The Tyrant headmaster 12: Two vandals

 Original Fiction – for adult eyes only

Police Sgt Strong peered through blurry eyes at the report. Why didn’t anything interesting happen in this godforsaken backwater. The main event of the weekend’s “incidents” was some teenagers who couldn’t hold their beer who had kicked over plants and broken hanging flower baskets in a street near the church. Was that it, he grumbled. It was hardly Hill Steet Blues.

Moments later probationary constable Jupp stood before him, hands behind his back. “There were at least four of them. We only caught two,” he explained in his sing-song voice. “Both eighteen. They were really cocky; full of themselves,” he added for background colour. Sgt Strong groaned. Kids! “They admit they’d been drinking, but deny vandalism.” Sgt Strong’s head buzzed. They deny it. What a waste of time. If they plead not guilty in court the case could run for days. Days wasted.

“Do we know them?” The sergeant meant had the pair caused trouble before? Did they have criminal records. “They’re still at school,” Jupp replied misunderstanding the question, “St Septimius.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Strong grumbled. The constable wasn’t much older than a schoolboy himself. Had he even started shaving yet?

“Miss Mather was very upset,” Jupp mumbled. “Those flowers were her pride and joy.”

“Yes,” Strong snapped. He knew the old spinster, there were many like her in the village. “And there’s not much we can do about it,” he complained. “If we take it to court it’ll just be ‘he said, she said’ we’ll never be able to prove anything.”

“Sorry sarge,” Jupp looked crestfallen as if it was his personal fault that justice would not be served.

Then Sgt Strong had the germ of an idea. “Still at school, you say. St Septimius? As in St Septimius Independent Grammar School, St SIGS?” He didn’t wait for an affirmative answer. “Didn’t you used to go there Jupp? Don’t they have a new headmaster. Fortescue. He’s got a bit of a reputation, I hear.”

Jupp gulped. Yes, Dr Fortescue had a reputation. Involuntarily Jupp’s thumbs gently caressed his own backside. “Yes sarge,” he croaked and trying to affect a laugh that he couldn’t quite bring off he added, “We used to call him ‘the Tyrant Headmaster’.”

An idea was germinating inside Sgt Strong’s head. Justice might be done to Miss Mather and there might be no need to involve the courts.

Later that day Sgt Strong parked his bicycle inside the shed provided for the schoolboys. He fumbled with a lock; you couldn’t trust anybody these days, he knew. Not even posh schoolboys and their masters.

He looked around at the ivy-covered walls, the mullioned windows – stained glass, he called them. He had attended a council school himself. Nothing as grand as this. Leaky roofs and draughty windows. His envy quickly surfaced: what could his own life had been like if he had attended a school like St SIGS? He’d left school at fifteen with no qualifications and he had a string of worthless jobs until he was old enough to get taken on by the police cadets. He worked his way up the ladder to the dizzying heights of a sergeant in a village outpost. He wiped sweat from his brow and made his way into the main building. The headmaster’s study was at the end of a long passageway. Why was his heart thumping so? What was it about the Tyrant Headmaster that unsettled him? He was the police, he was the law, he had nothing to fear from this headmaster. It was the headmaster’s boys who were the criminals. They had destroyed the image of the school for fine upstanding gentlemen. Why, Sgt Strong ruminated, they were no better than the yobs from Oil Drum Secondary where he had himself been a pupil.

Although his head told him he had nothing to fear his heart didn’t quite agree. It was thumping inside his chest so hard that the police officer feared boys in the quadrangle outside would be able to hear. Why were headmasters so intimidating? He had never been summoned to the head while at school. It wasn’t that kind of school. There were no mortarboard caps and academic gowns. Most of the men teachers wore sports jackets with leather patches at the elbows and stained trousers. There were no canes being swished, instead teachers would punish with a worn-out plimsoll or a hard wooden ruler. Sgt Strong had seen many a slippering in his time but had never been on the receiving end of a spanking.

