The Red Road (34 page)

“Because it only lasts until
three, and then we can go and do what we want,” he said. “Playing
cricket usually turns into a complete mission, and we don’t get
back to school until after six. I don’t mind the game as such; it’s
just a little slow and takes up a lot of time.”

“Are you still playing the guitar,
then?”

“Yep. Going to try and join a band
when I get to university,” he said.

“Isn’t Stuart Evans doing that?”
I asked, remembering what Rob had told me back in September.

“No, he’s not even going to uni.
He’s just going to start a band with people from home and chance
that. He’s an idiot if you ask me. He’s going to leave himself
with nothing to fall back on.”

“Sure, but sometimes you have to
focus on one thing exclusively if you want it to work out,” I
argued.

“And what happens if it doesn’t,
which is what happens to most bands?” Rory said. “You’ll have
to get back to uni and end up as a mature student, and that would be
shit.”

“How so?”

“Once you’re over twenty-five or
so, you’re classed by the university as a mature student. You then
don’t really fit in with everyone else, as they’ve all come out
of school and are in the same boat, whereas you just look old to the
rest of them. Think about it – everyone else is eighteen or
nineteen, and you’re a quarter of a century.”

“Sure, but you’re all studying
together,” I said. “I don’t really see what the difference is.”

“It’s just the way people look
at it,” Rory said, shrugging.

“Something like a clique?” I
asked.

“Something like that.”

I nodded in understanding. It seemed
that life would always be full of cliques, no matter what you did or
where you went. Was that just general human nature? I wondered. A
‘them versus us’ mentality wherever you went? Surely not.

We came to the athletics training
field. We didn’t have a proper sports track, just quite a lot of
land to practice on that some of the workmen and gardeners would
paint running lanes onto. We rarely practised on proper tracks, as
that involved a trip to Hallmouth, the nearby town, and the school
wasn’t willing to finance the trip on a regular basis.

I saw that Rory had been right as to
who would be leading athletics today, and that Mr Bertrand was keen
for us to practice javelin throwing, as well as the shot put. Fine
with me. I always enjoyed chucking those things around.

Charlie Moon was assisting Mr
Bertrand outside the storeroom, removing the javelins and leaning
them up against the wall. I saw the hunchbacked Quasimodo lumbering
away from the storeroom, Mr Bertrand thanking him for opening it up.
The gardener mumbled something in return, but did not look up from
staring at the ground. I instinctively gave Quasimodo a wide berth as
he passed me, even though I didn’t have anything to fear from the
man. He didn’t look at either Rory or myself as he passed,
appearing quite downbeat, and I felt a little sorry for him. It must
have been awful to have been arrested and held under such suspicion.
He wasn’t right in the head to begin with, so what might that
experience have done to him?

“Ah, Crosthwaite and McGregor,”
Mr Bertrand said in his very thick French accent as we approached,
“would you please take these to the field for us to use later.
Please do not play with them, as they are not toys.”

“Alright, Crotty?” Moon smirked
as I approached, grabbing a handful of the poles and passing them to
me.

I had no idea why he was looking so
pleased with himself. Along with Rory and Moon, I walked the javelins
over to where the other boys were gathering for the afternoon’s
training, telling the second years and the odd first year, who had
some special reason for not playing cricket, not to touch them.
Despite this, a handful of sixth formers came over and selected which
of the javelins they wanted to use. I could have told them to return
the javelins, but I knew my words would fall on deaf ears.

“What are you smirking about,
Charlie?” I asked Moon, who was still grinning like a Cheshire Cat.

“Did you hear about that boy who
got killed at Rowford?”

“No,” I said. “Been sort of
busy with what’s been happening here.”

“A javelin impaled him,” Moon
said, pointing to the pile.

“Bullshit!” Rory said.

“One hundred percent the truth,”
Moon said. “He went to get his javelin back and someone threw one
at him, just to scare him. It actually hit him and went right through
him.”

“Rubbish, that’s impossible,”
I scowled at him. “Who told you that?”

