The Standing Water (53 page)

I hit the water –
crash! It rains back over me like earth into a grave. I twist and writhe in
dirty blackness, in piercing cold. I struggle with something, someone, grapple
against his strength. I open my mouth to scream, call for help, filth pours
down my throat, into my nostrils. My chest aches, something in it bulges, pain,
pain sharper and sharper, now agony. I throw him off; my shoes slide on the
sludgy bottom; with huge effort, I stand, break the surface. Back out of the
water, into the old airy world. Still agony, squeezing, swelling in my chest. I
see the pub, the fields, those two dark birds in the sky, two figures, boys, I
think, on the pond’s bank. I call to them; they sprint off; I stumble from the
water; hard to run as waves of agony pulse from my ribcage. I want to shout to
them, ask for help, difficult to form speech. Tug on my ankle, I’m falling, I smash
back into the water, into that biting chill. Flash in my mind of Marcus, last
time I was in here. And again we’re fighting, thrashing, wriggling, struggling,
but all is underwater, all is black, chest tight, full of pain. Marcus is
winning, I’m getting weak. I stretch up my hand, feel the blessed air upon it,
one last plea for help. And all is blackness and filth, and blackness and pain,
and then just blackness. I sink and then no more.

I walked to school
the next day with my heaviest ever tread, but also with a giddy lightness in my
heart. I was sure we’d killed Weirton. How could he have survived Marcus’s
ravagings? Hadn’t I seen him twist and struggle with my very own eyes, hadn’t I
seen the vicious monster that had devoured him, hadn’t I seen the rocking surface
of that pond sealed: sealed with a tomb’s finality? It was a weird feeling to
know I’d killed a man, even though that man was a bully and murderer the world
was happily free of. It was like I’d passed some barrier, some stage. I felt
flat and anxious all at once; the world seemed both more sombre and alive. I
thought of the select band of which I was now a part – knights, warriors,
pirates, criminals. It put a distance between me and the other trudging kids –
I’d experienced something they’d never know: it placed me a mark both above and
below them. My heart struck up its thud as I wondered what they’d find of
Weirton – just his rod, chair and funereal car? Or would gnawed and shattered
bits of bone be seen drifting in the pond? Would anyone dare go near that pool
to retrieve those remains? I knew there was no way anyone could find out it was
us – nobody had seen us and Marcus would have gobbled nearly all the evidence.
Jonathon and I just had to keep our mouths clamped.

I tramped next to
Jonathon, but neither of us spoke. My heart’s booms came faster, harder as we approached
the pond. I couldn’t shake the sight of Marcus from my mind. What we’d seen had
quelled all our doubts. What more proof did we need for our legends than the
sight of that hideous charging ogre with his mud-caked flaps of skin? OK, he
didn’t look much like Marcus had, but I supposed Marcus must have swollen and
grown from all the sweets we’d chucked him, from all the rain that had bashed
down on his pond. And I guessed his long months in the pool must have morphed
him into a being made of pond-slime and sludge.

I glanced around
the pool, its shore. I looked carefully, but there was no sign of Weirton’s rod
or chair. As I walked through the gates, I saw his car had gone. Somebody must
have taken them; somebody – at least – had to know about the death of the
teacher.

In the cloakroom, I
fumbled off my coat, trying to stem my anxiety and fear, which had surged since
I’d entered the school, as if going into that building, Weirton’s own domain,
had really woken me up to what we’d done. As my hands shivered, as my heart
thumped, I prayed no one would notice I was any different. Surprisingly, no one
seemed to. It was like there was some thick yet transparent substance between
me and everyone else, some strange muffling barrier. Everything just whirled
around me, going on in its normal course, like I was a numb observer of an average
day. The kids shoved, teased and bickered; as usual they thronged around then
bulged through the hall doors, carrying me with them into the assembly.

