The Skull by Christian Darkin Page B

followed by a creak on the left of the next step… or was it the other way around?
    Gently, he lowered his foot onto the left of the seventh step. No sound. He put his full weight on it and suddenly the stair let out a loud groan. He jumped back and waited for the sound of a door opening.
    There was a long silence.
    Henry tried again, this time stepping on the other side, and crept upwards. The final two steps were both completely loose. He would have to jump. He grasped the carved wooden pineapple at the top of the banister and pulled hard on it as he leapt, clearing both steps and landing with a muffled thud at the top of the stairs. He smiled to himself in satisfaction, butwhen he let go of the banister, it gave a loud crack as it shifted back into place.
    Again, he waited, his eyes fixed on his parents’ bedroom at the end of the hall. Just as he was about to move again, he heard the sound he had been dreading. The sound of bedsprings pinging, followed by a creak of floorboards. Then came footsteps padding across the room.
    His bedroom door was only three paces away and it was wide open. He leapt towards it, landing in the middle of the hallway. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see his parents’ door handle turning. Skidding across the polished floor, he raced through his own door. He almost closed it behind him, then spun around to grab the handle and twist, pushing the door silently into place and releasing the handle carefully so that the latch let out only the tiniest click.
    In the moment before the door shut, Henry saw his father framed in the doorway at the far end of the corridor. But he was looking back into his own room, not out into the hall. Henry had made it.
    Henry was dressed for school and at the breakfast table exactly on time. In fact, he had been awake andwatching the clock ever since getting home. His father slowly buttered his toast, scraping the knife back and forth until the butter vanished into the bread. A plate of cold meat sat at the centre of the table on a decorated china plate. Henry and his mother were careful to refrain from taking any until Father had selected his slices of choice.
    Henry just wanted the meal to end so that he could leave for school. His father paused and looked at him. Perhaps he sensed that something was wrong. Henry did his best to hold his father’s gaze, but in the end he looked away. He was still afraid of him. Yet something
had
changed. Yesterday, he had believed everything his father said because he knew more than Henry about the nature of the world.
    Today, Henry knew more. Nothing his father said could be taken as the only interpretation of truth again.
    â€˜The more I hear,’ his father’s voice floated across the table towards him, ‘about that school of yours, the less I like it.’ Henry felt an accusation in his tone, as if he were solely responsible for the school, its teaching methods and its attitude towards discipline. ‘The government has done children no good with its meddling,’ his father went on. ‘You should know I am considering other options.’
    Henry knew what that meant. It meant being sent away to St Mary’s. The mere thought made him shiver. St Mary’s was more terrifying than any dinosaur. His own school was strict enough, but he knew it was nothing compared to St Mary’s. His friends’ parents used St Mary’s as a threat. One whisper of the name was enough to make a naughty child behave.
    The children of St Mary’s were silent, humourless and blank. He’d seen them in town, walking in rows, heads bowed. Every spark of character erased from them. It was said that on their way between lessons they marched in time, and even at meals, they sat in silence. St Mary’s had only one purpose for its students. Every graduate, or at least every graduate that anyone talked about, had a single calling. Every pupil that served his full term joined the church.
    Henry