The Quickening of Tom Turnpike (The Talltrees Trilogy)

by Mann, W. E.

  Behind the sinks was a very large window with its shutters drawn halfway across, restricting what little daylight remained. The window sill was overlaid with a crust of dead and half-dead flies, some still fizzling on their backs, buzzing frenzied death-spasms.

  As we closed the door hurriedly behind us, it seemed to vanish into the wood panelling around it. There was no handle on this side, so there was no way of returning to the Hidden Library from this direction.

  We could hear the voices of Seniors coming from behind the only other door out of the room, on our left opposite the window.

  “Quick!” I said. “Up here.”

  I clambered upon one of the sinks and onto the window sill with flies crunching under my feet. The shutters were so stiff that they would barely budge and I edged around behind one of them so that I was hidden in its fold. Freddie squeezed behind the shutter opposite mine.

  A few seconds later we heard a door open and footsteps march through the bathroom and out of the other door, which was left open.

  “Vanderpump,” said Barrington abruptly. There was a pause. “Which... which dormitory is this?”

  “Er, well it’s Wolfhall, Sir.”

  “Of course, yes.” There were a few more moments of silence.

  “Is... everything okay, Sir?” Vanderpump enquired hesitantly in his grovelling tone.

  “Yes, yes, quite alright thank you, Vanderpump.” He cleared his throat. “I don’t suppose anyone has passed through here have they?”

  “Well no, Sir,” he answered unable to suppress how odd he thought the question was. “But where would they, I mean, where did you come from?”

  I could hear Barrington turning and coming back into the bathroom. He stopped, obviously looking around. I held my breath.

  “How long have you three been here?” he called to Vanderpump.

  “Not long, Sir. Probably no more than five minutes. We just got back from the Swimming Pool to get changed, you see Sir, and...”

  “Yes, yes, Vanderpump. Do pipe down for Heaven’s sake. What about you two? Either of you seen anyone come through here? No? Well then, Doctor Boateng, I think you and I should check on the Junior dormitories. I’ll have to pop upstairs to get my torch.”

  We heard Barrington and Boateng stalking off. We were already running a couple of minutes late for Third Form curfew. Thankfully Pontevecchio was the duty prefect and would not mind if we were only a few minutes late. Our immediate problem though was that we would need to clean our teeth and be in bed by the time Barrington and Boateng came prowling, but we were stuck here until Vanderpump and whoever else there was next-door had left.

  “God, that man’s a total lunatic!” Vanderpump snorted. “I mean, what on Earth was he doing in there?” He wandered into the bathroom, his voice starting to echo hauntingly around us. “It’s disgusting in here!”

  “This bathroom gives me the heebie-jeebies,” came another, deeper voice.

  “Me too,” said a third, very similar. “I can hear footsteps in here at night.”

  There was a pause.

  “Anyway, we’d better get downstairs, chaps,” said Vanderpump. “Hey listen, how about a dorm raid tonight? One o’clock, soon as we’re back from Night Ops?”

  “Sounds great,” replied one of his companions enthusiastically.

  “Yeah,” said the other. “Which dorm?”

  I had a pretty strong hunch which dorm Vanderpump would want to raid tonight. A dorm raid involved a number of senior boys armed to the teeth with pillows, creeping into a junior dorm after lights-out. They would generally begin by upending (or “lamp-posting”) as many of the beds as they could. Half-asleep, unarmed boys would tumble out into an eiderdown apocalypse as they and their dorm-mates would be pulverised with pillows until the whole room was snowing feathers.

  Usually dorm raids were conducted in good humour by the Seniors as an end-of-term dare. But occasionally, if a Senior had a score to settle, things could get a little nasty. During the Michaelmas Term, for example, one of the boys in West Ante, Tarquin Chorley, was hit so hard about the back of the head with a pillow that he cracked his forehead on the corner of the mantelpiece and had to go to hospital to have eight stitches.

  “I’m thinking...Portico,” said Vanderpump, pretending to select a dormitory at random.

  “Wizard idea!” enthused one of the others. “It’s out of the way, so we’re a lot less likely to be caught.”

