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“Sorry I’m late, I had to - “
“Hold him, Leavett!”
It hadn’t been much of a hide-out. There were private places scattered all over the school grounds, of course - damp and dripping caverns in the midsts of the rhododendrons, disused apple lofts, the narrow gap between two of the boat sheds - but most of them were jealously guarded, handed down through groups of boys from year to year. You couldn’t stake your claim just anywhere.
The burnt-out remains of the old school laboratory, however, were very much terra nova. It was, strictly speaking, out of bounds, of course; but there was a tacit understanding between boys and masters that if being out of bounds kept you safely out from under the masters’ feet, then it was a fairly venal sin. It was also smoke-blackened, odd-smelling, damp, and probably structurally unsound; but it was unclaimed, and it was quiet, and it wasn’t where either of them were expected to be, and sometimes that was all that you wanted.
At any rate Bertie hadn’t thought they were expected to be there. But apparently they’d been careless.
“Keep a good grip,” said Cozens. “He wriggles like a bloody eel, that one. And I expect he bites like one too, so keep your fingers clear.”
Leavett was already one of the biggest boys in the school, and King was one of the smallest. Holding King, however, was very much like trying to hold a particularly vicious ferret, and even slammed face first against the smuts-stained wall, even with Leavett holding both his arms twisted up behind his back, he still managed to catch the bigger boy a glancing blow to the shin with his heel that left him swearing.
“Pipe down, can’t you?” Cozens ordered, casually. “We’ve nearly finished, so you needn’t make such a fuss.” He smiled. “I’m glad you’re here though. I was rather hoping you’d come along. I’ve been having a quick word with Cissie here.”
“Leave him alone!”
“Talking back to a House Captain,” said Cozens, shaking his head. “That’s another one for the list.”
“You’re a bloody coward, Cozens,” King spat, straining against Leavett’s arm on the back of his neck. “You’re a filthy bloody coward, and a beating’s too good for you.”
“Try it,” said Cozens. “Try it when I can see you coming. Try it when I can fight back. If anyone’s a coward here, it’s not me.”
“It’s all right, old thing,” Bertie put in, quickly. “He’s quite right, you know, there’s really no need to make a fuss.”
Cozens grinned. “You see? Bertie understands. Bertie knows how you show respect to a House Captain.”
“It isn’t respect,” said King, his eyes flashing. “Respect is something you earn, not something you extort.”
“What do you think, Cissie?” asked Cozens. “Have I earned your respect yet?”
He hadn’t laid a finger on him yet. Possibly, Bertie thought, he wouldn’t. He’d just come clumping in with Leavett in tow, into this tiny private corner that they’d scraped out of what had once been the botany lab, with the stained and tattered prints of stamen, stigma, anther, sepal still tacked to the wall; just smiled, and stirred the litter on the ground with his toe, as Leavett had closed the door behind them.
He’d managed to avoid being alone with the pair of them, this last several months: but it couldn’t last, of course.
“I think you’ve got about as much of my respect as you can expect to get, old thing,” said Bertie, evenly.
They hadn’t laid a finger on him yet: but there was still time.
Cozens’ tongue darted out to moisten his lips.
“Get on your knees.”
Bertie swallowed. He’d heard stories, they’d all heard stories, stories from ten, twenty years back, back when things were a lot worse. He could fight back if it really came to it, of course. If it came down to something he really couldn’t bear. It would just make everything worse in the long-run if he did.
He wondered what his father would think if he got sent home for fighting. Perhaps he’d be delighted. It was so hard to tell with fathers.
“Do it,” said Cozens, abruptly, his eyes flicking from Bertie to King to Leavett and back again; and Bertie suddenly and vividly understood that Cozens was getting scared. He’d come here to intimidate, to embarrass, to quickly and casually humiliate, to amuse himself, to shore up his confidence in himself; and now Leavett was shuffling his feet, looking anxiously between them, and he could hear King’s panting furious breath as his face was pressed to the damp and stained wall, and it was all getting out of hand and he didn’t know what to do.
