Groosham Grange (4 page)

“What are you waiting for?” he asked.

“We may need that boat one day,” Jill muttered. “I wonder if he ever leaves it.”

“Captain Bloodbath…” David shivered. “That’s a funny name.”

“Yes. So how come I’m not laughing?” Jill turned round and trudged along the jetty to the Jeep.

It took them five minutes to reach the school. The track curved steeply upwards, rising to the level of the cliffs, then followed the edge of the wood. Jeffrey had grabbed the seat in the driving compartment next to Gregor. David and Jill were sitting in the back, clinging on for dear life. Every time the Jeep drove over a stone or a pot-hole – and there were plenty of both – they were thrown about a foot in the air, landing with a heavy bump. By the time they arrived, David knew what it must feel like to be a salad. But he quickly forgot his discomfort as he took in his first sight of Groosham Grange.

It was a huge building, taller than it was wide; a crazy mixture of battlements, barred windows, soaring towers, slanting grey slate roofs, grinning gargoyles and ugly brick chimneys. It was as if the architects of Westminster Abbey, Victoria Station and the Brixton gasworks had jumbled all their plans together and accidentally built the result. As the Jeep pulled up outside the front door (solid wood, studded with nails and sixteen inches thick) there was a rumble overhead and a fork of lightning crackled across the sky.

Somewhere a wolf howled.

Then the door creaked slowly open.

A woman stood in the doorway. For a moment her face was a livid blue as the lightning flashed. Then she smiled and David saw that she was, after all, human. In fact, after the peculiar horrors of Gregor and Captain Bloodbath, she seemed reassuringly normal. She was small and plump, with round cheeks and grey hair tied in a bun. Her clothes were Victorian, her high collar fastened at the neck with a silver brooch. She was about sixty years old, her skin wrinkled, her eyes twinkling behind gold half-glasses. For a moment she reminded David of his grandmother. Then he noticed the slight moustache bristling on her upper lip and decided that she reminded him of his grandfather too.

“Hello! Hello!” she trilled as the three of them climbed down from the Jeep. “You must be David. And you’re Jill and Jeffrey. Welcome to Groosham Grange!” She stood back to allow them to enter, then closed the door after them. “I’m Mrs Windergast,” she went on. “The school matron. I hope the journey hasn’t been too tiring?”

“I’m tired,” Gregor said.

“I wasn’t asking you, you disgusting creature,” the matron snapped. “I was talking to these dear, dear children.” She beamed at them. “Our new arrivals!”

David looked past her, taking in his surroundings. He was in a cavernous entrance hall, all wood panels and musty oil paintings. A wider staircase swept upwards, leading to a gloomy corridor. The hall was lit by a chandelier. But there were no lightbulbs. Instead, about a hundred candles spluttered and burned in brass holders, thick black smoke strangling what little light they gave.

“The others are already eating their evening meal,” Mrs Windergast said. “I do hope you like blood pudding.” She beamed at them for a second time, not giving them a chance to answer. “Now – leave your cases here, Jeffrey and Jill. You follow me, David. Mr Kilgraw wants to see you. It’s the first door on the left.”

“Why does he want to see me?” David asked.

“To welcome you, of course!” The matron seemed astonished by the question. “Mr Kilgraw is the assistant headmaster,” she went on. “He likes to welcome all his new pupils personally. But one at a time. I expect he’ll see the others tomorrow.”

Jill glanced at David and shrugged. He understood what she was trying to tell him. Mrs Windergast might seem friendly enough but there was an edge to her voice that suggested it would be better not to argue. He watched as Jill and Jeffrey were led away across the hall and through an archway, then went over to the door that the matron had indicated. His mouth had gone dry and he wondered why.

“I expect it’s because I’m terrified,” he muttered to himself.

Then he knocked on the door.

A voice called out from inside and, taking a deep breath, David opened the door and went in. He found himself in a study lined with books on one side and pictures on the other with a full-length mirror in the middle. There was something very strange about the mirror. David noticed at once but he couldn’t say exactly what it was. The glass had been cracked in one corner and the gilt frame was slightly warped. But it wasn’t that. It was something else, something that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up as if they wanted to climb out of his skin and get out of the room as fast as they could.

