Sons of Fortune (6 page)

“I won’t support you,” de Lacy said.

Boy looked at him until his eyes fell. “I still won’t support you,” de Lacy repeated stubbornly.

A tall, thin boy, no more than a knobbly silhouette, stood at the doorway. “Brace up!” he shouted. He was about seventeen, almost a man to the youngsters in the dorm.

“Blenkinsop!” de Lacy called. “There’s been an accident. Lorrimer’s beastly quiet here.”

No one else breathed. The silence and de Lacy’s urgency communicated their terror to Blenkinsop. He breezed into the room and scrambled over the boxes, a house-beating offence unless you were a pharaoh or the King o’ the Barn. He looked at Lorrimer’s body, then at the solemn faces all round. “Christ!” he said.

He bent down and repeated all the tests Boy had made. “For Christ’s sake!” He looked up. “He’s dead!”

“It was an accident, Blenkinsop,” Causton said.

“I did it,” Boy said. “It was not an accident.”

Caspar looked at de Lacy; neither said a word.

Blenkinsop looked from one to the other, too worried even to think of throwing his weight around. He stood up. “I’m going for the master before lockup.” At the door he paused. “Don’t touch Lorrimer.”

Boy looked down at the sprawled body. Lorrimer, who had shown them around—only moments ago, it seemed—who joked about whores, told them the slang, invited himself to a share in their pie…
dead!
Lorrimer, who had been so beastly, so bestial, to de Lacy, so fierce and terrifying…
dead!
One minute there, more frightening than anything; next moment, because of one slip, one chance, one too-violent meeting of brass and bone, gone. Gone where? What had happened to all the
busy-ness
that had been Lorrimer?

“His foot just twitched,” Causton said.

“It did not,” Caspar replied, equally certain.

“It did.”

“It was a trick of the gaslight.”

“Chickens do that,” de Lacy said.

“Do what?”

“Twitch. After they’ve had their heads chopped off. They run around, too.”

“Have you seen it?” Boy asked. He was watching Lorrimer’s foot, hoping it would twitch again—if indeed, it had twitched.

“Bet you’ve never seen it,” Causton said.

“Not actually seen it. But all the servants’ll tell you.”

“Servants’ll tell you anything,” Caspar said.

“I
saw
it,” Causton repeated.

“A chicken running around with no head?” Caspar asked.

“No! His foot. It definitely twitched.”

Boy watched dumbly and wished he could have the last ten minutes over again. He looked around the cold, barely lit room, at the forty identical beds like lidless coffins, at the ancient limestone walls, at the miserable faces of the others, and thought
I will always remember this. Whatever happens next, I will always remember this.

By that mysterious, wordless telegraph which galvanizes all human communities, the rumour of Lorrimer’s death spread through the Old School. In dribs and drabs, by ones and by twos, they slipped through the door and collected silently around the body. If they spoke at all it was to ask the same repeated questions—is he dead? what happened?—hardly expecting more answer than a shrug from de Lacy or a raised eyebrow from Causton. In fascination they stared at the two new boys, one of whom had already made such a monstrous mark upon the school.

One, more adventurous, stooped and touched Lorrimer. “Not cold,” he said. “Warmer than me.”

“It’s warmer still where he’s going,” someone else said.

No one laughed; they steeled themselves not to turn and look at this wit. The embarrassment grew acute.

“Couldn’t we cover him with…something?” one lad asked.

Boy plucked a sheet from his bed and covered the body. It was an awesomely final act. He felt himself about to burst into tears. Would the others grudge him that luxury?

“Out!” The shout came from behind them. They all turned to see a stocky, curly-haired figure in a tail coat, arms akimbo, framed in the doorway.

“Swift,” de Lacy whispered to Boy. “Head of pharaohs.”

Everyone shuffled mutely out, except the original four.

“Well?” Swift shouted. He still had not moved from the door; everyone had had to squeeze past him, squirming and apologizing, and confirming his authority.

“We were here when it happened, Swift,” de Lacy said.

“When what happened?” He came around, not over, the boxes. “He slipped and struck his head, you see,” de Lacy said.

“Just there.” Causton pointed superfluously to the shrouded body.

“I pushed him,” Boy said. “Why try to pretend? I did it.”

Swift looked quickly at the three who had spoken, then at Caspar. “One more to vote,” he said.

