A few of my boys remained at their desks, copying up some notes from the board. I was unsurprised to recognize Anderton-Pullitt, always a laborious worker, and Knight, studiously not looking up, but with that smug little half-smirk on his face that told me he had registered my presence.
“Hello, Knight,” I said. “Did Mr. Grachvogel say if he’d be back?”
“No, sir.” His voice was colorless.
“I think he left, sir,” said Anderton-Pullitt.
“I see. Well, pack up your things, boys, quick as you can. Don’t want any of you to miss the bus.”
“I don’t catch the bus, sir.” It was Knight again. “My mother picks me up. Too many perverts around nowadays.”
Now I try to be fair. I really do. I pride myself upon it, in fact; my fairness; my sound judgment. I may be rough, but I am always fair; I never make a threat that I would not carry out, or a promise I do not mean to keep. The boys know it, and most of them respect that; you know where you stand with old Quaz, and he doesn’t let sentiment interfere with the job. At least I hope so; I’m getting increasingly sentimental with my advancing years, but I don’t think that has ever got in the way of my duty.
However, in any teacher’s career there are times where objectivity fails. Looking at Knight, his head still lowered but his eyes darting nervously back and forth, I was reminded once more of that failure. I don’t trust Knight; the truth is there’s something about him that I’ve always detested. I know I shouldn’t, but even teachers are human beings. We have our preferences. Of course we do; it is simply unfairness that we must avoid. And I do try; but I am aware that of my little group, Knight is the misfit, the Judas, the Jonah, the one who inevitably takes it too far, mistakes humor for insolence, mischief for spite. A sullen, cosseted, whey-faced little cuss who blames everyone for his inadequacies but himself. All the same, I treat him exactly as I do the rest; I even tend to leniency toward him because I know my weakness.
But today there was something in his manner that made me uneasy. As if he knew something, some unhealthy secret that both delighted him and made him ill. He certainly looks ill, in spite of his smugness; there is a new flare of acne across his pallid features, a greasy sheen to his flat brown hair. Testosterone, most likely. All the same I cannot help thinking the boy knows something. With Sutcliff or Allen-Jones, the information (whatever it was) would have been mine for the asking. But with Knight…
“Did something happen in Mr. Grachvogel’s class today?”
“Sir?” Knight’s face was a cautious blank.
“I heard shouting,” I said.
“Not me, sir,” said Knight.
“No. Of course not.”
It was useless. Knight would never tell. Shrugging, I left the Bell Tower, heading for the Languages office and our first departmental meeting of the new half-term. Grachvogel would be there; maybe I could talk to him before he left. Knight—I told myself—could wait. At least until tomorrow.
There was no sign of Gerry at the meeting. Everyone else was there, which made me more certain than ever that my colleague was ill. Gerry never misses a meeting; loves in-service training; sings energetically in assemblies; and always does his prep. Today he wasn’t there; and when I mentioned his absence to Dr. Devine, the response was so chilly that I wished I hadn’t. Still miffy about the old office, I suppose; all the same, there was more in his manner than the usual disapproval; and I was rather subdued during the course of the meeting, going over all the things that I might unwittingly have done to provoke the old idiot. You wouldn’t know it, but I’m quite fond of him really, suits and all; he’s one of the few constants in a changing world, and there are already too few of those to go round.
And so the meeting wore on, with Pearman and Scoones arguing over the merits of various exam boards, Dr. Devine icy and dignified; Kitty unusually lackluster; Isabelle filing her nails; Geoff and Penny Nation sitting to attention like the Bobbsey Twins, and Dianne Dare watching everything as if departmental meetings were the most fascinating spectacle in the world.
It was dark when the meeting finished, and the school was deserted. Even the cleaners had gone. Only Jimmy remained, walking the polishing machine slowly and conscientiously over the parquet floor of the Lower Corridor. “Night, boss,” he told me as I passed. “‘Nother one done, eh?”
“You’ve got your work cut out,” I said. Since Fallow’s suspension, Jimmy has carried out all the Porter’s duties, and it has been a heavy task. “When’s the new man starting?”
