Blessings or curses

Jamie jammed on the brakes of his mother's car as he turned into Lakeview Road. He wasn't quick enough. The tyres hit a patch of black ice. They juddered beneath him and then set the car into a freestyle glide. No matter how hard he tried he couldn't regain control. 'Turn into the slide' was what he'd been told to do if he ever skidded, but the words were lost on him now. They never even entered his head. His mind was blank, his body tense with fear. He gripped at the steering wheel, his knuckles white, as the screams of his younger brother pierced the chill of the evening. The car spun round, crashed through a wooden fence and rolled down, down into the icy lake below. That was all he remembered.
When he awoke he was lying down. All around him was misty white. Was he in heaven?
He looked down and saw his arms bandaged, his body hooked up to bleeping and blinking machines by a criss cross of tubes and wires. Had he been abducted by aliens? Was he being tested on? Was he dreaming?
A woman in dressed in white, with a white cap on her head suddenly appeared at his feet. She examined a clipboard, then looked across the bed at Jamie. She smiled warmly, comfortingly. "Wakey, wakey," she said.
Before Jamie had a chance to reply an image flashed through his mind. It was an image of a blonde woman, with a tattoo of a crab on her wrist. She was stepping into the path of an oncoming bus. Jamie jerked in his bed so severely he almost wrenched the drip from his arm.
The woman ran round the bed and placed her hands reassuringly on his shoulder. "You okay there," she said
"I think so," Jamie mumbled, slumping back against his bed, not feeling at all sure what he'd just seen. Was it a memory?
The woman reached down and took Jamie's wrist between her fingers, obviously feeling for his pulse. Jamie peered down the length of his arm, watching her and noticed, to his horror an outline drawing etched into her skin. It was a crab.
Jamie stared at her wrist, wide-eyed.
"You have a strong pulse," said the woman. "You're going to be just fine."
Jamie looked away. He tried to focus his mind on something other than the disturbing vision in his head, but ended up focusing on an equally disturbing question.
"My brother? Is he here? Is he okay?"
The woman didn't reply at first. She fiddled with Jamie's drip, reassuring herself it was fixed securely to his arm.
"Do you know anything? Please tell me," he asked again trying to make eye contact with her but she refused to look at him.
"You need to get some rest. I'll make sure Doctor Prinse stops by on his rounds."
Her reticence was a sign of hopelessness. Protection from the truth. The truth being that his brother didn't survive the crash.
As the woman walked away from his bed a lone tear escaped Jamie's eye and dripped passed his ear and onto the pillow. He was numb. He glanced up at the heart monitor beside his bed and watched it beep. Willing it to slow down and stop. Willing himself to die before he had to embrace the pain of what happened.
"You're not goin' anywhere yet," said a voice beside him.
Jamie glanced over toward the best next to his. An elderly man with thin wisps of white hair was resting on the edge of his bed, looking directly at Jamie.
An image flashed, once more, through Jamie's minds eye. The elderly man was lying in a bed surrounded by lots of photographs; photographs hanging on the wall, photographs propped up on the beside cabinet, photographs from an album strewn across the bed sheets. His eyes were open, his mouth was open, but there was no breath, no life.
Jamie shook the vision from his head.
"You're a young sort. Strong an' that," said the old man. "Better than me. My heart'll give out soon enough. That's for sure. But I suppose you know that."
Jamie frowned. "What do you mean?"
The man stared back at him. His eyes were steely and hard, as though they were looking not just at Jamie but inside him too. A wry smile drew on his face before he turned and climbed back into his bed.
"Blessings or curses, ma lad, blessings or curses," he said.
What was he talking about? Blessings or curses? Jamie didn't know. As he pondered the words, lying back in his bed and staring up at the polystyrene tiled ceiling, he felt his eyes get heavy. His body slumped, his muscles relaxed and gradually, gradually the lids closed over his eyes like a black cloak.
When he awoke the ward was dark. The lights were out and the curtains drawn. Through the silence he could hear sobbing coming from outside the ward.
"You awake lad," said the old man next to him.
Jamie looked over. The man was sat up in his bed, looking over at Jamie.
"Yeah," said Jamie. "Is someone crying?"
The old man flicked his head, motioning for Jamie to look toward the ward door. On the other side were a couple of nurses. One was consoling the other with an arm around the other's shoulder.
"A nurse was killed, couple of hours ago when she left the 'ospital. But yer know that don't yer?"
"What do you mean? How would I know?"
"You know 'ow she died, don't yer. Or do I need to tell yer."
Jamie turned away from the old man and stared down at the white sheets of his bed.
"What did you mean when you said blessings or curses?"
"You came back from dead. I over'eard the doctors talkin' about yer."
"What's that got to do with it?"
"Everythin' ma lad, everythin'. You survived. Yer brother didn't. Some people say that sometimes, sometimes them that survive an accident, disaster, whatever you want to call it, come back from dead with either a gift or a curse. The question is which one?"
Jamie leaned over the edge of his bed, closer to the old man. "I saw her death, in my head. I saw it as though I was standing right in front of her," he whispered.
"I know, lad."
"How do I know if it's a blessing or a curse then, these visions?"
The old man's expression turned serious, stern. His eyes widened and his mouth drooped. "Where you in the visions, lad? Did you 'elp?"
Jamie shook his head. He never saw himself in either the vision of the nurse or the old man. He was always looking at it through his eyes.
"Then there's yer answer," the old man said before lying back down and turning his back to Jamie. "God be with yer, lad."

Holly, on ice

Holly raised her hand to stop the badged prefect, striding toward her, from delivering her with another verbal assault. She'd had enough for one day.
"I know, I know," said Holly, preferring to stare at the linoleum than look into the prefect's eyes. "I've just come from the Deputy's office. That's why I'm out of class, so save your breath for someone who's really bunking off."
Holly huffed as she readjusted the strap of her bag on her shoulder, waiting for the prefect to let her continue on to her geography class. An eternity seemed to pass before the prefect finally spoke up.
"Are you okay?"
Holly locked eyes with the prefect; the statuesque girl standing in front of her. Her blue badge glimmered in the sharp fluorescent light of the locker room. She was well turned out with not a blonde hair out of place and her blazer buttoned fully; just the kind of goody-two-shoes that Holly had no time for.
"What's it to you, anyway?" Holly snapped.
"Just trying to help that's all. You seem upset," replied the girl.
"Yeah, well, so would you be if you'd just been given detention."
"What did you do?"
Holly was indignant. What gave her the right to ask these questions?
"Like you care," said Holly. "You're as bad as them."
The girl folded her arms. "You're just sore because you got caught doing whatever it was you were doing," she said.
As much as Holly hated to admit it, she had a point. She wasn't mad at the teachers, she was mad with herself.
"I was caught smoking, in class, if you're that interested," Holly sneered and waited another remonstration. Like she needed to hear it. The Deputy's words were already rolling inside her head: 'disappointed', 'disrespectful', 'bringing the reputation of to school into disrepute'. Every 'dis' word ever invented was laid on top of her like a hundred ton weight, and to add to her burden was the knowledge that her parents were sure to hear about it, if not from her own mouth but most assuredly in letter form from the school. She was 'blackmarked' something that had never happened before.
"Well, if it's any consolation, I was caught smoking once too," proffered the prefect. "It wasn't in class though. I was outside the school grounds. The teacher strode up towards me, snatched the ciggie from my mouth and stamped it out. I was more pissed off that it cost me a quid, than getting caught."
A sympathetic smile curled the corner of Holly's tightly drawn lips.
"When was that then?" Holly asked.
"A few years back. I was in first year," said the girl as she sat down on one of the rows of benches beneath the lockers. Holly sat on a bench opposite her. "You in first year too, yeah?"
Holly nodded. "My folks just moved up here."
"Ooh, that's tough."
Holly nodded.
"What's your name?" asked the girl.
"Holly."
"I'm Janie," said the girl offering her hand.
Holly took it. Janie had a firm, self-assured, confident shake, the kind that gave you comfort, that let you know exactly where you stood.
"You a sixth year?" Holly asked.
"Yep. And still sane. How about that? Though to be honest I've shocked a fair few teachers on the way."
"Why?"
"They thought I wouldn't amount to much. I sure showed them," Janie said, flicking her badge with her finger.
"Why did you change?"
"It wasn't a conscious decision," Janie said with a frown, as though she'd never been asked the question before. "It just happened."
"There must have been a reason."
Janie's shoulders slumped. She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. Her self-assuredness seemed to waver as she struggled to find an answer. "I dunno. I s'pose I was like that all through first year. You know, unsure. I didn't have many mates or at least none I could rely on. They were all deadbeats like me. I s'pose I just gravitated toward them, like a magnet, you know."
Holly felt her skin tingle. What was that? Sympathy? Empathy?
"I was loyal though, to a fault. Like, at the start of second year, this new girl came into the class. A geek, I s'pose you'd call her, you know, hair in pigtails, books clutched to her chest like they were a life preserver. She was an easy target, easy to break. I never teased her, like, but my mates did. Systematically broke her down by daily taunts. She moved schools in the end. Although I never said a thing to her, I s'pose I felt...responsible."
"Then you changed?"
"Not instantly no. By the end of second year most of them had been given so many suspensions from school I hardly saw them. I drifted. Again," said Janie.
Holly was so preoccupied with the resonance of what Janie had confessed to she didn't realise she was staring right into Janie's eyes.
"Looks like I've just scored a turkey!" Janie said, tilting her head to one side.
Holly frowned at her. "Whadda ya mean?"
"Third strike!"
Holly stared, still confused.
"I guessed you were upset, that you're a first year and now I think I've just tapped into the contrite and introspective part of your brain."
"I'm not feeling guilty," snapped Holly.
"Maybe not for something you've done to someone else, but you're definitely feeling guilty for wronging yourself."
Holly jumped to her feet. "How do you know?" she spat.
Cool and calm. Janie smiled at her. "Because you're just like me. Except you're currently on ice. In limbo. You have two choices, head down that clear rocky road you're at the head of, or take a leap of faith into the dark unknown."
Holly readjusted the bag on her shoulder and strode out of the locker room. Janie's voice echoed all around her, "What'll be Holly, on ice?"

