Attack of the Cupids Page 7

  He knew it wasn’t him they were after. But even so, he backed again. He badly wanted something to hide behind.

  ‘Though it’s a while since I, er, since I had my eyes tested . . .’

  ‘What . . .?’ said Windleberry.

  ‘Go, Go, Go!’ cried a voice, deep as a bullfrog spitting pebbles. And they were everywhere – pouring in through the windows in a wave of chubby bodies wearing nothing but balaclavas. Arms lifted. Bows bent.

  ‘Hey . . .’ said the Inner Sally.

  ‘HAI!’ roared Windleberry, leaping forward in a karate pose.

  ‘. . . Don’t point those things at me!’ said Sally.

  Twang, twang, twangatwangatwang! went the bows. Windleberry’s arms moved in a blur, chopping left and right. Golden arrows tumbled from the air.

  ‘Muddlespot!’ cried Windleberry. ‘Attack!’ He dived forwards.

  ‘Oh – er – yes!’ said Muddlespot. He lifted his fists and faced the one corner of the room where there didn’t happen to be any cupids. ‘Come on, you!’ he shouted aggressively. ‘You want some? You want some?’

  ‘Reload!’ yelled the lead cupid. ‘Spread out!’

  Punt! went Windleberry’s toe.

  ‘Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeh!!!’ went a cupid, disappearing out through the window at about twice the speed it had come in.

  ‘Muddlespot!’ cried Windleberry desperately. ‘Take the two on the left!’

  ‘The left,’ repeated Muddlespot. ‘Right.’ He faced right and found himself nose to nose with a rather surprised cupid who had been expecting him to go the other way.

  ‘B♥gger ♥ff!’ said the cupid.

  ‘Oh, sorry,’ said Muddlespot. ‘My mistake.’

  ‘Hai, Hai!’ cried Windleberry, fighting the Good Fight as only he could. Cupids were flying in all directions – mostly without wanting to. He had one by the ankles and was using it as a club. It was swearing horribly.

  ‘Everything – you say,’ gasped Windleberry, ‘will be – taken down and used in evidence . . . Sally – duck!’

  ‘Quack,’ said Sally, and dropped to the floor. Windleberry hurled the cupid through the air. It caught the two remaining cupids and knocked them off their feet just as they loosed their shots. One arrow went high into the air, whistling up out of the great window and into the wide world. The other hissed over Windleberry’s shoulder and—

  ‘OW!’ cried Muddlespot.

  ‘I’ll have that,’ said Windleberry, disarming the stunned cupids. ‘And those. Now be off with you.’ He tossed them one after another out of the window.

  ‘What did they want?’ said the Inner Sally.

  ‘To change your life,’ said Windleberry. He took a cupid bow, tested it, and made to break it over his knee. Then he stopped himself and put it down thoughtfully.

  ‘I could have handled them,’ said Sally.

  ‘So many people think that.’

  ‘What’s the matter with him?’

  In the far corner of the chamber lay Muddlespot, flat on his back with his arms wide. He was not moving.

  ‘There were a lot of arrows flying about,’ said Sally doubtfully. ‘Do you think he stopped one?’

  They bent over the recumbent form.

  Feeling just a little self-conscious, Windleberry patted his foe gently on the cheek. ‘Are you all right?’

  Muddlespot opened his eyes.

  ‘My win,’ said Ismael, relieved. ‘Everybody take a look round and see what a fine day it is. Be thankful for it.’

  ‘Sure,’ said Scattletail sourly. ‘Done that. Now deal again.’

  Flick, flick, flick went the cards.

  WheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeTHUMP! went something else.

  ‘Erk!’ went Billie.

  She stiffened. Slowly she slumped forward onto the table. Ismael stared at her. There was something, he saw, sticking out of her back. He blinked at it once, twice, before the things his eyes were seeing made sense in his shocked brain. With a horrible, cold, crawling feeling he recognized it for what it was – the butt of a golden arrow, protruding from between her shoulder blades.

  There was even a calling card attached to it. With a pink heart.

  ‘Holy cow!’ he gasped.

  Scattletail was also staring at it, mouth gaping. ‘Where did that come from?’

  ‘Billie? Speak to us, Billie – are you OK?’

