Scam on the Cam by Clementine Beauvais Page B

murmur rose from the crowd of journalists. One BBC presenter with a camera drew closer to us, shouting, “She’s a little girl! You can’t arrest her like that, in front of the whole country!”
    â€œI’m not in the least little,” I pointed out; “in fact I’m quite tall for my age, which is eleven and a half years old.”
    I was now surrounded with cameras and journalists, and could see my own face on the huge screen above. Shame about the oil and the water, which made my hair all sleek and tidy instead of letting it express its usual wild personality.

    Meanwhile, the journalists were throwing interesting questions at me:
    â€œWhat are you trying to do by this action? Where are your parents? Have you stolenthis boat? Are you protesting against the perpetuation of sheer elitism and class supremacy which the Oxford–Cambridge Boat Race embodies as an annual reminder and celebration of the hegemony of the intellectual ruling classes?”
    I said, “Let me explain.”
    And then there was silence, and I saw that it was good.
    So I went on:
    â€œFriends, Londonians, countrymen. And countrywomen. And countrychildren. This Boat Race is rigged! The Cambridge crew is integrally doped. Without the rowers’ knowledge, their coach, Gwendoline Hawthorne, helped by her brother Julius, has been mixing performance-enhancing drugs into their food. On top of that, their cox, Will Sutcliffe, also known as Wally, has, for reasons unclear, been steadily poisoning some selected members of the first crew, and also some unsuspecting members of the public, such as me, my sidekicks, my editor in chief and a pirate. In order to pay forthe poison that he administered through the skin by the means of fake antibacterial gel, he robbed jewelry from barges on the Cam for over a month.”
    No noise was to be heard, apart from the clicking of the cameras and the seagulls’ laughter. It was super satisfying.
    â€œTo sum up,” I concluded, “this Boat Race cannot be allowed to take place!”

    And suddenly the noise was deafening, and I was carried away by the policemen who had greeted me, while the presenter’s voice above my head was screaming, “And it looks like the race is delayed! The two crews have been asked to row back to the bank and disembark! Are they about to drug-test them? Drug-testing rowersin the Boat Race is incredibly rare—could this child be right?”
    It was much quieter inside the room where the officers took me, and where I had to reveal to them a variety of tedious details such as my name, date of birth and where on Earth my parents may be.
    â€œThey must be at home in Cambridge,” I said. “But probably not watching the Boat Race, so I wouldn’t worry; like every Saturday morning, Dad must be writing a sermon and Mum must be doing some equations to relax. I’ll be back before they even notice I’ve been up to something.”
    But the police officer insisted on calling them. It wasn’t wise, as he almost lost his eardrum once he’d told Dad about what I’d been up to. From the other side of the room, even I heard what Dad said, and it wasn’t a bunch of words he would have happily repeated in front of his churchgoers.
    â€œYour parents are coming to fetch you,” he said after hanging up, massaging his ear.
    â€œWell, that’s good, I guess. I didn’t feel like another ride in that sleeping bag.”
    â€œThey’re not very pleased,” he pointed out.
    â€œThey very rarely are. Even when I got first prize at kindergarten for best robot made out of toilet rolls, they were just like, ‘Have you learned to read yet?’ Of course I had already, but I didn’t tell them because I’m not the kind to brag about being able to read at three years old, even though one must admit it’s quite exceptional.”
    â€œI see. You’re a bit of a handful, aren’t