《All Things Aside》 Prologue - The Bell The Whitwood Institute Give your children the chance of their life! For only ¡ê200 per quarter, our establishment has offered them for over a century a pedagogical team composed of the best teachers of the United Kingdom willing to share with the new generation their taste of knowledge. In addition, students will have at their disposal a park of more than 25 hectares specially arranged to facilitate their development... A black spot stretched over the end of the sentence, and the fire pierceded the paper from the prospectus to devour it eagerly. He blew on the casting flame of the match and flung the half-burnt stick at his feet. "... cloudy sky for Newcastle, rain in the late afternoon. We are Friday, September 5, 1958 and you are listening to the BBC!" The words in the black ink disappeared one after the other, reduced in a few grey ashes that fluttered under the cool breeze of late summer. His fingers released their grip on blackened paper only after the burning heat radiating from the orange flames was unbearable. "Now, let''s listen once again to That''ll Be the Day by Buddy Holly and the Crickets! Let''s g..." A long sizzling choked the bass voice of the radio host. His brown irises finally detached from the deteriorated prospectus which was agonising in the still moist green grass of the morning dew, and he deferred his attention to the transistor post placed near him. "Bloody piece of junk!" One of his hands landed on the brown wooden case and turned the huge buttons while he was crushing the antenna in the hope of capturing the station''s waves again. Before he had the pleasure of hearing a few notes from the American group, a dry cough came from the other end of the garden. No need for words: James knew exactly what it meant. The hour was approaching. *** The small heels of her black ankle boots struck the asphalt at every step, and resounded in the deserted street - with the exception of young boys on bicycles who were laboriously ascending the slope of the hill and some cars with flaky paint that easily exceeded them. Every time their big black wheels were caught in a muddy puddle and sprinkled the sidewalk, this fifty-year-old woman with perfectly capped black loops let out some annoyed grunts and tightened her grip on her nephew''s arm.A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation. They both formed a strange couple who had always attracted the eyes of the curious: Helen Bown was a dry and straight woman whose skinny silhouette was lengthened by her endless beige wool coat. A hand covered with a black glove placed on the white scarf that protected her of the wind and the other on the wide leather jacket of James Anderson, the son of his younger sister who died the year before, she walked at a quick pace in the middle of the sidewalk while the young man was dragging his feet, grumbling as if he were being carried to a slaughterhouse. Dressed in black from head to toe, grease on his hair in a curious imitation of Elvis Presley''s haircut, it seemed absurd to see him arm in arm with a woman who was his perfect opposite. He had a bag swinging on his right shoulder and he was holding a large suitcase in his hand, but his aunt did not seem to care about the weight he was carrying and was constantly begging him to speed up his pace. "It''s still early, Helen", James sighed, abruptly releasing his arm from Mrs Bown''s grasp. "I''m sure no one has yet arrived, so I don''t see why we would... " His voice died in his throat when Whitwood''s iron fence entered his vision field. Unique entrance overlooking a long dirt road bordered by grass, dense bushes and shrubs, its carmine red paint was almost a nasty stain in this green painting. "... hurry", finished James before abruptly turning on his heels, ready to go back home. "Oh I don''t think so, silly boy", Helen said, grabbing him by the elbow and pushing the squeaky grating from the tip of his gloved fingers. "Stop acting like a child and follow me. I don''t think you realize how lucky you are to be able to study in this establishment." "Wrong, Helen. Look at me: I radiate joy!", James grumbled with the most stern look he was capable of on his face. "After you were expelled from your high school, I doubted you''d be able to go back to school. But I know that you are far from being foolish, you just lack... discipline. And I''m counting on this boarding school to get you back on the right track." They walked along the path, lost between the trees, inhaling the smell of the wet earth and the vegetation, so different of the one of gas and the sewers which usually embalmed the city. By passing this rusty fence, they seemed to have penetrated into a whole different world. Soon the sharp roof of a Victorian building appeared in front of them. Its slate tiles were shining under the white light that pierce the clouds and reflect on the tall rectangular windows.At the top of the highest tower, under a steeple surmounted by a small iron cross, James looked at the clock with the Roman numerals, which indicated seven hours and fifty minutes. When this large pointed needle would be on the twelve, he would become officially a pupil of the Whitwood Institute. Chapter One - The Rule Helen Bown''s skeletal fingers caught her nephew''s wrist, planting her tiny fingernails pressed on his pale skin. Her other hand, still gloved, was resting against her chest, as if it was going to protect herself from any physical contact with the boys and their parents squeezed in the hall. They were jostling to make themselves a winding path through the place; some dragged their feet, their faces gloomy and moody, while others hopped cheerfully, abandoning their families in the midst of the crowd to greet their friends from the past years with a broad complicit smile. Some students ¨C often the youngest who were not more than eleven or twelve years old ¨C had already dressed in the school uniform, and were walking around by projecting forward their black varnished boots to each of their steps as if they were hoping to attract some envious looks on their new clothes. Their hand to the knot of their striped tie, they slipped a finger between the white collar of their shirt and the skin of their necks, constantly adjusting their black blazer or the sleeves of their grey sweater on which the red and silver crest of the school, embroidered with the letters ''WI'', was proudly hung. In the eyes of James Anderson, they were nothing but peacocks presumptuously displaying their resplendent feathers, and the patheticness of this ballet of Vanities only managed to get a contemptuous grin from him. He had already begun to imagine them squawking when a young man with dark brown hair