Spoticus Read online

  ‘Oi! Oh, it’s you. Wassup Spots?’

  ‘Shut up and look,’ whispered Lewis and pointed up the road.

  ‘Oh great. Bloody vigilantes. What do they want? Better find a way round.’

  The back alley that ran parallel to the High Street was as good a way as any. It would avoid the main roads and get them to the back entrance of the Flintwick Secondary School without much delay. Parker spent the journey explaining his theories to Lewis.

  ‘I reckon they’re checking bags for comics. Or maybe they’re handing out beatings to kids who haven’t done their homework. Or maybe the Head’s had one of his garden gnomes nicked again. Or maybe...’

  He tailed off. There was a big man standing at the end of the snicket. He was armed with a two-foot wooden stake.

  ‘Or maybe we’ll try Shelley Road,’ said Parker. They turned on their heels.

  An arm shot out from nowhere and a hand clamped onto Lewis’s shoulder. Another hand followed and fastened onto Parker’s upper arm. Their owner stepped out into the alley way from a shadowy doorway.

  ‘You’re nicked, sonny,’ he snarled at Parker. ‘OK, Bri. I’ve got them,’ he shouted up the alley. The other man waved his club and slid back into his hiding place.

  Lewis was wriggling. ‘Ouch, you’re hurting me. What do you want?’

  ‘You’ve got an appointment, Jim Lad,’ the big man said. ‘It’s Haircut Day and I know someone who is anxious to make your acquaintance.’ He pulled them round and set off in the direction of school.

  ‘What’s he on about,’ said Parker. ‘I’ve just had my hair cut. And my Mum takes me, thank you very much, not you.’

  ‘Ooow, that’s cheek, that is. Deserves a slap,’ and he released his grip long enough to fetch Parker a thwack on his ear. Before Parker could recover, the grip was back on his arm and digging in tight. ‘And if you think that’s a proper haircut then you’re in for a surprise, mate.’ They continued in silence.

  The main entrance to the school was in Limpopo Drive. The road was thronged with kids and adults in no particular pattern. Someone was shouting and it looked as if someone was trying to form up lines. Many children had accompanying adults still attached to their upper limbs by vice-like hands. Many were being shepherded by adults in ones and twos. Some of the adults had clubs or sticks.

  In the centre of the mêlée were set up a number of what appeared to be barbers’ chairs, right there in the open air. They were makeshift affairs. Some looked like the real thing, some were just kitchen chairs with a towel draped over them. There were small trolleys by each chair, each displaying an array of grizzly looking instruments. There were scissors and combs, razors (electric and cut-throat) and sprays, aprons and cloths.

  A woman stepped out of the crowd and took charge of the new arrivals. ‘Thank you, Ryan. You, in that line and you, in that line,’ she said, shoving Lewis and Parker in the smalls of their backs.

  Lewis was stood behind Rachel Cook. ‘What’s going on?’ he whispered.

  Rachel stared at the floor and made like she was coughing. ‘We’re all getting regulation haircuts. Look at that lot over there.’

  By the fence next to the main entrance was a row of bewildered looking children. They were all shivering like shorn sheep. The boys had army-style cropped hair and the girls all had shoulder length locks – not above and not below. They looked pathetic.

  Lewis recognised Mr Whistler. He used to be a barber but he retired a year or so ago. They called him the Butcher of Bowly Road. The other scissor-wielders were a mixed bunch. Mostly elderly and mostly women. Lewis decided they were all amateurs. Enthusiastic amateurs.

  A megaphone crackled into life. ‘Now children.’ Mrs Twine, the school dinner lady, was speaking. ‘You will all get a very good haircut today. One you can be proud of. One your school can be proud of. Not like the mess most of you go about with. This operation has been sanctioned by The Headmaster, so you can all tell your parents that it’s completely official. And free, of course. We would appreciate your co-operation but we can manage this procedure with or without your help. It’s up to you. Thank you.’

  Lewis’s cap was snatched off his head. One of the volunteers was poking him. ‘You next. Stick that in your pocket. Up you go.’

  He climbed into the first available chair. He was getting a large lady with a bright orange wig perched carelessly on her head. Blooming cheek, thought Lewis.

