The Standing Water (25 page)

Watched by the
tittering crowd, head still dizzy, I moved onto my knees. The brother now had
Jonathon in a headlock. Hill – fired up by his triumph over me – laid into him
with renewed power, victorious fists crashing onto back, ribs, stomach. Gleeful
stupidity curved the brother’s mouth into a smile.

‘What’s next?
What’s next?’ he asked the eager crowd.

‘I know,’ said
Stubbs. ‘Let’s throw him behind the altar rail – see if the legend’s true!’

‘Yeah, let’s!’
another kid urged.

‘We might see God’s
fireworks!’ said Richard Johnson, waving his fists excitedly.

The brother started
to haul Jonathon in that direction. Jonathon’s cries grew more desperate; he
struggled, dragged his feet, beat his sibling with his fists. Though he
couldn’t match the strength of the brother, lads rushed to help Craig. Stubbs
picked up the right leg, Richard the left. Boys grabbed hips, sides; Darren
clamped both hands. Jonathon was lifted till he was held at chest height. The
lads carried him headfirst towards the altar as a growing crowd of pupils trailed
after them. Jonathon shrieked, kicked and wiggled, but couldn’t break free.

‘Remember what
happened to the knight?’ Stubbs taunted. ‘Ready for God’s lightning?’

‘Might be
brilliant,’ Johnson said. ‘The whole end of the church could be smashed up!’

‘Zap!’ somebody
blurted.

‘Maybe they’ll hang
up Browning’s hand too!’ said Hill.

I tried to stand,
but my shaky legs and swimming head wouldn’t let me rise. Jonathon screamed and
jerked more frantically, writhed and bucked in a futile attempt to gain freedom.
Soon he was just two metres from that rail.

‘Ready to chuck
him?’ Stubbs said.

‘After a count of
three!’ shouted the brother.

‘One!’ the lads
chanted.

They swung the struggling
body, aiming it at the gap in the railings. I managed to hobble up onto my
feet, but my swaying legs were useless; I could only stretch a shaking arm out
in caution.

‘Two!’

Jonathon was swung
again – a battering ram to break into God’s most sacred realm.

‘Three!’

Jonathon shot on
the last of his preparatory swoops, face white, lips trembling. Back he lurched;
the boys’ bodies tensed as they readied themselves to pitch him into eternal
judgement. The crowd of kids watching grinned. My heart banged as Jonathon
plunged on his final sweep.

‘Stop!’ a lad
shouted as he ran into the church. ‘Weirton’s coming!’

The momentum
slackened; Jonathon was dropped onto the slabs. He winced as his knees and
elbows struck stone, but he quickly scrambled up and was soon struggling to
mime innocence. Weirton strode into the church, paced towards the crowd of
pupils. Behind him trailed Perkins and Suzie. Weirton must have ordered Perkins
to smack her in the graveyard. Suzie’s wails filled the church; her sobs chugged,
floated up to echo in the ceiling’s vault. Down her white face tears coursed as
her body jerked and shivered. Weirton marched up to the circle of kids.

‘Everything all right
here?’ the voice boomed.

‘Yes, Sir,’ they
chorused.

‘Good. Let’s go
back outside. You can finish the pictures you started earlier in the churchyard.’

‘Yes, Mr Weirton.’

‘Come on,
everybody!’ Weirton clapped his hands. ‘Time to leave!’

He strode off down
the aisle; the pupils followed. Suzie – still filling the church with the music
of her sobs – endured prods and pinches from the other girls. Jonathon and I
came last. As we dawdled across the slabs, Jonathon leaned close to my ear and
whispered.

‘That’s it! He’s
dead! I’m gonna kill him!’

‘Who?’ I asked,
trying to clear my still woozy mind.

‘My brother, of
course! He could’ve killed me!’

‘Better not kill
your brother,’ I murmured. ‘Remember what happened to Cain? Do you want God to
mark you forever – to make you wander without a home for the rest of your
life?’

‘It’d be worth it
to get rid of
him
! And if I had to leave Emberfield, at least I wouldn’t
have to go to school!’

Weirton clapped again
so we had to quicken our walk. He strode on, his heels clacking on the floor, leading
his crowd of squabbling, pushing, pinching children from God’s holy dwelling.

