Part Thirteen: Kids these Days

Then, one frozen midwinter morning, the aftermath finally made itself known. As the headmaster made his customary early-morning walk amongst the river of boys struggling down the corridors, he heard a small voice from the vague direction of his knees. “Who are you?” said a small, puzzled-looking boy who was staring up at him. “The most important man in this school,” said the head, rather amused by this interjection. The boy definitely wasn’t new, but he was probably a skiver who never went to lessons long enough to know any teachers. “Why do you ask?” “You don’t look very important!” said the boy, obviously unimpressed. “You’re far too old!” The head was in a jovial mood, so he gamely ignored this comment. “Are you deaf as well?” asked the boy impatiently. Again, the head pretended not to hear. “I hope they’re not all as deaf and boring as you,” said the boy. “I don’t like you.” The head was not a patient man at the best of times, but now he was more than a little furious. In one enormous sweep, he brought his hand down to the side of the boy’s head with the trademark sound that accompanied it... ...crash! That didn’t sound good. The head reeled around to find that it wasn’t good at all. There was a rather large hole in the wall where there quite blatantly hadn’t been before, with a rather confused boy on the other side of it who had quite blatantly not expected to be there. Still, the head thought, at least he was alive... He was alive? That was impossible! No-one could survive a blow that powerful. He looked at his own hand. No-one could deliver a blow that powerful. Something wasn’t right. Leaving the bemused boy to clean himself up and try to explain what had happened to the other teachers; he set off towards the car park.

Part Twelve: Magic Moments

The inspector sighed. It had been a long day.
Of all the things he had learnt during his training, dealing with malevolent magical forces had definitely not been amongst them. Not, of course, that it was something officers of the law were expected to come across even in the most extreme of circumstances. But, nevertheless, it was undoubtedly magic. The forensic teams had confirmed a complete absence of human presence and, as far as the scientists could ascertain, no known or theoretical substance could be capable of such powerful or vivid hallucinogenic capabilities.1
Besides, the Orb was giving off a suspicious blue glow. Actually, it was more of a force field, and a good one at that. They had been trying all day to penetrate it, but to no avail. Truncheons had bounced off it harmlessly. Bullets had made a little difference, but they couldn’t fire them quickly enough. The hand grenades had been rather spectacular but had done no good, although PC Filk did seem rather pleased with his extra limbs. Unless they destroyed the school, there was no way they could get through that force field. Just as he was pondering over his remaining options, a boy rushed up to him.
“Mr Inspector, sir!” he said, panting. “The PC says come quick, there's something wrong!” He ran off, beckoning to the inspector to come. The inspector followed, dreading what might have happened. When he arrived outside the cupboard he found PC Filk desperately trying to keep the door shut with as many hands as possible.
“The field's getting stronger!” he shouted over the noise coming from the cupboard. “I can't hold on for much longer!” The inspector looked around in panic. There was quite a gathering of nervous staff and pupils by now, and the collective feeling seemed to be the perfect thing for the Orb to feed off. He tried to persuade them to leave, but they were all too engrossed in their own fear to pay any attention. What could he do? Any moment now that thing would go off and...
Of course! That was it! Taking a deep breath, he threw his head back and bellowed.
“IT'S GONNA BLOW!”
Like an impromptu conjuring trick, the entire crowd disappeared in a flash. Unfortunately, the flash had come from the orb. In a sudden blast the entire school became encased in a hemisphere of blue light. It seared in the sky for what seemed like an age. Then, without warning, it vanished. A slight shock wave swept silently outwards, having no ill effect but to knock over a few unsuspecting cows. When the policemen finally summoned up the courage to return to the cupboard, they found the Orb sitting nonchalantly on a table.2 It allowed itself to be removed to a high-security facility, leaving behind absolutely no damage whatsoever apart from a few shattered nerves and a bundle of classified documents. The school was allowed to resume its normal activities, with instructions to report any strange happenings immediately. Luckily, none occurred.
And that, so it was thought, was that.

