'Frankie, you are pivotal to all of this,' Hamilton hissed as they meandered through the dark cobbled streets of Eton together, swinging beneath the lamp posts. 'You possess a particularly necessary attribute needed for this to work—you are the keystone. You are the screen presence that draws the eye. First, you shall rise as the charming poster boy that I have scrupulously carved for all to look towards and admire, and I shall stand as an equal by your side and as the strategist, for I do not have that certain charismatic quality which you possess, considering I do not particularly enjoy most humans all that much or have the patience for them—only a select few, while the rest are fat blue bottle flies to me. I will play the Merlin and the Morgan le Fay to your portrayal of King Arthur, so to speak. Now, we initiate the second phase.'
'The second phase?' Frankie repeated as he stuffed his hands deep into the pockets of his navy pea coat. 'Good God, old fellow, you've certainly given this quite a bit of thought, haven't you? How many phases are there exactly? Tell me, have you been devising this plan since the very moment you'd set foot inside to darken the hallways and cobbled arteries of Eton like an omen?'
'Yes, actually. Being a perpetually restless individual, I had two choices: initiate a project to overthrow those in power or to join the badminton team,' Trevor replied. 'Mind you, my serve is impeccable in both activities. Now, quieten your incessant mouth, Carrozza, and listen to me, for the next part is as integral to the plan as ousting Gillespie. You mustn't carelessly shun the concept away without consideration ... no matter how depraved it may sound.'
'Depraved?' Frankie responded, pulling up the collar of his coat. 'Just how terrible is this next part that it caused for you to be forewarning me not to evade it?'
'You must now choose several worthy bunkmates to aid your rise, pun intended,' Trevor announced casually, 'and they must be prestigious pupils and influential individuals found within the grounds of Eton or the surrounding areas. We've unseated the throne, but it remains empty. Nobody is yet calling out your name for you to seat it. If you are to take it now, nobody will support your claim because not all of them know your name. You must plant the seed with your seed and let the reputation spawn like roots through the grounds of Eton, as scandal before glory is the quickest way to make an honorific image for yourself. They must sing of your praises afterwards, to make you sound like a monumental and magical occurrence. It is good fortune that I've taught you the ways and shown you the art of being a sensual and sensational lover all these years. At least there are quite a few somewhat intrigued by you once you joined several of the sports teams, which makes it all the more easier. Haven't you already received a handful of offers? I do believe this is evident in those anonymous love letters secretly shoved underneath your doorway or pillow every once in a while. All we need to do is use the power of suggestion to paint you as a pretty mystery, fringed along the edge by a gorgeous frame made of glamour. If we romanticise you like a poem, claiming you to be the sprog of a Greek warrior like Achilles and a goddess like Aphrodite, it shall be quite undemanding for you to obtain many a lover ... although, that is not the issue. You must only maintain plenty of stamina and be very wise when selecting those you plan to invite into your bed come the morose call of the evening bell. The more impressive the name, higher are the chance of it legitimising your cause.'
Exasperated and shocked, Frankie glowered at the other boy as he swirled around a post box and thrusted his hands into his grey jacket, chuckling to himself. 'Exactly what part do I play in this plan of yours, just the role of some few-bob whore?'
'Of course not.' Trevor snorted and winked at him. 'You're a glorious treasure, my handsome boy.'
'Isn't this going a bit too far? Never mind being expelled, there is potential for our being incarcerated! Listen to us, Hamilton. In a sense, we're discussing the idea of whoring my body out. I'm not some sort of rent boy smuggled in from Thailand. I'm no hustler wandering the streets of Tijuana, prowling beneath the lamp posts with multicoloured handkerchiefs in my back pockets to indicate just what sort of vulgar activities I offer to all of the johns.'
'Oh please, Frankie. Hustlers, whores, and courtesans have businesslike professionalism and savvy instincts. They barter for the coin when turning a trick. You're doing it for free.'
'That doesn't make it sound any better! What is the matter with you?' Frankie grabbed him roughly by the arm and yanked him around. 'What is the purpose of all of this? You're asking me to offer up my body as a vessel to be used in an enactment of all the desperate desires and filthy fantasies of just about any old Joe that comes my way... so as to play the object to which they can direct their deepest and darkest urges towards, dragged up from the shadowiest corners of their minds. Do you hear yourself? Do you understand how vile that request sounds?'
'Just as Jesus Christ offered up his body and died for our sins, you shall offer up your own and live for them. No martyrdom awaits you, only a kingdom to make an immortal of you. Listen, do this in remembrance—'
'If you continue to spout symbolic Christian references in regards to this foul mission of yours, Hamilton, I will clout you so hard you'll be digging bits of broken teeth from the back of your skull for weeks and your own children, if they've the misfortune to spawn from your acidic loins, will wobble from feeling the repercussions of it in the future.'
'What I mean to say is that ... of course you may choose from them, you bloody halfwit. I didn't mean for you to bed everyone who quivers at the crotch for you. How exactly would you riding some homeless man do either of us any sort of favours? Select the ones you enjoy the look of, but only—and most importantly—if they have an admirable reputation or something worthy to take in exchange, then you may writher beneath the sheets with them. However, there will be a few salient targets who will be necessary to take ahold of like crevices in the climb up this mountain, regardless of their appearance or charisma. Mind you, it won't always be venereal acts ... however, those sort of lewd performances make for valuable weapons when it comes to trying to gain advancement as quickly as possible.' Trevor's sneer followed a bus sliding behind Carrozza's head as he stuffed his hands under his armpits to keep the nippy September air from biting, bobbing his head and swaying on his boots. 'It isn't exactly being given away for nought though, is it? You shall receive just rewards and liberation and more. To be entirely honest, if it is any consolation ... personally, I believe you'd make an absolute killing with those talents of yours imbued by me in the bedroom, until torrents of coins poured spiritedly out of all your orifices ... or whichever field, or forest, or alleyway, or empty classroom, or public restroom, or red telephone box, or bathtub, or wherever you stumble your way towards and with whomever once the hungry beast between your thighs begins to grumble. After all, I ought to know.'
Trevor's smug grin was only encouraged all the more when Frankie shoved him against the cobblestoned wall. 'Listen to me,' Hamilton persisted. 'Make them scream from munificent ecstasy, and when their hoarse voices finally return to them, let them begin the whispers discussing all the boys and girls you have ... ploughed the field with, so to speak. Therefore, in doing so, you shall be exalted into some illustrious, great, and sexual being whom everyone shall be talking about. "Is he or isn't he?" they'll wonder, consumed with curiosity. It is a gimmick, and mystery is the best trick used of all others to inspire itself amongst the ordinary and the bored when too much is said or not enough. You shall be revered. They know your family and your face, it shan't take much effort or time for them to remember your name.'
'You're doing a very poor job trying to dulcify me. Yet, I am still in support of this ideology of ours that endeavours to reshape Eton ... but at what cost? The route seems rather sleazy. To give it away for nought but a whisper of my name in the ear of another at the expense of self-respect seems absurd,' Frankie muttered as they wandered down a dark alleyway, kicking stones. 'I feel as though I've got a bag full of sweeties and I'm just chucking handfuls of them around myself like bread for the pigeons.'
