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  “I didn’t!”

  Finny backhands me across the face, cutting my lip open. It stings, but I don’t think it was meant to hurt.

  “Did you have help?” Spencer asks me, the veins on his neck like knotted pieces of rope.

  I don’t know why I feel the need to protect Chrissie when she doesn’t give a shit about me, but I can’t change who I am. I guess I’m destined to play Arnie just a little bit longer. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  Spencer’s lip curls into a sneer. “I’m glad I’m going to have to ask you twice,” he tells me. “Finny, Baxter you know what to do.”

  They’ve been rehearsing too, and before I even have time to run, Baxter and Finny have hold of my arms, keeping me upright as Spencer draws back his fist.

  I go down on the first punch as an atom bomb of pain explodes inside my stomach, and I’m unable to breathe because my lungs have been paralysed by the burning ache.

  “Who’s helping you?” Spencer demands again. “Hermit?”

  “You’re crazy!” I cry, my voice all dry. “I don’t know—”

  “Wrong answer!”

  I’ve read stories about how people develop superhero strength when they’re faced with certain death. I never believed it till Spencer’s fist comes flying towards my nose, but this surge of power comes from somewhere deep inside me, and I rip my arms free, stamp on Finny’s foot, elbow Spencer out of the way, and by the time Baxter gets his act together, I’m out the door.

  But Baxter’s still rugby captain and able to bring down a charging rhino if he puts his mind to it, and when his hand curls around my ankle, I crash forward. I know I’m hurt, but there’s too much adrenaline surging through me to feel it, and so I roll onto my back, and with my free foot, I kick Baxter’s knee, face, arm, and shoulder until my boot finds his face and he tumbles back, howling.

  I’m back on my feet but not for long; Finny jumps me from the left, and we both tumble back. I can’t throw him off, so I knee him in the bollocks, roll him off me, and make a dash for Parker’s room.

  “SIR, Mr Parker!” I hammer my fist onto the door.

  “Mr Parker!” I knock again, and again, and again. “SIR!”

  Spencer laughs and moves forward. Me — I crap myself.

  “SIR!”

  At last, I hear footsteps. Slowly the door opens inwards, and I find myself face to face with Parker, his face made even meaner by the whisky. “What do you want, Jarvis?”

  I know he can see the blood on my lips, and as he peers round the corner, I know he can see Spencer and his gang waiting for me. “I need to talk to you,” I say, hope running through my fingers like water.

  “Come back later.”

  “But I need to speak to you NOW, sir!”

  “Sorry, Jarvis!” he says with a sneer. “That would be breaking The Code, and as an old boy of St. Bart’s, I can’t do that.”

  Chapter 62

  It’s the last day of the term; my trunk’s downstairs, and I’ve got my suitcase with some clothes and all my external communication devices in the hall ready for a quick getaway. Parents, guardians, and friends are filing into the Main Hall, where prefects are handing out sherry and mince pies, and the orchestra is playing a selection of classic Christmas carols.

  From behind the red curtain, I watch Chrissie sit Mum and Dad two rows from the front in the packed hall. Parents have come from every corner of the world to pick up their kids and see a traditional Christmas concert with a few carols, a Christmas play, and a short documentary by Richard Jarvis about the class of 1912. Boy, are they in for a surprise.

  “What do you think you’re doing, Jarvis?” demands Parker, pulling me away from the curtain. “You know you’re not allowed out till the end.”

  “Yes, sir,” I say, touching my right eye that’s now a shade of crimson with a hint of brown. “We wouldn’t want anyone asking any awkward questions.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Jarvis,” he says, all mocking. “You tripped and hit your head on a door handle in front of four witnesses.”

  He drags me back behind the stage and shoves me towards an empty wooden chair.

  “Now sit there until I come and fetch you,” he says. “And don’t you dare think about taking a bow. You may have made a fine film about this school, but you’re still a disgrace!”

  The lead violin plays an A, and for a few seconds, there’s a scraping of chairs and clearing of throats before everyone sings the school song. I don’t. I’m buzzing with the thought of taking my standing ovation. I’m buzzing from leaving this place a legend!

