Chapter Text
Something was beeping. The rhythmic sound dragged Charles out of the haze of confused memories swirling through the dark of his dreams.
He had been running from something—or someone. It had been dark. Cold. There had been trees. The shout of voices somewhere behind. He remembered crawling into a corner. Somewhere small, where he could hide. There had been someone else there, hadn’t there? Someone nice. They’d spoken to him softly. It had felt safe while they were there.
It wasn’t safe any longer. Something felt very wrong, like he was still running through those trees. He was in danger. The beeping didn’t help, the way it was getting faster, matching the rhythm of his heart. He wished that gentle voice he half-remembered would talk to him again.
“Charles? Can you hear me?”
His heart sped up another notch. He drew in a sharp breath. This was bad—he had to open his eyes. He had to wake up. If his alarm hadn’t gone off again, and he’d made them late, he was going to be in for it. Just like the morning he’d returned to St Hils—
“It’s all right, son, you’re in the hospital,” his dad said loudly, and Charles’s heart dropped like a stone into freezing water.
It had to be bad if he’d been landed in hospital again, but Charles couldn’t even remember what it was he’d done. He knew he couldn’t ask though. That had always made things worse, and if he was in hospital, it already had to be really fucking bad. He wondered what excuse his dad had given them this time. What story he was going to be expected to confirm. Like the time he’d fallen off a bike, or out of a tree. Or the one that wasn’t even really a lie, when he’d fallen down the stairs. They just hadn’t mentioned the part where his dad was standing at the top.
Except that didn’t make sense, did it? He’d gone to school. Last time he’d seen his dad was the morning his parents had dropped him off after the Christmas break. His dad had slapped him on the shoulder, all friendly like, and told him to behave himself, and Charles had just smiled through the pain.
So, maybe whatever had happened didn’t have anything to do with his dad? Now that he thought about it, there had been a fight, hadn’t there? Nige, Petey and Jimmy laying into that new lower fifth while Dan and Brian stood around watching. It’d had something to do with him being from Pakistan, even though for all they knew he’d never even been there. But none of that mattered—you couldn’t go around hurting people because of where you thought they came from.
Nige and Petey hadn’t been that pleased when he’d told them that. They’d had a few choice words for him and then—Charles didn’t remember. Had he been running, or was that just a nightmare? Had it gone beyond his mates shouting in his face, or was that all a bad dream?
“Which of these bloody buttons do I press for the nurse?” his dad grumbled beside him.
Charles recognised that tone. It was the one that meant the belt was coming off. There was no way he was going to subject some poor nurse to his dad in that kind of a mood. He forced his eyes open, and his mouth to work.
“Dad?”
His voice was barely there, but it did the trick. It got his dad’s attention. He abandoned the mess of wires and machines he’d been peering at and loomed over the bed. To Charles’s surprise, he was smiling.
“There he is,” he said. “Told them you were going to pull through. No son of mine’s going to die of hypothermia.”
Hypothermia? Charles wished he had some idea of what had happened, but that line of thinking was cut short when his dad put out a hand towards his face. He froze, rather than flinching—flinching never ended well for him—but his dad was gentler than he’d ever been as he brushed Charles’s hair back.
“Your mum’s gone for a lie down,” his dad continued, his hand still resting in Charles’s hair. “I should probably go and tell her you’ve woken up. She’s been worried. We both have.”
That didn’t sound right. Not that his mum had worried, ‘cos she always did. But Charles didn’t remember the last time his dad had been worried about him. That didn’t happen. He just told Charles to buck up, because men didn’t cry about a few bruises, did they? They probably weren’t meant to cry over something like hypothermia either. Hypothermia was a fancy word for getting too cold, and Charles wasn’t meant to complain about that, not even in the middle of winter when he needed to go to bed in three layers and his thickest pair of socks so he wasn’t shivering too much to fall asleep.
So if his dad was worried, he probably wasn’t happy about it. And if his dad wasn’t happy, it was only a matter of time before he passed that on to Charles.
“I’m okay, Dad,” he croaked, forcing the words out through his dry mouth.
“Here, let’s get you some water,” his dad said. He left the bedside and returned a moment later with a plastic glass and straw, and Charles was too stunned to do anything but open his mouth as his dad offered the straw to him. “There we go, son. Better?”
