The Spin Read online

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

  4

  Guards

  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:

  Cosmo’s Circus

  Wonderful Wild Winged Horses

  THE GREATEST SPITFYRE SHOW ON EARTH!

  COME AND SEE OUR DAREDEVIL

  DEATH-DEFYING ACTS!

  SEE THE MOST SPECTACULAR SPITFYRES IN THE WORLD!

  Cosmo’s Circus presents the Great Renaldo!

  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.

  RENALDO

  THE STAR OF THE SHOW!

  TERRIFIC Tricks and Dazzling FEATS of Bravery!

  Spitfyres tamed to submission!

  Renaldo is fearless!

  Don’t miss the Great Renaldo!

  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.

  ‘A robber in the kitchens?’ Mrs Cathcart’s arched eyebrows went even higher. ‘Impossible! Are you suggesting one of my boys might have . . . Never.’

  Otto stamped over to where she stood.

  ‘My larder!’ he cried. ‘Someone has stolen food! Crumbs on the floor! Touched my muffins!’

  Some of the boys giggled but were soon silenced by a look from Mrs Cathcart. ‘Precisely what is missing, Mr Otto?’ she asked.

  ‘A raspberry muffin; an apple with a patch of orange-red on it, salami, one and a half inches of bread and – and my finest tweed coat!’

  Mrs Cathcart tapped a plump finger against her chin thoughtfully.

  ‘It sounds as if that escaped prisoner has paid us a visit. I’ll ask the guards to
investigate. Boys, you are dismissed! Watch out for anything unusual and report it immediately. Off you go to your porridge!’

  Stormy’s heart was thumping, arms trembling, knees knocking, but he could still walk. Slowly he made his way over to his table, and sat down next to Tex.

  ‘You could eat anything from the kitchen now and Otto’d just think it had been the old grubbin thief!’ Tex said, spooning up his porridge quickly. ‘We should try.’

  Stormy nodded weakly. He was safe for the moment – that was all he could think about.

  ‘Funny you asking about grubbins this morning, isn’t it?’ Tex said, grabbing some bread. ‘What wouldn’t you do for a bit of butter, Stormy? And jam, eh?’

  Stormy hardly heard him. He was remembering the two spitfyres skimming down the mountain in the twilight last night. Now he knew what they had been looking for.

  Towards evening a mist came down and even the air in the kitchen became clammy. Stormy peered outside – swirling grey obliterated everything.

  It seemed that everyone was waiting for something to happen, and at last it did. The kitchen door opened and a tall guard came in. His grey leather suit was beaded with moisture from the mist. The skivvies quietly laid down their knives and egg-beaters and inched towards him, hungry to hear news.

  ‘Mind your dirty guard’s feet on my clean floor!’ Otto snapped.

  The guard grinned. ‘Same jolly Mr Otto we know and love,’ he said. ‘Thought you’d like to know that we’ve caught the culprit, Mr Otto. The food thief.’ With a wink at the boys the guard helped himself to an iced chocolate bun from a heaped dish on the table.

  ‘Oi, don’t touch that!’ Otto cried. ‘Put that back immediately!’

  ‘Delicious!’ the guard said, taking a bite. ‘Light and delicious! Mind, I prefer white chocolate myself.’

  ‘Whatthedevil!’ Otto yelled, and probably would have leapt on him if a second guard hadn’t come in just then, carrying Otto’s old green coat.

  ‘Look what I’ve got!’ he said, flinging the coat down and helping himself to a bun.

  ‘My coat!’ Otto cried. ‘Oi! My buns!’

  ‘Stingy, aren’t you, Otto, even when we’ve done you a favour. We caught the villain and he was so desperate he was wearing that.’ The second guard pointed to the coat. ‘He’s outside now; trembling and shivering like a little puppy. Says he wants to say he’s sorry.’

  ‘We aren’t sorry,’ the other guard said, picking a ripe pear out of the fruit bowl and polishing it on his sleeve. ‘We never apologise for nothing.’

  Otto gave him a cold stare before following them. The kitchen staff bunched behind him, straining to see.

  The light spilled from the kitchen doorway on to a miserable sight. The grubbin hung like a limp rag between two pan-faced guards. His cheeks were smeared and blackened with grime and his trousers dirty and torn. He had lost not only a boot but also his leg irons.

  ‘He says he’d like to apologise to you, Otto, in person,’ the first guard said. He prodded the grubbin with his truncheon. ‘Can’t think why. We don’t bother, little moleman – why’d you want to?’

  ‘Don’t listen to him!’ Brittel snapped, stepping to the front of the onlookers and pointing a thin, stained finger at him. ‘He’s only doing it to get off more lightly. Dirty beggar! Nasty, wormy grubbin!’

  The grubbin winced; his knees folded beneath him like paper and his head drooped heavily. His eyes were half closed and his chin shook as he spoke.

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ he muttered wheezily. ‘Sorry for taking your coat and your food.’ He forced open his eyes a little and peered at the kitchen staff intently, as if trying to pick out one particular face amongst the watching boys. His eyes met with Stormy’s, and there was a flash of recognition on both sides. The grubbin quickly closed his eyes and looked away. ‘I had no help, sirs, none. It was all my own doing.’

  ‘Of course he didn’t have help, he didn’t need it!’ Brittel said. ‘Stealing is in their blood!’ He folded his arms across his narrow chest. ‘It’s natural for them, born to it.’

  ‘We’ll take him off now, then!’ The guards hauled the convict up on his trembling legs. ‘He’s done his apology. Enough. Back to the dungeons with you.’ And they dragged him away.

