Spoticus
and the Children’s Revolt
by Andrew Francis
Copyright 2011 Andrew Francis
Smashwords Edition
Cover design by Andrew Francis
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Andrew Francis
Visit my website at www.francis-emporium.co.uk
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Chapter One
Let’s get a few things sorted first.
Lewis Spottiswood: Age 12. Bit ordinary. Parents both work in a local supermarket. Sister called Bev, age 14. Lives on a rather dull road in a rather dull town in the south of England. Goes to an ordinary school which is rather dull. Quite enjoys school and is OK at most lessons. Likes his Gran but she lives in another dull town. Likes games, especially on the PC. No pets. Best friends; Parker and Push. About to become an Enemy of the People.
That’s all you need to know for now.
* * * * *
It was Friday 7th May and it was the day after the General Election. Lewis was vaguely aware that there was some big change happening to the government but it wasn’t really sinking in yet. He was sitting on the settee waiting for his father to get bored with the news. It had been on for ten minutes and he could have been watching the Simpsons.
‘Why do they keep going on about the English Elections?’ he asked his father. ‘Why not Scotland and Wales and Thingy?’
‘Read a paper for once,’ his father said and tossed him the Daily Trumpet. Lewis scanned down the front page story. “Landslide for Jackman... blah-de-blah, blah-de-blah, First elections to new English Parliament... blah-de-blah, England For Adults take control, blah-de-blah” said the story.
‘The other countries in the UK have their own parliaments now,’ explained his father, but Lewis was already thinking about giving up on the telly and playing “Sword of Death” on the PC.
He didn’t quite realise what was in store for him and his mates in the coming months. He didn’t yet appreciate that the small cloud of grown-up lunacy that had had been building up for the past few months was now a fully fledged tornado and was about to sweep down on the children of England. He had yet to grasp that the England For Adults party was about to turn him into a criminal mastermind.
* * * * *
Colonel Jackman stood by the curtains of the Cabinet Room in Number Ten Downing Street and took a sneaky look at the cheering crowds behind the large iron gates. He was Prime Minister of England and he had achieved a political miracle. Six months before, no one had heard of his England For Adults party and national politics looked set to continue along the usual boring and predictable course. But he’d changed all that. He had created a legend.
A few minor events had changed the course of history. A boy in North Allerton had won a court case saying that his parents had violated his Human Rights because they wouldn’t take him to Disneyland, Florida. Some adults got quite cross about that.
A girl in Middlesborough burned her own house down and her parents were sent to jail for failing to teach her about the danger of playing with matches. Some adults got quite cross about that.
A teacher in Southampton was forced to apologise to the class that had chased her out of school because she hadn’t warned them in time that their homework was overdue. Some adults got quite cross about that.
The papers frothed and seethed about the Tide of Unruly Youths who were terrorising the nation. Television documentaries showed pictures of Young People on the Rampage. Politicians started talking about Taking Back the Streets from the hoodlums and the hoodies. And Jackman saw his chance.
* * * * *
But none of that had any impact on Lewis. Yet. His mate Parker had called round and they were fiddling with Lewis’s bike.
Parker was two months older than Lewis but two centimetres shorter. He had moved to the big school from a different junior school from Lewis so they had only known each other for a few months. But they were already life-long friends.
Parker held up his grease-covered fingers and grinned at Lewis from behind them. They had successfully replaced the dislodged chain from Lewis’s bike. ‘Let’s go down the shops,’ he said. It was early evening and, being a Friday, there was no homework. Leastways, none that wouldn’t keep till last thing on Sunday night. ‘I want to pick up my magazine and my sister owes me fifty pence for sweets.’
They pushed their bikes to the gate and were wobbling about on the pavement while trying to mount them when a voice rang out from behind next door’s hedge. ‘Spotty, wait up,’ it said, and it was followed round the corner by the face of Lewis’s neighbour, Push.
‘Not Spotty,’ said Lewis but without conviction. It was no use having a surname like Spottiswood and not expecting his friends to take advantage of it. The fact that he had a blemish-free complexion (but rather mousy hair) made no difference. He would always be Spotty and he had almost – but not quite – given up minding.
