The Standing Water (36 page)

The holidays did
finally finish, the warm weather ended and the doleful day came when we had to
go back to school. On a September morning, Jonathon and I plodded with the
other plodding kids – returning to a lugubrious life we’d almost forgotten: a
former existence which – in those summer centuries – had become so vaguely
remembered as to be almost mythical. Indeed, some of us had even begun to doubt
we’d ever lived it. But now, here we were, tramping up our patch of town’s main
street – tramping through drizzle-soaked air, past the strands of fog low on
the fields, past the wisps rising from the dunghills. We passed the gap with
the witch’s hand – we looked: it was there, an evil omen outlined by the weak
sun. We passed the familiar drab houses, the damp prissy gardens; turned on the
pub’s corner. Swinging our reluctant bodies round, we trudged up the school
road and saw at least one sight that cheered us. Marcus’s pond was now a crater
of rich wet mud, recent rain having smoothed out its cracks. And in the middle
– maybe the size of my mum’s washing bowl – was a defiant circle of water.

‘Look!’ My arm
thrust my finger out. ‘Marcus is coming back!’

Jonathon smiled,
nodded. We gazed in satisfaction at that tiny pond – as we’d suspected, Marcus
hadn’t been dead, but just sleeping in the soil, waiting for the rain to wake
him. Emboldened by Marcus’s victorious return, we joined the others and walked
through the school gates. We entered a cloakroom milling with wet children –
steam rose from ninety kagools: vapour which massed under the ceiling like a
bad-tempered cloud. Kids scuffled, pushed, bickered – patterning the floor with
hundreds of footprints. The usual smells of wet hair and damp coats mingled
with the pong of festering PE kits left in forgotten bags over the summer.

I immediately
regretted our failure to get the gauntlet, regretted that the summer had lulled
us into forgetfulness about Weirton’s ferocity, that I’d been half-persuaded
our problems could be solved by Jonathon’s technical endeavours. Before
lunchtime had come, we were hearing Weirton raging and stamping at the brother
then hearing impacts shuddering and sobs chugging from next door as Perkins
raised her darkened and sculpted eyebrows, as Stubbs and Richard Johnson
smirked. After lunch, the fireworks were in our class. Weirton swooped in to
reprimand Stubbs for something he’d done out on the field and soon the bash of
hand on backside was reverberating round our room as Stubbs flung out tears, as
those tears streamed on his sickly white face, as his desperate lips battled
for breath. And as Weirton thrashed his way to that whacking’s climax, as Weirton
stooped, red-faced, struggling for his own breath afterwards, I thought the
headmaster seemed different. He had, of course, been a tyrant before, but
something had changed. The way he’d greeted us in assembly – it was like he was
itching with rage, twitching with anger, like he was just waiting for the
tiniest thing to trigger his fury’s eruption: a thing that had come,
unsurprisingly, from Craig. Even after that rage had again gushed out over
Stubbs, more seemed to bubble up, and soon more yells, more bashes of fists on
tables juddered through our wall. I didn’t know what had happened to Weirton,
but his mood seemed blacker, even more fiery than before the holidays.

On Tuesday, Darren
Hill and Richard Johnson got walloped. Richard’s ghost-white face, his frantic and
useless gasps for air, the – almost lifeless – way the boy’s body flopped when
he was put down, and the wheezes he gave out as his ravenous lungs tugged
breath in put me in mind of Marcus and Lucy. A few more whacks and Richard
might have ended up like them. My heart thumped as I thought of Marcus – of the
dead boy’s spirit awakening in his tiny pond – and of Lucy, grim and bare-boned
in her cupboard. I bitterly cursed the fact we hadn’t got that gauntlet. As the
days passed, and Weirton’s yells reverberated round the school, as his huge
hands clasped, lifted, swept, I knew it couldn’t be long till Jonathon and I
were clobbered. And, sure enough, on the Friday of the first week back, my
friend was pitching through the air as he pitched out his tears, as he sobbed
and choked. I prayed to God, I begged all the spooks we’d made our pledges to,
not to let him become another Marcus. My thankfulness gushed as I watched him
totter back to his seat, swaying on springy legs as Weirton gazed down on him.
On Monday, it was my turn. In the six weeks of holidays, I’d forgotten the
force of those impacts, how much they knocked out of you. I’d forgotten the
desperate vacuum in the lungs, the panic of the sob-blocked throat, the rolling
and bouncing on the elastic legs afterwards, the pain of lowering my buzzing
backside onto my seat. There was no doubt about it, Weirton had to die. At
break-time, I talked to Jonathon.