With an effort, he turned his eyes away. The furniture in the study was old and shabby. There was nothing strange about that. Teachers always seemed to surround themselves with old, shabby furniture – although the dust and the cobwebs were surely taking things a bit too far. Opposite the door, in front of a red velvet curtain, a man was sitting at a desk, reading a book. As David entered, he looked up, his face expressionless.

“Please sit down,” he said.

It was impossible to say how old the man was. His skin was pale and somehow ageless, like a wax model. He was dressed in a plain black suit, with a white shirt and a black tie. As David sat down in front of the desk, the man closed the book with long, bony fingers. He was incredibly thin. His movements were slow and careful. It was as if one gust of wind, one cough, or one sneeze would shatter him into a hundred pieces.

“My name is Kilgraw,” he continued. “I am very happy to see you at last, David. We are all happy that you have come to Groosham Grange.”

David wasn’t at all happy about it, but he said nothing.

“I congratulate you,” Mr Kilgraw went on. “The school may seem unusual to you at first glance. It may even seem … abnormal. But let me assure you, David, what we can teach you, what we can offer you is beyond your wildest dreams. Are you with me?”

“Yes, sir.”

Mr Kilgraw smiled – if you could call a twitching lip and a glint of white teeth a smile. “Don’t fight us, David,” he said. “Try and understand us. We are different. But so are you. That is why you have been chosen. The seventh son of the seventh son. It makes you special, David. Just how special you will soon find out.”

David nodded, searching for the door out of the corner of his eye. He hadn’t understood anything Mr Kilgraw had said but it was obvious that the man was a complete nutcase. It was true that he had six elder sisters and six gruesome aunts (his father’s sisters) who bought him unsuitable presents every Christmas and poked and prodded him as if he were made of Plasticine. But how did that make him special? And in what way had he been chosen? He would never have heard of Groosham Grange if he hadn’t been expelled from Beton.

“Things will become clearer to you in due course,” Mr Kilgraw said as if reading his mind. And in all probability he had read his mind. David would hardly have been surprised if the assistant headmaster had pulled off a mask and revealed that he came from the planet Venus. “But all that matters now is that you are here. You have arrived. You are where you were meant to be.”

Mr Kilgraw stood up and moved round the desk. There was a second, black-covered book resting at the edge and next to it an old-fashioned quill pen. Licking his fingers, he opened it, then leafed through the pages. David glanced over the top of the desk. From what he could see, the book seemed to be a list of names, written in some sort of brown ink. Mr Kilgraw reached a blank page and picked up the quill.

“We have an old custom at Groosham Grange,” he explained. “We ask our new pupils to sign their names in the school register. You and your two friends will bring the total up to sixty-five who are with us at present. That is five times thirteen, David. A very good number.”

David had no idea why sixty-five should be any better than sixty-six or sixty-four, but he decided not to argue. Instead, he reached out for the quill. And it was then that it happened.

As David reached out, Mr Kilgraw jerked forward. The sharp nib of the quill jabbed into David’s thumb, cutting him. He cried out and shoved his thumb into his mouth.

“I’m so sorry,” Mr Kilgraw said. He didn’t sound sorry at all. “Are you hurt? I can ask Mrs Windergast to have a look at it, if you like.”

“I’m all right.” David was angry now. He didn’t mind if Mr Kilgraw wanted to play some sort of game with him. But he hated being treated like a baby.

“In that case, perhaps you’d be so good as to sign your name.” Mr Kilgraw held out his pen but now it was stained bright red with David’s blood. “We won’t need any ink,” he remarked.

David took it. He looked for ink on the desk but there wasn’t any. The assistant headmaster was leaning over him, breathing into his ear. Now all David wanted was to get out of there, to get something to eat and to go to bed. He signed his name, the nib scratching red lines across the coarse white paper.

“Excellent!” Mr Kilgraw took the pen and slid the book round. “You can go now, David. Mrs Windergast will be waiting for you outside.”

David moved towards the door, but Mr Kilgraw stopped him. “I do want you to be happy here, David,” he said. “We at Groosham Grange have your best interests at heart. We’re here to help you. And once you accept that, I promise you, you’ll never look back. Believe me.”

