‘He gives me the fucking heebies. I’m surprised I didn’t find my tyres slashed this morning.’
Sandy chose to say no more. But Munson saw it as a way to ask what would otherwise have been an awkward question.
‘Did you lock him in the cupboard, really?’
‘He usually goes in of his own volition. Yesterday I had to lock the door because he had the rest of the class witless with fear. They wouldn’t come in otherwise.’
‘The scream? Sounds hellish. Young Struan pished himself?’
Sandy’s hand shook as he took a note from his wallet and handed it to Munson.
‘Now you know why I’m back on them.’
Munson rang the sale up and handed over change.
‘Seems a shame,’ he said as he took the freshly peeled cellophane wrap and foil top from Sandy and dropped it into the bin. ‘Are you not as well taking a drink as going back on these? It’s easier to stop.’
‘I might do both and I might not want to stop,’ said Sandy, trying for levity.
‘Need matches?’
Sandy held up an old lighter as he took a cigarette from the pack. ‘Who’d be a teacher, hey?’
‘Not me, that’s for sure. I’ll see you later, Sandy.’
‘Aye, probably.’
Sandy Corrigan had filled his lungs with smoke before he left the warmth of the shop. He stopped at the entrance and emptied them.
‘You look like a film star, one of they ones from the forties or fifties.’
When he turned back, he saw Ed Munson using his hands to suggest the shape of a cinema screen.
‘Snowflakes falling, smoke swirling, artificial light, looking into the night, deep in thought.’
‘It’s morning.’
‘Ach, you know what I mean.’
‘Am I the hero or the villain?’
‘I’m not sure,’ said Ed Munson, as Sandy Corrigan drew again on his cigarette. ‘It’s a key moment in the film, though.’
Sandy stood wreathed in frame for a second, thinking.
‘A crossroads? The moment when the teacher decides if he’s cut out for the job or not?’
‘Maybe.’
‘One bad apple, you’d think I could cope with that, wouldn’t you?’ Sandy didn’t wait for an answer. ‘I might just give them the day off. It’s drifting hard, they should probably get home while they can.’
‘Ach, Sandy man,’ said Ed Munson, coming from behind his counter to stand with the teacher and judge the conditions. ‘It’s nothing. A wee drop of snow. If the papers made it through I’d say the kids will. That’s if they don’t freeze to death waiting for you to get there.’
‘There is that, I suppose.’ Sandy crossed the pavement, rock salt crunching beneath his feet, and got back into his car. He waved to Ed Munson as he pulled away.
It was hard going driving against the wind, and the snow appeared to be doing its damnedest to stop him getting to school. Flurries rushed towards him along the full beams, reflecting most of their light back as a bright wall. As slow as he drove he couldn’t prevent the back end sliding from his control as he attempted to steer around the corner at the bottom of Main Street. The rear wheel hit the kerbstone, rattling the snow chains that he’d thrown onto the back seat almost a week ago, telling himself he would fit them before the weather really turned. He concentrated as he struggled to maintain the car’s forward motion.
Coming straight off the salt marsh, the north-easterly drove the snow horizontally against the schoolhouse. His pupils were huddled in the lee of a sheltering wall, seeking communal warmth. Feeling guilty for keeping them waiting in such hostile conditions, Sandy Corrigan had the door open before his car was stationary, gasping at the biting cold as he got out. Head bowed, he ran to join the class, taking the keys from his pocket as he did so. It was surprisingly peaceful when he reached them, and he saw they weren’t gathered against the cold but in a group conversation. What woes today? Looking around, he saw no sign of Dog.
‘He ain’t here, sir.’
Jonny Raffique faced him, the teeth of his smile visible down the tunnel of his parka hood. Sandy Corrigan couldn’t help but smile in response. Other upturned faces showed his relief was infectious. He was cheered by this. The moment was short-lived. A sudden change in the wind direction blasted snow around the corner.
‘Aagh, quick,’ he said, ‘inside before we freeze. I’m sorry I’m late, come on.’
He rushed to the door and had it unlocked in seconds, standing back as he shooed them all inside.
‘Quick as you can now, everybody inside, coats off.’
A chorus of coughing and laughing began inside, and complaints about the smell. He assumed it was coming from the storeroom and knew it could be easily remedied. He followed the last child in, looking forward to the day.
‘Come on now, calm down.’
He smelled the gas as he raked his hand down the brass switch-plate and realised it was too late to stop or warn the children.
Flying through the air, he saw flames explode through every window. He landed as the roof disappeared, dropping into the classroom under the weight of its snow blanket.
His body being found so far from the school and the bodies of his charges was enough to indicate guilt. He had killed them and failed to escape, his death an accidental consequence of his actions. This blame was confirmed by the surviving child’s account of events: that Sandy Corrigan had arrived late and been desperate to get everybody inside, rushing them into the unlit room of the school. This testimony convinced parents and investigators that he had ensured all the children were inside before he turned on the lights. Disowned by his only surviving relative, Sandy Corrigan was interred in a dank corner behind the church in what had been the old septic tank. His burial was an onerous task carried out by Finnegan. He didn’t bother with a service, pissed on the coffin and cursed every shovelful as he filled the hole.