‘Spotty, hold-up,’ said Push. ‘I’ll get my bike. Where are we going?’
‘WE are going to the newsagents,’ said Parker but he didn’t really mind the intrusion. He and Push had been mates since Infants and the fact that she lived next door to his new ‘best friend’ was a bit of a bonus. She was officially “OK for a girl, I suppose.”
‘My Dad is a new Councillor,’ beamed Push as they peddled down Pankhurst Way. ‘He’s part of the District Council and everyone has to call him Councillor Patel.’ Parker groaned. ‘Boring!’ he said, but Push was undeterred.
‘He’s part of the new England For Adults party and he says they are really going to kick some ass in the stupid council. He says they won’t know what’s hit them when they take over on Monday. I think it’s a laugh. My Dad! A Councillor!’
* * * * *
The Colonel pushed the shiny red button on his desk marked, “Cabinet Secretary”, and waited the 2.4 seconds it took for the government official to slide in through the large oak doors at the end of his office.
‘Yes, Prime Minister?’ he asked.
“YES PRIME MINISTER,” thought Jackman. “I love it!”
He turned slowly to the secretary. ‘Oh, nothing, just testing the button.’
‘Yes, Prime Minister,’ purred the secretary and slid back out of the room.
Jackman waited ten seconds and pushed the button again.
‘Yes, Prime Minister?’ said the secretary as he glided back into the room.
“YES PRIME MINISTER,” thought Jackman. “I will never get tired of hearing that.’”
‘Do you like my tie, Mr Secretary?’ (He hadn’t quite memorised his name yet).
‘It’s very nice, Prime Minister.’
‘Good. Thank you,’ he said and waved his hand in a sort of Go Now way.
Thirty seconds later the secretary was back in the room and looking ever so slightly frowny.
‘Yes, Prime Minister?’
‘Get me some milk for Mrs Bootles, would you,’ he said. The Secretary regarded the disgustingly large cat that was sleeping on a fluffy pink cushion in an armchair in the corner.
‘I’m sure that can be arranged, Prime Minister. I’ll have a word with the household staff,’ he bristled.
‘No, I want you to do it. I’m not trusting the job to one of those oiks. You get the milk.’ Jackman pulled himself up to his full five foot eleven and glared at the secretary.
‘I don’t think my job description extends to feeding domestic animals, Mr Prime Minister,’ said the secretary. He had started to sweat a little bit.
‘Do you like your job, Mr Secretary?’ asked Jackman.
‘It’s an honour to serve Her Majesty’s Government, sir.’
‘THEN GET THE MILK,’ bawled the colonel, ‘Or I’ll have you peeling spuds in the kitchen! And it will be your job to make sure no harm comes to Mrs Bootles. And if she so much as waves her tail while you’re in the room, I’ll have you locked up in the Tower of London. NOW GET OUT!’
The secretary took out a spotted handkerchief and dabbed at his sweating forehead. He backed slowly towards the door. He even did a sort of bow before slipping out silently.
Jackman waited thirty seconds and pressed the red button again.
‘Yes, Prime Minister?’
‘You forgot to say, “Yes, Prime Minister”.’
* * * * *
The three of them burst into Mr Khan’s shop still laughing at something Parker had said about geography teachers. ‘I’ll have my usual please, Mr Khan,’ said Lewis and slammed a two pound coin on the counter. They were all giggling too hard to notice the tide of red slowly covering the shopkeeper’s face.
‘Get out of my shop!’ he blurted and slammed the till shut with a resounding ching.
‘You wot?’ said Parker. They had all straightened up and stopped laughing now.
‘You can read, can’t you? Get out of my shop,’ he said and pointed at the door.
‘Mr Khan, it’s me, Lewis,’ said Lewis but without effect.
‘You,’ he said, digging a finger into Push’s chest, ‘Go to that door and tell me what it says.’