‘We’ve got to get
that gauntlet!’

‘Dunno,’ he said. ‘I
reckon my robot might nearly be ready. Just need to find one of those computers.’

‘How long’s
that
gonna take? We
still
don’t know anyone who has one!’

‘I’ve heard some
rich people on the other side of Emberfield have started getting them.’

‘But how would we
get into their houses to steal them? They’ll have locks on the doors and guard dogs
and maybe booby traps and guns! At least with the church at Salton we can just
walk in.’

‘Suppose.’ Jonathon
shrugged.

‘Anyway,’ I said, ‘I’d
trust magic over science any day. At least we know magic works!’

That Saturday we
met to steal the glove. Black clouds moved ominously over the sky, but they
dropped no rain. I wondered if they meant thunder; if after that thunder
growled, lightning would streak: if one of those bolts would smite Jonathon’s
forehead, brand onto him Cain’s mark, but though those clouds shifted moodily,
rolled their swollen bulks across the heavens, no sparks, no thunder came. We first
threw sweets to the kids in the Old School, renewed our pledges to them. We
then tossed candies to Marcus, repeated our vows to him. We were pleased to see
that a week of downpours had helped him get back some strength, had helped his
pond swell to the size of my gnome’s pool. Next we looked for the witch’s hand.
It was there that day, just visible down its crack in the gloom – a wicked shape
urging us on in our schemes against Weirton. We spoke our vow to it then
sneaked off down the road of council houses, Jonathon sneering as he pointed
out all the things his parents mocked – their crooked fences, bumpy gardens, flaking
paint. We passed the legendary Big School, where Darren and the brother were
due to go if they survived another year with Weirton, and were soon approaching
Salton’s gates.

We paused in front
of that magical portal, as the eroded lions watched us from the lichen-spotted
pillars and the rusty weed-entwined iron stood patiently. We readied ourselves
to enter that realm with its ghost-laden air, reminded each other of the need
to pay homage to its spooks. We stepped over that threshold, tramped past the fields
and copses, and were soon crossing the bridge over the Bunt. As that brown
river gurgled, I wondered again if God might strike down with his vengeance,
punish Jonathon at the scene of his crime just as Weirton had. But the clouds
remained thick, dark, looking as difficult to divide as it was for our minds to
fathom God’s mysteries. For whatever reason, God didn’t fire down the scorching
bolt of his justice, and we could move on. Across the fields was the farmhouse
haunted by Henry VIII, and with respectful words we acknowledged that great
king. We tramped on. The walk seemed so much quicker than last time. What had
before been a long path bordered by massive fields, a path that demanded a good
leg-aching tramp between each of its legendary sites, could now be stridden
down with an effort that required little more than hard breathing. We soon came
to the Knights Templars’ lands. We repeated our pledges to those warrior
magicians, and I once more felt that strange tingle in my spine, as they sent
their enchantments sparking across the eons. We got to the fields where the
Scots slept, renewed our oaths to those soldiers. I thought of their mingled
bones, rusty weapons lying in the black earth, thought of all the power those
ghostly hordes could give us in our struggle. We passed the mysterious, cloud-scraping
water tower, but noticed the wood surrounding that structure seemed to have
been reduced to just a thicket. Leaving it, we saw the church and castle raised
up on their knolls and we paused by the Drummer Boy’s stone. No beats or
rattles sounded, but I wasn’t put off. During the holidays, I’d heard his
patters and rolls plenty of times as I lay in bed, swelling out of the
blackness of the brief summer nights. Now I wondered if the Drummer had been
trying to urge me – with his language of clatters and thuds – to grab that gauntlet
before school started. But, anyway, we placed our hands on his rough stone,
once more spoke our vows to him.

