Читать книгу Allies of the Night - Darren Shan - Страница 13

CHAPTER FIVE

MR CHIVERS arrived shortly after a quarter past nine, puffing and red-faced. (I later learnt that he cycled to school.) He hurried past me without saying anything, opened the door to his room, and stumbled to the window, where he stood staring down at the cement quad. Spotting someone, he slid open the window and roared, “Kevin O’Brien! Have you been kicked out of class already?”

“Wasn’t my fault, sir,” a young boy shouted back. “The top came off my pen in my bag, ruining my homework. Could have happened to anyone, sir. I don’t think I should be kicked out for–”

“Report to my office during your next free period, O’Brien!” Mr Chivers interrupted. “I have a few floors for you to scrub.”

“Aw, sir!”

Mr Chivers slammed the window shut. “You!” he said, beckoning me in. “What are you here for?”

“I’m–”

“You didn’t break a window, did you?” he cut in. “Because if you did, there’ll be hell and leather to pay!”

“I didn’t break a window,” I snapped. “I haven’t had time to break anything. I’ve been stuck outside your door since eight, waiting. You’re late!”

“Oh?” He sat down, surprised by my directness. “Sorry. A flat tyre. It’s the little monster who lives two floors below. He…” Clearing his throat, he remembered who he was and adopted a scowl. “Never mind about me — who are you and why were you waiting?”

“My name’s Darren Horston. I’m–”

“–the new boy!” he exclaimed. “Sorry — clean forgot you were coming.” Getting up, he took my hand and pumped it. “I was away this weekend – orienteering – only got back last night. I jotted down a note and pinned it to the fridge on Friday, but I must have missed it this morning.”

“No problem,” I said, freeing my fingers from his sweaty hand. “You’re here now. Better late than never.”

He studied me curiously. “Is that how you addressed your previous headmaster?” he asked.

I remembered how I used to tremble when faced with the headmistress of my old school. “No,” I chuckled.

“Good, because it’s not how you’ll address me either. I’m no tyrant, but I don’t stand for backchat. Speak respectfully when you talk to me, and add a ‘sir’ at the end. Got that?”

I took a deep breath. “Yes.” A pause. “Sir.”

“Better,” he grunted, then invited me to sit. Opening a drawer, he found a file and perused it in silence. “Good grades,” he said after a couple of minutes, laying it aside. “If you can match those here, we won’t complain.”

“I’ll do my best. Sir.”

“That’s all we ask.” Mr Chivers was studying my face, fascinated by my scars and burn-marks. “You’ve had a rough ride, haven’t you?” he remarked. “Must be horrible to be trapped in a burning building.”

“Yes, sir.” That was in the report Mr Blaws had shown me — according to the forms my ‘father’ submitted, I’d been badly burnt in a house fire when I was twelve.

“Still, all’s well that ends well! You’re alive and active, and anything else is a bonus.” Standing, he put the file away, checked the front of his suit – there were traces of egg and toast crumbs on his tie and shirt, which he picked at – then made for the door, telling me to follow.

Mr Chivers led me on a quick tour of the school, pointing out the computer rooms, assembly hall, gymnasium and the main classrooms. The school used to be a music academy, hence its name (Mahler was a famous composer), but had closed down twenty years earlier, before reopening as a regular school.

“We still place a lot of emphasis on musical excellence,” Mr Chivers told me as we checked out a large room with half a dozen pianos. “Do you play any instruments?”

“The flute,” I said.

“A flautist! Superb! We haven’t had a decent flautist since Siobhan Toner graduated three – or was it four? – years ago. We’ll have to try you out, see what you’re made of, eh?”

“Yes, sir,” I replied weakly. I figured we were talking at cross purposes – he was referring to real flutes, whereas all I knew how to play was a tin-whistle – but I didn’t know whether it was the time for me to point this out. In the end I kept my mouth shut and hoped he’d forget about my supposed flute-playing talents.

He told me each lesson lasted forty minutes. There was a ten-minute break at eleven o’clock; fifty minutes for lunch at ten past one; school finished at four. “Detention runs from four-thirty to six,” he informed me, “but hopefully that won’t concern you, eh?”

“I hope not, sir,” I replied meekly.

The tour concluded back at his office, where he furnished me with my timetable. It was a frightening list — English, history, geography, science, maths, mechanical drawing, two modern languages, computer studies. A double dose of PE on Wednesdays. I had three free periods, one on Monday, one on Tuesday, one on Thursday. Mr Chivers said these were for extra-curricular activities, such as music or extra languages, or they could be used as study classes.

He shook my hand again, wished me the best of luck and told me to call on him if I ran into difficulty. After warning me not to break any windows or give my teachers grief he showed me out into the corridor, where he left me. It was 9.40 A bell rang. Time for my first class of the day — geography.

The lesson went reasonably well. I’d spent the last six years poring over maps and keeping abreast of the War of the Scars, so I had a better idea of the shape of the world than most of my classmates. But I knew nothing about human geography – a lot of the lesson revolved around economies and culture, and how humans shaped their environments – and I was at a loss every time talk switched from mountain ranges and rivers to political systems and population statistics.

Even allowing for my limited knowledge of humans, geography was as easy a start as I could have wished for. The teacher was helpful, I was able to keep up with most of what was being discussed, and I thought I’d be able to catch up with the rest of the class within a few weeks.

Maths, which came next, was a different matter entirely. I knew after five minutes that I was in trouble. I’d covered only basic maths in school, and had forgotten most of the little I used to know. I could divide and multiply, but that was as far as my expertise stretched — which, I quickly discovered, wasn’t nearly far enough.

“What do you mean, you’ve never done algebra?” my teacher, a fierce man by the name of Mr Smarts, snapped. “Of course you have! Don’t take me for a fool, lad. I know you’re new, but don’t think that means you can get away with murder. Open that book to page sixteen and do the first set of problems. I’ll collect your work at the end of class and see where you stand.”