Kitty in the Winter Wild

By David Bramhall

When eleven year old Kitty meets her brother and sister to travel home for Christmas, it should be a joyous occasion. But this is the worst winter in living memory. The entire country is in chaos and sinister forces are at work, so it is not long before Kitty finds herself in a desperate and frightening situation. Who is the enormous woman on the train, and why is she so interested in the School Debating Cup? And when a famous magician tells you there is no such thing as magic, should you believe him? And as power supplies fail and lights go out, as the snow drifts and blocks roads and railways, what is it that creeps down from the high places and snuffles round the doors at night? Then there are reports of missing lorry-drivers, deserted villages ... and blood in the snow ...

The author of 'The Black Joke' and 'The Honeyplot' brings us another striking adventure with a plot far-fetched but at the same time perfectly believable, and a heroine who is vulnerable, determined and really quite irritating. 'Kitty in the Winter Wild' is suitable for children of eleven years and upwards, but will also appeal to adults who have not lost their sense of adventure, imagination and wonder. And can tolerate a girl who thinks that words like 'fazackerly' and 'snoot' actually mean something.

• Language: English
• Publisher: David Bramhall
• Release date: Dec 2, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463800072

David Bramhall

Composer and author, now a novelist of sorts, and always a grumpy old person with too many opinions. That's what my wife says, anyway.

Book preview

Prologue

When the Romans packed up and left Britain early in the Fifth Century, there was no one to take charge and for a while the country was in chaos. Rival small kings and warlords carved out their own territories and fought among themselves. From the east, new invaders began to arrive across the sea. They sailed their longships onto the beaches and up the rivers, striking inland in raiding parties at first, but soon starting to settle and build their own villages. They were from what we now call Scandinavia, the Netherlands and Germany, and were variously known as Angles or Saxons or Jutes. They were warlike people, though not nearly as bad as legend has them. What they wanted, and what they eventually achieved, was to find fertile land and settle down to be farmers.

In the west and the north people felt safe from these newcomers but still had their own problems. Welsh tribesmen raided across the border into England, from Scotland Pictish warriors raided into Cumberland and Northumberland and Durham. And there were also sporadic raids by Irish warriors and even pirates who sailed their ships up from North Africa, attacking coastal settlements and carrying men, women and children off to be slaves.

What was needed was a strong leader, one who would unite the remains of Britain and take a stand against these invaders, and according to legend one finally arrived. His name was Arthur. He gathered around him large numbers of strong warriors who ranged the country, controlling the invading North Men in the east, the Welsh savages in the west and the Scots in the north, bringing a brief time of peace and prosperity.

King Arthur is said to have come to power more or less by accident. As a young man he was squire, or servant, to Kay his childhood friend, having been adopted by Kay's father. At a tournament, Kay had forgotten his sword so sent Arthur back to get it. Arthur, a typical young tearaway, couldn't be bothered to go all the way back and when he found a sword lying about, stuck into a stone, he took that instead. After all, a sword's just a sword, right?

Fortunately, or unfortunately for Kay, the sword turned out to be an enchanted one. Only the future king could draw it out of the stone. Others tried, but Arthur was the only one who could do it, so he was immediately crowned King.

He set about building his army, advised by Merlinus Ambrosius, a wise and powerful wizard. His generals were Gawain, Geraint, Percival, Bors, Lamorak, Gareth, Bedivere, Bleoberis, Gaheris, Tristan, Palamedes and Kay himself. They met in a council called the Round Table, and named their kingdom 'Logres'. Later Lancelot arrived, a superb warrior who became Arthur's right hand man. Lancelot already had a son, Galahad, who came to Arthur's court when he was old enough, and was described as 'the perfect knight', pure in heart and invincible in battle.

For a time, all went well. Wrongs were righted, rival leaders either defeated or befriended, the Norsemen were held back in the eastern counties and made no further inroads, and there was a brief flowering of trade and culture. All seemed rosy.

But sinister forces were at work. Lancelot and Arthur's wife, Queen Guinevere, fell in love and ran off together causing a long-lasting feud. Arthur's half-sisters Morgan le Fay and Morgause were witches and plotted against him. Years before, one of them had tricked her way into Arthur's bed when he had drunk too much, and a son had been born, named Mordred. He also became one of Arthur's knights when he was old enough, but was a bitter, rebellious young man and eventually raised an army and fought against Arthur. In a last great battle at Camlann, both were killed and the story ended.

