The Honours

by Tim Clare

  Perhaps Delphine was the critical geartooth in a dire and intricate machine.

  As she lay in her bed on the night of the fire – before anyone knew it was the night of the fire – she began a ritual that sustained her for months, becoming so automatic she forgot anything had come before.

  She closed her eyes, and from the darkness behind her eyelids swam the stricken catfish leer of Mrs Leddington.

  She gazed upon the face and her gut tightened. Then: the hate.

  Delphine lay unable to sleep. The dorm was freezing. The window was left open even in February, on account of Judith Shenk’s asthma.

  She had pulled the blanket up to her nose. Each time she inhaled, her nostrils stung with cold. Most nights, the ceiling’s tea-coloured water stains looked like a treasure map. Tonight, they were burning houses.

  Morag Gethin-Spence was snoring – a steady, rolling purr. Outside, bats chirruped as they swooped between the eaves. Delphine smelt motor oil, toast.

  She sat up sharply. She sniffed.

  The scent was distinct and familiar. The room seemed to roll astern. She grabbed the mattress to steady herself. She felt sick. It couldn’t be.

  Delphine dropped from her bed and tiptoed to the window. Even through thick woollen socks, the floor felt icy. She slipped behind the long curtains.

  A wheezy voice murmured: ‘Hey . . . don’t close . . . the window . . . ’

  Delphine leant over the sill, gazing out across the quad, the bell tower, the sloped black roof of Koblenz wing, the changing huts, and the playing fields beyond. Above the boiler room, the windows of the Domestic Science rooms pulsed with a faint amber light.

  Her cheeks smarted in the cold. The smell was crisp and clear and undeniable.

  Fire.

  The sour tang thickened in her nostrils as she ran down the corridor. The air grew gauzy; lavish portraits of school patrons past and present faded behind grey mist. She was out of breath. Her eyes stung.

  Eleanor Wethercroft might be burning alive. Smoke might be churning about her ankles as she screamed for help, her throat ragged, her hair hanging in lank, oily ropes.

  In the darkness, the school felt papery and slight. She felt like a ghost haunting her old life. She glanced out of a window and saw only her reflection: a bright staring girl, floating in black.

  The rules were superstition. She had foresworn their protective magics long ago. She was going to get expelled whatever she did.

  Delphine hit the alarm and pushed –

  – on through Alderberen Hall’s smoke-filled corridors, dark clouds thickening overhead.

  ‘Daddy!’ A picture frame cracked under her heel.

  ‘Giddy!’ said Mother.

  Delphine grasped a door knob then pulled her hand away with a cry. The metal was searingly hot.

  Mother kicked it.

  ‘Giddy? Are you there?’ She kicked again and the door swung inward, a blast of heat and black –

  – opaque smoke on the other side of the frosted glass, surging like ink in water. Her route to the boiler room was blocked. Delphine felt a breeze on the nape of her neck as the fire drank air; a wall display of sixth-form still-life sketches began applauding. The doors to Domestic Science juddered in their frames. Paint bubbled and oozed. The fire alarm was a distant ache.

  She would have to go round the long way, see if she could break in through the back doors.

  She ran back down the corridor, her head a blizzard of slander: the lunatic’s daughter, the murderess. She had done this deliberately, they would say – revenge, Prue Dunbar and Jacqueline Finks-Hanley would attest, shaking their heads solemnly, we were only teasing, miss, it was just a joke, but she threw a fit . . . and the eyes, miss – and here Prue Dunbar would gasp into her hankie – I was so afraid of her . . . of what she might do.

  She passed the school trophy cabinet, caught a flash of movement – no, it was just her reflection in the glass. She was almost at the door. After that it was a long jog round the outside of the block. She flicked hair out of her face then an arm clamped around her throat –

  – and she whirled round, slamming her back into the wall; the vesperi released its grip and fell. Mother moved in, dagger raised.

  All around, antique furniture roasted, black skeletons on white flames. The vesperi folded its wings over its head, cowering.

  Mother hesitated.

  ‘Kill it!’ Delphine screamed; the words were a reflex, a trigger-pull.

