The Standing Water (17 page)

‘
WHAT
IS
GOING ON HERE!?’

Our circle parted;
the chanting died down. Weirton strode across the field, and – as my heart
started to knock – he marched up to our ring. He looked at Stubbs – a shattered
sobbing heap. He looked at the brother – frozen in a warlike pose: leg raised,
ready to swing; fists held up. Weirton’s mouth dropped; his eyes widened. His
gazed once more at Stubbs before swivelling his stare back to the brother.

Weirton’s hand flew
out, seized the brother’s wrist, dragged him up. His shoes left the grass – his
feet scrabbling in the air, as if wondering what had happened to the earth
below. Weirton drew his other hand back, swung it in a tremendous arc. The palm
collided with the brother’s behind; a crack rang out as the boy lurched up.
Body almost horizontal, his helpless feet waved before he fell back. The palm
rushed to meet him – again that noise blasted, again the brother sailed up. The
palm sped down once more – crashing into the brother’s falling body, flinging
him on his skyward journey. Weirton brought his arm right back; it whooshed as
it swept down. The palm banged onto the backside; I heard the brother’s breath
whistle out from between his teeth. Up again he flew – face white, mouth a
surprise-torn scar. Again the muscular arm slashed through the air; again the
strike resounded; again the brother shot up – he gave little gasps as he
struggled to get breath in. But before his lungs could be relieved, he was
yanked back and a massive blow flung all the air from his body. That hand
ploughed into the buttocks time after time; the brother flew up, got tugged
down. I was amazed no tears had come – the only noises from the brother were
his gasps and gurgles as he fought for breath. Weirton flung his body in a
sharp twist, hurling all his strength into the next strike. Down the hand
raced, the thud echoed across the field – and shards of salt water flew at all
angles. The brother’s dam had burst, the gallons streamed out – rivers coursing
down his ashen cheeks. Down the triumphant hand rushed – Weirton’s red sweating
face beamed in victory. The impact flung out more tears – one landed on my
neck, another on my cheek. The hand hurtled once more; out those salty shards
showered; the brother choked and spluttered as his body was pitched. Weirton
appeared to slip into a trance: perhaps he was lulled by his own beating
rhythm. The swoop of the arm, the flight of the body, the echo of the impact,
the hurl of tears each strike summoned: all seemed locked in the same tempo.
The hand went thrashing on. The ring of lads stared; just one or two smiles
quivered as the brother’s tears splattered us – Jonathon, Richard, Darren Hill
all had to wipe away those drops. Weirton’s sweat gushed as the hand sped down
and was pulled back. The arm holding the brother now shivered. Weirton’s face
had shaded through maroon to scarlet. But Weirton still managed to fling down a
couple more impacts before the sobbing choking child was lowered. Craig’s feet
touched the grass, Weirton released his arm and the brother – as if he had no
bones in his body – crumpled into a squat. His breath jerked and rasped as he
fed ravenous lungs. Still in his trance, Weirton swayed before he snapped his
attention back to the scene. He leaned over, resting one hand on a bent knee.
Out came the hankie to mop the sweat-soaked face; the teacher sucked air in
deep gulps until his breath grew stable.

‘Let that be a
lesson to you!’ he shouted, thrusting his finger at the brother. ‘Brawling on
the school field! Beating smaller boys! I was shocked – shocked! – by the
savagery I just saw! Savagery I wouldn’t have imagined even
you
were
capable of! Well, now you know how it feels to have someone bigger beat you!’

Craig bawled and
wept, as did Stubbs, who was still curled on the grass. The rhythms of their
sobs climbed and fell, weaving around one another.

‘Yes, let that be a
lesson to you all!’ Weirton spun his face, glaring at the circle of boys. ‘But
I have a feeling there isn’t just one troublemaker here – oh no, not when
Dennis Stubbs is involved! I’m going to get to the bottom of what’s happened
today – mark my words I am!’

Weirton’s hand shot
out, grabbed the wrist of the brother. He stooped and with his other hand
grasped Stubbs’s arm. Dragging both boys up, he began a hurried stride across
the field, back towards the school. The lads tottered after Weirton as he
wrenched their arms, as they tried to keep up, their dazed brains forcing their
feet to run. A couple of times each stumbled, fell on their knees, but the
headmaster didn’t slow. The boy was bounced and dragged along till he managed to
scrabble up. Weirton paused in the middle of the field, talked with Perkins,
telling her – I supposed – to watch the children. Then he resumed his rapid
stride, tugging his captives behind him, until the three of them disappeared
into the school.

