Wicked! (73 page)

‘No you don’t,’ said Hengist, who was bored with Ofsted. He was due at dinner five minutes ago, was getting a reputation for lateness, and wanted sex now. As if in sympathy, the rain was drumming its fingers on the window. Throwing a log on the fire, which put up a shower of orange sparks, he took Janna’s ankles and parted them like scissors, then kissed his way up her warm, scented, freckled thighs.

He loved it when she went quiet, but, surprised by her lack of response – by now she should be writhing, gasping and growing damp – he looked up. She’d fallen asleep.

72

The rage and humiliation of Ashton and Crispin knew no bounds. Ashton, despite his soft features, his lisp and his pretty hands, was a thug who bullied Crispin as relentlessly as everyone else.

‘I want evidence to get wid of Janna Curtis,’ he ordered his deputy the following morning. ‘I don’t want her or Larks bouncing back.’

Janna’s and Larks’s euphoria over Ofsted had been sharply terminated the following week by a couple of knifings in the Shakespeare Estate and a horrific sex murder just over the border in nearby Rutminster. Bethany Watson, the sweetest ten-year-old, had been raped, strangled, then chucked under a pile of rotting hay in a cow byre, leaving a devastated and terrified community. Police were conducting house-to-house searches. Hordes of media hung around, scathingly referring to Larks as ‘the Shakespeare Estate sink school’.

Larks mothers were increasingly jittery about their children having to walk home on increasingly dark evenings, because the bus stop had been moved. There were sightings of prowlers everywhere.

Chief Inspector Gablecross had been seconded to Rutminster to lead the investigation. Earlier in the term he had instructed one of his junior officers, PC Cuthbert, to keep an eye on Larks and to break up fights in the playground or at going-home time, when tensions grew high.

PC Cuthbert, despite his blond curls and fresh face, was tough, ambitious, zero-tolerant and determined to rid the town of crime. Influenced by Tim Gablecross and his wife Mags, he was unusual among his colleagues in that he liked Larks kids and felt they had a raw deal. His presence had been a definite plus.

Another plus of the term had been Lily’s lectures to the newly formed Wildlife Club. Frantic not to let S and C sell off any part of Larks’s beautiful land, Janna had been determined to establish them as a wildlife sanctuary and had been much heartened by Wade Hargreaves’s approval.

Lily would arrive with a bootful of plum jam doughnuts and ancient binoculars weighed down with Ascot, Kempton and Goodwood labels and bear the Wildlife Club off on rambles round the grounds, identifying coloured leaves falling from the trees and birds that flocked to the bird table.

They had also sighted roe deer, muntjac, squirrels, rabbits, several foxes and, on a very mild afternoon, an adder asleep on a sunlit pile of leaves, which provoked screams of terror from the children and Monster into picking up a branch.

‘Don’t hurt him,’ Lily had cried. ‘Adders are a protected species.’

‘His parents must’ve had unprotected sex to produce him,’ observed Feral. ‘Nasty killing machine.’

‘They ought to practise safe sex,’ said Kylie, ‘then they wouldn’t produce any more babies.’

‘Unlike you,’ said Johnnie Fowler.

The adder had retreated into the blond grasses.

The pond had also become a focus of interest. The children loved swaying across Wally’s narrow bridge to the island on which stood a pale blue duck house, surrounded by willows and white poplars garlanded with brambles and wild roses.

Here, to Lily’s great excitement, they sighted a greyish-brown creature covered in red warts, which turned out to be a very rare natterjack toad.

‘Looks like somefing the witches’d cook wiv in
Macbeth
,’ said Pearl.

‘They probably did.’ Lily bent down to admire the toad’s bright green eyes. ‘Natterjacks weren’t protected in those days. You must take a photograph, Graffi. Thank you,’ she added, as Feral hoisted her to her feet.

Partner, who was devoted to Lily, always accompanied them on these jaunts. The Wildlife Club adored them because Lily was easily distracted into telling them stories about her days in the Wrens, the exotic places she’d visited with her late husband the ambassador and about her wild nieces and nephews who were mostly artists.

The children had instantly taken to Lily because of her genuine kindness, sense of fun and her friendship with Feral who, now her lawn no longer needed mowing, was chopping logs, bringing in coal and sharing spliffs and a passion for Arsenal.

