Chapter Seventeen
The ponds were
beautiful despite the rain. Whatever light was pushing through the
dark clouds seemed to be catching the fine droplets as they fell,
forming a shimmering, misty curtain across the water. April
shivered. Pretty as it was, she wished she’d thought to grab an
umbrella before she’d run out of the house. She turned up the
collar of her thin coat she had snatched as she ran out and huddled
closer to the trunk of the willow tree she was sheltering under.
‘Thanks, tree,’ she said, patting the bark. At least something was
looking out for her, keeping the drips from running down her neck.
Shame it’s just a tree, she thought.
After her spectacular fight with her father, she’d run down West
Hill, not really caring where she ended up. Following her feet, she
had splashed through puddles on her way to the Heath and found
herself standing by Highgate Bathing Ponds. Aside from a few very
dedicated dog-walkers in the distance, the weather had kept
everyone else indoors and April had the whole park to herself. She
slid down the tree trunk and hugged her knees, suddenly letting out
a loud sob. Oh God, she thought, how has my
life become such a mess? Only a few weeks ago, she had a
secure, safe, cosy life with friends who loved her, a house with a
garden and, if she was really lucky, a good chance of getting
together with Neil Stevenson. She had everything she wanted, pretty
much. But now? She sobbed again, her shoulders heaving, the warm
tears mingling with the drips coming through the leaves. Now she
had nothing. Her mother was barely there, her father was a selfish
fruitcake and the only friends she could rely on were hundreds of
miles away, getting on with their lives. What did she have left?
She stared at the green water of the pond, stippled with raindrops,
and wondered vaguely if it would be cold. Very, very cold indeed, she decided, shuddering.
But it would serve them all right if she was found floating in the
weeds like Ophelia in that Pre-Raphaelite painting by
What’s-his-name. Or would they even notice she had gone? Letting
out a long breath, April began to walk slowly around the pond and
up onto Parliament Hill. I bet it’s lovely
here in the summer, she thought, but the notion of
sunbathing and frisbees only made her feel more sad, more alone.
She pulled her phone from her pocket. No messages. There hadn’t
been any messages five minutes ago, either. She wished she could
make some great passionate gesture, like throwing the phone into
the lake, but that would mean giving up all hope. And anyway, she
loved her phone. She sighed: she was as pathetic as her father. He
was clinging to the crazy notion that he might find supernatural
beings in Highgate, while she was clinging to the hope that Gabriel
Swift might become her boyfriend. No, if she was honest, she was
hoping that Gabriel Swift would decide he wanted to marry her,
sweep her off to the Bahamas for a beautiful beach ceremony, and
then, after a bout of amazing lovemaking, reveal that he was
stupendously rich and personal friends with Justin Timberlake. She
snorted at the ridiculousness of it and had to scrabble in her
pocket for a damp tissue. Now she thought about it, she honestly
didn’t know which of the scenarios was the most far-fetched.
Vampires? Justin Timberlake? Who knows?
Maybe Dad’s right, she thought. Caro seems to
believe it, so does Mr Gill in the bookshop. And then there
were those horrible eyes on Swain’s Lane and the photos from the
party. It wasn’t exactly overwhelming evidence, but then anything
was possible, wasn’t it? Three weeks ago she would never have
believed she would be out walking in the rain, playing truant from
school, but here she was. The church on West Hill began to sound
the hour and April stopped to count. One, two, three … ten o’clock.
Her Philosophy lesson would be halfway through and she doubted
anyone had noticed her absence. Gabriel,
perhaps? Perhaps.
April instantly felt
bad for thinking that. Why was she so down on Gabriel all of a
sudden? Okay, so he hadn’t called like he’d promised, but he had
turned up eventually - for that perfect midnight moment - and while
he was still maddeningly vague about what was going on, he had
respected her enough to tell her there were things he couldn’t
explain. At least Gabriel wasn’t pretending to be something he
wasn’t. It wasn’t his fault her father had dragged her down to this
horrid soggy place to play Indiana-bloody-Jones. She gave a short
ironic laugh as she walked on, her shoes squelching on the grass,
suddenly aware that she was cold, she was wet and there was snot
dripping from the end of her nose.
‘Right, bugger this,’
she said, and turned back towards the school.
By the time she had
dried her hair under the hand-driers in the Ladies toilet and
sponged most of the mud from her shoes with wadded-up paper towels,
Philosophy was over and it was far too late to go to her English
lesson, so April walked down to the library instead. At least there
she would get a little peace to gather her thoughts and do some
reading; cutting class didn’t come naturally to April and she felt
she ought to make up for missing lessons. Plus she didn’t want to
look like a complete idiot, again, in Miss Holden’s class that
afternoon.