“Yeah. Thanks,” he said after taking a few sips. He still didn’t understand why his dad was acting like this. Had someone been asking questions? Charles hoped to God they hadn’t, because he’d always been told what the consequences would be if people started asking the wrong sort of questions.
His confusion only grew when his dad set the glass aside and turned to look at him with a weary expression. “You know, son, you can say if you’re not okay. The doctors said it was touch and go for a bit. They said if they’d not found you when they did, we could have lost you.”
Charles was shocked to hear the lump in his dad’s throat as he spoke. He’d never in his life heard him sound so choked up—and it was about him. About losing him. That didn’t make any sense.
“Look.” His dad sat down on the edge of the bed and took Charles’s hand. “When they told me that you’d nearly died… Well, it made me realise I haven’t always been the best dad, and that I’ve been pretty hard on you. That’s going to stop, now. When you next come home, there’s going to be some changes. I’m going to try and do better—I promise.”
Charles couldn’t really believe what he was hearing. It sounded like an apology. It sounded like his dad regretted the way he treated him. Was he still dreaming? It didn’t feel like it, but this was too good to be true. He didn’t quite believe it. Most likely his dad was just saying things in the moment.
“Guess I can try and do better too,” he said, glancing down at his free hand on the bed covers. He’d tried before, was the thing. It had never quite stuck. Sooner or later he did something that pissed his dad off. He didn’t see why it would be any different this time around.
“Don’t worry about that, son,” his dad said, and squeezed his hand gently. “The only thing you need to worry about just now is getting better. Let’s see about getting one of those doctors in here to check you over, eh? And I’ll fetch your mum. She’ll be glad to see you looking more like yourself.”
“Thanks,” Charles said as his dad got up and headed for the door. It’d be nice to see his mum, at least. Maybe she could tell him what he was doing here, and why his dad was being so nice about it.
*
The next few days passed in a blur of medical examinations and questions from the doctors about how he was feeling. Charles did his best to answer honestly, for the most part. He didn’t mention the marks he’d returned to St Hils with: the ones that had been there long before his friends turned on him.
No one else did, either. He kept waiting for one of the nurses or doctors to bring it up. At first he thought they were just waiting to catch him alone, but they made no mention of it even when his parents were out of the room. Charles knew he wasn’t supposed to say anything. That was why his dad was being so nice to him still, and why he was buttering him up with chocolate bars from the gift shop. Every time he brought one up, he joked that Charles shouldn’t tell the doctors, and he didn’t. He wasn’t sure if it was a test or not.
If he was being honest, he wasn’t even sure why he was still in hospital. He felt fine, and he hadn’t even needed surgery or anything. His bruises had faded to almost nothing and it seemed like there were no lasting ill effects from the hypothermia. There was no reason for him to be in hospital rather than back at school, or at home.
“They just want to keep an eye on you for a bit longer,” his mum said, when he’d been in for five days with not even the slightest hint of him being released. “And you still haven’t told us what happened.”
“Don’t remember much, do I?” he muttered, turning his attention back to the telly his dad had wheeled in several days ago so he didn’t have to see how worried she looked.
When he’d first used that line, the doctors had frowned and reassured him and his parents that they were sure it would come back to him—and it had. Over the past few days, he’d remembered everything. Or nearly everything, anyway. He didn’t know what had happened after he went to ground in the attic. Who had found him and how he’d got to hospital was all a blank. At least that meant he didn’t remember if half the school had seen him being carried out to an ambulance.
But he knew what his mates had done to him. He just didn’t know how much of it they’d admitted to—if they’d admitted to anything at all. For all he knew, they could’ve claimed he decided to go for a swim in the lake all by himself, and he didn’t want it to be his word against theirs.
He knew how that would go. The same way it always did.
“You won’t be in any trouble, Charles, no matter what happened,“ his mum promised, taking his hand.
If only he could believe that. He shook his head without looking at her, staring unseeing at the fuzzy picture on the telly—Saturday’s football match, which his dad had recorded at home and sent in with his mum. He wasn’t even sure what the score was, but at least it gave him an excuse not to meet her eyes. After a moment, she sighed and reached over to stroke his hair, fussing with the curls like she used to when he was small.
“If you don’t want to go back to St Hilarion’s, we can arrange a place for you closer to home,” she said, moving on the smooth down the bedsheets around him. “Your dad and I will understand.”
