Different Class

by Joanne Harris

  After that, there was no need for me to see him ever again. And yet – Mousey, I kept on seeing him. One day it was in the park, walking back from St Oswald’s. Another time it was in the Pink Zebra, the organic café at the edge of White City. Another time, he was driving his car, that little blue Peugeot of his, and I was on foot, and he waved to me. What was he waiting for, Mousey? Why hadn’t he left town, like he’d said?

  At first, I thought of arson. But Mousey, that was too risky. Your brother keeps antisocial hours, and I couldn’t be sure he’d be asleep. Then I thought of lying in wait as he walked back through the park after work, but with Bonfire Night approaching, the park was always full of kids, and you could never be sure who would be there, or who would remember seeing you. Besides, your brother was careful. He didn’t go out after dark. He never went to the pub at weekends. If only he’d been like Poodle, I could have caught him unawares. As he went home drunk and alone, late on a Saturday night, I could have followed him to a quiet spot and dealt with him at leisure. But he was never drunk and alone, and he avoided those places. He was like one of those rats that, if you catch them and let them go, will never let you catch them again—

  And then, last night, he phoned me. Just when I thought I’d never get a chance to see him alone, he called. I almost didn’t answer the phone. No one calls me late at night, except for nuisance callers. But some instinct warned me that this might just be my lucky night.

  ‘Hello, David. It’s me,’ he said.

  I recognized his voice at once. Quiet, not too accented, with a little occasional slur suggesting he may once have stammered. I tried to sound abrupt, annoyed. But inside, I was smiling.

  ‘What do you want? I thought you said I’d never hear from you again.’

  ‘Things have changed.’

  ‘Oh, really?’

  I heard the smile in his voice. He said: ‘You’re wondering what more I could have, now that those diary pages are gone. You know you didn’t write it down; at least, not in your diary. But you’re not new to blackmail. In fact, you’ve lived well on the proceeds.’

  ‘If you mean Survivors—’ I said.

  ‘No, not Survivors,’ said your brother.

  I thought for a moment. ‘You’re bluffing,’ I said. He couldn’t know that. He couldn’t. I’d never told anyone about that. Not even you, Mousey.

  Your brother said, ‘I’ve been watching you. More importantly, I’ve been watching your bank records. It isn’t all that difficult. All you need are a few facts, some time and some inspiration. And what I found out is that over the past fifteen years or so, you’ve been receiving regular payments from an individual living in the Village. Someone we both know, in fact. Someone who kept correspondence, some dating back a very long time.’

  He might still be bluffing, I thought. My paper trail is minimal. Just one letter, written when Harry Clarke was arrested. Could he have kept it? And if he did, how could your brother have known what I wrote in a letter seventeen years ago?

  ‘My mother was a cleaner,’ he said. ‘She used to clean people’s houses. She had a dozen regulars, but she also worked at St Oswald’s. When she retired, I did the same.’ He paused, and I could hear his smile. ‘It’s funny, what old people choose to keep. Notebooks, diaries, bus tickets, letters, photographs. Things you can’t bear to throw away, but which pile up over the years, waiting for the inevitable. Most people never think about what’s going to happen when they die. Who’s going to read those letters of theirs, those notebooks, those diaries. Most people never think to destroy the things that might incriminate them. The dead are beyond embarrassment. But sometimes, something gets left behind that can affect the living.’

  I tried to keep my voice level, but all the same, it wavered. I said: ‘What have you got?’

  ‘A letter,’ he said. ‘A letter written by you, Dave.’

  I bit my lip. That letter. I think I’d always somehow known it would come back to haunt me, Mousey.

  ‘What do you want?’ I said at last.

  Briefly, he outlined his plan. A final one-off payment, he said. Then, he’d be out of my life for good. I’d never hear from him again.

  ‘You must think I’m stupid,’ I said. ‘This could go on forever.’

  ‘No, it won’t,’ said your brother. ‘You think I want to stay here? I’ve wanted to leave this armpit of a town ever since I learnt to walk. But I need more money for that. I don’t want to have to come crawling back. Not here. Not ever.’