perfectly capped on his forehead and temples, huge glasses with black branches laid on his nose, suddenly appeared in front of him, squeezing a notepad against his torso. A polite but almost imperceptible smile passed briefly over his thin lips. "Hello, welcome to Whitwood", he said in a minced voice, as if he were repeating a text learned by heart. "I don''t remember to have met you before, is it your first year in our establishment?", he asked, lifting his deep blue eyes to James. Without waiting for a reply, he glanced at a young man who was observing him from a corner of the hall, a mass of curly black hair at the top of his head, a discreet smile on his lips but a cold glow in the eyes. Immediately, the boy concentrated again on Anderson, plunging his eyes into his own, urging him silently to respond without seeming in the least intimidated by their significant difference of size. When James nodded slowly, he took a pen from his blazer and bowed his head to his notebook. "Your name, please?" "Anderson", Helen replied before giving her nephew the time to open his mouth, patting his hand as if he was a child. "Anderson... Ah! There you are.", the young man mumbled, crossing his name on the list scribbled on his papers, before extending his hand to James. "I''m McKenzie, Victor McKenzie, student president", he stated by designating the strip of red cloth pinned to the crest of his jacket. "Nice to meet you. Follow me, I''ll accompany you to the dorms." *** Even if he was hating himself to think so, James had to admit: the park was impressive. If he didn''t care at all for the history of the place, unlike Victor ¨C he had spent the last twenty minutes reciting the names of nineteenth-century artists ¡ª the park had brilliantly managed to take off him a little smile. The three main buildings (the dorms, the one with all the classrooms and the library, and, finally, the kitchens and rooms for differents extracurricular activities) were only connected by large paths with a splendid view on the lake bordered by birches and oaks, surrounded by grassy mounds on which dozens of birds were sleeping in the few rays of sunshine that pierceded the clouds. Victor pointed to the students'' building, which stood on four floors. "The West wing is reserved for middle-school students", he explained by designating a group of young boys, before taking a look at his notebook. "Your room, the 309, is located in the East wing. Your suitcases should already have been mounted. I think the student sharing this room is already there too." "What?", James said, abruptly turning his face towards McKenzie who only blink, looking at the young man''s wrathful air. "What do you mean? I have to share my room?" "Of course. No one has a single room, not even me. Now if you would excuse me", he sighed, tapping his notepad with a finger, "I still have four new students to find, so I''ll leave you here. If you need anything, I''m in room 320. Have a nice day.", Victor added with a polite smile to Helen before turning on his heels. The heavy wooden door closed behind the boy''s small silhouette and, while Helen Bown and her nephew James Anderson were advancing cautiously through the entrance of the building to lay their feet on a checkerboard stone tiles, a tsunami made of snatches of conversations, swallowed sobs and enthusiastic shouts smote their eardrums heavily. Motionless in the centre of this swarming anthill of mothers embracing their boys for the umpteenth time and proud fathers who tapped their son''s shoulder, James looked up at the ceiling. Black iron candlesticks... The stairs, rising up to them, formed a hypnotic spiral on which hundreds of heads, arms and legs appeared while the boys were searching for their rooms. Small, tall, blond, red or brown, chubby or skinny, were running on the steps. That vision gave him vertigo. He didn''t want to be here, he didn''t want to share his daily life with all these unknown and anonymous faces. Her aunt Helen was already his only family, and now she also left him and threw him in the middle of an environment he knew nothing about. James felt a long sigh leave his lips when he rested his eyes on this woman who had always raised him as her own son. She was looking at a family with a reprobating look, her little lips pinched as if she strongly disapproved the scene: the father, an elderly man with white hair, briefly passed his arms around his son''s shoulders and affectionately patted his back before resuming his distance. A modest smile stretched his lips, and the same appeared on the black haired boy''s little mouth. They both seemed embarrassed by their hugs, but the discreet softness that tinted their same green and dark eyes replaced all the gestures and words they didn''t dare to express. Helen hated demonstrations of affection in public. It is for this reason that, despite all the love she wore to her unbearable nephew, she merely put her hand on his shoulder and exerted a brief pressure as a farewell. Then, she turned around and left Whitwood. Helen adored James, but she had never known how to love him. *** 309. The young man passed a hand in his greasy hair, plating a few rebel locks against his temples, glancing around him. The corridors were beginning to empty now that all the parents had left the premises; groups of students were leaning against the doors of the rooms, discussing their summer holidays with their comrades, bragging about their activities or their travels. Others had left the dormitory and visited the park or the lounges on the ground floor, trying to sympathize with the newcomers or to make themselves a place in a band already formed. No one, on the other hand, felt the slightest desire to approach James. The annoyed glances he addressed to anyone passing by him did not render him particularly sympathetic. Taking a deep breath through the nostrils, he laid his hand on the handle of his room and penetrated into the small room. He couldn''t stop praying that his roommate would be a discreet and erased boy who wouldn''t spend all his time talking to him... "Hi!" There we are, thought James with a startled surprise, seeing a young brown man of small stature, his face heavy with a hunchbacked nose and a broad smile leaping towards him. He grasped his hand with a surprising force, and shook it with such enthusiasm that James'' whole arm was shaken. "Anderson, right? I read your name on the label of your suitcase", he said with a grave and dragging voice. "I''m Hamilton. Robert Hamilton, that is. But you can call me Rob, like everyone else does", he added by clapping his hands joyfully. "It''s your first year in Whitwood, isn''t it? It''s my fourth. The guy who shared my room asked to change it ¨C I don''t know