Guilty: The Lost Classic Novel by Anna Kavan

the Head’s study, where a request to be allowed to prepare his chief was swept aside, as the man himself was, so that all three of us burst into the room together.
    Though I didn’t then fully appreciate the enormity of our conduct in thus invading this holy of holies, uninvited and even unannounced, I couldn’t fail to see how angry the Headmaster was when he rose and, with an outraged expression, drew himself up to his full height, an imposing and menacing figure. But, to my astonishment, he, too, succumbed to the card’s effect, just as his subordinate had done, surrendering unconditionally and even speaking a few stilted words of formal politeness – which, however, didn’t spare him the indignity of hearing his own assistant dismissed by Mr Spector, who took his submission for granted.
    ‘This is the boy I told you about,’ he said, when the manhad hurriedly left the room. ‘I want your assurance that his father is not mentioned, either to him or in his presence – it’s the wish of his mother, who is rather oversensitive on the subject. Is that understood?’ I listened amazed to this haughty voice of command, which must surely be the voice of that second, more formidable self, and scarcely noticed the affirmative answer; it seemed to me there could be no other. Yet it was the familiar friendly voice that now addressed me. ‘Let me know at once if you have any sort of trouble – but I don’t think you will.’ A peculiar smile accompanied the last words, which seemed intended less for me than for the other man, to whom the speaker continued – quite incomprehensibly, as far as I was concerned – ‘No censorship, mind. I’ll be getting a full report myself, so any attempt at deception would be a mistake, wouldn’t it?’
    I was completely puzzled by this strange behaviour and the alternation of tones. Why was he treating the Headmaster so harshly? Even now, when the man had given in to him altogether, and his own manner appeared more genial, the geniality clearly covered a threat. But the moment I’d been privately dreading for some time had arrived, and, with unmistakable kindness, he said, ‘I must be off. Write and tell me how you get on. And, remember, the beginnings of things are always apt to be difficult.’ He spoke the last words in Latin, knowing I was familiar with the adage. Then, giving me an encouraging smile, hurried to the door, waving away the offer of an escort. ‘No, I’ll find my own way out.’ The door closed behind him, and I was left to begin my new life alone.
    The room suddenly seemed darker and gloomier, its narrow windows designed for the exclusion of enemies rather than the admission of light and air. An oppressiveatmosphere reasserted itself, emanating, perhaps, from the shelves of huge, heavy books lining the walls. I was aware of these things, even while my mind framed consciously for the first time the question I’ve been asking myself intermittently ever since, ‘Who is Mr Spector?’ What sort of man could behave in such a high-handed manner and disperse the repressive power of centuries-old tradition, as he’d just done, letting a draught of cold air blow through these grim stagnant rooms, airless for so many years?
    But I couldn’t consider the question now, while the Headmaster was regarding me with a disfavour I quite understood, since I’d been the indirect cause of his humiliation. Looking at him as straightforwardly as possible, I could discern no pity in that hard, cold face; the face, as I was to learn, of a man who as an enemy was absolutely implacable. At this moment, I only saw that he’d been mortified and that someone must suffer for it and that I seemed the likeliest victim. I felt very small and helpless and lonely just then, cut off from all that was known to me, shut into a strange hostile world. The dark dismal room was as forbidding as if it belonged to a fortress – a prison. I had a momentary nostalgic vision of Mr Spector, driving