‘Marcus!’ I shouted. ‘Try to stand up!’
I reckoned that if he’d stood, the water would have only come up to his shoulders. He could have probably just walked out of there. But sensible thinking was never Jones’s strong point. He was bawling, thrashing wildly, choking and spluttering, sinking under the surface before his face with its desperate eyes would puncture it again. I vaulted the gate, pelted to the shore while casting off my jacket. Cursing the fact my good suit, my fine shirt would be ruined, I charged into the pool.
‘It’s OK, Marcus! Don’t worry! I’m here!’
The water was tepid; I strode through the bottom’s sludge, felt it seep into my shoes. I struggled not to gag at the rotten-egg stench. I tried to grab the boy, but – soaked, coated with filth – he was as slippery as a greased snake. He was writhing, twisting, sobbing, beyond any talking to. I just had to grasp, subdue him, haul him out. But it was difficult with his flinging arms, kicking feet – his shoes and fists struck me with astounding strength. I got the full force of one heel in my stomach, the other in the privates. I was winded; an awful dull pain pulsed from my balls. Fury surged; my hands gripped into fists. But I had to save that boy – and fast – before the fool drowned himself. I launched myself through the water, lunged at Marcus, managed to wrap my arms around him. My feet slipped on the muddy bed as I tried to hold him still. He went on flinging his arms and feet – I caught another blow in the bollocks, another in my belly. I grappled with him, clenched my teeth against the pain as his nails – surprisingly sharp – ripped my shirt, tore my chest. I got into a position where I was standing – the waters up to my navel – holding the boy from behind. I had his arms clamped though I couldn’t control his feet. He drove his heels into my shins – so hard it felt like he was hacking out bits of bone. The pain jarred through my body, infuriating me, but I knew all I needed to do was keep my arms tight around Marcus and wade to the bank, where I’d hold onto the boy until he calmed down.
I moved towards the shore, making clumsy steps through the sludge. But the boy would go on with that damned idiot wailing – its screech torturing my ears. He would go on bashing his heels into my shins, keep twisting and bucking as he tried to slither out of my grip. The stink from the pool would insist on floating up, making my head woozy, my stomach spasm. Images flooded through my mind of all the years I’d endured Marcus – his cheek, his violence, his disobedience. I thought of how much he’d cost my health and nerves. I stopped striding. As Marcus writhed and struggled, I gazed down at the water. Somehow those waters beckoned, somehow that stagnant pond now looked inviting – inviting not for me but Marcus. With one hand grasping the boy’s shoulder, I manoeuvred my body back, out of range of his fists and feet. I placed my other hand on top of his head – and pushed that head under. He fought, thrashing with his arms and legs, but couldn’t match my strength. Bubbles in desperate clutches spiralled up. I kept him down, more bubbles came. His struggle grew even more frantic. Through the waves and currents he caused, I knew he was hurling out his legs, flinging his feet. The fool didn’t have the sense to try to prise my palm from his head. Bubbles drifted up in clusters as I glanced around, as I shivered, as my heart banged, as I panted. A strange calm began to flow through my body, fill my mind. I thought how much more peaceful the world would be without Marcus. I looked at the fields, the skulking lowlands, the heavy pressing cloud, the school, the pub, the houses. There was not a soul about. Didn’t occur to me that someone could just walk out of the pub or stroll into the street, catch me right there. I just felt I had to keep the boy below. Marcus’s struggles got wilder – he went on kicking, thrashing his arms. I just shoved him down more strongly. I kept glancing around, sucked deep breaths to calm myself. Then the movements stopped. No more beatings at the water – Marcus was limp, floppy.
I snapped back to my senses, hauled – by the hair – his head out of the pool. His eyes were closed, his mouth slackly open. I picked Marcus up in both arms, strode from the pond. I laid him gently on the bank – the boy’s hands, face, neck all looking so pale, so pale against the rich brown mud.
