Part 19 (2/2)

A moment's silence.

My entire form followed them.

For a second, Strange goggled. It was superb; all of 3S Handing to attention in a tight little phalanx; Sutcliff, Tayler, Allen-Jones, Adamczyk, McNair, Brasenose, Pink, Jackson, Almond, Niu, Anderton-Pullitt. All of my boys (except Knight, of course).

Then 3M (Monument's form) did the same.

Thirty more boys standing in unison, like soldiers, looking straight ahead without a word. Then 3P (Pearman's form) stood up. Then, 3KT (Teague). Then, finally, 3R (Roach).

Now every boy in the Middle School was standing. Not a word was spoken. No one moved. All eyes were on the little man on the platform.

For a moment he stood.

Then he turned and left without a word.

After that there wasn't much point in teaching anything. The boys needed to talk, so I let them, popping out occasionally to calm down Grachvogel's cla.s.s next door, where a supply teacher called Mrs Cant was having a hard time keeping order. Of course, Bishop dominated the conversation. There was no polarization here; no doubt at all of Pat's innocence. All agreed that the charge was absurd; that it wouldn't even make it past the magistrate; that everything had been a terrible mistake. That cheered me; I wished some of my colleagues could have been as certain of it as these boys.

Through lunch-time I stayed in my room with a sandwich and some marking, avoiding the crowded Common Room and the usual comforts of tea and The Times. It's a fact that all the papers have been full of the St Oswald's scandal this week, and anyone entering the main gates must now pa.s.s between a shooting gallery of Press and photographers.

Most of us do not stoop to comment, though I think perhaps Eric Sc.o.o.nes spoke to the Mirror on Wednesday. Certainly, their short piece had a ring of Sc.o.o.nes about it, with its depictions of an uncaring management and its veiled accusations of nepotism in the higher echelons. However, I find it impossible to believe that my old friend might be the egregious Mole, whose mixture of comedy, gossip and slander has captivated the readers of the Exam* iner for the past few weeks. And yet his words gave me a distinct sense of dejd. vu; as if the author were someone whose style I knew, whose subversive humour I understood -- and shared.

Once again, my thoughts returned to young Keane. A keen observer, in any case; and, I believe, a writer of some talent. Could he be Mole? I would hate to think so. d.a.m.n it, I liked the man; and I thought his remarks in the Common Room the other day showed both intelligence and courage. No, not Keane, I told myself. But if not Keane, then who?

It was a thought that nagged me all through the afternoon. I taught poorly; lost my temper with a group of fourth-formers who seemed incapable of concentration; gave detention to a sixth-former whose only crime, I admitted later to myself, had been to point out an error in my use of the subjunctive in prose translation. By Period 8 I had made up my mind. I would simply ask the man, openly and honestly. I like to think I'm a fair judge of character; if he were Mole, then, surely I would know.

When I found him, however, he was in the Common Room, talking with Miss Dare. She smiled as I came in, and Keane grinned. 'I hear it's your birthday, Mr Straitley,' he said. 'We got you a cake.'

It was a chocolate m.u.f.fin on a saucer, both raided from the School canteen. Someone had put a yellow candle on top and a cheery frill of tinsel around the outside. A Post It note attached to the saucer read 'Happy Birthday, Mr Straitley-65 today!'

I knew then that Mole would have to wait.

Miss Dare lit the candle. The few members of the Common Room who still lingered at this late hour - Monument, McDonaugh and a couple of freshers - clapped. It was a measure of my distraction that 1 almost burst into tears.

'Dammit,' I growled. 'I was keeping it quiet.'

'Whatever for?' said Miss Dare. 'Listen, Chris and I are going out for a drink this evening. Would you like to come? We're going to see the bonfire in the park - eat toffee apples - light sparklers--' She laughed, and I thought for a moment how very pretty she really was, with her black hair and pink Dutch-doll face. Notwithstanding my early suspicions regarding Mole - which possibility seemed quite out of the question to me at that moment - 1 was glad she and Keane were getting on. I know only too well the pull of ^ St Oswald's; how you think there's all the time in the world to meet a girl, get hitched, have children, maybe, if she; wants them; and then suddenly you find that all of it ha*; pa.s.sed you by, not by a year but by a decade or two, and you” realize that you are no longer a Young Gun but a Tweed Jacket, irrevocably wedded to St Oswald's, the dusty old battles.h.i.+p that has somehow swallowed your heart.

'Thanks for the offer,' I said. 'But I think I'll stay at home.'

'Then make a wish,' said Miss Dare, lighting the candle.

'That I can do,' I said.

DEAR OLD STRAITLEY. I'VE COME SO CLOSE TO LOVING HIM these past few weeks, with his incurable optimism and his idiotic ways. It's funny how catching that optimism can be; the feeling that perhaps the past can be forgotten (as Bishop has forgotten it); that bitterness can be put aside, and that Duty (to the School, of course) can be as much of a motivating force as (for instance) love; hate; revenge.

I sent my last few e-mails this evening, after School. Roach to Grachvogel, incriminating them both. Bishop to Devine. Light to Devine, in tones of escalating panic. Knight to all, threatening, weeping. And finally the coup de grace; to Bishop's mobile and to his PC (I'm sure the police will be monitoring that by now); a last, tearful, imploring text message from Colin Knight, sent from his own mobile phone, which should in due time confirm the worst.

All in all, a job well done, with no need for further action on my part. Five staff members destroyed in one elegant strike. Bishop, of course, could crack at any time. A stroke, perhaps; or a ma.s.sive heart attack, brought on by stress and the certainty that whatever the outcome of the police investigation, his time at St Oswald's is finished.

