Of course, my parents are both dead now. Everyone in this story is dead, or changed beyond recognition. No one compares me to Conrad now. No one blames me for his death. The house is no longer a shrine to him, but home to a nice little family with no idea of the drama that played out within their walls so many years ago. Two children and a Jack Russell dog. A little garden with roses. No one living there listens to the numbers stations anymore. The gurgling drains have been mended at last. I never fix down the toilet seat. I even get cards on my birthday.
But nothing ever lasts. The past is never completely over. And this is why I felt no surprise when you came to me with your story today. I think I was expecting it. I have waited these twenty years for someone to stumble over the truth. It seems almost poetic now that that someone should be Roy Straitley. Straitley, the shambling buffoon who somehow brought down Johnny Harrington. Straitley, the incorruptible; the heart and soul of St Oswald’s. But it is because of St Oswald’s that I will win. St Oswald’s is his weakness, just as Conrad once was mine. But unlike me, Roy Straitley cannot exorcise his weakness. He wears it like a favourite coat, foolishly thinking it armour. And that’s why I was not afraid when he came to me this morning. That is why I did not flinch when he took a small metallic object from his pocket and laid it in front of me on my desk.
Instead I felt a kind of relief, and thought: At last. They’ve found him.
5
St Oswald’s Grammar School for Boys Academy
Michaelmas Term, September 4th, 2006
I’ll say this for La Buckfast; she isn’t easily shaken. She listened to my story, then lifted the metallic object I had picked out of the rubble by the side of the Gunderson Building between her index finger and thumb, and gave her Mona Lisa smile.
‘You recognize what it is, of course,’ I said.
She nodded. ‘Yes, of course.’ She indicated the coffee machine. ‘The cappuccino’s very good, though Johnny preferred espresso. Can I tempt you?’
‘No, thanks.’ I was jumpy enough already. It isn’t every morning you find a body on the playing fields, but the Head seemed to take it in her stride, as if the disaster about to hit St Oswald’s like a juggernaut were nothing but a minor annoyance.
‘You realize what this means,’ I said, watching her make coffee. ‘The police will have to be involved. There’ll be an investigation. The papers will be all over it. The building will be suspended again, not just for months, but perhaps for years. And the parents. What will the parents think? And once the governors get involved – Headmaster, it could ruin us.’ I realized that, in my agitation, I had called her Headmaster.
La Buckfast showed no reaction. She picked up a small glass receptacle and sprinkled cocoa powder over her cappuccino. ‘You’re always so dramatic, Roy. The worst may never happen.’ She sipped the coffee delicately, to avoid leaving lip-stick on her cup. ‘Let’s start at the beginning, shall we? Tell me what you know about this.’
And she indicated the object that I’d fished out of the mud at the side of the Gunderson Building; no larger than my thumbnail, yet heavy with significance. Twenty years under the soil has scoured it of its colour: but I know it was once the rich, dark red of a fine old claret. The pin has been lost, and the metal has corroded to a dirty brown, but the shape is still recognizable; a shield, still bearing the ghosts of letters that were once emblazoned in gold; letters that would once have read:
KING HENRY’S GRAMMAR SCHOOL:
PREFECT
For a moment I looked at it. Such a small thing. Such a small thing, to bring down a school. In that moment I wished I had simply covered it again with earth, along with the bundle of rags and sticks that once had been a human being. But the rocky road that leads to the stars is filled with such temptations as this. A Master of St Oswald’s must set the right example. He must be honest, brave and true, or else, what good is anything?
‘You first,’ I told La Buckfast.
‘What makes you think I know?’
Oh, please. My stint at St Oswald’s, man and boy, has taught me certain instincts. For a start, she’s much too calm. And she never really looked at the badge; scarcely even glanced at it. La Buckfast has been expecting this. Maybe she knew about it before. But if she already knew of a body in the School grounds, why would she not have reported it?
She smiled. ‘It’s quite a long story,’ she said. ‘Are you sure you want to know?’
‘I’m here all week, Headmaster.’
‘Of course you are.’ She smiled again. It struck me how at ease she was; as if she was almost enjoying it all. Like a chess player who knows from the start the outcome of the tournament.
I said: ‘I’ll have that coffee now.’
‘I thought perhaps you might,’ she said. She poured me a cappuccino, with a sprinkle of chocolate over the foam. By accident or happenstance, it fell into the shape of a skull. Cicero, the cynic, refused to believe in omens and prodigies. I wonder if I should emulate him. After all, as Freud might have said, sometimes a Caunean fig is just another piece of fruit.
The cappuccino was good, although I still prefer the English kind. I remember when coffee came in just black or white. Things – and people – were simpler then. You always knew where to draw the line. But the Head must know the truth, regardless of where it may lead us. Veritas numquam perit. Truth never dies, unlike the poor chap by the Gunderson Building, reduced to a twist of sticks and rags. If my suspicions are correct, he wasn’t one of ours. And yet his story should be told, whatever it may cost us. A school like St Oswald’s is a stage for every shade of drama. This morning, Tragedy. Tomorrow, Farce. La Buckfast understands this perfectly. She was, after all, an actress, when she was still a Mulberry girl. She knows the value of suspense, and the pleasure of having an audience listening with bated breath. And yet she must be aware of how much damage such a revelation may do to the empire she is building. Does she mean to persuade me to ignore my find, for the good of all? Does she really believe I would, for the good of St Oswald’s?
She finished her coffee and looked at me.
‘Well, Mr Straitley,’ she said with a smile. ‘If you’re ready, I’ll begin.’
Her eyes are a curious shade of green; rather cold, but humorous. I thought: Ye gods, she’s enjoying this.
I put down my cup. ‘I’m listening.’
PART 2
Cocytus
(River of Lamentations)
1
St Oswald’s, September 4th, 2006
I remember the day he disappeared, because it was my birthday. Our birthday, to be precise: we were born exactly nine years apart. At five, a birthday is magical: a long-anticipated day of presents, treats and indulgences. And it had started off so well, with pancakes for breakfast, and birthday cards, and even a present from Conrad. A little school satchel, much like his own, but smaller, and in lollipop red: exactly what I needed for my new term at primary school. But that was still six weeks away, after the summer holidays, and by then, Conrad would be gone, and everything would be different.
I remember that Friday morning with the clarity of certain dreams. The ninth of July 1971; with the radio playing ‘Get It On’, and butterflies in my stomach, and the long summer holidays so close you could almost smell the seaside. I’ve told the story so many times that the details have acquired a kind of unusual patina, like the prominent features on a bronze after repeated handling. I do not quite remember his face. All I remember is photographs. The one the newspapers published, of course, taken the day he disappeared: Conrad in his school uniform – charcoal trousers, red-striped tie; blazer with the grosgrain trim. Then the one with my parents at Christmas; the one at the beach, with the sandcastle, and me aged three, with bucket and spade, laughing into the camera. And the one on the cover of that book that caused us so much heartache: CONRAD: The Lost Boy of Malbry, by a woman called Catherine Potts; with Conrad’s face superimposed over a shot of a green door.