Class Act (12 page)

C
HAPTER
22

NUMS FOR CHUMS

‘Oh, Brian.' Quincy leaned forward on the desk. ‘Why did you want those pointy things? I'm not going to hurt you.' He winked. ‘We're pals, remember?'

Brian nodded madly and made loud ‘Mmm' and ‘Yesss' noises, partly so he could think up an excuse for trying to grab the scissors, and partly to drown out the snorts of derision he expected from Dulcie. But none came. Thank goodness; she must have run out of puff. And thank badness, too, because now he was on his own. ‘I was just going to cut the tape from Mrs Florris's mouth so … she can congratulate you for beating Pete. And if you undo the handcuffs, she can clap too.'

‘Ooh, wouldn't that be nice?' said Quincy sweetly. ‘But she had her chance.' He twisted round on the desk to face her. ‘And she blew it.' He cuffed her on the ear.

The loathing in her eyes suggested that she wasn't in the mood for congratulating. Brian would have to do it for her. ‘You were brilliant,' he told Quincy. ‘You beat the unbeatable. Didn't he, Pete?'

‘Whatever.' Pete had collapsed into a chair. ‘Where's my honey?'

‘Yeah.' Alec's head rose from its slump on his chest. ‘You promised.'

‘I did indeed.' Quincy jumped off the front desk. ‘And seeing as Teach hasn't played ball, it's time for my little Plan B. A trade-off. In return for some of my delicious, nutritious honey, she'll be only too glad to give me her job.' He took the keys from his breast pocket. ‘She's a lucky woman. I tell you, Brian, it's irresistible.' He locked the lid of the desk. ‘In fact, you must try some too. I'd hate you to feel left out.' He skipped to the door, ran out and slammed it behind him. There was the creakety-squeak of a key.

Brian's chest went tight. He'd lost his last weapon against Quincy. Trust.

Or maybe his last-but-one. He ran over to Florrie. ‘Hold still,' he muttered, running his fingernail along her taped mouth. He found the end of the tape by her ear. ‘If we're going to get out of here, you've got to flatter him, say what he wants and make him believe it. It'll only work coming from you.' He ripped off the sticky bandage. Tears glittered on her cheeks. She squeaked and gasped as the tape plucked white hairs from the back of her head and burned a red line across her face.

‘Aoww,' she moaned, wriggling her moustache back to life. ‘You hurt me.'

‘Sor
ree
,' snapped Brian. ‘Just do it right this time, OK?'

The door opened. Quincy swept in with a tray. On top was a spoon and a glass jar of something mottled yellow and grey. He locked the door. Lifting the tray above his head, he glided across the room like a waiter, ten days and a world away from the clumsy old klutz in the school hall. ‘Num nums for chum chums!' he sang, putting the tray on the front desk.

Brian backed towards the door. Alec, Tracy and Pete rose from their chairs and hurried slowly (it
is
possible: imagine running through ketchup) towards him.

‘
Oh
no.' Quincy snatched up the jar. ‘Guests first.'

You had to hand it to him. For a kidnapping, mind-mangling, stationery-wielding nutcase, he had lovely manners. Either that or he was enjoying the children's agonised faces as he shoved them away. ‘If you don't wait nicely, you won't get any at all. Go and sit down.' They slunk wretchedly back to their desks. He put the jar down on the front desk. Seeing Florrie's untaped mouth, he frowned. ‘Now, Brian, why did you go and do that? I thought you'd be glad that I gagged the old hag.'

‘Yes.' Brian dug his fingernails into his palms. ‘But like I said, she wants to congratulate you on beating Pete.'

‘Congratulations,' said the teacher flatly.

‘And tell you how clever you are.'

‘Clever,' she agreed.

‘And how wrong she was, and how sorry she is for making you feel so useless at school.'

‘Wrong,' she said dully, ‘and sorry.'

‘Gee.' Quincy's hands clasped his cheeks. ‘What super, super words.' He sighed. ‘If only she meant them. It's kind of you to try, Brian, it really is, but you can't change her.' He smiled. ‘Now, you just relax and enjoy a nibble of my finest.' He took the spoon and plunged it into the jar of ghastly honey. ‘I normally serve it on scones,' he chirped. ‘You don't need much; it's powerful stuff. But for you I'll spare a whole spoonful, so you can savour the enchanting flavour.'