Push dutifully edged towards the door and peered round it to see what Mr Khan was pointing at. There was a piece of card blu-tacked to the inside of the glass. It looked as if it had been torn from the back of a cornflakes packet. In the middle, in untidy red felt-tipped letters, it said, “CHILDREN UNDER 16 MUST BE ACCOMPANIED BY AN ADULT. THANKYOU”. She read it out aloud.
‘So why do you barge in here like you own the place. Things are going to be different from now on. I’m not putting up with you little thieves anymore!’
Lewis considered himself to be a fairly honest boy and he thought his friends were more or less the same. It was true, there were some older kids who crowded into the shop and nicked sweets while Mr Khan was distracted. But that was nothing to do with them.
‘I only came in to get my magazine,’ said Lewis.
‘Then you come back with a responsible adult,’ said Mr Khan. ‘This is a new era. We’re in charge now, not you little buggers.’
Push muttered something about Taking Their Custom Elsewhere as they backed out of the door. Mr Khan had picked up a broom and was waving it with menace.
‘What’s he mean – New Era?’ asked Parker as they slumped down on the wall next to their bikes.
‘He’s in the same lot as my Dad,’ said Push. ‘You know, The Adults Party, the thing on the news.’
‘Anyone would think we were criminals,’ said Lewis and kicked a pebble into the road.
* * * * *
The Cabinet Secretary had slipped out of Number Ten and nipped along to The Strand where he found a small shop that could sell him toys for cats. He returned with a Catnip-scented mouse, a ball with a bell in it and piece of squeaky foam in the shape of a dog. He was busy introducing Mrs Bootles to her new possessions when Colonel Jackman crept in behind him.
Mrs Bootles was pawing at the mouse with half-hearted disdain, but she wasn’t actually waving her tail. The secretary was relieved.
‘Treating her with respect, I see. Good. You’ll go far.’
The Cabinet Secretary jumped. Secretly, he thought he had already Gone Far and things had taken a bit of a turn for the worse in the last 24 hours. But he would never dream of saying it.
‘I want you to get me the Head of Science,’ continued Jackman. ‘Get him in here now.’
‘I’m afraid you haven’t actually appointed a Minister for Science and Technology yet, Mr Prime Minister. I could ask the Permanent Under Secretary to join us.’
‘That’s the chappy,’ exclaimed Jackman as he absent-mindedly stroked Mrs Bootles. ‘Get him in here now.’
* * * * *
While they were sitting on the wall outside the paper shop and reviewing their options, Benny from the tower block came shuffling along. He was wearing a scruffy parka and clutching something in a plastic bag to his chest.
It was Lewis’s mum who called him Benny and said it was something to do with the Falklands War but Lewis didn’t think he looked old enough to be in some old war.
‘Orright, Lew,’ he said and made a little wave.
‘Benny!’ cried Parker. ‘How you doing? What’s in the bag?’
‘I ain’t called Benny,’ muttered Benny and changed his direction of travel to give Parker a wide berth.
‘Gis a look, Benny,’ Push said and made a grab for the bag.
‘Gerroff,’ said Benny and whipped the bag out of reach.
‘Can you go in the shop with us, Benny?’ asked Lewis, ‘Mr Khan says we’re not allowed any more.’
‘Gerroff,’ said Benny and held the bag above his head. Parker started jumping up for it.
‘He’s not a Responsible Adult,’ said Push and she too started leaping up at the elusive bag.
‘You gerroff!’ shouted Benny and the bag flew from his grip and landed on the pavement. A copy of Frogman Super Fighter slid out and flopped into the road.
‘Ooow, he’s a Frogman fan,’ cooed Push. ‘Bit basic, innit Benny? Do you like looking at the pictures?’
‘Are you wearing a Frogman costume under your Y-Fronts, Benny?’ said Parker. He had the comic behind his back and was fending off Benny’s every attempt to reach it.
‘Benny can’t read. Benny can’t read,’ sang Push and joined in the shoving.
Then came the smack.
Parker was on the floor and there was a eerie silence.
