Shadows, p.1
Shadows, page 1
About the Author
Maddison Amy Burford is a creative writer/illustrator based in Northampton. When living in London, to cope with the stresses of her commute, she started to write as a way to escape. Now back in her hometown, she still finds writing a great way to unwind, bringing to life the characters and stories of her dreams.
Shadows
Maddison Burford
Shadows
Vanguard Press
VANGUARD KINDLE
© Copyright 2020
Maddison Burford
The right of Maddison Burford to be identified as author of
this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the
Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All Rights Reserved
No reproduction, copy or transmission of this publication
may be made without written permission.
No paragraph of this publication may be reproduced,
copied or transmitted save with the written permission of the publisher, or in accordance with the provisions
of the Copyright Act 1956 (as amended).
Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to
this publication may be liable to criminal
prosecution and civil claims for damages.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is
available from the British Library.
ISBN (PAPERBACK) 9781784656539
Vanguard Press is an imprint of
Pegasus Elliot MacKenzie Publishers Ltd.
www.pegasuspublishers.com
First Published in 2020
Vanguard Press
Sheraton House Castle Park
Cambridge England
Printed & Bound in Great Britain
Dedication
To my parents, William and Lucinda Burford, thank you for everything you have done for me!
Chapter 1
I supposed starting a new school would be a good thing. However, the thought of it made me feel sick; even the bitter cold air against my face didn’t knock the feeling out of me. Thick green bushes lining the pavement to the side of me were covered in sparkling cobwebs created by the frost of the night before. To try and take my mind off the sickness, I concentrated on counting how many frostbitten spiders were among the webs.
One, two, three, four…
Eventually, I drifted into thoughts of the day ahead. It filled me with dread. Would I just become Trixie Havastein, the girl who talks to herself again?
The one who sits by herself at lunch.
The one with no friends.
The one who is completely out of the loop, but happens to be there every time something bad happens. I had no control of my rapid thoughts that swirled around in my head. I just wanted to stand and scream; I felt it would help, somehow.
Now on the street of ‘Berrywood Secondary School’, I sheepishly looked around contemplating what would happen if I gave into my coiled-up emotions and screamed at the top of my lungs, after all, no one was around but an elderly man walking his little Westie.
The school sat at the end of a long road that was muted. The whole town of Berrywood was quiet, hence why my parents thought it would be a good change from London life. I started to deal with the silence, but in return, it gave me far too much time alone with my own thoughts.
Approaching the large sombre gates which guarded my new school, the queasiness started to overcome me. I glared in at the big Victorian red brick building and the large groups of people huddled together in their cliques, laughing and playing. The colours started to swirl together imitating a pattern I had once seen on a 1970s hippie T-shirt.
The cool January wind brushed past me, flickering my hair around my face. Stumbling back, I ogled at the strangers who were about to become my peers. I contemplated if my parents would kill me if I went and hid in the small park up the road. My feet turned to head back the way I had come but the image of my parents’ faces forced me to face my fears and walk through the gates.
After all, I am the reason we had to move.
Glancing down at the fractured screen of my phone, I once again read the welcome email. I knew exactly what it said almost word for word. It would have been around the two hundredth time I had read it. I just wanted to make sure one last time I hadn’t missed anything, saving myself from any embarrassment. I was to report to ‘Office 2G’.
With one last long breath, I gulped, marched and held onto the hope just that maybe my first day wouldn’t be as bad as that evil voice inside had made me feel.
Walking past the crowds, I could feel every eye that burned into me, each one leaving a little scar on my aura. I could only imagine what they were thinking,
Who is she?
Why is she here?
Why is her hair so blonde, so flat?
How come she won’t look at us?
I did think about lifting my head to muster a smile, but I didn’t think I could cope if they didn’t return it. Quickly I shuffled in through the bulky front doors, engulfing me into the main entrance hall.
Not paying much attention to my surroundings, I stepped into my new Institute, concentrating intently on my heart which had started to pound to the point of hyperventilation.
For once luck was on my side. My eyes were drawn to a small sign in a simple black font that stated ‘Office 2G’. Instant relief filled my body and my heart somewhat decided to gradually return to its systematic beat.
The office door was propped open with a wedge of splintered wood. I awkwardly settled for a moment contemplating if this was one of those walk in, we’re open situations or knock otherwise you’re impolite. Beyond the door was a deep-rooted mahogany reception desk that had possibly been in the school since it opened. Its top was decorated with mounds of credentials and a hectic-looking middle-aged woman moved behind it. Her red pixie cut hair shone under the light of a lamp that attempted to illuminate the dull room as she fidgeted about.
My eyes shot to a small old woman who sat comfortably on a chair next to her. Her deep-set wrinkles crinkled around her eyes as they met mine. Her face maintained its same deadpan expression as she worked me out.
