Книга - The Treatment: the gripping twist-filled YA thriller from the million copy Sunday Times bestselling author of The Escape

The Treatment: the gripping twist-filled YA thriller from the million copy Sunday Times bestselling author of The Escape
C.L. Taylor


‘This gripping book will keep you hooked, whatever your age.’ Fabulous magazineThe stunning YA debut thriller from the Sunday Times bestselling author of The Escape.“You have to help me. We’re not being reformed. We’re being brainwashed.”All sixteen year old Drew Finch wants is to be left alone. She's not interested in spending time with her mum and stepdad and when her disruptive fifteen year old brother Mason is expelled from school for the third time and sent to a residential reform academy she's almost relieved.Everything changes when she's followed home from school by the mysterious Dr Cobey, who claims to have a message from Mason. There is something sinister about the ‘treatment’ he is undergoing. The school is changing people.Determined to help her brother, Drew must infiltrate the Academy and unearth its deepest, darkest secrets.Before it’s too late.







C.L. TAYLOR is the Sunday Times bestselling author of The Accident, The Lie, The Missing and The Escape. Her books have sold over a million copies in the UK and have been translated into twenty-one languages. She lives in Bristol with her partner and son.


By the C.L. Taylor

The Accident

The Lie

The Missing

The Escape










Copyright (#ulink_f657112b-4e65-55c4-9103-e1b61c79cc7f)







An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2017

Copyright © C.L. Taylor 2017

C.L. Taylor asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © October 2017 ISBN: 9780008240578

Version: 2018-05-23


For my niece Sophie Taylor




Contents


Cover (#ub4f52b93-89bd-53eb-82ea-1f9ba0ec957e)

About the Author (#ud27d4d95-68c8-5851-862e-33612e53c66d)

Booklist (#u2860a748-e3c5-5015-8d65-c1bdca1a5e7f)

Title Page (#ua82b3004-9a80-5d45-b0b7-5b4b127465d2)

Copyright (#ulink_d39371d1-3be0-54b5-8c5c-59510e0721aa)

Dedication (#u35f3cf4e-4432-56a5-ad78-2b67d9162941)

Chapter One (#ulink_76ad9005-0051-5b8e-b565-32c31ca4b3de)

Chapter Two (#ulink_aaa82f2e-31d7-5d2a-9f69-182f0a871502)

Chapter Three (#ulink_1f164bab-ca46-5935-a664-fe98b14a8096)

Chapter Four (#ulink_739239ea-56ca-53b5-ac13-e770e498d516)

Chapter Five (#ulink_2b0dc2f8-98e5-59b2-a871-70b6218cb09f)

Chapter Six (#ulink_b3c734c6-b40f-5e38-a3da-d1a98430add0)

Chapter Seven (#ulink_b93b684d-e512-5a6f-8f06-b66843f7afb3)

Chapter Eight (#ulink_362235e8-104e-5c58-b147-12ffa5e90cb5)

Chapter Nine (#ulink_0ac5c87f-2532-5a10-b495-99b08483c8ad)

Chapter Ten (#ulink_4db8af53-be85-5e44-9d35-3cea990015fa)

Chapter Eleven (#ulink_ca3d76f0-be54-5585-baf4-160a3603d1fb)

Chapter Twelve (#ulink_7b26cf95-72ea-5e86-ab3d-cfcc0e657abf)

Chapter Thirteen (#ulink_708f2899-c313-5d00-9c07-c44d142990aa)

Chapter Fourteen (#ulink_a28c6780-f281-5b5f-8aff-e8012a984a37)

Chapter Fifteen (#ulink_1c85765a-77b7-5c16-a3b1-a3c77f251d43)

Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty-One (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Forty (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Forty-One (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Forty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Forty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Forty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Forty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publishers (#litres_trial_promo)


Chapter One (#ulink_ebbe0708-6865-5209-9dd9-d5fd9ee30749)

They’re still following me. I can hear their footsteps. They think I can’t hear them because I put my headphones on the second I walked through the school gates. But they’re not plugged in. I heard every word they said as I walked down Somerset Road.

‘Why are you walking so fast, Drew? Don’t you want to talk to us?’

‘She can’t hear us.’

‘Yes she can.’

‘Oi, Drew. Andrew!’

Lacey and her gang of sheep think it winds me up, calling me Andrew, they think it’s funny. I don’t. My dad gave me my name because my hazel eyes and chubby cheeks reminded him of the child actress in the film E.T. He thought it was a pretty name, unusual too. Drew Finch. My name is all I’ve got to remember him by other than a folder of digital photographs on my computer.

Mum doesn’t talk about Dad any more – she hasn’t since she married Tony. Mason, my fifteen-year-old brother, refuses to talk about Dad too. Not that Mason’s here to chat to. He’s been sent to a school hundreds of miles away, hopefully to learn how to stop being so irritating. It’s weird, my brother not being at home. He was never much of a conversationalist but God was he noisy. He’d bang and crash his way into the house, kick his shoes off, stomp up the stairs and then slam his door. Then his music would start up. It’s eerie how quiet it is now. I can hear myself breathe. I think the silence unsettles Mum too. She’s always tapping on my door, asking if I’m OK. Or maybe she feels guilty about sending Mason away.

I speed up as I reach Jackson Road. It’s the quietest street on my walk home and if Lacey and the others have followed me this far it can only be because today’s the day they go through with her threat. Lacey’s been saying for weeks that they’re going to pin me down and pull up my shirt and skirt and take photos of me with their mobile phones. I’ve tried talking to her. I’ve tried ignoring her. I’ve spoken to my Head of Year and we’ve been to mediation, but she won’t leave me alone. She’s clever. She never says anything in front of any of the teachers. She hasn’t posted anything on social media. She hasn’t touched me. But the threat’s still there, hanging over me like a noose. Whenever I go into school I wonder if today’s the day she’ll go through it. It’s not about hurting me, or even about humiliating me (although there is a bit of that). It’s about fear and control. We were best friends in primary school and I was the one she opened up to when her parents were getting divorced. She’s the big ‘I am’ at school but I know where her vulnerabilities lie. And she hates that.

I slow down as I reach the High Street and my heart stops double thumping in my chest. I’m safe now. The street’s full of shoppers, drifting around aimlessly or else speed walking madly like they must get an avocado from the grocer’s before it closes or the world will end. Someone brushes past me and I tense, but it’s just some random man with a beanie and a swallow tattooed on his neck. I glance behind me, to check that Lacey and the sheep aren’t following me any more, then I reach into my pocket for my phone, select my favourite song and plug in my headphones. Just two terms of school left and I’m free. No more Lacey, no more lessons, no more –

My breath catches in my throat as my arms are pinned to my side and I’m half carried, half shoved into the side alley between Costa and WHSmith. A hand closes over my mouth as I’m bundled past a skip and forced to sit on a pile of bin bags. They’ve got me. They’ve finally made their move. But it’s not Lacey or one of her cronies who forces me to the ground as I thrash and squirm and try to escape.

‘It’s OK. Don’t be afraid.’

The woman keeps her hand tightly pressed to my mouth but her grip on my shoulder loosens, ever so slightly. Her pale blue eyes are wide and frantic and her long brown hair, pulled into a tight ponytail, is damp with sweat at the roots. There’s a deep crease between her eyebrows and fine lines on either side of her mouth. She’s probably as old as my mum but I’m too shocked to hit out at her. All I can do is stare.

‘Drew? It is Drew, isn’t it?’ She glances at her hand, still covering my mouth. ‘Promise me you won’t scream if I take it away.’

I nod tightly, but the second she lifts her palm a scream catches in the back of my throat.

‘Drew!’ She smothers the sound with her hand. ‘You mustn’t do that. I’m trying to help you. I’m trying to help Mason.’

I tense at the mention of my brother’s name. How the hell does she know who he is? He’s over two hundred miles away and we haven’t heard from him in over a month.

‘My name is Rebecca Cobey. Doctor Cobey,’ the woman says, shuffling closer on her knees. We’re completely hidden from view behind the skip but she keeps glancing nervously back towards the street as though she’s scared that someone will discover us. ‘I worked at the Residential Reform Academy. I was Mason’s psychologist. He gave me something to give to you.’

She lets go of me and reaches into the pocket of her jeans. There’s a loud bang from the street, like a car backfiring, and all the blood seems to drain from her face. I’ve never seen anyone look so scared. For several seconds she does nothing, she just listens, then she pulls her hand out of her pocket.

‘Here,’ she says in a low voice, as she thrusts a folded piece of paper at me. ‘I’ve got to go. I can’t talk. It was a risk just trying to find you.’ She scrabbles to her feet and pushes a stray strand of hair behind her ear. She glances towards the street then back at me. ‘I would have got him out if I could. I would have got them all out.’ The word catches in her throat and she presses a hand to her mouth. ‘I’ve said too much. I’m sorry.’

She darts out from behind the skip, sprints down the alley towards the street and turns right, disappearing from view.

I sit in stunned silence for one second, maybe two, surrounded by split bin bags and the smell of roasted coffee beans and then I launch myself up and onto my feet.

‘Wait!’ I shove the piece of paper into my pocket. ‘Doctor Cobey, wait!’

***

I can see her long, dark ponytail bobbing above her khaki jacket as she speeds down the street ahead of me, weaving her way through shoppers, briefly stepping into the road when there are too many people to overtake on the pavement.

‘Doctor Cobey!’ I shout as the distance between us decreases and a stitch gnaws at my side. ‘Wait!’

I am vaguely aware of people staring at me, of toddlers in buggies gesturing, of car drivers slowing to gawp, of cold air rushing against my face and my heart thudding in my ears. I don’t know why I’m chasing the woman who just grabbed me, smothered me and terrified me. I was lucky she didn’t hurt me, but I can’t shake the feeling that if I let her get away I’ll never see her again. She knows something about Mason. Something she was too afraid to tell me.

I see the car before she does. I hear the engine rev and the black flash of the bonnet as the lights change from green to amber at the crossing and Dr Cobey steps into the road. One second the car is a hundred metres away, the next it’s at the crossing. The engine roars and there is a sickening thump as Dr Cobey’s body flies into the air.


Chapter Two (#ulink_b1f8b222-8286-5a4f-bb55-461fc2c770b4)

‘He didn’t stop. I can’t believe he didn’t stop.’

‘Did anyone get the registration number?’

‘Don’t move her! She might have broken her back.’

Within seconds a crowd gathers around Dr Cobey’s body and I am shoved and pushed further and further away. I don’t push back. I don’t shout, cry or explain. Instead I stare at the back of the man standing in front of me. But it’s not his black woolly jumper I see. Imprinted on the back of my eyelids is Dr Cobey’s broken body; half on the pavement, half on the road, her legs twisted beneath her, her neck lolling to one side, her blue eyes wide and staring, a single line of blood reaching from the corner of her mouth to her jaw.

