Gentlemen And Players Part 17

As I said, ridiculous. I've been a master at St Oswald's for thirty-three years, and I know what I'm talking about. Such a thing could never have happened here; not because we think we're better than anywhere else (whatever the Examiner may think), but simply because in a place like St Oswald's, no secret can be kept for long. From Bob Strange, perhaps; rooted in his office working out timetables; or from the Suits, who never see anything unless it comes to them in an e-mail attachment. But from me? From the boys? Never.

Oh, I've seen my share of irregular colleagues. There was Dr Jehu (Oxon.), who turned out afterwards to be just plain Mr Jehu, from the University of Durham, and who had a reputation, it seemed. That was years ago, before such things made the news, and he left quietly and without scandal, as most of them do, with no harm done. Or Mr Tythe-Weaver, the art teacher who introduced life modelling au naturel. Or Mr Groper, who developed that unfortunate fixation on a young English student forty years his junior. Or even our own Grachvogel, who all the boys know to be h.o.m.os.e.xual -- and harmless -- but who fears terribly for his job if the Governors were to find out. A bit late for that, I'm afraid; but he isn't a pervert, as the Examiner crowingly suggests. Light may well be a boorish a.s.s, but I don't think he is any more of a pervert than Grachvogel. Devine? Don't make me laugh. And as for Bishop - well. I know Bishop. More importantly, the boys know him, love him, and believe me, if there had been any breath of irregularity about him, they would have been the first to scent it out. Boys have an instinct for such things, and in a school like St Oswald's, rumours disseminate at epidemic speed. Understand this: I have been teaching alongside Pat Bishop for thirty-three years, and if there had been any kind of truth in these accusations, I would have known. The boys would have told me.

Within the Common Room, however, the polarization continues. Many colleagues will not speak of the matter at all, for fear of being implicated in the scandal. Some (though not many) are openly contemptuous of the accusations. Others take the opportunity to spread quiet, right-thinking slander.

Penny Nation is one of these. I remember the description of her in Keane's notebook - poisonous do'gooder - and I wonder how I could have worked alongside her for so many years without noticing her essential malice.

'A Second Master should be like the Prime Minister,' she was saying in the Common Room this lunch-time. 'Happily married -- like Geoff and me' - quick smile at her Capitaine, today attired in navy pin-stripe that perfectly matches Penny's skirt-and-sweater combination. There was a small silver fish in his lapel. 'That way, there's no possible cause for suspicion, is there?' Penny went on. 'In any case, if you're going to be working with children' - she says the word in a syrupy, Walt Disney voiceover tone, as if the very thought of children makes her want to melt - 'then you really need to have one of your own, don't you?'

That smile again. I wonder if she sees her husband in Pat's job in some not-too-distant future. He's certainly ambitious enough; a devout church-goer; a family man; a gentleman player; a veteran of many courses.

He isn't the only one with ideas. Eric Sc.o.o.nes has been putting the boot in - rather to my surprise, as I'd always thought of Eric as a fair-minded chap in spite of his resentment at being pa.s.sed over for promotion. It seems I was wrong; listening to the talk in the Common Room this afternoon I was shocked to hear him siding with the Nations against Hillary Monument - who has always been pro-Pat and who, being at the end of his career, has nothing to lose by nailing his colours to the mast.

'Ten to one we'll find it's some ghastly mistake,' Monument was saying. 'These computers -- who trusts them? Always breaking down. And that - what d'you call it? Spam. That's it. Ten to one old Pat got some Spam in his computer and didn't know what it was. As for Grachvogel, he hasn't even been arrested. Questioning, that's all it is. Helping the police with their inquiries.'

Eric gave a dismissive grunt. 'You'll see,' he said (a man who never uses computers any more than I do myself). 'The trouble with you is that you're too trusting. That's what they all say, isn't it, when some bloke gets up on a motorway bridge and shoots ten people dead. It's always, "And he was such a nice chap", isn't it? Or some scoutmaster who's been fettling little lads for years - "Ooh, and the kids loved him, you know, never thought for a minute." That's the trouble. No one ever thinks. No one thinks it might happen in our own backyard. Besides, what do we really know about Pat Bishop? Oh, he plays it straight -- well he would, wouldn't he? But what do we really know about him? Or any of our colleagues, for that matter?'

It was a remark that troubled me then, and has continued to do so ever since. Eric's had run-ins with Pat for years, but I'd always thought, like my own little spats with Dr Devine, that it was nothing personal. He's bitter, of course. A good teacher -- if a little old-fashioned -- and might have made a good Head of Year if he'd made a bit more of an effort with the management. But deep down I'd always thought he was loyal. If ever I'd expected any of my colleagues to stab poor Bishop in the back, it would not have been Eric. Now I'm not so sure; there was a look in his face today in the Common Room that told me more than I'd ever wanted to know about Eric Sc.o.o.nes. He's always been a gossip, of course; but it has taken me all these years to see the gleeful Schadenfreude in my old friend's eyes.

