Had The Virus, Bought The T-Shirt

By David Rookes

An action-packed adventure story filled with humour, telling the tale of a group of school children, in particular the members of the Knight family, who succumb to a viral infection; however, the consequences of catching this virus are both unexpected and extreme. They befriend an eccentric rebel, Diaz and his girlfriend Veronica, and together they try and outwit the forces gathering against them.

• Language: English
• Publisher: David Rookes
• Release date: Apr 30, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476288444

David Rookes

I live in Greece with my wife Pauline, and we have been here for seven years now as I write (July 2012). I was born in Middlesbrough in the North East of England in 1960. When I was in my twenties I worked as a holiday rep in Greece, and that was when I fell in love with the country. Funnily enough, my first book is nothing about Greece at all, but without giving too much away, the sequel to it (I am writing it now) does have part of the story set in Greece.I must give an apology for the photograph. You might guess that it is a recent passport photograph, as I don't have anything better at the moment, but I am working on that. How could you possibly produce a rubbish photograph in this country, I hear you ask? Quite easily, if you don't have the skills and the equipment!I have two children who are quite grown up now and live near Glasgow, and I have one grandchild, funnily enough called Molly.

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Had the virus, bought the t-shirt

David Rookes

Had the virus, bought the t-shirt

David Rookes Copyright 2012

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Chapter one

A voice, close and yet still very distant, was calling his name. He didn't want to answer, he wanted to sleep, but the voice was insistent and seemed angry. George opened his eyes slowly and there standing before him, was the Classics Master, Mr Smalling, puffed up like a turkey and prodding his bony finger into his shoulder.

'So, Mr Knight, you seem utterly fascinated with my class and in particular the subject of the The Trivium.' The class chuckled. Mr Smalling looked at them with disdain and they stopped laughing as one. 'So please enlighten us all as to what it is, that is if you can remain awake long enough,' The class laughed again. Mr Smalling allowed them this mirth, on account that he thought his joke was worthy of attention. Mr Smalling was a disagreeable sort, indeed he seemed to enjoy his grouchy disposition. Being in control was as necessary to him as breathing.

'Sir?' replied George, slowly awakening to his predicament. George knew that displeasing the old man would have its price.

'You sir have been sleeping in my class, indeed snoring like a trumpet. The subject we were discussing was The Trivium, you irksome boy' Smalling snapped. George looked around at his fellow classmates. They were staring at him, clearly enjoying the uncomfortable scene enfolding before them. Smythe, both class bully and class idiot, had swivelled on his more than ample rump and was smiling at George, licking his lips. He then gestured a kiss with the same thin weak lips and sneered. George disliked Smythe more than any other boy in school. In fact, Smythe was hated by everyone it seemed, even the teachers.

'Trivium is a method that helps you think clearly Sir' he replied, after some time.

Mr Smalling looked somewhat disappointed that George was at least partially right. 'Mmmmm,' he said, holding his chin. 'and what are the three ingredients of this process?' He turned and strutted back toward the front of the class.

'Grammar, logic and...'

'Come on boy, out with it. You have held up this class long enough.'

George knew the answer. Although only thirteen he had a keen and developing intellect, possessing a quick mind and a questioning outlook. Today though, his brain felt as if it had, to use a mechanical analogy, fallen into neutral. It was as if it was saying to him, 'No George, you can't have that little snippet of information'. For whatever reason it was unable to release the answer, and was still clutching at it until, with great difficulty, George reached in and engaged first gear.

'Rhetoric sir.' he said at last, rubbing his temples as if to thank his brain for finally allowing him to fend off his adversary, at least for the moment.

Mr Smalling seemed irritated, presumably because his attempt to make the boy look foolish had failed, and he did enjoy humiliating children; that was not a secret, even amongst his fellow teachers. 'You are here at this worthy establishment, and at great expense to your parents I might add, to learn, not to have fun, remember that.' He punched the desk as he spoke, to reinforce his words. 'How can we as teachers mould you into the leaders of tomorrow if you stay up all night playing silly pranks and chattering like idiots. Falling asleep during lessons is not acceptable behaviour! See me after class Mr Knight, and for goodness sake Smythe stop picking your nose'. He resumed his sermon on critical thinking and George began nodding off again, until his friend Wilkinson elbowed him sharply in the ribs.

* * *

The class dismissed, George gathered his things from the desk and presented himself to Mr Smalling. He waited patiently for several seconds as the teacher wrote something in a journal on his desk. Looking over his spectacles, he began. 'I am very disappointed with you Knight. Would you care to explain yourself?'

'I am sorry Sir, I had no idea....'

'That much is clear. You have no idea, not a clue. Your brother seems to be coping with your situation better than you. Perhaps you could enlighten me as to why that is.' George felt a flush to his face. He knew what Smalling was referring to.

'He's too young to understand Sir.'

