Blackening Church

Outskirts of Compiegne. A forest houses a leaf strewn path, winding back and forth until it leads to a modest, if not run down, country house. The panels were once white but long since has the paint flecked and the wood rotted, the shutters above every window hang loose from their wind rattled nails and the tiles on the roof wait for unsuspecting passersby to crush. Not that there would be many passersby. The property was owned by one Jean Thomas, a French catholic priest turned extremist who wanted to take the fight to other religious extremists in a battle of God’s righteous men. Normally this kind of hate crime would be dealt with by the French Police, Interpol at a push, the French Secret Service if they got bored maybe. Everyday life was far from normal, however, and so, due to Jean Thomas’ potential connections to a leading International Arms Dealer, the situation was being dealt with by the British Secret Service. I use the term lightly.

Anton Petrov smiled at the three blokes before him. They were all wearing the white tabards of Christian crusaders, two of the gentlemen carrying machine guns and the third carrying an axe. All three of them had a silver crucifix hanging around their neck and all three of them had the honest belief that they were working in the name of God. Petrov continued to smile at them, despite the fact that the one with the axe was no longer smiling at him. Eventually, the sides of his face began to hurt, and he said, “Why the long face?”

The one with the axe didn’t reply. Petrov decided that he was either not the chatty type or playing bad cop. He turned to the other two guards, the two carrying machine guns, and decided that they couldn’t be playing good cops. “Tell you what, lads,” Petrov said, “how about you light me a cigarette and the four of us can have a good smoke and a chat about the old days? Back when religions were about school holidays and singing, rather than mindless, bloody murder.”

The one with the axe dropped the back of the axehead into his hand, allowing the soft thud it made to reverberate around the basement. 

“Yes, I rather thought not.” Petrov replied. “Are you going to brutally murder me?”

They said nothing.

“It’s just I’ve got a list of sins I’d like to confess before the Promised Land and, to be frank lads, I think I’ll need to start now lest Father Thomas thinks I’m stalling when it comes to my pre-execution absolution on his return.”

They continued to say nothing.

Petrov sighed. “Look, do any of you three speak English or have I managed to get myself trapped in the basement with the only three Frenchmen who don’t?”

“I’m from Grimsby, so I speak English rather well.” Said one of the men with machine guns. 

“You’ll be Kenny, then.” Petrov smiled. “I’ve read a file on you. All of you in fact. The majority of people who get radicalised in schools aren’t attending Sunday School and I don’t think any of those who are happen to be the teacher. One of a kind, huh, our Kenny?”

“You could say that. My bullets aren’t one of a kind though, and I’ll prove that to you when I bury a magazine of them in your head.” He replied. “We don’t talk about pasts here. I’m Brother Frankie now.”

“If you bless me, can I be Brother Bertrand? I’ve always fancied being called Bertrand.”

“Bertrand is my name.” The one with the axe said.

“And what a lovely name it is.” Petrov smiled. “Look, chaps, are you sure I can’t go and confess? There’s got to be something in the Henchman Handbook about religious practises.”

Kenny- or should that be Frankie?- looked at the man between him and Bertrand. The man nodded. “We will take you to confession, Mister Petrov, but if you try anything funny, we will have you shot.”

“Sounds no different to the last church I visited.” Petrov smiled.

He allowed them to drag him upstairs; he would have offered to walk but why waste the effort when other people are so happy to waste it for you? There was a confession box set up in the dilapidated living room of the French country house, next to a box of explosives, and Bertrand did a wonderful job of sitting Petrov down. The other man, the one in the middle, stepped into the other side and said, “Mister Pretrov, begin your confession before my patience runs out.”

“Well, old chap, I just thought I’d confess firstly about the way I snooped around your house before you fellas caught me. Not sure which of the commandments that breaks but, you know, I thought I’d confess nonetheless. You might want to do some confessing yourself, now I come to think of it.”

“Oh really?” The man said. “Why is that?”

“Firstly, you’re an armed terrorist with over twenty confirmed kills on your plate, Monsieur Tulip. That is your name, is it not?”

Tulip didn’t answer, which was answer enough.

“Secondly, I found a bottle of Scotch in the kitchen at a height that Brother Frankie couldn’t reach and Brother Bertrand wouldn’t sink too. Further more, it was obviously opened by a south paw, that is to say, someone who is left handed. As it happens, you’re the only person who held his weapon the wrong way down in the basement thus it must be you who secretly likes a drink. Want to know something that isn’t a secret?”

Tulip said nothing.

“Thought so. I like a drink too. What say we go have a drink together, huh? Just as buddies, though. I know how you religious types feel.”

Tulip said nothing for a second and then, “Okay, Mister Petrov. Let’s drink.”

Twenty minutes later, the four of them were sat around a table in the country house’s equally dilapidated kitchen, a shot glass of Scotch in front of them all and a deck of cards at the ready. Tulip’s handgun waited on the table next to Bertrand’s axe, a permanent reminder to Petrov not to try anything funny. In all honesty, the spy was more interested in Frankie’s gun, ready to be picked up.

“Any of you chaps ever played Rummy before?” Petrov asked, the deck of cards rippling from one of his hands to the other. 

“It isn't a gambling game is it? We're not allowed to gamble.” Brother Frankie warned.

Tulip, noticing the way Frankie’s eyes glanced towards the door, said, “Father Thomas is funny about it.”

“Don't worry. It's not gambling. Just fun. Some might say it's the same thing,” he realised his company, adding, “some might not. Now, chaps, listen here. You each have seven cards, then you have to make sets or runs.”

Bertrand raised one, meaty hand. “I can't run. Not since I hurt my leg.”

“Maybe it'd be best if you sit this one out, right?” He dealt three hands rather than four, pushing them out to Tulip and Frankie, keeping one for himself. Then he placed down a set in his hand. “Now, pay attention, you try to make sets or runs like these. The winner is the person who does it first.”

“I don't know if I feel comfortable playing this.” Frankie said. “If Father Thomas gets back…"

“You're not scared of him, are you?” Petrov asked.

“I wouldn't say scared…"

Tulip realised what Petrov was attempting. He interrupted Frankie with, “We have a healthy respect for his wishes. Simple as that. Brother Frankie is right. Let's not play this game.”

“Oh come on, chaps. Don't let the big bad bishop scare you out of a bit of fun! Just one game. Just for a laugh, if nothing else.”

“No.” Tulip sounded definite. “We're not going to disrespect the boss in his own house.”

“Look at that. The Butcher of Barcelona. Frightened by a vicar.”

“These files of yours.” That has seemed to get his attention. “How detailed were they?”

Petrov laughed. “Oh, the stories I could tell you guys. About your work as an assassin, Monsieur Tulip! Quite exceptional, coming from one trained killer to another.”

“Those days are behind me. I am at peace with them.”

Petrov raised an eyebrow. “Are the souls of the forty eight men and women you butchered? And you, Bertrand, I've read your file. How your father used to beat you. Is that why you cling so desperately to Jean Thomas; because he's finally a father figure who might love you back?”

Bertrand frowned. “I not like little man. Little man bad.”

“And you Brother Kenny. Oh the stories I know about you.”

Frankie turned to Tulip. “Let’s put him back in his cage now, Tulip. Let Father Thomas deal with him when he gets home.”

“Hit a nerve there, Kenneth?” Petrov interrupted.

“My name is Frankie.” He said, softly. “Brother Frankie.”

“Sorry. I know you preferred Kenny.

“Shut up!”

Tulip and Bertrand frowned. They’d obviously never seen Frankie express any majorly strong emotions before.

“That's what you got the kids at the Sunday school to call you, right? Uncle Kenny.” Petrov continued.

Slowly, calmly, Frankie picked up his gun and pointed it at Anton. “Mister Petrov. I want you to stop talking. Now. Please.”

Petrov ignored him. “Those poor kids. Ten of them. I suppose, however, it had been your mission all along to bring them closer to God.

Frankie jammed the gun in his face, knocking the table with such force he spilt some Scotch. “I’m warning you!”

Tulip’s gun went from lying on the table to being pointed towards Frankie in the blink of an eye. “No, I'm warning you. Father Thomas wants him alive and he'll have all our asses if we don't deliver him that way. I will not be made to look like a fool.”

Petrov continued regardless. “The first three kids, you shot them, didn't you? Straight through the head. They were lucky. Weren't they, Kenneth?

Frankie stared at him, gun raised, silent.

“You then lost the gun and tried other methods, didn't you? Stabbings. Drowning. You even kicked one of them to death. I wonder, did you wear loafers like you are now or did you use steel capped shoes? I wonder, hm.”

Frankie screamed, jerking the gun towards Petrov. His sweet, Sunday School teacher from Grimsby voice was gone, instantly replaced by a gruffer, grimmer tone. “You shut up right now, or I'll stab this gun into your eyes and shoot your brains out!”

Bertrand stared at the proceedings, confused. Tulip’s gun didn’t waver. “This is your final warning.”

Frankie stared straight at Petrov, eyes unblinking. “I changed my name. I made my retributions. I confessed my sins to God. I am purged. I buried Kenneth years ago. Just as I'll bury you.” 

Tulip sounded calm, as if he’d lived this a thousand times. Monotonously, he said, “I'll kill you before you get that chance.”

“Is that so?” Frankie asked. His eyes were afire with rage and, strangely, pleasure. He turned his gun towards Tulip. “Try me. I'll kill you.”

“I not like this,” warbled Bertrand.

Petrov used this opportunity to remove his revolver from his sock, its hiding place since he’d retrieved it following his trip to the confession box with Tulip earlier. Hiding your weapons in places you suspected you could get back to was an old trick and he was glad hiding it there whilst snooping around the house had paid off. He clicked the hammer and got ready.

“I’m warning you. Try anything, Tulip, and I will kill you.” Frankie said.

Tulip let his poker player face smile. “Course you will, Kenneth.”

Frankie pulled the trigger of his gun, Tulip’s head exploding, but not before Tulip could pull his gun. Both of them fell off their chairs, what remained of their heads bloody. Bertrand reached for his axe, turning towards Petrov, but the spy had already aimed his gun.

“Terribly sorry, old boy. I guess the game just wasn’t dealt fairly.” 

Bertrand fell off the chair too, his head smashing against the floor and blood beginning to ooze into the cracks between the tiles.

