“I’m sorry,” said Bod.
“I’m sorry too,” said Silas.
“Did it hurt?” asked Bod. “Letting the car hit you like that?”
“Yes,” said Silas. “You should thank your little witch-friend. She came and found me, told me you were in trouble, and what kind of trouble you were in.”
They landed in the graveyard. Bod looked at his home as if it was the first time he had ever seen it. He said, “What happened tonight was stupid, wasn’t it? I mean, I put things at risk.”
“More things than you know, young Nobody Owens. Yes.”
“You were right,” said Bod. “I won’t go back. Not to that school, and not like that.”
Maureen Quilling had had the worst week of her life: Nick Farthing was no longer speaking to her; her uncle Tam had shouted at her about the Owens kid thing, then told her not to mention anything about that evening ever to anyone, as he could lose his job, and he wouldn’t want to be in her shoes if that happened; her parents were furious with her; she felt betrayed by the world; even the year sevens weren’t scared of her any longer. It was rotten. She wanted to see that Owens kid, who she blamed for everything that had happened to her so far, writhing in miserable agony. If he thought being arrested was bad…and then she would concoct elaborate revenge schemes in her head, complex and vicious. They were the only thing that made her feel better, and even they didn’t really help.
If there was one job that gave Mo the creeps, it was cleaning up the science labs—putting away the Bunsen burners, making sure that all test tubes, petri dishes, unused filter papers and the like were returned to their places. She only had to do it, on a strict rotation system, once every two months, but it stood to reason that here, in the worst week of her life, she would be in the science lab.
At least Mrs. Hawkins, who taught general sciences, was there, collecting papers, gathering things up at the end of the day. Having her there, having anybody there, was comforting.
“You’re doing a good job, Maureen,” said Mrs. Hawkins.
A white snake in a jar of preservative stared blindly down at them. Mo said, “Thanks.”
“Aren’t there meant to be two of you?” asked Mrs. Hawkins.
“I was supposed to be doing it with the Owens kid,” said Mo. “But he hasn’t been to school in days now.”
The teacher frowned. “Which one was he?” she asked, absently. “I don’t have him down on my list.”
“Bob Owens. Brownish hair, a bit too long. Didn’t talk much. He was the one who named all the bones of the skeleton in the quiz. Remember?”
“Not really,” admitted Mrs. Hawkins.
“You must remember! Nobody remembers him! Not even Mr. Kirby!”
Mrs. Hawkins pushed the rest of the sheets of paper into her bag and said, “Well, I appreciate you doing it on your own, dear. Don’t forget to wipe down the working surfaces, before you go.” And she went, closing the door behind her.
The science labs were old. There were long, dark wooden tables, with gas jets and taps and sinks built in to them, and there were dark wooden shelves upon which were displayed a selection of things in large bottles. The things that floated in the bottles were dead, had been dead for a long time. There was even a yellowed human skeleton in one corner of the room: Mo did not know if it was real or not, but right now it was creeping her out.
Every noise she made echoed, in that long room. She turned all of the overhead lights on, even the light on the w
hiteboard, just to make the place less scary. The room began to feel cold. She wished she could turn up the heat. She walked over to one of the large metal radiators and touched it. It was burning hot. But still, she was shivering.
The room was empty and unsettling in its emptiness, and Mo felt as if she were not alone, as if she was being watched.
Well, of course I’m being watched, she thought. A hundred dead things in jars are all looking at me, not to mention the skeleton. She glanced up at the shelves.
That was when the dead things in the jars began to move. A snake with unseeing milky eyes uncoiled in its alcohol-filled jar. A faceless, spiny sea creature twisted and revolved in its liquid home. A kitten, dead for decades, showed its teeth and clawed the glass.
Mo closed her eyes. This isn’t happening, she told herself. I’m imagining it. “I’m not frightened,” she said, aloud.
“That’s good,” said someone, standing in the shadows, by the rear door. “It seriously sucks to be frightened.”
She said, “None of the teachers even remember you.”
“But you remember me,” said the boy, the architect of all her misfortunes.
She picked up a glass beaker and threw it at him, but her aim went wide and it smashed against a wall.