Plain Or Pan

A young boy is caught shoplifting and is offered the choice of 8 months hard labour or taking part in a new reality TV show. Having never been on TV, this is his preferred option. The show is an elimination show but unknown to the public who watch every night and interact via social media 24 hours a day, the show is not what it seems. When the boys learn the true meaning of the word ‘elimination’, everything changes.

Aimed at readers aged 11-14, The Elements is a novel very much in need of an agent and a publisher and quite possibly a sympathetic editor – three things that have so far proven impossible to find. Rather than let the words sleep forever in a folder on my desktop, they’re being serialised at Plain Or Pan.

I appreciate you’re not quite the intended demographic for the book, but it’d be great if you could read it through the same eyes that first landed on a 2 Tone sleeve or a Topical Times Football Book. Positive comments welcome. Any and all offers of publication will be considered.

All previous chapters of The Elements can be found here.

The Elements

by Craig McAllister

Chapters 10 and 11

In a small living room somewhere in the far north, Connor’s parents sat on their neat sofa with their tablet on a cushion between them, just about getting to grips with its functionality and intuitiveness. They’d managed to log on to ‘The Elements’ main social media feed easily enough – “just tap the icon on the screen, love,” had said Connor’s dad and they were in, desperate to see if Connor had replied to their message, eager to see what pictures and comments he had posted of his day in training. There didn’t seem to be any messages, but neither of them was certain they were clicking on the right parts to access them. Confusingly, Connor’s mum couldn’t find the one she’d sent earlier, and she was fairly confident that she was clicking in the right place for this. They’d found pictures that he happened to be in; one as he led the group around the lap of the field, a candid one of him listening to George in the dressing room at the start of the morning, a handful from the classroom in the afternoon, but they couldn’t seem to locate Connor’s actual personal feed.

“I think you’re doing it wrong, Christine, dear,” said Connor’s dad patiently.

“I don’t think so, Robert. I just don’t think he’s posted anything for the day.”

“That can’t be right – all the other boys seem to have put lots of stuff up.”

Connor’s mum passed the tablet and watched with irritation as his dad closed and opened and reclosed and reopened the app. He clicked on hashtags, unwittingly saved random photos to the tablet’s camera roll and managed somehow to leave a love heart icon underneath an unexciting picture of Zimmerman addressing the boys in the classroom. But for the life of him he couldn’t find Connor’s feed.

“Something’s wrong, Robert, I can feel it.” Connor’s mum looked worriedly at her husband, still intent on unlocking this particular mystery.

“I’m sure it’s just us, dear,” he said, not taking his eyes or thumb from the screen. Let’s see if I can find him on that Bubble application instead.”

But Babble was the same; plenty of activity from eight of the boys, none from Connor. Olé, it turned out, was just like the others.

“Well, I’m flummoxed Christine, I really am. I’m sure there’s a simple explanation though.” Connor’s dad handed the tablet back.

Connor’s mum put the tablet to the side and picked up the cushion it had sat on. She pulled it close to her chest.

11

For the next three weeks, a pattern emerged. It went like this.

Connor rose to the sound of classical music. Sometimes he recognised it. Most of the time he didn’t. He’d hobble to the shower with stiff legs and aching muscles before dressing for physical activity. He’d eat a healthy breakfast and attend a briefing session in the changing room with the other boys and George. The instructor would show clips of the previous day’s activities, giving useful tips on planking technique or skipping style, pointing out how the boys were becoming fitter and healthier. Personal bests were being “smashed!”, “left, right and centre”, he said. All the boys were leaner and meaner. Even Alan. At one point he had to go to the clothes store to pick out new, smaller clothes, his waistline reducing in inverse proportion to his level of fitness. On the blackboard George would list the set of activities they’d be tackling that morning, explaining the benefits of each of them, going into the scientific detail of which muscle groups they worked and how, rain or shine, they’d go into the field for up to three hours and work themselves into the ground. Occasionally the man and Cameron would turn up to watch. Sometimes they’d write on clipboards or tap into mobile devices and offer weak encouragement from the sides. Sometimes, the man would bark insults and obscenities through his megaphone from the top of the viewing tower. Once, purely for thrills, Cameron fired a gun straight into the air and rolled around laughing in the viewing tower when all the boys fell face-first to the dirt in anticipation of what never followed. The boys learned to ignore these unwelcome visits and got on with the task in hand, which was mainly doing as George asked. They were rewarded with encouragement, praise and noticeable abs as a result. Connor would never have gone as far as saying he liked it, but his new routine was something he no longer dreaded.

After showering they had some time to themselves, before a quick lunch and then a session with Zimmerman in the classroom. These sessions, Connor really enjoyed. He’d sit, bones, joints and muscles humming in agony from the morning’s workout and listen as the professor talked to them in his calm and steady American accent, instilling in them a ‘can do’ attitude, a ‘growth mindset’ as he called it. In these sessions, Connor developed a fondness for meditation and an appreciation of the powers of a positive mental attitude. Zimmerman would sometimes start sessions with an abstract mathematical problem and leave the boys to puzzle it out between themselves, returning only once the puzzle had been solved. Initially, these puzzle-solving sessions were quick to break down but slowly over time the group came to appreciate the benefits of working as a team. Rhys and Alan often took charge and when they did, the problem was usually solved with less fuss and argument.

After Zimmerman’s class the boys usually had an hour or so of free time before the evening meal. The majority of boys used this time to update their social feeds. Connor used it to sit and stew, desperate to pluck up the courage to ask for his phone back, willing the man to return it before he had to lower himself to ask. There was no obvious end to the stand-off and Connor had all but resigned himself to never having his phone again. The other boys occasionally tagged him in their posts, but fear of falling foul of the man meant that such times were limited. No-one wanted to lose their only means of communication with the outside world.

What Connor didn’t know was that he was currently a trending online phenomenon. #wheresconnor had started after the first day or two when it was apparent that Connor wasn’t updating his feed. One of his followers had included it as a hashtag at the end of a post, someone else had jumped onto it and suddenly #wheresconnor was a thing. Over the course of the next few weeks it had grown to such proportions that it was more than mere groundswell – it seemed the entire planet was asking the question at once. The other boys knew about the hashtag, but self-preservation meant that none of them dared tell Connor. They knew he was popular, perhaps even more so as a bizarre result of his social media ban, and to have any advantage at all over him was one worth having. Despite the obvious closeness and camaraderie that had developed between all the boys, some things were best kept between only those who needed to know.

One day the man was summoned alone to the TV company’s office. In a room at the far end of Kimble, far away from the boys and the girls and Cameron, he sat opposite three old men with older hair and ancient suits. There’d been a request from the sponsors, they said, to have the boy Stewart back online. A popular boy, they told him, he had quite the following, and quite the following had quite the power. With talk of boycotting the show and the likes, the sponsors were getting nervous and panicky. A lot of their money had been put into this show, they said, and they expected a lot of money out of the show in return. If Stewart, number 9, wasn’t back online, they’d seriously have to consider their position. No amount of fist clenching or teeth baring or shouting could help the man and so, he returned with his tail between his legs and a chip on his shoulder. Stewart would get his phone back, he’d promised, but, oh! he’d pay for it. He thought it best not to tell the TV company that part though.

Connor found his phone on top of his bed. No note. No explanation. It was fully charged and insanely overloaded with notifications and messages. It was then that Connor discovered the #wheresconnor hashtag and shocked and mystified, realised that his celebrity was such that even soap stars and sports stars and pop stars and politicians were Babbling and Olé-ing about him. Without his knowledge he’d become properly famous. Connor typed a message. ‘Hello everybody,’ it read. ‘I’m back back back! #wheresconnor’ He added a humorous #heresconnor hashtag almost as an afterthought and revelled in the familiar whooshing noise his phone made as it was sent out into the ether. Ignoring the immediate flurry of response, he repeated this action across his other social media platforms and lay back on his bed, happy again that he could communicate with the outside world. He had three weeks of memes, messages and misquotes to plough through but they could wait. He only hoped his parents would find out that he was OK. He certainly couldn’t be contacting them in a hurry.

One morning, almost a month after they’d arrived, the boys were awakened at the usual time and accompanied to the dining area to eat breakfast at their tables of four, as normal. The man seemed more animated this day. Cameron too. He was busying himself with a clipboard and a handheld mobile device, seemingly already not enough hours in the day to do whatever it was he did. The man moved to the centre of the room, picked up a small glass of fruit juice and clanked the side of it with a teaspoon. The bright noise cut through the early-morning chatter and quickly, the room fell silent.

“Contestants. I would like a few words if I may, before you enjoy breakfast. There will be no training this morning. I know you will be disappointed at this, but there are a couple of more important matters at hand. You should know that two days from now, we will begin ‘The Elements’. All your training, all your focus has been leading to this moment and it is now almost upon us. We will meet this morning to go over the format of the show. There is much to explain and many questions, I’m sure, to be answered. I have called a press conference for this afternoon. The world’s media is eager to hear from you again, to ask new questions, to find out new information, to fill the columns in their newspapers and online features that will see your names carried across the globe.”

He lowered his voice a notch so that Connor had to concentrate to hear him properly.

“You don’t need me to remind you of the importance of saying the right thing in this environment, do you? It’s more ‘good boy’ than ‘good quote’, do I make myself clear?”

There was a murmur of acceptance from the boys and, as the man stepped down, they got on with the first important task of the day – eating breakfast.

With a mixture of excitement and apprehension, Connor, Rhys and Stephen chatted about the impending contest.

“I tell you,” said Rhys knowingly. “It’ll be based around the five elements; earth, air, water, fire and wood. Won’t it, Pamela?! Remember I said before?!”

Pamela gave nothing away, save a slight smile on her upturned mouth.

