

### School Monitor

### by Alex Dunn

Being bullied doesn't automatically make you a victim, horrible, weak, or any of the other things your tormentors want you to think. That's why I wrote this story.

Alex Dunn

Copyright © 2016 **Alex Dunn**

The right of Alex Dunn to be identified as author of this Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

Contact the author at alexdunnauthor@gmail.com

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No parts of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without prior permission of the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are a product of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

Cover Art by Love Your Covers

Edited by Red Adept Editing & Sue Soares

#  Chapter 1

I don't believe it. I still can't, even though it's the only thing we've been talking about all day. Oh, who am I kidding? There's been no talking, no asking us what we want, just shouting, Dad laying down the law, even though it's all _Dad's_ fault.

From where she's been cowering on the sofa, hugging her skinny knees, Chrissie turns to face me, her blue eyes that look so much like mine a red spiderweb of frightened tears.

She doesn't need to say anything. For once, I know exactly what other twins take for granted, and just like that time I pushed her clear of that car, she's relying on me to save her again. Only this time I don't think I can.

I give her a little smile, just so she thinks I've got this covered, but I'm just acting — inside I'm as freaked out as she is. I take a deep breath and decide to play it as a New York tough lawyer, exactly the type of person Dad loves sucking up to.

"What about our GCSEs?" I go in hard and fast — my character, he takes no prisoners. "No one moves schools in year ten!"

Satisfied I've made my point, I cross my arms and allow myself to look smug as I wait to see what Dad's going to say.

"Well?" I demand, heating up big time when Dad never looks up from his stupid Blackberry.

"You can finish them at St. Bart's, Richard," he finally replies in the dismissive tone he uses for everyone who isn't a client or mega-rich. "Ambassadors, politicians, and at least one crown prince—"

"It reads like a prison," I protest, all the frustration exploding out of me. And just to make my point, I pick up the glossy prospectus and open it at a random page. "'At St. Bartholomew's, we pride ourselves on traditional educational methods, and without the distractions of social media to our students...' You do realise what this means?"

"Yes," says Dad, this time actually managing to tear his eyes away from his Blackberry. "It means you'll spend more time studying and less time making those pointless films."

"My films aren't pointless!" I snap, deliberately ignoring Mum, who's silently pleading with me to keep quiet. "They'll make me famous one day."

"Not if I take your camera away," Dad retorts, no trace of emotion in his voice as he starts typing something. "Which I will if you give me any more trouble, and that goes for you too, young lady."

"You leave Chrissie out of it!" He can have a go at me all he likes, but I'm not going to let him say anything to her. "I just want to know why we can't stay here like you promised."

"I don't remember promising anything, Richard."

I suck on my lips, pulse pounding in my forehead. "You said we could stay at Nan—"

" _Enough_!" he roars, finally tossing his Blackberry on the coffee table. "It's a fine school and—"

"Goldmeads was a _fine_ school, and look what happened there."

Mum winces, and Dad's grey eyes turn into a storm of rage as the angry silence fills the room. I didn't say it to cause trouble, really I didn't. I said it to make them see how crazy this is, but to my surprise, Chrissie tries to shut me up.

"It won't be like Goldmeads." She sniffs, looking even more like a terrified year seven after crying ten hours straight. "As long as you look after me."

Mum and Dad exchange nervous glances from their respective armchairs, because like me, they know I did nothing to protect her.

"Sorted," says Dad, picking up his Blackberry again. "Now perhaps we—"

"NO." I'm not going to let them pretend it didn't happen. "Chrissie was bullied so bad she tried to kill herself and—"

"Richard!" barks Dad, turning as purple as his shirt. "We agreed—"

"I didn't agree to anything." I'm so mad I don't know what I'm saying. It's just raw emotion coming out. "Chrissie nearly died and..."

I forget what I was going to say when Chrissie bursts into tears and runs out.

"Nice one," Dad sneers with extra sarcasm. "Anything else you'd like to say to help things along?"

I hate the way he makes me out to be the bad guy when all I'm trying to do is look after my twin. "You know this is..." I'm about to say "wrong", but at that moment Dad's Blackberry starts beeping, and holding up his hand as if he's stopping traffic, he fumbles to answer it.

"Dad?"

Mum shoots me a warning look, but I'm not letting this drop.

"Dad!"

"Not now, Richard." And with his Blackberry pressed to his ear, he strides out into the hall, mumbling something about mitigating risk by hedging FX rates.

"I'm sorry, love." Sounding as fed up as I feel, Mum sits down next to me. "He's under a lot of pressure."

"Tell me about it." I flick through the school's glossy prospectus and shrug her arm away from my shoulders. "What's so special about this school anyway?"

"You know how important it is we get on with your father's new boss socially," she explains, sounding as tired as her greying hair. "It's why we're all moving to India, and why your dad wants you at St. Bart's; Doug Spencer's son Robert..."

Finally, it makes sense. I should be used to finding out that the surprise ski-trip or camera I'd been after were the wrappings of some hidden agenda, but Dad's gone too far this time. "He's taking me away from all my mates and messing up my GCSEs to kiss the butt of his boss's son?"

"I'm sorry," she says, touching my arm. "But we've invested everything we've got and a whole lot more in this venture, and if it fails..."

"All right," I agree, sinking down into the sofa, the spent rage leaving me exhausted. "I'll go, but don't send Chrissie."

"Chrissie will want to be with you."

"She won't hack it." I sigh, tossing the brochure on the floor.

"She'll want to be with you," Mum says again in her calm _I know what I'm talking about_ voice. "You know that."

"And how do I call you if she starts going all weird again without my mobile or Internet?"

Her weak smile fails to convince me this is going to be anything except a disaster. "You get calls home on weekends."

"Great." I sigh, becoming even more listless. "I'll wait till the weekend to tell you she's stopped eating."

Mum kisses my brown hair, and for once, I don't try to avoid it; the truth is I'm just as scared as Chrissie about going. Not because I'm worried about me. I get on with everyone, but Chrissie...

"She'll be fine as long as she's with you," Mum says, pulling me into a hug. "It's when she thinks she's alone, she..."

I don't want to hear again how it wasn't my fault she tried to kill herself. If I hadn't been so caught up with that play, I would have noticed Chrissie was being bullied. Still can't believe it was Jenny behind it all — she'd been my best friend forever.

"Rich," says Mum, dragging me back to the present. "It's important nothing happens; good relations with the Spencers is paramount to your father's success."

#  Chapter 2

Chrissie sits by the front doors tearing strips off the rubber plant, eyes as sad as they can be without tears. "Why do you want to go to St. Bart's without me, Rich?"

"I don't." Staring down on the Roman-inspired mosaic floor, there's nothing I can do to stop the misery gobbling me up.

"Then why tell Mum you did?"

I study her face, confused why she's angry with me. "I was just trying to save you from having to leave all our friends."

"You mean all _your_ friends," she grumbles, going back to mutilating the rubber plant.

I open my mouth to tell her not to be such a kid, but I can't remember seeing her with anyone since Kelly from the stables stopped coming round.

"It's all right," she says when I've been quiet too long. "I like it best when it's just us."

I know she's saying it so I won't feel sorry for her, but it has the opposite effect.

"Do you want to watch a movie?"

"Can't." I sigh. "Beth's coming over, and I haven't finished editing the coronation scene."

"Great," she mutters, standing up. "I'll make popcorn for one."

"Chrissie..." I catch up with her before she reaches the first-floor landing. "You can join us."

"No, I can't; she hates me!"

"Don't be stupid." I keep hold of her wrist so she won't go and barricade herself in her room. "Come on; it'll be fun."

"For who?"

"Well, me." When Chrissie hurts so do I, but there's only so much self-pity I'm prepared to hear. "I spend most of the movie in a blue dress and blond wig."

"You're playing Elsa?"

"Not through choice," I confess. "Beth's playing Anna; Stew couldn't get in the dress, and Dave just point-blank refused after _Charlie's Angels_."

"I'm not surprised," she agrees, slight smile on her lips. "Everyone thought he was a girl."

I snort a laugh as I remember all the comments when we posted it up on YouTube. "You know someone even took a screen shot and put it up on Hot or Not, and most people rated him hot."

Chrissie giggles, but when she retreats backwards into her room, her eyes turn as dark as the shadows cast from her closed curtains. "No one rated me hot."

I squirm. Beneath the hair she never washes and clothes that would be big on me, she's pretty. Like Mum, she has flawless pale skin and buttercup-yellow hair, but unlike Mum, Chrissie seems to go out of her way to turn herself ugly.

"Well, if you change your mind..." I break off as she climbs into her bed.

"Just go," she mumbles, pulling up the duvet to her neck. "I've got to get used to being on my own when they pack us off to boarding school."

"You're not going to be on your own," I tell her with some force. "We can meet every day after classes and just hang out; that way you'll always have at least one person to speak to."

#  Chapter 3

My room looks like it did when we moved here four years ago — cardboard boxes neatly stacked against bare painted blue walls — only this time I don't feel happy or excited, just this overwhelming sense of dread.

Sitting down on my bed, I open up my laptop, plug in my headphones, and begin to watch the rushes of the coronation scenes, deleting the ones we really messed up and bookmarking those I'll slot into the final version.

I can't concentrate. I pause the clip of Stew, who's dressed as Olaf, in a hideous white onesie covered in cotton wool, and open up a browser to see what I can find out about St. Bart's. Nothing. I've been searching ever since Dad told us, and the only thing I can find is the online version of the prospectus, which has marathon lists of things you're not allowed to do and books I somehow have to read before the start of term.

Sighing, I return to the impossible task of finishing our remake of _Frozen_ , which Dave decided to name _Snowzen_ (I'm not going into that now, but it seemed to make sense at the time), and go back to watching myself prance about in a blue dress, waving a wand. Why I let them talk me into playing Elsa, I have no idea. Okay — it's funny. It would have been funnier had Stew managed to get into the dress, but as he and Dave write the scripts and Beth's responsible for wardrobe, I don't have a lot of choice — besides, I'm happiest behind the camera, even though I'm a pretty good actor.

I pause when I realise I haven't been watching any of the last two minutes where Beth and I are dancing. Dave, Stew, and I all look like complete bozos; Beth's pure Hollywood. Brown hair hidden beneath an auburn wig, anime contacts, huge eyelashes, and perfectly applied makeup transforming her into a real-life cartoon, she's never looked prettier and—

I close my laptop as I think about things I really shouldn't be thinking about my best friend, and it doesn't matter how many times I tell myself this is stupid, especially when I'm being packed off to St. Bart's. All I can think of is kissing Beth...

"Knock, knock," says a familiar voice, and looking up, I see Beth at the door, dressed in denim shorts and a blue vest.

"Your mum let me in," she says, filling in the awkward silence as I sit there trying to remember how I used to act in front of her. "How's it going?"

"It's not," I stammer as she sidles up next to me.

"Why?"

"Can't stop thinking about this new school," I manage to splutter out, body still tense as I try to think of something, anything to stop my mind from focusing on how soft and warm her arm feels pressed up against mine, and how her long legs—

"You'll be fine," Beth says, oblivious to the fact I've been behaving like an awkward dork these last few weeks. "Everyone always likes you."

"I'm not worried about me." I sigh. "It's Chrissie..."

"I'd have thought she'd be jumping for joy," Beth retorts. "Got you all to herself for once."

I hear myself groan. "Beth, please, she's upset."

"She's always upset about something," Beth grumbles. "All this moping around, trying to look like some kind of anorexic pixie — she's just attention seeking!"

Ever since Mrs Brown paired us up to play Robin Hood and Maid Marian just after our tenth birthdays, the only thing we've ever argued about is Chrissie.

"She's not a kid, Rich," Beth goes on. "She's the same age as us, and treating her like one just makes her worse!"

"I don't, but there are things you don't know."

"Like she's a manipulative cow?" Beth meets me head on. "You should get her in front of the camera; she's a far better actor than you or I put together."

I open my mouth to tell her she's completely out of order, when my mobile beeps.

"It's her."

"You don't—" I break off as I succeed in finding my mobile under a cushion, but Beth's right — it's Chrissie.

"Go," Beth snaps, getting out her mobile.

"I'll be right back," I promise.

"Yeah, right," she says, already busy texting.

"Beth, I really will be right back."

"No, you won't," she disagrees, not looking up from the screen. "She'll be crying or having a migraine..."

I don't bother saying anything. There's no point. We'll only end up fighting, and I don't want to waste our last few days together having an argument about Chrissie. So I promise her again I'll be back in two minutes then go next door to see what Chrissie wants.

"What's wrong?" I ask, stepping inside the gloom.

Curled up in bed, she beckons me over. "I don't feel well," she complains, hugging her stomach.

"I'll get Mum," I say, turning round to leave.

"No," she calls out. "Just sit with me for a bit."

"And how's that going to help?" I ask, slightly irritated I've had a row with Beth over this.

"I don't worry about things when you're here," she whines.

"Then come in my room," I tell her, unable to shake off Beth's words of warning. "Beth's here, and I've a film to finish off."

"But?"

"Chrissie, I need to get on."

Silence.

"Do you want me to get Mum?"

"No."

"Sure you'll be all right?"

"Yeah."

I close her door and return to Beth, part of me still wondering whether to get Mum. I can't remember the last time I saw Chrissie eat. "Did you decide on which version of the song you liked best?"

"I take it I was right, then," Beth says, at least not making things worse by sounding smug.

"You don't understand." I sigh, opening up my laptop again. "She got bullied at her old school—"

"Everyone gets picked on, Rich!" Beth interrupts, not even prepared to hear me out. "This is just an excuse to get you running after her—"

"It's not an EXCUSE!" I cry, angry because she never gives Chrissie a chance. "It was so bad she tried to kill herself, and it was all my fault!"

I never realised I blamed myself, but even though I'd never admitted it until now, I guess that's why I let Chrissie hang around with us even when she's being a mega pain.

"What?" Beth stares at my open mouth.

"Jenny Metcalf, my best friend from drama club, was the ringleader," I explain, now back in control. "She turned everyone against Chrissie until she couldn't take it anymore and tried to kill herself."

"Oh my God, Rich! Why didn't you tell me?"

I shrug. Chrissie trying to kill herself and what really happened at Goldmeads is one of those things we never discuss, but just because no one ever talks about it doesn't mean it didn't happen.

"I had no idea," I tell Beth, finding myself wanting to talk more. "First thing I knew about it was when they sent me away to live with Nan and told me never to speak with Jenny and my other friends again."

Beth doesn't say anything, just snuggles into me.

"That's why we moved here," I continue, slipping my arm around her. "It was supposed to be a fresh start, but she's never gotten over it."

"Is that why she's all weird with us?" she asks, still keeping her arms looped around my waist. "Because she's scared we'll pick on her too."

"I guess..." But what stops me agreeing with Beth is the fact Chrissie was weird well before Goldmeads.

"I still think she plays you," says Beth after we'd just been hugging in a comfortable silence.

"Perhaps," I concede. "But she really does get scared."

"Okay, I'll give her a break."

"Thanks."

"Now, what do you want me to do?"

I look at Beth, perfect, pretty Beth. Beth with her long brown hair, her big brown eyes, white smile, and perfect summer-brown skin, and then I look back at my laptop, at her dressed as Anna, and how different she looks with auburn plaits, blue eyes, and OTT cartoon makeup. If she can transform herself into Anna, then perhaps...

"Rich, what are you planning?"

I turn to face her, the idea filling me with energy. "I want you to change Chrissie."

"What?"

I turn my laptop round so she can see the same thing as me. "Can you give Chrissie a makeover? If she didn't look so weird, then the other girls might give her a break."

She glances in the direction of Chrissie's bedroom before cringing. "Rich, she won't even come in the same room as me — there's no way she'll let me do her hair and makeup."

"Yes, she will." I pull Beth to her feet before she has time to think of another excuse.

"But we were going to spend the afternoon finishing the film!"

"I can finish it off," I tell her. "Please, Beth, for me?"

#  Chapter 4

I receive a text from Beth to say they were ready, and to come round hers at five. Passing the circle of oak trees where we filmed _Shrek_ , that first summer after we met at Brown's Acting Academy, this ache opens up inside me, and hating Dad all over again, I climb over the gate into Beth's yard, to find myself surrounded by a gaggle of waddling snow-white geese.

Like she always does, Lucky, their sheepdog, bounds over, and after I fuss with her ears for a bit, I let her herd me towards the back door, where the smell of apple pie reminds me just how hungry I am.

"Hello, Rich," says Beth's mum with her back to me as she takes another tray of pies from their gigantic oven. "Ready for the big unveiling?"

I like her mum; she looks somewhat like Beth, only her long hair is beaded, and her pink cheeks always have flour on them. "Does she look good?"

"We're under strict instructions not to say anything," she replies with a big grin. "And you're not to go upstairs either; Beth wants you to wait in the conservatory."

"Okay," I agree. "Are Dave and Stew here?"

"Got here just before you," says Beth's dad, walking straight over to the fridge and getting himself a bottle of cider. "I told Beth if you want to invite some more of your mates over, that's cool."

Even though they're being nice, I feel miserable as he reminds me I'm being packed off to St. Bart's in a couple of days.

"Boarding school isn't all bad," he tells me as if reading my thoughts. "I went to one myself."

"You did?" I can't believe her dad went to boarding school. I always thought he'd grown up on some hippie commune, because he had a long beard even before hipsters became fashionable.

"I chose a different life, Rich," he says, taking a swig from the bottle. "Education expands the mind, and fortunately for me, mine expanded so much I was able to break out from the rat race and do something more meaningful with my life."

Beth's mum hands me a huge slice of hot apple pie smothered in their homemade cream, and I can't help it. I wish my parents were farmers too, so we'd have a nice home that we wouldn't have to keep leaving.

"There will always be a bed here for you, Rich," her mum tells me. "And now Mark's at Leeds, he can give you a lift back when you get one of those exeat weekends."

Chillaxing in the conservatory with the guys, I finish off my second piece of pie.

"What are the people like who bought your house?" Dave asks from where he's sprawled out on one of the armchairs with a Coke.

"All right, they've got three daughters."

"Three!" Stew sits up so quickly he almost falls off the sofa. "What are they like?"

"Cute," I say. "Especially the youngest."

"Blond or brunette?" asks Dave.

"Blond," I tell him, fighting the urge to laugh. "Blue eyes, laughs a lot."

"She with anyone?" Stew tries to sound casual, but his round face makes him so transparent. Stew's girl mad; but girls aren't that mad about him. He's usually got bigger tits than they have.

"Don't think so," I reply with a big smirk on my face. "She's three."

"Bastard!" Stew hurls an orange at me.

Laughing, I catch it. I'm going to miss them, I really am.

"How much longer is Beth going to be?" Stew complains, finishes his Coke, and takes another one. "What's she up to anyway that's so top secret?"

"She's giving Chrissie one of those makeovers."

Dave almost chokes. "You're kidding, right?"

"No." I know they're my mates, but I'm not having them say anything about my sister. "Girls like doing that kind of stuff."

"Normal girls!" Dave laughs.

"Are you trying to say my sister isn't normal?" I'm getting hot again, and it isn't the sun making me burn.

"Leave it, Rich," Stew begs, playing his usual role of peacemaker. "He doesn't mean anything by it, but Chrissie, well, she's kind of..."

"Kind of what?" I demand.

"Well," Stew stammers. "She doesn't talk to anyone, except, well — you."

"She does!" I snap, even though I can't think of anyone. "She's just shy."

"If you say..." Stew shrugs. "Sorry..."

"Yeah, sorry..." Dave echoes.

I let it drop because they have, but I'm still not happy. We drink and talk some more, and even though it's one of the brightest summer days, there's a thunderstorm hanging over me. Once again, I'm falling out with my friends because of Chrissie. I check my watch and try to enjoy my last Saturday with my best mates, but I can't; there's just too much tension pressing down on me.

A rush of footsteps coming down the stairs makes us all sit up, and a second later, Beth sticks her head round the door. "Ready?"

I nod, and as Beth pushes the door open to reveal the results, just as they do in those reality programs, I have to blink twice. I can't believe that's my skinny, awkward-looking twin standing in front of me.

Chrissie giggles as Dave lets out a long wolf whistle and Stew sucks in his stomach. I don't know how, but in a few short hours, Beth's transformed Chrissie — it's no less incredible than the special effects in the last Spielberg.

"What do you think, Rich?" Chrissie's dull, matted blond hair is now long, silky waves, and the makeup makes her skin and eyes glow.

"You look great!" I get up so I can get a closer look at her in her pink strappy dress. "And so tall!"

"Skyscraper heels," she says, waving her foot at me. "Do you really think I look good?"

"Ask them!" I tell her, nodding in the direction of Dave and Stew, who look like a right couple of dorks with their open mouths. "Well?"

They both nod, and then we all laugh the thunderstorm away as Chrissie spins around and poses while Dave takes pictures of her with his mobile.

Standing before Beth, I find myself falling into her lovely big, brown eyes. "Thanks. I knew you could do it."

"Do I win the Oscar for best makeup artist?"

"I'll let you know after the film." She's been my best friend since we arrived, so why is it when I'm about to leave, I fall in love with her?

#  Chapter 5

In honour of our last-ever production, we had popcorn and Stew poured some vodka into the Coke as we watched _Snowzen_ on the giant flat-screen in Beth's conservatory.

Dave and Stew, who've suddenly decided my sister's cool now that she looks like she belongs on some magazine cover, sit with her on one sofa, while I crash with Beth on the other. Just to make it clear, I don't want to share her, I put my arm around her shoulders the way friends do, the way I've done a million times before, only today it feels like I'm doing something undercover.

"I'm glad you decided on the spray foam," Beth says, still using my chest as a pillow. "Even though it doesn't look like snow."

"I'd be an idiot not to listen to you," I confess, distracted by her perfect dancer's legs. Her dress is way too short. "You always come up with the best endings."

"And you always know how to get the best out of them," she tells me, her face moving nearer to mine. "You even managed to make the polystyrene look cold."

I swallow as once again all I can do is think about kissing her.

"I think that's my best performance yet," Dave mumbles with a mouthful of popcorn. "I was a very convincing Hans. As soon as you upload it to YouTube, thousands of girls around the world will be begging me to take them out!"

"He wishes." Beth sniggers in my ear.

The moment's broken. I'm wishing now I'd insisted on playing Hans; at least I would have got to kiss her, even if it was only acting.

"Time to party," says Stew. "Give Rich a proper send-off."

"I agree." Dave jumps to his feet and extends his hand towards Chrissie after doing some elaborate bow. "Care to join us?"

She looks at me, as if trying to ask me something with a searching look, but I never know what she's thinking, and after a while she just shrugs and follows Dave out.

"Coming?" asks Beth, waving her hand in front of my eyes.

"Yes," I say, waking up.

She smiles and takes my hand as we head out. She's relaxed and comfortable with me because I'm still her best friend, Rich; it's me who's on edge because I want more.

The Youth Centre is the only place to hang out in the village because everyone knows we're underage. Unfortunately, my chances of sitting next to Beth are ruined when Chrissie sits next to me in the back of the jeep. I don't know if it's me just seeing what I want to see, but I think Beth's disappointed too.

There's so many kids trying to cram into the church hall, they're spilling out into the car park. Sam, who's back from uni for the summer, is deejaying, and as he's better than Fatboy Slim at mixing, the dance floor's packed.

Stew joins some of his mates from college at the pool table, while Dave, Beth, Chrissie, and I, with a bit of persuasion from Dave, hit the dance floor and just let ourselves go.

Beth dances really well; she's classically trained, so whatever the music, she always seems to know how to move her body to look cool — cool and so very sexy.

"Where's my present?" She has to pull me down and shout into my ear so I can hear her over the thumping bass.

I'm glad there was vodka in the Coke, because I'd never have the nerve to pull her this close to me, the way I'm feeling now. "What present?"

She giggles, her cheeks bright pink. "My kiss for making Chrissie hot."

My mind empties. I've played her lover twice, memorised the most romantic lines ever written, and been fantasying about this moment for weeks, and all I can do now is stand there like a mute moron.

"I thought you liked me."

"I do," I manage to stammer. "I like you a lot."

She smiles and takes my hand. Me, I tell you, if Steven Spielberg walked in and told me he wanted me to co-direct on his next project, I'd have probably handled it better.

"You want to go outside?"

I nod.

"Well, you coming or not?"

"Coming," I somehow stammer, and with her leading the way, I follow her round the back of the hall where there aren't any lights and we can be alone.

"I'm going to miss you," she says, giving my hand a squeeze. "You will write to me, won't you?"

I nod, my mind blank. Even though I've imagined this happening loads of times over the last couple of weeks, now that it is, it still doesn't seem real.

"Liar," she says, slapping my arm playfully. "You'll forget about me the moment you've gone."

"No, I won't."

"Sure?" she teases, drawing circles round my heart with her fingertip. "What happens when all those pretty girls start throwing themselves at you?"

My fingers are shaking so much when I go to brush her cheek she has to hold my wrist to steady them. "Why would I want any of them when I'm with the prettiest girl in the world?"

She loops her arms around my neck and leans into me, her eyes never leaving mine. "So how come we never got together?"

"Because I'm an idiot," I tell her, finally starting to relax and enjoy the moment. "An idiot who's going to miss you like crazy."

I've kissed girls before, but I'm as terrified as I was when Jenny Metcalf gave me my very first kiss at the drama club Christmas party when I was ten.

My lips touch hers, gently at first. In case she's made a mistake and wants to go back to being just friends, I want to make this one and only kiss last forever. Then I hear her moan, and realising she wants me as much as I want her, I deepen the kiss, and beneath the moonlight, we stop being just friends.

"Rich!"

My lips refusing to leave Beth's, I groan as I hear Chrissie calling me.

"Rich, where are you?"

I try to ignore her, but I can't. I can hear the tears building up in her voice, and I can't stay here with Beth, even though it's the only thing I want.

"Ignore her," whispers Beth, her lips nibbling at my neck.

I try to block out Chrissie's voice as I lose myself in kissing Beth again, but the guilt won't leave me alone. "I can't."

Beth pushes me away. "Don't you see?" she cries, her eyes filling with tears. "She plays up every time someone takes you away from her."

"Rubbish."

"Not rubbish!" she yells, body trembling with rage. "Rich, she got sick when you were supposed to go camping with Dave, got a panic attack on that skiing trip, and now we've finally got it together..."

"I'll be right back," I promise, deciding it's best to ignore the whole crying thing. "Just as soon as I know she's all right."

"Don't bother!" Hugging herself, Beth walks back towards the music.

"Where are you going?"

"To find someone else to dance with!"

I kick the wall and cry out as I smash my big toe. Hopping on the spot as my foot explodes with pain, I watch Beth walk away, but I can't go running after her. Ignoring Chrissie hurts even more than my foot. I go to kick the wall again, change my mind, then, after a bit of searching, find Chrissie sitting at the bus stop in the dark.

"You okay?"

"I thought you said I looked pretty." Rocking back and forth, she fixes her sad blue eyes on me.

"You do," I tell her, not sure where this is heading. "Why, what's happened?"

"No one asked me to dance, and when Dave got off with Amber Miller..."

I can't believe she dragged me away from Beth for this. I've blown things big time for nothing.

"Rich?"

"What?"

"Rich?" she shakes my arm. "Why didn't anyone ask me to dance?"

"Because it happens!"

"Doesn't happen to you!"

"I get blown off all the time," I snap. "Now are you coming back inside or not?"

"You only want to go back inside so you can screw Beth!"

For a horrible moment, this sick feeling bubbles up inside, and for the first time ever, I think Beth's got a point about Chrissie, and before I say something I'm going to regret, I get up and go.

"Rich, I'm sorry."

I try to shake her off me, but she just holds on even tighter.

"I just get scared when you're not around," she sobs, refusing to give up. "After Goldmeads and Jenny Metcalf..."

I stop. The words act like a magic spell, reminding me I shouldn't be angry with her, because when I thought she was dead, I prayed to God I'd never complain about her suffocating me again as long as He let her live.

"I'm sorry," she says, still crying as she tries to get me to hold her. "I know I'm a pain, but when they all crowded around me, it reminded me of when all the girls cornered me in the gym and..."

"It's all right." Just because Goldmeads was a long time ago doesn't mean she's over it, and giving in like I always do, I let her hug me. "Now can we go back inside?"

To my relief, she stops crying, and on the way back in, I give Chrissie the lowdown on what guys like. It takes me all of two minutes, slightly longer than it does for some bloke to hit on her. I make her go with him, even though she doesn't want to, then prowl the dance floor as I debate how to get Beth away from this smug, cocky guy who could kick my butt with one hand tied behind his back. There's no easy way. I'm just going to have to go for it.

"Beth!" I tap her on the shoulder, jealousy making me far braver than I really am.

She glances at me once before returning her attentions to the other guy, who just grins at me. I'm mad now.

"Beth!"

"Go away!"

"Beth!" I take a step forward, ready to fight or die trying.

This time she smiles at me, and after whispering something in the other guy's ear, moves her arms from around his neck to mine.

"Steve's a mate from dance class," she tells me.

"I don't care who he is!" I have her back without being punched, but I'm still mad.

"You're jealous!"

Her laughing just makes the fires inside burn even more.

"Oh, Rich, don't be like that!" Kissing me on the cheek, she continues to giggle in my ear. "You've got nothing to get upset about."

"You were all over him!"

"Only to make you jealous," she tells me as she starts to play with my hair.

"Well, congratulations, you succeeded!" I hate feeling like this, wanting her and at the same time, wanting to push her away because she's making a right fool of me.

"Rich, Steve's more likely to fancy you!"

"I don't care!"

"Please, Rich?"

I swallow as her lips brush mine.

"Kiss and make up?"

I can't say no; the anger dissolves, and suddenly nothing else matters. Smiling, I kiss her, just like before. Only this time we have an audience, as Dave and Stew laugh and whoop.

This morning everything was hopeless. I was terrified what would happen to Chrissie when we went to St. Bart's, and thanks to Beth, she'll fit in no problem, and as for me — well, like the hero in any film, I got the girl.

#  Chapter 6

Someone's pressed the fast forward button on my life. One moment I am making out with Beth in her top field, the next I'm seconds away from being cut off from the outside world as the limo turns down some sorry excuse for a road, flanked on either side by an endless desert of sorry-looking bracken and shrubs.

Ten miles or more behind us was Brockwater Village, which I almost missed when I lost the connection to Beth, marking the last post of civilisation. This would make a great location if I ever wanted to make a zombie movie, just not the place I want to spend the next year of my life. I groan as my signal disappears again and turn to Chrissie.

"All right?"

"Like you care," she grumbles.

"What have I done now?" She's been in a right mood ever since we left.

She doesn't say anything, just glares at me, and now she dresses like the queen bee in one of those lame chick flicks, it's kind of intimidating.

"Look, this is stupid," I concede as the driver slows to join a long line of black limos, Range Rovers, Jaguars, and several Lamborghinis. "I don't want to be fighting with you when I've got to try to get along with a group of guys I don't know."

"Well, you should have thought of that before you ignored me the entire drive here!" she retorts. "You promised me you'd look after me."

"Give me a break." I sigh. "I'm not going to see Beth for ages — you and I are going to be together twenty-four, seven."

"Until you ditch me for all your new friends."

"That's not going to happen." I groan, kind of forgetting what I was going to say when I get my first glimpse of the school, some monstrosity of a stately home, standing guard amongst a vast estate of emerald lawns, majestic trees, and more than one tennis court from what I can make out. "Anyway, the way you look now, you're more likely to be the one doing the ditching."

"Like that's going to happen."

This time I decide to ignore the attitude. "Just do what I told you to, and everything will be cool, and remember, don't tell anyone I make films."

"You're being really dumb about this."

"Whatever." I sigh, checking to see if I have a signal so I can call Beth one last time. I don't. "But this isn't going to be like our old school, and until I can figure them out, I don't want them knowing—"

"You dress up like a girl for laughs," she says, flashing me a caustic smile.

"Glad you finally understand," I say, matching her sarcasm as we draw even nearer to the huge dark-grey stone building. Whoever decided to turn this place into a school had a definite fetish for classic B horror movies.

Deciding not to try to speak to Chrissie until she had enough of ignoring me, I continue to check out the school. According to the prospectus, this is a Tudor manor house, and there is currently a collection to repair the bell tower. If there is a collection to install Wi-Fi or behead a few vomiting gargoyles that have procreated over most of the turrets — I might donate.

The car crunches to a stop alongside two identical limos, where a couple of seriously hot girls, who have to be sixth formers, gracefully exit from the backseat, both wearing barely there LBDs and carrying identical black Chanel handbags. I turn to Chrissie; if she blows this audition, we're going to have the term from Hell, but she's still ignoring me. Stomach tense, I get out the car and join the organised chaos of an extravagant red-carpet event.

Around the perimeter of the car park, LV, Fendi, Gucci, and all manner of designer-branded luggage is piled onto an ever-moving train of trollies, which are being pushed into a side door by some rather pompous men, all wearing pristine black suits, top hats, and purple-and-gold neckties.

Everyone here from year seven to thirteen are a walking advert for the high-end fashion houses, and barely taking notice of Chrissie and me, some air kiss or exchange fake pleasantries before joining the queue of students all making their way into the opulent marble entrance. I swallow as I sense Chrissie move alongside me. This is going to be my biggest acting challenge to date.

"Just the six bags?" asks a man's voice, and turning away from the approaching Bentley complete with flags, I find one of the porters is speaking to me.

"What?"

"Is it just the six bags here you wish taken to your dorm?" he repeats in the same bored tones.

"Er, no." I really should have rehearsed this more, and with the absence of information online my only references on how to behave in these situations are some dubious period dramas and Harry Potter. "Those three are my sister's. I'll take this one." I grab my camera bag and sling it over my shoulder.

"I trust you've taken out all iPads, mobile devices, and other electrical equipment that has external connectivity?"

I nod and pat my camera bag. "It's all in here."

"I hope for your sake it is," he tells me. "Now move along to registration."

I follow where he's pointing and join the queue of girls and boys spilling out of the main entrance doors. Chrissie still refuses to acknowledge my existence, despite clinging to me like a shadow. I stand there for a bit, get out my mobile, find there's still no signal, smile at a couple of the girls who are checking me out, look to see if I've got a signal again, and am just about to repeat the process when a relatively normal guy about my age in jeans and a nondescript grey sweatshirt slots in behind us.

"You new?" He looks normal enough, but his accent wouldn't sound out of place in Downton Abbey (and I'm not talking the servant's quarters).

Relieved, I turn to him and nod. "Is it that obvious?"

His long, freckled face breaks into a reassuring grin. "Very obvious. I'm Jones, by the way."

I shake his hand, liking him straight away. "I'm Rich, and this is my sister, Chrissie."

Chrissie, who's still in a mega-strop, flashes a quick smile and goes back to ignoring me by playing a game on her mobile.

"We don't use first names here," he says, pushing his floppy brown fringe out of his eyes. "Which is good, really; my dad had a sense of humour failure when he decided to call me Rupert. That's my brother Oscar over there. He's Head Boy — you call him Bollinger."

He points to a tall guy with slightly darker hair that obscures most of his face, and looks far too cool to be at school, despite the fact he's wearing what appears to be a woollen kimono paired with distressed skinny jeans. I should have guessed as soon as he said his name was Rupert, he had a double-barrelled surname.

"All right, Jarvis?" I nudge Chrissie, but she's still in strop-mode.

"Girls use their first name," Jones explains, politely ignoring the fact Chrissie is blanking me. "St. Bart's was boys only until a couple of years ago, so a lot of the traditions don't apply to them."

"Does that mean I get to keep my mobile?" Chrissie enquires.

"No, and don't even think about trying to smuggle one in; you don't want to get caught breaking any of the rules — especially _The Code_." If I was filming this, I would have dimmed the lights and under-lit him with a spotlight when he said _The Code._

"I don't get it." I read all about this Code in the prospectus, and I could have explained it in a lot less than the three pages they took. "If you steal something, you get in trouble or expelled. Seems reasonable enough."

"There's a bit more to it," he says, checking over his shoulder as if to see we're not being overheard. "Break The Code, and even the masters won't help you out."

"Yeah, right," I snort, but to my surprise, Jones is still serious.

"I'm not joking," he says, his fear somehow managing to entice Chrissie out of mega-strop mode. "In my first year, Stilton, this year twelve, hung himself in the bell tower after he stole a master's mobile. He'd been put in solitary for his own protection because..."

I follow his gaze and see a huge man with silver hair and black flowing robes striding past.

"That's the Head," Jones explains, speaking in normal tones again.

The Head could pass for Count Dracula, but I decide to keep my comments to myself. "You were saying about Stilton, was it?"

"Oh, that." He shrugs. "Well, you learn to take the rules seriously here. That's why all the cameras were installed."

For the first time, I notice all the security cameras positioned above the doors and stairwells, and I don't know why, but knowing they film us makes me shiver.

We chat some more as the queue moves slowly forward, while Rupert — I mean Jones — points out other guys from our year.

"It isn't that bad," Jones continues as we near our turn to sign in. "School has a pretty good polo squad, and most weekends there's archery and shooting. Do you play?"

"Polo?" I shake my head. "I signed up for rugby."

"Bad mistake," he tells me. "Especially if you're any good. You any good?"

"I played for my last school..." I trail off as he winces. "Why?"

He winces again but refrains from saying anything else as the roar of a helicopter comes in to land, drowning out everything. I knew even before Jones told me, the boy exiting the helicopter was Robert Spencer, the son of Dad's new boss. Dressed casually in a black suit and white t-shirt with dark shades and neat black hair, he moves with A-list confidence towards the school as the porters race to retrieve the five Louis Vuitton trunks. Talk about making an entrance. I almost feel compelled to ask for his autograph when he takes his place alongside Jones.

Comfortable as anything, the two of them knock knuckles before he shows me a really awful photo of me on his iPhone. "You're Jarvis, then."

I nod, noticing he's a couple of inches taller than I am and has a lot more muscles on his tanned arms.

"And I take it this must be Chrissie." He removes his shades and turns on the charm to full leading-actor beam. "If your father had sent over a photo of you, I might have invited you both over before term started."

I freeze as I wait to see how Chrissie's going to react to this; if she doesn't play it cool and goes running off — this is it. Game over. But she's still in mega-strop mode, and rolling her eyes, returns to her game. Fortunately, being blown off (something I doubt Spencer ever experiences, because even without billionaire status, he's leading-man material), seems to amuse him, and he continues to grace us with his presence.

"You don't look much like twins," he muses, turning to me.

I know I've been told to suck up to him, but if I don't stand up to him now, he'll think I'm a pushover. "Well, we wouldn't, would we? She's a girl."

To my relief, he laughs. "I think I'm going to like you, Jarvis, but not as much as your sister."

I know he doesn't mean it. Behind all that smugness, he's just playing with her, but Chrissie continues to add him to the list of people she's decided to blank — which still includes me.

"So, who's your dorm master?" Spencer asks me, continuing to check Chrissie out.

"Parker."

"Same as us," he says, sticking out his foot and sending a small, skinny boy with glasses sprawling forward. "Watch it, Hermit!"

I laugh, only because I don't want to end up like the skinny boy who's picking himself up off the tiles, and Chrissie — well, I'm not sure she even noticed.

"He's a right loser!" Spencer continues, sounding almost bored. "Isn't that right, Jones?"

Jones feigns a grin, but he's not a good enough actor to hide the unease, which makes him chew on his bottom lip.

"Still, he has his uses," Spencer continues.

