Beyond the Shroud

by V M Jones

  But right now I had something just as off limits in mind — something I knew would make me feel a whole lot better, instead of dizzy and sick like the cigarettes. It was the perfect time, with everyone’s attention on the new boy.

  I shoved my way through the scrub behind the shed until I came to the fence. The ground was littered with dented old cans and crumpled sweet papers. It was no one’s idea of a perfect picnic spot, but it was private, so it was a place most of us ended up at one time or another.

  The mesh fence was higher than my head, rusty and warped, although the double strand of razor wire at the top was still sharp enough to slice your hands to ribbons if you tried to climb it. The mesh was dented and kind of collapsed here and there where branches had fallen onto it. Over the years holes had appeared, at ground level mostly, tucked away out of sight. Every now and again they’d be wired shut or patched up by the part-time caretaker, but then they’d pop open again, sometimes in the same place, sometimes in a new one.

  My most recent hole was still there. I wriggled through, stood up on the other side, and dusted myself off. Heaved a huge sigh and headed up and away into the hills behind the house, following the almost invisible paths I knew well enough to have followed in my sleep, leaving Matron and Highgate and the other kids far behind.

  Five minutes later I was perched on my special flat rock, looking out over the patched roof of Highgate far below. My rock caught the late afternoon sun, warm and comforting under the palms of my hands. With a deep sigh of utter contentment I lay back with my hands behind my head and gazed up into the blue sky.

  They say you can’t see stars in the daytime, but I could sometimes glimpse them — almost invisible pinpricks of white in the blueness — if I looked long enough. I lay and searched the sky, drank in the silence and soaked up the solitude like sunshine.

  Matron

  The next day — Monday — Matron was waiting on the porch when I mooched up the drive from school. My spirits were already at an all-time low, but they clicked down another notch.

  ‘I want to see you in my office, Adam. Your hands and face are filthy — wash them first, and put your lunch box away — for goodness sake stop dragging your bag over the gravel, and pick up your feet when you walk.’

  In the boys’ cloakroom I washed my hands and splashed some water on my face. As usual, I didn’t bother to do anything about my untidy thatch of hair, other than shove it out of my eyes. Back it flopped. I glowered at my reflection, and it glowered back. My pale eyes peered out warily from under my dark brows, worry about whatever lay ahead making my mouth turn down. Even to me, I looked like a surly, bad-tempered loser. I sighed. What could Matron want now? For once I hadn’t done anything wrong. Hadn’t the day been bad enough?

  Weevil was in my class. Even worse, he had the desk next to mine — at the very front, where I’d been moved at the beginning of term to be right up under Miss McCracken’s nose.

  Worse still: Weevil was smart. Not just so-so smart: super-smart. We had a couple of real smart kids in the class — goody-good Nicole, who always got top marks and never once had her name up on the board, in all the years she’d been at school. And there was Cameron Harrow, the rich kid with thick specs who worked hard, kept on the right side of the teachers, and always kept me at arm’s length … until we’d got to know each other properly last term, and started to be friends. Turned out neither of them was a patch on Weevil.

  Miss McCracken liked to start the week with a hiss and a roar, so first up, it was maths-test time. ‘A quick revision of the things you already know — or should know,’ she goes, with a steely glance at me. ‘Basic facts, and a quick flip through twenty simple long multiplication and long division sums — nothing tricky, just a warm-up to get the week underway. The questions are up on the board — away you go. No talking … and keep your eyes on your own work, Adam.’

  Well, I meant to. But it wasn’t long before I got totally bogged down — my columns had a life of their own, and I was constantly times-ing the wrong thing, and getting muddled about which numbers I was supposed to add together. After a few crossing-outs, and rubbing out a couple of things even I could tell were wrong, the page looked like a battlefield and I was totally confused. I scraped my chair away from the desk, tilted onto the back legs, and had a stretch. I shot a lightning glance over to Weevil’s desk, in the hope that he was making even more of a dog’s breakfast of it all than I was.

