The Treatment

by C. L. Taylor

  I shift to the edge of the bunk and peer over it. Mouse’s book is on the floor, face down, pages splayed. I can see three fingers of her left hand, fingernails painted a vivid red, hanging over the side of her bunk, half clutching an asthma inhaler. It looks like she’s drifted off too but I need to see her face, just to be sure.

  I inch closer to the edge of the bed. The mattress squeaks beneath me and I freeze. Across the room Jude continues to breathe heavily. Mouse’s hand hasn’t moved but that doesn’t mean she’s asleep. I need to check. Gripping the edge of the metal frame I shift my upper body and, very carefully, very slowly, roll onto my side so my head is hanging over the edge of the bunk.

  Mouse stares back at me, her amber eyes narrowed and unblinking.

  ‘There’s no way out,’ she says. ‘You know that, don’t you?’

  Chapter Seventeen

  Mason wasn’t at dinner. There were forty-eight kids around the dining table but not one of them was my brown haired, blue-eyed little brother. Jude talked so much on the way to the canteen it made my head hurt. Once we got to the canteen, rather than sit with her and Mouse, I peeled off and sat between two girls who seemed to be studiously ignoring each other. Mouse kept looking over at me as I tried to eat my lasagne and salad but I didn’t meet her eyes. I was too freaked out by what she’d said to me in the dorm. Had she seen me fishing about in my boot for my map or was she just stating the obvious? Either way, it had seriously creeped me out.

  Dinner’s over and a huge crowd of kids are gathered at the door, waiting to be let back into the rec room. Mouse and Jude are at the back, standing slightly to one side. They’re both watching me as I dawdle by the huge floor-to-ceiling window. Jude looks away quickly as our eyes meet but Mouse continues to stare.

  ‘Missing home?’ Abi asks softly, sidling up next to me.

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘It’s a lot to take in, isn’t it? All this?’

  ‘What’s out there?’ I touch my hand to the glass. ‘It looks like a playing field.’

  ‘It is.’ She points to a large stretch of grass surrounded by a high, meshed wire fence. ‘You can play football or rounders there. Over on the right is the running track. There’s also a basketball court and a tennis court. You get an hour a day to go outside and do sports or just walk round the running track and get some air.’

  ‘Like jail?’

  She laughs. It’s a light, tinkling sound. Very Disney princess. ‘No, Drew. Like school.’

  ‘What’s over there?’ I point to the right of the running track where I can just about make out another stretch of grass.

  ‘That’s the West Wing’s running track.’

  ‘Right.’ I keep my expression neutral but inside I feel a jolt of excitement. The West Wing is where they keep the pre-treatment students. If Mason is allowed out to exercise at the same time as me the only thing separating us is a thin, meshed fence.

  I’m desperate to ask Abi when the pre-treatment kids get to go outside but I don’t want to raise her suspicions. I’m pretty sure all the friends will have been told that my brother is here too, but I’ve got no idea whether they know about the note he passed Dr Cobey. For all I know Mason has already been moved to the treatment unit and I’ve got here too late.

  Chapter Eighteen

  I barely slept last night, for worrying about Mason, and, when my mind finally went fuzzy and my body relaxed, Jude started snoring and woke me up again. I press a hand to my mouth, stifling a yawn.

  ‘Oi oi!’ A black guy with hazel eyes and a ring through his left nostril makes me jump as he plonks himself next to me and points to my plate. ‘Are you murdering them or what?’

  I look down at my breakfast plate. Beneath the metal prongs of my fork are half a dozen flattened baked beans. I’ve been mashing them into the plate without even noticing. ‘I’m not really hungry.’

  ‘Cool. I’m starving. Can I have the sausage?’

  ‘Sure.’

  Jude, sitting opposite me (there was no escaping her on the way to the canteen this morning), stares at him as he whips the sausage off my plate and shoves it into his mouth.

  ‘Are you new?’ she asks, narrowing her eyes as she looks him up and down.

  He nods, pointing at his mouth as he continues to chew. Finally, he swallows. ‘I got here an hour ago, along with those two.’ He jerks his thumb further along the table where two other new guys are sitting with their arms crossed and their eyes closed.

