Читать книгу The Iceman - Jeff Edwards - Страница 8

A

ndrew Lang’s muscled frame pushed his blades deep into the river’s surface as his crew chased victory in the major event of the afternoon. But his strokes were erratic and his partner was having trouble compensating. Meanwhile the cox tried valiantly to get the pair of scullers into a racing rhythm.

Andrew was not paying attention because his mind was reeling from the shock and shame of being found behind the boatshed with one of the juniors from the local private school.

For generations the rowers had chosen to duck behind the shed to relieve themselves before their races, too lazy to climb the river’s bank to the clubhouse.

Andrew had done as he had done before all his races, but on this occasion he had chanced to stumble upon the sweet-faced young lad with his pants at half mast. In midstream the boy had been alarmed and disgusted when the much older and larger youth had forced himself upon him, but his cry of distress was quickly answered by the appearance of the Henswytch Rowing Club’s president.

Alarmed and embarrassed, Andrew had released the unfortunate youth and the boy had rushed back to his friends, pulling up his trousers as he went.

‘Get back to your boat!’ roared the president, ‘and don’t say a word to anyone. I’ll speak to you after the race.’

Andrew hung his head and nodded.

The president poked Andrew in the chest. ‘I’ll deal with the boy. You make sure you win the race. There’s a lot of our money riding on this.’

The cox of Andrew’s crew screamed at him, trying desperately to get the big youth to pay attention. Already their unsteady craft was dropping back in the field and if their rhythm couldn’t be brought under control they would have no chance in the race.

In utter desperation the slim youth in the rear of the craft leant slightly to the left and dipped his hand in the river. Cupping a handful of water, he threw it in the rower’s face.

‘Pay attention!’ the cox roared. ‘You’re losing the race!’

Andrew shook his head to remove the droplets and regained his composure. The water and the yell of ‘Stroke! Stroke! Stroke!’ allowed Andrew to awaken from his reverie and to time his strokes to the cox’s call.

Slowly but surely the crew regained the lost ground and with the finish line in sight the cox yelled for an increase in their rate which saw the scull slice cleanly through the water and on to a remarkable victory.

The rowers slumped in their seats, exhausted. It had taken all of their strength to overcome the bad start, but the years of training had paid off. They had won.

In the rear the cox raised his arm in victory to the cheering crowd while Andrew wondered with trepidation what awaited him when they landed.

Amongst those on the bank were many of the locals who would be travelling home tonight flush with their winnings jin-gling in their pockets. The gambling was all very informal of course because it would not have been viewed as seemly that an amateur sport like rowing could be ruined by the crassness of wagering; however, if the supporters of a rival crew from a local grammar school insisted on wasting their hard-earned money by backing their boys then the citizens of Henswytch thought it impolite not to accommodate them.

Roger Stevens was Henswytch Rowing Club’s current president and the sixth member of his family to hold the title. He managed to smile broadly as he made his way to the bar. He placed his empty glass down without speaking and watched as the barman took a bottle of single malt whiskey from the top shelf and replenished his glass with a hefty slug of the amber fluid. Stevens lifted the glass and swallowed. ‘I’ll also have a couple of your coldest bottles of beer, Tony.’

The barman smiled and nodded. He was well aware who the bottles were for but chose to turn a blind eye. ‘On your tab, Mr Stevens?’ he asked.

‘Of course!’ Stevens smiled. ‘I’ll fix you up as soon as I collect my winnings. We’ll let our friends at St Gilberts pay for the drinks.’

‘It was a very close thing out there today,’ commented Tony. ‘I didn’t think we’d get there.’

The smile faded from Roger Stevens’s face. ‘Yes. It was close.’ He collected the opened bottles and quickly turned away from the bar before Tony could add anything more.

He’s right. It was a very close thing, Stevens thought to himself as he made his way outside. It was much too close for comfort, and all because of that fool Andrew Lang.

On the grassy slope below the clubhouse many of the spectators were still enjoying the late afternoon sun, picnicking on cold meats and salad while lounging on blankets spread out on the lush grass.

