Osgood didn’t answer.
“You’ve no idea, have you,” said The Bomber, “of the true magnitude of your achievement of a moment ago. Do you have any inkling of the battle waged year after year by generations of well-meaning idiots, to win you the right to such original expression? No? Well, I think you should be proud. You have farted on decency; on chastity, on morality, on modesty and on dignity. And everything else that was swept aside when we got this rubbish about equality stuck in our heads. You have farted on Privilege itself; a Privilege that ceased to exist a quarter century before you were bloody born.”
Osgood said, “Fuckin’ jack it in, mate.”
“Ah,” said The Bomber. “The other end of the oracle.
I think I preferred your previous utterance. I’ll jack is in when I’m good and ready, you hairy lout.”
The noise in the Group was rising. Another of the gang was behind her, evidently. Something—a ruler—had been pushed between her bottom and the seat. Now it was being worked forward and back. She wanted to run, run for the door, but her legs had turned to jelly. Pam had told her once, when she was trying to talk, that they were only cowards. But it wasn’t true, even that wasn’t true. She’d seen Osgood in the cycle sheds the time the two Fifthers tried to take him. The teeth, and the blood all coming; but he hadn’t cared. He got one with a bottle, the other with a long iron bar. Then he went walking round the School. He kept snorting and spitting, throwing out these great messes of red.
They were screaming at The Bomber now, all of them. Somebody—Janey, or Patricia—shouted, “Chapel fuckpig,” and Hughes exploded. “You,” he bellowed, “Out. You disgrace the remains of the dignity of woman.
Bloody well get out …”
Kolaszynski said, “That’s it then.” He slammed the tranny on the table in front of him, turned the volume up; and she watched, dazed, as The Bomber advanced again. “As for you, you dirty little sod,” he said, “I’m going to do something I’ve wanted to do for many weary years.” His hand flashed out and Kolaszynski, taken by surprise, was knocked sprawling. The tranny went with him, and The Bomber let fly with his boot. The tranny sailed across the room, hit the wall and burst.
Everything seemed to happen at once. The Duke roared a warning, but he was too late. Osgood rose, yelling, and charged; but for some reason he never reached his target. The Bomber seemed to pivot on his heel, lightning-quick; his hand flew up again and Osgood hit the desk corner, face first, with a terrible sound. “There’s a silly chap,” said The Bomber. “Slipped and hurt yourself, didn’t you? Who’s for afters?” Then in a bellow,
“Let that girl alone …”
It seemed her legs unfroze at last. She ran blindly, away from
the noise. Hands grabbed for her; she wrenched free, opened the door, slammed. A tinkling; and she thought she heard a scream. Then she was running again. She turned left and right, no longer motivated by conscious thought.
The washroom was a big, faintly echoing place. She groped along the line of cubicles. One smashed lock, another; the third bolt worked. She fell to her knees, fists on the pedestal edge, forehead on her hands. She shut her eyes and tried to control her breathing. It was as if hot brushes were scraping, inside her chest.
A long time later she lifted her head. She was conscious now of the pain in her knees from the concrete floor. She rubbed her face, pushed the hair from her eyes. The trembling had nearly stopped. She stood up shakily, brushed at her skirt. She reached for the doorcatch; and the footsteps outside halted.
She backed, eyes widening, pressed herself against the end wall of the cubicle. She realized, now, the washroom wasn’t empty. The paddings, whisperings; she’d been conscious of them all the time. She swallowed, and the sounds came again. Somebody laughed; and a voice called, soft and high. Impossible to tell even if it was a girl or a boy.
“Liza,”
it said.
“Fat Liza …”
Then something sailed over the partition top. Sparks stung her face; while in the confined space it seemed the bang was worse than the explosion of the night before. It left her deaf one side all the rest of the day.
3
On Saturday morning she walked into the village. Usually the phone box wasn’t working; but the smashed handset had been replaced only the day before. She dialled, not expecting an answer; but the receiver was lifted. Helen’s voice said, “Hello?”
She worked the coinbox. She said, “It’s Liz.” Then, “Yes. Yes, fine.” To her request Helen said, “David isn’t home. Look, I’m not too sure. I don’t know whether it would be a good
thing. Have you talked to your mother?”
