Читать книгу Dragon's Green - Scarlett Thomas - Страница 12

6

At four o’clock, Maximilian Underwood, Effie Truelove and Wolf Reed reported to Mrs Beathag Hide’s office for their detention. Maximilian was still mildly excited. After detention he thought he might ask his mother again about contact lenses, maybe try to do some weight-lifting and build some muscle, maybe not be the first one to put his hand up in class all the time. This detention, he felt, might well be his first step towards being – whisper it – cool. Or at least not totally uncool. Or however people expressed these things now.

Detention was supposed to last thirty-five minutes and take place in the dingy but serviceable classroom next door to the headmaster’s office. Detention tasks were varied. Sometimes the elderly headmaster would shuffle in and read weakly to the children from his favourite Robert Louis Stevenson story, The Bottle Imp. When this happened, detention was almost pleasurable, although the headmaster would often shuffle back out again after a particularly exciting moment, saying he had to go for his medication, and then either would not return, or, having returned, would forget his place and have to start again. (The worst-behaved students in the school were the ones most likely to be able flawlessly to quote the beginning of The Bottle Imp from memory, but least likely to be able to tell you how it ends.)

But more often the teacher in charge of detention that day would simply give students an essay title – usually something like ‘Why Rules Are Good’ or ‘Problems Misbehaviour Can Cause in Later Life’.

Mrs Beathag Hide approached detention in a different way. She preferred lines to essays, feeling that repeating an idea over and over again made a greater psychological impact on the children and was less risky – at least, when it came to basic discipline – than independent thought. In other contexts she championed independent thought. But detention was not the place for it.

She also really did like locking children in broom cupboards.

So at five past four on what had become really quite a wet Monday afternoon, Maximilian, Wolf and Effie found themselves in the school’s basement, in the old, dusty cupboard of a long-dead caretaker, which smelled of dunce’s hats (which, as we already know, smell of mould and dead mice), damp blotting paper, turpentine, congealed ink and ancient spiders. They faced rather a daunting task.

‘Between you,’ said Mrs Beathag Hide, almost smiling. ‘Yes, between you . . . Ha! I like that. It may lead to cooperation and loyalty, or, more engagingly, to great betrayal and suffering. Between you, you will write the following, six hundred times: “I will always obey those in authority and . . .” Except . . . No. Wait. We don’t want to send you out of this school paying more attention to silly little traffic wardens and idiotic politicians than is necessary. Hmmm.’ She thought for a while. ‘You will write out the following, six hundred times: “I will always respect those with greater intelligence than my own.” Yes. And you will spell “intelligence” correctly on every single line. When the six hundred lines are completed, you will pass the sheets of paper under the door to me, and then I will unlock it.’

The cupboard, which was really like a small room, had no windows and was very dimly lit with an ancient fluorescent light that must have had thousands of dead insects inside its cracked plastic casing. There were candles, too, in case of a greyout. Effie sat down on a rickety wooden chair at the old caretaker’s table, and Maximilian sat opposite her on a paint-spattered stool. Wolf slumped down on the floor and leaned against the wall by a cracked porcelain sink. Mrs Beathag Hide turned the key in the heavy lock and went away to make a cup of Earl Grey tea and fetch today’s newspaper, the one with the best cryptic crossword, from the staff room.

Effie got out some paper and a pen. She wondered whether you spelled ‘intelligence’ with an ‘ance’ or an ‘ence’ at the end. Maximilian would know. But Maximilian had taken out his calculator and was furiously tapping away on it.

‘Shouldn’t we get started?’ Effie said. ‘I’ve got to be somewhere by five o’clock. It’s really quite impor— ’

‘Shhh,’ said Maximilian.

‘Can someone lend me a pen?’ said Wolf. ‘Oh, and actually, some paper?’

‘Shhh,’ said Maximilian again.

Wolf and Effie looked at one another. Why was this nerdy creature telling them to shhh? What on earth did he think he was doing anyway, messing around with his calculator when . . .

‘I’ve seriously got to be out of here by quarter to five,’ said Wolf. ‘Can we just get on with it?’

‘We’ll do two hundred lines each,’ said Effie. ‘Right?’

‘Only if someone can lend me a pen,’ said Wolf.

