by Tom Mitchell
‘I’ve been looking forward to it.’ I could feel warmth under my armpits. Sweat broke from my forehead. ‘It’s not fair, Dad. I’m not Robbie. I don’t—’
‘We’re not talking about your brother. And it’s not a question of fairness. It’s a question of you being on your best behaviour from now until summer. And you can start with these four days at camp. I mean it, Will – not a toe out of line.’
I closed my eyes to block out the world. If there were such a thing as Hell, it would be thinking you were going to see your favourite musician, only for your perfect brother to take your place at the last minute. I literally couldn’t think of anything worse. This was End Times bad.
‘Come on, son. You can take this opportunity to prove yourself. Now, let’s get you checked in.’
And as much as I’d have liked to keep my eyes closed, for four days at least, I opened them. And what did I see? A teenage girl, maybe Robbie’s age, holding a clipboard and wearing a similar uniform to Faulkner’s in the YouTube video. Instantly I felt more uneasy than when we’d pulled up, when I was already feeling pretty much very uneasy. I mean, what if it were a cult? Cults always end badly. You never hear of a happy cult. I’ve read a number of Wikipedia entries and can share links if you’re interested.
‘I’m Lily. And you’re late!’ she said as we got out of the car. ‘You’re missing the induction ceremony!’
She smiled hard, like it wasn’t something her mouth often did. Her hair, black, was in bunches. As I shrugged, still feeling shocked by the NYC bombshell, Dad explained that there’d been a problem with the car. If you exceeded 20 mph, loads of white smoke would come out of the bonnet. It was maybe something to do with the radiator; he wasn’t a mechanic.
You could see that Lily had absolutely no interest in any of this but she continued her hard smiling. I’d have been more embarrassed if I wasn’t still processing what Dad had told me. Maybe I could tweet Q-Tip? He could intervene. What’s fair’s fair.
‘Could I just confirm what electronics your son has brought? We need to ensure the correct devices get put in the safe. We get campers bringing all sorts, you see, and holding on to their own phones, thinking they’re the first to come up with the idea!’
And my super-smart plan was almost over before it began. Because taking Robbie’s portable charger wasn’t the plan; it was only part of the plan. The actual plan was to smuggle in my real phone but hand over my broken old Nokia – which hadn’t worked since the time I dropped it in the toilet while doing some mad texting.
It was a good job that it was Dad dropping me off. He knew so little about tech that he thought an Xbox was something you buried treasure in.
‘Will?’ he asked. ‘Umm … he lives with his mum. I …’ He pulled a face.
I put him out of his misery. ‘A Nokia 105.’
‘Nokia?’ said the girl, writing on her clipboard. ‘They still make them?’ She looked up at me. ‘Okay. You need to make sure you’ve got it with you, but leave your bag with me.’
I deposited my holdall at her feet and tried to look completely chill and not panicked whatsoever.
‘Now off you go to the induction ceremony.’ She didn’t even look at my bag. ‘It’s the start of a wonderful experience. That’s why Lieutenant Faulkner asks everyone to get here for six thirty. You wouldn’t want to miss it.’
Maybe, just maybe, the girl’s smile wavered. And maybe, just maybe, it wavered because the time was six thirty-nine. She pointed to a boardwalk that snaked away through the trees.
I looked to Dad. I wanted to say something about New York. I wanted to ask if what he’d said was for real, if he really would think of giving those tickets, our tickets, to Robbie.
Instead I said, ‘See you, then.’
‘Behave yourself,’ he said. ‘I’m serious. You know what’s at stake. It’s time to grow up.’
As I walked towards the trees, I decided not to be angry. Not to be upset. Not yet. After all, there was a clear way to ensure nothing drastic would happen: stay out of trouble.
All I needed to do was to keep my secret phone undiscovered.
Under the shade of the branches, it was cooler – the natural air conditioning you get in forests. The canopy blocked the sun and, having left the bright afternoon, my eyes had to adjust to the dark shadows. I walked on the wooden boardwalk, a warning to the surrounding trees about life after death. It creaked underfoot and continued in a bend, meaning I couldn’t see where I was heading. This was good because it shielded me from seeing anything that might raise my anxiety. It was bad because not seeing where I was going raised my anxiety. I could, however, hear a dull voice, though I couldn’t make out specific words.
