The Paper Chase by Julian Symons Page B

much effect on you.”
    They stood by the studded iron door, beneath the moulding with the carved initials, “JB.” She had taken off the scarf and stood looking at him with her fair hair tangled, her blue eyes vacant of expression. “I don’t think you understand me. I’m really a one-man woman. Good night.”
    Later on Applegate looked at himself in the glass and saw a thin, dark head, eyebrows that almost met in the middle, a weakly, sensitive mouth, irregular teeth. “Can she possibly find me attractive with such teeth?” he asked aloud. He brushed the teeth, but still went to sleep with the taste of her lipstick in his mouth.

Chapter Eleven
    The morning brought a return, not exactly to sanity, but to the familiar disorders of Bramley School as distinct from the more exotic ones of Murdstone. There remained in Applegate’s mind a vision of the look on that young boy’s face as the bright thing shone in his hand. He was perhaps no more frightened of violence than are most men. What terrified him about the bright thing in the boy’s hand was that it seemed to represent a world where violence was not exceptional but natural. It was as though the polite stiff clothes of everyday wear had been removed to reveal a rotting body.
    It was with a kind of pleasure, therefore, that he ate his burnt toast and drank his lukewarm tea. With pleasure, even, he looked at Maureen Gardner when she came up and whispered to him: “Old Ponty wants you in his room. Soon as you’ve finished.”
    “All right. What about classes?”
    “Didn’t say anything. Will you come and help me with my thought-paintings?”
    “Later on perhaps.” He found Pont in the drawing-room. Mrs Pont sat in the armchair looking grim. Her fingers moved as if she were knitting, although in fact there was no wool on her lap, no needles in her hands. As Applegate came in Pont strode forward and placed a hand upon his shoulder. “My boy, this is a crisis. Look at these.”
    They were six telegrams from parents, asking that their children should return home by the first possible train. “I suppose you had to expect them.”
    “Expect them. And why?” Pont exploded, like a small furious puffball. “I run a school – let us face it – for delinquent children. Social misfits with damaged personalities whom most people would call criminals. I try to recreate them as whole personalities. I am a man walking a tightrope, you understand, many of these damaged personalities are dangerous. They are young animals who do not like being caged. Through the years, how much trouble have I had? A few broken windows, one or two fights, a little promiscuity. Nothing at all. And now because, for the first time, something happens, how do these free, liberal, enlightened parents behave? They take their children away.”
    “After all, it is a matter of murder.” Applegate forbore to mention that only yesterday morning Pont himself had said that the affair meant ruin for the school. Saying it, he realised, was one matter, having it said to you another.
    With the air of an Old Testament prophet Pont brushed away the word. “An extreme expression of the anti-social instinct, yes. But I should have thought that those who consider themselves enlightened – those who are readers of the intellectual weeklies …”
    Mrs Pont abandoned for a moment her imaginary knitting, and spoke. “It’s no good, Jeremy. You may as well accept it. We’re finished.”
    The words, although decisive, were gently spoken. Yet the effect they had on Pont was to make him crumple up almost visibly, so that he was transformed from an Old Testament prophet strong in indignation to a red-faced baby on the verge of tears. “Finished, my dear?”
    This morning Mrs Pont did not stumble over words.
    “I’m afraid so. We have to accept that it is all over. After all, you have done enough in your lifetime, you are entitled to rest. Other educationists will follow in your footsteps, respect your name. We