‘She’s not breathing.’

‘I can’t find a pulse.’

‘Can anyone do CPR?’

The driver of the car aimed straight for her. He revved the engine. He wanted to hit her.

‘She was scared. She thought someone was after her.’

‘What was that, love?’ A heavy-set woman in her fifties with wiry bleach-blonde hair and bright pink lipstick nudges me.

I glance at her in surprise. Did I just say that out loud?

The woman continues to stare at me but my lips feel as though they have been glued shut. She loses interest when the man on the other side of her starts shouting into his mobile phone.

‘The High Street. Near M&S. Road traffic accident. It was bad. I don’t know if she’s breathing or not. Someone’s doing CPR. He said he was a doctor.’

The crowd presses against me on all sides, gawping, commenting and speculating.

‘There’s still no pulse!’ shouts someone near the road. ‘Where’s that ambulance?’

As I take a step to the side to try to force my way through the crowd someone grabs hold of my left hand. An elderly woman gazes up at me as I twist round. She’s so short I can see the pink scalp beneath her fine white hair.

‘My boy,’ she says, squeezing my hand tightly, ‘my boy was killed the same way. She will be OK, won’t she?’

I’m torn. I want to check on Dr Cobey but people have started to shout the word ‘dead’ and the old lady holding my hand is quivering like a leaf. She looks like she’s about to faint.

‘Are you OK?’ I ask.

She doesn’t shake her head. She doesn’t answer. She just keeps staring hopefully up at me, tears filling her milky eyes.

‘Is there someone I could call for you? A relative, or a friend?’

She continues to look at me blankly.

I don’t know how to deal with this. I glance to my right, to where the woman with the bleach-blonde hair and pink lipstick was standing but she’s disappeared, replaced by a couple of scary-looking builder types. What do adults do in this situation?

‘Would you … would you like to sit down somewhere and have a cup of tea?’

The old woman nods. Tea, the magic word.

***

I hear the wail of the ambulance sirens as the owner leads us to a table at the back of the café. The old lady is resting her weight on my elbow, telling me that I’m ‘kind, so kind’. I want to tell her that I’m not kind. That I’m selfish and ungrateful and lazy and all the other things Tony and Mum accuse me of being. I want to tell her that someone deliberately ran over Dr Cobey but I can’t, not when there’s a bit of colour in her cheeks and she’s stopped staring at me with that weird freaked-out expression.

I wait for her to drink half a cup of tea, my feet tap-tap-tapping on the wooden flooring, as she sips, rests, sips, rests and then, when she reaches for the slice of carrot cake the café owner brought her and takes the tiniest of nibbles, I excuse myself, saying I need to use the ladies’.

I slip into the single stall toilet at the back of the café. I hold it together long enough to close the door and lock it and then I rest my arms on the wall and burst into tears. I’m still crying when I sit down on the closed toilet lid and reach into my pocket. Tears roll down my cheeks as I pull out the note that Dr Cobey thrust into my hands. They plop onto the paper as I carefully unfold it. I read the words Mason has scribbled in blue biro. I read them once, twice, three times and the tears dry in my eyes.

I’m not sad and confused any more. I’m terrified.


Chapter Three (#ulink_cc04d15e-929f-5b75-8db2-0bd6b43f0901)

Help me, Drew! We’re not being reformed, we’re being brainwashed. Tell Mum and Tony to get me out of here. It’s my turn for the treatment soon and I’m scared. Please. Please help.

My hands shake as I reread the words my brother has written. Two weeks ago he was sent to the Residential Reform Academy in Northumberland after he was excluded from his third school in as many years. My brother is a gobby loudmouth, always out with his mates causing trouble, while I like being on my own with my books and music. He speaks up, I keep my head down. We couldn’t be more different. Tony, our stepdad, said the RRA was the best place for him. He said that, as well as lessons and a variety of activities, Mason would be given a course of therapeutic treatments to help him deal with his issues. He didn’t mention anything about brainwashing.

As soon as I read the note I rang Mum but the call went straight to voicemail. By the time I’d got myself together enough to leave the toilet cubicle the old lady’s friend had turned up at the café to take her home. She tried to offer me a tenner, to thank me for my help, but I said no and hurried out of the café, pressing my nails into my palms to try to stop myself from crying. I ran all the way home, only to find that the house was empty when I let myself in. It always is when I get back from school.

I put the note on my desk and run my hands back and forth over my face to try to wake myself up. I feel fuzzy-headed and tired after everything that’s happened but there’s no way I can sleep. I need to talk to someone about Mason, but who? There are a couple of girls at school that I sit with at lunch but I wouldn’t call them friends. Friends trust each other and share everything. Lacey taught me what a bad idea that is.

I pull my chair closer to my desk and open my laptop. I’ll talk to someone on the Internet.

But which ‘me’ should I be? I’ve got four different names that I use. There’s LoneVoice, the name I chose when I was fourteen. It’s a crap name, totally emo, but there was a song in the charts with a similar name and it was going round and round my head. LoneVoice is sociable me. He/she chats on music forums about singers, songs in the charts, that sort of thing. XMsZaraFoxX is feistier. She’s the kick-ass main character in my favourite PS4 game Legend of Zara and she wades in if someone’s being out of order on the gaming site. RichardBrain is serious and academic. I log on as him if I want to talk about psychology. Then there’s Jake Stone. I invented him to mess with Lacey’s head. She thinks he’s nineteen and a model and she’s a little bit in love with him.

I never set out to be a catfish. I just wanted to be anonymous, you know? I wanted to be able to chat to people without them making assumptions about me based on how I look, how old I am, where I live and what my gender and sexuality are. The first time I joined a forum I didn’t say anything. I didn’t ask any questions or join in with the chat. I lurked and worked out who the funny one was, who was controversial and who was a bit of a knob. I watched how they interacted with each other, just like I watched the kids in the canteen at lunchtime.

It was my dad who got me into people watching. If I got bored in a restaurant or train station he’d gesture towards people on a different table, or standing in a huddle on the platform, and he’d ask me to guess who liked who, who had a secret crush and who felt left out. He taught me about body language, micro expressions and verbal tics. He showed me how much people give away about themselves without realizing it. I didn’t realize at the time that he was teaching me psychology. That’s what he did for a living. He was … is … an educational psychologist. He’d probably have a field day if he knew about my different internet ‘personalities’.

I log onto the psychology site where I hang out as RichardBrain. If anyone can help me make sense of what just happened with Doctor Cobey it’ll be them.

Actually, no. They’ll ask me what I know about her which is precisely nothing.

Dr Rebecca Cobey

I type her name into Google and click enter. The first link is to a LinkedIn profile so I click on it and scan the page. She’s a psychologist … blah, blah, blah … she worked at the University of London as a Senior Lecturer … responsibilities blah, blah, blah and … I frown. It says she left three months ago but there’s no mention of where she went. No entry that says she worked at the RRA.

Were you lying to me, Dr Cobey? You had a note from Mason. How could you have got that if you weren’t at Norton House too?

I stare at her profile photo. She’s smiling into the camera, her brown hair long and glossy, her blue eyes sparkling. She looks so happy. So alive. And then she’s not. She’s lying crumpled and broken at the side of the road, staring unseeingly at the sky as blood dribbles from her mouth to her chin. I shut down the browser but the image of her lifeless face is burned into my brain. I have to find out if she’s still alive.

***

I ring the hospitals first, asking if they’ve admitted anyone by the name of Dr Rebecca Cobey. The first receptionist I speak to tells me she can only release patient information to next of kin. I wait a couple of minutes then I ring back, using a different voice, and say I’m Dr Cobey’s daughter. This time the receptionist tells me there’s no Rebecca Cobey listed. I try the other hospital in town but they claim they don’t have her either. Finally, I ring the police who confirm that there was a motor vehicle accident on the high street but they can’t tell me what happened to the victim.

‘I was there,’ I tell the female police officer. ‘The car sped up. It deliberately knocked her over.’

‘Can I ask how old you are?’

‘Sixteen.’

‘OK,’ she says and then pauses. This is the bit where she laughs at me or puts the phone down. But she doesn’t. Instead, she says, ‘What’s your name and address? I’ll need a contact number for your parents so I can arrange for someone to come to your home to interview you.’

‘Of course. My name is Drew Finch and I live at —’

‘Drew,’ Mum says from the doorway, making me jump. ‘Is everything OK?’


Chapter Four (#ulink_e7c36d06-6681-5301-a467-40e044600616)

Mum frowns as she reads Mason’s note. Tony, sitting beside her on the sofa, reads over her shoulder.

‘Who did you say gave this to you?’ Mum says, looking up.

‘I told you, a stranger.’

‘Did she tell you her name?’

‘Well, she …’ I tail off. I don’t like the weird way Tony’s looking at me. It’s like he’s too interested in what I’m saying.

Mum glances at Tony. I hate how she does that – deferring to him as though she’s incapable of making a decision without his opinion. She was never like that with Dad. She made all the decisions in our house back then. Dad used to joke that, ever since the motorbike accident where he lost his right leg from the knee down, Mum wore the trousers because they didn’t look right on him any more.

Tony runs his hands up and down his thighs as though he’s trying to iron out invisible creases in his suit trousers. ‘Have you spoken to the police about what you saw?’

‘I rang them earlier. They said they’d send someone round to take a statement from me.’

‘I see.’ He glances back at Mum but she’s looking at Mason’s note again. It quivers in her fingers like a pinned butterfly. She’s rereading the bit where Mason says how scared he is. I can just tell.

‘Jane.’ Tony places his hand over the note, blocking her view. ‘We talked about this. Remember? About Mason trying to avoid facing up to his responsibilities. We both know how manipulative he can be.’

‘He’s not manipulative!’ Mum shifts away from him so sharply his hand flops onto the sofa. ‘My son might be a lot of things but he’s not that.’

‘He’s a liar, Jane. And a thief. Or have you already forgotten that he stole from you.’

‘Tony!’ Mum glares at him. ‘Not in front of Drew. Please.’

It’s not like I don’t know all this already. They sent me upstairs when we got home from school but I didn’t go into my room. I sat cross-legged on the landing instead and listened to Mum lay into Mason about nicking twenty quid from her bag. She told him how disappointed she was. How Tony was at the end of his tether. How they knew Mason had been smoking weed out of his bedroom window. ‘And now you’re stealing!’ she cried. ‘From your own mother. What did I do to deserve that, Mason? What did I do wrong?’ She started crying then. I heard Mason try to comfort her but she wasn’t having any of it. She told him that he’d pushed her to the edge and she had no choice but to agree with Tony and send him to the Residential Reform Academy.

