Gentlemen and Players

1

The summer of my father’s breakdown was the hottest in remembered history. At first it cheered him, as if this were a return to the legendary summers of his childhood, during which, if I was to believe him, he spent the happiest days of his life. Then, as the sun continued remorseless and the grass on St. Oswald’s lawns veered from yellow to brown, he soured and began to fret.

The lawns were his responsibility, of course; and it was one of his duties to maintain them. He set up sprinklers to water the grass, but the area to be covered was too large to be dealt with in this way, and he was obliged to restrict his attentions to the cricket pitch only, while the remainder of the lawns grew bald under the sun’s hot and lidless eye. But that was only one of my father’s concerns. The graffiti artist had struck again, this time in Technicolor; a mural, fully six feet square, on the side of the Games Pavilion.

My father spent two days scrubbing it off, then another week repainting the pavilion, and swore that next time, he’d give the little bastard the thrashing of his life. Still the culprit eluded him; twice more, spray-paintings appeared in and around St. Oswald’s, crudely colorful, artistic in their way, both of them featuring caricatures of Masters. My father began to watch the school at night, lying in wait behind the pavilion with a twelve-pack of beers, but still there was no sign of the guilty party, although how he managed to avoid detection was a mystery to John Snyde.

Then there were the mice. Every large building has vermin—St. Oswald’s more than most—but since the end of the summer term, mice had infested the corridors in unusually large numbers. Even I saw them occasionally, especially around the Bell Tower, and I knew that their breeding would have to be checked; poison laid down and the dead mice removed before the new term began and the parents had chance to complain.

It incensed my father. He was convinced that boys had left food in their lockers; blamed the carelessness of the school cleaners; spent days opening and checking every locker in the school with mounting rage—but no success.

Then there were the dogs. The hot weather affected them as it did my father, making them lethargic by day and aggressive in the evenings. By night their owners—who had usually omitted to walk them in the sweltering daytime—now loosed them on the waste ground at the back of St. Oswald’s, and they ran in packs there, barking and tearing up the grass. They had no respect for boundaries; despite my father’s attempts to keep them out, they would squeeze through the fence into St. Oswald’s playing fields and shit on the newly sprinkled cricket pitch. They seemed to have an instinct for choosing the spot that would annoy my father most; and in the mornings he would have to drag himself around the fields with his pooper-scooper, arguing furiously with himself and chugging at a can of flat beer.

Infatuated as I was with Leon, it took me some time to understand—and even longer to care—that John Snyde was losing his mind. I had never been very close to my father, nor had I ever found him easy to read. Now his face was a perpetual slab, its most common expression one of bewildered rage. Once, perhaps, I had expected something more. But this was the man who had thought to solve my social problems with karate lessons. Faced with this infinitely more delicate situation, what could I possibly hope from him now?

Dad, I’m in love with a boy called Leon.

I didn’t think so.

All the same, I tried. He’d been young once, I told myself. He’d been in love, in lust, whatever. I brought him beer from the fridge; made tea; sat for hours in front of his favorite TV shows (Knight Rider, The Dukes of Hazzard) in the hope of something other than blankness. But John Snyde was sinking fast. Depression enfolded him like a crazy quilt; his eyes reflected nothing but the colors from the screen. Like the rest of them, he barely saw me; at home, as at St. Oswald’s, I had become the Invisible Man.

Then, two weeks into that hot summer holiday, a double catastrophe struck. The first was my own fault; opening a window onto the roof of the school I managed to trip the burglar alarm, and it sounded. My father reacted with unexpected speed, and I was nearly caught in the act. As it was, I got back to the house and was just about to replace the passkeys, when along came my father, and saw me with the keys in my hand.

I tried to bluff my way out of it. I’d heard the alarm, I said; and noticing that he had forgotten the keys, had been on my way to deliver them. He didn’t believe me. He had been jumpy that day, and he’d already suspected the keys were missing. I had no doubt I was in for it now. There was no way out of the house except past my father, and from the expression on his face, I knew I didn’t have a chance.

It wasn’t the first time he’d hit me, of course. John Snyde was the champion of the roundhouse punch, a blow which connected maybe three times out of ten and which felt like being hit with a petrified log. Usually I dodged, and by the time he saw me again he had sobered up, or forgotten why I had angered him in the first place.

This time was different. First, he was sober. Second, I had committed the unforgivable offense, a trespass against St. Oswald’s; an open challenge to the Head Porter. For a moment I saw it in his eyes; his trapped rage; his frustration; it was the dogs, the graffiti, the bald patches on the lawn; it was the kids who pointed at him and called him names; it was the monkey-faced boy; it was the unspoken contempt of people like the Bursar and the New Head. I don’t know how many times he punched me, but by the end of it my nose was bleeding, my face was bruised, I was crouching in a corner with my arms over my head, and he was standing over me with a dazed expression on his big face, his hands outspread like a stage murderer’s.

“My God. Oh my God. Oh my God.”

He was talking to himself, and I was too preoccupied with my busted nose to care, but at last I finally dared to lower my arms. My stomach hurt, and I felt as if I was about to be sick, but I managed to keep the feeling at bay.

My father had moved away and was sitting at the table, his head in his hands. “Oh God. I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” he repeated, though whether this was addressed to me or to the Almighty, I could not tell. He did not look at me as I slowly stood up. Instead he spoke into his hands, and although I kept my distance, knowing how volatile he could be, I sensed that something had broken in him.

“I’m sorry,” he said, now shaken by sobs. “I can’t take it, kid. I just can’t—fucking—take it.” And with that he finally brought it out, the last and most terrible blow of that miserable afternoon, and as I listened, first in astonishment, then in growing horror, I realized that I was going to be sick after all, and rushed out into the sunlight, where St. Oswald’s marched interminably across the blue horizon and the sun trepanned my forehead and the scorched grass smelled like Cinnabar and all the time the stupid birds sang and sang and would not stop singing.

2

I suppose I should have guessed. It was my mother. Three months ago she had begun to write to him again, in vague terms at first, then in more and more detail. My father had not told me of her letters, but in retrospect, their arrival must have coincided more or less with my first meeting with Leon and the beginning of my father’s decline.

“I didn’t want to tell you, kid. I didn’t want to think about it. I thought that if I just ignored it, it might just go away. Leave us both alone.”

“Tell me what?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Tell me what?”

He told me then, still sobbing, as I wiped my mouth and listened to the idiot birds. For three months he had tried to hide it from me; at a single blow I understood his rages, his renewed drinking, his sullenness, his irrational, homicidal changes of mood. Now he told me everything; still holding his head in his hands, as if it might break open with the effort, and I listened with increasing horror as he staggered through his tale.

