The Serpents of Arakesh (2 page)

So for me, Tuesday night turned out not to be cottage-pie night after all. Instead, I went hungry, and caught up with my homework in the empty dining hall while the other kids watched TV.

Eight thirty was bedtime. Two minutes to shower and change into pyjamas, then teeth, toilet and bed. Matron stood at the door of our dormitory with her hand on the light switch. ‘Straight to sleep and no talking,' she said. ‘And as for you, Adam, you'd better remember your prayers — and in your shoes, I'd pray to God to make me a better boy, or who knows where you'll end up.' With that she snapped the light off and banged the door behind her.

There was a soft snicker from Geoffrey, and then silence. No talking after lights out was an unbreakable rule.

I turned over on my side to face the wall, and lay very still. Gradually, the brittle silence relaxed into the sounds of sleep — the creaking of bedsprings as someone burrowed deeper under the covers; a few soft snuffles; a
gentle snore from Frankie in the next bed.

When I was as certain as I could be that no one else was still awake, I reached out and felt for the knob of my bedside drawer. Millimetre by millimetre I eased it open just enough for me to slip my hand inside. I reached in and felt right to the back. Up against the back corner of the drawer my fingers found my pencil torch.

The torch was one of my most precious possessions. I'd got it two terms before, when there'd been a reward system of auction points through the school term. I'd ended up with less points than anyone: only sixty-two, while some kids had way over two-hundred. There had been heaps of really cool stuff to bid for on the last day of term. Packets of sweets, school-lunch vouchers, Get Out of Sin Bin Free cards — I could have done with one or two of those — and even a couple of small, cheap-looking computer games. I'd looked at the stuff laid out on the teacher's desk and desperately wanted it all. But the one thing I wanted more than all the rest put together was the torch.

Luckily, it was almost the last thing to be auctioned, when the other kids had spent most of their points. They kept asking me, ‘Come on, Adam, when are you going to bid? What are you going to go for?' I just tilted back my chair and smiled. The torch had my name on it, though I was the only one who could see. I snapped it up for fifty points, and was left with just enough to buy a sherbet fizz to eat on the way back to Highgate.

The torch was the size and shape of a fat ballpoint pen, and came with two AA-size batteries. Now they were starting to wear out, so these days I only used it when I really, really needed to. Like tonight.

Before I turned it on, I groped in the drawer for the other things I wanted. When I'd found them all, I slipped deep under the bedcovers. Leaning up on one elbow, I
made a low kind of tent under the bedclothes. My finger felt for the little button on top of the torch, and I pushed it forwards. The softest glow illuminated my tent, and I felt private and cosy and safe.

First, I buried my face in the shawl for a moment. It was soft and light as thistledown. I closed my eyes and breathed its special smell in deep — a faint, powdery, almost spicy perfume. I tucked it snugly in beside me.

Next, I laid my little brown
Bible
flat on the sheet. All of us had one, but mine was different. It opened up automatically to the usual place. The newspaper cutting was yellowish, brittle, and completely flat. The edges were thin and kind of frayed-looking, and in some places the words were so blurred you could hardly read them. That was from when I was little, and liked to rub my fingers over it before I went to sleep. Nowadays, I was more careful … but I did allow myself to reach out and touch it very gently with the tip of one finger. Then I read it, though I knew the words off by heart.

My fingers felt for the ring, and I slipped it on. It gleamed in the faint torchlight with a mysterious, silvery lustre. I ran my thumb over its strange surface — smooth on the back, thick and deeply ridged at the front — almost as if it was incomplete, or had been made to fit into something. It was still way too big for me, but I loved the comforting weight of it on my finger. For the thousandth time, I wondered if it would ever fit me … and whose hand had worn it.

Dreamily, I reached out and stroked the silver penny whistle lying on the threadbare sheet, and smiled. There had been one other gift, one that neither Cook, nor Matron, nor even Inspector Pope had known about. It was the gift of hearing music in my mind; of giving the penny whistle a voice and making it sing.

Was it my imagination, or had the dim beam of the torch become even fainter in the few minutes it had been on? Quickly, I switched it off and put it back in the drawer,
sliding it right to the very back with the penny whistle and the ring, and replacing the
Bible
at the front.

I lay down on my right side so I was facing the wall with my back to the room and snuggled the shawl into its place under my cheek. My fingers felt for the lacy edge, and started rubbing it in small circles just under my lip. I could feel my body relaxing, turning heavy and loose, and my mind starting to drift. Without meaning to, my thumb crept into my mouth.

I closed my eyes and began to pray.

Dear God, please bless my mother and father, wherever they are.

