Oh, well. It wasn’t the end of the world. James still had a chance. Butcher couldn’t be that good, and James was pretty confident that he could hold his breath for quite a while.
‘Set! Go!’ shouted Hellebore quickly, and they dived in.
James was ready for the coldness this time, but it was worse having to swim underwater. He could only see about three inches in front of him; it was like trying to peer through a particularly vile, greenish-brown fog. Indefinable scraps and dross floated past in the gloom and he thought he glimpsed a pale shape far off that could have been Butcher, but it was gone before he could see it clearly. Slimy weeds brushed against his belly and the thought of the eels waiting below in the mud made him shudder.
He had no idea how far he’d gone, but he knew that it was going to be a struggle reaching the far side, let alone turning round and swimming back again.
He felt awful, as if a cold iron cage were clamped round his head; all he wanted to do was to get to the surface, stick his head out and be up in the fresh air, warmth and light. But he resisted the urge and swam harder, using a clean, strong, breaststroke, deciding that the quicker he went, the less time he’d need to hold his breath. However, the quicker he went, the more oxygen he used up, and soon his lungs began to burn. He struggled on, the pounding in his head getting worse and worse. A few more strokes and he had to let some air out, then some more, until his lungs were completely empty and the pain was crippling him. Still he battled on, one more stroke, another, then – no, it was too much, his whole body was crying out for air, he couldn’t fight it any longer. He bobbed to the surface and gulped in several great mouthfuls of air. Then he trod water, panting and choking. He’d drifted way off course and was nowhere near the other side, but where was Butcher? He must still be down there somewhere. Was he all right? Maybe he’d got tangled in weeds?
No, he saw his feet splashing near the far bank. He’d reached the other side, but still he didn’t come up. James caught sight of him doggedly sculling back towards the start point. Bond forgot all about losing, forgot all about the cold, forgot all about the older boys jeering from the edge of the Mead. He marvelled at Butcher’s capacity for holding his breath. It was only when he was within five or six feet of the edge that he finally floated up and took in more air, although he hardly seemed out of breath at all.
‘Well done, Butcher,’ yelled Hellebore. ‘You’re a champion turtle.’
James swam to them. He was looking forward to getting warm and dry but, as he reached the older boys, Hellebore suddenly grabbed him by the hair again and forced him back under the water. He had had no time to take a breath and was soon struggling, but, try as he might, he couldn’t break free of Hellebore’s grip and come up again. The last of his air came out in a huge bubble and he swallowed a gut-full of water. He mustn’t panic, that would only make things worse. The American wasn’t going to drown him… he wasn’t…
Or was he? A few more moments and he’d be breathing in water… He couldn’t force himself upwards, the boy’s arm was too strong… But if he couldn’t go upwards… maybe he could go the other way.
It was drastic, but it was the only solution.
He suddenly grabbed hold of Hellebore’s wrist and pulled. Caught off guard, the boy tumbled over and landed in the water with an almighty splash, letting go of James in the process. James quickly squirmed on to the bank and vomited up a stream of mucus and river scum.
Hellebore was furious; he yelled something, and Sedgepole and Pruitt grabbed James. He knew he was in big trouble now, but anything was better than drowning.
Hellebore clumsily scrambled out in his soaking clothes. His eyes were red, his blue lips pulled back from his teeth in a snarl, his hair flattened to his head. All traces of the handsome young boy had gone, to be replaced by the features of a crazed animal.
‘You shouldn’t have done that, Bond,’ he rasped.
But before he could do anything, Croaker appeared.
‘Oi, you lot,’ he called out. ‘You shouldn’t be in the water.’ Then he noticed Hellebore. ‘What on God’s earth has happened here? Why are your togs all wet?’
Hellebore looked at Croaker, his face showing nothing. There was a code in the school, as there was in all schools: you didn’t sneak. You didn’t go crying to the masters. If you had a problem with another boy, you sorted it out yourselves. And, while Croaker wasn’t a beak, he still had authority and could easily report them.
Would Hellebore break the code?
