Part 21 (2/2)

Perhaps it had started off as a cry for help. Or a joke, or a gesture of revolt against the private school and what it stood for. It must have been easy, once he'd found the nerve to take the first step. As long as he wore the uniform, he would have been treated like any other of our boys. I imagined the thrill of walking unseen down the solemn old corridors, of looking into cla.s.srooms, of mingling with the other boys. A solitary thrill, but a powerful one; and one that had soon darkened into some thing like obsession.

Dianne listened in silence as I expanded my tale. It was all guesswork; but it felt true, and as I went on, I began to see the boy Keane in my mind's eye; to feel something of what he had felt and to understand the horror of what he had become.

I wondered whether Leon Mitch.e.l.l had known the truth. Certainly, Marlene had been completely taken in by Julian Pinchbeck, as indeed had I.

A cool customer, Pinchbeck, especially for such a young lad. Even on the roof he had kept his nerve; escaping like a cat before I could intercept him; vanis.h.i.+ng in the shadows; even allowing John Snyde to be accused rather than admit his own involvement.

'Perhaps they were horsing about. You know what boys are like. A silly game that went too far. Leon fell. Pinchbeck ran. He let the Porter take the blame, and he's been living with the guilt for fifteen years.'

Imagine what that might do to a child. I considered Keane and tried to see the bitterness behind the facade. I couldn't do it. There was perhaps some irreverence -- a whiff of the upstart -- a hint of mockery in the way he spoke. But malice - actual malice? It was hard to believe. And yet, if not Keane, then who could it be?

'He's been playing with us,' I told Miss Dare. 'That's his style. His humour. It's the same basic game as before, I think, but this time he's taking it through to the end. It isn't enough for him to hide in the shadows any more. He wants to hit St Oswald's where it really hurts.'

'But why?” she said.

I sighed, feeling suddenly very tired. 'I liked him,' I said irrelevantly. 'I still like him.'

There was a long silence.

'Have you called the police?'

I nodded. 'Marlene has.'

'Then they'll find him,' she said. 'Don't worry, Mr Straitley. We might get to have that birthday drink after all.'

NEEDLESS TO SAY MY OWN BIRTHDAY WAS A SAD AFFAIR. I understood, however, that it was a necessary stage, and I opened my presents, still waiting under the bed in their gaudy wrappers, with gritted-teeth determination. There were letters, too - all the letters I had previously scorned -- and now I gave every word my obsessive attention, combing through the reams of nonsense for the few precious sc.r.a.ps that would complete my metamorphosis.

Dear Munchkin, I hope you got the clothes I sent you. I hope they all fit! Children seem to grow up so much faster here in Paris, and 1 do want you to look nice for your visit. You'll be quite grown-up by now, I suppose. I can hardly believe I'm nearly thirty. The doctor says I can't have any more children. Thank goodness I've still got you, my love. It's as if G.o.d has given me a second chance.

The packages contained more clothes than I'd ever led in my entire life. Little outfits from Printemps or Jaleries Lafayette, little jumpers in sugared-almond colours, two coats (a red one for winter and a green one for spring) gnd any number of little tops, T-s.h.i.+rts and shorts.

The police had been very gentle with me. As well they might; I'd had a terrible shock. They sent a nice lady officer to ask me some questions, and I answered them with becoming forthrightness and the occasional tear. I was told several times that I had been very brave. My mother was proud of me; the nice lady officer was pr oud of me; it would be over soon and all I had to do was tell the truth and not be afraid of anything.

It's funny, isn't it, how easy it is to believe the worst. My story was simple (I've found lies are always best served as plainly as possible), and the police lady listened to it keenly, without interruption or apparent disbelief.

Officially, the School declared it a tragic accident. My father's death closed the matter rather conveniently, even gaining him some posthumous sympathy from the local Press. His suicide was put down to extreme remorse following the death of a young trespa.s.ser on his watch, and the other details - including the presence of a mystery boy were rapidly set aside.

Mrs Mitch.e.l.l, who might have been a problem, was given substantial compensation and a new job as Bishop's secretary - they had become rather close friends in the weeks that followed Leon's death. Bishop himself - recently promoted - was warned by the Head that any further investigation of the unfortunate incident would be botl detrimental to the reputation of St Oswald's and a

dereliction of his duties as Second Master.

That left Straitley. Not so different then as now; a mattf grey-haired before his time, delighting in absurdity, rathera slimmer than he is now but still ungainly, a shambling* albatross of a man in his dusty gown and leather slippers, Leon never respected him quite as I did; saw him as a harmless buffoon, likeable enough, clever in his way, but essentially not a threat. Still, it was Straitley who came closest to seeing the truth, and it was only his arrogance the arrogance of St Oswald's - that blinded him to the obvious.

I suppose I should have been grateful. But a talent like mine begs to be acknowledged, and of all the casual insults St Oswald's has thrown at me over the years, I think it is his I remember most vividly. His look of surprise -- and yes, condescension -- as he looked at me - dismissed me - for the second time.

