by B M Gill
"And then?"
"And then one of the new lads – Wilkinson – ran down the corridor in a pair of football boots, with one of the other lads after him. You know the rule about that. He dislodged a piece of parquet – the bit that's just been repaired where the damp was getting through."
"And you cut Mrs. Durrant off and attended to it."
"Quite."
"Do you think the lad's father sent him any money?"
"No, Headmaster. Do you?"
"No," Brannigan said, "I don't. But I intend asking him about it."
It took Hammond nearly half an hour to find Durrant and in that time Brannigan got through to the police again. There was still no news of Corley. Minutes afterwards Corley's father rang Brannigan. He had no news either and his tension was coming out as barely concealed aggression. Brannigan listened to his criticisms tiredly. On the whole, he thought, they were just. At that moment he would have gladly handed over the school to Corley's father and told him to run it -just to see how easy it was. He had a vision of a bothy in Scotland set miles from anywhere with not a single human being in sight.
Durrant knocked at the door and came in. "You want to see me, sir?"
In some odd way some of the boy's obsequiousness had gone. He had never exactly grovelled before Brannigan, but he had tended to stoop and mumble. Brannigan, catching a look from the boy's eyes, felt uncomfortably as if he were being measured up and found wanting. It was a familiar enough look from Alison – especially during the last few days – but he had never noticed it in Durrant before.
He came crisply to the point "How much money did you spend on your mother's camera, Durrant?"
The question visibly took the boy off-balance. "What do you mean, sir? What camera?"
"Don't stall. I haven't time for that. The camera you gave her for her birthday. It was to have been a book of Keats – obviously you changed your mind."
Durrant lost an inch or two. "Not very much, sir. I had meant to buy her the book of poems, sir. But I saw the camera in Franklin's – the nearly new shop at the corner of Brook Street."
"How much did you give for it?"
"Four pounds fifty." His voice became ingratiating. "And then I bought the razor, sir. The one you told me to buy." He rubbed his chin. "It does a good job, sir."
"Have you a receipt?"
"For the razor?" He saw Brannigan's expression and went on hastily, "For the camera? Yes, sir, I did have a receipt. But I don't keep them, not unless they're for a lot of money. I threw it away."
"Have you a lot of money? From your father – for instance?"
Durrani's surprise was genuine – so much so that he didn't answer. He seemed to be casting around in his mind for the reason behind such a stupid question. At last he thought he'd found it. "That money you advanced me, sir. You did get it back, didn't you? I told Mr. Hammond about it and asked him to give it back to you."
"Yes, I did get it back. Have you had a substantial sum of money from anyone recently?"
"Chance would be a fine…" Again he caught Brannigan's eye. "No, sir."
"Your mother seems to think you have. She phoned me this morning and wants to speak to you. You might as well make the phone call now." He indicated the brown leather armchair. "Go and sit over there and take the phone with you. I have this paper-work to see to." He implied that Durrant would disturb him less if he didn't make the phone call at the desk. Durrant hesitated. Brannigan lied irritably, "I won't listen."
As Durrant picked up the telephone and began to dial, Brannigan noticed his hands for the first time. They were large and bony with prominent knuckles. The nails were well shaped and well kept. Somehow he had expected them to be bitten to the quick. His overall appearance was scruffy, but that was mainly due to the way his hair grew over his collar and to the side-burns the razor had carefully avoided. He looked a strong young brute, but a strong young brute who showered daily without being told. He was a child in a man's body – but some of the time not a child at all.
He was a child now.
His whole attitude as he got through to his mother dropped years off him. His obvious delight as he heard her voice showed in the slight flush in his cheeks and in the relaxing of his attitude. He sat more comfortably in the chair, cradling the telephone base on his knee, stroking the flex absently with his left hand.
"Many happy returns for Tuesday. Did you like my card? And the present?"
Brannigan couldn't hear Lorena Durrant's side of the conversation, but he could see the effect of it. It was as if a cold, unexpected wind had caught the boy naked. His hand on the flex became still.
