The Guardians (4 page)

On the first Saturday inspection Rob had been checked for an untidy bed but let off, as a new arrival, with a warning to do better in future. The three sections of the mattress had to be stacked, one above the other and perfectly aligned at the head of the bed, and various items of clothing and belongings—best jacket, spare shoes, toilet articles, sports kit and so on—had to be set out on top of them in a particular order. On the lower part of the bed blankets were placed, folded to a certain size, with the following week's sheets and pillowslip. All
other belongings had to be disposed of neatly in the locker beside the bed.

The second week he was kept busy on Friday in the work gang that was detailed to scrub the dormitory floor and polish the taps and other fittings in the washroom. In the morning, immediately after breakfast, he was detailed to a party picking up scraps of paper all around G-House. He was not released until half past ten and sprinted along with the others to get on with the job of tidying his own bed space. But he was caught on the way upstairs by a senior boy and made to help in laying out his things. He did it badly and was made to do it again. It was eleven before he was dismissed.

Everyone else's bed was ready. There was still time though, he thought as he feverishly set about his task. On the previous Saturday the inspecting party had not reached them until after twelve. He folded the blankets, saw they would not do, and tried again. The second effort was worse than the first. His fingers by this time were thumbs. He did it once more; better, but the edges were not exactly in line. He was forced to start all over.

The other boys were playing dice and talking. Then one who had been posted as a lookout at the top of the stairs called: “Stand by your beds! They're here and coming up.”

Rob somehow managed to finish putting the specified articles on show. Some of his other things were on the shelf which ran along the wall above the beds. This had to be clean for Saturday inspection. He grabbed everything and bundled it into the locker, closed and latched it, and stood to attention by his bed as the Master of Discipline and the prefects came into the dormitory at the far end.

Only one boy was checked, for a missing toothbrush, as they made their way along the line. There was an encouraging atmosphere of good humor: the master cracked a joke and all the prefects laughed at it. Two beds from Rob, the master paused to offer a word of commendation. “Very good. A neat effort.” He passed the next bed with a cursory glance and stood in front of Rob's.

He was a small man, shorter than any of the prefects, meticulous in appearance with a strong, closely trimmed black beard. He stood with hands
folded behind his back, head thrust forward. He gave a small nod, which Rob thought meant his bed had passed muster. Then he said quietly:

“You are the new boy. I saw you last week. I remember telling you your blankets were not properly squared.”

“Yes, sir.”

“They still aren't, are they?” He reached forward with a small silver-topped walking stick, pointing to them. “If anything they're worse.”

The stick pointed to the shoes.

“Also untidy. Sides should be touching, toe points level.” The tip of the stick flipped a shoe over. “And what's this? Insteps not polished? You know the rules: both insteps and uppers of spare shoes to be polished to a high gloss. Well?”

“I didn't have time, sir.”

“Time! You've been here over a week.” He stared at Rob. “Name, boy.”

“Randall, sir.”

Rob watched in resignation as the prefect spoke into his soundpad. At any rate it was over and they would move on. But they did not.
The master said, “Randall, I have a feeling about you. I have a feeling that you are an idle and untidy boy. Let me tell you that neither of those qualities will be tolerated in this school. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

Cold, blue eyes studied him. He must go now, Rob thought. But instead he said, “Open your locker.”

“Sir, I wasn't able . . .”

“Open it, Randall.” Rob undid the catch and opened the door. “Stand aside.”

It looked worse than he had expected: objects heaped and bundled together in confusion. In a voice still calm, the master said, “This is disgraceful. Completely disgraceful.”

He stepped forward and hooked with his stick, bringing everything cascading onto the floor.

“Disgraceful,” he repeated. He poked the stick in. “And what's this? What's this, Randall?”

“A book, sir.”

“Not one but two. Are books among the items permitted to be kept in lockers?”

“I don't know, sir.”

“So you have not made yourself familiar with school regulations?”

“They're library books, sir. I meant to . . .”

