"Ready?"
They nodded.
"All right, we agree. Come and get us," I shouted. Then we all three turned and leapt out through the windows.
The gunmen on the tower opened fire. As I fell I took the string with me. I felt a slight resistance at the other end and then it came free and sailed out the window after me, with the pins of all our remaining grenades attached to it.
We hit the bloodied water before any of the bullets could find their mark, and the room above us exploded while we were still submerged. Stone, glass, wood and furniture crashed into the water all around us as we swam for safety.
The fire, smoke and confusion that reigned in the building behind us masked our clumsy emergence from the water, using the rubble from the exploded bridge as a ramp. We made it to the tree-line safely. The other boys and the Hildenborough captives were long gone. I stood in the shadow of the trees and watched the conflagration take hold of the fragile wooden house.
Mac was in there. The explosion had probably killed him, and if he'd miraculously survived the blast then his wounds would probably finish him off. Either way, he was gone for good. Everything had gone according to plan. I'd gained his trust, lulled him into a false sense of security, and betrayed him. I was a traitor, pure and simple. I hated myself for it. Mac had been right, I was a coward. I'd opposed him because I'd never accepted that the ends justified the means, and yet look at what I'd done. In order to get rid of Mac I'd betrayed every principle I'd ever held dear. I'd lied and cheated, betrayed trust and committed murder.
But the school was free of him now, and with the Blood Hunters burning in front of me, and Hildenborough ravaged and leaderless, there was no-one around to threaten us. At least for a while.
The means had been despicable, but the end had been achieved. Still, I wondered whether I hadn't failed in one crucial thing: preventing myself from becoming the thing I hated. After everything I'd done I couldn't help but feel that I was that little bit more like Mac than I'd ever wanted to be. I didn't know how I was ever going to come to terms with any of this.
I'd killed two people today and seen many more die. As I watched the fire I prayed that this was the last I would see of killing.
Should've known better, really.
LESSON THREE:
How To Be A Leader
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
"Wasn't my fault. They were bigger than we were."
Wylie was making excuses, but his heart wasn't in it. Like all the best bullies he was a coward at heart. It turns out the boys hadn't blown the bridges to get rid of Mac and me. The adults from Hildenborough, scared out of their wits, some of them armed (by us), had demanded that the boys blow the bridges immediately. Wylie, who'd been in charge of that part of the operation, had agreed.
I was wet through, cold, tired and very, very pissed off.
"You left us to die," I said, through gritted teeth.
"You look fine to me." Cocky little shit.
I raised the Browning and pointed it at his face. He hadn't expected that.
"Give me your gun," I said.
"You what?"
I twitched the gun sideways an inch and fired a shot past his right ear. He jumped, yelled and backed away.
"What the fuck are you doing, man?"
"I won't ask again."
He threw the rifle at me. I let it fall to the floor.
"Here, have it you fucking psycho." His shout was half whine, like a spoiled brat being told to give back the car keys.
I didn't lower my gun.
"How old are you, Wylie?"
He glanced left and right looking for support or a way of escape. I had him cornered.
"Seventeen. Why?" he said. Half petulance, half defiance.
"And how many men have you killed?"
His eyes widened as he felt a jolt of genuine fear.
"Just the one."
"One kneeling man with his hands tied. What, you didn't off a few more when the Hildenborough men attacked?"
"My... my gun jammed."
I laughed.
"Not what I heard."
Rowles had found him cowering in the art room. He hadn't told anyone but me because he was too afraid of what Wylie would do to him if he blabbed.
"Fuck you! I'm a sixth-former! And a prefect!" He was starting to cry.
"That's right. And I'm only fifteen. But I've killed four people, two of them this morning. So who do you think is the scariest person in this room?"
He sniffled.
I chambered another round.
"Who do you think is the scariest person in this room?"
I fired a shot past his left ear.
"You. You are, all right. You." His lower lip was trembling.
I nodded.
"Right again. I am. I am the scariest person in this room."
I was having fun. I'd have been worried by that if I'd stopped to think about it. But I didn't. I was enjoying myself too much.
"You're a bully, Wylie. And a coward. I don't like cowards much. But I hate bullies."
His nose started to run.
"But do you know what I hate even more than bullies, Wylie? Do you?"
He shook his head. Mingled snot and tears dripped off his wobbling chin.
I walked right up to him and pressed the gun against his temple. He let out a low moan of fear.
"The one thing I hate more than bullies," I said. "Is anyone who was in the room when Matron was raped."
He looked like he was about to shit himself.
"It... it... it wasn't my idea. It was Mac... he made us... he had a gun and everything."
"Don't. Care."
"I had to! I didn't enjoy it. Honest. I didn't enjoy it all. Really."
"Not an excuse."
"What... what are you going to do to me?"
"Haven't decided yet. I reckon it's a choice between shooting you in the back of the head or crucifying you. Do you have a preference?"
His knees buckled and he fell to the floor, snivelling and moaning.
I knelt down beside him and whispered in his ear.
"I'm inclined to crucify you myself, but it's time-consuming and a bit of a drag. Probably easier to just shoot you. What do you think?"