I glanced about –
Weirton wasn’t in the hall. Instead of the headmaster, Perkins stood at the
front. Leigh sat in her habitual place. On the hall’s other side was a man I’d
never seen before. His manner seemed most inappropriate given the circumstances.
He’d tipped his chair back in a way that was almost jaunty. His head leant
playfully to one side and a smile even flickered on his lips. He was older than
Weirton, with white hair and a moustache. Like our – former – headmaster, he
wore a suit, but his was lighter-coloured, a creamy beige as opposed to the
blacks and dark-blues Weirton had favoured. Even more puzzlingly, the top
button of his shirt was open and he wore no tie. As more kids poured in, the
children’s twittering got louder. Questions scurried around the hall – where
was Weirton? Why was Perkins at the front? Who was the strange older man?
Already answers, legends even, were being fashioned. My heart went on with its
thud, tingles spread over my skin as I prayed no suspicions would land on us. As
we lowered ourselves to join a cross-legged line, I looked at Jonathon. There
was a tremble in his lower lip; he seemed sickly, pale, but not so much as to
draw attention. As the kids’ chatter swelled, I even heard some speculations
about Marcus – he’d finally grabbed Weirton as the headmaster, ignoring all
warnings, had gone on fishing in the pool. I sighed, felt some tension flow out
– if people thought Marcus could snatch and devour Weirton all by himself,
maybe the police wouldn’t bother looking for any other murderers.

Perkins shouted for
us to be quiet, clapped her hands. Lacking the dread rumble of Weirton, not
being of his huge size, Perkins had to yell and clap for a couple of minutes
before we settled. She said nothing of Weirton, but told us we’d have a hymn.
The monitors passed the books down our rows, but not with the same scrabbling
urgency as when under the headmaster’s gaze. Perkins tottered on her heels
across to the piano and was soon bashing out gloomy chords. Wrong notes sloshed
and eddied in a gushing torrent of sound. I recognised the tune – ‘The Water
and the Blood’. Most suitable, I thought, with an inward snigger. I pictured
those dark waters that had killed Weirton, that must have caused his blood to
flow. But – the teacher’s hands stained by the blood of others – I wasn’t sure
that even the waters of Marcus’s deep pool could wash his sins from him. A
thought made me suck breath right in the middle of a line – maybe we were
singing that hymn in mourning for Weirton! Afterwards, could Perkins announce
his death, point a finger at us or invite the police to enter the hall with
grim echoing footsteps to question the kids? I glanced around – the stranger
was mouthing the hymn, but appeared to be taking it not quite seriously. His
eyebrows shot up as if questioning – as if actually daring to question – the song’s
sacred words. He gave a tired sigh before we launched into the chorus. But we
kids did not share his doubts and – accompanied by Perkins’s high voice and
off-key plonks – we were soon roaring out the last lines.

‘And by the water
and the blood,

Our souls are
washed,

Our souls are
washed from sin.’

The final plinks
trickled away, and the kids shuffled down to sit cross-legged. I shivered as I
waited for Perkins to tell us of Weirton’s death. Instead, she made a few
announcements – the school trip, swimming lessons for the top class – before
leading us in a prayer then going back to the piano to plonk her way through
another hymn. Only after the last notes had faded did she gesture to the
stranger at the hall’s side.

‘Children,’ she
said, ‘I’m afraid Mr Weirton cannot be here today. So, I’ll teach his class and
my class will be taken by this gentleman, whose name is Mr Stone. I’m sure I
don’t need to remind you to be good for him!’

We stood and filed
back to our classrooms. For all of that walk, the kids’ twittering voices
danced around my ears: ‘Where’s Mr Weirton?’ ‘What’s happened to Weirton?’ ‘Did
Marcus get him?’ ‘I hope so!’ ‘Silly twit, fishing in that pool!’

Stone stood at the
front of our room while we settled ourselves. He took the register – smiling as
he repeated our names to help him remember them. He then said, ‘Yes, as Mrs
Perkins told you, I’ll be your teacher for today – at least for today – as Mr
Weirton can’t be here.’

Stubbs’s hand crept
up.

‘Please, Sir,
what’s happened to Mr Weirton?’

‘To be honest,
Dennis, I don’t know. Maybe he’s sick. When I find out something, I’ll tell you.’

