Chapter Eighteen – Departure
It was a night she never wanted to repeat. When she was awake, she lay rigid, whilst currents of anger and sorrow swirled inside her. When she was asleep, she sank into a nightmare, she was back in the woods, all was dark, apart from a the vague form of Shergar and this time he was hitting her, instead of her him. He tore again and again at her face, until her skin was a mess. Then the night clouds parted, moonlight broke through, and she saw it was not Shergar, but Kellas tearing her apart.
In the morning, she woke early, confused. She tried to wipe away the blood and found her face was dry. Outside her icy room, the sky was a digital blue, impossibly pure, but savage. She could hear the wind shaking the windows, and saw the long grass on the slope bent double. She dressed slowly, thoughtfully. The Calgacos uniform felt less her own already. Too large, too stiff, it did not conform to her body, but hung heavy on her, like an ancient pair of drapes. She stared for a long time out the window. She needed time to arrange her face until it was as empty as the sky. She would be resolute. All her emotions she cut at the stem. They would not show themselves.
She was one of the first down to breakfast. The rest of the Feliformia juniors were still upstairs. It was the day after the Challenge Cup, and a Sunday; everyone got to lie in as long as they wanted. There were a few juniors, talking in muted voices, and she knew without listening what they were saying. Feliformia had won because Lennox had cheated.
She sat on her own and tried to close her ears to what was happening around her. Someone at a near table was saying Shergar and Godfrey had both been taken to hospital in the night.
She wanted to escape, but she had only just sat down: her porridge was still bubbling and her tea scalding.
Kearns walked by.
‘Pay a visit to Master Torkil after breakfast.'
He did not even break step.
She grimaced, and when she looked up, Kearns was gone. He had nothing else to say to her. She was not his concern anymore. She was leaving. She never had been a concern, simply a chore.
Her table stayed empty for the next ten minutes. Voices came and went over her head, words fell around her like rain: she shut her mind to them all. She hurried away as soon as she could. The rest of the Feliformia juniors were still upstairs; which was a small relief.
She went looking for Torkil. His courtyard was deserted: his tower cast a pencil like shadow across the flagstones. A lone chimney from the sloping roof leaked wisps of smoke; the windows in the tower room were clear as broken glass, and open were open wide. She was sure he was up there, watching and waiting.
The door at the base of the tower was slightly ajar. She paused, considering, and heard his high pitched voice.
‘Come.’
The tower was cold and draughty. As Lennox climbed the steps, she felt the wind gust, lifting her hair from her face. From the top of the stairs she saw a fire alive in the hearth. The wind churned through the room, making the flames fight amongst themselves. Lennox gripped her arms, and shivered. It was colder here than in the courtyard below. She looked at Torkil puzzled, but he had taken a seat at his desk, the epicentre of the room, and was focused on her, as if there were nothing unusual about sitting in the midst of a gale.
'Lennox.'
He did not invite her to sit. He stared at her with remorse, as if she were a mistake, his mistake.
'It has not been easy for you.'
It was true. It had not been easy. But only now, when she was on the brink of departure, she realised how desperately she wanted to stay.
'But you have done well here. You have proved a point...'
She wondered what he meant. As far as she could tell, she had proved nothing.
'...and proved it emphatically,' he continued.
His words were empty sounds. They had not wanted her, and now they were getting rid of her. That was all that mattered.
'I have been in contact with you father.’
Now she was listening. Two schools in two terms wasn't good, even for her. She normally lasted half a year, at least. Her father would not be pleased with her.
'He is a difficult person to track down!' Torkil raised his spiky eyebrows, and allowed himself a smile, one which Lennox did not return. Her father was as elusive as the famed Scottish wildcat, which was on the verge of extinction. He always had been. To him, being a father meant paying the bills, and keeping a low profile.
'It seems there was a misunderstanding. He wanted you to be sent to Pineham, the girl's school in Balraieg, but he couldn’t remember its name so he told Mr Grittle, your previous headmaster, to send you to the school near to Calgacos. Unfortunately it was a long distance phone call and Mr Grittle thought your father wanted to send you here, to us. But now I’ve spoken to your father and he’s made it clear he would like you to attend Pineham, as he originally planned.’
This was unexpected. Did this mean her father knew nothing of the Challenge Cup and what she had done? Lennox had expected to be expelled outright. Torkil had found another way to get rid of her, which was clever. She wondered why he had bothered.
