Free The Red Road by Stephen Sweeney

they always
leave you here on Exit Weekends and never want you home,” Priest
said, looking to his two companions, who were grinning. “Did they
have you by mistake?”
    “No,” I said, starting to walk
away.
    “So why don’t they ever want you
going home, or come and get you right away when Parker was murdered?”
Priest asked, following after me.
    What was the guy’s problem? Was he
seriously that bored with his life that he had to make himself
feel better by talking others down?
    “Because they were busy
working,” I said over my shoulder.
    “No, I’m not sure that’s the
reason,” Priest continued on in his mocking tone.
    “Whatever.”
    “ Le préservatif s'est
déchiré ,” Blanc said in his thick French accent.
    I had no idea what he had just said,
but apparently Priest did, as he began laughing loudly. I ignored the
three and carried on walking back to Butcher.
    I would be glad when the year was
over so I could get away from people such as Priest forever. He had
been a blight on my life ever since I had arrived at the school. For
a fleeting moment, I found myself wishing it had been someone like
him that I had spotted in those bushes. I pushed the thought aside quickly. I
wasn’t that sort of person.

Chapter Six

    I t
didn’t take long for the school term to settle down again. Less
than a week by my estimation. I already had coursework and projects
coming out of my ears, as well as an enormous and almost unfathomable
amount of prep to do.
    It took me a little while to adjust to working
in my dormitory. Unlike prep in classrooms, where we would be made to
sit in silence, my third year saw plenty of opportunity for
procrastination. I was able to listen to music as I worked, as well
as read books and magazines that took my fancy. I could also sneak
into Sam’s and Baz’s dorms when they were working for a chat. We
were rarely ever caught either, the eternal excuse being that we were
working together on a project.
    I also had the chance to witness the
results of the first years’ first experiences of the Murga .
Three from my dorm were made to attend the punishment the first
Friday it happened, likely for no other reason than the school
prefects wishing to break their spirits, and not because they had
actually done anything to warrant it. I heard them getting up at
five-thirty when one of their wristwatch alarms went off. They
crept quietly out of the dorm to change into their tracksuits and
made their way down to the main school gates. They came back in
around seven-forty, just as I was returning from my morning
shower. One of them, Gregory Miller, stank, apparently having been
made to roll around in something deeply unpleasant. I sent him to the
changing rooms immediately, so as not to dirty up the dormitory,
promising to bring his towel and wash bag down to the showers for
him. I found him crying as I did so, quite rattled by the whole
experience and never ever wanting to go through it again.
    Only if
you leave now and don’t come back until you’re a sixth former ,
I almost told him. I knew I would be seeing a lot more grim faces in
the weeks to come; even more so when the winter set in proper.
    As well as dorm prefect duties
(which essentially meant ensuring that the younger boys were in bed
on time, didn’t fight, or continually lamppost or apple turnover
one another’s beds) my third year in the senior school also opened
up a new realm of other responsibilities and opportunities, taking
charge of and proposing optional activities within the school, some
of which could turn out to be quite financially lucrative when done
right.
    Probably the most profitable
activity in the school was dealing with one of the tuck shops. There
wasn’t any real trick to be had for making money there. It
basically boiled down to selling overpriced crisps, chocolate, and
drinks to the younger boys, and getting to travel out to the
wholesalers with the teachers once in a while, to buy up a load of
sweets at