Nails, she thought to herself, looking down at her hands, fabulous.
Dress . . . divine—thank heavens for Dior. Shoes . . . perfectly matched. Two million pounds’ worth of diamond necklace en route from De Beers. Marvelous. I look twenty-five, she thought, rather optimistically. She looked up and studied her face in the mirror in front of her and marveled at its silky smoothness, worth every moment of the painful acid that had peeled away her top layer of skin earlier in the week. She smiled widely at the mirror, examining the gleaming veneers that had been fitted on her teeth, which made them sparkle so white that they probably shone in the dark.
As she examined herself closely, marveling at her ability to have evaded looking her real age, she suddenly froze. Just under her left eye she noticed a dark spot, one that she could have sworn hadn’t been there earlier that day. She leaned forward as much as she could, dragging the dryer closer to the mirror, and saw, to her horror, that the spot was in fact a large brown mole. Lady Magenta gasped. She raised her hand up to her face to try to wipe it off, desperately hoping it was just a bit of dirt, but found that it was firmly attached to her face and, that even worse, there seemed to be hairs growing out of it, which appeared to be getting longer by the second. In a panic she started to pull them out, but the more she yanked at them, the faster they seemed to grow, and then, just as suddenly as that mole had appeared, another dark spot appeared above her top lip . . . and then another.
Lady Magenta stared at her reflection in the mirror, and her mouth dropped open in horror. As she did so, she felt something in her mouth. She spat it out into her hand in disgust and looked down. It was gleaming white. She looked back up and opened wide, and as she did so, the rest of the veneers on her teeth fell to the floor, revealing a row of dark-yellow, withered stumps that seemed to hang precariously from their roots. Lady Magenta slammed her mouth closed and puckered her lips tight to try to hold them in place. She put her hand up to her face and looked around for help, but nobody seemed to have noticed what was happening to her. She was about to scream but was momentarily distracted by a pulling sensation, as if somebody were tugging at her face. She watched as the tight skin pulled away and drooped down into folds of baggy wrinkles, her eyes sunk deeper, and dark rings appeared around them. In a panic she pulled the dryer away from her hair and screamed.
“Aaargggh. Help Me!” she yelled, as she watched the curlers in her hair drop out, one by one, with her hair attached.
“Lady Magenta! What’s wrong?”
“My hair! My face! WHAT’S HAPPENING TO ME?” she screamed.
“But . . . I can’t see anything . . . ,” said the stylist, confused, putting a hand on Lady Magenta’s shoulder to reassure her.
The last thing that Lady Magenta saw, before she passed out, was the image that was to remain in her mind for the rest of her life—the lined, withered face of a hideous old lady with a bald head.
• • •
Mortimer watched the staff gather around the collapsed body of Lady Magenta—who looked exactly as she had on entering the salon, only paler—and stood up quickly, his hair still wet. He ripped off the black apron from his neck and rushed out just as two large men Mortimer recognized as part of the team of bodyguards that had accompanied Sir Bentley the evening before rushed in. They stopped in their tracks as they saw Mortimer and immediately matched the face to the photograph of the boy that Sir Bentley had instructed them to look out for.
“You!” said one of the men, reaching out to grab Mortimer, but a sudden loud ringing in his ears shook him and he froze. Mortimer stared at the two men in turn and blanked out the surroundings around him.
“You are ready for sleep,” he said slowly. “You are so tired.”
The men both paused and stared at Mortimer vacantly, suddenly oblivious to the screams of the staff and the wailing of the approaching ambulance.
A minute later Mortimer slipped out of the salon and ran down the road as fast as he could, leaving behind him an unconscious old lady surrounded by a team of panicked staff and two large men curled up on the floor, snoring gently.
• CHAPTER FIFTEEN •
Friday, November 30
“This is absolutely disgraceful. How could this have happened?” asked the prime minister, pacing his office with a vexed expression on his face. Sir Bentley sat on the edge of the armchair and watched his former pupil pace the room.
