School Monitor Page 11
“PARKER!” someone shouts from the hallway.
I struggle through the pain and confusion onto my hands and knees as everyone runs for cover.
“Toilets!” I think Spencer is talking. I can’t be sure, because all I can hear are my guts screaming out in agony.
“Move!” It is Spencer talking. I realise that when he shoves me into the first open toilet cubicle. “And keep your mouth shut if you know what’s good for you!”
Still only able to see brown-and-red spots exploding, I kind of fall onto the toilet seat and somehow manage to pull the bolt across before Parker bursts in.
“What’s going on?” Parker knows there’s been a fight; even in the mess I’m in, I can hear it in his gruff voice.
“Nothing, sir,” Finny replies, all innocent. “Just getting ready for bed.”
Parker prowls some more, his footsteps heavy on the tiles, but he can’t find any evidence, because the only evidence is me, and I’m doubled up on the toilet bowl.
“Who’s in there?”
I jump as he kicks the locked door.
“Jarvis, sir,” Spencer tells him. “He’s sick.”
“I think we’re all sick after that performance of his on the field,” Parker complains, making Spencer snigger. “You all right in there, Jarvis?”
I take a deep breath and hope my voice will hold out. “Yes, sir.”
“You don’t sound all right.”
I bite my bottom lip to keep my pain silent; if he sees me like this, I’d have gone through all of this for nothing. “Just been sick, sir. I’m fine now.”
“Good,” he says with all the emotion of a robot. “Lights out in ten minutes.”
Still clutching my burning stomach, I gaze down into the empty toilet bowl and see Hermit’s glasses. Victory. I just wish I didn’t hurt so much. Hooking them out, I rinse them under the tap and, still clutching what’s left of my ribs, limp back to my dorm.
“Here you go, Hermit.” I close the door behind me and hold out his glasses. “They were in the toilet, but I gave them a good wash.”
He takes them from me, but he doesn’t look happy. “I suppose you think this will make us friends again.”
Unable to stand anymore, I collapse down on my bed. “Not really,” I tell him, even though part of me was hoping it would. “I understand if you feel you can’t break this Code stuff.”
“I wouldn’t be breaking The Code, Jarvis,” he says. “Because I know you didn’t steal Parker’s mobile.”
Once again, I’m floored, only this time Hermit manages to do it with words. “Do you know who did?”
He shakes his head, his eyes still hostile. “No, I just believe you when you say you were set up.”
Suddenly my burning ribs cool down. “Thanks, Hermit.”
“No problem,” he says, rolling onto his side to sleep. “But I still don’t want to be your friend.”
“Why not?”
I can’t remember who it was who said the pen was mightier than the sword, but whoever it was, they were a lot smarter than me, and they were probably writing about Hermit, because that guy has a razor-sharp tongue.
“I didn’t think you were stupid as well as arrogant,” he tells me. “But if you need the Junior Encyclopaedia translation, here goes — you’re not good enough to be my friend, and do you know why?”
I shake my head, still clueless.
“Because no matter how bad things got for me, I never tried to blame someone else. So thanks for getting back my glasses, but I don’t need or want your charity.”
He’s just kicked me when I’m down, but I don’t hate him. I respect him. “I really am sorry, Hermit.”
“I know,” he says. “Now shut up before you get us both a detention!”
Chapter 26
Laura finishes reading my preliminary ideas and lets out a long sigh. “I don’t know, Rich,” she says, tucking her red hair behind her ears. “It’s good, it’s just, well, rather, how do I…”
She’s scared of hurting my feelings. If only she knew what I go through on a daily basis here, she’d just come out and say it. “You don’t like it.”
“No,” she replies, a little too quickly. “It’s just a somewhat sombre take on things.”
“What’s there to be happy about?” I ask. “He spent two years being shot at before dying in some muddy field in France.”
She gives me her disappointed look. “Are you telling me you really didn’t get anything else from reading his diary?”
I shrug. I did. I had a great idea, but it’s a bit too close to what I’m going through, and I need to get away from that for a few hours each week, even if it’s at the expense of getting that work assignment.
“I thought you were smart and ambitious,” she says, putting my notes to one side. “Everyone knows war is brutal — so how is making a film about a young man dying going to get you that internship?”
I shrug again. “It won’t.”
“So, make a film that will!” she tells me. “Rich, you’re a very talented young man. Those sketches you and your friends have posted up on YouTube exceed what most of my degree students can produce. Comedy’s one of the hardest genres to pull off — so this should be a piece of cake.”
Now I feel guilty for letting her down on top of everything else when she’s the only person here who treats me like a normal human being.
“I think you should watch some of these,” she says and points towards a box of ancient-looking tapes covered in dust. “They were made with love, passion, and one-tenth of the technology you have inside that camera of yours.”
I pick up one of the ancient-looking tapes and examine it; so far, I’m not convinced.
“The headmaster let me borrow them,” she tells me, all upbeat. “And you can use whatever footage you want.”
“So how do I transfer what I want without my laptop and video player?”
