In a school like St. Oswald’s, nothing is insignificant; and I felt a sudden acute lurch of grief for the ones of us who are still left; the Old Guard; valiantly keeping to our posts while the future marches inexorably over us.
“If Pat leaves, I won’t stay,” she said at last, turning her emerald ring round and around her middle finger. “I’ll take a job in a solicitor’s office or something. If not, I’ll retire—in any case I’ll be sixty next year—” That too was news. Marlene has been forty-one for as long as I can remember.
“I’ve also considered the retirement option,” I said. “By the end of the year I’ll have scored my Century—that is, unless old Strange gets his way—”
“What? Quasimodo, leave the Bell Tower?”
“It had crossed my mind.” Over these past few weeks, in fact, it has done more than cross it. “It’s my birthday today,” I told her. “Can you believe it? Sixty-five years old.” She smiled, a little sadly. Dear Marlene. “Where did those birthdays go?”
With Pat gone, Bob Strange took this morning’s Middle School Assembly. I wouldn’t have recommended it; but with so many of the management team either absent or unavailable, Bob has decided to take it upon himself to bring our ship back into calmer waters. Rather a mistake, I thought at the time. Still, there’s no arguing with some people.
Of course, we all know that it isn’t Bob’s fault that Pat has been suspended. No one blames him for that; but the boys dislike the effortless ease with which he has slid into Bishop’s position. Bishop’s office, always open to anyone who needed him, is now shut. A buzzer device like the one on Devine’s door has been installed. Detentions and other punishments are dealt with bloodlessly and efficiently from this administrative hub, but the humanity and warmth that made Pat Bishop so acceptable is noticeably lacking in Strange.
The boys sense this and resent it, finding ever more ingenious ways to show up his failings in public. Unlike Pat, our Bob is not a man of action. A handful of firecrackers thrown under the Hall platform during Assembly served to demonstrate this; with the result that the Middle School spent half the morning sitting in silence in the Hall while Bob waited for someone to confess.
With Pat Bishop, the culprit would have owned up within five minutes, but then, most boys aim to please Pat Bishop. Bob Strange, with his cold manner and cartoon-Nazi tactics, is fair game.
“Sir? When’s Mr. Bishop coming back?”
“I said in silence, Sutcliff, or you will go and stand outside the Headmaster’s office.”
“Why, sir? Does he know?”
Bob Strange, who has not taught Middle School for over a decade, has no idea of how to deal with such a frontal attack. He does not realize how his crisp manner betrays his insecurity; how shouting simply makes things worse. He may be a fine administrator, but in the field of pastoral care, he’s shocking.
“Sutcliff, you’re in detention.”
“Yes, sir.”
I would have mistrusted Sutcliff’s grin; but Strange didn’t know him and simply went on digging himself deeper. “What’s more,” he said, “if the boy who threw those crackers doesn’t stand up right now, then the whole of the Middle School will be in detention for a month.”
A month? It was an impossible threat. Miragelike, it descended on the Assembly Hall, and a low, slow sound rippled through the Middle School.
“I shall count to ten,” announced Strange. “One. Two.”
Another ripple as Strange demonstrated his mathematical skills.
Sutcliff and Allen-Jones looked at each other.
“Three. Four.”
The boys stood up.
A moment’s silence.
My entire form followed them.
For a second, Strange goggled. It was superb; all of 3S standing to attention in a tight little phalanx: Sutcliff, Tayler, Allen-Jones, Adamczyk, McNair, Brasenose, Pink, Jackson, Almond, Niu, Anderton-Pullitt. All of my boys (except Knight, of course).
Then 3M (Monument’s form) did the same.
Thirty more boys standing in unison, like soldiers, looking straight ahead without a word. Then 3P (Pearman’s form) stood up. Then, 3KT (Teague). Then, finally, 3R (Roach).
Now every boy in the Middle School was standing. Not a word was spoken. No one moved. All eyes were on the little man on the platform.
For a moment he stood.
Then he turned and left without a word.