"What do you mean… my father?… Why should he?… What friend?… I don't think I know that friend (there was ice in his own voice now)… How would your friend know?… Eighty pounds (genuine surprise)… You think I spent eighty pounds?… If I had it, then I would – on you."
Brannigan looked away.
Durrant said bleakly, "No, I don't see my father much… No, he doesn't write much – and you don't either… I'm not changing the subject… If you want to believe your friend and not me… (A long unintelligible tirade which seemed to drive needles into Durrant's skin and leave small flushed areas of distress on his face)… All right, I know… I'm not criticising… Yes, you must have someone… I know you do… I wasn't trying to… It was just a present I thought you'd like… I'm sorry you don't like it… Why keep on about that? I know money's important… Yes, I will tell my father if he… No, I'm not lying about that… I haven't any… If I had I'd let you…" (the voice becoming dry, the words difficult to form).
Brannigan looked- back at him. The boy's face was set hard as if against the pain of a dental drill. Durrant was the first to hang up. He put the phone down because he couldn't take any more. He got up slowly and took it over to the desk. He looked at Brannigan as if he were an apparition at the end of a long tunnel. And then he knew him.
"Thank you, sir."
Brannigan said gently, "Women – mothers included – are creatures of many moods. She probably liked your present very much. Someone misled her about the price – that's all."
He had intended asking Durrant about Corley, but couldn't. It would be like putting the boot in after his mother's vicious heels had trodden all over him.
Durrant went straight from Brannigan's study to the store-room off the gym. The sun slanting down from the high window warmed the pile of new coir mats so that they smelt and looked like gingerbread. They were the only new items in the place. He pulled a couple of them into a corner behind the door and sat down. He couldn't face anybody yet. Brannigan's last few words were like fire in his chest. He was as near to tears as he had ever been.
Damn his mother, damn his bloody mother. And then because that was too unbearable he switched his mind off her completely and let the force of his pain and rage fall on the man she was with. A photographer. A mincing, mealy-mouthed, – misinformed, shitting photographer. Eighty pounds! If Corley's camera had been worth eighty pounds Corley wouldn't have handed it over so easily. Anyway -• who would give a kid of ten, or whatever he was, a camera worth that much? What sort of daft parents would do a thing like that? What was Corley's old man – a bank-manager or bloody Croesus?
He regretted now that he had gone to Brannigan for the postage money. If he hadn't he couldn't have posted the bloody thing. A fiver for a Keats had seemed a nice round sum and a bit of a joke, too. It wasn't a joke any more. It would be even less of a joke if Corley split on him.
He wondered where Corley had gone. If he was aiming for home, then a kid with any intelligence would have arrived there by now. It had rained during the night. If he had been out in that, the cold and wet would probably kill him. His chest rattled when he breathed – or perhaps he just breathed oddly. When he'd held him down in the hollow his breath had squeaked out of him like rusty bellows and his lips had turned blue. It had been disgusting of him to get sick all over him.
The memory was unpleasant and he switched it off
.
He began building an image of the photographer in his mind. He saw him as small, fat and frightened, but getting no satisfaction from that began building him bigger. An enemy had to be worthy of him. Fleming's father was worthy of him. His hatred made him ten feet tall. He tried making the photographer ten feet tall, but the imagery wouldn't work. He kept seeing him as small, fat and greasy, lying naked in bed with his mother. Despatching him would be like killing a pig. The blood would get on his mother and defile her. His inability at this moment to control his fantasies frightened him. He had always, until now, been able to walk the particular corridor in his mind he chose to walk. His own feeling of supremacy had never been shaken. Now he felt used – as if other hands were controlling the power-house and he couldn't pull them away.
There was someone crossing the floor of the gym and he sat quietly willing whoever it was to go away.
A small dark-haired boy with eyes as brown as pennies came and stood at the door. He hadn't seen this one before – or if he had he hadn't noticed him. He looked about seven.