‘What’s been going on, then, eh?’
‘It’s my fault, Croaker,’ said Bond. ‘I got into trouble, cramp in my legs… Hellebore here came to my rescue and pulled me out.’
‘Is that right?’ Croaker looked from one boy to the other. ‘Well, you’d best get dry before one of the beaks catches you. Go on with you, now.’
Hellebore and his gang skulked off while James and Leo Butcher dried themselves as best they could and wriggled back into their clothes.
‘I’m sorry, Bond,’ said Leo, rubbing his hair with a thin towel. ‘It wasn’t really fair.’
‘Never mind about that,’ said James. ‘How did you do it? How did you hold your breath like that?’
‘I play the trumpet,’ said Butcher, ‘and the tuba.’ He stopped as if this explained everything, but James looked confused.
‘I have to control my breathing,’ said Butcher, ‘for my music. You need big lungs and a lot of puff. I do special exercises.’
James was impressed and intrigued.
‘My father’s a musician,’ Butcher went on. ‘He’s been teaching me almost since I was born. Hellebore found out how long I could hold my breath when he tried to suffocate me one day for a joke.’
‘Good joke,’ said James, awkwardly pulling his shirt on over his damp skin, and Butcher smiled.
As they walked back towards school along the riverbank, James quizzed Butcher some more.
‘You’re going to have to teach me that breath-control trick,’ he said. ‘It’s amazing.’
‘It’s not a trick,’ said Butcher.
‘No, I know. But I think it could really help me with my running.’
Before they could say any more, Wallace and Pruitt charged up and Pruitt snatched the hat off James’s head.
‘Forfeit!’ they yelled, and tossed it into the Thames, where it spun away downstream, then the two boys ran off, laughing.
‘You’re going to get into trouble for that,’ Butcher said quietly to James.
‘I know,’ James replied. ‘But it could have been worse.’
The next chance James got, he discussed the idea of breathing exercises with Mr Merriot after a classics lesson.
‘It certainly can’t do any harm, Bond,’ said Merriot, trying to get his pipe lit, ‘increasing your lung capacity. D’you know what happens when you breathe?’
‘Well, I know that our lungs take the oxygen from the air and pass it into our bloodstream,’ said James. ‘And then the blood takes it round to all our muscles.’
‘That’s about it, but don’t forget that our lungs also take all the waste carbon dioxide from our blood and breathe it out again. Now, if you breathe too quickly you’ll get too much oxygen in your blood and feel giddy and faint, too slowly and you’ll feel sluggish. As an athlete you have to get it just right; if you can’t get enough oxygen to your muscles, you’ll really suffer. Now, will I see you at the track tomorrow?’
‘Yes, sir… And, sir?’
‘What is it?’
‘Some of the boys, sir. They’re saying that this Hellebore triple cup thing is a bit of a cheat, sir.’
‘A cheat? How so?’
‘Well, they reckon the idea is that George Hellebore is supposed to win it.’
Merriot laughed. ‘So that’s what they’re saying, is it?’
‘Some of the boys, sir.’
‘But not you?’ Merriot gave him an amused look and stuffed his big hands into his trouser pockets.
‘Is he that good, sir?’
&
nbsp; ‘Oh, he’s a pretty useful runner, all right. Perhaps not quite the legs for a really long race, but this new cross-country course through the park is only about five miles long, so he should be in with a chance. And I hear there’s no one can touch him in the water. As for his shooting, I wouldn’t know. But, in answer to your question, I’d say that if anyone had a chance of winning the Hellebore Cup, it would be young George Hellebore.’
‘It doesn’t really seem fair,’ said James.
‘Listen to you,’ Merriot laughed. ‘You sound like a communist. Whatever gave you the idea that the world was meant to be fair? It is the privilege of the rich, Bond, to make the rules. And our Lord Hellebore is one of the richest parents at the school.’
