Moon (24 page)

    Jeanette should have been outside with the other girls in her class, but had sneaked away, wanting only to be alone.
They
all had their parents and brothers and sisters with them, while she had no one, and to be among them only made her miss her own parents more. Besides, she hadn't been chosen for the dancing display and certainly had no gymnastics prowess, and knew there would be no awards or certificates waiting on the prize table for
her.
There never were! Oh yes, once she'd won a merit badge for embroidery, but the earth had hardly moved for that. Perhaps it was just as well that her parents hadn't flown all the way from South Africa just to sit with her on the sidelines and watch her friends collecting their prizes. Her father was an engineer of some kind - she never quite understood
exactly
what he did - and used the island as a base for his various journeys to other parts and different jobs, her mother often accompanying him. They'd be away for eighteen months this time -
eighteen months! -
but at least she would stay with them for two months as soon as the summer term was over. She missed them terribly, but didn't know if they missed her. They said they did, but then they would, wouldn't they? Of course we love you and miss you, darling, but it just isn't practical for you to be dragged halfway around the world and have your education broken up in such a way. Of course we want you with us, but learning must come first. Jeanette allowed Pierrot to tumble off her body and slide from the bed onto the floor. His woebegone expression had been making her miserable.

    She closed her eyes for a few minutes, face pointed towards the ceiling, her single plait of hair (she told herself it was in the style of Miss Sebire) spread on the pillow. If anyone caught her in the dormitory she'd be in trouble; fortunately all the teachers would be too busy toadying up to fee-paying parents to patrol the school's upper floors, otherwise she would never have risked being there. She liked occasional solitude, but found the only trouble with being alone was that it got lonely.

    Jeanette sighed, pictured Kelly confidently marching forward to receive her trophies - best debater, highest grade in maths and physics, special award for progress in computer studies, etc., etc., etc. - and wished she could be like her. Kelly was
so
pretty, too. It was wrong to be jealous, Jeanette knew that, but sometimes,
oh, sometimes,
she wished she were like her classmate. She never would be, though, Jeanette had to accept that, but everybody had to have at least
one
quality, something that made them as good as the rest; it was just a little bit difficult to discover what hers was. Someday it would shine through, though. Perhaps soon. And perhaps when her periods started her spots would disappear and her breasts start to grow. And her head would be less dreamy all the time and she might even grow taller and -

    - And the mobiles were beginning to move.

    Of course, windows were open on the upper floors on such a brill day, so a draught was moving them. Jeanette was annoyed at herself. The other girls often accused her of being frightened of her own shadow and sometimes she was forced to agree with them. She didn't like dark corners, didn't like scary movies -
hated
crawly things - didn't like the creaking of the old building or the rattling of windows when she lay awake in the middle of the night while others around her slept. And shadows did frighten her, especially those under beds.

    Jeanette sat up, but did not immediately swing her legs to the floor. She crouched forward and peered under the bed first.

    Satisfied no beast was lying in wait to reach out and pull her into its dark lair, Jeanette allowed her stockinged feet to touch the floor. She remained on the edge of the bed for a little while, listening intently and not quite sure what she was listening for. Perhaps the crack of floorboards in another room, a mysterious scratching that might or might not be a tiny mouse, the slithering of some loathsome slime-covered creature that wandered empty corridors, or a huge cloaked figure lurking just beyond the doorway, waiting for her to come out, clawed, scabby fingers with long curling nails waiting to -

    
Stoppit!
She was frightening herself again. Sometimes Jeanette hated her own stupid imagination for conjuring up such self-inflicted spectres. It was broad daylight, the school grounds were full of people, and she was deliberately teasing herself with scary thoughts. Jeanette reached for her shoes, deciding it was time to join the rest of the world.

    Her toes had wriggled into one shoe, two fingers hooked into the heel, when she heard the footsteps approaching. She watched curiously as the fine hairs on the back of her bare arm stiffened and began to rise. The crawling sensation on her flesh reached the sharp ridge of her spine.

    Jeanette straightened. Listened. Looked towards the dormitory's open doorway.

    The footsteps were heavy, almost lumbering. Drawing closer. Their sound mesmerising.

    Her heart seemed to be beating unusually loudly.

    The footsteps stopped and, for a moment, she thought that so, too, had her heart.

    Could she really hear the sound of breathing beyond the doorway?

    Jeanette slowly rose, the shoe slipping off her foot. She stood by the edge of the bed, barely able to breathe, Pierrot staring blankly up at her, still frozenly weeping.

    She did not want to walk towards the doorway; something -perhaps confrontation with her own silly fears - compelled her to. Her stockinged feet were silent on the polished floorboards as she stealthily crept forward, and her hands were clenched into tight fists.

    She hesitated just before she reached the open door, suddenly more afraid than she had ever been in her life. Beyond the opening, something waited.

    

    

    The dancing and gymnastics display was over. Miss Piprelly had given her usual incisive and succinct oration before introducing
Conseiller
Victor Platnauer, whose discourse was more leisurely and contained at least a modicum of humour. Nevertheless, Childes found it difficult to concentrate on either speech, for he constantly searched the crowd in front of him for some telltale sign, the slightest indication that one person among the guests was not quite what he seemed.

    He not only observed nothing out of the ordinary, but
felt
nothing that gave cause for concern. All was as it should have been: attentive spectators, splendid weather, although perhaps a trifle too warm, fine exhibitions by the pupils themselves, and adequate speeches.

    Prize-giving had just begun when a movement caught his attention. He blinked, not sure if it had only been a trick of the light, a reflection in one of the windows across the lawn. Yet something in his vision was not quite as before and that change was sensed rather than seen. His eyes were drawn towards one particular spot high in the building opposite.