  Mother waited. The beige wings were spidered with capillaries; wrapped over one another, they looked like the panels of a complicated kite. Delphine’s skin tingled in the heat. Breathing was making her thirsty. Dust sheets peeled away, shedding black flakes edged with molten orange that floated up drunkenly. The windows were open. Outside, it was raining.

  Mother stepped back, gesturing for Delphine to do the same.

  ‘Go,’ she said.

  The crumpled vesperi did not move.

  ‘Go now,’ said Mother, louder. ‘I don’t want to harm you.’

  One of the wings rucked, exposing a single bluegrey eye. The eye peered at Mother.

  She took another step back.

  The vesperi shut its wings and stood. Delphine saw now it had blood crusted around its muzzle. One of its arms hung limp. Its pupils were pinpricks.

  The vesperi stared into her eyes for a long instant.

  It turned, running into the chaos of the burning room. A drop-leaf table collapsed in a shower of cinders; the vesperi jumped, its wings spreading, slapping the air. Smoke wafted in loose parentheses, fanned back; flames flared; the vesperi jumped again, beat its wings. It was going to hit the wall. It jumped a third time; its wings met in a steep V, pumped; it tucked its legs in and swished over the sill, out the open window, into the night.

  A hand on Delphine’s shoulder.

  ‘Come on.’

  Mother shook her. Delphine could not stop staring at the window.

  ‘Delphine!’ Mother yanked Delphine’s –

  – arm pinned to the floor under a knee as Eleanor Wethercroft clouted her in the nose. Delphine’s eyes watered; she clutched at Eleanor’s throat, felt her fingers close around the cold, sharp crucifix that hung from Eleanor’s necklace.

  ‘I’ll kill you, I’ll kill you, I’ll kill you.’ Eleanor chanted the words with breathless momentum until they slurred into nonsense: ‘you I’ll kill you I’ll kill you’ll kill you’ll kill you’ll killyul killyulk ill yulk illyuk’.

  Delphine tugged and felt the delicate silver chain snap. Eleanor shrieked, clawing at Delphine’s face – the cross was a keepsake from her dead grandmother.* Nails broke the skin. Delphine swatted with her free hand – her pinned arm was going numb. She tried to roll but Eleanor’s knees had her trapped. Eleanor spat on her and punched her in the eye and clamped her hands round her neck. Eleanor was a good half a stone heavier. Delphine walloped her arm and she did not flinch. Rage had made her implacable.

  Delphine had the crucifix bunched in her fist. She could not breathe. Eleanor had lost her reason. She was going to throttle Delphine. Delphine let one of the crucifix’s wicked little trefoil heads slip out between her third and forth knuckles and prayed to Nana Florence for absolution. She lunged and raked it down Eleanor Wethercroft’s exposed arm.

  It snagged sickeningly. Blood welled in a deep trench. Eleanor’s eyes bulged; she gripped her tricep and immediately her palm slipped in blood. She squeezed and fat red droplets like cherries oozed over the webbing of her fingers.

  Delphine flung the cross across the corridor; it jangled off the wall, gleaming. Eleanor watched its trajectory and in the instant of distraction Delphine grabbed her earlobe and pulled, hard.

  Eleanor Wethercroft –

  – screeched, its wingtips smouldering. The straggling vesperi dropped its javelin and fled.

  Delphine and Mother picked their way down the corridor, heading west, towards the long library. Smoke was thick now, and they had to drop to a crouch. Delphine pulled her
cardigan over her mouth.

  ‘Daddy!’

  The corridor was a detritus of vesperi corpses, some battered or stabbed, several charred, still smoking, as if the creatures had dragged themselves from the fire before dying.

  ‘It’s no good!’ said Mother. Delphine ignored her and pressed on. The heat and the noise thickened and Delphine’s crouch became a crawl. She was heading into the heart of the inferno. ‘He can’t be here!’

  ‘He must be!’

  ‘Delphine!’ Mother snatched at her wrist. ‘We have . . . ’ Mother stopped to hack and splutter. ‘You must stop this!’

  Delphine could not draw a breath to reply but her answer was clear. She was not going back. She knew Daddy was up ahead. She could still find him. She could still save him.

  She glanced back and the smoke was too thick and Mother was gone.

