I don’t know too much about instrumentation: I could hear some sax, and some graunchy guitars, and some keyboards, and some voices – or was it all the same voice? – telling a story that I knew from somewhere, maybe out of a dream. It was amazing. It was immense. It was the biggest, most powerful thing that had ever happened to me. I sat there, holding my biscuit, listening to the music, hardly even daring to breathe. Goldie ate his sandwiches. Poodle was drawing in the margin of his Prep diary. Neither of them seemed to have realized the awesomeness of what they had just heard. To them it was just music. To me it was like a door in my mind opening into another world.
‘Can we play it again, sir?’
Harry was still marking books. When I spoke, he looked up and smiled. ‘Hadn’t you ever heard it before?’
‘My dad doesn’t like rock music.’
‘It’s not just the music. It’s the vibe. In fifty years’ time, they’ll remember this.’
I looked at the album cover then, which showed Ziggy, standing with his guitar on a street corner at night under a sign that said: K. WEST. It was a painting, not a photo, and you could see the way the artist had picked out the bricks in the wall and the rain shining on the pavement. There was a pile of litter and old cardboard boxes in the foreground; it looked seedy and exciting and dangerous all at the same time. And although he was the star of the show, Ziggy looked small in the picture, standing outside a closed door, with all the lights in the windows shining yellow and welcoming, and him outside, alone in the rain, getting wet and not giving a damn.
It struck me then that Harry looks a little bit like Ziggy. Older, of course, and with glasses. Ziggy with experience.
In fifty years’ time, I’ll remember this.
That would make me sixty-four. Six years to go till I’m seventy. Funny, how death steps into my mind, even at the best of times, like a dog that won’t stay away. Still, I knew that Harry was right. I’ll remember this moment till I die.
‘I wish life was like a record, sir. I wish we could start all over again.’
He put down the pen he was using. ‘Why?’
‘Well, sir,’ I said. ‘Because it feels it’s all going by too quickly. Like there’s no time to get it right. Like it’s all been decided, and there’s nothing we can do to change.’
I felt a bit embarrassed then. I hoped I didn’t sound like a spaz. (It was a spazzy thing to say.)
But Harry wasn’t laughing. He said: ‘Life is a gift from the universe. We’re all of us free to do what we want. We can all be who we want to be. We can all change, if we want to change. All it takes is courage.’
‘Courage,’ I said.
‘That’s right.’ That smile. His eyes go Chinese when he smiles. ‘A little courage is all it takes. After that you can be free.’
‘Do you really believe that, sir?’
‘Of course I do,’ he said. ‘Don’t you?’
8
September 7th, 2005
Word in the Common Room so far is that the New Head is sound. Dr Devine is too dignified to share his views with the hoi polloi. Eric is also lying low. His shameful, toadying applause in the wake of the Headmaster’s speech means that he is avoiding me. But everyone else is already sure that Harrington will be good for us. Dr Burke, the Chaplain; Bob Strange; Robbie Roach, the hopeful historian, who still hasn’t quite recovered from the exhilarating prospect of Mulberry girls in the School. Of course, Roach is an idiot; Strange, a management toady; and the Chaplain lives in a world of his own where reality seldom penetrates – but I’d thought that Eric, at least, would show a little loyalty.
I poured a final cup of tea and prepared to return to the Bell Tower. Suddenly, the bright new term seems rather less promising. Passing Bob Strange’s office, I heard the sound of raised voices and glanced through the half-open door, to see Devine at Strange’s desk.
He was standing half turned to the door, and his nose was pink with emotion. His voice, too, registered an unusual degree of animation as he said:
‘Roy Straitley knows—’
Then he saw me and stopped. For a moment our eyes met. I saw the nose twitch once, and then he closed the office door in my face, leaving me outside in the hall, trying to make sense of what I’d heard.
Roy Straitley knows. Knows what? That Latin is under threat from the National Curriculum? That he shouldn’t eat Liquorice Allsorts? That his days are numbered?
