CHAPTER 21

FUN AND GAMES

‘How nice you’ve decided to stay.’ Quincy strode past Brian and locked the door again. ‘Now where are my manners?’ He beamed like a dinner party host while gripping Brian’s wrist in a fist you couldn’t argue with. ‘Do make yourself at home.’ He dragged Brian to the desk behind Alec’s. ‘Please have a seat.’ In one graceful sweep he pulled back the chair and pushed Brian into it. ‘Time for our first little game.’ Humming a happy tune, he scuttled to the front desk and picked up his pencil case.

‘What game?’ Cement settled in Brian’s stomach as he pictured Alec being fixed to the wall with drawing pins or Tracy having her nostrils stapled.

‘Oh, just a few questions,’ said Quincy airily. ‘The sort you get in class. Alec’s been teaching me, sharing the contents of his mighty noddle. I can’t wait to show our dear teach that I’m not the moron she took me for.’

Brian licked his lips. ‘But you left school years ago,’ he said carefully. ‘Isn’t it time to, um – move on?’

Quincy’s face twisted into a snarl. ‘You think I haven’t tried? I’m telling you, Brian, you’ll never escape her words. They’ll haunt you forever. Whatever you do, wherever you go, you’ll feel useless, pointless, the failure she promised you’d be.’

He might as well have hole-punched Brian’s chest. The failure I already am.

‘Believe me,’ said Quincy, ‘others will smell your failure like a bee smells pollen. And they’ll run a mile, as if it might rub off on them. So you’ll have to invent your successes, your own glittering past.’ His face went strangely still as if the tiny muscles that worked so hard to disguise and confuse had given up.

Invent your successes? A shock ran through Brian. Those trophies upstairs – they were all phony. Quincy Queaze had rewritten his life.

‘But no matter how you try,’ sighed Quincy, ‘you’ll never undo the damage of her words. Only she can do that.’

Florrie squawked from her chair. ‘You’re brilliant. A genius. There, I’ve said it. Now let me go.’

Quincy’s laugh was drier than a boiled-out kettle. ‘If only I believed you. But, oh dear, what a shame, I don’t.’ He wagged a playful finger at her. ‘We’ll have no lying in my class. Or cheating. I’m going to win fair and square. So you’ll see I’m the smartest, most popular and fastest person ever. And you’ll be so impressed – so really and truly and deeply impressed – that you’ll go back to Tullybun and call a school meeting. And in front of the teachers, the parents, the governors, you’ll give me the job that I’ve longed for all these years.’ He whacked her on the shoulder in a chummy kind of way. ‘YOURS!’

It’s not often that someone’s jaw actually drops. But Brian could feel his chin sag and his mouth fall open like a peg bag. Does he seriously think that’ll work? The minute they get to Tullybun she’ll have him arrested!

‘And if you think you’ll have me arrested –’ Quincy wiped his forehead dramatically, ‘well phew for my little Plan B. Now, on with the show.’ He marched over and sat at the desk next to Alec’s. ‘I want you to watch closely, Brian. If I don’t win fairly, it doesn’t count. Ready, Alec?’

Yawning, Alec handed him a sheet of paper.

‘Five questions,’ Quincy snapped at Florrie. ‘And make ’em hard. I’ve been well trained.’

She gawped at him. ‘You can’t be serious.’

‘Dear me.’ Quincy rummaged in his pencil case. ‘Such boldness. Some people just don’t learn.’ He brought out a pair of scissors and rose from his chair.

‘No!’ squealed Florrie as he came towards her, snipping the air.

‘For goodness’ sake,’ cried Brian, ‘do what he says! Five questions.’

A tear rolled down her face. Tipp-Ex spread from her nose to her cheeks. ‘What’s the square root of one hundred and sixty-nine?’ she gasped.

‘That’s better.’ Quincy returned to his chair.

Alec scribbled lazily. Quincy wrote carefully.

