Influence

by Stuart Johnstone

  ‘Thanks, what’s on them?’

  ‘Cheese.’

  ‘Do you want half of mine?’ Vic thrust a sweaty looking sandwich at Lizzie.

  ‘Not really hungry, but thanks,’ she said trying to stop her nose from wrinkling. ‘So Tabby obviously didn’t take kindly to your correction then, and went running to Blair.’ Robe shrugged again, chewing furiously. ‘You should be careful,’ she said. ‘They’ll take any excuse to start things with you. And if you go around embarrassing his girlfriend, he’ll never leave you alone.’ Robe’s eyebrows shot up incredulously.

  ‘She embarrassed herself, by being grossly misinformed. I merely… educated her. If anything she should have been grateful.’ Robe was either unaware, or didn’t care that particles of his cheese sandwich were escaping his mouth as he talked. ‘I don’t understand why they keep coming after me anyway.’

  ‘It’s because you’re different Robe, you’re two years younger than everyone in your year and you’re more intelligent than most of the teachers here. You shouldn’t have to, but it might be easier for you to try to keep a lower profile.’

  ‘You don’t,’ countered Vic, pointing at Lizzie’s chest. Lizzie looked down at her attire, the uniform was there, as was required of all students, the black skirt and the red and yellow checked blouse, but Vic’s point was the bright t-shirt blazing through the open front.

  ‘Yeah, but it doesn’t bother me,’ she said. ‘I was only ever going to be here for a year, so there’s no point in trying to blend in. And besides, if those idiots want to waste their time thinking their bullshit upsets me, at least they’re leaving someone else alone.’

  The bell rang again and the boys started to gather their things together. Lizzie pulled open her books once more; she had another study period before her afternoon class. Vic wrapped up the remainder of his sandwich and handed it to his brother, who opened his satchel wide to repack it. As he did Lizzie caught sight of an open envelope sitting brazenly amongst the other contents, stuffed full of cash. She wondered if she could ask about it, but as she debated with herself the moment passed and the boys slung their bags over their shoulders and made to leave.

  ‘See you this afternoon?’ asked Vic.

  ‘Sure,’ she said.

  ‘Thanks for your assistance earlier Liz,’ said Robe glancing over her shoulder at her maths equations. ‘The first one’s wrong, but the other three are fine,’ he said as they left. Lizzie threw her pen back into the fold of the book once again and pushed it away from her in frustration.

  Two

  Brother Kelly reached out and rested his hand on the door handle. He leaned forward, twisted and found it unlocked. The door opened noiselessly at first, but then a groan rumbled from the hinge. He paused, breath held, then, after a moment’s silence, continued. The door swung without further protest and the monk stepped into the room. He was familiar with the layout even though he had never been in this particular room before. The monk’s own rooms were identical, just enough furniture to facilitate one’s needs with little in the way of comfort to complicate life. The bed lay directly under the solitary window at the far end. A dresser adjacent to the door was the only other furniture, on top of which lay an unlit candle within a brass holder and a small brown rucksack. Brother Kelly looked across the dark room, the pale half moon illuminating, without fervour, the figure lying motionless, face-up, upon the bed. The monk’s heart began to pound in his chest. He stood silently in the doorway examining the figure, trying to see if the eyes were open or closed. A minute passed and no sound or motion was forthcoming from the sleeping man. He edged forward and removed the rucksack from the dresser.

  He wasn’t entirely sure what he was looking for. It hadn’t been fully explained to him -anything suspicious, but what did that mean? When this man had turned up, paying cash, giving the name John Smith and asking about the old library, not the small new library in the modern section of the abbey, but the one the monks use, alarm bells somewhere had been rung. Of course his error was explained to Mr Smith, no such library existed, and had not for a very long time, but he did not seem at all satisfied with this. So now the monk crept around his room like he once might have, a strung out junkie searching for jewellery to pawn, such was his life prior to his spiritual salvation, back when he was Vince Kelly. He was to find anything which might paint a clearer picture of Mr Smith. He felt dirty, but Padre Isaac, the order’s elder, had asked this of him personally, so it would be done.

