You Are Dead

49

1974

‘Hey, Mole, how come you’re so fat?’

‘My name’s not Mole,’ he said, in his squeaky voice that had not yet broken. He stood, naked, in the bathroom of his new boarding school, The Cloisters, in Surrey. It was the start of the second week of term.

‘You are gross, Mole!’ Gossage said.

A boy pinched the layers of flab on his stomach so hard he cried out in pain. ‘What do you call that?’

‘That hurt, you creep!’

‘Who’s Mole calling a creep?’ Gore-Parker said. ‘Me? I’m a creep?’

‘Are you calling Gore-Parker a creep?’ taunted Chaffinch, a piggy-faced boy who definitely was fatter than himself — except no one seemed to notice.

‘Leave me alone.’ He stepped into the shower and turned on the taps.

‘Listen, you arrogant piece of whale blubber,’ Gore-Parker said, ‘you kept us all awake in the dorm last night wanking.’

‘I was bloody not wanking.’

‘I’m surprised you can even find your dick under all that blubber,’ Gossage said.

The others pealed with laughter.

‘Tell you what, Mole, you like tunnels, why don’t you dig yourself a nice little tunnel out in the woods where you can go and wank away to your heart’s content?’ Chaffinch said.

‘And preferably not come back,’ added Gore-Parker.

‘We don’t like fat wankers!’ Gossage said, secure in having the protection of his mates, who had formed a clan during these past few days.

‘Just leave me alone.’ He had tears in his eyes.

‘The matron said you wet your bed last night,’ Gore-Parker said. ‘Who’s a little homesick diddums then?’

‘I’m going to report you all to Mr Hartwell.’ Hartwell was the housemaster.

‘Oh really, Mole,’ Chaffinch said. ‘What are you going to report us for?’

‘I know you’re all reading porn. I’ve seen the magazines.’

Feigning shock, Gossage turned to Chaffinch and Gore-Parker. ‘Oh dear, everyone, are we terrified or what? Mole is going to report us for reading porn. What are you reading, Mole, that makes you need to wank all night? Books on tunnels?’

The others laughed.

‘You’re the bloody wanker,’ he said, sullenly, stepping into the water spray and starting to soap himself. He closed his eyes, spreading soap across his face.

Suddenly, he felt a vice-like grip on each wrist. Then he was being yanked, harshly, out of the shower.

‘Hey!’ he yelled. ‘Hey!’ He opened his eyes and was instantly blinded by the stinging soap. His feet slithered across the shower tray and then the linoleum floor as he blinked, his vision a blur. He felt himself being lifted, then dumped down into water.

A bathtub, he realized.

His head was right beneath the tap which was pelting out a lukewarm mix of hot and cold water. Straight onto his face.

‘No! Urrrrrrrr!’ He tried to shout out, but merely swallowed water. Hands were pinning him down.

‘Helpglub! Glubbbme!’

Suddenly he couldn’t breathe. He writhed in panic. He was drowning.

Then he was jerked forward. Gulping air, he could hear the roar of the open tap inches from him. Then he was pushed back and the torrent of water covered his mouth and nose.

He writhed, twisted, kicking out, desperately trying to shake free, but firm hands held him down.

‘You’re a dirty bastard, Mole!’ Gossage said. ‘Moles burrow in earth. You must be covered in earth. Yech!’

‘Maybe we should cut your dick and balls off to stop you wanking!’ Gore-Parker said.

He was swallowing water. He shook, violently, choking, trying desperately to break free.

Then suddenly he heard a voice. A familiar voice. Stern. Furious. ‘What the Dickens is going on here? Gossage? Gore-Parker? Chaffinch? What do you think you are doing? Get dressed and come to my study right away!’

It was the voice of Ted Hartwell, a man Mole had lived in terror of since he had arrived at The Cloisters, from his fearsome disciplinarian reputation.

But this Sunday evening he felt like he was his saviour.