And so it continued, Maurice telling tales on the other orphans and soon earning small rewards for the betrayals. Discipline at Crickley Hall was rigid, unbending, the rules of the house too many for Maurice to remember now, but severe punishment was the penalty for breaking them. Sometimes it would be Cribben's cane or Magda's strap (she always wore a thick leather belt round her waist which she would snap at any rule-breaker's hands and legs). Other times it might be fasting for a day, or being made to stand silently in a corner for six hours or more. Toys and board games were not allowed, even though Maurice knew there were some in the house because he had helped Magda carry them—they were sent by orphan-concerned charities—up to the storeroom next to the dormitory, where they were locked away. On Saturday mornings, however, the evacuees were allowed to play on the swing the young gardener had rigged up for them on the front lawn. Only two at a time though, just for the benefit of passers-by who would think it was part of the children's recreational fun. In particular, it was meant to impress the vicar of St Mark's, the church further down the hill; the Reverend Rossbridger liked to pop in for tea and biscuits with the Cribbens from time to time. It was not long before even those innocent sessions on the swing became another form of punishment.
Maurice quickly became Magda's preferred child and loyal servant to Augustus Cribben himself. The other children hated him for this (as they had hated him in the London orphanage before) because they knew he spied on them, that he reported the slightest misdemeanour on their part to the Cribbens, and that he stirred up problems for them with their guardians. Susan Trainer got into the most trouble, because Maurice disliked her in particular—she was too lippy and always defending the smaller kids, especially the Polish boy. Stefan Rosenbaum was constantly picked on by Cribben and Magda; that Stefan understood very little English didn't help matters.
But Maurice enjoyed it all. He liked the strictness and it was fun to see the other boys and girls get punished. He loved the brutality of the canings. And quite soon Cribben saw Maurice's potential.
55: LIGHTNING
Gabe was heading west in the Range Rover and making reasonably good time despite the Friday-night exodus from the city. Now on the motorway, he was able to pick up speed, illegally keeping to the fast lane, once again flashing his headlights at any vehicle that impeded his progress, tailgating them if they didn't pull into the middle lane. It was a foolish thing to do, reckless and heedless of others, but he wanted to reach Hollow Bay as quickly as possible. He was in no mood to dally.
Eve had not wanted him to return to Crickley Hall that night because she felt he would be too exhausted both physically and emotionally. She would comfort Loren and Cally when she broke the terrible news to them. They, in turn, would console each other. For him to drive back that night was too big a risk, especially as it was raining still.
But Gabe hadn't liked the sound of his wife's voice. It was too dispassionate. Eve was too calm, too collected. She had to be in shock. Maybe she had nothing left, her emotions wrung out. Whatever the answer, Gabe had to be there with his wife and daughters; they would need his love and support, as he needed theirs.
Rain suddenly hit the windscreen so fiercely he was momentarily driving blind. He eased up on the accelerator and turned the wipers on to a swifter speed. Other vehicles were also slowing down and he groaned aloud. He didn't need this.
The change from light drizzle to absolute downpour was dramatic and unexpected, like driving into a waterfall. Gabe saw that the sky ahead was black and, just to make things worse, there was a lightning flash that bleached road and countryside, followed by the distant rumble of thunder.
Gabe swore and flicked his headlights at another driver who was blocking his way. He pressed down harder on the accelerator pedal and once more gathered speed.
56: MEMORIES
He drained the last of the Hennessy and pondered whether or not to have another. Glancing at his watch, he decided it was still too early to leave.
Rising from the table, Maurice went to the bar. An attractive but rather sluttish girl, who had arrived a short while ago, was serving. The man Maurice assumed was the landlord or pub manager was standing at the far end of the counter, talking to a couple of customers. The place was just beginning to get busy.
Maurice ordered another large brandy, his third, and smiled at the girl he'd heard the landlord call Frannie. Keep the change, he told her, and took his drink back to the small table.
The old man with the cloth cap was still gazing into the fire. Frannie had livened it up with a few fresh logs when she had come on duty. The fire-gazer had an inch or so of the half-bitter left in his glass and Maurice wondered if it would take him another half-hour to drain it.
Maurice sipped his own drink, enjoying its bite, taking his time because he had plenty of that, plenty of time yet.
He settled comfortably in the chair and went back to his memories. Augustus Theophilus Cribben was a deviant: a masochist and a sadist. But Maurice did not understand such terms in those days. In fact, to Maurice, Cribben was a kind of god. And in three short weeks, the boy was to become an acolyte of the god. He always remained afraid of Cribben, but still he idolized him. Cribben was lord and master of Crickley Hall and Maurice was only too pleased to be his servant, for it gave him power too: domination over the other children, influence with Magda, and the approval of his master—especially that.
He found ways to please Cribben and Magda, watching over the other orphans, controlling them whenever Cribben or his sister was not present, making them stand in two straight lines at assembly in the hall, reporting them if they talked or played after lights out, and generally conspiring with the guardians to make life miserable for the evacuees. When they all marched down the hill to church on Sunday mornings, Maurice always walked at the back with Magda, ready to point out any chatter or mischief from the boys and girls in front. He also kept alert during the Mass, on the lookout for misbehaviour or whisperings among them.
Soon, he had inveigled his way so much into his guardians' good books that he was allowed to stay up long after the others had gone to bed, although he had the habit of sitting on the narrow staircase just below the open hatchway so that he could listen to anything they might whisper about the Cribbens or himself. Augustus Cribben never seemed to sleep: he would walk the landing, pace the flagstoned hall, climb the broad stairway—and sometimes stop at the bottom of the narrow staircase leading to the dormitory, waiting there as if listening for the slightest noise, the quietest of murmurs, hoping to catch the children out, ready to stomp up those wooden steps and deal out immediate punishment—he always carried the cane with him. Then, in the evenings, he began to take Maurice to his bedroom.
There he would instruct the boy to kneel at the bedside with him and pray. Such prayers could go on for two hours or more and such was Cribben's fervour, so intense were his supplications, that Maurice's boredom was never noticed.
It was on one of those nights that something took place that was totally bizarre to the boy—bizarre then, but soon, with repetition, becoming an acceptable part of the evening ritual.