to write the whole thing out a hundred times before supper, and give it to Manfred – if I can find his study. You don’t happen to know where it is, do you?’
Tancred shook his head and Lysander said, ‘Not a clue.’
Charlie was about to return the way he’d come when Tancred suggested he try somewhere else. ‘Through there,’ said Tancred, indicating a door at the end of the Sculpture studio. ‘The new children are having their first art lesson. I think I saw one carrying a trumpet.
‘Thanks, Tanc!’
Charlie walked into a room he’d never seen before. About fifteen silent children sat round a long table, sketching. Each of them had a large sheet of paper and an object in front of them. They were all concentrating fiercely on their work, and none of them looked up when Charlie appeared.
‘What do you want?’ A thin, fair-haired man with freckles spoke from the end of the table. A new Art teacher, Charlie presumed.
‘My trumpet, sir,’ said Charlie.
‘And why do you think it’s here?’ asked the teacher.
‘Because, there it is!’ Charlie had just seen a trumpet exactly like his. The instrument was being sketched by a small boy with bits of paper sticking to his hair. The boy looked up at Charlie.
‘Joshua Tilpin,’ said the teacher, ‘where did you get that trumpet?’
‘It’s mine, Mr Delf.’ Joshua Tilpin had small pale grey eyes. He half-closed them and wrinkled his nose at Charlie.
Charlie couldn’t stop himself. He leapt forward, seized the trumpet and turned it over. Last term he had scratched a tiny CB near the mouthpiece. The trumpet was his. ‘It’s got my initials on it, sir.’
‘Let me see.’ Mr Delf held out his hand.
Charlie handed over the trumpet. ‘My name’s Charlie Bone, sir. See, they’re my initials.’
‘You shouldn’t deface musical instruments like this. But it does appear to be yours. Joshua Tilpin, why did you lie?’
Everyone looked at Joshua. He didn’t go red, as Charlie would have expected. Instead, he gave a huge grin, revealing a row of small, uneven teeth. ‘Sorry, sir. Really, really sorry, Charlie. Only a joke. Forgive me, please!’
Neither Charlie nor the teacher knew how to reply to this. Mr Delf passed the trumpet to Charlie, saying, ‘You’d better get back to your class.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ Charlie clutched his trumpet and turned to the door. He took a good look at Joshua Tilpin as he went. He had an odd feeling that the new boy was endowed. Joshua’s sleeves were covered in scraps of paper and tiny bits of eraser. Even as Charlie watched, a broken pencil lead suddenly leapt off the table and attached itself to the boy’s thumb. He gave Charlie a sly grin and flicked it off. Charlie felt as though an invisible thread were tugging him towards the strange boy.
He quickly left the room, and the thread was broken.
The sculpture studio rang with the sound of steel on stone. Tancred and Lysander weren’t the only ones chipping away at lumps of rock. Charlie flourished his trumpet in the air, ‘Got it,’ he sang out.
‘Knew it,’ said Tancred.
Charlie’s next priority was the hundred lines. Where should he write them? He decided on his new classroom. As he crossed the hall he was swamped by groups of children, some coming in from games, others rushing down the stairs, still more emerging from the cloakrooms. Everyone seemed to know exactly where they were going, except Charlie. Something had gone horribly wrong with his timetable. He hurried on, hoping to find at least some of his year group in the classroom.
There was a note pinned to the classroom door. It was printed in the same old-fashioned script as the words on Mr Pilgrim’s door:
Tantalus Ebony
Music, Mime and Medieval History
Charlie put his ear to the door. Not a sound came from the other side. He went in. There were no children in the room, but there was a teacher. He sat at a high desk in front of the window; a teacher with a long, narrow face and black eyebrows that met across the bridge of his nose. His dark hair covered his ears, and a heavy fringe ended just above his eyebrows. He wore a purple cloak.
‘Yes?’ said the teacher, looking up from his book.
Charlie swallowed. ‘I’ve come to write out some lines, sir.’
‘Name?’ The man’s voice rumbled as though it came from underground.
‘Charlie Bone, sir.’
‘Approach!’ The teacher beckoned with a long, white finger.
Charlie walked up to the desk. The man stared at him for a full minute. His left eye was grey and his right eye was brown. It was most disconcerting. Charlie was tempted to look away but he held his ground and looked first into one eye, and then the other. An angry frown crossed the man’s face and he leaned back, almost as though he feared that Charlie had seen some part of himself that he wished to keep secret. Eventually, the teacher said, ‘I am Tantalus Ebony.’
‘I guessed that, sir.’
‘How presumptuous. Stand still.’
Charlie was about to say that he hadn’t moved, when Mr Ebony went on, ‘Why are you not with the rest of your form?’
‘I got a bit muddled, sir.’
‘Muddled? Muddled is for first formers. Not a very promising beginning for your second year, is it, Charlie Bone? And you say you have lines already. I wonder why?’
‘I was talking in the hall, sir.’
Mr Ebony’s response was amazing. He roared with laughter. He rocked with unrestrained giggles.
‘Ahem.’ The teacher gave a little cough. ‘Go and write your lines, then. And don’t disturb me. I’m going to sleep.’ Mr Ebony pulled his purple hood over his head and closed his eyes. Still sitting bolt upright, he began to snore.
Is it possible to be watched by someone who isn’t looking at you? Charlie had the impression that the strange teacher was still awake. Or rather that someone else, behind the sleeping face, was still on guard.
After waiting a few seconds, Charlie tiptoed to his desk, got out an exercise book and began to write out the hall rules. He had just completed the last line when the bell went for tea. Mr Ebony opened his eyes, threw back his hood and cried, ‘OUT!’
‘Yes, sir.’ Charlie gathered up his paper and hurriedly left the room.
‘Where on earth have you been?’ asked Fidelio, when he saw Charlie in the canteen.
‘Where have you been?’ said Charlie.
‘I had English, then games.’
Charlie saw a weekend of detention looming ahead. Mr Carp, the English teacher, wouldn’t
