Beyond the Shroud (2 page)

I took one look and knew he was trouble.

I could tell from the way he hopped down from the unmarked welfare van and smirked at us all — standing on the red concrete porch in a silent, watchful huddle — as if he owned the place.

His mouth stretched into a thin slit of a smile, his lips disappearing like a toad's as his eyes darted from one face to the next, clever and calculating. They were a strangely dark, opaque brown, like mud.

He twitched the welfare lady's hand — a hand you could tell was meant to be kind — off his arm as if she had some kind of infectious disease. Shouldered his grubby bag and walked over to the bottom of the steps. Stood there waiting as if he had all the time in the world — like already he knew he'd be calling all the shots.

He looked about my age, I guess, but shorter than me and runtier, with a pale, ratty-looking face. Looking at that face, you knew right off that here was a person who'd
been kicked in the teeth once too often … and who'd decided the only way to handle that was to kick back — harder, sneakier, and preferably below the belt.

I recognised that look because I'd seen it before, once or twice, when I looked in the mirror. Not that I was proud of that now.

Matron, brisk and businesslike as ever, signed the papers, handed them back to the welfare lady with a terse nod, and joined the new boy at the foot of the steps. Behind me, I heard Cookie make a little
tut-tut
-ing sound. She'd seen enough trouble walk through the door of Highgate to recognise it up front, no problem.

‘Children, I'd like you to join me in welcoming Willie Weaver to our little family,' said Matron.

An uncertain chorus of
Good morning, Willie
, along with a couple of ragged
Welcome, Willie
, went up from some of the little ones. There was a snicker and a mocking
‘Willie Weaver!'
from Geoffrey — too soft for Matron to hear, of course.

The boy looked up at us. It didn't seem like the welcome had made much of an impression. ‘Weevil,' he said flatly. Just that.
Weevil.

He walked up the steps, past us all without so much as another glance, and disappeared into the shadows of the hallway as if he'd lived at Highgate — or somewhere exactly like it — all his life.

My heart sank. Cookie wasn't the only one who could recognise trouble when she saw it — and it was the last thing I wanted.

Things had changed for me in the two months since I came back from Quested Court — since I came back from Karazan. Not so much changed
for
me, as changed
in
me.
Highgate was still the same — always would be, I reckoned. Matron was the same — nothing would ever change
her
, worse luck.

But me … I was different. Before, I'd thought of myself as this dumb, hopeless waste of space — bad at school work, stupid at spelling, always in trouble, angry with everyone. Especially myself. I'd felt trapped — not just by where I was, but
who
I was. And there'd been no way out that I could see.

Then along came the little reply-paid card that changed everything. More than just an entry form to a competition: a passport to a truckload of things I'd never dreamed existed for someone like me.

My first real friend: Cameron Harrow.

Luck — that went
my
way, for the first time in my life.

Quentin Quested — Q — and his feisty little daughter Hannah … people who actually liked me, and believed in me. And, in Hannah's case,
needed
me, more than I'd ever been needed before.

More friends. Rich, Jamie, Kenta, Gen.

An adventure so bizarre — so impossible — that I struggled to believe it had actually happened.

Tiger Lily. But I couldn't bear to think about that.

I'd come back from Quested Court feeling like a conquering hero. Suddenly, here was Adam Equinox — same guy who'd never brought back anything more exciting than a dud report or a detention slip — breezing in decked out in designer clothes, with Quentin Quested's personal bodyguard staggering along behind him under a mountain of boxes full of state-of-the-art computer equipment that would be my escape route from Highgate — in my imagination, at any rate — any time I wanted.

Here was Matron, sweet as sugar, offering Shaw a cup of tea and a squashed-fly biscuit, and asking me whether I'd
had a good time, dear
!

Then the door slammed behind Shaw, and reality slugged me in the gut. The computer was hedged around with more rules and regulations than Fort Knox. The
Collector's Set of Quest Fantasy Adventure Software
was advertised in the
Buy and Sell
, and disappeared without a trace. A new DVD player appeared in Matron's private sitting room (though of course we weren't supposed to know about that), along with a super-flash flat-screen TV with digital stereo sound.

One afternoon when we arrived back from school there was a brand new shiny red car parked in the garage, and the rusted-up old Highgate mini-van had shifted to a bare patch of garden off to the side.

As for Q's ‘strategic donation' to Highgate … well, that was simply never mentioned again.

A new look appeared on Matron's face when she looked at me, and a new note in her voice when she spoke to me. It was as if she'd thought she had me all figured out and pretty much pegged down … and now she wasn't so sure. I needed to be watched.

It came from the knowledge that once — just once — I'd gotten the better of her. That was one thing I knew Matron would never forgive, never mind forget. I'd started something that wouldn't be over until the balance had tipped the other way, with Matron back on top and me squirming helplessly on the ground, waiting for the heel of her shoe to squish me like a bug.

I didn't follow Weevil into the house. Instead, I drifted over behind the garage and round the back of the woodshed, where the garden was scrubby and overgrown; it was where the little kids made huts and Geoffrey and a couple of the others went for a sneaky cigarette. Me too,
to be honest, once or twice. OK, maybe more. Not now, though — all that was in the past.

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.

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.