School's Out

by Scott Andrews

  "It is my sad duty to inform you that those values have become perverted. Under the leadership of a cruel, vicious man, the surviving children have armed themselves, overthrown their teachers, and declared themselves an anarchist state.

  "Their lawlessness threatens us all. If we allow them to go unchecked then it won't be long before we are overrun by thugs and bullies, muggers and hoodies; feral children who know only the instinct to smash and destroy the homes and lives of their elders and betters.

  "I am here to tell you that this shall not be allowed!"

  Cheers and applause again. But, I noticed, not from everyone. A group of about fifteen men stood at the rear of the audience and they appeared to be watching not Baker, but the crowd. The hysteria Baker was whipping up with his well judged oratory was not reaching them.

  When the cheering had died down Baker gestured to me.

  "This young man had a bright future. He's not from a good family, his parents own no land and possess no great wealth. But his father served in Her Majesty's forces and they helped pay for his son's education at one of the finest schools in the land. They offered him an opportunity to better himself, to rise above his humble origins and excel. And what has he done with that chance? He has put on a uniform to which he has no right, picked up a gun, and embarked on a campaign of slaughter that is too horrific to relate to you good people here today."

  I wanted to point out that it was Mac he wanted. But that was beside the point. Baker had to demonise me before killing me, only then would his point be made and his lesson handed down.

  "One could say that he has simply reverted to type. That he was never of good stock and had no place at a school such as St Mark's. I leave such judgements up to you. What I can do, however, is dispense justice for the men and women he has slaughtered. One of whom, friends, was my own, dear niece, Lucy."

  A gasp from the crowd.

  "The execution of this murderous animal signals the start of my campaign to clean up this county, this country! Even as we stand here a force of men is taking control of the school that harboured his vile criminal urges. By tonight we shall have expanded our territory to include this great institution for education and civilisation which I shall personally see is restored to its rightful place at the heart of a nation ruled by respect!"

  Huge applause. And the group of men at the back of the crowd sloughed off their long coats and stood waiting for... what?

  Baker turned to me.

  "Lee Keegan, I find you guilty of the crime of murder and I hereby sentence you to hang by the neck until dead."

  And he pulled the lever.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Jon used to have this battered old hardback book called The Hangman's Art. He was sick like that. It was the memoirs of an executioner but also a manual for a good hanging. Amongst all the factors the author considered important - a black canvas hood, the binding of hands and feet, the fluid motion of the trapdoor - the most crucial detail was the length of the rope.

  If you hang a man with a rope that's too long the drop will decapitate the condemned, and nobody wants that. Conversely, if the rope is too short then the condemned person's neck will not break and they will swing there, choking to death. This outcome was not considered merciful.

  The book contained a graph charting the ratio between the weight of the condemned and the correct length of rope required for a clean, clinical snap of the neck and a swift, essentially painless dispatch.

  Thank Christ nobody on Baker's staff had a copy.

  I don't think there's any shame in admitting that as I fell into space I lost all control of my bodily functions and shat myself. As I reached the full extent of the rope's length it snapped tight and dug hard into my windpipe.

  I heard a sharp crack and knew that I was dead.

  The brain takes a fairly long time to die once deprived of oxygen. I remember Bates telling us once that during the French Revolution the severed heads of guillotine victims could blink on command for up to four minutes after the chop. I wonder what they were thinking, how conscious they were of their situation. Were they screaming silently or were their final, bodiless minutes strangely serene?

  As I swung there, knowing that my neck had snapped and that I was beginning the irreversible process of brain death, my vision swam and my lungs cried out for breath that I couldn't force into them. I didn't feel serene at all. I wanted to kick and fight and bite and scream my way out of the noose. But my hands were tied and my feet kicked helplessly at thin air. All I could see was the sky rotating above me.