Soon we were out in
the churchyard, among the bones, the corruption of our forebears. Kids
hurriedly finished sketches, fearing the dread descent of that long-promised
inspection. The braver chased each other around the graves when the teachers
weren’t looking. My daze beginning to clear, I settled myself, reviewed and
touched up the sketches of earlier – a line strengthened here, a little shading
there; except, of course, there could be no improvement of that drawing of the
marble tomb, which now lay – a soggy, spike-crowned mass – next to that
memorial. I instead concentrated on what I had: adding the final flourishes to
those graveyard scenes I was rather proud of. I noticed Weirton was again at
the tap, wincing – but somehow also smiling – as the icy stream gushed over the
injured hand. He soaked his tie bandage, flexed his fingers before binding it
around those digits. I went back to my sketches, soon got lost again in my
shade and lines.

‘OK, everybody,
time to go!’

I was wrenched from
my concentration. A suck of breath, my heart launching itself into my throat –
it was the same every time that voice unexpectedly blasted.

‘Come on, look
sharp! I said it’s time to go!’

Weirton’s command
echoed through the churchyard. As we scrabbled across the grave-furrowed ground
to where Weirton stood, I wondered if any of those graves’ inhabitants were
desperately digging earth, fleshless fingers trying to scrape themselves up,
not daring to ignore the headmaster’s booming decree. I’d heard a legend that
if you placed a coin on a tombstone and danced round it seven times, the
skeletal arm wouldn’t be able to resist reaching out to claim the money. How
much more motivated would they be by the threat of the teacher’s hand colliding
with their fragile bones? But none of the dead managed to drag themselves
through the soil. We gathered around the headmaster, in front of the iron arch
we’d trudged under earlier. Back out we came, filing from the church’s hallowed
precinct, into the profaneness of boggy fields. Our shoes sucked the mud again
as we marched beneath the twin mounds of church and castle. The horses stayed
on the castle’s knoll, their big liquid eyes watching our progress. The stallion
snorted clouds of angry mist. Weirton left his place at the head of our
procession, took some strides towards the horse, shook his fist, locked it with
his stare. The horse tottered back some steps, drooped its head, reduced its
indignant puffs. A smile split Weirton’s face; he paced back to lead our line.
Perkins – nagging, tutting, hobbling – brought up the rear. Jonathon and I were
somewhere in the middle. He leaned towards me.

‘I’m not joking –
I’m gonna do it!’

‘Even if you have
to become like Cain?’ I whispered, with some furtive glances to make sure no one
could overhear.

‘Yeah.’

‘But how will you
actually do it?’

‘Dunno – need to
think. Maybe Marcus can help. We’ve given him enough sweets and toys, haven’t
we?’

‘So, drowning?’

‘Yeah, maybe we can
trick him into getting near the pond.’

I glanced at the
brother, who lolloped ahead with his confident gormless stride. Considering his
strength, it wouldn’t be an easy job; Jonathon would need all his cunning.
Weirton led us out of the field and onto the path. We trooped by the marker
reminding us of the Drummer Boy. I made mental genuflections to soothe his
ghost; prayed it wouldn’t go on keeping me awake at night with its patter. Weirton
led us back at quite a speed, shouting threats and exhortations to make us keep
up. Soon Jonathon was too breathless to continue with his whispered schemes as
we had to stride and jog to match the headmaster’s pace. Some of the smaller
kids were struggling on their stubby legs. Perkins harried them from behind –
herself having some problems tottering on the stilts of her heels. We paced
past the fields where the raucous Scots slept, their quilt of undisturbed grass
respectfully shrouding them. We passed the Knight Templar lands, which still
exhaled their wispy curses into the mist. Up loomed the farmhouse haunted by
Henry VIII. Maybe it was fear of all these spooks that so propelled Weirton.
After a breathless half hour, the teacher reached the Bunt. The miserable brown
river gurgled between its nettle-forested banks. Weirton paused on the bridge,
face red against the foggy day. His breath shot out in white puffs. The glasses
were slightly steamed; a lock of hard hair – fallen from his cap – drooped
across his forehead. Kids gathered silently on the bridge as they waited for
the others to catch up. I stared down at the river. It still eddied around the
same rocks and obstructions. The dead fish still flashed its silver side; the
child’s ball went through the same drab rotations, just its colours were less
bright, sullied by its smearing with the mud of that stream. A little
downriver, the knight’s breastplate still lay. Who knew how old it was? Perhaps
some of its rust dated from Noah’s Deluge. It enticed me with its dirtied
jewels, the sullied sparkles that could gift me a different life. But with
Weirton’s gaze and the steep stinging sides, there was no chance of hauling it
out that day. Instead, I thought of my dreams of following that river, of how
those brown waters would broaden, would flow with more vigour, lick the soils
of different lands, finally tumble into the vast sea. From the smallest of
streams, could such things grow, could they be possible? By now, all the kids
had gathered around Weirton; Perkins – panting, stumbling – teetered up last.

‘OK,’ Weirton
announced, ‘we’ll take a breather here for a few moments.’