Mason wasn’t the only one who gasped. I did too. When Tony had first mentioned sending Mason away (another conversation I’d eavesdropped) Mum was really against the idea. I wasn’t. Mason might be my brother but he can also be a prize dick. He wasn’t always a dick. He was pretty cool when we were kids but he changed after Dad disappeared. He stopped watching TV in the living room with me and Mum and holed himself away in his room instead. And if he wasn’t in his room he was out with his mates on their bikes or skateboarding in the park. He started finding fault in everything – in me, in Mum, at school. He talked back to his teachers, he started fights and he smashed stuff up if he lost his temper. After he was excluded, I barely saw him. When I did he’d make snidey comments about me being the favourite and accuse me of sucking up to Tony.

‘You’ve got no personality,’ he’d shout at me. ‘That’s why Tony likes you.’

He really bloody hated Tony. He made no secret of that.

‘Drew,’ Tony says now. ‘If this woman told you her name you need to tell us what it is.’

‘I know but …’ I pause. Tony’s the National Head of Academies which means he knows the people who run the RRA. If he contacts them, Mason will get into trouble. He’s not supposed to have any contact with the outside world while he’s away. He wasn’t even allowed to take his phone or iPad with him. I shouldn’t have said anything about this in front of Tony but I was so freaked out by what had happened it all came spilling out before I knew what I was doing.

‘But what?’ He sits forward so he’s perched on the edge of the sofa. ‘Just tell us her name, Drew.’

‘I’m going to ring Norton House,’ Mum says, before I can reply. She reaches into her handbag for her phone and swipes at the screen.

‘Jane.’ Tony touches her arm. ‘Let me deal with this. If you get in touch, Mason will be getting exactly the reaction he was hoping for when he smuggled the note out. He –’

‘Yes, hello.’ Mum twists away from Tony. ‘I’m calling to enquire about my son, Mason Finch.’

‘Mum!’ I jump out of my seat. ‘Mum, please! Don’t tell them about –’

She waves me away.

‘Yes, that’s right. I just wanted to check that he’s OK.’ She covers the mouthpiece with her hand and gestures for me to sit back down. ‘They’re just going to find out how he’s doing.’

‘Honestly, Jane …’ Tony gets up from the sofa. He walks over the window and stares out into the street with his arms crossed over his chest. A bead of sweat trickles out of his hairline and runs down the side of his face. He swipes it away sharply, as though brushing away an annoying fly. The toe of his right shoe tap, tap, taps on the carpet as Mum continues to hold. I’ve never seen him look this unsettled before.

‘OK,’ Mum says into the phone. ‘Right, OK. I understand. No, there’s nothing else. Thank you for your time.’ She removes the phone from her ear and ends the call. ‘He’s in pre-treatment and can’t be disturbed, but they’re going to WhatsApp me some video footage so I can see that he’s OK.’

Tony doesn’t react. He continues to stare out into the street. A new bead of sweat runs down the side of his face. He doesn’t swipe it away.

‘Mum,’ I say, but I’m interrupted by the sound of her phone pinging.

‘Here we go. They’ve sent the video.’ She taps the empty seat next to her, gesturing for me to join her on the sofa. Tony doesn’t move a muscle as I cross the living room.

Mum touches the screen as I sit down next to her. An image of Mason, sitting in a beanbag chair with a PS4 controller in his hands, jumps to life. There are two boys sitting either side of my brother, both on beanbags, both holding controllers. All three boys are laughing their heads off. They look like mates, kicking back in one of their bedrooms rather than three kids who’ve been sent away to overcome their ‘behavioural problems’.

‘Can I look at that for a second?’

Mum doesn’t resist as I take the phone from her hand and click on the video details.

‘What are you doing?’ she asks.

‘Checking the date the video was taken. They might have sent you footage of when he first arrived.’

‘And?’

I stare at it in disbelief. ‘It was taken today.’

‘There you go, then.’ Tony swivels around so he’s facing us. ‘And you still claim your son wasn’t trying to manipulate you, Jane?’

Mum sighs heavily and looks at me. ‘What do you think, Drew? He looks fine, in the video, doesn’t he?’

There’s desperation in her eyes. She wants me to tell her there’s nothing to worry about.

‘No one’s being brainwashed,’ Tony says. He’s not sweating any more and his foot has stopped pounding the carpet. If anything he looks ever so slightly smug. ‘All the kids get a couple of weeks to settle in followed by an intensive course of therapeutic treatment to help them overcome their behavioural issues. If Mason passed a note to someone – and I’m of the belief it was written before he left – it was done because he’s still resistant to the idea that he needs to make some positive changes in his life.’

Waffle, waffle, waffle. Tony might be convincing Mum with his pseudo psycho-babble but I’m not so sure.

‘What kind of therapeutic treatment?’ I ask.

‘Um.’ Tony runs a hand over his thinning hair. ‘It’s … er … cognitive behavioural therapy, modelled especially for adolescence.’

He’s right. Cognitive behavioural therapy isn’t brainwashing. It helps you change the way you think and behave. But if it’s all so innocent why has he started sweating again?


Chapter Five (#ulink_2100f50e-492f-5782-875e-22311a320d3f)

Mum and Tony didn’t say a word when I left the living room, claiming I needed to do some homework, but I heard Mum hiss at Tony as I climbed the stairs to my room.

‘I won’t have you talk about Mason like that in front of Drew. Whatever he’s done he’s still her brother and, as soon as he’s completed his treatment, he’ll be coming back home.’

She might have bought Tony’s crap about CBT but I haven’t. Dr Cobey wouldn’t have risked her life to pass me Mason’s note if that was what was going on.

I open my laptop lid and type ‘RRA’ into Google. A bunch of links for architects, relative risk aversion and the Rahanweyn Resistance Army appear on the screen. That’s not what I’m after so I try again, entering Residential Reform Academy into the search box. This time, when I click return, a website for the school appears.

I’ve looked at it before. I checked it out after Mum and Tony told Mason that’s where they were sending him. On the first page it says it’s, a therapeutic boarding school for troubled adolescents that provides a safe, secure and structured environment to allow them to overcome their issues. Established four years ago, the RRA has seen a huge leap in student intake over the last twelve months due to strong support from the current Government, but there’s not much more information; a few photos of the huge mansion-sized building and a bit of history about it being a psychiatric hospital in the Eighties. And that’s it. Dr Rothwell is named as the director but there’s no staff list. No photos of the inside or the kids. No contact information. No directions. Nothing. A residential school in the heart of Northumberland, it says. That could be anywhere.

I try another search.

Residential Reform Academy review.

Nothing. I look on Facebook to see if it’s listed there. Nothing. No images on Instagram. No hashtags on Twitter. If the treatment only lasts two months surely some of the kids who’d left would have mentioned it on social media? But there’s nothing. Other than the website it’s as though it doesn’t exist.

I try more searches:

RRA experience

RRA story

RRA nightmare

RRA scared

RRA brainwashed

Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

I slump back in my chair and stare at the ceiling. Why am I even doing this? Mason looked fine in the video. Tony’s probably right. The note was his attempt to guilt trip mum into coming to get him. But even if he was, that doesn’t explain the things Dr Cobey said to me. Why all the secrecy and fear about this place? What are they hiding?

I jolt forward in my seat and put my fingers back on the keyboard.

RRA conspiracy

Nothing.

RRA secrecy

Nothing.

RRA truth

Bingo!

On the second page there’s a link to a blog on Tumblr. I click on the mouse button and the site loads. But there’s barely anything written on the page. Just fourteen words.

If you want to know the truth about RRA message me on Snapchat. ZedGreen.

***

I snatch up my phone and click on the Snapchat icon. As I do the landing floorboards creak loudly. Someone’s creeping about outside my bedroom door.

‘Mum?’ I peer outside but it’s Tony’s shadow that disappears into the master bedroom. I hear the deep, bassy rumble of his voice then the door clicks closed. He’s making a call. Mum must be in the kitchen. I can hear plates and dishes clinking and clanking as though they’re being loaded into the dishwasher. I close my bedroom door and return to my desk. I swivel my chair round so I can see the door then I add ZedGreen as a friend on Snapchat. The request is immediately accepted so I tap out a message.

ME

My brother is at RRA and I’m worried about him. Can you help?

I have no idea who ZedGreen is. For all I know he could be someone at the academy, an ex-pupil, or even a teacher.

A message flashes up on the screen:

ZEDGREEN

Send me a photo.

I type back.

ME

Of what?

ZEDGREEN

You, holding a sign with today’s date written on it.

ME

Why?

ZEDGREEN

So I know you are who you say you are.

ME

But I don’t know who you are.

ZEDGREEN

You’re the one who came knocking on my door, not the other way round.

I stare at the screen. I don’t share photos. Not in real life and particularly not online.

I type back:

ME

I can’t do that. Sorry.

ZEDGREEN

Then we can’t talk. Goodbye.

ME

Wait! I need your help.

Thirty seconds pass. ZedGreen doesn’t reply. I tap my feet on the carpet. C’mon. C’mon. I put my phone down and do a search on Reddit using all the terms that led me to ZedGreen’s blog but there’s nothing. He’s the only person in the world who can help me and if I don’t do what he asks is not going to play ball. But if I show him a photo that means LoneVoice isn’t anonymous any more. I won’t be anonymous any more. If ZedGreen screenshotted my photo and put it online I wouldn’t be able to be me. I wouldn’t feel safe.

I snatch up my phone again.

ME

Please,

I tap out.

ME

My brother sent me a message telling me that he’s being brainwashed. I need to know if it’s true or not.

ZedGreen doesn’t reply.

ME

PLEASE!

I feel sick as he continues to ignore me. What if he only gave me one chance to respond and I’ve blown it? I’ll never find out the truth. If Dr Cobey was killed just for trying to help Mason, God knows what kind of danger he’s in. Mum and Tony are convinced that he’s fine. But what if he’s not? I could never forgive myself if something awful happened to him.

‘This had better not be a wind-up, Mase,’ I mutter, as I rip a page out of my journal and write today’s date on it. I hold it under my chin, reach out my arm and snap a scowling selfie.

A couple of seconds later and I’ve sent it to ZedGreen.

ME

There,

I type.

ME

Happy now?

The message is delivered but nothing happens. Zed doesn’t respond.

ME

Hello? Are you still there?

A sick feeling grips my stomach. Some random stranger has got my photo and I’m still no closer to finding out what’s going on with my brother.

Ping! My phone vibrates in my hand. A message from ZedGreen:

ZEDGREEN

If you want to discover the truth about the RRA you need to meet me. Grab a pen. I will send you details in my next message. Do not screengrab it. Do not tell anyone where you’re going. Meet me alone. If you break any of these rules I will vanish. Do we understand each other?

ME

Yes

I type back.

