by V M Jones
‘No thanks,’ I said abruptly. ‘I’ve got all the friends I need.’
I might as well have saved my breath. He carried on as if he hadn’t heard. ‘Bet you’re wondering how I got my nickname. Know what a weevil is?’
Impatiently, I shook my head. Over his shoulder I could see that the minute hand of the clock was creeping closer to the six.
‘It’s a bug — an insect that burrows into stuff that’s stored away. Weevils can get inside lots of places. Private places. Anywhere — anywhere at all. I could show you fings about computers you’ve never even dreamed about. Know what a hacker is? Bet you don’t. Look it up in the dictionary — if you know how.’
‘Weevil,’ I said wearily, ‘go away.’
The minute hand had reached the six. I turned my back on him, pressed Control S to save, and quit. I gave a long, luxurious, phoney stretch, like a guy without a care in the world. When I turned round, he was gone.
The principal’s award
For the next week, I concentrated on staying out of trouble. I felt like a tightrope walker … and every step I took, I watched my back.
I made myself stop and think before I did things. Before I said things; before I practically even thought things. As much as I could, I stayed out of everyone’s way — except for Cameron. Having a goody-good for a friend was a bit like having a magical talisman: Cam had a natural talent for keeping away from trouble, and as long as I hung out with him, it seemed to rub off on me.
Then, on Sunday night, I was in the boys’ bathroom cleaning my teeth when suddenly another reflection appeared next to mine in the mirror. I just about choked on the toothpaste. Scowled at him, bent, spat in the hand basin. Rinsed my mouth, then turned, ready to push past him and out of there.
But what he said next stopped me dead in my tracks. ‘I know where you’re going in the holidays. You’re going to Quested Court. And I want to come wiff you. You’d be allowed to take a friend. Especially a friend who knows as much about computers as I do — a new boy wiff nowhere else to go. What do you say, Adam?’
‘Where I’m going in the holidays is my business,’ I growled. ‘And if I was allowed to take a friend, you’d be the last person I’d choose. Now butt out and leave me alone!’
‘Remember what I said about weevils? I know more than you fink.’ He smirked. ‘Like I said, weevils can get inside lots of places. Private places. Anywhere at all.’
‘Oh, shut up!’ I snarled. ‘You’ve been sneaking through Matron’s papers — and I hope she catches you!’
I shoved past and padded through to the dorm. Slid between the cold sheets and turned my back on the room, staring at the familiar pattern of flaking paint on the wall.
Weevil or no Weevil, Matron or no Matron, a whole week had gone by safely. There was only one week left till I’d escape to Quested Court — and a whole different life.
I tightrope-walked my way through Monday … Tuesday … Wednesday. On Wednesday after school, I ran all the way back to Highgate and shut myself in the rec room to finish my project. For once, I worked for the entire half hour without a single thing disturbing me. I even managed to do the index. Then, with five minutes to go, I clicked on the Print icon and watched page after perfect page scroll out from the printer.
I didn’t have time to admire it — instead I snuck into the dorm and hid it under my mattress, where it wouldn’t get crumpled. That night, when everyone else was asleep, I slipped it out and read it under the blankets in the dim glow of my pencil torch.
First thing on Friday morning, I handed it in. All XI pages: Roman Gladiators, by ADAM EQUINOX. The McCracken’s eyebrows just about hit the ceiling. I’d slouched up real casual, of course, like it was nothing special; but then I watched her out of the corner of my eye. Once we were safely settled down doing silent reading I saw her flip through the pile and find it again, and leaf through it with this stunned, disbelieving look on her face.
Watch this space, McCracken, I told her in my mind. There’s more where that came from — you ain’t seen nothing yet!
The weekend dragged by. For the first time I was looking forward to school on Monday. I couldn’t wait to get my project back. To hear what Miss McCracken would say about it, and read the comment she’d write at the end. Maybe she’d even read it out! And maybe, just maybe, there was the minutest chance — one in a squillion — that it might get a principal’s award.
