yeah,” Drake confirmed.
“Good to meet you. I’m Mr Franks, but everyone here knows my first name. Doesn’t bother me. It’s Darren, OK? Write that down if you want, so you remember. D-A-double-R-E-N. I’m not into that whole teacher-pupil thing. I like to think that we’re all friends here, just sharing knowledge. That’s all. We’ve all got knowledge and we’re just sharing it around. Sound good?”
Drake nodded. “Um... OK.”
“I thought it might,” said the teacher, smiling broadly. “I’m quite new here too, so I know it can be a bit daunting.” He looked around at the class. “But we’re a pretty good bunch, I think. We won’t see you stuck. If you need anything, just give me a shout.”
“Thanks,” Drake said.
“No bother,” Mr Franks replied. He had just started to say “Right, let’s crack on,” when a knock at the door interrupted him.
“Come in.”
The door opened slowly and a younger girl scurried a few paces into the class, then stopped, like a rabbit caught in headlights. Without a word, she thrust a note in Mr Franks’s direction.
“Thank you,” he said, taking it from her and reading it over. “You can go back to class,” he told her, and she retreated gratefully into the corridor.
“Looks like you’re already in demand, Drake,” he said.
Drake blinked. “Um... what?”
“Dr Black wants to see you,” the teacher said.
“He does? Why?”
“Doesn’t say,” Mr Franks replied. He looked down at the note again, in case he’d missed something. “Just says he wants to see you in his classroom as soon as possible.”
Drake realised every eye in the room was trained on him. A summoning to Dr Black’s classroom, he guessed, was not something that happened every day. A few rows away, he saw Mel looking back at him. She smiled encouragingly. For some reason, this made him even more nervous.
The legs of his chair scraped noisily in the sudden silence as he stood up.
“You’d better hurry,” Mr Franks said, as Drake made for the door. “It’s not a good idea to keep him waiting.”
Drake’s footfalls echoed eerily along the empty corridor. He turned over and over in his hands the photocopied map of the school that Mr Franks had given him, trying to figure out where in the twisting black and white labyrinth he was supposed to be. But he was coming to the conclusion that the map was a complete waste of time. He folded it neatly in half, stuck it in his back pocket, and went off in search of anything that might look familiar.
Why did the history teacher want to see him? That was the thought that occupied him as he wandered through the bewildering maze of corridors and passageways. Was he in trouble? He hadn’t done anything, so he didn’t think so.
Unless those three bullies had said something about him peeing on them, of course.
He walked on, up a flight of stairs that he vaguely remembered from yesterday. He felt himself becoming more anxious with every step. It had to be about the incident in the toilets. Why else would Dr Black call for him.
Self-defence, that would be his argument. It was a desperate, last-ditch attempt at avoiding a beating, and he wouldn’t, of course, even contemplate urinating on anyone again.
He stopped outside a gloss-painted door and read the little brass disc screwed into the wood. D9. This was the place.
Self-defence, he reminded himself, as he knocked once, then reached for the door handle. Dr Black would understand. He was probably a reasonable enough man, deep down.
Drake drew in a breath, assured himself there was nothing to worry about, then pushed open the door.
He paused with the door half open and stared in wonder. A sphere, about the size of a large beach ball, lay on the floor. Its surface shone like polished chrome. Drake saw a distorted reflection of himself as he leaned in closer to get a better look.
SNIKT!
Two blades extended suddenly from hidden compartments within the ball. Drake leaped back, as the sphere rose into the air, and the blades began to spin.
Drake’s blood pitter-pattered on the scuffed vinyl floor in perfect time with his frantic footsteps. He sprinted along a corridor, trying desperately to escape the ball and its blades as they sliced through the air somewhere behind him.
He wiped his sleeve across a deep, bloody scratch on his cheek as he skidded round a corner and two-at-a-timed down a flight of stairs. The ball could easily outpace him on the straights, but it had to slow down for the bends, he’d quickly discovered. If he could find enough corners he could put some real distance between him and it.
“Help!” he tried for the fourth or fifth time. “Someone help me, please!” Once again, no one answered his plea. It was almost as if the school had been emptied of everything but the armoured sphere and himself.
Drake stumbled to a stop outside a classroom. Twisting the dull metal handle he shoved against the door with his shoulder, throwing it wide open. Staggering inside, he slammed the door shut again behind him, then turned to find something to block it with.
A strangled yelp of shock escaped his lips. Instead of a classroom, he found himself in a corridor. Not just any corridor, either. His trail of blood spots led directly up to the door he had just closed. Somehow he’d ended up back in the same corridor he’d just tried to escape from. How was that possible?
His mind raced back to the garden yesterday afternoon. A reality loop, they’d called it. And now it was happening again. They were trying to kill him. Those nutjobs were trying to kill him!
The next corridor swung into view as he flung himself round another corner. Drake felt his heart crash down to his toes. Ahead of him, the walls stretched out into infinity. He could hear the ball of death whizzing closer and closer, its spinning blades already stained with his blood. Pointlessly he powered forward, painfully aware that there was no way he could outrun the thing on a straight like this.
Within seconds the blades were biting at his back, their sharp teeth chewing up the fabric of his uniform.
He cried out in shock as the first blade scraped against his exposed skin. Instinctively, he threw himself to the ground. Death, he knew, would be on him soon.
A shadow fell over him. He heard the soft creak of leather and the gruff growl of a Scottish accent. “Stay down.”
A sword flashed in a wide, horizontal arc across the corridor. With a screech of tearing metal, the blade passed through the ball, mid-flight. War crouched down, shielding Drake from the brief, blinding explosion. Shards of metal rained down around them, peppering the floor and walls.
When the debris had stopped falling, War stood up, his sword still held at the ready. The floating ball was no longer floating. Nor was it a ball. A tangled mound of wreckage lay on the floor, smouldering gently. War gave it a cautious poke with the tip of his sword.
“What...
