Elsa, though, was a little more observant. She waved a hand to my neck. “So, this is what you have been hiding under all those high collars,” she said.
Her cool comment made everybody stare at me like I was a science exhibit. I glared at them, and all but those with the thickest of skins let their eyes drop away.
They were looking expectant, though. I knew I was going to have to tell them something or the rumour mill was going to be working overtime.
Question was, what?
And, more to the point, what the hell was I going to tell Sean?
Nine
As soon as I could get away at lunch, I called Sean. He sounded surprised to hear from me during the daytime, his voice switching to wariness almost right away.
“Charlie, are you OK?”
“You’d better get Madeleine to plant some new information in this mythical past of mine she’s been creating,” I said.
“Why? What’s happened?”
So I told him. I told him in detail how I’d slipped up on the range and given away my army training. I told him in somewhat less detail how I’d come to overreact during the first-aid simulation.
“You knocked him out with a telephone?” Sean demanded, and I could hear the faintest trace of laughter behind his words.
For some reason, the funny side totally eluded me. My temper was still edgy, close to the surface, and that was enough to spill it over again.
“I’m glad it amuses you, Sean,” I snapped. “Meanwhile I’m the one out here taking the shit. I just want some reassurance that if they follow up on my story – and I think Gilby is the careful type – they’ll find it checks out. At the moment I don’t have a lot of confidence that it will.”
Sean’s voice dropped cold and serious instantly. “Why not?”
I shrugged, aware that maybe I’d said too much. “I just have the feeling that Gilby’s men knew what they were looking for today,” I said. “They seemed to know just which buttons to press to get me to let go.”
“By the sound of it, Charlie, they’re pressing everyone’s buttons.”
“True,” I said. “But not like this.”
I’d asked around and they’d given the others a rough ride also, but nothing quite as specific as the treatment they’d given me. Having said that, the sim had been the final straw for Shirley. She’d packed up her stuff and taken the long walk up the driveway and out of the Manor, struggling to carry her dignity along with her suitcase.
“Apart from that one slip-up on the range yesterday,” I went on, “I don’t think I’ve done anything that should have made them so suspicious – unless my cover story isn’t holding water. Where else could they be getting their information from?”
“I’ll check,” Sean said, his voice clipped. Anger or concern? I couldn’t tell. “Call me tonight. I’ll try to have something for you then.”
***
At lunch we found out that we’d all failed the first-aid simulation. Almost everyone had blundered straight in and been judged shot dead, too indoctrinated by their army training to question the order to go over the top. Those who weren’t hamstrung by a military background had simply been too intimidated by the frenzy of the instructors not to do as they were told.
Apart from me, only Tor Romundstad had perceived the dangers waiting in that darkened room. He’d point-blank refused all Blakemore’s rabid inducements to enter the study. Some sixth sense warning the Norwegian to stay clear.
Despite this, we still failed. When Romundstad asked Major Gilby why, he was told it was because we’d obviously left our principal unguarded for long enough for him to be attacked in the first place. A real no-win situation.
I think I was finally beginning to learn.
***
Todd was back on his feet in time to eat, so it didn’t seem like I’d done him any lasting damage. It was clear I hadn’t made any friends in that direction though, and more than ever I regretted my instinctive violent reaction.
I found out just what a bad idea it was during the unarmed combat session that followed. Previously Blakemore had used O’Neill as his guinea pig, but when I saw the stocky phys instructor step into the gym in his place, I knew there was going to be trouble.
The thing that alarmed me most was the fact that there was nothing overt about the threat Todd exuded. There was no stare-out contest, no stamping of hooves in the dust, no throwing of salt into the ring. He didn’t even look at me. Not once.
But I could feel his enmity washing in like the cold draught from a broken window.
Blakemore had decided to teach us how to use extendible batons. In countries where we would not be allowed to carry firearms, he said, they were a viable alternative for disabling a would-be attacker.
In its collapsed form the baton was about eight inches long. It sat cold and heavy in my hand, the weight of the concealed end making it feel unbalanced.
Blakemore demonstrated the technique for opening it up, flicking his wrist so the two magnetically held inner sections telescoped out and locked into position with a solid click like the racking of a pump-action shotgun. Fully extended, the baton was just short of two feet in length and weighed four hundred and fifty grams, nearly a pound.
The sight of it was enough to push sweat out all along my hairline.
A year or so previously I’d had my left arm broken in two places by someone using a metal rod that seemed very similar to the baton. He’d been aiming for my face at the time and if he’d connected I probably wouldn’t be still around to tell the tale. My forearm still gave me gyp when the weather was cold and I could forecast rain with it more reliably than the Met Office.
Listening to the fizzing sound of the baton parting the air as Blakemore made a few exploratory swipes with it brought that memory rushing back in all its sharp and bitter glory. It made my bones tingle, sent a ripple sizzling across my skin.
Blakemore and Todd moved onto the crashmats and sprang at each other, sparring with the batons and a liberal dousing of testosterone. They clashed with great energy but to little effect. Like a couple of stage actors indulging in a sword fight designed to make the audience gasp, but not to put either in any real position of danger. It looked impressive, though.
When they were done they stepped apart, breathing hard. Blakemore had put enough effort into the display for the sweat to track down his temple and he wiped it away with the back of his hand. He turned, caught my set face and grinned. “Don’t worry,” he said, “we don’t expect you to practise on each other.”
He and Todd dragged out a line of weighted mannequins and strolled among us while we went through the drills of deploying the baton and striking the dummies across the head, chest, and neck.
Once we’d got the feel of it, Blakemore moved on to set attacks and defences. As he’d done before he formed us into two groups. Instinctively, I graduated towards his side, trying not to make it look too obvious that I’d made a conscious choice.
Just as casually, it seemed, the instructors deliberately changed places at the last minute so I ended up in Todd’s group anyway.
The first pass went fine. When I reached the front of the queue and stepped forwards onto the mat Todd walked me through the move without a hitch. I was to make a strike for him, which he would evade, and then I would counter, formal as a dance. He followed the same routine with everyone, and we lined up to go again.
It was only on the second pass that Todd deviated from the game. Instead of the move I was expecting he went for the hand holding the baton, grabbed and burrowed in with steel fingers, trying to force me to release my grip.
I’d taught my self-defence students more escapes from wrist-locks than just about anything else. I didn’t have to think about my response, it was knee-jerk and immediate.