“Fortnight,” said Jimmy, grinning all over his moon face. “Shuttleworth, he’s called. Supports Everton. Reckon we’ll get on all right though.”
I smiled. “You didn’t fancy the job yourself, then?”
“Nah, boss.” Jimmy shook his head. “Too much hassle.”
When I reached the school car park, it was raining heavily. The Nations’ car was already pulling out of their allocated space. Eric doesn’t have a car—his eyesight is too bad, and besides, he lives practically next door to the school. Pearman and Kitty were still in the office, going over papers—since his wife’s illness, Pearman has been increasingly reliant on Kitty. Isabelle Tapi was redoing her makeup—Gods knew how long that might take—and I knew I could not expect a lift from Dr. Devine.
“Miss Dare, I wonder if—”
“Of course. Hop in.”
I thanked her and settled into the passenger seat of the little Corsa. I have noticed that a car, like a desk, frequently reflects the owner’s mind. Pearman’s is exceptionally messy. The Nations have a bumper sticker that reads: DON’T FOLLOW ME, FOLLOW JESUS. Isabelle’s has a Care Bear dashboard toy.
By contrast, Dianne’s car is neat, clean, functional. Not a cuddly toy or amusing slogan in sight. I like that; it’s the sign of an ordered mind. If I had a car, it would probably be like room fifty-nine; all oak paneling and dusty spider plants.
I said as much to Miss Dare, and she laughed. “I hadn’t thought of that,” she said, turning onto the main road. “Like dog owners and their pets.”
“Or teachers and their coffee mugs.”
“Really?” Apparently Miss Dare has never noticed. She herself uses a school mug (plain white, with blue trim) as supplied by the kitchens. She seems remarkably free of whimsy for such a young woman (admittedly, my basis for comparison is not extensive); but this, I think, is a part of her charm. It struck me that she might get on well with young Keane—who is also very cool for a fresher—but when I asked her how she was getting along with the other new staff she simply shrugged.
“Too busy?” I ventured.
“Not my type. Drink-driving with boys in the car. How stupid.”
Well, amen to that: the idiot Light had certainly blotted his copybook with his ridiculous antics in town. Easy’s just another disposable Suit; Meek a resignation waiting to happen. “What about Keane?”
“I haven’t really spoken to him.”
“You should. Local boy. I’ve a feeling he might be your type.”
I told you I was getting sentimental. I’m hardly built for it, after all, but there’s something about Miss Dare that brings it out, somehow. A trainee Dragon, if ever I saw one (though better-looking than most Dragons I have known), I find that I have no difficulty in imagining her in thirty or forty years’ time, looking something like Margaret Rutherford in The Happiest Days of Your Lives, if rather slimmer, but with the same humorous twist.
It’s all too easy to get drawn in, you know; at St. Oswald’s, different laws apply than those of the world outside. One of these is Time, which passes much faster here than anywhere else. Look at me: approaching my Century, and yet when I look in the mirror I see the same boy I always was—now a gray-haired boy with too much luggage under his eyes and the unmistakeable, faintly dissipated air of an old class clown.
I tried—and failed—to communicate some part of this to Dianne Dare. But we were nearing my house; the rain had stopped; I asked her to drop me off at the end of Dog Lane and
explained that I wanted a chance to check the fence; to make sure the graffiti incident had not been repeated.
“I’ll come with you,” she said, pulling up to the curb.
“No need,” I said, but she insisted, and I realized that, ironically, she was concerned for me—a sobering thought, but a kind one. And perhaps she was right; because as soon as we entered the lane we saw it—certainly it was too big to miss—not just graffiti, but a mural-sized portrait—myself, mustached and swastika’d, larger than life in multicolored spray paint.
For half a minute we just stared at it. The paint looked barely dry. And then a rage took hold of me; the sort of transcendent, vocabulary-blocking rage I have felt maybe three or four times in my entire career. I vented it concisely, forgetting the refinements of the Lingua Latina for the pure Anglo-Saxon. Because I knew the culprit; knew him this time without a shadow of a doubt.
