The Ability (Ability, The) Page 2

  “Thank you so much for that wonderful introduction. One of the most pleasurable aspects of my job as education minister is to visit schools and see the wonderful achievements of pupils and staff. Today has been no exception, and I thank you all for the warm reception you have given me. It is—”

  Humphries was interrupted by a loud ringing sound in his ears. He shook his head and coughed, but the noise persisted. Looking up, Humphries saw the audience watching him expectantly. He tried to ignore the sound and leaned forward toward the microphone.

  “Excuse me,” he said, louder than necessary. “As I was saying, it is—” He stopped again. The high-pitched whining was getting louder, and he was finding it difficult to hear himself speak.

  “I’m sorry, I seem to—”

  He felt his ears start to throb in pain. He clutched his head and pressed at the side of his temples, but the noise kept rising in volume and seemed to expand and press against his skull until he thought it might explode. He reeled backward, struggling to stay standing. Out of the corner of his eye he saw James making his way toward the stage in a half run with a concerned look on his face. The pain was getting worse, and he felt the blood start to rush to his head. He struggled to look calm, aware that the cameras were rolling, but the pressure was building up against his eyes until his eyeballs started pushing out against their sockets. He put his arm out and felt for the side of the podium to try to steady himself, but the room started to spin, and he fell to the ground. He tried to push himself up, but sharp, stabbing pains began to spread across his whole body, each one as if a knife were being pushed into him and then turned slowly.

  And then, as suddenly as it had begun, the ringing stopped. Humphries looked around, dazed, and slowly stood up, trying to gather his composure. He heard the sound of a child laughing, and the expression on his face turned from confusion to fury.

  “Who is that?” he asked. “Who is laughing?”

  Humphries looked out at the audience as the laughter increased in volume, but all he could see were shocked faces.

  He turned and saw that James was beside him.

  “Nobody is laughing, sir. I think we need to leave,” whispered James, but Humphries didn’t hear him, as the sound of the child’s laughter was joined by the laughter of what sounded like a hundred others.

  “They’re all laughing. Stop laughing!” screamed Humphries at the stunned crowd, but instead the sound got increasingly louder until it became unbearable. He fell to the ground once more, his hands clutching his head, the veins on his forehead throbbing intensely from the pressure.

  “Arghhh . . . HELP ME!” he shouted, his fear of dying overriding any embarrassment he might have felt at such a public lack of composure.

  He looked up and saw a mass of flashing bulbs coming from the press photographers’ pen to his right. Struggling, he turned his head slowly away, his face twisted in agony, and searched the crowd for somebody who could do something to help him. At the front, a teacher stood up and appeared to start shouting for help. All about her, children were crying in fear as they watched Humphries begin to roll around on the floor in agonizing pain, but the sound of them was drowned out by the unbearable noise of children laughing in his head. He felt his temperature begin to rise suddenly and watched helplessly as his hands started to turn purple. Desperately, he looked down from the stage for help and caught the eye of a pale young boy sitting in the front row below him, cross-legged and staring intently at him with an expressionless face.

  Humphries froze. It was at that moment, with a sudden jolt of clarity, that he realized what was happening, and panic swept over him. Using all the strength he could muster, he pulled himself to his feet, and, eyes wide with terror and face a mottled purple, he jumped down from the stage and collapsed on the ground as the children in the front row scrambled to get away. The only child who remained was the pale boy in the crisp new uniform, who sat perfectly still and maintained a steady gaze as Humphries crawled forward in his direction, screaming unintelligibly, and then slowly raised his hands toward the boy’s neck. Worry turned to panic as the crowd realized that Humphries was about to attack the child. The headmistress sprang into action, hitched her skirt up, and jumped down from the stage, grabbing the young boy by his shirt collar and dragging him out of harm’s reach. Humphries raised his head slowly and turned to face the cameras. He opened his mouth and screamed,

  “INFERNO!”

  As soon as the word left his lips, Humphries collapsed to the ground, his eyes open but expressionless, his body quivering in fear, just as he would remain for the rest of his life.

