[Enter VILLAGERS in torn and ragged peasant clothing, looking woeful.]

VILLAGER 1: Hark! Have you heard the news, fellow villagers? Another tornado hath landed in the valleys!

VILLAGER 2: Zounds! Not again!

VILLAGER 3: How long doth we have to wait until someone finally maketh a tornado-proof village?

VILLAGER 1: [in horror] Gadzooks! Here it comes now!

[With great dramatic flourish and extremely loud crashing of cymbals, enter TORNADO. At the back of the stage a single BUSH startles and leaps into the air, getting tangled up in the fairy lights that are supposed to represent the starry night sky.]

I struggled hopelessly in the wires as the rest of the cast snickered quietly around me. From offstage, I could hear Miss Pewlish sigh with frustration.

‘Owen,’ she said. ‘This isn’t going to work.’

I looked up. Miss Pewlish was sat on a deckchair in the middle of the school hall, wearing a bright yellow beret with a badge on the front saying ‘WRITER/DIRECTOR’ that she had obviously made herself.

‘Sorry, Miss Pewlish,’ I said. ‘I startled.’

‘Yes, Owen, I can see that,’ she said. ‘But unfortunately, bushes aren’t meant to startle. They’re supposed to stand still, or rustle menacingly if need be.’ She sighed. ‘Why don’t you just … stick with Callum for now?’

I nodded, my face burning, and scurried offstage to a chorus of sniggers. My face was of course burning both from embarrassment and the remains of the stinging nettles from the day before. I sat down on a bench at the back of the hall and tried to hide from everyone.

‘That was brilliant,’ said a familiar voice behind me. ‘Martin Price jumps out wearing a glittery sequined leotard, and you almost wet yourself. Is there anything you’re not frightened of?’

I turned around angrily. Callum was leaning back on a plastic chair behind me, ripping up his script. Despite attacking me he had still turned up at my front door that morning and walked with me to school, as if nothing had happened.

‘I wasn’t frightened,’ I said. ‘I startled. It’s my condition.’

Callum snorted. ‘You looked pretty frightened to me.’

I almost answered back, but quickly held my tongue. I had been almost a whole minute late home for curfew after yesterday’s incident. My parents took one look at my stinging nettle burns and scabbed knees, and had accused me of trying to climb trees. They had sent me straight to bed. I didn’t argue with them – I was too upset and humiliated to tell the truth. But I wasn’t going to let it happen again.

‘Well … whatever,’ I mumbled sheepishly.

‘Right,’ cried Miss Pewlish at the front of the stage, ‘let’s try again, shall we?’

[With great dramatic flourish and extremely loud crashing of cymbals, enter TORNADO.]

[Enter THOMAS BARROW to triumphant music.]

‘Of course,’ said a voice about a centimetre from my left ear, ‘that’s not really how it happened.’

I startled, and swung round. A girl had sat down on the bench beside me. She was wearing a hat with a piece of card in the brim that said ‘PRESS’, and had a massive camera around her neck.

‘I beg your pardon?’ I said. ‘How what happened?’

‘That’s not how the village was made,’ said the girl, pointing at the play. ‘There was no Thomas Barrow. Miss Pewlish made him up. I looked it all up in the library. Want to know the truth? Barrow was only built about ten years ago!’

I frowned, and looked at the stage. ‘But … why would Miss Pewlish lie about it?’

The girl sighed. ‘Well, I did ask her that. She said never to call her house at the weekend again. Also she said she can say whatever she flipping well wants because it’s her flipping play and she has an “Artistic Licence”.’

The girl shook her head in admiration. ‘Sounds great, doesn’t it? An “Artistic Licence”. I have to get myself one of those.’

The girl looked jealously at the play unfolding onstage. I cleared my throat. Here it was: my first proper chance to make a friend.

‘I like your costume,’ I said.

The girl glanced at me. ‘Hmm? What?’

‘Your costume,’ I said, pointing at her hat. ‘Are you a reporter in the play or something?’

She frowned, confused. ‘I’m not in the play.’

I paused.

‘Oh,’ I said.

The girl stuck out her hand. ‘Ceri Dewbridge – Head Reporter for the Dewbridge Gazette. Miss Pewlish said I can’t be in the play because I’m too much of a “liability”, whatever that means. I’m doing a report on it instead.’ She cackled. ‘That’ll show her! My damning exposé’s going to blow this whole place wide open when I deliver it at Presentation Day tomorrow.’

My stomach dropped.

‘Presentation Day,’ I muttered. ‘I forgot.’

