So what was I going to do? When I looked in the mirror next morning, my backside still faintly tingling, the only word I could find to describe my hair was 'shaggy'. Actually, I had merely forgotten to have it cut. Six weeks of inattention had left it a complete mess. But the thought of giving into Shackleton and simply having a regulation haircut never occurred to me.

But what could I do? I was a different boy now. I had embarked on a life of crime; I was no longer a virgin; in fact I'd started a life-long enjoyment of fucking girls; my father had gone missing, and my mother was dead. Elvis was in the army; the other singers who I liked – Buddy Holly, Little Richard, Eddie Cochrane – were either less elaborate in the hair department, or black; Sid was at home getting on with his life – I'd established that he couldn't read so there was no point me writing to him, and Jean – well, I already knew really that that was over.

We had returned to school on Sunday. Thursday was our form's day for going into the village. By then I had formed my plan.

"Are you sure?" Bill the barber said when I said what I wanted. "You're not going to get into trouble over this, are you?"

"I'm in trouble enough already," I said. "This won't make any difference."

"OK, daddio," said Bill. "On your own backside be it." He took the clippers and set about my delinquent hair, but instead of stopping the clippers somewhere above my ears he kept going. Black hair fell over my shoulders in great dollops and my skull started to appear. He ran the clippers back and forth, side to side, till the whole of my head was a smooth curve of bristles. "What d'you think?" he asked when it was finished.

"Can you put a bit back in the front?" I said and he flicked me with the towel he'd taken off my shoulders.

Back in the common room my friends were aghast at what I had done. Apart from Shackleton's probable reaction, which was unpredictable, they thought it looked horrible. I really didn't care, though I was fond of my friends and in due course was very thankful for their friendship.

The sense of being in free fall and waiting to hit the ground lasted until tea. There was some comment from the prefects as they ushered us into the dining hall, but I had no difficulty ignoring what they had to say. Someone said grace and the meal started. It was shepherd's pie.

I had just got mine and taken the first bite when Shackleton came in. As required by convention, we all stopped eating in case he wanted to speak to us. But no, he just wanted a word with Patterson, the head prefect. We all watched him in almost silence. He straightened up and turned to go. "Carry on," he said and I took my next forkful of shepherd's pie.

"Garland??!!" It was somewhere between a yell of incredulity and a bellow of pure rage. The next second my jacket collar was grabbed and he lifted me bodily out of my seat. There was another boy between me and the gangway. He was sent flying. I was off-balance and fell to my knees. He jerked me back to my feet and set off for the door. Stumbling and struggling behind him I was bent nearly double by the pressure of his hand. In this way we left the dining room and he dragged me along the long corridor. We reached his study and he almost threw me at the wall. "Stand there," he snarled. "Face the wall."

I obeyed. Part of me was terrified. But another part already saw this as almost too good to be true. None of us had ever seen him lose control in this way. And it was me who had done it.

Ten minutes later, Mr Corpe arrived, trying desperately to look as though he hadn't been running. Shackleton opened the door to him and ordered me inside. He didn't sit down as usual but paced back and forth between the fireplace and the bookcase. Mr Corpe stood awkwardly behind me by the door.

"Explain to me, Garland, what you thought you would achieve by this." He was red in the face and breathing quite heavily.

"You told me to have a haircut, sir," I said.

He sort of rushed at me. His face was less than a foot from mine and he shouted, "Don't palter with me, boy. I said a regulation haircut. Not a monstrosity like this. You did it deliberately, didn't you?"

"No, sir. Well, yes, it was deliberate, but I thought it would be OK, sir."

"OK? OK? Are you mentally defective, boy?" His face had gone even darker red and he took out a handkerchief now and wiped his face.

"No, sir," I said, and he raised his fist as though he was going to strike me down. I flinched, I suppose, and I fancy Mr Corpe began to move forward from the door.

Shackleton stepped away from me – to the fireplace – to the bookcase. But I was happy to see that he couldn't calm down. Let the bastard have a heart attack, I thought.

"You will not get away with this, boy," he said. "I will not tolerate this kind of defiance, this arrogance, this insolence. To stand in my face..." His eyes were bulging and I could see he wanted to hit me again. "You will regret this for many a long day, I can promise you that." He clenched his fists and then almost had to force himself to go round his desk and sit down.

