by Tom Mitchell
I started to wonder whether I should have spent more time on the plan. I touched my forehead. It felt tender but wasn’t bleeding badly – more a graze than a cut. It would take a more severe head injury to defeat me!
I arrived at the window, so dark that it may as well have been painted black. I ran my hands over the glass, letting my fingers pick out the details that my eyes couldn’t. Three panes – the centre one was the largest but the two at its sides felt like they might open and were large enough to get through.
I got my fingernails under the frame of the first one. I yanked with all my finger strength. Nothing. Before trying the second, and deciding that if this didn’t move either, I’d go back to bed and cry, I checked the fox. It was in the same place, now sitting. Its head was angled slightly, like it had forgotten about food and saw me as a joke waiting to happen. Wise animal. But not wise enough to be filming me, ready to upload to YouTube if something funny happened.
The second window opened easily. No sweat. (Not literally, sadly.) I grasped the bottom of the frame and pulled myself in a kind of vertical press-up. My feet helped, easily finding grip against the splintery wood. I crouched in the window space, half in, half out, like a gargoyle, smelling that mustiness I remembered from my earlier telling-off. The spirit scent of threats to contact parents.
I couldn’t see anything, which is pretty much never good, and couldn’t help thinking that maybe I should have brought the torch. It was like jumping into a swimming pool filled with milk. Except I didn’t jump, because I’m not that stupid. I lowered myself. The muscles of my arms strained but held. And as my feet touched the floorboards, it was one small step for Will, one giant leap in trying to tell Robbie that I’d ruined his life.
Darkness was a problem. The night’s fourth problem, after the issues with telling the time, the heat, and opening the door. And obviously that’s not even counting the fox as an issue. Inside the office, the only guide I had was my memory of its layout. And if you remember my score in Dr Andrew’s biology text, you’ll understand that remembering stuff isn’t something I’m particularly good at. Unlike Robbie, who can still recite the long poems he memorised for his English GCSE.
I pushed my palms against the interior wall. I sidestepped. If I remembered correctly, the telephone wires entered from the corner I was edging towards. All I needed to do was grope round until I found them. Then I’d follow the line until it reached the phone. Sorted. I’d need, like, ten seconds to give Robbie the message. Could I blame Mum? Could I say that she’d packed my bags?
I sashayed along, ignoring the intrusive thoughts about how inevitable it was that everything would go wrong. Then …
A HUGE EXPLOSION.
And I wouldn’t be exaggerating if I said that it sounded like someone had fired a shotgun. Only someone hadn’t fired a shotgun. My elbow had struck something – something metal (but not a shotgun). Probably one of the filing cabinets that now, suddenly, I remembered being here.
My heart jumped into my mouth and instinctively I dropped to a crouch, wedged up against the probably-filing-cabinet. And it was a good job I did because at the same time a voice – Faulkner’s – said, ‘Who’s there?’ and switched on a light.
Now, if it had been the main light, I’d have been in trouble. But it was only Faulkner’s helmet. In the pitch-black it was more effective than earlier, but it still worked mainly as a way of lighting up his face in a really creepy uncle-at-Halloween way.
The strangest thing about his face, though, was its position – it wasn’t at normal height for faces. Instead it was about ten centimetres off the floor, floating almost. And it looked panicked, more like it belonged to a kid than an ex-soldier. Faulkner had been sleeping in his office. And it looked like he’d been sleeping in his helmet, which you’d think impossible.
I flailed my hands in the air and my fingertips touched what I’d hoped to find: the desk. As I pulled myself under it, wincing as my bones cracked and muscles bubbled, I heard Faulkner undo his sleeping bag’s zip.
‘I’m armed,’ he said – classic American.
And there was no way he couldn’t hear my heart beat because it was knocking against my ribs like they were xylophone keys. Did he really have a gun? Guns are illegal, aren’t they?
But a friend of a friend’s dad had a shotgun supposedly. He killed pigeons with it – hated them. Rats with wings, he said. Under that desk I tasted the ice-cold lollipop of fear. It wasn’t a nice flavour. And never in my life had I felt so much sympathy for pigeons.