‘Hmm? What?’ she said. ‘Oh, yeah, presentations. They’re really scary. You have to get up in front of the whole class and talk about something really important for two whole minutes. And it has to be good, otherwise you get a bad mark. What’s yours going to be on … whatever-your-name-is?’

I held out my hand. ‘Owen.’

Ceri’s eyes suddenly widened.

‘Hang on – Owen! The new boy! The one who fainted yesterday in class! I didn’t recognise you, all dressed up like a bush.’

I blushed. ‘I didn’t faint. It was an involuntary reac—’

But Ceri had already started taking photos of me.

‘Brilliant,’ she said. ‘I can see the headline now: New Boy Thrown Offstage For Fainting After Hours Of Gruelling Rehearsals. It’ll be the story of the month – the year, even! I might actually sell a newspaper!’ She held up her notepad. ‘Mind if I ask you a few questions for my report?’

I was about to say no, but then I realised that Ceri was the first person to be nice to me since I’d arrived. I shrugged.

‘Er … sure,’ I said. ‘Ask away.’

Ceri beamed. ‘Great! So, tell me, Owen: what’s your role now you’ve been humiliatingly demoted to backstage duties?’

I blinked. ‘I’m not sure. I think I’m working with Callum.’

‘I don’t think Callum has a job,’ said Ceri. I looked behind me. Callum was chewing his script into spitballs and throwing them at the lighting crew.

‘Doesn’t look like it,’ I muttered.

Ceri suddenly got to her feet, with some difficulty.

‘Come with me!’ she said. ‘I’ll introduce you to the rest of the backstage team. They’ll find you something to do.’

I made to stand up, and stopped. Both of Ceri’s legs were strapped up with black braces, from ankle to hips.

‘What are those for?’ I asked.

Ceri looked at me. ‘Hmm? What?’

‘Those things on your legs,’ I said.

Ceri shrugged. ‘Nothing. They help me walk.’

‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Do you have to wear them all the time? They don’t hurt or get in the way or anything?’

Ceri frowned. ‘What, you mean like your stupid helmet?’

She pointed at it. I struggled to think of what to say.

‘Er … I guess so,’ I said.

Ceri smiled. ‘No. They don’t get in the way. Ever. Shall we?’

With that she turned around and marched off across the hall. I followed without protest. Ceri seemed pretty weird, but at least she was talking to me. And even better, she wasn’t Callum.

‘Hey, Orlaith – Orlaith!’ she said, waving her arms frantically at a nearby table.

A girl behind it snapped round irritably. I recognised her – it was the one who had talked to me in class the day before. She had tied her hair up neatly on top of her head, or as neatly as she could manage. Even in the dark it looked pretty impossible to control. She still wasn’t smiling.

‘What,’ she said irritably.

Ceri pointed at me. ‘Orlaith, this is Owen. He’s a victim of Miss Pewlish’s abusive performing arts regime. Mind if he sits with you?’

Orlaith sighed.

‘Fine,’ she said, though I sensed she didn’t really mean it. ‘So long as he keeps quiet. And doesn’t touch the props.’

She nodded at the rows of complex contraptions covering every inch of the tabletop in front of her. Ceri immediately picked one up and turned it round in her hands, to Orlaith’s obvious irritation.

‘Orlaith made all these herself,’ Ceri explained, holding out the prop. ‘Aren’t they amazing? She doesn’t smile or make jokes or be friendly or anything, but she’s probably a genius. She’s even off to the Valley Academy next year!’

Orlaith glowered. ‘Thanks.’

‘You’re welcome,’ beamed Ceri.

‘Hang on,’ I said. ‘Is that … a stormtrap?’

I pointed at the prop in Ceri’s hand. It was a metal box with a red light on top – just like the one on top of the clock tower. It had obviously been built and painted by hand. Orlaith snatched it back.

‘Of course it’s a stormtrap,’ she muttered. ‘What else would it be?’

‘It’s amazing,’ I said. ‘Just like the real thing. What’s it for?’

Orlaith pointed to the stage. A group of scientists were now standing in a line, each one holding one of Orlaith’s handmade stormtraps. The boy playing the tornado swirled around them in a dramatic tinselly circles.

[SCIENTISTS place the stormtraps on the ground and switch them on. The light bulbs on top flash and emit a high-pitched beeping sound. TORNADO suddenly stops dead in the middle of the stage.]

[SCIENTISTS high-five each other. TORNADO sulks offstage.]

[VILLAGERS place the stormtraps in a great circle on stage.]

