Scott Andrews - School's Out Forever

Major General Kennett was standing in front of his desk, leaning back against it, his arms folded across his chest. He was about forty, plump, red cheeked and bald, with a strong square jaw, and was dressed plainly in green trousers and jumper. He regarded me with calculating green eyes. I was unsure whether his air of easy authority was innate or whether it was bestowed upon him by the room itself and all the cultural and social respect it represented.

Sanders stood to one side, hands clasped behind his back. He wasn’t at attention, but he was formal. I think they call it ‘standing easy.’

“Miss Crowther, welcome to Operation Motherland,” said Kennett, leaning forward and offering me his hand. His voice was high and nasal, with a strong southern accent, kind of like Ken Livingstone. It didn’t suit him at all.

I took his hand and he shook it once, firmly.

He didn’t offer me a seat, so I stood there, unsure what was required of me.

“The lieutenant has been telling me what happened at your school and on the journey here. There’ll have to be an investigation, of course.” He folded his arms and pursed his lips, assessing me.

I couldn’t think of anything to say, so I just said, “Right.”

There was a long pause.

“I’m not entirely sure I believe everything he told me,” added Kennett.

“Sir…” began Sanders, but Kennett silenced him with a look.

“But I’ve known him a long time, Miss Crowther. He’s one of my most trusted officers. So I choose to believe him. And I feel sure that everything the investigation discovers will corroborate his story. Won’t it, Sanders?”

“Sir.”

“Yes,” mused Kennett. “Thorough. I like that in a soldier. So I shall continue to believe him, and by extension to trust you, unless you give me reason to do otherwise. Do you think you’re likely to do that, Miss Crowther?”

“No, Sir,” I said, surprised by my instinctive deference.

“Good. In which case you are welcome to remain here while the girl in your care recuperates. After that you will be escorted safely back to your school. We will, I’m afraid, have to disarm your merry band, but I’m sure you understand that’s for the best.”

“Actually, Sir…” I began. But the warning in his eyes was clear and unambiguous. I fell silent again and nodded. Jesus, this really was like talking to my old headmaster.

“Excellent.” Kennett clapped his hands and smiled. Business concluded. “Sanders will find you a billet, and maybe we’ll see you at our karaoke night tonight. Sanders does a very good Lemmy, I’m told.” With that he turned his back on us, picked up a file and began to read.

A second later, almost as an afterthought, he said, “Dismissed.”

Sanders saluted, said “Sir” and ushered me out of the door.

“What the hell did you tell him?” I asked incredulously as we walked out of the building into the crisp air of a spring evening.

“What I needed to. I’ll brief you properly later, so we can get our stories straight for the investigators. Essentially, the child traffickers killed our guys, and you killed the traffickers.”

At the bottom of the steps I stopped, took his hand, leant up and kissed him on the cheek.

“Thank you,” I said.

He squeezed my hand and smiled. “You’re welcome. Now let’s get you billeted, then you can start thinking about what you’re going to sing tonight!”

“You wish! I’ve got a voice like a strangled cat.”

The billet was a room on the first floor of a simple barrack building. It had a single bed, wardrobe, wash basin with clean running water, a TV with DVD player and plug sockets that had power. Plus, central heating! I leant my bum against the radiator, enjoying that slightly too hot feeling that I’d almost forgotten. Log fires are nice, but give me a boiling hot radiator any day of the week.

After Sanders left me alone I went to the communal bathroom at the end of the landing, drew myself a hot bath and soaked all the aches away. Sanders had scraped together some toiletries from somewhere, so I washed my hair, soaped myself clean, shaved my legs, plucked my eyebrows, waxed my top lip, and did all those things I used to take so completely for granted. When I was all done, I lay back in the water and watched the steam rise and curl as the stitches in my cheek throbbed in the heat.

I closed my eyes and imagined I was at home, that Gran was downstairs making tea, and that after I’d dried my hair I’d go downstairs and eat her corned beef pie with mash and we’d watch trashy telly.

It was a nice, warm daydream.

I felt safe for the first time in two years.

When I woke, the water was tepid and night had fallen. The light was off so the bathroom was dark. I suppose that’s why Sanders hadn’t found me and dragged me off to karaoke. I looped the plug chain around my big toe and pulled it out, then I rose, pulled my towel off the hot radiator and wrapped it around me. Back in my billet I found that Sanders had left me some clean clothes, bless him, and although the short black dress he’d chosen for me was perhaps not quite what I’d have opted for, I decided to indulge him, and myself. There was fancy underwear as well — nothing crass, just good quality — and the shoes were nice. He’d almost guessed my size right in all respects.

When I was all dolled up, I put on some slap and looked at myself in a mirror. Bathed, well dressed, made-up. Nothing out of the ordinary a few years ago, but the woman staring back at me seemed like an old stranger, someone I’d known very well once upon a time but had lost touch with. I was glad to see her again, but I knew she was only visiting briefly.

I looked like Kate.

Well, no matter. I was about to walk into a room full of soldiers, looking pretty damn good, if I said so myself. It had been a long time since I’d turned any heads, and I was looking forward to it.

Pulling a coat around my shoulders, I left the room, turned off the light and walked downstairs, listening to my heels clicking on the lino. Again, a sound from the past — high heels on a staircase. One small detail of a forgotten life, once commonplace, now extraordinary to me.

I opened the door and stepped outside. The camp was dark, but the roads were lit with orange sodium lights. I stopped and listened. From somewhere off in the distance I could hear a chorus of drunken voices singing Delilah . I followed the sound, enjoying the sensation of once again being able to walk alone at night without fear.

Which is why it was such a surprise when the man dropped out of the sky on a parachute and landed on the path in front of me, and hands grabbed me from behind, muffling my shouts, dragging me into the shadows.

I KICKED AND struggled, but the man holding me was too strong. I’d have bitten his fingers off if he hadn’t been wearing heavy leather gloves.

I was pulled off the path and into the bushes, where I was pushed down on to my knees and held firm.

“If you do exactly as I say, you won’t be harmed,” said a soft voice in my ear. The accent was unmistakeably American, an exotic twang after two years of Kentish brogue. I felt cold metal at my throat.

“If you cry out, I’ll slit your throat, Limey bitch. Understand?”

Limey? Who the hell called Brits ‘Limeys’ anymore?

I nodded gently. He removed his hand from my mouth.

I’ve been in worse spots before, but I was completely unprepared for this. I was in the safest place in Britain, in my bloody party dress! So unfair. Anyway, I was more scared than I’d been in a long time and I momentarily lost my cool. My terror, I’m embarrassed to admit, made me compliant. I didn’t make a sound.