The story may have ended but now the myths began. Ever since that dark time from which there are few written records, a hundred poets, authors, men who called themselves historians and some who were outright fantasists have written and re-written the tales, adding and embroidering according to their consciences, their imaginations and the customs of their time. The legend became fractured and scattered in a multitude of different versions, different times and different names. Arthur's castle of Camelot was at Tintagel in Cornwall, it was at Caerleon in South Wales, it was at Carlisle in Cumbria, it was dug up near Huddersfield, one or two writers even had it on the other side of the Channel in Brittany.

It is now impossible to tell what the truth really was, and many scholars even doubt whether Arthur actually existed at all. But one persistent myth is that Arthur is not dead, but with most of his knights and his chief adviser Merlin, sleeps somewhere. The location is also vague and uncertain, but many believe it is a cave in the Welsh mountains.

Wherever they are, they sleep a long magical sleep. One day when England is in the greatest peril and all seems lost, they will wake and ride out to save the day.

I

Stop fidgeting! Miss Hevesham said sharply.

Miss, my legs are cold, I'm jiggling to keep warm. If I was wearing trousers it wouldn't be so bad.

The school rules require you to wear school uniform when travelling, you know that as well as I do. Trousers are out of the question.

But Miss, it can't be good for us to be so cold. Shouldn't the school have a rule that pupils are protected from the extremes of climate? Otherwise there'll be girls arriving home for the holidays with frostbite and hypothermia, and it'll be the school's fault and the parents will sue.

Kitty Younger, you always think you know best. School rules are written by older and wiser heads than yours, and there are reasons for them you can't begin to understand.

But Miss, I'm just thinking of the good of the school. It would be bad for the school's reputation if ...

Enough! Stop arguing!

Miss, I'm not arguing, I'm just explaining why I'm right.

Apart from her mop of ginger curls, the one thing everyone noticed about Kitty Younger was that she was always certain. It was said by those who knew her best, that she got it from her father who had been a sergeant in the army. Sergeants are always certain, that's what sergeants are for. Sergeant Younger had died in a car accident two years ago but all the same, Kitty knew best. She knew that she knew best, and was always willing to tell you, in case you didn't know, why she knew best. You seldom won an argument with Kitty Younger.

Today Kitty was certain about two things. The first was that she had never felt so cold in her life. On the London side of Haslemere Station, behind the sheds of the Unicorn Trading Estate, the trees rose up the bank heavy with snow, and hid the back gardens of the houses in Derby Road. Opposite, where normally rows of cars and motorbikes would stand, the station car-park was bleak and windswept, its only occupant Miss Hevesham's small red car already half covered in snow. As they had entered the station the blue signs on the newsagent's kiosk had said Open but the closed door and darkened interior told another story. Any sensible businessman was at home with his feet up in front of the fire, not struggling along the icy pavements to open up for customers. It didn't look as though there would be many customers today.

The railway tracks between the platforms were covered in snow, only the dull heads of the rails showing. The platform had been swept at some point, but fine snow had blown over it again in streaky patterns that showed which way the wind was blowing. That wind was a bitter, spiteful thing that sprang at you round corners and went up your skirt and froze the bits of you that really wanted to be warmest. Kitty's legs were rather thin, and school uniform for juniors was ankle socks and a skirt. She jiggled her knees, feeling that if she remained still her legs would freeze solid so when she tried to move, they would snap off like skinny icicles.

Miss Hevesham wrapped her coat round her more firmly. Well you aren't right, she said, and that's all there is to it. I can't see why you have to go home a day early, anyway. Why couldn't you have gone tomorrow, and come to the station on the coach with all the others?

Miss, it's my brother and sister. Their school closed early because of the snow, and they're travelling home today so I have to go and meet them. I'm too young to travel to Scotland on my own, apparently.

Miss Hevesham sniffed. You're travelling up to London on your own, aren't you?

Yes miss, but there's the underground and everything. I have to get to King's Cross.

Miss Hevesham sniffed again. The sniff was probably intended to indicate that if Kitty travelled on her own and got lost or abducted, the entire staff of Haslemere House would breathe a sigh of relief.