Stevens wound his way through the happy throng and came at last to the water’s edge where a long, narrow wharf enabled the rowers to climb in and out of their boats. Here, he knew he would find the crew of the victorious coxed pairs washing down the hull of their boat and its oars. Every time they returned from their training sessions or a race this ritual had to be performed before the equipment was stored away in the boatshed. It was a discipline that ensured the club’s sculls were kept in top condition and went a long way toward ensuring their racing successes.

A short, skinny youth with a dark Mediterranean complex-ion passed Stevens on his way up the hill, carrying an oar over each shoulder. The young man nodded grimly to the club president and Stevens returned the gesture with a similar silent nod. Angelo Biagi had not been the club’s first choice to act as cox for their most important crew, but when Andrew Lang had suddenly undergone a youthful growth spurt the year before, the club had been given no option but to seek out a replacement. But with youths in the village being of very sturdy farming stock they had been forced to offer the position to the son of a family of newly arrived Italian immigrants.

The Biagi family had recently purchased a farm on the far side of the river, but Stevens, like most of his fellow Henswytchi-ans, was of a like mind when it came to outsiders. Even though the Biagi boy might live in the village for the rest of his days he would never be accepted as a local. Perhaps Biagi’s children might grudgingly be accorded that title, but not Angelo.

Stevens checked on the remaining members of the coxed pair as they went about their work and was pleased to see that they were doing their chores diligently. He walked over to the crew’s sweep, Andrew Lang, and tapped the strapping youth on the shoulder as the boat’s hull shone brightly under his cleaning cloth.

Andrew gave an involuntary jump and turned. When he saw it was the president he flushed and Stevens was yet again surprised at how young he appeared in some respects and yet how much he had grown in height and size since being ousted as the crew’s cox. Now, as the crew’s sweep, he towered over Stevens yet still managed to retain his childish features.

‘To the victors go the spoils,’ Stevens said without a smile as he handed one of the dark brown bottles to the tall lad. Still too young to drink, Stevens was allowing the crew a small reward for their success.

‘Thank you, Sir,’ Andrew whispered as he took the bottle and placed it to his lips. Stevens thought the boy looked like an overgrown kewpie doll and his unbroken voice was still that of a young child.

The president shook his head as he made his way down the length of the slim craft to where a second young man worked at cleaning the scull’s bow.

Almost as tall and broad as their sweep, the crew’s bowman, Clyde Stevens, looked up at his uncle. The older Stevens held out the second opened bottle to him, but before the young man could offer his thanks, Roger Stevens said harshly, ‘Come with me.’

The younger Stevens took a long swig of beer and then followed after his uncle. He had a feeling in his stomach that what was to come was not going to be pleasant.

Roger Stevens strode purposefully along a narrow dirt track that paralleled the river and finally came to a stop well out of sight of the club. He waited impatiently for his nephew to catch up.

‘What happened out there?’ Stevens demanded.

‘We won,’ said the young rower defensively.

‘Yes. You won. Just. You’re a far better crew than that. I want to know why.’

‘Did you want us to lose?’ asked Clyde, attempting to adopt an air of bravado under his uncle’s disapproving gaze.

Roger Stevens poked his nephew in the chest with a stiff finger. ‘Don’t be smart with me! Tell me what happened out there!’

‘I don’t know. The little dago was calling the tempo, but Andrew didn’t seem to be listening. He was rowing at a pace of his own. I had to keep time with him or we would have had a clash of oars.’

‘Then what happened?’

‘Biagi threw some water in Andrew’s face. It must have woken Andrew up or something because he fixed up his stroke. It was a close thing, but Biagi picked the right time for us to up the tempo and our effort over the last hundred metres was enough to get us home.’

‘It could easily have been different and the village would have lost a great deal of money. What was wrong with Lang?’ The president knew exactly what was wrong with Lang but wanted to see if his nephew was aware.

‘I don’t know. He said he was suffering from a stitch, but it didn’t look that way to me. Maybe his balls are finally dropping.’

The president grunted. ‘He’s caused the club a deal of embarrassment. I’ve had to make things right this afternoon and that wasn’t cheap. If he weren’t a club member he would be in the hands of the police right now.’

