Chapters 1 and 2 are included here as a free sample of “Frank Wasdale: First Mission”
Chapter 1 – Trial By Fire
They shouldn’t make boys do what I am about to do. That’s what Dr Babbage says. Not that he ever does anything about it. But he’s a clever man, and he tries to be kind. He has looked after me ever since I became me, and he is the one that makes sure I get my magic juice, every single day.
Dr Babbage stands beside me now, out on the practice range, the other side of the barracks. He rubs his beard and stares out through the barbed wire perimeter fence towards the snow-capped mountains. Next to Dr Babbage, and standing about a foot shorter, is Colonel Stump. I don’t like Colonel Stump. He hits me with things, and when he’s not hitting me, he’s shooting at me, or dropping me from cranes, or immersing me in vats of stinking, bubbling fluid. You get the picture. Today, Colonel Stump has organised yet another trial for me. He has promised me that the recovery time won’t be too long.
I hear a low thumping sound. A helicopter. Twin rotors. It appears from nowhere, flattening the grass and sweeping over the burning tank that has been set up for me in the middle of the range.
A dark figure appears from the hatch near the tank’s gun turret, flames flicking at him like serpents’ tongues. The figure flaps about, then struggles and slips, bounces off the panels and falls with a bump to the scorched ground. Colonel Stump takes a few paces forwards.
“Are you sure you are still up for this?” asks Dr Babbage, out of the Colonel’s earshot. I nod, then remember the promise he gave me before we set out this morning: a double helping of his blueberry crumble and a few days’ rest.
The man who fell from the tank has picked himself up now, and is hurtling towards us, his silver suit alive with the reflection of flames. He is holding one of the red batons. God how I hate those things. The soldier reaches us, pulls off his mask and cylinder, and throws the baton to the ground. His breaths are short and laboured. “How did I do?” he asks the Colonel.
“You took three minutes and ten seconds,” says the Colonel. “Could have been better.”
Colonel Stump tells the soldier to go take a shower, and we all watch him stroll across the range towards the barracks. When he is out of sight, the squint on the Colonel’s little red face transforms into a sneering grimace as he turns towards me. “Now it’s your turn,” he says.
Underneath my tattered combat gear, I am wearing just a T-shirt and shorts. On my feet are a scuffed pair of trainers that are three sizes too big for me. I don’t have a mask, breathing apparatus, or shiny suit like the soldier had on. And I am about half his size.
The colonel looks across the range to where a solitary figure is standing, as still as an Easter Island statue, and just as forbidding. I can tell it’s the Mannequin, even from this distance, her slender form silhouetted against the blue-grey sky. The Mannequin is always present during my trials—she and Colonel Stump never lose sight of each other.
Stump gives me a countdown, and I’m off.
Despite by lumbering gait, I reach the tank quickly, and begin to climb up its metal skirt, pushing through the flames. I can’t see a thing; my world becomes a disorientating swirl of colours; yellows and reds and blues. I reach the turret and feel around with my fingers, probing the bolts and panels, searching for the hatch. The soldier left it open. With as much caution as my time limit allows, I push myself head first into the cramped bowels of the tank. Squirming, I find my way into the gunner’s seat. The visibility is slightly better in here, as if the flames are afraid to enter. I scan the dials and knobs and handles, some of which are beginning to melt, and begin my search for the baton. Where would someone as sick and twisted as Colonel Stump hide such a thing? The minutes tick by. I don’t want to fail this task, because I know that would make Stump and the Mannequin angry, and they would take their anger out not only on me but on Dr Babbage as well. That wouldn’t be fair.
The skin on my knuckles begins to tighten. My eyes have dried out and I can’t seem to blink, which explains why my vision has started to fog up. This happened once before, during the exploding barrels trial. It took me ages to get over that—I had to have bandages over my eyes for a week. Hopefully I can get through this one quicker. But my chest feels tight, as if my lungs are filled with hot sand. If I don’t find the baton soon, I’m in trouble.
