‘15 miles! We haven’t got any food. And we haven’t got any water, just these empty bottles.’
‘How much money have we got?’ asked Lewis. Parker had a pound. Push had 20p. Simmonds had a ten pound note that his grandmother had snuck into the lining of his suitcase. Piperdy topped it with a twenty, similarly donated by an elderly aunty.
‘What difference does it make?’ said Lydia. ‘There’s nothing to buy out here.’
Lewis turned and pointed in the direction they weren’t supposed to go. ‘About a mile down that road there’s a garage. I bet we could rustle up a sandwich each and maybe a choc ice.’
‘How do you know this?’
‘Because I think my blindfold may have been defective,’ Lewis smirked.
‘Sounds like a plan,’ said Parker and they started heading in the direction Lewis had suggested.
‘But it’s in the wrong direction.’
‘Oh, shut up, Lydia.’ Push walked a few steps back up the road, linked arms with Lydia and dragged her, protesting, after the others.
The mile back to the garage wasn’t taxing. The moor sloped down to a little B road, tucked into a fold in the hills. They even discovered a rather shabby burger joint tacked on to the side of the service station. The owner evidently assumed that cadets in uniform were exempt from the No Burgers For Kids rule and happily took their money off them. There was enough left for a cornet apiece and some Quavers.
Having gorged themselves, they basked in the sunshine on the verge by the forecourt of the garage without a thought to their mission or how they were going to get back to HQ. Even Lydia seemed content to let her food slowly digest, lying on her back and fiddling idly with a bit of straw.
Three quarters of an hour later, two jeeps pulled up by the petrol pumps and soldiers with red caps and “Military Police” written on their arm bands got out. They approached the cadets.
‘Which one of you is Lewis Spottiswood?’ asked the tallest one.
‘That’s me,’ said Lewis and got to his feet.
‘You’re coming with us.’
‘I know this looks bad, officer, but we were only using our initiative.’
‘Save it for the CO, kid.’
‘What makes you think this was my idea?’ asked Lewis.
‘Lucky guess, sonny.’ He pushed Lewis into the back of a jeep. ‘The rest of you; pick up your kit and start walking. That direction.’
As he was whisked away, Lewis saw the burger shop manager being quietly led by a couple of soldiers to the scrubby ground behind his premises.
* * * * *
‘Oh Spottiswood.’ Captain Trenchwood placed his big hands together on his desk and twiddled his thumbs. ‘Spottiswood, Spottiswood, Spottiswood. What are we going to do with you? You’ve let me down again. You’ve let your school down. You’ve let your friends down and now they’re all in trouble. It’s just not good enough, Spottiswood, is it? I’m afraid a spot of jankers isn’t going to suffice this time. I’d bust you to the ranks if you weren’t already the lowest of the low. I’d have a strong word with your parents if it wasn’t for the fact that I’ve been advised that they are in Malaga, Spain and won’t be back for three weeks. The only suitable punishment I can think of that will get through that sorry skull of yours is opprobrium from your peers. By which I mean; let’s see how you like it when your entire squad is punished for your misdeeds. Smith,’ he shouted and Smith bounced into the room. ‘SAH.’
‘Spottiswood’s squad is to placed on punishment duties. See to it. And take this piece of filth away,’ he said, waving his pen in the general direction of Lewis. Smith marched Lewis into the corridor.
‘Oh, and Smith,’ he called after him. ‘Five days in the cooler for Spottiswood.’
* * * * *
When Lewis was finally let out of Holding Cell B (Mr Williams’ PE equipment cupboard) he was a little thinner and his skin was a little sallower. He was led, with some compassion, by Corporal Smith into the playground where he was confronted by the twenty members of his squad who had already endured five days of punishment for his sake.
Lydia, the self-appointed ringleader, stepped to the fore.
‘Look at my hands, Lewis.’ She held out a pair of blistery red hands with ragged nails. ‘Twenty five hours of spud peeling we’ve had to suffer because of you. And it was worth every minute for that burger,’ she grinned.
Chapter Eight
An armour-plated Rolls Royce glided up the school drive and, as it inched into the car park, motorbike outriders peeled away and heavily armed troops jumped from the tailgates of the following lorries. They stood in a cordon around the car, machine guns bristling outwards.
