Different Class (53 page)

I left Devine in the doorway, not even pausing to lock the door. He started to call after me—

‘Straitley! Don’t be a damn fool! Straitley! I need to talk to you!’

But there was no time to hear him now. All I could think of was Winter, whose mother had cared for Margery Scoones, and Eric, who had burnt Harry’s box. Could Eric have known something, back then, that might have affected the trial? Could he now, for the sake of ambition, be hiding something that could incriminate Johnny Harrington?

Reaching Dog Lane, I started to run, ignoring Devine’s cries of protest. Another hatful of flowers bloomed, and I forced myself to increase the pace. This is my favourite time of year – this time of fire and falling leaves – and with my heart in its fragile state, I cannot be sure if I will see another.

But tonight was no time for fireworks. Tonight there was no time for doubt; or friendships; or nostalgia. Tonight, I needed answers. Tonight was a night for dark thoughts, dark deeds; and memories of lost boys – Scoones and Straits, and Colin Knight; and Charlie Nutter, who was one of ours, and Lee Bagshot, who was not; all of them victims, sacrificed to the spirit of dark, lonely water.

4

November 4th, 2005, 21.03

I ran from Dog Lane to the canal. Well, I did my best to run. In fact, I probably looked and sounded like one of those zombies from the old films: wheezing and shambling along the canal-side in the darkness.

If there were ghosts, I told myself, then surely this was where they should be. Perhaps the ghost of Lee Bagshot – drowned, and whose injuries, according to the coroner,
might
have been the result of a blow, or might have simply been caused by the fall. And Charlie Nutter, also drowned, albeit in three feet of water. And now something inside me protested, in the voice of Lady Bracknell:
To lose one boy by drowning may be considered a misfortune. To lose two boys, however, begins to look like—

Murder?

I could see the canal bridge now; the place where Charlie Nutter died. There’s a street-lamp on the opposite side, one of the few remaining white ones. Its light illuminated the bridge and glazed the murky water. The path on which I stood was dark: on this side of the canal I could not be seen by anyone. For a moment, I stopped, and saw two men standing on the bridge. But neither man was Winter. One was Johnny Harrington. The other was David Spikely.

21.06

The last time I’d seen Spikely, he was twenty-one, and looked forty. Now he is almost forty, and looks far younger than he did then. His hair has grown back; he looks fit and relaxed, and he has lost a great deal of weight. Even so, I knew him at once. Something in his walk, perhaps. Or perhaps it is simply the fact that, although he may forget any number of other things – his glasses, overdue library books – a St Oswald’s Master never forgets a boy for whom he was once in charge.

I pressed my back into the hedge that runs alongside the bridle path. A weeping willow, leafless now, but trailing a curtain of pale fronds, served as additional camouflage. If I stayed without moving, I could remain unseen. Through the smoke of Bonfire Night, I could smell the sleeping canal; that dank and somehow melancholy scent of abandoned things left to decompose. Small sounds came from the hedge at my back; maybe a mouse or a small bird.

I listened: Spikely and Harrington were clearly awaiting someone. They stood there side by side on the bridge, Harrington looking impatient, Spikely in a gabardine coat like a gentleman spy from a forties
film noir
. Neither spoke, and I noticed that Spikely was carrying a sports bag, much of the kind that St Oswald’s boys use to carry their schoolbooks.

Was this what Winter had meant me to see? Was it an exchange of some sort? Or were they waiting for someone else with whom to conduct their business? There came the sound of a car on the road. Then, headlights swept the bridle path, and for a moment I was blind, caught like a moth in the full beam. The two men had their backs towards me, otherwise I would have been seen. But my two ex-pupils were too preoccupied by the arrival of the car to look at the path behind them; and when they turned back, the car was parked, its headlights off, and I was in darkness once more.

But I had recognized the car. I’d seen it only the other day, outside a house in White City. Most recently (and memorably) used by the perpetrators of the theft of a hundred and fifty Honours Boards—

It was Winter’s blue Peugeot.

21.08

Winter got out of the little car and stepped on to the canal bridge. For a moment I thought he looked my way, and I wondered if he had seen me. Should I stay hidden, or show myself? I started to move forward, but Winter gave a shake of his head. It might have been a coincidence – the turn of his face against the light – but it made me think twice, and I remained hidden in the shadows.

Clearly, Winter had a plan that involved my staying hidden there – to overhear, or to intervene? There was no way of knowing. What was the significance of the sports bag, and why had he said he was leaving? I have to say, I was feeling a little uncertain about Winter. The fact that he’d kept Nutter’s death from me; his furtive, evasive manner – not to mention the letter, and the fact that he’d told me his mother was dead – well, I’ve been a Master for far too long, and watched too many boys attempt to get away with murder to fail to see the potential for deviousness in my young friend. And yet, I believed he was trying to help; that perhaps against his instincts, he might be putting himself at risk.

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: