Three Little Boys

Chapter 2

Tuesday 1st September 1992 – the day when I enter my fourth senior school in five years. I'm now starting at Bishopshalt, which apparently I wasn't good enough for when Mum was picking my schools to begin with, yet they took my brother straight away.

Mum doesn't own a car, her excuse being that she can't afford it (even though she must be raking in the cash with all of David's adverts). Therefore I'm forced to wait at the bus stop for the helicopter to pick me up and airdrop me into my last and most deadly mission – the fifth year.

David is with me and, when I say 'with me,' I mean 'nearby with his friends.' I have to stand here on my own while my mustard-yellow school shirt chafes around my neck.

I sit at the front of the armoured personnel carrier throughout our journey into enemy terrain. I need to know where the emergency exit is should terrorists attempt to hijack us. David is somewhere at the back, swapping football stickers with his team of trainee special forces agents.

I tread carefully once I break cover into the front playground. Any one of the hundreds of pupils around me could be a sinister agent.

"Doug, I think you've got to go over there," David yells next to my head before he and his posse thunder past me. My ear is still ringing after they've gone, but I assume he's talking about a tacky portable blackboard that's got a wonky leg. It's been set up near a door marked, 'School Office' and has the words, 'New starters,' followed by an arrow pointing towards the entrance.

Within minutes of arriving I'm briefed by the concentration camp's Governor, Mr Bannister. He ties me to a wicker chair in his office and lectures me on the dos and don'ts I must adhere to while I'm a prisoner of his regime. He's not a tall man; granted he's taller than me, but then he's an adult and, anyway, I take solace in the fact that he'll die long before me – possibly at my own hands. He looks in his early fifties with white hair that might once have been wavy, but that's by the by as its wrapped around his abnormally square head.

"So, Douglas..." he finally says after he's finished telling me all the things his guards will shoot me for. "It is 'Douglas' isn't it, or do you prefer being called Doug?"

I'd prefer not to speak to him at all. Only my friends call me Doug, but seeing as I haven't made any here yet, I reply, "Doug's fine."

"Great," he goes on, "I'm sure you'll enjoy your final year at Bishophalts. It's a friendly school and we take pride in nurturing our students' individual needs while promoting good family values, independence and, if all else fails, we'll feed you to the squid." I'm not afraid. I've been in institutions far worse than this and escaped from every last one. "W-wait, what am I saying?" he stammers, trying to make light of my capture. "You know all this. You already have David here. He's quite the young celebrity isn't he – what with his adverts for the Secret Service's footwear division. You must be very proud of him?"

I can smell a trick question a mile off. He has the files. His surveillance people have obviously been watching us for months, taking note of our every move. I only nod, making sure I don't fall into his pathetic attempt at a trap, answering only, "I am only proud of my own humility."

"Excellent, so now we have both the mighty Holsters at our mercy," he cackles insanely. "It's nice that you'll have company here. And, I just want you to know that if you should ever have any problems – anything at all – my door is always open."

I take notice of that. He's so confident that no one can tunnel their way out of their cells that he doesn't even lock his own door. My attention drifts to the windows behind him. They would make an excellent escape route when the time comes. "Now..." he begins, gesturing behind him to one of his muscle-bound henchmen in casual clothes. "This is Gareth, he's your form's prefect – he'll show you to your doom. And, remember, Holster, escape is impossible."