“I’ve no idea, Rhys. Really. I know just as much or as little as you. I like your theory though.”

“It will be! Believe me! There’ll be five tasks. Each task will see winners and losers and eventually, after the last task, there’ll be just one winner.”

“And that’ll be me!” said Stephen out loud with a grin. “D’you think we’ll be camping and that?” he asked to the group. “Living outside…living off the land. D’you think we’ll need to kill for food?!”

“Maybe,” answered Connor. “Just as long as we’re not expected to kill each other.”

The thought of this was new and subdued the conversation for the rest of breakfast. The three boys sat in silence, eating and drinking and lost in their own thoughts.

With breakfast over, the boys reassembledPin the meeting area. The room was set out as it had been on the first couple of days, with two rows of chairs arranged in a semi-circle in front of the massive screen. The rotating ‘Elements’ logo revolved lazily. A lectern was placed midway between the screen and the seats, off-centre to the right. Cameron was already busying himself with a small selection of electronic devices. Without prompting, the boys sat in the same seats as before, the girls doing likewise. On cue, the man appeared.

“Contestants. I trust breakfast has set you up suitably for the day ahead. There is much to get through this morning, and I expect you’ll want to ask questions as we progress. Please, watch this short film and we will talk afterwards. Cameron….”

The lights dimmed to black and the logo on the screen faded, giving way to footage of a boy running with purpose through a heavily wooded area. His feet scrunched on leaves and his breath was short and fast. Twigs snapped underfoot, shrubbery scraped across the large backpack that hung heavily from his shoulders and the boy let out an occasional gasp as the terrain below suddenly dropped or changed without notice. Once or twice he looked over his shoulder, back towards the camera. His terrified face told a thousand stories…and begged a thousand questions. Who was he? Where was he? Why was he running? Who was he running from? What was it that made him so obviously terrified?

A voiceover began. Connor recognised it as the same gravelly voice from before.

“The Elements is the ultimate survival show.”

The footage changed smoothly. The boy was still in the same position on the screen, still running frantically, but the landscape had changed to a frozen wasteland. His breath, still short and fast, puffed out in small clouds around his mouth. Where there had been deep green forestry there now was blue white nothingness. His backpack bounced with every tentative running step he could manage. As he looked back to the camera he slipped, his feet giving way. His entire body fell to the right and for one brief moment he lay poleaxed on the frozen ground below. As the camera closed in on his backpack, the boy made it back onto his two feet and he was off and running again, pulling away from the camera once more.

“He who runs the fastest…”

The footage changed suddenly to that of a cheetah racing gracefully across an African plain.

“He who runs farthest…”

The footage was now of turtles and whales and migrating birds.

“He who utilises the greatest survival skills…”

The footage transformed into that of a polar bear, its head poking proudly above a frozen icecap.

“Will win.”

The footage changed once more, this time to an aerial shot of a lion atop a rock, his head turned to the sun, his magnificent mane puffed up and blowing in the wind. The King of the Jungle. And the icy terrain. And the ocean, the skies and whatever else too.

The film faded and the poem, the one from the train, the same one that hung on Connor’s wall in his room, by now such a part of the furniture that he barely noticed it, appeared on the screen.

People of Kimble, The

Elements will see to it that some of you will fail. That’s just the

Natural order of things.

Accept this fact and embrace the challenge ahead.

Not all will make the return journey, the

Consequence of failure should be obvious to

Everyone.

The initial letters in each line swelled in size, turned red and remained in that form until it slowly dawned on each of the boys sitting there.

P. E. N. A. N. C. E.

Penance was punishment you inflicted on yourself as an admission of some wrongdoing or other. All the boys here had committed a crime of some sort, some more serious than others, and all the boys had chosen to be here rather than serve punishment in a more traditional establishment. The poem now made perfect, chilling sense. ‘The Elements’ was perhaps the ultimate in penance.

The words remained on the screen after the lights went up and were visible while the man spoke.

“All your training thus far, the days and weeks spent sweating on the field with George, the uncountable hours spent solving unsolvable problems for Professor Zimmerman, all lead to this. ‘The Elements’. As you have perhaps gleaned from the film and the poem too, it is not for the faint-hearted. The rigorous input you have received ensures that all of you are in peak condition, that each and every one of you is in the best-possible mental state to participate. Our team of behind-the-scenes psychologists and analysts has monitored your progress from the off and we have now been given the go-ahead to begin the contest. Let me explain a little bit about the format.”

The screen changed again. This time one word appeared.

‘Earth’.

A second word appeared below.

‘Water’.

Then a third.

‘Fire’.

By the fourth, Rhys was mouthing them as they appeared on the screen.

‘Metal’.

The final word was ‘Wood’.

“I told you!” whispered Rhys, sitting between Connor and Stephen. “I knew it!”

Rhys hadn’t got them quite right, but he was remarkably close.

“The Chinese,” the man spoke, “regard the Five Elements as the foundation of everything in the universe. Each has its own character and can generate or destroy one another. Metal generates water; water nourishes wood; wood feeds fire; fire creates ash, or earth, and earth bears metal. It’s a natural cycle. The destructive nature of the elements also means that fire melts metal; metal chops wood; wood breaks up the earth; the earth absorbs water, and water quenches fire.

You boys all have your own character. You have generated team spirit and togetherness, but you also have the capacity to destroy one another too. I hesitate here to point out some of the things you have said and done behind one another’s backs, for that destructive element will rise naturally as the contest progresses.”

Connor wasn’t sure he understood everything the man said, but he got the gist of it; everyone has the ability to win, but no-one is infallible, and no-one can be trusted seemed to be the short of it. A sudden dawning came over him regarding the #wheresconnor hashtag. The other boys would’ve known about this, definitely, yet not one of them had elected to tell him of it. They knew – Rhys and Stephen especially – how difficult he’d found things without having access to his social media accounts. Had they told him he was popular despite his absence, he wouldn’t have worried so much. Instead, they’d kept this from him, and for three weeks too! This told Conor that he was feared by the other boys, that they considered him competition, a threat to their own survival, and from this he drew confidence and strength. It was there and then that Connor understood ‘The Elements’ was all about every man for himself.

“The Elements will play out over five discreet events, each themed around one of the five elements listed on the screen behind me. The first event will be ‘Earth’. For this, you will compete in your teams of three. You will be taken to an area far from here and given the task of retrieving a red flag. There is only one red flag so there can be only one winning team. From the two losing teams, depending on social media response, at least one boy will be eliminated from the process.”

The man made it sound like an interview for a high-flying corporate job. Did ‘eliminated from the process’ mean ‘killed’? Based on the video and the subtle clues dropped here and there over the past month – ‘it’ll be real bullets next time!’, it seemed quite likely. Connor started weighing up his options. Pushing aside unhelpful thoughts of #wheresconnor, Rhys and Stephen, he decided, were fine as teammates. They would all need to rely on one another’s skills and qualities for this task, something that they had been doing so far. Rhys was smart and analytical. Stephen was not the brightest but he was strong and fast and could run all day if he had to. Connor wasn’t sure what the others might consider to be his best features, but he himself knew he had the stamina and strength of mind to compete. He wasn’t going out easily, and certainly not first.

“It’s a simple concept,” the man continued, “but compelling, nonetheless. Are there any questions just now?”

Fowler raised his hand.

“Fowler, two. Question?”

“Eh, yeah. How long does an event last for? Is there, like, a full-time whistle and a draw if no-one wins?”

The man laughed loudly.

“There’s no full-time whistle, no! Ha! Each event continues until someone wins. That could be hours, days, even weeks if need be. I’m certain that our sponsors would prefer each event to be as long as possible without becoming drawn-out and boring. As you compete, we will live-stream events on YouTube. All of the action will be captured as and when it happens. A nightly highlights show will broadcast the best parts.”

Harrison was next.

“What happens if you’re on the losing team but you’re not the worst player in it? It doesn’t seem fair that you can be penalised because someone in your team has let you down.”

“It’s a team game, Harrison,” the man replied. “and if you’re on the losing team, there’s a chance you will be eliminated. It’s how the show works.” He smiled at Harrison, signifying this particular question had now been answered.

Connor stuck his hand up.

“Stewart, number nine. What’s your question?”

“How long is there between each event? You said the ‘Earth’ one could last weeks if it needed to. What sort of break will there be before the next event?”

“A good question, thanks. There’s no definitive answer to this, I’m afraid. If your first event is over and done with in a day, then I’d imagine we’ll get the next event underway a day or two after that. If the first event takes a week, then you’ll obviously need a longer recovery period. That’s one of the things that makes ‘the Elements’ unique in broadcasting. We are not fitting our programming into a traditional TV schedule, rather the TV schedule will bend and shape to fit us. When we first floated the idea of this show, we suggested it might last a year from start to finish, but it might also be over and done with inside a month. Obviously, our sponsors will be hoping for an extended run on prime-time TV but the length of the show will be determined by how quickly or slowly you all complete the events. The public too has a large part to play. They might choose to vote off more than one of you at a time, in which case, there’ll be less contestants, so things will finish quicker. Keep the public on your side and your chances of making it to the end increase.”

He surveyed the boys in front of him with a genuine smile.

“Are there any further questions? No? In that case I’d like to brief you ahead of the press conference. At the last one, one or two of you said some things that would have been better off staying in your head than coming out of your mouth.”

He paused for effect.

“If you remember, I faced the indignation of having to intervene and frame your comments in a positive manner. I’m sure it doesn’t need repeating, but for the record I will repeat it all the same. Do not, under any circumstances allude to things here at Kimble being anything less than perfect, anything less than wonderful and anything less than idyllic. Do I make myself clear?”

He paused, eyeing every boy individually.

“Anyone who makes my life difficult this afternoonmay not see the end of the first event.”