‘I’ve also been in contact with the headmistress, Mrs Trance. They have a place available.’
Torkil paused long enough to let her think she had a choice, a chance to speak and declare her wishes, and then, when she tried to speak, he continued.
‘I’ve arranged for a taxi. Mrs Trance is expecting you.’
All she knew about Pineham was the walls were steep and red brick, and the lawns within, according to Shergar, immaculate. Shergar had also declared the girls to be easy prey if you could just get past the school's considerable defences. Nothing about Pineham appealed to her, but then no school ever appealed to her.
‘All that you need to do is pack your things. Your taxi will be in the courtyard at 10.'
It was a dismissal.
'Yes, Master.'
Calgacos washed its hands of her.
She went straight to her room. There were still only a few people about. Those she passed, looked away. When she was gone, she would be forgotten, like a pebble sank to the bottom of the pool. Kellas would never think of her again.
She had little to pack. A few clothes, a selection of books that she had scavenged from various schools, each one with a different, random, name inscribed within, her wash bag, perilously light, her empty wallet, her water bottle, a bunch of keys that opened houses she would never return to, an aged leather album. She was done in ten minutes.
She took herself to her fragile window, and stared out, not at the rugged slopes, but at the walls of the castle. It was a forbidding maze of sheer walls, windows cut like divots in its grey stone, and chimneys, tall and pointed, like a rocky precipice. Of all the schools she had stayed in, this one spoke to her soul; she liked the fact it was inhospitable, ancient and isolated. She buried her head in her hands. Pineham would be torment, after this place.
But she could not hide in her room until 10. There was one more thing she had to do. She picked up her bag, slung it on her back, and headed for the ancient eastern wing. It was, as always, subdued, like a church or a museum, housing relics. The Masters, fortunately, were either elsewhere, or tucked away behind closed doors.
When she reached Gnarle’s surgery, the door was shut. She knocked once, and entered. The Doctor was not there. It was perfect. She couldn’t believe her luck. She slipped through the empty room to the infirmary beyond, flung open the door in delight, and stared with dismay at the furrowed brow of Dr Gnarle.
‘Lennox,’ he said, as if he had been expecting her.
Mannik was sat with his back to Lennox. His head was bent, his shoulders sloping; he did not look up.
‘I’ll leave you two alone, for a second,’ Gnarle said and shuffled past into his surgery.
She crept forwards, shy, suddenly, for no reason. It was only Mannik.
What happened next caught her completely by surprise.
He turned, just his face, towards her. He had b
een ill for weeks, too ill for lessons, and she had been expecting to see him altered, weakened, wasted. Instead his face showed no signs of paleness, or weight loss. His eyes were a wide and venomous green, his skin deeper in tone, as if he had been out on the slopes, exposed to wind and sun. He looked healthier than she had ever seen him.
‘So you remembered me.’
‘I’m sorry. I know I should have come sooner. I was training, and there was so little time…’
It was feeble. She knew that. Maybe that was why he stopped listening. He bent his head once more and stared at his lap. Lennox realised he was holding a plain wooden box, its hinged wooden lid shut tight. She realised she had seen it before, but not in its finished state. This was what he had been endlessly whittling.
‘You’ve made it!’ she exclaimed.
He scowled at her.
‘What?’
‘That box in your hands. I never knew what you were making. I thought you were just…whittling.’
She was impressed. The lid was really tight. It was well made. But it seemed she’d said the wrong thing. Mannik rose, and placed the box very down, and pulled a blanket over it, obscuring it from her view.
‘Look. I am sorry. Really sorry, I didn’t come. I know I should have. But I had to come today. I have to say goodbye.’
Now it was his turn to be surprised.
‘They’re sending you away?’
‘Have you not heard what happened at the Challenge Cup?’
‘No.’
But she didn’t want to tell him. She didn’t want him to know. She didn’t want anyone to know.
'Well, I let everyone down. I got disqualified. So they’ve been in touch with my father, and they sorted out this whole mistake.’ She shrugged, just speaking his name brought down a heavy weight on her shoulders. ‘I should never have been here. I was supposed to go to Pineham.’
Mannik’s green eyes met hers.
‘And the Challenge Cup? What happened?’
‘Nothing. I just didn’t follow the rules.’