‘Perhaps it would have been for the best if you let the coppers take him. I can’t stand him. He’s a creep.’

It was evident to the president that Andrew’s fellow rowers shared the same low opinion of their sweep as those expressed by his fellow directors and the members of ‘Old Codgers’.

Andrew Lang’s father had come from a long line of well-built farmers and they had supplied the rowing club with a long line of successful oarsmen. He would have been automatically initiated into the ranks of the club’s ‘inner circle’ and ultimately joined the Old Codgers if he had not been killed while serving his country at Tobruk.

While being raised by his widowed mother, the Old Codgers had discussed the ‘girlish’ Andrew and come to the conclusion that he needed more men in his life. They had therefore approached his mother and informed her that they were taking the diminutive Andrew into the club to train as a cox. It was the only position his small stature had allowed him to perform. Most had assumed that Andrew would continue to take after his mother’s side of the family with their pixie-like looks and size and had been taken by surprise when, seemingly overnight, he had taken on the size and shape of his deceased father; however, his mother’s pixie-like features and voice had remained attached to his now immense frame.

‘We can’t let what happened today happen again,’ continued Roger Stevens.

‘What can I do?’

‘The three of you are about to finish school. You’ll be going to university and Andrew will be off to do his apprenticeship. The time has come for the final step.’

Clyde took a deep drink of the amber fluid and shivered. He knew exactly what his uncle was saying.

‘Do Mum and Dad know?’

‘We told your father. He agrees. This is not something that your mother should know about. Do you understand me?’

‘Yes, Sir. When?’

‘Later. After the crowds have left.’

The boy nodded reluctantly. ‘I wanted to do it with Dave Conway. At least I know that I can rely on him.’

‘I’m afraid this is more important. I’ll explain to Dave that it’s in the best interests of the club that he doesn’t do it. We’ll make it right for him. Dave’s a dedicated clubman. He’ll understand. You’re on the same crew as Andrew, so it has to be you. The Old Codgers won’t forget you for doing this.’

‘What if he can’t make it? What if he’s not strong enough? He nearly stuffed things up today. What if he gets another stitch?’

His uncle gave the boy a grim look. ‘The Old Codgers are all in agreement. They’ve told me to tell you that if he can’t make it, then you’re to leave him out there. You’re not to help him in any way. He either comes out the other side a man or he doesn’t come out. We owe it to his father’s memory to do this for him.’

Uncle and nephew made their way back down the river and when they arrived at the boatshed Clyde could see that their scull had been cleaned and was now safely stored inside while his fellow crewmen sat in the sun with their backs to the shed and shared yet another bottle of beer. Andrew Lang held up the bottle to Clyde with an alcoholic twinkle in his eye. The beer was already having an effect on him. ‘Compliments of your father,’ he chirped in his high-pitched voice.

The voice grated on Clyde as it did most people, but he smiled nonetheless and took a swig before handing it to Angelo Biagi. As the slim youth was tilting the bottle to his lips he noted the presence of Andrew’s cousin, Matilda Lang, on the river bank not far away. They were classmates and he knew she hated her given name and that only her mother and aunt referred to her as Matilda. To everyone else in the village she was the beautiful Tilley.

Jealously he watched as Clyde wandered over to the girl while trying to appear casual. ‘We won,’ he told her simply.

‘So I saw,’ she nodded. ‘Not by much though. Who stuffed up?’

Clyde’s grin turned to a grimace. Is everyone in this village a damn rowing expert?!

‘It doesn’t matter. We won. That’s all that counts,’ he replied gruffly.

‘I’m sure that’s not all that matters to the Old Codgers.’ She smiled.

Angelo Biagi took the opportunity to wander over to the pair with a newly opened bottle in his hands. ‘It looks as though the village won a heap of money on us today. They’re being very free with the beer.’ He handed the bottle over to Clyde who immediately offered it to Tilley.

