Chapter 8
Leaving a dead rat in her room, scaring the shit out of her, was one thing, but physically harming her at this point was wrong. I left the boys at the café and hoped they’d still be there, and fuck, every motherfucker was getting in my way as I walked there.
A group of girls was walking so damn slow, blocking the entire path, so I shot them a loud and sudden, “You stink!” They immediately squealed in fright, and when they turned to look at where the sound came from, I held my nose and growled at them to get out of my way.
Fuck, these chicks are annoying.
“Stink bad,” I yelled, pointing, drawing unwanted attention toward them.
Yeah, I know many folk will assume that I was nuts, the average homeless dude gone mad, but I didn’t care.
I enjoyed it. It was purely performative and knew exactly what I was doing, rather than a man with no filter or no control over his words.
But let them think that I was deranged because then they’d move out of the way when they see me coming.
One of many things I disliked about Castlehill was the lack of vehicles.
If we needed to go somewhere, we had to either walk or take the campus bus, since we obviously couldn’t bring our vehicles on the train, but we bought motorbikes that were stored at The Lud frat house, including a classic Triumph that I made from scratch plus a Suzuki for offroad.
But the downside was that the engine was loud and everyone could hear me coming.
My fists clenched tighter the closer I got to the cafe, and as I walked through the high awning of the castle, it seemed weird how empty it felt, and my footsteps echoed. But the noise of Dingle Street flooded into the empty space as I drew closer to the back entrance.
Damn. The boys were gone, so I messaged Ez asking him to call me ASAP. It took two minutes for his call to come through.
“Bro, I thought we were going to hold off from physically hurting her?” I stressed, leaning against the wall of an empty classroom, my free hand knocking on the wall in frustration.
“What are you talking about? The Boleyn chick?” he acted dumb, which he was good at.
“Yes,” I hissed, “The Boleyn chick. Did you put a razorblade in her cupcake?”
“Why the fuck would I do that for?” he stressed, sounding a little confused, and I could tell he was being honest. It didn’t seem like his style, but maybe Sickle had something to do with it.
“What about Sickle?” I asked.
“Why would he bother when we’ve set you up, bro? The rat and you scaring the shit out of her are all we’ve organized,” he explained flatly. “I mean, you’ve got some more scare tactics up your sleeve, I’m sure.”
“Yeah, of course, but…” I rubbed my tired eyes with the base of my palm after spending last night outside, which I didn’t mind. But I kept waking every time I heard footsteps, then realized no one was there. Fuck, I’m starting to scare myself now.
“Bro, are you seriously sayin’ someone put a razorblade in her cupcake?” It finally hit him.
“Yeah, I mean, how fucked up is that?” I argued, realizing that if it wasn’t him, then who?
“Is she okay?” he asked flatly, as if he didn’t care, but felt the need to ask and show that he had a heart.
“Yeah, but it wasn’t her who ate it. It was someone else. I don’t know who, but it sounds as if they cut themselves on it,” I elucidated.
“Maybe a blade fell on the batter?” he suggested. “And the baker didn’t notice.”
“What? Wouldn’t the baker notice a fucking blade in the wet batter when they scooped it out into the tray?” I argued, wondering where his head was at.
“I don’t know, man, I’m not a fucking expert on baking,” he blurted.
“C’mon, man,” I groaned as a girl with black hair tied in a ponytail, and I thought it was the Boleyn girl at first, but no, I left her at Morgana.
“Dude, the fuck,” he accused me. “Are you hot on her?”
“Who?” I knew who he was talking about. I had to hear him say it.
“The fucking Boleyn girl,” he yelled down the line.
“I only just met her, dude, the fuck you on about?” I shouted back, then caught a glimmer of movement between the castle walls and the building next to it, the sun reflecting off metal and glass.
The train.
“Bro,” I dropped my tone, “the train is here.”
“This early? It’s only midday. Fuck, it doesn’t normally arrive until late afternoon,” he sounded a little rattled. “Cops?”
“Haven’t seen them yet, but this was an early train to get them here ASAP,” I assumed and glanced down the end of Dingle Street to see if there was any movement inside the campus cop shop, who were basically a glorified security guards.
As expected, two cops appeared, pulling their pants up by their belts to look presentable.
They must have received a message and were stepping out to greet them and escort the detective and forensic pathologists around the train carriages where the body was found, further up the tracks behind cordons with security guarding the scene around the clock.
I was going to explore it last night when I was locked outside, but I couldn’t be bothered walking all the way down the valley on the tracks. Maybe I’ll do it tonight.
“Do you know where she is?” Ez asked after a few moments of silence, as I watched the cops walk toward the castle entrance to cross to the other side, where the train tracks are.
“I last saw her in Morgana,” I replied, “she was pretty upset about the other person cutting themselves on her cupcake. You don’t think? Nah, she’s too sweet for that.”
“What?” he pressed, then read my mind. “Do you think she planted the razorblade for the other person to cut themselves on?”
“Yeah, well, she is a fucking Boleyn, ain’t she, so anything is possible,” I replied, going along with the story, even though I didn’t think she did it because she seemed in shock that the other person ate the cupcake that was meant for her.
Honestly, this was starting to sound like one of those murder mystery books, Death by Cupcake. Fuck, I needed to smoke a joint.
“True dat,” he agreed, then made a sound like he was smacking his gums. Then I heard Sickle’s voice in the background ask, “The fuck that?” “Lev,” Ez answered Sickle, before adding to me, “The product of her fucked-up daddy, who I think hates her, or else he wouldn’t have sent her here.”
Sickle in the background, “Her fucked up daddy should be ten feet under.”
