Scott Andrews - School_s Out

Norton would be my right hand man, and Rowles would be the spokesman for the junior boys. I'd divvy up jobs to those boys that wanted them, delegate responsibilities. The deaths of Petts and Williams had left the garden and livestock with only Heathcote to tend them; he would need help. Riding was going to be our main form of transport now, so we needed to try and round up some more horses for Haycox to look after. We should try and find some glass to re-glaze the windows broken in the attack, too. Couldn't have the rain getting into the building.

And there was the Blood Hunter we'd taken prisoner. By the time I'd finished washing him he was gibbering and hysterical. He was still locked in a store cupboard, raving about the Second Coming.

There was so much to do.

Maybe, if I kept myself busy enough, I could prevent myself dwelling on the things I'd seen and done. Maybe I'd go to bed so tired each night that I'd be able to sleep without nightmares.

Maybe.

The next morning I put on a pair of old Levis and a t-shirt. It felt odd to be back in normal clothes. Comforting, though. I ignored my tough leather boots and put on a battered old pair of trainers. Luxury.

I went downstairs to the refectory and helped myself to some water and a slice of fresh bread. We hadn't got any yeast, so it was flat bread, but it was still warm and delicious. I walked across the courtyard to the old kitchen, where Mrs Atkins was already baking the second batch of the day.

"Mrs Atkins that smells wonderful and you are a marvel," I said. I cleared away a pile of cookbooks and perched on the work surface.

"You sound chipper," she said.

"I can't remember the last time I woke up feeling good about the day," I replied. "But the sun's shining, we've got fresh bread and eggs for breakfast, and as far as I can tell nobody's trying to kill us. There'll be no drill today, no weapons training or marching, no assault course ordeals, gun battles, executions or fights. I think tomorrow I may spend the whole day just sitting in the sun reading a book. Can you imagine? Actually sitting and reading a book in the sun. In jeans! Today is going to be a good day, mark my words, Mrs Atkins. It's a new start. I warn you, I may even get down off this table and give you a hug."

"Don't you dare," she said, but she was laughing in spite of herself. "If you leave me alone to finish this batch of bread and get the breakfast done I'll see you later and tell you where Matron and the girls are. Deal?"

"Done!"

I jumped down, ran over and gave her a big kiss on the cheek. She threw a wooden spoon at me so I left. I might have been whistling.

The boys wandered down to breakfast in ones and twos over the course of the next hour. With everyone dressed in normal clothes again the refectory looked welcoming and normal. Mrs Atkins' scrambled eggs, collected from our chicken enclosure, were delicious. With no drill scheduled or battles to fight, the boys were all at a loose end, and they hung around the refectory when they'd finished eating, waiting to see what would happen.

I stood on the table at the top of the room and cleared my throat.

"Morning everyone. Looks a lot nicer in here without all the camouflage gear! Now, I know we should have a timetable and stuff, and I'll be sorting one out soon, but I think we should have a day off, yeah? I don't want anyone leaving the school grounds, and Norton is going to organise a few of you into guard patrols, but for today let's just relax and enjoy ourselves. Go play football, swim in the river, go fishing, read a book, whatever you want to do is fine. Dinner and supper will be at the usual time and I'd like everyone to gather here at six this evening. We should have Matron back by then and I'm sure she'll want to say hello to you all. But until then bugger off and have some fun. You've earned it."

"You should have been a red coat," muttered Norton when I sat down again. "Let's go have tea and scones on the lawn and play croquet. And maybe we can have lashings of ginger beer and get into some scrapes."

"Piss off."

"Yes sir, three bags full sir."

"How's your arm?"

"Unbelievably painful, but I don't think there's any major damage. I've stitched and sterilised it. Not going to be playing rugby any time soon, though."

"Fancy coming with me to get Matron?"

"Nah. Bouncing up and down on a horse doesn't really appeal. I'll be here, taking many, many painkillers and bestowing the gift of my withering sarcasm on the juniors."

"Just be careful Rowles doesn't shoot you."

"I know! When did he get scary?"

"I think he killed someone in the fight with Hildenborough. I have a horrible feeling he kind of enjoyed it."

That grim thought stopped our banter dead.

As I walked out to the paddock there was a football match kicking off on the rear playing field; one boy was walking off to the river carrying a fishing rod; and the third formers had a beatbox on, using up precious battery power playing music as loud as they possibly could. It was just like an ordinary Saturday in term-time. But with fewer children, and no teachers to spoil the fun.

Haycox was tending the horses. We had five now, all of which were happy to be ridden. He'd had converted one of the old stables back to its original use, and all the animals had warm quarters for when the weather changed. Each had its own saddle and bridle set, too, which Haycox polished and oiled. As long as he was left alone to look after the horses he was a very contented boy indeed. I'd been riding since I was ten, it was one of the extra activities the school offered on weekends, but with my wounded side and tender leg I found it hard going. The ride to Ightham and back for reconnaissance the day before yesterday had been agony; I'd been happier when we'd walked there en masse.

Nonetheless, I asked Haycox to saddle three of the horses for a short trip. He gathered up their reins and led them back to the courtyard.

There was one task I'd been putting off all morning, and I couldn't delay it any longer. I walked across Castle to the headmaster's old quarters. The door was locked. I suddenly saw an image of the keys, in Mac's pocket, burnt into the dead flesh of his thigh in the smouldering ruins of Ightham Mote.

It's surprising the different and creative ways your imagination can find to torment you when you've got a guilty conscience.

I kicked the door open.

Mac hadn't tidied up before leaving, and the flat revealed details about his private life I didn't really want to know. A half-finished whisky bottle sat on the coffee table, next to a tatty copy of Barely Legal and a box of mansize tissues. There was a CD player on the sideboard, and the bookcase had a huge pile of batteries on it. The kitchen was a stinking mess. There was a small calor gas ring with a saucepan on it and a collection of tinned food sitting next to it; baked beans and macaroni cheese, mostly. A huge pile of empty tins and Pot Noodles lay in a pile in the corner, a beacon for rats and 'roaches.

In the bedroom the quilt lay half-off the bed, exposing crumpled, stained sheets. We hadn't got the best laundry system worked out. I made a mental note to prioritise that.

Above the bed was a collage of photographs, blu-tacked to the wall. There must have been a hundred pictures. Most were of his family, but some were of friends, and there was one corner reserved for pictures of a pretty blonde girl I didn't recognise. It'd never occurred to me that he'd had a girlfriend.

I didn't want to linger here, to look at his pictures and see his crumpled bed sheets. I didn't want these things making me think of him as an ordinary person, giving my imagination any more details to torture me with. But it was already too late for that. I knew that somewhere in my nightmares that blonde girl would appear, accusing me of murder, weeping over Mac's chargrilled corpse.