Lynda Plante - The Talisman

‘You got nobody to ‘elp yer this time, Morgan. It’s just you an’ me.’

‘Hey, come on, Stubbs... Look, I know we ain’t exactly been friends, but we can sort this one out. What you want, you name it?’

Alex was amazed how easy it was — the smell of fear gave him a strange sense of power. He could see the terror in Morgan’s eyes, and it made him feel even better. ‘This is for Eric.’

The shoe’s razor-sharp spikes slashed into Morgan’s face. The boy screamed and tried to push Alex off, but he was cornered. He fought desperately, but the spikes kept on coming. Blood streaming down his face, he fell to his knees, begging for mercy. The more he cowered the more rage Alex felt. It wasn’t Morgan any more, it was Eddie — Eddie, crying for him to stop, screaming at Alex not to hurt him any more.

‘Jesus Christ, he’s killin’ him — somebody get him off.’

Ted was terrified. Beating Morgan up was one thing, but Alex had gone crazy. Captain Barker heard the screams and he ordered the boys away from the locker-room door, forcing them aside with his stick. He limped to the far end of the toilets, unable to believe his eyes. The ‘golden boy’ was splattered with blood, and he scarcely recognized Morgan, who was moaning in terror and covered in blood. Hanging from the cistern in the last closet was another lad, half-naked and weeping.

‘Get back against the wall, Stubbs... Stubbs!’

Alex turned on him, fists raised. He would have taken on Barker as well if the walking stick hadn’t come crashing down on his head.

Two warders led the handcuffed, struggling Alex to a padded cell. He was kicking and yelling obscenities, and it took all their strength to hold him down. Alex was crazed, spitting, lunging at his captors and trying to head butt them. They paid no attention to the words he was screaming, being too intent on getting him into the cell. ‘I didn’t do it, he killed him, he killed him... Eddie! Eddie... bastard, fucking cunt, bastard.’

Captain Barker was stunned into silence. The sports master turned helplessly to him, close to tears. ‘Dear God, why? Why? Why did he do it?’

The fall of the hero hit everyone hard. Barker was as distressed by the incident as anyone else. Quietly and sadly, he took out Stubbs’ record. There it was, in black and white: ‘potentially dangerous’. Something had sparked off his violence, but what it was they would never discover.

Matron came into the teachers’ common room to report on Alex. She was very depressed. ‘He’s quiet. I’ve given him a sedative, but I think it’s best to leave him in the strait-jacket. He doesn’t seem to understand what is going on. It’s pitiful, he’s calling for someone called Rex. Is there anything in his report about a Rex?’

Barker shook his head and told her the only living relative was a brother, but they had no address for him. He turned to the sports master. ‘I found this in Eric’s bed after they took him to the hospital,’ he said, handing him Alex’s shield. ‘Who knows, that might have started it. You think little Eric stole it from him?’

The sports master took the shield, held it for a moment then put it down on the table. He shrugged, a helpless gesture. ‘He could have been a British champion... He was magnificent.’

Edward could hear the Judge’s loud voice in the stable yard, talking to Harriet. The stable lads were saddling up and the Judge gestured with his riding crop as he talked. ‘Any hunter unable to control his horse and hounds should be shot. Some of ‘em think they can clear a fence without a thought for the dawgs. They end up clearing nothing. Master of Frogmorton is an absolute bastard. Saw him kick a hound once — frightful incident.’

Edward had heard nothing but horses and hounds throughout breakfast, luncheon and dinner. He was heartily sick of it — especially as he had never even sat on a horse, let alone ridden one. Not that any member of the Simpson family appeared to notice his silence on the subject, and he had managed to excuse himself from morning rides by pleading his studies. He was also socializing, however, and enjoying his vacation, although the hunt seemed to be uppermost in everyone’s minds, including his new-found friends. Everyone presumed he would ride to hounds, and Edward was beginning to wonder how he was going to get out of it.

When he looked up again, Harriet was cantering across a field beyond the stables. She was a joy to watch; the winter sun shone on her hair, her curls bounced as she pulled the horse in to a trot, and her cheeks were like two red apples. She wore only jodhpurs, black riding boots and an old white school shirt, and Edward thought she must be freezing. Horse and rider were fluid, like a single being, and he was fascinated. Usually Harriet was so ungainly, and yet she looked as graceful as a ballet dancer out there in the fields. He saw the Judge, dressed in an ancient jacket and jodhpurs, join his daughter, riding a seventeen-or eighteen-hand chestnut with a sheen that glinted like Harriet’s hair.

Assuming that the whole family were out, Edward decided he would take the opportunity to have a bath. He opened the bathroom door to find Allard just jumping out of the big tub. ‘Morning, come in, come in.’

His teeth chattering, Allard proceeded to rub his pale, freckled body dry with his once-white towel, now a dirty grey colour. In two seconds flat he was dressed, his sweater, shirt and vest having been left one inside the other, as were his underpants and trousers. In one swift move he had his top layer on, and in another his trousers followed. ‘Learnt this at Harrow — we had to crack the ice on the tubs there. It’s quite easy when you know how. It’s taking the garments off that’s the trick, making sure they come off in one move ready for the following morning.’ He padded out with his sodden towel, forgetting to brush his teeth, and told Edward there was no hot water. He would have to get up at the crack of dawn if he wanted that luxury. As he wandered off down the corridor, he called out that he was going to drive into town and would no doubt see Edward later.

Edward had seen very little of Allard, and as he had no transport of his own he was dependent on his newly acquired friends sending their chauffeurs to collect him. He had made no move on any of his prey, but he was lining them up in his mind, and Lady Summercorn was high on his list.

Walking into the kitchen, Edward found the back door wide open. He could see the Judge and Harriet kicking off their riding boots. The Judge was arguing with Harriet about which packs were the best in the country. ‘I would say without a doubt, Brocklesby. But one has to look at knees and ankles... On the other hand — let me speak, Harriet, shut up — I would say that the Belvoir’s are beautiful animals...’

Harriet wrinkled her nose and said something inaudible. Her father turned on her, pointing at her with his crop. ‘Remember that time with old man Burton? This gel, Edward, only hallooed, shouting that she’d seen a fox. I galloped up on — what was I riding then, dear? Oh, never mind — anyway, Edward, I get up to the gel and she’s hysterical, jumping up and down in the saddle, and I said, what on earth did you halloo for?’

Harriet muttered that she was sure Edward wasn’t interested in something she had done when she was eight years old. The Judge roared with laughter and carried on with his tale, regardless. ‘“A fox, Daddy, it was a fox, and he was so dirty and covered in mud...” Mud be buggered, I said, what on earth did you halloo everyone out for? A mangy fox, the hounds won’t run to that.’

Harriet flew into a rage, shouting that she was sick and tired of her father always bringing up that old, motheaten story. Edward turned to the Judge. ‘What is a mangy fox, sir?’ He knew immediately that he should have kept his mouth shut.