Someone who was scared like that was far more dangerous than someone who was just angry.
Bertie knelt.
“Kowtow. Go on. Get your head down on the ground.”
Bertie shook his head. “It won’t make you feel any better, you know.”
“Do it. Do it or I’ll take it out of his skin next time he’s had up in Committee. I’m sure you don’t want that.”
“Bertie, don’t - “
“Take it easy, scrub, no one’s asking you to do it. Cissie doesn’t mind really, do you?”
Slowly, Bertie doubled over, so his forehead just touched the floor. From this height, he could see the sandy grit that was already accumulating in the cracks and crevices of the old oilcloth flooring; the scatter of dried leaves; a woodlouse, trundling along by the skirting board.
Into his field of vision came the polished toe of Cozens’ shoe. He always had perfectly polished shoes. He got one or other of the juniors to do them twice a week. Bertie had polished them himself, on occasion.
“Kiss it. Go on. Show me how far you’ll go to keep him out of trouble.”
He couldn’t see it: but he could hear King redouble his efforts against Leavett’s restraining arm.
“You filthy bastard, Cozens - “
An uncomfortable crunching thud, and a yelp from Leavett; and Bertie for a moment felt almost sorry for him. He’d spent a lot of time with Leavett last year, before King had come along and upended everything: he wasn’t especially bright, and he wasn’t especially vicious, and he probably wasn’t really enjoying himself.
He wondered if Cozens was. No audience to speak of, of course. He’d have enjoyed it more with a really good receptive audience. All it had really come down to was trying to scare a reaction out of Bertie Lissie; and where was the satisfaction in that?
He did it. He was astonished at how little he cared.
“Lick it. Go on.”
“No bally fear,” said Bertie. “I don’t know where it’s been.”
The highly polished toecap nudged against his cheek. “Do it.”
“You know, I read a book on psychology last half,” said Bertie, conversationally. “Freud, Jung, all those chaps from Vienna with the number nine hats. They’ve got a word for what you’re doing. Sublimation, I think it was.”
The foot jerked; and the sudden splash of brilliant scarlet pain in his nose made him cry out, even though he’d been courting it. He jerked back, automatically, and the next kick caught him in the stomach.
“Found your nerve at last, Cissie?” snarled Cozens, standing over him, massaging his right hand with his left, as if it had been his hand that had struck the blow and not his foot. “Try it. Go on. I’ll let you up. I’ll even let you take first swing.”
Bertie said nothing; just slowly heaved himself up to his knees again, trying to breath in small, shallow gulps, so he didn’t have to bother his solar plexus too much, breathing through his mouth so he didn’t choke on blood.
“No,” said Cozens, more quietly. “Thought not. You’re too yellow to stand up to some scrawny little fourth former when he jumps your friend from behind. Of course you wouldn’t try your luck with someone your own size.”
“I think I’ve probably - got half an inch on you, actually,” Bertie wheezed, helpfully.
Cozens looked down at him. “Roll up your sleeves.”
“I say, Coz - “ broke in Leavett, uncomfortably.
“What?” answered Cozens, hotly. “He’s been spending so much time with the juniors this term, he ought to be punished like they are too.”
“But he’s not a junior, and you know you can’t - “
“Who says I can’t?” said Cozens. “Cissie, do you think I can’t?”
“I should think you’re capable of more or less anything, old boy,” said Bertie evenly.
Cozens was very pale, even his lips. “I’ll do it. What’s it to be then - your arms or your backside? Go on, you get to choose.”
Bertie shook his head, sadly. “Sublimation.”
“Arms, then,” said Cozens, in his best approximation of his House Captain manner. He was quite good at it, Bertie had always thought. It helped that Cozens was tall, and decent looking, and his voice had broken into a nice steady baritone. It managed to add the correct note of outraged gravitas to proceedings; the hint of this-is-going-to-hurt-me-more-than-it-hurts-you.