"He does?" I turn round to see Hermit, if that's his name, scrambling to pick up his bags before scuttling up the stairs, presumably to the dorms, where the teachers can offer him some protection.

"Yes, do you want to do your own laundry?"

I shrug, telling myself if I don't go along with this, me and Chrissie are going to be the ones getting shoved about. "I thought that's what the girls were for."

He laughs, and Chrissie looks up from her mobile just long enough to glare at me, which is the only reason why I said it; if she doesn't start acting normal soon, Hermit won't be the only one getting a hard time.

"Better get ready," Jones tells me, powering off his mobile and dropping it into a small black case. "You need to check in everything that can get a signal."

"And they really don't give them back to us at weekends?" I ask as Spencer slips his mobile into an LV briefcase.

"Afraid not," Jones tells me. "And don't forget your smartwatch too."

Wishing I'd been more prepared, I stuff it in my camera bag and hope I can survive without my playlists until the first exeat weekend.

"You can rent mobiles in the village," Jones says. "And there's an Internet café too."

"How much?"

"Pound a minute."

I feel my shoulders sag. I'm going to be broke forever on the allowance Dad's given me.

"What's the problem?" Spencer asks me as we reach the row of tables where the masters are collecting all the banned goods. "Just get some more money out on your credit card."

Mr Wilson, history teacher, signs me in. He tells me to call him sir. "You call everyone sir here," he explains, so I guess I won't have any difficulty remembering names. He takes out his clipboard and writes mine on the top of a form, forcing me to look at the top of his bald head as he ticks off all the items in my bag against a long list of contraband goods.

"Any other wireless communicators?" he asks, writing down my mobile number at the top of the page.

"No, sir," I reply, checking to see if Chrissie is okay. She is; one of the girl prefects is looking after her.

"Digital photo frame?"

"Yes, but it doesn't connect to the web."

"Hand it over!"

Groaning, I open up my bag and pull it out, along with half a ton of sweets and crisps I bought in case the food sucks here.

"Did you read the joining instructions, Jarvis?" he bellows, ensuring everyone looks at me.

"Yes."

"Well, read them again," he says, holding out a booklet. "And memorise them this time!"

"Yes, sir," I say, with a hint of sarcasm, just to show I'm not scared.

"You being insolent, Jarvis?"

"Me, sir?" I pull my innocent face, the one I used to get the part of Oliver. "No, sir."

"Good, now hand your bag over. I don't have time for twenty questions."

I groan again as I flick through the rulebook. I don't believe half this stuff; it's as if I've been sent to one of those sadistic schools Charles Dickens wrote about.

"What's this?"

"Dictaphone, sir." I switch it on. This was my best buy ever from Japan and looks like a futuristic lighter. The sound quality even at distance is studio quality. "I use it for recording useful sounds — do you want to test it out?"

He doesn't want to test it. He now wants to know what my camcorder is. "And this?"

"It's a high-definition digital camcorder, sir," I say, not holding back the sarcasm this time, because I've had enough of him talking to me as if I'm a moron.

"Well," he tells me with a nasty smile, "you can wave goodbye to your high-definition digital camcorder because it's not allowed!"

"You can't do that!"

It isn't until I see the way Spencer and Jones look at me in the dead silence that gobbles up the entrance hall that I realise I have committed a crime of the millennium by St. Bart's standards. Along with everyone else, they are frozen rigid in surreal terror, but I have no idea why they're so freaked.

"I need it for my studies!" I say through gritted teeth.

"I'll decide what you do and do not need, Jarvis!" Wilson growls, sticking his face in mine. "And you don't need this."

This would never have happened at my old school, and my mouth is open, ready to ask him how I'm supposed to do media studies with no camera, when Jones elbows me out of the way.

"Jarvis is really sorry, sir," says Jones, looking as terrified as if Wilson had a gun pointed at him. "I'll make sure he knows—"

But Wilson refuses to let Jones finish. "If I were you, Jones, I'd keep your mouth shut. You're still on probation after that stunt you pulled last term."

"But he's new and doesn't know the rules—"

Once again, Wilson refuses to let Jones finish, only this time it hits me what deep trouble I'm in when, without warning, Wilson rises to his feet and in one swift movement grabs Jones by the scruff of the collar.

"One more word out of you, and you can kiss goodbye to all privileges for the rest of the year," he warns Jones in a nasty voice. "Do I make myself clear?"

Jones attempts to nod but can't. "Sorry, sir."

Wilson grunts and, satisfied, releases Jones. "Anything you want to add, Jarvis?"

In a state of numb shock, I look around for someone, anyone, who, like me, thinks we should be calling the police, but for some unknown reason, they all seem to think threatening students is fine.

"Still want your camera?"

I go to shake my head. I'm no coward, but I'm not going to antagonise him any further, not until Chrissie and I are on the next train back to civilisation, which won't be long. There's no way Mum will leave us here when I tell her what the teachers are like. Unfortunately, Chrissie decides it's time to stand up for me.

"Please, sir," she says, sounding as scared as I feel. "Rich has permission to bring his camera."

"Really?" Wilson sneers.

She nods, oblivious to me silently pleading with her to shut up.

"Rich has been selected to apply for work experience at the BBC," she goes on. "He's the youngest ever to be picked, and he needs his camera because he's doing his GCSE a year early."

The silence somehow becomes even more intense.

"He's really very good," Chrissie continues in excited tones. "He's won loads of awards, and he's even been on TV."

Mr Wilson raises an eyebrow, but not in an impressed or interested way.

"Really?" he muses. "And pray what masterpieces does Jarvis produce?"

I've studied enough movie scripts to know what's coming next; I wish Chrissie had so she'd stop making this worse.

"He does everything; he's just finished this fab movie..." She breaks off, realising her mistake, and just stands there staring at her boots, bottom lip curled over.

"And the title of this epic film?"

" _Snowzen_ ," she answers in a small voice.

"A documentary on penguins?" Wilson asks, looking from her to me, clearly enjoying my squirming.

"No," she mumbles, still looking at her boots. "It's a comedy tribute of _Frozen_."

"And what part did you play, Jarvis?"

In a movie, this is one of those crunch moments, where it can go one of two ways for the hero, and I'm not going to crash and burn in the opening scenes.

"Anna."

The silence is shattered by muffled sniggers as Wilson's lined face morphs into a grin worthy of The Joker. "You're an actress too?"

"Yes, sir," I say, projecting a confidence to tell everyone if they think they can bully me about this, they can't. "Do you want to see?"

A few gasps from behind let me know that I've survived the crunch moment.

"No," he growls.

"I do serious drama too, sir," I add, just to make sure that even the deaf, blind, and stupid can't use this against me. "I got an award for my portrayal of Tony in _Westside Story_."

"Any more lip, Jarvis, and you'll be starring in round-the-clock detentions," he retorts, handing back my camera. "Do I make myself clear?"

"Perfectly," I reply, and still playing cocky comedian, I leave a long pause before saying, "Sir."

Mr Wilson — Sir — grunts. "Check that's correct, and sign there."

I glance down the list of everything he's taken, and I'm just about to sign my name when he coughs.

"I'd read the disclaimer if I were you, Jarvis."

I read the two lines in bold italics. _"Any student caught with contraband goods will lose all privileges and, depending on the severity of the offence, face suspension leading to possible expulsion."_

"Still want to sign?"

"Yes, sir." I sign my name and hand back the form.

He grunts again. "New students have to go to the Churchill Room for your induction pack — just follow the signs."

I stride out of there like I still own the scene and put as much distance as I can between Chrissie and me. I know she didn't do it on purpose, but I'd specifically told her not to say anything. Now all I need to make this day the worst ever is to find out I've got Hermit as my roommate.

#  Chapter 7

"I'm sorry, Rich," says Chrissie, trying again to apologise as I make my way towards the dorm after being forced to sit through an hour's lecture on how great St. Bart's is.

Looking forward so I don't have to make eye contact with any of the other students, who are all pointing me out and smirking, I increase my stride, forcing her to run to keep up.

"Rich—"

"Not interested." I say, cutting her off as I reach the OTT marble staircase that leads up to my dorm.

"I was just trying to help."

"I told you not to say anything."

"I didn't think—"

"You never do!" I say, glaring at some fat bozo who has just asked me if I get off on wearing a dress.

"Please, Rich; you don't know what it's like for me. You've always been popular!"

"Well, I'm not popular now!" I snap, spitting the words in her face. "I'll be lucky if I make it through the night without getting a kicking."

"Please, Rich," she begs, grabbing my hand to stop me from leaving. "I can't handle another Goldmeads!"

Once again, she somehow manages to make it all my fault. Chrissie's a pain in the arse, and I will go through hell until I can convince that lot I'm not some kind of pervert, but I'd rather get my head kicked in every day than see her have a hard time.

"I told you, it won't be like Goldmeads." Anger forgotten, I sit down on the bottom step and pat the space next to me.

"But even you hate me."

"I don't hate you." I sigh as she slides in next to me. "Just promise you won't try to help me again."

She swallows and nods, and despite the sophisticated makeup and clothes, she still looks like a terrified year seven, and more than ever, I regret giving her a hard time when she needs me most.

"Look, I'll be fine," I tell her, even though I'm not. "And you're going to be popular — I'll see to it."

"How?"

"Well, you've already got a fan in Spencer," I explain. "Blowing him off was a stroke of genius."

She giggles and gazes up at the monstrosity that is our new school. "What do you think of the place?"

Looking towards the stone walls and miles of mahogany panelling, I let out a sigh. "I think if I can find some actors, I might remake _Dracula_."

"What about _Shutter Island_?"

"That could work too," I agree.

"No, do _The Hunchback of Notre Dame_ ," she says, getting all excited. "The bells, the bells..."

I give a year-twelve guy the middle finger as he walks past humming "Let It Go."

"Sorry," Chrissie mumbles again.

"No sweat." Pushing myself to my feet, I dig deep within myself to face the onslaught that awaits me at the top of the stairs. "Now, just remember to play it pure diva."

She nods, big blue eyes as scared as I've ever seen them. "Rich, you will stay with me."

"I'll be like a shadow." I smile. "Meet you outside the dining room at six o'clock."

* * *

By the time I get to the dormitories, Spencer, Jones, and the others are lounging around in the common room, bragging about the girls they scored with, and who should and should not be on the polo squad. They all stop and stare in my direction the moment I step foot inside the door.

"What?" I shrug, realising this isn't the moment to start acting me.

"You know what," Spencer retorts. "Let's have a look at you dressed as a chick."

Sitting down on the sofa, they all gather round, and I get out my camera.

"Wow," says Jones as he watches me fire up the LED screen. "This is no hobby, then."

I shake my head. "It's my life, and with any luck, this summer I'll be helping out on the set of a new BBC drama."

"Cool," says another guy. "I'm Roberts."

I nod in his direction and, getting the feeling I've managed to climb halfway out of the hole Chrissie's dumped me in, press the play button, and _Snowzen_ starts to roll.

They all laugh. I know they're supposed to, but I don't want them laughing at me, not when I haven't established myself in the pecking order.

"This is bloody funny!" Jones says, watching me as Anna sitting astride an inflatable moose. "What else you done?"

Knowing they're going to watch everything, I decide to come clean. " _Twilight_ , _Buffy_ , _Star Wars_ , _Titanic_ , _Charlie's Angels_ , _Harry Potter_."

" _Charlie's Angels_ , I've got to see!" Spencer snorts as he waves some more guys over. "Who do you play?"

"Lucy Liu." I sigh, putting in the sim so they can watch it.

To my surprise, I reel them in completely. I know I'm good. I have nearly 150,000 subscribers to my YouTube channel, and a lot of them send in requests. But I didn't figure on any of these guys being fans. Somehow, I always imagined my followers were like me. Aspiring directors, actors, animators, and writers.

"You're a genius," says Jones after watching the speeded-up fight sequence. "But you've got a death wish if you ever talk to the masters like that."

"At my old school, if a teacher laid one finger on us, he'd be arrested!"

This time I'm the one who succeeds in making their mouths fall open, and they forget all about the movie running on my camera.

"You do know this kind of thing isn't allowed," I tell them with even more force.

They all shake their heads.

"What were your other schools like?"

Spencer continues to look at me as if I'm mad. "Like this one. Wasn't yours?"

"No, and when my parents find out what he—"

"You can't tell your parents." Jones gasps. "If my father finds out I got in trouble before classes even started..."

They're beginning to get to me, but I'm determined to play it cool. "All right, I won't say anything."

"Promise?" Jones asks me.

"Okay, I promise," I say, because I owe him one. "So what am I supposed to do now?"

Spencer points in the direction of the corridor. "You need to report to Parker."

"He's the rugby coach too, right?"

"Yes," says Spencer, searching through my sim box for another movie to watch. "Better not keep him waiting if you know what's good for you."

"Great!" I leave them watching _Harry Potter meets Big Brother_ and, finding Parker's office a short distance down the wooden hallway, knock on the closed door.

"Enter!"

I step inside and stop as I find him on his mobile. Laughing to whoever he's talking to, he signals to me to stand in front of his desk, forcing me to suffer his cigar-coated breath. _Great, teachers can be distracted from their duties, but we're not allowed._ With nothing else to do until he finishes talking, I look at his office, which is wall-to-wall rugby trophies and signed rugby balls. Even his mobile phone has rugby balls all over the cover.

"Ah, Jarvis," he says, hanging up. "What position do you play?"

"Sorry, sir?" I ask, trying not to look at his nose that's squashed over most of his face.

"Rugby, boy," he replies. "Which position do you play?"

"Flank, sir," I tell him, noticing a cobweb of scars on his shaved head.

"Figures," he says, looking me up and down. "I was scrum-half in my day, won ten caps for England, and it would have been a lot more if it wasn't for the accident..."

I'm not sure what to say, so I say nothing. What else can you say to a six-foot-five giant who looks like a cross between a heavyweight boxer and army major?

"I've got an opening position as a fly-half on the squad," he says. "You're a bit on the scrawny side."

I look down at my arms and chest. I've never considered myself scrawny. I was one of the bigger guys on my old team.

"I'll try you out tomorrow," he tells me. "Five a.m. before breakfast."

"Five o'clock?"

"You have a problem with that, Jarvis?"

I do, but I'm not going to tell him that after getting on the wrong side of Wilson.

"Good. You're in dorm twelve, last room on the right, with Hermit."

Great, as if today couldn't get any worse. Hoping Chrissie's doing better, I trudge down to the opposite end of the corridor to find Hermit's bagged the bed by the window.

"Hi," I say, forcing myself to sound happy about this. "I'm Richard Jarvis, but my friends call me Rich."

"Paul Crab," he says with a slight stammer as he lines up his books on the shelf.

"So why do they call you Hermit?"

"Hermit crab?"

"Oh," I say, feeling embarrassed for him. "Sorry."

"It's all right," he says. "Did you want the window bed? If you do, I don't mind swapping."

"You can have whichever bed you like."

"Thanks."

"You don't have to thank me for anything," I say, his fear making it impossible for me to relax. "You got here first."

"But you're mates with Spencer," he explains, retreating into the opposite corner.

It makes me want to puke the way he's acting. Being smacked in the face hurts, but you fight back, you don't beg, no matter how scared you are. "My father works for his father," I mumble, unable to look at him because I've just sentenced him to another year of hell. "And my sister's here too, so I don't want her having a hard time."

He nods. Hermit may be a coward, but he's smart enough to understand the political landscape, as Dad calls it.

Hermit shows me how to fit all my clothes into a wardrobe and three drawers so I'll pass "morning inspection"; and then it's time for dinner. Even though Hermit's been decent, I make sure I head downstairs with Jones and Spencer.

#  Chapter 8

Just like everywhere else in this place, the dining room is trapped somewhere in the distant past, overdosing on dark mahogany panelling, red velvet curtains, and extravagant wrought-iron chandeliers. I fully expect to see Henry VIII sitting at the head table chucking bones to the dogs at his feet.

Nudging Chrissie forward, we follow Spencer towards one of the bigger oblong tables decked out in pristine white tablecloths and polished silver cutlery. There are bottles of still and sparkling mineral water and silver bowls with sliced lemon and lime. I'm impressed; at our last school, we were lucky if they didn't burn the chips.

"Baxter, over here!" Spencer waves over at some huge guy with a neck almost as wide as his boxed shoulders, and short-cropped blond hair.

Baxter knocks knuckles with Spencer before high-fiving Jones.

"This is Jarvis," Jones says, nodding in my direction.

"Hi," I say, deciding not to shake Baxter's hand in case he crushes it. "My sister, Chrissie."

"You trying out for the team?" he asks, his accent so Scottish, I can almost see Glasgow.

I nod, disappointed he's not acknowledged Chrissie.

"Great," he says. "We need a decent fly-half if we're going to stand a chance in the Challenge Cup."

"That's me," I say, as if I'd say anything else to someone who has a neck the size of a tree trunk.

"Good man," he says, waving over some guy with black spiky hair who looks like a designer version of Gru from _Despicable Me_. "Finny, you fag — over here!"

"Hey, it's Lucy Liu!" cries Finny — no idea what his other name is — making everyone turn round to look at me again. "You're brilliant. That sketch with the speeded-up kung fu — very cool!"

"Thanks. This is my sister—" I don't get any further; he wants to talk rugby too.

"Parker says you're trying out for the team," he says, plonking himself between Jones and me and squashing us both in the process. "I'm the tighthead prop, Baxter's outside centre and captain!"

Great, I'm surrounded by rugby-obsessed nutters. "What position do you play, Jones?" I ask in the hope there's someone of normal size on the squad.

"I don't," he replies. "Spencer and I play polo."

At this point, we're joined by Poppy, whose laugh is almost as loud as her mass of copper curls. "So when do we get to see these famous movies," she demands, sitting down on Jones's lap. "I'm an actress too, you know. Starred in _Pygmalion_ last year."

"Don't remind me," Jones groans. "It was ninety minutes of pure torture."

She playfully slaps him. "What about you, Chrissie? Do you act too?"

Chrissie shakes her head.

"Chrissie rides," I say, conscious of the awkward silence when she makes no effort to look up from her lap.

"Do you hunt?" Spencer asks.

"No," she mumbles, still looking at her lap. "I prefer dressage."

"She came second in the UK Riders Dressage competition last year," I tell them, hoping they'll give her a break.

"I've got a Quarter stabled back home," Spencer tells her. "And an Arabian mare at the school stables. You can ride her if you like; I only really use her for polo."

I elbow Chrissie to say something when she fails to respond, but she doesn't seem to take the hint.

"So," says Jones. "What movie are we going to make?"

"Don't know," I reply before my brain fully registered his question. "We?"

"Yeah, looks like a lot of fun."

I look around the table, surprised to see they're all serious. "You really want to make a film?"

He nods. "There's nothing else to do, and it also means..."

When I see him and Poppy exchange glances, I realise what that is.

"Go on," Jones begs. "This is a legitimate way to spend time with the girls in the evening, and I was only joking about Poppy's acting."

Once again, Poppy pretends to hit him.

"So what shall we make?" Even Finny, rugby-obsessed tighthead prop, seems on board.

" _Dracula_?" I offer.

They all shake their heads. "The masters will never allow that."

"What about _Macbeth_?" Poppy suggests. "It's on our book list and saves learning any new lines."

"Boring," Baxter moans.

"Chrissie thought _Notre Dame_ ," I say, trying to bring her into the conversation.

"Yes," Spencer agrees. "And you know who'd make a great Fleur-de-Lys?"

"NO!" I put a stop to that straight away.

"I don't mean you," he retorts. "Your sister — she's exactly how I imagined Fleur to look."

Much to Spencer's annoyance, Chrissie fails to give him any kind of meaningful reaction.

"Okay, we'll do _The Hunchback of Notre Dame_ ," I say, and even though they only want to do this to spend time with the girls, I'm excited about the prospect of starting a new movie. This school may suck big time, but there's no denying it's a great location.

Caught up in the excitement of brainstorming ideas with Jones and Poppy, I don't even notice Hermit sitting alone on the far table until it is time to leave.

"Don't feel sorry for him," Finny says, as if reading my mind. "He brought it on himself."

"What do you mean?"

"Spencer smuggled in a portable TV so we could watch the World Cup," Baxter explains, keeping his voice low. "And Hermit grassed him up."

Spencer nods. "He said he didn't, tried to make out they caught me on the security footage."

I look towards Jones, but he looks like he's going to hurl. There's something more going on here. Just like The Code, this is another subplot waiting to unfold, but for now I have bigger things to worry about — namely Chrissie.

"What's up?" After forgiving her for making a laughingstock of me, I didn't expect more of the silent treatment.

"You know what!" she snaps as I walk her slowly back to the stairwell that leads to the girls' dorms. "You're making plans without me."

"What?"

"Notre Dame!"

"What else was I supposed to say?" I protest. "Anyway, you can help."

"You know what I mean, Rich."

I don't, but I'm too tired for any more arguments.

"Meet you for breakfast?"

I nod.

"Promise?"

I nod again and give her a quick hug. "Just remember to act like Beth showed you, and chill out."

#  Chapter 9

I fell asleep reading the stupid rulebook. No talking after lights out, no food outside the dining room, no late homework, no fraternisation with the opposite sex... the list goes on and on, and when my alarm goes off at 4:45 a.m. and I spend the next hour being crushed, tackled, and shouted at by guys all bigger than me, I wonder if I'm still asleep and just having a bad nightmare.

"Not bad!" says Parker, pulling my arm out of its socket as he hauls me to my feet after the scrum collapsed.

Every breath I take feels like Freddy Krueger's slashed my lungs, but somehow I manage to morph my face into a grin, even though I'd rather be a banker like Dad than play one more minute of rugby right now.

"Same time tomorrow, then?"

"Tomorrow?"

"Yes, we train every day," he tells me with a big beaming smile, as if getting up in the middle of the night is some kind of reward. "But you're going to have to bulk up to hold your own with the likes of Litchfield."

"Litchfield?"

"We're playing them for a friendly on Saturday. Congratulations, you made the team!"

I have a cold shower, because everyone else has used all the hot water having theirs, and when I finally get to breakfast, there's no more eggs and bacon, just porridge, and tipping half a jar of strawberry jam into it because I hate porridge, I only get to eat half of it before the bell rings for assembly.

In chapel, I join Spencer and Jones on the back pew just as Mr Granger, the music teacher, starts to play "Rock of Ages" on the piano, which turns out to be the school hymn, something we have to sing at the start and end of every school term.

I can't see Chrissie anywhere. I keep searching the backs of heads for small, thin, blond girls every time we stand up, but I'm already in Wilson's bad books, and not wanting to get on the wrong side of him again, I clap when the new prefects are announced, clap hard when Spencer collects his badge for Class Captain, and when we're all dismissed, I hang back. Chrissie eventually comes out on her own, still looking the part, except for her eyes, which have glazed over.

"Everything all right?" I ask.

"No," she snaps, hugging her bag. "You were supposed to meet me for breakfast, remember?"

"Yes, sorry. Rugby practice went on longer than I thought."

"You're on the rugby team now?"

"Unfortunately," I say, her shoulder even colder than the shower I've just taken. "We've got practice every morning."

"And what about me?"

"What can I do? I can hardly tell the rugby coach to get stuffed." I look at her again. She's losing it, not big time, but it's happening, and it's up to me to stop it. "Were the other girls all right to you?"

She nods as we follow Jones and the others up the stairs to the second-floor landing.

"What did you talk about?" I ask in an effort to stop her retreating even further into herself.

"You."

"Me?"

"Of course you," she snarls. "The only time anyone talks to me is to find out about you!"

I don't often feel anything from Chrissie, but I'd have to be deaf and blind not to feel that slap, and it hurts even more than being buried under half a ton of the St. Bart's rugby team.

"Rich, I'm sorry," she apologises immediately after I walk off. "I didn't mean it to come out like that."

"Didn't you?" I ask, conscious some of the other guys are staring at us.

"You know I didn't," she whines, grabbing my arm. "I was just mad at you. You don't know how much I needed to see you, and when you didn't show I got scared, and I kept thinking about Goldmeads and..."

I let out a sigh, the guilt every time I hear that word smothering out any hurt and anger. "I would have been there if I could."

"I know," she concedes. "Want to have lunch together instead?"

I nod and take my seat next to her in the third row of the dismal classroom for our first lesson of the day.

"I don't like it here, Rich; something isn't right."

I can't disagree, but there's no point telling her what she already knows.

"I feel like everyone's talking about me behind my back," she continues, scratching at her arms. "This is how it started at Goldmeads."

I shiver as once again I'm dragged back to the worst night of my life when I woke up to find her unconscious at the foot of my bed. "Chrissie, everything's going to be okay."

"No, it's not!" she cries, tears glistening in her eyes. "You don't know what they did. They used to spit in my lunch!"

"I'm not going to let anyone spit in your food," I tell her, pulling her hand away to stop her from messing up her arms even more. "And don't do that; you'll freak people out."

English drags by, and so does history. I manage to redeem myself with Mr Wilson because we've already studied the Battle of the Somme, and then there's a brief reprieve for maths, which is my second-favourite subject, before the bell rings for lunch. Trouble is, I can't sit with Chrissie because we've been assigned tables, and I find myself sitting with Parker and the rest of the rugby team, which isn't all bad, because it guarantees us extra portions of everything.

I talk to Finny and Baxter. Walker's all right, a bit rugby obsessed, but the sort of guy you can be yourself with, and at least he doesn't keep asking me to do impressions of Harry Potter.

"What's wrong with your sister?" asks Baxter when he catches me checking on Chrissie again. "She one of those anorexics?"

"No, she just isn't feeling well," I reply, watching her move her food around her plate while all the other girls talk around her as if she isn't there.

"She looks pretty skinny to me."

"You'd make a sumo wrestler look skinny!" I tell him, starting on my second helping of rhubarb crumble.

He laughs, slaps me on the back, and pours himself another glass of milk. "You're right there!"

Situation defused, I return to the task of trying to shovel as much food into me as I can before the bell; we've got double sports this afternoon, and I still hurt from being knocked about this morning.

I don't see Chrissie for the rest of the afternoon since we have different classes. After scoring a try and finding out I can sign up for fencing, shooting, and some other really cool sports, things don't seem that bad, especially when I find a letter from Beth waiting for me in my pigeonhole.

Opening up the pink envelope with her big swirly writing, I smile even more when I find two photos of Beth and the gang, and leaning back against the wall, I start to read, somehow managing to hear her voice in my head as if we were talking for real.

"Anything for me?"

I look up to see Chrissie. Her pigeonhole's empty because I don't suppose Mum's got round to writing to us yet. "No, sorry."

"Figures," she says with a huff. "Have you found your badminton racket?"

"Er?"

"Badminton," she says. "You said we'd have a game tonight — I got a court booked for after study hall."

All the happiness at getting a letter from Beth drains out of me.

"What?" she demands, and I know by the way that she looks at me she can see how guilty I feel inside.

"Can't," I mumble. "I've got to meet my drama teacher."

"Great!"

"I'm sorry," I say, though I don't know why I have to feel sorry about something that's completely out of my control. "They only told me an hour ago. We'll play tomorrow. Promise. Tomorrow night, I'm all yours."

"Don't bother!" she snaps. "I don't need charity, Rich."

"It's not like that."

"No?" she cries. "You don't want to spend time with me. I get it."

"Chrissie." I try to talk some sense into her, but she's having none of it and pushes me away.

"Just remember," she tells me, her face red and hot. "If it was the other way round, I'd be there for you. Just remember that if you ever find yourself like me!"

#  Chapter 10

We have to do our homework in a huge old-fashioned classroom, supervised by Bollinger, who still manages to look far too cool to be at school, even in uniform.

Walking down the lines of identical wooden desks and chairs, I take the desk next to Chrissie, but she immediately gets up and takes a seat in the front row. Conscious of everyone staring at me, I try to read the first three acts of _The Merchant of Venice_ , but it would have been hard enough to take any of it in without the aid of music or TV.

In the end, I give up on Shakespeare and write a long letter to Beth, telling her how I feel like I'm trapped in a black-and-white horror movie, and how I seem to be getting everything wrong trying to help Chrissie. At this point, something sharp stings the back of my neck, and twisting round, I see Finny flicking paperclips with the aid of a ruler.

"Sorry," he apologises. "I was aiming for Hermit."

Groaning, I return to my letter and shake out the ache in my hand, because I'm not used to writing so much, until 5:25 p.m. when I stuff everything into my backpack and head off to meet Miss Bell, my new drama tutor.

"Done your homework, Jarvis?" asks Bollinger, not even looking up from his book of Greek poetry.

"Yes."

"Let's have a look," he says, holding out his hand.

It takes me a while to realise he's serious, and groaning, I fish out my textbook.

"Who's the letter to?" he demands, peering out from beneath his fringe.

"Girlfriend," I say, looking him right in the eye.

"I'm supposed to check it."

I try not to flinch as I hand it to him; something tells me he isn't the sort of bloke you want to piss off, because unlike Jones his green eyes aren't nearly as friendly.

"You written anything slagging off the school?" he asks, saying the words like a teacher but sounding bored and sarcastic.

"No," I reply, hoping he isn't going to open it up and ridicule me for writing a bunch of mushy stuff to Beth, or even worse, read the bits about me moaning about Chrissie.

"Doesn't bother me if you do," he tells me, handing everything back without even looking at it. "Rupert says you're all right — Oi, Hermit!"

I turn round to see Hermit trying to slip out the door unnoticed, clutching his homework to his chest.

"You're not trying to run off without permission?"

Hermit does this kind of pathetic jump and, shrinking in on himself, wobbles up to Bollinger.

"Hand it all over, Hermit!" Bollinger changes from cool dude you want to be to sadistic bully, and snatching Hermit's letter, he tears it open.

I look at Hermit, unsure what's happening, but he's looking at his feet, his cheeks already the colour of blood; he knows the drill.

"God, your punctuation really is atrocious," says Bollinger, speaking to the whole study hall. "And what is _loosing_ the battle?"

If I were Hermit, there's no way I would take this, but he's too spineless to say anything; he just stands there like a right wimp, looking at the floor as everyone laughs at him.

"You shouldn't use a capital M for mother unless you're referring to an individual," Bollinger continues, taking out a big black marker from his inside pocket. "But quite frankly, you shouldn't write this at all unless you're a fag. Are you a fag, Hermit?"

I look around to see if anyone else is going to put a stop to this, but those who aren't enjoying the show like Spencer, Finny, and Baxter are hiding in their books and essays.

Jones is the first to walk out, followed by a couple of the girls. Me, I stand there like a right dork, waiting for a teacher to come and put a stop to it; if I try to do anything, there's no way Chrissie and I will get through this term hassle free.

"Well?" Bollinger continues, eyes sparkling with malice. "Are you a fag, Hermit?"

A huge missile consisting of blue-tack, paperclips, and staples comes hurtling through the air and strikes Hermit in the face, knocking off his glasses. He yelps. I leave because, even though I'm just an innocent bystander, I'm centre screen on the ominous security camera bolted above the whiteboard.

This is exactly what Chrissie went through. Insides twisting from the discomfort of not doing anything for her then, I go straight to the post room and write the longest apology letter I can in three minutes, promising to spend every spare minute with her. If I'm freaked by what happened, she's going to be a million times worse. I've just finished when Jones walks in.

"You all right?" asks Jones, slipping a couple of letters into the oblong post box secured to the wall.

"Why do the teachers let it happen?" I demand, my voice shaking with anger I can't contain.

He knows what I'm talking about, because he won't look me in the eye.

"What's the point of all the cameras if they don't do anything?" I'm not going to let this drop. "Aren't they supposed to be there for our protection?"

He shuffles and scratches the back of his neck. "They don't work," he says, keeping his voice low. "Spencer's father made the Head turn them off when they used the security footage to prove he'd smuggled in the TV."

"So why leave them up there?"

"Because everyone thinks they do!" he hisses in an urgent whisper. "And you better not say anything. If Spencer knew I'd told you, he'd go crazy!"

"I take it Baxter, Finny, and your brother know?"

He nods.

"Now promise me you'll not tell anyone, not even your sister."

Even if Jones hadn't made me promise to keep quiet about the cameras, I would never tell anyone. If Spencer has that much power and he takes a dislike to me and Chrissie... I shudder. I know I'll be okay; it's Chrissie I've got to look after, and if she knows those cameras aren't working, she'll be scared all the time.

"I'm going to work on the Quasi posters tonight," he says. "Remember, we're holding auditions tomorrow."

I silently swear under my breath. "Can't we do it another night?"

"No, I've got the hall booked and everything," he says, now sounding really excited. "It'll be a blast."

I nod, write a quick PS at the bottom of Chrissie's note to say I can't make badminton tomorrow, then run off to meet Miss Bell, hoping I'm not going to get a detention for being mega-late.

#  Chapter 11

I really thought she was going to be some mad old crow with wild grey hair and black-rimmed glasses who knows as much about modern editing techniques as I know about polo, but the only person in there was a seriously fit babe dressed in skinny jeans and oversized beige jumper and with blond hair so long she could have auditioned as Rapunzel.

"You must be Richard," she says, jumping down from the stage and walking over to me. "Or do you prefer Rich?"

"Rich, miss," I reply, shaking her hand.

"Please, none of this miss stuff. Call me Laura."

"Thanks, Laura," I say, liking her immediately.

"Well, you've got to be the first aspiring film director I've taught," she says, pulling up a couple of chairs and sitting down in one of them. "Most of my students want to be the other side of the camera."

"Is that a problem?"

"No, not at all. I got into filmmaking because I loved scuba diving and I wanted my friends and family to share in my experience," she explains. "I really liked it, so after doing a degree in Marine Biology, I went on to do an MA in Filmmaking and was fortunate enough to make a number of documentaries for _National Geographic_."

I sit up, seriously impressed. "Really?"

"Yes, if it wasn't for a perforated eardrum, I'd still be doing it."

"I got picked to play Oliver in a BBC production," I tell her. "But I got hit by a car just after filming started, so the director let me spend a day with him as a kind of sorry when they had to replace me."

"So you discovered you liked being the other side of the camera more?"

I nod. "I was an addict the moment I sat with him in the mixing studios, reviewing all the rushes."

She smiles. "You must have made quite an impression if the producer for him invited you on set."

"I guess," I say, remembering back to that terrifying moment I thought that jeep was going to hit Chrissie.

"So," she says, waking me from my thoughts. "Have you given any thought to the film you'd like to make?"

"Some of the guys here want to make a send-up of _The Hunchback of Notre Dame_."

"Sounds like a lot of fun," she says lightly. "But if you're serious about getting that internship, you'll need to show the judges you can do more than quirky comedies."

I feel like I've just been punched, and I do know what a punch feels like, unfortunately. Normally the teachers love my ideas — this is the first one who hasn't.

"Rich, you're incredibly talented, but so are all the other students up for consideration, and they've had a lot more experience than you, so you need to showcase a wide range of your talents."

"So what do you suggest?"

"A documentary," she replies.

So far, I'm not that excited about the idea.

"They don't all have to be serious or boring," she tells me. " _An Inconvenient Truth_ was groundbreaking and a box-office hit."

I nod. I get it.

"So what cause is close to your heart?"

I shrug. "There's lots of things I'd like to change, like getting the Internet turned on here."

She laughs. "I can't see the headmaster agreeing to that, but I do have one suggestion that will get you access to all the resources you need to make an amazing, thought-provoking film."

"You do?"

"Yes, a documentary on one of the boys who used to go to St. Bartholomew's."

I groan. "You've got to be kidding."

"No," she says, handing me a hardback book with an old black-and-white photo of some British soldiers. "Captain Timothy Howard was Head Boy in 1912 and remains the only St. Bart's boy to win the Victoria Cross."

I flick through the pages unconvinced.

"He gave his life to save his battalion, and the considerable fortune he left was used to set up a trust to help wounded soldiers. You can make a film about bravery, the futility of war, or friendship — many of the lives he saved were old boys from this school."

She gets me thinking about making some dark and satanic wartime masterpiece using the backdrop of the school with its vomiting gargoyles.

"The school has quite an extensive library of old news footage," she tells me. "Do a good job, and you'll have the full support of the headmaster behind you. He's quite a history buff, so start putting some ideas down, and I'll see you for our first lesson on Sunday."

#  Chapter 12

I finally track down Chrissie on the third-floor landing on my way to English Lit. "Like your hair up," I tell her, determined to put an end to her ignoring me.

"Thanks," she says, not bothering to look at me as she heads towards the classroom.

"Did you get my note?"

"Yes."

"And?"

She really isn't giving me any breaks. "And what, Rich?"

Jumping in front of her so she has no choice but to talk to me, I give her my pleading look, which works on everyone except Dad. "Am I forgiven?"

"I suppose," she agrees, failing to swallow the start of a smile.

"Thanks," I say, conscious I'm still on trial. "You okay?"

"Better now we're talking again. I hate it when we fight and..."

And then this hot sixth former with long auburn hair taps me on the shoulder and waves one of the Quasimodo posters Jones made in my face. "How many have signed up to read for Fleur-de-Lys?"

"No idea," I finally manage to say when she takes her boobs out of my face.

"Think I'm in with a chance?"

I wonder if she knows something I don't; I can't see anyone except Jones, Spencer, and the gang showing up. "I guess."

"Great!" she says, winking at me. "I'll see you at five; the name's Nicole Maynard."

I watch her run back to her equally hot friend, who also waves a poster at me, slightly stunned, because hot girls don't usually queue up to join my films. I turn back to Chrissie to see what she makes of all this, but she's gone to English without me. By the time I get there, the only free desk is next to Hermit.

I try to get her attention as we work our way through _The Merchant of Venice_ , but Chrissie won't look up, and when the bell rings, she's first out the door and on her way to study hall.

"Sorry about earlier," I apologise, catching her up. "I wish I'd never let Jones talk me into doing Quasimodo; you wouldn't believe how much work it is."

She stops walking but doesn't say anything.

"I could really do with a casting director," I continue, ignoring her anger. "Want to apply?"

This time my pleading look doesn't work. "Bog off, Rich!"

"Chrissie, don't be like that. I'm doing my best."

"Yes," she agrees. "Doing your best to avoid me."

I shake my head, which has started throbbing with frustration. "Don't be like that."

"Like what?" she says with serious attitude. "I'm just doing what you do to me — ignoring you!"

The last thing in the world I feel like doing is comedy auditions after that, and shoulders sagging, I head off to the main hall, where instead of finding half a dozen sad acts and wannabes, I find about fifty of the coolest year elevens and sixth formers St. Bart's has to offer.

"About time!" says Jones, pushing me towards a real director's chair. "This is getting out of hand."

"Too right." I've only ever managed four actors, if you include me, and with thirty-plus kids all looking to me for leadership, I feel like I'm drowning, especially when they all start telling me how I should be running things.

"Where do you want me?" asks Lisa.

"I don't know," I say, hoping she can't hear the shake in my voice. "What part are you auditioning for?"

"Esmeralda, you idiot!"

"Stand over there." I tell her, pointing at the stage, then as loudly as I can, I shout. "All Esmeraldas to the stage!" And while they're organising themselves into a line, I tell everyone else to sit down, and explain that we'll do speed auditions for all the main parts.

"Remember to give Poppy the part," Jones reminds me, whispering far too loudly not to be heard. "I'm not doing Quasi unless she is."

I push him out of my face, jump up on stage, and take control by setting the scene, placing a small table and two chairs in the centre. The one thing I learnt at Brown's Acting Academy is that you need to give your actors clear directions, and with no script, the only thing I can do is get them to ad-lib.

