I am sorry for it. But he was right. What do we really know about our colleagues? Thirty-three years, and what do we know? For me, the unpleasant revelation has not been about Pat at all, but about the rest of them. Scoones. The Nations. Roach, who is terrified that his friendship with Light and Grachvogel might prejudice his case with the police. Beard, who sees the whole business as a personal affront to the IT department. Meek, who merely repeats everything Beard tells him. Easy, who follows the majority. McDonaugh, who announced at break that only a pervert could have appointed that queer Grachvogel in a teaching post anyway.
The worst of it was that no one speaks against them now; even Kitty, who has always been friendly with Gerry Grachvogel and who has invited Bishop to dinner several times, said nothing, but simply looked into her coffee mug with faint distaste and would not meet my eye. She has other things on her mind, I know. Still, it was a moment I could have done without. You may have noticed I’m rather fond of Kitty Teague.
Still, I’m relieved to see that in one or two cases at least, sanity still reigns. Chris Keane and Dianne Dare are among the very few not to have been infected. They were standing by the window as I fetched my tea, still raging against the colleagues who had so summarily condemned Bishop without trial.
“I think everyone’s entitled to a fair hearing,” said Keane, after I had aired my feelings a little more. “I don’t really know Mr. Bishop, of course, but I have to say he doesn’t strike me as the type, somehow.”
“I agree,” said Miss Dare. “Besides, the boys seem genuinely fond of him.”
“They are,” I said loudly, with a defiant glance at the moral majority. “This is a mistake.”
“Or a setup,” said Keane thoughtfully.
“A setup?”
“Why not?” He shrugged. “Someone with a grudge. A discontented staff member. An ex-pupil. Anyone. All you’d need would be access to the school, plus a certain degree of computer literacy—”
Computers. I knew we were better off without them. But Keane’s words had touched a nerve—in fact, I wondered why on earth I hadn’t thought of it myself. Nothing damages a school more cruelly than a sex scandal. Hadn’t something similar happened once at Sunnybank Park? Hadn’t I seen it myself too in the days of the Old Head?
Of course, Shakeshafte’s tastes ran, not to boys, but to secretaries and young female members of staff. Such affairs rarely go beyond the stage of tittle-tattle; they are resolved between adults; they rarely make it outside the gates.
But this is different. The papers have declared open season on the teaching profession. Pedophile stories dominate the popular press. Not a week passes without some new accusation. Head teacher, scoutmaster, police officer, priest. All fair game.
“It’s possible.” That was Meek, who had been following our conversation. I hadn’t expected him to voice an opinion; so far he’d done little but nod energetically every time Beard spoke. “I imagine there are plenty of people who might have a grudge against St. Oswald’s,” went on Meek in his small, colorless voice. “Fallow, for instance. Or Knight.”
“Knight?” There was a silence. In the backwash of the bigger scandal I’d almost forgotten my juvenile runaway. “Knight couldn’t be responsible for any of this.”
“Why not?” said Keane. “He fits the type.”
Oh yes. He fitted. I saw Eric Scoones’s expression darken; he was listening, and I could see from the insouciant looks on my colleagues’ faces that they too were following the exchange. “Staff passwords aren’t difficult to get hold of, either,” said Meek. “I mean, anyone with access to the administration panel—”
“That’s ridiculous,” said Mr. Beard. “Those passwords are absolutely secret.”
“Yours is AMANDA,” said Keane, smiling. “Your daughter’s name. Mr. Bishop’s is GO-JONNY-GO—not much imagination required there, for such a keen rugby fan. Gerry’s is probably something from The X-Files. MULDER, perhaps, or SCULLY—”
Miss Dare laughed. “Tell me,” she said, “are you a professional spy or is it just a hobby?”
“I pay attention,” said Keane.
But Scoones was still unconvinced. “No boy of ours would dare,” he said. “Especially not that little runt.”
“Why not?” said Keane.
“He just wouldn’t,” said Scoones contemptuously. “You need balls to go up against St. Oswald’s.”
“Or brains,” said Keane. “What? You’re really telling me it’s never happened before?”
7
Thursday, 4th November
How very inconvenient. Just as I was about to deal with Bishop too. To make myself feel better I went to the Internet café in town, accessed Knight’s hotmail address (the police must surely be monitoring that by now), and sent out a few nicely abusive e-mails to selected members of St. Oswald’s staff. It gave me an outlet for some of my annoyance and, I trust, will maintain the hope that Knight is still alive.
I then made my way to my own flat, where I e-mailed a new piece from Mole to the Examiner. I sent a text message to Devine’s mobile from Knight’s, and after that I phoned Bishop, adopting an accent and disguising my voice. I was feeling rather better by then—it’s funny how dealing with tedious business can still put you in a good mood—and after a bit of initial heavy breathing I delivered my poisonous message.
I thought his voice sounded thicker than usual, as if he were on some kind of medication. Of course it was almost midnight by then, and he might well have been asleep. I myself don’t need a great deal of sleep—three or four hours are usually ample—and I rarely dream. I’m always rather surprised at the way other people cave in if they haven’t had their eight or ten hours, and most of them seem to spend half the night dreaming; useless, jumbled dreams that they always want to tell other people about afterward. I guessed Bishop was a heavy sleeper; a colorful dreamer; a Freudian analyzer. Not tonight, though. Tonight I thought he might have other things on his mind.
I phoned again an hour later. This time Bishop’s voice was as thick as my father’s after a night on the town. “What do you want?” His bull’s roar, distorted by the line.
“You know what we want.” That we. Always a help when spreading paranoia. “We want justice. We want you dealt with, you filthy pervert.”
By this time, of course, he should have hung up. But Bishop has never been a quick thinker. Instead he blustered, angry; tried to argue. “Anonymous calls? That the best you can do? Let me tell you something—”
“No, Bishop. Let me tell you.” My telephone voice is thin and spidery, cutting through the static. “We know what you’ve been up to. We know where you live. We’ll get you. It’s just a matter of time.”
Click.
Nothing fancy, as you see. But it has already worked marvelously with Grachvogel—who now keeps the phone permanently off the hook. Tonight, in fact, I made a little trip up to his place, just to make sure. At one point I was almost convinced I saw someone peeping out from between the living room curtains, but I was gloved and hooded, and I knew he’d never dare to come out of the house.