Class Act (10 page)

With shaking fingers he lifted the lid and stared down a flight of wooden steps.

C
HAPTER
18

FOUND

Before he had time to remember that he wasn't brave or stupid enough to go down, Brian found himself at the bottom of the steps. The walls either side were made of packed earth. Roots stuck out like electric wires. You couldn't call it a cellar or even a basement; it was too crude, as if a hole had simply been dug in the ground and the wooden steps plonked down. About a metre ahead stood a wooden door. Light escaped round the frame.

Brian stared at the door, his heart a crazy cricket in his chest. A sensible person would turn round. A sensible person would climb the stairs, leave this madhouse and mega-mad garden and go back home, not listen to the fossil in his ear that was telling him to ‘Go on, try the handle.'

He licked his lips. A sensible person wouldn't
have
a fossil in his ear.

It's bound to be locked
, he told himself. So when the door opened and he practically fell through, it took a moment to steady himself, and a moment more to recognise the faces staring at him, pale and puffy and not entirely unexpected. Because of course, deep down, he'd known they'd be here. It wasn't the usual sort of know that happens beforehand (‘I know when I open the door they'll be here') but the slightly cheating sort that comes afterwards (‘I knew they would be'). Like the time Sid the Reptile Man visited your school and, the minute he chose someone at random to hold the python, you turned to your best friend and said, ‘I just
knew
he'd pick Jamie Doyle.' That was Brian's kind of know. The unsurprising surprise.

What
was
surprising was
their
unsurprise.

‘Oh.' Alec was sitting at a desk. ‘It's you.' He went back to writing.

Pete was kneeling by the far wall beneath the only two windows in the room. Small and high, they must be at ground level Brian realised. ‘Hey, Braino.' Then he went back to drawing on the floor with a piece of chalk.

‘What are
you
staring at?' said Tracy from another desk.

It seemed obvious, and perhaps a little rude, to say, ‘You.' So instead Brian looked round the room and tried to make sense of what he saw. But the room made the least sense of all. On the left, desks were arranged in rows of three. Alec and Tracy sat in the front row. The other twenty or so desks were empty. All the desks faced to the right. Opposite them, near the right-hand wall, stood another, bigger desk. Above it hung a whiteboard.

It was a classroom. But not just any old classroom – theirs. The desks and chairs were the same as those at school. Along the back wall to the left stood a bookshelf, just the same, and next to it a nature table. Identical posters hung on the walls: rules of the class, geometrical shapes and all the charts comparing pupils. There was a waste-paper bin by the door. There was even a cactus on the front desk.

‘What
is
this place?' He gasped.

Silence. He tried again. ‘What are you doing here?'

‘Writing,' said Alec.

‘Drawing,' said Pete from the floor.

‘Colouring.' Tracy scowled at him. ‘What are
you
doing here?' She wrinkled her nose with such scorn that it took him a moment to remember.

‘I'm, uh, here to rescue you.'

Tracy snorted and went back to colouring.

‘Rescue?' Pete sat back on his heels. ‘From what? We can leave whenever we want.'

Brian was feeling sillier by the second. ‘So, ah … why don't you?'

‘Duh.' Alec's eyes went wide. ‘Because we
don't
want to.' He put down his pen and leaned back in his chair.

Brian blinked round the room. What was he missing? ‘Why not?'

It seemed a fair question. But the way the others rolled their eyes, you'd think he'd asked why chickens don't eat eggs.

‘Be
cause
.' Alec spoke loudly and slowly, as if talking to someone with very little English. ‘We … like it … here. Don't we … guys?' The other two nodded theatrically. Pete put down his chalk and lay on his back, tucking his hands behind his head.

‘But your parents, the school, the whole village – everyone's mad with worry!'

Alec stared into space. Tracy coloured in. Pete gazed at the ceiling.

‘I said,' Brian shouted, ‘they're mad with worry! Don't you
care
?'

Alec's grey eyes settled on him lazily. Then he glanced at his watch. ‘Hey, guys, it's nearly tea time.'

‘
What?
' Brian scrunched a handful of hair. Missing for days, holed up in this madhouse, families in uproar – and Alec was talking tea time? Had he gone bonkers? Brian ran across the room and grabbed his arm. Talking was clearly pointless. He tried to pull Alec up.

‘Get off.' Alec shook him away. He went back to his writing.

