They pulled into an upscale development of houses. The cropped lawns, recently planted trees and rain-washed tarmac had the orderliness of a town made from Lego. By the time the taxi pulled on to a sloping brick driveway at the front of an imposing house, the sun was back and the afternoon rain was evaporating into a shimmering heat haze.
James lugged his backpack and a couple of cases inside with him. He dumped them in a large wooden-floored hallway and looked up at two curved staircases and a gigantic concrete dome with a chandelier hanging off it.
‘Holy crap,’ James grinned, ‘we’re loaded.’
Abigail smiled as she waddled in behind him and dumped two cases. ‘Of course we’re loaded, James. If there’s one thing that’ll really get the Survivors salivating, it’ll be the prospect of recruiting Abigail Prince: wealthy divorcee, settling back in her native Queensland after a gory divorce from her millionaire husband.’
‘With her three delightful kids in tow,’ James added.
Lauren and Dana followed in and they all stood looking up at the fancy hallway for a moment. Even Dana allowed herself to look impressed.
‘I haven’t seen this place before,’ Abigail said. ‘Everything was arranged while I was in Britain. The rooms are supposed to be set up for us, but I don’t know whose is whose.’
James and Lauren bounded up the staircase to check the upstairs. There were six main rooms on the upper floor and James found his bedroom at the second attempt. Usually, all you have on a mission is a few bits you’ve packed up and carried with you, but because this mission was so long and because the plan called for the Prince family to eventually move in with the Survivors, James needed all the stuff a wealthy Australian boy was likely to own.
ASIS had gone to great lengths creating the material history of James Prince. He had drawers and wardrobes full of clothes – most of them chemically treated to look lightly worn – and everything else you’d expect, from stationery to a surfboard, a computer and even a few tatty board games and soft toys that his alter-ego must have grown out of.
James flipped on the air-conditioning and started going through his new clothes to work out what he was going to wear when he came out of the shower.
11. SETTLE
Thirty-five hours trapped inside airports and aeroplanes combined with a ten-hour time shift had left James with his worst ever jet-lag. He spent the night tangling up his sheets and gave up trying to sleep altogether for a while, spending the first hours of Monday morning wide awake playing on his PSP.
When the sun came up, he had a headache and felt groggy. He found some shorts and swam a few laps of the fifteen-metre pool to wake himself up.
The morning got taken up with the routine details of settling into a new home. James cut an acre of shaggy lawn with a ride-on mower, while Dana called up local tradesmen to arrange for someone to come in regularly and clean out the pool and for a plumber to come and fix a broken tap in one of the en-suite bathrooms. Abigail and Lauren drove to Big Fresh and did the grocery shopping.
After lunch they all went out together and visited their high school, which was about three kilometres from home. It was set in a large expanse of grassland. The four long lines of classrooms were at ground level, exiting on to a covered walkway that looped the entire school. They had a quick introductory meeting with their new deputy headmaster and Abigail shelled out A$500 in the uniform shop.
On the way home they stopped at Target and bought a bike for Lauren – something ASIS seemed to have overlooked – before heading back out for dinner at a fancy restaurant on the Brisbane river.
The food was Mexican and they ate in a private function room overlooking a harbour full of flash yachts, powerboats and motor launches. John and Chloe were there, along with a psychology professor from Brisbane University called Miriam Longford. James immediately recognised her name from one of the books he’d skimmed through on the flight over.
Longford had counselled hundreds of ex-Survivors who’d been traumatised during their involvement with the cult. Recently, she’d been involved in a legal wrangle with the Survivors over a book she’d written about them.
Although Longford had done criminal profiling work for ASIS and the Queensland police, she’d only been sworn to secrecy and informed about the existence of CHERUB a few hours earlier. She was fascinated by the psychology behind using children in undercover operations.
As the meal stretched through dessert, coffee and three extra rounds of drinks, Longford answered dozens of questions from the kids and threw dozens back. By the time they left, the three cherubs felt they had a much deeper understanding of the Survivors than ever could have been gleaned from books.
