Gentlemen And Players Part 15

I began with Knight.

A pity, in a way; he has been very helpful to me this term, and of course I have nothing personal against the boy, but he would have had to go some time or other, and he knew too much (whether he was aware of it or not) to be allowed to continue.

I was expecting a crisis, of course. Like all artists, I like to provoke, and Straitley's reaction to my little piece of self-expression on his back fence had certainly exceeded expectations. I knew he'd find the pen, too, and leap to the logical conclusion.

As I said, they're so predictable, these St Oswald masters. Push the b.u.t.tons, press the switch and watch them go. Knight was ready; Straitley primed. For a few packs of Camels the Sunnybankers had been prepared to feed an old man's paranoia; I had done the same with Colin Knight. Everything was in place; both protagonists poised for battle. All that remained was the final showdown.

Of course I knew he'd come to me. Imagine I'm your fonri'tutor, I'd said, and he had; on Thursday after lunch, he ran straight to me in tears, poor boy, and told me all about it.

'Now calm down, Colin,' I'd said, maneuvering him into a little-used office off the Middle Corridor. 'What exactly has Mr Straitley accused you of?'

He told me, with a great deal of snot and self-pity.

'I see.'

My heart quickened. It had begun. There was no stopping it now. My gambit had paid off; now all I had to do was to watch as St Oswald's began to tear itself apart, limb by limb.

'What do I do?' He was almost hysterical now, his pinched face prunelike with anxiety. 'He'll tell my mum, he'll call the police, I might even be expelled--' Ah, expulsion. The ultimate dishonour. In the pecking order of terrible consequences, it even takes precedence over parents and the police.

'You won't be expelled,' I said firmly.

'You don't know that!'

'Colin. Look at me.' A pause, Knight shaking his head hysterically. 'Look at me.'

He did, still shaking, and slowly the beginnings of hysteria began to subside.

'Listen to me, Colin,' I said. Short sentences, eye contact and an air of conviction. Teachers use this method; so do doctors, priests and other illusionists. 'Listen carefully. You won't be expelled. Do as I say, come with me and you'll be fine.'

He was waiting for me, as instructed, at the bus stop by the staff car-park. It was ten to four, and already it was getting dark. I'd left my cla.s.s (for once) ten minutes early, and the street was deserted. I stopped the car opposite the bus stop. Knight got in on the pa.s.senger side, his face pallid with terror and hope. 'It's all right, Colin,' 1 told him gently. 'I'm taking you home.'

I didn't plan it quite that way. Really I didn't. Call it foolhardy if you like, but as I pulled out of St Oswald's that afternoon, into a street that was already blurry with thin October rain, I still hadn't quite decided what to do with Colin Knight. On a personal level, of course, I'm a perfectionist. I like to have all the bases covered. Sometimes, however, it's best to rely on pure instinct. Leon taught me that, you know, and I have to admit that some of the best moves I have ever made have been the unplanned ones; the impulsive strokes of genius.

So it was with Colin Knight; and it came to me in a sudden inspiration, as I was pa.s.sing the munic.i.p.al park.

I told you I've always had a soft spot for Hallowe'en. As a child I much preferred it to the common celebrations of Bonfire Night, which I've always vaguely mistrusted, with its candyfloss commercialism, its trollish good cheer in front of the big barbecue. Most of all I mistrusted the Community Bonfire, an annual event held on Bonfire Night, in the local park, allowing the public to congregate en ma.s.se before a conflagration of alarming scale and a mediocre firework display. There is often a funfair, staffed by cynical 'travellers' with an eye for the main chance; a hot-dog stand; a Test Your Strength booth (Every one's a Winner!); a rifle range, with moth-eaten teddies hanging by their necks like trophies; a toffee-apple salesman (the apples squashy and brown beneath the coating of brittle bright-red candy) and a number of pickpockets pushing their sly way through the holiday crowd.

