Spiders

by Tom Hoyle

  Megan then shoved him with what she was holding. With all her might. It was only a broken wooden sleeper, not quite half of one, and it nudged the man less than two inches. But once Megan had pushed him those two inches, she fought with all her might to keep him there, pressed against the live rail.

  Sparks flew off his metal pole as it rested on the track, and the man writhed in electrified agony.

  Megan’s piece of wood insulated her from the electricity. Then she understood that the current was holding the man to the rail and she realized the horrific thing she had done.

  Pale lights shone on his even paler face. The man was rigid. Dead.

  CHAPTER 35

  SPIDERS AND FLIES (SATURDAY 20TH DECEMBER 2014)

  Adam dared do nothing more than tilt his head to the left. There was only one person in the car, and he made the sounds that people do when unaware they’re being overheard. A sniff, a little cough, jangling of keys. Adam breathed slowly with his mouth open – completely silent.

  There was scuffling across the floor and a door opened and closed. Then a tock and the garage was dark and silent.

  Adam still didn’t move. He was unsure what would happen if he just stayed where he was and let events run their course. The kids trapped in the cavern would certainly die. He didn’t want that to happen. A lot of stupid cult members would also die. He didn’t really want that either. He shuffled from under the car, wincing at his grazed back.

  The light came on as soon as he stood up – Adam froze, a second spent working out where to hide – but the garage was empty apart from himself and four cars.

  He had no idea what was beyond the inner door. Abbie had taken it for granted he would get into the storeroom. After a couple of false starts summoning up his courage, Adam eased it open for an instant, just enough to peep through. He saw glimpses of a washing machine and a large chest freezer. A utility room with a tumble dryer, two ironing boards . . . For all the group’s lunacy, it still needed the ordinary domestic paraphernalia of a hotel.

  He entered and tiptoed forward to another door – and heard voices. He was listening carefully when, without any warning, the door flew open and he had to arch to the right to avoid being hit, narrowly missing a mop and metal bucket. His hand felt for the wooden pole – not that it would be a very useful weapon.

  But the person didn’t enter the room. Instead they gave an excited message to unseen people: ‘Bolleskine is going to talk to us all.’

  For a few seconds Adam heard the rustle of movement.

  Slowly silence fell, and Adam opened the door on to the corridor outside. He could hear very distant applause and faint laughter, then quiet followed by more applause. They were all listening to Bolleskine.

  Adam craned his neck out and peered left and right. He crept towards the kitchen, following Abbie’s directions, and put his hand on the door. If there were people on the other side, he would have nowhere to run.

  Slowly, creaking and rasping slightly against the floor, the door opened to reveal a large but empty kitchen.

  Abbie said that the drug was kept in a large locked cabinet on the left-hand side. He had to break in and either hide it or get rid of it, ideally by washing it down the sink.

  To his delight, the cupboards Abbie had told him about were open. But as he leaped forward, he saw, to his dismay, that they were also empty. He put both hands to his mouth to stifle his cry of despair. This had all been for nothing. Perhaps they were using the poison right now.

  Then he saw the thirteen jugs. One smell of the peppery liquid inside was enough to tell him what he had discovered. This was the drink that would bring death to the kidnapped children and Bolleskine’s followers – the drink that Bolleskine said would take them to the Golden Planet.

  Adam couldn’t hear it, but at that moment Bolleskine was inviting everyone to drink in honour of the arrival of the Valdhinians. The ceremony would whisk them away to the promised planet. No one was now allowed to leave. Members of the Inner Guard stood at the locked exits. Adam was unsure how many knew they were drinking to their death and how many were being tricked. But they would all die.

  Vee and six others were asked to bring up the ceremonial drink – the last drink of this world. Water mixed with the drug and other poisons.

  Adam frantically poured the liquid away, but it was only after the first couple of jugs had been emptied that he thought of filling them with clean water.

  Eight had been emptied and five filled as Vee started down the stairs to the kitchen.

  Thirteen empty. Eight filled.

  Then Adam thought of the peppery smell. Collecting a small pot from the other side of the kitchen and skidding across the floor, Adam erratically shook some pepper into the water, blowing away what fell on the work surface, and swilling the liquid with his dirty fingers.

  Was there more poison?

  Too late –

  Excited voices grew louder as they approached the corridor outside the kitchen. Adam was now trapped.

  He looked around in panic for somewhere to hide. The windows were too high and too small for him to get through. The door to what looked like a walk-in larder rattled against a lock. There were two fridges full of racks and what little food was left; the oven was a huge device, but not large enough for him; the bin came up to his waist, but one glance inside showed it was nearly full.

  Panic sharpening – and then clouding – his frantic mind, Adam was about to grab a knife and try to get into a cupboard when he noticed the dumb waiter. This was a very small lift used to take food up one floor, and it looked just – perhaps – the right size. Dropping the pepper, placing what was already in the dumb waiter – a tray of cutlery – on to the nearest work surface, Adam clambered inside and gently shut the metal door.