Jackman surfaced from the plush interior of the Rolls, followed by his wife, Dotty. Benson got out the other side with Mrs Bootles on her purple cushion. He had trained himself well and no one could possibly suspect the loathing he held for the creature.
Captain Trenchwood pulled himself upright and snapped a salute in front of the Prime Minister.
‘Welcome to Flintwick Youth Correction Facility, Prime Minister.’
Jackman ignored him and, turning to Benson, asked, ‘What’s this johnie’s name?’
‘Trenchwood, sir, Captain Trenchwood.’
‘Yes, yes, I can see he’s a captain,’ snarled the Prime Minister. ‘I was in the army, you know. Well, Trenchfoot,’ he said, turning to the Captain, ‘let’s get this ghastly beastliness over with. Lead on.’
The Captain’s lip quivered imperceptivity. ‘This way, Prime Minister.’ He led him forward a few paces to the small platform facing the assembled cadets.
‘Three cheers for Colonel Jackman,’ he shouted. ‘Hip, Hip….’
500 pairs of eyes stared back at him in sullen silence. ‘…hooray,’ he added limply. ‘Oh, I don’t think they know the words to that one. Make a note, would you, Lieutenant?’ he said, turning to one of his aides.
Benson placed the sleeping Mrs Bootles on the bonnet of the car for a moment. He reached for a pencil and a notebook and made his own note.
‘Never mind,’ said Jackman. ‘What have you got lined up for me, Captain. And if you say drill or PE displays or taking apart rifles, I’ll have you strung up by several important parts of your body. Understood?’
The Captain gulped visibly and turned to whisper urgently to his aide. The aide started making strange arm gestures to other officers at the rear of the parade.
‘Indeed not,’ giggled the Captain nervously. ‘Some of the older recruits have been training with simulated live firearms and are going to put on a display for you, Prime Minister.’
The urgent signals appeared to have been interpreted correctly and several teams of not-that-bothered students wearing PE shorts and vests were rapidly ushered off the field towards the changing rooms. Instead, out of each corner of the playing field, came sixth formers on bicycles and wearing full military fatigues, their face painted in stripy green and brown make-up. The younger cadets, at a given command, split into two groups like a curtains being parted and formed ranks on either side of the field.
The bicycle team from the north corner headed straight for the team from the south and started pelting them with paper bags full of purple and orange flour. Great clouds of technicolour dust drifted towards the platform. Colonel Jackman coughed and Mrs Jackman started patting at her cream-coloured trouser-suit.
The teams from the east and west circled around making menacing gestures until North and South had cleared the decks, whereupon they jumped off their bikes and ran at each other, waving wooden rifles.
‘We hope to demonstrate, Prime Minister,’ said the Captain, proudly, ‘that in a time of crisis you can rely on the youth of the nation to come to the country’s aid. Today’s cadets are tomorrow’s soldiers,’ he preened.
At this point, Squad South had also abandoned their bikes and joined the mêlée brandishing what looked from a distance to be sparklers. When they lobbed them at the feet of Squad North, it became apparent th
at they were actually firecrackers and about twenty of them went off simultaneously. Squad North danced and squealed and launched a counter-attack against Squad South that didn’t look as though it had been rehearsed. East stood back in bemused silence for a few moments and then decided not to miss the fun. They jumped in with fists flying. Sergeant and corporals ran to the pile of flailing bodies in the centre of the parade ground and tried to pull a few of them out. RSM McCabe let fly with a string of expletives that made Mrs Jackman flinch as he disappeared under a fresh onslaught from Squad West.
The Prime Minister was not amused. ‘Bloody shambles, Trenchrot,’ he said. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve ever been in a real battle, have you?’ Jackman, too, had never been in a real battle but it was safe to assume that nobody was going to remind him. The Captain started spluttering something about limited funds, lack of rehearsal time and health and safety regulations and then decided that being quiet was the best policy at this precise moment.
