The Ability (Ability, The)

by M. M. Vaughan

  Chris stopped, and all the anger left him.

  “You don’t mean that.”

  “Yes, I do,” said his mother. “I want you out.”

  “What?”

  “I said, I want you out. You’re not welcome here anymore. If you’re so big and clever, you can find your own way. Now . . . get out!”

  She sat back down and picked up the remote.

  Chris stared at her, tears running down his face, and then ran out of the house.

  • • •

  Chris kept running—past his neighbor’s houses, past the locked gates of his old school, across the empty park, past lines of identical houses until, out of breath, he finally stopped. He looked around to get his bearings and realized that he had no idea where he was. It was getting dark, and the streetlights flickered on, casting an amber glow across the deserted street. He sat down on the pavement and shivered, realizing that he hadn’t even stopped to pick up his coat. Wrapping his arms about himself, he tried to think of anybody that he could call and realized that he had nobody—that the only person he did have didn’t want him anymore.

  “Oi!”

  Chris looked up. A group of teenagers was coming toward him on their bikes. Chris stood up.

  The boy at the front, whose face was hidden by a scarf and cap, put his foot down to stop and climbed off his bike. He walked up to Chris and stared down at him.

  “What you doin’?” he asked.

  “Nothing,” said Chris, starting to walk away.

  The boy put his bike down against the pavement and ran to catch up with Chris. Chris didn’t look back but started to walk faster. Behind him he heard the sound of footsteps quickening, and then he felt a hand on his shoulder.

  “I said, what you doin’?” said the boy, still holding onto Chris’s shoulder.

  “I’m not doing anything,” said Chris, trying not to show how scared he was.

  “Looks like you’re on our turf.”

  “I’ll move,” said Chris.

  “Bit late for that. Give us what you’ve got and we’ll call it quits.”

  Chris hesitated, then pushed the boy’s hand off him and turned to run.

  “Get him!” shouted the boy, and Chris turned to see the rest of the group get back on the bikes and begin to give chase.

  Chris jumped over a low brick wall onto a grass verge and began to run along it, but it didn’t take long for them to catch up with him. Before he knew it, he was on the ground and his pockets were being turned inside out. Coins fell out, and one of the boys picked up a rumpled note.

  “A fiver . . . nice. I’ll have that,” he said, and stuffed it into his jacket pocket. “Where’s your phone?”

  “I don’t have a phone,” said Chris, just wanting them to leave him alone.

  “Everybody has a phone,” said the boy, checking Chris’s pockets.

  “I don’t have a phone,” repeated Chris angrily.

  The boys checked the rest of his pockets and realized he was telling the truth.

  “Waste of time,” said one of them, and kicked Chris’s leg. “Let’s go.”

  Chris lay on the ground and watched them leave, cycling off into the darkness. He sat up slowly and rubbed his leg, then stood up and shook the grass and dirt off himself. Bending down, he ran his hand over the grass to see if they had missed any coins, but there was nothing except a crumpled-up white card that he didn’t recognize. He picked it up and walked over to the light of the streetlamp and saw Miss Sonata’s name. It was all he had.

  After a while he found a phone box and dialed the operator.

  “I’d like to reverse the charges, please,” said Chris.

  “What number are you calling?”

  Chris read out the mobile phone number on the card.

  “And your name?”

  “Christopher Lane,” he said, and waited as the phone began to ring.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello, I have a call from Christopher Lane. Will you accept the charges?”

  “Yes,” said Miss Sonata, and there was a pause.

  “Thank you,” said the operator. “Your call is being put through.”

  Chris waited, and there was a click.

  “Christopher? Are you okay?”

  Chris opened his mouth to speak, but instead he started to cry.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Chris wiped the tears from his face.

  “I don’t know. Mum threw me out and I’ve just been mugged.”

  There was a pause.

  “I’m coming to get you. Look around you, can you see anything—a road sign?”