'Carrozza, if we are talking about instilling divine protection over your sacred virginity, you are aware that that little slice of virtue is now safely stored in my pocket after I pilfered it from you in the storeroom at the back of Professor Maguire's classroom when he ordered us to go and retrieve new beakers and burettes after we blew up the other set, aren't you? Do you not recall how we rocked those stacks of shelves until we smashed scientific apparatuses and vials filled with fermenting chemicals around her feet and stuffed our mouths with tartan scarves? I tend to do so on a regular basis when I'm extremely bored on my chaise longue and my hand feels like wandering downwards if I'm alone at night. I'm often rather fond of that memory.' Trevor tittered callously with his tongue between his teeth, dodging the swing of Frankie's foot. 'Bread for the pigeons, my devilish angel? I do believe you mean peasants.'
Frankie pushed him out of the alley and into a telephone box, infuriated by his grin. 'And what about Beth?'
'What about Beth? What Bethany Holiday doesn't know won't hurt her, considering that there is very little she isn't aware of. Besides, it isn't as though you are committing adultery against the girl. You haven't even yet reconciled from whatever silly means has split you apart again this time; some foolish idiocy on your part, I'd imagine, like that time you'd laughed at her for learning to knit clothing for the foxes and hedgehogs that come to her garden at night. The whole affair between you two is going to give me dreadful whiplash. Mind you, I do admire that neither of you ever say you're together like those old marital sort of people would. It's as though you've transcended beyond nonsensical human terms, grasping the bigger picture and becoming something entirely different altogether with no need to seek clarification. It makes you all the more significant and profound, becoming a grand pairing that recognises the importance of matters beyond the ties of the mortal coil, such as the endeavour to break the domestic shackles around the untamed soul to make it primitive once more. Therefore, with her understanding these cosmic philosophies about revelry and hedonism and all things paramount that we've all previously discussed to death, mutely, you have her blessing to seek this out ... as it, too, transcends beyond the measure of brainless human connections. You are not tarnishing her honour, since you are hers, as much as she is yours, as much as you are mine, as much as she is mine, as much as I am hers, as much as the other one equally owns and belongs to us, too.'
The boys strode towards the street corner, eyeing the patrons spilling through the tavern doors and piling into taxis whilst hurling cackles at the night sky.
'You want your name to be sung on for generations throughout the school, echoing long after you are gone, chanted and hero-worshipped until it becomes a legend, a myth due to never fade nor die, my little cherry to be plucked. I know you do. As an alumni, your father, the Etonian, would be incredibly proud of you ... as would that exceptionally beautiful and frosty mother of yours,' Trevor argued. 'I'd imagine she would spend Christmas boasting excessively about her youngest son's remarkable achievements and the renowned successes he has garnered from dominating the college as its pinnacle student. Patrick will evanesce into a beloved whisper.'
'Oh, come off it, Trevor. Yes, I'm sure they would be ever so pleased by the methods I've taken to achieve such an outcome. Also, don't ... don't talk about Patrick like that.' Deliberating, Frankie rolled his head and shuffled his shoulders. 'Oh fine, Hamilton. Very well. If this is what is asked of me and my part to play ... if that is what it takes then consider me wholeheartedly involved. Mind you, if there is anything asked of me that I don't want to do, I shan't be doing it. You can take that bullet ... or you'll be taking an actual bullet between the eyes.' Frankie glanced across the cobbled street to the pub as they stopped to light cigarettes, hopping on his feet to keep warm and looking to his watch. 'Speaking of the other one, where is she? She was supposed to meet us here by now.'
'Everything is already in motion. We have the prefects off our backs and slipped into our pockets like puppeteers and marionettes. Now you need only begin the ascent of your own reputation to attach strings to all that shall soon become our playground, our court, our kingdom, and our very own little dollhouse to switch about the furniture and inhabitants within as we see fit. You are already being praised in the college newsletter for your prowess on the football field, cricket field, and rugby field, not to mention your ability to charm the rivers in rowing. Jack of all trades, master of none, but soon to be of them all,' Trevor murmured enthrallingly, his grin glowing as he inhaled deep before disappearing behind a smog of smoke. Somewhere in the night, footsteps hurried towards them like a cantering horse. 'Trust me, nothing will deliver vast recognition quicker than creating a great enigma around yourself. Compelled by curiosity, they will flock towards you like rats as though you were the Pied Piper of Eton playing a pretty tune. If destiny truly exists, then it was foretold in the stars that we were due to walk this royal path. Judging by what we've accomplished thus far with half the dedication and ambition, we were born for it. It is intrinsic, in fact.'
'Hush your diabolical tongue,' Frankie warned from deep in his throat as the equestrian clip-clopping neared them, no doubt caused by high heels pounding the pavement. 'We will speak no more of this.'
Seraphina Rose emerged from around the corner, bursting forth and latching onto the lamp post at the corner before twirling around it into a courtesy, keeping one hand to her head to ensure the black pork pie hat didn't fall off. 'There you are, my darling cousin. I've been looking all over for you,' she cried, reaching forward to pull Frankie into a tight embrace and choking him with heavy whiffs of citric wine and floral perfume. 'I've only just trailed some poor lad back out of a taxi and across the road because I swore it was you; I thought you were abandoning me so as to head off to one of your dingy pubs in foggy London town, you see.'
'Seraphina Rose, you look as mouth-watering as ever.' Trevor sniffed as his listless eyes devoured her mockingly, scrutinising her black heels until his gaze drifted up to her dark leggings and her drab off the shoulder grey jumper before lifting away insouciantly towards the chimney pots.
'Must you always be repugnant and present, Hamilton?' she snapped, combing wispy blonde strands from her eyes as she reapplied her thick black reading glasses over her eyes.
'Of course. If I was not here, where else would I be?' His smarmy smile was like sugar mixed with salt.
'Oh, I don't know, perhaps visiting papa in Hell for a spell?' she called out as she linked her arm through Frankie's and dragged him across the street towards the bar. 'So, who are we tonight, boys?' she asked, slipping a passport from her handbag.
'Sweeney Ripper,' Trevor announced as he pulled out his identification so the three of them could compare their fake passports. 'I'm an apprentice for an undertaker.'
Seraphina rolled her eyes as she slipped her other arm through Hamilton's to prevent her toppling on the cobbles. 'Oh, but of course you are. And you, Frank?'
'Flash Jones,' he answered, pulling back on her arm to dodge the black taxi shooting dangerously up the road. 'I'm in the midst of training to become a budding astronaut. And you, dear cousin?'
'Helen Marsh,' she exclaimed. 'I have just recently matriculated as a student at the University of Cambridge to study in the field of criminology so as to go on to become a forensic scientist.'
'What a godawful, boring name.' Hamilton groaned his distaste. 'Not to mention that you don't exactly look like a forensic scientist.'
'Tell me, Trevor, what exactly does a forensic scientist look like then, since you seem to have obtained such vast statistical knowledge due to encountering so many of them, no doubt?' Seraphina asked brusquely. 'Matching cultish shifts, perhaps?'