why. Oh, you''ll see: You get used to this life quickly..." He continued to speak, shaking his little head, never letting James the time to open his mouth. However, he had stopped listening to him as soon as he had mentioned his suitcase, placed beside one of the two single beds with white sheets, perfectly identical, each against a wall. The room itself was terribly impersonal: the walls covered with a plain white wallpaper were devoid of any decoration, the floor of a brown parquet did not have the slightest carpet to protect it. An odor of disinfectant floated in the air, impregnating the sheets and, at the head of the two beds, a night table composed of two drawers waited patiently for some object of its new owner to join its bedside lamp. James had the feeling that everything in this room was shouting at him that he was not at home. His eyes laid on his luggage and, before he even understood what seemed abnormal to him, he frowned nervously. Robert ¨C or Rob, if he cared so much that a perfect stranger called him by this nickname ¨C had stopped talking and had sit at the edge of his bed, his eyes following his new comrade as he opened his suitcase and threw the clothes over his shoulder, letting them form a heap of crumpled cloth on the ground. One hand closed on a plaid shirt and the other around a pair of socks, he abruptly lifted his nose towards Hamilton with wide eyes, pale as a dead man. "Where are they?", he asked in a hoarse voice. "Where is what?" "My records, my magazines. And my radio. Everything is gone", shouted James between his teeth clenched by an incipient rage, sensing his blood pulse in the veins of his arms and a heat invading his thorax. Robert''s brief, sorry smile woke up his curiosity, but failed to reassure him. "In the stockroom, I suppose. That''s where the guards put all the confiscated items. You haven''t read the rules, have you? Music outside the clubs is forbidden. And I guess they didn''t like your magazines either." "The stockroom?", repeated James in an incredulous air. "Yeah. Look at this", he said, opening the first drawer of his bedside table to take out a red book engraved with the words ''The Whitwood Institute, Rules''. "You should at least read the chapter on punishment and deprivation..." "This book is bigger than my head!" Rob laughed at this, then put his elbows against his knees and waved a finger in the air, his large, bright blue eyes animated by a gentle spark of compassion and strange complicity. "You''ll have a hard time here, lad." ***Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. A jet of icy water whipped his chest, and an exclamation of surprise left his mouth when he felt his breath cut off in shock; however, the showerhead attached to the white tile of the wall quickly released an acceptable temperature water, but this did not prevent James from hearing Rob''s amused giggle in the next cabin. They were separated by a simple bulkhead that left the water and the fragrant moss flowing on their feet. The bathroom, common to all the students of the second cycle, hadbeen taken by the students at seven o''clock in the morning. A simple towel around the waist, carefully donning their uniform or still dressed in their pajamas, the boys were arguing to find a free shower, still clean enough to be usable, or a sink over which to shave, brush the teeth or combing their hair (James had learned, not without feeling a certain annoyance, that any kind of hair grease was banned in the school). They were maintaining conversations with their friends but the humidity, warmth and the deafening echo of the slightest noise managed to convince them not to spend more than twenty minutes in this room, which effectively regulated the crowds. It was not even seven and a half hours when Hamilton and Anderson ¨C who felt perfectly ridiculous in this strict uniform ¨C left the dorms and took the way to the refectory. A warm breeze came to lift some of theirs locks of their still wet hair, and created a few swirls of dead leaves on their way. Robert walked with his nose up to the cloudy sky, mumbling a few words about the rain of the last few days. The white clouds reflected on the smooth surface of the lake at the edge of which some boys in white shorts and red tank tops ran slowly, punctuating their steps on a few whistles. The Athletics club, according to Hamilton. James had never been a sportsman. "Bad night?", Robertasked with an amused smile when he saw James yawn noisily, his hands shoved in the pockets of his grey trousers. "You bet. I''m not used to go to bed at ten, I had a hell of a time to fall asleep", he sighed by raising his shoulders. "Damn curfew... " Rob chuckled, gently patting his arm, but his big blue eyes stood out from James'' face, going on two others boys walking a few meters ahead of them, side by side, focused on a seemingly exciting conversation. When he fully recognized the tuft of blond and tangled hair of the first boy, a weird smile stretched his lips, discovering each of his white teeth. "Walter!", he shouted abruptly, waking up James of his half-sleep. The boys stopped, watching Hamilton waving his hand cheerfully in their direction, under the somewhat abashed eye of Anderson, before he too turned his attention to the two students. It was him. He was certain of it from the moment he saw his big dark green eyes surrounded by long black eyelashes emphasizing the cold gaze he was addressing them. Wind lifted the black hair which covered his forehead and encircling his pale face, almost completely white. It was the boy who had shyly kissed his father the day before, under the reprobating eye of Helen Bown. However, the other young boy, Walter, took him out of his thoughts by emitting a strange bored grunt and, grasping firmly the arm of his friend, walked away from Hamilton and Anderson. "Oh...", Rob sighed, following them with his eyes just like James, until what the two boys disappeared inside the refectory. "I was hoping that he would stop hating me by the end of summer..." "Hating you?", James asked, turning his head to look at him, detaching his eyes from the high building''s doors. "What did you do to him?" "Last year, I went back to my family''s house during the holidays. I was carrying my suitcase, but it was so heavy that it slipped out of my hands. Walter, who was going down at the same time, took it right in the head and fell down the stairs. Broken a tooth." Robert, tapping his front tooth with his fingertip at these words, shaked his head violently, feeling James'' silence weighing on his shoulders. "It was an accident, I swear! I thought he would have forgiven me after a year, but he seems to be... slightly resentful." "I''m not sure I would have forgiven you, if