“But I didn’t write him a rotten report,” Straitley was protesting. “I sat through his lesson, filled out the form, and took a balanced view. That was it.”
“Poor class control,” said Beard, reading from the appraisal form. “Poor lesson management. Lack of personal appeal? What kind of a balanced view is that?”
There was a pause as Straitley looked at the form. “I didn’t write this,” he said at last.
“Well, it certainly looks like your writing.”
There was another, longer pause. I considered coming out of the IT room then, so that I could see the expression on Straitley’s face, but decided against it. I didn’t want to draw too much attention to myself, especially not at what was soon to be the scene of a crime.
“I didn’t write this,” repeated Straitley.
“Well, who did?”
“I don’t know. Some practical joker.”
“Roy—” Now Beard was beginning to sound uncomfortable. I’ve heard that tone before, the edgy, half-conciliatory tone of one dealing with a possibly dangerous lunatic. “Look, Roy, fair criticism and all that. I know young Meek isn’t the brightest we’ve ever had—”
“No,” said Straitley. “He isn’t. But I didn’t write him a stinker. You can’t file that assessment if I didn’t write it.”
“Of course not, Roy, but—”
“But what?” There was an edge to Straitley’s voice now. He’s never liked dealing with Suits, and I could tell the whole thing annoyed him.
“Well, are you sure you didn’t just—forget what you’d written?”
“What do you mean, forget?”
He paused. “Well, I mean, maybe you were in a hurry, or—”
Behind my hand, I laughed silently. Beard is not the first staff member to have suggested that Roy Straitley is slowing down, to use a Bishop phrase. I’ve planted that seed in a couple of minds already, and there have been enough instances of irrational behavior, chronic forgetfulness, and small things going astray to make the idea plausible. Straitley, of course, has never considered this for a moment.
“Mr. Beard, I may be nearing my Century, but I am far from senility. Now if we could possibly move on to a matter of some importance”—(I wondered what Meek would say when I told him Straitley considered his assessment to be a matter of no importance)—“perhaps you have managed to find time in your busy schedule to read my report on Colin Knight.”
At my terminal, I smiled.
“Ah, Knight,” said Beard weakly.
Ah, Knight.
As I said, I can identify with a boy like Knight. In fact I was nothing like him—I was infinitely tougher, more vicious and more streetwise—but with more money and better parents I might have turned out just the same. There’s a long streak of resentment in Knight that I can use; and his sullenness means that he is unlikely to confide in anyone else until the point of no return has been passed. If wishes were horses, as we used to say when we were kids, then old Straitley would have been stampeded to death years ago. As it is, I have been tutoring Knight (on quite an extracurricular basis), and in this, if nothing else, he is an apt pupil.
It didn’t take much. Nothing at first that could be traced to me; a word here; a push there. “Imagine I’m your form tutor,” I told him as he followed me, puppylike, on my duty rounds. “If you have a problem, and you feel you can’t talk to Mr. Straitley about it, come to me.”
Knight had. Over two weeks I have been subjected to his pathetic complaints, his petty grievances. No one likes him; teachers pick on him; pupils call him “creep” and “loser.” He is miserable all the time, except when rejoicing at some other pupil’s misfortune. In fact he has been instrumental in spreading quite a number of little rumors for me, including a few about poor Mr. Grachvogel, whose absences have been noted and eagerly discussed. When he returns—if he returns—he is likely to find the details of his private life—with whatever embellishments the boys may have added—emblazoned on desks and toilet walls throughout the school.
Most of the time, though, Knight likes to complain. I provide a sympathetic ear; and although by now I can perfectly understand why Straitley loathes the brat, I have to say I’m delighted with my pupil’s progress. In slyness, in sullenness, in sheer unspoken malice, Knight is a natural.
A pity he has to go, really; but as my old dad might have said, you can’t make an omelet without killing people.
9
St. Oswald’s Grammar School for Boys
Friday, 29th October
That ass Beard. That perennial ass. Whoever thought he could make a decent Head of Year? Began by practically saying I was senile over Meek’s idiotic assessment form, then had the temerity to question my judgment on the subject of Colin Knight. Wanted more evidence, if you can believe it. Wanted to know whether I had spoken to the boy.
Spoken to him? Of course I’d spoken to him, and if ever a boy was lying . . . It’s in the eyes, you know; the way they skitter repeatedly to the left-hand corner of the picture, as if there were something there—toilet paper on my shoe, perhaps, or a big puddle they wanted to avoid. It’s in the meek look, the exaggerated response, the succession of honestly, sirs and I swear, sirs, and behind it all, that sneak smug look of knowledge.
Of course I knew all that would end when I produced the pen. I let him talk; swear; swear on his mother’s grave; then out it came, Knight’s pen with Knight’s initials on it, discovered at the scene of the crime.
He gaped. His face fell. We were alone in the Bell Tower. It was lunchtime. It was a crisp, sunny day; the boys were in the yard chasing autumn. I could hear their distant cries, like gulls on the wind. Knight could hear them too, and half turned longingly toward the window.
“Well?” I tried not to be too satisfied. He was only a boy, after all. “It is your pen, isn’t it, Knight?”
Silence. Knight stood with his hands in his pockets, shriveling before my eyes. He knew it was serious, a matter for expulsion. I could see it in his face; the blot on his record; his mother’s disappointment; his father’s anger; the blow to his prospects. “Isn’t it, Knight?”
Silently, he nodded.
I sent him to the Head of Year, but he never got there. Brasenose saw him at the bus stop later that afternoon, but thought nothing of it. A dentist’s appointment, perhaps, or a quick, unsanctioned jaunt to the record shop or the café. No one else remembers seeing him; a lank-haired boy in a St. Oswald’s uniform, carrying a black nylon rucksack and looking as if the world’s troubles had just descended onto his shoulders.
“Oh, I spoke to him all right. He didn’t say much. Not after I produced the pen.”
Beard looked troubled. “I see. And what exactly did you say to the boy?”
“I impressed upon him the error of his ways.”
“Was anyone else present?”
I’d had enough of this. Of course there wasn’t; who else did I think was going to be present, on a windy lunchtime with a thousand boys playing outside? “What’s going on, Beard?” I demanded. “Have the parents complained? Is that it? Am I victimizing the boy again? Or is it that they know full well that their son’s a liar and that it’s only because of St. Oswald’s that I haven’t reported him to the police?”