Please help me learn to spell and read real well like other kids.

Please let there be something I'm good at, and somewhere I belong.

Please help me to be strong.

And then, as I wavered on the fringes of sleep, an extra thought, half wish, half prayer, formed in my mind.

Please let something wonderful happen to me. Please don't let my life always be like this.

‘Duncan, will you please hand the exercise books out. Now, children, on the whole I was very pleased with your autobiographies.'

Miss McCracken was in a good mood. Maybe I'd have a decent mark for a change. I thought back to my story, and how vivid and realistic it had been. No doubt about it, that story was something pretty special! Instead of the sinking feeling I usually had when we got work back, I felt a tentative little squiggle of excitement deep down.

I didn't let it show, though. My book landed in front of me upside-down, and I made sure not to seem in any hurry to turn it over. After a moment or two I casually flipped it right way up. In the corner, right by the exit of the maze, Miss McCracken had written in red pen:
Do NOT deface your exercise books!

Well, never mind that. With a rising feeling of excitement, I opened the book and leafed through. There it was: My Autobiography. Next to the bubble writing,
Miss McCracken had written:
Simple underlining is sufficient, thank you, Adam.

I hadn't realised there'd been the beginning of a smile on my face until I read the comment at the end of the story, and felt my face drop as the smile dissolved away into nothing.

This assignment required a factual account, not a flight of fancy. Yet another shoddy piece of work. Fail. See me.

I felt like I'd been punched in the stomach. A hot wave of humiliation swept over me. My face burnt and my ears had that ringing feeling they get after they've been boxed.

Miss McCracken was standing up at the front of the class, smiling and talking, nice as pie. ‘Top mark went to Nicole, for a sensitive and well-constructed five-page essay. It isn't often I award 95%, so well done, Nicole. I'll be asking you to read your autobiography to the class shortly.

‘First, though, I would like you all to review the comments I've made, and reread your work in the light of my remarks.'

The smile disappeared and her face tightened.

‘Adam Equinox, I will see you now. And bring your book with you.'

I slouched up to her desk, the exercise book dangling from my hand. I couldn't believe that for a second I'd felt proud of my story. Didn't I know better by now?

Miss McCracken looked at me and sighed. ‘Adam, surely even
you
must see that this simply isn't good enough?' She licked one finger and snapped the pages over till she came to my story. ‘Just look at it. A complete dog's breakfast. Look at the spelling — when you can read it, that is. For goodness sake, you have a dictionary! And all of seven lines long. You simply don't try. You have no self-respect, no drive to succeed. You …'

‘Still,' I muttered, ‘you've got no right to call my work shitty.'

‘What?'

‘You've got no right to call my work shitty! It's OK for kids to say that kind of thing, but teachers are supposed to be different!' I was talking loudly now — almost shouting. I felt really, really mad. It was just so unfair!

Miss McCracken had gone pale and moved behind her desk. ‘Adam, I didn't call your work …'

‘Yes, you did!' I yelled. ‘Look!' I stabbed the word with my finger. ‘Here it is, right here.
Yet another shitty piece of work!
And you say I don't try! How do you
know
whether I try or not? You don't
care
about me
or
my shitty work — all you care about is giving high marks and gold stars to the people who write five pages!'

I was really yelling now. I felt great! I picked up my book and shoved it under her nose. She recoiled as if it might bite her. ‘You know how much I care about you and your red pen?' I grabbed the book in both hands. ‘This much!' With a twist of my wrists, I ripped the book in half. It felt wonderful. I dropped the two halves on her desk.

There was a long, awful silence.

I could feel every pair of eyes in the room on me, but I didn't look round. Miss McCracken and I both stared down at the pieces of exercise book lying on her desk. And all of a sudden I didn't feel so great. Slowly, I looked up at Miss McCracken. Her face was deadly white, with bright pink blotches high up on both cheeks, as if she'd been slapped. To my horror I could see tears in her eyes. Worst of all, she looked … almost afraid.

I stood there with my head sunk between my shoulders like the stupid, dumb, ugly ox Geoffrey said I was. And I plodded after Miss McCracken to the Principal's office without another word.

I spent lunch time taping my book together and rewriting my story, checking every single word in the dictionary. It took the whole hour. The problem with dictionaries is that you need to know how the word is spelt before you can look it up.

For once, I didn't mind. More than anything I just wanted to be by myself. I felt tired and sad and sick to my stomach. I didn't eat the peanut butter sandwich or the apple Cook had packed for my lunch, even though I felt hollow from having no dinner the night before.

