First Admiral 01 First Admiral

by William J. Benning

  It wasn’t until halfway through the lunch break that Billy finally spotted one of Reilly’s gang. It was John Steele, a tall wiry-framed, blond haired boy who was very good with his fists and feet, provided no one was striking back. Steele was at the mesh fence by the side entrance terrorising a smaller dark haired boy, who was cowering against the fence trying to avoid the slaps being aimed at his head.

  “Doing a bit of freelancing when Reilly isn’t here, eh Steele?” Billy said calmly after approaching silently from behind the climbing frame.

  Always use the element of surprise if you can manage to do so, he thought to himself.

  “What’s it got to do with you, carrot-top!?” Steele half turned and snorted with derision at the red-haired upstart who had spoiled his lucrative fun.

  With the speed of a cobra, Billy smacked a kick into Steele’s right kneecap that toppled the taller boy over against the fence.

  “Why you?!” Steele raged with a mixture of outrage and surprise, trying to rise to inflict some punishment on this upstart.

  Steele never made it to his feet. Instead he received a swift kick to his ribs from Billy Caudwell’s foot, leaving the bully gasping for air and clutching his bruised and hurting ribs.

  “It’s everything to do with me, Steele,” Billy hissed pushing his face close to the cringing bully, “Get out of here,” Billy said softly yet firmly to the astonished schoolboy, who just a few moments before had been cringing against the same fence about to be relieved of his possessions.

  The terrified schoolboy sidled along the fence for a few paces and then scampered off as fast as his feet could carry him.

  “As for you, Steele, you call me ‘Sir’ from now on,” Billy snarled and landed a vicious open handed slap to the side of Steele’s head to reinforce the point, “What’s my name Steele?”

  “Billy Caudwell, Sir!” the fallen terrified bully cried, cowering away from the threat of another slap to the head.

  “And don’t you ever forget it, Steele,” Billy added, “now, where’s Reilly?”

  “He’s down at his dad’s office in town,” Steele stammered rubbing his bruised ribs and smarting head.

  “Okay, you tell that half-wit, Reilly, that I want to see him after school today, by the white wall, do you understand?” Billy instructed

  In astonishment that someone actually dared to challenge Reilly, the top predator of the school, Steele nodded.

  “I said do you understand me?!” Billy snapped

  “Yes!” Steele cried, in fear of another slap.

  “Yes, what?” Billy snarled.

  “Yes, Sir!” Steele responded a bit too loudly in his terror.

  “What on earth is going on here?” an angry adult female voice called out.

  It was Miss Connolly, who had drawn the short straw in the staff room that morning, and became playground monitor for this lunch break. Completely unperturbed Billy looked up at the teacher who was rapidly approaching the scene.

  “He fell over, Miss Connolly,” Billy said calmly, the lie flowing smoothly from his tongue like velvet.

  “Is that right, John Steele?” Miss Connolly asked the former bully, secretly hoping that he would not indicate that Billy had beaten him.

  “Yes, Miss Connolly,” the fallen bully responded quietly, discovering that the Code of the Playground could work both ways.

  Beneath the fear and terror of this new Billy Caudwell was a burning anger that would be expressed after Timothy Reilly had kicked the upstart into a cringing, weeping and bleeding ruin. Steele would bide his time, play the game, and enjoy more than a few kicks after Reilly had finished with the gingernut.

  “Well then, be off with you,” a sceptical, yet secretly delighted, Jean Connolly shooed Billy Caudwell away, and dragged John Steele to his feet.

  Making sure there were no signs of obvious injury she sent Steele about his way as well. The shrewd teacher took a mental note of what she suspected had happened. Yes, it was about time someone gave that toe-rag John Steele a good hiding, she thought to herself. Though, she didn’t expect it to be Billy Caudwell. Caudwell was the lad who had saved young Jenny Martin from up on the roof of the cathedral. Still, maybe he was turning bully. No, she dismissed the thought from her head, having seen the smaller boy scampering away from the scene only a few moments previously. Bullies picked on people who were smaller than they were, not larger. Steele was probably pushing the small boy around and Caudwell put a stop to it, she surmised.

  Good for you Billy Caudwell, she thought.