I stretch out my legs beneath the instrumentation and kick around for anything loose at my feet. I find levers and wires, big rivets and peddles, but nothing that can roll around. I try reaching my hands down into the narrow gaps at the sides of the seat. Nothing. Panicking, I kneel up on the seat and reach over the back, and at last I find the baton, wedged between a couple of bolted canisters. In one swift move I tug on the baton and heave upwards, out of the hatch. My vision is still fuzzy and narrowed by eyelids that are stuck as if by glue. As I jump from the turret, I try to shout out, just to see if I can, but nothing comes out. My only thought now is to get away from the flames and back towards where Dr Babbage and Stump are standing. To see if I have passed this test.
“Two minutes fifty!” shouts Colonel Stump as I stumble and fall over at his feet, gasping for air. “And a saving of twenty thousand dollars on gear! Goddammit, Babbage, he has outperformed our regulars in all the tasks. Just imagine the money we could make selling a whole platoon of these freaks. If this doesn’t convince our friends in high places, then nothing will. The least you could do is look enthusiastic!”
Dr Babbage looks far from enthusiastic. In fact, I don’t think he’s listening to Colonel Stump. Instead, he kneels down next to me, prods my face and my arms and my neck. “Give me some noise, Frank,” he says, but I can’t. All that comes out is a gassy croak. Dr Babbage puts a hand on my forehead and reaches into his pocket for a handkerchief.
“Don’t you go soft on me, Babbage!” barks the Colonel. “Just pick the boy up and get the hell out of here. Take a few days off if you need. Leave me to finish the negotiations with…her…”
Dr Babbage pushes his hands under my back and lifts me from the ground with some difficulty, almost toppling in the process. “A stretcher would have been nice,” he barks at Colonel Stump, but the little man is already walking away, striding towards the Mannequin.
Dr Babbage grumbles as he carries me across the range, muttering through his thick grey beard about the pains in his back, and how he is too old for all this. In an effort to stay conscious and alert, I try to count the spruces that line the edge of the parade ground. I get to twelve, but then the darkness comes, and I feel my world shutting down.
***
I wake up in my room. It takes a while for me to come around, to piece together what has happened to me. My curtains are open and through the window I can see the camp’s perimeter fence in the distance, spider-black against a reddening sky. At least my eyes are working properly again—I can be thankful for that. After an hour or so, Dr Babbage comes in and sits by my bedside. His face looks older than ever.
“How are you feeling?” he asks.
I lean across to where my pen and notepad are lying on my bedside table. “A bit stiff,” I write, almost illegibly.
“Would you like something to eat?”
I can smell roast beef, so I write that I’d like some of that, and for a while he looks all ponderous and confused. But then he says:
“Ahh. That’s not beef you can smell, it’s your skin. You got a bit charred yesterday morning, remember?”
I do remember. But yesterday morning? I must have had one hell of a sleep. The smell has sparked my appetite, but perhaps not enough to eat my own cooked flesh.
“I will bring you some blueberry crumble, like I promised. Cream or custard?”
“Both,” I scribble, and a little grin creeps across Dr Babbage’s face. “Your eyes look better than I thought they would,” he says. “We won’t have to bandage them up this time. And we’ll soon have your skin as moist as a newborn’s. It will take a lot of cream, but we can do it. Here, let me put the TV on for you…”
He hands me the remote control on his way out, and I flick through the channels, settling on an old black and white show where two fat men are hitting each other with saucepans. It’s not as funny as a wildlife documentary, but it still makes me laugh.
***
Now seems as good a time as any to tell you a little about myself. Or, to put it another way, tell you what I have learned about myself from the snippets of conversation I have overheard around the base together with the occasional lapse in Dr Babbage’s secretive demeanour.
