The Searching Dead

by Ramsey Campbell

  “But mum, do you think you could—”

  “No buts. You don’t say but to your parents. You heard what your father told you. Not another word.”

  I could have fancied that his footsteps on the stairs were trampling on any words I had. My words didn’t return to me in the night, but too much of Mr Noble’s journal did. It felt as if his secrets were eager to take hold of my mind. I no longer wanted to be alone with them. Somebody more equipped to deal with them ought to decide what should be done, and Brother Bentley seemed the obvious choice. He’d praised me and the others for helping rid the school of Mr Noble, after all.

  I took the journal with me and kept it in my desk until I had the chance to speak to Brother Bentley after the last class. He’d been teaching us about Henry VIII, whose behaviour he appeared to take as a personal affront, and his sour look didn’t relent much when I ventured to his desk. “Sir,” I said and cleared my throat louder than my voice had managed to be. “Can I show you something?”

  “I presume you are aware of your own capabilities, Sheldrake. If you are asking for permission, please proceed.”

  When I took the journal out of my desk, he let his eyebrows rise a fraction. “Have you finished your tale?”

  “No, sir.” Too late I recalled our conversation when he’d previously seen the book. “This isn’t one,” I had to say.

  “I believe you told me it was.”

  I felt so trapped that I could hardly think. “It’s not the same book, air.”

  “Kindly bring it here at once.”

  My progress towards him felt even more ominously inexorable than his approach last time had been. At first he didn’t speak, but indicated that I should lay the journal on his desk. “Please don’t waste your time and much more importantly mine, Sheldrake,” he said at last. “This is the book I saw.”

  “Sorry, sir.”

  I could think of nothing more to say as his unfavourable gaze rose from the book to me. “Why are you apologising, Sheldrake?”

  “Sir, you’re right. I mean, it is. The book, I mean.”

  “You’re confessing that you lied to me.”

  I felt more trapped than ever. “Sir, I wasn’t, I mean, I wasn’t sure what it was.”

  I should think this sounded as desperate to him as it did to me. When his gaze eventually left my face I was able to take a breath. “Then let us see,” he said and opened the book with a leathery thump on the desk.

  It never had a title. It commenced on the first page with Mr Noble’s thoughts about his birth. Brother Bentley scarcely glanced at them before leafing through several pages, and then he shut the book hard enough to rouse a chalky glitter in the air. “Who wrote this, Sheldrake?”

  “Sir,” I said and felt as if I was leaving all caution behind, “Mr Noble did.”

  “And how did it come into your hands?”

  “I found it, sir.”

  “You found it,” Once he’d left this exposed for a few moments Brother Bentley said “Where?”

  “Behind the lockers, sir.”

  “Behind the lockers.” Apparently this also had to be isolated by a silence. At last Brother Bentley said “And why would Mr Noble keep it there?”

  “Sir, he didn’t.” I was unhappily aware that I would be required to say more than “His dad put it there last time he came to the school.”

  Brother Bentley planted a hand on the book like a priest or a judge. “Please ask your parents to be here tomorrow,” he said.

  “Sir, when? My dad’s working.”

  “I should hope so, but your mother won’t be, will she? Please tell her to be at the school when the final class is finished.”

  “Sir, why shall I say?”

  “That will be made clear at the appropriate time,” Brother Bentley said and gazed at me in dismissal.

  I grabbed my satchel and trudged out of the classroom, to find Jim waiting near the multitude of empty coat hooks. A solitary mackintosh drooping in a corner reminded me of Mr Norris more than I liked. “What did Bent want now?” Jim said.

  “I don’t know. Nothing much. Just about something I found.” I didn’t care how unsatisfactory this was. I shoved the door open and tramped through the sunlight to outdistance any further questions or at least let Jim know they were unwelcome. I felt I’d already said far too much. I was starting to wonder if Brother Bentley was the last person I should have shown the book.