it had been me." The young man shrugged, then entered into the refectory already occupied by a crowd of boys in brand-new uniform, settled on benches all along five large wooden tables. Some students sat alone at the end of the table, their noses low on their toast or fried egg, others seemed perfectly integrated with a bunch of friends and chatted loudly, throwing a few pieces of bread towards a boy''s head at another table before one of the supervisors comes to give them a warning. Ah! The supervisors. James had hardly noticed their presence. They were in every corner of the room, hands in their back and as motionless as wax statues, scrutinizing every gesture with a cold interest, ready to intervene at the slightest deviation of behavior. If they were wearing a black bear hair cap instead of a simple gray suit that helped them to blend in, they could have been able to be part of the Royal Guard. One of them turned his head towards James in an almost imperceptible movement, just enough to allow him to fleece James from the feet to the head until he looked away. Which he did not do. To think that James Anderson might be afraid to appear insolent, whether it was with supervisors or even teachers, was pretty stupid. And if someone dared to provoke him by trying to have a slight authority on him, he did not know what he was putting his feet into. So James didn''t lower his gaze. He did not even bother to blink. He counted every second that flowed without any of the two men breaking this icy link. Seven, eight, nine... The first to lower their eyes would immediately lose the credibility of a meagre attempt at rebellion, or that power conferred by an admitted and indisputable authority. James knew for a fact that he was the one who had to lose. He had to lose, because it was his place within this strange and underlying society that seemed to be Whitwood. A society where everyone remained in their place and blended into a mass of black blazer, grey trousers and varnished boots. James had never been good at staying in his place. But, before he won this duel, an sudden pain passed through his chest, so surprising and violent that he stepped back, his back bent, and carried a hand to his sore thorax. By reflex, he had diverted the eyes of man. "Oh, excuse me. Did I touch you?" James had to bite his cheek not to let out a grunt of hoarse pain when he crossed the little eyes of Victor McKenzie, almost hidden under his brown hair. His nose dotted with freckles was slightly rolled up, and her pink lips were pinched with such strength that they became white. He had slipped, or rather imposed himself between Robert and James with a violent blow of shoulder to James''s thorax, ruthlessly taking advantage of their wide difference of size. He had hit him, and it was not an accident. He was dead certain of it. While massaging his chest in hope of alleviating this throbbing pain, he again postponed his brown irises to the supervisor. He had turned his eyes away, now. On the other hand, two other faces turned to him from one of the tables. Walter and the boy who accompanied him, both seated at the end of a bench, had lifted their noses from their plates and stared at him with an almost embarrassing curiosity. But before James could even do a move in their direction, Robert grabbed his arm to draw his attention to a first-year student who had awkwardly spilled his glass of orange juice on his white shirt. By the time James returned to the two boys again, they were talking to each other as if nothing had happened. *** The classes were worse than anything. Worse than the curfew, than the common showers, than the tasteless breakfast he had forced himself to swallow despite the pain of his chest. As he had imagined as soon as his aunt had mentioned the existence of this boarding school ¨C and had not given him the opportunity to refuse to be enrolled there ¨C the teachers were all decrepit old men who recited word for word the same song for dozens of years. They seemed weary but stern, passing through the ranks like dark shadows, waving the tip of their iron ruler into the air. As soon as he stopped talking, stopping in the middle of a sentence to allow them time to take every word in note, James only heard the pen dance on paper and, from time to time, a page of a manual being turned. A deadly boredom. He rejected his back against the wooden backrest of his chair, which emitted a weak squeak under his weight, breaking this stifling silence. He felt his teacher''s owl eyes staring at his neck, and the sound of the soles of his boots against the ground warned him of his presence before he even entered his vision field. He stopped near his table, and waited for James to stop tapping his pen against the wood of his desk and look up at him before asking dryly: "Your name?" "Anderson." "One should get up when talking to an adult." Some heads immediately turned to them, not wanting to miss anything from this scene. Those who had already spent one or more years in this establishment knew it well: the insolence of the new ones disappeared after a few weeks, with great reinforcements of humiliating chores or painful punishments. The first month was the one and only time of the year that allowed them to attend these shows, and that was their only distraction during the day. For a brief moment, Anderson crossed the big blue eyes of Robert, who looked at him over his shoulder, seated a few tables in front of him. But his gaze was quite different from the other students in the class. He did not seem at all amused by James'' behavior. Quite the opposite. His gaze had something sad, weary, and perhaps even... anxious. With wilfully slow and exaggerated gestures, James deigned to lift his buttocks from his chair and, once standing, performed a perfect military salute. At this gesture, he saw Robert raising his eyes to the ceiling and putting his hand against his forehead. But he had already gone too far to stop now: "Soldier Anderson, sir." If his show offered him some amused smiles from his classmates, his teacher seemed to be struggling with the sudden urge to throw him out the window. Instead, he laid the end of his rule against James'' table with a dry and contemptuous rictus. "I dare to believe that the so-clever Mr Anderson is able to give us the answer to our equation?" Equation? What equation? He had not listened a word of what this old man said since the beginning of the course. And mathematics, he had to admit, was the last matter to arouse in him the slightest interest. Honest, he only shook his head. With this silent answer, a victorious smile passed briefly on the lips of his teacher. "Do I have to infer that you are not listening to my lesson?" This time James did not