25
John Cutter made no attempt to lessen the sound of his approach as he walked back to the murder scene holding the weapon he’d used to kill Dog Evans. He stopped, looking down at Shep, on all fours, almost to the elbows in the boy’s grave. He’d been crying. John witnessed the final sobs and sniffs, the attempted wiping of his eyes on his jacket sleeve. He waited. Seconds passed before Shep could lift his head and look him in the eye.
‘John?’
‘I can’t apologise, Shep. I’m sorry for you. Always have been.’
‘How has it come to this, John? We used to be friends.’
‘Like to think I still was, somehow.’
‘You killed my son.’
‘It was the right thing to do.’
‘After all this time? Why? How?’
‘Nothing was right while he was alive. Now, it feels complete.’
‘How can killing the last one be the right thing, John? They’re all gone now. How can that be complete? It’s the opposite of complete.’
Shep’s head dropped. John stepped in front of him. Shep’s arms were lost in the soil. He was still shaking. John watched his attention move to the scuffed toes of his boots before continuing to the bough, his son’s blood, his friend’s rigid grip, looking for release.
‘Should I close my eyes?’ said Shep.
‘What?’
‘So I don’t see it coming.’
Cutter consciously relaxed his hold, steadied his voice.
‘It’s not.’
Shep gave the briefest of acknowledgements. Shifting his weight, John looked around the glade.
‘I don’t see Rebecca?’
‘She stayed back at the hotel, didn’t want to come.’
‘I must say that surprises me. I thought she’d want proof more than anybody.’
‘Proof?’
‘So she could rest easy. I know she’s fragile, Shep, and why.’
Shep’s silence confirmed Cutter’s claim.
‘This is what she prayed for,’ said Shep. ‘Every visit to every church. It isn’t right, to pray for this, no matter what.’
‘Not for me to say, Shep. You know when my praying days stopped. But if it’s what she wanted, it might help; the old Rebecca might come back.’
‘I don’t know. She’s been gone long and far.’
‘So have we all.’
‘How’s Debbie?’
‘Debs is in the house: first time in a while. I couldn’t say how she is, though; our history’s nearly as broken as yours.’ In the pause that followed, John Cutter’s fists firmed up around the club. ‘Tired and lonely would be my best guess. I didn’t think about her that much, not at all if I could help it. Was a period she didn’t bring out the good in me, I’m afraid.’
‘That’s sad, John, she always did.’
‘Not an easy task.’
‘But worth it.’
John Cutter shrugged.
‘You happy?’ he asked.
‘Not often.’
‘Leaving didn’t help?’
‘Running away wasn’t the answer.’
‘Staying hasn’t helped much.’
‘When it happens, happiness usually comes from Becky, somehow. Fragile as she is, I believe she’s stronger than me.’
‘I know that feeling.’
John Cutter sat down next to Shep, their faces inches apart. He could smell the soil, Shep’s body, the icy damp in the air and the musty, arrested decay of foliage. He couldn’t smell the schoolroom, warm milk, Play-Doh and crayons; or his daughter and wife, soaped and shampooed for parents’ evening; or the gas and smoke and stour and sleet of that final day. He remembered the two plastic chairs, one stacked on top of the other so the wee ones could reach the piano keyboard, alone and strangely untouched by the explosion; parents arriving, running, falling, howling, screaming, digging.
‘Shep, I think the other night was the answer. Nobody pointed the finger or shied away; it was a collaboration.’
‘They wanted to be a part of it?’
‘Can you blame them?’ Cutter dropped the bough into his lap. He rubbed his face and looked at Shep. ‘Hard to hear myself talking this way. I’m supposed to uphold the law. I killed him. We tried to hide him.’
‘Do you think it will hold? The collusion?’
‘I don’t know. It’s down to time and conscience; how much people can bear, for how long. I do know that what happened was inevitable, had to happen.’
‘Had to?’
‘I’m surprised we lasted this long when I think about it. It’s been building: every year, every birthday, every day. There are always fresh flowers on one of the graves. Every sighting: being reminded.’
Shep grunted as he pushed harder through the soil, past his elbows, straining with the exertion. He stopped, closed his eyes for a moment before resting his face briefly on the ground. His shoulders moved slightly in response to his fingers’ exploration.
‘Why are you doing this?’
Shep stopped exploring.
‘I need to be telling Becky the truth.’
He withdrew from the grave slowly, pausing before extracting his hands. Crumbs of soil fell from his wrists, cuffs and ridden-up sleeves. He rubbed his fingertips against his thumb, leaving dark sticky smears.
He took his handkerchief and wiped the stickiness away. He sat back on his heels.
‘You convinced it was him?’
‘No doubt in my mind,’ said Cutter, ‘or the minds of others. Be no doubt in yours if you read the boy Munson’s journal.’
‘What I know is enough. Reading it could only be worse,’ said Shep.
