Far, Far the Mountain Peak

by Arthur Clifford

  Yet, as he ambled along the pavement through the dark shadows and pools of golden sunlight, he had the uncanny feeling that Martin, useless pile of flab that he was, had spoken the truth; or part of it, anyway. He was still clinging to Beaconsfield and his childhood. He was afraid of letting go.

  That summer Dorothy and Meakin had finally taken the plunge and organised an ‘Adventure Holiday’ in Greece. They’d homed in on John. ‘John we need you to help out with the juniors. You’ve been so good with them this year. You know, they worship you! Especially little Mark Downing. You’re such a good influence!’

  And who could resist a juicy massaging of their ego? Not insecure, fantasising, would-be hero John Denby. Yet, there were drawbacks. None of the top form had wanted to join him. Danny Fleetwood’s ‘rebellion’ had inspired them with a guilty longing. If only they had had the guts to break out and be real lads like Danny! In the end the expedition consisted of two Third Years, four Second Years and one First Year: little Mark Downing.

  Mark was really too young to go on the expedition and was only there by special dispensation. His parents were embroiled in a messy divorce and were far too busy sizing up their new partners to be lumbered with a rumbustious, whinging, attention-seeking little eleven-year-old.

  When he had heard that John was going on the expedition, Mark had rushed up to him, bubbling over with delight, and embraced him. Another unmentionable electric thrill occurred. Once again, fortunately nobody noticed the embarrassing biological results.

  So there he was. The honoured leader, the tough guy, admired and respected by the boys. But in reality, perhaps, the Mummy’s Boy who was too frightened to leave school and face the real world. But, then, what else could he realistically do? For if Dolly ditched him – as she had so nearly done three years ago! – then who else did he have? Not Giles: he couldn’t give a damn and, besides, they both hated each other’s guts. Isabel? End up like poor, mad Jason? No way. He was trapped.

  Clean. Sanitised. So Bloody Boring!

  They drove out to Greece in the school minibus, spending each night at elaborate touristy campsites. It was a far cry from Morocco. No darkened and exotic alleyways in ancient Arab towns. No adrenaline-filled ‘Great Escapes’ into remote mountain fastnesses. No moonlit bivouacs on plunging mountain faces. It was all so tame and controlled.

  ‘Are the boys bedded down in their tents?’

  ‘Yes, miss.’

  ‘Well you can go and read the younger group a story. But not a ghost story this time, please. Little Mark’s scared of the dark. When you’ve finished you can join us for a cup of cocoa.’

  A far cry from bedding down under the glittering stars of the Sahara.

  Safe. Mundane. All the time Dolly’s eyes were on him. Unobtrusively. Smilingly. But always there. Making sure that nothing ‘awkward’ happened. Bed early. No experiments with alcohol. No fags. No wandering off by yourself. Clearly no repetition of the ‘Morocco affair’. Nothing for Dobson or the Youth Outreach Committee to get hold of. Coded message: ‘You got away with it last year, but you’re not getting away with it this time!’

  All clean and sanitised. And so bloody boring!

  Changed Into Exactly What?

  They drove through Italy. Stopping at Rimini they spent a day in the ‘fun park’. There he had a visitation: a sudden and painful flashback. He’d been there before. Long ago with his perfect Gran and Grandad in his previous incarnation before ‘The Fall’. As he recognised the self-same carousel on which he’d ridden, he found himself standing in his lost Eden. For a beautiful and infinitely sad moment he seemed to hear his Gran and his Grandad calling him from the Beyond World: ‘Don’t forget us! We’re still there, waiting for you to join us!’

  Then the vision faded. There was no Beyond World. And, bloody hell, had he really found this tacky and cheesy place exciting? Yes, he was different now. Changed. But changed into exactly what?

  Time for that Silver Bullet

  The only remotely good bit of the trip was the ascent of Mount Olympus in Greece. It was a fine, craggy mountain, more a whole range of spiky summits than a single peak. Rearing up dramatically from the narrow coastal plain, its distant crests were often wrapped in dark clouds from whose depths there came the occasional flash of lightning and angry rumble of thunder. It really did suggest remote antiquity and ancient gods.

  Yet, when they actually started the climb, it wasn’t a patch on Aksoual. No mud brick Berber villages, no white-robed shepherds with their Biblical flocks of sheep, no adrenaline rushes as you wriggled your way up a cliff band to salvation. Little to compare with that great plunging face emerging from the nothingness of the night. No far-off deserts. It was just a matter of walking up an easy, well-marked path, staying in a spacious mountain chalet, helping Dolly cook the evening meal and getting the kids bedded down for the night.

  Indeed, you were just a kid yourself, maybe slightly bigger, but a kid all the same. Coded message in Dolly’s X-ray eyes: ‘You got away with murder in Morocco, but not any more! This time I’m keeping an eye on you.

