Gentlemen and Players

by Joanne Harris

  He gaped. His face fell. We were alone in the Bell Tower. It was lunchtime. It was a crisp, sunny day; the boys were in the yard chasing autumn. I could hear their distant cries, like gulls on the wind. Knight could hear them too, and half turned longingly toward the window.

  “Well?” I tried not to be too satisfied. He was only a boy, after all. “It is your pen, isn’t it, Knight?”

  Silence. Knight stood with his hands in his pockets, shriveling before my eyes. He knew it was serious, a matter for expulsion. I could see it in his face; the blot on his record; his mother’s disappointment; his father’s anger; the blow to his prospects. “Isn’t it, Knight?”

  Silently, he nodded.

  I sent him to the Head of Year, but he never got there. Brasenose saw him at the bus stop later that afternoon, but thought nothing of it. A dentist’s appointment, perhaps, or a quick, unsanctioned jaunt to the record shop or the café. No one else remembers seeing him; a lank-haired boy in a St. Oswald’s uniform, carrying a black nylon rucksack and looking as if the world’s troubles had just descended onto his shoulders.

  “Oh, I spoke to him all right. He didn’t say much. Not after I produced the pen.”

  Beard looked troubled. “I see. And what exactly did you say to the boy?”

  “I impressed upon him the error of his ways.”

  “Was anyone else present?”

  I’d had enough of this. Of course there wasn’t; who else did I think was going to be present, on a windy lunchtime with a thousand boys playing outside? “What’s going on, Beard?” I demanded. “Have the parents complained? Is that it? Am I victimizing the boy again? Or is it that they know full well that their son’s a liar and that it’s only because of St. Oswald’s that I haven’t reported him to the police?”

  Beard took a deep breath. “I think we should discuss this somewhere else,” he said uneasily (it was eight o’clock in the morning, and we were on the Lower Corridor, as yet almost deserted). “I wanted Pat Bishop to be here, but he isn’t in his office and I can’t get hold of him on his phone. Oh dear”—at this he tugged at his weak mustache—“I really think further discussion of this should wait until the proper authorities—”

  I was about to make a stinging retort about Heads of Year and proper authorities when Meek came in. He gave me a venomous look, then addressed Beard. “Problem in the labs,” he said in his colorless voice. “I think you should have a look.”

  Beard looked openly relieved. Computer problems were his field. No unpleasant human contact; no inconsistencies; no lies; nothing but machines to program and decode. I knew that there had been incessant computer problems this week—a virus, so I’m told—with the result that to my delight, e-mail had been completely suspended and Computer Studies relegated to the library for several days.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Straitley—” That look again, like a man whose last-minute reprieve has finally come. “Duty calls.”

  I found Bishop’s (handwritten) note in my pigeonhole at the end of the lunch break. Not before, I’m afraid, though Marlene tells me she delivered it at registration. But the morning was fraught with problems; Grachvogel absent; Kitty depressed; Pearman pretending nothing was wrong but looking rumpled and pale, with deep shadows under his eyes. I heard from Marlene (who always knows everything) that he slept in school last night; apparently he hasn’t been home since Wednesday, when an anonymous letter addressed to Pearman’s wife exposed his long-term infidelity. Kitty blames herself, says Marlene; feels she has let Pearman down; wonders if it was her fault that the mystery informant learned the truth.

  Pearman says not but remains aloof. Just like a man, says Marlene; too busy with his own problems to notice that poor Kitty is completely distraught.

  I know better than to comment on this. I don’t take sides. I just hope that Pearman and Kitty will be able to continue to work together after this. I’d hate to lose either of them, especially this year, when so many other things have already gone bad.

  There is one small consolation, however. Eric Scoones is a surprising pillar of strength in a world turned suddenly weak. Difficult at the best of times, he comes into his own at the worst, taking over Pearman’s duties without complaint (and with a kind of relish). Of course he would have liked to be Head of Department. Might even have been good at it—though he lacks Pearman’s charm, he is meticulous in all forms of administration. But age has soured him, and it is only in these moments of crisis that I see the real Eric Scoones; the young man I knew thirty years ago; the conscientious, energetic young man; the demon in the classroom; the tireless organizer; the hopeful Young Turk.