The other thing Kitty was certain of, was that of all the teachers who might have brought her to the railway station, Miss Hevesham was absolutely the worst. If it had been Miss Fernandez the French teacher, she would have taken Kitty off into a sheltered corner so she could have a cigarette. She wouldn't have offered Kitty one as Kitty was only eleven years old, but at least she treated you as though you were a human being. If it had been Miss Bunce who taught General Studies and Knitting, she would have taken Kitty into the refreshment room and bought them both a cup of tea and a bun while they waited. That would have been the best option, Kitty thought, except that the refreshment room wasn't open. The hand-written note in the door said it was because of staff shortages, and nothing to do with the snow.

In fact most of the teachers would have been better than Miss Hevesham. She evidently didn't think of Kitty as a human being, but as an encumbrance, a nuisance, a piece of baggage to be delivered onto the right train. Then she herself could get back into her warm car and drive back to the warm staffroom at Haslemere House School and drink hot tea and eat hot buttered toast and look forward to the end of term tomorrow, when she would drive to her sister's on the South Coast for Christmas.

Kitty watched the fine particles of snow covering the station sign. They had already covered up half of it so you could no longer read HA at one end and RE at the other, and were left with SLEME in the middle. She wondered if sleme was a word. Perhaps it was an animal, the savage sleme that lived in snowy countries and hunted in packs. There would be a shout down the line, Run for your lives! A pack of savage slemes is heading this way! Hide! She would get into her suitcase and zip up the lid and be safe, but the slemes would pounce on Miss Hevesham. She'd shriek and threaten them with detention, but they'd rip her to shreds and there'd be nothing left but a pink stain on the snow.

Do stop fidgeting, child! Miss Hevesham snapped again, you don't see me fidgeting, do you?

I'm still cold, miss, Kitty said mildly.

Miss Hevesham blew her cheeks out and made an exasperated noise. Miss Hevesham was wearing a fur coat and fur-lined boots. We're all cold, she said, it's not you especially.

Kitty looked up and down the railway line. In the distance a signal gleamed green to show that it was all right for the train to come, but no train did. In fact nothing had moved on the railway since they had got here forty-five minutes ago, and there was no one else on the platform. The wind moaned and went up her skirt again, and she began to walk in small circles to try and generate a little warmth. When the train came and she was free of Miss Hevesham and Haslemere House, she would change into the warm clothes she had in her rucksack and be a real person once again.

Miss, how late is the train now? she asked as she passed Miss Hevesham on the next circuit, but Miss Hevesham did not reply.

Kitty walked one more circle. Miss, what do you call an elephant that doesn't matter?

Miss Hevesham said nothing.

An irrelephant. Miss, do you suppose all the trains have stopped? Perhaps they're stuck in a snow-drift? she said.

Don't talk nonsense! Miss Hevesham snapped, you really are an irritating child!

Yes, I've heard that, Kitty said, and made another circle. As she passed behind Miss Hevesham's back she pulled a face and waggled her hands at her ears.

Anyway, miss, she continued, it might snow even more tonight, and there might not be any trains tomorrow, and all the girls will have to stay at school for Christmas and you'll have to stay and look after them.

Miss Hevesham said nothing. She wasn't going to admit it, but the thought had already occurred to her. It was a nightmare.

And miss, if that happened, you'd be pleased I was gone because I'm so irritating.

There was a sort of singing sound from the rails, and in the distance there were lights. The train was finally coming. Kitty shrugged her rucksack on her shoulder and picked up her suitcase, feeling a surge of joy. Finally she would be free to put her warm trousers on, and her boots, and Ellie and Jake would be waiting at Waterloo. They would dive into the Underground where it was always warm, and rattle along to King's Cross where the train to Scotland would be waiting. By suppertime they would be getting off at Pitlochry, Mother would be waiting with the Land Rover and Christmas could begin.

The train came in quietly, hissing to a stand and then throbbing to itself as though it were not forty-five minutes late so no one could possibly complain. Miss Hevesham thumbed the button and the doors slid open, but she made no move to help with the heavy suitcase. It had wheels and a long handle, but that didn't help when you had to lift it up into the carriage.

Now, you're sure you're being met at Waterloo? Miss Hevesham asked.

Yes, my brother and sister will be waiting.

Well, be careful not to talk to anyone on the train, won't you? She meant boys, Kitty knew. Boys were not allowed at Haslemere House.

No, I'll read my book. It's only fifty minutes to Waterloo anyway.

You're sure you've got your ticket?

