The Boy with Two Heads

  Mr Barlow blinked. ‘I didn’t know you were here.’

  ‘I’m glad I was.’

  ‘D-did you hear that?’

  ‘I recorded it. I came in just as you started.’

  ‘You were in the c-classroom? You should have told me.’

  Dr Warren nodded, and slipped a small metal device into his inside pocket. ‘I got it all. I’m just gathering evidence.’

  ‘What for? What do you mean?’

  ‘He’s at a critical stage. I’d say he’s going to need a lot of help, that boy. Intervention, in fact.’

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The TV people arrived the very next week.

  The pupils were kept away from the hall until after break time, and then they were marched inside, in awestruck silence. It had been transformed. The walls had been repainted, and a steeply tiered arena had been constructed around a drum-shaped stage. The stage was for the speaker-team: six children. Parents had already been seated and the pupils would occupy the main blocks. Now the platform seemed to hover in a carpet of fog, for the smoke machines were being tested. The lights went from blue to red to green, and there was a sudden blast of deafening rock music, which was cut just as abruptly when a man in headphones waved his arms.

  ‘Test level seven,’ said an echoing voice. ‘Nothing on monitor seven, Henry.’

  ‘Level seven, check,’ said someone.

  Mr Prowse led the Year Four speaker to his seat at the table, and a man with a beard attached a microphone to his jersey. There were three cameras, and one of them could move right round the podium on a little railway track. Engineers stared at screens, and re-plugged cables. Voices blared from different speakers, and the children sat, dazed with wonder.

  There was no sign, however, of Anton Dekker.

  ‘Hello there, I’m Mel,’ said a girl, right in front of them. She spoke into a headset-microphone, smiling brightly. ‘How are we doing today at Green Cross – are we having a party? How are you guys?’

  Nobody spoke. The children were simply too nervous.

  ‘Oh, wow!’ laughed Mel. ‘You gotta do better than that! Let’s hear you, now!’

  She held up a sign that read, ‘Cheer!’ – and the children cheered quietly. ‘Laugh!’ read the next one, and that was followed by ‘Clap!’

  ‘You’re half asleep!’ said Mel. ‘This won’t do, Green Cross! This is television!’ She swung round to the podium, and froze. ‘What the hell is that?’ she said.

  The children stared. She was gazing at Rikki and Richard, who had just moved to their seat on the stage, and it seemed to unbalance her. The headmaster was frozen too.

  ‘Come on, guys!’ she managed to shout. ‘I want you to, er . . . raise the roof!’ She held up another card. ‘Can you do that for me? Can you do it for Anton when he gets here?’

  She leaped into the air and waved the sign back and forth. ‘Go crazy!!’ it said, and the Green Cross children came alive at last, struck from their stupor by that magic name. Soon she was organizing Mexican waves, left to right and right to left.

  Miss Maycock winced at the barrage of noise. She was laying jotters and pencils on the speakers’ table, so that those making speeches were properly equipped. The technician still moved from seat to seat, sorting out wires, and a large boom appeared for the question-and-answer session.

  ‘Richard?’ said the headmaster.

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘Didn’t Mr Barlow speak to you?’

  ‘I don’t know, sir. About what?’

  ‘About this.’ The headmaster swallowed, and saw that the technician was staring at him. ‘Mr Barlow was supposed to have a word with you yesterday.’

  Richard and Rikki shook their heads. ‘We were all quite busy,’ said Rikki. ‘He may not have had the chance.’

  ‘Well, we need to have a chat, so . . . could you put the pencil down for a moment? There’s a bit of a problem – I thought it had been explained to you.’

  ‘No,’ said Richard.

  ‘Come with me. It’s a technical matter.’

  Rikki and Richard clambered down to floor level, aware that they were being gawped at by a number of technicians. The headmaster ushered them to one side, where the man with headphones was waiting. A woman with a clipboard full of papers stood next to him.

  ‘This is, er . . . Richard,’ said the headmaster. ‘And Rikki. I asked Mr Barlow to break the news, but I fear he’s avoided it. We’ve got a rather serious technical problem, you see, and . . . I need your support to resolve it. It’s one of those wretched, last-minute glitches.’

  ‘Right,’ said Richard.

  ‘Can we find a quiet spot? This is a bit embarrassing.’