Chapter Fifty-three
For some seconds, I just stared – stared as my heart boomed like a great tolling bell, stared at Marcus, looking like he was laid out for some rustic funeral. Still, so still, and so white. The lad gave a splutter. That splutter startled me from my daze. I hurled myself onto the mud and was kneeling right beside him, my hands pumping his chest. His lips wobbled – a stream of filth spewed out. I pumped again, more stinking water came up. The lad coughed, wheezed; sheer joy tingled in my chest; a smile broke on my face. I went on with my rhythmic pumping, driving both hands hard. He kept coughing, spitting out more water, less and less each time. He gave a kind of shriek, a rattle as he tugged a big breath in then all at once his torso jerked upright and he sat, legs stretched out on the ground. His face still shockingly pallid, he glanced about as if he’d just woken up. He looked around some more as he took huge sucks of air, his eyes wide, his gob hanging. I could almost hear the buffoon’s mind labouring as he wondered why he’d woken up on the pond’s bank drenched in filth rather than in his bed. Then those eyes clocked me. Marcus gave a start, jerked his head back; his eyes protruded; his mouth dropped even lower.
‘Marcus –’ I paused for a second as my brain raced ‘– you fell into the pond. I rushed in there, pulled you out. It was very dangerous – you’d have drowned if I hadn’t rescued you!’
The boy blinked. He gazed up at me with grateful awe. I thanked God he seemed to have no memory of me shoving him under.
‘It’ll be all right, Marcus. I’ll take you home.’
Slowly the boy nodded.
‘Do you know how you fell into the pond?’
The lad shook his head.
‘You were doing something very silly – trying to balance on that barrel.’
I pointed towards where the oil drum now lay, toppled on the bank, half in the water and half out.
‘You slipped, crashed into the pool, started panicking. It was a good job I saw you – you could have so easily drowned.’
The buffoon nodded again. The first specs of colour were returning to his cheeks.
‘Pulling you out wasn’t easy. You were struggling, fighting against me …’
Fury gushed. I jumped to my feet, waved my fists.
‘By God, boy! Look at what you’ve done! You were punching, kicking, scratching me as I tried to rescue you! Look at my clothes – ruined!’
I was leaping on the bank, my fists bashing my thighs, my yells reverberating over the water, fields.
‘You… you imbecile boy! Battering and clawing me when I just wanted to save you! The sheer blasted idiocy of balancing on that barrel in the first place! You … you …’
I sprang at Marcus. His mouth gaped again; the colour fled once more from his face. My hand shot down, grabbed the boy’s wrist, pulled him skywards. And it was towards that low weighty sky I wished to propel him. My hand hurtled, slammed onto his rear. I noticed the limpness of his body – he was obviously too shocked to have braced himself. Up Marcus flew, down my hand raced, colliding with his rump as soon as he was vertical. His breath whistled from him, the last drops of pond water sailing out on it. Marcus was hurled up again; back down he floated; my palm rushed to meet the behind; a wonderful impact thundered across the fields. I soon slipped into a daze. All I could think of was the need to beat Marcus, to belt him hard, to thrash from him the mad notions that had almost ended his life, given me so much discomfort and pain. My hand rose and fell; the rhythmic strikes echoed. I hauled up all the strength I had – a surprising amount considering our exertions in the pond – and I flung every bit into the walloping. On and on I powered. An immense blow smashed into Marcus and his tears flew, pitching away from the boy at all angles. It had taken longer than usual – the saltwater delayed by shock, I guessed, rather than wilful resistance. The sight of his tears spurred me on, urging my arm to plunge faster, my hand to wallop hi
m with even more force. I went on beating as the boy choked, sob and gurgled, as those gurgles morphed into desperate wheezes. I barely registered them – all I could think of was the need to drive my palm down, the need to thrash the evil from Marcus just as I’d forced the filthy water from him. My heart bashed, galloped, felt like it would burst. Sweat gushed from my face, streamed from my underarms, but still I battered the boy. I hurled down an extra-hard one. The strike resounded, jolting me from my trance. I glanced around, shook my head to banish the last of my daze, but – even having come back to my senses – I couldn’t resist flinging down a few more. Now more conscious of what I was doing, I took pleasure in the expert swoop of my arm, the precise timing of the blow, the most excellent reverberation of the impact. A few more whacks, and I feared I was falling into my trance again. But my holding arm was shivering from the strain of keeping the boy up. I summoned the last of my strength, threw it all into the final wallop. The noise resounded like a rifle shot; a fresh fountain of tears leapt from the boy, and – after his swings had subsided – I lowered the lad.
