They should circle around the gun, he said, approach under cover of darkness, and lob a grenade in. Simple, effective, risk-free.
Snead was having none of it. He accused Grant of cowardice. A shouting match ensued, the privates got involved and Snead, suddenly fearful, drew his Webley revolver and threatened to execute Grant on the spot for desertion in the face of the enemy. Confronted by the muzzle of an officer's gun, Grant backed down. He apologised, prepared to mount the assault as ordered.
And then, as the men readied themselves to attack, Grant shot Snead in the back.
The German position was taken and Snead was listed as the only casualty of the engagement. Grant had saved the lives of his men in the only way available to him. It was an act of heroism in the face of leadership so stupid that it beggared belief.
But Grant couldn't live with himself and the knowledge of what he'd done. He surrendered to his commanding officer, made a full confession, and was executed at dawn the next morning.
As was the custom for cowards and traitors, Grant's name was left off the roll of honour. He was only added to the list of war dead in St Mark's main hall after one of Grant's surviving men pleaded his case with the headmaster of the time.
I wonder how many other St Mark's boys died in the war whose names were not listed. How many were shot at dawn for cowardice as they twitched and shuddered from shell shock; how many were gunned down where they stood because they refused to go over the top to certain, pointless death; how many were executed for refusing to take orders from upper class idiots who were trying to fight entrenched armies with machine guns as if they were Zulus with spears.
Hammond had tried to commemorate those boys who had died in The Cull, but who would paint and hang a roll of honour for those who had survived? Who would paint Petts' name onto black board, or Belcher's, or Williams', or the rest of those boys killed in yet another pointless war they had little choice but to fight?
Who would paint Mac's name?
Who would paint mine?
As I raised my gun and brought it to bear on the man who had appointed himself my leader, I knew exactly how Grant had felt, nearly a century before me. I knew the anger and resentment of someone forced to follow orders that are cruel, cowardly and wrong. I felt the righteous hatred of a man who believed in justice and honour slaved to a ruler who cared only for power. I felt the despair of a man who longed for peace forced to resort to violence because of the madness of others.
I realised that my days of following orders were done.
So I pulled the trigger and shot the bastard.
CHAPTER TWELVE
He didn't fall down. The bullet hit him in the left forearm. Not where I was aiming, but my hands were shaking so much it's lucky I hit him at all. Why couldn't I be like Grant; cool under pressure, calmly ruthless?
We looked at each other, neither of us knowing what to do next. The hole in his arm started to leak. He raised his gun to fire back so I shot him again. I hit him in the right shoulder. This time he fell down.
'Drop it!' shouted Cheshire, raising his gun to cover me.
I stood there, staring at Mac, who had fallen backwards and was sitting on the floor with his back against the sofa. He'd dropped his gun and was trying to put pressure on the wounds to stop the bleeding, but neither of his arms was working properly.
Norton walked over to Cheshire, reached out and gently pushed the gun down.
'Leave him,' he said.
I'd killed three people in the last few months. One I could justify to myself as a mercy killing. The other was kill or be killed. The third had been in the heat of battle. But shooting Mac without warning, without any immediate threat to myself, in cold blood… that was different. I wasn't sure of my own motives any more. Had I shot him to save the school? Was I taking revenge for Matron and Bates? Or was I punishing him for what he'd done to me, what he'd made me into?
I looked down at the smoking Browning in my right hand. I couldn't work out what it was doing there. I used to hate guns, I thought. How is it that this thing feels so natural? When did I become someone who always carries a gun? I relaxed my fingers and it fell to the floor.
Mac was fumbling, trying to find some way of repairing the damage. His arms flapped and spasmed uselessly.
I crouched down so I was on the same level as Mac.
'It doesn't hurt yet, but it will,' I said. 'At the moment you've got so much adrenalin going through you that your body's not letting you feel the pain. I don't know for sure, but I suppose that if you die you might never feel it. It's only if you survive and heal that it hurts.'
He looked up at me. If I was expecting confusion or fear I was disappointed. There was only fury.
'You fucking coward,' he said. 'You pathetic, weak, stupid fucking coward.'
The noise from outside had stopped the instant I'd pulled the trigger. I could hear people running back down the stairs. They must have left a guard on the door, but for now they'd stopped trying to get in.
'What is going on here?' demanded Cheshire.
'Call it a coup,' said Norton as he sat down in an armchair. 'Can you pass me that tablecloth, please.'
Cheshire pulled the cloth off the table and began helping Norton to dress his wound.
'Why now?' asked Mac. 'Why wait until we're alone and trapped and probably going to die anyway? What is the fucking point of doing it now?'
I didn't have an answer to that.
'I'll tell you, shall I,' he went on. 'I reckon…' he broke off as a violent coughing fit seized him. 'I reckon you were hoping they'd do your job for you.'
'Perhaps,' I conceded.
'Coward,' he said again. 'I told you the rules. I explained how this works. You want me out the way you fucking challenge me like a man.'
'Like you challenged Bates?'
'Bates was weak. He didn't understand, didn't deserve the respect. I thought you understood. I thought you got it.'
'I get it, I just don't accept it. If I played it your way, by your rules I'd be buying into your bullshit, accepting this strong tribal leader bollocks,' I said. 'If I challenged you and proved myself the harder bastard then all I'd be doing was extending an invitation to some other hard fucker to come along and knock me off.'
'That's how it works.'
'I don't accept that. And you know what, the rest of the boys don't either. You might not have noticed, but they've left us – you – here to die. First chance they got, they cut you loose.'
'So what's your alternative, eh?' he sneered. 'You gonna run the school as a democracy? Student councils? Tea and scones and cricket on the green? Fucking fantasist.'
His face was white as chalk. His ruined shoulder made an awful grinding sound as he tried to lever himself into a more comfortable sitting position.
'I don't know what it'll be like, but it's got to be better than rapes and crucifixions. There won't be executions. Boys won't be bullied and tormented.'
'And my officers? You gonna deal with them?'
'If I need to.'
He laughed bitterly. 'Brilliant. Lee Keegan's brave new world kicks off with a group execution. You fucking hypocrite.'
He was right. I knew that. But I was in no mood to argue any more.
'Your problem,' I said, 'is that you thought you were only vulnerable to someone stronger than you. But you never thought you might be vulnerable to someone smarter.'
He gave a bitter laugh, which turned into another fit of coughing. His left sleeve was soaked with blood. It ran