answer at all, but he hardly seemed to notice. "You must be aware of the rules of this institution, Mr. Anderson, right? A lack of attention... a punishment", he said, pretending a slight grief. "Stretch your fingers." It passed a few long seconds, cruelly ringed by the pendulum of the wall clock, before Anderson consented to execute. What else could he do? To resist would have led him to a much more severe punishment than this, and he did not need to read any rules book to find out. The ruler cracked the air with a whistle and fell on the end of his fingernails. The pain passed through each nerve of his fingers, and went up to his lip when his teeth bited it. But he did not let any sound escape, and the muscles of his face did not contract. James felt like he was facing a cobra in the desert: if he had to be the prey, he would leave no sign of weakness to appear on his face. He would not admit to being defeated so easily. As he had hoped, some silent disappointment appeared on the face of his teacher in front of Anderson''s stolidity. He could not strike again, not without cause for punishment, and they both knew it. "Sit down." Anderson did it immediately, suppressing a light smile. To his surprise, he saw Rob do the same. The emotion which tinted his blue eyes had changed: the anxiety had evolved in a feeling which, undoubtedly despite him, congratulated the young man for his insolence. Curiosity. A latent boredom imprisoned Whitwood, and it was the first time, in the space of the four long years he had passed between these walls, that Robert Hamilton was beginning to feel a meagre hope that something interesting would happen through a certain James Anderson. Chapter Two - The Room "Fifteen minutes before lights out, boys!" Hamilton let out a deep sigh and carelessly threw his pen over his trigonometry exercise. He was sitting cross-legged on the fine mattress of his bed, sheets spread over the blankets and a huge manual on his knees. He held out his arms over his head and a long growl escaped his lips, stretching his back and shoulders, under the curious gaze of Anderson; he had just come back from the showers, and was rubbing a white towel against his head to wring out his soaked hair. Once the longest wicks managed to free themselves from the cold water and enjoy their freedom by picking up their ginger tint, ceasing to drip on his white tank top, he threw the towel on his bed and let himself fall beside Rob, crushing a few sheets of notes that creased under his weight. "Look at you, the classes only started a week ago and you''re working so hard you already have white hair," James said, smiling and tapping the top of Robert''s head with the tip of his finger. "Go away," he said with an amused laugh while pushing his arm gently. "You, on the other hand, can''t say you''re the most serious student of this school, right? I don''t think I''ve seen you study once since you got here." It was true. All the students of Whitwood already crumbled with homework, but James hadn''t made any of them. Even if he had wanted it - and he had never found the slightest motivation to spoil the free time they had to work - he would have been incapable of it: he didn''t note the courses, except a few words everytime his teacher was watching him. In fact, he had spent all his time scribbling drawings on the corner of his notebook. He was particularly proud of the portrait he had drawn from his mathematics teacher: a cobra-owl hybrid holding a metallic ruler in his little claws. He had even found a role for him in one of the short scenes that he imagined at night, whispering the lines of his characters in his bed, and in which the monster had finished stuffed on the office of Soldier Anderson. Unfortunately, he could not exercise taxidermy on his real teacher, and he had had a hit on his fingers every time that he found out the young man''s artistic activities during his course. The poor man never understood this horrific monster drawn on the paper was supposed to be him. "Studying was never part of my favorite activities," Jamesreplied, opening the drawer of his nightstand to pick up a pack of cards. "Let''s have a bit of fun before the vultures turn off the lights." "I can''t," sighed Robert when he stood up, taking his maths book under his arm. "This is Alan''s, so I have to give it back to him before it''s too late." He opened the door of their room and hurried down the hallway, James next to him - he seized any opportunity to go out of his room, even though it was only three steps to another door, and Rob quickly stopped questioning him about it. The supervisors, or vultures like James called them, walked slowly outside, an eye on their watch, and were watching every pupil passing in the corridor with a cold and menacing gaze. Once in a while, one of them shouted the number of minutes they had before the night, but James had the strange feeling that they were looking with an almost palpable impatience for students who would have the misfortune not to be lying in their bed when the bell, at the top of the building, would annonce twenty-two hours. They looked like starving predators ready to pounce all claws out on their prey as soon as it moves away from the herd. Unconsciously, James slowed the pace, his hands in the pockets of his grey trousers, openly taking advantage of every second of freedom that was generously offered to him. Robert stopped in front of the door on the left of the stairs, on which a small iron plate indicated the number 301. Besides James and him, there were only two or three boys running down the stairs to the floor of their room, or walking quickly in the hallway (they were not allowed to run) until they slammed the door of their bedroom. The 301 however, opened with a squeak and a young blond man with light blue eyes appeared in front of them, the face cracked with a broad smile that discovered all his white and square teeth and dug his cheeks of two deep dimples. "Oh! Rob," he said enthusiastically when the young man handed him his book. "Thanks for the manual, Alan. I still don''t understand the lesson, but I''ve at least..." He suddenly stopped talking, seeing two figures slipping out of the room, passing under the stretched arm of the blond man in the door frame. The first boy brutally jostled Hamilton, imposing himself between him and Alan without a glance at him or a word of apology, a smile on his lips. While Robert was making an indignant growl, he spread his thanks to Alan for the help he had apparently given him with some geography duty, but every time he opened his mouth, James could not help but lay his eyes on his broken, pointed tooth, which then appeared between his lips. Alongside Walter, the second boy looked up, his