He let that thought hover in the space between them before extending this thumb and pointing his index finger out towards the boys, adding a definitive final two words.

“Bang, bang.”

He turned and left, with Cameron scurrying behind him.

One of the girls at the back stood up and addressed the boys. They had some free time, she said, to update their socials, freshen up, whatever, before they’d meet at noon for lunch. The boys dispersed accordingly, some to their rooms, some to the recreation room, some to the gym. Within a minute, the meeting room was empty.

Connor found a quiet corner in the recreation room, away from Grayson and Fowler who’d elected to hang out at the pool table, and scrolled through the various social media feeds on his phone. His glib #heresconnor hashtag had amusingly been adopted by his followers and almost every picture of himself was accompanied with the hashtag somewhere underneath.

He left his own feed and looked at the other boys’. Harrison’s was still full of square-jawed selfies, mid work-out poses and snarling pouts. Stephen’s too was much the same, even if he didn’t quite take as sharp a selfie. For reasons unknown to Connor, Stephen had more followers than anyone else. His teammate was loud and gormless, not the smartest nor the fittest, yet he had almost twice the number of followers of Rhys and Reilly combined. It really was quite something. Maybe it was the hair. ‘hashtag le gingembre’ and all that. The French really did love him. Most of the comments in his feed were from France. ‘If we finish last in this task’, thought Connor, ‘at least I’m ahead of Rhys in the popularity stakes.’ Alan’s feed was interesting. He seemed to have had the sympathy vote from the public, probably based on those first couple of weeks, but all of the comments now were complimenting him on his changing body shape, his levels of fitness and his new-found gung-ho attitude. With a new perspective on some of his fellow participants, Connor made his way to the dining area, keenly aware once more that he’d be on camera. Pamela had been right. She’d said at the beginning that you soon forgot all about the camera, but if Connor was going to survive ‘The Elements’, he was going to have to play up to it.

After lunch, the boys were taken to the press area. The room was nowhere near as frenzied as before. It was once again packed out with journalists from every corner of the world, and at the front, at the back and at both sides of the room, a fleet of cameramen, sound engineers and hairy men with grubby, low-slung jeans guided cables and wires safely away from unsuspecting journalists’ feet. It was much calmer than the first time they’d been here though, with the reporters far quieter and much more settled. Even with the production crew busying themselves continually, there was a relaxed, calm ambience. Connor recognised some of the reporters from before…the lady from the Daily Mirror was in the front row, the American man who’d singled out Rhys for being the science guy was sat on the left. An Indian woman behind the American man raised her take-away coffee cup and gave Connor a smile as he scanned the room. A few rows behind her was the German reporter who’d asked a question the last time. There were one or two faces that Connor didn’t recognise, but that wasn’t to say they hadn’t been at the last briefing. Notable by their absence was the quiet, elderly Japanese man and his translator, the subject of the man’s behind-the-scenes vitriol following the previous press briefing. As before, a big camera at the back swept here and there, capturing every angle of every boy. At a given signal, de la Cruz made his entrance, springing on like a ridiculously flung together cliché of every shiny and fake-happy TV presenter that had ever appeared in front of the cameras. His hair was even taller than the last gravity-defying time, and he had been given some sort of silvery-grey highlight on the front of the quiff. His suit was silver and super-tight, accentuating his already supremely-pointed patent grey shoes. In his hand he held a microphone that, Connor noticed now, had a square block below the round foamy part, a combination of ‘Elements’ and TV company logos around its edge. On his right wrist hung a massive black-faced diver’s watch that stuck out ugly and vulgar from underneath the sleeve of his shirt. To the side, watching everything with a keen interest, stood the man, arms folded, a forced smile stuck to his face. He’d be glad when this was over. A sponsors’ requirement, the press briefing led to the sort of column inches and internet traffic that put the show firmly into the consciousness of a huge percentage of the planet’s population. The stories made stars of the contestants. The contestants sold newspapers and paywalls and drove advertising revenue online. Each was dependant on the other. The man was ready this time for any awkward questions.

At the stroke of 10:50am (the broadcast would go out at 11:00, seemingly live to those watching around the world) de la Cruz turned his fake smile up another notch, visibly grew another inch and, after a brief, slick in’roduction, began directing questions from the press to the boys, or ‘competitors’ as he was now also calling them. Many of the questions related to the boys’ physical appearance, they all appeared fitter, bigger, stronger, the reporters remarked. They had clearly undertaken a programme of intense fitness and it had appeared to work. A well-groomed Frenchman asked Stephen about his hair routine. Many youngsters in France, he said, girls as well as boys, had started to cut their hair in the same style. Could Stephen pass on any fashion tips, perhaps? Other questions were asked around the subject of bullying, with all the boys who’d been on the end of the man’s wrath being probed by the journalists. With the shadow of the man forever-present, each boy gave a non-comital answer that helped maintain the plastic smile on their aggressor’s face. Alan in particular was singled out for questioning and when he struggled to find the ‘right’ answer for a persistent English lady, a subtle nod from the man led to two well-built men with wires coming from their ears appearing from the back to escort her from the room. Each had a hand under an armpit and, despite her noisy protestations, she was unceremoniously thrown out. Serving as a warning to others, this took the questioning along new, safer lines of enquiry; how were they feeling ahead of the first event…were they missing family and friends…what was their favourite thing about The Elements so far…the sort of flim-flam that helps pad out tabloid newspapers and shallow gossip shows, but not the sort of in-depth stuff that the more serious journalists were here to report on; the psychological effects of being part of a TV experiment, for example, or the ethics of some of the practice so far seen via the official YouTube channel. If this was the stuff we were permitted to see – the institutionalised bullying, the confiscation of phones, the effects of all of this on the mental wellbeing of young people, then what exactly, a nosy Spanish woman from El País wanted to know, were they not showing us? This proved to be the last question of the briefing, meaning the occasion ended on a rather awkward and unresolved moment. It also proved to be the stimulus for the online headlines that followed that same afternoon.

‘Fury as sick show throws us out!’ heralded The Mirror.

‘Death Camp Reality TV!’ screamed Entertainment Now!, America’s largest, most-powerful online news and gossip channel. ‘Who will die first?’ it asked in the subheading.

‘¿Es este entretenimiento en el siglo XXI?’ asked the online editorial in El País.

The newspapers the following day were even more scathing. With time to ponder, watch back and analyse the press conference, the more sympathetic of the world’s media tore the show and its producers to shreds. From Madrid to Moscow, Massachusetts to Melbourne, the same editorials were printed; that this show was unethical, that it exploited teenagers who had emotional and psychological issues to begin with, that it was plainly, going by the inferences suggested so far, murderous. Most scathing of all was Mr Yoshiro’s opinion piece in the Japanese daily Asahai Shimbun. Despite repeated requests, he had not been invited to yesterday’s press briefing and despite going through the proper channels he had been unable to secure an interview with any of the show’s producers, so Yoshiro had been forced to write, he explained, a one-sided opinion of the show. This ‘game’ show, he wrote, will systematically kill each of the unwitting boys who are taking part in it. Yes, it is true that they are all criminals to one degree or another, but the barbaric notion that it is somehow OK to eliminate, to eradicate, young people purely in the name of entertainment is a disgrace. We are all to blame, he said, for encouraging it. If any boy died during this show, every person who ever interacted with any element of the show would have that boy’s blood on their hand.

Issues were raised with politicians, motions raised in parliaments and letters sent by heads of state on headed paper, but the show would continue. For every complainer there were hundreds of thousands of fans. Each of these worshippers (for this is what they were) was tied to their phone, checking in on their favourites at least five times an hour, interacting, engaging, sharing content. Hashtag this, ‘love’ emoji that, all the time. It was non-stop. And every time an image was sent zooming across hyperspace or a gif was transferred between devices or #theelements was tagged on to the end of a post, a silent cash register rang and sang for the show’s sponsors, rich enough to begin with and now even more so. No-one, not the Prime Minister or the King of Spain or America’s First Lady would be able to stop its broadcast. Besides, they pointed out, these boys were brought here as criminals, don’t forget that. They were given an alternative, yet they all chose this is as punishment. Do the crime, do the time, that’s what they said, wasn’t it?

When the man saw the headlines, he was furious. Furious at the papers for writing words that were out of his control. Furious with the boys for answering in their ambiguous ways. Furious with himself for allowing these troublesome journalists to be part of the briefing in the first place. He was summoned once more to the office far away at the back of Kimble where he sat opposite the sponsors who suggested – told him, really – that ahead of the next conference he should ask the journalists to submit their questions in writing and to allow entry only to those who asked the ‘right sort of questions’. He kicked himself for not thinking of this himself, annoyed and upset that he was being forced to do what the sponsors asked of him.

When he returned to the boys, he was in a foul mood. Preparations were being made ahead of the big day tomorrow. The boys had been instructed to meet with him so that he could run through exactly what they should pack and prepare for the first event, but the man had a good mind to give them no help at all, or worse, give them false information, and see how that panned out. In the back of his mind though, he worried about the sponsors. They were in charge. They paid him handsomely. This was the best-paid job he’d ever had in TV production and he intended to keep it. Plans were already afoot for another series and associated spin-off shows and they could see him easy into early retirement. If he sabotaged the first event purely as some cheap form of revenge against the likes of Stewart or Harrison, he’d be as well packing his bags before the second event was underway. His revenge would have to wait.

“Contestants!” he shouted with false enthusiasm. “I’ve gathered you here as a group for one last time before our first event. ‘Earth’, as you know, begins tomorrow. I’d like to brief you, if I may, on what you should pack in advance.”

The assembled boys listened intently.

“You will need to prepare for probably a couple of nights and maybe three days-worth of activity. Bring layers. Bring jackets. Bring combat trousers. And your waterproofs. Probably your bite-proof ones too. I’m not sure what’s out there, but I’m sure you’ll find out.”