Part Eleven: A startling discovery

When the head woke that afternoon, all the dizzy ecstasy of that brief moment had been drained from him. Happiness, he thought as he slowly regained consciousness, was like alcohol. It was nice for a while, but if you had too much of it all at once you ended up with one heck of a hangover the next morning. Slowly he sat up, groping for any sturdy objects in roughly the direction he was trying to head. He was in his study, and on the desk was a newspaper that he realised he hadn’t yet read. Picking it up, he surveyed it with half-hearted interest.1 Most of the news was of the usual dismal nature and none of it very eye-catching. They say no news is good news, thought the head gloomily. That would explain why all the news is so awful. Just to illustrate his point to the world in general, he picked a few articles at random:
Graffiti on derelict building, Vandalism levels soar, Dog eats postman, Hamster spontaneously combusts, Local scientists predict Armageddon, Museum reports theft of unidentified artefact…
This last item struck him as odd. He read on:
Mossam Museum yesterday revealed that one of its more mysterious artefacts had been stolen. The object, known to museum staff as ‘The Orb’, is a small pyramid in which is embedded a sphere. Research into the inscriptions on the object has so far proven fruitless, but historians believe it to be cursed. No information is yet known about the material from which it is made, but it appears to consist of a silvery metal of great strength. Anyone knowing the whereabouts of the item is requested to report the matter to the Mossam police station.
Mossam police? Weren't they the ones trying to sort out the mess at the school? And a curse. Hallucinations didn't just, well, happen, did they? The pieces of the puzzle all seemed to be fitting together quite nicely. He would have to tell the police about this, although the prospect of facing up to the inspector again was less than inviting. Mind you, the prospect of having to face up to this damned curse for the rest of his school career was even less inviting. Against all his previous intuition, he went out in search of the inspector.
“So,” said the inspector, who was more than a little suspicious about the headmaster’s new-found talent for deduction, “you think it's not so much a case of who done it as what done it?”
“Even better,” replied the head, who was – in contrast to the inspector – feeling more than a little smug about his triumph over modern policing techniques. “I know what done it, ahem, did it.”
“What?” queried the inspector, his suspicion becoming curiosity. “Any clues are better than none.”
“Well,” whispered the head conspiratorially, leaning in towards the policeman. His smugness tank, having overflowed ages ago, was now spreading havoc around the rest of his brain, especially his common sense, “you know that museum robbery you're dealing with?”
“I most certainly do sir,” confirmed the inspector, now deeply puzzled by this latest non sequitur. “But what has it to do with the murders?”
“Why everything, my good chap!” slurred the head, the smugness having attacked the speech centres of his brain. “This orb you're searching for is the doer of the dones that have been done by the doer of the dones!”
The policeman regarded him quizzically.
“Are you feeling all right, sir?” he asked, looking rather worried. He had stacks of policing duties as it was, without having to deal with a lunatic teacher. “You don't look too good.”
The head's primitive instinct of one-upmanship suddenly kicked in with a vengeance. He wasn't going to ruin it all now, just as he had the advantage! Hurriedly, he straightened up and tried to look knowledgeable.
“Of course I am, man!” he retorted. “Never been better! Anyway,” he continued, putting on a more serious note, “the curse contained within that orb is the cause of all this,”
“What makes you say that, sir?” questioned the policeman warily. The head then proceeded to recount his incident in the janitor's cupboard. At the end, the inspector looked thoughtful for a moment before speaking.
“So, you think there's an accursed relic in the cupboard that's picking everybody off one by one?”
“That's no way to talk about the jan…” began the head, before realising what the inspector meant. “I mean, exactly! You must remove it immediately!”
The inspector sighed. It was going to be a long day.

Part Ten: It's all in the head

Later, when all the staff had dispersed reluctantly to their lessons, the headmaster had his usual patrol of the main building. It was mainly to distract him from the pressure of running the whole anarchic establishment that was the school, but it also gave him a chance to hunt down any skivers. The head was not greatly keen on blood sports, but he knew a skiver when he hit one. As he trudged along, he suddenly heard a loud crash from the other end of the corridor. He broke into a jog, gradually gaining speed until it became a run. Still the crashing continued, and it was getting louder by the second. The noise appeared to be coming from the janitor’s cupboard, known to be the favourite haunt of lesson-dodging pupils. Although it was called a cupboard, it also doubled up as the janitor’s miniature home from home and was considerably roomy. Coming to a halt outside the door, the headmaster rolled up his sleeve and prepared to enter. “Right then!” he bellowed as he strode through the door. “Who is responsible for…?” Suddenly the room seemed to sway around him. Colours swirled and faded, and there was a general feeling of warmth and fuzziness in the vicinity. Small fish flitted among huge purple trees on gossamer wings; two-tonne ducks dabbled upside down in a floating orange lake and with a sigh the head passed out on a bed of soft black mushrooms. Well, at least he wouldn’t have to go to the school council meeting.

