The Invincibles

By JW Patrick

12 year old Jack Crawford is the only person who can save his Dad. But Jack is trapped thousands of miles away in a remote Scottish boarding school with nobody to help him except a bunch of spoiled, rich, resentful misfits who hate each other as much as him.

With time running out, Jack must find a way to forge trust and belief between his classmates and somehow train these misfits into a crack team of whip-smart code breakers, robotic engineers and daring escapologists.

Faced with a secret code to crack, traitors to unmask, trained killers to evade and a life to save, just how many school rules and laws will The Invincibles dare break to help a friend?

Bryce: Ruthless leader. Likes rules. Hates losers.
Holly: Fearless Headmaster's daughter. Likes trouble.
Rishi: Loves computers. Hates trouble.
Sergei: Neglected billionaire’s son. Loves marshmallows.
Boyd: Bored Texan giant. Loves girls. (All of ‘em)

...and one of them has a secret that will change Jack’s life forever.

• Language: English
• Publisher: JW Patrick
• Release date: Jan 20, 2017
• ISBN: 9780995707603

JW Patrick

JW Patrick lives in Scotland and has written voice-over scripts for television in the UK and USA.Books include:The Family Travel JournalLook. Learn. Laugh. Talk. TogetherThe InvinciblesAn adventure novel for children aged 10+Why Have Adventures?A free non-fiction book for parents of teens exploring the lifelong benefits of outdoor education.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Highlands of Scotland

"Oh Muuuuum! No way… No waaaay. Mum? Pleeeeease?"

Jack squirmed lower into his seat as he peered through the battling windscreen wipers, straining to catch another glimpse of the place where he was to eat and sleep for the next 10 weeks. A five-hour drive – for this?

There! Through the torrential rain, and a break in the oppressive wall of trees, he spotted the building again; then it was gone, obscured by a grand sign:

Welcome to Ardmillan Preparatory School

For boys aged 7–13

On seeing the welcome sign, Jack’s mum slammed her foot down hard and their brand-new BMW X5 4x4 roared up the narrow, winding, rhododendron-lined driveway. Jack glanced sideways. This wasn’t like her. It was dusk. She was driving as if she’d driven up here a hundred times before. Jack held his breath around every blind bend, until suddenly, a vast sprawling, sandstone mansion loomed up ahead of them.

Bleak. Imposing. Dark. So dark that it seemed as if all the remaining sunlight in the world was draining down into some vast plughole deep in the bowels of the school. And cold too. Real cold. He could just tell. Jack shivered. He hated being cold. It was the kind of building that in the city would probably have all its windows broken… and deserve it, smirked Jack.

But when his mum’s breathing became shallow and the BMW slowed to a tortuous crawl, as if it too was afraid of what lay ahead, his stomach churned in dread. Jack stared at his new home, then recoiled in horror.

Ardmillan School was staring right back at him. Two giant eyes – illuminated arched windows – set on either side of a gaping black entrance porch.

Jack felt his heart rate shoot up; his eyesight began to blur… He really didn’t need one of his panic attacks right now. Please not now.

Run! Run! Run! his heart screamed. Where? Where? Where? his feverish mind yelled back. They’d seen nothing but mountains and a few lonely sheep in the previous 30 miles.

"You have got to be kidding!" Jack’s pleading eyes implored his mum to U-turn immediately. But Mrs Crawford was now nervous too, and parking the car required her full attention.

In desperation Jack turned to his sleepy little sister in the back seat – five-year-old Milly, cuddled up to Apollo, the family’s dopey black Labrador. Right. Like they could help him. He spun back to face his mum. But Mrs Crawford couldn’t bear to look at him, or the school.

Jack’s mum could have been a fashion model once, if she’d ever wanted to. Jack and Milly had both inherited her refined features: intelligent blue eyes, striking blonde hair and ice-cool defiance. But Jack was scruffy, and proud of it. He didn’t care what other people thought. Anyway, he knew how much effort his mum put into appearing cool, cultivated and chic. Who had that kind of time? It was all an illusion anyway. She only wore her hair tight to stop herself fiddling with it, and those Dior sunglasses she was wearing, even now in the Scottish gloom, they were to prevent anyone seeing her tears.