“Library books,” the master said. He prodded one contemptuously. “Objects which have been passed from hand to unwashed hand. Filty unsanitary things. Traps for germs. You disgust me, Randall.” The calmness had gone and his voice was hard and angry. “You are a disgrace to this house and to the school. Bentley!”

The perfect with the soundpad said, “Sir?”

“See that these things are removed and burned.”

“But, sir,” Rob interrupted. “The library . . .”

The blue eyes stared at him. “A disgrace. I trust your school fellows will be as ashamed of you as I am. And I hope they make their feelings plain. Pick up the rest of your things and tidy them.”

•  •  •

He had to report to the prefects' room immediately after lunch and there was given his punishment. He was on extra duties every evening for the next month. Bentley told him this coldly and turned away as he dismissed him. The boys in the dormitory had
already taken their cue from the Master of Discipline: no one was speaking to him. When he met Perkins on the stairs the ginger-haired boy went past him as though he did not exist.

It was unpleasant, but perhaps less so for him than it would have been for others since he had never fully shared the overwhelming Conurban need to be an accepted member of the group. It might not be easy to grin at it, but he could hope to bear it. His first stint of penal labor came that evening. It was the pointless task of picking up all the loose stones he could find in the vicinity of the house and stacking them in a particular place. He was warned that he would be under observation from the window of the prefects' room and that he had better put his back into it. The job was tiring as well as boring. When the bell rang for bedtime he felt utterly exhausted. He undressed, washed and brushed his teeth, and climbed into bed as the lights went out. He could sleep and forget things for a few hours.

The noise of feet at the far end of the dormitory came as he was drifting into sleep. He realized vaguely what it must be—senior boys out on
the Routine. Not coming for him: he was still a long way short of the three weeks' grace new boys were given. He thought of D'Artagnan again but was even less moved to follow his example. He had enough troubles of his own. Then footsteps approached and lights flashed in his eyes. He sat up.

Two of them had torches, another a portable lumoglobe which he put on top of Rob's locker. There were seven or eight; it was difficult to be sure in the semidarkness.

One said: “You're a disgrace, Randall. Isn't that true?”

They were probably on their way to some victim. If he humored them they might go on.

“Yes,” he said.

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, sir.”

“That's better. Repeat after me: ‘I know I am a disgrace and I am ashamed of myself.' ”

Rob repeated the words mechanically.

The boy continued, “I ask the house for punishment because I know I deserve it.”

“I've been punished,” Rob said. “A month of extra duties.”

“Not enough. Not enough for bringing dirty, germy books into the house. And that was school punishment, anyway. What you need is house punishment. Isn't it?” Rob did not reply. “Dumb insolence. That makes it worse. Looks as though he needs the Routine. A special routine.”

There was no point, Rob thought, in saying anything. He stared up silently at the faces that surrounded his bed.

“On the other hand you're not supposed to get the routine till you've been here three weeks. And you've admitted you're ashamed of yourself. We might let things go for the time being. Just show you really are ashamed, really sorry for being so disgusting. Get out of bed and get down and kiss our feet. Starting with mine.”

He still stared at them. His tormentor said, “What about it, Randall?”

Rob shook his head. “No.”

“You're going to regret that. All right. We apply the Routine.”

Rob struggled but they pinioned him quite easily. Their faces grinned at him, ugly in the light from the lumoglobe. One said, “The hammer? Knock a bit of decency into him?”

They liked the idea. The hammer that was produced was not very big and the head was not metal but hard rubber. It was swung in front of his face for some moments and then tapped, fairly sharply, against his forehead. The feeling was more unpleasant than painful. The tapping went on in a steady rhythm. After a time it began to hurt. He winced, and one of them said, “We seem to be getting through. Ready to kiss our feet yet?” He shook his head and the hammer landed in a different place. “We'd better keep on, then.”

Soon it was hurting a lot. He remembered Perkins's advice to yell a bit, but he could not bring himself to do it any more than he could have gone down on his knees to them. He gritted his teeth and turned his head slightly. The hammer hit him in another place, a small relief but one that did not last.

