Scoundrels

by Victor Cornwall

  It’s held by Cornwall, Trevelyan and Hansclapp.

  __________

  “So we’re going to cheat?” I said surprised.

  Hansclapp nodded. I looked over at Trevelyan who seemed intrigued. For him, any plan that would minimise personal injury was a good thing.

  “Go on.” I said, “Let’s hear it.”

  Now he had our attention he seemed to grow in stature. He began pacing the floor, his hands clasped firmly behind his back as he detailed how we could win. To be fair it was a great plan. He’d analysed every game of Snatch the Gander for the last hundred years and calculated the minimum distance covered in order to win the game. He reckoned on seven and a half miles.

  The distance from our starting point at the black obelisk to the school cookhouse was approximately two and a half miles. But the geese were situated another two and a half miles away in the wrong direction. In other words, five miles away from the school. That meant that from the starting point teams had to travel an initial two and a half miles to catch the goose and then five miles to bring it back to school: seven and a half miles in total.

  Hansclapp’s plan was to blow the existing record out of the water, by running only two and a half miles. From the starting point straight back to school.

  “But what about the goose?” Trevelyan had rightly asked him.

  “We don’t need to worry about that. Let the others run off in the wrong direction.”

  “But how are we going to win if we have no goose?” I said.

  “We will have a goose.”

  “How?”

  Hansclapp smiled and walked over to the sash window. He pushed across the metal lock, found space for his fingers underneath and lifted it up and open. There was something of the showman about him. Trevelyan and I looked on intrigued. Hansclapp placed both hands over his mouth. He took a deep breath and made one of the strangest sounds I ever heard produced by a human. It was sharp and rasping, but to my ear totally authentic. I was dumbfounded to hear the sound of a goose.

  Now the room fell silent. Hansclapp turned to face us but said nothing. We waited. Trevelyan was nodding slowly and stroking his chin. I sat unmoving. If this really was happening then it was an incredible piece of skill, forethought and planning from the Austrian. A formidable achievement.

  We didn’t have to wait long. A large goose landed on the windowsill. Hansclapp reached out to pick it up. “The goose will come to us,” he said stroking it gently.

  I was in awe of what I’d just seen. I took a deep breath and caught Trevelyan’s eye. We were both thinking the same thing. Hansclapp was a clever bugger.

  __________

  Dr Scabious Boothroyd’s chemistry lessons were always compelling. He threw out the curriculum to teach the kind of science we all wanted to know: explosives, poisons, weapons and stimulants. For instance, he’d once gathered the third form round his desk to talk about toxins. The Bullet Ant, he explained, has the most painful sting of any insect in the world. It gets its name from the pain it inflicts, because it feels like you’ve been shot. He could vouch for this, he said, because he’d experienced both.

  A Bullet Ant bite rates an impressive five on the Schmidt Pain Index, one ranking higher than the Japanese Giant Hornet. Boothroyd described the Giant Hornet as “a big bastard of a wasp,” which he’d met while touring the forest regions of Hokkaido. Had he known about its aggressive nature he would have never dislodged the hive with his bolas for a bit of fun. It was a moment of poor judgment that resulted in a sustained and vicious attack, nearly killing him. Boothroyd told us he’d required an injection from a needle the size of a cucumber just to bring his histamine levels back to normal. Well, he concluded with a grin, the Bullet Ant is worse than that by a country mile.

  Then he’d produced a cloth sack and asked Taplow to put his hand inside.

  “Are there ants in there, sir?” Taplow had asked nervously.

  “Of course not dear boy,” Boothroyd had assured him.

  He wasn’t lying either. Taplow placed his hand in the bag, screamed and recoiled to reveal that he’d been bitten by a rattlesnake. We spent the next five minutes observing Taplow’s symptoms while Boothroyd wrote them on the board.

  “He’s foaming at the mouth sir!”

  “That’s a result of the neurotoxins – what else?”

  “Swelling!”

  “Good Tremeloe, anything else?”

  “Vomiting!”

  “Excellent Fitzjohn! Someone check it for blood please…”

  “Shaking!”

  “Yes! That’s quite an obvious one though Cuthbertal, you can do better than that!”

  “Sweating!”

  “Yes!”

  “He’s going blue, sir.”

  “…and we call that..?”

  “…cyanosis?”

  “Cyanosis, well done. Okay Cuthbertal, administer the antidote! Quick boy or we’ll lose him.”

  There was always an air of danger around Boothroyd’s lessons and his classroom was a treasure trove of interesting objects that should have required adult supervision. In our final year Boothroyd seemed to take a much more active interest in all aspects of our education. He began treating us as men rather than pupils, and would even join in when he caught us having a sneaky cigarette behind the ancient stone wall of the Creamery. He smoked a brand I’d never seen before, named Pleasant Fellows, and when I tried one it made my head spin.

  Dr Scabious Boothroyd was an all-round good guy, so when he pulled me aside one day at the end of his lesson, I wasn’t expecting him to call me a cheat.

  He didn’t look so much angry as intrigued. “I hear you have something afoot for Snatch the Gander,” he said, fixing his eyes on me.