Quite apart from the small slim object I had spotted lying in the wedge of shadow at the base of the fence, I recognized the style. It was identical to the cartoon that I had removed from the 3S notice board; the cartoon that I had long suspected was the work of Colin Knight.
“Knight?” echoed Miss Dare. “But he’s such a little mouse.”
Mouse or not, I knew it. Besides, the boy has a grudge; he hates me, and the support of his mother, the Head, the newspapers, and heaven knows what other malcontents has given him a sly kind of courage. I picked up the slim object at the base of the fence. The invisible finger poked me again; I could feel my blood pounding; and the rage, like some lethal drug, pumped through me, bleaching the world of its color.
“Mr. Straitley?” Now Dianne looked concerned. “Are you all right?”
“Perfectly so.” I had recovered; I was still trembling, but my mind was sound, and the savage in me checked. “Look at this.”
“It’s a pen, sir,” said Dianne.
“Not just a pen.”
I should know; I searched for it long enough, before it was found in the secret cache in the Porter’s Lodge. Colin Knight’s bar mitzvah pen, as I live and breathe; cost over five hundred pounds, according to his mother, and conveniently embellished with his initials—CNK—just to be sure.
6
Tuesday, 26th October
Nice touch. That pen. It’s a Mont Blanc, you know; one of the cheaper ones, but even so, quite out of my league. Not that you’d know it to look at me now; the polyester-shine is gone, to be replaced by a slick, impenetrable veneer of sophistication. One of the many things I picked up from Leon, along with my Nietzsche and my penchant for lemon-vodka. As for Leon, he always enjoyed my murals; he himself was no artist, and it astonished him that I was able to create such accurate portraits.
Of course I’d had more opportunity to study them; I had notebooks filled with sketches—what was more, I could forge any signature Leon gave me, which meant that both of us were able to benefit with impunity from a number of excuse notes and out-of-school permission slips.
I’m glad to see that the talent has not deserted me. I sneaked out of school during my afternoon free period to finish it off—not as risky as it sounds; hardly anyone ever uses Dog Lane except for the Sunnybankers—and returned in time for period eight. It worked like a dream; no one saw a thing except the half-wit Jimmy, who was repainting the school gates and who gave me his idiotic grin as I drove through.
I thought at the time I might have to do something about Jimmy. Not that he would ever recognize me or anything; but loose ends are loose ends, and this one has remained too long untied. Besides, he offends me. Fallow was fat and lazy, but Jimmy, with his wet mouth and fawning smile, is somehow worse. I wonder that he has survived this long; I wonder that St. Oswald’s—with its pride in its reputation—tolerates him at all. A care-in-the-community case, as I recall; cheap and disposable as a forty-watt bulb. The word is disposable.
That lunchtime I carried out three small and unobtrusive thefts; a tube of valve oil from a pupil’s trombone (one of Straitley’s pupils, a Japanese boy called Niu); a screwdriver from Jimmy’s lock-up; and, of course, Colin Knight’s famous pen. No one saw me; and no one saw what I did with those three items when the time came.
Timing—timing—is the all-important factor. I knew Straitley and the other linguists would be at the meeting last night (except Grachvogel, who had one of his migraines following that unpleasant little interview with the Head). By the end of it, everyone else would have gone home, except for Pat Bishop, who can usually be trusted to remain in school until eight or nine. I didn’t think he would be a problem, however; his office is on the Lower Corridor, two flights down, too far from the Languages Department for him to hear anything.
For a moment I was back in the sweetshop, spoilt for choice. Obviously Jimmy was my primary target, but if this thing worked out I could probably have anyone in the Languages Department as a bonus. The question was, who? Not Straitley, of course; not yet. I have my plans for Straitley, and they are maturing very well. Scoones? Devine? Teague?
Geographically, it had to be someone with rooms in the Bell Tower; someone single, who would not be missed; most of all someone vulnerable; a lame gazelle that has fallen behind; someone defenseless—a woman, perhaps?—whose misfortune would provoke a real scandal.
