Soul Stealer (25 page)

“That’s a weird name,” one of the cheekier boys remarked, trying it on with a new teacher who was, judging by his age and
appearance, fresh out of college.

Mr. Loudacre made no immediate response, but his face hardened to stone and he stared intensely at the boy through eyes narrowed
to little more than malevolent slits.

“And your name is…?” he inquired at length, each word redolent with anger.

“Newbould, sir,” the boy murmured and he shrank down in his seat, pretending to busy himself with the contents of his bag.

“Let’s get this quite clear from the start,” Mr. Loudacre began, surveying the class. “I will abide no rudeness, no insolence
and no tomfoolery. Now,” he picked up a pile of printed worksheets, “Miss Bates has set a project for you to do which I shall
supervise. It concerns the skeleton of a bird.” He turned and opened the door of a cupboard. Inside were a number of animal
skeletons mounted on wire frames. “You,” he pointed to Scrotton. “I wonder if you’d mind doing the honors and take out the
skeleton of the chicken.”

Without replying, Scrotton went to the cupboard and gingerly removed the specimen, sliding its base carefully onto the teacher’s
bench.

“Thank you,” Mr. Loudacre said, revolving the skeleton
so that it was side-on to the class. Then, addressing Scrotton again, he added, “Hand out these sheets.”

Scrotton took a wedge of printed drawings of the chicken’s skeleton and started to make his way around the class.

“As I indicate the bones of the skeleton,” Mr. Loud-acre continued, “I want you to label your diagrams.”

There was a general fumbling for pencils and rulers.

“You will notice,” the teacher continued, “that a bird’s bones are particularly thin. This is to reduce weight and permit
a degree of flexibility in order to make flight possible. If birds were built like Bruce Willis they’d never leave the ground.”

He laughed self-indulgently at his own joke, removed a ballpoint pen from his pocket and began to indicate different bones,
writing the names of some of them on the whiteboard with a green marker. For thirty minutes, the class concentrated on labeling
the bones. When they were done, Mr. Loudacre began dictating notes as to the function of each major bone, pointing out that
the larger they were the more muscle attachment they carried. At the end of the lesson, the labeled diagrams were collected,
once again by Scrotton, and the class was dismissed. Mr. Loudacre stood by the door to see them out of the room and down the
corridor.

“So what do you think?” Tim asked as they walked out into the playground.

“He chose Scrotton,” Sebastian replied.

“And he asked him to do the honors,” Tim added. “Who does that remind you of? And did you see how he looked at Newbould? If
looks could kill…” He drew his index finger across his throat.

“Furthermore,” Sebastian continued, “he’s a biologist — the study of life.”

“Lastly,” Tim concluded, “there’s his name.”

“What’re you two going on about?” Pip inquired, taking a muesli bar out of her pocket and unwrapping it.

“Nothing strike you as odd, sis?” Tim asked.

Pip looked perplexed.

“About what?”

“Miss Bates’s stand-in. The substitute guy.”

“No. Why should it? Substitute teachers’re as common as wasps at picnics. Here today, gone next week.”

“Think about it, sis.”

Pip shrugged and put the bar between her teeth.

“Think of his name,” Tim pressed her. “Mr. Loud-acre. Mr. David Loudacre, Mr. D. Loudacre.”

It was as if Pip had forgotten she had the muesli bar in her mouth. She froze, and it was at least fifteen seconds before
her hand lowered and she removed the bar from between her lips.

“Oh! My God!” she whispered timorously “It’s de Loudéac. It’s Malodor!”

“Couldn’t you tell from the pendant?” Tim said.

Pip looked a little awkward and said, “I’ve not got it on.”

“What!” Tim replied, his anger roused. “Why the hell not? What do you think it’s for?”

“I didn’t want Scrotton to try and nick it again. It was Queen Joan’s,” she added defensively.