'That sounds like an excuse Knight. This is not the first time your Mother has been admitted to that particular clinic, am I correct?'

'Yes Sir.' replied George, who began to involuntarily curl his fingers up into a fist. He felt like shouting at Smalling, he felt like saying 'What business is it of yours how my Mother is, you stupid old man?' but he remained silent.

'No more sleep lost over this matter, do you hear me?’ said Smalling uncaringly. 'A one thousand word essay on my desk tomorrow morning before 9 o'clock entitled 'The Trivium'. You may leave.'

George left the room silently; his thoughts were with his Mother and not with the pursuit of logic and reason.

* * *

George meandered along the corridor, considering his options. He had two other essays that were due tomorrow morning, which he had planned to complete last night, but unusually he could not concentrate on anything, not even on the page of a book. He had felt a strange sensation, a tingling in his neck and a pain at the back of his eyes, which he had put down to reading too much in dim light. Reluctantly he had elected to retire to his bed much earlier than usual together with the understanding that he would have to be twice as industrious the following day. He had diligently brushed his teeth, staring into the mirror as he did so; his eyes looked as they usually did despite the pain. They were brown with hazel flecks. His Mother would sometimes tease him that he alone had eyes like chocolate while everyone else in the family had eyes the colour of clear blue sky. She called him her little chocolate soldier and he would pretend to resist as she tried to ruffle his hair, but secretly he enjoyed the attentions she gave him. He had smiled at himself in the mirror at the thought before climbing into bed and falling into a deep sleep almost immediately.

As he walked into the refectory it seemed to George to be noisy and slightly more irritating than usual. He gathered his tray and cutlery and joined the disorderly queue. He wondered what culinary delights lay in store for him this time. The school prided itself in academic excellence and boasted of the many politicians and leaders of industry it had produced, but the quality of the food that was produced in the kitchens was hardly haute cuisine.

The ladies behind the counter smiled as they slopped their offerings onto a plate and onto his tray. The meal consisted of thick slices of meat that looked as if the animal that rendered it had put up a worthy fight and then been clubbed for an hour with a baseball bat just for good measure; its species unfortunately unrecognisable from its presentation. There were two spheroids of something that might be guessed as being mashed potato, but they were the wrong colour, a somewhat off-grey shade with green bits in them. There were some peas, which were the only items on the plate that actually resembled food, which was a good thing, and finally gravy with lumps in it. George looked at his fayre and felt queasy.

'How are you doing, Rip Van Winkle' quipped Wilkinson giggling, as George took his seat at the table. 'Let me guess, an essay by tomorrow morning on the value of a good night’s sleep?' George shook his head and gave the news. 'Bad luck old man' replied Wilkinson, patting him on the shoulder. George liked Wilkinson; he wasn't an academic but a mad keen sports enthusiast. George wasn't, but they had had enough in common to forge a sound friendship from the very first day they arrived as freshmen at the school. Wilkinson chatted about nothing in particular and George ate his slop. As he ate he began to notice a high-pitched ringing in his ear, which steadily increased in volume and then slowly faded. His ear then began to ache. He had had earache before, but this was different. The pain pulsed like a light being switched on and off in his brain. Wilkinson was still banging on, his incessant chatter sounding like a mosquito in his ear. As George contemplated asking his friend to keep quiet, Wilkinson abruptly stood up and said 'Got to dash, rugby practise, see you later.' and was gone.

George ate the rest of his lunch in silence, trying not to think about the pain at the back of his eyes, or the strange pulsing in his ear. It had been troubling him for a day now, and as he pondered reporting to the infirmary for a check-up, a disturbance caught his attention on the other side of the room. It was Smythe, doing what he was good at, picking on someone, with his two friends looking on and giggling like drivelling morons. George had disliked the slovenly boy at their first meeting. He had intervened when Wilkinson was pushed to the floor by Smythe for laughing when Smythe accidentally slipped on a carelessly discarded jammy dodger. Apparently nobody could ever laugh at the misfortunes of Smythe, he felt far too important for that. After all, his father had given generously to the school over the years, as had his father before him. George had made an instant enemy of course, when standing in between the two protagonists, preventing any further harm to his friend.

At first he did not recognise the junior being harassed and jostled trying in vain to retrieve his cap. Maybe because he was feeling unwell, he would reason with himself later. Looking across the room for a second time he recognised the young boy. It was his brother Matt. The troublesome pains in his eyes were forgotten as he rose from his chair and walked over to the unfolding scene.

'That's enough Smythe, give him his cap back.'

'Go away Knight, or should I call you night night?' Smythe laughed loudly at his own joke, prompting the two idiots with him to laugh hysterically. George snatched the cap out of Smythe's hand and gave it to his brother, guiding Matt with his hand he moved to walk away, only to be pulled back by the shoulder.