If Andrew’s kewpie doll looks and high voice were out of place on his manly body then the same cute looks and lilting voice on the blossoming form of Tilley was perfect, and this was more than apparent as she stood up and took the bottle from Clyde’s hand while allowing her arm to brush lightly against his as she did so. Tilley took a quick look around to make sure that she could not be seen from the clubhouse before raising the bottle to her heart-shaped lips and drinking. The act of tilting her head back to drink from the bottle had caused her young breasts to thrust forward against the thin material of her summer dress and if the touch of her arm hadn’t already excited Clyde, then that sight certainly did. She too had taken after her own father in height and was able to stand and look Clyde in the eyes as she returned the bottle.

Off to one side Angelo Biagi had also been excited by the girl’s taut body. He licked his lips and felt himself harden.

Clyde too felt the urge to press his lips to hers as he watched Tilley wiping her lips with the back of her hand. He had dared to kiss her once before when the two of them had found themselves alone inside the boatshed and while she had laughingly pushed him away, had displayed no reluctance to be in his presence. Ever since then Clyde had been hoping for the chance to make a further attempt.

‘I have a favour to ask,’ he said.

‘Oh?’

He looked around and saw that Andrew and Angelo were looking at the pair of them with sheepish grins on their faces. ‘Not now,’ he muttered. ‘Later. Stay close. It’s important.’

‘Ooh, I like a mystery!’ she replied jokingly.

‘Like I said, it’s important. But not till everyone has gone home.’ He turned to Andrew, ‘I want you to stay for a while. We have something that needs to be done.’

Andrew held up a nearly empty bottle, with a lopsided grin. ‘As long as the Old Codgers are supplying the beer I’ll be happy to stick around.’

Tilley left the boys to their drinking and returned to the clubhouse where she spent the remainder of the afternoon helping out in the club’s small kitchen.

As the sun went down, the crowds on the grass outside began to pack up their belongings and make the long walk back to the village and the railway station while those who had chosen to remain closer to the bar also left and wove an unsteady path homeward.

Tilley returned to the boatshed where the sound of Andrew’s laughing mixed with off-key singing attested to the fact that the boys had been presented with more gifts of beer. When Clyde saw her approach he rose from his place against the shed wall and Tilley noticed that unlike his companions he seemed to be quite steady on his feet.

Clyde took her aside and leaned in close to murmur instructions to her while from his place against the wall, Angelo watched on. He had been used to drinking wine from an early age and despite the fact that he had been singing as loud as his companions the beer had little effect on him and he noticed that Clyde hadn’t drunk anywhere near as much as either Andrew or himself.

As he watched he saw Tilley take a shocked step backward at what she had been told. She and Clyde then exchanged a deep look before Tilley reached out to touch the boy’s arm in a gesture of reassurance and then impulsively kissed Clyde on the cheek.

Clyde raised his hand to where her lips had been as Tilley turned away and disappeared around the corner of the shed.

‘What’s going on?!’ called Angelo.

‘Nothing for you to worry about,’ replied Clyde. ‘You’ll find out soon enough.’

Angelo cursed to himself. ‘Nothing for you to worry about,’ he repeated under his breath. Once again he was being excluded from something important and for no better reason than the fact that he had not been born in the village. This had happened to him on more than one occasion since his family had moved to Henswytch.

In the schoolyard and on the streets of the village he had quickly realised that there were the ‘us’ and the ‘them’ and that he was firmly anchored in the ‘them’ side of the ledger. No matter how many times he tried to prove his worth such as joining the local boys when they jumped from the railway bridge into the river, ‘they’ had simply acknowledged his bravery and shunned him from any other considerations. The very fact that he had been allowed to join their precious rowing team and had performed so well on their behalf did not grant him any additional credence.

He spat in the grass and reached for another bottle. At least I can hold my liquor.

Some time later Angelo noticed that a fire had been lit on the opposite bank and its bright flames became a beacon in the deepening twilight. He was about to mention it to the others when Clyde Stevens stood up and went to stand in front of Andrew. Clyde pointed to the fire on the far shore. ‘That’s Tilley over there. She’s got the fire going to warm us up.’

‘She should be over here. That’s where we are,’ slurred Andrew.

Clyde ignored him and spoke slowly, making sure that Andrew understood his every word. ‘She’s waiting over there because I’m going into the river to shake hands with the Iceman, and you’re coming with me.’