'No, I just think that after spending her days surrounded by gallons of blood that Helen Marsh would have the wealth and wish to wear something a little more colourful instead of always being dressed so ... comfortable in all of that black. You look like a drab journalist who has the intentions to convert her measly readers to some tedious religion.'
'Well, shall we see what celebratory colours I wear to your funeral after I've spilled all of your blood out on this kerb?' Seraphina replied calmly, before she wobbled and toppled. They caught her around the elbows mere seconds from whacking her knees off the ground. 'Comfortable? My feet are in absolute agony wearing these things! You could at least be thankful that I strapped these torture devices to me after demanding so profusely that I do. High heels were most definitely invented by men as a weapon to keep women from running away fast enough from stifling cologne, cheesy chat-up lines, and unwise decisions.'
'High heels were initially invented by men for men to wear, actually,' Hamilton retorted monotonously.
'Well, I think I'll take my chances with what I'm wearing considering the advice is coming from a boy dressed in what looks to be a military jacket from the French Revolution that he has dyed black, worn over darker jeans so tight I can see his shrivelling nub pressing through and ... what's this? Another black greatcoat on top, of course ... revolutionary fashion sense. Bravo! Forgive me if I'd rather trust my own instincts than pay any heed to a boy telling a girl how to dress, which is not unalike a dog telling a cat how to meow.' Seraphina abruptly snatched the cigarette from his lips and took a long drag. 'Besides, the Parisians wear very little colour and minimalistic patterns, mostly black on white like chessboards, as they smoke cigarettes and pretend to look mean. That is an aesthetic arrangement that I can appreciate.'
'Yes, but you're not a Parisienne, are you? You're British, a race of people who have been imbued with the earth-shattering need to apologise for everything accidental or intentional, including what you're wearing. I told you to dress chic and provocative, not like a young school teacher who has just taught an unruly class before going on a bender.'
'Well, if that is the case, the doctor ought to apologise to your mother for pulling such a ghastly little beast from out of her womb.'
'For the record, I wasn't telling you how to dress, I was telling you how not to dress.'
'Well,' Seraphina begun testily, 'if you don't shut your mouth you're going to be wearing one of these heels when I ram it up your h—'
'Enough, you two. Give it a rest,' Frankie muttered sternly as they approached the bouncers. 'Rose, you look as lovely as one. Hamilton, stop being so domineering.'
This certain bar, The Carpenter's Arms, was renowned for its leniency, overlooking the ages of its customers or the conditions of their identification, so most of Eton College occupied the benches, booths, and tables come the weekend's calling. After repeating the false date of births that they'd memorised to the bouncers, the trio shuffled in, sweeping a studious gaze over the patrons before taking their place at a little table beside the fireplace and a large wooden pillar, with Frankie and Seraphina on one side and Trevor sitting opposite them on the other.
'Well, Seraphina, how is tutoring going for you at home?' Trevor enquired, after he'd ordered three hot whiskeys with his filled with a heart of ice and surveyed the crowd around them.
After pouring into three shot glasses from a bottle of white sambuca, Seraphina rested the glass near her lips and eyed him suspiciously, distrustful of his interest; after a moment of hesitation, she did not seem to sense anything unkindly in it as her suspicions gave away to her downing the clear substance. 'Wonderful,' she replied, raking her eyes over the other settlers in the Carpenter's Arms in search of a talented face. 'Indeed, it is marvellous. I have absolute buckets of free time in my hands to do whatever I feel like—be it write a poem, sing a song, or twirl in dance—rather than wasting my time attending that godawful place, which just didn't seem to know what to do with me or how to work around my terribly busy schedule. It was in dire shambles, anyway. Do you believe the audacity of them? To dare to think that I ought to shuffle around the antics of my life just to suit them and the rest of those snivelling, prissy, boring, godawful, and whoring bitches and witches. Can't you just absolutely not believe it?' Seraphina reached forward and took a long gulp from a pint of mead. 'Apologies, it's just that nuns are just ever so ... hypocritical. I mean, honestly, wearing black and white together. You can just imagine the sort of stockings and suspenders worn beneath that getup ... some in leather, I'd wager. Those are the divine Manichaeism colours that entice the art and act of lovemaking. It is why one must always wear fair white upon the surface and dark black garments beneath when the desire comes calling—or so my mother once told me. Not to mention that the costume's shape makes them resemble a phallic image. Symbolism is ever so crafty, don't you find? And don't even get me started on the appalling girls that attended. I've cut out livelier split ends from my head. Oh, and the uniform! The length of the skirt went on for days!'
'Yes, you positively screamed sex with your ankles. Well, I can clearly see that you bear no resentment from your past involvement with the sisterhood at Marjorie Devereux's Academy for Girls. You must be ever so glad to find yourself expelled from there once more. Actually, come to mention it, what incident called for such drastic actions again?' Trevor inquired as he lit a thin black cigar and eyed her over the smoke, gesturing towards her with a knuckle.
'Sister Hazel ... something short of a radical feminist, or so I've come to understand. Mind you, I'm more inclined to believe that that old fossil was a dildo for dinosaurs. She lectured to a group of girls and I for days about how degrading the line of work was in the magazines we'd been smuggling in—fashion rags full of supermodels and such things. She plainly put it that it placed girls on a podium to sexualise them, no matter if they weren't even glamour models, so as to carry out the bidding of the devil. The women became nothing more than an object to the male gaze, she had said, so much so that Joan of Arc would have lit the pyre herself if she'd come to learn of the atrocity of it all—the history of the media's portrayal of her gender, that is. Sister Hazel declared that all those women were basically frolicking around in bed with Lucifer himself.' Seraphina looked to the cuticles on the nails she'd painted black before she reached across to fix the shearling collar of Frankie's denim jacket and smoothened the wrinkles of his mustard-coloured t-shirt, glancing underneath the table to see that he was wearing tight black jeans that were small enough to bare his sockless ankles. 'So, of course, I couldn't be having anymore of that—the woman of the cross putting down careers which made women their own bosses. Little did she know of the two innate things which fuel me beyond belief: pettiness and bitterness. So, I informed her that those girls empowered females by posing in magazines for women to inspire them. I then told her that I'd have ridden Satan into battle until he was so enthralled that he would write me love letters and it inspired profound artistry out of him until he painted me to a point of madness ... before I cut her gown and pushed her into the pond. Dreadful woman.'
'Well, isn't she somewhat accurate?' Trevor asked, leaning forward over the table. 'Yes, women may purchase those magazines to motivate themselves or influence their fashion style, but it is men who keep those mags on racks in the bathroom for ... um ... pleasurable pursuits, after all. From the viewpoint of a woman, I'd imagine there is a power in that, also: the ability to vex the primal beast in a man's loins to a point of madness, causing his brain to overfill with chemicals and his groin to overflow with blood like malfunctioning machinery.'
'Oh, I've never thought about it like that before, Trevor,' Seraphina admitted thoughtfully as she rose to order another round of drinks, 'and I never will.'
