The Standing Water (37 page)

We stayed in our
squat. Pins and needles began torturing my legs. The voices went silent, and we
were just about to sneak off when they started up on the other side of the
church. I thought those grown-ups were really brave to go there – to the
church’s shadow side, where those who’d killed themselves were buried. But I
supposed the stakes the vicar had driven into those bodies would keep any
unquiet spirits pinned down. We had to stay crouched as those voices leisurely
drifted down that side of the church, accompanied – I imagined – by the creak
of ancient limbs. To distract myself from the tingles and needle jabs in my
legs, I tried to guess how old those people were. I doubted they were quite as
old as Davis so they probably didn’t remember Noah’s Flood, but perhaps they
were aged enough to have seen Moses giving out his dread laws. Anyway, we
stayed in our agonising crouch as those voices slowly rounded the church.

‘Just hope they
don’t come in!’ I hissed. ‘They’ll see the gauntlet’s gone!’

No one came in; the
voices dwindled away until there was silence. Jonathon and I stayed squatting
for a little longer then crept to the door. We sneaked into the porch, peered
into the graveyard. There was no sign of anybody, no sound of elderly mumbles.

‘I think it’s OK,’
I whispered.

Boots back on, we
tottered and balanced through the horseless fields and were soon back on the
path. Only then could we feel our triumph.

‘We got the
gauntlet! We got the gauntlet!’ I sang, skipping down the track, waving my
fists high.

‘Just need to find
a way to put it on Weirton’s hand now.’ Jonathon walked calmly.

‘Yeah,’ I said, ‘but
even if we can’t, that glove should protect us. The legend says it protects
people against murders and vio-lence.’

Jonathon frowned;
his eyebrows narrowed.

‘What is it?’ I
slowed my prance till I was only walking.

‘I’m just not sure –’
he spoke slowly ‘– if these legends are always true.’

‘Course they are!
They wouldn’t be legends if they weren’t!’

‘It’s just that …
in the church, I’m sure my hands went further than the altar rail, and nothing
happened to me like it did to the knight!’

‘You can’t have
gone further!’ I said. ‘The knight
must
have been destroyed for going
beyond that rail! Why else would the gauntlet be hanging there? Even Mr Weirton
said it was true!’

‘Suppose …’
Jonathon shrugged.

In my room that evening,
I drew the gauntlet from my satchel. It was slightly larger than one of my
dad’s gloves; it felt weighty in my hands, but not as heavy as I’d imagined. It
was scabbed with spots of rust, stained with what were obviously scorch marks.
I wondered how Jonathon could ever doubt the legend of the knight’s fate –
I
couldn’t with such evidence right before me. Even the smell of the thing – a scent
of old iron and leather insides stiffened by ages – had a hint of burnt metal.
My heart boomed as I held that glove – I could feel its ancientness, sense its
dread power. I recalled more of the legend: that – though the glove would
protect those who possessed it – it had a tendency to slip onto the hands of
its owners. And as I turned and examined that gauntlet, I did feel it had a
desire to slide towards my finger ends, to fit itself onto my hand. I resolved not
to take the thing out too much, to handle it only when necessary and then with
the utmost care. For the moment, I wrapped it in a couple of plastic bags I’d
filched from my mum, and hid it at the bottom of my toy box, under bricks, cars
and trucks, under the guardianship of scores of jumbled soldiers.

I went round to
Jonathon’s the next day and we realised we had a problem. We’d managed to get
the gauntlet, but how on earth would we put it on Weirton’s hand? We weren’t
even in the headmaster’s class, which made the whole thing even more difficult.

‘There’s no way we
could get it on his hand without him seeing us,’ Jonathon said.

‘Maybe I should
bring it to school in my satchel every day just in case,’ I said. ‘You never
know when we might get an opp-ort-unity.’

Jonathon frowned.

‘Of course, we
never know. But I wouldn’t rely on it. I’d better keep working on my robot. If
we can’t use magic, we can always fall back on science.’

We went into his
shed and did some work on that android. As I sawed iron and later filed down
some metal posts Jonathon said he’d ‘found’ near a road mender’s hut, which he
hoped would be the monster’s thighs, Jonathon talked about what he’d learned
from his encyclopaedia: the – often astounding – facts he’d stumbled across
while searching for information to make his robot. For instance, the idea my
seven-year-old mind had concocted about the world being made up of four
elements had been believed in by the Egyptians, who’d built the Pyramids, and
also by some people called phi-los-ophers – meaning clever men – who’d lived
long ago in a place called Greece. It had also been believed by men called
alchemists, who’d understood many of the mysteries of God and spent their time
trying to turn normal metal into gold. I thought it could be useful to learn
that skill – we could transform the bits of old iron scattered around the shed
into that precious substance, but Jonathon said the encyclopaedia didn’t tell
him the formula. Anyway, from what that book said, it seemed Jonathon’s notions
had been more accurate – it claimed the world was indeed made up of tiny
particles, called mol-ec-ules, which you couldn’t see yet comprised everything.
The encyclopaedia said nothing about each of them housing a whole universe, but
who knew what the scholars of the future might find out?