‘NO!' Brian flattened himself against the door. One taste and he'd be done for. ‘I – I'm allergic to honey.'

‘Really?' Quincy stirred the yellow-grey goo. ‘Even better. It's been such a hit with the children, you see, I'm thinking of selling it. And I was wondering how it would work on people with allergies.' He pulled the spoon out. ‘You'll be my test case, Brian. Oh, it's all working out so well.'

With his hands behind his back, Brian pressed pointlessly on the locked door handle. His sweating palms slid off the cold metal. ‘What's
in
the honey?' he whispered.

‘Aha!' Quincy patted the pot. ‘The secret ingredient. How do I know you won't go and blab it?'

‘Because,' Brian swallowed, ‘like you said, I'm your friend. And friends never blab. They can trust each other.'

‘They can?' Quincy frowned.

‘Yes. They keep each other's secrets … and they never hurt each other.'

Quincy's rusty eyebrows rose. He seemed to be listening at last.

The other children seized their chance. Rising from their chairs, they rushed sluggishly (it can be done: think of running through mustard) towards Quincy.

Who snatched the jar and jumped on top of the desk. ‘Iron!'

‘Iron?' echoed Brian. ‘What do you mean? I don't see–'

‘Oh but you do. Seeing's what you're good at, Brian, like me. Noticing things that other people miss.' Quincy held the pot high as the children jostled beneath him. ‘I've spent years watching bees in gardens, studying their ways. How they talk, not in words but the language of nature – colours and smells and touch. Did you know,' he did a jig on the desk, ‘that flowers attract bees through magnetic waves? And if bees can be magnetised, why not us too? Through their honey.'

‘Honey!' moaned Tracy grabbing his trouser leg. He kicked her away.

‘But why do you want magnetic honey?' Brian flattened his hands against the door. ‘I mean, what would you use it for?'

Quincy grinned. ‘To settle a sticky old score.' He bent over and banged the pot on Florrie's head. She shortened in the chair like a hammered nail. ‘One day in the garden it all came together in a single, beautiful word.'

Kidnap? Torture?
Brian's mouth filled with dust.
Murder?

Quincy kissed the honey pot. ‘Fertiliser! Magnetic soil, magnetic flowers. Magnetic nectar, magnetic pollen. Magnetic bees, magnetic honey. I told you I put nothing in the
honey.
I just magnetised the iron in the fertiliser and let nature do the rest. And the result has simply captivated these dear, gifted children.' He stamped on their hands as they clutched at his feet. ‘See? They can't keep away.'

Magnetic fertiliser. That was why the soil, the flowers, the bees outside looked so …
metallic.
But Brian still didn't get it. ‘Why go to all that trouble? Why not just kidnap the prize-winners and force them to teach you their skills?'

‘Kidnap?' Quincy's eyes widened. ‘What sort of monster do you think I am? I wasn't out to use them. I wanted to be friends. So I gave them a present … a little encouragement. And then they
chose
to come, like friends do.'

‘You're as loopy as a Hula Hoop!' screeched Florrie. ‘As nutty as Nutella!'

Oh no
. Brian sank to the floor.
She's lost it. We're lost.

‘That's not friendship!' She cackled like a chicken. ‘It's bribery.'

Quincy's eyebrows rose. ‘Bribery?' He licked his lips, as if exploring a new and intriguing taste. ‘Do you really think so?'

‘No!' cried Brian, and ‘I
know
so!' yelled the teacher.

Quincy hugged the honey to his chest. ‘But I thought they were my friends,' he said, all round-eyed innocence. He gazed down at the three children, shoving and smacking and trying to grasp the pot. ‘You're right, though.' He tutted. ‘It really does look like it's the honey they're friends with, not me.'

‘Ten out of ten!' Florrie laughed hysterically. ‘For once!'

