The central heating in our dormitories was provided by huge, old metal radiators that wheezed, groaned and dripped all winter. The paint on them, layers thick, would crack and peel every summer, exposing the scalding hot metal underneath. Some prefects’ favourite method of torturing junior boys was to hold their ears to an exposed bit of radiator metal. It’d hurt like hell for days afterwards. MacKillick liked this technique, although he had allegedly once used a softer and more sensitive part of one boy’s anatomy, and I don’t even want to think about how badly that must’ve hurt. The radiators were cold now, and the air was chilly and damp.
The school was eerily quiet. I paused in the main assembly hall, breathing in the smell of floor polish and dust. At one end stood the stage, curtains closed. The sixth-formers had performed A Midsummer Night’s Dream there last term, God knew when it’d see use again. Halfway up the wall, around three sides of the hall, a gallery walkway joined one set of classrooms to the library and staff areas. I limped up the stairs and used it to make my way through into the wing normally reserved for teachers.
I found Bates in the staff room, giving what appeared to be a briefing to the three remaining boys, all in their school uniforms, as if attending a lesson. Bates was stood by a whiteboard, drawing a simple map with arrows showing directions of approach. The central building on the map was labelled ‘Tesco’.
The door was open, so I knocked and entered, making Bates jump and reach for his rifle before he recognised me, clocked the crutch, and came over to help me to a seat.
“Kevin isn’t it?”
I sighed. “No sir. It’s Keegan, sir. Lee Keegan.”
“Keegan, right. Well, welcome back Keegan. Been in the wars?”
I’ve buried my mother, cycled halfway across the county, been attacked three times on the way, eaten ripe roadkill badger for breakfast and then been savaged by the hound of the bloody Baskervilles. I’m covered in mud, blood, bruises and bandages, and I am on crutches. Of course I’ve been in the damn wars. You prick.
“Little bit, sir.”
He had the good grace to look sympathetic for about two seconds.
“Good to have another senior boy back. RAF, weren’t you?” He said RAF with a hint of distaste, as if referring to an embarrassing medical complaint.
“Yes sir. Junior Corporal.”
“Oh well. You can still fire one of these, though, eh?” He brandished his .303.
“Yes sir.”
“Good, good. We’ll get you sorted out with one at the billet later. I was just outlining the plan of attack for tomorrow. Take a seat.”
Bates looked weird. His hair was slicked back with gel (or grease?) and he was dressed in full army gear. His boots shone but he hadn’t shaved in days, his eyes were deep set and bloodshot. His manner was different, too. The blokey jokiness was gone and instead he was acting the brisk military man. Grief, did he really think he was a soldier now? I bet he’d even started using the 24-hour clock. He resumed his briefing.
“We assemble by the minibus at oh-six-hundred.” Knew it. “The primary objective is the tinned goods aisle at Tesco, but matches, cleaning fluids, firelighters and so forth would come in handy. Yes Green?”
The sixth-former had raised his hand.
“Sir, we’ve already visited… sorry, raided… Sainsbury’s, Asda and Waitrose. They were all empty. Morrisons wasn’t even there any more. Why should Tesco be any different?”
For the briefest of instants a look of despair flickered across Bates’ face. It was gone in a moment, replaced by a patronising smile. God, he really was in a bad way. It’d been hard enough for me to bury my mother but it was, after all, the natural way of things — children mourn their parents. I couldn’t begin to imagine what burying his wife and children had done to him; he seemed broken.
“Got to be thorough, Green. A good commander leaves nothing to chance. Nothing!”
“Right sir!” The boy shot me a glance and rolled his eyes. I grimaced back. I knew Green reasonably well. He was in the year above me, but was in my house and had helped organise our annual drama show last term. He was a high achiever in exams, and always put himself front and centre in any play or performance, but get him near a sports field and he looked like he wanted to run and hide under a bush; smart, but a wimp. Exactly the kind of boy Bates wanted nothing to do with. He was tall and lean, with dark hair and brown eyes, and the lucky bastard had avoided acne completely. No such luck for me.
I had been in the Lower Fifth before The Cull. Rowles was a second-former and Norton, sat next to Green, was Upper Fifth.
I barely knew Rowles. He was so much younger than me I’d never had anything to do with him. Even for his age he was small, and his wide eyes and freckled cheeks made him look like one of those cutesy kids from a Disney film, the kind who contrive to get their divorced parents back together just by being awfully, grotesquely, vomit-inducingly sweet. He was looking up at Bates, eyes full of hero worship. Poor kid. Bad enough losing your parents, but to latch onto Bates as your role model, now that was really unfortunate. I realised he was young enough that the world pre-Cull would soon come to seem like a dream to him, some fantasy childhood too idealised to have really occurred.
Norton, on the other hand, was all swagger, but not in a bad way. He was confident and self assured, a posh kid who affected that sort of loping Liam Gallagher strut. Well into martial arts, he had the confidence of someone who knew he could look after himself, and spent most break times smoking in the backroom of the café over the road, chatting up any girls from the high school who bought his bad boy act. Although he fitted the profile, he wasn’t a bully or a bastard, and I was pleased to see him; things could be fun with Norton around.
What a gang to see out the apocalypse with — an aspiring luvvie, a wideboy hardarse and an annoying mascot child, overseen by a world weary nurse and a damaged history master who thought he was Sgt Rock. Still, it could be worse — the head could be alive and MacKillick could be here.
Just as that thought flickered through my brain I heard someone behind me clear their throat. I cursed myself for tempting fate and turned around knowing exactly which particular son of a bitch would be standing behind me.
“Hi, sir,” said Sean MacKillick. “Need a hand?”
“Oh, fuck,” said Rowles.
CHAPTER TWO
SEAN MACKILLICK WAS Bates’ golden boy, and the highest ranking boy in the army section of the CCF. He was Deputy Head Boy and captain of the rugby team — three successive county trophies. He was also a Grade A, platinum-plated bastard.
Because of his sporting achievements the school authorities thought the sun shone out of Mac’s jock-strapped arse, but when the teachers weren’t around he was the worst kind of bully — sadistic, vicious and totally random. Jon always said it was because he was so short. Even now, at nineteen, he was shorter than everyone in the room, even Rowles, but he was built like a brick shitter and his head was so square it had corners. His thighs were meaty and his legs so stumpy that he kind of waddled — some of the juniors had christened him Donald Duck — but there was no mistaking the raw, squat power of the man.
His eyes were piercing blue under close-cropped blonde hair, and his face was heavily freckled, but there was cruelty in the curl of his mouth, and his eyes were all cold calculation.