The Gingerbread Village

It was the worst winter storm the town of Honnigskake had ever seen. All night the blizzard howled round houses on the top of Honnigs mountain and by the time the townsfolk awoke in the morning their homes and shops were buried beneath ten feet of snow. Whilst the adults fretted about digging their way out of the deluge, Erik Lars fretted about something else.
"But what about the village, ma," he said, tugging at his mother's jumper.
"Village? What do you mean, Erik?" his mother huffed as she pulled on her boots.
"The gingerbread village!"
"Oh Erik, I think it's safe to say its gone."
"Gone? Where?"
"Erik I don't mean its moved I mean..." she paused and looked down into Erik's eyes. With a soft hand brushing his cheek she said,"Erik, I think it'll be destroyed. The weight of the snow will have crushed it."
Erik fought to keep the lump from rising in his throat. His lip quivered. He knew how much effort he and his school mates had put into creating that structure; the weeks of planning, the baking of the six hundred and fifty houses, the snow frosting painted on each roof and each window pane, the delicate and precise arrangement of them on a bed of inch thick icing sugar, even the moulded sugarpaste people. The idea of it being lost was too hard to contemplate.
"Your father and I need to help everyone with the dig, Erik. I want you to stay here and keep warm by the fire," his mother stated before climbing out through a first floor window onto the thick drifts of crystal white snow.
Erik sighed as he stared into the licking flames. Images of the crushed village flashed across his minds eye. They tormented him, mocked him until an idea exploded in his mind like an enormous firework and blocked out his sorrow. He grabbed his jacket and a trowel and crawled out into the crisp morning air.
On route to his school he met with other kids. All were equally saddened by the thought that their village had been crushed, some more disappointed that they'd never had a chance to eat it before the weather claimed it.
"I have an idea," Erik beamed. "Go and get trowels or whatever you can find to dig with."
One by one Erik amassed a small army of kids all wielding shovels, spoons, trowels or anything that they could use to scoop snow.
Through a rise of trees Erik could make out the snow capped roof of his school. Sweeping drifts banked up against its side, most touching the guttering. Blunt confirmation to Erik that the gingerbread village was certainly consumed.
"What's your idea, Erik? What are we gonna do?" said one girl.
Erik looked out across the smooth snow where the gingerbread village used to be.
"Are we gonna dig out the village?" asked a small boy. From the year below him, Erik thought.
He glanced across at the sea of expectant faces, poised for his response.
"We're gonna recreate it," Erik announced. "If the snow wants to claim our gingerbread, let it have it. But we can build our miniature Honnigskake in snow."
Erik's recruits exchanged confused looks. He could hear them muttering to each other. All except the boy in the year below. He stepped forward.
"I think that's a brilliant idea," he beamed.
One by one the others stepped forward too until all were united in Erik's master plan.
Within a couple of hours the miniature snow village was taking shape. The spire of the church was pointing, majestic and proud into the blue sky and the snow school was complete. The more the snow village resembled Honnigskake the louder the laughter became until they attracted the attention of the rest of the residents.
Erik saw his mother climb up through the trees. He felt his feet suddenly take root in the snow and his heart sink into his stomach. But as she trudged through the snow toward him, she spotted the snow sculpture beside him and the rest of his classmates. A wry smile drew on her face.
"I might have known I couldn't trust you to stay inside."
Erik smiled. "I think this is better than the gingerbread one," he said.

Help!

Rufus was standing in the middle of Broomfield Park. It was the height of summer. The sun was beating down from a cloudless sky above, the trees were abundant with deep green, glossy leaves, the grass under his feet was like a thick velvet carpet and all around him were happy, smiling faces, all except his.
"Help! Help!" he cried out.
Almost instantly he caught the attention of kids and parents close to him. One woman, young, with long dark hair, rushed toward him. A panicked look of concern washed the colour from her face.
"Are you okay?" she asked, crouching before him, gently grasping his arm, rubbing it as though to sooth him.
Rufus, confused by her question and concern, frowned back at her. "I'm fine," he said, matter-of-factly. "It's my dog I'm worried about. He's run off again."
"What's your dog called?" asked the woman. "Perhaps I could help you find him."
"Help!" replied Rufus, poker-faced.