  I give him a puzzled look. ‘What are they doing?’

  ‘They’re on hunger strike. See that plate of food at the empty place opposite them? That’s mine. I told them I’d go on hunger strike too only I’m bloody starving. Which is why I’m nicking your food!’

  He flashes me a smile. He’s a nice-looking guy. Cocky, but I like his vibe.

  ‘What are you here for?’ Jude asks, tucking her long fringe behind her ear. ‘Where are you from? What’s your name?’

  ‘All right, darling. Go easy! I thought the interrogation wasn’t until 11 a.m.’ He looks at me. ‘Can I have your bacon too?’

  ‘Sure’

  ‘Israel.’ His eyes stay on me as he reaches for the bacon. ‘That’s my name. I’m from Essex. You?’

  ‘I’m from London,’ Jude says. ‘So we’re not far away. Have you been to the Sugar Hut? I’ve always wanted to go there. Ever since I saw it on –’

  ‘Yeah, yeah.’ Israel waves a hand, as though swatting away an annoying fly. ‘Go on,’ he says to me. ‘You were about to tell me your–’

  He’s interrupted by the sound of a buzzer.

  ‘Assembly.’ Jude reaches for her tray and stands up. ‘I can show you where to go if you want, Israel.’

  But Israel’s already on the move. He’s been summoned to the other end of the table by the hunger strike boys. They’ve opened their eyes and realized that he’s missing.

  ‘I suppose you think you’re clever,’ Jude hisses from across the table as the kids around us reach for their trays and head across the canteen to the stacking units.

  I point at my chest. ‘Are you talking to me?’

  ‘Well I’m not talking to myself.’

  ‘What are you on about?’

  ‘You know.’ Her gaze flicks across the room and rests on Israel. He’s heading for the door with the two other boys, his arms casually slung around their shoulders.

  ‘Just don’t start with me, Zara. OK?’ Jude yanks her tray off the table and hurries across the room. She shoves the tray into the rack then runs her hands through her hair.

  ‘Israel!’ she calls as she skips towards him. ‘I still want to hear about the Sugar Hut!’

  I shake my head as she catches him up. Israel might be a cool guy but if Jude thinks I’m on the hunt for a boyfriend or a hook-up she’s completely misguided. All I’m bothered about is –

  ‘Oomph!’

  The back of my chair collides with something as I attempt to stand up. Mouse is standing directly behind me, her arms crossed over her chest.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘I didn’t see you there.’

  She doesn’t reply. She doesn’t move. She just stares at me, her amber eyes pale and unblinking.

  ‘Come on, girls!’ Stuart scoots across the room towards us, his white trainers squeaking on the lino. ‘Assembly’s about to begin and you’re going to be late.’

  *

  Mouse sticks to my side as we file into the huge, wooden-floored assembly room. Unlike school, where we sit in rows during assembly, the kids here gather in a higgledy-piggledy bunch in front of the stage.

  ‘What happens now?’ I look at Mouse. ‘They’d better not make us sing. My voice would make Simon Cowell cry. And not in a good way.’

  The tiniest of smiles appears on her face before she looks away, embarrassed.

  ‘Any chance of a chair?’ Israel shouts. He’s standing a couple of metres in front of us, still flanked by the boys he arrived with. ‘My feet are killing me!’

  Several kids laug
h, including Jude who’s standing next to one of Israel’s friends. She senses me watching her and glances back. Her eyebrows flash upwards as she spots Mouse, standing beside me. I’m not sure which of them freaks me out the most – Jude with her mega gob and death stares or Mouse and her freaky, stealth mode. Either way, I’m not going to be here long. As soon as I’ve made contact with Mason we’ll be out of here.

  ‘Ladies! Gents!’ The friends circle us, waving their arms to get our attention. ‘A bit of hush, please! Assembly is about to begin.’

  Abi catches my eye and shoots me a smile as she walks past, then doubles back.

  ‘Everything OK, Drew?’

  Mouse, still standing beside me, widens her eyes. Oh no. Abi just used my real name and she heard it. That means that, by the end of the day, Jude will know it too. Great, I can’t wait for another game of twenty questions when we go back to the dorm.

  I sigh heavily. ‘All good, Abi, thanks.’