“What are you talking about?”
one of the lower sixth boys asked. I forgot his name. It was either
Crowe or Swann or Sparrow or something bird-related. It might have
even been ‘Bird’. The guy was a bit of a loner from what I had
gathered and spent most of his time in his room, reading fantasy
books and comics.

“Moon says that
apparently
someone was killed by a javelin at Rowford,” I answered,
emphasising the alleged nature of the incident.

“No, that’s true,” the sixth
former said. “Didn’t happen recently, though. It was about ten
years ago, back in the eighties. People like to exaggerate what
happened. It didn’t kill him immediately; he died in hospital after
a week. Blood loss or heart attack or something like that.”

“But those can’t do that,” I
said, looking at the javelins. “They’re sharp, but I’m not sure
they would go into someone so easily.”

“They go into the ground okay,”
Rory said, driving one of the implements into the earth.

“And don’t forget the speed
they’ll have attained due to height and gravity,” the sixth
former said. “If it came down from far enough up, pointed straight
down, then it could actually go through you from the right angle.”

It sounded plausible, I guessed. But
it still sounded ... stupid.

Mr Bertrand was done fetching the
equipment and came over to us carrying a clipboard, a stopwatch
dangling from around his neck.

“Today, we will be doing the javelin
and the shot put,” he started.

“First and second years, too?”
the special case first year asked.

“First and second years, too,”
Mr Bertrand echoed.

“Yes!” came the exited voices of
the younger boys.

“But before that, we will be doing
the two hundred meters dash, and I have also decided that we should
do the one hundred metres hurdles.”

“Oh, I love the hurdles. Not!” I
heard someone say.

I wasn’t fond of them, either. I
spent more of the time knocking the damn things down than going over
them. I would just have to get through it as best I could, so I could
move on to the good stuff. Mr Bertrand began dictating who was going
to be doing what and in which order, when I saw a latecomer
approaching. It was Carson.

“Ah, Mr Young, you’re late,”
Mr Bertrand said.

“Sorry, I couldn’t find where we
were meeting,” he said.

“Well, you are now here. Good. Now
Sports Day is coming up—”

“What?” Rory said.

“Sports Day, 16th May.
A Saturday.”

“We’re still having Sports Day?”
the lower sixth boy asked.

“Yes. Why would we not be?” Mr
Bertrand asked, sounding a little annoyed at our display of
ignorance.

“Well, you know, because of the
murders and that.”

“Pah,” Mr Bertrand said. “It
is business as usual, as the headmaster has said. The school is the
same as it has always been.”

Aside from one-third of the boys
having left, security patrols walking the grounds, restrictions on
coming and going, and the constant sense of fear and uncertainty that
lingers in the air, it’s exactly the same
, I thought.

“Sports Day’s a Saturday?” one
of the boys then said. “Does that mean we get to go home afterwards,
if our parents come?”

“The headmaster is thinking about
it,” Mr Bertrand said, completely non-committal and seeming not to
care. “Young, you will help me to fetch the hurdles. The rest of
you will warm up. Twenty sit-ups and push-ups each. King will be in
charge until I get back. Make sure they do them,” he said to the
sixth former.

“Um ... sir, I could help with the
hurdles,” one of the second years offered, clearly keen to get out
of it. “It will take a while if it’s just one person doing it.”

“Yes, come on,” Mr Bertrand
said.

“Sir, I can help, too!” other
offers began.

“One more, then. The rest of you
will do the sit-ups. Start!”

~ ~ ~

As it turned out, I wasn’t the
only person at school who wasn’t aware that Sports Day was still
happening, and many reacted in total surprise when Mr Somers told us
during Butcher’s Thursday afternoon assembly.

As always, the pupils would be
travelling to Hallmouth on coaches. Those who weren’t participating
would be expected to sit in the stands and support their house,
cheering everyone on. I had learned very quickly that
non-participation could lead to a very, very boring day indeed, not
unlike what I had experienced while ‘playing’ cricket.

