Duncan Dewar had somehow crossed the rubicon from classroom geek to being the uber-cool kid and everybody’s friend. No longer the ginger kid, he was the edgy red head with a bad boy reputation.
Had the other boys known the true agendas of Professor McIntosh or that of Mr Petrie, they might not have held Duncan Dewar in such high regard but as far as they were concerned they saw him in a new light. The fact that the teachers appeared to be gunning for Dewar since the ill-fated midnight feast served only to elevate his status in their eyes from school swot to dangerous rebel after ‘taking one for the team’.
He’d never experienced popularity before and as he sat down for breakfast, fellow pupils patted him on the back, sympathised over the extra maths and asked his opinion about all manner of things. Pupils who he’d never spoken with suddenly began to catch his eyes and smile in his direction. Only Thornberry and Sparrow continued to look on him in complete disdain for as far as they were concerned ‘the freebie’ would always be beneath them.
“So, Duncs, are you up for another midnight feast?” laughed Bobby Bob Bob. Dewar could feel a warm blood rush to his cheeks as the most popular boy in the school had actually chosen to sit next to him for breakfast. He looked around nervously and it seemed as though all admiring eyes were focussed on the pair.
“What do your parents do then, Duncs?”
The boy looked at Bobby and said nervously: “They died in a car crash when I was nearly fifteen months old. I guess I never really knew them.”
His new companion drew back and said: “Oh, I’m sorry. I really didn’t know. Gosh! I just can’t imagine life without mine as embarrassing as they are at times. That must have been hard for you to deal with.”
Still flushed and red Dewar nodded and said: “Yes, it has been hard but I’ve still got my grandfather. Do you mind if I ask you a personal question? Why were you christened Bobby Bob Bob?”
Delighted that the conversation changed direction, he threw open his arms and then grabbed the corkscrew curls on his head before dropping his hands on the table. “Well, you must know I have the most dysfunctional parents in the world, a mother called Chrystal Rox and my father is Mickey Grunge, drug-addled genius and front man par excellence for the band Molten Iron?” Without waiting for an answer, he continued: "When I was born, my old man went on a seven-day bender, snorting, sniffing, injecting anything he could get his hands on by all accounts and the media circus went wild.
"So this showbiz reporter from The Scum, oops, The Sun, turns up at the doorstep with his snapper for a pre-arranged photoshoot and this big story is done, see? Mum did most of the talking as Dad was apparently off his head but all went smoothly.
"He got the press off his back, enabling him to continue his bender. They got a nice story and my mum got some peace. The band’s PR machine was happy as everything fell into place, ensuring more record sales, nice pictures and headlines.
“It all went swimmingly until the old man was seeing them off the premises when the journalist asked what name had they chosen for me. Instead of saying nothing he tried to remember the name mum had chosen and said out loud Robert…erm…Robson…mmm…Roberts. The next day, Mickey Grunge’s son – me – was introduced to Sun readers as ‘Bobby Bob Bob’. It kinda stuck.”
Duncan laughed, declaring: “Blimey, that’s a great story. So your name is Robert Robson Roberts Grunge, then?” His new best friend looked at him sideways, saying: “No, you muppet. Mickey Grunge is a soubriquet. All the blokes in Molten Iron have stage names. My real name should have been Royston Sydney Roberts after my mum’s father in Yorkshire, so I reckon I had a lucky escape. Bobby Bob Bob’s not too bad when you get used to it. It has a sort of rhythm to it and Mum’s just about forgiven the old man now,” he mused as he tapped out a drumbeat on the old oak table where they were sitting.
“It’s also useful because the teachers hate shouting it out in class, so I rarely get any questions. Look, it’s great flexin’ with you but I’ve got to split. See you later,” and with that, Bobby Bob Bob was gone. Duncan couldn’t imagine what it must be like to have rock star parents, especially ones who were rarely out of the headlines for behaving badly but he thought his new BFF was handling it all very well.
He began to wonder about his own parents and could vaguely remember a smiling, oval-shaped face peering into his, as one of his earliest memories. The face was always smiling and framed with long, wavy red hair, sometimes loose and sometimes tied back. He was sure this was the earliest memory of his mother but wondered if it was a false one he’d created from the only photographs he had of her and his father, a serious looking, bespectacled man with thinning blond hair and a long face.
He was just thankful his parents were at another end of the morality spectrum compared to Chrystal Rox and Mickey Grunge.
Suddenly he was shaken out of his deep thoughts by a claw-like grip on the back of his neck. The pain was unusually sharp, causing him to wince and as he turned to see the source of this rude interruption, he caught the dark brown glower of the choirmaster bearing down on him. “Mr Jones, sir,” said Dewar, as he rubbed the back of his neck.
“Ahem, so you already know my name, boyo? Well, that’s a good start. I want you to come and see me after lunch today. Nothing to worry about but I’ll be in the chapel annexe, so don’t keep me waiting.”
He was puzzled. He had never really met Mr Jones before but knew who he was as the pupils nicknamed him Drac as in Dracula because of the enormous widow’s peak which looked as though it had been dreamt up by Central Casting for a vampire movie.
