Doctor Who_ Time and Relative - Kim Newman [22]
I'm still leaving a record for the future. Only I'm not sure any longer that I expect to be in it. If the Cold Knights get us and another ice age descends, trapping all of 'the infestation' like glacier men, maybe it'll be millennia before these frozen pages are found.
Hello, posterity.
Um, posterity implies I have children, which I don't. So it's: hello, futurity.
We found food by breaking into the tuck shop, on the assumption (which I wouldn't expect Mr Carker to go along with) that the Emergency suspends the Rules. We made a feast of cold Cadbury's chocolate and Smith's crisps. John and Gillian were content to drink Tizer, but I ventured into forbidden territory (the Staff Common Room) and found an electric kettle to brew up a pot of tea. The Common Room stinks of stale tobacco. I didn't find the fabled library of confiscated Liliput and Health & Efficiency magazines or Hank Jansen and Dennis Wheatley paperbacks. My missing Saturday Night and Sunday Morning did show up, with the bookmark moved on – which means that someone's been reading it! I needed the tea for the warmth as much as the taste. Only by wrapping both hands around a steaming mug could I unfreeze my fingers to the point of managing tiny feats of dexterity like uncurling the little blue-paper twist of salt to shake into a bag of crisps.
Captain Brent snorted disapproval of 'looting', but still ate his chocolate and drank his tea.
John's Dad really is completely mad. He can't accept what he's seen, so he's chosen to ignore it. Grown-ups can do that. Children can't.
Gillian doesn't waste time questioning what she's seen. She concentrates on coping with it.
Wrapped up in blankets from the nurse's cupboard, we slept by the
clanking, spitting furnace. It was actually too hot in the boiler room, and I couldn't do more than doze in spells, troubled by vivid dreams.
Running from the Masters, with Grandfather. Scarecrows in gowns and mortar boards always at our heels. Being shut up in smaller and smaller boxes. Time slowing and speeding and space folding on itself. The Rules throbbing in my mind, like a brain tumour. Never entirely caught, never entirely free. Endless corridors. Captures and escapes. My throat raw from screaming. Infinite homework. Being ignored by the grown-ups. Rasping voices. Clutching hands. Everything changing around me. Bloody torn-out hearts. Heads in baskets.
In a nutshell, a nightmare.
I was haunted by the half-memory of a particular Master, the Truant Officer. When they were in class together, he was everything Grandfather wasn't. They were the Teacher's Pet, awarded Gold Stars, and the Class Dunce, stood in the corner. At Home, the Truant Officer was highly regarded. He dressed smartly and knew the Rules by heart. His reports were covered with orderly ticks. His Box was full of silver cups, awarded for punctuality, self-discipline and meritorious conduct. He was a chap on the rise, a stickler for the Rules, a Good Man to have On the Team, in line for the Headship. When Grandfather ran away, our folder would have been turned over to the Truant Officer for action. He was after us and wouldn't give up until we were caught and Punished. His career depended upon catching us, on not letting there be any exceptions to the Rules.
We would get Detention. And the Truant Officer would become Head.
In my dream, I saw his face, smiling blandly through a neat black beard, cleverness sparkling in his cold, cold eyes. I heard him laugh, and for a moment remembered everything.
I woke up in blue light. The slit-windows were iced over. And it was all gone, except for a headache.
Later —
By default, Gillian is in charge.
I've said we should go to Grandfather, but Gillian won't listen. According to her, no grown-up will be any use. She has Captain Brent on hand as a living example.
The telephones are out of order and we can't find a wireless. The caretaker hasn't come to open up the school, which at least puts off the trouble we'll be in for breaking locks and doors.
In the night,