  I thought about that for a moment. A part of me was angry and scared, but another part was grinning. Hadn’t I wanted this, after all? A chance to meet your brother alone?

  ‘All right,’ I said. ‘Where shall we meet?’

  ‘Meet me by the canal bridge, tomorrow night at nine o’clock. I’ll be driving. I’ll park on the road. You’ll be waiting on the bridge. I’ll give you the package. You’ll give me the cash. Then you wave bye-bye, and leave.’

  I’d expected him to suggest a place like the café; somewhere safe. But he was getting arrogant. That was a mistake, I thought. Now he’d played into my hands. And the thought of meeting him on the bridge, in the place where Poodle had died, was too much for me to resist. At that time, there would be little risk of anyone disturbing us. He’d be alone, and vulnerable. I could take him easily. I knew from our games by the clay pits how sensitive he was to pain – or any form of violence. Pathologically sensitive, to the point of freezing up, of actually being unable to breathe at the sight of the mouse traps.

  It was like a gift from the gods. Everything coming together at once. Unfinished business; loose ends; all the mess of the past seventeen years nicely, neatly swept away. Now I could see it, Mousey. A way of ridding myself, not of one, but two of my enemies. And all I had to do now was persuade Johnny to come and back me up, then to stand on the bridge at nine, waiting for my trap to close.

  11

  November 4th, 2005

  I hadn’t been to Eric’s house for years: not since my mother died. And when his own mother started to show signs of encroaching dementia, I began keeping my distance, sensing that Eric wanted it so. He’d always been close to Margery; always the devoted son, and for over a decade, he’d managed to live in denial of her condition.

  It had begun with the hoarding; a harmless habit at first, but which slowly became an obsession. Margery kept everything – correspondence, baby clothes, empty cigarette packs – packing them neatly into boxes, labelled in her old lady’s hand and stored, first in the cellar, then under the roof, and then in every single room in the house, stacking them against the walls. Eric had tried to clear them out, but his mother’s distress at his first attempt had ensured that there would be no second.

  ‘She’s just a bit set in her ways,’ he would say. ‘You’ve got to expect it, at her age.’ But the fact that she was sixty-one – which seems no age at all to me now – did nothing to explain the stacks of boxes piled up in every room, or the fact that Margery would not allow strangers into the house – so that any repairs to the roof, the drains, the plumbing or the plasterwork had to be done by Eric himself, or risk a scene from his mother.

  ‘Mother doesn’t like change, that’s all,’ Eric used to tell me. He was no wizard at DIY, but managed to keep the house in shape – at least, until his mother’s decline had forced him to bring in a carer. The first of many, as it turned out – Margery Scoones had hated them all, and unlike my own mother, who had been biddable in dementia, Margery was fiercely antagonistic; arguing that she didn’t need help, accusing her carers of stealing from her; making up wildly improbable tales of abuse and even, on several occasions, actually calling the police, to report an intruder in her house.

  Eric told me all this as we packed the boxes into his car, ready to drive them to the park. It was four thirty. The public would start to gather at six. Traditionally, the Malbry fire is always held on a Friday night, the closest day to November 5th. The bonfire begins at seven o’clock. At eight, there are the fire
works. But for now, there was no one, except for a few stalls setting up at a safe distance from the cordoned-off area around the unlit fire – Hook-a-Duck stands; coconut-shies; stalls selling toffee apples and gingerbread men. Funny, how these things never change. When we were boys, it was just the same.

  Funny; I’ve always loved this time of year, and not just because Bonfire Night happens to fall on my birthday. At my age, I no longer celebrate the years that pass so quickly, but I’ve always loved the drama of the seasonal changing of the guard; the fallen leaves; the scent of smoke; the fires lit to the old gods. Of course, after what happened last year, you might have expected me to hate anything connected with bonfires, birthdays or fireworks. But strangely enough, last year’s events seem even less real to me now; ghost stories told on an autumn night over hot ale and roast chestnuts.

  ‘Thanks for doing this, Straits,’ said Eric, as we stacked up the boxes around the pyre. They would burn, once it was lit. Most of the contents were paper.

