‘In tomorrow’s assembly, we will thank God both that Thomas has been delivered from a potentially serious … potentially fatal … injury and that none of his classmates are currently,’ she looked at me again, I wasn’t sure why, ‘sitting in a police cell awaiting a charge of either grievous bodily harm or manslaughter.’
Mr Gale was looking at the floor. And then, very quietly, he said: ‘Well, Mrs Carpenter, it wasn’t really Peter’s fault … It was just a … a … a terrible accident.’
The classroom turned cold. ‘Really, Mr Gale?’ said Mrs Carpenter. ‘You gave me the distinct impression that Peter Lambert was wielding the bat.’
Mr Gale’s eyes tip-toed over the upturned faces of his class. His face coloured as he cleared his throat. ‘Well, I think what I meant to say was that Peter was holding the bat immediately after the … the … the incident.’
‘Peter,’ snapped Mrs Carpenter, ‘is that your recollection?’ I wasn’t completely sure what she meant but half nodded anyway. ‘Then, Peter, perhaps you can tell me who was holding the bat when the incident actually occurred.’
All eyes turned to Mr Gale.
He spoke softly. ‘It was me, Mrs Carpenter.’
Mrs Carpenter looked at Mr Gale with no surprise whatsoever. ‘Well, then, Mr Gale,’ she said, ‘we’d best meet for a little chat in my office once you have dismissed your class. Yes?’
‘Yes, Mrs Carpenter. Sorry, Mrs Carpenter.’
Once the headmistress had left, Mr Gale fiddled with the piles on his desk, his face blushing like a great pink rose. ‘Well,’ he murmured, ‘I think we’ve all learnt a valuable lesson today.’ And, as he stood there looking so serious and sad, unable to look us in the eye, I thought, well, maybe he has.
Anyway, that’s what I told Anna-Marie. But as I was telling her I couldn’t help feeling guilty. After all, I had held the weapon in my hand, the grip still warm, the thwack of bat and ball still tingling in my fingers. I mean, I couldn’t see how I could be held to blame for someone else’s crime but I felt responsible for Tommie anyway. But then even if it had been my fault it wasn’t like I could have done anything to change it. It’d already happened, you see, and, whatever I did, I couldn’t go back. And I couldn’t avoid the, you know, the consequences; not like I’d avoided that cricket ball.
‘My dad used to listen to cricket on the radio,’ said Anna-Marie as we approached the cottage Tommie shared with his mum. ‘But I never liked it. Watching cricket is like watching paint dry. Watching paint dry, by comparison, is, in fact, a pastime filled with excitement and fraught with danger. Mind you,’ she concluded as she thumped on the door, ‘cricket was fraught with danger for Tommie.’
I laughed. At least it seemed that Anna-Marie didn’t blame me for what had happened.
‘Now, you know how Tommie’s dad doesn’t live with his mum?’ she whispered as she continued to pummel the knocker even though we could already hear feet stomping towards us on the other side.
‘Yes.’
Pummel—pummel.
‘You’re about to find out why.’
The door swung open and the largest woman I had ever seen squeezed her way into the frame. Mrs Winslow was the kind of woman who had to turn sideways to leave her own house. Where other people had a waist, Mrs Winslow had a bulge that prevented her from tying the loose cords of her apron behind her back. A black wig slid back and forth upon the surface of her scalp and two little eyes, pressed like blue raisins into the sweaty pink folds of her face, stared at us with hatred.
‘Good afternoon, Mrs Winslow,’ said Anna-Marie pleasantly. ‘Can Tommie come out?’
Mrs Winslow’s brow dripped with sweat, her voice with anger: ‘After what this lout did, it’s a wonder he’ll ever walk again.’
‘Now, now, Mrs Winslow,’ said Anna-Marie, ‘Peter’s explained everything to me and I can assure you that it was nothing to do with him. Besides, you should look on the bright side.’
‘What?’
‘Peter was telling me,’ lied Anna-Marie, ‘about a boy at his old school who got hit on the head by a cricket ball and all his hair fell out. That would be the worst thing of all.’ She turned to me. ‘That would be the worst thing that could happen, wouldn’t it, Peter? I mean,’ she continued as Mrs Winslow’s face grew darker, ‘you’d have to wear one of those awful wig things. Can you imagine, Mrs Winslow? People would stare at you and laugh. Well, people can be so cruel, can’t they? Anyway, I digress: when will Tommie be allowed out?’