‘I’ve seen enough,’ said Jackman. ‘I hope you’ve got a good lunch for me,’ and he started dragging his wife towards the school buildings. Mrs Jackman was still trying to remove purple and orange dust from her clothes and had an expression like someone who has just discovered something smelly attached to their top lip. Dotty looked at the Prime Minister’s assistant. ‘Where’s Mrs Bootles, Benson?’
Benson, who had been laughing quietly to himself throughout the spectacle had failed to notice that the pillow he was holding was somewhat lighter than it should have been.
‘She’s gone,’ screamed Mrs Jackman.
‘I… I…,’ spluttered Benson. ‘It must have been those fireworks! She got scared and ran off.’
Jackman hunched his shoulders and grabbed Trenchwood by the lapels. ‘If that cat isn’t found in the next ten minutes I’m going to have you posted to Antarctica. Get it?’ He turned to the soldiers who were guarding him. ‘Lock-down. Immediately. Nobody leaves the school and nobody moves until that cat is found. Back in the car, Dotty.’
The Prime Minister sat in his car for a whole hour. Sandwiches and a nice claret were brought out to him. Mrs Jackman cried silently. Soldiers, teachers and cadets ran hither and thither but Mrs Bootles was not to be found. Eventually, the Rolls pulled away and a pale-faced Trenchwood retired to his study for a good few fingers of Scotch.
* * * * *
Most teachers like to have a drink at lunchtime. Most soldiers live a hard and disciplined life and wouldn’t dream of drinking on duty unless invited to by a senior officer. But most soldiers don’t normally work closely with teachers. Put the two together and after a few weeks of close contact with the latter, the soldiers began to pick up some bad habits. One by one, they found themselves slipping away around midday for a swift half down the local pub.
Thus is was that, after an initial burst of enthusiasm, discipline at the school, despite the military presence, wasn’t quite what it should be. The Commanding Officer had locked himself in his study with several crates of whisky and, when he did emerge, told anyone who would listen that he didn’t give a stuff what happened to the school or the wretched pupils.
The dinner ladies coped heroically with their Brown Stuff duties in the middle of the day but there just weren’t enough qualified instructors around to keep a proper eye on all 500 cadets and to give them gainful employment. So the camp’s second in command, who was eager to return to proper soldiering, introduced what he called “The Refs Period”, which was essentially a two-hour playtime between twelve and two.
On such a playtime, Lewis, Parker and Push were leaning against the pillars of an Elliot hut and pushing Brown Stuff around their tin plates in a desultory manner. Mrs Bootles eased out from under the hut and almost had her nose in Parker’s food before he even noticed.
‘It’s that cat! Quick. Grab it,’ he shrieked and lunged to his left. Push lunged to her right and the cat slid effortlessly between them and back into the dark seclusion of the Elliot hut’s foundations.
‘Arse!’ said Parker. ‘That’s the Prime Minister’s cat. There may be a reward. We have to get that thing.’ Making “puss, puss” noises and leaving a dribble of Brown Stuff on the pavement next to the hut had no effect whatsoever. But it was clear that Mrs Bootles had found herself a home and wasn’t going to be moved for anyone so they retired to construct a plan. Constructing a plan was interrupted by PE and then double physics.
After that, they each had to go to their separate punishment routines. Push was cleaning shoes in the teachers’ staff room. Parker had taken over floor-scrubbing duties and Lewis was back on the spuds. At every opportunity they took a sneaky look towards the Elliot hut but there was no sign of movement. The next chance of a chat was the hour or so of Association before Lights-Out. They headed, as usual, for the “barracks” (as they had come to know it) but a small boy stood barring the way to their cubicles.
‘You can’t go in there,’ he said.
‘Why not?’ asked Parker, politely.
‘Because you sodding can’t, that’s why.’
‘Oooh,’ said Push, ‘a feisty one,’ and made to tickle him under his chin. A voice inside said, ‘Who is it, Dante?’
‘It’s Spottiswood. And his little friends.’
‘Let ‘em in,’ said the voice. They stepped past the lookout boy and into the darkened cubicle.
‘What’s occurring?’ asked Parker, when he recognised Lydia. She was sitting cross-legged on the floor with a circle of familiar faces around her. ‘Did you see any teachers or soldiers out there?’ she said.
They shook their heads. ‘Then come in and sit down. We’ve got business to discuss.’
