midnight tryst, dying in a compromising embrace.
Smudge pointed out the exact spot where this tragedy had occurred. She spread her arms to indicate the extent of the human pancake found the next morning.
‘We believe you,’ said Amy, ‘thousands wouldn’t.’
Smudge stuck out her lower lip. She was very fond of this story. At different times, she had identified six or seven different combinations of teachers in old photographs as the doomed couple. Until 1914, several moustached, jolly-looking masters could be found among the mistresses. Since the War, the only men in the pictures were Ponce Bainter and Joxer.
* * *
Amy knew it was down to her and Kali.
They couldn’t go back the way they came. They’d had to move quickly to avoid the Tamora patrol commanded by Crowninshield II, the ventriloquist whip’s younger, nastier sister. After taking prisoners, Crowninshield II performed harsh interrogations. Really, what she liked was tying people up. She practised knots on naive Firsts lured to her cell with the promise of lemonade. She might even have got in trouble for it if her sister weren’t a whip.
Together, Amy and Kali looked up the cliff.
‘There
might
be a path,’ said Amy.
‘For
you
, maybe…’
‘You’re a decent climber, Kali.’
They looked at Inchfawn and Smudge.
‘If we ditch the baggage, it’s a Stain. A whole mess of Stains, doll.’
Amy admitted it. Desdemona didn’t abandon its own.
Kali hefted her wooden rifle.
‘If this gat were the real deal, we could ventilate ’em a little, put ’em out of our misery.’
Smudge heard that and was alarmed.
‘She’s just joshing,’ said Amy.
Smudge not only spread wild stories, but believed them. It would be all over School tomorrow that Kali had killed several girls and buried them in the herb garden.
Inchfawn sat down and looked at her big clunky wristwatch. It was her prize possession, handed on from a brother who’d been in the trenches. If the hour-hand was pointed at the sun, it worked as a compass – but the day was overcast, if not actually raining, and they already knew which direction they needed to take. It was just that they couldn’t go that way easily.
Amy’s toe turned something out of the shingle. An old cricket ball, seams expanded but holding together. The School pitch was near enough to the edge of the cliff that balls could be hit for a six into the sea.
Suddenly, they were surrounded.
Kali threw away her useless wooden rifle. She reached under her knee-length khaki skirt to pull a long, straight knife from a holster strapped to her thigh. Not QMWAACC regulation issue. Amy hefted her wooden rifle by the barrel like a hockey stick, hoping to give the enemy a good sloshing.
‘Screw off, mugs!’ shouted Kali.
Inchfawn had her hands up, in surrender – the weed. Smudge fumbled with her ill-kept rifle, which came to pieces in her hands.
Kali held up her knife and bared her teeth.
A
crack!
sounded. Then, a curtailed ping-
nyeow
!
A shot, and a ricochet.
If Desdemona had knives, trust Tamora to bring real guns.
‘I say, you gels are playing rough,’ declared Smudge. ‘Get things in proportion, why don’t you?’ – which was rich, coming from her. ‘A damsel could get damaged.’
Another shot, and a spray of pebbles kicked up at Smudge’s legs.
Amy looked at the enemy and realised there was a mistake. These weren’t Crowninshield II’s rope-happy Campfire Comanches. Even She-With-No-Mercy Aire wouldn’t go this far.
There were eight or nine of them. Slight by grown-up standards, but not all – or not
even
– girls. They wore loose black clothes and matching hoods with eye-holes. Several had revolvers. One held a shotgun.
‘Sticky crumpets!’ exclaimed Amy.
The one who had shot at them was definitely not a girl. He had a red tuft on the forehead of his hood, a badge of leadership. It looked like a flame. Was it the symbol of a secret society? He took careful aim at Smudge and she shut her
Smudge pointed out the exact spot where this tragedy had occurred. She spread her arms to indicate the extent of the human pancake found the next morning.
‘We believe you,’ said Amy, ‘thousands wouldn’t.’
Smudge stuck out her lower lip. She was very fond of this story. At different times, she had identified six or seven different combinations of teachers in old photographs as the doomed couple. Until 1914, several moustached, jolly-looking masters could be found among the mistresses. Since the War, the only men in the pictures were Ponce Bainter and Joxer.
* * *
Amy knew it was down to her and Kali.
They couldn’t go back the way they came. They’d had to move quickly to avoid the Tamora patrol commanded by Crowninshield II, the ventriloquist whip’s younger, nastier sister. After taking prisoners, Crowninshield II performed harsh interrogations. Really, what she liked was tying people up. She practised knots on naive Firsts lured to her cell with the promise of lemonade. She might even have got in trouble for it if her sister weren’t a whip.
Together, Amy and Kali looked up the cliff.
‘There
might
be a path,’ said Amy.
‘For
you
, maybe…’
‘You’re a decent climber, Kali.’
They looked at Inchfawn and Smudge.
‘If we ditch the baggage, it’s a Stain. A whole mess of Stains, doll.’
Amy admitted it. Desdemona didn’t abandon its own.
Kali hefted her wooden rifle.
‘If this gat were the real deal, we could ventilate ’em a little, put ’em out of our misery.’
Smudge heard that and was alarmed.
‘She’s just joshing,’ said Amy.
Smudge not only spread wild stories, but believed them. It would be all over School tomorrow that Kali had killed several girls and buried them in the herb garden.
Inchfawn sat down and looked at her big clunky wristwatch. It was her prize possession, handed on from a brother who’d been in the trenches. If the hour-hand was pointed at the sun, it worked as a compass – but the day was overcast, if not actually raining, and they already knew which direction they needed to take. It was just that they couldn’t go that way easily.
Amy’s toe turned something out of the shingle. An old cricket ball, seams expanded but holding together. The School pitch was near enough to the edge of the cliff that balls could be hit for a six into the sea.
Suddenly, they were surrounded.
Kali threw away her useless wooden rifle. She reached under her knee-length khaki skirt to pull a long, straight knife from a holster strapped to her thigh. Not QMWAACC regulation issue. Amy hefted her wooden rifle by the barrel like a hockey stick, hoping to give the enemy a good sloshing.
‘Screw off, mugs!’ shouted Kali.
Inchfawn had her hands up, in surrender – the weed. Smudge fumbled with her ill-kept rifle, which came to pieces in her hands.
Kali held up her knife and bared her teeth.
A
crack!
sounded. Then, a curtailed ping-
nyeow
!
A shot, and a ricochet.
If Desdemona had knives, trust Tamora to bring real guns.
‘I say, you gels are playing rough,’ declared Smudge. ‘Get things in proportion, why don’t you?’ – which was rich, coming from her. ‘A damsel could get damaged.’
Another shot, and a spray of pebbles kicked up at Smudge’s legs.
Amy looked at the enemy and realised there was a mistake. These weren’t Crowninshield II’s rope-happy Campfire Comanches. Even She-With-No-Mercy Aire wouldn’t go this far.
There were eight or nine of them. Slight by grown-up standards, but not all – or not
even
– girls. They wore loose black clothes and matching hoods with eye-holes. Several had revolvers. One held a shotgun.
‘Sticky crumpets!’ exclaimed Amy.
The one who had shot at them was definitely not a girl. He had a red tuft on the forehead of his hood, a badge of leadership. It looked like a flame. Was it the symbol of a secret society? He took careful aim at Smudge and she shut her
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