He reached the headmaster’s study and admired the shining brass nameplate screwed onto the oak door. Dr Fortescue MA (Cantab.) He had no idea what any of this meant except that the man inside was probably very full of himself. He would be a colonel to Sgt Strong’s adjutant. The class war was alive and well in this passageway.

Without planning he checked the buttons of his tunic were fastened, he sucked in his belly and made sure his shirt was properly tucked in. He glanced down at his shoes satisfied that they were highly polished as always. He took a deep breath, counted to ten in his head and knocked feebly on the door. There was no answer from the other side of the door. Sgt Strong muttered irritatedly under his breath and checked his watch. He was on time; neither too early or late. He was expected by the headmaster. He frowned and his irritation rose. How typical. The headmaster thinks the world revolved around himself, well Sgt Strong was the top policeman in the area and he expected to be treated with more respect. He knocked again, louder this time and was rewarded with an imperious cry “Come!” from beyond the oak.

Startled that the headmaster had been at home all along Sgt Strong wiped his sweaty palms along the seams of his trousers and with an unconfident hand he turned the handle. The study was as he had imagined it might be. It was like stepping back in time fifty or sixty years. Shafts of light came through the stained-glass windows dimly lighting a sizeable room dominated by a desk behind which the headmaster sat. The walls were lined with shelves and cupboards. A small table and chairs were in one corner and an armchair had its back to one shelf. A number of small wooden straight-backed chairs were positioned around the room. In a corner behind the headmaster’s desk was a large hatstand. From it hung an academic gown and cap, Sgt Strong noticed these immediately, it took him a few more moments to register the three curve handled canes that hung alongside them.

Dr Fortescue glared across the room, his thin lips scowled and he made little attempt to hide his disdain for the man standing before him. “Sgt Strong, I presume,” he said, without a hint of the joke he might have been trying to make. The sergeant croaked a reply.

He stood hands behind back feeling every inch a thirteen-year-old schoolboy summoned to the headmaster’s study for a ticking off, or indeed something much worst, a roasted backside. The headmaster eyed him from the top of his head to the tips of his shoe caps, still he found little to impress him.

“It’s about …” Sgt Strong began and suddenly he could no longer remember the names of the two boys who were accused of vandalism. His hands flapped as he searched the pocket inside his too-tight jacket to retrieve a notebook. Hurriedly, feeling sweat collecting on his brow, he turned page after page. Anderson and Josephs, he rasped at last finding the note.

“Yes, yes,” the headmaster was irritated; he was always irritated, he had a short temper most times and now was no exception. “I know who they are and what they are supposed to have done.” He stressed the word supposed. “There is very little doubt they were the two who destroys the lady in question’s plants,” Sgt Strong interjected. “Boys from your school.” He was surprised how much he enjoyed saying those words your school. Your posh school, he might have added. Your school that thinks it is above all the others in this county. Nothing but cheap vandals.

“Yes, yes, man. Have you proof?”

“We have witnesses, but the boys deny it. We shall have to go to court. There will be a trial.” Sgt Strong felt more emboldened. Why should he be intimidated by this creature? “Lots of publicity,” he gloated, “Big story in the local paper.”

Dr Fortescue blanched as if this had not occurred to him. Sgt Strong played his advantage, “Even if they get off through lack of evidence the stain will be there. The school for vandals.”

“Pah!” Dr Fortescue’s explosion rocked the policeman. “I hear what you say, are you sure they did it, evidence or not?” Sgt Strong suppressed a smile, “Yes, sir,” he nodded vigorously, “They did it all right.”

“Sargent,” the headmaster peered intently at the policeman standing awkwardly before him. “I intend to take over this matter. I shall see the two boys myself and take any action that I see fit. Is that understood?” It wasn’t a question; it was a command. Probationary constable Jupp had already told him of the headmaster’s reputation. He brooked no dissention; he was in charge. His word was law. He was jury, judge and executioner.