'Leave well alone Smythe, I'm in no mood for this.' said George coldly. He stared at Smythe. The two boys standing with him looked nervous, falling quiet. There was a long pause as the two glared at one another. Smythe knew George was serious. Anybody who has ever stared into the eyes of a calm and confident person, who shows no fear, someone who is prepared for a confrontation, knows that look. Smythe recognised it and twitched first, like cowards often do. He looked nervously at the ground, and George turning once again, guided his young brother away.

Smythe then foolishly did something he would later regret. Wishing to save face, he leaned forward, and winking at his friends said 'How's your Mother nowadays Knight, is she out of the clinic yet, or what?' There was a pause and then Smythe continued, 'You know who his Mother is, don't you, it's....' and that was as far he got with his sentence before a tray smashed into his nose, blood and snot spraying across the refectory floor. The two idiot henchmen leapt backward in fear as a flurry of punches were exchanged leaving Smythe crestfallen on the floor weeping and shouting, 'My dose, you've broken my dose'.

George faced the two idiots, but they offered no resistance, so he returned to his seat with his brother, waiting for the inevitable consequences. As he did so, someone started clapping, slowly and quietly. Then another joined in, followed by others, until the refectory was filled with a joyous round of applause, whistles and spontaneous banging of tables. Clearly Smythe had made many enemies.

'Wow George, you were amazing,' Matt said, shouting over the din and displaying a wide grin. 'Do you think you might get into trouble?'

* * *

The headmaster, Mr Irvine, sat behind a large and ornate oak table, reading intently from a yellow dossier, only to pause on occasion to peer over his spectacles. George peered back, his eyes aching. He glanced down at his hand. His knuckles had a speck of blood on them which he wiped on his trousers, noting that it was not his blood. He felt no satisfaction in hitting his classmate; it was neither a premeditated or spiteful act. He had felt no fear; he had felt too unwell to entertain such a notion. He had been angry only momentarily, his anger having quickly subsided. He sat quietly watching Mr Irvine turn the pages of the dossier. At last the dossier was closed and snapped tight with an elasticated line.

'Mr Knight' he began, 'Let me first express to you the seriousness of the allegation against you, namely that you inflicted physical hurt and distress onto a fellow pupil inside this school, within the refectory in fact. Do you understand the allegation?'

'I do Sir.' replied George, squinting slightly. Mr Irvine appeared to be out of focus now.

'I must also add that we are trying our very best to contact your parents to discuss the matter with them.' Irvine picked up the dossier once again and opened it. 'I understand that your Mother is...indisposed at this time, and your father is working abroad. It appears there are no others listed in your file to contact in case of an emergency. No there aren't; most irregular. We normally insist on at least 4 relatives or friends. Do you know of anyone we might get in touch with, such as a grandparent, or an Aunt or an Uncle or maybe even a personal friend of your parents perhaps?'

'No Sir.' George could hear himself talk, but it was if he was listening from another room. He felt nauseous.

'Well then, we will endeavour to contact your father. In the meantime, we have spoken with Smythe's father who will be attending the school tomorrow. You may wish to hear that Smythe is recovering from his ordeal in the infirmary as we speak, and will shortly be attending hospital to have a check-up. The nurse suspects his nose may be broken, but that will have to be confirmed of course. I must say, Mr Knight, I am very surprised to see you sitting before me in such a situation as this. I have read your dossier and the remarks from your teachers. You appear to be a very polite and considerate young man with excellent grades in your course work and examinations. You appear to have not one blemish on your record.'

George squinted again at the fuzzy blob sitting opposite. There was a high-pitched noise inside his head suddenly and he felt a flush of heat on his face.

'Of course, you will want to know what happens next. Mr Smythe the elder has graciously accepted that the school should conduct a full internal enquiry without any Police involvement, as is the custom here in such circumstances. Once we have contacted your father he will be invited to attend your hearing, which will take place tomorrow morning at 10.00 am. There you will have chance to put your side of the story to myself and the Deputy Head. You will be accompanied by your House Master and the hearing will be noted by the School Secretary, copies of the notes will be made available to your parents and the Board of Governors. Once both hearings have been held we may or may not make a decision based on.... Mr Knight, are you listening to what I have to say?'

George couldn't hear the headmaster's rhetoric any more. His head began to throb and pulsate, he tried to talk but only gibberish emerged. He tried to stand up but fell forward and caught himself on the edge of the desk with his hands. He knew what was coming. Mr Irvine did not, for if he had then he surely would have ducked.

If you have ever seen projectile vomit emerging from the mouth of a person and wished to describe it in a sentence, there are several words you could use. You might say it was gross, disgusting, horrifying, dramatic or even yucky. In George's case, however involuntary the action was, the effects were utterly spectacular. The vomit hit the Headmaster directly on his spectacles, knocking them askew. The sick covered his hair and ran down the back of his collar. He also, and most unfortunately, had his mouth open at the time. He sat in his chair, grasping the yellow, (now covered in grey blobs) dossier, incredulous. There