  Inevitably I had been right. Portico was Freddie’s and my dorm and Vanderpump was clearly planning his revenge. Freddie looked at me, wincing. But strangely I didn’t feel at all nervous. I mean, it wasn’t as if I’d never taken a beating before and at least this time I could be well prepared. Also, I was far too shaken by what we had heard downstairs to be worried by a dorm raid.

  Gas. Barrington had said he was going to gas some of the boys. There had been strange rumours about people being gassed to death in the Eastern Reich, but we had been told not to believe them. There had been other rumours that scientific experiments were being conducted on the physically handicapped and other Asoziale to make them think differently. I wondered with dread whether Barrington had been told to carry out this kind of experiment on some of the boys at Talltrees.

  “Keep it under your hats, chaps,” said Vanderpump. “We certainly don’t want them finding out before we arrive, eh?”

  “Not a word,” stated one of the others, as the three of them left the dorm. “I had this idea about putting something hard into my pillow, like a book or a rock or something...”

  We waited for a few moments after we could no longer hear them, just to ensure that they were gone. We then emerged from behind the shutters.

  Creeping through Wolfhall, I asked Freddie who the other two with Vanderpump might have been.

  “The twins,” he replied ominously.

  That was bad news. The twins were Angus and Amos Bearbaiter, the two prop forwards for the Talltrees 1st XV. They were enormous, hulking behemoths with buzz-cuts and body-hair. Apparently they had both started shaving when they were nine years old. They were also renowned school-wide for being mind-numbingly stupid. I heard that one of them (it didn’t matter which because they were both the same) had managed to score just one per cent. in his Geometry exam last term and he only got that because he had managed to spell his name correctly at the top of the page. What an idiot!

  We crept down the corridor, making sure that Vanderpump and the twins were a good distance in front of us before they headed down the Spiral Staircase. Then we ran as fast as we could to the Junior Bathroom, quickly cleaned our teeth and hurried to our dorm.

  “Where the deuce have you two been?” asked Pontevecchio. He had his hands on his hips and was raising his voice in an effort to sound as if he was annoyed with us. But it was a feeble act. Pontevecchio was one of those people who were just far too relaxed to get annoyed with anyone.

  “Terribly sorry, Ponty,” replied Freddie. “We were in the Library and lost track of time.” One of our dorm-mates snorted. “Has Barrington been around?”

  “Not yet, luckily for you. Righto, chaps,” he announced, “lights out.”

  He flicked the switch on his way out.

  ***

  Portico was the smallest dormitory in the school. It had just seven beds. But without Milo, who was taken to the Sick Bay the previous night, we were down to six:

  Freddie, as dorm head, had his bed to the left of the door as you entered. How on Earth Freddie had ever been made dorm head was a mystery to all of us and had become something of a joke in Form Three. We could only suppose that it had something to do with the fact that he was very good at getting people to do what he wanted. But the fact that what he wanted people to do was often against the school rules was obviously not a factor that the teachers had taken into account when they decided that he was head-of-dorm material;

  Next to him was Yannick Anderson. He was the tallest boy in our year by a long stretch and was brilliant at sport. He usually ke
pt quite quiet, but occasionally told stories after lights-out that were so terrifying that they almost rivalled Freddie’s;

  Next to his bed was Milo’s, whose bed-sheets looked sadly deflated;

  The next bed around was that of Algie Foxtrap. He was a small, quiet and obedient type with asthma, thick glasses and, more often than not, a matron’s note excusing him from PE. I think that in most schools, Algie was the sort of boy who would suffer from merciless bullying. But for some reason, whenever someone tried to pick on him, we all rallied. It wasn’t as if he was especially generous or friendly really. In fact he was so protective of his stationery that he would never lend anyone a pencil sharpener. But I think perhaps we each recognised in him some of our own weaknesses, the ones we tried to keep hidden from view, and so we defended him;

  After Algie was Reginald Pickering. He was a strapping lad with a swarthy walk like he had just jumped off a horse and was strutting through the swinging doors of a saloon in the Wild West. He spoke with a slight, at times almost tongue-in-cheek, cockney accent which of course immediately melted into BBC pronunciation as soon as he was speaking to a teacher. He had an incredible memory for bawdy jokes and could down a bottle of milk in under three seconds;

  Next around from Reggie was Peregrine Trout, who had broken the news of Milo’s disappearance on the way to Showers that morning;

  Finally, as always last in alphabetical order, was me, the other side of the door from Freddie.

