Dead Flesh (14 page)

The way he
stared made me feel uncomfortable, so I offered him a half smile.
In return, he grinned back at me. Then, pointing his thumb and
forefinger like a pistol, he aimed it at me and pretended to fire a
shot off. I faced front again to find Brother Michael continuing to
recite the never-ending list of school rules.

“Apart from the
searchlights in the grounds, all the lights will be switched off at
nine p.m. After this time, the school will be in total
darkness!”

I had no
trouble in conjuring up eerie images of Ravenwood at night and as I
pictured the long, soulless corridors, a thought came to me.
Raising an arm above my head, I tried to get Brother Michael’s
attention.

“What is it,
Hunt?” Brother Michael hissed. “It had better be good!”

I lowered my
arm, glanced at the other kids seated nearest to me, then back at
Brother Michael. Just above a whisper, I said, “Brother, if the
school is in total darkness, how will I find my way to the toilet –
you know, just in case I need to pee?”

The class
erupted into hysterics. I stared at them, never intending my
question to be humorous, it was a genuine concern that I had.

“Silence!”
Brother Michael screeched and the laughter stopped. “So we have a
comedian in our midst, do we?”

“No,
Brother...I was just wondering…”

“You’d better
not be trouble, Hunt. I’m not known for my sense of humour and
children who break the rules make me laugh even less!” Brother
Michael spat, reaching into the folds of his robes and producing a
long, black, plastic rod similar in size to a ruler.

Whoosh!

Brother Michael
cut the air with the rod, slicing it back and forth. With a
malevolent grin, he said, “Children who wish to disobey the rules
will receive this!” He waved the rod again, and this time the end
of it lit up in an explosion of blue sparks. The tip of the rod
fizzed and spat short bursts of electricity into the air,
illuminating Brother Michael’s chin which jutted from beneath his
hood.

I was right – I
had been sent to live in a prison! The rod that Brother Michael was
waving about was some kind of Taser – like the cops carried before
the world got pushed.

I tucked my
hands beneath the desk, and wondered if the police knew what was
going on here. But then I thought of what Isidor and I had
discovered on the Web about how the world was now, and guessed that
the police couldn’t give a crap as to what happened to me or any of
the other kids at the school.

“We take every
pleasure in giving you children the odd zap,” Brother Michael said,
firing up the end of the rod again. “Because on occasions you will
need it. And believe me, one day you will thank us!”

Waving the
electric rod around in front of the class, I noticed that one of
Brother Michael’s fingers on his right hand was missing. Where his
index finger should have been was a stumpy lump of flesh. But
instead of it being grey like the rest of him, the stump was purple
in colour and it looked raw like a piece of meat that had been
gnawed at. Unable to stop looking at it, the flesh along my spine
began to prickle and tighten.

“Want to get a
better look at it do you?” Brother Michael asked, and he was now
looming over me, thrusting the stump under my nose. I looked up at
the shrouded figure before me, and that invisible fist tightened
itself around my intestines again, making my stomach cramp.

“Do you want a
better look, Kayla Hunt?” Brother Michael spat, the painful-looking
stump just millimetres from my face. God, it smelt so bad I thought
I might just puke.

I jerked my
head away from it, the smell of rotting flesh and decay making me
gag. “No, Brother,” I whispered.

Nodding beneath
his hood, Brother Michael said, “Very well.”

I glanced
sideways at Sam, and gave him a look as if to say,
What a freak?
But Sam just winked back at me and
offered a nervous smile.

Kiera

Soon after
Kayla had left for Ravenwood School, Potter, Isidor, and I packed a
bag each and set off for the farmhouse that we had rented on the
outskirts of Wood Hill. Potter had wanted to drive the Rolls Royce
Phantom that he had found housed in the large garage at the rear of
the manor.

“Yeah, and why
don’t we paint it pink and really draw attention to ourselves?” I
said, taking the keys to the smaller Ford Focus that Isidor and
Kayla had been using on their trips to and from Wood Hill over the
last few weeks.