  They moved round to the back of the stage, behind a curtain.

  ‘We spoke to the BBC some time ago, and . . . one of the things they asked for was photographs of the delegates. We sent them, and apparently they’re a bit worried about picking you up properly on a microphone. The, er . . . signal won’t be clear, and Tom and I were talking, and—’

  ‘Who’s Tom?’ said Rikki.

  ‘Hi,’ said the man with headphones. He was looking at Rikki in wonder. ‘I’m Tom, and I’m the producer. Look, guys – we’ve never had this situation before.’ He tried to laugh. ‘And from our point of view it’s a bit tricky – I did explain to the boss, here. But the, er . . .’

  ‘The message must have got lost in translation,’ said the headmaster. ‘Mr Barlow’s normally very good, and I spoke to Jeffrey’s parents last night. This is a wretched nuisance.’

  ‘Sir, aren’t we about to start?’ said Richard nervously.

  ‘Well, we’re still waiting for the big man,’ said Tom. ‘Anton’s on his way, but we’ve got a few minutes, and, um . . . we’ve got to resolve this. Where’s the other kid? Jeffrey Rawlingson.’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ll find him.’

  ‘Look,’ said Tom. ‘How can I put this? We can’t mike you up, guys – that’s the size of it. It’s a kids’ programme, you see, so . . . the sound has to be extra clear. We’re going to put Jeffrey in, and you can watch, with the audience.’

  ‘We can have a hand-mike,’ said Rikki. ‘Would that work?’

  ‘No,’ said the headmaster. ‘It wouldn’t.’

  The producer smiled again and shook his head. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘you don’t understand. It’s not going to be possible to get a clear signal from the, er . . . two heads. We’ve just been running the sound-checks, and . . . it’s not going to happen. We agreed this, we thought it would—’

  ‘That’s rubbish,’ said Rikki.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Excuse me, Tom,’ said the girl with the clipboard. She had a mobile pressed to her ear. ‘Anton’s here. We’re going to do a test entrance, get the kids freaking out. Stand by, camera three.’

  ‘I don’t get this,’ said Richard.

  ‘They’re talking nonsense,’ said Rikki. ‘You just put a mike on our chest, same as everyone else. We can speak clearly, so what’s the problem? I’ve got things to say – you know that.’

  ‘No,’ said the headmaster. He spoke with icy calm. ‘I’m not going to debate this. These things have to be faced, Rikki – the school’s reputation comes first, and you have to take it on the chin.’

  ‘So it’s censorship,’ said Rikki.

  ‘Of course it’s not!’

  ‘You’re telling us, sir, that you don’t want us up on that stage—’

  ‘We’re on show!’ hissed the headmaster quietly. ‘Green Cross stands for a conventional education and . . . family values. Jeff is going to take over from you—’

  ‘He doesn’t do speeches!’

  ‘He does today, and you’re in the audience.’

  Tom had turned away, and had pulled the curtain back. ‘Stand by, lights,’ he said. ‘I want this totally spontaneous – just let them go for it, OK? Keep it rolling.’

  ‘Sir,’ said Richard. His voice was trembling. ‘This isn’t fair.’

  ‘Well—?
??

  ‘Rikki’s been preparing topics—’

  ‘I saw them. They are not appropriate.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Whatever else the headmaster said was drowned by an ear-splitting roar, which exploded into screams and whistles. Mel was leaping up and down again, and a dozen spotlights spun webs of colour all around the hall. The disco music blew in again, shaking the ceiling panels, and Richard and Rikki stared as Anton Dekker himself burst through the double doors.

  ‘Stamp and cheer!’ read the card. The hall started to shake.

  Anton froze. He was wearing a purple leather jacket, and a make-up artist was putting final touches to a mane of dreadlocks. The smoke machines were pumping over his feet, so he looked like he was moving through clouds. He put his arms up, and all the cameras caught him from different angles as he pirouetted and removed a pair of skinny sunglasses. He had a microphone in his hand, and yelled into it: ‘Howayadoing, Green Cross?’

  The crowd went even wilder, and an infant fainted.

  ‘Do you know my name?’ he shouted.

  ‘Anton!’ screamed the children. Rikki and Richard could only gaze.