‘I guess. We got a headstone for Sandy Corrigan. That’s how sure we are.’
‘I tried to love him so much, you know that?’
‘I remember it. You doted for two, defended every criticism.’
‘I thought he needed me. He wasn’t God’s little miracle. Becky didn’t even believe he was God’s.’
‘That’s how she gave up on him, rather than God?’
‘I suppose. Fucked if I’ll ever work that one out.’
‘She made the right choice in a way.’
John Cutter took out his handcuffs and offered them to Shep. Shep didn’t take them.
‘Not my job, John.’
‘Somebody should. Feels appropriate for it to be you. You’re right. What I did won’t stay quiet, not forever.’
‘You don’t think they’ll bear the weight of their crime?’
‘I don’t know. Depends how they view it.’
Shep still made no attempt to take the cuffs. John Cutter put them back.
He held the club out. ‘What’ll I do with this?’
‘Throw it back, let it be; let things be.’
John stood. A strong underarm swing and it was gone.
‘I think I’m going to go now, see if Debs is in the house, sit with her if she’ll stand me. You be okay?’
Shep put his hand out. John Cutter took it and helped him to his feet.
‘Thank you.’ Shep rolled his dirty sleeves back down to his wrists. He wiped the grime from his watch; checked it was ticking. ‘I’m done here, John. I’ll walk out with you.’
As they left the glade, crouching beneath branches and pushing through the fence, the snow that fell on the grave began to stick. The black iris grew milky. Before long it would be blind.
He thought she was gone and he was downhearted, but it was to be expected. A lot had been broken. He closed the door, disliking the space he shared with no one. Two days ago it had only contained his anger. Now it was wide and open and every corner needed filling, bringing back to life.
‘John?’
Her voice surprised him. He was at the foot of the staircase in an instant, looking up at the bulb. The cobwebs were gone.
‘Yes?’
‘Bring some tools?’
‘Okay.’
Snatching a tool roll from the rack, he took the stairs in threes. He stopped at the top.
The cobwebs had been cleared.
The cat was gone.
The landing floor was swept.
The vacuum cleaner was still plugged in.
Jenny’s desk had been dusted.
Her window was open. He could smell cool, fresh air upstairs for the first time in years.
Deborah sat on Jenny’s bed holding the red boots to her chest.
John stepped into the room as if he was intruding. Deborah patted the bed. Springs creaked and gave way as he sat, tilting them together.
‘It looks better,’ he said.
‘Didn’t take much. She was always a tidy girl.’
John placed his tool roll on the bed as he looked around. He lifted Jenny’s doll off her pillow. He held it to his nose. Damp, it smelled old and uncared for. He noticed small specks of mould in the fabric and flecks of rust on the zip of the dress.
‘She’s gone, John.’
‘I know.’
He laid the doll back on her pillow. Deborah placed the boots on the foot of the bed and turned to him.
‘I want to come back.’
John nodded.
‘You want me back?’
‘I do.’
He took her hand and held it. She spoke with hope.
‘We can fix our room.’
‘I’ll fix it. I’ll make it new.’
‘I’ll help you.’
‘Rather you didn’t see it,’ he said.
‘I need to, or I won’t be able to help.’
‘It’s not pretty.’
‘Neither am I any more.’
‘I disagree.’
He pulled her closer. She fitted into her space, rested h
er head against him. Running his hand over her cheek, he put his nose to her head, welcoming familiar smells back. She spoke quietly, without raising her head.
‘John?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you think we’ll be okay? I mean, everything?’
‘We can only try.’
‘But what about Shep?’
‘I think it’s as over for Shep as it is for us. I’d be surprised to see Shep or Rebecca again.’
Deborah looked at him.
‘But we can leave him there? Forget about him?’
‘Like I said, we can try.’
As John shifted, the nugget fell from his trousers onto the bed. He picked it up.
‘At least Nug can have a proper burial,’ Deborah said.
‘We don’t have to pretend his remains are the dog’s.’
He stared at the gold but his thoughts were elsewhere.
‘What is it, John?’
‘The priest.’
‘I don’t think he’ll say anything.’
‘Makes you say that?’
‘He’s got as much to confess as us.’
John waited.
‘We talked,’ she said.
He let it go, knowing there was more.
Shep was glad of the empty room. He saw Rebecca’s note and the luggage, packed and ready. He read the note and scrunched it into the bin. He stripped, pushing his soiled clothes into one of the hotel’s plastic laundry bags, and stepped into the scalding shower in the steam-filled bathroom. Using his toothbrush he cleaned beneath his nails, then scrubbed every inch of skin that had been in contact with the grave until his arms were pink and sore and he could no longer tolerate the heat of the water.
Opening his bag and swapping clean for dirty, Shep dressed. Once ready, he lifted their luggage from the bed and took it downstairs.
In the foyer, he hit the desk bell with just enough force to make it heard. Glen was still chewing when he came through the door.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Shep. ‘I didn’t know you were eating.’
The Wrong Child Page 19