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  ‘No, no, no, no, NO!’ I scoured the deck with my sleeve, knowing that if I didn’t destroy the evidence, I might just as well draw them a map with X marks the spot.

  The waxwork figures at the mess-deck tables looked every bit as demoralised as I was, as if they were expecting an attack at any moment. Some were huddled over a never-ending game of dominoes, others poised perpetually above their tea mugs, whilst a grim-faced able-seaman recited a letter home in a dreary monotone. Even the ship’s cat looked fed-up.

  I staggered to my feet, swaying like a drunken sailor, desperate for somewhere to hide. If I could just find the strength to climb into one of those hammocks I might be safe for a bit. But it wasn’t to be.

  Maybe this was what being drunk felt like. I mean, it was the kind of thing that only happens in horror movies. So why was I so convinced that the waxworks were coming to life? I watched, transfixed, as a parade of uniformed figures stepped out of the gloom and formed a line in front of me. And I was sober again in an instant when I recognised the row of school ties – all at half-mast.

  ‘Well, well, well,’ said Callum Corcoran, so close I could almost taste his Hubba Bubba. ‘Look who it isn’t.’

  The mess deck was filled with sounds of the chicken coop.

  Chelsea was filming it all on her mobile. ‘What’s the matter with him? He can’t even stand up straight.’

  ‘Looks like concussion to me,’ said Pete Hughes.

  ‘How many fists am I holding up?’ said Callum Corcoran.

  This time I knew it was all over. There was no point pretending. ‘All right, so you’ve found me. Just do what you have you to do and get it over with.’

  Gaz Lulham looked at Callum. ‘What are we going to do?’

  ‘We’re going to blap him, aren’t we?’ said Animal. ‘Can I go first?’

  ‘No!’ said Pete Hughes. ‘We’ve got to wait for The Emperor’s signal.’

  ‘Well, go on then,’ said Chelsea.

  For once in his life, Pete Hughes looked confused. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘You’re The Emperor, aren’t you?’ said Chelsea. ‘Te ll us what to do.’

  ‘No I’m not,’ said Pete Hughes. ‘I thought it was Callum.’

  ‘But I thought it was Gaz,’ said Callum.

  ‘And I thought it was Chelsea,’ said Gaz.

  Animal looked disappointed. ‘Why didn’t anyone think it was me?’

  And that’s when their phones started ringing – a weird cacophony of Arctic Monkeys, that song off the Cadbury’s advert, Kanye West, the Austin Powers theme and a solitary crazy frog.

  They were all reaching confusedly for their mobiles when Abby burst into the mess, followed by her shifty lieutenant.

  ‘Oi, Brace Face,’ said Animal, silencing the last crazy frog ringtone in the western world. ‘What are you doing here?’

  Abby slipped back into silent nun mode. The others were inwardly digesting the contents of her latest text message. Whatever she had planned for me, it certainly wasn’t pretty.

  ‘You heard the man,’ said Chelsea. ‘Why are you following us?’

  I was bursting to put them in the picture. ‘It’s her, Abby, she’s The Emperor.’

  ‘Shut up, Chickenboy, ’ said Callum Corcoran. ‘We’re not stupid, you know.’

  ‘She couldn’t be the Emperor anyway,’ said Pete Hughes, slicking back his fringe. ‘She’s far too busy practising her precious saxophone.’

  Dimbo looked like a heart-attack victim struggling into Casualty. ‘It’s true,’ he panted. ‘She is The Emperor. I’ve studied facts, and I can assure you, the evidence is conclusive.’

  People didn’t always understand Dimbo, but it was a well-established fact that he was always right.

  ‘Thought it might be her,’ said Gaz Lulham, uncon-vincingly.

  ‘Yeah,’ added Chelsea. ‘She’s got them evil eyes.’

  ‘What kind of a person are you anyway?’ said Pete Hughes, glaring reproachfully at Abby like he was the innocent victim of some cruel online hoax. ‘I mean some of it might have been quite funny in a screwed-up sort of way, but did you honestly think we’d go that far?’

  ‘We’re not animals, you know,’ said Animal.

  ‘Are you sure about that?’ muttered Abby. ‘You morons have done everything else I’ve told you for the last two weeks – isn’t that right, Lexie?’

