by Kirsty McKay
‘Nice having the place to yourself?’ I sit down on the edge of his sofa.
He sets the violin down carefully on his desk. ‘Wonderful.’ He sits on the chair facing me. ‘Geoff’s not bad, but he’s always tapping out beats on his desk while we’re trying to work. Drives me crazy.’
I laugh. ‘Sounds like someone I know!’
Daniel frowns. ‘What, me? I don’t do that.’
‘Daniel, you do,’ I say. ‘You musos, you’re all the same.’
‘Cate, I don’t think I have ever done that.’ He’s serious, and annoyed. ‘And don’t class me with Geoff, please. We are not on the same level, at all.’
‘OK,’ I hold up a hand. ‘I only meant it as a joke.’
Daniel stares at me. There’s an awkward silence as I sit there and try and think of a way to change the subject. Nothing smooth comes to mind.
‘So, how was the police interview?’ I smile. ‘You’re not in handcuffs, so that’s good.’
Luckily, this time he cracks a small smile.
‘Yes, well. I hardly think they were interested in me.’ He rubs his hands together, as if trying to warm them. ‘I’m barely friends with Emily, and it’s not like I’m up on making a “robotic spider”, or whatever that thing was.’ He shakes his head. ‘They’re not Scotland Yard, either. I don’t rate their chances of catching the culprit, particularly.’ He crosses his legs, and puts his hands on his lap, rather self-consciously. ‘But I really wanted to ask you how you are?’
‘Oh.’ I pull a face. ‘Why? I mean, I’m fine. A bit shaken up with all of this, of course, but totally fine.’
‘Good,’ Daniel looks at me. He uncrosses his legs, stands up, suddenly, and moves to the window. ‘And are you in love with Vaughan?’
‘What?’ I look up at him, sharply, totally blindsided. ‘Where did that come from?’ I struggle to find words. ‘No!’
He laughs, strangely, shaking his head. ‘So it’s just, lust with Vaughan, is that what you’d say? And what about Alex? Because last term, around the same time that we, you know – well, I heard that he was flavour of the month with you.’
‘Bloody hell, Daniel!’ I stand up. ‘Stop it. You’re making a fool of yourself – and making me sound like some desperate flirt in the process!’
‘Well, are you?’
‘What?’ I try to swallow my anger. ‘Even if I was, what of it? The likes of Alex, Rick and Carl snog their way through the school, and everyone thinks they’re the big dogs, but if a girl does it? Different story.’ I shake my head. ‘Seriously, is this still the world we live in? Who I . . . kiss . . . that’s my decision. Not even a friend – which is what you’re supposed to be – gets to tell me what to do.’
‘Not even Mr Flynn?’ Daniel says, watching me. ‘Doesn’t he get to tell you what to do? Whispering in your ear, sweetly?’
‘Are you totally mad?’ I feel like I’m about to choke. Daniel leans in, a hand snakes round my back, his breath hot in my ear.
‘Teacher’s little pet.’
‘Get off me!’ I push him, hard, heels of my hand jabbing into his collarbone. He laughs, as if in shock, and shoves me back with a surprising ferocity. As I topple on to the sofa, he falls on top of me, forcing a kiss, his lips smooshing up against my lips, teeth knocking teeth. I make a smothered noise – telling him no – but I just sound like an indignant elephant. Wriggling, I try to twist my head away, not feeling frightened exactly, more embarrassed for both of us. Finally I manage to free a leg and my foot kicks the edge of his desk, jolting his precious violin on to the floor. He looks up, for a second, and that’s all I need.
I bring my right arm back, make a fist, and with as much force as I can muster, punch him on the nose.
He cries out, rolls off me, and on to the floor by his violin.
I stagger to my feet, adrenaline pumping, waiting for him to come at me again.
But he doesn’t. He curls into a ball, weeping. His nose is dripping blood through his long fingers, and he is wailing, and suddenly I know who it was in the caves that day. Not Vaughan, but Daniel. That’s the cry I recognized. I don’t know how I could have mixed them up before now; I suppose I must have been blinded by the guilt I felt for both of them.
He wails on, his power gone as quickly as it arrived; he’s just a small, pathetic thing on the ground, howling and dripping blood. I give him a moment, and no more.