“Crikey Duncan, I thought old Drac was going to bite your neck and suck the life out of you then and there. What the flip did he want?” asked Ninian Swithers. His roommate hunched his shoulders, pursing his lips: “I was wondering the very same thing. He wants to see me after lunch in the Chapel annexe, though.”
Withers emitted one of his theatrical squeals: “Well, take some garlic and a wooden cross. OMG! Maybe he fancies a bite this afternoon and you are on the menu.” The pair left for classes, pushing and joshing with each other but privately Dewar was troubled. What could the choirmaster possibly want with him?
After lunch, Duncan Dewar walked towards the school’s chapel where Sunday worship and other significant religious services were held during the Christian calendar. Some boys went every week but others, like him, were uncomfortable about religion and so opted for other activities on Sundays instead.
The annexe was also used for other religions and there was a multi faith prayer-room available for those students including the growing number of Muslims. As he walked towards the annexe, Dewar wondered how anyone had the discipline to pray five times a day. Just then, he saw fifth former Ali Reza walk out of the annexe, and smiled.
“What’s got you so amused, Dewar?” Buoyed by his newfound popularity and growing in confidence, he responded: “I was just wondering how anyone finds time to pray five times a day and then you appeared.”
Ali Reza, who was Iranian by birth, smiled and said: “Well, I’m a Shia, so we can bunch up our prayers in one go if it’s really necessary but don’t let Mo hear me say that, as he believes differently being a Sunni,” he said, referring to Saudi-born Muhammad bin Al Wahid bin Awad bin Aboud.
“What’s the difference then between Sunni and Shia?” he enquired. “Oh well, one’s homicidal and the other’s suicidal; just make sure you don’t upset either,” laughed Ali Reza walking off, leaving an even more puzzled boy behind.
Duncan carefully opened the door into the chapel annexe. The autumnal air was so chilled inside; he could see his own breath vaporise before him, as he looked around the bare room lined only with stone floors and stonewalls with a few chairs for choir practice. Another Muslim student was finishing his prayer and began to lift a rather ornate prayer mat from the stone floor.
As he left the annexe, a side door swung open from the chapel and in walked the Welsh choirmaster who took a few slow and deliberate steps, as though he were leading a funeral procession. He came to an abrupt halt about five paces in front of the nervous looking pupil.
“Dewar, I was supervising some boys who were being held back for detention the other evening when I heard a sound, not an unpleasant sound either. In fact it was almost haunting and melodic. So I followed the direction of the tones drifting down the corridor and imagine my surprise when I discovered the source of this Heaven-sent voice came from you – such a scrawny, puny little thing and yet such a powerful God-given voice. Are there many singers in your family?”
Duncan looked confused and wondered where this conversation was going. He was unsettled by Drac and felt deeply uncomfortable in his presence in the same way as a mouse would when confronted by a cat.
“I’ll cut to the chase, boy. I don’t like dilly-dallying around. I want you for my choir, you and your treble voice, which means two nights a week rehearsal and I will personally coach you on Saturdays. Mr Petrie says your voice is about to break and that you’re an unreliable scoundrel, is that true?”
He looked up at the tall master as all his newfound confidence seemed to abandon him in a heartbeat. “I’m, I’m not sure what you mean. I’ve never really sung anywhere and as far as I know, there’s no history of singers in my family. I’m, I’m an orphan, Mr Draaa, erm…Mr Jones.”
The choirmaster grabbed Dewar by the throat and swooped his head down to his level. Pressing his face closely to his own, the boy could feel the master’s hot breath on the side of his neck. By now he wanted to scream and imagined at any second Drac would sink his fangs into his neck, draining him of every drop of Dewar blood.
Whispering in his ear, the choirmaster asked in a demanding manner: “Have your vocal cords changed? Does your voice box sound louder and do you squeak and croak flipping between low and high notes?” Loosening his grip on the terrified boy, he turned to face Dewar who used every ounce of composure he could find to respond to the question.
“I, I haven’t noticed anything strange, sir. No, but I’m already committed to extra maths tuition on Saturday mornings, sir, as well as…”
Before waiting for him to finish, the Welshman swung around and swooped down to eye level with the boy, saying: "Don’t concern yourself. We can meet after lunch on Saturdays. That’ll keep you out of trouble. We’ll start this Saturday with the scales.
“Oh, don’t look so worried, boy. I only want your precious voice. I’m not after your soul…not yet, anyway! Now run along and we’ll meet at 2 pm sharp every Saturday until further notice.”
Duncan Dewar didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. When he sang before Mr Petrie the other night, he didn’t realise he had a special tone or talent and now he had the scariest master in the school taking an interest. When he caught up with Ninian Swithers in their bedroom and told him, he emitted another of his trademark shrieks!
"I’m telling you, one minute you’ll be singing ‘I’m walking in the Air’ and the next moment, he’ll be sinking his fangs into your neck faster than you can say ‘snowman’.
“You’re doomed, doomed Duncan my boy,” said Swithers in a grossly exaggerated Gorbals twang.
“You may as well bequeath me your entire supply of Jethart Snails now,” he said, tugging on a large brown paper bag of peppermint-flavoured sweets. They had become a firm favourite of Duncan and his grandfather’s after the pair stumbled across them during a weekend visit to the borders town of Jedburgh.