Part Nine: May contain spirits

“So,” the medium sneered nastily, “we have a murderer do we?” It was a little later that morning and Mr. Torrall seemed to be regretting his choice of the cheapest medium available. She was a wizened old crone of at least 150, the perfect spiritual-contactor stereotype, but that only unsettled the staff further. As far as they were concerned, superstition was for those too dim to understand science. Mr. Torrall, however, seemed perfectly capable of handling the situation himself. “Yes, that’s right,” he said slowly and patronisingly. “We’d like you to work out who it is.” “I know that, fool!” she snapped. “Age isn’t everything, you know! Now let me see…” There was a long pause. “Well?” said Mr. Torrall, impatiently twirling his moustache. “The killer has facial hair,” Mr. Torrall adjusted his tweed jacket; “is well suited,” Mr. Torrall wiped the sweat off his balding head, “has a receding hairline…” Suddenly, Mr. Torrall sprang up. “Wait a minute,” he cried in indignation, “that’s me!” “Yes,” the medium shrieked, rising from her seat as well, “murderer!” “But it was my half day!” Mr. Torrall protested. “I was out fishing!” “Exactly!” shrieked the medium again. “Murderer!” “No, you don’t understand,” broke in the headmaster, feeling it was his job to intervene. “We want someone who murders people, not fish!” “You must be specific in what you require from the spirits!” she replied, looking offended. “No, there are no ‘people-murderers’ here. But there is something strong, something that drowns out all other spiritual voices.” “What is it?” said the head nervously, despite his intuition. “I cannot tell,” she replied, concentrating hard. “It is all around us, like a great spiritual screaming!” The head, who had had quite enough of this mumbo-jumbo, decided he ought to make a move. “Well, thank you very much,” he said hastily, a hint of uneasiness in his voice. “We’ll remember you if we ever need some more ‘guidance from the spirits’,” he added, enunciating the inverted commas to perfection. The medium scowled briefly, and then swept out of the room. Silently, so as not to offend Mr. Torrall, the staff breathed a collective sigh of relief. This was in fact unnecessary, as Mr. Torrall was already very much offended and had gone off the idea of mediums altogether.

Part Eight: The spiritual side

 A little while later, Mr. Torrall – the R.S. teacher – made an announcement in the staff room.  “The police are letting this matter get out of hand, so I’ve hired someone decent to clear this whole shambles up.”  “They won’t stay for long,” warned the head sarcastically. “As soon as they see what’s happened to me, they’ll be off in a flash!”  “Unlike your idea, headmaster, this one can be carried out in the safety of the school building,” retorted Mr. Torrall acidly. “I’ve hired a medium to find out who and where this killer is.”  “A medium!” spluttered the headmaster; spraying the tea he was drinking all over the staff room. “Don’t tell me you believe in that airy-fairy spiritual stuff!”  “I’m an R.S. teacher,” Mr. Torrall replied simply, “it’s my job.” And at that he walked out, looking slightly put out.

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.

Part Six: The head volunteers

 Late that evening a figure crept furtively up to the pavilion, grumbling as it went. The headmaster rubbed his hands together and half-heartedly attempted to bring down a curse on all teaching staff. He’d never seen such a bunch of wimps! It was amazing; he thought bitterly, how quickly someone could contract a contagious disease.  Eventually, he reached the pavilion and cautiously peered in through a knot in the wood. There seemed to be someone – or something – in there, but he couldn’t make it out what it was. That didn’t matter, he would teach the blighter a lesson anyway. Drawing deeply from his courage reserves, he stormed in.  “Come out of there now, you filthy scoundrel!” he cried, with a commanding air that surprised even him. “I know you’re in there!” he added as an afterthought. Suddenly, there was a loud crack from the doorpost beside him as though something had hit it. Whatever had hit it, it then proceeded to hit the headmaster’s leg. “@§%¶¿ªǂɿ!” He yelled, utilising the author’s character set to its full extent. Slowly the pain in his leg turned to numbness, lifeless numbness that spread all through his body. As it reached his head, he gradually slumped to the ground.  “That bounder is going to pay for it when I…” Then a loud thud. Then silence.

Part Five: The head has a cunning plan

 Later that day, the headmaster had a dangerous thought. Although he didn’t particularly hold with the whole concept of danger, it took him as being a good way to have this investigation malarkey over with once and for all. Indeed, when he thought about it some more, he realised that there needn’t be any danger at all. The idea was this: If you want something doing properly, do it yourself. Or rather, get someone else to do it for you. There was one thing the head knew helped make for a successful career, and that was delegation. Anyway, he would get someone to investigate the incident for him, but he would be in complete control. All he had to do now was find a willing mug…ahem…volunteer.

Part Four: In which the murderer, and a dog, strike again.

 “Not another one!” Cried the headmaster in dismay, once again in confrontation with the inspector. “How long will two murders take to investigate?”  “As long as necessary, sir.” The policeman replied, employing the age-old tactic of question evasion. “With a serial killer involved, it could take months.”  “It was a member of staff as well.” The head sighed. “I mean, pupils we can overlook…”  “No-one must be overlooked, sir!” insisted the policeman, skipping from ‘tepid’ up to ‘bubbling’. “Your pupils are no less important, if not more important, than your members of staff!”  “Now, now, no need to get tetchy.” Said the headmaster, offended. “The pupils are obviously of more concern to you than to us, I see that. But if the government can’t keep these homicidal chaps under control, then it’s hardly our fault is it?”  It was the policeman’s turn to be cutting reply-less. Casting desperately around the study, in which they were currently residing, he caught sight of a new officer clumsily fingerprinting the head’s terrier. Hastily he made off.  “When I said ‘fingerprint everything’, Spanton, I didn’t actually mean… Ouch! Blasted dog.” The head allowed himself a secret smile. He had always thought ‘Nipper’ was a very appropriate name.