eyes almost black by the subdued light of wall sconces, and stared Anderson, as magnetized by his brown irises. Neither James nor this boy could remember how many times they had had this silent exchange in the last days; they would meet morning, noon and evening, whether in a hallway, in the library or in the refectory, and their irises would bound naturally before they had fully realized the presence of the other.This contact lasted only a few seconds, before they started to look around them like if they were admiring the frescoes of the walls or the view on the lake that the high windows offered them, but these exchanges of glances were not just the result of chance. They both realised it, but not one of them had felt the urge to speak or attempt the slightest approach. And, even if James had found a plausible pretext for the opportunity to exchange a few words with him, the ridiculous tension that fell on their shoulders as soon as Hamilton and Walter - who was never apart from his friend - were in the same room would make sure to separate them. There was only one evening, at the turn of a bookshelf in the library, that James had thought to distinguish a slight movement on his lips. A whispered ''hi'' had reached his eardrums, but he sincerely thought he had dreamed of it. Despite the faint light, James managed to discern a tiny tremor passing over his lower lip, as if he was finally about to open his mouth, but Walter was quicker: after hailing Alan who closed the door with a tired look, he turned toward Hamilton and Anderson and shrugged his eyebrows in front of Rob''s sulking face, who still had his arms bent against him as a shield after the boy''s jostling. "Don''t look at me like that, Hamilton. A little nudge is less painful than a broken tooth. Let''s go, Andrew," he said with a chin movement towards his friend. Andrew. So his name was Andrew. "Four minutes!," a vulture shouted, passing near them before vanishing at the corner of the corridor in hope to find some late comings and goings. James''s eyes danced between the end of the hallway, Walter''s back, the stairs he was going down with Andrew, and Robert''s big blue eyes when he looked at Anderson. He didn''t know in the least why he felt so intrigued by this boy who had, objectively, nothing particularly remarkable. But he found within his eyes, at each of their silent encounters, a strange glow which he could not analyse. He knew it from what seemed like another life. He couldn''t remember where he had seen it before, and yet it seemed terribly familiar. It was driving him crazy. No. No, James couldn''t just torture his mind forever without ever saying a word to him. Without ever understanding. And he could not let pass such an opportunity. That would be criminal. A split second before James''s hand suddenly closed on his left shoulder, the latter saw Rob''s eyes on his face and, deep in his chest, he felt a pinch of remorse towards the act he was about to commit. A pinch, only, and forgotten as soon as his arm stretched suddenly and his fingers released their grip on Robert. "Jam...!" Rob didn''t even have time to pronounce his name before he felt himself falling down. An acute exclamation eluded him, but it died in his throat when his back struck the edge of the wooden steps. The ceiling was under his feet, and he discerned the stunned faces of Charles Walter and Andrew Turner before all the colors were mixed in front of his eyes. Soon they were no more than a few white, red, ochre or brown tasks, and then disappeared into the complete darkness when his eyelids closed on their own. He didn''t feel pain, but he could only imagine the one that would cross each limb, every muscle of his body when he would stop tumbling down the stairs. Fortunately, his legs struck the wall of the lower landing, abruptly interrupting his fall and sending a wave of pain through his entire body. Upside down, he painfully opened his eyes in hope of calming his dizziness, but all he could discern was the two figures of Charles and Andrew literally against the ramp, petrified, until the legs of Rob fall softly to the ground. When Robert was perfectly motionless, too stunned to do the slightest movement, the two boys returned their head to James and stared at him with round eyes, jaw hanging. He still had his arm stretched over the void, at the exact spot where Rob had been holding a few moments earlier, and let him fall down his waist before grinning at Walter. "You got your revenge, darling." *** "Anderson! Hamilton!" James made a chin movement when he saw Walter make a big gesture of arms in their direction, indicating the two free places he had reserved beside Andrew and himself. The refectory was already almost full, like every Saturday at noon: most of the students rushed out of the courses, swallowed their meals in a few minutes, and rushed to join their club or some of their friends to take advantage of this half-day of free time. James loved Saturdays. Not only did this crowd of students play with the nerves of the vultures - and God knows how much he enjoyed seeing them running from one end of the room to the other - but it was also the only night of the week when the curfew was taking place an hour later. And all this was nothing compared to what had become, for him, the most exceptional luxury since his arrival in Whitwood: Saturday was the only day of the week when the students'' common room was open. It was a room on the top floor of the dormitory, separating the East wing from the West wing. All week, the heavy arched wooden door that gave access to it was locked by a large padlock coupled with a few chains, and the boys who passed there going their room could do nothing more than let a deep sigh leave their lips and pray for Saturday to come soon. It was not for the pleasure to admire the damaged red rugs that protected the soil, or the hideous tapestries discoloured with the motifs of fauna and flora that decorated the walls, or even to enjoy the comforting fire of the chimney, sitting on the brown leather couches with a good novel. No, there were only two things that attracted the students like pollen attracted the bees: the first was the television, of course, which offered them their unique window on the outside - since any exit from the boarding school was prohibited - and the second was the radio station placed on a dresser under the window, which had appeared to James as surrounded by a golden halo as soon as he had laid eyes on it. Music, here, in Whitwood! Since the very first Saturday of the year, it was subconsciously admitted that the post of the third floor was, as soon as the common room was opened, commandeered by James Anderson and that his eyes would remain on the