Strolling back to the living room, Petrov picked up some files he’d spotted earlier, slipped them into his grey blazer jacket and then headed towards the entrance.

Anton Petrov grinned to himself, feeling rather smug. He’d go back to his hotel room, go through the file, take out anything that would endanger Mother Russia or the International Arms Dealer it was supporting and then send everything else back to London. You see, this dapper gentleman turned isn’t the hero of our story. The lady who promptly shot him through the head is. 

The lady, named Georgia Callahan, knelt down and took the files out of Petrov’s jacket, slipping them between her white shirt and black suit jacket. She wiped down her gun with a rag she kept in her left pocket and then slipped both away into her jacket. Looking down at Anton Petrov, she sighed. He’d always been such a nice agent, such a lovely amenable person. A shame that he was a Russian mole after all. The kill order hadn’t been easy to follow but it was her job and so she’d done it. Britain had demanded it of her.

She wandered over to her car, a Jaguar XK120 Roadster parked around the corner. The perks of the job, she supposed. The engine roared into life, a powerful growl of petrol and aluminium. Before long, she was accelerating away.

Once she’d got out onto a quiet public road, she kept the car at a steady speed of sixty, one hand slipping towards her pack of cigarettes. Some people in the Service insisted on custom blended fags. She, however, was perfectly happy with whichever she could get for cheapest on the ferry. A silver lighter from her pocket produced a healthy flame with which she lit it. As it hung on her bottom lip, she pulled out her mobile and speed dialled a number. “Jack? I assume you haven’t been compromised?”

“No, Georgia.” Jack replied. “I assume the job went well?”

“Wonderfully. Tell Lexi to crack open the fizz. I’ll be back shortly.”

“We’ll have a double Bourbon waiting for you.”

“Excellent. Send in the clean up teams, if you wouldn’t mind. Our good friend Anton decided to kill a Frenchman, a Spaniard and whatever the hell you call someone from Grimsby before I had the chance to kill him.”

“Sounds like the beginning of a joke.” Jack said, before whispering some orders to Alicia across the room. “No one we liked, I hope?”

“Oh no. They were bad men. Bad, bad men. The world can cope without them.”

“Amen to that.”

“Crap.” Georgia said, upon glimpsing in the mirror. “I’ll have to hang up. Got a couple of rozzers coming up behind me.”

“You realise you’re allowed to talk on your phone in this country whilst driving, don’t you?”

“And there was me thinking Britain was the best.” Georgia smiled and began to accelerate back to the hotel. They’d celebrate a mission accomplished like they always did: by getting very, very drunk.

The Beggar Man (part 2)

"Are you hungry, Bill?"
He opened his eyes yet there was still darkness. Blinking a few times, his eyelashes graced against material and he realised that he was blindfolded. His nose wrinkled as he pulled in the smell of the room around him. It stunk of incense and disinfectant, alongside history and silence, the smell of a National Trust Property. Much to Bill's confusion, there also seemed to be a background scent of drugs. Heavy drugs. He shrugged, trying to get himself free, but instead discovered a sharp tug on his right arm. He appeared to be handcuffed. There was a numb pain in his left arm, which seemed rather weak compared to the sharp stabbing pain in his shoulder. He suddenly remembered he'd been shot in the shoulder by the same man who'd said, "We'll send him to Morricone too."
"I'll repeat my question, Bill. Are you hungry?" The voice was old, croaky, as if someone had taken a bottle of whiskey and given it an accent. Although it was weathered with years of Northern English conversations, there was no denying its Italian origins. Bill gulped. The speaker was, presumably, Sergio Morricone himself.
"Slightly." Bill said.
"That's an interesting answer, my son. That says a lot about you as a person. It suggests to me that you are uncertain about what to do with your life, that you are just wandering from one opportunity to another, never stable, never sure." Morricone let out a laugh. "Either that or you aren't entirely hungry. Now, my boy, I'm going to have your blind fold taken off. Try not to do anything ridiculous otherwise I'll have you shot. Do we understand each other?"
Bill nodded.
"You'll have to talk. My eyesight isn't quite what it was."
"Yes. We understand each other."
"Good. Miss, take his blind fold off."
A pair of cold, soft hands removed the material covering Bill's face. He blinked a few times and then let his eyes adjust to the light of the room around him. It was large, wood panelled and old, decorated with antique furniture and auctioned paintings. The chair he was chained to was positioned at one end of a huge banquet table. Morricone was sat at the far end, on the other side of countless platters of food. The King of the Underworld, as he was sometimes known, was a small, fat, Italian born man. He wore a navy blue suit and a pair of wire rimmed spectacles, with his hair short, greying and tightly curled. He didn't look capable of having more blood on his hands than an abattoir worker but he almost certainly did. He made Bill sick.
"Welcome to my humble abode, Bill." Morricone smiled. "Forty bedrooms, a private swimming pool that my nieces love. We even have a light aircraft hangar. My favourite rooms are the ones like this, that and my four studies. I have one on each side of the house so I can move around to wherever the best view is. You, on the other hand, have a modest bedsit with damp in the kitchen. I had a couple of my men go down. The sofas are damp now, the worktops and the carpets. All damp. With lighter fluid. I'm telling you this, my son, because I want you to understand where you find yourself now."
"I find myself in your private mansion, Mr Morricone." Bill said. "In your inner sanctum as some might say."
"Yes, you do. But you are here because I allow you to be. I control you right now, Bill. I own you. You are my plaything. So, eat. I don't want you getting hungry."
"My hand is cuffed to this chair. I can't eat."
"Bill, I spent a month as a child in Italy with my uncle. He was a member of the Cosa Nostra. One of their members, one of my uncle's dearest friends, is my clearest memory from that month. They called him Moncone, that is to say 'Stump.' Why did they call him this? Well, once upon a time Moncone was locked up. He'd murdered his wife because she'd cheated on him. The prison they'd put him in was on a island, just off the coast of the nearest port. A group of sailors from the port were rather loyal to one of the prison's inmates and so had sailed in some explosives. One of the prison walls exploded, opening up a hole big enough for most of the prisoners to escape through. Picture it, Bill. All of those prisoners escaping. Unfortunately, my uncle's good friend Moncone, had been caught in the blast. The fall of debris had crushed his arm and pinned him to the ground. There was no realistic way he could escape except for one. He had to amputate his arm. The thing was, Moncone didn't have any weapons. He didn't have any tools. The only sharp thing he owned was his teeth. So, he dislocated his shoulder, folded himself over the way he needed to and bit through his arm. Bone and all. Once he'd gotten free, he carried himself to the water and swam back to the port. He went to a hospital to have his stump covered up, only to discover that the rest of his arm had to be amputated too due to an infection from the water. The point is this, my son. If a man can do all that and live to tell the tale, you can eat a meal with your hands cuffed to your chair."
Bill stared at Morricone and said nothing for a second. The old man smiled, but his eyes were tired, worn, like he'd lived this life for longer than he cared to admit and experienced this same situation so many times he had grown bored already. After a few moments of thoughtful contemplation, Bill said, "Where are the girls?"
"The girls? From the back of the van? The youngest is sleeping off the chloroform I had her gagged with. The other is on duty. If you're worried about them, you needn't be. My maids estimate the oldest is just sixteen and the youngest merely eleven. They'll join my house staff, I have decided, and when they reach eighteen I'll reconsider their occupations. Children should not be exposed to business. I abhor anyone who disagrees. The world of business is not a place for innocents; they will get no where without the capacity for guilt. You don't need me to tell you this, however, do you? You know full well the guilt and crime of business. Hence why you are a police man. You believe yourself a saint, high above the rest of us."
"How do you know I'm a policeman?"
"Firstly because of the radio in your pocket, Bill. It wasn't hard to put two and two together when we observed the sticker declaring it property of the local Nick. Secondly because I ordered for you to be placed there. The Commissioner and I play golf sometimes. He thought it was a good idea, better than placing an actual spy in my company." Morricone smiled. "You see, that's how you get ahead in business, my son. You own the competition. Not that you bumbling bobbies are much competition."
Bill stared at him, incredulous.
"Here's the thing, Bill. I was perfectly happy for you to just sit there, outside, making notes, disrupting minor operations. Now, however, you have experience. You have knowledge of more. I don't want to make your head swell but you're dangerous to me. The question is, what do I do to you? Do I cut your tongue out? Do I shoot you? Do I make you disappear?"
Bill said nothing.
Morricone smiled. "Today is your lucky day, my son. I'm going to do none of those things. I'm just going to have you released. Simple as that. No twists, no conditions. You can simply walk out of here and all the way home, go back to your quiet life, to your fake beard and your scratty clothes. Nobody will hinder you. Nobody will be mean as you. We'll all just live on as adults. Think you can do that?"
"And what happens if I tell my Inspector what I've seen?"
Morricone laughed. "I'll have you fed to rats."
"That seems fair enough to me." Bill said. "Do you mind if I go now? I haven't really got much of an appetite."
"Of course you can, my son." Morricone smiled. "I'll have one of my maids show you the door. It's been a pleasure to meet you."
The old man stood, smiled at Bill for a second, and then made a couple of quick gestures to a woman behind Bill's chair. As Morricone turned and walked away, the atmosphere of the room left with him. It was still unpleasant but no longer was it horrific.
Bill remained sat there for a second, waiting, and then there was a soft pad of feet behind him. The same pair of light, cold hands that had removed his blindfold undid his handcuffs and allowed him to stand up. He turned to see the older of the two women from the van. She smiled at him, but it was sad smile, the type one might wear when greeting a hated sibling at a grand parent's funeral. "This way." She said.
Bill followed her out of the dining room and down a long corridor, again lined with paintings and vintage units. Neither of them said a word, the woman didn't even glance over her shoulder to make sure he was following. Her footsteps were furtive, so quick that Bill had to hurry to keep up. He wondered what would happen when she opened the door for him. Would she attempt to run? Would she attempt to escape? If not, should he suggest she did? It would be irresponsible to leave a child here, but maybe it would be more irresponsible to put her into certain danger escaping.
They approached the door. It was huge, made of wood thick enough to withstand a police attack. Somehow, Bill suspected that was the point. There were various locks, huge cast iron things that wouldn't look out of place in a medieval fortress, and the woman struggled to get them open quickly. Bill noticed she had all the keys hanging from a silver ring. He imagined she could escape easily, but then again, Morricone would know that. Why was he giving her such power then?
His smile died. She had a sister somewhere else in the building. Sleeping off the chloroform, a likely tale. 
The older sister unlocked the door fully at last and pulled it open, just enough for Bill to be able to sneak through. "Thanks." He said, breathing in and heading over to the door. Even having sucked himself in, he struggled to fit through the gap. Once he'd got his body through, he set about trying to move his head. It was at that moment the woman said, in a rich foreign accent, "I'm nineteen."
She pushed the door closed, causing Bill to jump back in order to avoid being crushed. He stumbled back across the marble platform outside the house, almost tripping over. If she was nineteen, she didn't even the smallest safety net. Bill sighed. He had no choice. The police had to know.

