by Aubade Teyal
Calgacos
By Aubade Teyal
Find out more: aubadeteyal.wordpress.com
Table of Contents
Chapter One - Expulsion
Chapter Two - Refugee
Chapter Three - New Girl
Chapter Four - Test
Chapter Five - Endurance
Chapter Six - Aftermath
Chapter Seven - Personal Pursuit
Chapter Eight - Cards
Chapter Nine – Uncovered
Chapter Ten - Calgacos
Chapter Eleven - Escape
Chapter Twelve – Back
Chapter Thirteen - Trials
Chapter Fourteen – They Always Are
Chapter Fifteen - Training
Chapter Sixteen – The Challenge Cup
Chapter Seventeen – Betrayal
Chapter Eighteen – Departure
Chapter Nineteen - Forgotten
Chapter Twenty – Hunted
Chapter Twenty One - Hunter
Chapter Twenty Two – Expulsion
Chapter Twenty Three– New Girl
Chapter One - Expulsion
Mr Alfred Grittle was a traditional man. He was the headmaster of Kingham College, a private, boarding school dating back to the 17th century, with 800 pupils from wealthy, busy, families. He wore a suit, every day, including Sunday. He alternated between a fine woollen waistcoat in the winter and silk one in the summer. Every Friday, he invited the deputy head, the jovial Mr McGill, and the youthful but serious Senior Master, Mr Jonson, to drink superior French wines, and feast on school affairs. The top news story of the week was Lennox Constable's first romantic encounter since arriving at the college.
'I knew from the very beginning, there was something different about her,' Alfred Grittle declared, swilling his wine. 'But there was nothing wrong with the way she looked. She walked through our doors in her old clothes and yet looking like Aphrodite with her ice white skin and perfect face. Everywhere she went on that first day, I saw boys staring in shock. I don't think anyone noticed she was practically in rags for about a week.'
He leant back in armchair and drained his glass. McGill and Jonson waited patiently for the story to be resumed. They knew Alfred Whittle summoned them, every Friday, not because he wanted to talk with them, but because he wanted to talk to them.
'It was her father who enrolled her with us. God knows if she even has a mother. He phoned to enquire and was put through to me. The line was so bad, I could barely understand him. I didn't catch his name, only that he was a major. Anyway, it was the briefest call I had all week. He simply asked me two questions. 'Do you have places available?' was the first one. And 'How much do you charge?' was the next. After that, he was done. 'She's on her way,’ he told me, before I even had a chance to take down any details. ‘Lennox Constable, white, 16, and she’s a typically neurotic, dysfunctional teen. ETA is 16:30.'
'Typical?' echoed McGill. 'Was that a joke?'
'No joke,' Alfred Grittle grimaced. 'No uniform either, or school records. I still don't know where she came from. All we received was a cheque, and the girl herself.'
'So the bursar was happy!' quipped McGill.
'And so was I,' added Alfred Grittle, 'At first. She was quiet, studious intelligent. The first thing I did when she arrived was sit her down to take an entrance exam. She came out high. Given her good looks, I thought we might get a bit of trouble with the boys, but she stayed clear of them, and the girls too.' He paused and scowled. 'She was like a ghost. Here, but not really here, just a silent presence who did not interact with anyone, or leave a mark.'
'Until this week,' pointed out Jonson.
Alfred Grittle sighed, and refilled his glass, again.
'Until this week,' he agreed. 'Until Quentin Greene finally persuaded her to take a walk with him down the 'orchard', past the other couples, and tried to kiss her. He said she tried to rip his neck off. She said he was making it up. Making it up!? He had bite marks deep enough you could put your finger in them.'
'She’s a liability. A danger to the other pupils, psychotic at the least.' declared Mr Jonson.
‘Yes, it seems she is.’ Mr Grittle agreed. 'She has to go. I came to that conclusion straight away. That was the easy part. The real problem was knowing where she would go. Kingham College doesn’t have much of a history of expelling pupils, but when we have, they’ve gone home in their parents’ car, tail between their legs. But I had no means of contacting Lennox’s father. We've got nothing but a bank account. So I contacted the MOD. I told them I needed to speak to Major Constable. They refused to give me any information, but they did offer to send a message. So I said I needed the Major had to contact me within 24 hours, or I would contact social services. An hour later, he was on the phone.
It was almost impossible to understand him, the line was so bad. He said something about sending more money to cover our costs, and sending her to Scotland. Then the feedback was so bad I could hear nothing. When I heard him again, he was saying Calgacos, send her there. Nothing else he said after that was intelligible.'
'Calgacos? Never heard of it,' said Mr McGill, who was Scottish.
'You're not the only one,' Grittle told him. 'I've spent all day trying to find someone who has heard of it.'
‘It should be registered though.’ McGill added. ‘They all should be.’
‘Well, it’s not. And every internet search I did came up with information about an ancient King. Nothing about a school.’
'So?' asked Jonson, sitting forward in his chair. 'What are you going to do?'
It was Jonson who had been on duty when the incident happened. Quentin had been a tall, burly boy, popular, if arrogant, and had been pursuing 'the ice queen' for weeks. But when Jonson last saw him, he'd been a bloody wreck. He had staggered into his office, bloody, sweating and swearing, and making no sense. Jonson had called an ambulance first then asked questions later, at the hospital. When Quentin named Lennox, Jonson wasn’t surprised. He’d thought from the first her aloofness was hiding something much worse.
'Well, there’s no mention of a school, but I did find a reference on line to a village of that name, some 5 miles from a town called Balreaig way up in the Western Highlands. The website was one which specialised in pre 20th century maps.'
There was a pause. All three men stared into their wine glasses. McGill’s was empty. But he couldn’t fill it up. It was Grittle’s wine. He dispensed it.
‘Well…I cross referenced. There is still a town called Balreaig and....’
…and nothing about a village but he didn’t have a choice. He had mentioned social services on the phone but Kingham College, dating back to 17th Century, boasted past pupils who had knocked on the door of number 10. It had never yet had cause to contact social services and Mr Alfred Grittle was determined he was not going to break that tradition.
'…and I’m going to do what her father wants. I've rung a taxi company, one from Scotland.' There was an edge to Grittle's voice. 'I told them it would be a long journey: and I gave them the address: Calgacos, near Balreaig, Western Highlands. They didn't question me.'
Mr Jonson nodded and McGill, for once, did not smile.
'She goes tomorrow.'
