Roots of Outrage. John Davis Gordon

sorry,’ he whispered.

      Lisa Rousseau smiled ruefully. ‘We’re in trouble, Luke. Tomorrow there’s going to be big trouble.’

      Luke closed his eyes and shook his head.

      ‘I am,’ he said. ‘Not you. There’s no reason for two of us to be in trouble.’

      ‘To talk?’ the headmaster repeated furiously.

      ‘Yes, sir.’

      ‘To talk?’

      ‘Yes, sir.’

      The headmaster gave a growl. ‘At midnight you’re shinning up the drainpipe of the girls’ hostel to talk to the housemistress? That’s what you’re telling me?’

      ‘Yes, sir.’

      George Mahoney, sitting beside his son, sighed.

      ‘To talk about what, pray?’

      ‘About life, sir.’

      ‘About Life? With a capital L, of course? And what aspect of Life were you so desperately anxious to talk about at that hour?’ He waved a hand. ‘The birds and the bees, perhaps?’

      ‘No, sir. About my career, sir.’

      ‘Your career …’ The headmaster whispered it with the contempt it deserved. He turned and paced across his study. He turned back. ‘Do you know what happens to one’s career when one is expelled from a school? Do you know what a blemish – what a criminal record that is you’ll carry with you for life – with the capital L?!’

      ‘Yes, sir.’

      ‘And you are not daunted?’

      ‘Yes, I am daunted, sir.’

      Another growl. ‘And what made you think Miss Rousseau would be willing to talk to you at midnight about your career?’

      ‘Nothing, sir.’

      ‘Nothing?’ Steely eyes. ‘She didn’t … invite you perhaps?’

      ‘No, sir, she did not.’

      ‘You expect me to believe that? You just took it into your head to climb up her drainpipe at midnight? Without any encouragement whatsoever?’

      ‘Correct, sir.’

      The headmaster glared at him. George Mahoney had his eyes down, a grim smile twitching his face. The headmaster stabbed the air with his finger. ‘I put it to you, Mahoney, that if you didn’t have encouragement from Miss Rousseau, your behaviour was insane! Unless you intended to rape her! Was that your intention?’

      Mahoney was shocked. ‘Absolutely not, sir!’

      ‘To try to seduce her perhaps?’

      ‘No, sir.’

      ‘But to “talk”? About your career? At midnight?’

      ‘Yes, sir.’

      ‘“Oh, good evening, Miss Rousseau – or should I say good morning? – just dropped around – or climbed around – to have a little chat about my future career as an historian. I say do you mind giving me a bit of a leg-up over this window sill – but if you prefer I’ll just cling to this drainpipe for half an hour while we ‘talk’ … ”’

      And Luke Mahoney, seventeen years old, in the dock without a defence, had very nearly had enough, after a sleepless night. He looked his headmaster in the eye, and his voice took on a new edge: ‘Yes, sir. Exactly.’

      The headmaster glared. ‘Do I detect a note of aggression there?’

      Luke looked the man in the eye. ‘No, sir. Just a note of self-defence.’

      The headmaster’s glare lost its steel for a moment, then his face filled with fury: ‘‘You describe your story as a defence? Would your father –’ he flung an eloquent hand at the lawyer – ‘consider that a credible defence?!’

      Luke Mahoney did not care anymore – suddenly he had had enough of this humiliation and he did not care that he was going to be expelled: and as he was going to be expelled why the hell was he putting up with this shit?

      ‘Very well, sir, as you evidently don’t think much of that defence, how about this one: I climbed up that drainpipe at midnight because I’m madly in love with Miss Rousseau, sir. Because faint heart never won fair lady, sir. But I absolutely assure you, sir, on a stack of bibles, that Miss Rousseau knew absolutely nothing about this passion of mine, sir. And that you have obviously interpreted her resignation as evidence of complicity is quite incorrect, and if that will be a blot on her copybook, if that will prejudice her career, if you give a bad report about her to the education authorities, that will be the grossest of injustices. That would be like the injustice suffered by an honourable woman who is stigmatised by society after being raped, sir. And I promise you I will correct that by writing to the Department of Education and confessing my guilt, sir.’

      There was a silence. The headmaster was staring at him. George Mahoney was looking at his son with something approaching pride. Luke Mahoney stood there grimly – and he wasn’t blushing anymore. Take it or leave it, sir, was his demeanour. The headmaster recovered, and glared:

      ‘And what did you expect Miss Rousseau to do about that, if she had given you no encouragement?’

      ‘I had no idea, sir.’

      His father sighed. The headmaster rasped softly: ‘I don’t believe you, Mahoney. I find it too much of a coincidence that Miss Rousseau does not intend to press charges against you –’

      ‘Indeed, sir, I’ve gathered that you don’t believe me.’

      ‘Oh? And have you also gathered that I intend expelling you?’

      ‘I have, sir.’

      The headmaster glared. Then he slumped down into his chair. He sighed, then said: ‘You had a good life ahead of you, Mahoney. Brains, sportsman, personality, good looks. You had an excellent chance of winning a Rhodes Scholarship. Now? Do you realize you’ll have great difficulty even finding employment with an expulsion record?’

      Mahoney said grimly: ‘Yes, I realize that, sir. So can we now please get on with it?’

      The headmaster was taken aback by this impertinence. ‘Get on with it?’

      ‘My medicine, sir. The six of the best you’re going to give me. And let me get on the road.’

      The headmaster blinked, then leaned forward. He hissed: ‘You can thank your lucky stars that before I formally expel you I am giving you the chance of leaving this school voluntarily.’

      Mahoney closed his eyes. And sighed in relief. ‘I am very grateful, sir.’

      ‘I hope you’re still grateful after this …’ The headmaster picked up a cane. ‘Drop your trousers.’

      Mahoney undid his belt. He pulled down his trousers. He bent over.

      The cane whistled.

      They drove home in grim silence. George parked in the garage. He switched off the engine, then slumped. He turned to his son. ‘You’ve been punished. I’m not going to punish you further.’

      ‘Thank you.’

      The old man nodded. ‘Besides, you’re not a schoolboy anymore. You’re a young man now, whether you and I like it or not.’

      Mahoney didn’t say anything. Yes, he felt like a man, though his arse felt like a schoolboy’s.

      ‘You became a man in the headmaster’s study, You stood up for yourself, you protected Miss Rousseau and took your medicine.’

      Mahoney didn’t say anything.

      ‘Miss Rousseau did