‘How old are you?’ she said pointing at Push.
‘Twelve and half,’ said Push. ‘Why?’
‘How old are you?’ She pointed at Lewis.
‘Twelve years and two months,’ said Lewis.
‘I’m twelve years, eleven months and three weeks. I’ll be thirteen on Monday. I’m the oldest person in the room,’ she said. Their jaws dropped.
It quickly dawned that it wasn’t just the older classes that had disappeared. It was everyone over the age of thirteen. Everyone who was a teenager.
Mrs Chubbly, the dinner lady, had extra toast for them that morning. ‘Here you are, chucks,’ she said and slid a plate down the table. ‘Where is everyone, Mrs Chubbly?’ asked Lewis.
‘I don’t know, dear,’ said Mrs Chubbly. ‘I expect it’s all for the best.’ Lewis thought she had been crying.
They grew bolder and went to grab Mr Tofton. ‘Where have they all gone, sir?’ cried Lewis, tugging at his elbow patch.
‘The older children have been relocated,’ said Mr Tufton, mechanically. ‘Colonel Jackman knows what he’s doing,’ he said and his eyes glazed over momentarily.
‘But where to?’ said Lewis.
‘I’m afraid that information is classified,’ said Tufton. Mrs Chubbly was standing behind him, shaking her head and mouthing words which clearly meant, “He hasn’t got a clue”.
‘Right. I want a meeting of the FEC. First opportunity,’ said Lewis.
* * * * *
The school was in uproar. Half the teachers had disappeared, presumably relocated to wherever the older children had gone. Captain Trenchwood was nowhere to be seen at first. It was rumoured that he was now in charge of huskies at the South Pole. After an hour or so, he emerged from his study looking somewhat bleary-eyed and unshaven. He toured each classroom to assure the cadets that the current lack of organisation was only a blip and normal service would be resumed as soon as he could figure out what normal service was supposed to be.
It was quite clear that no one was going teach any ordinary lessons so they were all let out to the playground and told to do exercises as they had been taught. This inevitably meant that, after a few half-hearted star jumps, they gravitated into small groups, urgently discussing the events of the morning.
The FEC convened down the end of the sports field by the willow coppices, trying to stay out of sight as much as possible.
‘Where does your sister go to school, Lewis?’ asked Lydia.
‘The Tech,’ he replied.
‘Mrs Chubbly said the Tech teenagers had disappeared too.’ Lewis’s face went white. That guilty feeling about the mean things he had said to Bev returned.
‘OK. This changes everything,’ said Lydia. ‘We hit them with our demands and we hit them hard.’ She balled a fist into a palm.
‘No, no,’ said Lewis. ‘Don’t you see? We can’t just make this a local protest. There’s something going on across the country. We’ve got something of national importance in our possession. We need to keep Mrs Bootles back until we know what’s happened to the teenagers.’
They stared at him, expectantly. ‘That’s all I’ve got on that one,’ he said. Everyone looked at their feet and shuffled.
Push came shuffling towards them with a newspaper poking out from underneath her tunic. ‘I found this by the gate. There’s a bundle of them – they just leave them outside for the Station Commander.’
She handed it over to Lewis. The headline screamed, “PRIME MINISTER ANNOUNCES NATIONAL YOUTH SERVICE SCHEME”, and then underneath in smaller letters, “Teenagers relocated to Isle of Wight Training Centre. Compulsory service for all 13 to 17 year olds”. Inside, there were pictures of smiling parents saying what a good idea they thought it was.
‘Stuff me,’ said Parker. ‘That’s everyone we know who isn’t stood here right now,’ he gasped.
That’s not all,’ said Push. ‘I overheard Tofton talking on his mob. He said there’s something going on at the train station – there’s hundreds of busses there and the goods yards are full of carriages.’
‘That’s it!’ cried Lewis. ‘That’s how they’re getting them down south to the Isle of Wight. They’re putting them on the trains.’
‘My brothers will be on those trains. We can’t just let them whisk them away. We don’t know what’s waiting for them at the Isle of Wight,’ said Lydia.
‘Do you remember Arseface Morton?’ asked Lewis.
‘What, the kid that disappeared?’ said Push.