"Mr Corpe. Take this boy and whip him soundly. I don't mind how many strokes you give him or how badly marked he is, but let it be a whipping he'll remember. Then he's to be kept in isolation till the morning, when I'll have calmed down a trifle and together we'll decide what else is to be done. Take him away."

Mr Corpe's hand on my collar was gentler than Shackleton's had been but it was still there and I wasn't going anywhere apart from where he wanted me. Halfway to the gym, I bizarrely thought about my uneaten shepherd's pie. I bet myself that Nelson scoffed it. I was starving.

In the changing room he told me quite calmly to get undressed. This was slightly different from the normal protocol because for a whipping you usually reported in nothing but gym shorts so the undressing was very straightforward. But the intention was the same. I had to be naked. I kicked off my shoes, pulled off my socks, then set about it. I hung each item on a hook. Just before I peeled down my pants I had this strange feeling or memory of Jean rolling my balls between her fingers and the sharp wave of regret that flooded over me threatened to bring a tear to my eye.

But there was no sense in that. Mr Corpe had fetched a cane from his office and now ushered me into the big echoing gym.

The pommel horse was out in the position it always occupied, one of the pommels removed so that you could lie along the top and hang on to the one that was left. It was always left like that, testimony to the frequency with which it was needed as a whipping block.

I went straight to it and lay down along the horse. I knew the procedure well enough and there was nothing either Mr Corpe or I could do about it. This was the worst they could do to me and I knew I would be able to bear it somehow. I gripped the pommel with both hands. My toes just reached the floor and my backside was perched up in the ideal position for what he was going to do.

I heard his shoes on the floor behind me and then his hand was flat on my bottom. "Are you still sore here?" he asked, and his voice was almost gentle in contrast with Shackleton's raving.

"No, sir. Not too bad," I said.

"Right. Hold still then." He lay the cane across my flesh taking aim and letting me know where it was going to land. Then the whipping started.

There is something so intense, so radical about being caned with absolutely no protection at all. The pain is sharper, more penetrating than anything else, even a beating with just pyjamas, or gym shorts. The first stroke was a shock, biting deep into me, low down where the weals from my last beating were. I must have gasped a bit because he said, "Bravely now, Garland."

The next three built the pain up to and then way beyond any memory that my brain held of previous whippings. It was as though nothing existed but the excruciating fire across my bottom. I bit my lip and felt blood on my tongue.

"Nearly there, Garland," he said. And the cane lashed into me so hard that a yell was forced from my throat. I knew instantly that he had crossed all the previous strokes – and the weals from Shackleton's beating. Oh my god! This much pain just wasn't possible.

"One more," he said, and lashed the cane into me again, along exactly the same line and I almost screamed. I thought I was going to pass out, but a second later I was still there, lying along the horse, my bottom lacerated and on fire and still who I was before.

"Get up," he said and I forced my self to stand up. Walking was a matter of making conscious decisions about how my feet and legs were supposed to move and making them do it. I clasped my hands to my bottom and they came away with blood on them.

Back in the changing room he allowed me to put my pants back on and my shoes, but none of the rest of my clothes. Those he gathered up and ordered me to follow him. Everyone was in prep by now so the corridors were deserted. He led me out of the back door and across to one of the isolated houses behind the chicken runs. Inside, he showed me into a small room on the ground floor. There was a bed and a washbasin but otherwise the room was bare. There were bars across the window. He took my shoes with him and locked the door.

The first thing I did was peel off my pants and try to examine my wounded bottom. Inside the pants there was a diagonal red stripe and when I explored my skin with my fingertips I discovered the beginning of scabbing over the wound. The pain was still extraordinary. I did the best I could to rinse the stripes under the tap, and then I drank some water. I ran my pants under the tap till most of the blood was gone and then draped them on the radiator which thankfully was hot.

Then I lay down on the bed. There was nothing I could do to lessen the offence I had caused, and there was nothing Shackleton could do to make the punishment worse. What was coming was coming, and I would just have to endure it. I didn't blame Mr Corpe at all. Like all my friends I thought he was a thoroughly decent bloke. We could hardly blame him that it was his job to thrash us, and it hardly ever happened that boys were thrashed unfairly.

Then I slept soundly.