My name is Frank Wasdale, and I died five years ago. My parents were from England, and they came over here to Alaska, on holiday. Their plan was to spend a month touring in a hired van, taking in some national parks and cities, and generally having a nice time. It didn’t quite work out that way. Their van hit a fallen tree, at high speed. My father was driving. I was in the front, next to my Mum. None of us stood a chance.
If I had been taken to some big city hospital, I would have been pronounced dead on arrival, sealed in a bag, flown back to England, and you wouldn’t be reading this story. But as it happened my parents were touring a seriously remote part of Alaska. And this is where things get really weird. The woman we call the Mannequin stumbled upon the wreck of our van before our bodies had succumbed completely to the bite of the wind and snow. From what I have heard, I had been dead for several hours when she found me. My heart had stopped pumping, by brain stopped thinking. I was a goner. But the Mannequin brought me back to life. Fixed my injuries and brought me back to life. Don’t ask me how, or why, because I remember nothing of it. I couldn’t have been conscious, for if I was, I would have begged her to bring my parents back too. I don’t know why she didn’t.
I was only six years old at the time.
My rebirth was not without its complications. It left me with what Dr Babbage calls a “very peculiar physiology”. It would be an understatement to say that I am not like other boys. Other boys, let’s be honest, don’t have grey skin that seeps a sticky, pungent sweat; they don’t have eyeballs that occasionally pop from their sockets; they don’t vomit quite as copiously as I do. In short, they are not zombies.
I bet you didn’t know that zombies were for real, did you? That they exist outside the realms of horror fiction? After all, you don’t hear mothers in the park saying to their toddlers ‘Oh look! There’s a zombie. I wonder what he’s up to?’ But it is true. I have been brought back from a seriously dead state. I am a zombie and I exist; therefore zombies must exist. It’s logical. I’m not, however, a mindless automaton like the zombies you see in the movies. I have emotions, I feel remorse. I am capable of following instructions. I don’t eat brains, although I do eat an enormous amount—I need about five times the average carbohydrate intake, just to stay conscious. And I need my magic juice and my balms, to keep me looking feasibly human.
I do share one important characteristic with fictional zombies: I cannot feel pain. And that’s why Stump is so interested in me. It’s why he has been ‘training’ me, and why he pays Dr Babbage to look after me. I am Stump’s experiment; his investment; his passport to a rich and early retirement. Quite how I ended up in the hands of Colonel Stump after the Mannequin saved me is a mystery. I have loads of questions I would like to ask the Mannequin, but Stump won’t let me anywhere near her. Dr Babbage says that it would complicate matters if we met. Anyway, here I am, holed up in the Camp Tiger military base, a remote army outpost, a blemish on the untamed plain between the forests and the mountains.
Like all zombies, I also suffer from very slow speech. If I were saying this sentence out loud, you could take a hike and a picnic in the park and still be back before I reached the end. It takes me a long time to say anything sensible, so I usually write stuff down, in my pad. The upside of this is that I have become quite good at writing and reading; Dr Babbage has taught me over the last few years and reckons I am way ahead of most kids my age.
One other thing. According to Dr Babbage I am the first zombie ever created. That’s EVER. There are no others like me. At least not for now. But Stump has plans. He has made some deal with the Mannequin to make a little army of people like me. I am the prototype; if I turn out to be useful, the Mannequin will make more of me. The thought of that seriously creeps me out.
***
Dr Babbage returns with my steaming bowl of crumble, which he sets on the bedside table. I am so ravenous I shovel it down in seconds. It’s very tasty, very hot, and—like a lot of my foods—very blue. Once I am done with it, Dr Babbage begins to pace back and forth along my bedside. He clears his throat theatrically, like he is about to say something important.
“I have some good news for you, Frank. I received this in the morning post.”
For illustration, he waves an official-looking letter in front of my face but pulls it away before I get chance to read it. “To cut a long story short,” he continues, “Stump’s client seems happy at last. That means your training is over, Frank. You are ready for your first mission!”