  Chapter 58

  Slowly, the hands on the off-white faced classroom clock had crawled around to three thirty. The final bell had rung releasing the hundreds of young children from the servitude of the classroom for yet another day. One day closer to the freedom of the long summer holidays. Calmly, Billy Caudwell rose from his not so tight-fitting all-in-one desk, lifted his blazer from the back of the seat and put it on. Lifting his worn out schoolbag, he set out for the appointed meeting in the playground. This was an entirely different Billy Caudwell from a month previously. This was not the confused, bullied Billy Caudwell who just accepted that he was there to be beaten. He was not to be intimidated by the so-called Code of the Playground, to accept what life threw at him.

  This was a Billy Caudwell who was in control. He was about to show Tim Reilly that things had most definitely changed. Slowly, almost nonchalantly, Billy walked to the appointed corner of the playground. This was where the multi-coloured painted lines in the tarmac showed netball, basketball and five-a-side football courts all in the one place. This was the place where the younger boys set up make-believe goals, and won the soccer World Cup final twice per day; and younger girls bounced frayed and faded tennis balls to develop their hand-eye coordination. A large crowd of students had gathered to witness what was expected to be a very one-sided and short-duration fight.

  Billy walked calmly round the corner of the red sandstone building to face the playground. It was flanked by the steel, grey concrete and glass prefabricated monstrosity of the Upper School Technical Drawing Department. To Billy, the modern glass and concrete monstrosity looked badly out of place with the more venerable, and scholarly, red sandstone of the original School. He smiled and nodded to Julie Martin, standing alone next to the laurel bushes that sprang hopefully from the ground around the Technical Drawing Department. The bushes had been the idea of an architect feeling guilty at the hideous design he had inflicted upon building. Julie Martin stared her response of shock and hatred towards him. For some reason she could not explain, she began to feel decidedly uncomfortable.

  There was a buzz of anticipation, mixed with a sense of dread in the air. Billy was expected to get beaten badly, thus reinforcing Reilly’s claim to be top bully. Most were hoping against hope that Billy would somehow triumph, after all John Steele was no pushover. Then again, John Steele wasn’t Tim Reilly. They prayed silently, for an against-the-odds miracle of a victory for the underdog. In their heart of hearts, they knew that Reilly would beat Billy Caudwell bloodily into the dust. This boded well for no one other than Timothy Patrick Reilly and his cronies. The King of the Heap was about to assert his violent superiority, and he wanted everyone to see it. There was no point in being top predator if he couldn’t show just how good a predator he was.

  Silently and morosely they watched Billy approach the arena of his expected shame, defeat and humiliation. Yet, for the more astute and observant amongst them, there was something very different about this blazered, red-haired Champion of the Underdogs.

  Gone was the apologetic shuffle and nervous stare that previous lambs to the slaughter had shown. Billy stood straight-backed, head erect and jaw set firm as he stepped slowly through the parting crowd of expectant students.

  Reilly and his six cohorts, a bruised Steele amongst them, were already present at the appointed place, and irritated at being kept waiting. They formed a protective semi-circle round the back of their leader, who was seated on the hard tarmac. J
ohn Steele was even more expectant than the others. He planned to enjoy Billy’s beating and humiliation, and then add a few blows and insults for good measure.

  “You call me ‘Sir’ from now on! Oh, we’ll see Mr. Gingernut Billy Caudwell,” Steele thought to himself, and glowered at Billy with open hatred. To Billy they were simply scum. They traded on their association with the top predator. Without his patronage and favour, they were nothing. They would be just more random victims of his violence. Instead, they had made their pact with the Devil, and, to protect their own skins, brought misery and pain to those smaller and less able to fight back. They stood in expectation, though deep in their minds they huddled in fear and shame.

  “You took your time,” Reilly sneered arrogantly, standing up, confident of his strength, brutality and ultimate success in the coming combat, “Thinking about running away, gingernut?” he taunted, arching his interlaced fingers and cracking his knuckles.

  “Blimey,” Billy responded in mock surprise, “It can tell the time all by itself, wonders will never cease, it’ll be wiping its own backside next!” he taunted.

