Part 23 (2/2)

'It's a lie, old man.'

The child would be fourteen years old by now, as old as Leon when he died. Boy or girl? Boy, of course. Leon's age; with Leon's grey eyes and Francesca's dappled skin. He wasn't real, I told myself - and yet that image refused to be dismissed. That boy - that imaginary boy -- with a hint of Leon in the cheekbones, a hint of Francesca in the plump upper lip ... I wondered, had he known? Could he possibly not have known?

Well, what if he had? Francesca didn't matter to him.

She was just a girl, he'd told me so. Just another s.h.a.g, not the first, not the best. And yet he'd kept this secret from me, from Pinchbeck, his best friend. Why? Was it shame? Fear? I'd thought Leon above those things. Leon, the free spirit. And yet-- 'Say it's a lie and I'll let you live.'

No word from Straitley; just a sound like that of an old dog turning over in his sleep. d.a.m.n him, I thought. Our game was practically over, and here he was trying to introduce some element of doubt. It annoyed me; as if my business with St Oswald's were not simply a matter of pure revenge for my broken life, but some altogether messier, less n.o.ble affair. 'I mean it,' I said. 'Or our game ends now.'

The pains in my chest had subsided now, to be replaced by a deep and languorous cold. In the darkness above me I could hear Miss Dare's rapid breathing. I wondered if she was planning to kill me now, or whether she meant simply to let Nature take its course. As it happened I found I wasn't especially interested either way.

All the same, I wondered dimly why she cared. My a.s.sessment of Leon seemed hardly to have slowed her down; but my description of the pregnant girl had stopped her in her tracks. Clearly, I thought, Miss Dare hadn't known. I considered what this might mean to me.

'It's a lie,' she repeated. The cool humour in her voice was gone. Now every word crackled with a lethal static. 'Leon would have told me.'

I shook my head. 'No, he wouldn't. He was scared. Terrified it would affect his university prospects. Denied everything at first, but his mother got the truth out of him in the end. As for myself -- I'd never seen the girl. Never heard of the other family. But I was Leon's form-tutor. I had to be told. Of course both he and the girl were underage. But the Mitch.e.l.ls and the Tynans had always been friendly, and with support from the parents and the Church, I suppose they could have managed.'

'You're making this up.' Her voice was flat. 'Leon wouldn't have cared about any of that. He'd have said it was ba.n.a.l.'

'Yes, he liked that word, didn't he?' I said. 'Pretentious little oik. Liked to think the normal rules didn't apply to him. Yes, it was ba.n.a.l, and yes, it frightened him. After all, he was only fourteen.'

There was a silence. Above me, Miss Dare stood like a monolith. Then, at length, she spoke.

'Boy or girl?' she said.

So, she believed me. I drew a long breath, and the hand pressing against my heart seemed to give way, just a little. 'I don't know. I lost touch.' Well, of course I did -- we all did. 'There was some talk of adoption at the time, but Marlene never told me, and I never asked. You, of all people, should understand why.'

Another silence, longer, if anything, than the previous one. Then, softly and despairingly, she began to laugh.

I could see her point. It was tragic. It was ridiculous. 'It takes courage sometimes, to face up to the truth. To see our heroes - and our villains - as they really are. To see ourselves as others see us. I wonder, Miss Dare, in all that time you say you were invisible, did you ever really see yourself?'

'What do you mean?'

'You know what I mean.'

She'd wanted the truth. And I gave it now, still wondering for what stubborn purpose I was putting myself through all this, and for whom. For Marlene? For Bishop? For Knight? Or simply for Roy Straitley, BA, who had once tutored a boy called Leon Mitch.e.l.l with no more or less favour or prejudice than any other of my boys -- or so at least I fervently hoped, even with the drag of hindsight and that small, persistent fear that perhaps some part of me had known the boy might fall - had known, but had factored it into some dark equation, some half-considered attempt to slow down the other boy, the boy who pushed him.

'That's it, isn't it?' I told her softly. 'That's the truth. You pushed him, then thought better of it and tried to help. But I was there, and you had to run--'

For that was what I thought I'd seen, as I peered shortsightedly from my eyrie in the Bell Tower. Two boys, one feeing me, the other with his back turned, and between us llie figure of the School Porter, his wavery shadow flicking I out across the long rooftop.

He'd called out, and the boys had fled; the one with his back to me plunging ahead of the other so that he came to a stop almost opposite me in the shadow of the Bell Tower. The other was Leon. I recognized him at once, a brief glimpse of his face in the harsh lights before he joined his friend at the edge of the gully.

It should have been an easy jump. A few feet, and they would have reached the main parapet, allowing them a clear run right across the main School roof. An easy jump for the boys, perhaps, though I could see from John Snyde's lum bering progress that he was far from capable of following them there.