As the drinks became more potent, the friends left the table to worm their way through the customers inside the rickey little pub, billowing like steam trains from cigarettes in hands in search of whomever the eyes found pleasing. At one long table at the very back of the bar, beside a blazing fireplace, they discovered the majority of Eton's seniors on the rugby team mingling with the cricket team and the oarsmen of the rowing team, calling to Carrozza, their fellow teammate, to come join them. Soon enough, the three placed themselves amongst the motley assemblage, discussing manoeuvres for charging down the field when holding the ball, tricks for striking with a cricket bat, stories of careening an oar amongst the folds of many of the country's rivers, or the scholarships received for their recognisable talents in their appointed field or sport. Only one other boy besides Frankie had delegated his time to dabble in all three primary sports available at Eton: Martin Healy, the captain of the rugby team. Carrozza was pleased to find that he was regarded as an equal amongst them; they did not treat him as a youth, being several years younger, for age did not matter when it came to whom you chose as company in a bar or as comrade on the field and river.
Seraphina Rose, no longer the shrinking violet, had assisted greatly in the convergence when she had thrown herself amongst the older boys like a buoyant bowling ball, scattering them apart to form comfortable sitting arrangements on the benches for herself and her own two boys. Beguiled, the three teams could not pry their eyes from her as she drained the contents of a beer stein as deep as a litre before kissing their cheeks to leave vibrant red lipstick prints behind and tipsily singing the English, the Scottish, the Welsh, and the Irish anthems, and all the other football songs she knew along with them.
Before Frankie could take his seat on a stool, Hamilton yanked him aside and glanced back at all those stationed around the long wooden bench on the other side of the bookshelves beside the pool tables, rubbing his chin thoughtfully with a mad glint in his eye. 'Remember what I said, Carrozza. I think it goes without saying whom we are targeting tonight. Although Seraphina is unfortunately dividing their attentions by somehow seeming like the incorrigible flirt, it still should not put us off ... in fact, it may work in our favour.'
'Why are you so certain he is going to go for the bait?' Frankie whispered, lighting a cigarette and spying through gaps in the books towards their mark. 'Your philosophy that a person is only so many drinks away from committing the sinful act of tasting the other forbidden fruits of the flesh hasn't always held up.'
'I may have slipped him a free ticket to the theatre before breaking into his room and rummaging through his possessions to learn of him what I could to see what sort of plan we were to devise against him. I discovered magazines full of half-naked cowboys, policemen, doctors, labourers, priests, a rather festive Santa Clause, and teachers in compromising positions hidden inside the more common pornography under his mattress.' Trevor grinned with a face full of mischief. 'So, he would barely need the courageous whiff of half a cup of shandy, if you ask me. Besides, I've already caught him taking a quick peek at your rear three times. Nothing would ignite your exceedingly seeding reputation to have it precede you like bedding the captain of the rugby team and dashing that crowned notch upon your bedpost.'
Frankie ducked his head down to look through the bookcase towards Martin Healy again. He was sitting in the middle of them all, laughing and singing loudly with the rest of the team as he constantly repositioned his gangly limbs so the knobby edges of his frame didn't dig into the table.
'Carrozza, you have it in you to be the seducer. I can attest to that,' Hamilton insisted, lowering his voice until he sounded dangerous. He hovered over his shoulder like a horned conscience that had just finished strangling the angelic one with his halo before impaling him with his pitchfork to deliver his finality. 'However, remember to heed these words: you must be the dominate one. Should you find yourself ... er, wrestling nakedly with him tonight, whichever role or position you may take, tackle him off the field as you would on it. What I mean to say is ... when it comes to you both benefiting from achieving mutual pleasure, it is paramount that you do so as the dominate alpha, the manipulative master, rendering him into the subordinate omega, the serving minion.'
Hamilton turned him around to make Carrozza face him and began to brush down his clothes before straightening them up again, fixing at the collar of his denim jacket. Hidden behind books, trusses, and barrels, Trevor combed his fingers through the brunette wave of lazy curls swooping over Frankie's forehead, taking ahold of his jaw with the same hand to lean across and slide a cold tongue between warm lips. 'And as you go forth, go forward remembering just who you belong to, and that he won't be able to make you make that noise that I like to make you make when I put ice cubes in my mouth and th—' Hamilton only laughed when when Carrozza twisted his nipple to hush him. 'Go on, my lionhearted cherub with a devilish heart and an angelic soul. Fluff your mane and board the captain.'
Shoved forward as they approached the table again, he was placed directly opposite Martin with a glass of whiskey and ginger ale in his hand.
'Carrozza, have you ever tried a White Russian?' Healy asked, breaking off mid-conversation with another boy and eyeing Hamilton when he asked what the Russian's name was. 'It's made of vodka, coffee liqueur, and cream.'
'I can't say I have,' Frankie replied, as he sat down opposite him. 'However, I'm resolved to trying everything once. I'm all about experiments, me.'
Trevor snorted at the end of the table, circling his finger around the rim of his glass. Frankie ignored Hamilton, who put a foot up on a stool and humphed again. Instead, he leaned forward and immediately engaged in conversation with Healy, commending him for his prowess in sports and acting quite cavalier as he glanced away from the older boy, as though for a more interesting sight somewhere amongst the crowd. He could feel it stirring awake, the thrill of the vampire lurking in him. He could envision it stalking the prey over smoky gutters and down alleyways choked with shadow, toying with them to treasure the taste before nicking a font in their neck to drain the crimson liquid from their veins like a chalice, spilling hot and sticky down his throat, a strong, savoury, and metallic taste to the blood of the meat, until he was, blissful, giddy, and drunk from the thrill of the kill. Trevor Hamilton could easily appeal to this beast in him, effortlessly manipulating the seething demon and dragging it out to play with his own. The overwhelming excitement in him forced him to recognise that he was capable of leading this immoral crusade and he knew he could shepherd it well, encouraged by the oncoming desire to conquer another and the exhilarating rush of a new game to play with higher stakes.
He turned back to Martin to catch him reading the outline of his features with his fingers interlocked around a pint. Carrozza enjoyed his eyes; they were youthful and bright; furthermore, judging by the cleverness in them, the older boy seemed to have a living soul dressed in substance and interests beyond mucking his legs and shorts on the field as he spoke of the oldest conspiracy theories, Moby Dick, and Pavlovian conditioning. Almost pitying him, Frankie offered him a smile—brief, so as not to spoil him with it—before he begun titling his head in all the right directions under the lighting to flatter his cheekbones and compliment his jawline as his lips glistened wet and invitingly, soaked with alcohol.
Trevor slithered his way passed Martin Healy like a sinister shadow and sat down on the piano stool and began to play a gloomy and gothic composition wildly like a madman, causing for the tails of his ash-and-coal-coloured jacket to flap gently like bat wings against a breeze. His cadaverous complexion caught the glow of the candlelight sitting behind the music rack, shimmering purplish tints under his eyes and cheeks. His eyes narrowed as a thin smile slowly tore across his cheeks and up to his ears as he glanced to Frankie, somewhat sensually, surreptitiously nodding his head to urge him.
