There primarily as an escort for Brolly, this was one occasion when Lyall didn’t resent playing watchdog for Cropper’s favourite. The air fair sang with repressed violence and Lyall’s eyes burned, cool and excited, as he watched the other fifth formers quietly discussing their traditional invasion of the bedrooms.
Stevenson, the fifth year’s thug, nodded and cracked his knuckles as Brolly gave him last minute instructions about what he expected from the evening’s entertainment. They were simple enough that even this one could understand it; Brolly didn’t like to plan every detail, he’d much rather turn the larger chaps loose and stand back to enjoy the resulting chaos.
Finally and with an exuberant whoop, the gang slammed into the first room sending the smaller boys inside scattering under beds and towards cupboards in their efforts to get away.
Doors flew open along the corridor and only the presence of several burly boys at either end stopped some of younger ones from fleeing. Instead most, white faced and shaking, returned to their beds and accepted their fate, as was right and proper of a St Peter’s boy.
Lyall closed his eyes and slouched back against the wall as the fifth formers progressed from room to room, enjoying the shrieks of terror and occasional cheer as one sporting chap took his test without a whimper.
**
“What is that?” Elijah whispered when the hullabaloo started.
William pulled his head from under the pillow and cocked an ear. “Sounds like a fair old battle, whatever it is,” he said eventually.
“Rain,” Bonny said without glancing up from his book.
Elijah and William exchanged confused glances at this reiteration of their earlier conversation. William shrugged, maybe Osborne was a little slow of wit like Stumpy Giles at home; he’d forever be saying things that no one could make head nor tail of. He sighed, thinking of home had made him think of mama and father and he buried his face back in the pillow.
“Look lively chaps,” Spencer yelped sprinting in through the open door and slamming it behind him. “Brolly’s boys are coming.”
“Brolly’s boys?” Elijah was up off his bed and already moving, as were most of the other boys in the room. William was still finding it difficult to care. Was this the ‘soul’s ennui’ poets spoke of, this lassitude in his heart and limbs?
“Rain,” Bonny said again.
And this time Spencer bobbed in agreement. “Timothy Rayne,” he clarified. “Brolly. Head of fifth. And Stevenson along with him.”
That was enough to get Bonny moving and thus William also; anyone who had the ability to rattle this laconic chap was obviously worthy of respect. With the speed of a hare with hounds on its tail, the four friends dived under the furthest bed from the door, pulling the curtains down after them in the hopes of escaping discovery.
For long horrible minutes nothing happened. William pressed his back to the wall, willing his thumping heart to quiet, as silent and scared as the others. Next to him, eyes wide and luminous in the choking darkness, Elijah was worrying at his shirt sleeve and chewing on his lip and William reached out, snagging Elijah’s hand and giving it a reassuring squeeze. Elijah flushed at being caught out in his cowardice but, when he perceived no hint of judgement in William’s face, he smiled tentatively and wriggled closer so they lay face to face, only the thickness of cloth separating their bodies.
Together, the waiting seemed easier to bear, until a particularly terrible shriek came from the adjoining room and all colour drained from Elijah’s face. William could contain himself no longer. Breaking their self-imposed silence, he whispered, “What-what are they doing?”
“Tossing the young’uns,” was all Spencer had time to get out before the door flew open and a dozen big boys piled into the room.
“Gone to ground, eh?” roared Stevenson, a huge brute of a boy. “Look under the beds, lads."
He pulled up the little white curtain of the one nearest him and “Who-o-op!” he crowed as he spotted a skinny white ankle poking out. “Here’s a likely looking chap. Ready the blanket, lads, this one’s for tossing.”
The small boy held on tight to the leg of the bed, and sang out for mercy. “Oh, please, Stevenson, please, don't toss me! I'll fag for you – I’ll do anything – only don't toss me.”
“You be hanged,” said Stevenson, “it won't hurt you.”
With a single heave, he dragged the unfortunate out and, after throwing the boy into the centre of the sturdy woollen blanket, grabbed a corner for himself. Between them, the bigger boys flipped their screaming victim high into the air. The boy, flailing wildly, nearly missed the blanket altogether on his first descent, and on the second toss went higher still, his hands and knees slamming painfully into the ceiling.
As the first was being tossed, the other boys were similarly separated from their dens until all stood in line awaiting their turn. Not all the fifth formers manned the blanket; some stood guard over the captives while one, a scrawny chap, lingered in the doorway. There was something about him that made William’s skin crawl, perhaps the hungry gleam in his eye as he greedily drank in the spectacle or the way his hands moved, constantly stroking and twitching.