‘Get up,’ I say to him, quietly.
He looks up at me, almost shocked that I’m still there. ‘Go and clean yourself up.’
He nods, pulls himself up on the desk, then tries to bend over and retrieve his blessed violin case, which only produces a further stream of blood.
‘Leave it, I’ll pick it up.’
He eyes me through his hands, and staggers to the door.
As he shuts the door behind him, I start to shake – with relief, and also with the urge to go another nine rounds with a punchbag. I breathe, the adrenaline trying to leave my body. It’s OK, it’ll be OK. I pull at my clothes and scrub at my mouth the same way I did after I was face down in cowpat. What just happened? How far would he have gone? The little voice in the back of my head is asking me lots of questions I don’t want to answer . . . why aren’t you running the hell out of the study?
But I don’t run.
I bend down to pick up the violin case. It has blood on it, running all over the stickers, and the catches have popped open. I try to shut the case, but the violin is wonky inside. I open the case to try and nestle it into its velvet so I can close the stupid thing.
I’m about to shut it all back up again, but then I see a little corner of black pushing its way out of the place where the purple velvet inner meets the hard edge of the case. I pull it out, slowly.
It’s a folded card, black on the outside, with red inside just visible. I unfold it, slowly.
KILLER
The word, written in black.
I read it again, because I might not be seeing straight. Daniel is the Killer? Daniel is the Killer. I’m flooded with the weirdest mixture of disbelief, disappointment and relief.
I find my legs. I put the card back in the case, and I leave. As I shut the study door, I hear a noise in the corridor.
The boys’ toilet door opens. He’s standing there, handkerchief up to nose. I turn, and head the opposite way.
In the common room, they are clearing up after the messy fight I’d predicted. Alex is washing his hands over in the corner. My heart is still pumping fast. I go up to him.
‘Are we having another Summoning this afternoon, as usual?’
He nods. ‘Soon as the interviews are over. I’ll post something on Crypt. Lots to talk about.’
‘And we’ll vote on the Killer?’
‘Of course.’
‘Good.’ I turn on my heel, and head to my study. No Marcia, as usual. I shut the curtains, log on to Crypt, but no one is online. I lock my door, lie down on the sofa, and shut my eyes, a plan forming.
If I make it alive to the Summoning, I’ll have my revenge.
CHAPTER 21
I’m woken up with a knock.
I peel myself off the small sofa. How long have I been asleep? I stand, carefully, and pull my clothing into shape. I feel bedraggled and creased, and kind of like I want to take a shower. Not all of that is due to Daniel, but some of it.
The knock comes again. I really hope it isn’t him.
‘Cate! Are you in there?’
Not Daniel. The voice is female, and familiar, but in my haze I can’t immediately peg it. I open the door, and Ms Lasillo is standing there, looking impatient.
‘There you are,’ she says, as if she’s wasted all morning looking for me in far more sensible places. ‘It’s your turn.’
I frown, and then I see Rick lurking behind her, and I twig. We both have surnames at the end of the alphabet; it must be time for us to go and talk to the police.
‘Come on!’ Ms Lasillo trots her little legs quickly down the corridor. ‘E
veryone else is at lunch. The dining staff has been instructed to keep you each a plate warm for after your interview. It shouldn’t take long.’
‘Ms Lasillo?’ Rick says. ‘I need a wee.’
She sighs. ‘Quickly, Rick. I’ll wait for both of you outside. Now, hurry!’
Rick goes off on his special excursion, and I follow slowly as Ms Lasillo strides down the corridor, then pauses, looking into a study. By the look of her face she likes what she sees there even less than us. ‘Marcia? Alex! You were told to proceed to the dining hall. Please go there immediately.’ She resumes walking at a clip.
I draw level with the study, and as I do I see Marcia and Alex both looking like they were disturbed deep in conversation. No doubt comparing notes on how the interviews have been going. I flash a smile at them. Only Marcia meets my eye; Alex looks like he’s closing down his laptop.
‘Quickly, everyone!’ Ms Lasillo is calling for us as she exits into the quad. Alex walks past me, and out with her, giving her a winning smile. Marcia hangs back a moment.