Kitty nodded at her as the doors slid shut again. She dragged the case to the nearest seat and flung herself into it, craning round to wave goodbye to Miss Hevesham, but the teacher was already marching towards the exit without a backward glance. Kitty shrugged, and began to rummage in the rucksack for her clothes. There was no one else in the carriage, so she didn't bother going to the toilet but changed there and then, pulling on her heavy trousers before taking her skirt off. She shrugged into her red sweater and warm puffy coat, wrapped her woollen scarf round her neck and sat to pull on her walking boots.

At last she felt as though she could face the world. She fastened the rucksack, and looked at the suitcase uncertainly, wondering how she was to lift it up to the luggage rack. Perhaps she needn't bother? It was not as if there was anyone else to be inconvenienced by it, but then a hearty voice behind her said Would you like a hand with that? It looks rather big for a dainty little lady!

She turned. There stood an enormous woman, tall and stout with a broad, ugly face and the shadow of a moustache on her upper lip. She was smiling in a friendly fashion, though, and stooped to pick up Kitty's case. She swung it up to the luggage rack as though it weighed no more than a feather.

There! she said, that's out of the way, and we can relax. You won't mind if I sit with you, I hope? and without waiting for a reply she slid into the seat opposite and wriggled herself comfortable. Kitty was not entirely pleased as she had imagined quietly reading her book, but at least it made a change from the disapproval of Miss Hevesham.

No, not at all, she said politely. She took her glasses off and cleaned them on her sleeve, and waited to see if the woman wanted to talk or not.

She did, it seemed. So, going home for Christmas, I imagine? And where's home? Somewhere nice?

Yes, thank you. We live in a village called Strathtay. It's in Scotland.

Oh yes, I know where that is. Halfway between Aberfeldy and Ballinluig, if I remember.

Kitty was surprised. That's right. Have you been there? Our house is nearer to Pitnacree, really.

No, dear, I've never been. But I've a good memory for a map. So your parents will be waiting for you?

Just my mother. I don't have a father, he died. But my brother and sister will be there, they'll be waiting for me at Waterloo.

And what's your name; we ought to introduce ourselves?

Kitty wondered why, but said politely I'm Kitty. Kitty Younger.

The woman held out a meaty hand, and Kitty shook it. Her own hand felt lost in it, and she was rather relieved to get it back.

How do you do, Kitty. I'm Mrs.Gorse, but you can call me 'Ma' - most people do. And your brother and sister are older than you?

Yes, Ellie's sixteen and Jake's fourteen. They go to school in Norfolk.

The woman suddenly looked at her with keen interest. But surely your sister isn't just called Ellie, is she? What's her proper name?

Elaine.

Mm. So, Elaine Younger? And she's sixteen, you say?

Yes, why?

The broad face relaxed as though with a conscious effort.

Oh, no reason, she said casually. It's a lovely name, Elaine, that's all. And what about you, does Kitty stand for something?

No, I'm just Kitty.

And I suppose you go to boarding school, do you, which is why you're so far from home?

Kitty smiled, and nodded. The train rushed past snow-covered embankments and black trees stark against the white. A few large flakes fled past the window; it was snowing again. She picked up her book and fiddled with it, hoping the woman would take the hint.

She did, in a way, but it didn't stop her talking. What are you reading? Something about ponies and boyfriends?

Kitty giggled. "No, not at all. It's Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table."

By Roger Lancelyn Green? Yes, I remember it. Homework, presumably?

No, no, I like it. Better than ponies!

The woman laughed. You're quite a sharp little thing, aren't you? How old are you?

Eleven. Do you like jokes?

I don't know. Do you?

Yes. Why did the strawberry cry?

Er ... no idea.

Because his mother was in a jam. Did you hear about the man who was accidentally buried alive? It was a grave mistake.

And those are jokes, are they?

Yes.

Hmm. And I expect you know lots of them, do you?

Yes. Where did Noah keep his bees?

No idea.

In the ark hives. Actually, I don't get that. Why is it funny?

It isn't.

Kitty smiled politely and fiddled with her book again, wishing she might read it. It was a shabby old Puffin book, with inside it the date 1953 so it was old, older even than her parents. On the cover it had a picture of a knight and his lady in reds and blues, looking like a stained glass window, and had cost 2/6d which Kitty thought was the equivalent of 12½p. Inside the cover it was stamped Haslemere House School and Library - not to be removed. She had smuggled it out the day before, confident that no one would notice. She would put it back next term, no one but her would want to read it. Mrs.Gorse had been right: all her friends read books about girls who were in love with their ponies, or magazines about girls who were in love with someone from a boy band, or other magazines that were just about being in love, it didn't matter who with. Kitty thought she might want to be in love one day, though probably not with a pony. For the time being she was more interested in stories, and being carried away in her mind to a brighter, simpler world where you knew who was good and who was bad, and it was easy to work out what to do about it. With a sword, usually.

