The Heat of the Sun

heard about the game called Pussy in the Well. Somewhere in the grounds of Blaze was the real well down which the ‘pussy’ had once been dangled. It had been covered over years
ago, after one too many broken bodies had been hauled up from the bottom. But if no well was available, there were always pussies, and other fellows could improvise.
    Through screening undergrowth, this is what I saw: Le Vol, unmoving, prone between two leaning, mossy headstones; Quibble, high in the branches of a yew, rope at the ready, fixing it in place;
Kane, when the rope dropped, looping it under the armpits of the terrified Billy Billicay.
    Quibble leaped from the branches. He tugged at the end of the rope. How gleefully they cried out – bullet-headed Quibble, knife-nosed Kane – as little Billy Billicay rose in the
air!
    And standing by, watching almost indifferently, Scranway only smiled and held Hunter’s lead. Not for Eddie Scranway the sordid exigencies of bullying, the raised voices, the grappling, the
blows; his role was to direct, to inspire, and, when appropriate, to administer urbanely the coup de grâce .
    Edward F. Scranway, Jr was the handsomest fellow at Blaze, his uniform always immaculate, his nails neatly manicured, his patent-leather hair never in need of brushing. A man already, he shaved
with casual ostentation every morning in the dorm bathroom, towel tucked around tight torso, muscles rippling in his bent right arm. One thought of Scranway and imagined a gleaming blade travelling
smoothly over an uptilted, moist jaw.
    When he let Hunter go, I thought the dog would bound forward, leaping up, snapping at Billy Billicay’s heels. Instead, Scranway, with a raised finger, commanded Hunter to stay, and Hunter
stayed.
    Quibble and Kane stepped back respectfully as their master advanced upon the strung-up victim. Billy Billicay – shoulders hunched, jacket rucked up around the rope – was too afraid
to do more than snivel. His spectacles flashed; his feet, unkicking, hung at the height of Scranway’s chest as Scranway took in hand first one little shoe, then the other, unknotting the
laces with the air of a fond father tending a beloved child. After plucking off the shoes and peeling off the socks, he handed the items to Kane, who received them gravely, like a manservant.
    The final touch was accomplished with adroitness still more admirable. Reaching up, Scranway fondled at the fastenings of Billy Billicay’s trousers, tugged them down, underwear and all,
and tossed them inside out to Quibble, who slung them over his shoulder. The trousers – that was an essential part of Pussy in the Well: should Billy Billicay find his way down from the tree,
there must be no easy end to his humiliation.
    The little party stood surveying their handiwork. A delighted Kane chanted, ‘Pussy in the well! Pussy in the well!’ and Quibble cawed, but Scranway hushed them – as if, at this
pinnacle of accomplishment, there could be no place for vulgarity. Dread filled me as I gazed upon Billy Billicay’s hairless, pale thighs. A child: just a child.
    With a curt laugh, Scranway tapped the little boy’s hip, setting him swaying like a pendulum; then, as if he were bored, he turned on his heels and strode off through the crunching
leaves.
    Hunter padded obediently behind; Quibble too. Kane leaped up on a mossy slab and danced. As he shuffled, his head swayed from side to side and his nose seemed more than usually like the point of
a knife, cleaving the air with thoughtless strokes. Kane was a scarecrow of a fellow, quite without the lumpy bulk of Quibble.
    Only after Kane followed the others did I pull myself from the graveyard jungle. I had torn my jacket; there was a scratch on my cheek; I felt the wetness of flowing blood. Floundering, I made
my way to Le Vol. Almost sobbing, I shook him and told him he was a fool.
    His eyes opened. ‘Damn Quibble. His fist’s like a rock.’
    We did our best to save Billy Billicay. There was no need to cut him down from the tree. His arms, pushed upwards by the tautened rope, slipped from harness of their own
accord, and down he dropped. I reached him first. His spectacles were smashed. I took off my jacket and tied it like an apron around his naked thighs. Le Vol lifted him in his arms and carried him.
Billy Billicay was light, but the journey was long. ‘It’s all right, Billy,’ and ‘Not long, Billy,’ and ‘We’ll protect you, Billy,’ we said, but
Billy