“I don’t know what to say, Prime Minister; we had some of our best men watching her and she herself said that she would be able to block anybody that tried to use the Ability on her.”
“Yes, I remember a few detentions from pupils attempting to do that—I don’t understand how they managed to get past her block.”
“Well, we think the noise of the hairdryer must have masked the sound of the ringing. It seems whoever did this understands the Ability very well.”
The prime minister nodded solemnly. “I see . . . well, that makes sense. But what about security? What do they have to say?”
Sir Bentley shifted uncomfortably. “I’m afraid that they don’t remember a thing. They were—ahem—asleep when we arrived.”
“Asleep? What kind of buffoons are we employing?”
“Whoever did this used their Ability on them, too. The last thing they remember is stepping into the salon.”
“And the staff?”
“Well, they all describe the same boy who was responsible for Cecil Humphries. Pale, black hair, about twelve years old.”
“And where is he now?”
Sir Bentley thought for a moment, trying to think of the best way to explain, and then shrugged, defeated. “I’m afraid we have no idea. By the time we got down there, he was long gone.”
The prime minister sighed and rubbed his forehead in thought. “Right, well there’s nothing to be done. So what do we do next?”
Sir Bentley stood up. “Prime Minister—Edward—we are now sure that your life is in danger. Any doubts we had before have been completely removed after yesterday’s incident. It’s too late to do anything for Arabella, Cecil, or Richard, but we can still do something to protect you.”
“What do you suggest?”
Sir Bentley looked the prime minister in the eyes. “Cancel the Antarctic Ball.”
The prime minister looked shocked.
“Cancel the Antarctic Ball? Impossible!”
“I’m deadly serious, Edward. Think about it—you’ll be surrounded by five hundred children. It’s the only time that Clarissa Teller makes a public appearance in the year, and as head of security I’m always there also. It’s the perfect place to attack the three of us, and it’s less than a month away. If anybody is going to attack us, that will be the place they will do it. You must cancel the ball.”
The prime minister considered Sir Bentley’s words but he was clearly skeptical. “If this boy, whoever he is, is going to attack us, then he will find a way. If the last few weeks have taught us anything, it is that the boy and whoever he is working for are resourceful.”
“That’s true, but we could orchestrate a carefully managed situation to catch him. Perhaps arrange a visit to a small school for you and set a trap. And it will give the children at Myers Holt more time to learn the techniques. They’re talented, but this is too soon.”
“I understand what you’re saying but I simply can’t do it. The Antarctic Ball has taken place every Christmas for the last two hundred sixteen years. Children have received the invitations; heads of state are flying in; everything is already in place. It’s simply too late to do anything now.”
“Well, then, perhaps you should consider not going.”
The prime minister shook his head. “Again, impossible. The prime minister has given the opening speech at every single Antarctic Ball in its history—can you imagine the uproar? Churchill managed to attend with bombs raining down in London during the war; Andrew Bonar Law was wheeled in from his hospital bed for the opening ceremony. I don’t think the possibility of a twelve-year-old boy
attacking me is a good enough excuse.”
“Very well,” said Sir Bentley, “I understand. I’ll make arrangements. We’ll increase security—I’ll brief all the staff personally. If that boy is there, we’ll catch him before he even sets foot in the palace.”
“And the Myers Holt children?”
“We’ll bring them—we have to—they’re our best defense if anything goes wrong. We’ll spend the next two weeks training them intensively.”
“Good. I have faith in you, Bentley.”
“I hope it’s well placed. I’ll get to work immediately. I’m on my way to Myers Holt now to brief the children—we have a lot of work to do in the next three weeks. In the meantime, cancel all your public appearances.”
“Fine. I’ll arrange that.”
“And keep your wits about you—we have no idea what we’re dealing with.”
“Will do,” said the prime minister, shaking Sir Bentley’s hand. “Take care of yourself.”
“And you, Edward.”