Charles didn’t believe that for a second. He’d spent the last five and a half years being told about how expensive his uniform and sports kit were, and about how his dad was working his fingers to the bone to send him to a posh school. St Hils had always been a mark of honour for him: he could send his kid to a fancy boarding school, which made him better than the other blokes at work or at the pub. There was no way Charles could just transfer to the local collage. His dad would never let him hear the end of it.
“Be weird to move now,” he said. “It would mess up my lessons and everything, wouldn’t it? Anyway, this’ll blow over quick enough. Stuff like this always does. Bet they’ll be talking about something else already.”
His mum made a disbelieving sound, but didn’t argue. “If you’re sure,” she said, “But I was thinking it might be nice to have you home.”
In a way, it probably would be. No more chapel every Sunday morning, no sleeping in dorms with lads he couldn’t trust any more, his mum’s cooking. But it would also mean going back to his bedroom in the basement, and to his dad. He didn’t think that the kinder version of him who’d shown up in the hospital would stick around once they were behind closed doors.
He managed a shrug, though that was difficult when he was pinned in beneath layers of blankets that were meant to keep him from getting too cold.
“Wouldn’t want to get in the way,” he said. Then a thought occurred to him, icy-cold fear spreading through his veins.
If he’d got into trouble over this—if his mates had spun this so he was the one at fault—then maybe they were kicking him out? Or at least, making it impossible for him to stay. There was no way his parents would afford the fees.
“They’re not going to take my scholarship away, are they?”
“Of course not,” his mother soothed. “Your father has been talking to your headmaster. He’s made it quite clear that there won’t be any consequences for you. He says the school just wants to find out what happened, so that anyone else involved can be dealt with.”
Nige, Petey and the others would be pissed off if they got landed in detention because of Charles. He didn’t know what story they’d come up with, though, so he couldn’t exactly back up whatever they’d said. He wasn’t even sure he wanted to. They deserved to face some kind of consequence for what they’d done, but Nige’s dad was rich enough that he could probably get away with murder and Charles didn’t want to be the one to dob them in. They’d definitely find out and make him pay for it. They had done back when they were thirds, over little things like copied homework and breaking curfew, so why would this be any different?
He was about to ask her what was meant to have happened, but before he could, the door swung open and his dad strode in, followed by Mr Birch, the headmaster. Charles immediately snapped to attention, or tried his best to—it wasn’t easy when his mum was fussing over him. He braced himself for some comment about how she was going to make him soft. There’d probably be a clip round the ear for him when Mr Birch was gone.
Instead his dad just chuckled at the sight and addressed Mr Birch. “You’ll have to forgive the missus. You know what women are like, and we did have a bit of a scare.”
“Yes, I can only imagine,” Mr Birch said. He stood at the foot of the bed and peered at him. “And how are we feeling today, Charles? Much improved, I hope?”
“Yes, sir. Thanks,” Charles said.
As they spoke, Charles’s dad had sidled up to his mum. “Would you pop down to the café and bring me and Mr Birch a cup of tea?” he asked quietly. “We’ve had a long drive, and he’ll have to get back to the school soon. You can pick up a treat for Charles, as well.”
His mum frowned but she got to her feet. “Yes, all right.” She paused to squeeze Charles’s hand one last time before heading towards the door. “I’ll be back shortly. Thank you for coming, Mr Birch.”
The three of them watched her go, and then both Mr Birch and Charles’s dad turned their full attention back to him. His dad turned off the telly.
“Sorry to interrupt the match, son, but you can watch it later. Mr Birch has a few things he’d like to ask you,” he said. He didn’t take the seat at the head of the bed and instead stood beside Charles with his arms folded.
“Indeed. Before we begin, allow me to reiterate what I have already said to your father: you will not be punished for anything that happened last Wednesday. We have spoken to the other boys involved and have a picture of what happened. I have come here today to hear your version of events,” Mr Birch said.
He paused, clearly giving Charles the option to start talking now and tell them everything. Except Charles didn’t know what he was supposed to say. They had a picture of things, but he had no idea how accurate it was—and he was still sure they wouldn’t believe the truth, even if he told them. Or if they did, they wouldn’t want to do anything about it.