“You’re rather fond of the arms, aren’t you?” said Bertie, cheerfully enough. “Not in Committee, of course. Strictly backsides only there. I suppose arms cover up quite nicely. A bit easier to access, too. Though I don’t know - I suppose backsides aren’t exactly difficult, if everyone knows what they’re doing. Yank the old pantaloons down, bend over, half a dozen of the best, and then off about your afternoon. It’s the blasted cuff buttons that do the damage with arms. Dashed inconvenient. So perhaps it does just come down to preference after all.”
“Shut up,” said Cozens. “Shut up, and get on with it.”
“All right, old boy, I’m going as fast as I can,” Bertie gently chided. There was blood trickling from his nose. He kept having to smudge it away from his top lip, and he could taste it in the back of his throat, like old pennies. Carefully, meticulously, he took off his jacket and folded his shirtsleeves up and out of the way.
“Half a dozen?” he asked. “Or do I merit the full set?”
“I’ll let you know,” said Cozens.
The point, of course, was not the pain. They were both senior boys: they were expected to be able to cope with a little discomfort. He’d had far worse: at home, at prep school, as a junior. And in any case, Cozens wasn’t making more than a token effort with the belt; and even though the skin of the inside of the forearms was quite sensitive, it wasn’t as delicate as all that. The point was the humiliation. There was a reason why beatings stopped when boys got into the Fifth. That was the point where they stopped being treated as boys: when the adult constraints of reason, social pressure, social shame, took the place of the rod in instilling correct values. It was also the point when they were expected to start to help with meting out the punishments, instead of only suffering them. First the stick, and then the carrot; and at least part of the carrot was getting to be the one who wielded the stick. A fifth form boy, so the logic went, would be shamed by a beating in the way a fourth former wouldn’t.
What Cozens didn’t understand - couldn’t possibly understand - was that Bertie had spent rather more than a year swallowing his shame, day after day, week after week: making jokes, handing over his prep, being casually cuffed and teased and insulted. Watching, as Cozens did to other boys the things he had begun by doing to Bertie himself, before Bertie had discovered he could joke his way out of the beatings. He had slid into Cozens’ shadow; he had deliberately sanded away his better instincts; he had consciously deadened himself to shame.
He had hated himself. A few strokes of the belt really couldn’t compare.
He didn’t count them. He didn’t see the point.
Once - only once - did his eyes slide over to King. It was the point when the first stroke fell: when the snap of the leather sounded in the quietness. As always, it was the snap that made the noise, far more than the blow; and it was after the snap that he heard King gasp, and then cut the sound off dead. And that was when he looked at him. His face was pale against the peeling, damp-stained, smoke-dark wallpaper: almost as pale as Cozens’ own. But with King there was a point of higher colour, up there on his cheek, as if he had been exerting himself; and his eyes were a brilliant, glittering blue.
Bertie looked away, quickly.
It didn’t take so very long, and it didn’t hurt so very much; and after a while the blows simply stopped. It was rather an anti-climax.
“Feel better now?” he asked, keeping his voice dead level.
“I can always give you more,” said Cozens, shortly, feeding his belt back through its loops. “Keep your nose out of House business.”
“Coz, what do I do about - “
“Hold him,” said Cozens, and walked over to where King was still pressed up against the wall, Leavett’s forearm at the back of his neck keeping his cheek flattened to the damp paper. “As for you - if you’re relying on Cissie here to look after you, you’ll soon find yourself out of luck. You can see the sort of person he is. You can't rely on him. You can't even safely turn your back on him.” He grinned. “Or maybe I’ve got it wrong. Maybe he's the one hiding behind your skirts. It wouldn’t surprise me in the least.”
King’s voice was still perfectly distinct, even in the uncomfortable position. “He’s worth ten of you.”
Bertie felt his breath catch; felt a curious blossoming warmth in his stomach.