Brian turned to Tracy. ‘Come
on.
Let's get out of here.' He jiggled the back of her chair.

‘Hey.' She glared at him. ‘You ruined my colouring.'

Over her shoulder, Brian saw a smudge on an otherwise neat invitation.
YOU'RE INVITED TO MY PARTY.

‘What
is
this?' He circled his forehead with his fingertips. ‘Why don't you want to leave?'

Pete sat up. ‘We told you. We're waiting for tea.' He hugged his knees. ‘Well, not so much tea,' he ran his tongue along his top lip, ‘as scones.'

Scones.
Why did the word catch in Brian's brain? Why did it burrow and itch like a tick?

He looked at his classmates, lounging in a chair, colouring at a desk and sitting on the floor. They had no intention of leaving; he'd never move them by force, and direct questions were getting him nowhere.

‘Wow,' he said carefully. ‘I love scones. What sort?'

Tracy's crayon went still. ‘Plain, fruit – any sort.' She smiled dreamily. Her eyelids drooped.

Too dreamily. Too droopingly. You'd think she was drunk. Or drugged.

On scones?
Since when were they addictive? And who on earth would want to dope the children?

A terrible picture popped into Brian's mind. An old man standing in a doorway with flour on his face.
No.
Surely not Alf Sandwich, with his gentle ways and thousand kindnesses. Could he really be sneaking into the woods with poisoned teacakes? Brian gripped the back of Tracy's chair.
Never!
Of course it couldn't be Alf. But who, or what,
was
it?

He returned to the door. Rubbing his ear with his sleeve, he whispered, ‘Help me, Dulcie.' Her tiny brain was worth two of his; she'd know what to do. There was no answer. For once she must be completely stumped.

He tried again. ‘What now?'

More silence.

‘Thanks a million,' he hissed.

Alec looked up. ‘What for? It's not like we invited you for tea.' He yawned. ‘But I guess you can stay if you want.'

‘No.' Brian held up his hand. ‘Thanks, but I have to go.'

And quickly. Outnumbered by these numb-brains, he could never drag them out by force. His only hope was to leg it back to Tullybun and fetch the gardaí before whoever was behind all this came back.

All of which he was just about to do … when whoever was behind all this came back. Hearing a thump, Brian wheeled round to face the door. Something barrelled into him and he was pushed backwards. Losing his balance, he fell onto his bottom. Pain shot up his spine.

But it was nothing compared to the shriek that shot out of his mouth. ‘Mrs
FLORRIS
?!'

C
HAPTER
19

AT YOUR SERVICE

There was a tangle of legs, a mangle of arms, a wrangle of boy and teacher. Or rather, what seemed to be teacher. The blue blouse, flowery skirt and sensible heels, from which Brian finally managed to escape, certainly suggested Florrie. But he couldn't be sure because a scarf covered the face.

‘'Emme go!' it squealed.

Without stopping to think if it was a good idea, Brian leaned over. It took a few moments to undo the knot, thanks to the wriggling head and the wisps of white hair caught in the scarf. After a lot of yanking and shoving – it wouldn't be kind to say that part of him enjoyed the ouches and yowches – the scarf came loose.

‘You!' She blinked at Brian. ‘And YOU!' She gasped at the others. They looked at her with vague annoyance: the sort of faces
Doctor Who
fans would make when disturbed from the Christmas special by the arrival of a distant uncle with a box of dried figs.

‘So.' The teacher glared at Brian. ‘
You're
involved with this!'

‘What?' Brian suddenly regretted untying her hands, which had been bound by rope. ‘Of course I'm not, you idiot.' He bit his top lip. Did he really just say that? Did it really feel so good?

Her eyebrows jiggled in outrage. ‘How
dare
you–'

‘Shut up!' That would've felt even better if it hadn't been accompanied by the sound of a key turning. Pushing past her, he grabbed the door handle. ‘No!' He rattled it uselessly. They were trapped.

He turned back to the teacher. ‘Who brought you here?' he asked in a flat voice.

‘How should I know?' she snapped. ‘I couldn't see a thing. One minute I was locking the staffroom door and the next everything went black.' She blew her nose on the scarf. ‘Someone grabbed my hands and tied them behind my back. They marched me down the corridor and out the back door. I might've been blindfolded, but I know every inch of my school. Then across the garden and through the trees. They pushed me through the back gate and into a car.'

