The Set Up Read online

  ‘Nico?’ Fergus’s deep voice echoed across the grass.

  I turned. He was striding towards me. I started walking away.

  ‘Stop.’

  It was pointless trying to resist. He’d give me a detention if I pushed him any further. Like I told you, even though he was my stepdad he always seemed to come down harder on me than any other pupil.

  I stopped walking. Fergus marched up, panting slightly. ‘I’ve been wanting to speak to you all day,’ he said. ‘But I’ve had the local paper on my back since lunchtime. Some bright spark called them about what happened in assembly.’

  ‘The “freak storm”?’

  ‘We both know it wasn’t that.’ Fergus paused. ‘You know you were very rude to me earlier.’

  ‘Yeah?’ I stared down at his polished brown shoes. ‘Well, you were accusing me of ripping up the assembly hall.’

  ‘Which you did.’ Fergus’s voice rose. He checked himself. ‘Look, I’m sorry . . . but are you seriously telling me it wasn’t you?’

  ‘Okay, no.’ I sighed. ‘But I didn’t mean to . . . anyway, how did you know? There were three hundred people in the room.’

  Fergus rubbed his head. ‘I can’t . . . look, I don’t want to go into it. You don’t need to know any of that . . .’

  ‘Any of what?’ Now what was he talking about? ‘You’re treating me like a little kid,’ I muttered.

  ‘I’m not.’ Fergus’s forehead creased into a frown. ‘I just . . . I worry about you.’

  I rolled my eyes. ‘Which means you think I won’t be able to handle whatever it is you think you know.’

  ‘No. And I don’t know anything except that the power you demonstrated is highly destructive. That’s it. Come on, Nico. You saw what you did.’

  He was lying, I was certain. He must know more. How else could he have worked out so quickly that what he was seeing was telekinesis – and that I was making it happen? Smashing clocks and vases with your mind wasn’t exactly an everyday occurrence at Fox Academy.

  ‘Now promise me we won’t have a repeat of this morning’s events.’ Fergus attempted a wry smile.

  I frowned. It didn’t make sense. Surely any normal person would be curious about how or why I’d suddenly developed telekinetic powers?

  ‘Don’t you even want to know what actually happened?’ I said.

  Because I do. I want to know a whole lot more – and, anyway, I can’t control what I’m doing, even if I wanted to.

  Fergus shuddered. ‘Absolutely not,’ he said. ‘Whatever you can do is evil. Your mother would have hated it. I know she would.’

  I stared at him, my resentment building. How could Fergus know for sure what my mum would have thought?

  ‘Are you listening? It’s really important you don’t ever try to use your telekinetic powers again. For your own good. Understand?’

  I narrowed my eyes. How typical was this? Fergus treating me like a child who had to be told what was good for him. When was he going to see that I was old enough to work stuff like that out for myself?

  ‘Promise me you’ll stop, Nico. For the sake of your mother’s memory.’

  ‘Sure, Fergus.’ I lied. He was just using my mum to get me to agree. He didn’t care about her memory. ‘Whatever you want.’

  The next two days passed in the usual boring blur of school activities. There was a bit of minor excitement when the local paper’s story on our ‘freak electrical storm’ came out. But everyone soon forgot about it.

  I tried a few times to make stuff move again. But nothing happened. I was just starting to believe that maybe I’d imagined the whole thing, including Fergus’s strange reaction, when I got a text that changed everything.

  Like most schools, Fox Academy had strict rules about switching off your mobile in class. I usually kept my phone in my pocket, on vibrate, so if I got a call or a text I would know, but the teacher wouldn’t.

  It was double maths. Boring as hell. And I was almost asleep, when my phone vibrated. I fished it out of my pocket, checking first that our teacher, Mr Rogerson, wasn’t looking. The text read:

  That was no freak storm.

  I know the truth. All of it, including what Fergus will never tell you.

  If you want to find out who you really are, come to Nelson’s Column, Trafalgar Square, 2 p.m., Saturday.

  A friend.

