The Heat of the Sun

kind of person he is.’
    ‘I have.’ I slumped down on my cot. Le Vol’s face had flushed and I looked away from him. How ugly he was, how gangly and grotesque, with his fiery hair and ill-fitting
uniform!
    ‘Give it up, Sharpless. I’m telling you as a friend.’
    Later that night, on the way to the bathroom, I found a ball of paper on the floor. No one was looking, so I picked it up, uncrumpled it, and folded it neatly. The challenge might have been a
holy relic, something vital I had to keep.
    My duties as Trouble’s ‘second’ began soon enough. Whether he was rising early to run around the grounds, performing sit-ups or push-ups between classes,
jumping rope, touching toes, propelling himself along parallel bars, lifting dumb-bells or pummelling a punching bag, I was with him, counting laps, counting repetitions, counting time.
    We were objects of derision, but neither of us cared. With peculiar exaltation I saw the sneers and heard the guffaws as we stood in assemblies side by side, as we made our way along corridors
together, as we sat apart from others at meals, sequestered in our special world.
    Fellows gathered to watch Trouble train. Some called him ‘squirt’ or ‘little boy’; some called him worse things, but there came no greater torments. When I said to
Trouble that their behaviour surprised me, he looked at me pityingly. Hadn’t Scranway dictated their every move? Only Scranway, in the fight of the century, could deliver Trouble to his
fate.
    Elmsley liked to hint at what was coming. He had taken to following us, trailing after us, watching us from a distance, poking his rodenty nose from behind a pillar as we passed. When I warned
him off, his ugly mouth smirked, teeth glimmering like a clutch of razor blades.
    One afternoon, as winter gave way to spring, I sat on a bench in the changing room while Trouble showered. From behind a partition came the roar of water. I leaned back against the clammy wall.
Smells of ammonia and smells of sweat mingled pungently with the thickening steam.
    ‘You think you’re his one true friend, I suppose?’
    The voice startled me: Elmsley, sliding closer along the varnished bench.
    ‘If you were his friend’ – Elmsley spoke low – ‘you’d make him give this up. But no, you have to have a tragedy, like Cymbeline .’
    ‘That isn’t a tragedy, it’s a romance. It’s different. Mr Gregg said so.’ I thought of Trouble singing with Elmsley in class. And Trouble in the chapel, lying
beaten. Understanding flowed through my awareness like a stain. Bitterly, I said: ‘You told Scranway about the song and the applause. That’s why he set Quibble and Kane on to
Trouble.’
    ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ said Elmsley.
    ‘Just like you told him what your cousin said.’
    My ashplant rested beside me. Elmsley gripped it, leaped up, and swung it playfully, too close to my face.
    ‘Give that back.’ I staggered to my feet.
    He smirked. ‘I thought we were pals, Sharpless.’
    ‘You’re a spy. Scranway’s spy.’
    ‘You know, I rather like this stick. How’s about a bit of the old soft shoe?’ He clicked his heels together, a song-and-dance man, slapping my ashplant to the tiled floor: one
side, then the other.
    I flung myself upon him. I was slow, but bigger, heavier. The floor was wet. He skidded backwards. I pinned him against the wall. He squirmed, squealed. A steamy mirror reflected us: the bulky
earnest fool and this mischievous, mocking imp. I dug my nails into his hand, forcing my ashplant from his grip. I blundered back, almost falling.
    He nursed his hand. ‘You bastard, Sharpless!’
    ‘Get out, Elmsley.’
    His voice rose. ‘Do you think anybody likes you? Fellows were sorry for you for a while, that’s all. Pathetic cripple.’
    ‘Shut up!’ I swung back the ashplant.
    Never in my life had I fought another boy. I felt strong and weak all at once. Already, it seemed, I could feel the heavy stick slam, with a sickening crunch, into his ribs. Yes, let him cry
out, sinking to his knees, blood vomiting from his astonished mouth! I would kill him: kill him. An instant more and I would have done it: could have.
    Then Trouble was there. He gripped my ashplant. Slowly, reluctantly, I lowered my arm. Tucked about Trouble’s torso was a towel. His blond hair was dark and in tendrils, dripping
steadily.
    I said to him, ‘Don’t you know what he’s done?’
    ‘Everyone knows what he’s done. Get