An uneasy, unspoken feeling crept across the boys.

“’Earth’ is a straightforward task. Think of it as a warm-up to begin with, an icebreaker so to speak. You’ll quickly get into the swing of things, I’m sure! As I have explained before, you will compete in your teams of three. In the morning, early, each team will be taken independently to an area far from here and tasked with retrieving a flag. The area is dense and dark and thick with forest. Creatures live there. No doubt there’ll be creatures neither you nor I have encountered before.”

He broke off to smile.

“You can tell me all about them when you return. If you return. There may be other little things that will hinder your progress along the way. It’s the unexpected things that will keep you on your toes… and keep the viewers watching. It’s all about the viewers, boys, don’t forget that. Give good telly, will you?!”

He smiled again. No-one smiled back.

“Remember, there can be only one winning team and from the two losing teams, depending on social media response, at least one contestant will be eliminated.”

He rubbed his hands.

“Any questions?”

None were forthcoming. The man felt better for having exerted his power and control over the boys. His chest swelled whenever he brought silence and unease to the proceedings. He loved being in charge again.

“Then we’ll eat. Afterwards you should pack. There may be some free time later on, but lights out tonight will be 2000 hours, ahead of a 4am or so start in the morning.”

The boys ate. They talked about the Earth event, sharing their concerns and fears in a frank and open discussion that none of them would have thought possible a few weeks before. Pamela had told them that after tomorrow morning they were unlikely to see her again, her role now having been fulfilled, so much of the talk was of funny stories and first impressions. She seemed sorry that her time was up and the boys were sad that their first connection to Kimble, to ‘The Elements’ was being severed.

Back in his room, Connor carefully packed his things. The man’s voice rang in his head as he looked out clothing that he’d only ever worn when he’d first tried it on. He packed everything he’d been told to pack, adding a couple of extra layers and a pair of fire-proof combat trousers just in case. In the inside pocket he stuck a ‘juicebox’ – a device that would give him an extra boost of battery power should his phone run out of charge. Alongside it he put in a notebook and a couple of pens and, most importantly of all, his anti-allergy medication. At the top of the backpack he squashed in a one-man tent that had been left in the middle of his room when he’d returned from eating. The note on it said simply, ‘Pack me.’ He lifted his camouflaged backpack, put it on and let his back and shoulders adjust to its weight. Could he carry this around with him for half a week or more? Even with his recently developed strength and fitness, he wasn’t sure he could. Still wearing the backpack, he ran through a mental inventory of everything he’d packed. Perhaps he could lose the fireproof trousers? Or the second pair of boots? He didn’t want to be hampered by it but nor did he want to find himself in a situation where he was wishing he had a piece of equipment that he’d removed from his pack at the last minute. He decided to keep the backpack as it was. He’d get used to it. He’d need to.

There was little free time that evening and so none of the boys emerged from their rooms. Inside, each updated and uploaded; pictures of backpacks, thumbs-up selfies, ‘see you on ‘Earth’-type messages. There was a mixture of excitement and anticipation, expectation of the competition and fear of the unknown. As ever, there were hundreds, thousands of messages from his supporters and as he read with constantly sweeping thumbs, the lights harshly shut off without warning. At 8pm, Connor lay atop his bed in just his underwear, the soft glow from his phone illuminating his face, casting an enlarged shadow of his head onto the wall behind the headboard. He plugged his phone in to charge, brushed his teeth in the dark and lay, trying to sleep in a bed that he hoped he’d be back in before too long. At some point, while lost in jumbled thoughts of parents and dark forests and the boys on the other teams, he nodded off.

(more to follow in the future)

A young boy is caught shoplifting and is offered the choice of 8 months hard labour or taking part in a new reality TV show. Having never been on TV, this is his preferred option. The show is an elimination show but unknown to the public who watch every night and interact via social media 24 hours a day, the show is not what it seems. When the boys learn the true meaning of the word ‘elimination’, everything changes.

Aimed at readers aged 11-14, The Elements is a novel very much in need of an agent and a publisher and quite possibly a sympathetic editor – three things that have so far proven impossible to find. Rather than let the words sleep forever in a folder on my desktop, they’re being serialised at Plain Or Pan.

I appreciate you’re not quite the intended demographic for the book, but it’d be great if you could read it through the same eyes that first landed on a 2 Tone sleeve or a Topical Times Football Book. Positive comments welcome. Any and all offers of publication will be considered.

All previous chapters of The Elements can be found here.

The Elements

by Craig McAllister

Chapter 9

The boys were sat in a classroom. It had all the regular features of the classrooms Connor had been in at school; smartboard on the wall, a dusty chalkboard beside it, a teacher’s desk angled in the corner to see both every face in the room and anyone who might appear at the door. Bookcases crammed with paperbacks and hardbacks, a mixture of fiction and non-fiction, ran the length of the back wall. Various informative posters – ‘Is your brain left-sided or right-sided?’, ‘Vygotsky v Piaget: Learning Theories Explained’, ‘Motivation: Extrinsic or Intrinsic?’ were dotted around the walls. Unlike Connor’s (old) school, where the desks in his class were arranged into groups, the desks here were laid out individually; three columns and three rows, a knots-and-crosses grid with a space for every boy. Unusually, given the controlled way in which the boys had been kept apart until now, they were free to choose wherever they sat. At each desk was a thick notepad of paper, a tin pencil case, a sleek tablet and a set of headphones, the cables for them spaghetti-ing out over the edge. Despite being a classroom, the room still very much had the same clinical feel as the rest of Kimble.

At the smartboard was a small, eccentric man. Even before he had spoken Connor knew he wasn’t like anyone else he’d met since being here. Firstly, this man had a somewhat relaxed approach to personal grooming. Whereas the man and Cameron, and de la Cruz especially, had a clear daily routine of highly-maintained hair and sculpted eyebrows and wore immaculate clothes with razor-sharp creases, this man’s hair was a vertical shock of hard-wired grey; a stranger to both shower and shampoo. He bumbled back and forth with the undone hems of his loosely-hanging trousers trailing behind him. Half of his gingham-checked shirt was tucked into the waistband, the other half flapping unselfconsciously by his side. He wore a wide tie with a repeated image of Bugs Bunny on it, some of which was obscured by a dull stain that may a few months ago have been tomato ketchup or chocolate fudge cake. Over the top of his shirt he wore a lab coat that had been a brilliant, sterile white when he’d first worn it. The side pockets bulged lumpily with unknown contents. A pen poked out of the top pocket, a small inky blotch from an old pen still in evidence on the material underneath. An ID badge was clipped apologetically from the same pocket.

“Welcome, boys,” he said, peering over the top of small, round, rimless glasses. Connor was amazed to hear an American accent. He had expected a voice very much like Mr Szczęsny’s from back home. “My name is Professor Zimmerman but I don’t mind if you call me Arty. We’re all friends here.” He smiled sweetly at the boys. The tension in the room dropped a notch.

“We shall begin by introducing ourselves. Your first name, please, followed by the first thing you plan to do when you get out of here.”

He looked at each boy individually, nodding a welcome, putting them at ease. Zimmerman couldn’t have been any less like the other authoritative figures here.

Silence.

The professor smiled and stepped forward.

“I’ll start. I know you’re all thinking, ‘Oh gosh! I hope he doesn’t choose me first, because I don’t know what I plan to do when I get out of here,’ so maybe this will help. My name, as I’ve already told you, is Professor Arthur Zimmerman. Most everybody calls me Arty and that’s what I’d prefer you to call me too. When I get out of here, the first thing I plan to do is go back home – my real home in the States, not the place I currently live in while I’m working here – and take a hike into the woods, followed by a midnight dip in Lake Wanda. It’s a supremely refreshing way of washing off the dirt and grime of the day.”

He stopped, gauging the reaction. All nine boys leaned forwards at their desks, listening to everything he had to say. He had their full attention, not through fear like the man or George, but by being open and honest and friendly, three traits that were so far unusual at Kimble.

“Would anyone like to go next? I won’t put anyone on the spot.”

Connor’s mind raced with what he might say when it was his turn. He wasn’t one for going first though. He wanted to hear what others had to say, to make sure what he said didn’t sound out of place amongst the other answers. In the event it was Reilly who started things off.

“Hi. Yeah, my name’s Lewis Reilly and the first thing I’m going to do when I get out of here is pet my dog Jarvis.”

“Thank you for that, Lewis,” smiled Zimmerman. “Who would like to go next?”

“I will.” It was Burgess this time. “My name’s Alexander. When I get out of here, the first thing I plan to do is sleep.”

Zimmerman moved from front and centre and sat at his desk. He slid his chair back and put his scuffed shoes on the edge of the oak desk.

“Grayson, Mr…sorry….Professor….Zimmerman. The first thing I’ll do when this is over is buy the biggest pizza I can and then eat it all myself.”

By now, the room was charged. The boys who had still to speak were respectful of not butting in and were acutely aware of Zimmerman’s non-verbal cues. Although he sat in relaxed fashion, the professor wrote notes as each boy talked and it became the unspoken rule that no-one continued until his head lifted from the notebook he was scribbling in.

“Andy Fowler. Eh, Andy. When we get out of here, I’m going to play xBox online with my pals.”

Now that he had gauged the answers, Connor wanted to speak. He didn’t want to be last to do so either. There was always the chance that Zimmerman might ask a follow-up question.

Rhys got in before him.

“I’m Rhys. The first thing I’m going to do when I get home is hug my mum and dad.” Rhys had said the first honest answer of all the boys.

Connor seized his chance.

“My name’s Connor. When I get out of here the first thing I plan to do is ask my mum to make me her chicken curry.” This wasn’t strictly true, but Connor hadn’t wanted to copy Rhys’s answer.