radio antenna for hours, ready to pounce on it at the slightest crackle that would disturb the singing of Little Richard or Elvis Presley. Without music, James was slowly dying. And that was precisely why he was in an unusually playful mood that day: every night, he had a chance to hear the greatest hits of his favorite musicians and, now that he could not listen to his own records, he preferred to die rather than miss it. "Do you still have bruises on your back?," Charles asked as soon as Robert was seated in front of him. "Are you kidding me? I look like a zebra," Hamilton mumbled by carrying a hand to his back to massage it gently. "He has splendid purple stripes from his neck to his ass," James grinned, passing his legs above the bench while biting in a green apple. "It''s very convenient to find him among the other guys when taking our shower." Andrew and Charles laughed heartily and, despite his annoyed growl, Rob soon joined them. This boy was awfully bad when it came to feeling some grudge against his friends and his sense of self-deprecation made him laugh at James'' mockeries even when they were directed against him. After his fall all but accidental in the staircases of the dormitories, Charles Walter had considered him with some curiosity, slightly baffled to see him laughing out-loud with James the next day instead of showing a little bit of resentment, considering the bruises that dotted his skin. In a way, this show seemed to have pushed him to relativize on his own resentment towards Hamilton and, even if he allowed himself to joke about the aerodynamic form of the young man''s hunchbacked nose or that he giggled pretending to push him every time they went down the stairs, he seemed to gradually pardon Rob''s clumsiness and begin to feel for him a semblance of affection.Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings. But of course, James did not know that himself was a certain motivation for their reconciliation. Whether on the side of Charles Walter or Andrew Turner, they both heard some rumours circulating in the hallways of the boarding school about him. The narratives of his detached behavior - and again, it was an understatement - in his courses, his regular corrections on the fingers that never managed to put a grimace of pain on his face, and finally the story of passionate love that he shared with the radio station of the common room had not failed to arouse their curiosity. Interesting people were scarce in Whitwood, and more the days passed, more the eccentricities of James Anderson attracted attention on him. And it wasn''t always a good thing. "We''re going to work Latin in the library this afternoon, you join us?," Andrewproposed between two bites of his dish. "I should, yeah, but I''ve fallen behind in History," replied Rob, cutting out his meat as hard as steel, giving some accidental nudges to Turner in the process. His knife slipped on his plate, almost stabbing Charles'' hand, who had a cautious move back by staring the young man with his little dark brown eyes, silently accusing him of having voluntarily targeted him. In no way needing words to understand this suspicious look, Robert energeticly shook his head, then looked at James in hope of telepathicly imploring him to make a diversion. Instead, he came face to face with the young man''s haggard face who stared at them, mouth wide open. A small piece of apple escaped his lips and dropped on his thigh, but he did not seem to notice it. "Are you guys serious?," he said in a hoarse voice, passing a handle on his lips to wipe the juice. "You know what day it is, right?" "We know that we have a six-page duty to write," said Andrew, rolling his eyes, waving his fork in the air. "I don''t care about Latin, History or whatever. Do you know who''s on the radio tonight? The fucking King Elvis Presley. That''s it, himself! And I''m not going to waste this day studying the past. Death to Latin !" "It''s already a dead language." James answered with a disillusioned glance at Turner on this last line, but the latter only replied by a silent shrug before getting up and throwing the handle of his bag on his shoulder. He picked up the black notebook he had placed near his plate and, as he was about to leave the refectory without a word, he once again felt Anderson''s insistent gaze on him. For some obscure reason, and even now that they regularly talked to each other, James had still kept spying on his movements. Himself, moreover, did not seem to be fully aware of this troubling habit. Andrew frowned, digging a crease at the corner of his eyelid, and he adjusted the tie of his uniform. "There''s a piece of apple on your thigh." On these words, he turned his back at them and walked away without a last glance. Anderson immediately lowered his head and quickly cleaned the trousers of his uniform, awkwardly clearing his voice, trying to appear as natural as possible. When he turned to the other two, they were finishing their meal with a glance at each other. They did not comment, but their eyes said more than their lips. *** "Curfew in fifteen minutes!" Through the reflection of the lamps on the windows of the window hammered by the rain, James saw the lean silhouette of the Vulture, in his suit of a uni-grey, raise his sleeve and pat the tip of his forefinger against the dial of his watch. Without detaching his eyes from him, Anderson raised his hand and slowly turned one of the round plastic buttons of the radio, increasing the volume. The warm and suave voice of Elvis Presley waved softly, then resounded on the walls covered by the hideous tapestries. Still through the reflection of the window facing him, he saw Andrew''s face, curled up at the end of one of the couches with his Latin manual on his knees, turning to him. Charles and Rob, sitting with other boys in front of the screen of the television, detached their eyes from the black and white image of a bunch of young women dressed in shiny dresses, to turn to the young man too. "Anderson," the vulture growled coldly, posing his impenetrable little black eyes on James'' neck. "Turn off this radio now." James was sitting at astride on a wooden chair, his arms against the backrest and his chin on his hands. It had been almost three hours that he had not moved from his position. Not a word, not a sign of interest towards the other human beings who were in the room, even when they burst out laughing at the TV show. The tip of his aquiline nose was almost glued against the radio enclosure, and he only stretched his arms over his head when he was feeling a bit of pain. But if all the aches of the world could not keep him away from his seat, it was certainly not a vulture that would do it: unemotional, he increased