It took him three hours to get back to the Cop Shop. Morricone's estate was bigger than most towns, or so it seemed. By the time Bill reached the main road on the other side of the estate, an hour had passed, then there was just the small matter of a two hour hike back to town.
He spent the time going over what he was going to tell his Inspector, about how he'd been kidnapped, shot and then let go again. By the time he reached town, the drugs Morricone had pumped him full of had begun to wear off and the pain in his shoulder had begun to intensify. He just hoped he could reach the station before it was entirely gone, otherwise he would have to go to hospital first and that was the last thing he needed. He'd be safe in the station, he told himself, Morricone's tendrils couldn't reach that far.
Finally, he reached the station. Tears and sweat ran down his face alike, getting stuck in the remains of glue on his chin and cheeks. He knew that Kelly was going to kill him for losing the fake beard but he didn't care. Somehow, he suspected other things would kill him first.
Bill couldn't be bothered taking the back entrance, instead hobbling up to the steps and through a pair of automatic glass doors plastered with posters about Mental Health services and benefits. The doors opened for him, permitting him into a large room taken up by a selection of seats and a glass panelled reception. The door for criminals was around the corner; when the building had been designed, the architect had suspected the general public would prefer to be kept out of the way of policemen and their cargos.
The man on the desk was reading a battered John Le Carré which he didn't look up from for a good page and a half. This gave Bill enough time to struggle towards the counter. The drugs had almost entirely worn off now, to such an extent that it almost felt like an iron rail was being driven through him over and over again. "You alright, mat-" The officer stopped. "Oh, bloody hell. It's you."
There was the tiniest of electrical whines, which signalled to Bill that the officer had pressed the panic button. "What's wrong?" Bill said. "It's only me."
"Don't play innocent like that. I don't get how you can be like that. It's bloody disgusting."
Bill searched his memory, most of which was disguised beneath a curtain of pain. The officer's name suddenly appeared. "Paul, look, I don't have a clue what you're on about."
At that exact moment, a door opened and half a dozen police officers raced out, grabbing Bill and heaving him up. "We'll slap him in the cells, Paul, don't you worry. The Inspector can have a word with him."
"I haven't done anything." Bill said. "I don't understand."
"Don't try playing innocent with us, Bill. You're not the man you used to be."
Bill decided it wasn't worth arguing with six angry policemen. No, he'd wait for the Inspector. That would clear everything up.
Five hours passed before he saw the DI. They put him in the cell but within seconds of them walking away, he'd begun screaming from the pain in his arm. Some paramedics turned up and whisked him away to hospital, giving him drugs and patching up the wound. He was lying in his bed, hooked up to morphine, as the Inspector pushed his way through a pair of blue curtains and over towards Bill.
"I knew that this assignment was a bad idea. The constant cold, the isolation, it gets to a man. Breaks him." The Inspector took a seat on the edge of Bill's bed, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it. "I thought better of you, lad."
"Johnny, I don't understand what's going on. Why am I under arrest?"
"You lost the right to call me Johnny the moment you killed that poor love."
"The moment I did what now? I didn't kill anyone."
"Oh really? How come we found three corpses in your bedsit then?"
"Three?"
"Yes. Two kids and a woman. Bloody disgusting. I don't know what you were thinking."
"I didn't kill anyone, gov. I promise. I'm not a murderer."
"Save it for the interview, Bill. Your lawyer is here by any accounts, I just wanted to see if you were the same guy I sent out onto the streets before I let him in."
"Johnny, I don't understand what's-"
It was too late. The Inspector had stood and walked out. Another man walked in, this one wearing a much more formal suit. He didn't take a seat, instead standing and staring down at Bill. "Hello there. I assume the Inspector explained that I'm your lawyer."
"I don't understand why I need a lawyer. He said I'm a murderer but I'm not."
"That's what they all say, my friend. The truth of the matter is, three corpses were found in your bedsit. We need to work out a way to explain this, and your previous twenty four hours absence. Want to suggest anything?"
"I was with Sergio Morricone. He has two girls in his house being held hostage. I think they're in danger. Also, he's using a Tearoom downtown to sell drugs which he's smuggling onto a construction site next door. One of the dealers shot me. You've got to get me out of this mess."
"Okay. That's interesting. Let me make a call." The lawyer pulled out his phone and dialled a number. Pressing the mobile to his ear, he listened to the dialling tone and then began speaking. "Hello there. Mr Morricone? Yes. He sung like a canary. Do you want to me kill him or let them process him? Process? You're sounding lenient. You're welcome. Well, thanks anyway, Mr Morricone. See you soon."
The lawyer hung up his phone and smiled at Bill. "You look confused. Would you like me to explain what has happened?"
"Yes." Bill said. "Please."
"Mr Morricone had your makeup technician and her two children shot before being placed in your flat. It was a test, you see, to see if you would give him up. Unfortunately, you have. Poor, poor man. I suppose this means you'll spend the rest of your life behind bars. Unless..."
"Unless what?" Bill said, probably too quick.
"Unless you beg for mercy."
"Please." Bill begged, not even pausing for thought. "Please, you've got to let me go. I'm just doing my job, trying to be a good guy. I'm just trying to be a good ma- why are you laughing? I'm begging for my future here!"
The lawyer shook his head. "Once a Beggar Man, my friend, always a beggar man..."

The Beggar Man

"Chance is an incredible thing." Said Brian Cox in that annoying voice of his, like you're standing on one side of an event horizon watching a voice enthused with passion slowly turning to monotony as it struggles to reach beyond the pull of the Black Hole. "The human concept of luck is immensely fascinating. I'd go so far as to say it's amaz-"

Bill sighed and clicked the television off. It had seemed like a good idea to put some interesting documentary on iPlayer whilst he ate his hurried breakfast, milk dripping from his spoon and onto his thin white vest, but he couldn't be doing with Brian Cox at this time of the morning. He took the last spoonful then climbed up, clambering over the side table and to the bathroom door. He had one last razor in a small, yellow plastic bag atop the white unit where he kept his shaving equipment. He wrestled it out of the bag, flipped off the plastic cover, and then rested it on the side whilst he prepared some lather. He'd only shaved the previous morning but already a light freckling of stubble had begun to creep out of his face. It disappeared beneath a healthy helping of white foam and then went missing complete as he slit it away, dragging the razor down his flesh. About three minutes later, he was clean shaven. He smiled in the mirror and made sure that his teeth looked plentifully orange. He wound up the blind and stared out. The opaque glass pane was absent of rain droplets, thus he wasn't allowed to wash his hair. Those were the rules.

Sighing, he walked out of the bathroom and pulled on the same clothes he'd been wearing all week. A pair of tatty black trousers, a grey t-shirt, a pale blue hoodie, a checkered red and black fleece collaged with bird poo and dust from the road side. He pulled on a red beanie, grabbed his bag of rubbish and set off towards the door, unlocking it and walking down a paint flecked fire escape onto the street outside. 

It took Bill ten minutes to reach the Cop Shop on Sandringham Road. He entered via the back, spending another ten minutes negotiating various corridors until he reached the makeup room. Kelly was sitting on the sofa, struggling to keep herself awake. "The twins acting up?" Bill asked.

"I just can't get them off. Ben said he'd stay up with them, the love that he is. I can't wait for this operation to be over though; getting back to him will be glorious."

"And I imagine the caretakers will be glad to get their office back." Bill smiled, looking at the mops crudely hidden by the black gown he wore whilst she was making him up. 

"Well, there is that." Kelly said. "What do you want then, sir? The usual?"

"Sounds good to me." He smiled.

It took two hours to do everything, exaggerating the bags beneath his eyes and reddening up the nose. She shook her head when she saw a nick on the underside of his chin. "You don't need to shave, y'know."

"I do." Bill said. "I really do."

Once she was done, she said what she did at five thirty every morning. "Ta dah! What do you think?"

Bill grinned. He'd been doing this job eight months but he still insisted on the fake beard. The feeling of the itchy glue setting against his recently shaved flesh was reassuring. It was his last link to normality, to his time as a bobby on a beat. Now he was just a man, on a street, waiting for something to happen.

"See you tonight." He smiled. 

The wonderful thing about the Morricone drug scene was that they did their business in the daylight. The story went that old Sergio himself detested the dark, that he saw the night as the cover of villains and crooks. Sergio saw himself as an honest business man, of course he did, and thus he could only deal during the day. For Bill, that wasn't too bad. It meant he could sleep at home rather than on the street. It did, however, mean he had to be up earlier in the summer when the day began a lot earlier.

He was plonked in his spot, watching the cafe, as it opened up. The spot was nicely secluded, a jutting grey triangle above protecting him from the majority of bird poo and rain, but provided a perfect view as a young man with a leather jacket and a bald head pulled up a metal shutter.

Cath's Tearoom was the definition of greasy spoon, with grimed up windows and low quality plastic tables. Its clientele was composed purely of builders, from the Morricone run construction site to its side, and a plethora of low lives and scumbags who were looking for work that didn't comply to the rules.

Bill’s job was simple. He sat outside the cafe, watching. If he saw any blatant law breaking, he used a radio hidden in his front pocket to signal the Cop Shop. Response time, he estimated, was three minutes. The rest of the time, he just watched and made mental notes. He memorised the faces of regular visitors so that he could then draw up some rough sketches to be handed out to regular bobbies. They could then watch out for those regular visitors on their rounds. 