Alan and Stephen both now started speaking and in an unusually strong display of character, it was Alan who talked Stephen down. Once he had everyone’s full attention, he started again.

“I’m Randolph Alan but, please, just call me Alan. It’s what I prefer. When this is all over, I think I’m just gonna disappear for a while, maybe just vanish forever. They all hate me back there.”

At this, Zimmerman stopped writing, lifted his feet from the desk and sat upright in his swivel chair. The boys watched as he leaned his elbows in front of him and brought his hands up, cupping them and allowing his chin to rest between them. He peered over the tops of his glasses again.

“Interesting, Alan. Interesting.”

The professor returned to his notebook, scribbling noisily. The scratching from his pencil was the only noise in the room. The boys either side of Alan – Reilly and Harrison, drew him a surprised look then returned their gaze to Zimmerman. He looked calmly at them, silently allowing the next boy to speak.

Stephen spoke next.

“I’m Stephen, but you can call me ‘Hasthtag le gingembre!’ Stephen followed his opening remark with a little snorted laugh. “When I get out of here…” he looked around knowingly, gurning at the others, “The first thing I’m going to do is have a party and invite all the girls who’ve been messaging me since I got here. Har har har har!”

He snorted alone into the silent space around him. Connor cringed. He was sure he wasn’t the only one. The professor allowed the last of the guffaws to peter out and indicated that the next boy should speak. Silence followed. He ran the sharpened point of the pencil down his page of notes.

“Let’s see…six, seven, eight…yes, we have one more still to go. Who shall it be?”

Zimmerman looked directly at Harrison and smiled. Harrison leaned back at his desk, one arm draped behind his chair, his legs crossed and stretched out to the side in front of him. He pulled what was almost a sneer from his curled lip then sniffed, wiped his nose absent-mindedly on the back of his hand and maintained gazing somewhere into the middle-distance.

“And what is your name, sir?” Zimmerman squinted from his desk to Harrison, trying to read his name tag on the front of his shirt. Either he was too far away, or his eyesight was too weak, or a mixture of both, for Zimmerman was unable to make out what the white blur said.

Silence still.

Reilly and Alan looked across their row to Harrison, who failed to acknowledge them. He continued staring beyond the ends of his feet at the floor. Zimmerman by now had stood up and was walking between the desks. He arrived at Harrison and read his shirt.

“Mr Harrison. Pleased to meet your acquaintance. And does Mr Harrison have a first name, by chance? Or is your name really Harrison 3?”

There was a muffled snigger from somewhere at the back. Harrison steadfastly ignored him and it.

“Or does Mr Harrison perhaps have an idea of what he’d like to do first once all of this is over?”

Silence still.

You had to admire Harrison’s steel. Zimmerman seemed nice enough, but only an idiot wouldn’t think this whole scene wasn’t playing out on a screen behind a wall somewhere else within the building. Connor, still smarting from his meeting with the man at lunchtime, found himself wishing, hoping that it would be Harrison, with his petted lip and stupid haircut who next felt his wrath.

Zimmerman was back at the smartboard. He tapped at a keyboard and ‘The Elements’ logo spun forebodingly on the screen.

“Boys. You and I will see a lot of each other over the next weeks and months. We will meet here every afternoon. In this classroom we will work on your mindset, on building positivity in each of you, on making you the best person you can be. There’ll be some lectures where you will be encouraged to take notes. There’ll be some practical group activities where you will be expected to contribute to the success of the task that is set. There’ll be individual tasks where you will be pushed to your limit, challenged to solve seemingly unsolvable problems. All of this will help you approach ‘The Elements’ in the best possible mental state. Do any of you have any questions just now? I appreciate all of this is new to you, so I’m happy to answer anything I can as we go on.”

He paused.

“No questions?”

The room was silent again. Calm.

“Okay. Well if anything jumps to mind as we’re working, don’t hesitate to ask.”

Turning his back to the boys Zimmerman scribbled on the chalkboard. A website, a user ID and a generic password were scrawled in spidery white-chalked letters.

“Boys. Please open the laptop on your desk and access this website. When prompted to sign in, use the information I’ve given you here. After that you will have the option to choose your own username and password. It’s important you do. We’ll be doing a little IQ test. Nothing scary, certainly nothing to worry about. We’d like to measure your intelligence as you progress through ‘The Elements’. We fully expect that, as your body gets fitter and stronger, so too will your mind.”

‘Lab rats’ thought Connor. ‘That’s all we are to them. Cheap entertainment for the masses and a scientific experiment for everyone else.’

Connor logged on, followed the instruction and found himself at an Elements-branded website. In the centre of the screen pulsed a huge cartoon brain. Multi-coloured mechanical cogs, lightbulbs and question marks expanded, shrunk and expanded again inside it. A button read ‘Take IQ test now’ and was begging to be pressed. Connor resisted temptation until Zimmerman had given them the go-ahead to do so.

“Are we all in, yes? Andy? Stephen? Lewis?”

The boys nodded in affirmation.

“Alan?”

“Just about….” There followed a quiet, forceful tapping as his forefinger prodded the relevant information onwards and he gave a definitive thumbs up towards Zimmerman.

“Everybody else? Connor? Rhys? Mr Harrison?”

Harrison failed to acknowledge Zimmerman’s response again. Zimmerman waited, smiling. Harrison sat in standoffish silence. A small amount of tension crept into the room and licked around the boys’ shoulders. Rhys peered across to Harrison’s desk. He could see the same cartoon brain on Harrison’s screen. Zimmerman waited, still smiling. Rhys was desperate for Zimmerman to look at him, so that he could signal that Harrison was in fact logged in and the atmosphere in the room could return to normal. The others were unsure of what to do, but no one pressed the button on their screen. Zimmerman spoke.

“If you have successfully logged in and can see this screen…” The professor clicked a mouse and the Elements logo gave way to the cartoon brain. “…feel free to begin when you feel ready. Answer each question as best you can and take as long as you need. There is no time limit on this.”

As he finished, fingers began stabbing at touchscreens and at least eight of the boys busied themselves with the task in hand.

The screen looked confusing at first, with a series of coloured boxes, all containing lines, shapes and dots inside, laid out in three rows of three. The last box in each question was blank and Connor was asked to click one of four possible options that would complete the pattern. Once the answer was submitted, a new puzzle appeared. It took Connor a handful of seconds to make sense of it all and, after his initial bewilderment, he was able to click through the first few quite rapidly. As he progressed, the logic behind each answer became harder to work out. The coloured boxes gave way to number sequences, which in turn gave way to number calculations involving ratios and percentages, which in turn gave way to a set of dials and arrows that required to be mentally rotated before the correct answer from the four options became clear. At one or two of them, Connor ended up guessing an answer, hoping that he’d done enough in the rest of the test to offset any wrong answer here.

After twenty questions, there was a 5-minute break where Connor was encouraged to put on the headset. A short, unrecognisable piece of classical music played soothingly and once finished, the laptop’s screen instructed him to continue.

The assessment changed from number logic to word logic. A series of word substitution and word recognition diagnostics followed. As before, these began easily enough but rapidly became challenging and, eventually at the last two or three, impossible, when Connor found himself guessing the answers. Once finished he was instructed to take another short break with the headphones again. This time, the familiar sweep of a Vivalidi tune filled his head. It might have been from the Four Seasons, Connor couldn’t quite remember, but he could see himself back in his art class, working his oil pastels into a good-quality piece of cartridge paper, Mrs Scott offering up encouragement at his side.

Connor was brought back to the present when the music stopped and Zimmerman’s voice cut in. Looking up, Connor could see the professor was talking into a small microphone connected to his own laptop.

“Boys, I don’t really expect many, any of you to have finished….but has anyone finished already?”

Connor thought he might have been until he noticed a third set of puzzles on the screen in front of him. The music had made his mind drift to the point where he hadn’t been aware of the laptop screen changing. He looked around. The other boys, even Harrison, were giving Zimmerman their full attention. It looked as though no-one had finished.

“If you’d like a longer break between sessions, please feel free to take something from the library at the back. There’re all sorts of books in there – classics, new fiction, explanatory manuals, comic books, there’s something for everyone. I don’t mind if you want to take a time-out from the online stuff. It can be tiring on the eyes as well as the brain. I don’t mind too if you’d rather just get on with it until you’re complete. There are four sessions in total, so that should give you an idea of how much you still have to go.”

Zimmerman pushed the microphone away from himself and went back to whatever it was he was doing. One by one the boys’ heads focused once more on the screens in front. No-one seemed brave enough to stop for a time-out just yet.

The next session facing Connor was a series of reaction tests. A traffic light sequence appeared, and Connor had 10 rounds at clicking a button as soon as it turned to red. At the end, an average speed of his reactions was calculated. Connor’s average was 0.3344 of a second. He had no idea if this was a good score or not. Next the whole screen went black. He had to click the mouse as soon as the screen turned white. Again, he did this ten times and again he was given an average time. The tests continued; stop the speeding ball in the middle of the circle, click when the number 9 appears, click when the sun turns into the moon, all sorts of fairly random stuff that generated an average time after each one.

The session concluded with another short dose of classical music on the headphones, designed to relax the participant before the final round.

The last test was something called the Harrower-Erickson Rorschach Test. Connor was shown a symmetrical image, similar to the effect of a piece of paper with a grey blob of paint on it being folded in half to leave a mirror print of the blob. The image on the screen  looked a bit like a bat with thin, narrow wings spreading out from its sides. It also looked a bit like two mice dancing face to face, their tails curling out behind them. ‘Memorise the given image’ the screen said and when the next page was opened, 10 options appeared. ‘Choose what would be the best description of the image you just saw and mark it in the column “1st”. If there is a second description that fits well too, mark it in the column “2nd”.’

