Class Act

by Debbie Thomas

  She tried to duck out of his grip. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  He clenched her more tightly. ‘Oh, I think you do.’

  Brian stared at the principal. Her face was going alarmingly red. He really ought to think carefully about seriously considering the different options for perhaps doing something that could possibly help her. But oh dear, not a single option came into his head.

  He rubbed his ear. If Dulcie had any ideas, she wasn’t prepared to share them, because there still wasn’t a peep.

  What about his classmates? They didn’t look promising. If their expressions were bedclothes, they’d be thin sheets of curiosity over thick duvets of boredom.

  Brian had just got past thinking carefully, and was beginning to seriously consider, when Quincy let go of the teacher.

  She sat upright in the chair, wriggling her arms. ‘This is outrageous!’

  ‘Ooh.’ Quincy clapped his hands like an excited toddler. ‘Isn’t it?’ He took a bag from his pocket and put it on the front desk.

  Not a bag, thought Brian, staring at the green cloth tube with a zip along the top. A pencil case.

  ‘Let me go!’ snarled Florrie.

  Quincy stuck out his tongue. ‘Not on your smelly old nelly.’ He unzipped the case and took out a metal ruler. ‘I do love stationery,’ he sighed. ‘So useful and fun. The only fun thing about school. You see, Brian –’ he waved the ruler in the air, ‘I had the same problem as you.’ As if a switch had flipped, his face squashed with hatred. ‘The teacher!’ He tapped Florrie’s head with the ruler. ‘She really wasn’t kind to me.’ His eyes widened to sorrowful pools. Like an actor, he seemed to have a wardrobe of faces inside him. ‘She was always banging on about how stupid I was. Putting flowerpots on my head to show everyone I was thicker than clay. Calling me Loser, Waster, Fool of the School.’

  ‘That’s because you were,’ she muttered.

  He patted her head with the ruler. ‘Fifteen years ago, Brian, I too won a prize. The Melon for Mindless Morons.’ Quincy jabbed the ruler in Florrie’s chest. ‘Remember?’

  ‘Yes, I do.’ She glared at him. ‘And you deserved every pip.’

  ‘Oh, did I?’ He gave what Brian guessed was a laugh, though it sounded more like a lady machine gun. ‘We’ll see about that, you old scorpion.’ Quincy rapped the ruler on the desk. ‘Ready folks?’

  Pete wiped chalk dust from his hands. ‘Yeah.’ Stifling a yawn, he pointed to the double white lines that ran round the edge of the floor.

  ‘Excellent,’ said Quincy. ‘Tracy?’

  She nodded listlessly.

  ‘Good. And Alec?’

  ‘Yep.’ He put his pen down. ‘Hurry up, Quince. I’m staaarving.’

  Quince? Brian gaped at the three dozy children who didn’t seem the slightest bit scared of this yo-yo of a man whose moods changed like the Irish weather.

  ‘Alec!’ barked Florrie. ‘Tracy, Pete – what’s wrong with you? I order you to help me!’

  Her prize pupils gazed back, their faces blank as baps.

  ‘Ooh, bossy bossy.’ Quincy’s eyebrows rose. ‘But I give the orders round here.’ He bent down and pinched her chin between his finger and thumb. ‘Because I’m the teacher now. And I’m going to teach you,’ he poked her nose, ‘a lesson you’ll remember,’ poke poke, ‘all your life,’ poke poke poke.

  ‘You don’t scare me,’ she growled.

  Brian had to hand it to her. For someone forced to sit, she was standing up to him impressively.

  ‘Oh, don’t I?’ He prodded her cheek with the ruler. She pressed her lips together and sniffed furiously.

  Brian rubbed his ear a third time. ‘Dulcie!’ he hissed. ‘You’ve got to think of something.’

  Quincy looked up sharply. ‘What?’

  ‘I … I said I was just thinking of something.’ Brian smiled nervously.

  Quincy chuckled. ‘Well, I’ve been planning something that’ll really make you grin. Oh, I’m so glad you’re here to see it.’ He gazed dreamily over Florrie’s head, like Dorothy over the rainbow. ‘I know you’ll enjoy it, Brian. Just like you’re enjoying this.’ He tickled the teacher’s neck with the ruler.

  She blinked at Brian. And with a sweet-and-sour rush, he realised that Quincy was right. He was enjoying this reversal of power, this bullying of the bully. That was why he hadn’t rushed over to kick Quincy’s shins and bite his arms, to scratch and pinch and do all he could to help Florrie.

