C.L. Taylor - The Treatment - the gripping twist-filled YA thriller from the million copy Sunday Times bestselling author of The Escape

‘Mum.’ I reach across the table but my hand doesn’t quite touch hers. ‘I’ve got a bad feeling about Norton House. Don’t shout at me, but the other day I met up with a girl whose boyfriend went –’

‘Is this seat free?’ A short man in a black suit with greying hair and gold-rimmed glasses gestures at the seat next to me. There’s a queue of people standing behind him, filling the aisle. Beyond the window is a platform and a sign saying ‘York’. I didn’t even realize we’d stopped.

‘Yes of course.’ Mum gestures for me to move my stuff.

I gather my things onto my lap and give the man a tight smile. I hope he’s not one of those spreaders who try to knock your elbow off the armrest.

‘Afternoon.’ He nods at Mum as he sits down. His eyes flicker towards the third finger of her left hand. There’s a flash of disappointment on his face when he sees that she’s married. Mum’s an attractive woman. She’s only forty but everyone thinks she’s ten years younger. It’s partly her height. Unlike me, tallish at five foot seven, Mum’s only five foot tall. I get my height from my dad. He’s six foot one. My dark hair and hazel eyes come from him too. If I hadn’t seen photos of Mum in a hospital bed with baby me in her arms I wouldn’t believe that we’re related, we’re that different.

‘Going somewhere nice?’ Suit guy asks Mum as he pops a piece of gum into his mouth.

Mum smiles politely. ‘I’m taking my daughter to school.’

‘Ah’. He casts a cursory glance at me. ‘Tough luck!’

I pretend to laugh and reopen my book. I wish he’d found somewhere else to sit. There’s no way I can talk to Mum about anything private now and we’re only about an hour away from Newcastle.

‘Which school?’ he asks Mum.

‘Well, it’s … um …’ I glance up, hearing the indecision in her voice. She doesn’t want the whole carriage to know that her daughter is being sent to a Residential Reform Academy. ‘Er … it’s quite a new school. I doubt you’ll have heard of it.’

‘I don’t know about that!’ Suit man laughs. ‘I’m an OFSTED inspector.’

Mum raises her eyebrows. I can’t tell if she’s impressed or appalled. ‘Are you inspecting a school this afternoon?’

‘Well, I shouldn’t really tell you but …’ He taps the side of his nose and gestures for Mum to lean towards him. ‘I’m going somewhere quite groundbreaking by all accounts.’

‘Is it the Residential Reform Academy in Northumberland?’ I ask.

Suit man looks at me, surprised. ‘You know about Norton House?’

‘Yes.’ I smile sweetly, ignoring Mum who’s flashing me an anguished ‘don’t you tell him!’ look. ‘My stepdad’s the National Head of Academies. He often tells us about his work.’

‘Well, well, well.’ Suitman sits back in his seat. ‘Tony Coleman’s stepdaughter, eh? So you must be …’ He looks at Mum.

‘Jane, his wife.’

‘Ah right, of course. Well, I don’t imagine I’ll be breaking the Official Secrets Act if I disclose to you that that’s exactly where I’m off to.’

‘Gosh,’ Mum says, looking at me. ‘Isn’t that interesting, Drew?’

I smile tightly. I’ve got no idea why she’d think I’d find that interesting but I still reply, ‘Fascinating!’

‘Right, well.’ Suit Man puts a podgy hand on the armrest and levers himself up and onto his feet. ‘I’m going to pay a quick visit to the refreshment trolley. Could I get either of you anything?’

Mum shakes her head. ‘We’re fine, thank you.’

She watches as OFSTED man sways and bumps his way down the juddering carriage then she taps me on the hand.

‘You see? You’ve got nothing to worry about, Drew. There’s no brainwashing going on at Norton House. It’s a normal school. If there was anything remotely dodgy going on, OFSTED would be down on them like a ton of bricks.’

I look at the OFSTED inspector’s seat and raise my eyebrows. He’s left his bag and wallet behind.

‘Hmm,’ I say.

Chapter Eleven

I gasp as the taxi turns the corner and I get my first glimpse of Norton House. After travelling for hours through the countryside, dotted with the occasional sheep, cow or farmhouse, it’s a surprise to see such a massive building looming out of the landscape. I saw photos of it online but I had no idea how imposing it would be up close. The centre of the red-brick building is arched like a church with a huge clock tower to one side. The main body of the school stretches several hundred metres to each side. Tall, narrow windows dot the front, six on the first floor, six on the ground floor. The windows at the top peak into triangles, like red brick witches’ hats. The roof is black slate, dotted with red-brick chimneys. It’s the kind of building you see in horror movies, where a woman in a white nightshirt is running down a deserted corridor, chased by a dark, shadowy figure. I shiver as the taxi driver pulls up at the iron gates.

‘What did you say your name was?’ he asks, looking back at Mum.

‘Coleman.’

The taxi driver opens his window and presses a button on a silver intercom system on a post. ‘I’ve got two Colemans here for you,’ he says in a thick Geordie accent.

One, I think. I’m a Finch.

Nothing happens for several seconds then the iron gates slowly swing open.

‘OK?’ Mum says, gently touching the back of my hand. I’m holding my book so tightly my knuckles are white. I try to give her a reassuring smile but my heart is beating so violently I feel sick. What am I doing? If I just kept my head down and stayed invisible this wouldn’t be happening. I’d be in my room, listening to music and chatting to Isla, Chapman and Sadie. I talked to them all last night and told them what was happening. With the exception of Sadie, they all thought I was mental. Isla wasn’t convinced by my story about Zed and Charlie. She said she thought they were probably both on drugs. Chapman thought I was out of my depth. You’re sixteen years old, he said. You should have gone to the police with Zed.

Nice idea, if it weren’t for the fact that the police rang Mum last night and said they wouldn’t need a statement from me because they were treating what happened to Dr Cobey as a tragic accident. Several members of the public had reported seeing her stepping into the road when the traffic lights were green and there was no way the driver could have stopped. I couldn’t believe it. The lights were red, I told Mum. And the driver deliberately put his foot down and accelerated. She’d been murdered and the police were covering it up.

‘No one’s covering anything up,’ Mum said. ‘I know how traumatic it must have been for you, seeing something like that, but you need to put it out of your mind. Now please, go upstairs and pack.’

‘Drew?’ Mum says now. ‘Come on, we’re here. We need to get out.’

I touch a hand to my face, surprised to find a tear rolling down my cheeks. I wipe it away briskly and hand Mum my book. ‘Can you return this to the school library, please?’

She takes it then touches me on the shoulder, her face drawn, her eyes clouded with concern. ‘It will be OK, Drew.’

‘Will it?’

‘Of course it will. Just behave yourself, please, and I’ll be here to pick you up in eight week’s time.’

Pick me up? Or pick up the brainwashed, zombie daughter you no longer recognize? I don’t say that to her. Instead, I open the door and step out onto the huge, gravelled driveway of Norton House.

Chapter Twelve

As we yank my suitcase out of the boot of the taxi a tall, slim woman with blonde bobbed hair, wide, thin lips and a long, beaky nose appears from behind the huge wooden front door. She walks down the stone steps and heads for Mum, her hand outstretched.