Maxwell’s Match (30 page)

‘Engage,’ Ames roared and the packs collided, with a shock of muscle and sinew, shoulder thudding into ham and teeth grinding. ‘Shit a brick!’ somebody hissed and Maxwell felt his back jack-knife. The ball was loose, rolling like Richard Crookback’s crown under the scudding boots on the field. Their Hooker had it, the pack swaying forward to carry the staff back and long before the front row collapsed, the ball was in Selwyn’s capable hands and the back line were flying.

Maxwell rolled away from the wreck of the scrum as the attack hurtled downfield. There were shouts from the Fifteen.

‘Here, Ape. On your left.’

‘Miss him out, John.’

‘Splinter. Go. Go. Splinter. Go.’

But Splinter had hit the brick wall that was the Head of Physics and he went down as the Fifteen mauled over him and the ball was free again.

Boots and hands were everywhere, bodies sprawling in the mêlée.

‘Keep away, Fifteen,’ Ames roared. ‘Don’t go in over the top.’

To Maxwell, the whole thing was over the top. The Fifteen did this sort of thing before breakfast and at least twice a week and they did it with legs and lungs that were new and egos that, while bruised, could bounce back.

‘Close in there. Max,’ Gallow was bellowing ‘Shut them down.’

It was the last thing Peter Maxwell heard for while as he tackled John Selwyn. An articulated vehicle had careered across the pitch and slammed into his head, which exploded with cacophony of echoing thuds, slowly dying away. Then the world was black and slimy and silent.

Something was twirling above his head, like those fans in the films noirs of the ’50s where Akim Tamiroff or Peter Lorre sat sweating in downtown Tunisia, or was it Mexico? Maxwell tried to focus, feeling the cold iron frame under his left hand. He was in an off-white room and a geisha was bending over him, green tea in one hand and his decapitated head in the other.

‘Mr Maxwell, how are you feeling?’

‘That depends,’ Maxwell hoped he said – he couldn’t be sure.

‘You’ve had a nasty knock.’

‘Christ, Max, you gave us a turn.’ That was a voice Maxwell recognized. A second face swum into his vision. It was Richard Ames, still in his black reffing kit, whistle dangling around his neck.

‘Don’t tell me I didn’t roll away quickly enough again,’ Maxwell moaned.

‘You didn’t roll at all,’ Ames told him. ‘That’s what was so bloody worrying. Poleaxed. It was an illegal move, of course. I should have stopped the match there and then. Rest assured the Fifteen had the wigging of their young lives.’

‘I thought so,’ Maxwell tried to nod. ‘All of them hit me, right?’

Ames laughed. ‘I’m sure it felt that way. No, actually, it was only three of them, but that was enough. Selwyn, Splinter and Ape. They’re grounded.’

‘That is just too apposite. Hit by an ape and something,’ he winced, ‘feels distinctly splintered.’

‘There’s no excuse for that kind of tackle. They could have killed you. We’ve had enough sudden deaths at Grimond’s to last us all a lifetime.’

‘Would you like some tea, Mr Maxwell?’

‘Have we met?’ Maxwell was still trying to focus on the two geishas in white.

‘I am Suki Lee, the school matron.’

‘Delighted,’ Maxwell risked a smile. ‘Is that Oolong Lapsang?’

‘Brooke Bond,’ the Matron said. ‘Sorry.’

She and Ames helped the man sit up and waited until his head stopped spinning. Even so, the Ames and Lee twins were still blurring at the end of a long, dark tunnel. ‘I’m afraid I wasn’t much use out there. What was the final score?’

‘Thirty-four, eighteen to the First Fifteen. And don’t feel badly about it. Tony Graham’s game was off and Eric Bolsover fluffed virtually every line out.’

‘Did you have any subs to replace me?’

‘Max, you’re irreplaceable.’ The Graham Twins had arrived, leaning over him, fussing. ‘Jesus, that’s a bruise and a half.’

‘You’ve arranged for the official apology from your House, Tony?’ Ames said.

‘I’m sure there was no malice in it, Richard,’ Graham said. ‘I’m just glad to see Max is okay And I’ll see you afterwards about your less-than flattering comments on my game, by the way.’

‘No malice, my arse. I wouldn’t blame Max if he sued.’ Ames scowled at the Housemaster, ‘I don’t think you can laugh this one off, Tony.’

‘No, no,’ Maxwell chuckled. ‘It’s nothing to Chillianwallah.’ But the historical allusion was lost on the Sports Master and the linguist. ‘No worse than fighting my way through the lunch queue at dear old Leighford High. Talking of which, that’s where I must be the day after tomorrow … er … it is still Saturday?’ he tried to focus out of the San’s windows. It was getting dark.

