The Red Road

by Stephen Sweeney

  “No kidding?” Stu said, although he didn’t seem to be sure whether Josh was being honest or was winding up his audience.

  “It happened to me,” Josh said.

  “Woah! Wow! What happened?” all the first years asked.

  “I was out with a tour group and decided to take one of the stones home. It was only a small thing,” he made the shape of a pebble with his hand, “but it was enough. Our bus broke down on the way back to our campsite. Took us two hours to fix it, and it was forty-seven that afternoon. We were pouring water all over ourselves and stuff, and our guide had to try and get under the bus to fix it. It was a nightmare. Then, that night, I was bitten by a spider. My leg seized up, and I couldn’t walk the whole of the next day because of the poison. I’m not superstitious or anything, but I told my tour leader I’d taken the rock, and he went to return it. The problems stopped after that.”

  “Could be a coincidence,” Stu said.

  “I’d rather not have taken the chance, to be honest.”

  “But what if you get a stone stuck in your shoe?” one of the first years asked.

  “It has to be taken with intent,” Josh said. “Otherwise you’d get cursed simply for treading the land. Right, I’d better get down to the gate. Have to be extra vigilant tonight.”

  “Why?” Stu asked. “Has the suspect fought his way out of the police station?”

  “Might as well have. The police have let him go, apparently,” Josh said.

  “They have?” I asked.

  “It wasn’t him they reckon,” Josh said.

  “Shit,” I mumbled, unable to help myself. The first years looked a little rattled by the news. I could well agree. It hadn’t been Quasimodo? I hadn’t seen the man around the school at all, and had presumed that he had been locked up. Did that mean that the killer was still out there? Could we expect a fourth body in the weeks to come?

  “Hey, if that’s true, then you weren’t supposed to tell these guys,” Stu said, indicating us.

  “We’d probably find out from our parents, anyway,” I said. “The school would be letting them know.”

  “All right,” Stu said, looking at his watch and draining his beer. “It’s nearly time for evening prayers, so you had all better get into your pyjamas. And don’t say anything, understand?”

  “Yes, sir,” the first years said.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll keep it to myself,” I echoed. Though I had absolutely no intention of doing so. The road to freedom had become obstructed once more.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “Thought I’d find you here,” I said as I entered the Belfry and saw Carson, Sam and Rory seated around his desk. “What are you talking about?”

  “Ms Walker,” Sam said, grinning.

  “Who?” I said, sitting myself down on Carson’s bed.

  “Ms Walker, the new junior school English teacher.”

  I had no idea who they were talking about. I’d never heard of the woman. “Is she fit?” I asked. After all, that was probably the only reason why they would be discussing her.

  “Very,” Carson beamed. “She’s tall, blonde, has fucking massive tits ...”

  “I’ve never seen her around. When did she start?” I asked.

  “Last term, I think,” Carson said. “She apparently went to Oxford.”

  “What’s she doing here then?” I said, everyone laughing along with me. “No, seriously, has anyone spoken to her?”

  “No,” Sam said. “She smiled at me today, though. Didn’t know who she was until Carson told me. Mr Sutherland is apparently already perving after her, too.”

  “Isn’t he married?” I asked.

  “Yeah, but nothing’s going to happen,” Sam said. “She’s so bloody fit. I’d love to fuck her.”

  “And how many girls have you fucked, to make a statement like that?” Carson asked.

  Sam said nothing.

  “Only kidding, Sam,” Carson laughed. “I’d love to fuck her, too.”

  “Guys, seriously, how can you say that?” Rory then asked.

  “What do you mean?” I said.

  “She’s old!”

  “Old?” I asked, looking at Carson and Sam. The image I had held of a twenty-two-year-old woman was suddenly erased, replaced by that of a granny with a walking stick.

  “Yes, she’s about thirty.”

  “Thirty?” I said. “Thirty’s not old!”

  “It’s nearly twice our age,” Rory retorted.

  “Dude, thirty is not old, believe me,” Carson said.

  “And you know what they say – dirty thirty,” Sam smiled.