  He wasn’t. Head down, pen poised — so I was still the only one in the class using pencil like a little kid — he was neatly writing down the answer to the last long division question. But the weird thing was, there was no working-out at all — just the sum, with that brackety thing with the line on top, and the answer written up above it, tidy as you like.

  ‘Adam!’ snaps the McCracken.

  Thump! Down went my chair. Looking at the battlefield, I decided I’d better start again. Dug in my desk for my special rubber — the one on the end of my pencil left pink smudges. Found it. Started rubbing the whole mess out. But when I’d finished the page was more of a disaster than ever — the pattern I’d decorated the rubber with had somehow smeared itself over the paper, which was all crumpled from the scrubbing back and forth.

  Sighing, I picked up my pencil for another go. It was blunt. I had another dig in my desk and unearthed my sharpener. Sharpened the pencil up real good; tested it on my finger. Wicked! Put pencil to paper — and out pops the lead, and rolls away on the floor.

  Next to me, McCracken was bent over Weevil’s desk. ‘Now, William, you’ve been very quick. Let’s have a look at your answers. Adam — what are you doing on the floor?’

  ‘Looking for my pencil lead, Miss McCracken,’ I mumble from under the desk.

  ‘Well, get up, sit down, and start work,’ she snaps. ‘You should have two pencils: use the other one, or sharpen the one you’ve got. Now, William … hmmm … yes, yes, yes, yes … and … yes! But where’s your working? You didn’t use a calculator, did you?’ she asked suspiciously.

  ‘No, Miss. I did them in my head.’

  ‘You … oh!’ For once, Miss McCracken didn’t have a comeback … not for a second or two, anyhow. ‘In your head? Well, William … that’s very clever, I’m sure. But you do need to show your working. Marks are allocated for method in this school.’

  I shot a glance at Nicole, to see how she felt about the new class brain-box. But she had her head studiously down, checking her answers.

  As for me — finally, I’d got my pencil sharpened properly. The show was about to hit the road! Laboriously, I wrote the number ‘1’ in the margin, the full stop neatly next to it.

  ‘Right, everyone, pens down,’ raps out McCracken. ‘Let’s see how you’ve all done. Hands up for the answer to number one.’

  And so the day went on. Weevil’s hand, with its smooth, clipped nails, was always first in the air with an answer … and the answer was always right. Not that I cared.

  And now a visit to Matron. And I knew one thing for sure: whatever it was, it wouldn’t be good.

  Reluctantly, I knocked on the office door.

  ‘Come in.’

  Matron was at the desk, filling in some kind of a form. As usual, she totally ignored me. After a minute or two — still without looking up — she barked, ‘Don’t slouch. Stop fidgeting and take your hands out of your pockets.’

  Eventually she looked up. You’ve never seen eyes like Matron’s: flat and hard as flint, with about as much warmth. There were these sharp lines from her nose to her mouth, as if she was constantly smelling a bad smell. Often — especially in the winter — there’d be this little drip trembling on the very end of her nose. She wore bright red lipstick that came off on her teeth, like she was some kind of a vampire — that’s what I used to think when I was little. She was skinny as a stick, with loose grey skin on her neck, like a lizard, and her breath smelt of drains, overlaid with onions.

  ‘I have received a letter from Mr Quested in Winterton, inviting
you for the holidays.’

  I nearly fell over. My mouth dropped open so my jaw practically hit the floor. My heart did a triple somersault, and this mammoth grin pasted itself all over my face. ‘Really?’ I croaked.

  Matron sniffed. ‘Yes, really. It is hard to believe, but nonetheless, it is the case — although he has met you previously and should be fully aware of who — and what — he is taking on. And frankly, Adam, I would be glad to be rid of you for two weeks.’

  Two whole weeks?

  I couldn’t believe it. ‘You’re going to let me go?’

  Twelve years of history hovered like ghosts in the musty air between us. Not once in all those twelve years had she ever made a decision that might possibly make me happy. And now — this.

  My first reaction — excitement, joy, amazement — was settling down to a more realistic one — disbelief, suspicion, distrust.