‘Why you little …’ spluttered Mrs Winslow. ‘If you think I would … Just you wait until—’
‘Keep your hair on,’ said Anna-Marie. ‘You seem to be having trouble finishing sentences, Mrs W. You haven’t had a cricket ball-related incident of your own,’ she enquired, tapping her finger on her forehead, ‘have you?’
The door slammed in our faces, generating enough of a gust to send us back a step.
‘Told you,’ said Anna-Marie.
We kept to the shadowed side of the lane where the ancient trees linked their arms forming high green arches, but even here the leaves, a rich Englishy green, allowed the sun to sparkle through.
‘What do you think Mr Merridew will tell us about Alice?’ I said. To be honest I didn’t see how he could tell us anything useful about Alice at all but I thought it would make Anna-Marie happy to think I did.
‘I don’t know, do I?’ she said taking a bite from the apple she had hidden in the pocket of her dungarees. ‘That’s what we’re going to find out.’
‘Anyway,’ I said, ‘I thought he was a scientist.’
‘But he used to work at the college. Like a teacher,’ said Anna-Marie. ‘Now he’s—’
The Beast.
What I mean is, we’d turned this corner and come face to face with the Beast of Everlasting Lane, close enough to smell its breath and see its steaming nostrils, its gleaming teeth. The dog was just as surprised but that didn’t stop an evil smile from curling its lip. We began to back away, trying to look all casual, but my heart was beating like a hammer on a fencepost as the Beast’s eyes followed each terrified step.
Perhaps we’d be safe. I was beginning to think we might be until it took its first step towards us. I nearly fainted. It snorted. It sneered. It sniggered. It took a second step and we jumped. Both of us.
‘What do we do?’
‘Don’t show him you’re afraid,’ said Anna-Marie. ‘He can smell fear.’
Well, I thought, he won’t have much problem smelling m—
It took another step towards us and we screamed.
And then we turned.
And then we ran.
And then we screamed again.
And the faster we ran, the louder we screamed. And we ran very fast indeed, our feet pounding the road. Anna-Marie and her long legs were soon out in front. I glanced back and saw only jaws: bloody-pink gums gaining on us, teeth shining. The lane zipped beneath our feet; the black Beast slobbering in pursuit, muscles pumping, rasping, gasping as if a tiny man was drowning in its ugly throat.
I screamed again and, with a determined burst of scaredy-catness, overtook Anna-Marie. And charged straight into Mr Merridew. I hit the ground with a thump. Anna-Marie fell on top of me with a bump.
Mr Merridew chuckled.
In his right hand the old man held his long walking stick and, twisting it like a sword, he stepped over our tangled bodies to face the Beast of Everlasting Lane.
The Beast, which had paused to enjoy our crash, raised a puzzled eyebrow as the old man, stick swishing from side to side, drew closer. He snarled. Mr Merridew I mean. The dog snarled right back. Not to be outdone, Mr Merridew began to growl. So did the dog. When Mr Merridew began to bark it wasn’t a surprise when the Beast answered even more ferociously.
And then, with astonishing speed, Mr Merridew thrust his stick deep into the dog’s open mouth. The dog crunched the stick between powerful jaws but the man twisted, turning his weapon in neck-breaking directions, forcing the dog
to follow. The dog’s eyes bulged and its heavy body flipped from side to side. Blood began to ooze from the sides of his mouth.
The old man laughed.
The movement of the stick got faster and faster until it and the dog went all blurry. Sweat sprayed from the dog’s thick, black body and a mad panic crept into its eyes. With a great wave of his hand, the old man threw both stick and dog down the lane. The dog, now whining like a pup, flew through the air and slammed onto the road, the stick clattering to the ground beside it. It must be dead, I thought, the Beast, but no, its heavy sides were still rising and falling. Mr Merridew approached cautiously and, retrieving his stick, prodded the body. The animal flinched, its eyes spinning in its head.
‘We should call a vet,’ said Anna-Marie.
‘Nonsense,’ said Mr Merridew. ‘The animal is in pain. I suspect a rib has punctured its lung. It is my responsibility. I must put it out of its misery.’
