comin 2 gt u Read online

  Simon Packham was born in Brighton. During his time as an actor he was a blind fiddler on HMS Bounty, a murderous vicar, a dodgy witness on The Bill and a variety of servants including Omar Sharif ’s personal footman and a coffin carrier for Dame Judi Dench. He now writes fiction and lives in West Sussex with his wife, two children, a cat called Pax, and a variety of hamsters.

  For Mum and Dad

  First published in Great Britain in 2010

  by Piccadilly Press Ltd,

  5 Castle Road, London NW1 8PR

  www.piccadillypress.co.uk

  Text copyright © Simon Packham, 2010

  All rights reserved. No part 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 the prior permission of the copyright owner.

  The right of Simon Packham to be identified as Author of this work

  has been asserted by him in accordance with the

  Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988

  A catalogue record for this book is available

  from the British Library

  ISBN: 978 1 84812 095 2(paperback)

  eISBN: 978 1 84812 175 1

  1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

  Printed in the UK by CPI Bookmarque, Croydon, CR0 4TD

  Cover design and photo by Patrick Knowles

  CONTENTS

  THURSDAY (WEEK ONE)

  FRIDAY (WEEK ONE)

  MONDAY (WEEK TWO)

  THURSDAY (WEEK TWO)

  FRIDAY (WEEK TWO)

  ‘I’M BEGINNING TO SEE THE LIGHT’

  THURSDAY

  (WEEK ONE)

  9.05 p.m.

  I’d only been in World 67 two hours when I realised they were going to murder me. A mini movie of my whole life flickered through my head and I cursed myself for letting them lead me into such a barren hellhole.

  Letz go bak, I pleaded, knowing from their silence that Duke77 (aka me, Sam Tennant) would soon be history.

  But don’t go thinking I was some kind of fresh-faced noob. I’d been working for weeks to get my levels up. I should have spotted a couple of scammers a mile off. So why had I wandered into the wilderness with two complete strangers? I was about to start begging when the conversation turned nasty:

  Ollyg78: U r so dead

  The Emperor: Dont kill him yet i wanna du it

  Ollyg78: Kk

  Beads of perspiration trickled down my torso as we circumnavigated the yellow lakes of molten lava and picked our way through a forest of dying trees, their branches gnarled and twisted, like Granddad’s arthritic fingers.

  Duke 77: Plz . . . ill give you my amulet of glory . . . fully charged

  The Emperor: Lol chickenboy

  Ollyg78: Noob head

  Duke77: Y u doing this

  Ollyg78: Der thats really bait

  The Emperor: Coz wi hate you.

  It was all over in a nanosecond. I’d never died before, but like Alex said, the graphics were really primitive. The Emperor slashed at me with his dragon scimitar and there were a few random splats of blood before I sank to my knees and snuffed it.

  But it was what came next that really threw me.

  Ollyg78: g2g cya l8r sam

  The Emperor: C ya tomorrow in pshe

  They knew who I was.

  But that was impossible. How could they? If they’d been in my tutor group, I would have recognised their profiles.

  The Emperor: Well be watching u

  Ollyg78: We know whr you live

  The Emperor: Were comin 2 gt u

  Duke77: Who r u wat u want

  Unable to send message, player has logged out.

  And when I respawned, I’d lost everything – all the cool stuff I’d worked so hard for: full dragon, my amulet of glory (fully charged), a million lobsters, a hundred cut diamonds, five thousand castle wars tokens, ten thousand flax and, worst of all, my elf crystal armour. I felt like someone had just taken my whole life and flushed it down the lavatory.

  ‘Samuel! It’s time you were off that computer.’

  If I’d had a pound for every time Mum stood at the bottom of the stairs and shouted that, I wouldn’t have needed to waste valuable gaming hours cleaning out those stinking chickens to pay her back for my iPod Nano.

  ‘Yeah, all right, I was just logging off anyway.’

  ‘Well hurry up then. No wonder you never have any time for your clarinet practice.’

  According to Mum, I spent half my life on the internet and the other half ‘brushing up my serial killing skills’ on the Xbox. Can you see a problem with that?

