Firewallers

by Simon Packham

  It was the second time in as many hours that I’d parked my bum on a scratchy wooden surface while the wind whistled about my nether regions. I was keen to keep my first visit to the composting toilets as short as possible, but the more desperate I became to get out of there (and let me tell you, Sue had a pretty strange idea of what ‘completely odourless’ meant), the harder it was to get started.

  However, I was shitting myself about the next morning. Sloth might not have had a lot in common with St Thomas’s, but whichever way you looked at it, it was still my first day at a new school – and I knew what that meant. If the other kids didn’t like you, it was the beginning of a whole new chapter of misery that could last until prom night. I still remembered what they’d done to the girl with ‘funny ears’ in Year Eight. And the Striplings weren’t exactly your average teenagers. Never mind putting chewing gum in your hair and fraping your profile; who knew what screwy stuff they were dreaming up for Millie and me?

  Mission finally accomplished, I threw a bucket of sawdust down the toilet and made a break for the pods.

  The island was full of noises. Like I said, the roar of the sea was the background to everything, but on top of that there was the weeping wind, the crying gulls, the high-pitched screams of the arctic terns and a whole chorus of farm animals. You learned to live with it in the end, but my first walk back from the composting toilets left me jumpier than a kangaroo on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

  There was human music too. I soon learned that, like Grandma, the Dawdlers had this weird obsession about making their own entertainment. A string quartet gave regular recitals, the choir had a nasty habit of launching into after-dinner ballads about dying Viking princesses, a guitarist called Rick often sat outside the composting toilets playing the blues – and then of course there was Earl’s saxophone. Every evening it summoned us to the Symposium, and in the morning it dragged you from your slumbers with a reedy, wake-up medley. I never knew any of the songs he played, although according to Mum, the sax solo from ‘Baker Street’ was a seventies classic.

  But that night, I heard the saddest song of all. Wordless though it was, the rich soulful voices of the performers spoke to me so powerfully it was almost like they understood my loneliness, shared in my pain. Or was it a warning? I only wished I could ask them face to face. A few days later, I had my chance. They were basking on the rocks beneath the north cliffs. I’d always planned on ‘Another One Bites the Dust’, but it would be kind of cool to have a colony of seals sing at my funeral.

  ‘Was it OK, love?’ said Mum.

  I yanked the entry hatch shut, trying for Mum’s benefit to sound a whole lot more positive than I actually felt. ‘Yeah, kind of; as long as you watch what you’re treading in.’

  ‘How about the recycled paper?’

  ‘Bit scratchy, but I suppose you get used to it.’

  The purple beanbag was haemorrhaging badly. Mum looked pretty uncomfortable with her legs pulled tight against her chest. ‘You will be all right, won’t you, Jess?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘I’m really proud of you, you know. You’ve been . . . amazing.’

  Amazing wasn’t a word she often used about me (‘amazingly rude’, perhaps). I sat on the arm of the chair, resting my hand gently on her shoulder. ‘What about you, Mum? Will you be all right?’

  ‘We’ll see after tomorrow. I get the feeling the health centre isn’t exactly state-of-the-art.’

  ‘No, I meant about . . . well, you know.’

  She reached up and squeezed my hand. ‘I don’t know, love. I really don’t know.’

  ‘Maybe you should get some sleep, Mum. You look exhausted.’

  She pulled her knees tighter to her chest. ‘What with all those rats about?’

  It was my turn to fob her off with a classic adult lie. ‘Don’t worry, I expect they’re more scared of us than we are of them.’

  ‘Oh, you think so?’

  She still smelled of her old perfume. In a few days she’d be ‘completely odourless’. ‘Mum?’ I said, squeezing into the chair beside her. ‘Do you mind if I ask you something?’

  ‘Course not.’

  ‘When can we go home? How long will it take Dad to sort things out?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Mum, vacating her beanbag and faking a yawn. ‘But you know what? Maybe you’re right. Maybe I should try and get a few hours’ sleep. And you ought to do the same, Jess.’ She leaned over and kissed the top of my head. ‘Try not to wind up your sister, eh? She’s not really herself at the moment.’