  The rucksack revealed nothing; the contents consisted only of some clothes, some cash and travel maps. Brother Kelly replaced it carefully and slowly opened the door to the built-in wardrobe. It was empty. He was now perilously close to the man sleeping silently on the bed, and the risk of waking him was ever increasing. He had, of course, prepared a cover story should the man discover him, but he had never been the best of liars and he was desperate to vacate.

  Brother Kelly conceded he would find nothing of note, but at least he had fulfilled his task. He backed towards the door, eyeing the sleeping Mr Smith as he did. He was closing the door over softly, when he paused, something was not right, it had only now occurred to him. The old man was absolutely silent. Too silent. There was no sound of air inhaled or exhaled. His chest was neither rising nor falling, and the way he was laying there face up, hands folded on his chest like an undertaker’s vision of eternal rest, all dignified but unnatural, was… wrong.

  He stared transfixed for an epic minute waiting for some sign of life, but nothing. Dread and an old, but familiar feeling of paranoia washed over him. If this man was dead, was it some sort of set up? Vince’s fingerprints were now all through his possessions. Sweat left him in panicked gushes; his hands trembled as he braced himself on the frame of the bed and he lowered his head over the man’s mouth, his ear poised in anticipation of a breath, some relief from his worst fears.

  A cold vice snapped around the monk’s throat. His hands shot to his neck as his feet left the floor. He clawed at the old man’s nobbled and twisted hand holding him, the thin papery skin and loose flesh of the elderly arm betrayed the strength locking him in place. He screamed, in his head, for help, but his plea could not leave his mouth. A tortured cluck was all he could manage and Vince stared forward into bottomless obsidian eyes. Locked in the titan gravity of those black holes he dropped his hands to his sides; fear, confusion and fight left him.

  The creature held the monk firmly in place. It had been aware of the man entering the room, but it had allowed him to show his hand before taking action. It was only a matter of time, it supposed, before the mask that was the arthritic old man would have to be removed.

  The creature flooded Vince’s consciousness; it searched through decades of benign human tedium but locked in quickly to its target. The mind of the old man it currently occupied began to stir as the creature flowed into the monk. The creature sensed the old man rousing from his slumber and raised Vince’s hands to his throat ensuring he could not cry out. There they remained, three entities locked in a bizarre knot while information flowed like electricity through a junction box. The monk knew frustratingly little, or it was expertly hidden. The creature had neither the patience nor time to interrogate his mind any further, it pushed through and into the monk, locking him into a cell at the furthest reach of his mind.

  Consciousness was creeping back into his previous vessel. The old man’s face snapped back to life, as he took in the room and those eyes, those black eyes he had seen once before. His twisted, useless hands flapped at the creature. Panic threatened to burst from him and would have done so if his neck had not been savagely snapped by the hands of the monk.

  The creature searched the robes of the monk it now wore and found a heavy set of keys. It left the room and made its way down to the bottom floor and along the main corridor which led to the dining hall. From there it made its way then into the kitchen where a previous search had proved fruitless, but the monk’s knowledge now drew the creature to the larder. The appropria
te key was produced and pushed into a small nook on the side wall. The key turned with a satisfying clunk and the wall swung forward revealing a long staircase that led down a gentle slope. The light-switch was located on the wall and it followed the stairs down some thirty feet to a long and very old corridor.

  The dull lights, barely illuminating the way, buzzed as it swiftly strode down the long straight path. The creature realised it was now under the garden area at the rear of the new Blisland Abbey building and heading for the ruins of the original abbey it had also unsuccessfully searched. Not a stone had been left unturned of the old ruin which reached up through the gardens like a skeletal hand, but the subterranean entrance it had hoped for had not been located. A large wooden door stood before it now and would not yield. It searched through the set of keys trying each, not knowing which would fit, because the monk did not know. This was as far as the man had been shown by the elder priest.

