Shelly Clover in the Theatre Mind Macabre

By James Steven Clark

Volume 2: Halloween.
From on high, you watch your approaching enemy: flies, ants; blurred dots on the horizon - small, insignificant.
Chill.
For Shelly the battle was already won. And at great cost. But when it comes to perceiving, the mind is complex machine, screaming ‘failure’ in success, ‘loser’ in loneliness.

Regardless, the Island where she lives has sent its latest, fresh invitations to Death.

A strange little theatre has rolled into town, ready to unleash the most spectacular of bohemian shows. Instantly endorsed, nestled in the school grounds. Hypnosis, suggestion... desires fulfilled. Everything there is free, until it isn’t. Because it never was.

But when Death is invited... all attend.

It seldom announces its charge on a skeletal horse, threshing a razor-sharp scythe. Instead, it creeps slowly within subtle shadows - crawling, slithering - straight to your front door, holding out the most delightful candy-floss, party-poppers and balloons. Who wouldn’t take with joy?

This Halloween, Shelly Clover must battle her own demons once more... before fighting the real ones. In the hate, she still feels and perceives what no one else can. But she must strip delusion from fact once again, before facing a powerful foe who knows a ‘trick or ten’ about our Mind Macabre.

• Language: English
• Publisher: James Steven Clark
• Release date: Oct 30, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215638712

James Steven Clark

James is an author, a proud father, and a big fan of the underdog. He's the author of the Shelly Clover series, The Children at the River's End, and Mr Buechner's Christmas on Shrieker Pass.

Book preview

Chapter 1 - DeadHead

Bloody tampons.

I shift uncomfortably in the large, red leather armchair.

‘He’ll be back shortly.’

Turning, I catch a fleeting glimpse of a short-haired woman peeking through the open door. She smiles a toothy grin - deep, violet lipstick coating her top teeth - her head promptly vanishing, just as quickly as it appeared.

I resume my position, staring at the immaculate desk set out before me. Once upon a time, this office bore the hallmarks of someone with obsessive-compulsive tendencies. Now, it’s virtually cleared of everything.

My stomach is cramping again, and with great irritation, I struggle for that comfy spot while calculating the fastest route to the lavatories. After I get "this" over with. Directly ahead, my eyes catch sight of one of the few remaining items in his office; this island’s one-and-only, most infamous photograph.

Our soon to be replaced Head teacher, Winston Jessobs, invented the selfie decades ago. Facing out, for all visitors to see, stands the notorious golden picture frame containing his own black-and-white photo, and slotted in the corner, a smaller photo - one of him standing and pointing at the same wooden plaque, now hanging on the wall to my right. The carefully carved and dated list of Head teachers who have served "time" here at Jacobsfield High. He’s arrogantly drawn an arrow pointing from himself to the names, and miraculously, his reign appears to be the longest.

Definitely the worst too…

But, he was a very handsome guy back in his day, and judging by his self-initialled photograph, he knew it.

W.J.

Wally Winston Jessobs, as kids and parents nickname him.

Jacobsfield High finally plummeted into special measures in mid-September and it’s been pandemonium ever since. Consequently, Jessobs is stepping down as Head teacher, albeit at a peculiar time of the school year. His last ever assembly - after a long but not exactly illustrious career - is only five minutes away, and here I am, waiting for him in his office. The message at reception read, Shelly Clover, the Head would like to see you straight away. Please go to his office immediately.

I was surprised, and reluctantly obedient.

Like me, all pupils thought he’d high-tailed it in his convertible Jag yesterday, and judging by his desk, he’s all but gone. The rumour is he wants to address his students a final time.

Pulling back my sandy blonde fringe, I rub my damp brow; I’m warm. I notice, to the right of his desk - nestled next to a perfectly aligned pen and notepad - another, smaller photo-frame, of a woman in a Judge’s wig. In large looped writing, I make out a name: Harriet.

I can’t imagine him being married to a Judge.

I can’t imagine him even being married. That must be one weird combination. Bored with waiting, my eyes gravitate to walls replete with fake Renaissance paintings and the same engraved wooden plaque listing centuries of Head teachers. Winston’s name is right at the bottom. How apt. There’s a start date to his tenure, and a recently carved end date.

He’s gone. The proof is right there. Chiselled like a headstone.

Behind me, the door gets suddenly shoved wide - with considerable force - making me jump. The man cannot help but make lavishly pompous entrances in every room he enters. From the rear, two large hands clamp down on the top of my chair (obviously, in a rush). And, out of the corner of my eye, a vast shadow casts across flat office surfaces, as a black cowl drapes over my neck and shoulders. The physical frame is immense.

And then…

John Walker thrusts his face next to mine.

‘Found you! Thought you could hide?’

With no chance to prepare, a catastrophic collision of unspeakable fear instantly strangles me. I hear my own gasp - my every fibre - unable to process the shock of the impossible.

It’s just not possible.

The veins in his scrawny neck are already swelling, just like in the cemetery - the blue, bulging lines - expanding past the point of rupture. The face of the warped child in his throat pushes against the fragile film covering his Adam’s apple, staring at me with ghoulish, hollow eyes; a lifeless, goading parasite. Tiny protrusions wriggle back and forth under his skin like an infernal army of worms, sensing their immediate discharge. One by one, each vein fractures, splattering my face in a shower of oily blood and pus.

Wh-what is happening?

And congealed black feathers, now squeeze their way out through menacing gaps, twisting and unfurling, like leaves of a sinister nocturnal orchid, enveloping moonlight. He opens his mouth and smiles, revealing the grotesque, rotting teeth; maggots squirming in each deeply broken, bloodied cavity. The eyes boil with possessed iniquity, as his stare burns my soul.

