Chapter 10
It was getting dark, and I was sitting in my room after lights out, wrapping a present for Hermione. Tomorrow was September 19th, her birthday, and I decided to wish my friend a happy birthday. Yes, we’d become quite good friends over the past three weeks. Granger turned out to be a smart and honest girl, a little more intelligent than our peers. Her childish naivety and faith in adult authority were sometimes infuriating, but Mrs. Dietrich’s behavior was the very thing that destroyed that faith. We were ignored in every way during class: no one asked us questions, no one called us to the board, our questions went unanswered. The rest of the class boycotted us, and it was the best thing that happened to me at school! Finally, those little idiots stopped pestering me with their stupid questions.
Hermione wasn’t particularly upset either—she’d been ignored before, and the only time anyone paid attention was for the purpose of mockery. Now, though, she talks to me during lessons and breaks, and spends lunch during the long recess after third period with the kids from the orphanage. So we don’t suffer from a lack of communication, and the bullying ended that day, September 1st. The kids remembered their classmates’ bloodied faces and didn’t bother us anymore. Only a week later, a blonde slob named Barbara muttered something about a beaver and a filthy bastard, and during recess, I walked up to her and, silently wrapping someone else’s hair around my fist, gave the idiot a plum on her nose. That’s when the bullying began, and Hermione and I only grew closer as friends.
I made a beaded bracelet on a mug especially for a friend—the word “Hermione” glowed in gold letters against a chocolate background. It turned out quite cute and, most importantly, heartfelt. And I bought a beautiful box at the shop across the street from the school, earning almost twenty pounds honestly from my jewelry at Sunday markets over the two months of summer holidays. Thanks to these events, all the children at the orphanage had a little money.
And if Hermione asks how I knew the date, I’ll answer honestly. The class register is quite rich in information: the student list contains all the important details, including parents’ phone numbers and home addresses. Incidentally, right there at the top of the list were Mrs. Dietrich’s address and home phone number, which I memorized carefully, just in case.
Having tied the last bow, I carefully put the box in my bag and fell onto the bed; it was time for bed. If Hermie asks about my birthday, well, I’ll have to explain the orphanage tradition—we don’t celebrate it. Many children remember their parents, and those memories are very, very “not so”… So we don’t celebrate it, and that’s it.
***
The morning went as usual: exercise, a hearty breakfast, and then we were at school. Waving goodbye to the other kids, I walked into my classroom, where my faithful friend was already sitting in our usual spot, arranging her writing utensils in a sequence only she could understand. I approached her and, with a sweet smile, placed a beautiful box tied with a red ribbon on the desk in front of her.
“Happy birthday, Hermione!” I said quietly, and for some reason I remembered that in the films, Harry and Ron never congratulated her, but she always sent them rather expensive gifts, that’s what “friends” were like.
“Is this for me? How did you find out? Why did you have to spend so much money? What’s in there?” Another characteristic of Hermione’s is that when she’s nervous, she starts chattering and asking questions at a rapid pace.
“I’ll answer in order: yes, it’s for you, I found out from the class magazine, and I didn’t spend any money, I made it myself. Come on, open it already!” I answered all the questions, forcing a smile.
Granger looked around furtively, carefully opened the box, took out the bracelet and examined it carefully from all sides, quickly putting it on her left hand.
– T-t-thank you, Y-you’re the first one to congratulate… – there you go, tears again, why are children so emotional. – Before, only parents…
I sat down in the next chair and squeezed Hermione’s hand tightly, feeling genuinely sorry for this girl. Over the course of three weeks, I’d learned that her parents barely spent any time with her and paid her any attention, leaving early in the morning for work at the clinic. She ate breakfast alone, ate lunch at a nearby cafe after school, and only saw her tired parents at dinner late at night, when everyone only had enough energy for sleep. Essentially, she was an orphan with living parents, and she was getting straight A’s to get their attention, to win their praise… And they didn’t care. As she explained, their family had bought a house here four years ago with a mortgage, and three years ago, her parents bought the dental clinic. Now, to stay afloat, they had to work like four people.
I was distracted from my thoughts by the click of Mrs. Dietrich’s heels; she entered the classroom, as usual, a minute before the bell. After waiting for the lesson to start, the hag called the duty officer and ordered our math tests from yesterday, complete with grades. The first- and second-grade-level questions didn’t bother us; we finished the papers in fifteen minutes and sat in silence for the rest of the lesson. For Hermione, the tests weren’t a problem at all; with her perfect memory, she can quote paragraphs from the textbook literally by page number. I checked, and I even felt a little envious.
