‘We’ll call the police from the hospital. Here, help me get Harrington into Mr Winter’s car.’
The next few hours were a blur. Triage; nurses; paperwork; Harrington’s wife, looking stunned at the news. Winter said I’d had a shock; told them about my heart condition; insisted someone examined me while they were dealing with Harrington. Meanwhile, Dr Devine remained, in spite of my fervent protests (the garden gnome tucked under his arm), like a reluctant sentinel.
Finally, there was nothing to do but await the arrival of the police. They’d given us a little room in which to recover and gather our thoughts. Winter was looking uncomfortable, repeatedly checking his watch, while Dr Devine sipped at a cup of lukewarm hospital coffee.
Until that moment, there had been no time to inspect the letter. Or maybe I had not wanted to: already those tumblers were falling, inexorably, into place. And I was so tired; I wanted to sleep till the next millennium.
What a terrible thing is wisdom, when it brings no profit to the wise! Winter must have known from the start the quarry we were hunting. And he had tried to warn me against pursuing it too ardently, for fear that, like the Manitou, it would turn and tear me apart.
He saw me holding the envelope. An envelope of cheap blue bond, of the kind that Harry had used, the ink a little faded with time, and yet still perfectly legible. But the handwriting wasn’t Harry’s. I’d so assumed that it would be that I almost didn’t recognize the childish, neatly lettered script. But I knew that writing very well. I’d marked his books too many times to fail to know it now. But what had Johnny Harrington to do with such a letter? And why would the young David Spikely have been writing to Eric Scoones?
‘My mother found it,’ Winter said. ‘Of course, she knew what it was from the start. I told you she was no stranger to blackmail. She tried to find out what he was worth: what she could get away with. Spikely had been cashing in ever since the Clarke affair. Ma didn’t see why she should have to clean old people’s houses when there was a better way. She got me to investigate. It tied in with what I was doing for you. And finally, I began to see a means of getting away from her.’
I took a painful breath. ‘I see.’
And yes, I did. I saw it now. The tumblers had all fallen silent. Eric’s reluctance to testify during the Harry Clarke affair; his seven-year absence from St Oswald’s immediately after the trial. His destruction of Harry’s box; his decision to retire; even his words to me that night: How well do we really know our friends? How do we know what they’re hiding?
‘I’ll get you a cup of tea,’ Winter said. I could see from his face that he was worried. He left me alone with Dr Devine, still sitting stiffly in his chair, with Harry’s gnome under his arm.
‘Don’t read it, Straitley,’ he advised. ‘What use could it be, after all this time?’
I started to explain. The gnome looked at me satirically. ‘If we could prove that Harrington lied – that someone else abused Spikely – then maybe at last we could clear Harry’s name. Harry could have his memorial.’
‘And then what? Get Eric arrested?’
I shook my head. ‘That doesn’t mean—’
‘Listen to me, Straitley,’ he said. ‘Think of what it would entail. Another scandal at St Oswald’s. The Head accused of conspiracy. Another member of staff accused. The whole of that old story dragged up as if it happened yesterday. And Eric’s retiring. He said so himself. Besides—’ The nose twitched fretfully. ‘Besides, it never happened again. Harry Clarke saw to that.’
‘Harry?’
He nodded. ‘Oh yes, Harry knew. Seems young Spikely confided in him. Of course, he couldn’t tell the boy, but he dealt with it, in his own way.’ Devine saw me staring, and bridled a little. ‘Oh, don’t look at me like that,’ he said. ‘Surely you must have suspected. I mean, you two were such old friends—’
‘Never,’ I said blankly.
My head had suddenly started to ache; my eyes were streaming. I reached for my pocket handkerchief, and found instead the conker I’d put there several weeks ago; shiny then, and glossy brown, now shrivelled to a chrysalis. I haven’t played conkers in fifty years. And yet I still collect them, just as we did when we were boys, in the old days of St Oswald’s.
‘Did you ever play conkers, Devine? I mean, when you were a schoolboy?’
He raised his nose superciliously. ‘I was Junior Champion,’ he said. ‘Both in Lower and Middle School.’
