Scott Andrews - School's Out Forever

Then he noticed the name of the next worksheet: Royal lineage.

He clicked it open and saw a list of all the people in line to the throne. It went through the obvious ones — the princes and princesses, the dukes and duchesses, but then it went further, into minor aristocracy and illegitimate offspring. The first column contained their names, the second their dates of birth, the third their last known addresses. And the fourth contained their blood type.

But when he scrolled all the way down to line 346 he gasped in shock. His hand shook and he felt momentarily dizzy.

Because it was his name. According to this, he was 346 thin line to the throne of England. The fourth column contained a note: “Illegitimate offspring; unaware; unsuitable”.

In a flash he remembered a snide comment his father had made to his mother over Sunday dinner, years before. Something about dallying with upper class twits. She had blushed.

Gosh.

He scrolled back up and started counting.

There were only eleven O-Neg royals in the list above him.

He sat for a while, jaw hanging open, thinking through the implications of his extraordinary discovery. Then he came to a conclusion, sent the document to the printer, and stood to leave.

Finally, destiny was calling.

THE KING OF England, John Parkinson-Keyes, knew damn well he was in line to the throne, and didn’t care who knew it. It was why the boys at his private school had christened him Kinky — a bastardisation of King Keyes.

Not that he minded. He really was kinky and he didn’t care who knew that either. Hell, it was practically a prerequisite for the job.

“Prince Andrew,” he was fond of confiding to credulous hangers-on, tapping his nose as he did so, “has an entire wardrobe full of gimp suits. And Sophie’s a furry!”

He’d nod in the face of their astonishment and then glance knowingly at his empty glass, which they would invariably scurry off and refill for him.

He didn’t have hangers-on now, of course. Not after The Cull. Now he had the real thing: slaves. And he didn’t need to invent tall tales to get them do what he wanted.

“Where’s my bloody dinner?” he yelled at the top of his voice, which echoed around the vaulted wooden ceiling of the huge dining room. There was no response. He drummed his fingers on the table impatiently, then cursed and reached for his shotgun. He’d teach these bloody proles to keep him waiting. He cracked the gun open, checked that it was loaded, then snapped it shut and took casual aim at the door.

“Oi!” he shouted. “Don’t make me come and find you.”

Again, no reply.

Christ, this was annoying. He was hungry. Resolving to teach that tempting young serving lad a hard, rough lesson in master and servant protocols, he rose from his chair and swaggered in the direction of the kitchens, gun slung over his shoulder.

“Parkin, you little wretch, where are you?” he bellowed as he pushed open the kitchen door.

He never even saw the sword that sliced his head off. Well, not until his head was on the floor, and he blinked up at his toppling, decapitated corpse.

The last thing he saw as his vision went red at the edges was a chubby little man in a grey sweater leaning down and wiggling his fingers in a cheery wave.

“Sorry,” said his assassin. “Nothing personal.”

King Keyes tried to call for his mummy, but he had no breath with which to cry.

The last thing he thought he heard was the portly swordsman saying: “Three down, eight to go.”

THE QUEEN OF England, Barbara Wolfing-Gusset, hungrily scooped cold beans from a can with a silver spoon. The juice dribbled down her chin, but she didn’t bother to wipe it off, so it dripped onto the dried blood and vomit that caked her best satin party dress.

She’d been wearing the garish pink frock for two months now, ever since the night of her 19 thbirthday party. Her parents had suggested that maybe a large gathering of people during a plague pandemic was not the best idea, but she’d silenced them with a particularly haughty glance, and invited practically everyone she’d ever met.

Turnout had been low, but that just meant more champagne for everyone else. Plus, that hatchet-faced cow Tasmin hadn’t been around, so Barbara had a clear run at Tommy Bond.

It wasn’t fair; it had all been going so well.

Yes, Tommy was looking a little green about the gills, but Barbara had assumed that was the champers, and she’d dragged him away from the ballroom for a quick shagette in the scullery. And quick it was. What a disappointment. Tommy came in about ten seconds flat and, as he did so, his eyes rolled back in his head, he began to spasm, and then he vomited blood all over her, fell to the floor — withdrawing in the process — thrashed about until he cracked his head on the stone step and twitched his last.

Ungrateful bastard.

Barbara finished the beans and tossed the tin into the corner. She swung down from the table she’d been sitting on and headed for the door, aiming a kick at the dog, which was still gnawing on Tommy’s straggly bones; she didn’t want it to have all the meat, she was still planning on making a stew of her beau when she had a mo.

For now, though, her priority was the next chapter of In the Fifth at Mallory Towers and the resolution of the poison pen mystery!

Kicking her way through the remains of her fabulous party — mostly disarticulated bones and dresses stained with bodily fluids now, but still the occasional scrap of discarded wrapping paper and tinsel — Barbara went to the drawing room, humming to herself.

She stopped and stared, her mouth hanging open, when she saw the man silhouetted in the French doors.

“Barbara Wolfing-Gusset?” said the man in a bland Croydon accent.

She nodded.

“Baroness?”

She nodded again.

The man raised his arms and Barbara saw he was holding a shotgun.

As the pellets thudded into her she realised two things. First, that no dry cleaners in the world was going to be able to salvage her best party frock; and second, that she’d never find out who’d written Moira those beastly letters.

The man walked across the room and stood over her as she gasped for air.

“Sorry,” he said. Then he turned and walked away.

Barbara pulled herself out of the drawing room, leaving a thick, slick trail behind her. It was agony, but she fought her way back through the hall and into the scullery. After tremendous effort, she reached Tommy’s rotting skeleton and rested her head on his ribcage. She closed her eyes and prepared for death.

Then she opened them again and shoved the dog away.

For now.

THE SMOKE CURLED upwards from the embers of the Old Schools. No-one left alive in there, then.

Arthur panned the binoculars left and surveyed the wider ruins. The cultists — at least that’s what he assumed they were — had done their job thoroughly, but had made his infinitely more difficult.

The message painted on the wall of the (latest, only recently ascended, blissfully unaware) King’s house had directed anyone who was looking for him to his school. He’d obviously felt that it would provide a refuge. Arthur supposed it was a sensible idea; if the boy were safely ensconced in a stable community environment, it would make him far harder for Arthur to pick off. For that reason alone it showed common sense. And anyway, where else was there for the boy to go?

On his way to the school, Arthur had decided he would masquerade as a teacher from a similar institution. Computer Science; useless now, so unlikely to have to prove his credentials. If he could convince whatever passed for staff that he was legitimate — and damn, wouldn’t you know it, he’d not got a copy of his Criminal Record Bureau check on him right now and it was going to be hard to get a replacement wasn’t it, ha ha — then he could infiltrate the school, identify the boy and wait for an opportune moment to make his move.