‘You look like the world’s fattest bank robber,’ Holly says, which makes them all worse.
‘You’re twice your size,’ Selena manages. ‘Can you even move in all that?’
‘Or
Becca has gone red. She turns her back to them and tries to get the hoodie off, but the zip is stuck.
‘Becs,’ Selena says. ‘We’re only having a laugh.’
‘Whatever.’
‘Jesus,’ Julia says, rolling her eyes at Holly. ‘Chillax.’
Becca yanks at the zip till it dents her fingers. ‘If it’s just a great big joke, then why are we even bothering?’
No one answers. The laughter has faded to nothing. They glance at each other sideways on, eyes skidding away from meeting.
They’re looking for a way to ditch the whole thing. They want to throw their clothes back in the wardrobe, bin the key and never mention it again, blush when they remember how near they came to making idiots of themselves. They’re just waiting for someone to say the word.
Then one of the second-floor prefects slams their door open, snaps, ‘Stop lezzing it up and get changed, it’s lights-out in like five seconds and I will so report you,’ and bangs the door closed again before any of them can shut their mouths.
She didn’t even notice their entire outdoor wardrobes spread out on their beds, or the fact that Becca looks like an inflatable burglar. All four of them stare at each other for a second and then collapse on their beds, screaming with laughter into their duvets. And realising they’re actually going.
At lights-out they’re in their beds like good little girls – if the prefect has to come back, she might be in a more observant mood. After the bell goes, the edgy giddiness starts to fade. Something else starts to show through.
They’ve never listened to the sounds of the school falling asleep before, not this way, ears stretched like animals’. At first the flickers are constant: a burst of giggles through the wall, a faraway squeal, a patter of slippers as someone runs to the toilet. Then they drift farther apart. Then there’s silence.
When the clock at the back of the main building strikes one, Selena sits up.
They don’t talk. They don’t flick on torches, or bedside lights: anyone going down the corridor would see the flicker through the glass above the transom. In the window the moon is enormous, more than enough. They strip off their pyjamas and stuff their pillows under their sheets, pull on final jumpers and coats, deft and synchronised as if they’d been practising. When they’re ready they stand by their beds, boots dangling from their hands. They look at each other like explorers in the doorway of a long journey, all of them caught motionless in the moment before one of them takes the first step.
‘If you weirdos are serious about this,’ Julia says, ‘let’s do it.’
No one leaps out at them from a doorway, no stair creaks. On the ground floor Matron is snoring. When Becca fits the key into the door to the main building, it turns like the lock’s been oiled. By the time they reach the maths classroom and Julia reaches up to the fastening of the sash window, they already know the watchman is asleep or on the phone and will never look their way. Boots on and out of the window, one two three four quick and slick and silent, and they’re standing on the grass and it’s not a game any more.
The grounds are still as a set for a ballet, waiting for the first shivering run of notes from a flute; for the light girls to run in and stop, poised perfect and impossible, barely touching the grass. The white light comes from everywhere. The frost sings high in their ears.
They run. The great spread of grass rolls out to greet them and they skim down it, the crackle-cold air flowing like spring water into their mouths and running their hair straight out behind them when their hoods fall back and none of them can stop to pull them up again. They’re invisible, they could stream laughing past the night watchman and tweak off his cap as they went, leave him grabbing at air and gibbering at the wild unknown that’s suddenly everywhere, and they can’t stop running.
Into the shadows and down the narrow paths enclosed by dark spiky weaves of branches, past leaning trunks wrapped with years of ivy, through smells of cold earth and wet layers of leaves. When they burst out of that tunnel it’s into the white waiting glade.
They’ve never been here before. The tops of the cypresses blaze with frozen fire like great torches. There are things moving in the shadows, things that when they manage to catch a hair-thin glimpse are shaped like deer and wolves but they could be anything, circling. High in the shining column of air above the clearing, birds whirl arc-winged, long threads of savage cries trailing behind them.
