The Standing Water

by David Castleton

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Well, I sort of think everything’s made of smaller bits. But these bits are so tiny, you can’t even see them.’

  Stubbs rushed past, chasing Richard Johnson in a game of tig. He thrust out his hand to slap Jonathon; Jonathon ducked; Stubbs hurtled away.

  ‘Yeah, look at this shoe.’ Jonathon pointed at his. ‘It’s made of leather, seems pretty solid. But really, it’s not: it’s full of these tiny bits – like little balls – that are always moving around. It’s the same for everything – the grass, the soil, even our bodies. It’s just that the little balls – I think they call them part-ic-les – that make up the grass look different from those that make the soil and both are different to those that make the skin.’

  I nodded – though we couldn’t see those little balls, it seemed a reasonable idea.

  ‘But there’s more,’ said Jonathon. ‘I imagine that each of those part-ic-les contains a whole universe – just like ours, but much smaller. And in those universes there are more things which are made of part-ic-les, and each part-ic-le has another even tinier universe in it and so on and so on.’

  This was quite a revelation: much more complex than my theory of the four things, which now seemed somewhat primitive.

  ‘Well, what about our universe?’ I asked.

  ‘The same,’ Jonathon said, ‘our universe is just one of millions – millions and millions – that make up a thing in a bigger universe. And that bigger universe is too, in an even more enormous universe – and so on and so on.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said, ‘our universe could be just a tiny part of a clump of dirt under a giant’s fingernail.’

  Jonathon lowered himself onto the grass and we were silent for some moments, watching the clouds. We were by the hedgerow which bounded the school field and my hand reached into it, settled on a twig with which I began to fiddle, scraping the bark and lichen off. As I did this, a strange notion formed.

  ‘Hang on,’ I said, pulling that twig into view, ‘that means that if I snap this twig –’

  I snapped it – a sharp satisfying sound.

  ‘Then the millions of universes that were in all its part-icles will be destroyed.’

  Jonathon nodded.

  ‘And then all their little part-icles and the universes in them will also be destroyed and so on and so on forever.’

  Jonathon brought his head down again.

  I gasped – a destroyer of worlds, I possessed an immense power. Tearing a leaf or squashing a clod of dirt could result in endless apocalypse.

  ‘But that means –’

  ‘That’s right,’ Jonathon said solemnly. ‘The same is true for us. If in some much bigger universe, a giant steps on a frog or smashes a plate then eventually –’

  Jonathon drew his finger across his throat, made a constricted noise.

  ‘In fact,’ he said, ‘it’s probably already begun.’

  I looked at the sky’s dome. I could picture some massive foot crashing through that fragile shell – signalling our end, under some ogre’s boot. For some moments, I pondered the stark inevitability of our Judgement Day.

  ‘I suppose,’ Jonathon said, ‘this world can’t last forever – it’s got to end sometime, just like my set-outs.’

  But then a sound disturbed our dark musings. Familiar voices raised themselves in some discussion or argument. A little way off, our hedge finished and a crumbling wall replaced it. Some of its bricks were loose; others lay at the wall’s base, wrapped in weeds and brambles. It was towards those bricks that Stubbs was pointing. His face was twisted into a persuasive, pleading expression, like that of a merchant eager to strike a deal. Jonathon’s brother loitered beside him; arms folded, face sceptical.

  ‘Come on,’ I said to Jonathon.

  We scrambled up and walked to where the two boys stood. A few other lads had drifted over, intrigued by the debate. The brother was speaking.

  ‘So, you’re telling me that if I drop one of those bricks on my head, you’ll give me a pound?’

  ‘Honestly, it’s true,’ Stubbs said.

  The brother’s face knotted itself as he pondered. Doubt sent ripples across his forehead.

  ‘Where did you get that much cash?’

  ‘I’ve been saving my pocket money up, honest!’

  Stubbs’s voice was high – its shrillness shouting its hurt at the brother’s suspicion.

  ‘And you’ll give me that pound if I drop a brick on my head?’

  ‘Yeah, of course.’

  By now, more spectators had turned up. A circle started to form around the two lads.

  ‘Do you swear on the Holy Bible? Swear on your mother’s life?’

  ‘I swear,’ said Stubbs. ‘If you drop a brick on your head, I’ll give you a pound.’