After that there wasn’t much point in teaching anything. The boys needed to talk, so I let them; popping out occasionally to calm down Grachvogel’s class next door, where a supply teacher called Mrs. Cant was having a hard time keeping order. Of course, Bishop dominated the conversation. There was no polarization here; no doubt at all of Pat’s innocence. All agreed that the charge was absurd; that it wouldn’t even make it past the magistrate; that everything had been a terrible mistake. That cheered me; I wished some of my colleagues could have been as certain of it as these boys.
Through lunchtime I stayed in my room with a sandwich and some marking, avoiding the crowded Common Room and the usual comforts of tea and the Times. It’s a fact that all the papers have been full of the St. Oswald’s scandal this week, and anyone entering the main gates must now pass between a shooting gallery of press and photographers.
Most of us do not stoop to comment, though I think perhaps Eric Scoones spoke to the Mirror on Wednesday. Certainly, their short piece had a ring of Scoones about it, with its depictions of an uncaring management and its veiled accusations of nepotism in the higher echelons. However, I find it impossible to believe that my old friend might be the egregious Mole, whose mixture of comedy, gossip, and slander has captivated the readers of the Examiner for the past few weeks. And yet his words gave me a distinct sense of déjà vu; as if the author were someone whose style I knew, whose subversive humor I understood—and shared.
Once again, my thoughts returned to young Keane. A keen observer, in any case; and, I believe, a writer of some talent. Could he be Mole? I would hate to think so. Damn it, I liked the man; and I thought his remarks in the Common Room the other day showed both intelligence and courage. No, not Keane, I told myself. But if not Keane, then who?
It was a thought that nagged me all through the afternoon. I taught poorly; lost my temper with a group of fourth-formers who seemed incapable of concentration; gave detention to a sixth-former whose only crime, I admitted later to myself, had been to point out an error in my use of the subjunctive in prose translation. By period eight I had made up my mind. I would simply ask the man, openly and honestly. I like to think I’m a fair judge of character; if he were Mole, then, surely I would know.
When I found him, however, he was in the Common Room, talking with Miss Dare. She smiled as I came in, and Keane grinned. “I hear it’s your birthday, Mr. Straitley,” he said. “We got you a cake.”
It was a chocolate muffin on a saucer, both raided from the school canteen. Someone had put a yellow candle on top and a cheery frill of tinsel around the outside. A Post-it note attached to the saucer read HAPPY BIRTHDAY MR. STRAITLEY—65 TODAY!
I knew then that Mole would have to wait.
Miss Dare lit the candle. The few members of the Common Room who still lingered at this late hour—Monument, McDonaugh, and a couple of freshers—clapped. It was a measure of my distraction that I almost burst into tears.
“Dammit,” I growled. “I was keeping it quiet.”
“Whatever for?” said Miss Dare. “Listen, Chris and I are going out for a drink this evening. Would you like to come? We’re going to see the bonfire in the park—eat toffee apples—light sparklers.” She laughed, and I thought for a moment how very pretty she really was, with her black hair and pink Dutch-doll face. Notwithstanding my early suspicions regarding the Mole—which possibility seemed quite out of the question to me at that moment—I was glad she and Keane were getting on. I know only too well the pull of St. Oswald’s; how you think there’s all the time in the world to meet a girl, get hitched, have chi
ldren, maybe, if she wants them; and then suddenly you find that all of it has passed you by, not by a year but by a decade or two, and you realize that you are no longer a Young Gun but a Tweed Jacket, irrevocably wedded to St. Oswald’s, the dusty old battleship that has somehow swallowed your heart.
“Thanks for the offer,” I said. “But I think I’ll stay at home.”
“Then make a wish,” said Miss Dare, lighting the candle.
“That I can do,” I said.
2
Dear old Straitley. I’ve come so close to loving him these past few weeks, with his incurable optimism and his idiotic old ways. It’s funny how catching that optimism can be; the feeling that perhaps the past can be forgotten (as Bishop has forgotten it); that bitterness can be put aside, and that duty (to the school, of course) can be as much of a motivating force as (for instance) love; hate; revenge.
