Woodhill Wood (4 page)

Gurde took a step back and peered up the wall before patting the damp stone and walking on. Only the fall of the Wizard's Skull was more important than finding a way to climb up the Big Drop.

He glanced again at the watch. On the right, past the gates, the field stretched away, separated from the road by the line of Oaks and the rickety stick fence. He found the main gap in the fence and slipped through into the long grass.

The big white house in which he lived stood alone against the road, surrounded on three sides by a wilderness of wild grass running up to the base of the hills. In the summer the ground buzzed with grasshoppers, but early on an October morning the grass was silent. A few damp sheep wandered aimlessly, poking their heads down, ignoring the mist.

The field had once ticked and clattered to the sound of a woolen mill. The mill was now remembered only by the lonely lines of broken bricks and concrete slabs scattered amongst the stems. Gurde was glad the mill had died. From the white house, high above the town, he had only to leap the garden wall to be lost in the grass and rubble. Then a short sprint through the sheep and he could be back in the hills.

He paused and sniffed the air, feeling for the urge to return to the cliff, but missing two days at school would be hard to explain - and there was no sign - so he wandered along to the next hole in the fence and climbed back through to the pavement.

Time was up. He had to hurry to catch the bus. Gurde jogged along the kerb to where the houses and gardens of the town began in earnest, then headed down towards the main road.

At the junction he turned to face the uniform, black crowd and walked over the bridge towards the bus shelter. The children stood huddled in their groups. A few curious faces flicked as he approached before returning to their conversations.

Gurde leant his briefcase against the bridge and peered down into the brown water rushing beneath. A burst of high-pitched cackling erupted from deep inside the bus shelter and he immediately wondered what they were laughing at. He was wheezing from the jog down into town, so he crouched, checked no-one was watching, and then rolled two pink Ventolin pills from the little brown bottle in his pocket and slipped them into his mouth.

He peered back over the bridge wall to watch the water, letting the noise drown the sounds from his chest and hoping the bus would not arrive until the pills had started to take effect.

By the time the blue and cream double-decker appeared, the noise from the chest had begun to settle. The automatic doors hissed open and the black crowd moved to the kerb and jostled on board. Gurde joined the tail-enders and hurried up the turn in the stairs. The front half of the top deck was empty, so he had a choice of safe seats. He sat at the front and put a foot up against the windscreen, over the No Spitting sign.

The doors hissed shut and the bus moved out of the town towards the barren fields. He could hear all the conversations when the bus was quiet. It would be easy to hear any mention of his name, so he could relax and look out of the window, to watch the hills pass by.

Only a day had passed since he had stood amongst the trees and watched that same bus making its short journey along the valley.

The trees looked incredible. The steep faces of the other hills had yellowed coats of old bracken and grass. Yet there, at the centre, stood an oasis of shimmering green. Above the sacred line, at the grassy summit, Gurde could make out the silhouette of The Loner through the low cloud. He traced the path down from its twisted limbs to where the Wizard still clung on amongst the branches. It would take at least three days to haul the pole back into position, and it would have to be done soon.

Gurde watched the trees until they were obscured by the dark buildings of the next town. The bus trundled the length of the main street and pulled into the lay-by. The occupants piled off and hurried across the road. Quarter to nine: five minutes to get to school. Gurde tucked the briefcase under his arm and ran through the council estate to the tall grey buildings set at the base of the hills.

The playground beyond the gates was a mass of movement. The conker season was supposed to be over, but some of the younger boys persisted with their battles in one corner. In another corner a group of girls were clapping, chanting, and bouncing tennis balls against the main wall, all at the same time.

Gurde glanced around as he walked through the noisy crowd, trying to see where the icons had gathered. They were probably behind the sheds having a cigarette. It was going to be a good day.

He walked towards the main entrance. As he approached the wide glass doors the bells rang, so he hurried inside and up the stairs to the registration class. Registration for 3C was in the Chemistry classroom on the second floor. The door was open. Aitken was already at his desk, flipping through a pile of notes with a red pen in his hand. Gurde walked across to the desk and sat down. Aitken looked up.

"Duff."

"Yes, Sir?" Gurde replied.

"Where were you yesterday?"

"I was sick, Sir."

"Where's your note?"

"...Er.. My Mum forgot to do it this morning."

"What was it? Your chest again?"

Gurde nodded.

"Bring it in on Monday."

Aitken returned to flipping through his notes as the rest of 3C filed in and clattered into their places. Gurde stared at the desktop, read the graffiti for the hundredth time and waited for the silence.

The roll call was fired away as usual, punctuated only by the occasional question from Aitken when a name got no response. As soon as the list was complete the bell rang again and the class rose as one. First two periods: one hour and twenty minutes of Maths.

Stewart was late. He strutted into the room, slammed the door behind him and the class fell quiet. Few teachers had such an effect on thirty tired children, but then Stewart was well known in the school. He had a twitch in his left eye, a temper that exploded without warning, and a vicious flick in his wrist as the belt came down.

Some teachers didn't enjoy belting, some even had to get others to do it for them, but not Stewart. He was an expert. He knew exactly how high to raise his arm to get the maximum force into the thongs as they smashed against the upheld hands, and his belting always had the distinctive, sickening smack of a square hit. He rarely got his timing wrong and if he did he would try again.

The presence of Dougie Erskine in that class made it a particular favourite. Big Dougie sat at the back with a stubbly, square jaw and a distant look in his eyes. If the lesson was coming to an end without Stewart's daily practice, he could belt Dougie and nobody would complain.