Hugh Dunnit and the giant cupcake

Sweet Tooth had struck again. Hugh was sure of it. There was only one thief in the country that would consider stealing the World's Largest Cupcake and that was Sweet Tooth and his AbSconeders. They were notorious not only for being the only gang of sugar thieves in the world but for having eluded police and detectives for the last decade.
"Found something of interest in there, Hugh," said Hugh's mother as she cleared the breakfast dishes from the kitchen table.
Hugh peered up at her from the top of the newspaper. "Just reading the cartoons, mum," he said. Hugh knew that no Private Investigator spoke about the cases they were working on; discussion might compromise their investigation and in the seedy underworld of thievery everyone was a suspect.
He turned his attention back to the newspaper.
'World's Largest Cupcake Missing,' was the news headline. Hugh read on.
'Police were last night called to Bunn's Bakery on the High Street following an alleged robbery. Detectives, expecting to find the office safe empty and computer equipment missing, were astonished to discover that all that had been taken was Mr Bunn's famous Blueberry Cupcake. Recently bestowed with the coveted title of 'World's Largest Cupcake', the baked good stood at six feet high, with a circumference of ten feet, and weighing upwards of one hundred and twenty-seven kilos. It was a sizeable haul that has left police baffled as to how, why and who stole it. Mr Bunn, having had the news broken to him, was understandably distraught. "I put my heart and soul into that cupcake. Months of planning and preparation it took, not to mention the cost of the ingredients." Mr Bunn later went on to say, "That cupcake was supposed to go to the children's ward at Berkly Hospital. I can't bear to think about how disappointed the children will be when they hear of this."'
Hugh closed the paper. All he could think about were the words 'police baffled' . They ran through his mind, tickling the part of his brain that controlled his urge to investigate. If the police couldn't solve the case, he, Hugh Dunnit, would have to. A buzz of excitement electrified him and he dashed upstairs to his bedroom. In his excitement he yanked open his wardrobe door, nearly pulling it off its hinges, dug out his rucksack and checked its contents: high resolution digital camera, check, sample bottles, check, magnifying glass, check, latex gloves, check, video camera, check. He was set.
When Hugh turned down onto the High Street he saw it was heaving with police. They were diverting nosy townsfolk, who Hugh presumed had read the same news article he had, away from the tape cordon they'd placed around the shop. But Hugh, however, was more than an eager onlooker. The police of Berkly were so used to seeing him at crime scenes they called him 'Hugh the Gumshoe'.
"A'right Gummy," said one suited policeman to Hugh. He was standing beside the tape with his hands behind his back rocking back and forth on his heels. "Come to take a look 'ave ya."
"If you don't mind," stated Hugh.
"Sarge," the policeman called out. "Gumshoe's here."
"That didn't take long," said a voice from inside the shop.
A moment later a man with half-rimmed spectacles perched on the end of his nose, and a long brown mackintosh draped over his shoulders appeared in the doorway.
"Hugh Dunnit. What a surprise?" he said. "Come to solve my crime, have you?"
"You know who did it don't you, Detective," said Hugh as he ducked under the tape and approached the man.
"If I didn't I know you'd be the first to tell me."
"Sweet Tooth strikes again," said Hugh.
"But was he working alone? That's the question."
"A hundred kilo cake? No. Moreover Sweet never works alone."
"The AbSconeders, eh?"
"Victoria Sponge, Current Bun and T.Cake, no less."
"You know them well?" asked the detective.
"I've followed their alleged crimes, yes," said Hugh. "But they've never tackled something this big before. I reckon they've been planning the theft of that cupcake for as long as poor Mr Bunn has been planning the baking of it."
The detective didn't reply. Instead he drew in a sharp intake of breath and then exhaled it steadily. Hugh was sure he'd touched a raw nerve; hit on something the detective hadn't considered. That was the only explanation.
"So what would be your opinion of the crime?" asked the detective.
"May I go in and have a look?" asked Hugh.
"Be my guest," said the detective with an open arm.
Hugh stepped inside Mr Bunn's bakery. The podium, in the middle of the shop, where the cupcake sat, was empty, save for a few crumbs and chocolate chips. Muddy footprints, being photographed by the forensic team, led from the podium through to the back of the bakery. The rest of the glass counters in the front of the shop were untouched.
Hugh studied the footprints by the podium.
"They slid the cupcake off the podium onto something low and flat. They had hold of it either side, you can tell because the footprints are facing each other," Hugh peered closer at the mud. "But they didn't carry the cake, which would make sense, given how heavy it would have been."
"They must have wheeled it out them," said the detective.
Hugh shook his head. "There are no tracks. If they did there would be tracks through the footprints."
Hugh walked toward the door that lead to the back of the bakery, swung it open and examined the floor.
"But they did have something on wheels here," said Hugh, pointing to two sets of black lines. "Skid marks."
"They could have been there before."
Hugh shook his head. "I doubt it. It's just a hunch but they look fresh to me. Very clear and very black. I reckon they had something on wheels that had an extending platform that reached across toward the cake podium. Sweet's henchmen then gently slid the cake onto it and the device retracted. Easy as that."
"Well, that's remarkable," said the detective scratching his head. "But that doesn't solve the problem of where this missing cake is. I'm under huge pressure here, especially from the Mayor, to find it. A ward full of kids are depending on me and my boys in the force."
Hugh looked out toward the scatter of crumbs on the podium. Images of disappointed, sunken faces, tears and the sadness of all those sick children plucked his heart. As his eyes cast down he noticed sparkles on the floor, like little diamonds. Something was catching the light. He stepped closer and realised it was the mud that was glimmering. He crouched down and pinched a few grains between his fingers. It was fine, and gritty. Not at all like the clay mud that appeared in gardens in Berkly. With the spark of an idea in his mind he pulled off his back pack, reached inside and pulled out a sample bottle.
"What have you found, Gumshoe?" asked the detective.
"It's just a hunch I have," said Hugh as he scooped up a few lumps of dirt, stepped into the back of the shop and poured a little water into the vial from the tap. He gave a few taps and shakes and waited for the grains to settle to the bottom, then poured out as much of the water as he could.
Staring at the sediment he gave the detective a wry smile.
"What do you think that is?" Hugh asked.
The detective stared dumbfounded at Hugh's vial. "Dirt?"
"Wrong," said Hugh. "It's sand."
"So, the AbSconeders have been at the beach so what?"
"That's exactly what. The soil in Berkly is clay. They've been walking in sand. There's a beach nearby with a large, abandoned air raid shelter."
The detective's eyes lit up. "You reckon that's where they've taken the cupcake?"
" Undoubtedly. And moreover, despite Current Bun's reputation for gorging on anything sweet I reckon the cake is still in tact. If he'd been let loose at it there'd be far more crumbs and possibly dollops of frosting on the linoleum."
The detective beckoned, with the flick of a forefinger, for one of his officers to approach him. Out of earshot of Hugh he whispered something into the officers ear.
"If you're going out there I want to come too," said Hugh. "That's only fair. I solve the crime I want to capture the criminals."
The detective laid a heavy hand on Hugh's shoulder. "You're too young and its too dangerous."
"That's not fair. I've been following Sweet Tooth's work for as long as I've been alive. I know him better than you. I've proved that today."
"That may be the case. And believe me I'm extremely grateful for your expertise, but as I'm sure you also know, criminals are extremely unpredictable, especially when threatened with exposure. Now, Officer Crabtree will take you home."
The suited officer took Hugh's arm and led him out of the shop.
"It's not fair. It's just not fair," snapped Hugh.
"Why are you so sore, Gummy?" asked the Officer. "You solved the crime. If it weren't for you those kids would 'ave no cake. Isn't that enough?"
As much as Hugh didn't want to admit it, the Officer did have a point. But it was only a small consolation. He knew now he would have to wait to face his foe.

