The Standing Water (52 page)

‘Oh no, she didn’t
Mr Weirton.’ Perkins shook her head, but her lips were pinched, her brow creased.
Her face lacked the smug certainty with which she’d answered that question last
time.

Other people were having
doubts – some much more serious than my own. One day, Stubbs got it into his
brain to go round telling everybody he no longer believed in God and Jesus. The
idiot skipped in the playground, grin big, arms swinging, yelling out his crazy
ideas. I trembled for the danger that buffoon was putting himself into. I
glanced up at the sky. Masses of black and grey clouds floated, shifting over
one another. I just hoped – for Stubbs’s sake – those clouds were thick enough
to stop the Lord hearing Dennis’s high voice. The evidence of His great wrath
was branded forever on Jonathon’s brow; the theft of just one item from His
holy house had made Him almost drown Emberfield. What punishments could He
flash down to smite Stubbs for his outrageous disbelief? The Lord seemed not to
hear Stubbs that day, but Weirton’s ears were sharper. He’d been standing on
his promontory, gazing out across the flatlands with the same blank-eyed stare
with which he’d gawped at the pool. But, as Stubbs pranced below him singing
out his cheerful blasphemies, the teacher’s body jolted. He twisted his face
one way then the next, mouth hanging, eyes hunting the offender. Those eyes
fastened on Stubbs. The teacher ran from his platform, jogged down the steps
and paced across the playground to the boy, who was still skipping and flinging
arms, oblivious to what was about to swoop upon him.

‘By God, Dennis Stubbs!’
Weirton thrust his finger at that lad. ‘I’ve never heard anything like it! I’ll
beat those demons out of you that are making you blaspheme! I’ll pound the evil
from you so the Lord does not send upon us more fire and flood!’

Stubbs froze in
mid-prance. Like a comic statue, he remained in the same pose, his gormless
face set between horror and triumph. The teacher’s hand flew out, grabbed
Stubbs’s wrist, hauled him up.

‘By God!’ Weirton
bellowed. ‘I’ll thrash those devils from you!’

The kids stared as
Weirton stepped into his sideways stance, moved his right hand back and high.
In the playground’s opposite corner, Perkins gawped, shook her head as if not
quite able to take in Weirton’s words. Like the other kids, Helen Jacobs stood
– open-mouthed, eyes swelling – yet there was more than fear and shock in her
expression. A kind of distaste or disapproval I hadn’t seen before flickered
over her features.

‘
Daring
to
deny God!’ Weirton yelled. ‘The
Devil
is in you, boy!’

The hand plummeted.
The impact echoed across the playground, over the field. Another whack whistled
down, the strike resounded and soon the teacher had slipped into a pounding
trance. Over and over again the palm swept; Dennis sailed up and swung back as
that merciless hand beat. Soon Dennis was pale, choking, his lips spasming for
breath. Sweat gushed down Weirton’s face, but this didn’t prevent the teacher
yelling, ‘Don’t feel so clever now, do we? Well, I won’t stop till every demon’s
walloped out of you! I won’t stop till the Lord’s work is done!’

And stop, he didn’t.
The hand kept flying, bashing out its vengeance as impact after impact
reverberated, as tears arced. Stubbs’s face sheet-white, he desperately gasped
for air. Weirton’s cheeks glowed, but the teacher powered on. More whacks came;
the teacher’s breath jerked in heavy pants; the holding arm trembled;
exhaustion screwed his face, but still he went on thrashing as Stubbs gurgled
and sobbed. The hand hammered on and on, slamming endless whacks into Dennis. Eventually,
the holding arm juddered so much that – simply unable to keep Stubbs up – in
jolts and jerks it lowered the boy. Even after Stubbs’s feet had touched the
ground, the teacher got in a last couple of wallops. Weirton let go of Stubbs’s
wrist; the boy collapsed. He banged onto his knees then sprawled on the
playground – a strange jumble of flesh and bones. Sobs shuddered through him; hiccups
lurched out. Weirton could hardly stand. He gripped the edge of his promontory
as his scarlet face shone, as he sucked air in enormous gulps. Perkins crept up,
began to pick Dennis from the asphalt. Between rasping breaths, Weirton
stammered, ‘Mrs Perkins, please … supervise the children … I must go inside … I
must go in to recover.’