Pausing to wipe her nose on her sleeve (Brian felt a strange satisfaction at the sight of Florrie-snot), she described the rest of the journey: the car stopping; the door opening; the squelch across muddy ground; the smell of wet woodland; the stumble and tumble into this room.

‘Did you hear his voice?' he said.

‘Once or twice. “Hurry up, turn left,” that sort of thing.' She sniffed. ‘And it was high and squeaky. I think it was a she.'

‘Or a he in disguise.'

Before Florrie could disagree, a voice sang, ‘A he in disguise or a she in disguise? Hee hee, yippee – a
me
in disguise!'

The door flew open once more, whacking into Brian. It was his turn to fall on Florrie. Untangling themselves, they wriggled backwards on their bottoms, staring at the figure who'd come in and was locking the door behind him. He slipped the bunch of keys into his anorak pocket.

‘YOU!' Florrie shrieked again. As president of Tullybun's NUASWIALOWD (Never Use a Short Word if a Long One Will Do) Society, she was really letting herself down. ‘What are
you
doing here?'

‘You?' said Mr Pottigrew, staring at Brian. ‘So
you're
the one who left the trap door open.'

‘You,' echoed Brian, because he could think of absolutely nothing else to say.

‘Me,' agreed the gardener. ‘And not me!' He grabbed his beard with one hand and his hair with another. Ripping them off, he threw them across the room. They snagged on the cactus and sat there like vicious candy floss.

‘Shot,' said Pete sitting up on the floor. Alec and Tracy clapped from their desks, completely unruffled by the transformation taking place.

The old man in the doorway was shedding years by the second. Underneath the wig his hair was the colour of earwax. He wiped his face briskly with his hands. Wrinkles disappeared, revealing a sharp, pale face. He straightened his back. With a grin and a giggle, the crumbly old gardener was turning into a firm young man. Only his eyes stayed the same, darting from Brian to Florrie in bright blue delight.

The teacher had gone as white as a duck egg. ‘YOU!' she gasped – for which she really deserved to be stripped of the NUASWIALOWD presidency. ‘I thought there was something familiar about you.'

‘But you didn't think hard enough.' The old-young man's voice was indeed high and squeaky. ‘All those months of weeding and grovelling, and you didn't recognise your star pupil. Oh dear, Mrs F.' He shook his head sadly. Then he shot forward and shrieked in her face, ‘FAIL!'

The teacher yelped. She tried to stand up but he clamped his hands on her shoulders. Brian scrambled to his feet, looking frantically at the other children. Alec was sucking his pen. Tracy was cleaning a fingernail with the corner of a card. Pete doodled on the floor. They seemed amazingly unamazed.

‘Who …' Brian chased the questions playing pinball round his head, ‘who are you?'

The man, whose quick, easy movements put him in his mid-twenties, gave a deep bow. ‘Quincy Queaze, at your service.'

Somehow Brian doubted that. His mouth opened and closed.

‘No need for small talk.' With one hand still grasping Florrie's shoulder, Quincy waved the other breezily. ‘I know all about you, Brian O'Bunion. I've been watching you over the year. And it's a lovely surprise to find you here.'

Brian wished he could agree. His eyes strayed to the locked door.

‘Who'd have thought? Of all the people to find me out!' Quincy squeezed Florrie's shoulder until his knuckles went white. ‘Pretty smart, hey, Teach? Especially for a
lazy loser
.'

‘Get your hands off me!' She tried to wriggle free.

He grabbed her wrists. ‘You see, Brian,' he said pleasantly, dragging her across the floor to the front desk, ‘no one's more welcome than you to my party.' He pulled out a chair behind the desk. ‘I know you don't get many invitations.' He plonked the teacher roughly onto the chair and whipped out two pairs of handcuffs from his anorak pocket. ‘And I know you've had a tough time at school.' He handcuffed Mrs Florris's wrists to the arms of the chair. ‘Believe me, Brian, I understand, because I did too.' He grabbed her neck in the crook of his elbow. ‘Didn't I, Teach?'

She tried to duck out of his grip. ‘I don't know what you're talking about.'

He clenched her more tightly. ‘Oh, I think you do.'

Brian stared at the principal. Her face was going alarmingly red. He really ought to think carefully about seriously considering the different options for perhaps doing something that could possibly help her. But oh dear, not a single option came into his head.