  “Or a naughty forty,” Carson grinned.

  “Or a thrifty fifty,” I added.

  “Now you’re going too far,” Sam told me.

  “I only said it to wind Rory up,” I said, seeing him looking as though he was sucking on a lemon.

  “Yeah, but whatever. She’s not a good as you’re making her out to be,” Rory said.

  “Out of ten?” I asked Sam and Carson.

  “Eight,” Carson said.

  “Nine,” Sam said. “Seriously, she’s that nice, Joe.”

  “Nine?!” Rory almost spat. “She’s more like a six!”

  “Six?!” the rest of us chorused.

  “Yes, six. She’s not as good looking as Cindy Crawford or Elle Macpherson.”

  “Oh, Jesus Christ,” Carson said, looking at Rory with utter disdain. None of us could believe what we were hearing.

  “Okay, Rory, look,” I said, scooping one of Carson’s men’s magazines off the bed and thumbing through it, until I found the pages I was after. “This is a model. She’s not an ... ordinary woman, if you get my meaning. You’re probably never going to marry or even go out with someone who looks like that.”

  “Yeah, and she’s airbrushed, too,” Sam said. “So she’s not even that good looking. Her legs and arms are too perfect. She also doesn’t look like that all the time, and certainly not first thing in the morning without tons of make-up on.”

  I examined the photo, but couldn’t really tell what I was looking for. I knew the photographs were doctored before printing, however, to make the girls look a little more attractive than they might otherwise be.

  “You’d probably be looking more for ...” I flicked through the pages once more, looking for someone a little more ordinary. Unfortunately, the pages were populated with actresses and models, and I was unable to find anyone to appropriately illustrate my point. “Anyway, you can’t judge normal girls on the same scale as supermodels and actresses,” I concluded, setting the magazine back down. “You’ll probably end up dating girls who look more like ... John Davidson’s sister.”

  “Who?” Rory asked.

  “Fucking hell, have you seen her?” Carson said, ignoring Rory.

  “Now she’s fit!” Sam said. “She goes to St Anne’s, doesn’t she?”

  “Yeah, she’s doing her A-Levels at the moment,” I said.

  “If that was my sister, I’d have difficulty keeping my hands off her,” Carson laughed.

  “Ugh, Carson, that’s disgusting,” I said.

  “Calm down, I was joking,” Carson said, waving a hand dismissively.

  “I’ll point her out to you the next time she comes to a rugby match or whatever,” I told Rory.

  “If the school stays open that long,” Rory said.

  I wondered how long it would be before this subject was raised again. It had only been a week since I had learned about the police letting their apparent only suspect go. It wasn’t common knowledge about the school as far as I could tell, a handful of boys knowing for certain and everyone else (mainly the junior school, and the first and second years of the senior school) being told the opposite.

  “So, they had arrested Quasimodo, but then had to let him go?” Sam asked.

  “No evidence whatsoever, other than his previous convictions,” I said.

  “What?” Carson said. He genuinely didn’t seem to know, so I told him about t
he banana incident in the bank. “Jesus, why are they letting him work here?”

  “He doesn’t really though, does he?” I said. “He’s part of the monastic staff and only does odd jobs about the school, under the supervision of the monks.”

  “So why did they arrest him?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, looking at Rory and Sam. “I don’t think anyone knows. The police probably had something on him that they don’t want to share.”

  “Maybe he had child porn or something?” Sam said.

  “Gross,” Rory said. “Let’s talk about something else.”

  Carson reached for the travel kettle that rested on one side of his desk, popping it open and looking to see how much water was in there. “Anyone want some coffee?” he asked. “I’m going to fill this up.”

  “Do you have any milk?” I asked.

  “Powdered.”

  “Do you think the kitchens are still open?” I said, looking at the others.

  “Don’t know, but well volunteered,” Sam grinned.

  “Yeah, Joe, go and see if you can get some milk,” Carson said. “And if the kitchens are locked, see if you can sneak into Mr Summers’ office. He never locks it and normally keeps some in his fridge.”

