The Wrong Boy

by Willy Russell

  Desperately seeking a solution, the New Headmaster snatched at the idea of expulsion. But no sooner had he toyed with the idea than he ruefully conceded that dismissing fifteen pre-pubescent perverts at a single stroke would attract not only the attentions of the Failsworth Fanfare but probably the entire national news media as well. The New Headmaster tried to think. But thinking was difficult, especially with the Goldberg boy wailing and crying and constantly repeating that he hadn’t been the one who’d started it, that he’d joined in with the flytrapping but he hadn’t been the one who’d started it.

  The New Headmaster turned, intending to tell Albert Goldberg to shut up. But as he did so, the New Headmaster suddenly realised what it was that Albert was saying. And suddenly he started to feel the first glimmer of hope.

  His rational mind beginning to function again, the New Headmaster started to see that things might not be quite as horrifically bad as had first appeared. Fifteen perverts? The idea was ludicrous. That’s when the New Headmaster almost laughed out loud at his own silly panicking. That’s when the New Headmaster began to feel a surge of relief. There’d be no need for mass expulsion. Fifteen pre-pubescent perverts in the same school year! The simple law of averages said that it just wasn’t possible. But what was possible, what was perfectly possible, was that a group of gullible lads had been led astray.

  He hadn’t started it! That’s what the Goldberg lad had said, he hadn’t started it. But somebody must have started it. One, just one, that’s all it would have needed, one bad apple, just one warped and depraved and precociously sexual little beast who’d lured and led his impressionable peers into this rancid cesspit of insecticidal sexual torture.

  The New Headmaster stopped tugging at his earlobe.

  Albert Goldberg looked up, to see the New Headmaster smiling.

  ‘Now, Albert,’ he said, ‘the doctor’s going to give you that medication now. And while he’s doing that I want you to think very hard, Albert. And I want you to tell me who it is who has been forcing you to do these things down at the canal.’

  Albert didn’t even cry when the doctor put the needle in his arm; because Albert couldn’t believe his luck. Not only was he getting his manhood-saving injection but Albert could tell from the tone of the Headmaster’s question that he was being offered the chance to get off the hook, to become the victim rather than the culprit.

  ‘Tell me, Albert,’ the New Headmaster purred. ‘I know that you could never have dreamed up something like this, could you, Albert? As you rightly say, it wasn’t your idea, was it? You didn’t start it, did you?’

  Albert Goldberg shook his head.

  ‘So, Albert, who did?’ the New Headmaster gently asked. ‘Who did start it, Albert?’

  Albert paused for a second and thought about how I’d saved him from drowning. But then he thought about the deep shit he was in and how he still had to face his mum and his dad and how somehow that shit wouldn’t be half so deep if he accepted the victim status that was now on offer.

  So Albert Goldberg swallowed and told the New Headmaster what was, after all, the truth, told him, ‘Raymond Marks, sir. It was Raymond Marks who started it all.’

  The New Headmaster smiled and slowly nodded. ‘Raymond Marks,’ he said, sighing a sort of satisfied sigh, ‘Raymond Marks! I always knew the day would come when I’d hear that name again: Raymond James Marks.’

  So you see, Morrissey, that’s what started it. That’s what started everything. That’s how I began my rapid descent from being the new school hero to being the precocious pervert, the evil influence, the filthy little beast who’d forced innocent and reluctant children into sadistic mass masturbation sessions on the banks of the Rochdale Canal.

  If the New Headmaster had never come to our school, if we’d never done the flytrapping, then I never would have ended up in the special school. I never would have become fat and done the shoplifting and made up Malcolm and been such a cross for my Mam to bear. All we were doing was playing a game. But nobody ever believed me. And if they had then none of the rest of it would have happened the way it did; not if they’d believed me. And if Paulette hadn’t gone missing.

  But I can’t tell you any more about that at the minute, Morrissey. Because the Station Master has just told me to get all my gear together. He said the police have arrived. He said they’re waiting for me at the front of the station. ‘Come on,’ he said, ‘I’m just clocking off and on my way out I’m handing you over to the bobbies.’

