The Treatment: the gripping twist-filled YA thriller from the million copy Sunday Times bestselling author of The Escape. C.L. Taylor
so he’s perched on the edge of the sofa. ‘Just tell us her name, Drew.’
‘I’m going to ring Norton House,’ Mum says, before I can reply. She reaches into her handbag for her phone and swipes at the screen.
‘Jane.’ Tony touches her arm. ‘Let me deal with this. If you get in touch, Mason will be getting exactly the reaction he was hoping for when he smuggled the note out. He –’
‘Yes, hello.’ Mum twists away from Tony. ‘I’m calling to enquire about my son, Mason Finch.’
‘Mum!’ I jump out of my seat. ‘Mum, please! Don’t tell them about –’
She waves me away.
‘Yes, that’s right. I just wanted to check that he’s OK.’ She covers the mouthpiece with her hand and gestures for me to sit back down. ‘They’re just going to find out how he’s doing.’
‘Honestly, Jane …’ Tony gets up from the sofa. He walks over the window and stares out into the street with his arms crossed over his chest. A bead of sweat trickles out of his hairline and runs down the side of his face. He swipes it away sharply, as though brushing away an annoying fly. The toe of his right shoe tap, tap, taps on the carpet as Mum continues to hold. I’ve never seen him look this unsettled before.
‘OK,’ Mum says into the phone. ‘Right, OK. I understand. No, there’s nothing else. Thank you for your time.’ She removes the phone from her ear and ends the call. ‘He’s in pre-treatment and can’t be disturbed, but they’re going to WhatsApp me some video footage so I can see that he’s OK.’
Tony doesn’t react. He continues to stare out into the street. A new bead of sweat runs down the side of his face. He doesn’t swipe it away.
‘Mum,’ I say, but I’m interrupted by the sound of her phone pinging.
‘Here we go. They’ve sent the video.’ She taps the empty seat next to her, gesturing for me to join her on the sofa. Tony doesn’t move a muscle as I cross the living room.
Mum touches the screen as I sit down next to her. An image of Mason, sitting in a beanbag chair with a PS4 controller in his hands, jumps to life. There are two boys sitting either side of my brother, both on beanbags, both holding controllers. All three boys are laughing their heads off. They look like mates, kicking back in one of their bedrooms rather than three kids who’ve been sent away to overcome their ‘behavioural problems’.
‘Can I look at that for a second?’
Mum doesn’t resist as I take the phone from her hand and click on the video details.
‘What are you doing?’ she asks.
‘Checking the date the video was taken. They might have sent you footage of when he first arrived.’
‘And?’
I stare at it in disbelief. ‘It was taken today.’
‘There you go, then.’ Tony swivels around so he’s facing us. ‘And you still claim your son wasn’t trying to manipulate you, Jane?’
Mum sighs heavily and looks at me. ‘What do you think, Drew? He looks fine, in the video, doesn’t he?’
There’s desperation in her eyes. She wants me to tell her there’s nothing to worry about.
‘No one’s being brainwashed,’ Tony says. He’s not sweating any more and his foot has stopped pounding the carpet. If anything he looks ever so slightly smug. ‘All the kids get a couple of weeks to settle in followed by an intensive course of therapeutic treatment to help them overcome their behavioural issues. If Mason passed a note to someone – and I’m of the belief it was written before he left – it was done because he’s still resistant to the idea that he needs to make some positive changes in his life.’
Waffle, waffle, waffle. Tony might be convincing Mum with his pseudo psycho-babble but I’m not so sure.
‘What kind of therapeutic treatment?’ I ask.
‘Um.’ Tony runs a hand over his thinning hair. ‘It’s … er … cognitive behavioural therapy, modelled especially for adolescence.’
He’s right. Cognitive behavioural therapy isn’t brainwashing. It helps you change the way you think and behave. But if it’s all so innocent why has he started sweating again?
Mum and Tony didn’t say a word when I left the living room, claiming I needed to do some homework, but I heard Mum hiss at Tony as I climbed the stairs to my room.
‘I won’t have you talk about Mason like that in front of Drew. Whatever he’s done he’s still her brother and, as soon as he’s completed his treatment, he’ll be coming back home.’
She might have bought Tony’s crap about CBT but I haven’t. Dr Cobey wouldn’t have risked her life to pass me Mason’s note if that was what was going on.
I open my laptop lid and type ‘RRA’ into Google. A bunch of links for architects, relative risk aversion and the Rahanweyn Resistance Army appear on the screen. That’s not what I’m after so I try again, entering Residential Reform Academy into the search box. This time, when I click return, a website for the school appears.
I’ve looked at it before. I checked it out after Mum and Tony told Mason that’s where they were sending him. On the first page it says it’s, a therapeutic boarding school for troubled adolescents that provides a safe, secure and structured environment to allow them to overcome their issues. Established four years ago, the RRA has seen a huge leap in student intake over the last twelve months due to strong support from the current Government, but there’s not much more information; a few photos of the huge mansion-sized building and a bit of history about it being a psychiatric hospital in the Eighties. And that’s it. Dr Rothwell is named as the director but there’s no staff list. No photos of the inside or the kids. No contact information. No directions. Nothing. A residential school in the heart of Northumberland, it says. That could be anywhere.
I try another search.
Residential Reform Academy review.
Nothing. I look on Facebook to see if it’s listed there. Nothing. No images on Instagram. No hashtags on Twitter. If the treatment only lasts two months surely some of the kids who’d left would have mentioned it on social media? But there’s nothing. Other than the website it’s as though it doesn’t exist.
I try more searches:
RRA experience
RRA story
RRA nightmare
RRA scared
RRA brainwashed
Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.
I slump back in my chair and stare at the ceiling. Why am I even doing this? Mason looked fine in the video. Tony’s probably right. The note was his attempt to guilt trip mum into coming to get him. But even if he was, that doesn’t explain the things Dr Cobey said to me. Why all the secrecy and fear about this place? What are they hiding?
I jolt forward in my seat and put my fingers back on the keyboard.
RRA conspiracy
Nothing.
RRA secrecy
Nothing.
RRA truth
Bingo!
On the second page there’s a link to a blog on Tumblr. I click on the mouse button and the site loads. But there’s barely anything written on the page. Just fourteen words.
If you want to know