Cozens shook his head. “Contradicting a House Captain,” he said quietly. “Some kids just won’t learn. You’ll get a summons from Committee tomorrow.”
When they went to the door, Leavett hauled King along with him by the arms he still held pinned behind his back, until both he and Cozens had left the room: then he shoved King back through the door, and Cozens slammed it to, as if they were caging some dangerous animal. King went sprawling to the ground, but he was up in an instant, springing for the door.
“Don’t!” called Bertie, urgently. “Lorry, for heaven’s sake, let them go. What on earth do you think you’d do if you caught them, two against one?”
With his hand on the door handle, King stopped; and stood, for a moment, his back to Bertie, his face turned away. “Filthy, disgusting cowards,” he said, in a voice like ice. “They don’t deserve to live.”
Bertie sighed. “That’s as may be, old boy, but there’s not a lot we can do about that now, is there?”
There was a scrap of old carpet on the floor, somewhat smaller than the average hearthrug. Lorry had hunted it out from an outbuilding somewhere; they’d brought it in so they’d have somewhere relatively clean to sit. Bertie let himself flop down onto it now, and pinched the top of his nose with one hand, while rummaging for his handkerchief with the other.
“Why did you let them do it?” asked King from the door. He’d turned, now, and his face in the gloom was pinched and white, apart from the dark soot-smudges that streaked his right cheek, his forehead, his nose where it had pressed against the paper. It was a rather different voice from the one he’d used a moment before: smaller, less certain. Younger.
“Not sure I had too terribly much of a choice,” said Bertie, sounding rather bunged-up as he held the handkerchief to his nose. “Didn’t really fancy my chances against Leavett. I’ve played rugby against him. He wallops you hard enough by accident, goodness knows how hard he does it when he actually means it.”
“I’d have helped.”
“I know you would have, old thing,” said Bertie patiently. “Except you didn’t have too much of a choice either.”
King was rubbing his wrist, where Leavett had yanked his arms up behind him. Under the edge of his cuff Bertie could see the redness, the tiny abrasions where the fabric had been twisted into the skin.
“You all right?” Bertie asked. “Think you probably copped more of that than I did, he was wringing you out like a wet towel.”
“I’m fine,” said King, automatically. He stepped forward, a little, looking down at Bertie. “How are your arms?”
“A bit on the warm side,” said Bertie, cheerfully enough. “Nothing to speak of though.”
“May I - may I see?”
“Better leave it a minute. I want to see off this nosebleed before I start mucking about with anything else.”
King hesitated for a moment, then sat down beside him on the carpet. It was small enough that they almost touched at shoulder and hip as they sat side by side.
“I wish you’d hit him,” he said.
Bertie sighed. “I wasn’t too keen on what happened either, if that’s any help.”
“What did he want with you anyway?”
“Oh - this and that.”
King cast him a sideways look. “What sort of this and that?”
Bertie resisted the urge to move his hands. It would only start the thing bleeding again. Still, it left him feeling ever so slightly vulnerable, this being unable to fidget at a button or a corner of his jacket, frozen into place by his own hands at his nose. “Well - I might have put in a word or two with House Committee.”
He could see King’s eyes narrowing. “About what?”
“About the number of times he’s had you up for punishment this half,” said Bertie quietly; then, going on in a rush before King could get his oar in: “I know you didn’t ask me to, I know you probably didn’t want me to, but it’s really too bad the way he’s been carrying on, and if the rest of the Committee weren’t quite such bosom pals of his they’d have cracked down on it months ago.”
“Yes, but they are, and so they haven’t,” interrupted King shortly. “I told you, I don’t care if he has me up for punishment every week. It doesn’t matter. The worst he can do is dole out twelve of the best, and I don’t mind that so very much.”
“He wouldn’t be able to get you up in front of Committee so often if you’d only obey the rules a bit more,” Bertie grumbled.