It was dark by the time Abigail drove them home in their smart E-class Mercedes wagon. James was relieved to find himself feeling sleepy at the right end of the day, but he was depressed at the prospect of having to sit through school in the morning.
*
At least the uniform wasn’t bad: polo shirt with the school logo on the breast, navy cargo shorts and you were allowed to wear trainers and whatever socks you liked. Before joining ASIS, Abigail had worked her way through university in the kitchen of a top hotel. She set the three youngsters up for the day with a blinding cooked breakfast plus a fruit garnish and French toast on the side. Their packed lunches had fancy-looking rolls, with fresh fruit salad and handmade cake from a bakery Lauren had spotted on the drive back from the supermarket.
The three kids set off on bikes at 8:40 a.m. As they got closer to the school, the population of bikes grew, until they pulled into a noisy mass of youngsters jumping off and walking their bikes under a covered shed, before locking them to the metal railings spaced every few metres.
‘Later,’ James said to his real and pretend sisters, as he headed off to a formroom that had been pointed out by the deputy headmaster the afternoon before.
James moved slowly, anxious not to make the wrong impression on his new classmates. Until now, James’ missions had required him to get in with a bunch of boys with a similarly lax attitude to work and class discipline to his own. On this mission, James had to override his natural instincts to muck around and be one of the lads. He had to appear shy and troubled, a kid who’d been upset by his parents splitting up and being forced to move into a new neighbourhood.
Even the youngest Survivors were asked to prowl for potential recruits and the idea behind James acting this way was to pique the interest of the seventy-odd pupils of North Park High School who lived in the nearby Survivors’ commune. That meant, on average, there were two Survivor children in each class. Unfortunately, ASIS had planned the mission at short notice and hadn’t been able to identify whether there were any Survivor students in James, Lauren and Dana’s tutor groups.
As James stepped out of the bright sunlight into a classroom, he deliberately found a lonely seat in the back corner where he could study his classmates. Every kid wore school uniform, but James had learned that Joel Regan didn’t splash out on designer gear for the children who lived in his communes around the world. He scanned along the rows of kids. Nike Air trainers, expensive backpacks, flash watches or jewellery were all signs that you didn’t live at the commune.
It took a couple of minutes for James to spot something he liked the look of: at the front of the classroom in the good-kid zone, a boy and girl sat together. The girl had a fit body and a nice face, but her long hair was tied back into a severe bun, her uniform looked like a hand-me-down and she wore basic canvas plimsolls, with bright pink socks. The boy sitting next to her was heavy set, with dark sweat patches on his polo shirt, brutally short hair with the acne in his scalp showing through and a pair of no-brand running shoes with chunks of the sole drooping off at the back.
First lesson was History, and James managed to sit beside the sweaty boy. The teacher was a youngish woman with a square jaw and manly shoulders. She hadn’t quite mastered class control and a group of boys took full advantage, talking about a fight that had happened before sc
hool that morning and some stuff that had gone down at the beach the previous Friday night. Before long, a couple of boys were out of their seats facing towards their friends and the teacher lost her rag.
‘You boys sit down.’
James could tell the cool kids didn’t have much respect from the way they sauntered back to their seats. Five seconds after the teacher went back to writing on the blackboard, one of the boys chucked a massive chewed-up paper spit ball and it splatted against the rolled-up projector screen.
‘Right,’ the teacher shouted. ‘Who threw that?’
A girl sitting directly behind James put her hand up and tried to keep a straight face. ‘Miss, I think it came in through the window.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ the teacher said.
All the kids at the back of the classroom were laughing and acting rowdy and James couldn’t stand not being able to join in and have a laugh. He wanted to know about the fight, he wanted to chat up the smirking girl with incredible legs sitting behind him, but he had to shrivel into himself and be James Prince, the lonely kid. It was agony: like living in a sweet shop and only being allowed to eat sprouts.