"Excuse me…" The voice was high-pitched – very well bred. His mother would have mocked it as very "refained."
"Scarper!"
The boy looked as if he had heard, but didn't believe what he had heard. "I've come to fetch a rounders ball for Mr. Innis. I think I can see them in that basket over there."
He began treading delicately over Durrani's outstretched leg. Durrant raised it, tripping him. He came down heavily on his hands. His lips trembled. "I really can't go without it."
"No, you really can't, can you? Perhaps now you're here you can't go at all.".Durrant felt his dark mood lighten. "What's your name?"
The child, as still as a spider that is being watched from a vast distance by someone with a huge death-dealing foot, took a minute or two to answer. "Peter."
"You're not Peter here. You won't be Peter any more until you leave. What's your other name?"
"Christopher."
"Peter Christopher – what?"
"Nothing. Peter Christopher. My father owns the Christopher Potteries in Stoke."
"Oh, he does, does he? And what does he make in his pottery – piss-pots?"
The fair skin flushed. "He makes the best dinner services and tea sets in the world."
"He's rich – your old man?"
It was not done to speak about money. "I really don't know."
"You really don't know! You really aren't very bright, are you?" Durrant leaned over and pushed back the grey flannel cuff from the child's left wrist. He looked in disgust at the Mickey Mouse watch. "Is that the best your old man can give you?"
The tears were near the surface. "I like it."
"That's what I mean – you're dim."
"Mr. Innis will be wanting the ball… I really must get it."
Durrant raised his leg as a barrier. "I haven't finished talking to you yet. What did your old man give you for your birthday – a toy duck to put in your bath?"
"As a matter of fact," with great dignity, "he gave me a horse – a real one."
"Oh, I say – now isn't that something! So that piss-pot factory makes bread, does it?"
"I have already told you my father makes…"
"Piss-pots. You've ears like piss-pot handles, did you know that?" Durrant got on his knees and pressed the boy's ears back against his skull. "That's how they should be – flat."
"You're hurting me." As the ears whitened under pressure the child's eyes became bloodshot with tears. Fascinated, Durrant pressed harder and the tears spurted out and trickled down the sides of the tightly closed mouth. He wondered how hard he would have to press before the mouth gaped open and the kid began to bawl. His own pain was forgotten now and he began to feel euphoric. Dust danced in the beam of sunlight. The skin and gristle under his fingers were like organ notes – press harder and the noise would come.
Innis, at the doorway, snapped, "Durrant!"
Durrant, reorientating gradually, released the pressure and his hands dropped at his side.
The child, aware that the door of the torture chamber was open and that the liberator was beside it, began trembling softly from head to foot.
Innis said gently, "It's all right. Fetch the ball and go."
"Yes, sir."
As the child bent over the ball basket Innis saw that his ears under the fall of dark hair were scarlet. He waited for the child to leave the room before he rounded on Durrant. "What the hell's the matter with you?"
"I don't know what you mean."
"Be at my study tonight at seven sharp – and I'll tell you precisely what I mean."
Durrani's eyes became limpet soft. "Yes, of course I'll be there. What you saw just now might have seemed – well – rather harsh treatment – but the boy's attitude – he…"
"Keep your excuses until later. I've a P.E. class outside. Seven o'clock."
"Yes."
"Yes, sir!" Durrant looked at him in mild surprise. "Yes, sir. As you say, sir."
"And get out of here and back to your class."
"I was just about to go, sir."
He moved indolently past Innis and out through the gymnasium. Innis, grim-faced, watched him go.
Eight
FLEMING SPENT TEN minutes at the undertaker's Chapel of Rest and then tried to walk the experience out of his system. The small coffin was on a trestle covered with purple velvet. There was even canned music. It had nothing at all to do with David. He wished he could have some belief in a spirit life. He often had bursts of conversation with David in his head: "It's a posting to Paris. You'd have liked Paris." And now, as he walked the cliff path: "The propeller came off your aeroplane. The wind from the open window caught it. Fragile stuff balsa."