I've always hated this gratuitous display. The noise; the sweat; the rabble; the heat and the sense of violence about to erupt have always repelled me. Believe it or not, I despise violence. Its inelegance more than anything else, I think. Its cra.s.s a nd bludgeoning stupidity. My father loved the Community Bonfire for the same reasons I detested it; and he was never happier than on such occasions, a bottle of beer in one hand, face purple with the heat from the fire, a pair of alien antennae wagging on his head (or it might have been a pair of devil's horns), neck craned to watch the rockets as they burst brapp'brapp'brapp across the smoky sky.

But it was thanks to his memory that I had my idea; an idea so sweetly elegant that it made me smile. Leon would have been proud of me, I knew; my twin problems of dispatch and disposal both sorted at a single blow.

I flicked on the indicator and turned towards the park. The big gates were open - in fact this is the only time of year when access is granted to vehicles - and I drove in slowly on to the main walkway.

'What are we doing here?' asked Knight, his anxiety forgotten. He was eating a chocolate bar from the school tuck-shop and playing a computer game on his state-of-the art mobile phone. An earpiece dangled languidly from one ear.

'I've got something to drop off here,' I said. 'Something to burn.'

This is, as far as I can see, the only advantage of the Community Bonfire. It gives the opportunity to anyone who so wishes to dispose of any unwanted rubbish. Wood, pallets, magazines and cardboard are always appreciated, but any combustible is more than welcome. Tyres, old sofas, mattresses, stacks of newspapers - all have their place, and the citizens are encouraged to bring whatever they can.

Of course by now the bonfire had already been built: scientifically, and with care. A forty-foot pyramid, marvellous in its construction; layer upon layer of furniture, toys, paper, clothes, refuse sacks, packing crates, and - in deference to centuries of tradition - guys. Dozens of guys; some with placards around their necks; some rudimentary; some eerily human-looking, standing and sitting and reclining in various positions on the unlit pyre. The area had been cordoned off at a distance of fifty yards or so from the structure; when it was lit, the heat would be so intense that to approach any further would be to risk incineration.

'Impressive, isn't it?' I said, parking as close as I could to the cordoned area. A number of skips containing a.s.sorted jumble blocked further access; but I reckoned it was near enough.

'It's all right,' said Knight. 'What have you brought?'

'See for yourself,' I said, getting out of the car. 'Anyway, Colin, you might have to help me. It's a bit bulky for me to manage on my own.'

Knight got out, not bothering to remove the phone's earpiece. For a second I thought he was going to complain; but he followed me, looking incuriously at the unlit pyre as I unlocked the boot.

'Nice phone,' I said.

'Yeah,' said Knight.

'I like a good bonfire, don't you?'

'Yeah.'

'I do hope it doesn't rain. There's nothing worse than a bonfire that won't start. Though they must use something petrol, I expect - to start it off. It always seems to catch so fast--'

As I spoke I kept my body between Knight and the car. I needn't have bothered, I suspect. He wasn't very bright. Come to think of it, I was probably doing the gene pool a favour.

'Come on, Colin.'

Knight took a step forwards.

'Good lad.' A hand in the small of the back - a gentle push. For a moment I thought of the Test Your Strength (Every one's a Winner!) booth of my childhood funfairs; imagined myself lifting the mallet high, smelled popcorn and smoke and the reek of boiled hot-dogs and fried onions; saw my father grinning in his ridiculous alien antennae, saw Leon with a Camel crooked between his ink-stained fingers, smiling encouragement-- And then I brought the boot lid down as hard as I could, and heard that unspeakable - but nonetheless quite rea.s.suringly familiar - crunch telling me that once again, I was a winner.

THERE WAS RATHER A LOT OF BLOOD.

I'd expected it, and taken precautions, but even so I may have to dry-clean this suit.

Don't imagine I enjoyed it; in fact I find any kind of violence repulsive, and would much have preferred to let Knight fall to his death from a high place, or choke on a peanut - anything but this primitive and messy solution. Still, there's no denying that it was a solution, and a good one too. Once Knight had declared himself he couldn't be allowed to live; and besides, I need Knight for the next stage.