Getting shot would be worse than missing out on New York. Just. So I began to squeeze myself out from under the desk. It was time to surrender.
Suddenly the main lights flooded on.
‘You,’ said Faulkner, his feet stepping closer to the desk.
My heart sank as my mouth opened to apologise. I’d have to admit it all. Confess. He’d ring home, and I’d have to say goodbye to New York, the concert, the trip of a lifetime. But still … at least that way Robbie would get his hard drive back. The artist’s dream would live on. Maybe this was what I deserved.
There was a popping noise – once, twice. The floorboards in view from my hiding space splattered red. I froze. But … this wasn’t blood. It was paint.
‘Get out of here!’ said Faulkner. ‘Freakin’ vermin!’
Like a strange tortoise, I dared edge my head out, knowing that Faulkner was standing behind the desk and that as long as he didn’t come to my side, I’d be hidden. And, yes, just as I’d thought, there was the fox – the beautiful fox, standing on the windowsill where I’d entered. There were two blotches of red to the side and below the amazing animal.
Faulkner had a paint gun.
Now, I don’t know what spirit animals are and, even if I did, I wouldn’t believe in them. But if I were to have a spirit animal, it might have been this midnight fox.
‘Why, I oughta …’ said Faulkner, popping his gun once more at the (second) invader.
Again he missed. This paintball went through the middle pane of glass, breaking it with a fantastically dramatic crash. The exploding glass and smashing noise was enough for the fox to call it a night. It slipped smoothly from view, its eyes catching mine before dropping into the dark. What a lad.
‘Noah!’ shouted Faulkner. ‘Wake up! A fox has smashed through the office window, the hairy maniac.’
His flat feet pounded away. I didn’t know where Noah was sleeping, but based on the volume of Faulkner’s hollering it didn’t sound too close to the desk. I popped from my hidey-hole once more, peering round the edge of the desk. Faulkner, in camouflage pyjamas, strode away.
I don’t want to boast but I was up and out of the open window in, like, three seconds. Jumping into the ferny undergrowth outside, my trainers crunched over the broken glass, and as soon as I’d landed I broke into a sprint. There was limited time to get back to my bunk before the inevitable patrol. Faulkner had thought me a fox, okay, but he was now awake and would so use all this as an excuse to spy on us kids.
Stumbling but never falling, my fingers brushing against the outside wall, I soon made it to the back of the bunkhouse.
It didn’t look as if Faulkner had left the office building but I didn’t stop. My lungs hot and disintegrating, I was up and round and through the bunkhouse door like a robot cheetah on steroids. In the sleepy darkness I paused, trying not to breathe so heavily. I closed the door behind me. It clicked softly.
Ahead: a gloomy room of slumbering sounds.
‘Mum?’ said someone.
A quick tiptoe back to my bunk and up the ladder, dropping the disguise pillows to the floor, and I was under the blanket in five seconds. Boom.
‘So?’ said Alexa, whispering through the shadows.
‘Mission failed,’ I hissed back. ‘Got shot at. Was saved by a fox.’
‘Where did you get that cut?’ asked Faulkner, speaking in a strangely sing-song way.
It was early morning. Camp had assembled at the far end of the mess
block. There was a military reason why it was called this, supposedly, and it wasn’t because it could do with a sweep. (It could, though.) It was the long building in which we ate our meals. We sat on ‘beanbags’ that had too few beans, too much bag. No windows were open and I understood what it must be like to be a dog trapped in a summer car.
We, the campers, faced a white screen, which had been pulled down with an amazing amount of fuss by Noah as Lily helped by yawning. In front, obscuring the bottom half from our angle, sat a trestle table and a portable projector. It looked like the setup for an end-of-term treat, but from back when my parents were at school. In a similar way to when your teacher’s about to show you an ‘inspirational’ TED talk for, like, the twentieth time, nobody complained because it was better than doing work.
But before things could get started, Faulkner’s gaze had landed on me. His face wasn’t as red this morning – maybe the colour of raw bacon – but it was wet with sweat. At his shoulders were his assistants, standing like bored teenagers pretending to be attack dogs. (Or maybe I mean the other way round?)
