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  Looking out into the hall, most of her audience looked as bored as she was. One hand went up.

  ‘Yes?’ said Liphook. ‘What’s your question?’

  ‘Have you ever shot anyone?’ asked the pupil.

  ‘No. Armed police are a special division. Police officers such as myself do not carry guns.’ She tried not to sound as disappointed as the boy looked.

  Another hand. ‘Have you ever been shot?’

  ‘No,’ she said.

  Mrs Lewis was back on her feet. ‘Does anyone have a question not about shooting?’

  A young boy in the front row asked, ‘Have you ever shot a gun at all?’

  ‘That’s still about shooting,’ warned Mrs Lewis.

  PC Liphook would have been happy talking about guns and shooting for the rest of the session, but Mrs Lewis seemed keen to move things on. ‘I’ve got a question, actually,’ she said. ‘Tell me, Officer Liphook, is it true that Wellcome Valley has the lowest crime rate in the country?’

  ‘I think there’s an island in Scotland with lower figures but that’s because it’s populated mostly by sheep,’ replied Liphook.

  ‘Doesn’t that make your job really boring?’ asked a boy three rows back.

  ‘Angus Sandling, how many times do I have to say, “Hands up,” if you have a question? Besides, I am sure Officer Liphook has quite enough to occupy her here.’

  ‘That’s right,’ lied Liphook. ‘Besides, police work can cover all kinds of things. It isn’t like it’s made to look on TV.’

  ‘You mean interesting?’ said Angus, making the whole hall laugh and causing Liphook’s cheeks to redden. ‘Don’t you wish there would be a murder or something?’

  ‘Do I have to send you out, Angus?’ demanded Mrs Lewis. ‘I’m very sorry about this.’

  ‘It’s quite all right,’ said Liphook. ‘I’d like to answer that one, if it’s all right with you.’

  ‘Oh, really? Very well.’ Mrs Lewis sat down.

  ‘Who likes to watch detective shows?’ asked Liphook, finally on a subject she could talk about.

  About half of the pupils put their hands up.

  ‘Me too,’ said Liphook. ‘On TV, I can’t get enough murder.’

  The laughter boosted Liphook’s confidence.

  ‘On TV, I love seeing bad people doing bad things. It’s exciting and fun to watch. Can anyone tell me why?’

  ‘Because someone gets killed,’ said a girl at the back.

  ‘Yes, but people get killed by things other than murder,’ she said. ‘Car crashes, diseases, old age. Why don’t we sit down and watch shows about those things? I’ll tell you why. Because murder involves someone removing something unique: another person’s life. There’s no going back from that. It’s not something that can be fixed or replaced. It’s an irreversible crime. Kill someone and you have changed the world forever. Not for the better, but for the worse.’

  There was silence in the hall. Liphook wondered why she had just given a speech about murder to a bunch of school kids. Considering how inappropriate this was, it was interesting to note that she had their attention more totally than at any other point during the talk. Even the teachers along the side of the hall who had been marking papers had stopped to listen.

  ‘Well, I’m sure you all found that very informative,’ said Mrs Lewis. ‘I know I’ve learned a lot about how we can make our community a better place. Let’s show our appreciation for Officer Liphook.’

  Embracing the Chaos

  I wasn’t the only one in class who thought Scarlett worthy of attention. At lunchtime, I sat with Angus, watching all the various groups of girls buzzing around, trying to recruit her.

  ‘It’s only because she’s new,’ said Angus.

  ‘I don’t think it’s just that,’ I replied.

  ‘Course it is. Take these meatballs.’ He held one up on his fork. ‘Now, I like these meatballs but if one Thursday they had something different – I don’t know, sausages, maybe – I’d go for them because it’d be something different.’

  ‘You’re wrong,’ I said. ‘It’s because she clearly doesn’t care about any of this. Look at her. She would happily sit there on her own, and they all know that. That’s why they’re all interested in her.’

  Scarlett glanced up from her food and caught my eye. I looked away.

  ‘So you’re saying that this meatball only seems boring because it wants to be eaten,’ said Angus.