I am sorry for it. But he was right. What do we really know about our colleagues? Thirty-three years, and what do we know? For me, the unpleasant revelation has not been about Pat at all, but about the rest of them. Sc.o.o.nes. The Nations. Roach, who is terrified that his friendship with Light and Grachvogel might prejudice his case with the police. Beard, who sees the whole business as a personal affront to the Computer Science department. Meek, who merely repeats everything Beard tells him. Easy, who follows the majority. McDonaugh, who announced at Break that only a pervert could have appointed that queer Grachvogel in a teaching post anyway.

The worst of it is that no one speaks against them now; even Kitty, who has always been friendly w ith Gerry Grachvogel and who has invited Bishop to dinner several times, said nothing at lunch-time, but simply looked into her coffee mug with faint distaste and would not meet my eye. She has other things on her mind, I know. Still, it was a moment I could have done without. You may have noticed I'm rather fond of Kitty Teague.

Still, I'm relieved to see that in one or two cases at least, sanity still reigns. Chris Keane and Dianne Dare are among the very few not to have been infected. They were standing by the window as I fetched my tea, still raging against the colleagues who had so summarily condemned Bishop without trial.

'I think everyone's ent.i.tled to a fair hearing,' said Keane, after I had aired my feelings a little more. 'I don't really know Mr Bishop, of course, but I have to say he doesn't strike me as the type, somehow.'

'I agree,' said Miss Dare. 'Besides, the boys seem genuinely fond of him.'

'They are,' I said loudly, with a defiant glance at the moral majority. 'This is a mistake.'

'Or a set-up,' said Keane thoughtfully.

'A setup?'

'Why not?' He shrugged. 'Someone with a grudge. A discontented staff member. An ex-pupil. Anyone. All you'd need would be access to the School, plus a certain degree of computer literacy--'

Computers. I knew we were better off without them. But Keane's words had touched a nerve - in fact, I wondered why on earth I hadn't thought of it myself. Nothing damages a school more cruelly than a s.e.x scandal. Hadn't something similar happened once at Sunnybank Park? Hadn't I seen it myself, too, in the days of the Old Head?

Of course, Shakeshafte's tastes ran, not to boys, but to secretaries and young female members of staff. Such affairs seldom go beyond the stage of t.i.ttle-tattle; they are resolved between adults; they rarely make it outside the gates.

But this is different. The papers have declared open season on the teaching profession. Paedophile stories dominate the popular press. Not a week pa.s.ses without some new accusation. Headteacher, scoutmaster, police officer, priest. All fair game.

'It's possible.' That was Meek, who had been following our conversation. I hadn't expected him to voice an opinion; so far he'd done little but nod energetically every time Beard spoke. 'I imagine there are plenty of people who might have a grudge against St Oswald's,' went on Meek in his small voice. 'Fallow, for instance. Or Knight.'

'Knight?' There was a silence. In the backwash of the bigger scandal I'd almost forgotten my juvenile runaway. 'Knight couldn't be responsible for any of this.'

'Why not?' said Keane. 'He fits the type.'

Oh yes. He fitted. I saw Eric Sc.o.o.nes' expression darken; he was listening, and I could see from the insouciant looks on my colleagues' faces that they too were following the exchange. 'Staff pa.s.swords aren't difficult to get hold of, either,' said Meek. 'I mean, anyone with access to the administration panel--'

'That's ridiculous,' said Mr Beard. 'Those pa.s.swords are absolutely secret.'

'Yours is AMANDA,' said Keane, smiling. 'Your daughter's name. Mr Bishop's is GO-JONNY'GO - not much imagination required there, for such a keen rugby fan. Gerry's is probably something from the X'Files. MULDER, perhaps, or SCULLY--'

Miss Dare laughed. 'Tell me,' she said, 'are you a professional spy or is it just a hobby?'

'I pay attention,' said Keane.

But Sc.o.o.nes was still unconvinced. 'No boy of ours would dare,' he said. 'Especially not that little runt.'

'Why not?' said Keane.

'He just wouldn't,' said Sc.o.o.nes contemptuously. 'You need b.a.l.l.s to go up against St Oswald's.'

'Or brains,' said Keane. 'What? You're really telling me it's never happened before?'

