Chapter 1 - Assembly

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Larceny

 

Last night, I stole an emerald. When I told my twin brother Kit earlier today he got really upset. ‘Larce, you’re nothing but a common thief! You’re going to get caught and you’ll blame me because that’s the kind of thing you do and I’ll be sent to a juvenile detention centre and become an ice addict and all my teeth will fall out.’

 

I love my brother but he’s a thin little weirdo with a great hank of hair covering half his face, and often sounds like a character from the books by Charles Dickens he’s always reading. He’s shy, awkward and panics easily. He eats noisily, smells a bit and is always saying ‘What?’ in a really annoying way. Kind of like ‘Wot?’. It’s hard to describe but if you heard it, you’d definitely agree with me.

 

We’re sitting in Varsity Hall waiting for Assembly to begin. Varsity Hall is this gigantic building that can hold all of St Egbert College’s 3000 spoilt children. It’s built above one of the school’s many playing fields and overlooks Sydney Harbour, which I have to admit is pretty spectacular.

 

Kit’s sitting next to me, vibrating with nervous energy. He’s worried because the person I stole the emerald from is Nathan Gurridge, the principal of St Egbert’s.

 

Most of the kids are here now. The teachers too, wearing their black academic gowns and sitting in rows up on the stage trying to hide their boredom.

 

I have this premonition and turn to the door where I can see a hand grasping the frame. Slowly a face appears. A squinted eye flicks back and forth, taking us all in. It’s Gurridge.

 

Usually, he trots straight up the steps to the stage and grabs the microphone from its stand as though he’s an ageing rocker on a comeback tour. So this behaviour is pretty weird. The teachers begin to stare at him. One takes a sly photo on their phone.

 

He must have discovered his emerald is missing and he knows it was stolen by one of the students. He knows because I left a note on his personal stationery saying ‘No assembly required’. Not super-witty but it was all I could think of.

 

Gurridge slides into the hall then slowly climbs the steps to the stage and stands rigid behind the lectern, clutching its sides with white-knuckled hands. He’s all fidgety and weird, his face doing a series of small twitches. He continues to scan us all like some crazed human radar.

 

We all hush and stare. And Gurridge stares back, for a long time.

 

In the nine months we’ve been at St Egbert’s, I’ve never seen Gurridge so angry. I can feel Kit’s fear seeping from him like an endless, silent fart.

 

Then Gurridge yells ‘Who are you? Where is it?’

 

Almost all of us have no idea what he’s talking about. The other kids mumble and stir. The teachers look confused and worried.

 

‘Who!’ he screams again. ‘Which of you did it?’

 

Ms Henry, the deputy principal, goes over to him and whispers something calming in his ear. He nods irritably and waves her away.

 

‘Students of St Egbert’s,’ he says slowly, as though he’s Moses and he’s about to hit us with the Ten Commandments. Another pause. I check out his dark blue suit, the middle-aged potbelly pressing tightly against his white shirt, the thinning hair, the glasses, and the too-long face. I wonder what he had for breakfast. I wonder whether he’s married and if so what kind of person would marry him. I wonder what he thinks about most of the time apart from rocks and gems, and the school’s strict uniform policy, which is a real obsession of his.

 

He’s one of the reasons that my sole intention since arriving at this particular posh private boarding school has been to leave it as soon as possible. If I don’t, I think I’m going to go mad.

 

‘Students of St Egbert’s,’ he repeats. ‘Maybe it was my fault. Maybe I am to blame. I have never made a secret of the fact that I keep a modest rock and uncut gem collection in my office. And I relied on two things: a not inexpensive alarm system, and TRUST!’

 

Gurridge takes a few deep breaths, trying to calm down. He pulls a hankie from his back pocket and wipes away the foam from the corner of his mouth. ‘A very serious crime has been committed,’ he continues. ‘A 140-carat trapiche emerald was stolen from my office last night!’

 

More silence.

 

‘It is valued at $136,000.’

 

All 3000 kids ooh and aah at this. Now, for sure, the price tag is a total lie. I know gems, and the emerald is worth $10,000 max. He’s just trying to freak us out.

 

‘So you see now why I have called this emergency assembly. There is evidence to suggest that a person or persons present here today was and/or were the culprit and/or culprits. The fool left a note.’

 

‘You’ve got to be kidding me, Larce,’ Kit channels.

 

Channelling is what Kit and I call telepathy – the ability to speak with your mind. I can do it with anyone I like but Kit can only do it with me. It’s a paranormal power I was born with, along with a couple of others.

 

When Kit wants to channel, I hear his voice in my head, louder and more distinct than my own thoughts. And when I channel him, I simply think at him. Channelling is easier for me than actual speech. I think it’s harder for Kit, though, but a lot of things in life are harder for Kit.