  Billy knew that to defeat someone as big, strong and violent as Reilly would require him to have every edge. Anger made people careless, and Billy needed Reilly angry and careless. Reilly froze in horror and outrage at the insult that had just stung him as effectively as a slap in the face. A quiet murmur ran round all of the children present. This wasn’t meant to happen. Billy was supposed to just lie down and take a beating, not answer back and antagonise Reilly. That would only make things worse for him, and also for them.

  “What did you say?” Reilly snapped, hissing between his teeth, his powerful fists bunching menacingly at his side.

  A tiny instinct buried deeply in Reilly’s brain told him that there was something different, and very dangerous, about this red-headed upstart. Unfortunately for Timothy Patrick Reilly, the arrogance of the bully ignored the warning from his subconscious. The unbridled, unchecked animal, too used to inflicting his perverse violent will upon the weak and defenceless, took over.

  “Why? Are you deaf as well as stupid?” Billy retorted, moving over to set his back against the white painted wall.

  A surprised murmur ran round the confused spectators.

  “Don’t you call me stupid!” Reilly snarled angrily pointing a sharp accusing finger at the remarkably calm Billy Caudwell.

  It’s working, Billy thought to himself, he’s losing his temper. Billy smiled softly to himself as he realised he was taking control of the situation as easily as Reilly took money from his terrified victims. The wisdom of the now dead Garmaurian First Admiral gave him the tactical and psychological edge in the forthcoming battle. The years of experience that now flowed through his young brain told him that Reilly was close to the edge, and those that went over the edge had already lost the fight.

  “Well, if the cap fits, dummy, wear it!” Billy responded with a mischievous smile, taunting his larger and stronger adversary, and quietly freeing himself from the encumbrance of his schoolbag, letting it drop silently and unobtrusively from his shoulder. ”And, if you don’t want that finger broken off, I would advise you to put it away, you ignorant pig,” Billy hissed.

  That should do it, Billy thought. He won’t be able to take too much more. He’s not used to anyone answering him back. Any moment now he should make a lunge.

  A sharp involuntary intake of breath sounded throughout the playground. No one had ever insulted Reilly like that in front of others. Many began to fear that Billy, and possibly they themselves, would feel the full force of Reilly’s vengeful and indiscriminate wrath. They shuffled nervously looking for potential escape routes.

  In an instant the red mist of anger descended over the eyes of Timothy Reilly. The normally calculating, reasoned violence of the bully was replaced by the incoherent rage of the wild animal. To the mystified and terrified onlookers, it sounded like some great angry primitive animal had bellowed his challenge to the world. Then, Reilly stormed forward the mere few yards to savage and obliterate the insolent defiance of Billy Caudwell. Calmly, Billy stood his ground, fixing his gaze onto Reilly’s eyes, much to the horror and consternation of the observers, ready for the oncoming charge and the inevitable impact.

  Always watch the eyes, and wait your moment, Billy disciplined his mind and body.

  The thoughts of the vastly experienced dead Garmaurian First Admiral raced through his brain. Reilly telegraphed his intentions by raising his right, fist-bunched, hand, to deliver a huge wild swinging haymaker of a punch to Billy Caudwell’s head. In his mind, Billy was already two moves ahead of Reilly. With Reilly swinging his hand forward to connect with Billy’s head, Billy waited for the optimum moment. Gone were the days when he would have faltered, panicked and taken to his heels. The jeers and sneers of his tormentors would not follow him home this day. Now, he bided his time for an opening to launch his devastating response.

  As Reilly’s fist came flying in from his left, Billy swiftly raised his left arm and blocked the incoming blow, meeting Reilly’s forearm with his own. At the same moment Billy drew back his head and shoulders. Then, like releasing a tightened steel spring, Billy slammed his forehead into Reilly’s nose and mouth. The combined action of Reilly’s rage-fuelled forward momentum and Billy’s controlled precision strike was devastating. With a crack of nasal cartilage and bone, that echoed from the walls around the silenced playground, Reilly was slammed, in a spray of blood, teeth and mucus, onto his back in an undignified heap. The now dead First Admiral of the Garmaurians had seen his fair share of close quarter combat and bar room brawls in his time; he knew how to handle himself against the likes of Tim Reilly. Billy Caudwell now possessed that information and experience, and Tim Reilly had just learned that painful lesson.