He rubbed his ear. If Dulcie had any ideas, she wasn't prepared to share them, because there still wasn't a peep.

What about his classmates? They didn't look promising. If their expressions were bedclothes, they'd be thin sheets of curiosity over thick duvets of boredom.

Brian had just got past thinking carefully, and was beginning to seriously consider, when Quincy let go of the teacher.

She sat upright in the chair, wriggling her arms. ‘This is outrageous!'

‘Ooh.' Quincy clapped his hands like an excited toddler. ‘Isn't it?' He took a bag from his pocket and put it on the front desk.

Not a bag
, thought Brian, staring at the green cloth tube with a zip along the top.
A pencil case.

‘Let me go!' snarled Florrie.

Quincy stuck out his tongue. ‘Not on your smelly old nelly.' He unzipped the case and took out a metal ruler. ‘I do love stationery,' he sighed. ‘So useful and fun. The
only
fun thing about school. You see, Brian –' he waved the ruler in the air, ‘I had the same problem as you.' As if a switch had flipped, his face squashed with hatred. ‘The teacher!' He tapped Florrie's head with the ruler. ‘She really wasn't kind to me.' His eyes widened to sorrowful pools. Like an actor, he seemed to have a wardrobe of faces inside him. ‘She was always banging on about how stupid I was. Putting flowerpots on my head to show everyone I was thicker than clay. Calling me Loser, Waster, Fool of the School.'

‘That's because you were,' she muttered.

He patted her head with the ruler. ‘Fifteen years ago, Brian, I too won a prize. The Melon for Mindless Morons.' Quincy jabbed the ruler in Florrie's chest. ‘Remember?'

‘Yes, I do.' She glared at him. ‘And you deserved every pip.'

‘Oh, did I?' He gave what Brian guessed was a laugh, though it sounded more like a lady machine gun. ‘We'll see about that, you old scorpion.' Quincy rapped the ruler on the desk. ‘Ready folks?'

Pete wiped chalk dust from his hands. ‘Yeah.' Stifling a yawn, he pointed to the double white lines that ran round the edge of the floor.

‘Excellent,' said Quincy. ‘Tracy?'

She nodded listlessly.

‘Good. And Alec?'

‘Yep.' He put his pen down. ‘Hurry up, Quince. I'm staaarving.'

Quince?
Brian gaped at the three dozy children who didn't seem the slightest bit scared of this yo-yo of a man whose moods changed like the Irish weather.

‘Alec!' barked Florrie. ‘Tracy, Pete – what's wrong with you? I
order
you to help me!'

Her prize pupils gazed back, their faces blank as baps.

‘Ooh, bossy bossy.' Quincy's eyebrows rose. ‘But
I
give the orders round here.' He bent down and pinched her chin between his finger and thumb. ‘Because
I'm
the teacher now. And
I'm
going to teach
you
,' he poked her nose, ‘a lesson you'll remember,'
poke poke
, ‘all your life,'
poke poke poke
.

‘You don't scare me,' she growled.

Brian had to hand it to her. For someone forced to sit, she was standing up to him impressively.

‘Oh, don't I?' He prodded her cheek with the ruler. She pressed her lips together and sniffed furiously.

Brian rubbed his ear a third time. ‘Dulcie!' he hissed. ‘You've got to think of something.'

Quincy looked up sharply. ‘What?'

‘I … I said I was just thinking of something.' Brian smiled nervously.

Quincy chuckled. ‘Well, I've been planning something that'll
really
make you grin. Oh, I'm so glad you're here to see it.' He gazed dreamily over Florrie's head, like Dorothy over the rainbow. ‘I know you'll enjoy it, Brian. Just like you're enjoying this.' He tickled the teacher's neck with the ruler.

She blinked at Brian. And with a sweet-and-sour rush, he realised that Quincy was right. He
was
enjoying this reversal of power, this bullying of the bully. That was why he hadn't rushed over to kick Quincy's shins and bite his arms, to scratch and pinch and do all he could to help Florrie.

For a moment Brian forgot that he was imprisoned underground, that his classmates had been duped or doped, that his teacher was handcuffed to a chair and that he was the only one who could help them. For a moment he watched enthralled as the failure-hating principal's effort to stop a tear rolling down her cheek scored a big, fat … F.