Carrozza drained his whiskey in one go and slammed the glass down onto the table before producing a silver box from his breast pocket and offering a cigarette to Healy, who took it gratefully. The snare had been laid and the rabbit was hopping.
'Though ... would you care to join me outside? I'd rather a breath of fresh air about my maxilla to be entirely honest.' Frankie leaned forward across the table to fully engage him and to avoid eavesdroppers. 'It's rather smoky in here, which is very unhealthy ... too smoky to smoke out my lungs at an appalling rate, whereas outside is all the more suitable to become a human steam train. In fact, I'm not even certain of whom it is I'm making the appeal to as I can barely see you through fog that is as thick as Terence Edwards over there,' Carrozza joked, squinting his eyes and waving a hand in front of his face. 'I can only pray that it is Martin Healy sat before me in the mist.'
As Martin went to the bar for another drink, Frankie made his way to the yard out the back of the pub, shimming through the gregarious teammates cluttered around the table.
'Wherever are you off to, Frank?' Seraphina demanded, abruptly cutting through Trevor and Frankie's meaningful gaze as she barricaded his route towards the corridor that led to the back door with her body.
'Never you mind, Rose,' Trevor hissed, shooing her away with a fluttering hand. 'Back to your garden of pansies with you, now that you're no longer a shrinking violet amongst them when you've got a drink in hand. Go back to your boys and do what you do best, what you've been invited for: be a distraction.'
'Is it a game? Are we playing a game? Oh, I adore games! Perhaps, Hamilton, you oughtn't assume the measure of my cleverness by the colour of my hair. I have thwarted and won against both of you combined plenty of times. I know eyes. I know his eyes and I know your eyes. I recognise that invigorating spark of a game brewing in them. I demand you tell me all about it this instant or I shall squeal bloody murder!'
'Bloody Nora! I'll be back in a minute, Serph. It's nothing to concern yourself about,' Frankie assured her, before he gently pushed her aside to step under the stony archway. Stubborn, she had made to follow him, but Hamilton trailed her back by the elbow.
'Seraphina, if you don't return—'
'Go on, Hamilton,' Frankie heard her interject as he slipped away, 'make your threats. I fancy a good ole laugh.'
'Fine, if you do return to entertain the other boys, I'll give you my Story of Golden Locks painting by Seymour Joseph Guy that you admire so much, and that expensive three litre bottle of vodka I'd been saving for a special occasion ... say, your funeral,' he replied irritably.
'Guy and vodka? You ought to have led with that.'
'Furthermore, I don't understand why you wouldn't just accept three single-litre bottles.' Trevor placed a hand on her shoulder to quell her and guide her back towards the table. 'It seems to me to be the same thing.' 'It isn't the same, Hamilton!' she argued testily. 'It isn't the same, and you know it.'
Frankie sat on the edge of the wooden picnic table in the yard of the pub, used come summer for patrons to drink themselves sober under the sun. He felt the cool caress of the wind ripple against his skin, slipping a brave hand down his neckline to cup his ribs. There was very little to the back courtyard but several tables, benches, cushioned bar stools with ripped upholstery, wooden barrels, and empty kegs, chipped flagstones, painted watering cans stuffed with flowers, and faded bunting and multicoloured lights strung from wooden rafters. Just beyond a little rusty gate was a smaller garden surrounded by a canopy of trees and submerged in understory. In the centre of the little garden, hidden somewhat by the depth of a dip, a crooked, battered bandstand protruded starkly from the shadows, wrapped in dying fairy lights that caused for it to glow ghostly and eerily in the dark. It was picturesque when the moon was permitted to take a peek at such an obscure spot from time to time, but in the unaccompanied dark, it appeared to be a giant and grotesque birdcage.
Carrozza struck a match to the end of his cigarette and inhaled deeply. His eyes swept up the steps leading back into the pub, almost concealed by the ivy engorging the entire wall on either side.
This is entirely necessary to the overall scheme, isn't it? he pondered wistfully. And the outcome of the grand master plan is surely plausible, isn't it? Yes, Father had gone down as a romantic fable in this very school and had made a name for himself. It would be a victory to do the very same to cease his chiding, though, we are setting out ambitiously to exceed his great reputation. I shall not be forgotten about. My reign will never cease. The utterance of my name will never end. My saga will linger forever. And come the end, when we've seen it all through, perhaps I may become louder than that profound and deafening silence left behind by Patrick's absence. I must only become the most renowned Carrozza. I will not only join the others on a simple sports team, snatching at an ephemeral shred of shared glory that truly does not solely belong to me; only a name etched onto a plaque propped up in the hallway alongside every other rugby player, oarsman, or cricketer recognised for their efforts until another all the more younger comes along. I must rise kingly to become worthy of being honoured the most out of all the boys, to achieve praise and glory that sets me apart. I will become exalted, exchanging seconds of commendation for an eternity of it. I will be as distinguished as the earmark in a book; a sharp wrinkle too stubborn to be removed from the page of a book so beloved that the crease remains overtime due to being revisited.
There are additional purposes behind the cause, other than the tempting notion of surpassing Father's highly regarded reputation—once as bright as a bonfire, but now a sizzle due to fizzle out soon enough, only brought up in passing at galas or garden parties by guests who were past alumni, socialites, or tedious ministers—which included adorning the walls as a fixture, and I intend to do so. It will be rather thrilling, Frankie mused, exhaling a chimney of smoke through his lips and looking towards the lanterns swaying tipsily in the wind. And if there is to be a boy on the throne, if they can achieve such a feat, then why not me? Why not I? There are few who can deny that I can rarely be bested at what I do, may my talents be one day renowned far and wide. Most days, I excel without barely even trying. I have seen grown men unnerved by me before I swept the very bravest of them off their feet. Why not do something I enjoy rather rigorously, and use it to the best of my advantage? Now that is something I've always committed myself to: the rigorous indulging of pleasurable pursuits. Let us be honest with ourselves, Frankie Carrozza, now that we are safely within our own company. You engorge on the seven deadly sins until your bellyful, similar to how the couth would dine on cheeses and wines in France. It is a game. It has always been a game, forcing the other into submission and defeat. And now that these musings shan't be uttered aloud, we can politely admit without fear of besmirching ourself with egotism, that our competitive spirit does enjoy winning, and this would be the greatest game of all.
It was this last thought that coaxed him into pushing back the shoulder of his denim jacket and hiking up the mustard-coloured t-shirt beneath, taking a long pull of his drink as he watched Martin Healy descend down the steps and brush aside the foliage to enter the courtyard.
'Why did you want to come out here, anyway?' Martin asked as he approached, kicking up stones and sucking on the end of his cigarette through the corner of his mouth. 'There is a perfectly good ashtray made out of the entire floor of that bar inside, you know.'
'Not enough racket and too much noise,' Carrozza replied, dropping his head back against his shoulders to look towards the stars.