  “Mr Somers’ office?” I said, pausing as I made to get off the bed. “Are you mad? I’ll get in real shit if I’m caught stealing milk from a housemaster’s office, and I’ve already been put on the Murga List once this term.”

  “Summers, not Somers,” the other three sang back at me, as if that made the deed any less of an offence.

  “Don’t worry, Joe, you’re not going to get put on the List just for borrowing a little milk,” Rory said. “And if he sees it’s missing, he’ll just think the cleaning staff threw it away.”

  I nodded reluctantly and made my way down to the kitchens, to see if they were still open. I saw the kitchen staff beginning to leave as I did so, heading for the taxis and other pick-ups that were provided by the catering firm St Christopher’s employed, and knew already that the refectory would be shut. Sure enough, the lights were out. I checked the doors regardless, in case someone had failed to lock them. They hadn’t.

  I headed back to the Belfry, walking past Mr Summers’ office. I hesitated for a moment, wondering if raiding the fridge was such a good idea. I then decided to risk it. If someone was in there, I could always feign stupidity that I had walked through the wrong door. I tried the door handle, finding, true to Carson’s promise, that it was unlocked. I didn’t bother to switch on the lights and headed straight for the fridge. Inside, I spotted two one-pint cartons of milk. One was unopened, the other was less than a quarter full, judging by the weight. Good enough for four cups of coffee. I slipped it beneath my jacket, holding it under my left arm as I left the office, pretending to be picking at something on my left hand with my right as I returned to the Belfry, to disguise the fact that I had something concealed.

  “Did you find any?” Carson asked.

  I produced the carton.

  “Hurray!” the three cheered. “How much is there?”

  “About a quarter,” I said.

  “Plenty.”

  We brewed our coffees, Carson taking a box of sugar cubes out from one of his desk drawers. “By the way, it is true that Kerry Oldman has got a pirate copy of Basic Instinct?” I asked.

  “What?” Rory looked to me as though I had just revealed the ultimate secrets of the universe.

  “Why doesn’t that surprise me?” Sam grinned. “He has everything to do with porn. His folks probably work in it, you know.”

  “No, it’s not Oldman who has it,” Carson said, blowing on his coffee. “It’s Yan Brown.”

  “Really? Yan Brown?” I asked. “He’s a little too goody-goody for that sort of thing. Is he trying to improve his reputation by one-upping Oldman or something?”

  “Probably,” Carson said, opening his locked desk drawer again and taking out a packet of biscuits. He passed them to us, prompting us to take one (and only one), before returning the packet to the drawer and locking it again. Maryland Chocolate Chip Cookies. I wasn’t surprised he wasn’t keen on sharing the entire packet with us.

  “Ha! Oldman the Porn King doesn’t have Basic Instinct,” Rory laughed. “Of all the people.”

  “Where did Brown get it?” I asked. “It’s not out here until May, I think?”

  “Not sure,” Carson shrugged. “Think he got it off someone back home.”

  “Have you seen it?”

  “Last weekend,” Carson grinned.

  “Do you really get to see Sharon Stone’s vag?” Rory asked excitedly.

  “What are you so excited for? I thought you didn’t like women in their thirties?” Sam asked. Rory ignored him.

  Carson frowned. “Not really. It’s a bit disappointing actually. You only get to see it for about a second. She’s sitting on a chair and uncrosses her legs, but you can’t really tell. The scene is overhyped. The whole film is in a way.”

  “I still want to see it,” Rory enthused. “Do you know where Brown keeps the tape? We should nick it and watch it one night.”

  “Probably locked in his tuck box,” I said. “He’s not exactly going to be keep it in his classroom locker. Someone will probably confiscate it soon; one of the prefects who just wants to land him in trouble I bet. Zackery Goodman will have it for sure if he finds out.”

  “You should’ve come along to watch it with us the other night,” Carson grinned.

  “Well, I would’ve if you’d told me it was happening,” Rory said, sounding more than just a little disappointed. “What’s the rest of the film like?”

