Wicked! (64 page)

Other figures stood round self-consciously, rather apprehensively, drinking from bottles or smoking.

Millbank, a new boy in blue-striped pyjamas, almost fainting in terror, was loosely tied to a chair. He had bitten his lip through trying not to cry. Despite the heat from the boilers, he shivered uncontrollably.

‘Where’s Paris?’ snapped Cosmo.

‘Won’t come,’ said Anatole.

‘How pathetic is that. Three against one.’

‘I’m not risking it,’ said Lubemir, removing a blood-saturated handkerchief from his slashed cheek. ‘He knows who we all are.’

‘How?’ Cosmo was hoovering up every last speck of cocaine.

‘He listen,’ said Anatole. ‘How you think he’s such a good mimic?’

‘I’m going back to Boudicca,’ bleated Jade. ‘It was bloody scary.’

Cosmo grabbed her arm. ‘You’re not going anywhere.’ Then: ‘You can bugger off,’ he told Millbank. ‘You got off lightly, but don’t breathe a word’ – he jerked his head at Lubemir, who held the cigarette he’d just lit to Millbank’s jumping cheek – ‘or we’ll really sort you out. Understand?’

‘Yes,’ sobbed Millbank and fled.

Cosmo turned to the others.

‘Are you honestly telling me three of you couldn’t sort out that etiolated wimp?’

‘He pulled a knife on us,’ protested Lubemir.

‘Oh dear,’ sighed Cosmo, ‘I do hope he didn’t hold it like a pencil.’

62

Alex Bruce was incensed when Hengist gave any pupil who applied permission to go on the Countryside March. Far too many of the applicants had retakes the next day and would be exhausted and probably hungover.

‘And is championing blood sports really part of our Bagley ethos?’ asked Alex querulously.

‘Damn right it is,’ snapped Hengist. ‘Bagley Beagles have been going for nearly a hundred years and’ – he waved a hand in the direction of Badger’s Retreat – ‘isn’t that country worth saving?’

Patience asked Paris if he’d like to join her on the march.

‘Rupert Campbell-Black, Ricky France-Lynch and Billy Lloyd-Foxe are all going. Rupert’s taking his dogs. It should be a fun day out.’

Paris replied coldly that he didn’t approve of blood sports.

‘Alex and Poppet don’t either,’ said Patience with rare edge. ‘It’s not just blood sports, it’s the whole tapestry and livelihood of the countryside, which this Government is hell-bent on destroying, totally undermining the poor farmers. If hunting goes, thousands of people will lose their jobs, and thousands and thousands more horses and hounds will be put down. People who make such a fuss about killing foxes don’t give a stuff about the horrors of factory farming or the dreadful transport of live animals.’ Realizing she was shouting, Patience stopped in embarrassment.

‘Still bloody cruel.’ Paris stalked towards the door. ‘Is Ian going?’

‘No, he’s dining with a supplier.’

‘I’ll dogsit,’ said Paris as a peace offering.

Later he kicked himself when Dora told him that Xav and Bianca were also going, adding:

‘Bianca’s such an applause junkie, she can’t resist crowds and photographers.’

Deliverance seemed at hand when Xav asked Paris to join them. Alas, social services stepped in. Paris couldn’t join their party because Rupert hadn’t been cleared by the Criminal Records Bureau.

‘I can’t imagine he ever would be,’ said Alex nastily.

Boffin Brooks rose at six most mornings ostensibly to conjugate Latin verbs but in reality to spy on his housemates. Early on the Saturday before the Countryside March, he caught Xav in bed smoking a spliff and reading a porn mag. Noting the ecstasy with which Xav was inhaling, like a chief drawing on a peace pipe, Boffin launched into a sermon in his nasal whine:

‘People smoke to look cool, Xavier, or because they’re forced to by bullies or peer pressure.’

Boffin’s spectacles enlarged his bulging eyes. Shaving his meagre ginger stubble, he had deheaded several spots, reducing his face to an erupting volcanic landscape. His full red lips were salivating at the prospect of reading that disgusting porn mag before he handed it over to Alex.

‘I might be fractionally more lenient, Xavier, if you told me who sold you the stuff.’

‘I’m not grassing up anyone, so piss off.’ Inhaling deeply, Xav blew smoke rings at Boffin.

