“You know you shouldn’t have come in here if you weren’t going to be more help than this.’’
The people outside who had asked Ann Hooks to go in had said: calm him down, play along with him, don’t argue. But keep the upper hand.
But they had utterly misjudged the situation. They hadn’t allowed for the personal element. They hadn’t allowed for his feelings, or hers.
As Ann saw his eyes behind those thick spectacles she knew he hated her.
“I can help you,’’ she said. “ If you’ll let me.’’
He didn’t answer, but moved the gun in his hand in a way that was answer enough.
Get the children out, they’d said. Keep that as your priority. Don’t anger him, but don’t give way to him either. Stay in control.
But she wasn’t in control. On the other hand, neither was he. They were still contending. It could go either way. One false move in their dialogue and she would have slipped. Perhaps she’d slipped already. She tested it.
She took a step forward.
“Go back.’’
She didn’t move.
He hesitated. “All right. Stay where you are.’’
No, she hadn’t slipped. But nor had he. They were still locked together and the children were still here in the room with them.
“Send the children out,’’ she said softly. “ You open the door and tell them to go.’’
“I like them here.’’
“You want an audience?’’
He ignored this because he was moving round the room again. Now he was at the window. A long low window stretching the whole length of the classroom. He moved aside a pot of hyacinths and sat down. He moved the pot gently and quietly as if he minded what happened to it. The bulb was one of several placed along the window ledge, all with children’s names painted on in white.
“Alison Peters,’’ he said. “Which one of you is Alison Peters?’’
There was a long, long pause, because Alison Peters naturally did not want to own up.
“No answer, eh?’’ He tapped with his gun on the nearest desk. “You boy, which one is Alison Peters?’’
“Her.’’ A hand pointed to a girl in the front. She looked terrified.
“It’s a nice bulb, Alison.’’
“Thank you.’’ A polite child, but one that could hardly raise her voice above a whisper. Any minute now the class was going to crack, someone would scream or burst into tears, or worse, make a run for it. The miracle was that they’d held steady so long. What would happen if a child moved? Would the gun speak, or would it remain still? We don’t know if the gun’s loaded or not, they’d said. We leave it to you, they’d said, you could drop dead finding out, but we leave it to you.
“I only wanted to say it’s a nice bulb.’’
He only wants to frighten you, Alison, don’t let him pretend you are any different. The gun’s still pointed, I suppose you can still see that? Don’t try for the gun, they had said outside, until you’ve got the children away.
The boy with the gun, if you said his name loud and clear, it was David Little, even if you whispered it under your breath like the children were doing it was Dave Little, Dave Little, little Davey. With a name like Little you were asking for trouble and with David you had got it. In bloom and flowering.
His brother, with a name like that, Peter Little, had become a policeman, that was his way of meeting trouble.
“Now you all know me,’’ said David Little, coming to the front. “You all know me, don’t you, and you know what I done.’’
They looked at him speechlessly.
“I tore up school books, I slashed a coat, I set a booby trap, and I started a fire.’’ It was a short catalogue and he didn’t amplify it, no talk about motives or excuses. “ I didn’t make any secret of it. Anyone could have known it was me. I meant they should. I wasn’t interested in secrets, I was getting publicity.’’
He’s probably saturated to the skin with LSD, they’d said outside, he’s been on it all the time. His brother just found out. His brother. Good old Peter Little.
The children stared and were silent, this time because they didn’t understand. All the trouble at the school had been kept as quiet as possible, and the fire publicly called an “accident’’. And these were junior children, ignoring a lot of the rumours that excited the upper school.
“Yes, it was me did all that. So don’t forget it.’’ He tapped the wall with his gun. “And I’m not going to let any of you out. You’re going to stay in here with me until I say.’’ He looked at Ann. “Don’t get any ideas because I let the teacher out. I let her out because she had a little bit of authority left in her and you have none. None.’’
Don’t you be so sure, thought Ann, but she didn’t anger him by saying it.
“When they first saw me get the gun out, they thought I was going to shoot myself.’’ He laughed. Then he swung round. “ Keep still, boy at the back. Dead still.’’ Once again he addressed the class. “ Don’t think I chose this room by accident. I didn’t: when I first came to Palmer’s Road I was locked in this classroom. For punishment. I had to sit here an hour and a half and miss my dinner. I was twelve then. Three years ago.’’
He had repeated this story over and over again. Ann knew it wasn’t true. No one had ever locked him in this room for an hour and a half and he had never been deprived of his dinner. He had never ever done anything to deserve punishment. Until this past six months he had been a good, quiet pupil, anxious to preserve his averages. Not a clever boy but an industrious, rule-keeping boy. No, he’d never been in trouble.
What she didn’t know though was whether he really believed these stories he told about himself. Perhaps he was building the stories up like a stockade round himself, because what was really hurting was something quite else.
“Now I’m showing Palmer’s Road School what I think of it,’’ he said. “And you. I’m showing you what I think of you.’’
He drew himself up to his full height which was about seventy inches. He was tall for his age, and physically well developed. Ann too was tall and sturdy. Size for size, they were well matched. Except for the gun.
