The Beast of Seabourne (23 page)

He needed desperately to talk to Ellie and Ruff about things, but it was obvious, even to his groggy brain, that neither of them was in a talkative mood when they eventually got to Room 33. They both arrived late, with bulldog-chewing-a-wasp expressions, and to cap it all, the whole of 2C was once again held up by Skelton sticking his thick-skinned head into the classroom.

“Just seven days left until the trip, and just one exam for those of you wishing to make certain of your place,” he said, pushing his glasses up his nose. “As an added incentive, yesterday Dr Heeps informed me that JG Industries has generously offered tiered sponsorship. That means that the top ten in the class only have to find £50 for the whole week, the remaining ten, just £75. Therefore, it will be well worth trying your utmost to ace the next test and improve your rankings.”

The whole class reacted with a sudden burst of excited whispering, which was, Oz assumed, exactly what the science teacher had hoped for. Another dangled carrot from Heeps and Gerber? What exactly were they up to? But when he looked across at Ruff, whose head had shot up on hearing the announcement, there was no acknowledgement. Instead, Ruff's gaze slid back to the doodle he'd been engrossed in ever since entering the classroom. And all Ellie could do was shrug in response to Oz's questioning glance.

At the front of the class, Mr Skelton's teeth gleamed as his head swivelled to face Miss Arkwright.

“And of course, it isn't too late for Miss Arkwright to accompany us,” he added. “Totally free.”

Miss Arkwright, however, shook her head and sighed.

“But everyone wants you to come,” Mr Skelton implored. He turned to the class. “Don't we, 2C? Show of hands, if you will.”

Almost the whole of the class put their hands up, even though only about half a dozen had even the remotest chance of going on the trip themselves. Miss Arkwright looked startled.

“Look, it's not a question of what you or 2C want,” she said in a voice blending irritation and panic. “I'm afraid I have other plans.”

“Oh, come on. You know it'll be fun.” Skelton just wouldn't give up.

“With you in charge, what else could it possibly be?” she muttered through a fabricated smile. “However, as I have tried to explain…”

The door suddenly opened, and Mr Gingell stuck his head in, his face adorned with its usual good-natured smile. When he saw Mr Skelton, however, the smile slid off, replaced by a confused frown.

“Ah, sorry, didn't mean to interrupt. Wanted a word about next…” He glanced at an unusually silent 2C, who were waiting with bated breath for what he was about to say, took in Miss Arkwright's glare of irritation, and finally turned back to the idiotically beaming face of Mr Skelton.

“Right. Never mind,” he said. “It's nothing urgent. I'll just, ummm…come back later, then, shall I?”

A curtain of solid silence descended as the two men regarded one another before Mr Gingell withdrew and left Mr Skelton with a bewildered look on his face. He eventually cleared his throat and mumbled, “As I said, just a few days to go to the final test. So…study…hard…” He turned and walked out of the room.

Miss Arkwright watched him go, her arms folded resolutely. Oz thought he saw her mouth a silent word, which looked very much like “Prat.”

By the time the little soap opera was over, they were all late for French, and Madame Chang kept them five minutes extra going into break. Oz couldn't find Ruff or Ellie in the canteen, and by the time he'd bought and wolfed down a piece of toast, the bell went for geography.

Everyone knew that Mr Gingell and Miss Arkwright were an item. Everyone except Skelton, it seemed. Though they tried their best not to show any sign of it in school, Ellie thought it was “really sweet.” Oz had not gone quite that far but had given it his seal of approval, since Arkwright and Gingell were his two favourite teachers in the whole of Seabourne County.

Gingell, being second generation Trinidadian, was a huge cricket fan and coached the under-fifteen school team. His lessons had inspired the failed water cycle project and since Oz had fixed the sabotage to get it working again, the Perspex box usually sat on display at the rear of the geography classroom. That morning, Oz was puzzled to find it on the desk at the front. He wondered if Mr Gingell had put a shoal of piranha in the bottom of it, from the way Ruff kept his eyes glued to it throughout the lesson. Ellie, meanwhile, kept her head in her textbook whenever Oz tried to catch her eye, even after he'd passed her a note that read, “Did you see stuff about Bendle in poo on news?”

Finally, the bell went for lunch, and 2C began filing out noisily. Gingell sang out above the din, “Don't forget, your homework is to design a poster for a biosphere park based on the Japanese Eden Globe in New Seoul we've just studied. Oh, and Ellie, Rufus, and Oscar, can I see you for a minute, please?”

When the rest of the class had tramped out, Mr Gingell called the three of them to the front, where he waited for them next to the water cycle model.

“You all know how brilliant I think this piece of work is,” Mr Gingell said, his dark eyes twinkling.

They nodded. Mr Gingell told them at least three times a week exactly that. “Well, I was wondering how difficult it might be to modify it a bit. You know we've done extremes of weather and natural disasters this term.”

Oz nodded. Mr Gingell's cousin in Port-of-Spain had sent them a video from the middle of a tropical storm the previous week, and the howling wind had sounded, according to Ruff, like a banshee choir.

“So, I was thinking, if we put a little bit of sand under the soil on the mountainside, when it rained we might get a mudslide, which would set up a tsunami inside the box. Of course, it would mean we'd have to rebuild the mountain each time.”