  I laughed. ‘Exactly. What you need is a meatball that’s not bothered about being eaten. That would be an amazing meatball.’

  Scarlett’s popularity meant that by the time we were sitting down for English, the last lesson of the day, I had failed to add to the five words I had blurted at her on the bus. Somehow, while trying to choose a desk near her, but not wanting to make it obvious that’s what I was doing, we ended up on opposite sides of the room.

  Mr Cornish, who taught English, was different from the other teachers. While they all stood at the front during lessons, going on and on, Cornish moved around the room, engaged in a kind of strange dance to the different threads of conversation as they shot off in all directions. Embracing the chaos was how he put it. He believed that all ideas were worth expressing, which made him extremely easy to distract. He also had this funny idea about not allowing hands up in class, instead plucking answers from whoever he chose. His classes were nerve-racking but it did keep you on your toes.

  Sometimes he gave me a lift home because he lived in the same direction. He liked to talk, whether it was about the environment or politics or personal things, like how I felt about growing up without a mother or father.

  ‘Monsters,’ said Cornish, once we had settled down. ‘I want us to name as many monsters as we can, comrades.’

  He always called us that. When we asked why, he said it meant friend and was as good a word as any. On his first day he had asked us to call him Patrick, but it felt weird so most of us stuck with sir or Comrade Cornish or just Cornish.

  ‘Er … Vampires?’

  ‘Dragons.’

  ‘Werewolves.’

  Answers came from various parts of the room.

  ‘Yes, shout them out. Let’s fill the board.’ Cornish was embracing the chaos, trying to write down the names as fast as we could yell them.

  ‘How about you, Scarlett?’ he said once the obvious ones had been accounted for. ‘Can you add anything?’

  All that day, the other teachers had needed to double check the name of the new girl, but Cornish had obviously taken the time to learn it.

  ‘Mankind,’ she replied.

  Cornish tossed the marker pen in the air, spun around, clicked his fingers and caught it. ‘Very good,’ he said. ‘I’d prefer we use the term humankind, but you’re right – humans are the most deadly monsters of all.’

  ‘How d’you work that out?’ asked a boy called Tom.

  ‘Humans are responsible for creating all of these other monsters.’ Cornish tapped the pen on the board.

  ‘Humans didn’t create dinosaurs,’ said Angus, who had suggested a T-Rex as his monster.

  ‘No, but we attached the label to it,’ said Mr Cornish. ‘Tyrannosaurus Rex was no different to any other species. It was born, grew up, ate a lot, pooped a lot, and died, just like we all do. Then we came along, dug up its bones, gave it a scary name and turned it into a monster. In films, they’re always attacking humans but if there had been an evolutionary overlap, I’ll bet you anything we would pose a much greater threat to them. We humans are more destructive and terrifying than any made-up monster. Which brings us to the book we’ll be looking at over the next few weeks.’

  On his desk was a pile of books, which Cornish randomly distributed amongst the class. The one that landed in front of me had a picture of a bearded man sitting at a desk. It looked like an old painting. The man’s skin had a yellowy glow from the candlelight and he was holding a big jar of liquid. On the front was the title of the book: Frankenstein.

  ‘Why are t
hese books all different? Mine’s falling apart,’ complained a girl behind me.

  ‘Don’t panic, comrades, they all have the same words on the inside,’ said Cornish.

  ‘But we all know this story,’ said Angus. ‘Man makes monster.’

  ‘You mean you know what happens. That isn’t the same as knowing the story,’ said Cornish. ‘And, as you can see, I’ve managed to beg, borrow and steal enough copies for you all to each have one but I will want the books back, so please treat them with respect.’ He snatched a copy from someone who had been bending back its spine. ‘So, can anyone tell me this book’s alternative title?’

  ‘The Modern Prometheus,’ said Scarlett.

  ‘Very good, Comrade White,’ said Cornish, clearly impressed. ‘And do you know who Prometheus was?’

  ‘He was an ancient Greek myth. He stole fire from the gods to give to mankind.’

