School's Out Forever

by Scott K. Andrews

Caroline sobbed involuntarily. I tugged her chain hard and aimed a half-hearted kick at her shin. She looked up at me, chin wobbling, wide eyes full of tears.

  “Button it, you,” I said.

  “Third stable on the right, darlin’,” said Blackteeth. “Tell you what, when you’re done you come find me. I’ve got a bottle of real wine in my bunk. Been saving it for a special occasion.”

  I turned my back on him and walked towards the stables, tugging the kids behind me. Rowles slipped and fell on his face. I didn’t look back or break my stride; I just dragged him through the mud until he regained his footing and staggered after me. I imagined his collar was really chafing by now.

  The courtyard ahead of me was deserted. I knew there were at least three guards behind me at the gates, but I didn’t turn to see if there were more. The main farmhouse stood at the far end, three storeys high. Tattered curtains hung from dusty windows, some of which were shattered. The kitchen door was open and I got an impression of movement inside. To my left was a large derelict barn, its roof fallen in; to my right stood a row of brick stables. A large truck was parked awkwardly in the far left corner, its engine idling, the exhaust fumes misting in the chill morning air. That was a statement in itself – who had enough fuel to waste it warming up a lorry cab, even on a morning this cold? I knew exactly what its cargo would be, but after long weeks of investigation I still had no idea where it was going.

  I thought about knocking but decided I’d make an entrance, so I walked into the stable, dragging the children behind me. The man behind the desk jumped slightly and reached for the pistol that lay in front of him, but relaxed when he saw that it was only me. He leaned back in his chair, his great blubbery weight threatening to topple him backwards at any second. This was Olly.

  “What bloody kept you?” he asked as he returned his attention to the thick rare steak he was eating, held in a piece of old newspaper.

  “Ask your guards. More interested in flirting than doing business.” I looped the chain and the rope around a hook on the wall, and shoved the two children to the floor. I sat in the chair facing Olly and put my feet up on his desk.

  Careful, I thought. Don’t overdo it.

  “The reason I want to do business with you, Olly, is ’cause you’re such a class act,” I said.

  It took him a moment to realise what I meant, and then he laughed, his thick lips parting in a strangled wheeze, revealing half-chewed raw meat. He thrust the steak towards me.

  “Want some?” he offered. “Fresh kill.”

  “Thanks, but no thanks.”

  “Suit yourself. Talking of fresh meat, what do we have here?” He levered himself out of his chair and waddled around the desk towards Rowles and Caroline. Both of them cowered against the wall, a pathetic sight in their tattered, muddy rags.

  “The boy’s eleven, been living rough,” I said. “Girl’s twelve. Untouched, if you can believe that. They’re a bit scrawny but they’re healthy as far as I can tell.”

  Rowles put his arm around Caroline’s shoulder as Olly leered at them.

  “Don’t worry, C,” Rowles whispered. “I won’t let him hurt you.”

  Olly leaned down and grabbed Rowles’ chin in his greasy fingers. He got very close indeed and hissed into the boy’s face: “Of course I’m not going to hurt her. I’m most gentle, me. Break her in all carefully, I will. You too, if you’re good.”

  Rowles spat in Olly’s eye as Caroline sobbed and buried her face in his shoulder. Olly snarled and raised his ugly paw, ready to strike the boy, but I leapt up and grabbed the man’s wrist. It was so thick I couldn’t even get my fingers around it.

  “You don’t lay a finger on either of them till I get my payment, fat man,” I said.

  He turned to me, teeth bared. But his raw meat snarl changed into a grin, he wheezed his laugh again and lowered his hand.

  “There’s no hurry, is there?” He looked down at the pair. “I’ll have plenty of quality time with these two when you’ve gone, won’t I? No need to rush.”

  I let go of his arm and he moved back to his side of the desk and sat down again. I followed suit. He took another bite of steak, tearing the flesh off and chewing sloppily.

  “Price is fixed, as discussed,” he said. “Go see Jonny in the big house, he’ll sort you out. If you make a habit of bringing me good stock like this I’ll make it worth your while. Any more where these came from?”