Mr Birch sighed. “Perhaps I can jog your memory. I understand that you came to the defence of one of the lower fifths. He has recovered from his ordeal after a spell in the infirmary, you will be pleased to hear, and was quite willing to tell us the names of his attackers: James Armstrong, Brian Cunningham, Daniel Hopkins, Barnaby Peters and Nigel Smethwick. Is that correct?”
Charles nodded. He didn’t mind confirming that much. Mr Birch had to be pretty certain if he was listing them like that, and anyway, he wasn’t the one who’d get into shit. It didn’t mean he was going to talk about anything else that had happened that night, though.
Mr Birch remained silent a moment longer, as if was expecting Charles to continue the story. When he didn’t, he picked up where he’d left off.
“It is my understanding that they did not take kindly to your interference and sought retribution. The fact that there were blows exchanged is not up for debate. We also know that Armstrong and Peters were the ones responsible for you ending up in the lake.”
And Nige, Charles thought, but didn’t say that part out loud. Of course he’d managed to weasel his way out of being blamed, even though it had been his idea. Of all his mates, Nigel Smethwick was the nastiest, and the most untouchable. Maybe it was true that Petey and Jimmy were the ones who’d tossed him in the lake, but they’d never have thought to do it if Nigel hadn’t told them to. He was probably the one who’d ‘confessed’ to Mr Birch, too—played down his own part and thrown his best mates under the bus to sell the story.
Charles’s dad laid a hand on his shoulder. “Is that all that happened, son?”
He nodded. He wasn’t going to invite trouble with Nigel—he wasn’t that stupid. Especially not now he knew exactly what he was capable of, and definitely not if he was selling out Petey and Jimmy. When Mr Birch raised his eyebrows, he added, “That’s about it, yeah.”
“You are sure there is nothing more you would like to tell me, Charles?” Mr Birch asked. “We do intend to punish the perpetrators in accordance with their involvement, so if there were any other ringleaders besides Armstrong and Peters—”
“No, sir,” Charles said quickly. Whatever Mr Birch said about punishments, none of them were going to touch Nigel. He was pretty sure Nigel’s dad would sue for slander, too.
“I see,” Mr Birch said. His expression was very serious as he turned to Charles’s dad. “And now that we have confirmation from your son, may I ask if you will be pursuing this matter with the police, Mr Rowland?”
Charles’s eyes widened and he whipped around to look up at his dad. There was no way he’d want to get the police involved—not when they’d start asking questions about Charles’s injuries, and maybe wonder where his scars had come from—but to his complete surprise, it looked like he was actually considering it. The hand on his shoulder squeezed tighter.
“We did almost lose him because of those idiots,” his dad said.
Mr Birch nodded. “Terrible business. You would have the school’s full support if you decided to take this further,” he said. “Though I am sure the other families involved would prefer that we handle this privately, and should you choose to do so, I can assure you that Charles will come to no further harm from the boys involved.”
“Dad, I don’t want to make a fuss,” Charles said. It wasn’t like he could stand up in court and say that all of his injuries had come from his mates. He wasn’t sure he wanted to go over it all in front of his mum, either—she was upset enough just hearing about his healing injuries from the doctors.
His dad frowned down at him, but he mostly looked worried rather than annoyed, for once. “You wouldn’t be making a fuss, son. I don’t mind getting us a good lawyer if that’s what it takes.”
Even if he did, whatever lawyer they could afford would be ripped to shreds in court by the legal team Nigel and Petey’s dads would no doubt pay for if either of them were implicated. He shook his head. “I just want to forget any of this happened,” he said. That wasn’t a lie, and it wouldn’t embarrass his dad in front of Mr Birch. He glanced at the headmaster, wondering just how much he meant it that the school intended to punish those involved, and added, “As long as I don’t have to deal with them, it’ll be fine. Mr Birch can handle it.”
“I can assure you, that will be arranged,” Mr Birch promised.
“It had better be,” his dad said firmly. “I don’t want to hear of any of those lads causing trouble for Charles in future, or else I’ll be making a complaint.”
“Of course, Mr Rowland, I quite understand. We cannot have this sort of behaviour at St Hilarion’s. I am going do everything in my power to prevent any further incidents involving your son—or indeed, any other students,” Mr Birch said.
He looked like he wanted to say more, but just then, the door clicked open behind him and Charles’s mum returned carrying a cardboard cup holder with three takeaway drinks. “I’m so sorry, there was a queue.”
