Breaking and Entering (43 page)

He shut his eyes, waiting for the thwack. His nose was making the cushion all soggy, and the stale smell of the leather reminded him of the dead and rotting bird. The chaplain must have gone to fetch the cane. He could hear a few soft scuffling noises, then footsteps stealing back. He tensed, but all that touched him was a gently fluttering hand, stroking along the crease in his behind.

‘Relax,' the voice kept saying, the excited twittery moth-wing voice, which seemed to match the tickly hand. The fingers had moved lower and were creeping down the back of his left thigh. ‘Relax, my boy, relax.'

How could he relax, when something was pushing at his bottom-hole? He didn't know what it was, but it felt small and sort of snakey, and was making him all wet. Then rough hairs prickled on his skin, and he realized with disgust that it was the chaplain's bristly moustache. So the other thing must be his tongue. The very thought of it made him feel sick, and he was scared he might actually throw up. He tried to wriggle away from the tongue, but it refused to stop – only poked in further.

‘You're frightfully tense, my boy. Can't you try to let go? I'll tell you what'll help – pretend you're going to the toilet, having a lovely little crap and emptying everything out.'

Daniel tensed even more. You couldn't go to the toilet in the middle of a master's study. It would make an awful mess. He was terribly afraid now. The chaplain's voice had changed again, become louder and more impatient. ‘Relax, relax!' he snapped.

There was nothing for it but to do as he was told and pretend he was on the lavatory. He bore down as hard as he could, and at once felt something being eased into his bottom-hole – not the tongue, but something much much bigger. It was only pushing slowly, but it was still hurting him and stretching him, and he was terrified he'd cry. It must be another sort of punishment – far worse than a beating because it made him so ashamed. Tears welled into his eyes, but he bit his lip, bit his knuckles, did everything he could to stop them spilling over. You weren't allowed to cry. That was the worst humiliation of all, and you were called blubber-guts or spastic. (Even Digby-Jones hadn't cried last week, when he'd got half a dozen strokes for cheating in a maths test.) If only he could move. His back was aching terribly and he couldn't breathe or speak. The cushion was half-choking him, and the sofa underneath was so hard it hurt his forehead. He dared not even think of God – not now – he'd go to Hell, without a doubt, the very instant he died.

He imagined he was dead already and let himself go limp like the dead bird. Immediately there was a stabbing pain, and the flood of tears he'd been holding back overflowed in great shuddering hurting sobs. The thing pulled out abruptly, and he felt a spurt of hot wet sticky stuff ooze slowly down his behind. He didn't move a muscle, but remained cowering over the sofa-arm, his nose-snot and his tears all revoltingly mixed up.

‘Quick, boy! Dress yourself.'

The chaplain chivvied him upright and mopped him with the handkerchief again, then wiped himself and fastened his flies, hands clumsy on the buttons.

‘Come on, don't just stand there! It's getting late.'

He pulled Daniel's trousers up for him, helped him tuck in his shirt. He was doing everything in a rush, and looked cross and also nervous, continually glancing over his shoulder, as if Hammy's God might burst in at any second. Daniel was still feeling sick and couldn't make his limbs work. The chaplain was treating him like a first-year: smoothing his hair, dabbing at his tear-streaked face, even doing up his belt. Then he sat him on an upright chair, and stood directly behind it, with one arm on the chair-back, as if to stop him escaping.

‘Now listen, Hughson' – his voice was low, but dreadfully stern – ‘what we've done just now is our little secret, only between us and God. There's nothing wrong about it, so you don't have to feel guilty, but it's very important all the same that you never mention it to anyone. Am I making myself clear, Hughson?'

Daniel nodded. It was hard to speak. The tears had started up again and were sliding slowly down his face into his mouth. He had lost his Christian name once more; felt that he'd lost everything.

‘There's no need to cry, Hughson. If I hurt you, then I'm sorry, but it's all over now, and it's far better for both of us that we simply remove it from our minds. You see, if anyone should hear about it, they might not understand, and it could get us into trouble – extremely serious trouble. You don't want that, do you, Hughson?'

‘N … no, sir.' He knew he must say ‘sir' again, now that he was Hughson four times over.