Life, it seemed, had been kinder to Sharon Snyde than it had to the rest of the family. She had married young, giving birth to me only a few weeks before her seventeenth birthday, and she had been just twenty-five when she left us for good. Like my father, Sharon was fond of clichés, and I gathered that there had been a great deal of hand-wringing psychobabble in her letters; apparently she needed to find out who she was, conceded that there were faults on both sides, that she had been in a bad place emotionally and claimed a number of similar excuses for her desertion.

But she had changed, she said; finally, she had grown up. It made us sound like a toy she had outgrown, a tricycle perhaps, once loved, but now rather ridiculous. I wondered if she still wore Cinnabar, or whether she had grown out of that too.

In any case she had remarried, to a foreign student she had met in a bar in London, and had moved to Paris to be with him. Xavier was a wonderful man, and both of us would really like him. In fact she would love us to meet him; he was an English teacher in a lycée in Marne-la-Vallée; was keen on sports; adored children.

And that brought her to her next point; although she and Xavier had tried and tried, they had never been able to have a child. And although Sharon had not had the courage to write to me herself, she had never forgotten her Munchkin, her sweetheart, or let a single day go by without thinking of me.

Finally, Xavier had been convinced. There was plenty of room in their apartment for three; I was a bright kid and would pick up the language with no difficulty; best of all I would have a family again, a family that cared, and money to make up for everything the years had denied me.

I was appalled. Almost five years had passed; and in that time the desperate longing I had once felt for my mother had moved toward indifference and beyond. The thought of seeing her again—of the reconciliation for which she apparently dreamed—now filled me with a dull and cringing embarrassment. I could see her now, with my altered perspective; Sharon Snyde, now with a new, cheap lacquer coating of sophistication, offering me a new, cheap, ready-made life in exchange for my years of suffering. The only problem was, I no longer wanted it.

“You do, kid,” said my father. His violence had given way to a mawkish self-pity that offended me almost as much. I was not fooled. It was the banal sentimentality of the hooligan with MUM and DAD tattooed across his bleeding knuckles; the thug’s indignation over some child molester in the news; the tears of the tyrant at a run-over dog. “Ah, kid, you do. It’s a chance, see, another chance. Me? I’d take her back tomorrow if I could. I’d take her back today.”

“Well I wouldn’t,” I said. “I’m happy here.”

“Yeah. Happy. When you could have all that—”

“All what?”

“Paris, and that. Money. A life.”

“I’ve got a life,” I said.

“And money.”

“She can keep her money. We’ve got enough.”

“Yeah. All right.”

“I mean it, Dad. Don’t let her win. I want to stay here. You can’t make me—”

“I said all right.”

“Promise?”

“Yeah.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

But I noticed then that he would not meet my eye, and that night when I took out the rubbish I found the kitchen bin filled with scratch card stubs—twenty of them, maybe more; Lotto and Striker and Winner Takes All!—shining like Christmas trimmings among the tea leaves and spent tin cans.

3

The Sharon Snyde problem was the culmination of all the blows that summer had dealt me. From her letters, which my father had kept from me but which I now read with growing horror, her plans were well advanced. In principle Xavier had agreed to an adoption; Sharon had done some research into schools; she had even been in touch with our local social services, who had relayed such information—concerning my school attendance, academic progress, and general attitude to life—as would strengthen her case against my father.

Not that she needed it; after years of struggling, John Snyde had finally given in. He rarely washed; rarely went out except to the chip shop or the Chinese takeaway; spent most of our money on scratch cards and booze; and during the next couple of weeks, became increasingly withdrawn.

At any other time I might have welcomed the freedom his depression gave me. Suddenly I could go out as late as I wanted, and no one questioned where I had been. I could go to the cinema; to the pub. I could take my keys (I’d finally had a set of duplicates made after that last disastrous episode) and roam St. Oswald’s whenever I wanted. Not that I did much of that, however. Without my friend, most of the usual pastimes had lost their appeal, and I rapidly abandoned them in favor of hanging out (if you could call it that) with Leon and Francesca.

Every pair of lovers needs a stooge. Someone to keep watch; a convenient third party; an occasional chaperone. I was sickened, but I was necessary; and I nursed my breaking heart in the knowledge that for once, for however brief a time, Leon needed me.

We had a shack (a “clubhouse,” Leon called it) in the wood beyond St. Oswald’s playing fields. We had built it off the path, on the remains of someone else’s long-abandoned den, and it was a neat little place, well camouflaged, with half-log walls and a roof of thick pine branches. It was there that we went, I keeping watch, smoking and trying not to listen to the sounds that came from the little shack behind me.

At home, Leon played it cool. Every morning I would call for them on my bike, Mrs. Mitchell would pack us a picnic, and we would make for the woods. It looked quite innocent—my presence made it so—and no one guessed at those languid hours under the leaf-canopy, the muted laughter from inside the shack, the glimpses I had of them together, of his naked rye-brown back and sweetly dappled buttocks in the shadows.

Those were the good days; on bad days Leon and Francesca simply slipped away, laughing, into the woods, leaving me feeling stupid and useless as they ran. We were never a threesome. There was Leon-and-Francesca; an exotic hybrid, subject to violent mood swings, to fierce enthusiasms, to astonishing cruelty; and then there was me; the dumb, the adoring, the eternally dependable stooge.

Francesca was never entirely happy at my presence. She was older than I was—maybe fifteen. No virgin, from what I could tell—that’s what Catholic school does to you—and already she was besotted with Leon. He played on that; spoke gently; made her laugh. It was all a pose; she knew nothing about him. She had never seen him throw Peggy Johnsen’s trainers across the telegraph wire, or steal records from the shop in town, or pitch ink-bombs over the playground wall onto some Sunnybanker’s clean shirt. But he told her things he’d never told me; talked about music and Nietzsche and his passion for astronomy, while I walked unseen behind them with the picnic basket, hating them both but unable to leave.

Well of course I hated her. There was no justification. She was polite enough to me—the real nastiness always came from Leon himself. But I hated their whispers; that shared heads-together laughter that excluded me and ringed them with intimacy.

Then it was the touching. They were always touching. Not just kissing, not making love, but a thousand little touches; a hand on the shoulder; a brush of knee against knee; her hair on his cheek like silk snagging Velcro. And I could feel them, every one; like static in the air; stinging me, making me electric, making me combustible.

It was a delight worse than any torture. After a week of playing gooseberry to Leon and Francesca, I was ready to scream with boredom, and yet at the same time my heart pounded with a desperate rhythm. I dreaded our outings but lay awake every night, going over every small detail with agonizing care. It was like a disease. I smoked more than I wanted to; I bit my nails until they bled. I stopped eating; my face developed an ugly rash; every step I took felt like walking on glass.