  Alex Pitts slunk further into the shadows.

  ‘She’s taken you all for a bit of a ride, hasn’t she?’ said Dimbo.

  Callum Corcoran flexed his knuckles. ‘Yeah, it was well out of order, that was.’

  ‘Why don’t you crawl back to your maths books, Dimbo?’ said Pete Hughes. ‘We’ll handle this from now on.’

  Abby tried to make a break for it, but Animal jumped in front of her. ‘Oi, Brace Face, who’s the moron now, eh?’

  The others went into a huddle, whispering feverishly until Pete Hughes took control. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Let’s do it.’

  Experience had taught me it was pointless to struggle, but it took three of them to drag Abby through the airlock into the bows of the ship.

  ‘Don’t touch me, you cretins! You’ll regret this; I’ll make sure you do!’

  The first punishment cell contained a suicidal sailor and his waxwork jailor, but the second was left empty for photo opportunities. They pushed me down onto the cold metal floor. A moment later Abby landed on top of me.

  ‘This is a very bad idea,’ said Dimbo. ‘The poor girl’s practically psychotic. There’s no knowing what she might do to him.’

  ‘Button it, brainiac,’ said Callum Corcoran, volleying my rucksack through the cell door. ‘We’re just giving them what they deserve. And if you tell old Catchpole about this, you’re a dead Dimbo, OK?’

  ‘Yes but —’

  ‘Think of it as an interesting experiment,’ said Pete Hughes. ‘The survival of the fattest.’

  Callum Corcoran was already chuckling at his own punchline. ‘Hey, listen to this. What do you get when you cross a Chickenboy with The Emperor? Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha: Chicken Supreme!’

  And they all laughed. All apart from Animal, who was still scratching his head as the cell door slammed shut and the bolt slid slowly across.

  1.14 p.m.

  Abby’s eyes were brimming with pure hatred. Dimbo was right – there was no telling what she might be capable of. And in that tiny cell, there really was nowhere left to hide. It was like that Ultimate Fighting thing Dad had tried to get me interested in. I slid up to the far end of the bare wooden bench, preparing myself for the final assault as she pressed her blood-red fingernails into her palms and formed two tight fists.

  I couldn’t believe it when she walked straight past me. ‘Let me out! Let me out, you morons,’ she shrieked, pummelling the door and adding a couple of tornado kicks for good measure. ‘I can’t stand it in here!’

  Her cheeks were covered in angry red blotches and her breathing sounded almost as bad as Granddad’s. ‘Got to get out, got to get out, got to get out,’ she whispered, pacing the three metres from the back of the cell to the door like a deranged lioness.

  ‘Are you all right?’ I said.

  ‘What do you care, Chickenboy?’

  ‘You don’t sound very well.’

  ‘It’s so hot in here,’ she said, ripping off her school tie, and then struggling out of her jacket and sweatshirt and dumping them on the floor. ‘I can hardly breathe.’ She was drenched in sweat. Clumps of damp hair were stuck to the side of her face.

  ‘It doesn’t seem that warm to me.’

  Abby sank onto the bench and started sobbing. ‘I’m suffocating in here.’

  And that’s when I remembered Mum’s recyclable paper bag. ‘You’re hyperventilating,’ I said. ‘Here, breathe into this, my mum says it helps.’

  I thought she was going to flip when I mentioned Mum, but she took the bag all the same.

  After a while her breathing seemed easier.

  ‘Any
better?’

  She nodded and handed me a pink tissue.

  ‘What’s that for?’

  ‘You’re bleeding. It’s freaking me out.’

  If it was so hot in here, why was she shivering? ‘What’s the matter with you, Abigail?’

  ‘I can’t stand small spaces.’

  ‘It’s called claustrophobia.’

  ‘I know what it’s called, Chickenboy. I just need something to take my mind off it.’

  ‘My mum tells her clients to imagine they’re on a tropical beach.’

  ‘I’m not interested in your pathetic mother’s pathetic pop psychology. Just give me something to read or I’ll go mad in here.’

  She was almost as bad as Dimbo – you hardly ever saw her without a book in her hand. ‘Didn’t you bring something with you?’