(It wasn’t my inner voice telling me to get out of there, if that’s what you’re thinking. Because that voice wasn’t dull and I definitely could make out specific words: run away, run away!)
As I approached the end of the boardwalk, the forest opened up to a campfire. Or, at least, a circle in a clearing where you’d imagine adults into that kind of thing might chuck petrol on logs. (How did BBQs ever survive the invention of the microwave?)
In the centre, though, instead of flames, was a safe. It was big, the size of an armchair, and made of heavy grey metal. It was also closed, with a handle and a circular dial on its face. A man leant against it, obviously Faulkner. He was wearing that strange uniform, clothes that only ex-army or people without mirrors would ever buy. And shorts that showed too much leg. In front of him, sitting on the floor, in the woodchip dirt, were ten or so kids/addicts. Anxiety demons danced across my chest.
‘And so we don’t return here, to what I like to call the “safe space” –’ he stopped for laughter that never came – ‘until the graduation ceremony. And don’t worry about your electronic devices. They’re perfectly safe in the safe. That’s why it’s called a safe!’ (Again no laughter.) ‘And nobody’s going to be running off with it. It’s too heavy to move. Which is kind of why it’s stuck here, but that’s another story.’
He gurned, running his eyes over the kids, somehow not seeing me. Real-life Faulkner looked older than YouTube Faulkner. Maybe he’d used de-ageing software for the video. (Follow my mum on Insta if you don’t believe this technology exists.)
‘What next?’ he said, and his words dripped with an American accent.
I hovered at the edge of the clearing, not sure what to do. What if I were to hide behind a tree? Could I live undetected in the woods until Dad returned at the end of the week? Probably not. There were other drawbacks too, not least that ‘Lily’ had my bag with the real phone in it. I could just join the group when they got up to leave, tag along at the back. That might be a more practical solution.
‘Noah? Are we awake?’
A tall teenager with thick black hair almost over his eyes, standing behind Faulkner and wearing the same uniform, jumped to attention. He read from a crumpled piece of A4 paper.
‘Settle in. Bunkhouse, Lieutenant Faulkner, sir,’ he said in a voice that ranged up and down in pitch.
As I replayed in my head what Dad had said about getting in trouble, Noah spoke again. And Noah pointed. At me.
‘Sir?’ he said.
Faulkner locked his eyes on to my face.
‘Who’s this lurking in the shadows?’ he said. ‘Where are the perimeter guards? It’s a good job for you, kid, that we’ve no landmines. Had them removed last week.’
I grinned madly, blinking, conscious that everyone was staring. And as anyone who’s ever lived knows, it’s never good to be stared at.
‘I’m talking to you. What do you say? See what I mean about the lost art of conversation, people?’
I scanned the space for answers but could see none. I did find the campers’ turned heads. They were evidently happy they weren’t me. That tends to be people’s reaction generally, but it was majorly amplified now. The only good thing was that I didn’t recognise anyone from school.
‘Yes,’ I said, thinking such a small word c
ouldn’t do any harm.
‘What’s your name?’ asked Faulkner.
‘Will. Will Walker.’
‘Walker, eh? I was saying it’s a good job we removed the mines.’
I nodded. I mean, I couldn’t disagree.
‘I’m joking, Walker. But it doesn’t matter. You know why I hate latecomers so much? Do you, Walker?’
‘No,’ I said, quick to add, ‘sir.’
‘Turning up late suggests my time is less important than yours. It’s rude. And do you know what I do to rude people, Walker?’
‘Kill them?’ I said, not trying to be funny, because trying to be funny would almost certainly mean getting in even more trouble.
Some campers chuckled. Faulkner ignored them.
‘Tell him, Noah.’
‘You educate them, Lieutenant Faulkner.’
‘Yes, I teach them, Walker. I re-educate them. Do you understand?’
