“Now calm down, Colin,” I’d said, maneuvering him into a little-used office off the Middle Corridor. “What exactly has Mr. Straitley accused you of?”
He told me, with a great deal of snot and self-pity.
“I see.”
My heart quickened. It had begun. There was no stopping it now. My gambit had paid off; now all I had to do was to watch as St. Oswald’s began to tear itself apart, limb by limb.
“What do I do?” He was almost hysterical now, his pinched face prunelike with anxiety. “He’ll tell my mum, he’ll call the police, I might even be expelled—” Ah, expulsion. The ultimate dishonor. In the pecking order of terrible consequences, it even takes precedence over parents and the police.
“You won’t be expelled,” I said firmly.
“You don’t know that!”
“Colin. Look at me.” A pause, Knight shaking his head hysterically. “Look at me.”
He did, still shaking, and slowly the beginnings of hysteria began to subside.
“Listen to me, Colin,” I said. Short sentences, eye contact, and an air of conviction. Teachers use this method; so do doctors, priests, and other illusionists. “Listen carefully. You won’t be expelled. Do as I say; come with me and you’ll be fine.”
He was waiting for me, as instructed, at the bus stop outside the staff car park. It was ten to four, and already it was getting dark. I’d left my class (for once) ten minutes early, and the street was deserted. I stopped the car opposite the bus stop. Knight got in on the passenger side, his face pallid with terror and hope. “It’s all right, Colin,” I told him gently. “I’m taking you home.”
I didn’t plan it quite that way. Really I didn’t. Call it foolhardy if you like, but as I pulled out of St. Oswald’s that afternoon, into a street that was already blurry with thin October rain, I still hadn’t quite decided what to do with Colin Knight. On a personal level, of course, I’m a perfectionist. I like to have all the bases covered. Sometimes, however, it’s best to rely on pure instinct. Leon taught me that, you know, and I have to admit that some of the best moves I have ever made have been the unplanned ones; the impulsive strokes of genius.
So it was with Colin Knight; and it came to me in a sudden inspiration as I was passing the municipal park.
I told you I’ve always had a soft spot for Hallowe’en. As a child I much preferred it to the common celebrations of Bonfire Night, which I’ve always vaguely mistrusted, with its candyfloss commercialism, its trollish good cheer in front of the big barbecue. Most of all I mistrusted the community bonfire, an annual event held on Bonfire Night, in the local park, allowing the public to congregate en masse before a conflagration of alarming scale and a mediocre firework display. There is often a funfair, staffed by cynical “travelers” with an eye for the main chance; a hot dog stand; a Test Your Strength booth (Everyone’s a Winner!); a rifle range, with moth-eaten teddies hanging by their necks like trophies; a toffee apple salesman (the apples squashy and brown beneath the coating of brittle bright-red candy); and a number of pickpockets pushing their sly way through the holiday crowd.
I’ve always hated this gratuitous display. The noise; the sweat; the rabble; the heat; and the sense of violence about to erupt have always repelled me. Believe it or not, I despise violence. Its inelegance more than anything else, I think. Its crass and bludgeoning stupidity. My father loved the community bonfire for the same reasons I detested it; and he was never happier than on such occasions, a bottle of beer in one hand, face purple with the heat from the fire, a pair of alien antennae wagging on his head (or it might have been a pair of devil’s horns), neck craned to watch the rockets as they burst brapp-brapp-brapp across the smoky sky.
But it was thanks to his memory that I had my idea; an idea so sweetly elegant that it made me smile. Leon would have been proud of me, I knew; my twin problems of dispatch and disposal both sorted at a single blow.
I flicked on the indicator and turned toward the park. The big gates were open—in fact this is the only time of year when access is granted to vehicles—and I drove in slowly onto the main walkway.
“What are we doing here?” asked Knight, his anxiety forgotten. He was eating a chocolate bar from the school tuck shop and playing a computer game on his state-of-the-art mobile phone. An earpiece dangled languidly from one ear.
“I’ve got something to drop off here,” I said. “Something to burn.”
This is, as far as I can see, the only advantage of the community bonfire. It gives the opportunity to anyone who so wishes to dispose of any unwanted rubbish. Wood, palettes, magazines, and cardboard are always appreciated, but any combustible is more than welcome. Tires, old sofas, mattresses, stacks of newspapers—all have their place, and the citizens are encouraged to bring whatever they can.
Of course by now the bonfire had already been built: scientifically, and with care. A forty-foot pyramid, marvelous in its construction; layer upon layer of furniture, toys, paper, clothes, refuse sacks, packing crates, and—in deference to centuries of tradition, guys. Dozens of guys; some with placards around their necks; some rudimentary; some eerily human looking, standing and sitting and reclining in various positions on the unlit pyre. The area had been cordoned off at a distance of fifty yards or so from the structure; when it was lit, the heat would be so intense that to approach any farther would be to risk incineration.
“Impressive, isn’t it?” I said, parking as close as I could to the cordoned area. A number of skips containing assorted jumble blocked further access; but I reckoned it was near enough.
“It’s all right,” said Knight. “What have you brought?”
“See for yourself,” I said, getting out of the car. “Anyway, Colin, you might have to help me. It’s a bit bulky for me to manage on my own.”
Knight got out, not bothering to remove the phone’s earpiece. For a second I thought he was going to complain; but he followed me, looking incuriously at the unlit pyre as I unlocked the boot.
“Nice phone,” I said.
“Yeah,” said Knight.
“I like a good bonfire, don’t you?”
“Yeah.”
“I do hope it doesn’t rain. There’s nothing worse than a bonfire that won’t start. Though they must use something—petrol, I expect—to start it off. It always seems to catch so fast—”
As I spoke I kept my body between Knight and the car. I needn’t have bothered, I suspect. He wasn’t very bright. Come to think of it, I was probably doing the gene pool a favor.
“Come on, Colin.”
Knight took a step forward.
“Good lad.” A hand in the small of the back—a gentle push. For a moment I thought of the Test Your Strength (Everyone’s a Winner!) booth of my childhood funfairs; imagined myself lifting the mallet high, smelled popcorn and smoke and the reek of boiled hot dogs and fried onions; saw my father grinning in his ridiculous alien antennae, saw Leon with a Camel crooked between his ink-stained fingers, smiling encouragement—
And then I brought the boot lid down as hard as I could and heard that unspeakable—but nonetheless quite reassuringly familiar—crunch telling me that once again, I was a winner.
2
There was rather a lot of blood.
I’d expected it, and taken precautions, but even so I may have to dry-clean this suit.