The Spin

by Rebecca Lisle

  ‘Poisoning them? That’s a good one! You’re wasted in the servery, boy. You should be writing stories.’

  Stormy blushed, but went on, ‘I think he’s giving them some sort of poison, or it might be a drug –’ He held his breath. ‘At least I think so,’ he added lamely. Suddenly it sounded so feeble. The yellow powder was probably a vitamin.

  ‘Poison? Drugs?’ Araminta laughed. ‘You are so inventive, Stormy. Where can an orphan like you get such a wild imagination?’

  Stormy opened his mouth but no words came out. Did she believe him or not? It was so hard to tell. He had felt as if he’d made a logical leap, thinking, when he heard about Ollie, that Ralf might pay Hector and others back by poisoning the spitfyres. But now he wasn’t so sure.

  ‘Well, how do they do it?’ Araminta went on. ‘Where do the drugs come from? What are they like?’

  ‘Yellow –’

  ‘Yellow! My favourite colour!’

  ‘And Ralf adds it to their food. Just the spitfyres’ food. I’m not sure because –’

  ‘You think? You’re not sure?’ she said in a singsong voice. She suddenly smiled at him. ‘Al doesn’t know you’ve come here?’

  Stormy shook his head.

  ‘Good. I’ve heard enough. I’m bored. Go on, go now.’

  ‘But you will tell the Director?’

  Araminta wound her plait round her fingers. ‘We’ll see. Off you go. This is just between us for now. Don’t mention it to anyone else.’

  Stormy was so frightened at what he’d done that he didn’t dare go straight back to the servery. He couldn’t face Al and Ralf now he’d betrayed them. He slipped along the edge of the courtyard and pressed himself into a corner and stayed there just trying to calm his pounding heart. I did the right thing, he kept on telling himself. I did. It’s for the spitfyres, so they’ll be better treated. That’s all. But he wasn’t sure. Maybe he’d gone to Araminta because he did want to get Al into trouble, like she’d said. He did want Al to leave. He wanted Al to disappear and leave the spitfyres for him to look after; he wanted to be the Academy spitfyre keeper – wasn’t that the truth?

  He made it back to his part of the castle, but crept around, afraid of meeting anyone. He had shopped his friends. He was a snitch.

  He felt sick.

  There was no sign of Ralf or Al. He would go to cave thirteen. He knew it was risky, but he had to do it.

  He set off.

  Feeling something in his pocket, he reached in and pulled out another length of white ribbon. It was the third piece. What did it mean? Could it really be Araminta putting them there? Was it her way of showing him she liked him – secretly – the way in olden days maids had given knights their hankies before dragon tournaments?

  Stormy lit a lantern and took it into the cave.

  ‘Hello! I’m here!’ The spitfyre – he knew it was a female now – was lying down with her legs tucked beneath her. She turned towards him, blinking in the light. Plumes of smoke, like grey clouds, puffed from her nostrils. She must have been alone, in silence and darkness for so long – for how long? He guessed it was years. This was why he’d betrayed Al, to try and save this spitfyre.

  ‘I’ve done nothing. I said I’d help you and I haven’t. I’m so useless, but I am going to help you,’ he told her, kneeling down to look into her eyes. ‘I’m your friend. I’m an orphan, a lonely thing, just like you. We’ll work together. We’ll be friends.’

  She didn’t spit at him. She didn’t bellow and neigh.

  She was watching him intently, puffing, blinking, head tilted to one side.

  ‘Let me come closer. Let me be your friend.’ He shuffled nearer, holding out his hand in front of him, whispering softly. ‘I won’t hurt you. I promise. I want to be your friend. There, there.’

  He ran his palm over her neck, smoothing the thin coat of purplish hair, feeling the bumpy roughness of scabs and scars beneath his fingers. All the time he stared into her eyes, watching for a change in them, a warning she might suddenly turn on him, but all he saw there was great sadness and fear. After a few minutes he felt the spitfyre relax a little and a tension went from her. She stopped puffing and exhaled more slowly, the smoke lessening.

  ‘I’m going to help you get better,’ Stormy said, never stopping his caressing. ‘I think I can. Good food and fresh water, love and care, these will make you better. That’s what I’m going to give you. That’s what I’m going to do. I promise.’