‘Maximilian will have a spare pen,’ said Effie.

‘And who’s the fastest writer?’ said Wolf. ‘Maybe that person should do more.’

Maximilian was mumbling to himself. ‘Six hundred lines. Let’s say each one takes fifteen seconds if you’re a fast writer and twenty seconds if you’re a slow writer. So the total time it would take for a slow writer to complete the task on his or her own would be twenty seconds times six hundred, which is . . .’ Here he gulped. ‘Twelve thousand seconds, which is two hundred minutes, which is three hours and twenty minutes . . . But it’s OK because there are three of us, and if we work fast we could do it in probably just under an hour each, as long as we take no breaks and . . .’

By now it was almost quarter past four.

‘We’re not getting out of here by five,’ said Maximilian, looking up. ‘It’s not mathematically possible. Even if I do find a spare pen for Wolf, and even if we write as fast as we can, and even if I do more lines because I am probably the fastest writer, we won’t be done until around five-thirty.’

Wolf swore. ‘But I’ve got to work. With my uncle. At five.’

‘Yeah,’ said Effie. ‘And I’ve got to meet my dad. We’re clearing out my grandfather’s place, and . . .’

She still hadn’t worked out how to save her grandfather’s books. Effie suddenly felt very tired indeed. Her head started to throb. All her muscles were aching from the tennis. For the whole hour she’d spent in the tennis centre she had felt invincible, and had forgotten about everything bad in her life, including the awful sad feeling about her grandfather. It had been incredible, but also quite mysterious. She had no idea where any of it had come from, but she had felt so strong, as if she could do anything. She had also felt lighter, faster, more agile. Every time Wolf had hit the ball she’d known exactly where his shot was going to land. And then where she should hit it back.

But what on earth did this mean? Why had she suddenly become so good at tennis just since this morning? Was it because she hadn’t had any breakfast? Sometimes Cait said she felt stronger after fasting. But that didn’t really make any scientific sense . . . Effie yawned. Twisted the silver ring on her thumb. She was actually so tired now that if she just put her head down on the desk she . . .

‘Effie? Don’t go to sleep!’ Maximilian poked her shoulder.

She managed to lift her head. ‘Sorry. I’m just so . . .’ She put her head down again.

‘Oh no,’ said Maximilian, although secretly he didn’t mind this situation being prolonged, and would have been happy to spend many hours in a cupboard with Effie and Wolf, who were two of his more interesting classmates. ‘What are we going to do?’

‘We are going to escape,’ said Wolf, getting up.

Effie was now so tired that she could barely lift her head from the desk. Maximilian stood (because Wolf had taken his stool) watching in amazement as Wolf started looking around for a way out. He climbed onto the stool and checked different parts of the walls and the ceiling.

Of course there was no point trying to get through the door. Mrs Beathag Hide would be sitting there waiting, drinking her Earl Grey tea and doing her crossword. There were no other doors or windows in the cupboard. But before too long Wolf had found a panel in the ceiling that looked as if it might come out, only you’d need some kind of sharp device to poke into one of the corners. Wolf tried with a ruler, but the edge was too thick to fit in the gap. What would be ideal would be some kind of little knife, not that anyone was allowed to bring such things to school . . .

Effie was almost asleep again, but she could see what Wolf was doing, knew what he needed. What was that thing . . .? That thing . . .? Why wasn’t her brain working properly? In her bag? Yes, she had something in her bag that would help, although she couldn’t remember what it was. Oh yes, a letter opener. Her grandfather’s letter opener. That was quite sharp. She gestured to Maximilian, who seemed to understand what she meant and reached for her bag.

‘Letter opener,’ she managed to say, before she fell into a deep, almost fairy-tale, sleep.

Maximilian found the letter opener – as well as several other very interesting-looking, and not entirely unfamiliar objects – in a pouch in Effie’s bag. The letter opener was like a miniature dagger and felt heavy in his hands, even though it was quite small. He admired its fine bone handle, and the red jewels pressed into the sides of its sheath.

‘Here,’ he said to Wolf. ‘Try this.’