ME

Tell me where and when and I’ll be there.


Chapter Six (#ulink_5a0ac513-a348-549d-a70b-97957bd02a75)

I am waiting where Zed told me to meet him, under the horse chestnut tree in Redcatch Park. It’s seven o’clock and the park is almost pitch black. The only light is the amber glow from the houses on the edge of the park. It’s November and the ground is thick with fallen leaves. The red, orange, yellow leaves look gorgeous in the daytime but, at night, every crunch, every crackle, every skittering leaf makes me jump.

When Zed’s message flashed up on my phone.

ZEDGREEN

Horse chestnut tree, Redcatch Park, 7 p.m.

I actually laughed. Meet a total stranger in a deserted park in near darkness? What kind of idiot did he think I was?

ME

You need to show me a photo with today’s date. So I know who I’m meeting.

ZEDGREEN

You’ll find out who I am when we meet. This is as much of a risk for me as it is you.

ME

Why?

ZEDGREEN

You’ll understand when we meet.

ME

Understand what?

He didn’t reply.

In fact, he ignored every single message I sent him afterwards.

At dinner, I told Mum and Tony that I was going to Lucy’s to work on an English project. Tony raised an eyebrow – I never go to anyone’s house – but he didn’t say a word. Mum, on the other hand, couldn’t hide her delight.

‘Who’s Lucy? Is she a new friend? You haven’t mentioned her before. Would you like to invite her here? She could come to dinner. What’s your favourite food? I’ll make it if you like.’

She was so embarrassingly OTT I wanted to slide off my chair, slither across the kitchen floor and out the back door. Hooray, my hermit daughter has a friend. Let’s roll out the banners and pump up the balloons!

I’m not a total idiot. I didn’t go out in the dark to meet a stranger without telling anyone. I sent messages to three of my online friends – Chapman who lives in London, Isla who lives in Scotland, and Sadie who lives in Birmingham – telling them what had happened and including a photo of Mason’s note. Chapman replied straight away. He’s nineteen, a tester for a computer games company and he doesn’t go anywhere without at least four different gadgets.

You’re an idiot, he typed back. It’s probably some kind of paedo trap. Give me a sec and I’ll see what I can find out about ZedGreen.

A couple of minutes later he sent me another message.

Can’t find anything on ZedGreen but I still think you shouldn’t go.

He only chilled out when I said I’d give him the password to my ‘Track My Phone?’ app so he could track me on GPS. I’ll change the password when I get back home, not that I’m bothered that Chapman will know where I live. I’ve known him for over a year now and he’s never once said anything remotely sleazy or inappropriate. In fact, a couple of months ago he confided in me that he thinks he’s asexual.

Isla and Sadie didn’t reply to my message. Isla’s a student nurse and works long hours. Sadie’s doing her GCSEs like me but she goes to kickboxing classes several times a week and can’t chat online until quite late at night.

Now, I tap my pocket to check I’ve still got my phone then rub my hands up and down my arms. I should have worn a coat, it’s bloody freezing. All around me the trees are swaying in the wind, their shadows reaching across the grass like long, bony fingers. I scan the park, looking for signs of movement but, other than leaves tossing and turning as they’re blown down the path, I’m all alone.

The sound of twigs snapping makes me turn my head sharply. There’s someone about a hundred metres to my left, stepping out from behind a tree. They’re dressed all in black, the face shrouded by shadows. Even from this distance I can tell from his height, broad shoulders and the determined way he stalks towards me that it’s a man.

I skirt round the tree, my heart thumping in the base of my throat. ZedGreen’s huge. What the hell was I thinking? I need to get out of here. Having ‘Track My Phone’ won’t be much help if my phone’s knocked out of my hand as he bundles me into a white van.

OK, on a count of three I’m going to make a run for it.

One.

Two.

I freeze as leaves directly behind the tree crackle and snap. He’s running! I take a step to my left, primed to sprint, but, as I do, something hard smacks against my lower back. A strangled scream catches in my throat and I spin round, my hands raised in self-defence.

‘Bess! Bess come here!’ A male voice booms through the darkness as a large, brown dog leaps up at me, almost pinning me to the tree with the weight of his front paws. ‘Bess, what are you – Jesus!’

The man stops short, eight or nine metres away from me, and presses a gloved hand to his heart. ‘Jesus! Sorry, love. I didn’t see you there. You nearly gave me a heart attack.’

I don’t say anything. I’m too freaked out to speak.

‘Bess!’ the man shouts as she jumps up and presses her paws against my stomach, her tail wagging frantically. ‘Leave her alone. Come here!’

The dog starts off through the leaves and the man ambles slowly towards the park gates. I slump against the tree as I watch him go. This was a really, really stupid idea. Zed hasn’t even shown up.

I glance at my phone: 7.17 p.m. This couldn’t be down to Lacey, could it? It’s just the sort of stunt she’d pull to try to wind me up. No. I dismiss the thought as soon as it crosses my mind. I’m being paranoid. Even if she knows where Mason is she wouldn’t set up a web page hoping I’d get in touch. She’s too thick for one thing.

I shove my phone into the back pocket of my jeans, pull my hoody up over my head, shove my hands into my pockets and hurry through the park, kicking at piles of raked-up leaves as I head for the gates. ZedGreen’s probably having a right old laugh at me. Not only did I send him a photo, I actually went to the park to meet the invisible man.

As I reach the end of the path, I turn round, just to check that I’m not being followed, but the dog walker and his mutt are long gone. There’s no one else here. It’s just me and the empty kids play park. Mum used to take me and Mason there after she collected us from primary school. My brother loved the climbing frame, right until he fell off it and broke his arm. I was more of a fan of –

One of the swings is moving back and forth on its own. The chains creak as it arches forwards and back, forwards and back. It’s swinging vigorously, as though someone just jumped off. I take off, speeding towards the gate. Someone was sitting on the swings. If they watched me talk to the dog walker they also know I’m alone now.

I speed past the play park, and up the tree-lined path. A cold gust of wind showers me with leaves and takes my breath away as my boots thump on the tarmac. I’m too far away from the houses for anyone to be able to see me. I need to get out of the gate and onto Redcatch Road where there are cars, houses, people. As I round the corner, I sneak a look back at the play park, half expecting to see a figure on the swing, staring at me through the darkness but the swing is still. Whoever was sitting on it is still in the park. I can’t see them but I feel them watching me.

My lungs burn and my thighs ache as I run up the small stretch of path to the gate. A car’s headlights flash through the bushes as it speeds along the road. I’m nearly there. Nearly at the gate. Just four or five more steps and I’ll be out onto the road –

‘Aaargh!’

One second I’m standing by the gate. The next I’m being dragged backwards by my hood. I twist and squirm, trying to get free, my right hand clenched into a fist. I’m just about to strike out at my attacker when a soft voice says, ‘Hello LoneVoice, I’m Zed.’


Chapter Seven (#ulink_ca4c06c3-5062-5745-9874-16a46d973c40)

‘You’re Zed Green?’

I stared down in surprise at the small, skinny girl standing beside me with her hands raised as though in surrender. She’s got short hair, clipped close around the ears and a vivid blue or green streak in her fringe (it’s hard to tell in this light). Her eyes are rimmed with black kohl and there is a hoop in her left nostril.

‘Yeah.’ She drops her hands and crosses her arms over her chest. ‘Although that’s not my real name, obviously.’

I take a step backwards. Just because she’s female, and roughly the same age as me, doesn’t mean she’s not dangerous.

‘Were you on the swing?’

She frowns. ‘What swing?’

‘The one over there. It was moving all by itself.’

‘Jesus.’ She clutches my arm. ‘You don’t think the park’s haunted, do you?’

She looks so scared that I immediately doubt myself. Did I actually see the swing moving or was it my overactive imagination going into overdrive?

‘Oh my God!’ Zed pushes me away and bursts out laughing. ‘I’m sorry. I couldn’t resist. Of course it was me on the swing.’

OK …

This is all one big wind-up. I don’t have time for this sort of crap.

‘Hey, LV, wait!’ She tries to grab me by the elbow as I walk towards the gate but I shrug her off.

‘Wait!’ she calls, as I weave my way through the gate and step onto the road. ‘I’m sorry. I was just dicking about. Please. I can help you.’

I turn back. ‘I waited for you for fifteen minutes and you were watching me the whole time.’

‘I needed to be sure you were who you said you were. I couldn’t see your face in the darkness and when you and that bloke started chatting I thought it was a trap.’

I raise an arm to shield my eyes as a car speeds by, its headlights set to full beam. ‘What kind of trap?’

Zed shrugs. ‘I thought you were both from the RRA. They’ve been taking down my blog posts. That’s why I needed to meet you in person. I can’t share what I know on the Internet, the Government doesn’t want anyone to see it.’

Ah. She’s a conspiracy theorist. The Internet is full of them. She probably thinks the moon landing was faked too. Or that the US Government staged 9/11 so they could attack al-Qaeda.

‘You don’t believe me, do you?’ Zed says. ‘I’m not surprised. I wouldn’t have believed it myself six months ago.’ She glances round as another car speeds down the road then grabs my wrist as it suddenly slows. ‘It’s not safe to talk here. Come with me.’

She walks back through the gate into the park without looking back to check if I’m following. Do I go with her? She’s got a strange sense of humour and she’s definitely a bit unhinged but she seems to know something about the RRA and I need to find out what it is. I take off after her, jogging to catch up. By the time I reach her, she’s sitting in the shelter by the large field local schools use as a football pitch. She unzips her jacket, reaches into a pocket and pulls out her phone.

‘Look at this,’ she says.

A video appears on the screen. It’s a guy about our age standing on a skateboard, at the top of a ramp. He is dressed in a long-sleeved T-shirt, a beanie, jeans and trainers. As the camera zooms in on him he flashes the horns symbol with the fingers of his right hand and sticks out his tongue then he pounds the ground with one trainer and he’s off! The skateboard zooms down the ramp across a patch of tarmac and up another ramp. As it reaches the top, he stamps on the back of the skateboard and it flips into the air. For a second he’s separated from it but then he lands firmly, with both feet and zooms back down the ramp.

‘Yeah!’ yells a voice that sounds a lot like Zed’s and then a female hand makes the horns in front of the camera. Clamped between the thumb and fingers is a fat spliff.

‘That’s for me, yeah?’ Skateboard guy approaches the camera, grinning and whips it out of her fingers. He tokes on the joint and blows a stream of smoke up at the sky.

‘How good was I?’ he says as he looks into the camera.

‘Really good,’ Zed says. ‘Really bloody good.’

Skateboard boy leans in towards the camera. His face gets blurrier and blurrier the closer he gets and then the clip stops.

‘That’s when he kissed me,’ Zed says now. Her voice has changed. She sounds softer, more pained.

