Читать книгу The Treatment: the gripping twist-filled YA thriller from the million copy Sunday Times bestselling author of The Escape - C.L. Taylor, C.L. Taylor, C. L. Taylor - Страница 19

Chapter Twelve

As we yank my suitcase out of the boot of the taxi a tall, slim woman with blonde bobbed hair, wide, thin lips and a long, beaky nose appears from behind the huge wooden front door. She walks down the stone steps and heads for Mum, her hand outstretched.

‘You must be Mrs Coleman, so pleased to meet you.’

Mum shakes her hand. ‘Jane, please.’

‘I’m the housemistress, Evelyn Hatch, but everyone calls me Mrs H.’ Her murky green eyes turn to me. ‘You must be Drew.’

I stiffen, waiting for the inevitable handshake. Instead, all the breath leaves my body as Mrs H. throws her arms around my shoulders and gives me one of the tightest, most suffocating hugs of my life.

‘So lovely to have you here,’ she says. She pulls away, keeping her hands on my shoulders as she looks me up and down. ‘I know you’re feeling nervous and apprehensive, Drew, but I think you’ll have a wonderful time here at Norton House.

We’re one big, happy family and you’ll be very well looked after.’

Mum, standing behind her, gives me a smile that isn’t reflected in her eyes. Two of her kids have been sent to a reform school for bad behaviour. She must feel so ashamed.

‘Is it … um … Would it be possible to see Mason?’ Mum asks Mrs H.

Mrs H.’s thin lips tighten momentarily then she forces a smile. ‘I’m afraid not,’ she says in a sing-song voice that doesn’t match the coldness in her eyes. ‘We don’t want to undo all the marvellous progress Mason has made since he got here, do we?’

‘So he’s doing well then?’

‘Oh yes, absolutely.’ Mrs H. clasps a hand to Mum’s shoulder (she’s one touchy-feely woman). ‘He’s doing brilliantly. We’re very proud of the progress he’s made. He only needs to spend another week in pre-treatment and then he’ll be ready to start the final part of his therapy.’

She holds her arms wide and ushers us up the steps, through the large wooden door and into a large, cavernous entrance hall. There are several closed wooden doors to my left and right and a large sweeping staircase at the far end of the room.

‘Will I get to see my brother?’ I ask.

‘I’m afraid not, my dear. You’ll be beginning your acclimatization phase which takes place in the West Wing.’ She gestures to a door on the left. ‘Pre-treatment takes part in the East Wing.’ She flicks her hand to the right.

I grip the handle of my suitcase. ‘What about the actual treatment?’

‘In a separate building.’

‘Where is that?’

‘You’ll find out soon enough. Right!’ She claps her hands together. ‘Let’s take you to see Dr Rothwell. He’s the headmaster and head psychologist.’ She sets off again, trotting across the entrance hall.

She stops outside a wooden door and knocks twice. There’s a brass plaque on it that says, Dr P. Rothwell BSc (Hons): MSc: DClinPsy; CPsychol’. Mum raises her eyebrows as she reads it. She’s easily impressed by random strings of letters.

‘Come!’ bellows a male voice.

Mrs H. turns the handle then pops her head round the door, effectively blocking me and Mum from looking inside.

‘Oh, sorry, Phil. You’ve got company. Don’t let me interrupt you. I was just going to introduce you to a new student. We’ll come –’

‘I’m sorry to bother you –’ Mum taps her on the arm ‘– but the taxi’s waiting outside and I need to leave soon. Could I ask you a couple of questions before I go?’

‘Of course.’ Her hand drops from the door handle. ‘Let’s talk as we walk. I’ll give you a quick glimpse at the rec room and then you can say goodbye to Drew.’

Mum nods gratefully. ‘Thank you so much.’

As Mrs H. shepherds Mum back across the entrance hall, I sneak a quick look inside Dr Rothwell’s study. Through the gap in the door I can see two men, both dressed in suits, standing beside a large wooden desk. The man in the black suit with gold-rimmed glasses is Mr OFSTED from the train. The other man, taller, with a bald head and a neat, black goatie beard, must be Dr Rothwell. As I watch, they shake hands.

‘Before we have lunch,’ Dr Rothwell says, ‘I mustn’t forget to give you this.’

He turns round to his desk and reaches for an unsealed envelope lying next to a black telephone. He laughs nervously as he picks it up. ‘To cover your expenses.’

‘At least four years’ worth I should hope,’ Mr OFSTED says jovially, as he reaches for it. As his fingers graze a corner the telephone rings. The shrill sound makes both men jump and the envelope jerks up and into the air. As it falls, dozens of fifty pounds notes spill from the opening and flutter to the floor.