‘You OK? You look weird.’
I nod. I need to tell her about the Daniel thing, but not now. ‘Just woke up.’
She pats me on the shoulder. ‘Left you a cupcake in the common room.’ She goes to follow Alex. ‘They turned out well; I had to fight to keep you one.’ She winks at me. ‘Most of one, anyway. You know what they say: never go to a police interview on an empty stomach.’
‘Yeah.’ I rub my eyes. ‘Never heard that one before.’
‘Cupcake? Where’s mine?’ Rick appears again, pulling up his flies, but it’s too late, Marcia is not turning back. He looks at me. ‘Race you for it!’
I let him run and fetch it, like I know he will, and as I reach the door to the outside, he’s there by me, holding out a little chocolate cake that resembles a lopsided turd in a paper case.
‘Don’t you want it?’ He waves it at me, at arm’s length. ‘It’s got your name on it.’
I squint. On the top of the turd there’s a squiggle of icing, white letters barely spelling out ‘Cate’.
Rick sniffs the cake. ‘Mmm!’
I make a grab for it, but he whips it away, laughing. As he does, I catch a glimpse of more letters on the crinkled side of the paper case, but I can’t read them.
‘What does it say on the side?’ I ask him.
‘Eh?’ Rick says, then turns the cupcake over. ‘Ooh, “Eat Me!”’
My arms feel suddenly drained of blood. ‘Let me see.’
‘Not. On. Your. Nelly.’ He slowly unwraps the cake from its papery dress.
‘Seriously, Rick.’ I hold out my hand for the cake. ‘Give it to me.’
‘Nope!’ He scrunches the paper case, and chucks it at me. I smooth it out in my hand, my heart beating. There are the letters, in red, in that writing. Rick opens his giant maw, eyes glinting at me, the cake looking even smaller in his huge fingers. He licks the side of it with a huge bovine tongue, then begins to cram it into his mouth, all the while, looking at me.
‘Rick, what do you think you’re doing?’ I try to keep my voice even. ‘We are playing the Game, and something says “Eat Me”, and you shove it in your mouth? Are you a complete amateur?’
He stops. Spits the cake out whole, into his hand. Swears. Then he thinks about it a second. ‘Wait. This cake was meant for you, and Marcia made it. I even watched her ice it. If she is meaning to off you, she just did it in front of a whole common room full of witnesses. Plus,’ he looks at me, victorious, ‘Marcia took a nibble. A bit fell off the top when she was icing it, and she gobbled it right up.’
I shake my head. ‘No, look, it’s been sitting there in the kitchen since then, and—’
‘Come along, people!’ Ms Lasillo flings open the door, stormy faced.
‘Yeah, come on, Cate!’ Rick tuts, then flings the mashed cupcake into his mouth again, crumbs flying, jaw chomping.
I follow, out into the open, the paper cupcake case still in my hands, struggling to keep up with him and Ms Lasillo as they head to Main House. Rick’s not allergic to anything, is he? But then . . . Marcia meant that cake for me. But Marcia’s not the person who rigged that spider for Emily, is she? Marcia’s not Skulk? My head hurts with the effort. Maybe Skulk got to the whole batch of cakes, maybe everyone’s going to get a particularly nasty case of the runs. Serves Rick right anyway. I shove the cake case into my pocket.
We reach Main House, and walk through the big oak door and into the foyer that leads to Ezra’s office. Ms Lasillo points to some chairs outside the room.
‘Sit there. You’ll be called in turn.’ She knocks on the door, opens it a crack and leans inside. ‘The final two. Ready for you,’ she says, to whoever is in there.
Rick sits, grinning at me, chocolate still around his lips like he’s a toddler.
I sit, carefully, watching Ms Lasillo happily scuttle off, now that she’s done her duty and deposited us.
Rick doesn’t seem to be ailing, at all. He manages a highly tuneful burp, then slumps back in his seat and scratches his groin, contemplatively. ‘You’ll be first,’ he says to me, unnecessarily. ‘Wish I had another cake to keep me going, yum-mee.’
Actually, if Rick is Skulk, and the whole batch is yucky, wouldn’t this be a great way to divert suspicion?
The door swings open. A gingery young man in a police uniform leans out. ‘Catherine?’