‘Yeah, well I know where he is. He’s living under one of the flyover bridges. He pops up here occasionally to scrounge a few scraps of food from the canteen. He says he’d rather be sleeping rough than being ordered around by some spod in a uniform. His parents don’t seem to be around anywhere these days.’
‘What’s he got to do with anything?’ asked Lydia.
‘Well, if we’re going to get out of this place we can’t take the cat with us. She’d be a liability on the road. We’d have Jackman’s goons following us everywhere. Arseface is the perfect host for Mrs Bootles. No one’s going to go near him even if they could find him.’
‘Arseface won’t do anything unless you pay him,’ said Push.
‘He’d do anything for cigarettes and I know where we can get hundreds.’
* * * * *
They stood between the pillars under the flyover and whistled. ‘Arseface,’ called Push. ‘Arseface Morton, where are you?’ A head poked out from what, at first sight, appeared to be a pile of sacks, just where the slope of the embankment met the foundations of the bridge. ‘Piss off!’ shouted Arseface, and then, ‘Oh, it’s you,’ when he realised it was Lewis. ‘Got any food?’
‘Better than that,’ said Lewis, and he waved a packet of 200 cigarettes seductively. Arseface was next to him like a shot. ‘What do you want?’ he asked.
‘We’ve got a job for you. There’s another packet like this and I think I can get you some tins and stuff. Keep you going for a few weeks,’ said Lewis. ‘All we want you to do is to look after this cat,’ and he lifted up the carry case and presented the sorry-looking creature for Arseface’s inspection.
Arseface had a name for being a hard case but he had a bit of a soft spot for animals. He probably would have looked after Mrs Bootles without the inducement. After some wrangling they struck a bargain.
‘I think it’s only fair to warn you,’ said Lewis, ‘that this the most wanted cat in the country. If anybody finds you with it you’ll have a brigade of soldiers down here double quick.’
‘Not bothered,’ said Arseface.
Push extracted a phone. She thrust the cat into Arseface’s arms and said, ‘Keep her still, will you?’ She started taking some snaps.
‘’Ere, don’t get my face in that. I’ve got a reputation to hide.’
* * * * *
The break-out plan was quite straightforward – they would simply leave. If enough children just walked out of the gate, no amount of squaddies would be able to stop them. Unless they were prepared to open fire.
A few of the inmates elected not to be party to such shocking disobedience so, in the interests of security, they were locked in Holding Cells A and B shortly before the appointed hour. A raid on the canteen stores netted enough dry food for at least a few days on the road and everyone stuffed their army-issue rucksacks with bedding, spare socks etc.
* * * * *
Captain Trenchwood sniffed the air and knew something funny was going on. He left his office and prowled down the corridor. He put his head round the door of the Sergeants’ Mess, grabbed the nearest corporal and dragged him out into the corridor. ‘Come with me, Smith,’ he said, ‘Bring your gun.’
At the library he was met by three teachers who were almost running towards the CO’s office. ‘They’re all going!’ panted Mr Tofton.
‘Pull yourself together, man. Take a deep breath and speak to me slowly,’ said the Captain. He knew how to handle himself in a crisis.
* * * * *
r /> The soldiers sprinted down the drive and got to the school gates just before the first of the children. Lydia and Lewis led the way.
‘Whatever it is you think you are doing,’ Trenchwood shouted, ‘you can stop it right now. Go back to your classrooms this minute. I’m not having any shenanigans from you lot.’
Lewis stepped forward. ‘We’re going to the station, sir. You can’t stop us.’
‘I bloody well can,’ said the Captain. He pushed Corporal Smith in the small of his back. ‘Fire over their heads!’
Corporal Smith shook his head. ‘I don’t think so, sir. They’re only kids.’
‘You’ll bloody well follow orders, Corporal,’ he screamed. ‘Fire!’
The Corporal shook his head again and said, ‘Not this time mate.’ He shouldered his rifle and sauntered away in the direction of the classrooms, whistling to himself.
The Captain stood in the gateway, waving his hands in the air ineffectually. Children streamed either side of him and out onto the road.