Today was a relatively routine day. A man Bill recognised  from previous mornings had turned up, paid for a cup of tea with several bundles of greasy twenty pound notes and then had left with a huge duffel bag instead of the polystyrene cup. Bill logged the man’s face and decided that when he got back, he’d ensure he urged the Inspector to put out a warrant. The contents of the bag, probably drugs of some form, would no doubt go on to endanger many lives. Sure, the man may have never picked up a gun or knife- although he probably had- but he was as much a murderer as those who had.

The day stretched on. More men and builders came into the cafe, some staying for a drink, others departing almost regularly. One of them made eye contact with Bill as he stood outside the cafe, smoking, but it only lasted a few seconds. He’s probably just wondering why I don’t go work for Morricone like everyone else in the Homeless shelter.

Around lunch time, when a bigger flock of builders came to the Tearoom for chip barms and gravy, Bill’s stomach began to rumble. He’d gotten everything under control, even the itching of his fake beard, but not the hunger. That seemed uncontrollable. Jealousy and further hunger crept in from every angle; be it the laughing men in the tearoom or even the seagulls pecking at crumples of rubbish discarded on the pavement around him. He looked at the seagull and wondered if it would seem odd if he were to strike out and eat it. Yes, maybe a little bit. 

“Shoo.” He commanded, throwing out one of his hands and sending it flapping away.

Time stretched on. One of the builders brought him a cup of tea, smiling kindly as he did. Bill sniffed it suspiciously and then took a sip. If there were any drugs in it, they were yet to take control. Whilst it lasted, the steaming pool of brown liquid was an oasis he was delighted to submerge himself in.

A few hours later, once the liquid had settled at the bottom of his stomach, as freezing cold as the rain striking through the air and hitting him, his eyes migrated towards the clock tower. He could only just see it on the other side of the dirtied canvas of the construction site’s facade. Every minute or so, time didn’t ever seem to run properly when you wanted it to, the large metal hand would crank on. Two more minutes, he thought as the sky began to darken and the rainclouds from the East continued to spit on him. Just two more minutes.

One of the cafe staff walked out, pulling down the metal shutters and closing the Tearoom up. Bill clambered to his feet, collecting up his rubbish. He wondered if the rain would die off anytime soon or not. As he began walking up the street, ready to go home, a large lorry pulled around the corner and begun down the road. It was far too narrow for a Heavy Goods Vehicle to converse down, surely?

The man from Cath’s Tearoom threw out his hands in alarm, shouting something in a language that Bill couldn’t speak. The lorry driver pulled up to him and lowered the window, replying in the same language. They argued for a moment and then the man from the Tearoom called over some builders. They nodded and listened and then ran over to the facade of the construction site, pulling back the white tarp and creating a hole big enough for the lorry to drive through. It did just that, disappearing into the site on the other side. Bill’s eyes glimpsed towards the clock tower. One minute after his home time. Kelly would be getting to the Cop Shop about now, sitting down to read her magazine whilst she waited for him. He didn’t want to keep her longer than she needed, keep her away from those wonderful twins of hers, but he didn’t have a choice. This was the type of thing that would get him off the streets and into a safe, warm office. He just needed to work out a way to not be spotted.

Leaving his bag by his spot, he hurried across the road and snook towards the tarpaulin covering the facade of the Construction Site. There was a narrow alleyway that ran alongside the site, between it and Cath’s Tearoom, so he ran down there and continued until he got to a point where the site’s facade didn’t reach. Crouching down, he stared through the gap. There didn’t seem to be much building going on; instead most of the workers seemed to be cutting open huge oil drums. Except, the drums didn’t have oil in them. Bloody hell! That’s how they do it. 

The drums were full of tightly wrapped packages, stuffed with illegal powder. Bill wondered how much the contents of the construction site- the true facade here- was worth. More than my life, that’s for sure.

The lorry had pulled to a stop and the man from Cath’s Tearoom was furiously arguing with the driver whilst a couple of builders pulled the back of the lorry open. It swung out to reveal several barrels. 

“Uh, boss?” One of the builders said. “I think we’ve got a problem.”

“There is no problem.” The driver said. “I deliver eighty barrels, like you say.”

“There ain’t eighty barrels in here, boss.” The builder said. “There’s like five.”

“No, you must miscount.” The driver said. He and the man from the Tearoom, the apparent boss, hurried around to the back of the bus and stared in.  The driver swore in the foreign language of his.

Bill moved for a better view but accidentally knocked a piece of metal off the frame that held up the facade. It clanged as loud as a gunshot, so he momentarily ducked the view of bemused builders. Once he was sure they’d turned back, he popped his head back up and watched.

“Look what we have here!” The man from the Tearoom said. He stepped up into the back of the lorry and jumped back out a couple of seconds later, dragging with him a couple of girls. They looked tired and disorientated but, most importantly, terrified. “Who would have thought it? A couple of stowaways! I bet these little runts pushed the rest of the barrels over board. You think that’s funny, ladies? Think that’s a clever thing to do?”

“Hey, mister, see, it was not me who made mistake. It was these ladies.” The driver said.

The man from the Tearoom drew a gun and shot the driver through the head. “You should have checked.” He turned back to the builders “I reckon Mr Morricone is going to want to deal with these girls himself but what say we warm them up for him, huh?”

Bill sighed. He had training for an eventuality like this but, like anything official and proper, it wasn’t going to come in handy. Jumping through the gap in the facade, he ran into the clearing, kicking over a barrel of drugs to grab everyone’s attention. “Stop!” He screamed. “Ladies! Run!”

“Who the hell are you?” The man from Cath’s Tearoom demanded.

“It’s the Beggar Man!” A builder shouted. “I bought a cup of tea for him.”

“He’s been spying on us.” The boss said. “Have you been bloody spying on us?”

Bill’s hand went to his pocket, ready to press his radio to call the police but the man from Cath’s raised the gun and shot him straight through the shoulder. Bill fell backwards, blood pooling out of his shoulder. His head bounced once against the floor.
“We’ll send him to Morricone too.” Someone said, and then Bill closed his eyes and went to sleep.

Maths Vs The Gang (part 8)

Exam season. Mr Marley was stood at the front of the Sports Hall, bellowing commands themed around Matilda. Mr Jenson was elsewhere, pointing people towards their seat changes and telling them what they needed. An army of examiners, the Sacred Guardians of Silence and Extra Papers, stood at the front, laughing and joking as they prepared themselves for an hour and half of silence.
"All steady on the balcony!" Mr Marley screamed, his voice echoing as it stretched from the bottom of one exam hall wall to the top of the balcony on the other side. Standing on that balcony, sliding their phones into their bags and taking out calculators in return, were a plethora of students, all fighting over a half inch of foot space. A few students shouldered each other out of the way, sending another tumbling towards the wooden rail that guarded balcony goers from a short and uncomfortable fall.
The Gang wrestled their way up the wooden steps, passing a gentleman called Cambo who said, "Make sure you have a protractor," to Sophie. Freya and Ali dumped their bags immediately but Steven, Sophie and Chris kept held of theirs a little longer. In the far distance, between a sea of jostling shoulders and bobbing heads, was a patch of open space where a bag could live quite happily.
"Right, so, trigonometry is the one with the compass, right?" Ellie Wright conferred with a friend of hers who just shrugged and muttered something about juxtaposition.
"Are you feeling ready?" Steven asked, shouting loudly over the sound of the confronting students.
"Only if I had Ready's consent." Sophie replied.
"I've revised Circle Theorems." Chris said. "Nothing else. Just Circle Theorems."
"Don't they only come up on the next paper?" Sophie asked. "I mean, maybe my revision list is wrong? It is Mr Jordan after all."
Chris sighed. "It's been a pleasure knowing you."
"Do you want me to tell your Texan girlfriend you love her?" Sophie laughed, zipping Chris' bag closed.
"Texan girlfriend?" Steven frowned. "What the hell are you on about?"
"It's a long story." Sophie grinned.
"I'm going to die." Freya said, suddenly appearing to their side.
"I thought you went to the Maths revision thing last night? You'll be fine." Ali said, following.
"No. I haven't got a black pen." She buried her face in her hands. "This is the end of the world."
"Keep moving on the balcony!" Mr Marley screamed again.
The Gang kept moving, heading towards the other side of the balcony where a gentleman who looked suspiciously like Bill Gates ushered them down and muttered some melancholy mantra about mobile phones. Steven slid his hand inside his blazer pocket and concentrated really hard. He knew he wasn't meant to misuse his powers but surely helping out a friend wasn't that bad? Pulling his hand back out from beneath his blazer, he revealed a black pen. Freya mouthed, "Thank you," and accepted it. She clicked the button on top and then sighed. The plastic casing might have been black but the ink was blue. Couldn't Steven summon anything properly?
"Good luck." Said Mr Jordan, who was standing at a break in the wall which separated the Sports Hall proper and the balcony path. His accent sung to high heaven of the Pansy School he had attended. "Remember to use algebra."
"Any particular bit of algebra?" Steven asked, but Mr Jordan didn't give him answer.
The Gang were swept to their seats by an impatient tide of students, all counting down the seconds until they could leave once and complain they'd never been taught anything. Steven wandered towards the far side of the room; his surname Bettany demanded it. His seat was directly in front of the stairs they'd walked up, past Cambo. Chris, on the other hand, was on the exact opposite side of the room. It seemed no one at Gilliam High School had a surname that came after Rogers in the Dictionary. His seat was in front of Bill Gates' staircase.
"I am ready now!" Shouted Mr Marley. "I am ready now! Matilda!"
The room hushed to a casual quiet, students turning nonchalantly towards the hi-vis jacketed man standing at the front. "Thank you." He said. "You are now in exam conditions."
Here we go again. Steven thought.

