The Spin (2 page)

He was yawning and scratching at his greasy head. His footsteps came closer and closer. Then stopped.

‘What's the matter, Sponge?'

They were right there, right beside the coats!

Sponge was sniffing loudly. Stormy closed his eyes and prayed his shaking limbs wouldn't give him away.
Go away, Sponge! Go away!

‘Come on, you daft old dog. It's only a mouse. Bed!' And at last his bedroom door shut.

Stormy waited a few minutes, then crept out from his hiding place, dragging with him a vast green tweed garment he had never seen Otto wear so would never miss. He put it on to save carrying it, and headed for the kitchen, the coat hem trailing on the floor.

He tiptoed in, feeling like a burglar; feeling like a thief.

Black beetles scattered, scurrying back into the cracks and crevasses behind the stove. The only sound was the crackling fire and the scratching of mice and lizards in the skirting board.

The great coat was suffocating in the hot kitchen but still he was shaking; even his lips were quivering. He almost couldn't do a single thing.

He went to the big stone larder. Otto knew every item of food on every shelf. If one thing was moved, he'd go crazy! Once he'd prepared a dish, he had it recorded in his brain forever. No skivvy had ever managed to steal so much as one mulberry from here without Otto knowing about it – nor lived to tell the tale.

But Stormy had no choice.

He shut his eyes.
If I can't see what I'm doing, I'm not responsible
, he told himself. He pushed back the enormous coat sleeves and let his fingers close around whatever food they happened to touch. Stormy's mouth watered when he opened his eyes and saw a muffin in his hand, baked golden with the red fruit oozing out of the top. There were four other muffins – it would be missed, but what could he do?

He lifted the cheese cover but the cheese beneath was cut into triangles and beautifully arranged in a swirl. The muffin, might, just might have fallen on the floor and got eaten, but not the cheese. He put three crumbs of muffin on the shelf and three on the stone slabs. There, it had fallen and Sponge had eaten it, or the mice. He put the muffin in the coat pocket. What else? There was a long loaf, and since the end was jagged he hoped Otto would not miss another inch or two. Then an apple, but as he reached for the apple, he set three others rolling off along the wide stone ledge. He froze. No one came. He left the fallen apples. A bat had got in or some rats, giant beetles or . . . There was the end of a fat sausage, just two inches of it; he added it to the rest in his pocket.

Now the file; where would he get a file? The man wanted something to cut through the chain that hobbled his legs together; it would need to be a huge file. Otto kept tools for mending the stove and the turning spit beneath the stone sink. Stormy pulled the cupboard door open and rummaged around quietly. There was a heavy chisel and hammer, and he considered taking them before he spotted a massive pair of pincer things that Otto had used to cut the bars on the pantry window when his friend Purbeck had got his big head stuck through them. Otto had made Purbeck wait for two whole days before freeing him. It had been snowing at the time too.

The back door was locked, but the key was in the lock and Stormy turned it slowly. The clock in the tower began to chime the hour. Midnight!

He ran.

A dim yellow glow flickered in the dark by the compost heap. Stormy headed towards it, his heart booming, and his mouth dry. With his eyes set on the light, he saw nothing, only heard a hideous
wheeze
as the terrible man leapt out and flung him to the ground. The man was on top of him in an instant, settling on his chest like a heavy toad, and smelling like one too.

‘Alone?' The convict's voice rasped close in his ear. ‘Anyone see you?'

‘No, sir.'

‘Tell anyone?'

‘I swear I didn't, sir.'

‘Food?'

‘Yes, here, if you'd just let me . . .'

The man rolled off him and, reaching for a shrouded lantern, opened it so a sliver of light shone out. Stormy managed to get his hands into the deep pockets of the big coat and squash the stolen food into the convict's hands. ‘Sorry, it's a bit broken and –'

He didn't notice a folded square of paper escape from his coat pocket to the ground.

The little man grabbed the muffin with shaking hands and rammed it into his mouth. His teeth were chattering so badly that much of it flew out again and had to be scooped up several times before it was eaten and swallowed once and for all.

