The Standing Water

by David Castleton

  The Standing Water

  David Castleton

  Copyright © David Castleton 2015

  All rights reserved

  Published by Steel String Books

  ISBN 978-0-9935225-0-5

  All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  Part One

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Part Two

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-one

  Chapter Forty-two

  Chapter Forty-three

  Chapter Forty-four

  Chapter Forty-five

  Chapter Forty-six

  Chapter Forty-seven

  Chapter Forty-eight

  Chapter Forty-nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Part Three

  Chapter Fifty-one

  Chapter Fifty-two

  Chapter Fifty-three

  Chapter Fifty-four

  Chapter Fifty-five

  Chapter Fifty-six

  Chapter Fifty-seven

  Part One

  Chapter One

  In the wet weather, when it had been raining for many weeks – gossamer curtains of rain then thudding downpours of rain – a pond would form itself outside the gate of our school. It was a dirty thing, a sullen brown disc. There it would stand, not far from our low redbrick school building, as around lay the low marshy fields: all sulky bogs, shivering hedges, the melancholy of black ploughed earth, the deep green conservatism of the ground that was unturned.

  As I grip my pen, as I look back across the vault of so many years, I see myself leaving the school one late September afternoon, I see myself walking towards a bunch of lads gathered by the pond. There were six; I drifted up to the little group. The day was clammy, but there was no rain; lazy clouds of mist hung around the fields, floated from the boys’ mouths as they chattered. I reached the group’s edge – the boys’ faces acknowledged I was there: a twitch of cheeks, a flick of the eyes. I just stood and listened as the stench of deep sludge and rotten matter wafted up from the pool. One kid – a brown-haired lad with glasses and an infuriating face called Dennis Stubbs – was instructing the others. His arm was back, his elbow bent. He held a stone in his raised hand.

  ‘You watch!’ Stubbs was saying. ‘Watch how I chuck it. I’ll teach you all to skim.’

  ‘You can’t skim a stone, Stubbsy,’ a lad called Richard Johnson said. ‘You can’t do owt right, can you? That’s what Mr Weirton told us.’

  ‘I don’t care what he said,’ Stubbs replied. ‘Just watch me do it.’

  Forlorn objects peeped above the murky, almost suspicious waters of the pond. There were tin cans, half a football, the upturned wing and bulbous undercarriage of a toy plastic aeroplane – a prize I wouldn’t have minded rescuing from that dark water and slime, if it were not for some vague fear of sinking mud, of visions of my last bubbles of breath breaking on the pond’s surface.

  Stubbs looked towards the plane, eyes narrowing. Before anyone could stop him, he flung his stone. A flat blade, it spun over the water. Gravity made it dip; it hit the stagnant pool, sent up two reluctant waves of heavy liquid and sped on towards its target. Two more bounces, two more resentful splashes and the stone struck the hull of the plane. The flying machine shifted, flopped onto its back and – with a gurgle – disappeared under the water.

  ‘Stubbsy,’ a kid said, ‘be careful! Weirton’s still in the school – he might see us!’

  At the mention of that name, my heart knocked an extra beat; worry tinted all our faces. Neck muscles tightened; lips were pulled back; eyes protruded. Dennis Stubbs soon recovered himself.

  ‘Look how scared you all are!’ he said, high voice mocking. ‘You’re just a bunch of scardy cats!’

  ‘We’re not scared!’ said Richard Johnson. ‘But Weirton could come out dead easily! And someone might see us from the pub and tell him.’

  The pub, another low redbrick building on the pond’s other side, was a mysterious citadel, a fortress of the adults. Fumes of beer were breathed out by the occasional swing of its door – an enticing earthily sour smell. Lights and laughter would stampede out with them, before turning and rushing in with the door’s backward sweep. Could adult eyes from the pub spy, betray us?

  ‘There’s no one in,’ Stubbs knowledgeably said, tossing another flat stone in his hand. ‘It’s closed. And Weirton’s doing his marking or he’s on the bog or something – won’t be out for another ten minutes.’

  We all laughed at the wickedness and irreverence of Stubbs’s words, our imagined reactions of Weirton to them. Stubbs whisked his arm, let go of his stone. It bounced over the pond, pinged off a rusty can. The impact uprooted it from its grave in the sludge. It tottered, tipped, filled with water, sank. Stubbs’s confident display inspired the boys.

  ‘Let’s have a go! Let’s have a go!’

  The lads flapped and bounced, searched the ground for pebbles, snatched up flat stones, barged and pushed one another. Richard Johnson got one, hurled it over the water. It hit the football – in a lethargic roll it heaved up its muddy side, flopped a few inches farther from the bank. Shoved to the edge of the scrum, I hadn’t got a stone. But a bombardment of skimming objects soon flew across the water, ricocheting off cans, directing the football around the filthy circle.

  ‘Wait!’ someone shouted. ‘What about Marcus?’

  Hands froze; stones were dropped; all the boys gasped; dismay scrunched faces – how could we have forgotten Marcus?

  ‘Do you … think he’ll … be alright?’ Johnson asked.

  ‘After all that, I doubt it,’ Stubbs said with a sneer.

