Different Class

by Joanne Harris

  I heard him speak – his voice was low, but I heard something about money. Water affects acoustics, and the presence of the nearby canal, combined with the smoke of the bonfires, created a baffle of sound that meant I had some trouble hearing. Harrington, who was standing as rigidly as a shop mannequin, said something sharp and percussive, the sound slapping against the water. Then I heard Winter’s soft reply, but not the actual words he spoke.

  I began to edge a little closer to the men on the footbridge, keeping near the hawthorn hedge and trying not to catch the light. My coat was dark; and I blessed the fact that I had chosen to wear a hat. The brim was wide enough to hide the pale blur of my features; I thought that if I moved slowly enough, I might be able to come quite close without attracting attention.

  Sixty feet. Fifty feet. Now I was forty feet away, and I could hear them clearly . . .

  21.09

  ‘You little shit,’ Johnny said. ‘You think you’ll get away with this? You’re lucky we haven’t called the police.’

  Your brother smiled. ‘Just give me the cash. And thank your stars you’re dealing with me. It could have been my mother.’ (Oh, Mousey. I had to laugh. Piggy was still afraid of his ma!) ‘My mother’s no stranger to blackmail,’ he said. ‘And she would never have let you go.’

  I shrugged. Piggy’s ma was irrelevant. I’d deal with her later, if necessary. I said: ‘So what have you got for me?’

  He shook his head. ‘The bag, please.’ Johnny handed it over. Then your brother reached into his coat and took out a handwritten envelope. Even in that troubled light, I recognized the writing.

  I’ve always had nice handwriting. Small, and round, and childlike. I always used a Waterman pen, with a nib that was made of real gold. And I’d taken a great deal of trouble that day, starting the letter again twice because my hand was shaking.

  I took the letter. Then I said: ‘Hey, wait a minute. What’s that? I thought I saw something over there.’

  Your brother turned instinctively. I looked at Johnny. Now was the time. From under his coat he took out an object – something I’d told him to bring along. It was an old St Oswald’s rounders bat; not too large, but enough for the job.

  ‘Look! There’s someone in the trees!’

  Now was the time to do it, I knew. Your brother was looking down the path. But Johnny had frozen. His face was white. Of course, I’d known that when it came to action, rather than words, he’d fold. And he had. Of course he had. Typical Goldie. All talk, and no guts.

  Your brother was still looking into the trees.

  I can’t, mouthed Johnny, and gave me the bat.

  And so I raised it, and swung it hard—

  21.10

  I understood what was happening just seconds too late to intervene. Winter was looking over the bridge. He seemed to be looking straight at me. Behind him were Spikely and Harrington. Then, it all happened so fast that, even if my knee had not cramped agonizingly as I moved, the whole thing would have been over before I could reach the footbridge.

  I couldn’t quite see the object Spikely was holding in his hands. It looked like some kind of club, I thought; short; round-ended; easy to use. And Winter was right there in his sights—

  There was no time to warn him. My brain had barely any time to process what I was seeing. Later, I saw it, in my mind’s eye, slowed down to a comprehensible speed, but by then it was over, at least everything bar the shouting.

  Spikely raised the rounders bat. Harrington stood watching. Winter, on the parapet, was totally unprepared for the blow. As the bat swung, he half turned; saw the sudden movement and flinched away; but if Spikely had hit him then, he would have died, or been badly hurt – ready for Spikely to finish the job.

  I saw it all in my mind’s eye before my voice unloosed its cry. I heard the sickening sound of the blow, saw the man fall to his knees—

  But Winter was not Spikely’s target. Instead, as Winter turned, so did he, and smashed the polished piece of wood straight into Harrington’s temple—

  21.11

  That was when my paralysis broke. I gave a shout – and a good one, too, in my loudest Bell Tower voice – and started to run towards the bridge. My foot slipped on the muddy path; my knee cramped again in agony. I lurched painfully to the side, and the invisible finger started to play a solo – tuba, I think, or a saxophone – along the buttons of my coat.

