Different Class (32 page)

Thank gods, I have St Oswald’s.

P
ART
F
IVE

Veritas nunquam perit.

(S
ENECA
)

1

January 1982

It was the morning of New Year’s Day when the police arrived at my door. Two officers, both men, both with the look of officials with an unpleasant task to perform.

‘Roy Straitley?’

‘
Mea culpa
,’ I said.

Perhaps not the happiest choice of words. But I had been expecting them. I was Nutter’s form-master. And it had been a couple of days now since the boy’s disappearance. Two officers, one old, one young, both with the same appraising eyes – they might almost have been father and son. I invited them in, but they would not sit down, remaining in the hallway, like door-to-door salesmen with nothing to sell.

I told them what I knew, which wasn’t much; that the boy had been away from School during the last two weeks of term; that I had been making enquiries.

The elder of the two men, a man in his fifties called Stackhouse, said: ‘Why’s that?’

I explained that one of Nutter’s friends had expressed concern.

‘Concern about what?’

I shook my head. ‘He just thought Nutter wasn’t himself.’

‘And what do you think he meant by that?’

I thought back to my interview with little Johnny Harrington. ‘I’m really not sure,’ I said at last. ‘Something about not going to church, and seeming preoccupied.’

Stackhouse wrote something in his notebook. ‘And did you speak to Charlie Nutter about this?’

‘No,’ I said.

‘Why not?’

I thought he sounded unduly sharp. But then, I thought, the British police were trained in the art of suspicion. It was their job to question and probe, and their close proximity to the baser elements of the community meant that trust and goodwill were not likely to feature high on their list of priorities. The only real contact with the police I’d had in my professional life was when Sergeant Rose, the liaison officer, came in once a term to take Assembly.

Sergeant Rose was twinkly-eyed, friendly and nearing retirement. His role was to establish links with St Oswald’s and the community, and try to recruit as many of our less academic boys as possible. He was also a consummate actor, and on the few occasions when we’d needed one of our boys to receive a salutary shock, he had dropped his cloak of affability to reveal the gimlet-eyed lawman beneath. I liked Sergeant Rose, but did not believe for a moment that his act was anything other than a clever PR strategy. Stackhouse and his partner, Noakes, were not from the PR branch of the force, and their eyes were frankly hostile in their flat, expressionless faces – much like those of boys in my class forced to study Vergil against their inclination.

‘Won’t you sit down and have tea?’ I said.

Stackhouse shook his head. ‘No thanks. Lots to do this morning. You were telling us why you didn’t speak to Charlie Nutter when you had the chance.’

I started to explain about the end of term, and absences, and School reports, and commitments. Stackhouse wrote it down in his book. Noakes just nodded occasionally, as if he rather sympathized. I realized later that the nod was merely a meaningless tic, indicative neither of understanding nor approval.

‘Did anyone else speak to the boy?’ he said. ‘A colleague, maybe?’

‘I think Harry Clarke may have had a word. He knows him better than I do.’

Stackhouse and Noakes exchanged glances. ‘Thank you, Mr Straitley,’ said Noakes. ‘You’ve been extremely helpful.’

That made me feel slightly uneasy. I didn’t feel I’d told them much. But I had seen the face of the older man as soon as I’d mentioned Harry’s name, and the way his eyes had lit.

‘Is there news of Charlie?’ I said. ‘Does anyone know where he might have gone?’

Stackhouse’s face was expressionless. ‘I’m afraid I can’t discuss that,’ he said. ‘I shan’t disturb you any longer.’

Even then, I think I sensed that something bad was happening. The days between Christmas and the New Year had always seemed dark and ominous; but now, with my father growing increasingly ill and one of my boys missing from home, the darkness had grown like a shadow. But one boy’s disappearance was far from being headline news. A bombing by Welsh nationalists; mass disruption from the snow; the imminent threat of a miners’ strike – all took precedence over one missing boy. Nutter appeared on Page 4, where, in the absence of real news, speculation was all we had. A number of theories had been voiced, including the possibility that this might be a kidnapping, designed to put pressure on Nutter, MP, whose outspoken views – on Northern Ireland, for instance – might have attracted attention. But Nutter was neither interesting, nor photogenic, nor young enough to win readers’ hearts, and so, for the first few days, at least, other things took centre stage.

One was my father’s condition. The other was Eric, who’d been facing troubles of his own, and whose mother (with whom he lived) was already beginning to show the first signs of dementia. Eric was devoted to his mother, and, knowing I’d experienced something similar with my own parents, had taken to calling on me at home for reassurance and advice. Not that I had much to give; but over that Christmas he called at my house every couple of days or so. He called by again on New Year’s Eve – the day after Nutter disappeared – looking, as always, slightly harassed.

Eric knew Charlie Nutter, of course, although he’d never taught him, and the boy’s disappearance had obviously upset him more than I would have expected. We talked about it for some time, speculating fruitlessly on why the boy might have run away – neither of us dared believe that Charlie Nutter might be dead – until I happened to mention my conversation with Harry on the subject of Nutter’s sexuality.