“That’s quite alright, Mrs Rowland,” Mr Birch said, moving to hold the door for her and then accepting the cardboard cup she passed to him. “Charles and I have had a very productive chat in your absence. However, I’m afraid I must take my leave—there is much to be done back at the school. Thank you for the drink, I will enjoy it in the car,” he said. He started pulling the door open, then paused and turned around. “Before I go, please allow me to express, on behalf of all the staff at St Hilarion’s, our deepest apologies for what happened last week. We are all very glad to know that Charles is feeling better, and we’re looking forward to having him back in school.”
Charles wondered if that was really true or if some of the teachers would’ve been glad to see the back of him. He could think of one who definitely hadn’t missed him. Still, it wasn’t like he could bring that up. He didn’t particularly want to think about the sort of welcome he’d get from the rest of the school. It wasn’t like he could continue palling around with his old mates after what they’d done to him, and if he’d gone and got them all in trouble they’d be quick to make him regret it, no matter what Mr Birch said.
“How soon do you reckon I can come back, sir?” he asked, rather than go into all of that.
“Your father was saying that you would be discharged this week,” Mr Birch said. “I will speak with the students involved this afternoon, and have everything dealt with by the end of the day tomorrow. I see no reason to delay your return beyond that unless you family or your doctors feel that you need more time.”
“Thanks, sir,” Charles said, ignoring the way his mum looked more worried than ever.
“I look forward to seeing you back at St Hilarion’s, Charles,” Mr Birch said. He murmured a goodbye to Charles’s parents, then left the room and closed the door behind him.
*
Two days later, Charles’s doctors deemed him well enough to be discharged, and his parents packed him in the car to take him back to St Hils. He could tell his mum wasn’t entirely happy to be taking him to school instead of straight home, but his dad was in a cheerful mood as he drove them back. He even decided that they were going to stop off for a pub lunch on the way, since they weren’t going to get back to school until after lunch.
Wednesday afternoon was reserved for sport: the school teams did some training, while the rest of the school was expected to do some kind of physical activity, meaning PE lessons for the younger years and, to Charles’s knowledge, as little as the older lads could get away with. That at least meant that Charles didn’t have to deal with being stared at by half the school when they arrived, as they were all out on the school fields, not in view of the entrance.
The receptionist greeted them warmly and directed them to wait while she called Mr Birch. He must have been waiting for their arrival, because moments later, he was making his way down the stairs into the entrance hall with his hand outstretched for Charles’s dad to shake.
Once he’d greeted his parents, Mr Birch turned to Charles with a wide smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Charles, welcome back. It’s good to see you back on your feet. Come up to my office, we have a lot to discuss.”
Charles sloped up the stairs after Mr Birch and his parents, feeling like every other time he’d been sent to the headmaster’s office and hoping it wouldn’t end the same way—with a punishment. Mr Birch ushered them into three chairs opposite his desk and offered them tea and biscuits. Once he’d served them all, he took a seat himself and clasped his hands in front of him.
“Now,” he said. “You will be relieved to hear that we have dealt with all of the boys involved in The Incident.” Charles could hear the capital letters falling into place as he said it. Mr Birch continued: “The ringleaders, James Armstrong and Barnaby Peters, were expelled on Monday afternoon following our conversation, and they were collected yesterday morning.”
What? Petey and Jimmy had been expelled? He’d been expecting an in-school suspension at the most, but apparently they’d had the book thrown at them. It meant Nigel had escaped serious punishment, and so had Brian and Dan—though he supposed that those two hadn’t done anything more than stand around and shout a few slurs at him. That wasn’t exactly grounds for expulsion.
Apparently it was grounds for a week of detention, or so Mr Birch was assuring them. Charles was willing to bet that Nigel was furious about that. He’d probably thought that blaming the other lads would be enough to get him off scot-free.
“Charles, you have been moved to a different dormitory, on a separate corridor from Smethwick, Hopkins and Cunningham,” Mr Birch said. “Your things have already been moved across for you.”