  ‘Certainly, I am going to let you go. Why should I possibly want to keep you here when you have such an exciting opportunity, Adam?’ She spat my name out like it was something rotten.

  Silence. I waited — I didn’t know what for, but I knew there’d be more.

  Matron looked down again, flipped over her form, and uncapped her pen. I shifted and shuffled my feet, wondering whether I should go.

  I’d reached the door when the single word came after me, like an icy dart. ‘Unless …’

  I turned back, my heart settling in my stomach as if it were made of lead.

  ‘Unless you behave in such a manner that you oblige me to cancel this privilege. I am a reasonable woman, Adam: a charitable, generous woman, as well you know. Naturally, I have your best interests at heart.

  ‘There are three weeks until the beginning of the holidays. Three weeks in which you will prove to me that you are worthy of this invitation, and can be relied upon to be a credit to myself and to Highgate while you are away.

  ‘I am giving you a chance. Not one, not two, but three chances. We shall see whether, for the remainder of term, you are able to stay out of trouble. If you are, well and good. You go to Quested Court. Slip up once, or even twice, and still you go. But slip up three times … and you stay right here.’ She smiled. ‘Do you understand?’

  I stared at her, trying to see a glimmer of what was going on behind those cold eyes. Did she really want to get shot of me for two weeks? Was she trying to use the visit as a lever to guarantee my good behaviour? Or was she playing some elaborate game of cat and mouse that she knew she’d win?

  I nodded dumbly, looking as hangdog as possible. Because I figured that was exactly what she was doing. She’d done it before — nothing was ever simple with Matron; she got her kicks in subtle ways. But this time, she’d been too clever. I had a trump card up my sleeve. The new, freshly minted, newly invented, totally reformed Adam Equinox: an Adam so unlikely, so impossible, there was no way she could possibly guess he even existed. The Adam who was learning to turn away from trouble every single time. I knew I could do it. Looking as miserable and surly as possible, I shuffled out of the door … but the minute it closed behind me, I raised one fist in a triumphant gesture of victory: YES!

  At the door of the rec room Weevil was watching me, his eyes sharp and inquisitive.

  My gladiator project

  I pushed past him into the rec room. Mondays and Wednesdays were my allocated days for the computer — I was only allowed to use it for half an hour, and only for homework. My meeting with Matron had eaten a big chunk out of my computer time, so I’d need to be extra quick to make up.

  Although weekdays between three and four were officially supervised playtime, my computer time was from three to three thirty. For anyone else, it would have been the worst possible time — right after school, with no time to relax in between. Also, it meant you had to rush straight back, no dawdling, and even then you’d always lose a couple of minutes — all reasons I’d been given that particular slot, of course.

  But it suited me perfectly. I got peace, privacy and a precious chance to do my own thing with no one peering over my shoulder.

  I slid onto the grey plastic chair, whipped the sheet off the computer onto the floor and switched it on. Hang on a sec, though — I hastily grabbed the sheet back, folded it up as tidily as I could, and put it on the table as if it were made of glass. Grinning inwardly, I gave myself a mental pat on the back. Matron wasn’t going to catch me out, not with the tiniest thing — not when so much depended on it.

  With a quick glance over my shoulder to check no one had snuck up behind me, I tapped in my private, super-secret password — the one Q had helped me set up before I left Quested Court. I hadn’t told him much about Highgate, but he was one of those people who didn’t need to be told things to understand them. In his usual mild, absent-minded way he’d suggested that with other people using the computer, privacy might be an issue. He’d told me to choose a password I’d be sure to remember, and keep it completely secret, even from him.

  I’d thought long and hard about what to choose. It had to be something really cast-iron; something super-cool and special to me. It had to be something no one would ever guess — not in a zillion years.

  There it was on screen: ***********.

  Wicked!

  Quickly, I checked my mailbox. Maybe there’d be something from Q.

