stiffened and leaned over Regan’s cereal bowl.
‘Very funny, Margaret. You really should be on Britain’s Got Talent. They’re in dire need of comedians.’ She seemed really annoyed for some reason and every time she spoke, little flecks of spittle flew directly into Regan’s juice glass.
‘You’re so full of shit, Dianna. That must be why your eyes are brown.’
It went on like this for a while. It always did. I finished my toast and a whole bowl of cornflakes, the war of words still raging around me. Eventually, Dianna was the first to run out of comebacks. ‘There’s two for you, Natasha.’
She held out two white envelopes. I took them both and saw the handwriting on the top one was Mum’s. A Christmas card from her and Dad. I didn’t recognise the second one. All around me, the chatter and clinking stopped.
When I looked up, all eyes around the table were on me except Regan’s. She was slowly chewing into a slice of toast while watching a money spider crawling over her free hand like it was the most interesting thing she’d ever seen. I ripped into the envelope and opened the letter.
Dianna was still hovering. ‘Anything important?’
‘Keep your beak out,’ said Maggie. ‘It’s none of your business.’
‘Uh, I think it is my business. I am Head Girl.’
‘Yeah, and don’t we know it?’
‘What does that mean?’
Maggie swigged her orange juice then licked her lips, slowly like a cat. ‘The only reason you wear that badge is cos you brown-tongued your way up Saul-Hudson’s arse. Everyone knows it should have been Nash who got Head Girl, not you.’
Dianna’s nostrils flared. ‘Well, Natasha fell at the final fence, didn’t she?’
‘Yeah, and why was that, do you think?’ I said. When I looked up, Dianna was staring at me. I opened my second letter.
It was a picture. Hand-drawn and coloured. Trees. Leaves. A large black monster with huge pointed teeth. Between its jaws it held a man’s body. The man had blond hair. There was red scribble all around the page. It was supposed to be the Beast. My brother. Blood.
I folded the letter back up and slotted it into the torn envelope. As I returned to my toast, I took a quick scan of the room, fixing my own face into a calm mask.
Clarice.
I picked her out again, three tables away, talking to Lauren Entwistle. She glanced across at me, and quickly glanced away again.
‘Who was your other one from?’ asked Maggie.
Choose your battles. Just ignore it.
‘Oh, just my nan. She can’t come and get me over Christmas. She’s away.’
‘Well, my mum’s still fighting a big divorce case in LA so she’s not going to be back any time soon either. And Dad’s in New York till whenever.’
‘Is your dad a lawyer too?’ I asked.
‘No, architect,’ said Maggie. ‘Something to do with that new thing they’re building on Wall Street or something, I dunno.’
‘One World Trade Center?’ I said, hardly believing it.
‘Summing like that.’
‘Wow,’ I said.
‘Sooo, we can have Christmas here on our own and totally let rip! No parents, no teachers, no Saul-Hudson ramming her big fat honk into our beeswax.’
‘Matron’ll be here though,’ I said.
She grimaced. ‘Yeah, but we can outrun her if we have to. Beeyatch.’
‘She’s been lovely since I heard about Seb,’ I said. ‘She asks me every morning if I’ve heard anything and whether I need to use the phone.’
‘Bless,’ said Maggie, unconvincingly. I knew how much she hated Matron and I didn’t wonder why. It was because Matron was usually the one who caught her out. Every single time.
‘There’s a Pup staying as well,’ I said, trying to think of the little girl’s name.
‘And I am,’ said a small voice. We both looked at the stern-looking girl with the plaits.
‘Why will you be here?’ asked Maggie, barely hiding her disdain.
‘I’m not allowed to go home for Christmas,’ Regan said, matter-of-fact. She pushed her glasses up her nose and dipped her head.
‘Why aren’t you allowed to go home?’
Regan swallowed down some cornflakes, leaving a milk drop on her chin. ‘I’m only allowed home one holiday a year, summer or Christmas. I went home in the summer so …’
‘… so you’re here for Christmas,’ I finished.
She nodded.
‘Oh peach parfait,’ groaned Maggie, her spoon clattering against her empty bowl.
‘Well, I guess we can make the best of it,’ I said, trying to find a bright side. ‘Plan a midnight raid on the kitchen or something.’
‘The devil is at your elbow, my child,’ said Maggie with an evil stare and a suggestive eyebrow wiggle.
I laughed.
Regan laughed too, but I don’t think she knew what she was laughing at. She still had a milk drip on her chin. ‘We can go looking for the Beast that killed the man in the village.’
Maggie and I looked at her.
‘It would be better than sitting in the library. I spend a lot of time in the library.’
She didn’t say it to court pity. It was just a fact. And it was a fact with a subtext: spending time in the library was code for I have absolutely no friends.
‘I slept in there on Sunday night.’
‘Why?’ said Maggie. ‘All there is are encyclopedias and crappy books like Common Sense Beekeeping and Fun With Yarn. Not exactly party central.’
‘It’s warmer than the dorm. I was reading all the old school scrapbooks that the prefects of the past used to keep. About all the parties and plays. And the Beast.’
‘Oh yeah,’ Maggie laughed. ‘The Beast of Bathory? The stupidest mythical beast known to man. He only comes out in the winter when there’s no food around.’
‘He killed Mr Pellett in the village. He was a retired accountant. Lived up at The Old Apothecary.’
‘How do you know all this?’ said Maggie.
Regan tapped her nose. ‘I know a lot of things about the Beast of