  I risk looking towards the projector to see if I have a clear run to swap discs, but there’s still half the cast of Scrooge running around dressed as peasants, ghosts, and gravediggers. I need to wait. It hurts. It burns. It tortures me, but I’ve waited this long; I can wait a bit longer.

  The first hymn finishes, the Head drones on about the values of Christmas, and they sing “Joy to the World” while the cast of A Christmas Carol, including Jones, who’s playing Bob Cratchit, take their places.

  It’s time, and under the cover of applause as the curtain rises, I sneak over to the projector to swap discs, and pressing the eject button, I slip the disc into my blazer pocket—

  “What are you doing?”

  My insides jump as a hand clamps down on my shoulder, and spinning round, I find myself face to face with Hermit, who’s changed into a peasant costume to perform some violin solo while they change scenery around at the interval.

  “What are you doing, Jarvis?” he asks me again.

  I shrug his hand off me. “I made some improvements,” I lie, my scabby lips going even drier. “I cleared it with Parker.”

  “Liar!”

  “Paul,” I say, using his first name to shock him into listening. “Do you remember what you told me to do before Spencer beat me up?”

  He stares at me, confused, until he remembers. “Get expelled?”

  I nod. “If you let me show them this, they’ll kick me out for sure, and Spencer and his lot will never hassle you again.”

  His eyes light up behind his glasses. “You got him doing something on film, didn’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Will he get kicked out?”

  “Guaranteed!” I can’t breathe as I wait to see what he’s going to say.

  He looks once more in Parker’s direction before nodding his head. “I haven’t seen anything, all right?”

  “Thanks, Paul,” I stammer as my heart slips back into place. “You’re a mate.”

  He runs onto the stage and plays some Irish folk melody to occupy the audience as they change sets for the final scene where Scrooge goes round to see his nephew for Christmas.

  He puts on a better performance than the cast. Shame they didn’t let me take control of the production. Still, my film should wake everyone up, and as I watch the cast mumble their way through the most unconvincing Christmas celebration ever, I get ready for my ten minutes of fame.

  “Merry Christmas, everyone!” says Tiny Tim, delivering the last wooden line of the play.

  Everyone claps politely, even me, as the whole cast gathers to take a bow.

  I’m up next, but I’m not expecting a standing ovation. I’m expecting fireworks. It’s going to be awesome!

  The Head takes his position behind the podium and clears his throat. “My Lords, Ladies, and gentlemen,” he begins, because there are quite a few lords out there. “St. Bart’s has produced prime ministers, bishops, generals, and business leaders, but never a film producer, until now. Richard Jarvis, one of our year-ten students, has made a remarkable documentary about one of the most celebrated old boys, Captain Timothy Howard, who won the Victoria Cross.”

  There’s some polite clapping, followed by more throat clearing. Dad’s too busy playing with his Blackberry to clap. Mum and Chrissie do, but Spencer doesn’t bother; he just sits next to his highly groomed dad looking bored.

  The buzz inside inte
nsifies as the lights dim. This is it. My time to make every one of those bastards pay!

  “Pack Up Your Troubles,” the original recording by Murray Johnson, crackles through the electric atmosphere as scenes of old St. Bart’s boys marching to war fills the screen. I didn’t just choose this song because it was a popular WWI hit; I chose it because it’s what I’m doing, and continuing the clips from the old newsreels to lull the masters into a false sense of security, I move into position so I can watch Chrissie. Any minute now, I’m going to play them a very different documentary about St. Bart’s. Any second now, any second…

  The music ends abruptly as I hit them with a speeded-up montage of me being kicked, spat at, and punched to gasps and mutterings of confusion from the audience. I figure I’ve got a few seconds to show them what St. Bart’s is really like and how Chrissie’s set us all up before Parker or someone rushes me to turn it off.

  Seven seconds in, I throw in clips of Chrissie stealing the mobile, slipping it into Spencer’s backpack, her stealing my post and burning it, and then the confession:

  “I’ve got a free period after art,” says Chrissie’s voice. “I’ll take any old mobile from the staffroom then and slip it into Robert’s bag.”