“You’re such a
killjoy, Hudson,” Potter said, snatching the keys from me and
climbing behind the wheel of the Ford.

I got in beside
him and Isidor sat in the back. All of us were dressed in jeans,
warm sweaters, and boots. None of us stood out and that’s what I
wanted.

Potter drove us
across the Welsh Moors as we made our way through the bleak
countryside towards the town of Wood Hill. Isidor had his head
buried in a book for most of the journey and Potter chain-smoked,
flicking the ash and blowing smoke out of the window.

“Close the
window,” I groaned. “You’re letting the rain in.”

With a
cigarette held between his teeth, Potter closed the window. At once
the car filled with a cloud of blue-grey smoke.

“Better?” He
asked, peering through the rain-streaked windscreen as he navigated
the narrow winding roads.

“Not really,” I
said, winding down my own window and drawing in a lungful of clean
air.

“I thought you
were getting wet?” Potter asked, shooting me a sideways glance.

“It doesn’t
matter,” I said, taking my iPod and placing it into the dock on the
dashboard.

Potter frowned
in confusion and looked back at the road.

“Fancy some
music?” I asked him.

“Sure, why
not?” he replied.

“Isidor?” I
said, twisting in my seat to look at him.

“Huh?” he said,
not taking his eyes from the copy of
Harvey
Trotter& the Dragon’s Throne
that he had in his
hands.

“What do you
fancy listening to?” I asked.

“Oh anything,”
he said, without looking. Then, added, “How about
Voulez-vous
by Abba?”

“You’ve got to
be kidding me,” Potter groaned beside me.

With a smile, I
said to Isidor, “I don’t have that song but...” Then, scrolling
through the tracks on my iPod, I found the song that I was looking
for and hit the play button. Within moments,
Dancing Queen
by Abba was playing.

A sullen look
fell over Potter’s face.

“Don’t be such
an old misery-guts,” I said to him.

“Abba?” he
groaned again. “Haven’t you got any U2?”

“Not in this
world,” I reminded him.

Isidor started
to sing along in the background as he continued to read his
book.

Potter glanced
at him in the rear-view mirror and said, “I really don’t get you,
Isidor.”

“What’s not to
get?” he asked between singing the words.

“Well just take
a look at you,” Potter said, keeping one eye on the road ahead.
“You’ve got the eyebrow piercing, the Shaggy-Doo beard and tattoos
up your arms and neck and your singing along to Abba. I mean,
what’s going on?”

“So what you’re
saying is that I should be listening to something more gothic –
dull and depressing?” Isidor said, still not looking up from his
book.

“Well, yeah,”
Potter said.

“If I wanted
that sort of thing, I’d spend more time listening to you, Potter,”
Isidor said, glancing up from his book and winking at me.

“Very funny,”
Potter said.

“Leave Isidor
alone,” I smiled at the sight of Isidor giving Potter a taste of
his own medicine.

“Whatever,”
Potter sulked.

We spent the
rest of the journey in silence, until suddenly I noticed that
Potter was strumming his fingers on the steering wheel in time and
singing along to
Take a Chance on Me.

It was early
afternoon when Potter pulled the car up in front of the farmhouse.
The rain hadn’t stopped the whole journey, and the sky was so
overcast that it could have been night. The farmhouse was situated
at the top of a narrow dirt track that was barely wide enough to
fit the car. On each side of the track there were slate stone walls
that were covered in wild ivy, nettles, and thorns.

The farmhouse
itself was neat and tidy and had been looked after. There was a
small kitchen and living room downstairs and two bedrooms upstairs
with a tiny bathroom that was just big enough to fit a tub. The
nicest thing about the house was the real fireplace that was set
into the far living room wall. It was surrounded by red coloured
brick and the owner had been kind enough to have stacked a pile of
freshly cut logs before it.

