this kid and he
beat
you. . .?’
‘But who was it in that room under the stairs?’
‘If I’d heard that scream I’d’ve been outta there. . .’
They were lapping it up. For Tiffany it was different. It came too close. The more Ben talked of his ordeal, of loneliness and helplessness, darkness and captivity, the more her own nerves rang,
like a glass, in the note that would shatter them. This made the second shock even harder to bear. When Ben revealed that his prison was a derelict station called Hermitage, Tiffany fled the church
hall in tears.
‘I knew where you were,’ she said the next day, when an anxious Ben phoned her from his school during morning break. ‘Something in me knew.’
In the dead of Saturday night she had stood in Hermitage Road, drawn by a gut feeling. Turning to the internet she proved her guess correct. In the 1960s, when the Victoria Line was dug, a
station had been planned between Finsbury Park and Seven Sisters, before construction was abandoned for reasons unknown. It would have been on that very spot.
‘I was right there,’ said Tiffany. ‘Directly above you. And I left you down there to rot.’
‘You didn’t know I was missing, remember?’ said Ben. ‘It’s okay. Geoff got me out.’
Yes, exactly
, Tiffany cried inside.
It should have been me. Not some stranger.
Her cruel words to Ben had turned out to be true. ‘I said you’d never get any help from
me. And you didn’t.’
But she was wrong about that.
On Friday she dragged herself to the pashki class, arriving last of all. Geoff White was there again. His leather jacket and jeans had been replaced by a rumpled black outfit he called a
pashkigi, its sleeveless tunic showing off arms that looked hard as iron. He asked her if she minded him taking the lesson. She sat in silence while the others pelted Geoff with questions: who were
the sinister kids who had abducted Ben? What was that Hermitage place? He quelled them with a stare.
‘No,’ he said. ‘First you’ve got to give me something. I don’t like wasting my time, and I don’t like putting minors in danger. So I need to know. How well
did Felicity teach you?’
Better than you ever could
, thought Tiffany. Geoff lined them up in the Sitting Cat pose and put them through their paces. He watched Daniel’s Chasing the Bird, Olly’s
ungainly Felasticon, Susie’s Tailspin and Yusuf’s Ratbane Lunge. Most of the time his face was unreadable, although when Ben ran up the wall to place a glass of water on the high window
ledge, he clapped.
‘Nah,’ he said, when Ben offered to fetch it down. ‘Let the Sunday School figure it out.’
Tiffany felt as if she were watching her snowman melt. It wasn’t fair. She was the one who’d kept this club going. Who’d booked the stupid hall and collected –
tried
to collect the money. Who’d vainly trawled the net in search of new things to teach the class.
Her
class.
As for her, nothing went right. Her balance wavered and she couldn’t feel her whiskers. It was like being back in Miss Fuller’s P.E. class. When Geoff brought round a plank of
scratched chipboard to test their Mau claws, her heart sank. Summoning that invisible cutting energy at one’s fingertips required total concentration, and hers was miles away. She bodged her
way through the remaining exercises, sat down and sulked.
Geoff held the chipboard aloft and, with a flick of his wrist, scored his right hand across the four deep marks made by Ben. The top half fell off with a splintering sound as Geoff’s Mau
claws cut clean through. The class gasped. Their teacher gave a slow blink.
‘You’ve got some promising talent here,’ he said. ‘Felicity must’ve been thrilled to find you, Ben. Yusuf, nice footwork, tight circling. Cecile, good sharp senses.
The rest of you. . . ah, you’ll soon be up to scratch.’
Tiffany sat with her chin in her hands, wondered what TV she was missing tonight. She felt a touch on the
beat
you. . .?’
‘But who was it in that room under the stairs?’
‘If I’d heard that scream I’d’ve been outta there. . .’
They were lapping it up. For Tiffany it was different. It came too close. The more Ben talked of his ordeal, of loneliness and helplessness, darkness and captivity, the more her own nerves rang,
like a glass, in the note that would shatter them. This made the second shock even harder to bear. When Ben revealed that his prison was a derelict station called Hermitage, Tiffany fled the church
hall in tears.
‘I knew where you were,’ she said the next day, when an anxious Ben phoned her from his school during morning break. ‘Something in me knew.’
In the dead of Saturday night she had stood in Hermitage Road, drawn by a gut feeling. Turning to the internet she proved her guess correct. In the 1960s, when the Victoria Line was dug, a
station had been planned between Finsbury Park and Seven Sisters, before construction was abandoned for reasons unknown. It would have been on that very spot.
‘I was right there,’ said Tiffany. ‘Directly above you. And I left you down there to rot.’
‘You didn’t know I was missing, remember?’ said Ben. ‘It’s okay. Geoff got me out.’
Yes, exactly
, Tiffany cried inside.
It should have been me. Not some stranger.
Her cruel words to Ben had turned out to be true. ‘I said you’d never get any help from
me. And you didn’t.’
But she was wrong about that.
On Friday she dragged herself to the pashki class, arriving last of all. Geoff White was there again. His leather jacket and jeans had been replaced by a rumpled black outfit he called a
pashkigi, its sleeveless tunic showing off arms that looked hard as iron. He asked her if she minded him taking the lesson. She sat in silence while the others pelted Geoff with questions: who were
the sinister kids who had abducted Ben? What was that Hermitage place? He quelled them with a stare.
‘No,’ he said. ‘First you’ve got to give me something. I don’t like wasting my time, and I don’t like putting minors in danger. So I need to know. How well
did Felicity teach you?’
Better than you ever could
, thought Tiffany. Geoff lined them up in the Sitting Cat pose and put them through their paces. He watched Daniel’s Chasing the Bird, Olly’s
ungainly Felasticon, Susie’s Tailspin and Yusuf’s Ratbane Lunge. Most of the time his face was unreadable, although when Ben ran up the wall to place a glass of water on the high window
ledge, he clapped.
‘Nah,’ he said, when Ben offered to fetch it down. ‘Let the Sunday School figure it out.’
Tiffany felt as if she were watching her snowman melt. It wasn’t fair. She was the one who’d kept this club going. Who’d booked the stupid hall and collected –
tried
to collect the money. Who’d vainly trawled the net in search of new things to teach the class.
Her
class.
As for her, nothing went right. Her balance wavered and she couldn’t feel her whiskers. It was like being back in Miss Fuller’s P.E. class. When Geoff brought round a plank of
scratched chipboard to test their Mau claws, her heart sank. Summoning that invisible cutting energy at one’s fingertips required total concentration, and hers was miles away. She bodged her
way through the remaining exercises, sat down and sulked.
Geoff held the chipboard aloft and, with a flick of his wrist, scored his right hand across the four deep marks made by Ben. The top half fell off with a splintering sound as Geoff’s Mau
claws cut clean through. The class gasped. Their teacher gave a slow blink.
‘You’ve got some promising talent here,’ he said. ‘Felicity must’ve been thrilled to find you, Ben. Yusuf, nice footwork, tight circling. Cecile, good sharp senses.
The rest of you. . . ah, you’ll soon be up to scratch.’
Tiffany sat with her chin in her hands, wondered what TV she was missing tonight. She felt a touch on the
Similar Books
