The Second Midnight. Andrew TaylorЧитать онлайн книгу.
to put it off for as long as possible. What was happening to him was unjust; yet for some reason that didn’t seem important beside the fact that he disgusted his father. He was bitterly ashamed of himself. He wished he were dead.
‘Bring me the cane. The thinner one.’
The two canes were kept in the corner between the wall and the end of the bookcase. Hugh sometimes daydreamed of burning them. The thicker one, curiously enough, was less painful. The thin one was longer and more supple; it hissed in the air, gathering venom as it swung.
He handed it to his father. It was part of the ritual that the victim should present the means of punishment to the executioner.
Alfred Kendall tapped the cane against one pin-striped trouser leg. ‘You know what to do. Waiting won’t make it easier. I can promise you that.’
Hugh turned away and unhooked the S-shaped metal snake that held up his trousers. His fingers groped at the buttons. When the last one was undone, the trousers fell to his ankles. He shuffled across the room to the low armchair where his mother sat in the evenings. He could feel a draught from somewhere on the back of his knees.
The chair had a low back. Hugh stretched over it, extending his arms along the chair’s arms for support. His mother’s knitting bag was on the seat of the chair. He could see the purple wool of the jersey she was knitting for Stephen.
His father’s heavy footsteps advanced towards him and then retreated. This, too, was part of the ritual: Alfred Kendall was a man who liked to take measurements. Hugh knew there were four paces between the desk and the chair. To be precise, there were three paces and a little jump. After the jump, his father would grunt like someone straining on a lavatory. Then would come the pain.
The footsteps returned and Hugh held his breath. The first blow caught him by surprise, as it always did. In the interim between beatings, you forgot that it hurt so much.
The cane wrapped around his buttocks. It felt like a branding iron. Despite himself, Hugh yelped. He pressed himself forward against the back of the chair. His hands dug into the arms.
The footsteps slowly retreated. Once again, they advanced.
The cane seemed to land on precisely the same spot. This time, Hugh cried out. His father said nothing, though his breathing was more laboured than usual; he never spoke when administering punishment.
Hugh tried to concentrate on counting. You never knew in advance how many strokes you were going to get. Four was probably the average, at least for himself and Stephen, though it was at least a year since Stephen had been beaten; Meg usually had three, but then she was a girl. Five was by no means unknown. Stephen boasted that he had been given six on two occasions.
Five – Six. Hugh stirred, but even the slightest movement made the pain worse. His arms and legs were trembling. To his horror, he realized that the footsteps were again coming towards him.
Seven.
Eight.
Hugh’s legs buckled. He was crying now – the pain was so great that he no longer cared. His tears glistened on the purple wool.
‘Stand up,’ snapped his father. ‘Can’t you even take your punishment like a man?’
There was a clatter as his father returned the cane to its corner. Metal and flint rasped together and the smell of tobacco filled the air.
Hugh levered himself into an upright position. For a few seconds he stared stupidly at the trousers which shackled his ankles. He bent down with difficulty and tugged them up to his waist. The pain was no longer blindingly acute; it had softened, if that was the right word, to a dull, angry throb. Every movement made it worse.
Alfred Kendall was leaning on the desk; he held the Gold Flake in his left hand. His thumb and forefinger were stained yellow, like the ragged fringe of his military moustache.
He exhaled a lungful of smoke in the direction of his son. ‘Well?’
Hugh had missed his cue. The ritual demanded that the victim should thank the executioner. It was an exquisite refinement: you thanked someone for inflicting pain on you, thereby implying you deserved or even desired it. It suddenly became very important to Hugh that he should not make the required response.
‘I am waiting, Hugh.’
His father walked slowly towards him. With him he brought his characteristic smell – a compound of stale tobacco, hair oil and a musty, sooty odour which Hugh associated with suburban trains. Without warning, Kendall nipped the lobe of Hugh’s ear between finger and thumb and twisted it through ninety degrees.
Hugh gasped and tried to pull his head away.
‘You always were a weakling,’ his father observed. His grip tightened on the lobe. ‘A real boy of your background would have learned to stand punishment years ago. I’m still waiting.’
It was at this moment that Hugh decided never to forgive his father in any circumstance. Aloud he said: ‘Thank you, sir.’
Alfred Kendall released the ear and nodded towards the door. Hugh, who was expert at interpreting his father’s nods, opened the door and stood aside to allow his father to pass through first. Kendall set great store by the courtesy that men owed to women and the young to their elders and betters. It was a sign, he often remarked, of good breeding.
His father flung open the kitchen door and motioned to Hugh to stand beside him in the doorway.
They were all in there. The opening of the door had cut off both their conversation and their movements, leaving a strained, still silence. Hugh’s mother was standing by the gas cooker, stirring the contents of a saucepan; the rich smell of mutton stew made his mouth water. Meg, still in her school uniform, was at the kitchen table doing her homework. Stephen sat opposite her; he had changed since he returned from the bank, and the Star was spread open in front of him. Hugh was sure that they had been talking about him. He knew from experience that the sound of a caning was clearly audible from the hall.
Kendall sucked on his cigarette. ‘Hugh will go straight to bed. He will have nothing to eat tonight and no one will visit him. Do I make myself clear?’
Mrs Kendall covered the saucepan with its lid. ‘Alfred, perhaps I should—’
‘I’ve made up my mind, Muriel. The boy’s enough of a namby-pamby as it is, without you trying to make it worse. We’ll have dinner at the usual time.’
He laid a heavy hand on Hugh’s shoulder, turned him around and pushed him towards the stairs.
The stairs were a form of torture. Hugh climbed slowly, clinging to the banister; his body protested at every step. He heard his father go back into the dining room and close the door.
From the landing another flight of stairs wound upward to the attic where Meg slept. Hugh could just remember the time when the room had belonged to a maid. On the right was the big bedroom at the front, where his parents slept; Stephen had the room opposite. Hugh’s was farther down the landing towards the back of the house, next to the bathroom over the scullery.
His room was small and cold, but at least it was his alone. He shut the door behind him and closed the curtains. He was crying again now no one could see him – softly and wearily. His body ached. As he shrugged himself out of his jacket, his teeth began to chatter.
Usually his mother gave him a hot-water bottle when he came to bed; such luxuries were out of the question tonight. His pyjamas felt clammy. He pulled them on and rolled gingerly into bed.
It was obviously impossible to lie on his back. He discovered that lying on his side was almost as bad. The problem with lying on his front was that it brought the weight of the bedclothes on to his back. On the other hand, without the blankets he stood no chance whatsoever of warming up.
Hugh had forgotten to switch out the light, but for the moment he lacked the energy to get out of bed again. There was a line of lead soldiers deployed on the mantelpiece. Soldiers were