I don’t get it. What’s that video got to do with the RRA and the Government trying to take down her blog posts. He’s obviously her boyfriend but so what?

‘Come with me.’ She tucks her phone back into her pocket and stands up. ‘I’ve got something else to show you.’

I follow her through the dark park, towards the car park at the far end. The gate is locked so we have to climb over it.

‘Where are we going?’ I ask for the third time since we set off.

‘This is my car.’ Zed taps the bonnet of a red Mini Metro. ‘Passed my test last month. It’s ancient but it runs.’

If she can drive she’s older than me then, by at least a year.

‘Nice,’ I say, then jolt with surprise as I notice the shadowy figure sitting in the passenger seat. Zed sees me jump and rounds the car.

‘Charlie.’ She taps the passenger side window. ‘Come and say hello to my new friend.’

The door opens and I take a step back. I’ve got no idea who’s inside or whether or not I can trust Zed.

Two shiny black shoes appear beneath the open car door as Charlie swings his legs out. He slowly stands up, shuts the door and turns to face Zed. I can tell it’s the same guy I saw in the video, even in the half light, but they couldn’t look more different. He’s wearing neat, beige chinos – the sort Tony wears at the weekend – and a navy V-neck jumper over a white shirt. His hair is closely cropped, short but not Marines short. But it’s not his appearance that makes me shiver. It’s the strange, vacant look in his eyes as his gaze switches from Zed to me.

‘Hello.’ The edges of his lips curl up into a smile. It happens so slowly it’s like watching a robot attempt a grin. As he steps towards me, his right hand extended, I back away.

‘It’s OK,’ Zed says. ‘He’s not going to hurt you. Just shake his hand.’

I stiffly raise my right hand and lock palms with Charlie. He squeezes my hand and pumps my arms up and down once, twice, three times.

‘Did you go to the RRA?’ I ask him when he finally lets go of my hand.

He nods. ‘I did some stupid things and made some stupid decisions. Being at Norton House taught me how foolish I was. I have learnt how to be a better person and how to contribute to society.’

‘Right, I see.’

‘It’s a pleasure to meet you. Any friend of Evie’s is a friend of mine.’

‘Charlie,’ Zed hisses, ‘I told you not to call me that in public. You’re supposed to call me Zed.’

‘But that’s not your real name. Your real name is Evie Elizabeth Bar–’

‘Charlie, get back in the car!’ Zed yanks on his arm and gently shoves him in the direction of the red Mini. When he reaches the passenger door he touches the handle then looks back.

‘Apologies,’ he says, his cold, vacant eyes meeting mine. ‘I didn’t catch your name.’

‘Robin,’ I say. ‘Robin Redbreast.’

I wait for him to laugh or tell me to sod off. Instead he nods, as though Robin Redbreast is a perfectly normal name, and gets into the car.

‘Well?’ Zed says as the passenger door clicks shut. ‘Do you get it? Do you understand why we had to meet? Why you needed to meet Charlie for yourself?’

I glance back at the car. Charlie is watching us from the passenger seat, still smiling in that strange fixed way. I can’t believe he’s the guy from the skatepark. They look alike but it’s as though they’re two completely different people.

‘What’s wrong with him?’ I ask. ‘Is he on drugs?’

Zed laughs dryly. ‘If only. I could stop him from taking them and he’d go back to being the old Charlie again.’

‘So why’s he like this? What happened to him?’

‘They “treated” him.’ She fixes her bright, blue eyes on me. ‘That’s what did this to him. They turned him into this … this …’ She shakes her head. ‘I don’t know what he is. He looks like Charlie, he feels like him and smells like him but his personality’s gone. The Charlie who went to the RRA was a rebel. He was outspoken. He was lively. He kicked back at authority. He –’

‘He sounds a lot like my brother.’

She raises her eyebrows and sighs. ‘That’s what I was worried about. But he won’t be your brother when he gets out. You won’t recognize him. Charlie used to smoke weed, a lot of weed. That’s why he was excluded from three schools. He was caught toking in the school grounds. Now if I ask him if he fancies a smoke he gives me a lecture about the psychotropic effects of marijuana and reels off statistics about heavy users being more prone to schizophrenia, yada yada yada.’

I shrug. ‘Well, that is true.’

‘But it’s not the point. The point is there’s no way Charlie would have given me a lecture like that before he went in. And he definitely wouldn’t have announced that he wants to train to become an accountant. Or agree with his dad that the police should have greater stop and search rights, or suggest that internet usage should be monitored nationwide and —’

‘You think he’s been brainwashed,’ I say, glancing back at the car. ‘Don’t you?’ Charlie is still watching us intently. He’s starting to seriously freak me out.

‘Yeah.’ Zed runs her hands through her hair and stares up at the sky. She inhales sharply through her nose and blinks rapidly but there’s no stopping the tears that well in her eyes. ‘Sorry, sorry.’ She swipes at them with her coat sleeve. ‘I can’t believe I’m crying in front of a complete stranger but you’re the first person I’ve really talked to about this and it’s … it’s just so hard. I’m in love with him. Or at least, I was. I keep waiting to see a glimpse of the old Charlie, for whatever’s happened to him to wear off, but it hasn’t happened. It’s been three months since he left the RRA and …’ Fresh tears replace the ones she wiped. This time she doesn’t try to hide them.

‘Hasn’t anyone else noticed?’ I say. ‘His friends or his parents? If Mason came back like Charlie, Mum would be onto the police straight away.’

‘Would she?’ She laughs dryly. ‘Andy and Julie love the new Charlie. His mum’s always going on about how polite and helpful he is now and how delighted she is that she’s got her little boy back. And Andy can’t stop telling people how well Charlie is doing at school.’

‘But he’s so weird. Sorry.’ I pull a face. ‘I know he’s your boyfriend but he’s … creepy. How can they not see that?’

Zed rubs the back of her neck. ‘I think they see what they want to see – their son doing what he’s told for a change. He doesn’t answer them back; he doesn’t stay out late. He’s perfect, as far as they’re concerned. His dad keeps going on about how proud he is that Charlie’s got his priorities straight at last and how relieved he is that he’s decided on a career instead of claiming he’s going to sign on as soon as he leaves school.’

I groan loudly. Make This Country Great. Contribute to Society. A Safe Land for Hardworking People. All buzzwords of the new Government. I hate that our parents voted them in. It’s our future they’ve screwed up and we don’t even get a say in it.

‘What about Charlie’s friends?’ I ask. ‘Surely they’ve noticed a difference.’

‘Of course. They tried to snap him out of it too but they’ve given up on him now. They think he’s a total killjoy. If he’s bothered by the fact they don’t call or message him any more he doesn’t show it. In fact, he’s really sniffy about the whole skate scene now. He acts like he’s really superior to everyone. If I remind him what he used to be like he says, “I was a waste of space, Evie. I’m just lucky I was given the opportunity to turn my life around.”’

It’s doing my head in, everything that Zed is telling me. I feel like my brain is melting. The RRA woman Mum spoke to on the phone told her that Mason had just been moved to pre-treatment. That means he could be ‘treated’ at any time. For all I know it could be tomorrow. Or he might be there already. I can’t let them do to him what they did to Charlie. I just can’t.

‘Zed,’ I say softly, as I angle her away from Charlie’s strange, staring gaze. ‘I’m going to need your help.’


Chapter Eight (#ulink_28b074e7-3f2b-59c6-b8b5-537337ff7704)

I have to wait until morning break before I can use the school library. I head for the bookshelves first, filling my arms with as many psychology books as I can find that cover brainwashing, mind control, behavioural issues and therapeutic practices. A lot of them look a bit too basic but I haven’t got time to go to the library in town. As soon as Mum and Tony find out what I’m planning they won’t let me out of their sight. When I’ve got all the books I need I log onto one of the school computers. We’ve only got one printer at home and it’s in Tony’s office. I can connect to it from my laptop but I can’t risk him discovering what I’m up to. Last night Zed told me everything she knows about the RRA, including where it is. It’s a large Victorian mansion called Norton House, formerly a psychiatric hospital, on the Northumberland coast. The sea is on one side and acres and acres of countryside are on the other. It’s remote and you can only reach it by car or boat. Zed reckons it would take at least an hour and a half in a taxi to get there from Newcastle upon Tyne train station.

I found out some interesting things about Norton House when I was Googling last night. Very interesting inde–

‘What’s this?’ A hand snatches my computer printout as I reach for it. Lacey. What the hell is she doing in the library? She never comes in here, ever. She must’ve been looking for me. I glance around, looking for her sheep. They can’t ambush me here, not when Mrs Wilson the librarian is sitting at her desk and there’s at least half a dozen kids milling about. But there’s no sign of her little flock. Lacey is totally alone.

‘You’re not the only one who is allowed to use the library, Drew,’ she says as though she’s read my thoughts. ‘I need to finish my English course work and –’ She peers at the printout in her hand. ‘What’s this? I didn’t know you did design and technology.’

I try to snatch it back but she whips it away and holds it high above my head. Mrs Wilson glances over, disturbed by the noise.

‘Sorry!’ Lacey giggles, as she presses a finger to her lips. ‘We’ll try and keep it down. Won’t we, Andrew?’

Mrs Wilson looks away again, reassured by Lacey’s fake smile and her stupid, sing-song voice.

‘Lacey,’ I say quietly. ‘Just give it back to me.’

She shakes her head. ‘Not until you tell me what it is.’

‘Don’t do this. Not now.’

‘Why not?’

I take a deep breath in through my nose and exhale heavily. I need to keep calm. I swivel round in my chair and press Control P on the keyboard. If Lacey won’t give me my map back I’ll print out another one.

‘What are you up to, Andrew?’ Lacey presses her body up against mine as she peers at the screen. The printer beside me makes a chugging noise and I reach out a hand to grab the second printout. But it’s not the paper Lacey’s interested in. Click, click. She grabs the mouse and swaps one tab for the next. The first website I was looking at flashes up on the screen.

‘Oh my God,’ she breathes. ‘It’s that reform academy that Aoife and Freya Rotheram were sent to. The one up north. Didn’t your brother get sent there too?’

‘Lacey, go away.’ I grab the printout with one hand and shove her away from me with the other.

‘Oh my God!’ Her jaw drops as she stares at me. ‘I know what you’re doing. I know what the printout is. It’s a map. It’s some kind of tunnel system under the school. You’re going to try and help your brother break out. Hey, Mrs Wilson, did you know that —’

‘No!’ My chair crashes to the floor as I stand up quickly. She can’t do this.

‘Lacey.’ I keep my voice down as I step towards her. ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Don’t I?’ Her blue eyes glitter as she smiles at me. ‘Why are you freaking out then?’

