At last I said: ‘I’ll give it a try.’
She smiled. ‘I know you will, David.’
It took me a few days after that to decide what to do about Poodle. I’d told him I was in discussions with Johnny about when to hold Harry’s memorial, and for a while that was enough to keep him happy. But soon, he grew impatient, until finally, late one Friday afternoon, he turned up at my door, wanting Johnny.
‘Of course. I’ll phone him straight away. But he’ll still be at work right now. Let’s have a drink first, and talk. OK?’
He gave me a suspicious look. ‘What, here?’
‘Unless you’d rather go out.’
I knew what he was thinking, Mousey. He knew I was a killer. He sensed I’d given in to him just a little too easily, and he thought I might have murder in mind. I made my expression as bland as I could.
‘Don’t you trust me, Charlie?’
Frankly, I was a little hurt. After all, we’d been friends all this time, and I’d never revealed his secret. You’d have thought that might count for something, but apparently not to him. Fact is, he was uncomfortable being alone in my house with me.
‘OK. We’ll go to a neutral place. A nice pub in the Village. Somewhere we can both feel safe. I’ll tell Johnny to join us there as soon as he’s done at St Oswald’s.’
Actually, Mousey, that suited me better anyway. I don’t often go to pubs, as a rule. That meant I wouldn’t be recognized. And even if I were, I thought, what could be more natural than to meet an old friend for a quiet drink?
Then I phoned St Oswald’s, and asked for the Headmaster. Instead, I got Ms Buckfast.
‘David, how nice to hear you.’
‘I hoped I could talk to Johnny.’
She laughed. ‘You are persistent, David. Johnny isn’t available. But I’ll take a message, if you like. Is this about Charlie?’
‘He’s with me right now. We’re off to the Scholar for a drink.’
‘I see,’ she said. ‘Well, I’m afraid Johnny’s going to be working late. But if he can make it, I’m sure he will.’
So Poodle and I headed out towards the Thirsty Scholar. I didn’t need to do much. We talked. We drank (he more than I). I paid. I knew he wouldn’t turn down a free drink. Every hour I checked my phone and said: ‘He should be here soon.’
But Poodle was growing impatient. ‘Why isn’t he here?’ he kept saying.
‘Don’t worry. I think I know.’ I explained about Becky Price, Goldie’s girl from the old days. ‘She’s on his Management Team,’ I said. ‘And she said he was working late.’
Poodle’s face broke into a smile. ‘The old dog,’ he said. ‘Becky Price? You sure?’
‘I’ve seen her,’ I told him. ‘We talked about Harry’s memorial. She’s going to help us set things up. She’s like his deputy, or something.’
After that, Poodle seemed to relax. Somehow, the mention of Becky Price had convinced him I was serious. He babbled on happily for a while about Harry and the memorial; what hymns they’d chosen; what poetry. Then, at half past ten, I said: ‘Let me walk you home, eh? You never know who’s about these days.’
By then he was drunk. Not senseless, but reeling in the cold air. ‘We’ll walk through the park,’ I told him. ‘Let you get your breath back.’
Halfway through the park he was sick. I held his head as he vomited. He seemed more lively after that, talking about the memorial again.
‘You’ve thought it all out, haven’t you?’
‘Harry thought it out, not me.’ His eyes were wet and hopeful. ‘He wrote it all down before he died.’ He paused for breath, leaning against the trunk of a nearby beech tree. The fallen leaves around his feet were filled with uncanny whisperings. ‘I’m so glad you’re OK with this,’ he said. ‘I was expecting – I dunno. Resistance.’
I smiled. ‘No, Charlie. You sold me. I guess I’ve been waiting to do the right thing.’
By then we were nearing the end of the park. Beyond that was White City; what was left of the clay pits, and, more importantly, what was left of Malbry Canal; now a stub around three miles long, bordered with weeping willows. There’s a bridle path running alongside, most often used by cyclists, joggers and, in the evenings, young people in heat. At intervals, there’s a walkway of corrugated metal allowing people to cross the canal. In fact, there’s one just off the main road leading into White City. I led him towards it. Poor Poodle.
