The Talisman (23 page)

In the locker room, Morgan’s lookout banged open the toilet door. ‘That shit-head, Eric, gone an’ warned ’im off. He’s gone, yer’ll never get ’im now.’

Morgan swore and kicked at the tiles. Wound around his fist was a running shoe, sewn together heel to toe, like a knuckle-duster. Each spike had been filed to a razor-sharp point. From the window they watched the van drive out of the gates, and Morgan screamed obscenities. In a rage, he turned and shouted that he wanted that little shit, Eric, brought to him. He was going to teach the dirty squealer a lesson.

Alex looked splendid in his new tracksuit. He shook each leg in turn, then bent double to rub his thighs, while the sports master talked quietly to him. ‘Just pace yourself, lad. Don’t push, you got a lot of miles ahead of you. Don’t let the front runners set the pace. A lot’ll drop out. You run like you’ve trained, conserve your energy . . .’

Hundreds of spectators with a good sprinkling of sports reporters lined the starting point. The runners gathered in a pen and were given their numbers. Alex was the last to join them, and he felt self-conscious, wondering if they all knew where he was from.

The runners were called to the starting line. They were all jogging on the spot, trying to keep themselves warm, Alex among them. Captain Barker and the sports master looked on, watching as he shook his head, eased his neck muscles. This had become a familiar sight. They could see his lips moving.

Alex was setting himself apart, talking to himself, oblivious to the rest of the field. He was standing, hands on hips, shaking out each foot in turn. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the starting pistol being loaded. He panted, sniffed the air deeply into his lungs, shaking his head from side to side, and all the time he talked to himself under his breath. ‘This is it, go for it. You’re going to take it, take it, take the son of a bitch. Go for it, Alex. Nobody can touch you, nobody.’

Bang! They were off. Alex found his place with a tight group, taking easy, long strides, not pushing it. They had five miles of road before they hit the open country, and the going was tough because of the ice and the thin film of snow that was beginning to lie on it. The runners’ breath steamed in front of them – it was going to be a tough, gruelling race.

Four hours later the runners were far apart, many having dropped out. Alex began to push himself through the pain barrier. He was well out in front, with only eight runners ahead of him, and he was pacing himself well.

Captain Barker held his stopwatch tight as the van jolted and rolled along the country lanes. ‘There he is – by Christ, he’s going well. How’s his time?’

‘Bloody marvellous. If he keeps this pace up, he’ll break the record. The ruddy snow’s not helping, though.’

The snow was falling thick and fast now, and they watched their boy overtake two more runners. ‘Not so fast, son, don’t overdo it. Take your time.’ Barker, suddenly an authority on cross-country running, was banging his stick on the dashboard as he spoke.

Alex was now in fourth place with one mile to go. His legs were agony, his breath heaved and the sweat dripped down his back. Far ahead he could see the faint blue line, the small dots that were spectators gathered for the finish. He was still talking to himself. ‘Take it, Alex, take the motherfucker. Go, go, don’t let no bastard in front of you. Take it, it’s yours . . .’ Suddenly he was aware of a runner coming up behind him, and he pushed himself even harder. ‘Bastard, that bastard, he took everyfing . . . Bastard’s right on yer heels, Alex, he’s going to take it from yer like he took everyfing . . . Eddie, you bastard, you’re not taking this – this is mine, this is mine, mine, mine, mine . . .’

The last stage of the race was suspense all the way. The two of them overtook the first three, jostling for the lead. Alex was losing headway, the boy trying to take him on the inside, but Alex’s elbows kept him back. His heart was bursting, his brains about to explode. He had no energy left, he had used his final reserves on that last push . . . He could almost feel the breath of the runner behind him, the thud of the boy’s feet almost on his heels . . . ‘Bastard motherfucking bastard . . .’

Barker was shouting, banging on the dashboard, ‘Run, Stubbs, you’re there . . . Run!’

The sports master was panting as if he had run the race himself. He had a sickening feeling that their boy was going to be pipped at the post. ‘He’s not going to make it, he’s run himself out.’

The blue line was blurring, so near and yet so far. Alex felt the runner’s arms brush him, trying yet again to pass him. With a superhuman surge Alex moved through the barriers of pain and exhaustion. Through it and out the other side. He was on top of the mountain, he was free, he was flying. He lifted his arms above his head as he hit the blue ribbon, trailing it, streaming out behind him . . .

