Tea, I think, to banish the ghosts. Barring Lethe, it is my preferred option. I have a kettle under my desk, along with some teabags and a small supply of single-portion containers of UHT milk. I draw the line at a teapot, but I do prefer my St Oswald’s mug. Until recently, Eric’s mug was still in the Common Room cupboard, but last term I saw that it had been removed. One less thing to remind me. Or maybe one of the new cleaners really likes Princess Diana.
I made the tea and sat down at my desk. Jimmy would be arriving soon. In fact, when I heard a knock at the door, I was fully expecting to see his round face peering through the marbled glass. Instead, I was surprised to see what seemed like a whole group of people, one of whom was wearing a neon-pink garment of a style that Jimmy would never contemplate.
‘Come in,’ I said, and the door opened to reveal a very familiar foursome. Sutcliff, Allen-Jones and McNair, along with Benedicta Wild – aka Ben – with whom they had made friends last year, in spite of the fact that she was now in the Upper Sixth and they were only fifth-formers. All out of uniform, of course, with Allen-Jones wearing a shocking-pink T-shirt emblazoned with the mysterious legend: ON WEDNESDAYS WE SMASH THE PATRIARCHY. Was it a joke, I wondered? I have to confess, schoolboy humour has evolved since those sunnier, simpler days in which Caesar had some jam for tea, and Brutus had a rat.
In fact, it took me a moment longer than I should to recognize them. A boy out of uniform is like a house cat at night; somehow more independent; skittish, more remote than by day. And, of course, they had grown: they always do over the long summer holidays. Except for Allen-Jones, who remains rather more boyish than the rest, and Ben – a Brodie Boy by association – who has acquired a new and very short haircut that would have driven Call-Me-Jo into spasms of disapproval.
At the sight of this delegation I put down my mug of tea and stood up. It was still only 7.45; too early for a social call. And the fact that they were all out of uniform ruled out the possibility that all four of them had somehow forgotten the fact that the first day of term is for staff only.
‘Good morning,’ I said.
‘Good morning, Sir.’ Allen-Jones had always been the spokesman of the little group, and he looked uncharacteristically serious. For a terrible moment I thought that something had happened to Tayler – the only one of my Brodie Boys not present. Then I remembered that Tayler’s family had been on a kibbutz in Israel, and that young Tayler was not expected to be in School before the end of the week. I suppose my mind was still on old Scoones, but I already knew that something was amiss.
‘What’s happened?’ I said. ‘Is something wrong?’ At any other time I might have followed with a cheery Latin quip, but there was something about their expressions that made me feel that in this case it would be inappropriate. Once more I thought of Tayler. So many things have already gone wrong that the thought of losing one of my boys made my heart lurch alarmingly. The ghostly digit that sometimes lurks at around the third button of my waistcoat – a reminder of the heart attack that laid me low two years ago – gave a twitch. ‘What is it?’ I said, rather more sharply than I’d meant.
Allen-Jones looked at the others. Ben gave a nod. Sutcliff looked pale – but then his redhead’s colouring means that whatever the season, he always looks as if he has spent his life in a cave. The ghostly finger started to move gently up my ribcage. I wanted to ask after Tayler, but dared not say the words aloud. Give voice to your fear, and it will take shape. Lupus in fabula.
‘What is it?’ I repeated, in a voice that was gruff with anxiety.
‘Sir,’ said Allen-Jones at last, ‘we think we’ve found a body.’
2
St Oswald’s Grammar School for Boys Academy
Michaelmas Term, September 4th, 2006
It took them a while to tell their tale. Allen-Jones has – to my regret – never been especially concise or to the point. Besides, the others kept trying to add unnecessary details, so that the storyline soon disappeared in a burst of interjections.
The tale, in brief, was this. To celebrate the return to school, the little group had planned a practical joke. I had no doubt that this idea – had it come to fruition – would have been both elaborate and subversive. The site of the half-finished Gunderson Building – which lay beyond the playing fields close to the erstwhile Porter’s Gate – a remnant from the old days when the Porter lived on site – had been left unattended inside its chain-link fence since the Planning Council’s decision to suspend the works.
‘We were trying to get through the fence,’ began Allen-Jones. ‘We were kind of thinking of starting the new term with a really classic prank. You know, like the time the Lower Sixth managed to get a Morris Minor onto the roof of the Physics block?’ (In actual fact, it wasn’t a Morris Minor, but a Mini Cooper, and the boys had transported it onto one of the tennis courts, not the roof of the Physics block, but I let that pass for the present. The point was that the prank had gone down as a legend in St Oswald’s history, and my boys had predictably seen it as a challenge to their wits and ingenuity.)
‘What kind of a prank?’ I said, cautiously. ‘Please don’t tell me you’ve stolen a crane.’
Ben looked at the others. ‘Not quite, Sir.’
‘Ye gods!’
‘It was my idea,’ said Ben, now looking somewhat mutinous. I didn’t doubt it; the girl was bright. ‘I’d rather not go into details just now –’
‘But, Sir, it would have been fabulous,’ said Allen-Jones, his eyes shining. ‘Honestly, if we could manage it, it would make the whole Morris Minor thing look puny.’
The others nodded, I thought with regret. By then I have to admit that I was starting to wonder whether the prank in question was this tale, designed to make me its victim, but their demeanour was still unusual enough for me to dismiss the suspicion.
‘So, what exactly happened?’ I said.
‘Well, there’s a part of the fence where the links have kind of pulled away,’ said Allen-Jones. ‘We thought that might be a good place to start, so we went off to investigate. There’s a big heap of excavated rubble and stones beside it, waiting to be carted off, and on the other side there’s the Glory Hole –’
‘The Gunderson Building,’ said McNair.
I know what he means. The section of the playing fields closest to the side gate is often waterlogged after rain, and the recent excavations have created a swimming-pool-sized hole, which promptly filled up with water. Since the commencement of the works, this pool has already yielded three shopping trolleys, a child’s scooter, plus various aluminium cans, bottles and pieces of litter. This morning, there had been something else.
‘A body,’ I said gently.
They nodded, their humour forgotten. ‘It looked like –’
The pile of rubble had recently slipped, probably because of the rains. A portion of the excavated soil had slid towards the side of the pit, revealing something that looked like –
‘Remains,’ said Ben.
I sighed. ‘We’d better have a look.’
I had already dismissed the idea that this might be the practical joke. Their faces were too serious, the subject matter too grisly. I stood up, carefully placing my cup back onto the tabletop. My gown was hanging behind the door, and I slipped it on automatically, much as an elderly knight may don a familiar piece of armour. Thus prepared, with sinking heart, I strode out across the playing fields, a standard-bearer at the head of a decimated legion.