Frank Wasdale- First Mission Page 2

  “Morning, Doctor B,” the guard says. “Off on vacation?”

  Dr Babbage chuckles. “I wish,” he says, handing over some papers for the guard to check.

  “Your grandson’s going with you this time?” enquires the guard, ruffling through the folded papers. Dr Babbage nods, and I notice beads of sweat on his forehead. He’s about as good at lying as he is at hip-hop dancing. Which is a bit unfortunate, considering he’s wrapped up in all this conspiracy. I have a virtual life, you see, concocted by Dr Babbage and Stump, to explain my existence at the base and to prevent too many eyebrows being raised. In this virtual life, I’m a home educated orphan, terminally ill with some rare condition. Stops people asking too many questions. Not that I meet a lot of people.

  The guard seems happy with the papers and gives me the characteristic sympathetic look. If only he knew. The gate judders open, and for only the second time in my second life I’m outside the camp, heading for the open road.

  It’s a six-hour drive to the airport, through mountains, pine forests, and then lush, rolling fields. I try to sleep but I can’t; my head feels like it’s full of fireworks and bursting popcorn. My thoughts won’t stay still, and I’m heating up all over. I open the window to let in some fresh, cool air.

  The traffic gets busier as we get closer to the airport, and Dr Babbage begins to curse and swear, beginning to get worried that we might miss our flight. He needn’t have worried. The car park is right next to the terminal building, and we arrive with time to spare. A jet plane roars above us as I climb out of the car, so low that I instinctively duck.

  “This way,” says Dr Babbage, and I follow him through some the automatic doors at the front of the terminal building. There are more people inside than I’ve ever seen in my life. We join a long queue and stand in it for about half an hour, and when we get to the front a lady with thin lips takes Dr Babbage’s bag and sends it on a conveyor through some flaps. It feels odd watching that bag, full of the magic juice that keeps me alive, disappearing from sight.

  Once we’re away from the crowds, Dr Babbage gives me one more concentrated swig of juice, enough to last me through the flight. I throw the bottle in a bin and follow Dr Babbage up some moving metal stairs.

  At the top, he stops. “We have to go through security next, Frank. Be sensible, OK?”

  I nod and follow Dr Babbage through a zigzagging line of tape to a desk where a man with a fat head and bushy grey eyebrows spends an enormous amount of time studying my passport. He doesn’t seem interested in Dr Babbage’s.

  “This your son?” he asks.

  “No, my grandson,” says Dr Babbage, a little too assertively. For a moment I fear that the man with the eyebrows has seen right through our false identities and is about to throw us into some musty old cell.

  “Is he unwell?” says that man, glaring at me like I’m an enormous fungus growing from the floor.

  “He has a variety of genetic conditions. Nothing contagious. I have the medical papers if you’re interested.”

  The man looks at us again, shaking his head, and hands Dr Babbage our passports back. Next, an agitated-looking man with a red nose pats me up and down and squeezes me under the armpits, before asking me to walk through a big metal detector. I set the beepers off.

  “He has a lot of pins and plates,” explains Dr Babbage to the agitated-looking man. “He’s had some nasty accidents in his time.” The man gives me another good feel, before finally waving us on.

  Once through security, we find a cafe. Dr Babbage orders a coffee and a sandwich for himself and fetches me six cheeseburgers and a pint of Lucozade.

  “Try to blend in, Frank. We mustn’t draw attention to ourselves. Stump’s orders.”

  I try my best to blend in, but the glares and scowls I get from passing strangers suggest that I’m not doing a very good job. I tell myself to ignore the attention and concentrate on my burgers.

  Our flight is called, and we join a throng of people, all pushing and heaving towards a tiny desk. Then we’re off through a tunnel and across the runway towards our plane. It’s a big one, all silver and white, every bolt and panel catching a glint of the evening sun.

  As I climb up the steps, I turn around briefly and wonder if I’ll ever see America again.