Isidor took one
of the bedrooms and Potter and I took the other. Once we had
settled in, I checked my emails on my iPod to see if I’d received a
message from Kayla. There wasn’t one. Looking out the living room
window across the fog-covered moors, I wondered if Kayla was safe.
I still had fears about her locked away in Ravenwood, and if I’d
had my way, she wouldn’t have gone. But Kayla wasn’t my sister,
although I thought of her as one. I loved Kayla and did feel in
some way responsible for her, even though she was only four years
younger than me. I understood how Kayla felt, and even though she
had been through so much already in her life, I still found her a
little naive at times – just like a younger sister would be.

“What now?” a
voice said from behind me and I turned to see Potter standing at
the foot of the wooden staircase which led into the living
room.

“I’m going to
drive into town and visit the local police station,” I said. “Make
some enquires into Emily Clarke’s disappearance.”

“Her sister has
already tried that,” Potter reminded me.

“Yeah, but she
didn’t have one of these,” I said, holding up my police badge.

“I’ll come with
you,” he said.

“No, stay
here,” I told him.

“Why?”

“Because I
don’t want to go in heavy handed,” I said as delicately as I could.
“We want to try and get the local coppers on our side. We might
need them.”

“So what am I
meant to do?” he asked me.

“Get that fire
going,” I smiled at him.

I pulled into
the car park of the local police station, killed the engine and
made my way inside. With an air of confidence, I flashed my badge
to the clerk behind the front desk and asked if I could speak to
whoever it was in charge. The clerk told me to take a seat.

I waited for
several minutes until a large looking head with a shock of white
hair appeared around the edge of the door that led into the
station. It was a tired-looking face, a face that had seen too many
late nights and long hours.

“Kiera Hudson?”
the face asked.

“That’s me,” I
said standing up.

The door was
pushed open further to reveal a well-built man, wearing a shirt
which was open at the throat, and smart trousers that looked too
tight about his waist.

“Inspector
Cliff Banner,” he said thrusting out one large meaty hand towards
me. “What can I do for ya?”

I shook his
open hand, which he pumped up and down with such force that I
thought he was going to snap every one of my fingers. Once I had
the feeling back in my hand, I produced my badge and showed it to
him.

“I’m from out
of town but I could do with some help.”

“Sounds
intriguing - follow me.” He ushered me through the door from the
small waiting area into a sterile and brightly lit corridor. I
followed him to his office, where he gestured me towards a seat. We
sat facing each other on opposite sides of his cluttered desk.

“Excuse me,” he
said, “I was just in the middle of my supper.” He picked up a
half-eaten sandwich which looked small and ridiculous in his huge
hand, and took a bite. Peanut butter oozed from it and onto his
bushy white beard, which he wiped away with a piece of crinkled
tissue paper that lay amongst the other litter on his desk.

“So how can I
be of help?”

“A friend of
mine, Emily Clarke has gone missing.”

“How old is
this friend…a kid is she?” he asked as he chewed the remains of his
sandwich.

“No, she’s an
adult, a little older than me.”

“What she’s
vulnerable then…you know…like retarded?”

“No, she’s just
like you and me,” I told him. I knew where he was going with this
without him saying anything else.

“Well there’s
the trick. If she ain’t a juvey and no retard then there’s nothing
we can do about it.” He screwed up the piece of grease-proof paper
that his sandwich had been wrapped in and threw it at the rubbish
bin on the other side of the room. “You should know there ain’t
nothing we can do about it, you being a cop and all.”

“Yeah I know
all that, but this is different,” I told him.

“Oh, how
come?”

“Emily was
teaching at the Ravenwood School…” I began to tell him.

“Whoa, whoa,
whoa,” he whistled through his teeth. “Stop right there. That
school has been taken over by the wolves – the Skin-walkers.”

I shook my
head. “So?”

He stared at me
blankly.

“My friend,
Emily, told her sister, Elizabeth Clarke before she went missing
that…”

“Who did you
say?” That name seemed to have grabbed his attention.

“Elizabeth
Clarke,” I repeated.

“Ah, that’s
right,” he said thumbing through the paperwork strewn across his
desk. Then, holding up a sheet of peanut butter smeared paper, he
added, “she came in here yesterday spouting on about how her sister
had been murdered. Can you believe that? Murdered! Reckons that
Headmaster McCain did it.”