The White Devil Read Free

materialized, then vanished, on its own accord.
    “I don’t like it down here,” Matron continued. “Gives me the creepy-crawlies. There’s a ghost in the Lot, you know. Boys tease that it’s up in the rooms. I think it’s down here.”
    “Ghost?” he said.
    “If you believe that sort of thing.”
    “Not really,” he drawled.
    THEY COMPLETED THE tour, Matron chattering about the rules of the house. Andrew, at last, could not take any more in. His face screwed up, his eyes tightened. Matron caught his expression.
    “You’re tired,” she said.
    Without another word, she led him to his room and withdrew quickly, knowing from years of experience what was coming next.
    Andrew flung himself on the bare mattress, and, to his shame, found himself crying. He plunged his face into the starchy, uncased pillow, not wanting Matron to hear. It all piled on top of him suddenly, on his hazy, jet-lagged brain. The long journey. The crummy loneliness of the place. That vertigo underpinning everything: How did I end up here. How can I last a year here . It lasted for two short minutes. Then he fell into a stupor.
    SMEARING DROOL FROM his chin, Andrew awoke to a soft knock and the whoosh of his door opening. You need a minute? came a voice. His eyes focused and Andrew saw his first Harrovian. Small-framed, and far from being a sickly boy cased in a wool uniform, a young man stood who was forged from sunshine: his clothes were colorful, stylish, expensive, unfamiliar—no fusty Brooks Brothers stuff here, but a purple shirt with a splayed collar and fitted, unpleated trousers and a suede jacket. His hair made tight yellow curls along his forehead; his eyes were deep-set and sympathetic. He was lean, athletic. The tendons around his neck quivered when he moved, his chest smooth and tanned a rich gold. Andrew gazed at him as if he were dreaming. Was this what they were like at Harrow? He felt soft, and pale, and . . . American. The specimen grinned at Andrew.
    “You’re the American,” he stated. “I’m Theo Ryder, next door.” Andrew caught a different accent here: Nixt dooh . “Matron told me you might need a bit of an introduction to the place.”
    “Did she?”
    Theo laughed. “Not exactly warm and fuzzy, is she? You get used to it.”
    “Oh, so this isn’t your first year at Harrow?”
    “I’ve been here since I was twelve. I was one of these Shells. Crying for my mummy into my pillow every night.”
    Andrew flushed and wondered whether his tears had left visible tracks.
    “Have you got your kit?” Theo continued.
    “My . . .”
    “Ties, boater, so forth.”
    “No, I’ve got to get a boater.”
    “ Godda gedda boaterr ,” Theo said with a grin, imitating his accent. “You don’t have anything? No greyers, nothing?” Andrew shook his head. “We have work to do. Come on. Let’s get you to Pags & Lemmon.”
    THEY STROLLED TO a dusty outfitter’s, where a white-haired man with a walleye ( Hieronymus Pags , Andrew read on a business card on the counter) measured his chest, neck, and head and produced a heap of clothing: greyers, bluers, Harrow hat, and Harrow ties. His outfit for a year. The Harrow tie is black , Mr. Pags explained with a simper, in mourning for Queen Victoria .
    Andrew stood in the mirror. He looked like a half-tamed animal, packed into the confining clothing, his wild black hair spilling out the top.
    But he could not—or would not—tie the tie. It was the final submission. The dog collar. Theo laughed and climbed behind Andrew, standing on a chair and facing the mirror so he could see the gestures from his own perspective. His hands twisted around Andrew’s neck; Andrew squirmed; but Theo affably tugged and yanked until the job was done. He patted Andrew on the shoulder.
    “No escape now, mate. You’re one of us.”
    THEO WAS AGAIN his guide on the way to dining hall—a low, 1970s structure, accessible through an unlabeled arch on the High Street.
    This was a good thing, because