‘I thought there were no rules.’
‘No rules apart from the one about not using a weapon, and not drawing blood.’
‘You didn’t though, did you?’
‘Mannik I just came here to say goodbye.’
She took a step forward, and he looked down at the bed where his box lay, covered.
‘I’m sorry,’ she repeated. It seemed to be the only thing she could say. ‘I wish you were leaving too. I wish I had helped you.’
‘Me too.’
Another step from her. Another involuntary look from him.
‘Mannik. What’s in the box?’
He grabbed it from under its cover and grasped it to his chest. His hands were tight on the box: his knuckles white.
The door opened and Gnarle returned. He shuffled straight to Lennox and laid a hand on her elbow.
‘He’s not really ready yet for visitors,’ he said, ushering her back out the door.
She waited until the door was shut behind them.
‘He looks absolutely fine.’
There was no point keeping quiet. She was leaving. She knew from previous experience it meant you could say what you liked. It was the only perk.
‘Yes, he does,’ Gnarle agreed, ‘but he’s not.’
He walked her to the door of his own surgery, waved her forward.
‘It’s not that kind of illness.’
‘So what kind is it then?’ she demanded.
‘Have you ever heard of confidentiality?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then, you’ll know I can’t answer that question.’ Gnarle paused. ‘But Lennox…’
‘Yes.’
‘A doctor gives confidentiality to everyone.’
She waited for something more but nothing came. Gnarle bowed his head, and shuffled back into his room. Lennox was left with nothing but a taxi to catch and a cryptic remark.
She was on her way back through the courtyard when a small group of Perissodactyla seniors came running through the gatehouse back from an early morning fitness run. She flattened herself against the wall, and tried to pretend she wasn’t out of uniform and in a hoody and leggings, with a bag on her back. They slowed, and stared. They could see what was happening. No one tried to talk to her, or say goodbye.
Two more runners emerged into the courtyard, and Lennox’s stomach churned. It was Kellas and Horace.
The other runners were stretching, and talking, and Horace went to join them. Kellas faced her, and walked, deliberately, close. He watched her, as he had never before, openly, unashamed. She waited, unsure what to expect. He had betrayed her. It was his fault that she was going. If it were not for him, Torkil would have kept her. But he did not know, she knew.
He stopped in front of her, so close that his silvered hair, his wide eyes, his broad shoulders filled her vision, her world.
'So…' The word flew out of her mouth unbidden, unruly, provocative.
'So ...'
She could see his neck pulsing gently, his pale skin laced with veins, his perfect physique.
‘I’m leaving…’ she said. Because of you, she thought.
‘You must be glad to see the back of this peculiar school, buried in the Highlands, with its anarchic rules, strange customs and freezing rooms.’
‘Yes,’ she agreed, fiercely. ‘Delighted.’
He narrowed his eyes, but did not question her tone.
‘Goodbye,’ the words fell from his mouth like fruit from a tree, sudden, and heavy, and full.
He did not look at her again. He simply walked away. This was what he wanted, what he had arranged, she knew that, but even still his cold goodbye crushed her last remains of self-restraint. She wiped tears of anger from her eyes.
No one else approached her to say goodbye. The seniors left without comment. The courtyard became a soulless place, for the sun was obscured behind treacherous skies of rain and wind. There was still almost an hour until her taxi was due, but she was ready. She waited alone.
She wandered to the gatehouse, so she could see endless hills and skies in which Calgacos was cocooned. Far away, the taxi could be seen already, crawling closer, rattling over the uneven road. When it eventually reached Calgacos, it pulled up outside the castle, turning round on the long grass so it headed back down the slope. She looked back up at the castle. No one had come out. A sudden movement within one of the high Feliformia windows caught her eye. Her first thought was Kellas, but when focused on the window she realised it was bare. No one watched her. She had probably imagined it.
There was nothing to do but clamber in the back of the taxi and tip her head back. The taxi driver did not turn around. He grunted in so thick an accent Lennox had no clue what he meant, and sped off fast down the loose stony road.
The driver was a large man, hunched around the wheel, his large back curved like a shell. The little bit of his face Lennox could see through the rear view mirror was a weary yellowed colour, like a cigarette stain. He did not try to speak to her, and she had no interest in talking. The car was stale with a silence that suited them both.