"You've all seen what I do," I explain, ignoring all heckling from the guys about me doing Lucy Liu. "I do comedies, so you're going to have to make a fool of yourself." More sniggers and more comments about me as Lucy — I ignore it. "So, for your auditions I want you to act out Esmeralda meeting Phoebus at a speed-dating event. You've got two minutes."

Beth could have done it a hundred times better even if she wasn't trying. None of these girls would know a joke if it was diamond-encrusted; trouble is, they're all too stuck up to make fools of themselves, and only care about which wig looks best. I can't stand it.

"Enough!" I cry, calling a halt to it all by waving my arms about and shouting. "This is supposed to be a comedy."

The girls moan amongst themselves as I jump onto the stage.

"You're supposed to be Esmeralda on a speed date," I explain, taking the blond wig from Poppy. "Esmeralda's hot, she can have anyone she wants, so there's a million ways you can play it for a laugh!"

I pull on the wig, and ignoring the wolf whistles, sit down at the table, and doing all things I associate with girls — curling a lock of hair around my finger, looking at my nails, and checking out my boobs — I show them how it's done.

"Bonjour," I say, forcing my voice into a long, slow, and sexy drawl. "Aren't you a big boy?"

They all start laughing, and sinking deeper into character, I purse my lips into a kiss.

"So, you're a captain!" I continue, leaning forward and fluttering my eyelashes. "I love a man in uniform..."

Everyone falls about, including Spencer, so I keep going, hoping one of the girls will get the hang of it.

"What's that you want to do to me?" I ask the nonexistent Phoebus, cupping my hand to my ear.

I pause for comical effect before doing an over-the-top horrified gasp and pretending to slap Phoebus round the face.

They all love it, and taking a bow to my applause, I return to my director's chair. It's amazing what no TV and Internet does to you — I'm the best entertainment this lot has seen since they left home.

The auditions get a bit better after that, and even though I already have my Quasimodo and Esmeralda, I select two sixth-form girls who seem to take direction well for some extras, and my short-list complete, I go to bed. I'm so tired I sleep through Spencer and Finny throwing Hermit's shoes out the window.

#  Chapter 13

Saturday's here before I know it, and after getting up early to film the sunrise over the sprawling stone mansion for my project about Captain Howard, I put some gel in my hair to spike it up a bit and go off to see Parker in his rugby shrine to get my weekly allowance to spend in the village.

"And where do you think you're going?" Parker demands before handing me my money in a white envelope.

"Village, sir."

For a horrible minute, I think he's going to tell me I can't go because we've got another scrum practice, but it's far worse than that. "Not dressed like that, you're not!"

I look down at my jeans and grey sweatshirt and wonder what the problem is.

"You wear your uniform, Jarvis!"

"You've got to be joking!"

He's not. "You have a problem with your school uniform?"

I do. I'd rather die than go outside dressed in that, but I keep my mouth shut because I've seen what the masters can do to you here. "No, sir."

"Then don't let me keep you, and back by one; we've got a match to win!"

I go back to my room and change. Great, now I'm going to be ripped off by the village kids for being dressed as a nerd!

"Aren't you coming?" I ask Hermit, who's lying on his bed reading some manga comic.

"Where there are no masters to stop Spencer from killing me, no thanks."

"Shouldn't have grassed him up, then."

"I didn't have any choice!" he retorts. "He hid the TV under my bed; if I hadn't told the Head it was him, I'd have been expelled!"

I never realised he was stitched up, and I'm about to apologise, when he lays into me a second time.

"The Head promised to keep my name out of it. Said he'd tell Spencer he was caught on security camera, but Spencer's dad just donated some more money and..." He breaks off, sits back down on his bed and, taking off his glasses, rubs his face.

Unlike most guys, I don't go running when someone starts crying — even another guy. I don't know if it's because of all the parts I've played, or the fact that I get a lot of practice dealing with this stuff because of Chrissie, but I'm cool with it.

"You okay?" I ask, taking a step nearer.

He nods and shrugs.

"Why didn't you say anything?"

He doesn't look so pathetic when he meets my gaze. "The masters aren't in charge here, Jarvis. So carry on kissing Spencer's butt, unless you want to end up like me."

I have a new respect for Hermit now, but not enough to tell him he can come to the village with me. Already late, I head down to the entrance hall, confused why everyone has their backpacks with them when we're not allowed to bring back any food or drink.

"Jarvis?"

As I'm searching for Chrissie, Fiona corners me on the steps outside.

"Have you cast Fleur yet?" she demands.

"No," I reply, still searching the crowd for Chrissie.

"So when—"

I hold up my hand to stop her, when I finally spot Chrissie in the main group, queuing to get on the purple-and-gold coach. "Sorry, Fiona; talk later."

Weaving in and out of everyone and their OTT backpacks, I stand alongside Chrissie. "Hi."

Like she did yesterday and the day before, she blanks me, looking straight ahead with a ridiculously big beige shoulder bag.

"Chrissie, how long are you going to keep this up for?"

"Keep what up?" she demands, her voice as severe as the black eyeliner and scarlet lipstick.

"You know what," I say, following her onto the bus. "I said I was sorry."

I sit down next to her; I'm not putting up with this any longer, but Spencer barges me out of the way.

"Find your own seat, I promised to show your sister around."

Trying to pretend I'm fine, I sit next to Jones and Finny on the backseat.

"Spencer always hits on the new girl," Jones explains, slipping his arm round Poppy and pulling her to him. "Don't sweat it; he just enjoys the chase."

Great, now I'll have to put up with Chrissie crying her eyes out over Spencer in addition to her ignoring me.

"She looks like she can take care of herself," Jones tells me.

She does. Beth did a great job making Chrissie look super cool, but I don't think she's even kissed a guy, and I can't warn Spencer off, or Dad's going to kill me! So, I just have to watch Chrissie make a right idiot of herself as she giggles at Spencer's lame jokes as we drive through endless shrub land before arriving in the village.

It's even worse than I remember from the journey up here. A desolate hole of grey-brick tourist shops and one big car park packed with local kids and shopkeepers, holding up hand-painted banners offering everything from mobile and Internet rentals to cigarettes and booze.

Almost flattened under the stampede as everyone races off the bus and into the toilets, I realise too late why they've bought the bags.

"What are you playing at?" Jones asks, pulling me along with him. "You did bring some clothes with you, didn't you?"

I shake my head.

"Sorry," he apologises, unbuttoning his shirt to reveal a grey Armani t-shirt. "I thought you knew."

Great. Taking off my tie and undoing my top button so I don't look so much of a nerd, I rent myself a mobile for twenty quid plus call charges, buy a Coke, crisps, and a bar of chocolate for a fiver, and sitting on the car park wall, which is the only free thing in this place, I resort to calling Beth when I can't get Facetime working.

"Hi."

"Hi," she says, and suddenly it doesn't matter that I've just spent all my allowance and I'm the only loser in school uniform. "St. Bart's sounds like a right prison."

"It is," I tell her, unable to stop myself from grinning because I'm just so happy to hear her voice. "So, are you missing me?"

"What do you think?"

I laugh. I still can't believe Beth and I are together.

"How's Chrissie?"

"Gone off somewhere with Spencer," I tell her, turning around to avoid Jones and Finny, who are negotiating with some twelve-year-old kids to hire their mobiles. "I'm the sad dork sitting on my own."

"Oh, poor Rich..."

I laugh, but as well as feeling all warm and happy inside, I feel sad too; I miss her. "Did you manage to get hold of Dave and Stew?"

"Yes, they'll be here in an hour..."

I don't talk much. I want to hear what's happening back home, and she's in the middle of telling me that she's been shortlisted for an advert, when the guy I hired the phone from comes back for it.

"You've got one minute!" he says, pointing at his big gold watch.

I'm not going to annoy big watch guy when I see his naff tattoos and assortment of knuckle-duster rings, so I interrupt Beth mid-sentence. "Sorry, time's up."

"Okay, see you soon."

"Yes, can't wait." I hang up, and with no money and nothing else to do, I go off to explore the rest of this dump with Jones and Poppy.

"Chrissie's fine," Jones says as he catches me looking at her and Spencer in the coffee shop. "Spencer can be a real arse at times, but he's never a prick to girls."

"You don't understand."

"I understand all right," he says. "I've got a twelve-year-old sister, and when guys hit on her—"

"That's not it; she's..."

"What?" he asks, hanging back with me as Poppy goes into the newsagents to pick up more sweets.

I swallow, because talking about Chrissie behind her back seems disloyal, but at the same time, I don't want him thinking I'm the jealous-brother type. "She got bullied at her other school, and it was pretty bad."

"How bad?"

"Really bad — we had to move and everything."

"Well, she won't get picked on while I'm here," Jones assures me. "Relax. She's fine. If anything, it looks like Spencer's doing all the running."

I ditch Jones when he starts making out with Poppy by the pond and, after killing some more time with Baxter and some of his mates, make my way to the Internet café, where I'm forced to fight my way through all the kids squashed around the twenty computers to the only empty station between Finny and some sixth form girl who looks like a wannabee Aja Bair.

Finny taps me on the shoulder. "This is my brother Adam," he says, pointing at a guy who looks about twenty with the same black spiky hair. "Adam, this is Lucy Liu!"

I groan as Finny's brother erupts into laughter, but I can't tell what he's saying because Finny's still wearing his headphones.

"You're a big hit round Princeton!" Finny tells me, talking to both his brother and me. "Yes, Jarvis is our new fly-half..."

I leave the two of them talking, and trying to ignore the wannabee Aja, who's moaning about her sister, I fire up Skype and call Beth, my insides buzzing with a hundred volts at the thrill of seeing her again.

Two seconds later, the video fills with her smiling face, and I'm grinning again; she's just so pretty.

"Hi," she says, waving; the connection is so slow that when she moves, she's all blurred and jagged. "Look who's here!"

Stew and Dave squeeze into view and wave. "Love the uniform!" Stew smirks. "You look like a right nob."

"Thanks!"

Finny barges in front of me to check Beth out and lets out a long whistle; I have to use both hands to shove him out of the way.

Beth giggles. "Who's he?"

"Finny — he's our tighthead prop."

"A what?"

"He leads the push forward," I explain. "I've got my first match this afternoon."

"Whatever," says Beth. "Anyway, we've got loads to tell you..."

The hour goes too quickly, and the next time Finny leans over to check Beth out, it's time to leave. I say bye to them, make my booking for next week, and head back to the bus with Finny.

"Spencer and your sister seem to be hitting it off."

I look round to see Spencer and Chrissie walking hand in hand towards the duck pond — the make-out area.

"Oi, Spence!" yells Finny. "Want to come and watch us annihilate Litchfield?"

Spencer shakes his head. "Got better things to do than see you get your pathetic arses kicked."

Finny laughs and gives him the finger.

"By the time Litchfield finishes with you, that's about the only thing you'll be able to do!" Spencer warns him, all smug smiles.

As they continue to trade insults, I wave at Chrissie, trying to put things right between us, but she's still having none of it and just stands there, arms folded, glaring at me in her skinny jeans and long black leather coat.

#  Chapter 14

We didn't just beat Litchfield; we slaughtered them. Litchfield hasn't been beaten at home in five years, and I got the try and conversion that won us the match. I am a rugby god!

As we drive away from the broken Litchfield team, now wearing their black and red scarves in shame, Baxter leads us all in another rendition of "Lose Yourself" by Eminem, with some special rap lyrics Finny composed about Litchfield.

"Litchfield, last year's northern counties champions, went crashing out of the cup." Posing as a sport's reporter, Finny takes centre aisle to a roar of stamping feet and whooping. "And I'm here with man of the match, St. Bart's new signing — Richard Jarvis!"

More cheers and foot stamping, and because I can't help it, the entertainer in me takes a bow.

"That was one awesome try," Finny tells me, holding out the invisible microphone. "What was going through your mind when you picked up the stray ball?"

I pretend to take the invisible microphone, and clear my throat. "Well, Finny," I say, far more comfortable playing to the crowd than I am playing rugby. "I ran hard and fast because I didn't want to get crushed by their back line. But seriously, I knew I was holding the hope of St. Bart's in my arms, so I put my head down and charged!"

"Is that your signature move — headbutting the opposition?"

"I'll take them down any way I can!"

They all cheer and stamp their feet even more, and as the coach speeds along the country lanes back to St. Bart's we sing another chorus of "Lose Yourself," before Parker tells us to keep the noise down because he's got an important call.

St. Bart's looks like it's been wrapped up as a Christmas present: there isn't one window, vomiting gargoyle, or doorway that isn't draped with purple-and-yellow scarves, paper chains, and home-painted banners. Like conquering heroes, we're carried shoulder high over a roar of applause and cheers, and there waiting for us is our victory prize of pizza, Coke, chocolate, and music in the Main Hall!

I munch my way through five slices of pepperoni to a captive audience while some hot year-ten girls give me the eye. Everyone's having a great time — everyone, that is, except Chrissie, who has taken to sulking in the corner. I watch as Spencer tries to talk to her, but she sends him away too before going back to staring at the floor.

Jones deals another round of cards. Having been in boarding school all his life, he seems to know every board and card game that was ever invented.

"Concentrate!" complains Finny, who has a real competitive streak when it comes to any kind of game. "You've just made fifteen, you get two points."

I move my peg up two more holes in the wooden board and try to get back into the game, but I can't; this thing with Chrissie is really getting to me, and I don't care what Beth says. I'd rather be a mug running after Chrissie than feel this rotten.

"Jarvis!" Finny cries, waking me from the turmoil of my inner thoughts. "Move your peg."

Still trying to get my head around cribbage, which isn't easy even if I didn't have the stress of falling out with my twin, I move the red peg up two more holes.

"Jarvis!" I jump as Jones elbows me in the ribs. "You only get one if you can't make thirty-one."

I move the peg back a hole. I should sit with her. Everything I am tells me to, but I don't; I'm listening to Beth and the others, who keep telling me she needs to make her own friends and if I keep stepping in, I'm always going to be stepping in.

Baxter lays a nine of spades and Jones a four of clubs, taking the total score to twenty-eight. If Finny lays a three, he's won; if he doesn't, I do. For some reason, this game is all about fifteens and thirty-ones.

Finny taps the table with the edge of his cards. "Pass."

I check my hand; I have a three of diamonds, and I lay it.

"Bastard!" Finny hisses, hurling a chocolate bar at me. "That's three games straight you've won! You're a card-shark, that's why you keep winning — it's all an act."

"I've never played this before in my life," I tell him, clueless how Finny can be so wound up over a stupid game of cards.

"So how come you keep winning?" Finny demands as he shuffles the cards again.

"Beginner's luck?" I offer, putting the chocolate bar aside because if I eat one more thing I'm going to puke.

"Don't believe him," Jones says with a grin, just so I know he's winding Finny up even more. "Jarvis here is an accomplished actor."

Baxter snorts back a laugh. "As long as today's try wasn't beginner's luck, I don't care how many games of cards Jarvis takes us for. The only thing I care about is winning the Challenge Cup."

Finny nods. "We were bloody good."

"Bloody genius," Baxter agrees, leading the toast. "To Jarvis and the Challenge Cup!"

"The Challenge Cup!"

We bang Coke cans, wishing they were beer, and when I look over my shoulder to check how Chrissie's doing, I find she's gone.

#  Chapter 15

When Parker goes outside for a smoke, Bollinger turns up the music, and the party really begins. Shaking my head as Poppy tries to get me to show her how to dance Gangnam Style, I go back to showing Finny how my camera works; he wants to be part of the Quasi production, and his acting sucks big time.

"It's all blurry," he complains again, examining the footage in the viewfinder of Jones and Poppy making out. "Is it working?"

"Just put it on manual focus," I tell him.

"You told me not to!"

"That's before I realised how useless you were," I joke, resetting everything for him. "Now try."

Balancing it on his shoulder, he goes off to film Baxter and Spencer, who are larking about with Bollinger and some girls near the stage, but I'm not on my own for long; for the first time in almost a week, Chrissie comes over to talk to me.

"Hi, Rich."

"Hi, yourself," I say, just relieved we're talking again. "How's things?"

She shrugs and sits down next to me. "Okay. You got a minute?"

"Sure, what's up?"

She shakes her head and sniffs back invisible tears.

"What's happened?" I ask, suddenly feeling guilty for not making more of an effort to patch things up.

She turns away like I do when I'm scared I'm going to cry and I don't want anyone to see me.

"Chrissie?"

"I've done something really stupid..." she finally tells me, her face this horrible white colour.

"What?" My heart lurches, but before she gets the chance to tell me what it is, Fiona Huntington-Baxley, or whatever her double-barrelled surname is, marches over to me.

"At last," she says. "I've been trying to get hold of you all night!"

"Not now." I snap, still looking at Chrissie to answer me.

"Yes, now," she insists, prodding me in the arm. "You've been avoiding me all day; now why won't you give me a bigger part — I'm a far better actress than Poppy."

"I told you, not now!" I don't want to be rude, but this is more important. "We'll talk about it tomorrow."

Only Chrissie doesn't hear any of this; she's already on her way out, thinking I don't care about her.

Swerving to avoid Finny as he sticks the camera in my face, I catch Chrissie up at the doors. "Hey, wait up!"

She slows to a stop and turns to face me.

"Look, I'm really sorry about all this," I apologise. "Fiona's been bugging me all week. Let's go to the library; we can talk there."

"Forget it!"

The hostility knocks me back. "But I want to help."

"If you wanted to help, you wouldn't keep ignoring me to speak to your friends!"

"I didn't ask her to come and talk to me."

"I don't care," she cries, her eyes filling up with tears. "It's always something!"

I groan again; when she goes off on one, there's no telling her anything, and with our row centre stage, I just stand there and wait for her to stop.

"This is all your fault," she goes on. "You ruin everything. You always do!"

I bite my lip for real to stop me from saying something back. She doesn't mean it, she never does, and I know in five minutes she'll be in tears, begging me to forgive her.

"I HATE you, Rich!"

Jones rolls his eyes like he's sympathising with me, but it's not enough to stop me from going bright red when she stomps off, leaving me alone in the spotlight.

"What's going on?" Spencer demands, his black eyes as angry as I've seen them.

"What's any of this got to do with you?" I snap, still all tense from Chrissie giving me grief.

"Everything if you've been upsetting her again!"

I tell you, I don't know how I stopped myself from telling him to get lost. Fortunately, my brain kicks in, and doing what I should have done before this got all out of control, I go and look for Chrissie so I can take care of her as I promised.

#  Chapter 16

Wishing Chrissie and I shared that invisible twin thing so I knew where to find her, I try the girls' toilets at the end of the corridor.

"Chrissie?" Deciding not to go inside, in case there are other girls there, I knock on the door. "Chrissie?"

When no one answers, I push the door open; when she's this upset, she's quite likely to do something stupid. "Chrissie?"

Hearing nothing, I go inside, and before I even get the chance to open up the first cubicle door, the fire alarm goes off, stops, starts again, stops, starts again, and then wails at ear-bleeding volume.

Fire! I know we're supposed to leave everything and go to the playing fields, but I'm not leaving without Chrissie, and frantically searching the rest of the cubicles, I exit the girls' toilets and run straight into Parker.

"And where do you think you're going, Jarvis?" he demands, glaring down at me.

"To find my sister and get out of here before I burn to death!"

"There's no fire, Jarvis," he tells me, like I'm stupid. "Some lowlife took my mobile. Now stand still with your hands on your head."

For the first time I notice all the others standing around with their hands on their heads, their bags and anything else they were carrying lying at their feet. When I get my call home tomorrow, I'm definitely going to tell Mum about this.

"I haven't stolen anything, sir!" I tell him, doing the same. "I've been with Jones and—"

"Did I give you permission to talk?" Parker snarls, frisking me like the security guards do at the airports if you've walked through the metal detector and it beeps. "Loss of privileges for forty-eight hours!"

"But I've got a call with my parents tomorrow."

"If you talk back one more time, Jarvis, you'll have no call home for the rest of the term. Now get back to your dorm!"

"But I left my camera in the Main Hall."

"ENOUGH!" he roars, looking like some kind of insane terminator. "Your camera has just lost you all privileges for seventy-two hours!"

How dare he call me a thief! I've never taken anything in my life; stomping off to the Main Hall, I find Jones, Baxter, Finny, and everyone else being frisked.

"What's been taken, sir?" asks Bollinger, jogging over.

"My mobile," Parker replies. "Only put it down for a minute when I was stepping outside for my nightly constitutional..."

Everyone knows he was sneaking out for a quick smoke. Normally we all have a laugh at the different excuses he comes up with, but even Bollinger gasps in horror!

"Are you getting your camera, Jarvis?" Parker barks at me.

As Jones and Poppy are frisked by Wilson, I retrieve my camera and case from the table and manage to tip the spare battery and all my filters onto the floor. Crap, why does everything have to go wrong when I'm in a hurry? Dropping to my knees, I throw everything back inside and freeze when I see Parker's mobile with its distinctive rugby ball case poking out from the pocket where I normally store my spare battery.

Shit. That's all I can think as I hear Parker's voice and approaching footsteps. Shit, I'm completely screwed.

"Go and check the dorms," Parker tells Bollinger. "Get Wheeler-Hopkinson to stop anyone else from leaving their rooms!"

If this were any other school, I'd just give Parker his mobile and tell him it wasn't me. He might not believe me, in which case my parents would put him straight, and that would be it. If I was really unlucky, I might get a detention — that was what happened to Dave when he got blamed for throwing Josh Lisbon's shoes in the school pool, but St. Bart's isn't a normal school — and that's why I slipped Parker's mobile into my trouser pocket.

"Come on, Jarvis," Parker moans, nudging me. "I haven't got all night."

I can act; even without all the drama lessons, I was good, but there's nothing I can do to stop my hands from shaking as I hope neither of them notice the mobile hidden in my front pocket.

"Now back up to your dorm."

"Yes, sir," I reply, mind racing for how I'm going to off-load his mobile unseen.

"Well, move, boy!"

Head down, I join everyone else returning to their dorms. _Think, Rich, think._ Where can I put it so no other poor sucker will get the blame? The dining room's not an option. Neither are the steps outside the back doors where Parker goes for his sneaky smokes. I guess I could leave it in his room, but with everyone being sent back to their dorms, he'll know for sure the thief has to be someone from year ten or eleven.

Keeping my hands hidden in my front pockets, the mobile continues to torture me. I need to dump it. If it rings now, I'm dead, and as my stomach morphs into a bowling ball of fear, I see Chrissie coming out of the girls' locker room, tears pouring down her cheeks.

Torn between ditching the mobile and looking after Chrissie, the decision's made for me when Chrissie runs over.

"Rich, I'm sorry. I didn't mean it — honest."

I know she feels she has to apologise for having a go at me earlier, but if I don't lose the mobile, she'll be apologising to a corpse.

"Everything's cool," I tell her, extracting her arms from around my neck. "Now go to your dorm before you get in trouble."

"What's the matter?"

I squirm in my impatience to get away as more kids file past us. "Nothing. Talk tomorrow after breakfast."

"Are you still mad with me?" she asks, crying even more.

As the last of the kids disappear upstairs, I allow myself to relax a fraction. "No, I just need to do something really important."

"What?"

I open my mouth to make up some lie, anything, when what I dreaded most in the world happened. Parker gets a text.

Hand diving into my pocket, I fumble to silence the beeps as Chrissie stares at me open mouthed. She's my twin, she's been with me forever, but she looks at me as if I'm a stranger.

"Chrissie, I never took it — someone put it in my bag."

She knows I'm no thief, but I still can't breathe as I wait to see what she's going to do.

"All right," she says, panting hard. "What are you going to do with it?"

"He's going to give it back to Mr Parker," says a voice behind me, and when I turn round, I realise Spencer's heard everything.

I played this murderer once. Mrs Brown taught me how to get the audience's sympathy by showing as much guilt as I did rage and violence. I lived the guilt so long, I puked after my first night, but that's nothing to the guilt that pounds through me now.

"You've got it all wrong..." I never took Parker's mobile, but not owning up — trying to dump it, it feels like I did.

"No?" says Spencer, his voice as cold as his black eyes. "So you're not a dirty, lowlife thief?"

"No!" I cry, keeping myself between him and Chrissie. "Someone put it—"

"Yeah, right," says Spencer, refusing to hear me out. "Tell that to Parker!"

In my panic, I grab his arm to stop him, to try one more time to convince him, but he's too mad to listen, and the next thing I know, he's smacked me so hard, it sounded like a crack of thunder going off inside my brain.

As his fist comes swinging towards my face for a second time, something goes off inside me, and launching myself at him, we both crash to the ground in a tangled mess.

Fighting in the films is like choreographed dancing; real fighting, it's all over the place. My chest heaving as we punch and kick each other, I somehow manage to get on top in one last attempt to get him to listen to me, when Parker grabs my arm and yanks me to my feet.

"Care to explain yourselves?"

Breathless, the tension rips me even further apart as I wait to see if Spencer's going to tell.

"Well?" Parker demands, hauling Spencer to his feet with his other hand so we're both dangling like puppets in his grasp.

Spencer wipes his bloody nose with the back of his hand. He's going to blab. One look at his twisted face was all I needed to know I was doomed.

"Jarvis was the one..."

I brace myself for it. I have no defence. I've been set up good and proper, and then everything gets completely out of control when I see Chrissie leaving the staffroom.

"It's all my fault," she tells Parker and the two prefects who've come downstairs for a closer look. "I've been really upset, and Robert, I mean Spencer, was being really nice..."

For a terrifying moment, I think Chrissie's going to take the fall for me, just like that time I was run over pushing her out of the way of that jeep. She'd die for me too.

"Rich gets really jealous when I spend time with other guys..."

What? What's she saying all this rubbish for? I never get jealous, and since when has she ever had a boyfriend?

"He must have seen Spencer holding my hand and got the wrong idea," she goes on, sniffing back a couple of tears. "So you see, Mr Parker, it's all my fault."

"Is she the reason you two were fighting?" Parker asks us.

Spencer's not going to go for it. He may have been running around after Chrissie all day, but he isn't going to risk being mixed up with Parker's stolen mobile. Luckily for me, I'm saved a second time from an unlikely source.

"What's going on?" Wilson demands, glaring at my torn shirt.

"Just trying to establish here why Jarvis and Spencer are trying to kill each other."

"Well, this is a night for drama." Wilson exclaims, stepping round us to go into the staffroom. "Theft, fighting, whatever..." He breaks off as he bends down to get his newspaper and sees Parker's mobile for the first time. "Is this what you were looking for, Mr Parker?"

Releasing me and Spencer, Parker steps inside and stares in astonishment at his missing mobile.

"Must have had one celebration whisky too many," Wilson says with a condescending smirk. "I'll go and tell the Head it was a false alarm."

I exchange glances with Spencer and know with certainty — I can feel the cold sweat running down my back — that this isn't over for me, not by a long way.

#  Chapter 17

Standing shoulder to shoulder with Spencer in front of Parker's desk, my insides turn into a complex array of knots. I'd have rather been caught with his stupid mobile and been put on the next plane back to Mumbai, but now there's nothing I can do. If I tell the truth, Chrissie's going to get into a whole load of trouble for helping me, and in this crazy place, that could mean anything.

"Which one of you was it?" Parker demands, his face as purple as our school ties.

To my surprise, Spencer's still keeping quiet.

"I know I didn't leave it in the staffroom," he hisses, so pumped up with anger the veins on his neck look like ropes. "Which means one of you two brats put it there."

Not sure what to do, I keep my hands behind my back and my mouth shut as the guilt slowly throttles me.

"Very well," Parker mutters after the silence becomes too painful for all of us. "Loss of privileges for the next ten days."

I freeze as I wait for Spencer to say something; there's no way he'll get punished for me, but once again he keeps his mouth shut and just stares straight ahead.

"Do you have something to say, Jarvis?" Baxter barks.

I shake my head.

"Good," he growls. "Now get the hell out of my office!"

As I lead the way out of Parker's office, Spencer grabs my arm.

"Bathroom," he whispers in my ear. "Twenty minutes, and if you say anything about this, you're dead!"

I'm still shaking inside and out when I get back to the dorm. I'm not mad at Spencer, even though he's cut my lip and my right eye's turning black.

"Are you all right, Jarvis?" Hermit asks as I sit on my bed, staring at the faded blue carpet.

"Why wouldn't I be?" He's being nice, but I don't need nice. I need to find out who set me up.

"What were you fighting about?"

"None of your business!" I get up, unable to keep still; any moment now things are going to get really nasty for me.

"But—"

"Stay out of it, Hermit." By picking on him, it somehow makes me feel better, and then I realise who it is, who stitched me up!

It's the only explanation. I was getting on with everyone like I always do. Loads of kids signed up for Quasi, and when I scored the winning try, even a group of sixth formers came over to tell me what a great bloke I was. There was only one person who'd be better off with me demoted to enemy number one — the guy who's sharing my dorm.

"It was you, wasn't it?" I shove him hard so he falls back on his bed. "It was you, you little shit!"

Shaking like the coward he is, he scrambles away from me. "Jarvis, what's this about?"

"Don't play dumb," I snarl, drawing back my fist with every intention of smashing his scrawny little face in. "You tried to stitch me up so you wouldn't get your own puny arse kicked all term!"

He shakes his head, now looking terrified and confused. Either he's putting on an Oscar-worthy performance, or he really doesn't have anything to do with it. I decide he's a good actor.

"You!" I say, giving him another shove. "You, Hermit—" Like in every good film, I am going to have it spell it all out, how he hatched a plan to bring an end to his bullying by setting me up as a thief, but before I can launch into my speech, I'm joined by Baxter and Finny.

My stomach tenses as Baxter crosses his huge arms. Looks like Spencer's been blabbing, and getting ready to fight my way out, I square up to Baxter because he's the biggest.

"Way to go, Jarvis," Baxter says, and I realise he isn't glaring at me; he's glaring at Hermit. "About time you put the little squirt in his place."

As my mind scrambles around to figure out what's going on, Finny smacks Hermit around the head.

"Get his glasses!" Baxter tells him.

Finny grabs them, and while he goofs around, doing a good impression of Hermit, the real Hermit legs it — pathetic.

Still sniggering, Finny removes Hermit's glasses and chucks them on his bed. "So, what's the deal with you and Spencer?"

I gulp and wait to see if they're going to turn on me. "Don't you know?"

They both shake their heads.

"Spencer won't say," Baxter explains. "He's being as mysterious as you."

I don't know whether to feel relieved or even more stressed, but the way my stomach's turned into a tornado, I think I'm stressed, and feeling like I'm performing to a full house having forgotten all my lines, I go off to meet Spencer and find him alone at the bank of white washbasins, brushing his teeth.

It's like one of those old cowboy films where the two gunmen face off to each other at high noon, only we're in a cold, sterile bathroom, armed with towels and a wash bag, but it's no less tense.

Cool as anything, Spencer continues to brush his teeth, with cotton wool plugging up his left nostril. His only other visible injury is a graze on his forehead.

"Thanks for not saying anything."

Still blanking me, he spits into the bowl before wiping his mouth clean on his white hand towel.

"Someone planted it in my bag." I don't know why I keep trying to tell him when he's in no mood to listen, but things like this don't happen to me. I'm popular. I'm everyone's best friend, and I don't know how to be anything else.

"If you don't want me telling everyone you're a thief," he warns me, sounding as menacing as Samuel L Jackson in _Pulp Fiction_ , "you'll stay away from me and my friends, you won't come in the common room, and you'll only go to the village when I've got a polo match."

The one single thing that stops me from telling Spencer where he could stick his polo mallet is that if I were him, I'd be doing the same.

"The only reason I'm keeping quiet is because of your sister," he explains. "She's got no idea of the trouble she'd be in saving your neck, and I don't want to see her going through hell because her brother's scum."

I don't know why but I feel like thanking him, and if I had taken the stupid mobile, I would have. But I'm innocent. "I told you, I didn't take it — I was framed!"

"And who would want to do that?" he asks with hate-filled sarcasm.

Even though I'm convinced Hermit's done it, I can't say his name, but I must have a guardian angel watching my back, because Hermit chooses that exact second to come and clean up after taking another pasting.

We lock eyes, and I glare at him, then without warning, Spencer throws me up against the wall and presses his forearm across my neck.

"Get lost, Hermit!" Spencer tells him, never taking his eyes off me.

Hermit does what he's told, leaving me spluttering for air as Spencer uses his full weight to crush my neck.

"You really are lowlife scum, Jarvis!"

I swallow as I realise Spencer thinks I'm being a snitch, when all I was doing was... well, I don't know what I was doing, but I didn't mean to grass Hermit up... "Spencer, it's not what you think."

Now morphing into Jack Nicholson in _The Shining_ when he was possessed and trying to break into that hotel bedroom to murder his wife and son, Spencer presses even harder.

"I didn't mean... I was thinking..." I babble as I gasp for air. I can't help it; this is getting completely out of control.

"It wasn't Hermit," he hisses as I continue to splutter. "And do you know how I know it wasn't him?"

I shake my head as much as the pressure on my throat will allow.

"Because Hermit's just got out of sickbay," he tells me, almost spitting the words in my face. "He had an asthma attack this afternoon after I pretended to drop his violin out the window."

Suddenly I hate myself more than I hate the real thief, as I realise I've just made poor Hermit's life even worse when he was only trying to be nice.

"I might not be able to tell the masters what really happened," he explains, speaking each word as a threat. "But by the time I finish with you, you'll be wishing I had!"

Succeeding in pushing him off, I pull myself tall to show him he's not got to me, even though I'm crapping myself.

"You broke The Code," he says, stabbing me in the chest with his finger. "And now I'm going to break you!"

#  Chapter 18

Stretched out on my bed, staring at the ceiling, I press the backlight on my watch to discover it's only midnight. Every hour passes with the pain of ten Latin lessons. I'm almost looking forward to getting up at 4:45 a.m., before I remember tomorrow's Sunday and we don't have rugby practice.

Turning my back on Hermit because I can't look at him without feeling sick, my thoughts continue to race. I'm not used to things like this happening to me. I get on with everyone. Always have. That's not to say I haven't had fights — what guy hasn't? But we're talking scraps, nothing serious. Certainly nothing like this.

I check my watch again, eyes throbbing in time with the second hand. Ten past midnight. Shit. I rub my face and try to think who could possibly have it in for me, and what, if anything, I can say to Spencer to get him to back off. One thing's for sure... I'm not going to let him kick me about like he does Hermit. I'm going to sort this out. But who would set me up? I've only been here a couple of weeks, and so far the only people I've pissed off have been the teachers, which made me even more popular, unless... unless it was an accident, and the person just hid Parker's mobile in my bag when they panicked.

That makes sense. It was an accident. The only difference is whoever did it isn't going to confess. I'm going to have to turn detective. So who could it be?

It had to be someone in the Main Hall, someone who was near me, because I put my camera bag in the cardboard box where Jones keeps his chess board and all his other games.

It wasn't Jones, and it wasn't Baxter or Finny — they never left the hall all night. Don't think it was Spencer either, unless he tried to stitch me up to take the heat off himself. No, forget that — I'm just mad at him because he didn't believe me, just like Fiona was mad because I wouldn't give her a bigger part...

That's it — Fiona did it! She had the motive, and she had the opportunity. I saw her leave the hall loads of times, and with something to go on, I finally fall asleep, only to find myself trapped in this nightmare where Spencer's put posters up all round the school telling everyone it was me.

#  Chapter 19

Unsure what I'm going to be walking into, I put on my headphones to make out I'm listening to music even though they're not plugged into anything. When I enter the communal bathroom, everyone is checking out my black eye.

"Bet Parker's well embarrassed," Jones says as I brush my teeth. "No wonder he gave you and Spencer such a hard time."

Ignoring Spencer as he shoots death rays from his eyes on his way to the shower, I go back to brushing my teeth.

"Did you really start a fight with him to warn him off your sister?" Jones asks me for the twentieth time that morning.

I grunt a "nothing" reply to keep Chrissie out of it.

"I told you before," Jones tells me, refusing to let it drop. "Spencer wouldn't mess her around."

I don't correct him.

"So was Parker really drunk?" he asks, not noticing I don't want to talk.

I shrug. "Wilson winding him up didn't help."

"Bet it didn't; they hate each other..." And as Jones goes on to tell me all about some argument they had years ago, I go back to planning how I'm going to prove to Spencer I'm not the thief.

I go down to breakfast on my own. More stares and whispers as the girls check out the results of Spencer's fist. I try not to let it get to me, but it's not easy when you're hiding a secret the size of the next Star Wars plot, and grabbing a bowl of cornflakes, I sit at the empty table near the girls so I can spy on Fiona.

She smiles when she sees me. I smile back and proceed to use my Empire magazine as camouflage so I can sneak quick peeks at her. She doesn't look like she feels guilty or disappointed I'm not excommunicated — then again, she does keep trying to tell me what a good actress she is.

"What you doing on your own?" Finny asks, sitting next to me with a huge tray of eggs, bacon, and toast.

"Just felt like it," I tell him, hoping he'll go away; I can't afford to piss Spencer off anymore until I'm in the clear.

"God, you don't like her, do you?" he asks, making a huge sandwich of two fried eggs and bacon. "She's a right high-maintenance diva."

"She is?" I ask casually as he bites into the gross sandwich he's concocted, cemented with a lake of ketchup.

"I thought you had a girlfriend."

"I do," I say, chewing on a mouthful of soggy cornflakes. "I just want to know a bit more about Fiona."

"Nothing much to tell," Finny says after downing a pint of milk. "I went out with her last year until I realised what a bitch she is."

I sit up. "What happened?"

"I got her the wrong handbag for her birthday," he explains, rolling his eyes. "She wanted Bulgari, but I couldn't get it, so I got her this Hermes one instead, and after she shouted at me in front of my mates and called me a self-obsessed rugby moron, I dumped her."

I knew it. It was her, but after getting it so wrong with Hermit, I've got to make doubly sure. "So is she going to give me grief until I give her a bigger part in Quasi?"

Finny nods. "Just give her the part she wants unless you want a permanent headache."

"And what if I don't?" I ask, pushing him for more info. "Wouldn't she do anything else?"

He stares at me blankly. "Like what?"

Now my heart's on high alert for a completely different reason; even a rugby-obsessed moron like Finny will be able to figure out why Spencer and I were fighting if he thinks this is about Parker's mobile.

"I think someone tampered with my camera," I explain, keeping my voice low. "Deleted a load of footage I took—"

"Well, it wasn't me!"

"I didn't—" I stop, not sure what to say; I'd completely forgotten about Finny borrowing my camera, but before I get chance to apologise, put things right, Spencer saunters over. Judging by the way he's shooting another round of laser fire from his eyes, I realise he thinks I'm accusing Finny. Great, my timing sucks big time.

"All right, Spencer?" Finny asks, continuing to devour his gross full English breakfast sandwich. "Want to join us?"

Spencer's top lip curls into a classic gangster sneer. "Not with him."

"Give it a rest, Spencer..." Finny breaks off when it's clear Spencer isn't interested in making up.

"Stay out of it!" Spencer warns him just as Jones comes running over to see what's going on. "And, Jarvis, remember what I said, unless you want things getting even more unpleasant?"

Perhaps it's because I'm not used to being threatened, but I can't think of any smart comeback.

"Spencer" — Jones sighs — "whatever this is—"

"What did I just say?" Spencer looks just like my dad if you dare to disagree with him, and just like Finny, Jones backs down.

"Sorry, Spencer," he apologises under this immense pressure of silent rage. "But there's stuff..."