The sweaty patches on the dude in the next seat got bigger as the lesson wore on, but he didn’t say a word. When class ended, James tapped him on the back and spoke politely.
‘Excuse me.’
He’d tapped the boy, but it was the girl who answered. ‘What is it?’ she said, breaking into a slight smile and tilting her head to one side. The mannerism made her seem motherly, and a lot older than fourteen.
‘Um, next lesson,’ James said, sounding confused. ‘It says room W-sixteen on my timetable. Do you know where that is?’
‘W means the west block,’ the girl explained. ‘Along the path to the end of the row and turn left. I’ve got a different class, but it’s on my way if you want to walk with us.’
James grinned, not a confident James Adams grin, but an uneasy James Prince grin.
‘I’m Ruth and this is my brother Adam,’ the girl said, as they walked along the sunny path between classrooms. ‘Where are you from?’
‘Sydney originally,’ James said. ‘But the last couple of years I’ve lived in London.’
‘Oh, that must have been great. You’ve really picked up their accent.’
‘Explains why he’s so pale,’ Adam said, stuttering on the P.
James didn’t think of himself as pale, but he did look pasty amongst kids who’d grown up in year-round sunshine.
As James walked alongside his two new pals, one of the lads from the back of the History class walked past and nudged him in the back.
‘Mind the freaks, new kid,’ he said.
Another simultaneously passed Ruth on the opposite side and coughed loudly. ‘Loooooonies,’ he chanted.
The boys jogged away, looking pleased with themselves.
‘What was that about?’ James asked innocently.
‘They mock us because of our beliefs,’ Ruth answered stiffly. ‘But we never rise to words of devils.’
12. PACING
The faster the mission progressed, the greater the chance that something could be done about Help Earth before their next major attack, but things couldn’t be forced. Rushing might create suspicion and slow every subsequent stage of the mission, or even destroy their chances of getting inside the Ark and penetrating the Survivors’ inner circle.
Over the following two days of school, James had a few conversations with Ruth and Adam. One time he asked a couple of questions about the commune. Ruth was happy to share knowledge and even gave him an introductory pamphlet from her backpack: Ten myths and ten facts about the Survivors and their Christian lifestyle. James took the pamphlet and studied it, but made no comment.
*
James was average height for his age, but he was naturally stocky and CHERUB’s physical training programmes had built him into a person who was obviously better not messed with. Even though he acted withdrawn, nobody had the stomach to give him any stick.
Dana got a few hassles from boys hitting on her, but she’d had years of experience at telling them where they could stick their idea of a night on the beach.
Lauren had a tougher time. There had been a mix-up about her age between CHERUB and ASIS, which had left the eleven-year-old in a first-year class with twelve- and thirteen-year-olds. By the time the mistake had been recognised, the paperwork for the Prince family’s identity had all been sorted and putting things right would have delayed the start of the mission by up to a week.
Lauren was easily clever enough to cope with the schoolwork, but having pale skin and an English accent, combined with being smaller than most of her classmates, made her a target for constant verbal bullying and earned her the name Pommy Girl.
The two main bullies were called Melanie and Chrissie. They both looked older than thirteen, with bums and breasts eager to escape their uniforms. On Friday morning, the two of them started on Lauren as she walked between the bicycle racks and her formroom. They walked behind and kept slapping her backpack, knocking her off-stride.
‘Leave off,’ Lauren said furiously.
‘Leave off,’ they mocked.
They sat in a different part of the classroom during registration, but first lesson was Maths and they sat at the next table to Lauren. As the teacher handed out marked exercise books, Lauren set out her pencil case with her maths stuff in it and put a chewy sweet in her mouth.
‘Can I have one please?’ Melanie asked, acting as if butter wouldn’t melt.
Lauren reluctantly held out the packet of sweets, but instead of taking one, Melanie snatched the lot. She took one for herself, before passing the packet on to Chrissie.