The teacher
staggered towards the steps – walking like a pupil after one of his hidings. He
swayed and teetered up them then hobbled down the path at the school’s side.
Both hands inched up to grasp his chest.

After school that
day, Jonathon and I spotted Weirton fishing in the pond. Again he sat on his
chair, gripping his rod. There was no rain so the kagool hood was down. We
sneaked behind the pub’s fence then watched our teacher. There was little sign
of his earlier exertions. The mouth pulled in steady breaths; the eyes rested
on the brown waters. But I soon realised Weirton wasn’t calm. A tremble jerked
through his hands, making his rod quiver. A twitch pulsed in one cheek. As for
his gaze, it was a manic stare: as if the teacher were testing himself and the
pool, daring himself to go on looking at it, daring that dread pond to try
something. Apart from his shivers, Weirton sat without movement as the minutes
dragged by.

‘He must be going
mad!’ Jonathon whispered.

‘All the worse for
us then!’ I hissed. ‘You saw what he did to Stubbsy! Never seen him give out
such a huge whacking – and I’ve seen lots of tre-mend-ous ones! I really
thought Stubbs might be joining Marcus in haunting Emberfield!’

‘Yeah, Perkins had
to
carry
him back into the school!’

‘We’ve
got
to do something about Weirton before he kills someone! OK, he didn’t kill Lucy,
but I’m
sure
he killed Marcus!’

‘Yeah,’ Jonathon
said. ‘We
have
to get rid of Weirton! But how? How?’

The whole town was
discussing Weirton’s antics at the pool. At the dinner table in Jonathon’s
house, I watched the brother fight his smirks as his parents talked about ‘the
little eccentricities of our headmaster’. Though they let out long puffs of
worried air, though concern crinkled their faces, they spoke of ‘sticking by Mr
Weirton’.

‘It’s what he does
in the school that matters,’ Mr Browning said. ‘And there are
no
problems there! If anything, the discipline’s getting stronger – it’s
iron
from what I gather!’

‘Yes,’ his wife
replied. ‘Good old Mr Weirton – he’s one of the last of a dying breed. I really
hope he’s OK.’

‘Course he is!’ Mr
Browning said, though his eyes flicked in uneasy glances round the table. ‘Course
he is! And long may he continue whipping our kids into shape!’

In the shop, all
the chat I overheard was about Weirton’s fishing endeavours. Mrs Stubbs
wondered if ‘Mr Weirton maybe just needs a little break’; Davis still had ‘no
idea what he hopes to catch in there, but let’s hope he’s around for a good
while to catch all the little scamps when they’re up to their misdemeanours’.
In the playground, when the headmaster’s eyes were focused elsewhere, kids had
fun ‘being Weirton’ – miming the fling of his rod, aping his stare into the pool,
perhaps – in gormless triumph – hauling out an old boot or rusty can: jabbing
their victorious fingers at that invisible prize. But such playacting was risky
– it earned gargantuan thrashings for Stubbs, Darren Hill. Whatever might have
been going on in Weirton’s head, there was little wrong with his right hand. As
the parents rallied to Weirton, as the kids acted out their mockeries, the only
person who puzzled me was Helen Jacobs. She talked of speaking to her father
about the infamous walloping Stubbs had drawn upon himself after saying he
didn’t believe in Christ, about the words Weirton had yelled out on that
occasion, about him fishing in the pond, about what ‘had happened there before’.
She said her dad ‘was making enquiries’. I wasn’t sure what Mr Jacobs could
enquire into, unless he wanted to be able to tell Weirton whether fish really did
skulk in Marcus’s pool.

Chill February
slithered into rainy March. Weirton could now be seen sitting by the pond most
afternoons, staring at its waters as the downpours thudded, gazing into that
pool even as thunder rolled, as the bellies of clouds were ripped open, as
forked lightning flickered. Sometimes he didn’t pull up his hood. He just sat
as the water streamed down his face, as the rain belted until it even flattened
the iron hairstyle. He went on gazing as blond-grey locks flopped over his
forehead.