Boffin looked pained.

‘It must be in your blood, Xavier. Colombia not only trains and supports the IRA and many other forms of terrorism, but also destroys billions of lives as the drug centre of the world.’

‘Nice place for a weekend break.’

‘Only place you won’t be this weekend is the Countryside March. My only recourse is to report you to Mr Bruce,’ at which point Xav launched himself at Boffin.

‘You little idiot,’ Hengist yelled at Xavier later in the morning. ‘I know how you wanted to go on that march. Why on earth did you screw up? Drugs are not allowed and that’s the second time Boffin’s teeth have been knocked out in a year. How can I do anything but gate you? Your father will be devastated.’

My father couldn’t give a stuff, thought Xav despairingly. He’ll just regard it as another cock-up on my part.

My first leave-out and no one to look after me – thank God, thought Paris as Patience and Ian left the house.

He brushed Northcliffe, partly from self-interest to keep the dog’s pale gold hair off his clothes; then he lit a fag and, pouring himself a glass of red, collapsed on the sofa in front of the television, where he was shortly joined by Northcliffe, who was not allowed up when Ian was around. Liverpool had won yesterday, so Paris flicked over to mock the Countryside March for a second and stayed to pray.

‘There’s Dora,’ he shouted in excitement, shoving Northcliffe’s face towards the screen as, dressed in jodhpurs and a hacking jacket, Dora marched proudly past chattering to Junior and the Hon. Jack, who were blatantly smoking and shouting to pretty girls among the mass of spectators lining the route.

They were followed by Isa Lovell, former champion jockey, now Rupert Campbell-Black’s trainer, with his swarthy gypsy face, and by Rupert Campbell-Black himself, still the handsomest man in England, his eyes the colour of blue Smarties, his face expressionless as he ignored the cheers of the crowd. He was accompanied by half a dozen dogs: lurchers, terriers and Labradors, who kept stopping to fight each other and attack dogs in the crowd, until Rupert called them back.

Inside, Rupert was raging and desolate that Xav as part of the clan wasn’t beside him. Instead, running to keep up, was Junior and Amber’s father, Billy Lloyd-Foxe, laughing helplessly, grey curls astray, wearing a tweed coat with no buttons and an equally buttonless shirt, held together by his tie.

Reporting the march for the BBC, shouting over the tooting of hunting horns, Billy was giving an unashamedly biased commentary. ‘This is the countryside fighting back, making its protest seen and heard, with the largest march London has ever seen.’

Even Paris couldn’t restrain a cheer for the three couple of the Bagley Beagles, sterns waving like wheat in a high wind, and in their midst, a large grinning chocolate Labrador pausing to gobble up a discarded Cornish pasty.

‘Cadbury,’ shouted Paris. Even Northcliffe opened an eye.

In charge of the beagles, blowing their hunting horns, flicking their token whips, were Amber and Lando, glamorous in their teal-blue coats, breeches and black boots.

‘I shagged that girl last summer,’ said Paris, topping up his glass. He wished he could remember more about it.

And
look
at her: an utterly stunning blonde with the same cool face, blue eyes and ferociously determined mouth as Rupert. It must be his daughter Tabitha, the silver medallist, and that must be her husband Wolfgang who produced films, to whom Xav had promised to introduce Paris: ‘So he can discover you.’

Close on their heels came a group who’d clearly had an excellent lunch. According to the commentator, they were former members of the England polo team. Except for Lando’s father Ricky, who had a closed, carved, ascetic face and very high cheekbones, they all had handsome, flushed, expensive faces. Two of them, identical twins in their thirties, were holding lead reins attached to the wrists of a beautiful girl. Paris gasped. It was Bianca, inspiring as many cheers and wolf whistles as her father.

She had tied a scarlet bandanna round her dark ringlets and wore a flame-red wool shirt and dark blue breeches which clung to her impossibly supple and slender figure. Her lovely even complexion, the colour of strong tea, was faintly touched with colour. But neither twin could restrain her wonderful wildness. You could more easily have trapped a sunbeam as she skipped and danced, her laughing dark eyes making love to every man in the crowd.