  I've no idea how long I hung there, it felt like a lifetime. Eventually, just as my vision was starting to fade and the roaring in my ears reached the pitch of a jet plane taking off, I felt someone grab my feet and push upwards. The pressure on my windpipe briefly abated and I gasped down the tiniest of breaths before the grip loosened and I swung free once more.

  Then my weight was taken again, but this time it felt like I was standing on someone's shoulders. I was pushed upwards until I flopped onto the wooden platform like a landed fish. I felt hands loosening the noose and I breathed deep. Before I had time to get my bearings, while my hearing and vision were still blurred and faded, I was pulled to my feet and two people took my weight. I staggered between them, powerless to control where I was being led.

  My senses began to re-establish themselves as we hurried down off the scaffold and across grass, around the side of the main building and away from the market. I could hear screams and gunshots. After a short run we stopped and my two rescuers started arguing.

  "Where?" Petts.

  "Um..." Williams.

  "Quickly! We won't get far with him like this."

  "Okay, inside."

  "Are you fucking nuts?"

  "Inside!"

  They dragged me through a side door into the main building and then up three flights of stairs. When we finally stopped we were inside a tiny attic room, probably an old servants' quarters. A small window looked down onto the square below. There was a bed in the corner and my two schoolmates dropped me onto it. Williams closed the door and pushed a chest of drawers across it before slumping onto the floor.

  "Who are they?" asked Petts.

  "How the fuck should I know?" shouted Williams, on the edge of hysteria.

  Resting on the bed I felt the adrenalin surging through me. I was shaking like a leaf but I could breathe!

  "My... my neck. I heard it break," I gasped. "Why am I still alive?"

  "If your neck was broken you'd be dead. Your neck's fine," said Petts. "I mean, you've got a hell of a bruise, and rope burns and shit, but no broken bones."

  "But I heard it! I heard it break!" I protested.

  "That wasn't your neck, that was a gunshot," said Williams. "They opened fire the second you dropped."

  I levered myself upright and felt the awful slickness in my pants as I did so.

  "Who opened fire?"

  "Take a look," said Petts, gesturing to the window.

  I shuffled sideways on the bed and peered down onto the market square. It was a scene of total chaos. The first thing I noticed was Baker, lying next to the lever, half his head missing, sprayed across the gallows platform.

  At least that was one less mad bastard to worry about.

  The forecourt was still full of people, but they were surrounded by the men I had seen at the back of the crowd. Some of these men carried guns; all brandished what looked like homemade machetes. There were some bodies lying around the place, a few villagers, and two of the attackers.

  I could hear sporadic gunfire in the distance.

  "They shot Baker just as he pulled the lever, and the crowd panicked," explained Petts. "There was a stampede but they were ready for it and they herded everyone back towards the building's entrance. Some of the men had guns and there was a fight, and during the confusion we were able to get to you. But it looks like these new guys, whoever they are, have got things under control now. By the way, Lee, you stink."


  "Yeah, sorry about that."

  At that moment a strange figure appeared, walking down the driveway towards the house. He was tall and lean and dressed in an immaculate three-piece pinstripe suit, complete with stripy tie and bowler hat. He carried an umbrella and his face was daubed with watery brown paint. He was flanked by two huge bodybuilder types, stripped naked and entirely daubed with the same brown stain. Both men carried machine guns.

  Obviously an unknown force had stormed the town. I reasoned that one or two of them must have made it over the wire under cover of darkness and hidden a cache of weapons, probably in one of the abandoned houses. Then the main force had arrived one by one, ostensibly for market day, collected the weapons and waited for the appointed time - my execution. The gunshots in the distance indicated that another force had attacked the guard posts once they'd heard the shooting from inside the town. It seemed like a well organised and effective attack. Now here, in his finest suit, came their leader.

  Much as I wanted to see what transpired I was conscious that a force of men from Hildenborough was about to storm the school. We couldn't hang around here, we needed to get back and warn them. I turned to Williams.

  "When do they attack?"