“I don’t care if it was Cleopatra’s or the Queen of Sheba’s. You…”

“This disputatious quarrel is academic,” Sebastian interjected. “What is done is done.”

“He must have recognized us,” said Tim.

“Probably,” Sebastian answered. “Yet it matters not, for he will not have expected you to have recognized him, and therefore
he will not feel threatened or at risk. As for me,” Sebastian looked himself up and down and ran his fingers through his hair.
It had grown at least a centimeter since Pip had restyled it and had become distinctly spiky. “I hardly appear as I did.”

“Say no more!” Tim exclaimed.

“I was not intending so to do,” Sebastian replied.

“Shall we return to planet earth?” Pip suggested, regaining some of her composure. “What we want to know is why is he here
and what’s he up to?”

They reached the far corner of the playground and turned towards the horse chestnut tree. Most of the leaves had fallen, so
it was easy to be sure that Scrotton was not squatting in the boughs like a malicious rook.

“It seems abundantly apparent,” Sebastian said, “that Loudacre, de Loudéac, Malodor — call him what you will — is assisting
Yoland in the creation of the Scrotton replicates. As to what other part he will play in the spreading of evil, time will
reveal.”

Just before they left school that afternoon, the Atom Club members gathered in Chemistry Laboratory One, to be addressed by
Yoland.

“On Friday, as I am sure I need not remind you,” he announced, “we are making our visit to Jasper Point, departing in the
school minibus at noon. You will bring packed lunches, which are to be consumed en route. School bags may be taken, but they
must be left in the minibus during our visit. No valuables may be brought.
Do not bring a camera. Photography is not permitted at Jasper Point for obvious security reasons. You will be required to
bring a ballpoint pen.”

The laboratory door opened.

“As you will all know from your primary school, all school outings must be accompanied by two or more members of staff…”

The club members looked around. Tim, Pip and Sebastian had no need to: they knew who had just entered.

Loudacre approached the demonstration desk and stood next to Yoland.

“With the German exchange, we are somewhat short of teachers this week,” Yoland said, “so Mr. Loudacre has kindly agreed to
step into the breach.”

Yoland smiled at Loudacre and turned back to the pupils.

“I need not say that your behavior must be exemplary,” he went on. “Not only are you ambassadors for the school but you are
also entering an environment fraught with danger. You will do exactly as you are told at all times. You do not wander off,
you pay attention to the Jasper Point staff, who will not only be mindful of your safety, but will impart to you much fascinating
information of which you will take notes on worksheets provided. We should be on site for about two hours and return to the
school at approximately four o’clock. Kindly remind your parents. School buses will not depart until after our return. Any
questions? Very well, off you go. I’m sure we’ll all have a most interesting day.”

As they left the laboratory, Tim muttered under his breath, “Of that we can be as sure as big tigers have large stripes.”

T
he white minibus was parked to one side of the school gates, the school crest and name emblazoned on the side. Yoland sat
in the driver’s seat, against which leaned the old attaché case Pip had last seen under the desk in his study. At the bus
door stood Loudacre, marking off each pupil’s name on a list as they boarded. To each he smiled pleasantly and made a friendly
comment.

Passing close to him, Pip just discerned the faint odor of a carton of apple juice past its sell-by date and sour milk. It
made her feel slightly sick, although whether from the odor of the teacher or her own fear she was not sure. The thought of
traveling in the confines of a minibus with Malodor was not an enticing one.

“Got Queen’s Joan’s bauble on?” Tim asked Pip in an undertone.

“No point, really,” she answered. “We all know where the evil is. It would be vibrating all day long like a bee in your bra.”

“A vespa in your vest,” Sebastian suggested.

“A what?” Tim retorted. “A motor scooter in her vest!”

“Vespa,”
Sebastian added disconsolately, his attempt at a joke falling flat, “is Latin for a wasp.”