Stormy had a moment in which to nervously study the convict. His eyes were black and very round, like polished stones. And his ears, half hidden by the straggly hair, were pointed.

A
grubbin
! That accounted for the smell of old leaves and wet earth.

‘What you starin' at?' the grubbin said, and food sprayed out of his mouth as he spoke. ‘
What?
'

‘Nothing, sir, nothing.'

‘Is it the ears? Is that it?' He chewed away furiously, swallowing in great hungry gulps; saliva dribbling down his chin. ‘Ears? Been paying all my life for them ears. Locked up for years and years, little norphan, for a pair of ears. A pair of pointed ears! Locked up there.' He indicated the dungeons, the tiny black-barred windows set into the castle walls below the Academy. ‘Get the file?' he added, gripping Stormy's arm tight. ‘Did you?'

‘There wasn't one,' Stormy said, quickly, pulling out the pincers. ‘I got these. I hope they'll do. Otto's going to go crazy when he finds out!'

‘Fierce is he, this Otto?'

Stormy nodded. ‘Can be.'

‘Well, I'm grateful to you, and sorry. There. Can't say fairer than that. I've done nothin' wrong and shouldn't be locked up, and that's a fact. I needs my freedom. What about you?' The grubbin stuffed the last of the sausage into his mouth and nodded at him. ‘Know what it's like to need something? Need it bad?'

‘I do. Yes. I
need
to be a sky-rider,' Stormy blurted.

‘Ah ha. Good, good,' and the grubbin held out a dirty hand for the tools. ‘Got a dream, lad, hold it. Now give me them.' He weighed the heavy pincers in his palm. ‘Good. Done well.'

‘Can I go now?' Stormy whispered.

‘Yes. Thank you. You can go. Away to your bed before my men come back. 'Ere, give me the coat.'

Quickly Stormy stripped off the coat and the grubbin put it on. It was huge on him too, drooping off his shoulders and long on the ground, but he hugged it round himself gratefully.

‘You done me proud, young man. Thank you. Thank you for your help and I hopes you get your dream. Brave lad. Here – don't forget this.' He scooped up the fallen paper and thrust it into Stormy's hand. ‘Might be important.'

He shut off the light and limped away into the darkness, hardly clinking at all, and was eaten up by the shadows.

Stormy could not sleep. His night was tormented by fearful dreams where Otto roasted him slowly on the spit above the fire or fed him live to Sponge, in bite-size pieces.

He kept waking, thinking he heard the door to the dormitory open, thinking Otto was coming to get him, imagining he heard the low growl of Sponge as he padded up to the bed, his wet nose sniffing loudly, scenting stolen food.

He was amazed when he woke at six o'clock to find he was still all in one piece, safe in his narrow bunk and not dead. Images of the escaped prisoner came swiftly into his mind along with the paper he'd handed him, which, after briefly glancing at the night before, he'd pushed under his pillow.

Now he pulled it out. It was a faded handbill, much creased and fingered. He unfolded it quietly and read:

The Great Renaldo was a young man, as round and sleek as a well-fed seal. He had a large black moustache with twirled-up ends and was wearing a sort of string vest through which his muscles bulged.

Stormy stared at the confident spitfyre master with wonder and awe. To be in a spitfyre circus looked even better than being a sky-rider in the Academy.

Behind Renaldo were some of the tiny folk with very round faces and spindly legs known as
littles
. They wore tights and elaborate hats. They cartwheeled round the ring or rode on miniature ponies with star-studded harnesses.

Tex was stirring in the bunk below and quickly Stormy folded the handbill up again and slipped it inside a book.

‘What happened to you last night?' Tex asked him, poking his head round from the lower bunk. ‘Did Otto keep you?'

‘Tummy trouble,' Stormy said. ‘Stuck in the bathroom.'

Tex laughed. ‘What did you eat?'

‘I didn't eat anything! I wouldn't dare.' Stormy got up and started to dress. ‘Otto has eyes in the back of his spotty old head.'

Tex laughed again. ‘I know,' he said. ‘All that glorious nosh going up to the Academy and I bet they don't appreciate it! Once when I was carrying a tray to the Winder I just let my face sort of fall into the plate and I ate a whole stuffed tomato!'

