leering face now appeared in the doorway behind him. They were probably about eleven years old and were in Remove B, otherwise known as Dumbos, the class they put you in if you were stupid or lazy or both.
"Oh, dear. Got our laces in a muddle, have we?" Judd said.
"Yes."
"What's your name, newbug?"
"Bedford."
"Oh, you're the Log Boy, aren't you?" Critchley said.
He was tall and sinewy, with flaxen hair that flopped over his forehead. Judd was squat and broad, with a meaty butcher's-boy face. Tommy busied himself with the laces, pretending not to have heard. Nor did he look at them. One of the first things newbugs learned was not to get caught staring at older boys. If you did they would tell you to face off and probably punch you or get you in a headlock. From the corner of his eye he could see the two boys sauntering closer.
"Are you deaf as well as stupid, Log Boy?"
"No, sir—I mean, no, Critchley."
"I said, you're the Log Boy, aren't you?"
"What are they for then?" Judd said.
"What are what for?" His voice sounded tiny, crimped with fear.
"The logs, you slimy little turd."
Matron had been informed about Tommy's bed-wetting but, so far, nobody else knew. He'd already been teased about the logs and, on Diane's advice, had told anyone who asked that he suffered from poor circulation and that sleeping at an angle helped his blood flow better. He started to explain this but didn't get very far. Critchley grabbed hold of his ear and began to twist it.
"Get off!"
He lashed out and knocked the hand away. His knees were shaking and he felt his bladder begin to loosen.
"Oooh, look." Critchley sneered. "Log Boy's got a temper."
Tommy glared at them, his heart thumping.
"Face off!" Critchley yelled.
Tommy looked down and in the same instant, Judd stepped behind him and pinned his arms behind his back. Critchley had hold of both ears now and twisted them until Tommy thought they were going to rip loose from his head. He felt the tears starting to roll down his face and, far worse, a warm trickle down the inside of his thigh. Critchley must have smelled it for he let go of Tommy's ears and stepped back to watch.
"Oh, dearie, dearie me, what's going on here?"
Tommy's long green woollen socks absorbed some of the flow but soon he was standing in a small but spreading puddle. Judd released his arms and stood beside Critchley, their two faces contorting with delight and revulsion.
"Ugh!"
"How disgusting. Log Boy, you are disgusting. What are you?"
Tommy didn't answer. Judd grabbed him by the ear.
"What are you?"
"Disgusting," Tommy said quietly, trying not to whimper.
"That's right. Disgusting."
There were footsteps coming down the corridor now and from the important click of steel-tipped heels all three boys knew it was one of the masters.
"Tell him we're here, Log Boy, and you're dead meat. Okay?"
Tommy nodded and the two boys darted past him and disappeared into the adjoining shower room. Tommy stood where he was, ears aglow, while the footsteps came closer and stopped. The kind and ruddy face of Mr Lawrence, who taught English and Latin, leaned in around the open door.
"Hello, who have we here?"
"Bedford, sir."
"Bedford."
"Yes, sir."
Mr Lawrence glanced down at the puddle at Tommy's feet.
"Ah. Hard luck, old chap. Let's get you cleaned up, shall we?"
Fifteen minutes later, Mr Lawrence delivered Tommy, in a giant pair of borrowed shorts, down to the muddy plateau of the playing fields. It was starting to rain. Mr Lawrence had a quiet word with Mr Brent, who nodded and snapped at Tommy not to be late again then started yelling at another boy whose shirt wasn't properly tucked in. Tommy must have looked petrified because Mr Lawrence, as he left, put a hand on his shoulder and winked.
"Semper fortis, Bedford," he said quietly. "Semper fortis."
"Sir."
Mr Brent blew his whistle and, with the icy autumn rain whipping around their knees, Tommy and two dozen other miserable eight-year-olds spent the next
"Oh, dear. Got our laces in a muddle, have we?" Judd said.
"Yes."
"What's your name, newbug?"
"Bedford."
"Oh, you're the Log Boy, aren't you?" Critchley said.
He was tall and sinewy, with flaxen hair that flopped over his forehead. Judd was squat and broad, with a meaty butcher's-boy face. Tommy busied himself with the laces, pretending not to have heard. Nor did he look at them. One of the first things newbugs learned was not to get caught staring at older boys. If you did they would tell you to face off and probably punch you or get you in a headlock. From the corner of his eye he could see the two boys sauntering closer.
"Are you deaf as well as stupid, Log Boy?"
"No, sir—I mean, no, Critchley."
"I said, you're the Log Boy, aren't you?"
"What are they for then?" Judd said.
"What are what for?" His voice sounded tiny, crimped with fear.
"The logs, you slimy little turd."
Matron had been informed about Tommy's bed-wetting but, so far, nobody else knew. He'd already been teased about the logs and, on Diane's advice, had told anyone who asked that he suffered from poor circulation and that sleeping at an angle helped his blood flow better. He started to explain this but didn't get very far. Critchley grabbed hold of his ear and began to twist it.
"Get off!"
He lashed out and knocked the hand away. His knees were shaking and he felt his bladder begin to loosen.
"Oooh, look." Critchley sneered. "Log Boy's got a temper."
Tommy glared at them, his heart thumping.
"Face off!" Critchley yelled.
Tommy looked down and in the same instant, Judd stepped behind him and pinned his arms behind his back. Critchley had hold of both ears now and twisted them until Tommy thought they were going to rip loose from his head. He felt the tears starting to roll down his face and, far worse, a warm trickle down the inside of his thigh. Critchley must have smelled it for he let go of Tommy's ears and stepped back to watch.
"Oh, dearie, dearie me, what's going on here?"
Tommy's long green woollen socks absorbed some of the flow but soon he was standing in a small but spreading puddle. Judd released his arms and stood beside Critchley, their two faces contorting with delight and revulsion.
"Ugh!"
"How disgusting. Log Boy, you are disgusting. What are you?"
Tommy didn't answer. Judd grabbed him by the ear.
"What are you?"
"Disgusting," Tommy said quietly, trying not to whimper.
"That's right. Disgusting."
There were footsteps coming down the corridor now and from the important click of steel-tipped heels all three boys knew it was one of the masters.
"Tell him we're here, Log Boy, and you're dead meat. Okay?"
Tommy nodded and the two boys darted past him and disappeared into the adjoining shower room. Tommy stood where he was, ears aglow, while the footsteps came closer and stopped. The kind and ruddy face of Mr Lawrence, who taught English and Latin, leaned in around the open door.
"Hello, who have we here?"
"Bedford, sir."
"Bedford."
"Yes, sir."
Mr Lawrence glanced down at the puddle at Tommy's feet.
"Ah. Hard luck, old chap. Let's get you cleaned up, shall we?"
Fifteen minutes later, Mr Lawrence delivered Tommy, in a giant pair of borrowed shorts, down to the muddy plateau of the playing fields. It was starting to rain. Mr Lawrence had a quiet word with Mr Brent, who nodded and snapped at Tommy not to be late again then started yelling at another boy whose shirt wasn't properly tucked in. Tommy must have looked petrified because Mr Lawrence, as he left, put a hand on his shoulder and winked.
"Semper fortis, Bedford," he said quietly. "Semper fortis."
"Sir."
Mr Brent blew his whistle and, with the icy autumn rain whipping around their knees, Tommy and two dozen other miserable eight-year-olds spent the next
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