comin 2 gt u Page 12

  In just one hundred and twenty seconds, it would be every man for himself. I took one last peep at the prime suspects: Callum and Animal having a spitting competition into the Thames, Gaz Lulham and Chelsea checking their mobiles and giggling furtively, Pete Hughes fixing me with a sinister smile, and someone at the back whistling the Death March. I didn’t want to admit it, but I was no closer to identifying The Emperor than when this whole nightmare began.

  And then I saw that Dimbo was frantically trying to attract my attention. He was trapped behind a posse of girls, standing on tiptoes, waving his notebook at me. If only I’d been a lipreader, because he was mouthing a word that I just couldn’t make out. It looked like ‘happy’, but what could that mean? I certainly didn’t feel happy, and come to think of it, Dimbo didn’t have that much to be delirious about either.

  ‘Right,’ said Mr Catchpole. ‘I hope that was instructive. Now, in a moment I’m going to ask you to lead off in an orderly fashion. Just follow the arrows, it’s very well signposted.’

  Dimbo tried to push his way through the crowd towards me, using his briefcase as a battering ram.

  ‘Did I tell anyone to move?’ roared Mr Catchpole. ‘No, Sir, I did not. And you ought to know better, Stephen Allbright. Stay right where you are and don’t move a muscle until I say so.’

  ‘Dimbo’s forgotten his calculator,’ shouted an anonymous comedian.

  Mr Catchpole hoisted his Tesco bag aloft in a vain attempt to quell the general hilarity. ‘Mr Peel and the parent helpers are already patrolling the decks. But as you can see, The Belfast is such a huge vessel that they can’t possibly be everywhere at once. So, rather than trying to police the whole lot of you, Miss Stanley and I will set up camp in the Walrus Café, where we will be available should you have any reasonable queries.’

  Was it possible to get seasick on a stationary ship? I’d been counting on sticking like glue to ‘I’ll do the funnies’, but if he was having tea for two with Miss Stanley I might just as well hand myself over to The Emperor and have done with it. My only hope was to find a good hiding place and lie low until one-thirty. If only I could remember more about that virtual tour.

  ‘Off you go then,’ said Mr Catchpole. ‘And don’t forget, imagine what it would be like to be completely terrified.’

  12.36 p.m.

  I raced down the gloomy corridor, past the shipwright’s office and the chapel, across the red-and-white checked lino. It reeked of floor polish, and wherever you turned there was a pasty-faced waxwork of a World War Two sailor and the disembodied voices of Churchill and Vera Lynn on continuous loop.

  But that wasn’t Churchill, and it certainly wasn’t Vera Lynn. The unmistakable sound of the Corcoran laugh was stalking me. And like one of those dreams where your feet feel like concrete, it took all my strength to drag myself into the galley and duck down behind an angry-looking dummy, his meat cleaver hovering above a papier-mâché joint of beef.

  ‘Where is he?’ said Animal, coming far too close for comfort.

  Callum Corcoran’s non-regulation trainers appeared in the doorway. ‘Probably wetting himself.’

  It was too close to the truth to be half as funny as Animal seemed to think it was. ‘Yeah, nice one, but what are we going to do with Chickenboy when we find him?’

  Pete Hughes’s classic Vans checkerboard slip-ons sauntered up to the silver Nike Elites. ‘Make sure you’ve got your phones on. Wait for The Emperor’s signal.’

  ‘Why can’t we just blap him?’ said Animal.

  ‘Because The Emperor’s way will be well funny,’ said Gaz Lulham. ‘That website was legend.’

  ‘Come on then,’ said Callum Corcoran. ‘Let’s try outside. He can’t have got far.’

  I was letting out a sigh of relief that probably registered about 9.9 on the Richter scale when disaster struck.

  It was my phone. The first few notes of the Mission: Impossible theme blasted out before my thumb reached the red button. What was Dimbo playing at?

  ‘Did you hear that?’ said Gaz Lulham.

  ‘Hear what?’ said Pete Hughes.

  ‘I thought I heard music, didn’t you?’

  ‘It’s Vera Lynn, you hufter, ’ said Pete Hughes.

  ‘Vera who?’ said Animal.

