“Not entirely,” Foster began; but Trafford had paused only to refill his glass. “People complain about bullying at schools,” he said. “I tell them they don’t know what they’re talking about. Did you ever hear tell of Miles Pratt? No? Sic transit. Pratt was a famous bully of my day. I bear the scars still. Pratt would strap on a pair of spurs, climb onto the back of his fag, and ride him around a room as if it were the Grand National! My thighs were like raw beef. Oh, Pratt was famous. People had far more respect for Miles Pratt than for the Headmaster, wouldn’t you say, Rupert?”
“Never knew him,” the general said. “He got expelled the year before I started.”
“What for?” asked Ogilvy.
“The usual thing,” Trafford said. “I suppose that’s all changed, too.”
“On the contrary,” said Foster,”it’s part of the entrance examination now.”
“When the school captain examined my entrance,” Charlie Essex said,”he gave me two lollipops and an orange.”
“That’s nothing,” said a major in the Rifle Brigade. “I got a box of chocolates and a crate of champagne. Is there any more champagne, by the way?”
“I don’t suppose there will ever be another flogger like Sally Chandler,” Trafford said wistfully. “D’you know, he once flogged a pair of choristers who just happened to be passing his study?”
“Miles Pratt won a VC in the Second Afghan War,” said the general. “Posthumous, thank God.” As the military police fought their way in through the front door, the adjutant led the airmen out through the kitchen. “Quickly but quietly,” he urged. O’Neill carried Kellaway on his back like a sack of coal. “Hurry, hurry,” the adjutant said. Goss stumbled and fell. “I think I’ve broken my ankle, Uncle,” he said. “Break what you like,” the adjutant told him, “but do it fast.” The patron was holding the back door open. “Merci mille fois” the adjutant said, giving him a handful of money. Then they were all out in the night. The distant crash and shout of battle was cut off as the kitchen door closed. Mayo began wandering off, down the alley that backed the bar. “Not that way!” the adjutant said.
“You can’t talk like that to me,” Mayo said thickly. “Moi, je suis the next Czar of Russia but three and I’ll have your bloody head chopped off if—”
Piggott grabbed him and dragged him back. There was a ladder against the alley wall and the adjutant was pushing men up it as fast as he could. Mayo, unable to escape from Piggott, surrendered to him and began to waltz. Soon this struck him as hugely funny, and he stopped waltzing to laugh. “Shut him up!” the adjutant hissed. Piggott punched Mayo in the stomach. The laughter turned to a groan, the groan to a gurgle as Mayo was sick. Spitting and wheezing, he let himself be steered up the ladder.
They were in a churchyard.
“One short,” O’Neill said. “Where’s the old man?”
“Vanished ten minutes ago,” the adjutant told him. “No idea where he’s gone.”
“Gone berserk, if you ask me,” Piggott said.
A deep sigh came from Kellaway. He lay stretched out on the top of a tomb, his arms crossed on his chest.
“He wants to die here,” O’Neill explained. “He reckons it’s handy for the pub.”
“Did we win the boat race?” Jimmy Duncan asked. “I sort of lost count.”
“Stand him up,” the adjutant said, pointing to Kellaway. As he spoke there came a glow of light in the alley, a rush of boots and oaths and the thud of blows. O’Neill shook Kellaway by the foot. Kellaway rolled over twice and fell off the tomb, crushing something fragile, a vase perhaps. “Follow me,” the adjutant muttered. He hurried them through the churchyard, down a muddy track and into a cobbled street. The street led back to the town square. “Rufus can look after himself,” the adjutant said. “We’re going to take the tender and get out of here, now.” But the tender was not where they had left it. “Damn,” said the adjutant. “Damn, damn, damn. Also bugger.”
They sat on the edge of a fountain in the middle of the square and watched Le Trictrac being emptied by the military police. There were several bloody heads and a few men being carried by their friends. The police whacked and kicked indiscriminately to keep the crowd on the run.
“Just like Piccadilly Circus on Boat Race night,” said Piggott.
“Did we win?” Jimmy Duncan asked. “I lost count.”
“He must have gone somewhere,” the adjutant said. “Who else would have taken it?”
O’Neill said: “Big question is, where’s he gone?”
“I’ll ask a policeman,” Mayo said, and made off. “I say, constable!” he shouted. Piggott chased him and dragged him back. “Sit down and shut up,” he said.
Mayo shook himself free. “Russian policemen finest in the world,” he said loftily. “Russian police know all the answers.” He found himself looking at Jimmy Duncan. “What’s the question?” he asked.
“Did we win?” said Duncan. “I lost count.”
For a long while, nobody spoke. Kellaway was asleep, propped up against O’Neill. Appleyard was wondering how long they should wait. Goss was rubbing the ankle he said he had broken. The others were staring at the moon, or combing their hair, or just standing with their hands in their pockets, rattling their small change. A mule trotted into the square. By now the troops had gone. Le Trictrac was shuttered and dark. The mule stopped and looked around. It heard the tinkle of falling water, walked to the fountain, eyed the airmen and found them unthreatening, and began to drink.
“That’s a mule,” Duncan said.
The animal flapped its ears. Water dripped from its nose. A clatter of hooves made it look over its shoulder. Another mule cantered into the square.
“There’s another,” Duncan asked.
“How many does that make?” Piggott asked.
“Two.”
“You’re not as stupid as you look, Jimmy.”
“Wrong,” O’Neill said. “It makes four.” Two more mules had arrived. He pointed, and the gesture disturbed Kellaway, who toppled backwards into the fountain. The first mule tossed its head and backed away. “And six makes ten,” O’Neill said. “And ten makes twenty. After that it’s bloody ridiculous.”
Kellaway stood up in the fountain. His eyes were open but he was seeing double. He was utterly bewildered. He had no idea where he was or how he got there. Everywhere he looked he saw moonlit mules: double images of moonlit mules, dozens and dozens of them, all running, but the more they ran the more there were of them until the square was crammed with mules. It was a nightmare. He dropped to his hands and knees and shut his eyes and crawled away from it.
“I don’t like the look of this,” the adjutant said to Piggott They were standing on the fountain wall, for safety. It was not a big square and mules were still pouring in. “There’s got to be a reason for this sort of nonsense.”
“Here he comes,” said Piggott.
Rufus Milne cantered into the square on a mule with reins and a halter but no saddle. He saw the airmen and forced his way towards them. “Hullo, you lot!” he cried. “Where on earth have you been?”
The square was dense with braying and stamping. Still more mules were arriving. Faintly, from a corner, the whistles of the military police could be heard. “What’s the game, Rufus?” Piggott shouted.
“These are all mine,” Milne announced. “Aren’t they jolly? This one’s called Alice. She’s a wise old bird. Aren’t you, Alice?”
“Mules are neuter,” said Goss,”and yours looks stupid.”
“Does she really? Trick of the light, I expect. The sergeant said she has the brains of an archbishop.”