The Fog - James Herbert [29]
The boys, from bitter experience, knew of his quirks and were careful not to leave any incriminating evidence lying around. One had foolishly left a drawing of a one-armed man, crudely resembling Summers, on his knees peeping through a keyhole, the caption reading: ‘Beware, beware, Captain Hook is always there – especially if you are bare.’ The culprit had been severely dealt with by Summers personally, the headmaster not even being informed of the matter.
Summers left his study, ignoring the sudden pain again before his eyes, carrying the report under his arm. As he walked along the corridor he listened at each classroom door, almost wishing to hear the sounds of rowdiness. When he reached the headmaster’s outer office he handed over the document to the busy Miss Thorson. Satisfied with her guarantee to type it before lunch, he continued his round of the school. His own form, he knew, would be in the gymnasium, a comparatively new addition to the old school, a building that stood across the small playground away from the main building itself. They had all fully recovered from their shake-up of the previous day, a few proudly displaying their bruises to the other boys in the school who had not been on the outing to the Plain, and all glorifying the event beyond the facts. As Summers crossed the playground, unconsciously eager to see the boys performing their physical exercises, he hummed a tune to himself.
Hodges had almost reached the main gate when he suddenly stopped. He stood there for several minutes before he sank to his knees, dropping the cutting shears, holding his hands to his face. He rocked backwards and forwards for a few moments then fell forward so that he was on all fours, staring at the ground. The shears lay beneath him, glowing dully in the shadow of his body. He crouched back on his knees and grasped the handles, bringing the implement up before his eyes, staring at the shears without comprehension. He opened and closed them with one sharp snapping movement, then slowly rose to his feet. He turned and walked back towards the school, holding the shears before him with both hands as though they were a water diviner. He entered the main entrance to the old building and passed the open doorway to the headmaster’s outer office. Miss Thorson barely gave him a glance as she busily tapped away at her typewriter. As he walked down the corridor towards the rear of the school he caught sight through the open doorway to the playground of a black-gowned figure walking briskly towards the gymnasium. The thin, waspish figure, the stump of one arm swinging at his side, told him who the figure belonged to. He followed.
The boys had stopped halfway through the PE exercises leaving Osborne, their burly physical training master, jumping on the spot alone, arms and legs snapping in-out, in-out. One boy had ceased jumping first, then all the others, as one, had followed suit. They stood rigid, staring at the energetic teacher, their arms at their sides, no words passing between them, but somehow mentally in tune with one another. Osborne finally stopped his prancing and glared at the boys.
‘Who told you to stop?’ he thundered at them. ‘Well?’
The boys just stared.
‘Get cracking right away!’ He began jumping on the spot again but stopped as he realized they were not following his example. He marched angrily towards the boy nearest to him, unable to understand this sudden attitude, suspecting he might be the victim of some practical joke. Although a big bluff man who liked to shout and always reacted swiftly and roughly to any insolence, he was popular among the pupils and, to some, a kind of hero. His prowess at all forms of athletics and sports had won him the respect even of his fellow teachers.
‘What’s the game, Jenkins?’ he demanded of the blank-faced boy before him. The boy’s lips moved but no sound came from them. He pushed roughly past him to the next boy.
‘Come on, Clark, what’s all this about, eh?’
Clark, one of his personal favourites because of his promising ability as a sportsman, said nothing, but stared