The Spin (27 page)

‘Why didn't you say?'

‘Al oiled her lock and gave me the key and . . . I think he really wants me to be her rider, but with him gone, I'll never find out what her name is. I hoped he'd remember it.'

‘Well, my bet is you can make anything fly, even a mole, name or no name. Born sky-rider you are. I saw the marks you've been getting for your school work.' Mungo went round and flapped his arms in the spitfyre's face. ‘Come on, you, we're going
flying
!'

The spitfyre gawped at him in amazement.

‘She knows what I mean. Come on, let's get on.'

‘I really don't think . . .' But Stormy climbed gingerly onto her back, settling with his knees tucked in behind where her wings emerged, hoping against hope that something magical would happen and he'd instantly become a master sky-rider.

Sitting on her back was extraordinary; to have so much of his body touching hers, and to feel the heat radiate from her, as if he were astride a stove. He felt he should have asked permission to get on to her – it seemed almost rude just to sit on her as if she were a chair – but she didn't object, and what else were you supposed to do?

The grubbin scrambled up behind him and clasped his arms around his middle. ‘Off we go!'

The spitfyre smelt strongly of earthy herbs, and just-struck matches. Stormy could feel her muscles and tendons and sinews writhing beneath her skin as she flexed her wings and tested her legs. Her expanding ribcage rose and fell; her beating heart throbbed like a drum.

‘Isn't she gorgeous!' Stormy whispered. ‘I think I might pop with joy.'

Mungo chuckled. ‘She is beautiful,' he said cheerfully. ‘Even more beautiful if she'd get a move on . . . Make her go, can't you?'

How? Stormy whispered in her ear, ‘Come on, thirteen, please.
Starlight?
Please, let's go. We must fly. We must!'

She swished her tail and her wings twitched, and Stormy's hopes soared, and then fell as she stayed rock still.

‘Try kicking her.'

‘I can't kick her! She isn't an ordinary horse! I don't want to hurt her. Come on, thirteen, please. Up, up, UP!'

Her ears flicked backwards and forwards and she tensed the muscles in her back and limbs so her body tightened and prepared, like a spring, beneath them. She was like a runner in a race, on her marks, but she wouldn't go without the whistle blowing. And Stormy had no whistle.

‘Up!' Stormy urged again. ‘Fly!'

She unfurled her wings, and her body stretched and shifted again, but didn't move.

‘What's in a blooming name?' Mungo said. ‘Never knew they were that important. Ah, never mind, young Stormy. It doesn't matter.' He slipped off the spitfyre's back and patted her side. ‘She's brilliant. Beautiful. She really is.'

‘I'm sorry,' Stormy said. He got off and stared at the ground. ‘I've let you down . . .'

‘Not at all, not in the slightest,' Mungo said, patting his shoulder. ‘Flying would have scared me anyway; molemen prefer the ground, something solid beneath them. Even a roof is more solider than the air, isn't it? It's that Al's fault,' he added thoughtfully. ‘Well, I said I'd go after him, and I will.' His round face glowed with the idea. ‘I'll go after him and make him tell me her name. I'll drag it out of him. There.'

‘But
Mungo
, it's so dangerous. If anyone sees you!'

‘I'll be all right. No one will see me. I'll sneak down through the weeds and the rocks. It was fine meeting you, Stormy. Fine. I'll make him remember that name for you, and
you
find out about my little child and her mother, will you?'

‘I will. I promise I will do my best.'

They hugged and Mungo patted him hard on the back; then he was gone, leaping over the side and rolling and tumbling down the steep side of the mountain as if he were a hedgehog.

Stormy felt as wrung out as an old dishrag as he led the spitfyre wearily back into her cave. She folded herself neatly onto the clean straw again with a sigh. Stormy stroked her neck thoughtfully and stared into her trusting, bright eyes. The way she looked back into his really made him feel she understood every word he said.

‘I'll fight anyone and everyone to keep you,' he said. ‘And when Mungo finds Al, maybe Al will do something to remember your name. Then, nothing will stop us!'

Thirteen snorted gently, letting tendrils of sea-green smoke trickle in wayward curls from her nostrils. Settling her head trustingly on his lap, as if having no name didn't really matter, she drifted off to sleep.