April was surprised
to find the library completely deserted. ‘Duh, everyone’s in
lessons, aren’t they?’ she whispered to herself, actually pleased
that she wouldn’t have to speak to anyone. She dumped her wet coat
on a chair and wandered over to the History section.
Right, the Renaissance, she thought to herself as
she read the titles. Dates versus culture and
all that.
She picked out a few
books and leafed through them, but they were either dry or
difficult to read or both. Why can’t they do a
‘Modern History For Dummies’? she wondered, before spotting
a stack of magazines piled up at the end of a shelf.
‘Ah, now magazines I
can understand,’ she said, picking one up. It was a dusty academic
journal called Modern History. She
flicked through the pages without interest. Stuff about the Iron
Age, stuff about Roman baths, stuff about the Russian revolution.
But then she stopped, as a few words - or rather, a name - caught
her eye. In the introduction to a feature on bodies preserved in
peat bogs, the author’s name jumped out at her: Professor Annabel
Holden. It was Miss Holden, her teacher - she had written the
article! April quickly scanned the text, but was disappointed to
find it was a dreary piece about the preservative qualities of mud.
Not much use for her next lesson.
Hmm, I wonder… thought April, taking the whole
stack of magazines back to a table. Flipping through them, she
swiftly discovered that her hunch had been right; Miss Holden was
in there quite a lot. She had either written a lot of rather boring
features for the magazine or had been interviewed for one. Nothing,
however, was of much interest, until April began to read a piece in
the second to last magazine on the pile.
Wow, this is fantastic. It was an essay entitled
‘The Past Will Eat Itself’. The introduction read:
New academic research is turning the way we think about history upside down, changing the focus from rigid timelines and dates to contemporary sources. It’s an exciting new approach that may even force us to reconsider some of our most dearly held assumptions about the past.
It went on to debate
the pros and cons of approaching history as a living organism
rather than a series of events or decisions made by kings and
politicians. It was exactly what Miss Holden had been talking about
in their last lesson! Even better, April’s teacher was actually
quoted in the piece:
As Professor Annabel Holden, of Harvard University, says: ‘People in the eighteenth century didn’t think of themselves as a historical fact, they thought of themselves as cutting-edge technologically advanced intellectuals. They had sailed the seven seas, discovered new lands and mapped the heavens, they had worked out how to power the railways, they were God’s chosen people. So if we view them as museum pieces or historical curiosities in funny hats, we miss so much. We need to reverse the whole polarity of history and think of them as the living, breathing people they were. In many ways the kings, queens and politicians of history were the pop stars of their day.’
April heard someone
approaching from behind her and she turned, expecting to see Mrs
Townley the librarian. Her shoulders tensed as she saw that it was
Layla. She was dressed in a short pleated skirt and a tight
roll-neck top, a fixed smile on her face, and she slid into the
seat opposite April.
April glanced around
nervously. The library was still empty and the clock said a quarter
to twelve.
Layla followed her
eyes. ‘Free period,’ she said with a smirk. ‘Anyway, I’m glad I’ve
caught you when there’s no one else around. I’ve wanted to have a
quiet word with you since the party.’
‘What about?’ asked
April uneasily.
‘Oh, just wanted to
ask how you’re fitting in, see if there’s anything I can do to
help?’
April was beginning
to feel uncomfortable. Layla had never been particularly friendly
to her; in fact, almost everything she’d ever said had been loaded
with a cruel subtext or bitchiness.
‘I’m fine. Everyone’s
been really nice, really welcoming,’ she said. April wasn’t going
to talk about the dead fox, those evil party rumours or Marcus
Brent. Not with Layla, anyway.
‘Yes, I saw that,’
said Layla. There was an edge to her voice that worried April.
‘Lots of people seem to be very interested in you, don’t they? I
wonder why that is?’
April shrugged.
‘Because I’m the new girl here, I suppose.’
‘Mmm,’ said Layla,
her head tilting to one side in a sympathetic way. ‘I should think
you’ve been working quite hard to fit in, haven’t
you?’
‘Well, as I say, most
people have been kind. Davina especially. It was nice to be invited
to the party.’
Layla’s eyes
narrowed. ‘Yes, although I hear you had a terrible time there,’ she
said in a way that suggested quite the opposite. ‘But you shouldn’t
read too much into it, especially if you think about why you were
invited in the first place.’
April frowned. ‘I’m
sorry? What do you mean?’
Layla glanced around
and lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘Stop playing dumb, you stupid
little cow,’ she hissed. ‘Davina didn’t want you at the party
because you’re friends, did she? Even you must have realised
that?’