  • CHAPTER TWO •

  Later that day

  One hundred and eighty miles away, in central London, director general of MI5 Sir Bentley Jones turned away from the image on the television of Cecil Humphries being stretchered out of the school and sighed deeply. He walked over to the large window overlooking the river and looked up at the darkening sky above him, which mirrored the sense of unease that he was feeling. He stood motionless for a few minutes and watched the gray swirls of cloud gather above him, before a knock on the door shook him from his thoughts. He turned to watch as his secretary opened the door.

  “Sir . . . ,” she said, holding up a thick manila folder.

  Sir Bentley nodded and mumbled a quiet thank-you as he took the folder from her. He watched silently as she left the room and closed the door. It was only then that he looked down at the folder in his hands, a folder that he had hoped never to see again, and read the thick black lettering on the faded label, which he himself had written thirty years earlier: INFERNO.

  • CHAPTER THREE •

  Wednesday, October 31

  Christopher Lane sat in his usual chair in the school office and waited nervously, his class teacher staring at him intently from the seat opposite as if he might try to make a run for it at any time—which, to be fair, had crossed his mind. It was only Wednesday, and yet this was the third time this week that Chris had found himself sitting here, waiting for the headmaster to call his name. This time, however, he knew that the matter would have far more serious consequences.

  Across the short corridor, and as yet unaware of the presence of his least favorite pupil, the porcine Mr. Tuckdown, headmaster at Black Marsh Secondary School for the last fourteen years, was looking forward to relaxing in his office with a cup of tea, that morning’s crossword, and a ginger biscuit or two. Or three. Mr. Tuckdown sighed contentedly, slicked down the strands of greasy hair plastered across his bald head, and lowered himself into his exhausted black leather chair. Slowly, he unfolded the newspaper across the top of his empty mahogany desk and opened the top drawer to find a pen.

  Margaret, the school secretary, knocked at the door.

  “Your tea, sir?”

  Mr. Tuckdown beckoned her in with his finger without bothering to look up.

  “That’ll be all for this afternoon,” he said, as Margaret placed the cup of tea (milk and six sugars) next to the plate of biscuits in front of him. “I won’t have any calls put through for the rest of the day; I’m rather busy.”

  “Yes, sir, of course. There’s just the small matter of—”

  “Yes?” he said, raising an eyebrow.

  “Well, Mrs. Tanner would like to have a word. She’s with Chri—”

  “Christopher Lane?” interrupted Mr. Tuckdown, sitting up abruptly.

  Margaret opened her mouth to speak, but she could see that Mr. Tuckdown was getting ready to explode, and she closed it quickly. She watched nervously as he got out of his seat and walked over to the window, mumbling angrily.

  “That boy . . . that boy . . . honestly, Margaret, I curse the day he set foot in the school. I am sick to death of him!” he shouted, his face turning a mottled deep purple.

  “Sir, the boy’s standing outside,” whispered Margaret.

  “I couldn’t care less. I’m sick of you. Do you hear me, Christopher Lane? Sick of you!”

  Mr. Tuckdown took a deep breath a
nd looked up at Margaret.

  “The boy’s been here less than two months, and he’s already on his way to giving me a heart attack. My health is suffering, and it’s all his fault.” He grabbed a biscuit and swallowed it down in two gigantic bites.

  Margaret, having edged her way back to the door, stood silently and watched as Mr. Tuckdown began to pace, beads of sweat forming on his forehead. He walked back and forth across the room, muttering under his breath.

  Finally he seemed to calm slightly, and he stopped abruptly. A brief moment of silence followed as he looked down at the gold watch on his wrist and sighed.

  “I suppose my tea break will just have to wait. Again. Give us five minutes and then come in and say there’s an urgent call waiting,” said Mr. Tuckdown. Margaret nodded and backed out slowly, leaving the door open. A moment later, after a hushed warning from Margaret about the headmaster’s mood, Mrs. Tanner, form teacher for class 7C, entered the room followed by a boy almost as tall as her, his hands in his pockets and his head bowed in sullen anger.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt you,” said Mrs. Tanner, her lips pursed tight in a permanent sneer, her polished black heels click-clacking smartly on the wooden floor as she made her way over to the headmaster’s desk.