The room has fallen completely silent. Everyone is watching us. They’re waiting to see how this plays out.

‘Lacey,’ I say. ‘Don’t go there.’

‘You threatening me, Andrew?’ Her top lip tightens into a sneer. I used to think Lacey was beautiful, the prettiest girl in our year with her long, shiny black hair and her bright blue eyes but I’ve never seen anyone as ugly as the girl standing in front of me now.

‘Girls!’ Miss Wilson stands up and places her hands on her desk. ‘Is everything OK?’

‘If you tell her,’ I hiss, ‘I’ll tell Jake Stone to drop you.’

Her eyebrows shoot up in alarm. ‘How do you know about Jake?’

‘I know about everything.’

‘Liar. You’ve been eavesdropping, you little troll. Anyway, Jake wouldn’t listen to you. No one listens to you. Even your own parents think you’re a drama queen. What was it your dad said in mediation? Drew can be a little highly strung.’

‘Tony’s not my dad.’

‘Girls!’ Miss Wilson rams her desk and crosses the library towards us. A couple more strides and she’ll be able to hear every word we’re saying.

Lacey flicks her hair away from her face. ‘My mistake, Drew. Your real dad was a nut job, like you. Maybe you should kill yourself like he did.’

Before I know what I’m doing my clenched fist arcs through the air and smashes against Lacey’s cheekbone. There’s a terrible crunching sound, of bone on bone, then she stumbles backwards. She falls, as though in slow motion, one hand reaching for me, the other curling towards her face. Smash! The back of her head smacks against library carpet. Her body jolts and then lies still. There’s a hand on my shoulder, shoving me out of the way and Mrs Wilson screeches for someone to call the nurse. I stand stock still as she crouches down beside Lacey’s crumpled body and touches her hands to the side of her face.

‘Lacey!’ she calls. ‘Lacey? Can you open your eyes?’

But Lacey doesn’t open her eyes. She lies completely still. As still as the dead.


Chapter Nine (#ulink_acd4a31a-4581-5ab9-aca5-fedd84150024)

‘We came as soon as we could,’ Mum bursts into the headmaster’s office with Tony close beside her.

‘Drew! Oh my God.’ She skirts across the room and drops to her knees beside me. ‘Drew!’ She gathers me into her arms and repeatedly strokes the back of my head. ‘Oh my God, Drew. What happened?’ She holds me at arm’s length and stares into my face. ‘Please tell me it’s not true. Please tell me you didn’t hit Lacey Mitchell.’

‘Jane.’ Tony touches her arm and nods his head towards Mr Mooney, sitting across the desk from us. ‘Let Layton deal with this.’

‘Yes, yes, of course.’ Mum runs her fingers through her hair as she sits down in the plastic chair between me and Tony. Her forehead is damp with sweat and her eye make-up is smudged. I feel sick, knowing how much this must be upsetting her and I wish there was something I could do to make her feel better but there’s nothing I can say, not with Tony and Mr Mooney sitting so close.

‘Mr and Mrs Coleman.’ Mr Mooney gives them a sharp nod. ‘Thank you so much for getting here so quickly. I know how busy you both are, particularly you, Mr Coleman.’

He gives Tony a deferential smile that makes me cringe. Big suck up. He’s got the National Head of Academies in his office and he’s not going to put a foot wrong. We all know Tony could get him sacked in a heartbeat if he wanted to.

‘No problem, George,’ Tony says, giving him a condescending smile. ‘We are as concerned as you are about Drew’s behaviour.’

‘Indeed.’ Mr Mooney puts his elbows on the desk and fixes me with an intense stare. ‘Fortunately Lacey is going to be OK. She was only unconscious for a couple of seconds and I’ve heard back from Ms Wilson who accompanied her to A & E that her cheekbone isn’t fractured, although she is still in quite a lot of pain.’

Good. I clench my hands so my fingernails dig into my palms. I’m glad she’s in pain. People can say what they like about me but no one gets to talk about my dad like that.

‘Now the thing is,’ Mr Mooney continues, ‘there’s obviously been a few issues between Lacey and Drew over the last couple of months and we’ve done everything we can to try and resolve them.’

‘Obviously not enough,’ Mum says, ‘or my daughter wouldn’t have done what she did.’

I shoot her a grateful look. She meets my gaze but her eyes are steely.

‘That’s not to say I condone her behaviour,’ Mum says, looking back at Mr Mooney. ‘But something needs to be done.’

‘Well, obviously Drew will be excluded for several days as …’

Several days? He can’t mean that. Surely I should be permanently excluded for punching another student in the face! I didn’t plan on hitting Lacey. I was going to shove a load of PE kits down the toilets and flush the chains to cause a flood, then hit the fire alarm button. And if that wasn’t enough to get me permanently excluded I would have done something worse.

‘… obviously there are extenuating circumstances here,’ Mr Mooney drones on. ‘Then, when both girls are back in school we will restart mediation and –’

‘I’m not going to any more mediation sessions,’ I say.

‘Drew!’ Mum clutches my arm. ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

‘Don’t pander to her, Jane,’ Tony says. ‘It’s what she wants. I’ve never seen such blatant attention-seeking behaviour.’

My stepdad’s knuckles are white from gripping the arms of his chair so tightly. He wants to have a massive go at me but he won’t do it here, in front of Mum and Mr Mooney. If there’s one thing he can’t stand it’s being embarrassed in public. That’s why he packed Mason off to Norton House because his behaviour didn’t reflect well on him.

Mr Mooney takes a sip of water from the glass on his desk, then sets it back down again. He’s waiting for them to stop bickering.

‘I’m not pandering to her, Tony,’ Mum says. ‘I’m trying to make her see sense.’

‘Look.’ Mr Mooney splays his hands wide on the desk. The tip of his little finger nudges the glass of water ever so slightly closer to me. ‘No one’s going to force you to go to mediation, Drew. Once you and Lacey are back at school we will ensure that any teachers you have for the same lessons are aware of the situation. We will also make sure you’re separated at break and lunchtimes. Once you feel ready to start mediation again we can –’

‘I told you.’ I launch myself out of my chair and stand up. ‘I’m NOT GOING TO MEDIATION!’

‘Drew!’ Tony grips my wrist, his face puce. ‘What the hell is wrong with you?’

‘Drew!’ Mum says. ‘Sit down.’

‘Drew Finch.’ Mr Mooney stands up too. He glares at me from across the desk. ‘You need to calm down.’

‘No.’ I yank my wrist out of Tony’s grip and, before anyone can stop me, I grab hold of the glass on the desk and hurl the water straight into my headmaster’s shocked face.


Chapter Ten (#ulink_5d2accc5-d337-5726-909b-ed23b9438729)

The train guard reaches for the tickets in Mum’s hand, scribbles on them and then hands them back. Mum sighs as she tucks them back into her purse then hugs her handbag to her chest as she stares out of the window. She’s barely said a word to me all day and it’s breaking my heart, seeing her so upset, but what can I do? I can’t tell her that I deliberately threw the water in Mr Mooney’s face because I knew it would make Tony go off the deep end. Or explain why I refused to apologize (because I knew it would deepen my stepdad’s embarrassment) and didn’t put up a fight when he announced that ‘maybe a stay at the Residential Reform Academy would teach her how to behave appropriately’. When we got home Mum came into my room and begged me to talk to Tony.

‘You have to explain to him, Drew. You need to let him know how much the bullying and Mason being sent away has upset you. I’m sure he will listen once he’s calmed down. Mr Mooney was only going to exclude you for three days. You can still put this right, Drew. Please, sweetheart. If you won’t do this for me, do it for your dad. He was always so proud of you. It would break his heart to see you like this.’

I started to cry then. Partly because she was talking about my dad in the past tense (he’s not dead, he didn’t abandon his car at Beachy Head and walk off the cliff. He’s alive and he’s missing. Why doesn’t anyone else believe that?). And partly because I knew it was her heart that was breaking.

‘I know,’ she said as she put her arms around me, ‘that this hard girl stuff is all an act. You’re still my baby, Drew. You’re still my sweet, sensitive little girl. Let’s go down and talk to Tony together. He’s not a monster. He just wants what’s best for you, what’s best for all of us.’

I stopped crying when she said that. Is that why he sent my brother away to be brainwashed, because it was the best for all of us? No. It was best for him.

‘Please, darling,’ Mum begged as she tried and failed to take hold my hand. ‘Please.’

After half an hour pleading and cajoling she eventually gave up.

‘You’d better pack your bags then,’ she said as she hovered at my bedroom door. ‘You’re going tomorrow. Tony’s been on the phone to the RRA. They’ve found you a bed.’

I barely slept last night. I stayed up until 1 a.m. reading my psychology books and studying the printout I printed off the Internet. My hands shook as I turned the pages. I had – have – no idea what I’m letting myself in for. What if I’m locked up the second I get there and I’m shackled to a bed and wheeled into some kind of treatment room? What if it’s not some kind of psychological brainwashing at all? What if electroshock treatment is involved, or an operation? Charlie certainly acted like he’d had some part of his brain removed. I tried to push the thought out of my head and think logically. This isn’t A Clockwork Orange or One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. It’s real life. A real school. An academy for God’s sake. There is no way they can get away with performing operations on kids without the parents’ consent. If they are brainwashing kids they have to be doing it legally. But how? After I put down my book and turned out my bedside light, I felt a fresh flicker of fear. Who did I think I was – charging in there expecting to be able to save my brother? I wasn’t a trained psychologist or an SAS soldier. I was a sixteen-year-old girl. And I was all alone.

‘You know you can’t bring that in with you, don’t you?’ Mum says now, gesturing at the book in my hands. ‘No books, no mobile phones, no games consoles, no music players. Just toiletries and the items of clothing on the printout I gave you.’

‘I know.’ I close the book. I need to tell Mum how scared I am. This might be my last chance.

‘Mum.’ I reach across the table but my hand doesn’t quite touch hers. ‘I’ve got a bad feeling about Norton House. Don’t shout at me, but the other day I met up with a girl whose boyfriend went –’

‘Is this seat free?’ A short man in a black suit with greying hair and gold-rimmed glasses gestures at the seat next to me. There’s a queue of people standing behind him, filling the aisle. Beyond the window is a platform and a sign saying ‘York’. I didn’t even realize we’d stopped.

‘Yes of course.’ Mum gestures for me to move my stuff.

I gather my things onto my lap and give the man a tight smile. I hope he’s not one of those spreaders who try to knock your elbow off the armrest.

‘Afternoon.’ He nods at Mum as he sits down. His eyes flicker towards the third finger of her left hand. There’s a flash of disappointment on his face when he sees that she’s married. Mum’s an attractive woman. She’s only forty but everyone thinks she’s ten years younger. It’s partly her height. Unlike me, tallish at five foot seven, Mum’s only five foot tall. I get my height from my dad. He’s six foot one. My dark hair and hazel eyes come from him too. If I hadn’t seen photos of Mum in a hospital bed with baby me in her arms I wouldn’t believe that we’re related, we’re that different.