  ‘Come on, Sam. You should have been in bed twenty minutes ago.’

  She’d been loads stricter these past few weeks since Dad flew off to the States to ‘follow his dream’. It’s always been quite relaxed in our house, but it was getting more like being in the army every day. If I turned up like two seconds late for tea or something, Mum went ballistic.

  ‘Can I just —’

  ‘No, you can’t. I’ve hardly seen you since I got home. You haven’t told me about school yet.’

  She had this wacko idea that parents ought to know everything about their kids’ lives. Just because she was a child psychiatrist she thought she was an expert on children. And she kept telling me I should try to be more interested in other people. So I went downstairs to work on my social skills. ‘Hi Mum, how was your day?’

  ‘Oh, the usual: a suspected Asperger’s and a couple of ADHDs.’ Now that she’d got me there she seemed more interested in the TV. ‘But what about you, Sam; you look a bit down in the dumps, is everything all right?’

  ‘Something really weird just happened.’

  ‘What do you mean weird? You’ve not been in those chat rooms, have you?’

  Every time I went online she gave me the big speech about not revealing my name and address.

  ‘No, Mum, nothing like that – someone just killed me.’

  ‘I thought that was the whole point.’

  ‘Yes but —’

  ‘It’s only a game, Sam. I wish you took the rest of your life so seriously. Now come on, what happened at school?’

  Personally, I think that sort of information should be on a need-to-know basis, but I knew that I if didn’t spill a few random beans about St Thomas’s Community College she’d wear me down like one of those poor kids she called her clients.

  ‘Alex has got this brilliant new MP4 player.’

  ‘Lucky old Alex.’

  ‘Callum Corcoran and his mate Animal put opened sachets of mayonnaise on the steps of the modern languages block.’

  ‘Callum’s the child with the anger management issues, right?’

  ‘You could say that.’ Although total psychopath would have been nearer the mark.

  ‘What about lessons?’

  ‘We did global warming again. I told them all that funny stuff you said about dumb blondes with scary nail extensions who do the school-run in their four-by-fours. Even Miss Stanley was smiling.’

  ‘I hope you’re not becoming the class clown, Samuel.’

  ‘I’m working on it. Which reminds me, “I’ll do the funnies” wants the HMS Belfast money by Monday morning or we can’t go.’

  Mum gave me the look she usually reserved for Dad’s DIY. ‘It’s been on the piano since last week. Put it in your rucksack now so you don’t forget.’

  ‘Cool.’

  She squeezed me tightly and planted her lips on the back of my head. Maybe I was getting too old for goodnight kisses, but I really liked the smell of her perfume.

  ‘Night night, love. You will remember to clean your teeth, won’t you? Your breath’s a bit . . .�
��

  ‘Yes, Mum.’

  ‘And it might be a good time to call your dad. You know how much he likes to hear from you. Why do you think he got you that phone?’

  ‘Night, Mum.’

  ‘Love you.’

  And I loved her; more than anything in the world, but like Dad said, it didn’t mean I had to say so every five seconds. ‘Me too,’ I grunted, and headed for the stairs. ‘Oh . . . Mum?’

  ‘What is it now?’ she said, zapping a desperate housewife with the remote. ‘You haven’t forgotten your food tech ingredients, have you?’

  ‘No, it’s not that, it’s Granddad.’

  ‘I see.’

  I’d taken to visiting Granddad virtually every day. Dad wanted me to keep an eye on him while he was in the States, and Mum didn’t like me coming home to an empty house. He was good company too – even if he was ‘pushing ninety’.

  ‘How is the old devil anyway?’

  ‘He’s says he’s got this massive secret. The only trouble is he doesn’t know how to tell me yet.’

  ‘Sounds just like Ray. He always knew how to spin out a yarn. Send him my love when you see him tomorrow.’

  Mum often sent Granddad her love, but she never brought it in person. ‘Yeah . . . OK. Night, Mum.’

  ‘And make sure you don’t fall asleep with your earphones in.’

