The Spin (9 page)

‘Hello,' Stormy said.

The spitfyre jerked up off the floor and turned its head to him, letting out a loud croaky neigh, an angry warning bark. Stormy jumped, banged his back on the rock, cried out in pain and quickly fled outside.

Back on the terrace he stood with his hands over his boom-booming heart. He walked back to the servery slowly.

Maybe the spitfyre was mad, maybe it was wild, but still, it was wrong to keep any animal like that. It was horrible and wrong.

Al and Ralf were having breakfast together in the servery.

‘Where have you been?' Ralf asked him as he came in.

Stormy shrugged. ‘Walking,' he said, hoping they couldn't tell he was lying.

‘Don't wander around on your own,' Ralf said. ‘Some of those spitfyres are dangerous.'

‘They can't be,' said Stormy. ‘They're chained up.'

‘Chains can be broke,' Al said.

Stormy piled his plate with croissants and jam, fresh strawberries and peaches. The sad spitfyre wasn't his problem, it really wasn't, but . . .

‘The spitfyre in cave thirteen,' Stormy heard himself say. ‘I was just wondering . . .'

‘Don't,' Al said. ‘That's my business. Interfering will get you into trouble.'

Stormy stared down at his plate, trying to get the image of the sick spitfyre out of his head. ‘I just . . .'

Ralf scowled discouragingly at him. Al fixed him with a stare. ‘No one is allowed to go near it. Understand? It is forbidden. You will lose your job if you go near it.'

‘But –'

‘The Director is addressing the students in the courtyard,' Al went on, carefully buttering two pieces of toast and spreading them with a thick layer of jam. ‘He likes an audience for the medal presentation, so you two had better come and swell the numbers.' He cut the toast into smaller and smaller squares and laid them on the table. ‘Let's go.' Al left the toast and took a swig from a dark bottle. ‘Come on.'

They left the uneaten breakfast food piled on the side to deal with later.

The massive courtyard was full of students wearing the smart red and green Academy uniform. The youngest ones looked about twelve while the bigger students, Stormy guessed, were about sixteen. Nervously he took his place beside Al and Ralf just by the servery door and hoped no one would notice him.

Staff wearing crisp dark suits stood watching by the Director's tall house. Ralf pointed some of them out. ‘Mr Jacobs, Mrs Lister, Mr Bones,' he said. ‘The other teachers keep themselves to themselves. Those three are pretty decent compared to the rest.'

Mr Jacobs was large and bald. Mrs Lister was grey-haired. Mr Bones peered short-sightedly through big black-rimmed glasses.

‘The
rest
? The staff or students?' Stormy asked.

‘The students. Waste of space, students. Don't do anything useful. Don't ride, most of them,' Ralf said. ‘Some learn about spitfyres, about digestion and reproduction, that sort of thing. I can't think of anything more boring, but still . . . Some study their history. Others do spitfyre psychology or behaviour. Some even try and teach them tricks.'

‘I want to be a sky-rider,' Stormy blurted, and immediately wished he hadn't.

‘Hah!' Ralf said. ‘Dream on! That's only for the rich kids. Where'd
you
get a spitfyre? Costs a fortune to keep one here, you know.'

The door of the Director's house opened and Araminta appeared. In a flash Stormy saw again the wickedness of her beautiful smile, her sparkling eyes when she'd warned him to keep quiet. He felt quite weak looking at her, but he couldn't take his eyes off her either.

She stood on the top step holding up her hand to shield her eyes from the sun, staring around the packed courtyard as if looking for someone.

If only she were searching for me!
Stormy thought; and then . . .
I hope she isn't searching for me!

He felt a dig in the side. ‘What?' he said, almost falling over.

‘Your mouth's hanging open,' Ralf said. ‘Idiot! Look, here he comes!'

The Director!

