The Twyford Code Read online

  There were five of us in are E at that time. I remember them all. Nathan, Michelle, Donna, Paul and me. Five kids who found two of the most basic human skills, reading and writing, difficult to impossible. All shuffled aside into a tiny classroom to struggle with what everyone else had mastered easily a decade earlier. No wonder we (. .) I wonder if the others still think of it, too.

  Audio File 7

  Date: 14.04.19 13:15

  Audio quality: Good

  So I slunk off up the stairs to are E, to that little classroom at the end of the top floor. I wasn’t in the habit of listening, so don’t remember what the lesson was about. With nothing else to occupy it, my mind wandered to the book in my bag. If I sold it at the right price, I could buy chips on the way home. I slid it out under the desk, had a flick through. The words were meaningless to me but I took in the pencil drawings and occasional colour illustration. In truth I was looking for any selling points that would help me fence it to the swotty kids at break.

  STEVEN SMITH. She’d spotted me. What are you doing? Reading a book, miss. You and your stories, she gasps. What have I told you? Don’t make things up.

  There she was. Missiles. Standing over me, hands on hips. Eyebrows raised. Finger beckoning me to give her whatever I had under the desk.

  I held out the book. It was a temporary hitch. She’d give it back at the end of class. Her eyes dropped to it and I will never forget the surprised tone of her, OH, it IS a book. The way her eyebrows disappeared under her fringe when she saw the cover. Where did you get this?

  A stream of potential answers circled round my mind, none of them the truth. A bookshop. Missiles drifted back to her desk, turned the book over in her hands. She laughed to herself as if remembering something pleasant from long ago.

  Now I might have found reading difficult but I weren’t slow.

  It’s for sale, miss. She pretended not to hear.

  I read this when I was younger than you. It was my favourite, she says, all wistful. At that I added a nought to my asking price and a battered sausage to the big bag of chips in my mind.

  She suddenly snapped out of that dreamy look and gave me a hard stare. You shouldn’t have this, Steven. Not here. Not now. Not in this school.

  Why not, miss? It’s mine. I bought it.

  Because it’s BANNED. Her hushed tone sent a little shiver down my spine.

  Well, till now the other kids had been slumped in the heat, watching with what I can only say was gratitude the class had been interrupted, and glee it weren’t them in the firing line. But at this news their ears pricked up.

  Mine did too, but with a creeping sense of horror. Banned? None of the illustrations had borne any resemblance to the shredded nudey mags I’d occasionally seen in the park. Ripped pages half trodden into the mud. No expert, had I missed a sexual element to the childish drawings? Did missiles think I’d been w[EXPLICIT] g under the desk? I swallowed, mortified.

  Why’s it banned? Paul was an unpredictable kid. Moody. Brooding. Got into fights like an alley cat. Kids and adults alike wondered aloud why he was like he was. No one linked it to the fact his father hung himself in his garage a few years previous. Those were the days.

  Is it rude? Michelle, or Shell, looked like Jay from Bucks Fizz. Big blonde hair, ear-rings, make-up. As young kids we knocked about together on the estate. She were turned out the flat when her ma had a customer, so she’d tap on me window and we’d sit on the swings in the dark. She didn’t have a dad and I didn’t have a (. . .) mum. But that were then. By 1983 Shell were a long way out a my league.

  Missiles perched on her desk. Legs crossed, she properly examined the book, eyes devouring every page. Finally she looked up. Sighed.

  Why IS it banned? You tell me.

  Then she read it to us.

  Now, she can’t have read the whole book out loud. But she read quite a bit. I admit I was riveted. I remember bits of it to this day. A bunch of kids with flowery names go camping and spot some dodgy movements at an abandoned airfield. The class went so quiet while she read. Something hypnotic in the rhythm of the words. Remember we were kids who couldn’t read for ourselves, so I think in those moments we had a taste a what we were missing. That’s me saying that now, though. Me, an old man who thinks he understands a bit better.