He turned and jogged back to his trainer, to Captain Barker, who was punching the air with his fists. For a moment the two men were so emotional they could have wept. Their golden boy, their champion, had beaten the record. ‘Beaten’ was hardly the word – he had pulverized it, knocking off over four minutes.

The canteen was in uproar. Everyone banged their plates, shouting in unison, ‘Champion, champion . . .’

Alex, now even more the hero, saluted with his fist in the air, and the room erupted into screams and cheers. He didn’t want the day to end, he was happier than he had ever been in his whole life. He had a big silver cup and a shield he could keep for ever. The cup had to be handed back after a year, but for the time being it would take pride of place in the assembly room. Alex paused, looked around. ‘Where’s Eric? Where’s the runt?’

The boys nearby went quiet, sheepish. Eventually, Ted summoned the courage to tell Alex. Eric had got himself into a bit of trouble and was up in Medical. ‘You can’t see him, they won’t let you. You’ll get into trouble if you go up there without permission.’

Alex grinned and pointed to himself. ‘Who, me? Do me a favour! After what I done for the school today, you fink they’d haul me over the coals for a little misdemeanour like goin’ ter see me mate?’

Alex slipped out of the dorm and up the stairs. It was past lights out, so the corridors were dark. He edged his way up three floors, dodging the night patrol, and up to the infirmary. It was on the top floor of the wing, next to the matron’s office. Her half-glass door looked out on to the corridor. It was strictly forbidden for any boy to be in the infirmary without permission. He bent double and sneaked past the office.

The beds were all empty but one, and Alex smiled when he saw the small mound in the nearest bed. Eric’s little body was no bigger than a ten-year-old’s. He crept to the bedside and whispered, ‘Hey, what’s this? I win the race for yer an’ yer not even around ter congratulate me! Hey, you awake?’

The mound shifted and Alex had to creep right around the bed. He squatted on his heels and held out his running shield. ‘Look, I won.’

Peering closer in the gloom, Alex could see that Eric’s face was in a terrible state. His lips were puffy and bruised, and both eyes were blackened. Eric tried to smile, but his eyes filled with tears.

‘Christ, what happened?’

Fighting his tears, Eric whispered that Morgan and his crowd had set on him for tipping Alex off about the running shoe. Gently, Alex patted Eric’s greasy, spiky hair and tucked the shield into the bed beside him.

‘It’s me back playin’ up,’ Eric whimpered. ‘They kicked me hump.’

Alex leaned close and whispered, ‘They’ll be sorry. Gimme their names, I’ll get ’em.’

‘Don’t do nuffink, Alex. Best ter forget it. You’ll be out soon what wiv winnin’ the race an’ all, you’ll get remission.’

‘Sod that. Besides, I ain’t goin’ no place wivout you.’

Eric held Alex’s shield in his small fist. He looked so pitiful that Alex sighed.

‘I’ll be in fer a long time, Alex. You just go back ter bed.’

‘What you in for, Eric? Not the infirmary, here, in the Hall?

‘I got a bit of a problem . . . arson . . .’

Alex couldn’t help but smile. He leaned close to Eric’s ear. ‘Well, there’ll be a bit of a bonfire tonight . . .’

‘I love you, Alex – I know it sounds soppy, but I do . . . Not like a queer, nuffink like that – like you was my bruvver.’

Eric felt Alex’s soft kiss on his forehead. He clutched his hero’s shield. Alex was gone as silently as he had crept in.

But Alex didn’t go straight to bed. He made his way to the locker room and prised open Vic Morgan’s locker before returning to his dormitory.

The following morning Alex took his ballroom-dancing cronies aside. ‘You all owe me, right? I want Morgan’s gang, but I want ’em one by one. Bring them into the locker room . . . Any of you open yer mouths about this an’ you’ll be for it. Leave Morgan until last.’

Ted organized it, making up a story that they had got some booze stashed away in lockers, but only one could come along at a time. Morgan agreed to exchange his brothel-creepers for some of the booze.

Alex scared each one of the gang witless, sitting like a king in the end toilet with the lethal running shoe curled in his hand. ‘You won’t be hurt. All I want is ter know which one of yer worked Eric over. You can’t get out of ’ere, my lads are on the door, so you might as well talk.’

Without their leader, the gang members crumbled. They offered bribes to be let off, and with only a little pressure Alex discovered that Morgan himself had punched Eric’s face in, and his ‘sergeant’ had applied the boot. Vic’s sergeant was a loud-mouthed, fat boy who thought he was going to be hanged when he was brought face to face with Alex. They tied him up, pulled his trousers off and hung him upside-down in the end toilet with an old sock stuffed in his mouth. He was sobbing in terror.