  To the astonished silence of the playground, Reilly, unceremoniously and bloodily dumped on his backside, stared in abject astonishment through his tear misting eyes. With his ears ringing, and his head feeling like it had just exploded, he ran his hand over his ruined nose and upper lip. He winced with the discovery that they hurt. He stared with disbelief at the blood that covered his hand. Then, his eyes narrowed as he looked at Billy Caudwell with a mixture of pure hatred and rage. Panting more from astonishment than exertion, and finding it quite difficult to breathe, Reilly sprayed blood and mucus with every breath onto the front of his blazer, shirt and tie. Billy had known that such a blow, to the bridge of the nose, would bring tears to Reilly’s eyes and impede his ability to focus on his target. Reilly was spitting fragments of teeth and trying unsuccessfully to wipe his burst nose and upper lip from the free flowing blood and mucus. He then drew the wickedly sharp three-inch blade pen knife, his ultimate weapon of terror, from his pocket, and opened the clasp.

  Right then, Billy thought to himself seeing the silvery-flash of the opening pen knife as it appeared, this is serious. This ends now, he resolved, his mind focussing on the wickedly sharp blade. Reilly staggered to his feet holding the blade point first towards Billy like an accusing finger. Billy, watching his adversary’s eyes saw that Reilly was beyond reason, and that there was murder in his heart. Had Billy not been wearing the protective Personal Environment Suit he would have been terrified, and probably fleeing the scene by now.

  However, these were changed days. Billy Caudwell had decided that Reilly’s reign of terror was over. Swaying unsteadily on his feet, his knife pointed at Billy, Reilly fixed his mind on hurting the little red-headed boy in front of him as badly as he himself was hurting.

  “Reilly, don’t do it!” one of his cronies, a small chubby boy named Robert shouted to him.

  This was followed by a murmur of disapproval from the once silent spectators around the playground.

  “Shut up!! Just shut up!!!!” Reilly turned and screamed to the dissenter from his gang and the gathered crowd, waving the knife threateningly.

  He looked like some blood drenched hell-bound spectre. To Billy, the blood looked like a large cri
mson beard and moustache that stretched down to Reilly’s waist. Terrified and appalled, Robert, like everyone else present, did as he was bidden. Shaking his head resignedly he held his hands up, palms outwards, suppliantly. With all dissent and mutiny in the ranks and the crowd ruthlessly suppressed, Reilly turned to face his Nemesis. Billy stood calmly waiting for the expected onrush from the now crazed and very dangerous Reilly. His mantra of watching the eyes ran through his brain yet again. Reilly turned the knife in his hand blade downwards, to produce a downward stabbing action when he struck. In Billy’s mind he registered the subtle movement and knew how to deal with it accordingly.

  “You are going to get yours, gingernut!” Reilly seethed nasally, in a voice of pure hatred and venom.

  His ruined nose and mouth, sprayed blood and gore like a fine mist before him.

  “Big man with a knife, eh? It still makes you a stupid, ignorant pig though,” Billy taunted him calmly.

  He watched Reilly’s pain and shame filled eyes closely, waiting for the moment when he would make the rush.

  “Why you!” Reilly bellowed, and rushed forwards again, drawing his right arm back above his head to strike home with the vicious short blade.

  He’s a one trick pony, Billy thought to himself calmly, noting that once again Reilly was about to use a heavy downward blow with his right hand. From behind Reilly, a girl screamed as the bully covered the half dozen steps to Billy in a few brief moments. As Reilly brought the knife down aiming at Billy’s chest, the intended target moved nimbly to his left.

  Too late to stop his charge, Reilly realised his target had melted away from in front of him. As Reilly struck with the knife, he realised he was striking into the white painted wall.

  Reilly screamed as the blade clasp folded under the pressure of being dug into the solid concrete wall. The viciously sharpened blade bit into his fingers and knuckles, opening them to the bone, with a searing pain that tore a shout from his throat. Reilly’s cry was cut prematurely short as a hammer blow struck him in the midriff, and painfully drove the air from his already protesting lungs.