The Gated Trilogy

by Matt Drabble

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  James Corner ran up the stairs, avoiding the questioning glances at his tear-stained cheeks.

  He was used to inflicting his will upon others and not being made a laughing stock in front of the other pupils.

  That new kid was some kind of freak. The likes of Alex Thompson he could deal with. He understood Thompson as they were more alike than either would care to admit, but the American had some kind of weird mojo.

  His shoulder still tingled where Bradley had touched him. He knew that if he looked at his bare skin there would be an indelible mark burned into his flesh.

  He had memories buried deep inside the dark rooms of his mind in corridors where he no longer walked.

  Behind those doors were secrets that battered at the locks from time to time, demanding to run free. His barriers had been carefully constructed over the years, but Joshua Bradley had smashed them down in a split second.

  He’d had an Uncle Dennis when he’d been six. He wasn’t any kind of blood relative, just a friend of the family who’d been awarded the moniker.

  Dennis had been a cheerful old man who’d lived a few doors down. He’d always had a pocketful of sweets available or a shiny silver coin. James’s parents had been hard workers who’d both held down full-time jobs and required unpaid babysitting services.

  Dennis had only been too keen to offer his time and home free of charge. James had locked away the worst of the abuse that he’d suffered.

  Most of the time he could only smell the faint whiff of a musky aftershave and nicotine stained fingers.

  He’d made a promise that was supposed to keep his parents safe from the fire that Dennis had warned him he’d start if James ever told.

  The abuse had lasted a little over 6 months until Dennis had been struck down by a stroke whilst over exerting himself.

  James’s relief had turned to horror when his parents had brought Dennis home from the hospital. The stroke had left him almost completely paralyzed from the waist up with only slight movement in one hand and unable to speak.

  James’s parents were good Christians and had taken Dennis in when it turned out that his own children wanted nothing to do with him.

  He could vividly remember Dennis sitting in the converted attic on a rocking chair that creaked back and forth.

  His father fitted a small brass bell to Dennis’s chair so that he could ring for assistance at any time.

  His parents would make him bring Dennis his meals in a blender with a straw and tend to him. His mother would scold him for lacking Christian spirit if he ever refused to help.

  Dennis’s face was frozen but his eyes were always bright and knowing and James knew that every time Dennis rang the bell he had to go.

  James would lie in his bed beneath his abuser with the chair creaking back and forth, back and forth until the bell started to ring. When Joshua Bradley had touched him on the shoulder he had heard that brass bell ringing again and every painful memory had come rushing back.

  His legs kept walking and he had no idea where he was going. He headed upwards beyond the classrooms and the accommodation block.

  His pain was only matched by his shame and the tears just wouldn’t stop, no matter how hard he tried.

  He reached the top of the dominating staircase on the fifth floor. There was a small door that led out to the roof. The door was always locked and alarmed to keep children away from the balcony outside.

  James reached out his hand expecting to find the door tightly locked, but it pushed open easily and there was no screaming alarm to greet him, only a cold blast of winter air.

  He walked out on unsteady legs. The slate roof was surrounded by a balcony walkway that encircled the turret top.

  From up here he could see for miles, as the barren landscape was empty save for the occasional twinkling of small village lights. The railing was waist high on him and the metal was rusted and unstable.

  He placed one leg over the railing and then the other. He stood with his back to the metal rail and held on tightly with his hands behind his back.

  The wind buffeted him and he swayed dangerously before he caught his balance.

  The scare acted like a small slap in the face and he suddenly wondered just what he was doing up here.

  He remembered being at the party and that new kid whispering something in his ear.

  He started to turn and step back to safety when he heard the creaking sound.

  The ringing bell roared monstrously in his brain until it was the only thing that he could hear. All he could feel was shame and guilt as the waves of nauseous pain hit him in droves. His mind was being massaged with gentle fingers of reason and answers.

  A voice spoke to him in soothing tones and tried to ease his burden. It offered a logical solution and showed him the way to the light and redemption. The voice promised him an end to his suffering and an end to his pain, a way to salvation beyond the borders of his sorrow.

  He steadied himself and smiled peacefully before he stepped out into thin air. Just as the ground raced up to greet him and he fell to his death, all he could think of was that some voices lie.

  CHAPTER 8

  Sarah woke the next morning with the mother, father, and a whole bunch of second cousins of a hangover.

  She’d actually taken a quick look under the covers to make sure that she was alone.

  The odd thing was that she couldn’t remember having more than a single glass of wine last night.

  She could remember everyone partying like it was New Year’s Eve. She could see Barnaby laughing and joking, she could picture Stuart dancing around like a fool (which still made her smile) and the kids were acting like they were hammered.

  She started to wonder if the fruit punch had been spiked; it would certainly explain the hangover feelings.

  Today was Friday and the last day of term. There were no classes scheduled and the day was spent helping the kids on their many ways.

  The narrow lanes outside of the school grounds would soon be clogged by cars with impatient drivers with big city attitudes blasting their horns. Soon, the cavalcade of luxury automobiles would shatter the quiet countryside as parents and domestic staff collected privileged offspring.