Mum? Pleeeeease? he pleaded one last time.

Jack’s mum shook her head.

Sorry, Jack. It’s too late. We’re here now. She swallowed and gripped the steering wheel, struggling to control herself.

Look baby, it’s only for 10 weeks. She whispered so her voice didn’t crack. It’s only until the… until… until it’s all over.

She couldn’t say the words out loud. Neither of them could. They couldn’t even think them.

Jack shuddered, then drove the vile feelings deep, deep down into the darkest dungeon of his mind from where they’d escaped.

Only 10 weeks left! At which point, one way or the other, it really would all be over. Jack’s stomach clenched. He knew that date better than anyone alive. His mum certainly didn’t need to remind him, as if it was just his granny’s birthday or something. June 26th was seared into his brain forever.

At least he was trying to do something about it. No matter where they sent him, Jack Crawford, aged 12, always had a Plan.

He felt the small but reassuring bulge of his Nokia cellphone in his fleece pocket and his hand sneaked towards its comforting shape.

Not this time, Jack, his mum whispered as she deftly slid the Nokia out from his pocket. You promised.

Jack sighed. But inside, he was smiling. As expected, she’d fallen for the decoy. His plan was already working.

But at what cost? Jack stared down at his feet. He was planning to break a lot more promises over the next few weeks. But what choice did he have?

From the safety of their warm, steamed-up car, he glared through the cascading rain at Ardmillan Prep School for Boys. It was so evil-looking that it could have been quite cool if he was just visiting. If it was just a day trip. If there were lots of chattering Japanese tourists around. If there was a gift shop selling out-of-date Walkers Shortbread, over-priced See You Jimmy hats, and pencils with those stupid little ‘haggises’ perched on top. But there wasn’t. For the next 10 weeks, this was to be his home.

Jack closed his eyes, hoping the Victorian monstrosity would just disappear. It didn’t. Neither did the rain. So this was what his dad laughingly called a glorious Scottish summer. No wonder their family had spent so much time in the Far East.

And no wonder his mum had up to this point refused to tell him where they were going. But he’d been prepared for that. He hacked her laptop regularly (password: ‘Apollo’. Wouldn’t she ever learn?) and had long ago discovered that his dad had asked for him to be sent to Ardmillan Prep School in the Highlands of Scotland.

Jack considered himself to be a sophisticated city boy and had grown up in Singapore, Hong Kong and Shanghai in China. He did Urban – with skyscrapers, streetlights and the never-ending sound of traffic. He definitely didn’t do Rural – with trees, silence… and dark.

Despite having Scottish parents, his knowledge of Scotland extended little further than the film Braveheart and the Loch Ness Monster. When he’d Googled the Loch Ness Monster, he had clicked on a few more links and discovered some seriously scary stories from the Highlands. There was the Massacre of Glencoe, where the Clan MacDonald had been set upon by the Campbells and butchered – women and children included. Then there were ghost stories about creatures such as Night Hags: evil old women or crones, who stalk children in their beds and there was even Ardmillan School itself.

Ardmillan used to be a notorious sanatorium or asylum, which was a polite word for the place they used to put crazy people. Asylums were usually built in remote areas to lock up rich mad people and keep them well away from polite society. Some said you didn’t even need to be mad to end up here. You just had to be ‘In the Way’. In the way of an inheritance, in the way of your parents’ social lives. Who knew what? Some people spent their whole lives in asylums claiming to be sane, which they may well have been – when they arrived. But no one ever believed them because that’s what mad people always said.

So how many sad, mad or bad people had died in this place? How many unhappy or evil spirits could one building hold? Shut up! Stop thinking about it! Jack shook his head wildly, trying to dislodge the horrible visions and force them down to join all the other ghost stories he’d suppressed and locked away in the deepest, darkest recess of his Mind Dungeon. But just how much more bad stuff could he squeeze in down there before his brain exploded? Jack rolled his eyes in exasperation at himself. What, so now he was worrying about… what? About worrying too much? Maybe he deserved to be in an asylum.