  What’s that bleeping noise? Oh, it’s.

  Audio File 8

  Date: 14.04.19 14:03

  Audio quality: Good

  It was only Maxine on the line. Where was I?

  So missiles had silence while she read. The story raced along until she turned a page and stopped. She was frozen to the spot, captivated by something in the book. A slip of paper. She turned it over in her fingers, examined it, peered closer as if it were tricky to see. Then she frowned as if faced with the most extraordinary puzzle.

  She dropped the slip of paper back between the pages. Slowly checked her watch. Closed the book. We were still, silent, as we watched her. The odd glance between us. Then something momentous occurred.

  What happens in the end? Nathan didn’t speak. He just didn’t. Back then, when a kid didn’t speak – and I mean AT ALL – they were just the kid who didn’t speak.

  All heads turned to look at him. Hood up, even in this heat. He surely couldn’t see much out of it. The only black kid in the class.

  Do they find out who the stranger is? Donna had short hair like a boy. Unusual for those days.

  Why’s it banned, miss? Paul wasn’t letting that one go.

  Nothing. Finally, the bell rung missiles out of her thoughts. She looked up at us, five little faces all waiting for an answer, rapt with attention for the very first time. A bunch of rejects who got nothing out of school on a good day (. . .) yeah, she could see she was on to something.

  I’ll read the rest next lesson and we’ll talk about it then, she said, to our collective sigh of resignation. Meanwhile I hadn’t forgotten my battered sausage and chips. As the other kids picked up their bags and skulked out, I approached the desk.

  Sorry, miss, but I need the book back OR it’s yours for ten pounds. She gave me a look.

  Steven, this book is a distraction. It is my job to prevent it ruining your education. Anyway, there’s something I need to look into.

  But, miss, I (. .) I need to (.) It’s er (. . .) Did she know I’d taken it? Was she going to trace its legal owner? In a panic I couldn’t think quickly enough.

  Where did you really find it? She had the book open, held against her chest, out of my reach.

  I swallowed hard. How did she know I’d found it? Have to front this up. I shrugged, can’t remember.

  With a sharp CLAP she snapped the book shut and out wafted the slip of paper. She caught it. Gave me another look, a strange glinty stare this time.

  What’s this? She said it as if she’d never seen that slip of paper before. I glanced at it, recovered my wits.

  Bookmark, miss. Should be an extra pound, but for ten pound fifty, you can have it for free.

  A good few looks crossed missiles face.

  See. Here. She thrust the slip of paper momentarily under my nose. A line of type danced before my eyes as unintelligible as ever, before it was snatched out of my sight for good.

  It says deliver to Alice isles. This book is mine, Smithy. She glared. It’s meant for ME.

  Audio File 9

  Date: 14.04.19 14:53

  Audio quality: Good

  Did it really say that? Doesn’t make sense that it would. I only found the book by chance, didn’t I? She knew full well I couldn’t read what was on that slip. But bearing in mind what happened next, I’m not so sure. I know I left that classroom with a feeling I’d been conned. I felt so – what? – unnerved I decided there and then I’d never be conned again, never be caught on the hop, always be one step ahead of anyone else. And yes, looking back, those moments on my own with missiles probably were the last time I was lost for words. But it was just the beginning of this story.

  [End Transcript]
r />   Audio Files Batch 2

  [Start Transcript]

  Audio File 10

  Date: 15.04.19 18:37

  Audio quality: Good

  I’ve done plenty I’m not proud of. After the missiles thing I went off the rails. No (. . .) mum or dad telling me what to do. Colin at work or slumped silent in front of the telly. If I’m gun a cut a long story short then yes, in hindsight, I fell in with the wrong crowd.

