Watching, he suddenly stiffened. Patrick had reached the hatch now, and received his dinner. He almost ran with it to a table – he did try to go to one in the outside row near the windows, but a dinner-lady stopped him and made him sit in the middle of the hall. There were children all round him and on either side. Surely, thought Omri, surely he wasn’t going to try to feed them there?
He saw Patrick take a pinch of bread and slip it into his pocket. He wasn’t wearing a jacket; the men were in his jeans pocket. Fortunately the jeans were new and loose, but still he had to half stand up to get the bit of bread in; when he was sitting down the people in his pocket must be pretty well squashed against his leg. Omri imagined them trying to eat, held down flat by two thick layers of cloth. He could almost see Patrick imagining it, too. He was frowning uneasily and shifting around in his chair. The girl next to him spoke to him. She was probably telling him not to wriggle. Patrick said something sharp in reply. Omri sucked in his breath. If only Patrick wouldn’t draw attention to himself!
Suddenly he gasped. The girl had given Patrick a hard push. He pushed her back. She nearly went off her chair. She stood up and pushed him with all her might, using both hands. He went flying over backwards, half on to the boy on the other side of him, who jumped from his place, spilling part of his dinner. Patrick landed on the floor.
Omri didn’t stop to think. He raced towards him across the hall, dodging in and out among the tables. His heart was hammering with terror. If Patrick had fallen on them! Omri had a terrible, fleeting vision of the pocket of Patrick’s jeans, with bloodstains spreading – he clamped down on his imagination.
By the time he got there, Patrick was back on his feet, but now the other boy was angry and clearly looking for a fight. The girl on his other side looked ready to clobber him too. Omri pushed between them, but a stout dinner lady was ahead of him.
“’Ere, ’ere, what’s goin’ on?” she asked, barging in with her big stomach and sturdy arms. She grabbed Patrick in one hand and the boy with the other and kind of dangled them at arm’s length and shook them. “No fighting in ’ere, thank you very much, or it’ll be off to the ’ead master’s orfice before you can say knife, the ’ole bloomin’ pack of you!” She dumped them down in their separate chairs as if they’d been bags of shopping. They were both thoroughly tousled and red-faced. Omri’s eyes shot down to Patrick’s thigh. No blood. No movement either, but at least no blood.
Everyone began to eat again as the stout dinner-lady stamped away, tut-tutting as she went. Omri leant over the back of Patrick’s chair and whispered out of a dry mouth, “Are they all right?”
“How do I know,” said Patrick sulkily. But his hand crept down and delicately explored the slight bump on the top of his leg where his pocket was. Omri held his breath. “Yeah, they’re okay. They’re moving,” he muttered.
Omri went out into the playground. He felt too jumpy to stay indoors, or eat, or anything. How would he get them back from Patrick, who, quite obviously, was not a fit person to have charge of them? Nice as he was, as a friend, he just wasn’t fit. It must be because he didn’t take them seriously yet. He simply didn’t seem to realize that they were people.
When the bell rang Omri still hadn’t come to any decision. He hurried back into school. Patrick was nowhere to be seen. Omri looked round for him frantically. Maybe he’d gone into the washroom to be private and give the men something to eat. Omri went in there and called him softly, but there was no answer. He returned to his place in the classroom. There was no sign of Patrick. And there was no further sign of him till about halfway through the lesson – not one word of which Omri took in, he was so worried.
At last, when the teacher turned her back to write on the board, Patrick slipped round a partition, rushed across the room silently and dropped into his chair.
“Where the hell have you been?” asked Omri under his breath.
“In the music-room,” said Patrick smugly. The musicroom was not a room at all, but a little alcove off the gym in which the musical instruments were stored, together with some of the bulkier apparatus like the jumping horse. “I sat under the horse and fed them,” he muttered out of the side of his mouth. “Only they weren’t very hungry.”
“I bet they weren’t!” said Omri, “after all they’d been through!”