  ‘What’s the matter with you, Stormy?’ Brittel said as they went back inside. ‘Your face is a picture! You don’t care what happens to a dirty old grubbin, do you?’

  Stormy shook his head and added quietly, ‘But he might be innocent. We don’t know for sure.’

  ‘Course we know!’ Brittel said. ‘Those little diggers are all bad. My father lost all his money because of them; cost him his life too, it did.’

  ‘How’s that, then?’ Tex asked, playing for time, avoiding his kitchen duties.

  ‘How’s that? My father bought a mine off them; good deep one, supposed to be fresh, supposed to be full, only to find the grubbins had already cleared it out of precious stones and gold. Everything gone. Wasn’t theirs to dig. They’re thieves.’

  ‘That’s enough, Brittel!’ Otto snapped, slamming the door to the yard. ‘Back to work. All of you!’ The boys scurried to their places.

  ‘All very well,’ Brittel muttered, ‘but it was the ruin of my old man. Ruin.’

  ‘I don’t like mysteries,’ Otto went on, ignoring him. ‘Don’t like wondering if my skivvies are honest or not. Glad to know the truth.’

  Stormy had raced back to his place at the end of the table and picked up his knife again. Honest? The knife sliced his finger. ‘Ouch!’

  ‘Stormy?’ Otto called out.

  ‘Nothing, sir!’

  Stormy sucked his bleeding finger and dived under the table as if he had dropped something.

  He wasn’t honest, but he was safe. He was safe! The grubbin had saved him! Hallelujah!

  ‘But how did the robbing thieving villain get in?’ Otto added, shaking his head. ‘I don’t know.’

  Brittel pointed at Stormy.

  ‘Ask that little grubbin-lover. He might know.’

  Stormy kept silent. Avoiding Brittel’s stare, he stood up and started chopping again. Now no one would ever know what he’d done.

  5

  Crash

  A week passed; two, three, four. The winter nights drew in. It got colder and the first snow began to fall. The tiny stream that trickled down the side of the mountain froze. Ice formed in intricate lace patterns on the windowpanes. The compost heap with its crispy covering of snow turned into a beautiful white cake.

  Stormy found himself often looking towards the tiny dungeon windows that were squashed beneath the castle and above the kitchens in the rock of the mountain, imagining the poor grubbin locked away in a miserable prison cell. What a horrible place to be.

  He was on full-time compost duty now. Nipping down to the compost heap gave him a bit of fresh air and got him out from under Otto’s critical gaze. It gave him a chance to look for spitfyres too; even just seeing one in the distance made him feel brighter. The sight of one would fuel his dreams for nights. Dreams where he had parents, who were spitfyre keepers, and Stormy, their beloved, handsome and brave son, had many wonderful adventures.

  It was impossible; an impossible dream. He was a kitchen orphan and life was unfair; but still, if you couldn’t dream, what could you do?

  One chilly damp evening, Stormy wrapped a scarf round his neck and set off from the kitchen with the full bucket, whistling quietly. Luckily the sun hadn’t quite gone, because coming down in the dark now, he was always looking over his shoulder nervously or staring hard into the murky places.

  Suddenly a shadow fell over him; he stopped and looked up.

  Two great dark shapes were right overhead. Two flying horses had swooped silently down and were hanging over him like two enormous birds.

  Stormy’s heart lurched painfully. The animals were so magnificent. So beautiful! They glided around, circling smoothly over him as if on an invisible wire.

  ‘Hello!’ Stormy yell
ed and waved. ‘Hello!’

  Neither sky-rider waved back. Goggles and helmets hid their faces. Stormy’s own smile died. One rider signalled to his spitfyre, making it tip and bank to the side, then rise up vertically, until it seemed to balance on the tip of its hind legs. Stormy was frozen, watching in wonderment and awe. Suddenly its massive wings scooped backwards, thrust forwards, and with an enormous swoosh the compost heap flew up into the air.

  The sky-rider laughed.

  The powerful draught from the spitfyre’s wings threw Stormy to the ground. Cabbage leaves, orange peel and bones swirled up and then fell back in a thick horrid rain.

  A voice called, ‘Thought you were a grubbin!’

  The winged horse spun round. It opened its jaws and a blast of flames shot out and set light to the fragments of compost. Tiny balls of red scattered, starting miniature fires across the hillside.

  Stormy’s clothes were smoking. He rolled around on the ground, hitting out at the smouldering fabric. He was scorched all over, his eyes were stinging from the smoke and when he felt for his eyebrows they were much smaller than they had been before.

  He could have gone up in flames. He could have been burnt to a frazzle, just on the rider’s whim. His heart bumped.

  There was a scream, a sudden crash and a wood-snapping sound. He spun round. The second spitfyre had smashed into a leafless plum tree. For a moment it was trapped, legs thrashing, wings flapping furiously. It neighed and cried out in fear. Then it fell, slammed into the vegetable patch, and somersaulted over the earth, throwing its rider off with a sickening crunch.

  The black-suited sky-rider lay very still, eyes shut, but breathing. Stormy glanced to see he was OK, then ran over to the spitfyre, which was struggling quickly to its feet.

  Here was a spitfyre, a real winged horse, only ten paces from him. He couldn’t miss this chance . . . He edged towards it, grinning like an idiot, trembling with wonder and excitement. If he could just have a moment to study it . . . if he could just stand close and get a really good look at its wings and head and everything, he would die happy.