I shot a look at
Jonathon – we exchanged trembling smiles. Our group ploughed on through the
morning. Mr Stone was a better teacher than Perkins and Weirton – he was better
at explaining; his lessons were livelier, almost fun. The atmosphere seemed
incredibly light after the back-bending, head-lowering heaviness that had
filled the school’s air under the headmaster. Mr Stone was strict, but – at
least on that first day – there were no whackings. He had to blast Stubbs and
Richard Johnson several times. Both boys shivered when the yelling stopped. I
knew they trembled in fear of the teacher springing forward, yanking them up.
But Stone just returned to the lesson and each lad was left open-mouthed,
bodies braced for the thrashing that never came.

The work was still dead
simple, but Stone noticed when Jonathon and I finished early. He came over and
swept ticks down our columns far faster than Perkins ever had, nodding and
muttering, ‘Eeh, you’re bright lads, aren’t you?’ By the afternoon, he had
extra exercises to give us while the others struggled to the end of their first
ones. These additional tasks had more challenge: we even got one or two
questions wrong. As for the thicker students, he told them just to be content
to answer the first ten or fifteen questions of each exercise. He even praised
Richard Johnson when he got more than half of that limited number wrong –
something that might well have earned shrill cries from Perkins which would in
their turn have triggered a walloping from Weirton.

‘God didn’t exactly
bless you with brains, lad,’ Stone said kindly. ‘But at least you try.’

Johnson gazed up at
him with a grateful smile. He even praised Suzie Green when that dunderhead
managed to get one question right. With blinking eyes, Suzie looked at Stone,
amazement dawning over her face as her mouth crept into a grin. The next day,
Perkins again took the assembly. We thundered out a couple of hymns – during
which Stone sighed and shot up eyebrows – before we recited some prayers. The
assembly over, Stone led us to our room. He took the register, pointing at us,
smiling and testing himself to see if he recalled our names. Then he frowned
and paced for some moments before he said, ‘Children, I must tell you Mr Weirton
is ill. He’s in hospital and won’t be coming out for some time. So for the next
few weeks at least, I’m going to be your teacher.’

Smiles lit the faces
of my classmates. But all I could think of was Weirton was alive, that he might
be back. Heavy as a rock, my heart plummeted. My lips wobbled; I bit them,
concentrated hard so as not to cry. But a tingly relief also surged through me,
making me shudder. It seemed Weirton hadn’t told anyone about being shoved into
the pool. And my hands weren’t stained by the blood of murder! Stone saw me and
misunderstood.

‘Don’t be upset,
now. I’m sure your teacher will be back, right as rain, before too long. I’ve
got an idea – I’ll get a big piece of card from the cupboard, the biggest I can
find, and we’ll make a great get-well card for him this afternoon. How about
that?’

As soon as we were
let out for break, Jonathon and I scurried into a corner of the playground.

‘How can he still be
alive?’ said Jonathon. ‘After all that!’

‘Maybe he’s like
Jesus and King Arthur,’ I said. ‘Maybe he can die and come alive again.’

‘Don’t be silly,’
said Jonathon. ‘When you die, you die: unless you’re someone
really
special like Christ or Arthur – and I don’t think Weirton is!’

We stood silently
for a moment; our faces scrunched as we pondered.

‘But we
saw
him!’ I said. ‘We saw Marcus! We saw how huge and strong and horrible he was –
charging out of that pool! How could anybody survive a fight with something
like that!?’

Jonathon’s palm
flew, slapped the back of my head.

‘Idiot! That wasn’t
Marcus! It was Weirton! We just didn’t recognise him because he was all covered
in mud and wearing that big waterproof. And if Weirton didn’t die after falling
in the pond, it probably means …’

I nodded. ‘Marcus
might not be in the pond after all.’

‘But do you think
Weirton killed him?’ Jonathon said.

I jerked my
shoulders in a shrug. ‘Who knows? But you saw how crazy Weirton was getting,
the huge whackings he was giving out – I’m sure he’d have killed
someone
sooner or later!’

‘Let’s just hope’ –
a quiver passed over my face – ‘that Mr Stone’s wrong. Let’s hope Weirton’s
really ill and he’ll
never
come back!’

‘Yeah,’ said
Jonathon. ‘If we’re lucky, he might die in hospital!’

That afternoon, Stone
came into the class carrying an enormous sheet of card which he laid on a table
and folded in two. He turned to me.