For the first image, Connor selected ‘bat’ as the best description and, for a second description, ‘mice.’ The other options – ‘x-ray image’, ‘human skull’ and ‘bear’, amongst others, seemed like strange options to him. Once submitted, a new image appeared. Connor studied it, clicked to turn the page and selected ‘flower’ and ‘ladies dancing’ from the next set of options. Once he’d submitted his answers, another image appeared. Connor did this multiple times, clicking on variations of ‘dancers’, ‘rats’, ‘flowers’ and ‘x-ray images’ until all images had been viewed and compared. Finally, the test was complete.

Connor was unaware that he was stretching and yawning until the professor spoke to him.

“Connor, I imagine you have finished by now, yes?”

Connor nodded, slightly embarrassed that Zimmerman had caught him yawning. This class was anything but boring.

“It can be very tiring, staring at that screen for so long. Why don’t you join some of the others in some light reading to help you unwind.”

Connor looked around and was surprised to see a few of the other boys already bent over books and magazines at their desks. He’d been so wrapped up in the testing, he’d failed to notice others finishing around him. Amongst the readers was Harrison, who sat engrossed in a big book.

Connor flicked through the bookcases at the back of the room. The professor had been right – it was a well-stocked library. Connor came to the magazine section and rustled through the shelves until he’d found something which caught his fancy. He went back to his chair and read quietly until Zimmerman broke the silence thirty or so minutes later.

“Boys. I believe we have all finished the testing. It wasn’t so bad, was it? I can see from my laptop that everyone completed every section, so well done for your attempts. Your answers will now be analysed by my team and myself and recorded for our records. We will have your individual scores ready within the hour. Until then you may choose to continue reading or, if you wish, you may use the laptop to visit your social media profiles and update your status and suchlike. I know how important these things are to the success or otherwise of your time here.”

At that, every boy discarded their reading material and started tapping away again on the touchscreens in front of them. Connor couldn’t believe his luck. His phone might be with the man right now, but he’d be able to access all his accounts from here. He was already formulating his next status update in his head as he typed in the detail required to access his ‘Elements’ account.

‘Hi everyone,’ he would write. ‘I’m having phone issues right now, so I’m probably not going to be as active on here as I’d like to be.’

‘ACCESS TO THIS ACCOUNT IS SUSPENDED’.

The message across the screen was bold, blunt and not in the least expected. Connor stared at the words in front of him. Well, of course his account was suspended! The man was always one step ahead of everyone. He’d probably suspended Connor’s account even before he’d demanded his phone from him earlier on. Fruitlessly – maybe he’d entered incorrect details, he tried to convince himself – Connor re-entered the information and tried again.

‘ACCESS TO THIS ACCOUNT IS SUSPENDED’.

He tried Olé.

‘ACCESS TO THIS ACCOUNT IS SUSPENDED’.

He tried Babble.

‘ACCESS TO THIS ACCOUNT IS SUSPENDED’.

Connor felt a surging mix of shame and anger rise in him. He looked around. Everyone else was hunched over their laptops. They were online, updating statuses, cropping and editing selfies, creating memes, adding pictures of themselves from this very room, interacting with the only people who could save them. Connor was locked out of the party.

Somewhere nearby, in a room the boys would never know about, the man sat back in his swivel chair, staring with interest at the LCD monitor showing pictures of the boys in Zimmerman’s classroom. He clicked a mouse and a close-up of Connor’s upset face filled the screen. The man smirked, quiet satisfaction etched on his face, Cameron and the three girls at his back.

Back in the classroom, Zimmerman spoke to Connor.

“Connor. Problem?”

“Yeah. No.”

“Come speak to me.” The professor pulled a chair to the side of his desk and beckoned Connor to sit.

“What’s the problem, Connor? I watched you becoming quite upset there. How can I help you?”

“It’s nothing,” said Connor unconvincingly. “It’s just….my phone was confiscated earlier on and when I tried to log into my accounts, they were all blocked.”

“I see,” said Zimmerman with a quiet nod.

“So, I can’t get online to update anything or share a picture or reply to comments. Right now, I don’t exist. Everyone else is gaining popularity and followers and I’m quickly being forgotten about.”

“Hmmm,” pondered the professor. “May I ask why your phone was taken from you?”

“I was caught texting my mum. I tried to call her too. That man, whatever his name is, he took it from me at lunchtime. I don’t know when I’ll get it back….if I’ll get it back.”

“That seems quite harsh punishment, given the circumstances. However, he makes the rules. You must earn his respect and trust that he returns your phone quickly.”

“But what do I do until then? I can’t get online to say things, see things, share things.”

“As hard as it may seem,” said the man, “you must accept this. You cannot change what has happened. You can only learn from it and use it to make you a stronger person. We must find positives in even the most negative of circumstance. Remember that.”

The professor looked at Connor with a smile and finished.

“I must get back to these results. May I suggest you continue reading for a few more minutes and shortly, class will be finished.”

“Thanks Professor Zimmerman.”

“Arty, please.”

“Thanks, Arty.”

Connor returned to his desk feeling no less sorry for himself, but a bit more enlightened for having had the one-to-one conversation with Zimmerman. He flicked distractedly through the magazine in front of him, all the time aware that those around him were gaining valuable headway over him online.

A short while later, Arty asked the boys to stop what they were doing, to log off and power down, to return any reading material back to the shelf where they got it. This they did with no complaints or fuss. Within 30 seconds of speaking to the class, every boy had a tidy desk and, Harrison included, a posture that told the professor they were ready for what he had to say.

“Boys. Your results are in and analysed. They make for interesting reading. It would be unfair of me to share your results with your peers so, shortly, I will make the point of giving you your scores individually.”

Somewhere nearby, in the room the boys would never know about, the man stood up to leave.

“Before I do this, I’d like to explain some things. The IQ test that you began with sets a baseline score of your intelligence quotient. We will use this baseline to plot your intelligence as ‘The Elements’ progresses. What we hope to find is an upwards curve as everyone’s brain adapts and grows to the challenges faced.”

The man, followed by Cameron and the three girls, walked quickly and purposefully through the stark white corridors.

“An average IQ score is usually around 100, so anyone scoring above that will be considered above average. Within this group, I’d expect maybe 2 or 3 of you to score over 100. Perhaps 1 or 2 of you will score less than 100 too. That is nothing to concern yourself with for the moment. What I will say though is…”

There was a brief rap on the door and the man entered, Cameron immediately behind him. The three girls loitered at the door until the man told them to come in. Suddenly the classroom felt smaller.

“Professor Zimmerman. Contestants.” The man took control of the room. “Cameron, girls, please find a seat, thank you.”

Zimmerman looked first at the man, then the girls as they sat down, then Cameron, then the boys, then back to the man. He was not impressed.

“Afternoon sir,” he said. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

The man ignored him to an extent and tapped a login on the laptop. The screen changed and a spreadsheet of data appeared.

“Contestants. These, I believe, are your test results from this afternoon. Now, I’m no data expert, but from what I can tell, I’d say we have some pretty smart contestants here, and a few that have more than a little way to go to meet the standard required.”

Zimmerman visibly bristled at his desk.

The man continued.

“Let’s see.” Tap, tap, tap. “Yes! Mr Harrison. I believe you are our top scorer! How interesting! IQ of 118! Excellent analyst although emotionally unstable. Sociopathic. Unreliable. Your Rorschach test was quite the thing.”

Zimmerman stood up, leaning at his desk.

“Sir, this is highly unethical.”

The man ignored him and continued.

“And Mr Alan. Who’d have known?  IQ of 116. Expert logician. Also emotionally unstable. Antagonistic. There are some serious issues you need to overcome.”

“SIR! PLEASE! ENOUGH!”

The man turned ninety degrees to look at Zimmerman. The atmosphere in the room, already rapidly cooling, was now positively cold.

“Sir.” Zimmerman caught his breath before continuing. “Sharing this information can have untold detrimental psychological and emotional effects on the individuals. I ask you to consider this.”

The man turned to face the boys. He continued speaking.

“Mr Campbell. The scientist. IQ of 112. Methodical. Precise. Slight schizophrenic tendencies.”

There was a clatter at Zimmerman’s desk and a jarring scrape as his chair was pushed behind him. Zimmerman was up and out. He pushed past the man, an unruly mess of outraged hair and lab coat tails following him out of the room.

The boys watched on in awkward silence. Connor felt for Zimmerman. In the professor, he thought, lay something of an ally against the man, but now he saw that Zimmerman was no more powerful than the boys themselves. At the front of the class, the man continued speaking.

“McPherson. Dear oh dear oh dear! Narcissistic. Highly sociopathic. IQ 85. Work to be done, there I’d say. Fowler. IQ 92….less than average…” Tap, tap, tap. “…emotionally unstable.” The man raised his eyes towards Fowler, who sat shame-faced at his desk. He continued tapping and muttering to himself. “Burgess…98. Inflated ego. Stewart…109. Attachment issues. Anderson…100. Slight neuroticism. Reilly…100. Jealous, insecure.”

He looked at the boys, eyeballing them the way he had done in the gravel car park on the first day.

“Quite a lot of work to be done, eh? What’s that phrase? ‘No-one’s perfect’. Well, that’s certainly plain to see. You all have much to learn before we start properly.”

He looked at Cameron, who rose immediately from his chair.

“Girls!”

As one, the three girls stood.

“Accompany the boys back to their rooms. You may have some R&R time, contestants, but please be ready for evening meal at 1800 hours. Thank you.”

With that, the man and Cameron left, perhaps on the war path for Zimmerman, perhaps to take some R&R time for themselves.

(more to follow in the future)

A young boy is caught shoplifting and is offered the choice of 8 months hard labour or taking part in a new reality TV show. Having never been on TV, this is his preferred option. The show is an elimination show but unknown to the public who watch every night and interact via social media 24 hours a day, the show is not what it seems. When the boys learn the true meaning of the word ‘elimination’, everything changes.

