Graveyard Shift Page 5

  “That’s really good. Wow!”

  Then she looked at her own unfinished effort and planted her forearms across it to cover it.

  At the end of the class, we were invited to circulate the room to see what everyone else had done. Constructive criticism was encouraged. Smart remarks and insults were not. The wide variety of styles included stick figures, abstracts that looked nothing like human beings, and one portrait in two separate pieces which Kelly had torn apart in frustration. Oddly, Mr. Redfern had chosen to seat the twins together. Their work wasn’t bad, but it was hard to tell whose portrait was whose.

  Most of the class crowded around the desk I’d shared with Becky, pushing and prodding one another and straining their necks for a view. There were gasps and approving looks I hadn’t seen before, even an admiring nod from Devan, one of the gang of six.

  “Looks just like her,” he said to Ryan, loudly enough to make sure I heard.

  At the back of the commotion, out of earshot of everyone else, Mr. Redfern waved me toward him and took me aside.

  “Exceptional, Ben. Looks like we’ve found ourselves a talent.”

  “Thanks, sir.”

  The last bell sounded, and while the rest of 8C were packing up and leaving, I noticed Becky still at the desk, going through the other work in my book. She paused at each page, taking it in, then moved on to the next without comment.

  “You coming, Becky?” Matthew called from the door.

  “Yeah, just a sec.”

  With a fleeting glance at me, she followed him out, leaving me alone in the room. As she went, I heard Raymond Blight’s voice booming in the corridor.

  “What a creep. Thinks he’s something special.”

  Then a heartbeat later another voice — Matthew’s.

  “Give it a rest, Blight. You’re so boring.”

  I knew then that if I ran into the others on the way home, it wouldn’t be too bad. I’d shown them something I could do well, something that might make me less of a freak and a joke around class.

  So I decided I wouldn’t kill time in the library that night. No need to hide. At the same time, I wasn’t in a hurry to catch up with anyone, either. They’d liked my work, but that didn’t mean anything else had changed.

  Hanging back in the classroom, I listened to the voices and footfalls fading away downstairs and outdoors. From the window I watched them pouring out of school: a sea of gray-and-maroon uniforms spreading along Mercy Road like a soccer crowd after a match.

  Some headed for the bus stop. Others piled into parents’ cars, which clogged the street from end to end. One by one the jammed-up vehicles drove away at walking pace, and a silence fell over the school.

  Leaving the art room behind, I set off into the gloom. Stale smells of varnish and cafeteria food followed me along the corridor and into the stairwell. Halfway down, I heard sounds from a downstairs classroom — a faint scratching and squeaking like a rat clawing its way through a baseboard.

  It sounded louder from the heart of the building where the two corridors met. As far as I could tell, it seemed to be coming from one of the rooms at the north end.

  Miss Whittaker’s room.

  I started toward it, pausing along the way to listen. Perhaps the children were there again, waiting for me. Perhaps they — or the burned man — would be able to explain what was happening and what I was supposed to do.

  As I peeked inside through the glass panel, another door slammed elsewhere in the building. I froze on the spot. Some of the staff were bound to still be in the building, and if they found me they’d question what I was up to down here by myself.

  I waited a moment, but no one appeared. A telephone rang and rang, but no one answered. Inside the room the clawing noise stopped abruptly. I grabbed the door handle and pushed.

  Goose bumps crawled over me the second I stepped inside. A window was open and a cold breeze whistled across the desktops. On the teacher’s desk was a pile of newspapers, their pages fluttering open and shut in the breeze.

  “Anyone here?” I whispered.

  The sun moved behind a cloud and the classroom suddenly dimmed, its corners filling with shadows. I looked at the long desk-table where the three figures had sat. Moving closer, I could see the mark on the floor was only an ink or paint stain. It had probably been there for years. Taking hold of the nearest chair, I swept a hand across the seat to be sure no one was sitting there invisibly, then flopped down into it myself.

  Staring around the room, into the dark corners, I wondered where the children were now. Not here, not at the place on Henryd Street. Why had they shown themselves in the first place if they weren’t coming back?