Hardly any kids in my class had been given one, they were so rare. Cameron had, twice; Nicole had a truckload, of course. They were these big round shiny stickers that looked like they were made of real gold. They were stuck onto your work, and then it was displayed in the front office for everyone to see. Your name was called out in assembly, and you had to go up and shake the principal’s hand. And your name got pride of place in the next school newsletter, on the front page.
Monday: nothing. Tuesday: not a word. But then, on Wednesday, Miss McCracken walked into the classroom first thing and said, ‘I will be returning your projects this morning, children. But first: William Weaver and Adam Equinox, will you please come with me to the principal’s office.’
My heart did a quadruple somersault. I felt myself blush bright red as I followed her to the door, my heart hammering. I caught a quick glimpse of Cam’s worried face; I gave him a reassuring grin and a wink. Little did he know!
We waited in silence outside the closed office door. The secretary was busy typing and ignored us, as usual. I was a regular customer — I was used to the tense, doctor’s-waiting-room atmosphere. It was interesting to see that it didn’t change, even when you were there for something good.
Eventually the intercom on the secretary’s desk beeped, and a tinny voice said, ‘I am free now. Send them in, please.’
In went Miss McCracken … then Weevil … then me.
There on Mrs Sharp’s big, bare wooden desk were two projects, side by side. Roman Gladiators, by ADAM EQUINOX; ROMAN GLADIATORS, by William Weaver.
I wondered when she would put the stickers on.
‘Please sit down, Miss McCracken, William,’ goes Mrs Sharp, in a voice like silk. ‘Adam Equinox: what is the meaning of this?’
I stared at her dumbly, not even beginning to understand. But slowly I was realising something was wrong … something was very, very wrong. I felt like someone falling from a high building, spinning over and over as I hurtled towards the ground.
I stared at her dumbly as her hands neatly, methodically, in perfect time, flipped over the pages of the projects, two by two. Eleven pages, complete with perfect spelling, full-colour clip-art and neatly centred roman numerals. Eleven pages … all completely identical.
Anywhere
There was a long, terrible silence. They were all looking at me, waiting for me to do something … say something.
‘It … it’s not how it looks,’ I stammered at last. My voice sounded shaky and small.
‘Oh, really, Adam? And how does it look?’
‘It looks … you’re both thinking …’ Even as I said the words, I knew it was useless. ‘You’re thinking I copied Weevil — William, I mean. But I didn’t. It was the other way round. He copied me.’
Miss McCracken and Mrs Sharp exchanged a glance. ‘Oh, come now, Adam,’ said Mrs Sharp, in the kind of voice you’d use to talk to a baby. ‘Don’t insult our intelligence. Here we have a superior piece of work, and a highly gifted straight-A student. On the other hand we have a boy who, frankly, has been nothing but trouble since he joined the school … a boy who can barely write his own name. Do you seriously expect us to believe for one moment this is your work — that William copied it from you? That is ridiculous. William: do you have anything to say?’
‘Not really, Mrs Sharp,’ said Weevil, sliding me a sidelong, injured glance. ‘Just that — well, Adam, I’m really disappointed. After I tried to be friends wiff you, and everyfing.’
‘Miss McCracken?’
‘Oh, Adam,’ said Miss McCracken wearily. ‘Do you know, sometimes
I really do come close to giving up on you. And you know what discourages me most? You never even bother to try.’
Miss McCracken and Weevil left soon after — but not before a shiny gold principal’s award had been stuck onto the front of Weevil’s project, and Mrs Sharp had torn mine in half and dropped it into the bin.
I had to stay on and listen while Mrs Sharp phoned Highgate and told Matron the whole story. While they discussed whether I should be suspended for the rest of the term, and agreed a more appropriate punishment would be a fail in history, and to have all my computer privileges suspended until further notice. Words like sheer audacity and abuse of trust flew through the air like arrows, but I was way past the stage where they could hurt me. I felt as numb as if I’d been turned to concrete.
