Weaver lit a cigarette. "What bothers me most is the pressure that it can cause."
"Okay. Pressure how?"
Weaver watched two uniformed nurses lighting cigarettes as they left the main building, another shift over.
"It's the pressure to live well that hurts. The pressure not to waste it."
James whistled through his teeth. "And if you go down that road you will end up here and not just for a week's holiday either."
"After the accident, when I was still a kid, my mother used to bring it up as a way of making me feel guilty for getting into trouble at school, for wasting opportunities and all that jazz."
"For being a kid?"
"Basically, yes. She knew that it upset me too. She would avoid direct reference to Grant- that was his name- but we both knew he was there. The ironic thing of it was- he was a right tearaway, a real trouble maker- but she used him as some kind of correctional stick to beat me over the head with. You know-" He shook his head and laughed uncomfortably.
"Go on," James said softly.
"There were times when I wished that it was me instead of him so then she'd feel guilty about the way she spoke to me, the way she treated me. Stupid I know and she was doing her best bringing me up on her own. No money."
Over by the pond two elderly men had set up a backgammon board. Weaver noticed that both carried one arm more stiffly than the other. Stroke victims. He heard laughter float over the grass from one of them. He felt ridiculous then- a young healthy man moping around over bad dreams and vapours. He was weak.
"I don't want to waste any more time on my nightmares. Perhaps I'll sleep with the light on." The lameness of the joke fell flat.
"You're not wasting anyone's time. You had a bad time and you're going to work it out. Every man's demons are his own." James looked across to the old men now immersed in their game. "Perspective is good but too much of it can cause you to forget that it's your life that you have to live, on your own terms, not in terms of some kind of rule book. Give up your seat on the bus for the old lady but don't think that her problems are greater than yours because she uses a stick."
"That seems a bit callous."
"No, it's not. It's a harsh example, that's all. But getting back to your friend. Grant. More what ifs. What if he'd lived and you'd died? Do you think he'd feel the same kind of pressure to lead some kind of exemplary life?"
Weaver shrugged. "Impossible to say."
James paused for a while.
"Okay. Do you think things happen for a reason?"
Weaver smiled cynically and waved his arms expansively. "Fate? Synchronicity? The stars? God's plan?"
"Whatever you want to call it." James lit another cigarette. "I want to tell you a story, a true story that is-"
"Does it begin with the words once upon a time?"
James aimed a playful cuff at Weaver's head. "It can if you want it too. Any way, it goes something like this: a man was walking through the woods with his young son. This would have been in the late nineteenth century, I think. The man was some kind of gamekeeper, perhaps. I'm not sure. Any way, he was walking through the estate belonging to the local Lord when he heard a man screaming for help. Naturally, he ran towards the source of the commotion until he reached the lake. There he saw the lord of the estate himself in a blind panic and, in the distance, actually in the lake, the man's son. He was drowning."
"Why didn't the guy jump in after his own son?" Weaver asked.
"I don't know but I'm sure there was a good reason."
"Hmm."
"To continue, the gamekeeper- or whatever he was- kicked off his boots and dived in to the lake, swam out to the boy and brought him back to the bank. He revived the boy not a moment too soon. Any longer in the lake and he would have drowned."
Weaver shivered.
"Of course, the lord of the estate was eternally grateful. His son and heir was saved by the bravery of the gamekeeper."
"So, how did he reward him? A life's supply of pheasants or something?"
James smiled.
"Better than that. He told the gamekeeper that he would ensure that his son would receive the same opportunities in life as his own son. He would go to the best public schools, Oxbridge and all that, sponsored by the lord throughout."
"Was he true to his word?"
"He was indeed. The gamekeeper's son went to the best schools and on to receive the best education available."
"Nice story but what's the point?"
James shook his head. "I don't know really. But let me tell you who the boys were. The drowning boy was the son of Lord Churchill Winston. Who grew up to be a rather important man himself."
"Jesus," breathed Weaver.
"Not quite," James said. "A pretty important chap though, eh?"
"And then some."
Weaver got up and stretched. "Nice story."
"I haven't finished yet. You see the other boy did very well in his own field. Some would argue that his contribution to the twentieth century was even greater than Churchill's."
"You're kidding."
"No. I'm not a kidder." James stood up and flexed his huge frame. "The gamekeeper's name was Fleming. His son was called Alexander. Fate."
Weaver watched James as he walked back towards the building and thought about hands reaching out of the darkness.
2
Measton High School
There was something wrong with Sir.
Claire sat where she always sat: near the window, halfway down the row, behind Jack Bermingham and Sonny Ingles. Jack stole glances back in her direction whenever he could; she knew that he liked her. She watched Mr. Davies from below her long blonde fringe and bit her lower lip. He had been her favourite teacher for some time now and, she had to admit, it wasn't only because he was a good teacher and she liked History. He was one of the youngest teachers at Measton High and had a good sense of humour. Even Sonny and Jack behaved in his lessons because he was a laugh and taught them interesting stuff. Not to mention his line in sarcastic put downs. Not to mention the fact that he was well fit in both senses of the word. She always enjoyed Tuesdays because she had him for History Period one and two and for PSHE before lunch but today there was something wrong.