‘But that still doesn’t mean…’
Merriot interrupted him. ‘He’s making a substantial donation to Eton in return for having the cup in his name, Bond. Putting a lot of money into the Science Schools. I believe the process is known as “You scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours”. And you won’t catch me complaining. As a matter of fact, I think this cup is a jolly good idea. It’s something I’ve been badgering the Head Master about – some sort of recognition for games other than cricket and rowing and the like. I’m not sure about the shooting part, I would have thought that sort of thing was better confined to the Corps, but hats off to Lord H., I say. Wants to be thought of as one of us, I suppose. But, of course, he’ll always be an American.’
‘How do you mean, sir?’
‘Oh, the Americans are a splendid lot. Friendly, brave, cheerful, energetic… but winning’s the most important thing to them. And very good they are at it too.’
‘So you think George is going to win the cup?’
‘As I say, he’s got as good a chance as any.’ They walked out on to the street. ‘But let’s not worry too much about winning the cup, eh?’
‘Oh…’
‘Don’t be dispirited, James. All we’re interested in is the cross-country.’
‘I hope I might do quite well, sir.’
‘Quite well, Bond? No.’
James looked disappointed.
‘You’re going to do better than quite well.’ Mr Merriot smiled. ‘You’re going to win that race, boy.’
5
False Start
‘I come from a country where they don’t play cricket, and I confess I don’t understand the sport.’ Lord Hellebore paused for dramatic effect with one hand raised, like a hammy actor, then went on, ‘To tell you the truth – and if any “dry-bobs” among you will forgive me for saying it – the game just isn’t fast enough or tough enough for us Americans…’ He smiled, showing his great white teeth, and scanned the crowd of waiting boys.
Tommy Chong, who was standing next to James, poked him in the ribs and whispered out of the side of his mouth, ‘George Hellebore hasn’t played cricket since he was hit by a ball in his first match.’
James tried not to laugh. They were standing near the rifle range at the Butts, waiting for the competition to begin, but, at the last moment, Lord Hellebore had stood up on a low wall and insisted on giving a speech.
He was thundering on, sending a spray of spittle over the first few rows. ‘For me, sports are all about taking the boy and making him into a man. Games make you strong and fit. They say the battle of Waterloo was won on the playing fields of Eton. Well, we have to look forward to future battles and future wars. So we have to be the strongest!’ He opened wide his pale-blue eyes and raked the audience with them. ‘It’s a terrible world out there, and if you’re not prepared to fight, you’ll die. Yes, die. I saw things in the Great War – men with their guts torn out, their skin turned green by blossoming decay…’
James and Tommy looked at each other. What was Hellebore on about? This hardly seemed an appropriate speech for a school sporting event. But he hadn’t finished…
‘I saw men blinded,’ he yelled, ‘with no arms or legs, and I used dead bodies as stepping stones to keep out of the mud, and I thought nothing of it! Oh sure, some men lost their minds, but not me.’
‘That’s debatable,’ James muttered, and Tommy snorted with laughter. Hellebore looked their way and ranted on…
‘It woke me up. I saw things clearly for the first time. I saw the world as it was. I understood then that you are alone in this life and, if you don’t do whatever it takes to claw your way to the top of the pile, then you’ll be buried under the excrement of lesser men!’
A stunned silence fell over the waiting crowd. There was a scattering of applause and then Hellebore shouted melodramatically, ‘So, let the games begin!’
The weather had changed in the last few days; the sun shone cheerfully in the sky and the air was noticeably warmer. It was a Saturday near the end of the half and there was a happy, carnival atmosphere. Nobody except Lord Hellebore was taking the event that seriously.
James waited with the other boys for his turn on the range, enjoying the sunshine and chatting. Pritpal and Tommy had come to watch, though neither of them was competing. In fact, none of James’s friends were competing and nearly all the other participants were older than him.
After a while Captain Johns, the master in charge of shooting, called out James’s name and he went to fetch his rifle, a .22 Browning.
After a nervous start, James found it quite exciting. The kick of the gun against his shoulder as he squeezed the trigger, the sharp crack, the burning smell of cordite, and then waiting to see how he’d done – the excitement when he got it right, and the disappointment when he was way off target.