I have to say, I found it hard to imagine Devine playing conkers. But that was all so long ago. So much water under the bridge. David Spikely had been abused. All the experts said so. Could Eric Scoones have been the one? Could he have hidden this all these years?
Once more I looked at the envelope. My head was sore. The cheap blue paper tore in my hand as I fumbled it open. And in all the drama, we found that Winter had quietly slipped away, and when I looked in the envelope, I found that it was empty.
8
November 4th, 2005
Dear Mousey,
I palmed the letter, of course. I couldn’t let them read it. Not because it incriminates me; I just couldn’t bear their pity. I want them to remember me as something more than that sad little boy who killed things because he was afraid to live. I want them to be full of hate, and disbelief, and wonder. I want them to remember me as more than just a survivor.
I read the letter. It wasn’t long. But even so, I remembered it. I remembered every word; each one chosen as carefully as in a Latin translation. He’ll read it over breakfast, I thought to myself as I wrote it out. He’ll read it, and he’ll find me. He’ll find me, and he’ll do it again. And that brought it back; the fear of him; the dreadful, paralysing fear that only one thing could exorcize.
October 15th, 1989
Dear Mr Scoones,
It’s been a while. I don’t suppose you remember me. Even when I was a boy, I was nothing special. Perhaps that’s why you did those things: because I was nothing special. And because of my history, of course, which meant no one believed me. But all that’s changed. They’re listening now. Everyone’s paying attention.
You’ve seen what’s happening to Mr Clarke. That could happen to you, too. I’m still remembering things all the time. And, unless you want me to remember in court exactly what you did to me, you’d better do what I tell you.
First, a cheque for ten thousand pounds to the Survivors bank account. Donations are tax-deductible. And you’d better start saving up, because you’re going to be generous. You’re going to pay for what you did. I’m your responsibility now.
Goodbye, Mr Scoones. You won’t see me again. Except, maybe, in nightmares.
Yours sincerely,
David Spikely
Except that I had the nightmares. Every night, for years and years. But all that’s finished, Mousey. I won. If only my dad could see me now. He never quite believed me, you know. Because of My Condition. And because my T-shirt was wet that day – you know, the day that Bunny died. He never said. But I saw his eyes. He knew, but never said so.
I tore the letter in half, then in four, then into a hundred pieces. They fluttered away like moths’ wings, under the hedge, into the canal. There, Mousey. There’s no going back. Those words cannot be recovered. They can never be made whole again, any more than a man’s life can be made whole once it has been broken into pieces.
They change the sky, not their souls, that run across the ocean. Well, I could do with a change of sky. Maybe something blue, this time. America, Australia. No one would come looking for me. No one would care that I was gone. I’ve got money. I’ve got skills. I’ve got more than thirty years before I can think about dying.
And yet, the canal looks good tonight. It smells of the clay pits, and childhood. On a night like this, I could probably find a stray dog or cat to drown. Maybe even a homeless man sleeping out in a cardboard box. It wouldn’t take much. It never does. Just hold his head for a minute or two. A couple of fireworks in the sky above White City. Red. Green. I stick out my tongue to taste
them, the way we used to with snowflakes. I see the bright reflections on the surface of the canal. I take a step. You could almost believe a man could walk on water.
9
Monday, November 7th, 2005
It was my birthday on Saturday. Sixty-six, and still chained to the oar. If anyone had dared to tell the fourteen-year-old boy I was that I would one day volunteer to spend more time at St Oswald’s, he would probably have given them a vicious Chinese burn, before stealing their lunch and retreating to the playing fields with Eric Scoones, to share the spoils of infamy.
Of course, in those days we both believed a friendship would last a lifetime. Now, in the light of recent events, I wonder if our friendship can. He tried to call me on Saturday night, but I was too troubled to answer the phone. We all have guilty secrets, of course. We’ve all done things that we regret. But if Eric abused a boy in his charge, then allowed Harry Clarke to go to jail, rather than name his blackmailer – that’s infamy of another kind than the odd illicit Gauloise taken in my form-room, or failure to declare a mouse infestation, or theft from Dr Devine’s stationery cupboard.