Thursday 4th November HOW VERY INCONVENIENT. JUST AS I WAS ABOUT TO DEAL with Bishop, too. To make myself feel better I went to the internet cafe in town, accessed Knight's hotmail address (the police must surely be monitoring that by now) and sent out a few nicely abusive e-mails to selected members of St Oswald's staff. It gave me an outlet for some of my annoyance; and, I trust, will maintain the hope that Knight is still alive.

I then made my way to my own flat, where I e-mailed a new piece from Mole to the Examiner. I sent a text message to Devine's mobile from Knight's, and after that I phoned Bishop, adopting an accent and disguising my voice. I was feeling rather better by then - it's funny how dealing with tedious business can put you in a good mood -- and after a bit of initial heavy breathing I delivered my poisonous message.

I thought his voice sounded thicker than usual, as if he were on some kind of medication. Of course it was almost midnight by then, and he might well have been asleep. I myself don't need a great deal of sleep - three or four hours are usually ample - and I rarely dream. I'm always rather surprised at the way other people cave in if they haven't had their eight or ten hours, and most of them seem to spend half the night dreaming; useless, jumbled dreams that they always want to tell other people about afterwards. I guessed Bishop was a heavy sleeper; a colourful dreamer; a Freudian a.n.a.lyser. Not tonight, though. Tonight I thought he might have other things on his mind.

I phoned again an hour later. This time Bishop's voice was as thick as my father's after a night on the town. 'What do you want?' His bull's roar, distorted by the line.

'You know what we want.' That we. Always a help when spreading paranoia. 'We want justice. We want you dealt with, you filthy pervert.'

By this time, of course, he should have hung up. But Bishop has never been a quick thinker. Instead he bl.u.s.tered, angry; tried to argue. 'Anonymous calls? That the best you can do? Let me tell you something--'

'No, Bishop. Let me tell you.' My telephone voice is thin and spidery, cutting through the static. 'We know what you've been up to. We know where you live. We'll get you. It's just a matter of time.'

Click.

Nothing fancy, as you see. But it has already worked marvellously with Grachvogel -- who now keeps the phone permanently off the hook. Tonight, in fact, I made a little trip up to his place, just to make sure. At one point I was almost convinced I saw someone peeping out from between the living-room curtains, but I was gloved and hooded, and I knew he'd never dare to come out of the house.

Afterwards, for the third time, I phoned Bishop.

'We're getting closer,' I announced in my spidery voice.

'Who are you?' He was alert this time, with a new shrillness to his tone. 'What do you want, for G.o.d's sake?'

Click.

Then home, and bed, for the next four hours.

This time, I dreamed.

'what's the matter, pinchbeck?'

August twenty-third; the eve of my thirteenth birthday. We were standing in front of the School portcullis, a pretentious little add-on from the nineteenth century, which marks the entrance to the library and the Chapel gate. It was one of my favourite parts of the School, straight from the pages of a Walter Scott novel, with the School crest in red and gilt above the School motto (quite a recent addition, but a word or two of Latin speaks volumes to the fee-paying parents). Audere, agere, auferre.

Leon grinned at me, his hair hanging disreputably in his eyes. 'Admit it, Queenie,' he said in a mocking tone. 'Looks a lot higher from down here, doesn't it?'

I shrugged. His teasing was harmless enough for the moment, but I could read the signs. If I weakened, if I seemed in the least bit annoyed at his use of that silly nickname, then he would strike with the full force of his arcasm and contempt.

'It's a long way up,' I said carelessly. 'But I've been there before. It's easy when you know how.'

'Really?' I could see he didn't believe me. 'Show me, then.'

I didn't want to. My father's pa.s.skeys were a secret I had never meant to reveal to anyone, not even (and perhaps especially not) Leon. But still I could feel them, deep in my jeans pocket, daring me to say it, to share it, to cross that final, forbidden line.

Leon was watching me like a housecat who isn't sure whether it wants to play with the mouse or unravel its guts. I had a sudden, overpowering memory of him in the garden with Francesca, one hand laid casually over one of hers, his skin tawny-green in the dappled shade. No wonder he loved her. How could I possibly compete? She had shared something with him, a secret, a thing of power that I could never hope to duplicate.

Or maybe now, I could.

'Wow.' Leon's eyes widened as he saw the keys. 'Where did you get those?'

'Nicked them,' I said. 'Off Big John's desk, at the end of term.' In spite of myself, I grinned at the look on my friend's face. 'Had them copied at the key place at lunch-time, then put them back right where I found them.' That was mostly true; I'd had it done just after that last disaster, while my father lay despondent and blind drunk in his bedroom. 'Slack b.a.s.t.a.r.d never noticed.'

Now Leon was watching me with a new light in his eyes. It was admiring, but it made me a little uneasy, too. 'Well, well,' he said at last. 'And there was I thinking you were just another little Lower School squirt with no ideas and no b.a.l.l.s. And you never told anyone?'