After break, Stubbs
stood at the front of our class – he wept and snivelled; his bruised face was
turned down. His glasses had been clumsily patched with cellotape – the
shattered pane was back in place, giving him only one eye to look out of. Perkins
sat at her desk, passively blinking her thick eyelashes. Weirton strode back
and forth; his pink face sweated.

‘Now children –’
Weirton’s finger thrust up, puncturing the quiet air ‘– as some of you know, a
disgraceful
incident occurred in this morning’s break!’

Weirton let that
stressed word hover – let it flood the room with the vibrating severity of that
crime. When its echo had shuddered through us, Weirton continued.

‘A boy – a boy who
is in this room now – conceived the
wicked
idea of playing a spiteful trick
on one of his schoolmates!’

The voice was still
calm. Deep and rich, it juddered and modulated – spoke of an immense power
restrained. As my mind scrabbled to guess the meanings of certain dread words –
conceived, occurred, spiteful – Weirton went on.

‘A trick so nasty,
so
evil
, I can barely believe an innocent seven-year-old could have
thought of it. But if you’re old enough to commit the sin, you should be old
enough to take the
punishment
!’

The last word
reverberated. What would he do to Stubbsy? I thought of how the brother had dangled
and choked, of how if Weirton had gone just a little further we might have had
another Marcus. What could happen now if Weirton slipped into the same
thrashing trance he had with Craig, but failed to leave it in time? Fear made
my heart thud, but I also felt a guilty flame of pleasure rise at seeing Stubbs
the smug trickster brought low. I struggled to stop my lips curving into a
smirk. Weirton’s echoes had faded, and now we just heard Dennis’s snuffles, the
swish of the teacher’s trousers as he strode. After maybe a minute of weighty
quiet, the finger thrust as Weirton resumed his speech.

‘Yes, this boy
standing before you, this
joker
, this
buffoon
!’ Those words
triggered a swell of sniggers I battled to push down. ‘Thought it was a
laughing matter to play a prank on a classmate that could have seriously
injured or even …’

Weirton allowed a
lull.

‘Even killed him!’

We all gasped as
Weirton’s righteous finger swept up, as Weirton let his words resound. Again
his trousers rustled as he paced. His finger once more thrust into the air.

‘In case any of you
are unfamiliar with Dennis Stubbs’s crime, let me describe what he did.’

Weirton paused. I
glanced at Stubbs as he stood, head bent. Marks of the brother’s beating were
manifesting themselves. One ear had swollen into a fleshy cauliflower; his lips
were growing bulbous; the circles Richard had traced were darkening his eyes.
All over his body – I thought – the brother’s bruisings must ache. Pity for
Stubbs surged within me despite his evil crimes. But a glimpse of Weirton’s
grim face reminded me once more of the sinfulness of Stubbs’s actions.

‘Well,’ the voice
juddered, ‘this joker really covered himself in glory! He had the bright idea
to
lie
to a schoolmate and tell him he would give him money if … if … he
would …’

Weirton’s colour
was deepening; he was sweating more; the mouth was screwing itself into a
snarl. Like before a thunderstorm, we could feel the air grow denser, more humid.

‘Yes, Dennis Stubbs
had the
ingenious
idea to …’

Weirton leapt.
Meaty fists hammered his thighs; his face shone red alarm. The immense body
banged to the floor – I swear the ground rippled. On his third jump, Weirton
started to hurl out the details of Stubbs’s sin.

‘TO TELL A BOY TO
DROP A BRICK ON HIS HEAD! TO TELL HIM TO KNEEL DOWN AND HOLD IT AS FAR ABOVE
HIM AS HE COULD AND THEN AND THEN TO …’

Almost choking on
his rage, Weirton’s head seemed to bulge as pressure swelled within; the
TV-screen glasses misted; the face shaded into maroon as his fists pounded his
legs. Weirton jumped and fell as spittle flew with his shouts – landing on
tables, splattering children.

‘TELL HIM TO LET IT
GO! EVEN IF HE IS
STUPID
ENOUGH TO DO IT!’