‘Uh, no. I didn’t
think—’
Layla reached out and
grabbed April’s hand, squeezing hard. ‘Well, think about it, new
girl. And while you’re at it, think about the way you’re making
moon-eyes at all the boys in school. They all seem to be fascinated
by you, don’t they? Even poor Marcus Brent can barely keep his
hands off you.’
‘Don’t you—’ began
April angrily, but Layla cut her off.
‘Why is that?’ she
said nastily. ‘It can’t be because of your looks, can
it?’
‘I … I don’t
understand—Oww!’
Layla dug her
manicured nails into the back of April’s hand. ‘I’ll make this as
clear as possible,’ she spat. ‘Stop throwing yourself at my
boyfriend. He’s taken, do you understand? I won’t tell you
again.’
April’s stomach
turned over and she suddenly felt terribly cold. Is that true? She had been so sure everything
Gabriel had said last night was sincere and from the heart, but
suddenly his words rang hollow and cheap. She felt like melting
into the floor. First her dad, now this. Can’t
anything go right? Her whole life was crumbling around her
ears. With a last haughty look, Layla stood up, her chair scraping
across the wooden floor.
‘Don’t let’s have
this conversation again, hmm? You obviously don’t know how things
work at Ravenwood and we wouldn’t want you to get hurt, now would
we? Oh, and do something about your hair,’ she said with a cruel
smile. ‘You look like a tramp.’
Caro was all for
throwing soup in Layla’s lap. Or poisoning her Diet
Coke.
‘Violence is the only
language that lot understand,’ she said in a low, determined voice,
as she stared across the refectory. The Faces were sitting at their
usual table, preening and picking at their tiny salads. ‘A nice
bowl of hot tomato soup would be a good look on that
skirt.’
‘Now, now,’ said
Simon. ‘We don’t want to sink to her level.’
‘Oh, but I do,’ said
Caro. ‘Look at the talon marks she’s left in April’s
hand.’
‘I’m okay,’ said
April, touching the scrapes Layla had left on her skin. Physically
she was fine, but emotionally she was stung. She didn’t want to
believe Layla was seeing Gabriel, but then she was right - April
was just the new girl and Layla had been at Ravenwood for years.
What did she really know about Gabriel or how they did things here?
Not even Caro and Simon knew much about him outside of the school,
and they could usually be relied on to have the most up-to-date
gossip.
‘So do you think
she’s really Gabriel’s girlfriend?’
‘I’ve made some
discreet enquiries—’ began Simon, before being interrupted by
Caro’s snort.
‘Sorry.’ She giggled.
‘It’s just that the idea of you being discreet about anything makes
me laugh.’
‘Play nice,
children,’ said April. ‘Focus on my problem, okay?’
‘Yes, well,’ huffed
Simon. ‘My enquiries drew a blank about Gabriel specifically, but
Layla definitely has a boyfriend. Apparently they’ve been keeping
it very low-key, which certainly isn’t like her, but …’ He looked
at April sadly and she nodded.
‘But it does sound
like Gabriel,’ she finished for him. ‘He is the sort of boy who
keeps secrets isn’t he?’
‘I’m sorry, honey,’
said Caro, touching April’s hand. ‘But he’s not exactly been giving
the impression that you’re an exclusive thing, has
he?’
‘But he called it a
date,’ said April. ‘It was midnight. There were
doughnuts.’
Simon sighed. ‘That’s
men for you, darling. We’re ruled by our urges, I’m afraid. And
look at her.’
Layla was whispering
something to Davina and then they both laughed.
‘Layla’s the sort of
girl who helps men with those sorts of urges. Usually in the
toilets.’
‘Simon!’ said Caro,
slapping him on the leg and raising her eyebrows towards April.
‘Too much information!’
‘Sorry.’ He shrugged.
‘Maybe you had a point about the discreet thing. Anyway, what are
we going to do?’
April looked at him
blankly. ‘What do you mean, do?’
‘Well, we can’t let
Little Miss Fingernails win, can we?’
April looked at the
scrapes on the back of her hand, then at Layla again. ‘No,’ she
said. ‘No, we can’t.’
Thanks to her time in
the library, April had managed to get through her History lesson
unscathed. As she had expected, Miss Holden had singled her out and
asked her a difficult question about the role of politics in
medieval society. April had used the ‘kings and queens were just
like pop stars’ line, arguing that they were simply reacting to the
mood of the time in order to keep or to gain popularity. That
spiteful girl Chessy from the Faces crowd had stolen her thunder by
smugly saying, ‘But isn’t that just a lazy definition of
politics?’, but April could see that Miss Holden had taken note of
her answer. Not impressed, necessarily - after all, April had
stolen her own theory - but satisfied that April wasn’t a complete
idiot. She had also managed to slip out of class when the bell rang
without getting another lecture, which April counted as a bonus.
