The Chronicles of Derek Dunstable

By H.G Sansostri

Life hasn’t always been easy for nerdy fourteen-year-old Derek Dunstable.

But when he sees something terrifying and unimaginable happen at his school, St Augustine, his life suddenly gets much worse.

He has to carry the torch of hope through the darkest hours and survive the long days ahead. He has to find a way to get through the nightmare that has taken over his school.

But he must remember one thing above all:

DON’T GET VACCINATED.

• Language: English
• Publisher: H.G Sansostri
• Release date: Aug 22, 2016

H.G Sansostri

Harrison Giovanni Sansostri, known as H.G., is a fourteen-year-old boy from North London. He has written two books, The Little Dudes’ Skool Survival Guide and The Chronicles of Derek Dunstable. As well as creative writing, he enjoys drama and swimming. He was once asked in an interview on Twitter, ‘If you could genetically cross an animal with a fruit or vegetable, what would you choose, and why?’ His answer? ‘I would choose my two Yorkie dogs, called Jake and Toto, and cross them with a potato (because I love chips!), so a Yorkie/potato cross would be called a Yotato.’ Now that would be funny!

Book preview

Prologue

I sit at the dinner table, staring at the wall, anxiously waiting to hear from Dr Shawford. Danny is out working on his new collection for some silly game he’s into and trying to make some money serving at a restaurant just down the road. I tap my fingers nervously against the table top, taking slow, deep breaths.

I’m so nervous my hands are trembling. What will the doctor say about Derek?

I look up at the ceiling. Derek’s room is right above me. All he does now is sit on his bed and stare at the wall, or aimlessly walk around the block over and over again. When the incident happened three years ago, we lost our son. Since that day, we’ve seen so many doctors, but Derek will only respond to Dr Shawford.

The phone rings, shaking the table slightly, and I pick it up.

Hello? I say, anticipation in my voice.

Hello, is this Mrs Dunstable? a quavery voice replies.

Yes, it is, I answer, putting a nervous hand on my forehead.

Oh, good. Rightio. It’s Doctor Shawford. I believe we need to talk about your son, Derek. We know he’s suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder. This is an illness that, unfortunately, makes it hard to predict his recovery.

Um ... yes. I hesitate.

Can you tell me what his symptoms are? he asks.

Um ... alright, I reply. Okay ... all he does is sit on his bed, staring at the wall. The only times he ever comes downstairs is when he needs to eat, or to go out on a long walk. If we talk to him about anything even slightly relevant to what happened years ago, he gets violent and aggressive. I don’t know what to do. He’s becoming a monster, Doctor, and I can’t help him.

A small hum comes from the other end of the phone.

We did tell you this kind of reaction may occur, Mrs Dunstable.

I know, I reply nervously. But I didn’t think it would be like this. I mean, we have a complete stranger in Derek’s bedroom.

True, he says, humming again. As you know, I treated your son when he came to the hospital.

Yes? I urge him to continue, tears filling my eyes.

Look, Mrs Dunstable, post-traumatic stress disorder can be ... not cured, but helped, shall we say. I have had many patients suffer from symptoms such as insomnia, violent rages and general aggressive behaviour to others. Does he still have trouble sleeping, or loss of appetite?

All the symptoms you mentioned, I answer. Yeah, he’s been suffering from all of them.

Then his case is surprising, but not too unusual. Dr Shawford coughs. I will try my best to help your son, Mrs Dunstable.

Oh, thank you! I cry, wiping my forehead.

In the meantime, you hang on in there. Just try not to upset him in any way. He’s in a very fragile state right now.

Okay, I say. I’ll have a chat with him – he deserves to know what’s going on.

Agreed, but tread softly – be careful what you talk to him about, he warns me. I hope I’ve reassured you a little.

The phone beeps, signalling the end of the call.

Okay, Susan, it’s not a big deal. Just go up there and try to get him to talk to you a little.

I get up from my chair, nervously walking to the bottom of the stairs. I look up, the hallway walls closing in on me as I slowly take each step. I hope he won’t get angry. How am I meant to phrase the sentences properly? Maybe I could just start chatting to him about random things to calm him down, and then tell him.