“Cowboys and Indians are used to rough treatment,” Patrick retorted. “Anyway, I left some food in my pocket for later if they want it.”
“It’ll get all squashy.”
“Oh, so what? Don’t fuss so much, they don’t mind!”
“How do you know what they mind?” said Omri hotly, forgetting to whisper. The teacher turned round.
“Oh ho, so there you are, Patrick! And where have you been, may I enquire?”
“Sorry, Miss Hilton.”
“I didn’t ask if you were sorry. I asked where you’d been.”
Patrick coughed and lowered his head. “In the washroom,” he mumbled.
“For nearly twenty minutes? I don’t believe you! Are you telling me the truth?” Patrick mumbled something. “Patrick, answer me. Or I’ll send you to the headmaster.”
This was the ultimate threat. The headmaster was very fierce and could make you feel five centimetres high. So Patrick said, “I was in the music-room, and that’s true. And I forgot the time.”
And that’s not true, added Omri silently. Miss Hilton was nobody’s fool. She knew it too.
“You’d better go and see Mr Johnson,” she said. “Omri, you go too, chattering away there as usual. Tell him I said you were both disturbing the class and that I’m tired of it.”
They got up silently and walked through the tables, while all the girls giggled and the boys smirked or looked sorry for them, according to whether they liked them or not. Omri glanced at Patrick under his eyebrows. They were for it now.
Outside the headmaster’s office they stopped.
“You knock,” whispered Omri.
“No, you,” retorted Patrick.
They dithered about for a few minutes, but it was useless to put it off, so in the end they both knocked together.
“Yes?” came a rather irritable voice from inside.
They edged round the door. Mr Johnson was seated at his large desk, working at some papers. He looked up at once.
“Well, you two? What was it this time – fighting in the playground or talking in class?”
“Talking,” they said, and Patrick added, “And I was late.”
“Why?”
“I just was.”
“Oh, don’t waste my time!” snapped Mr Johnson. “There must have been a reason.”
“I was in the music-room, and I forgot the time,” Patrick repeated.
“I don’t remember you being especially musical. What were you doing in the music-room?”
“Playing.”
“Which instrument?” asked Mr Johnson with a touch of sarcasm.
“Just – playing.”
“With what?” he asked, raising his voice.
“With a – with—” he glanced at Omri. Omri threw him a warning grimace.
“What are you pulling faces about, Omri? You look as if someone’s just stuck a knife into you.”
Omri started to giggle, and that set Patrick off.
“Somebody just did!” spluttered Patrick.
Mr Johnson was in no such jolly mood, however. He was scowling horribly.
“What are you talking about, you silly boy? Stop that idiotic noise!”
Patrick’s giggles were getting worse. If they hadn’t been where they were, Omri thought, Patrick would have folded up completely.
“Someone – did – stick a knife into him!” hiccupped Patrick, and added, “A very small one!” His voice went off into a sort of whinny.
Omri had stopped giggling and was staring in awful anticipation at Patrick. When Patrick got into this state he was apt to do and say anything, like someone who’s drunk. He took hold of his arm and gave it a sharp shake.
“Shut up!” he hissed.
Mr Johnson got up slowly and came round his desk. Both boys fell back a step, but Patrick didn’t stop giggling. On the contrary, it got worse. He seemed to be getting completely helpless. Mr Johnson loomed over him and took him by the shoulder.
“Listen here, my lad,” he said in fearsome tones. “I want you to pull yourself together this moment and tell me what you meant. If there is any child in this school who so far forgets himself as to stick knives into people, or even pretend to, I want to know about it! Now, who was it?”
“Little – Bull!” Patrick squeaked out. Tears were running down his cheeks.
Omri gasped. “Don’t!”
“Who?” asked Mr Johnson, puzzled.
Patrick didn’t answer. He couldn’t. He was now speechless with nervous, almost hysterical laughter.
Mr Johnson gave him a shake of his own that rocked him back and forth on his feet like one of those weighted dolls that won’t fall down. Then, abruptly, he let him go and strode back to his desk.