  “Are you coming back?” I asked the empty room.

  And then I saw it. I saw what was written on the board, and my blood turned to ice. Suddenly I knew what the sound had been, the scratch and squeak that had brought me here.

  Across the board, in bright blue letters large enough to fill it from top to bottom and end to end, the message read:

  Welcome to Pandemonium, Ben.

  I didn’t waste another second in there.

  First I read the message through in one fell swoop. Then again slowly to be sure I wasn’t seeing things. After that, I grabbed my things and ran.

  I legged it along the corridor to the heart of the building, then right to the main doors. I stumbled outside, heart pounding, not slowing down until I reached the gates.

  The open window. Anyone could’ve come and gone from the classroom that way and written the message as a practical joke. Raymond Blight seemed the most likely. But how would he or anyone else know I’d hear anything and go to investigate? How would they know I’d be the last in school?

  They wouldn’t. They couldn’t. It had to be someone or something else — someone or something that knew my name.

  Welcome to Pandemonium, Ben.

  I didn’t even know what pandemonium meant, but it couldn’t be good.

  The school looked darker and more imposing than ever as I left it behind, hurrying out onto Mercy Road. Just as I came through the gate, a bus roared past. Its noise and heat rocked me back on my feet. For one mad second I almost thought some great fire-breathing beast had followed me outdoors.

  Two-thirds the way up Mercy Road, the gang of six were waiting at the bus stop. The bus pulled over, doors wheezing, and five of them clambered aboard, leaving Becky alone at the stop.

  She waved good-bye, watching until the bus turned left past a phone booth two intersections away. As she checked the street, ready to cross, she saw me heading toward her and seemed to stiffen and straighten up. The last of the parents’ cars had gone and the street was clear, but she stood nervously tapping her foot against the curb as if waiting for me to catch up.

  “Hello,” she said as I came nearer. “I’m Becky.”

  “I know. I’m Ben.”

  “I know.”

  “Well, hello.”

  “Everything all right?” she said. “You look a bit rough.”

  “Just running,” I said.

  “For the bus?”

  “Nah. Forgot something and had to go back for it.”

  She nodded, watching the empty street.

  A small, dark bird, probably a raven, fluttered from the school roof to the chapel spire and settled there, caw-cawing across the rooftops.

  “Which way are you going?” Becky asked matter-of-factly.

  “I’m near London Fields, just off Lansdowne Drive.”

  “Me too. How come I’ve never seen you around?”

  “We only moved there last month, Mum and me. We’re still settling in.”

  Without agreeing to, we set off in the same direction at the same time, past the chapel, toward De Beauvoir Square. Above us, gray clouds blotted out the sun. It felt like rain. The raven left its perch on the spire to hover above a chimney off to our right.

  “So, it’s just you and your mum,” Becky said.

  “That’s right.”

  “
Your parents split up or what?”

  “I guess so,” I said. She gave me a look. “I mean, at least I think they did.”

  “How can you not be sure if your parents split up or not?”

  “Dunno.”

  “Are they divorced?”

  “Separated. Separating.” I was digging myself into a hole, so I added quickly, “Mum never likes to talk about it. It’s complicated.”

  “Sounds like it. Never mind. Do you want anything from the shop?”

  At a grocer’s on the corner of Northchurch Road we bought Hula-hoops and Monster Munch, which we ate on the way, not speaking for a time. I was glad of the silence while it lasted. Talking about my folks made me uneasy.

  Becky must’ve realized that, because when she spoke again she changed the subject.

  “So how do you like your new school, Ben?”

  “It’s dark,” I said.

  “Dark. That’s an odd way to describe it.”

  “Well, I don’t just mean dark. It’s old and creepy. Do you think it might be haunted?”

  Becky laughed. “You don’t believe in ghosts, do you?”

  “Ghosts in the school?”

  “Ghosts anywhere.”

  “Course not,” I said, kicking a stone across the street. “I was just thinking about it, that’s all.”