  Even I had to admit, it was a total beast: 3.2 megapixel camera, video-messaging, Bluetooth and an awesome, sliding keypad. I should have realised there was a catch when he gave it to me. ‘I’ll keep it topped up for you,’ he said. ‘Then you can get in contact whenever you need me. We could call it the “Dad Phone” if you want . . . you know, like the “Bat Phone”?’

  And then he told me he was running away to join the Hardmen. ‘It’s something I’ve always dreamed about. Working from home is convenient of course, but I’ve never been terribly interested in IT support, Sam. So your mother and I have decided that I’m going to take six weeks’ unpaid leave to try my luck on the world veterans’ tour. If I don’t do it now, I never will.’

  It had all started with the London Marathon. Mum had persuaded him to run it with a wind turbine on his head and, from that moment, Dad was hooked. At weekends he used to drag us off to Luton or Leicester or somewhere and we’d stand in the pouring rain whilst he plodded twenty-six miles in just over four hours. But after a while, mere marathons weren’t enough for him. He graduated to triathlons, then quadrathons, and just when we thought it couldn’t get any worse, he discovered the Hardman Circuit. ‘The rest’s mere child’s play,’ he said. ‘If a man really wants to test himself, a five kilometre swim, two hundred and twelve kilometre bike ride, forty-eight-hour hike in full body armour, followed by a double marathon is the only way to do it.’

  Mum said it was better than dyeing his hair and running off with the woman on the Sainsbury’s cheese counter. But at least kids whose parents were divorced got to hook up with their dads in Pizza Express every other Saturday. And Alex’s mum had just bought him a proper DJ’s mixing desk – not that he’d ever use it of course.

  I was supposed to call Dad every day. The funny thing was, now that he wasn’t living with us, I could never think of anything to say.

  ‘Hi, Dad.’

  ‘Hi, Sam,’ he yawned. ‘What news?’

  ‘Nothing much.’

  ‘Good, good . . . that’s . . . good.’

  ‘How’s the training going?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, fine. I jogged ten kilometres this morning just to keep loose, but I’m trying to have a power nap.’

  ‘Been up the Empire State Building yet?’

  ‘You must be joking. I’m not here to enjoy myself.’

  ‘No . . . course not.’

  ‘What about you, Sam? Still sticking to that schedule I gave you?’

  Dad thought I was training for a Junior Hardman event in Milton Keynes. I hadn’t the heart to tell him I’d rather push a ping pong ball up the M1 with my nose.

  ‘Yes, Dad.’

  ‘Good lad. Find out what you’re really passionate about and hang on to it for dear life. That’s the best advice anyone’s ever given me.’

  ‘I saw Granddad today.’

  I knew he still felt guilty about him, I could tell from his voice. ‘Is he any happier do you think? Did he get that CD I sent him? Is he eating properly?’

  ‘Last week he asked me to take him some fish and chips.’

  ‘Well, that’s a relief. Your granddad always loved his food.’

  ‘But you should hear some of the stuff he comes out with. Why don’t you talk to him, Dad?’

  ‘He knows my number. I gave him a phone just like yours.’

  ‘He can’t even switch it on.’

  ‘Yes, well . . . I’m sure he could work it out if he wanted to.’

  ‘Yeah but —’

  ‘How’s Mum? Still crusading for the council to start recycling tetra packs? Send her my love won’t you?’

  ‘I could go and get her if you —’

  ‘No, it’s OK; I spoke to her earlier . . . Bye, Sam.’

  I always wanted to tell him how much we both missed him, how life just wasn’t the same without someone to watch Top Gear and do Homer impressions with. But Dad was a Hardman now; he didn’t want me behaving like a little kid. He just wanted me to get on with it.

  ‘Night night, Dad.’

  There was something else I couldn’t tell Dad. He’d have laughed his head off if I’d told him about my real passion. It wasn’t my slick new iPod Nano – although Mum said if the house was on fire I’d leave her to burn and save the iPod first – and it wasn’t Ben & Jerry’s Chunky Monkey. No, my real passion, and my numero uno bedtime listening, was the one and only Mr Duke Ellington. Not that I’d have gone blabbing to the likes of Callum Corcoran about my obsession with 1930s’ jazz; he was more of a R ’n’ B man, and practically the whole of Year Eight witnessed Corky’s way of settling an artistic dispute that time Ben W suggested Spider-Man 2 was better than the first.