Bait, if you like.

I borrowed his phone for a moment or two, wiping it clean on the damp gra.s.s. After that I switched it off and put it in my pocket. Then I covered Knight's face in a black plastic sack (I always carry a few in the car, just in case), secured in place with an elastic band. I did the same with Knight's hands. I sat him in a broken armchair near the base of the pile, and anch.o.r.ed him in place with a block of magazines held together with string. By the time I had finished he looked just like the other guys waiting on the unlit bonfire, though perhaps less realistic than some.

An old man walking a dog came along as I was working. He greeted me; the dog barked, and they both pa.s.sed by. Neither of them noticed the blood on the gra.s.s, and as for the body itself - I've discovered that as long as you don't behave like a murderer, no one will a.s.sume you are a murderer, whatever evidence exists to the contrary. If ever I decide to turn to robbery (and one day I might; I'd like to think I have more than one string to my bow), I will wear a mask and a striped jersey, and carry a bag marked SWAG. If anyone sees me, they will simply a.s.sume that I am on my way to a fancy-dress party, and think nothing of it. People, I find, are for the most part very un.o.bservant, especially of the things that are going on right beneath their noses.

That weekend, I celebrated with fire. It is traditional, after all.

I found the Gatehouse burned rather well, given the old damp problem. My only regret was that the new Porter -- Shuttleworth, I think his name is - had not yet moved in. Still, with the house empty and Jimmy suspended, I couldn't have chosen a more convenient time.

There is a certain amount of video security at St Oswald's, though most of it is concentrated on the front gate and its imposing entrance. I was willing to take the risk that the Porter's Lodge would not be under surveillance. All the same, I wore a hooded top, just baggy enough for camouflage. Any camera would simply show a hooded figure, carrying two unlabelled cans and with a school satchel slung over one shoulder, running along the side of the perimeter fence in the direction of the Lodge.

Breaking in was easy. Less easy were the memories that seemed to seep out of the walls: the smell of my father; that sourness; the phantom reek of Cinnabar. Most of the furniture had belonged to St Oswald's. It was still there: the dresser; the clock; the heavy dining table and chairs that we never used. A pale rectangle on the living-room wallpaper where my father had hung a picture (a sentimental print of a little girl with a puppy) unexpectedly tore at my heart.

I was suddenly, absurdly, reminded of Roy Straitley's house, with its rows of school photographs, smiling boys in faded uniforms, the fixed, expectant faces of the brash young dead. It was terrible. Worse, it was ba.n.a.l. I had expected to take my time, to splash petrol across the old carpets, the old furniture, with a joyful step. Instead I did what had to be done in furtive haste and ran, feeling like a sneak, like a trespa.s.ser, for the first time I could remember since that day at St Oswald's, when I first saw the lovely building, its windows shining in the sun, and wanted it for my own.

That was something Leon never understood. He never really saw St Oswald's; its grace, its history, its arrogant Tightness. To him it was just a school; desks to be carved upon, walls to be graffiti-ed, teachers to be mocked and defied. So wrong, Leon. So childishly, fatally wrong.

And so I burned the Gatehouse; and instead of the elation I had antic.i.p.ated, I felt nothing but a slinking remorse, that weakest and most useless of emotions, as the gleeful flames pranced and roared.

By the time the police arrived, I had recovered. Having changed my baggy sweatshirt for something more appropriate, I stayed for just long enough to tell them what they wanted to hear (a youth, hooded, fleeing the scene) and to allow them to find the cans and discarded satchel. By which time the fire engines had arrived too, and I stepped aside to let them do their job. Not that there was much for them to do by then.

A student prank, the Examiner will say: a Hallowe'en stunt taken criminally far. My champagne tasted a little flat; but I drank it anyway, while making a couple of routine calls with Knight's borrowed phone and listening to the sounds of fireworks and the voices of young revellers -- witches, ghouls and vampires - as they ran down the alleys below me.

