Shiverton Hall (11 page)

That evening, after far too much food and a bottle of good wine, Mr Gordon went to his room filled with gladness. He had just slipped into his nightshirt, when he looked upon his new picture and noticed something odd. It may have been the low candlelight of his room, but the little girl no longer appeared to be smiling, and her rosy hue had changed to a sallow grey. Mr Gordon peered at it more closely and found that the flowers in her basket had all dried up. Rather than the sweet, innocent face that Mr Gordon had so taken to earlier, there was a hint of malevolence around the girl’s black eyes, which followed him around the room as he made his preparations for bed.

Mr Gordon was just slipping towards slumber, when he felt something shifting in the darkness around him. He couldn’t be sure, but he had the troubling intuition that there was another presence in the room, and that its face was only a few inches from his own.

Mr Gordon whimpered, fumbled for his tinderbox and lit a long piece of straw with the flint. In the sickly, sulphurous glow, he could just make out the figure of a small child scampering across the rug away from him. Its limbs were a mottled blue and its hair hung down its back in a lank, dark curtain. He could not see its face.

The straw burned out before Mr Gordon had the chance to light his candle, singeing his fingers. He dropped it with a yelp, plunging his surroundings into darkness. He waited for a moment, frozen still, aware that the figure stood somewhere in the room, hidden in the blackness, perhaps even encroaching on him at that very moment, creeping towards him silently.

Mr Gordon hastily lit a candle with quivering fingers. It guttered briefly, throwing jagged shadows around the room, then extinguished itself. He heard a giggle and the light scamper of feet moving towards him. He struck the flint again and again, but each straw he tried to light was blown out before it could illuminate anything more than his hand.

There was another giggle, but it was lower this time and closer to him. Panicking, Mr Gordon flung his arms out in front of him and swung his legs out of his bed, blindly groping towards the door.

As he reached the doorknob, he felt cold, dry hands clasp his ankles.

Mrs Gordon and her daughters were awoken by a cry and a thud, and rushed from their beds to Mr Gordon’s room.

Mr Gordon was lying half under his four-poster, his arms spread out and his fingers clutching at the rug as though he were being dragged beneath the bed. He was white, his eyes glazed over, and quite dead.

Mrs Gordon pointed shakily towards the portrait that she and her family had so happily bought. Apart from a discarded basket of rotting flowers, the picture was empty: the little girl had vanished.

Chapter Nine

When Penny sat down next to Arthur in Long-Pitt’s classroom on the following Monday, she seemed confused. She had had a while to consider what had happened in the car park, and the more she tried to focus on the events, the more they seemed to slip from her memory. She confided in Arthur that she was no longer sure that she had really seen Lola.

‘I don’t understand.’ Arthur frowned. ‘You were terrified when we saw you afterwards. Now you think – what? That you were hallucinating?’

‘I don’t know,’ Penny admitted. ‘I can’t explain it.’

‘You weren’t making it up, were you? As a joke?’ Arthur asked.

Penny’s eyes widened. ‘Of course not!’ she cried, hurt. ‘I would never –’

‘It just all seems a bit strange. I don’t see how you can be so sure one minute and then not at all the next.’

‘Well, I’m sorry you don’t believe me,’ Penny snapped.

‘Penny!’ Arthur sighed. ‘You don’t believe it yourself. You just said you weren’t sure.’

‘Well, I was at the time. It feels different now. Maybe it was just my imagination. I
was
feeling a bit stressed and –’

‘Stressed?’ Arthur asked quietly. ‘About what?’

‘Oh, nothing!’ Penny said quickly. ‘Girl stuff.’

Arthur wrinkled his nose – he certainly didn’t want to have a conversation about
that
.

Luckily Long-Pitt swept in a moment later and put a stop to any chatter with a bony finger to her lips.

‘Right,’ she said in her clipped voice. ‘I trust you all have your Blake essays to hand in.’

Arthur’s heart sank. He knew exactly where his essay was: on his desk in his bedroom. Long-Pitt caught his expression.

‘Mr Bannister,’ she said, a smile flickering on her lips, ‘why don’t you read your essay out to the class?’

Arthur took a deep breath. ‘Sorry, Professor,’ he said. ‘I think I left it back at house.’

Long-Pitt snorted, her thin nostrils flaring. ‘A likely story,’ she said. ‘See me after class.’

The students filed out of the classroom when the bell went for break. Arthur remained in his seat as Penny gave him a sympathetic glance and left. Dan Forge hung back, pretending to read a notice on the back of the door, itching to see Arthur get a ticking-off.

‘Can I help you, Mr Forge?’ Long-Pitt asked.

‘No, Professor,’ Dan admitted and trudged off.

Long-Pitt glared expectantly at Arthur.

‘I’ve done the essay, Professor, I swear,’ Arthur said. ‘I can go and get it for you right now.’

‘I don’t think you understand,’ the professor said coldly. ‘You’re sailing dangerously close to the wind. We expect our scholarship pupils to excel, not to fall at the first hurdle by neglecting to even do the work.’

‘But I have done it!’ Arthur protested.

Long-Pitt held up her bony hand for silence. ‘You will come to my office during your recreational time this afternoon for detention.’

‘But I have football practice,’ Arthur said.

