SUMMONED BY THE HEAD
Part two
We stood in silence outside that dreaded door. I could hear Matty breathing in short, terrified gasps and I could feel my own heart racing ten to the dozen. It seemed like hours passed before the sound of the door handle being turned made us jump, then freeze like statuettes on a tombstone.
We tuned our heads to the sight of Hopkins emerging from the door. I had to struggle hard with myself not to go for him there and then, but I knew that would have been an ultimately foolhardy thing to do, what with Mr Humphries a mere three inches of wooden door away. So instead I just made a cut-throat gesture with my forefinger. 'You're dead!' I mouthed.
To my surprise, Hopkins failed to rise to my taunt. Instead he joined us in standing to attention, his jaw braced, gritting his teeth. I regarded him more closely. There were tears in his eyes, salty residue on his cheeks and he was sobbing silently.
At length he spoke: 'S-sorry... I had no ch-choice. H-humphries c-caned me. S-said that's what I'd g-g-get e-every d-day till I t-told who was r-r-responsible...' He sniffled pathetically and I felt my anger boil at his betrayal, capped by this display of self pity.
'You're dead,' I repeated, not feeling at my most articulate.
Matty nudged me gently. 'Leave off him, Danny. We're all in this together. It's only fair we share the punishment.'
I sighed. I couldn't agree with the sentiment, but I was filled with admiration for him in taking this attitude. I decided to keep quiet.
In now had terror in stereo: on one side, Hopkins' piteous sobs, on the other, Matty's terrified gasps, my heart feeling the while as though it were about to burst through my grey v-necked jumper; my tie and collar feeling tight around my neck. It was worse than I could have dreamt on the cruellest night.
Eventually, the call came from the office: 'Come!'
Hopkins wiped his eyes with his fat fists, sniffed and then opened the door, leading us condemned little men into the terrifying study to meet our fate.
We lined up in a rank before the Head's huge desk and stood straight, hands behind our backs, staring directly ahead. On the desk was the latest edition of Epsilon, which Mr Humphries eyed disdainfully for some seconds before he rose, addressing Matty and me.
'Sooo...' he started, his tone basking in sarcasm, 'you're the two budding reporters, are you?'
'Sir,' said Matty.
'Sir,' I added gutturally. My mouth and throat were parched. I could not have said any more had it been appropriate.
'And what do you have to say for yourselves? Johnson?'
Silence... Come on, Matty, I willed him, say something; he'll think you're being insolent.
'Sorry, Sir,' he mumbled eventually.
'What was that, Johnson?'
'I'm sorry, Sir,' Matty repeated in his clear soprano, unable to control the tremor in his voice.
'And you, Taylor?'
I swallowed hard, trying to moisten the dryness which had seized my throat. 'I'm sorry too, Sir,' I croaked.
Mr Humphries slowly opened a draw in the desk. 'Mmm,' he said, pausing for effect... 'You certainly will be...' At which he produced a wooden paddle. I felt my knees turn to jelly; I had never seen such an abominable object in my short life. A good inch thick, its end was the width of Mr Humphries' hand, its length in total longer than his forearm. I suddenly found myself wondering whether he had crafted this awful instrument of punishment himself, drilling the holes at its point of impact so as to cause maximum pain, to raise agonising welts on tender young backsides. I felt tears begin to well in my eyes and fought with all my might to hold them back. There was clearly to be enough indignity inflicted on us that afternoon without the shame of yielding tears before the event had even started.
The Head walked around to the front of the desk, the awful paddle dangling from his arm as he tapped it lightly against his leg. 'Taylor, Johnson, I understand that you have been responsible for this so-called magazine; that Hopkins here was merely engaged in selling it. Is this so?'
The rat, I thought!
'Yes, Sir,' came Matty's reply.
'Yes, Sir, I added liturgically.
'In that case, you will be dealt with as follows. Hopkins, three swats with the paddle.' He tapped the beastly implement against his leg once more, as though to emphasise the point.
'Sir,' came the boy's reluctant reply.
The Head's gaze fell on me. 'Taylor, six swats with the paddle.'
'Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir.' (It was considered good form at this school to say that after any sentence being passed, as though to convey one's contrite acceptance of the punishment. After a while, it became an automatic response which one gave in desperate hope that it may mitigate the severity.)
'And Johnson: six swats with the paddle.'
'S-sir, thank you, S-sir.'
I rolled my eyes across to Matty. Never had I heard him stammer like that. He was a brave kid (he had to be for coming up with the idea of Epsilon) who had taken his share of licks on the rugby field. His eyes were glazed, the blood had drained from his face and he was biting his lip. He caught my eye and held the gaze momentarily as we stood together, drawing support from each other's silent solidarity.