  15 - A Reappearance

  Next day Mr Askew took the last class. He limped around the classroom to rest a hand on each boy’s desk while he examined their grammar exercises, humming tunelessly under his breath. “I should think this is second nature to you, Sheldrake,” he said over my shoulder. “It’s a pity to rein in that imagination of yours.”

  This kept me happy while I stayed in the classroom, where Brother Bentley had told me to wait. Jim sent me a look that I supposed was meant to be bracing, though it resembled the kind of backwards glance you might leave somebody you’d visited in prison. Other classes passed the room, and then there was silence until the peremptory thump of a fire door announced Brother Bentley’s approach. I heard his robes before he appeared in the doorway. “Where are your parents, Sheldrake?”

  “I expect they’re outside, sir.”

  “Kindly bring them in,” he said as if I’d somehow neglected my duty. “This way, Sheldrake.”

  As he led the way towards the headmaster’s office I could have imagined that I was being made to return to the scene of my crime. I held open the fire door I’d lurked behind, and he strode to the front entrance. When he unlatched the broad door I saw my parents waiting on the drive as if they weren’t quite sure where they should be. I’d told them only that I’d found a book Mr Noble had written, which I’d taken to the form master. Brother Bentley beckoned to them without speaking, which provoked my father to remark “Brother Bentley, isn’t it? You’re looking like a butler.”

  No doubt this was meant as more of a joke than it ended up, and my mother tried to restore politeness. “Nice to meet you, Brother Bentley.”

  “Good afternoon, Mrs Sheldrake. Mr Sheldrake. Please follow me.”

  His briskness made my parents give me an enquiring look I couldn’t answer. “Has Dominic been keeping up the good work?” my father wanted to hear.

  “I understand from his teachers that he is still applying himself,” Brother Bentley said and knocked on the headmaster’s door.

  I’d expected this no more than my parents could have, and I avoided looking at them. “Enter,” Brother Treanor said in a voice high and sharp enough for a drill.

  He stood up behind his desk as Brother Bentley led the way into the office, which was so thoroughly panelled in dark oak that it felt like a sombre box. A window overlooked an inner courtyard where I believe the monks would take an evening constitutional, shut off from the world. “Mr and Mrs Sheldrake,” Brother Treanor said, and his shiny bulbous tapering head bobbed like a balloon tethered by his celluloid collar. “Please be seated. I’m sorry you’ve had to be put to this trouble.”

  “No trouble if it’s in a good cause,” my father said. “They said that where I work as well.”

  My parents sat down in front of the desk while Brother Bentley took a seat beside it, leaving me to stand awkwardly next to my mother. “Is it, then?” she said.

  Both monks fixed their eyes on me. “Have you informed your parents of the situation, Sheldrake?” Brother Treanor said.

  My words weren’t too eager to leave my mouth. “I told them what I told Brother Bentley,” I mumbled.

  “I believe this is the kind of thing I spoke of at yesterday’s assembly. Please let us hear exactly what happened in full.”

  “What do you mean about the assembly?” my mother said.

  “I was counselling the school always to tell the whole truth.”

  “Well, I’m sure he does. You go on, son.”

  “That’s it, Dominic,” my father said. “You shame the devil.”

 
Each exhortation felt less helpful, and Brother Treanor added another. “I should like to hear the tale in your own words. From the beginning, Sheldrake.”

  “Sir, I found a book Mr Noble wrote.”

  The headmaster held up one hand like a benediction while his face denied the resemblance. He pulled open a drawer of his desk, which emitted a creak that put me in mind of a restless tree. “I take it this is the item concerned.”

  As he laid the journal in front of him I couldn’t help being reminded of a piece of evidence, the sort that so often proved damning in courtroom films. “Yes, sir,” I said.

  “Where was it found?”

  “Stuck behind the gym lockers, sir.”

  I was hoping my parents wouldn’t take this as a cue, but my mother said “Was it on your sports day when you went to find your watch?”

  “It wouldn’t have been, Mary. He didn’t have that book when he came back.”

