Culloped by Emilio Moscoso (21, London)

Trigger Warning: Sexual Assault

They sat in the pavilion by the rugby fields with eyes fixed on each other, yet glancing sporadically towards the window through which they could see the rain falling in thick, opaque sheets and hitting the ground where the rain pooled and the mud roiled. Thin boys, the lot of them, swaddled in enormous blue and maroon shirts and clenching body and jaw to avoid the semblance of trembling.

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Thin boys, the lot of them, swaddled in enormous blue and maroon shirts and clenching body and jaw to avoid the semblance of trembling. The cotton shorts barely reached down enough to cincture the thigh and so left bare most of the upper leg and the socks were hiked up to the knees. In the middle of the room the games teachers stood huddled. Barrett, MacAngus, Partridge. They whispered amongst themselves, not willing yet to divulge the verdict waited upon by all the boys. Barrett broke away from the huddle and walked towards the pavilion entrance, every step a suspended agony, and he peered curiously through the glass as if he had not noticed the rain until just now. He opened the door. They clenched tighter as the cold wind announced itself and without it needing to be said they stood up and walked out onto the fields.
Amidst the downpour they were barely discernible, like images seen through warped glass. They ran and tackled and when the boy hit the ground he would present the ball and cover his head with his hands as they rucked over him. He lay there curled, glancing up at their strained faces and the spittle that frothed at the corners of their mouths and in his own gumshield he could taste the rainwater, pure and fresh and sweet. When he stood up he was lathered in mud. The ball had progressed downfield but was soon knocked-on and Barrett blew his whistle and dug his heel into the ground and gestured with his hand pointed towards one side. They prepared to scrum and each pack assembled and bent down and gripped the sleeves of each other’s shirts. Barrett gave them the orders. Crouch, touch, bind, engage and and the two packs came together
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in a collision of bovine groans and the ball came in from the scrumhalf and they drove with their necks until the ball emerged and the scrumhalf collected the ball and scampered away.
None of them had brought towels. They took off their shirts and shorts and socks and heaped them onto the changing room floor like discarded cuts of meat. The steam rose from their blushed and naked bodies as they scurried from the showers. MacAngus was regarding them all from the corner while Barrett and Partridge paced around the room, telling each boy to shower and dry themselves off and change into uniform. The boy used his socks to dry his body and ruffled the water droplets from his hair. As he was reaching for his shirt, he felt a cold hand press against his back.
Very cold out there wasn’t it, Stephens, said Partridge.
Yes sir, he said, removing the starched shirt from the peg.
I can’t even feel my hands. Look.
The boy felt the palm rest on his back once more. He looked at Partridge and smiled
briefly. Yes sir. Very cold out there.
Partridge laughed softly and nodded. Well hurry along now and get changed. Your
mother’ll have some work to do with those dirty socks of yours.
He smiled and put on his shirt as Partridge strolled away and asked another boy whether
his hand felt cold to him. He finished getting dressed and stuffed his dirty kit in his games bag. Barrett had moved to the doorway where he leaned against the wall as the boys looked to leave. Tuck your shirt in, he said. Then he pointed to his jugular notch. Top button.
The rain had lessened by the time the final bell rang. The students walked along the path towards the gates with their bags slung over their shoulders. As soon as they exited they removed their ties and folded them and put them in their blazer pockets. The wind was fierce across the
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bridge. Down below, the shallow river gathered at low tide bisecting the school and the city. They waited for the buses at the station and chatted about the rugby session and how many tries they had each scored. When he got home he found a letter from the school addressed to his mother and father sitting on the kitchen table. It had already been opened so he drew the letter from the envelope and flattened it on the table and read it.
The next day they gossiped in congregation around the alcoves before the first period. They had all read the letter. What was the accident, they asked. While they deliberated on what the letter might signify and what would happen regarding their Latin lessons, he waited patiently for an opportunity to provide his theory. I think it was a car crash, he said.
How do you know, Stephens. Who told you that.
He shrugged. The letter said he was involved in an accident. I think that means he was caught in a car crash.
Do you think he was run over or was he driving.
Probably run over. Babcock is too old to be driving.