  You could say that again. Millie had turned into such a snarling ball of fury that as I crawled down the tunnel towards our bedroom, I was kind of hoping she’d be asleep. The last thing I expected was to find her sitting up in bed with a contented smile on her face.

  ‘Look what I’ve got,’ she said, waving it at me, like a baby-faced assassin.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘What does it look like?’

  ‘And where did you find it?’

  ‘Sue gave it to me.’

  It felt so good to be having a regular conversation with her that I wasn’t going to ruin it all by casting any further doubts on Sue’s sanity. ‘Oh yeah, what for?’

  ‘So I can help with her art installation. She’s going to teach me carving. I’ve always been interested in that kind of thing. I’ve just never had the time before.’

  I was genuinely pleased that Millie had a new project, but it still felt wrong to see the Golden One with a knife in her hand.

  Nature Dawdle

  Derek’s stretching routine reminded me of the pilates DVD that Mum did religiously until about the fourth of January. Balancing shakily on one leg, he clung to the side of the Symposium, using the other hand to yank his ankle towards his bum.

  ‘What time do lessons start?’ I said, realising I should have waited longer after Earl’s wake-up riff if I’d wanted to be fashionably late.

  ‘As soon as everyone’s here,’ said Derek. ‘I mean, we don’t call a register or anything! And we don’t really call them lessons either. You’ll probably find it hard to start with, Jessica, but try not to think of me as a teacher; try to think of me more as a friend.’

  I remembered Mr Catchpole saying almost exactly the opposite to Aidan Corcoran.

  ‘I know you’re probably dying to get to know them,’ said Derek, dropping into a lunge. ‘Don’t worry, they’re a keen old bunch. I’m sure they’ll be here soon.’

  ‘Good,’ I lied.

  Derek forced his fingertips to within spitting distance of his walking boots. ‘Where’s your sister, by the way?’

  ‘She’s not coming. I think she’s got . . . an upset stomach or something. Should Mum have written her a note?’ Well, it was kinder than relaying Millie’s message about Derek being a fatarsed loser who couldn’t teach a ten-year-old to pick his nose.

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ said Derek. ‘Nothing here’s compulsory anyway – although Earl does prefer everyone to participate as fully as possible.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘I’ll tell her.’

  ‘Anyway, it looks like we’re in luck. Here’s our first customer.’

  One by one they stepped out of the mist, and Derek introduced us. There was nothing unusual about their names: Molly, Jack, Edward and Naseeb – plus the obligatory brace of Harrys (M and W). What did feel pretty un-St Thomas’s-like was the way each one of them shook my hand, greeted me with a formal ‘Good morning, Jessica’ and slunk back into the mist.

  Campbell and Lucy showed up last. I’d already taken a dislike to Lucy. There was something disgustingly holier than thou about the way she’d changed the label on her hoodie to HOLISTIC, and her natural curls looked unnaturally well-nourished considering the absence of any kind of hair and beauty routine.

  I’d have loved to have taken Campbell shopping. Even a supermarket own brand exfoliator would have improved his complexion, and a black dustbin-liner couldn’t have been any worse than
that terrible jumper. Our introduction was a disappointment too. I was kind of hoping he’d give me a little squeeze or at the very least a shy smile, but his handshake was as lifeless as a dead salmon.

  ‘Now, I thought it would be a nice idea if we spent this morning introducing Jessica to her new home,’ said Derek. ‘So what I suggest is that we take a leisurely nature ramble – or rather “nature dawdle” . . .’ He grinned impishly; the Striplings chuckled. ‘. . . around the island. How does that sound to everybody?’

  If I needed any further confirmation that they were not your average teenagers, it came in their ecstatic reaction to Derek’s lesson plan.

  ‘We can show Jessica the aspens and willows we planted,’ said Jack.

  ‘We want Sloth to look just like it did in the Bronze Age,’ added Naseeb.

  ‘If we’re lucky, the vetch daisies will be out,’ said Molly.

  Lucy was excited about the prospect that the fulmars might be nesting – whatever they were.

  And I was probably imagining it, but I’m sure I heard someone say ‘smashing’.

  ‘It won’t be the kind of school outing you’re used to.’ Derek smiled. ‘For a start, I shan’t be complaining if anyone lags behind. In fact, I always encourage the Striplings to do their own thing.’

