Furthermoor by Darren Simpson

Author:Darren Simpson
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Usborne Publishing Ltd

It was still lunchtime. Peering across the playground from the school’s entrance, Bren saw with great relief that Shaun, Alex and Isaiah weren’t loitering by the bike shelter. That made it safer to head for the arts block.

He spotted Cary in the distance, perched on the concrete ping pong table, showing off some sort of dance move and making other pupils laugh. Bren thought for a moment about going to him – about asking him why he’d gone ahead and told his parents. But there were so many people around. And what if Shaun and his lackeys turned up? It was too risky.

Cary looked pretty engrossed in his moves, so Bren made a dash for it. Leaving the doorway, he slipped his hands into his duffel coat, pushed up his shoulders and lowered his head. Then he scurried through the snow piled along the playground’s edge – much of it now crushed and hardened into ice – moving briskly but not so fast as to draw attention. Passing the lunchtime football match, he was now almost out of Cary’s line of sight, nearing the trees that lined the path to the arts block.

Bren slowed at the thought of those bare, black trees. He didn’t look up but heard a caw that sent a shudder down his spine. After faltering, he gritted his teeth and pushed on, lifting his hood to hide his face. Dark wings beat above him, sending lumps of snow falling from branches. Bren’s breathing quickened. His legs pumped harder beneath him.

Once safely in the arts block, Bren kept up his pace, opened his backpack and shoved the sandwich and apple from his packed lunch into his face. Time was short; he’d spent too much of the lunch break in Mrs Sendak’s office.

Barging into the empty music room, Bren took his place on the carpet behind the drum kit, fumbling in his pocket to find his watch. But when he pulled it out, he looked at its green face and froze.

What if Featherly was waiting for him?

Bren closed his eyes, thinking back to their last encounter – to the things Featherly had said, to what he’d done in return. To clockwork hares and badgers, sprawled on wool-moss with their innards scattered; to bullfinches and kestrels, with feathers plucked and wire frames bare. To the anger and hurt; to the cable that drew blood.

Shaking his head, Bren returned the watch to his pocket. He didn’t have the strength. Not today.

He gazed at the door he’d just come through. Beyond it waited the noise and loneliness of the playground. Cary too, and maybe even Shaun. There was no way he could go back out there.

So Bren hugged himself and stayed where he was: sitting on the carpet, trapped between worlds.

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