The Red Road (8 page)

“We just wanted to ask you a few
questions, Joe,” Inspector Richards said in a pleasant and cheery
voice. I nodded and said nothing, suddenly dumbstruck. “Don’t
worry,” he went on, “you’re not in trouble or anything. We just
want to ask you some simple questions about what you saw. Should only
take about ten minutes at most.”

I nodded again and answered the
questions they asked me. They were as simple as promised – Did you
know the victim? How did you find the body? Did you see anyone else
there? What time was it? How often do you go down the Road? Can you
think of any reason why the body might have been put there, rather
than anywhere else? Are there any pupils at the school who you think
might have reason to do something like this?

There were a few questions that set
me a little on edge, however – Why do you think no one else saw the
body as they went past? Had you ever seen the victim before? Had you
ever been in contact with them before the discovery?

I looked at the headmaster as the
questions began to make me feel uncomfortable, as if implying that I
was the killer or in some other way involved. Father Benedict,
however, said nothing, and neither did Mr Somers, leaving me to
answer for myself.

“Sorry for the questions, Joe,”
Richards said as Jones finished taking down notes. “We’re in no
way implying that you had anything to do with the murder, but we need
to ask these sorts of questions as a standard part of the
investigation. I think we’re done here now, Father,” he turned to
the headmaster. “We’ll be in touch later on.”

“Thank you,” Father Benedict
said, rising from his chair to shake their hands and show them out.

“Is that everything?” I asked
the headmaster, keen to get away from the office and back to the
sanctuary of my dormitory as soon as possible.

“There is one more thing,” the
headmaster said, indicating the man on the sofa behind me, who came
over to where I was sitting. “Have you met Steve Martin, the school
psychologist?”

Eh?
I thought, automatically
standing and shaking the man’s hand as he offered it to me.

“Ho ho, not
that
Steve
Martin, I assure you,” the man said, wearing a beaming smile. “My
stand-up career was quite short-lived, I can assure you. But no, I
take my work seriously and don’t make fun of any of my patients.”

“Are you new?” I asked,
wondering if the school had drafted someone new in, to help any of
the boys traumatised by recent events talk about it.

“Mr Martin has been working with
the school for quite some time,” Mr Somers informed me. “Luckily,
he doesn’t have to make too many visits.”

“I know that what you saw couldn’t
have been a very nice experience, so I’m here if you need any help
coping, Joe,” Martin explained. “I thought I would come by today
to see if there was anything you wanted to talk about?”

“Um ... no,” I said, looking to
the headmaster and my housemaster. “I’m okay for the moment. Just
want to focus on with my coursework and get ready for my mock GCSEs.”
I hoped I wasn’t sounding rude by dismissing the man so quickly.

“Okay, that’s no problem,”
Martin smiled again. “It’s good to carry on and focus on your
assignments. I don’t work far away and can be here whenever you
want. You need only let the headmaster or the nurse know if there are
things you want to talk about.”

I nodded, but added nothing more.

“Well, okay, I think that’s all
we needed you for, Joe,” Father Benedict said, moving to the door
and opening it to allow me to leave. “Thank you.”

~ ~ ~

“Some parents obviously hate their
children, as they thought they’d leave them here overnight, hoping
they’d get fucking strangled, too.”

I knew to whom the obnoxious tone
belonged as I made the return trip to Butcher, moving past the Marble
Stairs that led to all five floors of the main school building. I
tried to avoid making eye contact with the three sixth formers
walking up the stairs to the same level as me, but sadly I failed.
Craig Priest, Orson Bishop and Stefan Blanc. It was Priest that had
made the earlier quip. I subconsciously quickened my step to get away
from them.

“Oi, Crotty, was that police car
for you?” Priest asked. I ignored him. “Oi, you stupid prick;
don’t pretend you didn’t hear me.”

I scowled inwardly and turned to
face him. “Not for me, no. They came to talk to the headmaster and
just wanted to know what I saw.”