“You seem to be quite beyond yourself,” he said sharply. “I think the only thing I can do is telephone your father.”
Patrick stopped laughing instantly.
“Ah, that’s better!” said Mr Johnson. “Now. Who did you say had stabbed Omri?”
Patrick stood rigid, like a soldier at attention. He didn’t look at Omri, he just stared straight at Mr Johnson.
“I want the truth, Patrick, and I want it now!”
“Little Bull,” said Patrick very clearly and much louder than necessary.
“Little Who?”
“Bull.”
Mr Johnson looked blank, as well he might. “Is that somebody’s nickname, or is this your idea of a joke?”
Patrick gave his head one stiff shake. Omri was staring at him, as if paralysed. Was he going to tell? He knew Patrick was afraid of his father.
“Patrick. I shall ask you once more. Who is this – Little Bull?”
Patrick opened his mouth. Omri clenched his teeth. He was helpless. Patrick said, “He’s an Indian.”
“A what?” asked Mr Johnson. His voice was very quiet now. He didn’t sound annoyed any more.
“An Indian.”
Mr Johnson looked at him steadily for some seconds, his chin resting on his hand.
“You are too old to tell those sort of lies,” he said quietly.
“It’s not a lie!” Patrick shouted suddenly, making both Omri and Mr Johnson jump. “It’s not a lie! He’s a real live Indian!”
To Omri’s utter horror, he saw that Patrick was beginning to cry. Mr Johnson saw it too. He was not an unkind man. No headmaster is much good if he can’t scare the wits out of children when necessary, but Mr Johnson didn’t enjoy making them cry.
“Now then, Patrick, none of that,” he said gruffly. But Patrick misunderstood. He thought he was still saying he didn’t believe him.
He now said the words Omri had been dreading most.
“It’s true and I can prove it!”
And his hand went to his pocket.
Omri did the only thing possible. He jumped at him and knocked him over. He sat on his chest and pinned his hands to the ground.
“You dare – you dare – you dare—” he ground out between clenched teeth before Mr Johnson managed to drag him off.
“Get out of the room!” he roared.
“I won’t!” Omri choked out. He’d be crying himself in a minute, he felt so desperate.
“OUT!”
Omri felt his collar seized. He was almost hiked off his feet. The next thing he knew, he was outside the door and hearing the key turning.
Without stopping to think, Omri hurled himself against the door, kicking and banging with his fists.
“Don’t show him, Patrick, don’t show him! Patrick, don’t, I’ll kill you if you show him!” he screamed at the top of his lungs.
Footsteps came running. Through his tears and a sort of red haze, Omri just about saw Mrs Hunt, the headmaster’s elderly secretary, bearing down on him. He got in a couple more good kicks and shouts before she had hold of him and, with both arms round his waist, carried him, shrieking and struggling, bodily into her own little office.
The minute she put him down he tried to bolt, but she hung on.
“Omri! Omri! Stop it, calm down, whatever’s come over you, you naughty boy!”
“Please don’t let him! Go in and stop him!” Omri cried.
“Who? What?”
Before Omri could explain he heard the sound of footsteps from the next room. Suddenly Mr Johnson appeared, holding Patrick by the elbow. The headmaster’s face was dead white, and his mouth was partly open. Patrick’s head was hung down and his shoulders were heaving with sobs. One look at him told Omri the worst. Patrick had shown the headmaster.
Chapter Thirteen
ART AND ACCUSATION
MR JOHNSON OPENED and shut his mouth for several seconds without a sound coming out. At last he croaked: “Mrs Hunt… I’m afraid I’m unwell… I’m going home to bed… Will you take charge of this child…” His voice dropped to a mumble like an old man’s. Omri just caught the words, “… back to their lessons…” Then Mr Johnson let go of Patrick’s arm, turned, walked most unsteadily to the door, and then put his hand on it and swayed as if he might fall over.
“Mr Johnson!” said Mrs Hunt in a shocked tone. “Shall I call a taxi?”
