Doctor Who_ Warchild - Andrew Cartmel [20]
With a wrench of nostalgia he remembered the first night he’d spent with Justine in London. Walking up the steps in Pall Mall, Creed deliberately dropping back for a moment so he could watch her sweet ass in those black culottes; all insouciant sway of ripening hips, like a bountiful basket being carried with negligent grace.
Now, a lifetime later, Creed saw the same programmed pattern of movement in his daughter, like a beautiful intricate symphony someone had recorded on a tape and casually played back. He watched Cynthia go, heading for the car park with her feet tripping out a staccato message of petulance and teenage spite. And Creed felt all the familiar family-stalemate feelings of inarticulate love and exasperated rage. He sighed and turned away, going deeper into the building.
The school was built in the shape of a hollow square, with the administrative offices along the inside walls, looking out through smoked glass on to a flourishing central patch of flower-beds, green lawn and plantings. Creed wandered into the administrative section, past empty desks. It was like being in the Agency out of normal office hours, empty and tranquil on a holiday weekend. Creed was looking for the office of the school’s principal and he reflected that, despite all the supposed democratizing influence of the open-plan office, it was still always possible to find where the king monkey sat. There was invariably something special about the boss’s cubicle.
In fact, it turned out that the principal had an old-fashioned enclosed office all his own. An unheard of luxury these days. Beyond a secretarial bull-pen Creed found a door with a sign which read ‘D. H. Pangbourne’. He knocked and, after waiting a moment, went inside.
The office was empty, the computer on the man’s desk switched off and a clutter of papers had been left stacked beside a brimming ash-tray. The nearest window was open, bringing in a cool breeze and the whispering of sprinklers.
Creed shrugged. He couldn’t blame the guy for deserting his post on this beautiful day.
He turned and left the office. He’d promised Justine that he’d come in and talk about Ricky, but he hadn’t really been looking forward to it. As he left the office Creed began to feel a bit guilty about giving up so easily. Outside the smoked windows he could see the school gardener, a pot-bellied, middle-aged man, cursing and wrestling with a hose. On impulse, Creed went out and gave him a hand.
Together they struggled with it. The hose was twisting like a malicious living thing; wet writhing sine curves of green plastic. ‘Careful,’ said the gardener. ‘This crap is so expensive you wouldn’t believe it but it busts real easy.’
They straightened it out and suddenly simple fluid mechanics took over. The hose lay motionless and obedient, as a series of sprinklers slowly came to wet, spinning life.
‘Thanks,’ said the gardener. He was a burly monkey-like man with his skin burned nut-brown by years of outdoor life.
‘Very nice of you to pop in specially to help me sort out the irrigation of our fertile little valley here.’ He smiled proudly at the lovingly tended garden.
‘Actually, I came in to try and see Mr Pangbourne.’
‘Oh, yeah?’ The gardener’s face suddenly lost some of its cheerful glow. Creed liked the man. Now he found himself watching him carefully.
‘So, what’s he like, this Pangbourne?’ he said. He had a sudden intuition that the gardener might tell him something worth hearing.
‘Pangbourne? The principal?’
‘Yeah,’ said Creed. ‘People say he’s a little odd.’
‘Well, it’s a damned odd school, Mister.’
‘Odd?’
‘Designed to handle specially talented kids and problem kids.’
‘I reckon kids are just kids,’ said Creed.
‘Sounds like you’ve got a few of your own.’
‘A few, yeah. All teenagers have the same problems regardless of whether they’re all potential Einsteins.’
‘Or potential Hitlers,’ chuckled the gardener. He fished in his pocket and dug out a couple of fat, brown cigars. He lit one and offered the other to Creed.
‘No thanks,’ said Creed. ‘Though maybe I’ll take one for later,