Raggy Maggie

‘OK,’ I replied, fighting back a grin of delight. ‘I better run.’

‘Later.’

I gave her a goodbye nod, then hurried off towards my next class. Halfway along the corridor, I paused. ‘Oh, and Ameena,’ I said, turning round, ‘it’s good to see—’

But the corridor was empty. Ameena was already gone.

I started the first afternoon lesson – History – the same way I’d started the first class of the morning – late. The teacher, Mrs Ennis, didn’t look impressed when I scurried in, but at least she didn’t put me through any ritual humiliation before letting me take a seat.

It was a relief to see that Billy’s desk at the back of the class was empty. He skipped lessons quite a lot, and I was glad he’d chosen to give this one a miss. I’d had more than enough of him for one day.

The rest of the class were already studying a textbook by the time I got settled at my desk. I peeked across at the girl sitting next to me to find out what book we were supposed to be looking at, then began rummaging in my bag for my copy.

A faint, nervous knocking on the classroom door made everyone look up from their work. I ignored it, still busy looking for the book.

‘Enter,’ called Mrs Ennis, in the posh voice she only ever uses when inviting someone in, and I heard the door swing open just as I found the right textbook. As I pulled it out of my bag, I caught a glimpse of a first-year boy hurrying across the classroom, his face red with embarrassment. He thrust a note into Mrs Ennis’s hands, and then quickly beat a retreat.

I flicked through the pages of my book, trying to find the right chapter. Most of my classmates had turned back to their work, leaving only the really nosey ones to watch Mrs Ennis unfold and read the note.

‘Kyle Alexander,’ she said. I looked up to find her looking back. ‘The headmistress would like a word.’

Making my way along the deserted corridor, a sense of dread began to rise from the pit of my stomach. Whatever Mrs Milton wanted to see me for, it was unlikely to be good.

Classroom doors lined the walls on either side of me. Teachers’ and pupils’ voices drifted out of every one as I passed. I recognised some of them, but not all.

A clattering, jeering and the occasional sharp blast of a whistle could be heard from the gym hall, which was also accessed from this part of the school. The trophy cabinet stood proudly by the hall entrance, stocked with cups and shields and medals. My name wasn’t etched on to any of them.

I pushed through the final set of double doors. A bleached, clinical smell wafted up to meet me as I headed towards the headmistress’s office. This was usually as far as any parents made it into the school, so Mrs Milton made sure the janitor kept it sparkling clean.

I’d only been called to see the headmistress once before, and I’d been a gibbering mess of nerves by the time I’d made it down the first flight of stairs. No one ever got summoned for anything good. If Mrs Milton called for you, you could be pretty sure you were in serious trouble.

This time, though, I wasn’t all that bothered. It’d be about the dinner lady, I was certain. She’d want to ask me what had happened, that was all. No harm in that. Nothing for me to worry about.

Morag the school secretary was sitting behind the reception desk as I approached, her eyes fixed on her computer screen. It was common knowledge that Morag could be used as a kind of barometer as to how bad Mrs Milton’s mood was. If she was smiling, things were unlikely to be too terrible. If she didn’t make eye contact, you’d best get your will written before setting foot in the office.

‘I’m supposed to see Mrs Milton,’ I said, stopping in front of the reception desk. Morag looked up at me and beamed broadly. I was filled with relief.

‘Ah yes, Kyle, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘Just go through and wait in the office, she’ll be in in a minute.’

‘Thanks,’ I said, returning the smile. I made for the office, a spring in my step. If I spun the story out, I could probably waste the entire lesson filling Mrs Milton in on what had happened. Maybe – if I really went into detail and repeated myself a bit – I could fill the whole afternoon. Not only would I avoid lessons, I’d also be able to avoid—

‘Billy?’ I frowned, as I eased open the door to the headmistress’s office and stepped inside.

He was standing by the window, looking out through the slatted wooden blinds. He whipped round at the sound of my voice, his eyes narrowing to slits when he saw me. ‘What you doing here?’ he demanded.

‘I…a kid came in with a note,’ I explained, feeling my confidence start to crumble. If Billy had been summoned too, then I wasn’t here to talk about the dinner lady. It had to be about what had happened on the way to class. That wasn’t good.

Mrs Milton was ruthlessly strict when it came to fighting in school, and I doubted she’d care that my only contribution to the “fight” was taking a punch to the guts.

Billy made a noise a bit like a horse sneezing and turned back to the window. ‘We’ll say we were just mucking about,’ he instructed. He had obviously come to the same conclusion as I just had. ‘It was nothing, just two mates having a laugh, all right?’

I stepped further into the room, but didn’t answer. He turned and fixed me with a glare. ‘All right?’

‘Right,’ I nodded. Like it or not, going along with him was the only way of cutting our losses. We’d probably still get into serious trouble, but not fighting serious.

We stood there for a while, neither of us speaking. Mrs Milton was taking her time. I suspected she might be waiting just outside the door, enjoying making us sweat. Teachers could be nasty like that, and head teachers in particular.

The office had been redecorated since the last time I was in it. The walls were covered in a cream wallpaper with a swirling design made up of varying shades of brown. A row of filing cabinets stood shoulder to shoulder along one of the walls, facing the high bookshelves that leaned against the wall directly opposite.

There was a thick carpet below me, also brown. As I looked down at it, I realised it was the only time I’d seen carpet in any part of the school. Maybe she got special treatment because she was the head. Or maybe all the teachers’ areas were carpeted.

It struck me that there were whole areas of the school I’d never even seen inside. For all I knew, the staffroom could have disco balls hanging from the ceiling and tiger-skin rugs on the floor.

‘So…’ Billy said. He was still looking outside, but I knew what was coming next. ‘Who told you?’

‘About what?’ I asked innocently.

‘You know what.’

I should never have mentioned the girl and her doll. It had been a knee-jerk reaction to the threat of being beaten up. My meeting with Caddie definitely fell under the heading of “Things Not To Talk About”.

‘Your mum told my mum,’ I lied. ‘She told me.’

‘I knew it,’ he muttered, still not looking at me. I had a suspicion as to who the girl was, but wasn’t sure whether to say anything and risk another beating. I decided to chance my luck.

‘I had an invisible friend too,’ I said. ‘When I was young. It’s nothing to be embarrassed about.’

He didn’t answer, which itself told me all I needed to know.

‘I’m not waiting round here any more,’ he scowled, turning from the window. He barged past me on his way to the door.

‘Are you sure that’s a good idea?’ I asked. I didn’t like the idea of being the only one around for Mrs Milton to shout at.

‘Tell her I was sick and had to go home,’ he told me. ‘Tell her anything, I don’t care.’

I was about to reply when he yanked open the door. He drew up short as we both realised Mrs Milton really had been lurking just outside the office. She stood framed in the doorway, leaning slightly forward, her arms hanging limp and loose by her sides.

‘Mrs M,’ Billy smiled. ‘There you are. I was just going to come and look for…’

His voice trailed off. He’d realised what I had – something was very wrong with Mrs Milton.

Her breathing was noisy; wheezy and rattling at the back of her throat as she inhaled. Her face was as pale as chalk dust, its expression blank and empty, like something dead. Or something that had never been alive in the first place.

Ringing her eyes were two circles of make-up; caked-on, thick black swirls of tar. A streak of crimson lipstick was smeared across her mouth, starting on one cheek and finishing high up on the other. It stood out against her pale skin like a raw, gaping wound. She looked frightening. Grotesque.

And disturbingly familiar.

‘I’m dressing up like Mummy,’ spoke a voice from within her. It was high-pitched and childish, and didn’t belong to her. ‘Would you like to play?’