‘Not bad, Bond. Not bad at all,’ said Captain Johns as he handed James his target when it was all over. ‘That’s a very respectable score.’
James studied the pattern of holes on the small black-and-white paper target and grinned. He hadn’t expected to do this well at all.
‘You’re a pretty good shot, Bond,’ said Captain Johns.
‘Beginner’s luck,’ said James.
‘Well, whatever it is, I look forward to teaching you when you join the Corps.’
There was noise and excitement coming from the firing range, and James looked back to see that George Hellebore had taken his place. He was lying on the ground with the rifle tucked up against his cheek, squinting down the length of the barrel towards the target. There were shouts of encouragement from his usual gang of friends, and Captain Johns marched back and called for quiet.
James looked at the American boy, lying there like a professional soldier, with his powerful arms and neat hair. He was impressed by the relaxed and confident way he held the gun. Impressed and just a little bit scared. James wondered how many defenceless creatures had met their death like this on George’s father’s estate.
James backed off. He had managed to keep out of Hellebore’s way since the incident at Ward’s Mead, and he didn’t want to risk the boy turning round and seeing him here now.
The snap of the rifle split the air. Hellebore slid the bolt back, ejecting the spent cartridge, then slotted another bullet into the breach and shunted it home, quickly and cleanly. He paused, squinted, then there was another loud bang. Eight shots later and he was finished. He had done it all coolly and calmly, relaxed and in control, and James was impressed.
Captain Johns brought the target back, Hellebore’s pals crowded round, then they cheered and slapped him on the back. He had evidently done as well as they had all expected. He walked away from the range, surrounded by his group of toadies, all congratulating him loudly and trying to share in his glow of success.
Although he tried, James couldn’t get out of their way and, as Hellebore passed by, he glanced at him just for a moment. His eyes locked with James’s, and it was the look of someone scraping something nasty from his boot. Then he looked past him and walked over to his father. The big man beamed at his son, took him by the shoulders and shook him happily. Lord Hellebore was one of the judges for the day’s events and he appeared to be enjoying himself greatly. In fact, the only person who seem
ed more pleased than him was George.
‘I doubt we’ll see any better shooting than that today,’ said Captain Johns, collecting a pile of fresh targets from a table next to James. ‘Hellebore’s the best shot in the school. In fact…’ the Captain paused, checking his score sheet, ‘there’s only one more boy to shoot, Andrew Carlton. Bit of an unknown quantity. Not had him on the range for a little while.’
Carlton was a quiet, blond-haired boy of Hellebore’s age. He was a champion wet bob, a hero of the school rowing team who devoted all of his time to powering up and down the river. He was a healthy, athletic boy and could have been a great all-rounder, but he’d decided to concentrate on the one sport. His father had been Captain of the Boats in his day and had gone on to win many races at Cambridge, so nothing less than the best was expected of young Andrew.
‘Good luck, Carlton,’ said James as the older boy walked past.
‘Thanks,’ said Carlton with a friendly smile. ‘I shall need it. I wasn’t going to take part. I only entered at the last minute. I thought it might be a bit of fun. I saw your shooting, by the way. Not bad for an F-blocker.’
Carlton collected his gun and took up his position.
As it turned out, Carlton had a keen eye and a steady hand. After his first couple of shots it was clear that he was an excellent marksman.
A hush fell over the watching boys and masters. Someone had obviously alerted George Hellebore, because he came back, pushed his way to the front of the crowd and stood there with a black look on his face.
Carlton took his last shot and Captain Johns hurried forward to collect the target. He studied it for some time and called over a couple of fellow masters to help him decide. At last they all nodded in agreement and Captain Johns returned to read out the results.
James hadn’t made the top five but had come a decent seventh place. In fact, as he hadn’t picked up a rifle for at least three years, it was a very good showing indeed. But the big surprise was that Hellebore and Carlton had been awarded equal points and joint first position.
As the results were read out, James looked over at Lord Hellebore, but his face showed nothing. His son, however, was less cool.