Free A Kestrel for a Knave by Barry Hines

colour of dripping as he began to empty his pockets. Gryce moved along the line, broddling in their palms; turning and inspecting the grubby contents with obvious distaste.
    ‘This can’t be true. I don’t believe it.’
    He placed his stick on his desk.
    ‘Keep your hands out.’
    And started down the line again, frisking their clothing quickly and expertly. When he reached the messenger he beamed at him.
    ‘Ah! Ah!’
    ‘Please, Sir…’
    The smokers leaned forward and looked at him, half turning and angling across each other like a prioll of Jacks. They squared their jaws and showed him their teeth. Tearscame into the messenger’s eyes and he began to snuffle.
    ‘You’re a regular cigarette factory aren’t you, lad?’
    From various pockets Gryce collected two ten-packets, which rattled when he shook them, a handful of tabs, three lighters and a box of matches.
    ‘You deceitful boy. You didn’t think you could get away with a weak trick like that, did you?’
    He strode over to the basket at the side of his desk and dropped the lot into it.
    ‘Now get that other junk back into your pockets, and get your hands out.’
    He picked his stick up from his desk and tested it on the air. The first smoker stepped out and raised his right hand. He proffered it slightly cupped, thumb tucked into the side, the flesh of the palm ruttled up into soft cushions.
    Gryce measured the distance with the tip of his stick, settled his feet, then slowly flexed his elbow. When his fist was level with his ear, the hinge flashed open swish down across the boy’s palm. The boy blinked and held up his left hand. The stick touched it, curved up and away out of Gryce’s peripheral vision, then blurred back into it and snapped down across the fingers.
    ‘Right, now get out.’
    White-faced, he turned away from Gryce, and winked at the others as he passed in front of them to the door.
    ‘Next.’
    They stepped forward in turn, all adopting the same relaxed hand position as the first boy. Except for the messenger. He presented his hands stiff, fingers splayed, thumbs up. The full force of both strokes caught him thumbs first, cracking across the side of the knuckle bone. The first stroke made him cry. The second made him sick.
    * * *
    They all turned their heads when the door opened and Billy walked into the room. Mr Farthing, perched side saddle on the edge of the desk, stopped talking and waited for him to approach.
    ‘I’ve been to see Mr Gryce, Sir.’
    ‘Yes, I know. How many this time?’
    ‘Two.’
    ‘Sting?’
    ‘Not bad.’
    ‘Right, sit down then.’
    He watched Billy to his place and waited for the class to settle before he continued.
    ‘Right 4C. To continue. Fact.’
    He swung one arm and indicated the board behind him. On it was printed:
FACT AND FICTION
    ‘What did we say fact was, Armitage?’
    ‘Something that’s happened, Sir.’
    ‘Right. Something that has happened. Something that we know is real. The things that we read about in newspapers, or hear on the news. Events, accidents, meetings; the things that we see with our own eyes, the things all about us; all these are facts. Have you got that? Is that clear?’
    Chorus: ‘Yes, Sir.’
    ‘Right then. Now if I asked Anderson for some facts about himself, what could he tell us?’
    ‘Sir! Sir!’
    ‘All right! All right! Just put your hands up. There’s no need to jump down my throat. Jordan?’
    ‘He’s wearing jeans.’
    ‘Good. Mitchell?’
    ‘He’s got black hair.’
    ‘Yes. Fisher?’
    ‘He lives down Shallowbank Crescent.’
    ‘Do you, Anderson?’
    ‘Yes, Sir.’
    ‘Right then. Now all these are facts about Anderson, but they’re not particularly interesting facts. Perhaps Anderson can tell us something about himself that
is
interesting. A really interesting fact.’
    There was a massive ‘Woooo!’ from the rest of the class. Mr Farthing grinned and rode it; then he raised his hands to control it.
    ‘Quietly now. Quietly.’
    The