Samuel paled.“I’d have been fucked if they hadn’t.That big Scottish fucker would’ve had me.”The talk returned to the fight and each telling wry stories over what they’d done or thought.Nikolas was silent, pondering something.He rummaged in his pocket and pulled out the licences he’d taken off the men in the pub.Scottish?It wasn’t particularly odd the man attacking Samuel had been Scottish, but it sparked his interest.It was odder still that one of them had been Polish.And how could the absence of the police and the non-appearance of the injured men at the hospital be explained?He fanned the licences out on the table.Not one of the men lived in Burnley.Besides the one who lived in Glasgow, all came from London.The other men were beginning to drift back to their rooms to take the opportunity to shower before they left to return to the course.When they were gone, Ben went into the bathroom.
As soon as he was alone, Nikolas quickly called Kate and gave her the names and addresses on the licences.He stayed on the line as she checked them out.After the first two, Nikolas told her he’d call back and clicked off.
Actors.
Actors.
All with Facebook profiles and easy to find.
He was about to call out to Ben when he thought back to the fight in the bar—the damage Ben had done to the men.Ben could be funny about things like this.His damn conscience would get in the way again.If Ben knew they’d only been actors…That they’d both misread the situation so incredibly badly…That he’d effectively allowed hunger to override his sixth sense for danger…
Therefore, when Ben came out of the bathroom, rubbing his wet hair with a towel, Nikolas disclosed nothing about his discovery.He slid the incriminating evidence into the backpack and pretended he’d been watching something interesting in the grounds.
Ben asked if he was going to shower.
Nikolas nodded, but he wasn’t really paying attention.He was still thinking.“What makes people join together?”
“Huh?”Ben had discarded the towel and was sniffing suspiciously at his shirt with a wrinkled nose.
“What turns individuals into groups?”
“Common purpose, I guess.Having things in common.This shirt is fucked.Why are you—?”
“Fear.It’s fear and anger.”
“To achieve what?”
“Radicalization.”
Ben’s eyes rose.“You think this is a training camp to radicalize us?”
“Do you know what the first step in the radicalization process is?It’s creating the perception of injustice or humiliation.I think we were supposed to come back to the course humiliated, sick with our weakness, angry at those who made us feel weak—who humiliated us.”
“Bloody hell.So we turn back up supposedly humiliated and angry…then what?”
“That’s a very good question.Shall we go and find out?”
* * *
It occurred to Nikolas on their return to the large Victorian house that whichever way the evening had gone—humiliation or fighting back—the outcome appeared to be much the same.The other group appeared as shell-shocked and as angry as they did, only without the broken bones and other evidence of the fight.John quickly discovered from Mark that they’d similarly found themselves deposited at a pub.They’d been jeered at, pushed around and eventually made to crawl out with their jeans and shorts lowered, arses bare.It had been the single most humiliating and unpleasant experience of Mark’s life he’d told them—and he taught health and hygiene to Year Elevens.Perhaps this group was less angry and more defeated than Nikolas and Ben’s group, but it was a close thing.
Doctor Atwell didn’t make an appearance for an hour.Nikolas wondered if he was taking furious phone calls from suing actors.He wondered what was next in store for them.He knew what he’d do next—had done to his recruits.For was this not just like creating a soldier?He couldn’t help but smile therefore when Ben leant closer and predicted in a subdued voice, “They’ll turn our anger at them into anger against the real enemy now.”It was amazing how similar they thought sometimes, given they thought differently about almost everything.
Nikolas turned so their heads were even closer together and murmured, “But who is the real enemy?”
They found out.Doctor Fergus Atwell marched into the room, slammed the door behind him and asked angrily, “When was the last execution for sodomy in this country, gentlemen?Anyone?”
After a fewnervous glances, John hesitantly offered, “Henry the Eighth’s time?”
He got a derisive gesture of dismissal.“Anyone else?”
Samuel suggested, “Elizabeth?The Catholic thing?”
No one else volunteered a guess after the look he was given.The doctor clicked a small device in his hand, and an image appeared on the wall in front of them—a scene of a hanging.“1835, gentlemen.Two young men meeting in private were seen through the window of their room.They were reported, arrested, sentenced to death, and hung.Seventeen other men were also sentenced to be executed that month—rapists and murders every single one of them—but all seventeen had their death sentences revoked.Mercy for everyone except James Pratt and John Smith.They were hung publicly.Unusually large crowds turned out to watch.What was their crime?Love.Their crime waslove.”
Nikolas reckoned therapy was over.
For the rest of the day, the tired, depressed, angry group was subjected to a prolonged and intensive lesson about the consequences of being different.The historical stuff was bad enough.There were only so many descriptions of decapitations, burnings and stonings they could take.But at least the stories were remote, illustrated only by faded line drawings or contemporary sketches.But after lunch (where no one felt like eating, even Ben), the historical gave way to the current, and that was very hard to take, even for Nikolas, who’d seen most ways evil men can inflict pain and misery upon those with less power than themselves.