Arriving in room 59, I found a young man in overalls, standing on a school desk, dusting the top of the door-frame. Thirties; slight; sharp-featured; blue hooded top; blue overalls. One of the new cleaners, no doubt: all part of the Bursar’s new money-saving initiative. Hence, Mary, our elderly cleaner, whose work ethic, though sound, was based on rules that only she understood, has finally been replaced by someone of the Bursar’s choosing – that is to say, someone cheaper.
I extended a hand. ‘Good morning,’ I said. ‘I am Mr Straitley, the current inmate of room 59. And you?’
The new man looked slightly taken aback to be addressed by a member of staff. ‘Er – I’m Winter, sir,’ he said. ‘Do you mind if I finish? I just thought – it’s so dusty in here. I’ve done the floors already, but—’
His voice was more cultured than I’d expected, but hesitant, like that of a man who might have stuttered as a boy.
‘Of course. Pleased to meet you, Mr Winter.’
He looked a little surprised at that. The likes of the Bursar and Bob Strange always call ancillary staff by their Christian names. But I make no such assumptions. Until he tells me otherwise, my new cleaner will be Mr Winter, as I shall be Mr Straitley to him.
‘And where are you from, Mr Winter?’
‘White City. Near Bank End.’
At least he’s a local. That’s a good sign. Not as good as Mary, who called us her boys and sometimes brought me slices of cake, home-made and heavy as concrete, which she left, wrapped in a napkin, in the bottom drawer of my desk, for me to find in the mornings. But better than a member of a contract crew from Sheffield or Leeds, working for the minimum wage and for half the time spent by the old team.
I finished my tea and put down the mug. ‘Liquorice Allsort?’
I held up the bag. Winter chose a blue one. I selected a sandwich; pink and yellow over black. The sharing of food has always provided an elementary connection. It works with everyone – colleagues, boys; even Devine enjoys the odd austere morning cup of coffee. Of course, the likes of Dr Devine would never be seen hobnobbing with a man in a boiler suit. But in thirty-four years I have learnt that the ancillary staff – the Porter, the cleaners, the secretaries – actually run St Oswald’s. This is an open secret that folk such as he and Mr Strange do not understand, being mostly obsessed with status, money, the National Curriculum and other completely irrelevant things.
‘Careful, Mr Winter,’ I said. ‘Don’t be too harsh on the dust, if you please. The dust and I are old friends. We understand each other.’
He smiled. ‘I’ll do my best, sir.’
By now he had finished the door-frame and moved on to the top of the bookshelves. I doubted anyone had cleaned up there since Mary’s predecessor – Gloria, with the Spanish eyes. Well, at least he’s thorough, I thought. But efficiency isn’t everything. There ought to be room for more than that. There ought to be room for loyalty.
I gave a rather mournful sigh. Things are changing too fast aboard the dear old frigate. Johnny Harrington at the helm. Mulberry girls in the Sixth Form. Male cleaners, for gods’ sakes. I settled into my chair and took out the register for this year. At least my form remains the same. That counts for something, I suppose. Though members of staff may come and go, the boys remain a constant; vibrant and unquenchable; a reminder that Life goes on.
Today has been a long day. I got home late, well after dark. The central heating hadn’t come on. I must have forgotten to set the timer. I lit the living-room gas fire and made myself some cocoa. In such familiar surroundings, it seems hard to believe that any
thing could be amiss. But that’s the danger of being in this job. That’s how St Oswald’s draws us in. It makes us feel safe, cocooning us with the illusion of permanence. That’s why the Harry Clarke affair came as such a surprise to us all. Even Dr Devine was rocked. Even Shitter Shakeshafte. It was as if something had died, slyly and unobtrusively, and the stench of it still lingers now, like the stench of poisoned mice behind a classroom skirting-board.
Oh, but I’m getting ahead of my tale. That’s what happens when you get old. You start to ramble. You lose track of time. Things that happened a long time ago suddenly seem so much closer than the things that happened yesterday. And things you thought you’d forgotten about suddenly pop into your mind, just as you’re about to drop off, making sleep impossible.
