Beyond the Shroud (3 page)

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 had 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?'

‘No thanks,' I said abruptly. ‘I've got all the friends I need.'

I might as well have saved my breath. He carried on as if he hadn't heard. ‘Bet you're wondering how I got my nickname. Know what a weevil is?'

Impatiently, I shook my head. Over his shoulder I could see that the minute hand of the clock was creeping closer to the six.

‘It's a bug — an insect that burrows into stuff that's stored away. Weevils can get inside lots of places. Private places. Anywhere — anywhere at all. I could show you fings about computers you've never even dreamed about. Know what a hacker is? Bet you don't. Look it up in the dictionary — if you know how.'

‘Weevil,' I said wearily, ‘go away.'

The minute hand had reached the six. I turned my back on him, pressed Control S to save, and quit. I gave a long, luxurious, phoney stretch, like a guy without a care in the world. When I turned round, he was gone.

For the next week, I concentrated on staying out of trouble. I felt like a tightrope walker … and every step I took, I watched my back.

I made myself stop and think before I did things. Before I said things; before I practically even
thought
things. As much as I could, I stayed out of everyone's way — except for Cameron. Having a goody-good for a friend was a bit like having a magical talisman: Cam had a natural talent for keeping away from trouble, and as long as I hung out with him, it seemed to rub off on me.

Then, on Sunday night, I was in the boys' bathroom cleaning my teeth when suddenly another reflection appeared next to mine in the mirror. I just about choked on the toothpaste. Scowled at him, bent, spat in the hand basin. Rinsed my mouth, then turned, ready to push past him and out of there.

But what he said next stopped me dead in my tracks. ‘I know where you're going in the holidays. You're going to
Quested Court. And I want to come wiff you. You'd be allowed to take a friend. Especially a friend who knows as much about computers as I do — a new boy wiff nowhere else to go. What do you say, Adam?'

‘Where I'm going in the holidays is my business,' I growled. ‘And if I was allowed to take a friend, you'd be the last person I'd choose. Now butt out and leave me alone!'

‘Remember what I said about weevils? I know more than you fink.' He smirked. ‘Like I said, weevils can get inside lots of places. Private places. Anywhere at all.'

‘Oh, shut up!' I snarled. ‘You've been sneaking through Matron's papers — and I hope she catches you!'

I shoved past and padded through to the dorm. Slid between the cold sheets and turned my back on the room, staring at the familiar pattern of flaking paint on the wall.

Weevil or no Weevil, Matron or no Matron, a whole week had gone by safely. There was only one week left till I'd escape to Quested Court — and a whole different life.

I tightrope-walked my way through Monday … Tuesday … Wednesday. On Wednesday after school, I ran all the way back to Highgate and shut myself in the rec room to finish my project. For once, I worked for the entire half hour without a single thing disturbing me. I even managed to do the index. Then, with five minutes to go, I clicked on the
Print
icon and watched page after perfect page scroll out from the printer.

I didn't have time to admire it — instead I snuck into the dorm and hid it under my mattress, where it wouldn't get crumpled. That night, when everyone else was asleep, I slipped it out and read it under the blankets in the dim glow of my pencil torch.

First thing on Friday morning, I handed it in. All XI pages:
Roman Gladiators, by ADAM EQUINOX.
The McCracken's eyebrows just about hit the ceiling. I'd slouched up real casual, of course, like it was nothing special; but then I watched her out of the corner of my eye. Once we were safely settled down doing silent reading I saw her flip through the pile and find it again, and leaf through it with this stunned, disbelieving look on her face.

Watch this space, McCracken,
I told her in my mind.
There's more where that came from — you ain't seen nothing yet!

The weekend dragged by. For the first time I was looking forward to school on Monday. I couldn't wait to get my project back. To hear what Miss McCracken would say about it, and read the comment she'd write at the end. Maybe she'd even read it out! And maybe, just maybe, there was the minutest chance — one in a squillion — that it might get a principal's award.

Hardly any kids in my class had been given one, they were so rare. Cameron had, twice; Nicole had a truckload, of course. They were these big round shiny stickers that looked like they were made of real gold. They were stuck onto your work, and then it was displayed in the front office for everyone to see. Your name was called out in assembly, and you had to go up and shake the principal's hand. And your name got pride of place in the next school newsletter, on the front page.

Monday: nothing. Tuesday: not a word. But then, on Wednesday, Miss McCracken walked into the classroom first thing and said, ‘I will be returning your projects this morning, children. But first: William Weaver and Adam Equinox, will you please come with me to the principal's office.'

My heart did a quadruple somersault. I felt myself blush bright red as I followed her to the door, my heart hammering. I caught a quick glimpse of Cam's worried face; I gave him a reassuring grin and a wink. Little did he know!

We waited in silence outside the closed office door. The secretary was busy typing and ignored us, as usual. I was a regular customer — I was used to the tense, doctor's-waiting-room atmosphere. It was interesting to see that it didn't change, even when you were there for something good.

Eventually the intercom on the secretary's desk beeped, and a tinny voice said, ‘I am free now. Send them in, please.'

In went Miss McCracken … then Weevil … then me.

There on Mrs Sharp's big, bare wooden desk were two projects, side by side.
Roman Gladiators, by ADAM EQUINOX
;
ROMAN GLADIATORS, by William Weaver.

I wondered when she would put the stickers on.

‘Please sit down, Miss McCracken, William,' goes Mrs Sharp, in a voice like silk. ‘Adam Equinox: what is the meaning of this?'

I stared at her dumbly, not even beginning to understand. But slowly I was realising something was wrong … something was very, very wrong. I felt like someone falling from a high building, spinning over and over as I hurtled towards the ground.

I stared at her dumbly as her hands neatly, methodically, in perfect time, flipped over the pages of the projects, two by two. Eleven pages, complete with perfect spelling, full-colour clip-art and neatly centred roman numerals. Eleven pages … all completely identical.