find a way, and I didn't doubt him.
So when Mother finally did die – and, contrary to the reports the last vestiges of the media were peddling, it was not quick, or easy, or peaceful – I buried her in the back garden, packed up a bag of kit and started out for school. After all, where else was there for me? And now, after cycling halfway across the county and surviving three gang attacks en route, I was probably about to get savaged and eaten by a dog I'd last seen staring dolefully up at me with its tongue lolling out as it made furry love to my right leg. Terrific.
Jonah had now worked his way into the room and stood directly in front of me. His back was hunched, his rear legs crouched down ready to pounce. Fangs bared, eyes wild, feral and furious. This was a very big, very vicious looking beast. I decided I'd go for the eyes and the throat in the first instance, and try to kick it in the nuts at the same time. I didn't think I could kill it, but with any luck I could disable it enough to force it to retreat and then I could grab my bag, leg it out of the flat and shut the door behind me, trapping it again. The headmaster could bury his own damn self for all I cared. I'd have enough to do tending my bite wounds.
And then the dog was upon me and I was fighting for my life.
I wasn't wearing my biker jacket, but the lighter leather coat I did have on provided some protection to my right forearm as I jammed it into the dog's gaping mouth. Forced back in my chair by the strength of the attack, I tried to raise my feet to kick the beast away, but its hind legs scrabbled on the hard wood floor, claws clattering for purchase, and I couldn't get a clear shot.
I felt the dog's hot, moist breath on my face as it worried my arm, shaking it violently left and right, trying to get past it to the soft flesh of my throat. I brought my left arm up and grabbed it by the throat, squeezing its windpipe as hard as I could; didn't even give the beast pause for thought.
My right forearm was beginning to hurt like hell. The teeth may not have been able to break the skin but the dog's jaws were horribly powerful and I was worried it might succeed in cracking the bone.
We were eye to eye, and the madness in those great black orbs finally gave me the first thrill of fear.
I grappled with the dog, managing to push it back an inch or two, giving me room to bring up both my feet and kick it savagely in the hind legs. Losing its balance, it slipped backwards but refused to relinquish my arm, so I was dragged forward like we were in some ludicrous tug of war.
I kicked again, and this time something cracked and the dog let go of my arm to howl in anguish. But still it didn't retreat. I could see I'd damaged its right leg by the way it now favoured its left. Undaunted, the dog lunged for my throat again.
This time I was ready for it, and instead of using my arm as a shield I punched hard with my right fist, straight on its nose. It yelped and backed off again. Thick gobbets of saliva dropped slowly from its slavering jaws as it panted and snarled, eyeing me hungrily. It couldn't have eaten in two weeks, how could it possibly still be so strong?
Before I had time to move again Jonah tried a different tack, lunging for my left leg and worrying it savagely. This time I screamed. Cycling shorts don't give the best protection, and his teeth sank deep into my calf, giving the animal its first taste of my blood. I leaned forward and rained punches down on his head. I realised that I'd made a fatal mistake about a tenth of a second after Jonah did, but that was enough. He released my leg and sprang upwards towards my exposed throat, ready to deliver the killing bite. I didn't even have time to push myself backwards before a loud report deafened me.
When my hearing faded back in all I could hear was the soft whimpering of Jonah the dog, as he lay dying at my feet. I looked towards the door and there, silhouetted in the light, was the figure of a woman holding a smoking rifle.
'Never did like that bloody animal,' she said, as she stepped forward into the room. Grimacing, she lowered the rifle, closed her eyes, and pulled the trigger again, putting the beast out of its misery. She paused there for a moment, eyes closed, shoulders hunched. She looked like the loneliest woman in the whole world. Then she looked up at me and smiled a beautiful, weary smile.
'Hello Lee,' said Matron.
I winced as Matron dabbed the bite wound with antiseptic. The sanatorium was just the same as it had been before I left – the shelves a bit emptier and the medicine cabinet more sparsely stocked, but otherwise little had changed. It still smelt of TCP, which I found oddly comforting. Matron had changed though. The white uniform was gone, replaced by combat trousers, t-shirt and jacket. Her hair was unkempt and make-up was a distant memory. There were dark rings under her eyes and she looked bone tired.
'The head turned up here about a month ago and tried to take control,' explained Matron. 'He started laying down the law, giving orders, bossing around dying children, if you can believe that.'
I could.
'He tried to institute quarantine, though it was far too late for that, and burial details made up of boys who were already sick. He seemed quite normal until one day, out of nowhere, he just snapped. No build up, no warning signs. He told Peter… Mr James, to help bury one of the boys, but he was already too ill to leave his bed, and refused. I thought the head was going to hit him. Then he just started crying and couldn't seem to stop. He went and locked himself in his rooms and wouldn't come out. I tried, a few times, to coax him out, but all I ever heard was sobbing. Then, after a few days, not even that. I didn't have the time to see to him, there were boys dying every day and the head was O-neg so I just figured I'd deal with him when it was all over. But when I tried the door all I heard was the dog growling and I, well, I just couldn't be bothered. Plus, really, I didn't want to have to bury a half-eaten corpse. Still can't believe the dog left him alone. Weird.
'Stupid pointless bastard,' she added. 'What a waste.'
I didn't think it was much of a loss, but I didn't say so.
'Did you dig all those graves yourself, then?' I asked.
'No. Mr James helped. At first.'
'But you can't have been the only one who survived. Some of the boys must have made it.'
I didn't want to ask about Jon. He'd been my best friend since we both started here seven years earlier, and he'd stayed behind when his parents couldn't be located. Mother had offered to take him with us, but the head had forbidden it – what if his parents came looking for him?
'Of the twenty who stayed behind there are three left: Green, Rowles and Norton.'
Jon's surname had been Swift. Dead then.
'Oh, and Mr Bates, of course.'
'Eh? I thought he'd left?'
'He did.' Matron placed a gauze dressing over the wound and reached for the bandage. 'But he came back about a week ago. I haven't asked but I assume his wife and children are dead. He's a bit… fragile at the moment.'
Bates was our history master. A big, brawny, blokey bloke, all rugby shirts and curry stains; fragile was the last word you'd use to describe him. He was well liked by sporty kids but he had little time for bookish types, and his version of history was all battles and beheadings. He was also the head of the army section of the school's Combined Cadet Force, and he loved bellowing on the parade ground, covering himself in boot polish for night exercises and being pally with the Territorial Army guys they trained with every other month.
My dad didn't think schools had any business dressing fourteen-year-old boys up in army gear, teaching them how to use guns, making war seem like the best possible fun you could have. He had made sure I knew the reality of soldiering – blood, death, squalor. 'Don't be like me, son,' he'd told me. 'Don't be a killer. Don't let your life be all about death. Study hard, pass your exams, get yourself a proper job.'
So much for that.
I remember one Friday afternoon Dad stood at the side of the concrete playground we used for parade and watched Bates bluster his way through drill practice. At one point Bates yelled 'RIGHT FACE!' especially loud, holding the 'I' for ages and modulating his voice so he sounded like a caricature sergeant from a Carry On film. Dad laughed out loud and everyone heard. Bates went red in the face and glared at him until I thought his head was going to explode. Dad just stared him down, a big grin on his face, until Bates dismissed us and stomped off to the staff room.
Anyway, Dad didn't approve of the CCF, but Community Service for three hours every Friday afternoon sounded really dull – helping old ladies with their shopping might be character building but, well, old people smell – so I joined the RAF section. There was a lot less drill and shouting in the RAF section.
My special area of responsibility was weapons training – I taught the fourth-formers how to strip, clean and
