by M K Drake
As Atticus makes his way out of the classroom, the Professor says one last thing, “If you are successful tomorrow Jones, I have even more interesting things for you than what is in that bag. Good day.”
And with that, Atticus gives an appreciative nod before running to his next class while trying to put his newly acquired rucksack into his oversized school bag.
On his way to P.E., Atticus decides to stop off at the bathroom to freshen up. Recent nights have been rather difficult, with the strange dreams and nightmares haunting him during his sleep, and although he doesn’t remember waking up, he feels like he has hardly slept when the alarm sounds.
Rinsing his face he peers into the mirror. Atticus is a rather handsome young man, but more than often, doesn’t really pay much attention to his appearance. His jet-black hair is particularly scruffy this day with a few strands sticking up from his left parting.
His ovular face sports some mild freckles, concentrated around his slightly undersized nose. Atticus also has an interesting shade of colour for his eyes, almost hazel, but rather light, hidden by a pair of lightly-tinted rectangular glasses, which Atticus proceeds to put back on. With one last sigh, he turns and leaves the bathroom to make his way to class.
Arriving at the changing rooms for P.E., Atticus finds that everybody else has almost finished changing. Athletics season isn’t too far away, and Atticus hopes to make the fencing team again; unfortunately, fencing is not on the menu in today’s session. Atticus’ face turns white as he sees Mr Bronson bring out the rugby balls.
“Today, I’m going to turn you scrawny mongrels into men! We will walk onto that field, and run our little socks off, then, you will all take a partner, and a ball, and show me what a rugby tackle should be like!”
Mr Bronson is a very large but muscular young man with spiky hair, and a physique almost built for the sport he now loves. He has a taste for the theatrical. He is a passionate sportsman, and ever since England won the Rugby World Cup, he has had a fascination with the sport that just won’t go away, no matter how long ago that win was. Even at the last school open evening he was found wearing a tight rugby kit, flexing his chest muscles at any of the single ladies that attended.
“Jones, you’re late!!” bellows Mr Bronson.
“Sorry sir, but Professor Morgan kept me behind,” Atticus replies quickly.
“Professor Morgan, eh? Hmmm, very well, get changed and we’ll meet you outside, no fake sickness today, alright?” Mr Bronson eyes Atticus up and down with a raised eyebrow, knowing all too well how much Atticus hates rugby.
“Come on lads, on the field now, sharpish!” he says as he marches out like a general, not looking back, holding the expectation that everyone will follow him − and due to the presence of the man, everyone does.
It is a good five minutes before Atticus manages to exit the changing rooms and onto the playing fields. The fields themselves are large, surrounded by massive hedgerows. There are three rugby pitches in total, and two football pitches. The main rugby pitch is on an elevated section with the edges banking down onto the main part of the field. To the left of the changing rooms are the outdoor netball and basketball courts, and to the right, the indoor sports arena.
The grounds themselves certainly look larger from the outside, as Atticus remembers from where he was sitting this morning. The hedgerows in particular seem a lot closer than they appear from the hilltops; they tower over the borders of the field and are so dense that it is impossible to see through them. Another strange thing about the hedgerows is that they stay this way all the way through the year, and never shed a leaf over autumn and winter.
Atticus spots his classmates on the main rugby pitch and proceeds to run towards them. Out of nowhere he begins to feel his birthmark tingle.
“Atticusssssss…!” whispers a sinister voice.
Atticus stops in his tracks, as he hears this chilling whisper calling his name.
“Atticussssssssssss…”
Atticus spins around expecting to see someone behind him, but no one is there.
“I can sssseeee yoouuuu…” the voice says again, startling Atticus who is now as white as a sheet.
He begins to hear roars from giant animals, and what sounds like ten thousand men marching on his very soul. Atticus’ heart begins to pound. He can feel a pressure on his neck, as if someone is strangling him from behind. The pain is unbearable, but he can’t scream. His mouth opens but the stranglehold is so tight he can’t find the air to make any noise. He can feel the pressure of someone trying to push him to the ground, and heat from an unknown source burning against his skin.