‘Hey,’ Lauren said angrily.
As Melanie gave Lauren a look as if to say, what you gonna do, titch? Chrissie held the sweets out to a group of boys.
‘Pommy Girl’s giving away her lollies.’
The boys grabbed the packet and passed them around until there were none left. The teacher noticed as he got back to the front of the classroom.
‘Excuse me, who gave you lot permission to eat in class?’
‘They’re Lauren’s, sir,’ Melanie said.
The teacher tutted. ‘Lauren, I know you’re new here, but kindly remember that we don’t allow eating in class.’
As soon as the teacher turned back to face the blackboard, Melanie grinned and gave Lauren the finger.
‘Bitch,’ Lauren snarled.
‘Why don’t you cry, Pommy Girl?’
‘Do you want me to punch your face in?’
Melanie laughed. ‘You’re too little. You’re not even tall enough to punch me in the tits.’
Lauren was bursting with anger. She knew she was a trained CHERUB agent and that her character, Lauren Prince, was supposed to be quiet and withdrawn, but she found it unbelievably hard putting up with this kind of abuse for hours at a time.
She tried thinking positive thoughts, like how this mission could make her one of the youngest ever black shirts if they pulled it off and how she’d be able to laugh about it with Bethany and her other mates when this was all over.
‘Earth to Lauren, can you hear me?’ the teacher asked sarcastically. ‘Stop staring at your desk and start copying this diagram off the board please.’
Lauren grabbed her pencil and began writing the title on a clean page in her exercise book. As she was halfway through drawing up pie charts from statistics written on the board, she felt a sharp pain in her upper arm. She was too shocked to make any noise as a drip of blood welled up on her skin. Melanie had stabbed her with the point of a compass.
Up to now it had just been verbals and the odd shove, but the stabbing was clearly a major escalation. Lauren contained the urge to lash out as she dabbed her blood on to a tissue.
‘Wanna make something of it, Pommy Girl?’
Lauren grinned uneasily. Her arm hurt, but she bit her lip and looked back at her exercise book.
Concentrate
on the mission.
‘Pooooommie girl,’ Melanie whispered, as she menacingly twirled the compass in her hand.
Melanie lunged forward with the compass again, but this time Lauren was ready. She sprang up, knocking her chair backwards, and grabbed Melanie’s wrist. She jerked Melanie forward, and swung a punch with her free arm. The fist landed square on Melanie’s lips with enough force to knock her sideways out of her chair and into Chrissie’s lap.
‘Satisfied now?’ Lauren said, as she bunched her fists and defied Chrissie to stand up and get a taste for herself.
Melanie’s mouth was bleeding and there were gasps and a few holy shits from her classmates. She started bawling as the teacher came charging between the desks towards them. Lauren let him push her backwards into her seat.
‘What in the name of god is going on?’ the teacher shouted.
‘I’m sick of her winding me up,’ Lauren screamed. ‘She’s been doing it since I got here and I’m not having it any more.’
Lauren sat back down in her plastic seat and started to sob. Part of it was put on, because you’d expect a girl in her first week at a new school to be upset when she got herself in serious trouble, but part of it was real. She’d acted out of character and was worried it might have harmed the mission.
*
The deputy headmaster looked across his desk at Lauren.
‘So, you say Melanie stabbed you with a compass and that she was bullying you, but why didn’t you come and speak to your form tutor? A violent response was entirely inappropriate.’
‘I know, sir,’ Lauren said sheepishly.
‘Melanie needed four stitches in her bottom lip. Under normal circumstances, your behaviour would have resulted in immediate suspension. However, I can see from the blood on your shirt that you were clearly provoked and I believe Melanie and Chrissie had a history of exactly this sort of unpleasantness at their previous school. I think you’ll benefit from speaking to one of our student counsellors.’
Lauren nodded.
‘OK,’ the deputy head smiled. ‘Why don’t we try to write this difficult first week off and you can make a fresh start on Monday?’