  ‘Do you know my name?’ he repeated, and the echo machine bounced the voice from speaker to speaker.

  ‘Anton!’ shrieked the children. ‘Anton! Anton!’

  They stamped as they chanted it. The presenter twirled in a circle, and his feet were suddenly a blur in the smoke. He was down on one hand, then he was leaping upwards in a somersault. He whirled in the lights, and the music seemed to turn him faster and faster.

  Richard looked at Rikki and saw that there were tears running down his cheeks. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ he said into his ear. ‘You told me that. Nothing matters.’

  ‘This did,’ said Rikki. ‘This does.’

  ‘We had nothing to say. It’s all rubbish.’

  ‘What are we here for if nothing matters? What does matter, Richard? He’s not getting away with this – I have questions.’

  ‘Come on.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Yes!’

  Richard made his way to the seating block, through the barrage of noise. He started the long climb to the back row, where he could see other members of his class, dancing and waving. Rikki had to use his handkerchief, and his eyes were glittering. They pushed past Mark, who was stamping with everyone else, and moved along to the middle. Miss Maycock had just that moment taken Jeff by the wrist, and was leading him towards the platform. Richard and Rikki took the seat he’d vacated, and watched as he was miked up next to Aparna.

  Mr Barlow was looking wretched. He stared at the back of the seat in front of him, curiously still.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  ‘Is this the best, or is this the rest of the best?’ shouted Anton.

  ‘Try it again, Anton. We’re low still.’

  ‘Is this the best, or is this west of the best?’ repeated the host. His arms were crossed over his chest, and his fingers had splayed out into scissor shapes. There was a baseball cap pulled low over one ear, and instead of the leather jacket he now wore a green satin tunic, rather like a jockey. The make-up artist was still dabbing at him, and two costume assistants plucked and tucked.

  ‘That’s good,’ boomed the producer. ‘Can we go again from your entrance? The green’s better.’

  ‘Moves again?’

  ‘Whole thing, please, Anton – it’s lovely. Keep it safe.’

  The smoke pumped over the floor, and as the cameras rolled, the doors burst open once more. The children leaped to their feet as Mel waved her card. Anton pirouetted and flipped, but this time he ran through the fog onto the stage. He twirled himself up onto the table, and stood frozen in a kung-fu pose as the six delegates clapped and the audience roared yet louder.

  ‘Now we is far from London,’ said Anton in his most gravelly voice. He lifted one eyebrow, and camera two zoomed in close. ‘We is checking out a cool-school today, so no way is you gonna switch off till you heard what the kids have to say.’ He winked. ‘This is where the reel kidz is gonna take off the lids and do the biz-niz. It’s a laugh, not-half, but we gotta start—’

  ‘Anton,’ said Tom. ‘Nothing on three, I’m afraid. Go again with that, please.’

  ‘Stand by, seven, Anton’s intro,’ said someone, and a man emerged with a clapperboard. ‘Ready, Anton? It’s gorgeous! Take two.’

  Anton wasn’t quite ready, and laughed. The producer laughed, Mel laughed and the children applauded.

  ‘Go, seven, Anton intro. Ready, Anton? Take three.’

  ‘Hey-o lo!’ said Anton, with his hands up over his head. ‘We is checking out a cool school today, so no way is you gonna switch off till you have heard what the kids have to say.’ He winked again. ‘This is where the reel kidz is gonna take off the lids, and do the biz-niz! It’s a laugh – not-half – an’ we gonna start with the cool head teacher-man, whosa baby this is! Is a-Green Cross a-Primary-cool!’

  Mel waved her sign: ‘Cheer and Whistle!’ Then she put ‘Silence!’ up.

  The children did as they were told, and camera one panned left to right as the searchlights turned pink and blue. The headmaster came forward, smiling, and Anton jumped down so he was sitting cross-legged on the table. Someone whistled, and Mel put her sign up again. Anton put his arm round the headmaster’s shoulders and drew him close.

  ‘Wassa wevver in this school, Mr Headman?’ drawled Anton. Mr Prowse looked at the camera, and went to speak. Anton, however, took the microphone away and said: ‘How is the learnin’ layin’? The kids goin’ or stayin’? An’ whass this they a-sayin’ in de Kidspeak-project? Ooooh . . .’