  Even so, the final clamber up to the misty spire of Mykitas, the highest of the peaks, was exciting, especially when they neared the summit and became aware of the huge cliffs that plummeted down to the lingering snowfields that lurked in the gloomy depths of the far side of the range. This was a worthy mountain. His spirits rose.

  But there was something else. While the Greek guide and Meakin led the way up the rocky gullies, Dolly had appointed him as ‘back marker’.

  ‘John, I want you to make sure that everybody reaches the top, especially little Mark. Poor soul, he’s not much good at anything and climbing Mount Olympus will do wonders for his self-esteem. I know you can do it! You will, won’t you?’

  ‘Of course! I’ll do my best!’ Not much of a choice, have I, you manipulative old trout?

  It was quite an assignment. Horribly dyslexic and quite excessively clumsy, Mark could barely cope with the steep, boulder-filled groove that swept down through the mist like a gigantic, badly made staircase. His feet just didn’t seem to obey his brain, and always managed to miss obvious footholds, either thrashing round in mid-air or slithering off a smooth, fiercely angled slab.

  ‘I canna dee it!’ he wailed as he slithered into a deep cleft. ‘I berra go down!’

  Increasingly entranced by the perfection of Mark’s little body, John found himself becoming paternal as he coaxed him upwards, step by awkward step.

  ‘Come on, put your hand here and your foot there… Don’t worry, I’m holding you… That’s it! Well done! Now we’ll have a little rest… Now we’ll do the next bit.’

  Taking hold of Mark’s delicate little foot, he placed it gently into a large scoop in the limestone. Then, grabbing the deliciously smooth skin of the boy’s perfectly formed hand, he manoeuvred it onto a large jug-handle hold just above him. Finally, shoving on Mark’s exquisitely shaped backside, bulging so temptingly beneath his jeans, he pushed him upwards onto the next stance. As he did so, a warm glow filled him. If only Mark wasn’t wearing any clothes and would let him… A rich and terrifying thought! I’m in love with him! God, this is awful! Or is it beautiful? Holy Communion? The Theban Sacred Bands? The Holy Ghost? Or, more probably, the whisperings of the Demon that will lure you to destruction?

  Eventually they emerged onto the airy summit.

  ‘Well done, Mark!’ exclaimed John. ‘You’re there! You’re with the Gods of Ancient Greece on the throne of Zeus himself!’

  Just then, almost on cue, as if Zeus himself had actually been listening, the mists rolled back, revealing the true grandeur of the range: the ragged cockscomb of the peaks, the immense precipices plunging down into unknown snowy depths, the soaring rocky spires, the sea of white clouds beneath them, the brilliant blue of the sky above. Truly, it seemed, the Throne of the Gods.

  Mark gaped in what seemed to be wonder. ‘Wo
w! Wow! I’ve climbed Moont Olly, me!’

  Suddenly he hugged John. ‘Ta, ever so! Ta a million! Yer wicked, you! Far berra than mingy ole Dad! I’ll ’ave ye as me Dad instead o’ him!’

  A surge occurred in John’s forbidden zone! Your Dad? I’d rather you were my bird and I could do what I long to do!

  Full of emotion, Dorothy shook John’s hand. ‘Well done! That was wonderful! The best thing you’ve ever done for the school! So unselfish! So adult! John,’ she gushed, ‘You’re a natural with the young! You really ought to be a teacher!’

  For a moment he relished the accolade, almost rolled in it! But then, like the mountain mists, dark thoughts swept down on the elation. God Almighty, if she knew! Knew that I’m not what I seem to be. That I’m a werewolf. When the moon is full, or when the Demon comes… same thing. Yes, I know what I am. God, if that kid knew…! Knew what danger he was in! Time for that silver bullet before ‘something’ happens?

  Near Miss: The Demon Takes Over

  Three days later ‘something’ did happen. Or, rather, very nearly happened. They were having a day on the beach. They were at a big, tacky seaside resort. It was sunshades, plastic tables and chairs, bars, ice cream, a constant trickle of pop music; everything that John found cloying and imprisoning.

  The kids, of course, loved it. But for him it was a wasted day of excruciating boredom. While they went whooping off into the sea, he was deputed to guard their clothes. For a long time he sat disconsolately on the sand, gazing inland at the dull haze which blurred the distant and craggy mountains. That was where he longed to be, pushing the limits and probing the edges of his capability. Not stuck here like an overgrown kid! At this very moment, Martin was probably careering round on a motorbike. Useless, pathetic Army-Barmy Martin, the ultimate big, fat slob. Yet, not a little kid like him.

  As he sat and sulked under the broiling sun, the Demon came. The juniors were running round on the beach, naked but for their minute swimming trunks which barely concealed their exquisite treasures. Among them was Mark, smiling and quite ludicrously lovely, plunging noisily into the sea. If only! If only!