Benny looked around him as if to see if there were any witnesses and then back at Parker. ‘I ain’t called Benny,’ he said and knelt down to pick up his things. There was a small group of people at the bus shop watching the scene unfold.
Parker’s mouth was wide open and his eyes were staring at Benny in disbelief.
‘He hit me,’ he whispered.
‘You hit him!’ snarled Push. ‘You can’t do that!’
‘He hit me,’ repeated Parker and a bit of wet appeared at the corner of his eye. It wasn’t hurt so much as shock that put it there.
‘You ain’t to call me that,’ said Benny and he started to shuffle away.
‘You hit him! You hit him!’ called Push, turning to the onlookers. ‘He hit him! He’s not allowed to do that.’ She was screaming now.
There was a long pause until a man with one of those pull-along shopping bags lifted his eyes from his paper and stared at Push. ‘Quite right, too,’ he said.
It was as if someone had pushed a button. The entire bus queue turned to each other and all started talking at once. “Bout Time Too”; “Got To Learn”; “Getting Away With It For Too Long”, were some of the things that Lewis heard. Then they all turned back to face the way the bus would come and resumed their silent wait.
Only one old lady was still facing Push. ‘Better get used to it, Kid,’ she said. She didn’t sound unkindly.
Parker got up and rubbed his aching jaw. A small purple bruise was starting to appear.
Chapter Two
Colonel Lionel Jackman (Retired) lived in a leafy avenue near Cheltenham. It was nice. Except for the children who congregated on the corner by the phone box, sometimes until as late as 9.30 AT NIGHT. He didn’t like them. And neither did his wife, Dotty, (that was her name).
Colonel and Mrs Jackman didn’t have children. They couldn’t see the point of them. ‘What bloody use are they?’ he would ask his wife. ‘Horrible, smelly, loud, rude.’
He didn’t like children with bikes who rode on the pavement and expected you to get out of the way. He didn’t like children with skate boards that made loud kerklunking noises outside his office. He didn’t like children with spikes sticking out of their faces or hats on back-to-front.
He talked to people at the Golf Club about it and they agreed with him. He found ten like-minded people and before you could say, “Bring Back National Service”, they had formed A Committee. It wasn’t long before the committee became A Political Party, with a logo and headed notepaper and a newsletter and all.
Then one of his richer friends gave him a million pound loan and he set up a Party Headquarters and started paying An Organiser. They called themselves England For Adults and they had a mission. They would get some respect from Young People even if they had to beat it into them.
They talked about MANNERS and ELDERS AND BETTERS and something called THE OLD DAYS. Their favourite expression was “It never did me any harm”, which usually related to dimly-remembered thrashings they received from sadistic schoolmasters.
But it wasn’t going anywhere. They won a few seats on local councils but not enough to get them noticed. And they weren’t a national party. The idea of joining England For Adults didn’t go down too well in Scotland or Wales or Thingy. So they bobbed along in obscurity and if anyone did mention them it was usually when taking the piss.
But then the government of the day decided they had had enough of one government for the whole of the UK and announced that the next elections would be for a new Parliament for England. And Jackman saw his chance.
* * * * *
The first bit of law produced by the new government was “The Hoodies and Other Offensive Headgear Act” and it came into force just two weeks after Jackman swept to power in a landslide election victory. He had annihilated the other parties and England For Adults had so many MPs that they could do what they liked.
The new Act first came to the attention of Lewis as he sat round the kitchen table at Parker’s house. Parker’s mum was oiling her javelin on the kitchen table.
Parker took a lot of stick for his mum. She represented the county at the Javelin and she was good. Some said she could be on the way to the next Olympics. But there was no denying that she was quite large. Dean Spiller had once said, ‘Is that your Mum or your Dad?’ to Parker when she met him at the school gate one day to take him to the Dentist’s.
‘Yeah, well she could sort your Dad out any day,’ was Parker’s response. Dean never repeated the comment. Parker was very proud of his mum.
Parker was reading the instruction book for a PC game and Lewis was leaning over his shoulder. Push’s face appeared at the kitchen window and she squealed with delight when she saw the javelin.