  After a few failed attempts another deep clunk reverberated up the arm of the monk as the correct key turned. The door swung out revealing a wide hall, the strained yellow light struggled to expose the full extent of the ancient library before it.

  Within the hall lay twenty or so alcoves with a writing desk sitting in the centre of each. On the walls stood immense shelves bowing with the weight of the leather bound books upon them. A hundred men working round the clock would take a decade to make even a cursory inspection of each volume. However, the alcoves the creature could discount instantly. It was not a book it hunted and what it pursued would not be left exposed to prying eyes. The creature proceeded down the hall to the far wall where a particularly deep alcove lay. It searched along the walls and quickly found a solid looking door above which was a symbol etched into the stone confirming the correct place had been located. A crude motif of a book surrounded by three crowns marked this doorway as the end of his search. Each key in the monk’s possession was tried in the lock, and it was without surprise the creature found no match.

  Unperturbed the creature slammed the foot of the monk into the solid door. The noise that echoed through the library was tremendous. The door frame shuddered but resisted. The creature did not know if the noise of its efforts could be detected, but it could not risk discovery now. It removed one of the writing desks from an alcove and backed up as far as it could. Its preternatural strength was concentrated on the makeshift battering ram as it sprang forward. The resulting collision reduced both desk and door to matchwood, the scant remains hung defeated from its hinges and the creature entered.

  The near darkness would have made searching the room impossible for human eyes but the creature’s own behind that of the monk’s welcomed the dark, it was in its own realm.

  The small room’s walls again were lined with heavy shelving, but no books stood upon them, only parchment. Rolls of ancient paper were carefully placed in some order known only to those who had catalogued the contents. There were only a handful of scrolls and searching through them proved quick, but futile. These ancient documents would be treasure to some, but the scroll it had been sent to retrieve was not amongst them, and so they were worthless.

  When it had been taken from here was unknown but the creature had obviously been careless in its pursuit. This monk who had come to the room had been sent, the task must have been known or, at least, suspected.

  The scroll was gone.

  The creature’s summoner would not be pleased.

  Three

  The squeak from Lizzie’s boots echoed down the empty corridor as she half walked, half jogged to class, late and getting later with every passing second. It was an eerie feeling walking the school corridors while classes were in session. The heavy doors of the classrooms kept all but the loudest noise incarcerated and now and again the mousy receptionist would be seen gliding around like a restless spirit occasionally accompanied by orchestral music drifting through the corridors like a ghostly soundtrack when the music room, which had always been a music room, long before the building had become a school, was in use. Lizzie was an appreciator of music, but she had long since come to terms with her own lack of aptitude with any instrument, so she was slightly in awe of whomever the skilled students were behind the strings, piano and brass she often heard.

  Lizzie was inches from the door handle when her name, her Sunday name, chased her down the corridor.

  ‘Elizabeth’ Mr Pallister’s voice caught her and summoned her back. She hadn’t noticed that the Headmaster’s door had been open as she passed. Lizzie backed up and peered round the door.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Yes, Elizabeth, do you have a moment?’

  ‘Actually Sir, I’m really late for class,’ said Lizzie, reluctant to cross the threshold.

  ‘That’s careless, which class are you late for?’

  ‘Philosophy.’

  ‘With Dr Sullivan? I can write you a note, he’ll understand. Please, come in, I shan’t keep you long.’

  Shit, thought Lizzie, her heart sinking. With the imminent start of the exams she thought, or hoped, she might have been able to dodge this altogether. She closed the door behind her and took the seat facing his, much-too-large-for-such-a-small-office, desk.

  ‘I was beginning to think you were avoiding me Elizabeth, what with the last two cancelations.’

  ‘Yes, I’m sorry about that Sir, the last time was due to… women’s troubles,’ she lied. It had the desired effect, Pallister squirmed awkwardly in his chair. He removed his silver framed glasses, wiping them with a cloth and then dabbed his considerable forehead with the same rag.

  ‘Well, yes, no matter, you’re here now. As you know I like to have a sit down with all of our sixth formers. You’re reaching a pivotal and monumental stage in your adult development and it would be remiss of me not to establish you were, well, all set?’ Pallister leaned forward in his chair awaiting a response.