‘See you this afternoon,’ Long-Pitt repeated, sitting down and opening a book.

Arthur could see that this was the end of the discussion, and to argue would only make it worse, so he reluctantly turned on his heel and walked to the common room.

Penny had a cup of tea and a supportive smile waiting for him.

‘Detention,’ Arthur said furiously, snatching the tea and burning his mouth on it as he took a petulant swig.

‘Bad luck, mate,’ Jake said.

George spotted Xanthe elbowing towards their sofa and rolled his eyes.

‘Hello, Arthur,’ Xanthe breathed, hugging a clipboard. She had coiled her hair up on to her head in dozens of tiny plaits, which made her look, unintentionally, like an off-duty Medusa.

‘Hi, Xanthe,’ Arthur answered weakly.

‘I just wanted to know if you want to sign up for the London bus for half-term.’ Her pen hovered over the clipboard as she stared intently at Arthur, her glasses gleaming.

‘How long does it take?’ Arthur asked.

‘Four and a half hours, and there are stops on the way.’ Xanthe sensed Arthur hesitate at this and she ploughed on briskly. ‘But it’s by far the best mode of transport.’

‘OK.’ Arthur nodded. ‘Fine, count me in.’

Xanthe could barely write Arthur’s name fast enough and she nearly dropped the pen in her haste.

‘Excellent,’ she said. ‘I’ll put you next to me then, shall I?’ She gazed at Arthur longingly.

‘Go on then,’ Arthur sighed, ignoring the kissy face that George was making.

Xanthe scuttled off, tripping over her sensible shoes.

‘Poor Xanthe,’ Penny said. ‘She’s completely besotted.’

George snorted. ‘Can’t think why.’

That afternoon, Arthur sat in Long-Pitt’s classroom, copying out Blake’s poetry from a musty book, feeling furious that he was missing football practice. Long-Pitt, having grown tired of lecturing him at last, had left him alone with the door open. Arthur watched as her decrepit clock ticked by with agonising slowness, its loose springs making an occasional, bored twang.

He heard a noise and looked up to find Amber in the doorway, looking extremely pretty in her hockey skirt.

Arthur put his pen to one side and grinned.

‘I just thought I’d say hi,’ Amber whispered.

‘Hi,’ Arthur replied.

‘Detention. Bad luck.’ She walked over and sat on the edge of Arthur’s desk. ‘What did you do?’ she joked. ‘Murder someone?’

Arthur blushed. ‘Nope, just forgot my homework,’ he mumbled.

They looked at one another for a moment, and Arthur racked his brains for something witty and charming to say. Nothing occurred to him.

The clock made another twang and Amber glanced over at it.

‘Well,’ she said, ‘I just thought I’d look in on you. I’d better get to hockey practice.’

‘Which pitch are you on?’ Arthur asked. ‘My detention ends soon – I could walk you there.’

Amber looked uncomfortable. ‘Arthur,’ she said, ‘I’m not sure it’s such a good idea that we’re seen together.’

Arthur could barely hide his disappointment. ‘Oh, right. Yeah. Of course.’ He stumbled over every word. ‘Because . . . of Dan?’

Amber smiled suddenly. She seemed relieved. ‘Exactly – Dan. It’s complicated. It would just be better if nobody knew about us.’

‘Us?’ Arthur asked.

‘You know . . .’ Amber rolled her eyes, ‘. . . that we’re friends.’

‘Friends,’ Arthur said in the jolliest voice he could muster.

Amber winked at him. ‘I knew you’d understand!’ She got up and peered out of the room. ‘The coast is clear,’ she whispered. ‘See you later.’

It was impossible for Arthur to concentrate on the last ten minutes of his detention after Amber’s visit. He thought he couldn’t have disliked Dan Forge any more than he already did, but now he had found a whole new reason to push him off a cliff.

Eventually, Long-Pitt swept back in and snatched up his work, transferring it in one swift movement from his desk to her bin without so much as a glance.

‘Thank you,’ she said, as Arthur tried to swallow down his outrage. ‘You may go.’

The week rushed by, and soon Arthur was sitting grumpily next to an extremely animated Xanthe on the London bus as they headed home for half-term. Xanthe talked about her award-winning history essay from the moment they exited Shiverton’s gates to the time they pulled into Victoria bus station nearly five hours later.

Arthur’s mother and brother were waiting at the station, and he hugged them both awkwardly, embarrassed that anyone should see.

Xanthe drifted close by, dearly hoping to be introduced.

‘Mum, this is Xanthe,’ he sighed.

‘Hello, Xanthe, dear. Are you Arthur’s girlfriend?’ May asked.

Xanthe went an electric, flamingo pink and snorted unbecomingly.

‘We’ll take that as a “no” then,’ Rob muttered.

‘OK, Xanthe,’ Arthur said as firmly as he could. ‘I’ll see you next week.’

‘See you then!’ Xanthe trotted off to her mother, who looked exactly like Xanthe, right down to the crazy hairstyle, which today was a high, pineapple ponytail.

Back at home that night, Mrs Bannister cooked Arthur’s favourite dinner, spaghetti Bolognese, and begged him to tell them every single thing about Shiverton, even though Rob huffed loudly at this and looped an imaginary noose around his neck.