Mission? Well, I suppose I knew, deep down, that it would always come to this.
“Our destination is London,” he says. “We are leaving on Thursday morning. Stump has already found a place for us to live, until your job is done. London, Frank. How exciting is that?”
My mind goes into a funny whirl and fills with lots of questions. I grab my note pad and scribble frantically, handing the following to Dr Babbage:
What mission? Will I be able to say goodbye to Benny before we go? What about my magic juice, and all the balms?
Dr Babbage reads my scrawled questions, rubbing his beard thoughtfully.
“No, you won’t be able to say goodbye to Benny; Stump insists that we leave quickly and quietly, without speaking to anyone. Don’t worry, though; you will see Benny again when we get back. Your medicines shouldn’t be a problem—the Mannequin will provide enough for our stay in London. As to the mission itself, I honestly don’t know. Stump is planning to fly over and join us, once we have settled. I guess he will fill us in then.”
Dr Babbage slaps both his knees and stands up, obviously wishing to put an end to the discussion. “Now,” he says, “Any more crumble?”
I nod enthusiastically. He picks up my bowl, and heads out of my room, leaving me alone with a chaotic jumble of thoughts.
Chapter 2 – Up and Away
It is early Thursday morning, three days since my trial with the burning tank. In those three days, I have had enough balm slapped on my skin to sink a ship, and I have cleared the kitchen cupboards of porridge, pasta, rice and semolina. I feel better for it—my skin is more supple, and my eyes are moist enough for my lids to open and close easily. Dr Babbage has doubled my dose of magic juice, squirting it liberally into my food and drink. He has also suggested that I take some diarrhoea tablets.
“We don’t want you pooping all over the place, do we? Not on the way to the airport.”
I shake my head.
“OK,” he says, pacing up and down the hallway and rummaging through our luggage one last time, “I think we’re all set. Let’s get you into the car.”
Although he hasn’t said as much out loud, I am guessing that if Stump’s promises to make a rich man out of Dr Babbage come true, one of the first things he will buy is a new car, perhaps a big silver Cadillac. For now, he must make do with the old rusty wheels that he has been driving for years.
This is only the second time I have been in Dr Babbage’s car. The first time was just over a year ago, when he drove out of the base as a treat for my birthday. We ended up in an old barn. It took us about half an hour to get there. There weren’t many people in the barn—just me and Dr Babbage, little Benny and his slightly scary Mum (who left half way through the meal). We all ate burgers and fries, delivered by a man on a motorbike who I wasn’t allowed to see. I had a nice time, and there were even a few balloons to pop at the end of the party. I haven’t been out of the base since.
I’m kind of hoping we will catch a glimpse of Benny this morning, before we finally leave. I like him a lot, and Dr Babbage lets me go around to his house on Saturdays to play. It’s often the highlight of the week for me, the only time when I can have fun and feel relaxed. Benny doesn’t expect anything from me. He is only six years old, but we have a wild time when I’m there, playing with his cars and trains, and laughing at his collection of wildlife documentaries. He has got bookcases full of the things. Last week we watched one about baboons and saw their crazy purple bottoms. The baboons were fighting and playing and doing all sorts of stuff to each other, and we laughed like hyenas. And believe me, we know what hyenas laugh like.
But there is no sign of Benny this morning, nor his scary Mum peering out between the gap in the curtains. Everything is still and quiet. Dawn is just breaking, although it’s a slightly pathetic sunrise, smeared out by low rolling clouds. Feeling slightly nervous, I strap myself in to the passenger seat, and gaze out of the window.
Dr Babbage drives us to the guardhouse, the only point of exit around the camp’s perimeter fence. The guardhouse is manned around the clock, and on the road leading up to it and away to it, they have rumble strips and some of those things which can make spikes come up from the road at a push of a button, ripping your tyres to shreds.
“Morning, Doctor B,” the guard says. “Off on vacation?”
Dr Babbage chuckles. “I wish,” he says, then hands over some papers for the guard to check.