He was pointing at my forehead. My beanbag rustled. The campers stared.
The skin above my right eyebrow looked like a cheese grater had been rubbed across it. I should have taken up Alexa’s offer of concealer. It’s the twenties – what’s wrong with a boy wearing make-up?
‘I fell out of bed,’ I replied.
Faulkner frowned.
‘On to a pine cone.’
He continued frowning. And his frown went on for such a long time that people started laughing. I felt like I had to say something, to banish the weirdness.
So I did. ‘Legit.’
It did the job.
‘Legit,’ said Faulkner, turning to Noah.
‘Legit,’ said Noah.
Faulkner turned to Lily. ‘Legit,’ he said.
‘It means “really”, like the thing is actually true,’ she replied.
‘I know what it means. Of course I know what it means. You forget who you’re talking to. Rad. Psych. Tubular.’ He returned his attention to me. ‘Anyway, I’ve got my eye on you, Walker. I spent a week watching Noah construct those beds. You couldn’t fall out of the top bunk if you tried. And don’t think you can go suing us for health and safety. Your responsible adults have signed a waiver.’ He said that last line like it was a magic spell, his eyes alight with self-satisfaction. ‘You’ve got his waiver, haven’t you?’
Lily nodded.
‘Have there been any calls for me?’ I asked.
‘Right, everyone,’ said Faulkner. ‘I have an announcement. That question is banned. Instant Cooler if it’s asked again.’ He turned his focus to me. ‘Understand?’
Two things happened next:
1) Faulkner told us that his office had been invaded by a nocturnal predator and we had to be careful to keep all windows shut in the bunkhouse no matter how hot it got.
2) We were shown a long film about basket weaving in the Shetlands and it was so boring it physically hurt.
Throughout these two events Ellie had her hand raised. She wasn’t asked what her problem was. It was probably something to do with not playing tennis.
It was difficult to focus on the film about basket weaving in the Shetlands. Mainly because it was a film about basket weaving in the Shetlands but also because last night’s failure cast sadness over me like the blackest umbrella you’ve ever seen. And one that didn’t protect me from a storm of regret. What was I going to do? Today was Wednesday, meaning Robbie’s deadline was tomorrow, as close as a future day could be.
After the film we were told that we’d be heading into the woods to ‘forage’ reeds for our own personal weaving. This was announced by Lily with about as much enthusiasm as was appropriate.
She led us on another trail heading away from the camp. As soon as she got to the trees, she pulled out her phone. And as soon as she pulled out her phone, a weird hum infected the campers like an old TV with no signal. Now that we were on to our second full day without tech, withdrawal was really beginning to hurt.
‘Zed wants to know if he can use your phone for, like, the briefest of seconds. There’s this—’
‘Fifty pounds,’ replied Lily, not glancing up from her golden screen. The light it cast on her features was heavenly for real.
Ellie tried next. She was less smiley today. She looked like she hadn’t slept. And she must have been extra tired from having her hand up all through the weaving video.
‘I’m not like the others. I’m not meant to be here,’ she said. ‘I’m not even addicted to phones. Just let me ring my parents. Please.’
‘Fifty pounds,’ replied Lily.
I thought Ellie might collapse. (She didn’t; rich tennis players are made of sterner stuff.) ‘I hate this place!’ she said.
‘I’ll give you fifty pounds,’ I said. ‘Straight up.’
Lily stopped. The group bumped into each other, something like a dropped concertina.
‘I need to speak to my brother. Today. I need to ring him to tell him something. Before tomorrow. His whole life may be at stake.’
‘Addict!’ hissed someone. Noah maybe.
For a second I thought Lily might actually hand her phone over. Her features softened; there was even a suggestion of a smile. You hear about people doing nice things all the time. A friend of a friend of Mum’s helps out at this shelter for injured dogs.
‘His whole life?’ she asked sweetly. ‘Sure thing. Fifty pounds.’
‘I don’t have it with me. I can—’
She didn’t let me finish. She continued forward. ‘Sucks to be you,’ she said.
