Double or Die

by Charlie Higson

  ‘Yes, sir, so do I, sir,’ said James.

  ‘Now. Perhaps we could get you an ice cream, or something?’

  ‘That’s all right, thank you, sir,’ said James. ‘I need to get back.’

  ‘Of course, of course…’

  James laughed when he remembered that day. He’d stayed out of danger all right. He’d avoided excitement of any kind as the long weeks of the Michaelmas half had played themselves out. The days had plodded past, growing shorter and darker, and as winter crept in, it brought with it fog and rain and chilly air. James had struggled through endless dreary Latin lessons, and science demonstrations, and maths tests. The only thing he’d had to look forward to was Christmas with its promise of roast goose and carol singers and presents underneath the tree.

  He’d managed to be a model, if unenthusiastic, pupil all that time, and the effort had nearly killed him, because, despite what he had said to the Head Master, he knew that he could never keep out of trouble.

  And now, at last, he was cut loose. Now he was doing what he loved best. He was facing danger. He was taking risks.

  He was alive again.

  Just four days ago, everything had changed and his life at Eton had once more been turned upside down.

  He had been in his room at Eton playing cards with two friends, Teddy Mackereth and Steven Costock-Ellis, and his Chinese messmate, Tommy Chong.

  Tommy, as usual, was winning. He was passionate about cards and claimed that the Chinese were the best card players in the world. ‘After all,’ he was fond of saying, ‘the Chinese invented playing cards.’

  It was very cold in the room. The boys were each allowed only one big lump of coal every other day, and today it was James’s turn to have a fire. The tiny fireplace didn’t throw out much heat and the boys were wearing fingerless gloves.

  Outside the room a group of boys were playing a very noisy game of passage football and they could hear their thumps and shouts as they charged up and down the corridor using someone’s hat as a ‘ball’.

  It was a new year at Eton, and James and his friends were no longer among the youngest boys in the school. They felt quite grown up and couldn’t quite believe that they had once been as scared and helpless-looking as the timid fourth formers they saw wandering about the place.

  There were changes in the House. Last year’s senior boys had moved on and a new group had taken their place. This new bunch seemed keen to push their weight around and show the younger boys who was in charge. They had carried out a record number of beatings and had not made themselves at all popular.

  But James and his friends felt safe now, tucked away in this little room, playing cards and chatting.

  ‘I’ll trounce you one day, Tommy,’ said James, throwing his cards down on to the tabletop and looking across at Tommy, who was eagerly scooping up a small pile of coins.

  ‘You must be cheating,’ said Teddy Mackereth sourly.

  ‘No,’ said Tommy. ‘I’m just better than you saps.’

  ‘One more hand?’ said Costock-Ellis. ‘You’ve got to give us the chance to win some of our money back.’

  ‘That’s fine with me,’ said Tommy.

  ‘Give it up, James,’ said a fifth boy, who was lounging on James’s bed filling in a crossword puzzle from that morning’s Times newspaper. He was James’s other messmate, Pritpal Nandra, the son of an Indian maharaja.

  ‘I’m not the type to give up,’ said James. ‘I’ll keep chipping away at him until something gives.’

  ‘I fear you will be an old man with a long white beard before that happens,’ said Pritpal.

  ‘You want to join us, Prit?’ asked Tommy, shuffling the cards expertly.

  ‘No, thank you. I will stick to my crossword,’ said Pritpal.

  ‘I don’t know what you see in those things,’ said James.

  ‘It is a challenge,’ said Pritpal. ‘I am pitting my wits against the person who set the puzzle. But I am afraid I am stuck.’

  ‘Here. Let me have a look.’ Costock-Ellis snatched the newspaper from Pritpal and peered at it, wrinkling his nose.

  ‘This doesn’t make any sense at all,’ he said.

  ‘You’re all useless,’ said James, reaching across and plucking the paper from the other boy’s hands. ‘I’ll show you how it’s done.’

  He looked at the crossword. Pritpal had neatly filled in half the answers in the grid and crossed out the clues he had completed.

  ‘Three down,’ said James. ‘ “Top-secret monkey” – four letters, first letter “A” ’ He stopped and frowned. ‘I don’t even understand the clue,’ he said. ‘So how am I supposed to work out the answer? Anyone here heard of a top-secret monkey?’