 

Gurridge continues, really getting into it now: ‘The New South Wales Police Serious Crimes Unit is combing my office as we speak! If you left a fingerprint, a strand of hair, a skin cell, they’ll find you.’

 

‘Thought of that, did you?’ channels Kit.

 

‘Derr, obviously. I’m not an amateur.’

 

Then Kit does something unbelievably dumb. He forgets to channel. ‘Of course you’re an amateur!’ he screams.

 

Gurridge stares at him. The rows of teachers behind the principal stare at him too. So do the kids. Did I mention there are 3000 of them?

 

Kit flushes scarlet.

 

‘Nice one,’ I channel, trying not to freak out.

 

‘Shut up, Larceny,’ says Kit, out loud again. Of course.

 

I decide that’s good advice. I feel an urge to look to my left, through the massive glass doors overlooking the Harbour. And can’t help but notice that heading straight towards us is an airship.

 

‘Christopher Sullivan?’ says Gurridge, trying to keep calm. ‘Or Kit, I should say. Any thoughts on where my emerald is?’

 

Being brought up on a remote island with no one but your sister and weirdo father for company does not prepare a boy for a situation like this. Kit is just gawping at Gurridge, eyes out on stalks.

 

Gurridge hops off the stage and gallops up the aisle towards us.

 

‘Stay cool,’ I channel. ‘Angelica’s here. Don’t say a thing.’

 

Gurridge kneels down in front of Kit and grins. I notice his eyes are really dark and deep-set. And that rogue hairs are sticking out from his left eyebrow but not his right, which is weird. And the top of the ear closest to me is sprouting hairs, which have been shaved, but not recently enough.

 

‘It is Kit Sullivan, right?’ says Gurridge.

 

‘Yes, sir.’

 

Gurridge pats Kit’s shoulder. ‘Good man. I see your uniform is neat and ironed. All ship shape and Bristol fashion.’

 

‘What?’

 

‘Well done.’

 

I have a premonition of Gurridge’s future. In a few months, he’s going to get badly hurt on that electric scooter he rides to and from work. He’ll be hospitalised for weeks and fall in love with a nurse who’s not even a tiny bit interested him. I shudder with pity.

 

‘Sir, you’ve got to check your scooter’s handlebar,’ I tell him. ‘I don’t think it’s attached properly. You don’t want it coming off in your hands. Say, on that steep slope near your house.’

 

Gurridge stares at me for a second, blinks, then turns back to Kit.

 

I get these premonitions all the time. It’s called second sight. Part of it involves being able to tell whether someone’s telling the truth. But I also sometimes have these very quick mind-flashes of what is about to happen in the future, a few minutes from now or anything up to a few years. It doesn’t happen on demand though. And there are these dreams I have. They seem to ignore time, and are about the past as much as the future. The locations are pretty exotic. Africa, South America, you name it.

 

The airship is now approaching the sports field. It’s enormous. It easily has to be 200 metres long from end to shiny end. It’s a kind of shimmering silver and is both spectacular and almost invisible at the same time. There are glass spheres attached to its sides and there’s a huge cabin, or gondola, fixed to the bottom. It is by far the most exciting thing I’ve ever seen.

 

Gurridge smiles some more and makes reassuring noises to Kit. ‘I’m sensing you have something to tell me.’

 

Kit shakes his head.

 

A few other kids have noticed the airship and are murmuring among themselves. Everyone else is looking at Kit and Gurridge.

 

‘Have you got my emerald, Kit?’ The words come out smooth and mellow.

 

More head-shaking by my dopey brother. I turn back to the airship.

 

Standing in the gondola’s glassed-in flight deck is a tall woman dressed in white. It’s Angelica, of course. She waves at us as though she’s the Queen. Our aunt then disappears and a few seconds later drops from the bottom of the gondola. But just before she splats onto the sports field, she’s stopped by an elasticated bungee rope I hadn’t noticed and steps gently onto the grass like a gigantic fairy.

 

She grins and bows, unclips herself from the bungee and marches towards Varsity Hall.

 

Gurridge isn’t noticing any of this. Instead, he yells in my brother’s face: ‘Sullivan! Speak, boy!’

 

Kit jolts back in his chair and points at me. ‘It was her! The whole thing!’

 

I can feel the eyes of the entire school burning into me. My hands reach for Kit’s stupid neck.

 

Gurridge slaps them down. ‘Where’s Esmeralda, Larceny Sullivan?’

 

‘You call your emerald Esmeralda?’

 

‘Don’t–’

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A huge crash as the emergency exit door is kicked open and our amazing aunt bounds onto the stage and bathes everyone in that dazzling grin of hers.

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