We wobbled and
waded across the marshy fields – luckily there were no horses that day – and
were soon entering the church’s sacred enclosure, passing under its iron arch.
We hid our muddy boots in the same place as before. I reached my hand out,
pushed the doors – they were thankfully open. We crept into the church, padded
across its cold flags. There were the familiar smells of old stone and mouldy
hymnbooks, the arched windows letting in their weak rays of light, the dread
railed-off altar, with – of course – the gauntlet suspended in front. My heart
banged at the sight of that glove.

‘Quick!’ I said. ‘Better
not hang around!’

We gathered three
thick cushions from under the pews and stacked them beneath the gauntlet. I
squatted on that tower of wool. Jonathon clambered onto my shoulders.

‘Hope no one comes
in!’ he said. ‘We were so close to getting caught last time!’

My heart beat
harder as I remembered Weirton striding in, as I thought of how easy it’d be
for someone to march into the church, catch us taking that glove. Then again,
it’d be just as easy for Weirton to go too far with one of his whackings and
make us end up like Lucy or Marcus. Jonathon firmly on my shoulders, I
straightened up. I tried to keep my balance as he swayed above me and the cushions
sagged and shifted below. I struggled to make sure he wouldn’t lurch into the
altar’s precinct and meet the same fiery fate as the knight. He reached his
arms up; his fingers closed around the glove. I sucked in breath as his
triumphant hands clasped it. Voices were coming from my right. I jerked my head,
saw – through the arched windows – figures walking in the graveyard: old
people, their grey heads bent, bodies stooped. I didn’t recognise them, but
still my heart pumped. Nausea, vertigo swirled in my stomach.

‘Adults!’ I whispered.
‘Just outside the window! If they looked into the church, they’ll see us!’

‘Oh no!’

I moved to put
Jonathon down, praying none of those grown-ups would glance in. I began to
squat, but Jonathon didn’t let go of the gauntlet. His hands gripped it hard in
their panic. Now Jonathon was off my shoulders and I just had hold of his
shins. The cushions slipped and shifted. I swayed, wrenching Jonathon one way
then the other as I battled to stay upright. Jonathon still grasped the
gauntlet; its chain was jerked from side-to-side; flakes of plaster fluttered
down from the ceiling. From outside, the polite voices drifted, their words
floating into the church, quivering with a tremble that showed the ancientness
of the speakers.

‘Ryan!’ Jonathon
hissed, as – like dry snowflakes – more bits of plaster twisted down. ‘Stand
still and straighten up!’

‘But those people
–’

‘Just do it!’

I did as he asked,
balancing on the wobbling stack of cushions. It felt like one wrong movement
could send them sliding from under me. Jonathon resting once more on my
shoulders, he began to slip the gauntlet’s metal loop over the hook. A scraping
sound rasped as my heart thumped. The metal sounded ancient, rusted into place
by the passage of long ages. Now it was scabs of orange that drifted down to
fall on my hair, my face. Still those voices came from outside. I glanced at
the windows, saw the grey heads nodding, wizened necks moving those heads
along. I just prayed none of those heads would turn.

‘Got it!’ Jonathon
said.

I glanced upwards.
The gauntlet had been freed from its hook; Jonathon’s hands clasped it. I
squatted down; the cushions tipped and swayed but didn’t topple us. Jonathon
scrabbled off my shoulders.

‘Quick! Hide!’ I
hissed.

I threw the
cushions back under the pews, and we raced to the tomb of the knight and his
lady, squeezed into the gap between it and the wall. As we panted, as I fumbled
with the straps of the satchel I’d brought, I begged the knight and lady to
protect us, just as they’d shielded us from Weirton. Jonathon’s trembling hands
slipped the gauntlet into my bag; my shivering fingers closed and fastened it.
We could still hear those quavering voices.

‘Do you reckon they
saw us?’ Jonathon asked.

‘Doubt it,’ I
whispered. ‘If they had, they’d have come straight in here.’

‘Maybe they’re
gonna call the police!’

‘Dunno, they seem
too calm.’

‘You can never tell
with grown-ups. Sometimes Weirton sounds really calm – then he goes absolutely
mental!’

‘What should we
do?’

‘Hide here till
they go. And keep quiet!’