I woke up, scarcely able to believe how well I had slept. I pissed in the washbasin, rinsed it out and soaked my face in cold water. My poor bottom was still sore and very tender to the touch. But I was still alive.

It was remarkably silent and peaceful there in my prison. Somewhere else, the school, my friends must have been getting up, having breakfast. I just lay there or stood looking out through the bars at the brick wall that was all the view I had. I wondered what Sid was doing. Probably still in bed with Alma. And Jean. I kind of hoped that she was pining for me, for the feel of my prick inside her.

At last someone came into the house and the door to my room was unlocked. It was Mr Corpe. He gave me my clothes and I got dressed. Lessons had started as we walked back through the school so still I saw no-one.

Shackleton was in his study, sitting behind his desk, once more in control of himself. I stood in front of the desk, waiting.

"I hope Mr Corpe gave you a thorough whipping last evening," he said.

"Yes, sir," I said and glanced across to where Mr Corpe was sitting in the visitor's chair.

"I simply do not understand why you feel the need to defy me in this way. You must have known that your actions would be totally unacceptable and yet you went ahead and did this. I will be speaking to the barber later this morning. He can expect no more custom from the boys of this school."

"Oh sir," I broke in. "That's not fair. It wasn't his fault. He tried to stop me from doing it. Please don't take it out on him."

"What happens between me and the barber is no longer any concern of yours. If I were you I would worry more about what is going to happen to you."

There were flecks of spit in the corners of his mouth and I could see that the control he was showing was very fragile. If I wanted, I could push him over the edge again.

"I am determined to show you without any chance of misunderstanding that my orders are to be obeyed. Not just to the letter but to the spirit. From this moment until your hair has grown sufficiently to bear inspection by any decent person, you will be subject to a regime that I hope you will find painful, restrictive and instructive. You are not fit to consort with other boys and until your hair is grown you will spend all your spare time not in the common room but in the sixth form classroom. You will not leave that room except for meals and lessons. You will be gated. I take you know what that entails?"

"Yes, sir."

"In addition, you will not be allowed to use the tuck shop or to consume tuck bought for you by another boy. Since the sight of your current haircut is so offensive you will wear your cap at all times. In lessons, in meals, and in the sixth form room. You will not be permitted to take any part in games or physical activities other than during PT or games lessons."

"Please, sir," I said.

"What is it?"

"Am I to wear my cap during PT lessons?"

"Of course not."

"And in church, sir? Am I to wear my cap there?"

And I'd got him! He was up on his feet leaning over the desk, face red, eyes bulging. "Are you enjoying this, boy?" he shouted. "Because you damn well won't be by the time I've finished with you." I heard Mr Corpe cough quietly behind me and Shackleton managed to subside a little, though he was still sweating.

"Should you be foolish enough to step out of line in any way throughout this regime the prefects will have orders to cane you. For you there'll be no impositions or black marks except the ones they make across your backside. Mr Corpe is going to take charge of you from now on. He tells me that he holds a punishment parade in the gym every Saturday after lunch. Every Saturday until he is satisfied that your hair meets the school's requirements you will attend that punishment parade. And every Saturday until he is satisfied he will apply a further whipping to your bare bottom."

I gaped at him. My mouth probably dropped open a bit. This wasn't a punishment: it was the final solution to the Jewish problem. He had completely lost all sense of proportion. I looked round at Mr Corpe. He was very obviously not looking at me. I nearly laughed.

"I don't want to see you, your revolting attitude or your revolting hair style for a very long time, Garland. If I do, you will be even sorrier. Take him away, Mr Corpe, please."

Mr Corpe led me to the boot room where I collected my cap from its peg. From there we went to my form room where the fifth form was having French and I collected my books for the morning out of my desk, and then to the classroom where my form was having its first lesson. Naturally, they all looked at me with amazement and there were some sniggers. "Settle down," said Peg-leg, who was teaching us maths. I lowered myself gingerly on to my seat and felt the stinging of the weals spring back to life.

It was hard to concentrate on algebra when I was feeling so embarrassed and tender. But actually, old Peg-leg was a good teacher and he stamped on anything that might have referred to me straight away, and soon he was telling his usual silly jokes and I even joined in once or twice when the form laughed.

