The turrets and courtyards of St Michael's Academy were two centuries old and looked much older. Some of the boys lived in, but Richard's father wanted a "normal" upbringing for his only son, so a chauffeur-driven car took him home every evening, to their enclosed manor house in deepest, richest Surrey.
Grandfather Jack had been a merchant marine and an East End trader. There was an old family story about a dinner party when someone, hearing Jack was a trader, asked whether he was in bonds or derivatives, and Jack said: "Nah, mate. A barrow in the market." But that barrow had carried imported Japanese calculators, and over the next decade the barrow became a store on Tottenham Court Road, then half a dozen more around the country with an expanding mailorder business, before flourishing on the Web and diversifying into a dozen different sectors, from fashion to phones, continuing to boom.
Richard missed his grandfather, while knowing he himself was nothing like the tough old man. At the funeral, Richard had cried – his father called it blubbing – which caused embarrassment among the business associates at the graveside, and earned him more disapproval from Mother and Father. They dealt with the matter afterwards in the usual way: getting drunk on port from the cellar and shouting at each other. Mutual blame for their son's softness and other failings.
"Broomhall, you done your maths assignment?" It was Zajac who called out, coming across the quadrangle, swinging his bulky arms. "You have, haven't you?"
He made it sound as if Richard had been up to something dirty, whereas he was really after a copy-and-paste of Richard's work.
"I can't help you, Zajac."
"Help? Why would I need your bastard help? Just for that, I'm going to-"
But Richard had taken another step, into view of the courtyard cameras. Mr Dutton, the Head of Geography, was across the way, looking at him and Zajac, frowning. Zajac muttered something in Slovakian, then walked off.
This was not a good start to the day.
Within minutes, Richard was at his desk, and the big flatscreen monitor at the front of the class was displaying stacked panes of images: tropical cyclones with white surf smashing over palm trees and single-storey buildings; arid reddish dust bowls where verdant savannah once lay; concrete tower blocks in the outer banlieues of Paris where armoured cars of the Police Judiciaire patrolled; the three year-old steel border wall separating CalOrWashington – the Left Coast Republic – from Arizona and the rest of the US; the latest bomb atrocities in Amsterdam, Harare, and Jakarta; the cumulative death toll of the Adelaide Flu.
Beijing was threatening sanctions against the US if President Brand didn't stop the arms build up on the Mexican border where "At least the wetbacks are Christian," according to one right-wing pundit who was trying to explain why the Left Coast was Sodom and Gomorrah – the true Obama legacy requiring destruction – while South America was a land where the real US could expand, bringing freedom to repressed citizens. They might have said the same about Canada; but the Canadians had nukes.
The first lesson was supposed to be psychology. News displays that got the adults stressed – maybe that was what Mr Keele was going to talk about. Richard rubbed his forehead. He didn't care about adults. It seemed they'd all forgotten what it was like to be at school – logically, they must have been children once, every last one of them – and he told himself that he'd remember, if he lived long enough.
"So, everyone." Mr Keele worked his phone, causing a new window to appear on the big wallscreen, filled with a graph and tabular figures. "What we're looking at is the Factorial Aggregate Social Tension Score as a function of increasing average temperature, for several capital cities. Even though there are peaceful hot countries, what we'll see is that the increase in temperature correlates to a FASTS index tending to-"
And so on.
To be fair, the lesson became more interesting when Mr Keele stilled the displays and got the class talking, but Richard found it hard to join in because he knew that Zajac was going to try to grab him during the break. Maybe more than grabbing, unless he could stay in full view of security cams. But that was just going to build up Zajac's anger, so that when they did finally meet where no one could see "Master Broomhall?"
"Uh, sorry, sir."
"Not enough, but we'll change that. Unless you can answer the question."
"Sir…"
And that was how it went, until the lesson's end.
At the start of break time, heading along the parquetfloored corridor, Mal James matched pace with Richard, and asked if he'd like to come to the boarders' study instead of going outside.
"Uh – why?"
"Cause Zajac looks bloody mad, old mate. Keeps staring at you."
"Oh. Right."