"Not interested!" Spencer snarls, not caring that everyone's stopped eating to see if there's going to be another fight. "Finny, a word."

"You two need to sort things out," Finny tells me, scrambling to his feet to go running after Spencer. "And before our next game."

"You better go too, Jones," I say; his discomfort at having to choose between me and Spencer makes me feel even worse.

He opens his mouth to apologise then stops when Chrissie wanders over with her breakfast tray. "I'll try to sort things. See you later."

"What's going on?" she asks, sitting down next to me. "You didn't tell him, did you?"

I shake my head, my stomach going crazy as the three of them sit down and start whispering. "No, like everyone else, he thinks I started it because I'm the jealous-brother type."

"I had to say something," she protests. "Has Spencer said anything about me putting Parker's mobile in the staffroom?"

I cringe, hoping no one heard, but by the way Finny's now glaring at me, I'm betting he did.

"Sorry," Chrissie apologises, looking as terrified as I feel. "I couldn't sleep last night worrying what was happening to you."

"I'm fine," I say, taking hold of her shaking hand in an effort to stop her from freaking out and getting us into even more trouble. "If you hadn't done what you did, Spencer would have told Parker for sure."

"He didn't report you?" she looks just as surprised as I had.

"No," I reply, keeping my voice to a whisper. "And he isn't going to either."

"Why?"

I don't want to frighten her any more than I have to, but in this insane place, who knows what would happen to her if one of the others finds out she's involved. "Chrissie, he's only keeping quiet so you don't get into trouble too, so you need to keep away from him until I can sort this mess out."

"But you said he's not going to do anything."

"He wasn't, but..." I break off, not wanting to tell her this part. I don't want her to see me as one of her Goldmeads bullies. "I thought I knew who it was. It wasn't, and Spencer now thinks I'm a grass on top of everything else. So keep a low profile and don't say anything until I find out who did it."

"But he didn't report you."

"Doesn't matter; he thinks I'm a snitch and a thief!"

"So?"

"You do realise what would have happened if I'd got caught?"

She nods, "No one would talk to you."

"And the rest, Chrissie!" I can't believe I have to spell it out in block capitals. "The other guy killed himself."

I know I'd said too much even before I blurt out my own fear. Not many people have experienced bullying to such extremes that they've wanted to kill themselves, but Chrissie has, and I've just reminded her in the cruellest way.

"Chrissie, I'm sorry." Hugging her to me as she cries freely into my shoulder, I swallow my own terror as I make the mistake of looking up and catching Spencer's furious gaze. He looks just like Damien in _Omen II_ now; luckily for me, he doesn't have the power of Satan to call upon — at least I hope he doesn't.

"I'll sort it out," I promise, pausing to thank a girl who runs over with a stack of napkins.

Chrissie sits up to reveal a river of black mascara tears running down her face.

"Are you going to be okay?" I ask, handing her a napkin.

She nods and dabs at her eyes. "Do you know who it is?"

"Maybe," I reply as I watch Fiona head out with her friend. "It'll be all right — I promise."

#  Chapter 20

After Chrissie leaves for her riding lesson, I hide myself in the depths of the library to draw up a list of possible suspects and their motives. It's not Finny, even though he had the opportunity. All he cares about is rugby, so there's no way he'd have hidden the mobile in my bag even if he did take it. Of course that rules out Baxter and the rest of the rugby squad, and I'd bet my life it's not Jones, which just leaves me with Fiona and Spencer.

Chewing the top of my pencil in an effort to get inspiration, I look down at my lame list of motives. I didn't give some girl I hardly know the lead role in my film, and the billionaire son of my dad's new boss did it because he didn't like me hanging around with his best friend. This isn't as easy as they make it look in the films.

Annoyed I can't think of a single reason why anyone would have taken Parker's mobile, and it was just bad luck it ended up in my bag, I head back to my dorm and walk straight into Baxter and Finny.

"Going somewhere, Jarvis?" Baxter asks me, somehow managing to make himself look even bigger.

I swallow as I realise in the two hours I've been away, Spencer's blabbed big time. As I see it, I can try to talk my way out of it, ignore it, take the offensive, or laugh it off. I decide to take the offensive. Baxter doesn't look like he's in the mood to talk.

"Yes, to my room!" I say it with attitude, and hope he can't hear the fear in my voice, but Baxter doesn't budge.

"I don't think so," he says, taking a step forward. "Not until I give you a little something to think about."

My whole body goes stiff as anger-infused fear surges through me. "I didn't take it."

"Yes," says Baxter, all sarcastic-like. "Spencer said you'd try to squirm your way out of it."

"It wasn't me." I say it again in the smallest hope he'll listen. "Why would I do it? I'm not that stupid!"

"Oh, I don't know," Baxter says. "You're stupid enough to dress up as a girl and film it."

"And bully your sister into covering up for you," Finny adds with even more malice.

"What?" Confusion clouds the fear and anger summersaulting my stomach into the worst-ever stage fright.

"You heard!" Baxter shoves me so I hard I almost trip over my own feet as I stumble back into the wall. "What kind of lowlife scum are you?"

In the crazy messed-up terror whizzing round my head, I don't know what to say. It's like watching a film on x8 speed — it's all happening too quickly for me to take in, and turning round, I do what I should have done when I first found that stupid mobile in my bag.

Shaking inside and out, I knock on Parker's door, sweat breaking out all over my body when I realise Finny and Baxter look highly amused instead of scared.

"Come in."

I take a deep breath and push down on the door handle. It's one thing acting brave, but it doesn't make you brave inside, and hoping I'm not going to hurl up soggy cornflakes, I step inside to find Spencer's beaten me to it.

This time there's an undertone of smugness when he glares at me, and feeling like I'm walking across a carpet of cockroaches, I stand alongside him.

"Thank you, Spencer," says Parker, dismissing him. "You can leave this with me now."

I was right. He's definitely pleased with himself as he shoves past me on his way out.

"Don't try to deny it," Parker warns me as he squeezes a rugby ball between his two hands. "There's only one thing I want to know."

I know I'm only making it even worse for myself, but I'm not going to take the blame for something I didn't do. "It wasn't me, sir. I found it in my—" He cuts me off mid-sentence by slamming the ball on his desk, making everything and me jump.

"Save it for the headmaster!" he roars, rising to his feet. "You broke The Code — it's up to the headmaster now whether he's willing to rehabilitate you."

Twenty minutes later, I'm in the Head's office, and in keeping with his whole vampire-image thing, his gloomy office is complete with a coat of arms, creepy fireplace, and vomiting stone gargoyle that looks like it's puking on top of his grey head.

"You've brought shame on yourself, your family, and the entire school."

I stand still and quiet and fix my eyes on the glass eagle paperweight that sits in the middle of his mahogany desk. I thought I'd feel sick, but I don't feel anything except this strange kind of numbness; I still can't believe this is real and not some screenplay.

"Why did you steal Mr Parker's mobile?" the Head asks me again.

"I didn't, sir." Expelled or sentenced to a year with no privileges and no friends, whatever happens to me, I'm as good as dead, but I'm still not going to confess to something I didn't do.

"So why didn't you go to Mr Parker?" he demands. "Why force your sister to hide it?"

"I panicked, sir," I reply, relieved I can answer at least one of his questions honestly. "And Chrissie..." I stop. I can't do this to her. Me, I'm getting expelled for sure. She won't — she'll be left here all alone, and because of this stupid Code thing, it'll be Goldmeads all over again.

"Well?" the headmaster prompts.

I swallow, dig deep into my vast acting repertoire to find some courage to get me through the next few minutes, and hope they don't realise I'm lying. "And when Chrissie refused to help, I told her I'd tell everyone she'd taken Mr Parker's mobile."

Neither of them says anything for a long time.

"You do realise what will happen if I decide to expel you?" says the Head.

I nod; I'm ready for this.

"You're a straight-A student, Jarvis, and according to Mr Parker, a very promising fly-half. It's so very disappointing honesty isn't a quality you possess in the same abundance."

I don't know whether to say anything, so I don't, this surreal numbness making everything sound all hot and fuzzy.

"I'll be speaking with your father," he goes on. "But in this instance, I will not press to have you excluded, if you make a public apology for your actions."

I swallow, but my mouth is still as dry as James Bond's martini. I have no choice. If I don't, Dad will kill me for messing up his deal, and Chrissie... I can't even go there. "Thank you, sir."

He nods. "There's no other school in the land that will put you back on the right path. It won't be easy, but at least you'll have a bright future you can be proud of if you have the strength of character to see this year through."

I hear myself mumble another "Thank you, sir," but I can't be sure. I can't process any of this.

"Detention for the next month," he tells me. "No more trips and excursions, and _no_ calls home for the rest of the term. Of course, if you admit to taking the mobile, I may consider giving you one call home a month."

I don't even have to think about it, even though in the silent weeks ahead, those phone calls to Beth will be the only things that stop me from going crazy. "I didn't take the mobile, sir."

"So you keep saying!" snaps the Head. "But that doesn't change the fact it was found in your possession, and you forced your vulnerable sister into aiding and abetting you and put one of our most promising students in an impossible dilemma."

When he puts it like that (if that's how it happened), I'd hate me too, but it didn't happen like that, and unfortunately for me, there's nothing I can say in my defence without dragging Chrissie into all of this mess. "I'm sorry, sir."

"So you should be," the Head tells me. "You're dismissed, Jarvis, and I don't want to see you in my office again!"

#  Chapter 21

By the time morning assembly arrives, they all know, even without access to Twitter and Snapchat. I'm completely empty inside when the Head escorts me onto the stage. It's probably a good thing, because I've forgotten all my lines.

I'm supposed to confess. Lie. But lying put me into this position, and lying isn't going to get me out of this either. I need to be honest. Hope enough of them can see I'm telling the truth and doubt the lies being spread by the person who stole the mobile and told Spencer I'd been planning to blame Chrissie.

Taking my position right of the Head, who towers above me in the floor-length black cape behind the podium, I wait for my cue, eyes fixed on a worn floorboard. I can't let Chrissie see how terrified I am. She'll try to help, and I can't...

"You all know Mr Parker's mobile was taken without permission," the Head begins.

Standing there in the all-consuming silence, the Head's sombre voice resonates around the Main Hall in full Dolby surround sound.

"Richard Jarvis is the student responsible," he continues. "He did not own up even when confronted, and the only reason I have decided not to expel him is for the simple reason that he is willing to submit to The Code."

Hoping no one can hear my pounding heart, I try and fail again to contain the tremors in my fingers as my stomach continues to wriggle and squirm.

"Over the years, The Code has helped other students get back on the right path, and Jarvis would like to ask for your help to make him see the errors of his ways."

That's my cue. Somehow, not sure how, I manage to get behind the podium without tripping over my feet after that damning press statement demeaning me as a lowlife thief and coward.

"Thank you, Headmaster." I'm talking, but just like everything else that's happened in the last forty-eight hours, it doesn't seem real.

"I'm sorry." It would be so much easier to deliver the lines, confess I took it, but I'm not going to do that — even if it is going to make things a whole lot worse. "I'm sorry I didn't go straight to Mr Parker and tell the truth."

This isn't going to end when school's over. I need to clear my name. Dad made it perfectly clear last night when he shouted at me down the phone. I've put him in an impossible position with his new boss. I didn't need him telling me that. I know the only thing to make things right is to find the real culprit. Spencer, he's just playing by the rules.

"I'm truly sorry for what's happened," I continue, conscious my voice is now shaking so much I sound like I'm vibrating. "And I—"

"Are you sorry about trying to blame your sister too?" Baxter interrupts, glaring up at me with folded arms.

Instinct makes me turn to Chrissie, who's sobbing into her hands as Poppy and Jones do their best to comfort her. Whoever did this, I hope they're happy with themselves, because they haven't just hurt me. They've hurt Chrissie too, and that's unforgivable.

"You have no idea how bad I feel about hurting her," I finally manage to reply to Baxter's question, which is going to guarantee me a kicking from every guy here. "If you were a twin, you'd know it too."

He doesn't say anything, just glares at me with the full force of his hatred, but me, now I've seen what all of this is doing to Chrissie... I bite on my lip and suck the tears back inside. I have to stay strong. If I don't, I'm going to crack like the other guy, and then whoever it is has won. Captain Howard never surrendered. Nor am I.

"Remorse is the first step on the path of correction," says the Head, placing a hand on my shoulder. "Now, let's all stand and sing hymn 24 — 'Rock of Ages.'"

* * *

The day passed in a haze of silence, elbows, and paperclip missiles, and when everyone else was chilling out in the dorms, I was scrubbing toilets and urinals — the first of a number of humiliating detentions planned out for the month ahead.

I finally finish an hour before bed, and after failing to get the stench of piss off my hands, I find Chrissie waiting for me in the deserted and darkened corridor, still wearing her uniform.

"Are you all right?" she asks.

I shrug. It's pointless lying to her; she can see right through me. "You shouldn't be here. You're not allowed to talk to me, remember?"

"I know," she stammers, biting on her lip. "But I needed to see you."

"I'm fine," I say with no real conviction. "What about you?"

She doesn't say anything at first, and my heart momentarily stops.

"You're not getting any grief, are you?"

She shakes her head. "They just keep saying how sorry they are I've got you as a brother."

"Good," I say, even though it makes me want to cry. "Now you better go before anyone sees you."

"But—"

"But nothing, Chrissie." I can already feel the first trickle of a tear as I struggle to stop myself giving in to the fear of going back to the dorm. "I'm not going through all of this so you'll get picked on too. Why else do you think I let them think I was going to blame you?"

She shrinks back, but she still doesn't go.

"I promised I'd look after you," I continue, trying to make her understand. "I promised you it wouldn't be another Goldmeads, and this was the only way to do it."

Crying, she nods.

"Someone here really hates me," I stammer on. "Planting Parker's mobile in my camera bag was deliberate, and whoever told Spencer I was going to blame you is the person behind it. So be careful; the only way they can hurt me anymore is if they hurt you."

"Okay." She sniffs, taking a step nearer. "But they can't mean for me to not talk to you — we're twins."

"I don't think they care about things like that." I sigh, sinking back against the wall as it all gets too much again.

"Do you remember what you said to me before we came here?"

I shake my head.

"You said I'd never be alone because I've always got you. Well, you have me too, and no matter what, we're going to meet up every day — just you and me. That way you'll know you're not alone."

It takes all my strength not to hug her. I always thought Chrissie needed me to look after her. I thought she was weak, but she isn't, I see that now — her eyes are strong and bright.

"I know what it's like, Rich," she continues. "I've been there, remember?"

I know she has, and I love her too much to put her through all that again, and that's why I pull my hand away. "You don't have to talk to me."

"I know," she assures me. "But I want to."

I look at her, really look. She's always been so timid and scared, but she isn't anymore. Somehow, Beth's makeover really made her strong.

"Please, Rich," she begs me. "Let me help you — you really don't want to go through all of this on your own."

#  Chapter 22

_Groundhog Day_ starts again, only unlike Bill Murray, I need to find out who stole Parker's mobile to stop the repeating sequence of events.

"Positions!" says Parker, blowing his whistle. "Now, ladies!"

Parker's in a foul mood. He refuses to abandon practice even though it's too dark to see the ball, it's raining, and there's such a strong wind if you throw against it, the ball comes right back and smacks you in the face.

"Put some effort into it!" Parker yells as we sprint back and forth between the centre and ten-metre line. "We've got a cup match next weekend!"

"And that's the only reason we're leaving you alone," Baxter tells me as we touch the ten-metre line at the same time. "But we've still got a few surprises lined up."

They sure do. Someone's swapped my hair gel for some kind of grease I can't wash out, and then someone filled my shoes and rugby boots with shower gel, and by the time I get my spare pair of shoes from my room (after walking barefoot through the school because someone else threw my socks into the toilet), I've missed breakfast and I'm late for assembly, which gets me another detention!

I walk down corridors, avoiding elbows and feet determined to trip me up, the constant whispering feeling like needles in my brain.

"Watch it, Jarvis," says some prefect as I go tripping over his outstretched leg. "Don't want to be late for your next class."

I manage to stay upright, but I drop my books, and as I scramble around for them, some girl kicks my pencil case halfway across the hallway.

More laughter as I crawl between the minefield of legs to retrieve my pencil case. Fortunately for me, it lands at Chrissie's feet.

She goes to pick it up, but I shake my head to warn her not to help, and for once, she does as I ask — a bit too well.

"Arsehole!" she sneers, not looking like my sister at all; her eyes are so angry. "I told you to stay away from me!"

I'm glad we spoke the other night. If we hadn't, I'd be a hundred percent convinced she hates me as much as everyone else.

"Sorry," I find myself stammering, and it's not an act, because Chrissie's acting enough for both of us.

"Not interested!" she tells me, using the tip of her shoe to send my pencil case crashing into the wall.

Feeling too vulnerable on my knees, I push myself to my feet as Chrissie and the other girls burst into hysterics. Even though I tower over them, I still feel small.

"Way to go, Chrissie!" says Poppy, giving her a high five as they head into the classroom. "Didn't I tell you you'd feel better..."

But I don't catch what they are saying. Reminding myself Chrissie's on my side and this is just an act, I follow them into history, and after suffering forty minutes of being pelted with stationery missiles, followed by a double dose of Latin and more missiles, it's lunchtime, and that's when the fun really starts.

Sandwiched between Baxter and Finny, I manage to fork the occasional mouthful of food between being elbowed in the ribs and having my toes stamped on.

"Milk?" asks Baxter, holding up the jug.

I shake my head. "No, thanks."

"Sure?" he says. "Milk's good for you. Strong bones and all that. You should have some."

I freeze as he fills my glass, waiting for him to pour it over me or my shepherd's pie, but he doesn't. He just part-fills my glass and puts the jug down.

"Cheers," says Finny, raising his glass.

I look at him, but I can't figure out what he's up to behind the fake grin.

"Come on," he says again. "To victory next week."

Parker's watching, so I can't not join in, and even though I know he's going to pour it on me, I pick up my glass and tap it to his, just as Baxter barges me, and sure enough — two glasses of milk go all over my shirt and trousers.

The rest of the day passes in cold silences and nasty whispers, and then it's time for study hall. Somehow, I manage to put together a half-decent essay justifying Shylock's behaviour, and with an hour still to kill, I decide to write a long letter to Beth.

I normally tell her everything — what I ate for breakfast, stupid things Jones and I talk about, and how crap it is getting up every morning to play rugby. But I don't tell her what's happened and that Spencer and everyone else thinks I'm a thief; writing it down makes it real, and I'll have to deal with it. I tell her about my ideas for my documentary, ask how all the guys are, and tell her how much I miss her. Then I get up and go, but not before Baxter trips me up.

Everyone laughs, and my ears burn from the humiliation of being made a fool of again.

"Where do you think you're going?" As usual, Bollinger's reading his Greek myths, feet resting on his desk.

"Upstairs," I say, my insides still shaking from the weird mix of anger and shame that seems to be following me everywhere these days. "I've finished."

"Not until I say you have," says Bollinger, and eyes never leaving his book, he holds out his hand. "Homework."

Under everyone's gaze, I hand him my textbook, and Bollinger flicks through it, bored and calculating.

"Average," he mutters, reading my arguments why Shylock was right to ask for his pound of flesh. "C minus if you're lucky."

I don't know what to say; I still don't know how to deal with being hated. It's like being told to cover for the lead actor in a play when you've never even read the script.

"Is homework the only thing you've been working on?" Bollinger asks, handing back my textbook.

I can tell just by the way his brown eyes sparkle he knows I've written a letter to Beth. "No, I've written a letter to my girlfriend."

"Hand it over."

"No, it's private!" I don't care if I'm getting into even more trouble. I'm not going to let him make a fool of me the way he does Hermit.

"You know the rules, Jarvis!" he tells me, keeping the straightest of faces. "I need to check all letters to ensure you're not telling any porkies about the school."

Spencer leads everyone in a splattering of laughter as Bollinger snatches my letter.

"Oh, this is nice," says Bollinger, grinning when he reaches the second page. "The only good thing about being stuck in here is getting a letter from you every day. I can't believe it took me four years to realise you're the only girl for me."

I bite down hard to stop myself from exploding as the laughter gets louder.

"Three more weeks till the first exeat weekend," Bollinger continues, doing a poor job mimicking my West London accent. "Can't wait to get you on the casting sofa... Really, Jarvis, your chat-up lines are lamer than a quadriplegic leper."

More laughter, and I swallow another ball of anger.

"So, what's this girl of yours like, Jarvis — is she a minger?"

There's too much anger to swallow this time. "No, and she wouldn't look at you twice!"

Bollinger's eyes sparkle. "You being disrespectful to a prefect, Jarvis?"

"No," I say, my chest heaving. "I'm warning you if you bad-mouth Beth again, I'll smash your face in!"

I know I've walked into his trap when a nasty smile grows on his lips and he holds out a red slip. "Congratulations," he says. "Another detention. Report to Parker before lights out."

#  Chapter 23

"Another red slip, Jarvis?" says Parker, waving my sixth detention card in my face. It also happens to be the exact number of times I missed the easiest tries and dropkicks, which saw us crashing out of the Northern Counties Under 16s. "Care to explain yourself?"

I've done nothing wrong. I didn't break the chair in the common room; Finny and Baxter did when they tried to get me after I lost the game. I did my Latin homework; Spencer just failed to hand it in when he collected up the papers, but what can I do? It's my word against everyone else's.

"I don't know what to say." He sighs. "To date, your only contribution to this school has been on the rugby pitch, and after yesterday's debacle, I'll be crossing that off the list."

I know I messed up and it's my fault we lost, but it's impossible to be a team on the pitch when we're enemies the rest of the time.

"Loss of privileges, as you know, means no trips to the village, no excursions, and absolutely no calls home, but in this instance, I'm going to let you speak with your parents."

This time I decide to speak. "Thank you, sir."

"Don't thank me, Jarvis," he says, leaning back in his chair. "I intend to be speaking with your parents about your behaviour."

I shudder in anticipation of Dad freaking out again — that is, if he can drag himself away from his Blackberry. "Yes, sir."

"Well," he says, pointing towards the door, "you know the drill."

I thank him (no idea what for), and in no hurry to get shouted at, I go downstairs to the old-fashioned red telephone box next to the grand staircase in the hallway and step inside.

The phone eventually rings, and when it does, my stomach's twisted into so many knots it's strangled my voice.

"RICHARD!"

I flinch as Dad barks my name at a million decibels down the ancient heavy black handset. "Hi, Dad."

"Don't you 'hi' me!" he yells. "Stealing, fighting, vandalism—"

"It wasn't me!"

"So why did the Head tell me you broke a chair after you lost the rugby match?"

"Because they think I took that mobile and—"

"Then you shouldn't have taken it!"

Everything goes as red as the telephone box. I didn't argue back when they first told Dad that I'd stolen Parker's mobile, because there wasn't much I could do when it was on speakerphone in the headmaster's office, but there's no way I'm going to let him call me a thief now. "I never took the stupid mobile. I was set up, I wrote and told you!"

"Stop trying to blame other people for your screw-ups, Richard!"

"What, like you did when you lost your job?" I know I've gone too far, but I just can't help it. I'm just so angry he doesn't believe me.

"I'm going to forget you just said that," Dad snarls. "Now, what was the one thing I told you to do?"

"To look out for Chrissie?"

"Don't get smart with me, boy!" he hisses. "I told you to make Robert your best friend, and you get into a fight with him!"

I don't believe it. He won't even hear me out. "I want to talk to Mum!"

"You're in no position to demand anything!" he tells me. "I'm going through hell to ensure I bag this deal, and I don't need you making my job any harder!"

"But—"

"But nothing!" he roars. "Now get back on with Robert, or you can forget all about that BBC internship."

#  Chapter 24

Down corridors with year-eight girls now hurling insults at me, I walk towards the post room, and for the first time that day I feel the warm hug of a smile when I find a pink envelope with Beth's big, swirly writing.

I go to the library to read it because it's a sanctuary for all the dorks and loners, who, like me, want to get away from bullying for just a few hours.

They're all here. Emily Tan from Beijing, who speaks with a lisp, is at one of the tables doing her homework, Lewis Douglas-Hamilton, the only guy in year twelve who was brave enough to come out is working on an essay, and Hermit's reading an Orson Scott-Card book — strange, I didn't think he was the sci-fi type.

I smile as I catch them all looking at me, and they immediately seek refuge behind their books, because they know if they're seen talking to me, their lives will get even worse.

I don't blame them. Being ignored hurts; it hurts just as much as being punched, and for the first time since all this happened, I realise what a scumbag I was for laying into Hermit when he was just trying to be my friend.

Sitting in the window seat behind the foreign language section, I open up Beth's letter and find a photo of Beth posing as Dorothy from _The Wizard of Oz_ , complete with a small dog.

"It's not what you think," she writes me. "I'm not going to star in a West End show, but I am going to star in an advert for Luxury Coaches!"

Her letters normally make me happy; it reminds me that in the real world I've still got friends, but the smile falls from my face before I've even had a chance to enjoy it. She'd never look twice at me now.

"I think I got the part because the script sounded like something Stew and Dave had written. I had to stand there clicking my heels together saying, 'There's no place like home,' then this bus turns up, and you see me reclining in some massage chair, sipping a latte, and watching a film on my own personal TV! It's nothing like that coach trip you and I took when we went to see _Mamma Mia_. Do you remember?"

I do; it was before I realised I wanted to be more than friends, and I kick myself all over again when I remember she kissed my cheek and I didn't kiss her back. It's amazing how you can be so blind and not see what's right in front of you.

"I know it's stupid, but I keep thinking, 'Oh my God! This could be it, my lucky break,'" she writes. "I mean, I know it's only an advert, but this is how people get spotted, isn't it?"

I nod. I know she's going to be big; Beth's magic on and off screen, and sinking down against the wall, I read all the news from back home, including all the details about Stew's first girlfriend, who, according to Beth, is as crazy as she is loud, and sings in a rock band.

"Oh yes," says Beth. "I almost forgot. Dave says you should get some of the other guys to act out some scenes in your documentary. I bet your friend Jones would. Will I meet him when we come to pick you up?"

I stop reading then. I haven't told her — I can't. Suddenly I feel very alone. I slip her letter into my back pocket and go to dinner.

It's roast chicken again. Flanked as I always am by Baxter and Finny, they talk over and around me, occasionally stabbing me with a fork. More often than not they just spit or cover my meal in salt.

Moving peas around my plate since I've suddenly lost my appetite, I narrow my eyes and try to find my nemesis amongst all the tables. Whoever it is, they're here, watching me, planning their next move, and if I keep my eyes open and watch really carefully, they'll eventually give themselves away, and I'll have them.

Films are about life, even fantasy and science fiction — they're about people and what motivates them, and the clues are there from the opening scene. In good films, the clues are so subtle they're almost invisible, but put them all together like the hero does at the end, and they're so in your face you can't believe how stupid you were not to have figured it all out.

Unfortunately for me, the person scripting the film of my life has hidden the clues too well, and the only thing I can see is that everyone's having fun. Spencer's scored a goal, or whatever it's called in polo, based on his elaborate mimes, and Chrissie's laughing so much at some story Poppy's telling her she nearly chokes on the gigantic piece of chocolate cake she's eating.

I might have disappointed Dad by failing to make Spencer my best friend, but I kept the only promise I crossed my heart and hoped to die for. Chrissie's okay, and as long as whoever it is leaves her alone, I can handle anything, and so I go back to playing with my peas, killing time until I have to go back to the dorm.

#  Chapter 25

It's Hermit that Spencer and his gang have decided to torment this time, by taking his glasses and doing the cruellest impressions of the poor bastard as he scrambles to try to get them back.

I wince for him as he makes another pathetic attempt to try to catch them before Finny slips them on and begins to mimic Hermit trying to fight, using Baxter as a sparring partner. For once, they're leaving me alone, and even though I can't afford to get into any more trouble, I can't just stand there and watch, not now that I've been there and know how rotten it feels.

"Give him back his glasses!" I say, pushing past Jones, who's on guard duty.

The silence brings an abrupt end to the sickening mob laughter as all the sheep clear the floor in anticipation for the fight they all know is going to happen.

But I'm no terminator who strikes fear into the bravest man's heart. I'm just an average guy with a big mouth who'll be lucky to get out of here alive, but at least I'll be able to look at myself again.

"Did you hear something?" asks Spencer, cupping his hand to his ear and pretending I'm not there. "I'm sure I heard someone."

The others smirk — me, I just get mad, which is a good thing; it stops me thinking about how much this is going to hurt.

"Didn't hear anything, Spencer," says Finny, and looking right through me, he chucks Hermit's glasses into one of the toilets. "Unless..."

"Unless it's that shitbag Jarvis," Baxter says, finishing Finny's sentence with a nasty smile on his face. "And if it's him, he's got ten seconds to get his scrawny butt out of here before I break both his legs; talking to him is against The Code."

Now I'm mad, and as Finny starts counting backwards from ten, I stand my ground, conscious a couple of the guys leave to man lookout positions farther down the hallway. As for Hermit, he runs — probably to barricade himself in our dorm.

"This is all very pointless," Spencer tells me, his bored voice only adding to the tension. "Hermit may be a nasty little snitch, but he won't thank you, and do you know why?"

I shake my head as Spencer approaches me.

"Because it's against The Code," he explains, his black eyes sparkling with sick delight at the prospect of seeing me hurt some more. "And even though he's a pathetic worm, Hermit honours The Code!"

"You're on your own, Jarvis," says Baxter, joining in, as he and Finny close in around me and seal off all exits. "Now, do you still want to fight?"

I punch Spencer before I think about what a bad idea this is; there's no way I'd start a fight I'm going to lose, even if I were thinking straight. But I'm not fighting to win; I'm fighting because I've got something to prove. Two seconds later, when I'm on the cold floor, my ribs burning white-hot as the three of them kick and stamp on me, I keep telling myself it doesn't matter if they think I'm a thief and a lowlife piece of scum. I know I'm not, and when I get Hermit his glasses back, I'll be one of the good guys again.

"PARKER!" someone shouts from the hallway.

I struggle through the pain and confusion onto my hands and knees as everyone runs for cover.

"Toilets!" I think Spencer is talking. I can't be sure, because all I can hear are my guts screaming out in agony.

"Move!" It is Spencer talking. I realise that when he shoves me into the first open toilet cubicle. "And keep your mouth shut if you know what's good for you!"

Still only able to see brown-and-red spots exploding, I kind of fall onto the toilet seat and somehow manage to pull the bolt across before Parker bursts in.

"What's going on?" Parker knows there's been a fight; even in the mess I'm in, I can hear it in his gruff voice.

"Nothing, sir," Finny replies, all innocent. "Just getting ready for bed."

Parker prowls some more, his footsteps heavy on the tiles, but he can't find any evidence, because the only evidence is me, and I'm doubled up on the toilet bowl.

"Who's in there?"

I jump as he kicks the locked door.

"Jarvis, sir," Spencer tells him. "He's sick."

"I think we're all sick after that performance of his on the field," Parker complains, making Spencer snigger. "You all right in there, Jarvis?"

I take a deep breath and hope my voice will hold out. "Yes, sir."

"You don't sound all right."

I bite my bottom lip to keep my pain silent; if he sees me like this, I'd have gone through all of this for nothing. "Just been sick, sir. I'm fine now."

"Good," he says with all the emotion of a robot. "Lights out in ten minutes."

Still clutching my burning stomach, I gaze down into the empty toilet bowl and see Hermit's glasses. Victory. I just wish I didn't hurt so much. Hooking them out, I rinse them under the tap and, still clutching what's left of my ribs, limp back to my dorm.

"Here you go, Hermit." I close the door behind me and hold out his glasses. "They were in the toilet, but I gave them a good wash."

He takes them from me, but he doesn't look happy. "I suppose you think this will make us friends again."

Unable to stand anymore, I collapse down on my bed. "Not really," I tell him, even though part of me was hoping it would. "I understand if you feel you can't break this Code stuff."

"I wouldn't be breaking The Code, Jarvis," he says. "Because I know you didn't steal Parker's mobile."

Once again, I'm floored, only this time Hermit manages to do it with words. "Do you know who did?"

He shakes his head, his eyes still hostile. "No, I just believe you when you say you were set up."

Suddenly my burning ribs cool down. "Thanks, Hermit."

"No problem," he says, rolling onto his side to sleep. "But I still don't want to be your friend."

"Why not?"

I can't remember who it was who said the pen was mightier than the sword, but whoever it was, they were a lot smarter than me, and they were probably writing about Hermit, because that guy has a razor-sharp tongue.

"I didn't think you were stupid as well as arrogant," he tells me. "But if you need the Junior Encyclopaedia translation, here goes — you're not good enough to be my friend, and do you know why?"

I shake my head, still clueless.

"Because no matter how bad things got for me, I never tried to blame someone else. So thanks for getting back my glasses, but I don't need or want your charity."

He's just kicked me when I'm down, but I don't hate him. I respect him. "I really am sorry, Hermit."

"I know," he says. "Now shut up before you get us both a detention!"

#  Chapter 26

Laura finishes reading my preliminary ideas and lets out a long sigh. "I don't know, Rich," she says, tucking her red hair behind her ears. "It's good, it's just, well, rather, how do I..."

She's scared of hurting my feelings. If only she knew what I go through on a daily basis here, she'd just come out and say it. "You don't like it."

"No," she replies, a little too quickly. "It's just a somewhat sombre take on things."

"What's there to be happy about?" I ask. "He spent two years being shot at before dying in some muddy field in France."

She gives me her disappointed look. "Are you telling me you really didn't get anything else from reading his diary?"

I shrug. I did. I had a great idea, but it's a bit too close to what I'm going through, and I need to get away from that for a few hours each week, even if it's at the expense of getting that work assignment.

"I thought you were smart and ambitious," she says, putting my notes to one side. "Everyone knows war is brutal — so how is making a film about a young man dying going to get you that internship?"

I shrug again. "It won't."

"So, make a film that will!" she tells me. "Rich, you're a very talented young man. Those sketches you and your friends have posted up on YouTube exceed what most of my degree students can produce. Comedy's one of the hardest genres to pull off — so this should be a piece of cake."

Now I feel guilty for letting her down on top of everything else when she's the only person here who treats me like a normal human being.

"I think you should watch some of these," she says and points towards a box of ancient-looking tapes covered in dust. "They were made with love, passion, and one-tenth of the technology you have inside that camera of yours."

I pick up one of the ancient-looking tapes and examine it; so far, I'm not convinced.

"The headmaster let me borrow them," she tells me, all upbeat. "And you can use whatever footage you want."

"So how do I transfer what I want without my laptop and video player?"

She responds by pulling a set of keys from the front pocket of her jeans. "Your school has some editing equipment."

I'm speechless, but for once in a good way.

"You have no idea how many strings I've had to pull to secure this," she tells me as I follow her down the hallway, carrying the box of tapes. "You're the first student who's been allowed to use it."

This morning I really felt like I'd had all the fight kicked out of me and nothing mattered. Now, I'm all fired up about watching these old tapes and getting back to making films.

"You're not allowed to let any of your friends in there," she says for the hundredth time. "Okay?"

Luckily, I don't have any friends; if she noticed the way all the other kids are glaring at me as we make our way down the dark corridors to the oldest part of the school, she'd realise that.

"It was the one thing the headmaster really did insist on."

"I get it." Approaching Spencer in his riding gear, I fall in alongside Laura and ask her some more questions about her experiences filming in Turkey, just so he can see he's not beaten me.

"It was amazing," she tells me, her arms talking as much as she does. "The markets and spices, I'll remember them as long as I live, and as for some of the mosques..."

I exchange glares with Spencer as we cross paths, but he can't do anything because I'm with a teacher.

"Friend of yours?" she asks me as we make our way up the last set of stairs.

"Not really," I say, feeling a hollow thump deep inside as I see Spencer whisper something to Bollinger, and his face breaks out into a nasty grin.

"Rich!"

I jump as she drags me away from trying to figure out what I'm up against when my lesson's over. "Yes?"

"When you finish, you need to return the key to Mr Henry, the bursar."

"You told me that already." I follow her down a small corridor, the box now feeling mega-heavy after walking the length of the school.

"I know I did," she says, stopping in front of a plain wooden door. "But I've put my neck on the line for you, and I didn't have to after, well..."

She's too nice to say after you stole a master's mobile and have been in trouble for fighting, but I know what her silence means. "It's okay. I won't let you down."

"It's not me you'd be letting down," she says, all serious as she unlocks the door. "Now, let's go and make a documentary that's going to change the headmaster's opinion of you!"

She pushes open the door, and we both stare into the black abyss of some abandoned storeroom not much bigger than my dorm, where mounds of furniture are covered with white sheets and cobwebs.

"Not quite what I was expecting," Laura says, turning on the light, which doesn't make the room look any less gloomy.

I knew it wasn't going to be BBC quality, but I was expecting something better than this. I tug on a white sheet covering something square and big in the middle of the room to reveal the "delicate and sensitive editing equipment" — one beaten-up TV which looks like it was made at the turn of the century, and a VCR player with the biggest buttons I've ever seen, complete with old-fashioned audio readouts that should be on a car dashboard.

"Well, this is going to be fun," she says, still sounding resolute as she dusts off a couple of chairs.

I say nothing; I'm too busy trying to get a picture on the TV, but we're too far away from civilization for the aerial to work, and the only thing it picks up is a crackling snowstorm.

"You don't have time for TV," she says, slipping one of the tapes into the player. "I'll get a converter lead for your camera so you can copy what you need onto the SIM, but for now I suggest you just make a note of the tape number along with the start and end times of anything you find interesting; there are no bookmark facilities with these first-generation machines."

I turn the thin black knob and tune in the player, and a few seconds later, a grainy and lined black-and-white picture of the school flickers into view with a load of St. Bart's boys grinning and waving far too quickly, before the camera sweeps to record a football match.

"Captain Howard, or Timothy Howard as he was known back then, is your number seven according to the headmaster," she explains, handing me the remote control. "And this will come in very handy unless you like football."

I manage a smile but decide to watch a bit more. "Is there any sound?"

"No, talking pictures didn't really begin to surface until 1928, so it will give you the opportunity to add some music or practise your voiceovers..." She breaks off as her mobile starts to buzz, and she checks the display. "Sorry, I need to take this. Will you excuse me?"

She's gone for ages, but I don't mind. I've found some good footage of my friend the captain scoring one amazing goal, and I'm just double-checking the start and end times when she steps back inside the room.

"Sorry," she says before I even know what she's done. "I need to bring our lesson to an early close."

"Is everything all right?"

"Steve, my boyfriend, hurt his hand rock climbing — I need to get down to the hospital."

"I hope he's okay," I say, my stomach already filling up with knots as I start to pack up.

"I hope so too," she replies, reaching for her handbag. "But you don't have to leave; you can come here any time you like. Just remember to lock up, and I'll see you next week."

I work my way through another four tapes and find some cool footage of soldiers doing bayonet practice on the playing fields before I find myself getting restless. Not yet ready to face all that lot, I mooch around the room to see if there's anything interesting under the other white sheets, when I notice a door hidden behind a stack of plastic chairs.

Curious why someone's gone to such lengths to hide a door, I move the tower of chairs a little to the left and try the handle, and to my amazement, it pushes open easily with a long, eerie creak, revealing a wrought-iron spiral staircase — classic horror film scenario or what!

It takes me all of one second to decide to see what's up there, even though in the films, the first kid to investigate the hidden passageway is always the first to die, and flicking over the switch to ignite the single bulb, I climb up the stairs to find myself in the old security room.