Approaching the desk, I observed how dark it really was inside. I wasn’t sure whether it was the era the school had been built or the frigid winter sky that pushed in the gloom. A passing thought of the ancient paintwork was interrupted by the dark shadows and cracked corners of the room, proving how long the building had been living.
As I reached the desk, I expected the red-haired lady to notice me.
She didn’t.
Her mind clearly rested somewhere else. I moved my hand to my mouth and for some reason felt it would be an appropriate idea to do a very cliché cough.
“Eh, hem!” The poor woman jumped out of her skin, her face imitating a deer in the headlights. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to make you jump,” I whispered with a nervous giggle.
“Ooh don’t worry, love,” she murmured in a faint Scottish accent, the look of relief crossing her face. “Things are always making me jump in this place.” My eyes flickered to the mute lady next to her then back, meeting her gentle brown eyes brushed with smile lines. “How can I help you?” she started again, straightening her powder-blue shirt.
“I’m looking for a Mrs Peach.” I was yet again referring to the memorised email.
“That would be me.” She paused momentarily. “Ah, I haven’t seen you before, have I? You must be Beatrix?”
“Trixie, if you don’t mind,” I pushed, trying not to sound too demanding. The only person who had ever called me by my full name was Grandma; for some reason it felt like home when she had said it. Everyone else always sounded too formal, angry or just disappointed, leaving me to cringe.
“Sorry, Trixie.” She added emphasis on my name showing she had listened. “I have been expecting you, my love. You’re our only new pupil this year. I’m sure you will make lots of new friends. Our pupils have always been very curious about new people.” Oh great, that was all I needed. She commenced passing me forms whilst looking at her computer screen. “You will need your parents to fill these out and your first class is… English, I will…”
As I watched her lips they started to move in slow motion. Her voice also slowed down making her sound several octaves lower.
I had begun to zone out.
All the information that was getting launched at my brain left me feeling lightheaded and nauseous, again. I turned and ran, stumbling into the halls as they started to fill with students.
What a great first day!
I had become the new girl who was running in the hallways like a crazy person.
As I found the nearest toilets, the door’s cold exterior welcomed my clammy hand. No one was in there.
Thank God!
Falling to my knees at the first toilet, my stomach started to clench as the acidic liquid came. My eyes filled with tears, and to make things worse the putrid smell of bleach lingered.
Once I was completely hollow, the overwhelming feeling of happiness filled the gap. I was so relieved the emptiness had stopped the wooziness; it gave me the push I needed to leave the bathroom floor. I pulled myself up, one hand on the flush and the other on the cubical wall, composing myself before forcing myself to leave my new haven.
“You can do this, Trixie,” I repeated in my head. “You can do this!”
Walking out I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I immediately wished I hadn’t decided to wear mascara; I looked like a member of ‘Kiss’. I quickly twiste d on the cold tap, cautious of the time, and splashed cool liquid on my face, scrubbing at my eyes to try and remove the black smudges.
I looked back at myself, my blue eyes seeming a shade brighter due to the bloodshot whites and faint dark rings the makeup had left.
To the left of me was a clinical full-length mirror, like the ones that they use to cover the wall of the ballet studio. The thought made me adjust my posture and tug down my olive-green uniform jumper that was slightly oversized; Mum believed that I was going to grow from my current five feet. Unfortunately, I felt it masked my small sixteen-year-old stature and to top it off the green colour did nothing for me. I tipped my head upside down to ruffle my fragile ash hair in a hope to give it a little more volume. With one last glance at myself I turned to face school.
Or in this case Mrs Peach, who was standing directly in front of the bathroom door. “There you are, Trixie. You gave me a panic. I didn’t know where you ran off to… Are you OK? You look a little pale.”
To be fair my skin was almost translucent; maybe the glowing lights of the hallways made this more apparent.
“Hi, I’m sorry. I just really… needed to go to the bathroom.” My voice apologetic, curiosity crossed her face. I wasn’t sure whether my feeble answer would keep her from probing, but the snigger coming from the dark-haired girl standing behind her definitely did.
She was everything I wasn’t: tall, as classically beautiful as the girls in every make-up advert, even our ugly uniform suited her, and if that wasn’t enough, the cold British winter hadn’t seemed to make a difference to her flawless olive skin.
Mrs Peach turned to look at her with a somewhat stern look and then back at me with a sincerer expression.
“Oh yes, dear. This is Hattie, like I was saying before you dashed off. She will be your school buddy to show you around and make sure you are OK.”
Hattie’s face was plastered with a huge smile; I couldn’t help thinking it was false.
“I will leave you girls to it. I’m sure you will be lovely friends. Hopefully.”
Hopefully? What did that mean, hopefully? Did she know all about my past? I gulped as my eyes followed Mrs Peach down the hallway. Once she was out of sight, I held my hand out to shake Hattie’s. She lightly grasped it as if I was repugnant.
“Hi, so Trixie, is it?” she said, raising her perfectly shaped eyebrows.
