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. I took a deep breath, struggling to stay calm. Confidence buoyed by the ‘troop’ baying for blood Smith swaggered towards us.
“Try to get away,” I whispered, releasing Roxanne.
“ Ben....?”
“ Don’t worry about me. 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, 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 had 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 when forced 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 said, 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. Incandescent with rage, I turned my head. Roxanne broke down. Savouring my revulsion, 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 the consequences, “Selby you gutless piece of shit,” I cursed, “I’m gunna make you pay, you bastard.” Smith conducted a crowd which echoed his amusement. “You’ve always wanted to beat the shit out of me,” I reminded, “so now’s your chance.” Anticipating my demise, he pushed Roxanne into Cappy’s clutches. We squared up. Closing in, “C’mon, you racist bastard,” I goaded. “You’re about to get what you bloody deserve.”

Smith threw a wild and reckless punch. His miss was sorely punished. Punters gasped disbelievingly as blood spurt from his nose. Swabbing it with his sleeve, slowly he raised his obsidian eyes to mine. “I’m gunna fuckin’ kill yeh,” he snarled. “Yeh shudn’t ‘ave dun that, yeh bastard.”
Roxanne struggled to break free, but her plight was ignored and anguished cries drowned out, as the mob closed rank, chanting, ‘Fight! Fight! Fight!’

With his credibility in tatters, Smith came on strong. Arms flailed, we each scored a few points, but forced back into hostile hands, a momentary loss of concentration, enabled Smith to seize the initiative. His fist struck my head and a further succession of heavy blows to the body, left me dazed and bleeding. Doubled over, winded, snatching short sharp breaths, Smith courted adulation as if his victory was nigh. Turning to face me, spitting blood from his mouth, ‘I’m now gunna finish yeh off,’ he vowed. ‘Yeh’re a dead man.’
Mocking obscenely and hideously smug, he advanced. Outnumbered, too weak to retaliate, I had one option. Slowly, he moved closer, was almost within range, when he stalled to whip up flagging support. I worried about Roxanne, but dare not take my eyes from Smith. It was imperative that I bring the bastard down. Blood from Smith’s nose staining his clothes and dripped onto the flagstone paving. Face to face. I swallowed hard. Crowing with confidence he lunged at me. Raising my foot, forcibly ramming it in his crotch, he 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 it was of little concern. I thought only of Roxanne. Mauled and molested, she was inconsolable. I’d failed her, wanted to say sorry, but sight of my blood stained image had her back away, remonstrating with her hands.

The arrival of Professor Potts, the Deputy Headteacher, saw the crowd rapidly disperse. He called an ambulance and sent everyone back into school. Roxanne was in reception being comforted by her mother. Knowing I’d receive no welcome there, I moved on. I hadn’t travelled far, when I heard,
“BENEDICT FIELD! MY OFFICE. NOW!”

Piss Potts, as he was ‘affectionately’ known, was a mountain of a man and his office was a place with which I was too familiar. He chewed mints to disguise breath laced with alcohol, possessed a volatile temper and was owed not an ounce of respect. Closing the door, having ushered me into his room,
“Your behaviour, Field, was appalling!........,” he began.
I switched off. Dabbing a bleeding lip with my sleeve, eyes scanned an opposite wall. His entire office displayed 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 school...”
I offered no apology, showed not a shred of remorse, obeyed only his demand that I leave.

Needing to get cleaned up, I made my way to the toilets. Rounding a corner, I bumped into Eloise Maye. A relative newcomer, 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 beautiful 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 tending cuts and abrasions, apologized if I so much as winced. The changing room door suddenly opened. We caught our 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 glanced round the room. “ So where’s Roxanne? Why aint she helpin' yeh?”
‘She’s in a bad way,” I said. “Her mother’s taken her home.”
Tutting disapprovingly, she walked towards a toilet cubicle, muttering, “She dunt know how bloody lucky she is, if yeh ask me.’
Eloise caught my eye. 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?” My failure to answer, prompted 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, ‘that’s all in the past. The bastards finally got what they had coming, though I’ll admit it was much less than they bloody deserve.’
The pair were in agreement, 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.”
‘Don’t doubt it,’ I responded, pulling on my jacket. “It goes with the 666 engraved on his head.”
It raised a giggle as we departed the room. We parted company outside the main entrance. It was quiet, no sign of any teachers or evidence of what happened earlier. Eloise offered me a lift, but I declined, said I had one which was wise but not true.

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 when he offered to run me home, I gratefully accepted. 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, I lowered myself into the passenger’s seat, providing 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 ranted on. “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 apologize. There were a lot of witnesses, but they won’t tell the truth, of course. “ He cast a quizzical glance in my direction. ‘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. Best I keep my mouth shut.’ Snatching a painful breath, I gazed out of the window, thinking of home.
Breaking an uneasy silence, ‘Look, Ben,’ he said. ‘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 problem. 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. Seems to me discipline’s a dirty word and some seem to get away with murder.’
Mindful, he kept his eyes on the road, whilst I sat staving off an agony born from a deep sense of injustice.
‘Okay,’ he said, thoughtfully, ‘Are you saying the Head and Deputy let Smith and his cronies get away with bullying?’
‘To be honest, I don’t know what’s going on, Sir, but it seems to me, too many staff members are prepared to turn a blind eye to Smith’s obsessive ‘terror.’’
‘Obsessive terror?’ he questioned. ‘What do you mean, exactly?’
‘Smith’s a racist. Roxanne’s black and the fact I stick up for her makes me a target. I refuse to cow-tow to his demands, which in his warped mind, deserves to be punished. I think many of his gang members join through ‘terror’ of what he might otherwise do to them. Some buy him off, pay a sort of tribute, but I won’t do that either. The bullying’s been going on for a while, it’s getting out of hand, but nothing’s being done about it.‘
‘Okay, Ben,” he said, with an accent of sympathy, ‘I promise to look into it.’
His face framed a sincere smile as we pulled up at the farm's gate. Expressing concerns regarding my injuries, he offered to accompany me indoors, 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 and 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. 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 in time those fragile memories faded and I learned to move on.

Creaking floor boards alerted me to grandpa’s imminent arrival. Bracing myself, I opened my eyes. He was visibly shocked to discover me as he did. With nothing to lose, before a question was raised, I confessed everything, with the honesty he richly deserved. It was far less difficult to explain the injuries than 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 sense of honour too, but you did it to protect someone you love. Right?”
I nodded my response, unable to formulate a meaningful explanation. Grandpa provided swift reassurance, said I wasn’t alone: we stood shoulder to shoulder and the incident would not go unchallenged. The phone rang and as he went off to answer it, I finally let go. Private silent tears spilled anguish as visions of what had happened mixed with thoughts of the agony and unbearable emptiness that would ultimately follow...

I called Roxanne in the evening. She was still feeling unwell, chatted briefly, refusing to accept any apology, contending what happened wasn’t my fault. I wanted to see her and the following day she showed up in the afternoon. Numerous ice packs reduced swellings considerably, but she was still shocked by my appearance. We climbed the stairs to my room and closing the door, I noticed 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..." turning, momentarily 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, pressed 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. Huh. Six years old and we were almost married.”
She giggled, we both did, enjoying a moment of light relief.

Wrapped up against the winter chill, we went to see the horses in the barn. Roxanne clambered aboard Liberty.
“Did anyone help you at school after the fight?” she said, grabbing a handful of Libby’s mane.
“Yeah,” I said, hesitantly. “Eloise patched me up.”
Biting down on her lip she looked away, made no comment, not that she needed to.
“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 her 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? 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. 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 wanted to tell her I loved her, 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 something was wrong...