The Ability (Ability, The) (9 page)

“Please, please, take a seat,” said Mr. Tuckdown, pointing to the two empty chairs beside Mrs. Tanner. “Biscuit?” he asked, offering them a plate of biscuits swimming in cold tea.

Sir Bentley and Miss Sonata both shook their heads.

“Mr. Tuckdown, we’d like to just get straight to business,” said Sir Bentley.

“Of course, of course,” said Mr. Tuckdown, shuffling into his seat. “I assume this must be good news?”

“Well, yes, we rather think so,” said Sir Bentley without expression. “You’ll be pleased to know that someone here has been selected for entry into the Myers Holt Academy this year.”

“Wonderful!”
said Mr. Tuckdown, rubbing his hands greedily. “We dared not hope, but I must admit I did start to think about how the generous school prize would be used. I have been suffering terribly having to eat these awful school lunches and the money will be used to create a staff dining room with a private chef. It’s not easy for us, having to deal with all this
stress
,” he said, looking over at Chris. “The remainder of the prize will go a long way toward refurbishing my office. It is, after all, the most important room in the school.”

“Yes, well, wouldn’t you like to hear which student was accepted?”

“Of course, of course,” said Mr. Tuckdown, distracted, wondering where his new leather chaise longue would look best. He nodded over by the far bookshelves and then turned back to Sir Bentley and Miss Sonata. “Yes, so who is it? Emma Becksdale? Anthea Sylvester? Lucas Longley? It’s Lucas, isn’t it?” he said eagerly.

“Actually, no,” replied Miss Sonata. “The pupil accepted into Myers Holt Academy is Christopher Lane.”

The room fell silent, and all eyes turned to Christopher, standing at the wall and clearly as much in shock as Mrs. Tanner and Mr. Tuckdown.

“Congratulations, Christopher,” said Sir Bentley, smiling.

Chris’s mouth dropped open, but no sound came out.

“But . . . ,” said Mr. Tuckdown, beads of perspiration beginning to form, “but there must be a mistake. This boy is—”

“Stupid?” interrupted Sir Bentley. “Useless? Good-for-nothing? It may surprise you to know that Christopher’s results were outstanding.”

“Outstanding?” interrupted Mr. Tuckdown. “If the boy is outstanding at anything, it’s cheating. You might want to check those—”

“Uh, hmmm,” coughed Mrs. Tanner. “Mr. Tuckdown, perhaps we should remember the
benefits
of Chris being accepted?”

“Benefits? Oh . . .
benefits
,” said Mr. Tuckdown, suddenly remembering the chaise longue and the chef. He thought for a moment and came to a decision.

“Well, then, so be it. Take the stupid boy. He’s not
wanted here anyway,” said Mr. Tuckdown, and picked up another soggy biscuit.

“Yes . . . about that,” said Sir Bentley, standing up. Mr. Tuckdown looked up suspiciously and raised the biscuit to his mouth.

“We couldn’t help but overhear your earlier conversation with Christopher, which ended with you quite clearly expelling him. Regretfully, as he is no longer of this school, Black Marsh will no longer be eligible to receive the prize.”

Mr. Tuckdown froze, biscuit poised at his open mouth. His eyes widened in shock, and then he leaped out of his chair, knocking it to the ground behind him.

“B-b-b-b-but—but—,” he spluttered, but Sir Bentley paid him no heed.

“Christopher, would you care to follow us out? Good day, Mr. Tuckdown,” said Sir Bentley without looking at the headmaster, who was at this point leaning on the desk, taking frantic deep breaths.

Chris looked over at Miss Sonata, who grinned and waved him over. He looked over at Mr. Tuckdown and Mrs. Tanner and smiled.

“Yes, good day to you both!” he said, and walked out of the room for the last time.

“Well, that was a rather unexpected turn of events,” said Sir Bentley to nobody in particular as they walked down the headmaster’s corridor. Chris, who was still reeling from the news, said nothing. Never in his whole life, he thought, had he been chosen for anything. Well, not anything good. It was a strange feeling, a mixture of pride and worry: worry that at any moment now Sir Bentley and Miss Sonata were going to realize they’d made a terrible mistake. He looked over at Miss Sonata.

