Scott Andrews - School's Out Forever

The ache in my limbs was gone, my chest felt sore but not agonising, and my head was fuzzy and muddled, but not painful. I knew this feeling; I had been drugged.

I opened my eyes again and winced. Things slowly came into focus through the glare. The first thing I saw was the man sitting beside my bed. He was African-American, with a lined faced and short grey hair. He wore an army uniform. The room swam into view and I saw familiar cream walls. I was at Groombridge. This was my sick bay. I was home. I tried to speak, to ask him what was going on, but I couldn’t form the words.

“Don’t,” he said. “You’ve been drugged for some time. You took quite a knock and there was severe swelling of the brain. My medics put you in a drug-induced coma and nursed you back to health. But you’ve had three lots of surgery, you died on the table twice and I’m sorry to say you don’t have any hair right now.”

I felt my scalp, shocked by the smoothness of it.

“They tell me you’re going to be okay,” the general said. “They called me this morning and I flew down so I could be here when they woke you.”

It took all my effort and concentration to croak: “How long?”

“Three weeks.”

“Who…?”

“General Jonas Blythe, at your service, ma’am. I command the US forces here. I gave the order to attack the British Army on Salisbury Plain, and I gave the order to take control of your school. Sit her up.”

I heard someone walk across the wooden floor in heavy boots and felt strong arms lift me into a sitting position. I was propped up on some pillows so that I could see out of the window. It was a bright, sunny day, cold but clear. Next to the window stood a TV set with a camcorder plugged into it. The general nodded to the soldier who’d propped me up, and the young man went to the camcorder and fiddled with it until it began playing. The screen crackled with white noise and then solidified into a picture.

Lee. Bruised, bloodstained and terrified, sitting tied to a chair in front of a blue sheet with Arabic writing on it. A man in a black hood stood behind him holding a sharp knife. I gasped in horror. I knew what this video was. Everyone did.

The sound kicked in and there was Lee. Kind, lonely, brave, broken Lee, sobbing into the lens. “My name is Lee Keegan. It’s my sixteenth birthday today, and I’m English. I flew here to find my dad, a Sergeant in the British Army, but my plane crashed and these guys found me. If anyone sees this, please let Jane Crowther know what happened to me. You can find her at Groombridge Place, in Kent, southern England. It’s a school now. Tell her I’m sorry.”

And the screen went blank. Tears streamed down my face and my stomach felt empty and hollow. Oh God, Lee. Poor, sweet Lee.

“He’s dead, Miss Crowther,” said the general.

Now I found my voice. Dry throated, I croaked between sobs: “How did you get this?”

“Recovered it from an insurgent hideout in Basra about a month ago.”

“Did they…?” I couldn’t say it.

“Not them. Believe it or not your boy made friends with them. They let him go.”

“I don’t understand.”

“He joined them, Miss Crowther. To fight me.”

I stared at him. “You killed Lee?”

The general nodded. I screamed and tried to fling myself at him, reaching out to scratch his eyes and bite his face. I wanted to pull him apart. But I was too weak, and my limbs wouldn’t obey the instructions I was sending them. I just fell forwards and slid off the bed on to the floor, collapsing in a heap at his feet, a pathetic, tear-stained, wailing, wreck.

The young soldier lifted me up. I tried to shake him off, but I was helpless. Instead of placing me back in the bed, he sat me in a wheelchair and pushed me so I was face to face with the general. I stared into his pitiless eyes, summoning all the defiance and fury I could muster.

“Why are you so important?” he asked. “What is it about this school?”

I didn’t understand what he meant, but my face betrayed nothing but anger.

“A young soldier from this school flies to Iraq and almost succeeds in destroying my operations,” he explained. “The one name he gives us is yours. Then, when we attack British Army HQ you’re there in the thick of it, with your very own SAS bodyguard, whose sole purpose, as far as I can tell, is to ensure your safety and bring you here. Why? Why are you so important? What’s your game, Miss Crowther?”

Sanders had brought me here. So where was he? And what had become of Jack?

“Shall I tell you what I think?” continued the general. “I think you’re a spook. MI5 or 6, back before The Cull. I think this school is a front for all that remains of your British Secret Service.”

I started to laugh silently. It hurt my healing ribs but I couldn’t help it. I held my sides and laughed and laughed till more tears flowed.

“You fool,” I said. “You stupid, pathetic, paranoid fuckwit. I’m not a spy. I’m just a boarding school matron.” I could hear the hysterical edge to my laughter but I couldn’t stop. “If you want spies, you’re barking up the wrong tree, General. All I’ve got is TCP and sticking plasters.”

He sat there and let me laugh for a while, then he stood, grasped the handles of my wheelchair and pushed me to the window.

“Let me show you what I do to people who waste my time, Miss Crowther,” he said quietly.

I looked out of the window at the lawn below. It seemed like only yesterday that I’d lain on that grass with Barker, feeling the Earth move beneath me. Now, in the exact spot where I’d passed that quiet moment of contemplation, was one of the most awful things I’ve ever seen. It was Sanders — strong, gentle, musclebrained Sanders, my sometime lover. He lay facing the sky, impaled on a huge wooden stake which jutted, bloodied and obscene, from his shattered chest. A crow pecked hungrily at a gaping eye socket and then flapped away, as if ashamed of being seen.

Had I anything in my stomach, I would have been sick.

“Now, Miss Crowther,” said the soft, menacing voice behind me. “Let’s start again, shall we?”

“DOES THIS THING have a loo?” I asked eventually.

“No,” said Dad.

“Well, I’m sorry guys,” I said, “but I really, really have to pee and unless you want to sit in here and breathe ammonia all the way home, I’m going to have to get out to do it.”

“Don’t we have a bottle or something?” asked Tariq.

“All full of water, which we’ll need,” replied Dad. “Lee, you can’t hold it any more?”

“You remember when I was little and we went on that road trip to Rhyll? How much did it cost to get the car seats cleaned?”

Dad didn’t need any more information than that. “Should be all right. Just go quietly, okay?”

I nodded, then reached up and turned the wheel to open the hatch. I pushed up and peeked outside. The noise of the engines was deafening, and there was hardly any light.

“All clear. Back in a sec,” I said. I put my right foot on the back of the main bench seat and pushed myself up and out, on to the roof of the LAV III Stryker Engineer Squad Vehicle. Designed for minesweeping and road clearance, it was squat, solid, armour plated and boasted a mean looking set of guns on the roof; this was state of the art kit. It also had nice comfy couches, which is why we’d chosen to stow away in it for the flight back to England.