‘Shelly.’

Pressed too far back, I teeter over the bulbous armrest of the red leather chair, as huge hands grab me - just in time - arresting my fall. Screeching, I struggle to break free of the powerful grip, and they release their hold.

‘Shelly… are you okay? What’s happening?’

Winston Jessobs is here.

Only Winston.

No John Walker.

Where-?

The Head helps me to my feet and locks his eyes with mine - baffled by my reaction. Frantically, I search each corner of the room for my assailant, while Winston studies in silence for several seconds, assessing the extent of my meltdown. Then, quietly, he retrieves a handkerchief and dabs his own neck. His faintly striped cotton shirt is thoroughly soaked under his armpits. Taking the light grey jacket; the one I mistook for a cowl - resting on the chair-back - he hastily wraps it around his shoulders, shrugging it into place.

What the hell just happened?

I continue staring at his blazer; just a light grey jacket - that’s all.

‘Are you still seeing our school counsellor?’ he says.

Matter-of-fact.

There’s isn’t a hint of noticeable concern in his question. Shakily, I hug my own arms around me for protection, and try my best to fake composure. But my lungs aren’t working, and I’m clawing for oxygen in fits and spurts; surely looking like a toddler blowing cool air on a spoonful of hot food.

Why is this happening to me?

‘Here, rest back there for a moment.’

Placing his hand on my shoulder makes me flinch and pull back. Winston sees this and removes it. My mind is a disjointed mess, and I’m now standing before him on the fragile legs of a newborn lamb. Not even taking its first wobbly steps; just stationary - shivering.

Not the look I want.

At nearly six-foot-five, Mr Jessobs’ gait rapidly carries him to the opposing side of his desk, creating timely distance. I try to distract myself with whatever is in front of me, unable to make eye contact; scared witless. It wasn’t Jessobs I saw; it was John Walker. I know I did.

The Head pulls his director’s chair out from under his imperious desk, takes a comb and a fresh hanky from a small silver box, tosses me the hanky, and then proceeds to style his dyed black hair. At least he’s presenting normality.

While I’m proper screwed-up.

‘Looks like you’ve cut your forehead. Please, use this by all means,’ he says.

Still disorientated, I take it, dabbing my forehead. He’s right. Little spots of blood soak into the material. No cuts. My hematidrosis is back.

‘Assembly in five minutes,’ he continues - almost flippantly, instantly forgetting my clear and enduring distress. ‘You students deserve one last address from your leader before I depart.’

And there we have it.

Mine was just a slight issue, deemed fully resolved in the light of his healing presence. (We have resumed normal service.) Jessobs is the type of man who would fetch pizza to a public execution and call it a grand day out; universally renowned for being out of touch with every social parameter.

Well, at least it’s his final ever assembly in five minutes.

Thank goodness!

I wrap my arms tighter around myself, wanting this impromptu meeting to be over with; glancing nervously out of the large window, over the expanse of manicured lawns, to the forest beyond… where he was last seen; where he dropped from the sky.

I cannot control these flash-backs.

‘So, it looks like the end of it all for me,’ he suddenly declares.

I let half of one eye sort of peer up at him while trying to remain calm.

‘My time draws short,’ he dramatically adds.

At least Wally Winston is unintentionally good at distracting me from me. He pulls open another drawer and produces a glamorous mirror. Then, licking the tip of his index finger, he begins stroking his eyebrows.

‘And in all of this,’ he continues, ‘I haven’t even had a chance to talk to you about the events before the summer.’

He could have, of course…

At any point in the last eight weeks, in fact, he could have - just chose not to. And, I’m desperate to add: that’s because you don’t care, mate. You’re conceited, vain and self-absorbed. Placing the mirror down, he takes the golden picture frame of his own photo and stares intently at it (effectively going from one mirror to another).

‘Some people and kids here say… I’m self-absorbed and uncaring.’ He smirks dismissively at the notion. ‘What do you believe about that, Shelly?’

‘I think you’re a very busy man with a lot on his mind.’

Shelly does tact.

‘Very, very busy. And, yes, you’re absolutely correct; there is an awful lot on my mind.’

Shaking the picture frame slightly and patting the back, he carefully re-positions it.

‘I have been Head of this school for thirty-five years now.’

Winston goes for the mirror again; embracing his own narcissism with gust and glee.

‘In my time here, there have been great victories and great tragedies.’

He flicks his quiff with another wet finger, not paying attention to any meaningful substance surrounding his own words. ‘Just this summer, my greatest friend - Mr Carlos, our premises manager - lost his own son in a tragic, tragic accident.’

Putting down the comb and mirror, he gazes intently at me, searching my eyes for understanding. Then, inexplicably, he strikes a pose like a nineteen fifties movie star on the verge of delivering the movie’s iconic line. If what he was saying wasn’t serious, I’d be laughing at any second. He waits, poised. Controlling his breathing.

‘And nobody - not a single soul - has the faintest idea what actually happened to him.’

And there it is.

Almost a soliloquy.

A classic.

Winston lets his gaze linger, as if he’s expecting me to know the answer… or at the very least, appreciate Oscar-worthy delivery.

I do know what happened to him as it matters.

In fact, I’m recovering from the vision I just had of his murderer, John Walker, my old English teacher and Head of year. He killed him in Dealdead forest, right next to this school, a few hundred yards from here. Right here. Winston clasps his hands together and rolls his thumb along his fingers in an unusual motion. He furrows his brow, and even the creases in his forehead are obsessively compulsive in stacking and precisely aligning.

‘Kelly Mortimor attended this school. Have you heard of her?’

That’s a very weird thing to say. I briefly pause, taken aback.

‘I have. Years ago. A car knocked her down in Harley, didn’t it?’