Jack’s mum gently squeezed his hand until he snapped back to earth. His breathing levelled off and he released his trembling grip on the door handle. Whoa! Close one.

Please, Jack? Your father says it’s for your own protection. You’ll be safe here.

He glanced up at Ardmillan. Ardmillan was still watching him. Waiting. Biding its time. What did this awful building want? How could here possibly be safe? Why couldn’t life just be normal again?

"Both Uncle Gerald and your father believe it’s the safest place for you."

Jack nodded, but he was not convinced. Not convinced at all. And his mum didn’t appear too convinced either.

"Look, please believe me, Jack. I didn’t agree at first either, but I’ve spoken to the Headmaster and he’s agreed to make a few… modifications to the school that I believe will make you safer here."

What? What did that mean? Whatever it meant, it didn’t sound good.

But—

His mum interrupted him firmly: Just listen to me, Jack.

But—

No, Jack. You don’t always get the last word.

But Mum—

Jack! She raised a single, menacing eyebrow, which silenced him. "Uncle Gerald is a detective superintendent he’ll keep you updated on how your father’s case is progressing but only if you promise not to pull any more stunts. Leave it to the experts: the government, the police. They know what they’re doing."

Yeah right. Where was the proof of that?

A little hand poked through the gap between the front seats searching for her mum and brother. Milly grinned up at them, blinking furiously to clear her groggy eyes.

Hi sweetie. Are you going to say cheery-bye to Jack?

Cheery-bye, Jack. Are you going to help Daddy again?

Jack shook his head.

No, sweetie, Jack’s already done more than enough ‘helping’. Now he’s going to let Daddy’s friends in the police do their jobs.

That’s what she thought.

He had a job to do as well.

His mum swallowed and took a deep breath.

When… when it’s all over…when…the trial is over, you can come home and we’ll all be together again.

Hooray! shrieked Milly, fully awake now. Even Apollo seemed pleased and wagged his tail enthusiastically. It was an unspoken rule in the family that no one ever suggested their dad might not be coming home in 10 weeks.

Which wasn’t surprising really.

Jack Crawford’s dad was in prison in China, accused of stealing $275 million from an investment bank in Shanghai and murdering an investigating police officer. His final court appearance was scheduled to begin at 9.00am on Monday June 26th. 10 weeks from tomorrow. If he was found guilty, David Crawford would be hauled out of his cell and led into a small courtyard to be executed by firing squad.

Chapter 2

-10 Weeks to Trial-

As far as Jack was concerned, his dad was innocent. He’d been framed. The family knew that. But nobody else believed them anymore. Before his sudden arrest, his dad had told Jack that the case he was working on was nearly complete and he’d already uncovered more than enough damaging evidence to ruin some high-ups. But he was arrested before he had a chance to tell anyone. Who could he trust now that he’d been betrayed and framed? Jack had been told that in prison, every single word his dad said or wrote was being monitored by the police. So if he ever did reveal the location of the hidden evidence, the traitor in the police force who had framed him would simply get there first and destroy it.

The final words his father had said to him were: It’s all up to you, Jack. I’ll let you know when it’s time. Keep believing and get cracking...

The Shanghai police had then dragged his father away in front of his family, while his mother held Jack tightly, sobbing quietly as he screamed and screamed until he collapsed in a heap, exhausted and hoarse.

At first, Jack had taken ‘Get cracking’ to mean ‘Get on with it’. And he had. With cold relish. To his mother’s horror he’d employed his considerable computer skills to bombard just about everyone involved in the case with questions. He’d targeted the police, the government, the banks, and then any newspaper which had refused to take him seriously. But then he’d taken it too far. He had created an illegal programme to capture information without asking, which he named, Trojan Justice. This programme infected thousands of computers, tracking down all the password protected documents on people’s computers and forwarding them, without their passwords, to random contacts in their email address book. In essence, Jack had revealed a whole load of people’s innermost secrets – and they weren’t happy about it. Trojan Justice ultimately cost seven people their jobs and caused immense embarrassment to countless others. But none of these uncovered secrets had turned out to have anything to do with his dad’s case. Luckily, as he was under-age, the police let him off with a warning. His mum, however, wasn’t quite so forgiving. She now did everything in her power to keep him off the internet and well away from computers.