Wolf climbed down from the stool and reached out to take the letter opener from Maximilian. It may have been Maximilian’s imagination, but there was a sharp crack and sparkle in the air – a bit like lightning – as Wolf reached out for the small blade. Then something rather extraordinary happened. As soon as Wolf touched the letter opener there was another sharp cracking sound and a much brighter flash of light. Then more flashes of light, and more cracking, wrenching sounds as if a storm were happening inside. Then the whole room went dark for a few seconds.

When it was light again, Wolf was standing there looking terrified. He was holding a full-sized sword.

Effie was still asleep.

‘You’re . . . You’re a . . .’ said Maximilian, trembling.

Wolf looked down at the sword. ‘What the . . .?’ He didn’t know what to say or do. He found himself unsheathing the sword. He couldn’t really help himself. He looked even more like an ancient, like an ancient . . .

‘Warrior,’ said Maximilian. ‘You’re an actual true warrior! That’s what sets off the magic. This is – I can’t believe it – even though when it’s enlarged it looks a bit like a Sword of Destiny, the way it works . . . I think it might be the Sword of Orphennyus . . .’

Wolf looked at the blade. He had never seen anything so sharp, so sleek, so peculiarly beautiful. He was suddenly filled with a strange desire to protect the sleeping Effie, and even silly Maximilian too. With the tiny, sharp, trembling tip of this great weapon he casually flipped the ceiling panel and it fell open to reveal a long-abandoned hatch leading to an entrance to an old servants’ corridor. Then, not knowing what to do next, Wolf cut into the air a few times with the blade. It made a pleasing swishing sound. He could do anything, go anywhere, become brave and true and . . . But this was insanity. He re-sheathed the sword and put it down on the table. Immediately, it shrank back to being a letter opener.

‘Who has given me drugs?’ he demanded. ‘How have you done this?’

Everyone was a bit obsessed with drugs because of Coach Bruce. But Wolf couldn’t see any other explanation for what was happening. And that business with the tennis earlier. That must have been drugs too. It was outrageous.

Maximilian wasn’t listening. He was trying to get the ring off Effie’s thumb.

‘It’s her, isn’t it?’ said Wolf. ‘She’s given us all drugs, somehow. She’s . . .’

‘Can you help me?’ said Maximilian. ‘Please?’

‘What am I going to say to Coach Bruce? If he finds out that . . .’

‘Please hurry,’ said Maximilian.

‘Why?’

‘Because I think she might be dying.’

‘What?’ The feeling of wanting to protect Effie had not quite left Wolf, even though he had now put down the sword. ‘What should I do?’

‘Do you have any sweets or chocolate?’

Wolf looked disgusted. ‘Of course not. I’m an athlete.’

‘What about a sports drink? Lucozade? Something like that?’

‘What about one of these?’ Wolf had a couple of bottles of the athlete’s version of Shake Your Stuff that he’d bought with the wages he earned from his uncle. They weren’t very nice, to be honest, and he’d be glad to give one away. Maximilian looked at the ingredients.

‘No,’ he said. ‘This hasn’t got any real nutrients in it. We need something with sugar or fruit or something.’

Wolf looked in his bag again. There was an old bottle of normal sports drink in there somewhere. As he pulled it out, Maximilian finally prised the ring off Effie’s thumb. Immediately, she opened her eyes, but still looked very weak.

‘Drink this,’ Maximilian said, giving her the bottle that Wolf handed to him.

It was bright orange, fizzy and very sweet. Effie managed a bit and sat up.

‘What’s going on?’ she said. ‘What have you done with my ring?’

‘Don’t put it back on,’ Maximilian said. ‘Not for a while.’

‘Why not? I like it. I want to put it back on.’ Effie reached towards Maximilian to take back her ring. But he held on to it.

‘Are you insane? It’s a magical ring. Surely you must have realised that? You have to know what they actually do, and what that actually costs, before you mess around with them. For more information see any fantasy novel ever written.’

‘Seriously? Are you sure?’

Maximilian paused for a moment. Chewed his lip. Put the ring down on the table. Effie picked it up, but did not put it on.

‘Where did you get all those things?’ Maximilian asked Effie. ‘You’ve got the Sword of Orphennyus, the Ring of God Knows What and, I believe, the Spectacles of Knowledge, as well as . . . Anyway, there are more boons in your schoolbag than you’d find in most of the greatest collections, certainly in this world. Where on earth did they come from?’