The chaplain suddenly veered away from the chair and blundered to the mantelpiece to fetch a second pipe. Daniel noticed that his hands were trembling as he struck four matches in a row, but still failed to get it to light. He strode back to the desk, seized the other pipe and started poking it with a matchstick, scraping out black gungy stuff. ‘I … I understand from my predecessor that your parents are obliged to make considerable financial sacrifices to send you here, Hughson.'

Daniel mouthed a silent yes. The mere mention of his parents had deprived him of all speech.

‘Well, imagine how they'd feel if the Headmaster had to inform them …' The matchstick snapped between his fingers. He flung it in the bin, swearing under his breath; began to fill the pipe, pressing down the tobacco with a grimy shaking thumb.

Daniel felt shaky himself. That terrifying sentence was still hanging in the air. If the Headmaster wrote to your parents, it meant you were really for it. He tried to swallow, but there was a huge lump lodged in his throat – a block of rough grey stone which wouldn't budge.

The chaplain had finally succeeded in lighting his pipe and was sucking it and puffing; all but burning his thumb as he continued to push down the tobacco. He gave a spluttering cough, blew out smoke and words. ‘You see, the Headmaster might well feel, Hughson, that it would be better for all concerned if your parents were to remove you from the school.'

Daniel broke into violent sobs, hunching over his lap to hide his face, his terror.

‘It's all right, my boy.' The chaplain leaned towards him, dried his tears on the damp and smelly handkerchief. ‘I can make sure that doesn't happen, and that your parents aren't involved in any way at all. But I shall need your solemn word that you'll never speak of it yourself. Now can I trust you, Hughson?'

Daniel responded with a vehement nod, which sent a pain shooting through his head. His ears hurt, too, and there was a dull ache in his behind.

‘Right, I want you to kneel down on the floor here, and make a vow in the sight of God that no mention of this afternoon will ever pass your lips, so long as you shall live.'

Daniel fell on to his knees in a frenzy of remorse. He would do anything, anything, to prevent his parents finding out. If he was expelled from school, all the sacrifices they'd made to give him special privileges would have been a total waste. He might not
want
the privileges, but they expected him to want them, and he knew they would never forgive him if he threw them all away.

The chaplain was kneeling beside him, speaking in his chapel-voice. Daniel joined his hands and shut his eyes.

‘Now, repeat these words after me: “I promise in the presence of Almighty God …” '

Daniel swallowed, making a supreme effort to hold his tears back. ‘I … I promise in the presence of Almighty God …'

‘ “That I, Daniel Hughson …” '

‘That I, Daniel Hughson …'

‘ “Will never …” '

There was a brisk tap at the door. The chaplain sprang to his feet, straightening his already straight dog-collar and thrusting the chocolates back into the drawer. ‘Stay where you are!' he ordered Daniel, as he crossed the room and unlocked the inner door.

Daniel shut his eyes again, at the sound of urgent footsteps striding in. Perhaps it was his parents, already summoned to the school to take him home in disgrace …

He recognized the Headmaster's steely voice; squinted between his eyelids to make sure. He glimpsed the flowing black gown, the thin lips and silver hair. Instinctively, he made to stand up. You were supposed to snap to attention the instant any master entered the room (especially the Headmaster), but perhaps it was different when you were in the middle of a solemn vow. He subsided to his knees again, hands clasped tightly together, listening to the chaplain, who was still talking in his chapel-voice.

‘Yes, of course, Headmaster. I'll come immediately. No, it's no trouble whatsoever. Hughson and I were just finishing anyway. Hughson, on your feet, boy! The Headmaster is here.'

Daniel struggled up and gave a timid bow in the direction of the Head, though keeping his eyes fixed firmly on the carpet. You didn't ever look at Dr Hamilton. He could strike you dead if you met his gorgon's eye.

The chaplain placed a paternal hand on his shoulder – for the briefest of brief moments – then turned to Dr Hamilton.

‘Hughson is off games, Headmaster, so I was taking the opportunity of giving him some spiritual direction. He's having a few problems with prayer – the usual sort of thing: difficulty in concentration, the odd doubt about his faith …'

Dr Hamilton glanced at Daniel as if not quite sure who he was. ‘Good,' he murmured vaguely. ‘I hope you're grateful, Hughson. The chaplain's a busy man, so you're lucky to get some individual attention. Now, run along, boy, will you. The chaplain and I have some important work to attend to.'

