The 58th Keeper Read online

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Acknowledgments

  Copyright

  PKT,

  It’s all for you...

  “Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon 'em.”

  —Keeper 46

  Prologue

  The Swap

  Alturus Burk knew it was the end. Running wasn’t going to help. In a matter of minutes his brief term as 57th keeper would be over and his story would be filed away in the dusty archives of Westminster Palace, known only to a select few.

  He slammed into the phone booth and punched in the crisis number. His face was bright crimson from his sprint and his eyes bulged with fear. The sun’s heat was unbearable and the fine silk robes he’d so enjoyed now clung to his sweaty body. A glance over his shoulder confirmed his surging panic. Three men were running toward him, zigzagging between the gleaming car roofs in the parking lot. One was so huge that his mammoth frame was terrifying even at a distance, and as he slammed into the vehicles he set off a series of wailing alarms. The other two were coming in from the sides, closing in fast, like greyhounds after a rabbit.

  The phone made some infuriating clicks and then an electronic voice responded. “Pass accepted. Please state condition, number specific.”

  “One,” Alturus rasped into the receiver.

  The voice recognition system registered and he was patched through to a live agent. “Yes, Alturus, what is it?”

  “Listen, I swapped Shroud,” he panted. “The Kurul, right behind me. I’m finished.”

  “A Swap! Where is the 58th Keeper? Give me the name and address, Alturus.”

  “I swapped with boy. Rushbury, I think, Archy Rushbury. I—I’m on beach in Bodrum—Turkey. You’ve got to help me.”

  “Repeat the name, Alturus. Archy who?” The agent pushed the headset closer to his ear but the only thing he heard was a long, muffled scream, then the line went dead.

  Chapter 1

  Fish Out of Water

  Archy Bass gulped at the sight of the headmaster standing before him. He tried to keep straight but felt an uncontrollable trembling start. He feared the worst and there was nothing he could do. He yearned to run—to leave the school and live far away from it. He wanted to experience anything but the misery of Rushburys.

  The headmaster was a man named Mr. Elms. Most of the time he was simply angry but on this particular day he was livid. He stared at Archy and two other boys in his study through thick, black-rimmed glasses. The sunlight streaming in through his study window reflected off his balding head.

  “It’s best to speak up now!” Mr. Elms bellowed. “I assure you the punishment will increase in severity BY THE HOUR! I do NOT tolerate vandalism.” He approached the boys and inspected the lineup like a drill sergeant. He stood in front of Archy, his face just inches away.

  “Bass, Bass. I suspected as much. Always lurking on the fringes. I can spot a vagrant when I see one.” He moved closer and Archy could smell the mix of tobacco and coffee on his breath. Archy’s gaze dropped to the floor.

  “Look at me when I’m speaking to you, Bass!”

  “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir!”

  Archy brought his gaze back up, drew a deep breath, held it, and mentally began to count. One million one… one million two… one million three.

  “You see, it’s in the breeding, Bass. It’s all so predictable who will emerge from Rushburys and go on to achieve great things—and you’re not one of them. Bass, Bass, Bass. The fish out of water.” A faint grin twitched on Mr. Elms’s lips.

  The boy next to Archy let out a snort of laughter.

  Mr. Elms pointed to him. “Haven’t you got something to do, Wagstaff?”

  “Yes, sir.” Wagstaff pirouetted quite well for someone so large and slid out of the office.

  At that moment Archy detested Mr. Elms, detested him for being right. One million fifteen… one million sixteen. Archy had spent his life going from one foster home to the next. Most boys attending Rushburys were from privileged families. Their parents were prominent doctors, politicians, or heads of large companies in the city. A twisted pecking order structured their lives and depended on a family’s position. Archy had nothing to do with their world and they knew it.

  Mr. Elms moved away and stood behind his desk. A globe nearby him was yellowed, not from age but from the ever present pipe smoke that lingered in layers. His hands were clasped behind his back and he gazed out of the tall windows at the playing field in the distance. “It’s just a matter of time before I find out who did it.”

  Archy peeked over at the other boy who was now next to him. He couldn’t remember his name. He was a stocky boy, with sandy-blond hair, bowl shaped, just like all the other boys at Rushburys. He stood with slumped shoulders. Archy caught his eye but the boy merely frowned back at him. One million forty-three… one million forty-four… Archy’s face reddened with every passing second. A vein pulsing angrily on the side of his neck.

  Mr. Elms turned around. His smirk was gone now and he spoke through gritted teeth.

  “I’m giving you another chance to confess. I want to know who released the brakes. I expect a name. Otherwise—” He stepped over to a heavy cabinet in the far right corner. Mr. Elms withdrew a single key from his pocket and unlocked it. He left one of the doors ajar, just enough for the boys to glimpse a ghastly array of canes. Reaching in, he took a very whippy one from the end and with shocking speed twisted around and struck out. Whaaaaack! The dust blew out from a stack of papers on the desk. The boys shuffled nervously.

