The Ability - Hardcover

Über die Autorinnen und Autoren

M.M. Vaughan (also known as Monica Meira) lives in the UK. She loves to write, to listen to Janis Joplin, and to embark on adventures of any kind. She is the author of The Ability, Mindscape, Six, and Me and My Friendroid.

Iacopo Bruno is an illustrator and graphic designer living in Milan, Italy.

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The Ability

• CHAPTER ONE •

Wednesday, October 17

Cecil Humphries, the government minister for education, despised most things, amongst them:

Cyclists.

The seaside.

Being called by his first name.

Weddings.

The color yellow.

Singing.

But at the top of this list was children. He hated them, which was rather unfortunate given that he was in charge of the well-being of every child in Britain. He knew, however, that the public was rather fond of them, for some reason he couldn’t fathom, and so he had reluctantly accepted the position, sure that it would boost his flagging popularity and take him one step closer toward his ultimate goal: to take the job of his old school friend Prime Minister Edward Banks. Unfortunately for him, the public was far more perceptive than he gave them credit for, and kissing a couple of babies’ heads (then wiping his mouth afterward) had resulted only in a series of frustrating headlines, including:

HUMPHRIES LOVES BABIES

(BUT HE COULDN’T EAT A WHOLE ONE)

The more he tried to improve his image, the more it backfired on him, which only intensified his hatred of anybody under the age of eighteen, if that were at all possible.

It was only fitting, therefore, that the person who would ruin his career and leave him a quivering wreck in a padded cell for the rest of his life would be a twelve-year-old boy.

• • •

The beginning of the end for Cecil Humphries began on an uncharacteristically warm, sunny day in Liverpool. It had been four days since he had been photographed by a well-placed paparazzo stealing chocolate from the hospital bedside of a sick child and only two days since he had been pelted with eggs and flour when the photograph appeared on the front page of every newspaper in the country. Even for someone well accustomed to bad press, this had been a particularly awful week.

Humphries looked out of the window of his chauffeured car, saw the smiling children, and sighed.

“Never work with animals or children. Anyone ever tell you that?” he grumbled. James, his assistant, looked up from his notes, nodded obediently, and said nothing, as he had learned to do.

“Different school, same brats,” he continued as the car pulled up outside the school entrance. “It’s like reliving the same nightmare every single time: a disgusting mass of grubby hands, crying, and runny noses.”

He took out a comb from his jacket pocket and ran it through what remained of his hair.

“You know which ones wind me up the most, though?”

“No, sir,” said James.

“The cute ones. Can’t stand them, with their big eyes and irritating questions.” He shuddered at the thought. “Do try to keep those ones away from me today, would you? I’m really not in the mood.” Humphries adjusted his dark blue tie and leaned over to open the car door.

“What’s the name of this cesspit?” he asked as he pulled back the door handle.

“Perrington School, sir. I briefed you about it earlier.”

“Yes, well, I wasn’t listening. Tell me now,” said Humphries, irritated.

“You’re presenting them with an award for excellence. Also, we’ve invited the press to follow you around while you tour the school and talk to the children. It’ll be a good opportunity for the public to see you in a more, um, positive light. And we’ve been promised a very warm welcome,” explained James.

Humphries rolled his eyes.

“Right. Well, let’s get it over and done with,” he said, opening the car door to a reception of obedient clapping and flashing cameras.

• • •

The teacher walked into the staff room and found Humphries and James sitting alone on the pair of brown plastic chairs that had been provided for them in the corner of the room.

“I am terribly sorry about that,” said the teacher, handing Humphries a tissue from the box she had brought in with her.

Humphries gave a tight smile and stood up. He took the tissue and tried, in vain, to dry the large damp patch of snot on the front of his jacket.

“No need to apologize. I thought they were all utterly charming,” he said with as much enthusiasm as he could muster.

“Well, that’s very understanding of you. He must really like you—I’ve never seen him run up and hug a complete stranger before! I hope it didn’t distract you too much from the performance.”

“No, not at all,” he said, handing James the wet tissue. James took it from him, paused to look around, and, not seeing a bin anywhere, reluctantly put it away in his pocket.

“They’ve been working on that for the last three weeks,” said the teacher proudly. “I’m so glad you liked it. Anything in particular that stood out for you?” she asked.

Humphries hesitated and looked to James who gave a barely visible shrug.

“Yes. Well, the whole thing was marvelous,” he said. The teacher waited for him to elaborate.

Humphries considered telling her that the best bit was when it finished, then quickly thought better of it.

“Hmm. Ah. Yes, I know. I rather enjoyed the part where the donkey hit the angel on the head. I thought the little girl’s tears were most believable.”

“Oh. Well, that really wasn’t planned,” she said, and quickly changed the subject. “Hopefully, the senior pupils will be a little less unpredictable. We’ve assembled everybody in the hall. There’ll be about three hundred students there.”

“And the press?”

“Yes, they’re all there. We’ve set up an area for the cameras and journalists at the side of the hall.”

“Good, good,” said Humphries, looking genuinely pleased for once. “Shall we go through?”

“Yes, of course. Follow me,” said the teacher. She led them out of the room, down the brightly decorated corridor, and through the double doors to face the waiting assembly of students.

Humphries walked in first. He stopped, smiled, and waved slowly, taking in the surroundings. The large hall was packed with children sitting on the wooden floor, all smartly dressed in their maroon uniforms, and the teachers sat in chairs that ran along both sides of the hall, positioned so that they could shoot disapproving glances at any pupil daring to misbehave. Humphries spotted the press area at the front and made his way toward them slowly, a wide, false smile on his face, stopping along the way to shake the hands of students, never taking his eyes off the cameras. He climbed a small set of steps and took a seat at the side of the stage. The headmistress took this as her cue and made her way to the podium.

“Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, it is my pleasure today to welcome Cecil Humphries, the education minister, to our school. Receiving this award is, without a doubt, the single greatest honor that has been bestowed on the school in its one-hundred-twenty-four-year history. Established as an orphanage by Lord Harold . . .”

Humphries stifled a yawn, cocked his head, and tried his best to look interested as the headmistress began a twenty-minute history...