Aimed at readers aged 11-14, The Elements is a novel very much in need of an agent and a publisher and quite possibly a sympathetic editor – three things that have so far proven impossible to find. Rather than let the words sleep forever in a folder on my desktop, they’re being serialised at Plain Or Pan.

I appreciate you’re not quite the intended demographic for the book, but it’d be great if you could read it through the same eyes that first landed on a 2 Tone sleeve or a Topical Times Football Book. Positive comments welcome. Any and all offers of publication will be considered.

The Elements

by Craig McAllister

Chapter 7

“What you have to remember boys, is that the eyes of the world are on you constantly. Even if a question hasn’t been directed at you, don’t think you don’t need to behave appropriately.”

The man was standing at his podium, film of the morning’s press conference playing behind him. Connor was pleased that he’d confirmed the need to be always ‘on’ but was equally annoyed as he felt that, until now, it might’ve given him some advantage over the others.

“Look at this boy here.”

He tapped into a keyboard and an area of the screen pixelated before enlarging.

“Number 5. Reilly.”

The boys laughed as Reilly absent-mindedly picked at his nose.

“And this boy. Alan, seven.’

Alan was laughing internally and rolling his eyes at something; a question from a journalist perhaps, or another boy’s answer. It didn’t really matter.

“Mr Alan. This little expression has already been clipped over 1000 times and is currently doing the rounds as a meme. You’ll no doubt find it in your down time later.”

The boys continued to laugh, each grateful that it was someone else being highlighted.

“And Harrison, number 3.”

On screen, Harrison could be seen muttering something under his breath. The man tapped at his keyboard and the image replayed multiple times, each time zooming in on Harrison’s moving lips.

“Mr Harrison. I’m no lip reader, but I have a fairly good idea that in this clip you were saying unsavoury things about someone. Would that be fair to say?”

Harrison shrunk into his seat.

“Hmm?”

Harrison remained silent.

“That someone being me, I believe. Would I be correct?”

The frivolity in the room had dissipated, the atmosphere immediately tense.

“Luckily, here at ‘The Elements’, we do have lip readers to hand, and let me tell you boys, let me remind you Harrison, of what it was you said, shall I?”

Harrison brought his knees up to his chin, heels on the edge of the chair, his arms around his knees keeping him tightly packed together.

“That bastard is going to get it. That’s what you are saying in this clip, is it not? That bastard is going to get it.”

Harrison remained in the same position, angry tears of frustration making slow tracks down both cheeks.

“Quite how this bastard is going to get it will be an interesting spectacle to watch, I’d wager. I’d be more worried about this bastard getting you first, Harrison. Don’t forget our little chat, thank you.”

Any fun that had been in the room had evaporated. The film continued to play silently for a moment as Cameron and the man busied themselves; the man at his keyboard, Cameron writing with a stylus on a tablet.

A new image appeared, this time of Stephen’s carrot-coloured spiky hair. Stephen’s stomach dropped instantly.

“This,” said the man incredulously “is apparently the number one trending subject in France! Mr McPherson’s hair! Currently something of a phenomenon, the French girls can’t get enough of it! This has put Mr McPherson (number one) at the actual number one in the popularity stakes…and you don’t need me to tell you the importance of popularity if you’re going to survive this show.”

The man continued, lowering his voice.

“Boys. Take notes. Your image is all-important. The public is vain, by and large. They don’t care about how good you are at chemistry or what books you’ve read or how nice you are to your mum at the weekend. They just want something nice to look at.”

He hesitated, looking first at the image of Stephen on the screen and then at Stephen himself.

“…even if that ideal of ‘nice’ might be subjective.”

Stephen really wasn’t sure what the man meant by this. Was he being complementary? He didn’t think he was. But maybe he had been. Still, he was number one in the ratings. That was all that mattered.

“So! I have arranged for a hair stylist for each of you. They will take the mop you currently own  – McPherson excepted, obviously, although you too will be given a stylist – and transform it into a public-pleasing look. Following that, there will be a photo shoot. We will produce a series of shots of all of you in the various clothes you selected yesterday. They will be sent out to the media for promotional purposes. You may wish to choose an image or two for your own social media platforms.

As you have seen, your public image is everything. Make the most of this opportunity.”

The man led the boys into a new room on the other side of the corridor. Around three of the walls were placed dressing tables with large square mirrors, the mirrors bordered by bare lightbulbs of the sort you’d find in a theatre dressing room. A team of stylists were already there, a mixture of men and women, standing around in the middle chatting idly. One or two filed their nails. Two of the men sat apart from the group, engrossed in their phones. All immediately ceased activities when the man entered.

“Afternoon all,” he said light-heartedly as the boys filed in behind him. “Here are your clients. As we have already discussed, do as you wish.”

He happened to catch sight of Grayson and his near collar-length highlights, and as an afterthought he added, “Take as long as you need.”

The team of stylists spread out amongst the boys.

“You must be Connor Stewart,” said a male voice as Connor felt a tap on his shoulder. “I’m Gerry. Pleased to meet you.”

The pair shook hands and Gerry led Connor to one of the dressing tables.

“It’s a bit weird this, isn’t it?” said Gerry. “Boys your age tend not to have stylists, really. Who normally cuts your hair?”

“Eh, it’s a guy called Dave. Dave the Shave he’s called. My dad calls him Shaky Dave because his hand shakes now and again.”

“When he cuts it, do you tell him how you’d like it?”

“Not really, no. I’ve always gone there. He just cuts it the same way every time.”

“And are you happy with how he cuts it?”

“I think so, yeah. I’ve never really thought about it.”

“Would you mind if I tried something new with your hair? Nothing radical. We’re not talking totally shaved off or bronze highlights or anything.” Gerry ran his fingers through Connor’s hair. “But you have a good head of hair here. I could give you a style that’ll look good but would be easy to maintain.”

“I suppose so,” said Connor. He’d never, ever considered that hair might need maintaining.

“Trust me,” replied Gerry. And with a swish of the sharp blades between his fingers, he set to work.

A short while later, Connor was in possession of a new haircut that didn’t look too different from what he normally had. A bit longer on top maybe, a bit better shape, a less-obvious cow’s lick, but he was still recognisably Connor. Looking around the room, most boys looked pretty much the same as before too; smarter, shorter, more shine maybe, but no-one looked noticeably different. No-one that was, apart from Harrison. He’d opted for a full-blown into-the-wood buzzcut but had left a tiny circle of dark hair at the front. It had been gelled up into a jagged point.

Harrison had taken the opportunity to adopt the full-on teenage psycho look. Instantly, he looked intimidating.

After a long and drawn-out photo shoot which Connor found incredibly boring; ‘look here….and up there….point….serious face….more serious….smiling now….look tough…tougher…yes…now in the subzero armour, thanks…’ the boys sat at their evening meal. The talk was naturally of the day’s events. The general consensus was that, no matter how this was dressed up, ‘The Elements’ was essentially an extreme punishment camp for boys who had erred to varying degrees. Each of the three boys had spoken in hushed tones about what they’d done to end up being sent here. Pamela, despite her presence and authority, didn’t intervene. In fact, if anything, she promoted the conversation.

“Connor,” she said with a smile. “Is it true you’re only here because you stole a magazine?”

The other boys looked at Connor, mid mouthful. ‘You know fine well!’ thought Connor to himself.

“Uh huh,” he said nodding, his mouth still full of food.

“And Stephen. You’re also here because you have a habit of stealing things too, is that right?”

Stephen looked in turn at the three of them.

“Yeah,” he said. “I stole money from my gran’s purse.” He flushed. “It was a terrible thing to do. No excuses.”

Everyone turned to Rhys.

“I pocketed chemicals from the science lab at school. I was trying to make my own hallucinogenic drugs.”

No-one, perhaps except for Pamela, expected that answer.

Connor spoke next.

“So, however you look at it, we’re all here for stealing things. What about the others? What are they here for? I know Grayson vandalised his neighbour’s garden. And Alan…Randolph…he…”

Connor stopped himself saying it out loud. The man had seen to it that everyone there already knew what he’d done.

“What d’you think the others are here for?” asked Rhys. “Do you think we’re, like, the stealing team. That lot over there are the vandals and Alan’s team are the really bad ones, the ones who’ve done terrible things to other people?”

All three plus Pamela looked at the table where Randolph sat. Number 5, Reilly, the nose-picker was busy shovelling heaps of mashed potato into his sharply-featured face. Alan and the girl were in conversation, he talking and she listening. Beside her, Harrison sat in silence, an empty fork in his hand, a storm on his brow. He’d been an insignificant presence until the press conference, but now, coupled with the menacing haircut, he had all the classic characteristics of someone who might tip over the edge.

“What d’you think Harrison’s here for?” said Stephen, his voice even lower than before.

“He’s probably murdered someone,” said Rhys matter-of-factly, a mouthful of spaghetti snaking into his mouth. “Or set someone on fire, like Alan did.”

“Boys. I think we should leave the speculation for another time. Remember, the eyes and ears of the world are watching.”

Somewhere nearby, in that other room that the boys would never know about, the man and Cameron sat on a pair of leather swivel chairs watching and listening.

“Nice work, Pamela,” said the man, reaching out and touching ‘her’ on the LCD screen in front of him. “Nice work.”

Cameron wrote silently onto his tablet as the man leaned back and swivelled.

