S. Bolton - Dead Scared

‘You wankers, it’s freezing outside.’

Talaith’s protests were fading away. By this time my arms were pinned to my side and my face pressed close to the bloke who’d picked me up. His chest hair was scratching my cheek and I could smell both shower gel and sweat. Number three had his arms around my hips and the second was holding my feet together to stop me kicking.

‘Swing it,’ said the long-haired man. We turned at the top of the stairway and began the descent and I had to bite my lip to keep myself from screaming.

The night air hit me like a slap. Another cheer went up as we appeared and the chanting got louder. Fresh meat, fresh meat . I was being carried through the crowd. Faces, pumpkin-orange in the lamplight, were staring at me. I could see eyes gleaming, heads twitching.

No, I could not scream. They were just kids messing around; it was nothing to be afraid of.

We’d reached a space in the middle of the green where the frosted grass was already brown with mud. A heavy chain lay around the central tree. At the front of the crowd I saw boys had formed a line and were passing along buckets from the nearest block. Water. They were going to throw water at me. That was all. It would be unpleasant and humiliating but I had no need to be afraid. I was on my feet, still held firmly from behind, as one of my captors bent down and grasped hold of my ankle. Then I felt something heavy and cold pulling down on it. They’d padlocked the chain round my leg.

The first bucket took me totally by surprise. Freezing cold water hit me full in the face, streaming into my mouth and nose. For a second blind panic hit me when I couldn’t breathe. A moment later I was coughing hard.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the St John’s wet T-shirt competition,’ yelled a male voice as the contents of another bucket hit me. Another cheer went up and I looked down to see that the cotton running vest I nearly always wear in bed was soaked through. And that something like seventy people, standing in a circle around me, knew what my breasts looked like. One of the masked twats actually had a video camera, and for a second fury got the better of fear. This was sexual abuse, plain and simple. Where the hell were university security? Why was no one calling the police?

The bloke with the video camera was closer than the rest and at that moment I really didn’t care if I blew my cover, I was going to land him one. Forgetting the chain, I ran at him. I got three feet and saw alarm in pale-blue eyes before a stabbing pain shot through my ankle. A split second later I found myself sprawled in the mud. More cheers. And voices rising from the crowd.

‘I think that’s enough now, guys. Come on, let her go.’

Whoever he was, they took no notice of him. Six more buckets of ice-cold water were thrown at me while I was on the ground. I’d like to think it was the need to maintain my Laura Farrow cover that kept me lying there, curled into a ball, hiding my head behind one arm, but I’m honestly not sure. I just wanted it to be over. I wanted it to be over before I started to howl. When I couldn’t stop myself shaking I heard several voices shouting that that was enough. Then a warm hand was on my ankle and the cold chain was lifted away. Someone took hold of me under the arms and I was on my feet again.

‘You all right, love?’ said a northern accent. Not one of the masked boys. They’d disappeared into the night.

‘Does she bloody well look all right, you effing moron?’ A bright-yellow coat was wrapped around my shoulders and I was being steered by my tiny room-mate towards our block. I raised my head and pushed hair out of my eyes.

‘Christ, the mud we’re bringing in. Like that lot are going to clean it up. Come on, sweetie, let’s get you in.’ I let Talaith lead me inside. I was walking over linoleum, my feet squelching mud with every step. Talaith was guiding me towards the bathrooms at the end of the hallway. Doors were opening; girls who hadn’t dared leave their rooms before were appearing in the hallway.

‘Is she OK, Tox?’

‘She doesn’t look too good.’

‘She’ll be fine. She just needs to get warm. Can someone make tea?’ We’d reached the door of the bathroom and Talaith ushered me inside. She reached over and turned on the shower. Steam began to rise. ‘Go on, love,’ she told me. ‘You’re filthy. Get yourself warm. I’ll get you some towels. Can you manage? The front door’s locked. They can’t get in.’

She was still talking as the door closed and I was left alone. Without even bothering to take off my clothes I stepped under the hot water, telling myself I was OK, the front door was locked, they couldn’t get in. I was OK.

At my feet mud swirled in the basin. Grass and pebbles were already clogging the drain. I was still shaking. Talaith was wrong. The door to our block was left open all the time. The girls who lived in it, their visitors, the cleaners, came and went continuously. They could get in any time they liked and I was a very long way from being OK.

Berkshire, nineteen years earlier

THE MOTHER STARTED howling as the coffin sank. The father, almost as green as the foliage on the coffin lid, took hold of her more firmly and a collective shudder ran through the mourners. This was always the moment when it hit home. To put someone you loved so much into the ground. To lose your only child. At thirteen years old. How did you deal with that ?

‘ The days of man are but as grass, for he flourisheth as a flower of the field,’ said the minister. ‘For as soon as the wind goeth over it, it is gone .’

The seventeen-year-old boy, in the smart, blazered uniform of a good public school, looked at the perfect rectangle of the grave and pictured the still, cold face of the boy inside. I did this, he said to himself. There were thunderclouds overhead and he wondered perhaps if guilt would hit him hard and hot, like a strike from a lightning bolt .

Since the news that young Foster had hanged himself one Saturday morning in the dorm while the rest of the school were watching an inter-house cricket match, he’d been waiting for the guilt. He’d seen the horror-struck faces of his co-conspirators, the ones who’d helped him make Nathan Foster’s life a misery for the past twelve months, but, unlike him, had never really expected it to come to this. They were feeling it already, it was written all over their faces. Shame and contrition that would eat away at them like a parasite in their guts for the rest of their lives .

Any time now it was coming for him too and it was going to hurt. Like a physical pain, he imagined it, a vicious cramp squeezing in on his heart, or maybe like maggots nibbling away at his brain. He knew, from the faces of those who were almost as guilty as he, that guilt was going to be bad .

‘ Forasmuch as it has pleased Almighty God of his great mercy to take unto himself the soul of our dear brother here departed, we therefore commit his body to the ground .’

Good God above, his English teacher was snivelling. Who’d have thought old Cartwright had a shred of compassion in him? Around the grave, mourners were throwing handfuls of earth on to the coffin like they didn’t have two perfectly good sextons with ruddy great shovels less than a hundred yards away. One of the undertaker’s staff was standing directly in front of him, holding out the box of soil. No choice but to dip in his hand, take hold of stuff that felt damp and slimy, and step forward for one last look. I did this, he said to himself, as he opened his hand and the soil fell directly on to one perfect white rose .