Once in the vehicle, Pip, Sebastian and Tim sat about halfway back. Loudacre installed himself in the seat by the door, while
Scrotton was by the emergency exit at the back. On the penultimate row of seats was a large, dark-blue bag with handles and
printed with the name of a leading sports-equipment manufacturer.

“Please, sir,” Tim asked Loudacre with feigned naivete, “what’s that bag for?”

Loudacre looked at it as if noticing it for the first time and replied, “I’ve no idea. I think it must have been left by the
last people to use the bus. That, I think, was the First Eleven soccer team yesterday afternoon.”

“Like, yeah!” Tim muttered to Sebastian. “Sergeant Major Form-a-Line forgetting the gear? I think not…”

Yoland started the engine, and a cloud of smoke erupted briefly from the exhaust.

“Does everyone have their seat belt on?” Yoland called out.

Loudacre made his way down the minibus like an air hostess checking passengers before takeoff and confirmed they did. The
gearbox grated and the minibus lurched forward.

Taking a main road towards the coast, it was not long before there appeared on the horizon five huge square buildings, painted
gray, from which rows of tall, high-tension pylons ranged out across the countryside.

“Looks like they’re marching across the land, a steel army on the advance,” said Pip.

As she spoke, she caught sight of Loudacre’s face. A tiny smile flickered across his lips.

Yoland slowed the minibus, turning left off the main road down a well-maintained side road. On the corner was a small signpost
to Cockleton and a much larger one which read: National Power —Jasper Point Nuclear Power Station: 6 miles.

“Six miles!” Pip exclaimed. “Those buildings must be vast. I thought they were no more than a mile off.”

Some way down the road, they arrived at the village of Cockleton. On entering it, Yoland had to pull onto the side of the
road to allow a convoy of seven massive, high-sided trucks, preceded by a police escort, to pass in the opposite direction.

“Nuclear waste,” Tim remarked.

Most of the cottages, some of them thatched, faced on to the road. They were splattered with mud as high as the windows. The
bushes in the gardens were discolored with a thick layer of dingy dust. The pub sign badly needed repainting, and the thatch
was tattered where the trucks had rubbed against the eaves.

“Must’ve been a pretty place before they built the power station,” Tim remarked, as the minibus drove along what must once
have been a picturesque dockside. It was now just a derelict quay with the hulk of a fishing boat lying half sunk in mud,
surrounded by rank reeds.

As they left the village, Loudacre leaned across from his seat and started to talk to Yoland. Sebastian casually touched Tim’s
shoulder and cast a glance at the sports bag. Tim gave it a cursory look, then touched his foot against Pip’s ankle under
the seat. She followed his eye.

Whatever was in the bag seemed to be moving.

Scrotton, catching Tim’s eye, snarled, “Wot yer think yer starin’ at?” He gave the bag a short, vicious kick.

The power station security gates were manned by two security guards and four policemen each wearing a black flak jacket and
armed with — as Tim noted with a shiver of excitement — an MP5 sub-machine gun.

“Best anti-terrorist weapon in the world,” Tim declared, with all the eagerness of a gun fanatic at an international arms
fair.

After the security guards had inspected Yoland’s pass, the gates opened electronically and the minibus moved forward to park
in a visitor’s space. No sooner had Loudacre opened the doors than a man in white overalls and a gaudy-yellow hard hat approached
them.

“Good afternoon,” he greeted them cheerily. “Welcome to Jasper Point. If you would all gather around me? Teachers as well.”

Everybody tumbled out of the bus and encircled him.

“My name is Mr. Clayton, and I am your official guide this afternoon,” he introduced himself. “Our tour will take about an
hour and a half. Before we set off, perhaps you would all like to pin one of these on your clothing.” From his pocket, he
produced a number of orange plastic badges. “These,” he explained, “are called dosimeters. They display how much radiation
you have been exposed to. By the end of the afternoon, we shall see you have received no measurable radiation exposure at
all. Contrary to public opinion, Jasper Point is very safe indeed. If you’ll follow me?”