Yes, I can do this. This is what I'm proficient at: the hedonistic exploration and exploitation of gratification, dare, and victory. Look at him, Frankie thought, as his eyes scrutinised the boy's build as it swaggered towards him. Look at his structure, his growing mass, his gangly and strapping limbs unsure what to do with themselves, making him seem as though his torso hasn't gotten used to such long appendages sprouting from it. His dark widow's peak gives him a rugged and Gaelic quality. His bumbling gracelessness is endearing, like a man trapped inside the stricture imposed by the last of his boyishness, struggling, fighting, and stretching to get out of the structure of his slowly-growing shell like an impatient butterfly prematurely punching through its cocoon. That deep bucolic accent ... he hails from a place that understands only the most fundamental view of the world and such things like marriage, rules, boring morals, stilted emotions, regressed masculinity, and unwavering sexuality. His country rearing now abolished, it seems to me, considering the divulges of his indulges. This is a boy whom I'll find years from now in a pub one Sunday after a drive through the countryside with his Mrs. and the two sprogs, eating Sunday dinners as he bellows and fumes at the match on the television screen over his pint of bitter and cigarette. He will be balding and quietly unhappy, no longer so mediocrely fetching.
'You're quite gifted on the pitch, Carrozza. That is a comment about your sportsmanship that I've heard being repeated about across all the games you participate in, according to the rest of those lads,' Martin said as he stopped before him. If the boy moved any closer, Frankie could enclose him his legs around him like a Venus flytrap due to his sitting arrangement.
Martin was nervous and his eyes not meet his; he busied himself rubbing the back of his jet black hair and darting his glance towards the sounds fleeting through the night. He was like a doe, shivering beneath the aim of the hunter. Frankie felt a smirk split his lips, enjoying his timidness. He wouldn't have to waste much time luring him into the trap.
'Come to me,' Frankie ordered quietly, rediscovering his confidence. This was a test. The situation could play out into several scenarios, either successfully or disastrously, now that it fell into the hands of Martin Healy to direct the outcome ... if the cod will take the bait or not. From inside, he could hear Hamilton still hammering violently upon the muffled keys of the piano.
'Wh-what?' Martin stuttered, but Frankie only erected himself up into a more rigid sitting position. 'Why? What for?'
'Come here. Come closer to me.' Carrozza finished the rest of his drink in one gulp and carelessly hurled it aside, causing Martin to flinch from it shattering against a wooden bucket. However, the boy stepped towards him, his eyelids narrowed with curiosity.
He was near enough to be touched now. It is the first touch that one must most wary of and precise about as it was most important—where to touch them, how to touch them, and at what pace must all be taken into consideration. You cannot scare them off by being too eager or too reluctant; you must show them that protection is but only a breath away, here inside your arms.
Martin was several years older than him, so perhaps he'd be showing him old ropes he was all too familiar with. Still, Frankie reached forward and took his hip to tug him nearer.
'What ... what do you think you're doing, Carrozza?' Martin whispered thickly, swallowing with difficulty and quickly licking his drying lips.
'Something you want me to do because you aren't brazen enough for it.' He latched fingers around the nape of the boy, soon to be a man, and forced his head down so he could put his lips to the neck.
Healy reclined backwards a little at first, but his touch caused for his head to writhe against his, for his tongue to loll, and for his eyes to tumble into the back of his skull, drawing out long sighs until their mouths joined together, injecting an potent poison of enticement through lips and tongues. Martin's kiss was uncertain and fearful until he was encouraged by Carrozza's surefooted approach. He could hear little more than the moans of the wind, the sounds of the kiss, and the heavy breathing rising from the lungs of the two boys. From inside, rowdy laughter leaked out like the hubbub of a menagerie slipping through the flap of circus tent.
Healy was fearless now, bold, inspired, and as admirably demanding as Carrozza had seen him be on the field as he drew him off the table by the hips. They stumbled across the yard until his back whacked off the whitewashed wall of the shed and Martin pressed his body against him, smashing a crate of empty bottles and plunging a foot through a wooden pallet, scattering a shrieking cat.
Their lips parted just enough for Healy to rest his forehead against his chest, panting heavily and gripping fistfuls of Frankie's jacket and shaking his head, ruminating as he did battle with his conflicting thoughts. 'What—what am I doing? What are we doing? We were just talking about rugby and about—'
'What's it matter? Just don't think about it so much. You'll hurt yourself,' Frankie murmured, lifting his head to trail kisses down his cheek towards his mouth. 'It's riveting all the same, is it not?'
Famished, Martin smothered his mouth with his own as Frankie grabbed him by the braces over his white shirt and pushed him towards the little garden conjoined at the bottom of the yard. They broke apart to hop the rusted fence before racing towards the shimmering bandstand with grins and chuckles replacing one another on their mouths, the boys glowing like will-o'-the-wisps between the trees before being swallowed up by shadows.
Leaping up the steps into the teal-coloured bandstand, he put his back to the railing and hooked his elbows around the metal bars that had been painted scarlet, turning to share a laugh with Healy. It was one that lasted mere seconds, as the other boy had lunged at him to bury his face in his neck. As tingling sensations zapped his throat, Frankie gazed around the little garden, listening to the insects chirping and the owls hooting, and breathing steadily again as he inclined his head when needed to accommodate Healy, feeling immensely devious. Martin considered him, Frankie, to be the leman he was taking from rather than giving, believing this to be the conquest of Carrozza, unaware that he'd played directly into the boy's hands until he was as malleable as putty. The tug of war would be won by a competent commander controlling a very great hand and a very good wrench. Roles ought to be reversed, as well as rightful places appointed. The idea that the older boy believed such a farce was almost laughable ... or pitiful. And so the pawn takes the knight across the board before transitioning into royalty.
Frankie's hand was roving now, wandering its own adventure, never needing to be coaxed by anything more than sheer whim. As it lowered, his quarry released a moan to show his willing good faith before reaffirming his lips under his ear, running his fingers through the limp curls of Frankie's hair and gyrating his hips against his as he whispered broken words. 'I ... I didn't realise
you were ... this way inclined, Carrozza.'
Just as Moses separated the Red Sea, the sound of Frankie's fingers parting Martin's zip broke the silence. 'We attend an all-boys boarding school, Healy, with Marjorie Devereux's Academy on the far side of town in Windsor. After three tequilas or so, everyone and their mother is easily inclined some way or another to pass the boredom ... something in the nature, I believe.' Frankie could feel his smile widen into a softer brother of Trevor Hamilton's sinister grin as Martin pivoted eager thrusts of his crotch against him. 'This shall be discreet, Healy. No one else who participates in such rambunctious escapades shall hear a whisper of this illicit affair, you understand.'
'Yes, of course, Carrozza. I promise,' Martin whispered quickly. Frankie had a feeling that it was vocalised at such a speed so as to make him hurry up his hand rather than to exhibit his loyalty over keeping the dalliance unspoken about. He understood that those involved inside the exclusive circle of Martin's salacious secret would be in the knowhow before the night's end; Healy would be boasting to them until dawn cracked the skies as though Frankie Carrozza was some sort of country trophy lass he'd mounted at one of those hillside barn dances he was fond of attending. Regardless, his was what he intended. Everyone loves a secret, Frankie understood, and most especially, everyone loved telling them when it belonged to another. Frankie, however, felt he was one of the very few exceptions when it came to keeping secrets precious, and had made friends with three other deviators. With a glass of wine in hand, his mother had always told him that he was the best at keeping secrets ... to the point that his smile always made her feel inferior and aware that she would never truly come to know or understand all of him. He was even better at hiding things—under loose floorboards, secret compartments in bookshelves, camouflaged cubbies he'd cut into walls, and hollowed books—and he kept his thoughts shrouded most of all in the darker corners of his mind.