Think of it this way, Mousey. He was dead already. I’d given him his chance to shine. He could have had what the rest of us had. All that Survivors did for us. Instead, he chose Harry. That was his choice. He chose not to participate. And now he’s dead, that I might live . . .
This is what I was thinking as I walked back along the canal-side. I met only one other person; a man in a dark-blue parka. For a moment I thought he looked at me, but that might have just been the light. In any case, I kept moving. I crossed back through the park again, and then I was home. It was easy. And the more I think about it now, the more I realize how much I needed that bit of excitement; that breath of fresh air; that moment of surrender to something bigger and braver than I. I feel as if I’m awake again, after half a lifetime of sleep. For the first time in seventeen years, I feel alive, Mousey.
It didn’t take much. Just a little push. I don’t know why I waited so long. Still, it’s what happens now that counts. Living in the present. So, what next? Or should I say – who? It seems small-minded for me to stop now, when I’ve made such an excellent start. Harry’s dead; Poodle’s dead; who does that leave, Mousey?
No, you don’t have to answer that. You know. He’s been a thorn in my side for so long that I’d almost forgotten he was there. That he was even alive at all. Still, that could change. It can always change. Death is always waiting to strike when you least expect it. You think you’re entitled to seventy years, but Death could come tomorrow. Death could come during the night, or flying through the air at supersonic speed. The fact is, no one’s safe – not you, not even me, Mousey. Which is why I need to take charge of my fate, starting right here, right now. It’s never too soon to tackle Death. As Straitley would say: Carpe diem.
6
November 4th, 2005
Headmaster, and Chairman of the Governors,
It is with sincere regret—
No, dammit. No regrets. I cannot deliver the letter now. Winter’s story changes things. Damn him, why did he wait for so long to tell me Charlie Nutter had died? And why is he now so certain that the death wasn’t an accident? Whatever his motive, he believes that Charlie Nutter was murdered – possibly for reasons connected to the Harry Clarke affair – and has promised to call again tonight, with further information.
I know. It seems unlikely. There was a time when I too would have scorned such a far-fetched hypothesis. But after the events of last year – the disappearance of a pupil, the stabbing of a member of staff and my own brush with the Reaper – I know that nothing is safe; nothing far-fetched. Under the vivid reflections of sunlight, trees and cloudless sky, the dark and lonely water awaits, and no one – no, not even a Head – can be above suspicion.
All the same, what evidence can there be to link Johnny Harrington to the death? The pink Survivors pamphlet; his marriage to Spikely’s therapist; his unusual behaviour in the Thirsty Scholar close to the night that Nutter died – none of those things are enough to prove that he was even in contact with Nutter, still less that Nutter’s death was linked with the events of all those years ago. And even if it were, what good would such a revelation serve? St Oswald’s reputation is already badly compromised. One more hint of a scandal might finish the old place for good. And though I may be off the hook as far as the Honours Boards are concerned, the problem of Allen-Jones remains. Do Harrington and his minions have sufficient grounds to carry out their threat? With the help of the Chaplain, I think they do. In such circumstances, I cannot afford to act out any Boy’s Own Paper-ish fantasies. I am still in loco parentis, and I have a job t
o do.
And yet, Winter’s suspicions, however unlikely they may be, have reawakened my sense of revolt. The hemlock bowl, so inviting only a couple of days ago, can now no longer be considered. At least, not until my current duties have been suitably discharged. Charlie Nutter deserves the truth. Harry Clarke deserves justice. St Oswald’s deserves a Headmaster who will not dismantle it piece by piece to further his ambition. And my boys deserve something more than lessons stripped of all character. No, I cannot afford to flinch, or take the easy option. Whatever Winter tells me tonight, that door is closed for ever.
I went into St Oswald’s today feeling somewhat the worse for wear. Too many sleepless nights, perhaps; too many glasses of brandy. As a result, although I’d taken greater care than usual over my appearance, I sensed an odd atmosphere this morning in the Common Room. A rather too solicitous greeting from the Chaplain. A pitying smile from Kitty Teague, in the corner with Penny Nation. Could the grapevine have already spread news of my impending retirement? Or is it something more sinister?
