Chapter 28 George
George
Unlike Miles, George was a boarder at Holvine College.
He spent so much of his childhood there; it’s perfectly understandable that his dreams could easily lead him back up the driveway to its fort-like entrance and through its heavy gates.
He can well recall the first time he made the trip to Holvine himself, even if time has applied a misty filter to the memory.
He remembers the silent, sombre car journey.
The monstrous way the main school building loomed above them as they drove in.
His parents’ chatter echoing through the stone corridors as he followed.
And then, later, alone as the door clicked shut on a dusty dorm with a jigsaw of beds with colourful duvet covers and a window that looked out on to a bare wall; how he doubled over and sobbed, as quietly as he could but unable to stop until there was nothing left, like a sponge squeezed until it was rendered rugged and dry and rough to the touch.
That was the laying of the foundations for character building, he would later learn.
The kind of sadness he felt, heavy and desperate, didn’t last for long – the body wouldn’t allow it; the human instinct for survival forces one to move on and cope with one’s surroundings.
But it left its fingerprints. Oh, it got in all right, and like the woodworm that bore tiny holes in the beams and joists that held the school together, it left a mark.
Some had it harder than others, that’s for sure.
In the dream he’s just had, he was one of the unlucky ones.
George might not have wanted to be at boarding school, but he made a bloody good go of it.
And, while he hated it at first, it didn’t take long before he established his place at the top of the school’s social hierarchy.
Even a place that breeds alphas has its own pecking order, and the social structure at Holvine was well defined and rigorously self-policed.
That was encouraged, to a point, George reckoned.
There was a benefit for all involved. The beta males at Holvine would be so traumatised by their experience that, as soon as they got out into the real world, they would alpha the hell out of anyone who got in their way.
Even the most feeble and impotent of Holviners would be able to seize some kind of power, somewhere, once they burst free of its walls.
George’s drowsy eyes fall on Elis, who lies open-mouthed on the far side of the room, his chest slowly rising and falling in the languid rhythm of sleep.
If that boy had turned up at Holvine, George would have shown him his place, explained where he fitted in.
But here, for some reason, he simply will not stay in his lane.
Elis cannot grasp the order of things. But he will, if he hangs around for long enough.
George’s train of thought is derailed by the alarms. They begin within a second of each other, on Reubyn and Elis’s phones.
Reubyn kills his and is up and out of bed with alarming enthusiasm. ‘Come on, boys,’ he says. He walks around the room, flicking various switches to turn on the lights. ‘Let’s go.’
George groans. ‘Ten more minutes.’
‘No, mate. We can’t let Miles down.’
George lumbers out of bed and pulls on his clothes. To his right, Elis is doing the same, although he’s yet to say a word.
Miles insisted they leave at dawn, which seemed a tad dramatic, George thought.
He’s a tourist going on a scenic drive, not a field marshal planning a surprise assault.
But ultimately George has reluctantly accepted that Miles’s reasoning is sound.
Even the most dedicated of tabloid photographers wouldn’t bother getting out of bed before seven.
And the same could be said, he assumes, for stalkers.
All that aside, something about this plan seems fundamentally wrong.
It’s not just that George is opposed on a recreational level; there’s a flaw to the logic of it that he can’t quite identify.
When he does, he’ll be able to put a stop to this nonsense and see that they’re rightfully reinstalled where they belong – booked in at a half-decent hotel.
Until then, he’s got little choice but to go along with it.
George heads into the bathroom to brush his teeth. He’s nearly finished when Reubyn appears in the mirror, standing in the doorway with a backpack on his shoulders. ‘We’re heading downstairs.’
George glances at him in the mirror, then spits and turns on the tap.
Reubyn takes a couple of steps closer. ‘Would you mind doing an idiot check before you leave? Also, can you go knock on Polly’s door, make sure she’s up and about?’
George turns his head and rolls his eyes to signal a reluctant acceptance of his demands. This isn’t the normal way of things: Reubyn calling the shots and George bowing to his whims. Everything here is being turned on its head.
With Reubyn and Elis gone, George finishes up at the sink, packs his washbag into his case and performs a cursory check of the room.
When he’s done, he wheels his suitcase into the corridor.
Polly’s one floor below and, instead of waiting for the lift, he elects to take the stairs.
When he reaches the lower stairwell, he hears the muffled sound of Polly’s voice.
There’s a sharpness to it that causes him to pause instead of entering the corridor.
Just as he strains to hear, she stops speaking.
About ten seconds later, her voice returns.
‘I can’t believe it. It’s so underhand and so . . . devious. How could you do that to Miles?’
George’s body tenses with interest. He stands stock-still and waits for her to continue.
‘That’s completely irrelevant,’ Polly says. ‘You’ve betrayed me and my brother. What would you have done if I hadn’t found out about that email? Would there have been more?’
George peers around the corner and sees Polly standing by the lift with her phone pressed to her ear, suitcase by her side. He pulls his head back to avoid being seen.
‘I don’t know yet,’ Polly snaps, after a longer silence. ‘Frankly, I don’t think it’s going to do him any good at all to hear about this right now. He’s supposed to be on holiday.’
As she’s speaking, the whir of the elevator increases in volume until it clunks into position and a chime announces its arrival. George extends the pullout handle on his suitcase and hurries into the corridor to see Polly already stepping inside. ‘Hold the lift for me!’
Polly makes no attempt to halt the lift, and George arrives just in time to wedge his foot in between the closing doors. Phone still to her ear, she glowers at George as he hurries in. ‘I’ve got to go,’ she says bluntly into the phone. ‘We’ll talk about this later.’
She shoves her mobile into her handbag, then frowns at George as the lift descends. ‘Good morning.’
‘Good morning, Polly.’
‘Did you happen to hear any of my conversation, just then?’
He pulls up a single eyebrow. ‘I most certainly did.’
Polly groans. ‘Why doesn’t that surprise me. And what did you hear?’
‘Enough. Are you going to tell me what’s going on?’