The Invisible Hand

by James Hartley

  He swallowed the medicine. “Try and sleep,” croaked the matron, in a voice neither tender nor rough.

  When she’d gone Sam looked over at the pile of sheets on the other bed and whispered, in a very unsteady voice, “Leana?”

  But instead of a pretty girl, a snub-nosed Indonesian boy called Pramoedya turned to him. “What you want, freak?”

  “Pram? What are you doing here?”

  “Me ill. You?”

  Sam laughed and shivered. “Me too. Obviously.”

  “I nearly better. Don’t cough on me. You stay your side.”

  Sam sat up. “It’s so cold in here.”

  “Window open little bit,” Pram replied. He’d turned back to the wall. “And you ill. It’s not so cold. You ill. You need air.”

  “Maybe,” Sam croaked. He lay back on the wet pillow. “Oh, I feel terrible. Everything hurts.”

  “Later, when you feel good, want go outside, you close window. Not now. They come back in one hour for take temperature again. Now we sleeping. Later you close little window when you want go out, OK? Now we sleep.”

  Sam closed his eyes. He didn’t understand a word. He had a headache. Everything hurt. He couldn’t stop shivering. “Great. Thanks, Pram.”

  “Now you shut mouth.”

  Two days later Sam was released, on unsteady legs, back into the wild.

  As he and Walt were queuing with the rest of the school to go into Assembly that morning, Walt surprised him with some news: “I’ve got a girlfriend.” Her name was Salma and she was in the year below theirs. Sam wasn’t sure what the right reaction was to this news was and so said nothing. As they sat in Assembly he thought about Leana and realised that he hadn’t dreamed or seen her in almost four days. Perhaps because I was ill I couldn’t see her?

  That night, his first back in Dorm Four since his Sick Bay hiatus, Sam prepared himself for a journey back into Leana’s world. The last thing he could remember was falling from the ramparts of Macbeth’s castle; Leana had been in another room. Perhaps he would wake up on the ground and have to climb back up. Perhaps it would be morning. Whatever happened he was excited about the idea of seeing her again. He’d missed her.

  Sam tried to zone out the chatter: some of the older boys had begun to sneak outside at night, exploring the school in groups and coming back to the dorms in the early morning. The housemasters and other teachers knew nothing about this and some of the boys in Sam’s dorm were thinking of joining in. A discussion was underway which went on for what seemed like hours. Finally, around midnight, there was a tapping on the window but all the boys except Sam were asleep. Whoever it was left quickly and at last Sam could concentrate on trying to get to sleep.

  But sleep wouldn’t come.

  He began to notice odd noises: the arhythmical ticking of Walt’s wristwatch hanging down from the bunk above him. The snores from someone in Orhan’s bunk: Orhan or Femi, the Nigerian who said he was a prince. The bed was uncomfortable. He needed the toilet and padded down to the bathrooms along ice-cold floors, remembering only when he got to the urinals that he hadn’t worn his slippers. Getting back into bed he thought about his dirty feet. Then about Leana. Then about sheep.

  At some point he dreamed, or slept, but it was a muddled dream of swans and magic buses you could enter through gaps in the number plates, and which could fly, which itself was interrupted by the hammering of the morning bell.

  Sam sat up in his bunk with an awful, thick head and looked upon the scene of the others waking up as if it were a joke, as if they were all playing a joke on him. It couldn’t really be the morning, could it? Why was he still here?

  As they stood to queue to run outside, all together, the mist heavy and thick on the lawns, Sam became very sad. It was a sickening sadness that gripped him, far worse than any homesickness he’d suffered. It was a cold white pain which almost blinded him. It really had all been a series of dreams. He would never see Leana again. Nothing special had happened. Nothing special would ever happen.

  It had all been a dream.

  He fell asleep in French that morning and would have fallen asleep in English too if it hadn’t been for the subject matter of the class. “Act Two, Scene Two!” Firmin bellowed from his desk. Mr Firmin was in fine form, eyes twinkling, moustache bristling, taking large inhales of breath beside the window. “Ah, this weather! That time of year thou mayst in me behold…”

  “Page twenty-six.” Walt prodded Sam.

  Sam was lifeless and depressed. He flicked open his copy of Macbeth.