I was bent over, my hands resting on my thighs, my arms propping up my sagging torso. My heart hammered, rushed. My mouth clawed at the air, sucking in huge gasps. Soaked in sweat and dirty water, I shivered then started to shake violently. My eyes roamed over the sludgy ground, jerked wider as I saw Marcus lying there, utterly white, body limp. But sobs were jolting through him, sobs that showed he was very much alive. I went on sucking in breath; the boy went on weeping into the mud. When I was finally able to speak, I said, ‘Marcus, try to stand.’
The boy pushed himself from the bank, managed to get into an upright posture. He swayed and teetered. He was howling, shivering, staring at me – his eyes swollen with disbelief, a look of utmost shock on his corpse-white face.
‘Marcus,’ I said. ‘Come here.’
The boy slowly wagged his head. He turned, lurched into a tottering run. In a wild stumbling jog, he weaved down the road, hobbled around the corner opposite that stinking pub, and disappeared from sight. I got in my car, drove home, hoping, praying that – my hands shaking, jolting as they gripped the wheel – I wouldn’t flip the vehicle over or shoot it into a hedgerow. When I got to my house, I found that – thankfully – Sandra was in the kitchen, the radio blaring, door shut; Nick was in the lounge watching some brainless cartoon. I scooted upstairs, got changed then hurled my wet clothes in the dustbin before anyone could get suspicious. But I knew it would be the next day my problems really started.
Marcus didn’t turn up to school. The phone call came in the late morning. I had to go and speak to the LEA after classes broke up. Panelled room. Couple of pompous bureaucrats behind a desk. Mr Jacobs, Helen’s dad, skulking in a damned corner. Long silence. One of the men finally spoke.
‘This is a strange one, James. Idiot boy nearly drowns himself in a pond. You charge in, save his life. A hero. Could have had you on the front of the local rag. Great publicity – would have given us all a boost. Except …’
The man let out a lengthy sigh.
‘I understand. You were in shock. Furious at the lad’s stupidity. But … Look here, his parents have complained. Say they don’t normally object to corporeal punishment, but … you can understand them making a fuss if their lad’s just nearly drowned. I don’t know what to think. First you do something so heroic then you follow it up with an act of – in the circumstances – appalling brutality.’
The first emotion that surged through me was relief. It seemed Marcus really didn’t recall me pushing him under. But still, I thought, that must be it for the old teaching career – they’d have to sack me. Especially as, soon, maybe even at that moment, it’d be all round Emberfield. I imagined the jaws of the damned gossips clacking, Davis gleefully leaning over his counter as he passed the news on. Those three paper shufflers, pen pushers looked at me. This time, it was Jacobs who spoke.
‘James, we don’t want to fire a man who’s saved a lad’s life. Yet you must acknowledge it would be hard for you to continue teaching Marcus. But …’
A long pause filled the room.
‘You’re in luck. Marcus and his family are moving away. His dad’s been offered, and has accepted, a job in another town. The lad will be changing school. And the family are grateful you saved him, if perplexed about your later actions. They’ve agreed to keep shtum. Marcus, of course, won’t be coming back to school, but as it’s only a week to the summer holidays, he can just be sick.’
‘As I think we’d all be –’ the third pen pusher nodded ‘– if we’d had a bellyful of that pond.’
‘Is the boy … alright?’ I asked.
‘His parents took him to hospital yesterday. They checked him over. He’s fine. Tough little blighters, the lads round here.’
‘James,’ Jacobs said, ‘I’d ask you to go a bit easy. Corporal punishment’s not illegal. Technically, you’ve done nothing wrong. And the good people of Emberfield seem to love your … let’s say, old-fashioned methods. Just don’t go too far, eh. Just don’t go too far.’
Almost wish they had damned well sacked me. Might have pushed me into changing my life sooner. Then again, even up here, I’ll need a bit of supply work to get by. Wouldn’t do to have a black mark against my name. But what’s really tortured me over the years is knowing what could have been. How close I came to murdering that blasted boy. Another minute and … Having to live my life knowing I have that capability in me. Feel branded sometimes – like Cain in the Bible.