I sent my last few e-mails this evening, after school. Roach to Grachvogel, incriminating them both. Bishop to Devine. Light to Devine, in tones of escalating panic. Knight to all, threatening, weeping. And finally the coup de grâce; to Bishop’s mobile and to his PC (I’m sure the police will be monitoring that by now); a last, tearful, imploring text message from Colin Knight, sent from his own mobile phone, which should in due time confirm the worst.
All in all, a job well done, with no need for further action on my part. Five staff members destroyed in one elegant strike. Bishop, of course, could crack at any time. A stroke, perhaps; or a massive heart attack, brought on by stress and the certainty that whatever the outcome of the police investigation, his time at St. Oswald’s is finished.
The question is, have I done enough? Mud sticks, they say; and all the more so in this profession. In a sense, the police are superfluous. The merest hint of sexual impropriety is enough to sink a career. The rest I can confidently leave to a public weaned on suspicion, envy, and the Examiner. Already I’ve started the ball rolling; I wouldn’t be at all surprised if someone else took over during the next few weeks. Sunnybankers, perhaps; stout-minded folk from the Abbey Road Estate. There will be fires; attacks, perhaps, on lone colleagues; rumors heated to scandalous certainty in the pubs and clubs of the town center. The beauty of it is that from a certain point I no longer have to take any direct action. One little push, and the dominoes begin to fall all by themselves.
I’ll stay, of course, as long as I can. Half the fun is being here to see it happen—though I am prepared for every eventuality. In any case, the damage must surely be irreversible by now. A whole department in ruins; many more staff implicated; a Second Master hopelessly tarred. Pupils leaving—twelve this week—a trickle that will soon become a flood. Teaching neglected; Health and Safety poor; plus an imminent inspection, which cannot fail to close them down.
The Governors, I hear, have been holding emergency meetings every night for the past week. The Head, no negotiator, fears for his job; Dr. Tidy is concerned about the potential impact on school finances; and Bob Strange covertly manages to turn everything the Head says to his own advantage whilst maintaining the appearance of complete loyalty and correctitude.
So far (barring a couple of disciplinary faux pas) he has managed to take over Bishop’s job quite nicely. A Headship may follow. Why not? He is clever (clever enough, in any case, not to appear too clever in front of the Governors); competent; articulate; and just bland enough to pass the stringent personality tests applied to all St. Oswald’s staff.
All in all, a nice little piece of antisocial engineering. I say it myself (because no one else can), but actually I’m very pleased with the way things have worked out. Remains one small, unfinished piece of business, and I plan to deal with that tonight, at the community bonfire. After that I can afford to celebrate, and I will; there’s a bottle of champagne with Straitley’s name on it, and I mean to open it tonight.
For now, though, I am idle. That’s the worst part of a campaign such as this; those long, charged moments of waiting. The bonfire starts at seven-thirty; by eight the pyre will be a beacon; thousands of people will be in the park; there will be music booming from loudspeakers; screaming from the fairground; and at eight-thirty the fireworks will start; all smoke and falling stars.
Just the place for a quiet murder, don’t you think? The dark; the crowds; the confusion. So easy here to apply Poe’s law—stating that the object that is hidden in plain sight remains unseen longest—and to simply walk away, leaving the body for some poor baffled soul to discover, or even to discover it myself, with a cry of alarm, relying upon the inevitable crowd to shield me from sight.
One more murder. I owe it to myself. Or maybe two.
I still have Leon’s photograph, a clipping taken from the Examiner, now leaf-brown and speckled with age. It’s a school photograph, taken that summer, and the quality is poor, blown up for the front page into a grainy mess of clustered dots. But it’s still his face; his cockeyed grin; his too-long hair and scissored tie. The headline stands alongside the picture.
LOCAL SCHOOLBOY IN DEATH PLUMMET.
PORTER QUESTIONED
Well, anyway, that’s the official story. We jumped; he fell. Even as my feet touched the other side of the chimney I heard him go—a gutter-rattle of broken slates and a squeal of rubber soles.