So two minutes later, Richard was in the broadly octagonal study reserved for the older boarders – Mal James was in Year 11 – and occasional guests. Richard stood by himself while James went to talk with his real friends. Being charitable had limits.
Some of the boys were playing telephone poker on their linked phones. Others were reading or just chatting. Several were watching Knife Edge on the big wallscreen.
"It'll be Blades this year. The new Bloods suck."
"They're still training. Wait till they've had another month with Fireman Carlsen."
"Hey, Broomhall. What do you think?"
"Er… About what?"
"You think the Bloods will do good again, or what?"
"Um, I don't really know. Maybe."
Someone made a disgusted noise, then the group returned their attention to the screen. The view was a dormitory in the fighters' training camp. Richard had no idea which team it was, but he knew that the annual series was still in its early weeks, and that the hopeful fighters would be talking to the cameras about their families and their fears, and the money they hoped to make from the tournament if they survived.
He felt vomit rise up inside as the screen blurred along with the entire room, and he rubbed his face as he turned away. Mal James might have said something, but Richard was already at the door, and then he was through, heading down the corridor to the toilets, where he could find a cubicle to hide inside, or at least a sink to swill cold water on his face. But there were teachers approaching, and he was on his own without a boarder to vouch for him, so he turned left instead, and went out into the quadrangle, where a mild spring rain had begun to fall, forming threads of white and silver in the sunlight.
Zajac stood in one corner, arms folded, like a statue in the rain. He looked at Richard but made no move. Perhaps it was going to be OK.
He went inside, and survived through the next lesson – History – telling himself that Zajac had abandoned his resentment. It had to be true, so Richard acted as if it were, until it was lunchtime and he was walking to the school restaurant, remembering something Mr Keele said earlier: "People don't like holding contradictory views – it's called cognitive dissonance, see chapter 24 in Gross – and they'll do anything to blind themselves to the inner conflict."
Richard was fooling himself. If Zajac was acting unaggressive, that didn't mean he'd stopped planning violence. This was awful. While not eating his lunch, Richard looked around for Zajac, and saw him sitting at a table by himself, with some glass object by his plate. Maybe it was a paperweight. Father had some at home, and was old-fashioned enough to browse hardcopy at his study desk, but Richard had never seen the ornaments used to hold down pages.
Zajac turned, and Richard dropped his attention to the food on his plate.
Nothing happened until the end of lunch break, when everyone was milling out the doors, heading back via the rear courtyard. Richard was swept along as always. Suddenly a hard thump took him in the back of the shoulder and glass smashed at his foot, spraying outward from the impact.
"Broomhall, look what you've fucking done."
Other boys drew back, but Zajac had a grip on Richard's skin, through his sleeve.
"You'll accept the challenge" – his voice was low – "or I'll just shank you on the street. Big time."
"N-no."
No one had heard Zajac's threat, but everyone heard now as he stepped back saying: "That was Waterford crystal, and I'm issuing challenge. Now."
Several older boys pushed their way forward, Mal James among them.
"What the hell are you playing at, Zajac?"
"I'm arranging to meet little Broomhall in the gym. And I did it all formal. Right, Broomhall?"
Richard was about to throw up.
"R-right."
"No," said James. "You're not going to do it."
But Zajac just smiled, and Richard knew he meant it: either fight in the gym half-armoured, or feel a blade slide into his guts out on the street. Sooner or later they'd meet where there were no witnesses or cameras, and it would happen.
"I accept."
The words just came, materialising in his vocal cords as if transmitted from some distant continent.
"No." James closed his eyes, and shook his head. "You idiot, Broomhall."
"He's done it now." Zajac was grinning.
"And when it's done-" began James.
"You don't want to challenge me. But you're worried about your soft bum-boy, I'll give him eight weeks."
James looked disgusted.
"Night of the final," continued Zajac. "I'll give you till then."
"Final?" said Richard.
"Knife Edge." James looked at his friends. "On the twentieth, right?"
"Yeah."
"It'll be final, all right," said Zajac.
Then he pushed his way through the stationary crowd of boys, ignoring the smashed detritus of his excuse for the challenge, and the reactions of those who'd witnessed it.
Or Richard's vomiting on the ground: hot, spattering, and full of stink.