  Don’t follow me, she thought. Mother had spent her whole life sacrificing. It was time to let someone else take their turn.

  Delphine crawled into a black and endless tunnel. Her bare skin brushed metal, blistering.

  ‘Daddy!’ She could not get low enough beneath the smoke. Her burns stung fiercely. ‘Daddy!’

  She thought she heard something off to her left, muffled.

  ‘Daddy?’

  ‘Go away!’

  ‘Daddy!’

  The door was ajar. Delphine levered it open with her crab hook and found herself back –

  – in the brawny clutches of Mrs Leddington. Delphine knew better than to struggle.

  Eleanor Wethercroft sat on the floor, panting. Clotting blood banded her arms. She turned Nana Florence’s crucifix over and over in her palm.

  ‘She ambushed me, miss,’ said Eleanor. ‘I heard the alarm and I ran down to see if I could save anybody and – ’

  ‘Shut up, Eleanor,’ said Mrs Leddington.

  ‘But – ’

  ‘The building is on fire. Stand.’

  Eleanor hung her head. She made a show of wincing as she got to her feet. Mrs Leddington grabbed Eleanor by the wrist. She began dragging the girls towards the exit.

  Eleanor Wethercroft whimpered and gasped. At last, she said: ‘But she tied me up in the boiler room, miss.’

  ‘And you wriggled out like Houdini.’

  ‘The knots came loose. She’s a rotten knot-tier, miss.’

  Delphine resisted the urge to swing for her.

  ‘Is she?’ said Mrs Leddington. ‘I thought you ran down because of the alarm.’

  ‘No. Well . . . I only said that because I didn’t want to get her expelled. She tied me up.’

  Delphine kept her eyes on the floor. ‘It’s true. I did.’

  ‘Oh, don’t insult my intelligence,’ said Mrs Leddington. ‘You’re a pernicious little bully, Miss Wethercroft. You think you’re above justice. Well, justice today.’

  Eleanor Wethercroft muttered: ‘My father shall hear of this. At least he’s not a – ’

  Delphine was on her before she could say the word again. Mrs Leddington was caught off-guard and the girls tumbled to –

  – the floor on her hands and knees. She had reached her bedroom. The collapsed wardrobe was burning. Smoke frothed low.

  Daddy lay against the wall beneath the window, his face filthy. His shirt was open. He was clutching a ball of paper.

  Delphine dragged herself towards him. Her lungs felt as if they had been creosoted. She hacked and spat.

  ‘Daddy.’

  He did not answer. A familiar dullness coated his eyes.

  ‘Daddy, we have to go.’

  He groaned. His mouth hung open.

  ‘Daddy. It’s Delphine.’

  ‘Delphy?’ He blinked once, twice. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘The house is on fire,’ she said. She took his hand. ‘Follow me.’

  Daddy snatched his hand away. ‘Can’t.’

  ‘We’ll crawl,’ said Delphine. She coughed in her palm. ‘I’ll help you.’

  Daddy shut his eyes. ‘I’m not leaving without Arthur.’

  ‘Come on!’ She yanked his collar. ‘We have to go. There isn’t any time.’

  ‘Arthur!’ Tears had washed away the soot either side of his nose, leaving canals of clear wet skin. ‘Dear God, man, where are you? Arthur!’

  ‘Daddy, please. You’re not well.’ She grabbed the front of his shirt and a button tore off. The heat in the room was tremendous. ‘Arthur died years ago.’

  Daddy tipped his head back against the wall, rolling it from side to side. He coughed and spluttered.

  ‘No, no, no. You don’t understand. You don’t understand at all.’

  ‘Don’t argue. Just come.’

  ‘Arthur! I’m in here!’

  ‘Please, Daddy. I can’t carry you any more. I’m not strong enough.’

  Daddy shut his eyes. He had blood on his teeth. How would Mother handle this?

  ‘Gideon.’ Delphine fought down the tremor in her voice. ‘Now, listen here. Don’t be obstinate. Everyone’s waiting for you, you silly man. If you want to die, you can die tomorrow.’

  Daddy’s eyes remained closed. He frowned.

  ‘Arthur?’

  Delphine fanned smoke away from her mouth.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It’s me. Now, come on.’