  Chris scanned his surroundings and saw a sign up ahead on a low wall.

  “Cambridge Place,” he said.

  “I’ll be there in ten minutes. Don’t move.”

  Chris put the phone down and went out onto the street.

  • • •

  “There you go, love,” said Maura, and placed a large mug of steaming hot chocolate in front of Chris.

  “Thank you,” said Chris.

  “Miss Sonata’s just organizing for someone to go round to your house and tell your mum that you’re here. She’ll be back in a moment. Now, drink that down you, pet; it’ll warm you up. I’m going to make your bed up and get you some dinner—you must be famished.”

  Chris nodded.

  “Well, I won’t be too long. Miss Sonata will bring you downstairs in a moment.”

  Maura left the room and closed the door behind her before Chris had a chance to ask her what was downstairs. Not wanting to think too much, Chris looked about for something to distract him, but the office was still as bare as it had been the last time he’d sat here—there were still no books on the shelves, and the desk and chairs were still the only items of furniture in the room. To kill time, he started to count the coffee cup stains on the table, until he was interrupted by the sound of the door opening once more. He turned around, expecting to see Miss Sonata, but instead Sir Bentley entered the room. He walked over to Christopher and shook his hand.

  “How are you?”

  Chris shrugged his shoulders. “Okay, I guess.”

  “I came as soon as I heard.”

  “Sorry,” said Chris, feeling embarrassed at being the cause of so much disruption.

  “Not at all. We were all still working—everything’s been rather rushed to make sure we’re ready for tomorrow. But first we need to work out what to do with you. What do you want to do?”

  Chris thought for a moment. “Can I still come to school here?”

  Sir Bentley nodded.

  “Yes, the place is still yours if you want it—it won’t be too difficult to arrange that. But I should say, Chris, that as much as we would like you to be a pupil here, that is by no means your only option. We could make some phone calls and find you somewhere to stay while this”—he paused, choosing his words carefully—“situation with your mother is sorted out.”

  “I want to come to school here,” said Chris without hesitation.

  “Are you sure? You seemed quite hesitant earlier this week, and if you came here, we’d need you to be prepared to throw yourself fully into your studies. Do you understand what I mean?”

  Chris looked up at Sir Bentley.

  “I will work harder than everybody else here. I will work twenty-four hours a day, if you want me to.”

  Sir Bentley smiled.

  “I don’t think that will be necessary—but I like your enthusiasm. So it’s agreed, you will be joining us as a pupil here?”

  Chris nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  “Very well, then,” said Sir Bentley and offered Chris his hand. “Welcome to Myers Holt.”

  Chris shook his hand and then watched as Sir Bentley took out some papers from his briefcase and leafed through them until he came to the one he was looking for. He pulled it out and placed it in front of Chris.

  “This is the Official Secrets Act. I explained the other day that you may come into contact with some confidential informa
tion. Therefore, we require all our pupils to sign this. It means that you agree not to discuss anything sensitive that you learn here. Read through it and sign here, if you agree.”

  Chris quickly scanned the page and picked up a pen lying on the desk and signed it.

  Sir Bentley took the page and returned it to his briefcase, then pulled out a small machine.

  “Finally, we don’t use keys here—so I’ll need your thumbprint. Place your thumb here.”

  Chris placed his thumb on the pad of the machine and watched as a red light scrolled up the pad.

  “Wonderful! Now, I’m sure that Maura’s rustled up some delicious food for you. Let’s go get you some dinner.”

  Sir Bentley stood up, and Chris followed him out of the room and across the hallway. He waited while Sir Bentley opened a door and switched a light on. There was a flicker as the fluorescent strip lighting warmed up to reveal a small kitchen. Chris looked confused but followed Sir Bentley, who motioned for Chris to pass him and stand by the sink.

  Sir Bentley closed the door and walked over to the kettle on the middle of the work surface.

  “Tea?”

  “Um, no, thanks,” said Chris.