The worst was that Leon knew. He couldn’t have failed to see it; played me like a tomcat showing off his mouse, with the same carefree cruelty.

Look! Look what I got! Watch me!

“So what d’you think?” A brief moment out of earshot—Francesca behind us, picking flowers or having a pee, I can’t remember which.

“What about?”

“Frankie, you moron. What do you think?”

Early days; still stunned by developments. I flushed. “She’s nice.”

“Nice.” Leon grinned.

“Yeah.”

“You‘d have some, wouldn’t you? You’d have some, given half a chance?” His eyes were gleaming with malice.

I shook my head. “Dunno,” I said, not meeting his gaze.

“Dunno? What are you, Pinchbeck, a queer or something?”

“Fuck off, Leon.” The flush deepened. I looked away.

Leon watched me, still grinning. “Come on, I’ve seen you. I’ve seen you watching when we were in the clubhouse. You never talk to her. Never say a word. But you do look, don’t you? Look and learn, right?”

He thought I wanted her, I realized with a jolt; he thought I wanted her for myself. I almost laughed. He was so wrong, so cosmically, hilariously wrong. “Look, she’s okay,” I said. “Just—not my type, that’s all.”

“Your type?” But the edge had gone from his voice now. His laughter was infectious. He yelled, “Hey, Frankie! Pinchbeck says you’re not his type!” then he turned to me and touched my face, almost intimately, with the tips of his fingers. “Give it five years, mate,” he said with mocking sincerity. “If they haven’t dropped by then, see me.”

And then he was off, running through the wood with his hair flying out behind him and the grass whipping crazily against his bare ankles. Not to escape me, not this time; but simply running for the sheer exuberance of being alive, and fourteen, and randy as hell. To me he looked almost insubstantial, half-disintegrated in the light-and-shade from the leaf-canopy, a boy of air and sunshine, an immortal, beautiful boy. I could not keep up; I followed at a distance with Francesca protesting behind and Leon running ahead, shouting and running in great impossible bounds across the white hemlock-mist into the darkness.

I remember that moment so very clearly. A fragment of pure joy, like a shard of dream, untouched by logic or events. In that moment I could believe we would live forever. Nothing mattered; not my mother; not my father; not even Francesca. I had glimpsed something, there in the woods, and though I could never hope to keep up with it, I knew it would stay with me forever.

“I love you, Leon,” I whispered as I struggled through the weeds. And that, for the moment, was more than enough.

4

It was hopeless, I knew. Leon would never see me as I saw him, or feel anything for me but kindly contempt. And yet I was happy, in my way, with the crumbs of his affection; a slap on the arm, a grin, a few words—You’re all right, Pinchbeck—were enough to lift me, sometimes for hours. I was not Francesca; but soon, I knew, Francesca would be back at her convent school, and I—I—

Well, that was the big question, wasn’t it? In the fortnight that had followed my father’s revelation, Sharon Snyde had phoned every other night. I had refused to talk to her, locking myself in my room. Her letters too remained unanswered, her presents unacknowledged.

But the adult world cannot be shut out forever. However high I turned up my radio, however many hours I spent away from home, I could not escape Sharon’s machinations.

My father, who could perhaps have saved me, was a spent force; drinking beers and shoveling pizza in front of the television while his duties remained undone and my time—my precious time—ran out. Dear Munchkin, Did you like the clothes I sent you? I wasn’t sure what size to buy, but your father says you’re small for your age. I hope I got it right. I do so want things to be perfect when we meet again. I can’t believe you’re going to be thirteen. It won’t be long, now, will it, darling? Your plane ticket should arrive in the next few days. Are you looking forward to your visit as much as I am? Xavier is very excited to be meeting you at last, even though he’s a bit nervous too. I expect he’s afraid of being left out, while we catch up on the last five years! Your loving mother,Sharon

It was impossible. She believed it, you see; really believed that nothing had changed, that she could pick up our life where she had left it; that I could be her Munchkin, her darling, her little dress-up doll. Worse still, my father believed it. Wanted it, encouraged it in some perverse way, as if by letting me go he might somehow alter his own course, like ballast thrown from a sinking ship.

“Give it a chance.” Conciliatory now, an indulgent parent with a recalcitrant child. He had not raised his voice since the day he struck me. “Give it a chance, kid. You might even enjoy yourself.”

“I’m not going. I won’t see her.”

“I tell you. You’ll like Paris.”

“I won’t.”

“You’ll get used to it.”

“I fucking won’t. Anyway, it’s just a visit. I’m not going to live there or anything.”

Silence.

“I said it’s just a visit.”

Silence.

“Dad?”

Oh, I tried to encourage him. But something in him was broken. Aggression and violence had given way to indifference. His weight increased still further; he was careless with his keys; the lawns grew ragged with neglect; the cricket pitch, denied its daily dose of the sprinklers, grew brown and bare. His lethargy—his failure—seemed designed to ensure to remove any choice I might still have had between remaining in England and embracing the new life Sharon and Xavier had planned so carefully on my behalf.

And so I was torn between my loyalty to Leon and the increasing need to cover for my father. I took to watering the cricket pitch at night; I even tried to mow the lawns. But the Mean Machine had ideas of its own, and I only succeeded in scalping the grass, which made it worse than ever, whilst the cricket pitch, despite my best efforts, refused to flourish.

It was inevitable that sooner or later, someone would notice. One Sunday I came home from the woods to find Pat Bishop in our living room, sitting uncomfortably on one of the good chairs, and my father, on the sofa, facing him. I could almost feel the static in the air. He turned as I came in; I was about to apologize and leave at once, but the look on Bishop’s face stopped me dead. I saw guilt there—and pity, and anger—but most of all I saw profound relief. It was the look of a man willing to seize upon any diversion to get away from an unpleasant scene, and though his smile was as broad as ever and his cheeks were just as pink as he greeted me, I was not fooled for a moment.

I wondered who had made the complaint. A neighbor; a passerby; a member of staff. A parent, perhaps, wanting his money’s worth. There were certainly plenty of things to complain about. The school itself has always attracted attention. It must be beyond reproach at all times. Its servants too must be beyond reproach; there is enough resentment between St. Oswald’s and the rest of the town without giving extra grist to the rumor mill. A Porter knows this; that is why St. Oswald’s has Porters.

I turned to my father. He would not look at me but kept his eyes on Bishop, who was already halfway to the door. “It wasn’t my fault,” he said. “I—we’ve been going through a bit of a rough patch, me and the kid. You tell them, sir. They’ll listen to you.”