That was better than he’d expected. The thought that he might have to go back and bunk in the same room as Jimmy, next door to the other lads, had been gnawing at him since he’d left hospital, despite his best efforts not to think about it. It was bad enough he’d have to put up with them in lessons and on the football field, but that couldn’t be helped—
“We have also re-arranged the timetable so that those three no longer share any of your lessons.” Mr Birch continued, as if he’d read Charles’s mind. “If you wish, I can speak to Mr Jeffries and Mr Hewitt about the football and cricket teams and arrange for them to be removed.”
If they’d expelled Petey and Jimmy, they were already down two players on both teams. Getting rid of the others would only hobble them further, and Charles wasn’t sure that they had enough fifth formers who were up to the mark to replace them. Besides, the last thing he wanted was for Nigel to start putting it about that Charles had got him kicked out—that wasn’t going to make the rest of either team friendly towards him, and Charles needed all the friends he could get now he’d lost his closest mates.
He opened his mouth to refuse Mr Birch’s offer, but his dad jumped in first.
“Shouldn’t that have happened already?” he asked, glaring across the desk. “After what they’ve done, shouldn’t they have lost the privilege of representing the school?”
Mr Birch shifted, looking uncomfortable. “There is the small matter of numbers,” he said stiffly. “However, if you feel it necessary—”
“It’s not, sir,” Charles interrupted. He turned to his parents. “Dad, the football team’s got a shot at the cup for the first time in years, and the cricket team will be screwed if we lose Brian. I can handle them at practice. Everybody has to work with people they don’t get on with, yeah? And the rest of the team will be there.”
“Mr Jeffries and Mr Hewitt are both fully apprised of the situation,” Mr Birch said. “They are determined that the three boys in question will not have any opportunity to harass Charles further, on or off the pitch.” He paused, a look of frustration flickering across his face. “I have also had William Sanders badgering me about whether you’ll be fit for the semi-final, so I can assure you that you have your captain’s support.”
“Oh,” said Charles. He hadn’t realised that the captain of the football team thought that much of him.
“If you’re sure your staff can handle these lads,” Charles’s dad began.
“I am,” Mr Birch said firmly. “And if anything were to happen, Charles, I would like you to come forward immediately. They have all been warned that there will be sanctions if they cause any more trouble for you, and I will ensure that those are carried out if necessary.”
“Right. Thanks, sir,” Charles muttered. He absolutely wasn’t going to go tattling to the teachers if Nigel, Dan or Brian gave him any trouble. He would handle it himself.
“Are you sure about this, Charles?” his mum asked.
He forced a grin, even though there was a part of him wondering just what was going to happen when he went to the next football practice. “Yeah, Mum, don’t worry. Mr Jeffries doesn’t stand for any messing about, anyway, and I bet this’ll all be forgotten by the time cricket season rolls around.”
“I hope you’re right,” his mum said quietly. She still looked worried, but didn’t argue any further.
Mr Birch kept them a little longer, saying once again how sorry the school was about what had happened and that they would ensure nothing like it would happen again, before finally he rose to his feet.
“Thank you both so much for allowing the school to handle everything,” he said as he shook hands first with Charles’s dad and then his mum. “Charles, you’re now in room G-12. I assume you can find your way there after showing your parents out? Do take the rest of the afternoon to put your things in order.”
Charles walked his parents down to the car and waved them off, then headed back into school. Though most of the school was still out on the sports fields, apparently word had got around that he was back, and a gang of upper fifths still wearing their kit were loitering at the far end of the hall, clearly skiving off whatever activity they were supposed to be in and not-so-subtly watching him. Charles headed up the stairs to avoid them, doing his best to ignore the burst of raucous laughter that was hastily shushed before the receptionist came out to send them back to where they were supposed to be.
He'd never really known what it was like being at school without having a bunch of mates to watch his back. It wasn’t just the thought that he might not have anyone to eat dinner with or who’d listen if he wanted to moan about homework, it was knowing that no one would give a shit if the upper fifths wanted to start something. It was knowing that he was completely on his own.
He wasn’t sorry that his mates were gone, not exactly. Turned out they hadn’t been good mates, in the end. But they’d still been someone to knock around with, and he wasn’t sure how he was going to replace them. People did tend to like him, with his easy charm and good-humoured approach to life, but he’d never really tried to fit in with any of the other groups. It had been easy to be accepted by the sporty lads because he was good at swinging a bat or kicking a ball.
Nothing beyond that seemed to matter enough that it couldn’t be laughed off—until it did, and they’d put him in hospital.