I wasn’t the only
one fascinated by the river. A number of kids squatted on the bridge’s edge, staring
at the moody water. The brother crouched next to Darren Hill; they jabbed
fingers at things down in the flow – the ball, the glistening fish. Jonathon
and I, Stubbs, Richard Johnson stood a few steps back.

‘Pretty dangerous,’
Johnson said, ‘no wall or railings.’

‘Used to be a
wall,’ said Stubbs, ‘but it crumbled and fell into the stream – you can still
see some of the bricks and blocks down there.’

‘Do you think
Marcus is in the stream?’ Johnson said.

‘Must be,’ said
Stubbs. ‘He’s in all water – well, at least all dirty brown water that looks
like the pond.’

‘Very dangerous, in
that case, not having a wall,’ Johnson said, ‘Marcus could drag you down there with
his magic. It’s a long drop. You’d have really had your chips if you fell down
there!’

Jonathon darted
from our group and in one second stood behind the brother. He drew back his
hands, shot his palms forward. They smashed into the brother’s shoulder blades.
The brother teetered on the edge – wild-eyed, hanging-mouthed. His arms flapped
like the wings of a grounded bird. Then with a fluid, almost graceful movement,
he tipped over the bridge’s side. The body fell, executed a half-somersault as
it picked up momentum, plummeting at a slight diagonal. The impact was
headfirst, the brother’s brow diving onto the knight’s breastplate. The metal
squeaked as it buckled, scraped on underwater stones. He seemed to crumple,
contort – the body balancing for a second on the ancient armour in a perverse
headstand. The body swayed, tipped, fell back towards us, coming to rest
sprawled in the stream face-down. There was no sign of breath. A wisp of blood
seeped from the head, was carried – a long ribbon – off down the dark river. Breathless
seconds – no one moved; all eyes clasped the bleeding boy. The brown waters
eddied around and over the brother’s white hands.

The brother jerked;
pressing his palms into the ooze of the riverbed, he levered his torso up,
turned his neck to stare at the bridge. I had to stifle the laugh my banging
heart tried to hurl out of me. Brown coated the brother’s face, painted his
lips; just his eyes were circled by saucers of white. The gob hung open; a gash
on his forehead added a streak of maroon. He gawped at the bridge with uncomprehending
shock. In their rings of white, the blue eyes bulged, asking in all innocence
who could have committed such a deed. The spell that lay over us shattered. A
low giggle spread at the ludicrous sight. It infected the crowd; rose to a
laugh, a roar. Within seconds, kids were crippled. They rocked on weak knees,
clutched stomachs; some tottered dangerously close to the drop. Quivering arms
pointed at the brother. Stubbs howled, hanging on Johnson for support. As mirth
shuddered through Darren Hill, he bent, picked up a stone, with perhaps the
idea of hurling it at Craig to add to the fun. The brother had now turned
round; he knelt in the stream, still fixing the bridge with his gormless gaze,
unable to take in this mockery. The rich blood flowed from the gash – a
determined river which ran down one side of his nose, dropped over open lips
then mounted his chin. Weirton and Perkins stood, two statues, as the laughter
grew more riotous around them. Weirton breathed heavily – the massive chest
bulging out then dropping back. His fallen gob mirrored the brother’s; his eyes
were deep ponds of disbelief. A thick bead of sweat inched down his cheek. The
huge body jolted from its stupor.

‘SILENCE!’

Weirton’s blast
quelled the laughter; nimbly the teacher leapt. In one prance, he was upon
Jonathon. The hand shot out, grabbed his pupil’s wrist, hauled Jonathon – face
still lit with the afterglow of triumph – high into the air. Weirton held the
boy up with one hand like a prize trophy, took two long strides until he stood
on the bridge’s edge. His toes jutted over the side; flakes of dislodged
masonry flitted down to the river. The arm suspending Jonathon swung out till
the boy’s legs kicked over water and blank air. Weirton let his pupil hang. The
teacher’s face was deep red; his eyebrows dipped and narrowed behind the
glasses. The weighty breath panted more urgently; he stared trancelike at the
boy who flapped and dangled like a fish on a line. Weirton let go of his grasp.
In a nauseous heartbeat, Jonathon fell, dropped towards the brother, who still
gaped from below. In a swift manoeuvre, Weirton’s hand dove down, caught the
wrist of the falling boy. The other hand swooped to meet the backside. It
crashed onto the buttocks, the noise juddering across the quiet fields.
Jonathon swung up, his feet kicking into empty space – just boy, air, river,
sullen sky. He started his drop back; the palm rushed to meet him. It collided
with the rump; again the noise rang; again Jonathon was pitched. As he flew to
an almost horizontal angle, the kneeling brother stared – the white-rimmed eyes
flickered at the latest unfolding of his bizarre tale. With his mud-caked coat
and jeans, he looked like some strange beggar, some bleeding supplicant. Back
Jonathon swooped; Weirton’s hand sped, smashed into the now vertical boy.
Jonathon sailed once more, feet so high above the water, the brother, the
breastplate. His face white, shock had peeled his lips back. He flew down; the
palm raced, slammed onto the rear with even more speed, more force. Jonathon’s
eyes flung tears. Drops spattered on the river, the brother, the
nettle-stinging bank. Another impact, another resounding crack, another shower
of tears – the whack flung them from the body; we spectators caught some of the
spray. One drop landed on my cheek; another hit my lip, granting a salty tang.
Jonathon flew again, legs whizzing over the boggy scene, torso meeting the low
clouds. His lips jerked into action, quivering as his mouth tried to suck air.
But that hand banged into him – the breath he’d scrabbled for whistled from his
teeth; his mouth gulped and quivered as he tried to get it back.