I could - I should - have called out then; but I needed to know who the other boy was. I already knew he was not one of mine. I know my boys, and even in the darkness I was sure I would have recognized him. They were balanced together on the edge of the drop; a long finger of light from the Quad illuminated Leon's hair in scarlet and blue. The other boy was still in shadow; one hand outstretched as if to s.h.i.+eld his face from the approaching Porter. A low, but nevertheless violent discussion seemed to be under way.

It lasted ten seconds, maybe even less. I could not hear what they said, though I caught the words jump and Porter and a smattering of shrill, unpleasant laughter. I was angry now; angry as I was at the trespa.s.sers in my garden, the vandals at my fence. It was not so much the trespa.s.s itself, or even that I had been called there in the middle of the night (in fact I'd come of my own accord, on hearing the disturbance). No, my anger ran deeper than that. Boys misbehave; it's a fact of life. In thirty-three years I've had ample demonstration. But this was one of my boys. And I felt much as I imagine Mr Meek to have felt, that day in the Bell Tower. Not that I would have shown it, of course -- to be a teacher is princ.i.p.ally to hide rage when it is truly felt, and to feign it when it is not - all the same, it would have done me good to have seen the look on the faces of those two boys as I called out their names from out of the dark. But for that, I needed both their names.

I already knew Leon, of course. In the morning, I knew he would identify his friend. But the morning was still hours away; just then it would be as clear to the boys as it was to me that I was helpless to stop them. I could imagine their response to my angry call - the laughter, the jeers as they sprinted away. Later, of course, I would make them pay. But the legend would endure; and the School would remember, not their four weeks' litter duty or five-day suspension, but the fact that a boy had defied old Quaz on his own turf and - even for a few hours - had got away with it.

And so I waited, squinting to make out the second boy's features. For a moment I glimpsed them as he stepped back to make the leap; a sudden slice of red-blue light showed me a young face twisted by some harsh emotion; mouth drawn, teeth bared, eyes like slots. It made him unrecognizable; and yet I knew him, I was sure of it. A St Oswald's boy. And how he took the jump at a run. The Porter was approaching fast - his broad back partly eclipsing my field of vision as the roof dipped towards the gully - and then in the sudden blur of movement and the shutterclick of lights I'm sure I saw Pinchbeck's hand connect with Leon's shoulder - just for a second - before they went over together into the dark.

Well, of course, it wasn't quite like that. Not from where I was standing, anyway, but close enough all the same. Yes, old man, I pushed Leon, and when you called my name I was sure you'd seen me do it.

Perhaps I even wanted someone to see it; someone to acknowledge my presence at last. But I was confused; appalled at my act; uplifted at my daring; incandescent with guilt and rage and terror and love. I would have given anything for it to have happened the way I told you; Butch and Sundance on the Chapel roof; the last stand; the last look of complicity between friends as we made our brave leap to freedom. But it wasn't like that. It was nothing like that at all.

'Your dad!” said Leon.

'Jump!' I said. 'Go on, man, jump!'

Leon was staring at me, face streaked with fire-engine blue. 'So that's it,' he said. 'You're the Porter's kid.'

'Hurry up,' I hissed. 'There isn't time.'

But Leon had seen the truth at last; the look I so hated was back on his face, and his lips were curling with cruel mirth. 'It's almost worth getting caught for this,' he whispered, 'just to see their faces--'

'Stop it, Leon.'

'Or what, Queenie?' He began to laugh. 'What are you going to do, eh?'

There was a horrible taste in my mouth; a taste of sour metal, and I realized I had bitten my lip. Blood ran down my chin like drool.

'Please, Leon--'

But Leon was still laughing in that gaspy, affected way; and for a terrible instant I saw through his eyes; saw fat Peggy Johnsen, and Jeffrey Stuarts, and Harold Mann and Lucy Robbins and all the freaks and losers from Mr Bray's cla.s.s, and the Sunnybankers with no future beyond the Abbey Road estate, and the pram-faces and slappers and toerags and proles, and worst of all I saw myself, clearly, and for the first time.

It was then that I pushed him.

I don't remember this part as clearly. Sometimes I tell myself it was an accident. Sometimes I almost believe it was. Perhaps I expected him to jump; Spiderman does it across twice that distance; I'd done it enough times myself to be absolutely sure he wouldn't fall. But Leon did.

My hand on his shoulder.

That sound.

G.o.d. That sound.

Bonfire Night 9.55 p.m.

SO, AT LAST, YOU'VE HEARD IT ALL. I*M SORRY IT HAD TO BE here and now. I was quite looking forward to Christmas at St Oswald's - not to mention the Inspection, of course. But our game is done. The King is alone. All our other pieces have left the board and we can face each other honestly, for the first and last time.

I believe you liked me. I think you respected me. Now you know me. That's all I really wanted of you, old man. Respect. Regard. That curious visibility that is the automatic birthright of those living on the other side of the line.

'Sir? Sir?'

He opened his eyes. Good. I was afraid I'd lost him. It might have been more humane to finish him off, but I found I couldn't do it. He'd seen me. He knew the truth.

<script>