Quincy kicked out with his foot, hitting Alec in the face. ‘Well, forget it, you fakes! I'm saving it for my
real
friend.' He jumped off the desk and strode towards Brian, holding the honey jar above the others' clawing reach.

‘No!' Brian covered his mouth with his hand and squashed against the door. ‘If you give me that honey, I
won't
be your friend. I'll just be your slave, like the rest of them.'

Quincy stopped. ‘You will? Oh!' He blinked uncertainly. ‘I … I see what you mean.'

As he hesitated, Tracy leapt for the honey pot. But again he was too quick, dodging and jumping onto a chair. Alec grabbed his knees. Tracy wobbled the back of the chair. Pete kicked the legs. Quincy came clattering down – but not before he'd hurled the honey pot at one of the windows. The glass cracked, scattering stars as the jar and spoon smashed through. There was a thud on the ground outside.

With a cry, Pete dragged a chair across to the wall. Alec and Tracy followed.

‘Who needs honey?' Quincy danced to the front desk. ‘Now I've got a
proper
friend!'

From the door, Brian watched Pete climb onto the chair and reach up to the broken window. But it was too high to stick his hand through.

There was a shriek from Florrie. Quincy had unlocked the lid of the front desk and taken out a matchbox. He struck a match and dropped it into her lap.

Brian's brain froze. But his body thought for him. He flew across to her.

Quincy darted past, sweeping up the anorak he'd thrown on the floor. ‘Time to replace the queen bee,' he sang, skipping to the back of the room. ‘Come on, Brian, let's smoke her and her little workers out!'

Reaching the front desk, Brian flicked the match from the screaming Florrie's lap. Too late. A flame had caught the bottom of her blouse. He grabbed it, smacking and squeezing the burning cotton. Pain ripped across his palms. Tears stung his eyes. At last the flame died, leaving the end of her blouse in tatters and his hands in roaring agony.

At the back of the room Quincy was crouched at the foot of the bookshelf. He'd thrown down the anorak and was dropping burning matches on top. Flames rose, timidly at first, then thickening as they ate through the lining to the padding. As Brian rushed back between the desks, Quincy turned to the nature table. He scooped everything off the top – bark, moss, dried flowers – and threw it on the flames.

Brian reached out and tried to snatch the matchbox. ‘
Owww!
' Pain tore his hands.

Quincy wheeled round and gripped his wrists. His eyes were wild with joy. ‘Let's make 'em sizzle!' Dropping Brian's wrists, he struck another match. Brian charged again but Quincy flicked him away like a fly. He tumbled onto the floor. Quincy seized a book from the shelf, ripped out a handful of pages and threw them on the anorak. The flames crackled and danced, orange as egg yolk.

Brian clutched at Quincy's trouser leg. But his throbbing fingers had no strength. Quincy skipped off and pulled more books from the shelf. He threw them onto the fire, cackling.

‘Help!' Brian yelled pointlessly. The other children were still trying to retrieve the honey. They'd dragged a desk to the wall. Pete stood on top, reaching for the window. Florrie was sobbing in her chair.

Brian struggled to his feet. It was hopeless tackling Quincy alone; he was far too strong and quick. As he capered towards the door, Brian focused instead on the fire. He grasped the bottom of his jersey.
Aaaah!
His fingers felt shrunken and tight, as if he'd dipped them in molten wax. Dizzy with pain, he wrenched the jersey over his head. Then he whacked it at the flames. Ash flew up and stung him like ants. Smoke rose and spread across the ceiling, then curled down and out through the broken window.

Pete coughed in the fumes. He gave up, sank down and slid off the desk. The three children turned. They looked at Brian with bleak, defeated eyes. But seeing Quincy at the door, their daze turned to desperation.

‘Honey!' wailed Alec. They stumbled towards him between the desks.

Quincy was dropping burning matches into the bin by the door. As the contents caught fire, he threw flaming balls of scrunched-up paper at the children. Then he caught sight of Brian still hitting the flames. ‘What are you doing?' he cried, as if understanding only now that Brian was fighting, not helping, him. ‘Leave those losers and save yourself.' He opened the door. ‘Come with your real friend, Brian.'