Picking my way through the nest of cables, I gaze round at the twenty dead monitors and the banks of switches that operate the security cameras positioned all over the school.

Sitting down on the swivel chair, I run my fingers over the banks of red and blue switches as I play out what it would be like to direct the hundreds of cameramen at my control, until I get bored again and just sit there swivelling in the chair. I'm not a famous producer; I'm just a dumb kid no one likes in the school from hell. And that's when I saw how they'd disabled the security cameras — they'd just unplugged them!

This time I hesitate. It's one thing investigating what's behind an unlocked door, but if I get caught turning on the security cameras, I'm a dead man. Trouble is, giving me access to cameras is like giving champagne to my mum; there's just too much temptation.

I can't help it. I plug them in, turn on the deck, and after flicking a couple of the red switches, one of the monitors bursts into life, and I find myself watching Bollinger and his busty girlfriend having a major argument in what they think is the privacy of an empty classroom.

I turn it off as a sudden burst of panic makes my stomach twist and turn. If Bollinger sees, if he realises I am spying on him... but how can he know? Chewing on my bottom lip, I turn it on and re-join their argument two minutes later.

They're clueless I'm watching them, and growing in confidence I fire up some more cameras, but because it's Sunday, most of the classrooms are empty, and after watching the year-eight hockey team lose their match, I switch my attention to the gym, where Jones is playing badminton with Poppy.

Bored, I go back to watching Bollinger being shouted at by his girlfriend, wishing there was sound. I'd love to know what he's done to deserve such abuse, when I spot Chrissie sitting in the empty classroom where I was supposed to have met her five minutes ago.

#  Chapter 27

By the time I put everything back to how it was and give Mr Henry the key, I'm nearly twenty minutes late, and Chrissie's halfway out the door.

"Sorry," I apologise. "I was going through some footage for the documentary I'm making, and you'll never guess what!"

"What?"

I change my mind about telling her when she doesn't unfold her arms. "Nothing, I just forgot how late it was."

"And left me waiting!"

I'm too tired to argue with her, so I just sit down on one of the desks as she lays into me.

"You must really hate me!" she continues. "Even when no one else wants to know you, you don't want to spend any time with..."

"I don't hate you," I say, exhausted by her rant that I just can't follow. "I just lost track of time."

"I could have gone out riding," she tells me again. "But I couldn't go because I didn't want you going through all this on your own!"

I don't need this. Normally I'd reason with her until we're friends again, but these aren't normal situations. Chrissie's risking total alienation if she's caught talking to me, and I can't handle my twin having a go at me along with everyone else. I get up to leave.

"Where are you going?" she demands.

"Back to my room," I tell her, not bothering to turn round.

"But you were going to teach me how to play chess," she reminds me. "I got one of those travel sets from the village yesterday."

"I think you should go riding with your friends." I turn to face her, not angry, just tired of it all.

"But..."

I just stare at her, and I think that's when it hits Chrissie what a cow she's been. All the anger disappears from her face.

"Sorry," she says, apologising to me this time. "I didn't really want to go riding."

"Yeah, right," I say, all sarcastic. "Like I really believe you'd rather stay inside with your loser brother."

"It's true," she tells me, sitting down at one of the desks. "I've always liked it best when it's just you and me."

"You don't have to be nice," I say, sitting down and setting up the tiny chess set. "I know you'd rather be riding with your friends."

"I'm not," she replies, grinning across at me. "Do you remember our first Christmas in France?"

I nod. Mum got us a sled because there weren't any other kids to play with, and we spent the whole time racing down the hill outside the cottage and building snowmen.

"And there was that time we made that cartoon," she goes on, all excited. "What was it called?"

It takes me a while to remember; the only cartoon I ever made was when I was stuck in bed after the jeep hit me. "You don't mean The Lightning Man?"

"Yes!" she exclaims, almost jumping up and down in her seat. "We spent weeks doing all the drawings!"

"I had a broken leg!" I point out, because she seems to have erased that part from her memories.

"I know all that," she says, dismissing the fact that every time I moved, white-hot stabbing pains had ricocheted up my entire leg, and I had to ask Mum for a bottle every time I wanted a piss. "But it was fun despite that."

I'm not convinced.

"I just said it so you'd realise we could still have fun even with all this going on."

Chrissie's always seen things differently, and even though I wish she'd found a different memory to make her point, I kind of understand.

She grins across at me. "I've planned the most amazing exeat weekend as well!"

"Cool," I say, not really listening, because I can't remember if the queen goes to the left or the right side of the king.

"There's a new theme park near Nan's, and she's got us VIP tickets so we won't have to queue for a single ride!"

My brain suddenly registers what she's telling me. "But I'm not going to Nan's anymore."

"What?"

"I'm staying with Beth."

"Since when?"

I know we're going to have another row, but I can't lie to her. "Since Monday; her dad's got some business up here so he's going to pick me up."

"But what about me?" she cries.

"I need to see Beth and the guys!" I'd have thought she of all people would understand. She's been where I am, hated and picked on. Surely, she can understand I need to see them to know there's nothing wrong with me!

"And what am I supposed to do?"

"I don't care!" I immediately regret shouting, but I just wish she'd see things from my point of view. "I need to see my friends!"

"But you've got me." Her voice is as vague as the look in her eyes — she just doesn't get it.

"I know," I say, back in control again. "But it's not enough. I need to see my friends too, or I'll go crazy."

She doesn't say anything, just looks blankly through me.

"Chrissie, I don't want to fight anymore."

"Who's fighting?" she says with a shrug. "You want to stay with Beth, so I guess we can go to the park another time."

"Thanks, Chrissie," I say, giving her a quick hug. "You're the best."

#  Chapter 28

As I work on my script, I begin to relate more and more to Captain Howard. Leaving my room's just like going over the top, though the missiles aren't bullets. They can't kill me, but it still hurts, and what hurts even more is that I take it, because I'm under orders to get back on with the commander of the opposition, and I can't fight the propaganda — not without dragging Chrissie into all this mess.

"This is really good," says Laura as she flicks through my ideas along with some of the clips I've selected. "I love the way you're building up a crescendo of emotions here..."

It's a textbook story arc; if I wasn't so stressed, I would have tried something a bit more cutting edge. "Did you manage to get the music?"

"Oh, yes," she replies, handing me a thumb drive. "Help yourself to whatever you want, and I put a selection of sound effects on the end."

She really is the best; I just wish I had her for every lesson.

"Well, let's see you in action," she says, standing up. "Come on, jump to it!"

The lesson's over before I even know it. Time always races forward when I'm making a film. Doesn't matter if I'm behind the camera or in front of it, I get sucked right in, and even though she just has me doing some impromptu stuff where I act out being a soldier in the trenches in France, I'm living it. Unfortunately for me, it becomes reality the moment I get back to my dorm to find Spencer lying on my bed.

Baxter and Finny shove past me and shut the door. Guess I'm not going anywhere.

"What do you want?" I ask, too tired for bravado after playing a real soldier of war.

"Just wanted a bit of a chat," Spencer tells me, crossing his legs. "Don't mind, do you?"

"No," I reply, keeping it casual. "Be nice to have someone to talk to for a change."

This nasty shadow of something unpleasant flickers across his eyes, and in the aftermath of my stomach turning inside out, I immediately regret taunting him.

"Why don't you just leave me alone?" I ask, the fear and frustration that's pulling me apart now coming out as anger. "I'm going along with this stupid Code thing even though I didn't take Parker's mobile!"

"This isn't about you being a thief," Spencer replies, speaking in a slow, lazy voice as he gazes up at the ceiling. "This is about you trying to put the blame on your sister."

"But I didn't," I cry. "Whoever's telling you this rubbish is the one—"

I never get to spell it out to him. In a flash, he's on his feet, sticking his face in mine.

"You just can't help yourself," he snarls, shoving me backwards. "Pretending to care when all along..."

I swallow. Whoever is feeding him all these lies, he believes it big time, and this makes me shake even more than the prospect of another kicking.

"Do you know what's going to happen if you get another red slip?" Spencer asks, changing from b-film horror psycho to sarcastic tormentor.

I shake my head, confused.

"No weekend with Beth," he tells me with a smirk. "Wouldn't want that, would you?"

I feel my shoulders sag as I realise where this is going. Fight back, and I don't get to see Beth; do nothing, and Spencer's going to make my life hell.

Spencer laughs, and making his way towards my bedside table, he picks up the photo of Chrissie and me snowboarding last year.

"Nice," says Spencer. "Where's this?"

"La Rosière," I answer, confused where he's taking this.

"Never heard of it," he says with a shrug, picking up the photo of Beth dressed as Dorothy. "She really is very cute."

My stomach tenses as he dangles the picture frame between his fingers. I know he's going to break it, and it's agony to stand there and wait for it to happen.

"Whoops!" Laughing, Spencer drops it, and I hear the glass crack.

I close my eyes to the rage, wishing I could turn off my hearing as Spencer stamps on the frame and grinds the shards of glass into Beth's photo.

"What's this?" Spencer asks.

Pulse on fire, I open my eyes to find he's turned out my backpack and has helped himself to my English homework. "Put that back!"

"Or what?" Spencer demands.

I take a step forward and stop. If Spencer trashes my essay, I'll just about have time to rewrite it before lights out, but if I start something, my weekend with Beth is history.

"Want to make something of it?" he asks again.

I do, but I'm not going to, and once again, I back down.

"You must really like this girl," says Spencer, ripping out the pages and stuffing them into his back pocket. "Let's see just how much, shall we?"

Spencer slams into me on his way out, and Finny shoves me into the wall, and I take it just like Hermit takes it, but I'm not a coward — I just want to see Beth more than I care about saving my own pride. I slip her picture into my pocket so she's always with me and clean up the mess before Hermit gets back. This is one fight I'm going to win — I'm getting out of here next weekend, and then I'm going to find out who's behind this and make them pay.

#  Chapter 29

I skip breakfast to get my essay finished, even though we're playing West Haven in the Challenge Cup; there's no way I'm going to let Spencer win. Of course, if I screw up the match, Baxter will kill me, but I think I'd rather be killed by Baxter than have Spencer get one over on me.

Stretched out on my bed, I shake the cramp from my hand that I'd never have if St. Bart's let me use my laptop, and curse Spencer all over again. He may think he's won, but I'm going to Beth's for the weekend, I'm going to get a decent mark for this assignment, and I'm going to win this bloody rugby match no matter how much my writing hand throbs.

After French, I head down to the changing rooms to get ready for the match.

"You ready?" Baxter asks, standing over me, his big shaven head encased in a black head guard with purple trim.

I nod, adjusting the body armour Parker bought me because I've failed to "bulk up".

"It's truce until the match is over," he tells me, handing me a gum shield. "I don't care what Spencer says; the only thing I care about is killing Peterson!"

For once, I'm relieved there's someone he hates more; that means I'm safe — they need me.

"By the time I finish with him he's going to be lucky to have any teeth left!" he hisses, sticking his tongue through the gap in his front teeth and punching his fists together. "That bastard's going to regret kicking me in the face."

I nod and let him brag some more — Baxter loves to talk big.

"And Jarvis, you screw up again, and I'll do the same to you!"

Correction — I'm only safe for the next eighty minutes, and if I don't kick butt out there, I'm deader than dead!

Following the others out onto the pitch, I take up my starting position beneath a cold, grey sky, our supporters dressed in their purple-and-yellow scarves and hats barely drowning out the boos from the West Haven supporters, who are in green and white.

Jumping up and down on the spot because my fingers and toes have gone numb, I try to focus and imagine myself scoring a try instead of being flattened by the West Haven team. There's no way they're under sixteen. Under sixteen stone, maybe...

Baxter leads another surge forward before four of the West Haven defenders bring him down, but he's got us another five metres nearer their line and also managed to elbow his rival, Peterson, in the nose. Groaning as I pick myself out of the mud puddle, I get into position to the left of the scrum.

The West Haven team may be big, but they're not quick, and as Baxter and the back line move forward to take down the opposing defenders, Finny manages to hook me the ball, and tucking it under my right arm, I run.

Swerving to avoid their Number 8, I kick down even harder, determined to score, and leaving their fullback standing, I take the ball in both hands and hurl myself at the line, using the pool of liquid mud to carry me forward and claim the equalising try two minutes from the end.

I'm a hero again! The roar of the crowd is food to me; us actors, we love it. Shortly after a grinning Finny pats me on the back, I kick the perfect conversion, and that's it. Game over, and I'm everyone's friend again.

Back in the changing room, I laugh along as everyone relives our finest tries, tackles, and dropkicks as we enjoy a hot shower. As for Baxter, he's celebrating taking out his rival, Peterson, with a well-positioned boot. Everyone's happy — including me.

"What about the way I lost their Number 8," I add, rinsing the shampoo from my hair. "I couldn't believe he fell for..."

The laughter dissolves along with the shampoo suds down the plughole. The truce is over, and I'm their enemy once again.

Baxter's the first to break the silence, and turning off his shower, he takes a step towards me. "Good work out there, but that's the only time we talk — understand?"

I break eye contact, unable to stop myself from swallowing as I feel the hate from thirteen pairs of eyes drilling into me.

"It's all right, Jarvis," Baxter tells me, his smile that much nastier as he hasn't bothered to put back his missing tooth. "None of us are stupid enough to give you a kicking when Parker's waiting outside to take us for fish and chips, but..."

The breath lodges in my throat as I wait for the "but".

"We'd rather you didn't come to supper. I'll tell Parker you're sick."

The threat behind his words ignites both fear and anger, and even though all I'd accomplish by fighting back is losing my weekend away with Beth, I still find it impossible to back down.

"You really don't want to go," Baxter says again, just in case I've gone deaf. "Or you'll be too sick to go home for the weekend — catch my drift?"

#  Chapter 30

Classes are as uneventful as they are boring, and because I don't want to risk Bollinger winding me up in my final study hall, I decide not to write any letters, and just read until the first bell rings and we're allowed back to our dorms.

"Where you going, Jarvis?" I knew Bollinger would stop me, so I'm not annoyed.

"Finished my homework," I tell him, holding out my RE and History exercise books. "Do you want to check them?"

He puts down his copy of _Greek Gods and Heroes_ and holds out his hand.

Keeping a fixed smile on my face because he won't find anything to pick me up on, I watch him skim-read my essay about The Battle of the Somme, twirling his black-and-gold fountain pen as he tries to find a mistake.

"Pretty good, Jarvis," he concedes. "I expect Wilson would give you an A for this if you ever hand it in."

The smile falls from my lips and materialises on his as he removes the lid from his pen.

"My father gave me this for my seventeenth birthday," he tells me. "It's a limited-edition Montblanc made in honour of Fyodor Dostoyevsky; know what he's famous for?"

I can tell from his patronizing tone and the way he's sneering that I'm not going to like it.

"Dostoyevsky is arguably one of Russia's finest writers," he explains. "He wrote _Crime and Punishment_ ; know what happens when you commit a crime, Jarvis?"

I hesitate before replying, the familiar taste of tension pulling at my chest. "You get punished?"

"You're not as stupid as you look," he tells me, underlining the title of my essay. "Know why I don't use it much?"

I look down at my A-grade paper as a pool of black ink drowns a perfect circle of words written in my best handwriting.

"I broke the nib, and it leaks everywhere."

Inside, a volcano of fury erupts, and swallowing to keep it locked up in my stomach, I clench my fists, my whole body trembling with the strain. Everything I am wants me to hit him, but that's just what he wants, and then that's my weekend with Beth over.

"Anything you want to say to me, Jarvis?"

I can hardly hear Bollinger above the laughter and my own pulse. "No."

"You sure about that?" he asks me again, dangling my book in front of me, making the ink legs run even further down the page.

"Yes." Determined to keep my cool, I look him in the eye, but it isn't easy; the tendons in my arms feel like they're going to snap.

"You look like you have something to say, Jarvis," Bollinger says, prodding me in the chest in an effort to make me snap. "I mean, I've ruined your perfect history homework."

My whole head's on fire as Spencer and Baxter start to jeer and stamp their feet, but I'm not going to let them win. I'm going to Beth's this weekend. "Have you finished with me?"

"What?" He was so sure he had me, he can't even think of a smug or clever comeback.

"I need to do my history homework again," I say, my voice sounding twice as loud in the painful silence. "Can I get on with it?"

This is the low part of any film, the point where the hero has to sacrifice his pride to get the girl. I hope Beth realises how much I'm giving up to be with her; self-respect is about the only thing I've left.

#  Chapter 31

Spencer throws one of my slippers down the loo when I'm getting ready for bed. I don't react; I'll get a new pair when I'm out with Beth. And then I find someone's pissed on my mattress. So what? Who needs to sleep in a bed anyway? And taking the cushions off the sofa in the common room, I make a bed for myself on the floor. They're not going to get to me. Tomorrow, I'll sleep in the room next to Beth.

Next morning, Baxter uses my head as a target for his passes during rugby practice. I don't care. I don't even feel my brain smashing into my skull every time the ball strikes my ear, my neck, my forehead; he's not going to get to me, because I'll be with Beth tonight.

I don't let Spencer kicking the back of my chair get to me in French; I keep my cool throughout double RE even when Finny sticks Post-It pads on my back with "Fag", "Kick Me", and loads of other stupid stuff. I don't care, because it's three o'clock and I've won. In twenty minutes, Beth's dad will be here, and I'm first out and on my way back to the dorm, when I see Chrissie crying at the foot of the stairs, Spencer standing over her. That's it. I lose it.

Seeing everything in a haze of hot red smoke, I drop my bag, and shoving Finny out the way, march over to Spencer. It's one thing having a go at me, but Chrissie's out of bounds, and seizing Spencer by the shoulders, I pull him off her with such force he loses his balance and falls.

He's straight back, and his fist comes flying towards my forehead, but I'm too mad to feel it, but before I can get him back, Wilson and Parker come marching over.

"What's it about this time?" Parker roars.

I manage to dig my elbow into Spencer's ribs before Parker grabs me.

"Jarvis, ENOUGH!"

I try to shake myself free of Parker, but he keeps my arms held behind my back, and he isn't going to let go.

"Well?" Parker demands.

Spencer shrugs himself free from Wilson's grip. "Search me," he snarls, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps. "Bloody lunatic just flew at me."

"He was giving my sister grief!" I tell them, still trying to wriggle free so I can kill Spencer. "He couldn't get to me, so he picked on Chrissie."

They all turn to look at Chrissie, who's trembling in Poppy's arms.

"I fell over and hurt my ankle, Rich," Chrissie sobs, and I notice for the first time, she's not wearing her right shoe. "Spencer was just helping..."

I stop fighting Parker, and he lets my arms drop. There's no anger anymore, just the sickening punch of stupidity. Spencer's won, and it's all my fault. I haven't just missed out on my weekend with Beth, I've screwed things up forever. As Parker marches us both off to the Head's office, I just hope I get a long spell in solitary, because I'm as good as dead now.

#  Chapter 32

Once again, I'm in the Head's office, standing in front of his desk, looking at his glass eagle paperweight as I wait for him to pass sentence. Standing next to me, Spencer clutches his ribs, wincing. I was wrong about him; he can't half act the victim well — if I ever make a film about a lying, cheating, backstabbing bastard, I'm definitely casting him in the lead role.

"Matron says your sister's just sprained her ankle," says the Head, his voice and eyes empty of any soul and sympathy, just like a vampire. "She just needs to rest, so it's not advisable she travel to your grandmother's tonight."

"Thank you, sir." I run the back of my hand across my forehead, surprised to find a line of blood on my hand.

"I decided not to inform your grandmother about this latest incident," he continues. "I will of course be speaking to your father, as you'll be staying with us this weekend."

I close my eyes and groan; I knew this was coming, but it still feels like a blow.

"If I understand things correctly, you were the instigator, Jarvis?"

I look at the Head and nod. I still can't face Spencer. I know from behind the fake wincing, he's smirking.

"Care to tell me why?"

"I thought he was giving Chrissie a hard time, sir."

"And why would you think that?"

I shrug and wait for Spencer to drop me in it.

"Well, Spencer?" asks the Head.

To my surprise, Spencer keeps quiet. "Just keep him away from me, sir."

"We will," says the Head. "We'll be keeping Jarvis away from you all for a very long time."

As Spencer heads off for a shooting weekend at Jones's uncle's big country estate in Gloucester, all I've got to look forward to is another grilling from Dad and life in a room most prisoners of war would refuse to stay in.

Unable to stand watching everyone else leave with their friends and families in a buzz of excited chatter, I decide to go back to my dorm, when a gap opens up in the cluster of parents, and I see her, Beth, waiting for me with her dad.

My heart sinks all the way to the bottom of my feet. She looks like a film star in a cute red dress that skims the tops of her knees, and suddenly I wish the Head had expelled me; at least I'd have been able to leave with her.

"That your girlfriend, Jarvis?" asks Parker, who has the job of watching me until the Head's spoken to my parents.

I nod, unable to look at Beth or her father as they walk over for an explanation as to why I'm being flanked like a criminal.

"What's going on?" Beth's father enquires, his wrinkled eyes hovering on my torn blazer and bloody forehead. "Rich?"

Parker speaks first; I'm still looking for a hole to swallow me up now Beth and I are centre stage.

"Mr Wallis," says Parker, offering his hand. "I'm Mr Parker, Richard's dorm master."

Beth's dad shakes Parker's hand. Dressed in jeans and a duffle coat, with his long hair tied into a ponytail, Beth's dad still manages to look relaxed even though he's getting some strange looks from the other parents.

"I'm afraid we won't be able to let Richard come home with you as planned," says Parker, sounding surprisingly gentle. Like me, he can see the tears welling up in Beth's big brown eyes. "He's just attacked another boy—"

"Rich has?" Beth's dad interrupts, because what he's hearing is as crazy as finding out aliens have landed on his farm.

As Parker proceeds in giving Beth's father all the gory details, I find the courage to look at Beth. She stares at me open mouthed, as if she doesn't know me, and why wouldn't she? The Rich she knows doesn't start fights.

"Sorry," I mumble.

She manages a faint smile, but her eyes are still full of tears, and I know without words she's hurting just as much as I am.

"We've driven a long way," I hear Beth's dad tell Parker. "Can the kids just spend a few minutes together whilst I have a rest?"

Parker nods. "Of course. I'll arrange for some coffees."

Beth's dad smiles his thanks.

"You can go to the library," Parker tells me. "But you're to report to my rooms by five o'clock — not a minute later."

Beth's dad goes for coffee with Parker, and taking Beth's hand, I lead her down the corridor into the empty library. To my relief, she just throws her arms around my neck, and even though it hurts because I think Spencer managed to crack one of my ribs the other night, I never want to let her go. It's finally got to me how screwed I am.

"What's happening?" she cries, looking right into me. "And don't tell me nothing!"

I want to hold her, but at the same time, I have to push her away. Stop her from finding out what's going on; she won't want me anymore.

"Rich?"

"It's nothing," I tell her. "I thought Spencer was giving Chrissie grief—"

"Chrissie!" Beth yells, throwing up her arms. "Of course, I should have known she was behind all this!"

"No, you've got it all wrong—"

"No, Rich!" She's still crying, but she's angry too. "Don't you see?"

"See what?"

"She did this to split us up!"

"You're wrong!"

But Beth's having none of this. "No, Rich. I bet she was mad as hell when you told her you were coming to stay with me!"

"It wasn't Chrissie's fault," I explain, deliberately not answering her. "She was crying, and I thought Spencer had upset her; he's got it in for me..."

"Why?"

I find myself hesitating; I don't want to tell her. I didn't steal the bloody mobile, but it's still my fault this has escalated out of control.

"Why?" she demands again.

"He thinks I stole a mobile and..." I tell her the basics. I don't tell her no one's talking to me and that they're making a fool of me, or I took one hell of a kicking trying to get back Hermit's glasses. I don't tell her because it's embarrassing and I don't want her to dump me.

"And what does Chrissie know about all this?"

"Nothing!" I can't believe Beth won't let this thing with Chrissie drop, and shaking my head because it's all too much, I walk towards the window and stare out onto the car park, where everyone else is being driven the hell out of here.

"Rich, I'm sorry," she says, hugging me from behind. "I'm just worried about you."

I'm worried about me too, especially when I see my reflection in the glass. "I'll be fine as soon as I've sorted things with Spencer."

I can see she's not convinced when she pulls me round to face her. "There's more, isn't there?"

I shake my head and try to avoid making eye contact.

"Rich, I've known you forever, and I know when you're keeping things from me."

"It's nothing," I say, deciding to lie so she won't worry about me. "I'm just scared I've blown things with you."

"Well, you haven't," she says, giving me a kiss. "I just wish there was something I could do."

"Just keep on writing," I say, relieved she isn't going to drill me for any more information. "And let me come and stay at half-term."

#  Chapter 33

I'm now a prisoner of war. Stripped of even more privileges, back in solitary as I wait to hear what's going to happen. I roll over and bury my face in my pillow, unable to stretch out because my hands and feet collide with the depressing grey walls.

A knock at the door makes me jump. "Come in."

To my relief, it's not Parker coming to inform me that Dad, along with the rest of the world, wants to kill me. It's Chrissie.

"Thought you might be hungry," she says, shuffling inside with a breakfast tray.

"You shouldn't be doing that," I say, surprised to find it's not stale bread and water. "You should be resting your ankle."

"I'm fine," she insists, sitting down at the foot of my bed. "Anyway, I didn't want you missing out on breakfast."

I take a mouthful of juice, but I can't handle toast — I think I'm going to puke. "You spoke to Mum yet?"

She shakes her head. "Don't worry. It'll be all right."

"How exactly?" I know people say Chrissie's away with the fairies most of the time, but even she can't be that stupid. "I attacked Dad's boss's son!"

"Yes," she says, squirming for me. "But you didn't hurt him."

"It doesn't matter," I cry, unable to ignore the terror that's turned my stomach into a ball of pain. "I could still get expelled, and if Dad doesn't kill me, I'll never get into another school with a record for fighting and thieving."

"I think you're overreacting."

"Oh really?" I say in my most sarcastic voice. "So laying into Spencer for no good reason, and him thinking I tried to stitch you up for stealing Parker's mobile is no big deal."

"I'm not saying that."

"Then what are you saying?"

"I'm saying, I don't think you'll get expelled."

"This school gives you detention for running in the corridors," I point out. "And even though they didn't expel me last time, Spencer's going to be pushing for it!"

"He won't."

"How do you know?"

"Because I saw Jones," she replies. "And he says he'll get Spencer to drop this."

"Yeah, right."

"Spencer's father's really strict," she explains. "So Jones is going to remind him that if he gets into any more fights, there is a chance his father would send him to military school, and so..."

It does and doesn't make sense, but my brain's turned to mush by all of this, and it's taking all my concentration just to hold a glass of orange juice.

"Try to eat something," says Chrissie, rubbing my arm. "You don't want to get sick."

This makes me laugh because it's what Mum's always telling her. "Since when did you like eating?"

"Since I decided not to be stupid," she says, stealing one of my slices of toast. "I know you've always had to look after me, but I'm trying really hard now to make my own friends and stop being such a pain."

"Chrissie, I don't care how much of a pain you are."

She smiles, and for the first time I notice how different she looks; all confident and strong, the way I used to be.

"Rich, get ready. The bus for the cinema leaves in an hour."

"I'm not allowed to go," I remind her, putting the toast back down.

"Sorry, didn't think," she says. "I'll stay here with you."

"No, you go," I tell her. "I just want to be on my own."

Waiting outside the Head's office while he finishes speaking to my parents, every inch of me shakes. I know the worst is over, that the only thing Dad can do is shout, but as I hear Mum crying on speakerphone, the guilt rips right through me, and when I finally get called inside, I'm in no state to put up any kind of defence.

"Richard is here now," says the Head, indicating I should sit down in the chair in front of his desk.

I sit, and my voice goes into hiding.

"I don't know what to say to him!" It's Dad, talking to Mum. "You say something, Celia. I'm washing my hands of him."

I sink even further down the chair and wait, staring at the glass eagle paperweight.

"Rich, it's Mum," says Mum. "How are you, dear?"

I don't get a chance to answer. Dad beats me to it.

"I don't care how HE is. HE'S out of control and HE needs disciplining..."

Dad explodes into one of his tirades about what a useless waste of space I am, how _he's_ going through hell for my benefit, and it's all _my fault_ if he doesn't get this deal... I'm not sure what else he said. I switch off somewhere between Mum begging him to calm down because it wasn't good for his blood pressure, and the Head putting the call on mute to tell his wife he'd be late for golf.

"Well?" Dad demands. "What have you got to say for yourself?"

What can I say? It seems Dad won't be happy until he sees me dead. "It won't happen again."

"Too right it won't!" Dad tells me and launches his second attack. "Any more trouble from you, and I'll stick you in one of those Singapore boarding schools where they're not afraid to use the cane..."

I've been staring at the eagle paperweight so long without blinking it's gone all blurry.

"I've got to go," says Dad, stopping mid-rant. "Important call."

The line goes dead, and after being dismissed, I go to the only place I feel safe, the editing room in the tower wing, where I sit in the dark, chair wedged up against the door so no one can get me. I've avoided expulsion because Dad's made some generous contribution to the school fund, but something's telling me I'm going to wish I was kicked out when Spencer comes back from his weekend away.

#  Chapter 34

"You can't stay in bed the whole weekend," Chrissie tells me, shaking my shoulder. "Get up; we're going out."

I can't be bothered to tell her to go away, so I just roll over and face the wall.

"Don't be such a spoilsport!" she complains, deciding if she pulls my arm enough times I'll get up. "Let's go out and have some fun!"

I think I prefer sulking Chrissie when I feel like this, so I rip my arm free and go back to hugging the pillow. "Go away!"

"I thought you had filming to do."

"Don't feel like it," I mumble, wishing I could get back to sleep and escape the throbbing depression of this place for a few more hours.

"But you love filming things."

"I don't anymore."

"Rich, get up!"

I give up when she switches tactics and tries to drag me out of bed by the ankle. I just wish she could have been happy when we had something to be happy about.

I've never found filming to be a chore. Acting's great, but the real rush for me is in the directing, setting up the scene, deciding upon the lighting, whether to have the actors deliver their lines with intensity or indifference. After I finish filming some establishing shots of the school and the surrounding countryside, I realise why Chrissie insisted I do this. Filming takes me out of myself, and even though nothing's changed, I don't feel as bad.

I check the footage and, leaving the camcorder on its tripod, join her on the bench, where she's waiting with a flask of hot chocolate.

"Do you remember making _The Magic Unicorn_ for me?"

I nod. Chrissie, she isn't the biggest of talkers, but every word she speaks is a book.

"I wish unicorns were real," she continues, hugging my arm. "If they were, do you know what I'd wish for?"

Her question takes me back further into the past. I made it for her after Goldmeads, because I felt so guilty that it was my friend who led the bullying campaign against Chrissie. It was a stupid story, about a brother who goes off in search of a unicorn who can grant him the wish he needs to save his dying sister.

"I'd wish for the best brother in the world to be happy again," she says, bringing me back to the present.

What she says is so lame, I can't not smile.

"See, it's worked!" she exclaims, all giggles.

I wish it were that simple. Trouble is, the smile isn't real, just like all the films I make. I'm for it, and if I thought things were bad before, it's nothing to how things are going to get when Spencer comes back.

"What are you thinking about?" Chrissie asks me.

"Talking to Spencer," I confess. "I've got to do something to convince him I'm not the one behind all of this."

"I don't think that's a good idea."

"Why not?"

"Because..." she begins but never finishes. "Why don't you let me speak to him when we go riding next?"

"You go riding with Spencer?" I think the shock was the only thing that stopped me from losing it even more. Spencer's making my life hell, and my sister goes riding with him!

"What's wrong?" she demands, looking all hurt.

"You go _riding_ with Spencer!" I'm so mad I can barely get the words out.

"Yes," she says, as if it's no big deal. "What's your problem?"

"What's my problem?" I cry, hurling my cup of hot chocolate onto the grass as the anger explodes out of me. "You're hanging out with the guy who's out to kill me!"

She shrinks back from my rage, shaking with fear, and now I have to contend with feeling like a shitbag as well as everything else. I get up, stomp around a bit, and kick at the grass, but the anger won't go away, it just makes me want to cry.

"Rich."

"SHUT UP!" Chrissie was the one person I thought I could count on, and to find out she's fraternising with the enemy –

"Rich, I'm being friends with him for a reason." Pulling on my arm, she forces me to look at her.

"He's making my life hell!"

"I know," she agrees, talking me down from the raging anger. "That's why I'm letting him think I like him. So I can find out who's been saying all these things to him."

The anger fizzes out, and exhausted, I sit down on the bench and bury my face in my hands. My twin's going undercover because I can't sort this out. My sister, who's terrified to go anywhere without me, who I promised to look after. God, how pathetic am I?

"Has he said anything?" I don't want ask, but I've got no choice.

"No," she says, sitting close. "But he will."

"And you're sure he doesn't suspect anything?" It really doesn't make me feel good that she's taking such risks, and I'm letting her.

"No," she assures me. "Don't worry, Rich; it'll be all right."

"Yeah, right," I say, sinking further down the bench. "Dad wants to kill me, I can't call my mates, and Bollinger's censoring all my letters."

"I'll post your letters," Chrissie offers. "Just slip me them in study hall."

Just knowing I can write to Beth without Bollinger reading them out in front of the whole class releases a mountain of weight pressing down on me, and with Chrissie using my shoulder as a pillow, we watch the sun go down — just the two of us.

#  Chapter 35

Sitting on my bed in the dark, I wait for Baxter to come. He's never late. He always comes at 4:50 a.m. exactly. The routine never changes, just me.

The door opens, and Baxter fills the space. "Ready?"

I swallow my heart back into my chest, stand up, and follow him out.

"You better get your act together!" he warns me. "If we lose again..."

We've lost three times straight. Screwed our chances of winning the League, and the Challenge Cup's the only silver we're chasing. "Perhaps you should get a new fly-half."

"There isn't one," he tells me, pushing the doors open the way he pushes me around. "We've been holding try-outs for weeks — you're the best there is."

"Then why don't you give me a break?"

He whirls round, face twisted into a snarl that would get him on the squad of the New Zealand All Blacks. "Not an option. You broke The Code!"

After collecting another three bruises, I shower, go back to my cell, and wait for breakfast. Bollinger brings it. I don't eat it. I can't. Like he does every morning, Bollinger spits right in the middle of my porridge.

I pick up the bowl, scrape it into the toilet, and flush it all away. Then I sit on my bed and stare at the hole in the carpet until it's time for class. I don't have long to wait to see which prefect is going to walk me down so _I don't give Spencer trouble_! It's Rawlinson, and as far as people who hate my guts go, Rawlinson's all right.

"Ready?" Rawlinson has round geeky reading glasses and is going to Oxford to read the classics. He never spits in my food or pushes me around, but he does look the other way when the others do.

I nod, get up, and follow him down to history, where I sit in the empty desk in the front row and wait for the rubber and paper missiles to start. Ten, nine, eight, seven... the first one hits my head. I take a deep breath, close my eyes, and wait for Wilson to show up. It will stop then, and I can go back to trying to stay awake.

Class over, Wilson walks me to English, and we pass Spencer in the corridor, and for the first time that morning, I'm glad my stomach's empty. I'm so tense I think I'm going to puke.

Spencer glares at me, and even though I don't know I'm doing it, I'm taking smaller steps as we near each other.

"Come on, Jarvis," says Wilson, giving me a nudge in the back. "We don't want any more trouble."

How can he think I want more agro? I just want my old life back, but Spencer's never going to let this drop, and when I turn round, I see him firing an invisible gun at me.

I try to concentrate on _The Merchant of Venice_ , but it's useless, even when I use my finger to trace along each line; all the words look like blurred grey smudges as my brain throbs from the effort of staying awake. I can't remember the last time I slept. If that lot aren't trying to break into my room, my own nightmares keep me awake in a frigid sweat.

Lessons over, and it's back to my room for lunch and the only meal I can eat, because Matron brings it. Every mouthful feels like it's coming straight back up again, but I manage to eat half of it before the bell for afternoon classes rings.

"Jarvis!"

I jump out of myself as Rawlinson barks my name.

"Ready for RE?"

I follow him back downstairs and along the corridors into the classroom and sit in the front row. Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five... the first rubber missile hits my head, and they don't stop as I watch Father Charles open and close his mouth for thirty minutes.

Another escort, another lesson. Can't even tell you what we just did, and then it's study hall with Bollinger.

I slow down as I pass Chrissie, and right on cue, I stumble and drop my books. Like a pack of hyenas, they all laugh, but I haven't fallen over for their entertainment; this is part of my master strategy to smuggle my letters to Beth.

Like she did yesterday, Chrissie crouches down next to me and hands me my history textbook so I can slip her the letter, then I sit at the desk by the window and watch the rain fall until a sharp missile stings the back of my head and I remember I've got a history essay to hand in tomorrow.

Groaning, I open up my book, write "How World War I Started" as a title, and an hour later, when the bell rings for the end of study hall, I'm still staring at a blank page.

"Better than yesterday," Bollinger says, looking down at me with a half smile. "Perhaps Wilson will take pity on you and give you a D for zero spelling mistakes."

I stuff everything into my backpack and follow him out to pick up my post, but my pigeonhole's as empty as a cinema ten minutes after the credits have finished rolling.

"What's up, Jarvis?" Bollinger laughs. "No letter from your girlfriend?"

I shrug and pretend I don't give a shit.

"She dumped you?"

"No." I say, following him down to the dining room.

"Sure about that?" he asks. "She hasn't written for days, and let's face it, Jarvis — she's hot. I bet she gets hit on all the time!"

I try not to listen, but my insides still pull — Beth wouldn't do that to me. She promised.

I take my sausage and mash back upstairs, put the tray down on my desk, and then wait, one, two, three... Bollinger spits in it.

"Night, night," he sings out, the same way he does every night. "Sleep tight."

I wait until his footsteps disappear, then I get up, scrape my plate into the toilet, flush, change into my pyjamas, put the chair up against the door to keep them out, and lie down on my bed for another night of no sleep before it starts all over again. Perhaps Beth will write to me tomorrow. I hope she does. I hope she still wants to go out with me; if she doesn't, I really have nothing to live for.

#  Chapter 36

There's a pink envelope sticking out from my pigeonhole. I know Beth hasn't abandoned me. Like magic, I'm alive again and shoving my way through the gaggle of year eights. I grab my letter and, too impatient to hear what she's got to say, open it up as I make my way to the library, where I can enjoy it all over again from my hiding place behind ancient languages.

Dear Rich,

I've not written for ages because I really didn't know how to tell you this. I still don't, but thing is, I've started seeing Dave, and...

Everything stops. In this weird kind of silent bubble, I read on, oblivious to the elbows and abuse, because it just doesn't seem real. Beth's dumped me. It's all there in her big swirly writing. She's seeing Dave now, and she doesn't want to be friends anymore. It still doesn't seem real.

"Rich, are you all right?"

I jump as a hand penetrates through the bubble of nothingness, and as all the noise, smell, and suffocation of St. Bart's bombards my traumatised senses, I realise the hand belongs to Chrissie and I'm blocking the entrance to the library.

"Rich, what's happened?"

I've been dumped before. Lucy Cromwell finished with me because she was jealous of me wanting to spend my weekends making films with Beth and the guys. It hurt for a bit — but it was nothing like this. It didn't feel like I'd just drunk acid.