  “Very well, then, I’ll do the honors.”

  Chris watched as Sir Bentley pressed the button on the side of the kettle. There was a click followed by a blue flash, and then the room began to shake.

  “What . . . ?”

  “No need to be alarmed,” said Sir Bentley, chuckling. “The room is a elevator. Activated by my thumbprint when I press the kettle’s switch. Ingenious, I think you’ll agree. Boils water, too,” he added, looking rather pleased with himself.

  Chris was too shocked to comment. Instead he held on to the side of the sink as he felt the room fall suddenly and then begin a thirty-second descent before coming to a smooth stop. The switch in the kettle clicked back into the off position, and steam poured out of the top.

  Chris watched curiously as Sir Bentley opened the door to the sound of faint classical music. He couldn’t quite believe that they had really moved, but sure enough Sir Bentley stepped out to reveal a spacious, bright entrance hall with closed doors leading from it on all sides. Chris walked out onto a dark green carpet decorated with gold fleurs-de-lis.

  “Good for the brain,” explained Sir Bentley, referring to the music, “and it masks the sound of the underground trains above us.”

  “Wow,” said Chris. He was about to ask how far belowground they were, when he was interrupted by the sound of a door opening. Chris looked over to see Ron, the security guard from the other day, enter the room, still wearing sunglasses, followed by John, who had to stoop low to pass under the doorway.

  “Ah, John, Ron. You remember Christopher from the other day,” said Sir Bentley, putting his hand on Chris’s shoulder.

  They nodded in unison.

  “He’ll be joining us at Myers Holt,” said Sir Bentley.

  “We weren’t expecting any pupils tonight,” said Ron, looking Chris up and down.

  “He’s starting a bit early,” said Sir Bentley. “The rest will be here tomorrow at midday as planned.”

  John nodded, but Ron didn’t look quite as appeased.

  “If you don’t mind me saying, sir, this is a bit of an inconvenience. I haven’t got all the security-clearance paperwork ready.”

  “You’re very capable, Ron; I’m sure Chris won’t mind if you just ask him a few questions and he can do the paperwork tomorrow with everyone else.”

  “Very well, sir. We’ll only be a few minutes,” said John.

  “Excellent,” said Sir Bentley. “Call me when you’re done; I’ll be in my office.”

  Chris watched as Sir Bentley walked off toward the same corridor through which Ron and John had entered.

  “Right,” said John, “we just need to have a look through anything that you’re bringing in.”

  “Where’s your bag?” asked Ron, walking round the back of Chris.

  “I, um, didn’t bring anything,” said Chris.

  “Hmm . . . very suspicious,” said Ron, lifting up his sunglasses and staring directly into Chris’s eyes. “We’re going to ask you some questions now, and before we begin, it might interest you to know that I can smell a lie from fifty feet away.”

  “Honestly, I’m not carrying anything,” said Chris.

  “We’ll be the judges of that,” said Ron, stepping back. “John, do you want to start?”

  “Really, Ron?” asked John. “The boy’s not even wearing a jacket.”

  “That’s precisely the kind of thinking that gets people killed, John,” said Ron.

  “Oh, for goodness’ sake,” said John, turning to Chris. “Fine. Are you carrying any weapons—knives, guns, bombs, or anything else like that?” asked John.

  Chris shook his head. “No.”

  “Excellent. That’s all we needed to know,” said John, looking satisfied. “Ron—you want to ask anything else, or can I get back to my dinner?”

  Ron looked over at John and glared at him. He turned to Chris.

  “Are you a terrorist?”

  “No,” said Chris, surprised.

  “Have you ever been a terrorist?”

  “Um, no,” said Chris.

  Ron stared at Chris for a few moments. Chris stood awkwardly, not knowing where to look.

  “He’s telling the truth,” confirmed Ron. John rolled his eyes, and Ron turned back to Chris to continue his interrogation.