Of course I wasn't thinking clearly. Still blinded by guilt, confusion, fear, I had yet to learn one of life's most shocking and closely guarded truths; that remorse fades, like anything else. Perhaps I wanted to be caught that day; to prove to myself that Order still ruled; to keep the myth of St Oswald's intact in my heart; and most of all, after five years in the shadows, to finally take my place under the lights.

And Straitley? In my long game against St Oswald's, it has always been Straitley, and not the Head, who has played the King's role. A slow mover, the King; but a powerful one. Even so, a well-placed p.a.w.n may bring him down. that I wished for that, no. Absurd as it was, I wished, for his destruction, but for his respect, his approval. I been the Invisible Man for much too long, the ghost in I Oswald's creaking machine. Now at last I wanted him to at me - to see me - and concede, if not a win, then perhaps a draw.

I was in the kitchen when he finally called at the house. It was my birthday, just before dinner, and I'd spent half the day shopping with my mother, and the other half discussing my future and making plans.

A knock on the door -- I guessed who it was. I knew him so well, you see - albeit from a distance -- and I had been expecting his visit. I knew he, of all men, would never take the easy solution over the just. Firm, but fair, was Roy Straitley; with a natural propensity to believe the best of anyone. John's reputation cut no ice with him; nor did the New Head's veiled threats; nor the speculations in that day's Examiner. Even the possible damage to St Oswald's was secondary to this. Straitley was Leon's form-teacher, and to Straitley, his boys mattered more than anything else.

At first my mother wouldn't let him in. He'd called twice before, she told me, once when I was in bed and once more as I was changing my clothes, discarding my Pinchbeck gear for one of the Paris outfits she'd sent in her innumerable care packages.

'Mrs Snyde, if you could just let me in for a moment--'

My mother's voice, her newly rounded vowels still unfamiliar behind the kitchen door. 'I told you, Mr Straitley, we've had a difficult twenty-four hours and I really don't think--'

Even then I sensed that he was uncomfortable with women. Peering through the crack in the kitchen door I saw him, framed by the night, head down, hands digging deeply into the pockets of his old tweed jacket.

In front of him, my mother; tensed for confrontation; all Paris pearls and pastel twin-set. It disturbed him, that feminine temperament. He would have been happier talking to my father, straight to the point, in words of one syllable.

'Well, perhaps if I could just have a word with the child.'

I checked my reflection in the kettle. Under Mother's guidance, I was looking good. Hair neat and freshly styled; face scrubbed; resplendent in one of those new little outfits. I had removed my gla.s.ses. I knew I would pa.s.s; and besides, I wanted to see him - to see, and, perhaps, be seen.

'Mr Straitley, believe me, there's nothing we can--'

I pushed open the kitchen door. He looked up quickly. For the first time I met his eyes as my very own self. My mother stood close, ready to s.n.a.t.c.h me away at the first sign of distress. Roy Straitley took a step towards me; I caught the comforting smell of chalk dust and Gauloises and distant mothb.a.l.l.s. I wondered what he would say if I greeted him in Latin; the temptation was almost too great to resist, then I remembered that I was playing a part. Would he recognize me in my new role ?

For a second I thought he might. His eyes were penetrating. Denim-blue and slightly bloodshot, they narrowed a little as they met mine. I put out my hand - took his thick fingers in my own cool ones. I thought of all the times I had watched him in the Bell Tower; of all the things he had unwittingly taught me. Would he see me now? Would he?

I saw his eyes flick over me; taking in the clean face, pastel sweater, ankle-socks and polished shoes. Not quite what he'd expected, then; I had to make an effort to hide a smile. My mother saw it, and smiled herself, proud of her achievement. As well she might be; the transformation was all hers.

'Good evening,' he said. 'I don't mean to intrude. I'm Mr Straitley. Leon Mitch.e.l.l's form-tutor.' . 'Pleased to meet you, sir,' I said. 'I'm Julia Snyde.'

I HAD TO LAUGH. SUCH A LONG TIME SINCE I HAD THOUGHT of myself as Julia, rather than just Snyde. And besides, I'd never Uked Julia, just as my father had never liked her, and to be reminded of her - to be her - now was strange and puzzling. I thought I had outgrown Julia, as I had outgrown Sharon. But my mother had reinvented herself. Why couldn't I?

Straitley, of course, never saw it. To him, women remain a race apart, to be admired (or perhaps feared) from a safe distance. His manner is different when talking to his boys; with Julia his easy manner stiffened a little; became a wary parody of its jovial self.

'Now I don't want to upset you,' he said.

I nodded.

'But do you know a boy called Julian Pinchbeck?'

1 have to admit that my relief was marred by a certain disappointment. I'd expected more of Straitley, somehow; more of St Oswald's. After all, I'd already practically offered him the truth. And still he hadn't seen it. In his arrogance the peculiarly male arrogance that lies at the very foundations of St Oswald's - he had failed to see what was staring him in the face.

Julian Pinchbeck.

Julia Snyde.

'Pinchbeck?' I said. 'I don't think so, sir.'

'He'd be your age, or thereabouts. Dark hair, skinny. Wears gla.s.ses with wire frames. He may be a pupil at Sunnybank Park. You may have seen him around St Oswald's.'

I shook my head. 'I'm sorry, sir.'

<script>