by W E. Mann
This was a rhetorical question of course. Bitter experience had taught me that under no circumstances should you ever suggest your own punishment: If you suggest something lenient, the teacher inevitably issues a punishment harsher than he otherwise would as a further lesson for underestimating your wrongdoings; if you suggest a punishment the teacher agrees to, you are left wondering if he would have agreed to something a bit lighter.
“There is, as I see it, only one possible solution,” he said. Freddie was clutching his teacup so tightly that his fingertips had turned white. “I will have to let you off.” I could have wept with joy and Freddie was beaming from ear to ear, though he tried to contain it. “But there are some conditions, yes? One, your behaviour is exemplary until the end of term. Two, you explain this to Pickering and tell him that these conditions apply equally to him. And three, you tell nobody else about any of this at all. Ever. Yes?”
“Thank you, Sir.”
“Thank you, Sir.”
“Good. So don’t let me catch you up to anything else. Now, I think you had better let me have that research log, Freddie.”
“Yes, Sir,” said Freddie.
We walked calmly out of Caratacus’ room, not daring to say a word to one another. Then, when we reached the top of the Spiral Staircase, we ran down to our classroom as fast as we could so that Caratacus wouldn’t be able to catch up with us to tell us that he’d changed his mind.
***
Freddie and I caught up with Reggie in the queue for Confectionery Ration. We tried to explain what Freddie called “Ogden’s Blazer or something”, but somehow we didn’t seem able to put it as well as Caratacus had.
“Look, anyway,” said Freddie, “the point is that there’s nothing for us to worry about, right? We were just getting a bit too carried away with it all.”
“But how can you possibly say that?” said Reggie, totally indignant.
“Look, we nearly got expelled, alright?” said Freddie. “I suppose you had to be there to understand what he was saying. I can’t be bothered to explain it. And anyway, Caratacus has got the logbook now, hasn’t he? So it’s out of our hands. If there’s any chance that we were actually right all along, then he’ll find out and deal with it, won’t he? And we can stop worrying.”
The argument went on for a little while until eventually Reggie gave up in much the same way as anyone who has ever had an argument with Freddie does – battered into submission by his sheer persistence, regardless of whether he made any sense.
For my part, I was too exhausted to involve myself in the discussion. And Mr. Caratacus had convinced me, perhaps partly because I had had a near-expulsion experience and was therefore willing to hang on every word uttered by the person who had offered salvation. So I now felt content that there was nothing for me to be concerned about.
But my contentment was short-lived.
twenty one
That night, a long time after lights-out, matters took a terrifying turn. God knows what time it was. At first, it was just such a mad scramble that I barely had time to orientate myself or even convince myself that what I was seeing was actually really happening.
What happened, as I could recall, was this. I must have been pretty deeply asleep because at first the sound of the door to our dorm creaking open was just a part of my dream. In fact, it somehow fitted in perfectly with whatever it was that I was dreaming about. Then there were some sharp whisperings and shuffled footsteps. But those didn’t fit in with my dream at all.
I opened my eyes.
I woke up confused, not knowing where I was. My dream must have been about being at home with my mother. So, when I woke up, I didn’t recognise the harsh wooden and metallic surroundings of the dorm, illuminated by the frosty whiteness of the Moon. I also didn’t understand why there were two figures looming over Freddie’s bed. That certainly seemed out of the ordinary.
Then I suddenly realised that this was not just out of the ordinary. This was, in fact, horrifyingly sinister. And so now I was fully awake, trying to suppress the welling panic so that I could act rationally. Should I scream and wake everyone up? No, I shouldn’t – if one of these sinister figures was Barrington, here to collect another “subject”, as he called them in his log, shouting out would not help and would give him a reason to bundle me out of the dorm on the pretext of punishing me for keeping everyone awake. Nobody would be any the wiser.
So I had to wait, watch and, if possible, follow. I slipped quietly from underneath my sheets and rolled softly down onto the cold, wooden floor. I then crawled, very slowly, paranoid of the faintest sound, and curled myself as tightly as possible underneath Peregrine’s bed, right up against the wall so that I was completely hidden from view. Or, at least, I hoped I was.
I was terrified.
From here, I just about had a line of sight towards Freddie’s pillow and the area of the room beyond. At that moment I was not quite able to see the two figures in the room, but I could hear their muted shuffling. At first, I had supposed, based on their height, that they must both have been men. The only people I could think that they would be were Barrington and Boateng. It occurred to me that I had not seen Doctor Boateng for some time.
But then, as one of the figures leant over Freddie, I saw the deathly white hair of Head Matron. In this petrifying light, she looked like a witch – not the old, haggish type with chin-warts and a hawkish nose, but rather the young, soft and beguiling type who lures children with sweets and cakes and false promises. Her face was as expressionless as marble, like that of a corpse lying in an open coffin at a wake, bleached of all colour, but strangely calm as if already enjoying the pleasures of the afterlife.
She raised her bony hand towards Freddie’s face. In her long fingers was a white handkerchief, which she placed delicately, ritualistically, over Freddie’s mouth and nose. She then stood up out of my view. After a few seconds, she raised Freddie into a sitting position. I saw with horror that his body was heavy and lifeless.