  ‘King Kong,’ said Tommy. ‘He was a secret until they found him on Skull Island.’

  ‘It is a cryptic crossword,’ said Pritpal, taking the paper back. ‘It is like a code that you have to unlock. A secret message.’

  ‘A top-secret message,’ said Teddy Mackereth.

  ‘Well, it’s beyond me,’ said James. ‘I can’t do anything more complicated than “Small flying mammal, three letters”. Second letter “A”, third letter “T”.’

  ‘Rat,’ said Tommy, dealing a fresh hand.

  ‘A rat can’t fly,’ said James.

  ‘It can if you throw it out of the window,’ said Tommy and he laughed.

  ‘Ha, ha, very funny,’ said James.

  ‘Or a cat,’ said Teddy. ‘If it was chasing the rat.’

  ‘I’ll throw you lot out of the window if you don’t stop making feeble jokes,’ said James picking up his cards. He had always been a good card player, but at Eton his skills had improved enormously, mostly due to the experience he’d gained playing, and regularly losing, against Tommy.

  So far this evening they’d played pontoon, poker, Black Maria, a Chinese game called Big Two and another Chinese game that Tommy had given a rude English name to.

  They were currently playing rummy, at sixpence a hand.

  ‘Rummy is stolen from the Chinese game, mah-jong, you know?’ said Tommy, leaning back in his chair.

  ‘No, it’s not,’ snorted Costock-Ellis. ‘What proof do you have?’

  ‘Don’t bother arguing,’ said James. ‘According to Tommy, the Chinese invented everything.’

  ‘It’s true,’ said Tommy. ‘We have always been hundreds of years ahead of you Westerners. Paper money, gunpowder, playing cards, kites. You name it. We invented it.’

  ‘Cricket,’ said Teddy Mackereth.

  ‘Nobody but the English could have invented a game as strange and as pointless as cricket,’ said Tommy.

  ‘Well, if this game’s Chinese, no wonder you keep winning,’ said Teddy Mackereth, dropping his cards on to the little square table. ‘Let’s play something else.’

  ‘OK,’ said Tommy, collecting up the pack. ‘I’ll show you a casino game. It’s like pontoon. It’s called baccarat, or chemin de fer.’

  ‘That’s French for railway,’ said Pritpal, without looking up from his newspaper.

  ‘Go back to your crossword,’ said Costock-Ellis.

  ‘Are you in, Steven?’ asked Tommy.

  ‘Afraid not,’ said Costock-Ellis. ‘You’ve cleaned me out. I’ll tell you what, why don’t we share all the money out and start again?’

  ‘That sounds like communist talk,’ said Tommy.

  ‘I bet you don’t even know what communist is,’ said Costock-Ellis.

  ‘I’ve been reading up on the Russian Revolution,’ said Tommy. ‘I know all about how the peasants were poor and badly treated by the Tsar so they rose up and threw him out. No more bosses! Everybody equal! Share out all the money so that there are no more poor people and no more rich people.’ Tommy laughed. ‘It could never happen in China.’

  As soon as Tommy stopped speaking the noise from the game of passage football also stopped and there was an ominous silence outside, which could only mean one thing.

  ‘Codrose!’ said James and the boys snapped
into action.

  Codrose was their House Master, and while he couldn’t stop the boys from playing cards, he didn’t allow gambling.

  Teddy had made a false top for the table in the Woodwork School. It fitted neatly over the real top and had just enough depth beneath it to hide all the cards and money.

  In a second the top was in place and the boys assumed expressions of sweet innocence.

  Presently there was a knock and a familiar face appeared around the door.

  Cecil Codrose was one of the most unpopular House Masters at Eton. He was small and tough with a pale face and a wiry beard. His suspicious, flinty eyes were ringed with blue skin and his heavy brows had a permanent frown.

  He peered at each boy in turn and then moved slowly into the room.

  James realised there was someone with him. It was the Head Master, Claude Elliot.

  Pritpal slithered off the bed as the other boys jumped to their feet and they all stood awkwardly in the small room.

  Codrose looked slowly from Teddy Mackereth to Costock-Ellis to Tommy.

  ‘You may leave us,’ he said and the three of them gratefully hurried out, mumbling their goodbyes and nodding to the two men.