‘Hello, Parker’s Mum,’ she said as she squeezed in behind Parker’s chair. ‘Let’s have a look at your spear.’
‘Hello, Pushy,’ said Mrs P, ‘and you can get your hands off. This is a precision instrument.’ She wiped some more gunky looking fluid into the handle.
Pushy poked her tongue out and giggled. ‘Come on, guys,’ she said, ‘we’re not hanging around here all evening. Let’s go down the canal and watch the fishing freaks.’
Parker groaned but shuffled to his feet anyway. It was staying light until late, now that the clocks had gone forward, so they had plenty of mucking about time before homework (and stuff).
‘You ain’t going out with that on,’ said Mrs Parker and tugged at his fleece.
‘What’s wrong with it?’
‘This,’ she said, waggling the fawn-coloured hood that was sown into the neck. ‘T’aint legal no more. Go and change.’
‘Yeah, right,’ said Lewis, glancing down at the date on the newspaper to check if it was April Fools.
‘Don’t you ever listen to the news?’ she said and headed out of the door with all her kit in the direction of the garage.
‘What’s she on about?’ asked Push.
‘Dunno,’ said Parker, ‘Let’s go.’
* * * * *
The Permanent Under Secretary for Science and Technology stood nervously before his new Prime Minister. Colonel Jackman had Mrs Bootles on his knee and was busy making cooing and clucking noises. ‘Ooos a booty ickle girl, den?’ he said and tickling her belly. He repeated it several times but the cat just scowled.
The Permanent Under Secretary cleared his throat. He was beginning to suspect that the PM had forgotten he was there.
‘Stand still, man,’ the Prime Minister boomed. ‘I can’t stand people who fidget.’ The Permanent Under Secretary flinched.
‘Now,’ said Jackman, ‘I want you to fix something up for me. When I was in the army I read some very interesting reports about what you johnies were getting up to in your secret bunkers and your expensive laboratories. Mind control. That’s the game. I want something that will control the minds of all the little brats on this island and I want buckets of the stuff. What d’ya say, um?’
The Permanent Under Secretary was confused. The Prime Minister of England had asked him to produce illegal drugs to poison the children of England. He must have misheard.
‘Well, it’s true, Prime Minister, there are some pretty sophisticated Behavioural Adjustment chemicals in our research facilities, but it’s all on paper, really. Never actually make the stuff. Except to test on monkeys and things. All academic really. And totally illegal.’
‘But I’m asking you to make the stuff,’ said Jackman, and he looked up from under his bushy eyebrows and fixed the secretary with a cold stare.
It must be a test, thought the Permanent Under Secretary. A test to see if he was a good and honest servant of the people. Of course. That was it. Just stand firm and the PM would respect him for it.
‘I couldn’t possibly do that, Prime Minister.’ He swallowed hard.
Jackman lent forward and pressed a blue button on his desk, still holding the official in his gaze. Two very large soldiers appeared at the door. They had red caps and large white belts round their middles. The Cabinet Secretary was bobbing about behind them, trying to see round their considerable bodies.
‘Take this worm away and stick him in the cells. He’s not to speak to anyone on the way and he’s to stay there until I say different.’ He turned to the Cabinet Secretary.
‘And bring me a new Permanent Under Secretary for Science and Technology. One who knows how to obey orders.’
* * * * *
They soon got bored with watching the Fishing Freaks. No one was catching anything. They walked along the canal to where the footbridge crossed. It was grey and rusty and shaped like a rainbow. They skipped some stones for a while and watched Arseface Morton smoking a cigarette and spitting.
‘He’s well ‘ard,’ giggled Push and dug her elbow into Lewis’s ribs.
‘Shhh, he’ll hear,’ said Lewis. Arseface looked at his watch and left. A police car slithered across the flyover bridge and came to a halt above the towpath.
They found a bottle and floated it into the middle of the cut and started trying to sink it with whatever came to hand. Another police car edged into sight on the bridge behind them. Two officers got out and started ambling along the path.