She responds by pulling a set of keys from the front pocket of her jeans. “Your school has some editing equipment.”
I’m speechless, but for once in a good way.
“You have no idea how many strings I’ve had to pull to secure this,” she tells me as I follow her down the hallway, carrying the box of tapes. “You’re the first student who’s been allowed to use it.”
This morning I really felt like I’d had all the fight kicked out of me and nothing mattered. Now, I’m all fired up about watching these old tapes and getting back to making films.
“You’re not allowed to let any of your friends in there,” she says for the hundredth time. “Okay?”
Luckily, I don’t have any friends; if she noticed the way all the other kids are glaring at me as we make our way down the dark corridors to the oldest part of the school, she’d realise that.
“It was the one thing the headmaster really did insist on.”
“I get it.” Approaching Spencer in his riding gear, I fall in alongside Laura and ask her some more questions about her experiences filming in Turkey, just so he can see he’s not beaten me.
“It was amazing,” she tells me, her arms talking as much as she does. “The markets and spices, I’ll remember them as long as I live, and as for some of the mosques…”
I exchange glares with Spencer as we cross paths, but he can’t do anything because I’m with a teacher.
“Friend of yours?” she asks me as we make our way up the last set of stairs.
“Not really,” I say, feeling a hollow thump deep inside as I see Spencer whisper something to Bollinger, and his face breaks out into a nasty grin.
“Rich!”
I jump as she drags me away from trying to figure out what I’m up against when my lesson’s over. “Yes?”
“When you finish, you need to return the key to Mr Henry, the bursar.”
“You told me that already.” I follow her down a small corridor, the box now feeling mega-heavy after walking the length of the school.
“I know I did,” she says, stopping in front of a p
lain wooden door. “But I’ve put my neck on the line for you, and I didn’t have to after, well…”
She’s too nice to say after you stole a master’s mobile and have been in trouble for fighting, but I know what her silence means. “It’s okay. I won’t let you down.”
“It’s not me you’d be letting down,” she says, all serious as she unlocks the door. “Now, let’s go and make a documentary that’s going to change the headmaster’s opinion of you!”
She pushes open the door, and we both stare into the black abyss of some abandoned storeroom not much bigger than my dorm, where mounds of furniture are covered with white sheets and cobwebs.
“Not quite what I was expecting,” Laura says, turning on the light, which doesn’t make the room look any less gloomy.
I knew it wasn’t going to be BBC quality, but I was expecting something better than this. I tug on a white sheet covering something square and big in the middle of the room to reveal the “delicate and sensitive editing equipment” — one beaten-up TV which looks like it was made at the turn of the century, and a VCR player with the biggest buttons I’ve ever seen, complete with old-fashioned audio readouts that should be on a car dashboard.
“Well, this is going to be fun,” she says, still sounding resolute as she dusts off a couple of chairs.
I say nothing; I’m too busy trying to get a picture on the TV, but we’re too far away from civilization for the aerial to work, and the only thing it picks up is a crackling snowstorm.
“You don’t have time for TV,” she says, slipping one of the tapes into the player. “I’ll get a converter lead for your camera so you can copy what you need onto the SIM, but for now I suggest you just make a note of the tape number along with the start and end times of anything you find interesting; there are no bookmark facilities with these first-generation machines.”
I turn the thin black knob and tune in the player, and a few seconds later, a grainy and lined black-and-white picture of the school flickers into view with a load of St. Bart’s boys grinning and waving far too quickly, before the camera sweeps to record a football match.
“Captain Howard, or Timothy Howard as he was known back then, is your number seven according to the headmaster,” she explains, handing me the remote control. “And this will come in very handy unless you like football.”
I manage a smile but decide to watch a bit more. “Is there any sound?”
“No, talking pictures didn’t really begin to surface until 1928, so it will give you the opportunity to add some music or practise your voiceovers…” She breaks off as her mobile starts to buzz, and she checks the display. “Sorry, I need to take this. Will you excuse me?”
She’s gone for ages, but I don’t mind. I’ve found some good footage of my friend the captain scoring one amazing goal, and I’m just double-checking the start and end times when she steps back inside the room.
“Sorry,” she says before I even know what she’s done. “I need to bring our lesson to an early close.”
“Is everything all right?”
“Steve, my boyfriend, hurt his hand rock climbing — I need to get down to the hospital.”
“I hope he’s okay,” I say, my stomach already filling up with knots as I start to pack up.
“I hope so too,” she replies, reaching for her handbag. “But you don’t have to leave; you can come here any time you like. Just remember to lock up, and I’ll see you next week.”
I work my way through another four tapes and find some cool footage of soldiers doing bayonet practice on the playing fields before I find myself getting restless. Not yet ready to face all that lot, I mooch around the room to see if there’s anything interesting under the other white sheets, when I notice a door hidden behind a stack of plastic chairs.
Curious why someone’s gone to such lengths to hide a door, I move the tower of chairs a little to the left and try the handle, and to my amazement, it pushes open easily with a long, eerie creak, revealing a wrought-iron spiral staircase — classic horror film scenario or what!
