The Red Road

by Stephen Sweeney

  The crowds thinned after about forty-five minutes, and another ten minutes later we were finally able to start packing up. Mr Hancock continued to watch the three of us. An hour of my Sunday gone. I wouldn’t be able to pull the sneaking-off stunt for another three weeks at least now. I then saw a man hovering, recognising him as Adrian Willis. He met my eye and came over, still wearing that same smile.

  “Doesn’t work every time,” he said.

  “No,” I answered, finding myself grinning. “Though I don’t normally get lumbered with tea duty. Usually, they just catch up with me as I’m sneaking out, tell me that Mass hasn’t ended and to get back inside.”

  “I always used to hide out in Churchill. I knew all the secret hiding spots, and every way in and out of that building, without getting seen.”

  “I’m not sure Butcher has anything like that,” I said. “If it did, I probably wouldn’t have lost an hour of my Sunday doing this.”

  “Probably the worst bit about providing the tea is that you’re not allowed to eat the biscuits,” Adrian said.

  “Absolutely, and lunch is probably going to be shit today, too. Oh, sorry,” I corrected.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Adrian waved away the apology. “I’m not offended, and there’s no one up there to hear it, either,” he added with a glance to the ceiling. He then looked about himself, before reaching into his pocket and presenting me with two packets of biscuits – custard creams and chocolate digestives. He must have taken them off a table before they were unwrapped and put on plates, to be walked around the hall and offered to the parishioners.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “Because lunch probably will be shit, eh?” he winked.

  “So, if you don’t mind me asking, what exactly happened with your expulsion?” I asked as I began to stack up the used cups.

  “I was believed to have been dealing drugs,” he said quite matter-of-factly.

  “Really? Dealing?” I repeated a little softly.

  “Believed,” Adrian said, putting emphasis on the word.

  “Heroine?” It was the only drug that immediately came to mind.

  “Good lord, no!” Adrian laughed. “That would be understandable.”

  And dealing some drugs is okay? I wondered.

  “No, I was expelled by the school because they found a certain amount of weed in my room – cannabis, I mean – and believed that I had been supplying it to other sixth formers. I denied it, of course, as I didn’t bring any drugs into the school. But they then made us all take a urine sample test, and a number of the sixth formers, including myself, came up positive. One of them must have planted the weed in my room and then ratted me out as the supplier.”

  “But you did smoke it yourself?” I asked.

  “Yes, but just not at school,” Adrian said, his smile now faded. “On weekends with friends back home and during the school holidays. I’m not sure how the plant sussed out that I was a smoker, too. Maybe I just seemed far too relaxed most of the time, or perhaps he could just tell. I may have even mentioned it without meaning to,” he shrugged.

  I didn’t know what to think. Cigarettes and porn were banned at the school and taken very seriously, fines and letters being sent home to parents. Expulsions were also in place for sustained bullying. Adrian, on the other hand, had been regularly smoking cannabis. Whether on school grounds or not, I found that pretty serious.

  “So, they expelled me at the end of the summer term of the lower sixth and sent out information about it to all the parents, to make an example of me.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  Adrian only nodded.

  “What did you do?” I asked. “Did you go somewhere else? A sixth form college or something?”

  “I couldn’t. After I was expelled, the police got involved and I received a criminal record.” Adrian shrugged.

  “Oh,” was all I could find to say. “That was unnecessary.”

  “It messed my life up, to be honest. I couldn’t get into medical school and no decent college would take me. My dreams of becoming a doctor were pretty much destroyed. I then just worked temporary jobs until I eventually managed to get some journalism skills and was able to become a freelance medical journal editor.”

  “Well, at least you got to work in medicine,” I offered as a condolence.

  “Yes. I can work from home and be my own boss. It doesn’t pay as much as I’d like, and, of course, I would have preferred to have been a doctor. But, c’est le vie.” He shrugged again.

  “What happened to the other boys? Did they get expelled, too?” I asked.

  “No. The school classed them as the victims and let them off.”

  My jaw became slack. They let the other boys off? Was this another case of the school being scared of the sixth formers? Or perhaps the others were prefects, heads of houses, or even the head boy? Favouritism was most likely the cause, whatever it had been. Expelling boys in positions of authority, who were meant to be role models for younger pupils, wouldn’t look very good. I formed a hunch that the cannabis had perhaps belonged to the head boy. Of course, I had to take Adrian’s word for it. It was possible that he actually had been dealing and just told people the story about being set up to make himself feel better about his own decisions in life. I felt sorry for him, though. The result of his expulsion was far worse than I thought he deserved. He seemed like a nice enough guy.

  Adrian looked about, seeing that most of the parishioners had left and that only a handful of regulars, monks, and school staff were still milling around.

  “I’d best be going,” he said, offering me his hand. “Nice to meet you ... er ...”

  “Joseph,” I said, realising I had never introduced myself, and shaking his hand.

  “Do you prefer ‘Joe’ or ‘Joseph’?”

  “Joe.”

  “Okay. Have a good Sunday, Joe. Enjoy the biscuits,” he said. I was glad to see him smiling again.