  ‘Are we going to need the straps, young man?’ She grinned down at him.

  ‘No, we are not,’ he said as politely as he could. Just get on with it, he thought.

  A girl was led away crying from the next chair. About a foot of glorious golden tresses lay on the floor about the seat she had just vacated. Lewis found he was getting angry.

  The razor came down. A firm hand steadied the back of his head and the razor whirred round in a clockwise direction.

  ‘Ouch, you’re cutting me,’ he snarled.

  ‘Sooner you stop fidgeting, sooner it will be over. Now, you don’t want me to slip, do you?’

  Lewis thought about it. That’s exactly what he wanted her to do. He jerked his head forward and arched his back at the same time. The razor shot across his skull and ground to a halt near his ear.

  ‘You little bugger! Look what you’ve made me do!’

  There was blood dripping down Lewis’s nose and his head smarted. But it was worth it. A long trench had been cut in his otherwise neat haircut.

  ‘Do you think you can fix it?’ he smiled innocently at the big woman.

  ‘Get out of my chair, you little heathen. Mr Dinglewell, if you please. Take this boy to the Head immediately.’ A bored looking teacher left off reading his newspaper and stepped over to the chair. He cast a long look over Lewis’s head.

  ‘What are you going to do about that?’ he asked the lady.

  ‘Nothing I can do. I can’t stick it back on, can I? He’ll just have to look like that till it grows out. Take him away.’ She lashed out with a towel and caught Lewis on his neck.

  ‘Look!’ Shouted Lewis as he was led past the queues. ‘You too can have a haircut just like mine if you ask nicely.’ And right on cue, there was a squeal from the woman leaning over Parker’s head.

  ‘What did you do that for, you pillock!’

  Parker ducked under the woman’s outstretched arm and stuck his thumb up at Lewis. He had a bald patch running from ear to ear.

  By the time Lewis was escorted into the building he had heard at least four similar angry exchanges as children opted for non-regulation and involuntary scalpings. The haircutters were powerless to stop them. Even with two or three large blokes holding the heads still, it was still possible to twitch at just the wrong moment.

  After about fifty or sixty such disasters they gave up and shaved the rest bald. Even one or two girls. To the school and the teachers it was a dark day of shame and embarrassment. To the pupils, it was a badge of honour. Kids came from miles around to see a “Spotty Cut”. Maximum respect.

  * * * * *

  Pushpa was grounded. Her haircut was partly restored by her Aunty Bhavnita with a sharp pair of scissors on a high stool at the breakfast bar. But it still looked like something the council had done.

  Parker was dragged along to his mother’s training sessions at the stadium every night for three hours after school. ‘I’m not letting you out of my sight,’ she said.

  Lewis got indefinite detention. The Head said he would get detention every evening until he died. Even after the school holidays, he would still be in detention.

  His parents got a letter from the Crown Court. Lewis had been found guilty (in his absence) under the Disobeying A Direct Order From An Adult Act. Mr and Mrs Spottiswood got a fine (which meant no pocket money for Lewis for ever) and had to write a letter to the judge explaining how they were going to set about changing Lewis’s “unacceptable behaviour”. They weren’t best pleased.

  He began to notice small changes in the way his parents reacted to thing
s. His Dad was usually annoyed about things like “bloody courts, poking their noses in”, but now he just shrugged. He stopped reading a daily newspaper because he said it was the same thing every day and it didn’t make any difference anyway.

  His Mum started watching a lot more TV. Lewis would come down some evenings (after a mega-homework session) and find her staring with a funny expression at any old rubbish that happened to be on. She even said she thought Noel Edmonds was a “major talent”!

  Lewis sat in the flickering light from the box and read a book. A Government Information Film was on in the adverts. The man was saying...

  ‘Does Your Child Speak Properly? Do they say “Innit” when they mean “Isn’t it”? Do they say “Minger” when they mean “Slightly unattractive person”? Well, now you can do something about it.’

  ‘Do something about it...’ whispered Mrs Spottiswood. Lewis looked across at her. The vacant stare was back.

  The man on the telly read out some numbers you could call to get advice about speaking properly (so you could pass it on to your kids) and a few web addresses to check out.