  But I almost wished Corky could bipod with me right now, because I actually thought he’d love it if he gave it a chance. I knew he would.

  And Granddad was right; the early stuff is the best. Jungle music they called it; the hot sounds of the Cotton Club, with Duke at the piano and the great Bubber Miley growling away on trumpet. Granddad described it as ‘three minutes of unadulterated musical bliss’. I’m still not sure what he meant by that, but whenever I heard ‘Rockin’ in Rhythm’, I couldn’t help getting this great big grin on my face.

  Except that night, it wasn’t happening. Every time my mouth tried to twist upwards into a smile, I got this terrible feeling that something wasn’t quite right. I kept going over the gory details of my recent death and every time I closed my eyes, I saw a dragon scimitar hovering above my head.

  I checked my lesson planner, trying to convince myself it was just a couple of random kids having a laugh. The two-weekly timetable was always a bit confusing, but I was pretty certain we were coming to the end of week one, which meant that I did have PSHE second lesson on Friday morning. It could have been a lucky guess, right? Then again, what if The Emperor and Ollyg78 really did know me? Who were they? And why did they seem to hate me so much?

  I peered into the deserted street, scanning the wheelie bins for hidden assassins, checking the bus shelter for spies. Mum was always saying I had an overactive imagination, but I couldn’t help wondering if they were out there watching me.

  FRIDAY

  (WEEK ONE)

  8.30 a.m.

  When I started at St Thomas’s, Mum insisted on dropping me at the main gate. By the summer term of Year Eight, I’d finally persuaded her it would make the journey to work much easier if I slipped out at the bottom of the hill.

  ‘Bye love. Hope your shortbread turns out all right.’

  ‘Bye Mum; good luck with your school phobic.’ And before she had time to lean across the gearstick and kiss me, I’d dived onto the pavement and joi
ned the straggly line of blue sweatshirts lugging twice their body weight up to school in their customised rucksacks.

  I’d calmed down a bit since the night before. I figured I might not be as popular as Gaz Lulham or Pete Hughes, but at least the other kids always laughed at my silly jokes. It was hard to believe that anyone in Year Eight actually hated me.

  Even so, I was pleased when I spotted the hunched figure of my best friend, dawdling along in front of me – mobile in one hand, his new electric guitar in the other.

  ‘Oi . . . Lex . . . Wait up!’

  I’d known Alex, like forever. We’d hung out in the sandpit together at nursery, and our parents had been barbecue buddies until Mr Pitts had discovered Facebook.

  ‘Yo, Lex, why weren’t you online last night?’

  ‘Dad took us to meet his new girlfriend.’

  ‘What’s she like then?’

  ‘Better than the last one; at least she didn’t try to be our friend.’

  ‘Any kids?’

  He stared gloomily into his mobile. ‘Two girls.’

  No wonder he looked depressed. ‘Sorry about that.’

  ‘Molly loved it. The little one was about the same age as her. They spent the whole time dressing up stupid rodent things and pushing them about in a plastic boat.’

  ‘What about the other one?’

  Lex stopped texting for a moment. ‘She was all right, I suppose.’ But I knew he was putting a brave face on it; his ears always went red when he was upset about something.

  ‘So, what did you do all night?’

  ‘You don’t want to know. ’

  ‘That bad, huh?’

  He nodded grimly. I had a chilling vision of poor Lex struggling to stay awake in front of the latest Sims (Pets) or prancing about to SingStar. ‘Don’t worry; your dad’ll probably have found another new Facebook friend by next week.’

  ‘Ha . . . ha.’

  Unfortunately, Alex didn’t have much sense of humour where his dad’s ‘lady friends’ were concerned.

  ‘Hey, Lex – did you know that diarrhoea is hereditary.’

  ‘What?’