  Pete Hughes sounded suspiciously like their commanding officer. ‘Never mind that, let’s get out of here.’

  Which is exactly what I had to do; there was no way I could stay in that position for the next two hours. I needed somewhere else to hide. And from what I could remember of the virtual tour, I thought I knew the perfect place.

  12.42 p.m.

  Someone growled as I pushed past a party of foreign students. I mumbled excusez-moi, but there was no time for pleasantries if I wanted to find that safe haven.

  And there it was – the huge airlock leading down to the engine room, which could pave the way for my miraculous escape. Only one thing was stopping me: the determined figure at the top of the ladder barring my way.

  ‘Dimbo, what are you doing?’

  ‘You can’t go down there.’

  ‘Why not? I’ve thought of a great place to hide.’

  ‘No, you mustn’t.’

  ‘Please, you’re in my way.’

  I tried to push past him, but he stood firm, arms splayed like a crucifix. ‘I’m sorry, Sam. I can’t let you go down there.’

  We glared at each other for what seemed like an ice-age, until a thought that had been bubbling away in the dark recesses of my mind exploded into the forefront of my consciousness. ‘Oh my God.’

  He grabbed hold of his briefcase. ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘It’s you, isn’t it?’

  ‘Eh?’

  And suddenly it was so obvious. Why hadn’t I thought it of it before? ‘You’re The Emperor, aren’t you?’

  His chocolate-stained mouth formed what I realised was a self-satisfied smile. ‘How did you work that one out?’

  ‘What’s that thing you said? When you’ve ruled out all the unlikely ones, the only answer is . . . How does it go? I mean, who else could have made that website? And why did you phone me just now when you knew they were looking for me?’

  ‘Quite the little Sherlock Holmes, aren’t we?’

  ‘My mum’s treated loads of kids like you.’

  ‘I very much doubt it.’

  ‘Just get out of my way.’

  It felt good, the moment my fist made contact with his flabby stomach. Dimbo doubled up in pain. I pushed past him onto the first rung of the ladder.

  ‘Sam,’ he groaned. ‘I need to tell you something.’

  I’d heard enough from that freak to last me a lifetime. I slithered down the handrail, bumping to a halt on a narrow, green walkway. The bewildering network of giant, pipes and wheels and gauges stopped me dead in my tracks. I stood paralysed as the posh tones of the information monitor boomed up from below: ‘HMS Belfast’s propulsive machinery is laid out according to a system first introduced by the United States Navy . . .’

  A voice from above brought me back to my senses. ‘Sam, come back. We need to talk.’

  ‘Go away. Leave me alone.’

  But it was no good. A second later, Dimbo stepped onto the ladder and started descending.

  12.43 p.m.

  There was only one way to go, and that was down. Where were those parent helpers when you really needed one? I clattered along the green walkway, the only thought in my head being to get as far away from that psycho as possible.

  ‘Sam, wait,’ he called. ‘You don’t understand.’

  I understood all right. My lungs were in a terrible state, but I forced myself onwards because, after all the horrible stuff he’d done, Dimbo was probably capable of anything.

  I threw myself down another iron ladder, my sweaty hands struggling to get a grip on the handrail. And that was it. I couldn’t go any lower. Stumbling further into the gloomy labyrinth, past a notice reading, You are now below the waterline, I searched vainly for some
where to hide and prayed for a miracle.

  The moment I’d turned the corner, I realised the game was up. Standing beneath the information monitor were two shadowy figures. Even from behind, I would have recognised those school blazers anywhere. Caught, like a rat in a trap, I cursed myself for letting Dimbo trick me into it.

  His two accomplices turned slowly to face me and . . . and . . .

  And maybe I believed in miracles after all. Relief flooded over me like a tidal wave and I was so happy I let out a sort of delighted chuckle. ‘It’s you!’

  ‘Hello, Sam.’

  It was funny to see them standing side by side. I didn’t think they really knew each other. ‘You have no idea how good it is to see you guys.’

  ‘You too, Sam. We’ve been wondering where you’d got to.’

  Dimbo was closing fast, but I didn’t care any more; I felt sure that the three of us could see him off. ‘I’ve been looking for somewhere to hide. Only it’s not as easy as I thought.’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ Abby said, reaching into her shoulder bag. ‘You can run, Sam, but you can’t hide.’

