Sam woke up with odd, staccato phrases running through his mind; things that people had said in his dreams and that he felt he had to remember. His dream had been vivid and strange and there had been no obvious explanation for it. The most vivid scenes replayed in his mind as he changed and that made him think that what he had dreamt about was important and that he needed to remember it and that it meant something. But what?
During the cold morning run and a dull breakfast – the porridge was particularly stodgy – Sam found it hard to properly focus on what he was doing. He felt as if one part of him were still dreaming; still in bed. In Assembly he jolted awake when Mrs Waters read out the name of the Indonesian boy he’d spent Exeat with, who happened to be sitting next to him. “What did you do?” Sam whispered to Pram, when the focus of the school’s attention had moved elsewhere.
“Ping Pong,” answered Pram. When Sam pulled a questioning face, Pram clarified, “In the library.”
“Ah.”
Sam and Pram went their separate ways at the door of the Assembly Hall but the acts of one that day were to have an effect on the life of the other. While a thick-headed Sam went back to the house and got his books, Pramoedya Mohamed took his place with the other naughty boys and girls outside Mrs Water’s office. There were three more condemned persons there that morning and all turned their backs in shame as the junior girls came down the stairs in coats and scarves.
Pram entered the Headmistress’s office hoping for the best but fearing the worst. He came out steaming with a sense of sincere injustice. Mrs Waters had threatened to call Pram’s parents in Manila and ask them to talk to their son in person, something that Pram thought excessive. In reality, of course, Pram was afraid of his father’s reaction: how many times had he told him that the family were sacrificing everything so that Pram could have a better education? So that he could learn English and have a better start in the world than either his father or mother could have ever have imagined?
If anything Pram’s anger had only increased by the time he entered the stuffy confines of Room Fourteen for a dose of double English. Confined there, he became overwhelmed with a desire for revenge. He felt like a surfer teetering on the edge of the board, the wave toppling over him. In the class he was invisible – the others ignored him – and sitting at a desk in the second row, near the window, thus ignored by all, he took out a small knife he kept in the band of his Y-fronts and scratched out H-A-C-H-E-T in the desk. He was about to start on the next word – something vulgar – when there was a knock at the window directly above him.
Pram’s blood ran cold. It was Mr Wilde, looking down haughtily from atop his long white nose. He raised and waggled a bony, much-ringed finger. The children in the classroom fell silent.
Pram, knowing what was coming, stood up and walked out
He was never seen at St Francis de Sales again.
At exactly the same time as this was happening, Sam was running out of the locker room of St Nicholas House. The combination on his lock hadn’t worked and Mr Dahl had had to come and clip it off with a pair of elongated plyers. He was late and his locker was open to anyone who might want to look in it but he had his books and his bag and he was on the way.
It was bitterly cold that morning but Sam wore only a green scarf over his uniform: none of the boys wore coats unless it rained. His hair was growing, thick and forward combed, and he had a look about him, a confidence that he hadn’t had before. The bell for the start of classes rang as he jogged up the Quad steps with one hand in his pocket to arrive at Room Fourteen just before Mr Firmin.
The teacher made a grand show of bowing for Sam and ushering him into the warmth. “You first, my good man.” The students settled at the sight of the teacher. Sam took a place near the window and was quickly informed of what had happened with Pram a few minutes earlier.
“He’s gonna be kicked out for sure,” Sam whispered back. “What was he thinking?”
The class began, Firmin handing out homework. Sam had scored well in his essay, which had been a story about how it must have been to be a person living in medieval Scotland at the time of the events in Macbeth. “All your own work, Lawrence?” Mr Firmin had asked, moustache bristling, as he’d slapped down the papers.
“Yes, sir. Of course, sir.”
“Well, then, very good. Got a bright future ahead of you if you keep writing like that.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Sam, reddening.
“Your mother would be proud.”
“Thank you, sir.”
As the class went on Sam looked down at the desk. Pram’s last piece of handiwork was glaringly clear among all the biro drawings and old graffiti. There were still splinters sticking out of the edges of letters and the letters themselves had been so deeply and violently carved that Sam could detect the anger the other boy must have felt as he’d done it – and he sympathised. Waters could get you like that.
Mr Firmin’s voice droned on and the wall heater sent up a steady stream of heady, warm air. The letters on the desk began to move in a very slow circle. Sam enjoyed the effect, half closing his eyes and letting his eyeballs roll backwards in their sockets. It was a lovely feeling, like having your back tickled or your feet rubbed.
“And who is the Queen of the Witches?” asked Mr Firmin.
“Hecate,” answered a boy’s voice.
“Hecate,” Sam repeated, seeing the word lined up in the desk before him, as though Pram had carved it there.
“Good, good,” stated Mr Firmin, moving on.
But Sam had blinked his sleepiness away. The letters had realigned themselves. Now they read HACHET again.
Waters is Hecate, Sam thought. He remembered Leana’s words.
Waters is Hecate, he knew.