  “Hurry up, Christopher,” she said in a tight, shrill voice. Chris hesitated for a moment and then crossed the room to stand next to his teacher.

  “Your visits are getting to be rather irritating, Mrs. Tanner,” said the headmaster.

  “I apologize, Mr. Tuckdown,” said Mrs. Tanner, looking not the slightest bit sorry in Chris’s opinion, “but unfortunately, this time it’s rather more serious. You see, this morning I left my handbag under my seat in the classroom. At lunchtime I retrieved my bag, only to find that someone”—she looked over at Chris—“had been through my wallet and taken the money from it.”

  Mrs. Tanner and Mr. Tuckdown both turned to look at Chris. Chris made no attempt to speak. He looked down at his dirty, worn shoes and waited.

  Finally Mr. Tuckdown got impatient.

  “Well, boy? What do you have to say to that?”

  “Nothing, sir.”

  “Nothing. How much did he steal?”

  “Twenty pounds,” said Mrs. Tanner.

  Chris didn’t move. His head stayed bowed.

  “Twenty pounds, Chris. Where is it?” asked Mr. Tuckdown.

  “I didn’t steal it.”

  “Of course you did,” said Mr. Tuckdown, “so where is that money now?”

  “How would I know?” said Chris angrily. “I didn’t steal it.”

  “Watch that tone of voice,” warned Mr. Tuckdown. “Show me your pockets.”

  Chris silently put his hands in his trouser pockets and turned them out. They were completely empty.

  “Well, that would be too obvious, I suppose, even for you. Clearly it must be somewhere else,” said Mr. Tuckdown.

  “I said I didn’t take it,” said Chris defiantly.

  “So if it wasn’t you, who was it?” asked Mrs. Tanner.

  “I don’t know,” said Chris, looking up at Mrs. Tanner. It didn’t surprise him to see the disbelief in her face.

  “How convenient,” said Mr. Tuckdown with a sneer. “Well, let’s run through the possible suspects, shall we, Christopher? Could it be Emma Becksdale, our head girl? Or Ibrahim Lamos, who has never had a single detention in his six years here? Or could it be Jack Riggs, who has had more merits than any other pupil in the history of Black Marsh Secondary? What do you think?”

  Chris stood silent.

  “Or could it be, perhaps,” continued Mr. Tuckdown, “the boy standing before me? This dirty little urchin of a boy, with holes in his trousers, who thinks uniform rules don’t apply to him. The boy who has stolen food from the lunchroom more times than I care to remember and who likes to make smart-aleck comments to teachers and pupils just because he can’t take a bit of a ribbing. The first-year who never brings in his lunch money and who arrives late into school every day. All the clues are there, Christopher, and I don’t need to be Sherlock Holmes to work this one out.”

  He paused dramatically.

  “The culprit is you, Christopher Lane. You are suspended for three days,” he concluded. With that he took a biscuit from the plate and dipped it into his tea.

  Mrs. Tanner smiled a rare smile, one that seemed to Chris to be reserved only for when he was punished.

  “Thank you, Mr. Tuckdown; you’ve just made my day. It seems that every cloud does indeed have a silver lining. Now, are you going to give me back the money?”

  “I didn’t steal it!” shouted Chris angrily.

  “A thief and a liar. So be it. We’ll send a letter home to your mother,” said Mrs. Tanner brightly.

  Chris felt tears of anger spring to his eyes, and he turned to leave before anybody could see.

  “Three days of peace might be worth twenty pounds,” he heard Mrs. Tanner say to the headmaster as he ran out of the office and down the corridor.