“No… No… I’ll be all right,” And the headmaster, without looking back, tottered out into the corridor.
“Well!” exclaimed Mrs Hunt. “Whatever have you been doing to the poor man?”
Neither of them answered. Omri was staring at Patrick, or rather, at his pocket. Patrick’s shoulders were heaving and he was not looking at anybody. Mrs Hunt was obviously flummoxed.
“Well. You’d better go to the wash-room and wash your faces, both of you, and then go back to your classroom as fast as you can toddle,” she said in her funny old-fashioned way. “Run along!”
They needed no second telling. Neither of them said a word until they were in the boys’ wash-room. Patrick went straight to a basin and began running the cold water. He splashed some on to his face, getting his collar soaked. Omri stood watching him. Obviously he was as upset as Omri, if not more so. Once again Omri felt their friendship trembling on the edge of destruction. He drew a deep breath.
“You showed him,” he said at last in a trembling voice.
Patrick said nothing. He dried his face on the roller-towel. He was still gasping the way one does when one has been crying.
“Give them back to me. Both of them.”
Patrick reached slowly into his pocket. He put his closed hand backwards. Omri looked as his fingers slowly opened. Little Bull and Boone were sitting there, absolutely terrified. They were actually clinging to each other. Even Little Bull was hiding his face and they were both trembling.
With infinite slowness and care, so as not to frighten them more, Omri took them into his own hand. “It’s all right,” he whispered, bringing them near to his face. “Please. It’s all right.” Then he put them carefully in his pocket and said to Patrick in a low voice, “You bloody, stupid fool.”
Patrick turned. His face gave Omri more of a jolt than Mr Johnson’s had. It was white-mottled-red, with swollen eyes.
“I had to!” he said. “I had to! He’d have phoned my dad! They’d have made me tell in the end. Anyhow, he didn’t believe in them. He thought he was seeing things. He just stood there, gaping at them. He didn’t even touch them. When they moved he gave a yell and then I thought he was going to fall over. He went white as a ghost. You saw. He didn’t believe his eyes, Omri, honest! He’ll think he dreamt it!” Omri went on looking at him stonily. “Can’t I – can’t I have Boone?” asked Patrick in a small voice.
“No.”
“Please! I’m sorry I told – I had to!”
“They’re not safe with you. You use them. They’re people. You can’t use people.”
Patrick didn’t ask again. He gave one more hiccupping sob and went out.
Omri took the little men out of his pocket again and lifted them to his face. Boone was lying flat on his front, holding his big hat down over his ears as if trying to shut out the world. But Little Bull stood up.
“Big man shout. Give fear!” he said angrily. “Small ears – big noise – no good!”
“I know. I’m sorry,” said Omri. “But it’s okay now. I’m going to take you home.”
“What about wife?”
His promise! Omri had forgotten all about that.
Another Indian! Another live little person to worry about… Omri had heard about people going grey-haired almost overnight if they had too much worry. He felt it might easily happen to him. He thought back to the time, only a few days ago, when this had all started and he had fondly imagined it was going to be the greatest fun anybody had ever had. Now he realized that it was more like a nightmare.
But Little Bull was looking at him challengingly. He had promised.
“Right after school,” he said, “we’ll go to the shop.”
There was still another hour of lessons to be got through. Fortunately it was two periods of art. In the art-room you could go away into a corner and even sit with your back turned to the teacher if you liked. Omri went to the furthest and darkest corner.
“Omri, don’t try to draw there,” said the art teacher. “You’re in your own light – it’s bad for your eyes.”
“I’m going to draw something huge anyway,” said Omri.
All the others sat near the long windows. He was quite alone, and if the teacher approached him he would hear her feet on the bare floor. He suddenly felt he must – he simply must get a little fun out of this somehow. He cautiously fished Little Bull and Boone out of his pocket.
They stood on the sheet of white drawing paper as if on a stretch of snow, and looked about them.
The Indian in the Cupboard (Essential Modern Classics, Book 1) Page 10