  James wasn’t sure whether to stay or go. He was in an awkward position as this was his room, and although he was curious to know what this was all about, he also wanted to get away. He shuffled towards the door.

  ‘Stay please, Bond,’ said the Head. ‘This concerns you.’

  ‘Oh,’ said James and he stood there, feeling uncomfortable.

  ‘A letter has arrived for you, Nandra,’ said Codrose, his voice dry and dusty.

  ‘I see, sir,’ said Pritpal, who was plainly confused.

  Codrose held out a slim white envelope towards Pritpal. ‘We took the liberty of opening it,’ he said, ‘for reasons that will soon become apparent.’

  Pritpal studied the envelope. His name was on it, but there was no stamp or address.

  ‘It arrived this afternoon, inside a letter addressed to myself,’ the Head Master explained. ‘It is from Alexis Fairburn.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Pritpal, taken aback.

  ‘You may have noticed,’ said the Head Master, ‘that Mister Fairburn has not been at the school for the past few weeks.’

  ‘I know he wasn’t there for my last two mathematics classes,’ said Pritpal. ‘Bloody Bill took us instead.’ Pritpal stopped suddenly and looked panicked. ‘I mean Mister Marsden, sir. I’m sorry.’

  Codrose cleared his throat but said nothing.

  ‘Also, sir,’ said Pritpal, trying to fill the lengthening silence, ‘he wasn’t at our last Crossword Society meeting. I gather he has not been well.’

  The Head Master sniffed and looked intently at a picture of the king on James’s wall. ‘That is the version of events that we have been encouraging,’ he said, ‘but the truth of the matter is that Mister Fairburn has left the school.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Pritpal with a puzzled expression on his round face.

  ‘You run the Crossword Society, do you not?’ said the Head Master.

  ‘Yes, sir, I do, sir,’ said Pritpal. ‘Though, really, it is Mister Fairburn who’s in charge, without him we would never have…’

  ‘It is in your capacity as head of the Crossword Society that Fairburn has written to you,’ the Head Master interrupted.

  ‘Really, sir?’ said Pritpal.

  ‘Yes. In his letter to me he gave instructions that I should pass this note on to you.’

  ‘I’m not sure I understand, sir,’ said Pritpal.

  ‘I’m not sure we do either,’ said the Head Master and he smiled, trying to put Pritpal at ease. ‘The letter we received today is the first we have heard from Mister Fairburn since he left,’ he said. ‘It is a letter of resignation. It is highly irregular and most awkward. He has not given us any notice and left us short-staffed. He claims that he is unable to continue at the school and has been offered a better post in London, but his letter to me is brief and rather vague. We were hoping that his letter to you might throw some light on the matter, which is why we opened it, but it has left us mystified.’

  ‘We should like you to read it aloud,’ said Codrose. ‘And then tell us if it has any meaning for you?’

  2

  Stevens and Oliver

  Pritpal took the letter out from its envelope and unfolded it. ‘There’s no return address, or anything’ he said. ‘It just starts ‘Alexis Fairburn, London, and the date… seventh of December, 1934… Oh, he’s put that wrong. It’s not yet 1934.’

  ‘The man always was absent-minded,’ said Codrose dismissively. ‘His head was permanently in the clouds. He was always forgetting what day it was.’ Codrose said this in such a way as to imply that this was not something he himself would ever do in a million years.

  ‘Carry on,’ said the Head Master.

  Pritpal swallowed and began to read. ‘My dear Pritpal,’ he said, his voice shaky and self-conscious, ‘it’s not every Tuesday one comes across seven boys with a love of crosswords. Don’t feel down! The mighty Crossword Society will easily solve puzzles by themselves, now that I am gone. As I am sure the almighty Elliot will have explained…’ ! Pritpal stopped and blinked at the Head Master, embarrassed.

  ‘Go on,’ said the Head Master.

  ‘As I’m sure Mister Elliot will have explained,’ said Pritpal, ‘I have had to leave Eton. In fact I am leaving the country. My next crossword will be my last, as I will be gone before my next deadline.’

  ‘What does he mean by that?’ said Codrose.

  ‘Mister Fairburn sets puzzles for The Times, sir.’

  ‘Does he now?’ said Codrose. ‘Never knew that. Don’t do them myself. Too busy.’

  ‘Shall I carry on?’ said Pritpal.

