‘I’m just saying,’ said Holly, primly. She wasn’t in love – or even close to it, no way. Crispin meant nothing to her! And Penny once again looked sad.
‘You’ll get over her,’ said Cressida, sitting a couple of seats away, reading. Her move into the East Wing was complete. She’d asked Mrs Docherty to make up her bed and was settled enough. She was even quite enjoying this whole common room thing. It was like being back at university, hanging around doing nothing . . . more carefree days, long left behind. She’d be watching Countdown next and eating pot noodles . . . At some point the next day she’d need to get back home to feed the cat – and escape the present company for a while. Pets did have their uses – there was only so much university life she could endure.
‘What do you mean, “I’ll get over her”?’ said Penny, with no attempt to hide her irritation. Was that meant to be helpful or something?
‘I’m sorry,’ said Cressida, seeing Penny’s distress. She even put down her book and removed her glasses. ‘I never had much of a bedside manner – always been my weak hand.’
Penny melted a little, aware once again that she wasn’t the only one who grieved.
‘As long as the diagnosis is correct, doctor.’
‘That’s where I excel,’ said Cressida.
And then Holly spoke up: ‘Is it true that when it comes to killing people, doctors are the best?’
Penny flinched at the insensitivity . . . but Cressida laughed. It was not so much at the comment itself, as at the capacity of Holly to make it, in these circumstances.
‘That’s gatecrashingly offensive, Holly – you do know that?’ said Penny.
‘Oh, I’m sorry!’ said Holly. ‘I didn’t mean . . .’
‘It’s OK,’ said Cressida.
‘Really?’
‘No, really – quite OK.’ If truth be known, it almost felt like an act of friendship from the pretty little Holly. ‘But why do people obsess about doctors as killers?’ asked Cressida, whimsically. ‘It’s a strange obsession, almost perverted.’
‘It’s our hope and our powerlessness when faced by the white coat,’ said Penny.
‘Is that how you feel?’
‘There’s both awe and fear. We want to submit to this person’s expertise – but can we trust them? What if they’re bad? Awe and fear . . .’ And at that moment, Bart walked into the common room, a waft of sweat and running clothes. He held himself awkwardly.
‘Lycra man!’ said Geoff, generously, pleased for a distraction from Terence, who seemed more distant than usual tonight. ‘A drink?’
‘Oh, yes, Geoff – thank you.’ He looked around at the faces turned towards him. ‘Perhaps some tonic water.’
‘You all right, old man?’ asked Geoff.
‘Had a bit of a fall on my run – went down on the shoulder.’
He wasn’t hiding his injury but Cressida made no move; she was not at work. She wouldn’t be saying, ‘Take your top off, you poor fellow, and let’s have a proper look at you.’
‘Nasty,’ said Geoff. ‘Sure you don’t want something stronger?’
Terence was briefly worried. He was afraid that Geoff’s visit to the bar would leave him sitting with Bart, which was not a happy prospect. The two of them had nothing in common – absolutely nothing at all. There were many teachers he had no time for professionally – constantly whining about their hours or contracts. But ultimately, he didn’t mind writing the cheques if he thought they were doing a job, and doing it well. Bart, however, was not, not in Terence’s reckoning. He was a waste of money – £34,000 per annum that could be much better spent. So yes, the bursar had quietly supported Jamie in moves to make the Director of Wellbeing redundant. Perhaps the money freed up could be spent on a business or sports scholarship?
And Jamie would have seen all this through, had he lived. Bart had been a man on borrowed time at Stormhaven Towers . . . though who the fellow was, Terence really had no idea. As far as the bursar was concerned, Bart was something of a caricature, almost fictitious in his ridiculous self-creation, trying too hard to be something, to be useful, to mean something. This was the thing about Bart – beneath all the mindful claptrap and the folk songs from Olde England, you sensed this desperation, a man lonely in the crowd . . . a man in the wrong place.
‘On second thoughts, I think I’ll shower first,’ said Bart. ‘See you later, guys.’
With a wince and a gasp of pain, he carried his wound from the room.