Hands covered
mouths to mask twitching lips, quell bubbles of laughter; several knowing eyes
looked at Jonathon.

‘EVEN IF THE BOY IS
SO
MONUMENTALLY STUPID
– BY GOD, YOU COULD HAVE GIVEN HIM BRAIN DAMAGE!’

The leaps ceased;
the drumming on the thighs stopped. The teacher sucked air in big gulps as his
breath recovered. Weirton pulled out his hankie; wiped it across his face to
soak up pools and streams of sweat. He took off his glasses, gave them a wipe
too. In the aftermath of Weirton’s outburst, the air in the room seemed to
quake and quiver, fly about as if each gust were seeking to return to its old
place. When the teacher’s breath had jerked and jolted back to its normal
pattern, when the air was still once more, Weirton continued.

‘And so Dennis
Stubbs –’ the voice’s boom was calmer ‘– you understand that, for the good of
everyone, it must be demonstrated such behaviour is
totally
unacceptable!’

We’d watched as the
hand had thrashed; as Stubbs had swung and spluttered; as the tears had flown;
as Dennis had rasped and gurgled in his quest for air – the trembling lips
desperate to suck it in, the merciless hand beating it from Stubbs’s body. We’d
watched the horror in his eyes as the hand had thrashed on, watched those
frantic eyes darting – as if wondering whether they’d open to greet another
day. But eventually the boy was set down. Stubbs swayed and lurched across the
carpet in a ludicrous clown’s walk – balancing and teetering on his joke-shop
legs before he lowered his arse onto his hard seat. He shook and sobbed as
Weirton reached into his jacket, pulled out the dread brown envelope addressed
to Stubbs’s parents and sent it sailing on a curve across the room to land with
a slap on Dennis’s desk, a slap signifying many more wallops to come. Now it
was lunchtime. Jonathon and I stood on the field, out of the sight and hearing
of Weirton who strode on his platform. Stubbs and the brother were inside –
starting a long sentence of gloomy detentions, struggling through sums under
the gaze of Perkins.

‘Phew!’ I said. ‘Glad
we gave those toys to Marcus! Could have been us having bricks dropped on our
heads or being thrashed to within an inch of our lives by Weirton!’

‘Yeah,’ Jonathon
said, ‘a couple more whacks and with both Stubbs and my brother we could have
had another Lucy! Bit dim of Craig though – imagine letting Stubbs per-suade
you to drop a brick on your head for just one pound!’

‘Yeah, he’d have to
have promised at least two quid to me!’

‘Thank God for Marcus
protecting us though,’ I went on, ‘still no whackings from Weirton! And we
haven’t been beaten up by your brother or any other big lads!’

Jonathon stumbled
forwards in a tottering run – the result of a shove from Darren Hill, who stood
behind us with a gaggle of boys from all classes.

‘So, the Browning
family really covered itself in glory today!’ Hill said. ‘The mon-u-mental
stupidity of your brother dropping a brick on his head, followed by the
whacking of a lifetime!’

The little crowd
echoed approving sniggers.

‘Why don’t you come
with us, Browning?’ another lad said. ‘We’ve got a surprise for you.’

‘No thanks,’
Jonathon said.

He jerked his head
sideways to hint we should go. We began our walk away; but, after a couple of steps,
Hill’s hands flew down and grasped Jonathon’s shoulders. Other boys scooted around
him; their hands shot out, grabbing arms, legs, feet. Jonathon kicked, struggled
and protested, but the lads hoisted him up, raising him till he was held lying
flat at shoulder height. Boys supported sides, limbs, hands. Jonathon bucked
his body, lashed his arms and legs, but couldn’t fling himself free.

‘Let’s go!’ Hill
shouted.

The gang moved off;
Jonathon writhed, looking like someone violently tossing in his sleep. But
those writhings couldn’t overcome all those hands that clasped him. He was
clumsily transported, body stretched and prone beneath the weak clouded eye of
the spring sun. The gang came to the hedge, turned and carried their captive
along it.

‘He doesn’t like
it! Let him go!’ I yelled.