Bishop’s smile—quite humorless now—could have spanned an acre. “I don’t know, John. You’re on a final warning. After that other business—hitting a lad, John—”

My father tried to stand. It took an effort; I saw his face, soft with distress, and felt my insides crawl with shame. “Please, sir—”

Bishop saw it too. His big frame filled the doorway. For a second his eyes rested on me and I saw pity in them, but not a glimmer of recognition, though he must have seen me at St. Oswald’s more than a dozen times. Somehow, that—his failure to see—was worse than anything else. I wanted to speak up, to say: Sir, don’t your ecognize me? It’s me, Pinchbeck. You gave me two House points once, remember, and told me to report for the cross-country team!

But it was impossible. I had fooled him too well. I had thought them so superior, the St. Oswald’s Masters; but here was Bishop looking flushed and sheepish, just as Mr. Bray had looked, the day I brought him down. What help could he give us? We were alone; and only I knew it.

“Sit tight, John. I’ll do what I can.”

“Thank you, sir.” He was shaking now. “You’re a friend.”

Bishop put a large hand on my father’s shoulder. He was good; his voice was warm and hearty, and he was still smiling. “Chin up, man. You can do it. With a bit of luck you’ll have it all in order by September, and no one need know any better. But no more messing about, eh? And John”—he swatted my father, in friendly fashion, on the arm, as if he were patting an overweight Labrador—“stay off the juice, won’t you? One more strike, and even I won’t be able to help you.”

To some extent, Bishop kept his word. The complaint was dropped—or at least shelved for the present. Bishop dropped by every few days to ask him how he was, and my father seemed to rally a little in response. More importantly, the Bursar had hired a handyman of sorts; a problem case called Jimmy Watt, who was supposed to take over some of the more irksome of the Porter’s duties, leaving John Snyde free to cope with the real work.

It was our last hope. Without his Porter’s job, I knew he had no chance against Sharon and Xavier. But he had to want to keep me, I thought; and for that, I had to be what he wanted me to be. And so, in my turn, I worked on my father. I watched football on television; ate fish-and-chips from newspaper; jettisoned my books; volunteered for every household chore. At first he watched me with suspicion, then bemusement, and finally, a sullen kind of approval. The fatalism that had first afflicted him when he learned of my mother’s situation seemed to erode a little; he spoke with bitter sarcasm of her Paris lifestyle, her fancy college-boy husband, her assumption that she could re-enter his life on whatever terms she damn well pleased.

Emboldened, I fed him the notion of thwarting her plans; of showing her who was boss; of playing along with her pathetic ambitions only to frustrate her with his final, decisive master stroke. It appealed to his nature; it gave him direction; he had always been a man’s man, with a sour distrust of the machinations of women.

“They’re all at it,” he told me one time, forgetting who I was as he launched into one of his frequent rants. “The bitches. All smiles one minute, and the next they’re reaching for the kitchen knife to stab you in the back. Get away with it too—it’s in the papers every day. I mean, what can you do? Big strong man—poor little girlie—I mean it stands to reason he must’ve done something to her, right? Spousal abuse or whatever the fuck—and the next thing you know there she is, in court, fluttering her eyelashes, getting custody of kids and cash and God knows what else—”

“Not this kid,” I said.

“Ah, come on,” said John Snyde. “You can’t mean it. Paris, a good school, a new life—”

“I told you,” I said. “I want to stay here.”

“But why?” He stared at me befuddled, like a dog denied a walk. “You could have anything you wanted. Clothes, records—”

I shook my head. “I don’t want them,” I said. “She can’t just come back here after five bloody years and try to buy me with that French bloke’s money.” He was watching me now, a crease between his blue eyes. “I mean, you’ve been there all the time,” I said. “Looking out for me. Doing your best.” He nodded then, a tiny movement, and I could tell he was paying attention. “We’ve been all right, haven’t we, Dad? What do we need them for anyway?”

There was a silence. I could tell that my words had struck a chord. “You’ve been all right,” he said. I wasn’t sure whether or not he meant it as a question.

“We’ll manage,” I said. “We always have. Hit first and hit fast. Never give up, eh, Dad? Never let the bastards grind you down?”

Another pause, long enough to drown in. Then he laughed, a startling, sunny, young laugh that took me by surprise. “All right, kid,” he said. “We’ll give it a try.”

And so, in hope, we entered August. My birthday was in three weeks’ time; term started in four. Ample time for my father to restore the grounds to their original perfection, to complete the maintenance work, to set traps for the mice, and to repaint the Games Pavilion in time for September. My optimism returned. There was some justification; my father had not forgotten our conversation in the lounge, and this time he really seemed to be making an effort.

It made me hopeful, even a little ashamed at how I’d treated him in the past. I’d had my problems with John Snyde, I thought; but at least he was honest. He’d done his best. He hadn’t abandoned me, then tried to bribe me back to his side. In the light of my mother’s actions, even the football matches and the karate lessons seemed less ridiculous to me now, and more like clumsy but sincere overtures of friendship.

And so I helped him as best I could; I cleaned the house; I washed his clothes; I even forced him to shave. I was obedient, almost affectionate. I needed him to keep this job; it was my only weapon against Sharon; my ticket to St. Oswald’s, and to Leon.

Leon. Strange, isn’t it, how one obsession grows from another? At first it was St. Oswald’s; the challenge; joy of subterfuge; the need to belong; to be someone more than the child of John and Sharon Snyde. Now it was just Leon; to be with Leon; to know him, possess him in ways I could not yet understand. There was no single reason for my choice. Yes, he was attractive. He had been kind too in his careless way; he had included me; he had given me the means of revenge against Bray, my tormentor. And I had been lonely; vulnerable; desperate; weak.

But I knew it was none of that. From the moment I first saw him, standing in the Middle Corridor with his hair in his eyes and the end of his scissored tie poking out like an impudent tongue, I had already known. A filter had lifted from the world. Time had separated into before-Leon and after-Leon; and now nothing could ever be the same.

Most adults assume that the feelings of adolescence don’t count, somehow, and that those searing passions of rage and hate and embarrassment and horror and hopeless, abject love are something you grow out of, something hormonal, a practice run for the Real Thing. It wasn’t. At thirteen, everything counts; there are sharp edges on everything, and all of them cut. Some drugs can re-create that intensity of feeling, but adulthood blunts the edges, dims the colors and taints everything with reason, rationalization, or fear. At thirteen I had no use for any of those. I knew what I wanted; and I was ready, with the single-mindedness of adolescence, to fight for it to the death. I would not go to Paris. Whatever it took, I would not leave.

5

St. Oswald’s Grammar School for Boys

Monday, 25th October

On the whole, a poor start to the new half-term. October has turned menacing, tearing the leaves from the golden trees and showering the Quad with conkers. Windy weather excites the boys; wind and rain means excited boys in the form room over break; and after what happened last time I left them to their own devices, I dare not leave them unsupervised even for a moment. No break for Straitley, then; not even a cup of tea; and my resulting temper was so bad that I snapped at everyone, including my Brodie Boys, who can usually make me laugh even at the worst of times.