  I remembered Mr Catchpole saying almost exactly the opposite to Aidan Corcoran.

  ‘Let’s get going, then,’ said Derek, obviously forgetting to remind us that while we were out dawdling we were of course ambassadors of the school.

  Now I’ve been on about half a million school trips – from the war graves of Flanders to the cheese factories of middle-England, and more heritage sites and creative writing workshops than I’d care to remember. And the one thing I have learned is that they’d all be totally rubbish without your friends. Who could possibly forget Ella’s Beyoncé impression on the coach back from the Science Museum or the time we convinced Miss Hoolyhan that Aidan Corcoran had gone backstage at the National Theatre?

  Derek’s dawdle proved my point. The other kids quickly paired off (Campbell with Lucy again, I couldn’t help noticing) and I was left to bring up the rear with a man at least forty years too old to be wearing short trousers, and with a warped idea of what would fascinate me. ‘Do you realise those stones date right back to four thousand BC, Jessica – isn’t that incredible?’ I was actually more interested in the simple wooden cross that lay in their midst.

  And the Striplings were just as bad, turning back every few minutes to express their enthusiasm for a rare heather or identify yet another feature of the ‘magnificent wildlife’.

  ‘Great news,’ shouted Derek, pointing at a distant dot on the horizon. ‘I do believe the puffins are back. Come on, we’ll get a better view from the top of the cliffs.’

  Earl was certainly right about the weather. Now the mist had cleared you could see forever. If you were unlucky enough to be cornered by one of Sue’s watercolourists, they’d sometimes go off on one about the ‘extraordinary quality of light’.

  Right from the start, I could kind of appreciate that the island was beautiful, but what struck me more was its natural cruelty. From the tumultuous North Atlantic breakers frothing up white against the stark, grey coastline, to the vicious wind that would have felt no conscience about sending the whole pack of us hurtling to a watery grave, it seemed designed to be as unwelcoming as possible. And it was the same with the wildlife. Underneath all that grace and fluffiness, it was basically a case of kill or be killed. Those performing seals might have looked cute, but they were vicious predators who guarded their territory with sadistic intensity. Tramping through the mushy marram grass towards the point at which the land met the sky, I couldn’t help wondering if the Striplings were the same.

  ‘Good,’ gasped Derek, slipping off his rucksack and taking refuge behind one of the enormous boulders that lay strewn along the clifftop. ‘I’ll get lunch ready, while you guys have a quick look round.’

  It was a health and safety nightmare. Dad’s faithful assistant, Brian Simkins, would have written a thousand page risk assessment. Campbell and the others marched fearlessly forwards, standing to attention about five metres from the edge. A flock of oversized seagulls hovered menacingly, their hoarse cries conjuring painful memories of Miss Hoolyhan’s chamber choir.

  ‘Watch out for those fulmars,’ shouted Derek. ‘If they think you’re trying to steal their eggs, they’ll swoop down and vomit out a red rust dye.’

  Campbell turned back and waved. I was sure I heard giggling.

  ‘Well, go on, Jessica,’ said Derek. ‘Don’t you want to join them?’

  My heart screamed no no, no no, no no, no no; my head whispered exactly the opposite. There was a sheer drop of what must have been at least a hundred metres onto the jagged rocks below. I was so scared of heights I could barely manage to stand on the bench at the back of the school photograph. But I knew that to betray any sign of weakness would leave me as vulnerable as a baby penguin in a colony of ravenous seals.

  ‘Yes. Right. Good idea,’ I said, edging slowly towards them, my hair streaming – but not remotely attractively – in the wind.

  The giggling stopped as I inched into the gap between Lucy and Campbell.

  ‘Hello, Jessica,’ said Lucy, sounding about as welcoming as a venomous lizard. ‘How are you enjoying yourself?’

  ‘Not a lot,’ I said. ‘In fact, if you really want to know, I’m a bit bored.’

  Another giggle, and the suspicion of whispering down the line.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ said Campbell. ‘Missing our iPod, are we? Can’t live without a mobile telephone?’

  The others chipped in with some ‘amusing’ suggestions of their own.

  ‘Getting withdrawal symptoms because you missed the latest episode of Celebrity Brain Transplant?’ said Molly.