One hour and twenty four minutes later. Mr Donald Jordan was sat on the balcony, next to Ellie Wright's bag. He had a copy of the paper rested on his lap and a ballpoint pen in his hand. He looked at a question on the ratio of paper's thickness and scribbled down an answer. Inside his head, he could feel the minds of Alex, John, Cordie and James alongside all the others working away furiously. It had been strange. When the radioactive explosion had detonated, he'd been talking to a student. The student had been upset they weren't as clever as some other students in the class. He'd said he'd wished he could absorb a bit of their intelligence. Then had come the radioactive wave. Mr Jordan had been thrown across the room but when he woke up, he had a vision. He'd made the devices he'd tested on Alex and John, he'd absorbed their intelligence. Now, he was the Calculator. Thief of mathematical energy. That would teach the others back at Cambridge, the ones who had joked that those who couldn't do something went into teaching it.
The question had, of course, been how to mass produce the devices he'd tested on Alex and John. Even if he had found a way to make lots of the hats, there had been no way to get the students to wear them. The solution then? When in doubt, make it bigger.
He'd designed massive extractor beams which he'd hidden in the crevices of the room, out of sight and out of reach. But they waited, dormant, to be activated and used. Mr Jordan had also designed a targeting system built into the limited supply of free calculators he'd supplied his Top Set class with in tutor the day before. He'd had them moved around to strategic positions in the room so that the largest possible population of students would have their mathematical energy extracted. When he activated the system, beams of energy would shoot from every corner of the Sports Hall, tracing in towards the calculators. The mathematical energy would be all his. All his!!
He pulled out his control calculator and drew out the small electrodes on extendable wires, connecting them to his forehead. Once he had, he held down the On and Shift buttons on the calculator and typed in the code that would start the process. 0000.
The Extractor Beams in the corners of the Sports Hall warmed up and suddenly fired. Green bolts of energy tore through the air, signalling in on each of his rigged calculators. Then they stopped. The entire universe paused. Any remaining radio controlled clocks broke.
Time had frozen.

Steven looked up, realising that Freya had frozen time. "Hey, anyone understand how to work out the ratio of the thickness of pap- oh my god! Look at the freaky death beams of death!"
"What part of exam conditions didn't you get?" Ali asked. "Also, why are there freaky death beams of death?"
"Look!" Sophie cried, leaping from her seat. "It's Mr Jordan! Just as Mr Phillips suspected! The beams must be what he's been using on the missing maths students."
Steven pulled his blazer off and tore open his shirt, revealing his green, Summoner tunic. The others frowned. "Have you been wearing that the entire time?" Ali asked.
Steven nodded. "All of yesterday as well. I was dreading PE tomorrow."
Ali shook her head. "You are actually concerning."
"Just like this school." Chris quipped. "We need a plan."
"I can't detect the probability of the system failing." Sophie said, closing her eyes. "I think that it's foolproof."
"It can't be!" Steven cried, pulling his mask out of his blazer pocket and summoning his cape. "Mr Jordan built it!"
"Chris, what are we going to do?" Freya demanded. "You're the leader!"
"No. I don't know what to do!" Chris cried. "Captain Jaffa Cake is the leader."
Sophie smiled. "You are Captain Jaffa Cake."
"I'm Captain Jaffa Cake." Chris whispered to himself, closing his eyes as he concentrated. "I'm Captain Jaffa Cake."
When he reopened his eyes, he had a plan. "Flish, distract Mr Jord-"
"My name is not Mr Jordan!" Cried their Maths teacher. Freya suddenly realised that if her time freezing powers didn't affect the other radioactive superheroes, they wouldn't affect a radioactive supervillain either. Standing up, the maths teacher laughed. "I am the Calculator! Calculatrons! Attack!"
Before Steven could state that the villain needed to think of a better name, there was the sudden sound of electronic buzzing. The heroes looked around and saw the thirty free calculators Mr Jordan had given out coming to life. They unfolded, arms sliding out of the side and legs from the bottom. Eyes appeared on the screens and buttons slid away, replaced by small cannons. They began to fire the same green laser bolts as the Extractor Canons. Chris swore. "Flish, Tempus! Round up the Calculatrons! Lucky Cat, Summoner, with me!"
"What are we doing?" The Summoner demanded.
Chris grinned. "Saving the world!"

A Calculatron, in all its plastic glory, leapt towards Tempus, spraying tiny bolts of green energy towards her. She froze them, pulling her power harnessing stopwatch from her pocket, and knocked the bolts out of the air. She caught a tiny Calculatron that was leaping towards her, slinging it to her left. It flew suddenly, head over tails, spinning through the frozen air until it reached the general vicinity of Ellie Wright's head. The Flish exploded into existence just in time, catching the Calculatorn and crushing it with the strength coursing through her. She continued running, outracing the bolts of energy following her, until she reached the Sports Hall wall and ran straight up it, flipping over in midair and landing behind the Calculatrons. They spun, confused, and she grinned at them, before running at full speed in their general direction. Plastic and wire exploded in all directions.
The Summoner and Lucky Cat raced up the stairs, Chris quick on their heels. Lucky Cat splayed her hand at the sprinklers on the roof and willed a fire alarm to set off. The probability changed and water began to spray. "No!" The Calculator screamed. "If the papers are destroyed, I have nothing to channel the mathematical energy through!"
"Oh, you don't want the papers destroyed, do you not?" The Summoner laughed and summoned a clone army of his French teacher, who had once destroyed her entire class' papers, including the one on which Steven was sure he'd got an A*.
"No!" The Calculator cried. He turned to the three heroes as they reached the top of the balcony. Electrodes were connected to his forehead, wires leading from them to a calculator in his top pocket. He reached into the recesses of his baggy jeans and pulled out fifteen protractors. "It wasn't Alex who stole them after all!" He cried, and as they glinted in the light, Lucky Cat realised the protractors were made from sharpened steel.
Tempus ran and leapt onto a desk, summersaulting from it and onto the next. She wondered what it all looked like to the students being forced to watch, frozen to their seats and the second. Probably all very confusing, she suspected.
A Calculatron fired at her but she swung her leg out and decimated it with a simple kick. More of them teamed up- it seemed the Calculator had made more than just thirty- and tried to swarm over her but she fought them off. As she continued her frenzied leap from table to table, Calculatrons flying from her in midair, she danced over clone French teachers who were busy touching papers and making them disappear. Tempus leapt from one table to the next, the Flish racing through the archway made by her legs. Swarming Calculatrons fell and smashed against the floor, detonating and causing mini balls of fire to bloom. Tempus froze them, a bead of sweating rolling down her forehead as she concentrated. The Flish absorbed the energy of the fire and allowed it to course through her. She moved even quicker.
A sword suddenly appeared in the Summoner's hand. For a moment, he was too busy grinning at the fact he'd managed to summon something so easily. Then he realised what he actually needed to be doing. He swung it and raced towards the Calculator. Protractors swung through the air, spinning in rapid rotations. The Summoner ducked, allowing it to continue straight through the air and bury itself deep in the wall behind him. He swung his sword and raced onwards. Lucky Cat followed, changing the probability of the Calculator's aim so that none of the protractors found a target. Once they were close enough, the Summoner struck out with his sword but the Calculator was quick to defend, drawing an enlarged compass spear. He caught the blade and knocked it sideways, before sending out a powerful kick. The Summoner tumbled and fell over the wooden balcony.
"Steven!" Lucky Cat screamed and plunged after him. As they both fell, she changed the probability of a PE teacher having done their job properly to be even less likely. Suddenly, no one had put away the trampoline and the two of them landed with a soft bounce rather than an uncomfortable fall.
The Calculator laughed malevolently and turned to dispatch the final hero. More protractors shot out from his hands, swirling through the air, striking dead centre for their target. But Chris had found his bag and the box of Jaffa Cakes inside it. The protractors broke through a layer of chocolate and became stuck in a large bed of Jaffarey goodness.
"You know, Calculator, your plan just doesn't add up. You obviously hadn't counted on us taking you down." Said Captain Jaffa Cake, resplendent in his bright orange suit. His cape flowed out from behind him and his mask hid the morphed contours of his face.
"Who are you?" The Calculator demanded.
"Jaffa Cake shield. Jaffa Cake symbol on the chest and belt. Do the math!" Captain Jaffa Cake and then slung his shield out. It swung through the air, rotating rapidly and smashing straight into Calculator's chest.
POW!
The Calculator only just managed to get to his feet before the Captain was swinging out another powerful fist, straight into the Maths Teacher's jaw.
BAM!
Captain Jaffa Cake deflected a punch with a new Jaffa Cake shield and swung one of his own. The Calculator ducked and kicked out, straight towards the Captain's knee.
ZAP!
Chris found himself backing away. His leg hurt but he couldn't give up now. The Summoner and Lucky Cat had joined the Flish and Tempus, destroying exam papers and Calculatrons alike. He owed them this. He needed to help them. Despite being in terrible pain, he soldiered forwards and punched the Calculator once-
SOCK!
-before punching him again and knocking him backwards. "I'm glad you're an evil villain!" Captain Jaffa Cake cried, blocking a blow and delivering one of his own.
BOOM!
The Calculator fell backwards. One of his electrodes fell off his forehead and the Calculatrons instantly collapsed. Captain Jaffa Cake grinned. "Now that we've brought you to justice, maybe there's a chance we'll get a decent teacher!"

About half a minute later, once Tempus had unfrozen time, Mr Marley walked into the room. He had La Foule by Izzy Bizu stuck in his head and he didn't know if he appreciated it very much. Opening his mouth as wide as his skull like face would allow, he screamed, "Last five minutes! How many goals are scored in the last- Oh."
The questions that crossed Mr Marley's mind in that exact second were quite similar to the ones transcribed here. Why did none of the students have papers? Why was Steven Bettany putting his shirt on over a green tunic? Why were there hundreds of burnt out calculator robots on the floor? Why were a hundred clones of one of the MFL teachers marching out of the fire escape?
There was a loud crash behind him and he looked up to see the balcony smashed and damaged like some sort of brawl had taken place. Then he saw the victim of the brawl; Mr Jordan, stuck to the wall by a splash of what looked like the jaffaery goodness from a Jaffa Cake.
"What part of exam conditions didn't they get?" He whispered to himself, wondering when he was going to wake up back in bed with Mrs Marley at five this morning.