  “Otherwise, one of you will be feeling the end of this cane,” he said, slamming the cabinet shut and returning to the window. “You’re dismissed!” He kept his back to the boys as they exited rapidly through the heavy oak doors.

  As soon as they were outside the headmaster’s office, Archy bent over, his hands on his knees, gasping for air as if he’d just run a marathon.

  “What on earth were you doing in there? I thought you’d burst,” said the boy, still holding a frown of confusion.

  “Holding my breath—blocks him out. Try it,” said Archy with a gasp, “if I can get past two minutes, I win.”

  The boy cracked a laugh. “Are you all right? Or... mad?”

  Archy’s normal color started to return to his face.

  The boy stuck out his hand. “I’m Vincent.”

  Archy managed to gain enough control of his breathing to shake hands. “I guess you already know my name.”

  “Yup,” said Vincent. “How did he catch you? Were you out of bounds?”

  “I don’t know what happened,” rasped Arc
hy. “One minute I was walking up the corridors, the next Wagstaff grabbed my arm and pushed me in here. What are we in for anyway?”

  “Someone released the tractor’s brakes and it rolled into Dinger’s shed, crushing everything,” whispered Vincent, looking over his shoulder at the headmaster’s door. “I saw it happen and just started running. They got me near the science lab. Anyway, we’d better shift before Elms comes out.”

  They wove through the busy corridors, Archy trying to keep up with Vincent’s quickening pace. Occasionally Archy noticed Vincent pulling out a battered pocket watch and shaking it against his ear.

  “Elms knows it’s not us,” said Vincent, tapping on the glass face of the watch.

  Archy finally caught up. “I think you’re right but I don’t want to take a beating for Wagstaff.”

  “Yeah, well. Be careful,” said Vincent. “Elms is out to dump on someone just so he looks better.” Vincent stopped by his locker, opened it and pulled out a heavy textbook.

  Archy glimpsed the familiar title, Algebra–The Basics, reminding him of his half-finished homework and to hurry before being late for the next class.

  “You know Wagstaff is Elms's nephew, right?” said Vincent.

  “I’m doomed,” sighed Archy.

  Just then a red-faced junior sidled up to them and stuck a magazine under Vincent’s nose. “Can you sign it?” he said in a scratchy voice.

  It was the latest edition of Place magazine. The man on the front cover looked strikingly like Vincent, but with less hair. He had an enormous cigar wedged into his mouth. Bull to Shop China, it announced. We Interview Jeremy Maynard-Bull, Industrialist and Founder of AMBTronics.

  “Fifth one today,” said Vincent, snatching the magazine.

  “Two billion,” said the junior, looking at Archy as if he should be impressed. Vincent grunted, scribbled something, then pushed the magazine back.

  “Bbb—Bugger off!” the junior read aloud. “But that’s not your name.”

  It was the first time Archy had laughed at Rushburys.

  ***

  This was Archy’s first term at Rushburys Boarding School for Boys (ages eight to sixteen), a stodgy old place twenty miles from London. This so-called privileged school was founded on firm principles of discipline and leadership and its reputation coasted on the glory of having schooled a famous Victorian explorer, but that was over a century ago. Although once an elegant manor house, badly designed buildings were added over the years and it now gave the impression of a minimum-security prison, complete with floodlights and high fences. Archy hated it, and although he’d run from other schools and other homes, things were tougher here. Mr. Elms ran it with an iron fist and to make matters worse had acquired a dozen attack dogs to guard the grounds after lights out. This is where Archy spent his days, either in class or trying to dodge Mr. Elms.

  On the last day of the term Archy and Vincent sat talking in Vincent’s dormitory on the third floor. The room was stark, just like Archy’s. Eleven cast-iron beds with sagging horsehair mattresses discarded by a nearby hospital were placed uniformly against the white-washed walls. The ceilings were high and the constant draft made the windows rattle in their frames. It was Vincent’s good fortune his bed was next to the only radiator in the room, but that’s where his luck ended.

  Archy was fascinated to learn that Vincent, the son of one of England’s richest men, had no games, no toys, no bike, and not even any pocket money.

  “Why doesn’t your dad give you anything?” asked Archy.

  Vincent’s mood changed the second Archy asked the question and his eyes hooded over.

  “It’s my brother, Richard, the big pansy,” Vincent said gloomily. “Dad spoiled him when he got into college. He gave him everything. Richard got into some bad stuff that got Dad really worried. So Dad cut up his credit cards, stopped all his privileges. I got dragged in too. Dad said he doesn’t want to make the same mistakes with me, so he—” Vincent’s lips tightened into a thin line, “—teaches me stuff instead. Says it’s priceless. He says he doesn’t want to take the fire out of my belly by spoiling me.”

  Vincent pulled out his battered pocket watch and Archy watched him shake it irritably against his ear. “He still spoils George though.”

  Archy noticed the watch’s beaten-up silver casing with fine engraved initials—MB. “It looks nice. Has it ever worked?”