Stewart was in a bad mood that morning and Gurde wondered who would be first out on to the floor. He had never been called out for punishment but he knew what it must be like. Sitting at the front he could watch the glazed expression shoot across the victim's face, and could almost feel the fine spray of sweat that exploded from the nervous palms, before the fingers turned scarlet as they were nursed away. Even Big Dougie still winced, though his palms were as thick as belt leather. The respect for Stewart's skill hushed the class as he threw his book on to his desk and turned to the rolling blackboard.

"Right. Books out. Chapter 11. Page 67. Quadratic equations."

He began scribbling examples on the blackboard. It was obvious that he didn't like teaching. He talked to his scribbles for fifteen minutes and then turned back to face us.

"Right. Examples on page 71. Number 4 to the end. On you go."

Then he strode back to his seat, flipped open his copy of the Daily Telegraph, and waited for the first hand to go up. The examples were attempted in silence, but every now and then a hand would raise, and Stewart would tut and march across to whisper the culprit through their problem.

After a while Stewart walked back to his desk, picked up a damp rag, and began to wipe the blackboard clean. Gurde watched the white scribbles disappear. He had watched them grow and had heard the voice explaining. He had hurried through the pages of examples with ease while the words were still fresh but as the scribbles were erased so was any memory of what they stood for.

"Right!" Stewart bellowed. "Yesterday afternoon I started setting you problems to do at home. For next Tuesday I want you to solve this quadratic equation."

He turned and began to write onto the damp patch that he had just cleared. Gurde copied it down carefully.

"Right. Anybody not done the problem I set yesterday?"

Stewart scanned the room with his good, determined eye. Gurde felt his heart sink and then begin to quicken. The Wizard's revenge.

"Right. Douglas Erskine? Let me see yours, sonny!"

"I haven't finished it, Sir."

"Out!"

Big Dougie rose slowly to his feet and began to edge through the desks to the front of the class.

"Who else? Johnstone?"

"Here's mine, Sir!"

"Anybody else?"

Gurde looked over his shoulder. Two other hands were raised. Gurde pushed a hand upwards to join them.

"Dixon and Dewar. And Baird."

"I wasn't here yesterday, Sir," Gurde announced.

"So? Out, the lot of you!"

There was a strange feeling of inevitability about the movements as Gurde rose and walked out into the huge space in front of the blackboard. The three others arrived at the same time. Nobody wanted to be first.

At least Gurde wasn't the only novice. Dewar looked as though he was going to be sick.

"Right. Erskine. You first, son. Up!"

Dougie stepped forward and raised his arms into the correct position without thinking. Right palm open, fingers together, left palm underneath for support, both arms straight. He stood facing the class so that Stewart could belt across his hands and the whole class could see the pain in his face. Stewart drew the leather strap from under his jacket where it had lain draped over his shoulder.

It was all so familiar, but Gurde was seeing it all from a new angle. The twitch in Stewart's eye quickened as he raised the strap in his right hand. The leather was thick enough to keep the belt as straight as a stick as it rose. Only the strips at the end bent over under as his arm passed the vertical. Then down it came, whipping in a smooth arc, to smack on to the open palm. The arms buckled beneath the blow, allowing the belt to curve on, but Dougie hardly flinched. He placed his arms by his sides, looked straight ahead and waited to see if he was going to get another. A simple nod from Stewart and Dougie was free. He shook his hand in the air as he left the stage, sat down and started blowing on to his cupped right palm.

"Dixon. Up!"

Stewart was leaving the two virgins till last. Dixon stepped forward. He had been through it all before but lacked Dougie's experience. He raised his arms, but Stewart had to move them into the correct position: up a little and across to the left.

Stewart knew, as we all knew, that if he struck a wrist the thongs would wrap themselves around and, as they were pulled away in the continuing arc, they would cut deep gashes into the skin. The true way to martyrdom was to cover the classroom floor in blood after a badly placed blow. Some teachers laid cloths over the wrists in case they missed their target, but such a display of uncertainty would have earned Stewart's scorn. He used no safety nets.

He placed Dixon's arms into the correct position and stepped back exactly the right distance to maximise the impact. Dixon clenched his teeth, closed his eyes, and the smack of another clean strike echoed around the hushed room. Dixon doubled over clutching his hand and scuttled away without waiting for permission. Luckily for him Stewart still had two others to relish.

He stared us each in the eye, looking for something. Gurde wanted to be next but a mixture of nervousness and the twitch in Stewart's eye caused a momentary smirk to flit across Dewar's lips. It was enough.

"Dewar. Up!"

Dewar hesitated. Gurde felt for him and wished him on.

"Come on, sonny. I haven't got all day!"

Dewar moved forward and raised his arms into position with several jerking movements. His hands were shaking as he watched the belt rise above Stewart's head and then, just as the belt began to fall, he instinctively whipped his fingers away. Stewart's swing was unstoppable. The strap shot downwards and slapped heavily against his own legs. He had to take a step forward to regain his balance. Gurde could hear the whole class draw breath.

"You little shit! Get those bloody hands up!"

Stewart rubbed his leg. Dewar wasn't moving fast enough so he grabbed the boy's wrists and jabbed them back into position.

"Do that again and I'll show you a few things! Up!"

Dewar raised his left hand to support his right and looked away.

The belt smacked hard against his palms and he buckled over. He let out a piercing wail and then he started to cry. There was no pity in the room. The one thing that mattered was keeping control; no satisfaction was to be given to the belter. Gurde could see heads shaking as they watched Dewar's jolts.