Holy Terrors

by D M Greenwood

  Geoffrey’s arrival posed another problem for Mrs Eveready. The lunchbreak stretched from noon to two; the first hour for the juniors, the second for the seniors. Mrs Eveready could never decide which of those hours she was going to take for her own lunch. Whichever she chose made her regretful that she had not chosen the other one. Geoffrey’s intrusion at ten-past twelve, therefore, found her poised between choices. Her first instinct was to ignore him, her second to use her technique for sending people away. This involved raising the head very slowly and gazing with incredulity slightly to the side of them.

  When she saw that it was an adult and not a pupil, an adult that looked vaguely familiar, a male adult, and finally a male adult with a clerical collar, she revised her tactics. She got up with great energy, used both hands to pull back the frail glass partition, put her head through the opening and said, ‘Yes?’ very loudly. Geoffrey thought for a moment that she might take him by the ears and swing him about a bit. But he too had his techniques. He brought his face down close to Mrs Eveready’s and smiled his entrancing smile.

  ‘I’m so very sorry to interrupt your lunch-time, Mrs Eveready. But I do rather need your expert advice.’

  It worked. Mrs Eveready’s frustration evaporated. Someone was going to be kind to her. They were not going to blame her. It made a change.

  ‘Reverend Brighouse, isn’t it? Come inside. It’s difficult to talk through these things.’

  ‘The point is, Mrs Eveready,’ Geoffrey assumed intimacy by placing his long forearms on the desk and leaning towards her, ‘I need to find young Peter Kostas, Paul’s twin. And I also want a word with Mr Springer, if that’s at all possible.’

  Mrs Eveready became another person. The task required reference to timetables. Timetables she liked: they were steady things which often remained the same for long stretches at a time. It was change which Mrs Eveready hated: change meant choices and she wasn’t good at them.

  Timetables were produced, alternatives lovingly evaluated. ‘Kostas now, tenth year, that equals either second lunch or gym club or house group. Provided, of course, he’s in school at all,’ said Mrs Eveready triumphantly.

  Another set of records was produced, this time on the computer screen. ‘Yes. We’re in luck. He’s marked as present. So your best bet is …’

  Geoffrey thanked her profusely. ‘And Mr Springer?’ he ventured.

  ‘That’s more difficult,’ Mrs Eveready admitted. ‘He’s never an easy man to pin down appointment-wise, if you see what I mean. Tell you what, he usually looks in on senior dinner last thing. You might catch him there.’

  Geoffrey started out in his pursuit of Peter Kostas. He made first for his classroom. Geoffrey took the steps in his accustomed manner. The door of the third-floor room, when Geoffrey reached it, was closed and seemed to be a bit stiff. Geoffrey leaned his weight against it and the vandalised lock gave way. His eye met six black youths, all of excellent physique, with playing cards in their hands, sitting round a table made up of four desks pushed together. No one moved or looked at him.

  He cleared his throat. ‘I was looking for Peter Kostas,’ he began. For a moment there was no reply. Then the tallest of the boys turned his head slowly in Geoffrey’s direction and said huskily, ‘This classroom’s black – ’ he tapped his wristwatch – ‘till two o’clock. Right.’

  ‘Right,’ said Geoffrey promptly, and withdrew. Nothing to be got there, it appeared. He hesitated and thought of the gym club, which would presumably be in the gym. He took the stairs down and strode through the double doors of the senior gym. It was unwontedly quiet. There was a sort of rustling flutter at the far end. A number of bodies parted to disclose Cherry Rumbold in the lotus position, fingers in the correct Buddhist fashion, eyes half closed. About a dozen girls, Geoffrey realised, were similarly positioned. Geoffrey was impressed. But the whole group was female; of the young Kostas there was no sign.

  That left the dining hall. Even Geoffrey’s optimistic spirit quailed at the thought of broaching the senior dining hall. He knew that, even in the best – regulated schools – and the SWL Comp didn’t nearly qualify for that status – orderly, disciplined and well-meaning youngsters who’d behaved perfectly acceptably for three hours in the morning would, at the stroke of the dinner bell, be transformed into demons straight from the canvas of Goya.

  Guided by the noise, a dull roar punctuated by metallic clashes, he approached the swing doors with trepidation. He was not disappointed. It is not easy to feed fifteen hundred children in three lots, one after the other. The last lot almost inevitably sits in the custard of the first two lots. The air was thick with the smell of rancid fat, the tables awash with tomato sauce, the floor a sea of spurned paper napkins. Humanity, nominally seated at tables of five, leaned, lay, kicked or swung on the furniture and each other. A group of Afro-Caribbeans were practising rap with spoons; a table of matronly eleventh years were adorning each other with make-up; and a solitary, smallish boy was arranging noodles, for which he had clearly no further dietary use, to illustrate the structure of the atom as shown in his physics textbook.

  Well, at least, Geoffrey thought, it’s full of life; no apathy here. He began to swim his way through the breakers of children’s legs, towards what he thought might be the right age-group for Kostas. When he reached his goal, he flung priestly decorum to the winds, reverted to navy tactics, bent down and put his mouth very close to a boy’s ear and bellowed, ‘Peter Kostas. Where is he?’