There was a moment of shocked silence. ‘You’re going to do “the Swim”?’

‘Yes. So are you.’

‘I can’t go. I’m too pissed. Maybe when I sober up.’

Silence followed and Angelo could see from the way that Andrew sat with his head down that he would never agree to undertake such a risky venture.

Angelo sneered at the cowardly Andrew and stood up. ‘I’ll go with you.’

Clyde shook his head. ‘No. This has nothing to do with you, Biagi. If you like you can collect our clothes and bring them around to us.’

Angelo looked at Clyde with a look of utter loathing, knowing that once again he had been summarily dismissed as totally irrelevant. ‘Fuck you!’ he said, kicking an empty beer bottle out of his way and storming off, leaving Clyde standing over the cower-ing Andrew.

‘You’re coming with me,’ Clyde announced bluntly. ‘The Old Codgers have decided. Your dad did it when he was your age and so did your uncle. Now it’s your turn.’

‘They’re both dead.’

‘They both died fighting for their country. They were heroes and now you’re the man of the family. Act like one!’

Andrew’s mind was reeling and his legs felt like jelly. He could almost imagine what his father would have said if he was here. All his life he had been told about the exploits of his dead father and uncle, but they had been men he could barely remember. The Old Codgers were always going on about them as if by telling the stories they could make Andrew into a man in their mould when in actual fact the reverse was true. Andrew was completely lack-ing in self-esteem because of those tales and because of his own contrary emotional leanings.

Clyde stepped closer to Andrew. ‘The Old Codgers want you to do this. My uncle says they’ll be willing to overlook certain matters if you make it to the other side.’

Andrew looked up at Clyde and could see the steely resolve in his eyes. He also understood the veiled threat in his words and knew that the Old Codgers would be unrelenting in their reprisals if their wishes were ignored while success would ensure his future, whatever he chose to make of it.

Head hung low, he stumbled to his feet and nodded reluctantly.

‘Seeing that Angelo has gone off in a huff I’ll get Dave Conway to gather up our clothes and meet us over at the fire.’

As the moon came out to offer its meagre light to guide them, they walked down to the water’s edge where Clyde stripped off and watched as Andrew slowly did the same.

‘Remember, you have to keep going, no matter what,’ he said before plunging in and striking out for the far shore.

A second splash told him that Andrew was close behind.

A very disappointed Dave Conway was bending to pick up the boys’ discarded clothing when he saw Angelo approaching from the direction of the clubhouse.

‘They went?’ he asked and Dave nodded.

‘I’m going too,’ declared Angelo as he unbuttoned his shirt.

‘You can’t!’

‘Don’t say I can’t! I’m as good as any of you!’

‘The Old Codgers won’t like it!’

‘Sod them! They’ll have to get used to the idea!’

Dave Conway watched as Angelo slipped out of his clothes. He was of a mind to join him but knew the consequences of going against the wishes of the Old Codgers. Life, for him, in Henswytch would be intolerable if he defied them. Rules were rules and the Old Codgers made the rules around here.

Angelo dived in and despite Conway’s protests he swam out to try and catch up with his fellow rowers.

Out on the river Clyde was by far the stronger of the two swimmers and he quickly drew away, leaving Andrew to lumber through the water as best he could.

The instructions from his uncle and the Old Codgers had been most explicit in this. They knew full well that Clyde was capable of overcoming the Iceman and taking his place among the village’s elite, but Andrew was another matter entirely. His father had indeed been a ‘worthy’, but the boy did not seem to be made of the same sturdy stock. That was why it had been decided that Andrew must do the Swim, and do it alone. Sink or swim was the Old Codgers’ method of sorting out the enigma that Andrew Lang had become.

Clyde glanced and calculated that he was about to pass the river’s halfway point and had still not encountered the Iceman. He was feeling confident now and his arms swung past his head in steady strokes while his body felt warm with the blood pumping forcefully through his veins.

Suddenly the Iceman struck and Clyde felt the wind being smashed out of his lungs. The water had instantly turned frigid and the skin of his scalp felt as though it was trying to crush the skull beneath. ‘Shit!’ he screamed as he struggled to regain his composure. Don’t panic! his mind screamed. Keep going! You have to keep going!