  ‘Please do,’ said the Head.

  ‘Please pass on my apologies to the other six members of the Crossword Society, Felix Dunkeswell, Percy Odcombe, Luc Oliver, Stephen Devere, little Speccy Stevens and, of course, Iain Cummings.’ Pritpal paused and frowned, then carried on reading. ‘I will leave behind many happy memories. As you know, I was a boy at Eton myself. How well I remember scoring the winning try in the Field Game against the Duffers, and coxing the Callisto in the parade of boats on June the Fourth. Yes, there are many things I shall miss about the old place. Apart from you lads in the Crossword Society (of course) I will miss Latin lessons most of all. I love all those old stories of ancient Rome, like Nero’s great love affair with Cleopatra. You should try to visit the great necropolis in Porta Alta one day and see the marvellous statue of him gazing across towards her obelisks.’

  ‘Obelisks!’ snorted Codrose. ‘The man is rambling. He always was an oddball.’

  ‘Read on,’ said the Head, ignoring Codrose’s outburst.

  ‘Eton is a place like no other,’ said Pritpal. ‘With its own marvellous traditions. I shall really miss watching the Wall Game, but perhaps every time I read the famous poem, “The Wall Game”, by David Balfour, it will all come back to me, as vividly as if I was still standing there…

  Come on, we cry, ignore the pain!

  Tingling with excitement in the rain,

  Knuckling, pressing, panting, now they’re stuck,

  Nigh twenty minutes in a heaving ruck,

  All muddy in a mighty scuffle,

  Mishaps galore, but what a battle!

  Atop the wall we curse the other side,

  Villains! They have won the ball,

  A shout goes up as some brave chap

  Eludes the pack and throws for goal.

  In closing, then, whatever you do, don’t give up on crosswords. I know not everyone enjoys crosswords like you do. For instance, your messmate, the runner –’ Pritpal stopped and looked at James. ‘I suppose he means you,’ he said.

  ‘Did you talk to Mister Fairburn about Bond, then?’ asked the Head.

  ‘I suppose I must have mentioned him,’ said Pritpal, ‘but I don’t ever remember saying that James didn’t like crossw
ords.’

  ‘We’ve never really talked about them before tonight,’ said James.

  ‘Read to the end, please,’ said the Head.

  ‘Erm… For instance, your messmate, the runner,’ said Pritpal, ‘must accept what he is and begin to mature. Yours, AF.’

  Pritpal looked up from the letter and for a minute there was silence in the small, cramped room.

  ‘What an odd letter,’ said Pritpal after a while.

  ‘Decidedly,’ said the Head Master.

  ‘I fear the man may be unwell,’ sniffed Codrose.

  ‘It would explain his actions,’ said the Head Master. ‘We must assume he has had some sort of brainstorm.’

  ‘He is the type,’ said Codrose darkly, taking the letter back off Pritpal. ‘And with that in mind, I think it best if I keep this.’ He looked at the handwriting, mouthing the words and raising one eyebrow quizzically. ‘Most peculiar,’ he said after a pause, and put the letter in his pocket.

  ‘I would ask you boys not to speak to anyone about this,’ said the Head Master, throwing a quick look at James.

  ‘Of course,’ said Pritpal.

  ‘Does anything in the letter hold any particular significance for you?’ asked Codrose.

  ‘Not that I can think of at the moment, sir,’ said Pritpal. ‘There’s a lot about sport. I’ve never been much of a sportsman myself.’

  ‘Nor is Fairburn,’ said Codrose.

  ‘If you think of anything,’ said the Head, ‘you must come and tell me. In the meantime – goodnight to you both.’

  ‘What did you make of that, then?’ asked Pritpal when the two men had gone.

  ‘I’d certainly agree,’ said James, ‘that it was a very odd letter. Do you think he’s lost his marbles like Codrose said?’

  ‘I do not know,’ said Pritpal, sitting on James’s bed. ‘The more I think about it, the less sure I am.’

  ‘Oh, come on,’ said James. ‘You said yourself when you finished that it was odd. I’ll tell you what it reminded me of.’

  ‘What?’ said Pritpal.

  ‘That crossword you were doing.’

  ‘That’s it,’ said Pritpal, jumping up and pacing the room. ‘I knew there was something. You are absolutely right.’