  “Are you carrying on you any of the following items: gunpowder, dynamite, fireworks, flares, cooking fuel, gasoline, bleach, nitric acid, any radioactive materials, knives of any kind, scissors, firearms, ammunition, screwdrivers, tear gas, or anything else that could be used to inflict injury on another person?”

  Chris shook his head. “I’ve got nothing on me at all.”

  “Turn your pockets out,” ordered Ron.

  Chris pulled the pockets of his trousers out, and Miss Sonata’s business card dropped to the ground.

  “Well, well, well, what’s this? I thought you said you weren’t carrying anything at all,” said Ron, bending down to pick up the card. “I told you I could smell a lie.”

  Chris hesitated. He wondered if Ron was joking with him, but if he was, he was doing a good job of keeping a completely straight face.

  “It’s just a business card. What are you worried about—paper cuts?” said John, rolling his eyes.

  “I know it’s a business card, John, but that’s not the issue,” said Ron. “What if it had been a grenade?”

  “It’s not a grenade, though, is it, Ron?” said John.

  “You’re missing the point, John. It could’ve been a grenade, and if we’d left the security clearance up to you, the first we’d have known about it would’ve been when we got blown up to pieces halfway through our spaghetti Bolognese. I don’t want my brains splattered across the walls. Do you, John?”

  John shook his head slowly, as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing. He turned to Chris. “Don’t take any notice of him; he has trust issues.”

  “Call it what you like, John, but I haven’t been killed yet, have I?” said Ron.

  “Good for you, Ron. Are we done now?”

  Ron nodded, handing Christopher back his card. “I’m satisfied the boy doesn’t pose a threat. I’ll get Sir Bentley,” he said, walking away.

  Moments later Sir Bentley returned and dismissed Ron and John.

  “Hope they didn’t give you a hard time,” said Sir Bentley.

  “It wasn’t too bad,” said Chris.

  “Excellent. They’re good men. The best. They may seem a bit . . . odd, but that’s probably exactly what makes them as good at their jobs as they are. It may take them a while to get used to working with children, but we wanted the very best in security for the pupils here, and that’s exactly what Ron and John are—their military records prove it. You couldn’t be in safer hands. Now, let’s show you around. This is the entrance hall, as you’ve pr
obably guessed, and like the rest of the school it’s been fully refurbished.”

  Chris looked around at the yellow-and-cream-striped walls and the landscape paintings that hung on them. A small seating area in the corner was surrounded by tall plants, which looked quite real, although Chris couldn’t work out how they would survive being this far underground.

  “. . . quite a transformation after being abandoned for thirty years—the last time this facility was used. There’s still some work to do, and the dining room won’t be finished until tomorrow, so I’ll take you into the common room. You can have your dinner in there.”

  Chris followed Sir Bentley through a door to their left and into another similar hallway.

  “These are the student quarters. You’ll spend most of your time here, when you’re not in lessons. The common room is . . . here. We call it the Map Room; I think you’ll guess why,” said Sir Bentley, and opened another door.

  Chris walked in and looked around. The room was lit by the warm glow of a roaring fire in an ornate fireplace and by the various lamps that sat on tables next to four leather armchairs and two enormous dark-brown leather sofas. But what really caught Chris’s attention were the walls: every one of them, including the ceiling, was covered in maps. Looking down, Chris saw that even the design on the carpet was a map.

  “Where are these maps of?” asked Chris, amazed. He had never seen anything quite like it.

  “Maps of all the cities in the United Kingdom,” replied Sir Bentley. “I imagine it won’t be too long before you’ll be able to navigate your way around any of them as if you’d lived there all your life.”

  Chris very much doubted that, but said nothing.

  Sir Bentley turned to Christopher.

  “Have a look around; enjoy. We have had our top interior designer create all the rooms here at Myers Holt to make sure they are as comfortable, and educational, as possible for you all. I must say, I think she enjoyed the task—she’s rather gone to town. I suppose it makes a change from the usual government buildings she works on.”