“That’s me.” I shuffled about awkwardly.
“So, girl to girl, why did you really run off to the bathroom?” Interest floated in her voice.
“I needed to be sick.” For some reason, the truth came spilling out, knowing it would somehow come back to bite me.
“Ew. Are you, like, one of those girls who does that to stay skinny?” She shot me with a look, running her hand through her gorgeous thick hair. “Cause, well, it is working, you are rather skinny. No curves at all.” I wasn’t sure whether that was meant as a bizarre compliment or just an insult.
“Ummm no. I’m just really nervous.”
“If you say so.” She raised her eyebrows again “Well, we’re in the same classes up till break so you can follow me until then,” she said, speeding up a little, so we were no longer side by side.
Walking around the corner a small brunette girl came bouncing around, her curls moving with the motion of her walk. She was carrying lots of books that seemed far too heavy for her delicate frame. Her head was buried in the one on top, reading as she moved.
As she became fully visible Hattie situated herself a couple of inches to the left, so she was in line with her, causing the petite girl to fly, the floor waiting to greet her bum.
“Watch where you’re going,” Hattie snarled. In disbelief, I rushed up, holding my hand out to help her.
“Oh my God, are you OK?” She gripped me lightly, looking up at me with a smile, trying to cover up tears or pain. I wasn’t sure which.
“Trixie, come on,” Hattie called, her voice sounding like a Mum’s, trying to stop their child talking to a stranger.
“Thank you,” the girl said, bending down to pick up her books. “You better get going, classes have started.” She gazed up at me as I stood, torn for what to do.
“Trixie!” Hattie bellowed, it echoing down the hall. At which point I scurried to her side once more.
We entered the classroom whose door was labelled with a sign stating Mr Moody. Immediately on arrival, Hattie skipped towards a group of girls, leaving me to stand at the front of the class.
Leaving me to feel like I was drowning. I clutched at my chest to try and calm my nerves.
Once she reached them, she slipped graciously into her chair, muttering something that was received with a girlish giggle. Two girls, one brunette and the other a vibrant post box red, turned to stare. They were both equally as beautiful as one another, making me feel more intimidated than I already was.
So, there I was standing at the front of the classroom amongst a sea of teenage faces that had started to glare. Before I could get any more flustered, an old, bewildered man walked in.
“Sorry I’m late, everyone.” His salt and peppered hair matched the tartan suit he had decided to fashion.
Suddenly I caught his eye and a slight smile played on his lips. He unexpectedly did some swift hand movements that directed me over to him.
The whole class fell silent.
When I was in front of him, he released the smell of his morning coffee as he whispered, “Are you, Beatrix?”
“Yes, sir, and if you don’t mind, I do prefer Trixie.” His look gradually turned vacant as if what I had just said didn’t register, and with this, he twisted to face the class, casting his look around.
“Beatrix, this is Beatrix, everyone.” He spoke in a disorderly prosperous voice.
I knew it; I knew he hadn’t listened to me.
“You can sit over by the window. In that spare seat.” He gestured with his long, slightly misshapen hand.
I gingerly walked over to my new small single desk. Everyone gazed intensely as I carefully watched I didn’t knock anyone with my bag. My neighbouring desk was occupied by the best-looking boy I had seen since moving; I couldn’t help but gaze at him. His dark hair kinked, nearly covering his royal blue eyes that watched mine, as I studied him a little closer noticing he was wearing a ‘Guns N’ Roses’ T-shirt that peeked through his uniform shirt.
They were one of my favourite bands. Mum had got me into them when I was little. She would blast ‘Sweet Child O’ Mine’ loudly on vinyl as we danced in the kitchen. I sat, lowering my bag to the ground, his face animated with a smile; a beautiful smile.
“Hey,” he said in a soft mutter.
My mouth prepared to utter the word “Hello” back, but Hattie flapped at me in the background. My eyes veered off to see her mouthing “NO!” Over and over, even though nothing was coming out, I could tell she was screaming it. I don’t know why I decided to listen to her, maybe because she was the only person I knew, so, regrettably, my eyes flickered back at the striking boy one last time, then I forced my face down to look at the scratched scribbles on my desk, not letting myself look up at him again.
My first day went by in a blink of embarrassment, awkwardness, fake smiles and a longing to get back to my parents to let them know I had got through the day without causing any trouble. As any new person in a small-town school, I seemed to be the topic of conversation on every one’s lips. I had encountered a lot of random conversation with people wanting to pry into my entire life.
Where did you use to live?
What’s your favourite band?
Do you have a boyfriend?
Does London really have a lot of red buses? Oddly, a lot of them seemed fascinated with the red London bus, maybe because they only appeared to have smaller single layered buses here; not enough people to justify a double-decker.
I kept my timetable for Monday in my hand pretty much all day, scared I would walk into a class I did not belong.
English, Science, Break, Maths, IT, Lunch, History.