  Slowly Billie lifted her head. Her eyes were wide. They were shining. Her lips broke slowly into the most glorious smile. One look at her was enough to tell Ismael that it was far, far too late to do anything.

  ‘It’s him,’ she whispered. ‘It’s him!’

  She ran to the great windows like the Lady of Shalott running to see Sir Lancelot ride between the barley-sheaves.

  ‘Er – who exactly . . .?’ Scattletail sounded nervous.

  ‘Him!’

  A yell rang out across the rec. The girls looked up, startled. None of them had noticed that Billie had wandered a little way from the group.

  ‘Hey,’ she called, down to the street where the boys were wheeling to and fro. ‘Hey, Tony!’

  The boys were looking up at her. Everyone was looking at her. She scampered down the field to the fence. Out in the road Tony Hicks, demigod of Year Twelve, skidded to a halt.

  ‘Hey, Tony!’ said Billie, holding the railings and bouncing up and down. ‘You want to come in? Come in and have something to eat!’

  Tony had joined the Year Nine boys riding up and down the road because he had nothing else to do (except homework, which could wait!). He had jumped the bumps a few times and found it was harder than he had hoped to get both wheels off the ground. Plus, it was like getting kicked in the butt every time his rear wheel hit. Jeez! The Year Nine boys seemed to like it. They pedalled themselves towards the bumps harder and harder and howled with glee as their bikes bounced them into the air. They looked as if they could go on doing it for ever.

  Here, on the other hand, was Billie. He didn’t know her too well but she seemed to be a nice kid and obviously pleased to see him. That was cool. Lots of girls of all ages at Darlington High were keen on him. He was dimly aware that certain people felt they had rights over him, and that others would interfere with him at their peril. But he owed no one any loyalty. Like a benign spirit, he was at peace with all forms of lower life and bestowed himself wherever he pleased. Besides, there seemed to be sausages on offer.

  ‘Sure,’ he said, and leaned his bike up against the railings. He let himself in through the gate.

  He even let Billie take his hand. He saw no harm in it.

  ‘Oh,’ said Ellen under her breath. ‘Em. Gee.’

  ‘I thought he was with Viola,’ said Annie.

  ‘Trouble,’ said Eva.

  ‘I thought,’ whispered Sally, ‘she said no boys.’

  They watched the couple walking up to the barbecue, arm in arm. Beside them Imogen sat up. Her frizzy hair was untidy. Her face was blotched from resting on her arms. She stared blearily at the scene below her. ‘What’s she doing?’ she asked.

  ‘Viola’s going to go ballistic,’ whispered Lolo.

  There was a short silence.

  Viola wasn’t really older than anyone else in the class. She just acted that way. So did Cassie. So did all that group – Millie, Tara . . .

  And there was no way Imogen wasn’t going to tell them.

  ‘I think I’m going to have flu on Monday,’ said Annie in a small voice. ‘Good luck, the rest of you.’

  ‘I,’ said Holly, ‘am leaving for Mongolia’.

  Something had hit Muddlespot in the chest, so hard that it had hurt. He remembered that clearly. He was surprised to find that it had stopped hurting almost at once.

  He could still feel it, though. He could feel something – different. It was as if all the scenery had just waited for that instant in which his eyes were closed, and had swapped itself around subtly so that he could not quite see what had happened or how. Everything seemed to be brighter. Snatches of pale gold mist h
ung in the corners of his sight. He was lying on his back, looking up into the face of . . .

  Windleberry.

  And suddenly everything was clear.

  His fear had gone. His hate . . . Hate? Could he possibly have been hating Windleberry? No! He had been hating himself. He could see that now. He had been confused. He had blinded himself to what was real. But now he could see. He knew the truth at last.

  ‘Windleberry,’ he breathed.

  The sound of the angel’s name from his own lips stirred his heart. Something inside his chest opened, slowly, gloriously, like a flower. The air was full of music. There was a spring in his muscles, a lightness. In that instant he could have leaped buildings or flown to mountain tops. There was newness and hope. There was a reason for everything, and it was before his very eyes.

  ‘Windleberry,’ he repeated. He smiled a huge smile. ‘My hero.’

  ‘What?’ said Windleberry.

  ‘Windleberry – I’ve always admired you! Even as I’ve been your enemy. I want you to know this. There’s been this feeling for you inside me . . .’