Daniel opened his eyes. He had lost all track of time. The heavy wooden panelling and sombre stained-glass windows gave the chapel an air of permanent gloom, so whatever the weather or the time of day, here inside it was always a wet Sunday, always winter dusk. He was surrounded by grim-faced saints watching from each window: Saint Paul, Saint Peter, Saint John the Baptist, and a score of other martyrs or apostles, holding palms or swords or staves, and, beneath them, painted on the glass, the names of various school benefactors in spiky italic script. The Reverend Mr Walter Sayers stood praying at the altar, resplendent in white vestments; his brocaded chasuble glistening with silken lilies – symbols of innocence, of purity.

‘I am the resurrection and the life,' his solemn voice intoned.

‘You fraud!' yelled Daniel, springing to his feet. ‘You filthy hypocrite! All you brought was death.'

He leapt up the steps to the altar, fist clenched, arm raised in violence. His blow struck empty air. He was alone in the chapel, Mr Sayers gone – now food for the worms, or ashes in an urn.

He stood leaning on the altar-table, stripped bare of its lace cloth, its heavy silver candlesticks, its vases of stiff flowers. Winter changed to summer, his prickly grey school uniform to Marks & Spencer trousers and open-necked check shirt. He was no longer twelve, but forty, yet the memory of that February afternoon was so precise, so vivid in its detail, he could scarcely believe that he had somehow managed to suppress it for almost three decades.

He grasped the edge of the altar, feeling the need to anchor himself to something sharp and solid. He had been sitting in the Day Room in a state of total shock, then – without quite knowing how – had found himself stumbling towards the chapel, as if lured back into the chaplain's domain, still mesmerized, still terrorized, still with that dull pain in his behind. Was he man, or child? He stared at his large, adult hand – capable, broad-palmed; then, slowly and deliberately, he compelled his powerful grown-up legs to walk down the altar steps again and take him to the door. Before he reached it, he hesitated, then, on impulse, he slipped into the third pew from the back – the exact spot where he had knelt that first Sunday in the chapel after his ‘session' with the chaplain. It was Founder's Day and there had been a special service, the organ booming out its jubilation, the choir embroidering the hymn with hosannas, alleluias. He could hear the sound again, whooping to the rafters; felt a sly nudge in the ribs as Collins, kneeling next to him, hissed, ‘Shut up, Snot-face! Your sniffling makes me sick.'

He too felt sick, sick with terror. He couldn't pray – God wasn't there – no longer simply deaf or stern, but vanished altogether. He felt completely lost without a God, especially here in chapel, where everyone was praising Him, including Mr Savers. The chaplain had turned to face the congregation, a silver cross gleaming round his neck, a second cross embossed into the fabric of his chasuble; his voice shiningly devout.

‘May Almighty God, our heavenly Father, have mercy upon you, pardon and deliver you from all your sins, and bring you to everlasting life, through Jesus Christ, our Lord.'

Murmurs of ‘Amen' rose from the surrounding pews, but Daniel remained in silence, cowering beneath the black cloud of his thoughts. If the chaplain had the power to deliver people from their sins and promise them eternal life, then he
must
be holy, mustn't he? He couldn't be a bad man. Anyway, a bad man wouldn't wear those swanky robes, or stand there so importantly and preach about God's Word. So
he
, Hughson, must be bad – wicked through and through – the whole thing his own fault.

He stood up automatically as the rows of boys shuffled to their feet. Another prayer or hymn, though he hardly heard the words. He was thinking of Divinity tomorrow – the first lesson since his private ‘tutoring', which had moved so hideously and swiftly from Saint Paul. How could he meet Sayers face to face, in public, in the classroom, to answer questions about missionary journeys, or – worse – about sin and Hell? In the last three days, his stutter had become so bad, he could manage little more than nods or mumbles. Every time he saw the chaplain, he began to shake with nerves, fearing another invitation to ‘go over his work'. And the briefest glimpse of the Headmaster made him go hot and cold, imagining the summons to his study, to be told he'd been expelled. He couldn't eat at all. The food just stuck in his throat, and there was no room in his stomach for anything but fear.