Norma Higgs, who was on duty today, placed two sheets of paper on our desks with a sly smile. I took mine, handing the other to my friend. After carefully examining this document, only one fucking question arose in my mind: WHAT THE FUCK? All the answers were correct, but the grade was a D, which is a local FAILURE. I looked at Hermione, who, with her mouth open and her eyes wide open, was staring at her test results—the same F, despite all the correct answers. It seemed the old lady had decided to give us her ‘fi’. I silently raised my hand, but after ten minutes of complete ignorance, when my hand was already tired, I stood up and addressed the teacher:
– Mrs. Dietrich, the grade on our tests is incorrect!
“Who gave you permission to speak, Miss Evans?” the old woman deigned to look at me.
– I didn’t even ask permission. Our answers on the tests are correct, but we still get a failing grade. Why?
– Are you blaming the teacher? The grade is accurate and reflects your level of knowledge!
– The answers are correct! This is not fair! – It was Hermione who spoke up.
– Mrs. Dietrich, why do Miss Granger and I get such grades? – I’m starting to get angry.
“Because you both cheated, I saw it with my own eyes!” This grump clearly enjoys our displeasure.
– Whose? – I didn’t understand.
“You copied from each other, Miss Evans, that’s why you got that grade. The matter is closed,” the teacher said contentedly.
– You’re lying!!! I didn’t cheat! These are my answers! – Hermione started to get hysterical: – I’m not stupid enough not to solve these problems!
A pleased Mrs. Dietrich approached our desk and barked sharply:
“Miss Granger!” “Quickly stretch your arms out in front of you!” The girl stood up abruptly and stretched her arms out in front of her. Before I could react, the old woman lashed out with a thick wooden pointer, striking Hermione across the arms. The little girl screamed in pain and pressed her palms to her chest.
– No one dares accuse me of lying in my classes! My grades are not in question, and your friend Evans and her friends from the orphanage are a very bad influence on you! I will call your parents today! – She looked at me angrily: – Miss Evans! She stretched her hands out in front of her!
– No! – I looked this creature in the eyes defiantly and hid my hands behind my back. – No one can hurt me again!
– Then your friend will get it for you. – And with a smile she barked: – Granger! Stretched out her hands in front of her! Quickly!
Hermione slowly, sobbing occasionally, stretched her arms out in front of her, and the old bitch began to swing her arms demonstratively and deliberately, while my friend closed her eyes and braced herself for another dose of pain. I won’t let you! I stared at the pointer in the old woman’s paws and imagined it shattering into pieces, pouring all my rage and every emotion bubbling inside me like volcanic magma into the action.
Mrs. Dietrich’s pointer shattered with a loud crunch, shattering into splinters, some of which pierced the old woman’s palm, and one even pierced her arm. The teacher screamed hysterically and began cradling the injured limb. Realizing the bleeding showed no sign of stopping, she quickly ran out of the classroom. I hope this sweet old lady trips and breaks her neck along the way.
I heard sobbing nearby, and I ran to Hermione and started calming her down, rubbing my arms as I went—the strong blow would definitely leave bruises. It wasn’t until the end of the lesson that the girl calmed down enough for me to eat a sandwich from my lunchbox. The explosion of the wooden stick had left me feeling like a tax inspector on a lemon; I was ravenous.
During recess, the principal came into the classroom to announce that classes were canceled for the day because Mrs. Dietrich had been injured and it was too late to find other teachers. The whole class happily ran for the exit, and my friend and I went to the library. I had to guard the bus until three anyway, and no one was expecting her at home; her parents weren’t arriving until the evening. So, quietly chatting in the library and sitting on the swings after lunch, we celebrated her birthday.
***
I’m standing in a black tracksuit and a homemade black balaclava in the second-floor bedroom of a charming little house on the outskirts of Crawley. The clock on the wall says it’s half past three, and I’m looking with anticipation at the old woman sleeping peacefully in her bed, holding a large down pillow. Silence. I slowly and silently approach the headboard, smiling contentedly.
I realized that it was high time for this old creature to start sniffing daisies from underground back on Hermione’s birthday, when the grump hit MY friend and wanted to hit me!
The next day, I decided to keep an eye on the old woman when she returned to school with a bandaged arm and began to bully us. She questioned us in every lesson, brazenly undergrading our grades, and gave only F’s on all our written assignments. Over the next two weeks, she drove Granger into hysterics five times! All our complaints fell on deaf ears, as this hag was a teacher with forty years of experience, and her son worked in the city prefecture.