  I was hoping to get a seat by the window, but I end up next to the aisle, directly across from a lady with wild hair who keeps giving me sympathetic looks. I give her a sympathetic look back. She closes her eyes and pretends to be asleep. On the other side of me, Dr Babbage is fidgeting and fussing in his chair, checking and re-checking his safety strap. A lady with long arms makes some safety announcements, and Dr Babbage seems absolutely glued to what she’s saying. I’m more interested in the sick bag - it might come in handy later. Then at last, we’re ready for take-off. The engines fire up, and the plane starts to move faster along the runway. I feel my stomach take a tumble as the heaving mass of metal finally lifts into the air.

  The plane banks, dropping its right wing down like a lame bird, and for a few minutes I get a fantastic view through a clear patch in the little steamy window. Below us are pinkish-grey clouds, and beneath them a blackening sea. Above us is the sky is dark, as if we’re headed for space. Dr Babbage keeps his eyes closed through all this, and doesn’t open them until we’re flying level, and a loud ping tells us we can unclip our belts.

  I get a funny sensation, thinking this can’t be real; we can’t be up here, hanging in the atmosphere. Then I get another funny sensation, a physical one down in my bowels (I’ll spare you the details) but overriding this is a faint memory: I’ve done this before. When I was that other person, all those years ago, I must have flown the other way; from England to America, with my parents. Did I have a window seat back then? I can’t remember. Were my Mum and Dad scared, excited, bemused? I can’t even remember their faces, a thought which really gets me down. One thing I’m sure of, though; the little boy that I used to be would have been doing exactly what I’m doing now; gazing out at the sky and the clouds and feeling a shameless rush of excitement. I’m suddenly hit by a familiar smell. Dr Babbage has noticed it too. It’s time I went to the toilet.

  *

  After leaving Alaska on Thursday evening, and changing planes in Seattle, we finally arrive at London Heathrow airport late on a Friday evening. I managed to sleep for most of the journey, but, judging by the look of him, Dr Babbage didn’t. He’s curt and snappy and keeps telling me off.

  On the way through the airport we are made to wait in another long queue. Nobody seems bothered about the waiting. Except for Dr Babbage, that is, who’s looking increasingly flustered. A black lady with red glasses raises her eyebrows when she looks at my passport, but eventually she lets us through, even managing a tiny smile in the process. Outside the terminal we hail a taxi. The driver studies me suspiciously in the rear-view mirror as he takes us into central London. Dr Babbage asks him if he could recommend a cheap hotel, and the driver knows just the place. He takes us off the main road and through a chaotic jumble of streets full of buses and crazy-looking cyclists, and finally pulls up outside a place called Fourwinds.

  “Tell ‘em Baz sent you - they might give you a cheap cup of tea or sumfing.”

  The harassed-looking lady in the hotel foyer has never heard of anyone called Baz but is happy to take Dr Babbage’s money and show us to our bedroom. The room is nice, with two beds, a big flat TV and a bath with square taps. Dr Babbage explains for about the fifth time that we must stay here tonight because we can’t pick up the keys to our new house until tomorrow morning. Midway through a big leather-bound book called ‘Hotel Services’, he falls fast asleep on his bed, fully clothed. I surf the channels on the TV for a while but find that I’m so excited I can’t concentrate on anything for more than a few seconds. A new house. Tomorrow. A new life. No more trials or beatings, at least not for now. I sit by the window, in an armchair that’s less comfortable than it looks, and take in the sights and sounds of the London street below
.

  *

  We both wake early the next morning and head down to the basement for breakfast, where a short lady with bright woollen stockings brings us a rack of toast so massive that it looks set to challenge even my appetite. The toast is soon followed by a plate of beans, bacon and scrambled eggs, and then some more toast. I eat so much that I have a little vomit onto my plate. An elderly man on the table next to us gives me a filthy look and leaves the room, shaking his head in disbelief.

  “Let’s check out, before you upset anyone else,” says Dr Babbage, slurping down the last of his tea. “Stump said they’ll be expecting us at the estate agent before ten.”

