Maxwell’s Curse Read Online Free Page A

white charger across the quad and hooked it lovingly against the wall of Food Technology.
    ‘Saddle White Surrey for the field today,’ he parodied Olivier’s Richard III as he hobbled towards the side door. ‘Look that my cycle clips be sound and not too tight. What, is my briefcase easier than it was and all my red pens laid into my desk? Ah, morning, Betty.’ Maxwell was himself again. ‘How are your boilers off for spots?’
    ‘Doc’ Martin’s name wasn’t really Betty. Neither did Maxwell know any guilty secret the man might have, perhaps in the silk underwear department. It was just that Maxwell called him Betty after the old English saying, itself a distortion of the Catholic prayer – ‘All my eye of a yarn and Betty Martin’. No one else on the staff was old enough to remember it. As for Betty, the school caretaker, he was perfectly used to Maxwell talking to himself and quoting some crap or other. He was Mad Max. It was as simple as that.
    ‘Fucked up, as usual,’ he told him. ‘Wouldn’t be the start of term without that, would it?’
    ‘Indeed not, Betty. Oh, Happy New Millennium.’
    Mad, Martin mused. Mad as a March fucking hare.
    Maxwell was down the corridor past T Eight, up the stairs and through the library, dripping rainwater from his army cape as he went. Miss Ratcliffe the librarian looked aghast. She’d been dreading the start of term as she always did, because the kids contrived to make her life a living Hell. To see the apparition she did however was the last straw.
    ‘Morning, Matilda,’ Maxwell boomed, sweeping off his saturated tweed cap. ‘You can be sure,’ he stood for a moment to take in the woman’s narrow, sour face, as though she’d just sucked a lemon, ‘that however ghastly we feel, the ducks are loving all this. I’ll be in to talk libraries to you later, fear not. I just love it when you talk Dewey.’
    Miss Ratcliffe had long ago stopped fearing anything from Peter Maxwell, least of all whether he might just, one day, get her name right.
    He splattered along C corridor, where the neon strip was unaccountably flickering on and off. ‘Thank you, Jason,’ he thundered without turning round. ‘I’m sure that when Mr Boston wants a lighting maestro for his next rattling good dramatic production, you’ll be the first he’ll call on. Until then, leave the bloody switch alone, there’s a good pyromaniac.’ Jason flattened himself against the wall until the wake of the Great Man had passed.
    Maxwell crashed into his office and suddenly all eyes were on him. Lon Chaney Jnr stared at the caped crusader from behind his furry makeup as the Wolf Man ; Alan Ladd smouldered at him through the smoke of his Gun For Hire ; and a very badly drawn Orson Welles scowled at him from the poster of the Scottish Film. The cinema was Maxwell’s second love. The decor of his office screamed Hollywood with just a hint of Ealing and Handmade.
    ‘Thingee,’ Maxwell had dropped his dripping cape and sprawled on his soft plastic chair, County Hall, teachers for the use of, with one of Mr Bell’s telephonic apparati in his hand, ‘Happy Millennium. When’s the staff meeting?’
    Thingee wasn’t Pamela’s real name either, but she did have the sure knowledge that Maxwell knew she was Morning Thingee as opposed to her afternoon oppo who was Thingee Too. And it wasn’t really her place, as part-time receptionist at Leighford High, to know such matters that were printed in the school calendar nearly a year before. But she also knew Mad Max.
    ‘Two minutes ago, Mr Maxwell,’ she said.
    ‘Oops,’ the Head of Sixth Form was on his feet. ‘That’s another New Year Resolution gone breasts up. Begging your pardon, of course, Thingee.’
    ‘Mr Maxwell, I’m glad you rang, really. There’s a policeman to see you.’
    ‘Is there, now?’ Maxwell sat down again. ‘Tell me, Thingee, is he tallish, sandy hair, wears a three piece suit and rimless glasses? Could pass for our own dear