CHAPTER ONE

Friday 3.45pm.
“Oi! Field, yeh dick ‘ead!”
Selby Smith stood blocking our path to the school gate.
Grabbing Roxanne’s hand, “Keep close,” I whispered. “Don’t panic. Keep walking. Just keep walking.”
Swallowed hard, assessing the danger: he wasn’t alone.
“ See yeh’ve still got yeh black bitch wiv yeh,” he spewed.
Adrenaline surged as I took a deep breath, struggling to stay calm. Confidence buoyed by the ‘troop’ baying for my blood Smith swaggered towards us.
“Try to get away,” I whispered, releasing Roxanne.
“ Ben....?”
“ Don’t worry about me. Just run when you can.”

Smith’s retards, Cappy and Ten Bellies, came into view, but Porter was missing. Sensing his imminent deployment, I anticipated their tactic and anxiously awaited Smith’s nod. Flexed fingers formed a clenched fist as punters gathered, jostling for ‘ringside’ position. The arena was shrinking, Roxanne considered escape, but there was nowhere to run.

Gorging on our fear and menacingly shaking his head, “Tried tu teach yeh, Field,” Smith said superciliously, “but yeh neva learn do yeh?”
Smith cued Porter’s rear guard action, but cunning interception, saw his face collide with my fist. Blood spilled from Porter’s mouth, the ‘faithful’ aghast, as he collapsed like a deck chair. He lay cold at my feet, but any hint of satisfaction gleaned from his swift despatch, paled into insignificance to witness Roxanne’s capture. She struggled, cried out, as Smith twisted an arm behind her back.

Burning up, “Let her go.” I demanded, wiping Porter’s blood down my trousers. “It’s me you want,” I reminded, with mock calm and confidence, “so let her go.”
With a grotesque hand stroking her hair, “There, there,” he slimed,“ don’t worry, yeh knight finks yeh wurf savin.’”
Raising the stakes, he molested her breast, savouring my revulsion. Incandescent with rage, I turned my head, as Roxanne broke down. Seeking my submission, he baited me further.
“A good bitch, is she Dick?” he said. “S’pose yeh’d expect niggers to do wot yeh tell ’em.”

Vengeful, caring nothing for my salvation, “Selby you gutless piece of shit,” I cursed, “I’m gunna make you pay, you bastard.” Amused, Smith conducted the crowd. “You’ve always wanted to beat the shit out of me,” I continued, “so now’s your chance.” Anticipating my demise, he pushed Roxanne into Cappy’s clutches. We squared up. Closing in, “C’mon then, you racist bastard,” I goaded. “You’re about to get what you bloody deserve.”

Hungry for first blood, Smith threw a wild punch, missing its target. Not so my response, which caught him square in the face. Blood sprayed from his nose, the crowd gasped, as he swabbed it with a sleeve. Slowly raising his obsidian eyes to mine, spitting blood from his mouth, “I’m gunna fuckin’ kill yeh now, Field,” he snarled. “Yeh shudn’t ‘ave dun that, yeh bastard.”
Roxanne trying in vain to break free, shouted, “Stop! Stop it! No, Ben. Nooooo!”
But it was too late. The game was up: silence could no longer hide his heinous obsession. Morbid curiosity swelled the band of spectators who now moved in, chanting, ‘Fight! Fight! Fight!’

Desperate to restore credibility, Smith came on strong. Arms flailed, we each scored a few points, but forced back into a line of hostile hands, the odds were against me. Shoved from behind, a momentary loss of concentration enabled Smith to take the initiative. Dazed by his fist to my head, a further succession of heavy blows to the body left me doubled over and bleeding. Winded, snatching short sharp breaths, unable to mask the pain, Smith courted adulation to celebrate a premature victory. The atmosphere suddenly fragmented, many were silenced, when, still mopping blood from his face, Smith threatened, “I’m now gunna finish yeh off, Field, yeh wanker.”
Mocking obscenely, spitting, hideously smug, he advanced. Vulnerable, too weak to retaliate, I had but one means of defense, with no margin for error. Slowly, he moved closer, was almost within range, when he stalled to whip up flagging support. I was worried about Roxanne, but dare not take my eyes from Smith. I had but one strike, one chance and it was imperative that I bring him down. Blood from Smith’s nose still ran like a tap, spilling onto his clothes. Drawing an arm across to swab it once more, he turned to face me. Unnerved by such innate malevolence, I swallowed hard. Sensing my fear, crowing with confidence, he closed in for the kill. Swiftly disabled by a foot rammed in his crotch, Smith fell writhing on the ground

