Read Online Bats Out of Hell by Guy N Smith - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Guy N Smith
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next day. They knew he couldn't bloody well run. It was all BJ's doing. He had engineered it. The bastard had been waiting at the finishing-point when Ursin had staggered in, a full twenty minutes after everybody else.
"I'll make an athlete of you if it kills you." the head boy had announced in a loud voice, and all the spectators had broken into peals of laughter. You were expected to laugh like hell at any of BJ's sick jokes. "Better a dead athlete than a fat scholar."
"If it kills you." Ursin-Davies winced at the memory of that jibe, and felt the cold steel of the knife in his sweaty palm.
"I say, Bryce-Janson," a thirteen-year-old boy called out, shaking a younger colleague in the next bed, "I think . . . I can't make Burlington hear. He's gone all stiff like . . . like he's got polio or something."
Bryce-Janson sat up hurriedly. He grunted, but somehow managed to slide off the bed and pad across to the boy who had attracted his attention.
"Let me see." He pulled the other aside. "Hey, Burlington. Listen to me." He shook the inert form roughly. "This is Bryce-Janson. Answer me! D'you hear me? If you're fooling, I'll report you to the Head."
Ursin-Davies eased himself up on one elbow with difficulty. The nine-year-old was wailing, and those clustered around the silent boy's bed were beginning to panic. Bryce-Janson was trying to cover up his own fear by using his authority.
The bitterness which had been building up inside Ursin-Davies came to the boil. He gripped the handle of the knife. The back of his most hated, enemy was towards him, and he wondered why he hadn't thought of this before. It was all too easy, and no more than the bastard deserved.
A cauldron of hatred seethed inside Ursin-Davies. He forced his knife arm back and upwards. The muscles were stiff and unyielding at first, but sheer determination defeated the semi-paralytic tendons. It just needed one supreme effort.
He brought the knife down with every ounce of his thirteen stone behind it. It took the head boy between the shoulders, the blade buckling but sinking in up to the hilt with the weight of the blow, twisting and tearing as blood gushed out of the jagged wound.
Bryce-Janson screamed, a strangled, unnatural sound that died away in a hiss of spittle. He sank to his knees, clutching at the sheets and pulling them to the floor with him. Boys stared in horror, disbelief on their faces. Ursin wrenched the knife free and held it up, blood dripping on to the floor. He tried to laugh, but no sound came. Just a baring of the teeth, lips drawn back, spittle frothing, bubbling, bursting. Then came brief realization, momentary sanity amidst the madness, as his mouth opened with shock.
He gripped the knife again, exerting unwilling muscles, struggling to turn the bloody blade so that it pointed inwards, forcing it up towards his own jowls. Staccato movements, an inch at a time, beads of sweat rolling down his face with the strain.
"No . . . no . . . Fatty, no!" nine-year-old Montgomery screamed, the only one to realize the full implication of Ursin-Davies's actions.
This time the blade's entry was achieved more easily. It slid into the soft fat without the hindrance of bone, once again going hi up to the hilt, severing the jugular vein, until blood spouted like an oil-geyser, jetting on to beds and boys alike.
The door opened, and Matron entered, a short, middle-aged doctor at her heels.
"These are the boys, doctor," she was saying, "it really is most puzzling . . . and . . . "
She broke off, saw the tottering boy, the knife embedded in his throat, the fountain of blood, and fell forward unconscious.
Chapter Six
The sun beat down relentlessly on the squat buildings which comprised the Biological Research Center on Cannock Chase, so that as early as ten o'clock in the morning the heat in Haynes' office was stifling. The air-conditioning laboured under the strain, and the four people in the room knew that by midday it would be virtually
"I'll make an athlete of you if it kills you." the head boy had announced in a loud voice, and all the spectators had broken into peals of laughter. You were expected to laugh like hell at any of BJ's sick jokes. "Better a dead athlete than a fat scholar."
"If it kills you." Ursin-Davies winced at the memory of that jibe, and felt the cold steel of the knife in his sweaty palm.
"I say, Bryce-Janson," a thirteen-year-old boy called out, shaking a younger colleague in the next bed, "I think . . . I can't make Burlington hear. He's gone all stiff like . . . like he's got polio or something."
Bryce-Janson sat up hurriedly. He grunted, but somehow managed to slide off the bed and pad across to the boy who had attracted his attention.
"Let me see." He pulled the other aside. "Hey, Burlington. Listen to me." He shook the inert form roughly. "This is Bryce-Janson. Answer me! D'you hear me? If you're fooling, I'll report you to the Head."
Ursin-Davies eased himself up on one elbow with difficulty. The nine-year-old was wailing, and those clustered around the silent boy's bed were beginning to panic. Bryce-Janson was trying to cover up his own fear by using his authority.
The bitterness which had been building up inside Ursin-Davies came to the boil. He gripped the handle of the knife. The back of his most hated, enemy was towards him, and he wondered why he hadn't thought of this before. It was all too easy, and no more than the bastard deserved.
A cauldron of hatred seethed inside Ursin-Davies. He forced his knife arm back and upwards. The muscles were stiff and unyielding at first, but sheer determination defeated the semi-paralytic tendons. It just needed one supreme effort.
He brought the knife down with every ounce of his thirteen stone behind it. It took the head boy between the shoulders, the blade buckling but sinking in up to the hilt with the weight of the blow, twisting and tearing as blood gushed out of the jagged wound.
Bryce-Janson screamed, a strangled, unnatural sound that died away in a hiss of spittle. He sank to his knees, clutching at the sheets and pulling them to the floor with him. Boys stared in horror, disbelief on their faces. Ursin wrenched the knife free and held it up, blood dripping on to the floor. He tried to laugh, but no sound came. Just a baring of the teeth, lips drawn back, spittle frothing, bubbling, bursting. Then came brief realization, momentary sanity amidst the madness, as his mouth opened with shock.
He gripped the knife again, exerting unwilling muscles, struggling to turn the bloody blade so that it pointed inwards, forcing it up towards his own jowls. Staccato movements, an inch at a time, beads of sweat rolling down his face with the strain.
"No . . . no . . . Fatty, no!" nine-year-old Montgomery screamed, the only one to realize the full implication of Ursin-Davies's actions.
This time the blade's entry was achieved more easily. It slid into the soft fat without the hindrance of bone, once again going hi up to the hilt, severing the jugular vein, until blood spouted like an oil-geyser, jetting on to beds and boys alike.
The door opened, and Matron entered, a short, middle-aged doctor at her heels.
"These are the boys, doctor," she was saying, "it really is most puzzling . . . and . . . "
She broke off, saw the tottering boy, the knife embedded in his throat, the fountain of blood, and fell forward unconscious.
Chapter Six
The sun beat down relentlessly on the squat buildings which comprised the Biological Research Center on Cannock Chase, so that as early as ten o'clock in the morning the heat in Haynes' office was stifling. The air-conditioning laboured under the strain, and the four people in the room knew that by midday it would be virtually
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