Winston raises a single, surprised eyebrow. ‘Oh, you know of her. Yes, 2015, I believe. The year of the edict.’ He smooths ‘said’ eyebrow with a finger. ‘And what about a boy called Whittal Corban? Have you heard of him?’

I flash a puzzled look.

Again, this is an unusual line of enquiry - where on earth is this weird conversation heading precisely?

The graves of Kelly and Whittal rest in the cemetery at the back of Saint Harold’s, Harley town’s ancient church - what’s left of it. Kelly died on her thirteenth birthday. Whittal died when he was ten. I know their graves well. I used to visit them often before they cordoned the site.

‘Sir, I’ve heard of them both, but Whittal didn’t even come to this school, did he? He was too young.’

‘Indeed.’ He picks up a nail-file, before smiling at himself and gently placing it back down; perfection already achieved.

‘Shelly, how’s your time been at Jacobsfield High?’

‘Difficult.’

I keep my answers short; I don’t care to talk to him.

‘But you are doing continually well in all your subjects, I hear. You have fine pedigree amongst your teachers.’

(So, he’s comparing me to an animal, now.)

‘There’s more to school than grades, sir.’

I force out a fake laugh.

‘Is there really?’ His eyes wander down to my arm resting on the chair. ‘Oh my goodness, do you have a tattoo?’

Shit!

I thrust my hand over my cotton school shirt, aware that a white sleeve does not remotely conceal my shimmering black ‘Dutch Courage’ tattoo. What else will he notice in this light: my A-cups!?

‘Just one of those… fake ones,’ I say. ‘Got it down Boule harbour; they’re all the rage. Sorry sir, I’ll be more discreet. I should have washed it off… at the weekend.’

I swallow.

He strokes the dimple on his movie-star chin and beams his dazzling white teeth. ‘You are right, you know,’ he continues, ‘and I am listening to everything you’ve been saying. There is more to school than this relentless, robotic, striving for results without caring for a student’s well-being. It’s just we are so intent on getting those grades that we don’t have time to show we care.’

‘Isn’t that the same as… not actually caring?’

He emits a gravelly, slightly forced laugh.

‘Anyway, Shelly, there’s so much I want to ask you, but my time here is almost up. I’d love your take on Mr Walker, Mr Washwater’s poisoning, Daniel’s kidnapping…’

‘Daniel?’

‘Dan- ’

‘Derek. You mean… Derek’s kidnapping. One of your students. Derek DuPont.’

‘I mean Derek’s kidnapping. Of course I do.’

The pips blare overhead.

And he points a thick finger at the ceiling and feigns surprise, letting it hover a little too long. His expression just makes him look stupid, like it’s the first time he’s ever seen a bird flying overhead.

‘Sounds like I’m completely out of time.’

I can’t wait to get out of here. This has been the most pointless meeting ever with Wally Winston Jessobs. He’s had weeks and weeks of the new term to do this.

Utterly pointless.

‘Before we go, I’d like to give you something.’

This piques my interest.

‘Okay.’

‘A gift from your Head teacher.’

‘Okay?’

He hands me the golden picture frame of himself.

‘Oh.’

I’m staggered. ‘Your photo? Thanks… I wasn’t…’

‘You’re welcome. See you in assembly, Miss Clover.’

I stare down at his initials in the bottom right. Shocked. Appalled almost. He smiles, stands, puffs out his chest and with no further explanations - not even a single syllable - departs.

Although the residue of definite fear remains, it doesn’t affect the laughter I feel welling up inside. What on earth is this man on? He’s gone, left the room entirely, so I titter uncontrollably. This morning has been as mad as a box of frogs already. Holding the bulky picture frame, I stare at it in bewilderment. You’ve got to be kidding me; what did he just go and do?

There’s no way on earth I’m going to let anyone see me with this! Why has the stupid, arrogant fool given me this? His bin in the corner of his office can eat this gift. I rise to deposit this humongous piece of tat in the wastebasket, but his short-haired receptionist is waiting at the door.

‘Come on now, Shelly. Don’t you be late for the assembly too. He’s late enough himself! Silly, wonderful man.’

His only fan, I gather.

Unzipping my brand new green rucksack, I acknowledge the request, while shoving the frame as deep inside as I possibly can.

Nobody’s seeing this.

***

On my way to the hall, a couple of year ten’s pass me and snigger. They make no attempt at concealing it, either. What comes next is planned.

One of them tauntingly whispers - purposefully loud enough - for me to hear: ‘That’s the girl who talks to her dead brother.’

And this can only mean one thing; Camille’s been gossiping. I swallow hard and keep walking. I can’t take this anymore; I really can’t take this anymore.

Speaking of my brothers (this one, very much alive), Elvis is on the verge of being sent to a Secure Unit for Young Offenders. A maximum-security prison is what he really needs. At least society will be free of his presence for a few years. As long as I remember, my Clover surname has always been synonymous with shame, and an open license for bullying, name-calling, dirty-looks, property vandalism…

And it’s getting worse.

Entering the grandly Gothic open foyer at the front of school, I stop and compose myself. I need to. The devilish pumpkins by the entrance, and orange garlands hanging from the hickory galleries on three sides, provide some kind of welcome distraction. I try focusing on my environment to prevent incoming tears.

Two centuries of dark Victorian wood, soaked-through to completeness by the intelligence and guile of carpenters and visionaries. The aroma of their success and purpose permeates through every ornate, curving inch. The scent is like no other; pushing beyond the tangible senses. All the chiselled, ageing wood was hued and exquisitely hand-crafted to perfection. From the worn, wall tapestries adorning thick mahogany panels, to the crescent moon alcoves - it smells every bit like a world steeped in a bygone era where life was rich with hope, and children were gleefully expectant for their futures.