‘But—’
‘Any veterinary would do the same,’ said Mr Merridew with a wave of his hand. ‘Ninety per cent of a vet’s work is merely finishing off what nature has started. Anyway, there is no time. We must act now to avoid unnecessary suffering.’
Mr Merridew removed his jacket, folded and handed it to me—it smelt of old smoke—and then his tie. He whistled through his teeth, glancing about and rolling his sleeves as if about to put oil in his car. He took hold of his stick, like a club, testing its weight. The dog could see him coming, its shiny eyes rolling with terror. The man lifted the stick above his head where it hung suspended for one heart breaking moment. And then it descended.
With a crunch.
A crunch.
Crunch.
We stared, Anna-Marie and I, horrified, but also hypnotised like it was a swinging watch. Crunch. It seemed to go on and on. Crunch. I flinched with each thud of the heavy stick. Crunch. And I could feel my face burning. Crunch. Anna-Marie’s face colourless. Crunch. Her blue eyes wide; her body stiff. Crunch.
The old man’s expression was determined but … Crunch … calm as if he was struggling … Crunch … as if he was struggling with a knotted shoelace. Crunch. He paused only to wipe the sweat from his brow. Crunch. To adjust his grip. Crunch. Or his angle of attack. Crunch. The violence was like a machine, all springs and cables. Crunch. Extreme and cold. Crunch. The steady rhythm made it all seem nearly normal. Crunch.
I felt sick. Crunch. I wanted to be sick. Crunch. And yet I couldn’t completely … Crunch … completely look away. Crunch. Such violence was nearly beautiful. No, no, not beautiful. It was ugly. The mirror reflection of beautiful: exactly the same and exactly the opposite.
Finally it was over and Mr Merridew sank panting to his knees beside the body. He pressed two fingers against what was left of the creature’s throat and looked away, humming as if trying to identify a distant tune. He looked up at us and smiled.
‘It’s dead,’ he said.
Anna-Marie was staring at her feet. A large blob of blood, as dark and round as an old penny, had fallen on the strap of her white sandal. ‘Dead,’ she repeated. She bent down to wipe the blood away with her finger. It left a pink smear.
‘He’ll not bother you again,’ laughed Mr Merridew. And then, noticing our faces, he cried, ‘Life is transitory! It has no intrinsic value; the life of a dog, doubly so. You are simply indulging in the sentimentality typical of youth.’ He took his tie from me, wrapped it around his throat and tied a knot. ‘I dare say,’ he went on, ‘that you would rather I had had you turn your backs or sent you home.
‘Well, I do not believe in indulging the sentimentality of children. It is an unnatural state and particularly nauseating when applied to animals. If you wish to be treated like children then you should return to the playground whence you came.’
His tie straight, he took his jacket from me, shaking it twice and glaring at me as if the creases were my fault. ‘Not so very long ago,’ he continued, ‘you would by now have been groomed for a life in the chimneys or domestic service and quite rightly so. Why should children expect special favours from the universe only on account of their age?’ He pushed his arms into his tatty jacket. ‘The opposite of experience is not innocence, it is ignorance. Ignorance should not merit special treatment and it merits none from me.
‘The arrogance of children!’ he declared. ‘You believe that the universe exists solely for your benefit, and yet you do not have the wit to accept one iota of the responsibility that would be your due if that were actually the case.’ He suddenly looked directly at me. ‘You think I am a bad man, Peter.’
‘No,’ I protested weakly.
‘You do not think I am a good man!’
‘No, well, I …’
He laughed at my embarrassment. ‘There is no difference,’ he said. And then, ‘Now, how about that milk?’
15
I hadn’t seen Mr Merridew’s cottage close up before. It was built of red bricks, many of which were crumbling to sand beneath the weight of the clumsy, black slate roof. Now that I’d met him, there was no mistaking the crooked man’s crooked home. He led us up the crooked path and opened the door. But I hesitated on the crooked doorstep.
Anna-Marie laughed at the look on my face, and whispered, ‘You’re scared of him, just like Tommie-Titmus.’
So I went in, but only to show Anna-Marie that I was braver. And because she pushed me. But I noticed how her own foot hovered just a moment before itself stepping in to that miserable hallway.