• • •
Chris closed the last page of the exam booklet in front of him and looked up at the clock—there were still twenty minutes to go, and he had already checked his answers three times. He heard a soft squeal come from behind him and turned to see Lexi glaring at Rex. She picked up the scrunched-up ball of paper that had landed on her desk and threw it back at him, hitting him square in the eyes.
“Ow!” said Rex, louder than intended.
Miss Sonata looked up from her desk.
“Have you all finished?” she asked, realizing that everybody had put their pens down.
“Affirmative, Miss Sonata. We concluded our examination before the appointed time,” said Sebastian in his thick Spanish accent.
“Uh, thank you, Sebastian,” said Miss Sonata, looking at him strangely.
“He read the entire Oxford English Dictionary last night,” explained Daisy.
“Oh! I see, well, good for you, Sebastian.”
“Much obliged, Miss Sonata. I would like also to say that you look resplendent today,” said Sebastian.
Rex pretended to gag. “Shut your north and south—did you look that up?” asked Rex, rolling his eyes. Sebastian looked confused.
“Rex, there’s no need to be rude!” said Miss Sonata, collecting their papers. “Thank you, Sebastian; that’s very sweet.”
“North and south—mouth, in Cockney rhyming slang,” explained Chris. “You know, like apples and pairs—stairs. Whistle and flute—suit. It’s from the East End of London.”
Sebastian didn’t look any more enlightened.
“I’m just pointing out that reading the dictionary isn’t going to get him far with the ladies,” said Rex.
“And you’re the expert, are you?” asked Lexi, rolling her eyes.
“Not talking to you, Frizzo,” replied Rex.
“Yeah, a real charmer,” said Lexi, turning her back to him.
“Now, now, children, let’s try not to argue for once,” said Miss Sonata, before Rex could respond. “I’m going to send these off to be marked, and hopefully you’ll all have your second A level of the week. Well done, everybody.”
Chris couldn’t believe how easy it was to do exams now that he was learning how to use his Ability. He had barely scraped a pass in his science test two months ago, and now here he was, sitting his Chemistry A level after only one day of reading the books on the syllabus—and he was pretty certain that he had got everything right. He looked over at Philip, who gave him a thumbs-up sign.
“How did you do?” he asked Chris.
“Pretty good, I think. I reckon physics on Monday will be harder.”
“I don’t think so. I’ll help you tonight if you want. You just have to make sure you look at all the equations—they’ll make sense when you try working them out. Come on, let’s go get something to eat—I’m starving.”
Chris collected up his pens and pencils, put them back in his bag, and followed Philip out of the room, behind Sebastian, Daisy, and Lexi and Rex, who were still squabbling.
“Christopher, can I have a moment?” called Miss Sonata, as Chris was about to leave.
“I’ll join you in a moment,” said Chris to Philip, who nodded and walked off.
“I just wanted to have a quick chat to see how you’re doing.”
“Oh, right . . . fine. Actually, really good.”
“That’s great. I, well, I just wanted to check—we haven’t really had a chance to speak recently.”
Chris reddened. “I’m okay now, really.”
“I’m sure you are; you’re a strong boy. I thought you might like to know that your mother’s doing really well. We’re taking good care of her—I’m making sure of that personally.”
“Thank you,” said Chris, genuinely grateful.
“Have you spoken to her?” asked Miss Sonata.
“Just once, the second night I was here. She called to say she was sorry.”
“Good. Well, that’s all. I’m really proud of how well you’re doing—Sir Bentley’s very impressed with you too.”
“Really?” asked Chris.
“Yes, we all are.”
“I don’t think Ms. Lamb is,” said Chris. “She hates me.”
“Well,” said Miss Sonata, choosing her words carefully, “Ms. Lamb doesn’t always see eye to eye with everybody—but her bark is worse than her bite, if you pardon the expression.”
Chris thought the expression was actually very appropriate.
“She’s spent the last few years training spies and wasn’t too pleased to be assigned to a school, but she’ll come round. Anyway,” continued Miss Sonata, “if there’s anything you ever want to talk about—I’m here. Now you’d better get a move on; you don’t want to go into your next lesson on an empty stomach.”