They exchanged positions so that Martin had his back to a pole before Frankie slipped his hand into the slot in his trousers like an explorer venturing a certain cave of wonder in One Thousand and One Nights. Grasping ahold, the boy instantly gasped and shuddered from his touch so violently that Frankie gasped along with him, fearing the explosive end before he'd even truly begun.
Oh. Frankie smirked, enjoying the successes he'd contrived. His eyes were almost wondrous and as round as his marvelling mouth, a slight hint of the bustling, moustached, and mad scientist in his expression, awed from being upon the brink of a miraculous, revolutionary, and scientific revelation of confirming the human soul. Yes, perhaps I do hold all of the power. If I just conduct my mind in an assertive manner, placing a firm grasp on confidence and dominance, all of those around me shrink and shiver into pitiful, pleading toys in my hands for me to play with. If I were to slip my hand up their naked back, I could make their mouth speak like puppets to exclaim all the things I want spoken. Perhaps I could even crush them beneath my feet, if I so wish. What a study! This is sublime ... euphoric, even. This is a game I could happily play as competitor, and I could easily play it quite well till dark, and on through until the black is kissed by the pink of dawn, no matter what extreme consequences are due to unfold with it; after all, there is a certain enthralment when the bold are daring and the repercussions are severe.
Healy began to tremble from legs permeating the first spasms of pleasure. He was whispering religious expressions mixed with enthusiastic profanities, muffled in his pants, demanding to be exalted and exonerated by his saviour, the Lord above. His lips parted into a wondrous circle and his eyes became fraught with desire, looking as though he was in pain and simultaneously begging for clemency, dazzled by constellations and a hundred supernovas that exploded across his irises.
'I'm going to ... I'm about to ...' Healy breathed, quickening his hips as Frankie accelerated the speed of his own hand.
Restraint, Frankie mused. He is mine to execute mercy upon, if I so wish. And so Carrozza insouciantly demanded that the boy brought about his own personal ecstasy, ordering him to lose control. 'Now. For me,' he commanded sternly, slipping his thumb into Healy's warm and wet mouth until his lips enclosed around it, just as his body convulsed from an earth-shattering implosion in his loins. After a grunt, a groan, a whimper, and a hoarse whine struggling at the bottom of his throat, the captain fell against him, limp, spent, and lost to the after-effects of rapture conjured by that certain magic delivered from his groin. It might have brought pools of tears to a more artistic soul, but he was a country brute, so perhaps the misty eyes were only from the baring of his shame and enjoyment, having bathed in such sordid and unspeakable pleasures that always racked those sort of repressed folk with Christian guilt. It was that, the pitiful humiliation following the look of bliss on Healy's face, which brought potent and profound sensations to Carrozza, much more overwhelming than reaching his own physical climax in the act. When you're responsible for bringing someone to that otherworldly place, that enchanting realm where they lose themselves completely, obliterating their wits and senses from them, untethering them to relieve them from the heavy weight of duty encumbering their bodies, and catapulting them out of the universe away from regimented monotony to forget themselves and all their niggling worries for a few precious seconds, which certify's a certain inexplicable element of ownership over the receiver at the hands of the giver.
Crowned as lawbreaker once obtaining his immunity from the prosecutions of the prefects, he had set out this tonight to establish his throne as a lawmaker by claiming another title. His holy grail was a trinity of things: imperviousness from punishment was his crown, the reverence that came from his rugby boots and oar was his throne and sceptre, and his lore was the song of his name sung above all others, heralding his arrival and departure.
His conquest pressed against him in the form of a boy waiting for the strength to return in his thighs now that his power had been drained and absorbed. Carrozza was victorious.
'Healy,' Frankie whispered delicately against his ear, still retaining a tight hold to his preciousness between his legs, 'you're due soon to step down from captaincy to focus on your studies, aren't you? I have a name to put forward as a candidate for your replacement, and I'll tell you the reasons why you ought to consider him.'
The following Monday, as Frankie was carelessly stuffing a disgruntled jotter and earmarked textbooks into his satchel to leave lessons with a mind crammed by notions and notes on fascism, his hands dug through the clutter to touch the fabric lying curled at the bottom like a dead snake.
'What's this?' he'd asked Healy the other night, when his fingers had reached around to feel it hanging from out of his back pocket before he tugged it out to get a better look at it.
'It's a scarf,' Healy had replied, beginning to redden slightly. 'I've been meaning to get rid of it actually. We used to wear them in our back pockets where I'm from ... to secretly show those who'd recognise it that we're members of this ... aberrant club.'
'Can I have it?' Frankie had asked, stretching out the murky green material embellished with dark skulls, so as to wring it tight in his hands and scrutinise it with a squinted eye, his teeth digging into bottom lip as he mused over it.
As he was exiting the classroom, slipping his shirt from out of his jumper until it spilled like a duck's tail, Cedric Bucks Buckley caught up with him. As always, his vibrant orange hair emerged ahead of him to betray his identify as he dug his fingers into Carrozza's ribs.
'Oi, matey! Oi!' he shrieked, as they begun wrestling one another, grappling heads into headlocks before slinging arms around each other's shoulders and marching up the corridor with the Valentine twins in toe.
'You ginger giant!' Frankie scoffed, massaging the muscles under his armpit, where the stretch towards his shoulders had hurt him. 'I swear, every day you grow considerably taller. Is there a rack in the college somewhere that you're being stretched out on that I don't know about?'
'Yes, actually. Fiona ... the secretary's bed.' Cedric grinned, sticking his tongue between his teeth. 'And furthermore, I'll have you know that I'm strawberry blonde, not ginger!'
'You're too much of a filthy fiend for you to even dare associate yourself with a characteristic that sounds like a sugary dessert, Cedric,' Frankie declared, redirecting their route down a corridor to smoke a cigarette in the disused classroom during their break. 'Aside from that, you also forget that not only do I know the tales of all your dawns and dusks too well, I've also seen the true colour of that fiery hedge above your genitals in the changing rooms and when you streaked starkers across the Commons.'
'Making sure we were getting a good eyeful, were we?' Cedric replied, nudging him with his shoulder repetitively.
'No harm, pal, but I'd rather jump into an actual bonfire than that one between your legs, Bucks.'
'The lady doth protest too much, methinks!' Bucks exclaimed loftily as he helped Frankie pull his satchel on properly. 'Spot of cricket today, you think, Cozza?'
'It is a possibility, old fellow. After all, I do need to beat that smarmy smirk off Jeremy Belvedere's face and I am either going to do that by winning gloriously against him or with my very own cricket bat.' Frankie's eyes narrowed as their band of boys flooded around them, cackling, caterwauling, singing crude tunes, and acting the brute.
