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20
Danny refuses to talk to me about what happened with Rory. In between scribbling out the gremlin’s highly detailed and physically exaggerated representation of a dick from my boot, I jot down questions to Danny in my notebook. I nudge his elbow with it, but he stares stonily ahead, concentrating on Mr. MacDonald like he’s the most compelling thing since the discovery of the Higgs-Boson.
The written questionAre you okay?stares back at me.
Even when class ends for the day and I’m escorted to the library, Danny’s still subdued. I can almost hear his thoughts, the wheels in his mind turning over and over.
“Ignore him,” I tell Danny for the hundredth time, encouraging him to be as saintly as everyone believes I am. “He’s just trying to get a rise out of you.”
Danny sighs heavily. “It’s worked.” He rubs the back of his neck, looking awkward. “He always turns into a headcase whenever he spends time with his dad.”
I cling to this piece of information, trying to make sense of it. What is it about Oscar Munro? Danny leaves me at the library with a miserable turn to his mouth, sloping off down the dark hallway like a man about to meet his fate. The candles in the wall flicker as he passes. I watch his back as he goes, worried.
But I don’t have time to worry because Dr. Moncrieff soon gives me a long list of other priorities. He’s positioned himself right in front of the radio, as though lowering his head as close to the speaker as possible will make him hear the latest news more quickly.
He snaps his fingers sharply at me as I enter. Stunned, I pause in the doorway.
“…as opposition parties launch a two-pronged attack on the Prime Minister, calling for a General Election. Julianne Ponsonby, the leader of the British Republic Party, denies any involvement, describing her relationship with the Prime Minister as ‘strictly professional.’ These allegations come as yet another blow to Oscar Munro, who has already lost the backing of a significant number of MPs following what has been widely considered a lackluster response to the attacks on Buckingham Palace…”
“Gossip,” Dr. Moncrieff spits, shaking his head in dismay. “People are dying on the streets and this is how the news chooses to present itself?”
I step slowly into the library. I’ve never seen Dr. Moncrieff look so angry before. It’s the first time I’ve seen him since the October break, and he seems wilder now than ever. There’s an almost manic gleam to his eyes that wasn’t there before. His sandy hair hangs limply at his shoulders, and he keeps pushing it out of his face as though the mere sensation of a single strand is enough to irritate him for hours.
Eventually, Dr. Moncrieff snaps the off button and throws himself into the back of his chair with a low growl in his throat. He’s in a foul mood and part of me is nervous about it.
The other part is kind of fascinated.
“Bad news, sir?” I ask, stepping further into the library. His head is held by his hands and he doesn’t acknowledge me.
I glance around me. Usually there are piles of books that require sorting, or lists for me to go through. Tonight there’s nothing. With the radio switched off, there isn’t even any sound aside from the slow tick of the ancient library clock.
As the heavy pendulum swings one way and then the other, Dr. Moncrieff’s eyes slide shut and he tilts his face up to the ceiling. He blows out a large breath, sinking back into his chair.
“Tell Baxter I can’t do this tonight,” he instructs in a dull voice. “I can’t… I can’t…” And then he places both hands over his eyes, his body hunched over himself.
He makes for a tragic figure in the library by himself, the dim light casting the rest of the room into black shadow. Although I want nothing more than to skip tonight’s detention, I can’t leave Dr. Moncrieff on his own like this.
“Sir?”
I’ve never seen a teacher break down before. But his age makes Dr. Moncrieff no ordinary teacher. We’ve spent so much time together at these nightly detentions that I’d almost started to look at him as a friend. And outside of Danny, my friend circle is thoroughly nonexistent.
With my crutches in tow, I hop across to Dr. Moncrieff and pull out the chair beside him. He gives me a wan look, like he’s not even seeing me, like he’s gazing straight through me.
He’s so broken.
“Is it London?” I ask carefully, remembering the last time we’d been together, when the bombings had been announced as breaking news. I hadn’t seen him again after that.
Dr. Moncrieff draws himself up. He seems reluctant to talk about it, his jaw tightening the longer I look at him.
But eventually he exhales and says softly, “I lost a good friend that day.”
My heart pangs in sympathy for him. Dr. Moncrieff looks devastated.
“I told him,” he continues, muttering with a wildness to it, “I told him to leave London, that it wasn’t doing him any good. I told him not to get involved. And then this happens.” He rubs his fingers over his forehead, an almost meditative quality to it. “He was so young. He had no idea what he was doing.”
I want to reach out and touch Dr. Moncrieff, maybe give him the bear hug I think he deserves, but I know it would be massively overstepping boundaries. So I just sit there, detached and watching his crumpled expression, wishing I could do more.
Inexplicably, I tell him, “My dad died.” These three words are enough to make my body turn raw all over, and a curious buzzing attacks my head. It feels as though my ears have popped. “It wasn’t long ago. It was actually quite recently.” Recent enough that it still hurts, that it’s still a sharp, unforgettable ache. The worddadis strange on my tongue. I haven’t said it out loud since… since…