“Okay, thanks,” said Chris, picking up his bag and walking toward the door. He stopped and turned to Miss Sonata. “Miss Sonata?”
“Yes, Christopher?”
“Are you going to see my mum today?”
Miss Sonata put her pen down and looked up at Chris. “No, but I’ll be talking to her later. Do you want me to pass on a message?”
“Erm, yeah. Can you tell her that I’m all right . . . and that I miss her.”
Miss Sonata smiled gently. “Of course, but you know, you could call her yourself.”
“I know, but I’d prefer if you said it.”
“I understand. I’ll call her in a bit.”
“Thank you,” said Chris, rushing out the door to catch up with his new friends.
• • •
“I’m just saying, hands are pretty useless when you have the Ability,” said Lexi, her sandwich hovering at her mouth. She leaned forward, hands behind her back, and took a bite.
“Hmmph, see!” she said, with her mouth full.
The others all looked impressed and put their hands behind their backs also. Chris looked at the glass of apple juice in front of him and willed it to rise. It lifted off gently and glided toward his mouth, then tipped forward suddenly and sent a gush of juice forward, causing Chris to splutter.
“It’s not that easy!” he said, laughing. The others all laughed with him and everybody except for Daisy tried to copy him, all with exactly the same messy results.
“Why do you not make attempts at this, Daisy?” asked Sebastian.
Daisy looked down at her dress and shook her head.
“Can’t ruin her favorite pink dress, or she won’t have anything to wear tomorrow,” Rex said, looking over at the éclair in front of him. The plate shook, and the éclair rose quickly. Rex opened his mouth and closed his eyes in anticipation.
“Hey, Rex?” said Lexi.
“Yes,” said Rex, opening his eyes, the éclair still rising toward his mouth.
“You should learn some manners,” she said, and looked over at the éclair, which suddenly flew forward and crashed into Rex’s surprised face, covering him in a thick layer of cream.
“You . . . what a
re you doing! I was looking forward to that,” said Rex angrily, wiping off the cream and licking it off his fingers.
“She’s doing you a favor,” said Philip. “Being overweight increases your chances of heart disease. Fact.”
“Are you calling me fat?” said Rex, glaring at Philip.
“No, I said ‘fact.’ ”
“Not that bit,” said Rex, irritated. “The bit before, about being overweight.”
“Well, unless all your clothes shrank in the wash,” said Philip unapologetically.
“Right . . . ,” said Rex, looking over at the water jug.
“Watch out!” said Chris, pushing Philip off his seat as the jug rose upward and tipped out its contents, most of which fell on Sebastian.
“My hair!” cried Sebastian, his usually perfectly quiffed hair dripping wet and flat on his face. He looked over at the fruit bowl at the far end of the table, and a line of oranges rose up in the air and then fired off in the direction of Rex.
“Ow! Ow! Ow!” cried Rex, as each piece of fruit smacked him on the side of the head.
“Stop that right now!” said a voice, and the remaining fruit dropped suddenly back on the table and rolled off onto the floor. They all looked up and saw Sir Bentley standing in the doorway, surveying the mess.
“Get up off the floor, Philip, and wipe your face, Rex; we have work to do. You have five minutes to clean up this mess and meet me on the hill.”
Anticipating trouble, the children all put their grievances to one side and quickly tidied the room using their Ability.
“Sorry,” said Rex, turning to Philip.
“And I’m sorry I called you fat,” said Philip, wiping the water from his face.
“Are you okay, Daisy?” asked Chris, watching Daisy picking bits of éclair from her dress.
“I’m fine,” she said quietly. “It’s just that my mum will kill me if I ruin my clothes. We can’t really afford to buy much with so many of us at home.”
“Oh,” said Chris, surprised. “I know what you mean.”
Daisy looked at Chris’s designer jeans and sweater, then down at his brand-new sneakers.
“They were a present,” said Chris, suddenly feeling very self-conscious. “They’re the first new clothes I’ve had in years.”
The Ability (Ability, The) Page 18