“Are you . . . sure?” he asked.

“Sure about what, Christopher?” she asked, putting a hand on his shoulder.

“Well . . . about me. Are you sure you meant to say my name?”

Miss Sonata laughed. “One hundred percent. Now, Christopher, will you please not worry about anything and enjoy the moment?”

Relieved, Chris smiled. “Okay.”

“Good! Let’s get moving—there’s a lot we have to discuss,” said Miss Sonata, giving him a gentle nudge out the main door.

Chris stepped onto the playground and followed Sir Bentley and Miss Sonata over to the gates, behind which were parked two identical dark-blue cars. Standing in front of the leading car were two men in black suits, their arms folded. Chris’s eyes went immediately to the one on the left, easily the biggest man that Chris had ever set eyes on. His muscles bulged with the effort of folding his arms, and his suit jacket, which appeared to be two sizes too small, strained at the buttons. If he had been painted green, Chris thought, he would have looked uncannily like an action figure he had once owned. Chris turned his attention to the significantly smaller of the pair, a skinny man with a slicked-down side part, and then looked away uncomfortably when he realized that the man appeared to be staring directly at him, although it was impossible for Chris to be certain, due to the fact that the man was wearing sunglasses, which seemed a little unnecessary given that it was the middle of winter.

“Are those your bodyguards?” asked Chris.

“Yes, security is rather tight these days,” explained Sir Bentley.

Chris nodded, impressed. He was about to ask if they were carrying guns, but Miss Sonata interrupted him.

“Sir Bentley and I are going to go to the school now. Would you like to come with us and we can talk a little bit more about the place we’d like to offer to you? We’ll get a car to take you home when we’re done.”

“Yes,” said Chris, still stunned by the events of the last few minutes.

“Great. I’m going in the other car. I’ll meet you there,” said Miss Sonata, who then walked quickly away toward the car at the back. Chris nodded, following Sir Bentley over to the two waiting guards.

“Christopher, this is John,” said Sir Bentley. Chris looked up at the enormous man, who smiled down at him.

“Good afternoon,” said John as he opened up the car door.

“And this is Ron,” said Sir Bentley.

The smaller man gave a barely visible nod and then jerked his head round, as if expecting somebody to jump out at them at any moment.

“Right, let’s get going. Next stop, Myers Holt,” said Sir Bentley, getting into the car.

Chris squeezed into the seat behind John, who, despite having pulled the driver’s seat all the way back, still looked uncomfortably squashed behind the steering wheel, which appeared toy-sized in his giant hands. Ron, who was waiting impatiently for Chris to get himself seated, took one last look around him before closing the door behind Chris and running round the back of the car to the passenger side.

“Gamma One en route,” said Ron to nobody in particular.

John started the engine and drove off in the direction of Central London.

“Well, Chris,” said Sir Bentley, turning to face him, “I imagine this day is turning out to be quite an unusual one for you.”

Chris nodded. “That’s an understatement,” he said, and Sir Bentley chuckled.

“We’ll discuss everything in more detail when we get to Myers Holt. Miss Sonata has already spoken to your mother to explain that you’ll be with us this afternoon—she stopped by your house this morning to give your mother the good news.”

Chris looked surprised.

“What did she say?”

Sir Bentley put his hand on Chris’s shoulder kindly.

“She said that you were capable of making your own decisions, and I have no doubt that she’s quite right. She says that she will agree to whatever you want to do.”

“My mum is not very well . . . ,” Chris began to explain.

“Since your father died,” said Sir Bentley, “I know. Miss Sonata told me about your situation, and I must say, I’m impressed with how well you have coped. You should be proud of yourself.”

Chris shifted uncomfortably, unaccustomed to compliments.

“Well, perhaps this will be the day that your life takes a new turn. Now, make yourself comfortable and enjoy the ride. I have a few bits and pieces to take care of, and I’ll explain more when we reach Myers Holt.”