  I froze, staring at the words, then checked the sender. Number withheld. My first thought was that it was some kind of wind-up. But who from? No one apart from Fergus knew that I had been responsible for what had happened in Monday’s assembly. I glanced quickly round the class. Over to my left, Ketty was busily writing in her maths textbook. Next to her, chin propped in his hand, Billy was staring into space. Behind them Tom and Curtis were passing notes. On the other side of the room Lola and Lauren were surreptitiously peering into mirrors under their desks. Everyone else was working on their algebra. No one was paying me any attention.

  I slid my mobile back into my pocket, heart thumping. If the text hadn’t come from someone in my class then who had sent it? Who was ‘a friend’? The words drummed in my head.

  Find out who you really are.

  What on earth did that mean? I turned the whole thing over in my mind as Mr Rogerson droned on about some equation. How did the sender know my number? And how did they know that the storm wasn’t real? I tried in vain to tell myself the text was just some weird bit of random nonsense, but I couldn’t stop thinking about what it meant and who had texted it and why they’d sent it.

  By the time the class ended I’d decided.

  I had to find out.

  I checked the suggested meeting place again. I knew where Trafalgar Square was, but getting to central London on Saturday wouldn’t be easy. Fergus would never give me permission to go so far on my own.

  Fox Academy is based north of the city, right at the end of the underground’s Northern Line. If you want to go into town at the weekend, one of your parents has to sign a special permission slip. Fergus only let me go once, and that was on pain of a million detentions if I wasn’t back by 5 p.m. I got back just before six. He hit the roof and I was grounded for three weeks.

  Still, I’d sneaked out often enough since then.

  I asked Tom if he’d cover for me if Fergus asked where I was on Saturday.

  ‘No worries,’ he said. ‘What’re you doing?’

  I shrugged, doing my best to look casual. ‘Just a date.’

  Tom grinned. ‘Fit?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Cool.’

  Sorted.

  The sun was shining in a bright blue sky and Trafalgar Square was heaving with tourists.

  I’d got away from school without anyone seeing, then made it down to Charing Cross tube station in plenty of time. I was now standing by one of the lions at the base of the stone column in the centre of Trafalgar Square, waiting.

  Almost fifteen minutes had passed and I was starting to think whoever had texted me wasn’t coming, when I spotted a girl on the other side of the square.

  Now, obviously, being male and not dead, I tend to notice pretty girls, but this one really stood out. For a start, there was her hair. It was red and very long – almost to her waist. And then there was the way she walked – swaying slightly, like a model on a catwalk. She was dressed in boots and denim shorts and every head turned as she crossed the square.

  I watched her too. After a few seconds I realised she was looking right back. In fact, she was walking towards me.

  A few seconds later and she was standing in front of me – all long legs, creamy skin and slanting, pale green eyes.

  ‘Are you Nico?’An American accent.

  ‘Yes,’ I said, trying to look as if unbelievably fit strangers approached me all the time. ‘Er . . . how do you know my name?’

  The girl smiled, revealing a set of perfectly white teeth. The smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. ‘I’m Dylan,’ she said, rather coolly. ‘Jack sent me.’

  ‘Oh.’
I stood there, feeling stupid. I wasn’t prepared for this . . . some beautiful girl coming out of nowhere, talking in riddles. ‘Who’s Jack?’

  ‘The guy who sent you the text about this meeting,’ Dylan said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. ‘He’s my godfather . . . Jack Linden. Come on, he wants to meet you.’

  She glided away. I followed, feeling completely bewildered. As we reached the edge of the square I stopped.

  ‘Wait,’ I said.

  Dylan twisted her long hair in her hand. She raised her eyebrows. ‘Yes?’

  ‘How does this Jack Linden know me? How . . . where did he get my number?’

  ‘He’s kind of like a database expert . . . he can get hold of any telephone number he wants. He would have met you himself but he was worried you might have been followed.’

  ‘Followed?’ I stared at her. ‘By who?’

  ‘Fergus, of course.’

  ‘Why would he follow me?’ I remembered the text had specifically mentioned him. ‘How do you know Fergus, anyway?’ This was getting weirder and weirder.

  ‘Jack’ll explain everything.’ And she glided off again.