Wait what accident.
As more boys arrived they deduced that only the parents of those students whom
Babcock taught had received the letter. They came to a consensus on his theory of the car accident and when the bell rang they dispersed and made their way towards their form tutor rooms. Barrett was sat at his desk watching them shuffle through the door. In, he ordered. Sit down. While he took the register they glanced at one another furtively as if in apprehension of the expected moment when Barrett would reveal to them the cause behind the accident. But he did not do so. Only instructing them to stand up and grab a hymn book and make their way in
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single file towards assembly. They spoke no more about the accident for if Barrett was unwilling to speak the matter into existence then there was nothing of which to speak.
MacAngus took them for the swimming session that morning. He stood by the edge of the pool observing them as a toad would, squat and large-eyed and bulbous, his stout flesh ballooning with every breath. Their pale forms coruscated under the water, lithe in undulating graces. He oversaw them in the changing rooms and told them to dry off and change into uniform. You ever hear about the American lady and the Scotsman, he asked.
No sir, they answered.
He grinned. An American lady is walking through Edinburgh when she runs into a Scotsman dressed in full tartan. She’s never seen such an outfit before. So she asks, excuse me, is there anything worn under the kilt. And he responds, why don’t you feel for yourself lass.
They laughed and looked around at each other. That’s a good one sir, they said. Is it based on a true story.
MacAngus guffawed. That I can’t answer. Here’s another. There were three nuns trying to pass through the gates of heaven. An angel came to greet them and told them that they must each answer one question before being allowed to pass. He asked the first nun, who was the first man on earth. She responded, Adam, and the angel let her pass. He asked the second nun, who was the first woman on earth, to which she responded, Eve, so he let her pass too. Finally, the angel asked the third nun, what was the first thing that Eve said to Adam. The nun paused. Oh that’s a hard one, she said. The gates opened and the angel let the nun pass.
They stood half-naked in silence contemplating what MacAngus had just said. The storyteller himself surveyed the room, grinning wildly. One of the boys started laughing. Then a
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few more started laughing. Then as they all began to realise, the room erupted into a choir of falsetto hysterics with MacAngus’ croak emanating from the corner of the room.
Hurry up and get changed, he shouted amidst the noise. You don’t want to be late for the next period.
During the break the teachers would order them to stay outside. The younger students would run around, screaming at play, uncaring of the wind that cut through their thin shirts. It was too cold for him so he stood with Browning and a few others in the lee of the building where they could hear the intermittent contact of the bat and the cricket ball caroming off the walls. He kept his hands in his blazer pockets and raised his shoulders tightly about his neck. A door opened. Two boys tottered out of the building. Hobday and Fayne. Behind them, Barrett, expelling them at the threshold with his scowl alone. They all could feel the momentary warmth diffusing from there, then dissipating as Barrett closed the door.
You guys get caught, asked Stephens.
Hobday nodded. Yeah. We said we were getting a football from the alcove but he wasn’t fooled.
Barrett’s a wanker.
Yeah. The football trick worked on MacAngus yesterday though.
That’s because MacAngus doesn’t care. He isn’t a wanker like Barrett.
They laughed and swore at Barrett some more.
Did none of you see what MacAngus was doing during the history lesson yesterday, said
Browning.
No, said Fayne. Was it during the test. Yeah. Did none of you see.
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We were doing the test. What was he doing.
I was looking over at MacAngus’ desk and I saw he was looking at something. You won’t believe what he was looking at.
Who. MacAngus, asked Hobday.
Yeah. You won’t believe it.
What was it, said Fayne.
Browning’s eyes darted around spastically in excitement. He was flipping through the
pages of some magazine. And on each page there were these photos of these women. But the women weren’t wearing any clothes. They were completely naked. And he was looking at them right there, turning the pages but he wasn’t even smiling or anything. He was just looking at them.
Bollocks, spat Hobday.
I swear. It’s true. I saw the photos there on the page. The naked women. Stephens, you were next to me. You saw it too right.
He shook his head. I didn’t see it, but I guess it explains why you had your hand in your trousers the whole lesson.
They glared at the accused.