"I'm sorry, all right?" he cried. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry!"
I yelled into his ear as loud as I could: "I don't care!"
He cowered against the wall.
"Choose!"
"Oh God."
"Choose!"
"Please, no, I'm sorry, please." He buried his face in his hands and curled up into a foetal ball, wracked with sobs.
"Fine," I said. "A bullet it is."
I grabbed him by the shoulder and hauled him to his feet. He made a half-hearted attempt to resist, so I kneed him in the balls. Then I herded him down the corridor and out the front door. He could barely walk for pain and terror.
I kicked him down the steps and he sprawled in the gravel, clawing for purchase. He tried to get up, but the best he could manage was to crawl away on all fours. I sauntered after him. When he reached the grass I planted a foot in the small of his back and he collapsed onto the turf.
"Kneel," I said.
He let out a cry of anguish and scratched at the dirt.
"Kneel!"
I bent down and grabbed him, pulling him up until he was kneeling in front of me. The second I let go he toppled sideways. I kicked him in the ribs as hard as I could.
"Kneel, you pathetic little shit."
I pulled him up again and this time he stayed in position. He shuddered and shook, gasped and wept.
"This is pretty much the spot where you executed that helpless, unarmed man, isn't it? Kind of fitting you should die here too."
He started to beg.
"Please, oh, God please don't. Please don't."
"Is that what she said, huh? Is that what Matron said?"
I pressed the hot muzzle of the gun against the nape of his neck. He screamed.
"Is it?"
&
nbsp; I let him sweat for a good minute or two before I pulled the trigger.
After all, he didn't know I'd used all my bullets.
"Was that necessary?" asked Norton, as we watched Wylie limp out of the school gates. I gestured to the faces pressed against the windows of the school behind us.
"Yes."
I looked at the faces of the boys before me. They looked so tired. They hadn't slept all night and they'd marched three miles expecting to go into battle. In the end they'd only been shot at from a distance before being threatened by a bunch of fear-crazed adults, but it must have been terrifying for them, especially the little ones.
It wasn't just the events of the past twenty-four hours, though. These were boys whose lives had been calm and orderly before The Cull. They'd lived every day according to a rigid timetable set down for them by distant, unapproachable grown-ups. They'd played games and sat in lessons, pretended to be soldiers on Fridays and occasional weekends. They'd eaten set meals at set times and known months in advance exactly what they'd be doing at any given day and time.
Of course there had been bullies, beatings and detentions, but unless Mac was the bully in question it never went too far. And Matron had always been there to give them a hug and put a plaster on whatever cut or bruise they'd received.
But for the past few months things had been very different. They'd seen their parents die and had run back to the one refuge they could think of. They'd hoped to find safety in the familiar routine of St Mark's. Instead they'd killed men in combat, seen their teachers and friends die before them, been bullied and abused, subject to the whims of a gang of armed thugs who'd ordered them about day and night. They'd been trained for war and had learnt to live with the expectation of their own imminent deaths.
I was looking at an entire room of young boys with post-traumatic stress disorder. And I was supposed to lead them.
I didn't have a clue where to begin.
"Mac's dead," I told them. I had expected some response; a few cheers, perhaps. But all I could see were dead eyes and dull faces.
"As his second-in-command I'm in charge and things are going to be different around here. Right now I want you all to get some sleep. Leave your guns at the door and go to bed. There'll be cold food available in the dining room for anyone who wants it, but your time is your own until tomorrow morning. Just... relax, yeah?"
I waited for them to leave, but they just sat there. I looked at Norton, confused.
"Dismissed," he said.
"Sorry. Dismissed."
As the boys got up I added: "Oh, and no more army kit, all right? You can wear your own clothes from now on. We'll collect the uniforms tomorrow and they can go back in the stores."
The boys shuffled out in silence.
When they'd gone I was left alone with Norton, Mrs Atkins and the remaining officers: Wolf-Barry, Pugh, Speight, Patel and Green.
"Gather round everyone," I said.
They all came and took chairs at the front. I sat down too.
"You all saw what happened to Wylie earlier, yes?"
The officers nodded.
"Good. You were meant to. Mac would have shot him, but I let him go. That's the difference between me and Mac; I'm not so keen on killing. But I want to make it perfectly clear to you that I will see you dead and buried if you disobey a direct order from me. Understood?"
The boys mumbled and nodded.
"In which case I want you all to pile your guns in the corner and sit back down."
They did so.
"Good. Rowles!"
The door opened and Rowles entered, holding a rifle. The officers flashed me confused glances.
"What's going on?" asked Wolf-Barry, suddenly nervous.
"You're leaving," I said. "All of you. Right now."
"You what?" said Patel.
"I said you are leaving. Now. Out the gate and don't look back. I don't ever want to see any of your faces on these grounds again. Ever. 'Cause if I or any of the other boys see you inside these walls again we will shoot to kill without hesitation. Understand? And count yourselves lucky. I've fantasised about killing each and every one of you in all sorts of creative ways. But there's been enough death for one day, I don't think I could stomach any more."
"Now look here..." Speight rose to protest.
There was the unmistakable sound of a gun being shouldered ready for firing. He turned and saw Rowles taking aim.