A week later, a lot had changed. Exams had been cancelled, because no story about teenagers fighting evil teachers can end without exams having been cancelled. Mr Jordan had been locked up in a prison for the criminally insane. PE had also been cancelled, much to everybody's satisfaction apart from Ali. "Seeing that I'm actually good at it nowadays, I just wouldn't be able to prove it, would I?" She laughed.
"Can I have a word with you?" Mr King asked, noticing the five of them walking towards Maths with their new supply teacher.
"Yeah, sure." Chris frowned. The others followed him into Mr King's office. There weren't enough seats for them to all sit down so they all stood instead. Steven spotted a copy of Wuthering Heights and physically cringed.
"This sounds rather ridiculous but you're responsible students so I'm sure you can trust you with it." Mr King said. "I'm looking at you and I'm seeing the future of this country. Programmers," he looked at Chris, "writers," he looked at Steven, "mathematicians and scientists," he looked at Sophie and Ali, "Hell, I can even see a future Prime Minister!" He looked at Freya. "I'm looking at the five of you and I know that I can trust you. Do you understand how much that means? The trust I'm putting in you."
"Sir, what is it?" Steven asked. "Is something wrong?"
"Yes." Mr King said. "I was speaking to Mr Jordan yesterday and he claimed that he was beaten up by five superheroes. This can go no further, you understand. This is between the six of us. But he said that he was beaten by five superheroes, and he claimed that you five were those superheroes. What do you have to say on the matter?"
"Us?" Chris laughed. "Superheroes? That's a hilarious idea!"
"Yeah, as if we could save the world?!" Sophie added. "We're just teenagers."
Mr King smiled. "Don't be so hard on yourselves. I sometimes think teenagers are the only people who can save the world!"
Before any of the Gang could reply with something equally sentimental and emotional, Steven felt a buzzing in his pocket. He pulled out a calculator; one of the Calculatrons that Chris had reprogrammed to work as a direct line to the computer in the cave beneath the school. A message from Mr Phillips was displayed on the screen. Trouble at Jordan's Prison. Come quickly. "I'm terribly sorry, sir. Is that all?"
"Are you in a rush, Bettany?" Mr King asked,
Looking down at his calculator, Steven grinned. "I suppose you could say we're going to be late for Maths."

The Gang Will Return

"The Gang" by Mitchell Simpson

After Credits Scene (sort of)

The English Teacher picked up her highlighter and slid it into the holster on her belt. She stepped over to her propeller pack and slid it onto her back. Walking over to the open windows, she flew away. Maths may have fallen but English was, and always would be, superior...

Maths Vs The Gang (part 7)

Bank Holiday Monday. Somewhere, someone was eating an ice cream. Elsewhere, someone was watching a James Bond rerun. Steven was doing neither of these things, although he would have preferred to be doing both. No, instead he was stood in the middle of the school playing field, wondering what he was doing with his life.
Every single Bank Holiday up until that precise moment, it had rained and stormed but this time the sun was shining down with full power. He could feel it burning the side of his face, infiltrating the forest of facial hair he'd been growing and making him wish he'd shaved. Some light was glinting off the corner of English block, blinding him. He blinked a few times in discomfort but dared not move in case he got hurt.
It had been Mr Phillips' idea. They needed some time to train, to get used to their costumes, but they also needed somewhere to practise. Where better than the school field? When better than Bank Holiday Monday? How about during double Maths, huh? I'd love to get out of that.
Ali exploded into existence next to him. She was wearing the Flish uniform, the one that Mr Phillips had made. He said his boyfriend worked in the Wearable Technology department of an important company so making the costumes had been a doddle. Ali's was one of the best. It was light weight and reinforced meaning she could move as fast as she wanted without it slowing her down or breaking. To stop her hair from burning, which Mr Phillips reckoned was a serious problem, the costume had a hood that covered most of her face, apart from her mouth and eyes. Not surprisingly, it looked similar to a certain television character's costume.
"How many laps?" She asked, bent over, panting. Steven, who couldn't even run five yards at normal speeds without getting to that condition, couldn't judge.
"According to sir's device," Steven said, looking at the confusing contraption that Mr Phillips had given him, "twelve laps. And you've been running for thirty seconds. So, if the track is eight hundred metres, twelve laps would be..."
Ali watched him failing at Maths for a second and then intervened. "Three hundred and twenty metres per second. That's an awful long way."
"It's 0.2 miles a second." Freya said, hurrying over.
"How'd you work that out so quickly?" Steven asked but he already knew. She'd frozen time and used a calculator.
"Have you done any practise yet, Steven?" She asked.
"I'm waiting for everyone to be finished so that I can impress you all at once." He said. "Do you like your costume?"
Freya looked down, as if to remind herself what her costume looked like. She wore a black top with a bandolier going across the middle. It's for catching bullets, Mr Phillips had said. Not that I would willingly take you anywhere with bullets.  She also had a pair of red lensed goggles and a stopwatch which hung around her neck. She grinned. "What's not to like?" She asked. "It's brilliant!"
"Cooler than mine." Steven sighed. "I look like Doctor Strange."
"Oh yeah!" Ali grinned. "That is hilarious."
Steven wore a verdant tunic with a huge red cape hanging over his back, connected to his front by an emerald. His face was partially obscured by a red mask and his hands by red gloves. According to Mr Phillips, the Summoner costume like all the rest contained small sensors that studied heart rate, breathing and various other boring logistics. The suit was comfortable but he was worried that it looked a bit silly.
"Use your powers." Freya said. "Your sensors need to acclimatise to you."
Sighing, Steven raised one of his hands towards the rounders court to their side. The grass had grown since the court was marked out but if you squinted slightly and used your imagination you could still use it. "What do you want me to summon?"
"A better costume?" Ali laughed.
Freya stifled a giggle. "How about a Swing Ball set?"
Steven didn't like Swing Balls- not after the summer of '08. Instead he suggested, "How about an Ice Cream van?" Grinning, he wiggled his gloved fingers. He felt the taste of sweet ice cream, felt the run of sticky liquid running down his cheek and disturbing his hairy chin. The sensation of the flake nearly flying up his nose was so vivid he thought he'd managed it. Instead, what he created, was a swirling vortex of purple energy. It was like a Black Hole in the respect that it seemed to be drawing air in, forming some sort of vacuum. He concentrated harder on the jingling of the siren, on the taste of the ice cream. The vortex popped and a single ice cream cone, as well as the ice cream itself, appeared in mid air. He grinned for a second, rushing forwards to catch it, but it just continued to tumble until it hit the ground with a soft squelch. Within a second of hitting the floor, it was consumed by masses of ants.
"That's a beautiful metaphor for life." Sophie said, wondering over. Her costume was a medieval tabard but coloured in the gleaming purple and blue of retrofuturistic space age. Her cape was split up into three tendrils that flew out behind her in the breeze from the sea.
"How's it going?" He asked, squinting as light glinted off her 3D glasses.
"Good." She said. "Mr Phillips is just fitting Chris up now. I like your costume. It's really Doctor Strangey."
"Thanks." He smiled. "I like yours. It's really Lucky Catty."
"We need a superhero team name." Ali said. "The Avengers, the Justice League and the Radioactive Anomalies doesn't sound right."
"It sounds like a really bad indie rock band." Steven pointed out.
"Chris is coming!" Freya interrupted.
They all turned and saw Chris' head poking out from the ground, next to Mr Phillips'. There was a lift in the underground base that led up to the field, emerging from an oversized manhole cover next to the Jumping Pit. The lift continued up until they were in line with the playing field. Whereas Mr Phillips was just wearing one of his ordinary suits, Chris was wearing the outfit of Captain Jaffa Cake. It was much too big for him, composed of various different shades of orange with a huge Jaffa Cake symbol in the middle of his chest. An amber cape cascaded down his back, swirling around his feet. On his utility belt- he had a utility belt- was a box that looked suspiciously like a Jaffa Cake container. He flipped it open and revealed it to be just that. Taking a Jaffa Cake out, the two of them finally reached the others.
"Bit big for you, isn't it?" Steven said. "Not to be rude or anything."
"It's meant to be." Mr Phillips said. "He'll grow into it when he eats a Jaffa Cake."
"Let's see then." Freya smiled, encouragingly.
Chris sighed. "Stand back everyone. The suit is apparently meant to dampen my transformation but you know what they say about British craftsmanship."
Everyone took a couple of protective steps backwards for a few seconds, then stepped back forwards to get a better view. Chris shook his head and then took a bite of his Jaffa Cake. There was a sudden roaring sound like the immediate burning of gas flying out of a bunsen burner. Then, there was a bright flash of light, like a sprinkling of magnesium had been put onto that very bunsen burner. When the luminescent trails had cleared from before their eyes, the Radioactive Anomalies were treated with the sight of Captain Jaffa Cake, splendid in all his muscular, shining glory. Light glinted off his chin, sparkling with full power. When he spoke, it was with the authority and power of someone you automatically loved and respected. "That was bleedin' brilliant!" He cried.
"I don't think I've ever heard you say 'bleeding' before." Steven said. "You've changed!"
"Personally, his vocabulary wouldn't be the change I'd be concentrating on." Freya said.
"Concentrating on changes, huh?" Sophie shook her head. "You sound like a history paper."
"Everyone comfortable in their costumes?" Mr Phillips asked.
They all nodded. The costumes were indeed comfortable, if not a bit odd.
"Good. Let's see if you can take out that massive, rampaging robot in them." Mr Phillips said, turning them around and revealing that, indeed, a massive, rampaging robot was stalking towards them. It was maybe eleven foot tall and as muscular as Captain Jaffa Cake. In the palms of its massive hands were laser blasters. Steven shot a glance towards Mr Phillips. The computer science teacher shrugged. "Blame the Year Sixes." He said. "They built it in summer school!"
Steven turned back and saw the others bracing themselves. Captain Jaffa Cake ran his eyes over it, studying it quickly before turning to the others. "We need to short circuit it. Tempus, Summoner, make some sort of trap for it. Lucky Cat, change the probability of a sudden thunder storm. Flish, let's distract it!"
The Flish, in her purple body suit, grabbed Captain Jaffa Cake's orange body suit. They exploded into a haze of orange and purple, whilst the others ran in all directions. Tempus dropped her goggles and clicked the button on her stopwatch. Her energy flowed into it, swirling out in a glow of powerful blue light. The robot stopped moving. The replacement clocks broke. Time was frozen.
The Summoner threw out his hands. He knew he needed to dig a massive hole for the robot to fall into. The swirling vortex opened up in front of him. Give me a JCB. Give me a JCB. 
Instead, he accidentally summoned seven hundred and seventy seven dwarves. They were all under three foot with massive beards and gigantic pickaxes. The Summoner pointed at the rounders pitch and smiled. "Please?" He said.
When Tempus unfroze time, the Summoner had unsummoned the dwarves, leaving nothing to prove they were there besides a massive hole where a part of the sports field had previously been. Having performed their duty, they stood back and watched Captain Jaffa Cake and the Flish at work.
Travelling at 320 metres per second, they exploded into existence on the other side of the field. The Captain took a Jaffa Cake shield from his arm, preparing to throw it. "Full speed, yeah?"
"One second." The Flish replied, choking. "I think I swallowed a fly or something."
Captain Jaffa Cake rolled his heroic eyes.
Once she'd got herself over the fly, the Flish grabbed him again and said, "I'm going to throw you. Okay?"
"I was wondering how I'd use this cape." He grinned and then the Flish ran forwards at full speed, lifting him up slightly with the momentum soaring through her. His feet left the ground and the rest was easy, slinging him forwards and through the air. His orange cape lifted out behind him, forming a triangle in the air as he flew towards the robot. His Jaffa Cake shield slung forwards, rotating through the air over and over until it smashed into the robot's face, obscuring its visual sensors with a sheen of jaffery goodness. The robot struggled and stumbled around a bit before tripping over its own feet and into the Summoner's hole.
Landing, Captain Jaffa Cake cried, "Now, Lucky Cat!"
Lucky Cat took control of the weather's probability. Those wonderful blue skies that Carol Kirkwood had enthused about so happily on the news that morning were gone suddenly, overtaken by a sudden rolling of grey clouds of thunder. A bolt of lightning snook its way from between the clouds, a brilliant fork of pure white energy. It hit the robot's chest dead centre, pulsing through it in every direction. Even under the roaring wind, the fizzle of electricity was loud.
"Is it dead?" The Flish asked, appearing next to Tempus.
"No!" She cried. "Lucky Cat, hit it again!"
"Lightning can't strike twice!" Captain Jaffa Cake shouted.
"It can but what are the chances?" Lucky Cat grinned and, sure enough, a bolt of lightning sliced through the sky and caused the robot to explode.
"Very good work!" Mr Phillips cried, clapping his hands. "That was absolutely fantastic!"
"I'm just saying," Steven just said, "that we didn't get a chance to revise for that giant robot attack and nothing happens in real life that we don't get a chance to prepare for."
Mr Phillips shook his head, sighing. "Everybody come over here and we'll deal with the mess."
Frowning at the fact that they were walking away from the mess to deal with it, the gang joined Mr Phillips who immediately demanded that they all held hands and stood in a circle.
"Someone call Leigh, or is it pronounced Lisa?" Sophie cried. "We're summoning Satan and she cannot miss this!"
Once they were all holding hands, Mr Phillips closed his eyes and seemed to screw his face up. The others exchanged bemused looks and then suddenly the sound of loud, ticking clocks seemed to race out of their computer science teacher. Before Steven could say something sarcastic, offensive or generally ignorant, Freya cried, "Look at the robot!"
They all turned, daring not to break the circle, and watched as the bolt of lightning leapt upwards, watched as the robot stood and climbed out of the hole. It walked backwards the way it had come, a Jaffa Cake flying away from its visual sensor and reforming in the air as it did. Meanwhile, 777 dwarves appeared, filling in the hole before disappearing. Within moments, the robot had retreated around the Sports Hall again and it seemed as if nothing had ever happened.
Mr Phillips opened his eyes. "We can let go of each others' hands now. That was just to stop you five from being reiterated."
"I didn't get a headache." Freya frowned. "How interesting."
"You know what else is interesting? What I found out earlier about the maths students who've gone missing. Very interesting indeed." He gestured to the lift in the middle of the field. "Let's go down to the cave and have a look."
The Gang, dressed in their new uniforms, marched across the field after him, towards the lift. Steven summoned another ice cream, managing to catch it this time. He ate it as they climbed into the lift, the flake almost getting stuck in his nose. Being a superhero did have its benefits.
Although the heroes were unaware, they were being watched. From an office in Maths Block, a pair of seemingly twelve year old eyes stared down at them. An evil chuckle tumbled from the observer's mouth. Once the lift had started going down, he turned away and said, "Soon, they too will fall into my plan."
"You'll never get away with this!" Cried John, who was proving to be a tricky subject. "This is evil, Mr Jordan!"
The Math's teacher laughed as he picked up a hat filled with electrodes and put it on the student's head. "That is not my name, John. Is it?"
John said nothing.
The teacher walked towards a lever jutting out of the wall, pulling a similar electrode hat onto his own head. He grabbed the lever and grinned. "My name is the Calculator!"
He pulled the lever and a spark of electricity blasted around the room, turning on the lights and revealing the other twelve students who had gone missing since the Radioactive Anomaly. They were all chained to their seats, covered in wires and electrodes. Mathematical energy soared out of them, flying through the complex network of cables and into the Calculator's brain. He began to laugh, malevolently.