If I sit in exactly the right position at my window, I can just see Dog Lane. I wonder if Straitley is sitting at his window tonight, lights dimmed, curtain drawn. He expects trouble, that's for sure. From Knight, or someone else -- Sunnybankers or shadowy spirits. Straitley believes in ghosts -- as well he might -- and tonight, they are out in force, like memories set loose to prey upon the living.

Let them prey. The dead don't have much to amuse them. I've done my bit; stuck my little spanner in the School's old works. Call it a sacrifice, if you like. A payment in blood. If that doesn't satisfy them, nothing will.

St Oswald's Grammar School for Boys Monday, 1st November WHAT A SHAMBLES. WHAT AN ALMIGHTY SHAMBLES. I SAW the fire last night, of course; but thought it was the annual Guy Fawkes bonfire, a few days early and a few degrees from its usual spot. Then I heard the fire engines, and all at once I had to be there. It was so like that other time, you see; I recalled the sound of sirens in the darkness, Pat Bishop like a crazed cinema director with his d.a.m.ned megaphone-- It was freezing cold as I stepped outside. I was glad of my coat, and of the checked scarf - a Christmas present from some boy, in the days when pupils still did such things wound firmly round my neck. The air smelt good, of smoke and fog and gunpowder, and although it was late, a gang of trick'or-treaters was pelting down the alley with a carrier bag of sweets. One of them - a little ghost - dropped a wrapper as he pa.s.sed - a mini-Snickers wrapper, I think it was - and I stooped automatically to pick it up.

'Hey, you!' I said in my Bell Tower voice.

The little ghost - a boy of eight or nine -- stopped short.

'You dropped something,' I said, handing him the wrapper.

'You u/hatV The ghost looked at me as if I might be mad.

'You dropped something,' I said patiently. 'There's a litter bin over there,' pointing to a dustbin only a dozen yards away. 'Just walk over and put it in.'

'You what? Behind him, there was grinning, nudging. Someone sn.i.g.g.e.red beneath a cheap plastic mask. Sunny bankers, I thought with a sigh, or juvenile thugs-in-waiting from the Abbey Road estate. Who else would let their eight- or nine-year-old children roam the streets at half past eleven, without an adult in sight?

'In the bin, please,' I said again. 'I'm sure you were brought up better than to drop litter.' I smiled; for a moment half a dozen little faces looked up wonderingly at mine. There was a wolf; three sheeted ghosts; a grubby vampire with a leaky nose; and an unidentifiable person who might have been a ghoul or a gremlin or some x.r.a.t.e.d Hollywood creature without a name.

The little ghost looked at me, then at the wrapper.

'Well done,' I began to say, as he moved towards the bin.

At that he turned and grinned at me, exposing teeth as discoloured as a veteran smoker's. 'f.u.c.k off,' he said, and ran off down the alley, dropping the Snickers wrapper as he went. The others ran the opposite way, scattering papers as I went, and I heard their jeers and insults as they ran off to the freezing mist.

It shouldn't have bothered me. As a teacher, I see all iorts, even at St Oswald's, which is, after all, a somewhat privileged environment. Those Sunnybankers are a different breed; the estates are rife with alcoholism, drug abuse, poverty, violence. Foul language and litter come as easily to them as h.e.l.lo and goodbye. There is no malice in it, not really. Still, it bothered me, perhaps more than it should. I had already given out three bowls of sweets to trick-or- treaters that night; among them, a number of mini-Snickers bars.

I picked up the wrapper and put it in the bin, feeling unexpectedly depressed. I'm getting old, that's all there is to it. My expectations of youth (and of humanity in general, I believe) are quite outdated. Even though I suspected knew, perhaps, in my heart - that the fire I had seen was something to do with St Oswald's, I did not expect it; the absurd optimism that has always been the best and worst part of my nature forbids me to take the gloomy view. That's why a part of me was genuinely surprised when I arrived at the School, saw the fire crew at the blaze and understood that the Gatehouse was on fire.

