Read Online Hello Darkness by Anthony McGowan - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Anthony McGowan
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rage sizzling on his tongue.
I opened the locker. I made my fingers tremble. I heard Bosola smile, like a snake sliding over a rock.
I stood back and the Shank stooped and rummaged. While he rummaged, Funt and Bosola eyeballed me. Bosola drew his finger silently across his throat. I made an appropriate gesture back.
The Shank stood up. He looked puzzled. He checked his sheet again, and grunted. He didn’t even have a go about the mess in my locker.
He backed off a step, and rechecked his sheet. His master key was in his hand. Another locker door swung open.
The Shank made a noise, a sort of a rasp. It might have been a growl. I glanced down obliquely.
I was expecting to see the spot of blood.
What I saw was a photo cut out of some magazine and tacked to the inside of the door. I did a double take, straight out of a cartoon. It wasn’t Zofia’s locker he had opened, but number 525.
The Shank knelt and reached into the locker. He pulled out a worn feather boa, a fluffy mohair cardigan, a pair of tap shoes and a big bottle of perfume with a stopper shaped like pouting lips. He held each item up suspiciously, then handed them back to Funt, Bosola and Spode.
Once again he looked perplexed. Whatever he was after – whatever he thought he was going to get – wasn’t happening.
“What are you smirking at?” he demanded of me.
“You say smirk; I say smile.”
“So what are you smiling about?”
“It’s a whole new day, sir, so what’s not to smile about?”
The Shank’s eye twitched. He moved closer and breathed in my ear.
“Be careful, boy. Be very careful.”
Although he said it as a threat, I couldn’t help but think that there was also something of a warning in it. A genuine warning.
For the last time, he checked his sheet of paper. I thought he was going to stump off. But then, almost as an afterthought, he hesitated, bent, and stuck his key into another lock. It was number 524.
Zofia’s.
I heard – or maybe just felt – her hiss of breath, a sound more of despair than shock. The door swung open and I saw the small red dot with an almost supernatural precision. But the Shank wasn’t looking at the door. He barely even looked in the locker. He quickly moved his hand around the inside, like a cheap magician showing there’s nothing in the hat. Then he looked at me again with withering contempt and was gone.
Bosola tried to repeat his slapping trick, but I swayed and his palm smacked into the metal locker.
I turned to smile at Zofia, expecting to see a look of astonishment (not to mention gratitude) on her face, but she was gone too, almost as if she’d never been there. She hadn’t even thanked me for saving her life.
All that was left was the smell of violets.
Oh, and the two dead guinea pigs in the pockets of my blazer.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
T HE H IT
SO I headed off to my first lesson – PE – with two stiff guinea pigs filling my pockets, and a buzzing crowd of questions in my head. You didn’t have to be Stephen Hawking to figure out that the Shank was expecting to find something in my locker. Whichever doofus planted the bodies messed up and put them in 524 instead of 526. But that didn’t change the fact that someone was out to frame me. But why? Sure, I wasn’t winning any popularity contests, but I couldn’t see why I was important enough to merit this level of intrigue, even if the execution had been slapdash. Was this all down to the Shank himself? Or were there other forces moving behind the scenes?
First things first.
I walked around the corridors for a while to make sure no one was trailing me and then dived into the toilets. In good old cubicle three, I crammed the stiffs into my sandwich box, stood on the seat and hid the plastic coffin under the lid in the high cistern. Then I checked my hair in the mirror and made for the gym.
There are worse things than PE, but most kids don’t get the opportunity to be buried up to the neck in the desert, their face smeared
I opened the locker. I made my fingers tremble. I heard Bosola smile, like a snake sliding over a rock.
I stood back and the Shank stooped and rummaged. While he rummaged, Funt and Bosola eyeballed me. Bosola drew his finger silently across his throat. I made an appropriate gesture back.
The Shank stood up. He looked puzzled. He checked his sheet again, and grunted. He didn’t even have a go about the mess in my locker.
He backed off a step, and rechecked his sheet. His master key was in his hand. Another locker door swung open.
The Shank made a noise, a sort of a rasp. It might have been a growl. I glanced down obliquely.
I was expecting to see the spot of blood.
What I saw was a photo cut out of some magazine and tacked to the inside of the door. I did a double take, straight out of a cartoon. It wasn’t Zofia’s locker he had opened, but number 525.
The Shank knelt and reached into the locker. He pulled out a worn feather boa, a fluffy mohair cardigan, a pair of tap shoes and a big bottle of perfume with a stopper shaped like pouting lips. He held each item up suspiciously, then handed them back to Funt, Bosola and Spode.
Once again he looked perplexed. Whatever he was after – whatever he thought he was going to get – wasn’t happening.
“What are you smirking at?” he demanded of me.
“You say smirk; I say smile.”
“So what are you smiling about?”
“It’s a whole new day, sir, so what’s not to smile about?”
The Shank’s eye twitched. He moved closer and breathed in my ear.
“Be careful, boy. Be very careful.”
Although he said it as a threat, I couldn’t help but think that there was also something of a warning in it. A genuine warning.
For the last time, he checked his sheet of paper. I thought he was going to stump off. But then, almost as an afterthought, he hesitated, bent, and stuck his key into another lock. It was number 524.
Zofia’s.
I heard – or maybe just felt – her hiss of breath, a sound more of despair than shock. The door swung open and I saw the small red dot with an almost supernatural precision. But the Shank wasn’t looking at the door. He barely even looked in the locker. He quickly moved his hand around the inside, like a cheap magician showing there’s nothing in the hat. Then he looked at me again with withering contempt and was gone.
Bosola tried to repeat his slapping trick, but I swayed and his palm smacked into the metal locker.
I turned to smile at Zofia, expecting to see a look of astonishment (not to mention gratitude) on her face, but she was gone too, almost as if she’d never been there. She hadn’t even thanked me for saving her life.
All that was left was the smell of violets.
Oh, and the two dead guinea pigs in the pockets of my blazer.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
T HE H IT
SO I headed off to my first lesson – PE – with two stiff guinea pigs filling my pockets, and a buzzing crowd of questions in my head. You didn’t have to be Stephen Hawking to figure out that the Shank was expecting to find something in my locker. Whichever doofus planted the bodies messed up and put them in 524 instead of 526. But that didn’t change the fact that someone was out to frame me. But why? Sure, I wasn’t winning any popularity contests, but I couldn’t see why I was important enough to merit this level of intrigue, even if the execution had been slapdash. Was this all down to the Shank himself? Or were there other forces moving behind the scenes?
First things first.
I walked around the corridors for a while to make sure no one was trailing me and then dived into the toilets. In good old cubicle three, I crammed the stiffs into my sandwich box, stood on the seat and hid the plastic coffin under the lid in the high cistern. Then I checked my hair in the mirror and made for the gym.
There are worse things than PE, but most kids don’t get the opportunity to be buried up to the neck in the desert, their face smeared
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