As a result the boys kept their heads down, in spite of the windy weather. I put a couple of fourth-formers in detention for failing to hand in work, but apart from that I hardly had to raise my voice. Perhaps they sensed something—some whiff of prestrike ozone in the air—that warned them that now was not the time for a display of high spirits.

The Common Room, as I understand, has been the scene of a number of small, sour skirmishes. Some unpleasantness about appraisals; a computer breakdown in the office; a quarrel between Pearman and Scoones concerning the new French syllabus. Roach has lost his credit card and blames Jimmy for leaving the Quiet Room door unlocked after school; Dr. Tidy has decreed that as of this term, tea and coffee (hitherto provided free of charge) must be paid for to the tune of £3.75 a week; and Dr. Devine, in his capacity as Health and Safety representative, has officially called for a smoke detector in the Middle Corridor (in the hope of driving me from my smoker’s den in the old Book Room).

On the bright side, there has been no immediate comeback from Strange over Pooley and his torn blazer. I have to say that surprises me a little; I’d have expected that second warning to have arrived in my pigeonhole by now, and can only suppose that Bob has either forgotten the incident altogether or dismissed it as end-of-term foolishness and decided not to take it further.

Besides, there are other, more important things to deal with than one boy’s ripped lining. The offensive Light has lost his driving license, or so Kitty tells me, following some kind of an incident in town over the weekend. There’s more to it than that, of course, but my enforced restriction to the Bell Tower meant that for most of the day I was out of the mainstream of Common Room gossip, and therefore had to rely on the boys for information.

As usual, however, the rumor mill has been at work. One source declared that Light had been arrested following a police tip-off. Another said that Light had been ten times over the legal limit; yet another, that he had been stopped with St. Oswald’s boys in the car with him, and that one of them had actually been at the wheel.

I have to say that at first, none of it troubled me overmuch. Every now and then you come across a teacher like Light, an arrogant buffoon, who has managed to fool the system and enters the profession expecting an easy job with long holidays. As a rule they don’t last long. If the boys don’t finish them off, something else usually does, and life goes on without much of a blip.

As the day wore on, however, I began to realize that there was something more afoot than Light’s traffic offenses. Gerry Grachvogel’s class next to mine was unusually noisy; during my free period I stuck my head around the door and saw most of 3S, including Knight, Jackson, Anderton-Pullitt, and the usual suspects, apparently talking amongst themselves whilst Grachvogel sat staring out of the window with an expression of such abstracted misery that I curbed my original impulse—which was to interfere—and simply returned to my own room without a word.

When I got back, Chris Keane was waiting for me. “I didn’t by any chance leave a notebook here, did I?” he asked as I came in. “It’s a little red leather book. I keep all my ideas in it.”

For once I thought he was looking less than calm; recalling some of his more subversive comments, I thought I could understand why.

“I found a notebook in the Common Room before half-term,” I told him. “I thought you’d reclaimed it.”

Keane shook his head. I wondered whether or not I should tell him I’d glanced inside, then, seeing his furtive expression, decided against.

“Lesson plans?” I suggested innocently.

“Not quite,” said Keane.

“Ask Miss Dare. She shares my room. Maybe she saw it and put it away.”

I thought Keane looked slightly worried at that. As well he might, knowing the contents of that incriminating little book. Still, he seemed cool enough about it and simply said, “No problem. I’m sure it’ll turn up sooner or later.”

Come to think of it, things have had rather a habit of disappearing in the last few weeks. The pens, for instance; Keane’s notebook; Roach’s credit card. It happens occasionally; the wallet I could understand, but I really couldn’t see why anyone would want to steal an old St. Oswald’s Jubilee mug, or indeed my form register, which has still not resurfaced—unless it is simply to annoy me, in which case it has more than succeeded. I wondered what other small and insignificant items had disappeared in recent days, and whether the disappearances might be in some way related.

I said as much to Keane. “Well, it’s a school,” he said. “Things vanish in schools.”

Perhaps, I thought; but not St. Oswald’s.

I saw Keane’s ironic smile as he left the room, almost as if I had spoken aloud.

At the end of school I went back into Grachvogel’s room, hoping to find out what was on his mind. Gerry’s a good enough chap, in his way, not a natural in the class, but a real academic with a real enthusiasm for his subject, and it bothered me to see him looking so under the weather. However, when I stuck my head around his classroom door at four o’clock, he was not there. That too was unusual; Gerry tends to hang around after hours, messing with the computers or preparing his interminable visual aids, and it was certainly the first time I’d ever seen him leave his room unlocked.

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 Boys

Wednesday, 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.”

“Letter?” Sally and Kitty had always been close, I knew; but even so this distress seemed unwarranted. “What letter?”

For a moment she seemed incapable of answering. Then she looked at me through the ruins of her makeup and said in a low voice, “An anonymous letter. About Chris and me.”

“Really?” It took me a while to understand what she was saying. Kitty and Pearman? Pearman and Miss Teague?

I really must be getting old, I thought; I had never suspected. I knew they were friends; that Kitty had been supportive—frequently beyond the call of duty. But now it all came out, though I tried hard to stop it; how they had kept it a secret from Sally, who was ill; how they had hoped to marry someday, and now—now—

I took Kitty to the Common Room; made tea; waited with it for ten minutes outside the ladies‘. Finally Kitty came out, looking pink-eyed and rabbity under a fresh coat of beige powder, saw the tea, and burst into helpless tears again.

I’d never have thought it of Kitty Teague. She’s been at St. Oswald’s for eight years, and I’d never seen her close to this. I offered my handkerchief and held out the tea, feeling awkward and wishing (rather guiltily) for someone more qualified—Miss Dare, perhaps—to take over.

“Are you all right?” (The clumsy gambit of the well-meaning male.)

Kitty shook her head. Of course she wasn’t; I knew that much, but the Tweed Jacket is not known for his savoir-faire with the opposite sex, and I had to say something, after all.

“Do you want me to fetch someone?”

I suppose I was thinking of Pearman; as Head of Department, I thought, the whole thing was really his responsibility. Or Bishop; he’s the one who normally deals with emotional crises among the staff. Or Marlene—yes!—a sudden wave of relief and affection as I remembered the secretary, so efficient on the day of my own collapse, so approachable with the boys. Capable Marlene, who had endured divorce and bereavement without breaking down. She would know what to do; and even if she didn’t, at least she knew the code, without which no male can hope to communicate with a woman in tears.