Cappy released Roxanne and rushed to his side, as did a handful of his diehard scum bags.“ You’ll pay, Field,” Cappy warned. “You’ll fuckin’ pay for this, you tosser!”

It was no empty threat, there would be retribution, but right now, I had just one concern. Suffering a great deal of discomfort, unsteady and bleeding, I thought only of Roxanne. Mauled and molested, she was inconsolable. I’d failed her, wanted to say sorry but catching her eye briefly, had her freak out. As I approached, she backed away, remonstrating with her hands. Friends trying to calm her insist that I back off - leave her alone and I reluctantly complied.

The arrival of Professor Potts, the Deputy Headteacher, saw the crowd rapidly disperse. Finding Porter and Smith immobilised and bleeding, he called an ambulance and summoned me to this office.

By the time I arrived, Roxanne was in reception with her mother. Mrs Mabula, scowled as I approached, but her daughter, visibly distressed, offered neither word nor gesture. I moved on, but hadn’t travelled far, when I heard..
“BENEDICT FIELD! MY OFFICE. NOW!”

P. Potts, deserving of such ‘title’, was a mountain of a man and his office was a place with which I was far too familiar. He chewed mints to disguise breath laced with alcohol, possessed a volatile temper and I bore him not an ounce of respect. He ushered me into his room and closed the door.
“Your behaviour, Field, was appalling!........,” he began.
I switched off, concentrated only on masking acute pain. Dabbing a bleeding lip, eyes scanned, for the umpteenth time, office walls and shelves displaying a vast array of Second World War memorabilia. He regularly boasted about his military career; claimed to be a war hero, but if that were true, then I was the Archbishop of Canterbury. Lecture almost over, I tuned in.......
“This incident is so serious Field,” he concluded, “that it will have to be thoroughly investigated and may well result in your expulsion from this school...”
I offered no apology, showed not a shred of remorse, obeyed only his demand that I leave.

Needing to get cleaned up before going home, I made my way to the toilets. Rounding a corner, I bumped into Eloise Maye, a relative newcomer to the school. We were not well acquainted, but she refused to let me proceed unattended. With no adult on hand to assist, she collected the first aid box, ‘boasting’ she held a St John’s Ambulance certificate. Her suggestion we go to the girls changing room, met with some protest, but the swathe of her charm and kaleidoscope eyes, won me over.

Removing my jacket, I rinsed blood from my hands and face. Perched at the end of a long bench, Eloise gently tended my wounds, apologizing every time I so much as winced. The changing room door suddenly opened, we caught a breath. It came as a welcome relief to discover it was Emma Carpenter, looking for her coat.

Frowning sympathetically, “In the wars again then, Ben?” she said. “’eard yeh gave Smith and Porter a right pasting. About time. About bloody time too, if yeh ask me. Everyone’s talkin’ about it.” She scanned the room. “ So where’s Roxanne? Why aint she helpin' yeh?”
“She’s not good,” I said. “Her mother’s taken her home.”
Tutting disapprovingly, she walked towards a toilet cubicle, saying, “She dunt know how bloody lucky she is, if yeh ask me.”
Eloise caught my eye, but I looked away.

