The Hit List Read Online Free Page B

about the artist Tracey Emin in their common room. In theory they were supposed to be in their dormitories by ten; their minds and bodies, the headmaster insisted, needed proper recovery time if they were to handle the combined demands of competitive sport and the A-level syllabus. In practice, however, they could request late TV time if the programme in question was deemed to be of sufficient cultural value. As deputy housemaster of Delves, it was Slater's duty to police this system. He had never heard of Tracey Emin but had given the programme the nod anyway.
    When he stuck his head into the common room there was a pair of soiled knickers on the TV screen.
    'What's this?' he asked one of the boys, a rangy computer-fanatic named Tyrell.
    'It's the documentary I asked you about, sir,' said Tyrell.
    The camera panned across a wrecked bed, paused to [ examine a discarded condom. '
    'How much longer has it got to go?' If Latimer, the Delves housemaster, came in now there would be questions asked.
    'About fifteen minutes. Do you agree that this is art, sir?'
    An unshaven man in square-framed glasses was now standing in front of Tracey Emin's bed. 'Bad sex, skid marked sheets - today it's all up for grabs,' he was saying.
    'I'm afraid it's not my special subject, Tristram,'
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    I' Slater replied. It was a weak answer and he knew it. He should watch this business of Christian-naming the boys, too. The other staff-members didn't like it, and he'd been warned about it more than once. Undercutting discipline, he'd been told. Tracey Emin was now on screen, topless. 'What do you think of that, sir? She's quite fit, isn't �she?'
    'I'm sure she'd value your approval,' said Slater If drily. He glanced round the room. All eyes were on f ITracey. 'How did you goons get to be made prefects, j anyway?'
    'Born to it, sir,' drawled a general's son named f Springell, looking pointedly at Slater. 'Natural selec- I tion.' Running his fingers through expensively barbered I hair, he turned back to the screen. 'Oh, you dirty, dirty Igirl. . . Bloody hell, that's a used Tampax, isn't it?'
    'I think you should discuss it with Mr Parry in the art room, Springell. And less of the bloodies, please.' 'It's not my Tampax.'
    'Don't wind me up Springell, OK?' Suddenly ISlater's voice was raw steel. The temperature in the | room seemed to drop several degrees. The boys stared |at the TV screen, where Tracey Emin was dancing and aughing.
    'How're al-Jubrin and Ripley, sir?' Paul Reinhardt [.said eventually.
    'I don't think Masoud's going to be in that three I quarter line on Saturday, if that's what you mean. Gary Ripley should be OK.'
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    Slater was grateful for the change of subject. Even after fifteen years hard soldiering he was still vulnerable to the suggestion that he had been put on Earth for the casual amusement of the likes of Springell. I'll give him natural fucking selection, he thought.
    Reinhardt's question also reminded him that he had promised to look in on the flu-stricken team members. It shouldn't be too late.
    'How much longer does this go on?' he asked for the second time.
    'Fourteen minutes now, sir,' said Tyrell.
    'Right. I'm just going over to the sick bay and when I come back I want you all upstairs in your rooms. Springell, you're responsible for making sure everything's turned off. TV plug out of the wall, please.'
    'Sir,' said Springell, injecting the single syllable with all the irony he could muster.
    The sick bay was at the back of the main building on the top floor, well away from the classrooms, kitchens and other centres of activity. Pupils were only ever detained there with minor conditions. Anything that exceeded the expertise of Matron - a corpulent body who regularly contacted her late husband by means of a spiritualist - demanded a visit from the Henley GP or transfer to a hospital in Reading. That, in turn, often meant a second transfer to a private clinic in London; the school had given up