  ‘So, no more “wicked” and “whatever”. Your children need to show some respect for The Queen’s English. You don’t have to put up with it anymore!’

  ‘We don’t have to put up with it anymore...’ droned Mrs Spottiswood.

  ‘Weird,’ thought Lewis and as his eyes returned to his book he noticed the TV crackle and flash.

  Later on, when his Dad had come in from the shed, there was another Government advert.

  ‘Are You Worried About Your Child’s Sexuality? Is little Johnny spending too much time dressing up with his sisters? Is little Mary climbing too many trees? Are you worried they might grow up to be filthy perverts? Well, there’s no need to worry – just remember this short slogan and you can’t go wrong – BOYS PLAY WITH GUNS AND GIRLS PLAY WITH DOLLS. It’s simple really.’

  ‘It’s simple really...’ said Lewis’s Mum.

  ‘Boys play with guns...’ said Mr Spottiswood.

  Lewis shook his head and returned to his book.

  * * * * *

  The Professor’s driver pulled up to the kerb at the end of the pier. He walked round to open the door and put his hand out to steady the scientist as he climbed out of the car. ‘They’re over there,’ he said and jerked his thumb in the direction of the green wrought iron gates at the entrance to the pier. It was late evening and the sky was going from red to purple over a dead flat sea.

  Professor Bloodlinker shuffled over to the gates. A large secret service man blocked his path. ‘Clearance,’ he grunted and pointed at the badge round the Professor’s neck. Bloodlinker scowled and held out the security pass for inspection.

  ‘Arms,’ said the man, making a scarecrow like gesture to show he wanted to search the Professor.

  ‘You don’t have to frisk me,’ complained the Professor. ‘I have A5 clearance. Now get out of my way.’ He pushed past the goon and headed for the gate. The man stood aside and let him go. Another figure emerged from the lengthening shadows.

  ‘This way, Professor. The Prime Minister is expecting you.’ The man was wearing an overcoat despite the summery weather.

  They boarded the miniature train that would normally be taking seaside holiday makers to the funfair at the end of the rusty Victorian pier. This evening it was deserted except for large men in macs every few metres, looking around nervously and talking quietly into little microphones hanging from their ears. The short train ride took nearly five minutes.

  The funfair was even more deserted. It looked spooky in the thickening gloom. The only activity came from a merry-go-round in the middle of the other attractions. It was all lit up and turning serenely round and up and down. A fat man with a brown apron sat in the middle and was working the controls. The only other occupants were Colonel Jackman and his cat.

  ‘Ah, Professor,’ called the PM. ‘Pull up a horse, why don’t you. Come and join us.’

  Bloodlinker grimaced and pulled himself inelegantly onto the moving platform. He teetered and wobbled from horse to horse until he was at the Prime Minister’s side.

  ‘Good evening, sir,’ he puffed. ‘I fear I am too old to get up on one of those things. I’ll stand, if you don’t mind.

  ‘As you wish,’ said Jackman. He was stroking the cat under the chin. ‘It’s Mrs Bootles’ birthday. I promised her a treat. She does love the funfair and the seaside. I think it’s the smell of fish. What have you got for me?’

  Bloodlinker pulled his long hands over his cheeks. He forced what he thought was a normal expression onto his face. ‘This is perfectly normal,’ he told himself. If the Prime Minister wants to close down a small holiday resort to give his cat a ride, he’s perfectly entitled to. Mrs Bootles wore her usual disgusted scowl.

  ‘The results are very encouraging, Prime Minister, we are making steady progress.’ He tightened his grip on the pole supporting the brightly painted horse he was leaning against.

  ‘Tell me,’ said Jackman and waved at no one in particular.

  ‘Well, the TV trials are going particularly well. We are running four adverts a night on all the major channels. Each one contains a 0.2 second burst of subliminal messaging. It’s too fast for people to notice but their subconscious brains are absorbing any instructions we care to give them. So far it’s just softening them up – making them nice and susceptible to the main brainwashing programme. Plus, the adverts themselves are going down a storm. The public love all that stuff about good old fashioned values.’

  ‘You there.’ Jackman pointed at the man at the controls. ‘Make it go faster.’ The ride lurched and Bloodlinker staggered. He was beginning to feel a little sick.