They settled themselves on the floor and somebody handed them each an illicit jammie dodger. ‘I’ll come straight to the point,’ said Lydia, importantly. ‘This is the first meeting of the Flintwick Escape Committee. Are you in, or do we have to kill you?’
They all nodded in unison. ‘Of course we’re in,’ said Lewis.
‘We’re planning a mass breakout. Your little stunt on the moors showed us that we can do something for ourselves. We don’t have to take their crap all the time. But we didn’t have a plan then. We didn’t follow it through. This time we are going to be organised and we are going to have proper objectives. We’re going to show those soldiers that they can’t push us around anymore.’
Piperdy put up his hand. ‘I’m fed up with this. I haven’t had a proper meal in three weeks. And I haven’t heard from my mum and dad since I got here.’
‘I will never eat another potato in my life,’ said Push, staring at her fingers.
‘I just want to go home,’ said Boris Pickles and he started sniffling again.
‘Yeah. Well we may just have something a bit better than that,’ said Lewis. He glanced from left to right in a conspiratorial sort of way. ‘Underneath Elliot Hut C is a cat and it belongs to Prime Minister Lionel Jackman,’ he announced dramatically.
‘No way,’ gasped Piperdy.
Lewis turned to Lydia. ‘Can you get us out of here at night?’
‘Easy. I’ve been thinking about this for a while. Kabanu likes his cocoa at eleven-thirty every night. We can do more or less what we like while he’s gone. What have you got in mind?’
* * * * *
Lydia slid back the bolt to the corridor window and pocketed the security lock. She and Lewis knelt down and Parker and Push stood on their backs to reach the ledge. When they were safely on the other side, Lydia and Lewis faded back into the shadows to keep watch.
This had been a carefully planned operation. Team A had liberated some salami sausage from the fridge in the teachers’ staff room. Piperdy swore it was irresistible to cats. Team B had located a fuse box underneath the main stairwell which controlled the exterior lights. Team C has rifled through the caretaker’s jacket pockets until they discovered the appropriate keys. Team D had raided the little hut next to Pets Corner and appropriated a portable rabbit hutch which would serve nicely for a cat.
Push and Parker edged from shadow to shadow like shadows. A group of soldiers were gathered on the corner discussing the absence of outside lights but didn’t seem to think it was anything particularly out of the ordinary. They slipped down the side of the girls’ toilets to avoid the squaddies. In the playground proper they quickly identified the Elliot hut and set about baiting the trap. Mrs Bootles was easy meat. She walked boldly into the half-light and gobbled up the first piece of salami that was tossed towards her.
‘Good old Piperdy,’ whispered Parker. ‘Maybe he does know a thing or two.’
‘Nice kitty,’ said Push as she scooped her up and in one move whisked her into the carry case.
‘Yes!’ growled Parker. ‘Mission accomplished.’
‘We’ve got to get back in yet. And we’ve got to keep her quite somehow.’
‘I think Team E have that covered,’ said Parker as they slipped back into the darkness between the huts.
Back in the dorm they had ten minutes to spare. Mr Kabanu was actually watching something on telly in the staff room that invariably finished at ten past midnight. A small group of conspirators was gathered around the open air vent low on the wall behind Parker’s bunk. The cat and carry case were slid through the gap and a giant wad of insulation foam jammed in behind her.
‘She can make as much noise as she likes in there,’ said Parker. ‘Nobody’s going to hear through that.’
‘Poor cat,’ whined Push.
‘She’s got plenty of food.’
With five minutes to spare they looked to Lewis. ‘Is everybody clear,’ he said. ‘Tomorrow morning we make our demands.’
They nodded solemnly and returned to their respective bunks.
Chapter Nine
But tomorrow morning was different. It felt different the moment they got up. Lewis’s cold feet hit the cold floor and he knew something was wrong.
The canteen was half empty. Only the tables which housed the lower school were laid with cutlery. Parker scanned the vacant seats and scratched his head. ‘They must be on an exercise.’
There was a buzz around one table where Lydia and other members of the FEC (Flintwick Escape Committee) were grabbing a quick word before one of the few remaining teachers split them up.