  I hear the entire audience gasp before I hit them with another rapid fire of what really goes on in the great and glorious St. Bart’s when someone’s broken its precious bloody Code of Honour, but my time’s up, and the big guns have come in to take me out.

  I stand my ground, prepared to take one final beating to keep the film rolling just a few more seconds, as Parker moves in for the kill. I reckon I can hold him off for one full-on attack. I’ll never take him down, but I don’t need to. I’ve already scored the winning try — anything else I manage to show from now on is just a bonus.

  With a roar, he pushes me to one side, and I stumble backwards through the polystyrene cut-out of nineteenth-century London as my stunned audience watches in detail how the Head Boy really runs study hall.

  “You little shit!” Parker hisses, advancing on me.

  Scrambling away from him, I find myself laughing even though he looks like he’s going to kill me.

  “How dare you!” He kills the film, kicks the chair out of the way, then grabs me by my lapels to lift me clear of the ground. “How dare you soil the name of St. Bart’s with these lies!”

  “THEY’RE NOT LIES, MR PARKER!” I shout, fishing for the remote control inside my coat pocket. “This is the truth. The truth you wouldn’t listen to!”

  “Enough!”

  “You can’t shut me up!” I tell him, hitting the play button and restarting the film. “I’ve got you on camera too!”

  I know they’re watching the scene when Baxter laid into me the next day in the dining room. I can hear all the kids chanting, but this time it doesn’t invoke feelings of terror and shame; it makes me laugh even more. Straight after that I’ve got a great shot of Parker standing there when Spencer gave me the black eye.

  “Give me that!” Parker snarls, lunging for the remote.

  “No way!”

  “Give me the remote!”

  “NO!”

  He makes a grab for it again, and sensing I’m not going to hold him off a second time, I throw it as far away as I can towards the back of the stage.

  “Bad move!”

  He pushes me aside as we both make a dash for the remote, which has landed in a pile of discarded Christmas Carol props.

  I’m quick, but Parker’s quicker, and after killing the film, his shovel-like hand closes over my mouth and nose, and lifting me to my feet, he drags me fighting all the way into the wings.

  My voice silenced, I hear the Head take his position at the podium in an effort to hush the furious demands for explanations.

  “I’m sorry about that,” he stammers, forced to turn up the microphone as there are more and more calls for him to explain himself. “Jarvis has obviously decided to show us one of his fictional efforts. I’m not sure what he hopes to achieve.”

  Repeatedly I try to break free, but for the first time in weeks, I’m not alone. I have an ally, a brother-in-arms, someone else who wants to see St. Bart’s brought down.

  Paul Crab opens the stage curtains, and as a hall full of lords, ladies, and gentleman gasp in unison at seeing the rugby coach wrestling with one of his students, Parker releases me, and I drop to the ground on shaking legs.

  Pulling myself to my full height, I step away from Parker and smile across at Paul Crab, a nerd with glasses who is far braver than I’ve ever been.

  “I demand to know what’s going on, Headmaster!” says a man with sandy hair and a neat beard. “Just what kind of school are you running here?”

  More and more people join the chorus, and then I see who’s rallying them round.

  “I think we’d all like to see the rest of Richard’s film,” says Laura Bell, standing up. “Wouldn’t we?”

  “Hear, hear!” say more of the men.

  Shaking from the rush, I turn to my family. Mum’s crying. I bet she’s wondering what happened to me, because I don’t look anything like I did when she waved me off four months ago. Dad just sits there like a frozen statue holding his stupid Blackberry; I wonder what he’s worrying about, his deal or me. As for Chrissie, my twin, she’s still a blank piece of paper.

  “WHY?” The hurt and frustration taking me over, I look once more at Chrissie for answers. “Why did you do it?”

  An echo of a smile forms on her lips, and she starts to giggle. “What do you mean, Rich?”

  I can’t do anything, because I wasn’t expecting this. She should be sorry, ashamed, begging me to forgive her. Not laughing at me. “THIS!” I cry, pointing at myself as the hot tears roll down my cheeks. “LOOK AT ME. LOOK WHAT YOU’VE DONE!”

