Chapter Text
“We found something!”
Jack glanced up from his place at the bottom of the waterfall, droplets dripping down his face as he dug the stench of pig out of his hair. Pig blood everywhere. His nails, his hair, in his ear canals. The water was turning bright red around him.
At the very top of the hill stood Rodger or Maurice, he couldn’t tell from here, both with their identical mops of blond hair.
“Jack, come up, we found a suit case!” another boy shouted again.
The filth of the pig still sat heavy on his skin, and Jack glanced mournfully back at the fresh stream of water. But these boys needed to know that he was in charge, and that no one went around discovering new things without his say first.
“Don’t open it until I get up there!” he shouted, trying to deepen his voice and radiate the same strong authority his father always did when he was shouting out commands. They needed to know that he was in charge, that nothing went without his say.
The boys were obedient, dropping the suitcase as Jack trudged out of the water and up the hill, dirt and blood and water sliding off his skin in rivulets.
The suitcase was big and red, slightly battered around the edges. A luggage tag with the name ripped off dangled from one side.
As soon as Jack nodded with approval, the boys began tearing it apart like vultures. They broke open the claps, spewing shirts and trousers and socks all over the ground.
“I found toothpaste,” Maurice crowed triumphantly, unscrewing the cap and taking a lick of the top. Jack tried to hide his disgust.
“Look! I found something else! Like a book of some sort.”
Rodger reached further into the bag, producing a small red book with the word “DIARY” inscribed on the front. He began flipping through it. “It belongs to Simon” he shouted, shrieking with laughter. “It’s his stupid suitcase.” The rest of the boys formed a small circle around him, peering at the pages.
Jack felt his body go cold.
That was Simon’s diary. And they were reading it.
What did he write?
What if they see..
What if he wrote about….
Faster than a strike of lightning, Jack flung himself forward and snatched the diary from Rodger's hand.
He had snatched it so fast that Rodger hadn’t even had time to process it, staring at his empty hand before looking up at Jack.
“Why’d you take it?” He sounded slightly wounded. “Don’t you want to see what the batty Cambourne boy is always scribbling about?”
“No.” Jack said, hoping his voice sounded as authoritative and menacing as he wanted it to be. “This is stupid and distracting us from our tasks. We’re hunters, and we don’t have the time to be sitting around and messing with other people’s things.”
Did that sound too defensive?
Jack quickly switched his tune.
“Besides” he sneered “Simon is a useless traitor. He should be with the choir, but instead he’s sniveling around with Ralph and Piggy. His thoughts aren’t worth looking at.”
This seemed to be a good enough excuse for the boys, whose interest in the book vanished as quickly as it came, returning to hollering about beasts and hunts and murders.
Jack slid the diary into the waistband of his shorts.
For the rest of the day it felt like he had burning coals against his skin.
Because this could be evidence. Potential dirty, tangible evidence of his sins.
Evidence of who he was when no one was looking. Evidence of a side he had shown to someone else, a side he could never show to anyone if he had any semblance of self preservation or dignity. If he wanted to keep his authority.
If anyone asked him why he still had the diary, he would tell them he was going to burn it (which he was, after he cured the insatiable desire he’d always had since Simon had started writing in it).
—--------------------------------------------------
Later that night, the camp was asleep. Boys twined with each other, snoring soundly in piles to keep warm.
Jack lay in the middle of the tangle of boys, eyeing the fire which had gone low, little flames crackling against the crickets and birds.
He watched.
And he waited.
Finally when Maurice's snores had gotten so loud he could hear them from across the camp, Jack crept slowly to the fire and slid the diary from his shorts.
He wasn’t sure how long he took staring at it, running his fingers along the cover.
Working up the courage to open it, working up the courage to have a firsthand account to read about what a horrible person and cruel friend he was. The type of friend who abandoned easily, the type of friend who was more than willing to go to him as a last resort for company but left the second everyone came back.
Face your sins, Jack thought miserably. Open it and then you can throw it into the fire and pretend it never existed.
Without this damning evidence he could pretend Simon never existed. He could pretend he was the hunter to everyone else, someone always cold and resolute.
Someone with no weakness.
November 15th, 1953
I finally found my diary at the bottom of my dorm bed. Mother had given it to me a few months back- A present from Paris, she told me. I had been writing in it when one of the boys laughed at me, saying diaries are things for girls and that I was a wuss for having one.
I put it under my bed and hadn’t touched it since, until I found it again while looking for my Latin homework. I decided that everyone’s going to think I’m weird or batty no matter what I do, so I might as well do what I want.
Jack couldn’t help but roll his eyes. Simon should have known that having a diary of all things was like handing out invitations to be made fun of. He let his eyes skim down the page.
I almost fainted again today in Choir. I was trying to sing the high notes- like Jack does- but I could feel my head starting to spin and figured I should stick to what I know.
