Читаем The Ribbajack полностью

Archibald’s eyes narrowed to slits. He pointed a grubby finger at the matron and made a brief incan tantion:

“By the lifeless eye from a dead man’s socket, see what lies within thy pocket.”

One thing Mrs. Twogg could not abide was a cockroach. Placing her hand in her overall pocket, she encountered not one, but four of the large, fat insects writhing about there. She fled the dormitory, gurgling loudly in disgust.

Mr. Plother was still dithering indecisively as Archibald turned the grimy finger upon him, chanting:

“Flies which feed from long-dead flesh,

growing fat on some cold face,

soon will circle round your head,

if you do not leave this place!”

The headmaster uttered one loud word (well, three, if you count Yee harr wooh separately). Archibald sat upon his bed, listening to the unfortunate man taking the stairs two at a time as he beat furiously at the cloud of big bluebottles which were attacking his head. Reaching beneath the bed, Archibald drew forth his favourite book. For over an hour, he leafed through the volume of spells and curses, muttering darkly in frustration.

“Hmph, flies, spiders, wasps and worms, beginners’ stuff! I need something better. Bigger, more powerful, something really bad and terrifying. A monster, that’s what I need!”

Soames and Wilton had entered the dormitory via the door at the far end, since they were not allowed to use Archibald’s door. As quietly as possible, both boys took out their P.E. kit. They could hear Archibald ranting on from behind his barricade.

“Voodoo in Six Easy Steps—what good is that to me? There’s not a spleen of python or a tooth of crocodile for miles around, or a sting of scorpion!”

Wilton’s bedside locker door creaked as he tried to open it silently. He winced as Archibald’s unsightly head popped up over the top of the barricade.

“Where do you two think you’re going?”

Soames gulped visibly. “Oh, er, hello there, Smifft. We were just getting changed for P.E. in the gym. Aren’t you coming?”

Archibald sneered. “Nah, no time for that rubbish. Anyhow, old Bamford won’t be there, he’s got a swollen foot. Horsefly bite, I think.”

Wilton thrust one foot into a shoe. “But we just saw him when we came back from the dairy farm visit. Mr. Bamford looked alright then. He told us to get changed into P.E. kit, said he wanted to see you in the gym, too.”

Archibald glanced at the wall clock. “Oh, it’s only two-fifteen. Don’t worry, by half past, old Bamford should have a swollen foot, trust me.”

Just then, Bertie Rivington from the next dorm shoved his head around the doorway. “I say, you chaps heard the latest? P.E. cancelled. Old Bammers was stung by some whopping great wasp. His foot’s swollen up like a balloon, all red and puffy!”

As Rivington ran off to spread the news, Archibald shrugged. “See, I told you. Huh, that idiot Rivington doesn’t know the difference between a wasp and a horsefly. Anyhow, you two aren’t going anywhere. Sit down, I want a word with you both. Sit down, I said, the sound of your knees knocking is beginning to annoy me.”

Soames and Wilton obeyed with alacrity. It did not pay to annoy Archibald Smifft.

The headmaster sneezed vigorously, his hair still damp from Zappit, the lilac-scented fly spray. As he wiped his eyes on a fresh kerchief, a knock sounded on his study door. He sneezed as he called out, “En taaachah!”

“Gesundheit, Headmaster!”

Mrs. Twogg entered, clad in a crisply starched and laundered uniform. She sat down, shuddering slightly at the memory of cockroaches roaming around in her pocket. “Headmaster, something must be done about the Smifft boy! These dreadful things he is practising will bring the school to rack and ruin. I insist that you act immediately!”

Mr. Plother stifled another sneeze, looking blankly at her. “Smifft, ah, yes. Er, what do you suggest we do, Matron?”

She consulted her fob watch. It was shortly before three. “Invite the school chaplain to tea, we must seek his advice. Men of the cloth usually know about exorcising demons and countering the forbidden arts.”

Mr. Plother picked up the phone and began dialling. “It’s worth a try, I suppose, but the Padre may be a bit out of his depth with occult matters.”

Archibald perched cross-legged on the bed. From under beetling brows he scanned his quaking dormitory companions. They waited on his words with bated breath. “Listen, you two, I need a monster, a really scary one. So, have you got any ideas?”

Wilton stammered, “A m-monster, wh-what d’you m-mean?”

Their interrogator gnawed thoughtfully on a dirt-encrusted fingernail. “I’m not quite sure exactly. Put it this way, Wilty. What could frighten the daylights out of you, eh?”

Wilton’s answer was not overly helpful. “Y-you, S-Smifft.”

The malevolent stare turned to Soames. “What about you?”