School's Out!

by Gareth P. Jones

  The professor had mentioned the AOG project. Knocking the contents of the glass back, Dirk wondered what the professor did all day at that computer on the sixth floor of his Moorgate office. With this thought, he cleared away the baked bean cans and old newspapers and settled down to sleep.

  Holly struggled to get free. “Who are you?” she demanded.

  “I’ll tell you on the way back to the dorm.” The girl pulled off Holly’s makeshift balaclava, but kept a firm grip on her shoulder.

  “I’m not going back. I’m getting out of here!” Holly insisted.

  “Well, go ahead then,” said the girl, letting go and handing her the wire cutters back. “But I should warn you that as soon as you cut this wire you’ll have the whole of security down on you faster than a tobogganing tadpole.”

  Holly faltered. “But … why?”

  “This is no ordinary fence. It’s made from SM2 – intelligent metal. Stuff they use in proper defence bases. Cutting it, climbing it or tunnelling under it triggers the alarm. And say you do get past it, you’re tagged. The wristbands all have short-range tracking devices. They were introduced last year after one of the oh-so-famous students was kidnapped. That’s why you can’t remove them.”

  “I was going to cut it off with the wire cutters.”

  “Try it. You can’t cut through them, you can’t bite through them. It’s easier to chop your own hand off than remove these babies.”

  “But I thought all this security was to stop people getting in?”

  “There are two types of pupil at William Scrivener – those being protected from the outside world and those being kept from the outside world. Have a guess which one you are.”

  Holly had no doubt she fell into the second category.

  “Now, let’s get you back to bed,” said the girl. “The security guards know not to hurt the students but the dogs haven’t been as well trained. I heard one bit a student the other day. Palmer was furious. He was the son of a sultan. Big money.”

  The girl led Holly back towards the dorm, walking in the shadows of the trees.

  “It took me three attempts before I figured out the tree walk. I watched you practising during breaks. More difficult in the dark, isn’t it? I used to practise blindfolded. I reckon I can get across those trees as quickly as anyone can walk along the path. My name’s Moji, by the way.”

  “Are you going to report me?” asked Holly.

  “Not this time,” said Moji. “You’ve only been here a month, haven’t you?”

  “Yes. I got sent here to stay out of trouble.”

  Moji laughed. “You’re doing a great job. What was your plan once you got out?”

  “I have a friend.”

  “A friend by the name of Dirk Dilly by any chance?” said Moji, pulling out a handful of envelopes from her pocket and handing them to Holly.

  “You’ve been stopping my letters,” she said angrily.

  “Not me, the school. Palmer would never let anything that criticizes the school get out in case the press got hold of it, not to mention what you say about poor Petal. Who’s this Dirk you’re writing to then, an uncle or something?”

  Holly smiled to herself, remembering how she had pretended to be Dirk’s niece in order to get past his landlady into his office. “Something like that,” she said.

  “The school intercepted the mail and Palmer asked me to keep an eye on you.”

  “Why you?”

  “Because I know all the tricks in the book. I’ve made more attempts to get out of here than anyone else. I still hold the record for the furthest any student has ever got – all the way to Little Hope…” Moji stopped dead and pushed Holly hard against the tree, clasping her hand over her mouth. Holly struggled to get free but Moji whispered, “Be quiet. The guard’s coming.”

  Holly heard the crackling sound of a crowd roaring and a voice saying, “… a triumphant return to form for the Arsenal…” The guard must have left the channel open so he could listen to the match.

  Once he had passed, Moji released her and they continued on their way.

  “So why won’t you let me go?” asked Holly. “We could go together.”

  “My escaping days are over. I’m a prefect now, a respectable student of William Scrivener School. Besides, this is my last year here.” The two girls got to the courtyard and Moji strolled across with Holly by her side. Reaching the door to the girls’ dorm, Moji raised her wristband but then stopped and said, “On second thoughts, let’s use Palmer’s.”

  Holly looked up into her smiling face, pulled out the wristband and handed it to her.

