Allies of the Night. Darren Shan
nose and studying me suspiciously.
“Shivers ain’t in yet,” a girl said, and giggled as though she’d said something funny.
“Shivers ain’t ever in before ten past nine,” one of the boys yawned.
“An’ even later on a Monday,” the girl said.
“Everyone knows that,” the boy who’d first spoken added.
“Oh,” I muttered. “Well, as I said, I’m new here, so I can’t be expected to know things that everyone else knows, can I?” I smiled, pleased to have made such a clever point on my first day in school.
“Get stuffed, asswipe,” the boy said in response, which wasn’t exactly what I’d been expecting.
“Pardon?” I blinked.
“You ’eard.” He squared up to me. He was about a head taller, dark-haired, with a nasty squint. I could knock the stuffing out of any human in the school, but I’d momentarily forgotten that, and backed away from him, unsure of why he was acting this way.
“Go on, Smickey,” one of the other boys laughed. “Do ’im!”
“Nah,” the boy called Smickey smirked. “He ain’t worth it.”
Turning his back on me, he resumed his conversation with the others as though nothing had interrupted it. Shaken and confused, I slouched away. As I turned the corner, out of human but not vampire hearing, I heard one of the girls say, “That guy’s seriously weird!”
“See that bag he was carrying?” Smickey laughed. “It was the size of a cow! He must have half the books in the country in it!”
“He spoke weird,” the girl said.
“And he looked even weirder,” the other girl added. “Those scars and red patches of flesh. And did you see that awful haircut? He looked like somefing out of a zoo!”
“Too right,” Smickey said. “He smelt like it too!”
The gang laughed, then talk turned to the TV programme again. Trudging up the stairs, clutching my bag to my chest, feeling very small and ashamed of my hair and appearance, I positioned myself by Mr Chivers’ door, hung my head, and miserably waited for the headmaster to show.
It had been a discouraging start, and though I liked to think things could only get better, I had a nasty feeling in the pit of my belly that they were going to get a whole lot worse!
CHAPTER FIVE
MR CHIVERS arrived shortly after a quarter past nine, puffing and red-faced. (I later learnt that he cycled to school.) He hurried past me without saying anything, opened the door to his room, and stumbled to the window, where he stood staring down at the cement quad. Spotting someone, he slid open the window and roared, “Kevin O’Brien! Have you been kicked out of class already?”
“Wasn’t my fault, sir,” a young boy shouted back. “The top came off my pen in my bag, ruining my homework. Could have happened to anyone, sir. I don’t think I should be kicked out for–”
“Report to my office during your next free period, O’Brien!” Mr Chivers interrupted. “I have a few floors for you to scrub.”
“Aw, sir!”
Mr Chivers slammed the window shut. “You!” he said, beckoning me in. “What are you here for?”
“I’m–”
“You didn’t break a window, did you?” he cut in. “Because if you did, there’ll be hell and leather to pay!”
“I didn’t break a window,” I snapped. “I haven’t had time to break anything. I’ve been stuck outside your door since eight, waiting. You’re late!”
“Oh?” He sat down, surprised by my directness. “Sorry. A flat tyre. It’s the little monster who lives two floors below. He…” Clearing his throat, he remembered who he was and adopted a scowl. “Never mind about me — who are you and why were you waiting?”
“My name’s Darren Horston. I’m–”
“–the new boy!” he exclaimed. “Sorry — clean forgot you were coming.” Getting up, he took my hand and pumped it. “I was away this weekend – orienteering – only got back last night. I jotted down a note and pinned it to the fridge on Friday, but I must have missed it this morning.”
“No problem,” I said, freeing my fingers from his sweaty hand. “You’re here now. Better late than never.”
He studied me curiously. “Is that how you addressed your previous headmaster?” he asked.
I remembered how I used to tremble when faced with the headmistress of my old school. “No,” I chuckled.
“Good, because it’s not how you’ll address me either. I’m no tyrant, but I don’t stand for backchat. Speak respectfully when you talk to me, and add a ‘sir’ at the end. Got that?”
I took a deep breath. “Yes.” A pause. “Sir.”
“Better,” he grunted, then invited me to sit. Opening a drawer, he found a file and perused it in silence. “Good grades,” he said after a couple of minutes, laying it aside. “If you can match those here, we won’t complain.”
“I’ll do my best. Sir.”
“That’s all we ask.” Mr Chivers was studying my face, fascinated by my scars and burn-marks. “You’ve had a rough ride, haven’t you?” he remarked. “Must be horrible to be trapped in a burning building.”
“Yes, sir.” That was in the report Mr Blaws had shown me — according to the forms my ‘father’ submitted, I’d been badly burnt in a house fire when I was twelve.
“Still, all’s well that ends well! You’re alive and active, and anything else is a bonus.” Standing, he put the file away, checked the front of his suit – there were traces of egg and toast crumbs on his tie and shirt, which he picked at – then made for the door, telling me to follow.
Mr Chivers led me on a quick tour of the school, pointing out the computer rooms, assembly hall, gymnasium and the main classrooms. The school used to be a music academy, hence its name (Mahler was a famous composer), but had closed down twenty years earlier, before reopening as a regular school.
“We still place a lot of emphasis on musical excellence,” Mr Chivers told me as we checked out a large room with half a dozen pianos. “Do you play any instruments?”
“The flute,” I said.
“A flautist! Superb! We haven’t had a decent flautist since Siobhan Toner graduated three – or was it four? – years ago. We’ll have to try you out, see what you’re made of, eh?”
“Yes, sir,” I replied weakly. I figured we were talking at cross purposes – he was referring to real flutes, whereas all I knew how to play was a tin-whistle – but I didn’t know whether it was the time for me to point this out. In the end I kept my mouth shut and hoped he’d forget about my supposed flute-playing talents.
He told me each lesson lasted forty minutes. There was a ten-minute break at eleven o’clock; fifty minutes for lunch at ten past one; school finished at four. “Detention runs from four-thirty to six,” he informed me, “but hopefully that won’t concern you, eh?”
“I hope not, sir,” I replied meekly.
The tour concluded back at his office, where he furnished me with my timetable. It was a frightening list — English, history, geography, science, maths, mechanical drawing, two modern languages, computer studies. A double