The question is, have I done enough? Mud sticks, they say; and all the more so in this profession. In a sense, the police are superfluous. The merest hint of s.e.xual impropriety is enough to sink a career. The rest I can confidently leave to a public weaned on suspicion, envy and the Examiner. Already I've started the ball rolling; I wouldn't be at all surprised if someone else took over during the next few weeks. Sunnybankers, perhaps; stout-minded folk from the Abbey Road estate. There will be fires; attacks, perhaps, on lone colleagues; rumours heated to scandalous certainty in the pubs and clubs of the town centre. The beauty of it is that from a certain point I no longer have to take any direct action. One little push, and the dominoes begin to fall all by themselves.

I'll stay, of course, as long as I can. Half the fun is being here to see it happen - though I am prepared for every eventuality. In any case, the damage must surely be irreversible by now. A whole department in ruins; many more staff implicated; a Second Master hopelessly tarred. Pupils leaving -- twelve this week -- a trickle that will soon become a flood. Teaching neglected; health and safety poor; plus an imminent Inspection which cannot fail to close the School down.

The Governors, I hear, have been holding emergency meetings every night for the past week. The Head, no negotiator, fears for his job; Dr Tidy is concerned about the potential impact on School finances; and Bob Strange covertly manages to turn everything the Head says to his own advantage whilst maintaining the appearance of complete loyalty and correct.i.tude.

So far (barring a couple of disciplinary faux pas) he has managed to take over Bishop's job quite nicely. A Heads.h.i.+p may follow. Why not? He is clever (clever enough, in any case, not to appear too clever in front of the Governors); competent; articulate; and just bland enough to pa.s.s the stringent personality tests applied to all St Oswald's staff.

All things considered, a nice little piece of antisocial engineering. I say it myself (because no one else can), but actually I'm very pleased with the way things have worked out. Remains one small, unfinished piece of business, and I plan to deal with that tonight, at the Community bonfire. After that I can afford to celebrate, and I will; there's a bottle of champagne with Straitley's name on it, and I mean to open it tonight.

For now, though, I am idle. That's the worst part of a campaign such as this; those long, charged moments of waiting. The bonfire starts at seven thirty; by eight the pyre will be a beacon; thousands of people will be in the park; there will be music booming from loudspeakers; screaming from the fairground; and at eight thirty the fireworks will start; all smoke and falling stars.

Just the place for a quiet murder, don't you think? The dark; the crowds; the confusion. So easy here to apply Poe's law - stating that the object that is hidden in plain sight remains unseen longest -- and simply to walk away, leaving the body for some poor baffled soul to discover, o r even to discover it myself, with a cry of alarm, relying upon the inevitable crowd to s.h.i.+eld me from sight.

One more murder. I owe it to myself. Or maybe two.

I still have Leon's photograph, a clipping taken from the Examiner, now leaf-brown and speckled with age. It's a school photograph, taken that summer, and the quality is poor, blown up for the front page into a grainy mess of cl.u.s.tered dots. But it's still his face; his c.o.c.k-eyed grin; his too-long hair; and scissored tie. The headline stands alongside the picture.

LOCAL SCHOOLBOY IN DEATH PLUMMET. PORTER QUESTIONED.

Well, anyway, that's the official story. We jumped; he fell. Even as my feet touched the other side of the chimney I heard him go -- a gutter-rattle of broken slates and a squeal of rubber soles.

It took me a moment to understand. His foot had slipped; perhaps a moment's hesitation; perhaps a cry from below had spoilt his leap. I looked, and saw that instead of landing squarely beside me, his knee had caught the edge of the gully; he'd slip-slid down the slimy funnel; bounced back; and now he was trapped across the mouth of the drop, holding on to the edge of the gutter with his fingertips, one foot stretched acrobatically to touch the far side of the chimney, the other hanging limply into s.p.a.ce.

'Leon!'

I threw myself down, but I couldn't reach him; I was on the wrong side of the chimney. I didn't dare jump back in case I dislodged a slate. I knew how brittle the gutter was; how nibbled and scalloped its edges.

'Hang on!' I called, and Leon looked up at me, face blurred with fear.

'Stay there, son. I'll get you.'

I raised my head. John Snyde was now standing on the parapet barely thirty feet away. His face was a slab; his eyes holes; his entire body shook. Now he edged forward with clockwork movements; his fear rolled off him like a stench. But he was moving. Inch by inch he crept closer - his eyes screwed almost shut in fear - and soon he would see me, and I wanted to run, I needed to run, but Leon was still down there, Leon was still trapped-- Below me I could hear a low cracking sound. It was the gutter giving way; a piece broke off and fell into the s.p.a.ce between the buildings. There was a squeal of rubber as Leon's sneaker slid a few more inches down the greasy wall.

As my father approached I began to back away, further into the shadow of the Bell Tower. Lights strobed from the fire engines below; soon there would be people all over the roof.

'Hang on, Leon,' I whispered.

Then suddenly I felt it in the nape of my neck, a distinct sensation of being watched. I turned my head and saw-- Roy Straitley in his old tweed jacket, standing at his window not twelve feet above me. His face was gaudy in the lights; his eyes were startled; his mouth drawn down into a tragicomic mask.

'Pinchbeck?' he said.

And in that second came a sound below us; a hollow, ratcheting sound like a giant penny stuck in a vacuum cleaner pipe-- Then - crunch.

Silence.

The gutter had given way.

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