It gives me great pleasure to introduce a story by Jack Wainer who first appeared in the Pan Book of Horror Stories #30 with Princess and Trust Me Game. Beautiful Losers is written in the same uncompromising style as his latter tales and this one has teeth that could rip you to shreds in seconds.

“You do realise,” I said, “that if you become a Beautiful Loser, you will have no sex outside the group. As far s the rest of the school is concerned, you’ll be a celibate.”
“A nun,” said Judas.
The girl nodded to show she understood.
“However,” I continued, “within the group, anything goes. With anyone.”
“Male or female,” said Joan of Arc.
“Cunny, fellatio or soixant-neuf,” said Prince John.
“In twos, threes or all seven,” said BJ
“I understand,” the girl replied.
“And it’s bad mannered to refuse any request,” said Joan of Arc.
The girl smiled but didn’t reply.
She had a lot of style, as you’d expect from anyone with the audacity to ask to join the Beautiful Losers. We very occasionally invited someone to join, but people just didn’t apply as if we were the Young Conservatives or Greenpeace.
She’d dressed well. Everything she wore was black except for a red scarf. The black shirt and jeans emphasised how small and skinny she was.
There’ll be a task to prove your commitment,” said Skunk. “You know, a challenge, like.”
“That’ll be set by the group,” added Joan of Arc. “You’ll have no say in it.”
“That’s so,” I explained. “It will probably be away from your own particular talent.”
I knew the girl was a Mathematical phenomenon. She’s taken her A levels in Pure and Applied Maths at 14, and gained two A* grades.
In that, she was definitely qualified to join the Beautiful Losers. Our name was deliberately ironic; every member had an outstanding talent in some field. Prince John’s graffiti, BJ’s computer hacking, Joan of Arc’s music, Skunk’s fluency in seven languages.
“Yes, it’ll be well away from Maths,” said Joan of Arc.
This was a bit unfair, really. At first, our initiation challenges had been matched to our particular talents.
Prince John’s mural on the Cathedral wall had taken him the whole of a Saturday night. It had been quite appropriate really, being his version of the Last Supper. The fact that the thirteen were eating each other rather than bread and wine had shocked the Sunday worshipers somewhat, and had our bigoted old Bishop shrieking of blasphemy. The press had enjoyed it though, rushing photographers over before our respectable religious philistines could obliterate it.
“If you do decide to take up the problem we set you, and you do become a Beautiful Loser,” I said, “you’ll need a new name. To be used within the group.”
“That’s a bit premature…,” began Joan of Arc, but I ignored her.
“I am Vincent, and that is Joan of Arc. Over here is Princess Fellatio, BJ for short.”
BJ pretended to look offended, then he grinned. His freckles and ginger hair made him look like an errant choirboy.
“This is Prince John,” I went on, “and these are Grainne, Judas and Skunk.”
The girl smiled. Most of the group smiled back, though Joan of Arc looked out of the window and Grainne looked impassive. Grainne never smiled.
“Have you any idea what you’d like us to call you? I asked. “What about Lilith? She was Adam’s first wife, prior to Eve. She refused to consider herself his inferior, and was expelled. The first feminist, really.”
“No, not Lilith,” the girl replied. “When I complete my task, I’d like to be known as Rimbaud.”
“Rambo?” echoed BJ “Bloody Rambo?”
I made eye-contact with the girl and sighed sympathetically.
“R-I-M-B-A-U-D,” she spelled out. “Like the French poet.”
“One of the Decadents,” I said. “A genuine decadent. Not a wimpish imitation of one. You’re pathetic, BJ.”
BJ waved an apology, and Grainne spoke. “I think,” she said quietly, “that little Rimbaud here is going to have to kill someone.”
There was a five second silence. Grainne’s contributions were infrequent, but always listened to.
“Well, maybe,” I said. “But it’s raising the stakes a little.”
“No it’s not,” said Joan of Arc. “Skunk killed three on his challenge.
Skunk interrupted. “I caused three deaths, yes. But it’s not the same as sending her out to kill someone."
Skunk had caused a powercut that had blacked out half the county. Although the hospital emergency generator had cut in pretty quickly, and old woman had died on the operating table. A young couple had been killed in a wrecked car on the level crossing. Skunk had claimed all three at the time.
“Let her kill her sister,” said Prince John excitedly. “Or her mother.”
“We could get her to kill the Tadpole,” said Skunk.
The Tadpole was a teacher who’d made the mistake of trying to impose normal school rules on the Beautiful Losers. Skunk had never forgiven him.
“I do hear,” said Joan of Arc, “that little Rimbaud here once had the hots for her Maths teacher. Perhaps we should tell her to dispatch him.”
“Look,” said BJ. “Are we sure that a murder is a suitable task for her initiation?”
“We didn’t invite her to join,” said Joan of Arc. “She came to us. That should raise the entry fee.”
“That’s quite right,” said young Rimbaud.
Everyone turned and stared.
“I accept the challenge,” she said. “It’s fair enough.”
I was impressed. “Well done,” I said.
“Who’s the victim?” Judas asked.
“Leave it to the girl,” Grainne said. “Be less predictable, that way.”
“So be it,” I said. “Rimbaud, your initiation task to become a Beautiful Loser is to kill. Teacher, child, mother, sister; we don’t mind. If you can make it look like an accident, there’ll be less hassle. But it’s up to you. Make it within … let’s say a month.”
“No problem,” said Rimbaud. “I’ll be a full member within a week.” She got up and strolled from the room.
“Arrogant little bitch,” said Joan of Arc.
“Cool, though,” said BJ.
Judas and Skunk left to go to a Literature tutorial. Joan of Arc took out her flute and played a piece so pure and ethereal that it broke your heart to listen. As he listened, Prince John sketched a picture of a naked girl nailed to a cross.