  With a crumpled map in his hands and a permanent frown on his face, Dr Babbage navigates us through the crowded streets. Despite all the noise and the bustle and the warm smelly wind, I feel relaxed and chirpy. My soul is comforted by the fact that, for once, I’m not the weirdest-looking kid in town. We pass loads of people, but some of them really stick out: a man with the tattoo of a skull on his face; a girl with no hair and nearly no clothes; a man wearing fingerless gloves and an old sack; a toddler with a silver stud in his top lip; a circus clown playing a violin. Up against this lot, I must look relatively normal.

  Eventually, we find the estate agent. It’s got a big red sign above it that says Pratt and Sons, and it’s wedged between a steakhouse and a dance studio. Before we go in, Dr Babbage picks a bit of snot off my cheek, checks that I’m clean, and straightens my collar.

  We’re ushered towards one of several large desks, where a stout man with a red face is sitting. “Charles Wasdale? And, let me just check, Frank Wasdale?” says the man, who I’m guessing might be Pratt or possibly one of his sons. “63 Crown Hill, Cheasley. All seems to be in order. Thirteen Hundred per calendar month, two months to be paid in advance. Are you paying by credit card?”

  From the look on his face, I don’t think Dr Babbage was expecting to have to pay at all. He grumbles as he swipes his card, signs some documents as if he were signing his own death warrant, and then - once we’re out on the street - he embarks on some colourful cursing of Stump and the Mannequin (something he’s doing more and more often, these days, but never to their faces).

  We take a train towards Cheasley, our new home town. With each passing mile, I feel myself becoming more and more intrigued, and get through a whole box of tissues wiping the sweat from my brow and neck. Dr Babbage says that the house we’re renting has two bedrooms and that I can choose which one I want. How cool is that?

  The train slows to a juddering halt alongside a sign that says ‘Cheasley. All trains terminate’. Aided by some scribbled instructions, we trudge through a persistent drizzle along a street full of newsagents, bars and betting shops. Off this street, half way up a long street, we find our new house. The downstairs windows are hidden from view by a spectacularly untamed patch of grass. There’s a greenhouse sticking off to the left, which Dr Babbage tells me is a conservatory. On the right is a neighbouring house, equally shabby, with all its curtains drawn.

  “Here we are then,” says Dr Babbage, reaching into his pocket for the keys. “63 Crown Hill!”

  Once inside, I take a good look around, checking out all the rooms and the stairs and the cupboards. I choose the bedroom overlooking the conservatory. From my window I can see the main road at the bottom of the hill, with cars and bikes whizzing by. In the middle of my room is a bed with a bare mattress, and I climb onto it triumphantly, feeling like an explorer claiming his first mountain summit.

  “Do you like it?” asks Dr Babbage, popping his head through the doorway.

  I give him the thumbs up.

  “We’ll need to go shopping soon, to get some basics; sheets for the beds, food, some tidier clothes. Also, I need to find out where we can buy school uniform.”

  What did he just say? School uniform? I give him my best quizzical frown, and he begins to get fidgety.

  “You’re to start at Cheasley High School. Stump says that it’s close to here. Not far to walk, just over the other side of this hill. We have a meeting with the head teacher on Monday.”

  I gulp and begin to feel even more clammy than usual. School? I thought I was here for a mission, not to go to school. I’ve never been to school. I have no idea what to expect. This changes everything. Hastily, I reach for my pen and pad, which are stuffed in the back pocket of my jeans.

  Why do I need to go to school? I write.

  “I don’t know, Frank. Stump’s orders.”

  I hope that’s not going to be his answer to everything. “Still,” he continues, “it might turn out to be a useful experience for you. You’ll get to mix with other boys and girls your age.”

  He’s not convincing me. The only other child I’ve ever been allowed to ‘mix’ with is Benny, and he’s six years my junior. A bunch of real twelve-year-olds? They’ll probably hate me. Or hit me. Or both. Besides, I don’t know anything! Dr Babbage has taught me, after a fashion, how to read and write, but I’ve never had any lessons. This could turn into a nightmare.

  I scribble in my pad again: I’m not going to go to school.

  “Yes, you are, Frank. You have to.”

  “Stump’s orders,” I attempt to say, but as usual the sound emerges from my mouth as a low guttural groan. I fold my arms and turn my back on Dr Babbage. I feel really angry.