Ahead of me, a year ten is giving a year seven a wedgie; his pants tugged halfway up his back.

Times change, I guess.

Needless to say, it comes as a massive relief to see my best pal, Derek DuPont, standing at the back of one of the assembly lines. I do my level best to fight back the emotion displayed in my eyes. I’m getting better at this, but only just to say make it across, collapsing into him, embracing him from behind.

He’s startled.

‘Wagwan, Clover!’

I dab my eyes with the back of my hand. Life continues to be pretty horrific here at Jacobsfield High.

‘Hey, Me know I’m de ladies mon’ an’ ting but woahh, what’s ‘appening, fam?’

‘It’s nothing, just something someone said.’

‘Is it Karrington?’

‘Yeah.’

‘I heard the rumours.’

‘Yeah, look, it doesn’t matter.’

Camille Karrington, my half-sister, is spreading as much nasty gossip as she can. Sadly, the crux of the slander is all true and very, very personal. Thankfully, I’ve stopped seeing my dead brother now, but my nut-job persona is being enhanced around here, nevertheless. I try distracting myself alongside Dez. Just outside the hallway, construction workers are fitting what appears to be tiny spot-lights in the walls. They’re similar to small halogen ceiling-lights, but they’re all being fitted in a straight line - and at knee height!

‘Derek, what are they doing?’

‘Dunno.’

‘Why are they putting the lighting so low down?’

‘Dunno.’

Seven or eight men in matching overalls are tirelessly - almost frenetically - working to install them. It is quite dark in this ancient, dim hallway, I suppose, but this is a listed building! How can they get away with doing this? It seems like everything in this place is constantly changing. Even centuries old, hand-crafted wood can be ripped apart without respect and consideration for heritage.

I grunt in disgust. ‘That’s out of order.’

Dezza is keen to pursue the other matter. ‘I thought you and Camille were okay, y’know.’

‘Naah. We’ll never be.’

Derek, Dez, or Doo-lally, as I nickname him, has been there for me. I wish there were more Jamaicans here in Jacobsfield. He’s so cool. Few others think so because he joined the school so late, and he’s different, and he’s black - surprisingly, still an issue for some folk around here. Doo-lally unrolls a newspaper tucked under his arm. He briefly fires a glance, checking for prying eyes, before peeling one page back in its corner.

‘Is this your bro?’

A mugshot of my eldest brother, Elvis, emerges. He’s getting closer and closer to making the front page.

‘Afraid so.’

I push my hand over the image so no one else will see.

‘Shell, I thought they weren’t allowed to print stuff like this?’

‘That’s a CCTV shot, mate, but let’s face it, Dez,’ I sigh. ‘There’s more than enough grainy images of Elvis floating everywhere at the moment.’

‘Y’think he’s goin’ down?’

Maybe at this point I should feel disgusted and ashamed that another Clover is in trouble with the law, but Elvis is a sociopath and I feel nothing but relief that today, finally, his plethora of serious offences are being punished with a lengthy spell in youth prison.

‘Yep! He is.’ I think for a second. ‘A piece of good news, isn’t it?’

Derek nods dolefully, his spikey hair not budging an inch. I don’t mind students giving me grief about Elvis (I’d smile joyfully at them) but anything about my dead brother, Buddy, is so far beyond heart-breaking.

Time to change the topic.

‘Here, look what the Head gave me.’ I unzip the top of my rucksack.

Dezza looks deep inside and then jerks straight back up in complete alarm.

‘Why you steal his picture frame, mon’?’

‘I di- I didn’t steal it, you muppet! Why on earth would I want to steal this? He gave it to me.’

‘Clover, you took it cos you is in love with him.’

I laugh. ‘Whatever?’

‘You is one of those bunny-boilers, fam.’

‘No. I’m telling you the truth. He wanted a word, and then he gave me this. He gave it to me.’

‘No way.’

‘Yeah, it was the most insane meeting I’ve ever had.’

‘Guy’s vain.’

‘One hundred percent.’

‘Speaking of meetings; are you still getting counselling?’

I look away and then down; wasn’t expecting that.

‘I’m trying to go.’

This is a lie.

In her own gentle way, our school nurse, Mrs Mitchum, is constantly on at me to attend. She’ll frequently appear at my form-room door during registration, wanting a word with my form-tutor. Her presence is a cue for me to subtly and discreetly leave. And, I go… just not always towards student support; sequestering in the lavs instead. At home, letters appear more and more frequently on our doormat. Thankfully, they get ignored; mistaken for ‘final notice’ bills. Even though they’re addressed to mother, I recognise the red initials on the envelope: JCMHS - Jacobsfield’s Children's’ Mental Health Service.

I know I should go. I know I should.

Ahead of me, the line of kids bustles forwards, and the momentum carries the year nine’s out of the reception hall, through the entrance and halfway down the ancient assembly hall, to our selection of seats. Standing on stage, Mrs Tyme-Read - our Deputy Head (and new form-tutor) - looks breathtakingly incredible with her new blonde bob. Boys collide with the chairs at the end of several aisles as they attempt moving and ogling at the same time.

She’s stunning.

Dezza’s still blathering.

‘But why would he even want to give you his picture? He loves dat photo.’

‘Probably saves on packing. He’ll have a load on his wall at home already.’

‘True.’

‘I’m sure he’d have wallpaper with his face on, if he could.’

‘Shelly, look!’ Dez points a chubby finger straight ahead. ‘He’s on stage and he’s looking right at you.’

‘You’re a funny man.’

Figuring this is a wind-up, I briefly cast my eyes towards the platform. Derek’s spot on. He is looking at me.