Mr Cropley's jars

The moment his parents' car entered the grounds of Brooks High School for Boys, Jacob Martin sensed there was something peculiar about the place.
It was classically spooky looking; a lone mansion with turrets and ramparts and aged ivy snaking up its sandstone exterior, all surrounded by acres of trees and open grounds.
"You'll get a good education here," said his father.
"I'll get murdered here, more like," Jacob mumbled as he stared out of the window.
"Oh Jacob, don't be unreasonable," snipped his mother from the passenger seat. "Your father has paid through the nose to get you into this school."
"It's the best in the country, Jacob," his dad said as he parked the car on the driveway in front of the school. "Regularly tops all the league tables. So use your time wisely. Who knows. In ten years time you may end up running some multinational corporation. You could earn millions,"
Jacob wasn't in the least bit interested in getting rich. Fun was all he wanted, although he knew that was the real reason his father was transferring him to another school. It had nothing to do with improving grades or providing a 'better quality of education'. It was his last prank with the water balloons that sealed the deal. With a resigned sigh he clicked open the car door and stepped onto the gravel drive just as the heavy wooden front door of Brooks High creaked open.
"Look's like we're getting a personal welcome," said his dad.
"I should think so too," tutted his mother as she smoothed down her hair and straightened her suit.
Jacob stared at the entrance and waited. An eternity seemed to tick by before anyone appeared. His mother grew so impatient she began walking toward the door when out stepped a solitary figure dressed in a kilt and green tweed jacket.
"Welcome, welcome," said the man as he stepped down on to the gravel and approached Jacob and his parents.
He was incredibly tall. Even taller than his father, and was very lean. He looked like a bean pole, with black, slicked back hair.
"Welcome to Brooks." he said with a beaming smile on his face. "I'm Mr Cropley, Nathan Cropley. I'm the Headmaster here at this magnificent school," he added with outstretched arms.
Jacob's father shook hands with Mr Cropley and introduced himself, his wife and Jacob.
"Ah, you're Brooks's newest addition," Mr Cropley said, taking Jacob's hand in his and eyeing Jacob up from head to foot. "Yes, yes. Perfect. You have a strong spirit. I reckon you'll do well here. You can count on that Mr and Mrs Martin."
Jacob's father pulled Jacob's trunk out from the back of his car and placed it on the gravel.
"We can take that inside," Mr Cropley said before turning toward the door and calling out. "Cases, please."
In an instant two boys , immaculately dressed in blue trousers, a blazer, a white shirt and striped tie scuttled outside, grabbed the handles either side of the case and carried it inside.
"We won't keep you any longer," Mr Cropley said to Jacob's parents. "I'm sure you're very busy people. It was pleasant to meet you and do call anytime if you wish to receive an update on young Jacob's progress."
Before Jacob's mother was even able to plant a goodbye kiss on Jacob's forehead, Jacob was whisked away by the headmaster and led into the lobby of the mansion.
Inside it looked just as Jacob predicted. Lots of dark wood panelling on the walls, a wide sweeping staircase in front of him and enormous portraits hanging on the wall of men with long curly white hair, wearing old fashioned clothing. The two pupils that brought Jacob's trunk inside were standing, rigidly, like soldiers on parade, either side of it.
"That'll be all," Mr Cropley said, dismissing them with a flick of his hand.
Obediently they nodded and walked in silence, side by side, toward a door to the right, from which more pupils emerged. They marched across the hallway, in front of Jacob, in pairs. Not a word left their lips. They didn't even acknowledge that Jacob was there.
Jacob had a sinking feeling that he was going to find it hard to make just one friend here, let alone many.
"Come this way, Jacob," said Mr Cropley, guiding him up the grand staircase. "Your room is ready for you. I've taken the liberty of giving you a single room, just until you've acclimated to the school. Then you can move into the dorms with the other boys."
Mr Cropley showed Jacob an empty room at the top of the stairs. It was sparsely furnished with a desk, chair, wardrobe and single bed. The walls were bare and grey and the carpet a flecked brown colour. It wasn't the most inspiring of spaces.