Chrissie snatches the letter from me and, quick as anything, speed-reads the two pages. "She's going out with Dave!"

All the hurt transforms into this bitter anger as Chrissie tells the world I've been dumped, and trying to retain as much dignity as I can with a group of girls all sniggering at me, I grab my letter back and hide in the library.

I'm sorry, Rich, but please don't write anymore, because being friends isn't going to work. I'd rather just forget...

I read it again. It still doesn't seem real, but the pain from the fallout is.

"I'm sorry," Chrissie apologises, sitting next to me on the window seat and squeezing my shoulder. "Are you all right?"

I shake my head as I lose my battle to keep it together. I think if I wasn't going through hell here, I might, just might be able to deal with it, but Beth really was the only good thing in my life, and without her...

Turning to look outside at the grey sky to hide the fact I'm now crying, I wait until I'm back in control again; even though it's only Chrissie, it's still embarrassing. I don't care what the films and songs say — it's not all right for guys to cry.

"She wasn't good enough for you anyway," Chrissie tells me. "You can do much better."

She's being nice, but all she succeeds in doing is making me feel even more pathetic, and still unable to suck all the tears back inside, I press my burning forehead against the cold windowpane.

"I don't know why you're so surprised," she continues. "When you first got it together, she went off with another guy."

"That was her gay friend from dance class!"

"So she says!"

"CHRISSIE, LEAVE IT!"

As all these images of Beth and Dave getting it on play out like a movie in my brain, I fight to stop my breathing from racing ahead as the anger-infused hurt rips through me. I'd been writing all this stuff to her, thinking we were together forever, and she was with Dave all the time. Dave, one of my best mates! I try again to suck the tears back in, but there's too many of them.

"You're not going to do anything stupid, are you?" Chrissie asks me, all worried.

When I see my reflection in the windowpane, I realise why she's asking me. I don't look like me anymore. The old me's gone. Now, I'm just this awkward-looking weirdo with hollow, staring eyes.

"No," I say, digging deep into my emergency strength reserves so she won't freak out too.

"Good," she says, taking Beth's letter and tearing it up in front of me. "Now forget about her — forget about all of them!"

I try to smile, but I can't. It still hurts too much.

"Let's meet back here after dinner," she says. "We can talk some more then."

I nod. It's great being a twin. When you're a twin, you're never alone; there's always someone to look after you, and luckily, I've got Chrissie; no one else is looking out for me anymore.

#  Chapter 37

For the first time since my fight with Spencer, I'm allowed a call from home, so Mum can sort out half-term arrangements. Bollinger walks me down to the telephone booth then stands about an inch from the door with his arms folded. So I don't have to look at him, I face the wall and go back to chewing what's left of my nails. I hope it's Mum. I don't think I can handle Dad. The phone rings, and I pick it up.

"Rich."

It's Mum, thank God.

"Rich, are you there?"

"Yes," I say, my voice sounding hoarse from lack of use. "How's Mumbai?"

"Hot," she tells me. "It's thirty-three in the shade, if you can find any."

I force myself to sound happy, and try to remember what I was going to say. I had it all planned, how I was going to persuade her to bring me home early. Now I can't remember any of it; my head's full with how much I miss her.

"How are you getting on?"

"Okay." That wasn't what I meant to say. But I can't say what I wanted, with just a thin sheet of glass between Bollinger and me.

"I'm really pleased," she tells me. "I told your father you just needed a bit more time to settle in."

I nod, hugging myself with one arm; now I've told her everything's all right, she's never going to break me out of here.

"How's Chrissie?"

"Fine," I say, not sure what Mum wants to hear. "She's got a lot of friends."

"So, things are all right now?"

She's giving me another chance to tell her, but I've been silent too long, and she's already telling me about how busy and exciting it is there, and how she needed help to cross the road because there were so many cars, scooters, and cows coming from every conceivable direction.

"Oh, Rich, you should see it. It's so vibrant and colourful, and last week there was this big festival, and everyone was out in the streets dancing and singing..."

I close my eyes and try to imagine the hectic streets, the colourful saris, the musky exotic spices, but I can't escape the grey despair of St. Bart's.

"Look, Rich, I asked to talk to you alone because I wasn't sure how Chrissie was going to take this..."

My stomach lurches again, and not because Bollinger's punched the glass to remind me what he plans to do to me as soon as my stint in solitary's over. "You're not coming back for half-term, are you?"

She's silent so long I already know what the answer's going to be. "I'm sorry, Rich; your father's got a really important client event and..."

I bloody knew it. Dad, Dad and his stupid business deal. "It's not fair!"

"Rich, your father needs me."

"So do I!"

"It's only a week, and then Christmas isn't that far off—"

"Christmas is forever away!"

"Rich, you're being unreasonable."

"ME?"

"Please, Rich, things aren't going well here, and after all the trouble you've been in with Robert, well, it's put me and your father in a very awkward position. We rely on the Spencers for everything and..."

I knew it; she's going to make me feel guilty so I won't make an issue of her abandoning me.

"Rich?"

"Whatever, as long as Chrissie and I can still stay with Nan—"

"Yes," she interrupts. "That's what I wanted to talk to you about as well."

"Are you saying we can't go to Nan's?"

"Yes," she tells me. "She's not feeling too well. You know how hard Chrissie can be... your nan needs to rest."

"Okay," I say, panic that she's going to leave us here for the holidays stopping me from thinking straight. "I didn't want to go to Nan's anyway."

"That's okay, then."

"I'll stay with Stew."

"You can't."

"What?" Okay, I know Beth and Dave are together, but Stew's still my mate; they never said anything in the letter about Stew not wanting to be friends. "What do you mean I can't?"

"What about Chrissie?"

"What about me?" I cry, sinking back against the glass.

"Rich, how would you like it if Chrissie went to stay with one of her friends and left you at school on your own?"

I can't argue against Mum's guilt logic, but I have to get out of here. I just have to.

"Rich, I'm sorry, really, but if your father doesn't pull this off, I don't know what we're going to do."

I'd be deaf not to hear the strain in her voice.

"Rich, this really is important."

I know it is. I'm desperate, not stupid. I know if Dad doesn't get this deal, we're screwed. I also know when Dad closes it, he's quite likely to promise anything — even sending me back to my old school.

"Rich, everything _is_ okay, isn't it?"

I want to tell her, more than anything, I do, but even if Bollinger didn't have his hands and face pressed to the glass, I'm too ashamed.

"Rich, honey?"

"It's cool, Mum," I manage to say, my voice shaking as much as the rest of me.

"Thanks, Rich. I knew I could count on you."

I change my mind as soon as Baxter, Finny, and Spencer corner me after study hall. I fight because I don't know how to do anything else, but even before all this started, there's no way I would have been able to hold my own against three of them.

Baxter drives his knee into my stomach, and I go down, and they don't stop kicking me until Jones sounds the teacher alarm, and then Spencer has this "great" idea to lock me in a store cupboard. I don't know how long I was in there, but it was dark when Jones came down and unlocked the door.

#  Chapter 38

Half-term was over in a blink, and back came the daily routine of glares, abuse, and torment, made a hundred times worse since Beth finished with me. Force-feeding myself soggy cornflakes, I try to ignore it, but it's getting harder as I fail to make any progress in uncovering my enemy.

An elbow smacks me in the back of the head, and I jump inside out.

"Sorry," says Finny, plonking himself down next to me with enough food to feed the entire rugby squad.

I freeze as I try to think of a comeback; something, anything to stop him from ripping into me even more, but thinking's like trying to wade through thick mud.

"Not very sharp these days, are you, Jarvis?" Baxter sneers, slotting into the space to the right of me. "You should try getting some more sleep."

I blink and try to forget being woken up at two in the morning by a freezing-cold water bomb.

"So, what are you doing in your uniform?" Finny asks, jabbing his finger into my arm. "It's Sunday, moron!"

I stare down at the mush of cornflakes and wait for it to stop, but it isn't going to, because Spencer's here now.

"Don't you remember, Finny? Jarvis has his media studies lesson." Sitting opposite me in his polo gear, Spencer leans forward and steals my slice of toast.

"So what do you do in media studies?" Baxter asks. "Dress up like a girl and prance around in front of the camera?"

I could tell him to get stuffed, but what's the point? They'll just use it as an excuse to kick my head in later.

"Don't you want to make something of it?" Spencer asks as he kicks my left shin to provoke me into fighting.

I shrug to show I can't be bothered with them.

"No wonder his girlfriend dumped him!" says Spencer, fixing his eyes on me. "Heard she's banging one of your loser friends..."

Something in me snaps, and I get up, fists clenched.

"Wouldn't hit me if I was you," Spencer tells me, his taunts so razor sharp each word cuts me. "Not if you want Daddy to keep his job!" With this, I leave. Dad and his stupid deal.

After kicking the wall, I collect the keys from Mr Henry and let myself into the security room. With zero enthusiasm, I watch faded black-and-white footage of a load of St. Bart's boys grinning and waving far too quickly as they sign up to fight. It doesn't inspire me. It tortures me. Captain Howard was a few years older than I when he went off to fight. He crawled into No Man's Land on a daily basis to drag the wounded and dying back into the trenches — he died a hero. Me, I'm hiding in a glorified storeroom, too chickenshit to tell Spencer to get stuffed.

"Rich, are you all right?"

I turn away as Laura arrives, and try to suck the tears back inside me. "Fine."

"I think what you've put together here is amazing," she tells me, unfolding my storyboard across the console. "I showed the Head, and he says he'll definitely show it at the end-of-year concert. He thinks this will be an inspiring tribute to the school's great contribution to the war. Isn't that wonderful?"

I shrug, as if I really want to do a promo for how great this school is.

"Rich?"

I look at my feet as I try to get back in control.

"Is everything all right?"

I flinch as her fingers brush against my arm. "'Course it is."

She's silent for a long time. "Look, I know you got into some trouble a while back. Are some of the other boys giving you a hard time?"

It would be so easy to say yes, but I can't. I just can't.

"Rich," she says, speaking softly. "St. Bartholomew's may have some very archaic rules, but I can assure you that bullying is _never_ tolerated."

"I just don't feel well!" I snap, every one of my defences up as she nears the truth.

"I'm sorry," she apologises, retreating. "Do you want to be excused?"

Now I feel guilty for being mean to her when she's my only friend here. "No," I tell her; leaving here, my trench, and going upstairs into enemy territory where there's no escape from the constant fire, scares the shit out of me. "I just want to get on with this."

"Okay," she says, forcing herself to sound happy. "Well, let's break a leg and make a killer film."

I wince. I probably will end up getting a broken leg — two of them if we don't win the Challenge Cup.

#  Chapter 39

I spend the rest of the afternoon recording the footage I want from one tape onto another, leaving ten seconds of static between clips so I can easily slot them into my final documentary.

It doesn't take me long. I can visualise the finished story as easily as I can see the bruises covering my ribs. Still too spineless to go back and face Spencer and the others, I turn on some of the cameras to see what's happening around the school.

I start to feel a bit better as I watch Wilson giving Finny serious grief on the left-hand screen for running in the corridors. On the screen to the right, the orchestra rehearse for the Christmas concert, and on the bottom screen, Baxter's having a boxing lesson.

I turn on more cameras, but there's nothing except empty classrooms, and finding some old security tapes, I spend the hour watching random segments of footage, but the only interesting clip I find is the Head practising his golf swings in his office.

I put the tape to one side, when I notice the monitor in the middle of the deck is linked to the camera in the girls' Common Room, and Chrissie's in there surrounded by a whole gang of girls. For a horrible moment, I fear she's going through the same hell I am, but she's not the centre stage of a hate campaign; she's Miss Popular, and they're not laughing at her. They're laughing at some story she's telling.

Figures. I mean, we've always been opposites, so I guess it makes sense she's popular in the only place I'm not. Even more depressed, I head back to the dorm and get ambushed by Parker.

"Jarvis!"

My head smacks into the ceiling as he bawls out my name, and still quaking, I go to his room to find him polishing his rugby trophies.

"Shut the door, Jarvis."

I shut the door and wait for him to lay into me.

"You all right, Jarvis?" he asks, his gruff voice sounding almost sympathetic.

"Yes, sir."

"Your media teacher, Miss Bell, doesn't think so," he says, looking me up and down. "In fact, she's very concerned about you."

"I'm fine, sir."

"Glad to hear it," he says, putting the big shiny silver tankard back into the display case. "Want a cup of tea?"

Not sure what to say, I nod.

"Take sugar?"

"Two, sir."

He nods and hands me the mug. "You think you'll be fit for the match on Friday?"

I sip the tea that's far too hot. "Yes, sir."

"Good," he says, sitting on his desk in an effort to look more friendly. "So, everything's all right?"

His awkward small talk makes me wish he'd start shouting again.

"So how are things with you and Spencer?"

I shrug. What else can I say?

"Well, what did you expect, Jarvis?" he says, turning from friend to bully in a flash. "You attacked him, so he's entitled to defend himself."

I don't believe it. He's telling me it's okay for Spencer to lay into me!

"You know, Jarvis, I never took you for a mummy's boy. An idiot, yes, but not a mummy's boy!"

"I don't understand, sir."

"Really?" he says, raising a mangled eyebrow. "So why go crying to Miss Bell?"

"I never _asked_ her to come and see you!" But even though I'm shouting, he's having none of it, and because I can't run or punch anything, the anger leaks out of me in the worst possible way.

"Mummy's boy!"

I fight to stop the tears, but I can't. There's a tsunami of them building up behind my eyes.

"Have some pride, Jarvis!" he yells. "I know you acting lot can cry on cue, but that won't work with me. I'm not a stupid little drama teacher."

I bite my lip to stop myself from saying something I'll regret, but it's not easy. I'm a volcano about to erupt.

"Go and pack," he tells me. "You're moving to sickbay."

"Why?"

"It's the only one place in this school for scared little girls," he tells me. "Run along. Matron's expecting you!"

#  Chapter 40

Returning to sickbay after another day of being shoved about, I climb the lino-covered steps to find Spencer, Finny, and Baxter sitting in the corridor. I freeze, clutching the banisters as my battle-scarred senses register the signs of another imminent attack.

"What's wrong with you, Baxter?" asks Matron, looking like a Dickens period drama nurse with her white apron and stiff blue dress.

"Must have been something I ate," he complains with a groan. "I feel sick."

Even if I wasn't going to be a famous director, I could tell Baxter's faking it — shame Matron can't.

"Oh, you poor thing," she says in her most simpering of voices. "Go into room two, and I'll be with you in a minute. What's wrong with you, Finnegan?"

"Same, Matron," he says, doing a more convincing impression of someone with food poisoning — he's clutching his stomach.

"You better lie down too," she says. "And what's wrong with you, Spencer?"

"Got a migraine starting," he says, sinking down in his chair. "I get them when I'm under stress."

"Stress?" she queries, placing a hand on his forehead.

"Yes," he says, telling us both. "Someone's been bad-mouthing me, trying to get me in trouble with the masters."

"I'm sure that's not the case," she says, helping him to his feet even though he doesn't need it. "Now lie down in the quiet, and I'll bring you something through in a minute."

I lock eyes with him, and the alarm bells go off like air-raid sirens in my head. Spencer's planning something tonight, but he can't do anything to me here. Matron isn't going to stand by and let him beat me up, whatever it says in The Code.

I stay in my room and read, only it's impossible to concentrate when I know any minute I could be fighting for my life, but unlike Captain Howard when he marched off to war, I haven't got a battalion of friends to back me up.

A knock at the door reminds me that there's no all clear, and blinking, I see Matron standing at the door.

"As we've got rather a full sickbay, do you mind taking your bath early?"

I nod. It's not as if I have anything better to do.

"Thank you," she says. "I won't be long."

"Long?"

"Yes. Mr Parker just called. There's another two doubled up with stomach cramps, so we could be even cosier in here."

That's it. It's going to happen now, and there's nothing I can do. In the corridor, I pass Jones, who's still got a face full of scabby-looking spots after catching chicken pox, and I dive into the bathroom and lock the door. All I have to do is stay in here until she gets back, but it doesn't matter how many times I try to tell myself I'm safe. I can't relax.

Unable to stand listening to my own fear a second longer, I turn up the volume on the MP3 player Chrissie bought me during half-term and run my bath. Another luxury of being in sickbay, hot showers and baths, but tonight this place doesn't feel like a substitute home. It's a trap.

I check the door again, just to make sure I've locked it. I have. I'm safe. So why don't I feel safe? I force myself to sing along to the song, keep my thoughts busy so they won't get worked up about what Spencer and his army have planned, but nothing works. I brush my teeth, get into the tub, and let the hot waters rise up to my neck.

For a few brief seconds, I forget where I am. I'm back home filming with Stew, Dave, and Beth, and we're mucking around doing stupid things because we can... and then it's all gone in a flash of panic as something brushes against my ankle.

I pull the flannel from my face, and my heart becomes a thumping bass in my chest when I see Spencer, Finny, and Baxter standing over me.

"Surprise!"

Baxter pushes me under before I know it.

Choking on the hot water, I lash out with my arms and legs as I fight my way to the surface, but Baxter pushes down on my neck, keeping me under.

Head on the verge of exploding, muffled laughter echoing all around, I fail again and again to push him off, and just when my head fills with hot blackness, he releases me.

Gasping for air, I sit up.

"How dare you go to Parker," Spencer hisses, grabbing a fistful of my hair and snapping my head back so far it hurts to breathe.

"I never said anything," I pant. "He guessed!"

But for some reason, this seems to make Spencer even more lunatic psycho, and he holds me under so long that when he finally lets me go, everything's spinning.

"Just remember you started this!" Spencer tells me as I hang over the side, puking up bathwater.

I could try to tell him it wasn't me. That we're both victims of the same sicko, but he's not interested in hearing the truth. He just wants to hurt me. Fortunately, all the shouting brings Jones from his room.

"What's going on?" Jones demands, sounding brave but looking terrified.

"Teaching him a lesson," Spencer replies as Baxter drags me from the bath by my hair.

"Let me go!" I buck and kick, but I can't do anything, and using the belt from my robe, Baxter ties my hands behind my back.

"Now listen!" Spencer tells me, closing his hand around my throat and pressing me up against the wall. "Considering what you've done, I've been bloody decent about the whole thing, but you just won't leave it, will you?"

Spluttering for breath as he continues to crush my throat, my eyes start to water as the terror eats me up.

"You really don't want to push me any further," Spencer snarls, his face so contorted with rage he looks like some kind of mobster. "My father knows people: one word from me, and I could have you killed in your sleep, blinded, or crippled..."

I hear myself yelp; he has me convinced.

"Better," says Spencer, the coldness of his voice making my heart stop. "Now, just in case you should get any more ideas about going to teacher..."

He releases the pressure on my neck, but it isn't over — not yet; while Spencer's been putting the frighteners on me, Finny and Baxter have been busy, and the camera's rolling.

Steam rises from the bath and my whole body quakes as Finny records my torture with my own camera. Oh my God. I'm going to star in a snuff movie!

"Spencer, it wasn't me, on my mum's life!"

He stops, and some of the madness disappears from his eyes. "Do you know what, Jarvis?" Spencer says, cocking his head to one side. "I think I believe you."

The relief doesn't last for long. Not even a second. He's just playing with me.

"You had me going there for a moment, Jarvis." Spencer laughs, sticking his face in mine. "You really did. But I don't believe a word of it."

Baxter hauls me to my feet and dumps me in front of the bath of steaming water.

"FOR FUCK'S SAKE!" I cry, unable to stop the tears as my humiliation is captured forever on camera.

"You getting all this?" Spencer asks, turning to Finny.

Finny gives him the thumbs up.

"YOU'RE CRAZY!" I cry as Baxter forces my head towards the water. "I haven't done ANYTHING!"

"Spencer, you can't do this!" cries Jones, sounding almost as freaked out as me.

"I can do anything I want!" Spencer yells, in full-blown psycho mode. "Now get out of here before I decide to play with you!"

Everything stops. I never thought Spencer would turn on Jones, and from the uncomfortable silence, Jones didn't think it either.

"GO!" Spencer roars. "And if you say anything..."

Jones runs. I don't blame him. I'd run too if I could, but something's changed. Spencer's gone too far turning on his own, and the others don't want to play anymore.

"Do it, Baxter!" Spencer yells. "DUNK HIM!"

"No," says Baxter, releasing me.

"NO?" Spencer's completely lost it, and suddenly I'm not the only one cowering from his insanity.

"DUNK HIM," Spencer roars at Baxter, "OR I'LL PUT YOU IN THERE!"

#  Chapter 41

On my knees, my face held inches away from the steaming water, I fight to free my hands, but they've tied them up so tight the cord cuts into my skin. I try again, try to rip my wrists free, but it's hopeless. Baxter's giant fingers dig into the back of my neck, and I bite hard on my bottom lip to stop myself from crying out. This is going to hurt. Shit, this is going to really hurt!

"DO IT!" Spencer yells again.

My whole body trembling from the strain of holding it together, I close my eyes. Part of me wishes they'd just hurry up. This waiting hurts just as much.

"BAXTER!"

This is it. I can't even hear myself crying over my terrified heart.

"NO!" says Baxter.

"WHAT DO YOU MEAN NO?" Spencer shouts.

"I mean NO," says Baxter, pushing me aside. "You said you just wanted to frighten him. He's frightened!"

Nostrils flared and eyes so deranged he'd pass for Alex in _A Clockwork Orange_ , Spencer looks from Finny to Baxter. They're both sickly white with fear.

"YOU DO IT!" Spencer turns on Finny.

The breath lodges in my throat as I wait to see if Finny's going to back down, but he's standing shoulder to shoulder with Baxter.

"FINNY?"

Finny shakes his head.

"Fine!" Spencer snaps. "Be a pussy, and just film it!"

Spencer elbows Baxter out of the way and makes a grab for me. I tumble back and lash out at him with my feet, but with my hands still tied behind my back, I can't get any strength behind my feeble kicks.

Once again, Baxter comes to my aid. "Spencer, that's enough!"

"Have you two forgotten what he DID?" Spencer cries, shaking Baxter off him.

"I know," Baxter agrees. "But this isn't the way."

I hold my breath. It's like watching the police try to talk the bank robber into letting their hostage go, only it's tendon-snapping tension because I'm the one who's going to die if this goes wrong.

"Cowards!" Spencer lets me drop to the ground, but not before he kicks me in the guts. "Now clean this mess up, and if Matron asks, you slipped getting out of the bath, UNDERSTAND?"

#  Chapter 42

I don't even realise I am still naked as I smear my blood around the tiles, until Jones comes back inside.

"It's all right," he says, handing me my towel. "I'll clean up."

I'm shaking too much to wrap the towel around my waist, but somehow I manage to put one foot in front of the other and get back to my room, where I sit on my bed just staring down at the blood still running down my leg.

I don't know what's happened, but I feel dead inside, like my will to live, my courage, any sense of dignity I had has been kicked out of me.

I mean, there's only so much you can take. They have it all on film; every kid in the school will know I cried and begged Spencer to let me go, and it's that I can't handle. Oh God, if they put it up on YouTube, I'll die.

A tap on my half-open door sounds like ten rounds of rapid machine gun fire. Flushed with icy sweat, my body braces itself for another battering, but it's just Jones, looking sicker than he did when he first went down with the pox.

"You all right?" he whispers, stepping inside and closing the door silently behind him.

I nod, my throat still too constricted from all the tears to reply.

"Got your camera," he says, holding it up in front of me before placing it down on the empty chair. "It's all right; they didn't damage it."

"Thanks," I hear myself stammer.

"Rich, you need to clean yourself up."

I don't know if it's the shock of hearing someone other than Chrissie or Laura call me by my name, but it somehow stops me from tumbling deeper into myself.

"Your knee, Rich," he says, talking slower. "It's bleeding everywhere."

I stare down at my right knee and see the blood still running down my shin, but I can't be bothered to do anything. "Why didn't you call me Jarvis?"

"I'm breaking The Code by talking to you," Jones replies, pouring some disinfectant onto a wad of cotton wool. "Might as well break a few more rules."

An hour ago, having Jones talk to me again would have given me the strength to battle on until the end of term, but even though I've stopped sinking into the darkness, the climb back into the light is beyond me. "Is this what it was like for the other guy who broke The Code?"

"No," Jones replies, dabbing at my knee and making me wince. "You're getting it much worse because..."

I nod. "You know that's rubbish, don't you?"

"I dunno," he confesses, looking even more torn. "Spencer said..."

But what Spencer said I never found out, because at that moment the door opens inwards and Baxter steps inside. "What you doing, Jones?"

Jones swallows before answering. "Just stopping him from bleeding everywhere."

Baxter grunts, completely blanking me. "Hurry up, then; if Spencer catches you, you're for it."

Jones nods and goes back to cleaning me up, only this time he's raised all his defences and won't look at me.

"What were you going to say?" I ask, my pulse quickening from the rush of finding out who's orchestrated these attacks on me.

"Nothing," he mumbles. "Just be careful."

"Who do I need to be careful of?" I ask, hoping he'll let the name slip.

"Everyone," he replies, rising to his feet. "You haven't got a single friend here."

#  Chapter 43

It doesn't matter that nothing's happened since that night. That they're all leaving me alone now and I'm safe again. What matters is that everyone knows, and the only thing I don't get is why they're not rubbing my face in it. It's as if that night's been erased altogether from time.

A hammering on the door makes me jump out of my thoughts, and unable to stop myself from shaking, I turn round to see Baxter. "Ready?"

I nod and put my camcorder in my sports bag so I can take it with me.

"Remember what I said," Baxter reminds me as I follow him down to the Main Hall. "Stay deep and wait for Finny to pass on the burst — you get too near the scrum, and their back line will flatten you."

"Not you?" I say, noticing he turns to avoid looking at Jones, who's also been demoted to the ranks of the unclean after he helped me.

"We've got a match to win," he grunts, shoving me towards our bus. "Remember we're going on the offensive and Lewis is their weak link. If you can't run through or around their back line, kick the ball at him — got it?"

When we step out onto their pitch, the Leeds supporters in black outnumber us ten to one, but somehow Baxter's managed to get everyone more hyped up than an American wrestler on crack, and it sounds like there's a ten-thousand-strong choir singing the St. Bart's anthem as we warm up. It's just me who can't be bothered with it all, and forcing my face into a fake smile as I catch Chrissie waving at me, I take my position for the start of the game.

Leeds wins the toss and kick-off, and it's obvious they're playing on the offensive too, so the moment I get the ball, all I've got to do is keep my head down and run. Ten minutes later, I slam down the first try and conversion of the game.

We're not in the lead for long. Their fly-half plays a dummy ball and equalises five minutes later. Two dropkicks, and they switch to a defensive stance, but it doesn't matter how many they pull back — I'm still the fastest on the pitch.

Finny hooks me the ball, and I'm off. Their back five form a defensive wall to stop me, and remembering my orders, I kick high towards their winger, and just as Baxter predicts, the idiot fumbles the ball. Speeding up, I scoop it up in my arms to a frenzy of shouts and run forward, and then something that feels like a speeding train slams into me, and it all goes black.

"All right, you lot; give him some air," says a familiar gruff voice.

I open my eyes and blink to see a circle of faces looking down at me, some of which I don't recognise. Parker's and Baxter's I do.

"You all right, Jarvis?" Parker asks.

I blink. I don't think I'm hurt. I can't feel anything painful. I try to sit up. Parker holds me down.

"How many fingers?" Parker asks, shoving his hand in my face.

I stare at three blurry fingers, but for some reason, I can't seem to talk.

"What's wrong with him?" It's Chrissie, and squeezing past two of the Leeds players, she kneels down next to me and holds my hand.

"He's probably just a bit concussed," Parker tells her. "Has someone called an ambulance?"

"Sorry, mate," says the Leeds winger, some tall square bloke with dyed black hair. "No hard feelings?"

I look at him. I don't know what happened. The last thing I remember I was making a dash for the line. Then someone tackled me from the side, I lost my balance and fell on my head, and there was this crack...

"Why won't he say anything?" Chrissie cries, looking to the others for answers.

I blink and move my mouth, but before I manage to utter a single word, the paramedics turn up, and after snapping a plastic neck brace on me, I'm stretchered off into the back of an ambulance and rushed to Leeds General Hospital.

#  Chapter 44

I'm all right. I've not broken my neck; they tell me I just have a mild concussion and a cracked rib, but something's not right; they want to keep me in for forty-eight hours.

"Fond of biting your fingernails?" asks the doctor — can't remember what his name is, but he seems all right, in a serious kind of way.

I look down at my bloody fingers and squirm.

"Don't they feed you enough at that posh school of yours?"

"He gets three full meals a day," says Parker, answering for me.

"He looks like he could do with getting four," the doctor tells Parker before turning his attention to me. "So, Richard, how did you get those bruises on your back?"

I can't tell him that Spencer kicked the shit out of me in the sickbay bathroom, not with Parker standing there. "Rugby, sir."

"I'm Dr Price," he tells me. "Not one of your masters."

I risk looking at Parker, but I can't tell if he's worried about himself or me.

"Mr Parker, would you mind trying to get hold of Richard's parents again?"

"Of course," he says. "I'll be outside when you need me."

As soon as Parker's gone, the doctor closes the door and sits down on the edge of my bed. "How do you like boarding school?"

"It sucks."

"I can imagine," he agrees with me. "I was a boarder myself; luckily, I didn't get sent to St. Bart's. It's got quite a reputation..."

"Really?" I say, trying to sound surprised.

"Yes, there are quite a few horror stories about bullying there..." The doctor isn't going to let it drop, and the coward in me wants a way out of this hell.

When Captain Howard first arrived in the trenches, he wrote that every night when he put his gun away, he thought about shooting himself in the foot to get sent back home. Luckily, I've not had to do anything so drastic. I was injured for real, in the line of duty and all that, and one word to the doctor could see me on the next plane back to Mumbai.

But the words stick in my throat because even though I've done nothing wrong, it's, it's not... it's not, well... it just seems such a cowardly thing to do.

"Richard," says the doctor when I've been silent far too long. "I promise you won't get into any trouble."

In a single breath, I change my mind ten times; this is far bigger than me getting picked on. If Dad loses his job...

"Richard," he says again. "I'm going to keep you here for the next two days. I'm on duty all weekend, so if you change your mind about talking, just ask one of the nurses to fetch me, okay?"

"Okay," I say, hearing my voice shake.

"Whatever it is, you can tell me."

I change my mind again, and then I change it right back when I see Chrissie in the doorway, flanked by Spencer.

My throat closes in on itself as I watch Spencer hug Chrissie to him. Chrissie's all red eyed and crying. I know why she's here, and I also know why Spencer is. He can't get to me all the time I'm in hospital, so he's telling me if I grass him up, he'll hurt Chrissie.

"Who are you?" asks Doctor Price.

"This is Chrissie, Jarvis's twin," Spencer replies with a big beaming smile. "Can she see him?"

"Of course," the doctor tells them, getting up. "But no more than ten minutes. Richard needs his rest."

"Ten minutes is all we need," Spencer says. "We only stopped off to bring him his bag and to tell him we won the match."

"Thanks." I say, wishing I had the guts to tell Spencer to get lost and leave my sister alone.

"I thought you might like some music," he says, dangling his MP3 player in my face.

My fear morphs the leads into a noose as I take it from him. "Thanks."

"Why don't you have a quick listen," Spencer tells me, sitting down in the visitor's chair. "See if you like it."

I feel like some mouse that's about to be decapitated by a particularly sadistic cat just for the fun of it.

"Go on," says Chrissie, perching on the other side of the bed. "I helped put the playlists together."

I force my face into an awkward smile, slip on the headphones, and press play. There's no music, just Spencer's cold voice. "Say anything, and _Daddy_ will be looking for another job!"

#  Chapter 45

I'm sixty miles away from St. Bart's, and I still can't get away from it. Unable to relax, knowing Spencer could show up at any minute, I turn on the TV and flick through all the channels until I come to _West Side Story_.

Beth and I starred in Mrs Brown's rendition two summers ago. I was Tony, and Beth was Maria. I remember the opening night as if it were yesterday, when we had our first big number; we sang "Tonight", just her and me on the stage; we got a standing ovation.

Unable to watch any more as it all gets too much, I switch channels and realise I've got two more visitors — a big, square-looking guy in jeans and some woman about my mum's age who's got the same square face and unnatural black hair.

"Hi," says the guy, shuffling from side to side. "I'm Steve, Steve Horton. I was the one who, err... tackled you."

"Oh," I say, muting the TV. "I mean, hello."

"This is my mum," he continues, looking every bit as terrified as I do. "She said we should come down and see if you were all right."

"I'm fine," I tell him. "Just a concussion."

"Oh, good," he says, grinning, before going back to looking serious. "Sorry, I mean, I don't mean it's good you've got concussion..."

"It's all right." Even though I'm the one in hospital, I find myself feeling sorry for him. "I know what you mean."

He relaxes a bit and, after his mum goes off to get me some magazines, plonks himself down in the visitor's chair.

"I really am sorry," he says again. "Coach says it was one of those fluke accidents. You were lucky your neck didn't snap."

I shudder despite the fact I can't move for all the blankets; talking about getting my neck broken when I've got to go back to St. Bart's in forty-eight hours isn't so far-fetched. "Can we talk about something else?"

"Yeah, sorry." Steve's big on apologising. "You've been really cool about all this."

"It was an accident."

"I know, but when Mum found out who your dad was, she was terrified of being hit with a ton of lawsuits."

"Really?" I ask, confused; the only thing Dad's likely to do is try to get them to invest in whatever company he's promoting.

"Your dad won't sue, will he?"

I shake my head, and because this doesn't seem enough to stop him from looking like he's sitting on a hot spike, I add, "I'm not exactly his favourite person at the moment."

"Phew," says Steve before apologising again. "But if there's anything you want, anything at all..."

I'm just about to tell him to chill, when I find myself staring at Beth in her Luxury Coach advert dressed as Dorothy. She's even prettier on TV, and suddenly I don't care she dumped me for Dave; before we ever got together, she was my best friend.

"Are you all right?"

I nod, and almost afraid to ask, I lick my lips. "There's one thing you can do."

"Name it."

"I've been trying to get hold of my..." I almost said girlfriend, but I stopped myself just in time. "My friend, Beth, you couldn't call her for me?"

"Call her yourself," he says, throwing me his mobile.

I've been locked up in the dark ages of St. Bart's for so long I'd forgotten everyone in the real world has mobiles. "Thanks."

"No sweat," he says, standing up. "I'll give you some space."

My heart's pounding as I wait for her to pick up. I know she doesn't want to see me anymore, and I've accepted that, but I'm terrified beyond belief she might not want to be my friend again.

"Hello?"

It's all too much. I almost choke on all the feelings swelling up like a ball in my throat. "Beth?"

"Rich?"

I know I have about two seconds to make my case before she kills the call, so I talk quickly. "Look, I'm cool about you and Dave. I don't care if you're going out, but I don't want to stop being friends, and I really need you—"

She doesn't let me get any further. "Well, I don't want to be friends with you!"

She sounds angry. Why would she be angry when I'm forgiving her for cheating on me? "Why, what have I done?"

"Oh, let me see," she says, definitely angry. "Fiona Huntington-Baxley!"

"What?"

"Fiona Huntington-Baxley," she yells in my ear. "Did you really think Stew would keep something like that from me?"

Now it's my turn to shout. "What are you going on about?"

"You getting off with some stuck-up earl's daughter!"

Suddenly it all makes sense. "Beth, listen to me. I'm not with Fiona, I never have been."

"Yeah, right." She snorts. "So why write to Stew and tell him you were?"

"I didn't write any letters to Stew!" I tell her, hoping she'll hear me out, as I realise that my enemy's been doing a whole lot more than stealing mobiles and winding Spencer up. "And I'm guessing you didn't write that letter to me telling me you and Dave got it together?"

She's quiet for so long I'm terrified she's hung up.

"Beth? Beth, you're not going out with Dave, are you?"

"No," she replies after another long pause. "And you never got together with Fiona?"

"No."

She's quiet even longer this time. "Rich, what's going on?"

The realisation they almost succeeded in splitting Beth and me up freaks me out even more.

"Rich, are you all right?"

"Not really," I confess. "I'm in Leeds General Hospital, and I really need to see you."

#  Chapter 46

Beth, Dave, and Stew arrive just after lunch. I thought I'd be pleased to see them, and I am, but at the same time, I'm not, because I'm such a pathetic mess.

Stew's the first to talk, and his joke falls as flat as a sumo wrestler who's just belly-flopped from the top diving board into an empty swimming pool. "Jesus, Rich, did they substitute you for the ball at halftime?"

I squirm in the dead silence as I risk looking at Beth. She hasn't changed; she's still my leading lady. As for me — the only part I'm fit to play is Oliver before Mr Brownlow took him in.

Dave puts a bag of sweets on my bed, keeping his distance as if he's scared I'm going to take a swing at him. "You do know there's nothing going on between Beth and me, don't you?"

I nod, too embarrassed to look at him now I realise what an idiot I've been.

"So we're cool, then?" says Dave, needing reassurance.

I nod and look at Beth, hovering in the doorway, as I wait for her to say something. "Hi."

"Hi," she says, so pale I think she's going to pass out. "Oh, Rich, what's happened to you?"

I open my mouth to tell her, but I don't know where to start; it all seems too big, too overwhelming to put into words, and so I just give up, shake my head, and stare down at my hands. She already figured I was being picked on. Now she can see how bad it really is, it's pointless denying it.

"I take it you didn't get all those bruises on the rugby pitch," says Stew.

"No," I mumble; even though I didn't do anything wrong, it somehow feels like it's my fault.

"Rich, we can't help if you don't tell us what's going on," Dave tells me.

I shrug to stall for time; I'm terrified of making an idiot of myself by crying as my eyes start to sting.

"I've been there too," Stew tells me. "I'm the fat kid, remember — I stood up to my fair share of bullies."

He's being nice, but it doesn't feel like that. "What, and I'm not?"

"Stew isn't saying that at all," Beth assures me, her voice feeling like a hug. "He's just worried; we all are."

I look at them all — my friends. I made one call, and they came, even though they all got letters they thought were from me telling them I didn't want to know them anymore. My parents haven't called since before half-term even though Parker told them I was in the hospital, and the last letter I got from Mum (if you can call it that) was a one-paragraph scrawl telling me not to forget my nan's birthday. I should be having a go at them.

"Sorry," I apologise, reaching for Beth's hand.

"It's all right," she tells me, squeezing my fingers. "Why don't you tell us what's been going on."

I squirm again. Until now, I thought I could tell them anything, but this, being spat on, kicked, jeered, and ignored, this is something you don't talk about, especially if you're a guy. No one has any respect for the dork who gets bullied.

"Rich, I know how you feel." No longer the comedian, Stew's as serious as one of those BBC newsreaders. "You feel like a worthless piece of shit and somehow it's your fault."

Still unable to look at anything except Beth's fingers holding mine, I die all over again as I listen to him voice my dirty secret.

"Have you told anyone?" Stew asks.

I shake my head. "Can't."

Dave's next in the firing line. "How many of them giving you grief?"

"Everyone."

"I know it can seem like that," Stew says.

"It does seem like that because it is everyone," I tell them again, and then I go on to explain how I was stitched up over the mobile, how I haven't been able to make a single call home because I've been on permanent report, and how Jones has been ostracised just because he helped me.

"You've got to tell your parents," Stew cries. "This bloody Code thing is insane!"