  “Yeah, must’ve worked fine—in 1866!” said Vincent, placing it on his side table next to a heavy black book, The Art of Knot-Tying.

  “That looks—interesting,” said Archy. He reached for the book and flipped through the pages.

  “Can’t sleep at nights cause it’s so much fun,” said Vincent, in a worsening tone. “You’ll never guess when my birthday is.”

  Archy shook his head, never guessing any birthday could be worse than his own.

  “Yup, that’s right; Christmas Day!” Vincent said, almost triumphantly.

  Archy wondered why he found Vincent so funny. After all, his situation wasn’t any better. They both had practically nothing, stuck in a school where they spent most of the time avoiding the teachers and watching the other boys gloat over their new, expensive gadgets.

  “Sorry to hear that,” said Archy.

  “Why are you sorry?” said Vincent. “Listen, you’ve got to toughen up here. If you don’t, people like Wagstaff are going to roll all over you.”

  “I know, but everyone here’s so different. I don’t belong. I don’t know what to do half the time.”

  “Stop saying sorry, for starters. You’ve done nothing wrong.”

  Archy liked Vincent. He was the first person to really talk to him and he didn’t look down on him like the rest of the boys. He noticed Vincent’s forlorn face and brought out his trump card.

  “Do you know how old I am?” he asked.

  “Same as me?”

  “No, I’m three. I only get a birthday once every four years, on a leap year. Winnie, my foster mother loves it. Saves her money. Next birthday, she said she’s going to get me a stroller.”

  “A stroller! That’d be hilarious chained up in the bicycle shed.”

  “Yeah, well, she’s never really given me anything. Except for this watch.” Archy pushed a button that made the watch’s face flash green. “She got it at the petrol station. It’s to make sure I give the dogs their medicine on time. I’m not ungrateful or anything like that, I’m glad to get something—”

  “Saint Archy,” Vincent interrupted.

  “All right, all right. Oh, and she gave me her music player.

  “What kind—Mp3?”

  “No—er... a Walkman, with over twenty cassettes.”

  “Wow! And I thought my watch was old.”

  “Ha, ha. Anyway, her dogs get little coats and collars with fake diamonds and stuff. I steal the chocolate-drop treats she buys for the dogs and I swear they’re addictive!”

  He dug into his pocket and pulled out a handful of round chocolate-looking pennies. “Want some?”

  Vincent let out a chuckle. “Classic!” he said, picking out a few. “You need help.”

  Archy popped several into his mouth and they sat together chewing.

  “Mmm, not bad,” said Vincent.

  “Why did your dad send you here to Rushburys? It’s the worst place,” said Archy.

  “Why?” repeated Vincent, stuffing more treats into his mouth and speaking around them, “‘cause he thinks it’s good discipline. Not that it works. He sends George to a great school, so much better than Rushburys. It’s got an indoor riding stadium, a heated indoor swimming pool the size of a field, and it’s even got a cinema.” He looked down at his shirt that was now peppered with bits. “But sometimes it’s good—you know. Dad takes us to a different country every summer.”

  “That’s amazing, Vincent. I haven’t even been to London. And when I’m home I have to work all day.”

  “So, why are you here?” Vincent asked, leaning back against the iron bedstead.

>   Archy felt like closing up. Every time he’d mentioned why he’d been placed at Rushburys the other boys laughed. He learned very quickly to keep quiet. He was poor and they knew it. Finding Vincent to talk to was incredible. Archy wondered if he should say anything at all. He stood up and walked across the dormitory, deep in thought.

  “You don’t have to tell me,” said Vincent. “I don’t care. We’re all stuck here anyway.”

  “No, you’re going to find out soon enough—I kept running away from the other places.” Archy sat down on a bed the other side of the room. “My foster mum said Rushburys was the only school for my problems. She got me in as a boarder for the same reasons as your dad—discipline. And it keeps me out of her way. She has a friend who somehow wangled me in ‘cause of my situation.”

  “Well, welcome to hell.”

  There was a grunt from the doorway that took them both by surprise. They turned to see Wagstaff holding a bag of toffees. He popped a few into his mouth and seemed to swallow them whole.

  “Aww—got nuffink? Poor little fish—don’t worry, Elms has something for you. I made sure of it. He’s ready now. Hop, hop!”

  When Archy got down to Mr. Elms's study he stood alone outside. After a long wait, the stony silence was cracked by the voice of Mr. Elms.

  “ENTER!”

  Mr. Elms sat at the desk flicking through some papers and didn’t look up. “I’ve wanted to tell you something for some time, Bass. So remember this: You’re never going to amount to anything in life. You lack the courage and the brains to be a success, Bass. Did you think you’d got away with it?”

  “I didn’t do anything. You’ve got the wrong person—sir.”

  “Of course I do, Bass,” said Mr. Elms, rising from his chair like a specter. “Of course I do.”

  Archy drew a deep breath. One million one… one million two…

  Chapter 2

  Winnie Relents