“Good, then find a way of carrying one of the Brownings with you, out of sight, and keep an eye on Unwin and his sister. You may have to intervene if things get nasty. But listen — only if there’s no-one else around. If you can get away with doing something then do it, but if you run the risk of getting caught then do nothing.”
I was appalled at what I was saying, but if Norton was shocked by the suggestion he didn’t show it. Maybe the desperation of our situation hadn’t quite sunk in yet, or maybe he was just a cooler customer than I had realised.
“God knows what Mac’d do to you if he found you threatening one of his officers,” I went on, “and we have to keep an eye on the big picture here. Mac’s our prime target, we can’t do anything that jeopardises our plans to take him down.”
“We have plans?”
“Um, no, not yet. But we will have. Wait and see. Big, clever plans. Schemes, maybe even plots.”
“I like a good plot.”
“There you go then.”
As Norton and I cemented our friendship with conspiracy, Matron and I also grew closer. I would sit in the San with her as she did her morning surgeries, and she began teaching me the rudiments of first aid and medicine.
We hadn’t only found weapons at the TA HQ. On the trip to collect the remaining ammunition Bates had ordered a full sweep of the facility and had found a well stocked medical centre, the contents of which had been brought back and given to Matron. She was ecstatic that now she had some proper painkillers, antibiotics, dressings and stuff. It wouldn’t last long, but it provided temporary relief at least.
So in the afternoons I helped her catalogue the haul and she talked me through each drug and what it did. I carefully noted any drugs that could be used as sedatives or stimulants, just in case.
And as we did this she talked to me about books, films and music. She never mentioned her family or her life outside the school, but then I’d never known her to leave the grounds, even on her days off. Maybe she didn’t have a life outside the school.
Somehow we managed to do a lot of laughing.
MR HAMMOND HAD been a popular teacher. He expected the class to rise to their feet when he entered the room, wore a long black gown to teach lessons, and you got the sense that there were times he longed to pull a boy up to the front of the class by their sideburns and give them six of the best like he was allowed to do when he was a younger man. But we respected and liked him because you always knew where you stood with him. The rules of his classroom were clear and simple, he never lost his temper, and never gave out punishments just because he was having a bad day — if you did cop it from him he always made sure you knew why.
His lessons were interesting if not exactly thrilling, and his obsessive passion for all things Modern in art meant that anyone seeking enlightenment about mundane stuff like life drawing or sculpture could feel his frustration at having to teach what he considered backward and irrelevant skills. Cubism and Henry Moore’s abstracts were all he lived for. I thought it was all meaningless, pretentious crap, if I’m honest, but it’s hard not to warm to someone who’s so genuinely enthusiastic.
He studied here as a boy and had returned to teach here immediately he qualified, so apart from his first five years, and three years at art college, he’d been ensconced in Castle for his entire life. He was an old man who should have retired years ago but he was such a fixture of the place that no-one could imagine him leaving. At the age of seventy-five he was still teaching art and had looked likely to do so until he dropped.
Although he was the senior master there had never been any question of his challenging Bates’ authority, he just wasn’t the type. Teaching lessons in post-apocalyptic survivalism sounded like just the kind of thing he’d come up with, and I wished I could have sat in on just one. Norton told me that there were a large group of younger boys who adored him utterly. He was playing granddad to them and they were lapping it up. After all, Mac wasn’t exactly the approachable type, and Bates, despite his initial rapport with the younger boys, was increasingly isolated and distant.
In some ways you could say that, in a very short time, Hammond had cemented himself into the position he had held for so many decades before The Cull — the heart of the school, its conscience and kindness.
And of course, there was no room for such things in our brave new world.
THE FIRST SNOW of the winter fell the night before the great unveiling ceremony, making the school and its grounds shine and glitter. Norton turned up to collect me in his CCF uniform, which was unusual, but I didn’t say anything. He and Matron lifted me out of my bed and into a wheelchair. My leg was in constant pain, a low dull throb that flared into sharp agony with the slightest movement, but in the absence of the proper hospital kit some of the boys had used cushions and planks to rig up a horizontal shelf for my leg to rest on, so once I was safely aboard I could be wheeled about without screaming all the time. Which was a plus.