I quickly sought out a duty,
offering to run the four hundred metres. My decision to do athletics
that term, as well as the somewhat undesirable length of the run to
my fellow Butcher third years, meant that my offer was accepted
without challenge. I had to hide a smirk when I saw the look of
horror on Anthony Simmons’ face when he was forced to take part in
the relay race, even more so when I saw Charlie Smith being told that
he would be doing the hurdles. I saw Baz sigh with relief at that. I
had urged him not to shy away and to offer himself up for the two
hundred metres, so as not to get lumbered with any unwanted duties.

All in all, I found the choices of
Kenji Suzuki, our head of house, to be spot on. We actually stood a
good chance of winning this year. In past years, the head of house
had treated Sports Day as a source of amusement to himself and his
fellow upper sixth. The previous summer, Neil Booth, the then obese first
year boy (now a second year and still obese) had been made to do the
hurdles, for nothing more than to see him attempt to lift his girth
over them. The prefects had laughed from the stands as he had
flopped, fallen and crashed his way past the barriers, later putting
him on the
Murga List
for failing to come in first place. Yes,
that had been fair.

I trained for my four hundred metres
at each athletics meeting we had leading up to the day, being joined
on a couple of occasions by others in my year, who had left cricket
behind for the day to practice. I helped them with their relay baton
passes, before being scolded by Simmons and other members of the
Butcher Clique for assisting the other houses. Despite it being a
competition, I wasn’t willing to totally stick with one side. These
were my friends after all.

The big day arrived, and after a
simple breakfast of cereal, tea and toast (I avoided the cooked
breakfast, not wanting to run on a full stomach), I boarded the coach
allocated to Butcher and headed for the stadium. I discovered that I
had been wise in my choice of breakfast not long after. The school
had shifted the event schedule around, with my four hundred metres
being brought forward three hours, to midday. It meant that not only
did I get my participation in the day over and done with, but I could
explore the town afterwards.

~ ~ ~

“Did anyone see us?” Marvin
asked. He looked a little paranoid that one of the teachers might
have tailed us out of the stadium. I told him not to worry.

“Where are we going to go?” I
asked. “To the shops, to get some sweets and magazines?”

“The pub.”

I nodded but said nothing. I knew
how this would end.

“Take your ties off,” Marvin
then said, tugging his free and stuffing it into the inside pocket of
his jacket. “If they see our ties they’ll know we’re from St
Christopher’s and probably under age.”

Yes, that’s what will give us away
and not these obviously fake IDs, I thought, looking at my
sixteen-year-old self in the photo. Twenty pounds this had cost me,
and it was probably going to be confiscated within the next hour.
Still, if by some random chance it worked ...

“Is this how your next year will
be? Living at home, I mean?” Rory asked me.

“Walking out of school and going
into town during my study periods? I think so,” I said, thinking
back to the sixth formers that I had seen in the park back home the
previous September. I imagined myself in the same situation in the
coming months, drinking a can of beer, a hot blonde next to me,
giggling at my jokes, anecdotes and charming mannerisms. Okay, that
last one might have been stretching things a bit. Still, the whole
boarding school thing might be attractive to the female students,
intrigued to know what life had been like.

“Are you definitely leaving?”
Marvin asked.

“Definitely,” I said.

“Joe, you should stay,” Rob
said.

“There might not be a school to
come back to after this term, Rob,” I reminded him.

“Sure, but if the school stays
open, next year’s going to be cool.”

“How on Earth could it be cooler
than being at home, learning to drive and going to classes with
girls?” I asked somewhat incredulously. I had noticed that there
was a divide at St Christopher’s as to whether those leaving after
their GCSEs were in the right or the wrong. Were they cooler than
those that stayed or were they losers and dropouts who never really
fitted in? I wasn’t sure where I stood on that argument. I was glad
to see the backs of some people and disappointed with the departure
of others.

“Well, we get our own rooms, get
access to the Common Room, the bar, get to go to dances ...” Rob
said, though he didn’t sound terribly convinced by his own
arguments. They were terribly weak reasons, all four of us knew. He
sounded more like he was trying to convince himself, than me.