  The brother turned, took a few steps, reached into the patch of brambles and weeds. He drew out a brick – a regular though aged brick: leached by endless rains, its colour was dull, its edges worn. A couple of pinpoints of blood marked his hands where thorns had snagged him. The brother walked back into the centre of that waiting circle, that ring of eager faces. He knelt down, and – both hands clasping the brick – raised it till it was about six inches above his head.

  ‘Come on,’ said Stubbs, ‘a pound’s a lot, isn’t it? You have to do it properly – lift the brick higher!’

  The brother frowned, glanced about, but – with a sigh – he stretched his arms straight. The brick was held aloft – like an offering to the air – solemnly balanced on his flat palms. The brother turned his face to Stubbs.

  ‘So, you’ll give me a pound, promise?’

  ‘Promise,’ said Stubbs, ‘on my life.’

  The brother twisted his neck back and stared ahead. He screwed his face up as he braced himself. He moved his hands, let the brick go. It seemed to hang in the air for some seconds. Then the brick fell; the brick collided with his head; the brick broke in two. The brother’s face jerked into a sharp wince; his eyes closed with blunt pain; a jolt shuddered through his body. I looked at that snapped brick, wondered how many particles with their tiny universes had been destroyed. The circle’s mood – which had been hushed, respectful – now changed.

  ‘Ha! Ha! Ha!’ Boys crouched, grasping their stomachs, pointing at the brother. ‘Ha! Ha! Ha!’

  Craig appeared not to hear them as he looked up. His eyes opened – slow whirlpools of pain. I imagined all that dull agony swirling in his skull, the throbbing ache at its summit. He turned his eyes to Stubbs.

  ‘Come on then,’ his slow lips mumbled, ‘give us the pound.’

  ‘You want a pound?’ Stubbs asked, a smile lighting his innocent face.

  ‘Yeah, you promised.’

  ‘Well …’ Stubbs paused, the eyes of all the boys on him. ‘I meant a pound of shit! Ha! Ha! Ha!’

  Stubbs broke through the circle – not a difficult task as many of its members were crippled with laughter. He sprinted away as boys dropped to the ground, rolled on the grass, clutching their ribs. The brother dimly looked at the space from which Stubbs had fled. It seemed that through his daze, through his new pain-flooded world, he was trying to comprehend, piece together the shattered spinning bits of what had been his mind. Around him, boys knelt, faces in their hands as they were juddered by spasms of unstoppable mirth. Others writhed on the grass – kicking their legs, bashing their fists on the ground. In the whirl of the brother’s brain, some understanding seemed to form. His face cleared somewhat; his expression of hazy agony morphed into one of bull-like anger. Fury pursed his lips, narrowed his eyebrows. He stumbled up to stand on swaying feet; his hands locked themselves into fists. Stubbs was perhaps twenty metres away – one hand pointing at the brother, the other banging his thigh as laughter shook through him. The brother turned, tottered towards Stubbs. Stubbs jogged back a couple of metres, still pointing, giggling. With dazed determination, the brother staggered on. Stubbs just trotted backwards. It was hard to see how the brother – his lumbering movements slowe
d by his haze of pain – would ever reach his tormentor. But the brother continued to teeter towards Stubbs then jolted into a run. With shambling steps, the brother chased Dennis. Stubbs could still outpace, outmanoeuvre him – running backwards, he still pointed, mocked. But the brother jerked into an ungainly sprint. With sudden speed, he charged down on Stubbs. Dennis’s joyful lips wobbled, his laughing eyes now panicked. He tried to lose the brother with a twisting run, but in seconds Craig was upon him. The enraged hammer of his fist shot out. It banged the side of Stubbs’s head – Stubbs dropped to the grass, ending his fall slumped sideways. The brother swung a stiff leg, booted Stubbs just below the ribs, shifting him a little way across the ground. Delight broke over the faces of the boys – they picked ourselves up, ran to watch. Soon a chanting ring enclosed the combatants – ‘Scrap! Scrap! Scrap!’

  Stubbs scrambled up – now it was his turn to feel the spiralling sway of dazedness. Like an underdog boxer, he bravely raised his fists. But the bigger boy charged into him – his clenched hands fury-driven mallets. One blasted onto Stubbs’s nose – blood erupted then ran down his lips and chin. A roundhouse blow socked Dennis’s ear – jolting his head so violently I thought his neck might snap. The brother’s other fist hurtled into Stubbs’s eyes: his glasses now hung forlornly – dangling by a bent arm from just one ear, with one pane shattered.