With Norton as my driver we crunched through the snow to the front lawn where the school had assembled. I couldn’t believe my eyes. Instead of the rag-tag gaggle of boys in what remained of their uniforms, I was confronted by fifty or so boys of all ages in full army kit. On the younger boys it looked comically large, but their trousers had been turned up and the huge jumpers tied with belts. Obviously the berets were a problem, so the younger boys either went bareheaded or wore baseball caps that had been painted green.
Not only were they dressed like soldiers, they were standing at ease in a nice square little cadre. And — my already cold blood ran ice — all of them held SA80s.
“What the fuck is this?” I whispered to Norton.
“I was going to warn you, but I figured you needed to see it for yourself. I can see it and I still don’t believe it.”
“So he actually did it, all the kids are in the army now?”
“Uh huh. As of this afternoon there’s going to be compulsory drill and weapons training for all boys, as well as lessons on tactics, camouflage, all that shit. They’ve even tapped me to teach martial arts.”
In front of the assembled troops was an object, about head height, draped in a sheet. Bates and Hammond stood either side of it, with Matron and the four remaining grown-ups — an old aunt and three grandparents — sitting on a row of chairs to the left; Green, his arm still in a sling, sat with them. To the right stood the remaining officers in two rows, like an honour guard, all holding .303 rifles.
Norton wheeled me up the row of chairs and positioned me on the end, next to Green. He then marched to the ranks and took up his position in the troops. As he stood at ease he winked at me and gave the smallest of shrugs as if to say ‘I know, what a farce.’
Once Norton was in place, Bates stood. He looked even worse than he had when I’d last seen him. Although he was clean shaven his face was a mess of red spots and slashes where he’d cut himself. It wasn’t hard to see why — his hands, which gripped a swagger stick behind his back so hard that his knuckles had turned white, were shaking. His eyes lacked focus; as he spoke he never seemed to be looking directly at anything or anyone, but to a point slightly to their left or right, or somewhere through and behind them.
Mac stood to attention in front of the troops, facing Bates. He stared straight into Bates’ eyes, unwavering. Bates never met his gaze.
The boys stood to shambolic attention at Mac’s instruction, and Bates began to speak.
“At ease, men. Stand easy.” The boys, many unsure what this meant, shuffled nervously in the cold. “When I was a boy my grandfather used to tell me tales of the Second World War. Stories of heroes and derring-do, secret missions, cunning generals, evil Nazis. It all seemed so simple. Good against bad, good wins, bad loses, everyone’s happy…”
He lapsed into silence and stared off into space. As the seconds ticked past it became clear that this was more than just a dramatic pause. It soon became a very awkward silence, and then people started looking at each other out of the corners of their eye
s and grimacing. Embarrassment set in, and then genuine discomfort. It must have been about a minute before he started again and everyone’s shoulders relaxed.
“But the world isn’t like that, is it men?” His voice was harder now, more assured. He started to increase his volume until he was on the verge of shouting. “Now it’s just survival. Kill or be killed. It’s hard and cruel and violent and wrong, but it’s the world we have to live in and we have to be as hard as it is if we’re to survive.
“We’ve all lost people, I know that. But they won’t be forgotten. As we build our perfect home here in the grounds of our beloved school we carry with us the memories of those who have fallen before us, to the plague or the madness that followed it.”
He paused again, but this time, thank God, it was a dramatic flourish.
“My colleague Mr Hammond, who has given his life to this school, has constructed a monument to our fallen dead. Mr Hammond…” He gestured for Hammond to take his place, and sat down.
Hammond rose and walked to the same spot Bates had spoken from.
