Uncle Montague's Tales of Terror - Chris Priestley [41]
Francis's father was called and drove to the school that very afternoon. Francis found his interview with the headmaster, who ranted and slapped the desk so hard his lamp fell to the floor, far more preferable than his interview with his own father, who was quiet, even by his standards, and at his most annoyingly philosophical.
The fact that there were witnesses to testify that Harris had bullied Francis obviously counted for something, but Francis was annoyed to find that everyone seemed far more concerned with the fact that stupid Harris had almost lost the sight in his right eye than with the matter of his bullying. As far as Francis was concerned, he was a hero. Harris was a bully and he had done the school a service.
Most annoying was the attitude of Francis's father, who, having told his son to stand up to Harris, now sided with the teachers, who said that whatever the provocation this was not the behaviour they expected from their students. It was not what an Englishman did, apparently.
If Arthur Weybridge had not been as illustrious an old boy as he was, and such a generous benefactor to his old school, Francis would have been hustled out of school there and then. He was as unpopular with the staff as he was with his peers, but Francis would get another chance. It would be Harris who would go to another school, not he. There was some degree of satisfaction in that.
As it was, it was decided that the best thing for everyone would be if Francis was to leave school for a while and let things calm down a little. Mr Weybridge had been planning a trip to the Ottoman Empire for some time and so resolved to take his son out of school to accompany him. The trip would be an education in itself.
Arthur Weybridge was a bestselling author and illustrator of travel books. He toured the world in his trademark pale linen suit and Panama hat, writing about the places of interest he passed through and crafting his famously dense and meticulous pen and ink drawings as he went.
For his part, Mr Weybridge hoped that his example of industry, enquiry and perseverance might rub off on his wayward son, who, though clearly intelligent, seemed to lack any interests at all. But two months into their journey, this hope was proving a forlorn one.
As his father began to become absorbed in his drawing, Francis's attention was caught by a group of children standing nearby. They were gazing warily off at something that Francis could not see, there being a house blocking his view.
Whatever it was, it was clearly frightening, because Francis could see fear in the faces of some, and a defiant if unconvincing show of fearlessness on the faces of others. He was intrigued to know the source of this unease.
He edged his way round the building until he left its shadow and recoiled, wincing from the sunlight's sudden glare. As he squinted he saw a strange shimmering figure up ahead, expanding and contracting like a reflection in troubled water.
He blinked and when he looked again there was a small girl, about eight years old, thin and hungry looking, dressed in rags. Her face was pale and expressionless, her hair lank.
Francis watched as one of the children picked up a stone and threw it at the girl. By skill or luck, the stone flew with impressive accuracy and struck the girl on the side of the head, above her right ear. Francis smiled and shook his head.
The girl hissed with pain and put her hand to the wound. Francis could see the glistening of blood even from this distance. He stared, fascinated.
Francis invariably watched the activities of those around him with the bored detachment of an audience at a rather dull theatrical performance. He could not have recalled with any certainty if he had ever actually cared about anyone in his whole life, and yet, to his enormous surprise, Francis felt himself taking an interest in this complete stranger.
'Why don't you just back off, you idiot?' he whispered