As they meandered down the corridor as a battalion, forcing the other pupils to separate like a flow of fish scattered by larger predators and flowing down either side of them closer to the walls, the boys laughed at the expense of that snivelling Belvedere, making gruesome jokes and insinuating plans of framing him for murder or handing him over to a terrorist group like the IRA or the Euskadi Ta Askatasuna.
'Alright, Carrozza?'
Frankie lifted his head upwards from giggling grimly along with the idea of Belvedere being relieved of his kneecaps in some country lane to see Martin Healy nodding his head in his direction, sucking in on his bottom lip as his eyelid fluttered into the shadow of a wink. Frankie halted in his tracks for a second as the older boy strutted passed with his own convoy of friends.
'Just a moment, lads. Healy, a second?' Frankie called as he retraced his steps. He and Martin parted from their own respective groups to meet in the empty middle ground—no man's land. Martin was grinning down at him from his extra inches of height with his hands stuffed into his pockets, rocking on the balls of his feet with a strained and somewhat embarrassed smile.
'I put your name forward, Carrozza. You're being consid—' Martin begun.
'I thought I made myself clear that night about being discreet?' Frankie's eyes flared from a glare. There is something wonderfully sleazy in seeing that I hold claim to his shame in his eyes.
'Oh ... I ... I just thought I'd say hello to you, is all.'
'Then don't think. When have you ever said hello or cheerio to me when the terrain isn't the pitch at a match or at practice? Do not wink. Do not say hello. We enjoyed ourselves, some more than others, and that was that. It was a one-time occasion,' Frankie whispered coldly, a tone as unbending as titanium.
'Two times.' Martin smiled unevenly.
'The last!' Frankie all but hissed and the boy's smile faltered until it faded entirely. He isn't fit to be captain, Frankie realised, as captains oughtn't quiver and cower beneath my quiet wrath. 'Well, Healy, I hope you got what you came for from it and I shall see you around ... by which I mean any chance meetings between each other on the pitch or in the hallways.'
'I thought'—Healy rubbed the back of his head awkwardly—'I thought we'd see each other around ... again.'
'I'm sorry but you thought wrong, my country boy,' Frankie replied, pursing his lips and looking to him bewilderedly. 'I take my candidacy for captaincy very seriously. I cannot be seen as being selected due to favouritism.' Only Magdalenism, Frankie thought bitterly, ignoring the hypocriticalness. 'I want to be considered due to my aptitude for the role, not because you and I have suddenly become so pally. What do you believe that moment was? What did you think would happen afterwards? That we would cuddle and romantically feed one another bites from our spoons over candlelight? I do hope you haven't overstretched yourself and purchased a corsage for when you plan to ask me to the winter formal. Be careful when playing with balls on the field, Healy, or you might find yourself scoring in the wrong net.'
'Very well, if that is how you see it.'
'It is.'
'About your application for captaincy over the team—'
'Do you plan to retract it?' Frankie demanded, stepping closer.
'Quite the contrary. You made a compelling case. As the other boys squabble amongst themselves over the title, the appropriate action to take to ensure allegiance remains amongst them would be to select the individual set apart outside of their social circle beyond the green and whom is most capable for the job,' Healy remarked. 'Despite our differences of opinion over whether we'd like to see our friendship venture out from being acquaintances, I can still agree with you that you're more than adequate for the position. Above all else, I still have the best intentions for this team at heart ... whilst it is still mine, anyhow.'
'Well, I thank you for your consideration.' He left the older boy to watching him leave, unable to stifle the triumphant grin splitting his cheeks.
Cedric Buckley was carefully scrutinising the encounter. That silent ginger giant, so reserved that his face shifted into enthusiastic expressions less often than stone did, was always all the more watchful and perceptive than the rest of his boys, who could be quite gullible and easy prey to manipulation, as pliable as wet clay for him to sculpt how he saw fit. Judging by the slight squint in his eyelids, Frankie quickly suspected that Bucks had discerned what he had done and what he was planning to do.
Buckley knew Carrozza most of all, having grown quite close to him, learning and accepting hidden dispositions that he'd gradually discovered lurking in the other boy over the two years of their being in Eton together. He'd met him a handful of times across his childhood before they had enrolled at Eton, due to their parents being friends, but they'd cemented a strong brotherhood when the pair had punched their way through the boys of Stowe School over a disagreement at a rugby match between the two competing establishments. With bloody noses, bruised knuckles, and busted lips, they'd shook hands outside the headmaster's office over the first of nth fights they'd be paired together in. Although Bucks was the only member out of their friends to often question Frankie's motives, he was also easily silenced as he believed in loyalty as strongly as the next veteran. Cedric was also the only boy bold and clever enough to disapprove of Frankie's unnatural relationship with Trevor Hamilton.
'But Carrozza, what is the nature of the friendship?' Cedric would ask for the umpteenth as they lounged in a bedroom, a field, a library, or a pub together.
'You and I have asked this of me many times and the answer remains inexplicable to this day. If I was to attempt to answer it ... I would begin by saying that although there may be brotherly love there, there is also brotherly loathing, and like a brother for whom you feel both capricious fondness and dislike for, it is your brother they remain ... you cannot emancipate yourself from your siblings,' Frankie replied, almost rehearsed. 'It sways upon a balance ... a set of scales between encouraging competitiveness and intense rivalry. He is my nemesis and my confidant, my most faithful companion and my most untrustworthy partner in crime.'
Before Frankie could return to his friends, a small first-year student materialised in front of him as though sprung from a magician's hat.
'For you, Frankie Carrozza, sir. Trevor Hamilton wanted this delivered to you,' the boy squeaked before scooting along his way. One of Hamilton's little birdies, no doubt.
Curious, Frankie unfolded the note to reveal the embellished handwriting belonging to Hamilton, as pretty as scrollwork and written in ink as black as the poison that rotted the heart and soul of its author. He began to read the eloquent words:
My little birdies have been whispering. Their lively tweets tell me that Martin Healy has been championing your name in the election to convince the rest of the rugby team that you are the appropriate choice to succeed him due to your conduction on the field, your father's highly regarded legacy (which will inspire sponsorship from the promotion of his son), your outsider's perspective, and all else we rehearsed. And so it begins. Well done, my handsome Judas, my brutal Brutus.
Let it all be ours in revelry.
Feeling eyes falling on him as heavy as a mantle, Frankie glanced down the hallway towards the bottom of a stone arcade. The end of the corridor was filled with grey daylight, spilling in through the open passageway like mist, and in one of the alcoves, dressed in a long black drape jacket, stood Trevor Hamilton, peering out the side of it like a gracious gargoyle. The two boys locked eyes and shared sly smiles before briefly rubbing knuckles up their forehead and brushing fingers across the bridges of their noses to perform an old signal from childhood, signing their agreement, now willing to carry out intentions full of the utmost cruelty, if needed, in the ascension to their throne to settle in for the beginning of a very long reign.
Above all others, Frankie began to muse, losing himself to reverie, there arises one primary purpose, both little and large, that rouses the desire behind this corrupt endeavour for a crown: this crusade is mine and mine alone.