  Brother Treanor gazed at the three of us. “May I ask what you’re referring to?”

  I did my best to head off any threat from that direction. “Sir, I forgot my watch after the race.”

  “It was just that you were such a long time looking for it in the school,” my mother said.

  Brother Treanor looked close to pursuing this but said “Let us hear how you went about finding the book, Sheldrake.”

  “Mr Noble’s dad had it when he came in the school the first time, sir, but when he came out he hadn’t got it with him.”

  “I have no idea what you mean, Sheldrake.”

  “Sir, I don’t think you saw him the first time. Didn’t anybody else?”

  “I have certainly not been informed if they did. Perhaps they were more committed to the sports than you appear to have been.”

  “Isn’t that a bit unfair?” my mother protested. “Dominic was in a race.”

  “Every boy is required to participate unless he has a medical excuse. We expect boys to show their enthusiasm for the school.” As I wished my mother hadn’t intervened the headmaster said “It is still not clear to me how you found this book, Sheldrake.”

  “Sir, I saw his dad go to the gym, and he came back without the book.”

  “You seem to have spent quite some time not watching the sports. So you searched for what you’d seen.”

  “Yes, sir. I thought—”

  “When did you search?”

  It seemed worse than unwise to admit any further lack of interest in the school sports. “The next day, sir.”

  Brother Bentley raised his head like an unwelcome weight. “The day you told me it was a book of your stories, Sheldrake.”

  I could barely move my thickened lips when my face felt so swollen with shame. “Sorry, sir.”

  My mother sounded as if his constant disappointment had infected her. “Why did you tell your teacher such a fib, Dominic?”

  I had a desperate inspiration and could think of nothing else to say. “I thought we weren’t supposed to talk about Mr Noble any more.”

  As Brother Bentley made a noise like a summary of his dissatisfaction, my father said “That’s pretty much the idea you gave us, Brother Treanor.”

  Parents seldom dared to challenge teachers in those days, especially head teachers. I was wondering if my father had worsened my situation when Brother Treanor said “Are you saying you communicated it to Sheldrake?”

  “We did a bit, didn’t we, son?” my mother said.

  As I risked agreeing more or less aloud the headmaster said “None of that is an excuse for lying.”

  “That’s rather a strong word, don’t you think?” my father objected. “Maybe Dominic didn’t know what else to say. Maybe we all confused him.”

  Brother Treanor gazed at me long enough to let me imagine his sympathy might have been roused, and then he picked up the journal with both hands. “You weren’t so confused you didn’t know who wrote this, Sheldrake.”

  “No, sir.”

  “How?”

  As he turned the book to show my parents the covers were blank, I stammered “I saw his writing, Mr Noble’s, sir.”

  “You read his private document.”

  “Sir, I looked inside to see what it was, sir.”

  “Brother Treanor,” Brother Bentley said, “by his own admission Sheldrake has had the book for the best part of a fortnight.”

  From the corner of my eye I saw my parents staring at me, but I couldn’t look at them even when my father spoke. “There’s something I don’t understand,” he said. “Why would the man’s father hide his book?”

  “Why do you think,” Brother Treanor said, “Sheldrake?” I thought Mr Noble’s father had meant to keep the book away from his granddaughter, but I couldn’t say so when it might betray how much I’d read. I was disturbed to think the little girl could read such a book at her age, though if her father read it to her that was at least as bad. “Sir,” I pleaded, “don’t you know?”

  “Please refrain from questioning me, Sheldrake. You have already been told we are concerned with your behaviour. You have yet to answer your form master.”

  This was too much for my mother. “You’re confusing him again. I didn’t hear the gentleman ask him anything, so Dominic couldn’t have either.”

  Brother Bentley gazed at her while addressing his disfavour to me. “You need to explain why you took the item home and why you kept it there.”

  “I didn’t know what to do with it, sir.” I tried to appeal to the headmaster as well by saying “Sir, I thought you mightn’t want it in the school when it was Mr Noble’s, sir.”