  The stone ricocheted off an aluminum can in the gutter with a tinny gunshot noise that startled the raven from its rooftop vantage point.

  “Anyway,” I said, “I didn’t have a good first week.”

  “It’ll get better when you get to know everyone.”

  “Hope so. But I think Raymond Blight hates me.”

  “He hates everyone, or pretends to. Forget about him. He’s just a negative person.”

  “And what about you?”

  She slowed, watching me with her head cocked slightly to one side. “What about me?”

  “You and your friends didn’t exactly make me feel welcome.”

  “Oh, they’re all right. They just think you’re weird.”

  “Ah.”

  “They wanted me to talk to you, though. We’re not what you think. We’re just a tight-knit group. We’ve known one another since we were babies.”

  “So they sent you to investigate.”

  “Something like that. They’re curious about you. They’d be curious about any newcomer.”

  “And what will you tell them?”

  Becky’s face lit up as it only ever seemed to when she was with the gang. A mischievous glint had entered her eye. “I’ll tell them you’re even weirder than they thought.”

  “Thanks a lot.”

  On Kingsland Road we had to wait ages for the traffic to clear before we crossed to the top of Middleton. As we reached the other side, Becky said, “Actually, the truth is they think you’re interesting. And that portrait you did is incredible. My friends were buzzing about it after class. How do you do it?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean I wish I could do what you do, picture something in my head and put it down on the page as I see it. Sometimes I get really clear ideas about what I want, but it never turns out right. It must be a gift.”

  “Maybe it is. That’s what Mum says.”

  “So who are the kids?”

  I looked around, thinking she meant someone she’d spotted on the street. “Which kids?”

  “The ones in your book. The young children.”

  I checked myself before answering. “They came into my head once and, you know, I just drew what I imagined.”

  “They look so sweet and sad,” she said. “Like they’ve got a story to tell. That picture makes me want to know more about them — who they are and what made them so sad.”

  I nodded.

  “Ben?” she said, watching me closely. “That day in Miss Whatever’s class . . . you saw something in the room, didn’t you? Something the rest of us didn’t.”

  “Maybe.” I couldn’t think fast enough. “No, probably not. It was a migraine. I had a migraine. That’s all it was.”

  “But you were talking to someone. I could’ve sworn you were.”

  “Dunno. Don’t remember.”

  “It’s OK.” She watched the traffic, lost in thought, then turned back to me. “I only thought, if you had seen something — which of course you didn’t — it might’ve had something to do with those kids.”

  I looked away, shaking my head. “What makes you think that?”

  She waited for the war whoop of an ambulance to pass by, fading on its way to Dalston. Then she said, “Because of the news story you read. Because of the picture you drew. And because I passed that same room the next day and thought I heard children crying inside.”

  “Oh?”

  “I could’ve sworn I did. I still heard it when I went inside, but I didn’t see anyone there. So maybe it was nothing, just someone with a baby on the street.”

  “Yeah, probably outside,” I said.

  “Anyway, your picture reminded me of that,” she said, “and I wondered if you were thinking of the kids in the fire when you drew it. But you know something, Ben?”

  “What?”

  “I believe in ghosts, even if you don’t. I’ve seen more than one.”

  I thought she was putting me on, but she looked deadly serious.

  “Tell me about it,” I said.

  She shook her head. “I’ll tell you when I see you again, but only if you’ll tell me what you saw in that classroom.” She lingered a few paces behind me at the start of Middleton Road, so I guessed she wasn’t going my way from here. “Do we have a deal?” she asked.

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “You do that.” She half turned away. “OK, then. See you Monday.”

  “Monday. Yeah.”

  She was heading for Richmond Road when the thought struck me, and I called her back.

  “Becky? You can have it if you want. Your portrait.”

  “No!” Her mouth formed a wide O of surprise. “Are you serious?”

  “If you like it that much, it’s yours.”

  Taking out the sketch pad, I carefully teased the page loose and peeled it out.