I didn’t. But I couldn’t ask for clarification because Faulkner was performing this neat turn, swinging round to crouch in front of the safe, a movement smooth enough to suggest he’d practised it. It was weirdly like a ballerina warming up. His body hid what he did to open the safe, but open it he did. I glimpsed a modest mass of phones and tablets inside. The campers fidgeted to see what they’d thought lost.
‘Give me your devices,’ he said, without turning. ‘On the double.’
I pulled the Nokia from my pocket and walked forward awkwardly, stepping between the cross-legged campers. It reminded me of getting called up from primary-school circle time for a telling-off.
Faulkner’s hands were almost artificially pink, like Mum’s Sunday meat-free gammon roasts. Still crouching, he took the phone. ‘Is this the only electronic device you’ve brought? We’ll check to see if it tallies with the declaration your parent or carer made on arrival.’
Standing this close, and over him, I could see that not only was his hair unnaturally coloured, but that it was thinning too.
‘If I were to send Noah searching through your luggage, he wouldn’t find a second phone, say?’ he asked, positioning my old Nokia, smashed screen and everything, at the very back of the safe.
‘No?’ I said, making my response sound like a question, which meant I wasn’t technically lying.
He told me to take a seat. I found a space at the front, sat cross-legged, and felt my face burning with the shame of the last five minutes.
‘One final thing, campers: don’t go wandering off. You might think we’re close to town but we’re not. The woods are nightmarishly deep in every direction. Perfect for getting disorientated, lost and starving to death. And you’ve all taken the road here. Without a car it’s a dangerous trek to town. Because nobody knows what lives in the forest out there. Wolves, they say. Is it haunted? Can the soul exist after the body dies? Who knows?’ He sensed, correctly, that he was losing us. ‘What I’m saying is don’t go thinking you can pop out to an internet café or whatever.’ I didn’t know what an internet café was but didn’t think this a good time to ask. ‘Screen time is mean time,’ said Faulkner. ‘Okay. Let’s get going.’
I was nudged in the ribs. By the girl next to me. She was smiling cheerfully but looked like she’d been crying. And this sounds weird, I know, but I swear she looked like a cartoon character. Her hair was coppery red and done up in a pale blue bow. I mean, I don’t think I’d ever seen anyone with an actual bow in their hair before, apart from in cartoons. And she was so small.
‘Screen time is mean time?’ she asked. ‘What the frog?’
As we got to our feet, I asked the tiny girl if she were okay, pointing at my eyes to indicate what I meant. Hers were pink and puffy.
‘Oh, it’s nothing. It’s just I think I’m allergic to trees.’
I didn’t know what to say to that, in a forest. And I might’ve been more sociable if not busy thinking about my earphones, phone and portable charger. Would they check my bag? Were they allowed to do that? They do look through your stuff in airports … No, don’t think about airports and international flights and New York and …
We followed Faulkner and Noah along a path that cut deeper into the forest. The girl with the bow in her hair fell into step beside me. She looked like she wanted to say something, but didn’t speak.
Soon we reached a large clearing. The air was warmer here. This space was maybe the size of a couple of football fields, with long single-storey buildings stretching down each side. They were wooden and tatty, older than the surrounding trees, and looked like a cross between Scout huts and temporary classrooms – neither being a building in which you’d want to spend much time. Up ahead was a shorter structure blocking off the end of the rectangular space. In front of it was a white flag pole and, lying limply at the top, not fluttering even a bit, was the Stars and Stripes. You could just about make out the faded colour and design. It looked embarrassed to be American, which is not a frame of mind you generally associate with being American.
We stopped as Faulkner and Noah spoke to each other in hushed voices.
‘Shitake mushrooms,’ said the girl with the hair bow, looking across the underwhelming campsite.
‘What?’
‘Shitake. Mushrooms.’ But she saw that repeating the words didn’t help me understand. She took a deep breath and recited the following: ‘My name is Alexa Robertson and I’m addicted to sending email complaints. I also have a problem with swearing. I find it hard to express myself. I’ve kind of learnt to say alternatives. You know, like “fudge nuggets” or “son of a monkey”, that kind of thing.’
‘Alexa? Like Amazon?’