  ‘Search me,’ said the boy, removing his ear from Geoffrey’s range and applying his little finger to it.

  The boy opposite him, who had been feeding his girlfriend with bits of pizza, paused momentarily in his amorous attentions and glanced at Geoffrey. ‘Left ten minutes ago. Probably bunked off. He don’t care for chemistry.’

  ‘Don’t care for anything much except clouting people,’ said his lady, daintily removing her half-nibbled pizza from her mouth.

  Geoffrey nodded his thanks for her courteous help, and began to fight his way back towards the doors. As he reached them, Springer slid through, his false athleticism useless to him in real life. A posse of girls, leaving the hall three abreast and intent on harmonising the words of a song, caught him full in the chest.

  ‘Oops, sorry guv,’ said the outrider as her elbow made contact.

  “That’s quite OK, Shirl,’ said Springer heartily. He knew the name of every one of his fifteen hundred pupils, he would boast to his governors and LEA masters.

  ‘I’m Sharon,’ the girl called back in disdain over her shoulder as she swept down the corridor.

  ‘She’s a great joker,’ said Springer, smiling affably towards Geoffrey.

  ‘Headteacher,’ Geoffrey accosted him. He could not bring himself to call him Lance and he didn’t like him enough to call him Springer. ‘Could you possibly give me a minute or two? It’s about young Kostas.’

  CHAPTER TEN

  Modern History

  Oenone Troutbeck bent the rear-view mirror of her Volkswagen Golf towards her and adjusted her earrings. Theodora, in the passenger seat beside her, was aware of her scent and the absolute propriety of her soft, grey-brown tweed suiting. Oenone was distressed, otherwise she would never have adjusted her toilette in public. They had driven down to Betterhouse from St Veep’s as soon as possible after the end of afternoon school.

  ‘I can’t think why the police won’t bail him,’ she said. With anyone else, Theodora would have supposed her near to tears. They had spent a terrible two hours at the police station waiting to see Ralph. It had required an hour and a half in a police waiting-room, and twenty minutes with a distraught Ralph who kept on saying, ‘The police don’t understand me. They can’t seem to grasp my syntax. Every time I read what they call my statement, they make me say a whole lot of things I haven’t said and haven’t done and wouldn’t have expressed in that way if I had.’

  ‘I think they won’t bail him until they’ve got a statement from him.’ Theodora knew enough of police proce
dure to offer.

  ‘It’s a pity his father isn’t about,’ said Oenone, ‘Uncle Jeremy was fairly

  forceful in situations like this.’

  ‘Where is your uncle?’ Theodora inquired.

  ‘Shot by a sniper in Kenya in ’81,’ said Oenone briskly.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Well, it’s what military families have to live with: constant danger and

  sudden death. I must say I can sympathise with poor Stella

  Stephanopoulos.’

  ‘Did you know her?’

  ‘I met her when Jessica was taking the entrance examination. We got

  on rather.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Theodora, who saw that they might well have. ‘Look, would

  you care to have a bite with Geoffrey and me before your trek home?’ ‘I could use a large G and T.’

  ‘Turn left at the lights.’

  Theodora wondered, as they pulled up in the high street outside the

  Paradise Garden restaurant, whether this was quite the sort of place

  Oenone was going to feel at home in. The proprietor, known as Harry,

  had an oriental taste in décor. The place was advertised by a red neon

  sign showing a palm tree and water cascading from a fountain. Inside,

  Harry liked anything ornate, shiny, or plush. There was a great deal of

  this type of thing crammed into the long narrow corridor which was his

  dining room. They ducked under low-hanging, multi-coloured Venetian

  lights, circled brass cauldrons filled with trailing plants on tripods with

  curly legs, and gained the purple silk banquette next to the miniature bar

  at the far end.

  They were, however, known. Theodora and Geoffrey ate there once a

  week as a relief from bacon sandwiches or parish hospitality. It was early

  in the evening: there were no other diners. Harry was, therefore, effusive,

  deferential and welcoming. Oenone liked to be with people who were

  greeted by restaurant proprietors, which made Theodora wonder whether

  Oenone was quite as sophisticated as she appeared.

  Geoffrey, already installed, rose to greet them. ‘Miss Troutbeck, how

  very kind of you to join us. You must be absolutely exhausted. What will

  you drink?’

  Oenone expanded like a Japanese flower in water in the presence of

  a personable man. Theodora could see her relax and glow. Gin and

  tonics and sherry were produced without pause by a waiter so good he

  was invisible. Oenone was impressed. The evening boded well.

  Explorations were made by Oenone in her usual style. Geoffrey, brother,

  of course, of good old Barbara. A clerical family perhaps, with a kind

  glance at Theodora. No? A naval one. Even better, in Oenone’s eyes.

  Had Geoffrey by any chance run across Admiral Pillinger? Geoffrey had,

  so all was well.

  Geoffrey waved away the invisible waiter proffering the enormous

  menu, and smiled his lovely smile at Miss Troutbeck. ‘Will you allow me to

  order for us?’ he inquired.

