Beard took a deep breath. “I think we should discuss this somewhere else,” he said uneasily (it was eight o’clock in the morning, and we were on the Lower Corridor, as yet almost deserted). “I wanted Pat Bishop to be here, but he isn’t in his office and I can’t get hold of him on his phone. Oh dear”—at this he tugged at his weak mustache—“I really think further discussion of this should wait until the proper authorities—”
I was about to make a stinging retort about Heads of Year and proper authorities when Meek came in. He gave me a venomous look, then addressed Beard. “Problem in the labs,” he said in his colorless voice. “I think you should have a look.”
Beard looked openly relieved. Computer problems were his field. No unpleasant human contact; no inconsistencies; no lies; nothing but machines to program and decode. I knew that there had been incessant computer problems this week—a virus, so I’m told—with the result that to my delight, e-mail had been completely suspended and Computer Studies relegated to the library for several days.
“Excuse me, Mr. Straitley—” That look again, like a man whose last-minute reprieve has finally come. “Duty calls.”
I found Bishop’s (handwritten) note in my pigeonhole at the end of the lunch break. Not before, I’m afraid, though Marlene tells me she delivered it at registration. But the morning was fraught with problems; Grachvogel absent; Kitty depressed; Pearman pretending nothing was wrong but looking rumpled and pale, with deep shadows under his eyes. I heard from Marlene (who always knows everything) that he slept in school last night; apparently he hasn’t been home since Wednesday, when an anonymous letter addressed to Pearman’s wife exposed his long-term infidelity. Kitty blames herself, says Marlene; feels she has let Pearman down; wonders if it was her fault that the mystery informant learned the truth.
Pearman says not but remains aloof. Just like a man, says Marlene; too busy with his own problems to notice that poor Kitty is completely distraught.
I know better than to comment on this. I don’t take sides. I just hope that Pearman and Kitty will be able to continue to work together after this. I’d hate to lose either of them, especially this year, when so many other things have already gone bad.
There is one small consolation, however. Eric Scoones is a surprising pillar of strength in a world turned suddenly weak. Difficult at the best of times, he comes into his own at the worst, taking over Pearman’s duties without complaint (and with a kind of relish). Of course he would have liked to be Head of Department. Might even have been good at it—though he lacks Pearman’s charm, he is meticulous in all forms of administration. But age has soured him, and it is only in these moments of crisis that I see the real Eric Scoones; the young man I knew thirty years ago; the conscientious, energetic young man; the demon in the classroom; the tireless organizer; the hopeful Young Turk.
St. Oswald’s has a way of eating those things. The energy; the ambition; the dreams. That’s what I was thinking as I sat in the Common Room five minutes before the end of lunch, with an old brown mug in one hand and a stale digestive in the other (Common Room fund; I feel I should be getting my money’s worth, somehow). It’s always crowded at that time, like a railway terminal disgorging passengers to a variety of destinations. The usual suspects in their various seats: Roach, Light (unusually subdued), and Easy, all three getting their extra five minutes with the Daily Mirror before the beginning of afternoon school. Monument asleep; Penny Nation with Kitty in the girls’ corner; Miss Dare, reading a book; young Keane, popping in for a quick breather after his lunchtime duty.
“Oh, sir,” he said, seeing me there, “Mr. Bishop’s been looking for you. I think he sent you a message.”
A message? Probably an e-mail. The fellow never learns.
I found Bishop in his office, squinting at the computer screen with his close-work glasses on. He removed them at once (he is self-conscious about the way he looks, and those pebble spectacles seem more suited to an elderly academic than an ex-rugby player).
“Took your bloody time, didn’t you?”
“I’m sorry,” I said mildly. “I must have missed your message.”
“Bollocks,” said Bishop. “You never remember to check your mail. I’m sick of it, Straitley, I’m sick of having to call you to my office like some member of the lower fifth who never hands in his course work.”
I had to smile. I do like him, you know. He’s not a Suit—though he tries, gods help him—and there is a kind of honesty about him when he’s angry that you’d never find in someone like the Head. “Vere dicis?” I said politely.
“You can cut that out for a start,” said Bishop. “We’re in real shit here, and it’s your bloody fault.”
I looked at him. He wasn’t joking. “What’s the problem? Another complaint?” I suppose I was thinking about Pooley’s blazer again—though surely, Bob Strange would have wanted to deal with that himself.
“Worse than that,” said Pat. “It’s Colin Knight. He’s done a bunk.”
“What?”
Pat glared at me. “Yesterday, after his little run-in with you at lunchtime. Took his bag, went off, and no one—and I mean no one, not his parents, not his friends, not a single bloody soul—has clapped eyes on him since.”
BISHOP
1
Sunday, 31st October
All Hallows’ Eve. I’ve always loved it. That night in particular, rather than Bonfire Night and its gaudy celebrations (and anyway, I’ve always thought it rather tasteless for children to celebrate the gruesome death of a man guilty of little more than getting ideas above his station).
It’s true; I’ve always had a soft spot for Guy Fawkes. Perhaps because I am in much the same situation: a lone plotter with only my wits to defend me against my monstrous adversary. But Fawkes was betrayed. I have no allies, no one with whom to discuss my own explosive schemes, and if I am betrayed, then it will be by my own carelessness or stupidity rather than by someone else’s.
The knowledge cheers me, for my job is a lonely one, and I often long for someone with whom to share the triumphs, the anxieties of my day-to-day revolt. But this week marks the end of a new phase in my campaign. The picador’s role is ended; time now for the matador to take the stage.
I began with Knight.
A pity, in a way; he has been very helpful to me this term, and of course I have nothing personal against the boy, but he would have had to go sometime or other, and he knew too much (whether he was aware of it or not) to be allowed to continue.
I was expecting a crisis, of course. Like all artists, I like to provoke, and Straitley’s reaction to my little piece of self-expression on his back fence had certainly exceeded expectations. I knew he’d find the pen too and leap to the logical conclusion.
As I said, they’re so predictable, these St. Oswald Masters. Push the buttons, press the switch, and watch them go. Knight was ready; Straitley primed. For a few packs of Camels the Sunnybankers had been prepared to feed an old man’s paranoia; I had done the same with Colin Knight. Everything was in place; both protagonists poised for battle. All that remained was the final showdown.
Of course I knew he’d come to me. Pretend I’m your tutor, I’d said, and he did; ran straight to me in tears, poor boy, and told me all about it.