Bloody hell. Paris refilled his glass. For, just behind Bianca and the twins, advancing fast, waving a ‘Bring back Blair-Baiting’ poster, his black curls flowing out from under his flat cap like Sir Lancelot, strode Cosmo.

‘Fuck him,’ said Paris, then his heart lifted as Patience came into view. ‘There’s your mistress,’ he chided Northcliffe who was burying a Bonio in the camellia by the window.

Patience might resemble a scarecrow, but she looked so sweet and carefree as she laughed and gossiped to the Hon. Jack’s father, David Waterlane and – my God – to Sally Brett-Taylor. It was brave of her to stick her neck out. All three of them were walking backwards now to watch and clap a piper who was leading a large contingent from Scotland, marching behind.

He could just imagine them: knights and ladies of the court, straight out of Tennyson, riding through medieval England on their great horses, a bobbing flotilla of white placards lit by the turning plane trees and Patience part of it. How dare Ian put her down so much? And what a tragedy for Xav not to be there.

I loathe what they stand for, he thought despairingly, but I long to be accepted by them. And Bianca was the only person who might get him over Janna, whom he still missed unbearably. He tried not to think of her. He hadn’t glanced at the
Gazette
for weeks, nor been in touch with anyone from Larks. His mobile was dying from lack of use.

If only Janna were here with him now, discussing some poem, casually ruffling his hair. But if Sally was on the march, that satyr Hengist was probably now at Jubilee Cottage shagging her. Jesus, it crucified him. Paris was about to open another bottle when he realized Rupert was addressing the crowds in Whitehall. The clipped, arrogant, carrying voice hardly needed a microphone.

‘We will not let a politically correct but morally corrupt Government dictate to us. We will fight to the death for what we believe in: England, freedom and the countryside.’

‘What about Wales, Scotland and Northern Ireland?’ reproached Sally Brett-Taylor, over the roar of approval.

‘And of course the colonies,’ grinned Rupert, chucking an empty hipflask to an adoring fan who rushed off to the nearest pub to refill it.

God, he’s a cool bastard, thought Paris, and Xav was his only route to Bianca. Picking up the Cartwrights’ telephone he rang Xav. ‘Patience and Ian are out. Why don’t you come over? Got any weed?’

‘Some really strong skunk; it’ll blow your mind.’

Happily Alex and Poppet had gone out and the deputy housemaster, Joe Meakin, who was new to the job and engrossed in the Sunday papers, was in charge.

‘Can I nip over to the Old Coach House? Paris Alvaston’s on his own and a bit down, adjusting to a new school and all.’

‘OK, don’t be late,’ said Mr Meakin, glad that Xavier had found a friend. The poor boy seemed so isolated.

‘I’ll sign myself out,’ said Xav, and didn’t.

Collecting the skunk, he put a pillow in his bed.

63

‘Are you sure it’s safe?’ he asked Paris ten minutes later. ‘If I’m busted again I’ll get sacked.’

‘Quite safe. Ian’s out to dinner; Patience is on the march.’

Having finished the red, Paris handed Xav a glass of Ian’s whisky and had one himself.

‘Your dad made a good speech; I taped it. I understand now why you wanted to go.’

Xav’s face sank into sullenness.

‘They wouldn’t want a black bastard like me around.’

‘Don’t talk crap, they all cheered Bianca. Have a look,’ said Paris winding back the tape. He wanted to watch her again. ‘And hurry up with that smoke. Ian’s obviously been watering the whisky; it tastes like gnat’s piss. Who are those dirty old men holding Bianca’s lead reins?’

Xav looked up from the tobacco and the skunk which he was shredding into a king-sized Rizla.

‘The Carlisle twins. Good blokes. The two in front are Bas Baddington and Drew Benedict, friends of my dad’s who played polo for England. All terrific studs, who like to wind up Dad, who was the biggest stud of all, by chatting up Bianca. He goes ballistic,’ Xav added wistfully. ‘He hates people chatting up Mum too. Give me a slug of that Courvoisier; you’re right about the whisky.’ He emptied it into a nearby plant pot.

‘You may not be the brain of Britain,’ giggled Paris half an hour later, ‘but you’re a genius at rolling spliffs.’

Xav had obviously had plenty of practice, and he’d been right about the skunk: it blew their minds, putting them in a really mellow and expansive mood.