The Fog - James Herbert [28]
And that my friend, he smiled to himself as he rose from his desk, is your goose cooked at any rate. He walked to the window, thinking of the despicable coach driver, Hodges. He was sure he had known the man years ago when he’d been in the army, but could not remember from which camp. Something in the man’s manner disturbed him, the seemingly casual remark, the sly look that crossed his face when he mentioned the war. Did he imagine he could intimidate him in some way? What exactly did Hodges know of his past? Well, whatever the loathsome man knew or did not know, he was a reminder of the past. And the past was something Summers wanted desperately to forget.
He raised the stump of his arm, the sight of it reviving memories of pain and humiliation. Had Hodges known the full story? Had his crafty comments alluded to the terrible incident and the reason for it? No, the army had been discreet. The few brother officers that had known of his weakness, and indeed, some of whom shared it, had covered up the affair as only the services could. He, himself, could not remember much about that night, but even now, thirty-odd years later, he could still feel the pain in his hand as though it were still there. The nights he had lain awake because of the dull, throbbing ache in a non-existent limb, the pain not coming from the healed-over stump, but from below it, where there was nothing.
And the damage had been much greater than just the maiming of his body. The maiming of his mind had caused him even greater suffering. Although the desire had still been there for a while after the accident, he discovered his body could no longer fulfil his needs. The discovery had frightened him, filling him with suicidal despair. But to kill himself required more courage than he would ever possess, so he had survived the mental torture and the physical wound, not because he was courageous, defiant to adversity, but because he was afraid to die.
Then, mercifully, after a few years, even the desire began to fade as though his mind had accepted the disability, not just compromised, but given in completely to the impotence of his body. He felt no yearning towards the young boys he taught, or attraction to the young men he came in contact with, although he still liked to be around them. The sight of youthful bodies no longer stirred him, but he could appreciate their beauty, like a man without sense of smell could continue to appreciate the sight of a rose.
Out of the corner of his eye, Summers caught sight of a figure lumbering along the driveway towards the main gate. Hodges. The hunched, shuffling gait was unmistakable. Summers smiled to himself, feeling a sense of agreeable pleasure in the knowledge that soon the man would no longer be an annoyance to him. He noted the bandaged head, glad that the injury had been inflicted. You deserve worse, he thought to himself and that’s just what you are going to get. Old Hayward was too soft, but this time he would not be able to dismiss his recommendation that Hodges be sacked. The report would have to go before the Governing Committee and they certainly would not tolerate the irresponsible actions of the driver-cum-odd-job man.
He abruptly turned from the window and glanced at his watch. Time to do a round of the school before his next lesson. He often did a quick tour of the school in his free period, feeling it was his duty as deputy head to make a regular inspection of the classes while lessons were in progress, even visiting the empty dormitories to ensure the boys had left them neat and tidy, beds made, side-lockers carefully packed. Many a boy had been punished for leaving a discarded sock under a bed. He secretly enjoyed going through their lockers, seeking out pornographic photographs or books, various items that could be confiscated, even sniffing at dirty handkerchiefs for signs of masturbation.