After eating and freshening up, the boys were given some free time in the R&R room. Once Pamela and the other two girls had brought them to the room, they’d disappeared, leaving the boys on their own. For the first time since arriving, all nine boys were permitted to mix together. The arcade machines were in use, colourful explosions lighting up the faces of the boys at the controls, the bleeps, bloops and retro whooshes travelling far into the middle of the room. The vending machine dispensed chocolate and other confectionary. Connor was amazed to discover that none of it cost anything. You keyed in your room number, followed by the product number and whatever you’d selected dropped promptly into the tray. The large video screen at the far end of the room was showing YouTube footage of the day’s events. A couple of the boys were sat on the couches they’d dragged in front of it, their legs dangling over the side as they ate crisps and watched themselves. The tell-tale clack of pool balls and the click-click-click of the ping-pong ball transported Connor straight back to the youth club at the scout hall. He wondered, suddenly, if he’d ever get to spend his Friday nights back there again.

The R&R room was a bit over-stimulating, truth be told. Connor had hoped for something a bit more relaxing where he could gather his thoughts from the day, maybe check out his social media updates. He’d wanted to change his profile picture, maybe use one of the professional ones that had been taken earlier. He was curious about the YouTube footage, how he was presented and so he dragged a couch to the side of the boys and sat down to watch. They nodded a short acknowledgement before returning to the screen. On it, a bare-chested Stephen was singing into his mirror. The sound being low and the added stimulation of the noise from the arcade machines, as well as the pool balls, ping-pong balls and general buzz as the boys talked made it difficult to hear exactly what it was Stephen was singing. His eyebrows arched as he strained to hit a high note and he collapsed onto his bed in a fit of fake hysterical laughter. Stephen, it seemed, was trying a bit too hard. De la Cruz appeared as a talking head, intercut with various segments of the day’s activities. Below the images, Connor studied the information that would come to be something of an obsession with him.

As the film continued, Connor switched his attention to his phone. More notifications. He opened ‘Elements’ first. Another ‘50000+’. He scrolled quickly, stopping now and again to read. None of it was of any substance. It was all drivel. ‘You’re the best’, ‘You’re gonna win’, ‘I like ur new haircut’, all that sort of stuff. Pretty vacuous. The private messages were no different. He changed to Olé. More of the same. A meme showed him sniggering at something at the press conference. Across it in white letters had been added, ‘when your bro goes to the cookie jar but you already ate da last one!’ A blur of hashtags and emojis whizzed past as he scrolled, stopping randomly to look at the sharply-filtered photos of himself. He came across the official ‘Elements’ shots from the afternoon’s photoshoot, found a couple he liked and saved them to his phone. Switching between the three accounts, he uploaded his new profile picture. On Babble, he wrote another message for his followers.

‘Hey everybody! Thanks a million for all the messages and comments again. Hope you like the new profile pic – this is supposed to be my tough-guy look haha! We start training tomorrow so maybe by the end of the week I’ll have got a bit more tougher. Signing off for the night, Connor.‘’

Connor copied the same message into the other two accounts and turned back to the YouTube highlights playing out on the screen. They were showing film of the photo-shoot, cringe-inducing stuff of the boys being forced to pose unnaturally. No-one looked comfortable, least of all Connor. Then Harrison appeared, psycho haircut and thousand-yard stare. At one point, the camera seemed to stare down into the depths of his very soul and Harrison, oblivious to the hidden camera, stared straight back. Cut between the stupidity of Stephen singing and de la Cruz’s slick TV act, it was chilling.

Connor needed to get away from all of this. The screen was too big. His own head looked gigantic every time he appeared. It was ridiculous. The noise from the room was overpowering. His phone was constantly reminding him of the need to interact and engage with thousands of strangers. There was nowhere he could escape to. He could maybe find his way back to his room but he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to. Would doing that earn him a post-meal meeting with the man? He wasn’t willing to take the chance. For the first time since arriving, Connor missed his mum and dad. He wasn’t sure he could call them. Text them even. He had his mum’s number, the only number now in his phone, but no-one had given him permission to contact her. He daren’t call without being given the go-ahead. Lost in his thoughts for the time being, Connor looked at the screen but took nothing in.

“Connor! Yo! Connor!”

It was Grayson. He was with Fowler. Both looked happy to see him.

“Andy, this is Connor. Connor, this is Andy.”

Each acknowledged the other with a smile, bonded by their mutual friendship of Grayson.

“Pretty crazy this, innit?” said Grayson. “Not just this.” He nodded back into the body of the room. “But all of this. The clothes, the photo shoot, that press conference…..’The Elements’. What’s that all about?!?”

“I know,” agreed Connor. “Did you think you were signing up for this? ‘Cos I wasn’t.”

“No chance, mate.”

“I’m liking it!” said Fowler. “The rooms are great, the food is awesome and this place rocks!”

Connor looked at him wearily. He wanted to be upbeat but found it impossible.

“S’OK,” he replied. “But it’s a bit much. At the end of the day I think I prefer a quieter space.”

“Suit yourself, man,” said Andy. “Grayson mate, d’you fancy a game of pool?”

Grayson looked at Connor and smiled a weak smile before bouncing off to the free pool table, where Fowler was already racking up the balls. Connor’s thoughts turned once more to home. His mum in the kitchen, cooking at the stove. His dad at the sink, sleeves rolled up, foamy washing-up liquid halfway up his arms. Connor at the table, flicking through one of his magazines. Magazines! His sudden, overpowering feeling of guilt momentarily blotted out the buzz of the room before his thoughts were once again swallowed up by the chaos around him.

Somewhere nearby, in that other room that the boys would never know about, the man and Cameron sat on a pair of leather swivel chairs watching and listening. The three girls stood behind them, each focused on a different screen.

“This boy,” said the man, manipulating a joystick until Harrison’s face appeared on one of the screens, “Number 3, Harrison. An interesting young man. Worth keeping an eye on, eh Rebecca?” The girl behind him nodded in the affirmative.

“And this serious young chap…” The camera picked out Connor sitting alone, staring at the big screen. “The only boy so far that has had the foresight to have all the cameras and microphones deauthorised in his room. Very smart. He is not permitted to call home just yet. Is that clear, Pamela?”

“As a bell,” replied Pamela, a smile appearing on her face.

“It’s an interesting experiment, I must say,” said the man, swivelling to talk to the three girls. “Already we’re seeing signs of comradeship, loneliness, rage and anger, stupidity… The real stuff starts in the morning though.” He closed down the LCD screens with a click, asked Cameron to print him the daily report and double-checked his watch. “Time for bed, I think.”

The three girls returned to the recreation room. None of the boys paid much attention to them. Games of pool and table tennis were in full flow. There was a huddle around the arcade machines. The screen still showed the YouTube highlights, but by now, no-one was sitting watching them. From somewhere a switch was flicked. The screen shut down instantly. The two arcade machines went black and dead. A groan came from the huddle and the faces turned to complain.

“It’s lights-out time, boys. 2200 hours and no exceptions. It’s a big day tomorrow. Day 1 of training. You’ll need to be fresh for that.”

The girls led their respective groups back to their rooms.

“I’ll see you all in the morning,” smiled Pamela. “Bright eyed and bushy tailed! Sleep well.” She left them at the top of the corridor, allowing the three boys to walk the last part on their own.

“See you in the morning,” said Rhys as he arrived at his door.

“See you,” said Stephen and Connor in unison.

“Some day, eh!” said Stephen. “Can’t wait for tomorrow now!”

Connor wished him goodnight and entered his own room.

“Good evening Connor Stewart,” spoke the unseen voice. “Lights out is at 2200 hours and no exceptions. Your alarm is set for 6.30am. Would you like to change that time?”

“No,” said a weary Connor. “Thanks.”

Midway through brushing his teeth, the lights cut to black. Connor stopped, wiped his mouth on a towel and felt his way back to his bed. He lay in the dark. Despite the tiredness that had swept over him, he was restless and unable to sleep. He was tormenting himself over the idea of texting his mum. He’d been here two days now and had no contact. She would no doubt be getting worried. Even if she’d been watching what he’d been up to on YouTube she’d still want to talk to him, to hear his voice. Connor felt likewise. He held his phone under the covers and manipulated it in his hand. He wouldn’t dare call her. But he could text her. Would anyone find out? Maybe. Possibly. This place knew everything. They’d find out. Maybe not immediately or the next day, or even the day after that. But at some point, they’d find out. And, at some point, Connor would find himself invited to a post-meal meeting with the man.

He texted anyway.

‘Mum. It’s Connor. I’m missing you and dad so much. I’m not sure if I’m allowed to call you, so I’m texting instead. This TV show is not what it seems but I’ll be OK. We have to do a series of challenges before we can come home. I’m not quite sure what they involve yet. Some sort of running and swimming and stuff. The other boys seem OK. We’re well looked after. Our rooms are nice. The food is tasty. And we have a room full of video games and stuff too. We start training in the morning, whatever that is. As soon as I’m allowed to, I’ll call you, I promise. Love you both, Connor x’

His face was bathed in pale green light as he re-read the text. Happy with it, he paused, reconsidered the consequences then pressed ‘send’. Off it whooshed.

He lay back, wishing for an instant reply. His mum was usually quite quick at replying, but not tonight. Connor had an idea. He texted his mum again.

‘Mum. It’s me again. I know you don’t really bother with social media, but you should download Babble and Olé. ‘The Elements’ app too. And YouTube. You’ll be able to see what I’m up to at any point in the day. Everything we do is put online. You’d be able to message me too, so even if I can’t phone or text you, you can get me there. You can even comment on any pictures of me. So download Babble and Olé and ‘The Elements’ and get yourself on YouTube as soon as you can! Connor x’

Connor waited, willing his phone to light up in reply. Nothing. He couldn’t fight his tiredness any longer and felt his heavy eyes closing on the day just gone. That night he dreamt of a street of people all going in the same direction. Connor was in the middle of them, trying to head the opposite way and being buffeted aggressively by those around him. He felt panic at his inability to progress on his journey.

(more to follow in the future)