‘He’s your boyfriend…’

I smack Dez.

In his light grey suit and sparkling black shoes, Winston surveys the whole of the cohort, but specifically focuses his attention on me. To his right, stands a squat man wearing massive, thick-rimmed glasses. This short fellow is Mr Whelan, chair of the board of governors. He has the most terrible centre-parting ever and his nose seems to involuntarily snuffle every few seconds, like a curious hedgehog picking up an obscure scent. Even though I don’t rate Mr Jessobs highly (nor does anyone), from what I gather, Mr Whelan is the man in charge of ousting him from his post, and at incredibly short-notice. We haven’t even finished the first half-term yet - which is now extended to nine bloody weeks. Nine weeks! Rumour has it, the governors insisted on this ‘one-week extension’ as a punishment for Ofsted recently putting us into special measures.

Apparently, the management is good, but everything else is inadequate.

Shows you what Ofsted knows.

How Wally Winston hasn’t punched him up there, I do not know?

As if on cue, Mr Whelan’s nose disdainfully twitches toward the Head.

‘It’s flippin’ freezin’ in ‘ere,’ Dez moans.

The left side of the hall is full of floor to ceiling windows. Or, at least some… More workmen are in the middle of fitting a huge window pane into one of the weathered wooden-frames, a couple of which are completely empty and free of glass, leaving us all totally exposed to the elements. Students plus builders, plus glass - all together in one space - no wonder the school’s in special measures. A cool October breeze is making its presence felt through the gaps.

‘Do you think we’ll get an announcement about the funfair outside?’

‘It’s a theatre, mate; not a funfair.’

As we’re jostled towards our seats, we both look beyond the vacant window frames at the many, many marquees outside. Upon and around the grassy mounds (cow’s arse pimples and mumps as students call them) set towards the front of school, stands the Theatre el Macabari. An enormous theatre. Here, at school.

Bizarre doesn’t cut it as a description.

It’s a myriad of bold colours, polka dots and stripes, all with varying heights, tassels and swirling flags at the peaks. As Chair, Mr Whelan has made good on his promise to ‘rent’ out the school to generate much needed income. The added bonus, of course, is that they’re getting a brand new school-leader thrown in for free.

Mr Jethro Zechman is in charge of the theatre.

A retired, and now reinstated, headmaster. I overheard some idle teacher chatter in the corridor, regarding both the dismissal and appointment - all taking place in the last couple of days! Mr Whelan was bragging about his ability to bag the finest leaders to them all, even while Winston was still Head. Talk about teacher turnover and reactionary decision-making.

‘What’s gonna happen now?’ Dezza whispers.

‘I imagine Winston will give a speech. Small guy will speak. And then we’ll get an introduction to our new Head.’

‘Mr Zetchman?’

‘Zech. Zech-man. Think of it rhyming with heck or deck.’

‘Gotcha. Helpful.’

There’s a crash immediately to our left. All students turn at once. The workmen are struggling to balance a walloping, rectangular window frame, caught by a sudden autumnal gust. How anyone can hear anything said on stage over the marauding sea wind is beyond me? Talk about bad timing: it’s not too dissimilar to occasions where the premises team decides on cutting the massive lawns - directly outside your class window - during lesson time.

Suddenly, a new sound aggravates this perpetual chaos: the growl of a vintage car engine. All the students turn again in unison. After my brother Elvis’ jaunt through the school corridors on his Dirt Bike earlier this year, any unexpected noise immediately catches the students’ attention. Mr Carlos, the premises manager, pulls alongside the window in the Head’s very own old, open-top, silver Jaguar. He swings it round on the gravelly path one-eighty and pulls alongside the builder’s van, wise enough to keep it out of view of gawping students, and hence further distract the easily distracted.

Getaway car.

Speech. Then gone…

A classic car for, once upon a time apparently; a Classics (and Latin) teacher, before they promoted him to the top. Never taught either of those subjects for many, many years here at Jacobsfield; rendering him completely out of touch with teachers, teaching-workload, and those being taught.

‘Why’s he driving the Head’s car?’

‘Carlo? They’re good pals. Have been for years.’

‘Is Jessobs making a quick getaway after this?’

‘Yes, I imagine so. As soon as he can.’

‘Why?’

‘Dez, what’s he got to stay for? To be humiliated on stage by… little mole-man up there, and then hang around, and see his replacement on stage, standing right alongside him.’

For some moments, we don’t catch sight of Mr Carlos (Or, Carlo, as he’s imaginatively nicknamed). But then he eventually exits the Jag and appears around the side of the work van. Immediately, he runs over to help the men steady their load - can’t have that panel of glass smash - apparently one alone is costing the school thousands!

All the students are aware of the mysterious circumstances in which Carlo lost his son in the summer. We never knew his son’s first name; only ever his nickname - Quasimodo. There’s a lot of nasty stuff happening here at Jacobsfield. Carlo’s son had an ever so slightly funny way of walking - identified immediately as weakness by kids - and was renowned for vehemently protecting the old school building (nestled in the far reaches of our site) from trespassers and vandals. Back in July, his body was inexplicably recovered from Dealdead - the forest next to school - and now there are all kinds of rumours about a strange, ghostly creature called ‘Slicer’ that lives in the trees, pouncing on and slaughtering students. I now know that John Walker, in the form of the Carrion Crow, murdered him, and it’s amazing that with so little publicly released information, their guesses are bizarrely… only a slither away from truth.

Mr Whelan condescendingly snuffles his nose at Mr Carlos, whilst shaking his head in a slow, visual reprimand. Suddenly, he begins bobbing up and down on his heels, increasing the speed and clearing his throat.

‘If you insist on doing that this instant… then keep the noise down!’