“Didn’t you tell them that it
was you?” Priest asked.

I glared, but said nothing.

“Hey, Crotty, is it true that your
parents never wanted you?” Priest asked then.

“What?”

“I’ve heard that they always
leave you here on Exit Weekends and never want you home,” Priest
said, looking to his two companions, who were grinning. “Did they
have you by mistake?”

“No,” I said, starting to walk
away.

“So why don’t they ever want you
going home, or come and get you right away when Parker was murdered?”
Priest asked, following after me.

What was the guy’s problem? Was he
seriously
that
bored with his life that he had to make himself
feel better by talking others down?

“Because they were busy
working,” I said over my shoulder.

“No, I’m not sure that’s the
reason,” Priest continued on in his mocking tone.

“Whatever.”

“
Le préservatif s'est
déchiré
,” Blanc said in his thick French accent.

I had no idea what he had just said,
but apparently Priest did, as he began laughing loudly. I ignored the
three and carried on walking back to Butcher.

I would be glad when the year was
over so I could get away from people such as Priest forever. He had
been a blight on my life ever since I had arrived at the school. For
a fleeting moment, I found myself wishing it had been someone like
him that I had spotted in those bushes. I pushed the thought aside quickly. I
wasn’t that sort of person.

Chapter Six

I
t
didn’t take long for the school term to settle down again. Less
than a week by my estimation. I already had coursework and projects
coming out of my ears, as well as an enormous and almost unfathomable
amount of prep to do.

It took me a little while to adjust to working
in my dormitory. Unlike prep in classrooms, where we would be made to
sit in silence, my third year saw plenty of opportunity for
procrastination. I was able to listen to music as I worked, as well
as read books and magazines that took my fancy. I could also sneak
into Sam’s and Baz’s dorms when they were working for a chat. We
were rarely ever caught either, the eternal excuse being that we were
working together on a project.

I also had the chance to witness the
results of the first years’ first experiences of the
Murga
.
Three from my dorm were made to attend the punishment the first
Friday it happened, likely for no other reason than the school
prefects wishing to break their spirits, and not because they had
actually done anything to warrant it. I heard them getting up at
five-thirty when one of their wristwatch alarms went off. They
crept quietly out of the dorm to change into their tracksuits and
made their way down to the main school gates. They came back in
around seven-forty, just as I was returning from my morning
shower. One of them, Gregory Miller, stank, apparently having been
made to roll around in something deeply unpleasant. I sent him to the
changing rooms immediately, so as not to dirty up the dormitory,
promising to bring his towel and wash bag down to the showers for
him. I found him crying as I did so, quite rattled by the whole
experience and never ever wanting to go through it again.

Only if
you leave now and don’t come back until you’re a sixth former
,
I almost told him. I knew I would be seeing a lot more grim faces in
the weeks to come; even more so when the winter set in proper.

As well as dorm prefect duties
(which essentially meant ensuring that the younger boys were in bed
on time, didn’t fight, or continually lamppost or apple turnover
one another’s beds) my third year in the senior school also opened
up a new realm of other responsibilities and opportunities, taking
charge of and proposing optional activities within the school, some
of which could turn out to be quite financially lucrative when done
right.

Probably the most profitable
activity in the school was dealing with one of the tuck shops. There
wasn’t any real trick to be had for making money there. It
basically boiled down to selling overpriced crisps, chocolate, and
drinks to the younger boys, and getting to travel out to the
wholesalers with the teachers once in a while, to buy up a load of
sweets at knocked-down prices. This was largely the realm of the
sixth formers, who would delight in charging two pounds for a can of
Coke and a (small) bag of Wotsits. Naturally, I avoided shopping
there as much as possible, unless someone I trusted was working the
window (and even then, the ‘discounts’ were rare). I tended to
bring my own treats in from home, locking them securely in my own
trunk, which lived under my bed. Sometimes I even sold what I had to
the other boys if they were feeling hungry.