The other person, whom I presumed must be Barrington rather than Boateng, grew restless and padded softly past the foot of Peregrine’s bed and stood for a moment. From here, all I could see was that he was wearing a pair of brown moccasin slippers. A jolt of terror shook me when I heard a man’s voice whisper, “Isn’t this Turnpike’s bed?” and then, “He was next”.
Head Matron didn’t reply. She heaved Freddie from his bed.
I heard some more shuffling, the moccasin slippers swivelled and disappeared from view and then the door creaked shut.
I waited for a few moments, heart pounding, trying to gather some understanding of what had just happened. I then crawled out from underneath Peregrine’s bed and tiptoed towards the door, which I pushed open as softly as I could. It let out a long and treacherous creak. I froze, praying that they had not heard. After a moment, I poked my head out of the dorm. I could see Head Matron further down the corridor, just as she rounded the corner towards the Surgery. Barrington was already out of sight.
By now, the Sun was beginning to rise and a deep violet light was spilling out from the Junior Bathroom and sloshing down the Upper Corridor, which was silent and empty. I ran quietly after them, hoping to see where Freddie was being taken. As I peered round the corner towards the Surgery, I just managed to see Freddie’s feet being dragged up the stairs towards the Sick Bay.
There would be nowhere to hide up in the Sick Bay and if I went any further, I would be caught. I realised that there was nothing more I could do for now. So I crept back to bed.
I could not sleep. I lay awake until the bell rang, running all of the possibilities through my mind, trying to think like Mr. Caratacus had taught us. Was it possible that Freddie really was ill and that Head Matron had come to offer him a handkerchief and take him to the Sick Bay with the help of the Duty Master? Surely not. Freddie was absolutely fine yesterday and he could not possibly have got so ill during the time since lights-out. And even if he had, how on Earth could anyone have known? No.
There was only one possible explanation for this: Freddie was Barrington’s latest victim. And from what I had heard, it sounded like I would be next.
twenty two
“What? You mean you actually saw it happen?” gawped Reggie.
We were on our way back from Prayers. Wilbraham had announced that Freddie and two boys from Form Four had had to be taken to the Sick Bay during the night. Monday mornings were never fun – Geography, followed by double Physics and Chemistry. But this morning I could watch Colonel Barrington during the two periods before Break and see if I could pick up any clues, evidence or ideas.
“Yeah, I did. Head Matron and Barrington came in and took him away. Head Matron did this thing where she put a cloth over his mouth first and...”
“What, chloroform? Whoa!” Reggie’s eyes were wide with disbelief. “Maybe she drugged him so he couldn’t wake up.”
“That’s what I thought,” I said. “Then it seemed like they were looking for me, but I was hiding under Peregrine’s bed the whole time.”
“Blimey, I can hardly believe they were right there while the rest of us were sleeping. We’ve got to do something now.”
“Well we’ve got until tonight to prove what is happening and let everyone know,” I said. “And I’ve decided there’s only one thing for it.”
“What?” said Reggie.
“I’m going to get into Colonel Barrington’s Private Room and see if I can find anything. There must be something...”
“That’s nuts!” said Reggie. “After yesterday, if you get caught, you’re for the high-jump this time. Rather you than me, mate!”
“I know. But I won’t get caught this time. I’ll need your help though.”
“What do you need me to do?”
“At breaktime, wait at the top of the Spiral Staircase so that you can see where the stairs begin at the bottom. When you see Barrington start to come up, dash along to his room and bang on the door. Okay?”
“This is totally crazy,” said Reggie. “Anything could go wrong!”
***
Geography was even more dull than usual. I found it impossible to concentrate for any longer than a minute at a time before I started to think about what had happened last night. Wilbraham droned monotonously about something to do with Australian bushfires.
The lesson ended two minutes late – something you would not expect a schoolboy to notice. But Colonel Barrington did not tolerate lateness even if the excuse was as water-tight as “Sir, the Headmaster kept us in his lesson for an extra couple of minutes and then we had to get all the way here without running down the corridors”. But, this morning when we arrived, Barrington was not there, where he usually was, outside the classroom, holding open his pocket-watch and the door to his Lab.
And Barrington was never, ever late.
So we stood outside the Lab and waited silently. After a further minute or so, now five unprecedented minutes past the scheduled time for the start of the lesson, the Colonel stepped out of the Lab to usher us in.
I noticed immediately that he looked very tired. His eyes were bloodshot and sunken, and what was even more out of the ordinary was that he had obviously not shaved – yesterday’s facial hair had formed an ashen shadow like a layer of dust on forgotten furniture.
Colonel Barrington was obviously distracted throughout the lesson. He would occasionally rummage through his desk drawers, presumably trying to locate the research log which Caratacus had clearly not yet returned. The lesson was on something to do with fertiliser, which I thought would have been more Miss Prenderghast’s province than Colonel Barrington’s. I think he must accidentally have been teaching us what he should have been teaching Seniors because this all seemed rather too complicated for us. But we all just scribbled down what he said word-for-word, our hands cramping with the effort of having to write so quickly, “...ammonium nitrate, used in agriculture as a fertiliser, when heated to over 170 degrees celsius, decomposes to produce nitrous oxide and water vapour. Above 240 degrees, exothermic reaction accelerates to dangerous levels, resulting in detonation. Various catalysts can be employed...”. Total gibberish.