Mrs.Gorse settled herself more comfortably in her seat and looked out of the window. Would you look at that? she said. Setting in for a good old blizzard, I should think. I bet we'll have another six inches by this evening, as if we didn't have enough already. Useless writer, Roger Green, in my opinion.

Kitty sat up, feeling slightly outraged. It felt as though the woman was criticising, not the author, but her for choosing him. What's wrong with him, she asked coldly, in your opinion?

Mrs.Gorse ignored the barb, and smiled broadly. I met him, you know, in my youth. Well, a long time ago, anyway. Useless, quite useless. Didn't have an original idea in his head. All he could do was look up old stories and re-tell them in his own words. You know, Robin Hood and the Greek gods, stuff like that. Didn't even do it very well, I thought. Can't stand writers who pinch other people's ideas. If they can't think of anything for themselves, they ought to stick to water colours or macramé!

Is that what he called himself, just Roger Green? Kitty asked. She thought 'Lancelyn' was a rather fine name.

Oh yes. He just put the other name to make himself sound posh. Have you got a middle name?

Mm, yes. It's Jessica.

Well, there you are. Kitty Younger sounds neat and precise and businesslike, doesn't it? But if you wanted to really stand out from the crowd, you could call yourself Kitty Jessica Younger.

Kitty didn't much like the sound of it, but was too polite to say so. The train began to slow. Outside the snow was still falling but no longer in great heavy flakes. Now it blew in the wind, fine and powdery, and was sticking to the window frames. Before long, it would probably cover the windows completely. The train came to a halt, and sat there ticking to itself, making the kind of inexplicable noises trains do when they're not busy. Kitty and Mrs.Gorse sat in silence, sometimes peering down the carriage to see if anyone had miraculously joined the train without them noticing, and sometimes looking out at the snow. Down below them was a road, lit with pale green street lamps. The road surface was covered entirely, and there was no traffic. The sky was leaden grey. Kitty felt as though she had been travelling for hours, but it was still only ten o'clock in the morning.

On the seat opposite, on the other side of the central aisle, lay a discarded newspaper. She reached over and picked it up. The black headline screamed Weather bomb hits Britain! and underneath in slightly smaller letters, Worst winter for 55 years! Airports, rail, roads paralysed. Kitty hoped this wasn't entirely true, as she was embarking on a long rail journey. How deep did snow have to be before it could stop a train?

Presently a man in a peaked cap came through the sliding doors at the other end of the carriage and walked whistling towards them.

Don't know what you've got to feel so cheerful about? called Mrs.Gorse in a jocular fashion. Why have we stopped?

He paused beside them. Dunno, he said, just going to find out. We're late enough as it is. Probably another train stuck up ahead.

Wrong sort of snow? Kitty ventured.

Oh, it's the right sort, all right, he replied, there's just too much of it. See you later! and he sauntered off, still whistling between his teeth.

Kitty was still thinking about her King Arthur book and its author.

But surely books are written by really intelligent people, aren't they? she asked. Could a stupid person write a book? The stupid girls in my class can't even manage a half-page essay, let alone a whole book!

Ma Gorse smiled at her with a look that was almost triumphant. So, not quite the nice young lady I thought? A bit of an intellectual snob, are we? Looking down on stupid people?

Kitty felt herself flush. No ... I mean ...

Of course stupid people can write books, you silly girl, Mrs.Gorse said, still smiling broadly. In fact, most books ARE written by stupid people, because all the intelligent people are too busy getting on, doing the things that make the world go round.

Oh, said Kitty faintly, I had no idea.

Oh yes, Mrs.Gorse airily. She was into her stride now. Anyone can write a book, especially these days, with computers making it so much easier. The world and his wife think they can write a book these days, believe you me! I'll say this for Roger Green, he was a particularly stupid and useless man, and he couldn't write for toffee, but at least he sat down and wrote his rotten books out the hard way, with a pencil. It didn't make the books any better, but at least he worked at it, so fair play to him.

Kitty thought this was a new and rather arbitrary approach to literary criticism. She enjoyed reading the book reviews in the Sunday paper, because then you didn't have to bother reading the actual books. But she had never heard anything like this.

