Gentlemen & Players (22 page)

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.

“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.

Don’t imagine I
enjoyed
it; in fact I find any kind of violence repulsive and would much have preferred to let Knight fall to his death from a high place, or choke on a peanut—anything but this primitive and messy solution. Still, there’s no denying that it
was
a solution, and a good one too. Once Knight had declared himself he couldn’t be allowed to live; and besides, I need Knight for the next stage.

Bait, if you like.

I borrowed his phone for a moment or two, wiping it clean on the damp grass. After that I switched it off and put it in my pocket. Then I covered Knight’s face in a black plastic sack (I always carry a few in the car, just in case), secured in place with an elastic band. I did the same with Knight’s hands. I sat him in a broken armchair near the base of the pile and anchored him in place with a block of magazines held together with string. By the time I had finished he looked just like the other guys waiting on the unlit pyre, though perhaps less realistic than some.

An old man walking a dog came along as I was working. He greeted me; the dog barked, and they both passed by. Neither of them noticed the blood on the grass, and as for the body itself—I’ve discovered that as long as you don’t
behave
like a murderer, no one will assume you
are
a murderer, whatever evidence exists to the contrary. If ever I decide to turn to robbery (and one day I might; I’d like to think I have more than one string to my bow), I will wear a mask and a striped jersey, and carry a bag marked SWAG. If anyone sees me, they will simply assume that I am on my way to a fancy-dress party and think nothing of it. People, I find, are for the most part
very
unobservant, especially of the things that are going on right beneath their noses.

I celebrated with
fire. It is traditional, after all.

I found the gatehouse burned rather well, given the old damp problem. My only regret was that the new Porter—Shuttleworth, I think his name is—had not yet moved in. Still, with the house empty and Jimmy suspended, I couldn’t have chosen a more convenient time.

There is a certain amount of video security at St. Oswald’s, though most of it is destined for the front gate and its imposing entrance. I was willing to take the risk that the Porter’s house would not. All the same, I wore a hooded top, just baggy enough for camouflage. Any camera would simply show a hooded figure, carrying two unlabeled cans and with a school satchel slung over one shoulder, running along the side of the perimeter fence in the direction of the house.

Breaking in was easy. Less easy were the memories that seemed to seep out of the walls: the smell of my father; that sourness; the phantom reek of Cinnabar. Most of the furniture had belonged to St. Oswald’s. It was still there: the dresser; the clock; the heavy dining table and chairs that we never used. A pale rectangle on the living room wallpaper where my father had hung a picture (a sentimental print of a little girl with a puppy) unexpectedly tore at my heart.

I was suddenly, absurdly reminded of Roy Straitley’s house, with its rows of school photographs, smiling boys in faded uniforms, the fixed, expectant faces of the brash young dead. It was terrible. Worse, it was
banal
. I had expected to take my time, to splash petrol across the old carpets, the old furniture, with a joyful step. Instead I did what had to be done in furtive haste and ran, feeling like a sneak, like a trespasser, for the first time I could remember since that day at St. Oswald’s, when I first saw the lovely building, its windows shining in the sun, and wanted it for my own.

That was something Leon never understood. He never really
saw
St. Oswald’s; its grace, its history, its arrogant
rightness
. To him it was just a school; desks to be carved upon, walls to be graffitied, teachers to be mocked and defied. So wrong, Leon. So childishly, fatally wrong.

And so I burned the gatehouse; and instead of the elation I had anticipated, I felt nothing but a slinking remorse, that weakest and most useless of emotions, as the gleeful flames pranced and roared.

By the time the police arrived, I had recovered. Having changed my baggy sweatshirt for something more appropriate, I stayed for just long enough to tell them what they wanted to hear (a youth, hooded, fleeing the scene) and to allow them to find the cans and discarded satchel. By which time the fire engines had arrived too, and I stepped aside to let them do their job. Not that there was much for them to do by then; the gatehouse was mostly ash before they even pulled into the drive.

A student prank,
the
Examiner
will say on Monday morning: a Hallowe’en stunt taken criminally far. My champagne tasted a little flat; but I drank it anyway while making a couple of routine calls with Knight’s borrowed phone and listening to the sounds of fireworks and the voices of young revelers—witches, ghouls, and vampires—as they ran down the alleys below me.

If I sit in exactly the right position at my window, I can just see Dog Lane. I wonder if Straitley is sitting at
his
window tonight, lights dimmed, curtain drawn. He expects trouble, that’s for sure. From Knight, or someone else—Sunnybankers or shadowy spirits. Straitley believes in ghosts—as well he might—and tonight, they are out in force, like memories set loose to prey upon the living.

Let them prey. The dead don’t have much to amuse them. I’ve done my bit; stuck my little spanner in the school’s old works. Call it a sacrifice, if you like. A payment in blood. If that doesn’t satisfy them, nothing will.