The second best activity to
therefore get involved in, as far I was concerned, was the so-called
“World Film Club”. The idea behind this was simple – every
other Tuesday night a foreign film would be shown, picked by the boys
that ran the club. The club would have three main draws – first and
foremost, it took place during evening prep, meaning that instead of
studying, we were permitted to go and watch a film. Secondly, the
film was shown in a building that was somewhat detached from the main
grounds of the school and wasn’t frequented by the teachers all
that often. The film would be set up, and the teachers on duty,
having made sure everything was okay and we had everything we needed,
would then leave us to it. And the third reason? It was world cinema.
Non-English. Underground art house stuff. And to a group of thirteen
and fourteen-year-old boys, that basically meant porn.

Sign-ups for the World Film Club at
the start of the year would be huge, about thirty or forty boys
parting with twenty pounds each to join. These came mostly in the
form of the first years and any new arrivals to the second year. For
the price, the attendees would get to watch the film and enjoy
complementary snacks. The snacks rarely happened, and while some
likely expected bottles of Coke, popcorn, crisps and chocolates, what
got laid on was more like boiled sweets and mints.

I didn’t get a chance to run the
club myself. Two boys, Rory Smith and Marvin Trent, took charge from
the previous administrators, choosing as their first film a movie
called
Delicatessen
.

The initial turnout was huge, more than
forty boys cramming themselves into the television room. The number
halved within the first hour as people described the film as both
boring and total crap. Some were also put off by the subtitles, an
objection I found totally baffling given the name of the club they
had joined. English might be widely spoken, but that didn’t mean
every film would be in that language. In fact, few were.

Hoping that
some sort of pornography (or at least a naked woman or two, coupled
with an explicit sex scene) might still be on the cards, the second
film was attended by just eight, including myself, Rory and Marvin.
Luc Besson’s
Le Grand Bleu
was the next film that Marvin
chose, though despite this being an English-language film it still
failed to convince most to stay. Out of the initial fifty or so boys
that had signed up for the club, only two returned regularly.

Oddly, no one asked for their money
back. And after the numbers had dwindled sufficiently, we would
indeed start to rent out the more sexy stuff.

~ ~ ~

“Three tubes of Pringles?” I
asked, as Rory began setting up.

“No, just two; I’m keeping one
of them,” Rory said. “The Barbecue ones,” he added, as I
reached for the tube. That left the Original and the Sour Cream. Not
to worry, I liked both. There were only five of us here tonight,
three third years, one second year and one first year, so there were
enough Pringles to go around.

“What are we watching?” I asked.
“Not another horror film, I hope.”

“Are you still freaked out from
Hellraiser
?” Marvin chuckled.

“Okay. One, that attic scene was
gross. And second, I did see the dead body of a murdered schoolboy,”
I reminded them.

“Get over it,” Rory said,
attempting to tune in the video that had, for some reason, been
dismantled from the last time. “And, no, it’s not a horror film.
We’re not getting anything else in English for a while. Handjob had
a fit that we weren’t watching something in another language. ‘It’s
world cinema,’ I said, ‘which means we can also get stuff
made in
England
. And it was Halloween, too.’ He said it
didn’t actually count. Best not to risk it again. I
don’t want the club to be shut down.”

“So, what are we watching?” I
asked.

“
Spoorloos
,” Marvin
said. There was a twinkle in his eye.

It was quite possibly one of the most harrowing films I had ever watched, much worse than
Hellraiser
.
That the lead character was buried alive at the conclusion by the killer, suffering the same fate
as his former girlfriend, was certainly not the happiest of endings.

“Enjoy that, Joe?” Marvin asked, once the credits had
started rolling.

“Yeah, thanks, Marv,” I said. “That was precisely
not
the kind of film I wanted to watch
tonight.” Marv and Rory only laughed. I wondered if they had chosen it on purpose.
It was a pretty good film, I admitted, just not the sort I would have picked
to show at this moment in time.