Today it’s a Public Information Film of the kind you saw in the old days, a film I haven’t seen in years, but which I remember clearly. A sinister, hooded figure watches a group of children playing beside a flooded gravel pit, waiting for the moment when the bank gives way, or the tree-branch breaks, or the submerged, abandoned car inhales its youthful victim. A DANGER! NO SWIMMING! sign comes into view, but the children do not notice it. And now comes the voiceover; sinister, rasping out its challenge: I am the spirit of dark and lonely water—
Why remember that? Why now? What message from my subconscious is trying to rise to the surface? A pebble dropped into the dark and lonely water is still making ripples, twenty-four years on. And now, from the archives of memory, comes the voice of the hooded man . . .
9
Michaelmas Term, 1981
Dear Mousey,
Goldie thinks David Bowie is gay. He said so today at lunchtime, in Harry’s room. Goldie’s dad sometimes preaches in Church; he thinks the Homosexual Stranglehold on the Arts is what’s holding Britain back.
I said: ‘I don’t think he’s gay.’
Poodle said: ‘It’s a persona. In real life, he’s married and everything. Besides, it’s the eighties. What do you care?’ Goldie looked disgusted. But Poodle was defiant. ‘I know it’s a sin in the Bible,’ he said. ‘But so is eating shellfish.’
Harry was marking books at his desk. I was sure he was listening. His head was at an angle, you know, as if he was paying attention. And there was a look on his face. Not quite a smile, but nearly.
‘What do you think, sir?’ I said.
Harry looked up. ‘About what?’
‘You know. Sin.’
Harry smiled. For a moment I was almost sure I’d gone too far. Then he said: ‘I don’t believe God really cares what you eat, or what you wear, or whom you love. I think that if God made the stars, He must have a greater perspective.’
We didn’t say anything more after that. But I thought about it, Mousey. What Harry meant is that God’s too big to care about who you have sex with. After all, why would He care? Why does He care about anything? And then that started me thinking about My Condition, Mousey, and how much God would really care if He found out I was different—
Of course, my parents think He would. But then, my parents go to Church. They believe in all that stuff. My dad even preaches there sometimes. After Bunny and Netherton Green, they started making me go, too, to help with My Condition. But although I got better at hiding it, My Condition never changed. I guessed either God wasn’t listening, or He wanted me this way. I got pretty good at pretending, though; speaking in tongues and fainting. That’s what you do in our Church – at least, if you know what’s good for you. It’s even kind of fun sometimes. Like scoring at a football match, with everyone shouting and hugging you. No one hugs me, generally. I’m not very huggable.
At Netherton Green, everyone thought I was a freak and a weirdo. But this time, Mousey, it’s different. St Oswald’s has turned out OK for me. I even have a nickname. Didn’t I tell you that, Mousey? Yes, they call me Ziggy now. Because of my favourite album. Ziggy and the Spiders from Mars. Nicknames are important when you’re trying to be cool and fit in. And Ziggy’s such a cool name. Even my dad seems to think so.
‘Your chums look very sound,’ he said over the dinner table last night. (Sound is the highest praise from Dad.) Chum. That’s a kind of dog food. How appropriate, I thought. But I didn’t say it aloud. I’ve learnt that with Dad, my jokes don’t always go down very well.
‘Yeah, they’re pretty cool,’ I said.
‘It isn’t yeah, it’s yes,’ said Mum. ‘Or do you think you’re American?’
I grinned inside. Americans are almost as bad as gays, in her world. Except for those Americans who run charismatic churches, and preach against the gays, and the blacks, and the Jews that are ruining the country.
The fact is, my two almost-friends are anything but sound. Goldie’s a stuck-up hypocrite, and Poodle is a little freak who doodles over everything. It’s compulsive, he tells me. So are his other habits, he says; his tapping, jigging and twitching. In the old days, they’d have called him possessed. Those Church folk love their demons.
Dad enjoys his demons too, being such a big churchgoer. And Poodle’s mum makes puppydog eyes at the visiting preacher. It’s funny, how certain preachers attract so many female fans. Our Church has plenty of those, being a charismatic church with lots of audience participation. Sometimes a girl from Mulberry House comes in to play the guitar and sing. Bright red hair and a long neck, like maybe a flamingo. One of those Churchy voices, clear, with not too much vibrato. I’ve seen her around St Oswald’s. She’s got a part in the school play. She likes to perform, in Church and on stage. I’ve seen the others watching her; Goldie and Poodle especially. I can’t see what they see in her, though. Pretty enough, but not my type.
