The White Devil

by Justin Evans

  “What are you three doing in the dark?” A voice lashed at them like a whip. “Conspiring?”

  They stood squinting in the gloom between the chapel and Classics Schools. Below them, on the gravel where they had emerged from Essay Club, stood a figure in silhouette.

  “Is that Sir Alan?” Dr. Kahn called, tugging Fawkes’s sleeve.

  “It is indeed. Who’s there, smoking? Ah, it’s you, Piers Fawkes, in the flesh. I was going to hand out a skew, Piers. I think I might after all.” He snickered. “Are we still on for tomorrow morning? Nine sharp? Not too early for you?”

  “I’m up at five every day, writing,” puffed Fawkes.

  “Are you? How virtuous. Inspired by Dionysus?”

  “Apollo,” Fawkes returned.

  Sir Alan charged into their midst, rather too close in the dark, trying to peer into their faces. He turned his sharp nose and glasses reflecting the faraway light, on Dr. Kahn. “What did you think of the essay, Judy? Up to snuff?”

  “A bit vague in its thesis, I suppose, but overall well done,” she said.

  “They used to be an hour,” Sir Alan snorted. His accent rendered it an ahhh. “Askew eked out thirty-five minutes. Thirty-five minutes! I timed it on my watch. Maybe nineteen sides? Twenty? Hmph. So much for the giants of old.” He turned to Fawkes and did not conceal a sniff in his direction. “You didn’t drink tonight, Fawkes,” he observed. “Gone cold turkey?”

  “I have, as a matter of fact,” Fawkes muttered in reply.

  Sir Alan’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “We’ll make a man of you yet.” He then turned his attention to the American. “So you’re in Essay Club now, eh?”

  “Yes,” Andrew said coldly.

  “Your doing?” Sir Alan demanded of Dr. Kahn. She nodded. He looked Andrew up and down disapprovingly. “Think you’ll manage to write anything, Mr. Taylor?”

  “We were just discussing that,” said Dr. Kahn.

  “Really? Topic?”

  “Still developing,” she said hastily, before Andrew could open his mouth.

  “Then I’ll wait with the other commoners, shall I? All right then, I’ll leave you to your topic development. Don’t know why you’re doing it here. If you haven’t noticed, it’s nighttime,” he said, pointing at the sky. “I think I’ll go home and have a whisky. How about that, Piers?” He grinned. “Nine sharp?”

  “Nine sharp,” Fawkes repeated.

  Sir Alan bustled up the remaining stairs, robes billowing, and disappeared around the corner.

  “Do you think he was listening?” Dr. Kahn asked.

  “I meant to tell you,” hissed Andrew. “He kept me after class yesterday and started grilling me about you, Piers. He threatened to call my parents if I didn’t rat you out.”

  “What did you say?” asked Fawkes in alarm.

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?”

  “I walked out on him.”

  Fawkes laughed, delighted. “Did you really? Good man!”

  “I’m no sellout,” said Andrew with a grin.

  Fawkes felt his stomach sink. Selling out. That’s exactly what you’re doing to the boy. Making him “bait,” to use Judy’s word. He stared into that handsome face, glowing in the dark, the grey eyes glinting; the expression cockeyed; the smile only half there; the other half held back, protectively, in that fragile, adolescent way. He had seen Andrew Taylor smile maybe a half-dozen times, in all their meetings and rehearsals; and here was one, bestowed on him, and not just a smile, but a kind of supplication. We’re friends, aren’t we? You approve of me, don’t you? That puppy-dog neediness. The orphan’s longing. And you’re using him, he scolded himself. God, you’re a shit, Fawkes.

  WHEN THEY REACHED the Lot, Andrew said goodbye to Fawkes and waited for him to enter his apartment.

  I still call that research.

  When you feel you’ve gathered enough evidence, we’ll hold the séance.

  He stood in the drive, thinking.

  The handkerchief.

  The handkerchief had been a piece of solid evidence. Maybe even a clue. And he’d left it down in the cistern room, mainly out of the shock of seeing it. What had happened to it? Had Reg thrown it away? Or could it have been brushed into the hole?

  Minutes later Andrew was in his room, pulling on khakis and a pair of sneakers.