Over the next few days, I found myself speculating how Rimbaud would accomplish her task. Would she select her target, then wait for an opportunity to arise? Rely on Fate to provide a chance for her to act? That would be a sensible way to do it, but very time-consuming. We had given her a month, but she’d insisted she needed less than a week, deliberately cutting down her options. Foolish, that boast. She was no doubt regretting her bravado already.
She could decide to take out a complete stranger. That would be the safest option, much easier to avoid any suspicion. Push someone under a train or off a high bridge without even knowing his name. Not too difficult at all.
But from what I’d seen of Rimbaud, I doubted she’d take the easy route.
No, she’d choose a target, then plan her action. Prince John had suggested her sister. I’d seen the girl around school, a dumpy twelve year old with glasses. Nothing special. She looked of average intelligence, non-descript looks, boring personality. She’d make a fair victim; no one would miss a forgettable like her.
On the Tuesday afternoon, I actually thought she’d done it when Skunk came into the common room.
“Have you heard?” he said. “About the accident? Some kid’s swallowed something in the science lab. Just seen the ambulance.”
“Rimbaud’s sister?” I asked.
“No,” said Skunk. “A boy in year seven. Showing off to his friends.”
I began to wonder whether Rimbaud would tackle a teacher. I knew she wouldn’t take out her Maths teacher as Joan of Arc had suggested, even if she had outgrown her crush on him. The Tadpole had been a good idea though. We’d all be happy if she’d remove that vindictive little turd.
Young, keen and full of himself, the Tadpole had not picked up on the unspoken staffroom consensus that the Beautiful Losers were off-limits as far as school discipline was concerned. He’d tried to report Skunk for a minor misdemeanour involving a drinking session in the lunch hour. Skunk had been outraged. We’d had to arrange for a couple of senior staff to really lean on the Tadpole before he’d drop it. Even then, it was obvious he still bore a grudge.
Yes, if Rimbaud decided to rid the world of that particular specimen, we’d have nominated her for the Nobel Prize for service to humanity.
But she didn’t. There was just one happy moment when the Head announced in Assembly that a member of staff had been fatally injured in a road traffic accident. Our hopes rose, but were dashed when we glanced round and saw the Tadpole was alive and present.
On Friday, BJ, Prince John and I had the common room to ourselves, when Judas came in and startled us with an announcement. “I reckon,” he said, “that Rimbaud is going to take out one of us.”
We stared. It was a possibility we hadn’t really considered, but the more we thought about it …
“It’s a thought,” I said.

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