I shook my head.

'Well, good for you,' said Leon softly, and slowly his face lit with his tenderest, most captivating smile. 'It's our secret, then.'

There is something ultimately magical in the sharing of secrets. I felt it then, as I showed Leon around my empire, in spite of the accompanying pang of regret. The pa.s.sageways and alcoves, the hidden rooftops and secret cellars of St Oswald's were no longer mine. Now they belonged to Leon as well.

We went out via a window on the Upper Corridor. I had already turned off the burglar alarm in our part of the School before locking the door carefully behind us. It was late; eleven o'clock at least, and my father's rounds were long finished. No one would come at this time. No one would suspect our presence.

The window gave on to the library roof. I climbed out with practised ease; grinning, Leon followed. Here was a gentle slope of thick, mossy stone tiles, pitching down to a deep, lead-lined gutter. There was a walkway all around this gutter, designed so that a Porter might follow it with a broom, removing the acc.u.mulated leaves and detritus, although my father's fear of heights meant that he had never attempted this. As far as I could tell he had never even checked the leadwork, and as a result the gutters were filled with silt and debris.

I looked up. The moon was nearly full, magical against a purple-brown sky. From time to time little clouds smudged across it, but it was still bright enough to underline every chimney, every gutter and slate in indigo ink. Behind me, I heard Leon draw a long, wavering breath. lWow!'

I looked down; far beneath me I could see the Gatehouse, all lit up like a Christmas lantern. My father would be there, watching TV, perhaps, or doing press-ups in front of the mirror. He didn't seem to mind my being out at night; it had been months since he had questioned where I went and with whom.

'Wow,' repeated Leon.

1 grinned, feeling absurdly proud, as if I had built it all myself. I grabbed hold of a climbing-rope that I had strung into place a few months before, and hoisted myself up on to the ridge. The chimneys towered over me like kings, their heavy crowns black against the sky. Above them, the stars.

'Come on!'

I teetered, arms spread, gathering in the night. For a second I felt as if I could step right out into the spangled air and fly.

'Come onl'

Slowly, Leon followed me. Moonlight made ghosts of both of us. His face was pale and blank - a child's face of wonder. 'Wow.'

That's not all.'

Emboldened by success, I led him on to the walkway's broad path inked by shadows. I held his hand; he did not question it but followed me, docile, one arm held out across the tightrope s.p.a.ce. Twice I warned him; a loose stone here, a broken ladder there.

'Just how long have you been coming here, anyway?'

'A while.'

'Jesus.'

'D'you tike it?'

'Oh, yeah.'

After half an hour of climbing and scrambling, we stopped to rest on the flat, broad parapet above the Chapel roof. The heavy stone slates kept the day's heat, and even now they were still warm. We lay on the parapet, gargoyles at our feet. Leon produced a pack of cigarettes and we shared one, watching as the town spread out like a blanket of lights.

'This is amazing. I can't believe you never said.'

'Told you now, haven't I?'

'Hm.'

He was lying beside me; hands tucked behind his head. One elbow touched mine; I could feel its pressure, like a point of heat.

'Imagine having s.e.x up here,' he said. 'You could stay all night if you wanted to, and no one would ever know.' I thought his tone was slightly reproachful; imagining nights with lovely Francesca in the shadow of the rooftop kings.

'I guess.'

I didn't want to think of that -- of them. The knowledge -like an express train - pa.s.sed silently between us. His I closeness was unbearable; it itched like a nettle rash. I could mell his sweat and the cigarette smoke and the slightly Oily, musky scent of his too-long hair. He was staring up at the sky, his eyes brimful of stars.

Slyly I put out my hand; felt his shoulder in five little pinpoints of heat at my fingertips. Leon did not react. Slowly I opened my hand; my hand trespa.s.sed across his ileeve, his arm, h is chest. I was not thinking; my hand seemed divorced from my body.

'Do you miss her? Francesca, I mean?' My voice trembled, catching at the end of the phrase in an involuntary squeak.

Leon grinned. His own voice had broken months before, and he loved to tease me about my immaturity. 'Aw, Pinchbeck. You're such a kid.'

'I was only asking.'

'A little kid.'

'Shut up, Leon.'

'Did you think it was the real deal? Moonlight and morons and love and romance? Jesus, Pinchbeck, how ba.n.a.l can you get?'

'Shut up, Leon.' My face burned; I thought of starlight; winter; ice.

He laughed. 'Sorry to disillusion you, Queenie.'

'What do you mean?'

'I mean, love, for Christ's sake. She was just a s.h.a.g.'