Only then did I
realise Weirton was using his bad hand – his palm tie-bound, the ends of the
makeshift bandage flapped in his hand’s wake. At each impact, the teacher
winced, but his face was locked into a victorious sneer that each twinge of
pain seemed to fuel. Down the hand hurtled, the force loosening the knot of the
tie. The wallop wrenched a loud hiccup from Jonathon, splattered us with fresh
tears. As Jonathon started his upward sweep, the sobs came – wheezy bawls,
throaty gurgles. The hand thudded onto the behind – the loose bandage jerked,
unravelled itself, fell into a puddle; up Jonathon went, his sobs’ rhythm punctured
by futile grasps at air. His throat wobbled as the sobs pushing up kept out any
breath going down. Weirton’s laboured breathing now added to the noise. The
sweat-drenched face glowed; it cringed more at each impact of the bad hand yet still
the teacher went on; the whacks grew speedier, more powerful. The hand rushed;
the bum echoed; tears leaped. Jonathon’s face was now corpse-white. He battled
for air, fought his losing war against the strangulation of sobs and wallops.
Still the teacher drove his bad hand on as his breath rasped and jolted, as his
cheeks flushed to scarlet, as with each whack more pain twisted his face.
Weirton’s legs wobbled; the knees shook, looked as if they might give way; the
teacher tottered. The feet slipped and skidded on the bridge’s edge; scabs of
stone and mortar fell down to the river. Weirton righted himself, didn’t fail
to meet the beat of his next whack, but this appeared to jolt the teacher from
his trance. He blinked; his face screwed with effort as he seemed to pull at
the remains of his strength. He delivered a few more extra-hard blows, slamming
his swelling hand onto the behind as Jonathon took his final flights over the stream.

The whacks ceased.
Weirton panted, greedily gulped breath, rested his bad hand on his thigh to support
his sagging bulk. Globs of sweat trickled and dropped from his face. The other
arm – shaking – still held Jonathon over the water. Weirton allowed the boy to
swing to a stop. He propelled his arm in a semi-circle to bring him back to the
bridge and lowered him onto the path. Weirton let go; Jonathon’s arm flopped,
slapped against his side. His legs buckled and swayed; tears surged; Jonathon’s
mouth grasped at the air, trying to suck down lungfulls in spite of the sobs
that clogged his windpipe. Weirton’s hankie came out, mopped his face. When his
breath had steadied, he turned, stared at the sobbing, hiccupping, bandy-legged
boy. In the river, the brother still knelt, still gazed up. The blood running from
his gash had slowed, thickened to a sludgy strand. His eyes still blinked, as
if he was trying to piece together how he’d ended up in a stream coated in mud.
But I was waiting for the real show to begin. Surely it would be like the scene
in the booklet the vicar had shown us. At any moment, the clouds were going to
part and the vast finger of God appear in judgement. That finger would flash
down its lightning bolt, smite Jonathon’s forehead, brand on him the sign that
all would know him by and shun him because of. I wondered what the Lord was
waiting for, but then it had taken Him a while to notice Abel’s murder. Yet
after that thrashing, Jonathon’s sin couldn’t have escaped His holy attention.
I looked up at the sky – the dark clouds drifted, slid over one another, but no
gap in that sulky covering appeared. Maybe even the Lord was having His
difficulties dividing Emberfield’s thick sky. Jonathon went on panting, when
he’d got a bit more breath back he struck up a wail. The brother continued to
gawp from below. Still there was no rend in the clouds; no thunderbolt streaked.
Weirton lowered his heavy gaze, let it rest on the brother.