Dr Devine was pretending to ignore me, but the nose expressed disapproval. I have to say, I’m still surprised at Devine’s sudden volte-face vis-à-vis the management. Were it not for my Brodie Boys, I think I’d enjoy his collusion in a potential mutiny. But for the sake of Allen-Jones, Benedicta Wild and the rest, I suppose I must keep my thoughts to myself. Eric, too, was watching me from his chair in the corner. Thinking that this might be an attempt at reconciliation (he still hasn’t spoken a word to me since the thing with the garden gnome), I poured myself a cup of tea and came to sit beside him.
‘All right, old man?’ I said affably.
To be honest, I’ve missed him. He’s often rather difficult, but I’ve known him sixty years. Most marriages don’t last as long. That ought to count for something.
Eric gave me a sideways look. I noticed he didn’t look too well. Perhaps there’s something going round. Or maybe he has missed me, too.
I passed him the biscuits. He took one. Harry’s method of judging personality according to one’s choice of sweets also applies to biscuits, I’ve found; in this case, Eric’s choice (a plain Digestive) revealed his essential fragility. Eric’s stomach, like Devine’s nose, tends to reflect his state of mind; and when he is upset, it tends to adopt a position of sympathy.
‘I heard you were taking the hemlock,’ he said, between two careful mouthfuls of tea.
‘Who told you that?’
Eric shrugged. Of course, it could have been anyone. But Dr Devine is high on my list. That, or maybe La Buckfast – unless he has been talking to the boys. ‘Well, your informant is premature,’ I said. ‘I still haven’t decided.’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘That’s not what I’ve heard. Besides, what good will it do to stay? St Oswald’s is changing, Straitley. Might as well take the package, and enjoy the few good years we have left. Or would you rather die on stage?’
‘Molière did,’ I told him.
Eric made a huffing sound. ‘You always were a stubborn ass.’
‘Better that than a management stooge.’
He gave me a look. ‘You’d better not be trying to get me involved in anything. I already told you what I felt about Harry Clarke’s memorial. No reason to dig up that story again. It can only damage us all.’ He finished his tea and put down the cup. ‘I’ve lived too long in the past,’ he said. ‘Now I think it’s time for a change.’
‘What kind of a change?’
He gave a shrug. ‘I thought I could move to Paris at last. Find myself a guest house. Go and see the Folies-Bergère.’
I stared at him. If he’d made a joke, then he was commendably deadpan. And yet, old Eric has always longed to go and live in Paris, an unlikely ambition that seems all the more so for the fact that his mother, aged ninety-two and suffering from dementia, needs constant attention at home, including a daily carer, which eats up most of his salary. I was suddenly reminded of Winter and his dreams of Hawaii, and of Spanish-eyed Gloria, at the door, with her rows of china dogs. Certain people seem to project something of immortality.
A dreadful thought occurred to me. ‘Eric – is your mother all right?’
For a moment, he said nothing. Then he looked up and smiled at me. It was a bleak little wavery smile, that made him look both very old and very like the schoolboy I knew.
‘Eric?’ I said.
He shook his head. Then he started to cry.
It was a stroke, the doctor had said. A kind of mercy, I suppose. Eric’s mother, Margery – whom I recalled from boyhood as a cheery, maternal type, with a beehive hairdo of frankly impressive proportions and a ten-a-day cigarette habit – had dwindled over the years into a tiny, rasping Tinkerbell, growing increasingly distant and fey until she had fully retreated into the snowbank of dementia, recognizing her son only on alternate days, and talking to people on the TV.
‘I put her to bed on Monday night,’ said Eric in a colourless voice. ‘And in the morning she was gone. It must have been quick. My room’s next door, but I never heard a thing.’
How very like him, I thought, to keep this a secret from everyone. Four days, he’d hidden it from all his friends at St Oswald’s – St Oswald’s, the place where everyone knows everything about everyone. Four days, he’d hidden it from me, his oldest friend, his confidant. Four days, I’d thought he was sulking over that idiotic gnome, when actually—
‘Eric, I’m so sorry,’ I said.
