The Children's Book - A. S. Byatt [120]
• • •
There was also the Wild Boy. It was possible—Tom in the story entertained the possibility—that the Wild Boy was Tom’s Shadow. He was always glimpsed at a distance, at the other end of a tunnel, running fast. He was ragged and dusty, barefoot and fleeting. Sometimes he turned to wave, mocking or inviting, they did not know, before vanishing into the shadows.
They found him, of course. Hunter and his sidekicks, Blewett and Fitch, stalked through the boiler-room in dressing-gowns and slippers, shining a light into crannies and under ledges and pipes. They probably went on these boyhunts regularly, though this did not occur to Tom, who felt he was Tomallalone, unique, the single object of their mocking venom. Hunter’s dressing-gown was scarlet, wide-skirted, the colour of judges’ robes, with gilded braiding and a gold cord round his manly waist above his purposeful haunches. He had glossy beetle-black slippers, embossed with his crest, which had plumes and portcullises on it. The butts would clean the coal dust off the slippers the next day. Tom remembered, holding his breath, that he had himself performed that task, and was furious with himself for not seeing what it implied. They sauntered past his hiding-place, and he breathed again, and then, of course, they turned, and Hunter said “Let’s just cast an eye behind here—now what have we here, a naughty little newbutt, out of bed, with a little lamp and a filthy heap of paper, and a blanket too, all mod cons. You will see me tomorrow, Wellwood, and I’ll flay your buttocks for you. Now, show me what you’re reading to yourself. Some smutty tale, I’m sure.” He motioned to Blewett to seize the pages. Tom bared his teeth, like a rat, and cowered back, and panted.
“Bum-wad,” said Hunter. “Read it out, Blue, let’s hear what the little swine is masturbating with.”
Blewett read. He read badly, halting and humpy, putting on a false, exaggerated squeak.
Then Gathorn said “We need to go still further in, however dark it is.”
And Tom said “I would give anything, almost, to see the light of day. I am shadowless by torchlight and candlelight, I might as well be shadowless in the sun.”
And the Loblolly hummed a little tune, and said that rats were nearby, he could smell them, thousands of rats, swarming through the tunnel. And Tom said “I am afraid I may never come out of here alive.”
• • •
“What sort of crap is this?” said Hunter. “Stories for babies, whining babies who need bedtime pap like this. You won’t forget this in a hurry, Wellwood.”
Tom croaked “Give it back.”
“Did you write it yourself? It’s pretty comprehensive rubbish, isn’t it? And you know what we do with rubbish. We could cut it up for bum-wad. Or we could just chuck it in here,” he said, opening the door of the furnace.
A flame shot up from the surface of the incandescent coke-bed inside the boiler. Blue flames rippled, gold flames flickered, dull red patches sprouted on the exposed lumps. The stench was asphyxiating. Fitch began to cough, and Hunter began to throw Tom Underground, page by page, clump of pages by clump, into the open porthole. The story writhed and shrivelled on its bed of fire. Tom seized his Kelly lamp, which he had turned off, and hurled it at Hunter’s head. It struck his cheek, leaving a bruise and a blister, and poured lamp-oil down the scarlet gown, in dark stains.
“You could be sent away for this,” said Hunter, mopping his cheek with a handkerchief. “You nasty little turd, you could be hurled up in front of the Head, you could be beaten in front of the