Barry Hutchison - Raggy Maggie

‘So…’ Billy said. He was still looking outside, but I knew what was coming next. ‘Who told you?’

‘About what?’ I asked innocently.

‘You know what.’

I should never have mentioned the girl and her doll. It had been a knee-jerk reaction to the threat of being beaten up. My meeting with Caddie definitely fell under the heading of “Things Not To Talk About”.

‘Your mum told my mum,’ I lied. ‘She told me.’

‘I knew it,’ he muttered, still not looking at me. I had a suspicion as to who the girl was, but wasn’t sure whether to say anything and risk another beating. I decided to chance my luck.

‘I had an invisible friend too,’ I said. ‘When I was young. It’s nothing to be embarrassed about.’

He didn’t answer, which itself told me all I needed to know.

‘I’m not waiting round here any more,’ he scowled, turning from the window. He barged past me on his way to the door.

‘Are you sure that’s a good idea?’ I asked. I didn’t like the idea of being the only one around for Mrs Milton to shout at.

‘Tell her I was sick and had to go home,’ he told me. ‘Tell her anything, I don’t care.’

I was about to reply when he yanked open the door. He drew up short as we both realised Mrs Milton really had been lurking just outside the office. She stood framed in the doorway, leaning slightly forward, her arms hanging limp and loose by her sides.

‘Mrs M,’ Billy smiled. ‘There you are. I was just going to come and look for…’

His voice trailed off. He’d realised what I had – something was very wrong with Mrs Milton.

Her breathing was noisy; wheezy and rattling at the back of her throat as she inhaled. Her face was as pale as chalk dust, its expression blank and empty, like something dead. Or something that had never been alive in the first place.

Ringing her eyes were two circles of make-up; caked-on, thick black swirls of tar. A streak of crimson lipstick was smeared across her mouth, starting on one cheek and finishing high up on the other. It stood out against her pale skin like a raw, gaping wound. She looked frightening. Grotesque.

And disturbingly familiar.

‘I’m dressing up like Mummy,’ spoke a voice from within her. It was high-pitched and childish, and didn’t belong to her. ‘Would you like to play?’

Even Billy, who was usually first with the wisecracks, said nothing. He took two paces backwards into the office, but otherwise showed no reaction to Mrs Milton’s weirdness.

If the way she’d slapped on her make-up was familiar to me, though, Billy must’ve recognised it too. He had to. I’d only ever seen one other person with their face made up like that: Caddie.

Billy’s invisible friend.

‘Is this a wind-up?’ I heard him mutter at last. There was a note to his voice I’d never heard before – uncertainty or panic, or something in between.

‘I like playing,’ trilled Mrs Milton. She was slowly twirling a curl of her mousy-brown hair round a finger; still speaking in a voice fifty years too young for her.

With a sudden lunge, she hopped into the room. Her eyes stayed fixed on Billy as she stood there, wobbling unsteadily on one leg. ‘Do you like playing too?’

‘Billy,’ I said, in what came out as a hoarse whisper. ‘Don’t let her get too close.’

Billy snapped round at the sound of my voice, as if he’d forgotten I was even there in the room. ‘What?’ he demanded. ‘Did you put her up to this?’

I shook my head. ‘Nothing to do with me.’

Mrs Milton’s blank gaze rounded on me. I could make out my own reflection in her eyes, but there was no other sign of life in them anywhere.

‘Let’s play a game,’ she sang. With another hop she was in the middle of the office, right by her desk. I hurried backwards out of her reach, in case she decided to make a grab for me. My back bumped against the bookshelves and I shuffled along to where they ended. From there I had a clear path to the now unguarded doorway; an escape route, in case I needed to get out of there fast.

‘What kind of game?’ I asked her, stalling for time. Something was happening here, but I didn’t quite understand what.

‘What are you doing?’ Billy spat. His eyes were shifting quickly from me to Mrs Milton and back again. ‘Why are you even talking to her? She’s clearly gone mental.’

The head teacher’s lifeless eyes swivelled on him, her face still empty of all emotion. Billy stared right back. He was smirking, trying to act confident and unafraid, but the way his feet shuffled on the carpet told another story.

‘Did you hear that, Mrs Milton?’ he said. ‘It’s the pressure. You’ve gone nuts. They’ll probably stick you in a home for the retarded.’

The words were classic Billy, but the delivery was off, as if he was a bad actor playing the role. He was terrified, but some subconscious autopilot inside him was determined not to show it.

‘Just think,’ he continued, ‘you’ll never be able to give me detention again.’

Her expression – or lack of it – remained fixed in place, but the finger in her hair began to twirl faster. My attention was so focused on that hand I didn’t notice the other one creeping towards the penholder on the desk until it was too late.

‘Mrs Milton isn’t allowed out right now,’ sing-songed the child’s voice from deep within the adult’s body. She brought her hand up from the desk. It was clutching a large pair of metal scissors. The light from the window glinted off the blades as she pointed them at Billy’s throat. ‘But I know a fun game we can play.’

‘Billy, run.’

He hesitated, the smirk still fixed on his lips. ‘What?’

I made a dive for the open door, catching his arm and dragging him along with me. ‘I said run !’

We stumbled from the office together and out into the corridor. Just before we did, I caught a glimpse of Mrs Milton snipping at the air with the scissors. Shnick-shnick-shnick.

The reception area was empty when we scrambled past. No sign of Morag. No sign of anyone who could help.

‘We’ve got to get out of here,’ I said, and I began to drag Billy along the corridor towards the main door.

After just a few steps, he yanked his arm free and stopped in his tracks.

‘What you doing?’ he demanded.

I skidded to a stop a few paces on. ‘We’ve got to get away from her,’ I spluttered. ‘We have to get help.’

Billy’s face was a few shades paler than usual, but his arrogant sneer was back. ‘You know, you nearly had me?’ he said. ‘Just for a minute there, you nearly had me.’

‘What are you talking about?’ I glanced over his shoulder. There was no sign yet of Mrs Milton, but it would only be a matter of time.

‘How did you get her to go along with it? That’s what I want to know.’

‘Go along with what?’ I frowned. ‘You don’t still think this is a joke?’

Billy took a step closer. I could see his fingers were bunched into fists. ‘Let me think,’ he muttered. ‘You talk about some little girl who you say was my imaginary friend – even though I never had an imaginary friend, since only losers have imaginary friends – and then suddenly you’ve got Milton acting like a five-year-old who wants to do me in with a pair of scissors.’

He rubbed his chin, pretending to be deep in thought. ‘So yes, I do think it’s a joke.’ He took another step closer and raised a fist. ‘And look – here comes the punch line.’

‘Wait,’ I cried. The sound echoed along the otherwise silent corridor. ‘Listen.’

Billy paused, his fist held motionless up by his right ear. ‘What? I don’t hear anything.’