“Unless he didn’t know,” I argued as the cops vanished into the blanket of shadow inside the castle, as students watched them so, knowing something was brewing. If they read the email from the faculty, they’d know exactly what was coming.
My eyes were fixed on the first-floor window where someone moved across my view, indicating that the library was open.
“She’s pretty, bro,” Ez spoke quietly so Sickle couldn’t hear, then fell quiet waiting for me to agree, but I refused to.
“Hadn’t noticed,” I lied to keep up the pretense.
Nice ass. Pretty, freckled cheeks. Intelligent, humor-filled eyes.
I mean, she wasn’t a knockout, but pretty—like she had to be right in front of you to notice her.
Covering her face and head with large shades and a baseball cap didn’t help her cause, but then hiding seemed to be her point.
Nice hair, an unusual raven black that I wondered was out of a bottle, but suited her nonetheless.
“I need to speak to her about the train,” he said sullenly, telling me what I already knew.
“You said you tried,” I pressed, smiling because he got done by the girl and it was funny as fuck.
“Yeah, but…she…bit me,” he confessed, amused, and I sniggered.
“Bro, the cops are here, so you better get on with it, while I continue to scare the shit out of her,” I urged as I crossed the road to the back entrance of the castle.
“Alright, I’ll chase her up later on today or tonight. Message me when you know she’s def home and I’ll come down,” he requested, sounding distant.
“Yup. Anyway, I’m gonna watch the cops for a bit,” I stated as I came to the foot of the stairs leading up to the first floor of the library.
“Gimme an update if you notice anything interesting,” he said, chomping in my ear.
“The fuck you eating?” I blurted.
“Cake,” he replied. “Carbo loading, bro, for hockey season.”
I rolled my eyes because hockey doesn’t start for months, and he just ate Sickle’s slice earlier. Fuck, the dude is a bottomless pit, always shoveling back whatever is in front of him. “Sure, bro.”
He then chuckled snidely, “Not cupcake with an incriminating piece of metal in it, proper cake.”
“Bad joke,” I hit back because it wasn’t something to laugh about.
“Don’t soften up on us, bro,” he said lightly, still chomping so it was impossible to take him seriously.
“Whatever,” I swiped off and ran up the stairs, passing the librarian at the front desk, and headed straight for the huge stained-glass windows that overlooked the railway track and the front entrance of Castlehill.
This train was a small load of only three carriages, which I hoped didn’t all contain police, because damn, we didn’t want the entire college swarming in them. We still had to go to class and party and shit, so having them snooping would dampen our lives until this mess was over.
The campus police stood outside one carriage, and as each officer or investigator stepped off, they shook hands, trying to act professionally in front of their superiors, then had a friendly chat at the station with hands on their hips.
When people started disembarking from the other two carriages, I was surprised to see that they were students. I thought the faculty had delayed the arrival of more students until the police were settled in. They looked like seniors, so maybe they received special approval.
Four familiar faces poured off the last carriage and laughed aloud in jest, swiping my contacts for Sick’s number.
Me: Guess who’s back?
Sick: Eminem?
Me: What no. Guess again.
Then I realized he meant the old Eminem song, Guess who's back, back again? Shady's back, tell a friend.
Fuck. Bro. Now I’m going to have that song in my head.
Sick: Tell me.
Me: Yorkies.
Sick: You’re fking kidding me.
Me: No.
Sick: Gonna be a good year, bro.
He was being sarcastic when we had a campus war with the Yorks last year, to the point that the faculty asked them to transfer to another college.
Of all the colleges they could have gone to, driven by their wealthy parents’ money, they still came back to Castlehill.
So, this year is going to be more exciting than we thought with the cops, the Boleyn girl, and whatever else pops up.
I still have a scar from a knife fight on my forearm, and Ez got a broken nose and lost a tooth.
Sickle always made it through fights without injuries, apart from the occasional bruise, like he’s made of kryptonite or something.
Anyway, the Yorkies came out worse in every fight.
Well, that’s how I saw it. They probably had a different view of how each fight went and saw themselves as the winners.
Ez: Sick just told me, Yorkie boys are back! Lol
Me: Yep.
Ez: Do u think the Boleyn chick knew all along?
Was I missing something here? What did the Yorkie boys have to do with her?
Me: What do u mean?
Ez: The chick’s father married their aunt.
Wait. What? Let me get this straight.
Me: The Boleyn girl’s mother is the Yorkie boys’ aunt?
Ez: Stepmother.
Me: No shit.
Small world. Maybe it's a marriage of convenience? There seemed to be something strategic about everything, yet it didn't make sense to send his precious daughter into a warzone if Mr. Boleyn truly loved her.
After the passengers from the train disappeared with their luggage, I turned to leave, only to notice the name Ashthorn on the spine of an old leatherbound book.
There was a small section of books dedicated to the architecture and history of Castlehill, and most of them I had read before, but not this book. Ashthorn: Myths and Legends.
I took the book off the shelf and flipped through the pages, and it seemed like a book written on fables and myths, like the title suggested.
But there was a map inside with landmarks that made it interesting.
I doubted it would give me much insight into who my great-grandfather was, but it was worth a shot anyway.
Tucking it under my arm, I scanned it out, then walked to the stairs to find brothers James and Declan York walking along the thoroughfare through the castle.
Standing on the top step, I barked like a Yorkshire terrier, echoing through the spacious building and drawing everyone's attention.
When the fair-haired fuckers looked up, I saluted and shouted too cheerfully, “Top of the morn to ya, lads,” and unsurprisingly, they gave me a scowl and the middle finger for my efforts.
Sickle was right.
It’s going to be a good year.