Feral would call her on one of his stolen mobiles: ‘’Lo, Lily, how yer doin’, man?’ and chat for hours about Sol and Thierry’s latest exploits. Lily had started a scrapbook of Arsenal cuttings and encouraged Feral to practise and play as much as possible. Both were secretly very proud of this friendship.

It was Sam Spink, discovering Lily was being paid forty pounds in cash per nature ramble out of the school tin, who predictably sneaked to Ashton Douglas that Lily was entering the school when she hadn’t been cleared by the Criminal Records Bureau to work with children.

Ashton promptly banned Lily from Larks on the very November day when a contingent from Bagley Hall was coming over to take part in a ramble. With the honour of Larks at stake, Lily had done a huge amount of cooking, and was understandably upset.

‘Hardly likely at my age to jump on children in broad daylight.’

‘Quite right,’ agreed Johnnie Fowler. ‘Lily’s too old to be a kiddy-fiddler.’

‘We want Lily,’ chorused the Wildlife Club.

But S and C were adamant.

‘When it’s a question of children’s safety . . .’ Ashton told an enraged Janna. ‘Can’t think how it’s gone on so long.’

‘Can’t be too careful,’ said Sam Spink sanctimoniously.

‘Sneak,’ hissed Janna.

As a result No-Joke Joan stepped in to lead the ramble.

‘Gratifying to have a committed professional,’ enthused Chally. ‘Joan is a formidable biologist.’

Joan, who’d been regaled with horror stories and instructed to spy by Alex Bruce, was curious to have a look at Larks.

Janna would have fought harder for Lily if she hadn’t been besieged by parents frantic about the Rutshire prowler. Yesterday morning Chantal had rung in to report that Kylie Rose was too stressed to come in having caught sight of a suspicious bearded character in a flat cap and dark glasses photographing girls in the playground. Later in the day, three of Year Seven complained they’d seen a bearded prowler lurking between the pond and the car park. Two of the asylum-seekers from Year Eight claimed with graphic mime the same prowler had been flashing on Smokers’ Bank.

Today, sightings were coming in thick and fast. What was Janna doing to safeguard the kids, demanded Kitten’s mother. Chantal Peck rang to say that, like the little soldier she was, Kylie would be coming in because she didn’t want to miss lessons. Or Jack Waterlane due from Bagley, thought Janna sourly.

Stormin’ Norman made the next call. Did Janna realize kiddy-fiddlers went both ways and what provision had she made to protect Martin. Janna had just put the phone down when a sobbing Pearl barged in in a bloodstained shirt, having cut herself.

‘My mum must be the only mum at Larks so unconcerned about her kid she hasn’t phoned in to make a fuss.’

‘Oh Pearl,’ sighed Janna, getting out her first-aid kit.

It would need more than Dettol and plaster to heal Pearl.

In assembly, Janna tried to calm everyone’s fears. ‘When you’re terrified, you sometimes see people who aren’t there.’

‘I saw him, miss, I saw his knife,’ came cries from all over the hall.

‘He’s got a beard and a big red willy wiv a purple knob on.’

‘That’s enough, Kitten. Make sure you go round in groups of three or four, and never walk home alone.’

‘No one wants to walk with me any more,’ sobbed Pearl.

‘Oh, shut up,’ snapped Kitten, throwing a hymn book at her.

Pearl was about to leap on Kitten, but, distracted by Janna’s news that good-looking PC Cuthbert would be along soon, she belted off to do her face.

It was a damp, cheerless day. Trees wrapped thick grey mist round their shoulders to protect their last leaves; crows cawed morosely; any minute Dracula’s carriage would rumble up the drive.

Joan, as if warding off the powers of darkness, rolled up in a calf-length Barbour, lace-up khaki gumboots and a sombrero worn over a headscarf, so only the lower half of her disapproving brick-red face was visible.

‘Like a rubber fetishist’s daydream,’ muttered Wally.

Joan was accompanied by a giggling Amber, Milly and Jade, a sneering Boffin, a very nervous Primrose Duddon, quivering like a nun entering a brothel, the Chinless Wanderers, armed with hipflasks, and the Cosmonaughties, who had all brought wads of greenbacks to purchase drugs from the pushers who only deserted the gates if PC Cuthbert hove in sight.