To be honest, it was a relief that he didn’t have to face them again. Charles didn’t want mates like that.
Though that left him with no mates at all, and in a room with a stranger. They were certain to be pissed off, either because he’d split them up from someone they’d actually wanted to share with, or because he’d been foisted on someone who had, until now, been in a ‘single’ room—actually a standard double, but with only one bed in use. If his new roommate started out resenting him, that wouldn’t make for an easy living situation.
Even on the off-chance that they didn’t start out badly, they could end up hating him once they’d been sharing for a while. What if his new roommate had firm opinions on sticking to curfews or eating in the dorms? Charles wasn’t sure he would get on with a boy like that.
G-12 was almost identical to his old room: two beds sat against opposite walls, each of which had a bedside table with a lamp beside it. Two wardrobes and two sets of shelves. One side was bare of any decoration, just Charles’s suitcase, sports bag and a few boxes stacked neatly on the bed, his cricket bat leaned against the wall at the end.
He was glad they’d moved his stuff for him—hopefully before anyone had been able to fuck around with it. The fact that no one had commented on finding any contraband was probably a sign of how much the school wanted to forget about what had happened. There were a few things in his suitcase that he was fairly sure weren’t allowed, and Nigel and Petey had hidden stuff in his room a few times. Jimmy would have definitely denied any knowledge of the booze and ciggies hidden under his own bed, saying they were probably Charles’s.
Charles wondered who had packed it all up and moved it across. He hoped it was one of the prefects, because he didn’t like the thought of his old mates poking through all his stuff. Not that the idea of a prefect packing up his underwear was much better, but it was the lesser of two evils.
He went over to the bed, unzipped the suitcase and took stock of what was there. A quick check confirmed that nothing obvious was missing, but before he started unpacking, he turned around to have a proper look at the other half of the room, hoping to get the measure of his new roommate.
To his surprise, it was hardly more decorated than his. The bed was made neatly. The bedside table was empty apart from a battered copy of A Study in Scarlet. The shelves were stacked with a couple of board games and more books: some fiction, others with weird titles in languages that Charles couldn’t read. There was a fencing sabre propped against the side of the wardrobe, and a mask beside it. There weren’t any posters up, though, and stranger still there were no photographs. Even Charles had a couple of family photos on display, because people asked questions if you didn’t.
It didn’t really give Charles any idea of who his new roommate was. He was hoping that there’d be a few more clues, but it looked like he’d have to wait until the lad returned. Until then, he might as well do as Mr Birch had suggested and put his things away.
Charles set about filling his side of the room with all the stuff he’d brought from home and the bits and pieces he’d accumulated during the autumn term. He worked quickly, blaring one of his tapes through his headphones so loud that he didn’t hear the bell that signalled the end of the school day. He didn’t realise he was no longer alone until he turned around to hang another shirt in the wardrobe and saw his new roommate.
He was fairly sure he’d never seen the boy before in his life, and yet something about him was immediately familiar. Maybe he’d just seen him in passing in the corridors, or the dining room? He was tall—probably about Charles’s height—and slim, with dark brown hair swept back with an over-abundance of product, and sharp green eyes. His uniform was neater than Charles was used to seeing, even on the thirds on their first day, and the satchel he had hanging from one shoulder was bulging with books.
He was scrutinising Charles closely, with the air of someone who had found something unexpected and wasn’t quite sure what to do about it.
He must have known that he was meant to be getting a new roommate, but perhaps he’d not been told when, or who. Charles snatched the headphones off his head to say hello, but the other boy beat him to it.
“Charles?” he said. There was something expectant about the way he said it, like he was waiting for a specific response. It felt a little bit like when his dad was mad with him and expected Charles to know what for—and just like then, he felt like he should know—but this time he didn’t feel afraid. In fact, Charles was pretty certain that the boy would only be disappointed if he gave the wrong answer, though he didn’t much like the idea of that either.
“That’s me,” he said, surprising himself by not adding that the boy could call him Charlie, if he wanted. He’d always been Charlie at school, but he quite liked how his full name sounded when this boy said it. He held out his hand. “Charles Rowland, but guessing you already knew that.”
The other boy hesitated for an instant before he stepped forward to shake Charles’s hand. “Indeed,” he said. “I am Edwin Payne.”