She was heading for the school gates where she was due to meet Caro
for a post-Layla powwow when she suddenly stopped and ducked behind
a pillar. Gabriel was waiting by the entrance, stamping his feet
against the cold. Was he waiting for her? Had he heard about the
confrontation in the library with Layla? Did he want to explain?
She held her breath; from this angle she could watch him but he
couldn’t see her. He seemed to be scanning faces as the students
filed out onto the road, looking for someone. Finally he gave up
and, with a scowl, strode off out of sight. April exhaled,
relieved. She didn’t want to see him right now, not so soon, not
before she had a chance to work it all out in her own head. She
stepped out from her hiding place and immediately heard her name
called. She turned to see Mr Sheldon standing by his car at the
main entrance and her heart sank.
‘A word, Miss Dunne,
if you would be so good,’ he said, beckoning her over, his strange
eyes boring into her as he indicated that she should get inside. It
was some sort of swish sports car, like something James Bond might
drive, and April opened the door carefully. She didn’t want to
scratch anything.
‘Now, let’s get
straight to the heart of it, shall we?’ he said once she had gently
closed the door. ‘You didn’t attend my lesson this morning and I’d
like to know why.’
April was actually
shocked by his direct approach. She was used to teachers
pussyfooting around, asking if ‘things were okay at home’ and so
on.
‘I’ve had some
personal problems.’
‘I see. And what sort
of personal problems would these be?’
Again, April found
herself on the back foot. No teacher at St Geoffrey’s would have
dared to probe into her - or anyone else’s - ‘personal problems’
for fear of having to listen to tales about bad periods or abusive
parents.
‘I had an argument
with my dad.’
‘Indeed? And this was
enough to keep you from discussing the works of John Wyndham with
the rest of the class?’
‘Yes.’
Mr Sheldon nodded,
seeming to mull this over for a moment. ‘You are, of course, aware
that Ravenwood is a school for gifted pupils?’ he
asked.
‘Yes,’ said
April.
‘Well, as you’ll
imagine, Ravenwood gets some of the most spectacular results of any
school in the country and, consequently, children are lining up to
attend. Now, some strings were pulled to get you into this
school.’
April made to object,
but Mr Sheldon held up a hand. ‘There is, of course, nothing
inherently wrong with that. Plenty of pupils have paid their way
into the school or have parents with influence. Your family has -
shall we say - more influence than most.’
April looked up in
surprise, but Mr Sheldon was ploughing on.
‘We do, however, have
a reputation to uphold and if a pupil isn’t meeting our exacting
standards, please believe that, however influential their
relatives, we will ask them to leave. Is all of this
clear?’
‘Yes,’ said April
quietly.
‘Splendid, then we
understand one another,’ he said, putting his key into the
ignition.
April opened the door
and climbed out. As she walked around the car, the driver’s side
window buzzed down. ‘One last thing, April,’ said Mr Sheldon,
beckoning her back over. ‘You’ll be aware that it is standard
teacher practice to conclude one of these little talks with
something along the lines of “if you’re having any difficulties or
want to talk about anything, my door is always open”.’
April looked at him
and was discomfited to see that his intense eyes were even more
powerful up close. She was reminded of a science experiment in
middle school where they had explored the attraction and repelling
properties of magnets. For some reason, his eyes reminded her of
the small, powerful magnets they had used that day.
‘Personally, I
couldn’t think of anything worse than having an office full of
teenagers snivelling about how their boyfriend has run off with
someone else,’ said Mr Sheldon. ‘But in your case, April, I do feel
I have a certain responsibility to you.’
April shook her head.
‘Why? Because of what happened with Marcus?’
For a moment, Mr
Sheldon looked at her as if he had no idea what she was talking
about. ‘No, not because of that - although you can rest assured
that that particular issue has been dealt with in the strongest
terms. The strongest possible terms. I won’t allow that sort of
behaviour in my school. However it is perhaps an object lesson in
the dangers of spreading malicious rumours, whatever the
provocation.’
April gaped at him, a
slow blush spreading across her face. How the
hell does he know about that?
‘The thing to do
would be to take it to a teacher, don’t you think? We don’t
encourage vigilantism at Ravenwood.’
‘But I don’t see …’
she began falteringly. ‘If it’s not that, then why do you feel you
have to look after me?’
The teacher looked at
her for a moment, then burst out laughing. ‘Good Lord, they haven’t
told you, have they?’ he said as he twisted the ignition key and
fired up the engine.
‘Haven’t told me
what?’ asked April over the roar.
Mr Sheldon paused, as
if weighing something up, then when he spoke, there was a
half-smile on his face. ‘That I’m an old friend of the family,’ he
said.