‘What’s the capital of Greenland?’

Alec wrote. Quincy chewed his pen.

‘One-fifth plus two–’

‘Wait!’ Quincy scribbled madly.

‘One-fifth plus two-eighths.’

Alec wrote. Quincy wrote and wrote.

‘When was the battle of–’

‘Hang on!’ Quincy crossed out and wrote again.

‘Clontarf?’

Alec wrote. Quincy scratched his cheek. Alec sat back. Quincy threw his pen at Alec’s foot. Alec bent down to pick it up. Quincy leaned over to Alec’s desk.

‘Cheat!’ Dulcie shrieked.

Quincy spun round. ‘What?

Brian coughed. ‘You, um, just looked at Alec’s answer.’

Quincy’s eyes glittered dangerously.

‘Sorry,’ Brian mumbled. ‘It’s just that you said no cheating.’

Quincy took the pen from Alec and wrote his answer. ‘Collect the papers,’ he said coldly.

As Brian took the sheets to the front desk, Dulcie hissed, ‘He’s madder than a swarm of hornets.’

Brian put the answers side-by-side on Florrie’s desk.

‘Get me out of here!’ she hissed.

What he didn’t say:

‘Sure, Mrs F, no worries. I’ll just push you, handcuffed in your chair, past that nut job armed with lethal stationery, through the door and up the stairs to freedom and a face wash.’

What he did say:

‘Make him win. It’s your only hope.’

Florrie looked at the sheets in front of her. ‘Quincy, five out of five,’ she said quickly. ‘Alec, nought out of five.’

Quincy tutted. ‘Oh dear. I do believe you’re lying again. Because I happen to know – though don’t ask me how –’ he looked sharply at Brian, ‘that one of our answers is the same. So Alec must have at least one point, or I must have four points at most.’

Brian gaped at him. He’d insisted on playing fair, then cheated and refused to admit it, then won and refused to accept it! He was changing the rules by the second. How could you reason with someone who had no reason?

‘We’ll move on,’ said Quincy briskly. ‘Tracy?’

She lifted her head from her desk and moaned, ‘Honey.’

‘On its way, I promise. Now, Brian, show these invitations to Teach so she can read them all out. Let’s see who’s the most popular round here.’

Brian hurried over and took the cards from Tracy’s desk. Returning to Florrie, he held up the first card. She gave a manic giggle.

‘Read it,’ he muttered.

‘Dear Quincy,’ she said, ‘please come to dinner on Thursday. Love Dave.’ Quincy smiled from his desk. ‘Hey Quincy, hope you can make our barbecue on the twelfth, Rory and Ruth.’

‘The twelfth?’ Quincy frowned. ‘I think I’m at a party that night.’

‘Dear Mr Queaze, we would be honoured to have your company at our son Humpty’s wedding, from Lord and Lady McDumpty.’ Florrie snorted. ‘Hey Uncle Quince, please come and stay in July, love Biffy, Ribena and … oh for goodness’ sake!’ she spluttered. ‘I know Tracy’s handwriting. These are all made up!’

Just like on the map upstairs, thought Brian. Imaginary friends.

‘Are not!’ Invention must have become second nature to Quincy, judging by the genuine shock on his face. ‘They’re my friends.’

‘You? Friends?’ Florrie laughed hysterically. ‘You’ve never had friends and you never will. You said it yourself – people sniff you and run a mile. Why? Because failure’s a disease without a cure. If you’re born with it, you die with it.’

‘Shut up,’ said Quincy quietly.

But the dam had burst. ‘All you can do is infect others,’ she yelled, ‘including me! Because a failed pupil is the teacher’s failure too. Or that’s what everyone thinks: the parents, the governors, the school inspect–’

‘I said shut UP.’ Quincy snatched the scissors and pencil case from the desk.

‘Do what you like!’ she yelled, her moustache wriggling furiously. ‘Snip me or stab me, what difference does it make? You’ll still be a failure.’