The distinctive boiled peppermint candy was moulded in to the shape of a snail using a twelfth-century recipe of sugar, butter, cream of tartar and peppermint and seemed to last for ages. To the boy’s delight, a bumper delivery of snails had just arrived at Plato House courtesy of his grandfather.
Well, it looked as though weekend outings with his grandfather would now be cancelled until the end of term, he mused, since both the maths and choirmasters were going to occupy his Saturdays.
Grabbing a few of his sweets, he and Ninian wandered into the Common Room but just as they entered someone shouted: “I blame the Bogofs! Let’s get them!” A group of Plato boys leapt upon a pair of twins, bringing them down before piling high on top of them – Alexei and Andrei were identical and even their mother had a job trying to tell them apart.
Duncan was relieved he had arrived after the horseplay had started as he hated this sort of hands on rough and tumble and whispered to Ninian: “So why does everyone keep calling them the Bogofs when their family name is Volkov?”
His roomie turned around laughing and said: “Bogof! You buy one and you get one free. You buy one you get one free. B-O-G-O-F… Flippin’ hell, Duncs. Do keep up, for a swot you’re sometimes a bit slow off the mark.”
The Volkov twins originated from Rublyovka, a suburb for the super-rich in the west of Moscow. While many of Russia’s oligarchs and elite chose to live in Europe, most of the boys’ family had remained in the Russian capital which is now home to more billionaires than any other city in the world.
Considering just a few decades before the turn of the 21st century, Russia had no millionaires, let alone billionaires, there were question marks over how families like the Volkovs had accrued their wealth in such a relatively short space of time.
However, it was one question no one chose to ask either of the Volkovs who both represented Sweetheart in martial arts and fencing events. And there were certainly no such questions asked when the twins’ proud mother, Svetlana, bestowed a £250,000 gift towards the development of the school choir when her beloved sons were recruited for Sweetheart’s baritone section.
“I had no idea a windfall would follow after I brought the Volkov’s on board and, in truth, if they sang like two tomcats screeching on a tin roof, I would have grabbed the money and smiled and hoped for the best, but the reality is those Russians have voices of the richest, smoothest velvet,” confided Mr Jones to headmaster Dr Andrew Collins when Svetlana Volkova’s generous cheque arrived.
‘The pair made unlikely choirboys,’ mused Duncan Dewar as he watched the two use sheer brute force to power their way up from the Plato common room floor. Back-to-back, they emerged through the pile of twisted arms and legs and completely overwhelmed their would-be attackers. Triumphant, and still back-to-back, they began shouting the old Red Army battle cry: “Urah! Urah! Urah!”
The Volkovs, light olive skinned, robustly built and with thick waves of tousled hair punched the air triumphantly. Only fourteen, they looked much older and cut quite a picture with their Hollywood matinee looks, finely carved jawlines, dazzling white teeth and perfectly-shaped noses.
They could have been created in a Hollywood cosmetic surgery, but in fact the boys inherited their mother’s natural beauty which was just as well as their father was not as blessed. He was a short, stocky man with enormous shoulders and a square head exaggerated in shape by a fierce-looking crew cut.
One of the twins grinned broadly as he spotted Duncan Dewar in the corner of the room and shouted: “Hey, Shrimp. Come here!” He then lunged forward and seized Dewar in a bear hug, lifting the scrawny thirteen-year-old off the ground in his giant arms. Feeling feeble and helpless, he just had to grin and bear the humiliation as there was nothing he could do to resist or repel whichever twin it was who gripped him so tightly and spun him wildly around the room.
By this time, everyone seemed to be shouting the battle cry: “Urah! Urah! Urah!” and stamping their feet on the ground, but in all the excitement, no one noticed the common room door swing open. Dr Liam Wallace, the Plato House Master, stood there and surveyed the scene for several seconds before roaring: “Put Dewar down, now.” The short, portly Plato House Master was also the school’s head of geography and known by pupils, rather irreverently, as Bacchus, after the fattest of the Roman gods.
Andrei Volkov clicked his heels and stood to attention like a soldier who’d just been given a military order. His arms automatically dropped by his side, causing Dewar to collapse in an undignified heap on the wooden floor but if he expected help or sympathy from Dr Wallace, he was getting neither.
“Pick yourself up, Dewar. Nobody likes a victim just as no one likes this sort of clodhopping tomfoolery. Volkov, see me before breakfast and I want an explanation…and bring Dewar with you.” As he walked away, Alexei Volkov taunted the master by enquiring in a sneering tone: “Dr Wallace, which Volkov do you want? Andrei or Alexei?”
There were a few muffled sniggers which ended abruptly when the Plato head stopped in his tracks, paused and without turning around, said: “I’m in no mood for your buffoonery and for that you can both accompany Dewar to my study in the morning.”
“Ouch,” said Ninian as the door closed: “I think that’s what is meant by double bubble and poor Duncs is collateral damage, yet again.” While the boys in Plato remained in a boisterous mood, there were more serious issues being discussed elsewhere as the governors held their annual meeting.