  “Roddy,” he called through the wall. “Hey, Roddy!”

  A moment later, roused, his stocky neighbor poked his head in. Roddy wore a bulky black terry cloth robe and flip-flops.

  “Hey yourself. Some of us are doing work here, you know. Some of us have A-Levels.”

  “Oh, bullshit. I’ll bet you five quid you were eating toast and reading comics.”

  Roddy guffawed. “All right, you got me there. But I was eating biscuits. I’ll give you two-fifty.”

  “Can I borrow your flashlight?”

  “What? Why?” said Roddy.

  “I want to see what’s down there.”

  “Where?”

  “In that cistern, in the basement.”

  “That cistern you found, with our inebriated housemaster? No thank you. My dad found one of those, in a row house he renovated in London. He said it was an accident waiting to happen. A complete liability. He had the whole thing filled with cement.”

  “Well,” Andrew said, tying his sneaker. “You can come and protect me if you want.”

  THEY CLATTERED DOWN the stairs, Roddy still in his robe (but with a pair of sweatpants added), Andrew leading the way with Roddy’s flashlight (just one sample of the varied equipment Roddy kept in his cupboard—extra toilet paper, bread knife, heating coils, salt and pepper, first aid kit, and, acquired from some London military paraphernalia shop, a gas mask). Andrew clicked the overhead lights on when they reached the basement. Roddy hastily turned them off again.

  “Matron will be on us in no time,” he hissed. “She can see the stairwells from her apartment. Let’s hope you haven’t woken her.”

  Andrew checked his watch. It was just after ten.

  They approached the still-unpatched hole in semidarkness, their way illuminated only by the glowing red EXIT sign. The yellow caution tape left by the workers sagged.

  “You’re not going down there,” Roddy said in disbelief.

  Andrew checked to make sure the ladder was still there, and hesitated. “I saw the ghost here. I felt it here. From the very beginning.”

  Roddy gaped. “You mean that’s true? You believe all that? About the Lot ghost?”

  Andrew stared back at him.

  “My God, you are mad. And here I’ve been defending you! Telling everyone you’re misunderstood.”

  “I think it wants me to find something.”

  “It? You mean the ghost? You’re communicating with it now, are you?”

  “Stay here, then. I don’t give a shit. I’m going down there anyway.”

  Roddy grew nervous. He had few opportunities for fellowship and adventure, and seemed loath to miss out on this one.

  “Now hold on. You’ve got my flashlight.” He retied the belt of his robe. “All right. I’ll come. But only because you need someone sensible with you. If they fished you out of there dead, what would I tell Matron?”

  ANDREW DESCENDED WHILE Roddy held the light. With considerable cursing, Roddy followed, then swung the flashlight around them. “God, it is grotesque down here.”

  Reg had cleared out the boards and plaster. It had become the cramped cistern room of Andrew’s dream again: a tiny, circular bunker lined with hewn stones and filled with a nose-chilling damp and the drip of trickling water.

  Drawn by the same instinct, they both moved toward the cistern mouth. Andrew got on his knees and peered over. He took the flashlight from Roddy and pointed it down. The stone cistern walls were caked brown with decades of cobwebs, fungus, dirt, and rust. They fell some ten feet. The bottom shimmered. A layer of water.

  “Gutter water gathers there,” observed Roddy. “Just like the one my dad found. St
ill has a seal. They don’t do construction like this anymore, I can tell you.”

  Andrew leaned over the edge.

  “Careful.”

  He leaned farther. His waist now balanced on the lip of the cistern.

  “For God’s sake!” Roddy put a balancing hand on Andrew’s hamstring. “Do you have a death wish?”

  “See that?” Andrew pointed with the flashlight.

  “I’m keeping you from falling in; of course I can’t see.”

  Andrew scrambled back. He handed the flashlight to Roddy. “Right-hand side.”

  Roddy leaned over to take a look.

  “Is that a handkerchief?” said Andrew.

  “Handkerchief?” scoffed Roddy. “What are you on about? That’s metal.”

  Andrew squinted and saw that Roddy was right.

  “I’m going to get it,” he said.