Sir Bentley pulled out his phone from the front of the
briefcase by his feet and started tapping away. Chris sat back, looking out of the darkened window as they sped along the bus lane past the stationary traffic, and listened to Ron giving John a nonstop risk assessment of everything he could see.

“Ten o’clock, old woman by lamppost; three o’clock, teenager in a hoodie; blue car, black car, white van. Hold on, what’s this?! Eleven o’clock, man carrying a suspicious package . . .”

Chris sat up, alarmed, and leaned forward to have a look.

“At ease . . . just the postman,” said Ron, as the car drove straight past without slowing down. Ron turned back to face the front. “Silver car, black car. One hundred yards, red light. Fifty yards, red light. Twenty yards, red light, and stop, stop, stop . . .
stop! Red light!
”

John, who had not once broken the thirty-mile-an-hour speed limit, pulled slowly to a stop at the red light and, without a word, leaned over to turn the radio on.

“What are you doing? How are you going to hear what I’m saying with the radio on?” asked Ron.

“I’m not. That’s the point,” said John calmly. He pressed the on button and settled back into his seat as the sound of country music filled the car. Chris looked over at Sir Bentley, who was still working on his phone, completely oblivious to anything going on around him.

“Stand by your man . . . ,” sang John in a low, tuneless voice, tapping the steering wheel to the music.

Chris watched Ron get more and more agitated as he looked back and forth from the road to John, who was now lost in the music.

“John? John. John. John,” said Ron.

“John!”

John looked over at Ron. “Yes?”

“Green light.”

John looked up.

“Why didn’t you say so?” said John, pulling away.

In the rearview mirror Chris saw a small smile on John’s face, and Chris stifled a laugh as Ron folded his arms and turned away, sulking.

Ten minutes later, having driven the rest of the way in silence, John pulled up outside a row of tall Regency buildings and stopped.

Ron jumped out and opened the door for Sir Bentley. Chris shuffled along the seat and got out behind him. He looked up at Ron and smiled.

“Thanks,” he said, and Ron nodded without looking at him.

Chris followed Sir Bentley up the steep steps toward the front door, which he recognized from the brochure that Miss Sonata had shown him at his house. He stood patiently as Sir Bentley pressed the single gold buzzer by the door and waited, but there was no answer. Sir Bentley tried the brass knocker. This time Chris heard the sound of running footsteps and then a loud crash followed by thumping and scraping.

“Be right with you,” called a muffled voice. Finally the door opened and a plump, ruddy-faced lady appeared, a dripping sponge in one hand. She looked out of breath and was wiping the sweat off her forehead with the edge of her old pink apron. Behind her Chris could see the
cause of the commotion—a stack of filing boxes that had fallen and had been hastily pushed back against the wall, their contents still strewn across the filthy, stained carpet.

“Sir Bentley, how are you, sir?” she asked in a thick Irish accent, giving a slight bow.

“Very well, thank you, Maura. And yourself?” asked Sir Bentley, stepping carefully over the pile of papers.

“Ah, well, getting there,” she said, leading them down the hallway, which was dimly lit by a single bare bulb. “Not much left to do now.”

“Good, good,” said Sir Bentley, and walked into a room to their right. Chris followed silently and looked about as Maura dragged some plastic chairs over from the corner to the large, stained table in the middle of the room. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected but was nevertheless surprised by the state of the place. The yellow wallpaper—possibly once white, judging by the lighter squares that marked where pictures had once hung—was peeling and stained by the damp that was seeping through. Mismatched, faded curtains hung limply from the one window, which looked out over an empty concrete yard.

Maura wrung the sponge into an open black garbage bag and gave the table a quick wipe, which only made the stains on the table more visible.

“Well, that’ll have to do,” she said apologetically.

“Thank you,” said Sir Bentley, and turned to face Chris for the first time since they had entered the building.

“Maura, this is Christopher Lane. Christopher, this is Maura, the best cleaner on these shores.”