Quincy rose from his chair.

‘Cut off my nose,’ she sang as he marched towards her, gripping the pencil case and scissors. ‘Slice my ears. Whatever you do, you’ll never have friends.’

Oh no. Dropping the invitations on the floor, Brian lunged forward and tried to snatch the scissors. Quincy dodged neatly round the front desk.

Oh no no no. Brian covered his eyes.

But instead of screams there was a stuttering, ripping sound. Brian dropped his hands.

It would have been funny if it wasn’t so unfunny. Quincy had fished out a roll of Sellotape from the pencil case and was wrapping it round Florrie’s head. ‘SHUT UP!’ he roared, dancing round her chair, sealing her mouth again and again. ‘SHUTUPSHUTUPSHUTUP!’

She did.

When he’d circled her head eight times, he pulled the ring of tape away from her face. She gave a muffled scream as he brandished the scissors. But there was no jab of eyes or stab in the neck, just a clean snip of the tape. Quincy clearly hadn’t finished with her yet.

Letting out a slow breath, Brian sank down at the desk next to Alec’s.

‘There,’ said Quincy pleasantly, patting Florrie’s wraparound mouth. ‘No more talking in class.’ He put the tape and pencil case on the front desk and smiled at her, calm as cream.

If someone had said four hours ago that Mrs Florris was going to be Tipp-Exed out, coloured in, whacked by a ruler and wrapped in tape, Brian would have bought popcorn and a front row ticket. But now, as he stared at the polka-dotted, moustachioed, Sellotaped, snivelling prisoner, something dark and treacly rose up his throat and sat in his mouth that tasted astonishingly like pity.

Quincy grabbed a fistful of her hair. ‘And you’re wrong, dear Teach. I do have friends.’ He snipped off a white clump and sprinkled it over the floor. ‘These lovely children for starters.’ He waved the scissors at Alec, Tracy and Pete. ‘They could have left any time but they chose to stay.’ He snipped and sprinkled another white curl. ‘If that’s not friendship, what is?’ Snip. ‘And Brian here’s my besto.’ Sprinkle. ‘Aren’t you, Brian?’ Snip and sprinkle.

Brian nodded, clearing his throat to mask the snort from Dulcie. As long as Quincy believed that, there was a chance of persuading him to let them all go. Or forcing him. If I could get hold of those scissors, maybe I could threaten him. At last Quincy laid them on the front desk, though not before prodding the tip of the teacher’s nose.

‘Now for our last little game.’ Quincy clapped his hands. ‘Ready, Pete?’

Pete dragged himself up from the floor. He stood on the outside of the double line he’d drawn round the room.

Quincy stood level on the inside line. ‘On your marks,’ he cried. ‘Get set–’ He took off round the track. Then he called back over his shoulder, ‘Go!’ He waved at Brian. ‘Ten laps. Start counting.’

‘One,’ called Brian, as Quincy legged it round the shorter circuit while Pete ambled slowly and inaccurately along the outer line.

‘Two to Quincy.’

Pete stopped to rub his eyes.

‘Three to Quincy.’ Brian rose slowly from his desk. ‘One to Pete.’

Pete yawned.

Brian pushed his chair backwards. ‘Five to Quincy.’ He took what he hoped was a casual step towards the front desk. ‘Two to Pete.’ And another. ‘Eight to Quincy.’ A few more. ‘Four to Pete.’ He reached out what he hoped was a relaxed arm. ‘Ten to Quincy.’ His fingers closed round the scissors.

‘Thank you thank you,’ panted Quincy, throwing his arms out and continuing to run like an Olympic hero before an adoring crowd. ‘And thank you.’ Trotting past Brian, he snatched the scissors from his hand, then the pencil case and cactus from the front desk. ‘You won’t be needing those.’ He lifted the desk lid, threw all the potential weapons inside and slammed it down. Then, with a twist and a hop, he popped his bottom on top of all hope.