They both giggled.

‘It's torture, putting the food in the lift, closing the door, seeing it disappear,' Tex said dreamily. ‘Don't know how the Winder manages. If I –'

‘Hey, Tex, you don't hate grubbins, do you?'

‘What, molemen? No. Why?'

‘Just wondered.'

‘Brittel does, but he's a narrow-minded idiot,' Tex said with great certainty. ‘And hates most things.'

‘That's true,' Stormy said. ‘He's always making nasty comments about them . . . I'm sure they're not all bad. He probably just wishes he could dig up gold and stuff, like they can.'

‘I suppose they're a bit grubby,' Tex said. ‘Don't know that I'd want to live underground; it'd make you smell. Too dark. And I wouldn't have their gold teeth, even if I were rich.'

Stormy tried to remember if the grubbin last night had had gold teeth. He'd had a lot of gaps, so maybe he had once. ‘Brittel says grubbins shouldn't be allowed to live alongside humans. Says they steal and lie. He once told me his –'

Suddenly the bell started ringing, an urgent, sharp, harsh sound that shook the walls and rattled the windows in their frames.

Stormy froze. ‘An alarm?' he whispered.

‘Yeah, it's an alarm all right,' said another boy, joining them.

‘I should think so!' Tex agreed, looking excited. ‘Great.'

The boys rushed to the windows and peered out – all except for Stormy. He was too terrified to move.

‘Something's up!' another boy said. ‘I've just seen Mrs Cathcart running!'

The boys giggled. ‘That's not running, it's rolling!'

‘Last time I heard that bell, some twit up in the castle got burnt to a crisp by a flying horse,' Purbeck said.

‘They think they're fireproof, those posh Academy boys,' Tex said.

‘Wonder what's up this time?' another boy asked.

‘I expect we'll find out soon,' Tex said.

Stormy straightened his bed covers quickly. His fingers were trembling . . . Had his thieving been discovered
already
?

Before breakfast the boys were lined up to listen to Mrs Cathcart, the housekeeper. She was so plump that her hands barely met around her squidgy middle. Having a squinty eye meant no one ever knew where, or at whom she was looking, so all the skivvies watched her intently, though their minds were on the pots of porridge slowly growing cold on the long tables behind them. Mrs Cathcart gave them the same old talk.

‘You'd be scrabbling around in the filth of the village if it wasn't for the kitchen,' she said. ‘You'd be dirty and hungry and lonely. The kitchen has saved you, and in exchange we ask only for hard work. Dedication. And loyalty.' She smoothed her blonde hair, tucking a short strand behind her ear.

Stormy gulped loudly.

‘I've gathered you together to explain about the alarm you heard. There's been a break out. A convict has escaped from the dungeons!'

Stormy nearly toppled over.

A shiver rippled through the boys like wind through a field of nervous grass.

‘He is a ruthless, violent creature. A
grubbin
! Not that I'm prejudiced or anything, but even if you only believe
some
of what you hear about them, you can't sleep easy in your bed . . . If we see him, we must not approach him. He's dangerous. He is a lifer, never
ever
to be set free, a desperate creature. Report anything suspicious to me or Mr Otto, immediately!'

Stormy clenched his sweaty hands tightly together and looked straight ahead.

As Mrs Cathcart's stare went round the hall, it seemed to Stormy that one of her blue eyes lingered on him, watching him with special interest. He tried to make his eyes go glassy and vacant, like Purbeck's usually were. Oh, lordy! She
couldn't
know what he'd done! She couldn't!

Suddenly the door was flung open so violently that it crashed against the wall. The boys jumped. Mrs Cathcart squealed.

Otto! The long strands of his hair, usually neatly combed over his skull, hung down on one side of his big face. Sweat gleamed on his cheeks like olive oil. His cheeks were ripe tomatoes.

‘Thief!' he cried. ‘Robber!'

Stormy felt his stomach flip over and start to slide away towards his knees. His hand twitched with an automatic desire to own up. His feet even stepped forward involuntarily.
It was me! It was me!
But he said nothing.