  For a moment Brian forgot that he was imprisoned underground, that his classmates had been duped or doped, that his teacher was handcuffed to a chair and that he was the only one who could help them. For a moment he watched enthralled as the failure-hating principal’s effort to stop a tear rolling down her cheek scored a big, fat … F.

  CHAPTER 20

  BONKERS AS A CONKER

  ‘You see, Brian, I understand you.’ Quincy took a little white bottle from his pencil case. ‘Because we’re just the same.’ He unscrewed the bottle and stood it on the desk. ‘Peas in a pod, two flies on a pie.’

  Brian’s stomach shrank. How on earth could he resemble this freak?

  As if he’d spoken out loud, Quincy smiled. His teeth were the colour of custard. ‘Not so good at our books. But we notice things. Little things. Creepers and crawlers, scuttlers and squirmers, ants and fleas, beetles and bees. And we love them, don’t we? Because we know what it’s like to be crushed and downtrodden. We know how a slug feels under a shoe.’ He yanked Florrie’s ear. ‘Remember when you called me Bug Brain for getting three out of fifty in Maths? Or that time you told Pandora Crudge to give me some of her head lice because they’d boost my brain power?’

  The teacher stared fiercely ahead.

  ‘Course you don’t – because what was it to you?’ He frowned at her thoughtfully. ‘Hmm. That nose of yours really doesn’t work. Shall we try again?’ He lifted the lid from the little bottle. With the brush attached to it, he painted her nose white. He tutted. ‘Never let us use Tipp-Ex, did you? Said we couldn’t hide our failures. Well, you were right. You still look terrible.’

  Florrie pressed her lips together.

  Quincy danced round to the front of the desk and hoisted himself neatly on top. ‘Well, Brian.’ He crossed one leg over the other and placed his hands delicately on his knee, like an actress on a chat show. ‘All that talk of insects got me wondering.’ He changed to thoughtful professor, frowning and scratching his head. ‘Are woodlice really so stupid? Are nits truly twits? Tiny, yes, and timid too … but did you know that there are more than a million species of insect in the world?’ He smacked his knee like a cowboy at a hoe-down. ‘That there are ten times more termites than humans?’ He leapt off the desk. ‘There are more kinds of beetles than plants,’ he sang. ‘Butterflies taste with their feet.’ He pranced round the room. ‘A cockroach can live nine days without its head. Ants can carry fifty times their own body weight. Did you know –’ he skipped back to the desk, ‘that insects have lived on this planet two thousand times longer than us? Now that,’ he bent towards Florrie as if to kiss her cheek, ‘is what I call success.’ He blew a gigantic raspberry. ‘You may rule the classroom, but bugs rule the world.’

  Her face was a fist. ‘You’re mad,’ she muttered.

  ‘As a moth!’ He fluttered his arms. ‘Which, did you know, use the moon and stars to find their way? Which can sniff each other seven miles away and disguise themselves as –’ he leaned over and whispered in her ear, ‘poo.’ Then he cupped his hands and yelled, ‘Pretty smart, HUH?!!’ As she jerked her head away, he twirled round the desk. ‘So.’ He stopped in front of it and beamed at Brian. ‘I decided to learn from them. I watched them whenever I could: ants carrying crumbs, greenfly on cabbages. I listened to them, talked to them, played Catch the Caterpillar and Hunt the Weevil. They became my closest friends.’ He leaned his elbow on the desk. ‘Because, Lord knows, I had no others.’

  Panic skittered round Brian’s chest. You’re right, he tho
ught. We are alike. He stared with horror at his fellow school-hater and insect-lover. Will I grow up to be like you?

  Quincy grinned. ‘And what fine friends they are, Brian. They never insult you, never argue. If you’re sad, they listen. If you’re angry, you squash ’em. If you’re bored, just pull ’em apart.’

  Brian felt his earlobe shudder.

  ‘Best of all, they make the perfect snack.’ Quincy ran his tongue over his top lip. ‘Mmm. Ladybird wings, crisp and spicy. Butterfly heads, chewy as chocolate.’

  The shudder spread right through Brian. He pulled his hair forward to protect Dulcie’s ears from this Jack the Bug-Ripper.

  ‘You’re revolting,’ said Florrie.

  Quincy reached for the pencil case. He brought out a permanent marker. Grabbing her chin, he drew a droopy black moustache beneath her white nose. ‘Look who’s talking,’ he said sweetly.

  The triumph Brian had felt at her humiliation drained away, leaving a scum of disgust and fear. Quincy Queaze was proving madder by the minute.