"Permission to shoot, sir?" asked the junior boy.
Speight froze as I made a play of considering the request.
"Escort these men from the grounds, Rowles. If any of them resist you have permission to shoot."
Nobody moved. The officers looked confused and scared.
"But where will we go?" said Pugh.
"Somewhere else. Anywhere else. Just not here," I replied.
"You're not going to fire that gun are you, Rowles?" said Patel. He rose to his feet and started walking towards the boy, his hand outstretched. Rowles smiled one of the scariest smiles I've ever seen. I wondered what had happened to the quiet, scared little boy who'd hung on Bates' every word.
"Try me," he said.
Patel, wisely, thought again.
"Enough," I barked. "I want you all out of here immediately. You are expelled."
I was relieved when they made to leave. I hadn't wanted any more violence today.
"Green, stay behind a minute," I said, as he reached the door. The other officers made their way outside. I gestured for Green to sit down. He looked petrified as he did so. I regarded him for a moment before asking: "Why do they call you Limpdick, Green?"
"I don't know, sir," he mumbled.
"Please don't waste my time. I'm tired and I want to have a cup of tea and go to bed. The sooner I can finish here the sooner I can relax. So, I ask you again, why do they call you Limpdick?"
He stared at his feet and mumbled a reply.
"'Cause of Matron."
"You were there when she was attacked?"
He nodded.
I swallowed hard. I didn't want to know the details, but I had to ask.
"Did they all take a turn?"
He nodded.
"But you couldn't, yes?"
He nodded again.
"Are you gay, Green, or just a fucking wimp?"
That got a reaction.
"Fuck you!" he shouted, suddenly defiant. "Just 'cause I don't get off on raping somebody doesn't make me gay, all right?! I liked Matron. What happened in that room wasn't right. It just... wasn't right. I told Mac I wouldn't do it, I argued with him, but they teased me and... they had guns. They made me take off my trousers and lie on top of her. And she was just staring at the ceiling. I kept apologising to her but she wouldn't look at me. I couldn't do it. I just couldn't do it."
Tears welled in his eyes.
"And the man you killed?"
He broke down.
"Mac said he'd shoot me," he sobbed.
I sighed heavily. Good.
"Okay. That's what I thought. I just needed to be sure."
I got up and went to sit next to him. I put my hand on his shoulder. He shrugged it off resentfully and stared back down at his shoes.
"Will you stay here, with us?" I asked.
He looked up at me, confused, and wiped away the tears.
"But I thought..."
"We're going to get Matron tomorrow. If she corroborates your story, and I'm sure she will, then we'd be glad to have you. We need people like you here. Petts is dead, so you'll have to recast, but God knows we could use some entertainment to take our minds off everything. So stay, put on your play. Yeah?"
I held out my hand. He took it and we shook.
When he was gone Mrs Atkins smiled at me.
"Not a bad start," said Norton. "Not bad at all. Now can I please go and sort out this fucking bullet wound before my arm falls off."
While Norton got himself patched up I went to my room and changed out of my wet clothes. Peeling off the muddy, half-d
ried uniform was like uncovering a map of my recent escapades.
I had a scar on my left calf where Jonah had bitten me; a puckered red hole in my right thigh where I'd been shot; a bandage around my waist where I'd stabbed myself; a deep purple welt across my throat where the rope had cut into me; my torso and arms were covered in bruises; my right eye was blackened, my left cheekbone was blue and I had long scab on my cheek from Baker's signet ring, which would probably scar as well.
I was a complete mess.
I collapsed onto my bed. I was so tired I felt like I could sleep for a week, but my mind was racing. I had done it. Mac was gone, our enemies were defeated. Before Cheshire (his name, it turned out, was Bob) had gone back to Hildenborough he'd assured me that the two communities would be allies from now on. My job now was to find a way to mend the school. Tomorrow I'd go to the farm where Matron and the girls had sought refuge and see about bringing them back to Castle. Mrs Atkins had told me that there were twenty girls there now, under Matron's protection. We could use the fresh blood; this place was altogether too male.
Not that I wanted to do away with everything Mac had achieved. The school had withstood an attack from a force that had been well prepared for our defences, and in all the time he'd been in charge there'd been very little dissent or division. I had to try and use community building and reconstruction to maintain the unity that he had achieved through fear and force.
I would need my own officers, but I wasn't going to keep the military structure. There would have to be guard patrols and so forth, and they'd have to wear combats and carry guns, but for everyone else we'd go back to normal clothes and activities. We'd start lessons again, organise some round robin sports tournaments, foster a sense of structure and order that didn't come from a strict military outlook. St Mark's should start to feel like a school again, not an army camp.
Norton would be my right hand man, and Rowles would be the spokesman for the junior boys. I'd divvy up jobs to those boys that wanted them, delegate responsibilities. The deaths of Petts and Williams had left the garden and livestock with only Heathcote to tend them; he would need help. Riding was going to be our main form of transport now, so we needed to try and round up some more horses for Haycox to look after. We should try and find some glass to re-glaze the windows broken in the attack, too. Couldn't have the rain getting into the building.
School's Out Page 17