To be concluded...

Maths Vs The Gang (part 6)

"This is like something from Havecheese." Said Ali, referencing the Catman prequel series.
The cupboard had gone down for about a minute and half before stopping, every second of those ninety absolutely terrifying. It seemed to screech against the walls on either side, as if any second the walls would cave in and they'd be swallowed by the stone. Instead, they'd come to a polite stop and the back wall had slid open, shelves disappearing to either side. It revealed a tunnel carved into the stone. Steven reckoned it almost certainly required helmets and a risk assessment. What would Ofsted think?
"Why is there a cave under the school?" Chris asked, following Mr Phillips as he led them out of the lift and down the stony corridor. The walls were rough and cold, the out jutting spikes and dark crevices caught in the light of the wire caged bulbs hanging from the ceiling. "You teachers have a staffroom. Why do you need a cave as well?"
"How much do you guys know about the history of the school?" Mr Phillips asked.
Steven raised his hand, grazing it on the low roof. "A couple of weeks ago, the science block exploded."
"Besides that."
Nobody said anything.
Mr Phillips sighed. "Kids these days, huh? Don't know anything. The school was founded in 1955 by Desmond Gilliam. Desmond was a Brigadier General in World War Two who went to war poor and came back rich. He built this place as a way to improve the life chances of other kids from this very town, where he grew up."
"That doesn't explain why there's a cave." Sophie said.
"I'm going to get to that. You see, Desmond Gilliam was a clever man. He recognised that kids round these parts aren't exactly the best behaved and knew that his teachers would need a way to get around the school quickly. So he built this cave, a network of tunnels which lead to every block in the school, and to various other areas as well."
"How did you find out, sir?" Chris asked.
"Do you remember Mr Gilliam? The RE teacher from a few years ago? His son is in your year group."
They all knew Desmond- who'd been named after his grandad. He'd been bullied in Year Seven because of the terrible rumours that had gone around about Mr Gilliam. Some students had nicknamed him the Big D.
"Well, Mr Gilliam was the son of Desmond Gilliam who'd told him about the caves before he died. Mr Gilliam shared the information with me before he retired; we were friends on the account of me being the only teacher who could put up with how boring he was. I didn't believe him at first but when he showed me, I had to accept it."
"How come you haven't told Mr King or anything?" Chris asked.
"I'm sure you guys know just as well as I do that Mr King would have this place bricked up and abandoned to avoid a health and safety risk. Ah. Here we are."
The tunnel's mouth opened up to reveal a huge cavern that Chris estimated was beneath the quad in the centre of the school. The room was mammoth; at least the size of the assembly hall, and all the walls were composed of jutting, grey rock. Flying saucer shapes with bulbs where the engines should have been hung from the vaulted ceiling, casting the room in an orange glow.
The room itself was pretty cool, literally and metaphorically. Although there were tunnels leading off in all directions, the spaces between the holes were covered in book cases. Wing backed chairs were arranged around a coffee table and behind that small relaxation area was a ping pong table. A fully functioning kitchenette was set up on one side of the room and there was a large bank of computers opposite it.
"That was my addition." Mr Phillips grinned. "Whenever the IT Monkeys- I mean Technicians- decide to get rid of a computer, I bring it down here and fix it up. That's one of the most sophisticated devices in Northern England."
"I bet Ali could destroy it by downloading Sims 3." Chris said.
"What's through there?" Freya asked, pointing towards a tunnel that had a sign above it reading, 'Costume Room'.
"I took the liberty of designing us some costumes." Mr Phillips said.
"Us?" Sophie said. "Does that mean you have a power too?"
"Yes." He laughed. "I've used it about three times since we came down the lift."
"What is it?"
"I can repeat situations." He said. "So, if I embarrass myself or lose an argument, I can step backwards through time and repeat it."
"All the paradoxes." Sophie said.
"I seem not to cause them." Mr Phillips said. "Although I do cause some disturbance to time. You know those radio controlled clocks that Mr King spent the entire school budget on? Due to my powers, none of them now work."
"Did you use your powers this morning in your conversation with Chris?" Freya asked.
"Yes, why?"
"I got a brain freeze feeling then that I've just been having now. I reckon I'm sensitive to it."
"I'll be sure to avoid using my powers as much as possible then." He smiled. "My superhero name, by the way, is Reiteration Man."
"Mr Phillips has a superhero name!" Steven beamed.
"You guys can call me Morris, though." He smiled.
"Your first name is Morris?" Ali asked.
"You have a first name?" Steven replied.
"Mr Phillips," Chris said, ignoring them, "you said something about a costume room?"
"Yes." He grinned. "I've viewed- and wiped, don't worry- some CCTV footage of your work on the bridge. Nice touch with the seagulls. Anyway, I've designed some costumes on Photoshop and I'll have them made once I know your powers and names. Any chance you'll tell me?"
They all looked at each other and then Chris shrugged. "Why not? I'm Captain Jaffa Cake. I become really strong when I eat Jaffa Cakes. It's weird."
"I'm the Summoner. I can summon stuff." Steven grinned.
"Lucky Cat." Sophie smiled. "I control probability."
"Tempus." Said Freya. "I can freeze time."
Ali grinned. "I'm the Flish. I can move really fast."
"The Flish? Like the TV show?"
Ali rolled her eyes.
"I'll run those through the computer and make you some costumes then to be stored in there." Mr Phillips smiled.
"Sir, why do we need costumes?" Freya asked. "Are you suggesting we become superheroes?"
"Isn't it our duty? We have incredible powers. It's only right that we use it to fight evil."
"But there isn't any evil." Chris said. "At least not yet."
"You haven't seen what's been happening in Maths Block." Mr Phillips said. "It's very curious indeed."