King shrugged. “I obey the important ones. You can’t breathe around here without breaking one rule or another. If Cozens wants to find something against me, he will. I don’t see why I ought to spend my life trying to avoid it.”
“No, of course you don’t,” said Bertie in a low voice.
They sat quietly for a few moments. “I do wish he hadn’t come here,” said King, after a minute. “I suppose we’ll have to find somewhere else now.”
Bertie looked around, and shrugged, philosophically. “Oh - well, it’s a pretty unpleasant sort of a hide-out anyway. Much better left to the mushrooms and the foxes. We’ll be all right in the grounds now it’s coming on to summer, anyway.”
“Can I have a look?” asked King. “At your nose, I mean.”
“Be my guest, old thing.”
“Shift your hand then, it’s been five minutes.”
Cautiously, Bertie removed the handkerchief; and both of them made simultaneous and near-identical expressions of disgust as a jellyish clot of blood slithered out into the cotton.
“Revolting,” said Bertie, shortly. “I wouldn’t go prodding around too much if I were you.”
“It’s all right. I don’t mind,” said King, not quite convincingly. He knelt up, and peered very intently down into Bertie’s face, tipping it with a finger under the chin to bring it to a better angle to the light. “It’s more or less stopped, I think,” he said critically. “Don’t go blowing it for a while, though.”
He pulled his own clean handkerchief from his pocket, and with a business-like and total lack of concern spat into it, before using the damp patch to dab at the area under Bertie’s nose.
“Here, hold hard, I’m not a bally babe in arms,” Bertie complained.
“I don’t have anything else to use.”
“You could at least have used my spit. I wouldn’t have minded that nearly as much.”
“You can cope.”
It was distinctly odd, having someone focussing very intently on the end of one’s nose from a distance of about eight inches; especially when that someone was Lorrington King, who usually had a disconcerting habit of looking one dead in the eye whether one wanted him to or not. It gave a strange sort of distance to his expression.
“No one ever took a beating because of me before.”
His voice was a little distant too, as if his thoughts were very far away.
Bertie shifted a little; and the hand that was under his chin, holding him still, grew a touch more insistent. “I think dear old Coz might disagree with you on that one.”
King was frowning like a small and stubborn thundercloud, and the touch under Bertie’s chin was firm; but the fingers that still held the handkerchief, the fingers dabbing away the tracks of blood, were quite astonishingly gentle. Bertie would never have expected it. He had begun to discover that King was a great number of things more than he appeared; but he wasn’t usually gentle in the least.
“You know what I mean,” said King. “Not from me. For me.”
For a moment, King’s eyes met Bertie’s own. They were strikingly blue, even in the dim light, like the oiled sheen of a damascus blade: and there was something unfathomable in them. Something like awe, or exultation.
“You needn’t make it sound like I ought to be shuffled in with Saint Paul and his merry band of martyrs,” said Bertie uncomfortably. “I didn’t really intend to go courting disaster. They’re not all as bad as Cozens on Committee. I was rather hoping that a quiet word with Ross or Hunslet or one or other of the more sensible fellows might mean that saner heads prevailed.”
King refolded his handkerchief to turn the pinkish patches to the inside, and slipped it back into his pocket; then he sat back on his heels, and lifted Bertie’s right arm. He turned it, gently, to look at the skin of the soft inner side. Then, carefully, he let it drop, and repeated the inspection on the other arm.
“They look worse than they feel,” Bertie said into the silence, as King sat with his left arm between his hands, and looked down at the throbbing red welts. “I doubt they’ll even bruise. No worse than a smack, really.”
“I’ll kill him.”
And in that moment, in that quiet moment with King’s cool fingers on his heated skin, and King’s cool voice dropping into the stillness like a pebble into a well, Bertie believed him completely.
“You jolly well won’t,” he said sharply. “You won’t even think about it.”
“You should have hit him,” said King softly. “I don’t care how many times he has me up in front of Committee, you should have hit him all the same.”
