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Title: Ignition Point Disclaimer: Trust me, I know that he'll never be mine (loud sigh). Archive: Okay, as long as it stays unchanged and with my name attached. ************************* IGNITION POINT by Emilia Cianci
The director didn't know their grown-up faces. Boys turned into teenagers, who would leave the orphanage before their features settled into definitive shape. A few years more, and even the caretakers wouldn't have been able to recognize them. They didn't come around, usually, and he was glad for this: most of the little bastards were bound to a scanty life, or to turn out badly. *Just like this one, no doubt* he mused, eyeing the lanky boy who stood on the other side of the writing-desk. Before he clasped his hands behind his back, the director managed to see how high the jacket's sleeves raised on his wrists; he must have grown fast lately. Clear grey-blue eyes, wary, shining even in that sunless day. That growing-up face's only feature that could be defined "beautiful". His son's eyes were a darker shade, but as expressive as two marbles... "Sit down, young man. Sit down." The boy complied, obviously suspicious, settling himself on the chair lined with black leather that, as far as the unwilling orphanage's guests could remember, never accommodated one of them. He sat composed, his back straight, hands resting on the wooden arms. A model student. His gaze wandered around the office, appraising the neat bookshelves, the display of old-fashioned fountain pens, President Truman's portrait and the framed certificates as if they were different from his new perspective. "How old are you, sonny?" Judging from the ring of perplexity into his clear voice, the boy did expect another opening question. "Fifteen years, eight months, sir." The most troublesome age: too young to get rid of them, grown up enough to slip out of your grasp, lest you inculcate discipline on them. The director leaned to the armchair's back - its black leather in excellent contrast with his grizzled mane - putting on his best strict-but-fair-patriarch expression. "Nasty bruises you're sporting; they must be painful." The boy touched his face out of instinct, the too-short sleeve rising up to uncover dark bruises also around his wrist. "A few ill-directed fists. The others didn't leave marks... sir." "You had a fight?" "I didn't *fight*: I was *punched*." "I'm taken aback by your outspokenness: I expected you to blame a freak accident, as usual. You boys prefer to settle your questions without grown-up interference, isn't that right?" The boy grudgingly acknowledged, just a shrug. "I can understand. But, being an educator, I can't approve of resorting to... alternate justice." "So...you'll punish my attackers?" Bold. Like that ancient poacher who appealed to the King's justice, instead of imploring his mercy. "Clearly you don't feel a great loyalty to your fellow classmates, do you?" "Sir..." "I understand. Why should you protect them?" He leaned forward, laying his hands on the writing desk. "You aren't the Institution's most popular. Always on your own, always a book in hand. To you, having fun doesn't mean romping around. You're a newcomer, behave in a different way...it isn't surprising that you've been singled out by the others, is it?" It was the boy's turn to be surprised: clearly, a display of comprehension was the last thing he expected. His clear eyes shone bright. "It has been like this every time I was transferred, sir. I've always been the odd man out. It seems that people enjoy finding someone to hate." The director averted his gaze from that intense face, concentrating on the young hands clenched to the well-polished, dark wood. Long, out of proportion with the wrists; he was bound to grow taller. Slender fingers, unbitten nails... should have beaten that vice off his son a long time ago. Females don't realize where the boys' good lies. "You could have become their hero, had you limited yourself to vandalism." "It wasn't me." "That was a foreseeable answer, sonny." "It wasn't me! I couldn't have never harmed Rover." The boy raised his chin, a pugnacious gesture - while his voice faltered slightly. "I was fond of him. That's why he died." "So you claim to be not only innocent, but a victim. A scapegoat." The director leaned forward. "And you can tell me who the real culprits are, can't you?" Silence. A lifetime growing up institutionalized had taught him at least a basic rule: never fink, you'd pay dearly. The director rose up, turning his back on him, and went to open a window. Down in the courtyard, the boys seemed intent on their usual - noisy - activities. A few older ones gathered near the brick wall, whispering and shooting up short, tense stares; when they saw him, they quickly averted their gazes. All of them, except for the one he knew to be their boss; another delinquent-to-be. "Come here, young man." He turned to call with a peremptory gesture; the boy grudgingly obeyed, stopping near the window, half-hidden behind the curtains. When the director pushed the white fabric aside, the youngsters' attention was drawn on the movement... and the boy stiffened under their collective hostile gaze. "What about them?" "They are the ones who punched me, sir." "Don't play dumb with me, sonny!" He obliged the boy to turn and face him, feeling his bony shoulders under the rough jacket's wool. "We already agreed that you don't owe any loyalty to your companions. So?" The boy shot a look outside the window, moved his head like shaking back a nonexistent forelock - all the orphans had a crew-cut the week before. "It would have been their style. And they had the lowest marks." "The lowest marks?" "Apart for the other damages and...murdering the dog...the school registers have been made unreadable or disappeared. Someone tried to make up for any bad results, his way." "Mallory's gang? They claim to have seen *you*, sneaking outside the building." "Well, sir... that was foreseeable," answered the boy, shrugging. The slap, although not particularly strong, took him completely aback; wide-eyed, he stared at the director who was going to an umbrella-stand near the door, rummaging inside it. "You didn't call me to hear what I had to say." The boy's voice was suddenly dull. "I was already sentenced. Why? Why does my word have no value?" "What about the archive, young man?" The director sorted out a thin, supple walking-stick. It wouldn't cut the skin, nothing to require medical intervention. "Were you so naive to think that your past could disappear together with a few papers?" "I'm not. I never took away anything." "You're confessing to having pried into the archive?" "It