"I can't," I say, still finding it hard to look at them. "Dad will lose his job and—"

"Get real, Rich!" Dave tells me. "This has gone way beyond bullying!"

"You think I don't know that?"

"So what are you going to do, then?" Stew asks me. "Stay there and let that lot kick the shit out of you until Christmas?"

"Course not!" I snap.

"So call your folks!" he tells me, handing me his mobile.

"I can't — Spencer will kill me!"

"No problem," Stew says. "I'll call them!"

My heart lurches, and I make a grab for his mobile, but he easily dodges me.

"For Christ's sake, Rich, what are you so scared of?" Stew demands. "You didn't steal that mobile, did you?"

"NO!"

"So, what's the problem, then?" he cries.

"Chrissie," I stammer. "What's going to happen to—"

"I knew she'd be all over this!" Beth interrupts.

"What do you mean?" I demand. "What's Chrissie got to do with any of this?"

Stew and Dave look at the floor, but Beth sticks her chin out, as if she's prepared to take a punch to tell me whatever it is. "She's your thief!"

"What?" I cry, too shell shocked to get angry.

"She's behind it all right," she says, her eyes all wild. "I'd bet my life on it!"

"We're twins. She'd have to hate my guts to do this to me!"

"No," Beth disagrees, refusing to back down. "She loves you so much she doesn't want to share you with anyone else!"

"Not this rubbish again." I look to Stew and Dave to back me up. "Tell her!"

But both of them are still looking at the ground, and I know they're thinking the same as Beth.

"I don't believe you lot!" I cry, feeling more hurt than angry.

"She's been doing this _forever_!" Beth continues. "Pretending she was sick so we'd have to cancel your surprise birthday, ruining our skiing holiday, hurting her ankle so you'd get into a fight with Spencer and wouldn't be able to come back with me for the weekend—"

"And that's supposed to convince me she's a psycho loony?" I snap.

"No — it's to show you what she's like!" she continues. "And by turning everyone in that school against you, she's finally got what she wants — you, all to herself!"

"You're crazy!"

"Do you know what makes me crazy?" she tells me through her clenched teeth. "You do, because if this was a film, you'd see it a mile off!"

She stomps out, followed by Dave, who keeps telling her, "I just need time to take it all in," leaving me alone with Stew in the most awkward of silences.

"We didn't mean it to come out like that," he confesses, sitting on the end of my bed.

"So you're on their side?"

"Course I am. I'm trying to help you!"

Stew really annoys me sometimes; just because he's two years older, he thinks he knows everything.

"Rich, I know she's your sister and all that—"

"She's more than my sister!" I interrupt. "We're twins — there's no way she'd do that to me!"

"Perhaps she didn't mean to," Stew offers, still not really looking at me. "Perhaps she thought they'd just send you to Coventry."

I don't know why, but what he says really gets to me; like a mosquito buzzing in my ear, it keeps irritating. "Get out!"

"Who else but you or Chrissie knows where Dave and I live?"

"Get out!"

"We never wrote to you," Stew snaps before he gets his temper in check. "I sent you plenty of emails, but I never wrote to you once, and we both got letters from you saying you didn't want to be friends anymore and you'd finished with Beth."

Once again, he starts to make me doubt myself. "It wasn't Chrissie!"

"And why would Spencer and his lot post hate mail on Beth's Facebook page?"

"What?"

"She's been getting bombarded by some really evil Internet trolls," he explains. "They've been posting a bunch of crap; she's been called everything from a slut to a racist."

"She never said."

"No," Stew says. "That's because she loves you, and I bet she didn't tell you she's cancelled her final audition for Day Break, that new TV soap, to come and see you today either."

I don't know what to say; now I feel guilty as well as like an all-round loser.

"Open your eyes, Rich," he tells me, getting to his feet. "You're starring in a psychological horror, and until you realise it, none of us can help you."

#  Chapter 47

I don't know why, but when Mark, Beth's brother, arrived to pick them all up, I couldn't stop thinking about the old horror film _Christine_ , and not because the car has the same name as my sister; it's because the victim, Arnie — well, he was stupid. Okay, he was possessed most of the time, but even when he wasn't, he ignored all the clues. He pushed his best friend away, and he died an idiot.

Now my life's stopped making any sense, I find myself beginning to analyse it as if it were a film. Someone's out to get me, and that someone's gone to a lot of work to make every one of my friends hate me. But who? Who hates me that much?

Unable to sleep, I get up and look outside the window. Trouble is, I was never any good at coming up with ideas for our films. That was Stew and Dave's department, and Beth, well, she made sure we looked the parts and always came up with the perfect ending. I was the glue that pulled it all together, made it real, because Stew and Dave just got too stupid at times.

I let out a long breath, which steams up the window. I may not know who's after me, unlike stupid nerdy Arnie, but I'm not going to make the same mistake and push my friends away. I'm going to ask them for help, because once I'm back at St. Bart's, there's nothing I can do until Christmas — if I last that long.

I get dressed and head outside to find a payphone. It's not late, but everyone's already asleep, and still feeling like St. Bart's is watching me as I make my way down the deserted corridor, I find an Out of Order sign hanging over the receiver.

Great! Just like in every film, nothing's ever easy for the hero. I take the lift down to the ground floor; there has to be a working phone in Outpatients. Unfortunately, there's some drunk bloke with tattoos on his face using it, and he doesn't look like he's getting off anytime soon.

Not liking the look of any of the people in Outpatients enough to ask if I can borrow their mobiles, I head outside into the rain, and as I use the building for shelter, my eyes finally find a phone booth on the opposite side of the main road, by a bus stop.

By the time I manage to find a break in the traffic, I'm drenched, and teeth chattering with cold, I call the operator to reverse the charges and wait and wait and wait.

"Hello?"

Relief floods through me. "Beth, it's me."

"Has something happened?"

"No," I tell her, blinking rainwater out of my eyes. "I just need your help."

"What do you want me to do?" She sounds worried, despite me telling her everything's okay. "Call your parents?"

"No, I told you. Dad will lose his job."

"Okay, so what do you want me to do?"

"I don't know," I confess, the weight of it all pressing heavily on me again. "But I need to do something."

"Mark said you could stay with him."

"What did you have to tell him for?"

"Well, I had to tell him something to explain the mess you were in."

I know she needed to tell her brother something, but it doesn't stop me feeling even more of a wimp.

"Rich, do you want to run away with me?"

I'm still miserable, but I hear myself laugh. "Yes, but just come round and help me try to figure out who's setting me up."

"How?"

"I don't know how; that's why I need all of you."

I jump as someone bangs on the door with such force it shakes the booth, and turning round, I find two security guards from the hospital waiting outside for me with scowls on their faces.

"Rich, Rich, what's going on?"

"Hang on," I tell her, my insides shaking as I push open the door to face them. "Yes?"

The tall one with a flat nose looks really fed up as the rain continues to drip off his cap. "Come on, back inside, you."

"Okay," I say. "I'll be a minute."

"You'll come now," he barks. "This is a hospital, not a hotel; you can't leave when you want to."

"But I need to talk to my girlfriend."

"Now," he says, folding his arms.

"I've got to go!" I tell Beth. "Come and see me tomorrow, and bring Stew and Dave."

He puts the receiver down for me and points towards the hospital. "Come on, kid. I'm freezing my nuts off here."

Flagged by the two guards like some common criminal, we wait for a break in the traffic again as the cold rain continues to soak me.

"I'm watching you," he says, nudging me in the side as the traffic lights turn red and we can finally cross. "So don't even think about running off."

"I wasn't trying to run away," I try to tell him again over all the rain. "I just needed to speak with my girlfriend, and the payphone in there wasn't working!"

"I know what I saw, kid," he says as the front doors slide open and he steers me back into the main reception.

"What do you mean?" I'm really fed up with everyone thinking I'm a liar.

"I can see everything that goes on in this place," he tells me, pointing up at the security cameras. "Now get dry, go back to your room, and stay there!"

I stare at the square grey security camera as if seeing one for the first time. Of course! Why didn't I think of it before?

"What now?" he asks, tugging on my arm. "Haven't you ever seen a security camera before?"

"Yes, they've got them all over our school."

#  Chapter 48

I'm filming real-life, fly-on-the-wall documentary stuff, and even though I've a hundred or more cameras and an editing deck at my disposal, the one thing I don't have is time, and that's why this needs careful planning. I'm going to have to draw my enemy out of the shadows, and for that, I'm going to have to lay a trap.

In World War I, the other side used to deliberately injure soldiers in No Man's Land, and then their snipers would pick off any of his comrades who came to his aid, one by one. That's how Captain Howard won the VC. He wouldn't leave a single one of his men to die out there alone in agony. I'd like to be the hero like Captain Howard. Trouble is, I'm also the bait.

I check the door again, just to make sure we're still alone.

"Relax," Beth tells me for the hundredth time. "I've got a clear view of the corridor from here."

I shift some more in my discomfort.

"We're allowed to visit you," she says again, trying to convince me. "God, Rich, get a grip!"

"Sorry," I apologise, deciding not to bite my thumbnail. "So what have you come up with?"

"Just hear me out," says Dave, holding up his hands in surrender as if he's anticipating rejection. "You film them beating you up and threaten to show the Head if Spencer doesn't tell you who told him you tried to frame Chrissie."

"Great plan!" I cry. "You do realise they don't pull their punches."

Dave squirms. "Yeah, that's why it sucks. Have you thought about putting the frighteners on Jones — he seems the weakest link."

"No, Jones has got into enough trouble because of me. Think of something else."

"The post room," says Stew after another long silence. "That's the key."

"How?" I ask.

"Because none of that lot would steal your post."

"One of them pissed on my bed!"

"Yes, I know all that," says Stew dismissively. "But they all believe in this Code thing. Don't you see, Rich? Kicking your head in is playing by the rules, but stealing something — they'd be as guilty as they think you are."

It's simple, almost too simple, and although the best plots always are, this one's too simple to work. I shake my head. "They'd just say they were collecting it for me."

"Maybe," Dave agrees, starting to do his Sherlock Holmes impression that he always does when we're brainstorming. "But if we catch them destroying it?"

"And how do I prove it was the same letter?" This is always the problem with Stew and Dave's plots; they have more holes in them than the honeycomb chocolate bar I'm eating. "We're not filming this in high definition, and I can't zoom in on the letter. This is grainy security footage!"

Dave starts to suck on his pencil, and while Stew paces around in circles, I snuggle into Beth.

"I wish you'd come back with me," she says, touching the bruise on the side of my face. "Mum said you can stay with us."

"You told your parents?"

"I only told them you'd got hurt playing rugby," she assures me. "But they know something's wrong, I think Mark may have said something."

Great, now both her brother and her parents think I'm a right wimp. "I'm not running away," I tell her again. "I can't. I've got to find out who's behind it so Dad won't lose his job."

She kisses my cheek.

"What was that for?"

"Being you and always thinking of other people."

Unable to stay angry, I laugh and pull her lips down to mine.

"Knock it off, you two!" Dave complains. "I've sorted it."

"Sorted what?" I ask, getting in another quick kiss.

"How to catch the post thief."

"How?" Beth and I ask in unison.

"Big envelopes!" Dave announces.

"I like your thinking," says Stew. "They'll show up nice on camera."

"Yes, and they've got some massive Christmas cards in the gift shop downstairs," Dave continues. "I saw Beth looking at them when we were getting supplies."

"Thanks for spoiling the surprise," Beth complains, pretending to hit him.

"You're going to surprise Rich with five big cards," he tells her. "Come on, get ready. You need to go shopping."

Beth looks confused. "Shopping?"

"Yes," Dave tells her. "Buy up to five of those really big Christmas cards downstairs. We need to send one a day until Rich finds out who's behind this."

"And how's he going to let us know?" Stew demands. "He isn't allowed to call us, remember?"

"He can send us a letter," Dave replies. "Get him some stamps too."

"They're stealing my letters too!" I remind them.

"No problem," says Dave. "We'll call you."

"They're not going to allow me to speak to you," I say, pointing out another hole the size of a volcano crater. "We're not allowed any calls unless it's an emergency."

"I'm sure they'll let you talk to your dad," Dave says, looking smug. "And Stew does a great impression of him."

"What's that?" says Stew, sounding just like Dad as he mimics him playing with his Blackberry. "I haven't got time for any of this now; I need to speak to an important client."

I snort a laugh, and then I feel miserable again; if Dad cared about me as he did his deals, I wouldn't be in this mess.

"I'll call on Friday," says Stew, talking like himself again. "Two o'clock okay?"

"We need to work out how he's going to tell us," Dave says, indicating I should get writing again. "In case someone's with him when we call."

"Agreed," says Stew. "Okay, Rich; if you tell me you're really looking forward to your first Christmas in Mumbai, then you've caught them."

"And," Dave adds, "you can let Stew know who it is by asking him if you can invite him or her back for the holidays."

"And if you don't know who it is," Stew continues, "you tell me you're still working on your final history assignment, and we'll continue sending the big letters."

"There's just one problem with this plan," I tell them. "I need VHS video tapes to record all this."

"Get videotapes too," Dave tells Beth as she puts on her coat. "There was a shop near the bus stop that had lots of phones and old electric stuff outside; they ought to have some."

"Can you get one of those converter leads too," I add. "Or I won't be able to take off the footage."

"What type?"

"My camera's in the bedside table."

"Can I take it with me?" Beth asks.

"Sure, but be careful; I've not backed up my last lot of rushes."

"Don't worry," she tells me, slipping it over her shoulder. "I'll take good care of it, and I'll make a backup."

Beth goes off while Dave and Stew try to come up with some better code words as we sip on the hot chocolates the tea lady brought round.

"So what are you going to do when you find out who it is?" Dave asks, stretching out his back.

"I know what I'd like to do to them," I snarl, the anger making me strong. "And before you say anything, it's not Chrissie."

"I wasn't going to say it was," he protests. "But I think you should go to your housemaster instead of dealing with it yourself."

"Why?"

"Because in that insane school of yours, you'll have condemned him, or her," Dave adds, "to a death sentence!"

"So what?" I say, getting hot with anger. "Look what they did to me."

"I know," says Stew. "But whoever it is, they're dangerous, and when they've found out you've been filming them, you'll be for it."

"Listen to him!" I look up to see Beth standing in the doorway, a big bag of shopping in one hand, my camera in the other. "Because that person's a psycho."

Confused, I search past the terror in her big brown eyes, but I'm still clueless what's freaked her so much until she spells it out for me.

"I didn't know your school had baths, Rich."

Time stops. I hadn't forgotten about it, but I had blanked it out — that night, when they took away all my dignity and left me crying like a baby on the bathroom floor. Now Beth's seen it, the shame destroys me all over again.

"You watched my rushes?" I'm afraid to ask, but I have to.

"I backed everything up on a thumb drive for you," she says, the tears in her eyes making Stew and Dave look at each other. "But I didn't like the last scene."

I can't look at her, I just can't — the shame won't let me.

"Rich, I don't want you to go back there."

"I don't want to go back either." Still wanting to be brave, I put on the best performance of my life in trying to convince Beth I can handle this. "The plan's failsafe. Don't worry. Nothing can go wrong."

#  Chapter 49

Parker drives me back in his car, and even though he's taking me deep within enemy lines, I don't feel scared as he pulls up outside the gothic horror backdrop that is St. Bart's.

I sling my bag over my shoulder and follow him through the front doors to find everyone who isn't rehearsing for the end-of-term concert putting up Christmas decorations in the school colours.

"Get a move on, Jarvis," says Parker, nudging me towards the stairs. "I've wasted enough time running around after you."

I go to shake him off me then change my mind; if my enemy suspects I've got something on them, they'll go even deeper into hiding, and as soon as I get my footage, I'm in the clear and I can get my old life back again.

"Oi, Jarvis!" shouts Spencer from the landing, where he's sticking purple-and-gold paper chains to the banisters. "Welcome back. Got a special treat planned for you tonight."

"That's quite enough, Spencer!" Parker warns him, making the pretence in front of Wilson and the other masters that he gives a damn. "Or you'll be joining your friend Baxter in detention tonight."

Looking at the floor, I keep pace with Parker as he escorts me back to my dorm. Spencer won't be laughing tonight, not when he realises we're both victims of the same sicko.

"See you later!" Spencer smirks.

I ignore him, taking mental notes of where all the cameras are just in case I need to get some additional footage.

"Get yourself down to lunch," Parker says, having marched me back to my room, which is still as grey as it is depressing. "You'll have to get notes from Hermit."

"I've already had lunch, sir."

"You being smart with me, boy?"

"No, sir," I say, deciding to look him in the eye. "They just gave me lunch at the hospital, and I'm not hungry now."

Parker grunts. "Okay, get yourself unpacked, and be quick about it. And, Jarvis?"

"Yes, sir?"

"If I get so much as a whiff of any more trouble involving you, you'll be on the next plane back to Mumbai. Do I make myself clear?"

I put my Dictaphone on charge and hide the videotapes beneath a spare jumper at the bottom of my bag. While everyone else is eating, I leg it down to the post room, and after dusting the lens and repositioning it so my pigeonhole's somewhere in the centre, I head downstairs to get the key to the control room from Mr Henry.

Beth and the others want me to take this to Parker, but I don't intend to make this easy for the one who's doing this to me. They can go running to the teachers for protection if they want, but not before I expose them in front of Spencer — I've still got to get him off my back and make sure Dad keeps his job long enough to seal his deal.

"Don't you have anything better to do?" Mr Henry grumbles from where he's sitting in his armchair, reading a newspaper in his hovel of a room.

"I've got a documentary to finish for the end-of-term concert, sir."

He shakes his head and, still moaning, reaches for the keys he keeps in his drawer. "Bring them back by five — I'm leaving early tonight."

I thank him and, careful to ensure I'm not being followed, make my way to the tower room. After turning on all the cameras, I sit down on the floor to begin recording the post room.

As I can't keep coming up here and don't know when the post thief's going to hit, I set the camera up to record on reduced quality, which means I won't have to change tapes for eight hours. Leaving the cameras rolling, I lock up, return the key to Mr Henry, and find Chrissie's waiting for me on the landing, clutching a hymnbook.

"When did you get back?" she asks me, looking sophisticated with her blond hair scraped back into a high ponytail.

She's so happy it lifts my mood immediately. I'm glad we're opposites. I don't think I could handle it if she were her old depressed self. "Just before lunch, and when did you join the choir?"

"Don't change the subject!" she snaps, her smile turning sour. "I was worried about you."

I've been so wrapped up in me and what I needed to do, I completely forgot about Chrissie. "Sorry, I had stuff to do."

"What stuff?" she asks, walking into an empty classroom.

"Just boring film stuff," I reply. I don't want to lie to her any more than I have to. I'm already suffering guilt overload from listening to Beth and the guys trying to convince me Chrissie's behind all this. "I've got to get my project finished for the end-of-term concert."

"So you're not mad with me?"

"Why would I be mad with you?" I ask, sitting next to her on one of the desks facing the window.

"Because I didn't come to see you," she says, her big blue eyes going all watery. "I wanted to. I begged Mrs Trench, but the old bag said you didn't deserve any visitors."

For some reason, I find myself laughing as I imagine the grief Chrissie gave her dorm mistress.

"What's so funny?"

"Nothing," I chuckle, swinging my feet back and forth.

"Tell me!" she demands, laughing too.

"No."

"Rich!"

I look at her again with a big grin on my face. "Has Trench recovered yet?"

Laughing, Chrissie nudges me playfully. "She was in bed with a migraine all weekend."

"Nice one, Chrissie." I put my arm around her, and for a while, we just look at the white-covered trees illuminated by the watery moon.

"I really did try everything I could. You know that, right?"

"I know," I say, able to relax now it's just us two and there's no chance of any surprise attacks. "Guess what!"

"What?"

"Beth and the guys came to see me."

"Beth!"

I'm a second away from explaining it all to her, when she lets rip.

"How did she know where you were?"

"I called her."

"WHY?"

I shrink back from her anger, confused why she isn't happy for me. "Because she's my girlfriend!"

"She _dumped_ you!"

"No," I explain, my pulse increasing as I struggle to understand why Chrissie's gone all lunatic. "She didn't write the letter — someone else did!"

"And you believed her?"

"Why wouldn't I?"

"Because she's a lying bitch!" Chrissie yells, jumping to her feet. "God, Rich, you're so stupid!"

For what seems like forever, I just sit there with my mouth open; my brain doesn't know what to do. I feel like I did when I found Parker's mobile sticking out of my bag, unable to understand how this could possibly be happening.

"She doesn't love you!" Chrissie screams, shoving me in the chest. "She's just messing you about!"

Beaten black and blue by her anger, I find myself recoiling as she reaches out to touch me again. "Why are you trying to make me hate Beth?"

"Because she keeps coming between us!" she screams. "All your stupid girlfriends always do!"

I just sit there, too spooked to do anything else.

"Why can't you just do as you're told!" she goes on, stamping her foot. "Why can't you just be happy with me?"

I duck as she hurls her hymnbook, but shock's made my reflexes even slower, and it hits me just above my left eye.

"Now look what you've made me do!" she yells, crouching down to retrieve her crumpled book. "It's ruined. Mrs Cumberland will give me a detention for sure."

I don't know what to say. I still can't move. I'm a rabbit scared shitless staring into the high beams of some big old shiny red American car.

#  Chapter 50

Sitting in the control room the following day, I put in a new tape and use the spare recorder to wind back yesterday's footage. What the hell am I doing? I'm comparing my sister to some old Stephen King film about a maniac car that goes around killing people! I'm going crazy, but the insane thoughts keep stabbing at my brain.

On the top left screen, I watch Chrissie in the common room, talking to Poppy and Fiona. There's nothing sinister, nothing strange; she doesn't look anything like she did in the classroom when she went all mental, and once again, I start questioning my sanity; what happened back there was just too freaky.

The tape now fully rewound, I press play, and the grainy footage flickers into life. It's a snowstorm of static, as I watch it at thirty-two times normal speed. I race through the footage until Mrs Kellmore, the school secretary, wanders in with a bundle of letters and begins slotting them into the correct pigeonholes.

This is it. There were no letters waiting for me this morning, so I have the thief on tape, and leaning forward to get a closer look, I keep my eye on the big envelope sticking out from my pigeonhole — three up, two right.

Kids come and go, but just as Stew and Dave predicted, no one touches my letter. A couple of teachers post a wad of Christmas cards, Baxter picks up his rugby magazine, and then Jones wanders in alone. My breath catches in my throat as his hand moves towards Beth's card, but I forgot his pigeonhole is next to mine, and after collecting a single letter he walks out with his backpack slung over his shoulder.

I fast forward on maximum speed then stop in a rush of anticipation when I see Beth's card gone. It's not been stolen, just knocked from my pigeonhole by Bollinger, who's making out with his busty girlfriend, and after putting it back, they leave, and Spencer and Chrissie enter.

I slow to one-eighth normal speed, telling myself it's because I don't want to miss anything, but in reality not wanting to witness the truth. If it's Spencer, all my problems are over. But Spencer's not the insane car; he's just the driver, helping her.

I watch Chrissie giggle something in his ear, then I watch him stroke her arm the same way I touch Beth before leaning in to nuzzle and kiss her neck. It feels like she's looking right at me as she reaches behind Spencer and takes Beth's card. Spencer's so wrapped up in her he doesn't even notice he's just witnessed her breaking The Code, doesn't question her when she puts some huge card in her backpack without reading it; he just waits for his next set of instructions like all actors do when the director's on set.

I slump back in the chair. This film's just taken a sinister twist, and now I have a decision to make. I can be a schmuck like Arnie, or I can put a stop to Christine.

#  Chapter 51

In Stephen King's classic novel, Arnie refused to believe his beloved car was evil even though he witnessed it try to kill his girlfriend. I'm not stupid like Arnie, but suddenly I've lost all interest in unveiling my enemy; I don't want to be the one to crush Christine.

I stare at the ceiling because I don't know what else to do. I thought it would hurt more, but I don't feel anything. I think it's because I still can't believe Chrissie's the one behind it. Chrissie — the one person I love most in the world, who's been with me forever, and I don't feel anything — just lost.

Mum said we were born holding hands. She said when we were small Chrissie used to give me all her toys so I'd stay and play with her. I was her big brother by seven minutes and her hero, so what's changed? What made her launch a hate campaign the equivalent of World War III against me?

I can't believe it's what Beth thinks. That this is some elaborate ploy because of some sick need to be with me all the time. If that was true, how can she sit back and watch them beat me up on a daily basis? She must hate me. But why? I've done nothing to deserve it — nothing! I can't think of a single thing... unless she blames me for what happened at Goldmeads.

"You all right, Jarvis?" asks Hermit, coming back from rehearsals with his violin.

I nod and keep my eyes fixed on the ceiling; turning my head's too much effort.

"You sure?"

I must look bad if he's that worried about me. "Yeah, just great."

"That's all right then," he says, retreating to his side of the dorm to change. "Can I give you some advice?"

I nod, curious what he has to say.

"Get yourself expelled."

For a moment, it feels like I have stepped into the middle of a film without seeing the beginning. "What did you say?"

"Get yourself expelled," he tells me again. "Spencer's planning something big Friday night."

I don't want to know. This thing with Chrissie's just about finished me off, but I'd be even more of an idiot if I didn't gather intelligence. This could be the difference between walking away with or without a rib cage. "What are they planning?"

"Don't know," he says, his voice wavering. "But they want me to lock you out of the dorm before lights out."

"And are you?"

"Don't know," he replies, sitting on his hands. "Depends how much they beat me up."

I don't know why, but I find myself laughing.

"What's so funny?"

I guess this is the part of the film, the light relief, before things get so bad for the hero, you wonder how he's possibly going to survive. But this isn't a film. It's my life, and I'm no hero. I'm scared, my twin's plotting to kill me, and the only person left on my side is an eight-stone wimp called Paul Crab (aka Hermit) who wears bottle tops for glasses.

Hermit starts to laugh too. "Actually, I was planning to pull a sickie — I'm not really the brave type."

"I dunno," I say. "You've lasted longer here than I have."

"I keep my head down and try to be invisible," he tells me, changing into his awful stripy granddad pyjamas. "You should try it."

"Bit late for that." The light relief is over, and it's decision time.

"So what are you going to do?"

I don't know. It's all I've thought about for hours, and the only thing I've come up with is speaking to Mum. If I have it out with Chrissie, something tells me I'll end up in even more trouble.

"Well?" Hermit asks, interrupting my thoughts.

"Call home," I tell him.

"I don't think that's going to get you expelled," he says. "If I were you, I'd break a window or something."

"Thanks for the tip, Crab," I say, deliberately using his real name so he knows I appreciate his help. "But I think it's best you don't talk to me anymore."

"What are you really planning?"

"I told you. I'm going to call home and tell them what's really going on."

#  Chapter 52

I'm on report, which means no privileges, so the only way I'm going to get to speak to Mum is if I can get Stew to conference her in. I decide to take Hermit's advice and become invisible, so I hide in the security room and watch what Chrissie's up to until it's time for classes.

I watch her eat breakfast, laugh with Poppy and the other stupid girls, and skip to the post room to steal my mail. I watch her take the second Christmas card Beth sent me, watch her read it and tear it up, and I watch her go down to the assembly hall for choir practice with a smile on her face. She's getting off on destroying me, and I was blind to it all.

I avoid lunch too. I can't risk seeing Chrissie or getting into another fight. Putting one foot in front of the other is about as much as I can handle, and so I just sit in front of the monitors, watching everyone else until it's time for history.

Chrissie tries to smile at me, but I can't look at her. Terrified she'll realise I'm onto her, I keep my eyes fixed on my desk as Wilson drones on about WWI, the occasional paperclip missile striking me on the back of the neck.

Each second moves slower than a heavily sedated snail, and by the time there's a knock at the door, I feel like I'm going to puke from the stress when Mrs Kellmore finally makes her appearance.

"Sorry to intrude, Mr Wilson," she apologises, almost bowing. "Headmaster asked me to come and get Jarvis; he's got a call from his father."

I don't believe it. Stew's pulled it off, and careful to keep my back to Chrissie, I get up.

"Come on, Jarvis," complains Mrs Kellmore as I collect my books. "You don't want to keep your father waiting."

I follow her along the dark wooden corridors to the old-fashioned red telephone box tucked away beneath the sweeping staircase, which is draped in purple tinsel. I feel about as Christmassy as Alan Rickman when he played the Sherriff of Nottingham in _Robin Hood_ — I wish I had the power to cancel Christmas.

I step inside, and the phone rings. "Hello?"

"And what kind of way is that to address your father?"

My heart stops dead as Dad's angry bark punches through my brain. It's Dad. It really is Dad.

"Well?"

My brain and the rest of me freezes until I hear this snigger in the background, which can only be Dave, but I'm still too beat up to feel any kind of relief.

"So," says Stew, still sounding exactly like Dad. "Are you looking forward to your first Christmas in Mumbai?"

The one word I have to utter sticks in my throat. Even now, after everything Chrissie's done, and I really have no choice, but it still feels like I'm betraying her. "Yes."

There's a long silence as Stew waits for me to ask if I can invite that person to Christmas, but I can't say it. "That's good," says Stew, forgetting to mimic Dad's voice as he tries to prompt me into remembering my line. "Do you want to bring someone back with you for the holidays?"

I turn away so I don't have to look at Mrs Kellmore, who hasn't taken her eyes off me since I stepped inside the booth. "No, it'll just be me and Chrissie."

Part of me waits for Stew to tell me _I told you so_ , but Stew's a real mate, and real mates never kick you when you're down. "I'm sorry, Rich," he says. "Are you all right?"

"Yes," I say, my voice breaking up as the questions force me to accept this horror film is really my life. "But I need to speak to Mum."

"Okay, I'll just get her."

"No—" I try to tell him I'm not talking in code, that I really want to speak to my mum, but he's already handed the phone to Beth, and when I hear her voice, I miss her so much, I have to bite my lip to keep the tears inside me.

"Rich, I'm so sorry," Beth begins, and I realise she's crying too. "Do you want us to come and get you?"

"No," I say, realising I'm turning down a free ticket away from the front line. "Not until I speak to Mum."

"You really want to talk to your mum?"

"Yes," I tell her, hoping old Kellmore isn't listening in. I risk breaking cover. "Can you call her?"

"Now?"

"Yes, it's late. She should be at home."

"Okay," she says. "Do you want us to stay on the line?"

"No," I say; even though Beth's my best friend in the world, Chrissie's my twin, and I can't just give up on her.

"You sure?" Beth asks, her voice cracking even more.

"Yes," I reply; you never know what twists a film can take.

"Okay, I love you."

"Love you too."

There's a click, and the line goes silent, and I wait and I wait; the fear I'm cut off from headquarters and all alone makes my heart go into full-blown panic mode, then there's another click, and I hear the hum of a group of people talking, clinking glass, laughter, and the upbeat tempo of jazz music. My parents are having a party. I'm going through hell, and they're having a party!

"Rich?" It's Mum. She sounds out of breath, like she's been running. "I didn't think we had a call planned."

The disappointment she isn't pleased to hear from me feels like another kick in the guts. "We didn't."

"You're not in any more trouble, are you?" she asks, the music turning muffled.

I don't believe her. I just got out of the hospital — I was expecting a "how are you, dear?" at the very least or "we were all so worried," but no, all she cares about is whether I've got another detention under my belt. "No."

"Good," she says. "Because we've got some of your father's clients round here, and he's convinced they're going to sign and—"

"Screw Dad's clients!" I tell her in a fit of rage.

"Rich, if you've put your dad's deal at risk—"

"And what about the risk Dad's deal is putting me at?" I cry, losing it big time. "It was Chrissie who stole the mobile, and she's turned everyone against me!"

#  Chapter 53

Now I've said it aloud, that it was Chrissie, there's nothing I can do to stop the waterfall of tears, and I just stand there crying, angry and scared to the point it feels like I can't go on. Nowhere is safe anymore — not even home.

"Rich," she says after I've made a right idiot of myself crying like stupid kid. "I know you've had some trouble adjusting—"

"This isn't about me adjusting!" I shout. I don't know any other way to make her understand. "It's Chrissie! Why won't you listen to me?"

She goes quiet again, but even though she doesn't say anything, I know she isn't on my side, and it makes me even angrier. "Okay, Rich. I'm listening."

I take a deep breath as I fight through the blinding tears in my head for the right words. "Mum, Chrissie's gone crazy, and she's—"

"Rich, honey..." I can tell by the way she talks to me, like I'm some retarded year seven, she doesn't believe a word. "There is nothing wrong with your sister."

"Yes, there is, and because of her, the whole school wants to kill me!"

"Stop exaggerating."

"I'm not!" I tell her again. "She's turned everyone against me and—"

"You beat up Robert Spencer."

"That's got NOTHING to do with it!"

"Hasn't it?"

"NO!" I'm drowning. I'm reaching out to her, but she won't take my hand.

"Well, it's not easy when you're in trouble all the time."

"Since when have I ever given you any trouble before?"

I hear her take a deep breath. She's tired of me already and wants to get back to her party. "I don't know, Rich, but you're certainly making up for it now."

"That's because Chrissie set me up—"

"You're imagining things," she tells me with even more force.

"No, Mum, I'm not. She's doesn't want me to have any friends and—"

This time she doesn't even let me finish. "Rich, if you're going to bring up that Jenny Metcalf incident—"

"What?" This time I'm the one who interrupts.

"Those reporters had no right to print it!" Mum yells back at me. "It was an accident!"

Once again, I feel like I've drifted off in a film and missed the main clue that explains everything. "Why would it be in the papers?"

Silence, as she realises she's said too much.

"Mum, why was Jenny bullying Chrissie in the papers?"

Another long silence before she finally cracks.

"The silly girl broke her leg," Mum tells me. "And her parents were trying to make something of it for the compensation. We settled out of court of course. After all, Chrissie never meant to push the girl down the stairs."

OMG. Beth was right. Chrissie's been crazy for years, and if she'd push Jenny Metcalf down a flight of stairs for being my friend when we were kids, what would she have done to Beth if we'd not been sent off to St. Bart's?

"Chrissie had a few insecurity issues, but there's nothing wrong with her now; she's had therapy..."

She goes on to tell me what kind of therapy, but I don't know what she's saying because I'm seeing every clue I ever missed in a time sequence montage of terror!

"Now stop trying to blame your sister just because you won't accept responsibility for what you did!"

"What?" I can't believe Chrissie's somehow managed to turn Mum against me too. "I haven't done anything!"

"You've got a record for fighting as long as my arm!" she yells. "So what if she took a mobile without permission — deal with it!"

#  Chapter 54

Now I know why Chrissie tried to kill herself all those years ago, but whether it was guilt or to blackmail me so I'd forgive her if Mum and Dad had told me the truth like they should have, I don't think I'll ever know.

I kick out at the wall, making all the security monitors rattle. I still can't believe Mum. I know Dad can be a real prick, but I always thought I could count on Mum, but now she's been brainwashed by Dad and _"his deal"_ that will _"set us up for life"_ , so I guess it's up to me to put an end to it.

Turning on all the cameras, I scan the monitors to search for Chrissie. It's time to have it out with her. I don't know what I'm going to say yet, but there's nothing else I can do. I can't go to one of the masters when the only evidence I have is security footage I should never have taken, which just proves she's a thief too!

I have no choice. I can't wait until the end of term, not when Spencer's planning another assault. This stops today, and systematically working my way through all the cameras, I find her in one of the downstairs classrooms, making out with Spencer!

I suck on my lips, taking angry deep breaths as I struggle to keep my cool. All these years I thought I was the actor and director, formulating scenes, creating illusions and making the audience believe I'm someone else. Only Chrissie's far more talented than I am. She doesn't need to rehearse, write scripts, and instruct her actors what to do. She's managing a cast of hundreds real time, and all she has to do to cause more pain for me is to whisper a few more lies into her co-star's left ear as he kisses her neck!

I should feel sorry for Spencer, because despite everything he's done, he's just another one of Chrissie's victims, like me, Jenny, Beth... I'm going to stop this, and fired up big time, I go to the classroom where we always meet to play chess, Dictaphone primed and cameras rolling — clueless how this is going to play out.

#  Chapter 55

Hugging my stomach for fear of hurling, I will my hands to stop shaking as I play out every conceivable scenario in my head. I could confront her, tell her I know everything, or try to trick her into confessing by making her feel guilty. What to do? There's only moments to decide. Confront, that's more my style, but deceiving is hers, and she's the one winning these ratings wars.

The handle turns. A second to curtain call. Confront or deceive? There's no going back now.

"You all right?" she asks, slipping inside and closing the door behind her.

Realising I can't confront, I shake my head and sit down on the desk in front of the security camera.

"Budge up!"

My whole body tenses as she sits next to me and hugs my arm. I can almost feel her sucking more of the life out of me, like some giant leech.

"What did Dad want?"

I shrug. "He just wanted to have a go at me — I'm flunking everything."

"I'm sorry," she says, really sounding sorry. "Do you want me to talk to him?"

"What's the point? It's just going to get worse unless I find out who really took that stupid mobile. You don't know anything, do you?"

She shakes her head.

"You sure Spencer hasn't let anything slip?" I ask, pushing things further. "You do see him a lot."

"Only to go riding," she replies, her face and body giving nothing away, even though she's lying big time.

Refusing to give up, I try again, deciding to look at the floor because I don't think my acting's up to her standard of deceit. "Chrissie, I don't care who it is," I begin, my voice shaking as I struggle to hold back what I really want to say. "I know they're probably scared and didn't mean for any of this to happen..."

She shifts so she can hold my hand, as if to show me she understands.

"Chrissie, I won't tell anyone." I say it in a way that stops short of accusing her outright. "Not Spencer, not any of the masters, not Mum and Dad, no one. I'll take the blame, and I won't go after them. I don't even care if I get expelled, but I need to know why they did it, so I can make things right."

My big speech over, I wait for her to own up. I've offered her a lifeline, a lifeboat, and get-out-of-jail-free card all in one, but she still doesn't love me enough to confess.

"I wish I could help, Rich," she says, squeezing my fingers. "But I can't — I don't know anything."

I don't know how I continued to play the beaten-up hero on the verge of giving up, when inside I wanted to tell her I know she's behind it all. But everything depends on the way I play this, and hoping Beth's right about why Chrissie's done all this, I continue the scene.

"I'm beginning to crack up..." I begin, my line easy to deliver, because I really am speaking from the heart.

"No, you're not," she says, hugging me hard. "You're fine."

"No, Chrissie. I'm not. Look at me. I'm a mess."

She can delude herself all she likes, but she'd have to be blind not to see how I've changed. We've swapped roles. I'm becoming her, too skinny, with permanent black shadows and a nervous twitch, while she looks like a regular fourteen-year-old who's got everything going their way.

"Do you remember what happened to the other guy who broke The Code?" I ask when she offers me no inspiring lies.

She nods. "Yes, he hung himself."

"That's what Spencer's trying to make me do."

"You're wrong," she says, a little too quickly. "Anyway, it's nearly Christmas, and we'll be out of here."

"I'll have killed myself by Christmas."

"Rich, you don't mean it!"

"Why?" Let's face it, finding out your twin's insane and trying to destroy your life is a good enough reason in anyone's script. "You did when you were getting picked on at your old school."

She shrinks back. "That was different."

"Why?" I ask her, getting angry. "Do you know what he did to me in sickbay?"

"No," she replies in a quiet voice that makes me believe she doesn't know everything that's happened.

"He tied my hands behind my back and tried to drown me in a bath of boiling water!"

She swallows and turns sickly white.