  Theodora was conscious of a pang of what could only be called

  jealousy. Damnit, who helps him run his parish, Oenone or me? She convicted herself instantly of being absolutely childish. It’s odd, she thought, how atavistic, how totally unallowed for one’s instincts were. She coveted Geoffrey not at all, admired his professionalism, respected and shared many of his attitudes, and wanted no more of his attention than a smoothly running working relationship required. She had plans for her immediate future which certainly did not require Geoffrey’s fulltime notice. Yet here she was troubled by a stab of resentment. Surely it was from such an unguarded cave that terror and violence sprang. From

  just such had come Kostas’s death and Jessica’s kidnap. Geoffrey was right, however, she reflected, to keep the ordering of

  food in his own hands. It would be folly to let an amateur wade through

  the fantasy of Harry’s menu. He served only one sort of meat: it was kid.

  Sometimes it was called chicken, sometimes lamb, sometimes rabbit.

  But actually it was always kid and, if you picked right, always delicious.

  Where Harry got kid from in south London – where indeed he himself

  hailed from – wasn’t too clear to Theodora. Armenian, was he, or

  Macedonian? His was another family concern with an unlimited supply

  of dark-haired sons, cousins and nephews, seemingly identical in shape

  and feature, glimpsed in the kitchen, remarked behind the bar, hardly

  noticed when serving and present to help with coats at the final exit. The

  only difference between the younger members of the family and the

  older ones like the barman, she observed, was that the older ones tended

  to have the dark shadow of a too-potent beard if one came late in the

  evening.

  Salads of yoghurt and cucumber came; warm pitta bread came; then

  the kid (rabbit, lamb) in its sauce of tomatoes and garlic, with beans and

  peppers just discernible. A purple, sweetish wine followed in a bottle

  labelled ‘Venus’.

  Conversation languished. Bodily needs were more than satisfied. There

  was a pause. Oenone asked charmingly if she might smoke. Geoffrey,

  who did not, practically fell over himself to light her up from the tiny

  candle on the table. Then he began.

  ‘I wonder if it might help if we were to pool our knowledge?’ Theodora’s resentment evaporated. They were back to business; she

  recognised Geoffrey’s methods.

  ‘If you think I might know anything which could help poor Ralph, of

  course.’ Oenone sounded perfectly genuine.

  ‘How is Ralph bearing up?’

  Oenone glanced at Theodora. ‘Well, actually, not too well. He’s not the

  strongest of characters. I mean, one doesn’t want to use terms like “neurotic” of one’s own family but being accused of murder or manslaughter, or whatever they’ve decided to settle on, is rather annihilating. Thank God

  his mother’s dead.’

  ‘The great thing is motive,’ Geoffrey said cautiously, ‘and the next is

  opportunity. Ralph did have opportunity, but would he have motive?’ He

  raised an eyebrow in Oenone’s direction.‘And then there’s the Aristotelian

  category of predisposition, hexis. Would Ralph have the sort of

  predispositions which could result in violence?’

  Oenone played with the stem of her glass before replying. ‘Ralph isn’t

  well, he’s not entirely reasonable. I think Uncle Jeremy bullied him a bit.

  I remember rows when I stayed with them in the holidays. That sort of

  thing. It made Ralph into – well, it made him evasive. I suppose a bit of a

  liar, really, just to avoid trouble. He was a serving soldier, Uncle Jeremy.’ Oenone sounded as though she was searching for a defence of her

  uncle.

  ‘I know Aunt Ginny felt he was far too hard on Ralph. I thought he’d

  found his feet at Cambridge, made his friends and so on. We overlapped,

  of course. But his career’s never really taken off. He tends to side with

  underdogs, naturally, but his tastes, his background, make him impatient

  with and unsympathetic to the really deprived. He desperately wants to

  be one of them, but then he doesn’t really like their manners, their attitudes.

  Twain meeting, and all that.’

  Theodora suddenly realised that Oenone was not without selfknowledge, and that her snobbery might be a sort of heroism, an

  unwillingness to pretend to attitudes she knew she would never sh
are. As

  for her words about Troutbeck, they sounded convincing to Theodora from

  what she’d seen of him. But that was still some way from killing a boy. ‘Do you know Ralph well enough to be able to say whether he could

  kill a boy?’ Geoffrey’s tone was so gentle, the horrific implications of this

  question might well have escaped Oenone. Certainly she was lulled into

  honesty.

  ‘I suppose if I’m frank, if young Kostas was bullying Ralph, Ralph

  might have hit him, pushed him or something. I don’t think Ralph’s

  murderous, but he can run on a short fuse. Of course, in an independent

  school, it would hardly matter, but I expect it does down here.’ Theodora forbore to remark that, even in an independent school, you

  couldn’t go around killing pupils who annoyed you.

  ‘Did Ralph know the Kostas family?’ Geoffrey asked. ‘I mean, outside

  school?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I had a talk with McGrath, the school caretaker, this morning, at his

  invitation. He told me that your uncle had had dealings with the Kostases in

  Cyprus about the time of the Turkish invasion.’ Geoffrey filled in the details.