He was so short! Tiny, even. Stormy had expected someone tall and dashing. Disappointment washed over him coldly. But the Director was broad across the shoulders, and he held his head proudly, like a sea admiral on the deck of his boat, surveying the ocean. The muscles strained against the fabric of his shiny, well-cut suit. His tanned, lined face looked kind, yet strong and stern, instantly making Stormy want to win his approval. His short hair was white and crisp as paper, sticking up sharply in two peaks either side of a bald patch, like swan's wings. His fatherly gaze swept the courtyard, the fingers of one hand tapping his other hand thoughtfully. Stormy's first negative impression changed. Now he wished the Director would glance his way and notice him; wished he wasn't just a servery boy.

The students silently got themselves into rows.

Four tall grey-suited guards stood to attention on the far side of the courtyard.

An air of expectancy hung over everything.

A small table had been placed on the wide top step and Maud was carefully arranging trophies and medals on it. The Director began to speak quietly to the students, so quietly that Stormy had to strain to hear him. He was pleased with their exam results. He was delighted with their flying skills. Funding for the Academy depended on getting good results, he said and encouraging new students to enrol.

‘. . . My Star Squad in particular,' he went on, ‘has shown outstanding bravery and dedication in their work. I'm only sorry that since it is highly secret, I cannot tell you about it!'

Everyone laughed.

‘Next year will be the year of the Silver Sword Race . . .'

The students bubbled with excitement.

‘. . . Some of you will be thinking about taking part in this great race and starting preparation even now. I'm proud to say, there is one student here whose father actually won it, twenty years ago!'

A name was spoken back and forth amongst them.

‘Yes, that's right, Hector's father, Wesley Grant! And it is fitting that I am awarding Hector this medal, one of the finest the Academy offers, for his sky-riding talents. The Cardoman Cross!'

Everyone clapped. The lines of students parted and one tall, well-built student detached himself from the others. His frizzy dark hair was brushed back off his large, high forehead and tied in a ponytail. A large square chin jutted out below a short, rather girlish nose. He had small, deep-set eyes, like circles of green bottle glass. When he reached the top step and stared down on the other students, he smiled confidently, looking suddenly warrior-like.

‘Wow,' Stormy whispered, smoothing his own hair back into a short bunch at the nape of his neck and pulling himself up as tall as he would go.

‘Wow my bum!' Ralf snapped.

‘What's wrong? He's a champion. He won a prize.'

Ralf's eyes narrowed. ‘
Prize?
So?
Can't he still be a creep? I hate him. The Director's paid double by Hector's family,' he went on quietly, ‘because other spitfyre Academies are too scared to have him – insurance and all that. He's a liability. If he hurt himself there'd be hell to pay. He'll win the Silver Sword, but you can be sure it'll be by cheating.'

Stormy winced. He didn't want to hear anything bad about a sky-rider.

‘But even Hector's money doesn't account for how rich the Director is,' Ralf went on, unusually talkative. ‘He's got pots of money.'

Hector collected the medal from Araminta and held it up for everyone to see. The students clapped enthusiastically and then the ceremony was over.

The two littles whom Stormy had met when he first arrived came out of the gatehouse and began tumbling and cartwheeling through the crowd as it dispersed.

The Director walked down the steps and in amongst the students, talking to them, patting them fondly. His size didn't seem to matter – he was a miniature powerhouse and the students responded warmly to him. Each one he spoke to glowed with pride.

Stormy had found himself clapping. As if somehow he was part of the assembly, as if
he
was being honoured with a medal. When Al called him to go back into the servery he had to shake himself out of a dream where he was being thumped on the shoulder and handed a large golden cup. He felt as if he'd been in the Academy for years, not just one day. The time in Otto's kitchen was fading. He
would
be a sky-rider. It might seem impossible now, but he knew he could do it. If he worked hard for Al, if he got to know the spitfyres, if he found a million gold coins, if . . . surely, surely . . .

‘Who's this young man?'

Stormy felt a rough punch on his arm and crossly turned to Ralf.

‘What, Ralf?'

The Director and Araminta had materialised in front of him with Hector just behind, his green eyes focused far away, as if he was bored.

‘This is the new help from Otto's kitchen, sir,' Al said with a little nod. ‘His name's Stormy.'

‘Hello, Stormy,' Araminta said.

His ears went hot.

‘Are you enjoying working with our spitfyres?' her father asked. The Director was talking to
him
! To
him
!

