The floor of the storeroom smelled strongly of rat; a soft, sour smell like unwashed laundry. At some point in the old building’s long history a length of floorboard had been replaced with a piece of cheap timber that, over the years, had turned to the consistency of soggy cardboard. It was through this that the rat had found its way inside, and from the shredded paper and straw nearby it had evidently been making a nest.
The unreachable room’s storeroom door was also firmly shut and there was no drilled-out lock in it, but the rotten board ran right underneath, providing a bowed channel deep enough for Tim and Norman to squeeze through.
The second classroom was very different from the first. Instead of facing a sea of chair and table legs there was nothing but a vast empty space. All the furniture had been shoved back against the rear wall and a large section of the floor was missing.
Tim followed Norman who, after a quick glance around the room, scuttled over to the hole. It was cut in a perfect circle with a neatly angled edge and smelled of charcoal, the same as the piece of wood in the cloakroom. Tim suddenly made the connection. The piece outside could be dropped into place like an oversized manhole cover. With the desks and chairs replaced, the hole would be virtually invisible.
That thought, added to his natural caution, made him hesitate. There was something clipped on the opposite side of the hole and from this low angle he could see a stout hoop extending from it, running just below the floorboards. He trotted round to investigate while Norman signalled impatiently, pointing to the black pit below.
The thing clipped on the side hummed quietly and as Tim peered round at it the ends of his whiskers trembled and were drawn downward.
He hesitated. Something wasn’t right. He squeaked a warning to Norman but as he did so a light flicked on revealing a series of spiral steps. As he stared at them he noticed how his trembling whiskers seemed to make the stairs flicker. He tried again. Yes, definitely. It was as if the box was some sort of projector and the image in its centre was no more solid than the picture on a movie screen. He stepped back to warn his friend, then watched in horror as Norman jumped on to what he thought was the first step, and plunged straight through.
* * *
Glad rubbed her temple as she walked back towards the prefab. That odd pink room had given her a headache. Something about the colour seemed to worm its way behind her eyelids and soften her brain. She could almost taste it; bitter and metallic.
The metal pin that connected the strap to her shoulder bag had been coming loose for some time. She worked it carefully with her free hand as she neared the prefab and with perfect timing it gave out as she passed the steps, dumping the bag’s contents before sliding off her shoulder. She turned in pretend annoyance in time to see a tail vanish inside it.
Stooping, gathering up her possessions and repacking them, she was careful not to hurry. But as soon as she was out of sight of the school she tore the bag open crying, ‘Are you guys all right?’
A single mousey face appeared, looked up at her and shook its head.
* * *
‘Wah!’ Ludokrus leapt back. ‘Something land on my shoulder!’
‘Ooo!’ Coral screamed as she felt the brush of a tail flick against her face.
‘Wait, wait!’ Alkemy cried. ‘I think is mouse!’
They stopped moving, frozen to the spot in case an unwary foot flattened it.
‘A mouse?’ Coral said.
‘It feel like. It brush my hand.’
‘Could it be?’ Ludokrus said.
‘Ah!’ Coral screamed. ‘Something’s scratching my shoe.’
‘Wait. Hold.’ Ludokrus felt for Coral’s shoe. ‘You are friend, little mousey? You understand the English? Come, climb on board my hand.’ A second later he hissed ‘Yes!’
‘Is it ... is it one of yours?’ Coral begged.
‘I do not speak mouse and cannot see, but is very tame. You understand me, mouse? One touch for “yes” and two for “no”.’
Alkemy and Coral huddled closer.
‘Yes! Yes! Is one of ours!’ Ludokrus exclaimed.
‘It must be Tim,’ Coral said quietly. ‘Can I have him, please?’
She cupped the mouse in the palm of her hand, stroked its tiny head with her forefinger, then pressed it to her chest.
‘Oh, I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry,’ she whispered.