“Your grandson is going with you this time?” the guard enquires, ruffling through the folded papers. Dr Babbage nods, and I notice beads of sweat on his forehead. He is about as good at lying as he is at hip-hop dancing. Which is a bit unfortunate, considering the conspiracy he has wrapped himself up in. I have a virtual life, you see, concocted by Dr Babbage and Stump, to explain my existence at the base and to prevent too many eyebrows being raised. In this virtual life, I am a home educated orphan, terminally ill with some rare condition. Stops people asking too many questions. Not that I meet a lot of people.
The guard seems happy with the papers and gives me the characteristic sympathetic look. If only he knew. The gate judders open, and we leave the base, heading for the open road.
The drive to the airport takes six hours, through mountains, pine forests, and then lush, rolling fields. I try to sleep during the journey but I can’t; my head feels like it is full of fireworks and bursting popcorn. My thoughts won’t stay still, and feel like I am overheating. I open the window to let in some fresh, cool air.
The traffic gets busier as we get closer to the airport, and Dr Babbage begins to curse and swear, beginning to worry that we might miss our flight. He needn’t have worried. The car park is right next to the terminal building, and we arrive with time to spare. A jet plane roars above us as I climb out of the car, so low that I instinctively duck.
“This way,” says Dr Babbage, and I follow him through some automatic doors at the front of the terminal building. There are more people inside than I have ever seen in my life. We join a long queue and wait in it for about half an hour, and when we get to the front a lady with thin lips takes Dr Babbage’s bag and sends it on a conveyor through some flaps. It feels odd watching that bag, full of the magic juice that keeps me alive, disappearing from sight.
Once we are away from the crowds, Dr Babbage gives me one more concentrated swig of juice, enough to last me through the flight. I throw the bottle in a bin and follow Dr Babbage up some moving metal stairs.
At the top, he stops. “We have to go through security next, Frank. Be sensible, OK?”
I nod and follow Dr Babbage through a zigzagging line of tape to a desk where a man with a fat head and bushy grey eyebrows spends an enormous amount of time studying my passport. He doesn’t seem interested in Dr Babbage’s.
“This your son?” he asks.
“No, my grandson,” says Dr Babbage, a little too assertively. For a moment I fear that the man with the eyebrows has seen right through our false identities and is about to throw us into some musty old cell.
“Is he unwell?” says that man, glaring at me as if I am an enormous fungus growing from the floor.
“He has a variety of genetic conditions. Nothing contagious. I have the medical papers if you are interested.”
The man looks at us again, shakes his head, then hands Dr Babbage our passports back. Next, an agitated-looking man with a red nose pats me up and down and squeezes me under the armpits, before asking me to walk through a big metal detector. I set the beepers off.
“He has a lot of pins and plates,” explains Dr Babbage to the agitated-looking man. “He has suffered some unfortunate accidents in his time.” The man gives me another good feel, before finally waving us on.
Once through security, we find a cafe. Dr Babbage orders a coffee and a sandwich for himself and fetches me six cheeseburgers and a pint of Lucozade. He pretends that three of the cheeseburgers are his.
“We must try to blend in, Frank. We mustn’t draw attention to ourselves. Stump’s orders.”
I try my best to blend in, but the glares and scowls that come my way from passing strangers suggest that I am not doing a very good job. I tell myself to ignore the attention and concentrate on my burgers.
Our flight is called, and we join a throng of people, all pushing and heaving towards a tiny desk. Then we head off through a tunnel and across the runway towards our plane. It’s a big one, all silver and white, every bolt and panel catching a glint of the evening sun.
As I climb up the steps, I turn around briefly and wonder if I will ever see America again.