  ‘Are you sure it’s true?’ another boy said.

  ‘Jonathon Browning’s brother says it is!’ I chipped in. ‘He says he’s seen him!’

  ‘You can’t trust those Brownings.’ Another boy turned to face me. ‘They’re a bad lot my mum says – a bit like you Watsons.’

  ‘But he says he’s seen him!’ I insisted. ‘He’s seen his head all muddy – sticking up above the water!’

  Eyes darted; mouths fell; faces looked down.

  ‘Do you think he’s … he’s really in there?’ someone asked.

  ‘Where else could he be!?’ Stubbs said. ‘He disappeared suddenly and we haven’t seen him anywhere else, have we? And the grown-ups always tell us not to go near the pond in case we drown.’

&nb
sp; This convinced the lads. Poor Marcus now dwelled in the pond’s depths. We stood silent, thoughtful for some seconds.

  ‘What about our skimming game?’ a lad asked.

  ‘Well,’ said Richard, ‘he’s deep down in the pool. He won’t stick his head up if he’s got any sense. If we just skim on the surface, it should be OK.’

  The shore came alive with the motion of bodies and soon we were all chucking. Boys took up sideways stances like classical athletes, unleashed the discuses of their stones, but they were not under any Olympian blue sky – a low slab of tombstone grey hung in the English heavens. The stones whizzed and splashed. Then Stubbs strained to lift a huge rock, almost a boulder. Like a shot putter he held his weapon against his neck, performed an anxious shimmy with his feet and heaved his stone over the pool. It spun in a heavy arc before it dropped in a curve and landed on top of the football. A crown of water was hurled up – spikes and jewels of liquid dirt – and both stone and football vanished. The water slopped back down, but several bubbles appeared on its swaying skin – bubbles I guessed spiralled up from the pond’s bed.

  ‘It’s Marcus!’ a lad shouted. ‘Look – he’s breathing!’

  We ourselves breathed a gasp, stood with down-stretched arms, frozen feet ready to run. A few more spheres of air gurgled up. The water shifted and rippled.

  ‘Oh no!’

  ‘Look at that!’

  The pond’s surface was punctured. A head appeared, anointed with mud and green slime.

  ‘It’s him! It’s Marcus!’

  ‘Arrgh!’

  ‘Run!’

  We sprinted past the pub, its beery curiosity now forgotten. A few lads hived off who lived on that building’s other side. The rest of us powered down our patch of town’s main street. I ran, catching gulps of fear with my juddering breath, not daring to look back, but driving my legs forward. My heart bashed my ribcage. On I dashed, as grateful companions on either side reached the sanctuary of their houses, beyond whose thresholds no outer malevolence, however powerful, could pass. But I lived right on the edge of our district, which itself lay on the edge of our small town, Emberfield. I laboured past the smart semis, the neat front gardens, past the garden gnomes – lurking around concrete toadstools or fishing in ornamental ponds, past the fake wishing wells my parents had to stop me casting money into. On I ran – a stitch ached and spread, but I forced my feet, throat spasming at the thought of slimy mud-drenched arms grasping my ankles. At last, right on the edge of town, I made it to my home.

  Chapter Two

  I stare at my room’s white walls, hoping those clear spaces can provide an answer, supply some clarity my mind lacks as my pen twitches over my page. Cars hum; noises float up from the city street; they joggle something in my brain; set loose a cascade of recollections. I see it now, remember how the next day I dawdled along to school in the rain – gawping at the clear jewels of drops on the leaves, the puddles on the pavement. Where the way was rougher and less paved, the puddles were tea-coloured. I imagined them as lakes and muddy oceans – the stones around their rim a circle of jagged mountains, those sticking up from the water rocky islets. I pictured nations around their shores – their borders marked by pavement cracks or the slithering streams of rainwater my mind turned into mighty rivers. I was soon busy weaving legends of wars and great kings, of ancient navies battling on those rivers and seas with booming cannons, fluttering flags. I wished I had some coloured pencils in my satchel, wished I could sit down and draw those amazing scenes. But, floating back to reality, I quickened my trudge through that dull chilly morning, my breath in front of me a tugging cloud, raw hands poking from my blue waterproof, my kagool’s hood done up tight, leaving just the circle of my red face to peer out. I turned off the direct road to school, into a smaller street. I strode past the redbrick houses, their wet gardens, dripping fences, their plaster gnomes merrily fishing. I wondered if the circles spreading across their little pools were caused by raindrops or cunning evasive fish. This reminded me of Marcus and a jolt of fear shook me. Was he still angry at the crash of Stubbs’s rock, at our stones splintering his pool’s restful surface? I shivered – knowing that morning I’d have to walk past him to get to school. I imagined him glowering and vengeful in his murky depths. My heart began to thud, briskly jerking my walk. I wondered how Marcus had got in there – had it just been an accident or something more sinister? I pictured strong hands pushing his head under those waters, or maybe not even hands but some sort of force shoving or sucking him down. But then I noticed how the rain was playing its pattering symphony: drumming on cars, on rooftops, the pavement, the road, my hood, the tops of the false wishing wells. Each drop made its unique and final sound, each rapping out a different tone from the thing it struck. It was a rhythmic poem of splatters, drips and plops. Before I reached the road’s end, I was once more dawdling, trying to catch each note. I drifted to the street’s last house, which stood next to a clump of trees that skulked behind barbed wire. I bunched my fingers into a fist, banged on the door’s varnished wood – each beat a sacrifice of pain. There was a shuffling of carpeted footsteps; the door swung open; a woman stood in the hall.

