Part 2 (2/2)

I still do; though the gla.s.ses have been replaced by contact lenses (just in case). My hair is a little darker than it was then, and better cut. My clothes too, are well cut, but not too formal - I don't want to look as if I'm trying too hard. I'm especially pleased with the voice; no trace of my father's accent remains, but the fake refinement which made Sn.o.bby Snyde such a dreadful little upstart has vanished. My new persona is likeable without being intrusive; a good listener; precisely the qualities needed in a murderer and a spy All in all, I was pleased with my performance today. Perhaps some part of me still expects to be recognized, for the thrill of danger was vivid in me all day as I tried not to seem too familiar with the buildings, the rules, the people.

The teaching part, surprisingly, is the easiest. I have my subject's lower sets throughout, thanks to Strange's unique timetabling methods (senior staff invariably get the better cla.s.ses, leaving the new appointees with the rabble), and this means that, although my timetable is full, it is not intellectually taxing. I know enough about my subject to fool the boys, at least; when in doubt I use the teacher's books to help me.

It is enough for my purpose. No one suspects. I have no top sets or sixth-formers to challenge me. Nor do I antic.i.p.ate any discipline problems. These boys are very different to the pupils of Sunnybank Park, and I have the whole disciplinary infrastructure of St Oswald's to reinforce my position, should I need it.

I sense that I will not, however. These boys are paying customers. They are used to obeying their teachers; their misbehaviour is limited to the occasional missed prep, or whispering in the cla.s.sroom. The cane is no longer used - it is no longer necessary in the face of the greater, unspecified threat. It's rather comic, really. Comic and ridiculously simple. It's a game, of course; a battle of wills between myself and the rabble. We all know that there is nothing I could do if they all decided to leave the room at once. We all know, but no one dares to call my bluff.

All the same, I must not be complacent. My cover is good, but even a small misstep at this stage might prove disastrous. That secretary, for instance. Not that her presence changes anything, but it just goes to show that you can't antic.i.p.ate every move.

I am wary, too, of Roy Straitley. Neither the Head, nor Bishop, nor Strange have spared me a second glance. But Straitley is different. His eyes are still as keen as they were fifteen years ago -- and his brain, too. The boys always respected him, even if his colleagues didn't. Much of the gossip I overheard during those years at St Oswald's was in some way to do with him, and though his role in what happened was small, it was nevertheless significant.

He has aged, of course. He must be close to retirement now. But he hasn't changed; still the same affectations, the gown, the tweed jacket, the Latin phrases. I felt almost fond of him today, as if he were an old uncle I hadn't seen for years. But I can see him behind his disguise, even if he does not see me. I know my enemy.

I'd almost expected to hear of his retirement. In a way it would have made things easier. But after today, I'm glad he's still here. It adds excitement to the situation. Besides, the day I bring St Oswald's down, I want Roy Straitley to be there.

St Oswald's Grammar School for Boys Tuesday, 7 th September THERE S ALWAYS A SPECIAL KIND OF CHAOS ON THE FIRST day. Boys late, boys lost, books to be collected, stationery to be distributed. The cla.s.sroom changes didn't help; the new timetable had failed to take into account the renumbering of the rooms, and had to be followed by a memo that no one read. Several times I intercepted columns of boys marching towards the new German departmental office instead of towards the Bell Tower, and had to redirect them.

Dr Devine was looking stressed. I had still not cleared out my old office, of course; all the filing cabinets were locked, and only I had the key. Then there were registers, pieces of holiday work to collect, fee cheques to be sent to the Bursar's office, locker keys to distribute, seating arrangements to be made, law to be enforced.

Luckily, I don't have a new form this year. My boys thirty-one of them in all - are old lags, and they know what to expect. They have got used to me, and I to them. There's Pink, a quiet, quirky lad with a strangely adult sense of humour, and his friend Tayler; then there are my Brodie Boys, Allen-Jones and McNair, two extravagant jokers who earn themselves fewer detentions than they deserve because they make me laugh; then red-headed Sutcliff; then Niu, a j.a.panese boy, very active in the school orchestra; then Knight, whom I do not trust; little Jackson, who has to prove himself on a daily basis by picking fights; large Brasenose, who is easily bullied; and AndertonPullitt, a clever, solitary, ponderous boy who has many allergies including, if we are to believe him, a very special form of asthma which means that he should be excused from all kinds of sports, as well as Maths, French, RE, homework on Mondays, House Meetings, a.s.semblies and Chapel. He also has a habit of following me around - which has caused Kitty Teague to make jokes at the expense of my Special Little Friend -- and bending my ear about his various enthusiasms (First World War aircraft, computer games, the music of Gilbert and Sullivan). As a rule I don't mind too much he's an odd boy, excluded by his peers, and I think he may be lonely - but on the other hand, I have work to do, and no desire to spend what free time I have in socializing with AndertonPullitt.