  St. Oswald’s has a way of eating those things. The energy; the ambition; the dreams. That’s what I was thinking as I sat in the Common Room five minutes before the end of lunch, with an old brown mug in one hand and a stale digestive in the other (Common Room fund; I feel I should be getting my money’s worth, somehow). It’s always crowded at that time, like a railway terminal disgorging passengers to a variety of destinations. The usual suspects in their various seats: Roach, Light (unusually subdued), and Easy, all three getting their extra five minutes with the Daily Mirror before the beginning of afternoon school. Monument asleep; Penny Nation with Kitty in the girls’ corner; Miss Dare, reading a book; young Keane, popping in for a quick breather after his lunchtime duty.

  “Oh, sir,” he said, seeing me there, “Mr. Bishop’s been looking for you. I think he sent you a message.”

  A message? Probably an e-mail. The fellow never learns.

  I found Bishop in his office, squinting at the computer screen with his close-work glasses on. He removed them at once (he is self-conscious about the way he looks, and those pebble spectacles seem more suited to an elderly academic than an ex-rugby player).

  “Took your bloody time, didn’t you?”

  “I’m sorry,” I said mildly. “I must have missed your message.”

  “Bollocks,” said Bishop. “You never remember to check your mail. I’m sick of it, Straitley, I’m sick of having to call you to my office like some member of the lower fifth who never hands in his course work.”

  I had to smile. I do like him, you know. He’s not a Suit—though he tries, gods help him—and there is a kind of honesty about him when he’s angry that you’d never find in someone like the Head. “Vere dicis?” I said politely.

  “You can cut that out for a start,” said Bishop. “We’re in real shit here, and it’s your bloody fault.”

  I looked at him. He wasn’t joking. “What’s the problem? Another complaint?” I suppose I was thinking about Pooley’s blazer again—though surely, Bob Strange would have wanted to deal with that himself.

  “Worse than that,” said Pat. “It’s Colin Knight. He’s done a bunk.”

  “What?”

  Pat glared at me. “Yesterday, after his little run-in with you at lunchtime. Took his bag, went off, and no one—and I mean no one, not his parents, not his friends, not a single bloody soul—has clapped eyes on him since.”

  BISHOP

  1

  Sunday, 31st October

  All Hallows’ Eve. I’ve always loved it. That night in particular, rather than Bonfire Night and its gaudy celebrations (and anyway, I’ve always thought it rather tasteless for children to celebrate the gruesome death of a man guilty of little more than getting ideas above his station).

  It’s true; I’ve always had a soft spot for Guy Fawkes. Perhaps because I am in much the same situation: a lone plotter with only my wits to defend me against my monstrous adversary. But Fawkes was betrayed. I have no allies, no one with whom to discuss my own explosive schemes, and if I am betrayed, then it will be by my own carelessness or stupidity rather than by someone else’s.

  The knowledge cheers me, for my job is a lonely one, and I often long for someone with whom to share the triumphs, the anxieties of my day-to-day revolt. But this week marks the end of a new phase in my campaign. The picador’s role is ended; time now for the matador to take the st
age.

  I began with Knight.

  A pity, in a way; he has been very helpful to me this term, and of course I have nothing personal against the boy, but he would have had to go sometime or other, and he knew too much (whether he was aware of it or not) to be allowed to continue.

  I was expecting a crisis, of course. Like all artists, I like to provoke, and Straitley’s reaction to my little piece of self-expression on his back fence had certainly exceeded expectations. I knew he’d find the pen too and leap to the logical conclusion.

  As I said, they’re so predictable, these St. Oswald Masters. Push the buttons, press the switch, and watch them go. Knight was ready; Straitley primed. For a few packs of Camels the Sunnybankers had been prepared to feed an old man’s paranoia; I had done the same with Colin Knight. Everything was in place; both protagonists poised for battle. All that remained was the final showdown.

  Of course I knew he’d come to me. Pretend I’m your tutor, I’d said, and he did; ran straight to me in tears, poor boy, and told me all about it.

