Dianne listened in silence as I expanded my tale. It was all guesswork; but it felt true, and as I went on, I began to see the boy Keane in my mind’s eye; to feel something of what he had felt and to understand the horror of what he had become.
I wondered whether Leon Mitchell had known the truth. Certainly, Marlene had been completely taken in by Julian Pinchbeck, as indeed had I.
A cool customer, Pinchbeck, especially for such a young lad. Even on the roof he had kept his nerve; escaping like a cat before I could intercept him; vanishing in the shadows; even allowing John Snyde to be accused rather than admit his own involvement.
“Perhaps they were horsing about. You know what boys are like. A silly game that went too far. Leon fell. Pinchbeck ran. He let the Porter take the blame, and he’s been living with the guilt for fifteen years.”
Imagine what that might do to a child. I considered Keane and tried to see the bitterness behind the facade. I couldn’t do it. There was perhaps some irreverence—a whiff of the upstart—a hint of mockery in the way he spoke. But malice—actual malice? It was hard to believe. And yet, if not Keane, then who could it be?
“He’s been playing with us,” I told Miss Dare. “That’s his style. His humor. It’s the same basic game as before, I think, but this time he’s taking it through to the end. It isn’t enough for him to hide in the shadows anymore. He wants to hit St. Oswald’s where it really hurts.”
“But why?” she said.
I sighed, feeling suddenly very tired. “I liked him,” I said irrelevantly. “I still like him.”
There was a long silence.
“Have you called the police?”
I nodded. “Marlene has.”
“Then they’ll find him,” she said. “Don’t worry, Mr. Straitley. We might get to have that birthday drink after all.”
9
Needless to say my own birthday was a sad affair. I understood, however, that it was a necessary stage, and I opened my presents, still waiting under the bed in their gaudy wrappers, with gritted-teeth determination. There were letters too—all the letters I had previously scorned—and now I gave every word my obsessive attention, combing through the reams of nonsense for the few precious scraps that would complete my metamorphosis. Dear Munchkin, I hope you got the clothes I sent you. I hope they all fit! Children seem to grow up so much faster here in Paris, and I do want you to look nice for your visit. You’ll be quite grown-up by now, I suppose. I can hardly believe I’m nearly thirty. The doctor says I can’t have any more children. Thank goodness I’ve still got you, my love. It’s as if God has given me a second chance.
The packages contained more clothes than I’d ever owned in my entire life. Little outfits from Printemps or Galeries Lafayette, little sweaters in sugared-almond colors, two coats (a red one for winter and a green one for spring), and any number of little tops, T-shirts, and shorts.
The police had been very gentle with me. As well they might; I’d had a terrible shock. They sent a nice lady officer to ask me some questions, and I answered them with becoming forthrightness and the occasional tear. I was told several times that I had been very brave. My mother was proud of me; the nice lady officer was proud of me; it would be over soon and all I had to do was tell the truth and not be afraid of anything.
It’s funny, isn’t it, how easy it is to believe the worst. My story was simple (I’ve found lies are always best served as plainly as possible), and the police lady listened to it keenly, without interruption or apparent disbelief.
Officially, the school declared it a tragic accident. My father’s death closed the matter rather conveniently, even gaining him some posthumous sympathy from the local press. His suicide was put down to extreme remorse following the death of a young trespasser on his watch, and the other details—including the presence of a mystery boy—were rapidly set aside.
Mrs. Mitchell, who might have been a problem, was given substantial compensation and a new job as Bishop’s secretary—they had become rather close friends in the weeks that followed Leon’s death. Bishop himself—recently promoted—was warned by the Head that any further investigation of the unfortunate incident would be both detrimental to the reputation of St. Oswald’s, and a dereliction of his duties as Second Master.
That left Straitley. Not so different then as now; a man gray-haired before his time, delighting in absurdity, rather slimmer than he is now but still ungainly, a shambling albatross of a man in his dusty gown and leather slippers. Leon never respected him quite as I did; saw him as a harmless buffoon, likeable enough, clever in his way, but essentially not a threat. Still, it was Straitley who came closest to seeing the truth, and it was only his arrogance—the arrogance of St. Oswald’s—that blinded him to the obvious.
I suppose I should have been grateful. But a talent like mine begs to be acknowledged, and of all the casual insults St. Oswald’s has thrown at me over the years, I think it is his I remember most vividly. His look of surprise—and yes, condescension—as he looked at me—dismissed me—for the second time.
Of course I wasn’t thinking clearly. Still blinded by guilt, confusion, fear, I had yet to learn one of life’s most shocking and closely guarded truths: remorse fades, like anything else. Perhaps I wanted to be caught that day; to prove to myself that order still ruled; to keep the myth of St. Oswald’s intact in my heart; and most of all, after five years in the shadows, to finally take my place under the lights.
And Straitley? In my long game against St. Oswald’s, it has always been Straitley, and not the Head, who has played the king’s role. A slow mover, the king; but a powerful enemy. Even so, a well-placed pawn may bring him down. Not that I wished for that, no. Absurd as it was, I wished, not for his destruction, but for his respect, his approval. I had been the Invisible Man for much too long, the ghost in St. Oswald’s creaking machine. Now at last I wanted him to look at me—to see me—and concede, if not a win, then perhaps a draw.
I was in the kitchen when he finally called at the house. It was my birthday, just before dinner, and I’d spent half the day shopping with my mother, and the other half discussing my future and making plans.
A knock on the door—I guessed who it was. I knew him so well, you see—albeit from a distance—and I had been expecting his visit. I knew he, of all men, would never take the easy solution over the just. Firm, but fair, was Roy Straitley; with a natural propensity to believe the best of anyone. John’s reputation cut no ice with him; nor did the New Head’s veiled threats; nor the speculations in that day’s Examiner. Even the possible damage to St. Oswald’s was secondary to this. Straitley was Leon’s form teacher, and to Straitley, his boys mattered more than anything else.
At first my mother wouldn’t let him in. He’d called twice before, she told me, once when I was in bed and once more as I was changing my clothes, discarding my Pinchbeck gear for one of the Paris outfits she’d sent in her innumerable care packages.
“Mrs. Snyde, if you could just let me in for a moment—”