There could only be one choice. Isabelle Tapi, with her high heels and tight sweaters; Isabelle, who regularly takes time off for PMS and has dated virtually every male member of staff under fifty (except Gerry Grachvogel, who has other preferences).
Her room is in the Bell Tower, just up from Straitley’s. It’s an odd-shaped, whimsical little space; hot in summer, cold in winter, with windows on four sides and twelve narrow stone steps leading from the door up into the room. Not very practical—it was a storeroom in my father’s day, and there is barely enough space there to seat an entire class. You can’t get a mobile phone signal there to save your life; Jimmy hates it; the cleaners avoid it—it’s almost impossible to get a vacuum up those little steps—and most of the staff—unless they have taught in the Bell Tower themselves—hardly even realize it’s there.
For my purpose, then, it was ideal. I waited until after school. I knew Isabelle would not go to her departmental meeting until she had had a coffee (and a chat with the beastly Light); that gave me five or ten minutes. It was enough.
First, I went into the room, which was empty. Next, I took out my screwdriver and sat down on the steps with my eyes level with the door handle. It’s a simple enough mechanism, based on a single square pin that connects the handle to the latch. Depress the handle, the pin turns, and the latch opens. Nothing could be easier. Remove the pin, however, and no matter how much you pull and push at the handle, the door stays shut.
Quickly, I unscrewed the handle from the door, opened it a crack, and removed the pin. Then, keeping my foot wedged in the doorway to stop it from closing, I replaced the screws and the handle as before. There. From the outside, the door would open perfectly normally. Once inside, however…
Of course you can never be completely sure. Isabelle might not return to her room. The cleaners might be uncharacteristically thorough; Jimmy might decide to look in. I didn’t think so, however. I like to think I know St. Oswald’s better than most, and I’ve had plenty of time to get used to its little routines. Still, not knowing’s half the fun, isn’t it?—and if it didn’t work, I told myself, I could always start again in the morning.
7
St. Oswald’s Grammar School for BoysWednesday, 27th October
I slept badly last night. Perhaps the wind, or the memory of Knight’s perfidious behavior, or the sudden artillery fire of rain that fell just after midnight, or my dreams, which were more vivid and unsettling than they have been for years.
I’d had a couple of glasses of claret before bed, of course—I don’t suppose Bevans would have approved of that, or of the tinned steak pie that accompanied them—and I awoke at three-thirty with a raging thirst, a sore head, and the vague foreknowledge that the worst was yet to
come.
I set off early to school, to clear my head and to give myself time to think out a strategy to deal with the boy Knight. It was still pouring, and by the time I reached St. Oswald’s main gate, my coat and hat were heavy with rain.
It was still only seven-forty-five, and there were only a few cars in the staff car park; the Head’s, Pat Bishop’s, and, to my surprise, Isabelle Tapi’s little sky blue Mazda. I was just considering this (Isabelle rarely gets in before eight-thirty; and on most days closer to nine) when I heard a sound of a car pulling in sharply behind me. I turned and saw Pearman’s grubby old Volvo swerve across the half-deserted car park, leaving a quavery stripe of burnt rubber across the wet tarmac in his wake. Kitty Teague was in the passenger seat. Both looked tense—Kitty sheltering under a folded newspaper, Pearman walking very fast—as they approached.
It occurred to me that it might be bad news about Pearman’s wife, Sally. I’d only seen her once since her treatment, but she had looked dry and yellow under the big brave smile, and I’d suspected then that her brown hair was a wig.
But when Pearman walked in with Kitty at his heels, I knew that it was worse than that. The man’s face was haggard. He did not return my greeting; he barely saw me as he pushed open the door. Behind him, Kitty caught my eye and immediately burst into tears; it took me by surprise, and by the time I had recovered enough to ask what was happening, Pearman had vanished down the Middle Corridor, leaving nothing but a trail of wet footprints across the polished parquet floor.
“For heavens’ sake, what’s wrong?” I said.
She covered her face with her hands. “It’s Sally,” she said. “Someone sent her a letter. It came this morning. She opened it at breakfast.”