‘So what on earth was that about?’ asked Geoff theatrically, when he’d gone.
‘I think he just wanted us to know that he’d been running, sir,’ said Crispin. ‘And that he got hurt.’ Well, surely the others must have seen that? The victim who needed a witness . . .
Ferdinand was at prayer.
He was bringing the world to God’s attention – and it did need his attention, particularly Stormhaven Towers, where moral anarchy ran free.
He knelt alone at the altar in the school chapel, a solitary figure in the cavernous space, all candles and shadows – mainly shadows, which appeared more viscous tonight, more secretive, as if the chapel itself had been drawn into the darkness death brings. Ferdinand had asked in the common room if anyone wished to share in evening prayer with him; but there’d been no takers. They had made the Burundi jokes again about ‘Father Desperate’, which was all rather childish.
It was a running gag among the faithless – hardly a minority, sad to say. They said that whenever he led a service, Ferdinand always included long prayers for some obscure priest – Father Desperate – in some obscure parish in some obscure country way across the world, like Burundi.
‘We’ve had enough of Burundi for this term, Ferdinand,’ Geoff had said. ‘I wish Father Desperate all the best, but I’m more worried about my own skin at the moment!’ And everyone else had laughed. ‘You could of course pray that the school psycho has a heart attack,’ he added. But that hadn’t gone down so well, only the laughter of the nervous. It reminded them of their fear, which wasn’t funny at all.
Not that the chaplain minded being alone in the chapel. He was used to it. What did the others understand anyway? It was disappointing they stayed away, but really – did any of them understand spiritual things? Ferdinand gazed heavenwards from the prayer book he held tight. Jesus looked so alone on the cross, there on the cream-plastered wall of the sanctuary . . . and Ferdinand knew the feeling. He’d tried so hard to make the chapel the focal point of the school community . . . but it wasn’t easy when neither the head nor the parents were believers in anything but academic results – and the money that good results led to. Shame on them! Oh, the parents would say, ‘I just want Oliver to be happy in life.’ But in their world, ‘happy’ meant ‘rich’, there was no other way. His recent sermon on ‘Blessed are the poor’ had led to five complaints being made to the head. People felt it wasn’t ‘aspirational’ enough and gave all the wrong messages.
How times had changed from the nineteenth century when the school was founded! And how he hated it sometimes! Nathaniel Bleake wanted a school to educate the children of impoverished clergy – yet now, no clergy on the outside could afford it . . . and no clergy on the inside were listened to!
He prayed for God’s way to become clear at Stormhaven Towers. And for the murderer? He didn’t know what to pray for the murderer . . .
The abbot stood naked.
After a hot shower, Peter was motionless and unclothed in his room. He must gather himself, still himself – he had a ghost hunt to attend to. He closed his eyes and allowed the vulnerability of this present moment, the fragility of life, a deep sense of unknowing about the future . . . nakedness helped this.
‘Who is anyone without clothes?’ as he sometimes said. ‘If you are someone without clothes, then you are someone indeed!’ And he felt it even now, the energy of the stripped soul. But as he stood, he knew another energy as well. He knew the energy of anger which, if uncoupled from ego, was a strong guide. He would dress and
step out into the darkness with Brother Anger . . . but first, a simple rite of passage.
It was his practice sometimes, when wishing to focus, to count down from ten to one, slowly. He had learned it from a Buddhist in the desert called Okahito. The poor man had ended up at the monastery by mistake, but chose to stay for six months and proved a very welcome addition to the community.
‘You count slowly from ten to one, Abbot.’
‘Maths was never my strong hand.’
‘Do not limit yourself, Abbot.’
‘Quite.’
‘To help yourself become still, you visualize each number in your mind before moving onto the next one.’
‘Picture the number in my mind, starting with ten?’
‘That is right. Perhaps the number will appear written in chalk on a blackboard, perhaps it will appear in flames, perhaps as biro on paper or in flowers – who knows and it doesn’t matter how it appears – only that it does.’
‘I see.’
‘How quickly you reach one will say much about your inner state. When calm, each number will appear quite easily in your visual mind; when anxious, distracted thoughts might obscure the number for a while. But keep going until you get there . . . until you get to one.’