Are there no good writers, then? she asked, in your opinion?

Don't be pert, young lady, it doesn't suit you. No, actually, it suits you rather well, but stop it anyway. Yes, there are good writers. Will Shakespeare, he wasn't bad. A bit flowery, but there ... That Scottish man, what was his name? Erm ... died a lingering death somewhere abroad ... rode a donkey or something ... Stevenson, that's it. Robert Something Stevenson.

Robert Louis, Kitty said, "he wrote Treasure Island, I liked that!" She looked down at her book again, and thumbed idly through it, wishing she could get down to reading it properly.

It seems quite confusing, this one, she said, I'm not sure it's all that well-written, really, so you may be right. Everyone keeps popping up from nowhere and being made a knight, and then going off on quests and killing each other. It's a wonder there's anyone left.

It's artistic licence, I suppose, dear, said Mrs.Gorse, beaming at her. As I say, it's a mistake to think of writers as being particularly wise or clever. Roger Lancelyn Green just re-hashed stories he stole from other people. As for his son ...

Did he have one? Kitty said, I didn't know.

More than one, I think, but only one became a writer. Richard Lancelyn Green, nutty as a fruitcake, he was, obsessed with Sherlock Holmes. Killed himself in the end, just to make a point.

Oh, really? That's sad, Kitty said politely. She wasn't really interested in the son, she thought. Actually, she wasn't really interested in the father either, if he was going to keep banging on about Logres falling into darkness. If it was so dark, couldn't they put the lights on?

What I don't understand, she said, wanting to steer the conversation away from eccentric authors and back to King Arthur, what I don't understand is why they put up with Morgan le Fay? She was obviously a thoroughly bad person, so why didn't they just cut her head off and have done with it? I'm not halfway through the book yet, and already she's had several people killed, dozens more imprisoned, and she's stolen Arthur's sword and given it to someone else to kill Arthur with. And Arthur's her brother, isn't he?

Half brother.

Whatever, why hasn't someone dealt with her long ago? One swipe of Excalibur is all it'd take. Two swipes of an ordinary sword, perhaps.

Oh, trust me, it's not that easy when you have a living, breathing person standing in front of you. Easy enough in a book, but not in real life.

You make it sound as though you'd been there.

Do I? Perhaps I have, dear. Anyway, how do you know that Morgana was as bad as Roger Lancelyn Green makes out? Perhaps he was a thorough-going loony like his son, so everything he says may be a lie? She might be as pure as the driven snow for all you know!

Kitty leaned her head against the window and looked at the telegraph poles and the electricity masts with snow plastered to one side of them and not the other because of the wind. She smiled to herself, sadly. It was a pretty poor lookout if the woman was right. If you couldn't rely on books, what could you rely on? They'd learned in school that computers were only as good as the information you typed into them. But books were real, books were solid, you could pick them up and feel the weight of their wisdom in your hand. If books were false, what else was there?

The train began to move again. Ma Gorse reached out and picked up the newspaper. Oh look, she said, how extraordinary! A little village in the Pennines, been cut off for days, and when someone finally got through there was no one there! All vanished! She rattled the newspaper and read on. That's interesting, I never knew that. It says that 250,000 people go missing every year ... isn't that an enormous number? And ... yes, here we are ... possibly as many as 20,000 are never found. That's alarming!

She looked at Kitty, a smile on her broad face. Just think how easy it would be. For instance, you might just open the door and fall off the train. No one would see you, or know you'd gone. It might be weeks before you were found on the track. All that would be left is your suitcase up there, all lonely, and your book. Unless you took that with you, of course.

Kitty looked at her blankly, uncertain what to think. I don't think the doors can be opened while the train's going, she said.

Mrs.Gorse's broad grin grew even wider. Oh, goodness, girl, you don't think I was serious, do you? I was just teasing! Still, as she folded the newspaper and laid it on the table, it's an incredible figure, isn't it? 20,000 people, vanished off the face of the earth. I wonder what happens to them?

Just teasing, Kitty wondered? It was odd, but somehow the wide smile wasn't entirely reassuring. The mouth smiled, but the eyes didn't. What would you do if you fell off a train? How would you know which way to go, along the tracks? Or would you leave the railway and try to find a road? But you'd probably be hurt, so you couldn't walk anywhere at all.