Ten minutes of the lesson had elapsed and Mister Davies had not uttered a single word. At first, Year 9 had continued to talk among themselves waiting for their teacher's inevitable call for the lesson to begin. When this did not come, a gradual silence came over 9B as each in turn began to sense the strangeness of Davies' behaviour. Usually, this type of beginning to a lesson signified a bollocking but that wasn't Davies' style. He saved behaviour chats for the end of lessons and rarely shouted at his classes. That was one of the reasons why they all thought that he was so cool.
Claire knew that there was more to this though. She looked over to the other side of the room, at the vacant seat next to Sarah Keenan. Patsy hadn't been seen for two days. She'd disappeared with that Clear kid who went to Measton College and people were starting to fear the worse. It was believed that Patsy's mum would be making an appeal on the news. Whenever they saw an appeal for a missing child on the tele, Claire's mum always said that the kid was dead. Her stepdad would point at the father and say he did it. But things like that only ever happened to other people. Not here in sleepy old Measton. Perhaps Mr. Davies had heard something and was too upset to speak but he didn't look upset. He looked kind of- well – stoned, she thought. She had seen plenty of kids stoned up at the pylon where they all hung out on the outskirts of Ross's Forest to know what it looked like although she was far too prudish to have a go herself. Unlike Patsy; she was game for anything.
He sat behind his desk and stared out of the window. He was unshaven too. Mr. Davies was usually immaculately dressed and smooth faced but today he looked unkempt and grubby. If Claire was to be truthful, her idol looked to be in dire need of a wash. Claire had picked up on a waft of dampness as she had passed his desk, reminiscent of the bottom of her PE bag wh
en she finally emptied it of damp towel and sweaty kit on a Sunday evening much to her mother's everlasting chagrin. Perhaps he's still ill, she thought. He had been off sick the day before.
Claire wanted to ask him if he was unwell but it didn't feel right. Even Sonny only shifted uncomfortably in his seat; he sensed it too or otherwise he'd be asking the usual questions about Sir's obsession with diving. Sonny was a past master at drawing teachers into non-schoolwork related topics but today he sat in silence.
She found herself thinking about Patsy again. She was a tart, her massive bust a stark contrast to Claire's boyish figure. Claire and her friends regarded Patsy as the school bike, the slut but actually she was quite nice when you spoke to her on her own, away from everyone else. In the few conversations of any length, Patsy's story had emerged with predictable simplicity. Father drinks and hits, mother drinks and cries. Patsy and her younger brother existed somewhere in the middle. Sitting in her usual seat, in uncomfortable silence, her favourite teacher's uncommonly morose behaviour pervading the mood of the class, she realized for the first time the link between Patsy's home life and her apparent willingness to go with any boy that was nice to her. She didn't think that Patsy had a lot of niceness in her life.
Now she was gone, she had attained the status of everyone's best friend, Claire thought grimly. The snobby Beneton gang (so-called because two of them had Saturday jobs there and didn't they think they were something) were moping around acting like Patsy had been their best friend or something. Helen Walsh, the coiffured leader of the group actually cried yesterday lunchtime, obviously hating every bit of attention she was getting (not!) from the crowd of concerned fellow students, nodding and shaking their heads in mock sympathy. Hypocrites, she thought, casting her eye around the class.
Her thoughts were interrupted by Mr. Davies' movement from his desk. He walked like a man with the weight of the world upon his shoulders towards the blackboard and reached for a piece of chalk. The class opened their exercise books expectantly. Mr. Davies turned his back on the class and seemed to consider what he wrote on the board for a moment.
The class seemed to relax then. Normality was to be resumed. The silence and stillness had felt unnatural. Davies scratched the date on the board, his normally solid lettering less assured, as though he was shaking somewhat. He stopped then and slowly turned to his students.
He grinned. Claire felt herself shiver involuntarily. Davies' face was stretched into a leer, the grin revealing all of his teeth but with his mouth turned down at the corners and with the blankness of his eyes the overall effect was grotesque. He turned back to the board and Claire felt relief that she didn't have to regard that grin again. She saw her own discomfort mirrored on the faces of the other class members and watched Davies' hand begin to write in the same shaky script.
I am
What was this? Perhaps it was the end of some elaborate joke that would have them all laughing in a second or two. Sonny turned to her and shook his head. Davies' hand kept on:
I am a
Here it came. The tension in the classroom felt unbearable.