"I can't take it anymore, Chrissie," I cry, wishing I hadn't gone back there, because now I've let those memories back into my thoughts, I feel even more pathetic. "I just want it to end. You don't know how many times I've climbed onto the roof and nearly jumped off..."

That's all I have to say to try to draw her out, make her think she's going to be on her own. Beth and the others were right. Chrissie wants me all to herself. I chose the wrong Stephen King film as an analogy. I'm not in _Christine_. I'm in _Misery_!

"Rich, it'll be all right." She pulls me into a hug and kisses my head. "We'll be home soon, and then—"

"It's going to get even worse when we get home," I tell her, trying to wriggle free before she suffocates me. "Or have you forgotten Spencer lives in the same condo in Mumbai?"

This time I succeed in shocking her — guess she'd forgotten that in her equation on how to turn me into her obedient slave.

"He's never going to let this drop," I go on. "And Mum and Dad can't do anything, and he knows it!"

The silence goes on forever, and unable to keep still, I walk around kicking things. If she doesn't say anything now, my only option is confrontation, and I know now if I don't do as she wants, I'll be the one getting hurt.

She planted Parker's mobile on me because I didn't meet her. She told Spencer I tried to stitch her up so he'd tell Parker and I'd be sent to Coventry. She staged hurting her ankle so I couldn't go away with Beth, and to make sure I was around for half-term, she posted a fake break-up letter. And there's more to come; I've still not been punished for getting back in contact with Beth. That's going to happen on Friday after she has managed to manipulate Spencer with more of her lies.

"Rich," she says after what seems like forever. "Will you be all right if Spencer backs off?"

"He's not going to," I say, running the back of my hand across my eyes to make out I'm still fighting back the tears.

"But what if he does?"

I turn round to look at her, and a strange sparkle in her blue eyes makes me shiver. "And why would he?"

"He would if he got caught with something stolen—"

This scene isn't playing out how I thought it would. I thought she'd own up. I didn't think she'd try to stitch up Spencer. "No one's going to believe that."

"Yes, they would," she insists. "I'll just take—"

"No!" I interrupt, even though this is just what I need to prove Chrissie's the thief.

"But if he got caught, everyone would think he was lying about you—"

"NO!"

"Rich, I want to do this."

"No," I say, deliberately turning my back on her for dramatic effect. "You'll get caught, and I can't risk them hurting you!"

"I won't get caught," she insists, almost begging as she spins me around. "Please, Rich; you know this is the only way."

#  Chapter 56

I have everything I need to prove it wasn't me. All I have to do is show it to Spencer. I don't want to. He's going to go nuts, that's for sure, but hopefully he'll realise I've done him a favour, and we can negotiate some kind of truce until the end of the term.

I really don't know what else to do. I'm out of options. Like Captain Howard when the orders came for the big push, I have to do it, and hoping my story isn't going to end with an epic battle that will see my guts splattered across the dorms, I walk deep into enemy territory and knock on Spencer's door.

"Who is it?"

I don't reply. Instead, I just go inside to find him and Jones sitting on their beds repairing the grips on their polo sticks.

"Get out!" Spencer snarls, standing up.

I exchange glances with Jones before shaking my head. "Not until you've seen this."

He doesn't even look at my camera. "Not interested in watching any more of your films."

"You'll want to see this one," I insist, flipping open the viewing screen and getting ready to show him. "But first you've got to promise what you see stays between you and me."

"And why would I promise anything?" he demands, nostrils so flared he looks like a bull about to charge the red flag.

"Because if you don't, I'll let you get stitched up exactly like I was!"

Jones shoots me a terrified look, but for once, I'm not pretending to be brave; as soon as Spencer's seen what Chrissie's really like, the war's over.

"Are you threatening me, Jarvis?" Spencer demands, sticking his face in mine.

"No," I reply, somehow managing to keep my cool. "I'm trying to help you — now give me your word this stays between us!"

"I'm not giving you shit!" he snarls, shoving me in the chest.

I stumble backwards, somehow managing to stay calm and on my feet for once. "I'm not the bad guy, Spencer. If you watch this—"

He rips the camera from my grasp and throws it on his bed. "I'm going to count to ten," he warns me, that dark psychotic gleam returning to his eyes, "and if you're not gone — I'm going to kill you."

Seeing Spencer like he was in the sickbay bathroom fills me with liquid terror, and my legs nearly buckle.

"One, two, three..."

"Why don't you hear him out?" Jones stammers, coming between us as Spencer continues to count. "What—"

Spencer whirls round, his deranged black eyes silencing Jones. "Whose side are you on?"

Jones shuffles and looks at his feet. "Yours."

"Doesn't sound like it!"

"Spencer..."

Spencer's having none of it. "Prove it!" he snarls, holding out his polo stick. "Prove you're on my side, or you and I are through!"

Jones shakes his head. "I'm not beating him up."

"Who said anything about giving him a kicking?" Spencer asks, his calculating cold voice making me tense up even more. "Smash his camera!"

I meet Jones's unsure gaze. If he doesn't follow Spencer's orders, he'll be like Hermit, me, and the rest of the school outcasts who have to endure public humiliation and fear on a daily basis. But Jones is no Captain Howard. He's the silent majority who always looks the other way, and as I make a grab for my camera in one last attempt to get Spencer to see the truth, Jones grabs the polo stick and with a roar brings it smashing down.

My world ends. Egged on by a laughing Spencer, he continues to smash the life out of my camera until it's a broken-up twisted corpse of spilt wires and shattered plastic.

Spencer grins because he knows I'd have rather taken the hits myself than let anything happen to my camera.

"Now bugger off!" he whispers in my ear, stabbing me in the chest with his finger. "And if you ever try to talk to me again, I'll make sure you end up like your camera — and that's a promise."

#  Chapter 57

I was never going to take it this far. I don't know if doing so makes me a bad person, but I don't care. It wasn't just because Jones smashed up my camera. I know he didn't have a choice — not really, but when I get back to my room and find Baxter and Finny kicking the crap out of Hermit, I realise I have to stop this any way I can.

I may not be coming back to the front line next term, but the others will, and the one thing I've learnt from all my hours with Captain Howard is that you never leave one of your own behind.

Hermit refused to take part in Friday's ambush. For once, he stood up to that lot, and I owe it to him and all the other wimps, geeks, and outsiders to stop this forever.

If I'm honest, I wouldn't have cared unless I'd joined their ranks, but I'm one of them now, and I'm going to lead us all to victory. I'm going to destroy St. Bart's, its precious Code, and everything else it stands for, and as for Mum and Dad, well, they had their chance. They knew Chrissie was nuts. They knew she'd hurt my friends before, and they did nothing, and firing up the security cameras, I start my new project — a film that's going to change the world!

#  Chapter 58

I'm with the Head and Laura when Chrissie steals the mobile. The Head wants to personally vet my documentary before he'll allow it to be shown at the Christmas concert, and so we watch it on his laptop.

He loves it. I knew he would. I know all the tricks. No one taught me how to make people cry, laugh, or jump with fear. It was something I was born knowing how to do, and I knew as the Head watched my film that I'd sucked him right into the horrors of the mud-infested trenches, made his chest swell with pride showing the achievements of the St. Bart's class of 1912, before playing a guitar solo of epic proportions on his emotional heart strings as the credits roll to the school hymn sung by the boys who all gave their lives in the French trenches. It's brilliant. Not my best — that's still a work in progress.

"It's very good, Jarvis," he says, taking off his glasses under the pretence he's cleaning them, when he's really wiping away a tear. "What's the running time?"

"Just under ten minutes," says Laura, giving me a smile.

The Head nods. "I think we'll show it after the play. Well done, Jarvis. I'm glad there's one class at least where you'll make your parents proud."

I can't believe it. Even when I do something good, he has to bring me down.

"With talent like this, Headmaster," says Laura, rising to her feet, "Richard only needs to be good at one subject."

When I leave, I go straight to tea, where I let Baxter trip me up in front of all the year nines so I've another thirty witnesses. Then I trail Bollinger to study hall, hugging my backpack while he hurls insults in my direction.

I sit in my normal seat and get on with my Latin homework as they pelt me with the usual array of rubber missiles, paperclips, and the occasional sharpener.

If Chrissie's done it, she'll be here any minute. I risk a quick glance as the door opens, but it's only Hermit. I go back to chewing my biro as I try to translate the passage that looks like an alien language with my one remaining brain cell that isn't focused on waiting for Chrissie to get back. I hope she hasn't been caught. Shit! What happens if she has and tells them I made her do it? The thought turns my stomach into a black hole of fear.

I drop my pencil as something sharp smacks into the base of my skull. I bend down to pick it up, and as I straighten up, the door opens again, and in strolls Chrissie. I almost feel sorry for Spencer as she takes her seat next to him.

Mouth dry, my insides turn into a nest of vipers as I continue my translation. She can't have done it. It's been too long. They would have noticed their mobile was missing by now, and feeling disappointed and relieved at the same time, I'm just about to leave when the silence is broken by the bell, three short rings and one long siren.

Straight away, there's a scraping of chairs as everyone whirls round to look at me.

"All right!" says Bollinger, taking charge. "You all know the drill. Empty your pockets and bags; stand behind your desk facing forwards with your hands on your heads, and no talking — especially you, Jarvis!"

There's another rush of scraping chairs, zips, and thuds. I shake everything onto my desk and pull all the stuff out of my pockets. They all think it's me. I know it isn't, but now the guilt of setting Spencer up kicks in, when my fingers close around my Dictaphone that I forgot to remove from my inside blazer pocket — I'm dead.

"What's the matter, Jarvis?" Bollinger demands, his brown eyes sparkling with delight. "Guilty conscience?"

"No," I say, my heart pounding like thunder as I place it alongside my ruler and try to stand tall and confident with my hands on my head.

He grunts and returns to his desk. A couple of other guys look nervous, probably because they've got some smokes or porn. Chrissie — she's so cool it makes me shiver.

Parker and Wilson enter the room, their faces set in the same angry grimace.

"What's happened?" Bollinger demands as if he's one of them.

"Empty your bag and pockets and stand behind your desk with your hands on your head!" Parker barks.

Looking like he's been punched in the face, Bollinger retreats behind his elevated desk and does as he's told before standing facing all of us in the same degrading position — equally as guilty until proven innocent.

"A member of the staff has had their mobile stolen," Parker tells everyone, but only looking at me. "Whoever did it, you've got ten seconds to confess, and I'll leave it to the headmaster to determine punishment. If you don't, I can guarantee the punishment will be expulsion."

Focusing on my bit of wall as Parker continues his silent countdown, I continue to squirm as my guilt strums away at my intestines. What was I thinking? Last night this all seemed such a good idea, but now all I want to do is hit the rewind button and go with an alternate script.

"No?" Parker says, looking up from his watch. "Very well. Mr Wilson, you start on this side. I'll start by the window."

On his way over to my row, Parker stops by to inspect Bollinger's desk. "Still smoking, Bollinger." It's not a question as he points to the packet of cigarettes before frisking Bollinger like some airport security guard.

"Only at weekends, sir," Bollinger replies, still standing tall with his hands on his head.

"Still loss of privileges, Bollinger," Parker tells him in a flat voice. "You're on report for a week."

"Yes, sir." Bollinger somehow manages not to look pissed off, and cleared of stealing, he's told to sit down and wait.

Me, I'm three guys away from being exposed as an accomplice to theft.

Parker reaches my desk just as the sweat begins to roll down my neck.

"Is this everything, Jarvis?" he asks, pushing the point of his pen through my stuff.

"Yes, sir," I say, my eyes following the journey of his pen towards my Dictaphone.

"You started smoking too?" he demands, holding it up.

The vipers in my stomach start breakdancing.

"It's a voice recorder," Wilson tells him, in the middle of frisking Hermit. "Jarvis uses it for making his films."

Parker grunts and presses the play button.

My heart's thumping so loud I'm gobsmacked he can't hear it, and then everything turns into slow motion as I watch his thumb hit the button.

"Let's see what our very own Steven Spielberg's been working on..."

#  Chapter 59

I swallow again and hope Parker can't see the single bead of sweat running down my face, but it isn't me and Chrissie talking — it's the sound of marching and gunfire. Thank God, there's hours of this crap I recorded from Laura's sound effects album.

"What's this?" Parker demands.

"World War I sniper fire," I tell him, the realisation I'm off the hook sending the vipers into a mild wriggle. "It's for my media project."

Parker turns it off and starts frisking me, slapping me much harder than he needs to before he eventually gives up and starts on Finny, and as I sit down, the next wave of panic pushes me under as I wait for him to reach Spencer. It doesn't take long.

"What's this?" Parker demands.

I know just by looking at Bollinger's open mouth the mobile's been found on Spencer, and because it will look too suspicious not to, I swivel round in my chair, and like everyone else, watch Spencer try to explain it away.

"Well?" Parker asks for a second time.

"I didn't do it!" Spencer tells him, shaking his head. "I've never seen it before in my life!"

I risk looking at Chrissie, and like everyone else, she looks both shocked and disturbed as she mutters in disbelief. There isn't a micron of guilt in her — me, I'm overdosing on it.

"So who took it?" Parker demands with full-on sarcasm. "The tooth fairy?"

No one laughs.

"Him!" Spencer cries, lunging towards me. "That bastard — he's got it in for me!"

I swallow, as once again I'm centre stage.

"Where were you between three-thirty and four?" Parker asks me, holding Spencer back.

"I was with the headmaster and Miss Bell," I reply, reminding myself I'm innocent. "Then I went to tea and came here."

"And where were you before that?"

"He was in my class," says Wilson, replying for me again.

"And where were you, Spencer?" Parker demands.

"This is ridiculous!"

"Spencer, where were you?"

"I had a free period, ALL RIGHT!" he yells. "I was in the library!"

"Can anyone vouch for you?"

Spencer's temper explodes. "I AM NOT A THIEF! Check the bloody security cameras!"

Another aftershock of panic shakes me. I thought I was in the clear when he didn't find anything on my Dictaphone, but if he goes into the security room and sees everything I've got rigged up—

"Hold your tongue, Spencer!" Parker barks. "You can't have it both ways. Or do I have to remind you that it was at your father's insistence the security cameras were an invasion of privacy and not to be used in evidence for such infringements."

#  Chapter 60

I can't go through with this. I just can't. I thought I could, but thinking and doing are a million miles apart. I don't care if doing the right thing means committing suicide; feeling like this hurts far more than getting beaten up, and once again, I find the help I need in the diaries of Captain Howard.

I made a brilliant film about the captain because I liked him. I respected him for always sticking to his principles — never leave a man behind. He crawled out into No Man's Land to bring his own men back, and he dragged the enemy back into safety too.

I remember one passage in his diary when he and his batman had a major falling out over some German sergeant who'd been shot in the stomach. The batman couldn't understand why they wasted bandages on someone they'd earlier been trying to kill.

"He's the enemy!" the batman kept telling Captain Howard. "Why are you trying to save him when we spent all day trying to kill the bugger?"

"Because he was holding up the white flag when we shot him!" Captain Howard explained. "He left his trench to get an injured man, and we broke the rules!"

The batman still didn't get it. Captain Howard went on to write a couple of pages about how he despaired trying to explain that their win was no victory, and it wasn't. The next day they were forced to retreat when the Germans decided to break the rules by starting the fight before sunrise.

Captain Howard was right. You play by the rules. I've broken the rules letting Spencer take the blame for something he didn't do. I'm not saying he doesn't deserve to be punished — he does. So do all the others, but they need to take the rap for the rules they've broken!

No one's going to have any respect for me if I do it this way, but more important than what other people think, I won't have respect for me, and that's what I keep telling myself when I finally knock on Parker's door.

"Come in!"

I go in. Parker looks really pissed off, and I can't help but notice a big glass of whisky on his desk.

"What do you want, Jarvis?"

"I don't think Spencer took the mobile."

"No?" he says, taking a swig of whisky.

"No, sir." I tell him, wishing I were as brave as Captain Howard. "He was in the library."

"And how do you know all this?"

"I saw him go in there when Miss Bell and I were walking to the headmaster's office."

The silence feels like I'm being choked as his nasty eyes look right inside me. "So why didn't you tell me this earlier?"

I shrug. Best not to tell any more lies.

He grunts and takes another big gulp. "So we still have a thief in the school?"

"I guess," I say, deciding it's best to look at my feet; I don't think I'm quite the actor Chrissie is.

"Know who it is?"

I know this is the perfect time to tell him it's Chrissie, but I'm not going to. I don't trust her not to talk her way out of it and leave me in even more trouble. "No, sir."

"I don't believe you, Jarvis."

"It's the truth, sir," I say, knowing now I was right to keep quiet.

He grunts again, the whisky making him drop his guard. "I don't think you know what the truth is, Jarvis!" he snaps, towering above me as he rises to his feet. "Now get out of my sight. You're dismissed!"

#  Chapter 61

It's like an approaching storm: the atmosphere's electric. Everyone knows a fight's going to break out tonight. Hermit scarpered an hour ago. He had the decency to apologise, but if he hadn't fled to sickbay, I'd have made him go.

It'll happen soon, while Parker's out having a smoke. I lie on my bed, my heart bruising my chest as my fear interprets every creaking floorboard, every closing door as the approaching attack.

For a while, I debate barricading myself in my room. I need to hold up a few more days. In a few more days, it will all be over, and this school and its bloody Code can rot in hell for all I care, but all my hard work will be wasted if I don't make it to the end of the term.

A door at the end of the corridor crashes open, and a mob of angry voices grows in volume. My stomach tenses, and I clench my fists as the first hit of adrenaline ignites the warning signs of danger.

As a guy, you're supposed to be brave. Fights are a rite of passage; guys brag, relive, and provoke, and we shrug off a punch even if it hurts like hell, but we all get scared, even if we're in the pack picking on the runt.

I've never been one for fights; I can play the game, go along with the crowd just like everyone else. I never picked on the runt, but until I became the runt, I never helped them out either.

The mob voices fall silent as they plan their attack. They're coming. My terrified heart counts them down. They're not coming to talk. They're coming to hurt me.

I can run, I can hide, or I can fight. I'll lose a fight, and there's nowhere to hide. The only choice is to run, but where? Where's safe in a place where everyone hates me?

If I'd been thinking straight, I wouldn't have returned the security room keys, but it's too late for that now. I have seconds to decide. Sickbay, chapel, an empty classroom... I dismiss them faster than I can think of new places to go. I have no choice. Parker's a bastard, but he can't stand by and leave me to a lynch mob. Decision made, I leap to my feet, but it's already too late.

Baxter kicks open the door, and he, Spencer, and Finny all pile in to surround me. I wonder if Chrissie knew this was going to happen or if she orchestrated it to punish me for going up against her. I should have been smarter. I should have played it her way a bit longer, but my conscience wouldn't let me.

"You bastard!" Spencer hisses, taking a step forward. "Chrissie said you'd do something like this to stop me from seeing her, but to pull the same trick a second time!"

I get up to speak, have my say even though I know it's hopeless, but Baxter pushes me back down.

"If it wasn't for your sister, you'd be dead!" he continues, spitting the words in my face. "Now how did you do it?"

"I didn't!"

Finny backhands me across the face, cutting my lip open. It stings, but I don't think it was meant to hurt.

"Did you have help?" Spencer asks me, the veins on his neck like knotted pieces of rope.

I don't know why I feel the need to protect Chrissie when she doesn't give a shit about me, but I can't change who I am. I guess I'm destined to play Arnie just a little bit longer. "I don't know what you mean."

Spencer's lip curls into a sneer. "I'm glad I'm going to have to ask you twice," he tells me. "Finny, Baxter you know what to do."

They've been rehearsing too, and before I even have time to run, Baxter and Finny have hold of my arms, keeping me upright as Spencer draws back his fist.

I go down on the first punch as an atom bomb of pain explodes inside my stomach, and I'm unable to breathe because my lungs have been paralysed by the burning ache.

"Who's helping you?" Spencer demands again. "Hermit?"

"You're crazy!" I cry, my voice all dry. "I don't know—"

"Wrong answer!"

I've read stories about how people develop superhero strength when they're faced with certain death. I never believed it till Spencer's fist comes flying towards my nose, but this surge of power comes from somewhere deep inside me, and I rip my arms free, stamp on Finny's foot, elbow Spencer out of the way, and by the time Baxter gets his act together, I'm out the door.

But Baxter's still rugby captain and able to bring down a charging rhino if he puts his mind to it, and when his hand curls around my ankle, I crash forward. I know I'm hurt, but there's too much adrenaline surging through me to feel it, and so I roll onto my back, and with my free foot, I kick Baxter's knee, face, arm, and shoulder until my boot finds his face and he tumbles back, howling.

I'm back on my feet but not for long; Finny jumps me from the left, and we both tumble back. I can't throw him off, so I knee him in the bollocks, roll him off me, and make a dash for Parker's room.

"SIR, Mr Parker!" I hammer my fist onto the door.

"Mr Parker!" I knock again, and again, and again. "SIR!"

Spencer laughs and moves forward. Me — I crap myself.

"SIR!"

At last, I hear footsteps. Slowly the door opens inwards, and I find myself face to face with Parker, his face made even meaner by the whisky. "What do you want, Jarvis?"

I know he can see the blood on my lips, and as he peers round the corner, I know he can see Spencer and his gang waiting for me. "I need to talk to you," I say, hope running through my fingers like water.

"Come back later."

"But I need to speak to you NOW, sir!"

"Sorry, Jarvis!" he says with a sneer. "That would be breaking The Code, and as an old boy of St. Bart's, I can't do that."

#  Chapter 62

It's the last day of the term; my trunk's downstairs, and I've got my suitcase with some clothes and all my external communication devices in the hall ready for a quick getaway. Parents, guardians, and friends are filing into the Main Hall, where prefects are handing out sherry and mince pies, and the orchestra is playing a selection of classic Christmas carols.

From behind the red curtain, I watch Chrissie sit Mum and Dad two rows from the front in the packed hall. Parents have come from every corner of the world to pick up their kids and see a traditional Christmas concert with a few carols, a Christmas play, and a short documentary by Richard Jarvis about the class of 1912. Boy, are they in for a surprise.

"What do you think you're doing, Jarvis?" demands Parker, pulling me away from the curtain. "You know you're not allowed out till the end."

"Yes, sir," I say, touching my right eye that's now a shade of crimson with a hint of brown. "We wouldn't want anyone asking any awkward questions."

"I don't know what you're talking about, Jarvis," he says, all mocking. "You tripped and hit your head on a door handle in front of four witnesses."

He drags me back behind the stage and shoves me towards an empty wooden chair.

"Now sit there until I come and fetch you," he says. "And don't you dare think about taking a bow. You may have made a fine film about this school, but you're still a disgrace!"

The lead violin plays an A, and for a few seconds, there's a scraping of chairs and clearing of throats before everyone sings the school song. I don't. I'm buzzing with the thought of taking my standing ovation. I'm buzzing from leaving this place a legend!

I risk looking towards the projector to see if I have a clear run to swap discs, but there's still half the cast of _Scrooge_ running around dressed as peasants, ghosts, and gravediggers. I need to wait. It hurts. It burns. It tortures me, but I've waited this long; I can wait a bit longer.

The first hymn finishes, the Head drones on about the values of Christmas, and they sing "Joy to the World" while the cast of _A Christmas Carol_ , including Jones, who's playing Bob Cratchit, take their places.

It's time, and under the cover of applause as the curtain rises, I sneak over to the projector to swap discs, and pressing the eject button, I slip the disc into my blazer pocket—

"What are you doing?"

My insides jump as a hand clamps down on my shoulder, and spinning round, I find myself face to face with Hermit, who's changed into a peasant costume to perform some violin solo while they change scenery around at the interval.

"What are you doing, Jarvis?" he asks me again.

I shrug his hand off me. "I made some improvements," I lie, my scabby lips going even drier. "I cleared it with Parker."

"Liar!"

"Paul," I say, using his first name to shock him into listening. "Do you remember what you told me to do before Spencer beat me up?"

He stares at me, confused, until he remembers. "Get expelled?"

I nod. "If you let me show them this, they'll kick me out for sure, and Spencer and his lot will never hassle you again."

His eyes light up behind his glasses. "You got him doing something on film, didn't you?"

"Yes."

"Will he get kicked out?"

"Guaranteed!" I can't breathe as I wait to see what he's going to say.

He looks once more in Parker's direction before nodding his head. "I haven't seen anything, all right?"

"Thanks, Paul," I stammer as my heart slips back into place. "You're a mate."

He runs onto the stage and plays some Irish folk melody to occupy the audience as they change sets for the final scene where Scrooge goes round to see his nephew for Christmas.

He puts on a better performance than the cast. Shame they didn't let me take control of the production. Still, my film should wake everyone up, and as I watch the cast mumble their way through the most unconvincing Christmas celebration ever, I get ready for my ten minutes of fame.

"Merry Christmas, everyone!" says Tiny Tim, delivering the last wooden line of the play.

Everyone claps politely, even me, as the whole cast gathers to take a bow.

I'm up next, but I'm not expecting a standing ovation. I'm expecting fireworks. It's going to be awesome!

The Head takes his position behind the podium and clears his throat. "My Lords, Ladies, and gentlemen," he begins, because there are quite a few lords out there. "St. Bart's has produced prime ministers, bishops, generals, and business leaders, but never a film producer, until now. Richard Jarvis, one of our year-ten students, has made a remarkable documentary about one of the most celebrated old boys, Captain Timothy Howard, who won the Victoria Cross."

There's some polite clapping, followed by more throat clearing. Dad's too busy playing with his Blackberry to clap. Mum and Chrissie do, but Spencer doesn't bother; he just sits next to his highly groomed dad looking bored.

The buzz inside intensifies as the lights dim. This is it. My time to make every one of those bastards pay!

"Pack Up Your Troubles," the original recording by Murray Johnson, crackles through the electric atmosphere as scenes of old St. Bart's boys marching to war fills the screen. I didn't just choose this song because it was a popular WWI hit; I chose it because it's what I'm doing, and continuing the clips from the old newsreels to lull the masters into a false sense of security, I move into position so I can watch Chrissie. Any minute now, I'm going to play them a very different documentary about St. Bart's. Any second now, any second...

The music ends abruptly as I hit them with a speeded-up montage of me being kicked, spat at, and punched to gasps and mutterings of confusion from the audience. I figure I've got a few seconds to show them what St. Bart's is really like and how Chrissie's set us all up before Parker or someone rushes me to turn it off.

Seven seconds in, I throw in clips of Chrissie stealing the mobile, slipping it into Spencer's backpack, her stealing my post and burning it, and then the confession:

"I've got a free period after art," says Chrissie's voice. "I'll take any old mobile from the staffroom then and slip it into Robert's bag."

I hear the entire audience gasp before I hit them with another rapid fire of what really goes on in the great and glorious St. Bart's when someone's broken its precious bloody Code of Honour, but my time's up, and the big guns have come in to take me out.

I stand my ground, prepared to take one final beating to keep the film rolling just a few more seconds, as Parker moves in for the kill. I reckon I can hold him off for one full-on attack. I'll never take him down, but I don't need to. I've already scored the winning try — anything else I manage to show from now on is just a bonus.

With a roar, he pushes me to one side, and I stumble backwards through the polystyrene cut-out of nineteenth-century London as my stunned audience watches in detail how the Head Boy really runs study hall.

"You little shit!" Parker hisses, advancing on me.

Scrambling away from him, I find myself laughing even though he looks like he's going to kill me.

"How dare you!" He kills the film, kicks the chair out of the way, then grabs me by my lapels to lift me clear of the ground. "How dare you soil the name of St. Bart's with these lies!"

"THEY'RE NOT LIES, MR PARKER!" I shout, fishing for the remote control inside my coat pocket. "This is the truth. The truth you wouldn't listen to!"

"Enough!"

"You can't shut me up!" I tell him, hitting the play button and restarting the film. "I've got you on camera too!"

I know they're watching the scene when Baxter laid into me the next day in the dining room. I can hear all the kids chanting, but this time it doesn't invoke feelings of terror and shame; it makes me laugh even more. Straight after that I've got a great shot of Parker standing there when Spencer gave me the black eye.

"Give me that!" Parker snarls, lunging for the remote.

"No way!"

"Give me the remote!"

"NO!"

He makes a grab for it again, and sensing I'm not going to hold him off a second time, I throw it as far away as I can towards the back of the stage.

"Bad move!"

He pushes me aside as we both make a dash for the remote, which has landed in a pile of discarded _Christmas Carol_ props.

I'm quick, but Parker's quicker, and after killing the film, his shovel-like hand closes over my mouth and nose, and lifting me to my feet, he drags me fighting all the way into the wings.

My voice silenced, I hear the Head take his position at the podium in an effort to hush the furious demands for explanations.

"I'm sorry about that," he stammers, forced to turn up the microphone as there are more and more calls for him to explain himself. "Jarvis has obviously decided to show us one of his fictional efforts. I'm not sure what he hopes to achieve."

Repeatedly I try to break free, but for the first time in weeks, I'm not alone. I have an ally, a brother-in-arms, someone else who wants to see St. Bart's brought down.

Paul Crab opens the stage curtains, and as a hall full of lords, ladies, and gentleman gasp in unison at seeing the rugby coach wrestling with one of his students, Parker releases me, and I drop to the ground on shaking legs.

Pulling myself to my full height, I step away from Parker and smile across at Paul Crab, a nerd with glasses who is far braver than I've ever been.

"I demand to know what's going on, Headmaster!" says a man with sandy hair and a neat beard. "Just what kind of school are you running here?"

More and more people join the chorus, and then I see who's rallying them round.

"I think we'd all like to see the rest of Richard's film," says Laura Bell, standing up. "Wouldn't we?"

"Hear, hear!" say more of the men.

Shaking from the rush, I turn to my family. Mum's crying. I bet she's wondering what happened to me, because I don't look anything like I did when she waved me off four months ago. Dad just sits there like a frozen statue holding his stupid Blackberry; I wonder what he's worrying about, his deal or me. As for Chrissie, my twin, she's still a blank piece of paper.

"WHY?" The hurt and frustration taking me over, I look once more at Chrissie for answers. "Why did you do it?"

An echo of a smile forms on her lips, and she starts to giggle. "What do you mean, Rich?"

I can't do anything, because I wasn't expecting this. She should be sorry, ashamed, begging me to forgive her. Not laughing at me. "THIS!" I cry, pointing at myself as the hot tears roll down my cheeks. "LOOK AT ME. LOOK WHAT YOU'VE DONE!"

She continues to snigger as she elbows Spencer, who, like Baxter, Finny, Bollinger, and all the others, has turned into a white statue from the terror of their parents seeing what they really get up to at school.

"WHY ARE YOU LAUGHING?" I demand, shaking from head to toe with confused hatred. "Do you think ruining my life's funny?"

"Enough pretence, Rich," she says, still smirking.

"PRETENCE?"

Everyone turns to look at her, including Spencer.

"Yes," she says, still looking right at me. "Now tell everyone this was just another one of your movies!"

I open my mouth, but I don't know what to say to that. She can't really think she can blag her way out of it. They all know she's lying!

"I never thought he'd take it this far," she says, turning to Mum, Dad, and then Spencer. "He said he was going to show it to get back at Mr Parker for dropping him from the rugby team. I never thought..."

I don't believe her! I look at Spencer, and even though he's still that horrible white colour, he's nodding like some moron. So is Baxter, who's stopped pleading with his enraged father.

"This is real!" I tell them all as Chrissie's lies start to infect everyone. "This is what really happened!"

But they don't believe me — I can see it. Heads are shaking, eyes are cross and angry, and even though every single student and teacher here know it's a lie, they all decide to see it as the truth; the masters don't want to lose their jobs, and the kids don't want to get expelled.

"Does this look like makeup?" I cry, pointing at my bruised eye. "She's lying, and you all know it!"

I search for backup, but I'm dying solo. Paul Crab's been taken out by Wilson, and my only other hope, Jones, is looking like he's going to hurl in his flat cap.

"Jones?" I don't want to beg, but I will if I have to. "Jones, tell them all this is true."

But unfortunately for me, Jones is staying loyal to The Code.

"That's quite enough, Jarvis!" Parker says, seizing my arm again. "We all know you took a fall the other night."

"I was beaten up by them!" I yell, pointing at Spencer, Baxter, and Finny. "YOU watched it, and YOU wouldn't do anything!"

"Shut up, Richard!" says Dad, speaking up for the first time. "Don't embarrass us anymore!"

I feel like I've just been kicked when I'm down, and the anger explodes out of me. "No, we wouldn't want that, would we, Dad!" I roar as Parker drags me off stage. "You don't care about me, just your stupid bloody _deal_. Well, screw your deal. Screw all of you!"

I've lost, so I might as well go down fighting and hurt them the way they've hurt me.

"You all know I'm telling the truth!" I yell as Parker tries to evict me stage right. "This isn't the end of it. I'm going to make you lot pay. I bloody will!"

They know it's all talk; they all know the moment they chose to follow Chrissie's lies that I was doomed, but I'm not the one who writes the endings to my films. Beth does. Walking calmly down the aisle, head held high and dressed in bright red to make a killer entrance, she mounts the stage, and offering no explanation to the stunned audience, she puts a new disc into the player that projects a story from a newspaper onto the big screen.

" **Executive's daughter breaks fellow student's leg in jealousy-** fuelled **attack!"**

Parents of children at Goldmeads Independent College for Young Ladies were said to be in a state of shock when one ten-year-old girl attacked a fellow student because the victim (who cannot be named for legal reasons) refused to stop being friends with the attacker's twin brother...

Parker instantly releases me, and free of him, I walk up to Beth and take her hand in mine as the fallout disseminates through the hall. Chrissie's crying and pleading with Mum. Next to her, Spencer's getting shouted at by his red-faced father, while Baxter and Finny are both dragged from the hall by their outraged parents. Bollinger's holding his head in his hands, and Jones is now sitting cross-legged on the floor crying because he realises how rotten it feels to be a spineless shitbag. The Head's drowning in the angry demands by parents for explanations, and if there were enough rope in the prop box, I bet Parker would hang himself.

"Ready to leave?" Beth asks me.

I nod and keep hold of her hand. We take our bows and exit the stage.

I set out to make a film about WWI, and I'm leaving having started WWIII. Mum and Dad, they want to talk now, but I don't want to talk to them. They don't deserve me as a son, and I deserve better than them.

#  Chapter 63

If this were a film, I'd finish my story here, fading out on the battlefield of chaos, with Mum heartbroken, Dad blowing his deal, and Chrissie being dragged off by the police — no, make it the men in white coats. I'd kick open the front doors, and Beth, Stew, Dave, and I would walk off into the sunset.

Trouble is, this is my life, and when you've just exposed your twin sister as some psycho loony and framed the staff and a bunch of rich kids as sadistic bullies protecting some stupid Code of Honour, there's no just walking away.

I might not have been able to rely on Mum and Dad, but I've got something better. I've got the best friends in the world, and they were all there waiting for me. If it weren't for Beth showing Social Services what happened to me that night in sickbay, they'd have never let me leave with her parents.

Did I mention Dad got his deal? They signed on the day Chrissie was sent to a clinic for treatment. As for me, I'm back at my old school and got my old friends back, but I'm not the same Rich. Some might say I'm better for it — my acting coach, for one. I don't have to imagine what it's like to be terrified, tormented, and betrayed — I've lived it... wish I hadn't.

"I really am sorry, Rich," Chrissie apologises again. "You do know that, don't you?"

As I sit with her in the sunny visitors' room at the hospital, St. Bart's seems like a lifetime ago. "I know."

"I only did it so you'd have no choice but to stay with me," she explains, hugging her knees.

This is why I came to see her: to understand, to forgive, and to move on; this is the only way to stop the nightmares.

"I knew it was wrong, but when they started picking on you and you needed me for the first time ever, I felt so happy..." She stops, as if realising her own logic makes no sense, but she knows I need to hear this. Even though it's uncomfortable to go there, she continues for me. "I blocked out you getting bullied all the time because I knew us being together was the only way I'd be safe."

I squirm. I can't help it. This isn't easy to hear.

"Lilly, my therapist, helped me figure it out. Bad things happened when you weren't with me. I kind of got it into my head I wouldn't be safe unless you were there all the time."

"What bad things?"

"When you got run over."

"I don't understand."

"I was the one who ran into the road to get the ball," she explains. "If you hadn't pushed me out of the way, I'd be dead. Then when we got sent to different schools, I got really sick, and..."

I get it, and for the first time since St. Bart's, it kind of makes sense.

"I'm still not better," she confesses. "Even though I know I'm not going to die, I still want to be with you all the time. That's why I wasn't sure whether I should see you."

For some reason, this isn't freaking me out. I guess it's because she's being honest with me. Perhaps if she'd told me all this before, none of this would have ever happened.

"You must hate me," she says, breaking the silence.

"No."

"Even after everything I did?"

"No," I tell her, and just to prove it, I give her the wrapped-up disc. "I just want you to get better."

She's back to being too skinny again, but she smiles when she tears open the red paper. "What is it?"

I shrug, suddenly embarrassed as she reads the title.

" _The Magic Unicorn Part II_?"

"The guys and I finished it last week," I tell her.

"You got a new camera, then?"

I nod. "It's really good. I made a 3D version too, just to make sure you got better this time."

She beams up at me; there's no need for words, not between twins. I think we both know she'll get better now, and then my story will have a happy ending.

THE END

Thank you for reading School Monitor. If you enjoyed this book, why not join Ella Lewis, assistant to The Demon Magician, as she tries to stop her ex-boyfriend Jonathan become an immortal demon and take the souls of everyone she loves to Hell, or sixteen-year-old Ben Howard, who is trying to find his way back to The Gray World to save the girl he loves in Crazy for Alice.

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#  Other Books by Alex Dunn

#

### The Demon Magician

We've all made a wish we've regretted, but what if you've asked an archdemon like Belphegor to grant it?

When Ella agrees to help fellow student Jonathan Trent with his audition into a mysterious magic group, she never thought she'd fall in love with him. Nor did she ever conceive the three freakish judges named Hellmouth, Brimstone, and Blackheart were actual demons sent by Belphegor to recruit Jonathan.

Seduced by the lure of riches, his own Vegas show, and not having to care for his aged grandparents, Jonathan enters into Belphegor's service, and despite her own reservations, Ella goes with him in return for Belphegor making her disabled sister walk.

Then when Jonathan starts to behave like "The Demon Magician" offstage and Ella learns the true price of his gruesome magic tricks, she knows she has to stop him, but what can she do? Jonathan has the power of Hell on his side, and all she has is Matthew, her mum's hunk of a gardener, who has no idea the demon world exists.

### Crazy for Alice

Donnie Darko meets Pleasantville in this dark urban fantasy about sixteen-year-old Ben Howard. When Ben accidently kills his father and is sectioned after a failed suicide attempt, he escapes the guilt by seeking solace deep within the recesses of his own mind.

Waking in a strange ethereal black-and-white world where most people exist as living statues, Ben leaps from New York skyscrapers into African jungles without fear of injury, severed from his emotions, until he meets and falls in love with Alice. But, no sooner does he settle into this strange, new existence than he's traumatically catapulted back to the brutal reality he left behind.

Nobody believes he's spent the last six months in a Gray World. Not his neurotic mother, his policeman brother Gavin, or his friends Mitch and Wendy, and certainly not Dr McKenzie, who's threatening to give him even more pills. They all think he's crazy, and why wouldn't they when he's been in some strange coma while locked up in a mental asylum?