“What do you propose to do?” he asked, wanting to savour the details. He looked across at the hatstand and the three curve-handled whippy rattan canes.

“Rest assure, Sgt Strong,” the headmaster sighed, “Justice will be done. Good day to you.” He turned to an open text book on his desk and ignored his visitor. Seething at the rudeness, Sgt Strong exited swiftly, and with a little rebelliousness he left the door to the study open as he stormed down the corridor.

Later that day, Anderson and Josephs stood uncomfortably, hands behind backs, feet slightly apart, heads bowed submissively. The headmaster was jawing them. Droning on and on. The honour of the school. Bad behaviour. Vandalism. Louts. Police. The words buzzed around their heads. Neither of the senior schoolboys paid attention. They knew what was going to happen. There was no point telling Dr Fortescue they had taken a little too much beer that evening and they and three other lads from the town (not pupils at the school) had egged one another on and taken out their frustrations on defenceless plants in front gardens near the church.

There was no point in saying a thing. The headmaster had made up his mind. Action was required. Swift, decisive action. Eventually the old windbag ran out of puff. He had exhausted every cliché that headmasters are wont to utter at such times.

“A beating. A sound beating.” The eighteen-year-olds heard that all right. Very clearly. They had expected it, of course, but the finality of the statement still made two hearts pound against cotton school shirts.

Dr Fortescue hauled himself to his feet. He wasn’t such a big man but he always contrived to make himself seem larger than life; a monster almost. He eyed each boy in turn, failing to supress his contempt for the young of today. What had the world come to? Boys from decent homes, who had all the advantages of a top-class education acting like guttersnipes. Well, he told himself, he would not allow such a thing. He had standards and he was darned sure he would make the two pathetic creatures who stood before him live up to them.

He reached the hatstand and with no ceremony he reached up for the longest, thickest cane among the three that hung there. It was a little over three feet in length and as thick as a pencil. The headmaster had heavier and denser canes in his cupboard but he knew from his wide experience that the curve-handled rattan that he flexed in his hand was the prefect instrument for what he had in mind.

He turned and faced the two boys. “Look at me,” he growled. With great reluctance Anderson and Josephs lifted their eyes from the ground and peered at the gowned man who stood imperiously before them. “You are senior boys,” he intoned unnecessarily, “in the sixth-form. You should be setting examples to your younger fellows.” He paused as if the weight of his words were far too heavy a burden for him carry. Then he continued, “But you behave like this.” Another pause as he flexed the cane once more. He swished it through empty air. “You leave me no choice.” Another swish, “You have brought this entirely upon yourself.” A third swish, “Stand there by my desk.” He waved the cane in the direction he meant, as if there could be any doubt.

Silently, not daring to look at one another or the headmaster the two boys shuffled into place. The headmaster paused once more (he was really a terribly ham actor at heart), the cleared his throat and then intoned, “Take down your trousers,” he noticed the glint of astonishment in Josephs’ eyes with some satisfaction. He waited another three beats before adding, “and your underpants.”

Anderson’s mouth opened but he stopped himself speaking just in time. The old brute of a headmaster could do anything he wanted. The headmaster had not quite finished. “A-ha! You weren’t expecting that. Well, let it be a lesson to you both. I will not tolerate such behaviour. The honour of the school is paramount. Now do as I say and then bend over the desk. Both of you.”

They hesitated – of course, they hesitated. A trousers and pants down caning. A caning on the bare. Had anything so drastic happened in the school before? “Now!” the headmaster blasted, swiping the cane through the air once more. His eyes narrowed and he growled, “Or would you prefer I call a special assembly and thrash you before the whole school.”

He would, as well. Both boys knew this. Dr Fortescue wasn’t known as The Tyrant Headmaster for nothing. “I am waiting,” the headmaster snapped, what little patience he might have had now evaporated.