It could have been worse. It could have been the library. There was a fire there once - before my time, in 1845 - that burned up more than a thousand books, some very rare. A careless candle, perhaps, left unsupervised; there is certainly nothing in the School's records to suggest it was malice.

This was. The Fire Chiefs report says petrol was used; a witness at the scene reports a hooded boy, running away. Most d.a.m.ning of all; Knight's satchel, dropped at the scene, a little charred but still perfectly recognizable, the books within carefully labelled with his name and form.

Bishop was there at once, of course. Pitching in with the firemen so energetically that for a time I thought he was one of them. Then he came looming out at me through the smoke, eyes red, hair in spikes, flushed almost to apoplexy with the heat and the moment.

'No one inside,' he panted, and I saw now that he was carrying a large clock under one arm, running with it like a prop forward about to score a try. 'Thought I'd try to save a few things.' Then he was off again, his bulk somehow pathetic against the flames. I called after him, but my voice was lost; a few moments later I glimpsed him trying to drag an oak chest through the burning front door.

As I said, what a shambles.

This morning the area was cordoned off, the debris still fiercely red and smoking, so that now the whole School smells of Bonfire Night. In the form there is no other topic of conversation; the report of Knight's disappearance, and now this, are enough to fuel rumours of such wild inventiveness that the Head has had no choice but to call an emergency Staff Meeting to discuss our options.

Plausible denial has always been his way. Look at that business with John Snyde. Even Fallowgate was hotly refuted; now HM means to deny Knightsbridge (as Allen Jones has dubbed it), especially as the Examiner has been the most impertinent questions in the hope of ling up some new scandal.

Of course it will be all over town by tomorrow. Some will talk, as they always do, and the news will ak. A pupil disappears. A revenge attack on the School allows, perhaps provoked - who knows? - by bullying and Victimization. No note was left. The boy is at large. Where? Why?

I a.s.sumed - we all did - that Knight was the reason the police were there this morning. They arrived at eight thirty; five officers, three in plain clothes; one woman, four men. Our community officer (Sergeant Ellis, a veteran, skilled in public relations and manly tete-a-tetes) was not with them, and I should have suspected something there and then, though in fact I was far too preoccupied with my own affairs to give them much thought.

Everyone was. And with good reason: half the department missing; computers down with a deadly germ; boys infected with revolt and speculation; staff on edge and unable to concentrate. I had not seen Bishop since the previous night; Marlene told me that he'd been treated for smoke inhalation, but had refused to stay in hospital and moreover, had spent the rest of the night in School, going over the damage and reporting to the police.

Of course it is generally, if unofficially, accepted (at least in management circles) that I am to blame. Marlene told me as much, having glanced at a drafted letter dictated by Bob Strange to his secretary, and now awaiting approval from Bishop. I didn't get a chance to read it, but I can guess at the style as well as the content. Bob Strange is a specialist of the bloodless coup-de-grace, having drafted a dozen or so similar letters in the course of his career. In the light of recent events . . . regrettable, but unavoidable . . . now cannot be overlooked . . . a sabbatical to be taken on full pay until such time as ...

There would be references to my erratic behaviour, my increasing forgetfulness and the curious incident of Anderton-Pullitt, not to mention Meek's bungled a.s.sessment, Pooley's blazer and any number of smaller infractions, inevitable in the career of any master, all noted, numbered and set aside by Strange for possible use in instances such as this.

Then would come the open hand, the grudging acknowledgement of thirty-three years of loyal service . . . the small, tight-mouthed a.s.surance of personal respect. Beneath it, the subtext is always the same: You have become an embarra.s.sment. In short, Strange was preparing the hemlock bowl.