He positively screeches this from the stage. A lot of pupils jump, especially year sevens nearer the front, cowering and covering their heads. The microphone in front of him immediately feeds-back.

‘Or… what precisely?’

Mr Carlos growls back, instantly standing bolt still, causing his co-carriers to grind to a halt, expensive glass panel swaying in the wind. Carlo and Mr Whelan stare each other out.

‘Or what!’ Carlo repeats.

It’s an astonishing stand-off. The Premises Manager is not for messing with. He lost his own son. His best pal’s leaving. He’s tempestuous anyway.

Neither budge.

There’s a collective, ‘Woooahhh…’ now rising from the congregation of students.

Mr Carlos, grunting with exertion, scowls one last time at Mr Whelan. Don’t confront this Spaniard, and think you’ll gain the upper-hand. The students’ clamour reaches fever pitch - reverberating around the hall.

‘Quiet! Quuuieett!’

Own-goal.

Mr Whelan barks out this command like a feisty, yapping terrier - but he’s never stood in front of a class before - let alone an assembly hall brimming with students. Hopelessly misjudging his own authority, he immediately loses his audience - and his involuntary nose-spasm goes into over-drive; the sneeze you can’t set free.

One pupil picks up on this. ‘Bless you. Go on. Get it out. Nearly there. Bless you.’

Several students laugh. Mr Jessobs places his hand on Mr Whelan’s shoulder and turns in the boy's direction, who immediately regrets his goading. ‘Jake Smallhampton. Enough!’

The boy contritely looks down.

‘Sir.’

And then it comes; from out of nowhere.

RAT-A-TAT-TAT.

Completely out-of-the blue.

Students are now sufficiently quiet for the abstract noise to echo. Heads and eyes swivel to the right, fixing upon the purple curtain in the corner of the assembly hall. Through the gap, a solitary hand and cane repeatedly slaps the wooden floor.

Over and over.

Everyone, including teachers stationed along the sides, is caught off-guard. They did not rehearse this. This isn’t a formal plan. The black cane continues to smack the wooden panelling with considerable force, occasionally peeking further-out from the curtains, revealing a slender, white glove at the helm. Mr Whelan, who only a moment ago was defeated by self-delusion, is now daintily bobbing up and down on his heels again. Something, or someone, is triggering his unbridled enthusiasm.

In response, a group of boys in front of me, whisper a joint, ‘What the…?’

And from the corner of the hall… A ghostly shadow emerges, ponderously moving through the gap in the purple drapes. Taking a right, he slowly climbs the steps. An ascent that is measured, purposeful. His other white glove clasps the railing for support and, for the briefest moment, the figure halts, releasing his tight grip on the banister. Long and pointed fingers stretch forth, clenching and unclenching, as if arthritis is a constant thorn. Then, he moves upwards onto the platform.

Two black winkle pickers, with many ornately silver buckles, firmly plant themselves on the stage.

‘How tall is he?’ Dez says.

I nod in astonished agreement. I cannot take my eyes off the man. His elevation makes Winston look like his kid-brother, and Mr Whelan - their pet Chihuahua.

It’s almost incidental that his attire is nothing less than supremely antiquated and comically bizarre: a toweringly tall top hat; a three-piece suit (jet black apart from the silver waist-coat), a silver chain in the lapel and a silver pocket-watch dangling from it. An open jacket - the back of which - flows down past his knees, almost down to the heels of his curling shoes. Likewise, it’s of little significance that his ravaged, emaciated frame seems the product of years of self-starvation, producing the deathliest of gaunt, sallow complexions strewn all over his boney face.

Halloween came early.

But what stands out above everything is his height - it’s unearthly! Without the top hat alone, he’s easily a seven footer. For one of the first times in my recollection, the students are stunned into a silence that’s saturated with discomfort. It’s absolute.

Uncanny valley.

Under the rim of his hat - with the ellipse eyes of a cat - the man stares briefly at Winston before tracing his way round to the tip of the stage… and to the same boy in the front row. Our new Head has made quite the entrance. This is Jethro Zechman.

Raising his black walking stick like an enchanted sorcerer in Pharaoh’s court, he peels off a single glove before allowing his withered hand to point directly at Jake Smallhampton.

‘What do you see in front of you, young man?’

Everybody’s listening. His throaty rasp immediately combines sarcasm with contempt. Jake tries to act cool.

‘Err… maybe a magician?’

A tiny group of boys laugh, but it quickly dwindles.

Mr Zechman holds his stick steady. He’s completely still; not a single flutter of a muscle anywhere on his face. The hollow skin beneath his eyes looks dull and darkened, accentuated by shadows cast by the rim of his hat. For a moment, he doesn’t breathe a syllable, and the silence is powerful.

‘A predictable answer.’

His voice steams like a cauldron of hot water poured over ice.

‘When I asked… what do you see in front of you, of course - witlessly, you assume - I’m referring to the physical and visible, whereas,’ Jethro Zechman retains his inane expression; akin to a thousand rabid wolves, baring their teeth. ‘I am actually referring to what lies in front of you - your life-path - your ability to grasp opportunities.’

Our new leader is instantly unlikeable, and I get a strange fluttering sensation in my tummy. I feel like slumping; this can’t be happening. There have got to be some good Headteacher’s out there!

‘Oh. I did not get that!’ Jake says, trying to hold face.

‘Let’s us all consider the short, medium and the long term of this young man’s life.’

Everyone listens as Zechman slowly raises both arms.

Jake Smallhampton grimaces, but Zechman’s expression is resolutely fixed, as each syllable is accentuated and delivered deep from his diaphragm, flowing like menacing poetry. Mr Whelan is now bouncing alarmingly fast; a toddler fortuitously stumbling onto their first sheet of bubble-wrap.