  AFTER THE EXPECTED bickering and protests, Roddy the mechanic, gear collector, and petty-problem solver became intrigued by the puzzle and began to help. How to get a hundred-sixty-pound guy down a ten-foot hole and back again in one piece, without rousting Matron. They found a nylon rope tied to the ladder (for pulling up tools) and estimated it could hold Andrew’s weight, then discovered that when holding the rope—hands wrapped with his T-shirt against rope burn—Andrew could tie the cord around his waist and under his buttocks in a makeshift saddle and rappel down the cistern without injury. Worst case, you’ll hand the ladder down and I’ll get up that way, Andrew reasoned. So he rolled up his khakis and started down. Roddy, the heavier one, braced himself against the stone cistern lip and lowered the cord for Andrew. With some grunting, Andrew inched his way down.

  “How deep is the water?” said Roddy, aiming the light down.

  “Should I step in it and see?” Andrew called up.

  “Shhh,” said Roddy in a stage whisper. “Don’t shout. Matron.”

  “Are you kidding? We’re practically underground. No one can hear us now.”

  “Watch for nails. My dad stuck his foot through, once. Spent a night in hospital.”

  Andrew gave a sudden squeak.

  “What is it?” called Roddy.

  “Cold!”

  “Go on—squealing like a girl!”

  “I’m going to step in.”

  A few moments later: “It’s shallow. Less than a foot. Holy shit is that cold.”

  “Careful.”

  The line stretched. Then: “Got it.”

  “Any nails?”

  “It’s a tin box. I can’t climb with it. Pull it up first, then I’ll come next.”

  RODDY PEERED OVER and aimed the light while Andrew tied the rope around the box. Roddy pulled it up. For a moment, Roddy, at the top, beamed the flashlight on the box as he untied it and examined it. During those two minutes, Andrew stood at the bottom of the cistern, alone, in near total darkness, shirtless and shivering, standing in eight inches of freezing water. His feet went numb and he quietly fought a growing panic. What if Roddy, for whatever reason, left him? Or had an accident up there?

  “Roddy?” he called, anxiously.

  “It’s an antique. This must have been there for bloody ever. I mean a long time.”

  “Roddy.”

  “What do you think is in it?”

  “Roddy, throw down the rope!”

  “All right, all right. There you go again, totally spastic.”

  TEN MINUTES LATER, wrists and biceps exhausted, Andrew stood on the stone floor again, puffing and shivering next to Roddy.

  “Look at the craftsmanship,” Roddy said, turning over the tin in his hand and admiring it while Andrew held the light. The box curved like a violin. “No rust. Must have been submerged all this time.”

  The lid bore a painting of a coach and horses trotting down a country road, with two men in tails and a dog looking on, woods in the background. The sides bore bright stripes—burgundy and gold—and a decorative pattern.

  “Anything inside?”

  Roddy shook it. “Not gold anyway.” A light bump came from within. Roddy wedged his fingers under the edge. “Hinges still work!” he marveled. “Made in England. That’s what it is. Nowadays it’d be made in bloody China, out of toxic waste. Melt in your hands just before it melted you.” He pulled the lid off and retrieved a narrow bundle.

  He put it under the flashlight beam.

  “Paper,” he declared.

  Andrew wiped the grit from his hands. “Let me see.”

  Roddy handed over a small rectangle of a thick-edged paper, tied with ribbon.

  “There’s writing on it,” Andrew said. He tilted his head. The writing went in two directions—crossways, and up and down. The lines were bunched closely together. But they made little sense. The handwriting stretched and curled in childish script, and one line did not seem to lead to the next.

  “Is this what you were looking for?” asked Roddy.

  Andrew stared at the bundle in his hand. Scanned the lines at the top of the page.

  When you quit me you think forever but this is not so—I follow you

  two cups of blood at least caught in my hand

  He tried to make sense of them, and some others, but gave up. He shook his head. “I’m not sure.” He tugged at the corners. The paper had become gluey with age, and the leaves stuck together.

  “Don’t rip it, man,” scolded Roddy. “You’ll need an expert to pull those apart. Someone who knows about old documents. Know anyone like that?”