Stormy felt like running away with her – not that he could, or had anywhere to go – and anyway he'd promised Mungo to find out what happened to his wife and baby. And there was the Star Squad to deal with. And the Director. What a fool he'd been to think the Director cared about him! How conceited he was! ‘I'm not going anywhere,' he told the sleeping animal. ‘I have a lot to do.'

The two guards outside the tower in the corner of the courtyard stood so still they might have been dead, and they were the only living things Stormy saw as he went back to his room. Everyone was having breakfast now.

On his way to wash and change before classes began he realised he needed to explain what had happened to Al to the Director. The door to the Director's green room was open, and he knocked, but got no answer. He pushed the door gently open and looked in.

The room was empty.

Stormy's heart was suddenly beating very fast, and he almost backed out; but then something through the second doorway behind the desk caught his eye. He crossed the room quickly and pushed the door wide.

The next room housed a collection of glass domes and jars arranged on the shelves. He went a little closer. One large dome in the centre was facing him directly. He looked at it.

He blinked and stared again.

What on earth was it? He leaned towards it and looked closer, squinting. What – it couldn't –
what
? Were those actually eyes? Was that shaggy fur really hair? Pointed ears . . .

It was a
grubbin's head.

Stormy staggered backwards, his mind reeling. The other domes contained other heads; heads of birds, cats, rabbits, even a horse. He felt hot bile rise up and flood his mouth. He swallowed hard.

He stumbled out of the room, retching and moaning. Somehow he got out into the fresh air and stood by the door, breathing in deeply. If he'd ever had any doubts, any
whispers
of doubt about wrongly condemning the Director, he had them no longer.

He couldn't eat breakfast; he couldn't think about food at all. What he needed was a friendly face and someone he could trust to talk to.

He went to the little gatehouse and knocked loudly. Mrs Small opened the door a crack. Her round wrinkled face split into a grin when she saw him. ‘Cakey?' she whispered.

‘This is no time for cake.' He didn't meant to sound so grim, but he felt miserable. He wished he could wipe out the image of the grubbin's head, but he guessed it was going to stay with him forever. ‘Can I come in?'

With a sigh, Mrs Small ushered him in quickly. ‘In my opinion,' she said, ‘all times are cake times.' She closed the door behind him. ‘I told you, my dear, we've nothing here that can help you.'

‘I know,' Stormy said. ‘But . . .' Mrs Small must have guessed at his low feelings because she patted his hand and began to toast a small crumpet for him.

‘Sit down. Stay a while,' she said.

‘Hello, Stormy!' Mr Small leapt into the room. ‘How are you?' He did a somersault, walked on his hands to the table and backflipped into his chair. ‘How's things?'

‘Really, Mr Small!' Mrs Small snapped. ‘There's a time and a place for that sort of thing.'

‘Exactly,' Mr Small laughed, ‘and that was the perfect moment for a backflip.'

‘Mr Small!'

‘Sorry, dear. Old habits die hard, you see, Stormy. Mrs Small and I,' he went on, ‘we depend on the Director for our livelihoods. We cavort and trip over and juggle to make him smile. Anyway,' he rubbed his round middle, ‘it keeps me fit.'

‘Fit?
Fat,
more like,' Mrs Small added. ‘I dream about leaving the Academy, Stormy, but where would we go? We've no papers. No references. Nothing.'

‘See, after the business in the circus – well, anyone involved with that night and the death of Mayra was doomed.'

‘That's why Al is here too, isn't it?' asked Stormy.

‘Yes. He was lame, remember, and since his skill is with flying horses, this was the only place he could get work, and of course it's nicely out of the way up here.'

Where was Al now? Was he all right? Stormy wondered. Had he made it past Otto's window or had Otto leapt out and grabbed him and was he now boiling him alive in the stockpot?

‘Otto's sister, Mayra, was a lovely young thing. Only seventeen,' Mrs Small said, ‘and Al adored her. Otto wanted to take her home.'

‘I know. Otto told me.'

‘Mayra didn't care about Al; she was planning to run away with Cosmo. Isn't it always the way?' Mr Small said. ‘When Al found out he went wild, as you know, and tried the Spin.'