When the lesson ended we all had to move to another room and my friends, Amos and Preece, wanted to know what the story was. They were horrified, but I tried to tell them it wasn't so bad. They wanted to go to Shackleton and beg for me, but I told them not to. They'd only make it worse. They wanted to talk to Mr Corpe. They thought they could get him to lessen the punishment in some way. But I knew it was hopeless.

At break they wanted to see the stripes and I obliged them in the bogs. They were indignant and troubled. "It's only a fucking haircut," said Amos.

"Let's all go and have our heads shaved," said Nelson. "He couldn't treat the whole form like that."

"No," I said. "I'll be all right."

After lunch and again after afternoon school, Mr Corpe collected me and escorted me to the sixth form room. It was just an ordinary classroom, but with sixth form books piled up on the window sills. There was no-one there but me until the sixth form came to collect books for the afternoon or to put stuff away before they went to their after-school practices and stuff. They were curious about me and what I was doing there. But then they left me alone. I stayed there alone till tea-time. There was nothing to do so I found a history text book and read about the Battle of Lostwithiel.

After tea it was prep for an hour and a half and then I had to go and sit with the sixth form as they did their extra half hour of prep. Then it was supper – a hymn and a prayer – then back to the form room till it was time for lights out.

In the dorm, everyone else wanted to inspect my backside and I saw no reason to deny them. Amos and Nelson both offered to get into bed with me, but if I couldn't have Jean – or some other girl – my hand was going to have to do. The lights were put out and for the first time since Mr Corpe whipped me, my prick rose up to greet my fingers, and it was almost not quite an empty parody of her fingers.

Saturday lessons were my favourites of the week – apart from Latin, second lesson. After break, we had English and finished the morning – the week – with PT.

"Get that cap off, Garland," MrCorpe shouted when I appeared in the gym wearing it. We finished the lesson with a game of crab football which involved scuttling round the floor on our bums and trying to kick the ball into the opposition's goal. I tried, but it was going to be some time before I could scuttle around on my bum without serious discomfort.

Lunch ended with the usual announcement of the punishment parade. There were going to be three of us: a lad from the fourth form called Dorney, a kid from the second form called Pottrell, up for his first ever whipping, and me. The three of us stood up and walked out with every boy's eyes on us. I went up to the washroom and changed into gym shorts again, and scurried across through the cold wind to the gym changing room.

I'd been hoping, of course, that he wasn't going to whip me again so soon after that first time, but anything but facing up to it with as much courage as I could muster was impossible. If it was coming, it would come.

Pottrell was wetting himself. "What's it like?" he kept asking. And Dorney kept telling him it would make his backside bleed. I've no idea what he'd done to deserve it, but there could be little doubt that he did.

Mr Corpe arrived and checked us off on his list. "Right then," he said, once he'd got the cane out of his office. "Shorts off and into the gym." Naked, the three of us trooped inside and stood in a line facing the pommel horse. "Garland," he said. "Get rid of that cap. I can't beat you looking like that."

I went out and hung the cap up on a peg and when I returned Dorney was lying along the top of the horse. His bottom was white and lean and, as I'd always suspected the position on the horse created the perfect target for the cane to get to work. I think he must have been found with cigarettes because he got eight absolute corkers. All of them across the lower half of his backside and the last three crossed. He yelled satisfactorily for those and rubbed himself furiously when he was allowed down.

Pottrell was a solid little customer, clutching his hairless groin as Mr Corpe called him forward. He hauled himself up on to the horse and gripped the pommel like he'd seen Dorney do. His feet were well off the floor and his chubby little bottom was perched up high.

"Now," Mr Corpe said. "Have you been caned before?"

"Yes, sir," he said, his voice almost failing him.

"This is going to hurt a lot, but I promise you it won't be more than you can stand. I know you're a brave lad and you'll have to take six of the best. But then it'll be over. All right?"

"Yes, sir."

The first stroke whistled into him and instantly a red stripe appeared across both buttocks. The kid wailed, but held on tight to the pommel. He managed to take the next three in silence, but then the pain got too much for him and his legs kicked and he yelled for the last two. I noticed that Mr Corpe didn't cross either of the last strokes. Pottrell jumped down and clutched frantically at his bottom. His prick had stiffened into a tiny erection. His face was twisted up with the pain.

It was my turn. It would be stupid to pretend that my heart wasn't pounding as I went forward and climbed up on to the horse. The weals across my backside were throbbing still – now in anticipation of what he was going to do.