  She continues to snigger as she elbows Spencer, who, like Baxter, Finny, Bollinger, and all the others, has turned into a white statue from the terror of their parents seeing what they really get up to at school.

  “WHY ARE YOU LAUGHING?” I demand, shaking from head to toe with confused hatred. “Do you think ruining my life’s funny?”

  “Enough pretence, Rich,” she says, still smirking.

  “PRETENCE?”

  Everyone turns to look at her, including Spencer.

  “Yes,” she says, still looking right at me. “Now tell everyone this was just another one of your movies!”

  I open my mouth, but I don’t know what to say to that. She can’t really think she can blag her way out of it. They all know she’s lying!

  “I never thought he’d take it this far,” she says, turning to Mum, Dad, and then Spencer. “He said he was going to show it to get back at Mr Parker for dropping him from the rugby team. I never thought…”

  I don’t believe her! I look at Spencer, and even though he’s still that horrible white colour, he’s nodding like some moron. So is Baxter, who’s stopped pleading with his enraged father.

  “This is real!” I tell them all as Chrissie’s lies start to infect everyone. “This is what really happened!”

  But they don’t believe me — I can see it. Heads are shaking, eyes are cross and angry, and even though every single student and teacher here know it’s a lie, they all decide to see it as the truth; the masters don’t want to lose their jobs, and the kids don’t want to get expelled.

  “Does this look like makeup?” I cry, pointing at my bruised eye. “She’s lying, and you all know it!”

  I search for backup, but I’m dying solo. Paul Crab’s been taken out by Wilson, and my only other hope, Jones, is looking like he’s going to hurl in his flat cap.

  “Jones?” I don’t want to beg, but I will if I have to. “Jones, tell them all this is true.”

  But unfortunately for me, Jones is staying loyal to The Code.

  “That’s quite enough, Jarvis!” Parker says, seizing my arm again. “We all know you took a fall the other night.”

  “I was beaten up by them!” I yell, pointing at Spencer,
Baxter, and Finny. “YOU watched it, and YOU wouldn’t do anything!”

  “Shut up, Richard!” says Dad, speaking up for the first time. “Don’t embarrass us anymore!”

  I feel like I’ve just been kicked when I’m down, and the anger explodes out of me. “No, we wouldn’t want that, would we, Dad!” I roar as Parker drags me off stage. “You don’t care about me, just your stupid bloody deal. Well, screw your deal. Screw all of you!”

  I’ve lost, so I might as well go down fighting and hurt them the way they’ve hurt me.

  “You all know I’m telling the truth!” I yell as Parker tries to evict me stage right. “This isn’t the end of it. I’m going to make you lot pay. I bloody will!”

  They know it’s all talk; they all know the moment they chose to follow Chrissie’s lies that I was doomed, but I’m not the one who writes the endings to my films. Beth does. Walking calmly down the aisle, head held high and dressed in bright red to make a killer entrance, she mounts the stage, and offering no explanation to the stunned audience, she puts a new disc into the player that projects a story from a newspaper onto the big screen.

  “Executive’s daughter breaks fellow student’s leg in jealousy-fuelled attack!”

  Parents of children at Goldmeads Independent College for Young Ladies were said to be in a state of shock when one ten-year-old girl attacked a fellow student because the victim (who cannot be named for legal reasons) refused to stop being friends with the attacker’s twin brother…

  Parker instantly releases me, and free of him, I walk up to Beth and take her hand in mine as the fallout disseminates through the hall. Chrissie’s crying and pleading with Mum. Next to her, Spencer’s getting shouted at by his red-faced father, while Baxter and Finny are both dragged from the hall by their outraged parents. Bollinger’s holding his head in his hands, and Jones is now sitting cross-legged on the floor crying because he realises how rotten it feels to be a spineless shitbag. The Head’s drowning in the angry demands by parents for explanations, and if there were enough rope in the prop box, I bet Parker would hang himself.

  “Ready to leave?” Beth asks me.

  I nod and keep hold of her hand. We take our bows and exit the stage.

  I set out to make a film about WWI, and I’m leaving having started WWIII. Mum and Dad, they want to talk now, but I don’t want to talk to them. They don’t deserve me as a son, and I deserve better than them.