  They’ll have read all the facts on the computer; about the canal and being in Swintonfield. And what happened to little Paulette. But facts aren’t the truth, Morrissey. That’s why I’ve told you the truth, or at least as much of it as I could. I know that you’ll understand, Morrissey; not like the police. The police never understand. The police said I committed an act of gross indecency, Morrissey, but I never did, I never did at all. But once they read all that stuff on the computer they’ll never believe me.

  Yours sincerely,

  Raymond Marks

  A bus,

  En Route

  For Huddersfield,

  West Yorkshire

  Dear Morrissey,

  I can hardly believe it! I’ve been reprieved! As you can deduce from the above address I didn’t get arrested and incarcerated in Halifax after all. They weren’t waiting for me, the police. Because he never phoned them, he’d never phoned the police at all. He’d just been pretending, the Station Master, he’d just pretended. He said he’d just intended frightening me so that I wouldn’t ever do nowt so knob-headed ever again. He said I looked like the sort of balsa-brained prat who needed to be taught a lesson.

  ‘Yeah, and you were shit-scared, weren’t y’,’ he said.

  I just nodded and said nowt, because I had been scared.

  ‘So you remember!’ he said, pointing his finger at me. ‘Next time y’ think about doing something so fuckin’ stupid, just remember how scared you were sitting in my office, thinkin’ you were gonna be taken away by the bobbies and locked up.’

  I said that I would remember and I explained that all my money had been robbed off me and if that hadn’t happened I never would have tried to bunk onto the train in the first place.

  We were stood outside the station and he was rolling up a ciggie from a tin of Golden Virginia. He offered the tin to me but I told him I didn’t smoke. As he lit up he nodded at my tee shirt. And he said, ‘So, how long have you been into Morrissey then?’

  I said, ‘A couple of years now.’

  He nodded. Then he took a long drag on his roll-up and stared into the distance. He said, ‘Yeah, he’s not bad, Morrissey.’ He laughed then. And he said, ‘It’s a fucking good job you weren’t wearing a tee shirt with the Pet Shop Boys on it or I would have had you locked up.’

  I said, ‘If I’d been wearing a Pet Shop Boys tee shirt, I’d expect to be locked up!’

  He took another drag on his ciggie then. He said, ‘I don’t suppose you’re into Frank Zappa, are y’?’

  ‘No,’ I said, ‘I’ve heard a bit of his stuff but I wouldn’t say I was into it.’

  The Station Master stared at me with what looked like a mixture of pity and contempt as he slowly shook his head and quietly intoned, ‘Forgive them, Zappa. They are mere earthlings, in a world not yet ready for the genius that is yours.’

  (From the deliberately limited amount I’ve heard of him, I’ve always considered Frank Zappa to be quite execrable really, but on balance I thought it was best to say nowt.)

  ‘God wants Zappa, y’ know!’ the Station Master announced. I stared at him as he nodded. Then he said, ‘D’ y’ know why? Why God wants Frank?’

  I shook my head.

  And in a relatively reverential hush, the Station Master said, ‘Because God’s lonely in heaven, without an intellect to match his own.’

  The Station Master stared at me, his eyes all grave and full of solemnity, and I got the impression that he was somewhat cracked actually. But still I didn’t s
ay nowt. I just watched as he nodded and stubbed his ciggie out. Then he said, ‘Can I ask y’ summat?’

  I said, ‘Yeah.’

  He said, ‘What were you writing in that book?’

  ‘Nothing,’ I said, ‘just some … some bits and pieces like.’

  He nodded. ‘Fancy yourself as a writer then do y’?’

  ‘No,’ I said, ‘I just … it’s just a book that I put my lyrics in and write letters and that.’

  He turned on me all dead hard and mean then and he said, ‘You’re not a fuckin’ writer!’

  I started to look around me.

  ‘Hey! Hey!’ he said. ‘I’m talking to you, Morrissey-man; you look at me when I’m talking to y’.’

  So I did what he said and I looked at him. I was beginning to think I’d have been better off if the police had been waiting for me.

  ‘You, sitting there in my fucking office,’ he said, ‘sitting there for hours and writing in that book. Writing,’ he said. ‘Fucking writing! I’m a writer! I write books, I do!’

