Do you want a better look, Kayla Hunt?” Brother Michael spat, the painful-looking stump just millimetres from my face. God, it smelt so bad I thought I might just puke.
I jerked my head away from it, the smell of rotting flesh and decay making me gag. “No, Brother,” I whispered.
Nodding beneath his hood, Brother Michael said, “Very well.”
I glanced sideways at Sam, and gave him a look as if to say,What a freak? But Sam just winked back at me and offered a nervous smile.
Chapter Nineteen
Kiera
Soon after Kayla had left for Ravenwood School, Potter, Isidor, and I packed a bag each and set off for the farmhouse that we had rented on the outskirts of Wood Hill. Potter had wanted to drive the Rolls Royce Phantom that he had found housed in the large garage at the rear of the manor.
“Yeah, and why don’t we paint it pink and really draw attention to ourselves?” I said, taking the keys to the smaller Ford Focus that Isidor and Kayla had been using on their trips to and from Wood Hill over the last few weeks.
“You’re such a killjoy, Hudson,” Potter said, snatching the keys from me and climbing behind the wheel of the Ford.
I got in beside him and Isidor sat in the back. All of us were dressed in jeans, warm sweaters, and boots. None of us stood out and that’s what I wanted.
Potter drove us across the Welsh Moors as we made our way through the bleak countryside towards the town of Wood Hill. Isidor had his head buried in a book for most of the journey and Potter chain-smoked, flicking the ash and blowing smoke out of the window.
“Close the window,” I groaned. “You’re letting the rain in.”
With a cigarette held between his teeth, Potter closed the window. At once the car filled with a cloud of blue-grey smoke.
“Better?” He asked, peering through the rain-streaked windscreen as he navigated the narrow winding roads.
“Not really,” I said, winding down my own window and drawing in a lungful of clean air.
“I thought you were getting wet?” Potter asked, shooting me a sideways glance.
“It doesn’t matter,” I said, taking my iPod and placing it into the dock on the dashboard.
Potter frowned in confusion and looked back at the road.
“Fancy some music?” I asked him.
“Sure, why not?” he replied.
“Isidor?” I said, twisting in my seat to look at him.
“Huh?” he said, not taking his eyes from the copy of Harvey Trotter amp; the Dragon’s Throne that he had in his hands.
“What do you fancy listening to?” I asked.
“Oh anything,” he said, without looking. Then, added, “How about Voulez-vous by Abba?”
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Potter groaned beside me.
With a smile, I said to Isidor, “I don’t have that song but…” Then, scroll
ing through the tracks on my iPod, I found the song that I was looking for and hit the play button. Within moments, Dancing Queen by Abba was playing.
A sullen look fell over Potter’s face.
“Don’t be such an old misery-guts,” I said to him.
“Abba?” he groaned again. “Haven’t you got any U2?”
“Not in this world,” I reminded him.
Isidor started to sing along in the background as he continued to read his book.
Potter glanced at him in the rear-view mirror and said, “I really don’t get you, Isidor.”
“What’s not to get?” he asked between singing the words.
“Well just take a look at you,” Potter said, keeping one eye on the road ahead. “You’ve got the eyebrow piercing, the Shaggy-Doo beard and tattoos up your arms and neck and your singing along to Abba. I mean, what’s going on?”
“So what you’re saying is that I should be listening to something more gothic — dull and depressing?” Isidor said, still not looking up from his book.
“Well, yeah,” Potter said.
“If I wanted that sort of thing, I’d spend more time listening to you, Potter,” Isidor said, glancing up from his book and winking at me.
“Very funny,” Potter said.
“Leave Isidor alone,” I smiled at the sight of Isidor giving Potter a taste of his own medicine.
“Whatever,” Potter sulked.
We spent the rest of the journey in silence, until suddenly I noticed that Potter was strumming his fingers on the steering wheel in time and singing along to Take a Chance on Me.
It was early afternoon when Potter pulled the car up in front of the farmhouse. The rain hadn’t stopped the whole journey, and the sky was so overcast that it could have been night. The farmhouse was situated at the top of a narrow dirt track that was barely wide enough to fit the car. On each side of the track there were slate stone walls that were covered in wild ivy, nettles, and thorns.