After school, I dragged myself up the hill back to Highgate. Dumped my lunch box on the tottering pile on the kitchen servery — and the whole lot came crashing down. Numbly, I bent and started picking them up. ‘Let me take care of that, Adam,’ said Cookie from the kitchen. She looked up from peeling potatoes, her face heavy with sympathy. ‘You’re to pop through and see Her, as soon as you get in. Right away, she said. Best hurry, dear, the state she’s in.’
I knocked on Matron’s office door, the wood sounding hollow under my knuckles.
Matron was at her desk. She’d had her hair done, I noticed automatically — it sat in tight grey rolls, like rows of steel tubing arranged on her head. Her eyes were like bullets. For a long moment, she said nothing.
Before, I would have shuffled my feet and dropped my eyes. But now I met her gaze levelly. I hadn’t done anything wrong, and nothing Matron could do or say would change that.
‘Well, Adam Equinox. It seems no matter how poor an opinion of you I have, you manage to surprise me by sinking even lower. This means the end of that computer for you. You cannot be trusted, therefore you will never touch it again.
‘As far as your proposed plans for the holidays are concerned, I am sorely tempted to cancel it as punishment for your behaviour. But I am a woman of my word. I promised you three chances, and I need hardly tell you one is gone. With a boy like you, the others are certain to follow. However, I shall be obliged to notify Mr Quested of your actions. He should be aware of the kind of child he is inviting into his home.’
She paused, waiting for a reaction. I said nothing. What was the point?
‘You disgust me. Get out of my sight.’
I felt myself flush, but still I didn’t say a word. Just turned and walked out of there, down the passage, and out into the garden. Automatically, my feet took me towards the silence and solitude of my secret hide-out. It had been my bolt hole and refuge as far back as I could remember, a place that had saved my sanity more times than I could count: peaceful, private, and completely mine.
I headed for the shrubbery at the side of the house and double-checked no one was watching. I dropped to my knees and pushed my way into the flax bush guarding the entrance. The smooth leaves stroked my burning face like cool, comforting fingertips, and the familiar scent of damp earth rose up to greet me. As I burrowed deeper, my brain began grinding into gear. What Weevil had done — that was obvious enough. But how? How had he accessed my directory on the computer? How had he bypassed my secret password? What was it he was always saying? Weevils can get inside lots of places, Adam. Private places. Anywhere — anywhere at all. It couldn’t be true … could it?
I wriggled round the last bed of the tunnel, and the hidden cave of my hide-out opened out in front of me.
Right in the middle of the smooth earth floor, a word had been gouged in deep, jagged letters.
The magic bubble of my secret sanctuary shattered like glass. A pain sliced through me like a knife, so real that for a moment I thought it had actually happened — an invisible sphere had smashed, and one of the shards had lodged deep in my heart.
For an endless moment I knelt there, head bowed, paralysed. My eyes had squeezed themselves shut, but the crude letters burned in my mind like fire. It was wrecked — forever. Even if I scrubbed the letters out — even if Weevil never set foot there again — it would never be the same.
First Weevil had stolen my project. And now he had ruined the one place I’d thought was mine, and only mine. I had nothing left … or did I?
Instinctively my hand moved to my chest, and felt the ridged outline of my heavy metal ring under my shirt. Before Quested Court — before Karazan — I’d kept it in my bedside drawer, with my other special treasures. And that’s where it would have been that night at Quested Court … if I hadn’t taken it out to rub and hold, as I often did for comfort in bed at night, and fallen asleep with it in my hand.
Kneeling in the dirt, I thought back to that night for what seemed like the millionth time … and felt the back of my neck prickle and the hairs on my arms rise. For the millionth time I told myself I must have been dreaming, or at least half asleep — but I knew I hadn’t been. The invisible presence I’d felt in the dark room … the drawer open just a crack, when I knew I’d left it shut … the stealthy click of the door snicking shut behind an intruder I couldn’t see, but knew in my bones was there. Logic told me it must have been a dream … but instinct told me something different. And following my instinct, I’d kept the ring round my neck on an old bootlace from that day on.
But my other treasures — would they be safe from Weevil? I turned and crawled back through the tunnel for what I knew would be the last time.