She nodded and rolled her eyes.
I didn’t want her to think I was mocking her, so I searched desperately for something nice to say. ‘I like your bow.’
‘Mum makes me wear it. You know Pinterest? She gets these ideas. Maybe she’s the one who should be here.’
She stopped talking as Faulkner turned to address us.
‘Listen up. To the right,’ he said, pointing to the left, ‘is the house of bunks, the bunkhouse.’ Noah leant forward to whisper in his ear. ‘Okay. My right. Your left. Inside are plenty of beds for everyone, and also a toiletry bag, fully biodegradable and a towel. For environmental reasons these towels won’t be washed during your stay, so you might want to watch how often you use them. Not that I ever have to tell kids that.’
Someone really clearly said, ‘Gross.’
Faulkner ignored them. Instead he looked at his watch. It was a thick black thing that appeared heavy enough to make raising his arm an effort, and was also surely a form of tech – like, couldn’t he tell the time by the position of the sun?
‘You’ve twenty minutes before our first camp dinner,’ he said. ‘If you need to unpack, unpack. Visit the bathroom, whatever. And I’ll see you back here in twenty. Any questions?’
A lone hand was raised.
‘Is the bunk building on the left or the right?’
‘Are you trying to be funny?’ asked Faulkner. ‘Because I’m not sure if you’ve noticed but that’s my job.’
I was the first in. From outside, the building looked so long that you’d expect it to be split into different rooms. But no. It was a narrow space, something like a train carriage. One length of wall was like this:
WINDOW INSPIRATIONAL POSTER WINDOW INSPIRATIONAL POSTER
And the other went like this:
NOTHING BED NOTHING BED NOTHING BED NOTHING
Running down the centre of the building, like dotted lines in the middle of the road, were rugs – all faded like they belonged in a Western that was set in an old people’s home, if you know what I mean. Occasionally they supported a beanbag or moulded plastic chair, the sort of furniture nobody would choose to sit on.
The place smelt of wet wood. Which, I guess, wasn’t surprising. Neither was the heat. The kind of temperature you immediately know you won’t sleep through. Not unless you’ve got music to send you off …
Inside, we all skidded to
a halt. It was obvious there was space for us all. There was enough for four times the amount. Just inside the entrance were our bags – piled into an awkward mound like they’d been thrown in from the door. I pulled mine out. Like I’d lost a less fun game of Jenga, if you can imagine that, the other bags tumbled. My bag didn’t look like it had been opened but obviously it was hard to tell.
For once in my life other kids followed my lead and grabbed their bags too, then clambered with them up on to the top bunks closest to the door. These beds had towels and pull-string bags on their white hospital-like spreads. I grabbed a set and walked further on, holdall over my shoulder.
What you’ve got to remember is that I had a phone hidden in my bag. Maybe it would help you to picture me as a criminal in a maximum-security prison who’d managed to smuggle in a sub-machine gun. You know what I’m saying? I had to be careful. I couldn’t be too friendly. Other people and secret plans don’t mix.
I picked a bed and climbed the wooden ladder to the top bunk. There were two free beds between me and another camper – a girl with blue hair.
(I’d noticed she wasn’t the only kid with blue hair. There was a boy too. I’d not seen them talking to each other. Maybe they were embarrassed? There was a BBQ once when Mum wore the same shirt as Aunty Amy and you’d have thought they’d uncovered a Russian spy the amount of fuss that was made.)
Inside a see-through plastic toiletry bag was half a bar of soap and a toothbrush, but no toothpaste. I moved these to the foot of the bed along with the paper-thin towel.
Turning up late was a hiccup. But from now on everything would be fine. I could feel it. Faulkner had given us twenty minutes, meaning I had a decent chunk of Spotify time. Focus. That’s what was needed. And my earphones too. They would help me find my inner calm.
Nobody watched me; they were all too busy with their own stuff. Lying on the bed, I made a little fort out of the pressed squares of clothes that Mum had packed. She’d put a torch in there too, the sort FBI agents hold when they’re breaking down doors. There was also a note, an A5 piece of paper folded over.