  His eyes were popping out at me and I could see a big angry vein beating on the side of his forehead. ‘I’ll write a book tonight!’ he said. ‘When I get home I’ll write a book, I will. I might even write two books tonight.’ He had hold of me then by the front of my tee shirt and he was glaring at me. ‘A trilogy,’ he said, ‘three books. I might even write three books tonight. What do you say to that, Morrissey-man? What do you say to that?’

  Well, I thought that was preposterously prolific really but I just shrugged. And I said, ‘Well … Jeffrey Archer’s probably shitting himself.’

  He looked at me then, the Station Master, as if he was seeing me for the first time. ‘Who?’ he said. ‘Who?’ And he let go of my tee shirt then.

  I grabbed up my gear quick from the pavement and I said, ‘I’ve erm … listen,’ I said, ‘I’ve got to get off now. It’s been quite nice really talking to y’ and that,’ I said, ‘but I’ve got to get to Grimsby and it sounds as though you’ll be rather busy yourself tonight.’

  I started to move away then but he ran after me, grabbed hold of my arm and held me against a lamppost and stared at me with his wild weird eyes and I thought he was going to hit me or murder me or something. But then he said, ‘Here, mate.’

  And I looked down and he was holding out a ten-pound note.

  ‘Take it, Mr Morrissey-man,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean you no harm. Take this.’

  I just looked at him all puzzled and shook my head.

  ‘Take it, Morrissey-man,’ he said. ‘Take it to assist y’ on your arduous journey.’

  And he stuffed the tenner into the pocket of my jeans. ‘Y’ can get the coach with that,’ he said. ‘You’ll have to get yourself to Huddersfield first. There’s an express coach depot in Gibbet Street.’

  And he just nodded at me then before he turned and started walking off towards his bus stop. And even though he’d frightened the shit out of me there was something about the Station Master that made me feel sorry for him. And I called out, ‘I’ll take it then, the money. And thanks for letting me go,’ I said. ‘I promise I’ll read one of your books when they come out.’

  He turned round then. And he called back, his voice all proud and princely, ‘You won’t be able to, Morrissey-man.’ He laughed then, as he called out, ‘I write them all up here,’ and he tapped a finger to his head. ‘All of them books,’ he said, ‘they’re all written up here.’

  And he must have seen his bus coming then because he ran across towards the bus stop and I never saw him no more.

  I think he was a very sad person actually, the Station Master. They must have been brilliant books, the books inside the Station Master’s head. But I knew, and I think the Station Master must have known really, that all those brilliant books of his would only ever exist up there in his head. And as I made my way up the street, looking for a bus that’d take me to the coach depot in Huddersfield, I wondered if that’s what it had been like for my Dad. I wondered if my Dad had been a bit like the Station Master.

  I don’t think my Dad ever had books in his head. My Dad’s head had just been full of melodies. That’s what my Mam told me. She said it was the long-necked banjo that finished her. And before that it was the button-key chromatic accordion! Whenever she told me about my Dad, my Mam always said it was the long-necked banjo with the rosewood fretboard and the mother-of-pearl inlay that finally finished her off.

  Apparently my Dad was always coming home with musical instruments that he could never ever play. And at first, my Mam said, she didn’t mind.

  ‘That was the reason I fell in love with him,’ she said, ‘because he was a man who had so much melody in his heart.’

  But for all the melody that apparently hummed within the heart of my father and regardless of how fine the instruments he acquired, no matter how dedicated and determined his efforts, he could never wring a tune out of nowt.

  ‘And it was bleeding us dry,’ my Mam said. ‘You were just a little baby then, still in your pram; and with me just doin’ part time at the Kwiky we’d hardly a pair of pennies to knock together. We’d gas bills and electricity bills, hire-purchase bills and the rent to pay. But it never made any difference. We’d all the debts in the world but they were as nowt to your father. I’m not saying it was his fault. It was like a sickness that he had. Johnny just couldn’t help himself. With whatever money we did manage to scrape together, he’d set off with the best of intentions in the world, telling me how he was off to the gas showroom or the electricity board to pay off the bills. And me,’ my Mam said, ‘I always believed Johnny, always believed your father because your father believed himself. But he’d never get to the showroom or the electricity board. He’d turn up back here with a big bass fiddle or a saxophone or flute. And he’d have that dreamy look in his eye again.’

