Soul Stealer (15 page)

“This,” Sebastian explained, “refers to divinity and power. It is the symbol from which Christians derived the halo. However,
the divinity need not be that of Our Lord but also of the powers of darkness.”

The second bore the emblem:

“It was first used,” Sebastian stated, “by the ancient Greeks to represent the world. It is today still used by astrologers
to represent the world upon which we live.”

On the last was:

“This,” he paused to allow its significance to sink in, “is the symbol for the essence of the human soul.”

“What were the keys made of?” Tim inquired.

“The first of gold, the second of silver, the last of platinum.”

“And the furnace key which Tim found is made of all three,” Pip remarked. “That must be the most important.”

“A furnace, power, the world and the soul,” Tim thought aloud. “Mix them all together in a cauldron with eye of bat and toe
of toad and what do you have…?”

“Without your fanciful additions,” Sebastian replied, “a grand and terrifying ambition.”

“Z
oland’s house,” Tim considered as they sat at a table in the dining hall, “is going to be easier said than done.” He bit into
an apple. “Scrotton’s hole only had guardian worms.” He winced at the thought. “It didn’t have doors and windows with locks.
And while it’s true that as long as we’re in school, so is Yoland, and therefore we know where he is, I don’t see how we can
take advantage of that. We certainly can’t risk the sick-note scam again so soon and we can hardly stake the joint out. What’s
more, Scrotton must have told his master that someone had searched his burrow on the day Sebastian supposedly had the runs.
If we’re not careful, Yoland’ll put two and two together and make 193.”

“Two plus two equals four,” Sebastian interrupted, perplexed by Tim’s arithmetic. “And what are the runs?”

“Use your imagination,” Tim retorted.

“Surely if we do get in,” Pip added, “won’t he have a warning system like Scrotton has?”

“Assuredly,” Sebastian answered, which did little to allay Pip’s uneasiness.

They were still contemplating the problem an hour later when, during a library study session, the answer to it fell into their
laps.

Halfway through the period, a Year Nine boy entered, handing a slip of paper to the librarian, who briefly perused it then
announced, “Notice from the headmaster. Due to an emergency staff meeting, classes will end ten minutes early today. Pupils
are to vacate the grounds as quickly as possible and by four o’clock at the latest. School buses will arrive ten minutes early.
Only those involved in the soccer trials may remain on school property, congregating in the gym. It is hoped the trials will
commence at five-fifteen.”

“You know what this means?” Pip whispered from behind a book on the history of costume. “For as long as the staff meeting
lasts, Yoland will be here. And we’ve got until about a quarter past five.”

“How so?” Tim replied.

“Think, dumbo!” Pip came back at him. “The team trials don’t start until five-fifteen when the staff leave the meeting.”

No sooner was the lesson over than Tim phoned his mother on his mobile phone and asked her if he, Pip and Sebastian could
go to the cinema straight after school. She agreed and said she would pick them up at eight o’clock at Burger King, giving
Sebastian a lift as well. “Sure thing!” he answered and hung up.

Mounted on the corridor wall by the school secretary’s office was a map of the town and the surrounding countryside, color-coded
to show the streets and areas from which the school drew its pupil intake. Tim quickly identified Keats Road, a suburban street
across the other side of the town and just outside the school’s district.

“It won’t be wise for us to approach or leave the place together,” Tim decided. “A threesome might attract attention.”

“And,” Pip added, “if we meet Yoland when we’re on our way back, one can offer an excuse easier than three.”

They each studied a different route, memorizing it.

When the final bell rang, Sebastian hung back to watch as Yoland headed for the lecture theatre where the staff meeting was
being held. Pip made sure Scrotton was on his way to his burrow while Tim joined the trail of pupils walking home through
the town, the number growing thinner the farther it went from the school.

One street away from Keats Road, Tim went into a corner shop, bought himself a large Mars bar and lingered around outside
eating it until the others caught up with him.

Pip looked at her watch. “Four-twenty,” she stated. “To be on the safe side, we’ve got forty minutes.”

They made off down Keats Road. It was a quiet suburban street lined with laburnum and lime trees. Every so often along the
roadside, there was a sandpit for dogs. The buildings mostly dated from the 193os or 194os, semi-detached houses with pebble-dashed
walls; a few
were bungalows of the same age. The gardens were neat, the flowerbeds well-kept, hedges trimmed, lawns mown and gates painted.
Most of the properties had garages at the end of short concrete drives.