Of course, schoolboy crushes are a fact of teaching, with which we learn to deal as best we can. We've all been on the receiving end at some time or another - even people like Hillary Monument and myself, who, let's face it, are about as unsightly a pair as you're likely to find out of captivity. We all have our ways of dealing with it, though I believe Isabelle Tapi actually encourages the boys certainly, she has any number of Special Little Friends, as do Robbie Roach and Penny Nation. As for myself, I find that a brisk manner and a policy of benevolent neglect usually discourage overfamiliarity in the Anderton-Pullitts of this world.

Still, all in all, not a bad lot, 3S. They have grown over the holidays; some look almost adult. That ought to make me feel old, but it does not; instead I feel a kind of reluctant pride. I like to think that I treat all the boys equally, but I have developed an especial fondness for this form, which has been with me for the past two years. I like to think we understand each other.

'Oh, sii--iiiiir!' There were moans as I handed out Latin tests to everyone.

'It's the first day, sir!'

'Can't we ha ve a quiz, sir?'

'Can we do hangman in Latin?'

'When I have taught you everything I know, Mr Allen Jones, then perhaps we may find time to indulge in trivial pursuits.'

Allen-Jones grinned, and I saw that in the s.p.a.ce marked 'Form-Room' on the cover of his Latin book, he had written 'Room formerly known as 59'.

There was a knock, and Dr Devine put his head around the door.

'Mr Straitley?'

'Quid agis, Medice?'

The cla.s.s sn.i.g.g.e.red. Sourgrape, who never did Cla.s.sics, looked annoyed. 'I'm sorry to trouble you, Mr Straitley. Could I have a quick word, please?'

We went out into the corridor, while I kept watch on the boys through the panel in the door. McNair was already beginning to write something on his desk, and I gave the gla.s.s a warning tap.

Sourgrape eyed me disapprovingly. 'I was really hoping to reorganize the departmental workroom this morning,' he said. 'Your filing cabinets--'

'Oh, I'll deal with those,' I replied. 'Just leave it all to me.'

'Then there's the desk - and the books - not to mention all those enormous plants--'

'Just make yourself at home,' I said in an airy tone. 'Don't mind my stuff at all.' There was thirty years of a.s.sorted paperwork in that desk. 'Perhaps you'd like to transfer some of the files to the archive, if you're free,' I suggested helpfully.

'I would not,' snapped Sourgrape. 'And while we're at it, perhaps you can tell me who has removed the new number 59 from the door of the departmental workroom and replaced it by this?' He handed me a piece of card, upon which someone had written: 'Room formerly known as 75' in an exuberant (and rather familiar) young scrawl.

'I'm sorry, Dr Devine. I don't have the slightest idea.'

'Well, it's nothing more than theft. Those door plaques cost 4 pounds each. That comes to 113 pounds in all for twenty-eight rooms, and six of them are gone already. I don't know what you're grinning at, Straitley, but--'

'Grinning, did you say? Not at all. Tampering with room numbers? Deplorable.' This time I managed to keep a straight face, though Sourgrape seemed unconvinced.

'Well, I shall be making enquiries, and I'd be grateful if you could keep an eye out for the culprit. We can't have this kind of thing happening. It's disgraceful. This school's security has been a shambles for years.'

Dr Devine wants surveillance cameras on the Middle Corridor -- ostensibly for security, but actually because he wants to be able to watch what everyone gets up to: who lets the boys watch Test Cricket instead of doing exam revision; who does the crossword during reading comprehensions; who is always twenty minutes late; who nips out for a cup of coffee; who allows indiscipline; who prepares his work materials in advance, who makes it up as he goes along.