  “Plenty, but I can only take them one or two at a time. Don’t want to get caught. The villagers might not take kindly to me pinching their kiddies.”

  “Can’t imagine why, little runts.”

  “But you’ll be moving them soon, won’t you? ’Cause they might come looking for these two.” I tried to sound conversational, barely interested, but I knew immediately that I’d made a mistake. He looked across at me, suspicious and threatening.

  “What do you care?” he demanded.

  I pretended to think about this, then shrugged and rose to my feet. “I don’t. Just curious. Jonny, yeah?”

  “Jonny. Yeah.”

  “See you around, Olly.” I didn’t look back at the two children as I left.

  I crossed to the farmhouse door, which was still hanging open, and casually glanced back at the gates. The high brick wall was solid, so they felt secure in here. Apart from Blackteeth who was outside the metal doors, now closed, there was a guy on a ramshackle scaffold inside, looking out over the flood plain to the south. He had a shotgun over his shoulder. A third man lounged on a damp sofa inside the doors reading Oliver Twist. He also had a shotgun, but his was sawn off.

  Two inside the doors, one outside. Then Olly in the stable and Jonny in the house. Might be more, though. But where?

  I walked into the farmhouse kitchen. The smell was appalling. In the centre of the large flagstone floor was a wooden table, around it six children of varying ages. All of them had ropes looped around their necks, binding them together in one long chain. They sat there, eyes dead, faces white, most with black eyes or thick lips, dressed in clothes either too big or small, mechanically eating porridge from bowls. I doubted any of them had seen soap and water for at least a month.

  Again, Kate’s gran came to mind. I had a sudden flash of her cooing “Poor dears”, spitting on to her hankie, and wiping all their faces clean with saliva. Kate used to hate it when she did that. God, she used to squirm. Looking back, it seems like the gentlest act of kindness imaginable. Small acts of kindness, that was what the world was missing these days.

  I forced my attention back to my situation. I was distancing myself from it, retreating into my head, rambling. It’s a trick I learned the first time things got bad, back before The Cull. It had come in handy once or twice since.

  But I couldn’t afford to absent myself now. I needed to stay sharp. Anyway, I wasn’t the one in danger, not really. I wondered where these children had gone to in their heads. I was pretty certain none of them were entirely present any more. I looked into their eyes and I thought that this was how I must look when I zone out. Like a victim. That made me sad and angry to my core. I held on to the anger, focused it, concentrated, brought myself back.

  I am nobody’s victim. Not any more.

  An interior door swung open and a scrawny teenage boy walked in. His face was a battlefield of acne and bum fluff and he dragged a young blonde girl behind him on a rope. Thirteen at the oldest, her face was streaked with tears and snot. His belt was still unbuckled.

  I didn’t give him time to react to my presence. I was around the table and my arm was around his neck so quickly he didn’t know what was happening. He was unconscious before he had a chance to open his mouth. It took all my willpower to relax my grip – it was so tempting to squeeze the life out of the sorry bastard. I wanted to kill him, I felt justified in killing him, even righteous.

  But I hadn’t let the horror overwhelm me, so I wouldn’t let the fury take me either. If I succumbed to either I’d lose myself, and there were children here who needed
me.

  The boy stopped struggling and his eyes rolled back in their sockets. I relaxed my grip and gently laid his head on the floor. I ran back around the crowded table and closed the door into the courtyard. No-one had raised the alarm, so the struggle hadn’t been seen.

  I turned back and found six pairs of eyes staring at me with distant curiosity. One boy was still eating, so far gone that he didn’t even register what was happening around him. The young girl who had just entered was staring down at the boy who lay unconscious at her feet. I opened my mouth to speak but before I could utter a sound the girl raised her foot and stamped it down, as hard as she could, on the boy’s neck. There was a dreadful crunch, the boy spasmed and twitched, gasped, sighed, then lay still. A trickle of blood leaked from his mouth. The girl looked up at me and wiped the back of her hand across her face, smearing away the tears and snot. Then she cocked her head to one side, and said: “Now what?” She spoke primly, with the self-possession of monied privilege.

  It took me a few seconds to respond.

  “Is there anybody else in here with you?” I asked.