The abbot thought of Okahito as he counted down. And tonight, each number appeared quite simply in his mind, with only a slight distraction between three and two – which then appeared in a wall of fire. With the countdown complete, he dressed. He chose trainers over sandals for stealth and paused a moment. He pulled back his curtain and looked out on the starlit sky. Everything was still across the rolling Downs, an idyllic setting . . . except for a sick soul at work somewhere within these walls. And he suspected he knew who the sick soul was, just a hunch – a circumstance which surely could only point to one person?
Seventy yards away, across the well-kept lawn, he noted a lone policeman at the school gate. He’d no doubt have a moan in the morning about the experience . . . but there were worse shifts than his across the country tonight, armed as he was with a Thermos and sandwiches. His presence had been hugely popular with the suspects.
‘There is something reassuring about the bobby on the beat,’ Cressida had said, with a wry smile. ‘Though whether anyone is actually safer for their presence? Perhaps, like a placebo, he just makes us feel better . . .’
But the thin blue line could barely be thinner tonight and while it gave reassurance to the residents, it gave little to Peter. He closed the curtain. It was eleven o’clock, when everyone should be in their rooms. And coming to think of it, perhaps he was the thin blue line tonight rather than the uniformed placebo on the gate.
Enough. He needed to face the pale presence who haunted Stormhaven Towers . . .
Peter stepped out into
the silent corridor. He stopped for a moment, adjusting his eyes to the lack of light, and then closed his door behind him. The closing of the door was like a Rubicon crossed; and like Caesar, here was a venture in which he must succeed. He needed to find the ghost . . . and identify the elusive Benedict. Was the ghost Benedict? Or was Benedict already known?
The East Wing was dark, lit in parts by occasional night lights. The floor was shiny red tiles and along the side, various glass cabinets displaying their wares. They were the holders of history, the moments applauded down the years at Stormhaven Towers: an Under-15s Hockey Trophy from 1963, in need of a polish. Peter wondered if there was anyone alive who remembered the game. But it was remembered here in the East Wing in a cabinet, set alongside other cups . . . like the Cuckmere Gap Running Trophy from 1954. Was the winner still running? Possibly – though perhaps not with their former zest or speed. And in between the cabinets, the history continued, rolls of honour carved into the dark-varnished wood, head boys since 1919 – though gatecrashed by girls of late. No doubt Holly Hope-Walker would soon be there, alongside Crispin Caudwell.
And on another board, further along, the House winners of the Towers Football Trophy since 1899. Did anyone care? They did at the time, that’s for sure, keenly fought – but now? Peter was standing at the top of the staircase, the Head’s Landing, where portraits of old headmasters hung, academic gowns and long sideburns – serious-minded folk, still glaring down on the scene making sure no one ran: ‘No running in the corridors, Winkworth!’ And looking down on them all, at the top of the stairs, was Nathaniel Bleake, founder of this great beast. There was no academic gown on his shoulders but the black coat, white shirt and black cravat of a successful but godly industrialist who does not wish to be too tall a poppy. Still the sideburns, however, and the serious-minded stare.
Peter felt drawn into another era, different times – and found himself wondering what Okahito would have made of it all. He remembered the Zen painting kit he had brought to the desert – and seemed so determined to show everyone.
‘It looks like a normal painting kit,’ he’d said, his face filled with mischief.
‘It does look rather normal,’ Peter had said, perhaps a little disappointed.
‘Oh, it is very normal, Abbot Peter! You take your brush, dip it into the water – go on, dip it.’ Peter had done as he was told. ‘That’s right – and then paint an image on the board.’
And Peter, a reluctant artist, had done this, while wondering what exactly was Zen about a bit of painting. He drew an outline of the monastery against a darkening sky and was quite pleased with his creation.
‘Your drawing is there before your eyes, is it not?’ Peter nodded; he was quite pleased with his efforts. ‘But not for long – see.’