‘Okay, now all of you get out. Just bring Morgan.’

Ted chattered away to Morgan as he led him to the locker room. As they arrived, one of the other lads yelled to Ted that a master wanted to see him urgently. ‘The booze is in the end lav, Vic. I’ll try the shoes on an’ we can talk about it when I get back.’

Morgan strolled along the row of toilets, pushed open the door at the far end and found his half-naked sidekick trussed up. ‘What the fuck is this?’ He backed out of the toilet, almost bumping into Alex.

‘You got nobody to ’elp yer this time, Morgan. It’s just you an’ me.’

‘Hey, come on, Stubbs . . . Look, I know we ain’t exactly been friends, but we can sort this one out. What you want, you name it?’

Alex was amazed how easy it was – the smell of fear gave him a strange sense of power. He could see the terror in Morgan’s eyes, and it made him feel even better. ‘This is for Eric.’

The shoe’s razor-sharp spikes slashed into Morgan’s face. The boy screamed and tried to push Alex off, but he was cornered. He fought desperately, but the spikes kept on coming. Blood streaming down his face, he fell to his knees, begging for mercy. The more he cowered the more rage Alex felt. It wasn’t Morgan any more, it was Eddie – Eddie, crying for him to stop, screaming at Alex not to hurt him any more.

‘Jesus Christ, he’s killin’ him – somebody get him off.’

Ted was terrified. Beating Morgan up was one thing, but Alex had gone crazy. Captain Barker heard the screams and he ordered the boys away from the locker-room door, forcing them aside with his stick. He limped to the far end of the toilets, unable to believe his eyes. The ‘golden boy’ was splattered with blood, and he scarcely recognized Morgan, who was moaning in terror and covered in blood. Hanging from the cistern in the last closet was another lad, half-naked and weeping.

‘Get back against the wall, Stubbs . . . Stubbs!’

Alex turned on him, fists raised. He would have taken on Barker as well if the walking stick hadn’t come crashing down on his head.

Two warders led the handcuffed, struggling Alex to a padded cell. He was kicking and yelling obscenities, and it took all their strength to hold him down. Alex was crazed, spitting, lunging at his captors and trying to head butt them. They paid no attention to the words he was screaming, being too intent on getting him into the cell. ‘I didn’t do it, he killed him, he killed him . . . Eddie! Eddie . . . bastard, fucking cunt, bastard.’

Captain Barker was stunned into silence. The sports master turned helplessly to him, close to tears. ‘Dear God, why? Why? Why did he do it?’

The fall of the hero hit everyone hard. Barker was as distressed by the incident as anyone else. Quietly and sadly, he took out Stubbs’ record. There it was, in black and white: ‘potentially dangerous’. Something had sparked off his violence, but what it was they would never discover.

Matron came into the teachers’ common room to report on Alex. She was very depressed. ‘He’s quiet. I’ve given him a sedative, but I think it’s best to leave him in the strait-jacket. He doesn’t seem to understand what is going on. It’s pitiful, he’s calling for someone called Rex. Is there anything in his report about a Rex?’

Barker shook his head and told her the only living relative was a brother, but they had no address for him. He turned to the sports master. ‘I found this in Eric’s bed after they took him to the hospital,’ he said, handing him Alex’s shield. ‘Who knows, that might have started it. You think little Eric stole it from him?’

The sports master took the shield, held it for a moment then put it down on the table. He shrugged, a helpless gesture. ‘He could have been a British champion . . . He was magnificent.’

E
dward could hear the Judge’s loud voice in the stable yard, talking to Harriet. The stable lads were saddling up and the Judge gestured with his riding crop as he talked. ‘Any hunter unable to control his horse and hounds should be shot. Some of ’em think they can clear a fence without a thought for the dawgs. They end up clearing nothing. Master of Frogmorton is an absolute bastard. Saw him kick a hound once – frightful incident.’

Edward had heard nothing but horses and hounds throughout breakfast, luncheon and dinner. He was heartily sick of it – especially as he had never even sat on a horse, let alone ridden one. Not that any member of the Simpson family appeared to notice his silence on the subject, and he had managed to excuse himself from morning rides by pleading his studies. He was also socializing, however, and enjoying his vacation, although the hunt seemed to be uppermost in everyone’s minds, including his new-found friends. Everyone presumed he would ride to hounds, and Edward was beginning to wonder how he was going to get out of it.