  ‘I think so Sir,’

  ‘You’re moving onto university next year I trust?’

  ‘I think so, I certainly hope-’

  ‘And to which institutions have you applied?’ Pallister cut in.

  ‘Well I have a few applications in Sir, I thought it would be best-’

  ‘Very wise, very wise, but specifically?’

  ‘Well Oxford for one.’ Pallister sucked air through his teeth and gently shook his head from side to side.

  ‘I respect your ambition Elizabeth, I really do, but I trust you have some more, um, realistic options?’ Pallister rose from his chair and straightened the jacket of his rather dated brown suit. His comment cut deep and Lizzie left his question unanswered. He searched through a line of files on his book shelf muttering Lizzie’s surname.

  ‘Ah,’ he said eventually, ‘Elizabeth Dean.’ He took his seat once more and opened her file.

  ‘As I understand it Elizabeth, you’re a bright girl, and you did well at your last school, that is until, well until things got difficult.’ He scanned a page of the file with his finger. ‘Currently your marks are improving, and you’re a talented writer, according to Miss Abrahams. But my fear is the progress may have come a bit late in the day. Your prelim results were not at all good were they?’

  ‘As you say Headmaster, it took a while to find my feet when I first arrived. Back in Scotland I was studying Highers, and they’re a bit different to the A levels here, and I’m trying to cram them into a single year, but things have been getting better.’ Lizzie heard herself becoming defensive and began chewing on a ragged nail.

  ‘Well, good Elizabeth, and no-one would be happier than I if you achieved the results you need. But keep your options open, that’s my advice to you.’

  ‘Will do,’ said Lizzie getting to her feet.

  ‘Oh we’re just getting started Elizabeth, I have a few things here to get through.’ Pallister patted the air instructing her to sit. He flicked a few pages in the file. ‘You live with your aunt?’ he peered over the top of the file, Lizzie nodded. ‘And everything’s well at home?’

  �
��Just fine, thanks,’ Lizzie furrowed her brow, Pallister spotted her confusion.

  ‘Oh we like to keep tabs on our students Elizabeth, you’re probably not used to the personal attention we pride ourselves on here. I don’t suppose your last headmaster would sit you down like this?’

  ‘Headmistress,’ Lizzie corrected, ‘and no. There were over a thousand pupils, compared to the what, few hundred here? So it would have been impossible.’

  ‘One hundred and forty one. And you’ve enjoyed your year here?’ Pallister raised his bushy grey eyebrows in anticipation.

  ‘Very much Headmaster,’ Lizzie lied again, or at least exaggerated.

  ‘And how have you found Oxfordshire? Do you feel at home here?’

  ‘I do, I love it. I miss Scotland sometimes, but I’m really happy here.’ Lizzie was relieved she was able to answer a question truthfully.

  ‘I’m glad. You don’t get a hard time about your accent here do you?’

  ‘No, it’s never come up,’ Lizzie could have told him there were any number of other reasons she got a hard time, but what was the point? She could hold her own. She had been surprised herself, though, that her heritage had never been a focus for abuse.

  ‘Good, good,’ he said closing over her file, ‘won’t stand for that sort of thing, half Scottish on my mother’s side myself.’ Lizzie smiled and nodded, pretending to care. She stood once more hoping the closing of the file represented the same for this conversation.

  ‘There was just one more thing Elizabeth, and I hate to sound like a stuck record.’

  Here it comes, she thought. She sat again wringing the strap of her bag in her hands.

  ‘It’s concerning your appearance Elizabeth. And it’s no accident that I use the word concerning, and yes, before you start I know we’ve been over this, and you have quite rightly stated your case by highlighting the ambiguity in our school rules. But I would be neglecting my duty as head of this school if I did not attempt to appeal to your sense of reason Elizabeth; to your more mature sensibilities, and ask you to see the matter from my point of view, after all we have prospective new students visiting Queen’s Grove House over the next few weeks.’