by Matt Drabble
Edna held her breath and suddenly realised that perhaps she was as not as far removed from the evils of the world as she had hoped.
She started to back away with a stomach knotted in dread and fear. Fingers peeked out from around the door and Edna suddenly feared the face that was about to appear.
In fact what appeared was her friend. Rosa looked out with a beaming face full of friendship and warmth. “Edna dear,” she smiled. “You gave me fright; I was wondering just who would be calling at this hour.”
“I saw the light on and just thought I’d check,” Edna replied uncertainly.
“That’s very neighbourly of you, dear; we really need to look after each other and our community,” Rosa said kindly. “That’s just the sort of society that we all deserve to live in; why don’t you come in?”
“Oh it’s awfully late,” Edna said. “Rocco will be wondering where I am.”
“This will just take a minute, I promise,” Rosa smiled disarmingly.
Edna found herself suddenly caught in her friend’s grip and gently pulled into the house. Rosa had never been the most decisive or authoritative woman, but now she definitely couldn’t say no.
The door closed behind them and it was several hours before Rocco found his mistress coming home.
For the first time ever she did not pat him as she entered and she even seemed not to notice that he growled at her for the first time in his life.
----------
Sarah was enjoying a small glass of red wine in the teachers’ lounge with Stuart.
They had toasted the team’s win until the euphoria died a little and they began to feel silly. She was enjoying his company and she felt the steel vault that she’d kept so firmly locked creak just a little.
They chatted about nothing in particular, but it was the mere conversational nature that seemed like a huge change in their relationship. To date, it was only really Jemima that she talked to in anything like “friend” terms, and even then she had kept the young woman at arm’s length.
“So whereabouts are you from Sarah? I mean obviously apart from the States,” Stuart asked boldly, his tongue loosened somewhat by the wine.
She considered the question for a moment. “Lots of places really,” she offered generally. “I have travelled around a lot looking for somewhere to call home for quite a while now.”
“Jeez and you stayed here?” He laughed. “This is the place that you have decided to call home for the past six years?”
“Six years? You’ve been checking up on me?” she said defensively.
“A little,” he shrugged. “You’re pretty difficult to talk to and I wanted to know more about you. Why? Are you on the run for murder?” he joked.
She knew by the sudden look on his face that her own expression had betrayed a little too much.
“Oh shit,” he said concerned. “Did I put my foot in it? Are you in some kind of witness protection program?” he whispered, leaning in close.
Inexplicably she suddenly found herself wanting to tell him her story.
It was a blindside rush of a thought that caught her off guard. She had tried therapy once when she had been living in San Francisco, even getting to the point of telling the doctor her story. It had been an emotional afternoon and the tale had come vomiting out like a putrid festering tumour.
She had hoped that spilling the story would have left her with some relief, but there had been none to enjoy; she had only taken the top layer of the scab off and the wound had still been red raw underneath.
Now, as Stuart sat across from her with his slightly red and tipsy face, she felt tired of being alone. But still, he would surely run for the hills if she ever spoke of Eden and what she had seen there.
“Yeah, I was a Mafia hitman,” she answered earnestly. “28 confirmed kills until I got caught and had to roll on my bosses.”
“Really?” he said in awe.
She laughed in reply. “Of course not, dummy,” she said, breaking the tension.
“Is that a joke I see before me?” he grinned back at her. “Who knew you had it in you.”
----------
Jemima watched the conversation from the doorway, a little green around the gills.
Ravenhill was not exactly fertile ground for seeking a mate. She hoped that her attraction to Stuart was more down to the isolation that prisoners must feel when they developed crushes on their fifty-something-year-old therapists just because they were the only female faces that they saw.
She had been honest when she had told Stuart that she wanted to help Sarah come out of her shell. She liked her and wanted to become real friends; Ravenhill could be a lonely place without them.
----------
Maurice walked the grounds for the fifth time that night.
He had been at Ravenhill for his whole life and he had never known anything different.
He hefted the long and sturdy staff that he used when walking - it was more of a security device than an aid.
The school grounds were surrounded by wildlife and while most were docile creatures, there was the occasional fox or badger that could become aggressive.
He wandered in the dark needing no light to guide him; he could traverse the school blindfolded. He knew every corner and every creak of the old girl and she kept no secrets from him.
Earlier in the week when the alarm had gone off, it had been the first time that he had heard the wailing siren. Even then he hadn’t been concerned. He was in tune with his world and he would have surely known if anything was wrong.
He heard the hooting of an owl off in the tree line; he closed his eyes and he could feel the darkness beyond their fences alive with nocturnal scuttling and clawing.
Tonight though he couldn’t settle, and the worst thing was that he had no idea why. It was a strange emotion for him to be confused and it wasn’t a pleasant one.
A few years ago Barnaby had employed a new teacher and the man just hadn’t smelt right to Maurice from the first time that he had seen him pulling up in the car park.
The man just had an odour about him that was all wrong. He walked wrong, he sounded wrong, he just looked wrong.