Not long now, ladies, sang out the guard, banging down the aisle, his hips brushing the seats first on one side, then on the other as the train swayed, a practised movement. Twenty minutes or so and it'll be Waterloo! Mind you, I'm not sure there'll be any more trains after this one. I just heard on the radio that the drifts this side of Havant are six feet deep now. Still, it'll be an early night for yours truly, so I'm not complaining, and he went out of the sliding door towards the next carriage, whistling. Outside the flakes of snow fled past, plump and thick. They clung to the window frames and crept across the window, leaving only a small hole to see through.

After all the talk about Roger Lancelyn Green, Kitty had lost interest in her book. She opened her rucksack to put it away. In the bottom lay the school Debating Cup, which Kitty had won the week before. It was small and rather dingy, and wasn't supposed to be taken home but Kitty paid little heed to that. She had won it, hadn't she, so it was hers at least until next year? If she wanted to take it home to show her mother and give it a good polish, she jolly well would.

As she put the book on top of it and made to zip the bag, she became aware of a great stillness on the opposite side of the table. Ma Gorse was staring at the rucksack with an odd expression on her face. Her eyes had narrowed to slits hidden in the puffy folds of her cheeks, her nostrils were flared and her mouth was open, slack and loose-lipped as though she might dribble at any moment. She looked ... hungry, Kitty thought, like a starving person confronted with food for the first time in weeks.

What ... Ma Gorse stopped and cleared her throat, what is that, my dear?

What ... oh, nothing much, Kitty said, zipping the bag up. She didn't want to talk about the cup. They might say she'd stolen it, and the book as well.

No, it's not nothing much, the woman said. She no longer looked surprised, but eager. It's not nothing much, it's something much. What is it, and where did you get it?

I won it, Kitty said in a small voice, thinking hard. It was just some mouldy old tin cup, with a dent in the side and engraving that said Haslemere House School. Why was the woman so interested?

Won it? What do you mean, you won it? Ma Gorse was leaning forward over the table, her eyes open now and boring into Kitty's.

I won the school debating competition, she said defiantly. It's the debating cup. I get to keep it for a year.

Suddenly Ma Gorse shot her hand out and grasped Kitty by the throat. Ow, said Kitty in a small voice, and that was all she could say for the fingers were like a vice, squeezing the breath out of her. She tugged ineffectually at the woman's wrists but they were immoveable, cold and hard like iron. She scratched with her fingernails, but Mrs.Gorse lifted her high in the air, effortlessly with the one hand, and held her there. Kitty felt herself growing faint, and kicked and struggled in a panic. She was going to die, suspended in the air like a kitten on a string. She felt the woman's dead eyes on her, a massive disregard that saw her not as a living human girl but a thing, a plaything to be toyed with or discarded at a whim.

Just when Kitty thought her end had come and her lungs would burst and her eyes start from her head, the grip relaxed and she was lowered to the seat. She subsided gratefully, sobbing and choking and taking deep gulps of air. She looked up at the dark figure looming over her.

Now, my dear, said Mrs.Gorse in a voice of gravel and night-time, let's have no more of that defiant attitude, shall we? Little girls should know their place, she leant forward and thrust her great face into Kitty's with a gust of stale breath, and their place is either where they're told, or tossed into the hedgerow to rot like a dead rat. Now think on, and give me the bag!

But at that moment the train began to slow and the guard appeared again, swinging easily down the aisle between the seats.

Waterloo, he sang out cheerily, all change please, this train terminates here! Waterloo! and Kitty grabbed her rucksack, left her big case on the luggage rack and rushed for the doors. She thumbed the button but for a dreadful moment the door wouldn't open, and she glanced over her shoulder to see if the woman was following. Then the door hissed open, a rush of icy air hit her in the face, and she tumbled down to the platform and scurried along it, looking for Ellie and Jake.

The great station concourse was almost empty of people. In the past when Kitty had passed through here, it had been crowded with commuters rushing in all directions, and knots of travellers standing watching for their trains on the long illuminated message boards. Today the messages read Cancelled ... cancelled ... cancelled ... and the broad acres of marble floor glared at her. She ran, glancing behind her, to the big black and white clock that hung from the ceiling. Jake and Ellie had said they'd meet her under the clock, but no one was there.

Perhaps they'd gone to a shop to buy coffee or a newspaper for the journey. She hurried up the stairs to the balcony where the shops were, feeling exposed and lonely. She had left her suitcase on the train but dared not go back for it. What was in it? Just school clothes, gym kit, some homework books which she probably wouldn't bother to open anyway. She could manage without it. Who