  Meanwhile, on the canal bridge, Harrington had fallen, face-down. Winter, too, had dropped to his knees, and I thought somehow he had been hit. But as I reached the bridge, I saw that Winter was gasping for breath, as if he were having an asthma attack—

  I used to have a boy like that in my form, many, many years ago; a boy of such sensitivity that he would suffer panic attacks at the sight of violence. Rugby matches; playground fights; and once, a particularly bloody staging of Coriolanus, during which he became so upset that he had to leave the theatre. The Old Head would have caned him for that, having no patience with what he called the Sensitive Brigade, but I was more sympathetic, and I’d managed to fix things somehow. That boy was Joseph Apple, and he ended badly. But he was one of mine, nevertheless, as was Johnny Harrington, and, whatever our differences – the Honours Boards, the curriculum, even Harry’s memorial – I’m glad to say that my instincts remained; to intervene in defence of my boys.

  With Winter helpless on his knees, it would have been easy for Spikely to finish the job he had started. But Spikely hadn’t expected to see me lumbering on to the footbridge, waving my arms (as advised to do in the presence of wild animals) and shouting at the top of my voice:

  ‘Spikely! Stop that, right now!’

  5

  November 4th, 2005, 21.12

  There’s something about a master’s voice that never loses its potency. That voice took me back to St Oswald’s almost as if I’d never left; the smell of polish and chalk dust; the sunlight shining down South Stair; the scent of the geraniums under the glass on the window ledge in Harry’s room.

  Old Mr Straitley got old, Mousey. I don’t believe he ever looked young. Now he’s fat and raddled and slow; not so much a lion as an elephant; small-eyed, angry, ready to charge. Another moment, Mousey, and I could have finished your brother. He was right there, at my feet. I could taste the victory. But Straitley’s presence changed all that. I hadn’t expected a witness. And yet, there seemed to me to be a kind of poetry in his being there; as if I’d been waiting for this all along; the final page in the diary.

  ‘Mr Straitley. You don’t look too well. You ought to take better care of yourself.’

  That was true; he looked awful. Mud on his trousers; red in the face; panting like a fat dog. If only I could get close, I thought, then maybe I could use the bat. On the other hand, perhaps the best thing to do was to bide my time, then take him by surprise and maybe push him over the parapet. Besides, I was curious. What did he know? What had your brother told him?

  He looked at me with those elephant eyes. ‘One death may seem like an accident,’ he said. ‘But three starts to look like murder. Do you think they’ll believe you this time? Or will you accuse someone else again, the way you did with Harry?’

  I laughed. Of course, he has no idea. How could he, when I never told anyone, not even you? But Straitley went on, with furrowed brow, his voice cracked with emotion.

  ‘Why did you do it, Spikely?’ he said. ‘Harry was a good man. Harry always stood up for you.’

  I looked at him. He was breathless now, his eyes all bloodshot with anger. For a moment I felt sorry for him; for all his grief and outrage. It made him more human to me, somehow. It made me almost like him.

  ‘But Harry didn’t stand up for me,’ I said. ‘He didn’t help me at all. I went to him with a secret – something I’d never told anyone. Something so bad it was eating me up, eating me from the inside. I trusted him. I thought he could help. And instead, do you know what he did?’

  He sent me to the Chaplain. Who went right back to Mr Scoones. Because I h
ad a problem, he said. The same one I’d had at Netherton Green. Getting too close to my teachers, he said. Day-dreaming. Making things up.

  ‘Harry was so busy,’ I said. ‘He said I should talk to the Chaplain. Harry couldn’t see beyond Harry and Charlie. His special boy. And so I went to the Chaplain and – guess what? The Chaplain didn’t believe me.’

  His hand on my leg. His breath on my neck. His hand pressing down on my shoulder. A square of sunshine on the floor, all filled with little motes of dust. The sound of his breathing, muffled by the sound of the record playing. Something by Edith Piaf, I think. Mr Scoones loved Edith Piaf. And he smelt of Gauloises and aftershave, and something bitter and soapy and sour, and when he was done he stood up and said: ‘Good boy. Good boy.’