Atticus is pushed to his knees, the burning and the pressure on his neck so great now, he can hardly breathe. His eyes begin to water and his vision is blurring. In the distance he can just about make out Mr Bronson, but it is no good, he can’t speak. Atticus tries with all his might, all his will to try and break free, but is unable. Whoever, whatever has hold of him is just too strong. Things begin to get dark. Atticus starts to feel his legs and arms give way, he sees a light in the distance of the darkness…
“Atticus!!!” shouts Mr Bronson, “Come on lad, it’s not that bloody cold now!” the voices and stranglehold disappear in a whoosh of sound.
Atticus gasps for air as he steadies himself, squinting his eyes, trying to make sense of what just happened. He experienced something similar just the other night in his nightmares, but this was far more intense, and more importantly, this time he was awake when it happened.
Scared, he looks around him once again, he touches his neck, expecting to find scabs from the burning, but there is nothing, the skin is smooth.
He stands up and again, surprisingly, feels no after-effects. Confused, Atticus looks up the field, and spots Mr Bronson beckoning him to hurry up.
“Could I have been dreaming while awake?” Atticus thinks to himself, a recurrence of what he is experiencing during all these sleepless nights? It is the only explanation that sounds plausible to him, and with no pain, and now feeling almost 100% again; he decides that it must have been just that, a waking dream.
Although worried, he is more fearful of what Mr Bronson will do to him if he doesn’t make his way to the rugby lesson as opposed to what he thinks is just a strange dream.
Still a little dazed from his experience Atticus struggles to make it up the bank to the rugby pitch, it feels like the tip is 50ft in the air by the time he nears the top. He isn’t too pleased when he gets there.
Everybody is standing with their partner for this Rugby session, everyone except Bradley.
Bradley smirks at Atticus, and has an evil but happy glint in his eye. Atticus reluctantly walks towards him.
“’Ello Jones,” greets Bradley with a grunt, and a sidelong glance at his minions gives the feeling to Atticus that this was all planned.
Bradley stands a few inches taller than everyone else, including Atticus. His crew cut straight hair adding a further few inches, “You ready for some fun then, shorty?”
Atticus just sighs because he knows what is coming. He adjusts his glasses and turns towards Mr Bronson; as he does so, everybody else stands to attention and waits for their orders.
“Good, good, all strapping young lads,” says Mr Bronson. It is a credit to his ability that the entire class is in good shape, even though Atticus hates P.E. he always joins in the activities, his motivation is that being fit here would keep him in good shape for his fencing classes, and ensure he is quick enough to run away from Bradley when needed.
Mr Bronson addresses the class, “Today, I want you to do two laps of the rugby pitch, passing the ball between your self and your partner. Remember, no soft passes! I want them to be quick, and accurate, if I see anyone performing an illegal forward pass, they will have to do ten push ups on the spot, and take their partner on a piggyback ride for another two laps! Understood?”
The students nod.
“Well what are you waiting for? Hut! Hut! Move it! Move it! Move it!�
�� bellows Mr Bronson.
The class quickly begins their laps of the pitch.
“You better keep up Jones,” snarls Bradley
“Don’t worry, I will, I just hope you can,” retorts Atticus, slightly smugly as he starts his run. He knows he can certainly outrun and outmanoeuvre Bradley; it’s just his sheer brawn he cannot match.
Bradley passes the ball to Atticus first who then runs in front to return the pass. This goes on for one lap without incident. Atticus is still thinking about the waking dream he just experienced. How can something in his mind feel so real? And surely, once one feels pain in a dream do they not wake up straight-away?
All of these thoughts are racing through his mind when, as he is distracted, Bradley throws the ball with such a force that it knocks Atticus down the bank. Halfway down, Atticus manages to get back onto his feet, ball in hand, and somehow, without thinking it, is upright, with his football boot studs digging into the mud slowing his descent to a standstill.
Atticus can hear Bradley laughing at the top. Bradley walks to the edge expecting to see Atticus in a heap on the ground, instead, he is shocked to see Atticus standing firm, holding the ball midway down the incline.