‘The Director has picked his staff carefully,' Mrs Small said. ‘Al with his broken, guilt-laden heart is perfect to keep his dark secrets.'

Mrs Small passed Stormy a cup of tea and a crumpet. They were both extremely tiny and he demolished them in one swallow.

‘It was the same for us,' Mrs Small said.

‘Because I was one of the littles who put up the cage,' Mr Small said sadly. ‘After the accident Cosmo said we hadn't put it up properly and that was why the spitfyres escaped. It wasn't true. They would have got out from anything. No one believed me. So it was the Academy or nothing . . .'

‘And to begin with this seemed like a lovely place,' Mrs Small said sadly.

‘But recently it's got bad. We've seen the Star Squad at work,' Mr Small said. ‘They've got careless and we've seen them – bringing in grubbins and locking them up.'

‘I saw it too, one night,' Stormy admitted sadly.

‘Terrible, terrible. The poor grubbins,' Mrs Small said.

‘They steal their money,' Mr Small said. ‘Grubbins can't resist carrying their precious knick-knacks around with them. They store the stuff underground too.'

‘We take extra food in to the prisoners, it's the very least we can do to help,' Mrs Small said. ‘There's little passages and ways under here that only a small person can get to and we take down treats and things. Otto's leftovers . . .'

The missing food from the servery was explained at last. Stormy smiled. He was glad it went to a good home.

Mrs Small started sobbing. ‘We would have gone away – we
wanted
to go – but there's Maud to think of too. I love her like my own, and she won't go . . . She knows she's an orphan, she knows it in her heart of hearts, but at the same time she has this feeling . . . Just suppose her father were still alive, if there were the smallest hope – well then, he'd come here to look for her, wouldn't he, and so she must stay put. Well, how could we leave the poor little mite alone with Miss Araminta and
him
?'

Mrs Small wiped her eyes and pointed at the portrait of the woman with the dark hair and the ribbons. ‘Can you see the likeness in the eyes? She was Maud's mother. She died when Maud was a child.'

The woman in the picture did have the same eyes as Maud; bright, dark and about to smile. At least Maud knew what her mother looked like; Stormy had no idea about his own parents.

Mr Small waddled over to the bookcase and brought a small book over and opened it on the table in front of Stormy.

‘Now Maud was asking us about yellow powder, Stormy – for you. I've checked the books. Here we are,' he said. ‘It's called
Star Vitamin Plus
.'

Stormy pursed his lips. ‘It's not a vitamin at all. Next time it comes up, could you get rid of it? Hide it or throw it in the bin or something?'

Mr Small raised his eyebrows questioningly.

‘It's a drug. The spitfyres shouldn't take it,' Stormy explained. ‘It makes them wild; it makes them grubbin chasers. I'm sure of it.'

‘But we can't just throw it away,' Mr Small said. ‘We'd be in trouble.'

‘You could lose it, somehow, surely?'

‘Course we can,' Mrs Small said. ‘Really, Mr Small, where's your spirit? We must help Stormy.'

‘Who sends it to you?' Stormy asked.

Mr Small pointed at the writing in the book:

Otto's kitchen.

Otto's kitchen?
How could the hateful stuff come from there? He could hardly believe it, yet the book showed
Star Vitamin Plus
came up every month straight from there. Did Otto know about it? Surely it wasn't anything to do with him; Otto had never said a bad word about grubbins . . . On the other hand, Brittel hated grubbins and had not been ashamed of speaking his mind. It
must
be Brittel.

Stormy left the gatehouse and hurried to his classes, but midway across the courtyard Maud stopped him. She looked worried.

‘Have you seen Al?' she said. ‘He's vanished. He's never gone out of the Academy before, not as long as I've known him.' She looked about to cry. ‘Have the Smalls seen him at all?' Maud looked at Stormy intently. ‘You
do
know something.'

‘Yes. It's all right, don't worry.' He led her over to the bench, ignoring the whistles and catcalls from the other students. They sat down and turned their backs on them. ‘This morning I went to see my spitfyre – Al's spitfyre – and Al, he jumped off the terrace.'

Maud gasped. ‘Is he all right?'

‘I think so. I was with his spitfyre,' Stormy explained, ‘and the spitfyre went for him, and Al jumped.'