  ‘Harry was a decent man. He didn’t deserve what happened to him. What you allowed to happen.’

  Poor Straitley. Even a decent man can hide a world of darkness inside. I don’t suppose he believed me. Why did I even want him to?

  ‘I was a child,’ I told him. ‘I didn’t deserve what happened to me.’

  Behind me, your brother was stirring. The panic attack – if that’s what it was – seemed to be receding.

  I glanced at Straitley. I realized that I’d let him distract me. Your brother was trying to stand up – and if he did, my advantage was gone. I raised the rounders bat again, and braced myself for the killing blow.

  ‘Put the bat down, Spikely.’

  Straitley sounded old, and scared. Funny to think I’d been scared of him. Now I know better. I’m in control. And with your brother out of the way, I thought I could handle Straitley. I might not even kill him, I thought. It would be a case of my word against his – the word of a man who, everyone knew, detested Johnny Harrington . . .

  ‘You followed him here,’ I told him. ‘You’d been stalking him for weeks. You still believed he lied to the court over the Harry Clarke affair. You’d picked up the rounders bat from school. You told yourself it was just in case. But Harrington wouldn’t listen. You snapped. And then, when Winter came along, you had to deal with him, too.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Straitley said. ‘Put down the weapon, and then we’ll talk.’

  It’s funny, how you never stop being a schoolboy, somehow. Faced with my old teacher’s wrath, I almost wanted to obey.

  ‘I saw it all from the path,’ I went on. ‘You were completely out of control. As part of my work with Survivors, I’ve seen quite a number of instances of people suffering fugue states. You didn’t know what you were doing, sir. I’m happy to say that under oath.’

  His hand on my leg. My eyes on the wall. Edith Piaf, singing ‘Hymne à l’Amour’. The scent of grass and chalk dust. The way his hand moved up my thigh. His breath on my hair. The music. And all the time, the knowledge that if it had been Harry, it wouldn’t have been anything to be scared of; that if it had been Harry, then maybe I would have wanted it—

  ‘Spikely. Put down the weapon.’ I’d been so lost in memory that for a moment I barely registered that this time, the voice was behind me. Another voice from St Oswald’s past, crisp and full of authority. ‘Put down the weapon, Spikely,’ it said. ‘Then turn slowly, to face me. Mr Straitley may have come unprepared, but I am both armed and dangerous.’

  I turned then, to see a figure there, on the other side of the bridge. A man in a dark-blue overcoat, pointing a blunt-nosed object wrapped in a St Oswald’s scarf. For a moment I didn’t recognize him. He’d never taught me as a boy. But then I saw that nose of his—

  It was Dr Sourgrape Devine.

  6

  November 4th, 2005, 21.15

  He must have taken the main road. In any case, I never saw him. And frankly, seeing him standing there like Horatio on the bridge, I almost doubted my sanity. Thirty-four years a Master, and I thought that I was beyond surprise. As it happens, that was because I had never before witnessed Devine in this new, swashbuckling role, brandishing a blunderbuss, or whatever it was that he had concealed behind his St Oswald’s muffler—

  ‘Devinus, ex machina?’ I said.

  Dr Devine gave me one of his looks. ‘This is no time for humour, Straitley,’ he said, with the look of a man exercising tremendous restraint. ‘Now, Mr Spikely, put that down, and let’s discuss this reasonably.’

  Winter had got to his feet during Devine’s intervention. Now, he stood, looking watchful, as Spikely put down the rounders bat. Harrington was moving; I felt an unexpected relief. That, too, surprised me: I had not thought it in me to care as fervently about his well-being.

  ‘Harrington needs help,’ I said. ‘We need to get to the hospital.’

  Spikely gave a dry laugh. ‘I thought you hated Harrington.’

  ‘He was one of my boys,’ I said. ‘As are you, Mr Spikely. Now give me Harry’s letter, and we can go our separate ways.’