‘Short term… little hope. Medium term… no hope. Long term… hopeless.’

‘Speak for yourself!’ Jake responds, shifting awkwardly.

‘No, I’m speaking for you, aren’t I?’

‘I…’

Affronted, Jake goes quiet.

‘Let’s address the short-term aspect of your life - save you embarrass yourself further - it’s in my office straight after school. Suffice to say, unlike your short-term goals, let’s not make our conversation, short. Let’s make it… an hour.’

Zechman steadily draws out his pocket watch and dangles it from its chain in front of Jake. The lid is the shape of a coffin. And Jake isn’t liking this one bit. Aware of a new form of total humiliation, he stands bolt upright.

‘You can piss-off right off, you weirdo - you half-dead, grave-digger!’

He kicks over his chair and storms from his row, and out through a glass-free, open window frame. One hundred per cent, he’s heading home. The students turn and look back at the new Head. Expressions ranging from glee to horror. Very frequently, in the moments when Winston garbled out something groan-worthy and contentious, Derek and I would quickly look to the teachers at the side. Earlier, before Jethro’s arrival, I noticed the teachers all absently staring toward the marquees, wistfully watching the flags at each peak waft in the breeze. All numbed past the point of working exhaustion.

Now they’re transfixed, shocked, and very much alert.

My favourite go-to - on this front - has always been Mr Kinsella, our chemistry teacher. He helped save Mr Washwater at the end of year eight, and is clearly popular amongst his colleagues. Best of all, he clearly finds it border-line impossible to conceal what he’s truly thinking… without speaking it of course. He maintains a steady, five days’ worth of speckled beard-growth - all year round - and the rumour amongst the students is he rents a sleeping-bag in the lounge of his favourite pub in Boule. The ironically titled, Serpent’s Arms.

Right now, if faces could be weapons, Kinsella’s would be a hand-grenade.

Pin out, already lobbed…

And if he could do ventriloquism - his potty-mouthed, chain-smoking puppet of choice - would be Mr WTF!

‘Look at Kinsella,’ I whisper to Dez.

Derek has finally learned the art of subtlety and begins to carefully study him. The chemistry teacher’s eyes are wider than I have ever seen, and he looks from Miss Gordon to Mrs Shelby in alarm. Both teachers nod back with silent, acknowledging concern. This could be a make or break moment, but Mr Zechman’s contented smile indicates: intended outcome achieved.

His commanding, contemptuous grin is the full-stop on the matter; not an ounce of discord on his narrow, pallid face. And Mr Whelan stares up like a fan-boy, twitching his nose at the giant in adoring appreciation. Mr Jessobs, meanwhile - a forgotten figure - hasn’t altered his demeanour throughout. He suddenly jerks from the same reverie that besets us all and takes hold of the microphone.

‘Students of Jacobsfield. I’ll make this brief. This is my final address to you all. After the best part of thirty-five years at this wonderful school, I will make this speech short and sweet.’

His swagger is back, instantly.

Both the stance and his voice bear all the hallmarks of an incoming award-winning performance.

This school is nuts.

But then, he says this…

‘Truthfully, I have let you all down. Very much so.’

He waits a little before continuing.

‘You may think this a strange admission for a Headteacher, but let me share with you the truth. This school is failing, and the book stops with me. Let me also say that I have always had your best interests at heart - I really have - but my good intentions haven’t brought this school to the place it needs to be. Nowhere near.’

He halts and looks across at as many students as he can. For the first time, I see an unusually soft glow as he contemplates; gentleness sweeping out his ingrained masculinity. ‘Wally Winston Jessobs… the man who has a photo of himself… on his own desk. Don’t think I don’t know.’

The relief is immense. Pupils laugh.

Sadly, it peters out with restraint, most looking at Mr Zechman for clarification.

‘I know, I know.’ Jessobs continues. ‘You think we teachers don’t know what you say about us.’ He points at the staff. ‘Miss Golding: Dancin’ queen. Mrs Spittal; Jet-spray. Mr Kinsella: Pyromaniac…’ (The two females look utterly mortified at this reveal… but Mr Kinsella simply nods.)

And for once, strangely, I’m almost welcoming of a classic Winston faux-pas. The twinkle continues in his eye, as he recalls his own nickname, but as he stares down at his own sparkling, black shoes; a sadness pushes over him.

‘I have tended my resignation - it is my decision - and one that is important for the welfare of you all, and the marvellous heritage of this great school.’

He waves a hand of acknowledgement at the numerous colourful stalls, booths and marquees outside.

‘Times have changed. You have a new vision, new ideas and new goals, and I wish you all the success in the world in attaining them. Whatever happens in the future, I’ll be with you in spirit, watching you all, and helping in any way I can.’

He looks pointedly at every pupil, his chest proudly puffing out; a lion surveying his Pride.

‘I won’t labour and pro-long. My chariot awaits outside… and by that… I mean my Jaguar.’

Another, more comfortable laugh this time.

‘… And I intend to let Mr Zechman get straight on with his job with no hindrance from me. I just wanted to say goodbye to you all. I intended to leave without fanfare yesterday but then thought; just a few short words with you all wouldn’t go amiss.’

Warmly smiling at the lanky, suited giant, he salutes him with two fingers. Zechman remains impassive.

‘Goodbye, everybody. Very good luck to you all.’

Mr Jessobs lets go of the mic, waves, and leaves the stage.

Hesitant, sporadic and confused applause breaks out - started by some (but not all) teachers waiting in the wings. Winston makes his way down from the stage and straight through the same empty window frame as Jake Smallhampton. He nods at his friend, Mr Carlos, the premises manager, who despite his exertions with a new, massive sheet of glass, nods back and smiles.