Oh, I can't say I was entirely surprised. But I have given so much to St Oswald's over so many years that I suppose I imagined it made me some kind of an exception. It does not; the machinery that lies at the heart of St Oswald's is as heartless and unforgiving as Strange's computers. There is no malice involved, simply an equation. I am old; expensive; inefficient; a worn cog from an outdated mechanism that in any case serves no useful purpose. And if there is to be a scandal, then who better to carry the blame? Strange knows that I will not make a fuss. It's undignified, for a start; and besides, I would not bring more scandal to St Oswald's. A generous settlement on top of my pension; a nicely worded speech by Pat Bishop in the Common Room; a reference to my ill health and the new opportunities afforded by my impending retirement; the hemlock bowl cunningly hidden behind the laurels and the paraphernalia. d.a.m.n him to h.e.l.l. I could almost believe he'd planned this from the start. The invasion of my office; my removal from the prospectus; his interference. He'd held on to the letter until now only because Bishop was unavailable. He needed Bishop on his side. And he'd get him, too, I told myself; I like Pat, but I have no illusions as to his loyalty. St Oswald's comes first. And the Head? I knew he would be more than happy to present the case to the Governors. After that, Dr Pooley could do his worst. And who, I thought, would really care? And what about my Century? From where I was standing, it might have been an age away.

At lunch'time I got a memo from Dr Devine, handwritten for once (I a.s.sumed the computers were still down) and delivered by a boy from his fifth form.

R.S. Report to office at once. M.R.D.

I wondered if he was in on it, too. I wouldn't have put it past him. So I made him wait; marked a few books, exchanged pleasantries with the boys; drank tea. Ten minutes l ater Devine came in like a dervish, and on seeing his expression 1 dismissed the boys with a wave of the hand and gave him my full attention.

Now you may have been under the impression that I've got some kind of a feud going with old Sourgrape. Nothing could be further from the truth; in fact most of the time I quite enjoy our spats, even though we don't always see eye to eye on matters of policy, uniform, Health and Safety, cleanliness or behaviour.

I do know where to draw the line, however, and any thought of baiting the old idiot vanished as soon as I saw his face. Devine looked sick. Not merely pale, which is his natural state, but yellow; haggard; old. His tie was askew; his hair, which is usually immaculate, had been pushed out of place so that now he looked like a man in a high wind. Even his walk, which is usually brisk and automatic, had developed a hitch; he staggered into my room like a clockwork toy and sat down heavily on the nearest desk.

'What's happened?'

There was no trace of banter in my voice now. Someone had died; that was my first thought. His wife; a boy; a close colleague. Only some terrible catastrophe could have affected Dr Devine in this way.

It was a sign of his real distress that he took no opportunity to berate me for my lack of response to his summons. He remained sitting on the desk for a few moments, his thin chest drawn down towards his protuberant knees.

I pulled out a Gauloise, lit it and held it out.

Devine hasn't indulged in years, but he took it without a word.

I waited. I'm not always known for my savoir faire, but I know how to deal with troubled boys, and that was exactly what Devine looked like to me then, a grey-haired, very troubled boy, his face raw with anxiety, his knees bunched up against his chest in a desperate protective gesture.

'The police.' It came out as a gasp.

'What about them?'

'They've arrested Pat Bishop.'

It took me some time to get the whole story. For a start, Devine didn't know it. Something to do with computers, he thought, although the details were unclear. Knight was mentioned; boys in Bishop's cla.s.ses were being questioned, though what the charge against Bishop actually was no one seemed to know.

I could see why Devine was panicked, though. He has always tried very hard to ingratiate himself with the management, and he is naturally terrified of being implicated in this new, unspecified scandal. Apparently the visiting officers questioned Sourgrape at some length; seemed interested to know that on several occasions Pat has played host to Mr and Mrs Sourgrape; and were now about to search the office for any further evidence.

'Evidence!' yawped Devine, stubbing out his Gauloise. 'What are they expecting to find? If only I knew--'