  A sudden clinking sound of a bottle rolling over the stones outside made the spitfyre tense sharply; sparks flew from her nostrils, she snatched up her head and a rumbling growl sounded in her belly.

  Stormy ran outside.

  It was Al. He waved an empty rum bottle at Stormy. ‘What are you doing? Get out of there! Get out!’

  Al teetered across the terrace in a figure of eight, almost tripping over his own wooden leg.

  ‘S’my spitfyre!’ Al roared drunkenly. ‘She’s my flying horse! G’away from her! I told you not to!’

  ‘I wasn’t doing any harm, Al. She’s lonely.’ Stormy’s voice wavered. ‘She needs help. She’ll die if –’

  ‘Shurrup!’ Al yelled. ‘Shurrup! G’away or I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you dead. Deader than deader than dead . . .’

  Now Stormy realised just how much Al hated his spitfyre. He wanted to destroy her; he might destroy other spitfyres too.

  Al had to be stopped.

  Telling Araminta about him had been the right thing to do.

  19

  Shock

  Stormy woke suddenly that night, catching the tail end of a scream hurtling through the air like a solid object. It was followed by a quiet with such an edge to it, he thought it must have been a dream. He sat up and looked over at Ralf. He was very still, too still to be asleep.

  ‘Did you hear that, Ralf?’

  ‘Go back to sleep,’ Ralf muttered. ‘It’s nothing.’

  It was a freezing night and much easier not to go and investigate. Stormy turned over and tried to sleep but now he was awake his brain was busy . . . Had Araminta spoken to the Director yet? How was the spitfyre in thirteen? What was its name? Why was Al so pig-headed? Why . . .

  He slept at last.

  Next morning it was cold and overcast and snow began to fall; great thick blobs of white that soon covered everything.

  ‘See anything last night?’ Ralf asked him, looking out of the window and pulling on an extra jumper.

  ‘No,’ Stormy said and immediately wished he’d had the courage to get up and investigate that noise. If he had, he was sure there would have been something to see.

  ‘Good,’ Ralf answered.

  Stormy thought Al looked odd the following morning. He always looked odd, he reminded himself, but now he seemed especially sad. There were inky shadows beneath his eyes and a purple tinge to his unshaven chin.

  ‘Just getting the hang of things, aren’t you, Stormy?’ Al said, not as if he was pleased, more as if he was sorry.

  ‘Yes, I think so,’ Stormy said, puzzled.

  The bell went and they began to unload the lift. These days Stormy helped himself to the food while it was still warm: hot croissants with melting butter, steaming fruit buns. It was delicious and he hardly felt guilty at all, but he still didn’t fancy Otto finding out.

  At lunchtime, Al lent a hand getting the dishes onto the trolley, which was unusual.

  ‘Give that gravy a stir, won’t you?’ he suggested, passing a large jug to Stormy. Stormy placed the jug carefully on the sideboard and stirred it with a long spoon. Suddenly there was a terrible crash behind him and he jumped.

  ‘Sorry!’ Ralf cried. Splinters of white plate were scattered all over the stone floor.

  ‘I’ll get a dustpan and brush,’ Stormy said, immediately going to the cupboard.

  ‘He’s a good lad, see. He volunteers,’ Al said gloomily. ‘See that, Ralf? See him volunteer to help?’

  Stormy heard Ralf say, ‘Sure, he’s just perfect!’ Th
ere was a heavy pause and then Ralf said, ‘Oh, Al, what?’ He giggled and Al laughed and for some reason that Stormy could not fathom, he felt his blood run icy cold. They were laughing at him, he was sure.

  When he came back there was a strange atmosphere in the room. Something had passed between the other two, something that excluded Stormy. He felt it strongly and hated that it made him feel so lonely. They both turned round and stared at him.

  While Stormy cleared up the mess Al and Ralf watched him and when he glanced up at them, their expressions were stony. His hands were suddenly slick with sweat and he swallowed loudly. He guessed what it might be; their furtiveness, their laughter. They’d been talking about him. Had they found out he’d told on them? Then they knew he was a sneak. Now they would hate him.

  But it was much worse than that.

  In the middle of the afternoon while the snow fell thick and fast and Stormy was alone in the servery polishing the few bits of old silver, Al limped in noisily.