  ‘Scrap! Scrap! Scrap!’ shouted the circle.

  His eyes – now unshielded – each received a hefty whack, the force of which made Stubbs stumble onto his knees.

  ‘He’ll have a couple of souvenirs for a few days!’ Richard remarked, fingers tracing circles in imitation of Stubbs’s soon to be blackened eyes.

  But Stubbs – like a pugilist determined to beat the count – staggered back up and once more held his fists in a fighting pose. He jabbed at the brother, got in blows to the chest and jaw, but this merely heightened Craig’s fury. He flung his fist in an uppercut; it slammed into Stubbs’s chin – hurling him backwards onto the earth. This time there was no getting up. The brother would have usually left it there. But his mind a whirlpool of rage and bewilderment, he’d lost all control. With hazy gleefulness, he looked down at Stubbs then lashed kicks at him – aiming at head, ribs, stomach. Stubbs curved himself into a hopeless ball. The brother then paced some steps back, and – to the lads’ chanting accompaniment – he dashed at Stubbs. With this extra speed, he powered a kick into him. I swear Stubbs’s body lifted from the ground – as if tossed by a pitchfork.

  ‘WHAT IS GOING ON HERE!?’

  Our circle parted; the chanting died down. Weirton strode across the field, and – as my heart started to knock – he marched up to our ring. He looked at Stubbs – a shattered sobbing heap. He looked at the brother – frozen in a warlike pose: leg raised, ready to swing; fists held up. Weirton’s mouth dropped; his eyes widened. His gazed once more at Stubbs before swivelling his stare back to the brother.

  Weirton’s hand flew out, seized the brother’s wrist, dragged him up. His shoes left the grass – his feet scrabbling in the air, as if wondering what had happened to the earth below. Weirton drew his other hand back, swung it in a tremendous arc. The palm collided with the brother’s behind; a crack rang out as the boy lurched up. Body almost horizontal, his helpless feet waved before he fell back. The palm rushed to meet him – again that noise blasted, again the brother sailed up. The palm sped down once more – crashing into the brother’s falling body, flinging him on his skyward journey. Weirton brought his arm right back; it whooshed as it swept down. The palm banged onto the backside; I heard the brother’s breath whistle out from between his teeth. Up again he flew – face white, mouth a surprise-torn scar. Again the muscular arm slashed through the air; again the strike resounded; again the brother shot up – he gave little gasps as he struggled to get breath in. But before his lungs could be relieved, he was yanked back and a massive blow flung all the air from his body. That hand ploughed into the buttocks time after time; the brother flew up, got tugged down. I was amazed no tears had come – the only noises from the brother were his gasps and gurgles as he fought for breath. Weirton flung his body in a sharp twist, hurling all his strength into the next strike. Down the hand raced, the thud echoed across the field – and shards of salt water flew at all angles. The brother’s dam had burst, the gallons streamed out – rivers coursing down his ashen cheeks. Down the triumphant hand rushed – Weirton’s red sweating face beamed in victory. The impact flung out more tears – one landed on my neck, another on my cheek. The hand hurtled once more; out those salty shards showered; the brother choked and spluttered as his body was pitched. Weirton appeared to slip into a trance: perhaps he was lulled by his own beating rhythm. The swoop of the arm, the flight of the body, the echo of the impact, the hurl of tears each strike summoned: all seemed locked in the same tempo. The hand went thrashing on. The ring of lads stared; just one or two smiles quivered as the brother’s tears splattered us – Jonathon, Richard, Darren Hill all had to wipe away those drops. Weirton’s sweat gushed as the hand sped down and was pulled back. The arm holding the brother now shivered. Weirton’s face had shaded through maroon to scarlet. But Weirton still managed to fling down a couple more impacts before the sobbing choking child was lowered. Craig’s feet touched the grass, Weirton released his arm and the brother – as if he had no bones in his body – crumpled into a squat. His breath jerked and rasped as he fed ravenous lungs. Still in his trance, Weirton swayed before he snapped his attention back to the scene. He leaned over, resting one hand on a bent knee. Out came the hankie to mop the sweat-soaked face; the teacher sucked air in deep gulps until his breath grew stable.