“He fell,” Caspar said, looking steadily at Boy.

“That’s what I want to hear,” Swift said, also looking at Boy. “Let’s just have one simple story.”

“He was…doing unspeakable things to de Lacy, and I pushed him away,” Boy insisted.

Caspar made a disgusted noise, threw up his hands, and turned his back.

Swift looked from one to the other. “You’re the new roes. Stevenson ma and mi.” It was not a question but both nodded. “The word of one Stevenson will be enough, I think. You can vanish.” He nodded at Boy.

Just then Lorrimer’s foot twitched. They all saw it.

“See!” Causton said triumphantly. “I told you.”

Boy’s relief was overwhelming. “God!” he said leaning over and pulling the sheet off Lorrimer’s face. He grinned sheepishly. “God be praised!” But Lorrimer was still apparently without breath. Boy was just about to straddle the body and apply the resuscitative massage he had once seen his father do to a seemingly dead navvy overcome by bad air when Swift kicked his backside lightly.

“Stow the gratitude, young ’un,” he said. “If he’s alive there’s nothing to stop the drumming-in. And look…” His sharp eyes beckoned them all into a conspiracy. “Since he is alive, I think we’d all prefer to understand he slipped rather than”—he frowned at Boy—“whatever you were hinting at.”

“The truth is the truth,” Boy said.

Wearily Swift rose, grabbed Boy by the hair, bent his head down, and thrust him along the gangway at the foot of the beds. “Do as you’re told, sir. Go and get ready for your drumming-in. Piss your bladder dry and shit yourself empty—we don’t want any accidents. Your drumming-in is in ten minutes. And you,” he turned to Caspar, “will follow.”

Boy had no choice but to obey. And after the dread of what he had done to Lorrimer, the ordeal that lay ahead could, he imagined, hold few extra terrors. That conviction fell apart when he returned to the upper gallery ten minutes later. It was now thronged with excited boys who looked at him with a mirth that was part-truculent, part-shamefaced. He knew two things now about drumming-in: It involved the whole house and it happened on the upper gallery.

Back in the dorm he found that Lorrimer, whether dead or alive, was no longer there. Nor were Caspar, Causton, and de Lacy. Only Carnforth, his other dorm neighbour, remained.

“You didn’t kill Lorrimer,” Carnforth said after introducing himself.

Until that moment Boy had shared the same belief; but Carnforth spoke so shiftily he began to doubt again that Lorrimer was alive. One twitching foot seemed little enough proof. And it was true about chickens.

“Your bro will be back soon,” Carnforth said. “Come on, get your clothes off. Quick as you can now.”

“Do what?” The bottom fell out of his stomach.

“You have to do it naked. Everyone has to.”

“I will not!” But even as he heard himself say the words he knew the determination was empty.

“If you don’t, they’ll come in here and tear your clothes off. It’s what they’re hoping for. Blenkinsop will really tear them. I mean shred them. Even after he’s got them off. I’ve seen him.”

Suddenly Boy stepped out of his clothes, down to the underpants. He had no idea the night was so cold.

“Everything,” Carnforth said.

Boy felt gooseflesh grate against gooseflesh as he pulled off his underpants. The cold shrivelled his penis to a little acorn. He wished he could stop shivering; everyone would think—would know—how terrified he was. He grinned weakly at Carnforth. “We should do this in the summer,” he said.

“It wouldn’t work,” Carnforth said stolidly. “We’d know each other too well by then. What they’re getting ready for out there you could only do to someone you didn’t know.” Then, realizing perhaps how unfeeling his answer had been, he added as he half-pushed, half-steered Boy toward the door, “You’re lucky really. You’ll have a rope. Until two years ago they used to do it without ropes and a boy was killed.”

Just before they reached the door it was pushed open and Caspar and Causton came in. Caspar’s eyes went wide with shock as he took in Boy’s nakedness. Boy saw the terror follow, “Bear up, young ’un,” he said and walked swiftly out to the gallery.

Thus Christians to the lions—the sense that every eye in the universe was upon you, and every defect of your body and character made plain. A great hoot of derision greeted his appearance. A boy in a tail coat, not Swift but obviously a pharaoh, strode toward him holding a length of rope. With a practised flick of the wrist he threw a loop in the rope and tossed it over Boy’s neck; for an instant Boy thought of a hanging. “And your arms,” the pharaoh said crossly, annoyed at Boy’s lack of response. “Shove your arms through.”