Down by the river, back where we’d ‘raced’ ‘boats’ the day before, Lily watched Noah watch us rip reeds from the soft ground. We wore red gloves that made your hands sweat like octopi dancing on frying pans. There still wasn’t a riverbank here, but as the morning turned to afternoon, the trees turned to grass to mud to water.
Like yesterday, the river splashed away like it was desperate to get out of the forest as quickly as possible. Which was 100 per cent understandable.
‘Frogspawn,’ said Alexa as she pulled with all her strength at a reed that really didn’t fancy getting foraged.
‘Huh?’
She looked up, her eyes as red as I’d ever seen eyes. I felt sorry for her. Mum says the only thing I’m allergic to is homework. ‘It’s another one of my non-swearing swear words,’ she explained. ‘It’s what my counsellor suggested.’
‘You have a counsellor?’
‘I know, I know. She’s, like, a friend of Mum’s, so it’s not official. My mum thinks the email complaint thing is an obsession. A problem. The swearing too. Am I oversharing? Are you even interested? You’re very easy to talk to. Has anyone ever told you that? I normally find it …’ Her voice trailed off.
‘No,’ I said, and, having never found compliments easy to process, I moved on, saying nothing about feeling the same way about her. ‘Your mum sounds like hard work.’ I looked up from the foraging to check that I’d not offended her. Sometimes interacting with people is difficult.
‘Yep. She’s never satisfied. I’m not the butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-her-mouth sweet little pony-riding girl that my parents want me to be. There. I said it.’
As she was wearing a T-shirt with a picture of a unicorn jumping over a rainbow on it, pink shorts with a little flower design and her red hair tied up with that pale blue bow, I wasn’t super convinced.
She obviously clocked what I was thinking. ‘It’s not what I look like. Mum picks out my clothes. It’s what’s going on up here.’ She tapped at her forehead. ‘Honestly, it broke her heart when I sent the email saying I didn’t want ballet lessons for my birthday. Still, it’s not like it was the first time I’ve disappointed her. I am oversharing, aren’t I?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘Wow,’ I said. ‘Ballet,’ I said.
‘Anyway, enough about me. I’m boring. You and your brother, that’s the important thing. I cou
ld always send his college an email when we get out of here, if that helps?’
After foraging, we returned to camp. The Stars and Stripes continued to droop. We ‘wove’ ‘baskets’ not with reeds we’d collected but with ones dried earlier. We collected these from a large plastic barrel, one of many that lined the back wall of the mess block. Some of these black containers had the skull and crossbones logo on them and the pollutant warning with the dead fish too. They also had a very sharp smell but, when we (Ellie) complained, Lily said that was what dried reeds smelt like. She asked Noah to confirm and he grunted.
‘I don’t want to die,’ said the blue-haired girl. ‘Think of my followers.’
For the hour or so that we sat cross-legged out in the open, a mosquito’s dream, only protected from the sun by the shadow of the mess block, a single person managed to weave something resembling a basket – Zed. Everybody else produced what Noah called ‘mad alien placemats’.
The Shetland film had made it look easy but the reeds had a habit of jumping out of position, like they were terrified of our amateur hands. They hurt as well. One kid got a nasty paper (reed) cut. Nature can be vicious. I don’t think I’d ever suffered from aching finger joints until that session, not even in my Lego days. We weren’t, it’s fair to say, happy campers.
It was stew for lunch and after lunch came ‘You Time’. Faulkner had explained this as two hours without planned activities, which allowed the individual the room and freedom to become a better person.
After he’d left us with his usual meaningless ‘screen time is mean time’ mantra, one of the FIFA kids suggested a kickabout. Ellie said it’d be great to play tennis. Noah, wiping the lunch table, grinned as he revealed that the only piece of sports equipment was a squash ball in the back of the Cooler.
‘Zed wants to know if Zed can carry on with the weaving?’ asked Zed. ‘Zed found it bare calming.’
Noah and Lily laughed.
‘Really?’ said Lily eventually. ‘You’re not kidding?’