A few wolf whistles emanate from the netball courts. The netball team are out on practice and saw everything; they seem to be quite impressed with Atticus’ acrobatics. The girls at the school mostly hate Bradley, as he displays a level of chauvinism that even a caveman would envy.
Upset, Bradley turns around in anger and walks straight into Mr Bronson, who, unbeknown to him, has seen everything.
“Having fun Mr Burrows?” asks Mr Bronson.
“No sir, ju… just saw Jones fall, sir,” replies Bradley.
Mr Bronson, fully aware that Bradley is lying, gives him a stern look, “Oh really? And I suppose the torpedo that you threw at Jones’s head had nothing to do with that?”
“Well, erm, I, erm, don’t know, sir,” replies Bradley, trying to avoid eye contact.
“Hmmm, I’m sure; this is Rugby, not bloody American Football!” replies the teacher, “Right, Jones, come here!”
Atticus runs up the bank and stands next to Mr Bronson.
“Burrows, 30 push ups now, and after you have finished that, I want you to give Jones a piggy back ride for two laps, if I see you stop or slow down I’ll give you so much detention you won’t know what daylight looks like until you are 40… years… old! Understood?” commands Mr Bronson.
“Y-yes, sir,” whimpers Bradley.
“I can’t hear you boy! I said, understood?” snaps Mr Bronson, sending a chill through Bradley.
“Yes, sir!”
Mr Bronson, pleased with his latest show of authority smiles with delight, “Good, good, I’ll be watching you from over there. Chop–chop! Get started!”
Bradley drops to the ground to begin his push-ups.
“By the way, Jones,” mutters Mr Bronson, “That was a good recovery from that fall, I’m impressed. The girls seemed to enjoy it, too,” he finishes by pointing towards the netball court, where the girls quickly spin round after realising they have been caught looking on.
Atticus smiles, and nods towards Mr Bronson before turning his gaze towards Bradley. Finishing off the push-ups in double-quick time, he hoists Atticus onto his back with ease, and proceeds to complete his task.
Atticus is rather smug at this point, it isn’t every day he gets the better of Bradley − or indeed, gets a compliment from Mr Bronson − this particular moment is one to savour.
“Enjoying this Jones?” snorts Bradley.
“A little,” replies Atticus, smiling.
“You’ll need all the enjoyment you can get right now, you little git. I’m going to get you for this!” threatens the bully.
“You’ll still have to catch me first Bradley,” replies Atticus.
The rest of the P.E. session ends without incident.
Atticus quickly showers and changes, knowing full well that he needs to get out of the sporting grounds before Bradley and his minions are ready. He runs into the main cafeteria hall, as it is almost time for lunch.
He sits on a table by himself as usual, and pulls out his lunch box, “Yeuch! Boiled egg and mayo sandwiches again,” he says with a grimace. His foster mother, although very loving, really didn’t have a clue about making a good sandwich. Sometimes Atticus is almost glad when Bradley stops to take his lunch box. Today, though, he knows that Bradley is after more than just a free lunch.
As Atticus eats away, he looks around the hall. It seems a bit small for the number of students that supposedly attend Wysardian Manor. It is a little more modern than the rest of the building; apparently it was renovated just before Atticus joined, and wasn’t part of the main building.
The cafeteria begins to fill quickly, with hordes of students all entering in unison. Atticus ignores the rush, concentrating on trying to digest his sandwiches and thinking about the ‘dream’ he had during rugby. He wonders whom he could talk to about it, but he doesn’t trust anyone enough. The first person he tells may very well toss him into the funny farm, and he can imagine Bradley being there with his big boot kicking him into the white van. He thinks he may be able to approach Mr Morgan, but with such a good, credible relationship built up there, one of few, he dreads the thought of that deteriorating.
“Hello, Atticus,” a soft voice speaks next to him as he eats.
His heart races a little faster, he knows this voice all too well, the slight Australian accent and softness tells him exactly who it is.
“Joyce?” says Atticus.