His tears had already vanished into the map of his haggard face. ‘I’m not. I did what I could. Now it’s my turn to live my life.’ It was almost exactly the tone he’d adopted when he told me he was leaving to work at King Henry’s Grammar School; almost exactly the tone with which he’d refused to speak for Harry when I was a character witness. Stubborn; bullish; but underneath, obscurely lost and yes – afraid.
‘When yours went so soon, I was jealous,’ he said. ‘Mine took over twenty years. I never put her in a home – I couldn’t bear it – but all the same. You start to think they’ll outlive you; that even when there’s nothing left, they’ll still be there, like the Albatross, just a parcel of feathers and bones, suffocating you with guilt.’
His voice had risen a little; I looked to see if anyone had heard. But the Common Room was almost empty, except for a group of Games staff talking around a noticeboard, and Robbie Roach, the historian, reading the Daily Mirror with a look of vacuous absorption. I’d missed Assembly, I realized. I hadn’t even heard the bell. Still, my boys were used to dealing with my infrequent absences: Sutcliff or Allen-Jones would have already taken the register, and they would have gone down to Chapel alone, in more or less orderly fashion.
‘Eric, don’t.’ I touched his arm. We Tweed Jackets don’t tend to be of the touchy-feely persuasion, but sometimes one has to force oneself to make the comforting gesture. ‘It’s natural to feel this way. I did when Mother died.’
He nodded. ‘I know. Survivor’s guilt.’
That word again. Survivor. As if bereavement were a shipwreck. And maybe that’s what it feels like, for people like me and Eric Scoones, clinging to St Oswald’s as if it’s the only thing still left afloat.
‘I’ve been going through her things,’ Eric went on. ‘It’s appalling. So many boxes of papers and clothes. I’m going to have to get someone in. You know, one of those house clearance firms. God knows where it will all end up. You see this stuff at garage sales. Personal things. Photographs. Sometimes, I just feel like setting fire to the whole house.’
‘I’ll help you,’ I said. ‘Go through them, I mean. I’m drawing the line at arson.’
I thought the flicker of a smile passed over his face. He said: ‘I thought I could take them to the bonfire in the park. Just dump them on the pile and leave. Let bygones be bygones.’
I nodded. ‘That’s a good idea.’
‘All right. We’ll do it together.’
Looking back at it now, it seems such a quiet moment. An island of tranquillity on our turbulent
journey. Two old Ozzies side by side, drinking tea in the Common Room. Now it looks like a scene viewed through the lens of a camera obscura; perfect in every detail, and yet impossibly distant. Looking back at it now, it looks like a scene from another life; perhaps the life we could have lived if things had somehow been different. If I had gone straight home after School, instead of going to Eric’s house; if I’d spoken to Winter; if I’d found Harry’s box in time; if I’d seen what was under my nose, instead of chasing phantoms—
I’m getting old. That’s what it is. Old and none too quick off the mark. But I’ve never been what you’d call quick; always a bit of a plodder. The tortoise to old Eric’s hare – and yet we got there in the end. Stouthearted boys with sharp swords win glittering prizes. But what is the prize for Straitley? And do I really want to know?
7
November 2005
Dear Mousey,
It didn’t take Johnny long to hear the sad news about Poodle. He knows all kinds of people, including the Chief Inspector and the Head of South Yorkshire Police. And he’d kept tabs on both of us, just as he had on Becky Price. Sun Tzu says: Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer. That’s good advice, Mousey. I’ve followed it all my life.
He phoned me – finally – from the pub. I could tell from all the background noise. Besides, he wouldn’t have phoned me from home, in case his wife overheard him. Probably the Scholar, I thought. It’s pretty close to St Oswald’s.
Johnny had been drinking; I could tell that from his voice. He pretends not to drink much, as a rule; but when he does, he gets angry.
‘David, what did you do?’ he said, by means of introduction. ‘I thought you said you wouldn’t do – those things – any more.’
Well, that was the arrangement. We made it several years ago. I was to stay out of Liz’s way and remove myself from Survivors; they were to pay me a salary for services to the movement. That, along with my secondary regular source of income, should have been more than enough to keep me out of trouble for pretty much the rest of my life. But Poodle had threatened the status quo. My actions were purely a reaction to that.