After lunch was silent reading. I really like reading, though I'm slower than the other kids. There are always some words I can't figure out, but I just skip them, and let my mind make pictures instead — like watching a movie in my head. Often, I imagine how I'd end the story if I was writing it. Some nights I even dream I'm reading and the words flow easily like water in a stream. I make up the whole rest of the book in my sleep and read every word without one single mistake.

Today, I was halfway through an adventure book about a plane that crashes in the middle of a jungle. I found my place, tipped back my chair, and began to read.

Next to me, on the other side from Nicole, Cameron Harrow was also finding his place. I squinted across to see what he was reading, but all I could see was that his book looked a lot thicker than mine, and the words were smaller and closer together. Next to his book on the desk lay his bookmark, a coloured card with pictures and writing. I craned over to see. ‘Psst — Cameron,' I hissed. ‘What's that?'

‘Adam …'
said Miss McCracken wearily.

Cameron gave me a quick glance and shook his head. We both stared at our books again.

I quite liked Cameron, even though he was a bit of a nerd. He was real rich — at least his parents were. He
came to school in a silver sports car, and went to Laser Strike for his birthday parties — not that I was ever invited. But he didn't show off about it and though I sensed he was wary of me and kind of kept his distance, he was never mean like some of the other guys.

Just as I was finally getting into my book something slid onto my desk. I blinked. It was Cameron's bookmark. I snuck a glance over at him. He smiled, and winked. I winked back. I put the card inside my book and pretended to carry on reading while I looked at it.

It was some kind of a computer-game registration card. One of those things you fill in when you buy stuff — like a guarantee.
FILL THIS IN AND STAND TO WIN!
it said in large letters across the top.

It was more than just a registration card. It was a competition. I frowned, trying to figure it out. If you bought the game — called
Quest for the Golden Goblet
— you were eligible to enter the competition. You had to fill in the card and send it off. And it was reply-paid, so you didn't need a stamp. The prize was a once-in-a-lifetime chance to be one of five kids who got to go to a special ‘Gaming Workshop' — whatever that was — with the guy who'd invented the computer game. That, and a state-of-the-art home computer system!

COMPETITION VALID FOR PURCHASES DURING THE MONTHS OF MAY AND JUNE ONLY
, it said in big letters.
CUTOFF DATE FOR ENTRIES: JUNE 30
.

It was the twenty-seventh today.

I wondered if Cameron was going to enter. I would if it was me — it would be cool to go to a gaming workshop,
whatever
it was, just to get away from Highgate, Matron and Geoffrey. But people like Cameron didn't have problems like mine. And I guessed Cameron probably already had a state-of-the-art computer.

When we were packing up our bags to go home I handed
the card back to him. ‘Looks pretty cool,' I said. ‘What's it all about, anyway?'

‘Well, obviously you've heard of the Quest computer games.'

‘Not really,' I admitted.

‘You
haven't?
' He thought about that for a minute, and you could see the exact moment it all made sense — yeah, obviously Adam Equinox wouldn't have stuff like computer games in the children's home. Cameron blushed. ‘Yeah, well, anyhow,' he carried on quickly, ‘it's this real wicked series of games — role-playing interactive adventure-type stuff, in this virtual world called Karazan.' He gave me a quick look through his thick specs to check I was still with him. I nodded — I'd heard guys talking about it. All the kids in the class seemed to have computers and be really into that kind of stuff. And who could blame them? It must be like having a whole different world in your back yard. What wouldn't I give for that?

‘Anyhow,' Cameron was explaining, ‘the guy who developed the Quest series is the most awesome computer-game wizard in the history of the universe. He's called Quentin Quested — a total genius, but a major recluse. He lives in some huge, isolated mansion, hidden away at the back of beyond, and he has the biggest library of computer games in the world.'

He tucked the card back into his book, and slipped it into his bag.

‘The competition winners get to go there for two days and test drive his latest game — and take home a free computer. It tells you all about it on the website. It sounds pretty cool,' he hooked his bag over his shoulder, ‘but I reckon the chances of winning wouldn't be great — practically the whole world will enter. And even if I did win, I couldn't go these holidays, because I'm going away with my family.' He shrugged, and gave me a grin.
‘But the entry form makes a great bookmark.'

‘You're not going to enter?'

‘Nah,' he said casually, pushing his chair in under his desk.

Suddenly a thought hit him.

‘Hey, do you want it?' Quickly, he took the book out again, pulled out the card and handed it to me. ‘Good luck,' he grinned, ‘but don't hold your breath.'

‘Page two-hundred and eight, page two-hundred and eight,' I could hear him muttering as he headed for the door.