Of course, the evidence against Eric remains purely circumstantial. But if it is true – and my instincts, honed by my years as a Master, were screaming like a Greek chorus that yes, Eric Scoones was guilty as charged – then what did that say about Straitley? What price our friendship then?
I arrived in my form-room early today. Eric was already waiting for me. A bottle of claret stood on the desk, between two of my ugliest spider plants.
‘Bit early for that, don’t you think?’ I said.
Eric shrugged. ‘Happy birthday,’ he said. ‘I thought maybe we could celebrate.’
Of course, he must have heard the news of what happened on Friday night. The grapevine must be ripe with it now; and from his slightly awkward look, and the way he didn’t quite meet my eye, I knew that he was wondering just what I knew about Spikely.
I nodded. ‘Thank you. That would be nice.’
‘Any word of Spikely?’
‘Not yet.’
‘He always was a little toad. Making up lies about members of staff. Trying to take advantage.’
‘There’s a change of direction,’ I said, keeping my voice as calm as I could. ‘I thought you said Harry deserved what he got.’
Eric looked sheepish. ‘I was upset. I said lots of things I didn’t mean. I hope you didn’t think I was—’
‘No, Eric. I didn’t,’ I said.
Eric gave a long sigh and sat on one of the pupils’ desks. I thought that he looked very old, but I suppose both of us do. I tried to recall what else he had said, but all I could remember was that moment on Friday morning, when he had told me his mother had died. Everything that has happened since then – my search for the letter; Harrington; the scene on the canal bridge – all of that seems like a fantasy now, a story from the Boy’s Own Paper.
‘That’s what happens when you get old,’ said Eric. ‘You fuck everything up.’
I opened the window and lit a Gauloise. With luck, the smoke would be gone before the boys began to arrive. Once more, his use of profanity – Eric Scoones, who never swears – made me feel uncomfortable. I suddenly thought of my mother, who, in the later stages of her dementia, had broken a lifetime of taboo, and started to swear like a trooper.
‘You spoke about leaving St Oswald’s,’ I said.
Eric nodded. ‘I’m tired, Straits. A nice little flat in Paris, perhaps; the Tuileries and the Folies-Bergère. I’ve waited for this all my life. I don’t want it to be too late.’
Too late? Perhaps it is, I thought. Too late to give Harry what he deserves. Too late for him; too late for me. Too late to save St Oswald’s.
‘You could come and visit,’ he said. ‘Maybe in the holidays.’
‘That sounds nice,’ I told him, knowing that I never would. Dementia runs in families. Perhaps that’s why I stayed here so long. An active mind dispels the fog, and I’m glad to say that my memory – in spite of certain incidents of standard absent-mindedness – is as good now as it ever was. But now that I look at him closely, I see a change in Eric. Those moods of his; the rages. The unexpected profanity. Does he sense it approaching, I thought? Is that why he wants to retire?
He gave me a smile; a shade too bright. ‘You ought to think of retiring yourself. See the world before it’s too late.’
I shrugged and put out my cigarette. ‘Why bother?’ I said. ‘It’s all here.’
We sat for a while in silence: he watching the dawn from the window. I could tell he wanted to ask what Spikely had told me on Friday night. For a moment I thought of telling him. Then I decided against it. After all, what do I know? That business ended years ago. And maybe Winter was right, after all – there are things we need not know, even though we may feel them. A man may be good in so many ways, and still carry darkness inside him. Eric is no exception. Nor was Harry – nor am I.
And so we went down to the Common Room, for a look at the morning’s papers and a leisurely cup of tea. The place was already buzzing with news, and rumour, and speculation. I braced myself for a barrage of questions, to which I had only vague answers.
‘Any news of the Head yet? I hear he’s out of surgery.’
‘Is it true you saw the attack?’
‘Any idea of when he’ll be back?’
Well, a head injury is never predictable; for a while, it was touch and go. Bob Strange is delighted; he gets to be Second Master while Ms Buckfast covers for the Head.