Parker said it was pizza night and he ought to think about going. Lewis gave up struggling with a broken paving slab when he noticed a third police officer approaching from the flyover direction. It was time to go anyway.
As they neared the two officers, Lewis began to get a flutter in his tummy. Were they looking for them? Had they seen them lobbing things in the canal? Or had Arseface finally done something criminal instead of just talking about it? He glanced around and saw that they were cut off by the third officer.
‘Any of you lot got a watch?’ said the one with stripes on the shoulder of his jersey.
‘It’s ten past eight, Sergeant,’ beamed Parker and he held out his wrist watch for inspection.
‘Yes, it’s ten past eight, sonny, and what does that mean?’ He didn’t sound amused.
‘That you’re missing Eastenders?’ asked Push and she smiled sweetly.
‘It means you are out after curfew, that’s what it means.’
‘It’s worse than that, Sarge. Have a look at this.’ The third officer had caught up with them and was holding Parker’s hood out sideways for the other to see. ‘He’s wearing Han Hillegal Headgear.’
‘Yeah, right,’ said Lewis and immediately regretted it.
‘Think it’s funny, don’t you,’ said the Sergeant. ‘Out after curfew. Wearing a hoody in a public space. It ain’t funny and you lot are going to find out the hard way.’
He started dragging Parker by his hood towards the waiting squad car on the Belgrave Road bridge.
‘Hang on,’ said Push. ‘What are you doing to him?’
The police woman barred the path. ‘You two can bugger off. Go straight home and don’t stop on the way. And don’t let us catch you out after lockdown again.’
‘But, but...’ Lewis fizzled out as he watched them marching Parker away. Parker was twisting his head to look back at them and looking just a bit scared.
Push and Lewis stumped after the retreating officer and got to the bridge in time to see Parker being driven off. He looked kind of small.
‘His Mum wasn’t joking,’ said Push. ‘Hoodies are illegal. Durrr!’
‘What curfew?’ asked Lewis.
‘Must have been what they were going on about in assembly. My Dad is always telling me to pay attention. Now I think about it, my Dad was going on about it too. Something about a new Council rule. A byelaw. Something they only do round here. Said it was within their power now and they would be setting an example for the whole country. He could have said he meant me too!’
‘What are we going to do about Parker?’
‘Nothing. Nothing we can do. He’ll be alright.’
Lewis didn’t think she sounded too convincing.
* * * * *
The new Permanent Secretary was much more to Jackman’s liking. Despite being recently elevated to the Head of Science and Technology, Professor Bloodlinker still wore a white lab coat and smelt of hydrochloric acid. He had a purple stain spreading across his breast pocket, presumably from one of the leaky pens lined up there. He had a monocle in one eye and a bad cough.
‘Not possible, I’m afraid, Prime Minister.’ Jackman looked up from the paper he was reading and squinted at the professor. Perhaps he’d made the wrong choice after all. His hand edged towards the blue button.
‘What do you mean, not possible?’
‘Not possible on children,’ said the professor. ‘You see, it’s their brains. They have not stopped growing yet. All sorts of neurons going ping and pong all over the place. If you try to control their minds their brains just find a new way round the problem. Not possible with children, Prime Minister.’
‘I’m disappointed, Professor.’ His hand hovered over the button again. ‘They told me you were the right man for this job. The children of this country are out of control. How am I going to complete my plans if I can’t brainwash the little blighters?’
‘Not possible on children, Prime Minister, but perfectly feasible on adults. You see, adults are much more susceptible to control than children. They are set in their ways, they already have their brains fully developed. We can design all sorts of drugs to control adults.’
‘And what blithering use is that?’ said Jackman. He was beginning to lose his patience.
‘Well, you need to do something about the children, but you don’t want their whinging parents writing to the newspapers about mistreating their darling children all the time, do you? So why not just drug the parents? Then they won’t care.’
A light went on in Jackman’s head. All sorts of possibilities sprang into his mind in a nanosecond.