  ‘You’re to come with me,’ he said. His face was set in a frown; the deep creases on either side of his mouth were sharper and blacker than ever, like cracks in rock.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Can’t say. Just come with me.’

  Stormy washed his hands and followed Al out across the yard to the Director’s house, watching Al’s wooden leg drag a clear path through the snow like a tiny plough. It creaked like a boat on the sea. By the time they’d reached the front door Stormy’s knees were weak and his heart was thudding fast and hard.

  Maud did not look at him as she let them in. She didn’t even give him a secretive twinkling smile. The Director was waiting for them in his room.

  ‘But surely this is the boy who was doing so well!’ the Director said, patting Stormy on the shoulder, dusting off the snow. ‘The boy you told me was using his intuition and working hard.’

  Al shrugged and shook his head. ‘It is. It was.’

  Stormy looked anxiously from Al to the the Director; this wasn’t how things were supposed to go.

  ‘However,’ the Director glared at Stormy, ‘if what you say is correct, Al . . .’ He was gently working at his white hair so it stood up from his bald head, contemplating what to say. ‘We had an incident at lunch time,’ the Director said. ‘It was most unpleasant and unsavoury. There was a mouse in the jug of gravy. A mouse! Fortunately it was my dear Araminta who found it as she poured gravy over her potatoes, and not a fee-paying student.’

  ‘But –’ Stormy cried.

  ‘Don’t interrupt!’ The Director’s face was as hard to read as a slab of marble. ‘I spoke to Al, didn’t I, Al? And he confirmed that there was no mouse in the gravy when it arrived in the lift. He had stirred it himself and told me it was lump free and mouse free. It was only after you had touched it, Stormy, that the mouse could have entered the vessel.’

  ‘But I never –’

  ‘Be quiet. Since you were a boy who showed so much promise, it is especially disappointing. Araminta herself had picked you out as a likely lad, one who would rise.’

  Stormy’s knees were jelly; this couldn’t be happening.

  ‘But . . . No, this is about the yellow powder!’ Stormy said. ‘They know I told. Al doesn’t really even like the spitfyres! Ask Ralf. He knows. And thirteen . . .’

  The Director shook his head calmly. ‘That is perfect nonsense. And I have spoken to Ralf, of course. He denies adding anything to their food. Why would the keeper or his assistant harm his own spitfyres? I fear you have made things up to suit yourself, Stormy. Apparently it is well known within the Academy that you want to have Al’s job, but you cannot ever rise by cheating or practising underhand behaviour . . . You are relieved of your duties as from now.’

  Stormy could not speak. He stared at them both blankly.

  ‘That means you’re fired,’ Al said quietly. ‘O.U.T. means out you go.’

  Stormy and Al went back to the servery in silence. The moment the door was closed Stormy turned on him.

  ‘You did this! You and Ralf! I know you put that mouse in the jug. I heard you laughing. Why? Why did you spoil everything for me?’

  Al sank down wearily. ‘It’s a funny old world, Stormy.’

  ‘Is that all you can say? And what about the yellow powder? Why do you let Ralf do that? You must know it’s –’

  ‘Stormy, it’s over,’ Al interrupted.

  ‘But, but . . . You know how much this place means to me! You know how I love it. I love the spitfyres. I’m getting to know them, I’m good with them. Al, why did you do it?’

  Al would not meet his eye. He reached for his bottle. ‘It’s a rum world, Stormy, and rum’s the answer to all our problems.’ He took a long draught from the bottle.

  ‘But it’s not fair! I don’t want to leave.’ Stormy was close to tears.

  ‘You don’t have any choice, old thing.’

  ‘I’ll refuse. I’ll fight. I’ll . . . Is there no way I can stay? Please? Please say there is. Tell the Director what really happened, he’ll believe you. Oh, please, Al, don’t do this to me!’

  ‘It’s over,’ Al said. ‘Over.’

  ‘But I won’t see the spitfyres again. Thirteen – I so wanted to –’

  ‘All over,’ Al said quietly. ‘Pack your things and go. I’ve sent word. You’re the first orphan ever to be sent back. The first. That’s something. Try explaining that to Otto,’ he added with a small laugh.