‘Did you tell the police?’ Eric said.

I shook my head. ‘Is it relevant?’

Eric shrugged. ‘You hear stories,’ he said.

‘What kind of stories?’

‘I don’t know. Perverts, preying on young boys.’ He lit a Gauloise. He’d recently taken up smoking, mostly, I thought, to calm his nerves. Eric could be sensitive about the most unlikely things, and his mother’s illness, the end of term, and Nutter’s disappearance all seemed to have added to the strain.

He said: ‘Have you spoken to Harry yet?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘Do you think I should?’

Eric shook his head. ‘No. I think you should keep well away. Because if that boy turns up dead, they’re going to be asking questions.’

‘That’s ridiculous,’ I said. ‘Why? You think because Harry’s gay—’

Eric gave me an odd look – scornful, and yet somehow envious. ‘You always were an idiot, Straits,’ he said, using my nickname for the first time in over twenty years. ‘You never could help jumping in with both feet, when you should have run like the wind.’

Later, I wondered what he’d meant. Was he accusing Harry? Was he, like the Chaplain, afraid that Harry might corrupt the boys?

I sometimes wondered what might have happened if I’d gone to see Harry that night. Could I have warned him, somehow? Or would that just have made things worse? Of course, there’s no way of knowing now. Hindsight is a cruel gift, always arriving much too late. And so, when Eric had gone, I did what I always did at that time of year: I started to prepare for the new term. Class lists; lesson plans; Sixth-Form essays to be marked. I did not
forget
Charlie Nutter – but I muted him, like a radio, while other things took precedence.

And then, on the third of January, came the call I’d been dreading. My father had been taken ill. Pneumonia, the doctors said; but I knew better. He’d given up. I’d known in my heart that it was the end as soon as I’d seen him at Christmas, and part of me was as relieved as the other part was guilty. I went at once to Meadowbank, where I waited with him for twenty-four hours. Typically, he chose to die during the fifteen-minute break I’d taken to pick up some supplies – a toothbrush, a packet of Gauloises, a sandwich, the local paper – so that when I returned, it was over, and he was already cooling.

How very like my father, I thought. How like him to withdraw from even that small, final contact. Throughout his life, I could not remember him touching me, except to shake hands. And now he was gone, I couldn’t find the grief that I was meant to feel: only a sense of deep fatigue and a headache that refused to shift.

I couldn’t face going home straight away. I ate my sandwich (tomato and cheese), although I’d lost my appetite. I drank a cup of Meadowbank tea – which always tasted mysteriously of fish – and read the paper I’d just bought. And that was how I came to learn that a body had been found in one of the White City clay pits – the body of a young boy yet to be identified . . .

2

January 1982

I don’t want to discuss that now. Have some decorum, Mousey. New Year is a Fresh Start, filled with Resolutions. Number One: no more clay pits: no more hanging around playing games. This year is an Important Year, so my father tells me. I’ll be fifteen. I need to Shape Up. Number Two: no more moping around Mr Clarke’s room at lunchtimes. He’s just a teacher, not a friend. He doesn’t know shit about me. Number Three: Get a Girlfriend. Get my parents off my back.

I’m also going to tear three pages out of my St Oswald’s diary. That’s because this is a Fresh Start, and we’re going to forget about that. Instead, I will think about New Year; ride my new bike around the estate; do some homework from Straitley, who seems to think that Latin should play a role in every part of my life; then maybe a trip to the pictures (
Excalibur
), with Goldie and his girlfriend necking on the back row and me in front with the popcorn, pretending not to notice.

Nothing very different from any other holiday; bad TV and leftovers; New Year’s Eve and pantomime; thank-you notes; snow turning to slush all along the pavements. Nothing special, except for
one
thing, which you and I will not discuss.

No, I haven’t seen Poodle. I’ve already told that to the police. It’s not like we’re
close
or anything, and Christmas is a family time. I’m sure he’s OK, though. That’s what I said. He’s always been a bit nervous. And he’s been under pressure, too, especially from Mr Straitley, who doesn’t seem to like him much, and picks on him all the time at school. That’s what I told the policeman who came to talk to my parents. He wrote it all down in his notebook. He seemed very attentive. I mentioned Mr Clarke, too. I said he and Mr Straitley were friends. He asked me if Mr Straitley ever made me uncomfortable. I told him yes, he did. (It was true.) I think he’s been over to Goldie’s, too. And to Mr Speight’s house. But I don’t think Goldie will say much. I know he won’t mention the clay pits. He’s been too busy this Christmas trying to get inside Becky Price’s knickers, and he knows that if he opens his mouth, I’ll tell his dad, and he’ll give him hell.

As for Harry –
Mr Clarke
—

Mousey, that’s all over now. Poodle’s gone and spoilt everything. I can never go to his house; or talk to him in his form-room; or even give him his present. It’s over, just like Netherton Green. I may as well get used to it. I don’t need to tell
you
what happened, of course. That’s something I’ll
never
forget. But it makes me feel like something died. I mean, something apart from the obvious. And the worst of it is, I can’t even tell – not even you, Mousey.