Liz said, “She said to speak to you.” She could square Pam later.
Helen said, “I’m still not happy about it.”
She said, “It is important.”
A long pause. Then Helen said, “All right. I’ll try. But if they say no you will understand, won’t you?”
Liz said, “I’m … thank you. Very much.”
The phone said, “Look Liz, promise me something. You won’t get upset again, will you?”
Liz said, “I promise.”
The bus was quieter than those to which she was accustomed. Pamela sat tightlipped for a while, aware that she had been outmanoeuvred but unwilling to contradict the Properjohns. Later, as they reached the town, she thawed. She said, “Now remember what Helen told you. You’re not to get upset.”
Liz said, “I won’t.”
Pamela said, “I don’t expect they’ll let us stay more than a minute anyway.” A pause; then she smiled. She said, “You’re a good girl, Liz. It was thoughtful of you to want to come.”
The hospital was an enormous place, bigger even than she had imagined. They had to follow lines of certain colours, along this corridor and that. Once when she crossed a little courtyard the lines were painted on the asphalt. It was funny somehow; like a children’s game.
He was in a private room. It was very small. The nurse who took them in—or maybe she was a Sister—seemed disapproving; but the Properjohns’ name was magic. She said, “It’s five minutes at the outside.”
He looked different somehow, lying there in the bed. Smaller. His eyes were closed; and there was a big gauzy dressing on his head. His cheek was scratched all down one side. She supposed it must have happened when he fell. The marks looked very bright. A clip of notes hung on the bedrail; there was a side table with a bowl of flowers and a telephone. She could have brought some flowers. But she hadn’t thought.
She walked forward. She said, “Hello, Ian.” He opened his eyes; but they soon lost
interest. She said, “We came to see you.”
She was wearing her best jeans, and a bright checky shirt he’d said one time he liked. She said, “Are you feeling better? We wanted to bring Sheba but she couldn’t come in.”
She’d realized of course it wouldn’t be like the telly. When you got hit on the head in a gangster film you just got up and carried on. She said, “You remember Sheba, don’t you? You met her when you told me about the guns.”
He started fumbling at the bedclothes. He said, “
Gu
…
gu
…” His voice sounded queer and thick. She realized he was trying to say, ‘gun’. The nurse said, “I can’t have him disturbed like this. You can see how ill he is.”
Pamela was gripping her arm. She said, “We wanted to bring Sheba, but they wouldn’t let her in.” She said, “You remember Sheba,” then, “Ian,” then,
“Ian, Ian, Ian …”
Afterwards, when she had run back the way she had come and stood and held the railings for a minute and not cried, Pamela said, “Bunny, after all he’s not dead. He isn’t dead.”
“No,” she said. “Not quite.”
They took her, finally, on Tuesday afternoon at about half past three. She was crossing a corridor at the far end of B Block, near the Annexe that jutted out into the Quad. The Annexe they were still building. There were quite a few people about, pupils and some staff. But nobody paid any attention. Maybe it happened too quickly for them to see.
She heard the footsteps behind her, but her arms were grabbed before she could turn and a cloth or something pulled over her face. She was thrown off balance; they bundled her through a doorway, she heard it shut and the snap of the lock. She was pushed backward against something; shelving, or a rack. Then they took the blindfold off.
She had known for a long time now it would be the girls. There were three of them. The two that held her wore Batwoman gear. One was very tall, she supposed it was Patricia. The third one had on a velvety mask of Super Kat. She was wearing
light blue jeans that just showed her navel, and a white fluffy top. She looked really pretty.
She was surprised to find she wasn’t as scared as she had expected. She was going to be beaten up of course; but having it happen after so long was nearly a relief. Though Pam always used to say nothing was ever as bad as you imagined. And anyway she deserved it, for what she had done to Ian.
They were in a storeroom. Doors to either side, and a little window. There were grey metal racks round the walls, stacked with boxes and bottles. On one of the shelves lay cigarettes and a box of matches. Super Kat lit up, carefully. So she wasn’t in any hurry. Then she turned to stare at her. She could see her eyes glinting through the mask. She said, “We’ve got you now, you fucking little whore.”