Killing someone at school was out of the question; there were too many witnesses. Yes, I wasn’t old enough for criminal responsibility, so they wouldn’t send me to prison, but they could send me to another orphanage or even a soft-walled institution, and they feed me well here. So the old woman’s home address in the class register came in very handy, and then I easily discovered that she lived alone, having buried her husband five years ago. I found a detailed map of the city in the library, which made it easy to find the house I needed. It’s only two kilometers from the orphanage, by the way, about a half-hour’s walk.
At first, I thought about staging a robbery and stabbing her, or, at worst, stabbing her in the ear with a knitting needle, but I quickly changed my mind. First, an investigation would be launched, and in such a quiet town, that would cause a huge stir, and the entire police force would be on alert. Second, keeping a dead person’s belongings is bad luck, and then you’d have to figure out where to dispose of them. Third, they might send a sniffer dog on the trail, and I’m not sure I could cover their tracks properly.
And then I saw a package of nitroglycerin on the teacher’s desk. It turns out the old lady had heart problems! I smiled to myself. No one would investigate the quiet death of an old lady in her own bed.
And today, at three in the morning on October 2nd, dressed all in black, even covering the Hellsing chevron on my chest with a patch just in case, I quietly left the shelter through the back door, which leads to the stadium and is always open. It was a dark night: low black clouds obscured the sky, a strong wind blew—perfect weather for a “job.” I climbed over the wall without any trouble and found the right house in half an hour. I put on rubber gloves and checked the back door, which was unlocked! A land of unafraid idiots. The layout was similar to the house on Tisovaya Street, so, picking up a large pillow from the sofa in the living room on the first floor, I quietly and leisurely made my way up to the second floor.
And so I admire this peacefully sleeping, unsuspecting old lady. Maybe I’m crazy? Look, she’s already decided to kill the “God’s dandelion” granny… No, that’s crazy. She’s been making my life miserable for a month, a whole month! She hit MY friend and brought her to tears on her birthday! They say it’s true, always ask WHICH god the dandelion is.
I carefully and gently placed the pillow over the old woman’s face and pressed my full weight against the edges. At first, nothing happened, but after about fifteen seconds, Mrs. Dietrich began to twitch and wave her arms, moaning into the pillow. I increased the pressure and clenched my teeth to keep from screaming in pain as her slender fingers dug into my arm. Our struggle lasted for about five minutes, which felt like an eternity. I pressed the pillow with all my might, and she tried to break free, all in complete silence.
“Just die already!” I whispered, and as if obeying, the old hag’s grip began to weaken, and a minute later the smell of empty bowels filled the bedroom. But just in case, I held the pillow for a couple more minutes, just to be sure. Picking up the downy instrument of inhuman murder, I peered into the teacher’s face: his eyes wide open in panic, a grimace of horror—well, death by suffocation isn’t the most pleasant. After briefly admiring the pleasant sight, I glanced at my watch and shook myself; I needed to hurry.
While the body is still soft and pliable, it’s time to get to work: close your eyes, close your mouth, adjust your cheeks a little and force a smile, turn your head slightly to the side. Now that’s a whole new story! Now I’ll thoroughly clean under my nails with rubbing alcohol, just in case, even though the old lady didn’t wear a long manicure. Okay, a rag in my pocket, and I’ll also straighten out the old lady’s arms and legs. The finishing touch—the blanket. I carefully inspect the bed again, looking for my hair or lint from my suit—thankfully, the sheets are white, while I’m all black. Finding nothing, I move a couple of meters away and take another look at Mrs. Dietrich. If I remove the smell of shit, I see a sweetly sleeping old lady, smiling in her sleep. I nod contentedly to myself and head out the door; the pillow still needs to live back on the sofa.
Quietly and unnoticed, I left the damn old woman’s house and ran through the back gardens toward the shelter. I think I’ll still have time to sleep for another hour or so.
***
As the girl disappeared around the corner, a tall man wearing a dark red cape and wide-brimmed hat emerged from the shadow of a tree opposite Mrs. Dietrich’s house. His eyes, hidden behind orange round glasses, glowed crimson, and the night visitor smiled contentedly, baring a mouth full of inhumanly long, needle-like fangs. He chuckled softly and whispered:
– Good girl, perfect for you.
The next moment, there was no one in that place, and the town of Crowley was sleeping peacefully.
