Scott Andrews - School's Out Forever

This did not sound, Jack thought, like the cries of a dangerous killer or a mad cultist. But still he did not move, waiting patiently for the dust to settle so he could see who he was dealing with. It took a minute or so, but eventually a silhouette hardened into the prone form of a chubby little man dressed in a v-neck sweater and a puffy green jacket. He was lying with his feet towards Jack’s hiding place, but his legs were buried beneath piles of fallen bricks.

The man was trapped.

THE MAN WATCHING from the tree-line cursed under his breath.

“Don’t let me down now, Arthur,” he whispered. “Not when we’re so close…”

Then he reached into his backpack and pulled out a machine gun.

Just in case.

JACK STUDIED THE prone man, trying to work out what to do.

The man didn’t have a gun in either of his hands, and his bag had fallen beyond his reach. That left his coat as the only likely place for a weapon to be concealed. As he leaned forward and began trying to dig himself out, the coat fell open and Jack was pretty sure there was nothing heavy in any of the pockets.

Maybe this guy was friendly. He didn’t look threatening. But what had he been doing here? Was he a looter, come to pick over the wreckage of his school, or something else?

He considered for a moment and then broke cover. He stood in plain sight but didn’t move, waiting for the man to notice him. It took a few moments.

“Oh, hello, I didn’t see you there,” said the man, momentarily forgetting his predicament. He stopped trying to free himself and leaned backwards.

Jack licked his lips; he had a dreadful case of dry mouth.

“What are you doing here?” asked Jack, warily.

The man paused before replying, and Jack fancied that he could see cogs turning in the guy’s head as he worked out his response. Subterfuge was definitely not this guy’s strong suit. Jack did not think it would be wise to trust him.

“I’m on a sort of quest,” he said.

“For what?”

“Not what, young man. Who.”

“All right, for whom are you questing?”

“Oh very good. You must be an Harrovian, such good grammar.” The man was eyeing Jack almost hungrily. Jack bit his lip nervously. What was this guy’s game?

“I’m Arthur. Is there any chance..?” He waved at his trapped legs and smiled.

Still Jack didn’t move.

“I asked you who you were looking for,” he said.

“A boy. His name’s Jack Bedford.” The man’s eyes were narrow, gauging Jack’s reaction to this news.

And Jack was so astonished that he let a momentary flicker of that surprise show on his face before he said: “Never heard of him.”

GOT HIM! THOUGHT Arthur. He either knows the boy or — he looked him up and down; right age, at least — is the boy.

Arthur was good at subterfuge, though, and had played his cards close to his chest. There was no reason for this boy not to trust him. Plus, his legs hurt like hell, and might be broken, so he didn’t think he presented an obvious threat. If this was the king, he could lure him forward by playing the helpless victim. His reached his right hand down, as subtly as he could manage, and wrapped his fingers around a brick.

“Oh, that’s shame,” he said. “I’ve got good news for him. Anyway, first things first, can you please help me free my legs? They really are rather sore.”

“What news?”

Oh for god’s sake, this boy was skittish.

“I’m sorry, I can only tell that to him. I promised.” He was pleased with that last flourish.

The boy considered for a moment and then said “I can take you to Jack. I know where he is.”

“You mean he’s alive? Oh that’s wonderful!” Now help me move these bricks you snot-nosed whelp.

He let go of the brick, and the boy moved forward at last, reaching forward to help release him. The poor idiot child had no idea he’d played right into Arthur’s hands.

IT DIDN’T TAKE long for Jack to uncover Arthur’s legs. He worked in silence, unsure whether he should be doing this. He’d been shocked to hear his own name, and he couldn’t pass up the chance that this man might be able to help him in some way. But he didn’t trust him.

The best plan he’d been able to come up with was to take Arthur back to the ice house where Ben was waiting. He’d introduce Ben as himself and pull faces at Ben behind the guy’s back to get him to play along.

Ben was more confident than he was, good at handling confrontations and problems. If anyone could turn this situation to his advantage, it was Ben. He just had to hope that he was feeling sharp today.

Jack heaved the last brick away and Arthur’s legs lay exposed at last. There were spatters of blood on his trousers, but he cautiously flexed his legs and then shakily got to his feet.

“Well fancy that!” he cried. “No bones broken.”

Jack also stood up, and kept his distance as Arthur hobbled over to his bag, picked it up, and slung it over his shoulder.

“Right then,” he said. “Lead on… sorry, you didn’t tell me your name.”

“I’m Ben,” said Jack.

Arthur reached out a hand, smiling insincerely. “Please to meet you Ben, and thank you for helping me.”

Jack reluctantly shook Arthur’s clammy, limp hand.

“S’this way,” he murmured, and slouched off towards the woods. Arthur followed close behind.

“So, do you know Jack well?” asked the man, feigning small talk.

“He was in my house, but he was in the year below. So not really.”

“Then how…?”

“We were just lucky. We’d been sent off to collect some firewood when the cannibals attacked. So we just hid in the ice house until they’d gone.”

“Nice lad, is he?”

“Don’t you know?”

“Oh no, never met him. I’m just running an errand.”

“He’s all right, I suppose. Bit annoying when you’re cooped up in the dark with him for three days.”

“I think maybe everyone is.” Arthur gave a short, nasal laugh, which irritated Jack intensely. His fear had largely faded, now he was only curious.

THE ICE HOUSE was a small brick dome with a door that you had to crouch to get through; it looked like a brick igloo, sitting incongruously among the school’s woodlands, swathed in ivy, better camouflaged than any pill box.

As soon as it came in sight, Jack stopped.

“Better stay here, let me warn him you’re coming,” he told Arthur. “He’s kind of nervous and he’s got a knife. We don’t want you to get stabbed do we?”

Arthur gave another of his nervous, snorty laughs. “Heavens, no!”

Jack walked towards the ice house, only just resisting the urge to run. As he stooped to enter, he glanced back over his shoulder and saw Arthur standing where he’d left him. The man smiled and waved.

The ice house smelled of damp leaves and dirt. It was dark inside, only a tiny chink of light penetrated the canopy of ivy that covered the small hole at the apogee of the dome. Designed to keep ice frozen throughout the year in the days before freezers, the majority of the ice house lay under ground; almost immediately you were inside, the ground opened up into a cavernous, brick lined hole. In the half-light, Jack could just about make out the sleeping figure of Ben. He was exactly where Jack had left him, curled up on the carpet of detritus that had accumulated at the bottom of the ice house in the hundred or so years since it had last been used.

Jack scrambled down into the hole and shook the sleeping boy awake.

Spotty, unkempt and decidedly common, Ben Wyman didn’t deserve his place at Harrow. The Headmaster had insisted that the school should open its door to any refugee children they dredged up, and Ben had been the first. He claimed to be the middle class son of a school teacher from the local comp, but Jack had his suspicions about that. Ben had been wary of the Harrow boys and the haughty ease with which they carried themselves. He’d not been bullied, exactly, but he was ostracised by the other boys, including Jack. But he’d been appointed Ben’s ‘shepherd’, which meant it was his job to show him the ropes and help him find his feet, so they’d ended up spending a lot of time in each other’s company.