  ‘Tell me about it.’

  And we all laughed, like the end of a cheesy sit-com.

  ‘Oh by the way, Sam,’ she said, handing me a small piece of white plastic. ‘Present for you.’

  It was like being reunited with an old friend. ‘Wow, thanks, Abby, I didn’t think I’d ever see it again.’ And from the grin on Alex’s face, I was guessing that my iPod nano wasn’t the only friend I was going to be reunited with. ‘But where did you find it?’

  ‘In your rucksack,’ said Abby.

  ‘What?’

  She rolled her eyes. ‘You didn’t even notice, did you?’

  ‘Did it fall out or something?’

  Dimbo staggered around the corner and collapsed in a heap, like Dad after his first quadrathon.

  ‘You were too busy sobbing your little heart out about our website,’ said Abby. ‘It was like taking candy from a baby.’

  I was so confused that when I opened my mouth it took a few seconds for the words to come out. ‘You . . . stole . . . it? But what did you do that for?’

  ‘Isn’t it obvious?’ said Abby. ‘It’s because we hate you, don’t we, Lex?’

  Alex nodded; my whole universe did a one-eighty degree flip.

  As soon as I’d got my balance back, I started piecing together the details of this strange new world. ‘It’s you, it’s you, isn’t it, Abby? I can’t believe it, you’re The Emperor.’

  ‘That’s right. And my little step-brother-in-waiting here is Ollyg78.’

  ‘That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you,’ groaned Dimbo. ‘The first clue was her website. I thought I was the only one who was fluent in HTML. But then I remembered that online portfolio she made in IT .’

  ‘Get on with it,’ said Abby. ‘We’ve got chicken to fry. ’

  ‘I couldn’t understand why the message on the mirror was written in nail varnish,’ continued Dimbo, ‘and then when Catchpole was giving his speech just now, I realised who was wearing exactly the same colour, and it all fell into place. Look at her hands, Sam, look at her hands.’

  Abby applauded sarcastically. ‘Well done, Dimbo. Give the class genius a medal.’

  I was still struggling to make sense of it all. ‘What was all that about your stepbrother-in-waiting?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Abby, wrapping a strand of hair around her ring finger. ‘Our mum and dad are getting married, aren’t they, Lex? So rather than puke my guts up watching those two playing Mummies and Daddies, I thought we’d do something a bit more productive.’

  ‘Picking on me, you mean?’

  ‘Picking on you?’ says Abby. ‘You make it sound so tawdry. Come on, Sam, it was so much more spectacular than that.’

  ‘But why? I thought you liked me!’

  ‘That was the hardest part of all,’ said Abby, a red film spreading like wildfire across her face and neck, ‘pretending to be interested in a loser like you.’

  I’d always assumed that Abby spent half her life blushing because she was so shy; I suddenly realised she was just very angry.

  ‘Look, can we talk about this?’ I said.

  She threw back her head and laughed. ‘You sound just like your mother. That bitch said I was mental.’

  ‘My mum would never say anything like that.’

  ‘It’s true,’ said Dimbo, struggling to his knees. ‘She might be a bit unconventional, but Dr Tennant’s an excellent therapist.’

  ‘Shut up, you moron,’ said Abby, planting her patent leather ballerina pump in Dimbo’s stomach. ‘She really did my head in with her stupid questions: “What sort of week have you had? Why are you so angry with your parents? How does that make you feel?” The silly cow never knew when to stop. And what better way to get my own back on Sigmeena Freud than scaring the crap out of her darling little Harry Potter?’

  ‘You’ve ruined my whole life.’

  ‘I thought you listened to the Shipping Forecast, Chickenboy. He should have known he was in for a rough ride, shouldn’t he, Lexie?’

  Alex stared at the deck.

  ‘But you’ve turned so many people against me.’

  ‘Yes.’ She smiled. ‘And it was so easy – a few puerile jokes, a couple of cheap shots about your taste in music, and bingo! That idiot Catchpole keeps blathering on about “peer pressure”, but all it took was a gentle nudge in the right direction and they were eating out of my hands.’

  ‘But why?’ I whispered. ‘Why would they do that?’