  And that’s what started the rows between my Mam and my Dad. My Mam said that at first, after the shouting was over, she always found it in herself to forgive him for spending all the money on a Hammond Organ or a xylophone or a trumpet or a bass trombone.

  ‘What you have to understand, Raymond,’ my Mam explained to me, ‘is that your Dad’s delight was so disarming! Whenever he walked through the door with a freshly purchased instrument the delight that was upon your Dad would take your breath away. And in no time at all he’d have you believing he’d brought home ingots of gold. And because I knew how much melody he had in his heart I kept on making the same mistake, kept on believing that this time he’d brought home an instrument that he’d actually be able to play! And I wouldn’t have cared about the money being spent; not if he could have unlocked even just a taste of that melody that was within him.’

  But my Dad never could. No matter how passionately he tried, all my Dad’s efforts to wring melody and harmony from any instrument whatever just resulted in a stubbornly discordant cacophony of excruciating atonality.

  And then my Mam came home from the KwikSave one day and saw him with the Rickenbacker guitar that he’d said was an absolute steal at four hundred and thirty-four pounds; my Mam watched him as he stood there, in the middle of the parlour, the guitar strapped around his shoulders as he pretended to play, as he mimed along to an Eric Clapton record, his fingers skittering up and down the fretboard in a wildly haphazard but passionate frustrated frenzy. And my Mam said there were tears dropping down from my father’s eyes. And she told him, ‘You’ve got to give this up, Johnny; it’s an obsession, it’s an addiction and it’s bleeding us dry.’

  And my Dad did give up the guitar. But when he took it back to the shop he saw a button-key chromatic accordion. He said he got a fantastic part-exchange deal on it.

  And that’s when my Mam started seeing the holes in the carpet and the flaking paint on the window frames; and with each new instrument my Dad brought home, the flaky paint got flakier, the holes in the carpet grew and my Mam had to work harder and harder at the KwikSave just to keep us all standing still. And that’s when my Mam fir
st started to think; that a man with melody in his heart could also be a millstone around a person’s neck.

  She didn’t want a lot, my Mam said. She didn’t want jacuzzis or conservatories, didn’t want curtains with electronic rails. She didn’t want split-level cookers or showers; she said a bath’s quite sufficient for keeping us clean. She said she wasn’t asking for a tumble-drier or a big chest freezer stuffed full of pork. She said she wasn’t asking for a garden with a fountain, or even a lawn with wide handsome stripes. Luxury, my Mam said, wasn’t what she was seeking; ‘Luxury’s just a lot of what people don’t need.’

  But, she said, sometimes she would like to look around her and see something that said there was hope for the future, something that said they weren’t just standing still; a lawn, my Mam said, nothing too fancy, just a plain square of grass, a small patch of green; where she could sit out if we had a nice summer, where the washing could billow without collecting no dust, where the blackbirds and sparrows could feed upon breadbits and she’d put out the pram on warm afternoons.

  And my Dad was a man with the best of intentions and he promised my Mam that he’d get some nice turf. He saved up the money and he phoned up a farmer who said, ‘Yes, I’ve got some fine turf y’ can buy.’ My Dad said he’d call round the next day and see it. And it wasn’t my Dad’s fault. He never intended going back on his word and upsetting my Mam. But stood in the farmhouse, talking turf with the farmer, my Dad’s eye wandered; and there, on the wall, hung a long-necked, five-string Vega banjo with a pigskin vellum and silver-plated tension bars. The pegs for the tuning were carved from mahogany, the rosewood fretboard delicately inlaid with mother-of-pearl that glimmered and shimmered and dazzled my Dad who promptly forgot about turf being laid.

  Elated, excited, bearing the banjo – but minus the turf – my Dad arrived home like the kid-with-the-candy, the cock-a-hoop-cowboy, the cat-with-the-cream. And he said to my Mam, ‘Just look at the vellum, just feel that fretboard, it’s smoother than silk; and watch, watch how the inlay just lights up and sparkles and dazzles your eyes as it catches the light. And look at the neck, it’s …’ But my Mam interrupted. And quietly said, ‘Johnny, you went out to get turf.’