Maurice had tried speaking to Barnaby about it, but the Headmaster hadn’t wanted to listen.
Eventually, Maurice had caught the teacher down in the laundry room.
The man had just been doing a load of laundry, but Maurice had seen the naked look of fear in the teacher’s eyes when he’d walked quietly in.
He’d demanded to look in the basket that the teacher was clutching tightly to his chest and the man had refused.
The teacher was younger and much larger than Maurice, but he was also a coward and Maurice had broken the man’s arm in the ensuing struggle.
He had found several items of underwear of the small variety in the teacher’s basket that belonged to some of the smaller children.
He had first claimed that it was all a mistake and had threatened to sue Maurice, Barnaby and the whole school. But to give Barnaby his due, the teacher had soon been out of the door on his ass and there had been no lawsuit of any kind.
Something was out of whack at Ravenhill and he couldn’t put his finger on just what. There was a vague air of danger and menace in the night sky that he couldn’t pinpoint, like a waft of smoke on the drifting wind. Something was either here, or it was coming soon.
This was his home and his land. Despite his gruff exterior he actually cared deeply about the children and even some of the teachers. He considered himself a guardian of more than just the gardens and the hallways.
He knew that Ravenhill may well have been an exclusive school on the surface.
It was the sort of place that important men and women of wealth, influence and power sent their children. But over the years it had also been the sort of place that attracted those damaged and in pain.
There was a power to Ravenhill that drew those most in need, but he also knew that the power could also attract those who sought power for power’s sake.
<
br /> His country senses told him that the weather was about to change; a storm was rolling in and the snow was going to bury them all. The children and some staff left on Friday for the Christmas holidays and he hoped to locate the problem then.
He could feel in his bones that Ravenhill was going to be cut off under the blizzard and whoever was causing his anxiety would have nowhere to hide.
----------
Dora Tibbs walked the hallways on night duty. She didn’t mind the later hours as she didn’t sleep all that well these days. Sometimes it seemed like only the blessed few got more than a couple of hours of unbroken sleep at Ravenhill.
She was dressed in outdoor clothes as the old building tended to grow colder at night. For some reason, the walls and floors held a chill regardless of the season or temperature. She wore fur lined boots, thick trousers and a heavy padded coat.
She had worked here long enough to know just what a privilege it truly was.
Ravenhill Academy’s reputation cast a long shadow over the academic landscape of the country.
Hers was a position of envy and she took her responsibilities seriously. Mr. Barnaby had placed his trust in her and she would never let him down.
She was his eyes and ears of the school and she had no compunction about reporting back to him with anything useful that she discovered.
She was starting to suspect that the American and the maths teacher were growing a little too close for comfort. Mr. Barnaby would no doubt be interested to know that two of his teachers were getting dangerously close to inappropriate behaviour.
She walked her beat along the quiet slumbering corridors. The children were all under curfew now and the younger ones should be sleeping.
Creeping footsteps caught her ear and she turned towards the noise. The corridor was dimly lit and the shadows were long.
She couldn’t see anyone but she was all too aware of not being made to look like a fool like Ms Mears had been the other night when panicking and setting off the alarm.
She cringed at the woman’s loss of control when she had started screaming at the policemen.
She had reported her fears over the woman’s possible drinking habit, but the Headmaster had assured her that there was nothing to worry about, but she wasn’t so sure. Ms Mears would certainly bear further scrutiny.
The noise caught her attention again and she took the large heavy flashlight from her belt.
She always carried the tool for its powerful beam and its heavy metal weight. The handle was long and it would certainly do some damage under her muscular swing.
She crept along the hallway determined to make anyone out of bed pay for their misfortune. It wasn’t unheard of for the children, especially the girls, to be hopping from room to room after lights out, gossiping and giggling.
She had little time for the wastefulness of children; her teaching outlook was one of strict discipline and rigid structure.
All children were potential threats to her rule and any potential disobedient uprising had to be stamped on hard and crushed underfoot.
She heard a noise off in one of the side rooms below her floor. Her forehead crinkled in surprise as it was the infirmary that lay below and not one of the accommodation rooms.
She couldn’t think how any child would have managed to sneak past her watchful gaze to gain access, but she did know that whoever did was in for a world of trouble.
She sneaked down the stairs carefully so as not to alert her prey. The stairs were carpeted and cushioned her footsteps, but they were old and creaked annoyingly.
She pressed her back against the corridor wall and edged her way along. Her stomach rolled with anger as she spotted the light shining out from under the infirmary door.
Whoever was in there didn’t seem to be too concerned with how much noise they were making. This made her even angrier; it was bad enough that someone was up to no good, but they all knew that this was her watch and as such, she took that personally. Perhaps her reputation was slipping; perhaps she wasn’t as feared as she thought herself to be.
Never mind, she was an educator after all. She carried the long heavy metallic torch for possible outside intruders; she also carried an implement for internal discipline.