  ‘Oh no . . .’ said Windleberry. He tried to step back, but Muddlespot rolled and caught him by the ankle, hugging his foot to his cheek.

  ‘Be mine!’ he cried. ‘I cannot live without you!’

  ‘Let go!’ said Windleberry desperately. ‘This is . . . we could both be summoned for this!’

  ‘Why should we care?’ moaned Muddlespot, who was clinging to Windleberry’s ankle. ‘As long as we have each other? Oh Windleberry – let’s run away together!’

  ‘We’re in trouble, guys,’ said Sally, who wasn’t looking at them.

  ‘Trouble!’ exclaimed Windleberry. ‘Do you have any idea how embarrassing this is?’ He tried to free himself, but all he succeeded in doing was dragging Muddlespot bodily across the floor. ‘Let me go!’ he cried. ‘Unhand me, fiend! Or I shall Smite Thee, yay verily!’

  ‘I’m already smitten, thank you,’ said Muddlespot, kissing Windleberry’s toe.

  Sally was watching the sunlit world outside, where Billie had coaxed Tony into lying on the grass and letting her feed him a sausage.

  ‘This,’ she murmured, ‘means war.’

  Windleberry glanced sourly down at his ankle. ‘You think you’ve got problems?’ he said.

  Viola got the call from Imogen. She listened. She rang off. Pale and hard-eyed, she stared into the mirror for a long thirty seconds. Then she rang Tony’s mobile.

  ‘Huh?’ said Tony.

  The next thing was that everyone had to go to school on Monday morning. Except for Annie, who somehow managed to persuade her parents that she really did have flu.

  As luck would have it, Sally and Billie passed Viola and Cassie and Tara at the school gates. The three stopped talking as they approached. Their eyes followed Billie. Billie walked past with her nose in the air.

  ‘Hi,’ said Sally, as cheerfully as she could.

  None of them answered.

  There was an envelope stuck with Blu-Tack to the door of Billie’s locker.

  ‘Don’t open that,’ said Sally.

  Billie scowled. She opened it. She read it. She went pink.

  ‘Who’s it from?’ asked Annie, looking over her shoulder.

  ‘Typed,’ hissed Billie. ‘And unsigned.’

  Holly read some of it. ‘Ouch,’ she said. ‘You should show that to Mr Singh.’

  ‘They’ll expect that,’ said Billie. Deliberately she tore the letter to small shreds. ‘Right. If that’s the way they want it . . .’

  ‘Stay out of trouble,’ said Sally.

  ‘I don’t care about trouble,’ said Billie.

  ‘No,’ said Sally. ‘You don’t, do you?’

  In English Sally shared a table with Rich and Charlie B. She had been put with them at the start of the spring term to reduce the number of riots in that corner of the room. Of course, anyone sitting anywhere close to Rich was likely to get caught in the unending crossfire of flying Blu-Tack, pencil sharpeners, erasers, gumballs and rolled-up paper pellets that he inhabited as a fish inhabits water. Also, somebody had once left a drawing pin on her chair rather than his by mistake. This was the sort of thing that happened to Sally.

  Just for today, however, being with the boys did mean that she was safe from some other things. It was as if the UN had flown in a separation force of foreign peacekeepers just for her. They were chaotic and unruly but mostly well-meaning. And they kept the war at a distance.

  Others weren’t so lucky. Holly was sharing a table with Imogen. Holly had always been Billie’s staunchest supporter. No matter what Billie did or said, Holly would find a word to say in her favour. Life, she said, was never dull when Billie was around. (Which was what had made it so awkward when Billie hadn’t wanted to invite her to the rec.)

  There was no question where Imogen’s loyalties were going to lie.

  So here were two ordinary and perfectly likeable girls having trouble breathing the same air. Neither spoke to the other. They worked head-down in white, tight-lipped silence. The temperature on that table must have been a good ten degrees lower than the rest of the room. And sitting between them was little Minnie Stubbs. She looked from one to the other with a face that said What’s got into you?

  Stay out of it, Minnie, thought Sally. For your own sake.

  Then it got worse. Mr Kingsley handed out copies of a poem called The Hound of Heaven and asked them to read it through.

  I fled Him down the nights and down the days;

  I fled Him down the arches of the years;

  I fled Him down the labyrinthine ways

  Of my own mind . . .