Cleaned up, I took a peek in the mirror. Disfigured by swellings, cuts and a black eye, I hardly recognized myself. Soothed with various ointments, lotions and a couple of sticky plasters, I thanked Eloise for her time and ‘expert’ attention. She contended it was her pleasure, suggesting,
“Next time, Ben, keep your head down.”
“I’m not planning on making a habit of it,” I assured her.
The toilet flushed and Emma exit the cubicle, straightening her skirt. “ Don’t you believe him, Ellie," she said. "Ben’s been through hell for that girl. A real knight in shining armour, aren’t yeh Ben?” I failed to answer, prompting her to add, “Smith even tried to hang you once, dint he, Ben? And if it weren’t for Miss Holtham comin’ along ......”
“Yeah, well,” I interrupted, increasingly uncomfortable with the topic of conversation,” it’s all in the past. The bastard finally got what he had coming, though I’ll admit it was much less than he bloody deserves”.
They were in agreement with me, but Emma, lifting her coat from a peg, hesitated before warning, “Be careful, Ben. You know Smith and Cappy are evil bastards. They’ll want revenge for what yeh did today.” Then, mouth creasing an impish smile, she was prompted to add, “I ‘eard Selby boasting 'e’s had a swastika tattooed on his ‘arse.”
“Yeah. Probably has,“ I responded, pulling on my jacket, “Goes with the 666 engraved on his head.”
It raised a giggle as we prepared to leave. Parting company just outside the main entrance, I felt a sense of vulnerability, like never before. There could be no more pretense and I was now a bigger target than ever.

Crossing the staff car park I bumped into Mr Dodds. Informed of the fight in a staff meeting, he appeared concerned. I’d missed the school bus and gratefully accepted his offer of a lift home. He suggest that I wait at the end of the drive, adding he’d be ten minutes or so.

Richard Dodds was a teacher with refreshing candour and someone for whom I had the utmost respect. A former ‘Captain of Industry,’ he’d been at the Manor about eight months and was passionate about his profession. True to his word, he soon pulled up along side me in a white Ford Cortina. Wincing, to lower myself into the passenger’s seat, I provided brief directions.