It took me a moment to understand. His foot had slipped; perhaps a moment’s hesitation; perhaps a cry from below had spoiled his leap. I looked, and saw that instead of landing squarely beside me, his knee had caught the edge of the gully; he’d slip-slid down the slimy funnel; bounced back; and now he was trapped across the mouth of the drop, holding on to the edge of the gutter with his fingertips, one foot stretched acrobatically to touch the far side of the chimney, the other hanging limply into space.
“Leon!”
I threw myself down, but I couldn’t reach him; I was on the wrong side of the chimney. I didn’t dare jump back in case I dislodged a slate. I knew how brittle the gutter was; how nibbled and scalloped its edges.
“Hang on!” I called, and Leon looked up at me, face blurred with fear.
“Stay there, son. I’ll get you.”
I raised my head. John Snyde was now standing on the parapet barely thirty feet away. His face was a slab; his eyes holes; his entire body shook. Now he edged forward with clockwork movements; his fear rolled off him like a stench. But he was moving. Inch by inch he crept closer—his eyes screwed almost shut in fear—and soon he would see me, and I wanted to run, I needed to run, but Leon was still down there, Leon was still trapped—
Below me I could hear a low cracking sound. It was the gutter giving way; a piece of its scalloped edge broke off and fell into the space between the buildings. There was a squeal of rubber as Leon’s sneaker slid a few more inches down the greasy wall.
As my father approached I began to back away, farther into the shadow of the Bell Tower. Red-blue lights strobed from the fire engines below; soon there would be people all over the roof.
“Hang on, Leon,” I whispered.
Then suddenly I felt it in the nape of my neck, a distinct sensation of being watched. I turned my head and saw—
Roy Straitley in his old tweed jacket, standing at his window not twelve feet above me. His face was gaudy in the lights; his eyes were startled; his mouth drawn down into a tragicomic mask.
“Pinchbeck?” he said.
And in that second came a sound below us—a hollow, ratcheting sound like a giant penny stuck in a vacuum cleaner pipe—
Then—crunch.
Silence.
The gutter had given way.
3
I ran then, and kept running, with the sound of Leon’s fall at my heels like a black dog. Here my knowledge of the roof came into its own; I loped, monkeylike, across my rooftop circuit, cat-leaped from the parapet onto the fire escape, and from there regained the Middle Corridor by the open fire door, and thence, the open air.
I was running on instinct by then, of course; everything suspended but the need to survive. Outside, emerg
ency lights still strobed mystically red and blue from the fire engines parked in the Chapel court.
No one had seen me leave the building. I was clear. All around me, firemen and police, cordoning off the area against the little group of gawkers that had collected on the drive. I was clear, I told myself. No one had seen me. Except, of course, for Straitley.
Cautiously now, I made for the gatehouse, avoiding the parked fire engine with its bank of red-blue lights and the hopeful ambulance sirening its way up the long drive. Instinct drove me. I made for home. There I would be safe. There I would lie under my bed, wrapped in a blanket, as I always had on Saturday nights, door locked, thumb in mouth, waiting for my father to come home. It would be dark under the bed; it would be safe.
The gatehouse door was wide open. Light came from the kitchen window; the lounge curtains were open, but light shone from there too, and there were figures standing against the light. Mr. Bishop was there, with his megaphone. Two policemen were standing by the patrol car that blocked the drive.
And now I could see someone else there, a woman in a coat with a fur collar; a woman whose face in the lights seemed suddenly, fleetingly familiar.
The woman turned, full face to me, and her mouth dropped in a great lipsticked Oh—
“Oh, sweetheart! Oh, love!”
The woman, running toward me on kitten heels.
Bishop, turning, megaphone in hand, as a cry went up from the firemen at the far side of the building. “Mr. Bishop, sir! Over here!”
The woman, hair flying; eyes wet; arms like batwing doors to scoop me in. A sensation of shrinking; a tickle of fur against my mouth; and suddenly there were tears; tears boiling out of me as everything came back in a tidal wave of memory and grief. Leon, Straitley, my father—all forgotten; left far behind as she gathered me into the house, to safety.