Anderson took the plunge first. He could hardly control his fingers but somehow he got them to unbuckle the belt that held up his pale-grey short trousers. Once he had manoeuvred the top two buttons of the fly open they tumbled down his legs and made a puddle over his shoes. He wore modern, cotton white Y-front underpants. They were held up by an elasticated waist and although his hands shook furiously, he had no real difficulty in hooking his thumbs under the waistband and with no more than a flick of the wrist sending them south to join his short trousers. Instinctively he cupped his hands in front of him, hiding his privates from view.

Next to him Josephs was on some kind of auto-pilot. Later, when trying to recall his ordeal in the headmaster’s study he was unable to remember much that happened before he stretched himself overt the desk. From that point on all he would remember – and oh so clearly – was the intense agony as Dr Fortescue’s heavy, but whippy cane, slashed into his naked buttocks.

But for now, it was a blur. He didn’t remember the curt command, “Bend over the desk.” It was a low desk and the boys were tallish young lads. Without instruction they moved forward and placing their elbows on the desktop they arched their backs, thereby presenting two sets of cheeks for the attention of their master.

Dr Fortescue was a man on a mission. He had a duty to perform and he would do it without fear or favour. He believed himself to be a fair man. Firm, but fair, he would call himself. He tucked the cane under his right armpit and with his hands now free he set about taking hold of shirttails and moving them away from his target area. Four cheeks quivered as he did so. Satisfied that the shirts were no longer a hindrance, he stepped back and slipped the cane once more into his hand.

He paused to take in the scene. Anderson and Josephs were senior boys and had the headmaster been interested in such things he would have conceded that indeed they were far from children. The dark hair adorning the boys’ legs was testament to that. The buttocks were heavy set and muscular, firm and meaty: they were terrific targets.

“Twelve,” he announced, as he tapped the cane across the centre of Anderson’s cheeks. The boy froze, his bum hardening as if to prepare itself for the onslaught about to come. Anderson was aware of his partner in crime bending inches to his right. They were so close together he could smell sour breath. Tap-tap-tap. Dr Fortescue was taking aim. Anderson closed his eyes shut, sucked down on his bottom lip and waited as the cane was moved away from the surface of his buttocks. He couldn’t see this, but the headmaster lifted the cane and let it hover high above his own shoulder for a moment or two before returning it with great strength to Anderson’s bottom. It was an awesome stroke and it bit deep into the flesh. Anderson chewed on his lip, clenched his fists and stomped his feet up and down on the floor. His hips swayed from side to side. It felt as if the headmaster had thrust a white-hot wire into his backside, so intense was the burning.

“Steady boy!” the headmaster snarled, as he took a half step toward Josephs and repeated his tap-tap-tapping and the raising of the cane and the hesitation and the thwack into heavy flesh. Josephs reaction was similar to his pal’s. How could it not be? What else could you do when a cane is flogged into your backside with such force. A boy is only made of flesh and blood after all.

The headmaster, ever a stoic, quietly went about his task. First one boy, then the next. First striking the very centre of the buttocks, then a stroke a little higher, then a stroke a little lower. In this way he was able to land cuts from the top of the target to the (shall we say) bottom. Ridges quickly emerged and before the twelfth stroke landed the welts on the buttocks put you in mind of corrugated cardboard.

A headmaster’s beating should always be an awesome affair. Masters lower down the school could cane a boy – six on the seat of the trousers – was their limit, but Dr Fortescue by virtue of his high office and the powers invested in him by the school governors was given no limit.

He was not – he told himself, but many of his pupils might not agree – a cruel man. Twelve hard strokes across the bare backside was an adequate punishment. It fitted the crime, so to speak. Anderson and Josephs would not vandalise old ladies’ plants again, of that he had no doubt. It was a lesson learned. Crime and punishment. Atonement.

A few streets away, Sgt Strong closed the door to his office and as he walked from the police station, he fumbled in his pocket for his bicycle clips. Another day over. As he cocked his leg over the bike and made his way down the village road and passed the church and the houses where gardens had been vandalised, he was able to reassure himself: All is well with the world.

Picture credits: Sting Pictures 

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