November 25th, 1953
Today, during breakfast, we all crowded around the radio to hear talk of the war. There’s been rumors from Thomas and one of the other boys that they’re considering evacuating us. Everyone else was in a panic about it, but I don’t think I’d mind. I would rather be anywhere but here, I think.
Jack tried to ignore the guilt that was twisting in his stomach like a snake, creeping up to his chest.
Jack was making fun of me earlier during Choir practice. He stands behind me in the pews, and when I accidentally dropped the sheet music he snickered and made some joke about me having bug eyes. I wanted to tell him that he had teeth like a rabbit, but then the Choirmaster came back and I couldn’t get my insult in.
Teeth like a rabbit! That was fancy coming from someone who always looked spooked, like he was prey and someone was coming to hunt him.
Besides, it wasn’t making fun of someone if it was true, wasn’t it?
December 14th, 1953
Michaelmas term is coming to an end soon. That means exams and choir practice have been in full swing, leaving little room to write. Or do much of anything else. All the religious services will be commencing, so they’ve got us locked up in the freezing church practicing for hours.
The rest of our year are talking about what they’ll be doing over the break. Rodger was bragging about how his parents are taking him to Belgium over Christmas. My parents have been to Belgium, they’ve just never taken me. The other boys were high in speculation about what presents they would be receiving.
Jack was oddly quiet.
Usually he’s the leader of their merry band, sitting in the middle of the conversation, ruling over them. Like he’s the sun and they’re all just meant to orbit around him. But today he was sitting outside the circle, silent, picking at his food.
I wonder if he’s upset that soon he’ll have no one but sir batty Simon for company. I think I'd be pretty sad if I went from being the center of attention to having one of the strangest boys in the year as my only friend.
But I think it’s a preface, that his power over others helps distract him in some ways. That if he tries to act tough or strong enough, it will make up for what he’s missing, the validation he never gets from who he wants it most from.
Jack felt a slow shiver up his spine as his eyes traced the words.
It felt like having his brain cut out of him, spread out on a page for everyone to see.
Simon was always like that, strange and perceptive. Always knowing these things.
December 17th, 1953
All the boys left today. They left in the morning, heavy with their trunks and bags. Lines and lines of cars were waiting for them outside the gates, ready to take their children home for the next two months. Soon the dorm hall will be empty and all the teachers gone. Then it will be just me, Jack, and the headmaster and a few housekeepers.
Every year at the start of the Christmas Vac the housekeeper moves Jack’s things into my room. She started doing it a few years back, complaining that she’d rather have all the mess in one place. It makes it easier to do curfew checks if the only two students here are both in the same room. We share a dorm during the Winter and Summer vacs.
After all the boys had left, Jack wandered into my (our) room. He started complaining about how drafty and cold it was, and then tried to crack some joke about how Rodger started crying when he saw his mother at the front gates. I think it was the official signal that our closed-door friendship had started.
I think I should feel more upset at Jack for the way he treats me during the normal school term, but for some reason I can’t find myself minding too much. His reputation is precious to him, integral to his feelings of self worth.
I think it must be exhausting, always putting up a show like that.
Jack was already drawing up all kinds of plans for how we were going to spend the break. “This is going to be the best of christmases” he proclaimed proudly from the top of the common room sofa. He had already made the decision that we were going to put on our coats and play rugby after dinner, but we had to sneak out. The housekeeper would throw a fit if we were playing out in this cold.
Later in the night, as we were readying ourselves for bed, Jack was still whining about the cold.
“I think you have the draftiest, creepiest room in the entire school,” he said. “I think I'd be as batty as you if I had to sleep in here every night”
I wanted to say that if he hated my room that much he could just sleep in his normal one. The housekeeper wants us both in the same place, but she wouldn’t notice if he kept his things here.
But Jack must already know that. He’s not dull.
And then he suddenly flung himself on to my bed, stretching out like a snow angel. I stared at him in shock.
“What are you looking at?” he snapped. “Your bed’s right under the radiator.”
Technically we’ve been sharing the same bed for years now, during the vacs. I can’t even remember how it started.
I figured now that we’re older he’d stop. Sharing a bed at seven years old is one thing, thirteen is another. The names my father would call me if he saw this.
But he’s not here. Tonight it’s just me and Jack, alone in the school. Alone in our own world.
I pulled out my book from under my bed and started to read. I’m reading Bram Stoker’s Dracula right now, Huckleberry Finn is next. I can’t have a few minutes to read in peace before Jack starts bothering me.
“What are you always doing with that book?” He had demanded, sidling up closer to me.
“Reading” I had said, trying to keep the sarcasm out of my voice. “Which is what I’m pretty sure you’re supposed to do with them.”
Jack whacked a pillow against my face. “Don’t get smart. I mean the little red one, the one you're always scribbling in at night.”
“Nothing” I had said, reaching to dim the lamp. I hoped he would let it go. Surprisingly, he did.
“Good night, Jack.”
“Good night, Simon.”
—--------------------------------------------------------------------------