  ‘Don’t forget, if you’ve got any questions or you need help with anything just come and find me, yeah?’

  ‘Sure.’

  Abi nods, satisfied that she’s done her friendly duty, and heads off to hug/stroke/simper at a girl with short blue spiky hair who’s standing on her own at the edge of the crowd. As she approaches her, the soaring sound of stringed instruments suddenly fills the assembly room. Most of the kids stop talking and turn to look at the stage. The newer students, me included, glance around, unsure what’s going on. Israel mimes playing a violin, his raucous laugh cutting through the music. A couple of seconds later, a blue-sweatered friend squeezes his way through the crowd to tap him on the arm and tell him to stop.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I spot three boys and two girls – dressed in the sort of outfits my parents wear to work – walking single file down the side of the room. They’re flanked by Dr Rothwell and Mrs H. The kids climb the steps onto the stage and stand in a line at the back. The two adults stand side by side at the front of the stage. They’re both wearing wireless microphones that curve around their mouths, the sort pop stars wear on tour.

  ‘I hope you’re not going to do a dance routine!’ Israel shouts. ‘Because your backing dancers look rubbish!’

  I stifle a giggle and Israel’s friends laugh loudly. No one else makes a sound apart from Mouse who’s puffing on her inhaler. Jude doesn’t so much as glance at Israel. She’s staring at the stage, her arms hanging loosely at her sides.

  ‘Students of Norton Hall,’ Dr Rothwell says, his booming voice filling the hall. ‘Good to see you again. I’d like to begin by extending a warm welcome to all our new students. You may be feeling scared, apprehensive or even angry about your stay here and that’s perfectly natural. In time you’ll come to appreciate what an amazing opportunity you’ve been given and, dare I say it, one day you’ll look back fondly on your stay here. In a couple of minutes, you’ll have the opportunity to listen to the testimonies of some of the students who have recently completed their treatment but first, Mrs H. has a few words she’d like to say about housekeeping matters. Mrs H.’ He gestures at the housemistress. The five students standing at the back of the stage clap politely.

  ‘Thank you, Dr Rothwell.’ Mrs H. taps the microphone by her mouth, making a loud crackling noise. ‘Can everyone hear me OK?’

  Several kids at the front nod.

  ‘Housekeeping issues. Firstly, I’d like to remind you that, if you mislay your welcome pack, duplicates can be obtained from my office. Just ask one of the friends to take you there. Secondly, your individual therapy sessions are listed on the wall of the rec room. Do please ensure you arrive on time otherwise one of the friends will have to chase you down. I mean, come and find you.’ She laughs tightly. ‘Thirdly, existing students, I really shouldn’t have to remind you that food must not be taken into your dorms. Our cleaners are not equipped to deal with insect or vermin infestations in your rooms. Pest control is not part of their job description! I would also request that you take good care of the stereos and DVD players. Accidents can, and do, happen, but if you regularly or wilfully destroy school property you will have such items removed from your dorm. Continued rule breaking will result in isolation. Is everyone clear on that?’

  Dozens of kids nod their heads. One or two shift their weight from one foot to the other and hang their heads. It doesn’t take a genius to work out that they’re the students she’s referring to.

  ‘Great!’ Mrs H. says brightly. She glances down at the piece of paper in her hands. ‘Finally, I have the names of the students who will be moving into the West Wing this morning to begin the pre-treatment phase of their stay.’ Mouse, wringing her hands beside me, jolts and looks up. ‘Could the following students please congregate at the foot of the stage – Cerys Argent, Ottie Maclean, Kieron Sykes, Ethan Herbert, Tom Macauley, Joe Bradley, Charlotte Tilsley and Logan Hannay.’

  There are gasps, squeaks and squeals from the crowd as the names are read out then five boys and three girls push through to the front of the stage. One of the girls, a short redhead in a black jumper and skinny jeans, is sobbing loudly. Everyone else looks excited.

  ‘Were you hoping Mrs H. would call your name?’ I whisper to Mouse.

  ‘Sssh.’ A fair-haired friend with freckles across her nose puts a hand on my shoulder. ‘No talking until you’re dismissed.’