‘So we can do what we like to their precious brats and we won’t get a peep out of the parents?’
‘Certainly, Prime Minister.’
‘When can you start?’
* * * * *
Parker got an ASBO – an Anti Social Behaviour Order – and a good telling off from an inspector. They confiscated his fleece and returned it ten minutes later minus the hood. It looked pathetic. His mother had to come down to the station and sign for him.
‘I told you not to go out with that thing on, didn’t I? You sat at that table and I told you. I said, “Don’t go out with that thing on. It’s illegal,” didn’t I? I said to him, “Don’t go out with that thing on,” didn’t I? I told him.’ Mrs Parker was kneading the table with balled fists. Her muscles bulged.
‘We’re sorry if we got him into trouble, Mrs P,’ said Push. They all looked a bit sheepish.
‘Oh, it’s not your fault, Petal,’ said Mrs Parker. ‘It’s this bloody Government. Ridiculous! Turning children into criminals just for wearing the wrong sort of hat.’
Up until this point, Parker hadn’t appreciated that he was a criminal now. In his mind, he began to swagger a little bit. But mostly he was just embarrassed. All his mates would know.
Chapter Three
The whole country was barking. Vigilante groups took to the streets armed with bats and clubs. They strutted up and down the leafy avenues of English towns bringing their own brand of law and order. Anyone was fair game – so long as they were kids. Bikes were no longer ridden on pavements (or anywhere, for that matter, since the roads were so full of enormous cars that looked like Armoured Assault Vehicles that it was too risky to go beyond your front gate). Skateboards were confiscated and skateboard parks were flattened. Ball games of all descriptions were discouraged, especially if it involved Banging That Bloody Thing Against My Wall All Day And Night.
Fun was officially banned.
The newspapers said that Grannies could once again roam the streets at night without being fearful of Little Hooligans. And they did. Thousands and thousands of old age pensioners exercised their right to mill about in public well past the time when they would normally be tucking into a Horlicks and a custard cream. They hung around on corners and made nuisances of themselves. They congregated by bus stops and jeered at the young adults. But at least there were no Disgusting Little Yobs about because curfews were popping up in towns and cities all over the land.
Jackman and his government were finding it difficult to keep up. In his dreaming moments he thought it was he who would be leading the country from the front, setting an example, setting the agenda. Except it was ordinary people, inventing their own laws and waiting for the government to catch up. Every time he thought of a new law to screw down on those pesky kids, he’d pick up a newspaper and find some group of citizens or other already doing it. He was a bit put out.
So they rushed out new legislation to try and keep up with the mood of the country. The rather mild Skating in Public Places Act only made it official to do what a lot of adults were doing anyway. Now it was legal to stop any kid you liked and make them remove their in-lines. They didn’t even have to be going too fast. And if they had to hobble home in their socks, tough. Serves ‘em right. A bit of dog-shit and a few cuts from broken glass won’t kill them. And quite a few people made a nice little profit in the second-hand skates business.
And then there was the Homework Act. It was now a criminal offence not to hand your in your homework on time. Teachers still had the usual sanctions, like detention and lines and sarcasm, but now they could apply to have the parents heavily fined if you missed your double geography assignment – even if the dog was sick on it.
The Maximum Pocket Money Act set the upper limit for weekly allowances at 50p per child. The Children’s TV Act made the television companies remove all the kids’ programmes after five o’clock in the evening. The School Uniform Act made caps compulsory for boys and straw hats compulsory for girls. The lower limit for buying chewing gum became 21 years of age.
There followed the Reasonable Violence Against Children Act. If that kid is playing you up, give him a whoomp. So long as it’s reasonable. The Act didn’t mention any definition of the word reasonable but it was assumed that judges and the courts would fill in the gaps. Funnily enough, there wasn’t a single case of anyone being taking to court for unreasonably hitting a child.
And the Sit Up Straight at the Table Act was followed by the Don’t Answer Back Act. The Take Your Hands Out Of Your Pockets Act and the Mind Your Ps and Qs Act were voted through Parliament on the same afternoon.