  “Very sophisticated, Sheldrake.” In case I mistook this for praise Brother Treanor added “Too sophisticated for the good of your soul.”

  “Cunning is the enemy of truth,” Brother Bentley said like a response in church.

  This time it was my father who had had enough. “Do you mind if we ask what you’re both getting at? It isn’t only the lad who’s confused. We’d like to hear just what he’s supposed to have done that you wanted us to know.”

  “He lied to his form master,” Brother Treanor said, raising his voice both in pitch and volume as my mother made to speak. “He took possession of property which he must have known had been appropriated from its owner, and he read material which the owner may not have wanted to be read. He certainly had no permission to read it. As his parents, perhaps you have a view on how this should be dealt with.”

  I wasn’t listening only to him. I’d heard the thump of a fire door in the corridor, and hoped somebody was on their way to interrupt, even if this might be no more than a postponement. “I don’t want him hit,” my mother dared to say. “There’s too much of that in schools for not enough reason.”

  “He looked after the book, didn’t he?” my father contributed. “He always does with books. And he brought it to you like he should have even if he ought to have sooner. I don’t know why you didn’t show us first, Dominic.”

  “Dad, you said I wasn’t to mention Mr Noble ever again.”

  “There, you see,” my mother said and turned her eyes on Brother Treanor. “He was just doing what his father told him.”

  Both monks gazed sadly at her as if they were convicting her of my sin—sophistication that played games with the truth. I could well have thought they were blaming me, and I was trying to think what I or preferably someone else might say to rescue us from condemnation when somebody knocked at the door. Brother Treanor pursed his lips as though to squeeze his voice yet higher and made to bid the person enter, but he’d barely emitted a syllable like a solitary letter before Mr Noble came into the room.

  Brother Bentley let out so loud a breath at the sight of him that it felt as though everyone else had as well. Mr Noble lingered over closing the door while his gaze moved from face to face. He might have been deciding whom to stoop towards, and I thought of a snake selecting a victim. “Well, this is quite the gathering,” he said. “I feel practically welcomed back.”

  Brother Treanor cleared his thro
at like an answer that needed no words. “I didn’t expect you so soon, Mr Noble,” he said.

  “I had a colleague take my last class of the day. They’re really quite accommodating where I teach now. Not so bent on regimenting people,” Mr Noble said, and then he saw the book on Brother Treanor’s desk. His eyes grew so wide that he might have been parodying astonishment as he said “Why, headmaster, have you been reading from my book?”

  “I assure you I have done nothing of the kind.”

  “It makes you look like a priest at his lectern. Doesn’t anybody else think so?” When Brother Bentley kept up his habitual expression while my parents and I tried to pretend we hadn’t heard, Mr Noble said “So who is my saviour?”

  “We pray He is the same as everybody else’s here,” Brother Bentley retorted.

  “Pardon me if I’m being too vague for your taste. I was asking who rescued my book.”

  “That was Dominic.” As if my involvement entitled him to know, my father said “So what is it exactly? Why is it so important to you?”

  “Perhaps whoever has read it can say.”

  When everyone else looked at me I felt worse than accused—more like a victim being given up to his fate. “Mr Sheldrake, of course,” Mr Noble said, but his wide eyes were unreadable. “I should have realised you would be the one to know.”

  “Why should you?” my father said as if he mightn’t like the answer.

  “We’ve certain things in common, haven’t we, Mr Sheldrake?”

  He was speaking to me, but it was my father who demanded “What things?”

  “I should think you ought to know your own child’s mind.” As my father parted his lips hard enough to make a prefatory sound, Mr Noble said “What else but telling tales?”

  “You mean,” my mother said, “your book is a story like one of Dominic’s.”

  “I don’t believe anybody who has read it could think otherwise.” However much this sounded like a challenge, I thought it betrayed exactly the kind of sophistication Brother Treanor didn’t care for. I was wondering if he might say as much, not to mention hoping this would distract attention from my own offences, when my mother said “Well, Dominic?”