Part Seven: Things get moving

Chapter 2: The Awakenings

 “What’s happening? I came as fast as I could.”  “I’m not sure. I think he’s waking up!”  “That’s a relief, he was looking absolutely awful!”  “…find him!”  “Good heavens! Is that you, headmaster?”  “Good God, my leg feels…WHAT!?” The headmaster was up like a shot, staring around in horror. “What the dickens happened to the pavilion?”  “You passed out rather badly.” Said a member of staff, unrecognisable through the head’s haze of concussion. “We found you the next morning.”  “Oh.” Said the head, feeling distinctly drained. “What day is it?” “Thursday.” Replied the teacher, now recognisable as Mr. Barnston, the football coach. The head groaned and desperately tried to will himself back into unconsciousness. Not Thursday! That was when the school council met up, or was supposed to meet up. If it weren’t for the ISI, they probably wouldn’t even have had a school council. As it was, they did have one, but they got around the hassle of holding meetings by never having any. After all, they only said you had to have a school council. But this Thursday there was an inspector coming round, so they would have to have a meeting to avoid any Awkward Discussions. One thing always to avoid with school inspectors was an Awkward Discussion, as the head knew from bitter experience. If the head had his way he would probably just ditch the whole idea and turn to oligarchy, it was just so much more efficient. He wondered whether it was worth asking which Thursday it was, but decided that if someone had been unconscious for that long then there wouldn’t be much hope left for them. Then suddenly a thought hit him.  “You don’t happen to know what infernal device managed to put me out of action for so long?” he queried.  “As a matter of fact, we do.” Replied Mrs. Reander, one of the other staff present. “The police said they were going to send an expert round to look at it, but it’s still here.” She pointed to a battered-looking contraption in the corner of the room. There was something strange about it, but the head couldn’t quite put his finger on it. It wasn’t constructed as such; it looked more as if the necessary parts had gravitated into roughly the correct positions. However it had come into being, it certainly looked murderous. Even more worrying, it was still loaded with its ammunition of cricket balls. The head winced. “The D.T. teacher tried to take it apart on Tuesday;” added Mrs. Reander, “he woke up a few hours before you did.” This was more than the head could stand. Clutching various items of furniture as he went, he staggered out of the room.