Every muscle in his body knotted in reaction to the cold and his body temperature began to plummet which caused him to shake uncontrollably. The pace of his stroke dropped dramat-ically and it took all his willpower to keep going, even as his strength sought to fail him. Maybe I should go back? No! That’s what the Iceman wants me to do. I have to keep going forward. How much longer? How much longer?

Stroke by agonising stroke Clyde crawled toward the far bank. He was shaking like someone in the throes of malaria and could hardly feel his hands and feet when, with a final effort to freeze his intended victim, the Iceman let go his deathly grip.

Around Clyde the water’s temperature went up by a few degrees and that was enough for his body to begin to feel the warmth return. The youth’s body still felt as though it were made of ice, but he struggled on. More confident now he looked up to see that the welcoming flames of Tilley’s fire were drawing closer.

At last he found himself among the reeds at the river’s edge and was relieved to find that he could place his feet on the river’s muddy bottom. Still shaking uncontrollably he clambered up the bank and stumbled through the dark toward the fire.

Tilley heard him coming and rushed to his side. She ignored the freezing water running down his sides and wrapped her warm arms around him while drawing him toward the fire.

‘You’re freezing!’ she said.

‘The Iceman,’ he stuttered as he willed the flames to ease the pain in his tortured muscles.

‘Who else is out there?’

‘Just Andrew.’

‘Andrew! What made him do the Swim? I didn’t think he had the courage.’

‘The Old Codgers said he had to do it. They think it will make a man of him.’

‘Fat chance of that,’ sneered Tilley.

She had lived under the same room as her cousin long enough to understand his true nature.

Out on the river Angelo could hear that he was catching up with one of the swimmers, but he didn’t know which one it was. His slim body and broad shoulders were made for swimming and he felt strong as he powered through the water. Suddenly there was a scream from somewhere ahead.

Angelo swam on, heading toward the sound when he too found himself instantly caught in the grip of the Iceman. ‘Shit!’ he swore loudly as his entire body reacted to the freezing cold water.

Just then he saw Andrew Lang struggling toward him. ‘Go back!’ Andrew gasped. ‘It’s too cold!’

Angelo swam to him. ‘You can’t go back. That’s the trap. You’ll be too weak to make it all the way and you’ll drown. You have to go forward. Come on!’ he said as he stroked toward the far bank.

‘I can’t! I have to go back! I have a stitch in my side.’

‘No! This way. Come on. I’ll help you.’

He grabbed Andrew by the shoulder and forced him toward the far bank. ‘Come on!’

Shaking uncontrollably, Andrew reluctantly obeyed, but the cold and the pain in his joints were to be too much and his head disappeared below the surface.

Angelo grabbed for him, dragging him back to the surface by the hair. He cupped his hand under Andrew’s chin and then swam on, dragging his reluctant fellow swimmer with him.

Andrew slipped below the surface several more times before Angelo finally dragged the pair of them out of the Iceman’s grasp. Here, in the warmer water, they both rested for a short time while trying to regain their blood circulation.

The pair of them was completely spent by the time they reached the reed beds and when they were able to stand, they had to cling to one another while trying to catch their breath and get their stiffened muscles to work.

Suddenly Angelo realised that Andrew’s embrace had turned ardent and that the large youth’s penis was hardening with excitement. Angelo pushed himself away in disgust. ‘Let go of me, you big poof!’ he snarled.

Andrew’s face reddened in embarrassment. ‘Sorry!’

‘Friggin’ pansy!’ said Angelo disgustedly as he climbed out of the river.

‘I’m not a pansy!’ squeaked Andrew.

‘Of course you are. You’re a fucking queer and everyone knows it. I’ve seen the way you look at the younger boys when we’re in the shower.’

Andrew was shocked that his secret desires were known to others. It’s all a mistake. I’m not a queer. I have to make him believe that. He climbed out of the river on legs that still felt like jelly and grabbed Angelo by the shoulder to spin him ‘round. ‘I’m not queer!’ he insisted.