‘If you want to invite your friends over, you can.’ That was Mum, trying to be supportive of my social life. God knows, she ought to be grateful that I’ve even got any friends. She’s always wanted me to have some.
‘It’s Bonfire Night next Thursday. There’s a bonfire in the park. I thought we could go, the three of us. Then maybe back here for tea. Maybe invite their parents.’
Mum and Dad don’t like Bonfire Night. They think it’s a soft door to paganism. Like all that burning people alive never happened under the Church’s rule. But I also knew that Mum was dying to meet my shiny new friends and their parents. And that’s why we’re going on Bonfire Night – Goldie, me and Poodle – while Goldie’s and Poodle’s parents have sherry with my mum and dad, and talk about Church and St Oswald’s.
I know. It sounds revolting. But Mousey, it’s all part of my plan. What Poodle calls a persona. With the right persona, I can hide in plain sight. I can do whatever I want as long as I keep up appearances. With the right persona, I can make them do anything – my parents, Poodle, Goldie, my teachers – make them dance like puppets.
Why? Because I can, that’s why. Why did God make me this way? Why did God take Bunny? Why? Because He could. Because He’s God. He made us all in His image, right? So I’m a little piece of God. And God is a killer; a joker; a thief. So how can He fail to be proud of me when I want to be just like Him?
10
Michaelmas Term, 1981
My talk with Johnny Harrington had one beneficial effect. The complaints from his father ceased forthwith, although I did not feel I had made any significant progress in getting to understand the boy.
I remember his School report word for word, handwritten on the penultimate page of his blue report book. Harrington is an able student, well behaved and punctual. That’s Master’s shorthand for Not Much to Say – for how could I articulate that sense of something wrong with him, of something strangely missing? Not that he’d ever done anything wrong. His name had cropped up only once or twice, in the context of misbehaviour by others (a minor riot in the class of an ineffectual member of staff; graffiti on the scarred oak panels in the School refectory), but Harrington – like his two friends – had been declared innocent of blame. A little too innocent, I felt; it just wasn’t normal for a fourteen-year-old boy to have so few apparent vices.
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br /> However, his English Literature grade reflects his disappointing lack of commitment to the reading list. I hope that in the new term he will apply himself more diligently and raise his performance to the fine standard he has already achieved in other subjects.
Dammit, it made me nervous. It wasn’t natural at all. It wasn’t that I favoured troublemakers, precisely; but at least I could understand them. I myself was no paragon when I was a boy of fourteen; it’s what has made me the Master I am, alert to all possibilities. And although there was nothing I could find to incriminate Harrington, Nutter or Spikely in any kind of misbehaviour, there was something in their aloofness that I found disquieting.
Of course, I would say that, wouldn’t I? But even without the benefit of hindsight, that flawless rear window through which we observe the aftermath of the car crash, I’ll swear there was something not quite right about the Harrington threesome. Call it intuition, perhaps. In any case, something was wrong. I could feel it approaching.
The latter half of the Michaelmas term brought Bonfire Night, my birthday, and, a fortnight later, the dubious gift of an early snow, which the boys received with uncontrolled glee, and the staff with less enthusiasm, knowing how disruptive snow can be to the efficient running of things.
The Old Head held an Assembly in which he delivered all kinds of threats – most of them unenforceable – to boys who indulged in snowball fights, or failed to wipe their feet on the mat when entering the School buildings. All the boys ignored him, of course. They came into Latin with wet shirts and wet feet, and left their shoes on the radiators to dry, with the result that for three days the whole of the Middle Corridor smelt of damp boys and their footwear.
Three evenings in early December were reserved for meetings with parents – to discuss form reports, exam results or any other matters for concern – but I wasn’t expecting Harrington to bring up anything serious. In fact, since our talk in the locker rooms he hadn’t said a word to me, except to answer questions in class, which he did with a cool condescension, as if conferring a favour.
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