“ Christ, you’re in a lot of bother, Ben,” he warned, as we headed off. “Why? I mean, what ever possessed you to attack Smith and Porter? They’ve been taken to hospital... Selby needs stitches. You broke his nose!” The impassioned crescendo broke as he demonstrated his frustration by smacking a palm against the steering wheel,
“ How the hell are we going to sort this out?” he said. “What have you got to say for yourself, eh?”
“Well, Sir,” I said, emphatically, “ I can’t say I’m sorry, so don’t expect me to apologise. There were a lot of witnesses, but they won’t be able to tell the truth, of course. “ He cast a quizzical glance in my direction. “The ‘Terror’ will prevail, it always does. It doesn’t matter what I say. I tell the truth and I’m still guilty. That’s just how it is, Sir.”
“But why?” he asked, “What the hell is going on?”
“I’m not sure I can say Sir.......Just a personal observation, so better I keep my mouth shut. Besides, no-one would believe me anyway.” Snatching a painful breath, I gazed out of the window, thinking of home.
Breaking an uneasy silence, “ Look, Ben,” he said, “I know you probably don’t trust anyone at school, but I want to help you. The more you tell me, the better informed I’ll be. I want to get to the bottom of this racket. I know something’s going on. The Manor was a good school two years ago and now it’s..... Well, let’s just say it’s not as good as it was. So, anything you tell me will be treated with the strictest confidence, of which you have my absolute assurance.”
After brief contemplation, “If you want to know why the school’s failing, Sir, start at the top. One’s totally incompetent, the other’s a mad alcoholic, which you must have noticed.”
“Well, I’m aware the management is weak.....”
“Weak?” I blurted. “Huh. Non existent, more like. Before Selby Smith arrived, about eighteen months ago, discipline was a dirty word, but look at it now. I’m sure you’ve seen enough to work it out, Sir?”
Mindful, he kept his eyes on the road, whilst I sat staving off an agony born from a deep sense of injustice.
“So, are you saying,” he suggested, thoughtfully,” that the Headteacher offers some sort of favour to Smith and Co. because he helps her maintain order and classroom discipline?”
“To be honest, I don’t know what’s going on, Sir, but classroom clowns seem to have suffered the same fate as the dinosaurs. Okay, teachers still have to put up with the odd prankster, but persistent delinquents, seem to be well off the radar.”
“Yeah,” Mr Dodds commented, “ I think most teachers would agree with you. But surely that’s a good thing, for teachers and pupils, isn’t it?”
“S’pose it is if you don’t want to know why.”
Casting a brief a glance in my direction, “Go on, then” he said. “Enlighten me.”
“An awful lot of disruptive pupils seem to meet with unfortunate accidents.....”
“Only they’re not accidents..?” he anticipated. “Is that what you’re saying?”
“Correct.”
“ But, I still don’t get the connection...”
“ Selby and his ever expanding troop have been known to punish disruptive pupils and get away with it. To me there’s only one explanation, given that Smith is never reported for the beatings. I mean, to an outsider visiting the school, pupils appear well behaved and the Head gets the credit.”
“Mmmn,” Mr Dodds mused, “But how do you fit in? You’re not a disruptive pupil; never thought of you as being aggressive, so why were you and Selby Smith fighting?”
After a few moments, considering my response.
“Trooper, tribute or terror, “ I said, receiving a sideways glance. “In a nut shell, you either join Smith’s band of thugs and agree to obey his rule, buy him off and agree to be silent, or suffer the consequences. Don’t think I’m the only one to stand up to him. There are several prepared to fight for their principles, but Smith has made me his favourite target.”
“But, why?”
“Roxanne. Maybe you haven’t sussed that Smith is a racist bastard: Roxanne’s black. Are you getting the picture, Sir?”
“Yes, Ben,” he said, with an accent of sympathy, “loud and clear.” A fleeting glance of approval framed a sincere smile as he said, ”Sorry I doubted you.”
I mirrored his grin, as he pulled up at the farm's gate. He expressed concern over my injuries, offered to accompany me indoors, help explain what had happened, but this was something only I could do. Grimacing I eased myself out of the car. Winding down his window, Mr Dodds promised to look out for me on Monday. I raised an appreciative hand as he pulled away, beeping his horn.

The house was empty. My mother was away until Tuesday, visiting a sick friend and I guessed grandpa would be pottering around outside. Left hand painfully swollen, I made up an ice pack and wrapped it round. Upstairs, in the solace of my room, I rested on the bed. Alone, responding to the pain, everything hurt. Physically and mentally drained, I was consoled only by the knowledge that I was safe. I was always safe here and, for now, that was comfort enough.

Merryfields had been my home since my father died almost eleven years ago. Grandpa took me in when my mother suffered a breakdown. I soon grew to love him and in time we become, to each other, that which had been lost from our lives. Every day on his farm was a new adventure. He taught me to ride; took me fishing; let me sit with him on the tractor; brought a whole new dimension to my life. In the beginning, I missed my dad, kept expecting him to walk in through the door. But fragile memories fade and in time, I learned to move on.

Creaking stairs alerted me to grandpa’s imminent arrival. Bracing myself, he entered, visibly shocked to discover me as he did. Quizzing me with his eyes, he perched on the edge of the bed. He’d seen Smith’s trade mark numerous times before, not that he'd have known it. Now, with nothing to lose, before a question was raised, I confessed everything, with the honesty he richly deserved. It was difficult, not so much to explain the injuries, as it was to expose the deceit...
“So all those rugby scrapes, mishaps, accidents, were........”
“Lies,” I interrupted. “I lied to hide the truth because I was afraid Roxanne’s parents would take her away........ Sorry. I know I shouldn’t have deceived you and mum .....”
“Hey,” he said, gently touching my arm, “You did what you thought was right, son. Maybe you shouldn’t have allowed yourself to suffer, but I understand why you did. Love,” he commended. “Yes, no doubt you felt a a sense of honour too, but you did it to protect someone you love. Right?”
I nodded, wiped away tears, as the magnitude of what had happened cast all comfort aside. Recognising my anguish, grandpa provided reassurance, said I wasn’t alone: we stood shoulder to shoulder and the incident would not go unchallenged. The phone rang and he went off to answer it.