  “Right, listen up you lot,” whispered Freddie. “Turnpike and I have been doing some serious espionage and we have found out that some of the guys from Wolfhall are going to raid us at one tonight.”

  “Brilliant!” exclaimed Yannick. “I love pillow-fights.”

  It was easy enough for him to say; he wasn’t the intended victim of a thorough beating. In any event, Yannick was simply one of those boys whom Seniors would never pick upon, not least, I imagine, because he was taller than a fair number of them.

  “I’ve got an idea,” I said. “We know they’re coming and we know when, right? So let’s be ready. Let’s ambush them.”

  “I know!” said Reggie enthusiastically, “One of us should go and get a beaker of water to balance on top of the door just before they get here, right?”

  “Perfect,” I said. “Vanderpump’s bound to come in first. Okay, so here’s the plan. Reggie, you go and get a beaker of water in a few minutes. I’ll go on the look-out and run back as soon as I can hear them coming. Then we’ll prop the door open with one of Milo’s slippers so that we can balance the beaker on top. Reggie and Yannick, you guys stand either side of the door ready with your pillows when they get in. The rest of us will be waiting to pounce from Freddie’s bed. Okay?”

  “One more thing,” said Freddie. “Reinforcements. If we could get three or four boys from Marlborough to come round straight after the Seniors have got here, we’ll have them surrounded. This’ll be great! Foxtrap?”

  Behind Algie’s bed there was a locked door to Marlborough dorm. Marlborough was another Third Form dorm, so we had allies on the other side.

  It was almost impossible to get Algie to speak after lights-out because he was so afraid of getting slippered. But I realised that I could convince him that it may be the lesser of two evils.

  “Listen, Algie,” I said. “It’s simple. Let me come over there and speak to Marlborough. Then, when we get raided, all you have to do is knock on the door to Marlborough three times to let them know when to come round. Okay? The alternative is that we all get a walloping and have our beds lamp-posted?”

  That ought to convince him. Algie was fastidiously tidy. The last time he got lamp-posted, he burst into tears and cried for his mother.

  We left a few moments for Algie to agree.

  “Okay then,” he whispered meekly.

  seven

  It was two minutes to one and I was nervous.

  I was on the gallery above the Main Hall, hidden in an alcove next to a portrait of a sneery fellow with a wig and a gown. He peered sourly down his nose at me with his lip curled as if nauseated by a bad smell. By poking my head around the corner, I had a clear view up the corridor that led to the Head Master’s flat, where the lights were out. The doors to Red and Wolfhall were on the left. There was a bathroom on the right.

  It was a very still night. I could very faintly hear a steam-train clattering in the distance and, closer at hand, some muffled snoring and a dripping cistern. I kept as well hidden as I could, with my eyes intent upon the Wolfhall door-handle, about ten or fifteen yards away from me.

  Then it turned gently and silently.

  Vanderpump, at the vanguard, popped his head around the door to ensure that Wilbraham’s lights were out and that no Masters were on the prowl. He crept across the corridor to the bathroom with his pillow slung over his shoulder like a burglar escaping with swag. Then he beckoned to his accomplices and put his finger over his lips. I waited for a few seconds to count them as they filed out.

  Seven. Vanderpump and the twins were there. But I didn’t wait to see who the other four were. I ran as quickly as I could on the tips of my toes back to Portico.

  “They’re on their way,” I whispered.

  Reggie clambered up onto Freddie’s chair while Freddie wedged a slipper between the door and its frame.

  “You’re gonna love this, mate,” Reggie said to me, as he ordered Peregrine to pass him no fewer than five brimming beakers and balanced them on top of the door. “They’re gonna get soaked.”