The gun belongs to his father, they’d said outside. His old man brought it back from Germany in 1945. It’s an automatic. He has ammunition for it but he can’t remember where he kept it. So we don’t know if the boy has anything in it or not.
For twenty-five years the weapon had been lying in a box in a drawer, unused and forgotten, and all this time events had been waiting for it. Waiting for David to be conceived, walk, learn to talk, grow up and finally lay hands on it. Do people choose their weapons? Or do weapons, once created, choose their people?
The gun described a circle in the air. Ann saw that silently David had moved nearer to her.
“Let the children go,’’ she said suddenly. “Let them get up and walk out. They’ll be quiet.’’
“Glad to go,’’ he said. “ Don’t tell me.’’
“I shall still be here.’’
He laughed. “You bet. I’ll say when you go. I’ll say when we all go.’’
There was a noise from the playground outside and he studied Ann’s face. Perhaps he saw the look of hope.
“Get over to that window, open it and tell them if they try anything on, I’ll do what I promised. They know what that is.’’
Ann went to the window. From where she stood she could see David’s mother standing by the playground gate in company with two plain clothes policemen. She did not speak, but shook her head slightly. They saw. She turned and stood with her back to the window.
“You didn’t call out.’’
“It wouldn’t be any good. They’re not taking any notice of me.’’
“Do as I say.’’
“The window is stuck. I can’t move it.’’
“I know that window. Known it all my life. It’s not stuck. Open it.’’
Ann hesitated.
“Go on, struggle with it.
I’d like you to struggle with it.’’
Ann put her hand to the window, very slowly.
“Especially if it’s all an act,’’ he said. “A real laugh.’’ He began to laugh.
In the silent struggle between them Ann had lost ground. The balance had swung at last.
“Oh, go away,’’ he said, still laughing. “You can leave the window. I don’t care.’’
From across the room came a childish wail. A girl put her head on her desk and began to cry. Another child did the same.
“Oh, let them out,’’ said Ann. “ You let the teacher out and me in. Now let them out.’’
“And you’ll stay?’’
“I’ll stay.’’
“For whatever I have in mind?’’
“My mind’s a blank.’’ He laughed again. He certainly didn’t appear to be drugged. Hysterical, but not drugged.
“For whatever you have in mind.’’
He looked round the room. “ Stand up, class.’’
In a straggly, undecided group some stood.
“Up, up.’’ He cocked a look at Ann, waiting to see. She was silent.
Now the rest of the class were up and looking at him.
“Shall I let them go?’’ He looked at Ann.
“Yes.’’
“My mum’s out there, you know. You thought I didn’t see. But I saw. I’ll tell you: it doesn’t make a blind bit of difference to me. She’s nothing to me. Hasn’t been for some time. Let her be there.’’
He sat down at the teacher’s desk out front. “No, sit down again, class, teacher’s decided to keep you here.’’
He rapped on the desk. “Attention; That’s a giggle, eh? Me asking for attention. And getting it too.’’
It’s what you want, thought Ann. It’s what you’re sick for.
“No, now I’ve thought, I’ve changed my mind. Tell you what I’ll do. I’ll let all the boys go and keep the girls.’’
“Let them all go,’’ said Ann. “ It’s me you’re after anyway, isn’t it?’’
“Yeah. You. I want to show you up for what you really are.’’
“And what’s that?’’
“You know. You know. You know.’’ He was much less articulate than he had been, as if the words were forming inside him, but he was having trouble getting them out.
Ann had no trouble in understanding him; he resented her, because of her colour. And she was his brother’s friend. More, there was a strong chance she might become his brother’s wife. Didn’t they say madness had a social origin? That it came from out of the heart of the family? She could understand him. He wasn’t a clever boy, or a sophisticated one; he had a simple little set of values and she and his brother had walked right into them and broken them up.
“Let them go then,’’ she said. “ It’s past the end of morning school by now.’’
There must be more to it all than me and his brother, though, she thought, watching his face. We were the end of something, not the beginning.
Suddenly she took the issue into her own hands. She marched to the door and threw it open. “ Out,’’ she said to the children.
“Go quietly now. Don’t rush.’’ But she knew they would rush and she didn’t blame them.
But they were good. She was surprised how good they were. They went out quietly, not pushing, child by child.
David stayed where he was, sitting at the table, the gun still in his hands. He didn’t fire.
So after all the gun was not loaded, thought Ann.
She stood at the door and he sat at the table. “ It’s over now,’’ said Ann. “ Give me the gun.’’ He ignored her. It was possible he hadn’t even heard.
She saw Charmian and a young man whom she didn’t recognise threading their way through the children. Behind them she could see one of the policemen hurrying to catch them up. Then he was arguing, trying to stop them both, but they came on. Ann saw it all in a remote detached way.
“Hello,’’ she said to Charmian as they got close. “ I thought you’d come.’’
“Are you all right?’’
“Yes. Amazingly all right.’’ Ann laughed. “There’s nothing to worry about at all.’’