I phoned Roxanne in the evening, to discover she was still feeling unwell. However, we chatted briefly, time enough to say I was sorry I failed her. She refused to accept any form of apology, contended it wasn’t my fault. I wanted to see her and she promised to visit ‘tomorrow’.

Numerous ice packs reduced swellings considerably, but Roxanne still gasped and slid her eyes from mine, when I welcomed her the following afternoon. We climbed the stairs to my room and closing the door, I instantly noted an opaque sadness in her eyes.
“Sorry, Ben,” she said, lip quivering. “Sorry I couldn’t stay with you on Friday. I didn’t mean to push you away. It’s just that the sight of blood freaks me out.“
She started to tremble. Concerned, I moved to comfort her. Breathing deeply, tears welled as she stole a moment to compose herself.
“I don’t like blood or loud bangs,” she began. “I’m scared of guns and thunder. In Nigeria..." hesitating to gaze out of the window, "I was holding the hand of my father’s friend when he was shot dead.” Trembling, face fraught with unwelcome recollection, “His blood splattered all over me.” Closing her eyes, tears spilled onto her cheeks as she recalled, “It was awful. Awful!”
Sobbing, she turned to press her head against my chest.
My insides fluttered as I held her in a close embrace, stroking her hair, “You’re safe now," I said softly. " Every-thing's going to be okay. Don’t talk about it.”
She pulled away, hand wiping her eyes, to continue, “I had nightmares for a long time. Mum brought me back to England. I didn’t speak for two months.... That’s when we met at school, remember?”
“Yeah,” I beamed, passing her a box of tissues. “I thought you were dumb, then one morning playing kiss chase, you asked me to marry you! Six. Six years old and we were almost married.”
She giggled, we both did, which brought a moment of welcome relief.

Wrapping up against the winter chill, we went to see the horses in the barn. Roxanne clambered up to sit on Liberty and if I’d been fit, I’d have sat with her.
“Did anyone help you at school after the fight?” she asked, grabbing a handful of Libby’s mane to steady herself.
“Yeah,” I said, hesitantly. “Eloise did. She patched me up.”
She bit down on her lip, looked away, made no comment, then she didn’t need to. Roxanne had a distinct dislike of Eloise, though she wouldn’t say why.
“What did your parents say about what happened?” I enquired, nervously, as she ran her hand up and down Libby’s neck.
“Much as we always feared,” came a melancholy response. Looking down into my eyes, “I’m not going back to the Manor. My father forbids it.“
I hung my head, took a disconsolate breath. “ So what about us?" I asked in a negative mood. "Can we still see each other?”
“Yeah. Of course, “ she assured, gleefully. “And we can phone each other, can’t we?”
“ It won’t be the same at school without you.” Sighing deeply, “I’ll miss you, Rox.... It all seems for nothing now...”
“No, Ben. Don’t say that,” she replied, reassuringly. “It’s all going to work out in the end, you’ll see.”
“Wish I could believe that,” I said, as she slid from my horse to stumble into my arms. Looking into her beautiful ebony eyes, I caught a delicious breath. I was on the verge of saying, ‘I love you,’ but a moment’s hesitation allowed the golden opportunity to slip away.

Cold, we returned to the house and messed about in my room. When the time came for her to leave, I walked her to the front door.
“See you next week, then,“ she said, gingerly, kissing my cheek.
“I’m looking forward to it already,” I replied, forcing a smile. “Maybe you could stay a bit longer?”
She caught my eye, agreed to ask her mother and promised to phone on Monday. Roxanne climbed into the car. I waved. She blew a kiss and as the Mercedes pulled away, I was struck by a sense of foreboding: a deepening suspicion that all was not well...





































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