  “Made a new friend?” Sam asked as we finished stacking cups and carried them through into the kitchen, to be taken care of later by the catering staff.

  “I found out what he was expelled for,” I said.

  “Oh, what?” asked Rob, who was making room on the worktop for more dirty cups.

  “Dealing drugs.”

  “Seriously?” Rob started.

  “Yep.”

  “Shiiiiiiit!” Sam said.

  “Yeah, that’s not good, is it?” I said. “It screwed things up pretty badly for him, too. He wasn’t able to finish his A-Levels or get into medical school or anything like that.”

  “I’m staying well away from all that stuff,” Sam said. “I’d rather not end up doing some crappy job because I got caught with a little bit of weed.”

  “Hmm,” was all I replied. I then saw Rory step into the kitchen. I had seen him milling around the hall earlier, seemingly so with purpose.

  “Alright?” he asked us, though he didn’t seem to care for our responses.

  “Hey, Rory,” Sam said, “Joe, Rob, and I are going to have a game of touch rugby out on the playing fields after lunch. You coming?”

  “Sure,” Rory said absently. He then tugged at one of the cupboards, finding it wasn’t locked. Several boxes of biscuits resided within, a couple of them open.

  “Where’s Handjob?” he hissed, looking around at us.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I can’t see him.”

  “Go look.”

  I did, seeing no one coming near the kitchen. “All clear.”

  “Quick!” Rory said, pulling out one of the boxes and starting to liberate a good number of packets of biscuits, stuffing them into the various pockets of his suit.

  I did likewise, as did Sam and Rob, until we felt we had taken enough. We had emptied about half of what remained in the box. Not that anyone would notice hopefully.

  Finishing up in the kitchen, we headed back to our dormitories to offload our stash, change into our casual clothes, and then do other things u
ntil lunch. I decided that I wouldn’t be eating all the biscuits that I had stolen at once and would probably save them for later in the week. I ate one packet as I changed, followed later on in the afternoon by the custard creams Adrian had given me, my stomach rumbling like mad after our game of touch. The hunger was of no surprise to me, since, as predicted, lunch had indeed been shit.

  Chapter Twelve

  The next weekend was an Exit Weekend. My parents were away (again), and so I had to remain at St Christopher’s. Sam had chosen to stay as well, not too bothered about escaping the grounds. I was glad for his company, as the Saturday and Sunday might have otherwise been quite boring. Somewhat ironically, I decided to help out that Sunday with the post-Mass tea, if only for something to do. Otherwise the day dragged, and I was glad when the evening meal rolled by, meaning that the other boys would soon be returning. I had other problems to deal with first, though.

  ~ ~ ~

  “Here for another whole weekend, Mistake?”

  Craig Priest was walking towards me, coming down the Marble Stairs of the main school as I ascended them. I walked along with Sam, choosing to ignore the obnoxious sixth former. The problem was that Priest hadn’t decided to ignore me.

  “Oi, Mistake, don’t fucking ignore me when I’m talking to you,” Priest said, stepping in front of me.

  I tried to walk around him, but he moved in my way. I refused to make eye contact with him.

  “You’ve been here every Exit Weekend this term. Have your parents now decided to abandon you here? Let the monks look after you?” he said once again.

  I had no idea what I had done to offend Priest and why he thought that verbally abusing me at every opportunity was within his rights. Perhaps it was just the way he was wired.

  “Oi,” he said, pushing me.

  “Craig, what’s your problem?” I asked, finally meeting his eyes.

  “Joe, ignore him,” Sam urged.

  “I don’t have a problem,” Priest said. “Except you.”

  “Why?” I asked. Seriously, I wanted to know.

  “Because you’re a mistake and a loser.”

  “What has that got to do with you?”

  “Everything. You’re a dweeb.”

  The logic baffled me. He was attacking someone just because he found them different? I could never wrap my head around that concept. Did it unhinge people like Priest that not everyone was the same as he? Did it make him feel insecure?

  “Why are you here?” I asked.

  “I’m revising for my mocks,” he replied. “I chose to stay here.”

  “How do know I didn’t, too?”

  “Because you didn’t.”

  He was half-grinning, half-scowling. Was he just bored? Was it because the sixth formers felt the need to assert some sort of dominance over the younger boys, no matter how they did it? Was it that I wasn’t a part of the Clique? Whatever it was, I didn’t care. I took Sam’s advice and quickly sidestepped him, starting up the stairs again. Priest gave me another shove as I did so, but I ignored it.

  “Not going to defend your parents, then?” he asked. His eyes then locked on Sam, following me. “Ah, I see. You’re in a rush to get back to your dorm with your boyfriend.”

  Sam heeded his own advice and said nothing.

  “My parents are working hard,” I told Priest as I continued up. “That’s why they’re not at home a lot. Not all of us have the benefit of being children of millionaires.”

  “My parents aren’t millionaires, but they don’t refuse to let me go home for the weekend,” Priest said. “The problem is that you’re a dweeb and a pain in the arse, and the only reason your parents had you is because the condom broke.”

  “What?!” I stopped and rounded on Priest, glaring at him, my nostrils flaring.

  “Oh ho!” Priest chuckled, feigning fright. “Look whose balls just dropped.”