  ‘Also, we have secretly bought several of the leading newspapers. The new editors are busy placing the kind of stories you want in front of millions every day. But the major triumph has been in the area of the new Child Tax Allowance. Every parent in the land gets a small amount deducted from their taxes, just for having children. Yes, Prime Minister, it is expensive, but you will get it back ten-fold when you have a compliant nation just waiting for your next commands. The master stroke is the envelopes we send out with the application forms. When they lick them, they get a nice even dose of the psychotropic drug we have prepared. It’s neat, yes? It only affects parents so all the sane, childless people of England will be unaffected. And it works so well because it appeals to the basic greed of the average English parent. They all think they are getting something for nothing.’ The Professor chuckled.

  ‘Faster,’ cried Jackman. ‘How does it work?’

  There was a creaking noise as the merry-go-round cranked up a gear. The sea and sky outside the ride were beginning to get blurry. Mrs Bootles pricked up her ears. Bloodlinker gulped.

  ‘When they have all taken the appropriate dose they will all be ready to receive their final instructions. You can be sure that you can do what you like to their little brats and they won’t lift a finger to stop you. Do you think we could go a little slower?’

  ‘And how many people know about our little scheme?’

  ‘Only me and my little team at Swindon, Prime Minister.’

  ‘Good, good, Professor. You have done well. Now, bugger off, will you.’ Jackman raised one leg and gently pushed the Professor in the seat of his pants. Bloodlinker’s monocle shot out of eye and his grip failed on the pole that was supporting him. He tottered gently towards the edge of ride with a hint of surprise on his face. He flailed around, trying to grab on to anything to hold on to but his feet slipped on the smooth planks.

  ‘Prime Ministeeeeeeeerrrrrrr....’ he croaked as he shot from the edge of the merry-go-round. His body did an almost perfect somersault in mid air before it landed in a crumpled mess on the coconut shy next door.

  The ride slowed to halt.

  ‘Benson,’ the Prime Minister called out softly. A man in a suit stepped into the light. ‘Send the boys down to Swindon, Benson. We have a little business to at
tend to. And get me a new professor, would you.’

  Chapter Four

  The next day was the worst day of Lewis’s life. In fact it was the worst day in the history of the universe. Even the Big Bang wasn’t this big. The summer holidays were CANCELLED.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ said Lewis’s dad. A bit of marmitey toast shot out of his mouth and landed in the middle of the newspaper he was reading. ‘Bloody Hell!’

  ‘Have you seen this, Sue?’ he shouted to his wife, who was polishing her shoes in the hall. ‘They’ve cancelled the school holidays!’

  ‘Do what?’ Lewis’s mum said, leaning into the kitchen through the serving hatch.

  ‘Do what?’ said Lewis, snatching the paper from his dad’s clutches.

  ‘BLOODY HELL!’

  “The Government announced today,” the paper said, “that all school holidays in England have been cancelled. The move came amid rising concerns for the tide of lawlessness and anarchy that engulfs our streets every year when children are released from the close supervision of the education system. The news has been broadly welcomed by Head Teachers’ associations and ....”

  The words began to spin in front of Lewis’s eyes so he put the paper down and put on the telly. Why were they doing it? How was it going to work? What had they done to deserve this?

  The TV news seemed to be one continuous article about the announcement and it soon became clear that he wasn’t the only one with questions. ‘Once again,’ a teacher with a Birmingham accent was saying, ‘Once again, the teachers of this country are being asked to clear up the Government’s mess. Teachers work with those little bastards day in and day out for week after week and we deserve a bit of a holiday.’ The man started to cry.

  A “mum” from Hartlepool was filmed in front of school gates. ‘I think it’s a disgrace. We’ve got two weeks in Torremolinos lined up, bought and paid for, and I’d like to know who’s going to be looking after my three while we’re away.’

  But, bit by bit, while Lewis scrabbled to get his books together and climb into his uniform, a different picture emerged.

  “Army says it’s ready to step into the breach,” the telly said. “As more details of the government holiday plan are released it now appears that the military will be responsible for running Army Summer Schools for all school-age children.”