Free A Possible Life by Sebastian Faulks Page B

was empty, there was nothing left to retch. He took more vodka, more and more, then set back to work in blindness.
    A day, a night in the asylum, a day again, bright sun over the pine forest, meaning thick ground mist tonight, back into the rubber boots, the clothes from the last crew dripping and he is in the woods again. This must be the last he knows of it, so he works in fury. Chloride of lime, meant to quell the stench, runs powerless from spleen and womb. An hour, another hour, a day. Inside the wire there is evening roll call and amid the clamour a column, fifty, sixty men, a Search Unit going out from the camp into the building site , their guards shouting. They are searching under planks and peering into pipes, secretly their pockets jammed with rocks and bits of masonry. From the watchtower a complacent guard looks down on them. The Pyre Crew is returning now as the sun sinks behind the woods and the men can barely pull their bodies home.
    And the Search Unit is at the gap in the fence. There is a shot, there is always a shot. A body. More commands, a moment of confusion. Search Unit and Pyre Crew are crossing at the fence. The sentry is suddenly nervous in the watchtower and there comes a roar of Russian, fifty men hurling iron and rocks and rushing the wooden tower, which tips over, snapping on its legs, and Geoffrey is turning on his heel, with them now, with the Search Unit, running into the woods, scattering among the pine needles, through the lunar ash, running as though fresh from two weeks’ rest, limbs free; steady, Talbot, pace yourself, leave something for the later stages; at least a minute gone before they hear the siren and the gunfire and the dogs.
    In 1946, the autumn term at Crampton Abbey began on 17 September. The day before, Mrs Little knocked on her husband’s study door before entering.
    Mr Little’s closest companion, a clumber spaniel called Heep, was asleep in front of the unlit fire, his aroma mingling with that of his master’s Sir Philip Sidney pipe tobacco.
    ‘We’re at least three boys short,’ said Long John, looking up from where he was making some calculations on a piece of graph paper.
    ‘Doddington’s not coming back. His mother can’t afford it now his father’s dead. And the price of coal, food, electricity … I shall have to cut the salaries. I wondered if I could sack Garrard as well.’
    ‘But who’ll look after the games pitches?’
    ‘We’ve got this new chap starting. Franklin. I could ask him to do some mowing and maintenance as well as taking junior games.’
    ‘How much do we pay Garrard?’
    ‘The equivalent of one boy’s fees for a year.’
    ‘Oh dear,’ said Mrs Little, sitting down and absently stroking Heep’s head. ‘Are we in a pickle, dear?’
    ‘I think so. There seems to be no end of rationing in sight. The ministry says it’ll last for at least five years. And now the parents are worried about what the boys are eating.’
    ‘Matron wrote off to the ministry and they suggested Radio Malt to build them up a bit.’
    ‘Could we get rid of some of the maids?’ said Long John.
    ‘We’re down to five. And we only pay them pin money.’
    Mr Little drew in a mouthful of Sir Philip Sidney. ‘I must remember to invite the new superintendent of the asylum over one evening.’ He puffed thoughtfully. ‘I suppose what we really need is some sort of recruitment drive.’
    ‘You don’t mean advertising?’
    ‘Good heavens, no. But we need to put the word about. That Crampton Abbey is a first-rate school. Has Baxter come back yet?’
    ‘Yes, I saw him this afternoon.’
    ‘I had to cut his salary.’
    ‘Again, dear?’
    ‘As a warning. After the maids found all those gin bottles in his room.’
    ‘He’ll hardly have enough for beer and cigarettes.’
    ‘Good thing too. Anyway, I’m going out for my evening walk now. Come on, Heep. Come on.’
    The spaniel rose stiffly from the hearth rug and followed his master out into the corridor,