I straightened up and brushed away the dirt and bits of dry leaf. I checked no one was around, then crept into the dorm. Slid open my bedside drawer … and felt a dizzying surge of relief. My shawl was there: the shawl I’d been wrapped in when I was found on the steps of Highgate nearly thirteen years ago. Creamy-soft and light as a cloud, still holding a trace of the spicy, powdery perfume of the hands that had wrapped a tiny baby and then deserted him … the perfume of the mother I had never known.
My torch was there … and my dog-eared old Bible in its usual place. There was an identical one for every child at Highgate, courtesy of the Board of Trustees — I doubted even Weevil would give mine a second glance. Still, just to be sure, I flipped it open and checked that the yellowed old newspaper cutting was safe. My eyes rested on it for a moment, catching on a word here and there, though I knew it all by heart — it was the only history I had.
… left on the steps of the home probably only hours after being born … calling him Adam Equinox … born on the day of the Equinox — 22nd September … dusky complexion, with dark hair and unexpectedly pale eyes … lamb’s wool shawl … silver penny whistle and unusual ring …
The day of the Equinox. The day when night and day are equal, and the sun is in the sky for exactly 12 hours. My special day — less than a week away. I pushed the thought away impatiently. There were no birthdays at Highgate. Most years, 22 September passed by without me even noticing it. Sure, when I was small I’d made a private ritual of my Naming Day, as I’d thought of it: reading the newspaper cutting over and over again … closing my eyes … reaching out with my thoughts … trying to pretend there was someone out there somewhere who thought of me still and remembered me with love. I didn’t bother with that baby stuff any more. Until further information comes to light, the baby remains in the care of the Highgate Children’s Home. That’s how the cutting ended. Well, ‘further information’ never had come to light. So here I was, stuck with Matron and Geoffrey — and now Weevil — for keeps.
Closing the Bible with a sigh, I reached my fingers to the very back of the drawer, where my silver penny whistle always rolled. Double-checking, though I knew it would be there.
It wasn’t.
My fingers scrabbled on the smooth, flat metal. My heart gave a sickening lurch. Frantically, my hand swept from one side of the empty drawer to the other. I grabbed the drawer and yanked it out with a clatter. Empty. Stupidly, I upended it over the threadbare blanket, in case by some miracle the penny whistle might drop out of nowhere. It di
dn’t. I turned it right way round again and stood staring into it, my mind as cold and empty as the drawer. A word was sounding in that bleak, empty room, but it wasn’t in my mind — it was sounding over and over again with every slow, painful beat of my heart: Weevil. Weevil. Weevil.
I found him in front of the computer.
‘Weevil,’ I said, my voice sounding flat and strange, ‘I need to talk to you.’ He looked up at me with an innocent little smile. I could feel anger swelling up inside me, but I struggled to hold it down. I couldn’t afford to lose my cool — not now, with the holidays so close. ‘You went into my hide-out.’
‘You went into my hide-out!’ Weevil mimicked in a squeaky, ridiculous voice. ‘Is that all you’ve come to say?’
‘No, it’s not!’ I could hear the anger in my voice, and Weevil looked uncertain, inching his chair away from me. But I didn’t lose my temper. ‘You know it’s not. You looked in my drawer — the drawer of my bedside cabinet. You took something of mine. I want it back.’
His eyes widened innocently. ‘Oh, really? What did I take? Why would I want anyfing of yours?’
I’d hardly expected him to admit it. I looked at him steadily. ‘I don’t know why you would. I don’t know why you stole my project, either. What’s more, I don’t care. I’ve come to ask you to leave me alone.’
‘This isn’t about what you want. It’s about what I want — and I want to go to Quested Court. You fink you’re going on your own, but you’re wrong. Either you take me wiff you, or …’
‘Or what?’ But I already knew the answer.
‘Or you won’t go. I’ll make sure of that.’
‘So that’s it. You’re trying to push me over the edge so I’ll do something bad, and Matron will stop me going. Well, it won’t work.’
‘Won’t it? Why don’t you just take me wiff you? I don’t want to be stuck here all holidays, any more than you do. Come on: last chance … what do you say?’