  ‘Perfect. You see, comrades, ever since we crawled out of the primordial sludge, humans have created imaginary monsters. We have always invented things that terrify us, but what could be more terrifying than climate change or the destruction of the rainforests? What is more nightmarish than a nuclear fall-out zone? Humans, with our endless desire to push back boundaries, are the greatest monsters of all. Which is precisely what Mary Shelley is trying to tell us in this, a book written when she was only a few years older than you. Now, let’s see how she begins her masterpiece, shall we?’

  Something Strange

  Cornish grabbed me as I was walking out of class. ‘I’m going straight off tonight, Eddie, if you want a lift home,’ he said.

  ‘Thanks,’ I replied.

  ‘How about you, Angus?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m getting picked up by the noise-mobile,’ Angus replied.

  ‘Just you and me then, Eddie,’ said Cornish. ‘I’ll see you by the car once I’m done here.’

  I followed Angus into the corridor, having lost Scarlett in the throng.

  ‘I thought you’d want to take the love bus home,’ said Angus.

  ‘Shut up.’

  ‘Come on, you’ve been staring at her all day.’

  ‘It’s not like that,’ I protested, trying to hide my embarrassment. ‘It’s just that I think I recognise her from somewhere.’

  ‘You mean from your dreams?’ said Angus with a wide grin.

  ‘No. From I’m not sure when.’ As I said this, I found myself wondering if there was some truth to my lie. Had I met Scarlett before? There was something familiar about her. When I first heard her voice I realised it was how I had expected her to sound. But that couldn’t be possible. That would mean I had forgotten her.

  Angus and I stepped out into the drizzly car park and I spotted her getting on the bus.

  ‘Why do you think she’s here?’ asked Angus.

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘Who moves to Wellcome Valley in the middle of term? Who starts school on a Thursday?’

  ‘Last call for anywhere but here,’ yelled Bill.

  ‘Never gets old,’ I said, watching the bus doors close.

  Outside the gates, a car flashed its lights. ‘I’d offer you a lift,’ said Angus, ‘only, with the terrible twins and the devil’s spawn, it’s lucky I can still get in myself. I’ve told my mum that’s enough now. No more kids.’

  One of Angus’s brothers opened the door, allowing the din from within to escape. Angus’s mum was shouting at the twins while their baby brother screamed his head off, presumably so that he didn’t feel left out.

  ‘I’ll see you tomorrow for more of the same,’ said Angus.

  Once he had gone there was nothing to distract me from the cold, so I was relieved to see Cornish leaving the school building. He was walking extremely quickly and I had to jog to get to his car at the same time. He stopped and looked at me. In the dim lighting of the car park it was hard to read his expression, but it seemed as though he didn’t recognise me.

  ‘Are you all right, sir?’ I asked.

  ‘Eddie Dane?’ He said it like he was plucking my name from the depths of his memory. He looked at the car keys in his hand, then back to me. ‘What do you want?’ he asked.

  ‘You offered me a lift,’ I replied, beginning to wonder if I had misunderstood.

  ‘Did I? Yes, of course I did. Sorry, Eddie. Lots on my mind today.’

  He unlocked the car and we both got in. He looked at the dashboard, patted the steering wheel as though checking it wasn’t a mirage, and started the engine. It revved louder than usual and it took him a moment to find reverse.

  ‘So, Eddie. Eddie Dane. How are you? How’s your mother?’ he asked.

  ‘My mother, sir? She’s … well, you know, still dead.’

  The indicator ticked as loudly as the clock in my grandma’s living room. I had discussed my mother’s death with Cornish a couple of weeks ago. He wanted to know how I felt about it. I said it was ancient history. He said it was okay to feel sad about things that had happened a long time ago. I told him that when I was about five or six years old, I would get so upset about it that I would hold my breath until I passed out. I said I didn’t feel like that anymore. He asked how I did feel. I replied that I felt empty.

  How could he have forgotten all that? ‘Dead?’ he said.

  ‘The last time I checked,’ I replied.

  ‘Who killed her?’

  ‘Who? No one. She … She died in a car accident.’

  ‘Right, and your father?’

  ‘Er, I never knew him. Are you all right, sir?’ I said.