The wicker reed was long enough to whip with a flick of her wrist and young flesh was fragile. A swipe across the back of bare legs or upper arms taught a powerful lesson.
She reached the infirmary door and slowly and quietly pushed the door open, excited to dish out a little lesson in corrective obedience.
The noises from within sounded like someone was dragging furniture around and throwing equipment about.
She thrust open the door, flinging the opening wide. “What on earth is going on here?” she boomed loudly into the room.
It took her a few moments to recognise Hannah Marks, the school nurse. The woman was flying around the room in a frenzy of activity. Her usually warm and round face was hot and flushed red and her eyes were glazed with a sheen of desperation.
“Ms Marks?” Dora asked, as her presence seemed to go unnoticed. “What are you doing here so late?”
The nurse looked up but didn’t seem to register the PE teacher. “So much to do,” she panted. “So many ideas to make improvements and not enough hours in the day,” she said in a strange sing-song voice.
“Ms Marks, are you feeling alright?” Dora asked, concerned. She had never seen the rather rotund woman move quickly enough to break a light sweat and now she was a whirling tornado.
“Oh quite so, Ms Tibbs,” Hannah beamed broadly. “Busy, busy, busy,” she sang. “So little time to prepare, everything must be perfect for him, we must be perfect, our whole little community is going to be perfect.”
“Perfect for whom? Is Mr. Barnaby doing an inspection? And why wasn’t I told about this?” Dora bristled at the thought of not being the first to know about anything in Mr. Barnaby’s plans.
“No time to waste, no time for idle chatter, Ms Tibbs,” the nurse said and Dora found herself bustled out of the door by friendly but firm pudgy hands.
“I really must insist on knowing just what is...” Her demands were cut short as the infirmary door was shut firmly in her face.
She stood there a moment trying to comprehend just how the wettest person in the school had just shooed her away like a small child.
She gave serious thought to barging her way back in there again and shaking some sense into the nurse. But something stopped her, some feeling that this wasn’t quite the same weak woman who couldn’t keep her fingers out of the biscuit tin no matter how many diets she tried.
Instead, she wandered back to her route thinking that perhaps Mr. Barnaby might be interested to know that one of his members of staff was looking distinctly like they were having more than cocoa before bedtime.
CHAPTER 7
Thursday dawned with dark skies overhead. Over breakfast, all talk was centred on the onrushing bad weather that seemed to be inching ever closer.
Students and staff alike who were leaving tomorrow were all growing nervous as the snow edged its way over the horizon. Maurice had assured everyone that the blizzard would hold off another day and he was seldom wrong.
The teachers could all feel the end of term rapidly approaching and the pupils’ attention spans were growing increasingly short. It was always difficult to hold their attention when the holidays were so close.
Sarah looked out across the dining hall table. Both Stuart and Jemima had told her on the walk down that they were both staying in-house over Christmas.
At first she had found herself pleased and a little excited, especially about Stuart, but the more she thought about it, the more she started to wonder over their motives. The last thing that she wanted was to be was somebody’s charity case.
For some reason the school wasn’t going to be as empty as she had first thought.
Barnaby and Maurice would be here as usual and now Jemima and Stuart. Apparently, now Hannah Marks, the school nurs
e, was staying, along with several of the domestic staff.
There were always some children who couldn’t go home and their numbers seemed to be swelling as well. It was going to be quite the busy season.
----------
Later that day, Sarah was teaching her Thursday art class.
The students were always a little reluctant to engage in the subject and she often fought an uphill battle to gain their interest.
This term they had been working on a personal favourite of hers, Giorgio de Chirico. He was a Greek-born Italian artist who had died in 1978. In the years before World War I, he founded the Scuola Metafisica art movement, which profoundly influenced the surrealists.
He was an artist that she greatly enjoyed. His art was said to evoke the hidden meanings behind everyday life.
He produced enigmatic scenes of empty cities, menacing statues, mysterious shadows, and strange combinations of everyday objects. She knew that it didn’t take a psychiatrist to figure out that her attraction was a dark nod to her past and her home town.
Her lesson plan called for the kids to be able to discuss him as an artist, to be able to draw using correct 1 point perspective, and apply marker techniques to help create the sense of depth in a perspective drawing.
They should also be able to apply a warm or cool colour palette using chalk pastels to achieve value and blend colours.
It all sounded great in theory, but she had a mixed-sex class full of 13 year old kids who saw little benefit in the artistic world. Most of these kids would go on to high paying professional jobs that left little room for art, except when they were hanging it on their walls as a mark of success.
Today, she had the added hurdle of the Christmas break in 24 hours’ time and attentions were wandering.
“Come on, people,” she said exasperatedly. “I know that most of you are going home tomorrow but we have to get this in the bank,” she said, tapping her head. “You may not see the value in art, but you’re damn sure going to learn the nuts and bolts if you want to pass the exam.”
They were working on their pastel sketches meant to demonstrate their ability to work in perspectives, but most were yawning and looking out of the window to check that the heavens hadn’t opened yet.