‘Going somewhere nice?’ Suit guy asks Mum as he pops a piece of gum into his mouth.

Mum smiles politely. ‘I’m taking my daughter to school.’

‘Ah’. He casts a cursory glance at me. ‘Tough luck!’

I pretend to laugh and reopen my book. I wish he’d found somewhere else to sit. There’s no way I can talk to Mum about anything private now and we’re only about an hour away from Newcastle.

‘Which school?’ he asks Mum.

‘Well, it’s … um …’ I glance up, hearing the indecision in her voice. She doesn’t want the whole carriage to know that her daughter is being sent to a Residential Reform Academy. ‘Er … it’s quite a new school. I doubt you’ll have heard of it.’

‘I don’t know about that!’ Suit man laughs. ‘I’m an OFSTED inspector.’

Mum raises her eyebrows. I can’t tell if she’s impressed or appalled. ‘Are you inspecting a school this afternoon?’

‘Well, I shouldn’t really tell you but …’ He taps the side of his nose and gestures for Mum to lean towards him. ‘I’m going somewhere quite groundbreaking by all accounts.’

‘Is it the Residential Reform Academy in Northumberland?’ I ask.

Suit man looks at me, surprised. ‘You know about Norton House?’

‘Yes.’ I smile sweetly, ignoring Mum who’s flashing me an anguished ‘don’t you tell him!’ look. ‘My stepdad’s the National Head of Academies. He often tells us about his work.’

‘Well, well, well.’ Suitman sits back in his seat. ‘Tony Coleman’s stepdaughter, eh? So you must be …’ He looks at Mum.

‘Jane, his wife.’

‘Ah right, of course. Well, I don’t imagine I’ll be breaking the Official Secrets Act if I disclose to you that that’s exactly where I’m off to.’

‘Gosh,’ Mum says, looking at me. ‘Isn’t that interesting, Drew?’

I smile tightly. I’ve got no idea why she’d think I’d find that interesting but I still reply, ‘Fascinating!’

‘Right, well.’ Suit Man puts a podgy hand on the armrest and levers himself up and onto his feet. ‘I’m going to pay a quick visit to the refreshment trolley. Could I get either of you anything?’

Mum shakes her head. ‘We’re fine, thank you.’

She watches as OFSTED man sways and bumps his way down the juddering carriage then she taps me on the hand.

‘You see? You’ve got nothing to worry about, Drew. There’s no brainwashing going on at Norton House. It’s a normal school. If there was anything remotely dodgy going on, OFSTED would be down on them like a ton of bricks.’

I look at the OFSTED inspector’s seat and raise my eyebrows. He’s left his bag and wallet behind.

‘Hmm,’ I say.


Chapter Eleven (#ulink_064462cf-2ba9-5d95-9c1f-3858c361d6bc)

I gasp as the taxi turns the corner and I get my first glimpse of Norton House. After travelling for hours through the countryside, dotted with the occasional sheep, cow or farmhouse, it’s a surprise to see such a massive building looming out of the landscape. I saw photos of it online but I had no idea how imposing it would be up close. The centre of the red-brick building is arched like a church with a huge clock tower to one side. The main body of the school stretches several hundred metres to each side. Tall, narrow windows dot the front, six on the first floor, six on the ground floor. The windows at the top peak into triangles, like red brick witches’ hats. The roof is black slate, dotted with red-brick chimneys. It’s the kind of building you see in horror movies, where a woman in a white nightshirt is running down a deserted corridor, chased by a dark, shadowy figure. I shiver as the taxi driver pulls up at the iron gates.

‘What did you say your name was?’ he asks, looking back at Mum.

‘Coleman.’

The taxi driver opens his window and presses a button on a silver intercom system on a post. ‘I’ve got two Colemans here for you,’ he says in a thick Geordie accent.

One, I think. I’m a Finch.

Nothing happens for several seconds then the iron gates slowly swing open.

‘OK?’ Mum says, gently touching the back of my hand. I’m holding my book so tightly my knuckles are white. I try to give her a reassuring smile but my heart is beating so violently I feel sick. What am I doing? If I just kept my head down and stayed invisible this wouldn’t be happening. I’d be in my room, listening to music and chatting to Isla, Chapman and Sadie. I talked to them all last night and told them what was happening. With the exception of Sadie, they all thought I was mental. Isla wasn’t convinced by my story about Zed and Charlie. She said she thought they were probably both on drugs. Chapman thought I was out of my depth. You’re sixteen years old, he said. You should have gone to the police with Zed.

Nice idea, if it weren’t for the fact that the police rang Mum last night and said they wouldn’t need a statement from me because they were treating what happened to Dr Cobey as a tragic accident. Several members of the public had reported seeing her stepping into the road when the traffic lights were green and there was no way the driver could have stopped. I couldn’t believe it. The lights were red, I told Mum. And the driver deliberately put his foot down and accelerated. She’d been murdered and the police were covering it up.

‘No one’s covering anything up,’ Mum said. ‘I know how traumatic it must have been for you, seeing something like that, but you need to put it out of your mind. Now please, go upstairs and pack.’

‘Drew?’ Mum says now. ‘Come on, we’re here. We need to get out.’

I touch a hand to my face, surprised to find a tear rolling down my cheeks. I wipe it away briskly and hand Mum my book. ‘Can you return this to the school library, please?’

She takes it then touches me on the shoulder, her face drawn, her eyes clouded with concern. ‘It will be OK, Drew.’

‘Will it?’

‘Of course it will. Just behave yourself, please, and I’ll be here to pick you up in eight week’s time.’

Pick me up? Or pick up the brainwashed, zombie daughter you no longer recognize? I don’t say that to her. Instead, I open the door and step out onto the huge, gravelled driveway of Norton House.


Chapter Twelve (#ulink_1e20c2dc-c350-5da0-b526-507ae019cc77)

As we yank my suitcase out of the boot of the taxi a tall, slim woman with blonde bobbed hair, wide, thin lips and a long, beaky nose appears from behind the huge wooden front door. She walks down the stone steps and heads for Mum, her hand outstretched.

‘You must be Mrs Coleman, so pleased to meet you.’

Mum shakes her hand. ‘Jane, please.’

‘I’m the housemistress, Evelyn Hatch, but everyone calls me Mrs H.’ Her murky green eyes turn to me. ‘You must be Drew.’

I stiffen, waiting for the inevitable handshake. Instead, all the breath leaves my body as Mrs H. throws her arms around my shoulders and gives me one of the tightest, most suffocating hugs of my life.

‘So lovely to have you here,’ she says. She pulls away, keeping her hands on my shoulders as she looks me up and down. ‘I know you’re feeling nervous and apprehensive, Drew, but I think you’ll have a wonderful time here at Norton House.

We’re one big, happy family and you’ll be very well looked after.’

Mum, standing behind her, gives me a smile that isn’t reflected in her eyes. Two of her kids have been sent to a reform school for bad behaviour. She must feel so ashamed.

‘Is it … um … Would it be possible to see Mason?’ Mum asks Mrs H.

Mrs H.’s thin lips tighten momentarily then she forces a smile. ‘I’m afraid not,’ she says in a sing-song voice that doesn’t match the coldness in her eyes. ‘We don’t want to undo all the marvellous progress Mason has made since he got here, do we?’

‘So he’s doing well then?’

‘Oh yes, absolutely.’ Mrs H. clasps a hand to Mum’s shoulder (she’s one touchy-feely woman). ‘He’s doing brilliantly. We’re very proud of the progress he’s made. He only needs to spend another week in pre-treatment and then he’ll be ready to start the final part of his therapy.’

She holds her arms wide and ushers us up the steps, through the large wooden door and into a large, cavernous entrance hall. There are several closed wooden doors to my left and right and a large sweeping staircase at the far end of the room.

‘Will I get to see my brother?’ I ask.

‘I’m afraid not, my dear. You’ll be beginning your acclimatization phase which takes place in the West Wing.’ She gestures to a door on the left. ‘Pre-treatment takes part in the East Wing.’ She flicks her hand to the right.

I grip the handle of my suitcase. ‘What about the actual treatment?’

‘In a separate building.’

‘Where is that?’

‘You’ll find out soon enough. Right!’ She claps her hands together. ‘Let’s take you to see Dr Rothwell. He’s the headmaster and head psychologist.’ She sets off again, trotting across the entrance hall.

She stops outside a wooden door and knocks twice. There’s a brass plaque on it that says, Dr P. Rothwell BSc (Hons): MSc: DClinPsy; CPsychol’. Mum raises her eyebrows as she reads it. She’s easily impressed by random strings of letters.

‘Come!’ bellows a male voice.

Mrs H. turns the handle then pops her head round the door, effectively blocking me and Mum from looking inside.

‘Oh, sorry, Phil. You’ve got company. Don’t let me interrupt you. I was just going to introduce you to a new student. We’ll come –’

‘I’m sorry to bother you –’ Mum taps her on the arm ‘– but the taxi’s waiting outside and I need to leave soon. Could I ask you a couple of questions before I go?’

‘Of course.’ Her hand drops from the door handle. ‘Let’s talk as we walk. I’ll give you a quick glimpse at the rec room and then you can say goodbye to Drew.’

Mum nods gratefully. ‘Thank you so much.’

As Mrs H. shepherds Mum back across the entrance hall, I sneak a quick look inside Dr Rothwell’s study. Through the gap in the door I can see two men, both dressed in suits, standing beside a large wooden desk. The man in the black suit with gold-rimmed glasses is Mr OFSTED from the train. The other man, taller, with a bald head and a neat, black goatie beard, must be Dr Rothwell. As I watch, they shake hands.

‘Before we have lunch,’ Dr Rothwell says, ‘I mustn’t forget to give you this.’

He turns round to his desk and reaches for an unsealed envelope lying next to a black telephone. He laughs nervously as he picks it up. ‘To cover your expenses.’

‘At least four years’ worth I should hope,’ Mr OFSTED says jovially, as he reaches for it. As his fingers graze a corner the telephone rings. The shrill sound makes both men jump and the envelope jerks up and into the air. As it falls, dozens of fifty pounds notes spill from the opening and flutter to the floor.


Chapter Thirteen (#ulink_7155af1f-b3f5-5dc5-b554-2c5b7a8ba49a)

‘Mum!’ I speed after her and Mrs H., dragging my suitcase behind me, as they disappear through a door to the left of the entrance hall. ‘Mum, there’s something –’

‘Sssh.’ She gives me a sharp look as I draw up alongside her. ‘I’m talking, Drew. Don’t be so rude.’