The others had her arms pulled sideways, gripping her elbows and wrists. When they twisted the pain was really quite bad. The one she thought was Pat said, “Let’s get her boobs out.” She sounded eager. But Super Kat shook her head. She said, “She isn’t worth looking at.”
She stepped forward. She said, “You’re a fucking little whore. You tell tales about people, don’t you? And you spy.”
Liz said, “No, I don’t.” Super Kat hit her across the face. She was surprised how light the blow felt. Her cheek stung a little but that was all.
Super Kat said, “You tell lies. And you go to bed with your mother.”
She shook her head. She said, “I don’t.”
The next blow was harder. It brought her hair down across her face. She flicked her head, trying to toss it back.
Super Kat said, “You’re a little bourgeois whore. You used to let a policeman touch you up.” She slapped her again, then changed her tactics and punched. It took Liz by surprise.
She hung her head. There was a red hot ball of pain in her stomach, and she couldn’t get her breath. She panted for a time; then she was afraid she would be sick. When the pain went away a little she raised her head. Super Kat said, “That was nice, wasn’t it?” She punched her again, this time in the mouth. She felt her lip split, then it seemed to go numb. Super
Kat said, “You shopped us all to Hughesey boy. Ossie got his eye knocked out. And Joanne cut a vein.”
There seemed to be a lot of blood in her mouth. She hoped it wasn’t running down her chin. Super Kat put the cigarette out on her wrist. She said, “You used to let a copper rub you up. We know who it was.” She hit her several times more; but curiously the pain seemed less. Instead she was becoming angry. They were laughing at Ian, which wasn’t fair. Not after they’d made him cry by stealing his gun. On the heels of the thought came another, quite new and strange. She thought, ‘I was wrong, really. We were all wrong.’ She had realized, it seemed for the first time, that the fear she had walked in day after day might not be avoidable. It might even be necessary; but it wasn’t
natural
. It had to do with something David had said in his speech, about having rights as individuals, as people. It was like the lunch money racket, one hungry day a week the price of peace. She had grown
used
to it; so the real fault lay in her. It might be understandable, it might even be correct, to stand here in a storeroom and be beaten. But it wasn’t
natural
.
Super Kat was pushing something on to her knuckles. Four metal loops, like the handles of scissors joined in a curve. She said, “We’re going to mark you now.” She stepped forward again; and Liz convulsed.
She was stronger than they had realized; and their grip on her had slackened while she stood passive. One elbow, driven back, caught Patricia under the heart; and she hit out at the cat-mask with all her strength. Super Kat yelped, and instinct more than reason made her bring her knee up hard. Super Kat doubled up, crashed into the shelving. The rack shook; a bottle tipped and smashed and there was a great raw stink of chemicals.
She understood before the screaming started. She thought, “Alkalis are worse than acids.” The other door was unlocked. She ran through it, slammed. There was an empty classroom. She ran again for the passage beyond. The thought was still in her head. ‘Alkalis are worse than acids.’
She had her hands over her ears. She realized she could still hear the noise. The corridor turned left and there was a flight of steps. She ran up them, through another door. She
slammed it behind her, locked it.
She was in a big empty room. Sunlight streamed through the windows on two sides. For a moment she was confused. Then she realized where she was. It was the third storey of the Annexe. One of the new labs. Some benches were installed already. There were sinks let into them and high shiny taps. Packing cases stood about, and there was a smell of new wood.
There were two other doors. One led to a little store room, not much bigger than a cupboard. The other opened outside, on to a fire escape. It was already locked.
She went round opening drawers. She found some bottles with ground glass stoppers. The taps on the benches weren’t connected but there was a sink in the cupboard that worked. She filled two of the bottles, went back to the door. A noise was starting, in the corridor outside. The handle turned and rattled. A voice said, “Open up this instant.” She couldn’t see who it was, the panes were frosted to above head height. She shouted, “I’ve got acid.” The handle shook again and she threw one of the bottles. It hit the door just by the frame and smashed. Footsteps pattered outside. She peered through the hole she had made. There was nobody in sight.
She went to the windows. Main Quad stretched into distance, the Blocks that fronted it bright in sun haze. It all looked deserted somehow. She saw some children run from beneath D Block Annexe, stand staring up. They were ushered back.