Andrew Davies had emerged from Ross's Forest as the sun had risen on the morning of the previous day. He still wore his wetsuit although the zipper was broken and there were several tears around his midriff as though he had been attacked by some kind of wild animal. His memories of the previous night were vague. There was the tunnel dive. He had remembered panicking and then it became ever more confused. Images of his experiences in Thailand were intermingled with fresh thoughts that concerned one of his students, Patsy Bourne, and someone else, a young man, a teenager. Then there were the others. All around him. Coaxing. Reassuring. Making suggestions. Davies had found his way back to the Land Rover and had patted his sides for his key. He remembered stowing it away in his BCD jacket and zipping it up. Shit. Where was his jacket? Even as he had this thought he saw its familiar shape resting on his diving crate in the back of the Landie. His used cylinder was there too, neatly stowed, along with his fins and mask. He had found his keys and set off back down the dirt track, shaking his head at the confusion of images bubbling away beneath the surface.
He had obviously experienced a form of neurosis induced by some kind of pressure anomaly. Hadn't he thought about Patsy shortly before the dive? He recalled a tinkling giggle echoing through the trees. The neurosis had obviously triggered his hidden secrets about his visits to Thailand and his weakness and combined them with his most recent thoughts.
He was lucky to be alive.
Davies wrote the final word and stood with his hands hanging limply at his sides, his back to the class. There were several gasps around the classroom, the loudest Claire realized, had come from her own mouth. Then there was silence again as the stunned class looked at each other and back to the words on the board, hanging above the head of their teacher. Davies stood immobile.
Davies had returned to his house and collapsed on the bed after calling work. There was no way he could go in today. His usually energetic frame felt drained, used up. He hadn't even showered. Then there were the dreams. Voices in the dark. The girls in Thailand again revisited him along with Patsy and the unknown young man. Then Eric Callaghan, a former colleague, his alcohol swollen features swimming before him as though he was watching from just below the surface of a cold pond. Eric was talking but Davies could not hear. He remembered trying to call out to him but, with more than the usual frustration of dreams, he could not speak, could not move. He was a mere spectator. A voice within had spoken to Eric and he had listened intently.
Then he was at school again. It was a long dream.
As an onlooker, he watched the familiar young faces in the corridor as they mouthed respectful greetings. He felt dismayed as they seemed to flinch away from him as he turned his gaze upon them. In his dream, Davies realized that this must be the guilt for his indiscretions exhibiting itself on the faces of his beloved students. They knew, he thought. This was his worse nightmare. They knew his secret.
His first class of the day and the dream seemed to go on and on. He had tried to smile to assuage his students' obvious discomfort. That had made things worse. Davies had watched his own hand, scrawling words that were not of his own making. He was a passenger in his own body as the voices used him with practiced ease, a flesh and blood marionette. He watched with mounting horror as it exposed in chalk the unthinkable.
Sonny broke the silence. In a quavering voice, he said:
"Sir, is this some kind of sick joke?"
Davies did not stir.
Sonny stood up.
"I'm going to see the Head." His trembling voice bordered on tears. Claire heard the scrape of chairs all around the room as others went to join him. She could not move. Even when she felt someone tugging at her arm to leave, she could not look away from the familiar form or the words scrawled above his head.
I am a paedophile.
"Come on, Claire!" Jack urged, insistently pulling her to her feet. Then she began to move, still unable to look away from the board.
In her dreams over the next few nights, she was certain that even when Davies was staring at the nothingness of the chalkboard, that unspeakable grin remained.
3
Detective Chief Inspector Collins looked up at the railway bridge, rubbed his throbbing knee and winced. Over the past few days the old break had been a constant reminder of the dangers of jumping from high places but that had been a long time ago. He watched his men beating the bushes of Ross's wasteland grimly. He did not relish the smell of the nearby sewage plant and sodden riverbank vegetation either. Patricia Bourne and Martin Clear had been gone for almost a week now and the only suspect was a grinning, catatonic vegetable over there at Rennick Psychiatric in Halford. There was a definite link between the teacher and the case and forensic investigations would undoubtedly yield more connections but, as of yet, the number one priority was recovery of the youngsters.
In his twenty-five years as a copper, he had experi
enced this type of search only twice before with only a fifty per cent success rate. The first had been for an eight year old girl. Happily, her estranged father had turned up with her at the station and apologized for the inconvenience. A tap on the wrist and a bollocking from his ex had ended that matter. Recalling the ferocity of the mother's verbal assault, Collins thought a short time inside would have been preferable.
Janice Stephens had never turned up though. She had gone missing in 1991 and had stayed missing. Their investigations had been in vain. As a Detective Sergeant at the time, Collins had knocked on doors and interviewed dozens of friends from her "indie" set. All dyed hair, tie-dyes and the unmistakable aroma of cannabis beneath the constantly burning incense sticks. He remembered his ex-wife complaining that he smelt like a Turkish brothel at the end of one fruitless day.
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