It takes me all of one second to decide to see what’s up there, even though in the films, the first kid to investigate the hidden passageway is always the first to die, and flicking over the switch to ignite the single bulb, I climb up the stairs to find myself in the old security room.
Picking my way through the nest of cables, I gaze round at the twenty dead monitors and the banks of switches that operate the security cameras positioned all over the school.
Sitting down on the swivel chair, I run my fingers over the banks of red and blue switches as I play out what it would be like to direct the hundreds of cameramen at my control, until I get bored again and just sit there swivelling in the chair. I’m not a famous producer; I’m just a dumb kid no one likes in the school from hell. And that’s when I saw how they’d disabled the security cameras — they’d just unplugged them!
This time I hesitate. It’s one thing investigating what’s behind an unlocked door, but if I get caught turning on the security cameras, I’m a dead man. Trouble is, giving me access to cameras is like giving champagne to my mum; there’s just too much temptation.
I can’t help it. I plug them in, turn on the deck, and after flicking a couple of the red switches, one of the monitors bursts into life, and I find myself watching Bollinger and his busty girlfriend having a major argument in what they think is the privacy of an empty classroom.
I turn it off as a sudden burst of panic makes my stomach twist and turn. If Bollinger sees, if he realises I am spying on him… but how can he know? Chewing on my bottom lip, I turn it on and re-join their argument two minutes later.
They’re clueless I’m watching them, and growing in confidence I fire up some more cameras, but because it’s Sunday, most of the classrooms are empty, and after watching the year-eight hockey team lose their match, I switch my attention to the gym, where Jones is playing badminton with Poppy.
Bored, I go back to watching Bollinger being shouted at by his girlfriend, wishing there was sound. I’d love to know what he’s done to deserve such abuse, when I spot Chrissie sitting in the empty classroom where I was supposed to have met her five minutes ago.
Chapter 27
By the time I put everything back to how it was and give Mr Henry the key, I’m nearly twenty minutes late, and Chrissie’s halfway out the door.
“Sorry,” I apologise. “I was going through some footage for the documentary I’m making, and you’ll never guess what!”
“What?”
I change my mind about telling her when she doesn’t unfold her arms. “Nothing, I just forgot how late it was.”
“And left me waiting!”
I’m too tired to argue with her, so I just sit down on one of the desks as she lays into me.
“You must really hate me!” she continues. “Even when no one else wants to know you, you don’t want to spend any time with…”
“I don’t hate you,” I say, exhausted by her rant that I just can’t follow. “I just lost track of time.”
“I could have gone out riding,” she tells me again. “But I couldn’t go because I didn’t want you going through all this on your own!”
I don’t need this. Normally I’d reason with her until we’re friends again, but these aren’t normal situations. Chrissie’s risking total alienation if she’s caught talking to me, and I can’t handle my twin having a go at me along with everyone else. I get up to leave.
“Where are you going?” she demands.
“Back to my room,” I tell her, not bothering to turn round.
“But you were going to teach me how to play chess,” she reminds me. “I got one of those travel sets from the village yesterday.”
“I think you should go riding with your friends.” I turn to face her, not angry, just tired of it all.
“But…”
I just stare at her, and I think that’s when it hits Chrissie what a cow she’s been. All the anger disappears from her face.
“Yeah, right,” I say, all sarcastic. “Like I really believe you’d rather stay inside with your loser brother.”
“It’s true,” she tells me, sitting down at one of the desks. “I’ve always liked it best when it’s just you and me.”
“You don’t have to be nice,” I say, sitting down and setting up the tiny chess set. “I know you’d rather be riding with your friends.”
“I’m not,” she replies, grinning across at me. “Do you remember our first Christmas in France?”
I nod. Mum got us a sled because there weren’t any other kids to play with, and we spent the whole time racing down the hill outside the cottage and building snowmen.
“And there was that time we made that cartoon,” she goes on, all excited. “What was it called?”
It takes me a while to remember; the only cartoon I ever made was when I was stuck in bed after the jeep hit me. “You don’t mean The Lightning Man?”
“Yes!” she exclaims, almost jumping up and down in her seat. “We spent weeks doing all the drawings!”
“I had a broken leg!” I point out, because she seems to have erased that part from her memories.
“I know all that,” she says, dismissing the fact that every time I moved, white-hot stabbing pains had ricocheted up my entire leg, and I had to ask Mum for a bottle every time I wanted a piss. “But it was fun despite that.”
I’m not convinced.
“I just said it so you’d realise we could still have fun even with all this going on.”
Chrissie’s always seen things differently, and even though I wish she’d found a different memory to make her point, I kind of understand.
She grins across at me. “I’ve planned the most amazing exeat weekend as well!”
“Cool,” I say, not really listening, because I can’t remember if the queen goes to the left or the right side of the king.
“There’s a new theme park near Nan’s, and she’s got us VIP tickets so we won’t have to queue for a single ride!”