“That’s Brolly,” Spencer said, confirming William’s suspicions, before he stepped forward bravely to take his turn.
Elijah was after him, shaking and terrified as he was hurled high three times in a row. But, despite his fear, he lay still and not a whimper escaped his lips, earning him a clap on the shoulder and the congratulations of the bigger boys for taking his dues like a man.
When his own time came, William did his best to emulate his chums’ example, gritting his teeth as he was launched upwards, hurtling towards the ceiling. Then came that second of terrible nothingness when his body was no longer his own, hovering in midair, before his stomach was snatched away and he plummeted back down to earth.
Three tosses and he was a free man, tumbled to the floor with wobbly knees and the taste of fear in his mouth.
“Well done, you young trump,” Stevenson beamed as the rest of the fifth prepared to move on. “Fine sports all of you.”
“Toss two together,” Brolly called out, and the bigger boys stopped, exchanging glances before beginning to open the blanket once again. “Osborne and one of the new boys.”
With a lurch of horror, William found himself flying once more and this time Bonny was along with him. It was impossible to remain still, knowing that whoever came down first was sure to have the other land atop him, and both boys twisted and pushed at each other to win a secure docking. The air whistled from Bonny’s lungs as William crashed into him and then they were off again, limbs tangling as they soared towards the ceiling.
At the zenith of their flight Bonny’s elbow smacked into William’s face, snapping his head back and William lashed out wildly, feeling his fists connect with something soft. His vision darkening, and his mouth filling with blood, he landed on the blanket, the edge catching like a bar on the backs of his knees. But before he could utter a sound, a tearing thud reached his ears and a terrible shriek rang out around the room.
“Dash it, Brolly. We’re in for it now,” someone yelled. “Not dead is he?”
“Don’t move him! Someone call Craven.”
William blinked and opened his eyes, expecting to find a ring of concerned faces looking down at him. There was nothing, no one, which meant… Bonny! Staggering to his feet, he searched out his friend.
He wasn’t hard to find. Bonny lay face-down on the floor, not three yards away, blood pooling around his head and his right arm splayed out at his side at an unnatural angle. Worried looking fifths surrounded him and, next to them, Spencer and Price were on their knees tending to their friend.
William backed away, his eyes fastened on Bonny’s bed sheet white face and crimson streaks that told a familiar tale. And, suddenly, orange hair became brown, pale downy skin aged and ruddied, and Bonny’s features were no longer his own but father’s, dead under the hooves and wheels of a hansom, all because William hadn’t looked before he dashed across the road.
A whimper crept out from between his clenched teeth and there was nothing he could do to stop it, nor the sob that followed. Pressing both hands over his mouth he managed to keep them silent, unheard, unnoticed, mustn’t be noticed…
“Craven! Craven’s coming!” the cry went up.
“Crikey, they’ll be hell to pay now.”
Like sparrows from a marauding cat, the bigger boys scattered, fleeing the scene of the crime and leaving the smaller ones to make for their beds. Runt of the litter, William remained, the only one left, facing down the beast, the one stomping down the hall, booted with seven league boots and eyes the size of saucers.
Something inside him broke. William knew because he heard it and it sounded like a rabbit if the first blow wasn’t true and it kept screaming, and screaming and screaming.
He ran; legs carrying him out of the room and down the corridor, eyes unseeing, his heart thumping ‘dead, dead, dead’, his feet declaring ‘killer, killer, killer’ to the boarded floor.
He ran; the walls closing in behind him brandishing memories, solid doors slamming shut around him as others gaped open in his mind.
He ran until his breath would allow him to run no longer, then he stopped, dead. Inside, outside, completely.
Bonny. Dead.
Nothing. Maybe it wasn’t Bonny. Maybe it was he that had died, crashing into the floor or earlier under grinding wheels and stamping hooves. Maybe this was hell, maybe… maybe…
Dead men didn’t walk so his knees gave way under him. Dead men didn’t see so his eyes closed. Dead men didn’t breath but the air still oozed stubbornly in and out of his lungs. Nor did dead men’s hearts beat but he could feel his fluttering against his ribs.
“Look here at what the cat dragged in.”