Spikely has not resurfaced, as yet. Harrington remains unclear about what happened on the bridge, and without details of a motive, the police seem disinclined to act. I can see their point, of course. After such a long time, how could I be completely sure that the attacker was Spikely at all? Devine, who recognized him, did not actually see the attack, and so his role as a witness seems rather less than critical – much to Devine’s annoyance, who sees himself as a memory machine of limpid, Teutonic efficiency.
However, the Malbry Examiner has been reluctant to let the case go. Its dislike of the Grammar School dates back to a time when the editor failed the St Oswald’s entrance exam at the age of eleven, and now he never misses a chance to remind us of our mistake. The fact that the Head of St Oswald’s had been assaulted, late at night, in the course of what was assumed to be some kind of assignation, was already fuel enough for the Examiner’s furnace, but when it was revealed that a witness had identified David Spikely – who, as it happens, now seems to be missing from his Malbry home – the speculation intensified. Add to that the death of Charlie Nutter in October, underneath the very bridge on which Harrington was attacked, and you have the beginnings of quite a promising story.
Mrs Harrington maintains that these rumours are groundless. Spikely had been a family friend. There had been no quarrel with him. They had simply drifted apart as the paths of their lives diverged. When Harrington recovers full memory of Friday’s events, he will surely confirm this. Of course, we have no idea of how long Harrington will take to make a full recovery – and even if he does, it may be that he never returns to St Oswald’s.
The Chaplain thinks not. He isn’t alone. ‘My money’s on Dr Blakely,’ he said. ‘Unless you think Bob Strange has a chance.’
‘You don’t think Ms Buckfast might get the job?’
‘A female Head?’ The Chaplain was outraged.
Well, I suppose he has a point. St Oswald’s may not – may never be – ready for a female Head. And yet, Dr Blakely is too effete; for all his qualifications, he is merely a Suit with nothing inside. Becky Price is something new; not a Dragon; not a Suit; definitely not a Low-Fat Yoghurt.
I called by to see her this morning, while Blakely was taking Assembly, and found that she had moved across to the Headmaster’s office – which, given her new role, makes sense. Danielle was in the anteroom, looking a little downcast. Of course, her ambition to snare a Head must have suffered a serious blow. Call-me-Jo Lambert, of Mulberry H
ouse, must also be wringing her elegant hands. But Ms Buckfast seems very comfortable in the Headmaster’s office. I see that already she has changed the layout of the furniture, and has brought in a couple of orchids to brighten up the room, which now no longer smells of pine, but of something more subtle.
‘Present from the Chaplain?’ I said, looking at the orchids.
La Buckfast smiled and shook her head. ‘Your friend Mr Winter, actually. It seems he’s a collector.’
I raised my eyebrows. ‘Winter gave you orchids?’
She gave her Mona Lisa smile. ‘We parted on more amicable terms than I would have expected,’ she said. ‘Perhaps, if he ever comes back, there’ll be a job for him after all.’
I said: ‘Really? I would have thought that with your history—’
For the first time, the smile reached her eyes. It made her look suddenly beautiful.
‘History,’ said La Buckfast, ‘is nothing but the story of whichever side kept the best accounts. The victors write the history books. The victors paper over the truth. The early history of Europe exists almost exclusively from the perspective of the Romans. But imagine if Boudicca had had a Livy or a Plutarch on her side.’
She saw my puzzled expression and laughed. ‘Oh, Mr Straitley,’ she said. ‘If you’re going to be here at all, at least sit down and have some tea.’ She poured me a mug – that’s right, a mug. I noticed the Headmaster’s china set was on the top shelf of the bookcase, where Dr Shakeshafte had once kept his collection of signed rugby photographs.
‘Any more news of the Head?’ I enquired, as I drank my tea. It was surprisingly good, I thought; just strong and sweet enough to stick the ribs.
‘Not much, so far,’ said La Buckfast. ‘I’m putting together a strategy. We’ve made so much progress already this term. Pity to lose momentum. Still, Bob Strange is being very helpful. I think there may be a permanent job for him somewhere on the Crisis Team.’
I said: ‘You seem very calm about all this. I thought you and Harrington were close.’
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