Maths Vs The Gang (part 5)

"I'm really glad they've sorted the sets out." Freya said, standing sensibly against the wall outside Mr Jordan's classroom in Math Block. "I mean, I don't have any problems with Sharon but, well, y'know."
"Yeah." Replied Steven, sprawling nonchalantly against the wall so that he could be the same height as the others. "She's the human embodiment of Tumblr."
"I wouldn't go that far." Sophie said. "Is she really human?"
"I'm glad you guys are back too." Chris said. "Some of the last set one students were, well, not proper set one students. Science will be so much nicer without them."
"Science can never be enjoyable. Not without Mr Andrews." Sophie said, putting her hand to her heart.
"That is a little bit weird." Chris pointed out.
"Only a little?" Asked Ali. "You know, I reckon that Sophie is a full on nutcase."
"Only a full on nutcase? That's awfully lenient of you, thanks Ali." Sophie said.
"Hello there." Said someone that, for a second, they believed was just a lost year seven asking for directions. Before Ali, who didn't particularly like the younglings of the school population, could tell them where they could go, she realised they were mistaken. The assumed twelve year old was actually their maths teacher, Mr Jordan. "Looking forwards to some fun maths?"
"Oh absolutely," Steven said, before muttering, "not that I'm expecting any."
"Come on in." Mr Jordan said, pushing open his classroom door and leading everyone in. The class flowed in like a reservoir flows through a crack in a dam, as long as you assumed it was a reservoir of uninterested, sweaty and tired teenagers. Looking around, Steven was quite confused. Despite the fact that he was now sat in the rightful Set One, forgetting any errors resulting from incorrect examination planning, there were still a lot of people from his time with Sophie in Set Two. He spotted Ellie Wright and Jack, as well as a few of the more disruptive students. His conspiracy was right! The school did want him to fail! "There's a seating plan on the board."
Steven was delighted to see that he was sat with Chris and so the two of them assumed their spots, just in front of the board. There was a poster just beneath it announcing the various things you were meant to do at the beginning of each lesson; get your books out, write the date and title, begin the provided starter. Chris and Steven did neither of them because that was Mr Jordan's class etiquette. Why do something when you didn't absolutely need to?
Mr Jordan left it a good ten minutes before saying, "Thank you and welcome to Mr Jordan Maths. We haven't got too long until the exams so we really need to buckle down and get to work. For that reason, this week we're going to just go back over the basic things like BIDMAS and the Law of Indices before moving onto exam revision next- what day is your exam on?"
Ellie rose her hand.
"Which day, Ellie?" Mr Jordan asked.
"Where's Alex and John, sir? Are they not in top set, sir?"
"That doesn't answer my question, Ellie."
"Oh my god, sir. I was only asking a question, sir."
"The exam is on Thursday, sir." Freya said.
"Right, well, I won't see you on Monday because of the Bank Holiday and not on Tuesday either because of this new timetable so we can start revision next Wednesday."
"Where are Alex and John, sir?" Becca asked from the back of class. "Are they really not in top set anymore?"
"I assume they're ill." Jordan said, with a strange glint in his eye. "Now, let's do some work, shall we?"
"I'll believe that when I see it." Steven said.
An hour passed and four questions were set. For the five radioactive anomalies, the hour passed slowly but when it finally did, they were glad to get out. Mr Jordan asked to speak to James and Cordie, probably the most intelligent students after Alex and John. "I feel sorry for them," Sophie said, "I'd hate to spend anymore time than I have to in here!"

Lunch time came and, with it, the noisy bustle of the lunch hall. It was comparable to the Grand Bazaar of Istanbul in the way that it seemed to thrive with life and commotion. Conglomerations of students gathered around inappropriate tables- four students taking up an eight seater and six students squeezing onto four seaters. Water leapt from bottles and crumpled up polystyrene containers were pushed into the huge red bins, dotted around like recycled plastic sentinels. The walls held posters advertising an E-Safety week from 2012 and pieces of environmental art created by the summer schoolers. Someone had taken the twenty pence tag from a sandwich wrapper  and stuck it on, but somehow Chris doubted it was worth even that.
In the canteen proper, where Ali was avoiding the throng of Year Sevens who seemed to cling to ankles like barnacle clung to the hull of a ship, there was war afoot. In a strange rendition of the Hunger Games' plot, students were brutally murdering each other in a fight to grab the last packet of Squares- which should really have been entitled Rectangles- or, the most coveted of all the food, the last slice of stuffed crust pizza. The smell arising from the kitchens where the apron clad angels known as dinner ladies performed their delicate ballet of serving was the sort of smell that would kill Jamie Oliver at five hundred metres. His puffy little eyes would have welled up in horror as he caught the scent of food that children actually liked. Pizza, burgers- there were even hot dogs like the ones Molly had infamously choked on in Year Seven. It was a veritable paradise of unhealthy nosh.
On the other side of the Canteen were the four podiums around which disgruntled dinner ladies charged students. At least four times a Student Council meeting was the placement of these podiums discussed and not once in the last fifteen years had such an action been taken. Ali paid and then stepped onto the other side, passing the trays of plastic cutlery. A yob whose name had graced the lips of every shouting teacher in the school at least fifteen times that day already took half a dozen of each instrument so he could parade around, throwing them at unexpecting students. Ali rolled her eyes and continued, passing a sign on the wall declaring that Tootoot was coming. Four years they'd been there and it still hadn't arrived.
She reached the eight seater the other four were sat on and took her rightful place, next to Steven and diagonally opposite Sophie. Steven was pointing at two students on a four seater close by. "Is it me," he began, "or do they look like a pair of unemployed coalminers? Like, look at them. They aren't talking, they aren't eating, they're just sat there, staring into space, wondering why their precious trade union didn't protect them better."
Sophie shook her head. "I worry about you sometimes, Steve. I really do."
"What do you mean only sometimes?" Ali said. "I've never heard such cr-"
"Hello there." Said a teacher they called Olly Murs' Cousin on account of the fact that he looked vaguely like Olly Mur if you squinted and didn't know what Olly Murs looked like. "You're Chris, aren't you?"
Chris nodded. "Yes, sir."
"Mr Phillips wants to see you."
"He never wants to see us." The others sulked.
"Do you know where I could find," Olly Murs' Cousin consulted a scrap of paper scrawled over with his awful handwriting, "Freya, Steven, Ali and Sophie? He wants to seem them too."
"Hallelujah!" Steven cried. He jumped up, swinging his bag over his back. "Let's go!"
"Can I finish my pizza?" Ali asked.
"No!" Steven shouted. "This is the opportunity on a lifetime!"
"We've got Computer Science with him for two hours tomorrow." Chris said.
"I don't care. We need to go see him!" Steven cried.
"Calm down." Sophie said. "Else people might start to think you feel towards Mr Phillips as I do to Mr Andrews."
"Wouldn't be surprised." Ali said.
The five of them walked out of the Lunch Hall and up some steps, towards Mr Phillips' room at the top. They passed a teacher screaming at a Year Eight, but she didn't seem to have realised the misbehaver was still wearing his earpods so couldn't hear anything being shouted. Chris knocked once on the door and then opened it. The classroom was empty and delightfully cool compared to the lunch hall. Mr Phillips was waiting for them with a smile on his face. He was about the same height as Chris, so a little shorter than Steven, and had a head of light ginger hair. He had the amazing quality to be terrifying to the naughty kids but lovely to the behaving students. It wouldn't be wrong to assume he was their favourite teacher. "Have a look at the board, guys."
They looked at his smart board and their smiles wiped away. A newspaper article on the Gazette's website read, 'Bridge Saved By Mysterious Heroes and Lots Of Seagulls.' He changed tab and there was another tab which read, 'Dawn of Seagull Man?'
"Can I give you a piece of advice?" He asked. "If you're going to be superheroes, at least hide your identities well."
"How did you know it was us?" Freya asked. "We're really sorry by the way."
"I have certain powers myself." He said. "I need to share something with you."
"What is it?" Steven asked.
He pointed to the cupboard. "Have a look."
Tentatively, the Gang wandered over to the walk in cupboard and discovered it looked pretty much the same as it always did. But, as Mr Phillips reached in and pulled a hook on the wall, they realised they were wrong in their observation. A computerised voice said, "Lift Going Down."
"Step in." Mr Phillips grinned.
The six of them stepped into the cupboard and began to head down into the cave beneath the school...

The Future of the Cultured Yeti

Ooh. Isn't that an exciting title? The Future... so melodramatic. I'm writing this because I realised only about four or five people enjoy Maths Vs the Gang so I decided to break up the monotony for everyone else. Here is what I really wanted to establish in this post:

Editorials

One of my favourite parts of a magazine, which is what this plot is ultimately inspired by, is the Editorial at the beginning. It's a nice way to see into the world behind the following articles as well as informing readers of important information. That's why, from now on, each month on the blog will begin with an editorial like this one. It will hopefully be funny and informative, discussing either what's coming up on the blog or what's going on in my life- because surely if I can't be sarcastic about GCSEs on my own blog where can I be? Hopefully this will also allow for experience in column writing as well, an area of the media I'm interested in for the future.

Changing The Format

I've already experimented with the format or posts on this blogs a lot- beit by long running stories like the Quest for Verdisc, single post one offs like Are You Sitting Comfortably? or mammoth more than four parters like Find The Lady- but I'm hoping to experiment even further. I plan to introduce new types of story and to explore what fiction is, because what's the point of a creative writing blog filled with the bizarre if you can't do a bit of bizarre creative writing?

Finding A Target Audience

So far, my target audience has been myself. That's all very and well but I clicked the button that said, 'Don't include your own blog views,' so now my constant readership doesn't count. That means going out there and finding you- and I mean more than just the one person reading this right now- to see what will really attract readers to the Cultured Yeti. If you have any suggestions, don't hesitate to message me on Tumblr or write something in the comments. Please. I'm begging you.

I've Run Out Of Things To Put In A Bold And Massive Font

I thought there was going to be more of that. Ah well. Best laid plans of mice and men. I hope that you enjoyed reading about the future of the Cultured Yeti and will turn up for it! See you on Thursday or Friday for Maths Vs the Gang part five!

- Luke Bateman (because who else would be writing on Luke Bateman's blog?)