‘Fucking poofter! Listen to yourself. You talk like a girl,’ snarled Angelo as he pushed Andrew away again.

Weak with fatigue, Andrew’s legs gave way on the slippery bank and he grabbed at Angelo for support, but it was not enough. He toppled back into the river, dragging Angelo with him. They hit the river together and surfaced spluttering and spitting out muddy water.

‘Friggin’ poofter!’ Angelo screamed at his companion. ‘You can’t do anything right, can you!’

Andrew was totally beside himself with shame. Everything he had done that day was turning out wrong. ‘I’m not a poofter,’ he whimpered.

Angelo had had enough of the larger boy’s antics. He ignored Andrew and wanted nothing more than to get to the fire and its blessed heat. ‘Go back home to your mummy!’ he called over his shoulder as he climbed the muddy bank.

Anger exploded inside Andrew at the other boy’s dismissal. He could imagine what Angelo was about to say to the others about what he had done and a wave of panic and disgust washed over him. He grabbed at Angelo’s ankle dragging him back into the water and in an act of mindless desperation forced the smaller boy’s head below the water, but Angelo used all his remaining strength and Angelo struggled back to the surface.

‘I’m not a poofter!’ Andrew screamed as he pushed the smaller boy back under again.

The sounds of Andrew’s screams reached Clyde and Tilley and they rushed down to the water’s edge. They thought Andrew must be in trouble and needed their help to get out of the river.

When they reached the darkened bank they searched the river’s edge and eventually found Andrew standing among the reeds. He was weeping uncontrollably with Angelo floating face down beside him.

Clyde jumped into the water thinking that he could revive the drowned boy, but when he rolled him over he suddenly realised that Angelo hadn’t drowned.

The dead boy’s head lay at an odd angle to his body and there were marks on his throat left by Andrew’s hands.

‘What the hell have you done, Andrew?’ said Clyde.

‘He kept calling me names! I’m not a pansy!’

‘Jesus Christ!’ swore Clyde. He looked up to where Tilley stood staring in shock at Angelo’s dead body. ‘Tilley!’ he said sharply. ‘Get this idiot out of here! Take your idiot of a cousin over to the fire and don’t let him out of your sight.’

‘What are you going to do?’ she asked shakily.

‘I’m going to do what the Old Codgers would want me to do. I’m going to fix things and make them right. I can’t let the team down.’

Clyde waited until Tilley had led her sobbing cousin away and then waded over to where Angelo’s lifeless form floated. Despite the fact that he was still very weak from his own encounter with the Iceman he knew what he had to do.

Gripping the body under the chin Clyde swam out into the river using a sidestroke. Just as he felt the grip of the Iceman once more he released his burden and slowly swam back to the shore.

When the body gets washed over the weir it will get battered on the cement and in the eddy below. If it gets washed far enough downstream the wounds on the neck might not be so obvious. Angelo will become one more of the Iceman’s victims.

Clyde was in a state of utter collapse by the time he slumped to the ground near the flames of Tilley’s fire. He could see that both Andrew and Tilley had been crying. ‘What will happen now?’ sobbed the girl.

Clyde looked up at his companions. ‘We know nothing. Do you hear me? We know nothing. When someone says that Angelo tried the Swim as well we need to say that we didn’t see him. When he doesn’t get out of the river they’ll assume that the Iceman got him and they’ll search downstream. Remember, we don’t know anything and we didn’t see or hear anything. Do you understand me?’

Andrew and Tilley nodded.

‘Don’t say anything. Leave it all up to me.’

‘He had no right to be there anyway,’ mumbled Andrew. ‘He never was one of us.’

‘Shut up, Andrew! Don’t say another word or I’ll drag you back out there and give you to the Iceman as well.’

Tilley said nothing. Her mouth was clamped tight in complete shock and disgust at what her cousin had done and what Clyde was prepared to do to cover up the crime. Deep down, she knew that she would never know peace while she remained in Henswytch. To be forced to look at Andrew and Clyde each day would remind her of the evil that she had been a witness to and she knew her own guilt in helping to cover up would haunt her forever.