“You know what happens if you start a fight with a House Captain,” said Bertie. “They’d have had me on the first train home, and what good would that do?”
King’s finger moved, very slowly, to trace one of those red, throbbing lines. “But we can’t just let him go on like this.”
Bertie watched his friend’s hand; the odd fascination in the movement. “I’ve been having a bit of a think about that, actually,” he said. “The trouble is, as long as he’s on Committee, we really can’t lay a finger on him.”
“And he’ll be there until he leaves.”
“He might not be. They do kick people out sometimes, you know. There was that business with Hughs-Manning, just before you came up, I bet you heard about it. And Whiteside primus had to give it up when he got glandular fever and had to be held back a year.”
“Perhaps we ought to find someone to sneeze over him,” said King, rather scathingly.
“Yes, but it doesn’t have to be that, does it?” Bertie insisted. “Hughs-Manning got into trouble over one of the juniors.”
“I don’t think Cozens is that sort.”
“My point is that it could be anything, if it was bad enough.”
“Like what?”
“Like beating a senior boy.”
There was a moment of silence.
“Oh,” said King, a soft exhalation. And then: “Was this what you meant to happen? Did you think Cozens might do something like this, if you lodged a complaint about him?”
“Well - I rather hoped he might,” said Bertie, cautiously. “It seemed like the sort of thing he might do. I wasn’t sure how far he’d go, though. Often he just likes to stick with a little bit of common or garden intimidation, which wouldn’t have been nearly as useful. But he’s never had a terribly high opinion of me, you see, so I thought I might just be able to prod him into going a little too far.” He brightened. “It was awfully useful you turning up when you did, though. He can’t bear to lose face in front of anyone. Red rag to a bull, don’t you know. Couldn’t have worked out better.”
King shook his head, slowly. “No. No, I can see that. You’re awfully clever sometimes, aren’t you?”
Bertie felt himself flush. “Lord, no! Don’t start getting that idea in your head, you’ll end up as disappointed as every Master who’s ever taught me. I just happen to know Cozens rather well, that’s all.”
“Would you really do it?” asked King. His finger was resting still against the skin on the inside of Bertie’s wrist, as if taking his pulse. “Go to Committee and tell them what he did?”
“You watch me.”
“They'd call you a sneak. Everyone would.”
“Well - I suppose that’s what I’d be, really,” said Bertie, a little sheepishly. “But I can’t see that it matters so very much. I don't really have much of a reputation to lose, you see. And someone has to do something. You do see that, don’t you?”
King’s eyes were on him now, bright, steady, assessing. “They’ll want to know why you just let him do it.”
Bertie shrugged. “I’ll tell them Coz said they’d make things even hotter for you if I didn’t. It’s more or less true after all.” Then he smiled, a small smile, rather old for his face. “Of course, there’s a good chance they’ll think I’m just making up excuses for freezing up like a rabbit faced with a fox. It doesn’t really matter though.”
“It’ll be your word against his,” King said. “And Leavett will back him up.”
“And you’ll back me up,” Bertie pointed out.
“Of course I will,” said King. “But they’ll believe them, not us.”
“Not if we’ve proof.”
King frowned. “What sort of proof?”
“Bruises. Cuts. That sort of thing.”
King shook his head. “You said yourself that it won’t bruise up. Maybe a bit on your ribs, and I suppose your nose will look a bit swollen for a day or two - but you could have got those from fighting him, and then it’d be you that got in trouble, not him. It’s the beating that matters, and he’s - “ He paused for a moment, and smiled a very small and very wintery smile. “He’s had a lot of practice in not going too far.”
Bertie took a deep breath. “Well - we could always help it along a bit.”
For a moment, King grew entirely still. He hardly even seemed to breathe.
“How would you do that?”