  “Shit,” Carson said simply.

  “But does Sharon Stone take her clothes off a lot?”

  Rory was sounding a little more desperate than normal. I wanted to see the film, but he really wanted to see it. I couldn’t help but feel that Rory might end up a little disappointed with it in the end. He liked to pretend that he ran the World Film Club to be cultured (and make a load of money), but I was certain it was because he just wanted to see as many naked women on screen as possible. Some of the European films we had rented from time to time would never be shown on television in England.

  “The first scene is actually pretty good,” Carson then smiled. “She’s on top of this guy, fucking him really hard.”

  “Cool,” Rory said, almost dreamily.

  “It is. Right up until the bit when she starts stabbing him with an ice pick. It’s really gross when she gets him in the eye. The eyeball just pops, and it all goes everywhere,” Carson laughed, seeing the horrified look on Rory’s face.

  “That sounds pretty disgusting, actually,” Sam said.

  “Why would they ruin it like that?” Rory said, sounding annoyed.

  “I think she slits his throat after she’s done stabbing him in the chest, too.” Carson’s expression suddenly grew quite serious. “Didn’t Craig Priest have his throat cut when you saw him?” he asked, looking at me.

  “I ... don’t remember,” I said, although I actually did. I just didn’t want to talk about. Sadly, Carson and the others did.

  “Seriously, does anyone have any idea of who might be doing it?” Rory asked.

  “Dave’s dad thinks it might be a paedophile,” Sam said.

  “Someone who fucks and murders kids,” I said, in case either Carson or Rory were unfamiliar with the term.

  “Well, they don’t necessarily kill them,” Sam corrected. “Roman Polanski was done in the US for apparently sleeping with an under-aged girl.”

  “The film director? Why isn’t he in prison?” I asked.

  “He ran away to France before they could do so,” Sam said. “Anyway, I’m a little worried. It could be any of us next.”

  “What, that might get fucked by Roman Polanski?” Carson chuckled.

  “No,” Sam said, looking serious. “Might be killed by whoever is doing this.”

  It was the first time I had actually heard someone admi
t to being scared of being targeted by the school’s stalker. I was worried myself, but for a multitude of different reasons. Firstly, for my own life, and secondly, that the ongoing problems might lead to the school shutting and causing me all manner of troubles. I had devised what I saw as a set plan for my life – GCSEs at St Christopher’s, A-Levels at Baconsdale Sixth Form College, economics degree at the best university I could get in to, and graduating to work in an investment bank in London, where I would earn my millions. There wasn’t much room for deviation, and I couldn’t have things such as this causing me to fall at the first hurdle. I almost felt compelled to do some junior sleuthing, to help find out who the perpetrator was.

  “I don’t think it will be any of us,” Carson said, reaching into his drawer and taking out another biscuit. He didn’t offer the rest of us any this time. “The two boys that have been killed were quite wimpy and from the junior school, so I don’t think he’s going to actively target anyone older.”

  “Carson, you’re completely ignoring Craig Priest,” Rory said.

  “He wasn’t targeted,” Carson said. “He was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. He saw the pedo and so the guy had to kill him.”

  “That’s one hell of an assumption,” I said.

  Carson only shrugged. “As long as we stay inside and don’t go wandering outside late at night, we’re safe.”

  “One thing’s for sure – they managed to get into the junior school, even though it was locked,” I said. “That could only be done by someone who knew the school quite well, or had access.”

  “Do you think it’s one of the teachers?” Sam suggested.

  “Ha! Maybe it’s Ms Walker,” I laughed. “She started this year and the murders began around the same time. Hardly a coincidence, I’m sure.” I was glad to see that the others knew I wasn’t being serious.

  “Can women be paedophiles?” Rory wanted to know.

  I wasn’t actually sure, I couldn’t really see how. I looked enquiringly at Carson and Sam, who only shrugged.

  “I don’t think it’s one of the teachers,” Carson said, ignoring the question.

  “They still had access to the junior school, though,” I said, largely to myself.