  Sally scanned to the bottom of the first page. She turned over. Her hand went up. So did half a dozen others. Eventually Mr Kingsley noticed.

  ‘What is it?’ he said (in the voice of a querulous parrot).

  ‘The second page is blank.’

  ‘Oh!’ said Mr Kingsley, as if this were the class’s fault. He checked Eva’s paper, and then Lolo’s. Then he had to admit defeat. ‘It must be the photocopier,’ he said. ‘It’s done them one-sided.’

  Everyone looked at him.

  ‘I’ll have to copy them again. Just read the first page over and think about what it means. I won’t be a moment.’

  . . . All things betray thee, said the poem, who betrayest Me.

  He wouldn’t be a moment.

  He said.

  There were several photocopiers in the school. They had been bought at different times and sat in different places, but they had three things in common:

  a. They were all old.

  b. They always had at least one person ahead of you when you arrived with your photocopying.

  c. They always knew when you were in a hurry.

  They liked people who were in a hurry. They saved their worst faults and paper jams just for the poor woman who had to get her copying done now, so they could bask in the flow of abuse and cries of pain that followed. It did something for them. Heaven knew what. Maybe they were secretly hoping that whoever it was would turn into a crazed axe-murderer and would end their miserable existences with a few deranged chops. Maybe the whole thing was an elaborate suicide pact among photocopiers. Whatever the reason, they certainly worked at it.

  Maybe they knew there was a war on in 9c.

  Mr Kingsley didn’t.

  The minutes ticked past. The buzz of an unsupervised class rose. The boys started taking pot shots at each other. A rubber band flew past Sally’s ear.

  ‘What a lovely day it is,’ said Minnie brightly. ‘Smile, everybody . . .’

  Minnie! thought Sally desperately. Just stay out!

  ‘I’m building a wall,’ chirrupped Minnie. She began to make bricklaying motions in the air between Holly and Imogen. ‘I’m Build-ing a Wa-all . . .’

  Whatever Imogen said to Minnie it was short with about three ‘S’s in it. Sally heard them hiss across the room. She saw Minnie go still for a moment. Her shoulders seemed to sh
rink. She looked down.

  Holly said something to Imogen across her. Imogen ignored it.

  All three of them were quiet for the rest of the lesson.

  When it ended (about six minutes after Mr Kingsley finally returned with the photocopying) and everyone rose to go, Sally saw that Minnie was crying.

  At break Holly met them in the corridor. ‘Have you checked your games bag?’ she asked.

  ‘No, why?’

  ‘Someone’s taken my shin pads.’

  ‘Mine too,’ said Eva.

  Sally and Lolo checked their bags. Their shin pads were also missing.

  ‘It’s hockey this afternoon. With Miss Tackle.’

  Sally thought about it. Just standing there, it felt as if her shins were already beginning to throb. ‘Ow,’ she said.

  ‘It’s mean!’ Holly was almost spitting. ‘It’s so . . . bitchy!’

  ‘Why us?’ wailed Eva. ‘We didn’t invite him.’

  ‘Guilt by association,’ said Sally.

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘It means that Viola wants as many victims as she can get.’

  ‘But it’s not as if we’ve done anything to her . . .’

  Viola screamed.

  She was about ten metres away down the corridor, standing at her locker with Imogen and Cassie. All three of them jumped back shrieking. Viola’s bag tumbled to the floor, spilling books, water bottles, deodorants, comb, make-up, calculators and pins across the linoleum. Viola’s face was green.

  Just at that moment Billie walked by. Viola turned on her.

  ‘A mouse!’ she hissed. ‘A mouse!’

  ‘They get everywhere, don’t they?’ said Billie innocently. She kept walking. As she passed Sally and the others she clenched her fists and whispered a fierce, ‘Yes!’

  ‘You idiot,’ Sally said. Billie ignored her.

  A small crowd had gathered around the fallen bag. Viola was trembling. Cassie and Imogen had their arms around her. Sally swallowed hard and went over.

  There it was, lying in the middle of the things that Viola had spilled on the floor: a poor brown fleck of fluff with a pale belly, a tail, claws and little yellow teeth. It was quite dead. Viola must have been looking for something in her bag (which was like a smart leather handbag, only sized up so that it was big enough to carry books and stuff) and her fingers would have closed on it, and she would have pulled it out to see what it was. Ouch.