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Authors: Joanne Harris
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stairs get steeper every year.
Devine sneered. “If you didn’t smoke so much, you’d be able to handle a few stairs.” Then he was off, brisk as ever.
My encounter with Sourgrape didn’t do anything to improve my temper. I started on the class at once, ignoring the poor rabbit at the Master’s desk, and was enraged to find some of my own pupils among their number. The floor was littered with paper airplanes. A desk had been toppled. Knight was standing by the window, apparently enacting some farce, because the rest of the class were in paroxysms of laughter.
As I entered silence fell almost instantly—I caught a hiss— Quaz! —and Knight attempted—too late—to pull off the gown he had been wearing.
Knight faced me and straightened up at once, looking frightened. As well he might. Caught wearing my gown, in my room, impersonating me —for there was no doubt as to whom that simian expression and hobbling walk was supposed to represent—he must have been praying for the Underworld to swallow him up.
I have to say I was surprised at Knight—a sly, underconfident boy, he was usually happy to let others take the lead while he enjoyed the show. The fact that even he had dared to misbehave said little for Meek’s discipline.
“You. Out.” A percussive whisper in these cases is far more effective than a raised voice.
Knight hesitated briefly. “Sir, it wasn’t—”
“Out!”
Knight fled. I turned on the rest of the group. For a moment I let the silence reverberate between us. No one caught my eye. “As for the rest of you, if I ever have to come in like this again, if I hear as much as a raised voice coming from this room, I will put you all in after-school detention, culprits, associates, and tacit supporters alike. Is that clear?”
Heads nodded. Among the faces I saw Allen-Jones and McNair, Sutcliff, Jackson, and Anderton-Pullitt. Half my form. I shook my head in disgust. “I had thought better of you, 3S. I thought you were gentlemen.”
“Sorry, sir,” muttered Allen-Jones, looking fixedly at his desktop.
“I think it is Mr. Meek who should be receiving the apology,” I said.
“Sorry, sir.”
“Sir.”
“Sir.”
Meek was standing very straight on the podium. My overlarge desk made him seem even smaller and less significant. His doleful face looked to be all eyes and beard, not so much rabbit as capuchin monkey.
“I—hm—thank you, Mr. Straitley. I—think I c-can—hm—m-manage from here now. Boys—ah, hm—”
As I left the room I turned to close the glass-paneled door behind me. For a second I caught Meek watching me from his perch. He turned away almost instantly, but not soon enough for me to have missed the look on his face.
No doubt about it—I made an enemy today. A quiet one, but an enemy nevertheless. Later he will come up to me in the Common Room and thank me for my intervention, but no amount of pretense from either of us can hide the fact that he has been humiliated in front of a class, and that I was the one to see it happen.
Still, that look startled me. It was as if a secret face had opened up behind the comic little beard and bush baby eyes; a face of weak but implacable hatred.
6
I feel like a child in a sweetshop on pocket-money day. Where shall I start? Will it be Pearman, or Bishop, or Straitley, or Strange? Or should I begin lower down, with fat Fallow, who took my father’s place with such boneless arrogance? That stupid half-wit Jimmy? One of the newbies? The Head himself?
I have to admit that I like the idea. But that would be too easy; besides, I want to strike at the heart of St. Oswald’s, not the Head. I want to bring it all down; simply knocking off a few gargoyles won’t do. Places like St. Oswald’s have a habit of coming back to life; wars pass; scandals fade; even murders are eventually forgotten.
Awaiting inspiration I think I’ll bide my time. I find that I feel the same pleasure in being here that I experienced as a child: that
Devine sneered. “If you didn’t smoke so much, you’d be able to handle a few stairs.” Then he was off, brisk as ever.
My encounter with Sourgrape didn’t do anything to improve my temper. I started on the class at once, ignoring the poor rabbit at the Master’s desk, and was enraged to find some of my own pupils among their number. The floor was littered with paper airplanes. A desk had been toppled. Knight was standing by the window, apparently enacting some farce, because the rest of the class were in paroxysms of laughter.
As I entered silence fell almost instantly—I caught a hiss— Quaz! —and Knight attempted—too late—to pull off the gown he had been wearing.
Knight faced me and straightened up at once, looking frightened. As well he might. Caught wearing my gown, in my room, impersonating me —for there was no doubt as to whom that simian expression and hobbling walk was supposed to represent—he must have been praying for the Underworld to swallow him up.
I have to say I was surprised at Knight—a sly, underconfident boy, he was usually happy to let others take the lead while he enjoyed the show. The fact that even he had dared to misbehave said little for Meek’s discipline.
“You. Out.” A percussive whisper in these cases is far more effective than a raised voice.
Knight hesitated briefly. “Sir, it wasn’t—”
“Out!”
Knight fled. I turned on the rest of the group. For a moment I let the silence reverberate between us. No one caught my eye. “As for the rest of you, if I ever have to come in like this again, if I hear as much as a raised voice coming from this room, I will put you all in after-school detention, culprits, associates, and tacit supporters alike. Is that clear?”
Heads nodded. Among the faces I saw Allen-Jones and McNair, Sutcliff, Jackson, and Anderton-Pullitt. Half my form. I shook my head in disgust. “I had thought better of you, 3S. I thought you were gentlemen.”
“Sorry, sir,” muttered Allen-Jones, looking fixedly at his desktop.
“I think it is Mr. Meek who should be receiving the apology,” I said.
“Sorry, sir.”
“Sir.”
“Sir.”
Meek was standing very straight on the podium. My overlarge desk made him seem even smaller and less significant. His doleful face looked to be all eyes and beard, not so much rabbit as capuchin monkey.
“I—hm—thank you, Mr. Straitley. I—think I c-can—hm—m-manage from here now. Boys—ah, hm—”
As I left the room I turned to close the glass-paneled door behind me. For a second I caught Meek watching me from his perch. He turned away almost instantly, but not soon enough for me to have missed the look on his face.
No doubt about it—I made an enemy today. A quiet one, but an enemy nevertheless. Later he will come up to me in the Common Room and thank me for my intervention, but no amount of pretense from either of us can hide the fact that he has been humiliated in front of a class, and that I was the one to see it happen.
Still, that look startled me. It was as if a secret face had opened up behind the comic little beard and bush baby eyes; a face of weak but implacable hatred.
6
I feel like a child in a sweetshop on pocket-money day. Where shall I start? Will it be Pearman, or Bishop, or Straitley, or Strange? Or should I begin lower down, with fat Fallow, who took my father’s place with such boneless arrogance? That stupid half-wit Jimmy? One of the newbies? The Head himself?
I have to admit that I like the idea. But that would be too easy; besides, I want to strike at the heart of St. Oswald’s, not the Head. I want to bring it all down; simply knocking off a few gargoyles won’t do. Places like St. Oswald’s have a habit of coming back to life; wars pass; scandals fade; even murders are eventually forgotten.
Awaiting inspiration I think I’ll bide my time. I find that I feel the same pleasure in being here that I experienced as a child: that
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