That wasn’t precisely the sort of comment one expected from the devil, so William slit open his eyes, and decided then and there that by some miracle, or mistake, he’d ended up in heaven instead. Because the face in front of him had to belong to one of god’s chosen; beautiful, terrible, magnificent and cruel, this was Lucifer before the fall, Michael wielding his flaming sword.
Through numb lips he muttered the only word he could find in his head, “Angel.”
“Not quite, boy,” that sensuous mouth said, twisting into the most awful smile. “And what’s a little chap like you doing down here all on his ownsome.”
William stirred, and for the first time since his flight, took in his surroundings. Dark panelled walls stretched out on either side of him, the floor beneath his bottom was carpeted and warm and he dug his fingers into the wool, willing it to hold him true.
“Dead,” he whispered. “I killed him.”
It was as though the words opened a dam in his heart and he could no more stop the tears than he could the shivers that racked his body.
“Come, come, now. Enough of that.” The angel’s voice was brisk and businesslike but it couldn’t break through William’s grief. Burying his face in his knees, he sobbed like his heart was breaking, knowing for certain that it was. Somewhere above his head the angel did his best to make the world a better place, not that William heard much beyond the names of his rescuers.
“Lyall! Damn it, where are you?” There was a long pause followed by the thunder of footsteps, then, “There you are. What in god’s name happened up there?”
“Brolly got carried away, the silly chump. One of the smaller boys got hurt and Craven’s on the war - I say, Brutus, what’s Bartlett doing there?”
“Oh, is that his name. Blasted boy nearly knocked me flat rushing through the hall and then collapsed. Keeps saying stuff and nonsense about killing someone.”
“Crikey, it must have been him Brolly had tossed. The other was Osborne. What a damned fine piece of luck though, him ending up here.”
“A sentiment I am sure you will explain unless you’d like-”
“Don’t be a twit, Patrick. Ouch, sorry! Brutus. The lad’s one of the new fellows Cropper was after.”
Brutus glared down at the snotty sobbing heap at his feet. This was one of the much vaunted scholarship boys? He’d seemed much more attractive from the other side of the yard. Still, Cropper was the unforgiving sort and letting an opportunity like this escape was tantamount to mutiny.
Heaving a heavy sigh, he hauled the shaking boy up by the shoulders and swung him into his arms, cradling him like an injured dog. The lad snivelled and turned his head, hiding his face in Brutus’ chest and the bigger boy grimaced at the prospect of ever getting his vest clean again.
Shooting a filthy glare at his brother, who had dared snigger at his predicament, Brutus snapped, “Run on ahead, you fool, and inform Cropper that we have an unexpected guest.”
Stalking after his brother, his mood darkening with every step, Brutus cursed his bad luck at being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Jones should have sent this boy to them, not Brolly and his ridiculous escapades.
Speak of the devil.
Brolly sauntered round the corner, hands in his pockets and a satisfied look on his face. When he spotted Brutus, he grinned and sped up, meeting up with the older boy before he reached the stairs.
“Well done, old boy,” he chortled. “I hear you caught yourself a fine young rabbit. Tell me, did he squeal well when you trapped him?”
In no humour to indulge Brolly’s disconcerting habit of banter and insult, which always left him feeling somehow foolish and slow-witted, Brutus growled, shifted the weight in his arms and began to climb the narrow staircase up to Cropper’s study.
“Oh, you are a grumpy guts tonight,” Timothy continued and, matching his pace to Brutus’, reached out to tug William’s head away from the safety of the bigger boy’s chest. “Let’s take a peek. I’d wager there’s a pretty face under all those tears.”
William whimpered as his hair was pulled sharply and cried out when he saw who had done it. He struggled briefly, then remembering who held him – his guardian angel – he relaxed, smiled, and let his mind and body slip back into blissful numbness.
Timothy glanced up at Brutus and the caustic remark he had planned died on his tongue when he saw the expression on Brutus’ face. Instead he plumped for something a sight less cryptic; “Remember, Patrick, Cropper like his boys intact, and god help any man who forgets that.”
Their eyes locked, each boy conveying without words the rules of the game. Yes, Cropper came first in everything, but Brutus ran a close second and, though he might be Cropper’s favourite, Brolly survived on Brutus’ sufferance. One word from the older boy would see Timothy driven off, humiliated or, worst of all, sent down from school.
It was a battle Timothy couldn’t hope to win. Finally flinching back
under the scourge of Brutus’ eyes, he dropped his gaze and removed his
hand from where it had lain on the back of William’s collar. “Cropper
should be told,” he muttered, “there will be preparations to make.”