  Vee and the six others came into the kitchen to collect the jugs. Tangled up in the thrill of the moment, they didn’t consider checking the containers, neither did they notice specks of pepper dust on the worktop. Their conversation even masked the metallic squeaking of Adam’s hiding place.

  Adam ignored the searing pain as he forced his legs against his chest and pressed his head between his knees inside the tiny space. There was silence again.

  Upstairs, the followers were neatly assembled in ranks. ‘It will not be long before we see the lights of the ship coming to take us to our new home,’ said Bolleskine, arms outstretched.

  In the kitchen: empty silence.

  At the top of the building, in Bolleskine’s room, shackled and waiting for their own ceremony with Bolleskine, were twelve chosen children – the most talented of their generation.

  Adam was thinking about getting out and trying to inspire some sort of rebellion, when he heard someone approaching.

  This time Vee, returning for nothing more than another tray to distribute glasses, spotted the evidence of folded leg visible between the doors of the dumb waiter.

  Adam couldn’t see her approach – not that there was any possible escape. He only heard the doors snap shut and then a whining sound as he was sent upward. The tiny lift fought to raise Adam’s weight, cords and mechanism straining, and eventually delivered him to the floor above.

  Adam stayed still, hoping there had been a mistake, but hoping more that he wasn’t trapped here, inside such a small space, unable to move. He held in a scream.

  But soon the doors snapped open, and Bolleskine was there – relaxed and apparently friendly, as if Adam’s extraordinary arrival was the most normal thing in the world. ‘It seems that you have arrived just in time,’ he said.

  In the distance, Adam could see a handful of people queuing up to drink the liquid that he had switched. He was dragged from the small lift and bundled away with a hand over his mouth. He tried to bite and kick and thrash around, but was lifted up and saw walls and ceilings pass.

  Then paintings . . .

  And finally he saw his own reflection. He had arrived in Bolleskine’s mirrored office.

  ‘If only you fully understood .
. .’ said Bolleskine. ‘You are the boy who fulfilled the prophecy. If he outgrows his thirteenth year, he will destroy Coron and The People . And you did.’

  Adam struggled again as he was forced on to the thirteenth wooden chair and held on either side.

  ‘And it was one second after midnight that the prophecy was fulfilled,’ Bolleskine continued. ‘You are the chosen one. You will lead us on to the Golden Planet.’

  One of Adam’s hands was cuffed to the chair.

  He saw the twelve other children from the cavern. Shackled and exhausted, their fight gone. They looked confused and submissive.

  ‘NO!’ shouted Adam. ‘If I am to drink my death, it must be done willingly. It has always been said that I must choose my own destiny.’ Adam tugged on the one hand that was chained. ‘I command that you release me.’ He glared at Bolleskine. ‘I will not run. I came into this building by choice.’

  Slowly Bolleskine nodded at one of the men. A small key unlocked the metal clasp around Adam’s wrist.

  Adam sat calmly with his hands behind his back. ‘I will drink first, and if anyone doesn’t drink with me . . .’ He looked at the gun that the man on his right was holding. ‘Then shoot me.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Bolleskine, taking the weapon.

  ‘I won’t commit suicide!’ It was Max, the young physicist, hysterical with the desperate terror of death. ‘I won’t do it.’

  ‘We must drink,’ said Adam, ‘or he will use it.’

  Bolleskine nodded, laid the gun flat on the table in front of him, and picked up a silver goblet filled with liquid. ‘You are thirteen: Adam and twelve disciples. And this is your Last Supper.’ With a smile, he raised the chalice.

  Three police cars spun off the dual carriageway down the muddy track to Castle Dreich.

  Two army helicopters from RAF Lossiemouth raced down the valley towards the castle. News had travelled urgently from Edinburgh and London.

  ‘This is RFR 2-3-K,’ said one pilot, reporting back to his base. ‘Fog clearing, so we can follow the loch. Over.’

  Downstairs, Vee realized that something was wrong. Those who had drunk first had not begun to feel anything. And no one had seen any Valdhinians.

  It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

  She had to find Bolleskine.

  Adam raised the small silver cup to his lips. He paused. Was it the same liquid as he had switched downstairs?

  Bolleskine nudged the gun with his knuckle.

  Adam closed his eyes and drank the contents – every drop. He nodded at the other children, silently pleading with them to follow suit. After the chalice was refilled, one by one they accepted the liquid. Then the adults drank. And finally Bolleskine.

  Rotors whirred. Lights erratically illuminated the top of the castle.

  Fuzzy messages were sent over the helicopter’s radio. ‘Roger that. We can see the target. Over.’

  The thunderous buzz of helicopters reverberated around Castle Dreich and spotlights shone in through the windows.

  ‘They’re here,’ said Adam.

  ‘But . . .’ started Bolleskine, leaping to the door that opened on to steps leading to the roof. ‘Is that . . . ?’ He opened the door and stepped out. Red and white lights swept around the sky. Half excited, half bemused, Bolleskine ascended the steps outside into the cold Scottish air.