Jackman paused for breath. He was well satisfied. The streets of England were free of Annoying Scruffs and the whole country seemed to be sinking back into some comfortable bygone Golden Age that they all thought they could remember but that never really existed. This was New England. A Land Fit For Grown Ups. Hoorah.
* * * * *
Government Headquarters (Scientific Research) is situated under some chalky hills near Swindon.
On the surface, all you could see was a couple of smallish buildings on a rather drab industrial estate surrounded by a suspiciously large car park. Buried below were laboratories, warehouses, offices, and living quarters, all connected by miles and miles of tunnels.
Professor Bloodlinker was playing with the latest gadget from his spy research team. It was a micro pistol in the shape of a toothbrush. He had strict instructions from the boffins to give it back when he had finished testing it – it wouldn’t do to mix it up with his own toothbrush.
A knock on the door made him swivel round in his chair. ‘Come,’ he said.
The Head of Chemistry entered the windowless room. He hovered near the door until he was quite sure Bloodlinker had replaced the toothbrush on his desk. He was holding a block of polystyrene which held a number of test tubes. Each one contained a coloured powder.
‘The samples are ready? Good, good,’ said the professor. He lent forward and tapped a test tube with his pen. ‘What does this one do?’
‘That one makes you open to suggestion, Professor. If I told you there was a brown bear living in the cupboard under your stairs you would never go near that cupboard again.’
‘And what about this one?’ The second powder was black and looked as if it was fizzing slightly.
‘This one makes you easy to command. If I say you have to hop around on one leg all day because that’s the law you will hop around on one leg all day. No questions.’
‘Good, good, good,’ said Bloodlinker. ‘And what about this one?’ He tapped the third tube.
‘This one makes you gullible. If I say “By the way, what about that hundred pounds you owe me?”, you will be straight down the bank at lunchtime with your debit card out.’
‘Excellent,’ said Bloodlinker. ‘OK. We’ll have all three. Mix them all up and get them ready to ship. What is this powder at the end?’ he said, tapping a fourth test tube. It was full of grainy white powder.
The scientist coughed gently. ‘That is milk powder, Professor. For my coffee.’
* * * * *
The long summer holidays were crawling closer. Lewis and his mates were hopeful that the New Regime would lighten up a bit as Flintwick Secondary School began to wind down for the break. It had been a difficult few weeks. The teachers were enjoying their new powers. Even old favourites like Ms Dinsbury had gone uber-strict. There was no talking, no larking, no lateness, no running, no day-dreaming, no cheeking, no nothing. Transgressors were marched directly to the Headmaster’s office. He had recently invested in a brand new cane. Even hardcore nutters like Arseface Morton turned up every day and stayed every day.
Lewis’s bag was more than usually heavy as he left home. Three assignments were due that morning and another five the next day. His shoulders sagged. As he rounded the corner to Badger Rise Road he almost tripped over Mrs Baker. She was smaller than Lewis and a little stooped. She was pulling a shopping bag on wheels. Everyone assumed she was a bit dotty.
‘I wouldn’t go that way today, Lewis,’ she said.
‘Hello Mrs Baker,’ Lewis said, untangling his bag strap from where it had caught on the shopping trolley lid. ‘What’s up with that way?’
‘There’s some big people down there and I don’t think they’ve got your best interest at heart.’ She cackled a dry laugh and continued on her way.
‘OK. Thanks,’ Lewis called. She gets battier every day, he thought, and then thought no more about it.
In Toaster Avenue he almost ran smack into the “big people”. There were four men standing in the road. One of them had hold of a pair of third years and was dragging them by the collars in the direction of the school. Lewis sank back into a large leafy bush with hangy-down yellow flowers that was spilling over the adjacent garden wall. He watched the scene through the leaves.
Whatever was going on, it was bad news. The under-arrest kids were struggling and their captor was swearing at them to be still. Lewis was just resolved to take Mrs Baker’s advice when he saw Parker coming round the corner. He yanked him into the hedge.
‘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 things. 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 attend 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.”
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