But nothing had
flattened Weirton’s performance in the school. As the first days of March edged
past, Jonathon got two enormous hidings. I got three – massive wallopings that
even my long experience of Weirton’s hand couldn’t have prepared me for: the force
of the impacts, the way Weirton thrashed on until every gram of his strength
had left him, the airless state in which I swung up and swooped down, even
praying for death to save me from those lung-burning agonies. During the
evenings after those whackings, my eyes did wander to the window, get
hypnotised by the beckoning sheen of my bathwater. But that strange instinct
would – against my will – jolt into action and rip my gaze from those
shimmering portals I knew could lead me out of my painful world.

One day we passed
Weirton. The teacher was sitting, staring into the pond as the rain pounded its
wrath upon his bare head, crashed into the seething pool. Jonathon’s hand flew
up, smacked his brow.

‘Of course!’ he
said.

‘What?’

‘Why didn’t I think
of it before?’

‘Think of what?’

‘It’s simple!’

‘What is?’

‘Who needs complicated
robots? Who needs to wait for computers?’

Jonathon beckoned
me down the road. We were on the pub’s stinking corner before he whispered, ‘All
we need to do is shove Weirton into the pond!’

‘Yeah!’ I said. ‘So
Marcus can get him! Maybe Marcus just needs a bit of help – then he can kill
Weirton with his magic! Magic’s much better than science!’

‘I don’t know about
Marcus.’ Jonathon surprised me by shrugging his shoulders. ‘Maybe he’s in that
pond; maybe he’s not. But, anyway, Weirton might drown in there. It’s worth a
try.’

‘Yeah, let’s hope
Weirton can’t swim. And I’m sure Marcus will help pull him under! But …’

My smile dropped as
the practicalities of enacting Jonathon’s plan struck me.

‘What if Weirton
doesn’t drown? If we push him in and he sees us, imagine the whacking we’ll
get! We’ll probably end up like Marcus ourselves!’

‘We’ll go back to
our houses,’ Jonathon said. ‘Get old coats, different colours to our usual
ones. We’ll have the hoods up, and tie scarves around our faces – like in
gangster films! He’ll never know it’s us!’

My heart began to
thud as I saw the parts of Jonathon’s wonderfully evil plot fitting into place.

‘But Weirton’s so
huge,’ I said. ‘Are you sure we could shove him in there?’

‘Probably,’ said
Jonathon, having to speak louder now as the rain battered our kagools even more
strongly. ‘I reckon we each weigh about five stone; our clothes and shoes, maybe
another stone each. We need to run up and throw ourselves at Weirton – twelve
stone hitting him, fast!’

Jonathon slammed
his fist into his palm.

‘Should be enough
to knock him off his chair and, hopefully, into the pool!’

‘Yeah,’ I said.
‘Then Marcus should do the rest!’

We ran to our
homes. In my porch, I rummaged among the mouldy-smelling, damp jumble of
hanging coats. I found my old kagool from a couple of springs ago, stuffed it
in my satchel. I grabbed a scarf, a spare one of my dad’s. I sprinted from my
house, met Jonathon on our main street.

‘Did you get what
you were looking for?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Come on!’

I both prayed our
headmaster would still be fishing and begged God he would have packed up and
gone. Luckily, there was no one around to see us charging up the street. We
pelted past the gap that had once held the witch’s hand, skidded to a halt
opposite the pub. We peered down the school lane – Weirton’s dark bulk was there.

‘Let’s go!’
Jonathon whispered.

We sneaked across the
road then crept towards the pool, staying close to the pub’s fence. My heart
boomed at every step. How easily could that pub’s door swing open and an adult
stride out! But the door stayed closed, and we were soon nearing the pond. We
slipped into a mass of tall weeds, nettles and saplings that stood a little way
back from the bank. The rain bashed as we crept through that tangled thicket. I
begged God I wouldn’t step on a twig and startle Weirton, that some wicked
creepers wouldn’t snag my foot, send me smashing down. But – from the way the
vast body was hunched, from the way the neck thrust its now hooded head to
stare over the pool – it seemed the teacher had all his senses fixed on that
water. And the downpour was making so much noise I guessed it would mask the
sounds of our movements. Jonathon and I stopped, squatted down a couple of
metres behind Weirton.

‘Let’s get
changed!’ Jonathon hissed.