was my history. My life! Why shouldn't have I been entitled to know?" Again that sharp move, to shake away a ghost forelock. "But it wasn't yesterday night." "You were afraid to be exposed, so staged all that set-up to shift blame onto your mates. You gained that poor dog's confidence to enter undisturbed, then got rid of him to cover the fact that he didn't bark." "Rover was my only friend!" "Sonny, we both know that you are unable to grow fond of anything but your books. I should submit this nasty question to the Authorities, but I don't want to be the one who'll mar your police record... and the Institute's reputation. I'm responsible for your education, so I'll assume the responsibility for settling this question like your...like any good father would do." The director paused, waiting for a reply that didn't come. Made the stick swish, approaching the boy, and he didn't even flinch. Brave, he had to admit. But, in the end, he'd cry like anyone else. In the end, he'd yield. "I could still be more indulgent, if..." "How is it that we are fed meat only twice a week?" "What?" "And where does all the coal stored in the basement end up, if heating is always on the lowest to *strengthen our fibre*? What about the money you were given last spring to buy us new shoes?" He moved abruptly forward, obliging the grown up to stop. His voice sounded anew clear and sharp - enough to be heard to the next county. "What are you blathering?!" "And what about the laundry? Anyone knows that washing is boys' task." "Shut up!!" The director shot a glance to the open window, decided that closing it would have put him at a disadvantage, so limited himself to speak in a low, threatening voice. "Do you really think to avoid punishment by spitting on me a few wild allegation? You are mad, boy!" "Do you really think that the trustees would be thrilled at your financial abilities? They'd hardly care for you to rob orphans and widowers, but wouldn't forgive for you not sharing." The young brat's mere impudence rendered the director speechless for the time necessary to regain his composure, otherwise the stick still clutched into his hand could have become a deadly weapon. Carefully, he put it on the writing-desk and slowly approached the boy. "First of all, my little bastard, you'd never be able to reach the trustees. Second, no one would believe you anyway. Third, you can't show any evidence. Fourth..." He held out his hand to cup the young face, deliberately pressing on the bruises. The boy didn't give him the satisfaction to moan, but shuddered anyway. No razorblade touched his smooth skin, yet. Still a boy. Still under age. Still under his power. " ....it wasn't smart of you, wising me up about your *alleged* ability to cause me any problem. Not wise at all. Who would prevent me from locking you into the basement, until you'll forget what daylight is like? What use would be your *alleged* evidences, then? If you disappeared from the face of the Earth, whom should care? Who would ever come and 'search' for a no-one like you?" "I've got no friends, sir, but you've got enemies." The boy spoke softly, words blurred by the grasp of the fingers digging into his flesh, not the slightest tremor in his clear voice. "Someone already collected a lot of the evidence you're so certain not to have left, and is on the verge of using them. Someone who can't be locked away, nor beaten or discredited." Someone... Just for a minute, the director's mind spun with faces, doubts, and possibilities. A minute too long; the boy jerked free with a sharp move. Damn him, even if that had been a wild shot, by now he knew that his opponent *really* had something to conceal. Was it possible... "All right, sonny." *Calm down. Solve this mess, then you'll have time to teach him for good.* "You heard someone maligning on me. Who is he?" "Oh, no, sir. It doesn't work like this." The young bastard had actually the nerve to mimic his patronizing tone! "What if I tell you? I'll win a stay in the basement, to keep the rats company?" "You brazen faced..." "Of course, you could still beat that name out of me. But... how long would it take?" The boy's eyes now didn't show any hint of blue, as if they concentrated the room's semi-darkness. "I'm certain that I can endure many days. At least a week. Are you sure to have a week before your foe shall report you? Or three days? Or until tomorrow?" A smile beyond his age thinned his lips. "All in all, you've got to choose between whipping my ass or save yours." "You're bluffing!" "So come and see my bluff...*sir*." This time, silence seemed to stretch forever. Until the wind swelled the curtains, bringing inside a gust of drizzle; the boy went to close the window, calmly and smoothly, shooting down the briefest glance before turning to look at the director, who heaved an exaggerated sigh. "Let's play it your way. What do you want?" "Let' say... a new start." "A new...Oh, I understand. You'll not be punished. I admit that Mallory and his cronies can't be considered most reliable witnesses. They'll have to answer for beating you up, and will be questioned..." He shut up in mid-sentence, because the boy folded his arms and was slowly nodding. "What, now?!" "Now... I've got a few affairs to fix." He started straight to the door. "Very soon you'll know who your foe is, and how to neutralize him." Passing near the writing-desk, he grabbed the stick. "Don't worry about the evidence: I'll keep it in a safe place." "You want... to blackmail me? You're..." "I'm practical. And grown up enough to be entrusted to run an errand in town. In a little while, we'll become real partners." This time, the director simply gaped, dumbfounded. The boy bent slightly to put the stick back in place, straightened to look at him with mock innocence. "Partners have no interest in ruining each other, do they? I'll help you to prosper, *sir*, and you'll be generous with me. I'll not leave with a few rags on my back and a few bucks out of charity." His hand placed on the door-handle, he stopped. "Oh... I'll find out who vandalized the school and killed Rover. Just think of an appropriate punishment... *sir*." The scant light from the curtained windows barely outlined the boy's features, taking away from them the last remnants of childhood. The director seldom knew the orphans' faces as grown-ups, but just for a moment he foresaw this one's... ....and felt a pang of dread.
END ************************* Thanks to Mez who created the WBD's webpage; to the Shadow Gang 'cause they are there :-); to David Bickerstaff who organized the talk in Glasgow; and, of course, to William B. Davis who won a soul for CSM.
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