  Chris didn’t stop running as he passed the long line of classrooms, not caring who saw him or what they would think. He flew down the flight of stairs, two at a time, barging past students on their way to lessons, and out of the main doors. The rain was pouring down, but he hardly noticed as he crossed the playground and ran past the gates and down the empty street. He turned left into his usual shortcut, a small alleyway that led through to the busy road. Ahead in the distance he could see the traffic speeding past, blurred by the harsh rain. He leaned against the wet brick wall and caught his breath. Trying to calm himself, he began counting slowly, and after a while his breathing slowed. He pushed himself up from the wall, ran his fingers through his wet hair, and wiped his face with the bottom of his shirt. Leaning down, he slowly undid the frayed laces of his left shoe and rolled the wet sock off his foot. The crumpled twenty-pound note fell to the ground. He picked it up, wiped it off with his sleeve, and stuffed it into his pocket.

  • CHAPTER FOUR •

  Thursday, November 1

  The next morning Chris woke up before his alarm clock went off. He lay in bed, and as the fog of sleep cleared, his mind began to recall everything that had happened the day before: the moment he had made the decision to steal from his teacher, his suspension, the guilt he had felt as he spent the money at the supermarket, and the lies he had told his mother when he’d got home. He thought about the plan he had come up with over the course of the previous evening, and though he was certain it was what he had to do, he felt no better for it. It was strange, he thought, how this day was special for all the wrong reasons.

  Chris shivered and pulled the duvet up over his shoulders. He could hear the whistle of the cold wind coming in through the gaps in the rotting window frame, and he breathed out, watching the cloud of warm air rise up toward the ceiling, then disappear. He breathed in again and opened his mouth, but as he breathed out, something caught his eye, and he closed his mouth abruptly. Chris sat up. In the corner of his room, stretching from a shelf to the top of his bedroom door, a large web had appeared overnight, an intricate network of fine silver strings that glistened in the morning light. Chris pushed the covers back and walked over to it. A small brown spider, no bigger than a twenty-pence piece, was working at the web’s edge, and Chris watched, fascinated, as it moved slowly along.

  “That’s some web you’re building there,” said Chris, reaching up to gently push against the web. It shook and the spider froze.

  “I’m sorry,” said Chris. “Don’t stop.”

  As if the spider had understood him, it immediately set to work again.

  Chris laughed. He looked at the spider.

  “Stop.”

  The spider stopped. This time Chris didn’t laugh. He looked at the spider, confused.

  “Go on, spin your web,” he said once more, quietly. Chris watched in wide-eyed amazement as the spider immediately started moving.

  “How strange,” said Chris, rubbing his forehead as he walked away. He dress
ed slowly, watching the spider as it continued to work, until he glanced over at his alarm clock and realized the time. He quickly did up the laces of his shoes, grabbed his bag, and took the small thin blue velvet box from his bedside table, pausing only briefly to look at the photograph beside it, a picture of his father in uniform taken two months before he was killed, when Chris had been only five years old.

  “Sorry, Dad. I hope you understand,” said Chris, putting the box into his bag and zipping it up.

  Chris came down the stairs as quietly as possible. The hallway was dark even though it was eight in the morning and already light outside. He peered around the living room door and saw his mother asleep in the armchair, the blanket over her, just the way he had left her the night before. Most days he would go straight over to the window and open the curtains, but on this occasion he wanted his mother to stay asleep. He tiptoed past her to the coffee table and picked up his keys.

  “See you later, Mum,” he whispered, giving his mother a peck on the cheek as he walked back toward the door.

  Chris’s mother opened her eyes, and for a moment she looked just like she used to, a soft smile on her face.

  “Where are you going?” she asked drowsily.

  “To school,” he said guiltily. “There’s cereal and milk in the kitchen—please eat something when you get up. I went shopping yesterday, so there’s plenty there.”

  Chris’s mother took a deep breath and pulled the blanket down over her lap. She was dressed in the same clothes she wore most days: tracksuit bottoms and an old shirt of his dad’s, which drowned her tiny frame. She looked up at him. The smile was gone.

  “Haven’t you gone yet?” she asked, rubbing her forehead to try to push away the headache that was beginning to form.

  “I’m going.”

  She nodded blankly, leaned back in her chair, and closed her eyes, as if this brief conversation had drained her of all her energy.