Then I met Leon. And everything changed.
It was a dreamy, sunny late spring day—one of those days when I loved St. Oswald’s with a violent passion no mere pupil could have hoped to duplicate—and I was feeling unusually bold. Since our first encounter, my one-sided war against the school had gone through many stages. Hatred; admiration; anger; pursuit. That spring, though, we had reached a kind of truce. As I rejected Sunnybank Park I had begun to feel that St. Oswald’s was coming to accept me, slowly; my movement through its veins no longer that of an invader, but almost a friend—like an inoculation of some apparently toxic material that later turns out to be of use.
Of course I was still angry at the unfairness of it; at the fees that my father could never have afforded; at the fact that, fees or not, I could never hope to be accepted. But in spite of that, we had a relationship. A benign symbiosis, perhaps, like the shark and the lamprey. I began to understand that I need not be a parasite; I could let St. Oswald’s use me as I used it. Lately I had begun to keep records of things to be done around the school; cracked panes, loose tiles, damaged desks. I copied the details into the repairs book in the Porter’s Lodge, signing them with the initials of various teachers to avoid suspicion. Dutifully, my father dealt with them; and I felt proud that in a small way I too had made a difference; St. Oswald’s thanked me; I was approved.
It was a Monday. I had been wandering along the Middle Corridor, listening at doors. My afternoon Latin class was over and I was considering going to the library, or the art block, and mingling with the study-period boys there. Or perhaps I could go to the Refectory—the kitchen staff would have gone by then—and sneak some of the biscuits left out for the teachers’ after-school meeting.
I was so absorbed by my thoughts that as I rounded the bend into the Upper Corridor I almost bumped into a boy who was standing, hands in pockets, face to the wall, beneath an Honors Board. He was a couple of years older than I was—I guessed fourteen—with a sharp, clever face and bright gray eyes. His brown hair, I noticed, was rather long for St. Oswald’s, and the end of his tie, which was hanging disreputably out of his sweater, had been scissored off. I gathered—with some admiration—that I was looking at a rebel.
“Watch where you’re going,” said the boy.
It was the first time any St. Oswald’s boy had bothered to speak to me directly. I stared at him, fascinated.
“What are you here for?” I knew that the room at the end of the Upper Corridor was a Master’s study. I’d even been in it once or twice; a small airless place, knee-deep in papers, with several huge and indestructible plants sprawling ominously from a high and narrow window.
The boy grinned. “Quaz sent me. I’ll get off with a caution, or DT. Quaz never canes anyone.”
“Quaz?” I was familiar with the name; overheard in after-school conversations between boys. I knew it was a nickname and could not put a face to it.
“Lives in the Bell Tower? Looks like a gargoyle?” The boy grinned again. “Bit of a podex, but he’s all right really. I’ll talk him round.”
I stared at the boy with growing awe. His confidence fascinated me. The way he spoke of a Master—not as a creature of terrifying authority, but as a figure of fun—made me inarticulate with admiration. Better still, this boy—this rebel who dared to flout St. Oswald’s—was talking to me as an equal, and he didn’t have the slightest idea who I was!
I had never until then imagined that I might find an ally there. My visits to St. Oswald’s were painfully private. I had no school friends to tell; confiding in my father or Pepsi would have been unthinkable. But this boy—
At last I found my voice. “What’s a podex?”
The boy’s name was Leon Mitchell. I gave my own as Julian Pinchbeck, and told him I was a first year. I was rather small for my age, and I thought it would be easier for me to pass as a member of another year group. That way Leon would not question my absence from year Assemblies or Games.
I felt almost faint at the enormity of my bluff, but I was elated too. It was really so easy. If one boy could be convinced, then why not others—maybe even Masters?
I suddenly imagined myself joining clubs, teams, openly attending lessons. Why not? I knew the school better than any of the pupils. I wore the uniform. Why should anyone question me? There must have been a thousand boys at the school. No one—not even the Head—could be expected to know them all. Better still, I had all the precious tradition of St. Oswald’s on my side; no one had ever heard of such a deception as mine. No one would ever suspect such an outrageous thing.
“Don’t you have a lesson to go to?” There was a malicious gleam in the boy’s gray eyes. “You’ll get bollocked if you’re late.”
I sensed this was a challenge. “I don’t care,” I said. “Mr. Bishop sent me with a message for the office. I can say the secretary was on the phone, and I had to wait.”
“Not bad. I’ll have to remember that one.”
Leon’s approval made me reckless. “I bunk off all the time,” I told him. “No one’s ever caught me.”
He nodded, grinning. “So what is it today?”
I almost said Games but stopped myself just in time. “RE.”
Leon pulled a face. “Vae! Don’t blame you. Give me the pagans any day. At least they were allowed to have sex.”
I sniggered. “Who’s your form teacher?” I asked. If I knew that, I could find out for sure what year he was in.
“Slimy Strange. English. A real cimex. What about yours?”
I hesitated. I didn’t want to tell Leon anything that could too easily be disproved. But before I could answer there was a sudden shuffle of footsteps in the corridor behind us. Someone was approaching.
Leon straightened up immediately. “It’s Quaz,” he advised in a quick undertone. “Better scat.”
I turned toward the approaching footsteps, torn between relief at not having to answer the form-master question and disappointment that our conversation had been so short. I tried to imprint Leon’s face into my memory; the lock of hair falling casually across his forehead; the light eyes; the ironic mouth. Ridiculous to imagine that I would ever see him again. Dangerous even to try.
I kept my expression neutral as the Master entered the Upper Corridor.
I knew Roy Straitley by his voice alone. I’d followed his classes, laughed at his jokes, but only at a distance had I ever glimpsed his face. Now I saw him; a hunched silhouette in a battered gown and slip-on leather shoes. I ducked my head as he approached, but I must have looked guilty, because he stopped and looked at me sharply. “You, boy. What are you doing here out of lessons?”
I mumbled something about Mr. Bishop, and a message.
Mr. Straitley didn’t seem convinced. “The office is on the Lower Corridor. You’re miles away!”
“Yes, sir. Had to go to my locker, sir.”
“What, during lessons?”
“Sir.”
I could tell he didn’t believe me. My heart raced. I dared a glance and saw Straitley’s face, his ugly, clever, good-natured face frowning down at me. I was afraid, but behind my apprehension lay something else; an irrational, breath-taking sense of hope. Had he seen me? Had someone finally seen me?