I was hoping to get a seat by the window, but I end up next to the aisle, directly across from a lady with wild hair who keeps giving me sympathetic looks. I give her a sympathetic look back. She closes her eyes and pretends to be asleep. On the other side of me, Dr Babbage fidgets and fusses in his seat, checking and re-checking his safety strap. A lady with long arms makes some safety announcements, and Dr Babbage seems absolutely glued to what she is saying. I am much more interested in the sick bag—it might come in handy later.
At last, we are ready for take-off. The engines fire up, and the plane starts to accelerate along the runway. I feel my stomach take a tumble as the heaving mass of metal finally lifts into the air.
The plane banks, dropping its right wing down like a lame bird, and for a few minutes I get a fantastic view through a clear patch in the little steamy window. Below us are pinkish-grey clouds, and beneath them a blackening sea. Above us the sky is dark, as if we’re headed for space. Dr Babbage keeps his eyes closed through all this, and doesn’t open them until we are flying level, and a loud ping tells us we can unclip our belts.
I get a funny sensation, thinking this can’t be real; it seems impossible that we are up here, hanging in the atmosphere. Then I get another funny sensation, a physical one down in my bowels (I’ll spare you the details) but overriding this is a faint memory: I did this before. When I was that other person, all those years ago, I must have flown the other way; from England to America, with my parents. Did I have a window seat back then? I can’t remember. Were my Mum and Dad scared, excited, bemused? I can’t even remember their faces, a thought which really gets me down. One thing I am sure of, though; the little boy that I used to be would have been doing exactly what I am doing now; gazing out at the sky and the clouds and feeling a shameless rush of excitement.
I am suddenly hit by a familiar smell. Dr Babbage has noticed it too. It is time I went to the toilet.
***
After leaving Alaska on Thursday evening, and changing planes in Seattle, we finally arrive at London Heathrow airport late on a Friday evening. I managed to sleep for most of the journey, but, judging by the look of him, Dr Babbage didn’t. He is curt and snappy and keeps telling me off.
On the way through the airport we are forced to wait in another long queue. Nobody seems bothered about the waiting. Except for Dr Babbage, that is, who has begun to look increasingly flustered. A black lady with red glasses raises her eyebrows when she looks at my passport, but eventually she lets us through, even managing a tiny smile in the process.
Outside the terminal we hail a taxi. The driver studies me suspiciously in the rear-view mirror as he takes us into central London. Dr Babbage asks him if he could recommend a cheap hotel, and the driver knows just the place. He takes us off the main road and through a chaotic jumble of streets full of buses and crazy-looking cyclists, and finally pulls up outside a place called Fourwinds.
“Tell ‘em Baz sent you,” the driver grunts. “They might give you a cheap cup of tea or sumfing.”
The harassed-looking lady in the hotel foyer has never heard of anyone called Baz but is happy to take Dr Babbage’s money and show us to our bedroom. The room is nice, with two beds, a big flat TV and a bath with square taps. Dr Babbage explains for about the fifth time that we must stay here tonight because we cannot pick up the keys to our new house until tomorrow morning. Midway through a big leather-bound book called ‘Hotel Services’, he falls fast asleep on his bed, fully clothed. I surf the channels on the TV for a while but find that I am so excited I can’t concentrate on anything for more than a few seconds. A new house. Tomorrow. A new life. No more trials or beatings, at least not for now. I sit by the window, in an armchair that is less comfortable than it looks, and take in the sights and sounds of the London street below.
***
We both wake early the next morning and head down to the basement for breakfast, where a short lady with bright woollen stockings brings us a rack of toast so massive that it looks set to challenge even my appetite. The toast is soon followed by a plate of beans, bacon and scrambled eggs, and then some more toast. I eat so much that I have a little vomit onto my plate. An elderly man on the table next to us gives me a filthy look and leaves the room, shaking his head in disbelief.
“Let’s go and check out, before you upset anyone else,” says Dr Babbage, slurping down the last of his tea. “Stump said they will be expecting us at the estate agent before ten.”