  “Sir?” I was shocked.

  “Don’t look so surprised Cornwall. There is little that happens at this school that I don’t get wind of. I’m just interested that’s all – how do you plan to do it?” Then he added, “You’re not in trouble.” Something told me he was being genuine, but still I couldn’t bring myself to tell him, just in case.

  “I don’t know what you mean sir,” I said. “We’ve been diligent in our prep for this game. I hope there’ll be no foul play from anyone.”

  Boothroyd smiled and went back to the work on his desk. “Very good Cornwall. Off you go!” he said, waving me away.

  __________

  There was a buzz of excitement around the school on the morning of the race. Snatch the Gander was a three-line whip, something that required compulsory attendance even for staff members. All non-competitors were given the day off and were encouraged to find a place along the course to cheer on the teams. The most popular position was the area around the black obelisk, as this was usually where the most brutal fighting took place, and some students would pitch up the night before to ensure they secured a good spot.

  For years I’d been one of them, cheering and goading the competitors as their blood spattered our laughing faces. But now I was in my final year and a competitor myself. It was a sobering thought.

  Trevelyan had spent most of the morning vomiting, the nerves getting the better of him. But Hansclapp remained perfectly calm. In recent days I’d begun viewing him in a different light. He had a chillingly detached disposition at times. It was as if today was like any other day.

  A cloudless sky and light wind suggested perfect conditions. At approximately ten-thirty we began a slow walk towards the obelisk, two and a half miles from the main building. Pitiless Black felt good in my hands though. Although I was nervous there was also excitement. I wanted to smash someone’s teeth out.

  When we arrived the baying crowd was already in place, chiding and encouraging us to start the violence early. I took a moment to assess the opposition and noted with some horror the threat of the Hodgers on every team. To a man
they were heavy-set lads wearing scrum caps and gumshields. Trevelyan saw it too and recited a quick prayer under his breath. Hansclapp seemed unconcerned and gathered us into a huddle. “Move fast, be strong, be aggressive. And Cornwall, destroy anything in our path, understand?” I nodded.

  It was nearly time. We began to Bully Off.

  __________

  I’m sure the first blow came seconds before the shadow actually struck noon, but it mattered little. It triggered mayhem.

  There was a deafening clap next to my ear and I blinked as I felt someone else’s blood smatter my face. It was Trevelyan’s. Within a hundredth of a second of the start he’d been struck in the mouth with a sickening blow that caught him flat-footed. For a brief moment our eyes met and I saw a deep regret within him, a sadness that he’d found no way to get out of this ridiculous game. He looked helpless. He spat out a thick syrupy solution of blood and shattered teeth, and we began to run.

  Crackkk!

  Trevelyan took another awful hit, this time to the back of the head. He lurched forward but stayed on his feet. This time the strike dislodged an eye, which swung free for a moment on its fibrous ganglion, before he was able to scoop it up and crudely stuff it back into the socket.

  Thwwwack!

  Trevelyan practically ran into this one. He took it flush in his face, spreading his nose sideways as if it were modelling clay. He kept running.

  Crackkk – thwwwack!

  This one was just unkind. Billy Fitzjohn’s cudgel was a demented piece of carving. Fashioned by his great-grandfather who was the first man in England to be sectioned, it had a bulbous knobbly head like a raspberry and a surface like a cheese grater so it could scrape off skin. For some reason Trevelyan led with his jaw. In that moment it was fundamentally re-orientated, shattered like a plum yorker to a wicket. He was having a nightmare out there.

  I, on the other hand, was rather enjoying myself. Like a clansman with a Highland claymore I was clearing a path through the battle, cracking skulls as I went. I now knew why my forebears had enjoyed so much success down the ages. Pitiless Black had an incredible power to weight ratio. It was as easy to swing as a badminton racket, yet anything that stood in its path was violently rent asunder.

  We soon broke free of the crowd and a clear run opened up back to the school. I turned to see the mêlée behind us and I thanked my lucky stars that I had taken no hits. Hansclapp was also unharmed but Trevelyan was in a rum old state. “I’th thine,” he garbled through his bloodied maw. We kept running.

  __________

  Despite his injuries the plan was going exactly as we hoped. The rest of the boys were heading in the opposite direction and all we had to do now was get the goose to fly to us and run back to the school.

  We stopped in a small copse several hundred metres short of the main school building, away from all the violence. A few teachers and pupils were lining the route here and although the trees restricted their view they could see we had no goose. They stopped cheering and looked on in bemusement.

  “Do it now.” I said urgently to Hansclapp, “and don’t be seen.”

  What happened next was to shape our lives forever. Hansclapp crouched low, out of sight of the crowd, and placed his hands over his mouth. As he did, out of the corner of my eye I saw Boothroyd standing in the window of the school building, looking on with interest. At that moment, for some reason I’m not entirely sure of, I raised my hands to my own mouth and pretended to mimic the call I knew Hansclapp was about to make. As the sound of the goose rang out it appeared to the entire world that it was me who was making the call.

