CHAPTER 8

Daramour Grammar was running like clockwork. Since Jeebs had taken over the role of principal, enrolments had been steadily increasing, and the school council members were, naturally, relieved.

The buzz and innuendo surrounding Prescott Heath’s shock resignation was now like a speck in the distance, almost forgotten.

Jeebs relaxed in his comfortable leather chair, and sighed contentedly as he glanced around the room. He still could not get used to the fact that it was his. Well, not exactly his, but for his personal use. Principals were afforded such privileges. And best of all, he no longer had to put up with Prescott Heath and his arrogance. There would be no more snide remarks, and he would never again have to endure his wrath. It was such a relief. The place was happier and far more pleasant without Prescott.

‘Good morning, Mr Jeebs.’ Connie, one of the office girls, smiled as she poked her head round the door on her way past. ‘Lovely day, isn’t it.’

‘It certainly is,’ replied Jeebs, smiling too. ‘And please, Connie, call me Jeebs.’ Every day was a lovely day now that Prescott Heath was not a part of it.

Still, he wondered what the former principal was doing. Three months had passed and there was not so much as a whisper. Not a hint of gossip. No one seemed to know a thing.

Well, Jeebs for one wasn’t complaining. He pulled himself out of his comfy leather chair and went over to the safe that was tucked away behind a framed Albert Namatjira print. Jeebs carefully lifted the picture off its hook and set it gently on the desk, then he keyed in the combination, which was already firmly embedded in his memory.

The lock clicked and Jeebs yanked open the metal door. He reached inside for a large yellow envelope bearing the words PRIVATE AND CONFIDENTIAL in black ink. For a moment he stared at it, then tucked it under his arm, rushed over to the door and flicked the lock.

He sat on the sofa near the window overlooking the schoolgrounds, and tipped out the contents: copied pages of Prescott Heath’s diary, the photo of the Woozers that caused Brain Davis’s attack of hiccups on Quizzical, a sample of a Woozer and, of course, the video – actual footage showing Prescott Heath placing the bag of Woozers next to Brain’s glass of water on the set of Quizzical. The ultimate in incriminating evidence.

And Jeebs had it all in his keeping.

Prescott Heath sat in gloomy silence. The visit to the doctor’s had achieved nothing. Stress, he’d said. Nothing that a little relaxation wouldn’t fix, a little less worry.

Stress! Ha! What a load of hogwash! He was not stressed. What a nerve to even suggest it.

He knew what it was. Or should he say, who it was.

Two people alone were to blame: Maxwell Jeebs and Brain Davis. They were ruining his life. But they would pay. Both of them. At times he felt his head would explode with the pressure that seemed to be building inside it, as one thought threatened to consume him: revenge.

Outside the afternoon sun shone bright in the sky, casting shadows about the room, but Prescott Heath hardly noticed as he stared at the wall in front of him.

A plan. He had to come up with a plan.

And he would.

He always did.