‘Why hasn’t Paris come?’ wailed Larks.

‘He had double Latin,’ explained Amber.

‘Oh, did he now,’ mocked Monster. ‘How fritefly posh.’

‘Watch it.’ Feral bounced his football fractionally faster, then, turning to Amber: ‘You’re looking good.’

‘Almost as good as you,’ murmured Amber.

‘Why, you’re hunkier than ever,’ said Milly, hugging Graffi.

‘Make sure the students keep away from the bushes,’ Chally advised Joan.

Aysha, who had been worried Xav would think her ugly because she had circles under her eyes from not being able to sleep for excitement about seeing him, was devastated when he didn’t turn up, although she’d probably have been too shy to speak to him.

‘I want some of Lily’s fruit cake,’ grumbled Rocky.

‘You’ve just had lunch, young man,’ reproved Joan bossily, then, blowing her whistle, set off into the mist.

Noticing Cosmo was as fatally glamorous as ever in his astrakhan coat, Pearl couldn’t resist trying to attract his attention.

‘I saw the prowler yesterday. I was having a quick tinkle in the bushes, and looking round saw his long lens pointing up my bum.’

‘Good thing it were only his lens,’ leered Monster.

‘He was horrible with a flat cap and a perv’s beard and shades.’ Pearl was famous for exaggeration, but as the mist thickened, everyone shivered and her words gave Milly the excuse to edge near Graffi, and Amber to sidle up to Feral, and Jack to put an arm round Kylie’s shoulders. After a cold night, leaves were falling in their thousands, descending without a fight to mould and enrich the earth below.

Joan strode ahead, pointing out different species.

‘Look at
Hedera helix
, commonly known as ivy, its little yellow flowers a last feast for the insects. Listen to them humming: hummmm,’ she went.

‘I want a doughnut,’ grumbled Monster. ‘Lily brings doughnuts ’n’ fudge ’n’ chocolate cake.’

Joan turned on him disapprovingly, ‘If you want to avoid obesity, young man, you should stop eating between meals.’

‘That’s an affront to my human dignity,’ spluttered Monster, reaching for his mobile. ‘I’m telling my mum.’

On Wildlife Club days, feeding the birds was always saved until the rambling party reached the bird table.

Aysha opened the tin, tipping out stale cake, pastry crusts, bacon and birdseed, as the others filled up the nets with nuts.

‘Christ, I’m starved,’ grumbled Feral, whipping a piece of sponge cake. ‘I missed lunch, ’spectin’ Lily’s doughnuts.’ He glared at Joan.

As the rambling party retreated, sharing Lily’s binoculars, the birds began to fly in.

‘That’s a fieldfare,’ called out Joan. ‘Listen to his cry.’ She went into a series of jerky, nervous whistles. ‘And here’s the redwing, tirra lira, tirra lira, whit, whit. Redwings come south from colder climes. At this time chaffinches and lapwings go round in flocks, you can recognize the lapwing, tirra lira, whoop whoop. There’s no need to laugh, Feral Jackson, must you mock everything?’

‘Cockadoodle do,’ murmured Graffi, sliding his hands inside Milly’s fleece.

‘Robin’s still singing his rich little song.’ Putting on a special face, Joan went into another frenzy of whistling and trilling, which had everyone holding their own or each other’s sides. Jack and Kylie vanished into the bushes.

‘I want a doughnut,’ moaned Rocky.

‘This is the mating call of the Feral Jackson.’ Amber gave three wolf whistles.

‘Don’t be silly, Amber. Robin will fight over his little bit of garden.’

‘Like I’d fight over you,’ whispered Graffi. ‘You are so beautiful,’ he added as he drew Milly into a clump of laurels.

As Joan peered into some long grass, Lando offered Pearl a slug of brandy.

‘How’s Paris?’ she asked.

‘Better,’ drawled Lando, ‘although he can still be moody and aggressive.’

‘Note the beech leaves shrivelling.’ Joan was pointing in all directions. ‘And evergreens in their dark dress like winter furniture: yews, bay trees and over there a Lawson cypress.’

‘Joan’s getting quite carried away,’ muttered Amber from behind a blackthorn copse.