Purple velvet.
Brahms.
Unspoken apologies heavy in the air.
The divorcing of the spirit from the body made thinking about the body possible. He didn't believe in the spirit but he talked to the spirit. Correction… he talked to David.
Or he talked to himself.
He wished he could see Shulter again, but didn't want to seek him out. A casual meeting might be helpful, but an arranged meeting at the rectory would be too much like a professional appointment with a doctor or a dentist. Your symptoms, Fleming, are to be expected at this stage of the disease. Take a dose of faith twice a day and the prognosis will improve.
On the way to the undertaker's he had looked in at the church, a red-brick, turn-of-the-century building at the corner of Marristone High Street. It had seemed right, mainly for Ruth's sake, to accept Shulter's offer to hold the service there. It was difficult to rationalise his deferring to what he believed would be Ruth's wishes when Ruth was no longer there. Looking inside the church was rather like looking at an execution sword in advance so that familiarity would ease the shock of seeing it on the day. He doubted if he could take the funeral service at all, but so far he had taken everything and survived. There had been a bowl of early summer flowers on the altar and some petunia petals had fallen in an untidy pink pool on the white cloth. The untidiness had made it more acceptable. David had dropped things all over the place, too.
So did Jenny.
Her bedroom would have inspired Herrick to write a poem on it. Sweet disorder. Wild civility. She was as untidy as hell.
When he returned to The Lantern he made a couple of abortive attempts to phone her at the school. Each time the line was engaged. After lunch he drove past her flat in Nelson Street and on impulse stopped and rang the bell. There was no-one in. He remembered she had said she would be on duty. He didn't know what to do with the rest of the afternoon. Time that until now had pushed onwards like an incoming tide seemed sluggishly to reach highwater mark and be still.
He decided to go back to The Lantern and it was there that he ran into the reporter who told him about Corley. It was the same reporter who had written the paragraph in the Marristone Herald about David. Their previous meeting hadn't been easy, but this time it was Kenilwo
rth who had news to impart. He waylaid Fleming outside the bar.
"A child has gone missing from the Grange."
"What?" Fleming, still too deep in his own David-orientated world to be able to think of any child outside it, couldn't at first grasp what Kenilworth was saying.
Kenilworth explained patiently. "A young lad, about the same age as your son, has disappeared from the school. A big police search is on. Brannigan won't talk. And I've just had the usual routine stuff from fuzz headquarters. What's your feelings on it – off the record – at least for now?"
Fleming said shortly, "None. What feelings do you expect me to have?" All the same he was shocked and showed it. It was a like a stone being thrown into a pool and causing a new circle within an existing circle. He hoped wherever the child was he was alive and well.
"You've no comment?"
"What do you expect me to say?" (Bully for the lad for getting over the wall in time?) "You're being very careful, Mr. Fleming." Kenilworth's small blue eyes were regarding him thoughtfully. "I won't land you in a slander action. I know quite well where the line is drawn. But as a father yourself, you'll know what the lad's father is feeling – a comment along those lines wouldn't come amiss."
"What do you want – a statement of sympathy?"
"Something like that."
A lobbying of parents in a massed march of vengeance against the school.
Fleming said, "I'm sorry. You've a job to do and it's not an easy one, but I'm not giving you any quotes."
"And you can't tell me about tomorrow's inquest either?"
"Nothing that you won't pick up for yourself while you're there. You will, of course, attend." It wasn't a question.
"Yes, I'll attend." Kenilworth added, "We may seem a tough bunch professionally but we've youngsters of our own, most of us – not at the Grange, we haven't that sort of salary, and for the first time I'm glad of it. I know how you feel and I know how Corley's father feels. Unfortunately my sympathy carries no weight whatsover." He turned away with a grimace of defeat. No words could be bled out of Fleming now, but there was always tomorrow.