The rain went on
belting as we shuffled around, slipped our coats off, stuffed them in our satchels,
pulled our old ones on. We yanked up our hoods, tied our scarves around our
faces, dropped back into our squat. My heart banged. It would race for some
seconds, faster than I ever thought it could. It would then slow as I hauled in
a deep breath through my woolly mask before it rushed again. The teacher
remained in his stooped posture. Just Weirton’s back was jerking wider then
narrowing as his breath juddered.

‘Well,’ Jonathon
whispered, ‘this is it!’

I glanced around –
I could see no other people. There was just the teacher, the pond, the dark
plains stretching off. I spotted a couple of birds – ravens or crows – wheeling
far above. My mind now strangely calm, I thought it odd those creatures should
be flying in such a downpour. Surely they’d be better off sheltering their
sodden wings. I remembered a legend that such birds – ravens, crows and the
like – were harbingers of death, black-winged messengers from the otherworld:
messengers that would swoop down to bear souls away. Despite the deluge, those
birds went on with their eager circles over the headmaster.

‘Ready?’ Jonathon
hissed.

‘Yeah.’

‘Now!’

We charged from our
hiding place. The teacher didn’t turn. As my arms jolted, as my legs powered,
his back grew larger, until – like the flank of some elephant or whale – it
swamped my vision. I launched myself at him. For two seconds – slow, slow
seconds – I hurtled through the air. I floated in some state in which time’s
rules were altered. I saw Jonathon drifting next to me. I saw the clouds, the
trees, the drenched flatlands, the birds hovering. An impact – I sunk into wet
plastic, spongy flesh; I bounced off and was lying on my back on the pond’s
shore, watching those birds turn, dive towards the pool. I wriggled over onto
my front. Weirton’s rod floated in the pond; he staggered – like a drunk man –
at the water’s edge. He now tilted, trying to balance on one leg; his mouth
hung; his eyes fixed me with their stare. His arms waved in big arcs. Those
birds plunged, skimmed the teacher before gliding up. Weirton’s arms waved more
frantically. He stumbled back, slipped, flew up, lay horizontal on the air
before he crashed into the pool. Two massive waves jumped high then fell back
over him. The water pitched; we could see nothing of the teacher. Bubbles burbled
up near the pond’s middle.

‘Marcus!’ I gasped.

Something started
to twist and thrash. It bucked and writhed – sometimes just above, sometimes just
beneath the surface.

‘That’s Marcus
killing Weirton!’ I blurted. ‘Gobbling him down!’

I stared as the
struggle grew stronger. The protagonists vanished then the waters formed
themselves into a rocking rain-lashed peak that rose in the pool’s centre. This
summit thrust up and sloshed down a couple of times before the surface broke
and a towering monster appeared. It reared up, brandishing its fists. Flaps of
skin hung in dripping folds; a pointed caul crowned its head. The monster was
coated in raw mud and green slime; its putrid stench wafted. Its huge mouth
opened; it roared. I gripped the ground, as if the earth itself could somehow
protect me.

‘Boys!’ The
creature was booming. ‘You … boys!’

‘It’s Marcus!’ I
shouted.

‘Run!’ Jonathon
yelled.

The monster lurched
towards us, wading to the bank, gnashing its teeth. We scrambled up, stumbled
into a sprint. I glanced back; the monster had reached the shallows and broken
into an ungainly jog. My heart bashed; my arms pumped. Halfway down the school
lane, I again looked back. The monster was charging up Marcus’s bank, but it
slipped and for a second teetered, flinging mud-caked arms. It toppled
backwards and crashed into the pool. Churning ovals of liquid leapt up, smashed
down in vast explosions on the surface. I hurtled on then turned my head. The
pond still pitched; rain still whipped it, but it had sealed itself. Of the
monster, there was no sign. My heart vaulted as a hand thrust above the water.
A giant, non-human hand smeared with brown and green. The hand shook; its fingers
tightened as if they wanted to clench into a fist. But the hand grew limp,
flopped below the waves. I dashed on to the lane’s corner where I risked
another glimpse back. The rain still slashed at the pool, but its pitch and
toss were subsiding. Weirton’s chair lay upended on the bank; the shallows
lapped his rod. As for any life, I could see none.