The Spin (3 page)

‘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.

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 yelled 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.

It was square on its feet now, shaking out its leathery wings and steadying itself. It was taller than a normal horse, its head towering above Stormy's on a strong neck. Wings grew from the creature's shoulders like some strange blue plant's stem might curve and grow from the soil, then billowed out into beautiful pale-blue fan shapes with a fine tracery of darker sinews and veins. It turned large sapphire eyes on him and puffed smoke from its nostrils in short, angry snorts; spitfyres' distant ancestors were dragons.

Stormy inched a step nearer.

The spitfyre tossed its head, flicking its dark blue mane from side to side, warning him to stay back. A tremor ran over its skin, rippling the short blue hair of its coat, making it shimmer violet, turquoise and midnight-blue. Warily, it pawed the ground with a blue hoof. Stormy drew closer, like iron filings to a magnet. He had read about spitfyres, had seen pictures of them, dreamed of them, but nothing had prepared him for the beauty or the wonder of the creature in the flesh.

He held out his hand.

‘I won't hurt you,' he said. ‘I'm your friend.' He saw the expression soften in the spitfyre's eyes; it was listening and understanding. He could only use the same words he might with old Sponge or an ordinary horse.

‘Good boy. Good boy. I just want to stroke you. Good chap. Well done.'

The winged horse lifted its head and continued to stare at him.

‘You are so majestic,' Stormy said. ‘You are wonderful, wonderful . . .'

Now he was almost close enough to reach out and put his hand on its neck. He raised his arm slowly, feeling the heat that oozed out from the animal as if it had a furnace inside it. ‘You're fantastic,' he whispered. ‘I think you're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.' He reached towards the spitfyre and it lowered its head towards him, puffing out smoke gently. ‘I just want to –'

‘Bluey, stop! Hey!'

The winged horse jerked its head up and lurched backwards with a harsh throaty neigh. Stormy spun round. The sky-rider was scrambling to his feet, and tugging off his black helmet and goggles. Only it wasn't a he; it was a she. As the helmet came off, a long plait of dark hair, woven with white and red ribbon, snaked over her shoulder. She rubbed at her bruised head. She was tall and strong, and crossing the gap between them in three quick strides she jabbed a finger at Stormy.

‘Don't you dare touch him, orphan boy! Bluey! Down!' she roared. ‘Down!'

The glimmer of friendliness died in the spitfyre's eyes. It belched out a cloud of black smoke and tossed its head, rattling and clinking the metal bridle.

‘
Down!
' the sky-rider shouted.

The spitfyre folded its front legs and sank down onto the earth so that the girl could step up from a rock onto its back.

‘What exactly did you think you were you doing, boy?'

She was the most perfect girl he'd ever seen – not that he'd seen very many – with dark glittering eyes, high round cheeks and a narrow nose which tilted up at the end. She was older and taller than him; and, he knew instantly, cleverer and smarter.