My hand was so badly cramped from having to write non-stop for more than an hour that it looked like a claw. I had even tried to use my left, but it just couldn’t keep up. The lesson finished mercifully early. Five whole minutes early, in fact. Presumably, I thought, he had some urgent work to do to making zombie-poison and preparing for the Quickening. Nevertheless, since every other class was still in lessons, it meant that I had a clear run up the Spiral Staircase to the Top Floor. I nodded towards Reggie.
***
Just as Caratacus’ Private Room was an accurate reflection of his character – eccentric, dusty, disorganised, everywhere you looked was a solution to a Times crossword clue – Barrington’s was of his, and it could not have been more different. In fact, aside from the fact that the room was fastidiously clean, it looked as if it had never been occupied. In one corner there was a bed with sheets pulled so tautly across it that there wasn’t one crease, and in another corner was an old table with a small stool pushed underneath it. The whole room looked monastic and wooden – even the bedsheets looked hard and creaky. The only decoration was a framed photograph of the Führer above the table. It was a recent photo: The thumbprint moustache was greying, the eyes were wrinkling at the corners, losing their intensity, the hairline was retreating.
I had prepared myself to attempt to pick the lock on his door, but perhaps the fact that there was almost nothing in here was the reason why I found it unlocked. Or maybe the Masters never locked the doors to their Private Rooms because the locks were so antique and the keys had long been lost.
The only other noticeable item in the room was an intricately engraved wooden box sitting upon the table. I opened it gently. It had a strange smell about it. Not a bad smell, but a strange one, like hot tarmac on a seaside promenade.
Inside was a small collection of letters, newspaper clippings and photographs. I began to flick through, desperately looking for, well, I wasn’t sure what.
The letters were a bit difficult to understand because, of course, like listening to someone else speaking on the ‘phone, they represented only one side of the conversation. All three of the letters in the box were from Doctor Boateng. The first was pretty old, in fact almost as old as me, and was addressed from the Gold Coast:
“Dear Alec,” it began – I had no idea that Barrington’s Christian name was Alec. Actually, it was odd that Barrington should have something as familiar and human as a Christian name - “I trust that this letter will find you well. You have no doubt read of the events that have unfolded here since your timely departure. I thank God that I chose a life neither political nor military. Blood will flow in the market places before this act is played out. I thought I had seen more than my share in these past years.
But I must not whine. It was not the purpose of my letter. My intention was to wish you well in your new life. Though you are sorely missed here at the school (and I know you scoff at that), I have no doubt that your decision has been the right one for you personally. I am delighted that many more children will have the privilege of learning in your classroom.
Finally (need I say it?), please maintain our correspondence. You have been a dear friend for many years and I trust that you will be for many years yet.
Yours sincerely,
Edmund.”
The next letter was dated around two years later and addressed from the Ethnology Laboratories in Frankfurt.
“Dear Alec,
Many thanks for your recent letter, though I cannot say that its content was wholly comforting.
The coincidences of which you speak (and sense dictates that they are no more than that) should not occupy you. I am concerned for you, deeply. You have evidently spent too long brooding over the events of the past. There must be some light at the end of your tunnel, but you must seek it out for yourself and back away from these delusions and this desire
for vengeance against unknown assailants.
You know my views on these aspects of the Vodun as well. I will not insult you by rehearsing them in this letter. It seems to me that your vain pursuit of revenge has tainted your reason, and your reason surely is now the boys in your charge. The harm that could be caused to them may be irreversible, even fatal.
However, the potential for experimentation in this area is causing a good deal of excitement here at the Laboratories. In fact, it has become amply clear that this is the only reason why I have been brought here. It is perhaps even the only reason for my continuing existence. I had thought that the academic life would keep me out of all this.
Do please keep me informed of your progress.
Yours sincerely,
Your old comrade-in-arms and dear friend, Edmund.”
There was a hammering on the door. “Turnpike. You in there?”
“Yes, Reggie. Where is he?”
“He’s on his way. Heading up the Spiral Staircase. Suggest you clear out right now!”
“I need a couple more minutes,” I said.
“Well you haven’t got a couple of minutes. You’ll get caught.”
“Okay. Look, just hang on and let me know when he gets really close.”
I heard Reggie scamper away.
The last letter was a telegram dated only three weeks ago. It was very brief, as if it had been written in a temper or a hurry: “Alec, Agreed. Do not act. Have happened upon something. Will discuss. Will take next zeppelin to Croydon. Arriving Ecl. –8. Edmund.” I realised immediately that “Ecl. –8” must have meant “Eclipse minus eight days” and that this telegram set out Boateng’s travel arrangements.
Surely there was enough evidence here in these last two items of correspondence to show Caratacus or Wilbraham, wasn’t there? Well, they would have to do. I stuffed them into my pocket, and, as I did so, a newspaper cutting fell out and drifted down onto the floor.