  Head spinning, I had no choice but to follow. Without speaking, Dylan led me up St Martin’s Lane and along a very busy Long Acre. As we stopped at some traffic lights, I studied her face. She was undeniably beautiful – like a doll or a painting. But there was something cold and aloof about her I didn’t like at all.

  I suddenly missed Ketty.

  We turned off the main road about halfway down. The bustle and noise of shoppers and traffic immediately calmed. Dylan took me along a series of short, increasingly deserted roads. We turned into a little cul-de-sac full of tiny brick townhouses. She stopped outside one with a red door and took out a key.

  It struck me that this whole thing could be some kind of trap. Some elaborate plan to lure me away from home and rob me . . . or worse. My fingers tightened round the phone in my pocket and I braced myself, ready to run.

  Dylan pushed open the door and indicated I should go inside.

  ‘What about you?’ I could hear the shake in my voice. I cleared my throat.

  ‘I’m going home,’ she said. ‘I’m in London for a month, staying with relatives. I just came over to see Jack for the morning. He’s inside.’ She leaned into the hallway. ‘Jack!’ she yelled. ‘Nico’s here.’

  She pointed to an open door at the end of the hallway. ‘Wait in there.’

  I opened my mouth to ask more questions, but before I could speak Dylan shut the door, leaving me alone in the hallway. My heart pounded. Rubbing my sweaty palms on my jeans, I crept along the dimly-lit hall. What the hell was I doing here? I reached the door at the end and pushed it open.

  A kitchen. Wide . . . bare . . . full of pale wood, with a few designer appliances on the countertop and a huge stainless steel fridge in the corner.

  So where was this Jack Linden?

  I looked around anxiously. There were bars on the window, which looked out over a tiny, overgrown courtyard. I heard footsteps down the stairs and along the corridor. My stomach twisted over. I had to be insane coming in here like this.

  And then the door burst open and Jack Linden swept into the room like a tornado.

  ‘Nico?’ He was breathless. Filling the kitchen with his presence. ‘I can’t believe it. You’re here.’

  He was tall, maybe in his late thirties or early forties, with dark wavy hair and wide eyes – a bright, startling blue. He laughed. ‘After all this time,’ he said. ‘I’m finally meeting you.’

  I nodded, unsure what to say. At least he seemed normal. I slowly let my breath out, beginning to calm down.

  ‘Sorry, let me . . . I’m Jack. I’m . . . Christ, I don’t know where to begin. ‘

  ‘Um . . .’ I hesitated. ‘How about we start with how you know me?’

  ‘Sure, er . . . let’s sit.’ Jack led me over to a couple of stools beside the wooden counter. We sat down and Jack adjusted the back of his jacket so the shoulder line sat neatly. I’d already clocked his suit. Dark grey, with silver buttons. Dead flashy and very designer.

  ‘I . . . okay.’ Jack blew out his breath. ‘Years ago, before I got into, er . . . data retrieval, I worked for a scientist called William Fox. Fergus Fox’s brother.’

  My mouth fell open. ‘My stepfather, Fergus Fox?’

  Jack nodded.

  ‘Fergus has a brother?’ I said.

  Why hadn’t he ever mentioned that?

  ‘Had a brother,’ Jack corrected me. ‘William’s dead now. Like I say, I used to work for him, raising money to fund his scientific research. He was looking into gene sequencing. One Christmas William invited me and some other friends to a party and Fergus was there with your mum.’

  ‘So you knew my mum, too?’ My stomach churned. I didn’t often meet people who’d known my mum. She’d died when I was little from a rare cancer, and my own memories of her had almost faded. At least I wasn’t sure any more what was a real memory and what was a story Fergus or someone else had told me about her.

  ‘I didn’t know her very well,’ Jack admitted, ‘but she made a big impression on me that night at this rather dull party. She was great fun . . . really lively. We got chatting and she explained to me she was going to have a baby.’

  I nodded. I’d heard my mum’s story many times – how she arrived in London to study English, got pregnant by some man she hardly knew, and then met Fergus, a teacher at her college, who took her in when she had nothing and no one else to look after her.