  ‘Let that be a lesson to you!’ he shouted, thrusting his finger at the brother. ‘Brawling on the school field! Beating smaller boys! I was shocked – shocked! – by the savagery I just saw! Savagery I wouldn’t have imagined even you were capable of! Well, now you know how it feels to have someone bigger beat you!’

  Craig bawled and wept, as did Stubbs, who was still curled on the grass. The rhythms of their sobs climbed and fell, weaving around one another.

  ‘Yes, let that be a lesson to you all!’ Weirton spun his face, glaring at the circle of boys. ‘But I have a feeling there isn’t just one troublemaker here – oh no, not when Dennis Stubbs is involved! I’m going to get to the bottom of what’s happened today – mark my words I am!’

  Weirton’s hand shot out, grabbed the wrist of the brother. He stooped and with his other hand grasped Stubbs’s arm. Dragging both boys up, he began a hurried stride across the field, back towards the school. The lads tottered after Weirton as he wrenched their arms, as they tried to keep up, their dazed brains forcing their feet to run. A couple of times each stumbled, fell on their knees, but the headmaster didn’t slow. The boy was bounced and dragged along till he managed to scrabble up. Weirton paused in the middle of the field, talked with Perkins, telling her – I supposed – to watch the children. Then he resumed his rapid stride, tugging his captives behind him, until the three of them disappeared into the school.

  Chapter Eighteen

  After break, Stubbs stood at the front of our class – he wept and snivelled; his bruised face was turned down. His glasses had been clumsily patched with cellotape – the shattered pane was back in place, giving him only one eye to look out of. Perkins sat at her desk, passively blinking her thick eyelashes. Weirton strode back and forth; his pink face sweated.

  ‘Now children –’ Weirton’s finger thrust up, puncturing the quiet air ‘– as some of you know, a disgraceful incident occurred in this morning’s break!’

  Weirton let that stressed word hover – let it flood the room with the vibrating severity of that crime. When its echo had shuddered through us, Weirton continued.

  ‘A boy – a boy who is in this room now – conceived the wicked idea of playing a spiteful trick on one of his schoolmates!’

  The voice was still calm. Deep and rich, it juddered and modulated – spoke of an immense pow
er restrained. As my mind scrabbled to guess the meanings of certain dread words – conceived, occurred, spiteful – Weirton went on.

  ‘A trick so nasty, so evil, I can barely believe an innocent seven-year-old could have thought of it. But if you’re old enough to commit the sin, you should be old enough to take the punishment!’

  The last word reverberated. What would he do to Stubbsy? I thought of how the brother had dangled and choked, of how if Weirton had gone just a little further we might have had another Marcus. What could happen now if Weirton slipped into the same thrashing trance he had with Craig, but failed to leave it in time? Fear made my heart thud, but I also felt a guilty flame of pleasure rise at seeing Stubbs the smug trickster brought low. I struggled to stop my lips curving into a smirk. Weirton’s echoes had faded, and now we just heard Dennis’s snuffles, the swish of the teacher’s trousers as he strode. After maybe a minute of weighty quiet, the finger thrust as Weirton resumed his speech.

  ‘Yes, this boy standing before you, this joker, this buffoon!’ Those words triggered a swell of sniggers I battled to push down. ‘Thought it was a laughing matter to play a prank on a classmate that could have seriously injured or even …’

  Weirton allowed a lull.

  ‘Even killed him!’

  We all gasped as Weirton’s righteous finger swept up, as Weirton let his words resound. Again his trousers rustled as he paced. His finger once more thrust into the air.

  ‘In case any of you are unfamiliar with Dennis Stubbs’s crime, let me describe what he did.’

  Weirton paused. I glanced at Stubbs as he stood, head bent. Marks of the brother’s beating were manifesting themselves. One ear had swollen into a fleshy cauliflower; his lips were growing bulbous; the circles Richard had traced were darkening his eyes. All over his body – I thought – the brother’s bruisings must ache. Pity for Stubbs surged within me despite his evil crimes. But a glimpse of Weirton’s grim face reminded me once more of the sinfulness of Stubbs’s actions.

  ‘Well,’ the voice juddered, ‘this joker really covered himself in glory! He had the bright idea to lie to a schoolmate and tell him he would give him money if … if … he would …’