I suddenly noticed that someone else was stood beside me in the dark. I turned to face him, and startled. It was the boy who had been waiting with Orlaith the day before. His enormous frame was now covered from head to toe in ragged brown fur, and a giant stuffed bear’s head was placed over his own. He gazed down at me, his eyes blinking nervously between the bear’s open jaws. Ceri leant forwards.

‘Oh!’ she said. ‘I almost forgot to introduce you. Owen, this is Murderous Pe—’

Orlaith swung round on her chair, fixing Ceri with a warning glare. Ceri stumbled.

‘Er … sorry, I mean Big Pete. He’s Orlaith’s Home-Time Partner.’

I held out my hand. ‘Hello, Pete.’

Pete looked at me cautiously, and then extended a paw. He silently wrapped his entire enormous hand around mine.

‘Hi,’ he whispered.

Orlaith leant forwards between us, separating our hands jealously.

‘Pete, that was your cue. Go get ready in the wings.’

Pete spun round obediently and scurried to the back of the stage. I watched him go, his enormous feet padding softly into the darkness of the hall.

‘Wow!’ I gulped. ‘He’s huge.’

Ceri nodded. ‘Yep. Just wait till you see what he does in the play! It’s incredible. But, er … make sure you don’t get on his bad side.’

I looked at her blankly. ‘What do you mean?’

Ceri stole a glance to see if Orlaith could hear her, and leant in to whisper.

‘Pete’s got a bit of a violent reputation,’ she explained. ‘That’s why everyone calls him Murderous Pete. Last year he punched a kid so hard his brain came out of his ears. Oh, and once he made a boy in the year above eat his own arms.’

I gasped. ‘You saw him do that?’

Ceri stared at me blankly. ‘Er … well no, I didn’t. But I do have some very good sources.’

‘Shhh!’ Orlaith hissed angrily. Onstage the play had reached its dramatic climax.

[TORNADO is swirling throughout the valleys, causing havoc. VILLAGERS OF HIGH FOLLY spill left, right and centre.]

[TORNADO smashes houses, statues, trees. A sign reading ‘BEAR SANCTUARY’ is lowered from the rafters.]

[TORNADO smashes the sign, accompanied by another terrifying crash of cymbals.]

[From the darkness at the back of the stage, a single BEAR steps forwards into the light.]

BEAR: Roooooooooar.

[BEAR suddenly grabs FOLLY VILLAGER 1 and lifts him straight off the ground, holding him above his head as if he was as light as a pillow. Everyone screams.]

[BEAR drops FOLLY VILLAGER 1 and scurries offstage. FOLLY VILLAGERS follow him from a distance, pointing and whispering.]

[A child walks onstage, dressed as a MAN. The whole room falls silent. The MAN wears a black suit, and has a shaved head, and wears black glasses that hide his eyes completely. He stands in the centre of the stage and does not move. The lights dim and dim, until all you can see is the MAN and nothing else, except the nametag that is clipped to his chest. It reads: THE WARDEN.]

The bell rang. Without another word everyone tore off their costumes and started racing out the doors. Ceri tapped me on the shoulder.

‘Thanks for the interview, Owen,’ she said, smiling broadly. ‘See you tomorrow!’

She marched off across the hall. Orlaith glanced up from behind the table.

‘Er … aren’t you forgetting something, Ceri?’

Ceri turned round. ‘Hmm? What?’

Orlaith sighed, and pointed to the corner. There, on a stool, sat a small girl eating a pencil case. She looked like a miniature version of Ceri, with white-blonde hair poking out beneath a woolly hat. Ceri rolled her eyes.

‘Flossie!’ said Ceri. ‘There you are! Come on – it’s home time.’

Ceri grabbed the little girl’s hand and dragged her out the exit. I turned round to say goodbye to Orlaith, but once again she had already disappeared. In her place stood Callum, glaring down at me. I startled helplessly.

‘Ready?’ he muttered gruffly.

I nodded, shivering the twitch out of my arms. Callum looked me up and down, and smirked.

‘Better get you home quick,’ he said. ‘Don’t want you to faint again, do we?’

He chuckled, and strode out the door. I watched him go, my blood boiling, but I swallowed my anger carefully. No matter what Callum said, I couldn’t let anything go wrong on the walk home today. If he attacked me and I was late for curfew for the second day in a row, and my parents thought it was because I was trying to climb trees again … well, who knows how much trouble I’d be in then?

I scampered after him. Surely nothing bad would happen this time. Not two days in a row. Not if I didn’t give him a reason. No one’s that much of a bully – right?