the volume again. "Anderson!" And again. The television had been turned off now, and all the pairs of eyes were on him in a deep silence only broken by the notes of sizzling music and, soon, by the heavy and quick steps of the overseer when he crossed the room. With a quick move, he clasped James''s arm with his claws and brutally pushed him out of his seat. James out of his way and somewhat stunned, he turned off the radio. As soon as a heavy silence and palpable tension fell on the common room, the vulture carried his little black eyes injected with blood to Anderson. The young man''s chest was lifting under the fast, heavy breathing that escaped his lips, whistling between his clenched teeth. His brown eyes were linked with those of the man, and he didn''t blink once, desiring in no way to break that threatening look bringing them together. James could feel his blood bubbling in his veins, his ears buzzing and his heart beating in a deafening way against his temples. He loathed this feeling of powerlessness in the face of the authority and power that this man had over him, but he could not release the force which pulsated in his fingers and his clenched fist, which eagerly desired to hit the jaw of this fool. But he had a better idea, an idea that asked him to control his nerves and swallow his rage, at least for now, but an idea that would satisfy him much more when executed. So he passed the tip of his tongue on his lips and, as much as possible, holding his head high so that he would never have the chance to see him lower his eyes, James turned his back on the man and left the common room. "Watch yourself, Mr. Anderson," he heard him whispering coldly behind his back before he entered the dormitory corridor. He turned at the end of the hallway leading to the East wing, leaving his shoulder rubbing against the sand-colored paint. His hands trembled terribly, his teeth gnashed, and he could clearly hear the words that his aunt Helen would say if she had seen him enter into such anger for a simple radio: There is no need to put yourself in such a state. Grow up, James: there are others ways to settle a disagreement than the use of violence. Oh, yes. There were other ways. And he knew exactly which ones. "Anderson!" He glanced over his shoulder, but did not stop his walk towards the room he shared with Hamilton. Himself, followed closely by Walter and Turner, ran up to him and, as soon as he was at his level, leaned forward gently towards James''s face to watch him with as much interest as if a horn had grown in the middle of his forehead. "Is everything alright?," he asked, frowning and laying a hand on his roommate''s shoulder when he opened the wooden door of the room 309. It emitted a long, disturbing squeak when Anderson pushed it with his fingertips, and then he let his hand close on the black iron handle before turning over slowly towards Andrew, who still had his black notebook against his chest, and towards Charles, whose blond hair still wet from his shower were curling freely on his forehead. As soon as his face appeared to the two boys, they let escape a faint exclamation and had a slight backward movement, staring at the young man with round eyes. James was smiling. The nostrils of his aquiline nose dug his cheeks, and the few creases created at the corners of his dark eyes gave the picture an almost machiavellian air. There was no horn in the middle of his forehead and yet each of the three boys could easily imagine two small and red ones on the temples. "Tonight, we''re going out," he said in a whistling voice. "Wh... What do you mean, ''we''re going out''?," stammered Robert by blinking his eyelids prodigiously quickly. "What are you talking about? The curfew is in..." "Six minutes!," shouted a vulture from the end of the hall, before stretching his neck towards the group of boys in hope of spying on their conversation. "Six minutes," Andrew repeated with a sigh. James rolled his eyes, spreading his arms, wanting for them to understand his words without the need to extrapolate. It was Charles, this time, who freed himself from his cautious silence by arching one of his eyebrows. "You mean... sneak out?", he said in a faint voice, almost in a whisper. "Exactly, Charlie," nodded James with a proud smile, patting his fingertips against the boy''s hollow cheek as if to congratulate him. "You''re joking, right?" exclaimed Andrew in a loud voice, drawing again the little black eyes of the vulture on them before he cautiously lowered his voice. "Do you have any idea what we''re risking if we get caught out of our room after the lights go out? We''re going to get killed, it''s as simple as that!" "No one is forcing you to come, coward." On this last answer, Andrew let out a strange sound mixing indignation and anger, and his fingers thightened around his notebook. During the brief silence that followed, Anderson saw him exchanging a stern glance with Charles and Robert, as if he silently challenged them to prefer James'' unconsciousness to his reasonable decision. "Oh, stop that! I''ve been sneaking out since I was twelve. There''s no risk of getting caught: with a little caution, we will pass under the noses of the supervisors without them even noticing our presence. We''ll not even get out of the building," tempted Anderson by crossing his arms on his chest, before an annoyed grunt escaped his lips. "Anyway, if you don''t come, I''ll go by myself." "You''re unbelievable," Turner sighed. "And it''s not a compliment," he added when he saw the smile that illuminated James'' face briefly. "I''ll leave at midnight," he resumed with a cruelly unemotional face. "If you decide to behave like real men, we''ll meet in the hall. Otherwise, stay out of my way." On these words he straightened his back and entered his room to lie on his bed, crossing his arms behind his head and closing his eyes, under the baffled gaze of the other three boys. Not surprisingly, Andrew was the first to push a deep sigh, deliberately loud to be assured that James was fully aware of it, and turned to the stairs, heading for his own room. Escorted by the blue and brown eyes of the other two young men, he quickly descended the steps of the dormitory to the landing on the second floor and disappeared at the bend of a hallway. Charles and Rob shared one last glance, pinching their lips simultaneously. Andrew and James were like day and night, as opposed in their behavior as in their opinions. Yet, and far beyond the unconscious curiosity that Anderson felt towards the boy, and which appeared in his eyes every time he began to observe his gestures so attentively, they shared a common point which seemed obvious to their two friends: they were, both, as stubborn as a mule.