  ‘So that’s why …’ Quincy drew curly ends on the moustache, ‘I became a gardener. Chums and yums on tap.’ He put down the pen. ‘And the prettiest ornaments too.’ He pointed to the ceiling. ‘Did you see them brightening up my lampshade and rug, Brian? And when they stop moving, I just collect new ones.’

  ‘Monster!’

  Brian’s left hand flew to his ear. Of all the moments for Dulcie to shriek! And now Quincy was striding towards him. He backed against the door and waited for him to rip out the earring and pop it in his mouth like a butterscotch.

  But instead he grasped Brian’s shoulders. ‘Imagine it.’ His blue eyes shone. ‘All those suckers under your thumb. You can do what you like and they can’t answer back.’

  Brian sagged against the door. Dulcie was safe – for now.

  ‘It makes you feel …’ Quincy’s fingers dug in like tent pegs, ‘so powerful. Like – ooh – like a teacher!’

  He scuttled back to the desk. His right hand closed round Florrie’s neck. ‘Just as you had fun with me, I have fun with them.’ Her eyes bulged like marbles. ‘And just like you,’ her face was turning purple, ‘I have my favourites.’ He let go, leaving her spluttering for air. ‘Bees.’

  Dulcie shrieked again. Brian drowned it in a cough.

  Quincy beat a rhythm with his knuckles on the desk. ‘Bees are the brightest, bees are the best. Bees knock spots off a ladybird’s vest. Clean their bedrooms, nurse their brood, feed their queen on God’s own food.’

  ‘Food,’ groaned Tracy.

  ‘Yes, yes.’ Quincy waved a dismissive hand. ‘Coming soon.’

  Brian pressed his hands against the door. Focus, he told himself. Florrie was fighting from her chair. Dulcie was losing it in his ear. Someone had to keep calm round here. What do they do in the movies? His head filled with Batman, Sherlock, James Bond. Keep the bad guy talking. Easier said than done when his mouth was dry as toast, his palms were wet with sweat and his head was buzzing with …

  Buzzing with? He caught his breath. ‘Those bees,’ he said carefully. ‘The ones outside. Did you, um … create them?’ He swallowed. Quincy was friendly enough now, but any rash word might pop the matey bubble.

  Quincy put his palms together and smiled kindly, like a vicar about to preach. ‘Brian,’ he said softly, ‘you are too kind. Create is a word we normally reserve for God.’ His eyes rose to the ceiling. ‘But, yes, in all modesty I confess they are mine, bred for one single purpose. My beautiful, dutiful,’ he turned and roared at the teacher, ‘FLORRIBEES.’

  Dulcie squealed. Brian fingered his left ear, hoping she’d heed the warning and keep quiet.

  ‘What purpose?’ Florrie whimpered. The defiance in her eyes was melting to fear, as if she finally saw the true madness of her captor.

  ‘To teach you a lesson you’ll never forget.’ Quincy snatched the pen from the desk and wagged it at her threateningly.

  ‘Now!’ Dulcie whispered. ‘Grab the cactus from the desk, shove it in his face and get the keys from his pocket.’

  ‘No way,’ Brian hissed. ‘He’s too quick for me. And shut up if you don’t want to be eaten.’ He tried, and failed, to think of a better plan. Wrestle him to the ground? Impossible – he looked far too strong. Get the others to pin him down? Dream on. Their brains were as doughy as doughnuts and, besides, they seemed more on Quincy’s side than his.

  Why? What’s he done to them? Brian sensed that the answer held the key to all this craziness. Their craving for scones, those hideous bees and their horrible flowers … what was the link?

  An image burned into his brain. A clumsy old gardener in a crowded room. ‘The prize-giving!’ He gasped. ‘You gave Alec and Tracy and Pete those scones. Then you dropped the tray so that no one else would eat any. You drugged them with honey from those bees! That’s why they’re here and haven’t left.’ He pressed a fist to his mouth. Idiot! So much for speaking carefully. He cowered against the door as Quincy turned to him.

  But there was hurt, not anger, in his eyes. ‘Oh, Brian, how on earth could you think that?’

  Brian swallowed. What was he supposed to think about this nutter who redesigned nature?

  ‘I’d never drug these dear children.’ Quincy’s eyes were bright and warm. ‘No, no, I invited them. One little taste and they wanted more. So after a while it was only polite to invite them back for tea. And they came, one by one.’ He turned to the children. ‘Only too gladly, didn’t you, guys?’

  Alec shifted restlessly in his chair. Tracy licked her lips. Pete bit his cheek. The mere thought seemed to get them drooling.