  “Miss Hunt, you’ll be Lady Macbeth,” Mr Firmin declared. “And Samuel, you’ll be her husband.”

  Sam groaned inwardly. He looked behind himself at Violet, the prettiest girl in the class, but she was whispering to her companion, a day girl who looked just like her but was slightly less striking.

  “Johan Fitzgerald, perhaps you’d like to remind us about what’s just happened?”

  “Er, the King’s dead, sir?”

  “Good. And who killed him?”

  “Macbeth, sir?”

  “Good. Why, Lydia?”

  “Because he wanted to be the King, sir.”

  “Good. Anything else?”

  “Because his wife told him to, sir.”

  “Good. And why do he and Lady Macbeth think they have a right to be King and Queen of Scotland? Anyone?”

  “Because the witches told Macbeth he’d be King, sir.”

  “Good.” Mr Firmin snapped closed his book. “So. Here we are, then. Macbeth’s castle. Enter Lady Macbeth.” Quietly the teacher shooed Violet Hunt to speak.

  “That which has – no, have – no, hath – made them drunk,” Violet began. “Hath made me bold. What hath cleansed.”

  “Quenched,” corrected Firmin, bending at the knees and raising a balled fist.

  “Quenched. What hath quenched them. H-h-hath given me fire.”

  “She’s drunk!” bellowed Mr Firmin, grinning. “And now: An owl shrieks!”

  “Hark. Peace,” began Violet monotonously.

  “That was me!” Sam shouted. There was a silence. Sam had a grin on his face which stretched from cheek to cheek. “Yes! I swear! That was me! I was there. I climbed the tower. I was looking for someone.” Why should he be ashamed? “I was looking for Leana and I made the owl shriek. I scared it, by accident.”

  Mr Firmin impersonated a goldfish as he rocked on his heels and the class began to laugh.

  “He’s been ill, sir,” Walt said, chair screeching as he pushed it back. “I’ll take him to matron.”

  “Excused,” nodded Mr Firmin, quickly electing a new Macbeth.

  “He was there,” echoed Lucy, putting her hand over her mouth and giggling.

  The following week in Assembly Sam was surprised to hear his name read out. He was among the list of boys who were asked to report to the Headmistress’s office.

  Once again he’d slept badly, hardly at all. Paradoxically this world, the school, had taken on the aspect of a dream for Sam, especially with the current misty, foggy weather they were having. Days merged into nights and nights into days and all was a blur to Sam. Nothing seemed to matter.

  After collecting his bag from the house, he walked with his friends towards the Quad but split off to go in to the Main Building as the others wished him luck. There was a fire in the grate in the hall and some of the teachers coming out of the staff room cast suspicious eyes at him. But as soon as they saw he was walking up the staircase to the green-carpeted hallway and the office at the end of it they left him alone.

  Sam joined a queue of three at Mrs Water’s door. One by one the students disappeared inside, emerging chastised and silent. Finally, it was Sam’s turn and he knocked once, as he knew you must, before he let himself in.

  Mrs Waters – nicknamed Hachet Face, or simply Hachet – was sitting at a large desk in front of a semi-circle of bright bay windows which looked out over the back lawns and vast playing fields. “Good morning, Samuel. Come in and have a seat
.”

  Closing the door, Sam was careful to avoid banging the handle against the edge of a packed bookshelf which ran the length of the back wall. He walked past a three-piece leather suite and vaguely remembered sitting on it between his father and uncle about a year previously. There was a painting of a tall man with a large, almost human-looking black cat hanging on the right-hand wall – this was Professor Wolland, St Francis’s first Headmaster – and opposite, above the fire, a portrait of a much friendlier looking ex-headmaster with grey hair and a pug.

  “Come on, come in, I haven’t got all day. Park yourself here, please, Mr Lawrence.”

  When he sat down Sam could see Mrs Waters properly, close-up, for the first time since he’d been at the school. She was a prim, tidy, black-eyed English woman with old-fashioned clipped good manners and short, bobbed hair. Sam was used to seeing her in Assembly, on the dais behind a lectern, and it was disconcerting to see her so near. She was wearing white make-up which made her look as though she were wearing a mask and could have been any age from sixty to eighty.