  Speaking to the young guns who fell in with one of today’s wrong crowds, it was relatively innocent. At first. Hooky goods. Sounds old-fashioned but (. .) More of a market for designer clothes, fresh cuts a meat and kiddies’ toys on the estates than for Persian back then. Different story now. It changed quickly. You know what I mean by Persian, Maxine. Persian rugs (. . .) yeah.

  They started you off young. You ran errands, messages, little packages. The guys looked after you while you learned the ropes and as you got older you were given more responsibility. Chance to prove your loyalty. There were power struggles all the time. But I weren’t ambitious. Just wanted to be part a something. Make enough to live on. I knew who the boss was and if I did as he told me, I couldn’t go far wrong.

  Looking back I often think I was lucky to fall in with the Harrisons. They’d run their patch since before the Second World War. They had a sense of responsibility and fairness you don’t get now, not from what I heard inside, anyway.

  In those early days, fencing was our bread and butter. Every once in a while a bank or post office, maybe a jewellers. Anything tasty that might come up. But everything went wrong in the 90s. The docks, where we’d got most of our gear, had all but gone, and it was harder to get merchandise through at the airports. At the same time banks got CCTV, electronic security. That weren’t the easy money it once were. We started with Persian to make up for the shortfall. In the blink of an eye, Persian (. . .) drugs took over. And there we were, in bed with international hard cases who’d slot their own grandma if she didn’t slot them first.

  A good few of the old faces got out then. Escaped to Spain or Essex. I should’ve too but didn’t have the cash. Had to stay put. And the Bill were on to me. From the mid 90s I was in and out more times than a screw’s lunchbox. Then I got handed a long stretch and that did for me. Never again. It was hard that last time.

  They moved me out to the sticks. Place where they run group talking sessions, art classes. As if that makes it easier (. . .) I felt every day of it. It was my age, see. Went from being one a the young lads running the gaff, to an old-timer. Tolerated, ignored or laughed at. The young guns look at you different. You’re not one a them no more. Maybe bird weren’t what it used to be. Maybe I’d changed. All I know is, just as I was looking for something else, those young guns come in with their large alphabet letters and well. I’ve told you already.

  Audio File 11

  Date: 16.04.19 09:59

  Audio quality: Moderate

  I want to tell you the rest about missiles and not go off on a story about the past whenever I reach something I don’t want to face. That’s what Maxine says anyway. So I’ve got my son’s phone with me in the booth. I’ll record a little bit here and there between checking the lorries in and out. I hope the noise don’t (). That was a big one.

  So, missiles confiscated my book, left me battered sausage free and chip-less. I suppose I was angry, but at 14 you soon forget, don’t you? I know I’d forgotten by the next RE class, so imagine my surprise when the first thing missiles did was pull my book from her bag. I could see clearly what she’d done. She’d put that many extra leaves of paper between the pages the book was twice as thick. I could see pen writing on them. As if she’d scribbled down notes about every word.

  Missiles opened the book, sat on her desk and took up the story where she’d left off. I tried to listen but I was more intrigued by what she’d been doing.

  So she got to the end, snapped the book shut, hugged it to herself, still deep in thought.

  That’s an old story.

  Because Nathan never spoke, when he did, we all jumped a mile.

  Yes, Nathan. It was published 44 years ago, in 1939. It was the first of a series. The Super Six. Three girls and three boys are sent to stay with their bad-tempered aunt in the country every summer. There’s not much to do there, so they solve mysteries that have been puzzling the local community.

  Why’s it banned? Paul.

  It’s banned, says missiles, because it’s zen or phobic (. .) That’s a word we didn’t hear often in South London in the 1980s, let me tell you that. But she wasn’t done. It’s sexist, racist, patronising and simplistic. If the school board knew I’d been reading this to you, she pauses, her eyes bore into each of us in turn, so we don’t doubt the severity of her words. They would sack me on the spot.

  We were impressed. Not by the school’s commitment to political correctness, but to missiles spirit of rebellion.