  “Only if you’re sure,” she said. “But could you roll it up? I don’t want to get it creased.” She put out a hand to stop me before I could start. “Funny, didn’t notice that before. The lights in the eyes are shaped like four-leaf clovers.”

  “Are they?” I looked again. “You’re right.”

  I’d put a lot of work into getting the eyes right, but hadn’t noticed that, either. I rolled up the page and handed it over.

  “Hope, faith, love, and luck,” she said, balancing it between her hands.

  “What?”

  “It’s what the four leaves represent.” She flashed a smile before setting off again. “Dead grateful, Ben. Wait till my folks see this.”

  Watching her go, I thought over what I’d learned during our walk from Mercy Road. She liked my work, no question, and I didn’t mind giving it away. But her wanting to get to know me probably had more to do with my outburst in class than my skill with a pencil.

  The rain I’d sensed in the air was beginning to fall, misty and fine. It began as a drizzle, but the sky looked set to burst wide open. I took off down Middleton Road.

  A breeze was picking up, driving the rain. Trees and hedge-rows nodded at me over garden walls. A plastic supermarket bag whistled past my ear. Torn scraps of newspaper, potato chip bags, and candy wrappers fluttered at my feet across Queensbridge Road.

  A raven kept pace with me as I went, gliding above the rooftops along the nearest row of houses. Every so often it slowed and hovered, as if waiting for me to catch up. I lost sight of it when it dipped down into a yard farther up the street.

  It couldn’t be the same bird I’d seen above the chapel on Mercy Road — that would be highly unlikely — and yet something told me it was. Slowing to check the yards to see where it had landed, I nearly collided with a figure stepping
out from between two parked cars right in front of me.

  “Hey you, watch out!”

  His sturdy hands caught me by both shoulders before I could smash straight into him. He let me go and took a step back, looking me up and down. His face was inscrutable, his eyes concealed by a pair of mirrored sunglasses. He towered above me, tall and well dressed in a dark suit. In the lenses of his shades I saw myself reflected twice over, looking shaken and small.

  “Sorry, mister,” I said. “Wasn’t looking. Didn’t see you there.”

  “Nothing damaged. No harm done.”

  He flipped the sunglasses up to his forehead, studying me with deep brown eyes. As he did, a peal of thunder sounded far away across the city. Something cool and moist brushed the back of my neck, the tip of a branch poking over the wall beside us.

  As soon as I saw his face, I realized I knew him from somewhere. But I couldn’t place where. The dark eyes glinted with good humor and the thin lips smiled. He seemed amused by a private joke.

  “Well, I’d better go,” I said. “Looks like we’re about to get soaked.”

  “Is that what you think?”

  “Yeah, just look at it.”

  “Don’t think so,” he said. “Brighter spells later, the forecast says.”

  As he spoke, a mass of dark cloud peeled back from the sun and warm sunlight drenched the pavement where we stood. The rain was now only a faint prickle on my skin.

  “Told you,” he said. “Sometimes the forecasters get it right, sometimes they don’t. And sometimes big changes come right out of the blue.”

  A tree’s skeletal shadow played over his face, making his features appear to quiver and twist. When his thin smile broadened into a Cheshire-cat grin, I suddenly knew where I’d seen him before.

  Doctor or lawyer or banker or whatever he might be, there was no mistaking him. This was one of the faces he’d shown me on Lamb Lane.

  “Mr. October?”

  “Got it in one,” he said through a laugh that sounded like wind groaning through eaves in the night. “Sorry if I startled you, son. I’m just back from an important meeting and I haven’t had time to . . . change. It’s been a heck of a day.”

  “I thought I’d seen the last of you,” I said.

  “Ah. Sounds like you’ve had a rough week too. Well, the good news I’m bringing will give you a boost. Apologies for taking so long, but I’ve been meeting myself coming and going all week. One of my assistants had to be suspended after misfiling a vital document. Big disappointment. It’s hard to find good help these days, and now my workload has doubled. But that won’t be for long — assuming you’re interested in the job I’m offering you.”