  “Well,” the Headmistress began with a sigh. “There’s no point beating about the bush. We’re rather worried about you, Samuel.” Something happened to her ruby lips, some kind of spasm, which might have been a smile, but they quickly fell straight and thin again before Sam could decide quite what it was. “You seem to be rather suffering with your health, my boy. Care to explain?” Mrs Waters cocked her head. “Perhaps you’d like to tell me what you think?”

  “Well, miss –” Sam didn’t know what to say – “I’ve been ill.”

  “Sleeping well?”

  “Yes, miss.”

  Mrs Waters waited a moment and then picked up a piece of paper from her desk. It was covered with blue scrawls. “It’s come to our attention that you’ve been exhibiting some rather worrying behaviour, Samuel. I have reports here from various members of my staff. Where is it? Ah, yes. It says here that you’ve been voicing various ideas you attribute to a series of dreams you have been having?” She took off the glasses she’d put on to pretend to read the note. “Would you care to tell me anything about this?” The Headmistress faked confusion. “I can’t make head nor tail of it.”

  “I haven’t been feeling well,” Sam replied. Instinct stopped him from adding further details. “I get confused.”

  “I see.” Mrs Waters interlinked her knuckles on the desktop. “Now your father is on a dig abroad, isn’t he?”

  “Yes, miss.”

  “Somewhere in the Middle East?”

  “That’s right, miss.” Sam sniffed. “Not sure where.”

  “And your poor mother?”

  Sam shrugged. “They say she’s better, miss. I haven’t seen her for a while.”

  “You know I have many of her books,” Mrs Waters said, gesturing towards the bookcase at the back of the room. “Such a shame what happened to her. A very talented writer. It must have been very hard for you not knowing where she was for so long.”

  “Actually I spent last summer with my father,” Sam replied. “I didn’t hear about it until I got back to England.” He was uncomfortable with the subject. If he could have put his feelings into words he might have said ‘this is none of your business’ to Waters but instead he forced a smile. “But, yes. We’re happy she was found, miss. Hope she gets better quick.”

  “Quickly,” corrected Mrs Waters, thinning her already thin lips. “Yes, I followed the whole incident in the newspapers.” Mrs Waters seemed to enjoy watching him squirm. “Terribly sad.”

  “Hopefully she’ll get better soon,” Sam answered robotically.

  “But she’s recovering now, you say?”

  “Yes, miss. I think so, miss.”

  “Her memory?”

  “I think so, miss.”

  “Her mental state?”

  “Yes, miss.”

  “Because she’s mentally ill, isn’t she, Sam?”

  “That’s what they say, miss.” Sam added, “Just an episode, miss.”

  “Mental illness,” repeated Mrs Waters, nodding sagely, taking a long, dramatic breath. “And do you know when you’ll be allowed to see her?”

  “At half-term, I think, miss. When my father comes.”

  Mrs Waters sighed again and tried to look sympathetic. “All of this must have taken a terrible toll on your own mind, Samuel; on your own emotions. Your mother going missing and then being found. Her illness. Your father so far away. And moving here, to St Francis’s. To a new school. New people. New places.”

  “It has been hard, miss, yes, but I like it here.”

  Mrs Waters’ lips thinned again. “I see.” She turned to the computer screen. “Your legal guardian is your uncle, I see here?” Her eyes flickered to Sam’s. “Mr Burgess?”

  “That’s right, miss.”

  “Well.” Mrs Waters sighed. “I have to tell you, Samuel, that if this worrying behaviour continues and if you feel you can’t talk to me or any of your tutors or teachers about it, it seems to me that the only course of action left open to us is to inform your parents and see if we can’t get you some professional help.”

  “Yes, miss.”

  “You have nothing more to say, I see?”

  Sam shrugged. “No, miss.”

  “You know it’ll do you no good to keep everything in your head, my boy. It’s far better to talk.” She raised an eyebrow. “Or write it down, perhaps? If that comes easier?”

  “Thanks, miss. I’ll see.”

  “Have you been writing?” Miss Waters asked, her face suddenly darkening. A strange kind of yellow, lizardish light flashed in her eyes. Perhaps that was why strange things were happening to the boy, she suddenly thought. Perhaps he had the power?