  He looked up at me, wide-eyed. "What?"

  "Look, I know you sold us out to Baker so don't waste my fucking time. Do you know when they are planning to attack?"

  Williams stared at me like a rabbit in headlights.

  "Williams, listen to me. I don't give a damn about what you've done, all right. I just need..."

  "I don't know," he muttered. "He didn't tell me."

  "Hang on," said Petts. "Are you saying..."

  "No time, Petts, not now. Got to get back to school and warn them. Stay here. I'll be back."

  I rose to my feet. My knees felt like jelly but I forced myself to walk to the door. I listened but could hear no-one outside, so I shoved the chest aside and pushed the door ajar. No-one. I edged out into the corridor and worked my way along the rooms until I found one with a wardrobe full of clothes. I stripped my lower half and used a towel to clean myself up as best I could. I put on a clean pair of trousers and went back to the room, where I found Petts beating the living crap out of Williams.

  I pulled them apart.

  "Leave it Petts. Later!"

  He was breathing hard and his fists were raw; Williams' nose was broken and his lip was bloodied. He was terrified.

  "Oh God, he's going to crucify me. He's going to crucify me," was all he could say.

  "I fucking hope so!" said Petts. I glared at him and told him to back off. He reluctantly sat on the bed. I knelt down and looked straight into Williams' eyes.

  "Nobody is going to crucify anyone, Williams. I give you my word."

  He looked at me for a moment and then nodded.

  "Right now I need you to keep it together and help us get out of here without running into any of these guys with the machetes. Can you help us do that?"

  He nodded again. "I know a way," he said.

  "Good man. Right, we're going to try and get out of town as quickly and as quietly as we can, all right?"

  Petts and Williams nodded. I sighed. I had just been bloody hanged. Why, oh why, did I have to take the lead yet again? The shit on my shorts wasn't even dry. All I wanted was a long bath and a stiff drink. And maybe a massage.

  I led them out onto the landing and let Williams take point. We descended to the second floor but then we heard voices coming up the stairs from below. They were searching the house. I ushered the boys through the nearest door.

  We had taken refuge in a bathroom.

  "Dammit," I cursed. "Why couldn't it have been an armoury?"

  There was precious little to use in the way of weapons. Petts cracked the door open and peered out while I unscrewed the shower hose and handed it to Williams - at least he could use that to choke someone with. Not that I had any intention of killing anyone, I just wanted to get back to the school as quickly as possible. For all I knew this new group could be the good guys, and I didn't want to go slaughtering them willy-nilly until I at least knew who or what I was dealing with.

  I picked up the heavy porcelain slab that sat on top of the toilet cistern and held it ready to use a bludgeon. The only other potential weapon was a bottle of bleach. I pressed it into Petts' hand.

  "Only if we need to," I whispered. "And try not to kill anyone, okay?"

  They nodded.

  The voices came nearer and two young men appeared at the top of the stairs. Both were wearing jeans and T-shirts. Their arms were daubed with the brown stain but their hands and faces were clean; left that way so they could blend in with the normal market crowd without arousing suspicion.

  They began to work their way along the corridor towards us, checking the rooms as they went. I steadied myself and got a firm grip on the cistern lid; if I swung it right I should be able to take one of them out of the picture.

  Two doors along from us they found someone hiding and both vanished into the room, where a struggle ensued. I was just about to try and use the distraction to slip past them when they dragged an old man of about eighty out into the corridor, threw him to the floor and kicked him hard in the ribs. He lay there, gasping, clutching his chest.

  One of the men looked guiltily up and down the corridor, and then said to his mate: "Let's bleed 'im."

  His colleague looked uncertain.

  "What, here?" he asked.

  "Of course here, you berk. Where else?"

  "David won't like that."

  "David doesn't have to know." He gestured to his face and hands. "I feel naked like this. Don't you? We're not safe, mate. Gotta be safe."