  ‘Oh it’s amazing how motivating a shared hatred can be! Corcoran and his côterie just want to sit on their fat lazy arses all day, but find them a new victim and there’s not one of them that won’t go the extra mile. But you’d know about that, wouldn’t you, Sam? Remember the time you said I reminded you of a nun?’

  ‘I was trying to make you laugh.’

  ‘And think of all the fun you had with “Brace Face”.’

  Alex hadn’t said a word, but his ears were burning. He stood with his hands in his pockets, studying the floor through his new designer frames.

  ‘What about you, Lex?’ I said. ‘We ’ve been friends forever. My mum’s always really nice to you.’

  ‘Yes,’ he mumbled, ‘you and your perfect family. ’

  ‘I thought you liked my family. ’

  Alex shrugged. ‘You had to rub it in, didn’t you? All that stuff about my mum and dad’s divorce, like it was a big joke or something. “Oh look, Lex has got a new MP4 player – wish my parents would split up!”’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’

  ‘And you always acted like you were so much cleverer than me. Remember that mixing desk my mum bought me? You said I’d got about as much chance of becoming a DJ as Callum Corcoran has of winning the Nobel Peace Prize. But I didn’t hear you laughing in the music block the other day. That Chickenboyz mix of mine scared you witless.’

  I felt as if someone had just taken my whole life and flushed it down the lavatory. ‘And that’s what this is all about?’

  ‘No one likes a smart arse, do they, Lexie?’ said Abby, taking out her mobile.

  ‘Look, I’m really sorry, ’ I said, knowing that in less than a minute I’d be sobbing uncontrollably. ‘I didn’t mean to upset either of you. I promise it won’t happen again.’

  ‘And you think that’s the end of it, do you?’ said Abby, her right thumb going into overdrive. ‘Just wait until you hear about the grand finale, Samuel. All I have to do is text everyone on The Emperor’s contacts list and my little posse will come running. I bet they can’t wait to hear what I’ve got planned for you.’

  Dimbo was rubbing his stomach. ‘I should think very carefully about this if I was you, Abigail. You could find yourself in serious trouble. What would your parents say?’

  ‘Like they give a toss,’ said Abby, dangling her mobile under my nose as if daring me to grab it. ‘No, this is it, sucker. All I have to do is . . . damn!’
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  ‘What’s the matter?’ said Alex.

  ‘I’m losing my signal down here. You hold him while I go up on deck.’

  Abby made for the ladder, but she didn’t get more than a couple of steps before a brown leather missile scudded across the engine room, sending her and her mobile flying.

  ‘Run, Sam, run!’ shouted Dimbo.

  ‘Stop him!’ shrieked Abby, kicking away Dimbo’s briefcase in disgust.

  Alex grabbed me by the throat. ‘Where do you think you’re going, Chickenboy?’

  I was so shocked by his betrayal that I could hardly move. From the corner of my eye, I saw Abby picking up her phone. This time there was no escape.

  ‘Aww, diddums,’ she said. ‘Did poor little Sammy think his bestest mate was going to save him?’

  Alex sniggered, and the rage that had simmered inside me finally exploded.

  ‘You were supposed to be my friend!’ I screamed, somehow finding the strength to lift him from his feet and fling him towards the advancing Abby. ‘Friends are supposed to look out for each other.’

  Freedom beckoned. I leapt onto the ladder and started scrambling for the surface. And I was feeling pretty pleased with myself until Abby’s shrill voice cut into me like a knife in the back. ‘Hurry up, you moron, he’s getting away!’

  12.55 p.m.

  It might have been hardwired into my genes, but by the time I reached the forward mess deck I’d been running so long my lungs were begging for mercy. I tried losing myself in a class of primary school kids, but I stood out like a giant at a convention of jockeys, and their teacher gave me such a dirty look that there was nothing for it but to carry on running.

  Like Dad was always saying, I should have focused on the finishing line, because the moment I glanced back to check if they were still chasing me, I caught my foot in a chain and went flying.

  My head hit the deck with a sickening thud and I watched, mesmerised, as a trail of red dots began forming on the white paintwork. For a moment, I thought they were spelling out some sort of coded message. And then I realised I was bleeding. Not tomato sauce this time, but thick, red, sticky blood.