  “Just Tim,” said the girl. “He’s upstairs. He’s sick.”

  “No more guards?”

  She shook her head.

  “All right. Can you open the front door for me? Walk outside and wave. My friends will see you.”

  She looped the rope over her neck and let it drop to the floor, then she nodded, turned and left.

  I looked down at the seated children. One boy seemed more present than the others. He looked about ten. I leant down so we were eye to eye.

  “When my friends arrive can you show them where Tim is and help them get everyone out the front door?”

  He nodded solemnly.

  “Thank you. Now, could you all just keep quiet for a moment? I have one more thing to do then we can get you out of here.”

  A few small nods. One girl went back to her porridge.

  I avoided looking at the dead teenager, closed my eyes, took a deep breath, fixed a smile on my face and opened the door to the courtyard again. I strode out confidently, but I was painfully aware that I was unarmed. It wouldn’t have helped anyway; my hands were shaking too much to use a gun even if I’d had one. I couldn’t tell you whether they shook from fear or fury – probably an equal measure of both. I took a deep breath and tried to relax; I’d need steady hands for the next bit.

  As I walked past the stables, I saw Rowles and Caroline, still sitting on the floor in Olly’s office. I caught Rowles’ eye and inclined my head. He nodded back and rose to his feet. I kept walking past the doorway, towards the bookworm. He lay his book aside as I approached, carefully inserting a bookmark to keep his place.

  “I thought you were getting paid?” he asked as he swung his legs over the side of the sofa.

  The plan had been to find a bag and fill it with stuff, make it look like I’d been paid. I’d been distracted, lost my concentration, and forgotten. Stupid mistake.

  “Nothing left,” I improvised. “Jonny told me to come back tomorrow. He reckons you’ll be flush once you’ve offloaded this consignment.”

  The man looked confused.

  “Yeah, we will be. But we won’t be back for a week.”

  So wherever they took the children was much further away than I’d thought.

  The guard smiled. “Jonny probably just wants you to come and visit him while we’re away. Dirty bastard.”

  The gun was on the sofa beside him. Bookworm stood up and walked past me to yell at the farmhouse. “Oi! Jonny! You dirty fucker. Your dick making you tell porkies again?”

  He obviously expected a comeback. But Jonny wasn’t saying anything. He stood there, smiling, waiting for a sarcastic reply. Then the smile gradually changed to puzzlement. “Oi! Jonny! You in there?” He took another step forwards. Suddenly he realised something was wrong, and he spun around to face me. I couldn’t go for his gun because the guard at the top of the scaffolding was watching us. He’d have picked me off if I’d made a move. But I was standing between the bookworm and his sofa, blocking access to his gun. I silently urged everyone to get a move on.

  “Last I saw Jonny, he was dragging some girl upstairs by a rope,” I said, shrugging.

  Bookworm eyed me suspiciously.

  “Probably can’t hear you for her groans of ecstasy,” I added. Then I flashed my eyes at him knowingly, pretending to be one of the lads, laughing at the teenage rapist.

  I felt sick.

  “So not tomorrow, next week, yeah?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” he said thoughtfully.

  We stood there facing each other as he see-sawed between amusement and suspicion. Amusement eventually won.

  “He’s a dirty little bastard, Jonny,” he laughed. “You want to watch him.”

  “Will do. See you next week then?”

  He nodded and walked to the gate, unshackling the chains and pulling hard. The guard on the tower returned his attention to the flood plain as the door swung open. I leaned down and grabbed the sawn-off shotgun from the sofa, and walked up behind Bookworm. I buried the muzzle in the small of his back. He stiffened and froze. I pushed him forward so that the metal door shielded us from the man on the scaffolding.

  The guard outside the door looked puzzled for an instant and then raised his gun to his hip.

  “Drop it,” I whispered to the black-toothed lech. “Or the bookworm dies.”

  He considered this for a moment.

  “I don’t really like him that much,” he replied.

  “Fred!” protested Bookworm.

  “Shut up, you speccy twat,” said Blackteeth. “Always got your nose buried in a book. Think you’re better than the rest of us. Threatening him ain’t gonna stop me, love. Oi, Mike, we’ve got a situation down here. Wanna lend a hand or you just gonna sit up there staring into space all afternoon?”