“Um, thanks Bates.” He paused a second to collect his thoughts and then, to my surprise, he looked up at the crowd with a strong, clear gaze. There was a sense of purpose in his eyes and his jaw was set with determination. The feeble pensioner we’d rescued on the driveway had been replaced by the firm disciplinarian of old. “But I’m afraid I can’t agree with your sentiments.
“You see, I remember the war. I was only a boy at school but even I could see that it wasn’t glorious. When my parents were burned alive in their house they weren’t heroes, they were victims of indiscriminate slaughter. Hundreds of thousands of people died in England during the Blitz, died in their beds, died at their breakfast tables, died on their way to work or in the pub or in the arms of their lovers. And that was hard and cruel and violent and wrong. But do you know how we fought it, hmm? By rising above it! We chose decency and kindness and community, we cared for each other. We refused to become the thing we were fighting and that’s why we triumphed.”
This was rousing stuff. Blitz Spirit! Triumph through adversity! Battle of Britain! Never in the field, etc. I was sitting there thinking of all the bombs we dropped on German cities — what can I say, I’m a cynical sod sometimes — but I was more interested in the reaction of Bates and Mac to this diatribe. Mac’s face gave nothing away, but Bates’ eyes were finally focused, and he looked furious.
“But you, Bates, what are you offering these children in the face of all this horror? More death! You can’t meet violence with violence; you can’t fight plague, fear, panic and desperation with a gun! If you want to build an army you need to arm them with knowledge that can help them rebuild, that can help them to help others to rebuild. Then maybe you can hold back the tide. But what you’re offering us here, with your uniforms, guns and marching is nothing but an opportunity to die for no reason when we should be looking for a way to live!
“And that’s why I made this.”
He turned and pulled the sheet off the sculpture to reveal a figure made of white plaster that shone in the reflected snowlight. It was a boy of about twelve, dressed in school uniform. Under one arm he carried a pile of books, and in the other hand he held a satchel with a vivid red cross on it. Beneath the figure was a plinth bearing the inscription ‘Through wisdom and compassion, out of the darkness’, and underneath that a list of the dead.
We all stared at this gleaming statue, amazed. It was beautiful and awful. I didn’t think Hammond had it in him to produce something so good. And judging by the expressions on everyone’s faces, nobody else did either.
“This school has been a home to me all my life,” said Hammond. “It represents everything I believe in and cherish — kindness, duty, learning and respect. Turning it into an armed camp cheapens everything it stands for, and I will not allow that to stand.”
Someone started to clap. It was Matron. She rose to her feet and applauded. Then the four other grown-ups followed suit, and then the Dinner Lady.
Bates was crimson with fury, staring at these insubordinate ingrates, but he was frozen by the moment, shocked into inaction by the open defiance of what he was trying to achieve.
And then one, then two, then ten, then most, then all of the boys began clapping as well. This could be it, I realised. This could be the moment when we pulled back from the brink, abandoned the army game and reclaimed a little bit of sanity and humanity; the moment we pulled the rug out from under the feet of Bates and Mac and took charge. Everything depended upon how our glorious leaders responded to this insurrection.
Bates rose to his feet and strutted towards Hammond, who stood his ground.
“Oh shit,” I whispered. “Here we go.”
“I should shoot you here and now for insubordination,” he hissed. The applause died away as people noticed that Bates’ hand was wrapped tightly around the handle of his still-holstered sidearm.
“Insubordination?” mocked Hammond. “I’m not subordinate to you. I don’t take orders from anyone, let alone a deluded history teacher who thinks he’s Field Marshal Montgomery.”
I could have hugged him for that. It was all I could do not to cheer. Still Mac was unmoving, at attention, staring straight ahead. The officers, who had not clapped, also stood still, but I could see they were nervous, uncertain what to do. They looked to Mac for a lead, but he was giving them nothing, letting the scene before him play out uninterrupted. The situation, and the school’s future, was balanced on a knife edge.
“These boys need a strong hand, they need to be protected.” Bates was trying not to shout, but even so his words carried clearly in the sudden silence.