Lennox sank lower into the seat, and deeper into melancholy. The worst bit about leaving a school was always the first day at the next school: the stares, the interrogations and the hustle from kids who, excited by her unusual looks, wanted to test her and see where she would fit within their hierarchy. It normally only took a day or two for them to realise she was too poor, too mute, too moody, too strange to be of interest. Eventually she was classified as a loner, and left alone; the way she liked it. She had done everything wrong at Calgacos. She had broken all her golden rules. She had made a friend in Mannik, she had spent time with Duncan, and she had been unable to stop herself forming an interest in Kellas. It would be different at Pineham. There was no chance of her making friends there.
The driver had reached smooth tarmacked roads and was speeding along deserted roads, occasionally rocketing past a logging truck, or lone
car. She had no idea how long the journey would be to Pineham. She had only visited by foot. It would be longer, and more circuitous, by road. Outside, the landscape was bleak, with little change between the grey sky and the fog drenched land. It could not be a more miserable day.
There was no still no sign of Balreaig, or Pineham when the driver turned off the road onto another stony track. The car wound jerkily round through the depths of a deserted valley as the road deteriorated. The car quivered and bucked at every pothole. Lennox began to feel sick. She straightened up and leaned towards the window. The hills were higher here; ferns grew in a dense mas in the lower reaches, little grew high up. She did not remember seeing hills like these near Balreaig, or Pineham.
‘Where are we?’
The driver turned his head slightly so she saw the profile of a flared nose, and forgotten eyes. He muttered something, it was difficult to be sure, but Lennox thought he’d said, ‘Nearly there.’
The track was little more than a dirt path, with stones left like litter and puddles the width of the track, which sent arcs of muddy water to the sides as the car raced past. She kept waiting for the car to reach tarmac again, for the road through Balreaig was tarmac. At every bend she peered ahead, until she was pressing her nose to the glass.
She didn’t see the house until the last minute. It was hidden by trees, and in a hollow, with a grass lane lading to the door. The roof was a weathered rocky grey, the walls the colour of dying moss. She noticed it only after the driver swung the car sharply into the grass lane, turned the car right around, and cut the engine.
He swivelled in his seat, revealing more of his face. His lips were as yellow as his fingernails, and they were moving.
‘Get out,’ he said.
She stared at him with growing horror. He reached back, seized hold of the door handle, and tugged down.
She looked through the open car door. The grass in the lane was at some parts waist high. Beyond, and beside, in every direction, was grey sky, and grass. No other house in sight.
‘Get out,’ the driver said again.
She couldn’t. Every nerve in her body refused. Her instincts forbid her. But she didn’t know what else to do.
The driver’s yellow lips parted in a grim smile. He got out himself, and yanked her door open wider, and stood, facing her, hands on his hips.
‘This is your stop.’
He was a huge man, with long, tangled hair as grey as mountain stone, his eyes buried deep in his face and black as caves. She knew who he was.
‘No,’ she said. But it was only a whisper, a whimper, a protest of her spirit, not her body. There was nothing she could do.
He reached for her with one black clad arm and she was seized by the back of her neck, and pulled like a dog from the taxi.
Behind her, he kicked the car door shut.
‘This way,’ he said, and nodded towards the house.
She took one step and horror flooded her heart. She had to act.
She tore herself free from his grasp, and catapulting into a sprint, fear making her muscles burn. She ran down the grass lane, past the taxi, and cornered onto the stony track. She didn’t think about what she was doing. She couldn’t. It was instinct, not reason, which made her run.
At first she heard nothing, as if her attempt to flee had provoked no reaction, as if he was simply going to let her run.
Then, from behind, came a ghastly laugh, like the tearing of flesh, and she became aware she was being chased. Light footed feet moving too fast for any man, chased her, hounded her. She looked back once. Leaping for her throat, its muzzle open, grey fur rippling from its muscles, was a lone grey wolf.
It hit her in the back, and sent her sprawling instantly in the dirt of the stony track. She pulled her arms to her face to shield herself from its teeth. She could hear it panting. It was right next to her.
But it did not attack.
Slowly, she lowered her arms from her face, and tried to rise. As she did a foot landed by her head; his shadow fell over her. His other foot slammed back down on her back. Her chin hit the dirt and cracked against the ground, bringing the world to a standstill. The last thing she felt was pain in her jaw so acute she thought it must have cracked, and then nothing.