  Now I have to be honest and say I hadn’t noticed any of those qualities in the story missiles read to us. Then again, I wasn’t black or a girl, so racism and sexism passed me by. I had no idea what patronising meant, let alone zen or phobic, and if something was simplistic I would’ve said that were a good thing. Still, the look in missiles eyes didn’t beg questions. At. All.

  What’s them pages you’ve put in the book? I wasn’t one to read a situation back then.

  Nothing. She quickly slid the book behind her on the desk, out of our sight.

  If you’re not allowed to read it to us, miss, why did you? Donna always seemed smarter than the rest of us in are E.

  Yeah, we could tell on you, I says, bit of menace in my voice. I’m no grass but I were still smarting from the fact missiles had conned me out of my book.

  Because. Everyone in this room is clever enough to understand that this book belongs to another world. A different time and place. Then she gets a flourish in her voice and says: the past is a foreign country. They do things differently there. Who said that? She looked at us all expectant.

  You just did, miss. I knew how to make her laugh.

  She tells us the name of whoever said it, but blow me I can’t remember now. I do recall she retrieves my aeroplane book, runs her hands over its cover. Like painting her aura round the lines, earnest, yearning. Perhaps it was the way she said it, the way she used the word WE that drew us in and allied us with her, or perhaps because she’d described us as clever when no one else in our lives ever had (. . .) or would again in my case. But her next words ring through my ears to this day. She held the book up, looked round at us.

  We can all see through this, this apparently simple story, with its archetypal characters and stereotypical baddies, to what it’s really about.

  Now, of course, I only wish I could.

  Audio File 12

  Date: 16.04.19 11:18

  Audio quality: Good

  This is where my memories stop and jump ahead. Days? Weeks? Not months because when we all piled in to the school minibus for our trip to the south coast it was still summer and still 1983. I was so pleased to be out of school for a day. Didn’t care where we were going. Or why. Or that it wasn’t quite. It wasn’t legit. It can’t have been, can it?

  This is it, see. We all went together to the south coast. A day trip that should’ve been nice. Missiles was (. .) She (. . . .) We were all together one moment, and then the next (. . .)What did she do? Who did she see? Because I don’t remember what happened. Or I’ve forgotten. Or I never knew. But we all went out in the minibus that day and missiles never came back.

  Audio File 13

  Date: 16.04.19 11:57

  Audio quality: Good

  When school started again in September, I stayed away. If Colin noticed he didn’t mention anything. If a school inspector came round I never heard about it. What made me go from a kid who hated school, but was conscientious enough to worry about being late, to a kid who would never set foot in a classroom again? Something had got to me, that’s for sure.

  One bene
fit of learning to read is the internet and social media. It’s a gateway to everything, so they told us at community college. Maxine arranged for me to go and they helped us set up an email address, use GoogleTM and register on FacebookTM. With a few false starts and a bit of swearing I managed to get my profile page up on my son’s phone. It’s a hell of a lot smaller, though. Takes me longer to type things in than most people. As I said before, putting words in from scratch is much harder than reading things already written. Easier when I can get the voice button to work. Lucky I’ve got all day, especially like now, when it’s quiet in the booth.

  Been putting it off a fair bit, but if I’m gun a do this like I promised Maxine, then I have to find the others. Nathan, Shell, Donna and Paul. Find them and see what they remember about missiles. About that trip to bore mouth. Part of me doesn’t want to. Why’s that? It’s not like I have much else to do. And it can’t be that bad, can it?

  Audio File 14

  Date: 19.04.19 17:25

  Audio quality: Moderate

  Voice 1:See ear, Steve, flashing lines means it’s picking up your voice.

  Voice 2:Will it record both of us?

  Voice 1:Looks like.

  Voice 2:I’ll put it between us on the table.

  Voice 1:What’s this for?

  Voice 2:I’m looking back over our school days. Might write a memoir or=

  Voice 1:Which bit? Which thing?