She was just coming out of Bishop’s office as I arrived at her desk. I suppose I take her for granted, as do the rest of the staff. “Marlene, I wonder if—” I began.

She eyed me with well-feigned severity. “Mr. Straitley.” She always calls me Mr. Straitley, even though she has been Marlene to all members of the teaching staff for years. “I don’t suppose you’ve found that register yet.”

“Alas, no.”

“Hmm. I thought not. So what is it now?”

I explained about Kitty, without giving too many details.

Marlene looked concerned. “It never rains but it pours,” she said wearily. “Sometimes I wonder why I bother with this place, you know. What with Pat running himself into the ground, everyone on hot bricks over the school inspection and now this—”

For a moment she looked so harassed that I felt guilty at having asked her.

“No, it’s all right,” said Marlene, seeing my expression. “You leave it to me. I think your department’s got enough to be dealing with as it is.”

She was right about that. The department was down to myself, Miss Dare, and the League of Nations for most of the day. Dr. Devine was off timetable for administrative purposes; Grachvogel was away (again), and during my free periods this morning I took Tapi’s first-year French class and Pearman’s third-year, plus a routine assessment of one of the freshers—this time, the irreproachable Easy.

Knight was absent, and so I was unable to challenge him about the graffiti on my fence, or about the pen I had discovered at the scene. Instead I wrote a complete account of the incident and delivered one copy to Pat Bishop and a second to Mr. Beard, the Head of IT, who also happens to be Head of the Third Form. I can wait; I have proof of Knight’s activities now, and I look forward to dealing with him in my own time. A pleasure deferred, so to speak.

At break I took Pearman’s corridor duty, and after lunch I supervised his group, Tapi’s, Grachvogel’s, and mine in the Assembly Hall, while outside the rain poured down incessantly and, across the corridor, a steady stream of people filed in and out of the Head’s office throughout the long afternoon.

Then, five minutes before the end of school, Marlene delivered a summons from Pat. I found him in his office, with Pearman, looking stressed. Miss Dare was sitting by the desk; she gave me a sympathetic look as I came in, and I knew we were in for trouble.

“I take it this is about the Knight boy?” In fact I had been surprised not to see him waiting outside Pat’s office; perhaps Pat had already spoken to him, I thought; although by rights no boy should have been questioned before I had had the opportunity to speak to the Second Master.

For a second, Pat’s face was blank. Then he shook his head. “Oh, no. Tony Beard can deal with that. He’s the Head of Year, isn’t he? No, this is about an incident that happened last night. After the meeting.” Pat looked at his hands, always a sign that he was out of his depth. His nails, I saw, were very bad; bitten down almost to the cuticles.

“What incident?” I said.

For a moment he did not meet my eye. “The meeting ended just after six,” he said.

“That’s right,” I told him. “Miss Dare gave me a lift home.”

“I know,” said Pat. “Everyone left at about the same time, except for Miss Teague and Mr. Pearman, who stayed for about another twenty minutes.”

I shrugged. I wondered where he was going with this, and why he was being so formal about it. I looked at Pearman, but there was nothing in his expression to enlighten me.

“Miss Dare says you saw Jimmy Watt on the Lower Corridor as you went out,” said Pat. “He was polishing the floor, waiting to lock up.”

“That’s right,” I said. “Why? What’s happened?”

That might explain Pat’s manner, I thought. Jimmy, like Fallow, was one of Pat’s appointments, and he’d had to put up with a certain amount of criticism about it at the time. Still, Jimmy had always done a reasonable job. No great intellect, to be sure; but he was loyal, and that’s what really counts at St. Oswald’s.

“Jimmy Watt has been dismissed, following the incident last night.”

I didn’t believe it. “What incident?”

Miss Dare looked at me. “Apparently he didn’t check all the classrooms before locking up. Isabelle got shut in somehow, panicked, slipped down the stairs, and broke her ankle. She didn’t get out till six o’clock this morning.”

“Is she all right?”

“Is she ever?”

I had to laugh. It was typical St. Oswald’s farce, and the Second Master’s mournful expression made it even more ridiculous. “Oh, you can laugh,” said Pat in a sharp voice, “but there’s been an official complaint. Health and Safety have got involved.” That meant Devine. “Apparently someone spilt something—oil, she says—on the steps.”

“Oh.” Not so amusing, then. “Surely you can have a word with her?”

“Believe me, I have.” Pat sighed. “Miss Tapi seems to think there was more to it than just a mistake on Jimmy’s part. She seems to think there was deliberate mischief involved. And believe me, she knows her rights.”

Of course she did. Her type always do. Dr. Devine was her Union rep; I guessed that he would already have briefed her on precisely the kind of compensation she could expect. There would be an injury claim; a disability claim (surely no one could expect her to go to work with a broken ankle); plus the negligence claim and the claim for mental distress. You name it, she’d claim it: trauma, backache, chronic fatigue, whatever. I would be covering for her for the next twelve months.

As for the publicity—the Examiner would have a field day with this. Forget Knight. Tapi, with her long legs and expression of martyred bravery, was in another league.

“As if we hadn’t enough to deal with, just before an inspection,” said Pat bitterly. “Tell me, Roy, are there any other little scandals brewing that I should know about?”

8

Friday, 29th October

Dear old Bishop. Funny he should ask. As a matter of fact I know of at least two: one which has already begun to break with the slow inevitability of a tidal wave, and the second coming along nicely.

Literature, I’ve noticed, is filled with comforting drivel about the dying. Their patience; their understanding. My experience is that, if anything, the dying can be as vicious and unforgiving as those they leave so reluctantly behind. Sally Pearman is one of these. On the strength of that single letter (one of my best efforts, I have to say) she has set all the usual clichés into motion; locks changed; solicitor called; kids off to Granny; husband’s clothes discarded on the lawn. Pearman, of course, cannot lie. It’s almost as if he wanted to be found out. That look of misery and relief. Very Catholic. But it comforts him.

Kitty Teague is another matter. There is no one to comfort her now. Pearman, half crushed beneath his masochistic guilt, barely speaks to her; never catches her eye. Secretly, he holds her responsible—she is a woman, after all—and as Sally recedes, sweetened by remorse, into a mist of nostalgia, Kitty knows she will never be able to compete.

She was away from school today. Stress, apparently. Pearman took his classes, but he looks abstracted, and without Kitty to help him, he is dreadfully disorganized. As a result he makes numerous mistakes; fails to turn up to Easy’s appraisal; forgets a lunchtime duty; spends all break looking for a pile of sixth-form literature papers that he has mislaid (they are actually in Kitty’s locker in the Quiet Room; I know because I put them there).

Don’t get me wrong. I have nothing in particular against the man. But I do have to keep moving on. And it’s more efficient to work in departments—in blocks, if you like—than to diffuse my efforts all over the school.