  “Good steal by the way,” said Moji, opening the door, “but you forgot that there’s a camera in Palmer’s office.” They entered the building. “And in the design tech room,” she added, holding out her hand again.

  Holly handed over the wire cutters.

  The security cameras swivelled to follow them as they headed down the corridor. They stopped by the noticeboard outside the common room. “This is where we say goodbye,” said Moji.

  “How do you know I won’t try again?” replied Holly.

  “Go ahead and try. I like a challenge,” countered Moji. “But I promise you you’ll never get past that fence.” Then she winked at Holly, turned on her heel and walked away.

  Holly felt depressed. She felt trapped. She glanced at the noticeboard on the wall next to her and something caught her eye.

  That was the answer. She wouldn’t need to get past the fence if she was already on the other side. She had to go to the concert and begin her escape from Little Hope.

  A plan was already forming in Holly’s mind. She smiled at the camera. She took two steps back. It followed her. She stepped forwards. It moved again. She spun around on her heel and did a funny little tap dance. The camera twitched and wiggled as it followed her every movement. Holly giggled and ran back to her room, where she slipped into bed, careful not to wake Petal.

  Dirk was drowning in an ocean of baked beans. He struggled to swim but the beans were pulling him down. Tomatoey sauce filled his nostrils. The more he fought, the deeper he sank.

  “Mr Dilly?” screamed the beans. “Hello, Mr Dilly?”

  He awoke from the nightmare to find himself in his office with an empty baked bean tin on the end of his nose. Willow was jumping over cans and old case files like it was a game.

  I seriously need to clean up, he thought.

  He looked at the clock and scratched his head. He knew it shouldn’t be difficult, but dragons didn’t have a way of measuring time and Dirk had never quite got to grips with the bizarre system that humans used. Maybe it was time to go digital.

  “Mr Dilly? Are you in?” Mrs Klingerflim pounded on the door.

  “I’ll have the money next week!” called Dirk.

  “Oh, don’t worry about the rent, dear. I was hoping you might be able to help me with some lifting downstairs.”

  He opened the door to find the old lady, smiling benignly.

  “No problem, Mrs K,” he said.

  “That’s very kind, dear,” she replied. “My Ivor used to do all the lifting. That’s another thing he hasn’t been able to do since he passed away.”

  Dirk followed her downstairs, careful that his tail didn’t knock any of the old black-and-white pictures and porcelain ornaments that lined the walls. He often wondered what the world looked like to Mrs K. If she was short-sighted enough not to realize that her unreliable tenant was in fact a 1,266 year-old red-backed, green-bellied urban-based Mountain Dragon, the world must have been a pretty weird-looking place to her.

  She led him into the kitchen, where there were two cardboard boxes on the floor.

  “If you could put them on that top shelf,” she said. “I’d do it myself but I’m not as tall as I used to be. It’s a funny to-do, growing old. When you’re young you get taller, then when you’re middle-aged you get fatter. And, just when you’re getting used to how tall and fat you are, bish bash bosh, you’re old, thin and shor
t. It’s a bit like being an inflatable castle.”

  “And life’s one big kid’s birthday party,” mused Dirk, picking up one of the boxes. It was full of dusty old books. He turned the top one over. It had a red cover with a thick white line that zigzagged across the front. “Anything good to read in here?” he asked, holding it up.

  “Oh no, just Ivor’s old rubbish,” she replied. “I’d throw it away but I find the older I get, the more sentimental I am about these knickknacks.”

  Dirk put the book back in the box and placed it on the shelf. He stooped to pick up the second box and noticed that on the dining table sat a gleaming computer. It looked strangely out of place in Mrs Klingerflim’s kitchen.

  “I see you’re moving with the times,” he said.

  “Silly, isn’t it?” she replied. “My eldest, Mark, bought it for me, said I needed updating. He connected up all the wires and things. Broad-bean connection, he said, but what’s an old lady like me going to do with that? I get my broad beans from the corner shop.”