    A face was at an upstairs window.

    Blurred, too far away to be identified, but he instinctively knew whose face it was.

    His very blood was suddenly chilled.

    Stunned, Childes could only sit there, a burdensome dread pinning his body to the seat. His mouth opened to speak, to cry out, but it was as if a fist, a cold, steel, clenched fist, had blocked his throat.

    The face was still, and it seemed that its eyes were on him alone. Then the whitish blur was gone.

    Childes staggered to his feet, his limbs feeling almost too heavy to move; somehow he managed to step over the back of the bench. He looked around for Overoy, the semi-paralysis of shock beginning to fade, but failed to locate him in the crowd. He couldn't wait.

    Something was wrong inside the school, something awful that sent a sharp terror knifing through him.

    He skirted the rows of seating and hurried back along the gravel path towards the school building. Applause broke out behind as a pupil went up to receive her prize. Only a few people noticed his rushing figure, one being Overoy, who had been loitering beneath a tree at the edge of the gardens, a position that had provided a good view of the proceedings. Unfortunately, he was on the far side of the lawns and some distance away from the path Childes had taken; the detective decided it would be easier if he went in his own direction and met Childes on the other side of the building. Overoy slipped on his jacket and briskly strode towards the front of the school.

    Childes entered the first door he came to, shivering involuntarily as he stepped into the cooler atmosphere. He took a short flight of stairs and found himself in the main hallway running centrally along the length of the building. The face had been at a window on the third floor where the older girls' dormitories were; he ran down the hallway in the direction of the main stairway, footsteps echoing off the half-panelled walls around him.

    He passed the library, the staffroom and parents' waiting room, before reaching the wide stairway where he paused, craning his neck to look into the upper reaches as if expecting to find someone peering down. The stairs were deserted.

    Not giving in to his trepidation, Childes began the ascent.

    Overoy cursed himself. He had forgotten that the college's layout was not conventional, for various wings and annexes had been added over the years. The detective had found himself cut off from Childes by the white structure with its high tower, attached to the older section at right angles. He could either go around and join up with Childes on the other side, or go through. He found the nearest door and went through.

    First floor. Childes scanned the corridor leading off in both directions. Empty. But a sound from above.

    He leaned over the balustrade. Sharp sounds, scuffling. He looked up.

    
'No!’
he shouted.
'No, don't!’

    He ran, mounting the stairs three at a time, using the handrail to pull himself up with each step, not even the exertion overcoming the sudden pallor of his features.

    Second floor. The noise from above had ceased. He kept climbing. A kicking sound.

    As he went higher, he heard a strangulated wheezing.

    Nearly on the third floor and a shadow - an ungainly, lumbering shadow - seemed to dissolve away at the top of the stairs. He thought he heard footsteps, but his attention was on the small thrashing figure dangling over the empty space of the stairwell.

    As she swung in his direction, he saw her face was already turning a mottled bluey-purple. Her eyes bulged wildly as she tried to tear at the coloured noose around her neck. The girl's stockinged feet kicked out at the air.

    
'Jeanette!’
Childes cried.

    He was almost at the top when he tripped, skidding onto the landing and instantly rolling over, ignoring the wrenching pain as his knee grazed against wood. He did not even try to rise, but scrabbled on all fours to the balustrade, reaching through, grabbing at the twisting body below, finding her arms, gripping them tightly and supporting her weight.

    He thought he sensed movement behind but concentrated on holding the hanging girl. He pulled, but his position was awkward. He could only lie there, sprawled and gasping, straining to maintain his grip.

    He could feel her beginning to slip.

    'Don't struggle, Jeanette. Just try to keep still… please… don't fight against me!'

    But she could not help herself. Her choking became a wheezing sibilance. Her fingers clawed at her own neck, drawing speckles of blood.

    Childes felt the girl slipping from him.

    Running footsteps on the stairway. Overoy staring up at them, not breaking his stride, tearing up the stairs with all the speed and strength he possessed.

    Childes clung to Jeanette, his legs spread-eagled behind, body flat against the floor and face pressed against the metal struts of the balustrade. As he willed himself not to let go, the struggle slowly becoming too much, an object lying close to the edge of the landing caught his eye.

    It was tiny. It was round. It was a moonstone.

    

    

    Traffic was heavy going through the island's main port-town, and Childes forced himself to drive with extra care, his nerves still ragged and hands less than steady. Beside him, Amy was pensive, obviously shaken by what had happened, yet strangely reserved.

    He stopped the Mini at traffic lights on a junction overlooking the harbour. Tourists strolled in the comfortable warmth of early evening, while in the marina yacht crews relaxed on deck, sipping wine and discussing the day's unfortunate lack of sailing breeze. Day-trippers returning from one of the other islands disembarked from a hydrofoil docked at the far end of the long, curving pier. Light green cranes used for loading and unloading cargoes stood along the quaysides near the harbour entrance, jibs leaning at odd angles as if in conversation with each other.

    He glanced at Amy. 'You okay?'

    'I'm frightened, Jon.' She turned to him briefly, then looked away again.

    'You and me both. At least there'll be closer police surveillance here from now on.'

    'Poor little Jeanette.'

    'She'll recover. Her throat was bruised and her larynx and windpipe badly compressed by the school tie this maniac found to use as a noose, but she'll mend.'

    'I'm thinking of the damage to her mind. Will she ever get over such an ordeal?'

    The lights changed and Childes took his foot from the brake pedal to ease down on the accelerator, swinging the wheel right to drive along the harbour front.

    'She's young, Amy, and time dulls even mental trauma.'

    'I hope so, for her sake.'

    'Just thank God Overoy got to us - I couldn't have held on much longer.'