Anyway, the next
day was Monday, and as we trudged to school, I felt the extra weight of that gauntlet
in my satchel. It was strange to sit in Perkins’s class, knowing that object of
immense power lay right by my feet. My heart thudded whenever I reached into my
bag to take out a book or pen and my fingers brushed against that metal. How
easy it would be for them to slip into that glove! When Perkins wasn’t looking,
I tried to make things safer by subtly twisting the gauntlet to position it
with its fingers pointing up. But a few minutes later I reached into my bag and
found that glove had somehow shuffled back to how it had been before. I sucked
in a strong breath; Stubbs, Helen Jacobs, other kids looked at me. Thankfully,
that sound didn’t get through Perkins’s woolly hair to her ears.

As I laboured
through my dull sums and drab books, I ransacked my brain, searching for ways
we could get that glove onto Weirton. The headmaster did sweep into our class –
once to whack Stubbs, another time to yell at Suzie Green, to loom above her drilling
his finger into her crown as tears coursed down her grey face. But as the
headmaster sweated and walloped, as he drove his merciless finger into Suzie’s
shivering head, as he watched with satisfaction as the girl was stretched over
Perkins’s knee, I could think of no schemes to get that artefact from my
satchel and onto the teacher’s hand.

The next day there
was an unexpected assembly announcement. Perkins was sick so Weirton said he’d
take our class while a supply teacher taught his own.

‘That way I can
keep an eye on certain troublesome individuals,’ the voice juddered as
Weirton’s eyes panned the hall, ‘mentioning no names – Dennis Stubbs and
Richard Johnson! Also, Craig Browning and Darren Hill will join the lower
juniors today. I’d like to keep an eye on you too and – let’s face it – I don’t
think either of you dunces would suffer from the work being too simple!’

Back in the
classroom, Weirton strode as his voice rumbled. He explained some maths, his
chalk squeaking as he drove it hard – as if he had to gouge the numbers into
the board. He was a better teacher than Perkins, but not much. He seemed
irritated – the vast shoulders twitched; the huge face looked tired as if he
hadn’t slept. When he bent down to check our work, I noticed more grey hairs
streaking the rigid blond. It didn’t take us long to make him angry – he
blasted Suzie Green, the mouse shivering at each of his yells as if she was
being assailed by gusts of freezing wind. He drilled his finger down into
Stubbs’s head. Darren and the brother exchanged smirks as Dennis’s face
trembled and drooped under that relentless pain. But Weirton’s rage seemed to
simmer at a certain level – there was no full eruption, no whacking given out.
Break came, and Jonathon and I were soon hunched in a corner of the playground.

‘We’ve
got
to do it today!’ I said. ‘We might never get this chance again!’

‘But how?’ said
Jonathon. ‘How would we get the glove on him, especially without him seeing us?’

We walked back in
with the satisfaction of knowing we had a plan. My heart’s booms shook through
my body as that lesson dragged on, as Weirton yelled, sweated, glowered,
thumped his desk, but didn’t completely explode or wallop anybody. I kept
thinking of our plot, mulling it in my brain. It could be quick; it could be
simple; with some luck we wouldn’t get spotted. I just had to sit and wait as
lunchtime drew closer, as – between Weirton’s bashes and shouts – the clock
ticked its slow seconds down, as I thought of the dread artefact hidden by my
satchel’s thin fabric. Eventually, the clock’s hands came together at twelve.

‘Stand!’ Weirton
bellowed.

Chairs scraped,
shoes shuffled as thirty kids got to their feet. Under the cover of this noise
and movement, I reached down into my bag. My fingers gripped the gauntlet. I
whipped it from my satchel, slipped it under my jumper then rested my arm against
my side to keep it in place. We began to leave the room; I strode as casually
as I could – even though my body was shaking, even though my heart galloped and
pounded so hard I was sure it would shatter my vision, that its booms must be
echoing round the class. I was amazed no one noticed any of this. On the way
out, I neared Weirton’s chair. Draped over its back was the headmaster’s coat.
I brushed and stumbled against it, and in a second had slipped the gauntlet
into one of the pockets. It fit snugly. If Weirton thrust his hand in there,
which he often did when supervising us in the playground, it would go straight
into the glove. As I moved away from the teacher’s chair, I glanced around. My
classmates were hurrying down the corridor, eager to stuff their bellies yet
tramping in an orderly way under the gaze of Weirton. I joined their hungry
march, and soon Jonathon was walking next to me.

‘Did it!’ I
whispered.

‘Great!’ he said.

‘Just have to wait
till after lunch now!’ I hissed. ‘When we’re out in the playground and
Weirton’s got his coat on he’s
bound
to put his hand in his pocket and
then he’s certain to die!’

