Vae! I cursed myself mentally. I should have been more careful; should—according to the regulations—have searched the lockers in the presence of the boys themselves. But 3S are my own form—in many ways, my favorite form. Easier to do as I always did: to visit the culprit in secret—to remove the evidence—to leave it at that. It had worked with Allen-Jones and his door plaques; it would have worked with Knight. Except that I had found nothing in Knight’s locker—though my gut still told me he was guilty—and had certainly not removed anything.
The Head had hit his stride. “Mrs. Knight not only accuses you of repeatedly victimizing and humiliating the boy,” he said, “but of more or less accusing him of theft, then, when he denied it, of removing an item of value from his locker in secret—perhaps in the hope of making him confess.”
“I see. Well, this is what I think of Mrs. Knight—”
“The school’s insurance will cover the loss, of course. But it raises the question—”
“What?” I was almost at a loss for words. Boys lose things every day. To provide compensation in this case was tantamount to accepting that I was guilty. “I won’t have it. Ten to one the damn thing will turn up under his bed or something.”
“I’d rather deal with it at this level than have the complaint go to the governors,” said the Head, with unusual frankness.
“I bet you would,” I said. “But if you do, you’ll have my resignation on your desk by Monday morning.”
HM blanched. “Now take it easy, Roy—”
“I’m not taking it at all. A Headmaster’s duty is to stand by his staff. Not to go running scared at the first piece of malicious tittle-tattle.”
There was a rather cold silence. I realized that my voice—long-trained in the acoustics of the Bell Tower—had become rather loud. Several boys and their parents were loitering within earshot, and little Meek, who was still on duty, was watching me open-mouthed.
“Very good, Mr. Straitley,” said the New Head in a stiff voice.
And at that he went on his way, leaving me with the sense that I had scored at best, a Pyrrhic victory, and at worst, the most devastating kind of own goal.
4
Poor old Straitley. He was looking so depressed when he left today that I almost felt sorry I’d sneaked his pen. He looked old, I thought—no longer fearsome but simply old, a sad, baggy-faced comedian past his prime. Quite wrong, of course. There’s real grit in Roy Straitley; a real—and dangerous—intelligence. Still—call it nostalgia if you like, or perversity—today I liked him better than ever before. Should I do him a favor? I wonder. For old times’ sake?
Yes, perhaps. Perhaps I will.
I celebrated my first week with a bottle of champagne. It’s still very early in the game, of course, but I have already sown a good number of my poison seeds, and this is just the beginning. Knight is proving to be a valuable tool—almost a Special Little Friend, as Straitley calls them—talking to me now almost every break, drinking in my every word. Oh, nothing that might be directly incriminating—I of all people, should know better than that—but with the help of hints and anecdotes I think I can guide him in the right direction.
His mother didn’t complain to the governors, of course. I didn’t really expect her to, in spite of her histrionics. Not this time, anyway. Nevertheless, all these things are being filed away. Deep down, where it matters.
Scandal, the rot that makes foundations crumble. St. Oswald’s has had its share—neatly excised for the most part by the governors and trustees. The Shakeshafte affair, for instance—or that nasty business with the caretaker, fifteen years ago. What was his name? Snyde? Can’t remember the details, old chap, but it just goes to show, you can’t trust anyone nowadays.
In the case of Mr. Bray and my own school, there were no trustees to take matters in hand. Miss Potts listened with widening eyes and a mouth that went from pouty-persuasive to crabapple-sour in less than a minute. “But Tracey’s fifteen,” said Miss Potts (who had always made an effort to look nice in Mr. Bray’s lessons, and whose face was now rigid with disapproval). “Fifteen!”
I nodded. “Don’t tell anyone,” I said. “He’ll kill me if he finds out I’ve told you.”
That was the bait, and she took it, as I had known she would. “Nothing’s going to happen to you,” said Miss Potts firmly. “All you have to do is tell me everything.”
I did not keep my after-school appointment with Bray. Instead, I sat outside the Headmaster’s office, shaking with fear and excitement, and listening to the drama unfolding within. Bray denied it all, of course; but the besotted Tracey wept violently at his public betrayal; compared herself to Juliet; threatened to kill herself; and finally declared that she was pregnant—at which announcement the meeting dissolved into panic and recriminations, Bray scuttled off to call his Union rep and Miss Potts threatened to inform the local newspapers if something was not done at once to protect more innocent girls from being led astray by this pervert—whom, she said, she had always suspected, and who should be locked up.
The next day, Mr. Bray was suspended from school pending an enquiry, and in the light of its findings never came back. The next term, Tracey revealed that she wasn’t pregnant after all (to the open relief of more than one of the fifth-formers), there was a new and very young PE teacher called Miss Applewhite who accepted my asthma excuse without question or curiosity, and even without the benefit of karate lessons, I found I had gained a dubious kind of respect among some of my peers as the pupil who had dared stand up to that bastard Bray.
As I said, a well-placed stone can bring down a giant. Bray was the first. The test case, if you like. Perhaps my classmates sensed it, sensed that I had somehow acquired a taste for fighting back, because after that, much of the bullying that had made my life at school unbearable came to a quiet end. I was no more popular than before, of course; but whereas people had hitherto gone out of their way to torment me, they now left me to my own devices, staff and pupils alike.
Too little, too late. By then I was going to St. Oswald’s almost every day. I lurked in corridors; I talked to Leon during breaks and lunchtimes; I was recklessly happy. Exam week came, and Leon was allowed to revise in the library when he had no exam to sit, so together we escaped into town, looked at records—and sometimes stole them, although Leon had no need to do so, having more than enough pocket money of his own.
I, however, did not. Virtually all my own money—and this included my small weekly allowance as well as the lunch money I no longer spent at school—went on perpetuating my deception at St. Oswald’s.
The incidental expenses were astonishing. Books; stationery; drinks and snacks from the tuck shop; bus fare to away matches, and, of course, uniform. I had soon discovered that although all boys wore the same uniform, there was still a certain standard to be maintained. I had presented myself to Leon as a new pupil; the son of a police inspector; unthinkable, then, that I should continue to wear the secondhand clothes I had pilfered from lost property, or the scuffed and muddy trainers I wore at home. I needed a new uniform; shiny shoes; a leather satchel.
Some of these items I stole from lockers outside school hours, removing the name tags and replacing them with my own. Some I bought with my savings. On a couple of occasions I raided my father’s beer money when he was out, knowing that he would come home drunk and hoping that he would forget exactly how much he had spent. It worked, but my father was more careful of these things than I had expected, and on the second try I was almost caught out. Fortunately, there was another suspect more likely than I was; a terrific row ensued; Pepsi wore sunglasses for the next two weeks; and I never risked stealing from my father again.