The Treatment: the gripping twist-filled YA thriller from the million copy Sunday Times bestselling author of The Escape
in but I can’t miss this train.’
‘No!’ I grab hold of her arm. ‘Don’t go.’
‘I’m sorry, sweetheart.’ Mum’s eyes fill with tears again as she twists her arm away.
‘I love you, Drew,’ she shouts as she sprints towards the front door, which Dr Rothwell is holding it open. Beside him is the OFSTED inspector, with the brown envelope tucked under his arm.
‘Mum!’ I start to go after her but Mrs H. shoots out a hand, lightning fast, and grabs me by the arm and sinks her nails into the thin skin of my wrist. I cry out in pain and Mum glances back but, before I can say anything, the OFSTED inspector sidesteps her, blocking her view.
‘How nice to see you again,’ he says in a loud pompous voice. ‘Dr Rothwell and I are going for lunch in Newcastle. Perhaps we could share your cab?’
‘Mum!’ I shout. ‘Mum, don’t go! Mum!’
As the front door slams shut, Mrs H. releases her grip on my wrist. Four crescent-shaped nail marks are etched into my skin like dirty pink tattoos.
‘Oh dear,’ she says, peering down at them. ‘I’m so sorry about that. I really should get my nails cut. Do you need a hug?’
Do I need a hug? What kind of sick psychopath is she? I move away from her, my hands raised in case she tries to hug or scratch me again. I’ve got three options:
Run for the door and hope Mum’s taxi hasn’t left yet
Smack Mrs H. round her stupid ‘do you need a hug?’ face and tell her that she’s not fooling anyone with her ‘we’re all family’ line
Act dumb, play along and go back to plan A – help Mason escape
‘Drew?’ she says again. ‘Do you need a hug?’
I nod my head. (Three, it is then.)
I try very hard not to cringe as Mrs H. puts her arms around me and gives me a squeeze. Her perfume, a vile floral scent, catches in the back of my throat.
‘It’s tough, I know,’ she murmurs into my hair before she swiftly lets go.
‘Grab your suitcase, please, Drew.’
She holds the white card at the end of her lanyard against a small black box to the right of the door. It swings open and she ushers me inside.
‘Your homesickness will pass quickly, Drew,’ Mrs H. says as she follows me into the room. The walls are lined with bookshelves and hundreds of faded hardback books. It smells vaguely musty, like a second-hand bookshop. A man and two women are standing at a large picture window on the other side of the room. They’re wearing identical royal blue sweatshirts with a Norton House logo, dark jeans and white trainers. And they all have lanyards dangling from their necks.
‘Drew,’ Mrs H. says as they walk towards us. ‘Let me introduce you to Abi, Stuart and Destiny.’
‘Hi,’ they chime, flashing ridiculously white smiles.
‘Great to meet you, Drew!’ Abi steps forward and hugs me. She’s early twenties with blonde hair in a ponytail and ridiculously clear skin. She looks, and sounds, like she should work on the Disney Channel.
Stuart steps closer as Abi lets me go and I brace myself. What’s with all the bloody hugging? But he doesn’t embrace me like I’m some long lost relative. Instead, he nudges my shoulder with a closed fist and says, ‘Drew eh? Cool name,’ in a thick Scottish accent.
‘Nice to meet you, Drew,’ says Destiny. She’s got a neck tattoo, a septum piercing and long black dreads that are curled into a bun on the top of her head. She shoves her hands into her pockets as she speaks. Finally, someone who doesn’t invade my personal space.
‘Abi, Stuart and Destiny work here,’ says Mrs H. ‘Officially they’re known as support assistants but everyone here refers to them as “the friends”. They’re responsible for your mental, physical and emotional health and well-being whilst you’re in the acclimatization phase of your stay at Norton House.’
‘Anything you want –’ Abi beams at me ‘– just ask us.’
‘Can I have an iPad and the Wi-Fi password, please?’
She laughs as though it’s the funniest joke in the whole world but Mrs H. isn’t amused. ‘You won’t have any contact with the outside world for the duration of your stay, Drew. There are a number of other rules you’ll need to abide by but we won’t worry about that now. You’ll find a welcome pack on your bed when I show you to your dorm.’
Dorm? I have to share with other people?
‘You’ll get on great with your roomies,’ Stuart says. ‘Some of the kids make lasting friendships.’
Yeah, right. Not if you’re Charlie. Zed told me he wouldn’t talk about who he met or what happened at Norton House. Instead, he’d trot out the same stock answer: ‘I will forever be grateful to the staff at Norton House for pointing me in the right direction when I didn’t even know I was lost.’
I zone out as Stuart continues to waffle on about friendship and sharing and trust. Beyond the two large picture windows on the other side of the room is a large stretch of lawn. Beyond that, about five hundred metres away, a row of conifers bend and sway in the wind. My stomach clenches as I spot the twenty-foot iron fence that runs around the perimeter of the school. The plans I printed out are over thirty-five years old. If the basement of Norton House has been renovated along with the rest of the building, I’m going to have to find a way to get over that fence instead.
‘Right then,’ Mrs H. says, tapping her foot impatiently. ‘We’ll just do a quick suitcase search and then I’ll show you the rec room.’
*
As I follow Mrs H. across the library, I’m flanked by Abi and Destiny. Stuart walks behind us, dragging my suitcase. Abi went through it and confiscated my e-book reader, two packets of gum, three bars of chocolate and some nail scissors. I wanted to grab everything she’d taken back off her but I didn’t move a muscle. I was too busy praying she wouldn’t ask me to take off my boots so she could search them too.
Mrs H. slows to a stop as she approaches the wall of books on the far side of the room and reaches for the card on the end of her lanyard. There’s another small black box to the right of the door, tucked in between two books on one of the shelves. Three red lights flash at the base.
‘You’re going to like this,’ Abi says as Mrs H. holds her card up to the black box.
There’s a click, a clunking sound and a door-shaped section of the bookshelf swings open.
‘Holy f–’ I press a hand to my mouth, not because the bookshelf contained a hidden door but because I’m hit by a wall of noise as it swings open. Beyond the door is an enormous room, cathedral-big, and it’s teaming with kids. There’s a sea of blue on the floor – a carpet the same shade as Abi’s sweatshirt – broken up by huge circular rugs in red, yellow and green.
Across the other side of the room, there’s a huddle of kids my age, sitting on red beanbags on a red rug. They’re wearing headphones, gripping games controllers and staring at half a dozen flat-screen TVs mounted on the wall. To my left, there’s a yellow rug where a bunch of kids are lounging around on sofas shoving popcorn into their mouths, headphones clamped over their ears, as they watch TV. Beyond them, the rug is green and there’s a pool table, air hockey table, table football game and a huge electronic basketball game. Everywhere I look kids are laughing, chatting, squealing, playing and screaming. It’s like an enormous teenaged crèche.
‘Wonderful isn’t it?’ Mrs H. says, completely misreading the expression on my face. ‘We’re very proud of our recreation room. We deliberately don’t