Before I had time to move again Jonah tried a different tack, lunging for my left leg and worrying it savagely. This time I screamed. Cycling shorts don’t give the best protection, and his teeth sank deep into my calf, giving the animal its first taste of my blood. I leaned forward and rained punches down on his head. I realised that I’d made a fatal mistake about a tenth of a second after Jonah did, but that was enough. He released my leg and sprang upwards towards my exposed throat, ready to deliver the killing bite. I didn’t even have time to push myself backwards before a loud report deafened me.
When my hearing faded back in all I could hear was the soft whimpering of Jonah the dog, as he lay dying at my feet. I looked towards the door and there, silhouetted in the light, was the figure of a woman holding a smoking rifle.
“Never did like that bloody animal,” she said, as she stepped forward into the room. Grimacing, she lowered the rifle, closed her eyes, and pulled the trigger again, putting the beast out of its misery. She paused there for a moment, eyes closed, shoulders hunched. She looked like the loneliest woman in the whole world. Then she looked up at me and smiled a beautiful, weary smile.
“Hello Lee,” said Matron.
I WINCED AS Matron dabbed the bite wound with antiseptic. The sanatorium was just the same as it had been before I left — the shelves a bit emptier and the medicine cabinet more sparsely stocked, but otherwise little had changed. It still smelt of TCP, which I found oddly comforting. Matron had changed though. The white uniform was gone, replaced by combat trousers, t-shirt and jacket. Her hair was unkempt and make-up was a distant memory. There were dark rings under her eyes and she looked bone tired.
“The head turned up here about a month ago and tried to take control,” explained Matron. “He started laying down the law, giving orders, bossing around dying children, if you can believe that.”
I could.
“He tried to institute quarantine, though it was far too late for that, and burial details made up of boys who were already sick. He seemed quite normal until one day, out of nowhere, he just snapped. No build up, no warning signs. He told Peter… Mr James, to help bury one of the boys, but he was already too ill to leave his bed, and refused. I thought the head was going to hit him. Then he just started crying and couldn’t seem to stop. He went and locked himself in his rooms and wouldn’t come out. I tried, a few times, to coax him out, but all I ever heard was sobbing. Then, after a few days, not even that. I didn’t have the time to see to him, there were boys dying every day and the head was O-neg so I just figured I’d deal with him when it was all over. But when I tried the door all I heard was the dog growling and I, well, I just couldn’t be bothered. Plus, really, I didn’t want to have to bury a half-eaten corpse. Still can’t believe the dog left him alone. Weird.
“Stupid pointless bastard,” she added. “What a waste.”
I didn’t think it was much of a loss, but I didn’t say so.
“Did you dig all those graves yourself, then?” I asked.
“No. Mr James helped. At first.”
“But you can’t have been the only one who survived. Some of the boys must have made it.”
I didn’t want to ask about Jon. He’d been my best friend since we both started here seven years earlier, and he’d stayed behind when his parents couldn’t be located. Mother had offered to take him with us, but the head had forbidden it — what if his parents came looking for him?
“Of the twenty who stayed behind there are three left: Green, Rowles and Norton.”
Jon’s surname had been Swift. Dead then.
“Oh, and Mr Bates, of course.”
“Eh? I thought he’d left?”
“He did.” Matron placed a gauze dressing over the wound and reached for the bandage. “But he came back about a week ago. I haven’t asked but I assume his wife and children are dead. He’s a bit… fragile at the moment.”
Bates was our history master. A big, brawny, blokey bloke, all rugby shirts and curry stains; fragile was the last word you’d use to describe him. He was well liked by sporty kids but he had little time for bookish types, and his version of history was all battles and beheadings. He was also the head of the army section of the school’s Combined Cadet Force, and he loved bellowing on the parade ground, covering himself in boot polish for night exercises and being pally with the Territorial Army guys they trained with every other month.
My dad didn’t think schools had any business dressing fourteen-year-old boys up in army gear, teaching them how to use guns, making war seem like the best possible fun you could have. He had made sure I knew the reality of soldiering — blood, death, squalor. “Don’t be like me, son,” he’d told me. “Don’t be a killer. Don’t let your life be all about death. Study hard, pass your exams, get yourself a proper job.”
So much for that.
I remember one Friday afternoon Dad stood at the side of the concrete playground we used for parade and watched Bates bluster his way through drill practice. At one point Bates yelled “RIGHT FACE!” especially loud, holding the ‘I’ for ages and modulating his voice so he sounded like a caricature sergeant from a Carry On film. Dad laughed out loud and everyone heard. Bates went red in the face and glared at him until I thought his head was going to explode. Dad just stared him down, a big grin on his face, until Bates dismissed us and stomped off to the staff room.
Anyway, Dad didn’t approve of the CCF, but Community Service for three hours every Friday afternoon sounded really dull — helping old ladies with their shopping might be character building but, well, old people smell — so I joined the RAF section. There was a lot less drill and shouting in the RAF section.
My special area of responsibility was weapons training — I taught the fourth-formers how to strip, clean and reassemble the Lee-Enfield .303 rifles that were kept in the weapons store next to the tuck shop; Matron’s rifle stood in the corner as she taped up the bandage on my leg, so Bates had obviously opened up the armoury. Made sense. I’d had a few close calls with gangs and vigilante groups on my journey back to school.
“There, all done,” said Matron. “You’ll be limping for a while, and I want you back here once a day so I can check for infection and change the dressing. Now, you should report for duty! Bates will want to see you. We’ve all moved into the staff accommodation block, easier to defend, so he reckons.” She noticed my curious expression and added, “He’s gone a bit… military. Overcompensating a bit. You should go see for yourself while I clean up here. Just remember to call him sir and salute and stuff. Don’t worry though, he’s harmless enough, I think. He’s been very good with young Rowles.”
“Okay.” I got up, winced again, and sat back down.
“Sorry,” said Matron. “No painkillers left. They’re on the shopping list for the next expedition, but ’til then I’m afraid you’ll just have to grit your teeth. I may be able to rustle up some vodka later, if you’re good.” She winked and grinned, then handed me a crutch. I hobbled away. Jesus, my leg hurt.
As I was turning the corner at the end of the corridor she popped her head out of the sickbay and called after me.
“Oh, and Lee?”
“Yes?”
“It really is very good to see you. We could use some level heads around here.”
Trying not to let my level head swell to the size of a football, I blushed and mumbled some thanks.
THE STAFF ACCOMMODATION was situated in the west wing of the main school building, an old stately home from the 1800s that was turned into a school about a hundred years ago. It was imaginatively referred to as Castle — not The Castle, or Castle House, just Castle. The two towers on either side of the main entrance made it kind of look like a castle, with mock battlements on the roof, but inside it was wood panelling, creaky floorboards and draughty casement windows.