  ‘Think nothing of it,’ I replied, secretly thinking of my knees. They haven’t been good in the past year, and all this lifting and carrying wouldn’t improve my joints a bit. Still, what price a friend, eh?

  Eighty boxes later, my knees were feeling like broken glass, but at least the living room was clear. We’d made five runs to the bonfire by then. The clock on the mantelpiece said six fifteen.

  ‘We’ll not clear all the boxes tonight,’ Eric said. ‘But at last, I’m free.’

  That was an odd thing for him to say. Eric is neither demonstrative, nor given to hyperbole. But losing a parent can be hard; even when the loss is marbled with relief.

  ‘Sit down and have a drink,’ I said. ‘Then we can decide what to do with the rest of Margery’s things.’

  I have to say, I was surprised that he hadn’t opened any of the boxes. Most of them had still been sealed, labelled in his mother’s hand. I hoped he wouldn’t one day regret the decision not to go through her effects.

  ‘Not a chance,’ he told me, when I happened to mention it. ‘What would I want with old newspapers, or bank statements, or baby bootees?’

  He was looking better now; we’d shared a bottle of claret, and now he lit a Gauloise, and handed me one. I knew he smoked, but he never did where people from work might see him. Eric, always wary of losing favour with the management, had long ago decided that smoking was bad for his career.

  ‘You ought to have done the same,’ he went on, taking a drag of his cigarette. ‘Let the past stay in the past, instead of making a fool of yourself.’

  ‘I assume you’re talking about the Harry Clarke affair,’ I said. I didn’t want to argue with the old idiot, especially not in the current circumstances, but I couldn’t let that pass unchallenged. ‘Harry was innocent,’ I said. ‘That trial was a travesty.’

  Eric made an impatient sound. ‘He may not have murdered anyone. But as for the rest of it,’ he said, ‘everyone thought there was something bizarre about the way he encouraged the boys in his form to hang around him all the time, even come to his house, for God’s sake.’

  ‘I never thought it was bizarre,’ I said. ‘He enjoyed their company. And boys would come to him for advice. There was nothing sexual there.’

  ‘Don’t be naïve,’ Eric said. ‘Charlie Nutter denied it because he was besotted with him. Harry denied it because he knew what would happen if he confessed. And let’s face it, Straitley, it wouldn’t be the first time a Master has taken advantage.’

  I shook my head. ‘Not Harry.’

  He laughed. It wasn’t a pleasant laugh – in fact, he sounded a little drunk. ‘Not Harry,’ he repeated. ‘God, what was it about that man that earned him so much loyalty? You think that because he was your friend, because you liked him, because you used to go to the pub with him, that you know all about him? How well do we really know our friends? How do we know what they’re hiding? He was fucking the boy, Straits. Fourteen, and Harry was fucking him. That isn’t consensual, you know. That’s grooming. That’s abuse. And that’s the real reason they put him away. They knew he was dangerous.’

  ‘Eric,’ I said. ‘This isn’t you. This is your grief talking.’

  I was trying to keep my cool, but in fact, he’d shocked me deeply. Not simply because of his use of a word I didn’t even realize he knew, but because of the harshness in his voice. I’d always known he could be abrupt, but deep inside, I knew him to be a kind and sensitive person – at least, I thought I knew him – but as Eric had told me himself, how well do we ever know anyone?

  Eric sighed. ‘I’m sorry, Straits. It’s just that I’m tired of hearing Harry wouldn’t do that. Harry was a decent man. Even decent men make mistakes. Harry was no different.’

  I looked at him. ‘Did he tell you that? Because, unless he told you—’

  ‘What? You think you’re the only person Harry Clarke ever spoke to?’ he said. ‘You think you’re the only person who got a little care package from beyond the grave? You got your gnome, the Chaplain got an orchid planter, or whatever the hell the Chaplain got, and I—’ He broke off suddenly, turning away, and poured himself another drink. ‘Anyway, it’s over,’ he said. ‘Finally, it’s over.’

  I finished my Gauloise in silence. My heart was – not quite racing, but lurching in a peculiar way that made me feel a little sick. I suddenly remembered that I’d said I’d meet Winter after School. He had something to tell me, he’d said. Something about Charlie Nutter.