“Well - you would, really,” said Bertie, rather apologetically. “Awfully difficult to leather one’s own forearms, I’d have thought. Difficult to get the angles right. Not that I’ve tried, you understand - “
Abruptly, King seemed to realise that his hand still rested against Bertie’s own, his fingers against Bertie’s injured arm. He pulled them back, with a jerk. “I - I don’t think I ought to do that.”
“Look, old thing, I know it’s not a nice idea,” Bertie pushed on insistently. “I don’t like the idea of a - what’s that phrase they use in the pictures? A ‘frame-up’? I don’t like it any more than you do, but if we’re going to flush Cozens out of his nice cozy cover - “
“It’s not that,” said King, in the sort of flatly dismissive voice that rather suggested Bertie had been an idiot to suppose it was. “It’s - I’d have to hurt you.”
“That is rather the idea, yes,” said Bertie. “Why, you’re not squeamish, are you?”
“No,” said King. “No, I’m not squeamish.”
Bertie half turned on the little square of scuffed carpet, so he was facing his friend. King had clasped his hands together between his knees, knotting the fingers together, as if to keep them from fidgeting. About his head, dust motes danced in a lance of sunlight that speared down from a hole in the ceiling. He looked, Bertie thought, quite implausibly angelic, aside from the smudges. “Lorry old boy, I’m asking you to do it,” said Bertie, earnestly. “You don’t need to fuss about hurting me - I’ve had plenty worse before. It’s just like you said - so long as a beating’s in a good cause, it really doesn’t matter. And this really would be a good cause, wouldn’t it?”
“It might not matter to you, but it matters to me,” said King, his treble voice very clear and rather low.
Impulsively, Bertie reached out and squeezed King’s arm, just below the elbow. “I appreciate it, old thing. I really do. And I know that you don’t want to do it, but I honestly can’t think of a better answer. And it really will be all right.”
Gradually King’s fingers unknotted themselves; and very slowly, as if he couldn’t stop it, his index finger stretched out again, and touched the very place on his arm where the skin first flushed from white to red. “You shouldn’t tell on him yourself,” said King, somewhat distantly. “I’ll do it. I’ll tell them everything that happened. You’ll be much more convincing if you get to be awkward and embarrassed about it. And when Cozens tries to deny it then you can show them the marks for proof.”
“You’ll do it then?” asked Bertie.
King nodded: a tight, small jerk of the head. “I’ll do it.”
“I say, good show!” said Bertie; and then grinned, a little lop-sidedly. “What do you think, old boy - your belt or mine?”
“It had better be yours,” said King. “Mine’s a bit narrower than Cozens’, I think, it might show.”
“Righto,” said Bertie, unbuckling the clasp and slipping it out of the loops. A plain circlet of black leather; he’d worn it almost every day for the last couple of years, and hardly thought about it. He hoped it wasn’t too soft: the marks would show much better if Lorry could get the edges to bite a bit.
Then he realised what an odd thought that was, and almost laughed. He didn’t feel anxious or uncomfortable in the least, any more than he had when Cozens had wielded the belt earlier; what he felt now was excitement, almost elation. There would be pain, of course: there’d have to be. For the plan to work - to really work, to get Cozens kicked off the Committee for good - his injuries would have to look obvious, even shocking, and that meant pain, and a fair wodge of it too. But somehow, he didn’t feel that it would matter at all. It was necessary, instrumental: even desirable. He wondered, for one slightly hysterical moment, if this really was a little like what Saint Paul and the early Christian martyrs had felt before they went into the arena with the lions.
King stood up. He still looked a little pale, but Bertie couldn’t read any particular distress in his face; but then, King wasn’t a terribly readable sort of person. “Better stay down there,” he said, steadily. “That’s how Cozens had you. I ought to try to keep the angle the same.”
“Good thinking,” said Bertie, cheerfully. “Ever done this before?”
“No,” said King.
“I’m sure you’ll get the hang of it. Well then - lay on, Macduff, and all that sort of thing.”
And he held his arms up in front of him, his palms upwards, waiting for the first stroke.