What, exclaimed Browning. No I didn’t.
Yeah you did, said Stephens. I saw your hand moving under the table while you were
looking at MacAngus’ desk.
The boys howled and slammed their hands against the walls of the building and keeled
over in heaving convulsions. Browning stood red-faced and cried out against the scurrilous claim. You’re lying Stephens, tell them you’re lying. It’s not true and you know it.
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Stephens shook his head and maintained his grave demeanour. I’m sorry but I saw you doing it. You looked like you were enjoying whatever MacAngus was looking at.
They began to throng around Browning and jeer in his face. Browning was having a wank, they chanted, Browning was having a wank.
It’s not true, pleaded Browning. He’s lying. You know you’re lying, Stephens, you know it’s not true.
Stephens could see Browning’s mouth tremble as the boys continued to jeer and perhaps even the slightest tear welling at the corner of his eye. He shook his head. Okay, okay, it’s not true. I was only joking.
The crowd of boys relaxed and sighed in disappointment. Browning wiped his eyes and stared at the ground. Fuck you, Stephens.
So was MacAngus really looking at that magazine, asked Hobday.
Yes, I told you.
The boys questioned Browning on the nature of these photographs but he did not describe
much more apart from the fact that they were naked and they asked him if in the photographs he could see the women’s breasts and he said that he could see them but that he could not provide many details about them because he was afraid MacAngus might notice if he looked for too long. Classic MacAngus, they said. While the boys revelled at the idea, Stephens walked towards the door.
What are you doing, asked Fayne.
I’m going inside. It’s too cold.
There was nobody in the foyer. A dim light came through the window that looked out
onto the courtyard. To the right of him, the third year corridor where he had been situated the
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year prior stretched emptily. He knew Partridge would be sitting there in his classroom so he took the staircase to the left, craning his head upwards to keep the door on the top floor within view. When he reached the top he opened the door slowly and looked left and right before stepping into the corridor. There was glass panelling everywhere so he could see if someone was passing along the other three lengths of the floor. He did not see anyone. There would be no teachers here. They would all be in the common room. Faint cheers resounded from outside, and the tennis balls hitting against the upper windows.
At the end of the art hallway was Babcock’s classroom. The name plaque had been removed and when he looked inside the lights were off and the desk was barren. He tried the door. Locked. He wandered on through the second year corridor and took into account the wooden floorboards. Around halfway he began to hear a whispering. It sounded like two voices, ciphered into one conglomeration of secrets and unknowns. They seemed to come from Grabham’s room. Yes, it was his room, his voice. He neared until he could distinguish the other individual, then paused. Barrett. The unflappable and domineering tone that no boy could mistake. The words came plainly now. Still hushed, but plainly so.
He’s not coming back, Barrett said. No chance.
It’s terrible, said Grabham. How sad, really. And you just know they’re going to put his photo in the papers and they’re all going to see it.
It doesn’t surprise me. He did always seem off didn’t he.
I’m not sure. I rarely spoke to him. The school can’t let it reach the papers but you just know it will.
We’ll see. They’ve dealt with it before haven’t they.
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That was over thirty years ago, Simon. With the choirmaster. They won’t be able to do much now will they.
We’ll see, he said.
At that Stephens ran back along the corridor, not caring about the sounding floorboards, and he thrust the doors open and turned down the art hallway and ran past Babcock’s classroom wondering why they had even put a Latin classroom in the art hallway and when he reached the end he stopped and canvassed the entire floor through the glass. Neither of them had left the classroom and he panted and thought about all the noise he had made by running down that corridor. He checked the clock on the wall. There was an hour of break yet to go. He swore and stared at the paintings of old teachers and headmasters that decorated the walls. They looked stoic, those of recent years properly attired in their black robes and blazers and ties, their hands folded on their laps and their eyes unwavering. Those from the antiquated era, beginning some five hundred years past, resplendent in finery and silk shirts and wigs. Their names were etched beneath each portrait and he imagined which of those now would in time have their likeness upon the wall.
He found Browning and Hobday and Fayne inside an empty classroom. They had shut the door and were sitting on the tables and bantering one another. When he asked them what they were doing, they said it was too cold to stand outside. Browning said that nobody would find them because they would shut the door and no teachers patrolled down this corridor anyway.