  I heard the metal clang of the other guard climbing down the scaffolding.

  All the plan required was that I disarm the door guards. It should have been easy. Instead I had two barrels ready to fire, two armed men coming at me from two sides, and one unarmed but still dangerous guy stuck in the middle with me. Lee would have known what to do.

  I just had to stall. What was keeping everyone?

  “What about you, Mike?” I shouted. “You want to see your mate’s guts blown out?” I had my free hand on Bookworm’s shoulder, and I began backing us away from Blackteeth, back inside the courtyard, towards the sofa. When Mike finally hit the ground and rounded the gate we were far enough back that I could see him and Blackteeth without dividing my attention. At least I’d avoided being caught between the two of them – now they were all in front of me.

  “Not really,” said Mike. He was tall and lean, bald, about forty. He wore a Barbour jacket, blue jeans and green wellies, and he had the shotgun held up to his shoulder, aimed steadily at us. Something about his poise made me very nervous. He wasn’t a thug like Blackteeth, or a novice like Bookworm – he was experienced and deliberate. He was the real threat here.

  I remembered the briefing that morning. “Nobody gets hurt,” I’d insisted. “Whatever happens, no-one gets killed. All right?” I looked pointedly at Rowles as I said this. He smirked, then nodded. “Yes, Matron.”

  One dumb teenage bastard was already going cold twenty metres to my right. I didn’t want anyone else to join him. Not even these guys.

  “Olly!” Mike shouted. “Get out here, boss.”

  “Olly’s not available right now,” came the reply. “Can I help at all?” It was Rowles; all five foot nothing of him. He was standing outside the stables, muddy and bedraggled, legs apart, arms raised, with a pistol in his hands. His face and hair dripped fresh blood.

  “Dammit Rowles,” I shouted. “I told you not to kill him.”

  “He’s not dead, Matron,” replied the boy quietly. “I can’t guarantee he’ll ever be the same again, but he’s not dead.”

  Mike’s aim didn’t waver for a second, but
his eyes widened as he calculated the odds. He was square in Rowles’ sights.

  “Fuck me,” said Blackteeth.

  “It’s just a kid, Fred,” said Mike. “Get a grip.”

  “Caroline, you got a minute?” said Rowles.

  Caroline walked out of the stable to join him. Taller than Rowles, one year older, solidly built, her ginger hair cut brutally short, Caroline also held a pistol. She bit her lip thoughtfully, concentrating, as she took careful aim at Blackteeth.

  “Actually, he is dead,” she said, quite matter of fact. Rowles looked at her, surprised.

  “Really?”

  “You hit him over the head with an iron bar. Twice. Of course he’s dead. Idiot.” She said ‘idiot’ indulgently, with love, as if talking to a silly toddler or sullen boyfriend. My very own pre-pubescent Bonnie and Clyde.

  “Oh,” said Rowles, nonplussed. “Sorry, Matron.” He blinked back his surprise and refocused his attention on Mike.

  “Shall we shoot them, Jane?” asked Caroline.

  Mike looked into my eyes as I pretended to consider Caroline’s question. That made his mind up. He began backing away slowly, heading for the gate.

  “I think we’ll be leaving,” he said. “Coming, Fred?”

  Blackteeth nodded and joined his mate, walking backwards, gun raised. As soon as they were clear of the wall they ran left, out of sight.

  The farm was ours.

  The children were safe.

  WE WERE TOO late to help Tim. He had pneumonia and didn’t survive the day.

  I had Rowles bury Olly, Jonny and Tim as punishment for his overzealous retribution. He didn’t complain. He might go overboard at times, but he had never once questioned any order I’d given him, which is partly why I relied on him so much.

  A team of older boys and girls from the school joined us, and we loaded the rescued children into the back of the lorry then set out for home. We left Rowles burying the dead. He could walk back to the school. That was another part of his punishment. It was only ten miles, and I wasn’t worried about him. I was far more afraid for anyone that tried to cross him.

  Bookworm came with us, too. I reassured him that no harm would come to him, but I still tied him up and put a sack over his head. I had questions I wanted to ask.