  Stormy went out into the snow. He rubbed his fists in his bleary eyes. What an idiot he was! He’d mucked everything up and lost his only chance to better himself. He was being sent back to the kitchen. Down to the kitchen. Down to Otto.

  He shuffled to the edge of the terrace and stared down into the void. The cold air froze his tears and swept round him, swirling up the snowflakes so they almost blinded him. Better to fall off here, he thought, better to simply tip over the edge and disappear into the blackness than endure Otto and all those boys sniggering and laughing at him. He could not face the orphanage again, he could not!

  A low bellow startled him and he swung round. A dull light was coming from cave thirteen. How was that possible? Stormy ran towards it and went inside. There was an orangey light drifting around the roof of the cave, a floating pool of mysterious colour. It could only come from the spitfyre.

  She was staring towards the doorway as if she had been expecting him.

  ‘It’s me, it’s only me,’ Stormy sobbed. He stood there in the pale orange light, wanting to put his arms around her, but not daring to. ‘I’m going. I have to leave.’

  For the first time the spitfyre wasn’t eyeing him doubtfully, but looking at him, looking right at him, eye to eye. She swished her tail. She whinnied softly. She knew him. She recognised him and was greeting him for the first time – and the last.

  ‘Goodbye,’ Stormy said. ‘Goodbye.’

  PART TWO

  20

  Time

  When Stormy thought back on that day – and he often did – he thought of it as a day of fog; a day so clouded by events he couldn’t see or think or feel properly. It was the day his dreams died. The day his life was put on hold.

  He never doubted that Al and Ralf had set him up. The muffled sniggers he’d heard when he went to get the dustpan and brush for the broken plate would haunt him forever. But why had they done it? Why? And how was the yellow powder involved?

  ‘Was it just because I cleaned stuff up?’ he asked Tex for the hundredth time. ‘Was it because I told Araminta what was going on? Did Ralf have something against me?’

  ‘Sorry, mate, I don’t know,’ Tex said.

  ‘I don’t understand what went wrong.’

  ‘If I was you I’d just forget all about it,’ Tex said. ‘You’re home. It’s great to have you back. We missed you.’

  Occasionally, up in the castle, Stormy had thought about Tex and Purbeck and the rest, but mostly he hadn’t. Everything about the Academy had totally absorbed him because it was about spitfyres and he was
spitfyres, he was, right to his very core.

  It had been horrible going back. Everything had been horrible. The walk down the steep hill back to the kitchen had been the worst walk of his life. The path was cold and slippery with slushy snow and he had felt more alone than ever before in his life. He almost walked on past the kitchen gates to the grubby village of Stollen below, but what could he do there with no money and no hope? Instead he had gone straight to explain things to Mrs Cathcart, but Mrs Cathcart wasn’t interested in his explanations.

  She wouldn’t listen to him.

  She would not even look at him.

  ‘This has never happened before, Stormy,’ she said, addressing the rack of ornaments in her room. ‘We are appalled.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Stormy hung his head.

  ‘A boy has never been returned like this, like baggage. Like an unwanted parcel.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said again.

  ‘I just can’t understand it. Why would you want to frighten the students with a dead mouse? Why would you do that? It can’t have been a mistake or an accident; a mouse is far too big for that. You’re lucky they didn’t lock you up in the dungeons. I will send up another boy immediately, but this time I will choose him myself. A boy I can trust . . .’ She turned round. ‘And you looked so lovely in your uniform, Stormy . . .’ she added, dabbing at her eyes.

  He went slowly up to the dormitory, ignoring the whispers and sidelong glances from other boys. Another skivvy had taken the bunk above Tex. The mattresses looked narrow and hard. He put his bag in the corner and went to the kitchen, not knowing what else he could do.

  Brittel saw him and called out to the others.

  ‘Look what the cat’s dragged in,’ he sneered. ‘We thought those spitfyres would recognise a worm when they saw one and gobble you up.’

  Sponge waddled up to him, wagging his tail, and Stormy had to swallow hard to dislodge the lump that rose in his throat when the old dog, pleased to see him, licked his hand.

  When Otto saw him he immediately threw a size five spoon at him. ‘Stormy! Good to have you back, you little carrot cake!’ he cried. ‘The compost missed you!’