The Fog - James Herbert [27]
The boy grinned. It didn’t matter that the queer had recognized him. He hadn’t intended it to go this far, but now he decided. He would be overseas soon, probably killed in this fucking war, so the Captain was going to pay. No one would know who’d done it, he was a known poof. It could’ve been anyone. He raised the knife so the officer could see it clearly, enjoying the new paralytic fear in the other’s eyes. He grinned nastily as he walked towards the officer.
The explosion killed the boy instantly, throwing his body into the air as though it was a leaf blown by the wind. The Captain was knocked back by the blast and when he tried to sit up, his right arm would not support him. When he tried to see why, he dully registered that part of his arm wasn’t there any longer.
They found him a little later, sitting in the middle of the minefield, holding the bloody stump of his right arm, still wondering what had happened to the rest of it.
Everyone in camp knew what had happened all right, even though it had been hushed up. It had caused quite a stir and Hodges had relished every minute of it along with a thousand others. Summers had been discharged, of course, but on medical grounds; a one-armed captain was no use in a war. Hodges himself, to his regret, had been shipped off abroad a few months later and had soon forgotten the incident, his dim mind concentrating only on survival. It was not until five years ago when he’d shown the new deputy head into Mr Hayward’s study that he’d remembered. Summers hadn’t recognized him of course, but the one arm, the thin waspish figure, had brought it all back. He debated with himself whether he should inform the headmaster or not; a man like that shouldn’t be around young boys. He decided not to, feeling that somehow the knowledge might be put to his advantage eventually. Well, he had been right about that – today had proven it. Occasionally, he had enjoyed himself by hinting to Summers that he knew of his past. Nothing direct of course, just a seemingly casual remark about his army days, about the war, the ‘queer’ things that had happened. Hints as subtle as a kick in the groin, but Summers would merely look at him as though he were something the dog had neglected to bury.
He drained the brownish tea, took a swig from the whisky bottle for good measure, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and picked up the garden shears with the intention of trimming the hedges outside the front gate. He ignored the headache, blaming it on the blow on the head he’d received the day before. He went upstairs.
Summers sat in his study engaged in writing a full report of the coach incident for the school governors. He implicated Hodges, the driver, as wholly responsible because of reckless driving in extremely adverse weather. He finally put down his pen and sat back in his chair with a satisfied smile, quickly scanning the report then picking it up again to add a few words here and there, occasionally deleting a sentence, adding another, until he was sure that he was completely vindicated from any blame. After all, it was the headmaster’s idea that he should take his form out to the Plain in the first place. End-of-term restlessness, indeed. If he had had his way, the boys would have had a twenty-times-around-the-playing-fields trot to work off any restlessness they might feel. He rubbed his eyes vigorously, blinking rapidly when he took his hand away. Dratted headache! Throughout the morning, he’d felt a sharp pain across his eyes, only lasting a few seconds at a time, but nevertheless, extremely painful.
He shuffled the pages of his lengthy report together, now completely satisfied that it was ready to be typed by Miss Thorson, the school’s secretary and administrative cleric. Only the fact that it would be signed by the headmaster as well as himself