  21.16

  One of my boys. I had to laugh. ‘You’re not in loco parentis. Your authority over me ended in 1982.’

  Mr Straitley shook his head. ‘Nothing ended. You’re dragging it still. Whatever this is, you can’t fight it. It comes from a place inside you, which means that wherever you go, it goes too. Horace said it best of all—’

  ‘Caelum non animum mutant, qui trans mare currant. They change the sky, not their souls, that run across the ocean.’

  Straitley raised an eyebrow. ‘It’s currunt, Spikely, not currant. Currant is what you’re likely to find in a slice of Christmas cake.’

  I had to smile. He hasn’t changed. Oddly enough, his silly joke didn’t annoy me as much as it might have done when I was a boy.

  On the other side of the bridge, Dr Devine was blocking my way. His arrival had startled me, but now I could see that what I’d taken to be some kind of firearm was just a blunt object, wrapped in a scarf, in the tradition of boys everywhere trying to look like gangsters.

  I said: ‘I never liked you, sir.’

  ‘I know,’ said Mr Straitley. ‘Now give me Harry’s letter.’

  I shrugged and handed it over. Straitley glanced down at the envelope. For a moment I saw his expression; his sudden look of blank surprise, as if he’d been expecting to see someone else’s writing.

  It was time to go, I thought. Johnny may not die, of course. But even if he doesn’t, I am no longer safe in Malbry. One witness I could have dealt with. But three, including Winter—

  My car was parked outside my house. Ten minutes to collect my things; an hour to drive to the airport. Could I make it? Probably. Straitley was quite right, I knew. A change of sky isn’t everything. But it’s something. Isn’t it?

  I picked up the sports bag and made for the road, where Dr Devine was still covering me. Now that I was close to him, I could see that the object under the scarf was a brightly painted garden gnome, tucked under his elbow.

  I should have known it was a bluff. But isn’t that what being a teacher’s about? A weird kind of voodoo to make kids believe that you’re not entirely powerless? He raised the gnome as I approached, but I walked past him without a word, then turned around to face them both. They already looked very far away, lost in the mists of memory.

  And now I could see them clearly at last; Mr Straitley and Dr Devine. They’d moved closer together, as if for reassurance. Dr Devine was holding the gnome; Straitley was holding the letter. And suddenly, I realized that the giants I’d feared as a boy looked like Ratty and Mr Toad from The Wind in the Willows; just two old men on an autumn night, messing about on the river.

  7

  November 4th, 2005

  Perhaps we should have stopped him, I thought. A citizen’s arrest, or some kind of a rugby tackle. But I was never a rugby man, and Devine, in spite of having proved himself unexpectedly resourceful in the matter of the gnome, was hardly a man of action.

  ‘Why the gnome?’ I said to him now. ‘Any blunt instrument would have sufficed.’

  ‘It was the first thing I saw,’ said Devine, rather crossly. ‘You’d run off to God knows where.
The door was wide open. I went in to look for a walking stick—’

  ‘You left my door wide open?’

  ‘Of course not,’ said Devine. High emotion, combined with the cold, had turned his nose a tremulous shade of coral-pink. ‘But I could hardly let you go running off into the night without providing back-up.’

  I was moved. ‘Why, Sourgrape – I had no idea you cared.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Straitley.’

  ‘Mr Straitley? Are you all right?’ That was Winter, looking concerned. I suppose that both of us were looking less than wholesome. Devine looked as if he’d given blood, and I was breathing heavily. The invisible finger had ceased to dance its cakewalk on my lower ribs, but I’d lost my hat somewhere by the canal, and my hair (which needs cutting) was in my eyes and stuck to my damp forehead.

  ‘Never better, thank you,’ I said.

  Devine gave a derisive sniff.

  Beside me, Harrington stirred again. I’d almost forgotten he was there. I could hear his breathing now, almost as laboured as my own. I bent down to examine him – he was still only half-conscious, and there was rather a lot of blood.

  ‘Harrington needs a doctor,’ I said.

  ‘What about Spikely?’ said Devine.