Oz waited for Ruff to say something triumphant, since it'd been his idea right from the start to do just that. He normally would have, Oz was sure, but he was still in “silent miserable git” mode.

“Shouldn't be too hard,” Ellie said eventually.

“Definitely.” Oz nodded.

“Piece of cake,” Ruff mumbled.

“Really?” Mr Gingell said, his eyes wide with delight.

Oz looked at Ellie and then at Ruff, who didn't look back, the three of them settling on a series of vague nods and shrugs in response to the suggestion.

Mr Gingell frowned. “I may not have expected cartwheels and whoops of joy, but a little flicker of enthusiasm might not go amiss,” he said.

Three pairs of shoes were inspected by the trio.

“Do I detect that a touch of frost has descended on the normally warm and rosy Ellie, Oz, and Ruff gang?”

No one spoke.

“Hmmm,” Gingell said. “If you ask me, the silent, moody look doesn't suit any one of you very much. If you'd like to talk about it…” He let the question hang in the air, where it shrivelled and died. “A fresh take on the subject is quite often very valuable in such situations,” he suggested again.

Silence.

“No? Well, I must say I am surprised. You three normally seem so…grown up. Clearly, there are some things that are not quite ready to be approached from an adult standpoint. So, would you like to make a start on the model after you grab a quick bite?”

“Maybe Ruff and Ellie can, sir,” Oz said and grimaced an apology. “I've got orchestra practise.”

“Ah, of course. Well. Sorry to have kept you, Oz.”

“No problem, sir,” Oz said.

But it
was
a problem. The orchestra couldn't really practise without a drummer, and it was Oz's job to get there early and set up. Now he'd be keeping everyone waiting while he fiddled with adjusting his high hat and cymbals.

He hurried along corridors heaving with hungry students going in the opposite direction, but instead of thinning out the farther from the canteen he got, the throng became denser. When he finally got to the corridor leading to the hall, a knot of people was jammed up against the doors. Most of them were orchestra players, and their cumbersome instrument cases compounded the congestion. Everyone was straining to stare in through the glass panels in the hall door while from somewhere outside, the blaring sirens of an approaching emergency services vehicle grew ever louder,

“What's going on?” Oz asked Aaron Bradley.

“Don't know, really. All happened so fast. I'd just walked in through the door when there was this scream and Fidler did a headless chicken up to the stage, and then he came back out looking really white and told Martha Trump to go and fetch Mr Manning and the Volcano, and then he told the rest of us to go and wait out here and…”

He didn't get a chance to finish. Something was happening in the hall. The crowd suddenly surged back as the doors were thrust open.

“Coming through,” yelled Mr Fidler. The school nurse was by his side, fussing over a bundle in his arms. Said bundle wasn't moving very much, but did let out a moan.

“That's Phillipa Heeps, isn't it?” Aaron hissed as he craned to see.

Oz didn't answer. The bundle was indeed Pheeps. Her pretty face was deathly pale and her eyes were shut tight, her limbs hanging doll-like over Fidler's arms as he pushed his way through the throng of students and out to the waiting ambulance. Everyone watched in dumbstruck silence, which was eventually broken by a very familiar voice.

“Can I have the jazz orchestra in here at once, please?” The Volcano sounded peeved at the best of times. Now, she sounded like the top of her head was going to blow off at any moment.

The crowd parted to allow the orchestra to shuffle in under the Volcano's unsmiling glare.

“As you will have gathered, there has been…an incident. I will want to speak to each of you in turn—”

“Is Phillipa all right, miss?” asked Martha Trump, tearfully.

“She appears physically unharmed, but she is in shock.”

“Was it the same thing that happened to Kieron Skinner, miss?” Martha Trump continued is a hoarse whisper. “Do you think it was the Beast of…”

“That's enough of that,” snapped the Volcano. “There is no such thing as the Beast of Seabourne, and I do not want to hear any such tripe mentioned in this school again, do you understand?”

No one spoke.

“DO YOU UNDERSTAND?”

The Volcano's strident voice echoed around the hall. Oz didn't think he'd ever heard it at such a volume, and he found himself glancing at the glass panels in the doors to make sure they hadn't shattered.

“Now, the staff and I are determined to get to the bottom of this very quickly. But for the moment, orchestra practise has been put on hold, and I suggest you all go and get some lunch.”

The band picked up their instruments and filed out in shocked silence.

Oz was almost at the door when he heard his name being called.

“Oscar Chambers,” boomed the Volcano. “I want a word with you.”

Oz looked up. The Volcano was still up on the stage, sending him a thousand-watt glare. Oz had to push back through a knot of his fellow musicians to get back inside. Martha Trump sent him a dagger stare and made a great show of giving him a wide berth. He made his way along the length of the hall with a lead weight in his gut. He could feel a dozen pairs of eyes on the back of his neck, and he knew what they were all thinking. Blood rushed to his face in a flush of embarrassment. The Volcano waited until the last person had left the room before walking down from the stage, her echoing footfalls emphasising the fact that they were completely alone. She strode up to him and leaned forward, her eyes behind the dark-rimmed glasses full of a cold anger, her voice dripping with disdain.

“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.