The last we all see is the back of his dyed black hair and his grey blazer, as he moves round past the work van to his open-top vintage car.

‘Not quite what I was expecting.’ I mutter.

‘It sounds like he just wanted to keep his dignity, mon.’

I nod my agreement.

‘True. Hard for anyone to keep that anywhere on this island.’

Out of sight, we hear the rising growl of his E-type as the open-top car gradually creeps into view from behind the van. For once, he looks unruffled by the wind blowing his hair; blessed relief to leave this dump. His car comes to a stop in full view, the engine idling. Not a muscle twitches as he hypnotically gazes over the same lawns he’s gazed at for the last thirty-five years.

It’s the end for Winston.

Jacobsfield High is one weird school: His career is over. Bang. Finished.

Another tap on the microphone and static feedback fizzes and pierces the room. Mr Zechman is immediately speaking. ‘First, the good news, and then more good news and then, exceptional news. Please take out your free-gift courtesy of Macarbari.’

‘Oh yeah.’ Dezza reaches into his bag.

In fact, every single student is hunching over.

‘What?’

‘I forgot to say, while we were in registration, every pupil got one of these.’

Derek produces a small box. He lifts the lid, revealing a sleek, rectangular device and other gadgets fitted in compartments.

‘What? What is it? That’s expensive-looking… where’s mine?’

‘Yeah, you can collect it at reg this afternoon. Miss knew you were in Jessobs’ office.’

I’m relieved. I didn’t miss out this time, as I usually do.

‘So he’s given every single student one?’

‘Yup.’

As form tutors go, Mrs Tyme-Read has been amazing these last few weeks. Her less than admirable performance during the Alan Washwater poisoning was a much needed wake-up call. On a personal note, having a Deputy Head as a form tutor hints at desperation on behalf of the school, but it’s helped settle our group. Certainly the year nine boys in there have shut up; most drooling silently for twenty whole minutes at the start of each day.

I shiver as another large gust of wind uninterruptedly blows into the exposed hall.

Mr Zechman continues. ‘This is the M-Tropolis, a free-gift courtesy of myself, M-Harvester Ltd and my very own theatre company - which you will not have failed to notice outside. These are yours to keep. All yours. Forever.’

Pupils nod at each other in satisfaction. I look at Dez’s. It’s got a touch screen.

‘Can you make calls with it?’ I say.

‘Think so.’

‘What about a contract?’

‘Dunno, mon’.’

I remember my brick of a mobile, and feel my heart surge.

‘All you need give in return,’ Zechman interrupts, ‘is your presence at a free performance by the Theatre el Macarbari this Friday night. It’s a small sacrifice for the reward you hold - and one you won’t regret. And of course, it will be Halloween! My first act as your new Head is to give the most atmospheric and enriching evening I possibly can; one that will inspire you. I’ll personally ensure there are many, many other treats in store for you. I will convey instructions on how to secure these gifts via the device you hold. It’s simple.’

He lowers his face. ‘And… I firmly believe in give and take. You scratch my back. I scratch yours.’

He tips his Victorian top hat forward, revealing the blackest of protracted, straggly hair. ‘Above all things, I believe in trust. I want to show you my trust. Trust inasmuch that, if I give to you… you will freely give back to me, and this school.’

The top hat remains tipped on an angle, as if he is bidding us good morning.

‘To this end, and until this long half-term concludes, there will be a compulsory change in school uniform. Trust starts here. It is essential - as your teachers - that we adapt to our circumstances. And with this unusually high pressure-front sweeping towards us from the tropics, this essential uniform change will initially be in place until the last day of term - that’s until Friday, Halloween.’

Half the hall swiftly looks up from their boxes, as Zechman explains. ‘We want you to have your own personal sense of ownership of this school. This is a change we could permanently keep depending on how well you adhere to it. Trust is a two-way street. I am walking towards you… with my trust.’

He pushes his head back, juts out his pointed chin, and then thrusts a colourless palm upwards and outwards, as if presenting an award. ‘Girls… skirts of any length.’

Approving murmurs from the majority female contingent around me (teachers, meanwhile, firing each other dismayed glances).

‘And boys… shorts of any description. You can decide. No school shoes for anyone. Choose what you wear on your feet.’

The news is received with jubilation - in the main. But I notice a couple of my pals in chess-club looking decidedly nervous. Mr Whelan’s bobbing motion… suddenly seems to slow a little too. Looking beyond them, I catch sight of Eren, Alan Washwater’s son. Something briefly pushes over my heart, but I fight back, not allowing it to take form. Even from this angle, I can see him mouth, ‘If I’m doing this, I’m wearing skating gear.’

It’s good to be friends with him; there’ll be nothing else.

‘Bro, me sees you checkin im out.’

Derek receives another deft slap to the thigh.

And I’m about to reply in the negative, when some shouting outside distracts us.

Mr Whelan shakes his head disapprovingly as, to our left, Mr Carlos - along with construction workers and double-glazers - struggle to steady an enormous pane of glass. I assume a large gust of wind has caught the huge, flat panel, particularly towards the top. They stagger backwards, concentrating their united efforts, in restoring balance.

Winston Jessobs remains seated in his Jag, taking those final few glimpses of grounds he’s walked for decades, silently savouring the sea gusts on his film-star face. Determined to see his own movie out, watch the end-credits scroll down to his personal, XXXV, before setting off into the beautiful sunset.

Next to him, the premises manager stumbles, losing his footing.

And it’s too late. Mr Carlos’ grip deserts him, his sweating fingers slipping down the side of the vast glass sheet.

What happens next is instantaneous.

With no support on one side, the transparent pane topples, sending it crashing through the windshield of the