  ‘Anyway, to cut a long story short, William’s research was going well. He had discovered a series of genetic codes which he was certain were connected to extrasensory abilities – a psychic gene, if you like. Eventually, he managed to create a synthesis of the codes . . . he called it the Medusa gene. Anyone implanted with the gene would develop extraordinary abilities.’

  ‘what sort of abilities?’ I said.

  ‘For example, the ability to move things without touching them . . .’ Jack grinned. ‘Such as might appear to cause a freak storm.’

  I suddenly realised what he was saying. I stared at him, shocked. ‘You mean . . . that gene’s inside me?’

  Jack nodded. ‘William embedded the Medusa gene in a virus, which is standard gene therapy practice. He then injected the virus into your umbilical cord while you were in your mother’s womb. He predicted that the gene would take effect once combined with the hormones released at puberty. Does that make sense?’

  ‘Well, no . . . except . . .’ I gasped. ‘That’s what started this week . . . in assembly . . .’

  ‘Ah, yes.’ Jack raised his eyebrows. ‘I read about that in your local paper and guessed it was really you. That’s why I decided to get in touch. I assume the “storm” was Fergus’s idea of a cover story?’

  ‘Yes, but . . .’ I stared at the mosaic tiles on the kitchen floor. It was all too much to take in.

  ‘So Fergus knew . . . knows . . . about this Medusa gene?’ I said.

  ‘Yup.’ Jack made a face. ‘Look, Nico, I don’t know what your relationship with your stepdad is like, but the truth is he and I never got on . . .’

  ‘I don’t really get on with him either,’ I admitted.

  Jack nodded slowly. ‘So he doesn’t know you’re here with me and he didn’t tell you anything about your . . . “gift”?’

  ‘Er . . .’ It probably wasn’t a good idea to tell a total stranger no one knew where I was. Except . . . Jack seemed okay. Anyway, I needed to know more about this Medusa gene and Fergus certainly wasn’t going to tell me.

  ‘Fergus hasn’t told me a thing. He never does – it’s like he always thinks he knows best about everything. When he realised what I’d done in assembly he got angry . . . told me never to use my telekinesis again.’

  ‘What?’ Jack’s eyes blazed a fierce blue. ‘That’s outrageous. It’s part of who you are.’

  I frowned. Was it? With so little experience of my telekinesis – and
no control over it – it was hard to feel like it was part of me. Still, maybe if Jack was right that would come in time.

  ‘So how come I never met Fergus’s brother . . . this William Fox?’ I said, at last.

  ‘I told you, he’s dead . . . he died in an accident before you were born. Look, there’ll be plenty of time to explain about all that. Would . . . I mean . . .’ He hesitated. ‘Would you mind showing me what you can do? It’s just I’ve waited such a long time to see whether William’s work paid off.’

  I bit my lip. ‘Er . . . I’d be happy to show you, but . . .’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Well . . . the truth is . . .’ I stopped, feeling awkward.

  Jack tilted his head to one side and gazed at me. ‘You can’t do it to order?’ he said slowly. ‘Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said with relief. ‘That’s exactly it.’

  Jack nodded thoughtfully. ‘I’m sure I can help you with that . . . if you’d like me too, I mean.’

  ‘God, yes.’ The words blurted out too fast. I blushed.

  Jack smiled. ‘You know, maybe it would help to think about how mastering telekinesis might improve your life . . . What do you want? Power . . . girls . . . fame . . .?’

  I stared at him, almost laughing. How could moving objects around bring me any of those things? Jack saw my expression and frowned.

  I realised he was serious and looked down at the kitchen floor. What did I want?

  The answer came back in a single word.

  Ketty.

  There was no way I could say that to Jack, though. Anyway, I knew it would take more than moving objects without touching them to impress Ketty. Still, a bit of money might help . . . at least then I could compete with stupid Billy Martin and his expensive mobile phone.

  I looked up. ‘I’d like to be rich,’ I said.

  A grin curled across Jack’s face. ‘No problem,’ he said. ‘I can certainly help with that! Now, let’s get started.’

  I tried again, but the tyre still wouldn’t move.