I tried to push those awful memories from my mind, enjoy the beauty of the loch. Reminded myself I was no longer in Emberfield. I sucked in calming breaths, looked around at the thrusting mountains, the glimmer on the dark water. Brought myself back to the gentle rock of the boat. Took the rod from its case, prepared myself to settle into a soothing fishing session. Just me, the sky, the water, the peaks. Couple of hours later, I was puttering back home, seeing my rough stone cottage grow larger on the shore. My home, so, so far from Emberfield. I really have to leave that dreadful chapter of my life in that damned town behind.
Oh, I almost forgot to mention I caught two fat eels. Made them into a soup. It tasted superb.
Monday, 14th March, 1985
I kill the engine, let the boat drift and wobble on the lake. The Dark Pool. I stare at those black waters. So inviting, just like some other waters were a few years ago. My heart bashes, thuds through me; chill sweat runs yet I feel weirdly calm. I draw in a big breath of that salt-spiked mountain air. Hold it in my lungs for what might be the last time. Allow myself a long look at those peaks. I gaze lovingly at all those summits I’ve come to know.
If anyone deserved a good walloping, it was that boy. Can’t see what the parents had to complain about. But then some bigwig on the council started an investigation, encouraging more parents to say I’d ‘physically abused’ their children. Physically abused? I’ve given out no more than in Emberfield. Barred from supply teaching while their damned inquiry drags on. Almost certain, those blasted bigwigs tell me, to be banned for good. Whispers behind my back in village streets. Refused to serve me in a shop the other day. Last I heard, another lot of parents have thrown their damned two-pennyworth in – whining I scared their kids with ‘a very lifelike model skeleton’. Biology lecture, I’d call it. Don’t these people have a sense of humour? Dour bunch the lot of them, hardly smile, faces like slapped backsides.
The bigwigs have been in touch with people in Emberfield. Damned Jacobs told them about the Marcus incident. That Judas of a vicar has thrust his oar in too, saying he always thought I was too brutal with the kids, that all along he was trying to lever me out of my job. And I thought he was my friend! Liar! Hypocrite! I’m sure his God will have a nice little furnace waiting for him when he goes!
No way I’ll get by here without the supply teaching. Especially after Father’s announcement. Old devil on his last legs, decided to change his will while he still had the strength. Cut me out completely. Not one pound. Left
it all to Sandra and Nick. They’ll even get the house when Mother dies. I’m not even likely to see much more of my boy. Sandra on the phone after Nick’s summer break up here, swearing she’ll never let him stay with me again, that I’ll never be welcome at their flat. Just because I administered some discipline when I had to. Nothing to look forward to but shame, loneliness and poverty. Don’t even know how I’d fill my gut.
The waters beckon. I’ll leave this book in the boat’s cabin. Hopefully, someone will read it, read the other diaries, see I was just an honest man trying to do his best. His best for himself, his family, his pupils, his nation, struggling against this damned wicked, this perverse modern world. Maybe we can’t hold back history’s flow, even if that flow’s towards ever greater evil, ever greater decay. This one man’s certainly failed to halt it. Make sure the rope’s tight round my middle. The block it’s lashed to is weighing the boat down. Take a final look at the beauty around me. My country, my land. Want to die with that image filling my mind. See a couple of black birds – ravens – dancing and spiralling over the loch. Lots of legends about them – harbingers of death, battlefield feasters, Odin’s sacred birds, a form the warlike Morrigan takes when hovering over scenes of slaughter. Maybe those messengers from the otherworld could bear my soul away – the soul of a great warrior who’s battled all his life against decadence and evil. They swoop, skim the boat, as if they’ve read my thoughts. The time for words is gone. One more minute and I’ll slide myself into the lake. I look over it, get a feeling of peace. Reminds me of the start of the Bible, the endless primal waters out of which God moulded the world. I respect the Lord’s great wisdom, but I sometimes wonder why He bothered. Why make all that noise, violence, conflict, wickedness out of something so eternal, so calm? I’m going into the cabin now. These will be the last words I write before I commit myself to the standing water.
The Standing Water Page 55