"I can't whip you in that state, Garland," he said, and for a moment I thought I was being reprieved. "I'll use the padder bat."

The padder bat was his weapon of choice during lessons. A big wooden bat that was obviously meant for some game or other, but its only use that we ever saw was to slap a bit of sense into the seat of our gym shorts. Once he'd lined the whole form up and given us a slap apiece. It made your bottom sting for fifteen minutes or so, but then it was over. The thing about Mr Corpe was that we all knew he really loved beating kids. Nothing gave him so much pleasure as having a boy who needed a bit of discipline and handing it out to him. But we also knew that there was no malice in him. Once he had beaten us, it was as though the slate was wiped clean and we were his favourite people again. He had time for us, he listened to us if we had anything sensible to say and he was the most brilliant PT teacher any of us knew. Ten minutes after he had whipped a group of us for smoking, he stopped us the corridor and asked our opinions about the selection for the Colts rugby team next weekend.

But I'd never had it on my bare bottom. I'd seen him give Nelson and Andrews three apiece with their shorts round their ankles, but they hadn't seemed to react too badly to that. The blade of the bat was cool on my skin and I braced myself. The next second the whole of my backside erupted in the most excruciating, molten fire I had ever experienced.

"Fucking hell!!" I exclaimed.

"And that will cost you another two whacks, Garland, won't it?" he said.

"Yes, sir," I said through gritted teeth.

Each slap of the bat raised the stakes higher and higher. It was like fireworks going off in the muscles of my bottom, then driven higher again by the succeeding whack. The pain was like the worst whipping I'd ever had but now spread over the whole surface of my bottom without any lessening or diffusion of the torture. And every whack covered the same tenderised areas of skin. There could be no spacing out of the weals now. Everywhere was getting everything. And where the bat landed on the weals from two days ago – and even from six days ago – it seemed to flog them into new and vibrant life.

Did I yell? Of course I fucking yelled. I raised the roof. I suppose deep inside me there was a little voice saying, Go on, yell, if you yell he'll go a bit easier. But he was too much the professional for that. Eight whacks I was due and they were going to be good ones.

It stopped eventually and all that was left was the throbbing fire that my backside had turned into. I staggered off the horse and there could be no pretence that it had been easy. I clutched my bottom and almost collapsed to my knees. It had started the worst of Thursday's weals seeping blood again. Dorney was scowling in what I hoped was disapproval for what had been done to me. Pottrell's eyes were like saucers and his mouth was gaping in sheer astonishment.

He dismissed us and the other two pulled on their shorts and gymshoes and disappeared. I couldn't go like that, though. I had to clean myself up a bit. Under a tap I rinsed off the blood – there wasn't very much – and found Mr Corpe watching me.

"Are you all right, Garland?" he asked.

"Yes, sir," I said. "Only – could you just stick to the cane from now on?"

"Bad, was it?"

"Terrible."

"I'm sorry I had to give you two extras. If the others hadn't been there we could have got away with it."

The blood had stopped now and I dried myself off with the shorts. I just didn't want to pull them on for a minute.

"Sir?" I said.

"Yes, Garland?"

"Do you think Mr Shackleton is being fair, sir?"

"That's not for me to say, Garland."

"But you must have an idea, sir."

"By refusing to have your hair cut and then going to this other extreme you were calling his authority into question and he has to stamp down on that severely. You must see that." I didn't say anything. "A school can't have boys deciding which rules they're going to obey and how the rules are interpreted. If a boy sets himself up against authority, as you did, he can only expect to suffer for it."

"But it's only a haircut, sir."

"Is it? You don't really believe that, do you? Now come on, Garland. you need to go and get dressed and report to the sixth form room. But, Garland – I promise it'll just be the cane from now on."

The worst bit was crossing the yard dressed only in gym kit and my cap while fellows were lounging about getting ready to watch the practice cricket match that had been ordained as the afternoon's activity. I tried not to hobble but my friends had heard already what happened to me, and flocked round trying to help.

After a quiet afternoon in the sixth form room, my backside was still going up in flames. I couldn't believe how long the pain was lasting. I spent most of the time keeling on a chair, reading my library book 'Lord of the Flies' with my backside in the air. That was the only comfortable position I could find.

So the first weekend of my new life got under way.