And I didn’t blame it either because the house was even odder inside than out: floorboards bare and wallpaper hanging down in flaps. Rubble and rubbish lay on every surface in a grim, smothery gloom. ‘I have an aversion,’ explained Mr Merridew, ‘to the light.’ I tried smiling behind the old man’s back and got a sharp poke in the ribs from Anna-Marie.
The furniture in the living room was old and worn and smelt of damp woodland. Anything not already broken looked ready to break. Books tottered on tables and shelves. There was dust everywhere. There were no photographs. Anna-Marie and I sat down on an old sofa, the cushions bruising our bottoms, and Mr Merridew sat opposite us in a high-backed armchair. A fire, in spite of the heat outside, roared in the grate. For some minutes the old man stared at us through his small, round glasses, with a mysterious smile on his face.
He produced a packet of cigarettes. I stared as his long fingers prised a cigarette free, and then swallowed with horror as he turned and offered the packet in our direction. I couldn’t have been more shocked if he’d offered me a shrunken head. Anna-Marie said, ‘No, thank you,’ and the old man chuckled as a bright flame wrapped around the end of his cigarette. He sucked until his skin stuck to the shape of his skull. He noticed me looking at him and smiled, exhaust fumes gushing from between his yellowy teeth.
‘Biscuits?’ he asked. ‘Milk?’
‘Yes, please,’ we said, and he laughed at our politeness.
Whilst he was gone, I nudged Anna-Marie and sucked in my cheeks, leering through the small round frames that I’d made with my fingers. But she ignored me, turning her gaze to the burning blaze of the fireplace.
The biscuits, when they arrived, were soft and stale, as if they’d sat too long on a sunlit windowsill as if such a thing existed in that gloomy place. The milk too tasted a little funny as if it’d been stood alongside the biscuits soaking up the sun. Mr Merridew prodded the fire with a poker, just as he’d poked the body of the Beast with his stick, before settling with a creak into his armchair.
‘What did you mean,’ asked Anna-Marie, placing, after the slightest sip, her glass on the floor at her feet, ‘before, when you said there was no difference if Peter thought you were a good man or a bad man?’ I was surprised. She was supposed to be asking about Alice.
‘Ah!’ exclaimed Mr Merridew. ‘An excellent question.’ He turned to look at me with graveyard eyes. ‘I will tell you, Peter,’ he said, ‘it has been my pleasure to watch Anna-Marie grow over several years. Why, do you remember what an uncouth chi
ld you were when first we met?’ He drew smoke from his cigarette. ‘I seem to remember,’ he murmured, ‘a blue dress with, I think, a white ribbon in your hair. Imperious Prima, indeed. Am I correct?’
Anna-Marie smiled but said nothing.
Mr Merridew shook his head, suddenly waking. ‘Where was I? Where was I? Ah, yes. Well, to answer your question, I would firstly say that I might simply have meant that Peter’s opinion is of no importance, either to me or to the universe at large. Secondly, I probably meant that bad and good, good and evil are meaningless terms: they are simply human descriptions of actions or behaviour that have no bearing on whether the actions or behaviour have any ethical content whatsoever. In brief, although the concepts certainly exist there are no such things as good or bad in a Godless universe. There are merely shades of moral ambiguity.’
I sneaked a glance at Anna-Marie. She was staring at Mr Merridew as she’d done earlier when she’d watched him beat the dog to death. I nudged her once and then twice again to get her attention. She seemed surprised to see me.
‘I kill a dog,’ continued Mr Merridew, ‘and Peter thinks I am a bad man, but I spare a dog pain and he might think me good. But, of course, I injured the dog so I am a bad man, but I was protecting children so perhaps I am good.’ The room was so warm that I was beginning to feel a bit suffocated. ‘In conclusion,’ said Mr Merridew, ‘perhaps all I meant is that Peter should not leap so quickly to his … conclusions.’
‘If it really doesn’t matter,’ said Anna-Marie, ‘you could tell the police what you … what happened.’
Mr Merridew sniffed. ‘I can’t see what would be gained by such an action.’
‘Well,’ said Anna-Marie, ‘you’d be telling the truth.’
‘The truth?’ asked Mr Merridew. ‘Truth, as you know, is in the eye of the beholder. I tell the truth ergo I am a good man. But if you don’t want to hear the truth ergo I am a bad man. Is it still the truth?’
Everlasting Lane Page 11