Part Three: The saga never ends!

 Meanwhile, in the cricket pavilion, Mr. Mallock was trying to do both of these things at the same time. With the teachers being ousted from everywhere else, he was lucky to have got there before the others. He’d always said his class needed to get more exercise.  Sir, can I? Whack! Ouch! Sir? Sir? Whack! Ouch! Whack! Whack! Ouch! Whack! Whack! Whack! Whack! Whack!  Mallock surveyed the scene with satisfaction. Several boys were nursing their bruises, several more were unconscious, and the survivors were tactfully cowering in the corner. He had always prided himself on his solid palm, and it had undoubtedly done its job. There was another whack, but this time it wasn’t him.  It was a cricket bat, and this time he was the one being whacked.

Part Two: The thrills continue...

 “I still don’t see what all the bother is about,” sighed the headmaster, thrusting the crime report back into the inspector’s hands, “it’s not as if anyone is going to miss the little nuisance.”  “The police must treat all suspicious incidents with extreme caution, sir.” The policeman replied, thinking it an appropriate phrase for the current situation. “Besides, we don’t get many cases of schoolboys lying in pools of blood. Especially their own blood.”  “He was asking for it,” the head snorted, “it’ll be the last time he ever tries to dodge lessons.”  “There are no excuses for murder, sir.” Retorted the policeman, his mental saucepan of water rising from ‘tepid’ to ‘simmering’. “If we don’t catch the culprit soon, you could be the next victim.” He had worked with the headmaster’s kind too many times before. They didn’t do things for the good of the public; they did things for the good of themselves. As he had expected, the head suddenly looked flustered and adjusted his collar nervously. He continued. “So long as no-one interferes we can do this quickly and easily, and we’ll try not to disturb you too much.”  Unable to come up with a suitably cutting reply, the head strode off feeling irritable. Coming to the games board, he surveyed the position of the enemy – as he liked to call the boys. It was afternoon by now, and a Monday afternoon at that.¹ Monday afternoons were the work of Lucifer, he was sure of it. There were a predictably vast number of names under ‘Venezuela’², and he decided against cross-referencing with the dog-eared signing-in book. Boys neglected to sign in and out at their own peril.  ‘Why Venezuela?’ he thought to himself. Did it look like Venezuela? Was it related to Venezuela in any way? Were the people there complete strangers whose language and ways you couldn’t even comprehend? He decided not to answer the last one. Instead, he strode some more. Irritably. Suddenly a boy came up to him, looking worried.  “Sir, sir, the policemen have taken over our classroom and we can’t get in and we don’t know what to do and what are we going to…”  The headmaster caught the boy a slap around the face without even breaking his stride. As the boy staggered away, he tried to remember who it was. He had never held with knowing boys’ names. After all, you only needed to teach them…and hit them occasionally.  ¹ After considerable pressure from several groups including the ISI (Independent Schools Inspectorate, if you must know), Ofsted and - for some bizarre reason – Oxfam, the school had been forced to make Monday a half day. The main reason, however, was that if they didn’t the NSPCC might get involved. Personally, the headmaster thought the RSPCA would have been more of a problem.  ² A large wooded area used as a sustainable alternative to the boys venting their ‘excess energy’ on the school buildings and/or staff. Strangely, it was one of the few things the ISI had never investigated in particular detail.

Part One: The story begins...

Orb of Ages Period the First: High on a Hill or Lessons in Murder

Chapter 1: Them

 With the wary looks of a professional, Aaron slipped cautiously down the main corridor. Ducking into every doorway, he made his way with meticulous care. There was, he knew, no need for such precautions yet; but They struck without predictability. At the last room he pressed his body to the wall, and with perfect timing. For at the other end of the corridor, shoes started moving with familiar, rhythmic slaps in his direction. They were here. His breathing became unstable, despite his efforts to restrict it. The footsteps rang in his ears louder and louder, his breath came out faster and faster and faster and…  The footsteps stopped. His hand instinctively slid down to his trousers, protecting the eternally bruised band of muscle. Indistinct mumblings echoed into the room and thundered around his mind. He mustn’t lose his nerve now, but how tempting it was to rush out and beg Them for mercy. Yet, slowly and uncertainly, the footsteps started again. Waiting until the echoes finally died away, he let out his contained breath in a prolonged sigh.  Sometimes, he thought, skiving lessons was barely worth the trouble. It was the last thing he ever thought. Gripping, eh? Tune in next week for the second gripping installment!