What I pulled up was a nylon backpack and it unzipped easily considering it had been outside in the weather long enough to bleach the black to a dingy gray. The inside held Ziploc plastic bag and inside that were papers and a spare wad of cash. Euros, about forty of them, in denominations of one, ten, and twenty. Some four hundred in all.
I found notes and letters from the Head Master to imaginary parents advising them of my progress and gentle reminders of my school fees, that meals were not included and an additional 500 per term, suggesting if they (my parents) were in financial straits, they could apply for a scholarship. Next terms fees were 3379( or 2995E with a 10% reduction if paid in cash. Due by January 31st.
No bankbook, no bank account numbers, and I couldn’t remember wither the name of the bank or the account number of the one Tom had set up for me.
No cell phone, no ID other than a card from school with my name and photo. Two phone exchanges. I recognized the one as being Cornwall, knew instinctively it was the farms. Wondered if Mr. P, Sally, or Mrs. C were still alive. Wanted desperately to see my mother and father, hear their voices before it was too late.
Last was a Euro pass giving me another two months of unlimited travel on the trains and across the Chunnel. I had to research that to find out what it was.
I’d seen it mentioned in the news on the home page and clicked on the blurb; been utterly fascinated by the idea and completion of a tunnel under the Channel.
That was all that was in the bag. No notes to myself, nothing to tell me what to do or to watch for. But then, my other selves, lives had never left me so much as one scribbled word, the only thing that seemed to come with me was the emerald cross.
I picked it up and put it around my neck and the cold metal hated up against my chest.
Waiting on my bed until night darkened the sky and the rooftops; I left the cubby room and found a dormer not far down the narrow hall. In it were stored old trunks from students long past. Most of the dates on them were from the forties and fifties. Here, the windows were the size of the dormer and opened onto a flat roof. I had used it before or someone had. Old footprints marked a path on the soot of the slates and showed my slide marks where the footing was slick. I stepped out and climbed.
This place was huge, roofs, eaves, and hip joints in many directions providing a climbing challenge not because of vertical technicalities but for the sheer number of interruptions in front of your feet. You had to watch or you’d trip over some vent, chimney, and dormer, sky light, ridge, or pipe. There were even left over TV antennas and microwave tower dishes. I felt like I was traveling across an alien landscape. I found, also, a few of my favorite’s perches. From the cleared patches on the slate, it was quite evident I spent a lot of time up here doing whatever it was that captivated me. I did find a bag with a small notebook inside and that was tucked into a plastic lined sack. It started only a few months ago, and the writer’s tone was hesitant and unsure.
I woke up in this bed. I don’t know anything but my name. Aidan.
I’m so lonely. I know something bad happened. All these faces around me. They said my parents sent me here to recover from a fever. I nearly died. I know I’ve died before. I remember dying. It hurts so bad but only for a little while.
There are boys here. All boys. Some of them watch me when I’m not looking. I know what those looks mean; I’ve seen them before, too. Why do people look at my face and think these crazy thoughts, wants? I’ve got two eyes, a nose, mouth and hair just like everyone else.
That big rugby player, his name is Chelmsley, he’s the worst. He tried to corner me in the gym. I climbed the wall to the rafters and sat there until he got tired of taunting me. He tried to climb but he couldn’t get more than halfway up the rope, nowhere near the struts on the roof, even with the other boys egging him on.
There’s a dark kid here. I think he’s a Saudi Arab Prince. I heard that he’s Chelmsley’s latest pet. I hear him crying in the cloakroom at night.
Last boy he got went to the Head Master and told. He was mysteriously injured after the bleachers fell on him. Fractured skull. Three other lads were hurt, too. Bad enough to go to Hospital. The one who told was brain damaged. No one said whom or could point a finger and prove it.
Head Master called me in. Asked me in a roundabout way of family and family matters. Took me a bit to figure out he was inquiring about money. Told him I left that up to the trustees. Whoever they are. Said my next term fees were due in four months. Wouldn’t throw me out or anything but they really needed to speak with my parents or trustees.
Pleaded ignorance and illness. Really, I don’t remember much.
Only place I feel safe is up high. On the roof.
Found a backpack today. In it, a bank book and account. Was close to 15,000( in it.
Now I know where the money for this place comes from. Remember Tom Watson, too.
My passport’s in the bag. I’ll hide it somewhere safe. In case, I need to travel.
Another run in with Chelmsley and his cohort, Glenellen. He scares me. His eyes are dead pools. I see the devil’s mark in him. Cornered me. Only got away because Mr. Compton-Baird came around the corner. They are scared of him. He moves like a ghost.
Took my rail pass and went into the city. Found me a place to live, a hide out. Old abandoned movie set. Director’s office still has running water, furniture, private cloakroom.
I found a hole through the chain link and explored the lot. No one hangs about, nor any guards patrolling. Been empty for years---like Pinewood this place went bankrupt.
Will write more. Feel a fever coming on. I hope I remember this.
That must have been when I woke up. I patted the rail pass in my pocket and decided I would go searching for my other bolthole this weekend.