I stand up. ‘Cate.’
‘Cate.’ His Welsh accent makes my name sound much nicer. He gives me a slightly tired smile, and disappears inside.
I take a last backward glance at Rick – who has slid so far down the chair his huge legs sticking out make him look like some kind of modern art chair-boy hybrid – and then follow the policeman inside.
I’ve only been in Ezra’s study twice before; once during my interview for the school, and once when Marcia, Daniel and I did the graffiti talk and got crazy with the spray cans. It’s cosier than I remember, filled with bookshelves, and a series of overlapping Turkish rugs. There’s a high painted ceiling depicting some kind of holy war between fat, cherubic babies and six-winged seraphim. The ceiling was created by Art students a couple of decades back. Wish I’d got in on that gig; must have been fun to decorate Ez’s ceiling with copious little willies. Although if it had been up to me, I would have plumped for a flying spaghetti monster.
The room is dominated by a huge window, which has a spectacular view over the rolling lawn, down towards the cliffs and sea in the background. Two policemen are blocking the view, today, however. They are both perched uncomfortably on wobbly wooden chairs. The younger one who came to the door is balancing a notebook. An older, very tall policeman looks me up and down as he clutches a tiny cup of tea on his knee. Mrs James is beside them, and she gives me a brief smile.
‘Hello, Cate. Come in.’
Ezra sits to the left of the window, barely visible behind a large desk. He flaps a welcome, with one papery hand.
‘Ah, it’s Catherine. Sit down.’
He has glasses balanced on his thin nose, and static is making some of the long, fine grey hairs stand up on his head, floating in the air as if we were all sitting at the bottom of the sea. I fight the giggles.
‘Here.’ A voice comes from behind me, and I turn round, mouth open.
It’s Mr Flynn, proffering a chair. Suddenly I lose all desire to laugh. Oh no. This makes me nervous. Lie in front of Ezra, Mrs James and two random bobbies? No problem. But Mr Flynn is a different matter. Why is he here? It’s not like he’s particularly senior. Maybe it’s because he dealt with Emily when it all went down? I really hope he’s not going to dob me in on the whole beach thing with Vaughan. But that has nothing to do with this, and if it were the case, then Vaughan would have given me the heads up. Surely.
Mr Flynn shoots me a look I can’t read as he places the chair down, and retreats into the shadows to one side of me. I sit on the chair, not sure who I should be facing. I shift my gaze between them all, probably looking like the
epitome of dodgy.
‘We will keep this as quick and as painless as possible.’ The older policeman flashes a chunky watch. ‘There’s no messing with these tides, and we’re all a little peckish.’
I nod, trying not to look too pleased.
‘So Cate, you were in the ballroom when the incident of Emily’s assault occurred, were you not?’
I nod. Wow. Just like Cluedo.
He nods back, and smiles. ‘And would you say you were a friend of Emily’s?’
I nod again. The young policeman’s pen is hovering over his pad, expectantly. Oh – I’m expected to actually answer.
‘Yes,’ I croak, then clear my throat. ‘I mean, a bit. We weren’t – aren’t – close, or anything.’
‘But you would say she’s in your circle?’ he presses.
‘Yes, I suppose.’
‘The Assassins’ Guild, you call it?’ he says. ‘And your friends have already told us that this term you were playing a Game.’ He leans forward slightly. ‘A Game called “Killer”.’
I swallow. OK, are we going there already?
‘Yeah.’ I glance at Ezra, and try to think of something else to say. Ezra appears to be dozing; this morning must have been a long one for him. Outside the door, I can hear Rick coughing. I look at the door. He’s coughing quite a lot; what did he do, light one up? I wouldn’t put it past him, the idiot. The coughing stops; there’s a thump.
‘Cate?’ The policeman looks at me questioningly.
‘Inspector Yates asked you a question.’ Mrs James looks pointedly at me. ‘Was this incident connected with the Game?’
‘Um . . .’ I can’t help but look back to the door. ‘No. Definitely not. It’s against the rules to actually hurt anyone.’
‘Can you think of anyone who would do this to Emily?’ Inspector Yates says. ‘Had she had any arguments with anyone lately? Trouble over a boy?’