  “There’s no need to get into a huff with me, Frank. I don’t pull the strings, remember? All I do is look after you and try to make sure that you’re happy. It’s not easy, you know. Now take my advice and get used to the idea. Shopping in half an hour.”

  He stomps out of my room and I lie on my bed, curling up like a wintering dormouse, trying in vain to imagine what lies ahead.

  *

  Two days later, I’m sitting in a dark office at Cheasley High School with a lady who calls herself ‘the deputy’. She has big teeth like a cartoon horse, and hair that blocks out her eyes when she leans forward. Fortunately, she pretty much ignores me and directs her barrage of questions to Dr Babbage: why did you leave Alaska? Will your grandson be living with you whilst he’s at school? Why did you apply so late? Have you a copy of his birth certificate? Dr Babbage fibs his way through the questions, and the deputy taps away at her desktop computer.

  Finally, the dreaded moment comes: she looks up from her monitor and addresses me. She hasn’t said anything about my unusual appearance yet, and I wonder now if that time has come.

  “I’m going to put you in 8D, Frank. Your form teacher will be Mr Balls.”

  8D? What does that mean? If I could speak more than a word a minute, I’d ask her, but all I can do is nod politely and twiddle my thumbs.

  “You can start tomorrow, if you wish. I’ll make sure that Mr Balls is expecting you.”

  Tomorrow? That’s like, the day after today! Holy crap.

  The deputy stares at me for a while, as if she’s expecting a response. She looks perturbed when all she gets is a grunt and turns back towards Dr Babbage.

  “His conditions,” she says, in a sympathetic sort of voice. “Does it require medication?”

  “He needs a special dietary supplement, which is usually mixed in with his food and drink. His skin needs frequent application of cream, and he occasionally requires fresh diapers - nappies as you call them. But he’s a good boy, and he takes the responsibility for his treatments seriously. Don’t you, Frank?”

  I nod.

  “He’ll need to be discreet about his medication,” advises the deputy. “You know what some children are like.” She looks once more to her monitor. “These conditions,” she says. “Not ones I’ve heard of, I must admit.”

  “Not ones that many people have heard of,” says Dr Babbage. “A strange brew of rare chromosome defects.”

  “Indeed,” mutters the deputy. She appears lost in her own thoughts for some time, then turns once more to me.

  “Have you any questions, Frank? Anything you need to know before tomorrow?”

  There is s
omething I need to know, right now.

  “You got toilets?” I ask. It takes a heck of a while for these three words to come out, and the deputy squints and puts on a look of extreme concentration.

  “Have I got wireless? Is that what you said, Frank? Are you asking about my connection?”

  Luckily, Dr Babbage steps in. “As I wrote on the form, my grandson has some trouble with verbal communication. He’s asking if you’ve got toilets.”

  A flush of red comes over the deputy’s face. “Of course we have, Frank! We have lots of toilets at this school. I couldn’t tell you exactly how many but...”

  “Need pee,” I groan, pointing between my legs for clarity.

  “Oh!” says the deputy. “I see. Of course, follow me.”

  She leads us down a corridor that smells of sweaty feet, and back to the reception area where we came in.

  “There you go,” she says, pointing to a green door with stains on. “You can use that one. Now, I must go, I have a meeting to attend. Give the school a ring, Dr Babbage, if there’s anything else you need to know.”

  We watch her scurrying down the corridor.

  “If I was you,” says a large lady from inside a little hatch, “I’d go to the toilet and get out of here before classes finish for break. You know, avoid the crowds...”

  We do as she says and make it just in time; on our way out, we’re hit by the sound of a multitude of chairs scraping on floors, and of running feet and raised voices. The noises are building to a crescendo as we escape through the reception doors, across the school grounds, and back onto the street. With a quick glance at each other, we both quicken our pace.

  Chapter 3 - Cheasley High

  That evening, we receive the promised visit from Colonel Stump. He’s staying in London, at some undisclosed location. Stump is pleased that the school accepted my application and informs us that he never doubted that they would.