  ‘Dying for a burger?’ said Jack.

  ‘Dying for a tweet, more like,’ said Naseeb.

  ‘No,’ I said, trying desperately not to look down. ‘I’m just not that into nature, OK?’

  Campbell’s warm breath was everything you’d expect from someone who used dried cuttlefish instead of toothpaste. ‘You need to slow down, Jessica. You’ll never appreciate natural beauty if your head’s still walking around T K Maxx.’

  ‘Wish it was,’ I said. ‘And do you mind not calling me Jessica? It’s Jess, yeah?’

  ‘We try not to abbreviate here, Jessica,’ said Campbell. ‘You’ll be talking in text speak next!’

  I was getting angry now. ‘Are you lot for real? I mean, you’re not honestly into all this crap?’

  ‘I wouldn’t let Derek hear you say that if I were you,’ said Campbell. ‘He’s put his heart and soul into this place – we all have.’

  Lucy was staring intently at my clogged pores. ‘I know what her trouble is. She’s in mourning for her mascara. Poor little girlie can’t get to sleep without a full-facial and her digital curling tongs.’

  Even the oversized seagulls squealed with laughter. I was just furious that she’d called it so well. ‘I can’t believe you’re actually OK with this. I mean, what do you do all day? How can you live without a phone?’

  ‘Best thing I’ve ever done,’ said Campbell.

  ‘And why do you wet yourselves every time a bird flies past? It’s not natural.’

  ‘Little bit of advice, Jessica,’ said Lucy. ‘If you want to fit in around here, you’d better start showing some respect for our Dawdler ways.’

  ‘What, like you lot, you mean?’

  ‘Yes, that’s exactly what I mean,’ said Lucy.

  But I wasn’t finished yet. ‘OK, then, tell me this. If meditation is so bloody amazing, why did you all walk out of the Symposium last night?’

  Campbell smiled infuriatingly. ‘You heard what the man said: it’s not compulsory. There are plenty of different ways to meditate, you know.’

  ‘So what were you doing then?’

  Campbell didn’t answer, but a few seconds lat
er I felt his cold hand on the back of my neck. A quiver of anticipation turned into a shiver of fear when I realised that with one well-timed push he could send me plummeting.

  ‘That’s enough, Jessica,’ he whispered. ‘I think we all know what happens to people who ask too many questions.’

  ‘No, what does happ—’

  ‘OK, everyone, lunch is ready,’ called Derek. ‘We’ve got fresh milk and some fennel and goat’s cheese sandwiches. Now that’s what I call a happy meal.’

  ‘Right, you’ve had plenty of time to digest your food,’ said Derek. ‘Before we head back, we really should go down to the beach.’

  ‘Do we have to?’ said Campbell.

  ‘Can’t we leave it a couple more weeks?’ said Lucy.

  The other Striplings were equally unenthusiastic. Jack claimed some kind of hamstring injury, the two Harrys preferred to go back via the peat bogs and Molly said she felt sick.

  ‘It’s been over two months now,’ said Derek. ‘Earl says if you don’t face up to things, you’ll never really be able to move on. In fact, he was down there himself only yesterday morning. Come on, guys; Jessica and I will lead the way.’

  There was no running commentary as we descended the twisting, narrow path that led to the beach. I was still confused, and more than a little spooked, by their behaviour on the clifftops, but this brooding silence was even stranger.

  Erika and the Junior Laggards were splashing about in a rock pool. They were having such a fun time I felt like kicking off my shoes and joining them. It would have been far more enjoyable than leading a reluctant procession of teenagers across the pebbles to the foot of the cliffs.

  ‘This is it,’ said Derek solemnly. ‘It’s all right, you don’t have to come any closer. Maybe you’d like a few moments to yourselves while I have a quick word with Jessica.’

  The Striplings huddled together, like funeral guests outside a crematorium. One of the girls appeared to be crying, and I couldn’t help noticing that Lucy had slipped her arm around Campbell.

  ‘What’s the matter with them?’ I said.

  Derek ushered me out of earshot. ‘This is where Earl found Kevin. It’s the first time they’ve been here since the week of the accident. It’s no wonder they’re upset.’