* * * * *
159 eleven and twelve year olds take up quite a lot of room and cars were backed up all the way to the ring road as they made their way down towards the station. Somebody started singing, ‘”Onward Christian Soldiers” (because they didn’t really know any other songs) until Push pointed out that she wasn’t a Christian and she’d rather they desisted. She caught up with Lewis as they neared Beckham Corner. ‘I’ll be off now. I’ll catch you up at the station.’ She crossed the road and into an internet café.
They arrived at the station at 3:55. A bunch of disgruntled adults was standing by the gates and arguing the toss with a station employee. They were complaining that they weren’t allowed on the trains and were waving their useless tickets in his face.
On Platform 3, a diesel unit pulling rather old fashioned-looking carriages was edging itself down the south track. Lewis marched up to the nearest person in uniform, pulled his sleeve and demanded to know where the teenagers were.
‘All gone, mate,’ said the porter. ‘Last one’s just pulling out now. Right mess they’ve made and all. Crisp packets everywhere. We’ve had to cancel all the regular services. It’s going to take us days to get everything back in the right order.’
Lewis returned to his friends. ‘They’ve all gone. Every last one of them. We’re too late.’ A picture of his sister leaning out of a window and staring wistfully back at Flintwick swam into his mind. He couldn’t decide if he was feeling sad or angry.
They pushed through the ticket office and thronged onto the station, spilling out left and right along the platform. Just in time to see the last train accelerating away. Anxious faces looked to Lewis for a lead. It was clear that The Plan only extended this far and now they were beginning to wonder what to do next.
‘We can’t go back to the school,’ said Push. ‘That Captain Trenchwood is going to have our guts.’
Lewis sighed. ‘We should stick to the original plan. We may not be able to catch up with the Isle of Wight kids but we don’t have to go back and be pushed about by that bunch.’
‘How far is it to the Isle of Wight?’ asked a voice at the back.
‘About 60 miles to the coast,’ said Lewis, ‘give or take.’
A man in a grey suit and a pink tie barged his way through the crowd and grabbed Lewis by the lapel. ‘You children have got to get off the platform. You’re causing an obstruction. The authorities have been called, you know. Why don’t you just leave and let us decent people get on with out business?’
That clinched it. It was definitely anger he was feeling.
‘You decent people are just letting this happen.’ He jumped up onto a pile of crates that were waiting for the post train and addressed the whole crowd. ‘You decent people don’t seem to give a toss about what’s happening right under your noses. Every teenager in this country has been abducted by the government and you just stand around looking like sheep. Well, if you’re not going to do anything about it, we are. We’re going to the Isle of Wight.’
158 voices behind him shouted, ‘YES!’
As they filed towards the exit, a man with a camera round his neck and a notepad in his hand caught Lewis’s attention. ‘What’s you’re name, kid?’
‘Lewis. Lewis Spottiswood is my name.’
The man wrote it down.
* * * * *
That same man found a quiet spot, got his mobile out and phoned the News Desk of the local paper. ‘Got a story for you, chief.’
The News Editor took the story to the office of the Regional Manager. He scanned the page once and decided it was much bigger than just a local bit of news. He picked up the phone and called the national office in London.
Within twenty minutes a fully-fledged story was on the internet.
‘CHILDREN’S REVOLT – HUNDREDS OF WILD CHILDREN LOOSE IN THE COUNTRYSIDE.’
There was a picture of Lewis standing on his crates. The caption read, “Lewis Spottiswood, Rebel Leader”, and then underneath that in bigger letters;
SPOTICUS
A legend was born.
* * * * *
In his geekier moments, Lewis was a bit of a history freak. He knew all about the Long March of China and the Jarrow Crusade. He knew that revolutions didn’t fund themselves. He knew that cold and hungry rebels began to lose their convictions in quick time.
They were camped in the woods just south of Flintwick. Thankfully, it was a warm and balmy August evening and Parker proved that he was a dab hand at lighting fires. Soon everyone was huddled around the cheering glow of campfires and baked beans were sizzling in a dozen pans.
A party had been delegated to fetch water from a tap by a nearby farmhouse and they returned without incident. Lookouts were posted along the perimeter of the woods but so far it didn’t look as though anyone was actually following them.
‘What are we going to do when the food runs out, Lewis?’ Lydia asked. ‘Or when it starts raining?’