  "Yeah, I s'pose."

  "So let's bleed the cattle and then we can relax, yeah?"

  "Yeah, all right, then. Bleed him."

  The old man who was the subject of this banal, macabre exchange, whimpered helplessly. The first man grabbed him by the arms and lifted him upright, while the other advanced towards him with his machete. It was only then that I realised exactly what they were talking about.

  The brown stain wasn't paint at all. It was blood.

  Human blood.

  Right. So. Not the good guys.

  I felt a familiar sinking feeling as I realised that I was going to have to get involved. I turned to the others and whispered "Follow my lead". Then I pushed open the door, bellowed as loudly as I could, and ran at the man with the raised machete.

  On the whole I try to avoid picking fights with people, especially people who are clearly insane, daubed in blood, and carrying a fucking huge knife, but I was now doing exactly that, armed with only a detachable piece of flushing toilet.

  I had surprise on my side and my target had little time to react. I swung the cistern lid with all the momentum of my short run up, and smacked him under the chin as hard as I could. There was a shattering crunch as he was lifted off his feet and his head smacked satisfyingly into the corridor wall. He slumped to the floor, unconscious, his jaw a bloody mess.

  His mate shouted out in anger and threw the old man aside, raising his machete and moving towards me menacingly. At which point Williams snuck up behind him, wrapped the shower hose around his neck and tugged him off his feet. They collapsed backwards in a tangle of limbs. Then Petts ran forward and squirted bleach into the man's face.

  Williams scrambled clear as the man clawed at his eyes and screamed loud enough to raise the dead. Before I could knock him out with my trusty cistern lid, the old man stood up and drop-kicked his would-be murderer into the middle of next week.

  There was a brief moment of calm as all four of us stood there breathing heavily, contemplating the two unconscious men.

  "Thanks, lads," said the old guy, cheerily, "but I had it all under control."

  We all gaped.

  "Know a bit of unarmed combat from my army days," he went on. "I was just waiting for him to get a little closer then I'd have kicked him in the goolies, tossed this chappy over my head
and done a runner."

  "You were whimpering!" I said.

  "All part of my act, dontchaknow."

  We didn't have time for this.

  "Right," I said. "Good. Fine. Um, we're running away now, if that's okay with you. So you ain't seen us, right?"

  He tapped his nose and winked. "You hotfoot it, lads. I'll take care of these two." He bent down and picked up a machete. "Haven't used one of these since Burma," he said with relish.

  We legged it.

  We made it to the ground floor without encountering anyone else. We could hear someone giving some sort of speech from the forecourt, but I didn't want to hang around so Williams led us through the kitchens to the back door.

  "We go out here and around the side of the house," he told us. "Then there's a garden hidden from the driveway by a tall hedge. Then it's over the road, across a field and into woodland. We should be safe from then."

  I pushed open the door. No guard. We ran as fast as we could, Williams in the lead, until we came to the sheltered garden that ran alongside the forecourt. Still no sign of anyone. They were all on the other side of the hedge listening to whoever was ranting. We were halfway down the garden when we heard a truly bloodcurdling scream. It was no use; I had to see what was going on. I ran to the end of the garden and peered around the edge of the hedge.

  I wish I hadn't.

  The men with machetes were still encircling the captured citizens of the town, but all attention was focused on the scaffold. The noose was lying on the platform, the rope slack. A middle-aged woman was struggling in the grip of the two heavyset, naked guards, but she was tied hand and foot and had no chance of escape. One of the naked men looped her feet though the noose and then a third pulled the rope. She swung into the air, suspended upside down.

  The man in the pinstripe suit, who was also standing on the platform - I assumed he was this group's leader, David - stepped forward and began to undress, meticulously piling his folded clothes to one side. The last thing he removed was his bowler hat, which he placed on top of the pile. He stood there naked, his body caked in crumbly dried blood. He spread his arms and addressed the crowd.