“Yes they do. From you, and that psychopath there!” He pointed at Mac, who didn’t move a muscle. “Look at what you’ve achieved since you’ve been in charge, eh? Two boys hanged in Hildenborough, two more shot and wounded in a stupid act of military adventurism. Your second-in-command has murdered four people that I know of in the last two weeks. And this school, which is supposed to be a haven of safety and learning, which could be offering sanctuary and succour to all the lost children wandering around out there in the chaos, has been turned into a bloody fortress. We should be sending out expeditions to retrieve children not armaments. Can’t you see that?”
Bates had drawn his gun. It was hard to tell whether he’d done it consciously or not, but he stood there face to face with Hammond, his pistol held tight, shaking with barely contained fury and madness.
I saw Green take a step forward, as if to intervene, but Mac caught his eye and flashed him a look of warning. Green, cowed, stepped back into line.
“Mr Hammond, I am afraid that you are no longer welcome at this institution. You are ordered to leave.”
Hammond laughed in Bates’ face.
“You can’t order me to leave. This is my home far more than it’s ever been yours. I was here when your father was in nappies, young man. This is my school, not yours, and you’ll have to kill me to get rid of me.”
“No, I won’t,” said Bates.
Bates turned to Mac.
“Major, you and your men escort Mr Hammond from the premises immediately,” he said.
“Yes sir!” barked Mac, and nodded to his officers, who raised their rifles and walked forward.
At this point Matron stepped forward to intervene, but Mac blocked her way and hissed into her face “Sit down, bitch, or else”. She sat down, ashen-faced.
Seeing Mac advancing towards him, Hammond straightened his back and stuck out his chest. He wasn’t going to be intimidated.
“You can’t hand me over to this man, Bates,” he cried. “We both know I’ll be dead within the hour. And these boys won’t let it happen, will you boys?”
Oh, what a misjudgement that was. Because the boys didn’t make a sound. They were too afraid of the raised guns of the officers, too cowed by the horrors that had overtaken their lives in the last year, too conditioned to fear Mac. They’d enjoyed a mad moment of reb
ellion but once they’d stopped applauding their own terror had crept in to fill the silence.
Norton looked over at me desperately, seeking guidance. If I gave the nod he’d speak up.
Should I have given the signal? I still wonder about that. If I had, if Norton had stepped forward and rallied the boys, maybe things would have been different. Maybe all the blood and death could have been prevented. But I was unsure. It seemed too risky. I shook my head, and Norton clenched his jaw and remained silent. In that moment of uncertainty and cowardice he and I condemned us to all that followed.
Faced by Mac’s slow, menacing approach, and the silent acquiescence of the boys, Hammond began to appreciate the gravity of his situation.
“You can’t do this, Bates. For God’s sake man, look at yourself, look at what you’re doing!” There was a desperate, pleading note in his voice now.
“Mac’s orders are to expel you,” said Bates, “and that is what he’ll do, isn’t it Major?”
“Yes sir!”
Mac, approaching from behind Bates, bared his teeth at Hammond, and winked. Bates stepped forward, his pistol raised to cover Hammond and deter him from running. Hammond contemptuously batted the pistol aside. Bates brought it to bear again. Hammond batted it aside again. Bates raised the pistol to hit Hammond with it, but the old man grabbed Bates’ arm to counter the blow.
You’ve seen the movies. You know what comes next. The two men grapple for possession of the weapon, they huddle in tight, almost embracing, as they strain and clutch and struggle for leverage. Then a shot — shocking, sudden, echoing off the buildings and trees, repeating again and again and fading away as the two men stand stock still, frozen, the horrified spectators waiting to see which one of them will topple.
Hammond backed away from Bates, his face full of confusion and fear. Then he fell sideways into the snow, and twitched and shook and died.
Bates stood there, the smoking gun in his hand. He stared at Hammond’s body and seemed frozen, rooted to the spot.
School's Out Forever (afterblight chronicles) Page 7