I ran at the
procession, barged a captor away, grabbed one of Jonathon’s arms and tried to
wrench him free. His bearers dragged him back; there was a tug-of-war. Jonathon
screamed as he was stretched in the middle. I’d heard legends of men being held
like that between four horses before being ripped into quarters. Could such a
thing happen to Jonathon? He was certainly shrieking enough, begging us to
stop. Hill let go of the arm he was pulling and strode round to me.  His fist
hurtled, slammed into my jaw. The world wheeled; the midday sky gave birth to
stars; I collapsed into a squat as those stars spun. I stumbled back up just as
Jonathon’s bearers reached the wall where the hedge ended. A few more steps,
and they started to put the struggling lad down. Body swaying, I forced my feet
into a tottering run and jogged closer to them. The lads now shoved Jonathon
into a kneeling pose – kids leant on his shoulders, a couple clamped his arms,
another two pushed down his thighs. A couple more stood and watched while
Darren reached into that now notorious patch of weeds and brambles. Face tensed,
Hill’s hand scrabbled in that tangle of plants. The hand stopped its searching;
whatever it had found tugged Hill’s lips into a grin. Hill drew back his arm –
like the brother’s it was blood-spotted where thorns had pricked it. And just
like the brother, Hill clutched a brick – its red also faded, its edges worn.

‘No!’ Jonathon
yelled.

Jonathon jerked his
shoulders; he writhed and wriggled, but couldn’t get free. The two idling lads
rushed to help hold him down. Hill approached bearing the brick.

‘So, Browning,’ he
said, ‘fancy following in the family tradition?’

‘No!’ Jonathon
shouted.

‘Let him go!’ I
yelled. ‘Mr Weirton said something like that can
kill
you!’

Hill turned, hurled
the brick at me. I ducked; that block flew, tumbling inches over my head. Waving
his fists, Hill charged in my direction; I ran; he picked up the brick; strode back
to the others. Hill’s attention again on Jonathon, I once more edged closer.

‘Hope you’re ready
to cover yourself in glory just like your brother did!’ Hill shouted.

‘The sins of the
brothers shall be visited on the brothers!’ another lad said, before his face
scrunched up as if surprised at those words. The others also glanced around,
brows crinkled, before Hill shouted.

‘Pull up his
hands!’

Jonathon screamed,
bucked and twisted, but the lads held him in place. His captors pulled his
shivering arms up till they were stretched above his head, just as his
brother’s had been.

‘Open his hands!’
Darren yelled.

Those hands were
gripped into fists, but, one-by-one, each finger was prised back until
Jonathon’s palms were flattened. Hill strode forward and placed the brick on the
platform those palms made. He stepped back, gazed at that worn block.

‘Get ready!’ Hill
shouted.

The lads kept
Jonathon pinned down, kept his quaking arms up.

‘Now!’

They jerked his
arms apart. The brick hovered for one second then plummeted. It slammed onto
Jonathon’s head; as with the brother it broke into halves, which bounced from
Jonathon’s shoulders before tumbling to the ground. I cringed at Jonathon’s
pain-twisted face; cringed at the thought of billions of universes destroyed –
planets pulverised, stars snuffed out. As with the brother, laughter erupted. Lads
rolled on the grass; their fists bashed the earth. They flipped over, kicked
their legs. Darren had flopped down on his knees. His shaking arm pointed at
Jonathon as giggles jerked through him. Head still bent from the brick’s
impact, Jonathon now looked up. His eyes whirled with the same dull agony the
brother’s had. I imagined the swirling cosmos of pain Jonathon’s skull
enclosed. Yes, he raised his face with its imbecilic blankness, its pupils
spiralling. The boys paused in their laughter then seeing his idiotic
expression, their giggles gushed again – again they flopped on the field,
rolled, kicked legs, beat fists. The laughter jolted through them till the lads
lay exhausted – their weakened fists still tapped the ground, mirth softly
jerked their feet. It took until the end of lunchtime before the boys could
haul themselves up and – arms round each other’s shoulders – hobble, still
shaken by their sniggers, back towards the steps. I helped Jonathon to his
feet.

‘My bloody brother
– the idiot!’ Jonathon murmured. ‘This is all his fault! I want to kill him
sometimes – to kill him!’

‘Better not kill
your brother!’ I said. ‘You know what happened to Cain!’

‘My bloody brother
– I’ll kill him!’

‘Sssshhh!’ I
hissed, firing a glance at the sky.