The Director's eyes were piercing; the whites were bright and as white as his hair. It was impossible not to meet his gaze, impossible to hold it, impossible not to look back again . .

Stormy nodded dumbly.

The Director put his hand on Stormy's shoulder and squeezed it gently. Stormy shivered. He felt as if a god had touched him. ‘We are delighted to give orphans such an opportunity. I'm so pleased to have you here, Stormy. You look like a fine young man. Is he working hard, Al? Doing as he's told? No interfering? Obedient?'

‘I would say he is, Director.'

They stared at each other meaningfully, then the Director patted Stormy again and walked off. Hector turned to follow him but stopped when he saw that Araminta meant to speak to Stormy.

‘Well, skivvy,' she said, in a much less friendly tone than before, ‘glad you know when to keep quiet. Now, speak up, what have you been doing?'

‘I –'

‘Daddy likes you. He thinks you've got potential, I could tell. That means a lot, so make sure you live up to his expectations.'

Stormy gulped.

Araminta turned to go, then added, ‘There's something hanging out of your pocket!'

He looked down and found a length of ribbon dangling there. Quickly he pushed it back in. ‘Sorry. Thank you –'

But she had gone.

Stormy stared enviously at the students as they filed through the main Academy doors at the end of the ceremony and disappeared. He felt like a rat scuttling to its burrow as he slipped back into the servery.

His cheeks were still hot from talking with Araminta. That stupid ribbon – he thought he'd left it under his pillow. He looked at it crossly, and then was surprised to see it was a different piece of ribbon all together. It was shorter, which meant the first bit couldn't have been from Mrs Cathcart after all!

He stuffed it back into his pocket . . . Could they possibly be from Araminta? He remembered when he'd first seen her, at the compost heap, and how she'd had white ribbons woven into her hair. His cheeks burned afresh. But why would she give them to him, and what did they mean?

‘I'll rest a bit,' Al said, sinking down at the table and propping his lame leg up on a chair. He began lining up the cold uneaten toast from earlier across the table. ‘I'm tired.'

‘All right, Al,' Ralf said.

Most, or nearly all the half-eaten plates and dishes of food had gone.

‘Did you chuck any leftovers out?' Stormy asked.

‘What, me? Not likely,' Ralf said.

‘Someone has.'

‘
You
probably, and you've forgotten, Mr Clearer-upper.'

‘I didn't –' insisted Stormy.

‘Hush, you two. I'm tired,' Al said again, playing despondently with the key around his neck. ‘Leave me and go do the shift.'

‘OK.' Ralf shrugged at Stormy. ‘Al's down today,' he whispered on their way to the food lift. ‘Best let him be. He gets very down. Notice he always wears black?'

‘What's wrong with him?' Stormy asked.

‘Don't know . . . Everything,' Ralf said. ‘Come on.'

Roy and Troy, the twin brothers who looked after the East-side flying horses, joined them at the lift. They were identical, with pink faces and straight hair, cut so it hung down on either side of their narrow faces like curtains.

‘I'll never tell you apart,' Stormy said.

‘I've got the earring,' Troy said. ‘I'm Troy.'

‘I haven't,' Roy said. ‘That makes me Roy.'

The food for the East-side spitfyres came up first and the twins hauled it off, chatting together.

The thirteen West-side caves were still in shadow. There was a faint dusting of snow on the paving stones.

‘There'll be sun shining down on the East side,' Stormy said wistfully.

‘Yes, but ours will be cold,' Ralf reminded him. ‘Best when they're cold. Quieter, less trouble.'

They picked up buckets, brooms and a hose from the storeroom and put on the same dirty overalls from the night before.

‘That stupid old medal ceremony's made us late. Students'll be here soon. Come to see their dear little spitfyre darlings and they'll get in our way. We've got all their muck to clean up.'

Stormy knew from his books that spitfyres were naturally clean animals. If they had a choice they would never soil their cave; but they had no choice.

‘There's other jobs we're supposed to do,' Ralf said, ‘but we don't bother.' He saw Stormy's look of surprise. ‘It's just got that way; it's not my fault. Al wants it that way. I don't think he likes spitfyres, not really.'