  ‘Tell me, Eric,’ I said at last. ‘What did Harry leave you?’

  He said: ‘I never opened the box. Gloria must have put it away among all my mother’s boxes.’

  ‘Gloria?’

  ‘The carer. Used to come in every day, make Mother’s meals and tidy the house. Used to be a cleaner at St Oswald’s, years ago. Maybe that’s why Mother didn’t seem to mind her as much as she did the others. Maybe she remembered her from the old days.’

  I told you I was never quick. Always the plodder, Straitley. But now I could feel the tumblers of something falling into place; a giant, complex mechanism, groaning as it moved and turned. Gloria, with the Spanish eyes. A cleaner at St Oswald’s. And Gloria’s son, who wanted so badly to get away from Malbry. And Harry Clarke, who’d written to Eric just as he had written to me—

  ‘But if Gloria put the box away among your mother’s boxes—’ I said.

  I looked at my watch. It was past eight o’clock. The lurching sensation had become the rolling of a big ship – or a mighty Juggernaut, crushing everything in its path.

  ‘Eric. Tell me you didn’t,’ I said, although I knew the answer. ‘Tell me it’s still in the house somewhere.’

  Eric shrugged and turned away.

  And now I could see it only too well. Eric, whose answer had always been to run away from an unpleasant reality, rather than look it in the eye, had (with my help) consigned Harry’s last words – words that might have revealed the truth – to the municipal bonfire.

  ‘Why did you do it?’ I said at last. ‘Eric, there might have been something in there that we could have used—’

  ‘To clear Harry’s name?’ Eric gave a scornful laugh. ‘Grow up, Straits, for God’s sake. You always were such a bloody child. Dan Dare, and Boy’s Own Paper. What, did you think you could solve the crime? Unmask the villain in the final act, then home in time for lemonade? What good did Harry’s box do you? What did he leave you with but a joke?’

  There was nothing more to say. I stood up and left without a word. Outside, the air was cool and sweet; and smelt of bonfires, and burning wood, and the bitter snap of fireworks.

  PART EIGHT

  Fides punica.

  (CICERO)

  1

  November 4th, 2005

  Mischief Night, it used to be called. The day before my birthday. Traditionally, a time put by for schoolboy pranks, and practical jokes, and the settling of scores. How many times did Eric and I fling eggs at the door of a Master’s house, or hang a fish from a washing-line, o
r leave a turd on the doormat?

  But Mischief Night is a thing of the past. Nowadays, the youngsters favour a peculiarly Americanized version of Hallowe’en, moving in gangs from door to door, demanding sweets with menaces. In the old days, Hallowe’en was the time the dead broke free. The gifts were meant to placate them; to stop them consuming the living. As I grow older, I realize how easy it is to be consumed. The dead walk in November, and they are not always kind.

  We all have our ghosts. Those people we may have loved – or not, but for whom we feel responsible. My parents. Harry Clarke. Colin Knight. Lee Bagshot. And now, Charlie Nutter, whose middle name – Wenceslas – he managed to hide so completely from both his peers and his Masters during his time at St Oswald’s, and whose ghost still appears as that thin, nervous boy I overlooked so easily—

  And Eric. Dear old Eric Scoones, companion of my schooldays. Eric who has always been there – or at least, somewhere nearby. Eric, who, if not lovable, was always so predictable: a part of my life, just as he was always a part of St Oswald’s. Why was Eric so quick to believe that Harry Clarke was guilty? What did he know – and how did he know? Could Harry himself have told him?

  I did not go home straight away. Instead, I went to Winter’s house. That sense of coming together, of tumblers dropping into place, was getting stronger all the time. Eric’s words had disturbed me. His belief that Harry was guilty had been upsetting enough, but more so was the fact that he had wilfully destroyed evidence – evidence that might have helped to reinstate Harry’s memory. My only hope was that Gloria might have seen something. Could it be that, in cleaning the house, she had looked into Harry’s box? Had she mentioned it to her son? And could all this be connected with the death of Charlie Nutter?