Down Among the Dead Men Read Online Free Page A

room behind the stage.
    He’d told year eleven that creating a portfolio sounded boring until you realised a portfolio wasn’t a flat case for carrying a mass of drawings, but an opportunity to create exciting things that would never fit into a flat case. He’d taken them to see landscape artworks at Petworth and West Dean. They’d visited the sculpture park at Goodwood and come away with wholly different ideas about creativity. Inspired, they started on projects of their own. Jem worked on a big scale with a leaping dolphin made from driftwood. Mel was collecting pieces of glass worn smooth by the sea and making an exquisite mosaic no bigger than a dinner plate. Naseem was building a Neptune figure entirely from seaweed. Ella’s was a big abstract fashioned mainly from broken lobster pots.
    Some afternoons Tom would drive them in the school minivan to one of the pebble beaches—Bracklesham Bay and Selsey being only ten miles away—and get them scavenging for materials. On these trips he was relaxed about smoking and swearing and he always fitted in a visit to the beach café. He’d chat about almost anything except himself. His personal life seemed to be off limits. And of course the girls took this as a challenge.
    â€œEver come down here at weekends, Tom?”
    â€œFar too busy, Jem.”
    â€œWhat—painting and stuff? How do you relax, Tom?”
    â€œI’m always relaxed. Haven’t you noticed?”
    â€œExcept you’ve got to be sharp when you’re driving. Have you had it long, your MG?”
    â€œSome time.”
    â€œWho chose it—you, or your girlfriend?”
    â€œThat would be telling.”
    â€œGo on—tell us.”
    â€œI’ve always liked sports cars. Most guys do.”
    â€œAnd your girlfriend, does she like it?”
    â€œWho are you talking about?”
    â€œJust now you seemed to be saying there’s someone.”
    â€œI’m pretty certain I wasn’t—and if there was, I wouldn’t.”
    Laughs all round.
    â€œSpoilsport. Is she an artist like you?”
    â€œTalking of artists, Ella, give the others a shout, will you? They seem to be chatting up those skateboarders outside the café and I don’t think we can justify it as performance art. It’s time we started back.”
    In the van, the interrogation started all over again.
    â€œDo you have a long drive home, Tom?”
    â€œNo more than anyone else.”
    â€œWe were wondering where you live.”
    â€œI wouldn’t worry about that if I were you. There are more fascinating topics.”
    â€œSuch as?”
    â€œUnit three of your A level art.”
    Groans.
    â€œI mean it,” Tom said, and started telling them about the personal investigation element of their coursework. The prospect of writing up to three thousand words scared even the boldest of them. A neat way to head off the questions about his home life.
    With so many girls desperate to know, it was inevitable that someone would find out. Ella came into the art room one morning and said, “It’s Boxgrove.”
    â€œWhat is?”
    â€œWhere Tom lives. One of the year nines saw him drive out of the gates of some major estate outside the village.”
    â€œIs he rich, then?”
    â€œGot to be a millionaire, hasn’t he?”
    â€œWhat’s he doing teaching if he’s as rich as that?”
    â€œIt’s a vocation.”
    â€œCome again.”
    â€œLike a mission, making the world a better place through art. He wants to spread the word.”
    â€œYou think?”
    â€œOr he fancies schoolgirls.”
    â€œIf only.”
    â€œI’ve been thinking,” Mel said suddenly.
    â€œListen up, people,” Jem said. “The Chosen One is going to tell us something amazing.”
    Everything went quiet in the art room. Mel was the odd one out, the only girl whose fees were paid by a trade union. She would