‘Max, I’m not sure you should travel,’ Ames was saying, looking into his eyes. ‘Suki, what do you think?’

Matron held up one finger. ‘Follow this,’ she said to the English patient. It hurt like hell, but Maxwell rolled his eyes left and right, in what he hoped was vaguely the right direction.

‘You’ve had a nasty blow to your head, Mr Maxwell,’ she said. ‘And I suspect you’ve got concussion. You were out for nearly ten minutes.’

‘It seemed longer.’

‘That was the first time,’ she plumped up his pillows. ‘You ought to go to X-ray.’

‘I will.’ Maxwell kicked one leg free of the covers in an attempt to find the floor. ‘Just as soon as I go home. Tony, I couldn’t ask you to help me to my room, could I? I’ve got some packing to do.’

Nobody was happy for Peter Maxwell to go, least of all Peter Maxwell; although George Sheffield took his leave only peremptorily and of Maggie Shaunessy there was no sign. As the taxi took off along the driveway towards the gates of Grimond’s, he knew he was leaving two men dead behind him and his own blood on the turf of the First Fifteen pitch. In the end, he was leaving the place with a whimper rather than the bang he’d promised himself.

The knot of paparazzi had dwindled to a mere three, the rump of the Fourth Estate huddled around a makeshift brazier in the still chill of the spring night, like diehard strikers whose comrade have all gone back to work. One of them peered in through the taxi window, but didn’t recognize him for the grim reaper who had nipped s adroitly over the wall the day before yesterday. Clearly, he hadn’t seen Matron’s bandage under Maxwell’s hat or he’d have leapt for his laptop with the headline ‘Third Teacher Murdered Grimond’s.’

Mercifully, the driver wasn’t a talker and Maxwell was fast asleep long before the car was swinging around the one-way system that skirted Petersfield. And he certainly didn’t see the dark car cruising the back doubles around the bus station where the lads sat laughing with their lagers.

Not until Columbine did he jolt awake and the cab driver helped him in with his suitcase, locked the door, stumbling over the mail that had hit the mat that morning, ignoring Mrs B’s neat stack of the rest. His answerphone was flashing green to his right, but it flashed in vain and he somehow climbed the stairs. One floor level was his limit however and he dumped his hat and coat on his way to the settee, easing himself down and wrapping himself in his armchair throw.

Metternich padded silently down the open plan stairs from Maxwell’s inner sanctum, the War Office where his beloved Light Brigade pawed the plastic ground, eager for the Balaclava fray. He raised his exquisite feline head, whiskers and eyebrows twitching, scenting the wind. Just as he thought, nodding at the heap on the settee; pissed again.

An odd thing happened to Peter Maxwell on Sunday. He didn’t wake up at all.

Monday. The great adventure was over. Maxwell knew that once he was back at Leighford High, his time at Grimond’s would seem a dream, like the shooting of JR in
Dallas
all those years ago. Or was it Bobby? Either the knock he’d taken had wiped his memory cells completely or
Dallas
was longer ago than Maxwell cared to admit.

His mouth felt like the bottom of a budgie’s cage and his head as though a vice was squeezing it. He couldn’t face breakfast and thought he might drown in a bath, so he risked a shower and wished he hadn’t. He unwrapped the bandage that Suki Lee had lovingly wound round his temples and winced as the water stung the jagged gash that followed his hairline. This was odd. He’d lost count of the games he’d played at school and university, but he’d never known a wound like this. He even neglected to rinse his important little places in his eagerness to see for himself the result of sending a man to play a boy’s game.

His face looked green in the bathroom mirror and there was a still-bloody slice running dramatically from his hair to his eyebrow, swollen and bruised. ‘Here’s looking at you, kid.’ At least his Bogart hadn’t lost its edge.

As if still in a dream, he heard the door bell. Shit. He checked his watch on the bathroom shelf. That would be the postman needing his signature. He wasn’t sure whether he was up to that – the man may have to settle for his mark this morning. He lifted down the towelling robe that was made of lead and staggered down the stairs. The post lay scattered on the mat, but there was a figure beyond the frosted glass of his front door that he recognized. And it wasn’t the postman.

‘Max, for fuck’s sake!’ and Jacquie’s arms, strong and frightened were around his neck.

‘Well,’ he said softly, trying to close the door and hold on to her at the same time. ‘Now all Columbine knows I’m back. Thanks, heart of darkness.’

She stood back, wincing along with him as she ran her fingertips so gently over his forehead. ‘Jesus, you silly, silly man,’ she was saying, the tears brimming from those clear, grey eyes. ‘What possessed you to play in that stupid, stupid match?’