  “Can I have a look?” asked Dirk, placing the second box on the shelf by the first.

  “Of course, dear. I’ll put the kettle on.”

  He moved the chair out of the way and sat down in front of the computer, ever cautious not to let his scaly skin brush against the old lady.

  Human technology wasn’t really Dirk’s strong point, but computers had their uses. He moved the mouse and found a search engine. Using the tip of his claw he carefully typed in the name NAPOW.

  The search engine revealed:

  So that’s what the professor does, mused Dirk. He makes weapons. Dirk found the company website. A globe materialized in the centre of the screen with the words:

  Dirk smiled to himself. It was typical of humans. A company dedicated to creating the very latest in destructive technology, capable of killing greater numbers at higher speed with less effort, and that made the world safer.

  “Tea, dear?” asked Mrs Klingerflim.

  “No, thanks,” said Dirk.

  He searched for AOG Project and found various news sites referring to it as some sort of secret government defence project, but nothing that said what it was.

  Mrs Klingerflim switched on the radio and some old crackly music came on.

  “Oh, I like this one,” said the old lady, moving strangely to the music. “It reminds me of my Ivor. He used to take me out dancing to tunes like this all night long. They don’t write them like they used to.”

  It sounded awful to Dirk but then he hated all music. For dragons, music was not something you listened to for fun. Dragonsong was a powerful and deadly weapon.

  He heard the phone in his office start ringing so he thanked Mrs Klingerflim for the use of the computer and went upstairs. He shut the door with his tail and answered the phone.

  “Hi,” he said, scooping up Willow and stroking her.

  “Mr Dilly? Is that you?”

  “What can I do for you, Mrs Rosenfield?” he asked, recognizing the anxious female voice.

  “I was wondering if you’d found anything yet…” Her voice wavered. “It feels so underhand hiring you. I love my husband, Mr Dilly, but I’m scared.”

  “Why? What’s happened?” asked Dirk.

  “He says that he’s got one of his conferences this weekend, that he forgot to tell me about it, but he’s lying.”

  “Why do you think he’s lying?”

  “Someone called last night. I listened in on the other phone. The man told Karl to get the eight fifty-nine train from Euston to Glasgow, but Karl told me he was going from Kings Cross.”

  “What did the voice sound like?” asked Dirk.

  “Deep,” she replied. “Like a soul singer.”

  “What else did it say?”

  “I only caught the end of the conversation. He said that Karl wouldn’t actually be going to Glasgow, but that he would receive a phone call telling him when he should get off the train and that someone would be there to meet him. We’ve been married … for…” She began to cry. “For … twenty-three years.”

  Dirk hated the sound of humans crying.

  “Mrs Rosenfield,” he said gently. “People lie for lots of reasons. Don’t jump to any conclusions. I’ll find out what he’s doing. Don’t worry.”

  “Thank you, Mr Dilly,” she sniffed.

  “What sort of conference did he say it was?”

  “He said it was one of his nonsense cryptozoological conferences.”

  “Cryptozoological?”

  “It’s stupid, really, just his hobby – mythical creatures, he loves anything like that … unicorns, sea monsters and, you know…”

  “Dragons?” guessed Dirk.

  “Yes, they’re his favourite. That’s why I chose your detective agency. In a funny sort of way I thought he’d approve of the name…” Her voice trailed away.

  “Why didn’t you mention this before?” asked Dirk.

  “I didn’t think it was relevant. It’s just a stupid hobby, isn’t it? Those creatures don’t really exist, do they?”

  “Of course they don’t. It just helps to know these things sometimes,” said Dirk. “I’ll call when I have news.”

  He put the receiver down and looked up at the clock. The big hand was pointing left. The smaller hand was below it. He scratched his head.

  Come on, Dirk, you can do this, he thought. Big hand was minutes. Yes. That meant it was a quarter to something. The small hand was hours and that was just below the nine. That was it. A quarter to nine.

  A quarter to nine? He had less than fifteen minutes to get to Euston station. Dirk was quick but even he couldn’t get across London’s roofs at that speed, particularly not in daylight on a busy Saturday morning.

  He pulled open the window, checked the street below and leaped out. It was a bright day but overcast. Usually, Dirk travelled over roofs because they provided good cover. However, Dirk had a good pair of wings and was perfectly capable of flying. He just had to take precautions in a big city like London.

  He shut his mouth and snorted through his nostrils, standing upright on his hind legs and spinning around. White smoke billowed out of his nose. He flapped his wings as he turned, sending the smoke into a cloud that swirled around his body and hid him from view. He flapped a little harder, lifting himself off the roof, twisting and snorting as he flew upwards, to keep the smoke around him.

  Having reached a good height, Dirk allowed the smoke to thin out to see where he was going. He found Euston and headed, feet first, towards it. Unnoticed by the unobservant city dwellers, Dirk landed on the corrugated roof above the station platforms.

  A whistle blew and an announcement said, “The train about to depart from platform seven is the eight fifty-nine to Glasgow. Please stand clear of the platform’s edge…”

  The train rumbled forwards.

  There was no time to think.

  Dirk sprang into the air, spread his wings and glided down, landing safely on top of the moving train, holding on tight and blending with the carriage roof.

  Holly had been learning the trumpet for two years but had never stayed long enough at any one school to have proper lessons, so had taken to teaching herself from a book, on her own, in her room. She wasn’t very good but it was noisy and she liked to play when she felt lonely because it filled the room with sound. However, if she was going to persuade the music teacher, Miss Gilfeather, to let her into the band in time for the concert, she would have to play her very best.

  Trumpet case in hand, she entered the corridor lined with doors leading to the music rooms. It was Saturday morning, which was when pupils had one-to-one music lessons, so Holly had decided to wait until Miss Gilfeather had a spare moment and then ask if she could join the band. She could hear a flute and a piano playing a piece of classical music in another room. Or rather, the piano was playing. The flute was desperately trying and failing to keep up.

  She looked for somewhere to sit and saw that she wasn’t alone. Next to an upright piano w
as a skinny boy, sitting so still that Holly hadn’t noticed him at first. Greasy black hair was flattened against his forehead. He didn’t look at her but she saw his grip tighten around the handle of his curved instrument case, as though afraid she might steal it.

  “Hi, I’m Holly,” she said, sitting down next to him. “Is that a French horn?”

  His dark eyes flickered nervously.

  She tried again. “I play the trumpet. I want to join the band. Are you in it?”

  The strange boy made a noise somewhere between a giggle and a squeak and brought a hand up to his face, compulsively smoothing down his already very smooth hair.

  Holly decided to give it one more try. “I’ve never played in front of anyone before. I taught myself. What about you?”

  When the boy answered, he spoke quickly without pausing for breath. “I have lessons but the teachers get scared, everyone gets scared. They don’t like being in a room with Callum, they think Callum is weird, but I still play because music blocks out the other noises. I never wanted to join the stupid band because other people aren’t as good and spoil it and I hate it when people play wrong notes, like that flute in there, but Father wants me to play in the concert so I have to be in the stupid band.” The boy took a sharp intake of breath and smoothed down his hair.

  Before Holly could respond, the door was flung open by a severe-looking woman, immaculately dressed in a trouser suit and holding a flute at arm’s length, as though it was the most repulsive object she had ever touched.

  She walked to the bin and dropped the instrument in.

  Petal Moses darted out of the room and dived to the flute’s rescue. “How dare you?” she demanded. “My mother bought that for me. It’s an antique. It’s worth more than you earn in a year.”

  “That’s probably true, Miss Moses,” the teacher admitted. “And yet in your hands it may as well be a swanee whistle. I told you last week that if you didn’t practise this would be your last lesson.”

  “If you’re so good at music, why aren’t you a proper musician like my mum, rather than just a music teacher?” Petal snarled.