‘Fantastic!’

I suddenly wondered
if it was. We were going to kill a man, which – as the vicar frequently told us
–was against God’s law. Jonathon didn’t appear worried – he seemed to see
bumping troublesome people off as an effective solution, whether shoving his
brother from a bridge or designing a robot to crush his headmaster. My heart,
which was just starting to settle after the success with the gauntlet, began
thumping once more. I had an urge to go back, yank that glove from the
teacher’s pocket, save our tyrant’s life. I forced myself to picture his many
outrages – the swinging white-faced kids hurling tears, their bouncing walks back
to their seats. As we strode into the hall, I reminded myself of his almost
certain slaying of Marcus and Lucy, of how the murder of another kid could
easily be added to his grim record. And, speaking of God, I remembered those
heroes in the Bible who’d despatched despots and bullies with the Lord’s
blessing. There was David and Goliath, Moses engineering with God’s help the
drowning of Pharaoh’s army. I guessed that killing for righteous reasons must
be OK in God’s eyes. As I pulled my chair up to my table, a different thought
struck. We’d also committed the sin of theft, thereby breaking another of the
Lord’s Commandments. Then again, I remembered the vicar saying that when the
Israelites had fled Egypt, they’d carried treasures with them out of that
country, treasures which – I supposed – they must have nicked. So maybe
stealing was sometimes all right too. I just hoped God would understand.

As the school’s
daily ritual of scoffing dragged on, as Jonathon and I shuffled impatiently on
our chairs, I kept praying for success, kept picturing the headmaster drawing
his hand from his pocket, his arm capped by the gauntlet, mouth hanging, eyes
wide as he stared at that glove, knowing full-well what it was and what its
consequences would be. As my nervousness buzzed around my body with my pumping
blood, I struggled to swallow my sandwiches. There was a bit of a diversion
courtesy of Suzie Green. Jonathon and I didn’t partake of the school-cooked
food; we brought our own and sat on the ‘packed-lunch’ tables. We didn’t
partake for good reasons, and those reasons were the soggy chips, chewy meat,
and the watery mounds of cabbage whose stink filled the hall, haunted the corridors
and even reached long fingers of scent into the classrooms on the days we had
it. Suzie was refusing to eat a sausage. I didn’t blame her. The offending
banger, carved in two, sat on her plate. The insides were pink and flabby yet
also spotted with glistening knots of gristle. A dinner lady speared one half
of the sausage with a fork and advanced towards Suzie brandishing it. Her
colleague held the struggling girl down, prizing her mouth open to receive that
cylinder of flesh as Suzie’s throat gulped, as disgust swelled in her eyes, as
Weirton paced darkly beside the grappling figures ranting about the girl’s
ingratitude. Suzie, of course, ended up over Mrs Leigh’s knee as Weirton
watched and nodded.

Lunch over, Leigh marched
us outside as Weirton headed in the direction of our classroom – I assumed – to
get his coat. Soon kids were charging around the playground and field – playing
tig, booting footballs – as Leigh watched from the promontory. When out of
Leigh’s gaze, the girls taunted Suzie about what had happened in the hall. The
bawling, sickly-looking girl was pinched, prodded, punched, Helen Jacobs taking
an enthusiastic part in the proceedings. I wondered where Weirton was. Usually,
he’d be out by now. Perhaps he’d noticed the weight difference as he’d yanked
on his coat and so delved into the pocket, and was now staring – pallid-faced –
at what he knew must mean his doom.

‘Weirton’s coming!’
Jonathon hissed.

I looked up, saw
suited legs appear from round the corner of the school and start marching down
the path to the playground. Weirton’s walk was confident, brisk – it didn’t
look like the stagger of a man who’d seen his death decreed or a stride jerked
with the fury of someone who’d uncovered a murderous plot. I moved my eyes from
Weirton’s legs up over his body. He wasn’t wearing his coat. The day was mild;
the clouds – white and light grey – betokened no rain.

‘Damn!’ I said.

‘Maybe he’ll put
the coat on in the afternoon break,’ Jonathon said.

‘Wouldn’t bet on it
– not if the weather stays like this.’

‘And what if he
takes his coat home at the end of the day!?’

‘Yeah, and he
doesn’t always wear the same coat – it might just hang in his cupboard for
ages!’

‘We’ve got to get
that glove back!’

‘But how?’

The solution was
actually simple. Leigh was now patrolling the playground while Weirton stood on
his promontory. I asked her if I could go inside to use the loo.

‘Eeh, didn’t you go
before lunch?’

‘I did, Mrs Leigh,
but I need to go again.’

‘Eeh, you’re like a
dripping tap, you are, Ryan Watson!’ Leigh’s shrill voice cut through the noise
of playing children. Weirton glanced at us then something else captured his
interest. ‘You’re just like my infants! First one has to go then another then another
one’s sprung a leak!’