Deacon

Deacon left the large entrance hall of the castle. When he reached the courtyard, he found there neither the car—which had already been taken care of by the attendants—nor Helena.

Good for her, at least she'd been spared those last five minutes with a complete fool and his heavy designer suitcase.

A gust of wind grasped the back of his neck and he pulled up the collar of his great-grandfather's trench coat. He continued walking down the path that flanked the huge castle, alone with his thoughts.

What an eejit this new bloke is! I haven't met many Italians, but those few are plenty for a lifetime! The gravel ground noisily under his swift strides. And just think, at first he actually seemed to be nice. Never trust first impressions! And never trust Italians. He sighed to himself. Don't trust anyone, in any case.

Soon he came to a low building—which was the less noble wing of the castle—connected to the service rooms, the laundry room, the ironing room and the yard. Out back stood the greenhouse where the vegetables were grown. He hurried towards a small door lit by a single lamp that marked the East Wing: his home, his refuge, the only place in the castle where he could be himself, in the company of his true friends.

A chorus of cheerful voices greeted him as he stepped inside. The common room was furnished with tottering tables and old couches strewn with mended blankets and multicoloured pillows, amongst which his friends were scattered.

Mismatched heavy  brocade drapes, originally made to cover much larger and nobler fixtures, were drawn to the sides of the three windows. Neither the fireplace nor the cast-iron parlour stoves were lit at the moment. They would be very useful in a few months, though, since the boilers in the East Wing were quite old and had the tendency to break down more often than was desirable.

A well-aimed punch struck his arm. "Come clean," ordered the boy blocking his way. "What's the fresher like? Helena won't say anything."

Deacon looked down at Erek Greystone. A nice bloke with reddish hair and freckles, his bright smile improved anybody's mood.

"He says he's not a fresher."

"All the new kids are."

"It's not like I could really understand everythin' he said," Deacon admitted as he joined Helena on the couch. "In any case, in an international idiocy championship, I'd bet he'd be on the podium." A chorus of laughs rose up around him as Deacon excitedly went on. "He's out of this world. He didn't even know about the armoury."

"Maybe he's stupid," suggested a boy.

"He could be, yes." Deacon nodded pensively. "For sure he's another one of those rich kids. And his suitcase, for the love of God! It weighed a ton! What's he got in there? Spaghetti?"

"Tubes of hair gel!" someone shouted. "Italians use lots of it."

"Or shoes! They love them!" said Lizzy. This year, bored with platinum blonde, she'd chosen to dye her hair a fiery red. It suited her.

"Is he cute, at least?" Michelle, the Belgian girl, asked timidly before continuing to nourish her considerable bulk with a handful of French fries.

Deacon shrugged. "The typical jerk face you girls go crazy for."

"I wouldn't say so," said Helena. "He's rude and creepy!"

"I kind of agree," Deacon conceded. "His English really is "creepy", but he isn't. He hasn't got enough personality for that."

"Maybe. There was something wrong—"

"The only thin' wrong was that I broke my back carryin' his suitcase!" he joked, interrupting her. "Let's get rid of this aura of mystery. The truth is a lot less interestin': he's just an eejit and Italian to boot."

"Hey, Deacon, watch your mouth!" shouted a boy with bowl-cut brown hair and glasses with thick black frames. "My grandmother was Italian!"

"Sorry, Guy," said Deacon raising his hands. "Italians don't bother me, as long as they stay at home. Far away from me. And this Italian, in particular, is someone to avoid. He even made fun of my accent, which goes to show he's pretty full of himself and, obviously, hasn't heard himself speakin' English."

He turned to Helena and found her wearing an unexpectedly serious expression. He gently elbowed her. "What's the matter now?"

"Something doesn't quite fit," she said, absently. "I fell asleep on the train and was having a bad dream."

"I'm sorry. Was it about your mum? I thought the chemotherapy was workin'."

"Me, too. Anyway, I woke up to find him there and I just panicked." Her voice trembled.

"You were simply frightened by the whole thing," Deacon explained. "Don't worry about it."

"It was horrible," Helena continued. "I was awake and the first thing that came to my mind, and I knew it for sure, was that he was there for a specific reason."

"What?"

"To kill me."

Silence fell and Deacon noticed an unexpected visitor had entered. One of the castle maids passed through the common room amidst curious whispers, went to the bulletin board and—after pinning up one of the deputy-headmaster's notorious blue notes—disappeared just as silently as she'd arrived.

"Flannagan already assigned duties," Guy pointed out, worried.

"I hate it when she changes them," Lizzy moaned, covering her eyes.

"Come on, chaps. We take whatever comes, right?" Erek said encouragingly, then jumped over the couch and went over to the bulletin board. "Okay, let's see who dies and what of," he joked. His eyes settled on the short note. For a long time, he said nothing.

"What's it say?" Deacon urged, worried.

"It's about me, Guy, Michelle, Lizzy and Helena," he answered, perplexed. "We have to see Flannagan. Tomorrow."

"Why?" asked Lizzy.

"That's the point." His doubtful gaze shifted to the others. "I've never heard of this kind of duty."

"What is it?"

"It just says tutoring." He sighed. "I don't know about you, but I don't intend to spend the whole night thinking about it." With that, he went out before his friends could guess what he had in mind.