Crawlers

7:18pm

London Wall, EC2. The minibus of the Walsingham School for Boys, approaching the Barbican from the south.

Ben Freeman looked out at the passing streets and thought how much he hated his school. 

The Walsingham School for Boys was a smart, fee-paying boarding school in Sussex. Ben hated that his days and even his nights there were strictly scripted and timetabled; he hated the school's relentless focus on 'excellence' which, at Walsingham, meant sport, exams or both - and nothing else. But there was a third reason. 

Ben was the youngest in his family: he had two older sisters. He'd grown up in a female-dominated household, so Ben supposed that his parents had sent him to Walsingham in the hope he would make friends with other boys. It was a good theory. Ben's two abiding loves in life - games and horror films - were things his sisters, his mum and lately even his dad all seemed to find somehow regrettable. So when Ben had first arrived at Walsingham the previous term, he had hoped to meet people who shared his tastes - some like-minded guys he could get on with. 

Instead, Ben had met the people in the minibus. 

'Here's an interesting fact for you, boys...' said Mr Clissold. 

Each student at Walsingham was put into a small tutor group, looked after by one of the teachers. The idea was to provide a less formal support network outside main school hours, someone the students could go to if they had stuff to discuss. Tutors also organized outings for their groups, like tonight's to the theatre. Mr Clissold, Ben's tutor, had bad breath. Also his definition of 'interesting' wasn't the same as Ben's - or, Ben reckoned, most people's. 

'You know that London's divided into boroughs?' said Mr Clissold. 'Well, technically the City isn't actually one of them.' 

He paused. Ben and the three other boys in the tutor group did not reply. 

'It's because of the way the City is run,' Mr Clissold explained, undeterred. 'It's very unusual. Unlike the rest of the country, instead of a local council the City is governed by a special self-appointed body of officials: the Corporation of London.' 

'It's been that way for centuries,' said Josh Compton-Smith. 'Isn't that right?' 

'That's right, Josh,' said Mr Clissold, surprised. 'Since eleven forty-one, in fact, when-' 

'The Corporation's not terribly famous, it's true,' said Josh, 'but it's extremely influential. They own some of the most valuable land and property in the world, including five of London's bridges and most of the City itself. They've got their own special police force - the City of London Police. They've even got a private power station, so the City keeps on running no matter what.' 

'That's...' said Mr Clissold, taking his eyes off the road for a second. 'Actually, Josh, it seems you know more about this subject than I do.' 

Josh Compton-Smith gave his most dazzling grin, shrugged and said: 'Of course. My dad works for them.' 

Ben rolled his eyes and went back to looking out of the window. 

Josh was old for their school year, almost fourteen. He had floppy blond hair, and perfect teeth, and clear skin tanned by expensive holidays. Josh owned the latest gadgets. He was captain of the football team. His exam results were excellent. He even managed to make the school uniform, with its nasty maroon blazer, somehow look good on him. Everyone at Walsingham liked Josh. Everyone, in turn, wanted Josh to like them. 

Ben, four months off fourteen himself, was dark-haired, pale and freckled. On Ben's narrow shoulders the maroon jacket looked ridiculous. And Ben thought Josh was an arrogant prick. 

BRAAAAAAAAP. The warm air in the minibus was tainted by a pungent waft of semi-digested sausages. 

'Hugo,' said Josh mildly. 

'Sorry, mate,' said Hugo Walsh, grinning. 

Massive, square-headed, broad-shouldered, with bristly red hair, Hugo gave off a constant whiff of body odours of various kinds. He was destined to be an officer in the army, just like his father had been. He was Josh's right-hand man and he loved it, hanging on Josh's words, laughing at his jokes. Hugo himself only had one joke: he didn't tell it with his mouth but he told it again and again, and every time he did, everyone except Ben acted like it was the funniest thing they'd ever heard. 

'Mr Walsh,' said Mr Clissold, 'I do believe you produce more greenhouse gases than this minibus.' 

'That certainly was a particularly noxious emission, mate,' said Josh with approval - making Hugo's grin widen. 

'He's a one-man ecological catastrophe!' said Robert Cubbage. 

Josh looked at Robert and raised an eyebrow. Hugo's grin froze. The minibus fell silent. 

Here we go again, thought Ben. 

Robert was still smiling, but in his round, pudgy face his large cow-like eyes were darting about nervously. Robert was young for their year, not much more than thirteen. He was overweight and a bit sweaty. Robert wanted to be accepted. He would do anything to join Hugo and Josh, be part of their team, bask in their glow. 

'I do so love your accent, Robert,' Josh purred after a moment, once he'd selected which form Robert's humiliation would take this time. 'Let's hear it again: say "photograph".' 

Ben watched as Robert started to squirm. 

Accents mattered at Walsingham: there was only one acceptable way to speak and any deviation set you apart from the crowd, left you vulnerable. Robert worked harder than most to hide his home accent. It was part of his effort to be accepted. But Josh knew the truth and would never allow Robert or anyone else to forget it. 

Robert's smile faltered. 'Photograph,' he said gamely, keeping the 'o's and 'a' long. 

'Not like that,' said Josh. 'Say it how you normally say it.' 

Robert looked at his feet. 

Why does Robert put up with this? Ben wondered, watching him. Why did anybody? 

'Photograph,' murmured Robert, in his own voice. 

'Footergruff,' echoed Josh, delighted. 'Have I got that right, Robert? Footergruff. You try it, Hugo.' 

'Footergruff,' said Hugo, grinning again. 

'Footergruff!' said Josh - then sneered. 'It sounds like one of Hugo's farts.' 

Ben cleared his throat and said: 'Leave him alone, Josh.' 

Josh flinched. 'What did you say?' 

'I said,' said Ben, 'leave him alone.' 

'Now, boys,' said Mr Clissold nervously from the driving seat. 'There's no need for unpleasantness.' 

'None intended, sir,' said Josh, sounding shocked for the teacher's benefit, but staring hard at Ben. 'We were only having a bit of fun. Weren't we, Robert?' 

'That's right,' said Robert. 

'Ben here just got the wrong end of the stick,' said Josh, with a smile that showed his teeth. 'Didn't you, mate?' 

Ben gave Josh an answering smile that was every bit as sincere as Josh had been in calling him 'mate'. But said nothing.