  ‘Oh, Arty!’ Daddy gazed into the descending smoke. ‘Oh God, I . . . ’ He clutched his throat, made a retching noise. ‘I knew you’d come. It’s been black without you. I . . . ’ coughing, ‘ . . . I couldn’t see a damn thing.’

  ‘You must follow me.’

  ‘Sit a moment.’ He patted the floor beside him. ‘Abide.’

  ‘There isn’t time! We have to – ’

  ‘I kept it from all of them, old man.’ Daddy grinned tightly. ‘I think . . . I think Anne knew, perhaps. Perhaps she guessed.’

  Sweat fell from Delphine’s chin onto the hot floor. ‘Guessed what?’

  ‘Ah!’ He held up a forefinger. ‘Ah ha ha! Nope, you won’t . . . you won’t trick me that easily. We made a pact, and I never . . . argh, Christ.’ He spat something black. ‘Look, they’ve . . . I took a knock in that last barrage. My leg’s done in.’

  ‘Then crawl! Come on!’ Delphine grabbed his arm and pulled.

  ‘I want you to take a message to my daughter.’

  Delphine let go. ‘What’s the message?’

  Daddy’s breath heaved in and out.

  ‘Tell her . . . ’ He broke off to cough. ‘I read her note.’ He relaxed his fingers and the crumpled paper spread its petals. She could see the ‘F’ of ‘FATHER’, scrunched back on itself so it looked like an ‘M’. ‘Tell her . . . to listen to her mother.’

  ‘Are you quite finished?’

  ‘Utterly.’

  She wiped sweat from her eyes. ‘You have to follow me.’

  ‘You go, dear. I’ll rest here a while.’

  In the midst of the flames, cold panic swamped her chest. He wasn’t going to listen to her. She slapped him in the stomach.

  ‘No! Come now,’ she said. He did not move. ‘Venner! I am giving you an order!’

  Daddy massaged his brow with his fingertips. He squeezed the bridge of his nose. His fingers left smutty trails.

  ‘All right, sir.’ He blew out slowly. ‘All right.’

  Delphine cradled his head. He let her help him onto his hands and knees. The air was so hot she had to breathe through clenched teeth and still it scalded her tongue. She pushed her face to the rug, where the smoke was thinner.

  ‘Follow me!’ she shouted. She began crawling towards the door. The glass in the window burst. She felt a sudden scorching breeze, flames sucking at the new fuel source. It hurt to keep her eyes open. She pressed on blind, feeling ahead with the crab hook. ‘This way!’ Daddy did not reply. ‘Gideon? Are you there? Daddy?’ She inhaled a great lungful of smoke and started spluttering. She tried to draw in fresh air but she could not stop coughing. She kept crawling. She could not feel her hands. Her scalp was burning.

  She opened her eye
s and saw only smoke. She could not see the door. She could not breathe.

  ‘Daddy!’

  What if she was going the wrong way? What if she had lost him?

  Her legs felt so heavy. She swished the crab hook back and forth, hoping to catch a wall. The heat was all round her now. She was so tired.

  She thought she might go to sleep for a while, till all the fuss was over.

  * * *

  Strong arms gripped her waist and she was rising. Pain – a sharp blow to the ribs – heat and sweat and fingers digging into her guts.

  The temperature rose till it was unbearable, till she must be on fire. Maybe this was dying.

  She blacked out.

  *‘I’ll let you look at Nana Florence’s cross’ was a common bargaining ploy of Eleanor’s. Its counterpart – ‘I swear on Nana Florence’s cross’ – was used as collateral when auditioning for custody of prized confidences. Eleanor had never explained why Nana Florence’s cross was due the sort of veneration usually reserved for the remains of an apostle – as far as she was concerned, its status as a storied relic was self-evident.

  CHAPTER 39

  ARISE

  Delphine felt drizzle against her cheeks. When she opened her eyes, she was looking up at Professor Carmichael.

  The lawn was wet and cool and lit by the blazing Hall. The Professor knelt at her side, in the lee of the ha-ha. His jumper had a fist-sized hole scorched in the shoulder. The skin beneath was covered in greasy blisters like the white of a fried egg.