  ‘Is Jonathon in?’ I asked, tilting my head back to peer at her face far above.

  ‘Yes, Ryan,’ Jonathon’s mother said, ‘he’s still upstairs, absorbed again in one of his set-outs. You’d better hurry him up or you’ll both be late, and you know what might happen then!’

  I’d only recently got into the habit of calling on Jonathon Browning. Not knowing what a set-out was, and thinking that perhaps I should, I didn’t say anything, but just clambered up the stairs. Mrs Browning walked after me with an impatient tread that made me stumble as I soaked up her nervousness. As I reached to push Jonathon’s door, the adult behind me bashed her fist on it, making the wood leap and shudder. My hand slipped, I missed my footing and staggered into his bedroom.

  ‘Jonathon!’ she shouted. ‘Ryan’s already here! You’d better get a move on – you know what Mr Weirton does to boys who are late!’

  I steadied myself and gasped. A city spread across the bedroom floor: walled by battlements and towers; guarded by stern plastic inch-high soldiers, by their guns and tanks, axes, horses and swords. Starting from the turreted gatehouse, my eyes followed a broad straight road, upon whose side rose great halls, houses and shops: ingeniously constructed from toys, building blocks, Lego. Off this grand avenue were side-streets through which my vision wandered: some also straight, others allowed to wind – packed with horses, carts, cars, buses and trucks. In fact, the main thoroughfare and one other split the settlement in a sort of cross, and in each quarter were mazes of streets from which rose buildings, towers, chimneys. Amazed, my eyes meandered through the spirals of those roads until they came – over on the set-out’s other side, where the city ended near Jonathon’s window – to a great port. The blue of the carpet acted as the ocean. Ships were in the harbour – both wind and motor-powered – attended to by cranes, lorries, horses and busy working men. In the city’s centre, where the two major streets met, was a kind of island. On it, a gorgeous building rose, like a cathedral or temple, a stately pile of blocks, windows, pillars and statues. My gaze followed it up as it rose in ornate layers like the tiers of a cake – tiers which narrowed as they moved skywards. On the pedestal of the uppermost platform soared a tower, which climbed above the city for many storeys, and crowning this structure was a statue of a squirrel. Yes, a brown squirrel with green glinting eyes, a porcelain bush for a tail, clutching a stone nut to nibble on. This statue appeared almost like something to pray to, a woodland god strange to see in such an urban setting. For silent seconds, my eyes roved over Jonathon’s set-out, sucking in more and more details.

  ‘Whoah!’ I let out my captured breath. ‘You did all that!?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Mrs Browning, who had walked into the room behind me, ‘he’d cover the whole bloomin’ house with his toys if I let him. He’s only allowed to do it in his room, and
that causes me enough bother, especially with the cleaning. Perhaps he thinks one day he’ll be a famous town planner! Maybe he thinks he’ll be getting medals off the Queen!’

  Mrs Browning gave a laugh – jarring and high-pitched, it struggled from her throat, suggesting perhaps we should also struggle to picture such things, but I just went on admiring Jonathon’s architecture. Jonathon was on his knees, about to balance a building block on some high structure, his eyes fixed on that delicate task. Our words shook him from his concentration; he glanced up, saw his mother and me.

  ‘Aye, he’ll be ruining our country with awful modern buildings and daft trendy ideas. You’d better hurry, son!’ Like her laugher, Mrs Browning’s voice was now high and grating. ‘Your brother left five minutes ago! You know what happens to boys who are late!’

  Between Jonathon’s thumb and two fingertips, the block hung in mid-air. His mouth fell, and – though a shiver crossed his face – he looked at his mum imploringly. We indeed knew what happened to such boys yet the block continued to hover, and Jonathon’s big eyes went on staring at his mum. Then – their flickers of obsession outshining those of fear – he turned those eyes back to his unfinished tower. He began to lower his brick.

  ‘Jonathon!’ the mother shouted. ‘I’d like to see what your father would say about such cheek, never mind Mr Weirton! And don’t you come crying to me if Mr Weirton gives you such a –’

  The hand clasping the brick shook. The brick knocked the tower it had been meant to crown. A line of air-strung blocks – colourful and curved, bulging in its middle – held its form for a second. Those blocks toppled, smashed into other structures. Three other towers, a couple of houses tumbled, crashed down and were soon no more than piles of random rubble. Jonathon’s face wobbled then his eyes flitted to me. He smiled, though his smile for a moment quivered. He pushed himself up from the floor.

  ‘Come on, Ryan,’ he said, ‘we’d better get a shift on – you know what Mr Weirton’s like!’

  As we headed for the bedroom door, Mrs Browning yelled after us, wagged a finger.