Scott Andrews - School's Out Forever

But there were no cares and stresses to disperse. It felt as if there was nothing in her at all. She was hollow.

The woman considered the emptiness dispassionately, turning it over in her mind as one would a vase or an artefact unearthed at an archaeological dig, feeling its weight and form, assessing it.

“Jane,” she said out loud. “Jane Crowther. Matron.”

She said the name in different ways, trying different intonations, a question, and answer, a hail, a statement.

“Jane. Jane. Jane.”

It felt strange in her mouth. But it felt good on the inside.

Yes. She would be Jane now, the woman decided.

And it was right that she should be empty, she concluded, for that was what a newborn was — a vessel waiting to be filled with new experiences.

The woman who was now Jane ducked her head under the water for a moment and concentrated on the still warmth, the only sound her own heartbeat. Then she pushed her head back up to the air and took her first breath.

THE IMPLICATIONS OF what I’m seeing overwhelm me.

I stand there holding the gun, frozen in wonder and horror as the events of eight years ago spool through my head like a movie. Each event, each conversation, is suddenly reinterpreted with new and sinister emphasis.

If this is true, then that means… which means that… in which case…

I stagger back from the Speaker’s Chair as if hit, almost losing my footing. I think maybe I let out a cry.

“Surprise,” says the man in the cloak.

The sound of his voice brings me back to the here and now. I refocus my attention on him, steadying my wavering hands and aiming the gun right between his eyes.

“Oh, Kate,” says John Cooper. “Is that any way to greet an old friend?”

I WAS A little nervous when I rode into Nottingham.

The castle was impressive and welcoming, although they insisted I leave my gun with them for the duration as apparently no firepower was allowed in the town. Hood had his own band of merry men and there was a family atmosphere that reminded me a little of St Mark’s. I had some concerns when I saw the army of Rangers training in the grounds, but those fears were dispelled when I met the man and his entourage. These were obviously good guys, which was a blessed relief.

Jack had been there three days already when I arrived and was fitting in nicely. There was something of the chameleon about Jack. He was good at blending in, finding the right tone to strike in a particular group or environment. In Nottingham he was blokier, more one of the lads than he was back at school. It had worked. He had met Hood a couple of times and been greeted with cautious warmth. As we’d discussed, Jack had proposed an arrangement whereby either of our settlements could, if seriously threatened, send a messenger asking for aid which would be immediately rendered.

Hood seemed open to the idea, but it was still early days. Jack was taken aback when I turned up intending to ask him to deliver on his end of the bargain so quickly.

“I don’t know if he’ll be up for that. Things aren’t exactly quiet around here,” Jack told me as we walked around the castle boundary on the day I arrived. “There’s some nutty cult on the rise and it’s got them a bit spooked. Plus, you know, they had a hard fight against that French geezer so they’re cautious about going looking for trouble.”

“Geezer? Really, Jack? Geezer?”

“What?” he replied, I thought slightly shiftily.

I laughed. “Was that the commonly accepted term at Harrow for French psychopaths?”

“No,” he said, straight faced. “The accepted Harrovian term for a French psychopath was Le Geezer. But, you know, I didn’t want to confuse you with the complicated foreign lingo.”

“Right.”

He gave me a sudden appraising stare, as if trying to work out what I was getting at which, since I was just joking, made me wonder what he thought I was getting at. I shook my head and filed it under the category of ‘Jack being odd’.

“Anyway,” he went on, “they’ve got quite a force of Rangers. As you’ve found, they don’t carry guns, just knives, swords, bows and arrows, quarterstaffs. Proper mediaeval stuff.”

“So where,” I interjected, “did all De Falaise’s firepower end up?”

“I asked that, but they’re not saying.”

“’Cause we could use it, if they’d let us.”

Jack shook his head firmly. “No chance. Hood has a thing about modern weapons. If they had an arsenal somewhere, he’s either destroyed it or put it somewhere no-one else can find it.”

I nodded. “So how many men can he spare us?”

Jack winced. “I don’t know if he’s willing to spare us any, but I got the impression that the best we could hope for is maybe five or six.”

I looked up at the castle walls, where we’d seen at least fifty Rangers being put through their paces. “Fuck, really? That’s it?”

“He said he has to make the cult his top priority. Plus…” Jack trailed off, seemingly unsure of what to say next.

“Yes?”

“Well, what happened in Thetford? ’Cause whatever it was, those Rangers you came back with kind of hate your guts.”

“Things got complicated.”

He waited for me to say more, but I kept my mouth shut. Even I wasn’t entirely sure what had happened back at the compound. I kept replaying the moment I killed the begging snatcher, trying to reconstruct what I was thinking at the time, trying to work out whether it was justified. But I came up empty handed time and again. It was like I hadn’t been me at all when I pulled the trigger. I was beginning to suspect that I couldn’t recall what I’d been feeling because I hadn’t felt anything at all. And that scared me.

We rounded a corner and found ourselves back at the castle gates. Jack saw this girl called Sophie who he’d been mooning after, with a total lack of success on his part and no encouragement at all on hers, and took off to resume his charm offensive.

I went to find Hood.

THE LIVING LEGEND was pacing up and down in front of a map of the area which was hanging from the wall of what used to be the visitor’s centre.

Courteous yet taciturn, he had a weather-beaten face that spoke of a life outdoors. He seemed uncomfortable inside and every now and then I caught him flashing tiny glances at the walls as if suspicious or resentful of them. I don’t think he realised he was doing it.

He indicated that I should take a seat in one of the moulded plastic chairs that were piled up in the corner.

“Tell me about De Falaise?” I asked, substituting curiosity for small talk.

He regarded me coolly. “Like a good war story, do you?” The implication was unspoken but clear.

“My Dad and I had a run in with him, back in France,” I explained. “I’m deaf in one ear because of that bastard.”

He looked surprised and I admit I felt a little pleased with myself. I got the impression he was not an easy man to surprise. I realised that something about his quiet authority made me want to impress him.

“You were in France?” he asked. “What were you doing there?”

“Making my way home.”

“From?”

“Iraq.”

Now he was really surprised. I intended to leave it at that, just be enigmatic and cool, but I felt a sudden need to confess. Something about this strange, solid man made me want to unburden myself to him.