  A handful of boys had gathered around the stairs, watching the scene unfold. I shouldn’t really have been giving them anything to watch, but I had to make a couple of things clear to Priest.

  “My parents are out of the country a lot and can’t always be here for Exit Weekends. They work hard to send me here so I can get a good education, so stop dissing them. And also, don’t push me,” I said, giving Priest a shove on the chest with both hands.

  I shoved a little too hard.

  Priest took a step back to steady himself. He failed to do so, misplacing his footing and slipping on the stair below. He turned to try and reaffirm his balance, before tumbling down the Marble Stairs. He didn’t cry out or shout as he went, the shock of the fall muting him.

  “Shit,” I said.

  “Fucking hell, Joe. What did you do?” Sam asked.

  I made to run down the stairs and see if Priest was okay, but I was suddenly quite bothered that this was the wrong thing to do. Priest was pulling himself to his feet, his limbs shaking. His face was red and he was gritting his teeth.

  The Marble Stairs, as their name implied, were made of marble and I wondered just how much the fall had hurt. It was fairly uncommon for people to fall on the stairs, but any time it happened the results were always rather painful. Those falls were typically not as severe as this one had been, either.

  Priest failed to stand and instead sat leaning up against the wall, rubbing his legs and arms. He certainly looked to be in pain. He also looked to be crying a little, too.

  “You’re DEAD Crosthwaite!” he screamed at me.

  “Craig, are you okay?” I asked with genuine concern.

  “FUCK OFF!” he shouted back at me. “YOU’RE DEAD! YOU HEAR ME?!”

  It being a Sunday night and an Exit Weekend, there normally wouldn’t be lot of boys around. Sadly, it was dinnertime, and so those who were still here were concentrated around the Marble Stairs, leading, amongst other places, to the refectory. A number of boys were already gathering and looking from Priest to me. I wasn’t sure just how many of them had seen what had happened, but there was little doubt in my mind that the rumours wouldn’t begin immediately. No doubt it would come out that I had beaten up Priest and thrown him down the Marble Stairs. Crap, this wasn’t good.

  “Let’s go, Sam,” I said.

  I made my way back to Butcher, feeling my heart thumbing quite hard in my chest. Mistake? I hoped that I hadn’t just made a really big one.

  Chapter Thirteen

  When the time came for the mock exams, we made our way to our classrooms as normal; though now, instead of regular lessons, we were treated to extended periods that would run under exam conditions. Computer print-out notices were stuck on the doors of the classrooms and the entrances to the various corridors, warning that mock exams were in progress and to keep quiet. I remembered seeing them when I was a first year and had kept my head down as I had walked about the classroom block, making an even greater effort than ever to avoid eye contact with the older boys.

  The last time I had sat a proper exam was Common Entrance, back when I was just twelve. Those exams had covered mostly the same subjects as my GCSES – English, maths, science, French, geography, and history. I had scored a string of As and a few Bs in those exams, though I had heard that a tremendous number of other boys had actually failed. Though the Common Entrance was supposed to govern pupils’ entry into the senior school, and subsequently permit them to go on to take their GCSEs, it was said that the school had decided to save face and allow those that had failed the exams to progress to the senior school, anyway. It would be quite embarrassing for St Christopher’s to deny half of their own pupils access to the senior school, on account of them being too thick to earn a place. Later investigation actually revealed that the exams had been too hard, a number of schools up and down the country facing similar failure rates, so it was likely that they would have been allowed in at any rate. Whether my near straight As meant that I was smarter than most others was only a fleeting thought in my head. I was more bothered about the transition to senior school and the fear of being beaten up after
moving to Butcher House.

  My first mock GCSE was geography, a subject that I was fairly nonplussed about, but suffered my way though without fuss. With all my classes having been cancelled for the duration of the mocks, I had spent the morning in the third year dorm, making a small effort to do some last-minute revision with Sam and Baz, testing one another with quick fire questions and going over some essays we had written over the past three years. Baz was in the B stream for geography, it being one of his weaker subjects, while Sam and I studied in the A stream. C streams existed, but only for certain subjects. Despite this, I actually found geography rather boring and couldn’t care less about glacial erosion, oxbow lakes, and how to read the gradients on an Ordnance Survey map.

  I set my pens and pencils down on the desk where I always sat during classes, Sam occupying the seat next to me, and we waited for Mr Hancock, the geography teacher, to give us a rundown of what would follow.

  “Now,” he rumbled his address to the classroom, “this being the first Monday of the first week of your mocks, I’m guessing that this is your first exam. Has anyone had any exams before this?”

  “No, sir,” came the prompt reply from the class. Most boys found the man quite intimidating; I was glad he wasn’t my housemaster.

  “That’s what I thought,” Mr Hancock said. “In that case, I will give you a brief explanation of how this week is going to run. These exams are going to operate under strict conditions. You will not talk while the exam is in progress, nor may you leave if you finish early; you are to remain in your seats until the time is up. You are not to talk to anyone you are sitting next to, and if you are seen to be copying from them or anyone else, or passing notes, then you will fail automatically. You may also be banned from taking the actual GCSE next term, so don’t do it!”