  Adam’s eyes met one of the adult’s and they both reached for the gun. Hands slapped on the wooden table. And one person picked up the weapon –

  Adam was fastest. He darted away with the gun and ran after Bolleskine.

  On the small roof section at the very top of the castle Bolleskine was looking upward, dazzled by the helicopters’ spotlights.

  ‘How could you do this?’ Adam shouted, climbing the final steps and waving the gun wildly. ‘How could you do this to so many people?’

  Bolleskine stretched his arms out, opening his chest to Adam. ‘Go on, release me.’

  Above, men were twisting through the air down ropes, buffeted by the wind.

  Adam raised the gun, all the pain of the last year rushing through him and turning into anger.

  Bolleskine closed his eyes. Arms wide. Palms open.

  And the unfired gun spun away over the castle walls, down and down, until it clattered uselessly against rocks. Adam had thrown it.

  Seconds later, police burst in through the main door of the castle.

  Bolleskine, eyes still closed, took a step back, and another and another, nearer and nearer to the walls. It was as the first soldier landed on the roof that he reached the narrow strip of battlements that marked the edge. He opened his eyes and stared at Adam in admiration. ‘I will see you on the Golden Planet. You again prove that you are the chosen one.’ Then he toppled back into the darkness.

  Adam sank to his knees. ‘No,’ he muttered. ‘I’m not the chosen one. I’m just a normal kid.’

  EPILOGUE

  A FEW WEEKS LATER

  Adam and Abbie stopped at the bottom of the stairs, facing one another. They were on their way back to the rest of the group. ‘I never thought we’d end up here,’ she said as a passing policeman smiled at them.

  ‘Thanks,’ Adam said, hugging Abbie. ‘You were great.’

  She held him tightly. ‘See you around.’

  Megan was walking down the stairs, staring, as Adam stepped away from Abbie. He felt inexplicably guilty and shuffled awkwardly.

  Megan avoided eye contact with the departing Abbie. ‘I knew that you fancied her,’ she hissed, ignoring passers-by in suits.

  ‘Meg!’ pleaded Adam through his teeth, catching hold of Megan’s shoulders. ‘You know that’s not true!’

  Nearby adults raised their eyebrows.

  Megan wriggled. ‘How could you?’ She turned her face away from him.

  Adam pulled her closer and twisted so that he could kiss her gently. Slowly she raised her head, and started kissing him back.

  They didn’t hear the others come down the staircase, past the paintings and portraits.

  ‘Megan!’

  ‘Adam!’

  They didn’t hear their parents.

  They didn’t hear Asa’s hoot or Rachel’s slap.

  Nor Leo: ‘I’m so pleased things are back to normal. Not that I mean that’s normal . I mean . . . I was just saying . . .’

  They didn’t see Abbie walk away, off to visit her dad in a nearby hospital.

  There were other laughing adult voices.

  ‘Adam Grant and Megan James,’ said an amused, commanding, rather upper-class voice nearby. ‘Thank you very much for coming to 10 Downing Street.’

  Adam and Megan leaped apart, wide-eyed. ‘Thank you,’ they mumbled together, red-faced with embarrassment. ‘Thank you, Prime Minister.’

  Across London, in a locked room in a secure establishment, Oliver adjusted his pillow. This was his first day without a drip attached to his arm.

  ‘I’m pleased you’re making such good progress,’ said the social worker. ‘With your determination, I’m sure you have a bright future ahead of you.’

  ‘I have much to put right,’ said Oliver, his innocent blue eyes glinting. ‘I’ll certainly never make the same mistakes again.’

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Tom Hoyle is the pseudonym of a London head teacher. Every day he sees first-hand how much competition there is for children’s attention: video games, phone apps, films, music . . . , etc. His sole intention in writing both Thirteen and Spiders was to create ‘an action film on the page’, with something exciting happening in every chapter.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  With great thanks to TWSG, who commented on every section as it was written, and AW, who again was an inspiring overseer. TAS was a helpful early reader.

  Thanks also to Gillie Russell at Aitken Alexander. If it had not been for Gillie, nothing would have reached the printed page.

  Macmillan is a wonderful publisher. Thank you to Venetia Gosling and Helen Bray for editorial changes and remarkable tolerance, Talya
Baker for copy-editing, Fliss Stevens and Tracey Ridgewell for setting and layout, Konrad Kirkham for production, and Rachel Vale for another striking cover.

  I am grateful to all involved in the process who have supported a book written not for them, but primarily for kids.

  Books by Tom Hoyle

  Thirteen

  Spiders

  This book is dedicated to the special few who make me want to be a better man.

  First published 2014 by Macmillan Children’s Books

  This electronic edition published 2014 by Macmillan Children’s Books

  a division of Macmillan Publishers Limited

  20 New Wharf Road, London N1 9RR

  Basingstoke and Oxford

  Associated companies throughout the world

  www.panmacmillan.com

  ISBN 978-1-4472-5047-0

  Copyright © Tom Hoyle 2014

  The right of Tom Hoyle to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

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