As for my other projects . . . Tapi’s escapade has missed today’s papers. A good sign; it means the Examiner is saving it for the weekend, but the grapevine tells me that she is very distressed, blames the school in general for her ordeal (and Pat Bishop in particular—seems he wasn’t quite sympathetic enough at the crucial time), and expects full Union support and a generous settlement, in or out of court.

Grachvogel was away again. I hear the poor chap’s prone to migraines, but I believe it may be more to do with the disturbing phone calls he has been receiving. Since his evening out with Light and the boys, he’s been looking less than perky. Of course, this is the age of equality—there can be no discrimination on the grounds of race, religion, or gender (ha!)—all the same he knows that to be a homosexual in a boys’ school is to be very vulnerable indeed, and he wonders how he could have given himself away, and to whom.

In normal circumstances he might have approached Pearman for help, but Pearman has troubles of his own, and Dr. Devine, technically his boss and head of department, would never understand. It’s his own fault, really. He should have known better than to hang around with Jeff Light. What was he thinking? Light is far less at risk. He oozes testosterone. Tapi sensed it; although I wonder what she will say when the full story eventually breaks. So far, he has been very supportive of Tapi’s plight; a keen Union man, he enjoys any situation that involves a challenge to the system. Good. But who knows, maybe that too will backfire. With a little help, of course.

And Jimmy Watt? Jimmy has gone for good, to be replaced by a fresh crew of contract cleaners from town. No one really cares about this except the Bursar (the contract cleaners are more expensive, plus they work to rule and know their rights) and possibly Bishop, who has a soft spot for hopeless cases (my father, for example) and would have liked to give Jimmy a second chance. Not so the Head, who managed to get the half-wit off the premises with astonishing (and not-quite-legal) speed (that should make an interesting piece for the Mole, when Tapi fizzles out), and who has remained shut in his office for most of the past two days, communicating only through his intercom and through Bob Strange, the one member of the upper management who remains completely indifferent to these petty disturbances.

As for Roy Straitley, don’t think I have forgotten him. He, most of all, is never far from my thoughts. But his extra duties keep him busy, which is what I need while I enter the next phase of my demolition plan. He is simmering nicely, though; I happened to be in the IT lab after school when I heard his voice in the corridor, and so was able to overhear an interesting conversation between Straitley and Beard regarding (a) Colin Knight and (b) Adrian Meek, the new IT teacher.

“But I didn’t write him a rotten report,” Straitley was protesting. “I sat through his lesson, filled out the form, and took a balanced view. That was it.”

“Poor class control,” said Beard, reading from the appraisal form. “Poor lesson management. Lack of personal appeal? What kind of a balanced view is that?”

There was a pause as Straitley looked at the form. “I didn’t write this,” he said at last.

“Well, it certainly looks like your writing.”

There was another, longer pause. I considered coming out of the IT room then, so that I could see the expression on Straitley’s face, but decided against it. I didn’t want to draw too much attention to myself, especially not at what was soon to be the scene of a crime.

“I didn’t write this,” repeated Straitley.

“Well, who did?”

“I don’t know. Some practical joker.”

“Roy—” Now Beard was beginning to sound uncomfortable. I’ve heard that tone before, the edgy, half-conciliatory tone of one dealing with a possibly dangerous lunatic. “Look, Roy, fair criticism and all that. I know young Meek isn’t the brightest we’ve ever had—”

“No,” said Straitley. “He isn’t. But I didn’t write him a stinker. You can’t file that assessment if I didn’t write it.”

“Of course not, Roy, but—”

“But what?” There was an edge to Straitley’s voice now. He’s never liked dealing with Suits, and I could tell the whole thing annoyed him.

“Well, are you sure you didn’t just—forget what you’d written?”

“What do you mean, forget?”

He paused. “Well, I mean, maybe you were in a hurry, or—”

Behind my hand, I laughed silently. Beard is not the first staff member to have suggested that Roy Straitley is slowing down, to use a Bishop phrase. I’ve planted that seed in a couple of minds already, and there have been enough instances of irrational behavior, chronic forgetfulness, and small things going astray to make the idea plausible. Straitley, of course, has never considered this for a moment.

“Mr. Beard, I may be nearing my Century, but I am far from senility. Now if we could possibly move on to a matter of some importance”—(I wondered what Meek would say when I told him Straitley considered his assessment to be a matter of no importance)—“perhaps you have managed to find time in your busy schedule to read my report on Colin Knight.”

At my terminal, I smiled.

“Ah, Knight,” said Beard weakly.

Ah, Knight.

As I said, I can identify with a boy like Knight. In fact I was nothing like him—I was infinitely tougher, more vicious and more streetwise—but with more money and better parents I might have turned out just the same. There’s a long streak of resentment in Knight that I can use; and his sullenness means that he is unlikely to confide in anyone else until the point of no return has been passed. If wishes were horses, as we used to say when we were kids, then old Straitley would have been stampeded to death years ago. As it is, I have been tutoring Knight (on quite an extracurricular basis), and in this, if nothing else, he is an apt pupil.

It didn’t take much. Nothing at first that could be traced to me; a word here; a push there. “Imagine I’m your form tutor,” I told him as he followed me, puppylike, on my duty rounds. “If you have a problem, and you feel you can’t talk to Mr. Straitley about it, come to me.”

Knight had. Over two weeks I have been subjected to his pathetic complaints, his petty grievances. No one likes him; teachers pick on him; pupils call him “creep” and “loser.” He is miserable all the time, except when rejoicing at some other pupil’s misfortune. In fact he has been instrumental in spreading quite a number of little rumors for me, including a few about poor Mr. Grachvogel, whose absences have been noted and eagerly discussed. When he returns—if he returns—he is likely to find the details of his private life—with whatever embellishments the boys may have added—emblazoned on desks and toilet walls throughout the school.

Most of the time, though, Knight likes to complain. I provide a sympathetic ear; and although by now I can perfectly understand why Straitley loathes the brat, I have to say I’m delighted with my pupil’s progress. In slyness, in sullenness, in sheer unspoken malice, Knight is a natural.

A pity he has to go, really; but as my old dad might have said, you can’t make an omelet without killing people.

9

St. Oswald’s Grammar School for Boys

Friday, 29th October

That ass Beard. That perennial ass. Whoever thought he could make a decent Head of Year? Began by practically saying I was senile over Meek’s idiotic assessment form, then had the temerity to question my judgment on the subject of Colin Knight. Wanted more evidence, if you can believe it. Wanted to know whether I had spoken to the boy.