  “Now calm down, Colin,” I’d said, maneuvering him into a little-used office off the Middle Corridor. “What exactly has Mr. Straitley accused you of?”

  He told me, with a great deal of snot and self-pity.

  “I see.”

  My heart quickened. It had begun. There was no stopping it now. My gambit had paid off; now all I had to do was to watch as St. Oswald’s began to tear itself apart, limb by limb.

  “What do I do?” He was almost hysterical now, his pinched face prunelike with anxiety. “He’ll tell my mum, he’ll call the police, I might even be expelled—” Ah, expulsion. The ultimate dishonor. In the pecking order of terrible consequences, it even takes precedence over parents and the police.

  “You won’t be expelled,” I said firmly.

  “You don’t know that!”

  “Colin. Look at me.” A pause, Knight shaking his head hysterically. “Look at me.”

  He did, still shaking, and slowly the beginnings of hysteria began to subside.

  “Listen to me, Colin,” I said. Short sentences, eye contact, and an air of conviction. Teachers use this method; so do doctors, priests, and other illusionists. “Listen carefully. You won’t be expelled. Do as I say; come with me and you’ll be fine.”

  He was waiting for me, as instructed, at the bus stop outside the staff car park. It was ten to four, and already it was getting dark. I’d left my class (for once) ten minutes early, and the street was deserted. I stopped the car opposite the bus stop. Knight got in on the passenger side, his face pallid with terror and hope. “It’s all right, Colin,” I told him gently. “I’m taking you home.”

  I didn’t plan it quite that way. Really I didn’t. Call it foolhardy if you like, but as I pulled out of St. Oswald’s that afternoon, into a street that was already blurry with thin October rain, I still hadn’t quite decided what to do with Colin Knight. On a personal level, of course, I’m a perfectionist. I like to have all the bases covered. Sometimes, however, it’s best to rely on pure instinct. Leon taught me that, you know, and I have to admit that some of the best moves I have ever made have been the unplanned ones; the impulsive strokes of genius.

  So it was with Colin Knight; and it came to me in a sudden inspiration as I was passing the municipal park.

  I told you I’ve always had a soft spot for Hallowe’en. As a child I much preferred it to the common celebrations of Bonfire Night, which I’ve always vaguely mistrusted, with its candyfloss commercialism, its trollish good cheer in front of the big barbecue. Most of all I mistrusted the community bonfire, an annual event held on Bonfire Night, in the local park, allowing the public to congregate en masse before a conflagration of alarming scale and a mediocre firework display. There is often a funfair, staffed by cynical “travelers” with an eye for the main chance; a hot dog stand; a Test Your Strength booth (Everyone’s a Winner!); a rifle range, with moth-eaten teddies hanging by their necks like trophies; a toffee apple salesman (the apples squashy and brown beneath the coating of brittle bright-red candy); and a number of pickpockets pushing their sly way through the holiday crowd.

  I’ve always hated this gratuitous display. The noise; the sweat; the rabble; the heat; and the sense of violence about to erupt have always repelled me. Believe it or not, I despise violence. Its inelegance more than anything else, I think. Its crass and bludgeoning stupidity. My father loved the community bonfire for the same reasons I detested it; and he was never happier than on such occasions, a bottle of beer in one hand, face purple with the heat from the fire, a pair of alien antennae wagging on his head (or it might have been a pair of devil’s horns), neck craned to watch the rockets as they burst brapp-brapp-brapp across the smoky sky.

  But it was thanks to his memory that I had my idea; an idea so sweetly elegant that it made me smile. Leon would have been proud of me, I knew; my twin problems of dispatch and disposal both sorted at a single blow.

  I flicked on the indicator and turned toward the park. The big gates were open—in fact this is the only time of year when access is granted to vehicles—and I drove in slowly onto the main walkway.

  “What are we doing here?” asked Knight, his anxiety forgotten. He was eating a chocolate bar from the school tuck shop and playing a computer game on his state-of-the-art mobile phone. An earpiece dangled languidly from one ear.

