Author: EnglandBabe1997 PM
Or, in which Piers Pomfrey actually uses the gun instead of waving it around.Rated: Fiction K+ - English - Annabelle F. - Words: 1,102 - Reviews: 3 - Favs: 6 - Follows: 3 - Published: 11-29-12 - Status: Complete - id: 8748255
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
I was watching St Trinians 2 last night and this came to mind when I noticed that Sir Pomfrey was holding a gun (I don't think I'd really realised before). If you can think of a better title, please suggest on - I've really been struggling on this one. Please read and review xx
"Oh my god. Shakespeare was a woman." There was a stunned silence in the room, where none of the girls moved or spoke, instead exchanging incredulous looks.
Breaking the silence came the sound of clapping, slow and mocking, designed to taunt and provoke the volatile girls.
"Finally you Fritton's catch on to what we Pomfrey's have known for years." Piers Pomfrey slid slowly out of the darkness of the shadows, a mocking grin on his face and a slim black gun clutched in his hands.
Lucy gasped. What kind of maniac brought a weapon - well, a firearm (St Trinians girls were used to most types of weapons after all) - to a confrontation with a group of schoolgirls?
"We know the truth now. Shakespeare was a woman. And we will tell the world." Annabelle lifted her head, looking him straight in the eyes with the kind of confidence she never would've believed she would have possessed three years ago.
Pomfrey rolled his eyes, twirling his gun slightly before pointing it straight at the Head Girl. "Oh don't tell of me. No, please don't tell on me." He laughed manically. "Who do you think they're going to believe. Me or you?"
Annabelle didn't answer.
"Stop laying with the big kids. Now, hand over the play." Pomfrey tutted and clicked his fingers at her.
There was no response.
"Hand it over!"
"I won't give it to you. It's Fritton property."
"It's Fritton property." Pomfrey mimicked. "I don't care. Hand it over."
Pomfrey mock pouted. "No? It's no fun when you stop playing."
"I'm not playing."
Pomfrey took a step forwards hand it over. "Then let's get serious. Hand it over. Or else."
"Or else what?" Annabelle mimicked sarcastically believing he was all bark and no bite.
"Or else I'll shoot her. The hard way or the easy way?" He pointed the gun at Chelsea, who squeaked in fright and whispered frenziedly, "Give it to him Annabelle. I'm too pretty to die like this."
"I won't give it to you," Annabelle replied, a hard look on her face.
"The hard way then." Pomfrey shook his head disappointedly.
In the silent stillness and the dark, there was an explosive bang.
"What was that?" Zoe asked, panicked.
"A gunshot!" Bianca shouted, sending the other girls into a hysterical frenzy.
Piers grabbed the play, which had been momentarily forgotten and abandoned in the chaos and snuck back out through the entrance in the ensuing commotion.
There was chaos for a few seconds and then total silence as everyone in the room froze, watching Pomfrey disappear back around the corner, play clutched to his chest. After one or two seconds of complete stillness Annabelle slumped to the ground from where she was standing in front of Chelsea, a large patch of crimson spreading rapidly over her blouse.
"Annabelle!" The girls all screamed, Chelsea diving to catch her before she hit the ground, sinking to her knees with Annabelle on her lap, for once not complaining about ruining her favourite top.
"What's happening?" Miss Fritton's anxious and confused voice echoed through the earphone microphones, a hint of panic audible at the uncharacteristic panic visible in the girls voices.
"Pomfrey just shot Annabelle. Get down here now Miss!"
There was a gasp from the other end of the microphone and then nothing but static.
Roxy practically ripped one of the jumpers off of one of the first years, scrunching it into a tight wad and pressing it hard onto Annabelle's stomach, where her shirt was still slowly staining red. Chelsea shifted so that Annabelle was lying on the ground with only her head in Chelsea's lap.
"You need to put pressure on the wound," Roxy said, striving to sound like she knew what she was doing.
"Gave you ever done this before?" Bianca screeched.
"No! Now go and call an ambulance."
"Ambulance?" Bianca seemed slightly confused, and then panicked and scared. Zoe, who looked marginally more in control, left the room at a run to make the emergency call, unable to get the signal down here in the depths of the Globe Theatre.
Lucy, scared but still practical, knelt beside the Head Girl. "Annabelle. Annabelle can you hear me? Keep your eyes open Annabelle. For us. For St Trinians. Hold on a bit longer."
Over Lucy's whispered pleas came the shout of "Annabelle? Annabelle!"
"We're in here Miss," one of the twins shouted.
Miss Fritton rushed into the room. "Annabelle!"
Speaking had drawn attention to the twins and Celia was horrified to realise that some of the first years were actually witnessing this. She immediately sent them all out under the pretence of going to watch for an ambulance. They trailed out each throwing a frightened look around the scene and after a seconds thought, Celia sent Bianca out with them, who was becoming increasingly hysterical.
"What happened?" The headmistress dropped to the floor beside her niece.
"We found out that Shakespeare was a woman and found his - her - last play and then Pomfrey came and threatened us and then shot Annabelle - and took the play."
Miss Fritton had missed most of the details, but had caught the general gist of it. She grabbed for her niece's hand. "She's ice cold."
Annabelle smiled softly at her favourite Auntie.
"Hold on Annabelle. Hold on."
But even as Camilla grasped her niece's hand tightly and sirens blared in the distance, Annabelle's grip slackened and her eyes turned glassy and vacant, like empty windows.
Roxy felt gingerly for her wrist. "She doesn't have a pulse," she said softly after a few seconds.
With that horrific exclamation, Celia and Lucy both burst into tears, along with some of the other girls. One of the girls went into full hysterics and Celia pulled her out of the room, tears streaming down her face
Miss Fritton choked. "Annabelle! Annabelle!" She shook her niece gently, still holding her hand.
But her niece was not coming back - not now, not ever. She had died in this treasure hunt, aged seventeen. And, as paramedics swarmed in, all Camilla could think was that it was her fault.