  The headmaster swallowed. He hesitated, and Tom – the producer – raised his thumbs.

  Mr Prowse cleared his throat. ‘Here at Green Cross,’ he said, ‘we pride ourselves on a policy of inclusivity that we believe is truly child-centred. Established in the nineteen-seventies, the school originally served only the middle classes—’

  ‘Cut!’ shouted someone.

  ‘You can’t say all that,’ said Anton in his normal voice. ‘This is eleven seconds.’

  ‘Eleven seconds?’

  ‘I do eight, you have three.’

  ‘Oh. I thought this was the interview.’

  ‘Just say “hi”. That’s all you’ve got to do, man. It’s a kids’ show – for the kids.’

  The headmaster nodded, and the next take was successful. He waved his hands as he said ‘Hi!’ and managed a two-second grin, front teeth visible. They cut, and the cameras were repositioned closer to the big table. Anton was taken aside for some cut-away nodding-shots, and the speakers checked their appearance for the last time. Everyone had received letters about uniform – there had even been a diagram detailing tie-knot sizes.

  ‘Excuse me,’ said Jeff to the headmaster. ‘I can’t do this.’

  ‘Yes, you can,’ said the headmaster.

  ‘What’s happened to Richard, though?’

  ‘Read your speech, it’s better.’

  ‘But I don’t—’

  ‘Just do it! Aparna? You’re looking tense.’

  ‘Sir, Rikki was working on this—’

  ‘Shhhh!’

  Rikki and Richard watched in silence as Anton returned to the stage.

  He stood in front of the table this time, and he’d changed again. He was now wearing a glittery crimson tail-coat, and a top hat. The producer had decided that the cameras would keep rolling as the speeches were delivered. The editors would then pick the best moments from whatever they got, including questions at the end. They only needed ninety seconds, because the programme would finish with the song Anton was releasing later that month – a charity-fundraiser called ‘Every Kiddie Counts’.

  ‘School debate, take one!’ cried somebody. The clapperboard snapped.

  ‘So!’ cried Anton. He leered at the closest camera. ‘This is where the issues get laid out and made out. Check outta kidz, heh? – they got stuff on their mind. Who’s got
the power in this tower? – nowyer gonna find out from one little wower called, ah, Miss Suzi Peterson!’

  The first speaker – eight-year-old Suzi – immediately stood up. The producer signalled to her and she sat down again. ‘My name is Suzi Peterson,’ she said nervously. ‘I am the Year Four winner of the Kidspeak competition, and I would like to talk about pets. Thank you.’

  The headmaster nodded. Suzi had her nose close to her piece of paper. The hall was quiet. Mel was holding a card saying, ‘Total Silence – Total!’

  ‘Every year,’ said Suzi, ‘many of our four-legged friends suffer needless pain because of cruel owners. One man got annoyed with his dog for always barking, so instead of training it and being kind, he starved it and was cruel. Thankfully, he was caught and punished, but not all dogs are so lucky. Here are some pictures of cats and dogs that have not been so lucky.’

  ‘OK, cut!’ said a voice. ‘No images, right? Move on, angel, that was great.’

  ‘The pictures are on my laptop,’ said Suzi. ‘Shall I show them?’

  ‘No need, Suzi,’ said the headmaster. ‘It was lovely. Do you want more, Tom, or is that enough?’

  ‘Can we have the kid with the glasses?’ said one of the technicians. ‘We can do a nice cross-fade – sit him back, will you? – put his head up. He’s going to catch the light.’

  ‘Morris!’ hissed the headmaster. ‘Your turn.’

  ‘My name is Morris,’ said Morris.

  ‘Wait,’ said Tom. ‘Take his glasses off.’

  One of the make-up assistants removed the boy’s spectacles and drew his chair backwards a fraction. She sponged the boy’s gleaming forehead.

  ‘Go,’ said a voice. ‘Rolling.’

  ‘My name is Morris Belgrave,’ said Morris. ‘My speech is about being a good parent.’ He coughed, and squinted at his paper. ‘Sometimes we think that our mothers and fathers are mean to us, by not letting us do stuff, but I want to ask a question.’

  There was a loud whistle from the audience, and Mel hissed angrily – and waved the ‘Silence’ card.

  ‘What . . . if . . .’ said Morris. He stopped.