  “Quickly then,” I said. “Battle formations. They’ll be here any second. Foxtrap, as soon as they’re in, knock on that door. Okay?”

  We waited in our positions with our pillows at the ready.

  At first it all happened so quickly. Suddenly they were here. As Vanderpump and the others burst through the door, the beakers of water came sloshing and clattering down around them. Vanderpump bore the brunt and was totally drenched. Though some of the other Seniors laughed, Vanderpump was not amused. He flew into a rage.

  Before waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness of our dorm, he tried to rush forwards with his pillow flailing in all directions. But, as he did so, he slipped on the water under his feet and landed firmly on his backside. The other Seniors, also unsighted and bundling in behind him, all ended up in a heap on the floor, either by sliding on the water-slick or stumbling over him.

  Then, just as the reinforcements from Marlborough were arriving, we pounced from Freddie’s bed and set about the Seniors with our pillows. They were routed.

  Most of the Seniors took the clobbering with very good humour, calling “Mercy!” or “I surrender!” Four of them picked themselves up from the floor and beat a battered retreat. But not Vanderpump. He went on a furious rampage, flapping his pillow around wildly and battering everyone within a six foot radius of him.

  He then threw his pillow onto the floor and began to lash out crazily with fists. He caught Peregrine firmly on the chest. Peregrine staggered backwards and shouted, “Oy, Vanderpump! What the hell do you think you’re playing at?”

  “Shut up, you little turd,” Vanderpump fumed. “Ah, there you are, Turnpike!”

  His eyes had obviously adjusted to the darkness and he lurched straight towards me. I was standing by the edge of my bed, exchanging pillow-blows with one of the twins, when Vanderpump thumped me heftily in the midriff. As I floundered backwards, struggling vainly to seize a breath, he threw me to the floorboards. I slid backwards past Algie’s bed. Algie burst into tears.

  “Whoa there,” cautioned one of the twins. “Go easy on him, Hector.”

  “Yeah, go easy on him,” added the other, with a note of genuine concern.

  “Oh I don’t think so!” replied Vanderpump. “No. This one’s for the high jump!”

  From what I could tell, everyone had stopped fighting by this point and stood where they had been, near the door, watching Vanderpump in surprise and fear. I had ended up in a heap by the window with Vanderpump bearing
down upon me. I was still winded and, having landed on the wooden floor on my right elbow, I had pain shooting along my forearm to my right hand.

  “Vanderpump, what on Earth’s the matter with you?” shouted Freddie, obviously no longer concerned that a Master might hear.

  “Another word out of any of you,” growled Vanderpump menacingly, “and you’ll all spend the rest of your lives in Detention.”

  I struggled to get up onto my feet. I was determined not to let him have the better of me, even though I knew this was idiocy because he was twice my size. He looked totally maniacal, twitching with humiliation and fury.

  “I suppose that was your idea, the water?” he spat, evidently having already decided upon the answer to the question.

  “Yes,” I replied defiantly, jutting my chin, and added, “What are you going to do about it?”

  That was it. He was now utterly berserk. Roaring, he wrapped his left hand around my throat and lifted me bodily from the floor. Everyone in the room was too shocked to move.

  Everyone, that was, but Algie. Amazingly, Algie, of all people, sprang from his bed and charged at Vanderpump, yelling, and began to pound him about the back with both fists. But Algie’s efforts were futile. As I dangled with my feet flapping about a foot off the ground and spluttering and struggling to breathe, Vanderpump brutally backhanded Algie about the face and onto the floor. Then he issued me a cracking, resounding wallop to the jaw.

  But, in the heartbeat moment before his mallet-fist made its crunching contact with my face, the lights were on. I was blinded by the sudden illumination and deafened by the ringing in my ears as I was dropped to the floor. There was a metallic taste in my mouth.

  “Vanderpump,” boomed Doctor Saracen’s voice, “what the hell’s going on in here?”

  There was no reply.

  “Right. You lot, in bed now! Turnpike, Foxtrap, I’ll send the Duty Matron to see to you. You three,” he said to Vanderpump and the Bearbaiter twins, “are coming with me.”