The Heat of the Sun

say?’
    Trouble grabbed my ashplant. Startled, I let it slip from me. With a yelp, he bounded down the stairs, three steps at a time, slashing at his imagined enemy as he went. The sun, bold with
spring, spilled through the tall landing windows and struck his bright hair. In the hall below he pirouetted, bowed, and held my ashplant aloft before his face like a sacred sword.
    I said, amazed: ‘First a boxer! What now, a samurai?’
    McManus II was subdued on the night before the Easter vacation. As I packed my trunk, I thought what a contrast this end of term made with the last: no uproar, no games, no
devil-may-care escape into the night. The headmaster’s interview with Trouble and Scranway had left its mark. Masters had been looking in regularly. There would be no slacking of discipline.
Lights would be extinguished strictly at ten, just when all of us would have gathered in the gym, fervent for the fight of the century.
    Trouble knocked on the wall of my partition. He mimed a punch, a swift uppercut.
    ‘You’re glad really, aren’t you?’ I asked him.
    ‘What’s to be glad about? Haven’t you heard of David and Goliath?’ He sat, bouncing a little, on my cot. He wore silk pyjamas and a dressing gown that might have been a
smoking jacket. Looking at him, I wondered how much I had really come to know him.
    Sometimes I still thought he was a stranger.
    ‘Hey, Trouble.’ Ralph Rex, Jr passed by.
    ‘Hey, Rex.’ Slowly, shyly at first, Trouble’s acolytes were drifting back. That night Earl Pritchard had joined us at dinner; lately, the Townsend twins looked wistfully in our
direction. Had Trouble still possessed his phonograph, he could easily have summoned them back to cubicle number thirty: all it would take was Sophie Tucker’s siren songs sounding out
again.
    A shout, almost a scream, came from near the door.
    ‘ Who did this? ’ It was Scranway.
    By the time we got there a crowd had formed. Slumped to the floor, almost sobbing, Scranway cradled in his arms the inert form of Hunter.
    Voices buzzed all around us.
    ‘What’s happened? Is Hunter dead?’
    ‘I saw it all. Scranway was about to take him out for his walk. Hunter couldn’t get up.’
    ‘Then he was sick.’
    ‘There’s a steak next to his basket – half chewed!’
    ‘Someone’s poisoned Hunter? Who’d do that?’
    Wildly, Scranway looked about him. Fellows stepped back. Scranway rose. He was still in all his clothes, with an overcoat on top. For once, he was not immaculate; his hair was dishevelled and
his eyes burned. He pushed through the crowd. He pointed at Trouble. ‘You. You .’
    Trouble looked astonished. ‘No.’
    I stepped forward. ‘It’s true. Leave him alone.’
    Scranway shoved me aside. My legs buckled beneath me; I thudded to the floor and could only look on, helpless, as he grabbed Trouble, shaking him, slapping him. Trouble stumbled back. He held up
his fists, assumed a boxer’s stance, but Scranway had no time for Queensberry Rules.
    They slammed against one partition, then another. Trouble was lithe, fast on his feet, but Scranway, with his superior bulk, grappled him to the floor.
    They punched, kicked, pummelled.
    I gripped my leg, wincing at the pain, as my gaze ricocheted between the battle on the floor and the onlookers hunkered above. Murderous delight flared in every face. Some bellowed their support
for Scranway – then Trouble – then Scranway.
    ‘Thrilling, isn’t it? Eddie just loves that dog.’ The voice insinuated itself into my ear. ‘Well, loved. ’
    ‘Get away from me, Elmsley.’ He leaned over me like a secret assassin.
    ‘What, or you’ll beat me with your big stick?’
    I glared up at him. ‘You did it, didn’t you?’
    He was all innocence. ‘Did what?’
    With a cry, Trouble squirmed from beneath Scranway’s weight. He flung off his dressing gown. Again he held up his fists to parry, bounced on his feet. ‘Come on, Scranway! Fight me
cleanly.’
    ‘I’ll kill you!’ Scranway’s fist swung out.
    Trouble danced back, dazzling in his silk pyjamas. ‘Coward! Filthy coward!’ He tossed back his head, flicking hair from his eyes.
    Scranway plummeted forward. Trouble darted away, but Scranway grabbed his collar. Silk ripped. Trouble was against the wall, with Scranway’s fist poised to strike, when a voice roared:
    ‘Boys! What do you think you’re doing?’
    Mr Gregg stood in the doorway.
    Scranway, trembling, pointed to Hunter. ‘That little bastard