  The goose came on cue and flew through the trees into Hansclapp’s arms. He was the only member of our team allowed to touch it. With it secure, we broke free from the edge of the copse and sprinted towards the school building. In the window above, Boothroyd nodded his approval.

  __________

  The large school kitchen was shrouded in darkness. For some reason the curtains had been drawn and the lights wouldn’t work. But we knew the layout well enough to find the oven.

  Then a voice came from behind, “well done boys. Very well played.” We were about to open the oven door but stopped and turned.

  Standing in the doorway was Dr Boothroyd. “Ingenious piece of gamesmanship, I must say,” he called with a twinkle of admiration in his eye. We stalled for a moment, not knowing whether this meant we’d be disqualified or not and Boothroyd sensed our unease.

  “Go on – put the bird in the oven. You’ll win the game.” My alarm bells went off. I felt as if I might be about to make a mistake, but Trevelyan didn’t need telling twice. He pulled on the oven door and Hansclapp leaned forward with the goose. He placed it on the middle shelf. There was suddenly an ear-shattering shriek and a flurry of wings as the goose came flying out in panic.

  “Close the door!” I shouted, but it was too late. The bird was in Trevelyan’s face pecking him repeatedly and tugging on his putty-like nose as it tried to escape. Trevelyan was screaming but then let out an almighty yelp as if he’d just been bitten by something else. It was then I saw them. Ants. Everywhere. The inside of the oven was like a moving carpet.

  “I see you’ve found my bullet ants,” Boothroyd said calmly. “You should have checked inside the oven first.”

  The ants were now streaming out all over the floor. We were all being bitten and the goose was continuing to take it out on Trevelyan. Boothroyd looked on in amusement. Then the goose flew out of the window. The three of us looked at each other in horror. “A small setback boys. Let’s see how you deal with it.” Boothroyd seemed to be enjoying himself at our expense.

  Hansclapp went to call the bird again but the ant bites were so painful they kept interrupting his concentration. Then the door of the kitchen swung open and Billy Fitzjohn’s team burst in carrying a goose. They stopped in their tracks when they saw us by the oven, but then noticed that we had no bird.

  Trevelyan, Hansclapp and I knew what we had to do. We needed their goose. They knew it too. The winner would be decided right at the finish line.

  Boothroyd was smiling.

  “Stand aside Cornwall, the race is won,” Fitzjohn warned holding up the infamous Deranged Agony.

  “Not until the bird is in the oven,” I replied. I subtly lowered Pitiless Black until the head of it was resting inside the oven door.

  With guttural war cries, Fitzjohn’s team charged. I stood motionless, waiting. Waiting until he was only a few feet away… then I lifted my cudgel quickly and flicked it in their direction, sending ants all over their faces. Fitzjohn and his team screamed as the ants did their toxic business. Derrymoore, their Snatcher, immediately let go of the goose. In one slick movement Hansclapp grabbed it, swung it around like a discus and threw it into the oven. Just in time too, Fitzjohn’s cudgel caught him on the side of the head, knocking him out cold.

  With the bird in the oven Trevelyan kicked the door closed and I brought Pitiless Black around my head in a huge sweeping arc, knocking Fitzjohn unconscious to the floor. It was over.

  Boothroyd clapped his hands. “Well done boys, well done. Excellent turnaround,” he said smiling.

  We’d won the game.

  __________

  The following day we were all called to Boothroyd’s study, but Hansclapp was unable to attend due to a backlog in the sick bay. He hadn’t been discharged in time. Boothroyd regarded us with some admiration from behind his rosewood desk. “I must say you showed remarkable creativity, Cornwall, to come up with the goose call,” he said. “Ingenious.”

  Trevelyan turned his head towards me furtively. For a second I thought he was going to dob me in but at that moment it felt inappropriate to let Hansclapp take the credit. “I know sir,” I lied. “I’ve been practising it for weeks.”

  “Very good. And you Trevelyan,” he continued, “I’ve never seen
worse injuries. You know your eye has been put back in upside down.”

  “I guessed as much, sir. Been feeling a little dizzy since yesterday.”

  “To be expected boy. Unfortunately everyone has buggered off for the weekend so I’ll get old Stanley to look at it for you. He’ll be able to turn it around,” he said matter of factly. Trevelyan’s head twitched.

  “You mean the gardener, sir?”

  “That’s him. He used to work in a hospital though.”

  Trevelyan shifted nervously.

  “As a gardener though, wasn’t it sir?”

  “Correct. Anyway, I’ve been informed you’ll never fully recover.”

  Boothroyd let that hang in the air awkwardly, then said, “in recognition of your contributions I’m going to recommend you both get together with some friends of mine in London. They have work for creative thinkers who are prepared to find alternative ways of solving problems. Interested?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Good. They’ll write to you. Now what do you think of Hansclapp – should I send him along too?”

  Trevelyan and I looked at each other for a moment, but we didn’t miss a beat. “No sir – I don’t think so,” Trevelyan said.

  “He didn’t really pull his weight, sir,” I added.

  Boothroyd nodded. “Very well. You’ll receive the details in due course. Don’t let me down boys.”

  “No sir.”

  And that was it. We left his office and he closed the door behind us.