The Heat of the Sun

Trouble delivered the song slowly, giving each word its due in a clear, soaring tenor. The song, in all its melancholy beauty, might have been a
summation of all that life could hold. The setting, I realized later, was the one by Sir Hubert Parry: I would come to know it well.
    The second verse was for Arviragus; then the two had alternating lines. Elmsley looked about him. Terror flashed in his face, and he dissolved into the resignation of the damned as Trouble
pushed aside an empty desk, advanced upon him, and draped an arm across his shoulder. Elmsley could barely move his lips; it was Trouble who sang his parts, with Elmsley propped beside him like a
ventriloquist’s dummy:
    Fear no more the lightning-flash,
    Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone;
    Fear not slander, censure rash;
    Thou hast finish’d joy and moan.
    All lovers young, all lovers must
    Consign to thee and come to dust.
    When the song was over, there was silence, and I wondered what it meant. Time, it seemed, was stranded in its flight, as if a pendulum had swung high, hovered, and refused to sweep down. We had
been lifted out of ourselves. The fellow who had sung was no schoolboy victim, fresh from being tripped up on the stairs; the fellows who had listened were not the tormentors they had been and
would be again.
    Then came the applause. Who began it I cannot say; first one pair of hands struck softly, slowly together, then another and another, until the sound surged across the room like thunder, sweeping
us all into its startling grip.
    That evening it was my turn to be chapel monitor, readying the chapel for morning service. All except the most pious fellows resented this task. It was worst in winter.
Situated apart from other buildings at the bottom of a sloping lawn, the chapel was cold enough to make me shiver even as I swept the aisles, polished the brass, changed the candles, and adjusted
the hymnals in scarf, gloves, and overcoat.
    I was anything but thorough. There were meant to be two monitors: Trouble had been rostered with me that evening, and I had not been able to find him. I was angry. I had left my tasks too late
and it was time for dinner.
    Only as I was about to leave did I pause, slumping exhaustedly on the front pew. And what, I wondered, had become of Trouble? When the bell had rung and Mr Gregg’s class had spilled into
the corridor there had been jokes, jostlings, but feeble ones; Trouble strode away, and not a single fellow tried to hold him back.
    Still his song disturbed me. In the chapel, the melody came back to me, its strange beauty burning into me like a brand. I gazed up at the lectern, at the crucifix, at the high windows. Fugitive
sunset flashed through stained glass and, resting my chin on my ashplant, I felt myself slipping into violet eyes, into a dark brightness where questions hovered over me like imponderable hanging
fruit.
    I had hauled myself to my feet and was about to trudge back down the aisle when I heard a groan. At first I thought it was the wind, but the groan came again, and I swivelled towards the altar.
Perhaps someone waited there, watching me, setting me up for some cruel joke, but I stumped in that direction all the same. Carpet, thick and blood-red, sank beneath my boots. White linen concealed
the table, dropping at the corners in papery folds.
    For a third time I heard the groan, a sound of pain. I paced around the table. Oh, but I had not been thorough!
    Trouble lay on his side, doubled over.
    I prodded him with my ashplant. ‘Can you hear me?’
    ‘Damn, I must have passed out.’ He raised his head, wincing. ‘Who are you?’
    I reminded him of my name.
    ‘Leave me alone.’ He shivered violently. He wore no coat, no hat; his attackers must have set upon him in another building, then carried him out to the chapel and left him here.
    ‘You’re blue with cold,’ I said. ‘Can you stand?’
    ‘Leave me,’ he said again, and coughed.
    ‘You’ll have to go to the infirmary. I’ll get help.’
    ‘No!’ He reached up, grabbing the edge of the table; I thought he would pull down the cloth, candles and all, and I flustered about him, but he waved me away. Like a drunkard, he
staggered down the steps and crashed into the railing before the first pew. He stood swaying, holding it tightly.
    ‘You’ll catch your death.’ I tugged away my scarf, struggled out of my coat. ‘Here, let me help you.’
    Had Trouble shouted at me, I should not have been surprised; but he