“Yup, that’s my name, do you mind if I sit?” replies Joyce.
Startled, Atticus nods his head, but try as he might, he can’t stop his cheeks going slightly red.
Joyce is an Australian-born girl whose mother is originally from a remote island off the coast of China. Joyce stands a little shorter than Atticus, and her features are unique, exotic, with long, fine, straight hair, and completely jet-black.
Atticus knows a lot about Joyce already. She studied in Iran in her early years; her parents are known to be great travellers and explorers. Joyce travelled with them all over the world, but this is the first time she’s ever journeyed towards Atticus.
“I saw you today, after Bradley threw the ball at you, very acrobatic,” she says.
“Erm, thanks,” replies Atticus “You were on the netball court?”
“Yes, for some reason, Miss Stevens likes to schedule netball practice alongside Mr Bronson’s P.E. classes,” both Atticus and Joyce laugh, “That’s nice,” she comments.
“What?” asks Atticus, puzzled.
“You smiling for once. You always walk around with this blank, expressionless face all the time,” replies Joyce.
“Oh, I’m sorry, I haven’t been sleeping too well recently,” says Atticus, trying to make an excuse.
“Nightmares?” asks Joyce.
Atticus nods, and he can feel his heartbeat slow back down to a normal pace; he is surprised that Joyce is so easy to talk to. For years he dreaded even the thought of talking to her for risk of making a complete and utter fool of himself.
“I used to get nightmares when I first started here, something about this place is, well, different,” says Joyce.
“I know what you mean, I’ve had some, uhm, interesting experiences recently,” Atticus replies.
“Really Atticus? Well, let’s just say, things may very well get even more interesting,” says Joyce, almost with a tone implying that she knows exactly what Atticus is going through.
“What do…”Atticus tries to ask what Joyce means by this, but she cuts him off before he can finish his sentence.
“Sorry Atticus, I have to go now. Keep smiling, I like it,” she says, and then leaves before Atticus can even think of something to say in return.
Atticus is rather pleased with himself, this day has treated him rather well so far, strange strangulation experiences notwithstanding, and with a big smile on his face, he makes
his way towards his chemistry lesson.
Chemistry is another of Atticus’ favourite subjects. He enjoys what he learns, if not the way he learns it. Professor Snugglebottom is head of Chemistry at Wysardian Manor, and he has interesting methods of teaching, preferring to drown his class in theory rather than allowing them many opportunities for hands-on, practical application of those theories. Atticus relishes the practical lessons, but unfortunately this is a theory day, and a particularly boring one at that.
A yawn and a snore from the back of the room catch the Professor’s attention. One can see Professor Snugglebottom’s right ear twitch beneath his long, frizzy, light brown hair, his teapot-like frame turns slowly, and with his eyes scanning the class like a radar, he locates the source of the snore. With pinpoint accuracy he flings a small piece of chalk in the direction of the offending pupil. With a snort Colin Hayes wakes up, blurry-eyed and rubbing the top of his head. The class laughs as a piece of paper has stuck itself to Colin’s mouth.
“Get that off your face and concentrate, boy!” Professor Snugglebottom snorts, a little red-faced himself. One thing that infuriates him is a pupil falling asleep in his class. Today’s lesson is incredibly tedious, and during the 2nd hour even Atticus’ mind begins to wander.
Trying really hard to focus on the blackboard, Atticus begins to squint, trying to fight off the dreaded doze, knowing full well that he is in perfect range of the professor.
Nevertheless, his eyes begin to feel heavier, and heavier. All of a sudden, he sees a strange mist begin to pour out of Professor Snugglebottom’s trousers, out of his pockets, and even his shirt sleeves. The mist fills the room, and soon becomes incredibly dense.
“Atticus…” He hears another whisper, but this one isn’t chilling or threatening, more comforting.
“Atticus, over here,” says the voice as the strange mist fills the classroom.
Atticus turns to his left, and sees a tall figure of a man, standing in the darkness, wearing a deerstalker hat that only Sherlock Holmes could get away with.