  There was!

  hello adam hope all is ok have written to mrs whatnot asking you here for holidays hope it wont cause any problems wed love to have you especially h who is getting chubbier and cheekier by the day she has something to show you but i will say no more must dash q

  It was the way Q always wrote — the way his mind worked, I guess. I tapped out a reply, quick as a flash — my typing had come on a blue streak over the past few weeks.

  Thancks a zilyon Q and gess wot I CAN CUM!!!!!!!!!!! C U soon!!!!!!!!!!! Adam

  Zapped it off.

  Checked the clock. Yeah — I just about had time, if I was real quick. I tapped in the first two letters of Richard’s name, and the computer filled in the rest.

  Hey ther Ritch, I typed hastily. Hows it gowing? Gess wot — Im gowing to sta with Q and hanna 4 the hollidays!!!!!!!!!! Iyll miss yoo guys thow — just imajin if we got 2 go 2 karazan agen! Not mutsh chans of that thow! Sumtims I cant beleev it rearly happnd can yoo. Rite soon from Adam E.

  Blat! Away it went. Darn — only five minutes left!

  Quickly, I hopped off the Internet — fully paid courtesy of Q, access restricted to me and protected by my password, all unknown to Matron — and called up my gladiator project.

  For a long moment I sat back and gazed at the title page with this goofy little smile. I scrolled carefully down, looking for where I’d left off last time. Scrolled down page … after page … after page. I couldn’t believe how long it was! Looking at that project, you’d never in a zillion years have guessed it had been done by Adam Equinox, class blockhead.

  We’d been given the assignment at the beginning of term. We had the whole term to work on it, the McCracken told us, and she expected a top job. ‘At least five pages — and preferably legible, and bearing some relation to the topic, Adam Equinox.’

  Well, was she in for a shock!

  Before, I’d have shoved the worksheet right to the back of my desk and forgotten all about it — until Nicole or someone ‘happened to mention’ how many hundred pages they’d done, on the day it was due.

  But this time I got stuck in straight away. I made up my mind to do a little bit each time I used the computer. Right at the beginning I typed in ROMAN GLADIATORS and hopped on the Internet to see what I could find — and after a couple of false starts it was like an open sesame to a whole new world. I got so hooked into the whole thing I even cruised by the school library to see what books I could find, so I could carry on with it at weekends. The librarian had acted kind of startled, looking at me as if I was an alien from another planet. Which in that library, I guess I was.

  By now, weeks down the track, it was a total masterpiece. It ha
d special headings, and it was illustrated with pictures from the graphics library Q had installed. I’d even numbered the pages with Roman numerals — that idea had breezed into my head one night when I couldn’t get to sleep.

  Every session before I quit I ran it through Q’s special Spell Checker and Grammar Fixer, to make double sure there were no mistakes. It worried me how many it seemed to find, and I sometimes wondered if there was a fault in the programme. I couldn’t wait to see the McCracken’s face when she saw it, and read my name on the front page.

  Today, I was doing a section called The Venatio, about a special kind of combat to do with hunting and killing exotic wild animals. I’d just started typing — pecking away with two fingers, but way faster than when I’d started — when someone spoke behind me, so close his breath tickled the back of my neck.

  ‘You can do more exciting stuff than that wiff computers if you know how.’ I practically jumped through the ceiling. I knew who it was without turning round — I’d know that voice anywhere, with its distinctive little lisp. Weevil.

  I scowled at him. ‘Shove off. I’m busy.’

  He ignored me. ‘A lot more.’ He craned his neck to see what was on the screen. I shifted so my body was shielding it.

  ‘I mean it. Leave me alone.’

  But he pulled up another chair and sat down with his arms across the back, resting his chin on them. ‘I know all about you,’ he said cosily. ‘How you won that competition, and went to Quested Court and everyfing. I entered too — nicked an entry form from a girl in my class. Computers — they’re my fing. I could have learned heaps on that course. But I didn’t get picked: you did. What a waste — you’re as thick as peanut butter. Tell you what, though: it’s not what you know, it’s who you know that counts. You know the right people — people like Quentin Quested. That’s why I want to be your friend. How about it? Want to be mates, you an’ me?’