  Her lips twisted into a sadistic smile. ‘I had other plans.’

  ‘Well, I haven’t got anything.’

  ‘What’s this then?’ she said, reaching into my rucksack and pulling out Granddad’s story.

  I snatched it away from her. ‘It’s personal, you can’t have it.’

  ‘I don’t care what it is,’ she said, snatching it back again. ‘I need something to read.’

  ‘Look, please, just give it to me, OK?’

  ‘What’s so special about it, anyway? And who are the three stooges in the photograph?’

  ‘One of them’s my granddad. It’s his war story. Just give it to me, yeah?’

  I tried to wrestle it back again, but she clung to it like a dog with a soggy tennis ball. ‘What’s the big deal? Why don’t you want me to read it?’

  The truth slipped out before I could censor myself. ‘Because I don’t want you saying he was a coward. Because I don’t want you saying he was just like me.’

  Abby was struggling for breath again. ‘Please, I just need to read something. It makes me feel better. I won’t say a word, I promise.’

  Perhaps I should have made her beg some more, but she sounded so desperate, it seemed like the right thing to do. ‘OK you can read it. But just don’t say anything, yeah?’

  She nodded gratefully, pulled her legs up to her chest, balanced Granddad’s story on her knees and started reading.

  And I suddenly realised I wasn’t scared any more. Whatever hold Abby might have had over me, it was all in the past. At last, I could see her for what she really was. She wasn’t The Emperor, she was just another frightened kid.

  1.45 p.m.

  We must have been in there at least half an hour before an ‘anonymous tipster’ alerted Mr Catchpole to our whereabouts. He was seething when he opened the cell door and found Abby re-reading Granddad’s story for about the sixth time, and yours truly with a face full of Cheesy Wotsits.

  ‘What in the name of God possessed you both?’

  Abby looked better already. ‘They locked us in, Mr Catchpole.’

  ‘I’m not completely naïve you know, ’ he said, waving his Tesco bag at us. ‘Have you not listened to any of my PSHE lessons? Did neither of you take part in the role-play on teenage pregnancy?’

  ‘It’s true,’ sniffed Abby. ‘We were trapped. All I’ve been doing is reading his granddad’s war story. ’

  ‘Yes, well, I’ll take your word for it,’ said Mr Catchpole, obviously realising how upset she was. ‘Now, why don’t you tidy yourselves up a bit and then we’d better get a move on. I’ve got fifty marauding pre-pubescents terrorising the gift shop.’

  We followed him back down the ship. Vera Lynn was still warbling about bluebirds and Churchill was repeating his intention of fighting them here, there, and everywhere when I felt a sweaty hand on my shoulder.

  ‘He wasn’t a coward.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Your granddad,’ said Abby. ‘He wasn’t a coward, you moron.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Has Mummy never told you about survivor guilt?’

  Everyone jeered as we arrived at the top of the gangplank.

  ‘Survivor what?’

  ‘Survivor guilt,’ said Abby, trying to shield herself from the Year Eight paparazzi who were snapping away on their camera phones. ‘It’s when a person feels guilty about surviving a traumatic event.’

  The whoops and catcalls were getting louder.

  ‘Sometimes they blame themselves for not doing enough to help the ones who didn’t make it.’

  A shower of Red Bull cans landed at our feet.

  ‘Your granddad’s friend was dying. What choice did he have? He had to go without him or he would have died himself. But that doesn’t make him a coward.’

  They all burst into the Wedding March as Mr Catchpole led us down the gangplank like a frazzled father of the bride. They’d torn up their leaflets to make do-it-yourself confetti and it wouldn’t be long before the ‘wedding photos’ went up in our tutor base.

  Abby was every inch the blushing bride. She looked so stressed out I actually felt sorry for her. But I could honestly say it was one of the happiest moments of my life. Because whatever happened next, I knew life would never be as bad again. Things were looking up. And I couldn’t wait to tell Granddad.

  4.05 p.m.

  In spite of its downbeat title, ‘Old Man Blues’ is actually an up-tempo stomp. It was blasting from my iPod as I walked into the Departure Lounge. Arms swinging to Joe Nanton’s trombone solo and enjoying what felt like the first real day of summer, it fitted my mood perfectly. I might have looked like I’d been in the wars (Miss Stanley had insisted on presenting me with a certificate to say I’d suffered a head injury), but compared with four hours before, I was on top of the world.