David didn’t believe him but he had no intention of arguing about it now. He went to the door as quickly as he could, forcing himself not to run. Because he had seen what was wrong with the mirror. He had seen it the moment after he had signed his name in blood, the moment he had turned away from the desk.

The mirror had reflected everything in the room. It had reflected the desk, the books, the curtains, the furniture, the carpet and David himself.

But it hadn’t reflected Mr Kilgraw.

7.00 a.m.

Woke up with a bell jangling in my ear. The dormitory is high up in one of the school’s towers. It is completely circular with the beds arranged like the numbers on the clock face. I’m at seven o’clock (which is also the time as I sit here writing this). Jeffrey is next to me at six o’clock. His pillow is on the floor, his sheets are all crumpled and he has somehow managed to tie his blanket in a knot. No sign of Jill. The girls all sleep in another wing.

7.30 a.m.

I am now washed and dressed. One of the boys showed me the way to the bathroom. He told me his name was William Rufus, which was a bit puzzling as I saw the name-tape on his pyjamas and it said James Stephens. I asked him why he was wearing somebody else’s pyjamas but he just smiled as if he knew something that I didn’t. I think he
does
know something I don’t!

I don’t think I like the boys at Groosham Grange. They’re not stuck up like everyone at Beton College, but they are … different. There was no talking after lights out. There was no pillow fight. Nothing. At Beton College every new boy was given an apple-pie bed – and they used real apple pies. Here, nobody seems at all interested in me. It’s as if I weren’t here at all (and I wish I weren’t).

7.45 a.m.

Breakfast. Eggs and bacon. But the bacon was raw and the eggs certainly didn’t come out of a chicken! I have lost my appetite.

9.30 a.m.

William Rufus – if that really is his name – took me to my first lesson. He is short and scrawny with a turned-up nose and baby-blue eyes. He was just the sort who would always have been bullied at Beton, but I don’t think there is any bullying at Groosham Grange. Everyone is too polite. I don’t believe I just wrote that! Whoever heard of a polite schoolboy?

William and I had a weird discussion on the way to the classroom.

“It’s double Latin,” he said.

“I hate Latin,” I remarked.

I thought we’d have at least one thing in common, but I was wrong. “You’ll like it here,” he told me. “It’s taught by Mr Kilgraw and he’s very good.”

He looked at his watch. “We’d better hurry or we’ll be late.”

“What’s the punishment for being late?” I asked.

“There are no punishments at Groosham Grange.”

Good
Latin teachers? A school with no punishments? Have I gone mad?

But double Latin wasn’t as bad as it sounded. At Beton College it was taught as a “dead” language. And the teacher wasn’t much healthier. But Mr Kilgraw spoke it fluently! So did everyone else! By the end of the lesson they were chatting like old friends and nobody even mentioned Caesar or the invasion of Gaul.

Another odd thing. It was a bright day, but Mr Kilgraw taught with the shutters closed and with a candle on his desk. I asked William Rufus about this.

“He doesn’t like the sun,” William said. At least, I think that’s what he said. He was still talking in Latin.

11.00 a.m.

Saw Jill briefly in the break. Told her about this diary. She told me about her day so far. For some reason she’s in a different class to Jeffrey and me.

“I had Mr Creer for modelling,” she said.

“Pots?” I asked.

“Completely pots. We had to make figures out of wax. Men and women. And he used real hair.”

Jill showed me her thumb. It was cut just like mine. She had seen Mr Kilgraw immediately after breakfast.

“I’m seeing him after lunch,” Jeffrey said.

“Bring your own ink,” Jill suggested.

12.30 p.m.

English with Miss Pedicure.

Miss Pedicure must be at least a hundred years old. She is half blind and completely bald. I think she’s only held together by bandages. She seems to be wrapped up in them from head to toe. I could see them poking out of her sleeves and above her collar. It took her fifteen minutes to reach her chair and when she sat down she almost disappeared in a cloud of dust.

Miss Pedicure does have perfect teeth. The only trouble is, she keeps them in a glass on the corner of her desk.

She taught Shakespeare. From the way she talks, you’d think she knew him personally!

1.15 p.m.

Lunch. Mince. But what was the animal before it was minced? I think I am going to starve to death.