  He stared at me for an unnerving amount of time considering he was driving and should have been looking at the road. ‘Sorry, of course, I got mixed up,’ he said at last. ‘Long day. You know how it is. I meant to ask about your … er … ’

  ‘My grandma?’ I helped him out. ‘Ruby’s fine. Well, you know, up and down, as usual.’

  ‘Right.’ He switched on the radio, fumbling with the controls so that it blasted out loud static. The signal was never very good this low in the valley. He turned it down but made no effort to tune it in. Songs and spoken words fought to be heard above the spitting, hissing noise. Neither Cornish nor I spoke for the rest of the journey. We listened to the static until we reached my house where I quickly got out of the car.

  ‘Look, Eddie,’ he said, ‘I’m sorry about me. Like I say, I’ve got a lot on my mind right now.’

  ‘It’s okay,’ I said. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  I slammed the door shut then watched the red tail lights of his car vanishing into the gloom.

  Something Nothingy

  I felt unsettled after the journey with Cornish but the quiet burbling of a quiz show from the dimly lit living room indicated I had more pressing problems. Ruby was having one of her down days.

  My grandma’s life was divided into normal days, down days and up days. On a normal day she would go to the shops, cook the dinner and ask me about school, but these were getting increasingly rare. On up days she had the energy to paint and create. On the down days she could barely lift herself off the sofa to fetch a glass of water, but at least I didn’t have to spend the evening cleaning paint off everything.

  The sight of Ruby sprawled on the sofa with the curtains drawn, lit only by the flickering images of the TV, confirmed that today was a down day.

  ‘What you watching?’ I asked.

  She looked up. ‘Something nothingy,’ she replied.

  ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘The same.’

  ‘I’ll make tea tonight, Grandma,’ I said, trying to remain upbeat. ‘You okay with pasta, Grandma?’

  She nodded. The use of the banned G-word was intended to get a reaction but she didn’t even notice. I began to clear the coffee table of mugs and plates when something pricked my finger.

  ‘Ow.’ I pulled it away and saw a droplet of blood.

  ‘There’s broken glass,’ said Ruby.

  I switched on the main light.

  ‘Too bright.’ She shrunk back
like a vampire in sunlight.

  There was smashed glass all over the table from a broken picture frame. I swallowed my anger, checked that the photograph was intact, and went to find a dustpan and brush. In the kitchen I noticed that the gas hob had been left on. I switched off the flickering blue flame and went back into the lounge to clean up the mess. Once I had swept up all the bits of glass, I carried the frame to the kitchen, carefully removed the picture and threw the rest in the bin with the glass.

  It was typical down day stuff but I was annoyed because it was the only picture I had of my mother. In the photograph, Melody was standing in front of an old green door. She was wearing dungarees, holding a hand up to shield her eyes from the glare of the sun. It was overexposed so the top half of her face was too dark while the rest looked like a ghost. I had often wondered about what lay behind that green door and why my mother posed in front it. Ruby said she didn’t know where it was taken but, from the pregnant swell of my mother’s stomach, I had worked out it must have been taken a few months before I was born.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Ruby, having finally hoisted herself off the sofa. ‘I had one of my moments.’

  ‘It’s the only photo I’ve got,’ I said.

  ‘I know. I’m sorry. Though, you know, Eddie, photos only show you what things look like on the outside,’ said Ruby. ‘It’s more important to understand what’s on the inside.’

  ‘She was my mother,’ I said. ‘I’d like to remember what she looked like on the outside.’

  In the living room dramatic music came on the television as a quiz show contestant reached the final round.

  ‘Don’t idolise Melody,’ said Ruby.

  ‘There’s not much chance of that with you around to remind me what a terrible mother she was.’ I felt bad as soon as I said it. Not because it was unfair but because Ruby was unable to defend herself on down days.

  ‘Life isn’t a perfect thing,’ she said. ‘When your mother drove off that road, we both got lumbered, didn’t we? I wasn’t an award-winning mother the first time around but Melody’s death made prisoners of us both.’

  ‘We’re all right, Ruby,’ I said, not wanting to send her spiralling any deeper into self-pity.