  Petal looked really worried when she saw me. She waddled over at top speed and started saying something I couldn’t hear. ‘It’s OK, Petal,’ I shouted. ‘It’s much worse than it looks; nothing to worry about!’

  I dodged past her, taking the steps four at a time and charging down the corridor, so anxious to see Granddad that I hardly noticed the gasping granny crouched over her Zimmer frame, or the dismal smell of cabbage.

  ‘Granddad, Granddad, it’s me,’ I said excitedly, taking out my earphones and barging in without knocking.‘I know what happened and I don’t think you’re a . . . ’

  I was secretly hoping he might be feeling better, but I could hardly believe the transformation. The sun was streaming in through the open windows, and Granddad was staring out at a bunch of primary-school kids chucking water bombs at each other. And when he turned to greet me, he looked about thirty years younger – it was amazing.

  But why was he wearing a tracksuit? And why hadn’t he got any hair? And why were there tears rolling down his cheeks?

  And then I realised who it was. ‘Dad, what are you doing here?’

  I’d never seen him like that before. He wiped his face on his sleeve and stumbled towards me, like a little boy lost. ‘I got your messages. Thanks, Sam.’

  ‘What about the race?’

  Dad shook his head. ‘I didn’t realise how bad he was. Otherwise I would have flown back sooner.’

  ‘Where’s Granddad?’

  The Countdown music echoed up from the residents’ lounge. Dad put his hand on my shoulder. ‘I’m sorry, son.’

  ‘What do you . . . ?’ And then I noticed they’d stripped the bed. ‘Oh no . . . he hasn’t, has he?’

  Dad managed to tell me that he was with Granddad when he died, before we both burst into tears and I cursed myself for getting there too late.

  After we’d finished crying, Petal brought Dad a cup of tea, I rooted out Granddad’s secret store of pineapple chunks and we started putting the rest of his things into black dustbin liners and carrying them out to the car: Nanny’s patchwork quilt, the African figures he got from the Ju-Ju man, some musty paperbacks and a whole load of clothes that, if I knew anything about Mum, wouldn’t hit the ground until they got to the Oxfam shop.

  ‘So come on, Sam, what happened to your face?’

  ‘Nothing, it was an accident. I
’ve got a certificate.’

  Dad peered squeamishly at the shrivelled figures dozing in front of Neighbours. ‘I hated sending him here, you know, but he would never have coped on his own. I think he understood that in the end. He was a bit confused to begin with, but believe it or not, we actually managed to have a really good chat.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘He told me he was proud of me,’ said Dad, rooting around in his pocket for the car keys. ‘I can’t think why. ’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He was a proper man, wasn’t he?’ he said, zapping the central locking. ‘Fought in a World War and everything. How could I possibly compete with that?’

  I squeezed the last dustbin liner into the back seat. ‘I reckon we should think ourselves lucky there haven’t been any more World Wars.’

  ‘Yes, yes, you’re right,’ said Dad. ‘Come on, we’d better go and check we haven’t missed anything.’

  ‘Dad,’ I said, reaching under the bed and trying not to sneeze. ‘Did you and Granddad talk about anything else?’

  Dad was balancing on a footstool, ferreting around in the top of the wardrobe. ‘Well, we talked about your nan, how much he both missed her, and . . . you know . . . some other . . . personal things.’

  ‘What sort of things?’

  ‘I don’t know, ’ said Dad, pulling out an old sock, ‘this and that.’

  I wasn’t sure if I should ask, but I really needed to know. ‘Did he tell you about Tommy Riley?’

  Dad climbed down from the footstool and slumped into Granddad’s battered armchair. It was amazing how alike they looked. ‘I think he’d tried to tell me before, but it was . . . difficult for him. He was a proud man, Sam. It took a lot of courage.’

  ‘He wasn’t a coward, was he, Dad?’

  ‘No, no of course not; he was just a young lad who found himself in an impossible situation.’

  I walked over to the window, pretending to be interested in the water fight so that Dad wouldn’t see I was crying again. ‘I just wish I could have told him. He felt really terrible about it.’