With a crumpled map in his hands and a permanent frown on his face, Dr Babbage navigates us through the crowded streets. Despite all the noise and the bustle and the warm smelly wind, I feel relaxed and chirpy. My soul is comforted by the fact that, for once, I am not the weirdest-looking kid in town. We pass loads of people, but some of them really stick out: a man with the tattoo of a skull on his face; a girl with no hair and nearly no clothes; a man wearing fingerless gloves and an old sack; a toddler with a silver stud in his top lip; a circus clown playing a violin. Up against this lot, I must look relatively normal.
Eventually, we find the estate agent. It has a big red sign above it that says Pratt and Sons, and is wedged between a steakhouse and a dance studio. Before we go in, Dr Babbage picks a bit of snot off my cheek, checks that I am clean, and straightens my collar.
We are ushered towards one of several large desks, where a stout man with a red face greets us. “Charles Wasdale? And, let me just check, Frank Wasdale?” says the man, who I am guessing might be Pratt or possibly one of his sons. “63 Crown Hill, Cheasley. All seems to be in order. Thirteen Hundred per calendar month, two months to be paid in advance. Are you paying by credit card?”
From the look on his face, I don’t think Dr Babbage was expecting to have to pay at all. He grumbles as he taps his card, signs some documents as if he were signing his own death warrant, and then—once we are back out on the street—he embarks on some colourful cursing of Stump and the Mannequin (something he does more and more often, these days, but never to their faces).
We take a train towards Cheasley, our new home town. With each passing mile, I feel myself becoming more and more intrigued, and get through a whole box of tissues wiping the sweat from my brow and neck. Dr Babbage says that the house we are renting has two bedrooms and that I can choose which one I want. How cool is that?
The train slows to a juddering halt alongside a sign that says ‘Cheasley. All trains terminate’. Aided by some scribbled instructions, we trudge through a persistent drizzle along a street full of newsagents, bars and betting shops. Off this street, half way up another long street, we find our new house. The downstairs windows are hidden from view by a spectacularly untamed patch of grass. There is a greenhouse jutting out from the left of the house, which Dr Babbage tells me is a conservatory. On the right is a neighbouring house, equally shabby, with all its curtains drawn.
“Here we are then,” says Dr Babbage, reaching into his pocket for the keys. “63 Crown Hill!”
Once inside, I take a good look around, checking out all the rooms and the stairs and the cupboards. I choose the bedroom overlooking the conservatory. From my window I can see the main road at the bottom of the hill, with cars and bikes whizzing by. In the middle of my room is a bed with a bare mattress, and I climb onto it triumphantly, feeling like an explorer claiming his first mountain summit.
“Do you like it?” asks Dr Babbage, popping his head through the doorway.
I give him the thumbs up.
“We’ll need to go shopping soon, to get some basics; sheets for the beds, food, some tidier clothes. Also, I need to find out where we can buy school uniform.”
What did he just say? School uniform? I give him my best quizzical frown, and he begins to get fidgety.
“You are going to start at Cheasley High School. Stump says that it is quite close to here. Not far to walk, just over the other side of this hill. We have a meeting with the head teacher on Monday.”
I gulp and begin to feel even more clammy than usual. School? I thought I was here for a mission, not to go to school. I have never been to school. I have no idea what to expect. This changes everything. Hastily, I reach for my pen and pad, which are stuffed in the back pocket of my jeans.
Why do I need to go to school? I write.
“I don’t know, Frank. Stump’s orders.”
I hope that is not going to be his answer to every question. “Still,” he continues, “it might turn out to be a useful experience for you. You will get to mix with other boys and girls your age.”
He is not persuading me. The only other child I have ever been allowed to ‘mix’ with is Benny, and he is six years my junior. A bunch of real twelve-year-olds? They will probably hate me. Or hit me. Or both. Besides, I don’t know anything! Dr Babbage has taught me how to read and write, but I have never had any lessons. This could turn into a nightmare.
I scribble in my pad again: I am not going to school.