I trudge up the stairs, staring at his bedroom door. The small picture he drew when he was only seven lies ripped in two by the door. I step towards it and pick up the pieces, placing them together. It is a self-portrait. His hair is coloured in dark brown, his glasses are black, and the clothes he’s wearing are red and blue. I hold the two pieces tightly and very close to my heart.

Derek, what are you becoming?

I knock on the door.

Honey? I say, pressing my face against the door. You okay?

No response.

Honey? I say again, knocking. Hello?

Still no response.

Alright, Derek, I’m coming in, I inform him, slowly opening the door. His room looks spotless, as if it has been barely touched. Apart from his slightly ruffled bed, everything is neat and tidy.

Derek is sitting on his bed, facing the wall.

Derek? I ask him. Are you okay?

No answer.

Anyway, I say, sitting down next to him, I just wanted to talk to you for a bit. It’s nothing serious, but I’d like to have a little chat.

He just blinks, as if I’m not sitting right by him. I swallow the urge to cry, and continue talking.

Derek? I say. Is everything okay?

Silence.

Please, Derek, I beg him. Say something back to me – let me know my little boy is still there. I can feel tears pouring down my cheeks, and I fight back the need to wail. He still stares at the wall, blinking.

Are you like this with your friends? I say, growing agitated. Or do you just do this with me? Don’t you have any respect for me?

He stops blinking, and turns towards me. He doesn’t say anything, but he knows I’m here. I gasp, covering my mouth with my hands. He knows I’m here!

Derek, please say something, I beg him yet again. Even if it’s one word, just say something!

I stare at him, trying to make him communicate, but he doesn’t; he just sits there, staring back at me.

Like a doll.

Okay, I finally say, standing up. I’ll go now. I walk towards the door, pulling the handle to open the door, and I take one step outside—

That’s not my name, I hear from behind me, and I whirl around, as quick as a bullet. He’s still looking at me with a glacial stare.

What did you say? I ask, walking back into his room.

That is not my name.

But ... I stutter, shocked. Your ... your name is Derek.

That’s not my name, he repeats in a threatening tone.

That is your real name, I reply.

No, it’s not, he hisses venomously.

We called you Derek – that is your name, I hiss back.

Don’t ever call me Derek! he bawls, grabbing his glasses and smashing them on the floor. I gasp, staggering backwards out of his room.

Get out! If you don’t believe me, get out of my room! Get the hell out!

Derek! I gasp. Please, calm down!

Shut up and get out!

Derek! I’m ... I’m sor—

Get out! he howls, pushing me out of the room. Get out, get out, get out!

He shoves me out and grabs the door handle, slamming the door shut and locking the door. I viciously attack the door, trying to reopen it, desperate to make up with him.

Derek, open the door! I scream, banging on the door hard.

A sudden thudding starts from inside the room. He’s hitting himself against the wall, grunting each time.

Derek, don’t! I plead. You’ll hurt yourself!

He’s crying.

Derek! I bellow through the door. Just tell me what’s wrong!

Shut up! he wails. I don’t want to talk to you!

Just tell me—

I hate this! he moans, the thudding resuming. Why me? Why is it always me?

Derek—

Just go away! I want to be alone! Shut up! Leave me alone, you witch!

Sunshine

Three years earlier.

I hear a series of loud, sharp beeps, like a bird squawking, telling me to wake up. I groan, trying to turn off the alarm, but my brain won’t connect to my arms; they just flop about weightlessly like the arms of a puppet. I fumble for my phone.

Where are you? I mumble into my pillow, finally finding my phone on the far side of my bedside table. I look at its bright screen: seven o’clock sharp. It’s not exactly easy to see clearly when my eyes are adjusting to the room’s morning light and I have my phone beaming into my face. I squint, but it’s still difficult to see anything.

I put down my phone, pull back my duvet and swing my legs over the side of my bed. I rub my eyes thoroughly and blink. My vision is better now, but I can’t see that well without my glasses, so I grab what looks like the outline of my thin-wired glasses, open them up and hook them comfortably onto my nose.