  13

  Awesome Aunty

  FATHER PETER WATCHED Piers Fawkes with pity. Most of the beaks and administrators at the school had at first been in awe of Fawkes, and the chaplain had been no exception. Fawkes had been a household name in England for a time. He had been interviewed on television. His image appeared in magazines. Father Peter remembered a particular cover photo, in fact: a black-and-white portrait of Fawkes perched on a stool in a sweater, holding a burning fag between dirty fingernails, looking greasy and very debauched with his heavy-lidded eyes. But that was years ago. Increasingly, people at the school (those who chattered about such things) wondered what Fawkes was doing there. He was not quite the career housemaster type. Not quite a visiting dignitary or poet-at-large. Rather confused is how someone had described Fawkes to Father Peter. Now that confusion seemed to have spilled over into something terribly wrong. Perhaps it was the boy dying, Father Peter mused; yes, that must be it. Poor man—he got more than he bargained for, in this job. Fawkes was now squirming on Father Peter’s sofa as if something were eating him from within. His skin was pale. He was sweating—there were big rings under each armpit, coming through his jacket, and dampness rimmed his hairline. But with English and clerical reserve, Father Peter chose to ignore all this; let the man bring it up, if he liked.

  “How about a sherry, Piers?” he said brightly.

  At this, Fawkes started a fit of violent and prolonged coughing.

  “Are you all right?” asked Father Peter.

  Fawkes waved him off. “Fine, fine,” he croaked. “I’ll be fine.”

  Father Peter’s smile was rather thinner than before. “Then how can I help you?”

  “I, uh . . . ,” began Fawkes. “Do you know how to, uh . . .” He resumed coughing.

  “Water?” offered Father Peter. He stood and poured him a glass. Fawkes sucked it down.

  “Something in my throat.”

  “Yes.”

  Father Peter waited. At last Fawkes was able to blurt it out. “Do you know how to get rid of a ghost?”

  The priest’s smile collapsed. “I’m sorry. Did you say get rid of a ghost?”

  “Yes,” Fawkes said, as casually as he could. “Is there a prayer? Some kind of ceremony?”

  “Do you mind sharing with me why you’re asking, Piers?”

  Fawkes gave a rambling and vague answer . . . about the Lot ghost, a legend in the house, a tradition . . . but with Theo Ryder’s death, he said, there was a resurgence of interest . . . something to blame; you know; e
xplain the unexplainable.

  “You’re saying,” Father Peter said, carefully, “the boys are blaming the ghost for Theo Ryder’s death?”

  “Some boys,” clarified Fawkes.

  “And you thought having a prayer, or exorcism, will calm them down?”

  Fawkes nodded. “I must ask you to keep this in priestly confidence,” he quickly added. “The head man thinks I’m a bit crazy on this point.”

  “Hm,” said Father Peter, regarding his sweaty guest. “Yes. Well, that’s extraordinary. I’ve heard about the Lot ghost, of course. But I wouldn’t want to be seen to lend credence to a . . . a superstition. Do you understand?” He paused. “And you, Piers? You think there’s something to it?”

  At last Fawkes stopped writhing. “I think,” he said slowly, “I need to take every precaution. And I think my duty is to the boys.”

  Father Peter hesitated. “Have you . . . seen something?” Perhaps this would explain the poet’s strange demeanor. Perhaps he was in terror.

  “Seen something? Not personally,” Fawkes said, dabbing his forehead. “But some boys in the house have. One boy in particular, I should say.”

  “And you believe him?”

  “I do.”

  “Hm. Extraordinary.” Father Peter chewed his lip. He was piecing together what Fawkes had told him so far. “I’m sorry. Forgive me if I seem a bit thick about this.” He hesitated. “But if the boys believe the ghost is responsible for what’s been happening, for Theo Ryder dying . . . and you believe them . . . then you believe a ghost is responsible for Theo Ryder dying.” He watched Fawkes carefully. “Do I have that right?”

  “Now,” said Fawkes with a small smile, “if I were to say yes to that, I would have to be mad, wouldn’t I?”

  “Quite,” Father Peter replied, but his tone was even, and he used the word the way only the British can: to mean maybe or I’m withholding judgment. He locked eyes with Fawkes, feeling they had reached the crux of their interview.

  “And if I were mad, while in charge of the safety of eighty boys, I would be, well, in the wrong spot, wouldn’t I? The headmaster would be correct to relieve me of my duties.”

  Father Peter said nothing.