“Yes, you are, Frank. You have to.”
“Stump’s orders,” I attempt to say, but as usual the sound emerges from my mouth as a low guttural groan. I fold my arms and turn my back on Dr Babbage. I feel really angry.
“There is no need to get into a huff with me, Frank. I don’t pull the strings, remember? All I do is look after you and try to make sure that you are happy. It’s not easy, you know. Now take my advice and get used to the idea. You will come shopping with me in half an hour.”
He stomps out of my room and I lie on my bed, curl up like a wintering dormouse, and try in vain to imagine what lies ahead.
***
Two days later, I am sitting in a dark office at Cheasley High School with a lady who calls herself ‘the deputy’. She has big teeth like a cartoon horse, and hair that blocks out her eyes when she leans forward. Fortunately, she pretty much ignores me and directs her barrage of questions to Dr Babbage: why did you leave Alaska? Will your grandson be living with you whilst he’s at school? Why did you apply so late? Have you a copy of his birth certificate? Dr Babbage fibs his way through the questions, and the deputy taps away at her desktop computer.
Finally, the dreaded moment comes: she looks up from her monitor and addresses me. She hasn’t said anything about my unusual appearance yet, and I wonder now if that time has come.
“I am going to put you in 8D, Frank. Your form teacher will be Mr Balls.”
8D? What does that mean? If I could speak more than a word a minute, I would ask her, but all I can do is nod politely and twiddle my thumbs.
“You can start tomorrow, if you wish. I will make sure that Mr Balls is expecting you.”
Tomorrow? That’s like, the day after today! Holy crap.
The deputy stares at me for a while, as if expecting a response. She looks perturbed when all she gets is a grunt. She turns back towards Dr Babbage.
“His conditions,” she says, in a sympathetic sort of voice. “Do they require medication?”
“He needs a special dietary supplement, which is usually mixed in with his food and drink. His skin needs frequent application of cream, and he occasionally requires fresh diapers—nappies as you call them. But he is a good boy, and he takes the responsibility for his treatments seriously. Don’t you, Frank?”
I nod.
“He will need to be discreet about taking his medication,” advises the deputy. “You know what some children are like.” She looks once more to her monitor. “These conditions,” she says. “Not ones I have heard of, I must admit.”
“Not ones that many people have heard of,” says Dr Babbage. “A strange brew of rare chromosome defects.”
“Indeed,” mutters the deputy. She appears lost in her own thoughts for some time, then turns once more to me.
“Have you any questions, Frank? Anything you need to know before tomorrow?”
There is something I need to know, right now.
“You got toilets?” I ask. It takes a heck of a while for these three words to come out, and the deputy squints and puts on a look of extreme concentration.
“Have I got wireless? Is that what you said, Frank? Are you asking about my internet connection?”
Luckily, Dr Babbage steps in. “As I wrote on the form, my grandson has some trouble with verbal communication. He is asking if you’ve got toilets.”
A flush of red comes over the deputy’s face. “Of course we have, Frank! We have lots of toilets at this school. I couldn’t tell you exactly how many but…”
“Need pee,” I groan, pointing between my legs for clarity.
“Oh!” says the deputy. “I see. Of course, follow me.”
She leads us down a corridor that smells of sweaty feet, and back to the reception area where we came in.
“There you go,” she says, pointing to a green door with stains on. “You can use that one. Now, I must go, I have a meeting to attend. Give the school a ring, Dr Babbage, if there is anything else you need to know.”
We watch as she scurries down the corridor.
“If I was you,” says a large lady from inside a little hatch, “I would hurry up and go to the toilet then get out of here before classes finish for break. You know, avoid the crowds…”
We do as she says and make it just in time; on our way out, our ears are assaulted by the sound of a multitude of chairs scraping on floors, and of running feet and raised voices. The noises build to a crescendo as we escape through the reception doors, across the school grounds, and back onto the street. With a quick glance at each other, we both quicken our pace.
