‘Well, does it? There’s nothing wrong with an erection. We all get them all the time. Especially at your age.’ He leaned towards Colin. His hand was on Colin’s knee.
‘Dido is like dildo, which is an artificial willy. It’s always hard.’ Confused and terrified, Colin saw that he had voluntarily walked into a trap. He was alone in his teacher’s lair, with a closed door promising secrecy. He should have been doing algebra with the others…
‘Are you old enough to… produce something? I know you know what I mean.’
To this insinuation, Colin nodded reluctantly, unhappily, in shame and humiliation. He was a truthful boy, but his heart was pounding as he instinctively placed his hand on his shorts to block his teacher’s larger, hairy hand, which had insinuated itself stealthily under the corduroy. That far and no farther, resolved Colin, looking wildly around the room, as if expecting the furniture to come to his aid. It did not occur to him to shout or to bolt.
King was aroused. His words came out thickly, effortfully, as if from someone else.
‘Are you excited now? I am.’ In response, Colin clamped both hands on his shorts to resist the pressure advancing inexorably up his leg.
‘Let me see your willy.’
‘No.’
A sigh. The quivering in King’s cheek stopped. He removed his hand. This boy’s will was unexpectedly strong. He had not encountered such resistance before. He cleared his throat in an eerie silence. He saw suddenly beyond his self-deception to consider years of work placed in jeopardy, and knew he was beaten. Under his breath, inaudible to the boy, he hissed, ‘Stalemate.’ Then, to Colin, ‘I trust you will continue to work hard on your Latin. Common Entrance is only weeks away. And, Marshall, remember this: our tutorial session today is our secret. I need not tell you that what happened here must go no further. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, sir. Of course not, sir. Thank you, sir.’ Gathering his books, Colin scrambled for the door, discovering to his great relief that it opened easily. He fled from the hothouse of the flat to the cool sanctuary of the bike shed, where he was overjoyed to see his friend Moncrieff, a small, dark serious Shetland islander, adjusting his cycle clips.
‘Hullo. Where did you come from? Prep’s been over for ages.’
“Let’s go. I have to tell you something.’
They rode together homeward, Colin confiding in breathless snatches what King had tried to do to him as they pedalled furiously down Hollybank Road. Niall Moncrieff, a churchgoing Methodist, seemed oddly unperturbed, but it had not happened to him, reflected Colin later. For the victim, it was a watershed. An hour before, all had been childhood Eden without the serpent; inconsequential larking about, indifferent application to study, self-discipline, and responsibility. In a moment, it seemed, the adult world impinged: the serpent had come with urgent, overpowering needs– a face flushed with desire and an importunate hand laid on bare flesh. Guilt at what he falsely imagined to be his own role in his seduction assailed Colin. He suspected, as his classmates had, that Mr. King had eavesdropped on the boys’ hushed and confused confabulations on the mysteries of puberty. Now he knew why. Had these inflamed the man’s lust?