“If you say so,’’ said Charmian.
“I didn’t enjoy it. And the children won’t forget it in a hurry. But it’s over. Pretty well over.’’
“He’s still got the gun.’’
“I think it’s empty, though. If it had had anything in it he would have used it.’’
They were talking in low voices, still watching David, who seemed indifferent to them.
“How long has he been like this?’’ whispered Charmian.
“Suddenly it happened. Just now.’’ He seemed sunk in lethargy, far away from them.
The policeman appeared at the door. “Away, you two,’’ he ordered. “I’m taking over now. Thanks for all you’ve done.’’
“Let me talk to him,’’ said Ann. “I can help him. I know I can.’’
She took a step forward, throwing out her hand to him. She started to smile and was half way through the smile when the shot hit her.
Charmian had only time to see the gun swing towards her when Don knocked her to the floor.
She heard the noise of the shot, but hardly apprehended it. Afterwards she was to say she did not remember it at all. Her nostrils were filled with an intensely pungent acrid smell. What she never was to forget was the scream, short and savage, with which the killer punctured the air.
Chapter Thirteen
The girl Sheila, shut up in the cupboard in the Computer House, was hammering on the door. She had been hammering for some time and was desperate now. There was an hysterical edge to her voice as she shouted.
She stopped shouting and banging and sank back on to the floor, leaning against the door. “I’m not going to get out of here,’’ she said. “I’m never going to get out.’’
It was dark and smelly in the cupboard, surprisingly smelly for so new a building. She seemed to be sitting on old boots. She was such a well-brought-up, hard-working girl that she knew very few expletives and those she had already used. None of them had helped.
She couldn’t see her watch, but she guessed several hours had passed since she had been roughly bundled up and pushed into this cupboard. For a while after this she had heard noises, even voices, in the building, but these had died away and for some time now there had been silence.
“I wish I had Ted here,’’ she thought. Ted was her young man: safely away in London. “At least we could put being shut up in here to some use.’’ And in spite of her tension she giggled.
“If not Ted, then a cigarette,’’ she thought after another few minutes. “But no, no cigarette. Fire.’’ She stood up hurriedly. “ Oh God, fire. Fire.’’ The purport of the noises and the faint smell of petrol (for surely she could smell petrol?) was borne in upon her. “I’m going to be burnt alive.’’
The panic started in the pit of her stomach and then travelled rapidly to her head making her ears sing and coldness touch her eyeballs. She lay flat on the floor and waited for the faintness to pass.
One wave of panic was over.
She sat up, hugged her knees and worked out the future. Not the long distance future which it had previously been her joy to think about (love, marriage, a home, she had it all to plan) but the near future. Just ahead. Now. Something was going to happen in this building. She had lived a little apart from the rest of the students but she had heard enough talk to know something was planned. The Big Blow, they called it. In joke, of course, or so she’d supposed. But now she thought the Big Blow was real and coming soon.
“My computer,’’ she said aloud. “ It’s going to be destroyed.’’
The darkness and the smell began to make her sick. She pressed her hands against her mouth trying to hold in the waves of nausea and pain.
“I don’t want to die in this closed up place. I’m frightened. It’s so narrow in here.’’
&nbs
p; The second wave of panic had begun. Like the first it was soon over and was, she presently realised, only a rehearsal, a warming-up for the real thing.
When it started properly panic was entirely physical. It was screaming and banging on the door. It was her body taking over beyond the control of her spirit, which was gasping and trembling underneath, there all the time, but helpless. Panic was violent, cell-splitting energy.
Blood began to appear on her hands.
There was blood on Charmian too. She couldn’t see it, but she could feel it. On her mind, and on her heart, and it would be there for ever. It was part of her past; part of her future too.
“I helped to kill Ann Hooks,’’ she said.
“That’s no sort of talk,’’ said Don.
“I was one among many, but I was there. Up there in the front, too.’’
“The boy nearly killed you. Maniac.’’ He sounded angry.
“He would have except for you. Thank you.’’
“What’s going to happen to him?’’
“I don’t know. Hospital, I suppose. He’s what they call ‘seriously disturbed’,’’ said Charmian drearily.
“Keep your mind on the road,’’ said Don. “ You’re driving too fast.’’
Charmian avoided a lorry and swung left towards the University. She could see the green roof of the Computer House below.
“You’re still driving too fast.’’
“It’s funny, here I am, driving around and a girl called Ann Hooks is dead. She’s dead because I advised her to stick to being a policewoman and always to take what the job handed out to her.’’
“It wasn’t bad advice.’’
Charmian stopped the car in sight of the University precincts and sat back. “When I started here in Midport University there were three things in my life. My own work (and in her contact with the students Alda was a part of that), my lectures to the policewomen, and you.’’
“Thanks.’’
“All that you stand for, I mean.’’
Don was silent.
“And now look,’’ went on Charmian. “Alda is dead, Ann Hooks is dead, and my own work, which I do mind about, I’ve hardly touched for weeks.’’
A New Kind of Killer, and Old Kind of Death Page 14