  She grabbed a thick pair of socks from her nightstand before daring to put her feet on the cold floor. Her nightgown was hanging on the end of the bed and she wrapped herself in its warmth.

  The day was cold but still actually milder than yesterday, but Maurice had warned her that the slight rise in temperature would come before the snow fell.

  She wandered to the window and yawned as she pulled back the curtains, exposing the day beyond. The skies were dark and foreboding and she felt a chill in her bones that didn’t seem to come from the weather.

  ----------

  Barnaby walked the Ravenhill grounds on the last day of term. His head ached as though he’d had a heavy night, but save for the occasional single malt whisky nightcap he didn’t drink, especially when on duty.

  His memory was patchy about last night’s party but everyone had seemed to be in good spirits.

  Normally it would have felt like they were wrapping the old girl up for the winter, but this year there seemed to be more people staying in school over the holidays than ever before.

  His job was the education of the next generation of valuable and important minds, and he took his job seriously. Here they produced leaders and dominators, the essential select few who would have great influence and power.

  He knew that he held a great responsibility to help shape the future of the country and lessons were not just taught in the classroom.

  His feet crunched on the frosty gravel and he glanced up at the darkening skies overhead.

  He was confident in Maurice’s weather predicting abilities and he was sure that there would be enough time to pack the children away before the snow fell.

  He wandered around the school building deep in thought with his hands behind his back. It was an unconsci
ous gesture that accentuated his Headmaster persona and gave him an air of gravitas.

  He had moved around to the rear of the building when something out of place caught his eye.

  The gravelled pathway was covered in a thin frost coating, except on one fairly large patch. It looked for all the world like someone had recently disturbed the area whilst sweeping or possibly cleaning. The spot was between the kitchen rear entrance and the covered bin area.

  He could only assume that someone had spilt something last night or early this morning while cleaning the main hall and had at least cleaned it up. The only thing was that the area seemed too large and too spread out to account for a simple spillage.

  He knelt down, took some dirt between his fingers, and raised it to his nose.

  The smell was strong and chemical based as though someone had used an industrial detergent. It seemed an overly excessive use of expensive cleaning material and he made a mental note to check with the kitchen staff and with Maurice as to just what had been cleaned up here.

  ----------

  Maurice stomped his way grumpily around the grounds and into the school. Soon the whole place would be flooded with outsiders messing the place up and getting in the way. Just because they paid for their kids to go here gave them no right to ownership of Ravenhill.

  Barnaby would be riding him all day about every little nook and cranny being spick and span. He hated to be robbed of his routines and having to bow and curtsey to the Lords and Ladies of the manor.

  The school dance had apparently been something of a success but he had kept far away from the noise. There was also a lack of willing helpers this morning to clean the main hall. Normally everyone would have chipped in but today, volunteers were scarce.

  He made his way to the disaster area and found only the kitchen staff in attendance, along with the school nurse. Rosa Marsh was leading the team with a beaming smile that had no place at this ungodly hour. She was the one he remembered that had gone missing and everyone flew into a flap about.

  “Good morning, Mr. Duncan,” she greeted him, like they were old pals.

  He was also Maurice to everyone and nobody ever used his surname, unless Barnaby was particularly pissed about something. “How’re you doing,” he muttered as he passed.

  “Isn’t it a glorious day, Mr. Duncan?” she enthused. “Such a morning reaffirms one’s faith in a higher power, does it not?”

  “Yeah, lady, whatever you say,” he replied, raising his eyebrows as he headed through to take out the bagged rubbish to the bins beyond the kitchen doors.

  He had to suffer further enthusiastic welcomes and comments as he passed by the other kitchen staff members. Normally the place would be a morgue at this time of the morning with sullen pinched faces, but today was a real kick in the ass for his naturally miserable disposition.

  “Well, good morning Mr. Duncan,” another sunny voice piped up as he headed back into the main hall to collect another haul.

  He turned to see Hannah Marks beaming back at him like a Jehovah’s Witness knocking at his door. “Yeah, yeah, glorious day and all that crap,” he grumbled, shaking his head.

  “Oh, but it is, Mr. Duncan,” she said forcibly as she gripped his arm.

  Her hand was pudgy and soft, but her grip was iron. Normally the school nurse was the most gentle of creatures but today her face was hard and her eyes were flint.

  He suddenly noticed that the other kitchen staff had all stopped cleaning and were staring straight at him. It was a room full of middle-aged women in pink tabards, but suddenly he felt inexplicably afraid.

  “You wanna take your hand off of me, nursery?” he said in a low warning tone.

  “Why now, Mr. Duncan, that’s not exactly a Christian attitude,” she replied happily.

  “Well I ain’t exactly a Christian,” he growled.

  She released his arm and he brushed past her through the kitchen and into the centre of the hall.

  He felt all of their eyes on him and he resisted the almost overpowering urge to run from the group of elderly women. He would have laughed aloud, if he wasn’t so scared.

  They formed a loose circle around him and started to move in. It was the plastic smiles plastered across their faces that he felt afraid of, smiles that never touched their eyes.

  He wanted to run or fight, but his brain couldn’t quite process the ridiculous nature of his predicament.