Oh, he'd love to have all those things on camera; to possess hard evidence of our little failures, our little in competencies. To be able to demonstrate (during a School Inspection, for instance) that Isabelle is often late to lessons; that Pearman sometimes forgets to arrive at all. That Eric Sc.o.o.nes loses his temper and occasionally cuffs a boy across the head, that I rarely use visual aids, and that Grachvogel, in spite of his modern methods, has difficulty controlling his cla.s.s. I know all those things, of course. Devine merely suspects.

I also know that Eric's mother has Alzheimer's disease, and that he is fighting to keep her at home; that Pearman's wife has cancer; and that Grachvogel is h.o.m.os.e.xual, and afraid. Sourgrape has no idea of these things, closeted as he is in his ivory tower in the old Cla.s.sics office. Furthermore, he does not care. Information, not understanding, is the name of his game.

After the lesson I discreetly used the master key to get into Allen-Jones' locker. Sure enough, the six door plaques were there, along with a set of small screwdrivers and the discarded screws, all of which I removed. I would ask Jimmy to replace the plaques at lunch-time. Fallow would have asked questions, and might even have reported back to Dr Devine.

There seemed no point in taking further action. If Allen Jones had any sense, he wouldn't mention the matter either. As I closed the locker I caught sight of a packet of cigarettes and a lighter concealed behind a copy of Julius Caesar, but decided not to notice them.

I was free for most of the afternoon. I would have liked to stay in my room, but Meek was in there with a third-year Maths cla.s.s, so I retreated to the Quiet Room (sadly a no-smoking area) for a comfortable chat with any colleagues who happened to be available.

The Quiet Room is, of course, a misnomer. A kind of communal office with desks in the middle and lockers around the edges, it is here that the staff grapevine has its roots. Here, under the pretext of marking, news is disseminated, rumours spread. It has the added advantage of being precisely underneath my room, and this lucky coincidence means that if required, I can leave a cla.s.s to work in silence while I have a cup of tea or read The Times in congenial surroundings. Any sound from above is distinctly audible, including individual voices, and it is the work of an instant for me to rise, apprehend and swiftly punish any boy who creates a disturbance. In this way I have acquired a reputation for omniscience, which serves me well.

In the Quiet Room I found Chris Keane, Kitty Teague, Robbie Roach, Eric Sc.o.o.nes and Paddy McDonaugh, the RE master. Keane was reading, occasionally making notes in a red-bound notebook. Kitty and Sc.o.o.nes were going through departmental report cards. McDonaugh was drinking tea whilst flicking through the pages of The Encyclopaedia of Demons and Demonohgy. Sometimes I think that man takes his job a little too seriously.

Roach was engrossed in the Mirror. 'Thirty-seven to go,' he said.

There was a silence. When no one questioned his statement he elaborated. 'Thirty-seven working days,' he said. Till half-term.'

McDonaugh snorted. 'Since when did you ever do any work?' he said.

'I've already done my share,' said Roach, turning a page. 'Don't forget I've been at camp since August.' Summer camp is Robbie's contribution to the school's extracurricular programme: for three weeks a year he goes to Wales with a minibus of boys to lead walking expeditions, canoeing, paintballing and go-karting. It's what he enjoys; he gets to wear jeans every day and have the boys call him by his first name, but still he maintains that it is a great sacrifice, and claims his right to take it easy for the rest of the year.

'Camp,' scoffed McDonaugh.

Sc.o.o.nes eyed them with disapproval. 'I thought this was supposed to be the Quiet Room,' he pointed out in chilling tones, before returning to his report cards.

There was silence for a moment. Eric's a good chap, but moody; on another day he might be full of gossip himself; today he looked glum. It was probably the new addition to the French department, I thought to myself. Miss Dare is young, ambitious and bright - one more person to beware of. Plus, she's a woman, and an old-timer like Sc.o.o.nes doesn't like working alongside a woman thirty years younger than he is. He has been expecting promotion at any time these past fifteen years, but he won't get it now. He's too old - and not half amenable enough. Everybody knows it but Sc.o.o.nes himself, and any change to the departmental lineup only serves to remind him that he isn't getting any younger.

Kitty gave me a humorous look, which confirmed my suspicions. 'Lots of admin to catch up on,' she whispered. 'There was a bit of a mix-up last term and for some reason, these records got overlooked.'

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