Spoken to him? Of course I’d spoken to him, and if ever a boy was lying . . . It’s in the eyes, you know; the way they skitter repeatedly to the left-hand corner of the picture, as if there were something there—toilet paper on my shoe, perhaps, or a big puddle they wanted to avoid. It’s in the meek look, the exaggerated response, the succession of honestly, sirs and I swear, sirs, and behind it all, that sneak smug look of knowledge.

Of course I knew all that would end when I produced the pen. I let him talk; swear; swear on his mother’s grave; then out it came, Knight’s pen with Knight’s initials on it, discovered at the scene of the crime.

He gaped. His face fell. We were alone in the Bell Tower. It was lunchtime. It was a crisp, sunny day; the boys were in the yard chasing autumn. I could hear their distant cries, like gulls on the wind. Knight could hear them too, and half turned longingly toward the window.

“Well?” I tried not to be too satisfied. He was only a boy, after all. “It is your pen, isn’t it, Knight?”

Silence. Knight stood with his hands in his pockets, shriveling before my eyes. He knew it was serious, a matter for expulsion. I could see it in his face; the blot on his record; his mother’s disappointment; his father’s anger; the blow to his prospects. “Isn’t it, Knight?”

Silently, he nodded.

I sent him to the Head of Year, but he never got there. Brasenose saw him at the bus stop later that afternoon, but thought nothing of it. A dentist’s appointment, perhaps, or a quick, unsanctioned jaunt to the record shop or the café. No one else remembers seeing him; a lank-haired boy in a St. Oswald’s uniform, carrying a black nylon rucksack and looking as if the world’s troubles had just descended onto his shoulders.

“Oh, I spoke to him all right. He didn’t say much. Not after I produced the pen.”

Beard looked troubled. “I see. And what exactly did you say to the boy?”

“I impressed upon him the error of his ways.”

“Was anyone else present?”

I’d had enough of this. Of course there wasn’t; who else did I think was going to be present, on a windy lunchtime with a thousand boys playing outside? “What’s going on, Beard?” I demanded. “Have the parents complained? Is that it? Am I victimizing the boy again? Or is it that they know full well that their son’s a liar and that it’s only because of St. Oswald’s that I haven’t reported him to the police?”

Beard took a deep breath. “I think we should discuss this somewhere else,” he said uneasily (it was eight o’clock in the morning, and we were on the Lower Corridor, as yet almost deserted). “I wanted Pat Bishop to be here, but he isn’t in his office and I can’t get hold of him on his phone. Oh dear”—at this he tugged at his weak mustache—“I really think further discussion of this should wait until the proper authorities—”

I was about to make a stinging retort about Heads of Year and proper authorities when Meek came in. He gave me a venomous look, then addressed Beard. “Problem in the labs,” he said in his colorless voice. “I think you should have a look.”

Beard looked openly relieved. Computer problems were his field. No unpleasant human contact; no inconsistencies; no lies; nothing but machines to program and decode. I knew that there had been incessant computer problems this week—a virus, so I’m told—with the result that to my delight, e-mail had been completely suspended and Computer Studies relegated to the library for several days.

“Excuse me, Mr. Straitley—” That look again, like a man whose last-minute reprieve has finally come. “Duty calls.”

I found Bishop’s (handwritten) note in my pigeonhole at the end of the lunch break. Not before, I’m afraid, though Marlene tells me she delivered it at registration. But the morning was fraught with problems; Grachvogel absent; Kitty depressed; Pearman pretending nothing was wrong but looking rumpled and pale, with deep shadows under his eyes. I heard from Marlene (who always knows everything) that he slept in school last night; apparently he hasn’t been home since Wednesday, when an anonymous letter addressed to Pearman’s wife exposed his long-term infidelity. Kitty blames herself, says Marlene; feels she has let Pearman down; wonders if it was her fault that the mystery informant learned the truth.

Pearman says not but remains aloof. Just like a man, says Marlene; too busy with his own problems to notice that poor Kitty is completely distraught.

I know better than to comment on this. I don’t take sides. I just hope that Pearman and Kitty will be able to continue to work together after this. I’d hate to lose either of them, especially this year, when so many other things have already gone bad.

There is one small consolation, however. Eric Scoones is a surprising pillar of strength in a world turned suddenly weak. Difficult at the best of times, he comes into his own at the worst, taking over Pearman’s duties without complaint (and with a kind of relish). Of course he would have liked to be Head of Department. Might even have been good at it—though he lacks Pearman’s charm, he is meticulous in all forms of administration. But age has soured him, and it is only in these moments of crisis that I see the real Eric Scoones; the young man I knew thirty years ago; the conscientious, energetic young man; the demon in the classroom; the tireless organizer; the hopeful Young Turk.

St. Oswald’s has a way of eating those things. The energy; the ambition; the dreams. That’s what I was thinking as I sat in the Common Room five minutes before the end of lunch, with an old brown mug in one hand and a stale digestive in the other (Common Room fund; I feel I should be getting my money’s worth, somehow). It’s always crowded at that time, like a railway terminal disgorging passengers to a variety of destinations. The usual suspects in their various seats: Roach, Light (unusually subdued), and Easy, all three getting their extra five minutes with the Daily Mirror before the beginning of afternoon school. Monument asleep; Penny Nation with Kitty in the girls’ corner; Miss Dare, reading a book; young Keane, popping in for a quick breather after his lunchtime duty.

“Oh, sir,” he said, seeing me there, “Mr. Bishop’s been looking for you. I think he sent you a message.”

A message? Probably an e-mail. The fellow never learns.

I found Bishop in his office, squinting at the computer screen with his close-work glasses on. He removed them at once (he is self-conscious about the way he looks, and those pebble spectacles seem more suited to an elderly academic than an ex-rugby player).

“Took your bloody time, didn’t you?”

“I’m sorry,” I said mildly. “I must have missed your message.”

“Bollocks,” said Bishop. “You never remember to check your mail. I’m sick of it, Straitley, I’m sick of having to call you to my office like some member of the lower fifth who never hands in his course work.”

I had to smile. I do like him, you know. He’s not a Suit—though he tries, gods help him—and there is a kind of honesty about him when he’s angry that you’d never find in someone like the Head. “Vere dicis?” I said politely.

“You can cut that out for a start,” said Bishop. “We’re in real shit here, and it’s your bloody fault.”

I looked at him. He wasn’t joking. “What’s the problem? Another complaint?” I suppose I was thinking about Pooley’s blazer again—though surely, Bob Strange would have wanted to deal with that himself.

“Worse than that,” said Pat. “It’s Colin Knight. He’s done a bunk.”

“What?”

Pat glared at me. “Yesterday, after his little run-in with you at lunchtime. Took his bag, went off, and no one—and I mean no one, not his parents, not his friends, not a single bloody soul—has clapped eyes on him since.”