There, better already. I get up, walk over to my drawer and open it. A folded pair of black St Augustine trousers, a neatly folded white shirt and black blazer lie awaiting me. Must be Mum. She, for some reason, loves folding clothes. It’s like a hobby. I remember when I used to come home with friends from primary school – she used to sit down at the table and fold my underwear in front of my friends. Now that was a little embarrassing ...

I put on my trousers and pull up the zip, put on my shirt, then my blazer, which is a little too big. It’s embroidered with the school emblem, lying just above my heart: two crossed golden swords with a Bible resting on top, surrounded by a green laurel leaf crown. I pinch it, rolling the fabric between my fingers. It has that rough, solid textured feel.

I walk out of my room, along the landing where the sunlight floods in. I walk into the bathroom and shut the door behind me. I stare at myself in the mirror. A mop of thick, brown, curly hair sits on the top of my head; groups of spots have settled around my face; there’s the shading of a potential moustache, looking like someone has drawn a light brown line along my upper lip; and a pair of grey glasses. Great.

I grin and expose my teeth. They’re not doing too bad: a bit of yellow here and there but apart from that they’re mostly white and clean. I get my electric toothbrush, turn it on, put some squirmy toothpaste onto it and start to brush.

I put down my toothbrush and pick up a bottle of cheap mouthwash, drink some, gargle and spit it out. It stings, and causes my eyes to go all watery. I put back the mouthwash and go back onto the landing. There’s the sound of muffled voices from some stupid morning show. My parents put it on every day to catch up with the latest news. It must be pretty interesting because I can hear two more voices now, slightly louder than the TV, and that means that they’re discussing politics and other stuff that’s equally boring. I hope we get to take off our blazers today: bloody hell, is it hot. I don’t think they will make us wear them, but teachers can be cranky, to say the least. Oh well. School is school. I walk down the stairs, each step creaking. When I get to the bottom of the staircase, a beige-and-grey-haired mammal blasts out of the living room, leaping onto me and forcing me to sit down on the bottom step. Trickster.

Okay, boy, I say, stroking his head, which makes his eyes close. His mouth seems to transform into a smile as it stretches across his face.

Derek? Are you there? Mum says, appearing at the doorway in a flash. Oh, hey sweetheart, she says, walking over to me and wrapping her arms around me as if hugging a pillow. How did you sleep?

I slept fine, but I need to see an optician soon – my eyes are getting worse.

Oh, really? Danny, can you come here, please?

Dad walks into the hall. The smell of cigarettes floods the air, working its way up my nostrils and almost making me want to gag. His brown crew-cut hair lies neatly, and a goatee hangs for dear life to his chin. He wears a grey shirt with a winged dagger pointing to a message saying NEVER ADMIT DEFEAT!, which is written in bold white. He wears a pair of tracksuit bottoms that are covered in paint, probably from his latest collectible army. I’m not ashamed of that.

Just ... embarrassed.

What is it, Sarah? he says, his usual cheery smile on his face.

It’s Derek’s eyes – they’re getting worse. Come, take a look.

Dad walks forward, puts his multi-coloured mug down on a small mahogany table and takes my face in both hands. I feel awkward as his eyes dart around my face searchingly. My eyes start to feel a little stingy and watery, so I have to close them. Yep, Dad says, letting go of my face.

Well, I’ll book an appointment on Saturday, then—

No, no, no, no, Sarah, Dad says at the word ‘Saturday’.

Why not?

I’m going to a Warhammer tournament at our local store and I would like my son with me.

Oh for God’s sake, Danny, it’s just a board game with some silly little models, Mum says, folding her arms and frowning at her unfortunate husband.

I need him to cheer me on and that might help me to win this time.

What makes you think you’ll win this time?

Hey Mum, I say, butting into the conversation before it turns into a nuclear explosion. Is there any cereal left?

I think so, honey, there should be some Cheerios in the cupboard, Mum says, completely changing her tone.

Thanks, I say, quickly walking into the kitchen before the argument begins to involve me. I can imagine the questions being popped at me. It’s like two Year Sevens arguing over which football team is better. It’s amusing, though.

The fan in the corner of the kitchen sends a series of waves in my direction, cooling me down. The black tiled floor reflects the sun’s rays. I wander over to the cupboard, opening it up to reveal what’s inside ...