‘It’s a man thing, Woman Policeman,’ he said and let her help him back upstairs. ‘Liniment and jock straps. It’s what made the public school system great.’

‘You didn’t check your messages.’ She was pointing back at the flashing lights. ‘They’re probably all from me.’

‘Sorry,’ he managed. ‘The weekend’s been something of a blur, I’m afraid.’

She got him into the lounge and sat him down, turning off the table lamp and tucking his feet up on the pouffé. ‘When I couldn’t get a reply on your mobile, I rang Henry Hall. He said you’d been hurt, knocked out. By the time I got t Grimond’s, you’d gone. I’d have come yesterday but …’

And he held his finger to her lips. ‘But you’re up to your eyes in a murder enquiry,’ he said softly. ‘This is only a tap on the head, to paraphrase the old joke. You shouldn’t be here, darling, you should be in Selborne. Anything broken yet?’

‘I should be asking you the same question,’ she fussed. ‘Let me get you to bed.’

‘I’m not sure I’m up to that,’ he whispered, glancing down to his lap. ‘Could be a soft tissue fracture. Besides,’ he sat up, ‘what day is it?’

‘Monday.’

‘Precisely. Let me see … ah, how soon they forget. Twelve Bee on the Ulster Question, followed by Seven Eff Twenty Eight on Walking and Chewing Gum.’

‘Max, you can’t seriously be intending to go to work?’

‘Got it in one, WP. I can see why you made sergeant.’

‘I forbid it,’ she shouted, immediately wishing she hadn’t.

His eyes widened as he struggled to his feet. ‘Saddle White Surrey for the field today,’ he swung himself round as best he could, giving her his second-best Olivier.

‘No, no,’ she was shaking her head. ‘No bike. You leave Surrey in the shed. If you insist on being daft, I’m taking you in.’

‘Ah, ever the policeman,’ he smiled. ‘And all right, I accept. I think I’ve got a loose chain on old Surrey anyway, otherwise I wouldn’t be giving in so easily. Help me upstairs, heart and while I struggle into my underpants, tell me the news.’

She tucked her arm under his and they made for the bedroom. She knew her Mad Max; how pointless argument was at moments like this. If she pushed it, he’d be telling her how Leighford High had never had to do without him for s long and that it must be on the point of collapse by now.

‘Let it go. Max,’ she said, propping him by the bed and hunting for a shirt. ‘It’s over now.’

‘Over – and you’ll excuse my French – my arse,’ he growled. ‘I had to walk away, Woman Policeman. There were two men dead at Grimond’s and I walked away.’

‘I suspect,’ she put him right, ‘you had to be carried. How on earth did you get that wound on your head?’

‘Selwyn, Ape and Splinter,’ he told her. ‘The rough equivalent of an artic.’

‘Do you remember it?’ She was sitting by hi on the bed now, looking closely at his head.

‘Not exactly. It was all a bit of a blur, as I said.’

‘And this,’ she tweaked the jagged wound and Maxwell saw stars.

‘Jesus Christ!’ He doubled up.

‘I’m sorry, darling.’ She looked as pained as he did. ‘It may have been an artic that hit you, but was an artic carrying a pencil.’

He looked down at the piece of broken graphite in the palm of her hand.

‘An inch or two to the right and you’d have lost an eye. Is that how Grimond’s win all the matches?’

‘Maybe,’ he said, recovering from the pain through a mist of tears. ‘I wish we could ask Tim Robinson. How did West’s team react to that by the way? The undercover man?’

‘I haven’t told them,’ Jacquie said. ‘Hall insisted that I didn’t. I may be on loan to West, but I’m not an open book. If West wants to know that, he’ll have to ask Hall himself. I’m not doing it. Oh, Max,’ she put an arm around his neck. ‘Won’t you please reconsider this? Going to Leighford is madness.’

‘Ah,’ he smiled. ‘If only somebody had said that to me twenty-three years ago. It is, I fear, too late now. Come on,’ and he staggered to his feet. ‘Last one in Legs Diamond’s office gets ’em in.’

18

‘Good God!’ Dierdre Lessing, Senior Mistress at Leighford High, was staring out of the staff room window at the apparition inching its way across the car park. ‘Is that Peter Maxwell?’ It was a Monday morning in late spring and the endless round of life in a comprehensive school somewhere on the south coast was about to be disturbed.

Ben Holton, the Head of Science, was just collecting a much-appreciated lesson-cover slip from his pigeon hole. ‘Good God, yes. Stroke, d’you think? He’s a funny age.’ Ben Holton had known Peter Maxwell, as had they all, for years. The Head of Science had had hair when they’d first met. Now it was merely a monkish fringe above a perpetually furrowed forehead.