"Make yourself comfortable, Jacob. I'll have the boys bring your trunk upstairs shortly. After that I'd like to see you in my room. You'll be briefed on your timetable and the rules and regulations of my school."
With that Mr Cropley pulled the door to and left Jacob alone.
One thing Jacob hated was rules; they were restrictive, like having his hand bound with invisible rope. He ground his teeth in frustration at that fact that his father had sent him off to a prison. If he had any notion Brooks would be like this he'd sooner have run away than get in the car.
The more he thought about it the more it became apparent in his mind that escape was his only option. He didn't want to end up like those kids: automatons, rigid robots, a fragment of themselves.
He jumped up and grabbed the handle of the door just as it swung inwards, almost knocking him off his feet. There standing in the doorway were two pupils. Their uniforms neat, their hand neatly combed back in almost exactly the same style as Mr Cropley's. They were clutching Jacob's trunk.
"Your belongings," one of them said.
"I wouldn't worry about that," said Jacob. "I'm not staying."
"Why?" said the other.
"Why? Because you're all carbon copies of your headmaster," said Jacob.
"You cannot leave. It is forbidden."
"Not for me it isn't," Jacob said. He barged past the two pupils and ran down the stairs, taking them two at a time. But when he reached the bottom he saw Mr Cropley standing in his way, in front of the main door.
"Going somewhere, Jacob?" Mr Cropley asked.
"Fresh air," Jacob replied, hurriedly. "It's...stuffy...in my room. I get chest problems, if the air's stale."
The corner of Mr Cropley's mouth curled into an amused smile. "You're tenacious. I'll give you that. But I'm afraid the door is locked now. I think you'd best come with me."
Jacob felt Mr Cropley firmly grip the top of his arm and he was led across the hallway and down a corridor toward an open door at the end.
"Step into my office," he said as he pushed Jacob inside the dimly lit room.
At one end was a large, heavy wooden desk, inlaid with red leather. Behind it were bookcases that stretched from floor to ceiling, packed with glass jars that contained swirling silvery clouds.
"Take a seat, Jacob," said Mr Cropley as he turned the key in the lock and then pocketed the key.
Realising he had no choice, Jacob jerked the chair away from the desk and thumped himself down on it.
"What do you want from me?" Jacob snapped.
"What makes you think I want something?" Mr Cropley asked.
"Why else am I here? Why else won't you let me leave unless I have something you want."
Mr Cropley sat on his leather chair and rocked back and forth. "Intuitive as well as tenacious," he said tapping the tips of his fingers together, as though deep in thought. "Interesting."
"What's interesting?"
"I like a challenge, Jacob. How about you? Yes, I think you do too. I think you're the kind that doesn't take the easy option. I expect that's why you came here."
"I'm here because my father won't let me be who I want to be. He won't let me be myself."
"And who would that be then?"
"A free spirit. To do what I please. Say what I want."
"You don't believe in rules then?"
"No," snapped Jacob. "Rules are for fools."
"I'm afraid I don't share the same opinion, Jacob."
"That doesn't surprise me."
Mr Cropley swung his chair round and admired his jars.
"Do you know what's in these jars, Jacob?"
Jacob regarded them with as much contempt as he felt for Mr Cropley. "Nuh," he said.
Mr Cropley looked back at Jacob with narrowed, calculating eyes. "They contain the essence of each and every student in this school. No good can come of unruly behaviour or lack of direction. By removing their personality they become clean slates that I can rewrite, fresh lumps of clay that I can mould. I control everyone of them."
Jacob jumped up and backed away from his desk.
"You're mad!" he cried.
"I'm not mad. I'm shrewd. I'm sculpting the cream of the crop. The ones that will rise to the surface and shine professionally and financially amongst a sea of dross, which is what you will be without my help."
"You're turning those kids into machines so they can make money for you."
"You sound surprised."
"You'll never get away with it. I'll escape and tell everyone what you're doing."
Mr Cropley pulled open a draw in his desk and reached a hand inside. Jacob watched with anticipation. His heart was thumping in his chest. From within the draw Mr Cropley pulled out a large syringe.
"Resistence is futile, Jacob," Mr Cropley said as he stepped out from behind his desk and walked towards Jacob.