  “No, miss.”

  Miss Waters examined Sam but seemed satisfied. “Very well. Then I sincerely hope I don’t see you again for a very long time.”

  “Thanks, miss. Me too.”

  “Off you go, then.”

  Sam did his best to control himself for following few days and, in fact, he did feel better. He slept well most nights and had no more dreams about Leana or her world. He did his best to pay attention in class, or at least to seem to pay attention, and in English he was silently grateful to Mr Firmin for not choosing him to perform if and when they studied Macbeth. His classmates found other things to laugh at and other people to pick on and his ‘I was there!’ outburst was soon forgotten. Sam put it down to illness and lack of sleep and came very close to forgetting it himself.

  Each term was broken up into two Exeats and a Half-Term week. An exeat was a weekend when everyone, even the boarders, were supposed to leave school and stay with their guardians, parents or friends. Of course, some unlucky souls had no one to stay with and the school ran a minimal service for those who were stuck inside, but Sam, for his part, had been looking forward to a weekend at Uncle Quentin’s to escape and recharge. So he was more than disappointed when on the Thursday before Exeat his uncle phoned to tell him that because of work it was impossible for Sam to come for the weekend and that he’d have to stay in school. “I promise I’ll make it up to you at half-term, buddy,” Uncle Quentin had concluded with genuine hurt and regret in his voice. “You know I wouldn’t do this if I could avoid it.”

  And so Sam faced the awful prospect of being trapped in a near-abandoned school for a whole weekend while everyone else got some time out in the real world. He thought briefly of running away but the October weather was cold and drizzly and the thought of lying under branches, in mud or on wet leaves was worse, if anything, than being stuck in an empty St Nick’s.

  The Friday before Exeat was the worst day, having to listen to everyone talking about where they were going to go and what they were going to do. Worse, when he came back from lunch he was told that he and the only other boy who was not leaving – as fate would have it, Pram the Indonesian – would have to sleep together in Dorm One, usually the domain of snivelling, homesick First Years.

  The rain was fallin
g during the last class of the day, music, when Walt attempted to cheer his mate up. “You want to be careful, Sammo. Full moon tomorrow, isn’t it? You know what that means? All the Satanists out. All in their robes, wandering into the abandoned school, looking for virgins.”

  Sam banged his head on the desk. “I hate you.”

  Walt chuckled. “Ah, come on, man. It’ll be all right. They’re not going to stop you going out. You can go up the shop. Watch whatever you want on telly. Stay up as late as you want. Go for walks. It’ll be over before you know it.” Walt stared out the window at the pouring rain. “And you never know, this might clear up too.”

  “It’s going to be the longest two days of my life,” Sam moaned.

  Both boys turned as the irritating tinkling at the piano, which had been going on for twenty minutes, abruptly stopped. They could hear Mr Theroux, the music teacher, clapping his hands and trying to quieten everyone down. Only the presence of Mrs Waters, face porcelain-white under an enormous, dark umbrella, brought discipline to the proceedings.

  “Guys,” Mr Theroux said, re-entering the room after a brief interview with the Headmistress. He was red and embarrassed at having been caught presiding over such a chaotic class. “It looks like we have a new student. So, come on, let’s give a big, warm welcome to…”

  “Leana,” whispered Sam, almost falling off his chair in shock as he saw the new girl standing in the doorway.

  9

  Love Your Enemies

  There was no chance for Sam to get any information about Leana during what remained of the music class. He caught a glimpse of her as she left the room through a bank of winter coats and shoulder-straining backpacks and thought she looked remarkably relaxed and composed. This left him wondering if it really was his Leana at all. Their eyes had met as she’d first been introduced, he’d thought, but maybe he’d imagined that as well?

  He had Salma, Walt’s girlfriend, to thank for more concrete information. This was acquired as they all shivered in the queue for dinner, huddled together in the spitting rain on the wrong side of the dining-room windows. Winter was settling in now, howling the wind down the front of the Main Building and seeping through tights, socks and trousers to settle inside growing young bones. Mini rucks had broken out in the rush for heaters in the classrooms and girls were permitted to wear woollen scarves to class. In the very early and very late periods, the teachers had begun to ignore fingerless gloves.