Following this abject failure, he’d began wondering whether his dad’s words ‘Get cracking’ meant that there was, in fact, some kind of secret code that needed to be cracked. But 10 months of diligently reading, re-reading and analyzing every single one of his dad’s regular letters to him had thrown up another big fat zero. Zilch. Nada. As far as he could tell, there was nothing to crack: no code and no secret message.

In fact, his dad’s weekly letters had grown increasingly depressing and, if Jack was being totally honest, a little dull too. Jack knew that his dad’s mail was being monitored by the authorities so he could say nothing important. But still.

What he needed was hard information, not cosy morale boosters. He’d also needed his parents NOT to send him to this awful place. But if the past 18 months had taught him anything, it was never to rely on anyone. So although he always hoped for the best, he never failed to plan for the worst.

He’d hidden an iPad in a secret compartment inside his packed luggage trunk, which contained his school uniform and all his worldly possessions. As soon as he could find a quiet moment he’d be back online, in his world, without his mother’s interference where he could start trying to help his dad again.

Suddenly a bony finger rapped on the steamed-up side window. Jack yelped and stared in horror as a scrawny, wet, beardy face loomed up against the glass and peered inside.

Jack gingerly unlocked his door, which was wrenched open, accompanied by a rather unpleasant retching sound of someone clearing their throat in anticipation of announcing something momentous.

"Acchhhhhhhhhem. Mrs Crawford. Welcome to Ardmillan Preparatory School for Boys. I’m the Deputy Head, Mr Keeling."

Where’s Richard? snapped Mrs Crawford to both Mr Keeling’s and Jack’s surprise. How come she already knew someone’s first name here?

Mr Keeling appeared rather shocked.

Err... the Headmaster was called away, on err... a rather important telephone call.

Mrs Crawford rolled her eyes as Mr Keeling quickly regained his composure and carried on with the rehearsed speech he had given many times before.

"They may arrive here as boys, Mrs Crawford, but they leave us as men. I can vouch for that, Mrs Crawford, I can certainly vouch for that!"

Jack stared up at the bedraggled yet smug schoolmaster, who smelled of wet tweed and stale cigarette smoke. Mr Keeling held aloft a huge golf umbrella but had somehow still managed to get wet. Curiously, the rain pounding his umbrella sounded like applause from a crowd, which Mr Keeling clearly felt he deserved.

Young Mr Crawford! Your reputation precedes you. Jack’s mum looked up sharply, took careful aim and unleashed The Gaze: a fierce penetrating stare levelled straight at the hapless teacher. Jack smirked as Mr Keeling wilted like a chocolate bunny in a microwave.

He backed away and snapped his wet fingers. Two 12 year old boys sprinted from the school’s entrance (well, one sprinted, the other loped), across the wet gravel and yanked open the BMW’s boot. Both stuck their heads in the back of the 4x4 and scrutinised the newbie. Jack smiled tentatively at them. Neither smiled back.

"Mr Campbell and Mr McNeel are both in your dormitory, where you will sleep," Keeling added, as if Jack couldn’t possibly know what a dorm was. Jack heard ‘Campbell’ and the Glencoe Massacre popped into his mind. Oh great, he was sharing a room with a descendant of murderers.

Both boys were very tall for 12, but the obvious leader, Bryce Campbell, was the more athletic, with short black hair and cold, dark, tiny, ruthless eyes. His right-hand man, Boyd McNeel, was a giant for his age, however; tall and broad with long California-blonde hair to accompany his supreme tan. His seemingly bleached blonde hair hung straight like curtains, framing his bored, hooded eyes. They each took one end of Jack’s ancient antique-wood-and-leather ship’s cabin trunk.

Follow them, Mr Crawford.

Campbell’s eyes narrowed. Jack groaned inwardly. Here we go again.

It wasn’t his fault the teacher had asked them to help him.

Clap! Clap!

Jack jumped