The pain was one big ache with smaller sharper
jabs exploding into it. He was less aware of the voices and faces. His mind concentrated on the hurt. It went on and on, a savage unending nightmare. He thought he was going to faint and hoped he would, but the pain drew him back. In the end, involuntarily, he cried out, in a scream of agony. The tapping stopped.

Someone said, “O.K. for now. We'll carry on the treatment tomorrow night.”

The lumoglobe was picked up. The voices and footsteps went away down the dormitory. Rob's head ached violently. Sleep was far away. Tomorrow night . . . And the night after? Once they started there seemed no reason why they should ever stop.

He tried to think objectively, though the ache in his head made that difficult. He would be here until school-leaving age, seventeen. Four years. Even if the bullying stopped there were all the other things. No home to go back to, no privacy, no books. The place was bad enough in itself: to get used to it would be even worse. Better being tortured than turning into something like the torturers.

But if he managed to get away, where could he go? His aunt—the
Sheffield Conurb was a long way off and there was no reason to think she would help him. The Kennealys were nearer. But there was no hope there, either. If Mr. Kennealy had not been willing to have him before, he would certainly not do so when it would involve trouble with the authorities over someone who had run away from a State Boarding School.

What else? Try and live on his own somehow? But how? It might be possible to dodge the police for a week or two, sleeping in the open or in derelict houses, but he could not do that for long. The little money he had would quickly run out, and there would be no way of getting more except by joining one of the criminal gangs of the underworld. And they probably wouldn't want him either.

One could not hide among the crowds of ordinary people. Everyone had a particular place in society, a routine by which he could be identified. There was no concealment in the teeming streets of the Conurbs. It was hopeless to imagine it.

The Conurbs . . . He sat up in bed, and his head hurt still more. The idea was shocking, unthinkable
by the standards of the world he knew, but at the same time exciting. His mother had come from the County to the Conurb. Was it possible—dare he think of reversing the process? Those empty fields. Farmlands. Surely there would be food among farmlands?

He lay back and thought about it, thought very hard.

O
N SUNDAY MORNINGS BREAKFAST WAS
not until eight thirty and there were no morning gymnastics. The alarm bell rang an hour before that. After breakfast boys returned to their houses and concentrated on smartening themselves up for chapel at ten. The service lasted an hour and a half, and was followed by a free hour before lunch.

During lunch, Rob had decided, would be the best time for making a break. There was much less chance of being observed—Sunday lunch was the only halfway tolerable meal of the week and no one, certainly none of the prefects, was likely to miss it.
If his absence were noticed afterward it would probably be assumed that he was hiding to dodge the extra work he would otherwise be landed for in the afternoon. Not until the evening roll call would he be identified as absent. That gave him more than six hours to get clear.

When the lunch bell rang he doubled back to the house. All the boys had small cases to be used on rarely granted visits to relations, and Rob packed what he wanted to take—his mother's letters and photograph, extra clothes, toilet articles, a bar of chocolate he had saved—in this. Then he headed for the main gate, taking the path at the back of the boarding houses where there was less likelihood of being seen.

Once outside he walked quickly down the long road leading to the bus route. He was lucky: a bus came within minutes, gliding into the bay on the power beam from the underground electric cable. He dropped his coin in the slot and went through to the back. There were not more than half a dozen other passengers.

The morning had been cloudy but the sun now
broke clear and was hot through the glass windows. The streets carried little traffic—most people would have gone out of London for the day to one of the recreation areas, perhaps to the seaside on the promise of fine weather, to return in the evening untroubled to their homes. Rob felt depressed. He had been carried this far on a wave of determination and planning, but with nothing to do but watch the city's streets pass by, doubts came. He would never make it. They would pick him up long before he reached the border and take him back to school. And then? Heavier punishment, he supposed, official and unofficial, and the added humiliation of having to wear a wrist transmitter continually broadcasting his position to the control panel in the main office. There would be no second chance of escape.