I was on duty in the grounds when it happened. I could see Knight in his protective overalls, gloomily picking up litter from the rose beds. A clever, cruel punishment; far more humiliating than lines or detention. As far as I know, only Roy Straitley uses it. It’s the same kind of overall my father used to wear and which the half-wit Jimmy wears now: large, bright orange and visible from right across the playing fields. Anyone who wears it is fair game.
Knight had tried unsuccessfully to hide behind an angle of the building. A knot of smaller boys had gathered there and were making fun of him, pointing out scraps of litter he had missed. Jackson, a small, aggressive boy who knows that only the presence of a loser like Knight prevents him from being bullied, was hanging around close by with a couple of other third-years. Pat Bishop was on duty, but out of earshot, surrounded by boys, on the other side of the cricket pitch. Roach, the history teacher, was on duty too but seemed more interested in talking to a group of fifth-formers than sorting out discipline.
I went up to Knight. “That can’t be much fun.”
Knight shook his head sullenly. His face was pale and sallow, except for a red spot on each cheekbone. Jackson, who had been observing me, broke away from the little group and edged warily closer. I could see him measuring me with his eyes, as if to determine the threat I represented. Jackals do much the same thing when circling a dying animal.
“Want to join him?” I said sharply, and Jackson scuttled back to his group, startled.
Knight gave me a look of furtive gratitude. “It’s not fair,” he said in a low voice. “They’re always picking on me.”
I nodded sympathetically. “I know.”
“You know?”
“Oh yes,” I said quietly. “I’ve been watching.”
Knight looked at me. His eyes were hot and dark and absurdly hopeful.
“Listen to me, Colin. Isn’t that your name?”
He nodded.
“You have to learn to fight back, Colin,” I said. “Don’t be a victim. Make them pay.”
“Pay?” Knight looked startled.
“Why not?”
“I’d get into trouble.”
“Aren’t you already?”
He looked at me.
“Then what’s to lose?”
The end-of-break bell went then, and I had no time to say anything else, but in any case I didn’t have to; the seeds were sown. Knight’s hopeful gaze followed me across the school yard, and by lunchtime, the deed was done; Jackson was on the ground with Knight on top of him and Roach running toward them with his whistle bouncing against his chest and the others standing by in slack-jawed amazement at the victim who finally decided to fight back.
I need allies, you see. Not among my colleagues, but further down in the substrata of St. Oswald’s. Strike at the base, and the head will finally topple. I felt a fleeting stab of pity for the unsuspecting Knight, who will be my sacrifice, but I have to remind myself that in any war there must be casualties, and that if things go according to plan there will have to be many more before St. Oswald’s founders in a crash of broken idols and shattered dreams.
KNIGHT
1
St. Oswald’s Grammar School for Boys
Thursday, 9th September
The class was unusually subdued this morning as I took the register (still missing) on a piece of paper: Jackson absent, Knight suspended, and three others implicated in what was rapidly growing into a very messy incident.
Jackson’s father had complained, of course. So had Knight’s: according to their son, all he had done was to respond to intolerable provocation from the others, abetted—so claimed the boy—by their form tutor.
The Head—still rattled by the numerous complaints about fees—had responded weakly, promising to investigate the incident, with the result that Sutcliff, McNair, and Allen-Jones spent most of my Latin lesson standing outside Pat Bishop’s office, having been named amongst Knight’s chief tormentors, and I had received a summons via Dr. Devine, inviting me to explain the situation to the Head at my earliest convenience.
Of course, I ignored it. Some of us have lessons to teach; duties to perform; papers to read—not to mention the filing cabinets in the new German office, as I pointed out to Dr. Devine when he delivered the message.
Still, I was annoyed at the Head’s unwarranted interference. This was a domestic matter—something that could and should be resolved by a form tutor. Gods preserve us from an administrator with too much time on his hands; when a Head starts getting involved in matters of discipline, the results can be catastrophic.
Allen-Jones said as much to me at lunchtime. “We were only winding him up,” he told me, looking awkward. “We just went a bit far. You know what it’s like.”
I did. Bishop did. I also knew that the Head did not. Ten to one he suspects some kind of conspiracy. I can see weeks of phone calls, letters home, multiple detentions, suspensions, and other administrative nuisances before the matter can be laid to rest. It annoys me. Sutcliff is on a scholarship, which can be withdrawn in a case of serious misbehavior; McNair’s father is quarrelsome and will not submit meekly to a suspension; and Allen-Jones senior is an army man whose exasperation with his bright, rebellious son too often tends to violence.
Left to my own devices, I would have dealt with the culprits rapidly and efficiently, without the need for parental intrusion—for although listening to boys is bad enough, to listen to their parents is fatal—but it’s too late for that now. I was in a dark mood as I descended the stairs toward the Common Room, and when the idiot Meek bumped into me on the way in, almost knocking me over, I sent him on his way with a choice epithet.
“Bloody hell, who rattled your cage?” said Jeff Light, the Games teacher, sprawling from beneath his copy of the Mirror.
I looked at where he was sitting. Third from the window, under the clock. It’s stupid, I know, but the Tweed Jacket is a territorial creature, and I had been goaded almost beyond endurance already. Of course I didn’t expect the freshers to know, but Pearman and Roach were there, drinking coffee, Kitty Teague was marking books nearby, and McDonaugh was in his usual place, reading. All four of them glanced at Light as if he were a spillage someone had forgotten to clean up.
Roach coughed helpfully. “I think you’re in Roy’s chair,” he said.
Light shrugged but did not move. Next to him, Easy, the sandy-faced geographer, was eating cold rice pudding out of a Tupperware box. Keane, the would-be novelist, was looking out of the window, from which I could just see the lonesome figure of Pat Bishop, running laps.
“No really, mate,” said Roach. “He always sits there. He’s practically a fixture.”
Light stretched his interminable legs, earning himself a smoldering glance from Isabelle Tapi in the yogurt corner. “Latin, isn’t it?” he said. “Queers in togas. Give me a good cross-country any day.”
“Ecce, stercus pro cerebro habes,” I told him, causing McDonaugh to frown and Pearman to nod in a remote fashion, as if it were a quotation he vaguely recognized. Penny Nation gave me one of her pitying smiles and patted the seat next to her.
“It’s all right,” I said. “I’m not staying.” Gods help me, I wasn’t that desperate. Instead, I put the kettle on and opened the sink cupboard to find my mug.