Mrs H. raises a pencilled eyebrow. ‘There will be plenty of time for goodbyes in a moment, Drew. I was just telling your mother about –’

‘But Mum!’ I pull on the sleeve of her grey woollen coat.

‘This is important. I just sa–’

‘Drew!’ Mum grabs me by the shoulders and spins me away from Mrs H. ‘Stop. Being. So. Rude.’

‘I need to talk to you. Alone.’

She shakes her head, her cheeks reddening under Mrs H.’s judgemental stare. ‘Just do what you’re told. Please! This is a difficult enough day as it is without you making it harder.’

‘Mum, the OFSTED inspector is in Dr Rothwell’s office and he just paid him off. I saw the money. Thousands and thousands of pounds.’

My heart thuds in my chest as I wait for Mum to react. This is it. The proof that something dodgy is going on. If Mum rings the police they’ll have to shut the school down.

‘Mum?’ I say as she stares silently at me, her eyes searching my face. ‘Did you hear what I just said?’

She swallows, presses her lips tightly together and then, to my utter horror, her eyes fill with tears. ‘You don’t have to do this, Drew. It’s OK to be scared. You’re hundreds of miles away from home in a place you don’t know, but nothing bad is going to happen to you. I promise. Tony wouldn’t have suggested sending you here if he thought you’d be in any kind of danger. I know you don’t believe it but he loves you and Mason.’

I laugh. ‘Seriously? Mum, we both know that’s not true, but this isn’t about –’

‘So sorry to interrupt.’ Mrs H. takes a step towards us. ‘But you did say you needed to get off, Mrs Coleman, and it’s nearly 5 p.m.’

Mum glances at her watch. ‘Oh God, I’ve got to go! I’m sorry, Drew. I wanted to see your dorm and make sure you were settled in but I can’t miss this train.’

‘No!’ I grab hold of her arm. ‘Don’t go.’

‘I’m sorry, sweetheart.’ Mum’s eyes fill with tears again as she twists her arm away.

‘I love you, Drew,’ she shouts as she sprints towards the front door, which Dr Rothwell is holding it open. Beside him is the OFSTED inspector, with the brown envelope tucked under his arm.

‘Mum!’ I start to go after her but Mrs H. shoots out a hand, lightning fast, and grabs me by the arm and sinks her nails into the thin skin of my wrist. I cry out in pain and Mum glances back but, before I can say anything, the OFSTED inspector sidesteps her, blocking her view.

‘How nice to see you again,’ he says in a loud pompous voice. ‘Dr Rothwell and I are going for lunch in Newcastle. Perhaps we could share your cab?’

‘Mum!’ I shout. ‘Mum, don’t go! Mum!’


Chapter Fourteen (#ulink_639c37ad-7d1d-507e-9951-4ec1341c9528)

As the front door slams shut, Mrs H. releases her grip on my wrist. Four crescent-shaped nail marks are etched into my skin like dirty pink tattoos.

‘Oh dear,’ she says, peering down at them. ‘I’m so sorry about that. I really should get my nails cut. Do you need a hug?’

Do I need a hug? What kind of sick psychopath is she? I move away from her, my hands raised in case she tries to hug or scratch me again. I’ve got three options:

Run for the door and hope Mum’s taxi hasn’t left yet

Smack Mrs H. round her stupid ‘do you need a hug?’ face and tell her that she’s not fooling anyone with her ‘we’re all family’ line

Act dumb, play along and go back to plan A – help Mason escape

‘Drew?’ she says again. ‘Do you need a hug?’

I nod my head. (Three, it is then.)

I try very hard not to cringe as Mrs H. puts her arms around me and gives me a squeeze. Her perfume, a vile floral scent, catches in the back of my throat.

‘It’s tough, I know,’ she murmurs into my hair before she swiftly lets go.

‘Grab your suitcase, please, Drew.’

She holds the white card at the end of her lanyard against a small black box to the right of the door. It swings open and she ushers me inside.

‘Your homesickness will pass quickly, Drew,’ Mrs H. says as she follows me into the room. The walls are lined with bookshelves and hundreds of faded hardback books. It smells vaguely musty, like a second-hand bookshop. A man and two women are standing at a large picture window on the other side of the room. They’re wearing identical royal blue sweatshirts with a Norton House logo, dark jeans and white trainers. And they all have lanyards dangling from their necks.

‘Drew,’ Mrs H. says as they walk towards us. ‘Let me introduce you to Abi, Stuart and Destiny.’

‘Hi,’ they chime, flashing ridiculously white smiles.

‘Great to meet you, Drew!’ Abi steps forward and hugs me. She’s early twenties with blonde hair in a ponytail and ridiculously clear skin. She looks, and sounds, like she should work on the Disney Channel.

Stuart steps closer as Abi lets me go and I brace myself. What’s with all the bloody hugging? But he doesn’t embrace me like I’m some long lost relative. Instead, he nudges my shoulder with a closed fist and says, ‘Drew eh? Cool name,’ in a thick Scottish accent.

‘Nice to meet you, Drew,’ says Destiny. She’s got a neck tattoo, a septum piercing and long black dreads that are curled into a bun on the top of her head. She shoves her hands into her pockets as she speaks. Finally, someone who doesn’t invade my personal space.

‘Abi, Stuart and Destiny work here,’ says Mrs H. ‘Officially they’re known as support assistants but everyone here refers to them as “the friends”. They’re responsible for your mental, physical and emotional health and well-being whilst you’re in the acclimatization phase of your stay at Norton House.’

‘Anything you want –’ Abi beams at me ‘– just ask us.’

‘Can I have an iPad and the Wi-Fi password, please?’

She laughs as though it’s the funniest joke in the whole world but Mrs H. isn’t amused. ‘You won’t have any contact with the outside world for the duration of your stay, Drew. There are a number of other rules you’ll need to abide by but we won’t worry about that now. You’ll find a welcome pack on your bed when I show you to your dorm.’

Dorm? I have to share with other people?

‘You’ll get on great with your roomies,’ Stuart says. ‘Some of the kids make lasting friendships.’

Yeah, right. Not if you’re Charlie. Zed told me he wouldn’t talk about who he met or what happened at Norton House. Instead, he’d trot out the same stock answer: ‘I will forever be grateful to the staff at Norton House for pointing me in the right direction when I didn’t even know I was lost.’

I zone out as Stuart continues to waffle on about friendship and sharing and trust. Beyond the two large picture windows on the other side of the room is a large stretch of lawn. Beyond that, about five hundred metres away, a row of conifers bend and sway in the wind. My stomach clenches as I spot the twenty-foot iron fence that runs around the perimeter of the school. The plans I printed out are over thirty-five years old. If the basement of Norton House has been renovated along with the rest of the building, I’m going to have to find a way to get over that fence instead.

‘Right then,’ Mrs H. says, tapping her foot impatiently. ‘We’ll just do a quick suitcase search and then I’ll show you the rec room.’

*

As I follow Mrs H. across the library, I’m flanked by Abi and Destiny. Stuart walks behind us, dragging my suitcase. Abi went through it and confiscated my e-book reader, two packets of gum, three bars of chocolate and some nail scissors. I wanted to grab everything she’d taken back off her but I didn’t move a muscle. I was too busy praying she wouldn’t ask me to take off my boots so she could search them too.

Mrs H. slows to a stop as she approaches the wall of books on the far side of the room and reaches for the card on the end of her lanyard. There’s another small black box to the right of the door, tucked in between two books on one of the shelves. Three red lights flash at the base.

‘You’re going to like this,’ Abi says as Mrs H. holds her card up to the black box.

There’s a click, a clunking sound and a door-shaped section of the bookshelf swings open.

‘Holy f–’ I press a hand to my mouth, not because the bookshelf contained a hidden door but because I’m hit by a wall of noise as it swings open. Beyond the door is an enormous room, cathedral-big, and it’s teaming with kids. There’s a sea of blue on the floor – a carpet the same shade as Abi’s sweatshirt – broken up by huge circular rugs in red, yellow and green.

Across the other side of the room, there’s a huddle of kids my age, sitting on red beanbags on a red rug. They’re wearing headphones, gripping games controllers and staring at half a dozen flat-screen TVs mounted on the wall. To my left, there’s a yellow rug where a bunch of kids are lounging around on sofas shoving popcorn into their mouths, headphones clamped over their ears, as they watch TV. Beyond them, the rug is green and there’s a pool table, air hockey table, table football game and a huge electronic basketball game. Everywhere I look kids are laughing, chatting, squealing, playing and screaming. It’s like an enormous teenaged crèche.

‘Wonderful isn’t it?’ Mrs H. says, completely misreading the expression on my face. ‘We’re very proud of our recreation room. We deliberately don’t have photos of it on our website because, if we did, every kid in the UK would want to come here.’

‘Yeah,’ I say, but I’m not really listening. I’m staring at the boys playing PlayStation in the red zone. A spotty blond-haired guy is sitting in the same beanbag Mason slouched against in the video they sent Mum. Logically I know he’s not here. Mrs H. has already told me he’s in the pre-treatment unit, but that doesn’t stop me scanning the faces of all the boys in the room.

‘What do you think?’ Stuart asks from behind me. ‘See anything that appeals to you?’

‘It looks like my worst nightmare,’ I say truthfully. ‘Where do you go if you want to be alone?’

Destiny laughs softly.

‘We don’t encourage our students to isolate themselves,’ Abi says. ‘But if this is all a bit too noisy for you there are other options.’ She points at a line of doors on the wall directly opposite. ‘Through there you’ll find a café, a bowling alley, a cinema, a gym and a swimming pool.’

‘A swimming pool?’ I stare at her in astonishment. ‘You’re kidding me?’

She smiles. ‘We’re not joking when we say we want your stay to be as enjoyable as possible, Drew.’

‘But … where are the classrooms?’

‘There are classrooms at the rear of the building. You’ll only have three hours of lessons a day and one hour of individual therapy every couple of days. The rest of the time is your own.’

‘What about the kids in pre-treatment?’ I ask. ‘Have they got something like this?’

Stuart shakes his head. ‘No, the pre-treatment wing is quieter. Students are encouraged to use their time there for quiet reflection.’

‘Can I go there now?’ I ask and everyone laughs.

‘Your time will come, Drew,’ Mrs H. says. She indicates to Stuart to pull the door to the library closed, shutting us in the rec room, and then points to her left. ‘I’ll show you to your dorm now.’


Chapter Fifteen (#ulink_c53fe8aa-ace0-534e-ab47-3700aa1784dd)

We leave Abi, Stuart and Destiny in the rec room and head towards the large glass double doors on the left of the room. The wheels of my suitcase squeak as I drag it along behind me and several of the boys playing pool stop and stare as we pass.





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