Jacob ran toward the door. Frantically he turned the knob , hoping he'd be able to break the lock but it wouldn't budge. Behind, he could hear Mr Cropley creeping toward him. Then felt a cold hand on his shoulder and something sharp stick in his throat. His muscles suddenly relaxed, his mind fogged and then he fell against the door. There was no escaping Nathan Cropley.

Dominic Chiller: Ghost Warrior

They were on the phone again. Dominic Chiller could tell by the tone of his mother's voice. It had a frank, formidable quality, when she was given a new assignment, that belied her gentle nature. But rather than ignore the phone call like he was always told to, Dominic hid at the top of the stairs and eavesdropped over it.
"How many this time?" his mother said. "Ah huh, and what about weaponry? Is it packing anything?...No...And where?...the graveyard?...that's original...Yeah I'm familiar with him. Died in a house fire right?...any casualties so far? No. That's a relief. Okay, give me until Thursday. I'll take care of it."
His mother clicked the phone onto receiver. Dominic trotted down the stairs and casually followed her into the kitchen.
"Was that the Council again?" he asked.
"Oh that, yeah, it was," she said as she flicked the gas stove on and rested a saucepan full of water on top of the flaming ring. "But its nothing that need concern you."
Dominic pulled a chair out from underneath the table and plonked himself down onto it. "You always say that," he huffed as he picked at a splinter of wood sticking up from the surface of the table. "When can I come on a hunt with you?"
"Dominic, we've been over this. Firstly you're too young to be a WAG, and secondly it's far too dangerous."
His mother was a WAG, or Warrior Against Ghosts, one of many recruited across the Britain to rid the land of the scourge of spirits. Ever since the Other Realm became overcrowded the souls of the recently deceased, with nowhere to go, took residence amongst the living.
Over the years their grip on the land was forged on the basis of terror. Fear would drive the living away leaving it free for them. It took the death of a young child called William Blake, at the hands of a poltergeist, to make the British Government take notice. The Ghost Council was then formed with the sole objective of eradicating all unearthly demons.
Dominic knew the history well. He made a point of learning all about it. He wanted nothing more than to fight them to the death.
"So who is it this time? The menace, I mean?" Dominic asked.
His mother raised her eyebrows at him.
"I only want to know. That's all," Dominic said.
"His name is, or I should say was, Eli Dawson," said his mother, reluctantly.
Dominic instantly knew who she was talking about.
"He lived in Carvers Woods," she continued as she poured dried pasta into the bubbling water.
And he was a belligerent character. Eli hated people, especially if they trespassed on his land. It wasn't unusual to hear stories at school of kids being shot at by Eli and his air gun. When news spread that he'd died in a fire after he fell asleep with a lit cigarette in his hand, nobody mourned him.
"And he's at the graveyard?"
"Yes. And soon he'll have Total Awareness."
Dominic knew that was the stage that all WAGs feared. It was the stage when a new spirit realised it possessed powers and capabilities beyond that which it had when it was alive. For Eli Dominic knew this was especially bad. Eli had been house-bound since he was a child, after a car accident left him a paraplegic. Over the years of his incarceration he had become bitter, angry and hostile to anyone he came into contact with, to the point where nurses and health workers refused to go near him. But as a spirit, the ills that had beset him would disappear. He would have full use of his limbs and thus would be able to venture into the neighbouring village of Carstairs.
"So are you going out tonight then?" Dominic asked.
"No, the forecast isn't good tonight. They're predicting an electric storm."
"What a load of hokum," muttered Dominic. He didn't believe the idea that electricity fuelled spirit activity. From all that he had read, opinion across the Ghost Council was divided on the subject. Some believed it was the person's own energy that fuelled their spirit self, not electrically charged air around it.
"What did you say?" asked his mother.
"Nothing, mum," he said as he left the table.
"Don't go anywhere. Dinner will be ready in twenty minutes."
As Dominic climbed the stairs he thought about how much he would like to capture Eli Dawson, to get him back for all the times he'd tormented people he knew. The more he thought about the more he found he was grinding his teeth in anger and frustration. He had the knowledge to take Eli on. He was sure of that. He'd devoted most of his free time to reading about the work of the WAGs and the spirit world.
Before he knew it, Dominic was packing his rucksack with vials of holy water, his Electro Magnetic Pulse scanner, his infra-red goggles and his silver Spirit Leash. He was set and ready and whilst his mother busily prepared his dinner, Dominic climbed out of his bedroom window and shinnied down the drain pipe.
Outside the air was damp. Dominic could smell it. The humidity of the day had charged it. Above him thick charcoal grey clouds swirled, threatening to deposit a hefty deluge at any moment. Dominic knew that he'd have to strike a swift blow to Eli if he was to defeat the spirit before the weather got the better of him.