And the abbot did see. After a few seconds, he watched his image fading away, the monastery and the darkening sky, in all its glory, fading into nothing . . . nothing. There was now nothing on the board except a big blank. But Okahito was not upset – if anything, he was excited.
‘So now you reflect a while, Peter, dip the brush in the water again and paint something else.’
‘And that too will disappear?’ said Peter, somehow knowing the answer.
‘Of course, of course! Why would you wish it to remain?’
‘Well . . .’
‘It would only hold you back from the present.’
‘I can see that, yes. I suppose I’m more concerned for the art world than myself.’
‘Ah, those rich people would not be so pleased to see their Picassos and Van Goghs disappearing!’
‘Not hugely.’
‘Forty million pounds that might have helped humanity – gone! You expect me to cry for them? We must invest in the present not the past.’
The message was the impermanence of things, this is what Okahito said . . . and not everyone thought he was mad. One thing was for sure: there’d certainly be no old headmasters on the staircase in the Zen school. They’d have faded long ago.
And then Peter saw the ghost.
Peter stood stock still.
And he could have been in the stocks, so locked was his body at the sight. Back down the corridor, caught by a spillage of light, was a figure with a white face in dark clothing and black safari hat. Or was that just the light? Peter eased himself further into the landing shadows, blessed in hiding by the dark textures of his habit. There was something anonymous about the monks’ habit in a monastery, the uniform of shared non-existence, the colour of the stone, the colour of the earth, the refusal to stand out and the abbot hoped it worked here. The ghost seemed to be pondering the bedroom doors, leaning forward and then drawing back. What was he doing? Was he listening at the doors?
There was presently about twenty yards between them, which felt close to a ghost he had no wish to be seen by. And then the ghost turned – turned around and moved forward, moving towards Peter who withdrew further. He tucked himself behind the large grandfather clock, ticking loudly the minutes and the hours and the days and the years of this unfolding school story in which Peter found himself.
And now the ghost was but five yards away, a man in his late fifties, slicked-back hair,
salt and pepper grey, smooth-skinned but white as a clown, cream suit beneath the cape, shiny shoes, fastidious – this was Peter’s first impression of the ghost . . . he looked fastidious as he pondered Nathaniel Bleake on the wall.
‘You give the appearance of certainty, Nathaniel, but I’m sure it wasn’t always like that. Certainty is for those with hindsight, wouldn’t you say? For those who look back – they invent a certainty that was never there at the time.’ The ghost spoke in a refined manner, slightly posh. ‘But this shall be the end game, I think, one way or another – and maybe it is better that way. Maybe it had to be this way – that people had to die. Enough died in your factories, Nathaniel.’
The ghost gathered himself again. ‘There is a rather pretty inspector here. Did you ever lust, Nathaniel? You probably did, you old rascal. In between your good works. Oh, and a monk. You will never have met a monk, I suspect, different world to yours – but they have survived, in their way. I don’t know his quality. We’ll see. He may be a paedophile – he may be Sherlock . . . or he may simply be a disappointment, who can say?’ The ghost paused and a frown appeared. ‘You do not approve of young Benedict, I know, your face says it all. You would prefer him hanged, no doubt – wasn’t that the way of malcontents in your day? Perhaps he would prefer to be hanged. But if I go, I will take you with me. Out of kindness. I will take you and the whole school with me . . . out of kindness for a vision abused. Good night, Nathaniel.’
He turned and walked back the way he’d come, back down the corridor, sometimes brushing the walls with his outstretched hands as if listening to the stone with his fingers. Peter stepped out, cautiously. Keeping in the shadows, he followed the ghost down the corridor, for he did not wish to lose him; he wanted to know where he slept . . . if ghosts do sleep. He was glad of the silent tread of his trainers. Should the ghost turn, he would probably be seen, but what choice did he have? The ghost was no ghost but a man, all flesh and blood, caught in some time, some era, that Peter could not quite pinpoint. And then the ghost stopped, outside the abbot’s bedroom door – and started beating on it, loudly. And then in a stage whisper, which travelled easily down the corridor: ‘I knew it, Abbot! I knew it!’
A (Very) Public School Murder Page 15