  “I’ve got something to drop off here,” I said. “Something to burn.”

  This is, as far as I can see, the only advantage of the community bonfire. It gives the opportunity to anyone who so wishes to dispose of any unwanted rubbish. Wood, palettes, magazines, and cardboard are always appreciated, but any combustible is more than welcome. Tires, old sofas, mattresses, stacks of newspapers—all have their place, and the citizens are encouraged to bring whatever they can.

  Of course by now the bonfire had already been built: scientifically, and with care. A forty-foot pyramid, marvelous in its construction; layer upon layer of furniture, toys, paper, clothes, refuse sacks, packing crates, and—in deference to centuries of tradition, guys. Dozens of guys; some with placards around their necks; some rudimentary; some eerily human looking, standing and sitting and reclining in various positions on the unlit pyre. The area had been cordoned off at a distance of fifty yards or so from the structure; when it was lit, the heat would be so intense that to approach any farther would be to risk incineration.

  “Impressive, isn’t it?” I said, parking as close as I could to the cordoned area. A number of skips containing assorted jumble blocked further access; but I reckoned it was near enough.

  “It’s all right,” said Knight. “What have you brought?”

  “See for yourself,” I said, getting out of the car. “Anyway, Colin, you might have to help me. It’s a bit bulky for me to manage on my own.”

  Knight got out, not bothering to remove the phone’s earpiece. For a second I thought he was going to complain; but he followed me, looking incuriously at the unlit pyre as I unlocked the boot.

  “Nice phone,” I said.

  “Yeah,” said Knight.

  “I like a good bonfire, don’t you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I do hope it doesn’t rain. There’s nothing worse than a bonfire that won’t start. Though they must use something—petrol, I expect—to start it off. It always seems to catch so fast—”

  As I spoke I kept my body between Knight and the car. I needn’t have bothered, I suspect. He wasn’t very bright. Come to think of it, I was probably doing the gene pool a favor.

  “Come on, Colin.”

  Knight took a step forward.

  “Good lad.” A hand in the small of the back—a gentle push. For a moment I thought of the Test Your Strength (Everyone’s a Winner!) booth of my childhood funfairs; imagined myself lifting the mallet high, smelled popcorn and smoke and the reek of boiled hot dogs and fried onions; saw my father grinning in his ridiculous alien antennae, saw Leon with a Camel crooked between his ink-staine
d fingers, smiling encouragement—

  And then I brought the boot lid down as hard as I could and heard that unspeakable—but nonetheless quite reassuringly familiar—crunch telling me that once again, I was a winner.

  2

  There was rather a lot of blood.

  I’d expected it, and taken precautions, but even so I may have to dry-clean this suit.

  Don’t imagine I enjoyed it; in fact I find any kind of violence repulsive and would much have preferred to let Knight fall to his death from a high place, or choke on a peanut—anything but this primitive and messy solution. Still, there’s no denying that it was a solution, and a good one too. Once Knight had declared himself he couldn’t be allowed to live; and besides, I need Knight for the next stage.

  Bait, if you like.

  I borrowed his phone for a moment or two, wiping it clean on the damp grass. After that I switched it off and put it in my pocket. Then I covered Knight’s face in a black plastic sack (I always carry a few in the car, just in case), secured in place with an elastic band. I did the same with Knight’s hands. I sat him in a broken armchair near the base of the pile and anchored him in place with a block of magazines held together with string. By the time I had finished he looked just like the other guys waiting on the unlit pyre, though perhaps less realistic than some.

  An old man walking a dog came along as I was working. He greeted me; the dog barked, and they both passed by. Neither of them noticed the blood on the grass, and as for the body itself—I’ve discovered that as long as you don’t behave like a murderer, no one will assume you are a murderer, whatever evidence exists to the contrary. If ever I decide to turn to robbery (and one day I might; I’d like to think I have more than one string to my bow), I will wear a mask and a striped jersey, and carry a bag marked SWAG. If anyone sees me, they will simply assume that I am on my way to a fancy-dress party and think nothing of it. People, I find, are for the most part very unobservant, especially of the things that are going on right beneath their noses.