As he turned the corner of Bleachers which led to the old Church, he could hear Eli. His deep growl of a voice was clearly audible through the whistle of the wind.
Dominic swallowed the lump of apprehension that had risen in his throat and stepped onto the sacred ground of the graveyard. He readied his EMP and swiped the air in front of him with it, searching for Eli. Knowing that the physical make up of spirits differed from one to another heightened his sense of foreboding. If all spirits were visible to humans he'd have been happier, but the reality was that some were invisible to everything but an EMP scanner. But as luck would have it Eli was the kind that manifested as a white, wispy cloud.
As soon as Dominic spotted it he crouched behind a half sunken gravestone and watched. Eli was hovering over a freshly filled burial plot. The mound of earth was still moist. But there was not one bouquet of flowers or wreath to note the interred was missed or indeed remembered.
"That's gotta be Eli's resting place," Dominic muttered to himself.
Eli was as tetchy in death as he was in life. He was punching the mound of earth with his wispy clenched fists, getting more and more frustrated as some blows dislodged soft clumps whilst others didn't. He was on the cusp of Total Awareness, and Dominic knew it.
Dominic felt his heart rate quicken. He had to strike now and quickly before Eli's spirit became too powerful. He delved into his rucksack and unsheathed his Spirit Leash. With a deep breath and a prayer for strength he crept out from behind the gravestone and skulked towards Eli, taking cover behind other gravestones as he went. Eli it seemed was too preoccupied with trying to punch the ground and everything round him to notice Dominic creeping up on him. That suited Dominic. The element of surprise was usually in favour of the spirit, especially if they were the invisible variety.
He uncoiled his leash, ready to whip it out, but as he neared Eli he stepped on a twig. The snap echoed through the silence of the graveyard. Dominic looked up and saw a face like melted wax and two burning red eyes staring back at him. Eli had spotted him. With his ghostly arms outstretched Eli charged for Dominic. Dominic managed only just to leap out of Eli's path, landing heavily on his shoulder against a flat gravestone.
Dominic cried out in pain as he felt the bone crack. With his other arm he pushed himself up to a sitting position just as Eli swept over head, delivering a heavy punch to the side of Dominic's face. Terrified Dominic scrambled to the nearest table grave and hid beneath it and realised in his panic he'd left his leash at the flat gravestone; his only weapon. Defenceless Dominic hoped that Eli couldn't see him but Eli had reached Total Awareness.
A second later the stone Dominic was hiding beneath was lifted and tossed across the graveyard like a frisbee. It smashed against the side of the old church.
"Who are you?" Eli roared.
"Dominic," Dominic replied.
"Why do you come?"
"To...to capture you."
Eli grinned as he hovered above Dominic, showing a mouthful of crabbed ghostly teeth.
"If I had my gun I'd shoot you down, right where you stand," said Eli.
Realising he still had his rucksack, Dominic reached a hand round his back and felt for the vial whilst he kept Eli talking.
"But you don't have your gun," Dominic replied as his fingers clasped around the glass bottle.
"No. But I can still knock you into next week," spat Eli. Just as Eli swept his hand round to punch Dominic, Dominic yanked his hand from his rucksack and threw the contents of the bottle up at Eli's face.
The holy water hissed as it made contact with Eli's form. Eli cried out in pain, swiping his face with his ghostly hands, trying to rid himself of the stinging liquid. In the moment Eli was distracted Dominic scrambled across the damp grass and grasped the handle of his Spirit Leash. But Eli was behind him. A swift kick sent Dominic reeling forward. Dominic cried out in pain once more as pressure on his shoulder inflicted fresh damage to his injury.
Eli's cackle of wickedness echoed round the graveyard. As much as Dominic didn't want to admit defeat, he began to wish he had paid attention to his mother. Perhaps he was to young to become a Warrior. Perhaps he wasn't meant to.
"You kids are all alike," cackled Eli. "Worthless layabouts. No good to man nor beast. You should all be shot."
Eli's ill chosen words rang in Dominic's ears and enraged him. With a sudden thrust of energy, and ignoring the throbbing pain in his shoulder, Dominic released the tail of his leash. It whipped through the air and before Eli could dart out of the way the silvery tail coiled itself round Eli's neck. Eli clawed at the Spirit Leash, trying to pull it from his throat.
Dominic, steadied his catch, holding it firm as Eli squirmed like a freshly caught fish against the leash.
"Whose got ya now?" Dominic cackled.
"Dominic!" screamed a voice from behind him.
Dominic turned to see his mother rushing toward him.
"What are you doing?"
"I caught him, mum. I did it."
"Give me that now," she said, grabbing the Spirit Leash from Dominic's hands. "Do you know how dangerous this is, do you?"

Dominic looked sheepishly at his mother. "Yeah, I suppose," he said as he massaged his shoulder. "But I did it though, mum. I can do it. I'm gonna be a Ghost Warrior. Just you see."