  Then, as if in a pre-arranged answer to his cravings, Mark emerged from the waves, wet and shining.

  ‘Wanna ice cream me! Berra get me dry things on.’

  Right in front of him, seemingly in slow motion, the longed-for show began. Dressing was always a problem with Mark, and the business of extracting himself from his dripping wet trunks, finding his dry underpants in the anarchic heap of T-shirts, trousers and socks on the sand and, at the same time, keeping his towel securely round his middle… posed fearful difficulties for him. A desperately clumsy and hideously mismanaged dyslexic operation began. First he pulled down his trunks, and as they got tangled up with his feet, the towel fell off, leaving his pink, cherubic body stark naked for all to see with everything that mattered on display. Unconcerned and quite unaware of his surroundings, he began to rummage round in the heap of clothes in front of him.

  Everything John had ever longed for was there before him. Ready. Waiting. Now’s your chance! The Demon was in full command – his all. Wild, exultant joy, radiant ecstasy greater even than he had ever before! Holy joy! The Communion of souls! Doing what you’re meant to do! The act of worship.

  Biology was in total control. Total arousal. He got up and approached the unsuspecting Mark.

  Just then he felt a hand gripping his shoulder. He turned round to see Meakin looking grimly at him.

  ‘I know what you want to do,’ he said in a firm, quiet voice. ‘I know what you want to do, but for his sake, for your sake, and for the sake of all of us, don’t!’

  White-faced and trembling, John could only splutter defiantly.

  ‘What do you mean? What are you on about?’

  Still gripping his shoulder, Meakin led him away.

  ‘Don’t try to lie about it! I know what you are. You can’t deceive me.’

  ‘What? Lemme go!’

  ‘It’s not your fault. I don’t think any the worse of you for it. But don’t do it! Now go for a swim and wash out the evidence in your trousers. I won’t tell anybody. Don’t worry.’

  John glanced down at his jeans.

  ‘Oh, God!’ he exclaimed. The ‘evidence’ was massive – all down his right trouser leg and hideously visible. The exposure! The shame!

  He hurried, obeyed and plunged fully dressed into the sea.

  No God?

  That night in the tent, as the juniors snored softly and the waves gently caressed the beach, he prayed silently.

  ‘Please God, stop it! Please make me normal!’

  But, once again, God didn’t reply. Or else there was no God at all.

  ‘You’re Such a Credit to the School!

  Or, maybe, there was a God, after all. But a God who was playing a strange cat-and-mouse game with him: cold one minute, hot the next. He returned home to a clutch of brilliant exam results, far beyond his wildest hopes. Seven O Level passes. Grade As in English, history and geography. Grade 1 in all his CSEs. Special praise for his history project from the assessor. ‘remarkable piece of work… masterpiece… promising young historian… best I’ve ever seen’. Only one query to Dorothy: ‘What’s a lad like this doing C.S.E. for? He’s too good for it. It’s not really meant for the likes of him.’ What indeed? Why was he at Beaconsfield at all? But that was a long and very convoluted story.

  In Morocco he’d done all the right things and had been covered in shit for his pains. But here his efforts had received their just reward. So there was rationality in the world after all. More than that, he now knew that really was as clever as he’d thought he was.

  Dorothy was over the moon. She gave him a big hug. ‘Oh, John, I’m so pleased! You’ve done so well! What with getting little Mark up Mount Olympus, and now this! You’re such a credit to the school! What’s more,’ she added, ‘they’ll accept you at the Stirling Academy now! Think of that! The Sixth Form in the top academic school in the north of England! It’s a real honour for you and for the school!’

  She felt vindicated. Heaven alone knew, she’d taken a big enough risk in adopting him – and she’d had doubts enough about it! – but it had all turned out well. She felt a deep, maternal love for him. Her child. Her good child!

  Now What?

  Two days later John was at Gloucester Road recovering from the gigantic tea that Mrs Coburn had cooked for him. ‘A growin’ bairn like you needs buildin’ up proper, like.’

  Idly he glanced at his school blazer draped over his bed. There it was. There he was. His Head Boy badge. His rugby team badges. His Adventure Club badges. His Art Prize badge. His personality. His achievements. All that was best in him. Now it was all in the past. His Eden gone. Another Fall. And fall into what?

  Casually he looked out of the skylight. It was a nondescript day with a greyish sky. Dust was blowing round the piles of rubble and the empty beer cans lying in the puddles. Above the obscene graffiti on the red brick walls, the newly built tower blocks stood crudely naked. South of the river the distant hills lost themselves in colourless haze.

  Suddenly, from somewhere nearby, there was a coarse female shriek followed by an explosion of raucous male laughter. He shuddered. The predators were still lurking out there in that drab wilderness.

  And, just what was waiting for him in the world beyond Beaconsfield?