Boy obeyed. Suddenly he had an inkling of all that was to follow, for when the pharaoh stood aside it became clear that the rope snaked out over the iron rail of the gallery, over one of the beams—a stiffened collarbeam, as Caspar had told Lorrimer—over the next beam, and back to the gallery, where it was made fast to the railing. He was not left guessing for long.

“All you do,” the pharaoh said, “is jump up there”—he pointed to the first of the two beams over which the rope trailed—“and fetch that book back here. If you fall, the rope’ll save you.”

Boy could barely make out the words over the excited barracking of the rest of the house. The book lay dusty at the exact midpoint of the beam.

Blenkinsop joined them. He had a head like a caricature of a phrenology cast—every normal bump, lump, and protrusion, including the Adam’s apple, was too prominent to seem real. Boy found himself imagining phrases such as
Love of Family, Criminal tendencies, Baser Appetites
written one upon each bump, as in all the books on phrenology. All he saw were the shaven hairs of the beard, tightly extruded and bristle-blue on the sallow skin. Blenkinsop’s eyes were supernaturally shiny as he scanned Boy’s naked body.

“Is this what you call drumming-in?” Boy asked.

“Ho ho ho ho, no no no no!” Blenkinsop said. “But if you do that”—he pointed at the beam—“fast enough, you can spare yourself the drumming-in.” He laid a mock-kindly hand on Boy’s arm. “No need to tremble,” he said. “Yet!”

“Come on,” the pharaoh said crossly, as if Boy had been doing all the talking.

Boy looked at the beam again. He could not stop trembling as he walked toward the rail. When he touched it he almost knew he was not going to be able to climb up and over onto the beam. He looked around in his terror. A hundred—it looked like a thousand—gloating faces. He tried to imagine little Caspar standing there ten minutes from now. He could not bear the thought, and he needed the pity of it to save him from his own terror.

“Listen,” he called. There was a momentary hush. “My brother cannot stand heights. He will certainly fall. Let me do it twice—once for him.”

There was an uncertain murmur until Blenkinsop, who now held the other end of the rope, gave it a tweak. “Come on!” he shouted. “Your heroics don’t impress us a bit.”

The rope tweaked Boy forward, almost toppling him. Gusts of laughter resolved themselves into a chant: “Come on! Come on!”

Caspar and Causton, still in the dorm, heard all of this through the open door, though Caspar still had little idea of the ordeal awaiting him.

“Is that true?” Causton asked. “Can’t you take heights?”

“
He’s
the one with no head for heights. They terrify him.”

“And you?”

“I don’t mind.”

“What a sterling brother!” Causton said.

“I can look after myself,” Caspar told him. “I wish he wouldn’t interfere.”

Outside Boy was beginning the sickening climb over the railing and onto the lower of the two curved stiffeners. What Caspar had said was quite true: Even the view from the lower branches of a tree would give him vertigo. But the words of his father, words he had heard a hundred times, rang in his memory: Never flinch. Never show fear, and you’ll master any group of men. Show no fear and there’s naught you may not lead them to—no dangers you may not brave together. Show no fear.

So this was not the first time in his life he had put an ice-cool face upon the world while he seethed with terrors inside. It was not as bad (he told himself) as, for instance, dropping down into the blackness of a tunnel ventilation shaft with one foot in a noose at the end of a rope. If he could ignore the scorn of the others, it was not as bad as that.

He slipped his arm through the decorative rose cut between the stiffener and the collarbeam and then inched his way up the centre of the strut, testing each toehold, each new hand grip, up, up, until he could swing a leg over the beam. The mob watched in what—so soon after their catcalling—seemed like silence.

He straddled the beam, not daring to glance down. Here a second stiffener, above the beam this time, ran up to form, with its partner on the other side, a semicircular arch of wood beneath the apex of the roof. It effectively prevented him from standing.

How should he go now? He was sitting the wrong way, facing the crowded gallery, his back to the book he had to collect. Could he turn around without looking down? He decided he could not. He would have to inch himself along backwards.

“Boo!” someone shouted when he began. “Do it twice? You won’t even do it once!”

Laughter turned to derision. Still struggling to keep his outward calm, he looked from one pitiless, gloating face to another. Some eyes could not meet his, but most stared back with savage glee as they shouted fake encouragement at him.