  ‘And I did nothing to the honey – not me. But it was a good guess, Brian.’ Quincy rubbed his hands. ‘Ooh, I love a juicy puzzle, don’t you? As long as I know the answer.’ He turned and punched Florrie’s arm. ‘And you don’t!’

  Brian stared at the man he’d once pitied, now drawing spots on her nose. The man who’d once shuffled from the school hall, shamed and scorned. Who’d now turned the tables, trapping them all like butterflies on a lampshade or spiders on a rug.

  Not all. He felt a rush in his chest: a wind that picked up speed, fuelling his fear into action. As Quincy bent over Florrie, Brian took a step towards him. If I can just … another step … creep up behind him … and another … and reach into his pock–

  ‘Hello?’ Quincy spun round. Quick as a flame, he darted round the desk and snatched Brian’s wrist. ‘After my keys, are you?’

  Brian’s throat filled with sand. Now what? Will he tie me to a chair? Tipp-Ex my eyeballs?

  He did something far more shocking. Reaching inside his anorak, Quincy brought out the bunch of keys. ‘Allow me,’ he said, walking to the door and unlocking it.

  Brian blinked at Florrie. She shook her head in bewilderment. The others were too busy dozing to notice.

  Quincy opened the door. ‘Thanks for coming, Brian. Do pop in again. We’ll miss you but never mind. Say hi to your schoolmates and give that crabby old cleaner a kick in the Muttocks from me.’

  ‘Brian!’ shrieked Florrie. ‘Don’t leave me!’

  Backing into the doorway, Brian’s eyebrows wriggled in code. I’ll get the gardaí and be back in a jiffy.

  Her wail suggested that she didn’t speak eyebrow.

  And Quincy’s grin suggested that he did. ‘Oh, and I wouldn’t bother coming back. By the time you get here we’ll be long gone. It’s been lovely to see you, Brian, really it has. But your visit has rather changed my plans. I can’t have you fetching the guards and pooping the party I’ve planned for so long. So I’ll just have to take her elsewhere.’ Quincy cleaned his fingernail with the key. ‘But no worries. Have a great life, Brian.’ He waved the key at Pete, Tracy and Alec. ‘You too guys. Feel free to leave.’

  Tracy lifted her head from the desk. ‘After tea.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Pete stretched his legs out on the floor. Alec nodded.

  ‘Suit yourselves.’ Quincy shrugged in a what can you do? kind
of way. ‘Now,’ he said, clapping his hands, ‘let’s get going.’ He unzipped his anorak and threw it on the floor. Then he slipped out of his trousers.

  Brian gasped. Florrie yelped. Beneath his gardening gear, Quincy Queaze wore a white shirt, a dark blue tie, grey trousers and a light-blue jersey. He slipped the bunch of keys into the breast pocket, on which were embroidered the words, ‘Don’t You Know That?’

  Brian stared at the overgrown Tullybun Primary School pupil. He was crazy as a cucumber, bonkers as a conker – and brilliant. Because what choice had Quincy offered him? To abandon Mrs Florris and save his own skin … or stay here and try to save hers?

  Taking a deep breath, he stepped back into the room. ‘I’m not going anywhere,’ he said softly.

  CHAPTER 21

  FUN AND GAMES

  ‘How nice you’ve decided to stay.’ Quincy strode past Brian and locked the door again. ‘Now where are my manners?’ He beamed like a dinner party host while gripping Brian’s wrist in a fist you couldn’t argue with. ‘Do make yourself at home.’ He dragged Brian to the desk behind Alec’s. ‘Please have a seat.’ In one graceful sweep he pulled back the chair and pushed Brian into it. ‘Time for our first little game.’ Humming a happy tune, he scuttled to the front desk and picked up his pencil case.

  ‘What game?’ Cement settled in Brian’s stomach as he pictured Alec being fixed to the wall with drawing pins or Tracy having her nostrils stapled.

  ‘Oh, just a few questions,’ said Quincy airily. ‘The sort you get in class. Alec’s been teaching me, sharing the contents of his mighty noddle. I can’t wait to show our dear teach that I’m not the moron she took me for.’

  Brian licked his lips. ‘But you left school years ago,’ he said carefully. ‘Isn’t it time to, um – move on?’

  Quincy’s face twisted into a snarl. ‘You think I haven’t tried? I’m telling you, Brian, you’ll never escape her words. They’ll haunt you forever. Whatever you do, wherever you go, you’ll feel useless, pointless, the failure she promised you’d be.’