Number forty-seven was a bungalow that looked no different from any of the others. It had a dark slate roof, the walls rendered
and painted white. The front door and windows were obviously new, made of white PVC and double-glazed.

Checking up and down the street that no one was observing them, they slipped one by one through the garden gate, pushed their
school bags under a holly bush and set off to walk around the bungalow on a small gravel path which encircled it. Their every
step crunched on the stones underfoot.

“Nifty early-warning system,” Tim remarked.

The rear garden was lined with a tall privet hedge that prevented any neighbors from seeing what they were doing.

The curtains on all the windows but one were open. Through them, they could see the lounge contained a settee, a low table
with a glass top, an armchair and a television. Against one wall stood a bookshelf lined with chemistry textbooks. In the
dining room was a modern dining table and four chairs while in the bedroom there was a double bed and a chest of drawers,
a wardrobe and two chairs. The kitchen was basic — a gas range, a fridge and a washing machine installed under the work surface.
Against one wall stood a kitchen table and two chairs.

“You know,” Pip remarked, “it doesn’t look — I don’t know — lived in. There’s no pictures or ornaments.”

“He is a fastidious man,” Sebastian said as if in explanation.

“Never mind Yoland’s neatness,” Tim said. “How do we get in?” He pointed to the window latches. “Even they’ve got key-operated
locks.” He glanced at Sebastian. “How about you do your padlock trick?”

“I fear I cannot,” Sebastian answered. “To do so, I must hold the lock in my hand.”

“So that’s it,” Pip decided. “We can’t get in without smashing a window or something.”

As she was speaking, Tim set off to walk around the bungalow a second time. Where an old garage abutted the house, there grew
a tall, dense buddleia bush, the conical flower heads gone to seed. Parting the tangle of branches and peering through them,
he could make out a small wood-framed window, the sill rotted through, the paint peeling and the glass hazy with dirt. Pressing
his face to the pane, he surveyed the interior of the garage and returned to the others.

“We’re in!” he announced, grinning broadly. “There’s a window in the garage and a door from the garage into the house.”

“It’s going to be a tight fit,” Pip remarked when she saw the window. “You shouldn’t’ve pigged out on that Mars bar.”

Tim tested the window. The latch was shut.

“Return to square one,” Pip said.

“Watch and wait, listen and learn,” said Tim pontifically.

The edge of the pane of glass by the latch was cracked, the putty holding it in place dried and breaking away in chunks.

“One more crack won’t be noticed,” Tim declared and, picking up a pointed stone from beneath the buddleia, screwed his eyes
tight and gently tapped at the point where the crack met the frame. In less than a minute, there was a hole in the glass big
enough for him to get his index finger through. Taking care not to cut himself, he pushed his finger through and flicked the
latch handle over on itself.

“Bingo!” he murmured. “Give me a leg up. I’ll go inside and open the back door for you.”

Pip bit her lip as he eased himself in and disappeared from sight.

The garage was empty except for a large cardboard box containing a replacement for the rotted window through which Tim had
just slipped, some gardening tools and a very ancient workbench on to which he lowered himself. Closing the window to cover
his tracks, Tim then jumped to the floor, making sure not to step in a covering of white chalk-like dust on the floor: the
last thing he wanted to do was to leave footprints. The door into the house was locked, but the mechanism was faulty and a
quick jerk opened it.

His heart pounding, Tim stepped into Yoland’s house, shutting the door behind him.

He rapidly went down a short passageway to the kitchen and, opening the security lock on the back door, let Pip and Sebastian
in.

“Over to you, Sebastian,” Tim said. “It’s your show from here on. Where do we start?”

“It is my considered opinion,” Sebastian replied, “we might be well advised to commence in the room in
which the closed curtains preclude the entry of day-Hght.”

“And in English we say?” Tim replied sarcastically

Opening the door of what must have been the second bedroom, they stepped in. Weak daylight filtered through the closed curtains.
The room was furnished as a study. A low, two-drawer, gray metal filing-cabinet stood against a wall, to one side of which
was pinned a cork noticeboard. The papers attached to it concerned school matters and were neatly arranged to overlap each
other. Cautiously, Tim tested one of the cabinet drawers. It was unlocked.

“What does it contain?” Sebastian inquired.

Tim quickly thumbed through the folders. They contained past examination papers, teaching notes for chemical experiments,
staff-meeting agendas, teaching-union information, past pupil records, government education directives and local-education-authority
circulars.