  ‘Could everyone please give the pre-treatment students a round of applause,’ Dr Rothwell says as Mrs H. descends the steps and gives each of the kids a hug. ‘We wish you all the very best of luck.’

  They’re led from the room by Mrs H. and three of the friends. Poor sods. They’ve got no idea they’re being marched one step closer to becoming brainwashed zombies. That said, I can’t help but feel jealous as the door clicks shut behind them. My escape plan would be so much easier if I was in the same wing as Mason.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I say to the fair-haired friend still hovering behind me. ‘How long do you have stay in assessment before you’re moved to –’

  She presses a finger to her lips, her dark green eyes stony. ‘Sssh!’

  She makes a whirling gesture with her other hand, signalling that I should turn round and face the stage like everyone else. It’s weird, how well behaved all the other kids are being, considering everyone in this room was kicked out of school for bad behaviour. I’d have expected a few kids to be kicking off or dicking around.

  ‘Next up,’ Dr Rothwell says, ‘a few words of wisdom from some of the students who have successfully completed their treatment. They will be returning home later this week. Olivia, could you step forward, please?’

  A slim girl in a knee-length skirt, thick, grey woolly tights and T-bar shoes I’m sure my mum owns, steps forwards. Dr Rothwell hands her the microphone.

  ‘I …’ she says then jumps as her soft voice fills the room.

  ‘Go ahead, Olivia,’ Dr Rothwell says, touching her on the shoulder. ‘Everyone wants to hear what you have to say.’

  ‘I was like you lot once,’ Olivia says, staring straight ahead, at some point just over my head. ‘I was angry …’ She pauses to glance at Dr Rothwell, who nods at her to continue. ‘I felt lost and alone in the world. I thought no one understood me. I did some stupid things and made some stupid decisions. Being at Norton House has taught me how foolish I was. I have learnt how to be a better person and contribute to society.’ She says be a better person in a strange, almost robotic way, like she’s reading from an autocue. ‘I have realized the value of a good education and how important it is to contribute to society. I can’t thank you enough for the opportunity to become a better person, Dr Rothwell.’

  ‘How much did he pay you to say that?’ Israel shouts from the middle of the crowd. The friend standing beside him glares at him and yanks on his arm.

  Dr Rothwell ignores him and gestures for Olivia to retake her place in the line-up. He crooks his finger for the next student in line to step forward.

  ‘My name is Alex,’ says a tall Chinese boy in a suit. H
is voice is a monotone and his eyes have the same glazed expression as Zed’s boyfriend Charlie. ‘When I arrived here I was a degenerate, a waste of space. I was reprehensible scum like all of you.’

  There’s a collective gasp from the kids on the floor.

  ‘Alex.’ Dr Rothwell touches him on the arm. ‘Remember what I said about keeping the message positive?’

  ‘Scum?’ Israel shouts, yanking his arm away from the friend. ‘Who are you calling scum? You don’t know the first thing about us.’ He shoves his way through the crowd, heading for the stage.

  ‘Come down here and call me scum,’ he shouts as he climbs the first step. Alex, still standing on the stage beside Dr Rothwell, stares at him with a look of contempt on his face. Israel climbs the second step, then the third. He glances back and our eyes meet briefly as he scans the crowd.

  ‘No one?’ he shouts. ‘Is no one else pissed off by what he just said?’ The two hunger strike boys shrug their shoulders.

  ‘Come on you lot! They can’t force us to stay here!’

  He lunges at Dr Rothwell, his outstretched hand reaching for the lanyard hanging around his neck. As he does a wave of blue jumpers storm the stage. Two hands latch onto Israel’s ankles. He tries to kick them off but, before he can get free, Stuart flies up the steps and launches himself at him. They’re fairly evenly matched, height wise, but Stuart is stronger and he manages to wrap his arms around Israel and lift him clean off his feet.

  ‘Hey!’ Israel shouts. ‘Get your hands off me. Get your fuc–’

  His shout is muffled as he’s surrounded by three more male friends then the deafening bleep-bleep-bleep of an alarm echoes around the room.

  Dr Rothwell steps away from the kerfuffle on stage and speaks into his mic. ‘Could one of the support staff please escort all students back to the rec room immediately!’