Where’d you go, asked Hobday. We came inside only a few minutes after you. Just walked around. Trying to avoid whoever’s on duty.
It’s Barrett on duty today. That’s how he found us earlier.
I know. I heard him.
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What do you mean you heard him.
I heard him talking to Grabham. In his classroom. I think they were talking about the accident.
They slid down from the tables and converged around Stephens.
The Babcock accident, said Browning.
Probably. They didn’t say his name but it sounded like they were talking about him. What did they say.
It was all strange. They said that he wasn’t coming back and his photo would be in the
papers and the school couldn’t let anybody find out but that people would find out and that the school had dealt with it before and Grabham said that it had been thirty years ago and something about a choirmaster.
Thirty years, questioned Hobday. What is that about.
Yeah the choirmaster that killed himself, said Fayne.
They turned to look at him.
The choirmaster that killed himself, he repeated. Cullop was his name. He taught my
father in the choir back when he went to school here. Strange man is what my father said about him. He told me about how he’d audition boys for the choir. During each music lesson he’d sing a tune for the whole class then he’d call certain boys to come and sit on his lap, the ones he thought would be good at singing, and tell them to sing the tune back while he accompanied them on the piano and after they sang for maybe a minute or two he’d give them ten pence and when everyone had sung he’d announce who had made the choir and to those who had not made it he’d give another ten pence so that they wouldn’t be too sad. My father said that those who got called up to sit on his lap and sing were said to have been Culloped. That’s what they called it
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back then. But there was some sort of accident with him and he had to leave the school and some months later he jumped in front of the tube and killed himself.
Nobody said anything because they did not know what to say. They felt unwell, all except Fayne eagerly awaiting their response. Browning swore and shook his head. What the hell, he said. That’s creepy. That he killed himself like that.
I know. I wouldn’t have believed it if it weren’t for my father showing me the newspaper he kept from when they announced it. They had his photo there and everything. They had to close down the whole station for several days after he did it.
Let’s go ask MacAngus, said Hobday. If he knows about the accident with Babcock. Yeah MacAngus will tell us, agreed Browning. Let’s go ask him.
When they stepped out of the classroom they saw Barrett standing at the end of the
corridor. They began to run.
Don’t, he spoke. Stay right where you are, boys.
They stopped and stood with their backs turned to him. He moved towards them, smiling
and rolling his eyes. Did you honestly just try and run. Unbelievable, boys. Don’t go anywhere. You’re all getting misdemeanours. He held them by their blazer collars. Is there anybody else in that room.
No sir, they said.
And I just caught two of you before. Unbelievable.
He escorted them down to the foyer then unhanded them and watched them with his arms
crossed. They went outside. The group of boys was still there, standing in the lee of the building. A tennis ball rolled towards their feet. Stephens kicked it away.
What happened, someone asked.
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Nothing, he said, not even able to look at the rest. Barrett’s a fucking wanker that’s all. Yeah, said Browning. I hate Barrett.
The younger students laughed and ran in circles around the school. The tennis ball rolled
back towards Stephens’ feet. He kicked it away again. It rolled into the path of the younger students. A boy slipped and fell onto the concrete ground. He lay there in tears, clutching his knee and rocking back and forth in palsied jerkings. Stephens did not move. The boy’s friends gathered around him and looked towards the group of older students, Hobday, Fayne, Browning and Stephens. You’re not even going to see if he’s alright, they asked.
Stephens remained silent. There was no part of him that wished to help the boy, only to stare in gratifying paradox as if the pain exacted had balanced his own grievances. He saw some of the boys ushering a teacher towards the scene. None of the older boys moved. The teacher parted the crowd of boys and knelt over the fallen one like a faith healer. Stephens watched as he held the boy and whispered to him. Then the teacher felt the boy’s knee. Stephens looked away. 

​Emilio Moscoso is a 21 year old rising senior at the University of Chicago graduating in 2024 with a major in Creative Writing. He grew up in London in an Ecuadorian family. This is a simultaneous submission.