  The pink tabards moved in as quickly as their arthritic hips and knees could manage. Maurice braced himself for something, but he knew not what.

  “This place isn’t going to clean itself you know, ladies,” a man boomed out loudly as he entered from the back of the hall.

  Maurice turned and Barnaby’s angry voice had never sounded so sweet. The women broke their circle and were about their work in a flash, sweeping and cleaning.

  The sudden turn in their demeanours made Maurice’s head spin, leaving him wondering if he had imagined the whole episode.

  He felt a fresh set of eyes burning into him from behind and he turned quickly to stare out of the window.

  The new American boy was watching in from the garden and Maurice saw a ghost of pure hate flitter across his angelic face. The expression was gone in a millisecond but Maurice had felt it as much as seen it and suddenly he realised what real fear felt like.

  ----------

  Stuart Keaton raised his thumping head from the pillow. He groaned as vague memories of the previous night came strolling back with shit-eating grins on their faces. He cringed as he tried to remember just what the hell had gotten into him.

  He hadn’t felt that drunk since he’d been part of the Culverhay Rugby Team on its annual tour of Corfu.

  The odd thing was that he couldn’t recall drinking last night. He had been acting like he was off his face and he had a stinking hangover this morning, but he hadn’t even touched the small glasses of wine on offer to the faculty.

  He had spent the night acting like an idiot when all he’d wanted to do was to talk to Sarah.

  He rolled his legs out of bed ignoring the cold until it bit his bare skin hard. He dragged the duvet with him meaning to wrap himself in its warmth. A soft moan stopped him in his tracks and his heart skipped a beat as soft female hands pulled the duvet back.

  He turned hoping to see Sarah’s face, only for Jemima’s to greet him poking out beneath the covers. “Morning,” she smiled happily and his hopes turned to a sour taste in his mouth in one foul swoop.

  ----------

  Sarah headed out into the corridor wrapped up warmly against the impending storm. The hallways were full of shrieking and excitable kids all venting excess energy in anticipation of going home. The whole boarding school idea left her a little cold as she couldn’t imagine having children and then sending them away for months on end.

  She did her best to maintain a little order as she descended, but it was pretty much hopeless and she soon gave up.

  Despite the reputations of exclusive schools such as Ravenhill, the kids were far from mollycoddled.

  They cleaned their own rooms before the break and prefects would check the quality of their work.

  They were all responsible for their own packing and lugging their bags down to the front door. Expensive luggage was carefully labelled and awaited collection.

  She was surprised to see that Jemima wasn’t in attendance as dictated by the rota. She was concerned about her young friend’s wellbeing as it wasn’t like her to be late.

  “Hazel?” she said to a passing older pupil who was organizing some of the younger ones.

  “Yes, Ms Mears?” Hazel answered politely.

  “Have you seen Ms King this morning?”

  “Sorry Miss, no,” Hazel replied, shaking her head.

  “Are you all on your own organizing this floor?”

  “Not quite,” the girl replied, blushing furiously. “Joshua Bradley is helping me.”

  Sarah looked to the end of the hallway and saw the object of Hazel’s
obvious schoolgirl crush.

  Joshua was doing a decent job of maintaining a sense of order as usually overly exuberant girls were following his directions and filing down the stairs calmly and determined to please.

  She strode over to the boy. “Joshua,” she said greeting him. “We’re very grateful for your assistance, but it’s really not necessary.”

  “It’s ok Miss, I don’t mind helping out,” he smiled. “There seemed to be a bit of a mess going on to be honest; I don’t know who was supposed to be on duty but poor Hazel was struggling.”

  “Nevertheless, it is not your place to be in charge of these girls,” she replied sternly, despite his obvious best intentions.

  “Where is Ms King this morning?” he asked pertinently. “I do hope that she’s not unwell.”

  She was touched by the new boy’s concerns and wanted to reassure him. “I’m sure that she is fine, just running a little late I assume.”

  “I’m sure that’s it, Miss,” Joshua smiled infectiously. “I suppose that she must have had a particularity late night after all.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s just that…, well, it’s not really my place to say Miss.”

  “You can tell me,” she said, leaning in close.

  “Well, it’s just that I heard quite a commotion when I was in bed late last night. I peeked outside of my room and I saw Ms King and Mr. Keaton on the way to his room. They were a little…, well a little amorous I suppose is the word,” he shrugged, embarrassed.

  The idea suddenly struck her hard somewhere deep in her chest. She had no right to pass comment on what either of them got up to in their spare time, and yet she felt betrayed somehow.

  “I’m sure that it was nothing, Miss,” Joshua said and she felt his concern and was touched by it. “I’m sure that she didn’t stay the night.”

  That comment hit even harder.

  ----------

  Jemima dressed quickly and was confused by Stuart’s coldness towards her.

  She couldn’t remember much about last night, but she couldn’t hide her excitement at finding herself in his bed this morning.

  She felt a stab of guilt that her first thought had been a selfish one ahead of a concern for Sarah. But after all, Sarah had gone out of her way to show that she didn’t want him and Jemima did and wasn’t she entitled to a little bit of happiness after all?