‘We can cope with the rain. All that basic survival training was of some use, you know. And everybody’s got waterproofs.’
‘What are we going to do,’ said Parker, ‘when a bunch of soldiers with automatics turn up at the end of the field and mow us down?’
‘That ain’t going to happen,’ said Push. ‘You saw what happened to Trenchwood. They can’t harm every child here.’
‘But there’s only 150 of us. We can’t resist a whole army.’
The only thing that seemed to be going in their favour was the morale of the troops. Apart from the four or five of them sat around Parker’s fire, everyone was in terrific mood. They were free from the school, they were free from the soldiers and they were free from the crappy food they’d been eating for weeks. They were on the road to somewhere and doing something. At last they felt like there was a purpose in life.
It was only Lewis and his mates who went to bed with wrinkled brows and worried looks.
In the morning, however, several lucky things occurred.
Chapter Ten
As they reached the dual carriageway, they saw another stream of children walking along the opposite verge.
After a bit of waving and shouting, Lewis and Lydia crossed over. They were met on the central reservation by a boy about Lewis’s age.
‘Lewis Spottiswood, I presume.’
Lewis was aghast. ‘How do you know my name?’
The boy stuck out his hand. ‘We’re from Sir Roy Batty High School. If you are heading for the Isle of Wight, can we come too?’
‘Sure,’ said Lewis, but his face betrayed his puzzlement. By way of explanation, the boy shoved a newspaper into his hands. The front page carried a picture of Lewis, looking stern and statesmanlike. The banner headline simply said, “SPOTICUS”.
On the opposite verge, children from the other school raised placards they were carrying. One by one, they started chanting. ‘SPOTICUS, SPOTICUS.’
‘What the hell is going on?’ asked Lewis.
‘It seems, mate
,’ said his new friend, ‘that you are famous.’
* * * * *
Jackman was back at his desk.
‘I hope this is good news.’
Benson slid into the office with a laptop under his arm. ‘It’s partially good news, Prime Minister. Mrs Bootles is alive.’
‘I know she’s alive. I didn’t think the little savages had eaten her. Where is she?’
‘We don’t know exactly, Prime Minister. She’s being held hostage.’
The tea that Jackman was drinking was ejected through his nose at high velocity and splattered the papers in front of him. ‘YOU WHAT?’
‘Pictures of Mrs Bootles have appeared on the internet. An email was sent to this office.’
‘Who’s doing this, Benson? Why haven’t you caught them yet? Why isn’t Mrs Bootles back on her chair?’
‘The message said; “FREE THE ISLE OF WIGHT MARTYRS”, and was signed by a group calling themselves FEC. We don’t know where the pictures were taken, Prime Minister. We do know that they were uploaded from an internet café in Flintwick. The café owner is in custody as we speak but he doesn’t appear to know anything. Other than the fact that a girl of about ten or eleven came into his establishment at 3:30 yesterday afternoon. About the same time that children from the nearby school were absconding. And since that’s the school where Mrs Bootles went missing, it would appear that one of those children has found the cat and is trying to exploit it for some kind of political end.’
Jackman thought that this was rather stating the obvious. He considered some withering put down but decided sarcasm would be wasted on Benson. Instead, he broke several pencils. He stood up and kicked a waste paper bin. Then he threw a file of papers onto the floor and danced on it.
‘I want those little bastards caught. Use any resources you need. MI5, MI6, International Rescue, whatever it takes. But get Mrs Bootles back here and get me the culprits. If one hair on her head is harmed, Benson, you’ll answer for it. I suggest you use the Child Finder General.’
* * * * *
The second piece of luck arrived in the shape of Chief Constable Ken Railings. From Lewis’s point of view, it didn’t look very lucky at first. Police squad cars had been sliding along past the marchers all morning and taking an obvious interest in their progress. Constables had begun to appear at roundabouts and junctions but, so far, had done nothing to interfere.
At last, a squad car purred up next to Lewis and Lydia, matching their pace for several hundred metres. The windows in the back were darkened. A female officer sat in the front passenger seat. On her lap she had a photograph of Lewis. It wasn’t the one that appeared in the newspapers. Lewis recognised it as an old school portrait.